God knoweth,—thee and me. God careth. God will provide. Enough, O fainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is higher than thou. Rest, and be still.
Selwick Hall, April ye iii.
I could write no more last night. It was better to cast one’s self on the sand (as Ned saith men do in the great Desert of Araby) and leave the tempest sweep o’er one’s head. I come back now to the life of every day—that quiet humdrum life (as Milly hath it) which is so displeasant to young eager natures, and matcheth so well with them that be growing old and come to feel the need of rest. And after all said, Mistress Milisent, a man should live a sorry life and a troublous, if it had in it no humdrum days. Human nature could not bear perpetual sorrow, and as little (in this dispensation at the least) should it stand unceasing joy.
I fell a-thinking this morrow, how little folks do wit of that which lieth a-head. Now, if I were to prophesy (that am no prophet, neither a prophet’s daughter) what should befall these young things my cousins twenty years hereafter, then would I say that it should find Ned captain of some goodly vessel, and husband of Faith Murthwaite (and may he have no worser fate befall him!)—and Wat, a country gentleman (but I trust not wed to Gillian Armstrong): and Nell, a comely maiden ministering lovingly unto her father and mother: and Milisent dwelling at Mere Lea with Robin Lewthwaite: and Edith—nay, I will leave the fashioning of her way to the Lord, for I see not whither it lieth. And very like (an’ it be His will I live thus long) when the time cometh, I shall see may-be not so much as one that hath fulfilled the purpose I did chalk out for them. Ay, but the Lord’s chalking shall be a deal better than Joyce Morrell’s. I reckon my lines should be all awry.
For how little hath happed that ever I looked for aforetime! Dulcie Fenton, that wont to look as though it should be a sin in her to laugh, had she beheld aught to laugh at, hath blossomed out into an happy, comfortable matron, with two fair daughters, and an husband that (for a man) is rare good unto her: and Lettice Eden—come, Anstace is to read this, so will I leave Lettice to conceive for herself what should have followed. Both she and Aubrey shall read well enough betwixt the lines. And Joyce Morrell, that thought once to be—what she is not—is an humdrum old maid, I trust a bit useful as to cooking and stitchery and the like, and on whom God hath put a mighty charge of His gold and goods to minister for Him,—but nought nearer than cousins to give her love, though that do they most rarely, and God bless their hearts therefor. My best treasures be in the good Land—all save one, that the Good Shepherd is yet looking for over the wild hills: nor hath my life been an unhappy one, but for that one blank which is there day and night, and shall be till the Good Shepherd call me by my name to come and rejoice with Him over the finding of His sheep that is lost. O Lord, make no long tarrying! Yea, make no tarrying, O my God!
Selwick Hall, April ye v.
Ned hath spoke out at last, like the honest man he is, and done Aubrey to wit of his desire to wed with Faith Murthwaite. She is a good maid, and I cast no doubt shall make a good wife. Scarce so comely as her sister Temperance, may-be, yet she liketh me the better: and not by no means so fair as Gillian Armstrong, which liketh me not at all. I would with all mine heart that I could put a spoke in that lass’s wheel the which she rolleth toward our Walter: yet this know I, that if you shall give an hint to a young man that he were best not to wed with a certain maid, mine head to a porridge-pot but he shall go and fall o’ love with her, out of pure contrariety. Men be such dolts! And, worser yet, they will not be ruled by the women, that have all the wit going.
Master Murthwaite, though he say little, as his wont is, is nevertheless, as I can see, pleased enough (and Mistress Murthwaite a deal more, and openly) that his lass should have caught our Ned. And truly our Ned is no ill catch, for he feareth God, and hath a deal of his father in him, than which I can write no better commendation. Wat is more like Lettice.
Ay me, but is it no strange matter that the last thing ever a man (or woman) doth seem able to understand, is that ‘whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ That: not an other thing. Yet for one that honestly essayeth to sow that which he would reap, an hundred shall sow darnel and look confidently to reap fine wheat. They sow that they have no desire to reap, and ope their dull eyes in amazement when that cometh up which they have sown.
How do men pass their lives in endeavours to deceive God! Because they be ready to take His gold for tinsel, they reckon He shall leave their tinsel pass for gold.