Chapter Nine.
Walter Learns to Say No.
“Betray mean terror of ridicule,—thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee:—
“But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers shall lick thy feet.”
Martin Farquhar Tupper.
(In Edith’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, March the ii.
Never, methinks, saw I any so changed as our Milly by the illness and death of poor Blanche. From being the merriest of all us, methinks she is become well-nigh the saddest. I count it shall pass in time, but she is not like Milisent at this present. All we, indeed, have much felt the same: but none like her. I never did reckon her so much to love Blanche.
I have marvelled divers times of late, what did bring Robin Lewthwaite here so oft; and I did somewhat in mine own mind, rhyme his name with Milisent’s, for all (as I find on looking) my damsel hath set down never a time he came. The which, as methinks, is somewhat significant. So I was little astonied this afternoon to be asked of Robin, as we two were in the garden, if I reckoned Milisent had any care touching him.
“Thou wist, Edith,” saith he, “I did alway love her: but when yon rogue came in the way betwixt that did end all by the beguilement of our poor Blanche, I well-nigh gave up all hope, for methought she were fair enchanted by him.”
“I think she so were, for a time, Robin,” said I, “until she saw verily what manner of man he were: and that it were not truly he that she had loved, but the man she had accounted him.”
“Well,” saith Robin, “I would like to be the man she accounted him. Thinkest there is any chance?”
“Thou wist I can but guess,” I made answer, “for Milisent is very close of that matter, though she be right open on other: but I see no reason, Robin, wherefore thou shouldst not win her favour, and I do ensure thee I wish thee well therein.”
“Edith, thou art an angel!” crieth he out: and squeezed mine hand till I wished him the other side the Border.
“Nay!” said I, a-laughing: “what then is Milly?”
“Oh, aught thou wilt,” saith he, also laughing, “that is sweet, and fair, and delightsome. Dost know, Edith, our Nym goeth about to be a soldier? He shall leave us this next month.”
“A soldier!” cried I: for in very deed Nym and a soldier were two matters that ran not together to my thoughts. Howbeit, I was not sorry to hear that Nym should leave this vicinage, and thereby cease tormenting of our Helen. The way he gazeth on her all the sermon-time in church should make me fit to poison him, were I she, and desired not (as I know she doth not) that he should be a-running after me. But, Nym a soldier! I could as soon have looked to see Moses play the virginals. Why, he is feared of his own shadow, very nigh: and is worser for ghosts than even Austin Park. I do trust, if we need any defence here in Derwentdale, either the Queen’s Majesty shall not send Nym to guard us, or else that his men shall have stouter hearts than he. An hare were as good as Nym Lewthwaite.
Sithence I writ what goeth afore, have we all been rare gladded by Walter’s coming, which was just when the dusk had fallen. He looketh right well of his face, and is grown higher, and right well-favoured: but, eh me, so fine! I felt well-nigh inclined to lout (courtesy) me low unto this magnifical gentleman, rather than take him by the hand and kiss him. Ned saith—
“The Queen’s Highness’ barge ahoy!—all lined and padded o’ velvet!—and in the midst the estate (the royal canopy) of cloth of gold! Off with your caps, my hearties!”
Walter laughed, and took it very well. Saith Aunt Joyce, when he come to her—
“Wat, how much art thou worth by the yard?”
“Ten thousand pound, Aunt,” saith he, boldly, and laughing.
“Ha!” saith she, somewhat dry. “I trust ’tis safe withinside, for I see it not without.”
Selwick Hall, March ye iv.
Yesterday, being Sunday, was nought said touching Wat and his ways: only all to church, of course, at matins and evensong, but this day no sermons. This morrow, after breakfast, as we arose from the table, saith Father:—
“Walter, my lad, thou and I must have some talk.”
“An’ it like you, Sir,” saith Wat.
“Wouldst thou choose it rather without other ears?”
“Not any way, I thank you, Sir.”
“Then,” quoth Father, drawing of a chair afore the fire, “we may tarry as we be.”
Walter sat him down in the chimney-corner; Mother, with her sewing, on the other side the fire; Aunt Joyce in the place she best loveth, in the window. Cousin Bess and Mynheer were gone on their occasions. Ned and we three maids were in divers parts of the chamber; Ned carving of a wooden boat for Anstace her little lad, and we at our sewing.
