Chapter 7

AUNT JOYCE TACKLES A GHOST.

"'Twas but one little drop of sin We saw this morning enter in, And lo! at eventide the world is drowned."

Keble.

(_In Helen's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE IV. Dear heart, but I ne'er thought our _Edith_ should have filled so much paper! Yet it doth seem me she is more livelier at writing than at household duties. I have watched her pen a-flying of a night (for she can write twice as fast as I, she writing of the new _Italian_ hand, and I but the old _English_) [Note 1] till I marvelled whate'er she found to say. And methinks she hath, likewise, a better memory than I, for I reckon I should have made some mighty blunder in all these long talks which she hath set down so pat.

I had no time to write afore to-day, nor much now: for o' New Year's Day had we all the childre of all the vicinage, and I were fair run off my feet, first a-making ready, and then a-playing games. Then was there a 'stowing away of such matter as should not be wanted again o' Twelfth Night. Trust me, but after Twelfth Night we shall have some jolly work!

Dear heart! but how much hath happed since the last line I writ in this book, and 'tis but two months gone. I do see, as saith the wise man, that we verily wit not what a day may bring forth.

Our _Milly_ is coming back something to her old self, though methinks she hath learned an hard lesson, and shall ne'er be so light and foolish as aforetime. I trust this is not unkindly to say, for in very deed I mean it not so. But more and more hear we of all sides touching this Master _Norris_ (as Aunt _Joyce_ saith is his true name), which doth plainly show him a right evil man, and that if our poor _Milly_ had trusted to his fair words, she should soon have had cause to repent her bitterly thereof. Why, there is scarce a well-favoured maid in all _Derwentdale_, nor _Borrowdale_, that hath not token to show of him, and an heap of besugared flatteries for to tell. Eh, but what an ill world is this we live in!--and how thankful should young maids be that have a good home to shelter them in, and a loving father and mother to defend them from harm! Trust me, but I never knew how ill place was the world.

Nor did I ever truly conceive aforetime of Aunt _Joyce_. Methought that for her, being rich and well to do, the wheels of life had run rare smooth: and that 'twas but a short way to the bottom of her mind and heart. And all suddenly an hand uplifts the corner of a curtain that I had taken no note of, and lo! a mighty deep that I never guessed to be there. Is it thus with all folks, I do marvel?--and if we could look into the inwards of them that seem as though nought were in them, should we find great dreary caverns, or vast mines of wealth? Yet for all this is Aunt _Joyce_ ever bright and cheery, and ready to do all kindly service for whoso it be that needeth it. And 'tis harder to carry an heavy burden that it shall not show under your cloak, than to heave it up on your shoulder. I did alway love Aunt _Joyce_, but never better, methinks, than sithence I have known somewhat more of her inner mind. Poor hasty spirits that we be, how do we misjudge other folk! But now I must tarry in my chronicling, for I hear _Anstace'_ voice below, and I reckon she is come to help in making ready for Twelfth Night.

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE VIII. Well! Twelfth Night is o'er, and the most of things 'stowed away, and all come back to our common ways. Sixty-eight guests had we, grown folk and childre, and I shall not essay, as I see _Edith_ hath done rarely, to set down all their names; only there were most of those that come on _Christmas_ Eve, but not Dr _Meade_ and his folks, he being bidden of my Lord _Dilston_. Much merriment was there a-drawing of king and queen, and it o'er, behold, _Dudley Murthwaite_ was King, and _Mother_ was Queen. So _Father_ (which had drawn the Chamberlain) right courtlily hands _Mother_ up to the throne, that was set at the further end of the great chamber, all laughing rarely to see how well 'twas done: and _Martha Rigg, Agnes Benson, Gillian Armstrong_, and our _Milly_, that had drawn the Maids of Honour, did dispose themselves behind her. Aunt _Joyce_ was Mother of the Maids, and she said she would have a care to rule them with a rod of iron. So she armed her with the poker, and shaked it at each one that tittered, till the most were a-holding of their sides with laughter. _Jack Lewthwaite_ drew the Chancellor, and right well he carried him. Ere their Majesties abdicated, and the Court dispersed, had we rare mirth, for Aunt _Joyce_ laid afore the throne a 'plaint of one of her maids for treason, which was _Gillian_, that could no way keep her countenance: and 'twas solemnly decreed of their Majesties, and ratified of the Chancellor, that the said prisoner be put in fetters, and made to drink poison: the which fetters were a long piece of silver lace that had come off a gown of _Mother's_, and the poison a glass of syllabub, which Mr Chancellor brought to the prisoner, that screamed and begged for mercy, but had it not--and hard work had _Gillian_ to beg for mercy, for she was laughing till she could scarce utter no words. Howbeit, this o'er, all we gathered around the fire, and played at divers sitting games. And as we were in the midst of "I love my love," and had but just finished R,-- afore _Margaret Benson_, that was next, could begin with S,--behold, a strange voice behind, yet no strange one, crieth out loud and cheery--

