"Ay, Mother," said Blanche absently.

"Metrusteth 'tis not so narrow as that thou wearest. It becometh thee not. And the guarding of that gown is ill done--who set it on?"

Blanche did not remember--and, just then, she did not care.

"Whoso it were, she hath need be ashamed thereof. Come hither, child."

Blanche obeyed, and while her mother gave a pull here, and smoothed down a fold there, she stood patiently enough in show, but most unquietly in heart.

"Nought would amend it, save to pick it off and set it on again," said Lady Enville, resigning her endeavours. "Now, Blanche, if thou art to abide at the parsonage, where I cannot have an eye upon thee, I pray thee remember thyself, who thou art, and take no fantasies in thine head touching Arthur Tremayne."

Arthur Tremayne! What did Blanche care for Arthur Tremayne?

"I am sore afeard, Blanche, lest thou shouldst forget thee. It will not matter for Clare. If he be a parson's son, yet is he a Tremayne of Tremayne,--quite good enough for Clare, if no better hap should chance unto her. But thou art of better degree by thy father's side, and we look to have thee well matched, according thereto. Thy father will not hear of Don John, because he is a Papist, and a Spaniard to boot: elsewise I had seen no reason to gainsay thee, poor child! But of course he must have his way. Only have a care, Blanche, and take not up with none too mean for thy degree,--specially now, while thou art out of our wardship."

There was no answer from Blanche.

"Mistress Tremayne will have a care of thee, maybe," pursued her mother, unfurling her fan--merely as a plaything, for the weather did not by any means require it. "Yet 'tis but nature she should work to have Arthur well matched, and she wot, of course, that thou shouldst be a rare catch for him. So do thou have a care, Blanche."

And Lady Enville, leaning back among her cushions, furled and unfurled her handsome fan, alike unconscious and uncaring that she had been guilty of the greatest injustice to poor Thekla Tremayne.

There was a rap at the door, and enter Rachel, looking as if she had imbibed an additional pound of starch since leaving the room.

"Sister, would you have Blanche's tartaryn gown withal, or no?"

"The crimson? Let me see," said Lady Enville reflectively. "Ay, Rachel,--she may as well have it. I would not have thee wear it but for Sundays and holy days, Blanche. For common days, _there_, thy blue kersey is full good enough."

Without any answer, and deliberately ignoring the presence of Blanche, Rachel stalked away.

It was a weary interval until Sir Thomas, returned. Now and then Clare flitted in and out, to ask her mother's wishes concerning different things: Jennet came in with fresh wood for the fire; Lady Enville continued to give cautions and charges, as they occurred to her, now regarding conduct and now costume: but a miserable time Blanche found it. She felt herself, and she fancied every one else considered her, in dire disgrace. Yet beneath all the mortification, the humiliation, and the grief over which she was brooding, there was a conviction in the depth of Blanche's heart, resist it as she might, that the father who was crossing her will was a wiser and truer friend to her than the mother who would have granted it.

Sir Thomas came at last. He wore a very tired look, and seemed as if he had grown several years older in that day.

"Well, all is at a point, Orige," he said. "Master Tremayne hath right kindly given consent to receive both the maids into his house, for so long a time as we may desire it; but Mistress Tremayne would have Barbara come withal, if it may stand with thy conveniency. She hath but one serving-maid, as thou wist; and it should be more comfortable to the childre to have her, beside the saving of some pain [trouble, labour]

unto Mistress Tremayne."

"They can have her well enough, trow," answered Lady Enville. "I seldom make use of her. Jennet doth all my matters."

"But how for Meg and Lucrece?"

Barbara's position in the household was what we should term the young ladies' maid; but maids in those days were on very familiar and confidential terms with their ladies.

"Oh, they will serve them some other way," said Lady Enville carelessly.

The convenience of other people was of very slight account in her Ladyship's eyes, so long as there was no interference with her own.

"Cannot Kate or Doll serve?" asked Sir Thomas--referring to the two chambermaids.

"Of course they can, if they must," returned their nominal mistress.

"Good lack, Sir Thomas!--ask Rachel; I wis nought about the house gear."

Sir Thomas walked off, and said no more.

With great difficulty and much hurrying, the two girls contrived to leave the house just before supper. Sir Thomas was determined that there should be no further interview between Blanche and Don Juan. Nor would he have one himself, until he had time to consider his course more fully. He supped in his own chamber. Lady Enville presented herself in the hall, and was particularly gracious; Rachel uncommonly stiff; Margaret still and meditative; Lucrece outwardly demure, secretly triumphant.

Supper at the parsonage was deferred for an hour that evening, until the guests should arrive. Mrs Tremayne received both with a motherly kiss.

Foolish as she thought Blanche, she looked upon her as being almost as much a victim of others' folly as a sufferer for her own: and Thekla Tremayne knew well that the knowledge that we have ourselves to thank for our suffering does not lessen the pain, but increases it.

The kindness with which Blanche was received--rather as an honoured guest than as a naughty child sent to Coventry--was soothing to her ruffled feelings. Still she had a great deal to, bear. She was deeply grieved to be suddenly and completely parted from Don Juan; and she imagined that he would be as much distressed as herself. But the idea of rebelling against her father's decree never entered her head; neither did the least suspicion of Lucrece's share in the matter.

Blanche was rather curious to ascertain how much Clare knew of her proceedings, and what she thought of them. Now it so happened that in the haste of the departure, Clare had been told next to nothing. The reason of this hasty flight to the parsonage was all darkness to her, except for the impression which she gathered from various items that the step thus taken had reference not to herself, but to Blanche. What her sister had done, was doing, or was expected to do, which required such summary stoppage, Clare could not even guess. Barbara was quite as ignorant. The interviews between Blanche and Don Juan had been so secret, and so little suspected, that the idea of connecting him with the affair did not occur to either.

One precious relic Blanche had brought with her--the lock of hair received from Don Juan on that afternoon which was so short a time back, and felt so terribly long--past and gone, part of another epoch altogether. Indeed, she had not had any opportunity of parting with it, except by yielding it to her father; and for this she saw no necessity, since he had laid no orders on her concerning Don Juan's gifts. While Clare knelt at her prayers, and Barbara was out of the room, Blanche took the opportunity to indulge in another look at her treasure. It was silky black, smooth and glossy; tied with a fragment of blue ribbon, which Don Juan had a.s.sured her was the colour of truth.

"Is he looking at the ringlet of fair hair which I gave him?" thought she fondly. "He will be true to me. Whate'er betide, I know he will be true!"

Poor little Blanche!

Note 1. Sleeves were then separate from the dress, and were fastened into it when put on, according to the fancy of the wearer.

Note 2. Apparently the plaited border worn under the French cap.

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 the window in the parsonage parlour, and with busy idleness tied knots in her 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 after help came. And I loved Aunt Jacobine; and Vrouw Van Vliet, who took care 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 a different one.

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