"Well, may-be better so. But _Joyce_, doth _Lettice_ know?"
"That _Tregarvon_ were he? Not without _Aubrey_ hath told her these
last ten days: and her face saith not so."
"No, it doth not," my Lady makes answer. "But Sir _Aubrey_ wist, then?
His face is not wont to talk unless he will."
"In no wise," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Ay, _Dulcibel_; I had to tell him."
"Thou?" saith my Lady, pityingly.
"None knew him but me," made she answer, and her voice grew very
troubled. "Not even _Aubrey_, nor _Lettice_. _Bess_ guessed at him
after awhile, but not till she had seen him divers times. But for me
one glimpse was enough."
Aunt _Joyce's_ work was still now.
"Hadst thou surmised aforetime that it were he?"
Aunt _Joyce_ shook her head.
"No need for surmising, _Dulcie_," she said. "If I were laid in my
grave for a year and a day, I should know his step upon the mould above
me."
"My poor _Joyce_!" softly quoth my Lady _Stafford_. "Even God hath no
stronger word than `passing the love of women.' Yet a woman's love
lasts not out to that in most cases."
"Her heart lasts not out, thou meanest," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Hearts
are weak, _Dulcie_, but love is immortal."
"And hast thou still hope--for him, _Joyce_?" answereth my Lady. "I
lost the last atom of mine, years gone."
"Hope of his ultimate salvation? Ay--as long as life lasts. I shall
give over hoping for it when I see it."
"But," saith my Lady slowly, as though she scarce liked to say the same,
"how if thou never wert to see it?"
"`Between the stirrup and the ground,
Mercy I sought, mercy I found.'
"Thou wist that epitaph, _Dulcie_, on him that lost life by a fall from
the saddle. My seeing it were comfort, but no necessity. I could go on
hoping that God had seen it."
Aunt _Joyce_ arose and left the chamber. Then saith my Lady _Stafford_
to me--
"There goes a strong soul. There be women such as she: but they are not
to be picked, like blackberries, off every bramble. _Edith_, young
folks are apt to think love a mere matter of youth and of matrimony.
They cannot make a deeper blunder. The longer love lasts, the stronger
it groweth."
"Always, my Lady?" said I.
"Ay," saith she. "That is, if it be love."
We wrought a while without more talk: when suddenly saith my Lady
_Stafford_:--
"_Edith_, didst thou see this _Tregarvon_, or how he called himself?"
"Ay, Madam," said I. "He made up to me one morrow, when my sister
_Milisent_ and I were on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle in the mere yonder, and I
was sat, a-drawing, of a stone."
"Ay so?" quoth she, with some earnestness in her voice. "And what
then?"
"I think he took not much of me, Madam," said I.
My Lady _Stafford_ smiled, yet methought somewhat pensively.
"May I wit what he said to thee, _Edith_?"
"Oh, a parcel of stuff touching mine hair and mine eyes, and the like,"
said I. "I knew well enough what colours mine hair and eyes were of,
without his telling me. Could I dress mine hair every morrow afore the
mirror, and not see?"
"Well, _Edith_," saith she, "methinks he did not take much of thee. I
would I could have seen him,"--and her voice grew sadder. "Not that my
voice should have had any potency with him: that had it never yet. But
I would fain have noted how far the years had changed him, and if--if
there seemed any more hope of his amendment than of old time. There was
a time when in all _Oxfordshire_ he was allowed the goodliest man, and I
fear he was not far from being likewise the worst."
Here come in _Mother_, and my Lady _Stafford_ changed the discourse
right quickly. I saw I must say no more. But I am well assured Aunt
_Joyce's Mary_ was never my Lady _Stafford_. Who methinks it were it
should serve no good end to set down.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XIX.
As we sat this even of the great chamber, saith _Father_:--
"_Stafford_, do you remember our talk some days gone, touching what
manner of life there should be in Heaven?"
"That do I well," Sir _Robert_ made answer.
"Well," quoth _Father_, "I have fallen to think more thereupon. And the
thought comes to me--wherefore account we always that we shall do but
one thing there, and that all shall do the same? Here is _Milisent_--
ay, and _Lettice_ too--that think they should be weary to sit of a cloud
and sing for ever and ever."
"Truly, so should I, methinks," saith Sir _Robert_.
