"The inward depths of that deceitful fount
Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead."
(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE FIRST.
Things be alway going awry with me. Elsewise, this jolly book should
ne'er have come into my hands first of a _Sunday_. I would love dearly
to read o'er what my philosophical sister hath writ, and comment on the
same: but I reckon I must tarry till to-morrow.
Now, _Mother_ said I was to write what I thought, and I mean to do the
same. As to the pennies and the two-pences, they may count up
themselves, for all I care. They'll not outrun half-a-crown, I reckon:
and having paid the same at my month end, I shall just worry the life
out of _Father_ till he give me an other. So here goes it!
Well, the first thing I think is,--Why must everything pleasant be set
aside while _Monday_? _Father_ saith happiness and wickedness be not
alike, though (quoth he) some folk think so much. Now, it seems me that
happiness and holiness should be the same thing. Why should a matter
not be right simply by reason that I like it? I want to know, and I
will ask somebody, some of these days.
Howbeit, of one thing am I assured,--namely, that it cannot be wicked to
write on _Sunday_ what it is not wicked to do. So I shall tell what we
did.
Now, there some folk are so queer! They will take down a gown, and
shake out the folds, and talk an half-hour o'er it,--how this gimp
should be better to run that way, and next week the bottom must needs be
fresh bound: all of a _Sunday_. But to stick a neeld in, and make the
gimp run that way, and fresh bind the bottom,--good lack! they should
count you a very heathen an' you asked them. Now, I want to know how
the one is a bit better than the other. I cannot see a pin to choose
betwixt them.
Well! we gat out of bed this morrow--I reckon that is the first thing,
beyond opening one's eyes.
_Nell_ is alway the first up, and _Edith_ the last. She is rare hard to
wake, is _Edith_; or rather, not to wake, but to make her rise up when
she is woke. She takes a deal of shaking and talking to, some mornings
specially. _Nell_ does the talking, and I do the shaking: and I warrant
you, I give it her.
Howbeit, we were all up, at long last--and if one of us be late of a
_Sunday_ morrow, _Father_ looks as if we had brake his heart. Our
_Sunday_ gowns at this season be of green satin, of sixteen shillings
the yard,--eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a _Sunday_?
Well, never mind; 'tis now done--and furred with pampilion [an unknown
species of fur]. Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gear
went we to church, at _Keswick_. And I would with all mine heart we had
a church nearer unto us than three weary miles, though every body saith
'tis mighty near. _Father_ rid on _Favelle_, with _Edith_ behind him;
and _Mother_ on _Garnet_, behind Master _Stuyvesant_; and _Nell_ and I
on _Cowslip_; and Aunt _Joyce_ of her own hackney, that is called
_Hermit_, with old _Matthias_. Cousin _Bess_ come ambling after, on
_Starlight_, with _Adam_ afore her: and behind trudged _Kate_ and
_Kitling_. And by the same token, _Moses_ came a-mewing to the door to
see us depart.
So came we to the church, and there found afore us my Lord _Dilston_ and
his following, that had rowed over from _Lord's Island_, whereon of old
time the Barons of _Dilston_ [the Radcliffes, subsequently created Earls
of Derwentwater] have had an house (I am mindful of strangers the which
shall read our chronicle, which is more, I reckon, than _Nell_ shall
have been), and in good sooth, but Mistress _Jane_ is fair of face, and
I do love to look upon her. Well, of course, _Father_ being but a
knight, we stood of one side to let pass a baron: and when all they were
gone up, went up we, in due order, _Father_ handing _Mother_, and
_Mynheer_ with Aunt _Joyce_, and then Cousin _Bess_ and we three maids.
And there was Dr _Meade_ with his white rag of _Popery_ (as Cousin
_Bess_ will have it) a-flying behind him as he came from the vestry: and
I might not forbear to give a little pinch to _Edith_ as I saw it fly.
'Tis to no good to pinch _Nell_, for she doth but kill me with a look.
And there, of either side (which I had nigh forgot), stood the common
folk, the townsfolk, and the lead-miners from _Vicar's Island_
[anciently belonging to Fountains Abbey] and such like, all a-gaping and
a-staring on us as we went by, to see the baron and the knight. And eh,
but I do love to be gaped on! 'Tis the best bit of all the _Sunday_,
for me.
(Now, _Mother_, you said I was to write what I thought.)
