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 mywaist 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!" andaccordingly in all obeisance I did gee up, and danced and pranced (likean old dolt as I am) at the pleasance of that my driver. It seems methat Mistress _Edith_ hath said "Gee up!" yet once again, and given theold brown mare a cut of her whip. I therefore have no choice but toprance: and if any into whose hands this book may fall hereafter shallreckon me a silly old woman, I hereby do them to wit that their accounttallieth to one farthing with the adding of _Joyce Morrell_.
I have read over the writings of these my cousins: and as I am commandedto write my thoughts on that matter, I must say that methinks but one ofthem hath done as she laid out to do. That _Nell_ hath been wise onevery 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 onall) 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 hersecond. Verily, when I came to read that record of _February_, I mightscarce credit that _Milisent_ was she that writ.
Ah, these young maids! how do they cause an elder woman to live o'er herlife again! To look thereat in one light, it seemeth me as a centuryhad passed sithence I were as they: and yet turn to an other, and it isbut yestereven since I was smoothing _Anstace'_ pillow, and making tansypuddings for my father, and walking along the garden, in a dream ofbliss that was never to be, with one I will not name, but who shallnever pass along those garden walks with me, never any more.
And dost thou think it sorrow, young _Edith_, rosebud but just breakinginto bloom, to clasp the hand of aught and say unto it, "Farewell, LastTime!" I shall not gainsay thee. All young things have such moods,half melancholical, half delightsome, and I know when I was as muchgiven to them as ever thou art. But there be sorrows to which there isno last time that you may know,--no clasping of loving hands, no tenderfarewell: only the awful waking to find that you have dreamed a dream,and the utter blank of life that cometh after. Our worst sufferings arenot the crushing pain for which all around comfort you and smoothe yourpillow, and try one physic after an other that shall may-be give youease. They are those for which none essayeth to comfort you, and youcould not bear it if they did. No voice save His that knoweth our framecan 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 fromthese writings that these maids do of me,--what wit they of the innerconflict, 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 herheart 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 safeconfidant for most was _Jesu Christ_.
Well! It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones. Only there beseasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back andabiding with you for a while. And one of those seasons is come to methis eve, after reading of this Chronicle.
Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that noneknoweth better than thyself. Let the world reckon thee such, andwelcome. 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 thestead 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 evilreport and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and thehowling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utterunworthiness.
Be it so. I confess them all. But I go on hoping against all hope, andwhen even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still.
Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that God loved me?
O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love thatmight have been! Every morrow and every night I pray God to bring theeback from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father'shouse. If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeterfor me. But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and Iask no more.
I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest bythe name. But with the pure gold of a true heart that God calls love,none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved theebut me.
God knoweth,--thee and me. God careth. God will provide. Enough, Ofainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that ishigher than thou. Rest, and be still.
SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE III.I could write no more last night. It was better to cast one's self onthe sand (as _Ned_ saith men do in the great Desert of _Araby_) andleave the tempest sweep o'er one's head. I come back now to the life ofevery day--that quiet humdrum life (as _Milly_ hath it) which is sodispleasant to young eager natures, and matcheth so well with them thatbe 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, ifit had in it no humdrum days. Human nature could not bear perpetualsorrow, and as little (in this dispensation at the least) should itstand unceasing joy.
I fell a-thinking this morrow, how little folks do wit of that whichlieth a-head. Now, if I were to prophesy (that am no prophet, neither aprophet's daughter) what should befall these young things my cousinstwenty years hereafter, then would I say that it should find _Ned_captain of some goodly vessel, and husband of _Faith Murthwaite_ (andmay he have no worser fate befall him!)--and _Wat_, a country gentleman(but I trust not wed to _Gillian Armstrong)_: and _Nell_, a comelymaiden ministering lovingly unto her father and mother: and _Milisent_dwelling at _Mere Lea_ with _Robin Lewthwaite_: and _Edith_--nay, I willleave the fashioning of her way to the Lord, for I see not whither itlieth. And very like (an' it be His will I live thus long) when thetime cometh, I shall see may-be not so much as one that hath fulfilledthe purpose I did chalk out for them. Ay, but the Lord's chalking shallbe a deal better than _Joyce Morrell's_. I reckon my lines should beall awry.
