Chapter 3

MILISENT MAKES A FRIEND.

"The inward depths of that deceitful fount Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead."

(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE FIRST. Things be alway going awry with me. Elsewise, this jolly book should ne'er have come into my hands first of a _Sunday_. I would love dearly to read o'er what my philosophical sister hath writ, and comment on the same: but I reckon I must tarry till to-morrow.

Now, _Mother_ said I was to write what I thought, and I mean to do the same. As to the pennies and the two-pences, they may count up themselves, for all I care. They'll not outrun half-a-crown, I reckon: and having paid the same at my month end, I shall just worry the life out of _Father_ till he give me an other. So here goes it!

Well, the first thing I think is,--Why must everything pleasant be set aside while _Monday_? _Father_ saith happiness and wickedness be not alike, though (quoth he) some folk think so much. Now, it seems me that happiness and holiness should be the same thing. Why should a matter not be right simply by reason that I like it? I want to know, and I will ask somebody, some of these days.

Howbeit, of one thing am I assured,--namely, that it cannot be wicked to write on _Sunday_ what it is not wicked to do. So I shall tell what we did.

Now, there some folk are so queer! They will take down a gown, and shake out the folds, and talk an half-hour o'er it,--how this gimp should be better to run that way, and next week the bottom must needs be fresh bound: all of a _Sunday_. But to stick a neeld in, and make the gimp run that way, and fresh bind the bottom,--good lack! they should count you a very heathen an' you asked them. Now, I want to know how the one is a bit better than the other. I cannot see a pin to choose betwixt them.

Well! we gat out of bed this morrow--I reckon that is the first thing, beyond opening one's eyes.

_Nell_ is alway the first up, and _Edith_ the last. She is rare hard to wake, is _Edith_; or rather, not to wake, but to make her rise up when she is woke. She takes a deal of shaking and talking to, some mornings specially. _Nell_ does the talking, and I do the shaking: and I warrant you, I give it her.

Howbeit, we were all up, at long last--and if one of us be late of a _Sunday_ morrow, _Father_ looks as if we had brake his heart. Our _Sunday_ gowns at this season be of green satin, of sixteen shillings the yard,--eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a _Sunday_? Well, never mind; 'tis now done--and furred with pampilion [an unknown species of fur]. Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gear went we to church, at _Keswick_. And I would with all mine heart we had a church nearer unto us than three weary miles, though every body saith 'tis mighty near. _Father_ rid on _Favelle_, with _Edith_ behind him; and _Mother_ on _Garnet_, behind Master _Stuyvesant_; and _Nell_ and I on _Cowslip_; and Aunt _Joyce_ of her own hackney, that is called _Hermit_, with old _Matthias_. Cousin _Bess_ come ambling after, on _Starlight_, with _Adam_ afore her: and behind trudged _Kate_ and _Kitling_. And by the same token, _Moses_ came a-mewing to the door to see us depart.

So came we to the church, and there found afore us my Lord _Dilston_ and his following, that had rowed over from _Lord's Island_, whereon of old time the Barons of _Dilston_ [the Radcliffes, subsequently created Earls of Derwentwater] have had an house (I am mindful of strangers the which shall read our chronicle, which is more, I reckon, than _Nell_ shall have been), and in good sooth, but Mistress _Jane_ is fair of face, and I do love to look upon her. Well, of course, _Father_ being but a knight, we stood of one side to let pass a baron: and when all they were gone up, went up we, in due order, _Father_ handing _Mother_, and _Mynheer_ with Aunt _Joyce_, and then Cousin _Bess_ and we three maids. And there was Dr _Meade_ with his white rag of _Popery_ (as Cousin _Bess_ will have it) a-flying behind him as he came from the vestry: and I might not forbear to give a little pinch to _Edith_ as I saw it fly. 'Tis to no good to pinch _Nell_, for she doth but kill me with a look. And there, of either side (which I had nigh forgot), stood the common folk, the townsfolk, and the lead-miners from _Vicar's Island_ [anciently belonging to Fountains Abbey] and such like, all a-gaping and a-staring on us as we went by, to see the baron and the knight. And eh, but I do love to be gaped on! 'Tis the best bit of all the _Sunday_, for me.

(Now, _Mother_, you said I was to write what I thought.)

