Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 14

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

"Oh eyes that see no further Than this world's glare and din!

I warn thee from that pathway Because I slipped therein.

"So, leave the veil up-hanging!

And tell the world outside-- 'She cannot understand me-- She nothing has to hide!'"

(_In Edith's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST.

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

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

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

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

I told her so well as I could.

"And how oft hast thou seen him?"

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

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

"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not.

This morrow he took no note of any one."

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

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

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

"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go forth. I saw her through a c.h.i.n.k of the door, which was not close shut, as I pa.s.sed by."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whose face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified.

I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then. Out of her cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.

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

"This is Sir _Edwin_!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully.

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

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

"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.

"Nay," was all she said.

"Shall I bide with thee?"