Part 27 (1/2)
”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.”