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Title: The Lost Treasure of Trevlyn: A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot

Author: Evelyn Everett-Green

Release date: September 5, 2005 [eBook #16654]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Martin Robb


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST TREASURE OF TREVLYN: A STORY OF THE DAYS OF THE GUNPOWDER PLOT ***




Produced by Martin Robb





The Lost Treasure of Trevlyn
A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot


by Evelyn Everett-Green.


Chapter  1: The Inmates Of The Old Gate House.
Chapter  2: The Inmates Of Trevlyn Chase.
Chapter  3: The Lost Treasure.
Chapter  4: A Night On Hammerton Heath.
Chapter  5: The House On The Bridge.
Chapter  6: Martin Holt's Supper Party.
Chapter  7: The Life Of A Great City.
Chapter  8: Cuthbert And Cherry Go Visiting.
Chapter  9: The Wise Woman.
Chapter 10: The Hunted Priest.
Chapter 11: The Lone House On The River.
Chapter 12: May Day In The Forest.
Chapter 13: The Gipsy's Tryst.
Chapter 14: Long Robin.
Chapter 15: Petronella.
Chapter 16: The Pixies' Dell.
Chapter 17: Brother And Sister.
Chapter 18: "Saucy Kate."
Chapter 19: The Cross Way House.
Chapter 20: How It Fared With Cherry.
Chapter 21: The Gipsy's Warning.
Chapter 22: Whispers Abroad.
Chapter 23: Peril For Trevlyn.
Chapter 24: Kate's Courage.
Chapter 25: "On The Dark Flowing River."
Chapter 26: Jacob's Devotion.
Chapter 27: Yuletide At The Cross Way House.



Chapter 1: The Inmates Of The Old Gate House.


"Dost defy me to my face, sirrah?"

"I have no desire to defy you, father, but--"

"But me no 'buts,' and father me no 'fathers,'" stormed the angry
old man, probably quite unconscious of the Shakespearian smack of
his phrase; "I am no father to heretic spawn--a plague and a curse
be on all such! Go to, thou wicked and deceitful boy; thou wilt one
day bitterly rue thy evil practices. Thinkest thou that I will
harbour beneath my roof one who sets me at open defiance; one who
is a traitor to his house and to his faith?"

A dark flush had risen in the face of the tall, slight youth, with
the thoughtful brow and resolute mouth, as his father's first words
fell upon his ears, and throwing back his head with a haughty
gesture, he said: "I am not deceitful. You have no call to taunt me
with that vice which I despise above all others. I have never used
deceit towards you. How could you have known I had this day
attended the service of the Established Church had I not told you
so myself?"

The veins on the old man's forehead stood out with anger; he
brought his fist heavily down on the table, with a bang that caused
every vessel thereon to ring. A dark-eyed girl, who was listening
in mute terror to the stormy scene, shrank yet more into herself at
this, and cast an imploring look upon the tall stripling whose face
her own so much resembled; but his fiery eyes were on his father's
face, and he neither saw nor heeded the look.

"And have I not forbid--ay, and that under the heaviest
penalties--any child of mine from so much as putting the head
inside one of those vile heretic buildings? Would God they were
every one of them destroyed! Heaven send some speedy judgment upon
those who build and those who dare to worship therein! What wonder
that a son turns in defiance upon his father, when he stuffs his
ears with the pestilent heresies with which the wicked are making
vile this earth!"

Nicholas Trevlyn's anger became so great at this point as well nigh
to choke him. He paused, not from lack of words, but from inability
to utter them; and his son, boldly taking advantage of the pause,
struck in once more in his own defence.

"Father, you talk of pestilent heresies, but what know you of the
doctrines taught within walls you never enter? Is it a pestilent
heresy that Christ died to save the world; that He rose again for
our justification; that He sent the Holy Spirit into the world to
sanctify and gather together a Church called after His name? That
is the doctrine I heard preached today, and methinks it were hard
to fall foul of it. If you had heard it yourself from one of our
priests, sure you would have found it nothing amiss."

"Silence, boy!" thundered the old man, his fury suddenly changing
to a white heat of passion, which was more terrible than the
bluster that had gone before. "Silence, lest I strike thee to the
ground where thou standest, and plunge this dagger in thine heart
sooner than hear thee blaspheme the Holy Church in which thou wast
reared! How darest thou talk thus to me? as though yon accursed
heretic of a Protestant was a member of the Church of Christ. Thou
knowest that there is but one fold under one shepherd, and he the
Pope of Rome. A plague upon those accursed ones who have perverted
the true faith and led a whole nation astray! But they shall not
lead my son after them; Nicholas Trevlyn will look well to that!"

Father and son stood with the table between them, gazing fixedly at
one another like combatants who, having tested somewhat the
strength each of the other, feel a certain doubt as to the
termination of the contest, but are both ready and almost eager for
the final struggle which shall leave the victory unequivocally on
one side or the other.

"I had thought that the Shepherd was Christ," said Cuthbert, in a
low, firm tone, "and that the fold was wide enough to embrace all
those baptized into His name."

"Then thou only thinkest what is one more of those damnable
heresies which are ruining this land and corrupting the whole
world," cried Nicholas between his shut teeth. "Thou hast learned
none such vile doctrine from me."

"I have learned no doctrine from you save that the Pope is lord of
all----of things temporal and things spiritual--and that all who
deny this are in peril of hell fire," answered the young man, with
no small bitterness and scorn. "And here, in this realm, those who
hold this to be so are in danger of prison and death. Truly this is
a happy state of things for one such as I. At home a father who
rails upon me night and day for a heretic--albeit I vow I hold not
one single doctrine which I cannot stand to and prove from the Word
of God."

"Which thou hast no call to have in thine hands!" shouted his
father; "a book which, if given to the people, stirs up everywhere
the vilest heresies and most loathsome errors. The Bible is God's
gift to the Church. It is not of private interpretation. It is for
the priests to give of its treasures to the people as they are able
to bear them."

"Ay, verily, and what are the people to do when the priests deny
them their rightful food?" cried Cuthbert, as hotly as his father.
"Listen to me, sir. Yes, this once I wilt speak! In years gone by,
when, however quietly, secretly, and privately, we were visited by
a priest and heard the mass, and received at his hands the Blessed
Sacrament, did I revolt against your wish in matters spiritual? Was
I not ever willing to please you? Did I not love the Church? Was
not I approved of the Father, and taught many things by him,
including those arts of reading and penmanship which many in my
condition of life never attain unto? Did I ever anger you by
disobedience or revolt?"

"What of that, since you are doing so now?" questioned Nicholas in
a quieter tone, yet one full of suspicion and resentment. "What use
to talk of what is past and gone? Thou knowest well of late years
how thou hast been hankering after every vile and villainous heresy
that has come in thy way. It is thy mother's blood within thee
belike. I did grievous wrong ever to wed with one reared a
Protestant, however she might abjure the errors in which she was
brought up. False son of a false mother--"

"Hold, sir! You shall not miscall my mother! No son will stand by
and hear that!"

"I will say what I will in mine own house, thou evil, malapert
boy!" roared the old man. "I tell thee that thy mother was a false
woman, that she deceived me bitterly. After solemnly abjuring the
errors in which she had been reared, and being received into the
true fold, she, as years went by, lapsed more and more into her
foul heretical ways of thought and speech; and though she went to
her last reckoning (unshriven and unassoiled, for she would have no
priest at her dying bed) before ye twain were old enough to have
been corrupted by her precept and example, ye must have sucked in
heresy with your mother's milk, else how could son of mine act in
the vile fashion that thou art acting?"

"I am acting in no vile fashion. I am no heretic. I am a true son
of the true Church."

Cuthbert spoke with a forced calmness which gave his words weight,
and for a moment even the angry man paused to listen to them, eying
the youth keenly all the while, as though measuring his own
strength against him. Physically he was far more than a match for
the slightly-built stripling of one-and-twenty, being a man of
great height and muscular power--power that had in no wise
diminished with advancing years, though time had turned his black
locks to iron gray, and seamed his face with a multitude of
wrinkles. Pride, passion, gloomy defiance, and bitter hatred of his
kind seemed written on that face, which in its youth must have been
handsome enough. Nicholas Trevlyn was a disappointed, embittered
man, who added to all other faults of temperament that of a
hopeless bigot of the worst kind. He was the sort of man of whom
Inquisitors must surely have been made--without pity, without
remorse, without any kind of natural feeling when once their
religious convictions were at stake.

As a young man he had watched heretics burning in Smithfield with a
fierce joy and delight; and when with the accession of Elizabeth
the tide had turned, he had submitted without a murmur to the fines
which had ruined him and driven him, a poverty-stricken dependent,
to the old Gate House. He would have died a martyr with the grim
constancy that he had seen in others, and never lamented what he
suffered for conscience' sake. But he had grown to be a thoroughly
soured and embittered man, and had spent the past twenty or more
years of his life in a ceaseless savage brooding which had made his
abode anything but a happy place for his two children, the
offspring of a late and rather peculiar marriage with a woman by
birth considerably his inferior.

The firmness without the bitterness of his father's face was
reflected in that of the son as Cuthbert fearlessly finished his
speech.

"I am a true son of the Church. I am no outcast--no heretic. But I
will not suffer my soul to be starved. It is the law of this land
that whatever creed men hold in their hearts--whether the tenets of
Rome or those of the Puritans of Scotland--that they shall
outwardly conform themselves to the forms prescribed by the
Establishment, and shall attend the churches of the land; and you
know as well as I do that there be many priests of our faith who
bid their flocks obey this law, and submit themselves to the powers
that be. And yet even with all this I would have restrained myself
from such attendance, knowing that it is an abhorrence unto you,
had there been any other way open to me of hearing the Word of God
or receiving the Blessed Sacrament. But since King James has come
to the throne, the penal laws have been more stringently enforced
against our priests than in the latter days of the Queen. What has
been the result for us? Verily that the priest who did from time to
time minister to us is fled. We are left without help, without
guidance, without teaching, and this when the clouds of peril and
trouble are like to darken more and more about our path."

"And what of that, rash boy? Would you think to lessen the peril by
tampering with the things of the Evil One; by casting aside those
rules and doctrines in which you both have been reared, and
consorting with the subverters of the true faith?"

"But I cannot see that they are subverters of the faith," answered
the youth hotly. "That is where the kernel of the matter lies. I
have heard their preachings. I have talked with my cousins at the
Chase, who know what their doctrine is."

But at these words the old man fairly gnashed his teeth in fury; he
made a rush at his son and took him by the collar of his doublet,
shaking him in a frenzy of rage.

"So!" he cried, "so! Now we get at the whole heart of the matter.
You have been learning heresy from those false Trevlyns at the
Chase--those renegade, treacherous, time-serving Trevlyns, who are
a disgrace to their name and their station! Wretched boy! have I
not warned you times and again to have no dealings with those evil
relatives? Kinsmen they may be, but kinsmen who have disgraced the
name they bear. I would I had Richard Trevlyn here beneath my hand
now, that I might stuff his false doctrine down his false throat to
choke him withal! And to think that he has corrupted my son, as if
the rearing of his own heretic brood was not enough!"

Cuthbert was unable to speak; his father's hand pressed too tightly
on his throat. He did not struggle or resist. Those were days when
sons--ay, and daughters too--were used to receiving severe
chastisement from the parental hand without murmur: and Nicholas
Trevlyn had not been one to spare the rod where his son had been
concerned. His wrath seemed to rise as he felt the slight form of
the lad sway beneath his strong grasp. Surely that slim stripling
could be reduced to obedience; but the lesson must be a sharp one,
for plainly the poison was working, and had already produced
disastrous results.

"Miserable boy!" cried Nicholas, his eyes blazing in their
cavernous hollows, "the time has come when this matter must be
settled betwixt us twain. Swear that thou wilt go no more to the
churches of the Protestant faction, be the laws what they may;
swear that thou wilt hold no more converse on matters of religion
with thy cousins at the Chase--swear these things with a solemn and
binding oath, and all may yet be well. Refuse, and thou shalt yet
learn, as thou hast not learned before, what the wrath of a wronged
and outraged father can be!"

Petronella, the dark-eyed girl, who had all this while been
crouching back in her high-backed chair in an attitude of shrinking
terror, now sprang suddenly towards her brother, crying: "O
Cuthbert, Cuthbert! prithee do not anger him more!

"Father, O dear sir, let but him go this once! He does not
willingly anger you; he does but--"

"Peace, foolish girl, and begone! This is no time for woman's
whining. Thy brother and I can settle this business betwixt us
twain. But stay, go thou to my room and fetch thence the strong
whip wherewith I chastise the unruly hounds. Those who disobey like
dogs must be beaten like dogs.

"But, an thou wilt swear to do my bidding in the future, and avoid
all pestilent controversy with those false scions of thy house, thy
chastisement shall be light. Defy me, and thou shalt feel the full
weight of my arm as thou hast never felt it before."

Petronella had never seen her father so angry in all her life
before. True, he had always been a harsh, stern man, an unloving
father, a captious tyrant in his own house. But there had been
limits to his anger. It had taken more generally the form of sullen
brooding than of wild wrath, and the irritation and passion which
had lately been increasing visibly in him was something
comparatively new.

Of late, however, there had been growing friction between Cuthbert
and his father. The youth, who had remained longer a boy in his
secluded life than he would have done had his lot been cast in a
wider sphere, was awakening at last to the stirrings of manhood
within him, and was chafing against the fetters, both physical and
spiritual, laid upon him by the life he was forced to lead through
the tyrannical will of his father. He was beginning, in a
semi-conscious fashion, to pant for freedom, and to rebel against
the harsh paternal yoke.

When a struggle of wills commences, the friction continues a long
while before the spark is produced; but when some unwonted contest
has ignited this, the flame often bursts out in wonderful fury, and
the whole scene is thence forward changed.

If the old man's blood was up today, Cuthbert's was no less so. He
shook himself free for a moment from his father's grasp and stood
before him, tall, upright, indignant, no fear in his face, but a
deep anger and pain; and his words were spoken with great emphasis
and deliberation.

"I will swear nothing of all that. I claim for myself the right of
a man to judge for myself and act for myself. I am a boy no longer;
I have reached man's estate. I will be threatened and intimidated
no longer by any man, even though he be my father. I am ready and
willing to leave your house this very day. I am weary of the life
here. I would fain carve out fortune for myself. It is plain that
we cannot be agreed; wherefore it plainly behoves us to part. Let
me then go, but let me go in peace. It may be when I return to
these doors you may have learned to think more kindly of me."

But the very calmness of these words only stung Nicholas to greater
fury. He had in full force that inherent belief, so deeply rooted
in the minds of many of the sons of Rome, that conviction as well
as submission could be compelled--could be driven into the minds
and consciences of recalcitrant sons and daughters by sheer force
and might. Gnashing his teeth in fury, he sprang once more upon his
son, winding his strong arms about him, and fairly lifting him from
the ground in his paroxysm of fury.

"Go! ay, we will see about that. Go, and carry your false stories
and falser thoughts out into the world, and pollute others as you
yourself have been polluted! we will think of that anon. Here thou
art safe in thy father's care, and it will be well to think further
ere we let so rabid a heretic stray from these walls. Wretched boy!
the devil himself must sure have entered into thee. But fiends have
been exorcised before now. It shall not be the fault of Nicholas
Trevlyn if this one be not quickly forced to take flight!"

All this while the infuriated man had been partly dragging, partly
carrying his son to a dreary empty room in the rear of the
dilapidated old house inhabited by Nicholas and his children. It
was a vault-like apartment, and the roof was upheld in the centre
by a stout pillar such as one sees in the crypts of churches, and
suspended round this pillar were a pair of manacles and a leather
belt. Cuthbert had many times been tied up to this pillar before,
his hands secured above his head in the manacles, and his body
firmly fastened to the pillar by the leather thong. Sometimes he
had been left many hours thus secured, till he had been ready to
drop with exhaustion. Sometimes he had been cruelly beaten by his
stern sire in punishment for some boyish prank or act of
disobedience. Even the gentle and timid Petronella had more than
once been fastened to the pillar for a time of penance, though the
manacles and the whip had been spared to her. The place was even
now full of terrors for her--a gruesome spot, always dim and dark,
always full of lurking horrors. Her eyes dilated with agony and
fear as she beheld her brother fastened up--not before his stout
doublet had been removed--and her knees almost gave way beneath her
as her father turned sharply upon her and said: "Where is the whip,
girl?"

It was seldom that the maiden had the courage to resist her, stern
father; but today, love for her brother overcoming every other
feeling, she suddenly sank on her knees before him, clasping her
hands in piteous supplication, as she cried, with tears streaming
down her face: "O father, sweet father, spare him this time! for
the love of heaven visit not his misdoings upon him! Let me but
talk to him; let me but persuade him! Oh, do not treat him so
harshly! Indeed he may better be won by love than driven by blows!"

But Nicholas roughly repulsed the girl, so that she almost fell as
he brushed past her.

"Tush, girl! thou knowest not what thou sayest. Disobedience must
be flogged out of the heretic spawn. I will have no son of mine
sell himself to the devil unchecked. A truce to such tears and vain
words! I will none of them. And take heed that thine own turn comes
not next. I will spare neither son nor daughter that I find
tampering with the pestilent doctrines of heretics!"

So saying, the angry man strode away himself in search of the
weapon of chastisement, and whilst Petronella sobbed aloud in her
agony of pity, Cuthbert looked round with a strange smile to say:
"Do not weep so bitterly, my sister; it will soon be over, and it
is the last beating I will ever receive at his hands. This settles
it--this decides me. I leave this house this very night, and I
return no more until I have won my right to be treated no longer as
a slave and a dog."

"Alas, my brother! wilt thou really go?"

"Ay, that will I, and this very night to boot."

"This night! But I fear me he will lock thee in this chamber here."

"I trust he may; so may I the better effect my purpose. Listen,
sister, for he will return right soon, and I must be brief. I have
been shut up here before, and dreaming of some such day as this, I
have worked my way through one of yon stout bars to the window; and
it will fall out now with a touch. Night falls early in these dark
November days. When the great clock in the tower of the Chase tolls
eight strokes, then steal thou from the house bearing some victuals
in a wallet, and my good sword and dagger and belt. Meet me by the
ruined chantry where we have sat so oft. I will then tell thee all
that is in my heart--for which time lacks me to speak now.

"Hist! there is his returning step. Leave me now, and weep not. I
care naught for hard blows; I have received too many in my time.
But these shall be the last!"

Petronella, trembling in every limb, shrank silently away in the
shadows as her father approached, the sight of his grim, stern face
and the cruel-looking weapon in his hands bringing quick thrills of
pain and pity to her gentle heart. Petronella was a very tender
floweret to have been reared amidst so much hardness and sorrow. It
was wonderful that she had lived through the helpless years of
infancy (her mother had died ere she had completed her second year)
with such a father over her, or that having so lived she had
preserved the sweetness and clinging softness of temperament which
gave to her such a strange charm--at least in the opinion of one.
Doubtless she owed much of her well being to the kindly care of an
old deaf and dumb woman, the only servant in that lonely old house,
who had entered it to nurse the children's mother through her last
illness, and had stayed on almost as a matter of course, receiving
no wage for her untiring service, but only the coarse victuals that
all shared alike, and such scanty clothing as was absolutely
indispensable.

To this old crone Petronella fled with white face and tearful eyes,
as the sound of those terrible blows smote upon her ears with the
whistling noise that well betrayed the force with which they were
dealt. She quickly made the faithful old creature aware of what was
going on, and her sympathy was readily aroused on behalf of the
sufferer. The dumb request for food was also understood and
complied with. No doubt there had been times before when the girl
had crept with bread and meat in her apron to the solitary captive,
who was shut up alone without food till he should come to a better
mind.

Of Cuthbert's intended flight she made no attempted revelation. She
must act now, and explain later, if she could ever make the old
woman understand, that her brother had fled, and had not been done
to death by his hard-hearted father.

Supper was over. It had been at the close of that meal that the
explosion had taken place. She would not be called upon to meet her
father again that day. Fleeing up the broken stone staircase just
as his feet were heard returning from the vaulted room, she heard
him bang to the door of the living room before she dared to steal
into the little bare chamber where her brother slept, and where all
his worldly possessions were stored.

The old Gate House was a strange habitation. Formerly merely the
gateway to the Castle, which had once reared its proud head upon
the crest of the hill to the westward, it had but scant
accommodation for a family--one living room below, flanked on one
side by the kitchen, and on the other by the vaulted chamber, once
possibly a guardroom, but so bitterly cold and damp now that it was
never used save for such purposes as had been witnessed there that
evening. A winding, broken stone stairway led upwards to a few very
narrow chambers above of irregular shape, and all lighted by
loophole windows deeply splayed. The lowest of these was the place
where Nicholas slept, and there was a slight attempt at furniture
and comfort; but the upper chambers, where Petronella and Cuthbert
retired out of the way of their father's sullen and morose temper,
were bare of all but actual necessities, and lacked many things
which would be numbered amongst essentials in later days. The stone
floors had not even a carpeting of rushes, the pallet beds lay on
the hard stone floor, and only the girl possessed a basin and ewer
for washing. Cuthbert was supposed to perform his ablutions in the
water of the moat without, or at the pump in the yard.

But Petronella had small notion of the hardness of her life. She
had known no other, and only of late had she begun to realize that
other girls were more gently reared and tended. Since the family
had come to live at the Chase--which had only happened within the
past year--her ideas had begun to enlarge; but so far this had not
taught her discontent with her surroundings.

She knew that her father had fled to the Gate House as a place of
retirement in the hour of his danger and need, and that nobody had
denied his right to remain there, though the whole property was in
the possession of Sir Richard Trevlyn, the nephew of her morose
parent. Nicholas, however, as may have been already gathered, bore
no goodwill towards his nephew, and would fain have hindered his
children from so much as exchanging a word with their kinsfolks.
But blood is thicker than water, and the young naturally consort
together. Nicholas had married so late in life that his children
were much about the same age as those of his nephew--indeed the
Trevlyns of the Chase were all older than Petronella. Sir Richard
had striven to establish friendly relations with his uncle when he
had first brought his family to the Chase, and had only given up
the attempt after many rebuffs. He encouraged his children to show
kindness to their cousins, as they called each other, and since
that day a ray of sunshine had stolen into Petronella's life,
though she was almost afraid to cherish it, lest it should only be
withdrawn again.

