Chapter 1

THE DWELLERS AT SELWICK HALL.

"He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the climbing."--Tupper.

SELWICK HALL, LAKE DERWENTWATER, OCTOBER YE FIRST, MDLXXIX. It came about, as I have oft noted things to do, after a metely deal of talk, yet right suddenly in the end.

Aunt _Joyce_, _Milly_, _Edith_, and I, were in the long gallery. We had been talking a while touching olden times (whereof Aunt _Joyce_ is a rare hand at telling of stories), and _Mother's_ chronicle she was wont to keep, and hath shown us, and such like matter. When all at once quoth _Edith_--

"Why should not _we_ keep a chronicle?"

"Ay, why not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, busied with her sewing.

_Milly_ fell a-laughing.

"Dear heart, _Edith_, and what should we put in a chronicle?" saith she. "`_Monday_, the cat washed her face. _Tuesday_, it rained. _Wednesday_, _Nell_ made a tansy pudding. _Thursday_, I lost my temper. _Friday_, I found it again. _Saturday_, _Edith_ looked in the mirror, and Aunt _Joyce_ made an end of a piece of sewing.' Good lack, it shall be a rare jolly book!"

"Nay, I would never set down such stuff as that," answered _Edith_.

"Why, what else is there?" saith _Milly_. "We have dwelt hither ever since we were born, saving when we go to visit Aunt _Joyce_, and one day is the very cut of an other. Saving when Master _Stuyvesant_ came hither, nought never happened in this house since I was born."

"Would'st love better a life wherein matters should happen, _Milly_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking up at her, with a manner of face that I knew. It was a little mirthful, yet sorrowful withal.

"Ay, I would so!" quoth she.

"Child," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, "`happy is the man that hath no history.'"

"But things do happen, _Milly_," saith _Edith_. "Thou hast forgot _Anstace_ her wedding."

"_That_ something happening!" pouts _Milly_. "Stupid humdrum business! Do but think, to wed a man that dwelleth the next door, which thou hast known all thy life! Why, I would as lief not be wed at all, very nigh."

"It seemed to suit _Anstace_," puts in _Edith_.

"Aught should do that."

"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, something drily, "`godliness is great riches, if a man be content with that he hath.'" [Note 1.]

"Easy enough, trow, when you have plenty," quoth _Milly_.

"Nay, it is hardest then," saith she. "`Much would have more.'"

"What wist Aunt _Joyce_ thereabout?" murmurs _Milly_, so that I could just hear. "She never lacked nought she wanted."

"Getting oldish, _Milly_, but not going deaf, thank God," saith Aunt _Joyce_, of her dry fashion. "Nay, child, thou art out there. Time was when I desired one thing, far beyond all other things in this world, and did not get it."

"Never, _Aunt_?"

"Never, _Milly_." And a somewhat pained look came into her face, that is wont to seem so calm.

"What was it, Aunt _Joyce_, sweet heart?"

"Well, I took it for fine gold, and it turned out to be pinchbeck," saith she. "There's a deal of that sort of stuff in this world."

Methought _Milly_ feared to ask further, and all was still till _Edith_ saith--

"Would you avise us, Aunt _Joyce_, to keep a chronicle, even though things did not happen?"

"Things will happen, trust me," she made answer. "Ay, dear maids, methinks it should be profitable for you."

"Now, Aunt _Joyce_, I would you had not said that!"

"Why, _Milly_?"

"By reason that things which be profitable be alway dry and gloomsome."

"Not alway, _Lettice Eden's_ daughter."

I could not help but smile when Aunt _Joyce_ said this. For indeed, _Mother_ hath oft told us how, when she was a young maid like _Milly_, she did sorely hate all gloom and sorrowfulness, nor could not abide for to think thereon. And _Milly_ is much of that turn.

"Then which of us shall keep the grand chronicle?" saith _Edith_, when we had made an end of laughing.

"Why not all of you?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Let each keep it a month a-piece, turn about."

"And you, Aunt _Joyce_?"

"Nay, I will keep no chronicles. I would not mind an' I writ my thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished."

"But who shall read it?" said I.

"There spake _Nell_!" quoth _Milly_. "`Who shall read it?' Why, all the world, for sure, from the Queen's Majesty down to Cat and Kitling."

