"And how oft hast thou seen him?"
"Three times, _Aunt_. The first on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, whereof you
know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was
a-coming home from _Isaac Crewdson's_: and the last, this morrow, just
as we came out of _Nanny's_ door, we met _Milisent_, full face: and a
minute at after, this Sir _Edwin_ passed us on the road."
"Took he any note of you, either time?"
"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not.
This morrow he took no note of any one."
"_Could_ she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_ in a low and very
troubled voice.
"In good sooth, _Aunt_," said I, "you have put into words my very fear,
which I did scarce dare to think right out."
"_Edith_," saith she, "is _Milly_ within, or no?"
"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go
forth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut,
as I passed by."
"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt _Joyce_, and rose up. "We will
follow her. 'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I
fear. And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child--poor, foolish
child!"
We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep _Milisent_ but just in view,
yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took the
road to _Nanny's_, but turned off just ere she were there, into the
little shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we could
hear voices: then Aunt _Joyce_ stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made
me a sign to be still.
"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say which
methought was Sir _Edwin's_: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I
caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt
_Joyce_ could see him likewise. "All things be ordered," quoth he:
"remember, nine o' the clock on _Sunday_ night."
"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith _Milisent's_ voice in answer.
"Fail thee!" he made answer. "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"
"I feel afeared," she saith again. "I would they had wist at home. I
cannot be sure 'tis right."
"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft
already," saith he. "Sir _Aubrey's Puritan_ notions should never
suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon
o'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we
do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give
consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."
"Would he?" asks _Milly_, in something a troubled tone.
"Would he!" Sir _Edwin_ makes answer. "Would he have his daughter a
right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man
would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet _Milisent_, let not
such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure
thee."
"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face:
"but when not--"
"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "_not_ is well-nigh
over, and then thy cruel _Puritan_ scruples shall never trouble thee
more."
"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whose
face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified.
I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then. Out of her
cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were
blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
"`As!' Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?"
"This is Sir _Edwin_!"
Without another word Aunt _Joyce_ stalked forth, and had _Milisent_ by
the arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, but
Aunt _Joyce_ held her fast.
"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir _Edwin_.
"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right--"
"Right!" Aunt _Joyce_ loosed her hold of _Milisent_, and went and stood
right before him. "Right!--from you to me!"
"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."
"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I
heard therein. "Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not,
_Leonard Norris_? You counted on the change of all these years to hide
you from _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, and you counted safely enough. They
would not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years could
hide you from _Joyce Morrell_? Traitor! a woman will know the man she
has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."
Sir _Edwin_ uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt _Joyce_ as
though she had bound him by a spell.
She turned back to us a moment. "_Milisent_ and _Edith_, go home!" she
saith. "_Milisent_, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very
jaws of Hell--from a man worser than any fiend. _Edith_, tell thy
father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. I
shall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thy
mind easy, child--he'll not harm _me_. Now go."
_Milisent_ needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt _Joyce's_
words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no word
to each other all the way. When we reached home, _Milly_ went straight
up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt _Joyce's_ bidding,
went in search of _Father_, whom I found at his books in his closet.
Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to
see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell
how Aunt _Joyce_ had called this gentleman by the name of _Leonard
Norris_, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went
very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made
an end of my sad story.
"And I would fain not have been she that told you, _Father_," said I,
"but Aunt _Joyce_ bade me so to do."
"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully.
"But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from
none but me. My poor _Lettice_!--and my poor _Milisent_, my poor,
foolish, duped child!"
I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to
_Milly_. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her
face turned to the wall.
"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.
"Nay," was all she said.
"Shall I bide with thee?"
"Nay."
Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and
came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on the
gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see
who were there. Then she saith--
"None but thee, _Edith_? Where are the rest?"
There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been
sore troubled.
"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_. _Milly_ is in our chamber, and
_Father_ I left in his closet. Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I know
not."
"Hast told him?"
"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."
"I knew he would. God help her!"
"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"
"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard than
thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to
_Milisent_."
Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_
closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I
went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly
to see what was come of _Milly_.
She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me,
and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I
sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I
thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it
right that I left _Milisent_ all alone. I guess it were a good
half-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on. At the last come _Mother_,
her eyes very red as though she had wept much.
"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.