Chapter 4

IN BY-PATH MEADOW.

"I thought that I was strong, Lord, And did not need Thine arm; Though dangers thronged around me, My heart felt no alarm: I thought I nothing needed-- Riches, nor dress, nor sight: And on I walked in darkness, And still I thought it light."

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XV. I have but now read o'er what I writ these last few days, and have meditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir _Edwin_, for it shall ne'er serve to have folk read the same. And methinketh it best for to go straight on, and at the end, if need be, tear out the leaves. For it doth me a mighty pleasure to write and think upon the same: and I can make some excuse when I come to it.

Though Mistress _Nell_, I guess right well, Of neatness should be heedful: Yet I will tear The leaves out fair, If it shall so be needful.

There! who saith I cannot write poesy?

This morrow again (I being but just without the garden gate), I met with my _Protection_, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his most fair _Amiability_. I do see him most days, though but for a minute: and in truth I think long from one time to another. Coming back, I meditated what I should say to Mistress _Nell_ (that loveth somewhat too much to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall not serve every time to send him to _Kirkstone_. Nor, of course, could I think to tell a lie thereabout. So I called to mind that he had once asked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though it were not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it should be no lie, seeing he did say so much. Metrusteth the cushion should not prick me for that, and right sure am I there should be no need.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XVII. Truly, as saith the old saw, 'tis best not to halloo till thou be out of the wood. This very afternoon, what should _Edith_ say, without one word of warning, as we were sat a-sewing, but--

"_Mother_, do you mind a gentleman, by name _Tregarvon_?"

"What name saidst, _Edith_?" asks _Mother_.

"_Tregarvon_," quoth she. "Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_."

"Nay, I never knew no gentleman of that name," saith _Mother_. "Where heardst of him, child?"

"'Twas when we went o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, _Mother_," she made answer,--"what day were it, _Milly_?--about ten days gone--"

"Aye, I mind it," saith _Mother_.

"Well, while I sat of the rock a-drawing, come up a gentleman to me," saith she, "and asked at me if _Louvaine_ were not my name. (Why, then, he knew us! thought I.) I said `Aye,' and he went on to ask me if _Father_ were at home, for he had list to have speech of him: and he said he knew you, _Mother_, of old time, when you were Mistress _Lettice_. I told him _Father_ was at home, and he desired to know what time should be the best to find him: when I told him the early morrow, for he was oft away in the afternoon. And then--"

"Well, my lass?" saith _Mother_, for _Edith_ was at a point.

"Well, _Mother_, methinks I had better tell you," saith she, a-looking up, "for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you will not lay to my charge a thing that was no blame of mine. So--then he 'gan to speak of a fashion that little liked me, and I am assured should have liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mine eyes, and all such matter as that: till at the last I said unto him, `Sir, I pray you of pardon, but I am not used to such like talk, and in truth I know not what to answer. If your aim be to find favour with me, you were best hold your peace from such words.' For, see you, _Mother_, I thought he might have some petition unto _Father_, and might take a fantasy that I could win _Father_ to grant him, and so would the rather if he talked such matter as should flatter my foolish vanity. As though _Father_ should be one to be swayed by such a fantasy as that! But then, of course, he did not know _Father_. I trust I did not aught to your displeasance, _Mother_?"

"So far as I can judge, dear child, thou didst very well," saith _Mother_: "and I am right glad thou wert thus discreet for thy years. But what said he in answer?"

"Oh, he tarried not after that," quoth she: "he did only mutter somewhat that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another minute."

_Mother_ laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.

"O _Edith_!" saith she: "I am so thankful thou art not,"--but all suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her _eyes_ and into her cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to hap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.

"Did this gentleman speak with thee, _Milly_?"

I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.

"Well, _Mother_, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what the isle was called, and who Saint _Hubert_ were. He told me, the same as _Edith_, that he had known you aforetime."

"Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, _Milly_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.

"Nay," said I, "mine eyes be not so sweet as thine."

"Did he ask at thee if _Father_ were at home?"