“Wilt tell me, Wat,” saith Father, “what years thou hast?”
“Why, Sir,” quoth he, “I reckon you know that something better than I; but I have alway been given to wit that the year of my birth was Mdlvii.” (1557.)
“The which, sith thou wert born in July, makes thee now of two and twenty years,” Father makes answer.
“I believe so much, Sir,” saith Walter, that looked somewhat diverted at this beginning.
“And thy wage at this time, from my Lord of Oxenford, is sixteen pound by the year?” (Note 1.)
“It is so, Sir,” quoth Wat.
“And what reckonest thy costs to be?”
“In good sooth, Sir, I have not reckoned,” saith he.
“Go to—make a guess.”
Wat did seem diseased thereat, and fiddled with his chain. At the last (Father keeping silence) he saith, looking up, with a flush of his brow—
“To speak truth, Sir, I dare not.”
“Right, my lad,” saith Father. “Speak the truth, and let come of it what will. But, in very deed, we must come to it, Wat. This matter is like those wounds that ’tis no good to heal ere they be probed. Nor knew I ever a chirurgeon to use the probe without hurting of his patient. Howbeit, Wat, I will not hurt thee more than is need. Tell me, dost thou think that all thy costs, of whatsoever kind, should go into two hundred pound by the year?”
The red flush on Wat’s brow grew deeper.
“I am afeared not, Sir,” he made answer, of a low voice.
“Should they go into three?” Wat hesitated, but seemed more diseased (uncomfortable) than ever.
“Should four overlap them?”
Wat brake forth.
“Father, I would you would scold me—I cannot stand it! I should feel an hard whipping by far less than your terrible gentleness. I know I have been a downright fool, and I have known it all the time: but what is a man to do? The fellows laugh at you if you do not as all the rest. Then they come to one every day, with, ‘Here, Louvaine, lend me a sovereign,’—and ‘Look you, Louvaine, pay this bill for me,’—and they should reckon you the shabbiest companion ever lived, if you did it not, or if, having done it, you should ask them for it again.”
“Wat!” saith Aunt Joyce from the window.
“What so, Aunt?” quoth he.
“Stand up a minute, and let me look at thee,” saith she.
Walter did so, but with a look as though he marvelled what Aunt Joyce would be at.
“I would judge from thy face,” quoth she, “if thou art the right lad come, or they have changed thee in London town. Our Walter used to have his father’s eyes and his mother’s mouth. Well, I suppose thou art: but I should scantly have guessed it from thy talk.”
“Walter,” softly saith Mother, “thy father should never have so dealt when he were of thy years.”
“Lack-a-daisy! I would have thought the world was turning round,” quoth Aunt Joyce, “had I ever heard such a speech of Aubrey at any years whatsoever.”
Father listed this with some diversion, as methought from the set of his lips.
“Well, I am not as good as Father,” saith Wat.
“Amen!” quoth Aunt Joyce.
“But, Aunt, you are hard on a man. See you not, all the fellows think you a coward if you dare not spend freely and act boldly? Ay, and a miser belike.”
“Is it worser to be thought a coward than to be one?” saith Father.
“Who be ‘all the fellows’?” saith Aunt Joyce. “My Lord of Burleigh and my Lord Hunsdon and Sir Francis Walsingham, I’ll warrant you.”
“Now, Aunt!” saith Walter. “Not grave old men like they! My Lord of Oxenford, that is best-dressed man of all the Court, and spendeth an hundred pound by the year in gloves and perfumes only—”
“Eh, Wat!” cries Helen: and Mother,—“Walter, my dear boy!”
“’Tis truth, I do ensure you,” saith he: “and Sir Walter Raleigh, one of the first wits in all Europe: and young Blount, that is high in the Queen’s Majesty’s favour: and my young Lord of Essex, unto whom she showeth good countenance. ’Tis not possible to lower one’s self in the eyes of such men as these—and assuredly I should were I less free-handed.”
“My word, Wat, but thou hast fallen amongst an ill pack of hounds!” saith Aunt Joyce.
“Then it is possible, or at least more possible, to lower thyself in our eyes, Wat?” saith Father.
