Chapter 5

AUNT JOYCE SPOILS THE GAME.

"We shun two paths, my maiden, When strangers' way we tell-- That which ourselves we know not, That which we know too well.

"I `never knew!' Thou think'st it? Well! Better so, to-day. The years lie thick and mossy O'er that long-silent way.

"The roses there are withered, The thorns are tipped with pain: Thou wonderest if I tell thee `Walk not that way again?'

"Oh eyes that see no further Than this world's glare and din! I warn thee from that pathway Because I slipped therein.

"So, leave the veil up-hanging! And tell the world outside-- `She cannot understand me-- She nothing has to hide!'"

(_In Edith's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST. I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this chronicle is come to mine hand. But _Father_ and _Mother_ do desire me to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay to do.

It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in _Milly_, and had talked with _Nell_ thereabout, more than once or twice. Though _Milisent_ is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one of us most loving frolicsome merriment. But now it seemed me as though she had grown up over my head, all at once. Not that she was less mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught. But at other times she seemed an other maid, and not our _Milly_ at all. It was not our _Milly's_ wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind. And at last, _Nell_ thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak with Aunt _Joyce_, that I knew was wise and witty [sensible], and if there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than _Mother_, and could break the same to _Mother_ more gentler than we. To say truth, I was feared--and yet I scarce knew why--of that man we met on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle. I had noted that _Milly_ never named him, though he were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt _Helen_ and me: and when an other so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever she could. This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met _Milly_ coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw me. From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and as yester-morrow, when we were come from _Nanny's_, I brake my mind to Aunt _Joyce_.

Aunt _Joyce_ did not cry "Pish!" nor fault me for conceiving foolish fantasies, as I was something feared she might. On the contrary part, she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give better ear. When I had done, she saith--

"Tell me, _Edith_, what like is this man."

I told her so well as I could.

"And how oft hast thou seen him?"

"Three times, _Aunt_. The first on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, whereof you know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was a-coming home from _Isaac Crewdson's_: and the last, this morrow, just as we came out of _Nanny's_ door, we met _Milisent_, full face: and a minute at after, this Sir _Edwin_ passed us on the road."

"Took he any note of you, either time?"

"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not. This morrow he took no note of any one."

"_Could_ she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_ in a low and very troubled voice.

"In good sooth, _Aunt_," said I, "you have put into words my very fear, which I did scarce dare to think right out."

"_Edith_," saith she, "is _Milly_ within, or no?"

"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go forth. I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut, as I passed by."

"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt _Joyce_, and rose up. "We will follow her. 'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I fear. And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child--poor, foolish child!"

We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep _Milisent_ but just in view, yet not to let her see us. She was walking fast, too, and she took the road to _Nanny's_, but turned off just ere she were there, into the little shaw that lieth by the way. We followed quietly, till we could hear voices: then Aunt _Joyce_ stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made me a sign to be still.

"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say which methought was Sir _Edwin's_: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he. Aunt _Joyce_ could see him likewise. "All things be ordered," quoth he: "remember, nine o' the clock on _Sunday_ night."

"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith _Milisent's_ voice in answer.

"Fail thee!" he made answer. "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"

"I feel afeared," she saith again. "I would they had wist at home. I cannot be sure 'tis right."

"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft already," saith he. "Sir _Aubrey's Puritan_ notions should never suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon o'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."

"Would he?" asks _Milly_, in something a troubled tone.

"Would he!" Sir _Edwin_ makes answer. "Would he have his daughter a right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet _Milisent_, let not such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure thee."

"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face: "but when not--"

"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "_not_ is well-nigh over, and then thy cruel _Puritan_ scruples shall never trouble thee more."

"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whose face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified. I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then. Out of her cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.

"`As!' Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?"

"This is Sir _Edwin_!"

Without another word Aunt _Joyce_ stalked forth, and had _Milisent_ by the arm ere she found time to scream. Then she shrieked and shrank, but Aunt _Joyce_ held her fast.

"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir _Edwin_.

"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right--"

"Right!" Aunt _Joyce_ loosed her hold of _Milisent_, and went and stood right before him. "Right!--from you to me!"

"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."

