"I think, Mother," he said at length, "that I had chosen to go through with it. I learned lessons in Little Ease that, if I had lacked now, I had been sorely wanting to my people; and--speaking as a man--that perchance I could have learned nowhere else."

"Childre," responded the aged mother, "it seemeth me, that of all matter we have need to learn, the last and hardest is to give G.o.d leave to choose for us. At least, thus it hath been with me; it may be I mistake to say it is for all. Yet I am sure he is the happy man that learneth it soon. It hath taken me well-nigh eighty years. Thou art better, Robin, to have learned it in fifty."

"I count, Mother, we learn not all lessons in the same order," said the Rector, smiling, "though there be many lessons we must all learn. 'Tis not like to be my last,--without I should die to-morrow--if I have learned it thoroughly now. And 'tis easier to leave in G.o.d's hands, some choices than other."

Mrs Rose did not ask of what he was thinking, but she could guess pretty well. It would be harder to lose his Thekla now, than if he had come out of Little Ease and had found her dead: harder to lose Arthur in his early manhood, than to have seen him coffined with his baby brother and sisters, years ago. Mrs Tremayne drew a long sigh, as if she had guessed it too.

"It would be easier to leave all things to G.o.d's choice," she said, "if only we dwelt nearer G.o.d."

Note 1. "Vuesa merced," the epithet of ordinary courtesy, is literally "Your Grace."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL.

"All the foolish work Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."

_Tennyson_.

A few weeks after that conversation, Lucrece Enville sat alone in the bedroom which she shared with her sister Margaret. She was not shedding tears--it was not her way to weep: but her mortification was bitter enough for any amount of weeping.

Lucrece was as selfish as her step-mother, or rather a shade more so.

Lady Enville's selfishness was pure love of ease; there was no deliberate malice in it. Any person who stood in her way might be ruthlessly swept out of it; but those who did not interfere with her pleasure, were free to pursue their own.

The selfishness of Lucrece lay deeper. She not only sought her own enjoyment and aggrandis.e.m.e.nt; but she could not bear to see anything-- even if she did not want it--in the possession of some one else. That was sufficient to make Lucrece long for it and plot to acquire it, though she had no liking for the article in itself, and would not know what to do with it when she got it.

But in this particular instance she had wanted the article: and she had missed it. True, the value which she set upon it was rather for its adjuncts than for itself; but whatever its value, one thought was uppermost, and was bitterest--she had missed it.

The article was Don Juan. His charm was twofold: first, he would one day be a rich man and a n.o.ble; and secondly, Blanche was in possession.

Lucrece tried her utmost efforts to detach him from her sister, and to attach him to herself. And Don Juan proved himself to be her match, both in perseverance and in strategy.

Blanche had not the faintest suspicion that anything of the sort had been going on. Don Juan himself had very quickly perceived the counterplot, and had found it a most amusing episode in the little drama with which he was beguiling the time during his forced stay in England.

But n.o.body else saw either plot or counterplot, until one morning, when a low soft voice arrested Sir Thomas as he was pa.s.sing out of the garden door.

"Father, may I have a minute's speech of you?"

"Ay so, Lucrece? I was about to take a turn or twain in the garden; come with me, la.s.s."

"So better, Father, for that I must say lacketh no other ears."

"What now?" demanded Sir Thomas, laughing. "Wouldst have money for a new chain, or leave to go to a merry-making? Thou art welcome to either, my la.s.s."

"I thank you, Father," said Lucrece gravely, as they paced slowly down one of the straight, trim garden walks: "but not so,--my words are of sadder import."

Sir Thomas turned and looked at her. Never until this moment, in all her four-and-twenty years, had his second daughter given him an iota of her confidence.

"Nay, what now?" he said, in a perplexed tone.

"I pray you, Father, be not wroth with me, for my reasons be strong, if I am so bold as to ask at you if you have yet received any order from the Queen's Majesty's Council, touching the disposing of Don John?"

"Art thou turning states-woman, my la.s.s? Nay, not I--not so much as a line."

"Might I take on me, saving your presence, Father, to say so much as--I would you would yet again desire the same?"

"Why, my la.s.s, hath Don John offenced thee, that thou wouldst fain be rid of him? I would like him to tarry a while longer. What aileth thee?"

"Would you like him to marry Blanche, Father?"

"Blanche!--marry Blanche! What is come over thee, child? Marry Blanche!"

Sir Thomas's tone was totally incredulous. He almost laughed in his contemptuous unbelief.

"You crede it not, Father," said Lucrece's voice--always even, and soft, and low. "Yet it may be true, for all that."

"In good sooth, my la.s.s: so it may. But what cause hast, that thou shouldst harbour such a thought?"

"Nought more than words overheard, Father,--and divers gifts seen-- and--"

"Gifts! The child showed us none."

"She would scantly show _you_, Father, a pair of beads of coral, with a cross of enamel thereto--"

"Lucrece, dost thou _know_ this?"

Her father's tone was very grave and stern now.

"I do know it, of a surety. And if you suffer me, Father, to post you in a certain place that I wot of, behind the tapestry, you shall ere long know it too."

Lucrece's triumphant malice had carried her a step too far. Her father's open, upright, honest mind was shocked at this suggestion.

"G.o.d forbid, girl!" he replied, hastily. "I will not play the eavesdropper on my own child. Hast thou done this, Lucrece?"

Lucrece saw that she must make her retreat from that position, and she did so "in excellent order."

"Oh no, Father! how could I so? One day, I sat in the arbour yonder, and they two walked by, discoursing: and another day, when I sat in a window-seat in the hall, they came in a-talking, and saw me not. I could never do such a thing as listen unknown, Father!"

"Right, my la.s.s: but it troubled me to hear thee name it."

Sir Thomas walked on, lost in deep thought. Lucrece was silent until he resumed the conversation.

"Beads, and a cross!" He spoke to himself.

"I could tell you of other gear, Father," said the low voice of the avenger. "As, a little image of Mary and John, which she keepeth in her jewel-closet; and a book wherein be prayers unto the angels and the saints. These he hath given her."