“I have had promise thereof,” repeated Lysken, in a tone which was lost upon Blanche, but Clare thought she began to understand her.
“Who hath promised thee?” asked Blanche, intensely interested.
“The King!” replied Lysken, with deep feeling. “And I shall be the King’s daughter!”
“Lysken Barnevelt!” cried Blanche, dropping many of her flowers in her excitement, “art thou gone clean wood (mad), or what meanest thou?”
Lysken looked up with a smile full of meaning.
“‘Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy,—to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty.’—Do but think,—faultless! and, before His glory!”
Lysken’s eyes were alight in a manner very rare with her. She was less shy with her friends at Enville Court than with most people.
“So that is what thou wert thinking on!” said Blanche, in a most deprecatory manner.
Lysken did not reply; but Clare whispered to her, “I would we might all be presented there, Lysken.”
While the young ladies were thus engaged in debate, and Rachel was listening to the complaints of old Lot’s wife from the village, and gravely considering whether the said Lot’s rheumatism would be the better for a basin of viper broth,—Sir Thomas Enville, who was strolling in the garden, perceived two riders coming up to the house. They were evidently a gentleman and his attendant serving-man, and as soon as they approached near enough for recognition, Sir Thomas hurried quickly to meet them. The Lord Strange, heir of Lathom and Knowsley, must not be kept waiting.