dearer unto thee than thine own will and way; as the one thing which
thou wouldst have done, at the cost, if need be, of all other:--ah,
Blanche, 'tis no light nor easy thing, this! And unto this God led her
of whom I have been telling thee. He led her, till she could look up to
Him, and say, with a true, honest heart--`Father, lead where Thou wilt.
If in the dark, well: so Thou hold me, I am content I am Thine, body,
and soul, and spirit: it shall be well and blessed for me, if but Thy
will be done.' And then, Blanche,--when she could look up and say this
in sincerity--then He laid down His rod, and gave all back into her
bosom."
Blanche drew a deep sigh,--partly of relief, but not altogether.
"You knew this maiden your own self, Mrs Tremayne?"
"Wouldst thou fain know whom the maid were, Blanche? Her name was--
Thekla Rose."
"Mistress Tremayne!--yourself?"
"Myself, dear heart. And I should not have gone back over this story
now, but that I thought it might serve thee to hear it. I love not to
look back to that time, though it were to mine own good. 'Tis like an
ill wound which is healed, and thou hast no further suffering thereof:
yet the scar is there for evermore. And yet, dear Blanche, if it were
given me to choose, now, whether I would have that dark and weary time
part of my life, or no--reckoning what I should have lost without it--I
would say once again, Ay. They that know the sweetness of close walking
with God will rather grope, step by step, at His side through the
darkness, than walk smoothly in the full glare of the sun without Him:
and very street was my walk, when I had won back the felt holding of His
hand."
"But is He not with them in the sunlight?" asked Blanche shyly.
"He is alway with them, dear heart: but we see his light clearest when
other lights are out. And we be so prone to walk further off in the
daylight!--we see so many things beside Him. We would fain be running
off after birds and butterflies; fain be filling our hands with bright
flowers by the way: and we picture not rightly to ourselves that these
things are but to cheer us on as we step bravely forward, for there will
be flowers enough when we reach Home."
Blanche looked earnestly into the red embers, and was silent.
"Seest thou now, Blanche, what I meant in saying, I would not have thee
miss the gold?"
"I reckon you mean that God hath somewhat to give, better than what He
taketh away."
"Right, dear heart. Ah, how much better! Yet misconceive me not, my
child. We do not buy Heaven with afflictions; never think that,
Blanche. There be many that have made that blunder. Nay! the beggar
buyeth not thy gold with his penny piece. Christ hath bought Heaven for
His chosen: it is the purchase of His blood; and nothing else in all the
world could have paid for it. But they that shall see His glory yonder,
must be fitted for it here below; and oft-times God employeth sorrows
and cares to this end.--And now, Blanche, canst answer thine own
question, and tell me what I think of thee?"
Blanche blushed scarlet.
"I am afeared," she said, hanging down her head, "you must think me but
a right silly child."
Mrs Tremayne stroked Blanche's hair, with a little laugh.
"I think nothing very ill of thee, dear child. But I do think thou hast
made a blunder or twain."
"What be they?" Blanche wished to know, more humbly than she would have
done that morning.
"Well, dear Blanche--firstly, I think thou hast mistaken fancy for love.
There be many that so do. Many think they love another, when in truth
all they do love is themselves and their own pleasures, or the
flattering of their own vain conceits. Ask thine own heart what thou
lovest in thy lover: is it him, or his liking for thyself? If it be but
the latter, that is not love, Blanche. 'Tis but fancy, which is to love
as the waxen image to the living man. Love would have him it loveth
bettered at her own cost: it would fain see him higher and nobler--I
mean not higher in men's eyes, but nearer Heaven and God--whatever were
the price to herself. True love will go with us into Heaven, Blanche:
it can never die, nor be forgotten. Remember the word of John the
Apostle, that `he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in
him.' And wouldst thou dare to apply that holy and heavenly name unto
some vain fancy that shall be as though it had never been six months
thereafter? My child, we men and women be verily guilty concerning this
matter. We take the name of that which is the very essence of God, and
set it lightly on a thing of earth and time, the which shall perish in
the using. Well, and there is another mistake, sweet, which I fear thou
mayest have made. It may be thou art thinking wrongfully of thine
earthly father, as I did of my heavenly One. He dealeth with thee
hardly, countest thou? Well, it may be so; yet it is to save thee from
that which should be much harder. Think no ill of the father who loveth
thee and would fain save thee. And, O Blanche! howsoever He may deal
with thee, never, never do thou think hardly of that heavenly Father,
who loveth thee far dearer than he, and would save thee from far
bitterer woe."
