“We shun two paths, my maiden,
When strangers’ way we tell—
That which ourselves we know not,
That which we know too well.
“I ‘never knew!’ Thou think’st it?
Well! Better so, to-day.
The years lie thick and mossy
O’er that long-silent way.
“The roses there are withered,
The thorns are tipped with pain:
Thou wonderest if I tell thee
‘Walk not that way again?’
“Oh eyes that see no further
Than this world’s glare and din!
I warn thee from that pathway
Because I slipped therein.
“So, leave the veil up-hanging!
And tell the world outside—
‘She cannot understand me—
She nothing has to hide!’”
(In Edith’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, December the first.
I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this chronicle is come to mine hand. But Father and Mother do desire me to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay to do.
It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in Milly, and had talked with Nell thereabout, more than once or twice. Though Milisent is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one of us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as though she had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was less mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times she seemed an other maid, and not our Milly at all. It was not our Milly’s wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And at last, Nell thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak with Aunt Joyce, that I knew was wise and witty (sensible), and if there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than Mother, and could break the same to Mother more gentler than we. To say truth, I was feared—and yet I scarce knew why—of that man we met on Saint Hubert’s Isle. I had noted that Milly never named him, though he were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt Helen and me: and when an other so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever she could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met Milly coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw me. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and as yester-morrow, when we were come from Nanny’s, I brake my mind to Aunt Joyce.
Aunt Joyce did not cry “Pish!” nor fault me for conceiving foolish fantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part, she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give better ear. When I had done, she saith—
“Tell me, Edith, what like is this man.”
I told her so well as I could.
“And how oft hast thou seen him?”
“Three times, Aunt. The first on Saint Hubert’s Isle, whereof you know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was a-coming home from Isaac Crewdson’s: and the last, this morrow, just as we came out of Nanny’s door, we met Milisent, full face: and a minute at after, this Sir Edwin passed us on the road.”