Chapter Four.
In By-Path Meadow.
“I thought that I was strong, Lord,
And did not need Thine arm;
Though dangers thronged around me,
My heart felt no alarm:
I thought I nothing needed—
Riches, nor dress, nor sight:
And on I walked in darkness,
And still I thought it light.”
Selwick Hall, November ye xv.
I have but now read o’er what I writ these last few days, and have meditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir Edwin, for it shall ne’er serve to have folk read the same. And methinketh it best for to go straight on, and at the end, if need be, tear out the leaves. For it doth me a mighty pleasure to write and think upon the same: and I can make some excuse when I come to it.
Though Mistress Nell,
I guess right well,
Of neatness should be heedful:
Yet I will tear
The leaves out fair,
If it shall so be needful.
There! who saith I cannot write poesy?
This morrow again (I being but just without the garden gate), I met with my Protection, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his most fair Amiability. I do see him most days, though but for a minute: and in truth I think long from one time to another. Coming back, I meditated what I should say to Mistress Nell (that loveth somewhat too much to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall not serve every time to send him to Kirkstone. Nor, of course, could I think to tell a lie thereabout. So I called to mind that he had once asked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though it were not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it should be no lie, seeing he did say so much. Metrusteth the cushion should not prick me for that, and right sure am I there should be no need.
Selwick Hall, November ye xvii.
Truly, as saith the old saw, ’tis best not to halloo till thou be out of the wood. This very afternoon, what should Edith say, without one word of warning, as we were sat a-sewing, but—
“Mother, do you mind a gentleman, by name Tregarvon?”
“What name saidst, Edith?” asks Mother.
“Tregarvon,” quoth she. “Sir Edwin Tregarvon, of Cornwall.”
“Nay, I never knew no gentleman of that name,” saith Mother. “Where heardst of him, child?”
“’Twas when we went o’er to Saint Hubert’s Isle, Mother,” she made answer,—“what day were it, Milly?—about ten days gone—”
“Aye, I mind it,” saith Mother.
“Well, while I sat of the rock a-drawing, come up a gentleman to me,” saith she, “and asked at me if Louvaine were not my name. (Why, then, he knew us! thought I.) I said ‘Aye,’ and he went on to ask me if Father were at home, for he had list to have speech of him: and he said he knew you, Mother, of old time, when you were Mistress Lettice. I told him Father was at home, and he desired to know what time should be the best to find him: when I told him the early morrow, for he was oft away in the afternoon. And then—”
“Well, my lass?” saith Mother, for Edith was at a point.
“Well, Mother, methinks I had better tell you,” saith she, a-looking up, “for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you will not lay to my charge a thing that was no blame of mine. So—then he ’gan to speak of a fashion that little liked me, and I am assured should have liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mine eyes, and all such matter as that: till at the last I said unto him, ‘Sir, I pray you of pardon, but I am not used to such like talk, and in truth I know not what to answer. If your aim be to find favour with me, you were best hold your peace from such words.’ For, see you, Mother, I thought he might have some petition unto Father, and might take a fantasy that I could win Father to grant him, and so would the rather if he talked such matter as should flatter my foolish vanity. As though Father should be one to be swayed by such a fantasy as that! But then, of course, he did not know Father. I trust I did not aught to your displeasance, Mother?”
“So far as I can judge, dear child, thou didst very well,” saith Mother: “and I am right glad thou wert thus discreet for thy years. But what said he in answer?”
“Oh, he tarried not after that,” quoth she: “he did only mutter somewhat that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another minute.”
Mother laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.
“O Edith!” saith she: “I am so thankful thou art not,”—but all suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her eyes and into her cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to hap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.
“Did this gentleman speak with thee, Milly?”
I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.
“Well, Mother, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what the isle was called, and who Saint Hubert were. He told me, the same as Edith, that he had known you aforetime.”
“Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, Milly?” saith Edith, laughing.
“Nay,” said I, “mine eyes be not so sweet as thine.”
“Did he ask at thee if Father were at home?”
“Ay, he asked that.”
Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching mine eyes.
Then Cousin Bess looks up. Cousin Bess was by, but not Aunt Joyce.
“What manner of man, my lasses?” saith she.
I left Edith to make answer.
“Why,” saith she, “I reckon he might be ten years younger than Father, or may-be more: and—”
“Oh, not a young man, then?” saith Mother, as though she were fain it so were.