Blanche had looked very awe-struck when Mrs Tremayne spoke so solemnly
of the real nature of love; and now she raised tearful eyes to her
friend's face.
"I thought none ill of my father, Mistress Tremayne. I wis well he
loveth me."
"That is well, dear heart. I am fain it should be so."
And there the subject dropped rather abruptly, as first Clare, and then
Arthur, came into the room.
Don Juan did not appear to: miss Blanche, after the first day. When he
found that she and her father and sister were absent from the
supper-table, he looked round with some surprise and a little
perplexity; but he asked no question, and no one volunteered an
explanation. He very soon found a new diversion, in the shape of
Lucrece, to whom he proceeded to address his flowery language with even
less sincerity than he had done to Blanche. But no sooner did Sir
Thomas perceive this turn of affairs than he took the earliest
opportunity of sternly demanding of his troublesome prisoner "what he
meant?"
Don Juan professed entire ignorance of the purport of this question.
Sir Thomas angrily explained.
"Nay, Senor, what would you?" inquired the young Spaniard, with an air
of injured innocence. "An Andalusian gentleman, wheresoever he may be,
and in what conditions, must always show respect to the ladies."
"Respect!" cried the enraged squire. "Do Spanish gentlemen call such
manner of talk showing respect? Thank Heaven that I was born in
England! Sir, when an English gentleman carries himself toward a young
maiden as you have done, he either designs to win her in honourable
wedlock, or he is a villain. Which are you?"
"If we were in Spain, Senor," answered Don Juan, fire flashing from his
dark eyes, "you would answer those words with your sword. But since I
am your prisoner, and have no such remedy, I must be content with a
reply in speech. The customs of your land are different from ours. I
will even condescend to say that I am, and for divers years have so
been, affianced to a lady of mine own country. Towards the _senoritas_
your daughters, I have shown but common courtesy, as it is understood in
Spain."
In saying which, Don Juan stated what was delicately termed by Swift's
Houynhnms, "the thing which is not." Of what consequence was it in his
eyes, when the Council of Constance had definitively decreed that "no
faith was to be kept with heretics"?
Sir Thomas Enville was less given to the use of profane language than
most gentlemen of his day, but in answer to this speech he swore
roundly, and--though a staunch Protestant--thanked all the saints and
angels that he never was in Spain, and, the Queen's Highness' commands
excepted, never would be. As to his daughters, he would prefer turning
them all into Nebuchadnezzar's fiery furnace to allowing one of them to
set foot on the soil of that highly objectionable country. These
sentiments were couched in the most peppery language of which the
Squire's lips were well capable; and having thus delivered himself, he
turned on his heel and left Don Juan to his own meditations.
That _caballero_ speedily discovered that he had addressed his last
compliment to any of the young ladies at Enville Court. Henceforward he
only saw them at meals, and then he found himself, much to his
discomfiture, placed between Jack and Mistress Rachel. To pay delicate
attentions to the latter was sheer waste of frankincense: yet it was so
much in his nature, when speaking to a woman, that he began to tell her
that she talked like an angel. Mistress Rachel looked him full in the
face.
"Don John," said she, in the most unmoved manner, "if I believed you
true, I should call on my brother to put you forth of the hall. As I
believe you false, I do it not."
After that day, Don Juan directed all his conversation to Jack.
He was not very sorry to leave Enville Court, which had become no longer
an amusing, but an uncomfortable place. In his eyes, it was perfectly
monstrous that any man should object to his daughters being honoured by
the condescending notice of an Andalusian gentleman, who would one day
be a grandee of the first class; utterly preposterous! But since this
unreasonable man was so absurd as to object to the distinction,
conferred upon his house, it was as well that an Andalusian gentleman
should be out of his sphere. So Don Juan went willingly to London.
Friends of his parents made suit for him, and Elizabeth herself
remembered his mother, as one who had done her several little
kindnesses, such as a Lady-in-Waiting on the Queen could do for a
Princess under a cloud; and Don Juan received a free pardon, and leave
to return home when and as he would. He only broke one more heart while
he remained in England; and that was beneath any regret on his part,
being only a poor, insignificant grocer's daughter. And then he sailed
for Spain; and then he married Dona Lisarda; and then he became a
Lord-in-Waiting; and then he lived a wealthy, gorgeous, prosperous life;
and then all men spoke well of him, seeing how much good he had done to
himself; and then he grew old,--a highly respected, highly
self-satisfied man.