As she hurried to the tryst that evening, this fear was only second
to the bitter thought of parting with Cuthbert. Yet she did not
wish him to stay. Her father's wrath and suspicion once fully
aroused, no peace could be hoped for or looked for. Terribly as she
would miss him, anything was better than such scenes as the one of
today. Cuthbert was no longer a child; he was beginning to think
and reason and act for himself. It was better he should fly before
worse had happened; only the girl could not but wonder what her own
life would be like if, after his departing, her stern father should
absolutely forbid her seeing or speaking to her cousins again.

She knew he would gladly do it; knew that he hated and grudged the
few meetings and greetings that did pass between them from time to
time. Any excuse would gladly be caught at as a pretext for an
absolute prohibition of such small overtures, and what would life
be like, she wondered with a little sob, if she were to lose
Cuthbert, and never to see Philip?

Her brother was at the trysting place first. She could not see his
face, but could distinguish the slight figure seated upon the
crumbling fragment of the wall. He was very still and quiet, and
she paused as she drew near, wondering if he had not heard her
light footfall upon the fallen leaves.

"Is that thou, my sister?" asked a familiar voice, though feeble
and hollow in its tones. The girl sprang quickly to his side.

"Yes, Cuthbert, it is I; and I have brought all thou biddest me,
and as much beside as I could make shift to carry. Alack, Cuthbert
are you sorely hurt? I heard that cruel whip!"

"Think no more of that! I will think no more myself once the smart
be past. Think of the freedom thy brother will enjoy; would that
thou couldst share it, sweet sister! I like not faring thus forth
and leaving thee, but for the nonce there be no other way.

"Petronella, I know thou wouldst ask whither I go and what I do.
And that I scarce know myself as yet. But sitting here in the dark
there has come a new purpose, a new thought to my mind. What if I
were to set myself to the discovery of the lost treasure of Trevlyn
Chase?"

The girl started in the darkness, and laid her hand on her
brother's arm.

"Ah, Cuthbert, that lost treasure! Would that thou couldst find it!
But how canst thou hope to do so when so many besides have failed?"

"That is not the fashion in which men think when they mean to
triumph, my sister," said Cuthbert, and she knew by his voice that
he was smiling. "How this thing may be done I know not. Where the
long-lost treasure be hid I know not, nor that I may ever be the
one to light on it. But this I do know, that it is somewhere; that
some hand buried it; that even now some living soul may know the
secret of the hiding place. Petronella, hast thou ever thought of
it? Hast thou ever wondered if our father may know aught of it?"

"Our father! nay, Cuthbert; but he would be the first to show the
place and claim his share of spoil."

"I know not that. He hates Sir Richard. Methinks he loved not his
own brother, the good knight's father. He was in the house what
time the treasure vanished. Might he not have had some hand in the
mystery?"

The girl shook her head again doubtfully.

"Nay, how can I say? Yet methinks our father, who sorely laments
his poverty and dependence for a home upon Sir Richard's kindness,
would no longer live at the old Gate House had he riches hidden
away upon which he might lay his hand. Nay, Cuthbert, methinks thou
art not on the right track in thinking of him. But I do not rightly
know the story of that lost treasure."

"Marry, nor I neither. I have heard our father rave of it. I have
heard a word here, a whisper there, but never a full account of the
matter. But that there is some great treasure lost or made away
with all men who know aught of the Trevlyns know well. And if, as
all affirm, this same treasure is but buried in some hiding place,
the clue to which none possesses, why should not I find it? Why
should not I be the man at last to track and to discover it?"

Why not indeed? Petronella, full of ardent youthful imaginings,
fired instantly with the thought. Why should not her brother do
this thing? Why not indeed? She looked at him with eyes that shone
in the gloom like stars.

"Yes, Cuthbert, be it thine to do what none else has been able. Be
it thine to discover this lost treasure. Would that I could help
thee in that quest! But I can give thee just this one morsel of
counsel. Start not till thou hast been to the Chase and heard all
the story from our cousins there. They will tell thee what there is
to know, and he is twice armed who has this knowledge."

"I will follow thy good counsel, my sister, and commend thee to
their kindly care. And now, let us say farewell, and be brief; for
such moments do but wring the heart and take the manliness from
one. Farewell, and farewell, my sweetest sister. Heaven be thy
guide and protector; and be sure of one thing, that if I live I
will see thee soon again, and that if I have success in my search
thou and I will rejoice in it together."



Chapter 2: The Inmates Of Trevlyn Chase.


Trevlyn Chase was a fine Tudor structure, standing on the site of
the more ancient castle that had been destroyed during the
tumultuous days of the Wars of the Roses. Instead of the grim pile
of gray masonry that had once adorned the crest of the wooded hill,
its narrow loopholes and castellated battlements telling of matters
offensive and defensive, a fair and home-like mansion of red brick
overlooked the peaceful landscape, adorned with innumerable oriel
windows, whose latticed casements shone brilliantly in the south
sunlight as it fell upon the handsome frontage of the stately
house. Great timbers deeply carved adorned the outer walls, and the
whole building was rich in those embellishments which grace the
buildings of that period. A fine terrace ran the whole length of
the south front, and was bounded at either side by a thick hedge of
yew. Stone steps led down into a terraced garden upon which much
care had been bestowed, and which in summer was bright with all the
flowers then known and cultivated in this country. Even in gloomy
winter there was more of order and trimness than was often found in
such places, and the pleasaunces and shrubberies and gardens of
Trevlyn Chase, with the wide fish ponds and terraced paths, formed
a pleasant place of resort almost at any season, and were greatly
delighted in by the children of the present owner, who had only
recently made acquaintance with their ancient family home.

The setting sun was shining brightly now upon the windows of the
house which faced the south, with half a point of west, so that in
winter the sunlight shone to the very time of its setting into the
lofty and decorated chambers. The glow from blazing fires within
likewise shone and twinkled hospitably through the clear glass, and
one long window of one of the rooms stood open to the still evening
air, and a little group was gathered together just outside.

A tall young man of some five-and-twenty summers, with the regular
Trevlyn features and a pair of honest gray eyes, was standing out
on the terrace with his face towards the red sky, a couple of
sporting dogs frisking joyously about him, as if hoping he was bent
upon a stroll in the woods. By his side stood a tall slim maiden,
bright faced and laughing eyed, straight as a dart, alert and
graceful in her movements, with an expression of courage and
resolution on her fair face that stamped it at once with a strong
individuality of its own. She was dressed simply, though in soft
and rich textures, as became her station, and she held her hood in
her hands, leaving her ruffled curly hair to be the sport of the
light night breeze. She had very delicate features and an oval
face, and from the likeness that existed between them the pair were
plainly brother and sister.

Just within the open window were two more girls, dressed in the
same fashion as the first, and plainly her sisters, though they
were more blonde in type, and whilst very pretty, lacked the
piquant originality that was the great characteristic of the dark
girl's beauty. They were not quite so tall, and the elder of the
blonde pair was not nearly so slim, but had something of womanly
deliberation and dignity about her. She was plainly the eldest of
the three sisters, as the little maid beside her was the youngest.
All three were engrossed in some sort of talk that appeared full of
interest for them.

"I wish he would not do it," said Philip, turning his eyes in an
easterly direction, towards a hollow in the falling ground, where
the ruins of the ancient wall could still be dimly traced. The old
Gate House itself could not be seen from this side of the house,
but it was plain that the thoughts of all had turned in that
direction. "It is brave of him to obey his conscience rather than
his father; but yon man is such a veritable tiger, that I fear me
there will be dark work there betwixt them if the lad provoke him
too far. Nicholas Trevlyn is not one to be defied with impunity. I
would that Cuthbert had as much prudence as he has courage."

"So do not I," answered Kate quickly, turning her flashing eyes
full upon her brother. "I hate prudence--the prudence of cowardice!
I am right glad that Cuthbert thinks first of his conscience and
second of his father's wrath. What man who ever lived to do good in
the world was deterred from the right by craven fears? I honour him
for his single mindedness. He is a bold youth, and I would fain
help him an I could see the way."

"We would all gladly do that," answered Philip; "the hard thing
being to find the way."

"We shall find it anon, I doubt not," answered Kate. "Things cannot
go on ever as they are now."

"No; methinks one day we may chance to hear that the old Papist has
done his son to death in a fit of blind fury. Then perhaps, my
sister, thou wilt join with me in wishing that the lad had shown
more regard for his stern sire's word."

"Nay, Philip, sure thou fearest too much," spoke Cecilia from her
station beside the window. "Nicholas Trevlyn may be a dark and sour
man, but he scarce would lift a hand against his own flesh and
blood! I cannot believe it of any father."

"Fathers of his type have done as bad ere now," answered Philip,
with gravity, "and there is no bigot like the Papist bigot, who is
soured and embittered by persecution himself. Cuthbert has told me
things ere this which show what an iron soul his father's is. He
believes that he would wring the neck of little Petronella sooner
than see her turn out of the path of unreasoning Papistry in which
he has brought her up," and Philip's face darkened suddenly as he
turned it towards his sisters.

"But sure the King would protect them if he knew," said Bessie, the
youngest of the sisters. "Why, the law bids all loyal subjects go
to church, and punishes those who stay away. The King would be
sorely angry, would he not, were he to hear that any man dared use
force to hinder his children from going."

Kate's delicate lips curved into a smile of derision, and Philip
shrugged his broad shoulders.

"The King, my dear Bessie, is naught but a miserable pedant, who
loves nothing so well as hearing himself talk, and prating by the
hour together on matters of law and religion, and on the divine
right of kings. He is not the King such as England has been wont to
know--a King to whom his subjects might gain access to plead his
protection and ask his aid. I trow none but a fool would strive to
win a smile from the Scottish James. He is scarce a man, by all we
hear, let alone a King. I sometimes think scorn of us as a nation
that we so gladly and peaceably put our necks beneath the sceptre
of such an atomy. Sure had the Lady Arabella but been a man, we
should scarce have welcomed so gladly this son of Mary Stuart as
our monarch."

"Have a care, my children, and talk not rank treason in such open
fashion," said a deep voice behind them, and the daughters started
to see the tall form of their father in the room behind them. "We
Trevlyns are none too safe from suspicion that we need endanger
ourselves wilfully. Whatever else James Stuart may be, he has shown
that he means to be a monarch as absolute as any who have gone
before him. Wherefore it behoves us to be cautious even in the
sanctuary of this peaceful home.

"What is the matter, Kate, that thou art thus scornful towards his
majesty? In what has he offended thee, my saucy princess?"

As Kate stepped within the room, followed by her brother, it was
plain from the lighting of her father's eyes that she was the
favourite daughter with him. He laid his hand lightly on her
shoulder, and she stood up close beside him, her bright face
upraised, a saucy gleam in her eyes, and both her attitude and
bearing bespoke an affectionate confidence between father and child
less common in those ceremonious days than it has since become.

"Father, we were talking of Cuthbert. Did you see him at church
today? He was there both in the morning and the afternoon."

"I thought I saw him. I was not sure. I am glad his father has had
the sense to relent thus far with him."

"But he has not relented," answered Kate quickly. "Cuthbert comes
in defiance of his commands; and Philip says he misdoubts if his
father may not do him some grievous bodily harm in his rage and
fury. Bessie did ask if the King would not interfere to save him;"
and then Kate broke off with her rippling, saucy laugh. "I was just
answering that question when you came. But sure, father, something
might be done for him. It is a cruel thing for a boy to be treated
as he is treated, and all for striving to obey the law of the
land."

Sir Richard Trevlyn stood in silent thought awhile. He was a
fine-looking man, with a thoughtful, benevolent countenance, and
eyes that Kate had inherited. He had known something of peril and
trouble himself in his day, and could feel for the troubles of
others. But he also knew the difficulties of dealing with such a
man as his kinsman Nicholas; and without bringing him to the notice
of the authorities as a concealed Papist--an idea repugnant to him
where one of his own name and blood was concerned--it was difficult
to see what could be done for the protection of the hapless
Cuthbert and his sister.

Sir Richard Trevlyn did not wish to draw public attention upon
himself. It was his desire to live as quietly and privately as
possible. The Trevlyns had been for many generations a family
stanch to the doctrines and traditions of the Church of Rome, and
they had won for themselves that kind of reputation which clings
tenaciously to certain families even when it has ceased to be a
fact. The present Sir Richard's father had broken through the
traditions of his race in marrying a lady of the Reformed faith. It
was a love match, and all other considerations went to the winds.
The lady was no theologian, and though believing all she had been
taught, had no horror of Popery or of her husband's creed. They had
lived happily together in spite of their respective opinions; but
either through the influence of his wife, or through other causes
less well understood, Sir Richard the elder in his later life
became gradually weaned from the old faith, and embraced that of
his wife. Some said this was done from motives of policy, since
Elizabeth was on the throne, and the edicts against Papists, though
only rigidly enforced by fits and starts, were always in existence,
and had been the ruin of many ancient families. However that may
have been, the only son of this union had been trained up a
Protestant, and had brought up his own children as members of the
Established Church of the land.

But still the old tradition remained that all Trevlyns must of
necessity be rank Papists, and Nicholas had certainly done all he
could to encourage this idea, and had ruined himself by his
contumacious resistance to the laws. Both his brother and his
nephew had suffered through their close relationship to such an
unruly subject, and there had been dark days enough for the family
during the Armada scare, when every Papist became a mark for
popular hatred, and professions of loyalty and good faith were
regarded with distrust.

Now, however, the family seemed to have lived through its darkest
days. Peace had been made with men in high places. Sir Richard had
done good service to the State on more than one occasion; and
latterly he had felt sufficiently safe to retire from the
neighbourhood of the Court, where he had been holding some small
office, and settle down with his wife and family in his ancestral
home. His marriage with Lady Frances de Grey, the daughter of the
Earl of Andover, had given him excellent connections; for the
Andovers were stanch supporters of the Reformed faith, and had been
for several generations, so that they were high in favour, and able
to further the fortunes of their less lucky kinsman. It had taken
many years to work matters to a safe and happy conclusion, but at
the present moment there seemed to be no clouds in the sky.

The new King had been as gracious as it was in his nature to be to
Sir Richard, and did not appear to regard him with any suspicion.
The knight breathed freely again after a long period of anxiety,
for the tenacious memory and uncertain temper of the late Queen had
kept him in a constant ferment.

It had been a kindly and courageous thing for Sir Richard to permit
his contumacious and inimical kinsman to retain the possession of
the old Gate House. Nicholas had no manner of right to it, though
he was fond of putting forward a pretended claim; and the close
proximity of a rank and bitter Papist of his own name and race was
anything but a pleasant thing. But the sense of family feeling, so
strongly implanted in the English race, had proved stronger than
prudential scruple, and Nicholas had not been ejected, his nephew
even striving at the first to establish some kind of friendly
relations with the old man, hoping perhaps to draw him out of his
morose ways, and lead him to conformity and obedience to the
existing law.

Nicholas had refused all overtures; but his lonely son and daughter
had been only too thankful for notice, and the whole family at the
Chase became keenly interested in them. It was plain from the first
that their father's bitterness and rigid rule had done anything but
endear his own views to his children. Petronella accepted the
creeds and dogmas instilled into her mind with a childlike faith,
and dreamed her own devotional dreams over her breviary and her
book of saints--the only two volumes she possessed. She was
content, in the same fashion that a little child is content, with
just so much as was given her. But Cuthbert's mind was of a
different stamp, and he had long been panting to break the bonds
that held both body and soul in thrall, and find out for himself
the meaning of those questions and controversies that were
convulsing the nation and the world.

Intercourse with his kinsfolk had given him his first real insight
into the burning questions of the hour, and his attendance from
time to time at the parish church had caused him fresh access of
wonder at what his father could object to in the doctrines there
set forth. They might not embody everything a popish priest would
bid him believe, but at least they appeared to the boy to contain
all the integral truths of Christianity. He began dimly to
understand that the Papists were not half so much concerned in the
matter of cardinal doctrines of the faith as in asserting and
upholding the temporal as well as the spiritual power of the Pope;
and that this should be made the matter of the chiefest moment
filled the boy's soul with a loathing and disgust which were strong
enough to make him half a Protestant at once.

Sir Richard had seen almost as much, and was greatly interested in
the lad; but it was difficult to know how to help him in days when
parental authority was so absolute and so rigidly exercised.

"We must do what we can," said Sir Richard, waking from his reverie
and shaking his head. "But we must have patience too; and it will
not be well for the boy to irritate his father too greatly.
Tomorrow I will go to the Gate House and see my uncle, and speak
for the boy. He ought to have the liberty of the law, and the law
bids all men attend the services of the Established Church. But it
is ill work reasoning with a Papist of his type; and short of
reporting the case to the authorities, meaning more persecution for
my unlucky kinsman, I know not what may be done."

"We must strive so to win upon him by gentle means that he permits
his children free intercourse with ours," said gentle Lady Frances
from her seat by the glowing hearth. "It seems to me that that is
all we may hope to achieve in the present. Perchance as days and
weeks pass by we may find a way to that hard and flinty heart."

"And whilst we wait it may well be that Cuthbert will be goaded to
desperation, or be done to death by his remorseless sire," answered
impetuous Kate, who loved not counsels of prudence. "Methinks that
waiting is an ill game. I would never wait were I a man. I would
always aet--ay, even in the teeth of deadly peril. Sure the
greatest deeds have been achieved by men of action, not by men of
counsel and prudence."

Sir Richard smiled, as he stroked her hair, and told her she should
have lived a hundred or so years back, when it was the fashion to
do and dare regardless of consequences. And gradually the talk
drifted away from the inmates of the old Gate House, though Philip
was quite resolved to pay an early visit there on the morrow, and
learn how it had fared with his cousin.

Supper followed in due course, and was a somewhat lengthy meal.
Then the ladies retired to the stately apartment they had been in
before, and the mother read a homily to her daughters, which was
listened to with dutiful attention. But Kate's bright eyes were
often bent upon the casement of one window, the curtain of which
she had drawn back with her own hand before sitting down; and as
the moon rose brighter and brighter in the sky and bathed the world
without in its clear white beams, she seemed to grow a little
restless, and tapped the floor with the point of her dainty shoe.

Kate Trevlyn was a veritable sprite for her love of the open air,
by night as well as day, in winter cold as well as summer heat.
"The night bird" was one of her father's playful names for her, and
if ever she was able to slip away on a fine night, nothing
delighted her more than to wander about in the park and the woods,
listening to the cries of the owls and night jars, watching the
erratic flight of the bats, and admiring the grand beauty of the
sleeping world as it lay beneath the rays of the peaceful moon.

As the reading ceased, a step on the terrace without told Kate that
Philip was out for an evening stroll. Gliding from the room with
her swift undulating motion, and quickly donning cloak and clogs,
she slipped after him and joined him before he had got many yards
from the house.

"Take me with thee, Philip," she said. "It is a lovely night for a
stroll. I should love to visit the chantry; it looks most witching
at this hour of the night."

They took the path that led thither. The great clock in the tower
had boomed the hour of eight some time since. The moon had shaken
itself free from the veil of cloud, and was sailing majestically in
the sky. As they descended the path, Kate suddenly laid her hand on
her brother's arm, and whispered:

"Hist! Methinks I hear the sound of steps. Surely there is some one
approaching us from below!"

Philip paused and listened. Yes, Kate's quick ears had not deceived
her. There was the sound of a footstep advancing towards them along
the lonely tangled path. Philip instinctively felt for the pistol
he always carried in his belt, for there were often doubtful and
sometimes desperate men in hiding in woods and lonely places; but
before he had time to do more than feel if the weapon were safe,
Kate had darted suddenly from his side, and was speeding down the
path.

"Marry but it is Cuthbert!" she called back to him as he bid her
stop, and Philip himself started forward to meet and greet the
newcomer.

"We have been talking of you and wondering how it fared with you,"
he said, as they reached the side of the youth "I am right glad to
see you here tonight."

Cuthbert did not answer for a moment. He seemed to pant for breath.
A ray of moonlight striking down upon his face showed it to be
deadly white. His attitude bespoke the extreme of fatigue and
weakness.

"Why, there is something amiss with you!" cried Philip, taking his
cousin by the arm. "Some evil hap has befallen you."

"His father has half killed him, I trow!" cried Kate, with sudden
energy. "He could not else have received injury in these few hours.
Speak, Cuthbert; tell us! is it not so?"

"I have been something rough handled," answered the lad in a low
voice; "but I did not feel it greatly till I began to climb the
hill.

"I thank you, good Philip. I will be glad of your arm. But I am
better already."

"You look like a veritable ghost," said Kate, still brimming over
with pity and indignation. "What did that miserable man do to you?"

"Why, naught that he has not done a score of times before--tied me
to the pillar and flogged me like a dog. Only he laid his blows on
something more fiercely than is his wont, and doubled the number of
them. Perchance he had some sort of inkling that it was his last
chance, and used it accordingly."

The bare trees did not screen the beams of the moon, and both
Philip and Kate could see the expression on Cuthbert's face. What
they read there caused Kate to ask suddenly and eagerly:

"What meanest thou by that, Cuthbert? What plan hast thou in thine
head?"

"Why, a mighty simple one--so simple that I marvel I have not
carried it out before. I could not live worse were I to beg my
bread from door to door, and I should at least have my liberty; and
if whipped for a vagabond, should scarce be so badly used as my
father uses me. Moreover, I have a pair of strong arms and some
book learning; and I trow I need never sink to beggary. I mind not
what I do. I will dig the fields sooner than be worse treated than
a dog. My mind is made up. I have left my father's house never to
return. I am going forth into the world to see what may befall me
there, certain that nothing can be worse than what I have left
behind."

"Thou hast run away from thy cruel father? Marry, that is good
hearing!" cried Kate, with sparkling eyes. "I marvel we had none of
us thought of that plan ourselves; it is excellent."

"It seemed the one thing left--the only thing possible. I could not
endure such thralldom longer," answered Cuthbert, speaking wearily,
for he was in truth well nigh worn out with the tumult of his own
feelings and the savage treatment he had received. "But I know not
if I shall accomplish it even now. My father may discover my
flight, pursue and bring me back. This very day I asked to leave
his house, and he refused to let me go. If he overtakes me I shall
be shut up in strait confinement; I shall be punished sorely for
this night's work. I must make shift to put as many miles as may be
betwixt myself and the Gate House tonight."

