Chapter 8

HOW TWO WENT IN AT THE GATE.

"All the foolish work Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."

Tennyson.

"On all the sweet smile falleth Of Him who loveth so, But to one the sweet voice calleth, `Arise, and let us go; They wait to welcome thee, This night, at Home, with Me.'"

"B.M."

(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE II. This day was called of old time _Candlemas_, by reason of the great number of candles, saith _Father_, which were brent afore the altar at the Purification of Saint _Mary_. Being an holy day, all we to church this morrow, after the which I was avised to begin my chronicling.

And afore I set down anything else, 'tis meet I should say that I do now see plain how I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly. I would not think now to tear forth those pages I writ this last _November_, though they be such a record of folly and sin as few maids should need to set down. I would rather keep them, that I may see in future days all the ill that was once in _Milisent Louvaine_, and all the great mercy and goodness which the Lord my God did show me.

Oh, the bitter anger that was in mine heart that night toward dear Aunt _Joyce_!--who, next unto _Father_ and _Mother_, hath been to me as an angel of God. For had she not stopped me in my madness, where and what had I been to-night? I can scarce bear to think on it. Perchance I feel it the more, sith I am ever put in mind thereof by the woefully changed face of poor _Blanche_--_Blanche_, but three months gone the merriest of us all, and now looking as though she should never know a day's merriment again. Her whole life seems ruined: and Dr _Bell_, the chirurgeon at _Keswick_, told _Mother_ but yesterday that _Blanche_ should not live long. She hath, said he, a leaning of her nature toward the consumption of the lungs, the which was greatly worsened by those days that she hid in the copse, fearing to come home, until Aunt _Joyce_ went to her.

And to think that I might have been thus now--with nought but a wasted life to look back on, and nought to look forward to but a rapid and early death! And to know well, as I do know, that I have but mine own headstrong foolery to thank for the danger, and am far from having any wisdom of mine to thank for the rescue. Verily, I should be the humblest of women, all the days of my life.

Oh, when will young maids learn, without needing to have it brent into them of hot irons, that they which have dwelt forty or sixty years in this world be like to know more about its ways than they that have lived but twenty; or that their own fathers and mothers, which have loved and cared for them since they lay in the cradle, be not like to wreck their happiness, even for a while, without they have good cause! Of force, I know 'tis not every maid hath such a father and mother as we--thank God for the same!--but I do think, nevertheless, there be few mothers that be good women at all, which should not be willing to have their daughters bring their sorrows and joys to them, rather than pour them into the ear of the first man that will flatter them. I have learned, from Aunt _Joyce_, that there is oft a deal more in folk than other folk reckon, and that if we come not on the soft spot in a woman's heart, 'tis very commonly by reason that we dig not deep enough. Howbeit, Aunt _Joyce_ saith there be women that have no hearts. The good Lord keep them out of my path, if His will be!

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE V. This morrow, we maids were sat a-work in the great chamber, where was Aunt _Joyce_ a-work likewise, and _Mother_ coming in and out on her occasions. _Father_ was there, but he was wrapped in a great book that lay afore him. I cannot well mind how we gat on the matter, but Aunt _Joyce_ 'gan speak of the blunders that men do commonly make when they speak of women.

"Why," saith she, "we might be an other sort of animal altogether, instead of the one half of themselves. Do but look you what I have heard men to say in my life. A woman's first desire is to be wed; that's not true but of some women, and they be the least worthy of the sex. A woman can never keep a secret: that's not true but of some. A woman can never take a joke: that's as big a falsehood as _Westminster_ Abbey. A woman cannot understand reason and logic: that's as big an one as all _England_. Any woman can keep a house or manage a babe: heyday, can she so? I know better. Poor loons, what should they say if we made as great blunders touching them? And an other thing I will tell you which hath oft-times diverted me: 'tis the queer ways whereby a man will look to win favour of a woman. Nine men of every ten will suppose they shall be liked of a woman for telling her (in substance) that she is as good as if she had not been one. Now, that should set the man that did it out of my grace for ever and ever."

