CHAPTER TWO.: WHEREIN IDEAS DIFFER.

“O man, little hast thou learned of truth in things most true.”—Martin Farquhar Tupper.

(In Helen’s handwriting.)

Selwick Hall, October the xii.

Well! Milly saith nought never happens in this house. Lack-a-daisy! but I would fain it were so!

One may love one’s friends, and must one’s enemies, Father saith. But how should one feel towards them that be nowise enemies, for they mean right kindly, and yet not friends, seeing they make your life a burden unto you?

Now, all our lives have I known Master Lewthwaite, of Mere Lea, and Mistress Lewthwaite his wife, and their lads and lasses, Nym, Jack, and Robin, and Alice and Blanche. Many a game at hunt the slipper and blind man’s buff have we had at Mere Lea, and I would have said yet may, had not a thing happed this morrow which I would right fain should ne’er have happened while the world stood.

What in all this world should have made Nym so to do cannot I so much as conceive. He might have found a deal fairer lasses. Why, our Milly and Edith are ever so much better-favoured. But to want me!—nor only that, but to come with so pitiful a tale, that he should go straight to ruin an’ I would not wed with him; that I was the only maid in all the world that should serve against the same; and that if I refused, all his sins thereafter should be laid at my door! Heard any ever the like?

And I have no list to wed with Nym. I like him—as a dozen other lads: but that is all. And meseems that before I could think to leave Father and Mother and all, and go away with a man for all my life, he must be as the whole world to me, or I could never do it. I cannot think what Nym would be at. And he saith it shall be my blame and my sin, if I do it not. Must I wed Nym Lewthwaite?

I sat and pondered drearily o’er my trouble for a season, and then went to look for Aunt Joyce, whom I found in the long gallery, at her sewing in a window.

“Well, Nell, what hast ado, maid?” saith she.

“Pray you, Aunt Joyce, tell me a thing,” said I.

“That will I, with a very good will, my maid,” saith she.

“Aunt Joyce, if a man were to come to you and entreat you to wed with him, by reason that he could not (should he say) keep in the right way without you did help him, and that, you refusing, you should be blameworthy of all his after sins—what should you say to him?”

I listened right earnestly for her answer. I was woeful ’feared she should say, “Wed with him, Nell, for sure, and thus save him.”

“Say?” quoth Aunt Joyce, looking up, with (it seemed me) somewhat like laughter in her eyes. “Fetch him a good buffet of his ear, forsooth, and ask at him by what right he called himself a man.”

“Then you should not think you bound to save him, Aunt?”

“Poor weak creature! Not I,” saith Aunt Joyce. “But whatso, Nell? Hast had any such a simpleton at thee?”

“Aunt,” said I, “’tis Nym Lewthwaite, who saith an’ I wed him not, he shall go straight to ruin, and that I must answer unto God for all his sins if so be.”

“Ask him where he found that in the Bible,” saith Aunt Joyce. “Take no thought about him, Nell. Trust me, if a man cannot keep straight without thee, he will not keep straight with thee. Poor limping soul! to come halting up and plead with a weak woman to leave him put his hand on her shoulder, to help him o’er the stones! ‘Carry me, prithee, good Mistress, o’er this rough place.’ Use thine own two legs, would I say to him, and be ashamed of thy meanness. And I dare be sworn he calls himself one of the nobler sex,” ends Aunt Joyce with a snort of scorn.

“O Aunt, I am so thankful you see it thus!” said I, drawing a long breath. “I was so afeard you should bid me do as Nym would.”

“Nay, not this while,” quoth she, of her dry fashion. “When we lack stuff for to mend the foul roads, Nell, we’ll find somewhat fitter to break up than thee. If young Lewthwaite harry thee again, send him to me. He’ll not want to see me twice, I’ll warrant.”

“I was ’feared I was wicked to shrink from it, Aunt,” I made answer. “Nym said so. He said ’twas all self-loving and seeking of mine ease that alone did make me for to hesitate; and that if I had loved God and my neighbour better than myself, I would have strake hands with him at once. And I was ’feared lest it should be true.”