Then come matins, which one has to sit through, of course: the only good matter being the chants. I can sing out, and I do. Then come the sermon, which is unto me sore weariness, and I gape through it as I best may. Dear heart, what matter is it to me if _Peter_ were ever at _Rome_ or no, or if Saint _James_ and _Paul_ do both say the same thing touching faith and works? We have all faith--say we not the Creed every _Sunday_? and what would you have more? And as to works, I hate good works. Good works always means doing the very thing you would rather not. 'Tis good works to carry a pudding to old _Nanny Crewdson_ through a lane where I nigh lose my shoes in the mire, right at the time when I want to bide at home and play the virginals. Or 'tis sitting of a chair and reading of _Luther's_ Commentary on the _Galatians_ to one of my betters, when my very toes be tingling to be out in the sunshine. Good lack, but I do owe a pretty penny to Master Doctor _Luther_ for that commentary! I have had to sit and read it a good score of times when it should have done me marvellous ease to have boxed his ears with it. Had I been Mistress _Katherine_, it should have gone hard with me but I would have pulled Master Doctor out of his study, and made him lake with little _Jack_ and _Maudlin_, in the stead of toiling o'er yon old musty commentary. _Nell_ saith she loveth to read it. In good sooth, but I wish she may!

Well! matins o'er, come the communion, for which all tarried but _Edith_; she, not being yet confirmed, is alway packed off ere it begin. And when that were o'er--and I do love the last _Amen_ of all--went all we to dinner with Mistress _Huthwaite_, at whose house we do ever dine of a _Sunday_: and mighty late it is of a communion _Sunday_; and I am well-nigh famished ere I break bread. And for dinner was corned beef and carrots, and for drink sherris-sack and muscadel. Then, at three o' the clock, all we again to church: and by the same token, if Dr _Meade_ gave us not two full hours of a sermon, then will I sell my gold chain for two pence. And at after church, in the porch were my Lord _Dilston_ and fair Mistress _Jane_; and my Lord was pleased to take _Father_ by the hand, and _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_ likewise; but did but kiss us maids. [Note 1.] But Mistress _Jane_ took us all three by the hand, and did say unto me that she would fain be better acquainted. And in very deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto close friendship with my Lord _Dilston_ his daughter, as I do right heartily trust I may. Nor, after all, were it any such great preferment for me, that am daughter unto Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ of _Selwick_ Hall, Knight, which is cousin unto my right honourable Lord the Earl of _Oxenford_, and not so far off neither. For my most honourable Lord, Sir _Aubrey de Vere_, sometime Earl of _Oxenford_, was great-great-great-grandfather unto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady _Margaret_, wife to Sir _Nicholas Louvaine_, was great-great-grandmother unto _Father_: so they twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, good lack, what is this? Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress _Jane Radcliffe_ her notice and favour. If the _Radcliffes_ be an old house, as in very deed they be, so be the _Veres_ and the _Louvaines_ both: to say nought of the _Edens_, that have dwelt in _Kent-dale_ these thousand years at the least. But one thing will I never own, and that is of Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, that our family be all _Dutch_ folk. He will have it that the _Louvaines_ must needs have sprung from _Louvain_ in the Low Countries; but of all things doth he make me mad [angry: a word still used in the north of England] when he saith the great House of _Vere_ is _Dutch_ of origin. For he will have it a weir to catch fish, when all the world doth know that _Veritas_ is _Latin_ for truth, and _Vere_ cometh of that, or else of _vir_, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no base coward loon. And 'tis all foolishness for to say, as doth _Mynheer_, that the old _Romans_ had no surnames like ours, but only the name of the family, such like as _Cornelius_ or _Julius_, which ran more akin unto our _Christian_ names. I believe it not, and I won't. Why, was there not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called _Lucius Verus_? and what is that but _Vere_? 'Tis as plain as the barber's pole, for all _Mynheer_, and that will I say.

