Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 39

"Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other," saith _Father_.

"_Lettice_, come thou and aid me," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Here be two men set on one poor woman."

"Nay, I am under obedience, _Joyce_," saith _Mother_, laughing.

"Forsooth, so thou art!" quoth she. "_Bess_, give me thine help."

"I am beholden to you, Mistress _Joyce_," saith Cousin _Bess_, "but I love not to meddle in no frays of other folk. I were alway learned that women were the meaner sort o' th' twain."

"Go thy ways, thou renegade!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Come, _Joyce_, shall I aid thee?" quoth _Father_.

"Nay, thou hypocrite, I'll not have thee," saith she. "Thou shouldst serve me as the wooden horse did the Trojans." And she added some _Latin_ words, the which I wist not. [Note 3.]

"'_Femme qui parle Latin Ne vient jamais a bonne fin_.'"

saith Sir _Robert_ under his voice.

"That is because you like to have it all to yourselves," saith Aunt _Joyce_, turning upon him. "There be _few_ men would not fainer have a woman foolish than learned. Tell me wherefore?"

"I dispute the major," quoth he, and shaked his head.

"Then I'll tell you," pursueth she. "Because--to give you _French_ for your _French_--'_Parmi les aveugles, les borgnes sont rois_.' You love to keep atop of us; and it standeth to reason that the lower down we are the less toil shall you have in climbing."

"'Endless genealogies, which breed doubts more than G.o.dly edifying,'"

saith _Father_. "Are we not landed in somewhat like them?"

"Well, Sir _Robert_, I'll forgive you!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, and held forth her hand. "But mark you, I am right and you are wrong, for all that."

Sir _Robert_ lifted Aunt _Joyce's_ hand to his lips, with ever so much fun in his eyes, though his mouth were as grave as a whole bench of judges.

"My mistress," said he, "I have been wed long enough to have learned never to gainsay a gentlewoman."

"Nay, _Dulcie_ never learned you that!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "I know her better. Your daughters may have done, belike."

Sir _Robert_ did but laugh, and so ended the matter.

SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE x.x.x.

So here I am come to the last day of our Chronicle--to-morrow being _Sunday_, when methinks it unseemly to write therein, without it were some G.o.dly meditations that should come more meeter from an elder pen than mine. To-morrow even I shall give the book into the hands of Aunt _Joyce_, that she may read the same, and write her own thoughts thereon: and thereafter shall _Father_ and _Mother_ and _Anstace_ read it. There be yet fifteen leaves left of the book, and metrusteth Aunt _Joyce_ shall fill them every one: for it standeth with reason that her thoughts should be better worth than of young maids like us.

I wis not well if I have been wise on the last page or no, as _Father did_ seem diverted to hear me to say I would fain be. I am something afeared that I come nearer _Milisent_ her reckoning, and have been wise on none. But I dare say that _Helen_ hath fulfilled her hope, and been wise on all. Leastwise, Aunt _Joyce_ her wisdom, as I cast no doubt, shall make up for our shortcomings.

I cannot but feel a little sorry to lay down my pen, and as though I would fain keep adding another line, not to have done. Wherefore is it, I marvel, that all last things (without they be somewhat displeasant) be so sorrowful? Though it be a thing that you scarce care aught for, yet to think that you be doing it for the very last time of all, shall cause you feel right melancholical.

Well! last times must come, I count. So farewell, my good red book: and when the Queen's Majesty come to read thee (as _Milly_ would have it) may Her Majesty be greatly diverted therewith; and when _Father_ and _Mother_, may they pardon (as I reckon they shall) all faults and failings thereof, and in particular, should they find such, any displeasance done to themselves, more especially of that their loving and duteous daughter, that writes her name _Editha Louvaine_.

Note 1. At this time separate articles from the dress, and fastened in when worn, according to taste.

Note 2. Silk stockings. New and costly things, being about two guineas the pair.

Note 3. "_Timeo Danaos, ac dona ferentes_."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE JOY OF HARVEST.