For how little hath happed that ever I looked for aforetime! _DulcieFenton_, 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 aman) is rare good unto her: and _Lettice Eden_--come, _Anstace_ is toread this, so will I leave _Lettice_ to conceive for herself what shouldhave followed. Both she and _Aubrey_ shall read well enough betwixt thelines. 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 stitcheryand the like, and on whom God hath put a mighty charge of His gold andgoods to minister for Him,--but nought nearer than cousins to give herlove, though that do they most rarely, and God bless their heartstherefor. My best treasures be in the good Land--all save one, that theGood Shepherd is yet looking for over the wild hills: nor hath my lifebeen an unhappy one, but for that one blank which is there day andnight, and shall be till the Good Shepherd call me by my name to comeand rejoice with Him over the finding of His sheep that is lost. OLord, make no long tarrying! Yea, make no tarrying, O my God!
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 agood maid, and I cast no doubt shall make a good wife. Scarce so comelyas her sister _Temperance_, may-be, yet she liketh me the better: andnot by no
means so fair as _Gillian Armstrong_, which liketh me not atall. I would with all mine heart that I could put a spoke in thatlass'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 towed with a certain maid, mine head to a porridge-pot but he shall go andfall 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 thewit going.
Master _Murthwaite_, though he say little, as his wont is, isnevertheless, as I can see, pleased enough (and Mistress _Murthwaite_ adeal more, and openly) that his lass should have caught our _Ned_. Andtruly our _Ned_ is no ill catch, for he feareth God, and hath a deal ofhis 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 (orwoman) doth seem able to understand, is that `whatsoever a man soweth,that shall he also reap.' _That_: not an other thing. Yet for one thathonestly essayeth to sow that which he would reap, an hundred shall sowdarnel and look confidently to reap fine wheat. They sow that they haveno desire to reap, and ope their dull eyes in amazement when that comethup which they have sown.
How do men pass their lives in endeavours to deceive God! Because theybe ready to take His gold for tinsel, they reckon He shall leave theirtinsel pass for gold.
Yea, and too oft we know not indeed what we sow.--Here be seeds; what, Iwis 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.--Dearheart, who had thought they should be so? I looked for primroses andviolets.--Did you so, friend? But had you not been wiser to ask at theHusbandman, who wot that you did not?--Good lack! but I thought me wiseenough.--Ay so: that do we all and alway. Good Lord, who art the OnlyWise, 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, andafter reading the same, I am fallen of their rut, and am going on tokeep the Chronicle as though I were one of them. Of a truth, there issomewhat captivating therein: and _Edith_ saith she shall continue, forher own diversion, to keep a privy Chronicle. So be it. Methinks, asmatter of understanding and natural turn thereto, she is fittest of thethree. _Nell_ saith she found it no easy matter, and should never thinkso to do: while _Milisent_, as I guess, shall for a while to come besomething too much busied living her chronicle, to write it. For me, Idid once essay to do the same; but it went not, as I mind, beyond a weekor 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 thatI had kept it up. For sure such changes in public matters as havefallen in my life shall the world not see many times o'er again. When Iwas born, in Mdxxv [1525], was King _Harry_ the Eight young andwell-liked of all men, and no living soul so much as dreamed of all thetroubles thereafter to ensue. Then came the tumult that fell of thematter of the King's divorce. (All 'long of a man's obstinateness, forwas not my sometime Lord Cardinal [Wolsey] wont to say that rather thanmiss the one half of his will, he would endanger the one half of hiskingdom? Right the man is that. A woman should know how to bendherself to circumstances.) Then came the troubles o'er Queen _Anne_,that had her head cut off (and by my troth, I misdoubted alway if shedid deserve the same); and then of the divorce of the Lady _Anne_ of_Cleve_ (that no _Gospeller_ did ever think to deserve the same); andthen of Queen _Katherine_, whose head was cut off belike--eh me, whattroublous times were then! Verily, looking back, they seem worser thanat the time they did. For when things be, there be mixed with all thetroubles little matters that be easy and even delightsome: but to lookback, 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 religionwhich 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 aforethe Reformation the Church of _England_ was not, and did only thenspring into being. As good say I was not _Joyce Morrell_ this morrowuntil I washed my face.) Then, when King _Harry_ died--and it was nonetoo soon for this poor realm--came the goodly days of our young _Josiah_King _Edward_, which were the true reforming of the Church; that whichwent afore were rather playing at reform. Men's passions were too muchmixed 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 uphither. Old Bishop _Tunstall_ was best of all the _Papist_ Bishops, forthough he flustered much (and as some thought, to save himself fromsuspicion of them in power), yet he did little more. I well-nigh gatmine 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 