"Nay, thou shalt do no such thing!" answered Kate, quickly and
warmly. "I have a better plan than that. Thou shalt come home with
us. My good father will gladly give thee shelter and protection.
Thou shalt remain in hiding with us till the hue and cry (if there
be any) shall be over past, and till thy wounds be healed and thou
hast regained thy strength and spirit; and then thou shalt start
forth reasonably equipped to seek thy fortune in the world; and if
thou wilt go to merry London, as I would were I a man with mine own
fortune to carve out, methinks I can give thee a letter to one
there that will secure thee all that thou needest in the present,
and may lead to advancement and good luck."

Kate's thoughts always worked like magic. No sooner was an idea
formed in her busy brain than she saw the whole story unwinding
itself in glowing colours; and to hear her bright chatter as the
three pursued their way to the house, one would have thought her
cousin's fortune already made. A soft red glow had stolen into her
cheeks as she had spoken of the missive she could furnish, and
Philip gave her a quick glance, a smile crossing his face.

Cuthbert was too faint and bewildered to take in all the sense of
Kate's words, but he understood that for the moment he was to be
cared for and concealed, and that was enough. Philip echoed his
sister's invitation to his father's house as his first stage on his
journey, and all that the lad remembered of the next few hours was
the dancing of lights before his dazzled eyes, the sound of
friendly voices in his ears, and the gentle ministrations of kindly
hands, as he was helped to bed and cosseted up, and speedily made
so comfortable that he fell off almost immediately into a calm
refreshing sleep that was like to be the best medicine he could
have.

When Sir Richard rejoined his family, it was with a stern
expression on his face.

"The boy has been grossly maltreated," he said. "It is no mere
paternal chastisement he has received this day, but such a flogging
as none but the lowest vagabond would receive at the hands of the
law. The very bone is in one place laid bare, and there be many
traces of savage handling before this. Were he not mine own uncle,
bearing mine own name, I would not let so gross an outrage pass.
But at least we can do this much--shelter the lad and send him
forth, when he is fit for the saddle, in such sort that he may
reach London in easy fashion, as becomes one of his race. The lad
has brains and many excellent qualities. There is no reason why he
should not make his way in life."

"If he can be cured of his Papist beliefs," said Lady Frances; "but
no man holding them gets on in these days, and Cuthbert has been
bred up in the very worst of such tenets."

"So bad that he is half disgusted with them before he can rightly
say why," answered Sir Richard with a smile. "There is too much
hatred and bitterness in Nicholas Trevlyn's religion to endear it
to his children. The boy has had the wit to see that the
Established Church of the land uses the same creeds and holds the
same cardinal doctrines as he has been bred up in. For the Pope he
cares no whit; his British blood causes him to think scorn of any
foreign potentate, temporal or spiritual. He has the making of a
good churchman in him. He only wants training and teaching.
Methinks it were no bad thing to send him to his mother's kindred
for that. They are as stanch to the one party as old Nicholas to
the other. The lad will learn all he needs there of argument and
controversy, and will be able to weigh the new notions against the
old.

"Verily, the more I think of it the better I like the plan. He is
scarce fit for a battle with the world on his own account. Food and
shelter and a home of some sort will be welcome to him whilst he
tries the strength of his wings and fits them for a wider flight."

"His mother's kindred," repeated Kate quickly, and with a shade of
hauteur in her manner. "Why, father, I have ever thought that on
their mother's side our cousins had little cause to be proud of
their parentage. Was not their mother--"

"The daughter of a wool stapler, one Martin Holt, foster brother to
my venerated father, the third Earl of Andover," said Lady Frances,
quietly. "Truly, my daughter, these good folks are not in birth our
equal, and would be the first to say so; nevertheless they are
worthy and honest people, and I can remember that Bridget, my
mother's maid, who astonished us and deeply offended her relations
by a sudden and ill-judged marriage with Nicholas Trevlyn, was a
wonderfully well-looking woman. How and why such a marriage was
made none may rightly know now. I can remember that the dark-browed
Nicholas, who was but little loved at our house, took some heed to
this girl, greatly younger than himself, though herself of ripening
age when she let herself be persuaded into that loveless wedlock.
It was whispered that he had made a convert of her; the Jesuits and
seminary priests were hard at work, striving to win back their lost
power by increasing the number of their flock and recruiting from
all classes of the people. Nicholas was then a blind tool in the
hands of these men, and I always suspected that this was one of his
chief motives for so ill judged a step. At any rate, Bridget
pronounced herself a Romanist, and was married by a priest of that
Church according to its laws. Her family cast her off, and Nicholas
would let us have no dealings with her. Poor Bridget! I trow she
lived to rue the day; and the change of her faith was but a passing
thing, for I know she returned to her old beliefs when time had
allowed her to see things more clearly.

"But to return to the beginning. If Bridget's brother, Martin Holt,
yet lives and carries on his father's business, as is most like, on
London Bridge, his house would be no bad shelter for this poor lad,
who will scarce have means or breeding as yet to take his place
with those of higher quality."

"That is very true," said Sir Richard. "The lad is a right honest
lad, and his gentle blood shows in a thousand little ways; but his
upbringing has not fitted him for mingling with the high ones of
the world, and it would be well for him to rub off something of his
rustic shyness and awkwardness ere he tries to cut a fine figure. I
doubt not that Martin Holt would receive his sister's son."

"A wool stapler!" muttered Kate, with a slight pout of her pretty
lips. "I was going to have sent him to Culverhouse with a letter,
to see what he would do for my cousin."

"Lord Culverhouse could not do much," answered her father, with a
smile. "He is but a stripling himself, and has his own way yet to
make. And remember too, dear Lady Disdain, that in these times of
change and upheaval it boots not to speak thus scornfully of honest
city folks, be they wool staplers or what you will, who gain their
wealth by trading on the high seas and with foreign lands. Bethink
you that even the King himself, despite his fine phrases on divine
right, has to sue something humbly to his good citizens of London
and his lowlier subjects for those very supplies that insure his
kingly pomp. So, saucy girl, put not into young Cuthbert's head
notions that ill befit one who has naught to call his own save the
clothes upon his back. If he goes to these kinsfolk, as I believe
it will be well for him to do, it will behove him to go right
humbly and reverently. Remember this in talking with him. It were
an ill thing to do to teach him to despise the home where his
mother first saw light, and the kinsfolks who are called by her
name."

Kate's sound sense and good feeling showed her the truth of her
father's words, and she dutifully promised not to transgress; but
she did not altogether relish the thought of the prospect in store
for her cousin, and as she went upstairs with Bessie to the
comfortable bed chamber they shared together, she whispered, with a
mischievous light dancing in her eyes:

"Ah, it is one thing for the grave and reverend elders to plan, but
it is another for the young to obey. Methinks Cuthbert will need no
hint from me to despise the home of the honest wool stapler. He has
been bred in woods and forests. He has the blood of the Trevlyns in
his veins. I trow the shop on London Bridge will have small charms
for him. Were it me, I would sooner--tenfold sooner--join myself to
one of those bands of freebooters who ravage the roads, and fatten
upon sleek and well-fed travellers, than content myself with the
pottering life of a trader! Ah, we shall see, we shall see! I will
keep my word to my father. But for all that I scarce think that
when Cuthbert starts forth again it will be for London Bridge that
he will be bound!"



Chapter 3: The Lost Treasure.


"And so it is to London thou wilt go--to the worthy wool stapler on
the Bridge?" and Kate, mindful of her promise to her parents,
strove to suppress the little grimace with which she was disposed
to accompany her words--"at least so my father saith."

"Yes: he has been giving me good counsel, and methinks that were a
good beginning. I would gladly see London. Men talk of its wonders,
and I can but sit and gape. I am aweary of the life of the
forest--the dreary life of the Gate House. In London I shall see
men--books--all the things my heart yearns after. And my mother's
kindred will scarce deny me a home with them till I can find
somewhat to do; albeit I barely know so much as their name, and my
father has held no manner of communication with them these many
years."

"Perchance they will not receive thee," suggested Kate, with a
laughing look in her eyes. "Then, good Cuthbert, thou wilt be
forced to trust to thine own mother wit for a livelihood. Then
perchance thou wilt not despise my poor little letter to my good
cousin Lord Culverhouse."

"Despise aught of yours, sweet Kate! Who has dared to say such a
thing?" asked Cuthbert hotly. "Any missive delivered to my keeping
by your hands shall be doubly precious. I will deliver it without
fail, be it to mine own advancement or no."

"Belike I shall claim your good offices yet, Master Letter
Carrier," answered Kate, with a laugh and a blush; "and I trow my
cousin will like you none the less for being bearer of my epistle.
But I am not to commend you to his good graces, as once I meant. It
is to your relatives you are first to look for help. It is like
rubbing the bloom off a ripe peach--all the romance is gone in a
moment! I had hoped that a career of adventure and glory lay before
you, and behold the goal is a home beneath a wool stapler's roof!"

But there Kate caught herself up and blushed, bethinking what her
parents would say could they hear her words.

But Cuthbert did not read the underlying scorn in merry Kate's
tones. He was a very simple-minded youth, and his life and training
had not been such as to teach him much about the various grades in
the world, or how greatly these grades differed one from the other.
He was looking at his cousin's bright face with thoughtful,
questioning eyes, so much so that the girl asked him of what he was
thinking.

"Marry of thee, Mistress Kate," he answered; for though encouraged
to speak on terms of equality with his kinsfolk, he found some
difficulty in remembering to do so, and they certainly appeared to
him in the light of beings from another and a higher sphere than
his own. "I was longing to ask of thee a question."

"Ask on, good Master Cuthbert," was the ready reply; "I will answer
to the best of my humble ability."

"I have heard of this Lord Culverhouse from many beneath this roof
since I have been here. I would fain know who he is."

"That is easy told. He is the eldest son of mine uncle, my mother's
brother, the fourth Earl of Andover. His eldest son bears the title
of Viscount Culverhouse, and he is, of course, our cousin. When we
were in London we saw much of these relatives of ours, and were
grieved to part from them when we left. Now, is it understood?"

"Yes, verily. And tell me this one thing more, fair cousin, if it
be not a malapert question. Is it not true that thou art to wed
with this Lord Culverhouse one day?"

Kate's face was dyed by a most becoming blush. Her eyes sparkled in
a charming fashion. Her expression, half arch, half grave, was
bewitching to see, but she laid her fingers on her lips as she
whispered:

"Hush, hush! who told thee that, good Cuthbert? Methinks thou hast
over-sharp eyes and ears."

"I prithee pardon me if I have seen and heard too much," answered
Cuthbert; "but I had a fancy--"

He stopped, stammering, blushing, and Kate took pity on his
confusion.

"I am not vexed," she said, smiling; "and in very sooth thou hast
divined what is in part the truth. But we do not dare talk of it
yet. There be so many weighty matters against us."

Cuthbert looked keenly interested. He was very fond of this
sprightly cousin of his, who was so amusing, so kindly, and so
sisterly in her ways. She had more ease of manner, as well as
brightness of temperament, than her sisters, and her company had
been a source of great pleasure to him. The girl saw the look of
sympathetic curiosity upon his face, and she drew her chair a
little nearer to that which he occupied, stirring up the logs upon
the glowing hearth into a brighter blaze.

"I' faith, Cuthbert, I will gladly tell thee all there is to know,
it is not much; and I like thee well, and trust thee to boot. Nor
is it such a mighty secret that Culverhouse would fain make me his
bride, and that I would give myself to him tomorrow an I might. I
am not ashamed of loving him," cried the girl, her dark eyes
flashing as she threw hack her dainty head with a gesture of pride
and womanly dignity, "for he is a right noble gentleman, and worthy
of any maiden's love; but whether we shall ever be united in
wedlock--ah, that is a vastly different matter!" and she heaved a
quick little sigh.

"But wherefore not?" asked Cuthbert quickly. "Where could he find a
more beauteous or worthy wife?"

Kate gave him a little bow of acknowledgment for his compliment,
but her face was slightly more grave as she made answer:

"It is not, alack! a question of dislike to me. Were that all, I
might hope to win the favour of stern hearts, and bring the matter
to a happy conclusion. But no; mine uncle of Andover likes me well.
He openly says as much, and he has been a kind friend to us. And
yet I may not wed his son; and his kindness makes it the harder for
Culverhouse to do aught to vex or defy him."

"But why may you not?" asked Cuthbert quickly.

"There be more reasons than one, but I will tell you all in brief.
My own father mislikes the thought of the match, for that we are
cousins of the first degree; and though we Trevlyns of the older
branch no longer call ourselves the servants and followers of Rome,
yet old traditions linger long in the blood, and my father has
always set his face against a marriage betwixt cousins nearest
akin."

Cuthbert looked thoughtful. That certainly was a difficulty hard to
be got over. He made no comment, but merely asked:

"And my Lord of Andover--is that the objection with him?"

"Not near so much. He would easily overlook that. There are no such
strict rules with Protestants, and his family have been for many
generations of the Reformed faith. But there is just as weighty an
argument on his side--namely, that my father can give me but a
scanty dower, and it is a very needful thing for Culverhouse to wed
with one who will fill his coffers with broad gold pieces. The
Trevlyns, as thou doubtless knowest, have been sorely impoverished
ever since the loss of the treasure. My father can give no rich
dower with his daughters; wherefore they be no match for the nobles
of the land. Oh, why was that treasure lost? Why could no man be
wise enough to trace and find it, when sure there must have been
many in the secret? Now that a generation has gone by, what hope is
there left? But for that loss my Lord of Andover would have
welcomed me gladly. The lost treasure of Trevlyn has much to answer
for."

Kate spoke half laughingly, half impatiently, and tapped the
rush-strewn floor with the point of her shoe. Into Cuthbert's eyes
a sudden light had sprung, and leaning forward in the firelight, he
laid his hand upon his cousin's.

"Kate," he said, in a low voice, "I have said naught of it
before--I feared it would sound but an idle boast, an idle dream;
but I am pledged to the search after the lost treasure. If it yet
lies hid, as men say it does, Cuthbert Trevlyn will find it."

Kate gazed at him with wide-open eyes; but there was no trace of
mockery in them, rather an eager delight and excitement that was in
itself encouragement and stimulus.

"Cuthbert, what meanest thou?"

"Verily no more and no less than I say. Listen, Kate. I too am a
like sufferer with others of the race of Trevlyn. I have nor
wealth, nor hope, nor future, save what I may carve out for myself;
and my heritage, as well as yours, lies buried somewhere in these
great woods, no man may say where. It came upon me as I sat in pain
and darkness, the last hour I passed beneath my father's roof, that
this might be the work given to me to do--to restore to the house
of Trevlyn the treasure whose loss has been so sore a blow. I said
as much to my sister when we bid each other adieu in the moonlit
chantry; and she bid me, ere I started on the quest, come hither to
you and ask the story of that loss. We know but little ourselves;
our father tells us naught, and it is but a word here and a word
there we have gathered. But you know--"

"We know well. We have been told the story by our mother from the
days of our childhood. I trow we know all there is to know. Why
hast thou not asked before, Cuthbert?"

The lad blushed a little at the question.

"Methought it would sound but folly in your ears," he said. "It was
easier to speak to Petronella in the dark chantry. Kate, wilt thou
tell me all thou knowest of this lost treasure? How and wherefore
was it lost, and why has no man since been able to find it?"

"Ay, wherefore? that is what we all ask," answered Kate, with eyes
that flashed and glowed. "When we were children and stayed once a
few months here, we spent days together scouring the woods and
digging after it. We were sure we should succeed where others had
failed; but the forest yet keeps its secret, and the treasure has
never seen the light. Again and yet again have I said to Philip
that were I a man I would never rest till it was found. But he
shakes his wise head and says that our grandfather and father and
many another have wasted time and expended large sums of money on
the work of discovery, and without success. All of our name begin
to give credence to the story that the concealed treasure was found
and spirited away by the gipsy folks, who hated our house, and that
it has long since been carried beyond the seas and melted into coin
there. Father and Philip alike believe that the Trevlyns will see
it again no more."

"Dost thou believe that, too?"

"Nay, not I. I believe it will yet come back to us, albeit not
without due search and travail and labour. O Cuthbert, thy words
rejoice me. Would I were a man, to fare forth with thee on the
quest! What wilt thou do? How wilt thou begin? And how canst thou
search for the lost treasure an thou goest to thine uncle's house
in London?"

"I must fain do that for a while," answered Cuthbert; "I dare not
linger so close to my father's home at this time. Moreover, the
winter is fast coming upon us, when the ground will be deep in
snow, and no man not bred to it could make shift to live in the
forest. To London must I go first. I trow the time will not be
wasted; for I will earn money in honest fashion, that I may have
the wherewithal to live when I go to seek this lost treasure.

"And now, my cousin, tell me all the tale. I know not rightly how
the treasure was lost, and I have never heard of the gipsy folks or
their hatred to our house. It behoves me to know all ere I embark
on the quest."

"Yea, verily; and I will tell thee all I know. Thou knowest well
that of old the Trevlyns were stanch sons to the Church of Rome,
and that in the days of Bloody Mary, as men call her now (and well
she merits the name), the Trevlyns helped might and main in hunting
down wretched Protestants and sending them to prison and the
stake?"

"I have heard my father speak of these things," answered Cuthbert,
with a light shudder, calling to mind his father's fierce and
terrible descriptions of the scenes he had witnessed and taken part
in during those short but fearful years of Mary's reign, "but I
knew not it had aught to do with the loss of the treasure."

"It had this much to do," answered Kate, "that my grandfather and
your father, who of course were brothers, were so vehemently hated
by the Protestant families, many of whose members had been betrayed
to death by their means--your father in particular was relentless
in his efforts to hunt down and spy out miserable victims--that
when the Queen was known to be dead, and her successor and
Protestant sister had been proclaimed in London, the Trevlyns felt
that they had cause to tremble for their own safety. They had
stirred up relentless enmity by their own relentless conduct, and
the sudden turn in fortune's wheel had given these enemies the
upper hand."

"Ah!" breathed Cuthbert, "I begin to see."

"The Trevlyns had not served the Bloody Queen and her minions
without reward," continued Kate, with flashing eyes; "they had
heaped together no small treasure whilst this traffic in treachery
had been going on, and in many cases the valuables of the victims
they had betrayed to death had passed into the keeping of the
betrayer.

"Oh, it is a detestable thing to think of!" cried the girl,
stamping her foot. "No wonder the judgment of God fell upon that
unhallowed treasure, and that it was taken from its possessors! No
wonder it was doomed to lie hidden away till those who had gotten
it had passed to their last account, and could never enjoy the
ill-gotten gain. And they were punished too--ay, they were well
punished. They were fined terrible sums; they had to give back sums
equal to the spoil they had filched from others. Thy father, as
thou knowest, was ruined; and we still feel that pinch of poverty
that will be slow to depart altogether from our house. Yet it
serves us right--it serves us right! It is meet that the children
should suffer for the sins of their parents. I have not complained,
and I will not complain;" and Kate threw back her head, whilst her
eyes flashed with the stress of her feeling.

"But the treasure?" questioned Cuthbert, eager to know more; "I
have not yet heard how it was lost."

Thus recalled to her subject, Kate took up her narrative again.

"You doubtless know that Queen Mary died in November of the year of
grace fifteen hundred and fifty-eight. In that year, some months
earlier, my father was born, and at the time of the proclamation of
the new Queen he was a tender infant. My grandfather was in London
about the Court, and his wife and child were here in this
house--the sumptuous mansion he and his father had built--not
dreaming of harm or ill. They had not heard of the death of one
Queen or the proclamation of the other till one dark winter's night
when, just as the household were about to retire to bed, my
grandfather and your father, Cuthbert, arrived at the house, their
faces pale with anxiety and apprehension, their clothes stained
with travel; the state of both riders and horses showing the speed
with which they had travelled, and betraying plainly that something
urgent had happened. The news was quickly told. Queen Mary was
dead. Bonfires in London streets were blazing in honour of
Elizabeth. The Protestants were everywhere in a transport of joy
and triumph. The Papists were trembling for their lives and for
their fortunes. No one knew the policy of the new Queen. All felt
that it was like enough she would inflict bloody chastisement on
those who had been the enemies of herself and of her Protestant
subjects. Even as the Trevlyn brothers had passed through the
streets of the city on their way out, they had been hissed and
hooted and even pelted by the crowd, some amongst which knew well
the part they had played in the recent persecutions. They had been
not a little alarmed by threats and menaces hurled at them even in
the precincts of St. James's, and it had become very plain to them
that they would speedily become the objects of private if not of
public vengeance. That being so, my grandfather was eager and
anxious to return to the Chase, to place his wife and child in some
place of safety; whilst your father's fear was all for the treasure
in gold and plate and valuables stored up in the house, which might
well fall an easy prey to the rapacious hands of spoilers, should
such (as was but too likely) swoop down upon the house to strive to
recover the jewels and gold taken from them when they were helpless
to oppose or resent such spoliation."

"Then it was all laid by at the Chase--all the money and precious
things taken from others?"

"Yes, and a vast quantity of silver and gold plate which had come
into the possession of former Trevlyns ever since the rise of the
family in the early days of the Tudors. The seventh Henry and the
eighth alike enriched our forefathers, and I know not what wealth
was stored up in the treasure room of this house now so drearily
void. But I mind well the story our grandam told us when we were
little children, standing at her knee in the ruddy firelight, of
that night when all this treasure was packed up in great chests and
boxes, and carried at dead of night by trusty servants into the
heart of the forest, and buried beneath a certain giant oak many
times pointed out to us, and well-nigh killed in after years by the
diggings around it in search of the missing hoard. To secure this
treasure, and bury it out of the reach of rapacious and covetous
hands, was the aim and object of that hurried journey taken on the
evening of the Queen's decease. None were in the secret save three
old servants, whose faithful loyalty to the family had been tested
in a thousand different ways. Those three, together with my
grandfather and your father, packed and transported with their own
hands this great treasure into the wood, and there entombed it.
None else knew of that night's work. No other eye saw what was
done. They worked the whole night through, and by the tardy dawn
all was done, and even the soil of the forest so cleverly arranged
that none could guess at the existence of that deep grave. And who
would guess the secret of that tangled forest? Even were it thought
that the gold and silver had been hid, who would have such skill as
to guess the spot, and go and filch it thence? And yet it must have
been carried away full soon. For Nicholas Trevlyn, in his anxious
greed, visited the spot not many weeks later--visited it by
stealth, for he and his brother were alike in hiding, waiting for
the first burst of vengeful fury to be over--and he found it gone!
He thought on the first survey that all was well; but on more
closely examining the ground his heart misgave him, for it appeared
to him as if the soil had been moved. With anxious haste he began
to dig, and soon his spade struck the lid of one of the chests. For
a moment he breathed again; but he was impelled to carry his search
farther. He uncovered the chest and raised the lid--it was empty!
In a wild fear and fury he dug again and again, and with the same
result. Every chest or box was in its place, but every one was
empty! The treasure had been spirited away by some spoiler's hand;
the treasure of Trevlyn was lost from that night forward!"