Then come matins, which one has to sit through, of course: the only good
matter being the chants. I can sing out, and I do. Then come the
sermon, which is unto me sore weariness, and I gape through it as I best
may. Dear heart, what matter is it to me if _Peter_ were ever at _Rome_
or no, or if Saint _James_ and _Paul_ do both say the same thing
touching faith and works? We have all faith--say we not the Creed every
_Sunday_? and what would you have more? And as to works, I hate good
works. Good works always means doing the very thing you would rather
not. 'Tis good works to carry a pudding to old _Nanny Crewdson_ through
a lane where I nigh lose my shoes in the mire, right at the time when I
want to bide at home and play the virginals. Or 'tis sitting of a chair
and reading of _Luther's_ Commentary on the _Galatians_ to one of my
betters, when my very toes be tingling to be out in the sunshine. Good
lack, but I do owe a pretty penny to Master Doctor _Luther_ for that
commentary! I have had to sit and read it a good score of times when it
should have done me marvellous ease to have boxed his ears with it. Had
I been Mistress _Katherine_, it should have gone hard with me but I
would have pulled Master Doctor out of his study, and made him lake with
little _Jack_ and _Maudlin_, in the stead of toiling o'er yon old musty
commentary. _Nell_ saith she loveth to read it. In good sooth, but I
wish she may!
Well! matins o'er, come the communion, for which all tarried but
_Edith_; she, not being yet confirmed, is alway packed off ere it begin.
And when that were o'er--and I do love the last _Amen_ of all--went all
we to dinner with Mistress _Huthwaite_, at whose house we do ever dine
of a _Sunday_: and mighty late it is of a communion _Sunday_; and I am
well-nigh famished ere I break bread. And for dinner was corned beef
and carrots, and for drink sherris-sack and muscadel. Then, at three o'
the clock, all we again to church: and by the same token, if Dr _Meade_
gave us not two full hours of a sermon, then will I sell my gold chain
for two pence. And at after church, in the porch were my Lord _Dilston_
and fair Mistress _Jane_; and my Lord was pleased to take _Father_ by
the hand, and _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_ likewise; but did but kiss us
maids. [Note 1.] But Mistress _Jane_ took us all three by the hand,
and did say unto me that she would fain be better acquainted. And in
very deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto close
friendship with my Lord _Dilston_ his daughter, as I do right heartily
trust I may. Nor, after all, were it any such great preferment for me,
that am daughter unto Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ of _Selwick_ Hall, Knight,
which is cousin unto my right honourable Lord the Earl of _Oxenford_,
and not so far off neither. For my most honourable Lord, Sir _Aubrey de
Vere_, sometime Earl of _Oxenford_, was great-great-great-grandfather
unto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady _Margaret_, wife to
Sir _Nicholas Louvaine_, was great-great-grandmother unto _Father_: so
they twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, good
lack, what is this? Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress _Jane
Radcliffe_ her notice and favour. If the _Radcliffes_ be an old house,
as in very deed they be, so be the _Veres_ and the _Louvaines_ both: to
say nought of the _Edens_, that have dwelt in _Kent-dale_ these thousand
years at the least. But one thing will I never own, and that is of
Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, that
our family be all _Dutch_ folk. He will have it that the _Louvaines_
must needs have sprung from _Louvain_ in the Low Countries; but of all
things doth he make me mad [angry: a word still used in the north of
England] when he saith the great House of _Vere_ is _Dutch_ of origin.
For he will have it a weir to catch fish, when all the world doth know
that _Veritas_ is _Latin_ for truth, and _Vere_ cometh of that, or else
of _vir_, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no base
coward loon. And 'tis all foolishness for to say, as doth _Mynheer_,
that the old _Romans_ had no surnames like ours, but only the name of
the family, such like as _Cornelius_ or _Julius_, which ran more akin
unto our _Christian_ names. I believe it not, and I won't. Why, was
there not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called _Lucius
Verus_? and what is that but _Vere_? 'Tis as plain as the barber's
pole, for all _Mynheer_, and that will I say.
Howbeit, I am forgetting my business, and well-nigh that it is _Sunday_.
