Clare Avery: A Story of the Spanish Armada

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  THEKLA COMES TO THE RESCUE.

  "It were a well-spent journey, Though seven deaths lay between."

  _A.R. Cousins_.

  "Lysken, didst thou ever love any one very much?"

  Blanche spoke dreamily, as she stood leaning against the side of thewindow in the parsonage parlour, and with busy idleness tied knots inher gold chain, which at once untied themselves by their own weight.

  "Most truly," said Lysken, looking up with an expression of surprise."I love all here--very much."

  "Ah! but--not here?"

  "Certes. I loved Mayken Floriszoon, who died at Leyden, the day afterhelp came. And I loved Aunt Jacobine; and Vrouw Van Vliet, who tookcare of me before I came hither. And I loved--O Blanche, how dearly!--my father and my mother."

  Blanche's ideas were running in one grove, and Lysken's in quite adifferent one.

  "Ay, but I mean, Lysken--another sort of love."

  "Another sort!" said Lysken, looking up again from the stocking whichshe was darning. "Is there any sort but one?"

  "Oh ay!" responded Blanche, feeling her experience immeasurably pastthat of Lysken.

  "Thou art out of my depth, Blanche, methinks," said Lysken, re-threadingher needle in a practical unromantic way. "Love is love, for me. Itdiffereth, of course, in degree; we love not all alike. But, methinks,even a man's love for God, though it be needs deeper and higher far,must yet be the same manner of love that he hath for his father, or hischildre, or his friends. I see not how it can be otherwise."

  Blanche was shocked at the business-like style in which Lysken darnedwhile she talked. Had such a question been asked of herself, thestocking would have stood still till it was settled. She doubtedwhether to pursue the subject. What was the use of talking uponthrilling topics to a girl who could darn stockings while she calmlyanalysed love? Still, she wanted somebody's opinion; and she had aninstinctive suspicion that Clare would be no improvement upon hercousin.

  "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, elsewould she not leave them to go with him," said Lysken quietly; "but Isee not wherein it should be another sort."

  "'Tis plain thou didst never feel the same, Lysken," returned Blanchesentimentally.

  "How could I, when I never had an husband?" answered Lysken, darningaway 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 theother 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 whichwas extremely aggravating to that young lady.

  "Oh, 'tis to no good to tell thee," returned Blanche loftily. "Thouwist 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, resumingher darning, in that calm style which is eminently provoking to any onein a passion.

  "Thou seest not every matter in the world," retorted Blanche, with anair of superiority. "And touching this matter, 'tis plain thou wistnothing. Verily, thou hast gain therein; for he that hath betteredknowledge--as saith Solomon--hath but increased sorrow."

  "Blanche, I do not know whereof thou art talking! Did I put thee out bysaying I had thought shame to have cared to wed with any, or what wasit? Why, wouldst not thou?"

  This final affront was as the last straw to the camel. Deigning noanswer, which she felt would be an angry one, Blanche marched away likean offended queen, and sat down on a chair in the hall as if she wereenthroning herself upon a pedestal. Mrs Tremayne was in the hall, andthe 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'sthoughts to another topic. Gathering from it, however, the tone ofBlanche's mind, she resolved to give her a lesson which should not ejecther roughly from her imaginary pedestal--but make her come down from itof her own accord.

  "Poor foolish child!" said Mrs Tremayne to herself. "She has mistakena rushlight for the sun, and she thinks her horizon wider than that ofany one else. She is despising Lysken, at this moment, as a shallow,prosaic character, who cannot enter into the depth of her feelings, andhas not attained the height of her experience. And there are heightsand depths in Lysken that Blanche will never reach."

  Mrs Tremayne found her opportunity the next evening. She was alonewith Blanche in the parlour; and knowing pretty well what every one wasdoing, she anticipated a quiet half-hour.

  Of all the persons to whom Blanche was known, there was not one so wellfitted to deal with her in this crisis as the friend in whose hands shehad been placed for safety. Thirty years before, Thekla Tremayne hadexperienced a very dark trial,--had become miserably familiar with theheart-sickness of hope deferred,--during four years when the bestbeloved of Robin Tremayne had known no certainty whether he was livingor dead, but had every reason rather to fear the latter. Compared witha deep, long-tried love like hers, this sentimental fancy over whichBlanche was making herself cross and unhappy was almost trivial. ButMrs Tremayne knew that trouble is trouble, if it be based on folly; shethought that she recognised in Blanche, silly though she was in somepoints, a nobler nature than that of the vain, selfish, indolent motherfrom whom the daughter derived many of the surface features of hercharacter: and she longed to see that nobler nature rouse itself towork, and sweep away the outward vanity and giddiness. It might be thateven this would show her the real hollowness of the gilded world; thatthis one hour's journey over the weary land would help to drive her forshelter to the shadow of the great Rock.

