"Now that Thy mercies on my head
The oil of joy for mourning pour,
Not as I will my steps be led,
But as Thou wilt for evermore."
Anna L. Waring.
(_In Joyce Morrell's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE SECOND.
Some ten years gone, when I was tarrying hither, I had set round my
waist a leather thong, at the other end whereof was a very small damsel,
by name _Edith_. "Gee up, horse!" quoth she: "gee up, I say!" and
accordingly in all obeisance I did gee up, and danced and pranced (like
an old dolt as I am) at the pleasance of that my driver. It seems me
that Mistress _Edith_ hath said "Gee up!" yet once again, and given the
old brown mare a cut of her whip. I therefore have no choice but to
prance: and if any into whose hands this book may fall hereafter shall
reckon me a silly old woman, I hereby do them to wit that their account
tallieth to one farthing with the adding of _Joyce Morrell_.
I have read over the writings of these my cousins: and as I am commanded
to write my thoughts on that matter, I must say that methinks but one of
them hath done as she laid out to do. That _Nell_ hath been wise on
every page will I not deny; at the least, if not, they be right few.
But I reckon _Edith_ hath been wise on more than the last (though not on
all) and hath thus done better than she looked for: while as to _Milly_,
she hath been wise on none of her first writing, and on all of her
second. Verily, when I came to read that record of _February_, I might
scarce credit that _Milisent_ was she that writ.
Ah, these young maids! how do they cause an elder woman to live o'er her
life again! To look thereat in one light, it seemeth me as a century
had passed sithence I were as they: and yet turn to an other, and it is
but yestereven since I was smoothing _Anstace'_ pillow, and making tansy
puddings for my father, and walking along the garden, in a dream of
bliss that was never to be, with one I will not name, but who shall
never pass along those garden walks with me, never any more.
And dost thou think it sorrow, young _Edith_, rosebud but just breaking
into bloom, to clasp the hand of aught and say unto it, "Farewell, Last
Time!" I shall not gainsay thee. All young things have such moods,
half melancholical, half delightsome, and I know when I was as much
given to them as ever thou art. But there be sorrows to which there is
no last time that you may know,--no clasping of loving hands, no tender
farewell: only the awful waking to find that you have dreamed a dream,
and the utter blank of life that cometh after. Our worst sufferings are
not the crushing pain for which all around comfort you and smoothe your
pillow, and try one physic after an other that shall may-be give you
ease. They are those for which none essayeth to comfort you, and you
could not bear it if they did. No voice save His that knoweth our frame
can speak comfort then, and oft-times not His even can speak hope.
Ay, and they that account other folk cheery and hopeful,--as I see from
these writings that these maids do of me,--what wit they of the inner
conflict, and the dreary plains of despair we have by times to cross?
It may be that she which crieth sore and telleth out all her griefs,
hath far less a burden to carry than she which bolts the door of her
heart o'er it, so that the world reckoneth her to have no griefs at all.
In good sooth, I have found _Anstace_ right when she said the only safe
confidant for most was _Jesu Christ_.
Well! It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones. Only there be
seasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back and
abiding with you for a while. And one of those seasons is come to me
this eve, after reading of this Chronicle.
Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that none
knoweth better than thyself. Let the world reckon thee such, and
welcome. And in very deed I would fain have _Christ_ so to reckon me,
for then should He take me in His arms with the little lambs, in the
stead of leaving me to trot on alongside with the strong unweary sheep.
Yes, they call a woman's heart weak that will go on loving, through evil
report and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and the
howling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utter
unworthiness.
Be it so. I confess them all. But I go on hoping against all hope, and
when even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still.
Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that God loved me?
O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love that
might have been! Every morrow and every night I pray God to bring thee
back from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father's
house. If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeter
for me. But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and I
ask no more.
I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest by
the name. But with the pure gold of a true heart that God calls love,
none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved thee
but me.
