CHAPTER SIX.
CHRISTMAS CHEER.
"Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; All hailed with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down."
Scott.
(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE X.Here have I been a-thinking I should scantly write a word when my monthwas come, and already, with but ten days thereof, have I filled half asmuch paper as either _Helen_ or _Milisent_. But in good sooth, I dotrust the next ten days shall not be so full of things happening asthese last. Nathless, I do love to have things happen, after a fashion:but I would have them to be alway pleasant things. And when thingshappen, they be so oft unpleasant.
Now, if one might order one's own life, methinks it should be a rightpleasant thing. For I reckon I should not go a-fooling, like as somelasses do. Mine head is not all stuffed with gallants, nor yet withvelvet and gold. But I would love to be great. Not great like aduchess, just a name and no more: but to make a name for myself, and tohave folks talk of me, how good and how clever I were. That is what Iwould fain be thought--good and clever. I take no care to be thoughtfair, nor in high place; howbeit, I desire not to be ugly nor no lowerdown than I am. But I am quite content with mine own place, only I feelwithin me that I could do great things.
And how can a woman do great things, without she be rare high in place,such like as the Queen's Majesty, or my Lady Duchess of _Suffolk_? Orhow could I ever look to do great things, here in _Derwent_ dale? Oh, Ido envy our _Wat_ and _Ned_, by reason they can go about the world ando'er the seas, and make themselves famous.
And, somehow, in a woman's life everything seems so little. 'Tis justcooking and eating; washing linen and soiling of it; going to bed andrising again. Always doing things and then undoing them, and alway thesame things over and over again. It seems as if nought would ever staydone. If one makes a new gown, 'tis but that it may be worn out, andthen shall another be wanted. I would the world could give o'er goingon, and every thing getting worn out and done with.
Other folks do not seem to feel thus. I reckon _Helen_ never does, notone bit. Some be so much easier satisfied than other. I count them thehappiest.
I cannot tell how it is, but I do never feel satisfied. 'Tis as thoughthere were wings within me, that must ever of their nature be stretchingupward and onward. Where should they end, an' they might go forward?Would there be any end? Can one be satisfied, ever?
I believe _Anstace_ and _Helen_ are satisfied, but then 'tis theirnature to be content with things as they be. I do not know about_Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_. I misdoubt if it be altogether their nature.But then neither do they seem always satisfied. _Father_ doth so: andhis nature is high enough. I think I shall ask _Father_. As for Cousin_Bess_, an' I were to ask at her, she should conceive me never a whit.'Tis her nature to cook and darn and scour, and to look complacently onher cake and her mended hole and her cleaned chamber, and never troubleherself to think that they shall lack doing o'er again to-morrow.Chambers are like to need cleansing, and what were women made for saveto keep them clean? That is Cousin _Bess_, right out. For Master_Stuyvesant_, methinks he is right the other way, and rather counts theworld a dirty place and full of holes, that there shall be no good inneither cleansing nor mending. And I look not on matters in that light.Methinks it were better to cleanse the chamber, if only one could keepit from being dirtied at after. I shall see what _Father_ saith.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XII.Yester even, as we were sat in the great chamber,--there was _Mother_and _Helen_ at their wheels, and Aunt _Joyce_ and my Lady _Stafford_a-sewing, and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ and me at the broidery,--and _Father_ had but just beat Sir _Robert_ in a game of the chess, and_Mynheer_, one foot upon his other knee, was deep in a great book whichthereon rested,--and fresh logs were thrown of the fire by _Kate_, whichsent forth upward a shower of pleasant sparkles, and methought as Iglanced around the chamber, that all looked rare pleasant andcomfortable, and we ought to thank God therefore. When all had beensilent a short while, out came I with my question, well-nigh ere Imyself wist it were out--
"_Father_, are you satisfied?"
"A mighty question, my maid," saith he,--while _Helen_ looked up insurprise, and Aunt _Joyce_ and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ fella-laughing. "With what? The past, the present, or the future?" quoth_Father_.
"With things, _Father_," said I. "With life and every thing."
"Ah, _Edith_, hast thou come to that?" saith my Lady _Stafford_: and sheexchanged smiles with _Mother_.
"_Daughter_," _Father_ makes answer, "methinks no man is ever satisfiedwith life, until he be first satisfied with God. The furthest he can goin that direction, is not to think if he be satisfied or no. A man maybe well pleased with lesser things: but to be satisfied, that can henot."
"`Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again,'" quoth _Mother_,softly.
"Ay," saith Sir _Robert_; "and wit you, Mistress _Edith_, what cometh attimes to men adrift of the ocean, when all their fresh water is spent?"
"Why, surely, they should find water in plenty in the sea, Sir," said I.
"Right so do they," saith he: "and 'tis a quality of the sea-water, thatif a man athirst doth once taste the same, his thirst becometh so greatthat he drinketh thereof again and again, the thirst worsening withevery draught, until at last it drives him mad."
"An apt image of the pleasures of this world," answers _Father_. "Ah,how is all nature as God's picture-book, given to help His dull childerover their tasks!"
"But, _Father_,"--said I, and stayed.
"Well, my maid?" he answers of his kindly fashion.
"I cry you mercy, _Father_, if I speak foolishly; but it seems me thatpious folk be not alway satisfied. They make as much fume as other folkwhen things go as they would not have them."
"The angels do not so, I reckon," saith _Mynheer_, a-looking up.
"We are not angels yet," quoth _Father_, a little drily. "Truth, mymaid: and we ought to repent thereof, seeing such practices but too oftcause the enemy to blaspheme, and put stumbling-blocks in the way ofweak brethren. Ay, and from what we read in God's Word, it should seemas though all murmuring and repining--not sorrowing, mark thou; butmurmuring--went for far heavier sin in His eyes than it doth commonly inours. We count it a light matter if we grumble when things go awry, andmatters do seem as if they were bent on turning forth right as we wouldnot have them. Let us remember, for ourselves, that such displeaseththe Lord. He reckons it unbelief and mistrust. `How long,' saith Heunto Moses, `will this people provoke Me? and how long will it be erethey believe Me?' Howbeit, as for our neighbours, we need not judgethem. And indeed, such matters depend much on men's complexions [Note1], and some find it a deal easier to control them than other. Andafter all, _Edith_, there is a sense wherein no man can ever be fullysatisfied in this life. We were meant to aspire; and if we wereentirely content with present things, then should we grovel. To submitcheerfully is one thing: to be fully gratified, so that no desire isleft, is an other. We shall not be that, methinks, till we reachHeaven."