"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I heard therein. "Be we such strangers? What! think you I know you not, _Leonard Norris_? You counted on the change of all these years to hide you from _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, and you counted safely enough. They would not know you if they stood here. But did you fancy years could hide you from _Joyce Morrell_? Traitor! a woman will know the man she has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."

Sir _Edwin_ uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt _Joyce_ as though she had bound him by a spell.

She turned back to us a moment. "_Milisent_ and _Edith_, go home!" she saith. "_Milisent_, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very jaws of Hell--from a man worser than any fiend. _Edith_, tell thy father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother. I shall follow you anon. I have yet more ado with him here. Make thy mind easy, child--he'll not harm _me_. Now go."

_Milisent_ needed no persuasions. She seemed as though Aunt _Joyce's_ words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog. We spake no word to each other all the way. When we reached home, _Milly_ went straight up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt _Joyce's_ bidding, went in search of _Father_, whom I found at his books in his closet.

Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell how Aunt _Joyce_ had called this gentleman by the name of _Leonard Norris_, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made an end of my sad story.

"And I would fain not have been she that told you, _Father_," said I, "but Aunt _Joyce_ bade me so to do."

"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully. "But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from none but me. My poor _Lettice_!--and my poor _Milisent_, my poor, foolish, duped child!"

I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to _Milly_. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her face turned to the wall.

"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.

"Nay," was all she said.

"Shall I bide with thee?"

"Nay."

Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.

It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on the gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see who were there. Then she saith--

"None but thee, _Edith_? Where are the rest?"

There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been sore troubled.

"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_. _Milly_ is in our chamber, and _Father_ I left in his closet. Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I know not."

"Hast told him?"

"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."

"I knew he would. God help her!"

"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"

"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard than thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to _Milisent_."

Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_ closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly to see what was come of _Milly_.

She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me, and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it right that I left _Milisent_ all alone. I guess it were a good half-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on. At the last come _Mother_, her eyes very red as though she had wept much.

"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.

I said, "Ay, _Mother_: she hath slept this half-hour or more."

"Poor child!" she saith. "If only I could have wist sooner! How much I might have saved her! O poor child!"

The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in haste. I had thought _Mother_ should be angered, and I was something astonied to see how soft she were toward _Milly_. A while after, Aunt _Joyce_ come in: but _Milly_ slept on.

"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. "A good sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."

"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt _Joyce_, to be thus served of one she trusted."

"I hope so much. 'Twill be the best thing she can be. The question is what she loved--whether himself or his flattering of herself. She'll soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt vanity."

"Not the first, _Aunt_?"

"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "That hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time, and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on the manner of woman."

"What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I were something feared of mine own venturesomeness.

"What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again, "is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_. I say so much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--that ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay, I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing--that I, not your mother, should be she that were to tell it."

We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep. Aunt _Joyce_ went to her.

"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.

_Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was flushed and sullen.

"Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.

I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt _Joyce_ was in no wise angered.

"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sins to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."

"No worser!" _Milisent_ blazed forth. "What, you think it a light matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"

"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, still softly. "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereof the one loveth well, and the other--may God forgive us all!"

"What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion. "Is it my love you doubt, or his?"

"_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twenty years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou wert stayed on that road to-day."

"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down again. "`Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to crede it, forsooth!"

"Ay--when the twenty years be over."

"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_ sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."

"No, _Milly_, I think not."

"And much you care!"

Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly.

"_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to the heart's core."

"It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the same bitter, angered tone as aforetime.

Aunt _Joyce_ turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive for a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the pain abode.

"Poor child! She cannot conceive it." She said nought sterner; and she came and sat in the window alongside of me.

"I tell you, Aunt _Joyce_,"--and _Milisent_ sat up again, and let herself down, and came and stood before us--"I tell you, you have ruined my life!"

"My maid," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice, "thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which we have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless you needed the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be save _Helen_ and _Edith_ from making any like blunder. And--well, I have granted it. Only I stood out for one point--that I myself should be the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, the which I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,-- then tell me, _Milly_, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of _Joyce Morrell_."

"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed _Milly_. "I loved him so!"