“Oh, nay,” quoth Edith: “but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and beard.”
“And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin,” saith Cousin Bess, “and tawny hose, with a rare white feather in ’s velvet bonnet?”
“That is he,” saith Edith.
“Good lack, then!”
Cousin Bess makes answer, “but he up to me only yester-morrow on the Keswick road, as I come back from Isaac’s. My word, but he doth desire for to see Sir Aubrey some, for he asked at us all three if he were at home.”
“Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, Bess?” asks Mother.
“Trust!” saith she. “I’d none trust yon dandified companion, not for to sell a sucking-pig.”
Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin Bess were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o’er well pleased to hear of his complimenting of Edith: though, ’tis true, that was ere he had seen me.
“What like is he, Bess?” saith Mother. “I would know the thought he gave to thee.”
“Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling forth o’ the stitching,” saith she. “And the second were, that he were like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts. And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I’d be fain to see the back of him.”
“Any more betwixt, Cousin?” saith Edith, laughing.
“Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt,” saith she. “I mattered him nought, I warrant you.”
“Well, neither did I, o’er much,” saith Edith.
Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant Protection? But as for Cousin Bess, she never had no high fantasies. All her likings be what the French call bourgeois. But I was something surprised that Edith should make no count of him. I marvel if she meant the same.
“Well, there must needs be some blunder,” saith Mother, when we had sat silent a while: “for I never knew no man of that name, nor no gentleman of Cornwall, to boot.”
“May-be he minds you, Mother, though you knew not him,” quoth Edith.
“Soothly,” saith she, “there were knights in the Court, whose names I knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all—and never spake word unto me.”
“See you now, Cousin Lettice,” saith Bess, “if this man wanted somewhat of you, he’d be fain enough to make out that he had known you any way he might.”
“Ay, very like,” saith Mother.
“And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire speech of Sir Aubrey, well, he may be a decent man, for all his slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my wit to see.”
“I do believe,” quoth Edith, a-laughing, “that Cousin Bess hates every thing that flies. What with Dr Meade’s surplice, and Sir Edwin’s long feather—verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying next.”
“Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any,” saith Cousin Bess: “’tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He’d have put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves out o’ birds’ feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, ’tis a rag o’ Popery—that’s what it is: and I’d as lief tell Dr Meade so as an other man. I did tell Mistress Meade so, t’ other day: but, poor soul! she could not see it a whit. ’Twas but a decent garment that the priest must needs bear, and such like. And ‘Mistress Meade,’ says I, ‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ says I: ‘you are none grounded well in Hebrews,’ says I. ‘Either Dr Meade’s no priest, or else the Lord isn’t,’ says I: ‘so you may pick and choose,’ says I. Eh dear! but she looked on me as if I’d spake some ill words o’ the Queen’s Majesty—not a bit less. And ‘Mistress Wolvercot,’ says she, ‘what ever do you mean?’ says she. ‘Well, Mistress Meade,’ says I, ‘that’s what I mean—that there can be no Christian priests so long as Christ our Lord is alive: so if Dr Meade’s a priest, He must be dead. And if so,’ says I, ‘why then, I don’t see how there can be no Christians of no sort, priests or no,’ says I. ‘Why, Mistress Wolvercot!’ says she, ‘you must have lost your wits.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘some folks has: but I don’t rightly think I’m one,’—and so home I came.”
Edith was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to see the talk win round to Mistress Meade, that I was fain to join.
“Thou art right, Bess,” saith Mother.
“Why,” saith she, “I’m with Paul: and he’s good company enough for me, though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he’d scarce be meet for Dr Meade. I thought we’d done with bishops and priests and such like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear! they’re a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and cassocks! and them square caps,—they’re uncommon like the Beast! I make no count of ’em.”
“And rochets can fly!” cries Edith merrily.
“Why, Cousin Bess,” said I, “you shall be a Brownist in a week or twain.”
“Nay, I’ll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it pinches,” saith she.
So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk were o’er.
Selwick Hall, November ye xix.
I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the world that Nell nor Edith should read this last fortnight. Yester even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my Protection outside the garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I to vex Father and Mother that this I did deny, though I could see it vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. ’Tis rare fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not wring a fashion of consent out of Father, without his knowing the same: so when none was there but he and I and Moses, quoth I—
“Father, is it ever wrong to love any?”