Howbeit, I am forgetting my business, and well-nigh that it is _Sunday_. So have back. Church over, all we come home, in the very order as we went: and in the hall come _Moses_ a-purring to us, and a-rubbing of her head against _Nell_; and there was _Dan_ a-turning round and round after his tail, and _Nan_, that had a ball of paper, on her back a-laking therewith. _So_ we to doff our hoods, and then down into the hall, where was supper served: for it was over late for four-hours [Note 2], and of a communion _Sunday_ we never get none. Then _Nell_ to read a chapter from Master Doctor _Luther_ his magnifical commentary: and by the mass, I was glad it was not me. Then--(Eh, happy woman be my dole! but if _Father_ shall see that last line, it shall be a broad shilling out of my pocket at the least. He is most mighty nice, is _Father_, touching that make of talk. I believe I catched it up of old _Matthias_. I must in very deed essay to leave it off; and I do own, 'tis not over seemly to swear of a _Sunday_, for I suppose it is swearing, though 'tis not profane talk. Come, _Father_, you must o'erlook it this once: and I will never do so no more--at the least, not till the next time.)

Well then, had we a chapter of _Luke_, and a long prayer of _Father_: and I am sore afeared I missed a good ten minutes thereof, for I wis not well what happed, nor how I gat there, but assuredly I was a-dancing with my Lord of _Oxenford_, and the Queen's Majesty and my Lord _Dilston_ a-looking on, and Mistress _Jane_ as black as thunder, because I danced better than she. I reckon _Father's_ stopping woke me, and I said _Amen_ as well as any body. Then the Hundredth Psalm, _Nell_ a-playing on the virginals: and then (best of all) the blessing, and then with good-night all round, to bed. I reckon my nap at prayers had made me something wakeful, for I heard both _Nell_ and _Edith_ asleep afore me.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE III. Now have I read o'er every line my philosophical sister hath writ: and very nigh smothered me o' laughing at divers parts. The long discourses she putteth in, touching all manner of dreary matters! I warrant, you shall not see me to deal with the Queen's Majesty's injunctions touching the apparel of parsons, nor with the _Dutch Mennonites_, nor with philosophical questions touching folks' thoughts and characters, nor no such rubbish. I like sunlight, I do. Catch me a-setting down Master _Stuyvesant_ his dreary speeches! (I go not further, for then should it cost me sixpence: but Master _Stuyvesant_ hath no authority over me, so I may say what I will of him for two pence.) But it seemeth me, for all her soberness and her killing looks, that Mistress _Helena_ is something diverted with my speeches, else had she not put so many in. But I ought not to have said what I did, quotha, touching _Father's_ nose! Ought I not, forsooth? Mistress _Helena_, that shall cost you two pence, and I shall be fain to see the fine paid.

(Eh, lack-a-day! but that shall cost me two pence! Dear heart, whatever was _Father_ a-thinking of? I shall be as clean ruined as the velvet doublet that _Ned_ dropped in the fish-pond!)

It seemeth me _Father_ must have desired to make a good box for the poor. I would it had not been at my cost.

One thing is plain,--that Mistress _Nell_ keeps a conscience. I scarce think I do. There is a cushion full of pins somewhere down near my stomach, and now and then I get a prick: but I do but cry pish and turn the pin end into the cushion. _Nell_, on the contrary, pulleth forth the pin and looketh on it, holding it in all lights. But there was one time, I mind, that I did not cry pish, and methinks every pin in the cushion had set a-work to prick me hard. 'Twas ever so long gone, when _Wat_ and I dressed up the mop in a white sheet, and set it on the stairs for to make _Anstace_ and _Nell_ scream forth, a-taking it for a ghost: but as ill luck would have it, the first came by was _Mother_, with _Edith_ in her arms, that was then but a babe, and it so frighted her she went white as the very sheet, and dropped down of a dead faint, and what should have come of _Edith_ I wis not, had not _Anstace_, that came after, been quick to catch at her. Eh, but in all my life never saw I _Father_ as he then were! It was long time ere _Mother_ come to, and until after said he never a word, for he was all busied with her: but when she was come to herself and well at ease,--my word! but he did serve out _Wat_ and me! _Wat_ gat the worst, by reason he was the elder, and had (said _Father_) played the serpent to mine _Eva_: but I warrant you I forgat not that birch rod for a week or twain. Good lack! we never frighted nobody again.

And after all, I do think _Father's_ talk was worser than the fustigation [whipping]. How he did insense it into us, that we might have been the death of our mother and sister both, and how it was rare wicked and cruel to seek to fright any, and had been known to turn folks' heads ere this! You see, _Father_, I have not forgot it, and I reckon I never shall.