These be our two serving-maids, _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, which _Milly_ doth affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling. And truly the names come pat, the rather that _Kate_ is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she being _Westmoreland_ born; while _Caitlin_, which is _Cumberland_ born, is little and wiry, and of dark complexion. "The Queen's Majesty shall have other fish to fry, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And so shall _Kate_ and _Caitlin_,--if they could read."

"But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?" saith _Edith_. "Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what to set down first."

"Let _Nell_ begin, then, as she is eldest of the three," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.

So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle. For when _Father_ and _Mother_ heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and afterward grew sad. Then saith _Mother_--

"Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you,--at the least, an' ye keep it truly. Let each set down what verily she doth think."

"And not what she reckons she ought to think," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Then, _Father_, will it please you give us some pens and paper?" said I. "For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle."

"That speech is right, _Nell_!" puts in _Milly_.

"Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the _Nile_, in _Egypt_," saith _Father_, "reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old _Romans_, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for _English_ maidens dwelling by Lake _Derwentwater_, I count paper and pens shall be wanted--and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied, _Nell_!"

And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat a-sewing, what should _Father_ set down afore me, in the stead of the sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,--and an whole bundle of pens, with a great inkhorn. _Milly_ fell a-laughing.

"Oh dear, dear!" saith she. "Be we three to write up all those? Verily, _Father_, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen a good half of this chronicle yourself."

"Nay, not so much as one line," saith he, "saving those few I have writ already on the first leaf. Let _Nell_ read them aloud."

So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them, cannot I put in what was said.

"_Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall_.--_Imprimis, to be writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha Louvaine_."

_Milly_ was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from laughing right out.

"_Item, the said Helen to begin the said book_.

"_Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor_."

"Oh, good lack!" from _Milly_.

"I care not, so _Father_ give us the pennies," from _Edith_.

"I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour," saith _Father_ in his dry way. "I to pay the pennies, and _Edith_ to make the blots. Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand."

"Then both of yours, _Father_," saith _Milly_, saucily.

"_Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the poor_."

"Lack-a-daisy!" cries _Milly_; "I shall be ruined!"

"Truth for once," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.

"I am sorry to hear it, my maid," saith _Father_.

"_Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor_."

"_Father_," quoth _Milly_, "by how much mean you to increase mine income while this book is a-writing?"

_Father_ smiled, but made no further answer.

"_Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ, two pence to the poor_."

"That is it which shall work my ruin," saith _Edith_, a-laughing.

"Therein art thou convict of laziness," quoth _Father_.

"_Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall forfeit each time one penny to the poor_."

"That will bring both _Edith_ and me to beggary," quoth _Milly_, "Only _Nell_ shall come off scot-free. _Father_, have you writ nought that will catch her?"

"_Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and Anstace Banaster_."

"And none else? Alack the day!" saith _Milly_.

"I said not whom else," quoth _Father_. "Be that as it like you."

But I know well what should like me,--and that were, not so much as one pair of eyes beyond. _Milly_, I dare reckon--but if I go on it shall cost me two pence, so I will forbear.

"Well!" saith _Edith_, "one thing will I say, your leave granted, _Father_: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be done. I would lief be at my wisest on the last page."

"Dear heart! I look to be wise on no page," cries _Milly_.

"Nay," said I, "I would trust to be wise on all."

"There spake our _Nell_!" cries _Milly_. "I could swear it were she, though mine eyes were shut close."

"This book doth somewhat divert me, _Joyce_," quoth _Father_, looking at her. "Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page, and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be pleasant reading."

"And I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "they shall be reasonable true to themselves an' it be thus."

"And I," saith _Milly_, "that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any."

"_Ergo_," quoth _Father_, "wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is, _Milly_,--to unwise folks."

"Then, _Father_, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you," saith she, a-laughing.

_Father_ arose, and laid his hand upon _Milly's_ head as he passed by her.

"The wise can love the unwise, my maid," saith he. "How could the only wise God love any one of us else?"

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II. _Milly_ saith, and _Edith_ likewise, that I must needs set down somewhat touching all us,--who we be, and how many, and our names, and such like. Truly, it seemeth me somewhat lost labour, if none but ourselves are to read the same. But as _Milly_ will have it the Queen's Majesty and all her Council shall be highly diverted thereby (though little, as methinks, they should care to know of us), I reckon, to please these my sisters, I must needs do their bidding.