God knoweth,--thee and me. God careth. God will provide. Enough, O
fainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is
higher than thou. Rest, and be still.
SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE III.
I could write no more last night. It was better to cast one's self on
the sand (as _Ned_ saith men do in the great Desert of _Araby_) and
leave the tempest sweep o'er one's head. I come back now to the life of
every day--that quiet humdrum life (as _Milly_ hath it) which is so
displeasant to young eager natures, and matcheth so well with them that
be growing old and come to feel the need of rest. And after all said,
Mistress _Milisent_, a man should live a sorry life and a troublous, if
it had in it no humdrum days. Human nature could not bear perpetual
sorrow, and as little (in this dispensation at the least) should it
stand unceasing joy.
I fell a-thinking this morrow, how little folks do wit of that which
lieth a-head. Now, if I were to prophesy (that am no prophet, neither a
prophet's daughter) what should befall these young things my cousins
twenty years hereafter, then would I say that it should find _Ned_
captain of some goodly vessel, and husband of _Faith Murthwaite_ (and
may he have no worser fate befall him!)--and _Wat_, a country gentleman
(but I trust not wed to _Gillian Armstrong)_: and _Nell_, a comely
maiden ministering lovingly unto her father and mother: and _Milisent_
dwelling at _Mere Lea_ with _Robin Lewthwaite_: and _Edith_--nay, I will
leave the fashioning of her way to the Lord, for I see not whither it
lieth. And very like (an' it be His will I live thus long) when the
time cometh, I shall see may-be not so much as one that hath fulfilled
the purpose I did chalk out for them. Ay, but the Lord's chalking shall
be a deal better than _Joyce Morrell's_. I reckon my lines should be
all awry.
For how little hath happed that ever I looked for aforetime! _Dulcie
Fenton_, that wont to look as though it should be a sin in her to laugh,
had she beheld aught to laugh at, hath blossomed out into an happy,
comfortable matron, with two fair daughters, and an husband that (for a
man) is rare good unto her: and _Lettice Eden_--come, _Anstace_ is to
read this, so will I leave _Lettice_ to conceive for herself what should
have followed. Both she and _Aubrey_ shall read well enough betwixt the
lines. And _Joyce Morrell_, that thought once to be--what she is not--
is an humdrum old maid, I trust a bit useful as to cooking and stitchery
and the like, and on whom God hath put a mighty charge of His gold and
goods to minister for Him,--but nought nearer than cousins to give her
love, though that do they most rarely, and God bless their hearts
therefor. My best treasures be in the good Land--all save one, that the
Good Shepherd is yet looking for over the wild hills: nor hath my life
been an unhappy one, but for that one blank which is there day and
night, and shall be till the Good Shepherd call me by my name to come
and rejoice with Him over the finding of His sheep that is lost. O
Lord, make no long tarrying! Yea, make no tarrying, O my God!
SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE V.
_Ned_ hath spoke out at last, like the honest man he is, and done
_Aubrey_ to wit of his desire to wed with _Faith Murthwaite_. She is a
good maid, and I cast no doubt shall make a good wife. Scarce so comely
as her sister _Temperance_, may-be, yet she liketh me the better: and
not by no means so fair as _Gillian Armstrong_, which liketh me not at
all. I would with all mine heart that I could put a spoke in that
lass's wheel the which she rolleth toward our _Walter_: yet this know I,
that if you shall give an hint to a young man that he were best not to
wed with a certain maid, mine head to a porridge-pot but he shall go and
fall o' love with her, out of pure contrariety. Men be such dolts!
And, worser yet, they will not be ruled by the women, that have all the
wit going.
Master _Murthwaite_, though he say little, as his wont is, is
nevertheless, as I can see, pleased enough (and Mistress _Murthwaite_ a
deal more, and openly) that his lass should have caught our _Ned_. And
truly our _Ned_ is no ill catch, for he feareth God, and hath a deal of
his father in him, than which I can write no better commendation. _Wat_
is more like _Lettice_.