"I love my love with an S, because she is sweet; I hate her with S, because she is sulky: I took her to the sign of the _Ship_, and treated her to sprats and seaweed; her name is _Sophonisba Suckabob_, and she comes from _San Sebastian_."

Well, we turned round all and looked on him that had spoke, but in good sooth not one of us knew the bright fresh face, until _Mother_ cries out,--"_Ned_! _Ned_, my boy!" and then, I warrant you, there was some kissing and hand-shaking, ay, more than a little.

"Fleet ahoy!" saith _Ned_. "Haven't seen so many crafts in the old harbour, for never so long."

"Why, _Ned_, hast thou forgot 'tis Twelfth Night?" says _Milly_.

"So 'tis," quoth _Ned_. "Shall I dance you a hornpipe?"

So after all the greeting was done, _Ned_ sat down next to _Mother_: but we gat no further a-loving of our loves that night, for all wanted to hear _Ned_, that is but now come back from the _Spanish_ seas: and divers tales he told that were rare taking, and one or twain that did make my flesh creep: but truly his sea-talk is rare hard to conceive. When all at once saith _Ned_:--

"Have you a ghost cruising these parts?"

"Eh, _Ned_, hast thou seen her?" cries _Austin Park_.

"Who's her?" saith _Ned_. "I've seen a craft with a white hull and all sails up, in the copse nigh old _Nanny's_."

"Couldst thou make it thy conveniency to speak _English, Ned_?" saith _Father_. "That is the language we talk in _Derwentdale_."

_Ned_ laughed, and saith, "I'll endeavour myself; but 'tis none so easy to drop it. Well, who or what is it?"

"'Tis a ghost," saith _Austin_; "and folks laughed at me when I said I had seen it: may-be they'll give o'er now."

"Why didst not send a buck-shot through her?" quoth _Ned_.

"Good lack! I had no arms," saith _Austin_: "and what good should come o' shooting a ghost?"

"Make you first sure she is a ghost," saith _Father_: "for it should be right little good that should come of shooting a woman."

This was all said that night; and we brake up at nine o' the clock, and away hied our guests.

But yestereven, as I was a-crossing of the hall, just after the dusk fell, what should I see but Aunt _Joyce_, clad in hood, cloak, and pattens, drawing back of the bolt from the garden door: and I ran to help her.

"Why, Aunt _Joyce_, whither go you so late?" said I. "But may-be I do ill to ask."

"Nay, thou dost not so, child," saith she: "and I will take thee into my secret, for I can trust thee. _Nell_, I am going to see the ghost."

"Aunt _Joyce_," was all I could utter.

"Ay," saith she, "I will: for my mind misgives me that this is no ghost, but a living woman: and a woman that it should be well had an other woman to speak unto her. Be not afeared, dear heart; I am not running afore I am sent. It was said to me last night, `Go in this thy might.' And when the Lord sends men on His errands, He pays the charges."

"But if you should be hurt, _Aunt_!" cried I.

"Well, what so?" saith she. "He were a poor soldier that were afeared to be hurt in his King's battles. But if it be as I think, _Nell_, there is no fear thereof. And if there were, mine ease is of less moment than a sinner's soul. Nay, dear maid, take thine heart to thee [cheer up]. There is more with me than all the constables in _Cumberland_. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven, and in the earth, and in the seas, and in all deep places.' I am not afeared, _Nell_."

And away trudged she, without an other word. But I sat on thorns till, about seven o' the clock, she came into the great chamber, her hood and cloak doffed.