We therefore, that dwell in _Selwick_ Hall, be Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_, the owner thereof (that is _Father_), and Dame _Lettice_ his wife, and us their daughters, _Helen, Milisent_, and _Editha_. Moreover, there is Aunt _Joyce Morrell_, that dwelleth in _Oxfordshire_, at _Minster Lovel_, but doth once every five year tarry six months with us, and we with her the like: so that we see each the other once in every two or three years. 'Tis but a week Aunt _Joyce_ hath been hither, so all the six months be to run. And here I should note she is not truly our aunt, but _Father's_ cousin, her mother being sister unto his mother: but _Father_ had never no brother nor sister, and was bred up along, with these his cousins, Aunt _Joyce_ and Aunt _Anstace_, after whom mine eldest sister hath her name: but Aunt _Anstace_ hath been dead these many years, afore any of us were born. I would I had known her; for to hear them talk of her,--_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,--I could well-nigh think her an angel in human flesh. Now, wherefore is it, for I have oft-times marvelled, that we speak more tenderly and reverently of folk that be dead, than of the living? Were I to die a young maid, should _Milly_ (that loves to mock me now) tell her children henceforward of their Aunt _Helen_, as though she had been somewhat better than other women? May-be. If we could only use folks we love, while they do live, with the like loving reverence as we shall do after they be dead, if we overlive them! Wherefore do we not so? We do seem for to forget then all that we loved not in them. Could we not essay to do the same a little sooner?

And when _Milly_ cometh hither in her reading, as sure as her name is _Milisent_, shall she say,--"Now, Mistress _Nell_, there you go, a-riding your high horse of philosophy! Prithee, keep to common earth."

Beside those I have named, in the house dwelleth Mynheer _Floris Stuyvesant_, a _Dutch_ gentleman that did flee from his country when the persecution was in _Holland_, eleven years gone: and _Father_, which had a little known him aforetime when he made the grand tour, did most gladly welcome him hither, and made him (of his own desire) governor to _Ned_ and _Wat_, our brothers. These our brothers dwell not now at home, for _Wat_ is squire unto my very good Lord of _Oxenford_, that is _Father's_ kinsman: and _Ned_ is at sea with Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_. We therefore see them but rarely. Then, beyond, there is likewise in the house Mistress _Elizabeth Wolvercot_, that is a cousin of _Mother_, whom all we do alway call Cousin _Bess_; she dwelleth with us at all times. Also be _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, of whom I have aforetime spoken: and old _Matthias_, our serving-man; and the boy, _Adam_ o' Bill's o' old Mall's.

And here I should note that once were two of us more, _Aubrey_ and _Julian_: of whom _Aubrey_ died a babe, three years afore I was born, and _Julian_ a little maid of eleven years, between _Milly's_ birth and _Edith's_. I mind her well, for she was two years elder than I, so that I was nine years old when she departed; but _Milly_, that was only three, cannot remember her.

Our eldest of all, _Anstace_, is wife unto Master _Henry Banaster_, and dwelleth (as _Milly_ saith) next door, he having the estate joining _Father's_ own. She hath two children, _Aubrey_, that is of seven years, and _Cicely_, that is four; beside her eldest, _Lettice_, which did decease in the cradle.

I reckon I have told all now, without I name the cows, which be _Daisy_, and _Molly_, and _Buttercup_, and _Rose_, and _Ladybird_, and _June_; and the great house-dog, which is _Clover_; and the cat, which is a _Spanish_ cat [a tortoise-shell cat, then a rarity], her name _Hermosa_ (the which _Ned_ gave her, saying a _Spanish_ cat should have a _Spanish_ name, and _Hermosa_ signifieth beautiful in that tongue), but _Caitlin_ will make it _Moses_, and methinks she is called _Moses_ more than aught else. She hath two kits, that be parti-coloured like herself, their names (given of _Milly) Dan_ and _Nan_.

And now I feel well-nigh sure I have said all.

Nay, and forgat the horses! _Milly_ will laugh at me, for she dearly loveth an horse. We have six riding-horses, with two baggage-horses, but only four of them have names,--to wit, _Father's_, that is _Favelle_, because he is favel-colour [chestnut]; and _Mother's, Garnet_; and mine, _Cowslip_; and the last, that _Milly_ or _Edith_ doth commonly ride when we journey, is called _Starlight_.

And now I have verily told every thing.

(_At this point the handwriting of the chronicle changes_.)