Ay me, but is it no strange matter that the last thing ever a man (or
woman) doth seem able to understand, is that `whatsoever a man soweth,
that shall he also reap.' _That_: not an other thing. Yet for one that
honestly essayeth to sow that which he would reap, an hundred shall sow
darnel and look confidently to reap fine wheat. They sow that they have
no desire to reap, and ope their dull eyes in amazement when that cometh
up which they have sown.
How do men pass their lives in endeavours to deceive God! Because they
be ready to take His gold for tinsel, they reckon He shall leave their
tinsel pass for gold.
Yea, and too oft we know not indeed what we sow.--Here be seeds; what, I
wis not. Drop them into the earth--they shall come up somewhat.--Then,
when they come up briars and thistles, we stand and gape on them.--Dear
heart, who had thought they should be so? I looked for primroses and
violets.--Did you so, friend? But had you not been wiser to ask at the
Husbandman, who wot that you did not?--Good lack! but I thought me wise
enough.--Ay so: that do we all and alway. Good Lord, who art the Only
Wise, shake our conceits of our own wisdom!
Lack-a-daisy, but how easy is it to fall of a rut in thy journeying!
Here was I but to write my thoughts touching these maids' writings, and
after reading the same, I am fallen of their rut, and am going on to
keep the Chronicle as though I were one of them. Of a truth, there is
somewhat captivating therein: and _Edith_ saith she shall continue, for
her own diversion, to keep a privy Chronicle. So be it. Methinks, as
matter of understanding and natural turn thereto, she is fittest of the
three. _Nell_ saith she found it no easy matter, and should never think
so to do: while _Milisent_, as I guess, shall for a while to come be
something too much busied living her chronicle, to write it. For me, I
did once essay to do the same; but it went not, as I mind, beyond a week
or so. Either there were so much to do there was no time to write it;
or so little that there was nought to write. I well-nigh would now that
I had kept it up. For sure such changes in public matters as have
fallen in my life shall the world not see many times o'er again. When I
was born, in Mdxxv [1525], was King _Harry_ the Eight young and
well-liked of all men, and no living soul so much as dreamed of all the
troubles thereafter to ensue. Then came the tumult that fell of the
matter of the King's divorce. (All 'long of a man's obstinateness, for
was not my sometime Lord Cardinal [Wolsey] wont to say that rather than
miss the one half of his will, he would endanger the one half of his
kingdom? Right the man is that. A woman should know how to bend
herself to circumstances.) Then came the troubles o'er Queen _Anne_,
that had her head cut off (and by my troth, I misdoubted alway if she
did deserve the same); and then of the divorce of the Lady _Anne_ of
_Cleve_ (that no _Gospeller_ did ever think to deserve the same); and
then of Queen _Katherine_, whose head was cut off belike--eh me, what
troublous times were then! Verily, looking back, they seem worser than
at the time they did. For when things be, there be mixed with all the
troubles little matters that be easy and even delightsome: but to look
back, one doth forget all them, and think only of the great affairs.
And all the time, along with this, kept pace that great ado of religion
which fell out in the purifying of the Church men call the Reformation.
(Though, of a truth, the _Papists_ have of late took up a cry that afore
the Reformation the Church of _England_ was not, and did only then
spring into being. As good say I was not _Joyce Morrell_ this morrow
until I washed my face.) Then, when King _Harry_ died--and it was none
too soon for this poor realm--came the goodly days of our young _Josiah_
King _Edward_, which were the true reforming of the Church; that which
went afore were rather playing at reform. Men's passions were too much
mixed up with it. But after the blue sky returned the tempest. Ay me,
those five years of Queen _Mary_, what they be to look back on!