Iknow, had my name set of his list of persons suspect. Once come thecatchpoll to mine house,--I wis not on what business, for, poor man! hetarried not to tell me when I come at him with the red-hot poker. Inever wist a man yet, would stand a red-hot poker with a woman behind itthat meant it for him. Master Catchpoll were wise enough to see thatthe penny is well spent that saveth a groat, and he gave me leave to seelittle 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 tomy mistress his wife with mine hearty commendations, and hope he hadcatched no cold. I reckon he preferred the risk of that to the suretyof catching a red-hot poker. But that giving me warning of what mightfollow--as a taste of a dish whereof more should be anon laid on mytrencher--up-stairs went I, and made up my little bundle, and the nextnight that ever was, away came I of an horse behind old _Dickon_, thathad been sewer ever since _Father_ and _Mother_ were wed, thenfive-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 acold, for it were winter, but the snow was our true friend in coveringall tracks, and at long last came I safe hither, in the middle of thenight, and astonied _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_ more than a little by castingof snowballs at their chamber window. At the last come the casementundone, and _Aubrey's_ voice saith--
"Is there any in trouble?"
"Here is a poor maid, by name _Joyce Morrell_," said I, "that will be introuble ere long if thou leave her out in this snowstorm."
Good lack, but was there no ado when my voice were known! The hall fireembers were stirren up, and fresh logs cast thereon, and in ten minuteswas I sat afore it of a great chair, with all the blankets in_Cumberland_ around and over me, and a steaming hot posset-bowl of minehand.
It was a mile or so too far, I reckon, for Father _Slatter_ to trudgeafter me, and if he had come, I'd have serven him of the poker, or twainif need be. I guess he should have loved rather to flounder backthrough the snow.
So, by the good hand of my God upon me, came I safe through the reign ofQueen _Mary_; and when Queen _Elizabeth_ came in (whom God longpreserve, 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 gatnot all back, but what I lost was a cheap bargain where life lay in theother 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 emblemhang not together, _Ned_ must amend it when he cometh unto it.) The dayis neither bright nor dark, but it is a day known to the Lord, and Ihave faith to believe that at eventide it shall be light. I can trustand 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 foraught I knew I had brought with me from home, what should I find but ourold 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 fella-thinking that as it had so happed, it might be well, seeing a spacewas yet left, that I should set down for the childre, whose it shallsome day be, what had come to pass sinc
e. They were the pages Aunt_Joyce_ writ that I read: and seeing that of them therein named, twohave reached Home already, and the rest of us be eleven years further onthe journey, it shall doubtless make the story more completer to addthese lines.
_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, be all yet alive; the Lord beheartily thanked therefor! But _Father's_ hair is now of the hue of thesnow, though _Mother_ hath scantly any silver amongst the gold; and Aunt_Joyce_ well-nigh matcheth _Father_. _Hal_ and _Anstace_ be as theywere, 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_, anddwelleth by _Skiddaw Force_. _Wat_ is at _Kendal_, grown a good man andwise, 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 _FrancesRadcliffe_, niece to my Lord _Dilston_ that was, and cousin untoMistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_. They have four boys and threemaids: 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 lastvoyage to _Virginia_ that ever Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ took; and He sethim safe enough, but in better keeping than ours. For from that voyagecame safe to _Falmouth_ all the ships save one, and that was theAdmiral's own. They had crossed the _Atlantic_ through an awful storm,and the last seen of the Admiral was on the ix of _September_, Mdlxxxiii[1583], by them in the _Hind_: and when they saw him he was sat of thestern of his vessel, with his Bible open of his knees: and he wasplainly heard to say,--"Courage, my men! Heaven is as near by water asby land." Then the mist closed again o'er the fleet, and they saw himno more. On the xxii of _September_ the fleet reached _Falmouth_: butwhen, and where, and how, Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ and our _Ned_ wentdown, He knoweth unto whom the night is as clear as the day, and weshall 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 usall. 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 thesisters, and they looked for me to wed with confidence. I am not sofair now, and I shall never wed. Had things turned out other than theyhave, I will not say I might not have done it. There is no blame toany--not even to myself. It was of God's ordering, and least of allcould I think to blame that. It is only--and I see no shame to tellit--that the man who was my one love never loved me, and is happy in thelove of a better than I. Be it so: I am content. I had nolove-story,--only a memory that is known to none but me, though it willnever give mine heart leave to open his gates to any love again. Enoughof that. It is all the better for our dear _Father_ and _Mother_ thatthey have one daughter left to them.