"Why, _Joyce_, I had lost thee," saith _Mother_, looking up brightly from her sewing.

"I would rather thou hadst lost me than the Lord, _Lettice_: and if thou hadst not, methinks He had found me wanting," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Now, dear hearts, list me. I have much trust in you, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, or I had not dared to do as I have done this night. I have brought into your house a woman that is a sinner. Will you turn her forth of the doors to die in the snow without, or will you let her 'bide till she hath had time to behold Him that sitteth as guest at your banquet, and, I would hope, to wash His feet with tears, and wipe them with the hairs of her head?"

"O _Joyce_, let her 'bide!" crieth _Mother_, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Amen!" saith _Father_, gently.

"But who is she?" saith _Mother_, as if something fearfully.

"She is,"--Aunt _Joyce's_ voice was very husky--"she is what our _Milisent_ would have been, if the Lord had not stayed her right at the last minute."

So then I knew that _Blanche Lewthwaite_ was found at last.

There were none in the chamber, as it happed, but _Father_, _Mother_, and me, when _Aunt_ came in.

"And what hath she to say?" asks _Mother_.

"She will not talk of the past," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "and, God wot, I shall not ask her."

"Is she very 'shamed and sorrowful?"

"Never a whit. She is more angered than aught else."

"Angered!--with whom?"

"With _Providence_, I take it," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, something drily. "She counts a miracle should have been wrought for her to hinder her from sinning, and that since it were not, there can be no blame laid at her door."

"So hard as that!" saith _Mother_.

"May-be not all through," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer. "The crust seems thick at present: but there may be a soft spot deep down below. I shall work till I find it."

"Is she not softened toward thee?" asks _Father_.

"Me!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a bitter little laugh. "Why, so far as I can make out, I am but one step fairer than _Providence_ in her eyes. I gat not much flattery this even, I can tell you--no more than I had of _Milly_ a month gone. Nay, _Aubrey_. He that would save a sinner against his will must not expect thanks from him."

"Shall I go to her, _Joyce_?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.

"As thou wilt, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Only, an' thou so dost, look not for any fair words save out of thine own mouth. She is in the green chamber. I locked her in."

"Hath she had to eat?" saith _Mother_.

"Ay; I saw to that ere I came below."

_Mother_ went forth of the chamber.

"May I see her, Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "or must I not?"

"Better not at this present, _Nell_," she made answer. "But--I am not sure that it were not well for _Milly_."

When _Mother_ came down again, she saith in a despairing voice, and spreading forth her hands--

"O _Joyce_, she is as hard as a stone!"

"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, quietly. "So, I reckon, was _Peter_, until the Lord turned and looked upon him. That melted him, _Lettice_. Leave us take _Blanche_ to the Lord."

"Sin is the most hardening thing in the world, dear heart," saith _Father_, sadly.

So here is poor _Blanche_, locked of the green chamber, with Aunt _Joyce_ for her waiting-maid, for none other will she have to enter--not even _Mother_, for her one talk with _Blanche_ hath sore distressed her.

"Wait a while, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "I will bid thee when I reckon any good should come of it."

_Milisent_ hath been told, and seemeth much touched therewith: but none of us have yet seen _Blanche_. Poor heart! may the good Lord have mercy upon her!

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XII. _Mother_, and I with her, went up this morrow to _Mere Lea_, to do Mistress _Lewthwaite_ to wit touching _Blanche_. We found her right busy a-making of pies, and _Alice_ by her paring of apples. She gave us good welcome, and we sat us down, and talked a short while of other matter. Then saith _Mother_:--

"Suffer me to ask at you, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, if you have heard ever any news of _Blanche_?"

Mistress _Lewthwaite_ shaked her head sorrowfully.

"Nay, not we," saith she. "It should be a good day we did. Albeit, her father is sore angered: yet methinks if he did verily stand face to face with the child, he should not be so hard on her as he talks now."

"Then I hope the good day is coming," saith _Mother_. "For methinks, neighbour, we have heard somewhat."

Mistress _Lewthwaite_ left her pastry of the board, and come up to _Mother_.

"Eh, Lady _Lettice_, what have you heard? Tell me quick, now!"

"My poor heart, I saw her last night."

"Where is the child?"

"With us, at _Selwick_ Hall. _Joyce_ found her, wandering about, and hiding in copses, and she brought her in."