Howbeit, matters were worser in the shires and down south than up
hither. Old Bishop _Tunstall_ was best of all the _Papist_ Bishops, for
though he flustered much (and as some thought, to save himself from
suspicion of them in power), yet he did little more. I well-nigh gat
mine head into a noose, for it ne'er was my way to carry my flag furled,
and Father _Slatter_, that was then priest at _Minster Lovel_, as I
know, had my name set of his list of persons suspect. Once come the
catchpoll to mine house,--I wis not on what business, for, poor man! he
tarried not to tell me when I come at him with the red-hot poker. I
never wist a man yet, would stand a red-hot poker with a woman behind it
that meant it for him. Master Catchpoll were wise enough to see that
the penny is well spent that saveth a groat, and he gave me leave to see
little more of him than his flying skirts and the nails of his boots--
and his hat, that he left behind of his hurry, the which I sent down to
my mistress his wife with mine hearty commendations, and hope he had
catched no cold. I reckon he preferred the risk of that to the surety
of catching a red-hot poker. But that giving me warning of what might
follow--as a taste of a dish whereof more should be anon laid on my
trencher--up-stairs went I, and made up my little bundle, and the next
night that ever was, away came I of an horse behind old _Dickon_, that
had been sewer ever since _Father_ and _Mother_ were wed, then
five-and-thirty years gone, and Father _Slatter_ might whistle for me,
as I reckon he did when he heard it. It were an hard journey and a
cold, for it were winter, but the snow was our true friend in covering
all tracks, and at long last came I safe hither, in the middle of the
night, and astonied _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_ more than a little by casting
of snowballs at their chamber window. At the last come the casement
undone, and _Aubrey's_ voice saith--
"Is there any in trouble?"
"Here is a poor maid, by name _Joyce Morrell_," said I, "that will be in
trouble ere long if thou leave her out in this snowstorm."
Good lack, but was there no ado when my voice were known! The hall fire
embers were stirren up, and fresh logs cast thereon, and in ten minutes
was I sat afore it of a great chair, with all the blankets in
_Cumberland_ around and over me, and a steaming hot posset-bowl of mine
hand.
It was a mile or so too far, I reckon, for Father _Slatter_ to trudge
after me, and if he had come, I'd have serven him of the poker, or twain
if need be. I guess he should have loved rather to flounder back
through the snow.
So, by the good hand of my God upon me, came I safe through the reign of
Queen _Mary_; and when Queen _Elizabeth_ came in (whom God long
preserve, unto the comfort of His Church and the welfare of _England_!)
had I not much ado to win back my lands and goods. Truth to tell, I gat
not all back, but what I lost was a cheap bargain where life lay in the
other scale. And enough is as good as a feast, any day.
So here lie I now at anchor, becalmed on the high seas. (If that emblem
hang not together, _Ned_ must amend it when he cometh unto it.) The day
is neither bright nor dark, but it is a day known to the Lord, and I
have faith to believe that at eventide it shall be light. I can trust
and wait.
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
MINSTER LOVEL MANOR HOUSE, AUGUST THE XXVIII, MDXCI [1591].
When I come, this morrow, to search for my Diurnal Book, the which for
aught I knew I had brought with me from home, what should I find but our
old Chronicle, which I must have catched up in mistake for the same?
And looking therein, I was enticed to read divers pages, and then I fell
a-thinking that as it had so happed, it might be well, seeing a space
was yet left, that I should set down for the childre, whose it shall
some day be, what had come to pass since. They were the pages Aunt
_Joyce_ writ that I read: and seeing that of them therein named, two
have reached Home already, and the rest of us be eleven years further on
the journey, it shall doubtless make the story more completer to add
these lines.
