"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than _Father_,
or may-be more: and--"
"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith _Mother_, as though she were fain it
so were.
"Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and
beard."
"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "and
tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"
"That is he," saith _Edith_.
"Good lack, then!"
Cousin _Bess_ makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the
_Keswick_ road, as I come back from _Isaac's_. My word, but he doth
desire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if he
were at home."
"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, _Bess_?" asks _Mother_.
"Trust!" saith she. "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to
sell a sucking-pig."
Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin
_Bess_ were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he
is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to
hear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere he
had seen me.
"What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_. "I would know the thought he
gave to thee."
"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should
have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling
forth o' the stitching," saith she. "And the second were, that he were
like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And
the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts.
And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles
of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'd
be fain to see the back of him."
"Any more betwixt, _Cousin_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.
"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she. "I mattered him nought,
I warrant you."
"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith _Edith_.
Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they
saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_?
But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies. All her
likings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_. But I was something
surprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him. I marvel if she
meant the same.
"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we had
sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no
gentleman of _Cornwall_, to boot."
"May-be he minds you, _Mother_, though you knew not him," quoth _Edith_.
"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I
knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all--
and never spake word unto me."
"See you now, Cousin _Lettice_," saith _Bess_, "if this man wanted
somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you
any way he might."
"Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.
"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire
speech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all his
slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him
down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my
wit to see."
"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates
every thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir
_Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying
next."
"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin
_Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not
meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have
put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves
out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured
beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis
a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_
so as an other man. I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but,
poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that
the priest must needs bear, and such like. And `Mistress _Meade_,' says
I, `I'll tell you what it is,' says I: `you are none grounded well in
_Hebrews_,' says I. `Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord
isn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she
looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not
a bit less. And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do you
mean?' says she. `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what I
mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our
Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And if
so,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of
no sort, priests or no,' says I. `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she,
`you must have lost your wits.' `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but I
don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."
_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to
see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.
"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.
"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me,
though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for
Dr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such
like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear!
they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot
see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and
cassocks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast! I
make no count of 'em."
"And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.
"Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week or
twain."
"Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it
pinches," saith she.
So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk
were o'er.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX.
I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the
world that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight. Yester
even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside the
garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the
hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I
to vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see it
vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if
I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love
him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that
would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rare
fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not
wring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing the
same: so when none was there but he and I and _Moses_, quoth I--
"_Father_, is it ever wrong to love any?"
"`Love is of God,'" he made answer. "Surely no."
And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had
_Father's_ assent to the loving of my _Protection_: but as ill luck
would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with
the door in his hand, to say--
"But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove,
which will help a friend to break God's commandments."
I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat
somewhat. Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none need
break God's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breaking
thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I as
certain as that my name is _Milisent_. And I have not told a single lie
about it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the right
way not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hast
thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No,
_Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--the
which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of
this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not
uttering your secrets.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII.
If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying just
the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on!
Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she
begin with, but--
"_Father_, there is a thing I would ask at you."
"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for _Father_
is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.
"Then, _Father_," saith she, "what is falsehood? Where doth it begin
and end? Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and she
shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin,
if I told her but the half?"
"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith _Father_. "As to where falsehood
begins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall
tell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer."
"Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showed
to me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and
I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If _Alice_ should say `Hast
heard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, `I
cannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: or
should there be no ill to say `Not to-day,' or `Nought much,' or some
such matter as that?"
"Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as though
she could not think there should.
"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone
something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very
minute that _Adam_ fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry.
There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was
afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was
not all the truth--no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest to
tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."
"_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammar
school at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out
to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his
cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What
should you call that, _Father_?"
"A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer. "Trust
me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his
course."
Then Aunt _Joyce_ said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither:
but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had
hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my
secrets, to have _Father_ say such things came straight from _Satan_!
It liketh me not at all. I would _Nell_ would let things a-be!
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV.
My good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter
deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if
_Father_ were not given to be a little _Puritan_--he smiling the while
as though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of the
great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word
was strange unto me. So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late come
up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than
their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get
themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at
their own appraisement.
"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a
gentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel in
his house to guard him from all ill."
I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right well
accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then
'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a
while I forgat my disease.
Still, I cannot right away with what _Father_ said. If only _Father_
and _Mother_ could know all about this matter, and really consent
thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my _Protection_ saith that were
contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the
same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same
themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no
romance left therein at all.
