Читать книгу Joyce Morrell's Harvest - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 10

“The inward depths of that deceitful fount

Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead.”

(In Milisent’s handwriting.)

Selwick Hall, November ye first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howbeit, we were all up, at long last—and if one of us be late of a Sunday morrow, Father looks as if we had brake his heart. Our Sunday gowns at this season be of green satin, of sixteen shillings the yard—eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a Sunday? Well, never mind; ’tis now done—and furred with pampilion (an unknown species of fur). Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gear went we to church, at Keswick. And I would with all mine heart we had a church nearer unto us than three weary miles, though every body saith ’tis mighty near. Father rid on Favelle, with Edith behind him; and Mother on Garnet, behind Master Stuyvesant; and Nell and I on Cowslip; and Aunt Joyce of her own hackney, that is called Hermit, with old Matthias. Cousin Bess come ambling after, on Starlight, with Adam afore her: and behind trudged Kate and Kitling. And by the same token, Moses came a-mewing to the door to see us depart.

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

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

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

Well! matins o’er, come the communion, for which all tarried but Edith; she, not being yet confirmed, is alway packed off ere it begin. And when that were o’er—and I do love the last Amen of all—went all we to dinner with Mistress Huthwaite, at whose house we do ever dine of a Sunday: and mighty late it is of a communion Sunday; and I am well-nigh famished ere I break bread. And for dinner was corned beef and carrots, and for drink sherris-sack and muscadel. Then, at three o’ the clock, all we again to church: and by the same token, if Dr. Meade gave us not two full hours of a sermon, then will I sell my gold chain for two pence. And at after church, in the porch were my Lord Dilston and fair Mistress Jane; and my Lord was pleased to take Father by the hand, and Mother and Aunt Joyce likewise; but did but kiss us maids. (Note 1.) But Mistress Jane took us all three by the hand, and did say unto me that she would fain be better acquainted. And in very deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto close friendship with my Lord Dilston his daughter, as I do right heartily trust I may. Nor, after all, were it any such great preferment for me, that am daughter unto Sir Aubrey Louvaine of Selwick Hall, Knight, which is cousin unto my right honourable Lord the Earl of Oxenford, and not so far off neither. For my most honourable Lord, Sir Aubrey de Vere, sometime Earl of Oxenford, was great-great-great-grandfather unto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady Margaret, wife to Sir Nicholas Louvaine, was great-great-grandmother unto Father: so they twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, good lack, what is this? Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress Jane Radcliffe her notice and favour. If the Radcliffes be an old house, as in very deed they be, so be the Veres and the Louvaines both: to say nought of the Edens, that have dwelt in Kent-dale these thousand years at the least. But one thing will I never own, and that is of Mynheer Stuyvesant, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, that our family be all Dutch folk. He will have it that the Louvaines must needs have sprung from Louvain in the Low Countries; but of all things doth he make me mad (angry: a word still used in the north of England) when he saith the great House of Vere is Dutch of origin. For he will have it a weir to catch fish, when all the world doth know that Veritas is Latin for truth, and Vere cometh of that, or else of vir, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no base coward loon. And ’tis all foolishness for to say, as doth Mynheer, that the old Romans had no surnames like ours, but only the name of the family, such like as Cornelius or Julius, which ran more akin unto our Christian names. I believe it not, and I won’t. Why, was there not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called Lucius Verus? and what is that but Vere? ’Tis as plain as the barber’s pole, for all Mynheer, and that will I say.

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

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

Selwick Hall, November ye iii.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selwick Hall, November ye vi.

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

“Saint Hubert’s Isle, Sir,” quoth I. “Of old time, as ’tis said, Saint Hubert had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see down yonder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir,” quoth I, “my name is Milisent Louvaine, to serve you.”

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

“Sir,” said I, “I dwell at Selwick Hall, o’er the lake in yonder quarter.”

“It must be a delightsome dwelling,” he made answer. “And—elders have you, fairest Mistress?”

“I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir Aubrey Louvaine is my father, and Dame Lettice, sometime named Eden, my mother.”

“Lettice Eden!” saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as though Mother’s old name should have waked some regrets within him. “I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was with my sometime Lady of Surrey, and might now and then be seen at the Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of Richmond, her lord’s sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o’er these rough paths.”

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

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

“We shall be something late for four-hours, Milly,” saith she. “Prithee, wake Adam, whilst I make an end.”

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

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

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

So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o’er the lake. All the way Edith saith nought but—“Milly, where didst thou pick up thy cavaliero?”

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

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

“Milly, is Sir Edwin something free to ask questions?”

“Oh, meterly,” (tolerably) said I.

“I trust thou gavest him not o’er full answers.”

“Oh, nought of import,” said I. “Beside, Edith, he is an old friend of Mother.”

“Is he so?” quoth she. “Then we can ask Mother touching him.”

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