"So should we all, I cast no doubt," answers _Father_, "if our capacity
for fatigue did extend into that life. But why expect the same thing
over and over? It is not so on earth. I am not reading, nor is
_Lettice_ sewing, nor _Milisent_ broidering, with no intermission, from
the morning to the night. Neither do we all the same fashion of work."
"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, somewhat eagerly; "but the work done here
below is needful, _Aubrey_. There shall be no necessity for nought
there."
"Art avised o' that, _Joyce_?" saith _Father_.
"Why," saith she, "dost look for brooms and dusters in Heaven? Shall
_Bess_ and I sweep out the gold streets, thinkest, or fetch a pan to
seethe the fruits of the Tree of Life?"
"One would think," saith Sir _Robert_, "if all be allegorical, as some
wise doctors do say, that they should be shadowy brooms that swept
parabolical streets."
"Allegorical fiddlesticks!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I did never walk yet
o'er a parabolical paving, nor sat me down to rest me of an allegorical
chair. Am I to be allegorical, forsooth? You be a poor comforter, Sir
_Robert_."
"Soft you now!" saith _Father_. "I enter a _caveat_, as lawyers have
it. Methinks I have walked for some years o'er a parabolical paving,
and rested me in many an allegorical chair. Thou minglest somewhat too
much the spiritual and the material, _Joyce_."
"I count I take thee, _Audrey_," saith she: "thou wouldst say that the
allegorical city is for the dwelling of the spirit, and the real for the
body. But, pray you, if my spirit have a dwelling in thine allegorical
city--"
"Nay, I said not the city were allegorical," quoth he. "Burden not me
withal, for in truth I do believe it very real."
"No, that was Sir _Robert_," saith she, "so I will ask at him, as shall
be but fair. Where, I pray you, is my body to be, Sir, whilst my soul
dwelleth in your parabolical city?"
"There shall be a spiritual body, my mistress," makes he answer,
smiling.
"Truth," quoth she, "but I reckon it must be somewhere. It seems me, to
my small wit, that if my soul and my spiritual body be to dwell in an
allegorical city, then I must needs be allegorical also. And I warrant
you, that should not like me a whit."
"Let us not mingle differences," saith _Father_. "Be the spiritual and
the allegorical but one thing?"
"Nay, I believe there be two," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "'tis Sir _Robert_
here would have them alike."
"But how would you define them?" saith Sir _Robert_ to _Father_.
"Thus," he made answer. "The spiritual is that which is real, as fully
as the material: but it is invisible. The allegorical is that which is
shadowy and doth but exist in the fantasy. If I say of these my
daughters, they be my jewels, I speak allegorically: for they be not
gems, but maidens. But I do not love them in an allegory, but in
reality. Love is a moral and spiritual matter, but no allegory. So,
Heaven is a spiritual place, but methinks not an allegorical one."
"But the _New Jerusalem_--the Golden City which lieth four-square--that
is allegorical, surely!"
"We shall see when we are there," saith _Father_. "I think not."
Sir _Robert_ pursed up his lips as though he could no wise allow the
same.
"Mind you, _Robin_," saith _Father_, "I say not that there may not be
allegory touching some of the details. I reckon the pearls of the
twelve gates were never found in earthly oysters: nor do I account that
the gold of the streets was molten in an earthly furnace. No more, when
_Edith_ saith she will run and fetch a thing, should I think to accuse
her of falsehood if I saw that she walked, and ran not. 'Tis never well
to fetch a parable down on all fours. You and I use allegory always in
our common talk."
"Ay," quoth Sir _Robert_: "but you reckon they _be_ pearls, and gold?"
"I will tell you when I have seen them," saith _Father_, and smiled.
"Either they be gold and pearls, or they be that to which, in our
earthly minds, gold and pearls come the nearest. Why, my friend, we be
all but lisping children to God. Think you one moment, and tell me if
every word we use touching Him hath not in it more or less of parable?