"It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I do
hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the
noble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far above
all such mean things."
So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble
me touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing. But I do marvel if
_Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know they
married o' love. Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor
_Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas
other matter.
Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
their _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for
ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here
_Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly wedding
where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for
herself.
"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith _Nell_,
"and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and
mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely,
_Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own
self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"
"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."
"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith _Nell_ with some heat--heat,
that is, for _Nell_.
"Honesty!" quoth _Blanche_: "soft you now [gently],--what dishonesty
should be therein?"
"Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of the
Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid
thee."
"I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"
"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as a
marble image.
"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_. "They do call
all sad, precise, humdrum folk, _Puritans_."
"Who be `they'?" asks _Nell_.
"Why, all manner of folks--great folk in especial," saith she.
"Come, _Blanche_!" saith _Edith_, "where hast thou jostled with great
folk?"
"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have
talked with some that have."
"No great folk--my Lord _Dilston_ except--ever come to _Derwent-side_,"
saith _Edith_.
"And could I not discourse with my Lord _Dilston_, if it so pleased him
and me?" quoth _Blanche_, yet something angered.
"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith _Alice_. "Thou well wist,
_Blanche_, thou hast had no talk with my Lord _Dilston_, that is known
all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I
do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."
Well, at this we all laughed, and _Alice_ turned the talk aside to other
matter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er that
of an angel) were giving way.
I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though
_Blanche_ might hint at Sir _Edwin_. And I do trust he hath not been
a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, and
a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of
maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not
for to compare with me nor _Edith_.
I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_. If I
find him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see him
no more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt it
should.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV.
'Tis all well, and _Blanche_ could not have meant to hint at my
_Protection_. I asked at him if he knew one _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any
of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had
asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did
him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_
(quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after
hers?
Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a
_Sunday_, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had
an old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alway
abide with him o'er the _Sunday_. Moreover he was something feared
(saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should get
scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been
(quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet
_Amiability_.
"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see _Father_ at the
first?"
"Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too. "`All is fair in love and
war.'"
"I doubt if _Father_ should say the same," said I.
"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir _Aubrey_ is a right excellent gentleman,
yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such
like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the
parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country,
where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of
an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be
counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the
risk of being thought singular."
"Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heard
him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed
at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."
"Exactly!" saith he. "That is right the _Puritan_ talk, as I had the
honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the
Court to say no such a thing."
"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"
This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he
should ne'er give o'er.
"My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is
the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of
every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties.
Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _Cumberland_, thou shouldest be
of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delights
and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thou
canst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be right
rare.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII.
With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that is
brother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way. I
would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list
in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble
_Protection_ do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is
gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings
whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old,
with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short
while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that
cometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing on
flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers,
and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false
step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at
those times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel the
gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more
and more distasteful unto me than ever.
Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ called
me to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood
and went.
We found old _Nanny_--that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair
in the sunshine--so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and
thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she
pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.
"Well, _Nanny_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "`Sitting down under His shadow,'
dear heart?"
"Ay, Mistress _Joyce_," saith she, "and `with great delight.'"
I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible. I never did.
And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me. Can they mean it,
trow? If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as
_Nanny_. But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be,
wherein one shall find one's diversion in reading of the Bible!
I know _Father_ and _Mother_ would say clean contrary. But they, see
you, were bred up never to see a Bible in _English_ till they were
grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that
never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runs
my pen too fast, for _Anstace_ can well remember Queen _Mary's_ time,
though _Nell_ scarce can do so,--only some few matters here and there.
So then Aunt _Joyce_ and _Nan_ fell a-talking,--and scarce so much as a
word could I conceive. [Note 1.] They might well-nigh as good have
talked _Greek_ for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean
to think o'er--some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible,
and am as old as _Nanny_. Not now, of course.
"Where art reading, _Nanny_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"In _Esaias_, Mistress _Joyce_. Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second
verses. There's fine reading in _Esaias_."
"Ay, _Nan_, there is," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But what toucheth it? I am
ill set to remember chapter and verse."
"Well, Mistress, first it saith, `Show My people their transgression.'
And i' th' very next verse,--`Yet they seek me daily,'--nay, there's
more--`they take delight in approaching to God.'"
"Well, _Nan_? That reads strange,--no doth it?"