At the time we writ this Chronicle, when I were scarce seventeen yearsof age, I mind I had a fantasy running through my brain that I was bornfor greatness. Methinks it came in part of a certain eager restlessspirit that did long to be a-doing, and such little matters as docommonly 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 ofa tale I had heard of _Mother_, touching Queen _Katherine_, the lastwife to King _Harry_ that was, of whom some _Egyptian_ [gypsy] hadprophesied, in her cradle, that she was born for a crown: and ever aftershe heard the same, the child (as she then were) was used to scorncommon works, and when bidden to her task, was wont to say,--"My handswere made to touch crowns and sceptres, not spindles and neelds,"[needles]. Well, this tale (that _Mother_ told us for our diversionwhen we were little maids--for she, being _Kendal_ born, did hear muchtouching 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 ofgreatness: and wherefore should not _Editha Louvaine_? Truly, there wasbut little reason in the fantasy, seeing no _Egyptian_ had everprophesied of me (should that be of any account, which _Father_ willne'er allow), nor could the Queen's Majesty make me a queen by weddingof me: but methinks pride and fantasy stick not much at logic. So Iclung in my silly heart to the thought that I was born to be great, andwas 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 notcome in my way, nor seem like to do. The only conquest I am like toachieve is that over mine own spirit, which _Scripture_ reckoneth betterthan taking of a city: and the sole entrance into majesty and glory thatever I can look for, is to be presented faultless before the presence ofGod with exceeding joy. Ah, _Editha Louvaine_! hast thou any cause forbeing downcast at the exchange?
In good sooth, this notion of mine (that I can smile at now) showeth onething, to wit, the deal of note that childre be apt to take of littlematters that should seem nought to their elders. I can ne'er conceivethe light and careless fashion wherein some women go about to breed up achild. To me the training of a human soul for the life immortal seemsthe most terrible piece of responsibility in the whole world.
And now there is one story left that I must finish, and it is of theother 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 Iwas pale, and had lost mine appetite (and my sleep belike, though shewist it not).
'Twas thought that the winters at home were somewhat too severe for minehealth, and 'twas settled that for the winter then coming, I shouldtarry with Aunt _Joyce_. It was easy to compass the matter, for at thattime was _Wat_ of a journey to _London_ on his occasions, and he broughtme, early in _October_, as far as _Minster Lovel_. As for getting back,that was left to see to when time should be convenient. _Father_ gaveme his blessing, and three nobles spending money, and bade me bring backhome a pair of rosier cheeks, saying he should not grudge to pay thebill: and _Mother_ shed some tears o'er me, and packed up for me muchgood gear of her own spinning and knitting, and all bade me farewellright lovingly. I o'erheard Cousin _Bess_ say to _Mother_ that the sunshould scant seem to shine till I came back: the which dear _Mother_ didheartily echo, saying she wist not at all what had come o'er me, but itwas her good hope that a southward winter should make me as an othermaid.
