Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 40

I could write no more last night. It was better to cast one's self on the sand (as _Ned_ saith men do in the great Desert of _Araby_) and leave the tempest sweep o'er one's head. I come back now to the life of every day--that quiet humdrum life (as _Milly_ hath it) which is so displeasant to young eager natures, and matcheth so well with them that be growing old and come to feel the need of rest. And after all said, Mistress _Milisent_, a man should live a sorry life and a troublous, if it had in it no humdrum days. Human nature could not bear perpetual sorrow, and as little (in this dispensation at the least) should it stand unceasing joy.

I fell a-thinking this morrow, how little folks do wit of that which lieth a-head. Now, if I were to prophesy (that am no prophet, neither a prophet's daughter) what should befall these young things my cousins twenty years hereafter, then would I say that it should find _Ned_ captain of some goodly vessel, and husband of _Faith Murthwaite_ (and may he have no worser fate befall him!)--and _Wat_, a country gentleman (but I trust not wed to _Gillian Armstrong)_: and _Nell_, a comely maiden ministering lovingly unto her father and mother: and _Milisent_ dwelling at _Mere Lea_ with _Robin Lewthwaite_: and _Edith_--nay, I will leave the fashioning of her way to the Lord, for I see not whither it lieth. And very like (an' it be His will I live thus long) when the time cometh, I shall see may-be not so much as one that hath fulfilled the purpose I did chalk out for them. Ay, but the Lord's chalking shall be a deal better than _Joyce Morrell's_. I reckon my lines should be all awry.

For how little hath happed that ever I looked for aforetime! _Dulcie Fenton_, that wont to look as though it should be a sin in her to laugh, had she beheld aught to laugh at, hath blossomed out into an happy, comfortable matron, with two fair daughters, and an husband that (for a man) is rare good unto her: and _Lettice Eden_--come, _Anstace_ is to read this, so will I leave _Lettice_ to conceive for herself what should have followed. Both she and _Aubrey_ shall read well enough betwixt the lines. And _Joyce Morrell_, that thought once to be--what she is not-- is an humdrum old maid, I trust a bit useful as to cooking and st.i.tchery and the like, and on whom G.o.d hath put a mighty charge of His gold and goods to minister for Him,--but nought nearer than cousins to give her love, though that do they most rarely, and G.o.d bless their hearts therefor. My best treasures be in the good Land--all save one, that the Good Shepherd is yet looking for over the wild hills: nor hath my life been an unhappy one, but for that one blank which is there day and night, and shall be till the Good Shepherd call me by my name to come and rejoice with Him over the finding of His sheep that is lost. O Lord, make no long tarrying! Yea, make no tarrying, O my G.o.d!

SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE V.

_Ned_ hath spoke out at last, like the honest man he is, and done _Aubrey_ to wit of his desire to wed with _Faith Murthwaite_. She is a good maid, and I cast no doubt shall make a good wife. Scarce so comely as her sister _Temperance_, may-be, yet she liketh me the better: and not by no means so fair as _Gillian Armstrong_, which liketh me not at all. I would with all mine heart that I could put a spoke in that la.s.s's wheel the which she rolleth toward our _Walter_: yet this know I, that if you shall give an hint to a young man that he were best not to wed with a certain maid, mine head to a porridge-pot but he shall go and fall o' love with her, out of pure contrariety. Men be such dolts!

And, worser yet, they will not be ruled by the women, that have all the wit going.

Master _Murthwaite_, though he say little, as his wont is, is nevertheless, as I can see, pleased enough (and Mistress _Murthwaite_ a deal more, and openly) that his la.s.s should have caught our _Ned_. And truly our _Ned_ is no ill catch, for he feareth G.o.d, and hath a deal of his father in him, than which I can write no better commendation. _Wat_ is more like _Lettice_.

Ay me, but is it no strange matter that the last thing ever a man (or woman) doth seem able to understand, is that 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' _That_: not an other thing. Yet for one that honestly essayeth to sow that which he would reap, an hundred shall sow darnel and look confidently to reap fine wheat. They sow that they have no desire to reap, and ope their dull eyes in amazement when that cometh up which they have sown.

How do men pa.s.s their lives in endeavours to deceive G.o.d! Because they be ready to take His gold for tinsel, they reckon He shall leave their tinsel pa.s.s for gold.