"And what hath happed, Lady _Lettice_?"

"We have not asked her."

"Not asked her!" saith Mistress _Lewthwaite_, in manifest amazement; and _Alice_ looked up with the like.

"We know," saith _Mother_, "but such matter as it hath liked her to tell us: the which is, that she was wed to this gentleman of a _Popish_ priest, which as you know is not good in law: and that after she had bidden with him but a fortnight, they quarrelled, and he left her."

"Ah, she ne'er had a good temper, hadn't _Blanche_," saith her mother. "Well, poor heart! I'll not quarrel with her. We're all sinners, I reckon. The lass may come home when she will, for all me; and I'll do mine utmost to peace her father. We haven't so much time o' this world, nor so much happiness, that we need wrangle and make matters worser."

For Mistress _Lewthwaite_ is herself a right easy-going woman: 'tis her father of whom _Blanche_ hath her temper. But _Alice_ saith to me, that sat right at the end of the board where she was a-work--

"All very well, methinks, for my fine mistress to come hither a-prinking and a-pranking of her, and looking to be took back as if nought had happened. If I had the word to say, she'd not come home in no hurry, I warrant you. She should lie on her bed as she'd made it."

"O _Alice_!" said I, "but sure, thou wilt be right glad to have _Blanche_ back?"

"Shall I so?" saith she, and tossed her head. "Thank you for nothing, _Nell Louvaine_. I'm a decent maid that have alway carried me belike, and I go not about to say `sister' to one that brought disgrace on her name."

"_Alice_, art thou about to play the _Pharisee_?" said I, for I was sore troubled. I had ever thought _Alice_ right sorry after _Blanche_, and it did astonish me to hear such words of her.

"Let my fine Lady _Everett_ play the publican first, then," quoth she.

I scarce wist what to say, yet I would have said more, but that _Mother_ rose up to depart at this time. But I am so astonied at _Alice_. While so _Blanche_ were lost, she did seem quite soft toward her; and now she is found, here is _Alice_ grown hard as a board, and all of a minute, as it were. Had it been our _Milly_ (which I do thank God from mine heart-root it is not) I think I would not have been thus towards her. I know I am but sinful and not to be trusted for the right, as much or more than other: but I do _think_ I should not so do.

Yet is there one matter that I comprehend not, nor never shall, neither of _Milly_ nor of any other. To think of a maid leaving of father and mother, and her home, and her brethren and sisters, to go away with a fine-spoken man that she had not known a month, all by reason he spake some flattering words--in good sooth, but 'tis a marvel unto me. Truly, I might conceive the same in case a maid were rare ill-usen at home-- were her father ever harsh unto her, and her mother all day a-nagging at her--then, if the man should show him no mere flatterer, but a true friend, would I not stick to the days she had known him. And yet, as methinks, it should be a strange case wherein a true man should not go boldly and honestly to the maid's father, and ask her of him, with no hole-and-corner work. But to think of so leaving _our_ father and mother, that never in all their lives did deny us any good thing that was meet for us, and that have loved us and cared for us all, from the day we were born unto this day--to go away from them with a strange flatterer--nay, this passeth me by many a mile.

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XVI. This morrow, as I was sat a-work alone in the great chamber, come my Lady _Stafford_, with her broidery in her hand, and sat her down beside me. And ere many minutes were passed, saith she--

"_Helen_, I have been to see _Blanche_."

"And is she still so hard, my Lady?" said I.

"I should not call her mood hard," saith she. "I think she is very, very sorry, and would fain not have us see it. But," she paused a moment, and then went on, "it is the worldly sorrow which causeth death."

"Your Ladyship would say?"

"She is right sorry for my Lady _Everett_, for the great lady she thought to have been, and the grand life she looked to lead: but for _Blanche Lewthwaite_ as a sinner before God, methinks she is not sorry at all."

"'Tis a sad case," said I.

My Lady _Stafford_ gave me no answer, and when I looked up at her, I saw her dark eyes fastened on the white clouds which were floating softly across the blue, and her eyes so full that they all-to [nearly] ran o'er.

"_Helen_," she saith, "hast thou any idea what is sin?"

"Truly, Madam, I think so," I made answer.