But one thing _Father_ alway doth, and so belike do all in this house, which I hear not other folks' elders for to do. When _Alice Lewthwaite_ gets chidden, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith such matters be unseemly, or undutiful, and such like. But _Father_, he must needs pull forth his Bible, and give you chapter and verse for every word he saith. And it makes things look so much worser, some how. 'Tis like being judged of God instead of men. And where Mistress _Lewthwaite_ talks of faults, _Father_ and _Mother_ say sins. And it makes ever so much difference, to my thinking, whether a matter be but a fault you need be told of, or a sin that you must repent. Then, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ (and I have noted it in other) always takes things as they touch her, whereas _Father_ and _Mother_ do look on them rather as they touch God. And it doth seem ever so much more awfuller thus. Methinks it should be a sight comfortabler world if men had no consciences, and could do as it listed them at all times without those pin-pricks. I am well assured folks should mostly do right. I should, at any rate. 'Tis but exceeding seldom I do aught wrong, and then mostly because I am teased with forbiddance of the same. I should never have touched the fire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, had not old Dame _Conyers_, that was my godmother, bidden me not do the same. Had she but held her peace, I should ne'er have thought thereon. Folks do not well to put matters into childre's heads, and then if aught go wrong the childre get the blame. And in this world things be ever a-going wrong. But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth? 'Tis the things go wrong, not me. I should be a very angel for goodness if only folks gave o'er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, and forbidding things to be done. In good sooth, 'tis hard on a poor maid that cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but let a-be.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE VI. Yesterday, the afternoon was so fair and sunshine, that _Edith_ and I (_Mother_ giving us leave) rowed o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, where _Edith_ sat her down of a great stone, and said she would draw the lake's picture in little. So I, having no list to stand behind and look on, went off to see if I could find aught, such as a squirrel or a pie, to divert me withal. As for _Adam_, which had rowed us o'er, he gathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and in five minutes he was snoring like an owl. For me, I wandered on a while, and went all over the ruins of the hermitage, and could find nought to look at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me. After a while I sat me down, and I reckon I should have been a-snoring like _Adam_ afore long, but I heard a little bruit [noise] that caused me turn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodly gentleman, and well clad, that leaned against a tree, and gazed upon me, yet with mighty respect and courtesy. He was something past his youth, yet right comely to look to; of a fair hair and beard, and soft eyes, grey [blue] as the sky. Truly, I was something fluttered, for he ware a brave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master _Mayor's_. And while I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first. "I pray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam [then restricted to noble ladies and knights' wives] if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger to wit of the name of this charming isle?"

"Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, Sir," quoth I. "Of old time, as 'tis said, Saint _Hubert_ had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see down yonder."

"Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present," saith he, and smiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man's face. "And who was Saint _Hubert_, if it please my fair damosel?"

"In good sooth, Sir, that know I not," said I; "save that he were one of the old saints, now done away."

"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new at least be left."

Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and the better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had never seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.

"And, I pray you, sweet Mistress," saith he, yet a-leaning against the tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is it lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?"

"Sir, I pray you of pardon," I made answer, and I could not help to laugh a little, "but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words. May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer _English_?"

"Surely," saith he, "the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome inhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your name? Is that _English_ plain enough to do you a pleasure?"

"Sir," quoth I, "my name is _Milisent Louvaine_, to serve you."

"Truly," saith he, "and it shall serve me right well to know so mellifluous a name. [Note 3.] And what dwelling is honoured by being your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"

"Sir," said I, "I dwell at _Selwick_ Hall, o'er the lake in yonder quarter."

"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer. "And--elders have you, fairest Mistress?"

"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ is my father, and Dame _Lettice_, sometime named _Eden_, my mother."

"_Lettice Eden_!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as though _Mother's_ old name should have waked some regrets within him. "I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was with my sometime Lady of _Surrey_, and might now and then be seen at the Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of _Richmond_, her lord's sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?"

"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maiden unto my Lady of _Surrey_, afore she were wed."

"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh. "She was the fairest maiden that ever mine eyes beheld. At the least--I thought so yesterday."

"My sister is more like her than I," I did observe. "She is round by yonder, a-playing the painter."

"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sitting of a stone o'er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen fairer,--even within the compass of Saint _Hubert's_ Isle. And I do marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother more than you, sweet Mistress _Milisent_."

I was astonished, for I know _Edith_ is reckoned best-favoured of all us, and most like to _Mother_. But well as it liked me to sit and listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to _Edith_.