'Tis not yet my turn to write, but needs must, or it shall cause me to split in twain with laughter. Here is our _Nell_, reckoning three times o'er that she hath told all, and finding somewhat fresh every time, and with all her telling, hath set down never a note of what we be like, nor so much as the colour of one of our eyes. So, having gat hold of her chronicle, I shall do it for her. I dare reckon she was feared it should cost her two pence each one. But nothing venture, nothing have; and _Mother_ laid down that we should write our true thoughts. So what I think shall I write; and how to make _Father's_ two pence rhyme with _Mother's_ avisement, I leave to Mistress _Nell_ and her philosophy.

_Father_ is a gentleman of metely good height, and well-presenced, but something heavy built: of a dark brown hair, a broad white brow, and dark grey eyes that be rare sweet and lovesome. Of old time was he squire of the body unto my right noble Lord of _Surrey_, that was execute in old King _Henry's_ days. Moreover, he is of far kin (yet not so far, neither) unto my most worthy Lord of _Oxenford_. Now, sithence I am to write my thoughts, I must say that I would _Father_ had a better nose. I cannot speak very truth and set down that I did ever admire _Father's_ nose. But he hath good white teeth, and a right pleasant smile, the which go far to make amends for his nose.

_Mother_ was right fair when she was a young maid, and is none so ill now. She is graceful of carriage, very fair of complexion, and hath the sweetest, shining golden hair was ever seen. Her eyes be pale grey [blue], right like the sky.

Of us three maids, _Edith_ is best-favoured, and all that see her do say she is right the very picture of _Mother_, when she was young. Next her am I; for though I say it, I am a deal fairer than either _Anstace_ or _Nell_, both which favour [resemble] _Father_, though _Nell_ is the liker, by reason she hath his mind as well as his face. Now, _Nell_ is all ways slower than _Edith_ and me, and nothing like so well-favoured.

But for beauty, the least I did ever see in any man is in Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, which hath a flat nose and a stoop in the shoulders, and is high and thin as a scarecrow. Cousin _Bess_ is metely well,--she is rosy and throddy [plump]. For Aunt _Joyce_, I do stand in some fear of her sharp speeches, and will say nought of her, saving that (which she can not deny) she hath rosy cheeks and dark brown hair (yet not so dark as _Father's_), and was, I guess, a comely young maid when she were none elder than we. As for _Ned_ and _Wat, Ned_ is the better-favoured, he having _Mother's_ nose and the rest of him _Father_; but _Wat_ (which favoureth _Mother_ of his colouring, yet is not so comely) a deal the courtlier.

Now when they shall all come to read this same, trow, shall they know their own portraits? or shall they every one cry out, "This is not me!"

So now I leave the rest to Mistress _Helen_, till it shall come to me next month, when I will say what I think yet again.

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE V. (_In Helen's handwriting_.)

Dear heart, but what hath _Milly_ been a-doing! I could not think last night where was my book, but I was rare sleepy, and let it a-be. And here this morrow do I find a good two pages all scribbled o'er of _Milly's_ writing. Well! 'tis not my fault, so I trust shall not be my blame.

And it is true, as _Milly_ saith, that she is better-favoured than I. As for _Anstace_, I wis not, only I know and am well assured, that I am least comely of the four. But she should never have writ what she did touching _Father's_ nose, and if it cost me two pence, that must I say. I do love every bit of _Father_, right down to the tip of his nose, and I never thought if it were well-favoured or no. 'Tis _Father_, and that is all for me. And so should it be for _Milly_,--though it be two pence more to say so.

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE VI. We had been sat at our sewing a good hour this morrow,--that is, _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, and we three maids,--when all at once _Milly_ casts hers down with a sigh fetched from ever so far.

"Weary of sewing, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_ with a smile.

"Ay--no--not right that, _Mother_," quoth she. "But here have I been this hour gone, a-wishing I had been a man, till it seemed me as if I could not abide for to be a woman no longer."

"The general end of impossible wishes," saith _Mother_, laughing a little.

"Well!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, a-biting off her thread, "in all my wishing never yet wished I that."

"Wherefore is it, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_.

"Oh, a man has more of his own way than a woman," _Milly_ makes answer. "And he can make some noise in the world. He is not tied down to stupid humdrum matters, such like as sewing, and cooking, and distilling, and picking of flowers, with a song or twain by now and then to cheer you. A man can preach and fight and write books and make folk listen."