We call Him Father, and King, and Master, and Guide, and Lord. Is not
every one of these taken from earthly relationships, and doth it not
presuppose a something which is to be found on earth? We have no better
wits than to do so here. If God would teach us that we know not, it
must be by talking to us touching things we do know. Did not you the
same with your children when they were babes? How far we may be able to
penetrate, when we be truly men, grown up unto the measure of the
stature of the fulness of _Christ_, verily I cannot tell. Only I do see
that not only all _Scripture_, but all analogy, pointeth to a time when
we shall emerge from this caterpillar state, and spread our wings as
butterflies in the sunshine. Nay, there is yet a better image in
nature. The grub of the dragon-fly dwelleth in the waters, and cannot
live in the air till it come forth into the final state. Tell me then,
I pray you, how shall this water-grub conceive the notion of flying
through the air? Supposing you able to talk with him, could you
represent the same unto him other than by the conceit of gliding through
water with most delightsome swiftness and directness? To talk of an
element wherein he had no experience should be simply so much nonsense
to him. Now, it may be--take me not, I pray you, as meaning it must
be--that all that shall be found in Heaven differs as greatly from what
is found on earth as the water differs from the air. Concerning these
matters, I take it, God teaches us by likening them to such things as we
know that shall give the best conceit of them to our minds. Here on
earth, the fairest and most costly matter is gold and gems. Well, He
would have us know that the heavenly city is builded of the fairest and
most precious matter. But that the matter is real, and that the city is
builded of somewhat, that will I yield to none. To do other were to
make it a fairy tale, Heaven in cloud-land, and God Himself but the
shadow of a dream. The only difference I can see is, that we should
never awake from the dream, but should go on dreaming it for ever."
"O _Louvaine_!" saith Sir _Robert_. "I can never allow of matter in
Heaven. All there is spiritual."
"Now, what mean you by matter?" saith _Father_. "Matter is a term of
this world. I argue not for matter in Heaven as opposed to spirit, but
for reality as opposed to allegory."
"You'll be out of my depth next plunge," saith Sir _Robert_, merrily.
"We shall both be out of our depth, _Robin_, ere long, and under your
leave there will we leave it. But I see you are a bit of a _Manichee_."
"That is out of my depth, at any rate," quoth he. "I am but ill read in
ancient controversies, though I know you dabble in them."
"Why, I have dipped my fingers into a good parcel of matters in my
time," saith _Father_. "But the _Manichees_, old friend, were men that
did maintain the inherent evil of matter. All things, with them, were
wicked that had to do therewith. Wherein, though they knew it not, they
were much akin to the _Indian_ mystics of _Buddha_, that do set their
whole happiness in the attaining of _Nirvana_."
"What is that?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Is it an _India_ goddess, or
something good to eat?"
"It is," quoth _Father_, "the condition of having no ideas."
"Good lack!" saith she, "then daft _Madge_ is nearest perfection of us
all."
"Perhaps she is, in sober truth," _Father_ makes answer.
"Meseemeth," whispers _Milisent_ to me, "that _Jack Benn_ is a
_Manichee_."
"'Tis strange," saith _Father_, as in meditation, "how those old
heresies shall be continually re-born under new names: nor only that,
but how in the heart of every man and woman there is by nature a leaning
unto some form of heresy. Here is _Robin Stafford_ a _Manichee_: and
_Bess_ a _Mennonite_: and my Lady _Stafford_ (if I mistake not) a
_Stoic_: and _Mynheer_ somewhat given to be a _Cynic_: and _Lettice_ and
_Milisent_, methinks, are by their nature _Epicureans_. Mistress
_Martin_, it seemeth me, should be an _Essene_: and what shall we call
thee, _Edith_?"
"Aught but a _Pharisee_, _Father_," said I, laughing.
"Nay, thou art no _Pharisee_," saith he. "But that they were a nation
and not a sect, I should write thee down a _Sybarite_. _Nell_ is as
near a _Pharisee_ as we have one in the chamber; yet methinketh it were
to insult her to give her such a name."
"Go on," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "I'm waiting."
"What, for thine own class?"
"Mine and thine," saith she.
_Father's_ eyes did shine with fun. "Well, _Joyce_, to tell truth, I am
somewhat puzzled to class thee: but I am disposed to put thee amongst
the _Brownists_."
"What on earth for?" saith she.
"Why," quoth he, "because thou hast a mighty notion of having things
thine own way."
"Sir _Robert_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "pray you, box my cousin's ears for
me, as you sit convenient.--And what art thou thine own self, thou
caitiff?"
"A _Bonus Homo_," answers _Father_, right sadly: whereat all that did
know _Latin_ fell a-laughing. And I, asking at my Lady _Stafford_, she
told me that _Bonus Homo_ is to say Good Man, and was in past time the
name of a certain Order of friars, that had carried down the truth of
the Gospel from the first ages in a certain part lying betwixt _Italy_
and _France_.
