"Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
All hailed with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down."
Scott.
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE X.
Here have I been a-thinking I should scantly write a word when my month
was come, and already, with but ten days thereof, have I filled half as
much paper as either _Helen_ or _Milisent_. But in good sooth, I do
trust the next ten days shall not be so full of things happening as
these last. Nathless, I do love to have things happen, after a fashion:
but I would have them to be alway pleasant things. And when things
happen, they be so oft unpleasant.
Now, if one might order one's own life, methinks it should be a right
pleasant thing. For I reckon I should not go a-fooling, like as some
lasses do. Mine head is not all stuffed with gallants, nor yet with
velvet and gold. But I would love to be great. Not great like a
duchess, just a name and no more: but to make a name for myself, and to
have folks talk of me, how good and how clever I were. That is what I
would fain be thought--good and clever. I take no care to be thought
fair, nor in high place; howbeit, I desire not to be ugly nor no lower
down than I am. But I am quite content with mine own place, only I feel
within me that I could do great things.
And how can a woman do great things, without she be rare high in place,
such like as the Queen's Majesty, or my Lady Duchess of _Suffolk_? Or
how could I ever look to do great things, here in _Derwent_ dale? Oh, I
do envy our _Wat_ and _Ned_, by reason they can go about the world and
o'er the seas, and make themselves famous.
And, somehow, in a woman's life everything seems so little. 'Tis just
cooking and eating; washing linen and soiling of it; going to bed and
rising again. Always doing things and then undoing them, and alway the
same things over and over again. It seems as if nought would ever stay
done. If one makes a new gown, 'tis but that it may be worn out, and
then shall another be wanted. I would the world could give o'er going
on, and every thing getting worn out and done with.
Other folks do not seem to feel thus. I reckon _Helen_ never does, not
one bit. Some be so much easier satisfied than other. I count them the
happiest.
I cannot tell how it is, but I do never feel satisfied. 'Tis as though
there were wings within me, that must ever of their nature be stretching
upward and onward. Where should they end, an' they might go forward?
Would there be any end? Can one be satisfied, ever?
I believe _Anstace_ and _Helen_ are satisfied, but then 'tis their
nature to be content with things as they be. I do not know about
_Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_. I misdoubt if it be altogether their nature.
But then neither do they seem always satisfied. _Father_ doth so: and
his nature is high enough. I think I shall ask _Father_. As for Cousin
_Bess_, an' I were to ask at her, she should conceive me never a whit.
'Tis her nature to cook and darn and scour, and to look complacently on
her cake and her mended hole and her cleaned chamber, and never trouble
herself to think that they shall lack doing o'er again to-morrow.
Chambers are like to need cleansing, and what were women made for save
to keep them clean? That is Cousin _Bess_, right out. For Master
_Stuyvesant_, methinks he is right the other way, and rather counts the
world a dirty place and full of holes, that there shall be no good in
neither cleansing nor mending. And I look not on matters in that light.
Methinks it were better to cleanse the chamber, if only one could keep
it from being dirtied at after. I shall see what _Father_ saith.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XII.
Yester even, as we were sat in the great chamber,--there was _Mother_
and _Helen_ at their wheels, and Aunt _Joyce_ and my Lady _Stafford_
a-sewing, and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ and me at the broidery,--
and _Father_ had but just beat Sir _Robert_ in a game of the chess, and
_Mynheer_, one foot upon his other knee, was deep in a great book which
thereon rested,--and fresh logs were thrown of the fire by _Kate_, which
sent forth upward a shower of pleasant sparkles, and methought as I
glanced around the chamber, that all looked rare pleasant and
comfortable, and we ought to thank God therefore. When all had been
silent a short while, out came I with my question, well-nigh ere I
myself wist it were out--
"_Father_, are you satisfied?"
"A mighty question, my maid," saith he,--while _Helen_ looked up in
surprise, and Aunt _Joyce_ and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ fell
a-laughing. "With what? The past, the present, or the future?" quoth
_Father_.
"With things, _Father_," said I. "With life and every thing."
"Ah, _Edith_, hast thou come to that?" saith my Lady _Stafford_: and she
exchanged smiles with _Mother_.
"_Daughter_," _Father_ makes answer, "methinks no man is ever satisfied
with life, until he be first satisfied with God. The furthest he can go
in that direction, is not to think if he be satisfied or no. A man may
be well pleased with lesser things: but to be satisfied, that can he
not."
"`Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again,'" quoth _Mother_,
softly.
"Ay," saith Sir _Robert_; "and wit you, Mistress _Edith_, what cometh at
times to men adrift of the ocean, when all their fresh water is spent?"
"Why, surely, they should find water in plenty in the sea, Sir," said I.