Cuthbert was leaning forward drinking all in with eager curiosity.

"My father discovered the loss--my father?"

Kate nodded her head, and seemed to divine the thought in his mind,
for she answered as if he had spoken it aloud.

"We have all thought of that. I know it is sometimes in my father's
mind as he looks at his kinsman's grim face; but our grand sire
never suspected him for a moment--nay, he vowed he was certain he
had had no part nor lot in the matter. For there was nothing but
accord between the brothers; they shared good and evil hap alike.
It was with his son, my father, who abjured the old faith and
became a Protestant, that your father picked a quarrel. He hated
his brother's wife, it is true; but he never appeared to hate his
brother. And he suffered more than any in the years that followed.
He lost his all, and has been a ruined man since. If he had a
secret hoard, sure he would scarce live the life he does now."

"I know not. It seems scarce like; and yet I can never answer for
my father's moods, they are so wild and strange. But there is yet
one thing more I would ask. You spoke awhile ago of gipsies--of a
hatred they bore to our house. Tell me of that, I pray. Might it
have somewhat to do with the stealing of the treasure?"

"That is what some have thought, though with what truth none can
say. The story of that is soon told. Many long years agone now, the
Trevlyn whose portrait hangs below in the hall--our great
grandfather--gave sentence upon an old gipsy woman that she should
be burnt as a witch. Men said of her that she had overlooked their
children and their cattle: that the former had become sick or
silly, and that the latter had incontinently died of diseases none
had heard of before. There was such a hue and cry about her, and so
many witnesses to testify the harm she had done, that all men held
the case proven, and she was burnt in the sight of all the village
out upon the common yonder by order of our forefather, whose office
it was to see the law enforced. There were then many of these gipsy
folk scattered about the common and forest, and this old witch
belonged to them. They mustered strong upon the heath, and it was
said that if the villagers had not been too strong for them they
would have rescued the witch as she was led out to die. But the
Trevlyns, when a thing has to be done, are wont to carry it
through; and your grandfather, Cuthbert, was prepared against any
such attempt, and the thing was done as had been decreed. The old
woman went bravely to her death, but she turned as she passed Sir
Richard and cursed him with a terrible curse. Later on some rude
verses were found fastened to the wall of the church, and it was
said by those who had heard the curse that these verses contained
the same words. The paper was burnt by the haughty knight; but my
grandam remembered some of the lines--she had got a sight of the
paper--and used to tell them to us. I cannot recall them to memory
now, but there was something about loss of gold and coming woe,
years of strife and vengeful foe. And when years after the Trevlyn
treasure was lost, there were many who vowed that it had been the
work of the gipsy tribe, who had never forgotten or forgiven, and
who had been waiting their turn to take vengeance upon the
descendants of their old enemy."

"It seems not unlike," said Cuthbert, thoughtfully; "and if that be
so, the treasure will most like be dissipated to the four winds by
now. It would be divided amongst the tribe, and never be seen
within the walls of Trevlyn again."

"That I know not," answered Kate, and she drew a little nearer to
her cousin. "Cuthbert, dost thou believe in old saws? Dost thou
believe those predictions which run in old families, and which men
say work themselves out sometimes--in after generations?"

"I scarce know," answered Cuthbert, "I hear so little and see so
little. I know not why they should not be true. Men of old used to
look into the future, and why not now? But why speakest thou thus,
sweet cousin?"

"Marry that will I tell thee, Cuthbert; but my mother chides me for
such talk, and says it befits not a discreet and godly maiden. Yet
I had it from mine own grandam, my father's mother, and she was a
godly woman, too."

"And what did she tell thee?"

"My grandam was a Wyvern," said Kate, "as perchance thou knowest,
since the match pleased not thy father. And she was not the first
Wyvern who had married a Trevlyn. It was Isabel Wyvern, her aunt,
who had wedded with the redoubtable Sir Richard who had burnt the
old witch, and I trow had he been married when the old beldam was
brought before him he would have dealt more mercifully with her;
for the Wyverns ever protected and helped the gipsy folk, and
thought better of them than the rest of the world. Well, be that as
it may, my grandam had many stories about them and their strange
ways, their fashion of fortune telling and divining, and the
wonderful things they could foretell. Many a time had a Wyvern been
saved from danger and perhaps from death by a timely warning from
one of the gipsy folk; and from a child she went fearlessly amongst
them, though all men else shunned and hated them."

"But the prediction--the prediction?" demanded Cuthbert eagerly.

"I am coming to that," answered Kate. "It is a prediction about the
descendants of the Wyverns. My grandam knew it by heart--she had a
wondrous memory--but my mother would never let me write down such
things. She loved them not, and said they had better be forgotten.
But though I cannot recall the words, the meaning stays still with
me. It was that though death might thin the ranks of the Wyverns,
and their name even die out amongst men, yet in the future they
should bring good hap to those who wed with them, and that some
great treasure trove should come to the descendants in another
generation. Now, Cuthbert, though the name of Wyvern has died
out--for the sons went to the Spanish main, and were killed
fighting for the honour of England and the Queen in the days of
Elizabeth; and the daughters are married, and have lost their title
to the old name--yet thou and I have their blood in our veins. Your
grandam and mine were alike of the house of Wyvern. Wherefore it
seems to me that if this treasure is to be the treasure trove of
the old saw, it behoves some of us to find it, and why not thou as
well as another? Philip is like to our mother, who loves not and
believes not such saws. Our father says that if stolen the treasure
must long since have been scattered and lost. Of all our house
methinks I am the only one who believes it will yet be found, as I
know my grandam did. And so I say to thee, 'Go forth, and good hap
attend thee.' Thou art as much a Wyvern as I, and we will have
faith that all will be yet restored."

Cuthbert rose to his feet and shook back his hair. His dark eyes
flashed with the fixity of his purpose.

"I will never despair till the treasure is found. Prithee, good
cousin, show me the spot where it was buried first."

Cuthbert never stirred outside the house till after dark. He was
still in hiding from his father, who knew not his whereabouts, and
was still on the watch for the truant, believing him to be lurking
about in the forest around his home. Philip had once contrived to
see Petronella and soothe her fears, telling her that her brother
was safe, and would be sent forth to their kinsfolk in London so
soon as he was fit for the long ride. But many evening rambles had
been taken by the youth, who panted for the freedom of the forest,
to which he was so well used; and Kate delighted in any excuse for
a moonlight stroll.

The place was soon found. Kate had visited it so often that the
tangled path which led thither was as familiar to her as if it had
been a well-beaten road. It lay right away in the very heart of the
forest, and save for the majestic size of the oak beneath which the
chests had been buried, had nothing to mark the spot. Now there
were traces of much digging. The ground all around had been
disturbed again and yet again by eager searchers, each hopeful to
come upon some clue missed by all the rest. But nothing, save the
remains of a few iron-bound chests, served to show that anything
had once been secreted there; and the moonlight shone steadily and
peacefully down upon the scene of so many heart-burnings and
grievous disappointments, as though such things did not and could
not exist in such a still and lovely place.

"Ah, if she would but tell us all she has seen!" said Kate, looking
up towards the silver Queen of Night. But the moon kept her own
secret, and presently the pair turned away.

"Shall we go back by the chantry?" asked Cuthbert, with some
hesitation; "I should like to see it once again."

"Let us," answered Kate; "we are not like to meet thy father. He
has given up by now his watch around the house. Moreover, I have
eyes and ears like a wildcat. None can approach unawares upon us. I
can feel a human presence ere I see it."

Cuthbert did not lack courage, and was quite willing to chance the
small risk there was of an encounter with his father. He felt that
he could slip away unseen were that stern man to be on the watch.
Each day that had passed beneath his uncle's roof had helped him to
realize more of the freedom of the subject; and very soon he would
be beyond the reach of pursuit, and on his way to London.

As they approached the chantry Kate laid a hand upon his arm.

"Hist!" she said softly. "Pause a moment; I hear voices!"

He stopped instantly; and making a sign of caution to him, Kate
glided a few steps onward. Then she paused again, and made a sign
to him to come.

"It is all well--there is no fear. It is Philip and Petronella."

"Petronella, my sister! Nay, but this is a happy chance!" cried
Cuthbert, springing eagerly forward; and the next moment
Petronella, with a little cry of mingled joy and fear, had flung
herself into her brother's arms.

"Cuthbert, dear Cuthbert! How I have longed to see thee once again!
Hast thou come to say farewell?"

"In truth, methinks it must be farewell," answered Cuthbert,
holding her tenderly to him, whilst he caressed her hair and her
soft cheek with his hand. "I may not linger too long in my kind
uncle's house, lest the matter should come to my father's ears, and
a worse breach be made that might cause thee to suffer more, sweet
sister. And now, since I may be faring forth tomorrow, tell me of
thyself. How go matters at the Gate House? What said our father to
my flight?"

"He is right furious thereat, and raged for two days like a madman,
so that I durst not venture near him."

"He laid no hand on thee?" asked Cuthbert quickly clinching his
hand in the darkness.

"Nay, he did but threaten; but as I told him all I knew, he could
do no more. I said that thou hadst fled--that thou couldst brook
such a life no longer, and had told him so many times thyself. I
did not know myself where thou hadst gone when first he spoke, and
he has asked me no question since. Tell me not too much, lest I
have to tell it to him."

"Nay, once in London and I fear him not," answered Cuthbert. "There
the law would protect me, since my father's only complaint against
me is that I conform to that. I go first to our mother's relatives,
sweet sister, They will give me food and shelter and a home, I
trow, during the inclement months of the winter now before us.
Later on "--he bent his head and whispered in her ear--"later on,
if kind fortune befriend me, I shall return to these parts and
commence that search of which we have spoken before now. My sister,
if thou canst glean anything from our father anent the treasure,
when his less gloomy moods be upon him, store up in thine heart
every word, for some think even yet that he knows more than others.
I am sad at heart to leave thee in such a home! I would fain take
thee with me."

"Nay, that may not be. I should be but a stay and a burden; and I
can help thee better here at home by my prayers. I will pray each
hour of the day that the Holy Virgin will watch over thee and bless
thee, and give us a happy meeting in the days to come."

"And I will charge myself to watch over Petronella," said Philip,
stepping forward out of the shadow. "I will be a protector--a
brother--to her whilst thou art away. She shall not feel too
heavily her harsh father's rule. Amongst us we will find a way to
ease her of a part of that burden."

The glance turned upon Philip by those big shadowy eyes told a tale
of trustful confidence that set the young man's heart beating in
glad response. He took in his the little hand trustingly held out,
and drew Petronella towards him.

"You will trust her to me, good Cuthbert?"

"Gladly, thankfully, confidently!" answered the lad, with great
earnestness; and he thought within himself that if he had the whole
of the Trevlyn treasure to lay at the feet of these kinsmen, it
could hardly be enough to express his gratitude to them for their
timely and generous help in his hour of sore need.

"I will win it back--I will, I will!" he said in his heart, as he
walked up the hill with Kate tripping lightly beside him, Philip
having lingered to watch Petronella safely within the shelter of
the gloomy walls of the Gate House. "She shall have her dower, that
she may wed this gay Lord Culverhouse. My sweet sister shall be
dowered, too, and in no danger of spending all her youth and
sweetness shut up between those gloomy walls. Fortune will smile
once more upon all those who have the blood of the Trevlyns and
Wyverns in their veins. I believe in the old prediction. I believe
that the treasure trove will come, and that it will prove to be the
lost treasure of the house of Trevlyn!"



Chapter 4: A Night On Hammerton Heath.


"Farewell, Cuthbert, farewell, farewell! Heaven speed you on your
way! We shall look for tidings of you some day. And when the long
summer days come upon the green world, perchance you may even make
shift to ride or walk the twenty miles that separates us from
London to tell of your own well being and ask of ours."

These and many like words were showered on Cuthbert as he sat his
steed at the door of Trevlyn Chase, as the dusk was beginning to
gather, and his uncle and cousins stood clustered together on the
steps to see him ride forth to seek his fortune, as Kate insisted
on calling it, though her father spoke of it rather as a visit to
his mother's kinsfolks.

Cuthbert had been very loath to go. He had found himself happier
beneath his uncle's roof than ever he had been before (Sir Richard
was in point of fact his cousin, but the lad had given him the
title of uncle out of respect, and now never thought of him as
anything else), but he knew that to linger long would be neither
safe nor possible.

Only his strange and savage life had prevented the news of his
son's present quarters from coming to the knowledge of the angry
Nicholas, and all were feeling it better for the young man to take
his departure. Now the moment of parting had really come, and
already the hope of a flying visit to the Chase in the summer next
to follow was the brightest thought to lighten the regrets of the
present.

"Ay, that will I gladly do!" cried the lad, with kindling eyes.
"Why, twenty miles is naught of a journey when one can rise with
the midsummer sun. I trow I shall pine after the forest tracks
again. I shall have had enough and to spare of houses and cities by
the time the summer solstice is upon us."

"We shall look for you, we shall wait for you!" cried Kate, waving
her hand; and as it was fast growing dark, Sir Richard made a sign
of dismissal and farewell, and Cuthbert moved slowly along the dark
avenue, Philip walking beside his bridle rein for a few last words.

Cuthbert would have liked his sister to have seen him go forth, but
that was not thought advisable. He wore an old riding suit of
Philip's, which had fitted the latter before his shoulders had
grown so broad and his figure assumed its present manly
proportions. It suited Cuthbert well, and in spite of its having
seen some service from its former owner, was a far better and
handsomer dress than anything he had ever worn before, His own
meagre wardrobe and few possessions were packed in the saddlebag
across the saddle. His uncle had made no attempt to send him out
equipped as a relative of the house of Trevlyn, and Cuthbert was
glad that there should be no false seeming as to his condition when
he appeared at Martin Holt's door. Sir Richard had given him at
parting a small purse containing a couple of gold pieces and a few
silver crowns, and had told him that he might in London sell the
nag he bestrode and keep the price himself. He was not an animal of
any value, and had already seen his best days, but he would carry
Cuthbert soberly and safely to London town; and as the lad was
still somewhat weak from his father's savage treatment, he was not
sorry to be spared the long tramp over the deep mud of winter
roads.

"I would not have you travel far tonight," said Philip, as he paced
beside the sure-footed beast, who leisurely picked his way along
the familiar road. "The moon will be up, to be sure, ere long; but
it is ill travelling in the night. It is well to get clear of this
neighbourhood in the dark, for fear your father might chance to
espy you and make your going difficult. Yet I would have you ask
shelter for your steed and yourself tonight at the little hostelry
you will find just this side Hammerton Heath. The heath is an ill
place for travellers, as you doubtless know. If you should lose the
road, as is like enough, it being as evil and rough a track as well
may be, you will like enough plunge into some bog or morass from
which you may think yourself lucky to escape with life. And if you
do contrive to keep to the track, the light-heeled gentlemen of the
road may swoop down upon you like birds of prey, and rob you of the
little worldly wealth that you possess. Wherefore I counsel you to
pause ere you reach that ill-omened waste, and pass the night at
the hostel there. The beds may be something poor, but they will be
better than the wet bog, and you will be less like to be robbed
there than on the road."

"I will take your good counsel, cousin," said Cuthbert. "I have not
much to lose, but that little is my all. I will stop at the place
you bid me, and only journey forth across the heath when the
morrow's sun be up."

"You will do well. And now farewell, for I must return. I will do
all that in me lies to watch over and guard Petronella. She shall
be to me as a sister, and I will act a brother's part by her, until
I may have won a right to call her something more. Have no fears
for her. I will die sooner than she shall suffer. Her father shall
not visit on her his wrath at your escape."

The cousins parted on excellent terms, and Cuthbert turned, with a
strange smile on his brave young face, for a last look at the old
Gate House, the gray masonry of which gleamed out between the dark
masses of the leafless trees, a single light flickering faintly in
an upper casement.

"Petronella's light!" murmured Cuthbert to himself. "I trow well
she is thinking of me and praying for me before the little shrine
in the turret. May the Holy Saints and Blessed Virgin watch over
and protect her! I trust the day may come ere long when I may have
power to rescue her from that evil home, and give to her a dower
that shall make her not unworthy of being Philip's wife."

By which it may be seen that Cuthbert's thoughts were still running
on the lost treasure, and that he had by no means relinquished his
dream of discovery through hearing how others had sought and
failed.

"If I may but win a little gold in these winter days when the
forest is too inhospitable to be scoured and searched, I can give
the whole of the summer to the quest. I will find these gipsies or
their descendants and live amongst them as one of them. I will
learn their ways, win their trust, and gradually discover all that
they themselves know. Who dare say that I may not yet be the one to
bring back the lost luck to the house of Trevlyn? Has it always
been the prosperous and rich that have won the greatest prize? A
humble youth such as I may do far more in the wild forest than
those who have been bred to ease and luxury, and have to keep state
and dignity."

Thus musing, Cuthbert rode slowly along in the light of the rising
moon, his thoughts less occupied with the things he was leaving
behind than with thoughts of the future and what it was to bring
forth. The lad had all the pride of his house latent within him,
and it delighted him to picture the day when he might return all
Sir Richard's benefits a thousandfold by coming to him with the
news of the lost treasure, and bidding him take the elder brother's
share before ever his own father even knew that it had been found
at last. His heart beat high as he pictured that day, and thought
how he should watch the light coming into Kate's bright eyes, as
the obstacle to her nuptials should be thus removed. Sure she could
coax her father to remove his veto and overlook the cousinship if
she had dower to satisfy Lord Andover. And if the Trevlyn treasure
were but half what men believed, there would be ample to dower all
three daughters and fill the family coffers, too.

"In truth it is a thing well worth living for!" cried the eager
lad, as he pushed his way out of the wood and upon the highroad,
where for a time travelling was somewhat better. "And why should I
not succeed even though others have failed? My proud kinsmen have
never lived in the forest themselves, learning its every secret
winding track, making friends of its wild sons and daughters,
learning the strange lore that only the children of the forest
gather. What chance had they of learning secrets which but few may
know? I trow none. I will not believe that great treasure has been
cast away to the four winds. I verily believe it is still hidden
away beneath the earth in some strange resting place known but to a
few living souls. What do these wild gipsy folks want with gold and
silver and jewels? They have all they need with the heavens above
them and the earth beneath. They may love to have a buried hoard;
they may love to feel that they have treasure at command if they
desire it; but I can better believe they would keep it safe hidden
in their forest or moorland home than that they would scatter it
abroad by dividing it amongst their tribe. Moreover, any such
sudden wealth would draw upon them suspicion and contumely. They
would be hunted down and persecuted like the Jews in old days. No:
they may well have stolen it out of revenge, but I believe they
have hidden it away as they took it. It shall be my part to learn
where it lies; and may the Holy Saints aid and bless me in the
search!"

Cuthbert crossed himself as he invoked the Saints, for at heart he
was a Romanist still, albeit he had had the wit to see that the
same cardinal doctrines were taught by the Established Church of
the land, whose services he had several times attended. And even as
he made the gesture he became suddenly aware that he was not alone
on the road. A solitary traveller mounted on a strong horse was
standing beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, and regarding his
approach with some curiosity, though the lad had not been aware of
his close proximity until his horse paused and snorted.

"Good even, young man," said this traveller, in a pleasant voice
that bespoke gentle birth. "I was waiting to see if I had an enemy
to deal with in the shape of one of those rogues of the road,
cutpurses or highwaymen, of whom one bears so many a long tale. But
these travel in companies, and it behoves wise travellers to do
likewise. How comes it that a stripling like you are out alone in
this lone place? Is it a hardy courage or stern necessity?"

"I know not that it is one or the other," answered Cuthbert. "But I
have not far to go this night, and I have not much to lose, though
as that little is my all I shall make a fight ere I part with it.
But by what I hear there is little danger of molestation till one
reaches Hammerton Heath. And I propose to halt on the edge of that
place, and sleep at the hostelry there."

"If you follow my counsel, my young friend," said the stranger as
he paced along beside Cuthbert, "you will not adventure yourself in
that den of thieves. Not long ago it was a safe place for a
traveller, but now it is more perilous to enter those doors than to
spend the darkest night upon the road. The new landlord is in
league with the worst of the rogues and foot pads who frequent the
heath, and no traveller who dares to ask a night's shelter there is
allowed to depart without suffering injury either in person or
pocket. Whither are you bound, my young friend, if I may ask the
question?"

"For London, sir. I have an uncle there whom I am about to seek.
But the way is something strange to me when the heath be passed,
and I know not if I can find it in the dark."

"I also am bound for London," answered the stranger, "and in these
days it is better to travel two than one, and four than two. But
being no more than two, we must e'en hope for the best if we fall
not in with other belated travellers. My business brooked not
delay; wherefore I came alone. I mislike the fetter of a retinue of
servants, and I have had wonderful good hap on the roads; but there
be others who tell a different tale, and I often join company when
I find a traveller to my liking going my way."

Cuthbert was glad enough to have a companion. This man was many
years his senior, so that he was somewhat flattered by the
proposition of riding in his company; moreover, he was plainly a
gentleman of some condition, whose fancy it was (not his necessity)
to travel thus unattended. Also he was speedily conscious of a
strange sense of fascination which this stranger exercised upon
him, for which he could not in the least account; and he quickly
found himself answering the questions carelessly addressed to him
with a freedom that surprised himself; for why should there be such
pleasure in talking of himself and his prospects to one whose name
he did not even know?

When first he had pronounced his name, he observed that the
stranger gave him a quick, keen glance; and after they had been
some time in conversation, he spoke with a sudden gravity and
earnestness that was decidedly impressive.

