"_Anstace_ was wont to say--my _Anstace_, not yours, my maids--that she
which did commonly put herself in the lowest place should the seldomest
find her out of her reckoning."
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY THE IX.
Come Dr _Bell_ this morrow to let us blood, as is alway done of the
spring-time. I do never love these blood-letting days, sith for a
se'nnight after I do feel weak as water. But I reckon it must needs be,
to keep away fever and plague and such like, the which should be worser
than blood-letting a deal. All we were blooded, down to _Adam_; and Dr
_Bell_ rode away, by sixteen shillings the richer man, which is a deal
for a chirurgeon to earn but of one morrow. Aunt _Joyce_ saith she
marvelleth if in time to come physicians cannot discover some herb or
the like that shall purify folks' blood without having it run out of
them like water from a tap. I would, if so be, that they might make
haste and find the same.
_Father_ hath writ to his cousin my Lord of _Oxenford_, praying him to
give leave for _Wat_ to visit us at home. 'Tis four years sithence he
were here; and _Father_ hath been wont to say that shall be a rare
well-writ letter which shall (in common cases) do half the good of a
talk face to face. I can see he is somewhat diseaseful touching _Wat_,
lest he should slide into ill ways.
We do hear of old _Nanny_, that cometh by nows and thens for waste
victuals, that daft _Madge_ is something sick. Her grandmother reckons
she caught an ill rheum that even of _Christmas_ Day when she were here:
but _Madge_ herself will strongly deny the same, saying (poor maid!)
that she never could take nought ill at _Selwick_ Hall, for never nought
but good (saith she) came to her there. _Mother_ would go to visit her,
but she hath an evil rheum herself, and _Father_ saith she must tarry at
home this sharp frost: so Aunt _Joyce_ and I be to go this afternoon,
and carry her a basket of comfortable things.
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE X.
A rare basket that was _Mother_ packed yester-morrow for daft _Madge_.
First went in a piece of beef, and then a goodly string of salt ling
(for _Lent_ is nigh at hand [Note 1]), a little bottle of cinnamon
water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of butter, a
half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the
hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign
fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late
brought from abroad, and _Ned_ did bring unto _Mother_ a little basket
of them.
We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads
be slippy as they were greased with butter. Howbeit, we come at last
safe to _Madge's_ door, and there found daft _Madge_ in a great chair
afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old _Madge_ her grandmother
sat a-sewing, with her horn-glasses across her nose, and by her old
_Isaac Crewdson_, that is daft _Madge_ her grandfather of the other
side. She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap
her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.
"Good morrow, _Madge_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "See thou, my Lady
_Lettice_ hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up
a bit."
_Madge_ took Aunt _Joyce's_ hand, and kissed it.
"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.
Old _Madge_ gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and
crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were.
But daft _Madge_ seemed not much to care what were therein, though she
was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few
pleasures she had wit for. Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt _Joyce_
to me, and smiling on us.
"What art thinking, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
For, natural [idiot] though she be, _Madge_ is alway thinking. 'Tis
very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see
through the smoked glass of her poor brains. Nay, I take it, so there
is.
"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll
be to see His Face."
_Madge_ hath rarely any name for God. It is mostly "He."
"Wouldst love to see it, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Shall," quoth she, "right soon. He sent me word, Mistress _Joyce_,
yestereven."
"Ay," saith old _Isaac_, "she reckons she's going."
"Wilt be glad, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, softly.
"Glad!" she makes answer. "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_--glad! Why, 'twill be
better than plum-porridge!"
Poor _Madge_!--she took the best symbol she had wit for.
"Ay, my lass, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old _Isaac_.
"Plum-porridge and feather beds'll be nought to what they've getten up
yonder.--You see, Mistress _Joyce_, we mun tell her by what she knows,
poor maid!"
"Ay, thou sayest well, _Isaac_," Aunt _Joyce_ made reply. "_Madge_, thy
mother's up yonder."