_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, be all yet alive; the Lord be
heartily thanked therefor! But _Father's_ hair is now of the hue of the
snow, though _Mother_ hath scantly any silver amongst the gold; and Aunt
_Joyce_ well-nigh matcheth _Father_. _Hal_ and _Anstace_ be as they
were, with more childre round them. _Robin_ and _Milisent_ dwell at
_Mere Lea_, with a goodly parcel belike; and _Helen_ (that Aunt _Joyce_
counted should be an old maid) is wife unto _Dudley Murthwaite_, and
dwelleth by _Skiddaw Force_. _Wat_ is at _Kendal_, grown a good man and
wise, more like to _Father_ than ever we dared hope: but his wife is not
_Gillian Armstrong_, nor any of the maids of this part, but _Frances
Radcliffe_, niece to my Lord _Dilston_ that was, and cousin unto
Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_. They have four boys and three
maids: but _Nell_ hath only one daughter, that is named _Lettice_ for
_Mother_.
And _Ned_ is not. We prayed the Lord to bring him safe from that last
voyage to _Virginia_ that ever Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ took; and He set
him safe enough, but in better keeping than ours. For from that voyage
came safe to _Falmouth_ all the ships save one, and that was the
Admiral's own. They had crossed the _Atlantic_ through an awful storm,
and the last seen of the Admiral was on the ix of _September_, Mdlxxxiii
[1583], by them in the _Hind_: and when they saw him he was sat of the
stern of his vessel, with his Bible open of his knees: and he was
plainly heard to say,--"Courage, my men! Heaven is as near by water as
by land." Then the mist closed again o'er the fleet, and they saw him
no more. On the xxii of _September_ the fleet reached _Falmouth_: but
when, and where, and how, Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ and our _Ned_ went
down, He knoweth unto whom the night is as clear as the day, and we
shall know when the sea giveth up her dead.
His young widow, our dear sister _Faith_, dwelleth with us at _Selwick_
Hall: and so doth their one child, little _Aubrey_, the darling of us
all. I cannot choose but think never were two such sweetings as
_Aubrey_ and his cousin _Lettice Murthwaite_.
I am _Edith Louvaine_ yet. I know now that I was counted fairest of the
sisters, and they looked for me to wed with confidence. I am not so
fair now, and I shall never wed. Had things turned out other than they
have, I will not say I might not have done it. There is no blame to
any--not even to myself. It was of God's ordering, and least of all
could I think to blame that. It is only--and I see no shame to tell
it--that the man who was my one love never loved me, and is happy in the
love of a better than I. Be it so: I am content. I had no
love-story,--only a memory that is known to none but me, though it will
never give mine heart leave to open his gates to any love again. Enough
of that. It is all the better for our dear _Father_ and _Mother_ that
they have one daughter left to them.
At the time we writ this Chronicle, when I were scarce seventeen years
of age, I mind I had a fantasy running through my brain that I was born
for greatness. Methinks it came in part of a certain eager restless
spirit that did long to be a-doing, and such little matters as do
commonly fall to women's lot seemed mean and worthless in mine eyes.
But in part (if I must needs confess my folly) I do believe it sprang of
a tale I had heard of _Mother_, touching Queen _Katherine_, the last
wife to King _Harry_ that was, of whom some _Egyptian_ [gypsy] had
prophesied, in her cradle, that she was born for a crown: and ever after
she heard the same, the child (as she then were) was used to scorn
common works, and when bidden to her task, was wont to say,--"My hands
were made to touch crowns and sceptres, not spindles and neelds,"
[needles]. Well, this tale (that _Mother_ told us for our diversion
when we were little maids--for she, being _Kendal_ born, did hear much
touching the Lady _Maud Parr_ and her childre, that dwelt in _Kendal_
Castle) this tale, I say, catched great hold of my fantasy. Mistress
_Kate Parr_ came to be a queen, according to her previsions of
greatness: and wherefore should not _Editha Louvaine_? Truly, there was
but little reason in the fantasy, seeing no _Egyptian_ had ever
prophesied of me (should that be of any account, which _Father_ will
ne'er allow), nor could the Queen's Majesty make me a queen by wedding
of me: but methinks pride and fantasy stick not much at logic. So I
clung in my silly heart to the thought that I was born to be great, and
was capable to do great things, would they but come in my way.