"Young man, I trust that you are loyal and true to the faith of
those forefathers of yours who have been one of England's brightest
ornaments. In these latter days there has been a falling away. Men
have let slip the ancient truths. Love of the world has been
stronger within them than love of the truth. They have let
themselves be corrupted by heresy; they have lost their first love.
I trust it is not so with you. I trust you are one of the faithful
who are yet looking for brighter days for England, when she shall
be gathered again to the arms of the true Church. But a few minutes
ago I saw you make the holy sign, and my heart went out to you as
to a brother. These Protestants deny and contemn that symbol, as
they despise and contemn in their wantonness the ordinances of God
and the authority of His Vicar. I trust you have not fallen into
like error; I trust that you are a true son of the old stock of
Trevlyn?"

"I know little of such disputed matters," answered Cuthbert, made a
little nervous by the ardent glance bent upon him from the bright
eyes of the speaker. He had a dark, narrow face, pale and eager, a
small, pointed beard trimmed after the fashion of the times, and
the wide-brimmed sugar-loaf hat drawn down upon his brows cast a
deep shadow over his features. But his voice was peculiarly
melodious and persuasive, and there was a nameless attraction about
him that Cuthbert was quick to feel. Others in the days to follow
felt it to their own undoing, but of that the lad knew nothing. He
only wished to retain the good opinion this stranger seemed to have
formed of him.

"I have led but a hermit's life, as I have told you. I have been
bred up in the faith of my forefathers, and that faith I believe.
What perplexes me is that those who hold the Established or
Reformed faith, as men term it, have the same creeds, the same
doctrines as we ourselves. I have from time to time conformed to
the law, and gone to the services, and I have not heard aught
spoken within their walls that our good priest in old days used not
to tell me was sound doctrine. There be things he taught me that
these men say naught about; but no man may in one discourse touch
upon every point of doctrine. I freely own that I have been sorely
perplexed to know whence comes all this strife, all these heart
burnings."

"Thou wilt know and understand full soon, when once thou hast seen
the life of the great city and the strife of faction there,"
answered his companion, lapsing into the familiar "thou" as he
spoke with increased earnestness. "In thy hermit's life thou hast
had no knowledge of the robbery, the desecration, the pollution
which our Holy Mother Church has undergone from these pestilent
heretics, who have thought to denude her of her beauty and her
glory, whilst striving to retain such things as jump with their
crabbed humours, and may be pared down to please their poisoned and
vicious minds. Ah! it makes the blood boil in the veins of the true
sons of the Church, as thou wilt find, my youthful friend, when
thou gettest amongst them. But it will not always last. The day of
reckoning will come--nay, is already coming when men shall find
that the Blessed and Holy Church may not be defiled and downtrodden
with impunity for ever. Ah yes! the day will come--it is even at
the door--when God shall arise and his enemies be scattered.
Scattered--scattered! verily that is the word. And the sons of the
true faith throughout the length and breadth of the land shall
arise and rejoice, and the heretics shall stand amazed and
confounded!"

As he spoke these words his figure seemed to expand, and he raised
his right hand to heaven with a peculiar gesture of mingled menace
and appeal. Cuthbert was silent and amazed. He did not understand
in the least the tenor of these wild words, but he was awed and
impressed, and felt at once that the strife and stress of the great
world into which he was faring was something very different from
anything he had conceived of before.

By this time the travellers had reached the dreary waste called by
the inhabitants Hammerton Heath. At some seasons of the year it was
golden with gorse or purple with ling, but in this drear winter
season it was bare and colourless, and utterly desolate. The
outline of dark forests could be seen all around on the horizon;
but the road led over the exposed ground, where not a tree broke
the monotony of the way. Cuthbert was glad enough to have a
companion to ride by his side over the lonely waste, which looked
its loneliest in the cold radiance of the moon. He did not reply to
the strange words he had just heard, and his companion, after a
brief pause, resumed his discourse in a different tone, telling the
lad more about London and the life there than ever he had heard in
his life before. But the moral of his discourse was always the
sufferings, the wrongs, the troubles of the Roman Catholics, who
had looked for better times under Mary Stuart's son; and gradually
raising within the breast of the youth a feeling of warm sympathy
with those of his own faith, and a distrust and abhorrence of the
laws that made life well nigh impossible for the true sons of the
Church.

"Ruined in estate, too often injured in body, hated, despised,
hunted to death like beasts of the earth, what is left for us but
some great struggle after our lives and liberties?" concluded the
speaker, in his half melancholy, half ardent way. "Verily, when
things be so bad that they cannot well be worse, then truly men
begin to think that the hour of action is at hand. Be the night
never so long, the dawn comes at last. And so will our day dawn for
us--though it may dawn in clouds of smoke and vapour, and with a
terrible sound of destruction."

But these last words were hardly heard by Cuthbert, whose attention
had been attracted by the regular beat of horse hoofs upon the road
behind. Although the track was but a sandy path full of ruts and
holes, the sound travelled clearly through the still night air.
Whoever these new travellers were, they were coming along at a
brisk pace, and Cuthbert drew rein to look behind him.

"There be horsemen coming this way!" he said.

"Ay, verily there be; and moreover I mislike their looks. Honest
folks do not gallop over these bad roads in yon headlong fashion. I
doubt not they be robbers, eager to overtake and despoil us. We
must make shift to press on at the top of our speed. This is an ill
place to be overtaken. We have no chance against such numbers.
Luckily our steeds are not way worn; they have but jogged
comfortably along these many miles. Push your beast to a gallop, my
lad; there is no time to lose."

Cuthbert essayed to do this; but honest old Dobbin had no notion of
a pace faster than a leisurely amble. Most of his work had been
done in the plough, and he had no liking for the rapid gallop
demanded by his rider.

The lad soon saw how it stood with him, and called out to his
well-mounted companion not to tarry for him, but to leave him to
chance and kind fortune.

"I have so little to lose that they may not think me worth the
robbing, belike. But you, sir, must not linger. Your good steed is
equal to theirs, I doubt not, and will carry you safe across the
heath."

"Ay, verily he will. I purchased him for that same speed, and it
has never failed me yet. I fear not pursuit. My only peril lies in
the chance of meeting a second band watching the road farther on. I
like not thus to leave you, boy; but I have no choice. I may not
risk being robbed of my papers. There be more in them than must be
suffered to be scanned by any eyes for which they were not meant.
My gold might go, and welcome, but I must save my papers. And if
thou hast any small valuables about thee, I will charge myself with
the care of them, and thou canst call at my lodging in London when
thou gettest there to claim thine own again. 'Twill be the better
chance than leaving yon gentlemen to rid thee of them."

The smile with which the stranger uttered these words was so
winning and frank, that Cuthbert placed his purse in the
outstretched hand without a qualm.

"When thou wantest thine own again, go to the Cat and Fiddle in the
thoroughfare of Holborn, and ask news there of Master Robert
Catesby. It is an eating house and tavern where I am constantly to
be met with. If I be not lodging there at that very time, thou wilt
have news of me there. Farewell; and keep up a brave heart. These
fellows are less harsh with poor travellers than rich. Let them see
you have small fear, and it will be the better for all."

These last words were faintly borne back to Cuthbert on the wings
of the wind, as his companion galloped with long easy strides
across the heath. A little dip in the ground hid for a moment their
pursuers from sight, and before they emerged upon the crest of the
undulation, Master Robert Catesby was practically out of sight; for
a cloud had obscured the brightness of the moon, and only a short
distance off objects became invisible.

Cuthbert rode slowly on his way, trying to compose himself to the
state of coolness and courage that he would like to show in the
hour of danger. He felt the beatings of his heart, but they were
due as much to excitement as to fear. In truth he was more excited
than afraid; for he had absolutely nothing to lose save a suit of
old clothes and his horse, and both of these were in sorry enough
plight to be little tempting to those hardy ruffians, who were
accustomed to have travellers to rob of a far superior stamp.

Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse hoofs, and a loud, rough
voice ordered him to stop.

Cuthbert obeyed, and wheeled round on his placid steed, who showed
no sign of disquietude or excitement, but at once commenced to
nibble the short grass that grew beside the sandy track.

"And what do you want of me, gentlemen?" asked Cuthbert, as he
found himself confronted by half-a-dozen stalwart fellows, with
swarthy faces and vigorous frames. They were all armed and well
mounted, and would have been formidable enough to a wealthy
traveller with his stuff or valuables about him.

"Your money--or your life!" was the concise reply and Cuthbert was
able to smile as he replied:

"Marry then, it must be my life, for money I have none. I have
naught but an old suit of clothes and a breviary in yon bag. You
are welcome to both an ye will condescend to wear such habiliments;
but I trow ye would find them sorry garments after those ye now
display."

"Tut, tut! we will see to that. There be many cunning fashions of
hiding money, and we are used to such tales as yours. Where is your
companion, young man?"

"Nay, I have no companion," answered Cuthbert, who was sufficiently
imbued with the spirit of his father's creed not to hesitate for a
moment to utter an untruth in a good cause, and think no shame of
it; "I am journeying forth to London alone, to seek a relative
there, who methinks will help me to earn an honest livelihood. I
would I were the rich man you take me for. But even the dress I
wear is mine through the charity of a kinsman, as is also the nag I
ride. And I misdoubt me if you would find him of much use to you in
your occupation."

One or two of the men laughed. They looked at Dobbin and then at
his rider, and seemed to give credence to this tale. Cuthbert's
boyish face and fearless manner seemed to work in his favour, and
one of the band remarked that he was a bold young blade, and if in
search of a fortune, might do worse than cast in his lot with them.

"Yet I verily thought there had been two," grumbled another of the
band; "I wonder if he speaks sooth."

"I warrant me he does, else where should the other be? It was a
trick of the moonlight; it often deceives us so.

"Come now, my young cockerel; you can crow lustily, it seems, and
keep a bold face where others shrink and tremble and flee. How say
you? will you follow us to our lodging place for the night? And if
we find no money concealed about you, and if your story of your
poverty be true, you can think well whether you will choose to cast
in your lot with us. Many a poor man has done so and become rich,
and the life is a better one than many."

All this was spoken in a careless, mocking way, and Cuthbert did
not know if the proposal were made in good faith or no. But it was
plain that no harm was meant to his life or person, and as he was
in no fear from any search of his clothes and bag, he was ready and
willing to accept the invitation offered, and by no means sorry to
think he should be relieved from spending the night in the saddle.

"I will gladly go with you," he answered. "I have spoken naught but
sooth, and I have no fear. My person and my goods are in your
hands. Do as you will with them; I have too little to lose to make
a moan were you to rob me of all."

"We rob not the poor; we only rob the rich--those arrogant,
purse-proud rogues who batten and fatten on what they wring from
the poor," answered, in quick, scornful accents, the man who
appeared to be the leader of this little band. "On them we have
scant pity. They have but stolen, in cunning though lawful fashion,
what we wrest from them, lawlessly it may be, yet with as good a
right in the sight of the free heavens as any they practise. But we
filch not gold nor goods from the poor, the thrifty, the sons of
toil; nay, there be times when we restore to these what has been
drained from them by injustice and tyranny. We be not the common
freebooters of the road, who set on all alike, and take human life
for pure love of killing. We have our own laws, our own ways, our
own code of right and wrong; and we recruit our ranks from bold
lads like you, upon whom fortune has not smiled, and who come to us
to see if we can help them to better things."

Cuthbert was greatly interested in this adventure. He looked into
the dark, handsome face of the man who rode beside him, and
wondered if some gipsy blood might not run in his veins. The gipsy
people of whom Kate had spoken were well known in all this region,
and despite the roving life they led, appeared to be rooted to a
certain extent to this wild and wooded tract. He had seen dark
faces like this before in the woods; he had often heard stories of
the doings of the gipsies around. Before, he had not thought much
of this; but now, his interest was keenly excited, and he was
delighted to have this opportunity of studying them at close
quarters.

"Where are we going, Tyrrel?" asked one of the followers. "It is a
bitter cold night, now the wind has shifted, and we are far enough
away from Dead Man's Hole."

"I am not bound for Dead Man's Hole. We will to the ruined mill,
and ask Miriam to give us shelter for the night. We have ridden
far, and our steeds are weary. I trow she will give us a welcome."

This proposition seemed to give general satisfaction. The men
plodded on after their leader, who kept Cuthbert close beside him,
and they all moved across the heath in an irregular fashion,
following some path known only to themselves, until they reached
the wooded track to the left, and plunged into the brushwood again,
picking their way carefully as they went, and all the while
descending lower and lower into the hollow, till the rush of water
became more and more distinctly audible, and Cuthbert knew by the
sound that they must be approaching a waterfall of some kind.

One of the men had ridden forward to give notice of their approach,
and soon in the flickering moonlight the gray walls of an ancient
mill, now greatly fallen to decay, became visible to the
travellers' eyes. From the open door streamed out a flood of ruddy
light, cheering indeed to cold and weary men; whilst framed in this
ruddy glow was a tall and picturesque figure--the figure of an old
woman, a scarlet kerchief tied over her white hair, whilst her
dress displayed that picturesque medley of colours that has always
been the prevailing characteristic of the gipsy race.

"You are welcome, son Tyrrel," quoth the mistress of this lone
dwelling, as the little cavalcade drew up at the door. "It is long
since you favoured old Miriam with a visit. Yet you come at no ill
time, since Red Ronald brought us in a fat buck but yesternight,
and I have made oaten cakes today, and pies of the best. But who is
that with you! I like not new faces in my dwelling place. It were
well you should remember this ere you bring a stranger with you."

The old woman's face suddenly darkened as she spoke these last
words, and her wonderful eyes, so large and dark as to resemble
rather those of a deer than a human being, flashed fiercely, whilst
she seemed about to close the door in Tyrrel's face. But he pushed
in with a light laugh, leading Cuthbert with him, and saying as he
did so:

"Nay, nay, mother, be not so fierce. He is an honest lad enough, I
trow; if not, 'twill be the worse for him anon. We have brought him
hither to search him if he carries gold concealed. If not, and he
proves to have spoken sooth, he may go his way or join with us,
whichever likes him best. We could do with a few more bold lads,
since death has been something busy of late; and he seems to have
the grit in him one looks for in those who join with us. Moreover,
he has the dark eyes, and would soon have the swarth skin, that
distinguish our merry men all.

"How now, mother! Thou hast eyes for none but the lad! Why lookst
thou at him so?"

Cuthbert, too, gazed wonderingly at the handsome old gipsy, who
continued to keep her eyes fixed upon him, as if by a species of
fascination. He could no more withdraw his gaze than can the bird
whom the snake is luring to destruction.

"Boy, what is thy name?" she asked, in a quick, harsh whisper.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," he answered, without hesitation, and at the
name a wild laugh rang out through the vaulted room, illumined by
the glow of a huge fire of logs, whilst all present started and
looked at one another.

"I knew it--I knew it!" cried the old woman, with a wild gesture of
her withered arms, which were bare to the elbow, as though she had
been engaged in culinary tasks. "I knew it--I knew it! I knew it
the moment the light fell upon his face. Trevlyn--Trevlyn! one of
that accursed brood! Heaven be praised, the hour of vengeance has
come! We will do unto one of them even as they did unto us;" and
she waved her arms again in the air, and glanced towards the
glowing fire on the hearth with a look in her wild eyes that for a
moment caused Cuthbert's heart to stand still. For he remembered
the story of the witch burned by his grand sire's mandate, and he
felt he was not mistaken in the interpretation he had put upon the
old woman's words.

But Tyrrel roughly interposed.

"No more of that, mother," he said. "We have wiped out that old
score long ago. The lad is a bold lad, Trevlyn or no. Let us to
supper now, and forget those accursed beldam's tales. Where is Long
Robin, and what is he doing? and where is Joanna tonight?"

"Here," answered a clear, full voice from the shadows of the
inglenook, and forth there stepped a very queenly-looking woman, in
the prime of life, when youth's bloom has not been altogether left
behind, and yet all the grace of womanhood, with its dignity and
ease, has come to give an added charm. One glance from the old
woman's face to that of the young one showed them to be mother and
daughter, and it did not take a sharp eye to see that Tyrrel, as he
was always called, was deeply enamoured of the beautiful Joanna,
though treated by her with scant notice, and as though he were yet
a boy, scarce worthy of being looked at or spoken to.

She stood in the glow of the fire, a tall, graceful presence, to
the full as picturesque as her gipsy mother, and far more
attractive. Cuthbert's eyes turned upon her with an unconscious
appeal in them; for it suddenly dawned upon him that for a Trevlyn
to adventure himself amongst these wild gipsy folks was like
putting the head into a lion's mouth.

It almost seemed as though Joanna read this doubt and this fear;
for a flashing smile crossed her dark face, and she held out a
shapely hand to lead the guest to the table.

"Thou art welcome to our board, Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, "as is
any hapless stranger in these wilds, be he Trevlyn or no. Thou
shalt eat our salt this night, and then woe betide the man who
dares to lay hand on thee;" and such a glance was flashed around
from her magnificent dark eyes as caused each one that met it to
resolve to take good heed to his ways. "Thou shalt come and go
unmolested; Joanna the Gipsy Queen has so decreed it!"

Every one present, the old woman included, bent the head at these
words, and Cuthbert felt by some instinct that his life was now
safe.



Chapter 5: The House On The Bridge.


"Keren Happuch."

"Yes, aunt."

The reply came only after a brief pause, as though the rosy-cheeked
maiden at the casement would fain have declined to answer to that
abhorred name had she dared--which was indeed pretty much the case;
for though it was undeniably her own, and she could not gainsay the
unpalatable fact, nobody in the world but Aunt Susan ever aggrieved
her by using it. Even her grave father had adopted the "Cherry"
that was universal alike with relatives and friends, and the girl
never heard the clumsy and odious appellation without a natural
longing to box the offender's ears.

"What art doing, child?" questioned the voice from below.

Now Cherry was undeniably idling away the morning hours by looking
out of her window at the lively scene below; and perhaps it was
scarce wonderful that the sights and sounds without attracted her.
It was a sunny November morning, and the sun was shining quite
hotly; for the soft wind from the south was blowing--it had
suddenly veered round in the night--and all nature seemed to be
rejoicing in the change. The river ran sparkling on its way to the
sea; the barges and wherries, and larger craft that anchored in the
stream or plied their way up and down, gave animation and
brightness to the great water way; whilst the old bridge, with its
quaint-timbered houses with their projecting upper stories, its
shops with their swinging signs, and noisy apprentices crying their
masters' wares or playing or quarrelling in the open street, and
its throngs of passers by, from the blind beggar to the gay court
gallant, provided a shifting and endless panorama of entertainment
to the onlooker, which pretty Mistress Cherry certainly
appreciated, if no one else in that grave Puritan household did the
like. But possibly she thought that her aunt's question must not be
too literally answered, for she hastily skipped across the panelled
chamber, seized her distaff, and answered meekly;

"I am about to spin, aunt."

"Humph!" the answer sounded more like a grunt than anything else,
and warned Cherry that Mistress Susan, her father's sister, who had
ruled his household for the past ten years, since the death of his
wife, was in no very amiable temper.

"I know what that means. Thy spinning is a fine excuse for idling
away thy time in the parlour, when thou mightest be learning
housewifery below. Much flax thou spinnest when I am not by to
watch! It is a pity thou wert not a fine lady born!"

Cherry certainly was decidedly of this opinion herself, albeit she
would not have dared to say as much. She liked soft raiment, bright
colours, dainty ways, and pretty speeches. Looking down from her
window upon the passers by, it was her favourite pastime to fancy
herself one of the hooped and powdered and gorgeously-apparelled
ladies, with their monstrous farthingales, their stiff petticoats,
their fans, their patches, and their saucy, coquettish ways to the
gentlemen in their train. All this bedizenment, which had by no
means died out with the death of a Queen who had loved and
encouraged it, was dear to the eyes of the little maiden, whose own
sad-coloured garments and severe simplicity of attire was a
constant source of annoyance to her. Not that she wished to ape the
fine dames in her small person. She knew her place better than
that. She was a tradesman's daughter, and it would ill have
beseemed her to attire herself in silk and velvet, even though the
sumptuary laws had been repealed. But she did not see why she might
not have a scarlet under-petticoat like Rachel Dyson, her own
cousin, or a gay bird's wing to adorn her hat on holiday occasions.
The utmost she had ever achieved for herself was a fine soft
coverchief for her head, instead of the close unyielding coif which
all her relatives wore, which quite concealed their hair, and gave
a quaint severity to their square and homely faces. Cherry's face
was not square, but a little pointed, piquant countenance, from
which a pair of long-lashed gray eyes looked forth with saucy,
mischievous brightness. Her skin was very fair, with a peach-like
bloom upon it, and her pretty hair hung round it in a mass of red
gold curls.

Cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair
uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her
family. But she had contrived to assume the softly-flowing
coverchief, more like a veil than a cap, which was infinitely
becoming to the sweet childish face, and allowed the pretty curls
to be seen flowing down on either side till they reached the
shoulders. For the rest, her dress was severely plain in its
simplicity: the snow-white kerchief, crossed in front and made fast
behind; the under-petticoat of gray homespun, just showing the
black hose and buckled shoes beneath; and the over-dress of sombre
black or dark brown, puffed out a little over the hips in the
pannier fashion, but without any pretence at following the
extravagances of the day. The sleeves buttoned tightly to the lower
arm, though wider at the cuff, and rose high upon the shoulder with
something of a puff. It was a simple and by no means an unbecoming
style of costume; but Cherry secretly repined at the monotony of
always dressing in precisely the same fashion. Other friends of her
own standing had plenty of pretty things suited to their station,
and why not she? If she asked the question of any, the answer she
always got was that her father followed the Puritan fashions of
dressing and thinking and speaking, and that he held fine clothes
in abhorrence. Cherry would pout a little, and think it a hard
thing that she had been born a Puritan's daughter; but on the whole
she was happy and contented enough, only she did reckon the rule of
Aunt Susan in her father's house as something of a hardship.

But it did not do to offend that worthy dame, who was the very
model of all housewives, and whose careful management and excellent
cookery caused Martin Holt's house to be something of a proverb and
a pattern to other folks' wives. So now the girl replied
submissively:

"I need not spin, an it please thee not, aunt. Hast thou aught for
me to do below?"