Yea, and too oft we know not indeed what we sow.--Here be seeds; what, I wis not. Drop them into the earth--they shall come up somewhat.--Then, when they come up briars and thistles, we stand and gape on them.--Dear heart, who had thought they should be so? I looked for primroses and violets.--Did you so, friend? But had you not been wiser to ask at the Husbandman, who wot that you did not?--Good lack! but I thought me wise enough.--Ay so: that do we all and alway. Good Lord, who art the Only Wise, shake our conceits of our own wisdom!

Lack-a-daisy, but how easy is it to fall of a rut in thy journeying!

Here was I but to write my thoughts touching these maids' writings, and after reading the same, I am fallen of their rut, and am going on to keep the Chronicle as though I were one of them. Of a truth, there is somewhat captivating therein: and _Edith_ saith she shall continue, for her own diversion, to keep a privy Chronicle. So be it. Methinks, as matter of understanding and natural turn thereto, she is fittest of the three. _Nell_ saith she found it no easy matter, and should never think so to do: while _Milisent_, as I guess, shall for a while to come be something too much busied living her chronicle, to write it. For me, I did once essay to do the same; but it went not, as I mind, beyond a week or so. Either there were so much to do there was no time to write it; or so little that there was nought to write. I well-nigh would now that I had kept it up. For sure such changes in public matters as have fallen in my life shall the world not see many times o'er again. When I was born, in Mdxxv [1525], was King _Harry_ the Eight young and well-liked of all men, and no living soul so much as dreamed of all the troubles thereafter to ensue. Then came the tumult that fell of the matter of the King's divorce. (All 'long of a man's obstinateness, for was not my sometime Lord Cardinal [Wolsey] wont to say that rather than miss the one half of his will, he would endanger the one half of his kingdom? Right the man is that. A woman should know how to bend herself to circ.u.mstances.) Then came the troubles o'er Queen _Anne_, that had her head cut off (and by my troth, I mis...o...b..ed alway if she did deserve the same); and then of the divorce of the Lady _Anne_ of _Cleve_ (that no _Gospeller_ did ever think to deserve the same); and then of Queen _Katherine_, whose head was cut off belike--eh me, what troublous times were then! Verily, looking back, they seem worser than at the time they did. For when things be, there be mixed with all the troubles little matters that be easy and even delightsome: but to look back, one doth forget all them, and think only of the great affairs.

And all the time, along with this, kept pace that great ado of religion which fell out in the purifying of the Church men call the Reformation.

(Though, of a truth, the _Papists_ have of late took up a cry that afore the Reformation the Church of _England_ was not, and did only then spring into being. As good say I was not _Joyce Morrell_ this morrow until I washed my face.) Then, when King _Harry_ died--and it was none too soon for this poor realm--came the goodly days of our young _Josiah_ King _Edward_, which were the true reforming of the Church; that which went afore were rather playing at reform. Men's pa.s.sions were too much mixed up with it. But after the blue sky returned the tempest. Ay me, those five years of Queen _Mary_, what they be to look back on!

Howbeit, matters were worser in the shires and down south than up hither. Old Bishop _Tunstall_ was best of all the _Papist_ Bishops, for though he fl.u.s.tered much (and as some thought, to save himself from suspicion of them in power), yet he did little more. I well-nigh gat mine head into a noose, for it ne'er was my way to carry my flag furled, and Father _Slatter_, that was then priest at _Minster Lovel_, as I know, had my name set of his list of persons suspect. Once come the catchpoll to mine house,--I wis not on what business, for, poor man! he tarried not to tell me when I come at him with the red-hot poker. I never wist a man yet, would stand a red-hot poker with a woman behind it that meant it for him. Master Catchpoll were wise enough to see that the penny is well spent that saveth a groat, and he gave me leave to see little more of him than his flying skirts and the nails of his boots-- and his hat, that he left behind of his hurry, the which I sent down to my mistress his wife with mine hearty commendations, and hope he had catched no cold. I reckon he preferred the risk of that to the surety of catching a red-hot poker. But that giving me warning of what might follow--as a taste of a dish whereof more should be anon laid on my trencher--up-stairs went I, and made up my little bundle, and the next night that ever was, away came I of an horse behind old _d.i.c.kon_, that had been sewer ever since _Father_ and _Mother_ were wed, then five-and-thirty years gone, and Father _Slatter_ might whistle for me, as I reckon he did when he heard it. It were an hard journey and a cold, for it were winter, but the snow was our true friend in covering all tracks, and at long last came I safe hither, in the middle of the night, and astonied _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_ more than a little by casting of s...o...b..a.l.l.s at their chamber window. At the last come the cas.e.m.e.nt undone, and _Aubrey's_ voice saith--

"Is there any in trouble?"