“Father, you make me to feel ’shamed of myself!” crieth Wat. “Yet, think you, so should they when I were among them, if I should hold back from these very deeds.”
“Then is there no difference, my son,” asks Father, still as gentle as ever, “betwixt being ’shamed for doing the right, and for doing the wrong?”
“But—pardon me, Sir—you are not in it!” saith Walter. “Do but think, what it should feel to be counted singular, and as a speckled bird, unlike all around.”
“Well!” saith Aunt Joyce, fervently, “I am five and fifty years of age this morrow; and have in my time done many a foolish deed: but I do thank Heaven that I was never so left to mine own folly as to feel any ambition to make one of a row of buttons!”
I laughed—I could not choose.
“You are a woman, Aunt,” saith Wat. “’Tis different with you.”
“I pay you good thanks, Master Walter Louvaine,” quoth she, “for the finest compliment was ever paid me yet. I am a woman (wherefore I thank God), and therefore (this young gentleman being testimony) have more bravery of soul than a man. For that is what thy words come to, Master Wat; though I reckon thou didst not weigh them afore utterance.—Now, Aubrey, what art thou about to do with this lad?”
“I fear there is but one thing to do,” saith Father, and he fetched an heavy sigh. “But let us reach the inwards of the matter first. I reckon, Walter, thou hast many debts outstanding?”
“I am afeared so, Sir,” saith Wat,—which, to do him credit, did look heartily ashamed of himself.
“To what sum shall they reach, thinkest?”
Wat fiddled with his chain, and fidgetted on his seat, and Father had need of some patience (which he showed rarely) ere he gat at the full figures. It did then appear that our young gallant should have debts outstanding to the amount of nigh two thousand pounds.
“But, Wat,” saith Helen, looking sore puzzled, “how couldst thou spend two thousand pounds when thou hadst but sixty-two in these four years?”
“Maidens understand not the pledging of credit,” saith Ned. “See thou, Nell: I am a shop-keeper, and sell silk gowns; and thou wouldst have one that should cost an angel—”
“Eh, Ned!” crieth she, and all we laughed.
“Thou shalt not buy a silk gown under six angels at the very least. Leastwise, not clear silk: it should be all full of gum.”
“Go to!” saith Ned. “Six angels, then—sixty if thou wilt. (Dear heart, what costly matter women be! I’ll don my wife in camlet.) Well, in thy purse is but two angels. How then shalt thou get thy gown?”
“Why, how can I? I must do without it,” saith she.
“Most sweet Helen; sure thou earnest straight out of the Garden of Eden! Dear heart, folks steer not in that quarter now o’ days. Thou comest to me for the gown, and I set down thy name in my books, that thou owest me six angels: and away goest thou with the silk, and turnest forth o’ Sunday as fine as a fiddler.”
“Well—and then?” saith she.
“Then, with Christmas in cometh my bill: and thou must pay the same.”
“But if I have no money?”
“Then I lose six angels.”
“Father, is that honest?” saith Helen.
“If thou hadst no reason to think thou shouldst have the money by Christmas, certainly not, my maid,” he made answer.
“Not honest, Sir!” saith Wat.
“Is it so?” quoth Father.
“Oh, look you, words mean different in the Court,” crieth Aunt Joyce, “from what they do in Derwent-dale and at Minster Lovel. If we pay not our debts here, we go to prison; and folks do but say, Served him right! But if they pay them not there, why, the poor tailor and jeweller must feed their starving childre on the sight of my Lord of Essex’ gold lace, and the smell of my Lord of Oxenford his perfumes. Do but think, what a rare supper they shall have!”
“Now, hearken, Walter,” saith Father. “I must have thee draw up a list of all thy debts, what sum, for what purpose, and to whom owing: likewise a list of all debts due to thee.”
“But you would not ask for loans back, Sir?” cries Wat.
“That depends on whom they were lent to,” answers Father. “If to a poor man that can scarce pay his way, no. But if to my cousin of Oxenford and such like gallants that have plenty wherewith to pay, then ay.”
“They would think it so mean, Sir!” saith Walter, diseasefully.
“Let them so do,” saith Father. “I shall sleep quite as well.”
“But really, Sir, I could not remember all.”
“Then set down what thou canst remember.”