And then his soul was required of him. Did God say to him,--"Thou
fool"?
CHAPTER NINE.
TOO ABSTRUSE FOR BLANCHE.
"Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies!
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies;
And he that _will_ be cheated to the last,
Delusions strong as Hell shall bind him fast."
_Cowper_.
"I did conceive, Mistress Blanche," said Mr Tremayne one morning, as
the party rose from the breakfast-table, "that you would with a good
will see the picture of Clare's grandsire, the which hangeth in my
study-chamber?"
"Oh ay, an' it like you," responded Blanche eagerly.
Clare had seen the portrait, but not Blanche. Mr Tremayne led the way
to his study, allowed her to examine the likeness at her leisure, and
answered all her questions about John Avery. Entrapped Blanche did not
realise that he was catching her with the same sort of guile which Saint
Paul used towards the Corinthians. [2 Corinthians 12, 16] Mrs Tremayne
came in, and sat down quietly with her work, before the inspection was
over. When her curiosity was at length satisfied, Blanche thanked Mr
Tremayne, and would have left the room with a courtesy: but such was by
no means the intention of her pastor.
"I have heard, say, Mistress Blanche," said he quietly, "that your mind
hath been somewhat unsettled touching the difference, or the lack of
difference, betwixt us and the Papists. If so be, pray you sit down,
and give us leave to talk the same over."
Blanche felt caught at last. It must be Sir Thomas, of course, who had
told the Rector, for there was no one else who could have done it. And
it may be added, though Blanche did not know it, that her father had
specially begged Mr Tremayne to examine into the matter, and to set
Blanche right on any points whereon she might have gone wrong.
Thus brought to a stand and forced to action, it was Blanche's nature to
behave after the manner of a mule in the same predicament, and to affect
stronger contrary convictions than she really felt. It was true, she
said rather bluntly: she did think there was very little, if any,
difference between many doctrines held by the rival Churches.
"There is all the difference that is betwixt Heaven and earth," answered
Mr Tremayne. "Nay, I had well-nigh said, betwixt Heaven and Hell: for
I do believe the Devil to have been the perverter of truth with those
corruptions that are in Papistry. But I pray you, of your gentleness,
to tell me of one matter wherein, as you account, no difference lieth?"
With what power of intellect she had--which was not much--Blanche
mentally ran over the list, and selected the item on which she thought
Mr Tremayne would find least to say.
"It seemeth me you be too rude [harsh, severe] to charge the Papists
with idolatry," she said. "They be no more idolaters than we."
"No be they? How so, I pray you?"
"Why, the images in their churches be but for the teaching of such as
cannot read, nor do they any worship unto the image, but only unto him
that is signified thereby. Moreover, they pray not unto the saints, as
you would have it; they do but ask the saints' prayers for them. Surely
I may ask my father to pray for me, and you would not say that I prayed
unto him!"
"I pray you, pull bridle there, Mistress Blanche," said Mr Tremayne,
smiling; "for you have raised already four weighty points, the which may
not be expounded in a moment. I take them, an' it like you, not justly
in your order, but rather in the order wherein they do affect each
other. And first, under your good pleasure,--what is prayer?"
Blanche was about to reply at once, when it struck her that the question
involved more than she supposed. She would have answered,--"Why, saying
my prayers:" but the idea came to her, _Was_ that prayer? And she felt
instinctively that, necessarily, it was not. She thought a moment, and
then answered slowly;--
"I would say that it is to ask somewhat with full desire to obtain the
same."
"Is that all?" replied Mr Tremayne.
Blanche thought so.
"Methinks there is more therein than so. For it implieth, beyond this,
full belief that he whom you shall ask,--firstly, can hear you;
secondly, is able to grant you; thirdly, is willing to grant you."
"Surely the saints be willing to pray for us!"
"How know you they can hear us?"
Blanche thought, and thought, and could find no reason for supposing it.
"Again, how know you they can grant us?"
"But they pray!"
"They praise, and they hold communion: I know not whether they offer
petitions or no."
Blanche sat meditating.