"_Nell_," saith _Father_, "I did thee wrong to call thee a _Pharisee_:
thou art rather a _Herodian_."
"But I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what did you mean by the name you gave
me?" saith Mistress _Martin_. "For I would fain wit my faults, that I
may go about to amend them: and as at this present I am none the wiser."
"The _Essenes_," saith he, "Mistress _Martin_, were a sect of the Jews,
so extreme orthodox that they did deny to perform sacrifice or worship
in the Temple, seeing there they should have to mingle themselves with
other sects, and with wicked men that brought not their sacrifices
rightly. Moreover, they would neither eat flesh-meat nor drink wine:
and they believed not that there were so much as one good woman in the
whole world."
"Then I cry you mercy, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth she, "but if so be,
assuredly I am not of them. I do most heartily believe in good women,
whereof methinks I can see four afore me, at the very least, this
instant moment: nor have I yet abjured neither wine nor flesh-meat."
"Oh no, the details be different," saith he: "yet I dare be bold to say,
you have a conceit of a perfect Church, whereinto no untrue man should
ever be suffered to enter."
"Ay, that have I," said she. "Methinks the Church of _England_ is too
comprehensive, and should be drawn on stricter lines."
"And therein are you an _Essene_," answereth _Father_.
"Oh, _Grissel_ would fain have every man close examined," saith Sir
_Robert_, "and only admitted unto the Lord's Supper by the clergy after
right strict dealing."
"Were you alway of this manner of thought, Mistress _Martin_?" asks
_Father_.
"I trow not," said she. "As one gets on in life, you see, one doth
perceive many difficulties and differences that one noted not
aforetime."
"One is more apt to fall into ruts, that I know," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "I
had ado enough, and yet have, to keep me out of them."
"A man is apt to do one of two things," saith _Father_: "either to fall
into a rut, or to leave the road altogether. Either his charity
contracteth, and he can see none right that walk not in his rut; or else
his charity breaketh all bounds, and he would have all to be right,
which way soever they walk."
"Why, those be the two ends of the pole," quoth Sir _Robert_, "and, I
warrant you, you shall find _Grissel_ right at the end, which so it be.
She hath a conceit that a man cannot be too right, nor that, if a thing
be good, you cannot have too much thereof."
"Ah, that hangeth on the thing," saith _Father_. "You cannot have too
much faith nor charity, but you may get too much syllabub. Methinks
that is scantly the true rendering thereof. Have not the proportions
much to do withal? If a man's faith outrun his charity, behold him at
the one end of your pole; but if his charity outrun his faith, here is
he at the other. Now faith and charity should keep pace. Let either
get afore the other, and the man is no longer a perfect man; but a man
with one limb grown out, and another shrivelled up."
"But, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth Mistress _Martin_, "can a man be too holy, or
too happy?"
"Surely not, Mistress _Martin_," saith he. "But look you, God is the
fountain and pattern of both: and in Him all attributes are at once in
utmost perfection, and in strictest proportion. We sons of _Adam_,
since his fall, be gone out of proportion. And note you, for it is
worthy note--that nothing short of revelation did ever yet conceive of a
perfect God. The gods of the heathen were altogether such as
themselves. Even very _Christians_, with revelation to guide them, are
ever starting aside like a broken bow in their conceits of God. Either
they would have Him all justice and no mercy, or else all mercy and no
justice: and the looser they hold by the revelation God has made of
Himself, the dimmer and the more out of proportion be their thoughts of
God. The most men frame a God unto themselves, and be assured that he
shall be like themselves--that the sins which he holds in abhorrence
shall be the sins whereto they are not prone."
"Are we not, in fine," saith Sir _Robert_, "so far gone from original
righteousness, that our imperfect nature hath lost power to imagine
perfection?"
"Not a doubt thereof," saith _Father_. "Look you but abroad in the
world. You shall find pride lauded and called high spirit and
nobleness: covetousness is prudence and good thrift: flattery and
conformity to the world are good nature and kindliness. Every blast
from Hell hath been renamed after one of the breezes of Heaven."
There was silence so long after this that I reckoned the discourse were
o'er. When all suddenly saith Sir _Robert_:--
"_Louvaine_, have you much hope for the future--whether of the Church or
of the world?"
"All hope in God: none out of Him."
