When I come, this morrow, to search for my Diurnal Book, the which for aught I knew I had brought with me from home, what should I find but our old Chronicle, which I must have catched up in mistake for the same? And looking therein, I was enticed to read divers pages, and then I fell a-thinking that as it had so happed, it might be well, seeing a space was yet left, that I should set down for the childre, whose it shall some day be, what had come to pass since. They were the pages Aunt Joyce writ that I read: and seeing that of them therein named, two have reached Home already, and the rest of us be eleven years further on the journey, it shall doubtless make the story more completer to add these lines.
Father, and Mother, and Aunt Joyce, be all yet alive; the Lord be heartily thanked therefor! But Father’s hair is now of the hue of the snow, though Mother hath scantly any silver amongst the gold; and Aunt Joyce well-nigh matcheth Father. Hal and Anstace be as they were, with more childre round them. Robin and Milisent dwell at Mere Lea, with a goodly parcel belike; and Helen (that Aunt Joyce counted should be an old maid) is wife unto Dudley Murthwaite, and dwelleth by Skiddaw Force. Wat is at Kendal, grown a good man and wise, more like to Father than ever we dared hope: but his wife is not Gillian Armstrong, nor any of the maids of this part, but Frances Radcliffe, niece to my Lord Dilston that was, and cousin unto Mistress Jane and Mistress Cicely. They have four boys and three maids: but Nell hath only one daughter, that is named Lettice for Mother.
And Ned is not. We prayed the Lord to bring him safe from that last voyage to Virginia that ever Sir Humphrey Gilbert took; and He set him safe enough, but in better keeping than ours. For from that voyage came safe to Falmouth all the ships save one, and that was the Admiral’s own. They had crossed the Atlantic through an awful storm, and the last seen of the Admiral was on the ix of September, Mdlxxxiii (1583), by them in the Hind: and when they saw him he was sat of the stern of his vessel, with his Bible open of his knees: and he was plainly heard to say,—“Courage, my men! Heaven is as near by water as by land.” Then the mist closed again o’er the fleet, and they saw him no more. On the xxii of September the fleet reached Falmouth: but when, and where, and how, Sir Humphrey Gilbert and our Ned went down, He knoweth unto whom the night is as clear as the day, and we shall know when the sea giveth up her dead.
His young widow, our dear sister Faith, dwelleth with us at Selwick Hall: and so doth their one child, little Aubrey, the darling of us all. I cannot choose but think never were two such sweetings as Aubrey and his cousin Lettice Murthwaite.
I am Edith Louvaine yet. I know now that I was counted fairest of the sisters, and they looked for me to wed with confidence. I am not so fair now, and I shall never wed. Had things turned out other than they have, I will not say I might not have done it. There is no blame to any—not even to myself. It was of God’s ordering, and least of all could I think to blame that. It is only—and I see no shame to tell it—that the man who was my one love never loved me, and is happy in the love of a better than I. Be it so: I am content. I had no love-story,—only a memory that is known to none but me, though it will never give mine heart leave to open his gates to any love again. Enough of that. It is all the better for our dear Father and Mother that they have one daughter left to them.
At the time we writ this Chronicle, when I were scarce seventeen years of age, I mind I had a fantasy running through my brain that I was born for greatness. Methinks it came in part of a certain eager restless spirit that did long to be a-doing, and such little matters as do commonly fall to women’s lot seemed mean and worthless in mine eyes. But in part (if I must needs confess my folly) I do believe it sprang of a tale I had heard of Mother, touching Queen Katherine, the last wife to King Harry that was, of whom some Egyptian (gypsy) had prophesied, in her cradle, that she was born for a crown: and ever after she heard the same, the child (as she then were) was used to scorn common works, and when bidden to her task, was wont to say,—“My hands were made to touch crowns and sceptres, not spindles and neelds,” (needles). Well, this tale (that Mother told us for our diversion when we were little maids—for she, being Kendal born, did hear much touching the Lady Maud Parr and her childre, that dwelt in Kendal Castle) this tale, I say, catched great hold of my fantasy. Mistress Kate Parr came to be a queen, according to her previsions of greatness: and wherefore should not Editha Louvaine? Truly, there was but little reason in the fantasy, seeing no Egyptian had ever prophesied of me (should that be of any account, which Father will ne’er allow), nor could the Queen’s Majesty make me a queen by wedding of me: but methinks pride and fantasy stick not much at logic. So I clung in my silly heart to the thought that I was born to be great, and was capable to do great things, would they but come in my way.
And now I have reached the age of seven and twenty, and they have not come in my way, nor seem like to do. The only conquest I am like to achieve is that over mine own spirit, which Scripture reckoneth better than taking of a city: and the sole entrance into majesty and glory that ever I can look for, is to be presented faultless before the presence of God with exceeding joy. Ah, Editha Louvaine! hast thou any cause for being downcast at the exchange?
In good sooth, this notion of mine (that I can smile at now) showeth one thing, to wit, the deal of note that childre be apt to take of little matters that should seem nought to their elders. I can ne’er conceive the light and careless fashion wherein some women go about to breed up a child. To me the training of a human soul for the life immortal seems the most terrible piece of responsibility in the whole world.
And now there is one story left that I must finish, and it is of the other that hath got Home.
It was five years gone, and a short season after Helen’s marriage. Mother was something diseased, as I think, touching me, for she said I was pale, and had lost mine appetite (and my sleep belike, though she wist it not).