"Shall we so, even there?" saith Sir _Robert_. "It hath alway seemed tome that when _Diogenes_ did define his gods as `they that had no wants,'he pointed to a very miserable set of creatures. Is it not human naturethat the thing present shall fall short of the thing prospective?"
"The _in posse_ is better than the _in esse_?" saith _Father_. "Well,it should seem so, in this dispensation. But how, in the next world,our powers may be extended, and our souls in some degree suffer change,that we can be fully satisfied and yet be alway aspiring--I reckon wecannot now understand. I only gather from Scripture that it shall bethus. You and I know very little, _Robin_, of what shall be in Heaven."
"Ah, true,--true!" saith Sir _Robert_.
&
nbsp; "It hath struck me at times," saith _Father_, "that while it may seemstrange to the young and eager soul, yet it is better understood as onegrows older,--how the account of Heaven given us in Scripture is nearlyall in negations. God and ourselves are the two matters positive. Therest are nays: there shall be no pain, no crying, no sorrow, no night,no death, no curse. And though youth would oft have it all yea, yet naysuits age the better. An old man and weary feels the thought of activebliss at times too much for him. It wearies him to think of perpetualsinging and constant flying. It is rest he needs--it is peace."
"Well, _Father_," saith _Milisent_, looking up, "I hope it is not wickedof me, but I never did enjoy the prospect of sitting of a cloud andsinging _Hallelujah_ for ever and ever."
"Right what I was wont to think at thy years, _Milly_," saith _Mother_,a-laughing.
"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "there is in God's Word a word for thesmallest need of every one of us, if we will only take the pain tosearch and find it there. `They had no rest day neither night,'[Cranmer's version of Revelations chapter four verse 8]--that is for theeager, active soul that longs to be up and doing. And `they rest fromtheir labours,'--that is for the weary heart that is too tired forrapture."
"Yet doth not that latter class of texts, think you," saith Sir_Robert_, "refer mainly to the rest of the body in the grave?"
"Well, it may be so," answers _Father_: "yet, look you, the rest of thegrave must be something that _will rest us_."
"What is thy notion, _Aubrey_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "of the state of thesoul betwixt death and resurrection?"
"My notion, _Joyce_," saith _Father_, "is that _Scripture_ giveth us novery plain note thereon. I conclude, therefore, that it shall be timeto know when we come to it. This only do I see--that all the passageswhich speak thereof as `sleep,' `forgetfulness,' and the like, be in theOld Testament: and all those--nay, let me correct myself--most of thosewhich speak thereof as of a condition of conscious bliss, `being with_Christ_,' and so, are in the New. There I find the matter: and there,under your good pleasure, will I leave it."
"Well, that should seem," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "as if the condition ofsouls had been altered by the coming of our Lord."
"By His death, rather, as methinks, if so be. It may be so. I dare notbe positive either way."
"Has it never seemed strange to you, _Louvaine_," saith Sir _Robert_,"how little we be told in God's Word touching all those mysterieswhereon men's minds will ever be busying themselves--to all appearance,so long as the world lasts? This matter of our talk--the origin ofevil--free-will and sovereign grace--and the like. Why are we told nomore?"
"Why," saith _Father_, with that twinkle in his eyes which means fun, "Iam one of the meaner intelligences of the universe, and I wis not. Ifyou can find any whither the Angel _Gabriel_, you may ask at him if hecan untie your knots."
"Now, _Aubrey_, that is right what mads me!" breaks in Aunt _Joyce_."Sir _Robert_ asks why we be told no more, and thine answer is but torepeat that we be told no more. Do, man, give a plain answer to a plainquestion."
"Nay, now thou aft like old Lawyer _Pearson_?" quoth _Father_. "`I wisnot, Master,' saith the witness. `Ay, but will you swear?' saith he.`Why,' quoth the witness, `how can I swear when I wis not?' `Nay, butyou must swear one way or an other,' saith he. Under thy leave,_Joyce_, I do decline to swear either way, seeing I wis not."
Aunt _Joyce_ gives a little stamp of her foot. "What on earth is thegood of men, when they wit no more than women?" quoth she: whereat alllaughed.
"Ah, some women have great wits," saith _Father_.
"Give o'er thy mocking, _Aubrey_!" answers she. "Tell us plain, whatnotion thou hast, and be not so strict tied to chapter and verse."
"Of what worth shall then be my notions? Well," saith _Father_, "I havegiven them on the one matter. As for the origin of evil, I find theorigin of mine evil in mine own heart, and no further can I get exceptto _Satan_."
"Ay, but I would fain reach over _Satan_," saith she.
"That shall we not do without _Satan_ overreaching us," quoth _Father_."Well, then--as to free-will and grace, I find both. `Whosoever will,take of the water of life,'--and `Yet will ye not come unto Me that yemight have life.' But also I find, `No man can come to Me, except theFather draw him;' and that faith cometh `Not of yourselves; it is thegift of God.'"
"Come, tarry not there!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "How dost thou reconcilethem?"
"Why, I don't reconcile them," quoth he.
"Ay, but do!" she makes answer.
"Well," saith he, "if thou wilt come and visit me, _Joyce_, an hundredyears hence, at the sign of the _Burnt-Sacrifice_, in _Amethyst_ Lane,in the _New Jerusalem_, I will see if I can do it for thee then."
"_Aubrey Louvaine_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, "thou art--"
"Not yet there," he answers. "I am fully aware of it."
"The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!" saith she.
"Dost thou know, _Joyce_," quoth _Mother_, laughing merrily, "I foundout that afore I was wed. He did play right cruelly on mine eagernessonce or twice."
"Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
_Mother_ laughed at this, and _Father_ made a merry answer, which turnedthe discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down. So wegat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.
This morrow come o'er _Robin Lewthwaite_, with a couple of rare fowl andhis mother's loving commendations for _Mother_. He saith nothing is yetat all heard of their _Blanche_, and he shook his head right sorrowfullywhen I asked at him if he thought aught should be. It seemed so strangea thing to see _Robin_ sorrowful.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XVI.This morrow, my Lady _Stafford_, Aunt _Joyce_, and I, were sat at ourwork alone in the great chamber. _Milly_ was gone with _Mother_a-visiting poor folk, and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_, with_Helen_ for guide, were away towards _Thirlmere_,--my Lady _Stafford_denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterdayamongst the snowy lanes. All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith--
"_Joyce_, what is this I heard yestereven of old _Mall Crewdson_,touching one _Everett_, or _Tregarvon_--she wist not rightly which hisname were--that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late?What manner of mischief?--for old _Mary_ was very mysterious. May-be Ido not well to ask afore _Edith_?"
"Ay, _Dulcie_, well enough," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly, "for _Edith_knows the worst she can already. And if you knew the worst you could--"
"Why, what is it?" quoth she.
"_Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, curtly.
"_Leonard_!" Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady's face. "Ithought he was dead, years gone."
"So did not I," Aunt _Joyce_ made low answer.
"No, I wis thou never didst," saith my Lady, tenderly. "So thy love isstill alive, _Joyce_? Poor heart!"
"My heart is," she saith. "As for love, it is poor stuff if it candie."
"There is a deal of poor stuff abroad, then," quoth her Ladyship. "Invery deed, so it is. So he is yet at his old work?"
Aunt _Joyce_ only bent her head.
"Well, it were not possible to wish he had kept to the new," pursuethshe. "I do fear there were some brent in _Smithfield_, that had beenalive at this day but for him. But ever since Queen _Mary_ died hath hekept him so quiet, that in very deed I never now reckoned him amongstthe living. Where is he now?"
"God wot," saith Aunt _Joyce_, huskily.
My Lady was silent awhile: and then she saith--
"Well, may-be better so. But _Joyce_, doth _Lettice_ know?"
"That _Tregarvon_ were he? Not without _Aubrey_ hath told her theselast ten days: and her face saith not so."
"No, it doth not," my Lady makes answer. "But Sir _Aubrey_ wist, then?His face is not wont to talk unless he will."
"In no wise," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Ay, _Dulcibel_; I had to tell him."
"Thou?"
saith my Lady, pityingly.
"None knew him but me," made she answer, and her voice grew verytroubled. "Not even _Aubrey_, nor _Lettice_. _Bess_ guessed at himafter awhile, but not till she had seen him divers times. But for meone glimpse was enough."
Aunt _Joyce's_ work was still now.
"Hadst thou surmised aforetime that it were he?"
Aunt _Joyce_ shook her head.
"No need for surmising, _Dulcie_," she said. "If I were laid in mygrave for a year and a day, I should know his step upon the mould aboveme."
"My poor _Joyce_!" softly quoth my Lady _Stafford_. "Even God hath nostronger word than `passing the love of women.' Yet a woman's lovelasts not out to that in most cases."
"Her heart lasts not out, thou meanest," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Heartsare weak, _Dulcie_, but love is immortal."
"And hast thou still hope--for him, _Joyce_?" answereth my Lady. "Ilost the last atom of mine, years gone."
"Hope of his ultimate salvation? Ay--as long as life lasts. I shallgive over hoping for it when I see it."
"But," saith my Lady slowly, as though she scarce liked to say the same,"how if thou never wert to see it?"
"`Between the stirrup and the ground, Mercy I sought, mercy I found.'
"Thou wist that epitaph, _Dulcie_, on him that lost life by a fall fromthe saddle. My seeing it were comfort, but no necessity. I could go onhoping that God had seen it."
Aunt _Joyce_ arose and left the chamber. Then saith my Lady _Stafford_to me--
"There goes a strong soul. There be women such as she: but they are notto be picked, like blackberries, off every bramble. _Edith_, youngfolks are apt to think love a mere matter of youth and of matrimony.They cannot make a deeper blunder. The longer love lasts, the strongerit groweth."
"Always, my Lady?" said I.
"Ay," saith she. "That is, if it be love."
We wrought a while without more talk: when suddenly saith my Lady_Stafford_:--
"_Edith_, didst thou see this _Tregarvon_, or how he called himself?"
"Ay, Madam," said I. "He made up to me one morrow, when my sister_Milisent_ and I were on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle in the mere yonder, and Iwas sat, a-drawing, of a stone."
"Ay so?" quoth she, with some earnestness in her voice. "And whatthen?"
"I think he took not much of me, Madam," said I.
My Lady _Stafford_ smiled, yet methought somewhat pensively.
"May I wit what he said to thee, _Edith_?"
"Oh, a parcel of stuff touching mine hair and mine eyes, and the like,"said I. "I knew well enough what colours mine hair and eyes were of,without his telling me. Could I dress mine hair every morrow afore themirror, and not see?"
"Well, _Edith_," saith she, "methinks he did not take much of thee. Iwould I could have seen him,"--and her voice grew sadder. "Not that myvoice should have had any potency with him: that had it never yet. ButI would fain have noted how far the years had changed him, and if--ifthere seemed any more hope of his amendment than of old time. There wasa time when in all _Oxfordshire_ he was allowed the goodliest man, and Ifear he was not far from being likewise the worst."
Here come in _Mother_, and my Lady _Stafford_ changed the discourseright quickly. I saw I must say no more. But I am well assured Aunt_Joyce's Mary_ was never my Lady _Stafford_. Who methinks it were itshould serve no good end to set down.
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XIX.As we sat this even of the great chamber, saith _Father_:--
"_Stafford_, do you remember our talk some days gone, touching whatmanner of life there should be in Heaven?"
"That do I well," Sir _Robert_ made answer.
