"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I would fain have speech of you."

"Shall I give thee leave [go away and leave you], _Milly_?" said I, arising, for I was knelt of the floor, before the bottom drawer.

"Nay, _Edith_," she makes answer: "thou knowest my faults, and it is but meet thou shouldst hear my confession."

Her voice choked somewhat, and Aunt _Joyce_ saith lovingly, "Dost think, then, thou hast been foolish, dear child?"

"I can hardly tell about foolish, _Aunt_," saith she, casting down her eyes, "but methinks I have been sinful. Will you forgive me mine hard words and evil deeds?"

"Ay, dear heart, right willingly. And I shall not gainsay thee, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly: "for 'the thought of foolishness is sin,' and G.o.d calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but too lightly. Yet, bethink thee that 'if any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father.' Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thou wilt 'arise and go to thy father' and thy mother, and say to them right as did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in their sight. I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful and pitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the way to disarm it. Come back, _Milly_--first to G.o.d, and then to them. Thou shalt find fatherly welcome from either."

_Milly_ still hid her face.

"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I dare not say I have come _back_ to G.o.d, for I have been doubting this morrow if I were ever near Him. But I think I have _come_. So now I may go to _Father_ and _Mother_."

Aunt _Joyce_ kissed her lovingly, and carried her off. Of course I know not what happed betwixt _Father_ and _Mother_, and _Milly_, but I know that _Milly_ looks a deal happier, and yet sadder [graver], than she hath done of many days: and that both _Father_ and _Mother_ be very tender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.

Note 1. Helen guessed rightly. As the readers of "Lettice Eden" will know, the "Mary" of the tale was her mother.

CHAPTER SIX.

CHRISTMAS CHEER.

"Then opened wide the baron's hall To va.s.sal, tenant, serf, and all; All hailed with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down."

Scott.

(_In Edith's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE X.

Here have I been a-thinking I should scantly write a word when my month was come, and already, with but ten days thereof, have I filled half as much paper as either _Helen_ or _Milisent_. But in good sooth, I do trust the next ten days shall not be so full of things happening as these last. Nathless, I do love to have things happen, after a fashion: but I would have them to be alway pleasant things. And when things happen, they be so oft unpleasant.

Now, if one might order one's own life, methinks it should be a right pleasant thing. For I reckon I should not go a-fooling, like as some la.s.ses do. Mine head is not all stuffed with gallants, nor yet with velvet and gold. But I would love to be great. Not great like a d.u.c.h.ess, just a name and no more: but to make a name for myself, and to have folks talk of me, how good and how clever I were. That is what I would fain be thought--good and clever. I take no care to be thought fair, nor in high place; howbeit, I desire not to be ugly nor no lower down than I am. But I am quite content with mine own place, only I feel within me that I could do great things.

And how can a woman do great things, without she be rare high in place, such like as the Queen's Majesty, or my Lady d.u.c.h.ess of _Suffolk_? Or how could I ever look to do great things, here in _Derwent_ dale? Oh, I do envy our _Wat_ and _Ned_, by reason they can go about the world and o'er the seas, and make themselves famous.

And, somehow, in a woman's life everything seems so little. 'Tis just cooking and eating; washing linen and soiling of it; going to bed and rising again. Always doing things and then undoing them, and alway the same things over and over again. It seems as if nought would ever stay done. If one makes a new gown, 'tis but that it may be worn out, and then shall another be wanted. I would the world could give o'er going on, and every thing getting worn out and done with.

Other folks do not seem to feel thus. I reckon _Helen_ never does, not one bit. Some be so much easier satisfied than other. I count them the happiest.

I cannot tell how it is, but I do never feel satisfied. 'Tis as though there were wings within me, that must ever of their nature be stretching upward and onward. Where should they end, an' they might go forward?

Would there be any end? Can one be satisfied, ever?

I believe _Anstace_ and _Helen_ are satisfied, but then 'tis their nature to be content with things as they be. I do not know about _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_. I mis...o...b.. if it be altogether their nature.

But then neither do they seem always satisfied. _Father_ doth so: and his nature is high enough. I think I shall ask _Father_. As for Cousin _Bess_, an' I were to ask at her, she should conceive me never a whit.

'Tis her nature to cook and darn and scour, and to look complacently on her cake and her mended hole and her cleaned chamber, and never trouble herself to think that they shall lack doing o'er again to-morrow.

Chambers are like to need cleansing, and what were women made for save to keep them clean? That is Cousin _Bess_, right out. For Master _Stuyvesant_, methinks he is right the other way, and rather counts the world a dirty place and full of holes, that there shall be no good in neither cleansing nor mending. And I look not on matters in that light.

Methinks it were better to cleanse the chamber, if only one could keep it from being dirtied at after. I shall see what _Father_ saith.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XII.

