"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 G.o.d, 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 a.n.a.lysed 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 pa.s.sion.

"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 antic.i.p.ated 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 n.o.bler 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 n.o.bler 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 a.s.sent 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 a.s.sent 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 G.o.d, 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, G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d's promises to hear and deliver? He had pa.s.sed His word, and He kept it not. Was G.o.d able to help?--was He true to His promise?--go to, was there any G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 p.r.o.ne 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 G.o.d'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."