Mistress _Lewthwaite_ left her pastry of the board, and come up to _Mother_.

"Eh, Lady _Lettice_, what have you heard? Tell me quick, now!"

"My poor heart, I saw her last night."

"Where is the child?"

"With us, at _Selwick_ Hall. _Joyce_ found her, wandering about, and hiding in copses, and she brought her in."

"And what hath happed, Lady _Lettice_?"

"We have not asked her."

"Not asked her!" saith Mistress _Lewthwaite_, in manifest amazement; and _Alice_ looked up with the like.

"We know," saith _Mother_, "but such matter as it hath liked her to tell us: the which is, that she was wed to this gentleman of a _Popish_ priest, which as you know is not good in law: and that after she had bidden with him but a fortnight, they quarrelled, and he left her."

"Ah, she ne'er had a good temper, hadn't _Blanche_," saith her mother.

"Well, poor heart! I'll not quarrel with her. We're all sinners, I reckon. The la.s.s may come home when she will, for all me; and I'll do mine utmost to peace her father. We haven't so much time o' this world, nor so much happiness, that we need wrangle and make matters worser."

For Mistress _Lewthwaite_ is herself a right easy-going woman: 'tis her father of whom _Blanche_ hath her temper. But _Alice_ saith to me, that sat right at the end of the board where she was a-work--

"All very well, methinks, for my fine mistress to come hither a-prinking and a-pranking of her, and looking to be took back as if nought had happened. If I had the word to say, she'd not come home in no hurry, I warrant you. She should lie on her bed as she'd made it."

"O _Alice_!" said I, "but sure, thou wilt be right glad to have _Blanche_ back?"

"Shall I so?" saith she, and tossed her head. "Thank you for nothing, _Nell Louvaine_. I'm a decent maid that have alway carried me belike, and I go not about to say 'sister' to one that brought disgrace on her name."

"_Alice_, art thou about to play the _Pharisee_?" said I, for I was sore troubled. I had ever thought _Alice_ right sorry after _Blanche_, and it did astonish me to hear such words of her.

"Let my fine Lady _Everett_ play the publican first, then," quoth she.

I scarce wist what to say, yet I would have said more, but that _Mother_ rose up to depart at this time. But I am so astonied at _Alice_. While so _Blanche_ were lost, she did seem quite soft toward her; and now she is found, here is _Alice_ grown hard as a board, and all of a minute, as it were. Had it been our _Milly_ (which I do thank G.o.d from mine heart-root it is not) I think I would not have been thus towards her. I know I am but sinful and not to be trusted for the right, as much or more than other: but I do _think_ I should not so do.

Yet is there one matter that I comprehend not, nor never shall, neither of _Milly_ nor of any other. To think of a maid leaving of father and mother, and her home, and her brethren and sisters, to go away with a fine-spoken man that she had not known a month, all by reason he spake some flattering words--in good sooth, but 'tis a marvel unto me. Truly, I might conceive the same in case a maid were rare ill-usen at home-- were her father ever harsh unto her, and her mother all day a-nagging at her--then, if the man should show him no mere flatterer, but a true friend, would I not stick to the days she had known him. And yet, as methinks, it should be a strange case wherein a true man should not go boldly and honestly to the maid's father, and ask her of him, with no hole-and-corner work. But to think of so leaving _our_ father and mother, that never in all their lives did deny us any good thing that was meet for us, and that have loved us and cared for us all, from the day we were born unto this day--to go away from them with a strange flatterer--nay, this pa.s.seth me by many a mile.

SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XVI.

This morrow, as I was sat a-work alone in the great chamber, come my Lady _Stafford_, with her broidery in her hand, and sat her down beside me. And ere many minutes were pa.s.sed, saith she--

"_Helen_, I have been to see _Blanche_."

"And is she still so hard, my Lady?" said I.

"I should not call her mood hard," saith she. "I think she is very, very sorry, and would fain not have us see it. But," she paused a moment, and then went on, "it is the worldly sorrow which causeth death."

"Your Ladyship would say?"

"She is right sorry for my Lady _Everett_, for the great lady she thought to have been, and the grand life she looked to lead: but for _Blanche Lewthwaite_ as a sinner before G.o.d, methinks she is not sorry at all."

"'Tis a sad case," said I.

My Lady _Stafford_ gave me no answer, and when I looked up at her, I saw her dark eyes fastened on the white clouds which were floating softly across the blue, and her eyes so full that they all-to [nearly] ran o'er.

"_Helen_," she saith, "hast thou any idea what is sin?"

"Truly, Madam, I think so," I made answer.

"I marvel," she pursueth, "if there ever were man or woman yet, that could see it as G.o.d seeth it. It may be that unto Him all the evil that _Blanche_ hath done--and 'tis an evil with many sides to it--is a lesser thing than the pride and unbelief which will not give her leave to own that she hath done it. And for what others have done--"

All suddenly, her Ladyship brake off, and hiding her face in her kerchief, she brake into such a pa.s.sion of weeping tears as methought I had scarce seen in any woman aforetime.

"O my G.o.d, my G.o.d!" she sobbeth through her tears, "how true is it that 'man knows the beginnings of sin, but who boundeth the issues thereof!'"

[Note 2.]

I felt that my Lady's trouble, the cause whereof was unknown to me, lay far beyond any words, specially of me: and I could but keep respectful silence till she grew calm. When so were, quoth she--

"Dost marvel at my tears, _Helen_?"