Well! I could have told her what she wist not, for I was then but newcome out of the discovering that what women commonly reckon the flowerof a woman's life was not for me, and that I must be content to crownmine head with the common herb of the field. But I held my peace, andnone wist it but Aunt _Joyce_: for in her presence had I not been a daywhen I found that her eyes had read me through. As we sat by the fireat even, our two selves, quoth she all suddenly, without an other wordafore 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 bealways footsteps on the road afore us, child. Nearest of all be Hisfootsteps that knelt that dark night in _Gethsemane_, with no humancomforting in His agony. There hath never been any sorrow like to Hissorrow, though each one of us is given to suppose there is none like herown. Poor little _Edith_! didst reckon thy face should be any riddle tome--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, andpoured out mine heart like water, with mine head upon her knees. Sheheld me to her with one arm, but not a word said she till my tears werestayed, and I could lift mine head again.
"That will do thee good, child," saith she. "'Tis what thy body andmind alike were needing. (And truly, mine heart, as methought, hathnever 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 valleyon the road afore thee, though not so dark as mine. Ah, dear heart, itis sore matter to find thy shrine deserted of the idol: yet not half sosore as to see the idol lie broken at thy feet, and to knowthenceforward that it was nought but a lump of common clay. No god--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 goon thy journey, the better. But for what lieth afore, _Edith_, lookonward and look upward. Heaven will be the brighter because earth wasdarker than thou hadst looked for. _Christ_ will be the dearer Friend,because the dearest human friend hath failed thine hope. It is not thetraveller that hath been borne through flowers and sunshine on the softcushions of a litter, that is the gladdest to see the lights of home."
"It is nobody's fault," I could not help whispering.
"I know, dear heart!" she saith. "Thine idol is not broken. Thank Godfor it. Thou mayest think of him yet as a true man, able to hold up hishead in the sunlight, with no cause to be 'shamed of the love whichstole into thine heart ere thou hadst wist it. Alas for them to whomthe fairest thought which even hope can compass, is the thought of theprodigal in the far country, weary at long last of the husks which theswine do eat, and turning with yearning in his eyes toward the hillswhich lie betwixt him and the Father. O _Edith_, thank God that He hathspared thee such a sorrow as that!"
It was about six weeks after that even, when one wet morrow, as I wasaiding Aunt _Joyce_ to turn the apples in her store-chamber, and gatherinto a basket such as lacked use, that _Barbara_, the cook-maid, come inwith her hands o'er flour, to say--
"Mistress, here at the base door is a poor blind man, begging for brokenvictuals. Would you have me give him that beef-bone you set aside forbroth?"
"A blind man?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Then shall he not go empty. I amcoming down, _Bab_, and will look to him myself. Bring him out of therain to the kitchen fire, and if he have a dog that leadeth him, findthe poor animal some scraps.--Now, _Edith_, bring thy basket, and I willtake 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 dogshould scantly shake his tail for. Go and bring them in, _Bab_; I shallbe after thee presently."
So down came we into the kitchen, where was sat the blind man and thelad. We set down our baskets, and I gave the lad an apple at a signfrom Aunt _Joyce_, which went toward the blind man and 'gan ask him ifhe 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 init."
"Ay so?" quoth she. "And how, then, of thine hope for the life beyond,where they never rest, yet are never weary?"
"Mistress," saith he, "the sinner that hath been pardoned a debt of tenthousand talents may have peace, but can scarce dare rise to hope."
"I am alway fain when a man reckoneth his debt heavy," saith Aunt_Joyce_. "We be mostly so earnest to persuade ourselves that we owe nofarthing beyond an hundred pence."
"I could never persuade myself of that," saith he, shaking his whitehead. "I have plunged too deep in the mire to have any chance to doubtthe conditions of my clothing."
It struck me that his manner of speech was something beyond a commonbeggar, and I could not but marvel if he had seen better days.
"And what askest, friend?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, winch turned away fromhim and busied herself with casting small twigs on the fire.
"A few waste victuals, if it like you, Mistress. They will be betterthan I deserve."
"And if it like me not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, suddenly, turning back tohim, and methought there was a little trembling in her voice.
"Then," saith he, "I will trouble you no further."
"Then," saith she, to mine amaze, "I tell thee plainly I will not givethem to such a sinner as thou hast been, by thine own confession."
"Be it so," he saith quietly, bowing his white head. "I cry you mercyfor having troubled you, and I wish you a good morrow."
"That shalt thou never," came from Aunt _Joyce_, in a voice which wasnot hers. "Didst thou count _I_ was blind? _Leonard_, _Leonard_!"
