Joyce Morrell's Harvest. Emily Sarah Holt
I am teased with forbiddance of the same. I should never have touched the fire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, had not old Dame Conyers, that was my godmother, bidden me not do the same. Had she but held her peace, I should ne’er have thought thereon. Folks do not well to put matters into childre’s heads, and then if aught go wrong the childre get the blame. And in this world things be ever a-going wrong. But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth? ’Tis the things go wrong, not me. I should be a very angel for goodness if only folks gave o’er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, and forbidding things to be done. In good sooth, ’tis hard on a poor maid that cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but let a-be.
Selwick Hall, November ye vi.
Yesterday, the afternoon was so fair and sunshine, that Edith and I (Mother giving us leave) rowed o’er to Saint Hubert’s Isle, where Edith sat her down of a great stone, and said she would draw the lake’s picture in little. So I, having no list to stand behind and look on, went off to see if I could find aught, such as a squirrel or a pie, to divert me withal. As for Adam, which had rowed us o’er, he gathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and in five minutes he was snoring like an owl. For me, I wandered on a while, and went all over the ruins of the hermitage, and could find nought to look at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me. After a while I sat me down, and I reckon I should have been a-snoring like Adam afore long, but I heard a little bruit (noise) that caused me turn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodly gentleman, and well clad, that leaned against a tree, and gazed upon me, yet with mighty respect and courtesy. He was something past his youth, yet right comely to look to; of a fair hair and beard, and soft eyes, grey (blue) as the sky. Truly, I was something fluttered, for he ware a brave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master Mayor’s. And while I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first. “I pray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam (then restricted to noble ladies and knights’ wives) if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger to wit of the name of this charming isle?”
“Saint Hubert’s Isle, Sir,” quoth I. “Of old time, as ’tis said, Saint Hubert had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see down yonder.”
“Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present,” saith he, and smiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man’s face. “And who was Saint Hubert, if it please my fair damosel?”
“In good sooth, Sir, that know I not,” said I; “save that he were one of the old saints, now done away.”
“If the old saints be done away,” saith he, “thank goodness, the new at least be left.”
Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and the better liked I my neighbour every minute. Methought I had never seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.
“And, I pray you, sweet Mistress,” saith he, yet a-leaning against the tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: “is it lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?”
“Sir, I pray you of pardon,” I made answer, and I could not help to laugh a little, “but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words. May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer English?”
“Surely,” saith he, “the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome inhalation of her fragrance. Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your name? Is that English plain enough to do you a pleasure?”
“Sir,” quoth I, “my name is Milisent Louvaine, to serve you.”
“Truly,” saith he, “and it shall serve me right well to know so mellifluous a name. (Note 3.) And what dwelling is honoured by being your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?”
“Sir,” said I, “I dwell at Selwick Hall, o’er the lake in yonder quarter.”
“It must be a delightsome dwelling,” he made answer. “And—elders have you, fairest Mistress?”
“I thank the Lord, ay, Sir. Sir Aubrey Louvaine is my father, and Dame Lettice, sometime named Eden, my mother.”
“Lettice Eden!” saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as though Mother’s old name should have waked some regrets within him. “I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was with my sometime Lady of Surrey, and might now and then be seen at the Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of Richmond, her lord’s sister. Could it have been the same, I marvel?”
“Sir,” said I, “I cast no doubt thereon. My mother was bower-maiden unto my Lady of Surrey, afore she were wed.”
“Ah!” saith he, and fetched a great sigh. “She was the fairest maiden that ever mine eyes beheld. At the least—I thought so yesterday.”
“My sister is more like her than I,” I did observe. “She is round by yonder, a-playing the painter.”
“Ah,” quoth he, something carelessly, “I did see a young damsel, sitting of a stone o’er yonder. Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen fairer—even within the compass of Saint Hubert’s Isle. And I do marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother more than you, sweet Mistress Milisent.”
I was astonished, for I know Edith is reckoned best-favoured of all us, and most like to Mother. But well as it liked me to sit and listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to Edith.
“Alas!” saith he, when he saw me rise, “miserable man, am I driving hence the fairest floweret of the isle?”
“Not in no wise, Sir,” answered I; “but I count it time to return, and my sister shall be coming to look for me.”
“Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o’er these rough paths.”
So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair Spanish leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as, how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if Father were at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all which I told him. Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which, with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with Mother, I told. Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt Joyce.
So at long last—for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him—at long last come we to Edith, which was gat up from her stone, and was putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for them.
“We shall be something late for four-hours, Milly,” saith she. “Prithee, wake Adam, whilst I make an end.”
Off went I and gave Adam a good shake, and coming back, found Edith in discourse with my gentleman. I cannot tell why, but I would as lief he had not conversed with any but me.
“Sir,” said I, “may we set you down of the lakeside?”
“No, I thank you much,” saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head, I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair. “I have a boat o’er the other side. Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet again. Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name. I am Sir Edwin Tregarvon, of Cornwall, and very much your servant.”
So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o’er the lake. All the way Edith saith nought but—“Milly, where didst thou pick up thy cavaliero?”
“Nay,” said I, “he it was who picked me up. He was leaning of a tree, of t’other side, over against Borrowdale: and I sat me down of a log, and saw him not till he spake.”
Edith said no more at that time. But in the even, when we were doffing