And now I have reached the age of seven and twenty, and they have not
come in my way, nor seem like to do. The only conquest I am like to
achieve is that over mine own spirit, which _Scripture_ reckoneth better
than taking of a city: and the sole entrance into majesty and glory that
ever I can look for, is to be presented faultless before the presence of
God with exceeding joy. Ah, _Editha Louvaine_! hast thou any cause for
being downcast at the exchange?
In good sooth, this notion of mine (that I can smile at now) showeth one
thing, to wit, the deal of note that childre be apt to take of little
matters that should seem nought to their elders. I can ne'er conceive
the light and careless fashion wherein some women go about to breed up a
child. To me the training of a human soul for the life immortal seems
the most terrible piece of responsibility in the whole world.
And now there is one story left that I must finish, and it is of the
other that hath got Home.
It was five years gone, and a short season after _Helen's_ marriage.
_Mother_ was something diseased, as I think, touching me, for she said I
was pale, and had lost mine appetite (and my sleep belike, though she
wist it not).
'Twas thought that the winters at home were somewhat too severe for mine
health, and 'twas settled that for the winter then coming, I should
tarry with Aunt _Joyce_. It was easy to compass the matter, for at that
time was _Wat_ of a journey to _London_ on his occasions, and he brought
me, early in _October_, as far as _Minster Lovel_. As for getting back,
that was left to see to when time should be convenient. _Father_ gave
me his blessing, and three nobles spending money, and bade me bring back
home a pair of rosier cheeks, saying he should not grudge to pay the
bill: and _Mother_ shed some tears o'er me, and packed up for me much
good gear of her own spinning and knitting, and all bade me farewell
right lovingly. I o'erheard Cousin _Bess_ say to _Mother_ that the sun
should scant seem to shine till I came back: the which dear _Mother_ did
heartily echo, saying she wist not at all what had come o'er me, but it
was her good hope that a southward winter should make me as an other
maid.
Well! I could have told her what she wist not, for I was then but new
come out of the discovering that what women commonly reckon the flower
of a woman's life was not for me, and that I must be content to crown
mine head with the common herb of the field. But I held my peace, and
none wist it but Aunt _Joyce_: for in her presence had I not been a day
when I found that her eyes had read me through. As we sat by the fire
at even, our two selves, quoth she all suddenly, without an other word
afore it--
"There be alway some dark valleys in a woman's life, _Edith_."
"I reckon so, _Aunt_," said I, essaying to speak lightly.
"Ay, and each one is apt to think she hath no company. But there be
always footsteps on the road afore us, child. Nearest of all be His
footsteps that knelt that dark night in _Gethsemane_, with no human
comforting in His agony. There hath never been any sorrow like to His
sorrow, though each one of us is given to suppose there is none like her
own. Poor little _Edith_! didst reckon thy face should be any riddle to
me--me, that have been on the road afore thee these forty years?"
I could not help it. That gentle touch unlocked the sealed fountain,
and I knelt down by Aunt _Joyce_, and threw mine arms around her, and
poured out mine heart like water, with mine head upon her knees. She
held me to her with one arm, but not a word said she till my tears were
stayed, and I could lift mine head again.
"That will do thee good, child," saith she. "'Tis what thy body and
mind alike were needing. (And truly, mine heart, as methought, hath
never felt quite so sore and bound from that day.) I know all about it,
_Edith_. I saw it these two years gone, when I was with you at
_Selwick_. And I began to fear, even then, that there was a dark valley
on the road afore thee, though not so dark as mine. Ah, dear heart, it
is sore matter to find thy shrine deserted of the idol: yet not half so
sore as to see the idol lie broken at thy feet, and to know
thenceforward that it was nought but a lump of common clay. No god--
only a lump of clay, that thy foolish heart had thought to be one!