"I misdoubt if thou art right, _Milly_, to say that a man hath the more of his own way always," saith _Mother_. "Methinks there be many women get much of that."

"Then a man is not tied down to one corner. He can go and see the world," saith _Milly_.

"In short," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "the moral of thy words, Milly, is--`Untie me.'"

"I wish I were so!" mutters _Milly_.

"And what should happen next?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Why, I reckon I could not do much without money," answereth _Milly_.

"Oh, grant all that," quoth Aunt _Joyce_,--"money, and leave, and all needed, and Mistress _Milisent_ setting forth to do according to her will. What then?"

"Well, I would first go up to _London_," saith she, "and cut some figure in the Court."

Aunt _Joyce_ gave a dry little laugh.

"There be figures of more shapes than one, _Milly_," saith she. "Howbeit--what next?"

"Why, then, methinks, I would go to the wars."

"And bring back as many heads, arms, and legs, as thou tookest thither?"

"Oh, for sure," saith _Milly_. "I would not be killed."

"Just. Very well,--Mistress _Milisent_ back from the wars, and covered with glory. And then?"

"Well--methinks I would love to be a judge for a bit."

"Dry work," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And then a bishop?"

"Ay, if you will."

"And then?"

"Why, I might as well be a king, while I went about it."

"Quite as well. I am astonished thou hast come thither no sooner. And then?"

"Well,--I know not what then. You drive one on, Aunt _Joyce_. Methinks, then, I would come home and see you all, and recount mine aventures."

"Oh, mightily obliged to your Highness!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I had thought, when your Majesty were thus up at top of the tree, you should forget utterly so mean a place as _Selwick_ Hall, and the contemptible things that inhabit there. And then?"

"Come, I will make an end," saith _Milly_, laughing. "I reckon I should be a bit wearied by then, and fain to bide at home and take mine ease."

"And pray, what hindereth that your Grace should do that now?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking up with a comical face.

"Well, but I am not aweary, and have no aventures to tell," _Milly_ makes answer.

"Go into the garden and jump five hundred times, _Milly_, and I will warrant thee to be aweary and thankful for rest. And as to aventures,-- eh, my maid, my maid!" And Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_ smiled one upon the other.

"Now, _Mother_ and _Aunt_, may I say what I think?" cries Milly.

"Prithee, so do, my maid."

"Then, why do you folks that be no longer young, ever damp and chill young folks that would fain see the world and have some jollity?"

"By reason, _Milly_, that we have been through the world, and we know it to be a damp place and a cold."

"But all folks do not find it so?"

"God have mercy on them that do not!"

"Now, _Aunt_, what mean you?"

"Dear heart, the brighter the colour of the poisoned sweetmeat, the more like is the babe to put in his mouth."

"Your parable is above me, Aunt _Joyce_."

"_Milly_, a maiden must give her heart to something. The Lord's word unto us all is, Give Me thine heart. But most of us will try every thing else first. And every thing else doth chill and disappoint us. Yet thou never sawest man nor Woman that had given the heart to God, which could ever say with truth that disappointment had come of it."

"I reckon they should be unready to confess the same," saith she.

"They be ready enough to confess it of other things," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "But few folks will learn by the blunders of any but their own selves. I would thou didst."

"By whose blunders would you have me learn, _Aunt_?" saith _Milly_ in her saucy fashion that is yet so bright and coaxing that she rarely gets flitten [scolded] for the same.

"By those of whomsoever thou seest to blunder," quoth she.

"That must needs be thee, _Edith_," saith _Milly_ in a demure voice. "For it standeth with reason, as thou very well wist, that I shall never see mine elders to make no blunders of no sort whatever."

"Thou art a saucy baggage, _Milly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "That shall cost thee six pence an' it go down in the chronicle."

"Oh, 'tis not yet my turn for to write, _Aunt_. And I am well assured _Nell_ shall pay no sixpences."

"Fewer than thou, I dare guess," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Who has been to visit old _Jack Benn_ this week?"

"Not I, _Aunt_," quoth _Edith_, somewhat wearily, as if she feared Aunt _Joyce_ should bid her go.

"Oh, I'll go and see him!" cries _Milly_. "There is nought one half so diverting in all the vale as old _Jack_. _Aunt_, be all _Brownists_ as queer as he?"

"Nay, I reckon _Jack_ hath some queer notions of his own, apart from his _Brownery_," quoth she. "But, _Milly_,--be diverted as much as thou wilt, but let not the old man see that thou art a-laughing at him."