Walter looked as if he would liefer do aught else.
“And, my son,” saith Father, so gently that it was right tender, “I must take thee away from the Court.”
“Sir!” crieth Walter, in a voice of very despair.
“I can see thou art not he that can stand temptation. I had hoped otherwise. But ’tis plain that this temptation, at the least, hath been too much for thee.”
Wat’s face was as though his whole life should be ruined if so were.
“Come, Wat, take heart o’ grace!” cries Ned. “I wouldn’t cruise in those muddy waters if thou shouldst pay me two thousand pound to do the same. Think but of men scenting themselves—with aught but a stiff sea-breeze. Pish! And as to dancing, cap in hand, afore a woman, and calling her thine Excellency, or thy Floweriness, or thy Some-Sort-of-Foolery, why, I’d as lief strike to a Spanish galleon, very nigh. When I want a maid to wed me, an’ I ever do—at this present I don’t—I shall walk straight up to her like a man, and say, ‘Mistress Cicely (or whatso she be named), I love you; will you wed me?’ And if she cannot see an honest man’s love, or will not take it, without all that flummery, why, she isn’t worth a pail o’ sea-water: and I can get along without her, and I will.”
“Hurrah for Ned!” saith Aunt Joyce. “’Tis a comfort to find we have one man in the family.”
“I trust we may have two, in time,” quoth Father. “Wat, my lad, I know this comes hard: and as I count thee not wicked, but weak, I would fain help thee all I may. But thou canst not be suffered to forget that my fortune is but three hundred pound by the year; and I have yet three daughters to portion. I could not pay thy debts without calling in that for which thou hast pledged my credit—for it is mine, Wat, rather than thine, seeing thine own were thus slender.”
“But, Sir!” crieth Wat, “that were punishing you for mine extravagance. I never dreamed of that!”
“Come, he is opening his eyes a bit at last,” saith Aunt Joyce to me, that was next her.
“May-be, Wat,” saith Father, with a kindly smile, “it had been better if thou hadst dreamed thereof a little sooner. I think, my boy, it will be punishment enough for one of thy nature but to ’bide at home, and to see the straits whereto thou hast put them that love thee best.”
“Punishment!” saith Wat, in a low, ’shamed voice. “Yes, Father, the worst you could devise.”
“Well, then we will say no more,” saith Father. “Only draw up those lists, Walter, and let me have them quickly.”
Father then left the chamber: and Wat threw him down at Mother’s knee.
“O Mother, Mother, if I had but thought sooner!” crieth he. “If I could but have stood out when they laughed at me!—for that, in very deed, were the point. I did begin with keeping within my wage: and then all they mocked and flouted me, and told me no youth of any spirit should do so: and—and I gave way. Oh, if I had but held on!”
Mother softly stroked Wat’s gleaming fair hair, that is so like hers.
“My boy!” she saith, “didst thou ask for God’s strength, or try to hold on in thine own?”
Walter made no answer in words, but methought I saw the water stand in his eyes.
When Mother and Wat were both gone forth, Aunt Joyce saith,—“I cannot verily tell how it is that folk should have a fantasy that ’tis a shame to be ’feared of doing ill, and no shame at all to be ’feared of being laughed at. Why, one day when I were at home, there was little Jack Bracher a-stealing apples in mine orchard: and Hewitt (that is Aunt Joyce’s chief gardener) caught him and brought him to me. Jack, he sobbed and thrust his knuckles into his eyes, and said it were all the other lads. ‘But what did the other lads to thee?’ quoth I. ‘Oh, they dared me!’ crieth he. ‘They said I durst not take ’em: and so I had to do it.’ Now, heard you ever such stuff in your born days? Why, they might have dared me till this time next year, afore ever I had turned thief for their daring.”
“But then, Aunt, you see,” saith Ned, a twinkle in his eyes, “you are but a woman. That alters the case.”
“Just so, Ned,” quoth Aunt Joyce, the fun in her eyes as in his: “I am one of the weaker sex, I know.”