"How mean you, _Aunt_, an' it like you?" saith _Nell_.

"Why, look you here," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But this last week, said I to Master _Coward_, touching somewhat he had said, `But,' said I, `that were not just.' Quoth he, `How, my mistress!--you a woman, and love justice?' Again: there was once a companion would fain have won me to wed him. When I said `Nay,' (and meant it), quoth he, `Oh, a maid doth never say yea at the first.' And I do believe that both these thought to flatter me. If they had but known how I longed to shake them! For look you what the words meant. A woman is never just: a woman is never sincere. And the dolts reckon it shall please us to know that they take us for such fools! Verily, I would give a pretty penny but to make them conceive that the scrap of flattery which they do offer to my particular is utterly swamped in the vast affront which they give to my sex in the general. But you shall rarely see a man to guess that. Moreover, there be two other points. Mark you how a man shall serve a woman, if he come to know that she hath the tongues [knows the classical languages]. Doth he take it as he should with an other man? Never a whit. He treats the matter as though an horse should read _English_, or a cat play the spinnet. What right hath he to account my brains so much worser than his (I being the same creature as he) that I cannot learn aught he can? `So mean-brained a thing as a woman to know as much as any man!' I grant you, he shall not say such words: but he shall say words that mean it. And then, forsooth, he shall reckon he hath paid me a compliment! I trow no woman should have brains as dull as that. And do tell me, belike, why a man that can talk right good sense to his fellows, shall no sooner turn him around to a woman, than he shall begin to chatter the veriest nonsense? It doth seem me, that a man never thinks of any woman but the lowest quality. He counts her loving, if you will; but alway foolish, frothy, witless. He'll take every one of you for that make of woman, till he find the contrary. Oh, these men! these men!"

"Ah!" saith _Father_. "I feel myself one of the inferior sex."

"_Aubrey_, what business hast thou hearkening?" quoth she. "I thought thou wert lost in yonder big book."

"I found myself again, some minutes gone," saith _Father_. "But thou wist, 'tis an old saw that listeners do never hear any good of themselves."

"I didn't mean thee, man!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Present company always excepted."

"Methought I was reckoned absent company," saith _Father_, with a twinkle in his eyes, and lifting his big book from the table. "Howbeit, I am not too proud to learn."

"Even from a woman?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Thou art the pearl of men, if so be."

_Father_ laughed, and carried off his book, pausing at the door to observe--"There is some truth in much thou hast said, _Joyce_."

"Lack-a-day, what an acknowledgment from a man!" cries Aunt _Joyce_. "Yet 'tis fenced round, look you. `There is _some_ truth in _much_' I have said. Ah, go thy ways, my good _Aubrey_; thou art the best man ever I knew: but, alack! thou art a man, after all."

"Why, Aunt _Joyce_," saith _Edith_, who was laughing rarely, "what should we do, think you, if there were no men?"

"I would do some way, thou shouldst see," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sturdily.

And so she let the matter drop; or should so have done, but _Nell_ saith--

"I reckon we all, both men and women, have in us a touch of our father, old _Adam_!"

"And our mother, old _Eva_," said I.

"You say well, childre," quoth Aunt _Joyce_: "and she that hath the biggest touch of any I know is a certain old woman of _Oxfordshire_, by name _Joyce Morrell_."

Up springeth _Edith_, and giveth Aunt _Joyce_ a great hug.

"She is the best, sweetest, dearest old woman (if so be) ever I knew," saith she. "I except not even _Mother_, for I count not her an old woman."

Aunt _Joyce_ laughed, and paid _Edith_ back her hug with usury.