"So did I, _Milisent_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ very softly, "long ere you maids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see the truth--that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, I loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or wouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? If thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very little of true and real love."

_Milisent_ seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly she saith,--"But, Aunt _Joyce_! He told me he were only of four-and-thirty years."

Aunt _Joyce_ laughed bitterly.

"Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, _Milly_?" saith she. "He is a year elder than thy father. But I grant, he looks by far younger than he is. And I reckon he 'bated ten years or so of what he looked. He alway looked young," she saith, the softened tone coming back into her voice. "Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once they break into aged men. And he hath kept him well, with washes and unguents."

It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness strave together in her voice. I count it were by reason they so strave in her heart.

"Wait till to-morrow, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, arising. "Thou shalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge for thyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like."

_Milly_ sobbed again, but methought something more softly.

"We were to have been wed o' _Sunday_ even," saith she, "by a _Popish_ priest, right as good as in church,--and then to have come home and won _Father_ and _Mother_ to forgive us and bless us. Then all had been smooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after."

Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt _Joyce's_ smile!

"Should you?" saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggest nay ever printed in a book. "Poor innocent child! A _Popish_ priest cannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours. Wist thou not that such marriage should ne'er have held good in law?"

"It might have been good in God's sight, trow," saith she, something perversely.

"Nay!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "When men go to, of set purpose, to break the laws of their country,--without it be in obedience to His plain command,--I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless. So he promised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he? Poor, trusting, deluded child! Thou shouldst never have come home, _Milly_--unless it had been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing. Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then--as we will now."

I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down _Aunt's_ story to-morrow.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE SECOND. I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall have done happening. For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over, come a quick rap of the door, which _Caitlin_ opened, and in come _Alice Lewthwaite_. Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but just cast o'er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forth all suddenly, and had run fast and far. We had made most of us an end of eating, but were yet sat at the table.

"_Alice_, dear heart, what aileth thee?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.

"Lady _Lettice_, do pray you tell me," panteth she, "if you have seen or heard aught of our _Blanche_?"

"Nay, _Alice_, in no wise," saith _Mother_.

"Lack the day!" quoth she, "then our fears be true."

"What fears, dear heart?" I think _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, asked at her all together.

"I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress _Joyce_," she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannot say, saving that _Father_ himself took _Alice_ home, and did seem greatly concerned at her trouble. Well, this was scantly o'er ere a messenger come with a letter to _Mother_, whereon she had no sooner cast her eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure. Then, _Father_ desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dear and old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, were but now at the _Salutation_ Inn at _Ambleside_, and would fain come on and tarry a season here if it should suit with _Mother's_ conveniency to have them.

"And right fain should I be," saith she; and so said _Father_ likewise.

Then _Mother_ told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir _Robert Stafford_ and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress _Dulcibel Fenton_, of far kin unto my Lady _Norris_, that was _Mother's_ mistress of old days at _Minster Lovel_: and moreover, one Mistress _Martin_, a widow that is sister unto Sir _Robert_, and was _Mother's_ fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of _Surrey_. So _Father_ saith he would ride o'er himself to _Ambleside_, and give them better welcome than to send but a letter back: and _Mother_ did desire her most loving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and help to make ready the guest-chambers. So right busy were we all the morrow, and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all was done, Aunt _Joyce_ had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit and listen.

"For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell," saith she: and added, as though she spake to herself,--"ay, and it were best got o'er ere _Dulcie_ cometh."

So we sat all in the window-seat, _Milly_ in the midst, and Aunt _Joyce_ afore us in a great cushioned chair.

"When I was of your years, _Milly_," saith she, "I dwelt--where I now do at _Minster Lovel_, with my father and my sister _Anstace_. Our mother was dead, and our baby brother _Walter_; and of us there had never been more. But we had two cousins--one _Aubrey Louvaine_, the son of our mother's sister,--you wot who he is," she saith, and smiled: "and the other, the son of our father's sister dwelt at _Oxford_ with his mother, a widow, and his name was--_Leonard Norris_."

The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.