"Here is a poor maid, by name _Joyce Morrell_," said I, "that will be in trouble ere long if thou leave her out in this snowstorm."

Good lack, but was there no ado when my voice were known! The hall fire embers were stirren up, and fresh logs cast thereon, and in ten minutes was I sat afore it of a great chair, with all the blankets in _c.u.mberland_ around and over me, and a steaming hot posset-bowl of mine hand.

It was a mile or so too far, I reckon, for Father _Slatter_ to trudge after me, and if he had come, I'd have serven him of the poker, or twain if need be. I guess he should have loved rather to flounder back through the snow.

So, by the good hand of my G.o.d upon me, came I safe through the reign of Queen _Mary_; and when Queen _Elizabeth_ came in (whom G.o.d long preserve, unto the comfort of His Church and the welfare of _England_!) had I not much ado to win back my lands and goods. Truth to tell, I gat not all back, but what I lost was a cheap bargain where life lay in the other scale. And enough is as good as a feast, any day.

So here lie I now at anchor, becalmed on the high seas. (If that emblem hang not together, _Ned_ must amend it when he cometh unto it.) The day is neither bright nor dark, but it is a day known to the Lord, and I have faith to believe that at eventide it shall be light. I can trust and wait.

(_In Edith's handwriting_.)

MINSTER LOVEL MANOR HOUSE, AUGUST THE XXVIII, MDXCI [1591].

When I come, this morrow, to search for my Diurnal Book, the which for aught I knew I had brought with me from home, what should I find but our old Chronicle, which I must have catched up in mistake for the same?

And looking therein, I was enticed to read divers pages, and then I fell a-thinking that as it had so happed, it might be well, seeing a s.p.a.ce was yet left, that I should set down for the childre, whose it shall some day be, what had come to pa.s.s since. They were the pages Aunt _Joyce_ writ that I read: and seeing that of them therein named, two have reached Home already, and the rest of us be eleven years further on the journey, it shall doubtless make the story more completer to add these lines.

_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, be all yet alive; the Lord be heartily thanked therefor! But _Father's_ hair is now of the hue of the snow, though _Mother_ hath scantly any silver amongst the gold; and Aunt _Joyce_ well-nigh matcheth _Father_. _Hal_ and _Anstace_ be as they were, with more childre round them. _Robin_ and _Milisent_ dwell at _Mere Lea_, with a goodly parcel belike; and _Helen_ (that Aunt _Joyce_ counted should be an old maid) is wife unto _Dudley Murthwaite_, and dwelleth by _Skiddaw Force_. _Wat_ is at _Kendal_, grown a good man and wise, more like to _Father_ than ever we dared hope: but his wife is not _Gillian Armstrong_, nor any of the maids of this part, but _Frances Radcliffe_, niece to my Lord _Dilston_ that was, and cousin unto Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_. They have four boys and three maids: but _Nell_ hath only one daughter, that is named _Lettice_ for _Mother_.

And _Ned_ is not. We prayed the Lord to bring him safe from that last voyage to _Virginia_ that ever Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ took; and He set him safe enough, but in better keeping than ours. For from that voyage came safe to _Falmouth_ all the ships save one, and that was the Admiral's own. They had crossed the _Atlantic_ through an awful storm, and the last seen of the Admiral was on the ix of _September_, Mdlx.x.xiii [1583], by them in the _Hind_: and when they saw him he was sat of the stern of his vessel, with his Bible open of his knees: and he was plainly heard to say,--"Courage, my men! Heaven is as near by water as by land." Then the mist closed again o'er the fleet, and they saw him no more. On the xxii of _September_ the fleet reached _Falmouth_: but when, and where, and how, Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ and our _Ned_ went down, He knoweth unto whom the night is as clear as the day, and we shall know when the sea giveth up her dead.