"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I driving hence the fairest floweret of the isle?"

"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, and my sister shall be coming to look for me."

"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these rough paths."

So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair _Spanish_ leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as, how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if _Father_ were at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all which I told him. Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which, with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with _Mother_, I told. Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt _Joyce_.

So at long last--for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him--at long last come we to _Edith_, which was gat up from her stone, and was putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for them.

"We shall be something late for four-hours, _Milly_," saith she. "Prithee, wake _Adam_, whilst I make an end."

Off went I and gave _Adam_ a good shake, and coming back, found _Edith_ in discourse with my gentleman. I cannot tell why, but I would as lief he had not conversed with any but me.

"Sir," said I, "may we set you down of the lakeside?"

"No, I thank you much," saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head, I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair. "I have a boat o'er the other side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet again. Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name. I am Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_, and very much your servant."

So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o'er the lake. All the way _Edith_ saith nought but--"_Milly_, where didst thou pick up thy _cavaliero_?"

"Nay," said I, "he it was who picked me up. He was leaning of a tree, of t'other side, over against _Borrowdale_: and I sat me down of a log, and saw him not till he spake."

_Edith_ said no more at that time. But in the even, when we were doffing us, and _Nell_ was not yet come up, quoth she--

"_Milly_, is Sir _Edwin_ something free to ask questions?"

"Oh, meterly," [tolerably] said I.

"I trust thou gavest him not o'er full answers."

"Oh, nought of import," said I. "Beside, _Edith_, he is an old friend of _Mother_."

"Is he so?" quoth she. "Then we can ask _Mother_ touching him."

Now, I could not have told any wherefore, but I had no list to ask _Mother_, nor had I told her so much as one word touching him. I believe I was half afeared she might forbid me to encourage him in talk. I trust _Edith_ shall forget the same, for she hath not an over good memory.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX. I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' _Friday_ last. Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and that must I do, if need be. Meanwhile, I will go right forward with my chronicling.

I did verily think I saw Sir _Edwin_ part-way up the hill behind us o' _Saturday_ even: but o' _Sunday_ he was not in church, for I looked for him. I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce run the risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month for non-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling in riches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.

Thank goodness, _Edith_ hath forgot to say aught to _Mother_, and 'tis not like she shall think on now.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII. _Mother_ bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake [the northern name for a plum-cake] to old _Jack_. They were ducks' eggs, for I had told her what _Jack_ said the last time we visited him. I bade _Edith_ go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day being somewhat foul. I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes as our _Edith_. So I all alone up to _Jack Benn's_: which saw me from his hut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.

"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he. "Get away wi' ye! I hate women."

"Nay, _Jack_," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist. Here be eggs for thee--ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thou lovest."

"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he. But he took the cake and the eggs off me, notwithstanding. "They're fleshly folk, is women," quoth old _Jack_.

"Nay, what signifiest?" said I. "Women have no more flesh than men, I reckon."

"Mistress _Milisent_, does thou wit what _Paul_ says to th' _Romans_, touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"

"Oh ay, _Jack_, I have read it afore now."

"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"

"To be sure," said I.

"Now look ye here," saith he. "Here's my hand,"--and he reacheth forth a great brown paw. "Does thou see it?"

"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, _Jack_!"

"Well--this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"

"I reckon so much, _Jack_."

"Good. Well, _Paul_ he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh, but only th' things o' th' spirit. Your spirit's your thoughts and meditations like. And that's why women's such ill uns--because they are alway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and baking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress _Milisent_, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th' flesh. Does thou see?"

"Well, _Jack_, I am afeared I do not entirely."

"Get thee gone!" saith he. "Women never can see nought. They're ill uns, I tell ye--they're ill uns!"

"But, _Jack_, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking and washing."

"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman? Thee be off, or I'll let fly th' broom at thee."

"_Jack_, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered up my gown for to go.

"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shall be. That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."

"In very deed it is, _Jack_," said I, "and I will bear witness for thee to that end if need be. Farewell."

So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps down ere I was aware of an hand, very different from _Jack's_, held forth to me, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.

"Fairest Mistress _Milisent_, well met this cloudy morrow! I see the flowers be out, though the sun shine not. Give me leave, I pray you, to aid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."