"I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts," pursueth she, "and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time, with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin _Leonard_ and I were troth-plight. I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to love man: and--I thought he loved me. I never knew a man who had such a tongue to cajole a woman's heart. He could talk in such a fashion that thou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all his heart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have given the very same certainty to _Nan_ at the farm, and to _Mall_ down in the glen. I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman at once. He liked--he once told your father so much--a choice of strings for his bow. But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knew nothing. My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notion that his could be lesser than so never entered mine head. It was _Anstace_ who saw the clouds gathering before any other--_Anstace_, to whom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of reading hearts. There came a strange maiden on the scene--a beautiful maiden, with fair eyes and gleaming hair--and _Leonard's_ heart was gone from me for ever. Gone!--had it ever come? I cannot tell. May-be some little corner of his heart was mine, once on a time--I doubt if I had more. He had every corner and every throb of mine. Howbeit, when this maid--"

"How was she called, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Milly_, in rather an hard voice.

Aunt _Joyce_ did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, I saw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.

"Never mind that, _Milly_. I shall call her _Mary_. It was not her name. Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought her above to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couch whereon she lay--I something marvelled to see how quick from her face to mine went _Anstace'_ eyes, and back again to her. I knew, long after, what had been her thought. She had no faith in _Leonard_, and she guessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me. She tried to prepare me as she saw it coming. But I was blind and deaf. I shut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears. I would not face the cruel truth. For _Mary_ herself, I am well assured she meant me no ill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o'er. She did but divert her with _Leonard's_ words, caring less for him than for them. She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave her them by the bushel. She was a child laking with a firebrand, and never knew what it were until she burnt her fingers. And at last, maids, mine eyes were forced open. _Leonard_ himself told me, and in so many words, what I had refused to hear from others,--that he loved well enough the gold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me. There were bitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest. And so, at last, we parted. I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw his face for the last time--the last, until I saw it yester-morrow. Others had seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years. Even your father did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh as brothers. But mine eyes were sharper. I had not borne that face in mine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I should look on him and not know it. I knew the look in his eyes, the poise of his head, the smile on his lips, too well--too well! I reckon that between that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile upon them. But I thought of the day when I had it--when it was the one light of life to me--for I had not then beheld the Light of the World. _Milly_, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?--cold, and hard, and stern? Ah, men do think a woman so,--and women at times likewise--think her words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speak any word at all--think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a storm of passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep the key hard turned lest they burst the door open. Ah, young maids, you look upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom such words are strange to you. They be fit only for a young lass's lips, forsooth? Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is nought to be compared to the yearning love of age,--that the maid that loveth a man whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto her that has shrined him in her heart for thirty years."

Aunt _Joyce_ tarried a moment, and drew a long breath. Then she saith in a voice that was calmer and lower--

"_Anstace_ told me I loved not the _Leonard_ that was, but only he that should have been. But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go on yet praying, that the man of my love may be the _Leonard_ that yet shall be,--that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the true heart that poured all that love upon him. If it be so, let the Lord order how, and where, and when. For if I may know that it is, when I come into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without the knowledge."

"But it were better to know it, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Helen_ tenderly. Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.

"It were happier, _Nelly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ softly. "God knoweth whether it were best. If it be so, He will give it me.--And now is the hardest part of my tale to tell. For after a while, _Milly_, this--_Mary_--came to see what _Leonard_ meant, and methinks she came about the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not _Leonard_. When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was much bitterness betwixt them. At the last she utterly denied him, and shut the door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but at a later time, when in the persecutions under King _Henry_ she came into his power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go. I reckon, had it been under _Queen Mary_, he should have been content with nought less than her blood. But it pleased the good Lord to deliver her, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you should little care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he was shut up therein."

"Then, Aunt _Joyce_, is he a _Papist_?" saith _Helen_, of a startled fashion.

"Ay, _Nell_, he is a black _Papist_. When we all came forth of _Babylon_, he tarried therein."

"And what came of her you called _Mary_, if it please you, _Aunt_?" quoth I.

"She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, _Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her story. "And sithence then have I heard at times of _Leonard_, though never meeting him,--but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to worse--winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen _Elizabeth_ came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday."

We were all silent till Aunt _Joyce_ saith gently--

"Well, _Milly_,--should we have been more kinder if we had let thee alone to break thine heart, thinkest?"