"Nay, come closer," saith Sir _Robert_. "What shall hap in the next few
reigns?"
"`I will overturn, overturn, overturn, until He come whose right it is:
and I will give it Him.' There is our pole-star, _Robin_: and I see no
other stars. `This same _Jesus_ shall so come.' `Even so, come, Lord
_Jesus_!'"
"Yet may He not be said to `come' by the Spirit shed abroad in the
hearts of men, and so the world be regenerated?"
"Find that in God's Word, _Robin_, afore He comes, and I will welcome it
with all my heart," answers _Father_. "I could never see it there. I
see there a mighty spread of knowledge, and civility [civilisation], and
communications of men--as hath been since the invention of printing, and
may be destined to spread yet much further abroad. But knowledge is not
faith, nor is civility _Christianity_. And, in fine, He is to come as
He went. He did not go invisibly in the hearts of men."
"But `the kingdom of God is within you.'"
"Ay, in the sense wherein the word is there used. The power of
_Christ_, at that time, was to be a power over men's hearts, not an
outward show of regality: but `He shall so come in like manner as ye
have seen Him go,' is a very different matter."
"Oh, of course we look for our Lord's advent in His own person," quoth
Sir _Robert_: "but I cannot think He will come to a sin-stained earth.
It were not suitable to His dignity. The way of the Lord must be
prepared."
"We shall see, when He comes," gently answereth _Father_. "But if He
_had_ not deigned to come to a sin-stained earth, what should have come
either of _Robin Stafford_ or of _Aubrey Louvaine_?"
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XXIII.
Four nights hath it taken me to write that last piece, for all the days
have we been right busy making ready for _Christmas_. There be in the
buttery now thirty great spice-cakes, and an hundred mince pies, and a
mighty bowl of plum-porridge [plum-pudding without the cloth] ready for
the boiling, and four barons of beef, and a great sight of carrots and
winter greens, and two great cheeses, and a parcel of sugar-candy for
the childre, and store of sherris-sack and claret, and _Rhenish_ wine,
and muscadel. As to the barrels of ale, and the raisins of _Corance_
[currants] and the apples, and the conserves and codiniac [quince
marmalade], and such like, I will not tarry to count them. And to-day,
and yet again it shall be to-morrow, have _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_, and
we three maids, trudged all the vicinage, bidding our neighbours to the
Hall on _Christmas_ Eve and for the even of _Christmas_ Day. And as
to-night am I well aweary, for _Thirlmere_ side fell to my share, and I
was this morrow as far as old _Madge's_ bidding her and young _Madge_,
and that is six miles well reckoned. _Father_ saith alway that though
it be our duty at all times, yet is it more specially at _Christmas_, to
bid the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind: so we have
them alway of _Christmas_ night, and of _Christmas_ Eve have we a
somewhat selecter gathering, of our own kin and close friends and such
like: only Master _Banaster_ and _Anstace_ come both times. Then on New
Year's Day have we alway a great sort of childre, and merry games and
music and such like. But the last night of the old year will _Father_
have no gatherings nor merrymaking. He saith 'tis a right solemn time;
and as each one of us came to the age of fourteen years have we parted
at nine o' the clock as usual, but not on that night for bed. Every one
sitteth by him or herself in a separate chamber, with a Bible or some
portion thereof open afore. There do we read and pray and meditate
until half-past eleven, at which time all we gather in the great
chamber. Then _Father_ reads first the 139th _Psalm_, and then that
piece in the _Revelation_ touching all the dead standing afore God: and
he prayeth a while, until about five minutes afore the year end. Then
all gather in the great window toward _Keswick_, and tarry as still as
death until Master _Cridge_ ring the great bell on _Lord_ Island, so
soon as he hear the chimes of _Keswick_ Church. Then, no sooner hath
the bell died away, which telleth to all around that the New Year is
born, then _Father_ striketh up, and all we join in, the 100th _Psalm_--
to wit, "All people that on earth do dwell."
And when the last note of the _Amen_ dieth, then we kiss one another,
and each wisheth the other a happy new year and God's blessing therein:
and so away to bed.
I reckon I shall not have no time to write again until _Christmas_ Day
is well over.
"_Father_," said I last night to him--we were us two alone that
minute--"_Father_, do you love _Christmas_?"
He looked on me and smiled.