“‘Love is of God,’” he made answer. “Surely no.”
And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had Father’s assent to the loving of my Protection: but as ill luck would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with the door in his hand, to say—
“But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove, which will help a friend to break God’s commandments.”
I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat somewhat. Yet have I Father’s consent to loving: and surely none need break God’s commandments because they love each other. ’Tis no breaking thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir Edwin—of that am I as certain as that my name is Milisent. And I have not told a single lie about it, sithence my good Protection revealed in mine ear the right way not to tell lies: namely, should Mother ask me, “Milly, hast thou seen again that gentleman?” that I should say out loud, “No, Mother,”—and whisper to myself, under my breath, “this morrow,”—the which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not uttering your secrets.
Selwick Hall, November ye xxii.
If Mistress Helena Louvaine could ever hold her peace from saying just the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on! Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she begin with, but—
“Father, there is a thing I would ask at you.”
“Say on, my maid,” quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for Father is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.
“Then, Father,” saith she, “what is falsehood? Where doth it begin and end? Put a case that I am talking with Alice Lewthwaite, and she shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin, if I told her but the half?”
“Hardly plain enough, my maid,” saith Father. “As to where falsehood begins and ends,—it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall tell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer.”
“Well,” saith she, “suppose, Father, that Mother or you had showed to me that Wat was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If Alice should say ‘Hast heard aught of late touching Wat, Nell?’ must I say to her plain, ‘I cannot answer thee,’—the which should show her there was a secret: or should there be no ill to say ‘Not to-day,’ or ‘Nought much,’ or some such matter as that?”
“Should there be any wrong in that, Father?” saith Edith, as though she could not think there should.
“Dear hearts,” saith Father, “I cannot but think a man’s heart is gone something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very minute that Adam fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry. There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was not all the truth—no, nor the half. As methinks, ’tis alway safest to tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God.”
“Jack Lewthwaite said once,” quoth Edith, “that at the grammar school at Kendal, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What should you call that, Father?”
“A shift got straight from the father of lies,” he made answer. “Trust me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his course.”
Then Aunt Joyce said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither: but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my secrets, to have Father say such things came straight from Satan! It liketh me not at all. I would Nell would let things a-be!
Selwick Hall, November ye xxiv.
My good Protection tells me ’tis country fashion to count such matter deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if Father were not given to be a little Puritan—he smiling the while as though to be a Puritan were somewhat not over well-liked of the great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word was strange unto me. So he said that word Puritan was of late come up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at their own appraisement.
“Not, of course,” saith he, “that such could ever be the case with a gentleman of Sir Audrey’s worshipfulness, and with such an angel in his house to guard him from all ill.”
I did not well like this, for I would alway have Father right well accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then ’gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a while I forgat my disease.
Still, I cannot right away with what Father said. If only Father and Mother could know all about this matter, and really consent thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my Protection saith that were contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same themselves, ’tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no romance left therein at all.
“It should suit well with Mistress Nell,” saith he, “from what I do hear touching her conditions (disposition): but never were meet for the noble and generous soul of my fairest Amiability, that is far above all such mean things.”
So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble me touching Father’s and Mother’s knowing. But I do marvel if Father and Mother did the like their own selves, for I know they married o’ love. Howbeit, Mother had none elders then living, nor Father neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them ’twas other matter.
Sithence I writ that last, come Alice and Blanche Lewthwaite, and their Robin, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here Blanche saith to Nell, that she would account that no jolly wedding where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for herself.
“I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith,” saith Nell, “and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely, Blanche, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own self, apart from thine elders’ pleasure altogether?”
“Ay, but I would,” saith she: “it should have a deal better zest.”
“It should have a deal less honesty!” saith Nell with some heat—heat, that is, for Nell.
“Honesty!” quoth Blanche: “soft you now (gently),—what dishonesty should be therein?”
“Nay, Blanche, measure such dealing thyself by God’s ell-wand of the Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid thee.”
“I do vow, Nell, thou art a Puritan!”
“By the which I know not what thou meanest,” saith Nell, as cool as a marble image.
“Why, ’tis a new word of late come up,” quoth Blanche. “They do call all sad, precise, humdrum folk, Puritans.”
“Who be ‘they’?” asks Nell.
“Why, all manner of folks—great folk in especial,” saith she.
