“What, me?” saith Mall. “Eh, you’d best ask th’ master. I am none th’ master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should ne’er earn the salt to her porridge; but I’m of no signification in this house, as I well wis. You’d best ask o’ them as is.”
“Why, then, we mun gi’e th’ porridge in,” quoth Isaac. “Come, Mall, thou know’st better, lass.”
But old Mary, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.
“What hath put her out, Isaac?” asks Aunt Joyce.
“Eh, Mistress Joyce, there’s no telling!” saith he. “ ’Tis not so much as puts her in. She’s easy put out, is Mall: and ’tis no good on earth essaying to pull her in again. You’d best let her be. She’ll come in of hersen, when she’s weary of threapin’.” (Grumbling, fault-finding.)
“I reckon thou art weary first, most times,” saith Aunt.
“Well! I’ve ay kept a good heart up,” quo’ he. “ ‘The still sow eateth all the draff,’ ye ken. I’ve bore wi’ Mall for fifty year, and it comes easier than it might to an other man. And the Lord has bore wi’ me for seventy odd. If He can bear wi’ me a bit longer, I reckon I can wi’ Mall.”
Aunt Joyce smiled on old Isaac as she rose up.
“Ay, Goodman, that is the best way for to take it,” saith she. “And now, Nell, we must hurry home, for I see a mighty black cloud o’er yonder.”
So we home, bidding God be wi’ ye to old Mall, in passing, and had but a grunt in answer: but we won home afore the rain, and found Father and Mynheer a-talking in the great chamber, and Mother above, laying of sweet herbs in the linen with Edith.
Note 1. Passages from the New Testament are quoted from Cranmer’s or the Geneva version, both then in common use.
Chapter Two.
Wherein Ideas Differ.
“O man, little hast thou learned of truth in things most true.”—Martin Farquhar Tupper.
(In Helen’s handwriting.)
Selwick Hall, October the xii.
Well! Milly saith nought never happens in this house. Lack-a-daisy! but I would fain it were so!
One may love one’s friends, and must one’s enemies, Father saith. But how should one feel towards them that be nowise enemies, for they mean right kindly, and yet not friends, seeing they make your life a burden unto you?
Now, all our lives have I known Master Lewthwaite, of Mere Lea, and Mistress Lewthwaite his wife, and their lads and lasses, Nym, Jack, and Robin, and Alice and Blanche. Many a game at hunt the slipper and blind man’s buff have we had at Mere Lea, and I would have said yet may, had not a thing happed this morrow which I would right fain should ne’er have happened while the world stood.
What in all this world should have made Nym so to do cannot I so much as conceive. He might have found a deal fairer lasses. Why, our Milly and Edith are ever so much better-favoured. But to want me!—nor only that, but to come with so pitiful a tale, that he should go straight to ruin an’ I would not wed with him; that I was the only maid in all the world that should serve against the same; and that if I refused, all his sins thereafter should be laid at my door! Heard any ever the like?
And I have no list to wed with Nym. I like him—as a dozen other lads: but that is all. And meseems that before I could think to leave Father and Mother and all, and go away with a man for all my life, he must be as the whole world to me, or I could never do it. I cannot think what Nym would be at. And he saith it shall be my blame and my sin, if I do it not. Must I wed Nym Lewthwaite?
I sat and pondered drearily o’er my trouble for a season, and then went to look for Aunt Joyce, whom I found in the long gallery, at her sewing in a window.
“Well, Nell, what hast ado, maid?” saith she.
“Pray you, Aunt Joyce, tell me a thing,” said I.
“That will I, with a very good will, my maid,” saith she.
“Aunt Joyce, if a man were to come to you and entreat you to wed with him, by reason that he could not (should he say) keep in the right way without you did help him, and that, you refusing, you should be blameworthy of all his after sins—what should you say to him?”
I listened right earnestly for her answer. I was woeful ’feared she should say, “Wed with him, Nell, for sure, and thus save him.”
“Say?” quoth Aunt Joyce, looking up, with (it seemed me) somewhat like laughter in her eyes. “Fetch him a good buffet of his ear, forsooth, and ask at him by what right he called himself a man.”
“Then you should not think you bound to save him, Aunt?”
“Poor weak creature! Not I,” saith Aunt Joyce. “But whatso, Nell? Hast had any such a simpleton at thee?”
“Aunt,” said I, “ ’tis Nym Lewthwaite, who saith an’ I wed him not, he shall go straight to ruin, and that I must answer unto God for all his sins if so be.”
“Ask him where he found that in the Bible,” saith Aunt Joyce. “Take no thought about him, Nell. Trust me, if a man cannot keep straight without thee, he will not keep straight with thee. Poor limping soul! to come halting up and plead with a weak woman to leave him put his hand on her shoulder, to help him o’er the stones! ‘Carry me, prithee, good Mistress, o’er this rough place.’ Use thine own two legs, would I say to him, and be ashamed of thy meanness. And I dare be sworn he calls himself one of the nobler sex,” ends Aunt Joyce with a snort of scorn.
“O Aunt, I am so thankful you see it thus!” said I, drawing a long breath. “I was so afeard you should bid me do as Nym would.”
“Nay, not this while,” quoth she, of her dry fashion. “When we lack stuff for to mend the foul roads, Nell, we’ll find somewhat fitter to break up than thee. If young Lewthwaite harry thee again, send him to me. He’ll not want to see me twice, I’ll warrant.”
“I was ’feared I was wicked to shrink from it, Aunt,” I made answer. “Nym said so. He said ’twas all self-loving and seeking of mine ease that alone did make me for to hesitate; and that if I had loved God and my neighbour better than myself, I would have strake hands with him at once. And I was ’feared lest it should be true.”
“Ay, it is none so difficult to paint black white,” saith Aunt Joyce. “ ’Tis alway the self-lovers that cry out upon the unkindliness of other folks. And thou art one of them, Nell, my maid, that be prone to reckon that must needs be right which goes against the grain. There be that make self-denial run of all fours in that fashion. They think duty and pleasure must needs be enemies. Why, child, they are the best friends in the world. Only Duty is the elder sister, and is jealous to be put first. Run thou after Duty, and see if Pleasure come not running after thee to beseech thee of better acquaintance. But run after Pleasure, and she’ll fly thee. She’s a rare bashful one.”
“Then you count it not wrong that one should desire to be happy, Aunt?”
“The Lord seems not to count it so, Nell. He had scarce, methinks, told us so much touching