"Ah, it doth, Mistress _Joyce_. But I think, look ye, there's a deal i'
th' word _approaching_. See ye, it saith not they take delight to get
near. Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near. They'll
lay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't. If they'd only
come near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, ye
see, that wouldn't just suit 'em. These is folk that wants to have th'
Lord--a tidy way from 'em--and keep th' transgressions too. Eh,
Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th' hundred and
thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord.
Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses. We don't want Him to
search us when we know He'll find yon wedge o' gold and yon _Babylonish_
garment if He do. Nay, we don't so!"
Now, I know not o'er well what old _Nan_ meaneth: but this do I know--
that whenever I turn o'er the _Psalter_, I ever try to get yon Psalm
betwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see not
a word on't. I reckon _Nan_ should say my heart was not perfect by a
great way. Well, may-be she'd be none so far out.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIX.
To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and _Tuesday_ even must I
give up the book to _Edith_. I shall not tear out the leaves till the
last minute, and I will keep them when I do.
I do never see nought of my _Protection_ of a _Sunday_, but all other
days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth
_Thirlmere_ way, not so far from _Nanny's_ hut. Last even was he
essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without
_Father_ and _Mother_ knowing. I have ever held off till now: but I am
not so sure I shall do it much longer. He saith he wist a _Popish_
priest that should do it: and it so done, _Father_ and _Mother_ must
needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I will
consider of the same a day or twain longer.
As to setting down what we do of a _Sunday_, 'tis alway the same o'er
again, so it should be to no good. Once is enough for all.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE LAST.
Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen. I set
forth for the copse where I do meet with my _Protection_, and had
well-nigh reached it,--verily, I could discern him coming through the
trees to meet me--when from _Nanny's_ hut, right upon us, who should
come out save _Father_, and _Mother_, and _Edith_, their own selves. I
cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to
meet them.
"Why, _Milly_!" saith _Mother_. "I wist not thou wert coming this way,
child."
"Under your pleasure, _Mother_, no more did I of you," said I.
"Why, _Milly_, do but look at yon gentleman!" saith _Edith_, as he
passed by us, taking no note of us at all. "Is it not the same we met
on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle?"
"Is it so?" said I, making believe to look after him, the rather since
it gave me an excuse to turn my back on them. "He bears a green
jerkin,--otherwise--"
Wherein I am very sure I said _no_ falsity, as whatso _Father_ might
say.
"I do think it is the same," saith _Edith_. "Came he ever to speak with
you, _Father_?"
"Nay, my lass, I mind him not," saith _Father_.
"He is not ill-looking," saith _Mother_.
"May-be not," quoth _Father_. "Thou art a better judge of such matters
than I, dear heart. I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of his
eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh."
"Now, _Father_, under your good leave, that is not well said," _Edith_
makes answer: "for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man's
soul looked forth of."
_Father_ laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.
"Your very humble servant, Mistress _Editha Louvaine_," quoth he: "when
I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties,
learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine
eyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that
issue have I never troubled me regarding them."
"And how liked you the manner of Sir _Edwin Tregarvon's_ soul looking
forth, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, also laughing.
"Why, that could I not see," quoth he, "for he keeping his eyes bent
upon the ground, it did not look forth. But I cannot say his face
altogether pleased me."
How mighty strange is it that all they--and in especial _Father_, that I
have alway reckoned so wise--should have so little discernment!
Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them:
and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I
go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my _Protection_: for I
have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and
this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle the
details]. As next _Sunday_ at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of
the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and
two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to _Ambleside_,
where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat
_Father_ and _Mother's_ pardon and blessing. I dare be bound there
shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all
shall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my _Protection_) when
there is no hope that _Father_ and _Mother_ should give us leave
aforehand, what else can we do?
Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks'
way that do love each other. And my _Protection_ is not so much elder
than I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than
_Father_, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty
years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. And
if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he
hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. My
poor _Protection_! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.
I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep
the book right heedfully under lock and key.
As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there were
no good to reckon them up. My noble _Protection_ saith, when he hath
but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every
day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He will
set off his _Amiability_ (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at
her. Though I count _Father_ doth love me, yet am I sure, my
_Protection_ loveth me a deal the more. 'Tis only fitting, therefore,
that I cleave to him rather.
Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.
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Note 1. The words _understand_ and _conceive_ have changed places since
the days of Elizabeth. To understand then meant to originate an idea:
to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.