So have back. Church over, all we come home, in the very order as we
went: and in the hall come _Moses_ a-purring to us, and a-rubbing of her
head against _Nell_; and there was _Dan_ a-turning round and round after
his tail, and _Nan_, that had a ball of paper, on her back a-laking
therewith. _So_ we to doff our hoods, and then down into the hall,
where was supper served: for it was over late for four-hours [Note 2],
and of a communion _Sunday_ we never get none. Then _Nell_ to read a
chapter from Master Doctor _Luther_ his magnifical commentary: and by
the mass, I was glad it was not me. Then--(Eh, happy woman be my dole!
but if _Father_ shall see that last line, it shall be a broad shilling
out of my pocket at the least. He is most mighty nice, is _Father_,
touching that make of talk. I believe I catched it up of old
_Matthias_. I must in very deed essay to leave it off; and I do own,
'tis not over seemly to swear of a _Sunday_, for I suppose it is
swearing, though 'tis not profane talk. Come, _Father_, you must
o'erlook it this once: and I will never do so no more--at the least, not
till the next time.)
Well then, had we a chapter of _Luke_, and a long prayer of _Father_:
and I am sore afeared I missed a good ten minutes thereof, for I wis not
well what happed, nor how I gat there, but assuredly I was a-dancing
with my Lord of _Oxenford_, and the Queen's Majesty and my Lord
_Dilston_ a-looking on, and Mistress _Jane_ as black as thunder, because
I danced better than she. I reckon _Father's_ stopping woke me, and I
said _Amen_ as well as any body. Then the Hundredth Psalm, _Nell_
a-playing on the virginals: and then (best of all) the blessing, and
then with good-night all round, to bed. I reckon my nap at prayers had
made me something wakeful, for I heard both _Nell_ and _Edith_ asleep
afore me.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE III.
Now have I read o'er every line my philosophical sister hath writ: and
very nigh smothered me o' laughing at divers parts. The long discourses
she putteth in, touching all manner of dreary matters! I warrant, you
shall not see me to deal with the Queen's Majesty's injunctions touching
the apparel of parsons, nor with the _Dutch Mennonites_, nor with
philosophical questions touching folks' thoughts and characters, nor no
such rubbish. I like sunlight, I do. Catch me a-setting down Master
_Stuyvesant_ his dreary speeches! (I go not further, for then should it
cost me sixpence: but Master _Stuyvesant_ hath no authority over me, so
I may say what I will of him for two pence.) But it seemeth me, for all
her soberness and her killing looks, that Mistress _Helena_ is something
diverted with my speeches, else had she not put so many in. But I ought
not to have said what I did, quotha, touching _Father's_ nose! Ought I
not, forsooth? Mistress _Helena_, that shall cost you two pence, and I
shall be fain to see the fine paid.
(Eh, lack-a-day! but that shall cost me two pence! Dear heart, whatever
was _Father_ a-thinking of? I shall be as clean ruined as the velvet
doublet that _Ned_ dropped in the fish-pond!)
It seemeth me _Father_ must have desired to make a good box for the
poor. I would it had not been at my cost.
One thing is plain,--that Mistress _Nell_ keeps a conscience. I scarce
think I do. There is a cushion full of pins somewhere down near my
stomach, and now and then I get a prick: but I do but cry pish and turn
the pin end into the cushion. _Nell_, on the contrary, pulleth forth
the pin and looketh on it, holding it in all lights. But there was one
time, I mind, that I did not cry pish, and methinks every pin in the
cushion had set a-work to prick me hard. 'Twas ever so long gone, when
_Wat_ and I dressed up the mop in a white sheet, and set it on the
stairs for to make _Anstace_ and _Nell_ scream forth, a-taking it for a
ghost: but as ill luck would have it, the first came by was _Mother_,
with _Edith_ in her arms, that was then but a babe, and it so frighted
her she went white as the very sheet, and dropped down of a dead faint,
and what should have come of _Edith_ I wis not, had not _Anstace_, that
came after, been quick to catch at her. Eh, but in all my life never
saw I _Father_ as he then were! It was long time ere _Mother_ come to,
and until after said he never a word, for he was all busied with her:
but when she was come to herself and well at ease,--my word! but he did
serve out _Wat_ and me! _Wat_ gat the worst, by reason he was the
elder, and had (said _Father_) played the serpent to mine _Eva_: but I
warrant you I forgat not that birch rod for a week or twain. Good lack!
we never frighted nobody again.
And after all, I do think _Father's_ talk was worser than the
fustigation [whipping]. How he did insense it into us, that we might
have been the death of our mother and sister both, and how it was rare
wicked and cruel to seek to fright any, and had been known to turn
folks' heads ere this! You see, _Father_, I have not forgot it, and I
reckon I never shall.
