CHAPTER THREE.
MILISENT MAKES A FRIEND.
"The inward depths of that deceitful fount Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead."
(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE FIRST.Things be alway going awry with me. Elsewise, this jolly book shouldne'er have come into my hands first of a _Sunday_. I would love dearlyto read o'er what my philosophical sister hath writ, and comment on thesame: but I reckon I must tarry till to-morrow.
Now, _Mother_ said I was to write what I thought, and I mean to do thesame. As to the pennies and the two-pences, they may count upthemselves, 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 lifeout of _Father_ till he give me an other. So here goes it!
Well, the first thing I think is,--Why must everything pleasant be setaside while _Monday_? _Father_ saith happiness and wickedness be notalike, though (quoth he) some folk think so much. Now, it seems me thathappiness and holiness should be the same thing. Why should a matternot be right simply by reason that I like it? I want to know, and Iwill ask somebody, some of these days.
Howbeit, of one thing am I assured,--namely, that it cannot be wicked towrite on _Sunday_ what it is not wicked to do. So I shall tell what wedid.
Now, there some folk are so queer! They will take down a gown, andshake out the folds, and talk an half-hour o'er it,--how this gimpshould be better to run that way, and next week the bottom must needs befresh bound: all of a _Sunday_. But to stick a neeld in, and make thegimp run that way, and fresh bind the bottom,--good lack! they shouldcount you a very heathen an' you asked them. Now, I want to know howthe one is a bit better than the other. I cannot see a pin to choosebetwixt 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 towake, is _Edith_; or rather, not to wake, but to make her rise up whenshe is woke. She takes a deal of shaking and talking to, some morningsspecially. _Nell_ does the talking, and I do the shaking: and I warrantyou, 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 shillingsthe yard,--eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a _Sunday_?Well, never mind; 'tis now done--and furred with pampilion [an unknownspecies of fur]. Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gearwent we to church, at _Keswick_. And I would with all mine heart we hada 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 Ion _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 tosee us depart.
So came we to the church, and there found afore us my Lord _Dilston_ andhis following, that had rowed over from _Lord's Island_, whereon of oldtime the Barons of _Dilston_ [the Radcliffes, subsequently created Earlsof Derwentwater] have had an house (I am mindful of strangers the whichshall read our chronicle, which is more, I reckon, than _Nell_ shallhave been), and in good sooth, but Mistress _Jane_ is fair of face, andI do love to look upon her. Well, of course, _Father_ being but aknight, we stood of one side to let pass a baron: and when all they weregone 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: andI 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 commonfolk, the townsfolk, and the lead-miners from _Vicar's Island_[anciently belonging to Fountains Abbey] and such like, all a-gaping anda-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 goodmatter being the chants. I can sing out, and I do. Then come thesermon, which is unto me sore weariness, and I gape through it as I bestmay. 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 thingtouching 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 goodworks. Good works always means doing the very thing you would rathernot. 'Tis good works to carry a pudding to old _Nanny Crewdson_ througha lane where I nigh lose my shoes in the mire, right at the time when Iwant to bide at home and play the virginals. Or 'tis sitting of a chairand reading of _Luther's_ Commentary on the _Galatians_ to one of mybetters, when my very toes be tingling to be out in the sunshine. Goodlack, but I do owe a pretty penny to Master Doctor _Luther_ for thatcommentary! I have had to sit and read it a good score of times when itshould have done me marvellous ease to have boxed his ears with it. HadI been Mistress _Katherine_, it should have gone hard with me but Iwould have pulled Master Doctor out of his study, and made him lake withlittle _Jack_ and _Maudlin_, in the stead of toiling o'er yon old mustycommentary. _Nell_ saith she loveth to read it. In good sooth, but Iwish 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 allwe to dinner with Mistress _Huthwaite_, at whose house we do ever dineof a _Sunday_: and mighty late it is of a communion _Sunday_; and I amwell-nigh famished ere I break bread. And for dinner was corned beefand 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 chainfor 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_ bythe hand, and _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_ likewise; but did but kiss usmaids. [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 invery deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto closefriendship with my Lord _Dilston_ his daughter, as I do right heartilytrust 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 deVere_, sometime Earl of _Oxenford_, was great-great-great-grandfatherunto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady _Margaret_, wife toSir _Nicholas Louvaine_, was great-great-grandmother unto _Father_: sothey twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, goodlack, what is this? Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress _JaneRadcliffe_ 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: tosay nought of the _Edens_, that have dwelt in _Kent-dale_ these thousandyears at the least. But one thing will I never own, and that is ofMynheer _Stuyvesant_, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, thatour family be all _Dutch_ folk. He will have it that the _Louvaines_must needs have sprung from _Louvain_ in the Low Countries; but of allthings doth he make me mad [angry: a word still used in the north ofEngland] 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 knowthat _Veritas_ is _Latin_ for truth, and _Vere_ cometh of that, or elseof _vir_, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no basecoward loon. And 'tis all foolishness for to say, as doth _Mynheer_