Well! all that lieth behind, and the sooner thou canst turn away and go
on thy journey, the better. But for what lieth afore, _Edith_, look
onward and look upward. Heaven will be the brighter because earth was
darker than thou hadst looked for. _Christ_ will be the dearer Friend,
because the dearest human friend hath failed thine hope. It is not the
traveller that hath been borne through flowers and sunshine on the soft
cushions of a litter, that is the gladdest to see the lights of home."
"It is nobody's fault," I could not help whispering.
"I know, dear heart!" she saith. "Thine idol is not broken. Thank God
for it. Thou mayest think of him yet as a true man, able to hold up his
head in the sunlight, with no cause to be 'shamed of the love which
stole into thine heart ere thou hadst wist it. Alas for them to whom
the fairest thought which even hope can compass, is the thought of the
prodigal in the far country, weary at long last of the husks which the
swine do eat, and turning with yearning in his eyes toward the hills
which lie betwixt him and the Father. O _Edith_, thank God that He hath
spared thee such a sorrow as that!"
It was about six weeks after that even, when one wet morrow, as I was
aiding Aunt _Joyce_ to turn the apples in her store-chamber, and gather
into a basket such as lacked use, that _Barbara_, the cook-maid, come in
with her hands o'er flour, to say--
"Mistress, here at the base door is a poor blind man, begging for broken
victuals. Would you have me give him that beef-bone you set aside for
broth?"
"A blind man?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Then shall he not go empty. I am
coming down, _Bab_, and will look to him myself. Bring him out of the
rain to the kitchen fire, and if he have a dog that leadeth him, find
the poor animal some scraps.--Now, _Edith_, bring thy basket, and I will
take mine."
"He hath no dog, Mistress," saith _Bab_; "'twas a lad that brought him."
"Then the lad may have an apple," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "which the dog
should scantly shake his tail for. Go and bring them in, _Bab_; I shall
be after thee presently."
So down came we into the kitchen, where was sat the blind man and the
lad. We set down our baskets, and I gave the lad an apple at a sign
from Aunt _Joyce_, which went toward the blind man and 'gan ask him if
he were of those parts.
He was a comely man of (I would judge) betwixt sixty and seventy years,
and had a long white beard. He essayed to rise when Aunt _Joyce_ spake.
"Nay, sit still, friend," saith she: "I dare reckon thou art aweary."
"Ay," saith he in a sad tone: "weary of life and all things that be in
it."
"Ay so?" quoth she. "And how, then, of thine hope for the life beyond,
where they never rest, yet are never weary?"
"Mistress," saith he, "the sinner that hath been pardoned a debt of ten
thousand talents may have peace, but can scarce dare rise to hope."
"I am alway fain when a man reckoneth his debt heavy," saith Aunt
_Joyce_. "We be mostly so earnest to persuade ourselves that we owe no
farthing beyond an hundred pence."
"I could never persuade myself of that," saith he, shaking his white
head. "I have plunged too deep in the mire to have any chance to doubt
the conditions of my clothing."
It struck me that his manner of speech was something beyond a common
beggar, and I could not but marvel if he had seen better days.
"And what askest, friend?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, winch turned away from
him and busied herself with casting small twigs on the fire.
"A few waste victuals, if it like you, Mistress. They will be better
than I deserve."
"And if it like me not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, suddenly, turning back to
him, and methought there was a little trembling in her voice.
"Then," saith he, "I will trouble you no further."
"Then," saith she, to mine amaze, "I tell thee plainly I will not give
them to such a sinner as thou hast been, by thine own confession."
"Be it so," he saith quietly, bowing his white head. "I cry you mercy
for having troubled you, and I wish you a good morrow."
"That shalt thou never," came from Aunt _Joyce_, in a voice which was
not hers. "Didst thou count _I_ was blind? _Leonard_, _Leonard_!"
And she clasped his hands in hers, and drew him back to the fireside.
"`Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and bring hither the
fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry. For this my love
was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.' My God, I
thank Thee!"