His young widow, our dear sister _Faith_, dwelleth with us at _Selwick_ Hall: and so doth their one child, little _Aubrey_, the darling of us all. I cannot choose but think never were two such sweetings as _Aubrey_ and his cousin _Lettice Murthwaite_.

I am _Edith Louvaine_ yet. I know now that I was counted fairest of the sisters, and they looked for me to wed with confidence. I am not so fair now, and I shall never wed. Had things turned out other than they have, I will not say I might not have done it. There is no blame to any--not even to myself. It was of G.o.d's ordering, and least of all could I think to blame that. It is only--and I see no shame to tell it--that the man who was my one love never loved me, and is happy in the love of a better than I. Be it so: I am content. I had no love-story,--only a memory that is known to none but me, though it will never give mine heart leave to open his gates to any love again. Enough of that. It is all the better for our dear _Father_ and _Mother_ that they have one daughter left to them.

At the time we writ this Chronicle, when I were scarce seventeen years of age, I mind I had a fantasy running through my brain that I was born for greatness. Methinks it came in part of a certain eager restless spirit that did long to be a-doing, and such little matters as do commonly fall to women's lot seemed mean and worthless in mine eyes.

But in part (if I must needs confess my folly) I do believe it sprang of a tale I had heard of _Mother_, touching Queen _Katherine_, the last wife to King _Harry_ that was, of whom some _Egyptian_ [gypsy] had prophesied, in her cradle, that she was born for a crown: and ever after she heard the same, the child (as she then were) was used to scorn common works, and when bidden to her task, was wont to say,--"My hands were made to touch crowns and sceptres, not spindles and neelds,"

[needles]. Well, this tale (that _Mother_ told us for our diversion when we were little maids--for she, being _Kendal_ born, did hear much touching the Lady _Maud Parr_ and her childre, that dwelt in _Kendal_ Castle) this tale, I say, catched great hold of my fantasy. Mistress _Kate Parr_ came to be a queen, according to her previsions of greatness: and wherefore should not _Editha Louvaine_? Truly, there was but little reason in the fantasy, seeing no _Egyptian_ had ever prophesied of me (should that be of any account, which _Father_ will ne'er allow), nor could the Queen's Majesty make me a queen by wedding of me: but methinks pride and fantasy stick not much at logic. So I clung in my silly heart to the thought that I was born to be great, and was capable to do great things, would they but come in my way.

And now I have reached the age of seven and twenty, and they have not come in my way, nor seem like to do. The only conquest I am like to achieve is that over mine own spirit, which _Scripture_ reckoneth better than taking of a city: and the sole entrance into majesty and glory that ever I can look for, is to be presented faultless before the presence of G.o.d with exceeding joy. Ah, _Editha Louvaine_! hast thou any cause for being downcast at the exchange?

In good sooth, this notion of mine (that I can smile at now) showeth one thing, to wit, the deal of note that childre be apt to take of little matters that should seem nought to their elders. I can ne'er conceive the light and careless fashion wherein some women go about to breed up a child. To me the training of a human soul for the life immortal seems the most terrible piece of responsibility in the whole world.

And now there is one story left that I must finish, and it is of the other that hath got Home.

It was five years gone, and a short season after _Helen's_ marriage.

_Mother_ was something diseased, as I think, touching me, for she said I was pale, and had lost mine appet.i.te (and my sleep belike, though she wist it not).

'Twas thought that the winters at home were somewhat too severe for mine health, and 'twas settled that for the winter then coming, I should tarry with Aunt _Joyce_. It was easy to compa.s.s the matter, for at that time was _Wat_ of a journey to _London_ on his occasions, and he brought me, early in _October_, as far as _Minster Lovel_. As for getting back, that was left to see to when time should be convenient. _Father_ gave me his blessing, and three n.o.bles spending money, and bade me bring back home a pair of rosier cheeks, saying he should not grudge to pay the bill: and _Mother_ shed some tears o'er me, and packed up for me much good gear of her own spinning and knitting, and all bade me farewell right lovingly. I o'erheard Cousin _Bess_ say to _Mother_ that the sun should scant seem to shine till I came back: the which dear _Mother_ did heartily echo, saying she wist not at all what had come o'er me, but it was her good hope that a southward winter should make me as an other maid.