"Right so do they," saith he: "and 'tis a quality of the sea-water, that
if a man athirst doth once taste the same, his thirst becometh so great
that he drinketh thereof again and again, the thirst worsening with
every draught, until at last it drives him mad."
"An apt image of the pleasures of this world," answers _Father_. "Ah,
how is all nature as God's picture-book, given to help His dull childer
over their tasks!"
"But, _Father_,"--said I, and stayed.
"Well, my maid?" he answers of his kindly fashion.
"I cry you mercy, _Father_, if I speak foolishly; but it seems me that
pious folk be not alway satisfied. They make as much fume as other folk
when things go as they would not have them."
"The angels do not so, I reckon," saith _Mynheer_, a-looking up.
"We are not angels yet," quoth _Father_, a little drily. "Truth, my
maid: and we ought to repent thereof, seeing such practices but too oft
cause the enemy to blaspheme, and put stumbling-blocks in the way of
weak brethren. Ay, and from what we read in God's Word, it should seem
as though all murmuring and repining--not sorrowing, mark thou; but
murmuring--went for far heavier sin in His eyes than it doth commonly in
ours. We count it a light matter if we grumble when things go awry, and
matters do seem as if they were bent on turning forth right as we would
not have them. Let us remember, for ourselves, that such displeaseth
the Lord. He reckons it unbelief and mistrust. `How long,' saith He
unto Moses, `will this people provoke Me? and how long will it be ere
they believe Me?' Howbeit, as for our neighbours, we need not judge
them. And indeed, such matters depend much on men's complexions [Note
1], and some find it a deal easier to control them than other. And
after all, _Edith_, there is a sense wherein no man can ever be fully
satisfied in this life. We were meant to aspire; and if we were
entirely content with present things, then should we grovel. To submit
cheerfully is one thing: to be fully gratified, so that no desire is
left, is an other. We shall not be that, methinks, till we reach
Heaven."
"Shall we so, even there?" saith Sir _Robert_. "It hath alway seemed to
me that when _Diogenes_ did define his gods as `they that had no wants,'
he pointed to a very miserable set of creatures. Is it not human nature
that the thing present shall fall short of the thing prospective?"
"The _in posse_ is better than the _in esse_?" saith _Father_. "Well,
it should seem so, in this dispensation. But how, in the next world,
our powers may be extended, and our souls in some degree suffer change,
that we can be fully satisfied and yet be alway aspiring--I reckon we
cannot now understand. I only gather from Scripture that it shall be
thus. You and I know very little, _Robin_, of what shall be in Heaven."
"Ah, true,--true!" saith Sir _Robert_.
"It hath struck me at times," saith _Father_, "that while it may seem
strange to the young and eager soul, yet it is better understood as one
grows older,--how the account of Heaven given us in Scripture is nearly
all in negations. God and ourselves are the two matters positive. The
rest are nays: there shall be no pain, no crying, no sorrow, no night,
no death, no curse. And though youth would oft have it all yea, yet nay
suits age the better. An old man and weary feels the thought of active
bliss at times too much for him. It wearies him to think of perpetual
singing and constant flying. It is rest he needs--it is peace."
"Well, _Father_," saith _Milisent_, looking up, "I hope it is not wicked
of me, but I never did enjoy the prospect of sitting of a cloud and
singing _Hallelujah_ for ever and ever."
"Right what I was wont to think at thy years, _Milly_," saith _Mother_,
a-laughing.
"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "there is in God's Word a word for the
smallest need of every one of us, if we will only take the pain to
search and find it there. `They had no rest day neither night,'
[Cranmer's version of Revelations chapter four verse 8]--that is for the
eager, active soul that longs to be up and doing. And `they rest from
their labours,'--that is for the weary heart that is too tired for
rapture."
"Yet doth not that latter class of texts, think you," saith Sir
_Robert_, "refer mainly to the rest of the body in the grave?"
"Well, it may be so," answers _Father_: "yet, look you, the rest of the
grave must be something that _will rest us_."
"What is thy notion, _Aubrey_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "of the state of the
soul betwixt death and resurrection?"
"My notion, _Joyce_," saith _Father_, "is that _Scripture_ giveth us no
very plain note thereon. I conclude, therefore, that it shall be time
to know when we come to it. This only do I see--that all the passages
which speak thereof as `sleep,' `forgetfulness,' and the like, be in the
Old Testament: and all those--nay, let me correct myself--most of those
which speak thereof as of a condition of conscious bliss, `being with
_Christ_,' and so, are in the New. There I find the matter: and there,
under your good pleasure, will I leave it."
"Well, that should seem," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "as if the condition of
souls had been altered by the coming of our Lord."
"By His death, rather, as methinks, if so be. It may be so. I dare not
be positive either way."