"Ay, he asked that."

Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching mine eyes.

Then Cousin _Bess_ looks up. Cousin _Bess_ was by, but not Aunt _Joyce_.

"What manner of man, my lasses?" saith she.

I left _Edith_ to make answer.

"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than _Father_, or may-be more: and--"

"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith _Mother_, as though she were fain it so were.

"Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and beard."

"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "and tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"

"That is he," saith _Edith_.

"Good lack, then!"

Cousin _Bess_ makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the _Keswick_ road, as I come back from _Isaac's_. My word, but he doth desire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if he were at home."

"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, _Bess_?" asks _Mother_.

"Trust!" saith she. "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to sell a sucking-pig."

Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin _Bess_ were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to hear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere he had seen me.

"What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_. "I would know the thought he gave to thee."

"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling forth o' the stitching," saith she. "And the second were, that he were like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts. And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'd be fain to see the back of him."

"Any more betwixt, _Cousin_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.

"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she. "I mattered him nought, I warrant you."

"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith _Edith_.

Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_? But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies. All her likings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_. But I was something surprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him. I marvel if she meant the same.

"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we had sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no gentleman of _Cornwall_, to boot."

"May-be he minds you, _Mother_, though you knew not him," quoth _Edith_.

"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all-- and never spake word unto me."

"See you now, Cousin _Lettice_," saith _Bess_, "if this man wanted somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you any way he might."

"Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.

"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire speech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all his slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my wit to see."

"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates every thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir _Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying next."

"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin _Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_ so as an other man. I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but, poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that the priest must needs bear, and such like. And `Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `I'll tell you what it is,' says I: `you are none grounded well in _Hebrews_,' says I. `Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord isn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not a bit less. And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do you mean?' says she. `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what I mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And if so,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of no sort, priests or no,' says I. `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she, `you must have lost your wits.' `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but I don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."

_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.

"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.

"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me, though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for Dr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear! they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and cassocks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast! I make no count of 'em."

"And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.

"Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week or twain."

"Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it pinches," saith she.

So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk were o'er.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX. I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the world that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight. Yester even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside the garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I to vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see it vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rare fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not wring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing the same: so when none was there but he and I and _Moses_, quoth I--

"_Father_, is it ever wrong to love any?"

"`Love is of God,'" he made answer. "Surely no."

And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had _Father's_ assent to the loving of my _Protection_: but as ill luck would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with the door in his hand, to say--

"But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove, which will help a friend to break God's commandments."

I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat somewhat. Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none need break God's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breaking thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I as certain as that my name is _Milisent_. And I have not told a single lie about it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the right way not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hast thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No, _Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--the which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not uttering your secrets.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII. If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying just the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on! Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she begin with, but--

"_Father_, there is a thing I would ask at you."

"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for _Father_ is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.

"Then, _Father_," saith she, "what is falsehood? Where doth it begin and end? Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and she shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin, if I told her but the half?"

"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith _Father_. "As to where falsehood begins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall tell but God? But set forth thy case something plainer."

"Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showed to me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If _Alice_ should say `Hast heard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, `I cannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: or should there be no ill to say `Not to-day,' or `Nought much,' or some such matter as that?"

"Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as though she could not think there should.

"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very minute that _Adam_ fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry. There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was not all the truth--no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest to tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."

"_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammar school at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What should you call that, _Father_?"

"A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer. "Trust me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his course."

Then Aunt _Joyce_ said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither: but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my secrets, to have _Father_ say such things came straight from _Satan_! It liketh me not at all. I would _Nell_ would let things a-be!

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV. My good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if _Father_ were not given to be a little _Puritan_--he smiling the while as though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of the great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word was strange unto me. So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late come up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at their own appraisement.

"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a gentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel in his house to guard him from all ill."

I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right well accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then 'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a while I forgat my disease.

Still, I cannot right away with what _Father_ said. If only _Father_ and _Mother_ could know all about this matter, and really consent thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my _Protection_ saith that were contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no romance left therein at all.