Well! I could have told her what she wist not, for I was then but new come out of the discovering that what women commonly reckon the flower of a woman's life was not for me, and that I must be content to crown mine head with the common herb of the field. But I held my peace, and none wist it but Aunt _Joyce_: for in her presence had I not been a day when I found that her eyes had read me through. As we sat by the fire at even, our two selves, quoth she all suddenly, without an other word afore it--

"There be alway some dark valleys in a woman's life, _Edith_."

"I reckon so, _Aunt_," said I, essaying to speak lightly.

"Ay, and each one is apt to think she hath no company. But there be always footsteps on the road afore us, child. Nearest of all be His footsteps that knelt that dark night in _Gethsemane_, with no human comforting in His agony. There hath never been any sorrow like to His sorrow, though each one of us is given to suppose there is none like her own. Poor little _Edith_! didst reckon thy face should be any riddle to me--me, that have been on the road afore thee these forty years?"

I could not help it. That gentle touch unlocked the sealed fountain, and I knelt down by Aunt _Joyce_, and threw mine arms around her, and poured out mine heart like water, with mine head upon her knees. She held me to her with one arm, but not a word said she till my tears were stayed, and I could lift mine head again.

"That will do thee good, child," saith she. "'Tis what thy body and mind alike were needing. (And truly, mine heart, as methought, hath never felt quite so sore and bound from that day.) I know all about it, _Edith_. I saw it these two years gone, when I was with you at _Selwick_. And I began to fear, even then, that there was a dark valley on the road afore thee, though not so dark as mine. Ah, dear heart, it is sore matter to find thy shrine deserted of the idol: yet not half so sore as to see the idol lie broken at thy feet, and to know thenceforward that it was nought but a lump of common clay. No G.o.d-- only a lump of clay, that thy foolish heart had thought to be one!

Well! all that lieth behind, and the sooner thou canst turn away and go on thy journey, the better. But for what lieth afore, _Edith_, look onward and look upward. Heaven will be the brighter because earth was darker than thou hadst looked for. _Christ_ will be the dearer Friend, because the dearest human friend hath failed thine hope. It is not the traveller that hath been borne through flowers and sunshine on the soft cushions of a litter, that is the gladdest to see the lights of home."

"It is n.o.body's fault," I could not help whispering.

"I know, dear heart!" she saith. "Thine idol is not broken. Thank G.o.d for it. Thou mayest think of him yet as a true man, able to hold up his head in the sunlight, with no cause to be 'shamed of the love which stole into thine heart ere thou hadst wist it. Alas for them to whom the fairest thought which even hope can compa.s.s, is the thought of the prodigal in the far country, weary at long last of the husks which the swine do eat, and turning with yearning in his eyes toward the hills which lie betwixt him and the Father. O _Edith_, thank G.o.d that He hath spared thee such a sorrow as that!"

It was about six weeks after that even, when one wet morrow, as I was aiding Aunt _Joyce_ to turn the apples in her store-chamber, and gather into a basket such as lacked use, that _Barbara_, the cook-maid, come in with her hands o'er flour, to say--

"Mistress, here at the base door is a poor blind man, begging for broken victuals. Would you have me give him that beef-bone you set aside for broth?"

"A blind man?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Then shall he not go empty. I am coming down, _Bab_, and will look to him myself. Bring him out of the rain to the kitchen fire, and if he have a dog that leadeth him, find the poor animal some sc.r.a.ps.--Now, _Edith_, bring thy basket, and I will take mine."

"He hath no dog, Mistress," saith _Bab_; "'twas a lad that brought him."

"Then the lad may have an apple," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "which the dog should scantly shake his tail for. Go and bring them in, _Bab_; I shall be after thee presently."

So down came we into the kitchen, where was sat the blind man and the lad. We set down our baskets, and I gave the lad an apple at a sign from Aunt _Joyce_, which went toward the blind man and 'gan ask him if he were of those parts.

He was a comely man of (I would judge) betwixt sixty and seventy years, and had a long white beard. He essayed to rise when Aunt _Joyce_ spake.

"Nay, sit still, friend," saith she: "I dare reckon thou art aweary."

"Ay," saith he in a sad tone: "weary of life and all things that be in it."