"Ay, I would fain hear the rest."

"Well, there were nigh four years of that fearful darkness. She well-nigh forgat that G.o.d 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 G.o.d at all, or none that had any compa.s.sion 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,--G.o.d 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: G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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?

"But to be satisfied with His ordering--to receive it as the best thing, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 p.r.o.ne to walk further off in the daylight!--we see so many things beside Him. We would fain be running off after birds and b.u.t.terflies; 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bler--I mean not higher in men's eyes, but nearer Heaven and G.o.d--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 G.o.d, and G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 cla.s.s; 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 G.o.d say to him,--"Thou fool"?

CHAPTER NINE.

TOO ABSTRUSE FOR BLANCHE.

"Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies!