Joyce Morrell's Harvest Part 28

"I reckon we all, both men and women, have in us a touch of our father, old _Adam_!"

"And our mother, old _Eva_," said I.

"You say well, childre," quoth Aunt _Joyce_: "and she that hath the biggest touch of any I know is a certain old woman of _Oxfords.h.i.+re_, by name _Joyce Morrell_."

Up springeth _Edith_, and giveth Aunt _Joyce_ a great hug.

"She is the best, sweetest, dearest old woman (if so be) ever I knew,"

saith she. "I except not even _Mother_, for I count not her an old woman."

Aunt _Joyce_ laughed, and paid _Edith_ back her hug with usury.

Then, when _Edith_ was set down again to her work, Aunt _Joyce_ saith--

"_Anstace_ was wont to say--my _Anstace_, not yours, my maids--that she which did commonly put herself in the lowest place should the seldomest find her out of her reckoning."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY THE IX.

Come Dr _Bell_ this morrow to let us blood, as is alway done of the spring-time. I do never love these blood-letting days, sith for a se'nnight after I do feel weak as water. But I reckon it must needs be, to keep away fever and plague and such like, the which should be worser than blood-letting a deal. All we were blooded, down to _Adam_; and Dr _Bell_ rode away, by sixteen s.h.i.+llings the richer man, which is a deal for a chirurgeon to earn but of one morrow. Aunt _Joyce_ saith she marvelleth if in time to come physicians cannot discover some herb or the like that shall purify folks' blood without having it run out of them like water from a tap. I would, if so be, that they might make haste and find the same.

_Father_ hath writ to his cousin my Lord of _Oxenford_, praying him to give leave for _Wat_ to visit us at home. 'Tis four years sithence he were here; and _Father_ hath been wont to say that shall be a rare well-writ letter which shall (in common cases) do half the good of a talk face to face. I can see he is somewhat diseaseful touching _Wat_, lest he should slide into ill ways.

We do hear of old _Nanny_, that cometh by nows and thens for waste victuals, that daft _Madge_ is something sick. Her grandmother reckons she caught an ill rheum that even of _Christmas_ Day when she were here: but _Madge_ herself will strongly deny the same, saying (poor maid!) that she never could take nought ill at _Selwick_ Hall, for never nought but good (saith she) came to her there. _Mother_ would go to visit her, but she hath an evil rheum herself, and _Father_ saith she must tarry at home this sharp frost: so Aunt _Joyce_ and I be to go this afternoon, and carry her a basket of comfortable things.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE X.

A rare basket that was _Mother_ packed yester-morrow for daft _Madge_.

First went in a piece of beef, and then a goodly string of salt ling (for _Lent_ is nigh at hand [Note 1]), a little bottle of cinnamon water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of b.u.t.ter, a half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late brought from abroad, and _Ned_ did bring unto _Mother_ a little basket of them.

We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads be slippy as they were greased with b.u.t.ter. Howbeit, we come at last safe to _Madge's_ door, and there found daft _Madge_ in a great chair afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old _Madge_ her grandmother sat a-sewing, with her horn-gla.s.ses across her nose, and by her old _Isaac Crewdson_, that is daft _Madge_ her grandfather of the other side. She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.

"Good morrow, _Madge_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "See thou, my Lady _Lettice_ hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up a bit."

_Madge_ took Aunt _Joyce's_ hand, and kissed it.

"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.

Old _Madge_ gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were.

But daft _Madge_ seemed not much to care what were therein, though she was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few pleasures she had wit for. Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt _Joyce_ to me, and smiling on us.

"What art thinking, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

For, natural [idiot] though she be, _Madge_ is alway thinking. 'Tis very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see through the smoked gla.s.s of her poor brains. Nay, I take it, so there is.

"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll be to see His Face."

_Madge_ hath rarely any name for G.o.d. It is mostly "He."

"Wouldst love to see it, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Shall," quoth she, "right soon. He sent me word, Mistress _Joyce_, yestereven."

"Ay," saith old _Isaac_, "she reckons she's going."

"Wilt be glad, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, softly.

"Glad!" she makes answer. "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_--glad! Why, 'twill be better than plum-porridge!"

Poor _Madge_!--she took the best symbol she had wit for.

"Ay, my la.s.s, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old _Isaac_.

"Plum-porridge and feather beds'll be nought to what they've getten up yonder.--You see, Mistress _Joyce_, we mun tell her by what she knows, poor maid!"

"Ay, thou sayest well, _Isaac_," Aunt _Joyce_ made reply. "_Madge_, thy mother's up yonder."

"I know!" she saith, a-smiling. "She'll come to th' gate when I knock.

He'll sure send her to meet me. She'll know 'tis me, ye ken. It'd never do if some other maid gave my name, and got let in by mistake for me. He'll send somebody as knows me to see I get in right. Don't ye see, that's why we keep a-going one at once? Somebody mun be always there that'll ken th' new ones."

"I reckon the Lord will ken them, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Oh ay, He'll ken 'em, sure enough," saith _Madge_. "But then, ye see, they'd feel lonely like if they waited to see any body they knew till they got right up to th' fur end: and th' angels 'd be stoppin' 'em and wanting to make sure all were right. That wouldn't be pleasant. So He'll send one o' them as knows 'em, and then th' angels 'll be satisfied, and not be stoppin' of 'em."

Aunt _Joyce_ did not smile at poor _Madge's_ queer notions. She saith at times that G.o.d Himself teaches them that men cannot teach. And at after, quoth she, that it were but _Madge_ her way of saying, "He careth for you."

"Dost thou think she is going, _Isaac_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. For old _Isaac_ is an herb-gatherer, or were while he could; and he wist a deal of physic.

"Now, _Gaffer_, thou'lt never say nay!" cries _Madge_ faintly, as though it should trouble her sore if he thought she would live through it.

"I'll say nought o' th' sort, _Madge_," said _Isaac_. "Ay, Mistress _Joyce_. She's been coming to the Lord this ever so long: and now, I take it, she's going to Him."

"That's right!" saith _Madge_, with a comforted look, and laying of her head back on her pillows. "It would be sore to get right up to th'

gate, and then an angel as one didn't know just put his head forth, and say, 'Th' Master says 'tis too soon, _Madge_: thou must not come in yet.

Thou'lt have to walk a bit outside.' Eh, but I wouldn't like yon!"

"He'll not leave thee outside, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Eh, I hope not!" quoth _Madge_, as regretfully. "I do want to see Him so. I'd like to see if He looks rested like after all He bare for a poor daft maid. And I want to know if them bad places is all healed up in His hands and feet, and hurt Him no more now. I'd like to see for myself, ye ken."

"Ay, _Madge_, they're healed long ago," saith _Isaac_.

"Well, I count so," saith she, "for 'tis a parcel o' _Sundays_ since first time thou told me of 'em: still, I'd like to see for myself."

"Thou'lt see for thyself," saith _Isaac_. "Th' Lord's just th' same up yonder that He were down here."

"Well, I reckon so," quoth _Madge_, in a tone of wonder. "Amn't I th'

same maid up at th' Hall as I am here?"

"Ay, but I mean He's as good as ever He were," _Isaac_ makes answer.

"He were right good, He were, to yon poor gaumering [silly] _Thomas_,-- eh, but he were a troublesome chap, was _Thomas_! He said he wouldn't believe it were th' Lord without he stuck his hand right into th' bad place of His side. He were a hard one to deal wi', was yon _Thomas_."

"Did He let him stick it in?" saith _Madge_, opening her eyes.