  Blanche sat on a low stool at Mrs Tremayne's feet, gazing earnestlyinto the fire. Neither had spoken for some time, during which the onlysounds 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 wasdrawn, 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, MistressTremayne, as do all other."

  "Blanche," said her friend, "I will tell thee a story, and after thatthou shall judge for thyself what account I make of thee."

  Blanche looked interested, and altered her position so as to watch MrsTremayne's face while she was speaking.

  "Once upon a time, Blanche,--in the days of Queen Mary,--there was apriest that had a daughter of thine own age--sixteen years. In thosedays, as I cast no doubt thou hast heard, all wedded priests were laidunder ban, and at the last a day was set whereon all they must needspart from their wives. Though my story take root ere this, yet I praythee bear it in mind, for we shall come thereto anon. Well, thisdamsel, with assent of her father, was troth-plight unto a young manwhom she loved very dearly; but seeing her youth, their wedding was yetsome way off. In good sooth, her father had given assent under bondthat they should not wed for three years; and the three years should berun out in June, 1553."

  "Three years!" said Blanche, under her breath.

  "This young man was endeavouring himself for the priesthood. During thetime of King Edward, thou wist, there was no displeasure taken atmarried priests; and so far as all they might see when the three yearsbegan to run, all was like to go smooth enough. But when they were runout, 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 wa
s good reason--ah! more reason than any man then knew!--tofear that the fair estate of such as loved the Gospel should die withhim. For a maid then to wed a priest, or for a wedded man to receiveorders, was like to a man casting him among wild beasts: there was but achance that he might not be devoured. So it stood, that if this youngman would save his life, he must give up one of two things,--either theservice which for many months back he had in his own heart offered toGod, or the maiden whom, for a time well-nigh as long, he had hopedshould be his wife. What, thinkest thou, should he have done, Blanche?"

  "I wis not, in very deed, Mistress Tremayne," said Blanche, shaking herhead. "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 weretroth-plight."

  "Well,--I will tell thee what they did. They did appoint a set time, atthe end whereof, should he not then have received orders (it being notpossible, all the Protestant Bishops being prisoners), he should thenresign the hope thereof, and they twain be wed. The three years, thouwist, were then gone. They fixed the time two years more beyond,--torun 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 voicetrembled. She was evidently telling "an owre true tale."

  "The maid's father, and he that should have been her husband, were takenin one day. When those two years were run out, her father lay hiddenaway, having 'scaped from prison, until he might safely be holpen out ofthe 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 untoWoburn, and there set in the dread prison called Little Ease, shapedlike 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 themaiden, poor soul?"

  The needlework in Mrs Tremayne's hand was still now; and if any one hadbeen present who had known her thirty years before, he would have saidthat a shadow of her old look at that terrible time had come back to herdeep sweet eyes.

  "My child, God allowed her to be brought very low. At the first, shewas upheld mightily by His consolations: and they that saw her said howwell she bare it. But 'tis not alway the first blush of a sorrow thattrieth the heart most sorely. And there came after this a time--when itwas an old tale to them that knew her, and their comforting was givenover,--a day came when all failed her. Nay, I should have said rather,all seemed to fail her. God failed her not; but her eyes were holden,and she saw Him not beside her. It was darkness, an horror of greatdarkness, that fell upon her. The Devil came close enough; he was verybusy with her. Was there any hope? quoth he. Nay, none, or but verylittle. Then of what worth were God's promises to hear and deliver? Hehad passed His word, and He kept it not. Was God able to help?--was Hetrue to His promise?--go to, was there any God in Heaven at all? Andso, 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 hemof Christ's garment, a groping after Him with numb hands that scarcefelt whether they held or no. O Blanche, it was like the plague in theland of Egypt--it was darkness that might be felt!"

  Blanche listened in awed interest.

  "Dear heart, the Lord hath passed word to help His people in their need;but He saith not any where that He will alway help them right as theywould have it. We be prone to think there is but one fashion of help,and that if we be not holpen after our own manner, we be not holpen atall. Yet, if thou take a penny from a poor beggar, and give him in thestead thereof an angel [half-sovereign], thou hast given him alms,though he have lost the penny. Alas, for us poor beggars! we fall toweeping o'er our penny till our eyes be too dim with tears to see thegold of God'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 herof whom I spake."

