“Then which of us shall keep the grand chronicle?” saith Edith, when we had made an end of laughing.
“Why not all of you?” quoth Aunt Joyce. “Let each keep it a month a-piece, turn about.”
“And you, Aunt Joyce?”
“Nay, I will keep no chronicles. I would not mind an’ I writ my thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished.”
“But who shall read it?” said I.
“There spake Nell!” quoth Milly. “ ‘Who shall read it?’ Why, all the world, for sure, from the Queen’s Majesty down to Cat and Kitling.”
These be our two serving-maids, Kate and Caitlin, which Milly doth affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling. And truly the names come pat, the rather that Kate is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she being Westmoreland born; while Caitlin, which is Cumberland born, is little and wiry, and of dark complexion. “The Queen’s Majesty shall have other fish to fry, I reckon,” saith Aunt Joyce. “And so shall Kate and Caitlin—if they could read.”
“But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?” saith Edith. “Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what to set down first.”
“Let Nell begin, then, as she is eldest of the three,” quoth Aunt Joyce.
So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle. For when Father and Mother heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and afterward grew sad. Then saith Mother—
“Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you—at the least, an’ ye keep it truly. Let each set down what verily she doth think.”
“And not what she reckons she ought to think,” saith Aunt Joyce.
“Then, Father, will it please you give us some pens and paper?” said I. “For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle.”
“That speech is right, Nell!” puts in Milly.
“Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the Nile, in Egypt,” saith Father, “reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old Romans, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for English maidens dwelling by Lake Derwentwater, I count paper and pens shall be wanted—and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied, Nell!”
And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat a-sewing, what should Father set down afore me, in the stead of the sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full of fair blank paper ready to be writ in—and an whole bundle of pens, with a great inkhorn. Milly fell a-laughing.
“Oh dear, dear!” saith she. “Be we three to write up all those? Verily, Father, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen a good half of this chronicle yourself.”
“Nay, not so much as one line,” saith he, “saving those few I have writ already on the first leaf. Let Nell read them aloud.”
So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them, cannot I put in what was said.
“Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall.—Imprimis, to be writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha Louvaine.”
Milly was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from laughing right out.
“Item, the said Helen to begin the said book.
“Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor.”
“Oh, good lack!” from Milly.
“I care not, so Father give us the pennies,” from Edith.
“I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour,” saith Father in his dry way. “I to pay the pennies, and Edith to make the blots. Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand.”
“Then both of yours, Father,” saith Milly, saucily.
“Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the poor.”
“Lack-a-daisy!” cries Milly; “I shall be ruined!”
“Truth for once,” quoth Aunt Joyce.
“I am sorry to hear it, my maid,” saith Father.
“Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor.”
“Father,” quoth Milly, “by how much mean you to increase mine income while this book is a-writing?”
Father smiled, but made no further answer.
“Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ, two pence to the poor.”
“That is it which shall work my ruin,” saith Edith, a-laughing.
“Therein art thou convict of laziness,” quoth Father.
“Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall forfeit each time one penny to the poor.”
“That will bring both Edith and me to beggary,” quoth Milly, “Only Nell shall come off scot-free. Father, have you writ nought that will catch her?”
“Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and Anstace Banaster.”
“And none else? Alack the day!” saith Milly.
“I said not whom else,” quoth Father. “Be that as it like you.”
But I know well what should like me—and that were, not so much as one pair of eyes beyond. Milly, I dare reckon—but if I go on it shall cost me two pence, so I will forbear.
“Well!” saith Edith, “one thing will I say, your leave granted, Father: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be done. I would lief be at my wisest on the last page.”
“Dear heart! I look to be wise on no page,” cries Milly.
“Nay,” said I, “I would trust to be wise on all.”
“There spake our Nell!” cries Milly. “I could swear it were she, though mine eyes were shut close.”
“This book doth somewhat divert me, Joyce,” quoth Father, looking at her. “Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page, and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be pleasant reading.”
“And I reckon,” saith Aunt Joyce, “they shall be reasonable true to themselves an’ it be thus.”
“And I,” saith Milly, “that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any.”
“Ergo,” quoth Father, “wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is, Milly—to unwise folks.”
“Then, Father, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you,” saith she, a-laughing.
Father arose, and laid