"I love to see my childre glad, dear maid," saith he: "and I love to
feast my poor neighbours, that at other times get little feasting
enough. But _Christmas_ is the childre's festival, _Edith_: for it is
the festival of untroubled hearts and eyes that have no tears behind
them. For the weary hearts and the tearful eyes the true feast is
_Easter_. The one is a hope: the other is a victory. There are no
clouds o'er the blue sky in the first: the storm is over, and the sun is
out again, in the last. `We believe in the resurrection of the dead,
and the life of the world to come.' But we are apt to believe in the
resurrection the most truly when the grave hath been lately open: and
the life of the world to come is the gladdest thought to them for whom
the life of the world that is seems not much to live for."
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XXVIII.
"Well, _Edith_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ to me last night, "thou hast had a
rare time of it!"
"I have, _Aunt_," said I: "yet I warrant you, I was not sorry to have
_Sunday_ come at after."
Eh, but I was weary when I gat me abed on _Christmas_ night, and it were
ten o'clock well told ere I so did. _Helen_ and _Milisent_ were later
yet: but _Mother_ packed me off, saying that growing maids should not
tarry up late: and when I found me withinside the blankets, I warrant
you, but I was thankful!
I reckon, being now something rested, I must set down all that we did:
and first for _Christmas_ Eve.
_Hal_ and _Anstace_ came early (their childre were bidden to _Keswick_
unto a childre's gathering): then about three o' the clock, Master and
Mistress _Lewthwaite_, with _Alice, Nym, Jack_, and _Robin_ (and by the
same token, _Nym_ played the despairing gallant that I could not choose
but laugh, his hat awry and his ruff all o' one side, and a bombasted
[padded] doublet that made him look twice his own size). And methought
it a sore pity to miss _Blanche_, that was wont to be merriest of us all
(when as she were in a good humour) and so _Alice_ said unto me, while
the water stood in her eyes. A little while after come Doctor and
Mistress _Meade_, and their _Isabel_: then old Mistress _Rigg_, and her
three tall daughters, Mrs _Martha_, Mrs _Katherine_, and Mrs _Anne_:
then Farmer _Benson_ and his dame, and their _Margaret_ and _Agnes_; and
Master _Coward_, with their _Tom_ and _Susan_; and Master and Mistress
_Armstrong_, with their _Ben_, _Nicholas_, and _Gillian_. Last of all
come Master _Park_ and Master _Murthwaite_, both together, and their
mistresses, with the young folk,--_Hugh_ and _Austin Park_, and
_Dudley_, _Faith_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_. So our four-and-thirty
guests, with ourselves, thirteen, made in all a goodly company of
forty-seven.
First, when all were come in and had doffed their out-door raiment, and
greeting over, we sat us down to supper: where one of the barons of
beef, and plum-porridge, and apple-pies, and chicken-pies, and syllabub,
and all manner of good things: but in very deed I might scarce eat my
supper for laughing at _Nym Lewthwaite_, that was sat right over against
me, and did scarce taste aught, but spent the time in gazing
lack-a-daisically on our _Helen_, and fetching great sighs with his hand
laid of his heart. Supper o'er, we first had snap-dragon, then hot
cockles, then blindman's buff, then hunt the weasel. We pausing to take
breath at after, _Father_ called us to sing; so we gathered all in the
great chamber, and first _Mynheer_ sang a _Dutch_ song, and then Sir
_Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ a rare part-song, touching the beauties
of spring-time. Then sang Farmer _Benson_, Master _Armstrong_, and
_Ben_ and _Agnes_, "The hunt is up," which was delightsome to hear.
Then Aunt _Joyce_ would sing "Pastime with good company," and would
needs have _Milisent_ and me and _Robin Lewthwaite_ to help her. After
this _Jack Lewthwaite_ and _Nick Armstrong_ made us to laugh well, by
singing "The cramp is in my purse full sore." The music ended with a
sweet glee of _Faith_ and _Temperance Murthwaite_ (something sober, but
I know it liked _Father_ none the worse) and the old _English_ song of
"Summer is ycumen in," sung of _Father_ and Sir _Robert_, our _Helen_,
and _Isabel Meade_. Then we sat around the fire till rear-supper, and
had "Questions and Commands," and cried forfeits, and wound up with "I
love my love." And some were rare witty and mirthful in that last,
particularly Sir _Robert_, who did treat his love to oranges and
orfevery in the _Orcades_ [Hebrides] (and _Father_ said he marvelled how
he gat them there), and Aunt _Joyce_, who said her love was _Benjamin
Breakrope_, and he came from the Tower of _Babel_. Then, after that,
fell we a-telling stories: and a right brave one of _Father_, out of one
of his old Chronicles, how Queen _Philippa_ gat a pardon from her lord
for the six gentlemen of _Calais_: and a merry, of Dr _Meade_, touching
King _John_ and the Abbot of _Canterbury_, and the three questions that
the King did ask at the Abbot's gardener (he playing his master), and
the witty answers he made unto him. Then would Master _Armstrong_ tell
a tale; and an awesome ghost-story it were, that made my flesh creep,
and _Milisent_ whispered in mine ear that she should sleep never a wink
at after it.