"Ay, plenty, child, if thou canst give thy mind to work. Abraham
Dyson and Anthony Cole sup with us tonight, and I am making a
herring pie."

A herring pie was a serious undertaking in the domestic economy of
the house on the bridge, and Mistress Susan prided herself on her
skill in the concoction of this delicate dish above almost any
other achievement. She had a mysterious receipt of her own for it,
into the secret of which she would let no other living soul, not
even the dutiful nieces who assisted at the manufacture of the
component parts. Cherry heaved a sigh when she heard what was in
prospect, but laid aside her distaff and proceeded to don a great
coarse apron, and to unbutton and turn back her sleeves, leaving
her pretty round white arms bare for her culinary task. But there
was a little pucker of perplexity and vexation on her forehead,
which was not caused by any distaste of cookery.

"If Uncle Abraham comes, sure he will bring Jacob with him; he
always does. If it were Rachel I would not mind; but I cannot abear
Jacob, with his great hairy hands and fat cheeks. And if I be pert
to him, my father chides; and if I be kind, he makes me past all
patience with his rolling eyes and foolish ways and words. I know
what they all think; but I'll none of him! He had better try for
Kezzie, who would jump down his throat as soon as look at him. She
fair rails on me for not treating him well. Let her take him
herself, the loutish loon!"

And tossing her head so that her coverchief required readjusting,
Cherry slipped down the narrow wooden staircase into the rooms that
lay below.

Kitchen and dining parlour occupied the whole of this floor, which
was not the ground floor of the house. That was taken up by the
shop, in which Martin Holt's samples of wools and stuffs were
exposed. He was more (to borrow a modern expression) in the
wholesale than the retail line of business, and his shop was
nothing very great to look at, and did not at all indicate the
scope of his real trade and substance; but it was a convenient
place for customers to come to, to examine samples and talk over
their orders. Martin Holt sat all day long in a parlour behind the
shop, pretty well filled with bales and sacks and other impedimenta
of his trade, and received those who came to him in the way of
business. He had warehouses, too, along the wharves of Thames
Street, and visited them regularly; but he preferred to transact
business in his own house, and this dull-looking shop was quite a
small centre for wool merchants, wool manufacturers, and even for
the farmers who grew the wool on the backs of the sheep they bred
in the green pastures. No more upright and fair-dealing man than
Martin Holt was to be found in all London town; and though he had
not made haste to be rich, like some, nor had his father before
him, having a wholesome horror of those tricks and shifts which
have grown more and more common as the world has grown older, yet
honest dealing and equitable trading had had its own substantial
reward, and wealth was now steadily flowing into Martin's coffers,
albeit he remained just the same simple, unassuming man of business
as he had ever been when the golden stream of prosperity had not
reached his doors.

But the ground floor of the bridge house being occupied in business
purposes, the first floor had of necessity been given up to cookery
and feeding. The front room was the eating parlour, and was only
furnished by a long table and benches, with one high-backed
armchair at either end. It overlooked the street and the river,
like the living parlour above; and behind lay the kitchen, with a
back kitchen or scullery beyond. From the windows of either of
these back rooms the busy cooks could fling their refuse into the
river, and exceedingly handy did they find this, as did likewise
their neighbours. Nor did the fact that the river water was drunk
by themselves and a large number of the inhabitants of the city in
any way interfere with their satisfaction at the convenience of
these domestic arrangements. The beat, beat of the great water
wheel was always in their ears to remind them; but no misgivings
had yet assailed our forefathers as to the desirability of drinking
water polluted by sewage and other abominations. True, the plague
was constantly desolating the city, and had been raging so
violently but a single year back that the King's coronation had
well nigh had to be postponed, and he dared not adventure himself
into London itself, nor summon his Parliament to meet him there.
But it was for another generation to put together cause and effect,
and wonder how far tainted water was responsible for the spread of
the fatal malady.

As Cherry entered the eating parlour, her two sisters looked up
from their tasks, as if with a smile of welcome. Jemima was busy
with the almond paste, which was an important ingredient of the
herring pie; Keziah was stoning the dates, grating the manchet, and
preparing the numerous other ingredients--currants, gooseberries,
barberries--which, being preserved in bottles in the spring and
summer, were always ready to hand in Mistress Susan's cookery. From
the open door of the kitchen proceeded a villainous smell of
herrings, which caused Cherry to turn up her pretty nose in a
grimace that set Keziah laughing. Both these elder damsels, who
were neither blooming nor pretty nor graceful, like their youngest
sister, though they bid fair to be excellent housewives and docile
and tractable spouses, delighted in the beauty and wit and
freshness of Cherry. They had never envied her her pretty ways and
charming face, but had taken the same pleasure in both that a
mother or affectionate aunt might do. They spoke of her and thought
of her as "the child," and if any hard or disagreeable piece of
work had to be done, they both vied with each other in contriving
that it should not fall to Cherry's lot.

Cherry, although she dearly loved her homely sisters, as well she
might, never could quite realize that they were her sisters, and
not her aunts. Although Keziah was only six years her senior, it
seemed more like ten, and Jemima had three years' start of Keziah.
They treated her with an indulgence rare between sisters, and from
the fact of their being so staid and grave for their years, Cherry
could scarcely be blamed for feeling as though she was the only
young thing in the house. Her father talked of grave matters with
her aunt and sisters, whilst she sat gaping in weariness or got a
book in which to lose herself. They understood those mysterious
theological and political discussions which were a constant source
of perplexity and irritation to Cherry.

"As if it mattered one way or another," she would say to herself.
"I can't see that one way is a bit better than another! I wonder
folks can care to make such a coil about it."

"Hast come to help us with the pie, Cherry?" asked Jemima kindly.
"There, then, take my place with the paste; 'tis almost ready, but
would do with a trifle more beating. And there be fowls to draw and
get ready for the oven, and I know thou lovest not such a task."

Cherry shuddered at the thought, and gladly took Jemima's place,
tasting the almond with an air of relish, and going about her tasks
with a dainty air that would have angered Aunt Susan, but which
honest Keziah regarded with admiration.

"How many be coming to supper tonight?" asked Cherry. "Is it to be
a gathering?"

"Nay, I scarce know. I have only heard what aunt said to thee.
Father spoke of guests without saying the number, and she said our
uncle would be there, and Master Anthony Cole and his son. Whether
there be any others I know not; belike Rachel and Jacob may come
too."

"Now I am sore puzzled anent this Anthony Cole," said Cherry, as
she beat her paste and leaned towards Keziah, so that her voice
might not carry as far as the kitchen.

"And wherefore art thou puzzled, child?"

"Marry, because it was but a short while ago that we were forbid
even to speak with him or any in his house, neighbours though we
be; and now he comes oft, and father gives him good welcome, and
bids him to sup with us. It fairly perplexes me to know why."

Keziah also lowered her voice as she replied:

"We were forbid his house because that he and his household be all
Papists."

"Ay, verily, that I know. But they be none the less Papists now,
and yet we give them good day when we meet, and sit at the same
board with them in all amity. Are they turning Protestant then, or
what?"

Keziah shook her head.

"It is not that," she said.

Nay, then, what is it?"

"Marry, methinks it is that we are companions in distress, and that
a common trouble draws us the closer together. Thou must have
heard--"

"Oh, I hear words, words, words! but I heed them not. It is like
eating dust and ashes."

"Nay, thou art but a child, and these things are not for children,"
answered Keziah, indulgently. "And, indeed, they are hard to be
understood, save by the wise and learned. But this much I gather:
When the King came to the throne, all men hoped for better
days--liberty to think each according to his conscience, liberty
each to follow his own priest or pastor, and join without fear in
his own form of worship. The Papists believed that the son of Mary
Stuart would scarce show severity to them. The Puritans were
assured that one bred up by the Presbyterians of Scotland would
surely incline to their ways of worship and thought. But the King
has disappointed both, and has allied himself heart and soul with
the Episcopal faction and the Church of the Establishment; and, not
content with that, is striving to enforce the penal statutes
against all who do not conform as they were never enforced in the
Queen's time. Wherefore, as thou mayest understand, the Papists and the
Puritans alike suffer, and so suffering are something drawn together as
friends, albeit in doctrine they are wide asunder--wider than we from
the Establishment or they from it. But trouble drives even foes to
make common cause sometimes."

Cherry sighed impatiently.

"I would that men would e'en forget all these vexed doctrines and
dry dogmas, and learn to enjoy life as it might be enjoyed. Why are
we for ever lamenting evils which none may put right? What does it
matter whether we pray to God in a fine church or a homely room? I
would fain go to church with the fine folk, since the King will
have it so, and strive to find God there as well as in the bare
barn where Master Baker holds his meeting. They bid us read our
Bibles, but they will not let us obey the commands laid down--"

"Nay, hush, Cherry! hush, hush! What and if Aunt Susan heard?"

"Let her hear!" cried the defiant Cherry, though she lowered her
voice instinctively at the warning; "I am saying naught to be
ashamed of. I know naught about these matters of disputing; I only
know that the Bible bids folks submit themselves to the powers that
be, whether they be kings, or rulers, or magistrates, because the
powers that be are of God. So that I see not why we go not to
church as the King bids us. And again I read that wherever two or
three are gathered together in Christ's name, there will He be in
the midst of them. So why we cannot go peacefully to church, since
He will be there with us, I for one cannot see. I trow even the
boldest Papist or Puritan would not dare deny that He was as much
in the midst of those congregations as in ours. If they do they be
worse than Pagans, for every one that goes to church goes to pray
to God and to Jesus Christ."

Keziah looked flustered and scared. Cherry's words, though spoken
in some temper and despite, contained certain elements of shrewd
insight and sound common sense, which she had doubtless inherited
from her father. She had something of the boldness and independence
of mind that a spoiled child not unfrequently acquires, and she was
not accustomed to mince her words when speaking with her sisters.

Hush! oh hush, child! Father would not list to hear such words from
a daughter of his. It is for women to learn, and not to teach; to
listen, but not to speak."

"Oh yes, well do I know that. Have I not listened, and listened,
and listened, till I have well nigh fallen asleep; and what sense
is there in all the wranglings and disputations? Why cannot men
think as they like, and let other folks alone? What harm does it do
any that another should have a different opinion of his own?"

"I trow that is what father really thinks," said Keziah,
thoughtfully; "but all men declare that it is needful for there to
be outward uniformity of worship. And I trow that father would be
willing to conform if they would but let our preachers and teachers
alone to hold private meetings in peace. But so long as they badger
and persecute and imprison them, he will have naught to do with the
bishops and clergy who set them on, nor will he attend their
churches, be the law what it may. He says it is like turning back
in the hour of peril: that is not his way."

"I like that feeling," answered Cherry, with kindling eyes. "If
that be so, I mind it less. Father is a good man, and full of
courage; but I grow full weary of these never-ending talks. Kezzie,
thinkest thou that he will be put in prison for keeping from church
with his whole house? Some men have been sent to prison for less."

"I know not how that may be," answered Keziah, gravely. "He is a
useful citizen, and a man of substance; and by what I hear, such as
these are left alone so long as they abide quiet and peaceable.
Just now the Papists are being worse treated than we. Methinks that
is why father is so sorry for them."

"Too much talk! too much talk!" cried Aunt Susan's voice from the
adjoining kitchen. "Hands lag when tongues wag; wherefore do your
work in silence. Is that almond paste ready, Keren Happuch? Then
bring it quickly hither; and your manchet and sugar, Keziah, for
the skins are ready to be stuffed."

And as the girls obediently brought the required ingredients, they
found themselves in a long, low room, at the end of which a huge
fire burned in a somewhat primitive stove, whilst a tall, angular,
and powerful-looking dame, with her long upper robe well tucked up,
and her gray hair pushed tightly away beneath a severe-looking
coif, was superintending a number of culinary tasks, Jemima and a
serving wench obeying the glance of her eye and the turn of her
hand with the precision of long practice.

Certainly it was plain that Martin Holt's guests would not starve
that night. The herring pie was only the crowning delicacy of the
board, which was to groan beneath a variety of appetizing dishes.
The Puritans were a temperate race, and the baneful habit of sack
drinking at all hours, of perpetual pledgings and toastings, and
the large consumption of fiery liquors, was at a discount in their
houses; but they nevertheless liked a good table as well as the
rest of their kind, and saw no hurt in sitting down to a generously
supplied board, whilst they made up for their abstemiousness in the
matter of liquor by the healthy and voracious appetite which
speedily caused the good cheer to melt away.

Mistress Susan was so intent on her preparations that she scarcely
let her nieces pause to eat their frugal midday dinner. Martin
himself was out on business, and would dine abroad that day, and
nothing better pleased the careful housewife than to dispense with
any formal dinner when there was a company supper to be cooked, and
thus save the attendant labour of washing up as well as the time
wasted in the consumption of the meal.

Jemima and Keziah never dreamed of disputing their aunt's will; but
Cherry pouted and complained that it was hard to work all day
without even the dinner hour as a relief. Mistress Susan gave her a
sharp rebuke that silenced without subduing her; and she kept
throwing wistful glances out of the window, watching the play of
sunshine on the water, and longing to be out in the fresh air--for
such a day as this was too good to be wasted indoors. Tomorrow
belike the sun would not shine, and the wind would be cold and
nipping.

Jemima and Keziah saw the wistful glances, and longed to interpose
on behalf of their favourite; but Mistress Susan was not one it was
well to interfere with, and Cherry was not in favour that day. But
an inspiration came over Jemima at last, and she suddenly
exclaimed:

"Sure, but how badly we need some fresh rushes for the parlour
floor! There be not enough to cover it, and they all brown and old.
There has been scarce any frost as yet. I trow the river rushes
will be yet green, and at least they will be fresh. Could not the
child be spared to run out to try and get some? She is a better
hand at that than at her cooking. I will finish her pastry if thou
wilt spare her to get the reeds. I love not a floor like you, and
methinks father will chide an he sees."

Mistress Susan cast a quick glance at the rush-strewn floor, and
could not but agree with her niece. She had all the true
housewife's instinct of neatness and cleanliness in every detail.
The filthy habit of letting rushes rot on the floor, and only
piling fresh ones on the top as occasion demanded, found no favour
in this house. It was part of Cherry's work and delight to cut them
fresh as often as there was need, but a spell of wet weather had
hindered her from her river-side rambles of late, with the
consequence that the supply was unwontedly low.

"Oh, any one can do Keren Happuch's work and feel nothing added to
her toil," was the sharp response. "Small use are her hands in any
kitchen. We had better make up our minds to wed her to a fine
gentleman, who wants naught of his wife but to dress up in grand
gowns, and smirk and simper over her fan; for no useful work will
he get out of her. If rushes are wanted, she had better go quickly
and cut them--

"And mind, do not stray too far along the banks, child; and watch
the sky, and be in before the sun is down. The evenings draw in so
quick now; and I would not have you abroad after nightfall for all
the gold of Ophir."

Cherry had no desire for such a thing to happen either. London in
the darkness of the night was a terrible place. Out from all the
dens of Whitefriars and other like places swarmed the ruffian and
criminal population that by day slunk away like evil beasts of
night into hiding. The streets were made absolutely perilous by the
bands of cutthroats and cutpurses who prowled about, setting upon
belated pedestrians or unwary travellers, and robbing, insulting,
and maltreating them--not unfrequently leaving the wretched victim
dead or dying, to be found later by the cowardly watchman, who
generally took good care not to be near the spot at the time of the
affray. Ladies of quality never went abroad unattended even by day;
but Cherry was no fine lady, and Martin Holt had no notion of
encouraging the child's native vanity by making any difference
betwixt her and her sisters. Jemima and Keziah had been always
accustomed to go about in the neighbourhood of their home
unmolested, and thought nothing of it; and though Cherry's rosy
cheeks, slim, graceful figure, and bright, laughing eyes might
chance to take the fancy of some bold roisterer or dandy, and lead
to an address which might frighten or annoy the maid, her father
considered this the less danger than bringing her up to think
herself too captivating to go about unguarded; and up till now she
had met with no unwelcome admiration or annoyance of any kind in
her limited rovings.

So she set forth blithely this afternoon, her cloak and hood
muffling well both face and figure, her clogs on her feet, since
the river bank would be muddy and treacherous at this time of year,
and a long, open basket on her arm, thinking of nothing but the
delights of escaping from the weary monotony of pastry making and
herb shredding, and from the overpowering odour of that mysterious
herring pie. Cherry liked well enough to eat of it when it was
placed upon the board, but she always wished she had not known
anything of the process; she thought she should enjoy it so much
the more.

Crossing the bridge, and exchanging many greetings as she tripped
along, for every neighbour was in some sort a friend, and
bright-eyed Cherry was a favourite with all--she turned to the
right as she quitted the bridge, and walked in a westerly direction
along the river bank, towards the great beds of reeds and rushes
that stretched away in endless succession so soon as the few houses
and gardens springing up on this side the river had been passed by.

Certainly there was no lack of green rushes. The autumn had been
mild, and though the past few days had been chill and biting, it
had not told to any great extent upon the rushes yet. Cherry
plunged eagerly amongst them, selecting and cutting with a
precision and rapidity that told of long practice. She was resolved
to take home as many as ever she could carry, and these all of the
best, since the supply would soon cease, and she knew the
difference in the lasting power of the full, thick rushes and the
little flimsy ones.

But it was later than she had known when she left home. The
brightness of the sunshine had deceived her, and she had been
detained a few minutes upon the bridge, first by one and then by
another, all asking kindly questions of her. Then her fastidious
selection of her rushes caused her to wander further and further
along the banks in search of prizes; and when at last her big
basket was quite full, and correspondingly heavy, she looked round
her with a start almost of dismay; for the gray twilight was
already settling down over the dark river, and she was full a mile
away from home, with a heavy load to carry.

Cherry's heart fluttered a little, but it was rather in fear of her
aunt's displeasure than of any mischance likely to happen to
herself. She had been often to these osier beds, and had never
encountered a living soul there, and she would soon reach the
region of walls and gardens that adjoined the southern end of the
bridge. So taking her basket on her arm, she pushed her way upwards
from the river to the path along which lay her road, and turning
her face homeward, made all the haste she could to get back.

But how dark it looked to the eastward! Did ever evening close in
so fast? And how black and cold the river looked! She never
remembered to have seen it quite so cheerless and gloomy before. A
thick white fog was rising from the marshy lands, and she could not
see the friendly twinkling lights upon the bridge. Despite her
exertions, which were great, she felt chill and shivery; and when
at last she heard the sound of a lusty shout behind her, her heart
seemed to stand still with terror, and she stopped short and gazed
wildly back, to see whence the noise came.

What she saw by no means reassured her. Some fifty yards behind,
but mounted on fine horses, were two young gentlemen, plainly in a
state of tipsy merriment, and by no means disposed to allow any
prey, in the shape of a woman old or young, to escape them without
some sort of pleasantry on their part. Cherry heard their laughter
and their coarse words without understanding what it all meant; but
a great terror took hold of her, and leaving her basket in the
middle of the path, in the vain hope of tripping up the tipsy
riders, she fled wildly along in the direction of home. Her hood
falling back, disclosed her pretty floating curls beneath, and so
gave greater zest to the pursuit. Fleet of foot she might be, but
what availed that against the speed of the two fine horses? She
heard their galloping hoofs closer and closer behind her. She knew
that they were almost up with her now. Even the osier beds would
afford her no protection from horsemen, and she feared to trust
herself to the slippery ooze when the daylight had fled. With a
short, sharp cry she sank upon the ground, exhausted and half dead
with terror, and she heard the brutal shout of triumph with which
the roisterers hailed this sight.

In another moment they would be upon her. She heard them shouting
to their horses as they pulled them up. But was there not another
sound, too? What was the meaning of that fierce demand in a very
different voice? She lifted her head to see a third rider spurring
up at a hand gallop, and before she had time to make up her mind
whether or not this was a third foe, or a defender suddenly arisen
as it were from the very heart of the earth, she felt herself
covered as by some protecting presence, and heard a firm voice
above her saying:

"The first man who dares attempt to touch her I shoot dead!"

There was a great deal of blustering and swearing and hectoring.
Cherry, still crouched upon the ground, shivered at the hideous
imprecations levelled at her protector, and feared every moment
to see him struck to the ground. But he held his position
unflinchingly, and the tipsy gallants contented themselves with
vituperation and hard words. Perhaps they thought the game not
worth the candle. Perhaps they deemed a simple city maid not worth
the trouble of an encounter. Perhaps they were too unsteady on
their legs to desire to provoke the hostile overtures of this tall,
dark-faced stripling, who appeared ready to do battle with the pair
of them, and that without the least fear. At any rate, after much
hard swearing, the estimable comrades mounted their horses again,
and rode on in the gathering darkness; whilst Cherry felt herself
lifted up with all courtesy and reverence, and a pleasant voice
asked in bashful accents, very unlike the firm, defiant tones
addressed to her persecutors, whether she were hurt.

"Not hurt, only frightened, fair sir," answered Cherry, beginning
to recover her breath and her self possession, as she divined that
her protector was now more embarrassed at the situation than she
was herself. "How can I thank you for your timely help? I was well
nigh dead with terror till I heard your voice holding them at bay.
Right bold it was of you to come to my assistance when you had two
foes against you."

"Nay, fair lady, I were less than a man had I stayed for twenty."

"I like you none the less for your brave words, sir, and I believe
that you have courage to face an army. But I may not linger here
even to speak my thanks. I shall be in sore disgrace at home for
tarrying out thus long in the dark."

"But you will grant to me to see you safe to your door, lady?"

"Ay, truly will I, an you will," answered Cherry, as much from real
nervous fear as from the coquetry which made such companionship
pleasant. "But I would fain go back a few paces for my poor reeds,
that I go not home empty handed. And you must catch your steed, Sir
Knight; he seems disposed to wander away at his own will."

"My steed will come at a call. He is a faithful beast, and not
addicted to errant moods. Let us fetch your basket, lady, and then
to your home.

"Is this it? Prithee, let me carry it; its weight is too much for
you. See, I will place it so on Dobbin's broad back, and then we
can jog along easily together."

Cherry, her fears allayed, and her imaginative fancy pleased by the
termination to this adventure, chatted gaily to her tall companion;
and as they neared the bridge with its many twinkling lights, she
pointed out one of the houses in the middle, and told her companion
that she dwelt there. His face turned eagerly upon her at hearing
that.