But one thing _Father_ alway doth, and so belike do all in this house,
which I hear not other folks' elders for to do. When _Alice Lewthwaite_
gets chidden, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith such matters be unseemly, or
undutiful, and such like. But _Father_, he must needs pull forth his
Bible, and give you chapter and verse for every word he saith. And it
makes things look so much worser, some how. 'Tis like being judged of
God instead of men. And where Mistress _Lewthwaite_ talks of faults,
_Father_ and _Mother_ say sins. And it makes ever so much difference,
to my thinking, whether a matter be but a fault you need be told of, or
a sin that you must repent. Then, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ (and I have
noted it in other) always takes things as they touch her, whereas
_Father_ and _Mother_ do look on them rather as they touch God. And it
doth seem ever so much more awfuller thus. Methinks it should be a
sight comfortabler world if men had no consciences, and could do as it
listed them at all times without those pin-pricks. I am well assured
folks should mostly do right. I should, at any rate. 'Tis but
exceeding seldom I do aught wrong, and then mostly because I am teased
with forbiddance of the same. I should never have touched the
fire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, had
not old Dame _Conyers_, that was my godmother, bidden me not do the
same. Had she but held her peace, I should ne'er have thought thereon.
Folks do not well to put matters into childre's heads, and then if aught
go wrong the childre get the blame. And in this world things be ever
a-going wrong. But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth? 'Tis
the things go wrong, not me. I should be a very angel for goodness if
only folks gave o'er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, and
forbidding things to be done. In good sooth, 'tis hard on a poor maid
that cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but let
a-be.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE VI.
Yesterday, the afternoon was so fair and sunshine, that _Edith_ and I
(_Mother_ giving us leave) rowed o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, where
_Edith_ sat her down of a great stone, and said she would draw the
lake's picture in little. So I, having no list to stand behind and look
on, went off to see if I could find aught, such as a squirrel or a pie,
to divert me withal. As for _Adam_, which had rowed us o'er, he
gathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and in
five minutes he was snoring like an owl. For me, I wandered on a while,
and went all over the ruins of the hermitage, and could find nought to
look at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me. After a
while I sat me down, and I reckon I should have been a-snoring like
_Adam_ afore long, but I heard a little bruit [noise] that caused me
turn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodly
gentleman, and well clad, that leaned against a tree, and gazed upon me,
yet with mighty respect and courtesy. He was something past his youth,
yet right comely to look to; of a fair hair and beard, and soft eyes,
grey [blue] as the sky. Truly, I was something fluttered, for he ware a
brave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master _Mayor's_. And
while I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first. "I
pray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam [then restricted to noble ladies
and knights' wives] if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger to
wit of the name of this charming isle?"
"Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, Sir," quoth I. "Of old time, as 'tis said,
Saint _Hubert_ had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see
down yonder."
"Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present," saith he, and
smiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man's face. "And who
was Saint _Hubert_, if it please my fair damosel?"
"In good sooth, Sir, that know I not," said I; "save that he were one of
the old saints, now done away."
"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new at
least be left."
Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and
the better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had never
seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.
"And, I pray you, sweet Mistress," saith he, yet a-leaning against the
tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is it
lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?"
"Sir, I pray you of pardon," I made answer, and I could not help to
laugh a little, "but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words.
May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer
_English_?"
"Surely," saith he, "the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome
inhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your
name? Is that _English_ plain enough to do you a pleasure?"
"Sir," quoth I, "my name is _Milisent Louvaine_, to serve you."
"Truly," saith he, "and it shall serve me right well to know so
mellifluous a name. [Note 3.] And what dwelling is honoured by being
your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"
"Sir," said I, "I dwell at _Selwick_ Hall, o'er the lake in yonder
quarter."
"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer. "And--elders have
you, fairest Mistress?"
"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ is my father, and
Dame _Lettice_, sometime named _Eden_, my mother."
"_Lettice Eden_!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as
though _Mother's_ old name should have waked some regrets within him.
"I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was
with my sometime Lady of _Surrey_, and might now and then be seen at the
Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of _Richmond_, her lord's
sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?"
"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maiden
unto my Lady of _Surrey_, afore she were wed."
"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh. "She was the fairest maiden
that ever mine eyes beheld. At the least--I thought so yesterday."
"My sister is more like her than I," I did observe. "She is round by
yonder, a-playing the painter."
"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sitting
of a stone o'er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen
fairer,--even within the compass of Saint _Hubert's_ Isle. And I do
marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother
more than you, sweet Mistress _Milisent_."
I was astonished, for I know _Edith_ is reckoned best-favoured of all
us, and most like to _Mother_. But well as it liked me to sit and
listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to
_Edith_.
"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I driving
hence the fairest floweret of the isle?"