Then, when _Edith_ was set down again to her work, Aunt _Joyce_ saith--

"_Anstace_ was wont to say--my _Anstace_, not yours, my maids--that she which did commonly put herself in the lowest place should the seldomest find her out of her reckoning."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY THE IX. Come Dr _Bell_ this morrow to let us blood, as is alway done of the spring-time. I do never love these blood-letting days, sith for a se'nnight after I do feel weak as water. But I reckon it must needs be, to keep away fever and plague and such like, the which should be worser than blood-letting a deal. All we were blooded, down to _Adam_; and Dr _Bell_ rode away, by sixteen shillings the richer man, which is a deal for a chirurgeon to earn but of one morrow. Aunt _Joyce_ saith she marvelleth if in time to come physicians cannot discover some herb or the like that shall purify folks' blood without having it run out of them like water from a tap. I would, if so be, that they might make haste and find the same.

_Father_ hath writ to his cousin my Lord of _Oxenford_, praying him to give leave for _Wat_ to visit us at home. 'Tis four years sithence he were here; and _Father_ hath been wont to say that shall be a rare well-writ letter which shall (in common cases) do half the good of a talk face to face. I can see he is somewhat diseaseful touching _Wat_, lest he should slide into ill ways.

We do hear of old _Nanny_, that cometh by nows and thens for waste victuals, that daft _Madge_ is something sick. Her grandmother reckons she caught an ill rheum that even of _Christmas_ Day when she were here: but _Madge_ herself will strongly deny the same, saying (poor maid!) that she never could take nought ill at _Selwick_ Hall, for never nought but good (saith she) came to her there. _Mother_ would go to visit her, but she hath an evil rheum herself, and _Father_ saith she must tarry at home this sharp frost: so Aunt _Joyce_ and I be to go this afternoon, and carry her a basket of comfortable things.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE X. A rare basket that was _Mother_ packed yester-morrow for daft _Madge_. First went in a piece of beef, and then a goodly string of salt ling (for _Lent_ is nigh at hand [Note 1]), a little bottle of cinnamon water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of butter, a half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late brought from abroad, and _Ned_ did bring unto _Mother_ a little basket of them.

We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads be slippy as they were greased with butter. Howbeit, we come at last safe to _Madge's_ door, and there found daft _Madge_ in a great chair afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old _Madge_ her grandmother sat a-sewing, with her horn-glasses across her nose, and by her old _Isaac Crewdson_, that is daft _Madge_ her grandfather of the other side. She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.

"Good morrow, _Madge_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "See thou, my Lady _Lettice_ hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up a bit."

_Madge_ took Aunt _Joyce's_ hand, and kissed it.

"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.

Old _Madge_ gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were. But daft _Madge_ seemed not much to care what were therein, though she was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few pleasures she had wit for. Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt _Joyce_ to me, and smiling on us.

"What art thinking, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

For, natural [idiot] though she be, _Madge_ is alway thinking. 'Tis very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see through the smoked glass of her poor brains. Nay, I take it, so there is.

"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll be to see His Face."

_Madge_ hath rarely any name for God. It is mostly "He."

"Wouldst love to see it, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Shall," quoth she, "right soon. He sent me word, Mistress _Joyce_, yestereven."

"Ay," saith old _Isaac_, "she reckons she's going."

"Wilt be glad, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, softly.

"Glad!" she makes answer. "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_--glad! Why, 'twill be better than plum-porridge!"

Poor _Madge_!--she took the best symbol she had wit for.

"Ay, my lass, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old _Isaac_. "Plum-porridge and feather beds'll be nought to what they've getten up yonder.--You see, Mistress _Joyce_, we mun tell her by what she knows, poor maid!"

"Ay, thou sayest well, _Isaac_," Aunt _Joyce_ made reply. "_Madge_, thy mother's up yonder."

"I know!" she saith, a-smiling. "She'll come to th' gate when I knock. He'll sure send her to meet me. She'll know 'tis me, ye ken. It'd never do if some other maid gave my name, and got let in by mistake for me. He'll send somebody as knows me to see I get in right. Don't ye see, that's why we keep a-going one at once? Somebody mun be always there that'll ken th' new ones."