"I am right glad to hear it, for perchance you can then direct me
to the dwelling of Master Martin Holt, the wool stapler, if he yet
plies his trade there as his father did before him."

"Martin Holt!" cried Cherry, eagerly interrupting. "Why, good sir,
Martin Holt is my father."

The young man stopped short in amaze, and then said slowly,
"Verily, this is a wondrous hap, for Martin Holt is mine own uncle.
I am Cuthbert Trevlyn, the son of his sister Bridget."



Chapter 6: Martin Holt's Supper Party.


Six o'clock was the almost universal hour for supper amongst the
well-to-do classes, both gentle and simple, and Martin Holt's
family sat down to the well-spread board punctually to the minute
every day of their lives. But though there was no eating before
that hour, the invited guests who were intimate at the house
generally arrived about dusk, and were served with hot ginger wine
with lumps of butter floating in it, or some similar concoction
accounted a delicacy in those days of coarse feeding, and indulged
in discussion and conversation which was the preliminary to the
serious business of supper.

At four o'clock, then, Mistress Susan's table was set, the homespun
cloth of excellent texture and whiteness spread upon the board,
which was further adorned by plates and tankards, knives and even
forks, though these last-named articles were quite a novelty, and
rather lightly esteemed by Mistress Susan, who was a rigid
conservative in all domestic matters. All the cold provisions had
been laid upon the table. The serving woman in the kitchen had
received full instruction as to those that remained in or about the
stove. The ladies had doffed their big aprons, and had donned their
Sunday coifs and kerchiefs and better gowns, and were now assembled
in the upper parlour, where the spinning wheels stood, ready to
receive the guests when they should come.

Cherry's absence had not yet excited any uneasiness, although her
aunt had made one or two severe remarks as to her love for
junketing abroad, and frivolity in general. Her sisters had laid
out her dress in readiness for her, and had taken her part with
their accustomed warmth and goodwill. They were not at all afraid
of her not turning up safe and sound. Cherry had many friends, and
it was just as likely as not that she would stop and gossip all
along the bridge as she came home. She took something of the
privilege of a spoiled child, despite her aunt's rigid training.
She knew her sisters never looked askance at her; that her father
found it hard to scold severely, however grave he might try to look
to please Aunt Susan; and it was perfectly well known in the house
that she had no liking for those grave debates that formed the
prelude to the supper downstairs. It was like enough she would
linger without as long as she dared, and then spend as much time as
possible strewing her rushes and dressing herself, so that she
should not have long to listen to the talk of the elders.

Jemima and Keziah had long since trained themselves to that perfect
stillness and decorous silence that was deemed fitting for women,
and especially young women, in presence of their elders, They had
even begun to take a certain interest in the questions discussed.
But to Cherry it was simple penance to have to sit for one hour or
more, her tongue and her active limbs alike chained, and her
sisters were quite prepared for the absence of the younger girl
when the guests dropped in one by one.

Their uncle, Abraham Dyson, was the first arrival, and behind him
followed his son and daughter, Jacob and Rachel. Rachel was a buxom
young woman of five-and-twenty, shortly to be advanced to the
dignity of a wedded wife. She would have been married before but
for the feeble health of her mother; but the ceremony was not to be
postponed much longer on that account, for fear the bridegroom, a
silk mercer in thriving way of business, should grow weary of
delay, and seek another partner for his hand and home. But Abraham
Dyson saw another way of getting his sick wife properly looked to,
and had whispered his notion in the ear of his brother-in-law. The
Dysons and the Holts had had intimate business dealing with each
other for generations, and there had been many matrimonial
connections between them in times past. Martin himself had married
Abraham's sister, and he listened with equanimity and pleasure to
the proposal to ally one of his daughters with the solid and stolid
Jacob.

Jacob was not much to look at, but he would be a man of
considerable substance in time, and he had a shrewd head enough for
business. As it had not pleased Providence to bless Martin Holt
with sons, the best he could do was to find suitable husbands for
his daughters, and seek amongst his sons-in-law for one into whose
hands his business might worthily be intrusted. Daughters were
still, and for many generations later, looked upon very much in the
light of chattels to be disposed of at will by their parents and
guardians, and it had not entered honest Martin's head that his
wilful little Cherry would dare to set up her will in opposition to
his.

Jacob, who had been taken into the confidence of his elders, had
expressed his preference for the youngest of his three cousins; and
though not a word had been spoken to the girl upon the subject as
yet, Martin looked upon the matter as settled.

Scarcely had the bustle of the first arrivals died down before the
remaining two guests arrived--a tall, bent man with the face of a
student and book lover, followed by his son, also a man of rather
distinguished appearance for his station in life. The two Coles,
father and son, were amongst those many Roman Catholic sufferers
who had been ruined on account of their religion during the last
reign; and now they gained a somewhat scanty livelihood by keeping
a second-hand book shop on the bridge, selling paper and parchment
and such like goods, and acting as scriveners to any who should
desire to avail themselves of their skill in penmanship.

They were both reputed to be men of considerable learning, and as
they had fallen from a different position, they were looked up to
with a certain amount of respect. Some were disposed to sneer at
and flout them, but they were on the whole well liked amongst their
neighbours. They were very quiet people, and never spoke one word
of the matters which came to their knowledge through the letters
they were from time to time called upon to write. Almost every
surrounding family had in some sort or another intrusted them with
some family secret or testamentary deposition, and would on this
account alone have been averse to quarrelling with them, for fear
they might let out the secret.

Martin found his neighbour Anthony by far the most interesting of
his acquaintances, and the fact of this common disappointment in
the new King, and the common persecution instituted against both
Romanists and Puritans, had drawn them more together of late than
ever before. Both were men of considerable enlightenment of mind;
both desired to see toleration extended to all (though each might
have regarded with more complacency an act of uniformity that
strove to bring all men to his own particular way of thinking and
worship), and both agreed in a hearty contempt for the mean and
paltry King, who had made such lavish promises in the days of his
adversity, only to cancel them the moment he had the power, and
fling himself blindly into the arms of the dominant faction of the
Episcopacy.

All the guests were cordially welcomed by the family of Martin
Holt. The three elder men sat round the fire, and plunged into
animated discussion almost at once. Jacob Dyson got into a chair
somehow beside Keziah, and stared uneasily round the room; whilst
Walter Cole took up his position beside Jemima, and strove to
entertain her by the account of some tilting and artillery practice
(as archery was still called) that he had been witnessing in Spital
Fields. He spoke of the courage and prowess of the young Prince of
Wales, and how great a contrast he presented to his father. The
contempt that was beginning to manifest itself towards the luckless
James in his English subjects was no more plainly manifested than
in the London citizens. Elizabeth, with all her follies and her
faults, had been the idol of London, as her father before her. Now
a reaction had set in, and no scorn could be too great for her
undignified and presumptuous successor. This contempt was well
shown by the dry reply of the Lord Mayor some few years later, when
the King, in a rage at being refused a loan he desired of the
citizens, threatened to remove his Court and all records and jewels
from the Tower and Westminster Hall to another place, as a mark of
his displeasure. The Lord Mayor listened calmly to this terrible
threat, and then made submissive answer.

"Your Majesty hath power to do what you please," he said, "and your
city of London will obey accordingly; but she humbly desires that
when your Majesty shall remove your Courts, you would graciously
please to leave the Thames behind you."

But to return to the house on the bridge and the occupants of
Martin Holt's parlour. Whilst Jemima and Keziah listened eagerly to
the stories of the student's son, with the delight natural to
Puritan maidens denied any participation in such scenes of
merriment, Jacob was looking rather dismally round the room, and
presently broke in with the question:

"But where, all this time, is Cherry?"

"Strewing rushes in the eating parlour, I doubt not," answered
Keziah. "She went out a while back to cut them. She loveth not dry
disputings and learned talk. Belike she will linger below till nigh
on the supper hour an Aunt Susan call her not."

"I love not such disputings neither," said Jacob, with unwonted
energy. "Good Kezzie, let us twain slip below to help Cherry over
her task."

Keziah gave a quick glance at the face of her stern aunt, who loved
not this sort of slipping away during times of ceremony; but she
had her back to them and to the door, and was engrossed in the talk
as well as in the stocking fabric upon her needles. Jemima and
Walter were still talking unrebuked in a low key. Perchance this
flitting could be accomplished without drawing down either notice
or remark. To please Jacob, Keziah would have done much, even to
running the risk of a scolding from her aunt. She had none of saucy
Cherry's scorn of the big boorish fellow with the red face and
hairy hands. She looked below the surface, and knew that a kindly
heart beat beneath the ungainly habit; and being but plain herself,
Keziah would have taken shame to herself for thinking scorn of
another for a like defect.

Putting her finger on her lip in token of caution, she effected a
quiet retreat, and the next moment the two cousins stood flushed
but elated in the eating parlour below. But though it was now past
five o'clock, there was no sign of Cherry or her rushes, and Keziah
looked both surprised and uneasy.

"Belike she came in with dirty clogs and skirt, and has gone up to
her bed chamber to change them, for fear of Aunt Susan telling her
she was cluttering up the parlour," said the sister, anxiously. "I
will run and see. Sure she can never have lingered so late beside
the river! The sun has been long down, and the fog is rising."

Keziah tripped upstairs lightly enough, but speedily came down with
a grave face.

"She is not there," was her answer to Jacob's glance of inquiry.
"What must we do? If we make a coil about it, and she comes in,
having only gossiped awhile with the neighbours along the bridge,
aunt will surely chide her sharply, and send her to bed supperless.
But if she should have met some mischance--" and Keziah broke off,
looking frightened enough, for it was no light matter to meet
mischance alone and unprotected in the dark.

"I will go forth to seek her," cried Jacob, with unwonted
animation. "It boots not for a man to be abroad after dark, but for
a maid it is an ill tiding indeed. Which way went she? to the osier
beds! Sure I must find her ere long. Were it not well for me to go,
good Kezzie?"

"I would that some would go, but I trow thou hadst better not
adventure thyself alone. Belike Master Walter would be thy
companion. If there be peril abroad, it is better there should be
twain than one. And you will want lanterns and stout staffs, too."

"Run thou and light the lanterns, good coz, and I will to Walter
and ask his company. It grows thicker and darker every moment. If
Cherry be not within, it behoves us to make search for her."

Keziah's face was pale with terror as she flew to do Jacob's
bidding. She had a terrible fear of London streets, at night, as
well she might, and the open country beyond was even worse to her
excited imagination. And Cherry was so pretty, so simple, so
credulous, and withal so utterly defenceless should there be any
sort of attack made upon her. Keziah's hands shook as she lighted
the lantern; and as minutes were fast slipping away and still there
was no sign of the truant, she was rather relieved than terrified
to hear the sharp accents of her aunt's voice mingling with her
father's deeper tones as the whole party came tramping down the
stairs. It was plain that Jacob had let the secret ooze out, and
that all the company had become alarmed. Cherry's name was on all
lips, and Martin was asking his sister somewhat sternly why she had
overlooked the non-return of the girl at dusk.

Miss Susan was sharply defending herself on the score of her
manifold duties and Cherry's well-known gadding propensities. She
never looked to see her home before dusk, as she was certain to
stay out as long as she dared, and since then she had taken it for
granted that the little hussy had come in, and was doing over the
floor with her rushes.

Martin paid small heed to this shrill torrent of words, but with
anxious face was pulling on his long outer hoots, and selecting the
stoutest oaken staff of the number stacked in the corner, inviting
his guests to arm themselves in like fashion.

Jemima and Keziah, feeling as though some blame attached to them,
looked on with pale faces, whilst Rachel chattered volubly of the
horrors she had often heard of as being perpetrated in the streets.
Her brother turned upon her roughly at last, and bid her cease her
ill-omened croaking; whereat she tossed her head and muttered a
good many scornful interjections, and "could not see why she need
be called to task like that."

The whole party descended to the door when the preparations for the
start were complete. It was striking half after five on many of the
city clocks as Martin threw open his door. But he had scarcely
stepped across the threshold before he heard a familiar little
shriek; there was a rush of steps from somewhere in the darkness
without, and Cherry, with an abandon very foreign to the times and
her training, and indicative of much agitation and emotion, flung
herself upon his breast, and threw her arms about his neck.

"Here I am, father; there has no hurt befallen me!" she cried in
broken gasps. "But I know not what fearful thing was like to have
happened had it not been for the help of this gallant gentleman,
who came in the very nick of time to drive off my assailants and
bring me safe home. And oh, my father, such a wonderful thing! I
can scarce believe it myself! This gentleman is no stranger;
leastways he may not so be treated, for he is our very own flesh
and blood--my cousin, thy nephew. He is Cuthbert Trevlyn, son to
that sister Bridget of thine of whom we have sometimes heard thee
speak!"

A strange dead silence fell on the group clustered in the doorway
with lanterns and staffs. All looked out into the darkness in a
mist of perplexity and doubt, to see, as their eyes grew used to
the obscurity, the tall figure of a slim, dark-faced youth standing
beside a tired-looking horse, and steadying upon the saddle a large
basket of rushes.

Martin Holt, after one minute of utter silence, released the
clinging arms from about his neck, pushed Cherry not ungently
towards her sisters, and stepped forward towards her preserver.

"This is a strange thing my daughter tells me, young sir," he said,
as he scanned the horseman's face narrowly by the light of his
lantern. "I find it hard to credit my senses. Art sure that she has
understood thee aright? Is Cuthbert Trevlyn truly thy name?"

"Ay, truly it is; and my mother's was Bridget Holt, and she left
her home long years ago as waiting maid to my Lady Adelaide de
Grey, and led a happy life till some evil hap threw her across the
path of Nicholas Trevlyn, who made her his wife. I trow she many a
time rued the day when she was thus persuaded; but repentance came
too late, and death soon relieved her of her load of misery. That
she bequeathed to her children; and here am I this day a wanderer
from my father's house, constrained to seek shelter from her
kindred, since flesh and blood can no longer endure the misery of
dwelling beneath his roof."

"Jacob," said Martin Holt, "take yon steed to the stables of Master
Miller, and ask him for fodder and tendance for the beast for this
night.

"Young sir, thou hast a strange story to tell, and I would hear it
anon. If thou hadst not succoured my daughter in her hour of need,
I must have bid thee welcome to my house and my table. Since thou
hast done this also, I do it the more readily. I scarce knew that
my misguided sister had borne a son. Whether he lived or died I had
no means of knowing. But if thou art he, come in, and be welcome. I
will hear thy tale anon. Meantime stand no longer without in the
cold."

If this welcome were something coldly given, Cuthbert was not aware
of it. Used as he was to his father's fierce sullenness and
taciturnity, any other manner seemed warm and pleasant. He followed
this new uncle up the dark staircase without any misgiving, and
found himself quickly in the well-warmed and well-lighted eating
parlour, where Mistress Susan was already bustling about in a very
noisy fashion, getting the viands ready for serving. A dark frown
was on her face, and her whole aspect was thundery.

The sisters and Rachel had all vanished upstairs to hear Cherry's
story as they got her ready for the supper table, excitement in
this new arrival of an unknown kinsman having saved the girl from
any chiding or questioning from father or aunt. The Coles, father
and son, had returned to the upper parlour with the discretion and
refinement of feeling natural to them; so that only Abraham Dyson
witnessed the next scene in the little domestic drama, for Jacob
had obediently gone off with the horse.

Martin Holt pushed his nephew before him into the lighted room, and
looked him well over from head to foot.

"There is little of thy mother about thee, boy," he said, with some
stern bitterness of tone. "I fear me thou art all thy father's
son."

"My father says not so," answered Cuthbert, facing his uncle
fearlessly. "He has flung it again and yet again in my teeth that I
am the heretic son of my heretic mother."

Martin Holt uttered an inarticulate exclamation and came a step
nearer.

"Say that again, boy--say that again! Can it be true that thy
unhappy and deluded mother repented of her Popish errors ere she
died, and turned back to the pure faith of her childhood? If that
be so, it is like a mill stone rolled from off my heart. I have
wept for her all these years as for one of the lost."

"I was too young when she died to remember aught of her teaching,
but I have seen those who tell me she was fearfully unhappy with my
father, and abjured his faith ere she died. I know that he reviles
her memory, and he forbids even her children to speak of her. He
would scarce have branded her with the hateful name of heretic had
she adhered to his faith till her death."

"Susan, dost hear that?" cried Martin Holt, turning exultantly to
his sister. "It was as our mother fondly said. She was not lost for
ever; she returned to her former faith. Nay, I doubt not that in
some sort she died for it--died through the harshness and sternness
of her husband. Susan, dost hear--dost understand?"

But Susan only turned a sour face towards her brother.

"I hear," she answered ungraciously. "But the boy has doubtless
been bred a Papist. Who can believe a word he says? Doubtless he
has been sent here to corrupt your daughters, as Bridget was
corrupted by his father. I would liefer put my hand in the maw of a
mad dog than my faith in the word of a Papist."

Cuthbert did not wince beneath this harsh speech, he was too well
inured to such; he only looked at his aunt with grave curiosity as
he answered thoughtfully:

"Methinks it is something hard to believe them, always. Yet I have
known them speak sooth as well as other men. But I myself would
sooner put confidence in the word of one of the other faith. They
hold not with falsehood in a good cause as our father confessors
do. Wherefore, if it were for that alone, I would sooner be a
heretic, albeit there be many things about my father's faith that I
love and cling to."

This answer caused Martin to look more closely at his nephew,
discerning in him something of the fearless Puritan spirit, as well
as that instinctive desire to weigh and judge for himself that was
one of his own characteristics. Papist the lad might be by training
and inheritance, but it was plain that at present he was no bigot.
He would not strive to corrupt his cousins; rather were they likely
to influence and draw him.

Susan flounced back to the kitchen without another word, only
muttering to herself prognostications of evil if such a popinjay
were admitted into the household. Not that Cuthbert's sober riding
suit merited such a criticism, for there was nothing fine about it
at all; yet it had been fashionably cut in its day, and still had
the nameless air that always clings to a thoroughly well-made
garment, even when it has seen its best days; and the Puritans were
already beginning to show, by their plain and severe dress, their
contempt for frivolity and extravagance, though the difference
between their clothes and those of other men was not so marked as
it became in the next reign.

However, there was not much more time for conversation on private
themes. Jacob returned from stabling the horse; the girls from
above descended, full of curiosity about this new cousin. The
Coles, father and son, joined the party assembled round the table,
and were introduced to Cuthbert, whom, as a Trevlyn, they regarded
with considerable interest, and then the guests and the family were
all placed--Mistress Susan and the two elder nieces only seating
themselves at the last, when they had finished putting all the
savoury dishes on the table. Cuthbert's eyes grew round with amaze
at the sight of all the good cheer before him. Even at Trevlyn
Chase he had never seen quite such an array of dishes and meats;
and as he was the greatest stranger and a traveller to boot, he was
helped with the greatest liberality, and pressed to partake of
every dish.

Cherry was called upon for an account of her adventures, and was
chidden sharply by her aunt for her folly and carelessness after
being warned not to be overtaken by the darkness. But her father
was too thankful to have her safe home to say much; and Rachel, who
sat on Cuthbert's other side, plied him with questions about his
own share in the adventure, and praised him in warm terms for his
heroism, till the lad grew shamefaced and abashed, and was glad
when the talk drifted away from private to public matters, and he
could listen without being called upon to speak.

Moreover, he was all eagerness to hear what he could of such
topics. He knew so little what was stirring in the country, and was
eager to learn more. He kept hearing the words "Bye" and "Main"
bandied about amongst the speakers, and at last he asked his
neighbour in a whisper what was meant by the terms.

"Marry, two villainous Popish plots," answered Rachel, who was glib
enough with her tongue. "And many heads have fallen already, and
perhaps more will yet fall; for Sir Walter Raleigh is still in the
Tower, and my Lord Grey, too. Confusion to all traitors and
plotters, say I! Why cannot men live pleasantly and easily? They
might well do so, an they would cease from their evil practices,
and from making such a coil about what hurts none. If they would
but go to church like sensible Christians, nobody would have a word
against them; but they are like mules and pigs, and they can
neither be led nor driven straight. I go to church every Sunday of
my life, and what there is to fall foul of I never can guess. But
men be such blind, obstinate fools, they must always be putting a
rope round their necks. They say London is seething now with plots,
and no man can feel safe for a day nor an hour."

Cuthbert gave one swift backward thought to his companion of the
road and the strange words he had uttered; and he asked with
increasing interest of his lively neighbour:

"But what do men think to gain by such plots? What is the object of
them?"

"Beshrew me if I know or care! My father says they be all mad together,
the moonstruck knaves! They say that the 'Bye' was an attempt to make
prisoner of the King's Majesty, and to keep him in captivity till he
had sworn to change his laws and his ministers--as they say was done
once in Scotland, when he was trying to rule his turbulent subjects
there. As for the 'Main,' that was worse; nothing better than the
murder of the King and Royal family, so that the Lady Arabella might
be Queen in his stead. But neither came to good; it seemeth to me that
these villainous plots never do, And all that results from them is that
the laws are made harsher and harsher, and men groan and writhe under
them, and curse the King and his ministers, when they had better be
cursing their own folly and wickedness in trying to overthrow the
government of their lawful rulers."

"That is one side of the question, Mistress Rachel," said Walter
Cole, in his quiet voice; "but if none had ever revolted against
tyranny, we had all been slaves this day instead of a free nation
of subjects, imposing our just will upon a sovereign in return for
the privileges he grants us. There be limits to endurance. There be
times when those limits are over past, and to submit becomes
weakness and coward folly. Thou speakest as one swimming easily
with the stream. Thou knowest little of the perils of the shoals
and quicksands."

Rachel tossed her head, but was too wary to be drawn into an
argument with the man of books. She could air her father's opinions
second hand with an assumption of great assurance, but she was no
hand at argument or fence, and had no desire for an encounter of
wits.

But Cuthbert stepped eagerly into the breach, and the two men
became engrossed in talk. Cuthbert heard of acts of tyranny and
oppression, cruel punishments and ruinous fines imposed upon
hapless Romanists, guiltless of any other offence than of growing
up in the faith of their forefathers. He heard, on the other hand,
of Puritan preachers deprived of their cures and hunted about like
criminals, though nothing save the crime of unlicensed preaching
could be adduced against them. Cuthbert's blood was young and hot,
and easily stirred within him. He began to understand how it was
that the nation and this great city were never at rest. It seemed
to him as though he had stepped down out of a region of snow and
ice into the very crater of some smouldering volcano which might at
any moment burst out into flames. The sensation was strange and a
little intoxicating. He marvelled how he had been content so long
to know so little of the great world in which he lived.