"Well," quoth _Father_, "I have fallen to think more thereupon. And thethought comes to me--wherefore account we always that we shall do butone thing there, and that all shall do the same? Here is _Milisent_--ay, and _Lettice_ too--that think they should be weary to sit of a cloudand sing for ever and ever."
"Truly, so should I, methinks," saith Sir _Robert_.
"So should we all, I cast no doubt," answers _Father_, "if our capacityfor fatigue did extend into that life. But why expect the same thingover and over? It is not so on earth. I am not reading, nor is_Lettice_ sewing, nor _Milisent_ broidering, with no intermission, fromthe morning to the night. Neither do we all the same fashion of work."
"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, somewhat eagerly; "but the work done herebelow is needful, _Aubrey_. There shall be no necessity for noughtthere."
"Art avised o' that, _Joyce_?" saith _Father_.
"Why," saith she, "dost look for brooms and dusters in Heaven? Shall_Bess_ and I sweep out the gold streets, thinkest, or fetch a pan toseethe the fruits of the Tree of Life?"
"One would think," saith Sir _Robert_, "if all be allegorical, as somewise doctors do say, that they should be shadowy brooms that sweptparabolical streets."
"Allegorical fiddlesticks!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I did never walk yeto'er a parabolical paving, nor sat me down to rest me of an allegoricalchair. Am I to be allegorical, forsooth? You be a poor comforter, Sir_Robert_."
"Soft you now!" saith _Father_. "I enter a _caveat_, as lawyers haveit. Methinks I have walked for some years o'er a parabolical paving,and rested me in many an allegorical chair. Thou minglest somewhat toomuch the spiritual and the material, _Joyce_."
"I count I take thee, _Audrey_," saith she: "thou wouldst say that theallegorical city is for the dwelling of the spirit, and the real for thebody. But, pray you, if my spirit have a dwelling in thine allegoricalcity--"
"Nay, I said not the city were allegorical," quoth he. "Burden not mewithal, for in truth I do believe it very real."
"No, that was Sir _Robert_," saith she, "so I will ask at him, as shallbe but fair. Where, I pray you, is my body to be, Sir, whilst my souldwelleth in your parabolical city?"
"There shall be a spiritual body, my mistress," makes he answer,smiling.
"Truth," quoth she, "but I reckon it must be somewhere. It seems me, tomy small wit, that if my soul and my spiritual body be to dwell in anallegorical city, then I must needs be allegorical also. And I warrantyou, that should not like me a whit."
"Let us not mingle differences," saith _Father_. "Be the spiritual andthe allegorical but one thing?"
"Nay, I believe there be two," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "'tis Sir _Robert_here would have them alike."
"But how would you define them?" saith Sir _Robert_ to _Father_.
"Thus," he made answer. "The spiritual is that which is real, as fullyas the material: but it is invisible. The allegorical is that which isshadowy and doth but exist in the fantasy. If I say of these mydaughters, they be my jewels, I speak allegorically: for they be notgems, but maidens. But I do not love them in an allegory, but inreality. Love is a moral and spiritual matter, but no allegory. So,Heaven is a spiritual place, but methinks not an allegorical one."
"But the _New Jerusalem_--the Golden City which lieth four-square--thatis allegorical, surely!"
"We shall see when we are there," saith _Father_. "I think not."
Sir _Robert_ pursed up his lips as though he could no wise allow thesame.
"Mind you, _Robin_," saith _Father_, "I say not that there may not beallegory touching some of the details. I reckon the pearls of thetwelve gates were never found in earthly oysters: nor do I account thatthe gold of the streets was molten in an earthly furnace. No more, when_Edith_ saith she will run and fetch a thing, should I think to accuseher of falsehood if I saw that she walked, and ran not. 'Tis never wellto fetch a parable down on all fours. You and I use allegory always inour common talk."
"Ay," quoth Sir _Robert_: "but you reckon they _be_ pearls, and gold?"
"I will tell you when I have seen them," saith _Father_, and smiled."Either they be gold and pearls, or they be that to which, in ourearthly minds, gold and pearls come the nearest. Why, my friend, we beall but lisping children to God. Think you one moment, and tell me ifevery word we
use touching Him hath not in it more or less of parable?We call Him Father, and King, and Master, and Guide, and Lord. Is notevery one of these taken from earthly relationships, and doth it notpresuppose a something which is to be found on earth? We have no betterwits than to do so here. If God would teach us that we know not, itmust be by talking to us touching things we do know. Did not you thesame with your children when they were babes? How far we may be able topenetrate, when we be truly men, grown up unto the measure of thestature of the fulness of _Christ_, verily I cannot tell. Only I do seethat not only all _Scripture_, but all analogy, pointeth to a time whenwe shall emerge from this caterpillar state, and spread our wings asbutterflies in the sunshine. Nay, there is yet a better image innature. The grub of the dragon-fly dwelleth in the waters, and cannotlive in the air till it come forth into the final state. Tell me then,I pray you, how shall this water-grub conceive the notion of flyingthrough the air? Supposing you able to talk with him, could yourepresent the same unto him other than by the conceit of gliding throughwater with most delightsome swiftness and directness? To talk of anelement wherein he had no experience should be simply so much nonsenseto him. Now, it may be--take me not, I pray you, as meaning it mustbe--that all that shall be found in Heaven differs as greatly from whatis found on earth as the water differs from the air. Concerning thesematters, I take it, God teaches us by likening them to such things as weknow that shall give the best conceit of them to our minds. Here onearth, the fairest and most costly matter is gold and gems. Well, Hewould have us know that the heavenly city is builded of the fairest andmost precious matter. But that the matter is real, and that the city isbuilded of somewhat, that will I yield to none. To do other were tomake it a fairy tale, Heaven in cloud-land, and God Himself but theshadow of a dream. The only difference I can see is, that we shouldnever awake from the dream, but should go on dreaming it for ever."
"O _Louvaine_!" saith Sir _Robert_. "I can never allow of matter inHeaven. All there is spiritual."
"Now, what mean you by matter?" saith _Father_. "Matter is a term ofthis world. I argue not for matter in Heaven as opposed to spirit, butfor reality as opposed to allegory."
