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قراءة كتاب Joyce Morrell's Harvest The Annals of Selwick Hall
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Joyce Morrell's Harvest The Annals of Selwick Hall
serve your turn: or, were ye old Romans, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for English maidens dwelling by Lake Derwentwater, I count paper and pens shall be wanted—and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied, Nell!”
And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat a-sewing, what should Father set down afore me, in the stead of the sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,—and an whole bundle of pens, with a great inkhorn. Milly fell a-laughing.
“Oh dear, dear!” saith she. “Be we three to write up all those? Verily, Father, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen a good half of this chronicle yourself.”
“Nay, not so much as one line,” saith he, “saving those few I have writ already on the first leaf. Let Nell read them aloud.”
So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them, cannot I put in what was said.
“Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall.—Imprimis, to be writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha Louvaine.”
Milly was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from laughing right out.
“Item, the said Helen to begin the said book.
“Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor.”
“Oh, good lack!” from Milly.
“I care not, so Father give us the pennies,” from Edith.
“I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour,” saith Father in his dry way. “I to pay the pennies, and Edith to make the blots. Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand.”
“Then both of yours, Father,” saith Milly, saucily.
“Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the poor.”
“Lack-a-daisy!” cries Milly; “I shall be ruined!”
“Truth for once,” quoth Aunt Joyce.
“I am sorry to hear it, my maid,” saith Father.
“Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor.”
“Father,” quoth Milly, “by how much mean you to increase mine income while this book is a-writing?”
Father smiled, but made no further answer.
“Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ, two pence to the poor.”
“That is it which shall work my ruin,” saith Edith, a-laughing.
“Therein art thou convict of laziness,” quoth Father.
“Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall forfeit each time one penny to the poor.”
“That will bring both Edith and me to beggary,” quoth Milly, “Only Nell shall come off scot-free. Father, have you writ nought that will catch her?”
“Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and Anstace Banaster.”
“And none else? Alack the day!” saith Milly.
“I said not whom else,” quoth Father. “Be that as it like you.”
But I know well what should like me,—and that were, not so much as one pair of eyes beyond. Milly, I dare reckon—but if I go on it shall cost me two pence, so I will forbear.
“Well!” saith Edith, “one thing will I say, your leave granted, Father: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be done. I would lief be at my wisest on the last page.”
“Dear heart! I look to be wise on no page,” cries Milly.
“Nay,” said I, “I would trust to be wise on all.”
“There spake our Nell!” cries Milly. “I could swear it were she, though mine eyes were shut close.”
“This book doth somewhat divert me, Joyce,” quoth Father, looking at her. “Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page, and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be pleasant reading.”
“And I reckon,” saith Aunt Joyce, “they shall be reasonable true to themselves an’ it be thus.”
“And I,” saith Milly, “that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any.”
“Ergo,” quoth Father, “wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is, Milly,—to unwise folks.”
“Then, Father, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you,” saith she, a-laughing.
Father arose, and laid his hand upon Milly’s head as he passed by her.
“The wise can love the unwise, my maid,” saith he. “How could the only wise God love any one of us else?”
Selwick Hall, October ye ii.
Milly saith, and Edith likewise, that I must needs set down somewhat touching all us,—who we be, and how many, and our names, and such like. Truly, it seemeth me somewhat lost labour, if none but ourselves are to read the same. But as Milly will have it the Queen’s Majesty and all her Council shall be highly diverted thereby (though little, as methinks, they should care to know of us), I reckon, to please these my sisters, I must needs do their bidding.
We therefore, that dwell in Selwick Hall, be Sir Aubrey Louvaine, the owner thereof (that is Father), and Dame Lettice his wife, and us their daughters, Helen, Milisent, and Editha. Moreover, there is Aunt Joyce Morrell, that dwelleth in Oxfordshire, at Minster Lovel, but doth once every five year tarry six months with us, and we with her the like: so that we see each the other once in every two or three years. ’Tis but a week Aunt Joyce hath been hither, so all the six months be to run. And here I should note she is not truly our aunt, but Father’s cousin, her mother being sister unto his mother: but Father had never no brother nor sister, and was bred up along, with these his cousins, Aunt Joyce and Aunt Anstace, after whom mine eldest sister hath her name: but Aunt Anstace hath been dead these many years, afore any of us were born. I would I had known her; for to hear them talk of her,—Father, and Mother, and Aunt Joyce,—I could well-nigh think her an angel in human flesh. Now, wherefore is it, for I have oft-times marvelled, that we speak more tenderly and reverently of folk that be dead, than of the living? Were I to die a young maid, should Milly (that loves to mock me now) tell her children henceforward of their Aunt Helen, as though she had been somewhat better than other women? May-be. If we could only use folks we love, while they do live, with the like loving reverence as we shall do after they be dead, if we overlive them! Wherefore do we not so? We do seem for to forget then all that we loved not in them. Could we not essay to do the same a little sooner?
And when Milly cometh hither in her reading, as sure as her name is Milisent, shall she say,—“Now, Mistress Nell, there you go, a-riding your high horse of philosophy! Prithee, keep to common earth.”
Beside those I have named, in the house dwelleth Mynheer Floris Stuyvesant, a Dutch gentleman that did flee from his country when the persecution was in Holland, eleven years gone: and Father, which had a little known him aforetime when he made the grand tour, did most gladly welcome him hither, and made him (of his own desire) governor to Ned and Wat, our brothers. These our brothers dwell not now at home, for