Part 26 (1/2)

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

”Oh ay!” responded Blanche, feeling her experience immeasurably past that of Lysken.

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

Blanche was shocked at the business-like style in which Lysken darned while she talked. Had such a question been asked of herself, the stocking would have stood still till it was settled. She doubted whether to pursue the subject. What was the use of talking upon thrilling topics to a girl who could darn stockings while she calmly a.n.a.lysed love? Still, she wanted somebody's opinion; and she had an instinctive suspicion that Clare would be no improvement upon her cousin.

”Well, but,” she said hesitatingly, ”there is another fas.h.i.+on 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, else would she not leave them to go with him,” said Lysken quietly; ”but I see not wherein it should be another sort.”

”'Tis plain thou didst never feel the same, Lysken,” returned Blanche sentimentally.

”How could I, when I never had an husband?” answered Lysken, darning away 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 the other 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 which was extremely aggravating to that young lady.

”Oh, 'tis to no good to tell thee,” returned Blanche loftily. ”Thou wist 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, resuming her darning, in that calm style which is eminently provoking to any one in a pa.s.sion.

”Thou seest not every matter in the world,” retorted Blanche, with an air of superiority. ”And touching this matter, 'tis plain thou wist nothing. Verily, thou hast gain therein; for he that hath bettered knowledge--as saith Solomon--hath but increased sorrow.”

”Blanche, I do not know whereof thou art talking! Did I put thee out by saying I had thought shame to have cared to wed with any, or what was it? Why, wouldst not thou?”

This final affront was as the last straw to the camel. Deigning no answer, which she felt would be an angry one, Blanche marched away like an offended queen, and sat down on a chair in the hall as if she were enthroning herself upon a pedestal. Mrs Tremayne was in the hall, and the 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's thoughts to another topic. Gathering from it, however, the tone of Blanche's mind, she resolved to give her a lesson which should not eject her roughly from her imaginary pedestal--but make her come down from it of her own accord.

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

Mrs Tremayne found her opportunity the next evening. She was alone with Blanche in the parlour; and knowing pretty well what every one was doing, she antic.i.p.ated a quiet half-hour.