,that the old _Romans_ had no surnames like ours, but only the name ofthe family, such like as _Cornelius_ or _Julius_, which ran more akinunto our _Christian_ names. I believe it not, and I won't. Why, wasthere not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called _LuciusVerus_? and what is that but _Vere_? 'Tis as plain as the barber'spole, 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 wewent: and in the hall come _Moses_ a-purring to us, and a-rubbing of herhead against _Nell_; and there was _Dan_ a-turning round and round afterhis tail, and _Nan_, that had a ball of paper, on her back a-lakingtherewith. _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 achapter from Master Doctor _Luther_ his magnifical commentary: and bythe 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 shillingout 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 isswearing, though 'tis not profane talk. Come, _Father_, you musto'erlook it this once: and I will never do so no more--at the least, nottill 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 notwell what happed, nor how I gat there, but assuredly I was a-dancingwith my Lord of _Oxenford_, and the Queen's Majesty and my Lord_Dilston_ a-looking on, and Mistress _Jane_ as black as thunder, becauseI danced better than she. I reckon _Father's_ stopping woke me, and Isaid _Amen_ as well as any body. Then the Hundredth Psalm, _Nell_a-playing on the virginals: and then (best of all) the blessing, andthen with good-night all round, to bed. I reckon my nap at prayers hadmade me something wakeful, for I heard both _Nell_ and _Edith_ asleepafore me.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE III.Now have I read o'er every line my philosophical sister hath writ: andvery nigh smothered me o' laughing at divers parts. The long discoursesshe putteth in, touching all manner of dreary matters! I warrant, youshall not see me to deal with the Queen's Majesty's injunctions touchingthe apparel of parsons, nor with the _Dutch Mennonites_, nor withphilosophical questions touching folks' thoughts and characters, nor nosuch rubbish. I like sunlight, I do. Catch me a-setting down Master_Stuyvesant_ his dreary speeches! (I go not further, for then should itcost me sixpence: but Master _Stuyvesant_ hath no authority over me, soI may say what I will of him for two pence.) But it seemeth me, for allher soberness and her killing looks, that Mistress _Helena_ is somethingdiverted with my speeches, else had she not put so many in. But I oughtnot to have said what I did, quotha, touching _Father's_ nose! Ought Inot, forsooth? Mistress _Helena_, that shall cost you two pence, and Ishall be fain to see the fine paid.
(Eh, lack-a-day! but that shall cost me two pence! Dear heart, whateverwas _Father_ a-thinking of? I shall be as clean ruined as the velvetdoublet that _Ned_ dropped in the fish-pond!)
It seemeth me _Father_ must have desired to make a good box for thepoor. I would it had not been at my cost.
One thing is plain,--that Mistress _Nell_ keeps a conscience. I scarcethink I do. There is a cushion full of pins somewhere down near mystomach, and now and then I get a prick: but I do but cry pish and turnthe pin end into the cushion. _Nell_, on the contrary, pulleth forththe pin and looketh on it, holding it in all lights. But there was onetime, I mind, that I did not cry pish, and methinks every pin in thecushion 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 thestairs for to make _Anstace_ and _Nell_ scream forth, a-taking it for aghost: 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 frightedher 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_, thatcame after, been quick to catch at her. Eh, but in all my life neversaw 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 didserve out _Wat_ and me! _Wat_ gat the worst, by reason he was theelder, and had (said _Father_) played the serpent to mine _Eva_: but Iwarrant 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 thefustigation [whipping]. How he did insense it into us, that we mighthave been the death of our mother and sister both, and how it was rarewicked and cruel to seek to fright any, and had been known to turnfolks' heads ere this! You see, _Father_, I have not forgot it, and Ireckon 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, orundutiful, and such like. But _Father_, he must needs pull forth hisBible, and give you chapter and verse for every word he saith. And itmakes things look so much worser, some how. 'Tis like being judged ofGod 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, ora sin that you must repent. Then, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ (and I havenoted it in other) always takes things as they touch her, whereas_Father_ and _Mother_ do look on them rather as they touch God. And itdoth seem ever so much more awfuller thus. Methinks it should be asight comfortabler world if men had no consciences, and could do as itlisted them at all times without those pin-pricks. I am well assuredfolks should mostly do right. I should, at any rate. 'Tis butexceeding seldom I do aught wrong, and then mostly because I am teasedwith forbiddance of the same. I should never have touched thefire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, hadnot old Dame _Conyers_, that was my godmother, bidden me not do thesame. 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 aughtgo wrong the childre get the blame. And in this world things be evera-going wrong. But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth? 'Tisthe things go wrong, not me. I should be a very angel for goodness ifonly folks gave o'er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, andforbidding things to be done. In good sooth, 'tis hard on a poor maidthat cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but leta-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 thelake's picture in little. So I, having no list to stand behind and lookon, 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, hegathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and infive 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 tolook at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me. After awhile 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 meturn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodlygentleman, 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 abrave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master _Mayor's_. Andwhile I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first. "Ipray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam [then r
estricted to noble ladiesand knights' wives] if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger towit 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 seedown yonder."
"Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present," saith he, andsmiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man's face. "And whowas Saint _Hubert_, if it please my fair damosel?"
"In good sooth, Sir, that know I not," said I; "save that he were one ofthe old saints, now done away."
"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new atleast be left."
Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, andthe better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had neverseen 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 thetree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is itlawful 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 tolaugh 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 delightsomeinhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know yourname? 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 somellifluous a name. [Note 3.] And what dwelling is honoured by beingyour fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"
"Sir," said I, "I dwell at _Selwick_ Hall, o'er the lake in yonderquarter."
"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer. "And--elders haveyou, fairest Mistress?"
"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ is my father, andDame _Lettice_, sometime named _Eden_, my mother."
"_Lettice Eden_!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, asthough _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 waswith my sometime Lady of _Surrey_, and might now and then be seen at theCourt with her lady, or with the fair Lady of _Richmond_, her lord'ssister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?"
"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maidenunto my Lady of _Surrey_, afore she were wed."
"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh. "She was the fairest maidenthat 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 byyonder, a-playing the painter."
"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sittingof a stone o'er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seenfairer,--even within the compass of Saint _Hubert's_ Isle. And I domarvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mothermore than you, sweet Mistress _Milisent_."
I was astonished, for I know _Edith_ is reckoned best-favoured of allus, and most like to _Mother_. But well as it liked me to sit andlisten, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to_Edith_.
"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I drivinghence the fairest floweret of the isle?"
"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, andmy sister shall be coming to look for me."
"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these roughpaths."
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_ wereat home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; allwhich 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 thelongest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him--atlong last come we to _Edith_, which was gat up from her stone, and wasputting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought forthem.
"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 liefhe 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 theother side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meetagain. 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. Allthe 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 weredoffing 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 friendof _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. Ibelieve 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 goodmemory.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX.I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' _Friday_ last.Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and thatmust I do, if need be. Meanwhile, I will go right forward with mychronicling.
I did verily think I saw Sir _Edwin_ part-way up the hill behind us o'_Saturday_ even: but o' _Sunday_ he was not in church, for I looked forhim. I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce runthe risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month fornon-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling inriches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.
Thank goodness, _Edith_ hath forgot to say aught to _Mother_, and 'tisnot like she shall think on now.
SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII._Mother_ bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake[the northern name for a plum-cake] to old _Jack_. They were ducks'eggs, for I had told her what _Jack_ said the last time we visited him.I bade _Edith_ go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day beingsomewhat foul. I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes asour _Edith_. So I all alone up to _Jack Benn's_: which saw me from hishut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.
"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he. "Get away wi' ye! I hate women."
"Nay, _Jack_," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist. Here beeggs for thee--ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thoulovest."
"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he. But he took the cakeand the eggs off me, notwithstanding. "They're fleshly folk, is women,"quoth old _Jack_.
"Nay, what signifiest?" said I. "Women have no more flesh than men, Ireckon."
"Mistress _Milisent_, does thou wit what _Paul_ says to th' _Romans_,touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"
"Oh ay, _Jack_, I have read it afore now."
"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"
"To be sure," said
I.
"Now look ye here," saith he. "Here's my hand,"--and he reacheth fortha great brown paw. "Does thou see it?"
"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, _Jack_!"
"Well--this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"
"I reckon so much, _Jack_."
"Good. Well, _Paul_ he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh,but only th' things o' th' spirit. Your spirit's your thoughts andmeditations like. And that's why women's such ill uns--because they arealway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, andbaking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress_Milisent_, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th'flesh. Does thou see?"
"Well, _Jack_, I am afeared I do not entirely."
"Get thee gone!" saith he. "Women never can see nought. They're illuns, I tell ye--they're ill uns!"
"But, _Jack_, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking andwashing."
"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman? Thee be off, or I'lllet fly th' broom at thee."
"_Jack_, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered upmy gown for to go.
"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shallbe. That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."
"In very deed it is, _Jack_," said I, "and I will bear witness for theeto that end if need be. Farewell."
So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps downere I was aware of an hand, very different from _Jack's_, held forth tome, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.
"Fairest Mistress _Milisent_, well met this cloudy morrow! I see theflowers be out, though the sun shine not. Give me leave, I pray you, toaid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."
So down the hill with me came Sir _Edwin_, and mighty pleasant discoursehad we--all the fairer for coming after _Jack_. And much he told me ofhis estate in _Cornwall_, where he hath a fair castle, built of oldtime, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead. And these_Cornish_ mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the _Jews_:but when I did demand of him how _Jews_ should come to work them, that(quoth he) could he not say. And at times, in these mines, deep down inthe old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them athousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do breakinto the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags'horn, used of these old _Jews_ and _Romans_, that did labour in thesemines of old time.
"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of theseghosts? Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."
"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I doensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."
Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen'sMajesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names ofdukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand andglove with every man of them. I do love to hear such discourse, andthat right dearly. Many a time have I essayed for to win _Mother_ toenter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in _Surrey_ Placewith my good Lady Countess of _Surrey_: but I wis not well wherefore,she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time. She will tell usof her 'prisonment in the _Counter_, and how _Father_ brought the littleshell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rodeaway with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but evenin that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she neverfilleth up. I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which shewould not we should know. [Note 5.] I did once whisper a word of thismake unto _Nell_: but Mistress _Helena_, that doth alway the right andmeet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferretforth somewhat that _Mother_ had no list for me to know, that I let hera-be. But for all that would I dearly love to know it. I do takedelight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping ofmine own.
Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir _Edwin_ and his discourse ofthe new Court custom, the which hath name _Euphuism_, and is a rightfair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swearfriendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they doconfer. Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some ofher servants, as my Lord of _Burleigh_, who is her _Spirit_, and Sir_Walter Raleigh_ her _Water_, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir ChristopherHatton] her _Sheep_, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her_Moon_. Sir _Edwin_ saith he had himself such a friendship with somemighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my bestto provoke him thereto) he calling her his _Discretion_, and she naminghim her _Fortitude_. Which is pleasant and witty matter. [Note 6.]
"And," quoth Sir _Edwin_, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may standwith your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion. You shall bemine _Amiability_, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shallplease you) shall call me your _Protection_. Have I well said, myfairest?"
"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me somuch honour, it should like me right well."
By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I darednot be seen with Sir _Edwin_ no nearer the house. The which he seemedto guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road ledthe shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass. So I home, and into our chamberto doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was _Nell_. Now,our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to_Jack's_ hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe. But howdid mine heart jump into my mouth when _Nell_ saith, as I was a-foldingof my kerchief--
"Who was that with thee, _Milly_?"
Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,--"A gentleman,_Nell_, that would know his shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass." In goodsooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir _Edwin_ is a gentleman, andhe did ask me which were the shortest way thereto. But, good lack! itseemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o'pricking me when I thus spake. Yet what ill had I done, forsooth? Ihad said no falsehood: only shut _Nell's_ mouth, for she asked nofurther. And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divertme withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same?After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where Ifound _Anstace_ and _Hal_ come; and _Hal_, with _Father_ and _Mynheer_,were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come,that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all rightto _Ireland_. Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go_Ireland_ or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her!Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].
_Hal_, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of _London_should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, beill and foolish matter. Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in_Derwent_ dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in _London_ town, I should bebut little pleased therewith. Why should folk not divert them?
Being aweary of Master _Hal's_ grave discourse, went I over to_Anstace_, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,--to wit,the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs,which do ill please her, for _Anstace_ loveth to ruffle it of a goodruff. Thence gat she to their _Cicely_, which is but ill at ease, andDr _Bell_ was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on _Friday_and _Saturday_ the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from_Sunday_ to _Tuesday_ in the stomach, during which time it shall be nosafe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need tobe: so she must needs tarry until _Wednesday_ come seven-night, and fromthat time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.
Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof _Anstace_ had oflate a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress _Parker_, thatdwelleth but fifty miles from _London_, and is an useful sister for tohave. As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is morecertain than the uncertainty; and likewise
of hoods. Cypress, saithshe, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit withmy cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta isnow thought but serving-man-like. All this, and a deal more, _Anstace_told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].
Dr _Meade's_ hour-glass is broke of the sexton. I am fain to hear thesame, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.
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Note 1. At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality thanthe kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst allclasses.
Note 2. Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served,as its name denotes, at four o'clock.
Note 3. Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though manypersons have supposed so. It comes, through Milisent and Melisende,from the Gothic _Amala-suinde_, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.
Note 4. Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, toinvite, as well as of bid, to command.
Note 5. The reader who wishes for more light on this point than wasallowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."
Note 6. At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meantintellectual. This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which gravemen and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiarto the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once sogreat and so small.