Note 3. “Timeo Danaos, ac dona ferentes.”
Chapter Eleven.
The Joy of Harvest.
“Now that Thy mercies on my head
The oil of joy for mourning pour,
Not as I will my steps be led,
But as Thou wilt for evermore.”
Anna L. Waring.
(In Joyce Morrell’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, April ye second.
Some ten years gone, when I was tarrying hither, I had set round my waist a leather thong, at the other end whereof was a very small damsel, by name Edith. “Gee up, horse!” quoth she: “gee up, I say!” and accordingly in all obeisance I did gee up, and danced and pranced (like an old dolt as I am) at the pleasance of that my driver. It seems me that Mistress Edith hath said “Gee up!” yet once again, and given the old brown mare a cut of her whip. I therefore have no choice but to prance: and if any into whose hands this book may fall hereafter shall reckon me a silly old woman, I hereby do them to wit that their account tallieth to one farthing with the adding of Joyce Morrell.
I have read over the writings of these my cousins: and as I am commanded to write my thoughts on that matter, I must say that methinks but one of them hath done as she laid out to do. That Nell hath been wise on every page will I not deny; at the least, if not, they be right few. But I reckon Edith hath been wise on more than the last (though not on all) and hath thus done better than she looked for: while as to Milly, she hath been wise on none of her first writing, and on all of her second. Verily, when I came to read that record of February, I might scarce credit that Milisent was she that writ.