  "Ay, I would fain hear the rest."

  "Well, there were nigh four years of that fearful darkness. Shewell-nigh forgat that God 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 wasat the thickest, she fancied that all might be a delusion: that therewas no God at all, or none that had any compassion upon men. But it wasnot 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 herevil sister,--God gave the maiden back her father safe."

  Blanche uttered a glad "Oh!"

  "And He gave her more than that, Blanche. He sent her therewith amessage direct from Himself. Thou lookest on me somewhat doubtfully,dear heart, as though thou shouldst say, Angels bring no wolds fromHeaven now o' days. Well, in very sooth, I wis not whether they do orno. We see them not: can we speak more boldly than to say this? Yetone thing I know, Blanche: God can send messages to His childre in theirhearts, 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 Himto have laid on His disciples,--`O thou of little faith, wherefore didstthou doubt?' As though He should say,--`Thou mightest have doubted ofthe fulfilling of thy special hope; yet wherefore doubt _Me_? Would Ihave taken pleasure in bereaving thee of aught that was not hurtful?Could I not have given thee much more than this? Because I made thineheart void, that I might fill it with Myself,--child, did I love theeless, or more?'"

  Mrs Tremayne paused so long, that Blanche asked timidly--"And did hecome again at last, or no?"

  A slight, sudden movement of her friend's head showed that her thoughtswere far away, and that she came back to the present with something likean effort.

  "Methinks, dear heart," Mrs Tremayne said lovingly, "there was aspecial point whereto God did desire to bring this maiden;--a pointwhereat He oft-times aimeth in the training of His childre. It is, tobe satisfied with His will. Not only to submit thereto. Thou mayestsubmit 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 whichthou wouldst have done, at the cost, if need be, of all other:--ah,Blanche, 'tis no light nor easy thing, this! And unto this God led herof whom I have been telling thee. He led her, till she could look up toHim, 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 Thywill be done.' And then, Blanche,--when she could look up and say thisin sincerity--then He laid down His rod, and gave all back into herbosom."

  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 storynow, but that I thought it might serve thee to hear it. I love not tolook back to that time, though it were to mine own good. 'Tis like anill wound which is healed, and thou hast no further suffering thereof:yet the scar is there for evermore. And yet, dear Blanche, if it weregiven me to choose, now, whether I would have that dark and weary timepart of my life, or no--reckoning what I should have lost without it--Iwould say once again, Ay. They that know the sweetness of close walkingwith God will rather grope, step by step, at His side through thedarkness, 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 Hishand."

  "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 whenother lights are out. And we be so prone to walk further off in thedaylight!--we see so many things beside Him. We would fain be runningoff after birds and butterflies; fain be filling our hands with brightflowers by the way: and we picture not rightly to ourselves that thesethings are but to cheer us on as we step bravely forward, for there willbe 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 theemiss the gold?"

  "I reckon you mean that God hath somewhat to give, better than what Hetaketh away."

  "Right, dear heart. Ah, how much better! Yet misconceive me not, mychild. We do not buy Heaven with afflictions; never think that,Blanche. There be many that have made that blunder. Nay! the beggarbuyeth not thy gold with his penny piece. Christ hath bought Heaven forHis chosen: it is the purchase of His blood; and nothing else in all theworld could have paid for it. But they that shall see His glory yonder,must be fitted for it here below; and oft-times God employeth sorrowsand cares to this end.--And now, Blanche, canst answer thine ownquestion, and tell me what I think of thee?"

  Blanche blushed scarlet.

  "I am afeared," she said, hanging down her head, "you must think me buta 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 hastmade a blunder or twain."

  "What be they?" Blanche wished to know, more humbly than she would havedone 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 truthall they do love is themselves and their own pleasures, or theflattering of their own vain conceits. Ask thine own heart what thoulovest in thy lover: is it him, or his liking for thyself? If it be butthe latter, that is not love, Blanche. 'Tis but fancy, which is to loveas the waxen image to the living man. Love would have him it lovethbettered at her own cost: it would fain see him higher and nobler--Imean not higher in men's eyes, but nearer Heaven and God--whatever werethe price to herself. True love will go with us into Heaven, Blanche:it can never die, nor be forgotten. Remember the word of John theApostle, that `he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God inhim.' And wouldst thou dare to apply that holy and heavenly name untosome vain fancy that shall be as though it had never been six monthsthereafter? My child, we men and women be verily guilty concerning thismatter. We take the name of that which is the very essence of God, andset it lightly on a thing of earth and time, the which shall perish inthe using. Well, and there is another mistake, sweet, which I fear thoumayest have made. It may be thou art thinking wrongfully of thineearthly father, as I did of my heavenly One. He dealeth with theehardly, countest thou? Well, it may be so; yet it is to save thee fromthat which should be much harder. Think no ill of the father who loveththee and would fain save thee. And, O Blanche! howsoever He may dealwith thee, never, never do thou think hardly of that heavenly Father,who loveth thee far dearer than he, and would save thee from farbitterer woe."