"Now that Thy mercies on my head The oil of joy for mourning pour, Not as I will my steps be led, But as Thou wilt for evermore."

Anna L. Waring.

(_In Joyce Morrell's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE SECOND.

Some ten years gone, when I was tarrying hither, I had set round my waist a leather thong, at the other end whereof was a very small damsel, by name _Edith_. "Gee up, horse!" quoth she: "gee up, I say!" and accordingly in all obeisance I did gee up, and danced and pranced (like an old dolt as I am) at the pleasance of that my driver. It seems me that Mistress _Edith_ hath said "Gee up!" yet once again, and given the old brown mare a cut of her whip. I therefore have no choice but to prance: and if any into whose hands this book may fall hereafter shall reckon me a silly old woman, I hereby do them to wit that their account tallieth to one farthing with the adding of _Joyce Morrell_.

I have read over the writings of these my cousins: and as I am commanded to write my thoughts on that matter, I must say that methinks but one of them hath done as she laid out to do. That _Nell_ hath been wise on every page will I not deny; at the least, if not, they be right few.

But I reckon _Edith_ hath been wise on more than the last (though not on all) and hath thus done better than she looked for: while as to _Milly_, she hath been wise on none of her first writing, and on all of her second. Verily, when I came to read that record of _February_, I might scarce credit that _Milisent_ was she that writ.

Ah, these young maids! how do they cause an elder woman to live o'er her life again! To look thereat in one light, it seemeth me as a century had pa.s.sed sithence I were as they: and yet turn to an other, and it is but yestereven since I was smoothing _Anstace'_ pillow, and making tansy puddings for my father, and walking along the garden, in a dream of bliss that was never to be, with one I will not name, but who shall never pa.s.s along those garden walks with me, never any more.

And dost thou think it sorrow, young _Edith_, rosebud but just breaking into bloom, to clasp the hand of aught and say unto it, "Farewell, Last Time!" I shall not gainsay thee. All young things have such moods, half melancholical, half delightsome, and I know when I was as much given to them as ever thou art. But there be sorrows to which there is no last time that you may know,--no clasping of loving hands, no tender farewell: only the awful waking to find that you have dreamed a dream, and the utter blank of life that cometh after. Our worst sufferings are not the crushing pain for which all around comfort you and smoothe your pillow, and try one physic after an other that shall may-be give you ease. They are those for which none essayeth to comfort you, and you could not bear it if they did. No voice save His that knoweth our frame can speak comfort then, and oft-times not His even can speak hope.

Ay, and they that account other folk cheery and hopeful,--as I see from these writings that these maids do of me,--what wit they of the inner conflict, and the dreary plains of despair we have by times to cross?

It may be that she which crieth sore and telleth out all her griefs, hath far less a burden to carry than she which bolts the door of her heart o'er it, so that the world reckoneth her to have no griefs at all.

In good sooth, I have found _Anstace_ right when she said the only safe confidant for most was _Jesu Christ_.

Well! It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones. Only there be seasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back and abiding with you for a while. And one of those seasons is come to me this eve, after reading of this Chronicle.

Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that none knoweth better than thyself. Let the world reckon thee such, and welcome. And in very deed I would fain have _Christ_ so to reckon me, for then should He take me in His arms with the little lambs, in the stead of leaving me to trot on alongside with the strong unweary sheep.

Yes, they call a woman's heart weak that will go on loving, through evil report and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and the howling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utter unworthiness.

Be it so. I confess them all. But I go on hoping against all hope, and when even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still.

Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that G.o.d loved me?

O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love that might have been! Every morrow and every night I pray G.o.d to bring thee back from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father's house. If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeter for me. But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and I ask no more.

I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest by the name. But with the pure gold of a true heart that G.o.d calls love, none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved thee but me.

G.o.d knoweth,--thee and me. G.o.d careth. G.o.d will provide. Enough, O fainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is higher than thou. Rest, and be still.

SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE III.