Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 26

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXI.

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

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

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

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

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXVII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_Wat_!" saith Ned, curling of his lip. "I saw him, Sir, and spent two days in his company, when we touched at _London_ some eight months gone.

Why, he is--Nay, I wis not what he is like. All the popinjays in the South Seas be fools to him."

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

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

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

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

"For a hat!" cries _Milly_.

"Tarry a bit," saith _Ned_; "I am not in port yet by a thousand knots.

Then in this hat was a white curled ostrich feather, six shillings.

Below, a gown of tawny velvet, wherein were six yards, _London_ measure, of four-and-twenty shillings the yard: and guarded with some make of fur (I forgat to ask him the name of that), two dozen skins, eight pence each: cost of this goodly gown, six pound, ten shillings, and four pence."

"Eh!" cried _Milly_ and _Edith_ together.

"Bide a bit!" saith _Ned_. "_Item_, a doublet, of black satin of sixteen shillings the yard, with points of three and sixpence the dozen.

_Item_, a pair of hose of popinjay green (they be well called popinjay) of thirty shillings. _Item_, cross-garters of scarlet--how's that?"

quoth _Ned_, scratching his forehead with a pencil: "I must have forgat the price o' them. Boots o' red _Spanish_ leather, nine shillings.

Gloves of _Cordova_, well scented, ten pence. Gold rings of 's ears, three shilling the pair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Twenty-three pound, two and six pence, Sir, I make it," saith _Ned_.

"I am not so sure _Wat_ could. He saith figuring is only fit for shop-folk."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That cannot I say certainly, Sir: but I would guess six or seven,"

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

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

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

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

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

"Prithee interpret, _Ned_," saith _Father_, "for that pa.s.seth my weak head."

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

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

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