"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."