"I marvel," she pursueth, "if there ever were man or woman yet, that could see it as God seeth it. It may be that unto Him all the evil that _Blanche_ hath done--and 'tis an evil with many sides to it--is a lesser thing than the pride and unbelief which will not give her leave to own that she hath done it. And for what others have done--"

All suddenly, her Ladyship brake off, and hiding her face in her kerchief, she brake into such a passion of weeping tears as methought I had scarce seen in any woman aforetime.

"O my God, my God!" she sobbeth through her tears, "how true is it that `man knows the beginnings of sin, but who boundeth the issues thereof!'" [Note 2.]

I felt that my Lady's trouble, the cause whereof was unknown to me, lay far beyond any words, specially of me: and I could but keep respectful silence till she grew calm. When so were, quoth she--

"Dost marvel at my tears, _Helen_?"

"In no wise, Madam," said I: "for I reckoned there were some cause for them, beyond my weak sight."

"Cause!" saith she--"ay, _Helen_, cause more than thou wist. Dost know that this _Leonard Norris_--the man that hath wrought all this mischief--and more beside than thou or I can tell--is my brother, of the father's side?"

"Madam!" cried I in amaze.

"Ay," saith she sorrowfully: "and that is not all, _Helen_, by very much. For our father was just such an other: and not only are the sins, but the leanings and temptations of the fathers, visited upon the children. And I thought, _Helen_, beyond that--of a quiet grave in unconsecrate ground, wherein, now nigh fifty years agone, they laid one that had not sinned against the light like to _Blanche Lewthwaite_, yet to whom the world was harder than it is like to be to her. She was lawfully wed, _Helen_, but she stood pledged to convent vows, and the Church cursed her and flung her forth as a loathsome thing. Her life for twelve years thereafter was a daily dying, whereto death came at last as a hope and a mercy. I reckon the angels drew not their white robes aside, lest her soiled feet should brush them as she passed up to the Judgment Bar. And methinks her sentence from the Judge should be no worser than one He gave in the days of His flesh--`Thy sins be forgiven thee: go in peace.' The Church cast her out, but not the Cross. There was no room for her in the churchyard: but methinks there was enough in the Sepulchre on _Golgotha_!"

Oh, but how sorry I felt for this poor soul! and I saw she was one whom her Ladyship had loved well.

"There was a time, _Helen_," she went on, "when it seemed to me uttermost misery that no prayers should be permitted for her soul. Think thou with what comfort I found in God's Word that none were needed for her. Ah, these _Papists_ will tell you of the happiness of their priests' fatherly care, and the sweetness of absolution: but they tell you not of the agony of despair to them to whom absolution is denied, and for whom the Church and the priest have no words save curses. I have seen it, _Helen_. Well for them whom it drives straight to Him that is high above all Churches, and who hath mercy on whom He will have mercy. Praise be to His holy name, that the furthest bounds of men's forbearance touch not the `uttermost' of God."

When my Lady thus spake, it came upon my mind all of a sudden, to ask at her somewhat the which had troubled me of long time. I marvel wherefore it should be, that it doth alway seem easier to carry one's knots and griefs unto them that be not the nearest and dearest, than unto them that be. Is it by reason that courtesy ordereth that they shall list the better, and not be so like to snub a body?--yet that can scarce be so with me, that am alway gently entreated both of _Father_ and _Mother_. Or is it that one would not show ignorance or mistakings afore them one loves, nor have them hereafter cast in one's teeth, as might be if one were o'erheard of one's sist--Good lack! but methought I were bettered of saying unkindly things. I will stay me, not by reason that it should cost me two pence, but because I do desire to please God and do the right.

Well, so I said unto my Lady, "Madam, I pray you pardon me if I speak not well, but there is one place of Holy Writ that doth sore pose and trouble me. It is that of Saint _Paul_, which saith, that if they that were once enlightened shall fall away, there shall be no hope to renew them again. That doth alway seem to me so awful a word!--to think of one that had sinned longing for forgiveness, and yet must not have it--I cannot understand how it should be, when _Christ_ liveth to save to the uttermost!"