"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, and
my sister shall be coming to look for me."
"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these rough
paths."
So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair
_Spanish_ leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as,
how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if _Father_ were
at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all
which I told him. Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which,
with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with _Mother_,
I told. Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt _Joyce_.
So at long last--for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the
longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him--at
long last come we to _Edith_, which was gat up from her stone, and was
putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for
them.
"We shall be something late for four-hours, _Milly_," saith she.
"Prithee, wake _Adam_, whilst I make an end."
Off went I and gave _Adam_ a good shake, and coming back, found _Edith_
in discourse with my gentleman. I cannot tell why, but I would as lief
he had not conversed with any but me.
"Sir," said I, "may we set you down of the lakeside?"
"No, I thank you much," saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head,
I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair. "I have a boat o'er the
other side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet
again. Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name. I am Sir
_Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_, and very much your servant."
So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o'er the lake. All
the way _Edith_ saith nought but--"_Milly_, where didst thou pick up thy
_cavaliero_?"
"Nay," said I, "he it was who picked me up. He was leaning of a tree,
of t'other side, over against _Borrowdale_: and I sat me down of a log,
and saw him not till he spake."
_Edith_ said no more at that time. But in the even, when we were
doffing us, and _Nell_ was not yet come up, quoth she--
"_Milly_, is Sir _Edwin_ something free to ask questions?"
"Oh, meterly," [tolerably] said I.
"I trust thou gavest him not o'er full answers."
"Oh, nought of import," said I. "Beside, _Edith_, he is an old friend
of _Mother_."
"Is he so?" quoth she. "Then we can ask _Mother_ touching him."
Now, I could not have told any wherefore, but I had no list to ask
_Mother_, nor had I told her so much as one word touching him. I
believe I was half afeared she might forbid me to encourage him in talk.
I trust _Edith_ shall forget the same, for she hath not an over good
memory.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX.
I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' _Friday_ last.
Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and that
must I do, if need be. Meanwhile, I will go right forward with my
chronicling.
I did verily think I saw Sir _Edwin_ part-way up the hill behind us o'
_Saturday_ even: but o' _Sunday_ he was not in church, for I looked for
him. I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce run
the risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month for
non-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling in
riches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.
Thank goodness, _Edith_ hath forgot to say aught to _Mother_, and 'tis
not like she shall think on now.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII.
_Mother_ bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake
[the northern name for a plum-cake] to old _Jack_. They were ducks'
eggs, for I had told her what _Jack_ said the last time we visited him.
I bade _Edith_ go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day being
somewhat foul. I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes as
our _Edith_. So I all alone up to _Jack Benn's_: which saw me from his
hut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.
"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he. "Get away wi' ye! I hate women."
"Nay, _Jack_," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist. Here be
eggs for thee--ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thou
lovest."
"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he. But he took the cake
and the eggs off me, notwithstanding. "They're fleshly folk, is women,"
quoth old _Jack_.
"Nay, what signifiest?" said I. "Women have no more flesh than men, I
reckon."
"Mistress _Milisent_, does thou wit what _Paul_ says to th' _Romans_,
touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"
"Oh ay, _Jack_, I have read it afore now."
"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"
"To be sure," said I.
"Now look ye here," saith he. "Here's my hand,"--and he reacheth forth
a great brown paw. "Does thou see it?"
"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, _Jack_!"
"Well--this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"
"I reckon so much, _Jack_."
"Good. Well, _Paul_ he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh,
but only th' things o' th' spirit. Your spirit's your thoughts and
meditations like. And that's why women's such ill uns--because they are
alway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and
baking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress
_Milisent_, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th'
flesh. Does thou see?"
"Well, _Jack_, I am afeared I do not entirely."
"Get thee gone!" saith he. "Women never can see nought. They're ill
uns, I tell ye--they're ill uns!"
"But, _Jack_, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking and
washing."
"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman? Thee be off, or I'll
let fly th' broom at thee."
"_Jack_, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered up
my gown for to go.
"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shall
be. That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."
"In very deed it is, _Jack_," said I, "and I will bear witness for thee
to that end if need be. Farewell."
So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps down
ere I was aware of an hand, very different from _Jack's_, held forth to
me, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.
"Fairest Mistress _Milisent_, well met this cloudy morrow! I see the
flowers be out, though the sun shine not. Give me leave, I pray you, to
aid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."