So down the hill with me came Sir _Edwin_, and mighty pleasant discourse had we--all the fairer for coming after _Jack_. And much he told me of his estate in _Cornwall_, where he hath a fair castle, built of old time, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead. And these _Cornish_ mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the _Jews_: but when I did demand of him how _Jews_ should come to work them, that (quoth he) could he not say. And at times, in these mines, deep down in the old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them a thousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do break into the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags' horn, used of these old _Jews_ and _Romans_, that did labour in these mines of old time.

"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of these ghosts? Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."

"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I do ensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."

Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen's Majesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names of dukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand and glove with every man of them. I do love to hear such discourse, and that right dearly. Many a time have I essayed for to win _Mother_ to enter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in _Surrey_ Place with my good Lady Countess of _Surrey_: but I wis not well wherefore, she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time. She will tell us of her 'prisonment in the _Counter_, and how _Father_ brought the little shell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rode away with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but even in that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she never filleth up. I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which she would not we should know. [Note 5.] I did once whisper a word of this make unto _Nell_: but Mistress _Helena_, that doth alway the right and meet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferret forth somewhat that _Mother_ had no list for me to know, that I let her a-be. But for all that would I dearly love to know it. I do take delight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping of mine own.

Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir _Edwin_ and his discourse of the new Court custom, the which hath name _Euphuism_, and is a right fair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swear friendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they do confer. Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some of her servants, as my Lord of _Burleigh_, who is her _Spirit_, and Sir _Walter Raleigh_ her _Water_, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir Christopher Hatton] her _Sheep_, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her _Moon_. Sir _Edwin_ saith he had himself such a friendship with some mighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my best to provoke him thereto) he calling her his _Discretion_, and she naming him her _Fortitude_. Which is pleasant and witty matter. [Note 6.]

"And," quoth Sir _Edwin_, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may stand with your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion. You shall be mine _Amiability_, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shall please you) shall call me your _Protection_. Have I well said, my fairest?"

"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me so much honour, it should like me right well."

By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I dared not be seen with Sir _Edwin_ no nearer the house. The which he seemed to guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road led the shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass. So I home, and into our chamber to doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was _Nell_. Now, our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to _Jack's_ hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe. But how did mine heart jump into my mouth when _Nell_ saith, as I was a-folding of my kerchief--

"Who was that with thee, _Milly_?"

Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,--"A gentleman, _Nell_, that would know his shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass." In good sooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir _Edwin_ is a gentleman, and he did ask me which were the shortest way thereto. But, good lack! it seemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o' pricking me when I thus spake. Yet what ill had I done, forsooth? I had said no falsehood: only shut _Nell's_ mouth, for she asked no further. And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divert me withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same? After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where I found _Anstace_ and _Hal_ come; and _Hal_, with _Father_ and _Mynheer_, were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come, that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all right to _Ireland_. Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go _Ireland_ or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her! Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].

_Hal_, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of _London_ should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, be ill and foolish matter. Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in _Derwent_ dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in _London_ town, I should be but little pleased therewith. Why should folk not divert them?

Being aweary of Master _Hal's_ grave discourse, went I over to _Anstace_, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,--to wit, the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs, which do ill please her, for _Anstace_ loveth to ruffle it of a good ruff. Thence gat she to their _Cicely_, which is but ill at ease, and Dr _Bell_ was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on _Friday_ and _Saturday_ the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from _Sunday_ to _Tuesday_ in the stomach, during which time it shall be no safe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need to be: so she must needs tarry until _Wednesday_ come seven-night, and from that time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.

Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof _Anstace_ had of late a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress _Parker_, that dwelleth but fifty miles from _London_, and is an useful sister for to have. As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is more certain than the uncertainty; and likewise of hoods. Cypress, saith she, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit with my cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta is now thought but serving-man-like. All this, and a deal more, _Anstace_ told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].

Dr _Meade's_ hour-glass is broke of the sexton. I am fain to hear the same, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.

Note 1. At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality than the kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst all classes.

Note 2. Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served, as its name denotes, at four o'clock.

Note 3. Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though many persons have supposed so. It comes, through Milisent and Melisende, from the Gothic _Amala-suinde_, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.

Note 4. Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, to invite, as well as of bid, to command.

Note 5. The reader who wishes for more light on this point than was allowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."

Note 6. At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meant intellectual. This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which grave men and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiar to the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once so great and so small.