"I know!" she saith, a-smiling. "She'll come to th' gate when I knock.
He'll sure send her to meet me. She'll know 'tis me, ye ken. It'd
never do if some other maid gave my name, and got let in by mistake for
me. He'll send somebody as knows me to see I get in right. Don't ye
see, that's why we keep a-going one at once? Somebody mun be always
there that'll ken th' new ones."
"I reckon the Lord will ken them, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Oh ay, He'll ken 'em, sure enough," saith _Madge_. "But then, ye see,
they'd feel lonely like if they waited to see any body they knew till
they got right up to th' fur end: and th' angels 'd be stoppin' 'em and
wanting to make sure all were right. That wouldn't be pleasant. So
He'll send one o' them as knows 'em, and then th' angels 'll be
satisfied, and not be stoppin' of 'em."
Aunt _Joyce_ did not smile at poor _Madge's_ queer notions. She saith
at times that God Himself teaches them that men cannot teach. And at
after, quoth she, that it were but _Madge_ her way of saying, "He careth
for you."
"Dost thou think she is going, _Isaac_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. For old
_Isaac_ is an herb-gatherer, or were while he could; and he wist a deal
of physic.
"Now, _Gaffer_, thou'lt never say nay!" cries _Madge_ faintly, as though
it should trouble her sore if he thought she would live through it.
"I'll say nought o' th' sort, _Madge_," said _Isaac_. "Ay, Mistress
_Joyce_. She's been coming to the Lord this ever so long: and now, I
take it, she's going to Him."
"That's right!" saith _Madge_, with a comforted look, and laying of her
head back on her pillows. "It would be sore to get right up to th'
gate, and then an angel as one didn't know just put his head forth, and
say, `Th' Master says 'tis too soon, _Madge_: thou must not come in yet.
Thou'lt have to walk a bit outside.' Eh, but I wouldn't like yon!"
"He'll not leave thee outside, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Eh, I hope not!" quoth _Madge_, as regretfully. "I do want to see Him
so. I'd like to see if He looks rested like after all He bare for a
poor daft maid. And I want to know if them bad places is all healed up
in His hands and feet, and hurt Him no more now. I'd like to see for
myself, ye ken."
"Ay, _Madge_, they're healed long ago," saith _Isaac_.
"Well, I count so," saith she, "for 'tis a parcel o' _Sundays_ since
first time thou told me of 'em: still, I'd like to see for myself."
"Thou'lt see for thyself," saith _Isaac_. "Th' Lord's just th' same up
yonder that He were down here."
"Well, I reckon so," quoth _Madge_, in a tone of wonder. "Amn't I th'
same maid up at th' Hall as I am here?"
"Ay, but I mean He's as good as ever He were," _Isaac_ makes answer.
"He were right good, He were, to yon poor gaumering [silly] _Thomas_,--
eh, but he were a troublesome chap, was _Thomas_! He said he wouldn't
believe it were th' Lord without he stuck his hand right into th' bad
place of His side. He were a hard one to deal wi', was yon _Thomas_."
"Did He let him stick it in?" saith _Madge_, opening her eyes.
"Yea, He told him to come and stick't in, if he could not believe
without: but he mun have been a dizard [foolish man], that he couldn't--
that's what I think," quoth old _Isaac_.
"Was he daft?" saith _Madge_.
"Well, nay, I reckon not," saith he.
"I'll tell ye how it were," saith she. "His soul was daft--that's it--
right th' inside of him, ye ken."
"Ay, I reckon thou'rt about right," quoth _Isaac_.
"Well, I wouldn't have wanted that," saith she. "I'd have wist by His
face and the way He said `Good morrow, _Thomas_!' I'd never have wanted
to hurt Him more to see whether it were Him. So He'd rather be hurt
than leave _Thomas_ a-wondering! Well--it were just like Him."
"He's better than men be, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.
"That's none so much to say, Mistress _Joyce_," saith _Madge_. "Men's
bad uns. And some's rare bad uns. So's women, belike. I'd liever ha'
th' door betwixt."