"Nor any other," saith she. "Dear _Helen_, thou readest it wrong, as I believe many do. The Apostle saith not, there is no renewing to _pardon_: he saith, there is no renewing to _repentance_. With them that have sinned against light, the language of whose hearts is, `I have loved idols, and after them I will _go_,'--these have no desire of remission. They do not wish to be forgiven. But these, dear maid, are not they that long for pardon and are willing to turn from sin. That is repentance. So long as a sinner can repent, so long can he receive pardon. The sinner that doth long for forgiveness which God can not or will not give him, is a monster was never found yet in this world or that which is to come."

Right comfortable did I think these words. I never should have dared (as _Milly_ saith touching the 139th Psalm) to have turned o'er the two leaves together that I might not see this sixth chapter of _Hebrews_: yet did I never see it without a diseaseful creeping feeling, belike, coming o'er me. And I am sore afeared lest I may have come nigh, at times, to wishing that Saint _Paul_ had not writ the same.

"Yet mark thou, _Helen_," again saith my Lady, "there is a difference betwixt remission of sin and remission of penalty. Every sinner should be glad enough to part with his punishment: but no sinner was ever yet willing to part with his sin but under the promptings of God's Spirit. And that is but a sorry repentance which would fain keep the sin, if only it might without incurring penalty."

"Madam, you do cause sin to look very awful," said I.

"That is how God would have thee see it, _Helen_," saith she. "Remember, He hates sin not for His own sake only, but for thy sake. Ah, dear maid, when some sin, or some matter that perhaps scarce seems sin to thee, yet makes a cloud to rise up betwixt God and thee--when this shall creep into thy very bosom, and nestle himself there warm and close, and be unto thee as a precious jewel--remember, if so be, that `it is better _for thee_ to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than thou shouldst, having two hands, or two feet, be cast into everlasting fire.' He that said that, _Helen_, knew what Hell was."

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXI. _Blanche_ is gone home at last. Aunt _Joyce_ and I went thither this last night with her, her mother having wrung consent from her father that she should come. For all that was the scene distressful, for Master _Lewthwaite_ kept not in divers sharp speeches, and _Blanche_ (that is sore wanting in reverence to her elders) would answer back as she should not: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gat them peaced, and _Alice_ and _Blanche_ went off together. _Alice_ behaved better than my fears. But, dear heart, to my thinking, how hard and proud is _Blanche_! Why, she would brazen it out that she hath done none ill of no kind. The good Lord open her eyes!

When we came out from _Mere Lea_, and were come down the garden path, Aunt _Joyce_ stood a moment on the hill-side, her eyes lift up to the still stars.

"Good Lord!" then saith she, "how hard be we poor sinful men and women, each to other, and how much more forbearing art Thou against whom we have sinned! Make Thou Thy servants more like Thyself!"

And then away, with a quick foot, and never an other word spake she till we gat us home.

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXVII. When I come to read o'er that I have writ, I find I have said rare little touching _Ned_. And in very deed it is not that I meant to keep him out, for _Ned_ is my very hero, and my true thought is that never yet were young man so brave and good, nor so well-favoured. I must say I would I could conceive his talk better: for 'tis all so stuffed with sea-words that I would fain have an interpreter. _Ned_ laughs when I say this.

"Well," saith he, "'tis the strangest thing in the world you should not conceive me. 'Tis all along of you being maids, I reckon."

"Nay," say I, "'tis by reason we were ne'er at sea."

"Well, how any human creature can be a landlubber," saith _Ned_, "when he might have a good boat and a stiff capful o' wind, passeth me rarely."

"Why," quoth _Father_, that had listed us in silence till now, "if we were all sailors and mermen, _Ned_, how wouldst come by a sea-biscuit or a lump of salt meat? There should be none to sow nor reap, if the land were deserted."

"Oh ay, 'tis best some should love it," saith _Ned_. "But how they so should, that is it passeth me."

"'Tis a strange matter," saith _Father_, "that we men should be all of us unable to guess how other men can affect that we love not. I dare be bound that _Wat_ should say what passed him was that any man which might dwell on the land should take to the sea."

"_Wat_!" saith Ned, curling of his lip. "I saw him, Sir, and spent two days in his company, when we touched at _London_ some eight months gone. Why, he is--Nay, I wis not what he is like. All the popinjays in the South Seas be fools to him."

"Is he so fine, _Ned_?" asks _Milly_.