"Has it never seemed strange to you, _Louvaine_," saith Sir _Robert_,
"how little we be told in God's Word touching all those mysteries
whereon men's minds will ever be busying themselves--to all appearance,
so long as the world lasts? This matter of our talk--the origin of
evil--free-will and sovereign grace--and the like. Why are we told no
more?"
"Why," saith _Father_, with that twinkle in his eyes which means fun, "I
am one of the meaner intelligences of the universe, and I wis not. If
you can find any whither the Angel _Gabriel_, you may ask at him if he
can untie your knots."
"Now, _Aubrey_, that is right what mads me!" breaks in Aunt _Joyce_.
"Sir _Robert_ asks why we be told no more, and thine answer is but to
repeat that we be told no more. Do, man, give a plain answer to a plain
question."
"Nay, now thou aft like old Lawyer _Pearson_?" quoth _Father_. "`I wis
not, Master,' saith the witness. `Ay, but will you swear?' saith he.
`Why,' quoth the witness, `how can I swear when I wis not?' `Nay, but
you must swear one way or an other,' saith he. Under thy leave,
_Joyce_, I do decline to swear either way, seeing I wis not."
Aunt _Joyce_ gives a little stamp of her foot. "What on earth is the
good of men, when they wit no more than women?" quoth she: whereat all
laughed.
"Ah, some women have great wits," saith _Father_.
"Give o'er thy mocking, _Aubrey_!" answers she. "Tell us plain, what
notion thou hast, and be not so strict tied to chapter and verse."
"Of what worth shall then be my notions? Well," saith _Father_, "I have
given them on the one matter. As for the origin of evil, I find the
origin of mine evil in mine own heart, and no further can I get except
to _Satan_."
"Ay, but I would fain reach over _Satan_," saith she.
"That shall we not do without _Satan_ overreaching us," quoth _Father_.
"Well, then--as to free-will and grace, I find both. `Whosoever will,
take of the water of life,'--and `Yet will ye not come unto Me that ye
might have life.' But also I find, `No man can come to Me, except the
Father draw him;' and that faith cometh `Not of yourselves; it is the
gift of God.'"
"Come, tarry not there!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "How dost thou reconcile
them?"
"Why, I don't reconcile them," quoth he.
"Ay, but do!" she makes answer.
"Well," saith he, "if thou wilt come and visit me, _Joyce_, an hundred
years hence, at the sign of the _Burnt-Sacrifice_, in _Amethyst_ Lane,
in the _New Jerusalem_, I will see if I can do it for thee then."
"_Aubrey Louvaine_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, "thou art--"
"Not yet there," he answers. "I am fully aware of it."
"The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!" saith she.
"Dost thou know, _Joyce_," quoth _Mother_, laughing merrily, "I found
out that afore I was wed. He did play right cruelly on mine eagerness
once or twice."
"Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
_Mother_ laughed at this, and _Father_ made a merry answer, which turned
the discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down. So we
gat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.
This morrow come o'er _Robin Lewthwaite_, with a couple of rare fowl and
his mother's loving commendations for _Mother_. He saith nothing is yet
at all heard of their _Blanche_, and he shook his head right sorrowfully
when I asked at him if he thought aught should be. It seemed so strange
a thing to see _Robin_ sorrowful.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XVI.
This morrow, my Lady _Stafford_, Aunt _Joyce_, and I, were sat at our
work alone in the great chamber. _Milly_ was gone with _Mother_
a-visiting poor folk, and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_, with
_Helen_ for guide, were away towards _Thirlmere_,--my Lady _Stafford_
denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterday
amongst the snowy lanes. All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith--
"_Joyce_, what is this I heard yestereven of old _Mall Crewdson_,
touching one _Everett_, or _Tregarvon_--she wist not rightly which his
name were--that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late?
What manner of mischief?--for old _Mary_ was very mysterious. May-be I
do not well to ask afore _Edith_?"
"Ay, _Dulcie_, well enough," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly, "for _Edith_
knows the worst she can already. And if you knew the worst you could--"
"Why, what is it?" quoth she.
"_Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, curtly.
"_Leonard_!" Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady's face. "I
thought he was dead, years gone."
"So did not I," Aunt _Joyce_ made low answer.
"No, I wis thou never didst," saith my Lady, tenderly. "So thy love is
still alive, _Joyce_? Poor heart!"
"My heart is," she saith. "As for love, it is poor stuff if it can
die."
"There is a deal of poor stuff abroad, then," quoth her Ladyship. "In
very deed, so it is. So he is yet at his old work?"
Aunt _Joyce_ only bent her head.
"Well, it were not possible to wish he had kept to the new," pursueth
she. "I do fear there were some brent in _Smithfield_, that had been
alive at this day but for him. But ever since Queen _Mary_ died hath he
kept him so quiet, that in very deed I never now reckoned him amongst
the living. Where is he now?"
"God wot," saith Aunt _Joyce_, huskily.