_Madge_ hath alway had a strange fantasy to shut the half-door betwixt
her and them she loveth not. There be very few she will let come
withinside. I reckon them that may might be counted of her fingers.
"Well, _Madge_, there shall be no need to shut to the door in Heaven,"
saith Aunt _Joyce_. "The gates be never shut by day; and there is no
night there."
"They've no night! Eh, that's best thing ever you told me yet!" quoth
_Madge_. "I canna 'bide th' dark. It'll be right bonnie, it will!"
Softly Aunt _Joyce_ made answer. "`Thine eyes shall see the King in His
beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"
_Madge's_ head came up from the pillow. "Eh, that's grand! And that's
Him?"
"Ay, my maid."
"Ay, that's like," saith she. "It couldn't be nobody else. And Him
that could make th' roses and lilies mun be good to look at. 'Tisn't
always so now: but I reckon they've things tidy up yon. They'll fit
like, ye ken. But, Mistress _Joyce_, do ye tell me, will us be any
wiser up yon?"
I saw the water in Aunt _Joyce's_ eyes, as she arose; and she bent down
and kissed _Madge_ on the brow.
"Dear heart," quoth she, "thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows
thee. Is that plenty, _Madge_?"
"I reckon 'tis a bit o' t'other side," saith _Madge_, with her eyes
gleaming. But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth
she--"Mistress _Milisent_, saw ye e'er Mistress _Joyce_ when she had
doffed her?"
"Ay, _Madge_," said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.
"And," saith she, "be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders?
Do tell me. I'd like to know how big they were by now."
"Nay, _Madge_; I never saw any."
"No did ye?" quoth she, in a disappointed tone. "I thought they'd have
been middling grown by now. But may-be He keeps th' wings till we've
got yon? Ay, I reckon that's it. She'll have 'em all right, some day."
And _Madge_ seemed satisfied.
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVI.
Yester-morn, Dr _Bell_ being at church, _Mother_ was avised to ask him,
if it might stand with his conveniency, to look in on _Madge_ the next
time he rideth that way, and see if aught might be done for her. He
saith in answer that he should be a-riding to _Thirlmere_ early this
morrow, and would so do: and this even, on his way home, he came in
hither to tell _Mother_ his thought thereon. 'Tis even as we feared,
for he saith there is no doubt that _Madge_ is dying, nor shall she
overlive many days. But right sorry were we to hear him say that he did
marvel if she or _Blanche Lewthwaite_ should go the first.
"Why, Doctor!" saith _Mother_, "I never reckoned _Blanche_ so far gone
as that."
"May-be not when you saw her, Lady _Lettice_," saith he. "But--women be
so perverse! Why, the poor wretch might have lived till this summer
next following, or even (though I scarce think it) have tided o'er
another winter, but she must needs take it into her foolish head to rush
forth into the garden, to say a last word to somebody, a frosty bitter
even some ten days back, with never so much as a kerchief tied o'er her
head; and now is she laid of her bed, as was the only thing like, and
may scarce breathe with the inflammation of her lungs. She _may_ win
through, but verily I look not for it."
"Poor heart! I will go and see her," saith _Mother_.
"Ay, do so," saith he. "Poor foolish soul!--as foolish in regard of her
health as of her happiness."
This even, I being the first in our chamber, was but making ready my
gown with a clean partlet [ruff] for to-morrow, when _Mother_ come in.
"_Milly_," she saith, "I shall go (if the Lord will) to see _Blanche_
to-morrow, and I would have thee go withal."
I guess _Mother_ saw that I did somewhat shrink from the thought. In
truth, though I have seen _Blanche_ in church, and know how she looketh,
yet I have never yet spoke with her sithence she came home, and I feel
fearful, as though I were going into a chamber where was somewhat might
hurt me.