"Fine!" saith _Ned_. "Go to, I have some whither an inventory of his Lordship's garments, the which I set down for the mirth of you maids. I gat the true names of _Wat_, look you."

And he pulleth forth a great bundle of papers from his pocket, and after some search lighteth on the right.

"Now then, hearken, all of you," saith _Ned_. "_Imprimis_, on his head--when it is on, but as every minute off it cometh to every creature he meeteth, 'tis not much--a _French_-fashioned beaver, guarded of a set of gold buttons enamelled with black--cost, eight pound."

"For a hat!" cries _Milly_.

"Tarry a bit," saith _Ned_; "I am not in port yet by a thousand knots. Then in this hat was a white curled ostrich feather, six shillings. Below, a gown of tawny velvet, wherein were six yards, _London_ measure, of four-and-twenty shillings the yard: and guarded with some make of fur (I forgat to ask him the name of that), two dozen skins, eight pence each: cost of this goodly gown, six pound, ten shillings, and four pence."

"Eh!" cried _Milly_ and _Edith_ together.

"Bide a bit!" saith _Ned_. "_Item_, a doublet, of black satin of sixteen shillings the yard, with points of three and sixpence the dozen. _Item_, a pair of hose of popinjay green (they be well called popinjay) of thirty shillings. _Item_, cross-garters of scarlet--how's that?" quoth _Ned_, scratching his forehead with a pencil: "I must have forgat the price o' them. Boots o' red _Spanish_ leather, nine shillings. Gloves of _Cordova_, well scented, ten pence. Gold rings of 's ears, three shilling the pair."

"Rings! Of his ears!" cries Cousin _Bess_, that was sat in the window at her sewing, as she mostly is of an afternoon. "And prithee, what cost the one of his nose?"

"He hasn't bought that yet," saith _Ned_ drily.

"It'll come soon, I reckon," quoth she.

"Then, o'er all, a mighty gold chain, as thick as a cart-rope. But that, as he told me, was given to him: so 'tis not fair to put it of the price. Eh, good lack! I well-nigh forgat the sleeves--green velvet, slashed of mallard-colour satin; and guarded o' silver lace--three pound, eight shillings, and four pence."

"Hast made an end, _Ned_?" saith _Edith_.

"Well, I reckon I may cast anchor," saith _Ned_, looking o'er to the other side of his paper.

"Favour me with the total, _Ned_," quoth _Father_.

"Twenty-three pound, two and six pence, Sir, I make it," saith _Ned_. "I am not so sure _Wat_ could. He saith figuring is only fit for shop-folk."

"Is thrift only fit for shop-folk too?" asks _Father_.

"I'll warrant you _Wat_ thinks so, Sir," answers _Ned_.

"What have thy garments cost this last year, _Ned_?" pursueth _Father_.

"Eh, five pound would buy mine any year," quoth he.

"And so I reckon would ten mine," saith _Father_. "What be _Wat's_ wages now?--is he any thing bettered?"

"Sixteen pound the year, Sir, as he told me."

"I guess shop-folk should be something put to it to take twenty-three out of sixteen," quoth _Father_.

"And prithee, _Ned_, how many such suits hath my young gentleman in his wardrobe?"

"That cannot I say certainly, Sir: but I would guess six or seven," _Ned_ makes answer. "But, dear heart! you wit not the half hath to come of that sixteen pound: beyond clothes, there be presents, many and rich (this last new year but one girdle of seven pound;) pomanders [perfumed balls, which served as scent-bottles], and boxes of orange comfits, and cups of tamarisk wood, and _aqua mirabilis_, and song books, and virginals [the predecessor of the piano] and viols [violins], and his portrait in little, and playing tables [backgammon], and speculation glasses [probably magnifying glasses], and cinnamon water, and sugar-candy, and fine _Venice_ paper for his letters, and pouncet-boxes--"

"Take breath, _Ned_," saith _Father_. "How many letters doth _Wat_ write by the year?"

"They be love-letters, on the _Venice_ paper," quoth _Ned_. "In good sooth, I wis not, Sir: only I saw them flying hither and thither as thick as Mother _Carey's_ chickens."

"Is he troth-plight?" saith _Father_, very seriously.

"Not that I heard," _Ned_ makes answer. "He had two or three strings to his bow, I guess. One a right handsome young lady, daughter unto my Lord of _Sheffield_, that had taken up with him the new fashion called _Euphuism_."