"I reckon the Lord will ken them, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Oh ay, He'll ken 'em, sure enough," saith _Madge_. "But then, ye see, they'd feel lonely like if they waited to see any body they knew till they got right up to th' fur end: and th' angels 'd be stoppin' 'em and wanting to make sure all were right. That wouldn't be pleasant. So He'll send one o' them as knows 'em, and then th' angels 'll be satisfied, and not be stoppin' of 'em."

Aunt _Joyce_ did not smile at poor _Madge's_ queer notions. She saith at times that God Himself teaches them that men cannot teach. And at after, quoth she, that it were but _Madge_ her way of saying, "He careth for you."

"Dost thou think she is going, _Isaac_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. For old _Isaac_ is an herb-gatherer, or were while he could; and he wist a deal of physic.

"Now, _Gaffer_, thou'lt never say nay!" cries _Madge_ faintly, as though it should trouble her sore if he thought she would live through it.

"I'll say nought o' th' sort, _Madge_," said _Isaac_. "Ay, Mistress _Joyce_. She's been coming to the Lord this ever so long: and now, I take it, she's going to Him."

"That's right!" saith _Madge_, with a comforted look, and laying of her head back on her pillows. "It would be sore to get right up to th' gate, and then an angel as one didn't know just put his head forth, and say, `Th' Master says 'tis too soon, _Madge_: thou must not come in yet. Thou'lt have to walk a bit outside.' Eh, but I wouldn't like yon!"

"He'll not leave thee outside, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Eh, I hope not!" quoth _Madge_, as regretfully. "I do want to see Him so. I'd like to see if He looks rested like after all He bare for a poor daft maid. And I want to know if them bad places is all healed up in His hands and feet, and hurt Him no more now. I'd like to see for myself, ye ken."

"Ay, _Madge_, they're healed long ago," saith _Isaac_.

"Well, I count so," saith she, "for 'tis a parcel o' _Sundays_ since first time thou told me of 'em: still, I'd like to see for myself."

"Thou'lt see for thyself," saith _Isaac_. "Th' Lord's just th' same up yonder that He were down here."

"Well, I reckon so," quoth _Madge_, in a tone of wonder. "Amn't I th' same maid up at th' Hall as I am here?"

"Ay, but I mean He's as good as ever He were," _Isaac_ makes answer. "He were right good, He were, to yon poor gaumering [silly] _Thomas_,-- eh, but he were a troublesome chap, was _Thomas_! He said he wouldn't believe it were th' Lord without he stuck his hand right into th' bad place of His side. He were a hard one to deal wi', was yon _Thomas_."

"Did He let him stick it in?" saith _Madge_, opening her eyes.

"Yea, He told him to come and stick't in, if he could not believe without: but he mun have been a dizard [foolish man], that he couldn't-- that's what I think," quoth old _Isaac_.

"Was he daft?" saith _Madge_.

"Well, nay, I reckon not," saith he.

"I'll tell ye how it were," saith she. "His soul was daft--that's it-- right th' inside of him, ye ken."

"Ay, I reckon thou'rt about right," quoth _Isaac_.

"Well, I wouldn't have wanted that," saith she. "I'd have wist by His face and the way He said `Good morrow, _Thomas_!' I'd never have wanted to hurt Him more to see whether it were Him. So He'd rather be hurt than leave _Thomas_ a-wondering! Well--it were just like Him."

"He's better than men be, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.

"That's none so much to say, Mistress _Joyce_," saith _Madge_. "Men's bad uns. And some's rare bad uns. So's women, belike. I'd liever ha' th' door betwixt."

_Madge_ hath alway had a strange fantasy to shut the half-door betwixt her and them she loveth not. There be very few she will let come withinside. I reckon them that may might be counted of her fingers.