And then, out of the white hair and the blind blue eyes, slowly came
back to me the face of that handsome gentleman which had so near
beguiled our _Milisent_ to her undoing, and had wrought such ill in
_Derwentdale_.
"_Joyce_!" he saith, in a greatly agitated voice. "I would never have
come hither, had I reckoned thou shouldst wit me."
"Thou wert out of thy reckoning, then," she answereth. "I tell thee, as
I told _Dulcie_ years agone, that were I low laid in my grave, I should
hear thy step upon the mould above me."
"I came," he saith, "but to hear thy voice once afore I die. Look upon
thy face can I never more. But I thought to hear the voice of the only
woman which ever loved me in very truth, and unto whom my wrong-doing is
the heaviest sin in all my black calendar."
"Pardoned sin should not be heavy," saith she.
"Nay," quoth Mr _Norris_, "but it is the heaviest of all."
"Come in, _Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.
"Nay, my merciful _Joyce_, let me not trouble thee," saith he, "for if
thou canst not see it in my face, I know in mine heart that I am struck
for death."
"I have seen it," she made answer. "And thou shalt spend thy last days
no whither but in the Manor House at _Minster Lovel_, nor with any other
nurse nor sister than _Joyce Morrell_. _Leonard_, for forty years I
have prayed for this day. Dash not the cup from my lips ere I have well
tasted its sweetness."
I caught a low murmur from Mr _Norris'_ lips, "Passing the love of
women!" Then he held out his hand, and Aunt _Joyce_ drew it upon her
arm and led him into her privy parlour.
I left them alone till she called me. To that interview there should be
no third save God.
Nor was it much that I heard at after. Some dread accident had happed
him, at after which his sight had departed, and his hair had gone white
in a few weeks. He had counted himself so changed that none should know
him. I doubt if he should not have been hid safe enough from any eyes
save hers.
He lived about three months thereafter. Never in all my life saw I man
that spake of his past life with more loathing and contrition. Even in
death, raptures of thanksgiving had he none. He could not, as it
seemed, rise above an humble trust that God would be as good as His
word, and that for _Christ's_ sake he that had confessed his sins and
forsaken them should find mercy.
He alway said that it was one word of Aunt _Joyce_ that had given him
even so much hope. She had said to him, that day in the copse, after
she had sent away _Milisent_ and me,--"I shall never give thee up,
_Leonard_. I shall never cease praying for thee, till I know thou art
beyond all prayer."
"It was those prayers, _Joyce_, that brought me back," he said. "After
mine accident, I had been borne into a cot by the way-side, where as I
lay abed in the back chamber, I could not but hear the goodman every day
read the _Scriptures_ to his household. Those _Scriptures_ seethed in
mine heart, and thy prayers were alway with me. It was as though they
fitted one into the other. I thought thou hadst prayed me into that
cot, for I might have been carried into some godless house where no such
thing should have chanced me. But ever and anon, mixed with God's Word,
I heard thy words, and thy voice seemed as if it called to me,--`Come
back! come back!' I thought, if there were so much love and mercy in
thee, there must be some left in God."
The night that Mr _Norris_ was buried in the churchyard of _Minster
Lovel_, as we sat again our two selves by the fireside, Aunt _Joyce_
saith to me, or may-be to herself--
"I should think I may go now."
"Whither, _Aunt_?" said I.
"Home, _Edith_," she made answer. "Home--to _Leonard_ and _Anstace_,
and to _Christ_. The work that was set me is done. `_Nunc dimittis,
Domine_!'"
"Dear Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "I want you for ever so long yet."
"If thou verily do, _Edith_," saith she, "I shall have to tarry. And
surely, she that hath borne forty years' travel in the darkness, can
stand a few days' more journeying in the light. I know that when the
right time cometh, my Father will not forget me. The children may by
times feel eager to reach home, but the Father's heart longeth the most
to have them all safe under His shelter."
And very gravely she added--"`They that were ready went in with Him to
the wedding: and the gate was shut up.'"