"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for _Father_ is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.

"Then, _Father_," saith she, "what is falsehood? Where doth it begin and end? Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and she shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her. Should I commit sin, if I told her but the half?"

"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith _Father_. "As to where falsehood begins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall tell but G.o.d? But set forth thy case something plainer."

"Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showed to me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and I not) bidden me not to tell the same. If _Alice_ should say 'Hast heard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, 'I cannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: or should there be no ill to say 'Not to-day,' or 'Nought much,' or some such matter as that?"

"Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as though she could not think there should.

"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry. The very minute that _Adam_ fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry.

There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was afraid, and he did hide himself. Yet there was deception, for it was not all the truth--no, nor the half. As methinks, 'tis alway safest to tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to G.o.d."

"_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammar school at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth. What should you call that, _Father_?"

"A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer. "Trust me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his course."

Then Aunt _Joyce_ said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither: but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful. When I thought I had hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my secrets, to have _Father_ say such things came straight from _Satan_!

It liketh me not at all. I would _Nell_ would let things a-be!

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV.

My good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all. And he asked me if _Father_ were not given to be a little _Puritan_--he smiling the while as though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of the great. Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word was strange unto me. So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late come up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at their own apprais.e.m.e.nt.

"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a gentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel in his house to guard him from all ill."

I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right well accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways. But then 'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a while I forgat my disease.

Still, I cannot right away with what _Father_ said. If only _Father_ and _Mother_ could know all about this matter, and really consent thereto, I would be a deal happier. But my _Protection_ saith that were contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no romance left therein at all.

"It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I do hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the n.o.ble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far above all such mean things."

So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble me touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing. But I do marvel if _Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know they married o' love. Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor _Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas other matter.

Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and their _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here _Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly wedding where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for herself.

"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith _Nell_, "and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely, _Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"

"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."

"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith _Nell_ with some heat--heat, that is, for _Nell_.

"Honesty!" quoth _Blanche_: "soft you now [gently],--what dishonesty should be therein?"

"Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by G.o.d's ell-wand of the Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid thee."

"I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"

"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as a marble image.

"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_. "They do call all sad, precise, humdrum folk, _Puritans_."

"Who be 'they'?" asks _Nell_.

"Why, all manner of folks--great folk in especial," saith she.

"Come, _Blanche_!" saith _Edith_, "where hast thou jostled with great folk?"

"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have talked with some that have."

"No great folk--my Lord _Dilston_ except--ever come to _Derwent-side_,"

saith _Edith_.

"And could I not discourse with my Lord _Dilston_, if it so pleased him and me?" quoth _Blanche_, yet something angered.

"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith _Alice_. "Thou well wist, _Blanche_, thou hast had no talk with my Lord _Dilston_, that is known all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was. I do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."

Well, at this we all laughed, and _Alice_ turned the talk aside to other matter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er that of an angel) were giving way.

I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though _Blanche_ might hint at Sir _Edwin_. And I do trust he hath not been a-flattering of her. She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, and a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty. She is not for to compare with me nor _Edith_.

I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_. If I find him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see him no more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt it should.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV.

'Tis all well, and _Blanche_ could not have meant to hint at my _Protection_. I asked at him if he knew one _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any of that name dwelt in all the vale. Then I told him wherefore I had asked it. And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_ (quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after hers?

Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a _Sunday_, for that he never came to church. And he told me that he had an old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alway abide with him o'er the _Sunday_. Moreover he was something feared (saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should get scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been (quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet _Amiability_.

"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see _Father_ at the first?"

"Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too. "'All is fair in love and war.'"

"I doubt if _Father_ should say the same," said I.

"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir _Aubrey_ is a right excellent gentleman, yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such like company. A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the parsons, without he go out of the world. And here away in the country, where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be counted singular and ridiculous. No brave and gallant man would run the risk of being thought singular."

"Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I. "I have heard him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."

"Exactly!" saith he. "That is right the _Puritan_ talk, as I had the honour to tell you aforetime. You should never hear no gentleman of the Court to say no such a thing."

"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"

This seemed to divert him rarely. He laughed for a minute as though he should ne'er give o'er.

"My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties.

Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _c.u.mberland_, thou shouldest be of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time. And of the delights and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thou canst not so much as cast an idea." Methought that should be right rare.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII.

With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that is brother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way. I would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right n.o.ble _Protection_ do I take lesser than ever. In very deed, all relish is gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings whereof he tells me. And I am ever so much happier than I was of old, with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short while, I am a deal more miserabler. I cannot conceive what it is that cometh o'er me at those times. 'Tis like as if I were dancing on flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers, and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false step should cast me down therein. Nor will any thing comfort me, at those times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel the gloom. But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more and more distasteful unto me than ever.

Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ called me to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood and went.