“Now, I’ll tell you,” saith Ned, “how they essayed it with me, when I first joined my ship. They dared me—my mates, wot you—to go up to the masthead, afore I had been aboard a day. ‘Now, look you here, mates,’ says I. ‘When the Admiral bids me, I’ll scale every mast in the ship; and if I break my neck, I shall but have done my duty. But I’ll do nought because I’m dared, and so that you know.’ Well, believe me who will, but they cheered me as if I had taken a galleon laden with ducats. And I’ve been their white son (favourite) ever since.”
“Of course!” saith Aunt Joyce. “They alway do. ’Tis men which have no true courage that dare others: and when they come on one that hath, they hold him the greater hero because ’tis not in themselves to do the like. Ned, lad, thou art thy father’s son. I know not how Wat gat changed.”
“Well, Aunt, I hope I am,” saith Ned. “I would liefer copy Father than any man ever I knew.”
“Hold thou there, and thou shalt make a fair copy,” saith Aunt Joyce.
We wrought a while in silence, when Aunt Joyce saith—
“Sure, if men’s eyes were not blinded by the sin of their nature, they should perceive the sheer folly of fearing the lesser thing, and yet daring the greater. ’Feared of the laughter of fools, that is but as the crackling of thorns under the pot: and not ’feared of the wrath of Him that liveth for ever and ever—which is able, when He hath killed, to destroy body and soul in Hell. Oh the folly and blindness of human nature!”
Selwick Hall, March ye vii.
Was ever any creature so good as this dear Aunt Joyce of ours? This morrow, when all were gone on their occasions saving her and Father, and Nell and me, up cometh she to Father, that was sat with a book of his hand, and saith—
“Aubrey!”
Father laid down his book, and looked up on her.
“Thou wert so good as to tell us three mornings gone,” saith she, “that thine income was three hundred pound by the year. Right interesting it were, for I never knew the figure aforetime.”
“Well?” saith Father, laughing.
“But I hope,” continueth she, “thou didst not forget (what thou didst know aforetime) that mine is two thousand.”
“My dear Joyce!” saith Father, and held forth his hand. “My true sister! I will not pretend to lack knowledge of thy meaning. Thou wouldst have me draw on thee for help to pay Walter’s debts—”
“Nay, not so,” saith she, “for I would pay them all out. Look thou, to do the same at once should inconvenience me but a trifle, and to do it at twice, nothing at all.”
“But, dear Joyce, I cannot,” quoth he. “Nay, not for thy sake—I know thou wouldst little allow such a plea—but for Walter’s own. To do thus should be something to ease myself, at the cost of a precious lesson that might last him his whole life.”
“I take thy meaning,” saith she, “yet I cannot sleep at ease if I do not somewhat. Give me leave to help a little, if no more. Might not that be done, yet leave Wat his lesson?”
“Well, dear heart, this I promise thee,” saith Father, “that in case we go a-begging, we will come first to the Manor House at Minster Lovel.”
“After which you shall get no farther,” saith Aunt Joyce. “But I want more than that, Aubrey. I would not of my good will tarry to help till thou and Lettice be gone a-begging. I can give the maids a gown-piece by now and then, of course, and so ease my mind enough to get an half-hour’s nap: but what am I to do for a night’s rest?”
Father laughed. “Come, a word in thine ear,” saith he.
Aunt Joyce bent her head down, but then pursed up her lips as though she were but half satisfied at last.
“Will that not serve?” saith Father, smiling on her.
“Ay, so far as it goeth,” she made answer: “yet it is but an if, Aubrey?”
“Life is a chain of ifs, dear Joyce,” saith he.
“Truth,” saith she, and stood a moment as if meditating. “Well,” saith she at last, “‘half a loaf is better than no bread at all,’ so I reckon I must be content with what I have. But if I send thee an whole flock of sheep one day, and to Lettice the next an hundred ells of velvet, prithee be not astonied.”
Father laughed, and said nought of that sort should ever astonish him, for he knew Aunt Joyce by far too well.
Selwick Hall, March ye ix.
We were sat this morrow all in the little chamber at work, and I somewhat marvelled what was ado with Mother, for smiles kept ever and anon flitting across her face, as though she were mighty diverted with the flax she was spinning: and I guessed her thoughts should be occupying somewhat that was of mirthful sort. At last saith Aunt Joyce:—
“Lettice, what is thy mind a-laughing at? I have kept count, and thou hast smiled eleven times this half-hour. Come, give us a share, good fellow.”