"It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others were," mutters _Milly_ stubbornly.

"Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids should be true to the one over?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a pitying smile. "Well, such a thing may be possible,--once in a thousand times. Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she that will not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,--for I wis He had to do it for me."

And Aunt _Joyce_ rose up and went away.

"I marvel who it were she called _Mary_," said I.

"Essay not to guess, dear heart," saith _Helen_ quickly. "'Tis plain Aunt _Joyce_ would not have us know."

"Why, she told us, or as good," quoth _Milisent_, in that bitter fashion she hath had to-day and yesterday. "Said she not, at the first, that `it were well to get the tale o'er ere _Dulcie_ should come'? 'Tis my Lady _Stafford_, of course."

"I am not so sure of that," saith _Helen_, in a low voice: and methought she had guessed at some other, but would not say out [Note 1]. "I think we were better to go down now."

So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with _Mother_, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, that was, as was plain to see, in a mighty taking [much agitated].

"Dear heart, Lady _Lettice_, but I never looked for this!" she crieth, wiping of her eyes with her kerchief. "I wis we have been less stricter than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should bring this like of a misfortune on us! For _Blanche_ is gone to be undone, of that am I sure. Truth to tell, yonder Sir _Francis Everett_ so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and well-chosen words,--ay, and my master too--that we never thought to caution the maids against him. Now, it turns out that _Alice_ had some glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed _Blanche_, thinking it should not be to her honour; and me,--why, I ne'er so much as dreamed of any ill in store."

"What name said you?" quoth _Mother_, that was trying to comfort her.

"_Everett_," saith she; "Sir _Francis Everett_, he said his name were, of _Woodbridge_, in the county of _Suffolk_, where he hath a great estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year. And a well-looked man he was, not o'er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and his eyen shining grey,--somewhat like to yours, my Lady."

_Helen_ and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in both our minds. And looking then upon _Mother_, I reckoned it had come to her likewise. At _Milisent_ I dared not look, though I saw _Helen_ glance at her.

"And now," continueth Mistress _Lewthwaite_, "here do I hear that at _Grasmere_ Farm he gave out himself to be one Master _Tregarvon_, of _Devon_; and up in _Borrowdale_, he hath been playing the gallant to two or three maids by the name of Sir _Thomas Brooke_ of _Warwickshire_: and the saints know which is his right one. He's a bad one, Lady _Lettice_! And after all, here is your Mistress _Bess_, she saith she is as sure as that her name is _Wolvercot_, that no one of all these names is his own. She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist, down in the shires,--marry, what said she was his name, now? I cannot just call to mind. She should ne'er have guessed at him, quoth she, but she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were something singular therein--I mind not what it were. Dear heart, but this fray touching our _Blanche_ hath drove aught else out of mine head! But Mistress _Bess_ said _he_ were a bad one, and no mistake."

"Is _Blanche_ gone off with him, Mistress _Lewthwaite_?" saith _Helen_.

"That is right what she is, _Nell_, and ill luck go with her," quoth Mistress _Lewthwaite_: "for it will, that know I. God shall never bless no undutiful childre,--of that am I well assured."

"Nay, friend, curse not your own child!" saith _Mother_, with a little shudder.

"Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her," quoth she: "she'll get curse enough from him she's gone withal. She has made her bed, and she must lie on it. And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!"

Here come Cousin _Bess_ and Aunt _Joyce_ into the chamber, and a deal more talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_ rose up, and went away. But just ere she went, saith she to _Milisent_ and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber--

"Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father and mother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion, whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a _Cumberland_ woman. A pair of comely young lasses like you should have been a great catch for him, I reckon."

"Ah, Mistress mine," saith Cousin _Bess_, "when lasses take as much care of their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by the sky falling, _I_ reckon."

"You are right, Mistress _Bess_," saith she: and so away hied she.

No sooner was Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gone, than _Mother_ saith,--"_Bess_, who didst thou account this man to be? Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith thou didst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but she had forgat the name."

I saw Cousin _Bess_ look toward Aunt _Joyce_ with a question in her eyes: and if ever I read _English_ in eyes, what _Aunt's_ said was,--"Have a care!" Then Cousin _Bess_ saith, very quiet--

"It was a gentleman in _Oxford_ town, Cousin _Lettice_, that I was wont to hear of from our _Nell_ when she dwelt yonder."

