(In Helen’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, January ye iv.
Dear heart, but I ne’er thought our Edith should have filled so much paper! Yet it doth seem me she is more livelier at writing than at household duties. I have watched her pen a-flying of a night (for she can write twice as fast as I, she writing of the new Italian hand, and I but the old English) (Note 1) till I marvelled whate’er she found to say. And methinks she hath, likewise, a better memory than I, for I reckon I should have made some mighty blunder in all these long talks which she hath set down so pat.
I had no time to write afore to-day, nor much now: for o’ New Year’s Day had we all the childre of all the vicinage, and I were fair run off my feet, first a-making ready, and then a-playing games. Then was there a ’stowing away of such matter as should not be wanted again o’ Twelfth Night. Trust me, but after Twelfth Night we shall have some jolly work!
Dear heart! but how much hath happed since the last line I writ in this book, and ’tis but two months gone. I do see, as saith the wise man, that we verily wit not what a day may bring forth.
Our Milly is coming back something to her old self, though methinks she hath learned an hard lesson, and shall ne’er be so light and foolish as aforetime. I trust this is not unkindly to say, for in very deed I mean it not so. But more and more hear we of all sides touching this Master Norris (as Aunt Joyce saith is his true name), which doth plainly show him a right evil man, and that if our poor Milly had trusted to his fair words, she should soon have had cause to repent her bitterly thereof. Why, there is scarce a well-favoured maid in all Derwentdale, nor Borrowdale, that hath not token to show of him, and an heap of besugared flatteries for to tell. Eh, but what an ill world is this we live in!—and how thankful should young maids be that have a good home to shelter them in, and a loving father and mother to defend them from harm! Trust me, but I never knew how ill place was the world.
Nor did I ever truly conceive aforetime of Aunt Joyce. Methought that for her, being rich and well to do, the wheels of life had run rare smooth: and that ’twas but a short way to the bottom of her mind and heart. And all suddenly an hand uplifts the corner of a curtain that I had taken no note of, and lo! a mighty deep that I never guessed to be there. Is it thus with all folks, I do marvel?—and if we could look into the inwards of them that seem as though nought were in them, should we find great dreary caverns, or vast mines of wealth? Yet for all this is Aunt Joyce ever bright and cheery, and ready to do all kindly service for whoso it be that needeth it. And ’tis harder to carry an heavy burden that it shall not show under your cloak, than to heave it up on your shoulder. I did alway love Aunt Joyce, but never better, methinks, than sithence I have known somewhat more of her inner mind. Poor hasty spirits that we be, how do we misjudge other folk! But now I must tarry in my chronicling, for I hear Anstace’ voice below, and I reckon she is come to help in making ready for Twelfth Night.
Selwick Hall, January ye viii.
Well! Twelfth Night is o’er, and the most of things ’stowed away, and all come back to our common ways. Sixty-eight guests had we, grown folk and childre, and I shall not essay, as I see Edith hath done rarely, to set down all their names; only there were most of those that come on Christmas Eve, but not Dr Meade and his folks, he being bidden of my Lord Dilston. Much merriment was there a-drawing of king and queen, and it o’er, behold, Dudley Murthwaite was King, and Mother was Queen. So Father (which had drawn the Chamberlain) right courtlily hands Mother up to the throne, that was set at the further end of the great chamber, all laughing rarely to see how well ’twas done: and Martha Rigg, Agnes Benson, Gillian Armstrong, and our Milly, that had drawn the Maids of Honour, did dispose themselves behind her. Aunt Joyce was Mother of the Maids, and she said she would have a care to rule them with a rod of iron. So she armed her with the poker, and shaked it at each one that tittered, till the most were a-holding of their sides with laughter. Jack Lewthwaite drew the Chancellor, and right well he carried him. Ere their Majesties abdicated, and the Court dispersed, had we rare mirth, for Aunt Joyce laid afore the throne a ’plaint of one of her maids for treason, which was Gillian, that could no way keep her countenance: and ’twas solemnly decreed of their Majesties, and ratified of the Chancellor, that the said prisoner be put in fetters, and made to drink poison: the which fetters were a long piece of silver lace that had come off a gown of Mother’s, and the poison a glass of syllabub, which Mr Chancellor brought to the prisoner, that screamed and begged for mercy, but had it not—and hard work had Gillian to beg for mercy, for she was laughing till she could scarce utter no words. Howbeit, this o’er, all we gathered around the fire, and played at divers sitting games. And as we were in the midst of “I love my love,” and had but just finished R,—afore Margaret Benson, that was next, could begin with S,—behold, a strange voice behind, yet no strange one, crieth out loud and cheery—
“I love my love with an S, because she is sweet; I hate her with S, because she is sulky: I took her to the sign of the Ship, and treated her to sprats and seaweed; her name is Sophonisba Suckabob, and she comes from San Sebastian.”