And she clasped his hands in hers, and drew him back to the fireside.
"`Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and bring hither thefatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry. For this my lovewas dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.' My God, Ithank Thee!"
And then, out of the white hair and the blind blue eyes, slowly cameback to me the face of that handsome gentleman which had so nearbeguiled our _Milisent_ to her undoing, and had wrought such ill in_Derwentdale_.
"_Joyce_!" he saith, in a greatly agitated voice. "I would never havecome hither, had I reckoned thou shouldst wit me."
"Thou wert out of thy reckoning, then," she answereth. "I tell thee, asI told _Dulcie_ years agone, that were I low laid in my grave, I shouldhear thy step upon the mould above me."
"I came," he saith, "but to hear thy voice once afore I die. Look uponthy face can I never more. But I thought to hear the voice of the onlywoman which ever loved me in very truth, and unto whom my wrong-doing isthe heaviest sin in all my black calendar."
"Pardoned sin should not be heavy," saith she.
"Nay," quoth Mr _Norris_, "but it is the heaviest of all."
"Come in, _Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.
"Nay, my merciful _Joyce_, let me not trouble thee," saith he, "for ifthou canst not see it in my face, I know in mine heart that I am struckfor death."
"I have seen it," she made answer. "And thou shalt spend thy last daysno whither but in the Manor House at _Minster Lovel_, nor with any othernurse nor sister than _Joyce Morrell_. _Leonard_, for forty years Ihave prayed for this day. Dash not the cup from my lips ere I have welltasted its sweetness."
I caught a low murmur from Mr _Norris'_ lips, "Passing the love ofwomen!" Then he held out his hand, and Aunt _Joyce_ drew it upon herarm and led him into her privy parlour.
I left them alone till she called me. To that interview there should beno third save God.
Nor was it much that I heard at after. Some dread accident had happedhim, at after which his sight had departed, and his hair had gone whitein a few weeks. He had counted himself so changed that none should knowhim. I doubt if he should not have been hid safe enough from any eyessave hers.
He lived about three months thereafter. Never in all my life saw I manthat spake of his past life with more loathing and contrition. Even indeath, raptures of thanksgiving had he none. He could not, as itseemed, rise above an humble trust that God would be as good as Hisword, and that for _Christ's_ sake he that had confessed his sins andforsaken them should find mercy.
He alway said that it was one word of Aunt _Joyce_ that had given himeven so much hope. She had said to him, that day in the copse, aftershe had sent away _Milisent_ and me,--"I shall never give thee up,_Leonard_. I shall never cease praying for thee, till I know thou artbeyond all prayer."
"It was those prayers, _Joyce_, that brought me back," he said. "Aftermine accident, I had been borne into a cot by the way-side, where as Ilay abed in the back chamber, I could not but hear the goodman every dayread the _Scriptures_ to his household. Those _Scriptures_ seethed inmine heart, and thy prayers were alway with me. It was as though theyfitted one into the other. I thought thou hadst prayed me into thatcot, for I might have been carried into some godless house where no suchthing should have chanced me. But ever and anon, mixed with God's Word,I heard thy words, and thy voice seemed as if it called to me,--`Comeback! come back!' I thought, if there were so much love and mercy inthee, there must be some left in God."
The night that Mr _Norris_ was buried in the churchyard of _MinsterLovel_,
as we sat again our two selves by the fireside, Aunt _Joyce_saith to me, or may-be to herself--
"I should think I may go now."
"Whither, _Aunt_?" said I.
"Home, _Edith_," she made answer. "Home--to _Leonard_ and _Anstace_,and to _Christ_. The work that was set me is done. `_Nunc dimittis,Domine_!'"
"Dear Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "I want you for ever so long yet."
"If thou verily do, _Edith_," saith she, "I shall have to tarry. Andsurely, she that hath borne forty years' travel in the darkness, canstand a few days' more journeying in the light. I know that when theright time cometh, my Father will not forget me. The children may bytimes feel eager to reach home, but the Father's heart longeth the mostto have them all safe under His shelter."
And very gravely she added--"`They that were ready went in with Him tothe wedding: and the gate was shut up.'"
THE END.
Joyce Morrell's Harvest Page 11