"In no wise, Madam," said I: "for I reckoned there were some cause for them, beyond my weak sight."

"Cause!" saith she--"ay, _Helen_, cause more than thou wist. Dost know that this _Leonard Norris_--the man that hath wrought all this mischief--and more beside than thou or I can tell--is my brother, of the father's side?"

"Madam!" cried I in amaze.

"Ay," saith she sorrowfully: "and that is not all, _Helen_, by very much. For our father was just such an other: and not only are the sins, but the leanings and temptations of the fathers, visited upon the children. And I thought, _Helen_, beyond that--of a quiet grave in unconsecrate ground, wherein, now nigh fifty years agone, they laid one that had not sinned against the light like to _Blanche Lewthwaite_, yet to whom the world was harder than it is like to be to her. She was lawfully wed, _Helen_, but she stood pledged to convent vows, and the Church cursed her and flung her forth as a loathsome thing. Her life for twelve years thereafter was a daily dying, whereto death came at last as a hope and a mercy. I reckon the angels drew not their white robes aside, lest her soiled feet should brush them as she pa.s.sed up to the Judgment Bar. And methinks her sentence from the Judge should be no worser than one He gave in the days of His flesh--'Thy sins be forgiven thee: go in peace.' The Church cast her out, but not the Cross. There was no room for her in the churchyard: but methinks there was enough in the Sepulchre on _Golgotha_!"

Oh, but how sorry I felt for this poor soul! and I saw she was one whom her Ladyship had loved well.

"There was a time, _Helen_," she went on, "when it seemed to me uttermost misery that no prayers should be permitted for her soul.

Think thou with what comfort I found in G.o.d's Word that none were needed for her. Ah, these _Papists_ will tell you of the happiness of their priests' fatherly care, and the sweetness of absolution: but they tell you not of the agony of despair to them to whom absolution is denied, and for whom the Church and the priest have no words save curses. I have seen it, _Helen_. Well for them whom it drives straight to Him that is high above all Churches, and who hath mercy on whom He will have mercy. Praise be to His holy name, that the furthest bounds of men's forbearance touch not the 'uttermost' of G.o.d."

When my Lady thus spake, it came upon my mind all of a sudden, to ask at her somewhat the which had troubled me of long time. I marvel wherefore it should be, that it doth alway seem easier to carry one's knots and griefs unto them that be not the nearest and dearest, than unto them that be. Is it by reason that courtesy ordereth that they shall list the better, and not be so like to snub a body?--yet that can scarce be so with me, that am alway gently entreated both of _Father_ and _Mother_. Or is it that one would not show ignorance or mistakings afore them one loves, nor have them hereafter cast in one's teeth, as might be if one were o'erheard of one's sist--Good lack! but methought I were bettered of saying unkindly things. I will stay me, not by reason that it should cost me two pence, but because I do desire to please G.o.d and do the right.

Well, so I said unto my Lady, "Madam, I pray you pardon me if I speak not well, but there is one place of Holy Writ that doth sore pose and trouble me. It is that of Saint _Paul_, which saith, that if they that were once enlightened shall fall away, there shall be no hope to renew them again. That doth alway seem to me so awful a word!--to think of one that had sinned longing for forgiveness, and yet must not have it--I cannot understand how it should be, when _Christ_ liveth to save to the uttermost!"

"Nor any other," saith she. "Dear _Helen_, thou readest it wrong, as I believe many do. The Apostle saith not, there is no renewing to _pardon_: he saith, there is no renewing to _repentance_. With them that have sinned against light, the language of whose hearts is, 'I have loved idols, and after them I will _go_,'--these have no desire of remission. They do not wish to be forgiven. But these, dear maid, are not they that long for pardon and are willing to turn from sin. That is repentance. So long as a sinner can repent, so long can he receive pardon. The sinner that doth long for forgiveness which G.o.d can not or will not give him, is a monster was never found yet in this world or that which is to come."

Right comfortable did I think these words. I never should have dared (as _Milly_ saith touching the 139th Psalm) to have turned o'er the two leaves together that I might not see this sixth chapter of _Hebrews_: yet did I never see it without a diseaseful creeping feeling, belike, coming o'er me. And I am sore afeared lest I may have come nigh, at times, to wishing that Saint _Paul_ had not writ the same.

"Yet mark thou, _Helen_," again saith my Lady, "there is a difference betwixt remission of sin and remission of penalty. Every sinner should be glad enough to part with his punishment: but no sinner was ever yet willing to part with his sin but under the promptings of G.o.d's Spirit.

And that is but a sorry repentance which would fain keep the sin, if only it might without incurring penalty."

"Madam, you do cause sin to look very awful," said I.

"That is how G.o.d would have thee see it, _Helen_," saith she.

"Remember, He hates sin not for His own sake only, but for thy sake.

Ah, dear maid, when some sin, or some matter that perhaps scarce seems sin to thee, yet makes a cloud to rise up betwixt G.o.d and thee--when this shall creep into thy very bosom, and nestle himself there warm and close, and be unto thee as a precious jewel--remember, if so be, that 'it is better _for thee_ to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than thou shouldst, having two hands, or two feet, be cast into everlasting fire.' He that said that, _Helen_, knew what h.e.l.l was."