"Prithee interpret, _Ned_," saith _Father_, "for that passeth my weak head."

I saw _Milly_ to blush, and cast down her eyes of her tapestry-work: and I guessed she wist what it were.

"'Tis a rare diversion, Sir, come up of late," answers _Ned_: "whereby, when a gentlewoman and a gentleman be in treaty of love,--or without the same, being but friends--they do agree to call each other by certain dainty and fantastical names: as the one shall be _Perfection_, and the other _Hardihood_: or, the one _Sweetness_, and the other _Fortitude_: and the like. I prayed _Wat_ to show me how it were, or else had I wist no more than a baker how to reef a sail. The names whereby he and his lady do call each other be, she his _Excellency_, and he her _Courage_."

"Be these men and women grown?" quoth _Father_.

"Nay, sure!" cries Cousin _Bess_.

"Every one, Sir," saith _Ned_, a-laughing.

"And, poor souls! can they find nought better to do?" quoth _Father_.

"They have not yet, it seems," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Are you ne'er mocking of us, think you?" saith Cousin _Bess_ to _Ned_.

"Never a whit!" crieth he. "Eh, Cousin _Bess_, I could tell you queerer matters than that."

"Nay, I'll hear none, o' my good will," saith she. "_Paul_ saith we be to think on whatsoever things be lovely: and I reckon he wasn't like to mean on a parcel o' big babes, playing at make-believe."

"They have nought else to do, it appears," quoth _Father_.

"Dear heart!" saith she. "Could they ne'er buy a bale of flannel, and make some doublets and petticoats for the poor? He must be a poor silly companion that shall call a woman _Excellency_, when she hath done nought all her life but to pluck roses and finger her gold chain. Where's her excellency, belike?"

"Things were ill enough in the Court of old," saith _Father_, "but it doth seem me we were scantly so brainless of old time as this. I shall send a letter to my cousin of _Oxenford_ touching _Walter_. He must not be suffered to drift into--"

_Father_ did not end his sentence. But methought I could guess reasonable well how it should have been finished.

Verily, I am troubled touching _Wat_, and will pray for him, that he may be preserved safe from the snares of the world, the flesh, and the Devil. Oh, what a blessed place must Heaven be, seeing there shall be none of them!

One thing, howbeit, doth much comfort me,--and that is, that _Ned_ is true and staunch as ever to the early training he had of _Father_ and _Mother_ out of God's Word. Some folk might think him careless and too fond of laughter, and fun, and the like: but I know _Ned_--of early days I was ever his secret fellow--and I am well assured his heart is right and true. He shall 'bide with us until Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ his next voyage out to the _Spanish_ seas, but we know not yet when that shall be. He had intended to make the coast of _Virginia_ this last time, but was beat back by the tempest. 'Tis said that when he goeth, his brother of the mother's side, Sir _Walter Raleigh_, shall go with him. This Sir _Walter_, saith _Ned_, is a young gentleman that hath but eight and twenty years, yet is already of much note in the Court. He hath a rare intelligence and a merry wit. Aunt _Joyce_ was mightily taken by one tale that _Ned_ told us of him,--how that, being at the house of some gentleman in the country, where the mistress of the house was mightily set up and precise, one morrow, this Sir _Walter_, that was a-donning [dressing] himself, did hear the said his precise and delicate hostess, without his door, to ask at her servants, "Be the pigs served?" No sooner had they met below, than saith Sir _Walter_, "Madam, be the pigs served?"

But my Lady, that moved not a muscle of her face, replied as calm as you will, "You know best, Sir, whether you have had your breakfast." Aunt _Joyce_ did laugh o'er this, and said Sir _Walter_ demerited to have as good given him as he brought.

"I do like," quoth she, "a woman that can stand up to a man!"

"I can credit it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_.

Note 1. The English hand was the running hand of the old black letter, and was a very crabbed and tedious piece of work. The Italian hand, which came in about this time, has lasted until the present day, though its latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty. It was at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period some specimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and as legible as copper-plate. Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldest daughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! something horrible. Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it to perfection), but she has left on record that she did not like doing it.

Note 2. These were the last words of Francesco Spira, an Italian lawyer and a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse and despair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants of England.