"You see, therefore, there is no certainty on the first and most weighty
of all these points. We know not that any saint can hear us. But pass
that--grant, for our talk's sake, that they have knowledge of what
passeth on earth, and can hear when we do speak to them. How then?
Here is Saint Mary, our Lord's mother, sitting in Heaven; and upon earth
there be petitions a-coming up unto her, at one time, from Loretto in
Italy, and from Nuremburg in Germany, and from Seville in Spain, and
from Bruges in Flanders, and from Paris in France, and from Bideford in
Devon, and from Kirkham in Lancashire. Mistress Blanche, if she can
hear and make distinction betwixt all these at the self-same moment,
then is she no woman like to you. Your brain should be mazed with the
din, and spent with the labour. Invocation declareth omnipotency. And
there is none almighty save One,--that is, God."
"But," urged Blanche, "the body may be one whither, and the spirit
another. And Saint Mary is a spirit."
"Truly so. Yet the spirit can scantly be in ten places at one time--how
much less a thousand?"
Blanche was silent.
"The next thing, I take it, is that they pray not unto the saints, but
do ask the saints only to pray for them. If the saints hear them not,
the one is as futile as the other. But I deny that they do not pray
unto the saints."
Mr Tremayne went to his bookcase, and came back with a volume in his
hand.
"Listen here, I pray you--`Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, and after Him
mine only hope, pray for me, and guard me during this night'--`Give me
power to fight against thine enemies'--`Great God, who by the
resurrection of Thy Son Jesus Christ hast rejoiced the world, we pray
Thee, grant that by His blessed mother the Virgin Mary we may obtain the
bliss of eternal life'--`Make mine heart to burn with love for Jesus
Christ,--make me to feel the death of Jesus Christ in mine heart,--cause
to be given unto us the joys of Paradise--O Jesu! O Mary! cause me to
be truly troubled for my sins.' These, Mistress Blanche, be from the
book that is the Common Prayer of the Papistical Church: and all these
words be spoken unto Mary. As you well see, I cast no doubt, they do
ascribe unto her divinity. For none can effectually work upon man's
heart--save the Holy Ghost only. None other can cause his heart to be
`truly troubled for sin;' none other can make his heart to burn. Now
what think you of this, Mistress Blanche? Is it praying unto the
saints, or no?"
What Blanche thought, she did not say; but if it could be guessed from
the expression of her face, she was both shocked and astonished.
"Now come we to the third point: to wit, that images be as pictures for
the teaching of such as have no learning. Methinks, Mistress Blanche,
that God is like to be wiser than all men. There must needs have been
many Israelites in the wilderness that had no learning: yet His command
unto them, as unto us, is, `Ye shall not make unto you _any_ graven
image.' I take it that the small good that might thereby be done
(supposing any such to be) should be utterly overborne of the companying
evil. Moreover, when you do learn the vulgar, you would, I hope, learn
them that which is true. Is it true, I pray you, that Mary was borne
into Heaven of angels, like as Christ did Himself ascend?--or that being
thus carried thither, she was crowned of God, as a queen? Dear maid, we
have the Master's word touching all such, pourtrayments. `The graven
images of _their_ gods shall ye burn with fire.--Thou shalt utterly
detest it, and thou shalt utterly abhor it; for it is a cursed thing.'"
[Deuteronomy twelve, verses 25, 26.]
"O Mr Tremayne!" said Blanche, with a horrified look. "You would
surely ne'er call a picture or an image of our Lord's own mother a thing
accursed?"
"But I would, my maid," he answered very gravely, "that instant moment
that there should be given thereunto the honour and worship and glory
that be only due to Him. `My glory will I not give to another, neither
My praise to graven images.' Nay, I would call an image of Christ
Himself a thing accursed, if it stood in His place in the hearts of men.
Mark you, King Hezekiah utterly destroyed the serpent of brass that was
God's own appointed likeness of Christ, that moment that the children of
Israel did begin to burn incense unto it, thereby making it an idol."
"But in the Papistical Church they be no idols, Master Tremayne!"
interposed Blanche eagerly. "Therein lieth the difference betwixt
Popery and Paganism."
