"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "there is in G.o.d's Word a word for the smallest need of every one of us, if we will only take the pain to search and find it there. 'They had no rest day neither night,'

[Cranmer's version of Revelations chapter four verse 8]--that is for the eager, active soul that longs to be up and doing. And 'they rest from their labours,'--that is for the weary heart that is too tired for rapture."

"Yet doth not that latter cla.s.s of texts, think you," saith Sir _Robert_, "refer mainly to the rest of the body in the grave?"

"Well, it may be so," answers _Father_: "yet, look you, the rest of the grave must be something that _will rest us_."

"What is thy notion, _Aubrey_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "of the state of the soul betwixt death and resurrection?"

"My notion, _Joyce_," saith _Father_, "is that _Scripture_ giveth us no very plain note thereon. I conclude, therefore, that it shall be time to know when we come to it. This only do I see--that all the pa.s.sages which speak thereof as 'sleep,' 'forgetfulness,' and the like, be in the Old Testament: and all those--nay, let me correct myself--most of those which speak thereof as of a condition of conscious bliss, 'being with _Christ_,' and so, are in the New. There I find the matter: and there, under your good pleasure, will I leave it."

"Well, that should seem," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "as if the condition of souls had been altered by the coming of our Lord."

"By His death, rather, as methinks, if so be. It may be so. I dare not be positive either way."

"Has it never seemed strange to you, _Louvaine_," saith Sir _Robert_, "how little we be told in G.o.d's Word touching all those mysteries whereon men's minds will ever be busying themselves--to all appearance, so long as the world lasts? This matter of our talk--the origin of evil--free-will and sovereign grace--and the like. Why are we told no more?"

"Why," saith _Father_, with that twinkle in his eyes which means fun, "I am one of the meaner intelligences of the universe, and I wis not. If you can find any whither the Angel _Gabriel_, you may ask at him if he can untie your knots."

"Now, _Aubrey_, that is right what mads me!" breaks in Aunt _Joyce_.

"Sir _Robert_ asks why we be told no more, and thine answer is but to repeat that we be told no more. Do, man, give a plain answer to a plain question."

"Nay, now thou aft like old Lawyer _Pearson_?" quoth _Father_. "'I wis not, Master,' saith the witness. 'Ay, but will you swear?' saith he.

'Why,' quoth the witness, 'how can I swear when I wis not?' 'Nay, but you must swear one way or an other,' saith he. Under thy leave, _Joyce_, I do decline to swear either way, seeing I wis not."

Aunt _Joyce_ gives a little stamp of her foot. "What on earth is the good of men, when they wit no more than women?" quoth she: whereat all laughed.

"Ah, some women have great wits," saith _Father_.

"Give o'er thy mocking, _Aubrey_!" answers she. "Tell us plain, what notion thou hast, and be not so strict tied to chapter and verse."

"Of what worth shall then be my notions? Well," saith _Father_, "I have given them on the one matter. As for the origin of evil, I find the origin of mine evil in mine own heart, and no further can I get except to _Satan_."

"Ay, but I would fain reach over _Satan_," saith she.

"That shall we not do without _Satan_ overreaching us," quoth _Father_.

"Well, then--as to free-will and grace, I find both. 'Whosoever will, take of the water of life,'--and 'Yet will ye not come unto Me that ye might have life.' But also I find, 'No man can come to Me, except the Father draw him;' and that faith cometh 'Not of yourselves; it is the gift of G.o.d.'"

"Come, tarry not there!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "How dost thou reconcile them?"

"Why, I don't reconcile them," quoth he.

"Ay, but do!" she makes answer.

"Well," saith he, "if thou wilt come and visit me, _Joyce_, an hundred years hence, at the sign of the _Burnt-Sacrifice_, in _Amethyst_ Lane, in the _New Jerusalem_, I will see if I can do it for thee then."

"_Aubrey Louvaine_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, "thou art--"

"Not yet there," he answers. "I am fully aware of it."

"The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!" saith she.

"Dost thou know, _Joyce_," quoth _Mother_, laughing merrily, "I found out that afore I was wed. He did play right cruelly on mine eagerness once or twice."

"Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

_Mother_ laughed at this, and _Father_ made a merry answer, which turned the discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down. So we gat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.

This morrow come o'er _Robin Lewthwaite_, with a couple of rare fowl and his mother's loving commendations for _Mother_. He saith nothing is yet at all heard of their _Blanche_, and he shook his head right sorrowfully when I asked at him if he thought aught should be. It seemed so strange a thing to see _Robin_ sorrowful.

SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XVI.

This morrow, my Lady _Stafford_, Aunt _Joyce_, and I, were sat at our work alone in the great chamber. _Milly_ was gone with _Mother_ a-visiting poor folk, and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_, with _Helen_ for guide, were away towards _Thirlmere_,--my Lady _Stafford_ denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterday amongst the snowy lanes. All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith--

"_Joyce_, what is this I heard yestereven of old _Mall Crewdson_, touching one _Everett_, or _Tregarvon_--she wist not rightly which his name were--that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late?

What manner of mischief?--for old _Mary_ was very mysterious. May-be I do not well to ask afore _Edith_?"

"Ay, _Dulcie_, well enough," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly, "for _Edith_ knows the worst she can already. And if you knew the worst you could--"

"Why, what is it?" quoth she.

"_Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, curtly.

"_Leonard_!" Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady's face. "I thought he was dead, years gone."

"So did not I," Aunt _Joyce_ made low answer.

"No, I wis thou never didst," saith my Lady, tenderly. "So thy love is still alive, _Joyce_? Poor heart!"

"My heart is," she saith. "As for love, it is poor stuff if it can die."

"There is a deal of poor stuff abroad, then," quoth her Ladyship. "In very deed, so it is. So he is yet at his old work?"

Aunt _Joyce_ only bent her head.

"Well, it were not possible to wish he had kept to the new," pursueth she. "I do fear there were some brent in _Smithfield_, that had been alive at this day but for him. But ever since Queen _Mary_ died hath he kept him so quiet, that in very deed I never now reckoned him amongst the living. Where is he now?"

"G.o.d wot," saith Aunt _Joyce_, huskily.

My Lady was silent awhile: and then she saith--

"Well, may-be better so. But _Joyce_, doth _Lettice_ know?"

"That _Tregarvon_ were he? Not without _Aubrey_ hath told her these last ten days: and her face saith not so."

"No, it doth not," my Lady makes answer. "But Sir _Aubrey_ wist, then?

His face is not wont to talk unless he will."

"In no wise," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Ay, _Dulcibel_; I had to tell him."