"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 G.o.d.

"'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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d--thou art not as I. Thank G.o.d--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 h.e.l.l! Not want to go to Heaven!"

"From h.e.l.l--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.

"G.o.d is in Heaven," she said. "I do not want G.o.d. 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 hoa.r.s.er 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sing 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?"