"Well, _Madge_, there shall be no need to shut to the door in Heaven," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "The gates be never shut by day; and there is no night there."

"They've no night! Eh, that's best thing ever you told me yet!" quoth _Madge_. "I canna 'bide th' dark. It'll be right bonnie, it will!"

Softly Aunt _Joyce_ made answer. "`Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"

_Madge's_ head came up from the pillow. "Eh, that's grand! And that's Him?"

"Ay, my maid."

"Ay, that's like," saith she. "It couldn't be nobody else. And Him that could make th' roses and lilies mun be good to look at. 'Tisn't always so now: but I reckon they've things tidy up yon. They'll fit like, ye ken. But, Mistress _Joyce_, do ye tell me, will us be any wiser up yon?"

I saw the water in Aunt _Joyce's_ eyes, as she arose; and she bent down and kissed _Madge_ on the brow.

"Dear heart," quoth she, "thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows thee. Is that plenty, _Madge_?"

"I reckon 'tis a bit o' t'other side," saith _Madge_, with her eyes gleaming. But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth she--"Mistress _Milisent_, saw ye e'er Mistress _Joyce_ when she had doffed her?"

"Ay, _Madge_," said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.

"And," saith she, "be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders? Do tell me. I'd like to know how big they were by now."

"Nay, _Madge_; I never saw any."

"No did ye?" quoth she, in a disappointed tone. "I thought they'd have been middling grown by now. But may-be He keeps th' wings till we've got yon? Ay, I reckon that's it. She'll have 'em all right, some day."

And _Madge_ seemed satisfied.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVI. Yester-morn, Dr _Bell_ being at church, _Mother_ was avised to ask him, if it might stand with his conveniency, to look in on _Madge_ the next time he rideth that way, and see if aught might be done for her. He saith in answer that he should be a-riding to _Thirlmere_ early this morrow, and would so do: and this even, on his way home, he came in hither to tell _Mother_ his thought thereon. 'Tis even as we feared, for he saith there is no doubt that _Madge_ is dying, nor shall she overlive many days. But right sorry were we to hear him say that he did marvel if she or _Blanche Lewthwaite_ should go the first.

"Why, Doctor!" saith _Mother_, "I never reckoned _Blanche_ so far gone as that."

"May-be not when you saw her, Lady _Lettice_," saith he. "But--women be so perverse! Why, the poor wretch might have lived till this summer next following, or even (though I scarce think it) have tided o'er another winter, but she must needs take it into her foolish head to rush forth into the garden, to say a last word to somebody, a frosty bitter even some ten days back, with never so much as a kerchief tied o'er her head; and now is she laid of her bed, as was the only thing like, and may scarce breathe with the inflammation of her lungs. She _may_ win through, but verily I look not for it."

"Poor heart! I will go and see her," saith _Mother_.

"Ay, do so," saith he. "Poor foolish soul!--as foolish in regard of her health as of her happiness."

This even, I being the first in our chamber, was but making ready my gown with a clean partlet [ruff] for to-morrow, when _Mother_ come in.

"_Milly_," she saith, "I shall go (if the Lord will) to see _Blanche_ to-morrow, and I would have thee go withal."

I guess _Mother_ saw that I did somewhat shrink from the thought. In truth, though I have seen _Blanche_ in church, and know how she looketh, yet I have never yet spoke with her sithence she came home, and I feel fearful, as though I were going into a chamber where was somewhat might hurt me.

"My _Milisent_," saith _Mother_--and that is what she calls me at her tenderest--"I would not hurt thee but for thine own good. And I know, dear heart, that few matters do more good than for a sinner to be shown that whereto he might have come, if the Lord had not hedged up his way with thorns. 'Tis not alway--I might say 'tis not often--that we be permitted to see whither the way should have led that the Father would not have us to take. And, my dear heart, thou art of thy nature so like thy foolish mother, that I can judge well what should be good for thee."

