been afraid that she was about to be put in the dark closet like a
naughty child, with no permission to exercise her own will about
anything. And just now, the parsonage looked to her a dark closet
indeed.
But Sir Thomas turned quickly on hearing this, with--"Orige, I desire
Blanche to abide here. If there be aught she would have withal, she can
tell Clare of it."
And, closing the door, he left the three together.
"Oh!--very well," said Lady Enville, rather crossly. Blanche sat down
again.
"What shall I put for thee, Blanche?" asked Clare gently.
"What thou wilt," muttered Blanche sulkily.
"I will lay out what I think shall like thee best," was her sister's
kind reply.
"I would like my green sleeves, [Note 1] and my tawny kirtle," said
Blanche in a slightly mollified tone.
"Very well," replied Clare, and hastened away to execute her commission,
calling Barbara as she went.
"What ado doth Sir Thomas make of this matter!" said Lady Enville,
applying again to the pomander. "If he would have been ruled by me--
Blanche, child, hast any other edge of pearl?" [Note 2.]
"Ay, Mother," said Blanche absently.
"Metrusteth 'tis not so narrow as that thou wearest. It becometh thee
not. And the guarding of that gown is ill done--who set it on?"
Blanche did not remember--and, just then, she did not care.
"Whoso it were, she hath need be ashamed thereof. Come hither, child."
Blanche obeyed, and while her mother gave a pull here, and smoothed down
a fold there, she stood patiently enough in show, but most unquietly in
heart.
"Nought would amend it, save to pick it off and set it on again," said
Lady Enville, resigning her endeavours. "Now, Blanche, if thou art to
abide at the parsonage, where I cannot have an eye upon thee, I pray
thee remember thyself, who thou art, and take no fantasies in thine head
touching Arthur Tremayne."
Arthur Tremayne! What did Blanche care for Arthur Tremayne?
"I am sore afeard, Blanche, lest thou shouldst forget thee. It will not
matter for Clare. If he be a parson's son, yet is he a Tremayne of
Tremayne,--quite good enough for Clare, if no better hap should chance
unto her. But thou art of better degree by thy father's side, and we
look to have thee well matched, according thereto. Thy father will not
hear of Don John, because he is a Papist, and a Spaniard to boot:
elsewise I had seen no reason to gainsay thee, poor child! But of
course he must have his way. Only have a care, Blanche, and take not up
with none too mean for thy degree,--specially now, while thou art out of
our wardship."
There was no answer from Blanche.
"Mistress Tremayne will have a care of thee, maybe," pursued her mother,
unfurling her fan--merely as a plaything, for the weather did not by any
means require it. "Yet 'tis but nature she should work to have Arthur
well matched, and she wot, of course, that thou shouldst be a rare catch
for him. So do thou have a care, Blanche."
And Lady Enville, leaning back among her cushions, furled and unfurled
her handsome fan, alike unconscious and uncaring that she had been
guilty of the greatest injustice to poor Thekla Tremayne.
There was a rap at the door, and enter Rachel, looking as if she had
imbibed an additional pound of starch since leaving the room.
"Sister, would you have Blanche's tartaryn gown withal, or no?"
"The crimson? Let me see," said Lady Enville reflectively. "Ay,
Rachel,--she may as well have it. I would not have thee wear it but for
Sundays and holy days, Blanche. For common days, _there_, thy blue
kersey is full good enough."
Without any answer, and deliberately ignoring the presence of Blanche,
Rachel stalked away.
It was a weary interval until Sir Thomas, returned. Now and then Clare
flitted in and out, to ask her mother's wishes concerning different
things: Jennet came in with fresh wood for the fire; Lady Enville
continued to give cautions and charges, as they occurred to her, now
regarding conduct and now costume: but a miserable time Blanche found
it. She felt herself, and she fancied every one else considered her, in
dire disgrace. Yet beneath all the mortification, the humiliation, and
the grief over which she was brooding, there was a conviction in the
depth of Blanche's heart, resist it as she might, that the father who
was crossing her will was a wiser and truer friend to her than the
mother who would have granted it.
Sir Thomas came at last. He wore a very tired look, and seemed as if he
had grown several years older in that day.