"Eh!" saith Farmer _Benson_, and fetched an heavy sigh: "ghosts be ill
matter of an house."
"Saw you e'er a ghost, Farmer _Benson_?" saith _Dudley Murthwaite_.
"Nay, lad," quoth he: "I've had too much good daylight work in my time
to lie awake a-seeing ghosts when night cometh."
"Ah, but I've seen a ghost," saith _Austin Park_.
"Oh, where?" cried a dozen together.
"Why, it was but night afore last," saith he, "up by the old white-thorn
that was strake of the lightning, come two years last Midsummer, just at
yon reach o' the lake that comes up higher than the rest."
"Ay, ay," saith Farmer _Benson_: "and what like were it, Master
_Austin_?"
"A woman all in white, with her head cut off," quoth he.
"Said she aught to thee?"
"Nay, I gave her no chance; I took to my heels," quoth he.
"Now, _Austin_, that should I ne'er have done," saith Aunt _Joyce_, who
believes in ghosts never a whit. "I would have stood my ground, for I
did never yet behold a ghost, and would dearly love to do it: and do but
think how curious it should be to find out what she spake withal, that
had her head cut off."
"Mistress _Joyce_, had you found you, as I did, close to a blasted tree,
and been met of a white woman with no head, I'll lay you aught you will
you'd never have run no faster," saith _Austin_ in an injured tone.
"That should I _not_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ boldly. "I shall win my
fortune at that game, _Austin_, if thou deny not thy debts of honour.
Why, man o' life, what harm should a blasted tree do me? Had the
lightning struck it that minute while I stood there, then might there
have been some danger: but because the lightning struck it two years
gone, how should it hurt me now? And as to a woman with no head, that
would I tarry to believe till I had stripped off her white sheet and
seen for myself."
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_," cries old Mistress _Rigg_, "but sure you should
never dare to touch a ghost?"
"There be not many things, save sin, Mistress _Rigg_, that I should not
dare to do an' it liked me. I have run after a thief with a poker: ay,
and I have handled a Popish catchpoll, in Queen _Mary's_ days, that he
never came near my house no more. And wherefore, I pray you tell me,
should I be more feared of a spirit without a body than of a spirit
within the body?--_Austin_, if thou meet the ghost again, prithee bid
her come up to _Selwick_ Hall and ask for _Joyce Morrell_, for I would
give forty shillings to have a good talk with her. Only think, how much
a ghost could tell a body!"
"Lack-a-day, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll neither make nor meddle with her!"
cries _Austin_.
"Poor weak soul!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. Whereat many laughed.
So, after a while, sat we down to rear-supper; and at after that,
gathered in small groups, twos and threes and the like, and talked: and
I with _Isabel Meade_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_, and _Austin Park_,
had some rare merriment touching divers matters. When all at once I
heard Aunt _Joyce_ say--
"Well, but what ill were there in asking questions of spirits, if they
might visit the earth?"
"The ill for which _Adam_ was turned forth of _Eden_," saith _Father_:
"disobedience to a plain command of God. Look in the xviii chapter of
_Deuteronomy_, and you shall see necromancy forbidden by name. That is,
communication with such as be dead."
"But that were for religion, Sir _Aubrey_," saith Master _Coward_.
"This, look you, were but matter of curiousness."
"That is to say, it was _Eva's_ sin rather than _Adam's_," _Father_
makes answer. "Surely, that which is forbid as solemn matter of
religion, should be rather forbid as mere matter of curiousness."
"But was that aught more than a ceremonial law of the _Jews_, no longer
binding upon _Christians_?" saith Sir _Robert_.
