Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 35

"_Robin Lewthwaite_, of course. I can alway tell when young folks be after that game."

"Eh deary me!" cries Cousin _Bess_. "Why, I ne'er counted one of our la.s.ses old enough to be wed. How doth time slip by, for sure!"

"I scarce looked for _Milly_ to go the first," saith Mistress _Martin_.

I reckon she thought _Nell_ should have come afore, for she is six years elder than _Milly_: and so she might, would she have taken _Nym Lewthwaite_, for _Father_ and _Mother_ were so rare good as leave her choose. But I would not have taken _Nym_, so I cannot marvel at _Helen_.

"You see, _Aunt_," saith _Ned_, answering Aunt _Joyce_, "I am not yet up to the game."

"And what wilt choose by, when thou art?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a little laugh. "I know a young man that chose his wife for her comely eyebrows: and an other (save the mark!) by her _French_ hood. Had I had no better cause than that last, I would have bought me a _French_ hood as fair, if I had need to send to _Paternoster_ Row [Note 2] for it, and feasted mine eyen thereon. It should not have talked when I desired quietness, nor have threaped [scolded] at me when I did aught pleased it not."

"That speech is rare like a man, _Joyce_," saith my Lady _Stafford_.

"Dear heart, _Dulcie_, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I am one myself?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I know better, forsooth."

"Methinks, _Aunt_, I shall follow your example," saith _Ned_, winking on me, that was beside him. "Women be such ill matter, I'll sheer off from 'em."

"Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "yet am I more afeared of _Wat_ than thee."

"Is _Wat_ the more like to wed a _French_ hood?" saith _Ned_.

"I reckon so much," saith she, "or a box of perfume, or some such rubbish. Eh dear, this world! _Ned_, 'tis a queer place: and the longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it."

"'Tis a very pleasant place, _Aunt_, by your leave," said I.

"Thou art not yet seventeen, _Edith_," saith she: "and thou hast not seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders'

webs.--Well, _Lettice_, I reckon _Aubrey_ gave consent?"

"Oh ay," saith _Mother_, "in case _Milisent_ were agreeable."

"And were _Milisent_ agreeable?" asks my Lady _Stafford_.

"I think so much," made answer _Mother_, and smiled.

"None save a blind bat should have asked that," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"But thou hast worn blinkers, _Dulcie_, ever sith I knew thee. Eh, lack-a-daisy! but that is fifty year gone, or not far thence."

"Three lacking," quoth my Lady _Stafford_.

"I'll tell you what, we be growing old women!" saith Aunt _Joyce. "Ned_ and _Edith_, ye ungracious loons, what do ye a-laughing?"

"I cry you mercy, _Aunt_, I could not help it," said I, when I might speak: "you said it as though you had discovered the same but that instant minute."

"Well, I had," saith she. "And so shall you, afore you come to sixty years: or if not, woe betide you."

"Dear heart, _Aunt_, there is a long road betwixt sixteen and sixty!"

cried I, yet laughing.

"There is, _Edith_," right grave, Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer. "A long stretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, and swollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors. Ah, how little ye young things know! I reckon most folk should count my life an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it again, an' I might choose. Wouldst thou, _Dulcie_?"

"Oh dear, no!" cries my Lady _Stafford_.

"And thou, _Grissel_?"

Mistress _Martin_ shook her head.

"And thou, _Lettice_?"

_Mother_ hesitated a little. "Some part, I might," she saith.

"Ay, some part: we could all pick out that," returns Aunt _Joyce_.

"What sayest thou, _Bess_?"

"What, to turn back, and begin all o'er again?" quoth Cousin _Bess_.

"Nay, Mistress _Joyce_, I'm none such a dizard as that. I reckon _Ned_ shall tell you, when a sailor is coming round the corner in sight of home, 'tis not often he shall desire to sail forth back again."

"Why, we reckon that as ill as may be," saith _Ned_, "not to be able to make your port, and forced to put to sea again."

"And when the sea hath been stormy," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "and the port is your own home, and you can see the light gleaming through the windows?"

"Why, it were well-nigh enough to make an old salt cry," saith _Ned_.

"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Nay--I would not live it again. Yet my life hath not been an hard one--only a little lonely and trying. _Dulcie_, here, hath known far sorer sorrows than I. Yet I shall be glad to get home, and lay by my travelling-gear."

"But thou hast had sorrow, dear _Joyce_," saith my Lady _Stafford_ gently.

"Did any woman ever reach fifty without it?" Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer.

"Ay, I have had my sorrows, like other women--and one sorer than ever any knew. May-be, _Dulcie_, if the roads were smoother and the rivers shallower to ford, we should not be so glad when we gat safe home."

"'And so He leadeth them unto the haven where they would be,'" softly saith Mistress _Martin_.

"Ay, it makes all the difference who leads us when we pa.s.s through the waters," answereth Aunt _Joyce_. "I mind _Anstace_ once saying that.

Most folks (said she) were content to go down, trusting to very shallow sticks--to the world, that brake under them like a reed; or to the strength of their own hearts, that had scantly the pith of a rush. But let us get hold with a good grip of _Christ's_ hand, and then the water may carry us off our feet if it will. It can never sweep us down the stream. It must spend all his force on the Rock of our shelter, before it can reach us. 'In the great water-floods they shall not come _nigh_ him.'"

"May the good Lord keep us all!" saith _Mother_, looking tenderly on us.

"Amen!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Children, the biting cold and the rough walking shall be little matter to them that have reached home."

SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XIII.

"_Walter_," saith _Father_ this even, "I have had a letter from my Lord of _Oxenford_."

"You have so, Sir?" quoth he. "But not an answer to yours?"

"Ay, an answer to mine, having come down express with the Queen's Majesty's despatches unto my Lord _Dacre_ of the North."

"But, _Aubrey_, that is quick work!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Why, I reckon it cannot be over nine days sith thine were writ."

"Nor is it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_: "but look thou, I had rare opportunities, since mine went with certain letters of my Lord _Dilston_ unto Sir _Francis Walsingham_."