"Well, all is at a point, Orige," he said. "Master Tremayne hath right
kindly given consent to receive both the maids into his house, for so
long a time as we may desire it; but Mistress Tremayne would have
Barbara come withal, if it may stand with thy conveniency. She hath but
one serving-maid, as thou wist; and it should be more comfortable to the
childre to have her, beside the saving of some pain [trouble, labour]
unto Mistress Tremayne."
"They can have her well enough, trow," answered Lady Enville. "I seldom
make use of her. Jennet doth all my matters."
"But how for Meg and Lucrece?"
Barbara's position in the household was what we should term the young
ladies' maid; but maids in those days were on very familiar and
confidential terms with their ladies.
"Oh, they will serve them some other way," said Lady Enville carelessly.
The convenience of other people was of very slight account in her
Ladyship's eyes, so long as there was no interference with her own.
"Cannot Kate or Doll serve?" asked Sir Thomas--referring to the two
chambermaids.
"Of course they can, if they must," returned their nominal mistress.
"Good lack, Sir Thomas!--ask Rachel; I wis nought about the house gear."
Sir Thomas walked off, and said no more.
With great difficulty and much hurrying, the two girls contrived to
leave the house just before supper. Sir Thomas was determined that
there should be no further interview between Blanche and Don Juan. Nor
would he have one himself, until he had time to consider his course more
fully. He supped in his own chamber. Lady Enville presented herself in
the hall, and was particularly gracious; Rachel uncommonly stiff;
Margaret still and meditative; Lucrece outwardly demure, secretly
triumphant.
Supper at the parsonage was deferred for an hour that evening, until the
guests should arrive. Mrs Tremayne received both with a motherly kiss.
Foolish as she thought Blanche, she looked upon her as being almost as
much a victim of others' folly as a sufferer for her own: and Thekla
Tremayne knew well that the knowledge that we have ourselves to thank
for our suffering does not lessen the pain, but increases it.
The kindness with which Blanche was received--rather as an honoured
guest than as a naughty child sent to Coventry--was soothing to her
ruffled feelings. Still she had a great deal to, bear. She was deeply
grieved to be suddenly and completely parted from Don Juan; and she
imagined that he would be as much distressed as herself. But the idea
of rebelling against her father's decree never entered her head; neither
did the least suspicion of Lucrece's share in the matter.
Blanche was rather curious to ascertain how much Clare knew of her
proceedings, and what she thought of them. Now it so happened that in
the haste of the departure, Clare had been told next to nothing. The
reason of this hasty flight to the parsonage was all darkness to her,
except for the impression which she gathered from various items that the
step thus taken had reference not to herself, but to Blanche. What her
sister had done, was doing, or was expected to do, which required such
summary stoppage, Clare could not even guess. Barbara was quite as
ignorant. The interviews between Blanche and Don Juan had been so
secret, and so little suspected, that the idea of connecting him with
the affair did not occur to either.
One precious relic Blanche had brought with her--the lock of hair
received from Don Juan on that afternoon which was so short a time back,
and felt so terribly long--past and gone, part of another epoch
altogether. Indeed, she had not had any opportunity of parting with it,
except by yielding it to her father; and for this she saw no necessity,
since he had laid no orders on her concerning Don Juan's gifts. While
Clare knelt at her prayers, and Barbara was out of the room, Blanche
took the opportunity to indulge in another look at her treasure. It was
silky black, smooth and glossy; tied with a fragment of blue ribbon,
which Don Juan had assured her was the colour of truth.
"Is he looking at the ringlet of fair hair which I gave him?" thought
she fondly. "He will be true to me. Whate'er betide, I know he will be
true!"
Poor little Blanche!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Sleeves were then separate from the dress, and were fastened
into it when put on, according to the fancy of the wearer.
Note 2. Apparently the plaited border worn under the French cap.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THEKLA COMES TO THE RESCUE.
"It were a well-spent journey,
Though seven deaths lay between."
_A.R. Cousins_.
"Lysken, didst thou ever love any one very much?"
Blanche spoke dreamily, as she stood leaning against the side of the
window in the parsonage parlour, and with busy idleness tied knots in
her gold chain, which at once untied themselves by their own weight.
"Most truly," said Lysken, looking up with an expression of surprise.
"I love all here--very much."
"Ah! but--not here?"