So down the hill with me came Sir _Edwin_, and mighty pleasant discourse
had we--all the fairer for coming after _Jack_. And much he told me of
his estate in _Cornwall_, where he hath a fair castle, built of old
time, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead. And these
_Cornish_ mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the _Jews_:
but when I did demand of him how _Jews_ should come to work them, that
(quoth he) could he not say. And at times, in these mines, deep down in
the old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them a
thousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do break
into the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags'
horn, used of these old _Jews_ and _Romans_, that did labour in these
mines of old time.
"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of these
ghosts? Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."
"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I do
ensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."
Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen's
Majesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names of
dukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand and
glove with every man of them. I do love to hear such discourse, and
that right dearly. Many a time have I essayed for to win _Mother_ to
enter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in _Surrey_ Place
with my good Lady Countess of _Surrey_: but I wis not well wherefore,
she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time. She will tell us
of her 'prisonment in the _Counter_, and how _Father_ brought the little
shell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rode
away with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but even
in that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she never
filleth up. I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which she
would not we should know. [Note 5.] I did once whisper a word of this
make unto _Nell_: but Mistress _Helena_, that doth alway the right and
meet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferret
forth somewhat that _Mother_ had no list for me to know, that I let her
a-be. But for all that would I dearly love to know it. I do take
delight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping of
mine own.
Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir _Edwin_ and his discourse of
the new Court custom, the which hath name _Euphuism_, and is a right
fair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swear
friendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they do
confer. Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some of
her servants, as my Lord of _Burleigh_, who is her _Spirit_, and Sir
_Walter Raleigh_ her _Water_, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir Christopher
Hatton] her _Sheep_, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her
_Moon_. Sir _Edwin_ saith he had himself such a friendship with some
mighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my best
to provoke him thereto) he calling her his _Discretion_, and she naming
him her _Fortitude_. Which is pleasant and witty matter. [Note 6.]
"And," quoth Sir _Edwin_, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may stand
with your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion. You shall be
mine _Amiability_, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shall
please you) shall call me your _Protection_. Have I well said, my
fairest?"
"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me so
much honour, it should like me right well."
By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I dared
not be seen with Sir _Edwin_ no nearer the house. The which he seemed
to guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road led
the shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass. So I home, and into our chamber
to doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was _Nell_. Now,
our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to
_Jack's_ hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe. But how
did mine heart jump into my mouth when _Nell_ saith, as I was a-folding
of my kerchief--
"Who was that with thee, _Milly_?"
Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,--"A gentleman,
_Nell_, that would know his shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass." In good
sooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir _Edwin_ is a gentleman, and
he did ask me which were the shortest way thereto. But, good lack! it
seemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o'
pricking me when I thus spake. Yet what ill had I done, forsooth? I
had said no falsehood: only shut _Nell's_ mouth, for she asked no
further. And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divert
me withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same?
After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where I
found _Anstace_ and _Hal_ come; and _Hal_, with _Father_ and _Mynheer_,
were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come,
that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all right
to _Ireland_. Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go
_Ireland_ or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her!
Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].
_Hal_, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of _London_
should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, be
ill and foolish matter. Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in
_Derwent_ dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in _London_ town, I should be
but little pleased therewith. Why should folk not divert them?
Being aweary of Master _Hal's_ grave discourse, went I over to
_Anstace_, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,--to wit,
the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs,
which do ill please her, for _Anstace_ loveth to ruffle it of a good
ruff. Thence gat she to their _Cicely_, which is but ill at ease, and
Dr _Bell_ was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on _Friday_
and _Saturday_ the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from
_Sunday_ to _Tuesday_ in the stomach, during which time it shall be no
safe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need to
be: so she must needs tarry until _Wednesday_ come seven-night, and from
that time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.
Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof _Anstace_ had of
late a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress _Parker_, that
dwelleth but fifty miles from _London_, and is an useful sister for to
have. As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is more
certain than the uncertainty; and likewise of hoods. Cypress, saith
she, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit with
my cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta is
now thought but serving-man-like. All this, and a deal more, _Anstace_
told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].
Dr _Meade's_ hour-glass is broke of the sexton. I am fain to hear the
same, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality than
the kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst all
classes.
Note 2. Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served,
as its name denotes, at four o'clock.
Note 3. Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though many
persons have supposed so. It comes, through Milisent and Melisende,
from the Gothic _Amala-suinde_, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.
Note 4. Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, to
invite, as well as of bid, to command.
Note 5. The reader who wishes for more light on this point than was
allowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."
Note 6. At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meant
intellectual. This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which grave
men and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiar
to the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once so
great and so small.