Mother laughed right out then, and saith—
“Why, Joyce, I knew not I was thus observed of a spy. Howbeit, what made me smile, that shall you know. Who is here to list me?”
All the women of the house were there but Milisent; of the men none save Ned.
“Aubrey hath had demand made of him for our Milly,” saith Mother.
“Heave he!” cries Ned. “Who wants her?”
“Good lack, lad, hast no eyes in thine head?” quoth Aunt Joyce. “Robin Lewthwaite, of course. I can alway tell when young folks be after that game.”
“Eh deary me!” cries Cousin Bess. “Why, I ne’er counted one of our lasses old enough to be wed. How doth time slip by, for sure!”
“I scarce looked for Milly to go the first,” saith Mistress Martin.
I reckon she thought Nell should have come afore, for she is six years elder than Milly: and so she might, would she have taken Nym Lewthwaite, for Father and Mother were so rare good as leave her choose. But I would not have taken Nym, so I cannot marvel at Helen.
“You see, Aunt,” saith Ned, answering Aunt Joyce, “I am not yet up to the game.”
“And what wilt choose by, when thou art?” saith Aunt Joyce, with a little laugh. “I know a young man that chose his wife for her comely eyebrows: and an other (save the mark!) by her French hood. Had I had no better cause than that last, I would have bought me a French hood as fair, if I had need to send to Paternoster Row (Note 2) for it, and feasted mine eyen thereon. It should not have talked when I desired quietness, nor have threaped (scolded) at me when I did aught pleased it not.”
“That speech is rare like a man, Joyce,” saith my Lady Stafford.
“Dear heart, Dulcie, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I am one myself?” quoth Aunt Joyce. “I know better, forsooth.”
“Methinks, Aunt, I shall follow your example,” saith Ned, winking on me, that was beside him. “Women be such ill matter, I’ll sheer off from ’em.”
“Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser,” saith Aunt Joyce: “yet am I more afeared of Wat than thee.”
“Is Wat the more like to wed a French hood?” saith Ned.
“I reckon so much,” saith she, “or a box of perfume, or some such rubbish. Eh dear, this world! Ned, ’tis a queer place: and the longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it.”
“’Tis a very pleasant place, Aunt, by your leave,” said I.
“Thou art not yet seventeen, Edith,” saith she: “and thou hast not seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders’ webs.—Well, Lettice, I reckon Aubrey gave consent?”
“Oh ay,” saith Mother, “in case Milisent were agreeable.”
“And were Milisent agreeable?” asks my Lady Stafford.
“I think so much,” made answer Mother, and smiled.
“None save a blind bat should have asked that,” saith Aunt Joyce. “But thou hast worn blinkers, Dulcie, ever sith I knew thee. Eh, lack-a-daisy! but that is fifty year gone, or not far thence.”
“Three lacking,” quoth my Lady Stafford.
“I’ll tell you what, we be growing old women!” saith Aunt Joyce. “Ned and Edith, ye ungracious loons, what do ye a-laughing?”
“I cry you mercy, Aunt, I could not help it,” said I, when I might speak: “you said it as though you had discovered the same but that instant minute.”
“Well, I had,” saith she. “And so shall you, afore you come to sixty years: or if not, woe betide you.”
“Dear heart, Aunt, there is a long road betwixt sixteen and sixty!” cried I, yet laughing.
“There is, Edith,” right grave, Aunt Joyce makes answer. “A long stretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, and swollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors. Ah, how little ye young things know! I reckon most folk should count my life an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it again, an’ I might choose. Wouldst thou, Dulcie?”
“Oh dear, no!” cries my Lady Stafford.
“And thou, Grissel?”
Mistress Martin shook her head.
“And thou, Lettice?”
Mother hesitated a little. “Some part, I might,” she saith.
“Ay, some part: we could all pick out that,” returns Aunt Joyce. “What sayest thou, Bess?”
“What, to turn back, and begin all o’er again?” quoth Cousin Bess. “Nay, Mistress Joyce, I’m none such a dizard as that. I reckon Ned shall tell you, when a sailor is coming round the corner in sight of home, ’tis not often he shall desire to sail forth back again.”