"Certes. I loved Mayken Floriszoon, who died at Leyden, the day after
help came. And I loved Aunt Jacobine; and Vrouw Van Vliet, who took
care of me before I came hither. And I loved--O Blanche, how dearly!--
my father and my mother."
Blanche's ideas were running in one grove, and Lysken's in quite a
different one.
"Ay, but I mean, Lysken--another sort of love."
"Another sort!" said Lysken, looking up again from the stocking which
she was darning. "Is there any sort but one?"
"Oh ay!" responded Blanche, feeling her experience immeasurably past
that of Lysken.
"Thou art out of my depth, Blanche, methinks," said Lysken, re-threading
her needle in a practical unromantic way. "Love is love, for me. It
differeth, of course, in degree; we love not all alike. But, methinks,
even a man's love for God, though it be needs deeper and higher far,
must yet be the same manner of love that he hath for his father, or his
childre, or his friends. I see not how it can be otherwise."
Blanche was shocked at the business-like style in which Lysken darned
while she talked. Had such a question been asked of herself, the
stocking would have stood still till it was settled. She doubted
whether to pursue the subject. What was the use of talking upon
thrilling topics to a girl who could darn stockings while she calmly
analysed love? Still, she wanted somebody's opinion; and she had an
instinctive suspicion that Clare would be no improvement upon her
cousin.
"Well, but," she said hesitatingly, "there is another fashion of love,
Lysken. The sort that a woman hath toward her husband."
"That is deeper, I guess, than she hath for her father and mother, else
would she not leave them to go with him," said Lysken quietly; "but I
see not wherein it should be another sort."
"'Tis plain thou didst never feel the same, Lysken," returned Blanche
sentimentally.
"How could I, when I never had an husband?" answered Lysken, darning
away tranquilly.
"But didst thou never come across any that--that thou shouldst fain--"
"Shouldst fain--what?" said Lysken, as Blanche paused.
"Shouldst have liked to wed," said Blanche, plunging into the matter.
"Gramercy, nay!" replied Lysken, turning the stocking to look at the
other side. "And I should have thought shame if I had."
Blanche felt this speech a reflection on herself.
"Lysken!" she cried pettishly.
Lysken put down the stocking, and looked at Blanche.
"What meanest thou?" she inquired, in a plain matter-of-fact style which
was extremely aggravating to that young lady.
"Oh, 'tis to no good to tell thee," returned Blanche loftily. "Thou
wist nought at all thereabout."
"_What_ about?" demanded Lysken, to whom Blanche was unintelligible.
"About nought. Let be!"
"I cannot tell wherefore thou art vexed, Blanche," said Lysken, resuming
her darning, in that calm style which is eminently provoking to any one
in a passion.
"Thou seest not every matter in the world," retorted Blanche, with an
air of superiority. "And touching this matter, 'tis plain thou wist
nothing. Verily, thou hast gain therein; for he that hath bettered
knowledge--as saith Solomon--hath but increased sorrow."
"Blanche, I do not know whereof thou art talking! Did I put thee out by
saying I had thought shame to have cared to wed with any, or what was
it? Why, wouldst not thou?"
This final affront was as the last straw to the camel. Deigning no
answer, which she felt would be an angry one, Blanche marched away like
an offended queen, and sat down on a chair in the hall as if she were
enthroning herself upon a pedestal. Mrs Tremayne was in the hall, and
the door into the parlour being open, she had heard the conversation.
She made no allusion to it at the time, but tried to turn the girl's
thoughts to another topic. Gathering from it, however, the tone of
Blanche's mind, she resolved to give her a lesson which should not eject
her roughly from her imaginary pedestal--but make her come down from it
of her own accord.
"Poor foolish child!" said Mrs Tremayne to herself. "She has mistaken
a rushlight for the sun, and she thinks her horizon wider than that of
any one else. She is despising Lysken, at this moment, as a shallow,
prosaic character, who cannot enter into the depth of her feelings, and
has not attained the height of her experience. And there are heights
and depths in Lysken that Blanche will never reach."
Mrs Tremayne found her opportunity the next evening. She was alone
with Blanche in the parlour; and knowing pretty well what every one was
doing, she anticipated a quiet half-hour.