"Oh, so?" saith _Mother_: and thus the matter ended.

But at after, in the even, when _Father_ and Aunt _Joyce_ and I were by ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt _Joyce_ say, very soft--

"_Aubrey_, didst thou give her the name?"

Methought _Father_ shook his head.

"I dared not, _Joyce_," saith he. "She was so sore troubled touching-- the other matter."

"I thought so," quoth _Aunt_. "Then I will beware that I utter it not."

"But _Edith_ knows," answereth _Father_ in a low voice.

"The maids all know," saith she. "I did not reckon thou wouldest keep it from her."

"I should not, but,"--and _Father_ paused. "Thou wist, _Joyce_, how she setteth her heart on all things."

"I am afeared, _Aubrey_, she shall have to know sooner or later. Mistress _Lewthwaite_ did all but utter it to her this morning, only I thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute."

"We were better to tell her than that," saith _Father_, and leaned his head upon his hand as though he took thought.

Then _Mother_ and _Helen_ came in, and no more was said.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FOURTH. I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nigh nine o' the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy. My Lady _Stafford_ and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ did return with _Father_--the which I set not down in his right place at my last writing,--and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage and such like. As to-morrow, _Mother_ shall carry them to wait on my Lord _Dilston_.

Sir _Robert Stafford_ is a personable gentleman, much of _Father's_ years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair and beard now turning grey, but have been dark. Mistress _Martin_ his sister (that when _Mother_ wist her was Mistress _Grissel Stafford_) is much like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain, though her hair be the greyer. My Lady _Stafford_, howbeit, hath not a grey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress _Martin_, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain. _Mother_, nathless, saith that Mistress _Grissel_ was wont to be the fairer when all were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thus consumed her early lovesomeness. For her husband, Captain _Martin_, that was an officer of _Calais_, coming home after that town was lost in Queen _Mary's_ time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop _Bonner_, he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had not Queen _Mary's_ dying (under God's gracious ordering) saved him therefrom. And all these months was Mistress _Martin_ in dread disease, never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof. And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years. Sir _Robert Stafford_, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was it right apparent, on Queen _Mary's_ incoming, how matters should turn, than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas and dwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen _Mary_ reigned. And in _Dutchland_ [Germany] were both their daughters wedded, the one unto a noble of that country, by name the Count of _Rothenthal_, and the other unto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, by name Master _Francis Digby_, that now hath a living in _Somerset_.

Medoubteth if _Mother_ be told who Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_ were. _Milly_ 'bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout will I not venture to guess. _Alice Lewthwaite_ come over this afternoon but for a moment, on her way to her aunt's, Mistress _Rigg_, and saith no word is yet heard of their _Blanche_, whom her father saith he will leather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is all for killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE V. This morrow we set forth for _Lord's Island_, a goodly company--to wit, _Father_, and _Mother_, and Sir _Robert_ and my Lady _Stafford_, and Mistress _Martin_, and _Milisent_, and me. Too many were we for _Adam_ to row, and thought to take old _Matthias_, had not _Robin Lewthwaite_ chanced on us the last minute, and craved leave to take an oar, saying it should be a jolly pleasance for him to spend the day on _Lord's Island_. So _Father_ took the second oar, and _Adam_ steered, and all we got well across, thanks to God. We landed, _Father_ gave his hand to my Lady _Stafford_, and Sir _Robert_ to _Mother_, and _Robin_, pulling a face at _Milly_ and me (for I wis well he had liever have been with us), his to Mistress _Martin_.

"Well, _Edith_," saith _Milly_, the pleasantest she hath spoken of late, "I reckon I must be thy _cavaliero_."

"Will you have my cap, _Milisent_?" saith _Robin_, o'er his shoulder.

"Thanks, I reckon I shall manage without," quoth she.

"Well, have a care you demean yourself as a _cavaliero_ should," saith he. "Tell her she is the fairest maid in all the realm, and you shall die o' despair an' you get not a glance from her sweet eyes."