"My _Milisent_," saith _Mother_--and that is what she calls me at her
tenderest--"I would not hurt thee but for thine own good. And I know,
dear heart, that few matters do more good than for a sinner to be shown
that whereto he might have come, if the Lord had not hedged up his way
with thorns. 'Tis not alway--I might say 'tis not often--that we be
permitted to see whither the way should have led that the Father would
not have us to take. And, my dear heart, thou art of thy nature so like
thy foolish mother, that I can judge well what should be good for thee."
"Nay, _Mother_, dear heart! I pray you, call not yourself names," said
I, kissing her hand.
"I shall be of my nature foolish, _Milly_, whether I do so call myself
or no," saith _Mother_, laughing.
"And truly, the older I grow, the more foolish I think myself in my
young days."
"Shall I so do, _Mother_, when I am come to your years?" said I, also
laughing.
"I hope so, _Milly_," saith she. "I am afeared, if no, thy wisdom shall
then be small."
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVII.
I have seen _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and I do feel to-night as though I
should never laugh again. Verily, O my God, the way of the
transgressors is hard!
She lies of her bed, scarce able to speak, and that but of an hoarse
whisper. Dr _Bell_ hath given order that she shall not be suffered to
talk but to make known her wants or to relieve her mind, though folk may
talk to her so long as they weary her not. We came in, brought of
_Alice_, and _Mother_ sat down by the bed, while I sat in the window
with _Alice_.
_Blanche_ looked up at _Mother_ when she spake some kindly words unto
her.
"I am going, Lady _Lettice_!" was the first thing she said.
"I do trust, dear heart, if the Lord will, Dr _Bell's_ skill may yet
avail for thee," saith _Mother_. "But if not, _Blanche_--"
_Blanche_ interrupted her impatiently, with a question whereof the tone,
yet more than the words, made my blood run cold.
"_Whither_ am I going?"
"Dear _Blanche_," said _Mother_, "the Lord _Jesus Christ_ is as good and
as able to-day as ever He were."
There was a little impatient movement of her head.
"Too late!"
"Never too late for Him," saith _Mother_.
"Too late for me," _Blanche_ made answer. "You mind the text--last
_Sunday_. I loved idols--after them I _would_ go!"
She spoke with terrible pauses, caused by that hard, labouring breath.
_Mother_ answered, as I knew, from the Word of God.
"`Yet return again to me,' saith the Lord."
"I cannot return. I never came."
"Then `come unto Me, all ye that are weary and laden.' `The Son of Man
is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"
_Blanche_ made no answer. She only lay still, her eyes fixed on
_Mother_, which did essay for to show her by God's Word that she might
yet be saved if she so would. Methought when _Mother_ stayed, and rose
to kiss her as she came thence, that surely _Blanche_ could want no
more. Her only word to _Mother_ was--
"Thanks."
Then she beckoned to me, and I came and kissed her. _Mother_ was gone
to speak with Mistress _Lewthwaite_, and _Alice_ withal. _Blanche_ and
I were alone.
"Close!" she said: and I bent mine ear to her lips. "Very kind--Lady
_Lettice_. But--too late."
"O _Blanche_!" I was beginning: but her thin weak hand on mine arm
stayed further speech.
"Hush! _Milisent_--thank God--thou art not as I. Thank God--and keep
clean. Too late for me. Good-bye."
"O _Blanche_, _Blanche_!" I sobbed through my tears. The look in her
eyes was dreadful to me. "The Lord would fain have thee saved, and
wherefore dost thou say `too late'?"
"I want it not," she whispered.
"_Blanche_," I cried in horror. "What canst thou mean? Not want to be
saved from Hell! Not want to go to Heaven!"
"From Hell--ay. But not--to go to Heaven."
"But there is none other place!" cried I.
"I know. Would there were!"
I believe I stood and gazed on her in amaze. I could not think what
were her meaning, and I marvelled if she were not feather-brained
[wandering, light-headed] somewhat.
"God is in Heaven," she said. "I do not want God. Nor He me."