"Whate'er we do, we all are doing this--
Reaping the harvest of our yesterdays,
Sowing for our to-morrows."
S.V. Partridge.
On the following evening, Aubrey put in an appearance at the White Bear.
As soon as he entered, he gave a quick, troubled look round the
parlour, before he went up to kiss his grandmother's hand. His Aunt
Temperance greeted him with, "Give you good even, my Lord Chamberlain!
Lancaster and Derby! do but look on him! Blue feather in his hat--lace
ruff and ruffles--doublet of white satin with gold aglets--trunk hose o'
blue velvet, paned with silver taffeta--garters of blue and white silk--
and I vow, a pair o' white silken hose, and shoes o' Spanish leather.
Pray you, my Lord, is your allowance from the King's Majesty five
hundred pounds or a thousand by the year?"
"Now, Aunt, you know," said Aubrey, laughing. "That thou art a
spendthrift?" answered she. "Ay, I do: and if thou run not into debt
this side o' Christmas, my name is not Temperance Murthwaite."
"I'm not in debt a penny," retorted he.
"Then somebody must have given thee thy pantofles," replied she. "Be
they a cast-off pair of his Majesty's, or did my Lord Oxford so much
alms to thee?"
Aubrey laughed again, as merrily as if he had not a care nor a fault in
the world.
"They cost not so much as you reckon," he said.
"Four yards of velvet," calculated Aunt Temperance--"you'll not do it
under, stuffed that wise of bombast, nor buy that quality, neither,
under eighteen shillings the yard--let's see,--that is three pounds
twelve shillings: silver taffeta, a yard and an half, twenty-two and
sixpence--that's four pounds fourteen and six; then the lining, dowlas,
I suppose, at fourteen pence--"
"They are lined with perpetuana, Aunt," answered Aubrey, who seemed
greatly amused by this reckoning.
"Perpetuana--_lining_? Thou reckless knave! Three-and-fourpence the
yard at the least--well, we'll say ten shillings--five pounds four and
six: and the lace, at four shillings by the ounce, and there'll be two
ounces there, good: five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, as I'm a
living woman! 'Tis sinful waste, lad: that's what it is. Your father
never wore such Babylonian raiment, nor your grandfather neither, and
there was ten times the wisdom and manliness in either of them that
there'll ever be in you, except you mean to turn your coat ere you are a
month elder."
As Aubrey turned to reply, his eyes fell on Hans, coming home from the
mercer's. His face changed in a minute: but Hans came forward with his
hand held out as cordially as usual, and a look of real pleasure in his
eyes.
"Good even, Aubrey; I am glad to see you," said he.
"Ay, see him, do!" cried Temperance, before Aubrey could answer; and he
only gave his hand in silence. "Look at him, Hans! Didst ever behold
such a pair of pantofles? Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!
How much cost thine?"
"Mine be not so brave as these," replied Hans, smiling. "My Lord
Oxford's squire must needs wear better raiment than a silkman's
apprentice, Mrs Murthwaite."
"Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!" persisted she.
"Come, now, Aunt Temperance! They cost not the half," said Aubrey.
"Who didst thou cheat out of them, then?" asked she.
"I bought them," he answered, laughing, "of a young noble that had borne
them but twice, and was ill content with the cut and colour of them."
"He'll come to no good," sternly pronounced Aunt Temperance.
"You made a good bargain," said Hans. "That velvet cost full a pound
the yard, I should say."
"Aubrey," inquired Temperance, "I do marvel, and I would fain know, what
thou dost all the day long? Doth thy Lord keep thee standing by his
chair, first o' one leg, and then o' tother, while he hath an errand for
thee?"
"Why, no, Aunt! I am not an errand-lad," said Aubrey, and laughed more
merrily than ever. "Of late is his Lordship greatly incommoded, and
hath kept his chamber during many days of this last month; but when he
hath his health, I will specify unto you what I do."
"Prithee specify, and I shall be fain to hearken."
"Well, of a morning I aid his Lordship at his _lever_, and after
breakfast I commonly ride with him, if it be my turn: then will he read
an hour or twain in the law, without the Parliament be sitting, when he
is much busied, being not only a morning man, but at committees also; in
the afternoon he is often at Court, or practising of music--just now he
exerciseth himself in broken music [the use of stringed instruments] and
brachigraphy [shorthand]: then in the evening we join my Lady and her
gentlewomen in the withdrawing chamber, and divers gestes and conceits
be used--such as singing, making of anagrams, guessing of riddles, and
so forth. There is my day."
"Forsooth, and a useless one it is," commented she. "The law-books and
the Parliament business seem the only decent things in it."
"Ah, 'tis full little changed," remarked Lady Louvaine, "these sixty
years since I dwelt at Surrey Place." And she sighed.
"Temperance, I am astonished at you," interposed Faith. "You do nought
save fault-find poor Aubrey."
"Poor Aubrey! ay, that he is," returned his Aunt, "and like to be a
sight poorer, for all that I can see. If you'll fault-find him a bit
more, Faith, there'll not be so much left for me to do."
"What is the matter?" asked Edith, coming softly in.
"There's a pair of velvet pantofles and an other of silken hose the
matter, my dear," answered Temperance, "and a beaver hat with a brave
blue feather in it. I trust you admire them as they deserve, and him
likewise that weareth them."
"They are brave, indeed," said Edith, in her quiet voice. "I would fain
hope it is as fair within as without, my boy."
She looked up in his face as she spoke with yearning love in her eyes;
and as Aubrey bent his head to kiss her, he said, in the softest tone
which he had yet employed since his entrance, "I am afraid not, Aunt
Edith."