“Come, Blanche!” saith Edith, “where hast thou jostled with great folk?”
“An’ I have not,” quoth she, something hotly, “I reckon I may have talked with some that have.”
“No great folk—my Lord Dilston except—ever come to Derwent-side,” saith Edith.
“And could I not discourse with my Lord Dilston, if it so pleased him and me?” quoth Blanche, yet something angered.
“Come, my maids, fall not out,” saith Alice. “Thou well wist, Blanche, thou hast had no talk with my Lord Dilston, that is known all o’er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I do marvel how he e’er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him.”
Well, at this we all laughed, and Alice turned the talk aside to other matter, for I think she saw that Blanche’s temper (which is ne’er that of an angel) were giving way.
I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though Blanche might hint at Sir Edwin. And I do trust he hath not been a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,—good of stature, and a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not for to compare with me nor Edith.
I must ask at Sir Edwin to-morrow if he wist aught of Blanche. If I find him double-tongued—good lack! but methinks I would ne’er see him no more, though it should break mine heart—as I cast no doubt it should.
Selwick Hall, November ye xxv.
’Tis all well, and Blanche could not have meant to hint at my Protection. I asked at him if he knew one Blanche Lewthwaite, and he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest Amiability (quo’ he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after hers?
Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a Sunday, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had an old friend, a parson, dwelling on Winander-side, and he did alway abide with him o’er the Sunday. Moreover he was something feared (saith he) to be seen at Keswick church, lest Father should get scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been (quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet Amiability.
“Then,” said I, laughing, “you did not desire for to see Father at the first?”
“Soft you now!” saith he, and laughed too. “‘All is fair in love and war.’”
“I doubt if Father should say the same,” said I.
“Well, see you,” quoth he, “Sir Aubrey is a right excellent gentleman, yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country, where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the risk of being thought singular.”
“Why, Father’s notion is right the contrary,” said I. “I have heard him to say divers times that ’tis the cowards which dare not be laughed at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular.”
“Exactly!” saith he. “That is right the Puritan talk, as I had the honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the Court to say no such a thing.”
“But,” said I, “speak they alway the most truth in the Court?”
This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he should ne’er give o’er.
“My fairest Amiability,” saith he, “had I but thee in the Court, as is the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties. Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in Cumberland, thou shouldest be of the Queen’s Majesty’s maids in one week’s time. And of the delights and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of England, thou canst not so much as cast an idea.” Methought that should be right rare.
Selwick Hall, November ye xxvii.
With Aunt Joyce this morrow to visit old Nanny Crewdson, that is brother’s widow to Isaac, and dwelleth in a cot up Thirlmere way. I would fain have avoided the same an’ I might, for I never took no list in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble Protection do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old, with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that cometh o’er me at those times. ’Tis like as if I were dancing on flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers, and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at those times, but to talk with my Protection, that can alway dispel the gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more and more distasteful unto me than ever.
Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt Joyce called me to come with her to Nanny, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood and went.
We found old Nanny—that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair in the sunshine—so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.
“Well, Nanny!” saith Aunt Joyce. “‘Sitting down under His shadow,’ dear heart?”
“Ay, Mistress Joyce,” saith she, “and ‘with great delight.’”
I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible. I never did. And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me. Can they mean it, trow? If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as Nanny. But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be, wherein one shall find one’s diversion in reading of the Bible!
I know Father and Mother would say clean contrary. But they, see you, were bred up never to see a Bible in English till they were grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runs my pen too fast, for Anstace can well remember Queen Mary’s time, though Nell scarce can do so,—only some few matters here and there.
So then Aunt Joyce and Nan fell a-talking,—and scarce so much as a word could I conceive. (Note 1.) They might well-nigh as good have talked Greek for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean to think o’er—some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible, and am as old as Nanny. Not now, of course.
“Where art reading, Nanny?” saith Aunt Joyce.
“In Esaias, Mistress Joyce. Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second verses. There’s fine reading in Esaias.”
“Ay, Nan, there is,” saith Aunt Joyce. “But what toucheth it? I am ill set to remember chapter and verse.”
“Well, Mistress, first it saith, ‘Show My people their transgression.’ And i’ th’ very next verse,—‘Yet they seek me daily,’—nay, there’s more—‘they take delight in approaching to God.’”
“Well, Nan? That reads strange,—no doth it?”