"All right, _Aunt_!" saith _Milly_, cheerily. "Come, _Nell_. _Edith_ shall bide at home, that can I see."

So _Milly_ and I set forth to visit old _Jack_, and _Mother_ gave us a bottle of cordial water, and a little basket of fresh eggs, for to take withal.

He dwells all alone, doth old _Jack_, in a mud cot part-way up the mountain, that he did build himself, ere the aches in his bones 'gan trouble him, that he might scantly work. He is one of those queer folk that call themselves _Brownists_, and would fain have some better religion than they may find at church. _Jack_ is nigh alway reading of his Bible, but never no man could so much as guess the strange meanings he brings forth of the words. I reckon, as Aunt _Joyce_ saith, there is more _Jack_ than _Brownist_ in them.

We found _Jack_ sitting in the porch, his great Bible on his knees. He looked up when he heard our voices.

"Get out!" saith he. "I never want no women folk."

'Tis not oft we have fairer greeting of _Jack_.

"Nay, truly, _Jack_," saith _Milly_ right demurely. "They be a rare bad handful,--nigh as ill as men folk. What thou lackest is eggs and cordial water, the which women can carry as well as jackasses."

She held forth her basket as she spake.

"Humph!" grunts old _Jack_. "I'd liever have the jackasses."

"I am assured thou wouldst," quoth _Milly_. "Each loveth best his own kind."

Old _Jack_ was fingering of the eggs.

"They be all hens' eggs!"

"So they be," saith _Milly_. "I dare guess, thou shouldst have loved goose eggs better."

"Ducks'," answereth old _Jack_.

"The ducks be gone a-swimming," saith she.

I now drew forth my bottle of cordial water, the which the old man took off me with never a thank you, and after smelling thereto, set of the ground at his side.

"What art reading, _Jack_?" saith _Milly_.

"What _Paul's_ got to say again' th' law," quoth he. "'Tis a rare ill thing th' law, Mistress _Milisent_. And so be magistrates, and catchpolls [constables] and all the lawyer folk. Rascals, Mistress _Milisent_,--all rascals, every man Jack of 'em. Do but read _Paul_, and you shall see so much."

"Saith the Apostle so?" quoth _Milly_, and gave me a look which nigh o'erset me.

"He saith `the law is not given unto a righteous man,' so how can they be aught but ill folk that be alway a-poking in it? Tell me that, Mistress. If `birds of a feather will flock together,' then a chap that's shaking hands every day wi' th' law mun be an ill un, and no mistake."

"Go to, _Jack_: it signifies not that," _Milly_ makes answer. "Saint _Paul_ meant that the law of God was given for the sake of ill men, not good men. The laws of _England_ be other matter."

"Get out wi' ye!" saith _Jack_. "Do ye think I wis not what _Paul_ means as well as a woman? It says th' law, and it means th' law. And if he'd signified as you say, he'd have said as th' law wasn't given again' a righteous man, not to him. You gi'e o'er comin' a-rumpagin' like yon."

For me, I scarce knew which way to look, to let me from laughing. But _Milly_ goes on, sad as any judge.

"Well, but if lawyers be thus bad, _Jack_--though my sister's husband is a lawyer, mind thou--"

"He's a rascal, then!" breaks in _Jack_. "They're all rascals, every wastrel [an unprincipled, good-for-nothing fellow] of 'em."

"But what fashion of folk be better?" saith _Milly_. "Thou seest, _Jack_, we maids be nigh old enough for wedding, and I would fain know the manner of man a woman were best to wed."

"Best let 'em all a-be," growls _Jack_. "Women's always snarin' o' men. Women's bad uns. Howbeit, you lasses down at th' Hall are th' better end, I reckon."

"Oh, thank you, _Jack_!" cries _Milly_ with much warmth. "Now do tell me--shall I wed with a chirurgeon?"

"And take p'ison when he's had enough of you," quoth _Jack_. "Nay, never go in for one o' them chaps. They kills folks all th' day, and lies a-thinkin' how to do it all th' night."

"A soldier, then?" saith _Milly_.

"Hired murderers," saith _Jack_.

"Come, _Jack_, thou art hard on a poor maid. Thou wilt leave me ne'er a one. Oh, ay, there is the parson."