"You'll be out of my depth next plunge," saith Sir _Robert_, merrily.
"We shall both be out of our depth, _Robin_, ere long, and under yourleave there will we leave it. But I see you are a bit of a _Manichee_."
"That is out of my depth, at any rate," quoth he. "I am but ill read inancient controversies, though I know you dabble in them."
"Why, I have dipped my fingers into a good parcel of matters in mytime," saith _Father_. "But the _Manichees_, old friend, were men thatdid maintain the inherent evil of matter. All things, with them, werewicked that had to do therewith. Wherein, though they knew it not, theywere much akin to the _Indian_ mystics of _Buddha_, that do set theirwhole happiness in the attaining of _Nirvana_."
"What is that?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Is it an _India_ goddess, orsomething good to eat?"
"It is," quoth _Father_, "the condition of having no ideas."
"Good lack!" saith she, "then daft _Madge_ is nearest perfection of usall."
"Perhaps she is, in sober truth," _Father_ makes answer.
"Meseemeth," whispers _Milisent_ to me, "that _Jack Benn_ is a_Manichee_."
"'Tis strange," saith _Father_, as in meditation, "how those oldheresies shall be continually re-born under new names: nor only that,but how in the heart of every man and woman there is by nature a leaningunto some form of heresy. Here is _Robin Stafford_ a _Manichee_: and_Bess_ a _Mennonite_: and my Lady _Stafford_ (if I mistake not) a_Stoic_: and _Mynheer_ somewhat given to be a _Cynic_: and _Lettice_ and_Milisent_, methinks, are by their nature _Epicureans_. Mistress_Martin_, it seemeth me, should be an _Essene_: and what shall we callthee, _Edith_?"
"Aught but a _Pharisee_, _Father_," said I, laughing.
"Nay, thou art no _Pharisee_," saith he. "But that they were a nationand not a sect, I should write thee down a _Sybarite_. _Nell_ is asnear a _Pharisee_ as we have one in the chamber; yet methinketh it wereto insult her to give her such a name."
"Go on," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "I'm waiting."
"What, for thine own class?"
"Mine and thine," saith she.
_Father's_ eyes did shine with fun. "Well, _Joyce_, to tell truth, I amsomewhat puzzled to class thee: but I am disposed to put thee amongstthe _Brownists_."
"What on earth for?" saith she.
"Why," quoth he, "because thou hast a mighty notion of having thingsthine own way."
"Sir _Robert_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "pray you, box my cousin's ears forme, as you sit convenient.--And what art thou thine own self, thoucaitiff?"
"A _Bonus Homo_," answers _Father_, right sadly: whereat all that didknow _Latin_ fell a-laughing. And I, asking at my Lady _Stafford_, shetold me that _Bonus Homo_ is to say Good Man, and was in past time thename of a certain Order of friars, that had carried down the truth ofthe Gospel from the first ages in a certain part lying betwixt _Italy_and _France_.
"_Nell_," saith _Father_, "I did thee wrong to call thee a _Pharisee_:thou art rather a _Herodian_."
"But I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what did you mean by the name you gaveme?" saith Mistress _Martin_. "For I would fain wit my faults, that Imay go about to amend them: and as at this present I am none the wiser."
"The _Essenes_," saith he, "Mistress _Martin_, were a sect of the Jews,so extreme orthodox that they did deny to perform sacrifice or worshipin the Temple, seeing there they should have to mingle themselves withother sects, and with wicked men that brought not their sacrificesrightly. Moreover, they would neither eat flesh-meat nor drink wine:and they believed not that there were so much as one good woman in thewhole world."
"Then I cry you mercy, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth she, "but if so be,assuredly I am not of them. I do most heartily believe in good women,whereof methinks I can see four afore me, at the very least, thisinstant moment: nor have I yet abjured neither wine nor flesh-meat."
"Oh no, the details be different," saith he: "yet I dare be bold to say,you have a conceit of a perfect Church, whereinto no untrue man shouldever be suffered to enter."
"Ay, that have I," said she. "Methinks the Church of _England_ is toocomprehensive, and should be drawn on stricter lines."
"And therein are you an _Essene_," answereth _Father_.
"Oh, _Grissel_ would fain have every man close examined," saith Sir_Robert_, "and only admitted unto the Lord's Supper by the clergy afterright strict dealing."
"Were you alway of this manner of thought, Mistress _Martin_?" asks_Father_.
"I trow not," said she. "As one gets on in life, you see, one dothperceive many difficulties and differences that one noted notaforetime."
"One is more apt to fall into ruts, that I know," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "Ihad ado enough, and yet have, to keep me out of them."
"A man is apt to do one of two things," saith _Father_: "either to fallinto a rut, or to leave the road altogether. Either his charitycontracteth, and he can see none right that walk not in his rut; or elsehis charity breaketh all bounds, and he would have all to be right,which way soever they walk."
"Why, those be the two ends of the pole," quoth Sir _Robert_, "and, Iwarrant you, you shall find _Grissel_ right at the end, which so it be.She hath a conceit that a man cannot be too right, nor that, if a thingbe good, you cannot have too much thereof."
"Ah, that hangeth on the thing," saith _Father_. "You cannot have toomuch faith nor charity, but you may get too much syllabub. Methinksthat is scantly the true rendering thereof. Have not the proportionsmuch to do withal? If a man's faith outrun his charity, behold him atthe one end of your pole; but if his charity outrun his faith, here ishe at the other. Now faith and charity should keep pace. Let eitherget afore the other, and the man is no longer a perfect man; but a manwith one limb grown out, and another shrivelled up."
"But, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth Mistress _Martin_, "can a man be too holy, ortoo
happy?"