"Nay, _Mother_, dear heart! I pray you, call not yourself names," said I, kissing her hand.

"I shall be of my nature foolish, _Milly_, whether I do so call myself or no," saith _Mother_, laughing.

"And truly, the older I grow, the more foolish I think myself in my young days."

"Shall I so do, _Mother_, when I am come to your years?" said I, also laughing.

"I hope so, _Milly_," saith she. "I am afeared, if no, thy wisdom shall then be small."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVII. I have seen _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and I do feel to-night as though I should never laugh again. Verily, O my God, the way of the transgressors is hard!

She lies of her bed, scarce able to speak, and that but of an hoarse whisper. Dr _Bell_ hath given order that she shall not be suffered to talk but to make known her wants or to relieve her mind, though folk may talk to her so long as they weary her not. We came in, brought of _Alice_, and _Mother_ sat down by the bed, while I sat in the window with _Alice_.

_Blanche_ looked up at _Mother_ when she spake some kindly words unto her.

"I am going, Lady _Lettice_!" was the first thing she said.

"I do trust, dear heart, if the Lord will, Dr _Bell's_ skill may yet avail for thee," saith _Mother_. "But if not, _Blanche_--"

_Blanche_ interrupted her impatiently, with a question whereof the tone, yet more than the words, made my blood run cold.

"_Whither_ am I going?"

"Dear _Blanche_," said _Mother_, "the Lord _Jesus Christ_ is as good and as able to-day as ever He were."

There was a little impatient movement of her head.

"Too late!"

"Never too late for Him," saith _Mother_.

"Too late for me," _Blanche_ made answer. "You mind the text--last _Sunday_. I loved idols--after them I _would_ go!"

She spoke with terrible pauses, caused by that hard, labouring breath.

_Mother_ answered, as I knew, from the Word of God.

"`Yet return again to me,' saith the Lord."

"I cannot return. I never came."

"Then `come unto Me, all ye that are weary and laden.' `The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

_Blanche_ made no answer. She only lay still, her eyes fixed on _Mother_, which did essay for to show her by God's Word that she might yet be saved if she so would. Methought when _Mother_ stayed, and rose to kiss her as she came thence, that surely _Blanche_ could want no more. Her only word to _Mother_ was--

"Thanks."

Then she beckoned to me, and I came and kissed her. _Mother_ was gone to speak with Mistress _Lewthwaite_, and _Alice_ withal. _Blanche_ and I were alone.

"Close!" she said: and I bent mine ear to her lips. "Very kind--Lady _Lettice_. But--too late."

"O _Blanche_!" I was beginning: but her thin weak hand on mine arm stayed further speech.

"Hush! _Milisent_--thank God--thou art not as I. Thank God--and keep clean. Too late for me. Good-bye."

"O _Blanche_, _Blanche_!" I sobbed through my tears. The look in her eyes was dreadful to me. "The Lord would fain have thee saved, and wherefore dost thou say `too late'?"

"I want it not," she whispered.

"_Blanche_," I cried in horror. "What canst thou mean? Not want to be saved from Hell! Not want to go to Heaven!"

"From Hell--ay. But not--to go to Heaven."

"But there is none other place!" cried I.

"I know. Would there were!"

I believe I stood and gazed on her in amaze. I could not think what were her meaning, and I marvelled if she were not feather-brained [wandering, light-headed] somewhat.

"God is in Heaven," she said. "I do not want God. Nor He me."

I could not tell what to say. I was too horrified.

"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?"

I rose up and ran to the gate, where he sat on his horse.

"Well, _Milly_," saith he, "the shutters are up at _Mere Lea_."

"Ay, we know it, Doctor," said I, sadly.

"Poor maid!" saith he. "A life flung away! And it might have been so different!"

I said nought, for the tears burned under mine eyelids, and there was a lump in my throat that let me from speech.