"Nay, I'll leave that for you," saith _Milly_.

"Good. I will do mine utmost to mind it the next opportunity," quoth _Robin_.

So, with mirth, come we up to _Dilston_ Hall.

My Lord was within, said the old serving-man, and so likewise were Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_: so he led us across the hall, that is set with divers coloured stones, of a fashion they have in _Italy_, and into a pleasant chamber, where Mistress _Cicely_ was sat at her frame a-work, and rose up right lovingly to welcome us. Mistress _Jane_, said she, was in the garden: but my Lord come in the next minute, and was right pleasant unto us after his sad and bashful fashion, for never saw I a man like him, as bashful as any maid. Then Mistress _Jane_ come anon, and bare us--to wit, _Milisent_ and me--away to her own chamber, where she gave us sweet cakes and muscadel; and Mistress _Cicely_ came too. And a jolly time should we have had, had it not come into Mistress _Cicely's_ head to ask at us if it were true that _Blanche Lewthwaite_ was gone away with some gallant. I had need to say Ay, for _Milisent_ kept her mouth close shut.

"And who were he?" quoth Mistress _Jane_. I answered that so far as we heard he had passed by divers names, all about this vicinage: but the name whereby he had called himself at _Mere Lea_ (which is Master _Lewthwaite's_) was _Everett_.

"I warrant you, _Jane_," saith Mistress _Cicely_, "'tis the same _Everett_ Farmer _Benson_ was so wroth with, for making up to his _Margaret_. He said if ever he came nigh his house again, he should go thence with a bullet more than he brought. A man past his youth, was he, _Edith_, with fair shining hair--no grey in it--and mighty sweet spoken?"

"Ay, that is he," said I, "or I mistake, Madam."

"Dear heart, but what an ill one must he be!" quoth Mistress _Jane_. "Why he made old _Nanny's_ grand-daughter _Doll_ reckon he meant to wed her, and promised to give her a silver chain for her neck this next _Sunday_!"

All this while sat _Milisent_ still and spake never a word. I gat discourse turned so soon as ever I might. Then after a little while went we down to hall, and good mirth was had of the young gentlewomen with _Robin_ and me: but all the while _Milisent_ very still, so that at last Mistress _Cicely_ noted it, and asked her if her head ached. She said ay: and she looked like it. So, soon after came we thence, and crossed the lake again, and so home. _Milly_ yet very silent all the even: not as though she sulked, as of late, but rather as though she meditated right sadly.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE VII. This morrow, I being in Aunt _Joyce's_ chamber, helping her to lay by the new-washed linen, come _Milisent_ in very softly.

"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I would fain have speech of you."

"Shall I give thee leave [go away and leave you], _Milly_?" said I, arising, for I was knelt of the floor, before the bottom drawer.

"Nay, _Edith_," she makes answer: "thou knowest my faults, and it is but meet thou shouldst hear my confession."

Her voice choked somewhat, and Aunt _Joyce_ saith lovingly, "Dost think, then, thou hast been foolish, dear child?"

"I can hardly tell about foolish, _Aunt_," saith she, casting down her eyes, "but methinks I have been sinful. Will you forgive me mine hard words and evil deeds?"

"Ay, dear heart, right willingly. And I shall not gainsay thee, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly: "for `the thought of foolishness is sin,' and God calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but too lightly. Yet, bethink thee that `if any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father.' Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thou wilt `arise and go to thy father' and thy mother, and say to them right as did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in their sight. I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful and pitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the way to disarm it. Come back, _Milly_--first to God, and then to them. Thou shalt find fatherly welcome from either."

_Milly_ still hid her face.

"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I dare not say I have come _back_ to God, for I have been doubting this morrow if I were ever near Him. But I think I have _come_. So now I may go to _Father_ and _Mother_."

Aunt _Joyce_ kissed her lovingly, and carried her off. Of course I know not what happed betwixt _Father_ and _Mother_, and _Milly_, but I know that _Milly_ looks a deal happier, and yet sadder [graver], than she hath done of many days: and that both _Father_ and _Mother_ be very tender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.

Note 1. Helen guessed rightly. As the readers of "Lettice Eden" will know, the "Mary" of the tale was her mother.