"Surely not, Mistress _Martin_," saith he. "But look you, God is thefountain and pattern of both: and in Him all attributes are at once inutmost perfection, and in strictest proportion. We sons of _Adam_,since his fall, be gone out of proportion. And note you, for it isworthy note--that nothing short of revelation did ever yet conceive of aperfect God. The gods of the heathen were altogether such asthemselves. Even very _Christians_, with revelation to guide them, areever starting aside like a broken bow in their conceits of God. Eitherthey would have Him all justice and no mercy, or else all mercy and nojustice: and the looser they hold by the revelation God has made ofHimself, the dimmer and the more out of proportion be their thoughts ofGod. The most men frame a God unto themselves, and be assured that heshall be like themselves--that the sins which he holds in abhorrenceshall be the sins whereto they are not prone."
"Are we not, in fine," saith Sir _Robert_, "so far gone from originalrighteousness, that our imperfect nature hath lost power to imagineperfection?"
"Not a doubt thereof," saith _Father_. "Look you but abroad in theworld. You shall find pride lauded and called high spirit andnobleness: covetousness is prudence and good thrift: flattery andconformity to the world are good nature and kindliness. Every blastfrom Hell hath been renamed after one of the breezes of Heaven."
There was silence so long after this that I reckoned the discourse wereo'er. When all suddenly saith Sir _Robert_:--
"_Louvaine_, have you much hope for the future--whether of the Church orof the world?"
"All hope in God: none out of Him."
"Nay, come closer," saith Sir _Robert_. "What shall hap in the next fewreigns?"
"`I will overturn, overturn, overturn, until He come whose right it is:and I will give it Him.' There is our pole-star, _Robin_: and I see noother stars. `This same _Jesus_ shall so come.' `Even so, come, Lord_Jesus_!'"
"Yet may He not be said to `come' by the Spirit shed abroad in thehearts of men, and so the world be regenerated?"
"Find that in God's Word, _Robin_, afore He comes, and I will welcome itwith all my heart," answers _Father_. "I could never see it there. Isee there a mighty spread of knowledge, and civility [civilisation], andcommunications of men--as hath been since the invention of printing, andmay be destined to spread yet much further abroad. But knowledge is notfaith, nor is civility _Christianity_. And, in fine, He is to come asHe went. He did not go invisibly in the hearts of men."
"But `the kingdom of God is within you.'"
"Ay, in the sense wherein the word is there used. The power of_Christ_, at that time, was to be a power over men's hearts, not anoutward show of regality: but `He shall so come in like manner as yehave seen Him go,' is a very different matter."
"Oh, of course we look for our Lord's advent in His own person," quothSir _Robert_: "but I cannot think He will come to a sin-stained earth.It were not suitable to His dignity. The way of the Lord must beprepared."
"We shall see, when He comes," gently answereth _Father_. "But if He_had_ not deigned to come to a sin-stained earth, what should have comeeither of _Robin Stafford_ or of _Aubrey Louvaine_?"
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XXIII.Four nights hath it taken me to write that last piece, for all the dayshave we been right busy making ready for _Christmas_. There be in thebuttery now thirty great spice-cakes, and an hundred mince pies, and amighty bowl of plum-porridge [plum-pudding without the cloth] ready forthe boiling, and four barons of beef, and a great sight of carrots andwinter greens, and two great cheeses, and a parcel of sugar-candy forthe childre, and store of sherris-sack and claret, and _Rhenish_ wine,and muscadel. As to the barrels of ale, and the raisins of _Corance_[currants] and the apples, and the conserves and codiniac [quincemarmalade], and such like, I will not tarry to count them. And to-day,and yet again it shall be to-morrow, have _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_, andwe three maids, trudged all the vicinage, bidding our neighbours to theHall on _Christmas_ Eve and for the even of _Christmas_ Day. And asto-night am I well aweary, for _Thirlmere_ side fell to my share, and Iwas this morrow as far as old _Madge's_ bidding her and young _Madge_,and that is six miles well reckoned. _Father_ saith alway that thoughit be our duty at all times, yet is it more specially at _Christmas_, tobid the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind: so we havethem alway of _Christmas_ night, and of _Christmas_ Eve have we asomewhat selecter gathering, of our own kin and close friends and suchlike: only Master _Banaster_ and _Anstace_ come both times. Then on NewYear's Day have we alway a great sort of childre, and merry games andmusic and such like. But the last night of the old year will _Father_have no gatherings nor merrymaking. He saith 'tis a right solemn time;and as each one of us came to the age of fourteen years have we partedat nine o' the clock as usual, but not on that night for bed. Every onesitteth by him or herself in a separate chamber, with a Bible or someportion thereof open afore. There do we read and pray and meditateuntil half-past eleven, at which time all we gather in the greatchamber. Then _Father_ reads first the 139th _Psalm_, and then thatpiece in the _Revelation_ touching all the dead standing afore God: andhe prayeth a while, until about five minutes afore the year end. Thenall gather in the great window toward _Keswick_, and tarry as still asdeath until Master _Cridge_ ring the great bell on _Lord_ Island, sosoon as he hear the chimes of _Keswick_ Church. Then, no sooner haththe bell died away, which telleth to all around that the New Year isborn, then _Father_ striketh up, and all we join in, the 100th _Psalm_--to wit, "All people that on earth do dwell."
And when the last note of the _Amen_ dieth, then we kiss one another,and each wisheth the other a happy new year and God's blessing therein:and so away to bed.
I reckon I shall not have no time to write again until _Christmas_ Dayis well over.
"_Father_," said I last night to him--we were us two alone thatminute--"_Father_, do you love _Christmas_?"
He looked on me and smiled.
"I love to see my childre glad, dear maid," saith he: "and I love tofeast my poor neighbours, that at other times get little feastingenough. But _Christmas_ is the childre's festival, _Edith_: for it isthe festival of untroubled hearts and eyes that have no tears behindthem. For the weary hearts and the tearful eyes the true feast is_Easter_. The one is a hope: the other is a victory. There are noclouds o'er the blue sky in the first: the storm is over, and the sun isout again, in the last. `We believe in the resurrection of the dead,and the life of the world to come.' But we are apt to believe in theresurrection the most truly when the grave hath been lately open: andthe life of the world to come is the gladdest thought to them for whomthe life of the world that is seems not much to live for."
SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XXVIII."Well, _Edith_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ to me last night, "thou hast had arare time of it!"