“Ah, it doth, Mistress Joyce. But I think, look ye, there’s a deal i’ th’ word approaching. See ye, it saith not they take delight to get near. Nay, folk o’ that make has a care not to get too near. They’ll lay down a chalk line, and they’ll stop outside on’t. If they’d only come near enough, th’ light ’d burn up all them transgressions: but, ye see, that wouldn’t just suit ’em. These is folk that wants to have th’ Lord—a tidy way from ’em—and keep th’ transgressions too. Eh, Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th’ hundred and thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart’s middlin’ perfect wi’ the Lord. Otherwise, he’ll boggle at them last verses. We don’t want Him to search us when we know He’ll find yon wedge o’ gold and yon Babylonish garment if He do. Nay, we don’t so!”
Now, I know not o’er well what old Nan meaneth: but this do I know—that whenever I turn o’er the Psalter, I ever try to get yon Psalm betwixt two leaves, and turn them o’er both together, so that I see not a word on’t. I reckon Nan should say my heart was not perfect by a great way. Well, may-be she’d be none so far out.
Selwick Hall, November ye xxix.
To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and Tuesday even must I give up the book to Edith. I shall not tear out the leaves till the last minute, and I will keep them when I do.
I do never see nought of my Protection of a Sunday, but all other days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth Thirlmere way, not so far from Nanny’s hut. Last even was he essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without Father and Mother knowing. I have ever held off till now: but I am not so sure I shall do it much longer. He saith he wist a Popish priest that should do it: and it so done, Father and Mother must needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I will consider of the same a day or twain longer.
As to setting down what we do of a Sunday, ’tis alway the same o’er again, so it should be to no good. Once is enough for all.
Selwick Hall, November ye last.
Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen. I set forth for the copse where I do meet with my Protection, and had well-nigh reached it,—verily, I could discern him coming through the trees to meet me—when from Nanny’s hut, right upon us, who should come out save Father, and Mother, and Edith, their own selves. I cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to meet them.
“Why, Milly!” saith Mother. “I wist not thou wert coming this way, child.”
“Under your pleasure, Mother, no more did I of you,” said I.
“Why, Milly, do but look at yon gentleman!” saith Edith, as he passed by us, taking no note of us at all. “Is it not the same we met on Saint Hubert’s Isle?”
“Is it so?” said I, making believe to look after him, the rather since it gave me an excuse to turn my back on them. “He bears a green jerkin,—otherwise—”
Wherein I am very sure I said no falsity, as whatso Father might say.
“I do think it is the same,” saith Edith. “Came he ever to speak with you, Father?”
“Nay, my lass, I mind him not,” saith Father.
“He is not ill-looking,” saith Mother.
“May-be not,” quoth Father. “Thou art a better judge of such matters than I, dear heart. I only note the way a man’s soul looketh out of his eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh.”
“Now, Father, under your good leave, that is not well said,” Edith makes answer: “for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man’s soul looked forth of.”
Father laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.
“Your very humble servant, Mistress Editha Louvaine,” quoth he: “when I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties, learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine eyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that issue have I never troubled me regarding them.”
“And how liked you the manner of Sir Edwin Tregarvon’s soul looking forth, Father?” saith Edith, also laughing.
“Why, that could I not see,” quoth he, “for he keeping his eyes bent upon the ground, it did not look forth. But I cannot say his face altogether pleased me.”
How mighty strange is it that all they—and in especial Father, that I have alway reckoned so wise—should have so little discernment!
Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them: and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my Protection: for I have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof (settle the details). As next Sunday at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to Ambleside, where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat Father and Mother’s pardon and blessing. I dare be bound there shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all shall blow o’er in time: and after all (as saith my Protection) when there is no hope that Father and Mother should give us leave aforehand, what else can we do?
Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks’ way that do love each other. And my Protection is not so much elder than I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than Father, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. And if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. My poor Protection! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.
I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep the book right heedfully under lock and key.
As for any paying of two-pences, that is o’er for me now; so there were no good to reckon them up. My noble Protection saith, when he hath but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He will set off his Amiability (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at her. Though I count Father doth love me, yet am I sure, my Protection loveth me a deal the more. ’Tis only fitting, therefore, that I cleave to him rather.
Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.
Note 1. The words understand and conceive have changed places since the days of Elizabeth. To understand then meant to originate an idea: to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.