A calm, still-faced girl is this, with smooth brown hair, dark eyes, a complexion nearly colourless, a voice low, clear, but seldom heard, and small delicate hands, at once quick and quiet. A girl that has nothing to say for herself,—is the verdict of most surface observers who see her: a girl who has nothing in her,—say a few who consider themselves penetrating judges of character. Nearly all think that the Reverend Robert Tremayne’s partiality has outrun his judgment, for he says that his adopted daughter thinks more than is physically good for her. A girl who can never forget the siege of Leyden: never forget the dead mother, whose latest act was to push the last fragment of malt-cake towards her starving child; never forget the martyr-father burnt at Ghent by the Regent Alva, who boasted to his master, Philip of Spain, that during his short regency he had executed eighteen thousand persons,—of course, heretics. Quiet, thoughtful, silent,—how could Lysken Barnevelt be anything else?
A rap came at the door.
“Mistress Rachel, here’s old Lot’s wife. You’ll happen come and see her?” inquired Jennet, putting only her head in at the door.
“I will come to the hall, Jennet.”
Jennet’s head nodded and retreated. Rachel followed her.
“How doth Aunt Rachel snub us maids!” said Blanche lazily, clasping her hands behind her head. “She never had no man to make suit unto her, so she accounteth we may pass us (do without) belike.”
“Who told thee so much?” asked Margaret bluntly.
“I lacked no telling,” rejoined Blanche. “But I say, maids!—whom were ye all fainest to wed?—What manner of man, I mean.”
“I am bounden already,” said Margaret calmly. “An’ mine husband leave me but plenty of work to do, he may order him otherwise according to his liking.”
“Work! thou art alway for work!” remonstrated ease-loving Blanche.