Of all the persons to whom Blanche was known, there was not one so well
fitted to deal with her in this crisis as the friend in whose hands she
had been placed for safety. Thirty years before, Thekla Tremayne had
experienced a very dark trial,--had become miserably familiar with the
heart-sickness of hope deferred,--during four years when the best
beloved of Robin Tremayne had known no certainty whether he was living
or dead, but had every reason rather to fear the latter. Compared with
a deep, long-tried love like hers, this sentimental fancy over which
Blanche was making herself cross and unhappy was almost trivial. But
Mrs Tremayne knew that trouble is trouble, if it be based on folly; she
thought that she recognised in Blanche, silly though she was in some
points, a nobler nature than that of the vain, selfish, indolent mother
from whom the daughter derived many of the surface features of her
character: and she longed to see that nobler nature rouse itself to
work, and sweep away the outward vanity and giddiness. It might be that
even this would show her the real hollowness of the gilded world; that
this one hour's journey over the weary land would help to drive her for
shelter to the shadow of the great Rock.
Blanche sat on a low stool at Mrs Tremayne's feet, gazing earnestly
into the fire. Neither had spoken for some time, during which the only
sounds were the slight movements of Mrs Tremayne as she sat at work,
and now and then a heavy sigh from Blanche. When the fifth of these was
drawn, the lady gently laid her hand on the girl's head.
"Apothecaries say, Blanche, that sighing shorteneth life."
Blanche looked up. "I reckon you count me but a fool, Mistress
Tremayne, as do all other."
"Blanche," said her friend, "I will tell thee a story, and after that
thou shall judge for thyself what account I make of thee."
Blanche looked interested, and altered her position so as to watch Mrs
Tremayne's face while she was speaking.
"Once upon a time, Blanche,--in the days of Queen Mary,--there was a
priest that had a daughter of thine own age--sixteen years. In those
days, as I cast no doubt thou hast heard, all wedded priests were laid
under ban, and at the last a day was set whereon all they must needs
part from their wives. Though my story take root ere this, yet I pray
thee bear it in mind, for we shall come thereto anon. Well, this
damsel, with assent of her father, was troth-plight unto a young man
whom she loved very dearly; but seeing her youth, their wedding was yet
some way off. In good sooth, her father had given assent under bond
that they should not wed for three years; and the three years should be
run out in June, 1553."
"Three years!" said Blanche, under her breath.
"This young man was endeavouring himself for the priesthood. During the
time of King Edward, thou wist, there was no displeasure taken at
married priests; and so far as all they might see when the three years
began to run, all was like to go smooth enough. But when they were run
out, all England was trembling with fear, and men took much thought
[felt much anxiety] for the future. King Edward lay on his dying bed;
and there was good reason--ah! more reason than any man then knew!--to
fear that the fair estate of such as loved the Gospel should die with
him. For a maid then to wed a priest, or for a wedded man to receive
orders, was like to a man casting him among wild beasts: there was but a
chance that he might not be devoured. So it stood, that if this young
man would save his life, he must give up one of two things,--either the
service which for many months back he had in his own heart offered to
God, or the maiden whom, for a time well-nigh as long, he had hoped
should be his wife. What, thinkest thou, should he have done, Blanche?"
"I wis not, in very deed, Mistress Tremayne," said Blanche, shaking her
head. "I guess he should have given up rather her,--but I know not.
Methinks it had been sore hard to give up either. And they were
troth-plight."
"Well,--I will tell thee what they did. They did appoint a set time, at
the end whereof, should he not then have received orders (it being not
possible, all the Protestant Bishops being prisoners), he should then
resign the hope thereof, and they twain be wed. The three years, thou
wist, were then gone. They fixed the time two years more beyond,--to
run out in August, 1555--which should make five years' waiting in all."
"And were they wed then?" said Blanche, drawing a long breath.
"When the two further years were run out, Blanche--"
Blanche was a little startled to hear how Mrs Tremayne's voice
trembled. She was evidently telling "an owre true tale."
"The maid's father, and he that should have been her husband, were taken
in one day. When those two years were run out, her father lay hidden
away, having 'scaped from prison, until he might safely be holpen out of
the country over seas: and the young man was a captive in Exeter Castle,
and in daily expectation of death."
"Good lack!"
"And two years thereafter, the young man was had away from Exeter unto
Woburn, and there set in the dread prison called Little Ease, shaped
like to a funnel, wherein a man might neither stand, nor sit, nor lie,
nor kneel."
