"There was a time," saith _Blanche_, in that dreadful whisper, which
seemed me hoarser than ever, "He would--have saved me--then. But I
would not. Now--too late. Thanks! Go--good-bye."
And then _Mother_ called me.
I think that hoarse whisper will ring in mine ears, and those awful eyes
will haunt me, till the day I die. And this might have been my portion!
No word of all this said I to _Mother_. As Aunt _Joyce_ saith, she
picks up everything with her heart, and _Father_ hath alway bidden us
maids to spare her such trouble as we may--which same he ever doth
himself. But I found my Lady _Stafford_ in the little chamber, and I
threw me down on the floor at her feet, and gave my tears leave to have
their way. My Lady always seemeth to conceive any in trouble, and she
worketh not at you to comfort you afore you be ready to be comforted.
She only stroked mine head once or twice, as though to show me that she
felt for me: until I pushed back my tears, and could look up and tell
her what it were that troubled me.
"What ought I to have said, my Lady?" quoth I.
"No words of thine, _Milisent_," she made answer. "That valley of the
shadow is below the sound of any comfort of men. The words that will
reach down there are the words of God. And not always they."
"But--O my Lady, think you the poor soul can be right--that it is too
late for her?"
"There is only One that can answer thee that question," she saith. "Let
us cry mightily unto Him. So long as there is life, there may be hope.
There be on whom even in this world the Lord seems to have shut His
door. But I think they be commonly hardened sinners, that have resisted
His good Spirit through years of sinning. There is no unforgivable sin
save that hard unbelief which will not be forgiven. Dear _Milisent_,
let us remember His word, that if two of us shall agree on earth as
touching anything they shall ask, it shall be done. And He willeth not
the death of a sinner."
We made that compact: and ever sithence mine heart hath been, as it
were, crying out to God for poor _Blanche_. I cannot tell if it be
foolish to feel thus or no, but it doth seem as though I were verily
guilty touching her; as though the saving of me had been the loss of
her. O Lord God, have mercy upon her!
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXII.
This cold even were we maids and _Ned_ bidden to a gathering at Master
_Murthwaite's_, it being _Temperance_ her birthday, and she is now two
and twenty years of age. We had meant for to call on our way at _Mere
Lea_, to ask how was _Blanche_, but we were so late of starting (I need
not blame any) that there was no time left, and we had to foot it at a
good pace. Master _Murthwaite_ dwells about half a mile on this side of
_Keswick_, so we had a middling good walk. There come, we found
_Gillian Armstrong_ and her brethren, but none from _Mere Lea_.
_Gillian_ said her mother had been thither yester-morn, when she
reckoned _Blanche_ to be something better: and they were begun to hope
(though Dr _Bell_ would not yet say so much) that she might tide o'er
her malady. A pleasant even was it, but quiet: for Master _Murthwaite_
is a strong _Puritan_ (as folk do now begin to call them that be strict
in religion,) and loveth not no manner of noisy mirth: nor do I think
any of us were o'er inclined to vex him in that matter. I was not,
leastwise. We brake up about eight of the clock, or a little past, and
set forth of our way home. Not many yards, howbeit, were we gone, when
a sound struck on our ears that made my blood run chill. From the old
church at _Keswick_ came the low deep toll of the passing bell.
"One,--two!"--then a pause. A woman.
There were only two women, so far as I knew, that it was like to be. I
counted every stroke with my breath held. Would it pause at the
nineteen which should point to daft _Madge_, or go on to the twenty-one
which should mean _Blanche Lewthwaite_?
"Eighteen--nineteen--twenty--twenty-one!"
Then the bell stopped.
"O _Ned_, it is _Blanche_!" cries _Edith_.
"Ay, I reckon so," saith _Ned_, sadly.
We hurried on then to the end of the lane which leads up to _Mere Lea_.
Looking up at the house, whereof the upper windows can be seen, we saw
all dark and closed up: and in _Blanche's_ window, where of late the
light had burned day and night, there was now only pitch darkness. She
needed no lights now: for she was either in the blessed City where they
need no light of the sun, or else cast forth into the blackness of
darkness for ever. Oh, which should it be?
"_Milisent_!" said a low, sorrowful voice beside me; and mine hand
clasped _Robin Lewthwaite's_.
"When was it, _Robin_?"
"Two hours gone," he saith, mournfully.
"_Robin_," I could not help whispering, "said she aught comfortable at
the last?"
"She never spake at all for the last six hours," he made answer. "But
the last word she did say was--the publican's prayer, _Milly_."
"Then there is hope!" I thought, but I said it not to _Robin_.
So we came home and told the sorrowful tidings.
SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXV.
I was out in the garden this morrow, picking of snowdrops to lay round
_Blanche's_ coffin. My back was to the gate, when all suddenly I heard
Dr _Bell's_ voice say--"_Milisent_, is that thou?"