"I have, _Aunt_," said I: "yet I warrant you, I was not sorry to have_Sunday_ come at after."
Eh, but I was weary when I gat me abed on _Christmas_ night, and it wereten o'clock well told ere I so did. _Helen_ and _Milisent_ were lateryet: but _Mother_ packed me off, saying that growing maids should nottarry up late: and when I found me withinside the blankets, I warrantyou, but I was thankful!
I reckon, being now something rested, I must set down all that we did:and first for _Christmas_ Eve.
_Hal_ and _Anstace_ came early (their childre were bidden to _Keswick_unto a childre's gathering): then about three o' the clock, Master andMistress _Lewthwaite_, with _Alice, Nym, Jack_, and _Robin_ (and by thesame token, _Nym_ played the despairing gallant that I could not choosebut laugh, his hat awry and his ruff all o' one side, and a bombasted[padded] doublet that made him look twice his own size). And methoughtit a sore pity to miss _Blanche_, that was wont to be merriest of us all(when as she were in a good humour) and so _Alice_ said unto me, whilethe water stood in her eyes. A little while after come Doctor andMistress _Meade_, and their _Isabel_: then old Mistress _Rigg_, and herthree tall dau
ghters, Mrs _Martha_, Mrs _Katherine_, and Mrs _Anne_:then Farmer _Benson_ and his dame, and their _Margaret_ and _Agnes_; andMaster _Coward_, with their _Tom_ and _Susan_; and Master and Mistress_Armstrong_, with their _Ben_, _Nicholas_, and _Gillian_. Last of allcome Master _Park_ and Master _Murthwaite_, both together, and theirmistresses, with the young folk,--_Hugh_ and _Austin Park_, and_Dudley_, _Faith_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_. So our four-and-thirtyguests, with ourselves, thirteen, made in all a goodly company offorty-seven.
First, when all were come in and had doffed their out-door raiment, andgreeting over, we sat us down to supper: where one of the barons ofbeef, and plum-porridge, and apple-pies, and chicken-pies, and syllabub,and all manner of good things: but in very deed I might scarce eat mysupper for laughing at _Nym Lewthwaite_, that was sat right over againstme, and did scarce taste aught, but spent the time in gazinglack-a-daisically on our _Helen_, and fetching great sighs with his handlaid of his heart. Supper o'er, we first had snap-dragon, then hotcockles, then blindman's buff, then hunt the weasel. We pausing to takebreath at after, _Father_ called us to sing; so we gathered all in thegreat chamber, and first _Mynheer_ sang a _Dutch_ song, and then Sir_Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ a rare part-song, touching the beautiesof spring-time. Then sang Farmer _Benson_, Master _Armstrong_, and_Ben_ and _Agnes_, "The hunt is up," which was delightsome to hear.Then Aunt _Joyce_ would sing "Pastime with good company," and wouldneeds have _Milisent_ and me and _Robin Lewthwaite_ to help her. Afterthis _Jack Lewthwaite_ and _Nick Armstrong_ made us to laugh well, bysinging "The cramp is in my purse full sore." The music ended with asweet glee of _Faith_ and _Temperance Murthwaite_ (something sober, butI know it liked _Father_ none the worse) and the old _English_ song of"Summer is ycumen in," sung of _Father_ and Sir _Robert_, our _Helen_,and _Isabel Meade_. Then we sat around the fire till rear-supper, andhad "Questions and Commands," and cried forfeits, and wound up with "Ilove my love." And some were rare witty and mirthful in that last,particularly Sir _Robert_, who did treat his love to oranges andorfevery in the _Orcades_ [Hebrides] (and _Father_ said he marvelled howhe gat them there), and Aunt _Joyce_, who said her love was _BenjaminBreakrope_, and he came from the Tower of _Babel_. Then, after that,fell we a-telling stories: and a right brave one of _Father_, out of oneof his old Chronicles, how Queen _Philippa_ gat a pardon from her lordfor the six gentlemen of _Calais_: and a merry, of Dr _Meade_, touchingKing _John_ and the Abbot of _Canterbury_, and the three questions thatthe King did ask at the Abbot's gardener (he playing his master), andthe witty answers he made unto him. Then would Master _Armstrong_ tella tale; and an awesome ghost-story it were, that made my flesh creep,and _Milisent_ whispered in mine ear that she should sleep never a winkat after it.
"Eh!" saith Farmer _Benson_, and fetched an heavy sigh: "ghosts be illmatter of an house."
"Saw you e'er a ghost, Farmer _Benson_?" saith _Dudley Murthwaite_.
"Nay, lad," quoth he: "I've had too much good daylight work in my timeto lie awake a-seeing ghosts when night cometh."
"Ah, but I've seen a ghost," saith _Austin Park_.
"Oh, where?" cried a dozen together.
"Why, it was but night afore last," saith he, "up by the old white-thornthat was strake of the lightning, come two years last Midsummer, just atyon reach o' the lake that comes up higher than the rest."
"Ay, ay," saith Farmer _Benson_: "and what like were it, Master_Austin_?"
"A woman all in white, with her head cut off," quoth he.
"Said she aught to thee?"
"Nay, I gave her no chance; I took to my heels," quoth he.
"Now, _Austin_, that should I ne'er have done," saith Aunt _Joyce_, whobelieves in ghosts never a whit. "I would have stood my ground, for Idid never yet behold a ghost, and would dearly love to do it: and do butthink how curious it should be to find out what she spake withal, thathad her head cut off."
"Mistress _Joyce_, had you found you, as I did, close to a blasted tree,and been met of a white woman with no head, I'll lay you aught you willyou'd never have run no faster," saith _Austin_ in an injured tone.
"That should I _not_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ boldly. "I shall win myfortune at that game, _Austin_, if thou deny not thy debts of honour.Why, man o' life, what harm should a blasted tree do me? Had thelightning struck it that minute while I stood there, then might therehave been some danger: but because the lightning struck it two yearsgone, how should it hurt me now? And as to a woman with no head, thatwould I tarry to believe till I had stripped off her white sheet andseen for myself."