"O Mistress Tremayne! Heard any ever the like! And what came of the
maiden, poor soul?"
The needlework in Mrs Tremayne's hand was still now; and if any one had
been present who had known her thirty years before, he would have said
that a shadow of her old look at that terrible time had come back to her
deep sweet eyes.
"My child, God allowed her to be brought very low. At the first, she
was upheld mightily by His consolations: and they that saw her said how
well she bare it. But 'tis not alway the first blush of a sorrow that
trieth the heart most sorely. And there came after this a time--when it
was an old tale to them that knew her, and their comforting was given
over,--a day came when all failed her. Nay, I should have said rather,
all seemed to fail her. God failed her not; but her eyes were holden,
and she saw Him not beside her. It was darkness, an horror of great
darkness, that fell upon her. The Devil came close enough; he was very
busy with her. Was there any hope? quoth he. Nay, none, or but very
little. Then of what worth were God's promises to hear and deliver? He
had passed His word, and He kept it not. Was God able to help?--was He
true to His promise?--go to, was there any God in Heaven at all? And
so, Blanche, she was tossed to and fro on the swelling billows, now up,
seeing a faint ray of light, now down, in the depth of the darkness:
yet, through all, with an half-palsied grasp, so to speak, upon the hem
of Christ's garment, a groping after Him with numb hands that scarce
felt whether they held or no. O Blanche, it was like the plague in the
land of Egypt--it was darkness that might be felt!"
Blanche listened in awed interest.
"Dear heart, the Lord hath passed word to help His people in their need;
but He saith not any where that He will alway help them right as they
would have it. We be prone to think there is but one fashion of help,
and that if we be not holpen after our own manner, we be not holpen at
all. Yet, if thou take a penny from a poor beggar, and give him in the
stead thereof an angel [half-sovereign], thou hast given him alms,
though he have lost the penny. Alas, for us poor beggars! we fall to
weeping o'er our penny till our eyes be too dim with tears to see the
gold of God's alms. Dear Blanche, I would not have thee miss the gold."
"I scantly conceive your meaning, dear Mistress."
"We will come back to that anon. I will first tell thee what befel her
of whom I spake."
"Ay, I would fain hear the rest."
"Well, there were nigh four years of that fearful darkness. She
well-nigh forgat that God might have some better thing in store for her,
to the which He was leading her all the time, along this weary road.
She thought He dealt hardly with her. At times, when the darkness was
at the thickest, she fancied that all might be a delusion: that there
was no God at all, or none that had any compassion upon men. But it was
not His meaning, to leave one of His own in that black pit of despair.
He lifted one end of the dark veil. When the four years were over,--
that is, when Queen Elizabeth, that now is, happily succeeded to her
evil sister,--God gave the maiden back her father safe."
Blanche uttered a glad "Oh!"
"And He gave her more than that, Blanche. He sent her therewith a
message direct from Himself. Thou lookest on me somewhat doubtfully,
dear heart, as though thou shouldst say, Angels bring no wolds from
Heaven now o' days. Well, in very sooth, I wis not whether they do or
no. We see them not: can we speak more boldly than to say this? Yet
one thing I know, Blanche: God can send messages to His childre in their
hearts, howso they may come. And what was this word? say thine eyes.
Well, sweeting, it was the softest of all the chidings that we hear Him
to have laid on His disciples,--`O thou of little faith, wherefore didst
thou doubt?' As though He should say,--`Thou mightest have doubted of
the fulfilling of thy special hope; yet wherefore doubt _Me_? Would I
have taken pleasure in bereaving thee of aught that was not hurtful?
Could I not have given thee much more than this? Because I made thine
heart void, that I might fill it with Myself,--child, did I love thee
less, or more?'"
Mrs Tremayne paused so long, that Blanche asked timidly--"And did he
come again at last, or no?"
A slight, sudden movement of her friend's head showed that her thoughts
were far away, and that she came back to the present with something like
an effort.
"Methinks, dear heart," Mrs Tremayne said lovingly, "there was a
special point whereto God did desire to bring this maiden;--a point
whereat He oft-times aimeth in the training of His childre. It is, to
be satisfied with His will. Not only to submit thereto. Thou mayest
submit unto all outward seeming, and yet be sore dissatisfied."
Was not this Blanche's position at that moment?