“Ay, it is none so difficult to paint black white,” saith Aunt Joyce. “’Tis alway the self-lovers that cry out upon the unkindliness of other folks. And thou art one of them, Nell, my maid, that be prone to reckon that must needs be right which goes against the grain. There be that make self-denial run of all fours in that fashion. They think duty and pleasure must needs be enemies. Why, child, they are the best friends in the world. Only Duty is the elder sister, and is jealous to be put first. Run thou after Duty, and see if Pleasure come not running after thee to beseech thee of better acquaintance. But run after Pleasure, and she’ll fly thee. She’s a rare bashful one.”

“Then you count it not wrong that one should desire to be happy, Aunt?”

“The Lord seems not to count it so, Nell. He had scarce, methinks, told us so much touching the happiness of Heaven, had He meant us to think it ill to be happy. But remember, maid, she that findeth her happiness in God hath it alway ready to her hand; while she that findeth her happiness in this world must wait till it come to seek her.”

“I would I were as good as Father!” said I; and I believe I fetched a sigh.

“Go a little higher, Nell, while thou art a-climbing,” quoth Aunt Joyce. “‘I would I were as good as Christ.’”

“Eh, Aunt, but who could?” said I.

“None,” she made answer. “But, Nell, he that shoots up into the sky is more like to rise than he that aims at a holly-bush.”

“Methinks Father is higher than I am ever like to get,” said I.

“And if thou overtop him,” she made answer, “all shall see it but thyself. Climb on, Nell. Thou wilt not grow giddy so long as thine eyes be turned above.”

I am so glad that Aunt Joyce seeth thus touching Nym!

Selwick Hall, October ye ii.

There goeth my first two pence for a blank week. In good sooth, I have been in ill case to write. This weary Nym would in no wise leave me be, but went to Anstace and Hal, and gat their instance (persuaded them to intercede) unto Father and Mother. Which did send for me, and would know at me if I list to wed with Nym or no. And verily, so bashful am I, and afeared to speak when I am took on the sudden thus, that I count they gat not much of me, but were something troubled to make out what I would be at. Nor wis I what should have befallen (not for that Father nor Mother were ever so little hard unto me, good lack! but only that I was stupid), had not Aunt Joyce come in, who no sooner saw how matters stood than she up and spake for me.

“Now, Aubrey and Lettice,” saith she, “both of you, fall a-catechising me in the stead of Nell. The maid hath no list to wed with Nym Lewthwaite, and hath told me so much aforetime. Leave her be, and send him away the other side of Jericho, where he belongs, and let him, an’ he list, fetch back a Syrian maiden with a horn o’er her forehead and a ring of her nose.”

“Wherefore didst thou not tell us so much, Nell, my lass?” saith Father right kindlily, laying of his hand on my shoulder.

But in the stead of answering him thankfully, as a dutiful daughter should, what did I but burst forth o’ crying, as though he had been angered with me: yea, nor might I stop the same, but went on, truly I knew not wherefore, till Mother came up and put her arms around me, and hushed me as she wont to do when I was a little child.

“The poor child is o’erwrought,” quoth she, tenderly. “Let us leave her be, Aubrey, till she calms down.—There, come to me and have it out, my Nelly, and none shall trouble thee, trust me.”

Lack-a-daisy! I sobbed all the harder for a season, but in time I calmed down, as Mother says, and when so were, I prayed her of pardon for that I could be so foolish.

“Nay, my lass,” saith she, “we be made of body and soul, and either comes uppermost at times. ’Tis no good trying to live with one, which so it be.”

“Ah, the old monks made that blunder,” saith Father, “and thought they could live with souls only, or well-nigh so. And there be scores of other that essay to live with nought but bodies. A man that starves his body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser. No is it thus, Mynheer?”

Mynheer van Stuyvesant had come in while Father was a-speaking.

“Ah!” saith he, “there be in my country certain called Mennonites, that do starve their natures of yonder fashion.”

“Which half of...