"I would thou wouldst say, _Milly_," goeth on Dr _Bell_, "to my Lady and Mistress _Joyce_, that daft _Madge_ (as methinks) shall not pass the day, and she hath a rare fantasy to see Mistress _Joyce_ once more. See if it may be compassed. Good morrow."

I went in forthwith and sought Aunt _Joyce_, which spake no word, but went that instant moment and tied on her hood and cloak: and so did I mine.

'Twas nigh ten o' the clock when we reached old _Madge's_ hut.

We found daft _Madge_ in her bed, and seemingly asleep. But old _Madge_ said 'twas rather a kind of heaviness, whence she would rouse if any spake to her.

Aunt _Joyce_ leaned over her and kissed her brow.

"Eh, 'tis Mistress _Joyce_!" saith _Madge_, feebly, as she oped her eyes. "That's good. He's let me have _all_ I wanted."

"Art comfortable, _Madge_?"

"Close to th' gate. I'm lookin' to see 't open and _Mother_ come out. Willn't she be pleased?"

Aunt _Joyce_ wiped her eyes, but said nought.

"Say yon again, Mistress _Joyce_," saith _Madge_.

"What, my dear heart?"

"Why, _you_," saith _Madge_. "Over seeing th' King. Dinna ye ken?"

"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, but ye ha' set her up some wi' that," saith old _Madge_. "She's talked o' nought else sin', scarce."

Aunt _Joyce_ said it once more. "`Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"

"'Tis none so fur off now," quoth _Madge_. "I've getten a many miles nearer sin' you were hither."

"I think thou hast, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Ay. An' 'tis a good place," saith she. "'Tis a good place here, where ye can just lie and watch th' gate. They'll come out, they bonnie folk, and fetch me in anon: and _Mother's_ safe sure to be one."

"Ah, _Madge_! Thou wist whither thou goest," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Why, for sure!" saith she. "He's none like to send me nowhere else but where He is. Dun ye think I'd die for somebody I didn't want?"

She saith not much else, but seemed as though she sank back into that heavy way she had afore. But at last, when we were about to depart, she roused up again a moment.

"God be wi' ye both," said she. "I'm going th' longer journey, but there's t' better home at t' end. May-be I shall come to th' gate to meet you. Mind you dunnot miss, Mistress _Milly_. Mistress _Joyce_, she's safe."

"I will try not to miss, _Madge_," I answered through my tears, "God helping me."

"He'll help ye if ye want helpin'," saith Madge.

"Only He'll none carry you if ye willn't come. Dunna throw away good gold for dead leaves Mistress _Milly_. God be wi' ye!"

We left her there--"watching the gate."

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXVI. This morrow, as I came down the stairs, what should I see but Aunt _Joyce_, a-shaking the snow from her cloak and pulling off her pattens.

"Why, _Aunt_!" cried I. "Have you been forth thus early?"

Aunt _Joyce_ turned on me a very solemn face.

"_Milly_," saith she, "_Madge_ is in at the gate."

"O _Aunt_! have you seen her die?"

"I have seen her rise to life," she made answer. "Child, the Lord grant to thee and me such a death as hers! It seemed as though, right at the last moment, the mist that had veiled it all her earth-time cleared from the poor brain, and the light poured in on her like a flood. `The King in His beauty! The King in His beauty!' were the last words she spake, but in such a voice of triumph and gladness as I never heard from her afore. O _Milly_, my darling child! how vast the difference between the being `saved so as by fire,' and the abundant entrance of the good and faithful servant! Let us not rest short of it."

And methought, as I followed Aunt _Joyce_ into the breakfast-chamber, that God helping me, I would not.

Note 1. For many years after the Reformation the use of fish was made compulsory in Lent, from the wish to benefit the fish trade. A licence to eat flesh in Lent (obtained from the Queen, not the Pope) cost 40 shillings in 1599.