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_," cries old Mistress _Rigg_, "but sure you shouldnever dare to touch a ghost?"
"There be not many things, save sin, Mistress _Rigg_, that I should notdare to do an' it liked me. I have run after a thief with a poker: ay,and I have handled a Popish catchpoll, in Queen _Mary's_ days, that henever came near my house no more. And wherefore, I pray you tell me,should I be more feared of a spirit without a body than of a spiritwithin the body?--_Austin_, if thou meet the ghost again, prithee bidher come up to _Selwick_ Hall and ask for _Joyce Morrell_, for I wouldgive forty shillings to have a good talk with her. Only think, how mucha ghost could tell a body!"
"Lack-a-day, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll neither make nor meddle with her!"cries _Austin_.
"Poor weak soul!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. Whereat many laughed.
So, after a while, sat we down to rear-supper; and at after that,gathered in small groups, twos and threes and the like, and talked: andI with _Isabel Meade_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_, and _Austin Park_,had some rare merriment touching divers matters. When all at once Iheard Aunt _Joyce_ say--
"Well, but what ill were there in asking questions of spirits, if theymight visit the earth?"
"The ill for which _Adam_ was turned forth of _Eden_," saith _Father_:"disobedience to a plain command of God. Look in the xviii chapter of_Deuteronomy_, and you shall see necromancy forbidden by name. That is,communication with such as be dead."
"But that were for religion, Sir _Aubrey_," saith Master _Coward_."This, look you, were but matter of curiousness."
"That is to say, it was _Eva's_ sin rather than _Adam's_," _Father_makes answer. "Surely, that which is forbid as solemn matter ofreligion, should be rather forbid as mere matter of curiousness."
"But was that aught more than a ceremonial law of the _Jews_, no longerbinding upon _Christians_?" saith Sir _Robert_.
"Nay, then, turn you to _Paul's_ Epistle to _Timothy_," quoth _Father_,"where among the doctrines taught by them that shall depart from thefaith, he doth enumerate `doctrines of devils,'--or, as the _Greek_ hathit, of demons. Now these demons were but dead men, whom the _Pagans_held to be go-betweens for living men with their gods. So this, seeyou, is a two-edged sword, forbidding all communication with the dead,whether as saints to be invoked, or as visitants to be questioned."
"Nobody's like to question 'em save Mistress _Joyce_," saith Farmer_Benson_, of his husky voice, which alway soundeth as though he shouldhave an ill rheum of his throat.
Aunt _Joyce_ laughed. "Nay, I were but joking," quoth she: "but Iwarrant you, if I meet _Austin's_ white woman without a head, I'll seeif she be ghost or no."
"But what think you, Sir _Aubrey_--wherefore was such communicationforbid?" saith Master _Murthwaite_.
"God wot," saith _Father_. "I am not of His council-chamber. MyMaster's plain word is enough for me."
"One might think that a warning from beyond the grave should have sosolemn an effect on a sinner."
"Nay, we be told right contrary. `If they hear not _Moses_ and theprophets, neither will they believe though one rise from death again.'How much rather when One hath risen from the dead, and they have refusedto hear Him?"
Then arose Dr _Meade_, that was discoursing with _Mynheer_ of a corner,and prayers were had. After which a grace-cup, and then all took theirleave, Master _Park_ being last to go as to come. And just ere he wasthrough the door, saith _Austin_ to Aunt _Joyce_, a-laughing--
&n
bsp; "You'll mind to let me know, Mistress _Joyce_, what the ghost saith toyou. I can stand it second-hand, may-be."
"That's a jolly hearing, from one of the stronger sex to one of theweaker!" quoth she. "Well said, thou mocking companion: I will givethee to wit--a piece of my mind, if no more."
_Christmas-Day_, of course, all to church: and in the even sat down tosupper seventy-six, all but ourselves poor men and women and childre.And two of the barons of beef, and six bowls of plum-porridge, and onehundred pies of divers kinds,--to say nought of lesser dishes, that_Milly_ counted up to eighty. Then after, snap-dragon, whereat was muchmirth; and singing of _Christmas_ carols, and games with the childre.And all away looking mighty pleased.
Daft _Madge_ would know of me if the angels lived o' plum-porridge. Itold her I thought not so.
"It is like to be somewhat rare good," quoth she. "The Lord's so rich,look you,--main richer nor Sir _Aubrey_. If t' servant gives poor folkplum-porridge, what'll t' Master give?"
_Father_ answered her, for he was close by--
"`Fat things full of marrow, wines on the lees well refined.'"
"Eh, that sounds good!" saith she, a-licking of her lips. "And that'sfor t' hungry folk, Master?"
"It is only for hungry folk," saith he. "'Tis not thrown away on thefull ones. `Whosoever will, take,' saith the Lord, who gives thefeast."
"Eh, then I shall get some!" saith she, a-laughing all o'er her face, asshe doth when she is pleased at aught. "You'll be sure and let me knowwhen 'tis, Master? I'll come, if 'tis snow up to t' knees all t' way."
"The Lord will be sure and let thee know, _Madge_, when 'tis ready,"saith _Father_; for he hath oft said that little as poor _Madge_ canconceive, he is assured she is one of God's childre.
"Oh, if 'tis _Him_ to let me know, 't'll be all right," saith _Madge_,smiling and drawing of her cloak around her. "He'll not forget_Madge_--not He. He come down o' purpose to die for _me_, you know."
_Father_ saith, as _Madge_ trudged away in her clogs after old _Madge_,her grandmother--
"Ah, rich _Madge_--not poor! May-be thine shall be the most abundantentrance of any in this chamber."
I am at the end of my month, and as to-morrow I hand the book to_Helen_. But I dare not count up my two-pences, for I am feared they beso many.
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Note 1. Complexion, at this date, signified temperament, not colour.The Middle Age physicians divided the complexions of mankind into four--the lymphatic, the sanguine, the nervous, and the bilious: and theirtreatment was always grounded on these considerations. Colour of skin,hair, and eyes, being considered symptomatic of complexion, the word wasreadily transferred from one to the other.