"What should you say, Mistress Blanche, if you wist that therein lieth
_no_ difference betwixt Popery and Paganism? The old Pagans were wont
to say the same thing. [Note 1.] They should have laughed in your face
if you had charged them with worshipping wood and stone, and have
answered that they worshipped only the thing signified. So much is it
thus, that amongst some Pagan nations, they do hold that their god
cometh down in his proper person into the image for a season (like as
the Papists into the wafer of the sacrament), and when they account him
gone, they cast the image away as no more worth. Yet hark you how God
Himself accounteth of this their worship. `He maketh a god, even his
graven image: he falleth down unto IT, and worshippeth IT, and prayeth
unto IT, and saith, Deliver me, for thou art my god.' And list also how
He expoundeth the same:--`A deceived heart hath turned him aside, that
he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is there not a lie in my right
hand?' [Isaiah 44, verses 17, 20.] There should be little idolatry in
this world if there were no deceived hearts."
Blanche twisted her handkerchief about, in the manner of a person who is
determined not to be convinced, yet can find nothing to say in answer.
"Tell me, Mistress Blanche,--for I think too well of your good sense to
doubt the same,--you cannot believe that Christ Himself is in a piece of
bread?"
In her inmost heart she certainly believed no such thing. But it would
never do to retreat from her position. In Blanche's eyes, disgrace lay
not in being mistaken, but in being shown the mistake.
"Wherefore may it not be so?" she murmured. "'Tis matter of faith, in
like manner as is our Lord's resurrection."
"In like manner? I cry you mercy. You believe the resurrection on the
witness of them that knew it--that saw the sepulchre void; that saw
Christ, and spake with Him, and did eat and drink with Him, and knew Him
to be the very same Jesus that had died. You can bear no witness either
way, for you were not there. But in this matter of the bread, here are
you; and you see it for yourself not to be as you be told. Your eyes
tell you that they behold bread; your hands tell you that they handle
bread; your tongue tells you that it tasteth bread. The witness of your
senses is in question: and these three do agree that the matter is bread
only."
"The senses may be deceived, I reckon?"
"The senses may be deceived; and, as meseemeth, after two fashions:
firstly, when the senses themselves be not in full healthfulness and
vigour. Thus, if a man have some malady in his eyes, that he know
himself to see things mistakenly, from the relation of other around him,
then may he doubt what his eyes see with regard to this matter.
Secondly, a man must not lean on his senses touching matters that come
not within the discerning of sense. Now in regard to this bread, the
Papists do overreach themselves. Did they but tell us that the change
made was mystical and of faith,--not within the discernment of sense--we
might then find it harder work to deal withal, and we must seek unto the
Word of God only, and not unto our sense in any wise. But they go
farther: they tell us the change is such, that there is _no more the
substance of bread left at all_. [Note 2.] This therefore is matter
within the discerning of sense. If it be thus, then this change is
needs one that I can see, can taste, can handle. I know, at my own
table, whether I eat flesh or bread; how then should I be unable to know
the same at the table of the Lord? Make it matter of sense, and I must
needs submit it to the judgment of my senses. But now to take the other
matter,--to wit, of faith. Christ said unto the Jews, `The bread which
I will give is My flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.'
They took Him right as the Papists do. They `strave among themselves,
saying, How shall this man give us his flesh to eat?' Now mark you our
Lord's answer. Doth He say, `Ye do ill to question this matter; 'tis a
mystery of the Church; try it not by sense, but believe?' Nay, He
openeth the door somewhat wider, and letteth in another ray of light
upon the signification of His words. He saith to them,--`Except ye eat
the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, ye have _no life_ in
you.' I pray you, what manner of life? Surely not the common life of
nature, for that may be sustained by other food. The life, then, is a
spiritual life; and how shall spiritual life be sustained by natural
meat? The meat must be spiritual, if the life be so. Again He
saith,--`He that eateth My flesh, and drinketh My blood, dwelleth in Me,
and I in him.' Now, if the eating be after a literal manner, so also
must be the dwelling. Our bodies, therefore, must be withinside the
body of Christ in Heaven, and His body must be withinside every one of
ours on earth. That this is impossible and ridiculous alike, I need not
to tell you. Mistress Blanche, faith is not to believe whatsoever any
shall tell you. It is less to believe a thing than to trust a man. And
I can only trust a man on due testimony that he is worthy trust."
"But this is to trust Christ our Lord," said Blanche.
"Ay so, my maid? Or is it rather to trust our own fantasy of what
Christ would say?"
Blanche was silent for a moment; then she answered,--"But He did say,
`This is My body.'"
"Will you go further, an' it like you?"
"How, Master Tremayne?"