"Nay."

Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.

It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on the gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see who were there. Then she saith--

"None but thee, _Edith_? Where are the rest?"

There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been sore troubled.

"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_. _Milly_ is in our chamber, and _Father_ I left in his closet. Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I know not."

"Hast told him?"

"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."

"I knew he would. G.o.d help her!"

"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"

"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard than thou wist. And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to _Milisent_."

Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_ closet. For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly to see what was come of _Milly_.

She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me, and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept. I sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it right that I left _Milisent_ all alone. I guess it were a good half-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on. At the last come _Mother_, her eyes very red as though she had wept much.

"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.

I said, "Ay, _Mother_: she hath slept this half-hour or more."

"Poor child!" she saith. "If only I could have wist sooner! How much I might have saved her! O poor child!"

The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in haste. I had thought _Mother_ should be angered, and I was something astonied to see how soft she were toward _Milly_. A while after, Aunt _Joyce_ come in: but _Milly_ slept on.

"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed. "A good sign. Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."

"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt _Joyce_, to be thus served of one she trusted."

"I hope so much. 'Twill be the best thing she can be. The question is what she loved--whether himself or his flattering of herself. She'll soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt vanity."

"Not the first, _Aunt_?"

"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "That hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time, and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on the manner of woman."

"What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I were something feared of mine own venturesomeness.

"What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again, "is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_. I say so much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--that ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay, I give full a.s.sent thereto. I only held out for one thing--that I, not your mother, should be she that were to tell it."

We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep. Aunt _Joyce_ went to her.

"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.

_Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was flushed and sullen.

"Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.

I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt _Joyce_ was in no wise angered.

"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sins to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."

"No worser!" _Milisent_ blazed forth. "What, you think it a light matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"

"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, still softly. "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereof the one loveth well, and the other--may G.o.d forgive us all!"

"What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion. "Is it my love you doubt, or his?"

"_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twenty years hence, thou shalt thank G.o.d from thy very heart-root that thou wert stayed on that road to-day."

"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down again. "'Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to crede it, forsooth!"

"Ay--when the twenty years be over."

"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_ sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."

"No, _Milly_, I think not."

"And much you care!"

Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly.

"_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to the heart's core."

"It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the same bitter, angered tone as aforetime.

Aunt _Joyce_ turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive for a moment in her eyes. Then the choler fell back, and the pain abode.

"Poor child! She cannot conceive it." She said nought sterner; and she came and sat in the window alongside of me.

"I tell you, Aunt _Joyce_,"--and _Milisent_ sat up again, and let herself down, and came and stood before us--"I tell you, you have ruined my life!"

"My maid," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice, "thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which we have alway kept from you until now. It was better hidden, unless you needed the lesson. But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be save _Helen_ and _Edith_ from making any like blunder. And--well, I have granted it. Only I stood out for one point--that I myself should be the one to tell it you. Wait till thou hast heard that story, the which I will tell thee to-morrow. And at after thou hast heard it,-- then tell me, _Milly_, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of _Joyce Morrell_."

"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed _Milly_. "I loved him so!"

"So did I, _Milisent_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ very softly, "long ere you maids were born. Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see the truth--that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is. Ay, child, I loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or wouldst have done. Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy? If thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very little of true and real love."

_Milisent_ seemed something startled and cowed. Then all suddenly she saith,--"But, Aunt _Joyce_! He told me he were only of four-and-thirty years."

Aunt _Joyce_ laughed bitterly.