"It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I do hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the noble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far above all such mean things."

So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble me touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing. But I do marvel if _Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know they married o' love. Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor _Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas other matter.

Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and their _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here _Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly wedding where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for herself.

"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith _Nell_, "and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely, _Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"

"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."

"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith _Nell_ with some heat--heat, that is, for _Nell_.

"Honesty!" quoth _Blanche_: "soft you now [gently],--what dishonesty should be therein?"

"Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of the Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid thee."

"I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"

"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as a marble image.

"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_. "They do call all sad, precise, humdrum folk, _Puritans_."

"Who be `they'?" asks _Nell_.

"Why, all manner of folks--great folk in especial," saith she.

"Come, _Blanche_!" saith _Edith_, "where hast thou jostled with great folk?"

"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have talked with some that have."

"No great folk--my Lord _Dilston_ except--ever come to _Derwent-side_," saith _Edith_.

"And could I not discourse with my Lord _Dilston_, if it so pleased him and me?" quoth _Blanche_, yet something angered.

"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith _Alice_. "Thou well wist, _Blanche_, thou hast had no talk with my Lord _Dilston_, that is known all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."

Well, at this we all laughed, and _Alice_ turned the talk aside to other matter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er that of an angel) were giving way.

I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though _Blanche_ might hint at Sir _Edwin_. And I do trust he hath not been a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, and a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not for to compare with me nor _Edith_.

I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_. If I find him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see him no more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt it should.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV. 'Tis all well, and _Blanche_ could not have meant to hint at my _Protection_. I asked at him if he knew one _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_ (quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after hers?

Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a _Sunday_, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had an old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alway abide with him o'er the _Sunday_. Moreover he was something feared (saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should get scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been (quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet _Amiability_.

"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see _Father_ at the first?"

"Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too. "`All is fair in love and war.'"

"I doubt if _Father_ should say the same," said I.

"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir _Aubrey_ is a right excellent gentleman, yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country, where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the risk of being thought singular."

"Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heard him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."

"Exactly!" saith he. "That is right the _Puritan_ talk, as I had the honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the Court to say no such a thing."

"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"

This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he should ne'er give o'er.

"My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties. Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _Cumberland_, thou shouldest be of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delights and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thou canst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be right rare.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII. With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that is brother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way. I would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble _Protection_ do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old, with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that cometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing on flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers, and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at those times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel the gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more and more distasteful unto me than ever.

Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ called me to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood and went.

We found old _Nanny_--that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair in the sunshine--so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.

"Well, _Nanny_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "`Sitting down under His shadow,' dear heart?"

"Ay, Mistress _Joyce_," saith she, "and `with great delight.'"

I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible. I never did. And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me. Can they mean it, trow? If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as _Nanny_. But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be, wherein one shall find one's diversion in reading of the Bible!

I know _Father_ and _Mother_ would say clean contrary. But they, see you, were bred up never to see a Bible in _English_ till they were grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table. But therein runs my pen too fast, for _Anstace_ can well remember Queen _Mary's_ time, though _Nell_ scarce can do so,--only some few matters here and there.

So then Aunt _Joyce_ and _Nan_ fell a-talking,--and scarce so much as a word could I conceive. [Note 1.] They might well-nigh as good have talked _Greek_ for me. Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean to think o'er--some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible, and am as old as _Nanny_. Not now, of course.

"Where art reading, _Nanny_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"In _Esaias_, Mistress _Joyce_. Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second verses. There's fine reading in _Esaias_."

"Ay, _Nan_, there is," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But what toucheth it? I am ill set to remember chapter and verse."

"Well, Mistress, first it saith, `Show My people their transgression.' And i' th' very next verse,--`Yet they seek me daily,'--nay, there's more--`they take delight in approaching to God.'"

"Well, _Nan_? That reads strange,--no doth it?"