  Blanche had looked very awe-struck when Mrs Tremayne spoke so solemnlyof the real nature of love; and now she raised tearful eyes to herfriend's face.

  "I thought none ill of my father, Mistress Tremayne. I wis well heloveth me."

  "That is well, dear heart. I am fain it should be so."

  And there the subject dropped rather abruptly, as first Clare, and thenArthur, came into the room.

  Don Juan did not appear to: miss Blanche, after the first day. When hefound that she and her father and sister were absent from thesupper-table, he looked round with some surprise and a littleperplexity; but he asked no question, and no one volunteered anexplanation. He very soon found a new diversion, in the shape ofLucrece, to whom he proceeded to address his flowery language with evenless sincerity than he had done to Blanche. But no sooner did SirThomas perceive this turn of affairs than he took the earliestopportunity of sternly demanding of his troublesome prisoner "what hemeant?"

  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 airof 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 suchmanner of talk showing respect? Thank Heaven that I was born inEngland! Sir, when an English gentleman carries himself toward a youngmaiden as you have done, he either designs to win her in honourablewedlock, or he is a villain. Which are you?"

  "If we were in Spain, Senor," answered Don Juan, fire flashing from hisdark eyes, "you would answer those words with your sword. But since Iam your prisoner, and have no such remedy, I must be content with areply in speech. The customs of your land are different from ours. Iwill even condescend to say that I am, and for divers years have sobeen, affianced to a lady of mine own country. Towards the _senoritas_your daughters, I have shown but common courtesy, as it is understood inSpain."

  In saying which, Don Juan stated what was delicately termed by Swift'sHouynhnms, "the thing which is not." Of what consequence was it in hiseyes, when the Council of Constance had definitively decreed that "nofaith was to be kept with heretics"?

  Sir Thomas Enville was less given to the use of profane language thanmost gentlemen of his day, but in answer to this speech he sworeroundly, and--though a staunch Protestant--thanked all the saints andangels that he never was in Spain, and, the Queen's Highness' commandsexcepted, never would be. As to his daughters, he would prefer turningthem all into Nebuchadnezzar's fiery furnace to allowing one of them toset foot on the soil of that highly objectionable country. Thesesentiments were couched in the most peppery language of which theSquire's lips were well capable; and having thus delivered himself, heturned on his heel and left Don Juan to his own meditations.

  That _caballero_ speedily discovered that he had addressed his lastcompliment to any of the young ladies at Enville Court. Henceforward heonly saw them at meals, and then he found himself, much to hisdiscomfiture, placed between Jack and Mistress Rachel. To pay delicateattentions to the latter was sheer waste of frankincense: yet it was somuch in his nature, when speaking to a woman, that he began to tell herthat she talked like an angel. Mistress Rachel looked him full in theface.

  "Don John," said she, in the most unmoved manner, "if I believed youtrue, I should call on my brother to put you forth of the hall. As Ibelieve 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 longeran amusing, but an uncomfortable place. In his eyes, it was perfectlymonstrous that any man should object to his daughters being honoured bythe condescending notice of an Andalusian gentleman, who would one daybe a grandee of the first class; utterly preposterous! But since thisunreasonable man was so absurd as to object to the distinction,conferred upon his house, it was as well that an Andalusian gentlemanshould be out of his sphere. So Don Juan went willingly to London.Friends of his parents made suit for him, and Elizabeth herselfremembered his mother, as one who had done her several littlekindnesses, such as a Lady-in-Waiting on the Queen could do for aPrincess under a cloud; and Don Juan received a free pardon, and leaveto return home when and as he would. He only broke one more heart whilehe remained in England; and that was beneath any regret on his part,being only a poor, insignificant grocer's daughter. And then he sailedfor Spain; and then he married Dona Lisarda; and then he became aLord-in-Waiting; and then he lived a wealthy, gorgeous, prosperous life;and then all me
n spoke well of him, seeing how much good he had done tohimself; and then he grew old,--a highly respected, highlyself-satisfied man.

  And then his soul was required of him. Did God say to him,--"Thoufool"?