"What!" shrieks forth _Jack_. "One o' they _Babylonian_ mass-mongers? Hypocrites, wolves in sheep's clothing a-pretending for to be shepherds! Old _'Zekiel_, he's summut to say touching them. You get home, and just read his thirty-fourth chapter; and wed one o' them wastrels at after, if ye can! Now then, get ye forth; I've had enough o' women. I telled ye so."

"Fare thee well, _Jack_," quoth _Milly_ in mocking tribulation. "I see how it is,--I shall be forced to wed a lead-miner."

I was verily thankful that _Milly_ did come away, for I could bear no longer. We ran fast down the steep track, and once at the bottom, we laughed till the tears ran down. When we were something composed, said I--

"Shall we look in on old _Isaac Crewdson_?"

"Gramercy, not this morrow," quoth _Milly_. "_Jack's_ enough for one day. Old _Isaac_ alway gives me the horrors. I cannot do with him atop of _Jack_."

So we came home. But if _Milly_ love it not, then will I go by myself to see old _Isaac_, for he liketh me well.

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE IX. Aunt _Joyce_ went with me yesterday to see _Isaac_. We found him of the chimney-corner, whence he seldom stirreth, being now infirm. Old _Mary_ had but then made an end of her washing, and she was a-folding the clean raiment to put by. I ran into the garden and gathered sprigs of rosemary, whereof they have a fine thriving bush.

"Do tell me, _Mall_," said I, "how thou orderest matters, for to have thy rosemary thrive thus? Our bush is right stunted to compare withal."

"I never did nought to it," quoth old _Mall_, somewhat crustily. She is _Jack Benn's_ sister, and truly they be something like.

"Eh, Mistress _Nell_, dunna ye know?" saith _Isaac_, laughing feebly. "Th' rosemary always thrives well where th' missis is th' master. Did ye never hear yon saying?"

"Shut up wi' thy foolish saws!" saith _Mall_, a-turning round on him. "He's a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress _Nell_, and he's for ever and the day after a-thrustin' of 'em in. There's no wit i' such work."

"Eh, but there's a deal o' wit in some o' they old saws!" _Isaac_ makes answer, of his slow fashion. "Look ye now,--`_Brag's_ a good dog, but _Holdfast's_ better'--there's a true sayin' for ye. Then again look ye,--`He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o'er night.' And `A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.' Eh, but that's true!" And old _Isaac_ laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet again.

"There be some men like to make groaning wives," quoth _Mall_, crustily. "They sit i' th' chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne'er a hand to the work."

"That is not thy case, _Mall_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, cheerily. "So long as he were able, I am well assured _Isaac_ took his share of the work. And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good sharp lass that should save your old bones? I know one that should come but for her meat,--a good stirring maid that should not let the grass grow under her feet. What sayest, _Mall_?"

"What, me?" saith _Mall_. "Eh, you'd best ask th' master. I am none th' master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should ne'er earn the salt to her porridge; but I'm of no signification in this house, as I well wis. You'd best ask o' them as is."

"Why, then, we mun gi'e th' porridge in," quoth _Isaac_. "Come, _Mall_, thou know'st better, lass."

But old _Mary_, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.

"What hath put her out, _Isaac_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_.

"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, there's no telling!" saith he. "'Tis not so much as puts her in. She's easy put out, is _Mall_: and 'tis no good on earth essaying to pull her in again. You'd best let her be. She'll come in of hersen, when she's weary of threapin'." [Grumbling, fault-finding.]

"I reckon thou art weary first, most times," saith _Aunt_.

"Well! I've ay kept a good heart up," quo' he. "`The still sow eateth all the draff,' ye ken. I've bore wi' _Mall_ for fifty year, and it comes easier than it might to an other man. And the Lord has bore wi' me for seventy odd. If He can bear wi' me a bit longer, I reckon I can wi' _Mall_."

Aunt _Joyce_ smiled on old _Isaac_ as she rose up.

"Ay, Goodman, that is the best way for to take it," saith she. "And now, _Nell_, we must hurry home, for I see a mighty black cloud o'er yonder."

So we home, bidding God be wi' ye to old _Mall_, in passing, and had but a grunt in answer: but we won home afore the rain, and found _Father_ and _Mynheer_ a-talking in the great chamber, and _Mother_ above, laying of sweet herbs in the linen with _Edith_.

Note 1. Passages from the New Testament are quoted from Cranmer's or the Geneva version, both then in common use.