"Ah, it doth, Mistress _Joyce_. But I think, look ye, there's a deal i' th' word _approaching_. See ye, it saith not they take delight to get near. Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near. They'll lay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't. If they'd only come near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, ye see, that wouldn't just suit 'em. These is folk that wants to have th' Lord--a tidy way from 'em--and keep th' transgressions too. Eh, Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th' hundred and thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord. Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses. We don't want Him to search us when we know He'll find yon wedge o' gold and yon _Babylonish_ garment if He do. Nay, we don't so!"

Now, I know not o'er well what old _Nan_ meaneth: but this do I know-- that whenever I turn o'er the _Psalter_, I ever try to get yon Psalm betwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see not a word on't. I reckon _Nan_ should say my heart was not perfect by a great way. Well, may-be she'd be none so far out.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIX. To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and _Tuesday_ even must I give up the book to _Edith_. I shall not tear out the leaves till the last minute, and I will keep them when I do.

I do never see nought of my _Protection_ of a _Sunday_, but all other days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth _Thirlmere_ way, not so far from _Nanny's_ hut. Last even was he essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without _Father_ and _Mother_ knowing. I have ever held off till now: but I am not so sure I shall do it much longer. He saith he wist a _Popish_ priest that should do it: and it so done, _Father_ and _Mother_ must needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church. But I will consider of the same a day or twain longer.

As to setting down what we do of a _Sunday_, 'tis alway the same o'er again, so it should be to no good. Once is enough for all.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE LAST. Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen. I set forth for the copse where I do meet with my _Protection_, and had well-nigh reached it,--verily, I could discern him coming through the trees to meet me--when from _Nanny's_ hut, right upon us, who should come out save _Father_, and _Mother_, and _Edith_, their own selves. I cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to meet them.

"Why, _Milly_!" saith _Mother_. "I wist not thou wert coming this way, child."

"Under your pleasure, _Mother_, no more did I of you," said I.

"Why, _Milly_, do but look at yon gentleman!" saith _Edith_, as he passed by us, taking no note of us at all. "Is it not the same we met on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle?"

"Is it so?" said I, making believe to look after him, the rather since it gave me an excuse to turn my back on them. "He bears a green jerkin,--otherwise--"

Wherein I am very sure I said _no_ falsity, as whatso _Father_ might say.

"I do think it is the same," saith _Edith_. "Came he ever to speak with you, _Father_?"

"Nay, my lass, I mind him not," saith _Father_.

"He is not ill-looking," saith _Mother_.

"May-be not," quoth _Father_. "Thou art a better judge of such matters than I, dear heart. I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of his eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh."

"Now, _Father_, under your good leave, that is not well said," _Edith_ makes answer: "for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man's soul looked forth of."

_Father_ laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.

"Your very humble servant, Mistress _Editha Louvaine_," quoth he: "when I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties, learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine eyes. They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that issue have I never troubled me regarding them."

"And how liked you the manner of Sir _Edwin Tregarvon's_ soul looking forth, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, also laughing.

"Why, that could I not see," quoth he, "for he keeping his eyes bent upon the ground, it did not look forth. But I cannot say his face altogether pleased me."

How mighty strange is it that all they--and in especial _Father_, that I have alway reckoned so wise--should have so little discernment!

Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them: and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my _Protection_: for I have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle the details]. As next _Sunday_ at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to _Ambleside_, where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat _Father_ and _Mother's_ pardon and blessing. I dare be bound there shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all shall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my _Protection_) when there is no hope that _Father_ and _Mother_ should give us leave aforehand, what else can we do?

Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks' way that do love each other. And my _Protection_ is not so much elder than I. In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than _Father_, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone. And if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much. My poor _Protection_! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.

I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep the book right heedfully under lock and key.

As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there were no good to reckon them up. My noble _Protection_ saith, when he hath but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire. He will set off his _Amiability_ (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at her. Though I count _Father_ doth love me, yet am I sure, my _Protection_ loveth me a deal the more. 'Tis only fitting, therefore, that I cleave to him rather.

Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.

Note 1. The words _understand_ and _conceive_ have changed places since the days of Elizabeth. To understand then meant to originate an idea: to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.