“Why, we reckon that as ill as may be,” saith Ned, “not to be able to make your port, and forced to put to sea again.”
“And when the sea hath been stormy,” saith Aunt Joyce, “and the port is your own home, and you can see the light gleaming through the windows?”
“Why, it were well-nigh enough to make an old salt cry,” saith Ned.
“Ay,” saith Aunt Joyce. “Nay—I would not live it again. Yet my life hath not been an hard one—only a little lonely and trying. Dulcie, here, hath known far sorer sorrows than I. Yet I shall be glad to get home, and lay by my travelling-gear.”
“But thou hast had sorrow, dear Joyce,” saith my Lady Stafford gently.
“Did any woman ever reach fifty without it?” Aunt Joyce makes answer. “Ay, I have had my sorrows, like other women—and one sorer than ever any knew. May-be, Dulcie, if the roads were smoother and the rivers shallower to ford, we should not be so glad when we gat safe home.”
“‘And so He leadeth them unto the haven where they would be,’” softly saith Mistress Martin.
“Ay, it makes all the difference who leads us when we pass through the waters,” answereth Aunt Joyce. “I mind Anstace once saying that. Most folks (said she) were content to go down, trusting to very shallow sticks—to the world, that brake under them like a reed; or to the strength of their own hearts, that had scantly the pith of a rush. But let us get hold with a good grip of Christ’s hand, and then the water may carry us off our feet if it will. It can never sweep us down the stream. It must spend all his force on the Rock of our shelter, before it can reach us. ‘In the great water-floods they shall not come nigh him.’”
“May the good Lord keep us all!” saith Mother, looking tenderly on us.
“Amen!” saith Aunt Joyce. “Children, the biting cold and the rough walking shall be little matter to them that have reached home.”
Selwick Hall, March ye xiii.
“Walter,” saith Father this even, “I have had a letter from my Lord of Oxenford.”
“You have so, Sir?” quoth he. “But not an answer to yours?”
“Ay, an answer to mine, having come down express with the Queen’s Majesty’s despatches unto my Lord Dacre of the North.”
“But, Aubrey, that is quick work!” saith Aunt Joyce. “Why, I reckon it cannot be over nine days sith thine were writ.”
“Nor is it, Joyce,” saith Father: “but look thou, I had rare opportunities, since mine went with certain letters of my Lord Dilston unto Sir Francis Walsingham.”
“Well, I never heard no such a thing!” crieth she. “To send a letter to London from Cumberland, and have back an answer in nine days!”
“’Tis uncommon rapid, surely,” saith Father. “Well, Walter, my boy—for thine eyes ask the question, though thy tongue be still—my Lord of Oxenford hath loosed thee from thine obligations, yet he speaks very kindlily of thee, as of a servant (Note 3) whom he is right sorry to lose.”
“You told him, Father,”—and Wat brake off short.
“I told him, my lad,” saith Father, laying of his hand upon Walter’s shoulder, “that I did desire to have thee to dwell at home a season: and moreover that I heard divers matters touching the Court ways, which little liked me.”
“Was that all, Aubrey?” asks Aunt Joyce.
“Touching the cause thereof? Ay.”
Then Walter breaks forth, with that sudden, eager way he hath, which Aunt Joyce saith is from Mother.
“Father, I have not deserved such kindness from you! But I do desire to say one thing—that I can see now it is better I were thence, though it was sore trouble to me at the first: and (God helping me) I will endeavour myself to deserve better in the future than I have done in the past.”
Father held forth his hand, and Wat put his in it.
“God helping thee, my son,” saith he gravely. “I do in very deed trust the same. Yet not without it, Walter!”
Somewhat like an hour thereafter, when Aunt Joyce and I were alone, she saith all suddenly, without a word of her thoughts aforetime—
“Ay, the lad is his father’s son, after all. If he only could learn to spell Nay!”
Note 1. The reader is requested to remember that these sums must be multiplied by fifteen, to arrive at the equivalents in the present day.
Note 2. Paternoster Row was the Regent Street of Elizabeth’s reign.
Note 3. The word servant was much more loosely used in the sixteenth century than at present. Any lady or gentleman, however well born and educated, in receipt of a salary from an employer, was termed a servant. The Queen’s Maids of Honour were in service, and their stipends were termed wages.