Yester even, as we were sat in the great chamber,--there was _Mother_ and _Helen_ at their wheels, and Aunt _Joyce_ and my Lady _Stafford_ a-sewing, and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ and me at the broidery,-- and _Father_ had but just beat Sir _Robert_ in a game of the chess, and _Mynheer_, one foot upon his other knee, was deep in a great book which thereon rested,--and fresh logs were thrown of the fire by _Kate_, which sent forth upward a shower of pleasant sparkles, and methought as I glanced around the chamber, that all looked rare pleasant and comfortable, and we ought to thank G.o.d therefore. When all had been silent a short while, out came I with my question, well-nigh ere I myself wist it were out--

"_Father_, are you satisfied?"

"A mighty question, my maid," saith he,--while _Helen_ looked up in surprise, and Aunt _Joyce_ and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ fell a-laughing. "With what? The past, the present, or the future?" quoth _Father_.

"With things, _Father_," said I. "With life and every thing."

"Ah, _Edith_, hast thou come to that?" saith my Lady _Stafford_: and she exchanged smiles with _Mother_.

"_Daughter_," _Father_ makes answer, "methinks no man is ever satisfied with life, until he be first satisfied with G.o.d. The furthest he can go in that direction, is not to think if he be satisfied or no. A man may be well pleased with lesser things: but to be satisfied, that can he not."

"'Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again,'" quoth _Mother_, softly.

"Ay," saith Sir _Robert_; "and wit you, Mistress _Edith_, what cometh at times to men adrift of the ocean, when all their fresh water is spent?"

"Why, surely, they should find water in plenty in the sea, Sir," said I.

"Right so do they," saith he: "and 'tis a quality of the sea-water, that if a man athirst doth once taste the same, his thirst becometh so great that he drinketh thereof again and again, the thirst worsening with every draught, until at last it drives him mad."

"An apt image of the pleasures of this world," answers _Father_. "Ah, how is all nature as G.o.d's picture-book, given to help His dull childer over their tasks!"

"But, _Father_,"--said I, and stayed.

"Well, my maid?" he answers of his kindly fashion.

"I cry you mercy, _Father_, if I speak foolishly; but it seems me that pious folk be not alway satisfied. They make as much fume as other folk when things go as they would not have them."

"The angels do not so, I reckon," saith _Mynheer_, a-looking up.

"We are not angels yet," quoth _Father_, a little drily. "Truth, my maid: and we ought to repent thereof, seeing such practices but too oft cause the enemy to blaspheme, and put stumbling-blocks in the way of weak brethren. Ay, and from what we read in G.o.d's Word, it should seem as though all murmuring and repining--not sorrowing, mark thou; but murmuring--went for far heavier sin in His eyes than it doth commonly in ours. We count it a light matter if we grumble when things go awry, and matters do seem as if they were bent on turning forth right as we would not have them. Let us remember, for ourselves, that such displeaseth the Lord. He reckons it unbelief and mistrust. 'How long,' saith He unto Moses, 'will this people provoke Me? and how long will it be ere they believe Me?' Howbeit, as for our neighbours, we need not judge them. And indeed, such matters depend much on men's complexions [Note 1], and some find it a deal easier to control them than other. And after all, _Edith_, there is a sense wherein no man can ever be fully satisfied in this life. We were meant to aspire; and if we were entirely content with present things, then should we grovel. To submit cheerfully is one thing: to be fully gratified, so that no desire is left, is an other. We shall not be that, methinks, till we reach Heaven."

"Shall we so, even there?" saith Sir _Robert_. "It hath alway seemed to me that when _Diogenes_ did define his G.o.ds as 'they that had no wants,'

he pointed to a very miserable set of creatures. Is it not human nature that the thing present shall fall short of the thing prospective?"

"The _in posse_ is better than the _in esse_?" saith _Father_. "Well, it should seem so, in this dispensation. But how, in the next world, our powers may be extended, and our souls in some degree suffer change, that we can be fully satisfied and yet be alway aspiring--I reckon we cannot now understand. I only gather from Scripture that it shall be thus. You and I know very little, _Robin_, of what shall be in Heaven."

"Ah, true,--true!" saith Sir _Robert_.

"It hath struck me at times," saith _Father_, "that while it may seem strange to the young and eager soul, yet it is better understood as one grows older,--how the account of Heaven given us in Scripture is nearly all in negations. G.o.d and ourselves are the two matters positive. The rest are nays: there shall be no pain, no crying, no sorrow, no night, no death, no curse. And though youth would oft have it all yea, yet nay suits age the better. An old man and weary feels the thought of active bliss at times too much for him. It wearies him to think of perpetual singing and constant flying. It is rest he needs--it is peace."

"Well, _Father_," saith _Milisent_, looking up, "I hope it is not wicked of me, but I never did enjoy the prospect of sitting of a cloud and singing _Hallelujah_ for ever and ever."

"Right what I was wont to think at thy years, _Milly_," saith _Mother_, a-laughing.