SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
There goeth my first two pence for a blank week. In good sooth, I have
been in ill case to write. This weary _Nym_ would in no wise leave me
be, but went to _Anstace_ and _Hal_, and gat their instance [persuaded
them to intercede] unto _Father_ and _Mother_. Which did send for me,
and would know at me if I list to wed with _Nym_ or no. And verily, so
bashful am I, and afeared to speak when I am took on the sudden thus,
that I count they gat not much of me, but were something troubled to
make out what I would be at. Nor wis I what should have befallen (not
for that _Father_ nor _Mother_ were ever so little hard unto me, good
lack! but only that I was stupid), had not Aunt _Joyce_ come in, who no
sooner saw how matters stood than she up and spake for me.
"Now, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_," saith she, "both of you, fall
a-catechising me in the stead of _Nell_. The maid hath no list to wed
with _Nym Lewthwaite_, and hath told me so much aforetime. Leave her
be, and send him away the other side of _Jericho_, where he belongs, and
let him, an' he list, fetch back a _Syrian_ maiden with a horn o'er her
forehead and a ring of her nose."
"Wherefore didst thou not tell us so much, _Nell_, my lass?" saith
_Father_ right kindlily, laying of his hand on my shoulder.
But in the stead of answering him thankfully, as a dutiful daughter
should, what did I but burst forth o' crying, as though he had been
angered with me: yea, nor might I stop the same, but went on, truly I
knew not wherefore, till _Mother_ came up and put her arms around me,
and hushed me as she wont to do when I was a little child.
"The poor child is o'erwrought," quoth she, tenderly. "Let us leave her
be, _Aubrey_, till she calms down.--There, come to me and have it out,
my _Nelly_, and none shall trouble thee, trust me."
Lack-a-daisy! I sobbed all the harder for a season, but in time I
calmed down, as _Mother_ says, and when so were, I prayed her of pardon
for that I could be so foolish.
"Nay, my lass," saith she, "we be made of body and soul, and either
comes uppermost at times. 'Tis no good trying to live with one, which
so it be."
"Ah, the old monks made that blunder," saith _Father_, "and thought they
could live with souls only, or well-nigh so. And there be scores of
other that essay to live with nought but bodies. A man that starves his
body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser. No is
it thus, _Mynheer_?"
Mynheer van _Stuyvesant_ had come in while _Father_ was a-speaking.
"Ah!" saith he, "there be in my country certain called _Mennonites_,
that do starve their natures of yonder fashion."
"Which half of them,--body or soul?" saith _Father_.
"Nay, I would say both two," he makes answer. "They run right to the
further end of every matter. Because they read in their Bibles that `in
the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' therefore they do forbid
all speech that is not of very necessity,--even a word more than needful
is sin in their eyes. If you shall say, `Sit you down in that chair to
your comfort,' there are eight words more than you need. You see?--
there are eight sins. `Sit' were enough. So, one mouthful more bread
than you need--no, no!--that is a sin. One drop of syrup to your
bread--not at all! You could eat your bread without syrup. All that is
joyous, all that is comfortable, all that you like to do--all so many
sins. Those are the _Mennonites_."
"What sinful men they must be!" saith _Father_.
"Good lack, Master _Stuyvesant_, but think you all those folks tarried
in _Holland_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Marry, I could count you a round
dozen I have met in this country. And they _be_ trying, I warrant you.
My fingers have itched to shake them ere now."
"How do they serve them when they would get them wed?" saith _Father_.
"Quoth Master _John_ to Mistress _Bess_, `Wed me' and no more?--and
saith she, `Ay' and no more? A kiss, I ween, shall be a sin, for 'tis
no wise necessary."