"Nay, then, turn you to _Paul's_ Epistle to _Timothy_," quoth _Father_,
"where among the doctrines taught by them that shall depart from the
faith, he doth enumerate `doctrines of devils,'--or, as the _Greek_ hath
it, of demons. Now these demons were but dead men, whom the _Pagans_
held to be go-betweens for living men with their gods. So this, see
you, is a two-edged sword, forbidding all communication with the dead,
whether as saints to be invoked, or as visitants to be questioned."
"Nobody's like to question 'em save Mistress _Joyce_," saith Farmer
_Benson_, of his husky voice, which alway soundeth as though he should
have an ill rheum of his throat.
Aunt _Joyce_ laughed. "Nay, I were but joking," quoth she: "but I
warrant you, if I meet _Austin's_ white woman without a head, I'll see
if she be ghost or no."
"But what think you, Sir _Aubrey_--wherefore was such communication
forbid?" saith Master _Murthwaite_.
"God wot," saith _Father_. "I am not of His council-chamber. My
Master's plain word is enough for me."
"One might think that a warning from beyond the grave should have so
solemn an effect on a sinner."
"Nay, we be told right contrary. `If they hear not _Moses_ and the
prophets, neither will they believe though one rise from death again.'
How much rather when One hath risen from the dead, and they have refused
to hear Him?"
Then arose Dr _Meade_, that was discoursing with _Mynheer_ of a corner,
and prayers were had. After which a grace-cup, and then all took their
leave, Master _Park_ being last to go as to come. And just ere he was
through the door, saith _Austin_ to Aunt _Joyce_, a-laughing--
"You'll mind to let me know, Mistress _Joyce_, what the ghost saith to
you. I can stand it second-hand, may-be."
"That's a jolly hearing, from one of the stronger sex to one of the
weaker!" quoth she. "Well said, thou mocking companion: I will give
thee to wit--a piece of my mind, if no more."
_Christmas-Day_, of course, all to church: and in the even sat down to
supper seventy-six, all but ourselves poor men and women and childre.
And two of the barons of beef, and six bowls of plum-porridge, and one
hundred pies of divers kinds,--to say nought of lesser dishes, that
_Milly_ counted up to eighty. Then after, snap-dragon, whereat was much
mirth; and singing of _Christmas_ carols, and games with the childre.
And all away looking mighty pleased.
Daft _Madge_ would know of me if the angels lived o' plum-porridge. I
told her I thought not so.
"It is like to be somewhat rare good," quoth she. "The Lord's so rich,
look you,--main richer nor Sir _Aubrey_. If t' servant gives poor folk
plum-porridge, what'll t' Master give?"
_Father_ answered her, for he was close by--
"`Fat things full of marrow, wines on the lees well refined.'"
"Eh, that sounds good!" saith she, a-licking of her lips. "And that's
for t' hungry folk, Master?"
"It is only for hungry folk," saith he. "'Tis not thrown away on the
full ones. `Whosoever will, take,' saith the Lord, who gives the
feast."
"Eh, then I shall get some!" saith she, a-laughing all o'er her face, as
she doth when she is pleased at aught. "You'll be sure and let me know
when 'tis, Master? I'll come, if 'tis snow up to t' knees all t' way."
"The Lord will be sure and let thee know, _Madge_, when 'tis ready,"
saith _Father_; for he hath oft said that little as poor _Madge_ can
conceive, he is assured she is one of God's childre.
"Oh, if 'tis _Him_ to let me know, 't'll be all right," saith _Madge_,
smiling and drawing of her cloak around her. "He'll not forget
_Madge_--not He. He come down o' purpose to die for _me_, you know."
_Father_ saith, as _Madge_ trudged away in her clogs after old _Madge_,
her grandmother--
"Ah, rich _Madge_--not poor! May-be thine shall be the most abundant
entrance of any in this chamber."
I am at the end of my month, and as to-morrow I hand the book to
_Helen_. But I dare not count up my two-pences, for I am feared they be
so many.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Complexion, at this date, signified temperament, not colour.
The Middle Age physicians divided the complexions of mankind into four--
the lymphatic, the sanguine, the nervous, and the bilious: and their
treatment was always grounded on these considerations. Colour of skin,
hair, and eyes, being considered symptomatic of complexion, the word was
readily transferred from one to the other.