The party broke up all too soon for him; but after the guests had
gone he had yet another interview to go through with his uncle,
after the womenkind had been dismissed to bed.

Firstly, Martin questioned the boy closely as to the circumstances
of his past life--his relations with his father, his training,
intellectual and religious, and his final resolve to escape,
carried out by the help of Sir Richard and his family. Next, he
went on to ask the youth of his wishes concerning his future; and
finding these as vague as might be expected from his vast
inexperience, he smiled, and said that question could stand over
for the present. There was no difficulty about employing talent and
energy in this city of London; and if his nephew developed capacity
in any direction, it could doubtless be turned to good account.
Meantime he had better dwell beneath this roof, and accustom
himself to new ways and new sights, after which they would talk of
his future again.

Nothing could be more to Cuthbert's mind than such a decision; but
when he tried to express his gratitude, he was speedily silenced.

"Not a word, boy; not a word! Thou art a near kinsman. Thou hast
had a hard life with thy father, and having claimed the protection
of thy mother's brother, shalt have it, and welcome. But now to
another matter. How art thou off for money? I trow by what thou
sayest of thy father that he had little to give or spend."

"He never gave me aught in his life save the poor clothes and food
that were needful. My uncle gave me a few gold pieces ere I left--I
mean my good cousin, Sir Richard."

"Ay, boy, ay. But I trow that thine own uncle can do better by thee
than that. Didst ever know that thy mother once looked to have a
fortune of her own, albeit a modest one?"

Cuthbert shook his head, and Martin rose from his seat and
disappeared from the room for a few minutes. When he came back he
had a coffer in his hands that seemed to be heavy. He placed it on
the table, and went on with his speech as though he had not been
interrupted.

"Yes. Our father was a man of substance, and he had but three
children--myself, Susan, and Bridget. To me he willed his house,
his business, and all the money locked up in that. To Susan and
Bridget he divided the savings of his lifetime that had not been
used in enlarging the business. There was two thousand pounds
apiece for them when he died."

Cuthbert's eyes dilated with astonishment, but he said nothing, and
his uncle continued speaking.

"You doubtless marvel why you have received none of this before. I
will tell you why. When Bridget married a Papist, our father was in
a great rage, and vowed she should never have a penny of his money.
He scratched her name out of his will, and bid us never speak her
name again. But as he lay a-dying, other thoughts came into his
mind, and he was unhappy in this thing. He bid me get together the
two thousand pounds that had once been Bridget's portion, and when
I did so--with some trouble at a short notice--he counted it all
over, and with his own hands locked it away in this chest "--laying
his hand on the weighty iron-bound box. "Then he turned to me and
said, 'Martin, I verily believe that thy sister is dead. Something
tells me that I shall see her before I see any of you. The dead are
ever forgiven. Take this coffer and keep it for thy sister's
children, if she have had the misfortune to bring children into
this world of sorrow. Keep it for them till they be grown. Let not
their evil father know aught of it. And even then be cautious.
Prove and see if they be worthy of wealth--if they will make good
use of it. It is thine in trust for them. Keep or withhold as thou
thinkest right; but be honest and be true, so shall my blessing
follow thee even after death.' Those were amongst the last words he
spoke. I took the chest, and I have kept it until now. I have
thought often of it; but no word reached me of my sister, and time
has failed me to seek her abroad. I knew her children, if any
lived, could but just have reached man or woman's estate, and I
have waited to see what would chance.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn, this chest and all it contains may one day be
thine. I give it not yet into thy keeping, for I must prove thee
first; but I tell thee what is within it and what was thy grand
sire's charge, that thou mayest know I have no desire save to do
what is right by thee and thy sister, and that I trust and hope the
day may come when I may deliver the chest to thee, to divide with
her the portion bequeathed to your hapless mother."

Cuthbert's astonishment was so great he hardly knew what to say.
For himself he cared but little. He was a man, and could fight his
own way in the world. But those golden coins would make a dowry for
his sister that many a high-born dame might envy. A flush came into
his cheek as he thought of Philip's eager words overheard by him.
If Petronella was the mistress of a fair fortune, why should any
forbid them to be wed?

Martin liked the lad none the less that his first thought was for
his sister. But for the present Petronella was beneath her father's
roof, and could not be benefited thereby. Still, it would be
something for Cuthbert to know, and to look forward to in the
future, and therein he rejoiced.

The chest was carefully restored to its hiding place and securely
locked away, and then the kindly uncle took from his own pocket a
small purse and put it into the reluctant hands of the lad.

"Nay, nay, thou must not be proud, boy; though I like thee none the
less for thy pride and thine independence of spirit. But thou must
not be penniless as thou goest about this city; and if one uncle
gave thee gold, why not another? So no more words about it. Take
it, and begone to thy chamber; for we are simple folks that keep
early hours, and I am generally abed an hour ere this."

So Cuthbert went to his queer little attic chamber beneath the
high-pitched gable, with a mind confused yet happy, and limbs very
weary with travel. Yet sleep fell upon him almost before his head
touched the pillow, for he had slept but brokenly since leaving his
father's house, and nature, in spite of all obstacles, was claiming
her due at last.



Chapter 7: The Life Of A Great City.


And so a new life began for Cuthbert beneath the roof of his uncle.

He found favour in the sight of Martin Holt because of his
unpretending ways, his willingness, nay, his eagerness to learn,
his ready submission to the authority exercised by the master of
the house upon all beneath his roof, and the absence of anything
like presumption or superciliousness on his nephew's part on the
score of his patrician birth on his father's side. Trevlyn though
he was, the lad conformed to all the ways and usages of the humbler
Holts; and even Mistress Susan soon ceased to look sourly at him,
for she found him as amenable to her authority as to that of
Martin, and handy and helpful in a thousand little nameless ways.

He was immensely interested in everything about him. He would as
willingly sit and baste a capon on the spit as ramble abroad in the
streets, if she would but answer his host of inquiries about
London, its ways and its sights. Mistress Susan was not above being
open to the insidious flattery of being questioned and listened to;
and to find herself regarded as an oracle of wisdom and a mine of
information could not but be soothing to her vanity, little as she
knew that she possessed her share of that common feminine failing.

Then Cuthbert was a warm appreciator of her culinary talents. The
poor boy, who had lived at the Gate House on the scantiest of
commons, and had been kept to oaten bread and water sometimes for a
week together for a trifling offence, felt indeed that he had come
to a land of plenty when he sat down day after day to his uncle's
well-spread table, and was urged to partake of all manner of
dishes, the very name of which was unknown to him. His keen relish
of her dainties, combined with what seemed to her a very modest
consumption of them, pleased Mistress Susan not a little; whilst
for his own part Cuthbert began to look heartier and stronger than
he had ever done before. The slimness of attenuation was merged in
that of wiry strength and muscle. His dark eyes no longer looked
out from hollow caverns, and the colour which gradually stole into
his brown cheek bespoke increase of health and well being.

Martin and Susan looked on well pleased by the change. They liked
the lad, and found his Popery of such a mild kind that they felt no
misgiving as to its influence upon the girls. Cuthbert was as
willing to go to a privately conducted Puritan service as to mass,
and liked the appointed service of the Establishment rather better
than either. Martin did not hinder his attending the parish church,
though he but rarely put in an appearance himself. He was not one
of the bitter opponents of the Establishment, but he was a bitter
opponent of persecution for conscience' sake, and he was naturally
embittered by the new rigour with which the old laws of conformity
were enforced. However, he was true to his principles in that he
let Cuthbert go his own way freely, and did not forbid Cherry to
accompany him sometimes to church, where she found much
entertainment and pleasure in watching the fashionable people come
and go; and perhaps her father divined that she would give more
attention to the mode of the ladies' headgears and hair dressing
and the cut of their farthingales than to any matters of doctrine
that might be aired in the pulpit.

As for Cuthbert, he drank in voraciously all that he heard and all
that he saw in this strange place, which seemed to him like the
Babylon of old that the Puritan pastors raved over in their
pulpits. He was to be allowed his full liberty for some weeks, to
see the sights of the city and learn his way about it. Perhaps
after Christmastide his uncle would employ him in his shop or
warehouse, but Martin wished to take the measure of the lad before
he put him to any task.

So Cuthbert roamed the London streets wondering and amazed. He saw
many a street fight waged between the Templars and 'prentices, and
got a broken head himself from being swept along the tide of mimic
battle. He saw the rude and rabble mob indulging in their favourite
pastime of upsetting coaches (hell carts as they chose to dub
them), and roaring with laughter as the frightened occupants strove
to free themselves from the clumsy vehicles. Cuthbert got several
hard knocks as a reward for striving to assist these unlucky wights
when they chanced to be ladies; but he was too well used to blows
to heed them over much, and could generally give as good as he got.

The fighting instinct often got him into tight places, as when he
suddenly found himself surrounded by a hooting mob of ruffians in
one of the slums of "Alsatia," as Whitefriars was called, where he
had imprudently adventured himself. And this adventure might have
well had a fatal termination for him, as this was a veritable den
of murderers and villains of the deepest dye, and even the
authorities dared not venture within its purlieus to hunt out a
missing criminal without a guard of soldiers with them. The abuse
of "Sanctuary" was well exemplified by the existing state of things
here; and though Cuthbert was doing no ill to any soul, but merely
gratifying his curiosity by prowling about the narrow dens and
alleys, the cry of "A spy! a spy!" soon brought a mob about him,
whilst his readiness to engage in battle caused the tumult to
redouble itself in an instant.

The lad had just realized his danger, and faced the fact that the
chances of escaping alive were greatly against him, when a window
in a neighbouring house was thrown open, and a stern, musical voice
exclaimed:

"For shame, my children, for shame! Is it to be one against a
hundred? Is that Alsatia's honour? What has the lad done?"

Cuthbert raised his eyes and beheld the tonsured head of a priest
clad in a rusty black cassock, who was standing at the only window
to be seen in a blank wall somewhat higher than that of the other
houses surrounding it. The effect of those words on the angry
multitude was wonderful. The hands raised to strike were lowered,
and voices on all sides exclaimed:

"It is Father Urban; we may not withstand him."

Still the anger of the mob was not calmed in a moment, and fierce
voices exclaimed in threatening accents:

"A spy! he is a spy!"

"Then bring him hither to me; I will judge him," said the priest,
in the same tones of calm assurance. "If I find him worthy of
death, I will give him over to your hands again."

"That will do; Father Urban shall judge him!" cried a brawny fellow
who seemed to be something of a leader with his fellows. "The
Father never lied to us yet. He will give him back if he finds him
a spy."

Cuthbert was now jostled and hustled, but not in the same angry
fashion, to a small narrow door in a deep embrasure, and when this
door presently swung back on its hinges, the crowd surged quickly
backwards as though in some sort afraid. Within the narrow doorway
stood the priest, a small, slim man in rusty black, with a crucifix
suspended from his rosary, which he held up before the crowd, who
most of them crossed themselves with apparent devotion.

"Peace be with you, my children!" was his somewhat incongruous
salutation to the blood-thirsty mob; and then turning his bright
but benignant eyes upon Cuthbert, he said:

"This is a leper house, my son. Yet methinks thou wilt be safer
here a while than in the street. Dost thou fear to enter? If thou
dost, we must e'en talk where we are."

"I have no fear," answered Cuthbert, who indeed only experienced a
lively curiosity.

The priest seemed pleased with the answer, and drew him within the
sheltering door; and Cuthbert followed his guide into a long, low
room, where a table was spread with trenchers and pitchers, whilst
an appetizing odour arose from a saucepan simmering on the fire and
stirred by one of the patients, upon whom Cuthbert gazed with
fascinated interest.

"He is well nigh cured," answered the priest. "Our sick abide on
the floor above; but there be not many here now. The plague carried
off above half our number last year.

"But now of thine own matters, boy: how comest thou hither? Thou
art a bold lad to venture a stranger into these haunts, unless thou
be fleeing a worse peril from the arm of the law; and neither thy
face nor thy dress looks like that. Hast thou not heard of
Whitefriars and its perils? or art thou a rustic knave, unversed in
the ways of the town?"

Cuthbert told his story frankly enough. He had lost himself in the
streets, and was in the forbidden region before he well knew. A few
kindly and dexterous questions from Father Urban led him to tell
all that there was to know about himself, his parentage and his
past; and the priest listened with great attention, scanning the
face of the youth narrowly the while.

"Trevlyn--the name is known to us. It was a good old name once, and
may be still again. I have seen thy father, Nicholas Trevlyn. It
may be I shall see him again one day. Be true to thy father's
faith, boy; be not led away by hireling shepherds. The day is
coming on England when the true faith shall spread from end to end
of the land, and all heretics shall be confounded! See that thou
art in thy place in that day! See that thou art found by thy
father's side in the hour of victory!"

Cuthbert hung his head a little, and a flush crept into his cheek;
but the priest did not appear to heed these slight indications of
embarrassment, as he moved slowly up the stairs to the window above
to tell the expectant crowd to disperse, as their victim was no
spy, but an honest country lad, whose father was known to the
priest, and who had lost his way in London, and strayed
inadvertently into their midst.

Then the crowd having dispersed to seek fresh amusement, the
priest, at Cuthbert's desire, showed him all over this leper house,
and told him much respecting the condition of the miserable inmates
before they had been admitted to this place of refuge; and Cuthbert
gazed with awe-stricken eyes at the scarred and emaciated
sufferers, filled with compassion and not loathing, and at last
drew forth one of his golden pieces from his purse and asked the
priest to expend it for the benefit of the poor lepers.

"That will I gladly do, my son. But I must not let thee linger
longer here; for although I myself hold that the whole and sound
are not affected by the taint, there be leeches of repute who swear
'tis death to abide long beside the leper."

"Thou hast not found it so, Father. Dost thou live here?"

"Nay, I have no home. I go hither and thither as duty calls me. But
I am often here with these sick folks of mine, whom so few men will
dare approach unto. But I myself have never been the worse for my
ministrations here, and I have no fears for thee, though I would
not have thee linger. We will be going now, and I will be thy guide
out of these dens of the earth, else might some more untoward thing
befall thee when none might be nigh to succour thee."

The priest and the youth passed out together. The early dusk was
beginning to fall, and Cuthbert was glad enough of the protection
of Father Urban's companionship. All saluted the priest as he
passed by, and few even looked askance at his comrade. The
influence of these Roman Catholics over the hearts and feelings of
the masses has always been very great--something of an enigma and a
grievance to those who would fain see naught but evil within the
fold of Rome. But facts are stubborn things, and the facts have
been in this matter in their favour. England as a nation was slowly
but surely throwing off the Papal yoke, and emerging from a region
of darkness and superstition. Nevertheless, the influence of the
priest was a living and often a beneficent influence amongst the
most degraded of the people, and he could and did obtain a reverent
hearing when no man else coming in the name of Christ would have
been listened to for a single moment.

As the pair moved along the dark, noisome streets, Father Urban
spoke again in his quick, imperious way.

"Thou spakest awhile ago of one Master Robert Catesby; hast thou
seen aught of him since thy arrival in London?"

"No," answered Cuthbert; "I have had much else to do and to think
of. But I must to him one day, and demand my purse again, else may
he think I have been left for dead on the highway."

"He is a good man and a true," said the priest. "Thou wilt do well
to keep his friendship an thou mayest. Catesby and Trevlyn come of
a good stock; it were well they should consort together."

Cuthbert recalled some of the strange words spoken by Master Robert
on the road, and wondered if he recalled them aright. They seemed
to partake of the character of fierce threats. He was not certain
that he altogether relished the thought of such friendship.

"Mine uncle might not wish me to consort with him," said the lad,
with a little hesitation. "He is but a wool stapler, as I have told
thee, and his friends are simple folks like himself. He meddles not
in matters that gentlefolks love. He has no fine company to his
house. Since it be my lot to abide beneath his roof--"

"Thou must needs conform to his ways; is that so, boy?" asked the
Father, interrupting the rather lame and confused speech, and
smiling as he did so. "Ay, conform, conform! Conformity is the way
of the world today! I would not bid thee do otherwise. Yet one bit
of counsel will I give thee ere we part. Think not that thou canst
not conform and yet do thy duty by the true faith, too. Be a
careful, watchful inmate of thine uncle's house; yet fear not to
consort with good men, too, when thy chance comes. Thou needst not
tell thine uncle all. Thou hast reached man's estate, and it is
ordained of God that men should shake off the fetters that bind
them in youth, and act and judge for themselves. My counsel is
this: be wary, be prudent, be watchful, and lose no opportunity of
gaining the trust of all men. So wilt thou one day live to do
service to many; and thou wilt better understand my words the
longer thou livest in this great city, and learnest more of what is
seething below the surface of men's lives."

And with a few words of dismissal and blessing the Father sent
Cuthbert on his way, standing still and looking after him till the
slight figure was lost to sight in the darkness.

"There goes a man who by his face might have a great future before
him," mused the priest. "It is with such faces as that that men
have gone to prison and to death."

Cuthbert bent his steps towards the bridge, interested and excited
by his recent adventure, his thoughts directed into a new channel,
his memory recalling the first companion of his lonely journey, and
the charm of that companion's personality and address. So many
other things had passed since, impressions had jostled so quickly
one upon the other, that he had scarce thought again of Master
Robert Catesby or the purse he had to claim from him. His new
uncle's liberality had made him rich, and a certain natural reserve
had held him silent in his Puritan relative's house about any
person not likely to find favour in Martin Holt's estimation. He
had been equally reticent about his strange adventure with the
gipsies, though he scarce knew why he should not speak of that.
But, as a matter of fact, every day brought with it such a crowd of
new impressions that the earlier ones had already partially faded
from his mind.

But the words of the priest had awakened a new train of thought.
Cuthbert resolved not to delay longer the reclamation of his own
property. He spoke to Cherry that same evening about his lost
purse, giving her a brief account of his ride across Hammerton
Heath, and she was eager for him to ask his own, lest he should
lose it altogether.

"For gay gallants are not always to be trusted, for all that they
look so fine and speak so fair," she said, nodding her pretty curly
head, an arch smile in her big gray eyes. "I have heard my father
say so a hundred times. I would go quickly and claim mine own
again. But tell me the rest of the adventure. What didst thou, left
thus alone upon the lone heath? I trow it was an unmanly and
unmannerly act to leave thee thus. What befell thee then?"

Cuthbert looked round cautiously; but there was no one listening to
the chatter of this pair of idlers in the window. Mistress Susan's
voice was heard below scolding the serving wench, and Martin Holt
was poring over some big ledger whilst Jemima called over the
figures of a heap of bills. Keziah was at her spinning wheel, which
hummed merrily in the red firelight; and Cherry was seizing
advantage of her aunt's absence to chatter instead of work.

Cherry had from the first been Cuthbert's confidante and friend. It
was taken for granted by this time that this should be so. Nobody
was surprised to see them often together, and Cherry had never
found the house on the bridge so little dull as when Cuthbert came
in night by night to give her the most charming and exciting
accounts of his doings and adventures. Once, too, she had gone with
him to see some sights. They had paraded Paul's Walk together, and
Cuthbert had been half scandalized and wholly astonished to see a
fine church desecrated to a mere fashionable promenade and lounging
place and mart. They had watched some gallants at their tennis
playing another day, and had even been present at the baiting of a
bear, when they had come unawares upon the spectacle in their
wanderings. But Cuthbert's ire had been excited through his
humanity and love for dumb animals, and Cherry had been frightened
and sickened by the brutality of the spectacle. And when Martin
Holt had inveighed against the practice with all a Puritan's
vehemence, Cuthbert had cordially agreed, and had thus drawn as it
were one step nearer the side of the great coming controversy which
his uncle had embraced.

These expeditions together had naturally drawn the cousins into
closer bonds of intimacy. Cherry felt privileged to ask questions
of Cuthbert almost at will, and he had no wish to hide anything
from her.

"I will tell thee that adventure some day when we are alone," he
answered. "I have often longed to share the tale with thee, but we
have had so much else to speak of. I was taken prisoner by the
robbers, and conveyed to a ruined mill, where some of their
comrades and some wild gipsies dwell, as I take it, for the greater
part of the inclement winter. I thought my end had surely come when
first I saw the fierce faces round me; but there was one who called
herself their queen, and who made them quit their evil purpose. She
put me to sit beside her at the board, and when the morning came
she fed me again and bid me ride forth without fear. She told me
certain things to boot, which I must not forget: but those I will
not speak of till you know the whole strange story. I may not tell
it here. I would not that any should know it but thee, Cherry. But
some day when we can get into some lonely place together I will
tell thee all, and we will think together how the thing on which my
mind is set may be accomplished."

Cherry's eyes were dilated with wonder and curiosity. Her cousin
all at once took rank as a hero and knight of romance. He had
already experienced a wonderful adventure, and there was plainly
some mystery behind which was to be made known to her later.

What a proud thing it was to have such a cousin! How she despised
honest Jacob now, with his large hands and heavy ways! She had
laughed at him ever since she could remember, and had ordered him
about much as though he were a faithful dog always ready to do her
bidding; but she had never quite realized what a clumsy boor he was
till their handsome, dark-faced Trevlyn cousin had come amongst
them, with his earnest eyes, his graceful movements, and his slim,
attractive person. Cuthbert's manners, that in fine society would
have been called rustic and unformed, were a great advance on
anything Cherry had seen in her own home, save in the person of
Anthony Cole and his son. She admired him immensely, and he was
rapidly becoming the sun and centre of her life; whilst Cuthbert,
who had always been used to the companionship of a sister, and who
found several fanciful resemblances as well as so many points of
contrast between the lively Cherry and the pensive Petronella, was
glad enough of her sisterly friendship and counsel, and did not
lose in favour with his uncle that he succeeded in pleasing and
brightening the life of his youngest born, who was in truth the
idol of his heart, though he would sooner have cut off his right
hand than have let her know as much too plainly.

As Cherry also was of opinion that Cuthbert ought to reclaim his
money, he resolved to do so upon the morrow without any further
loss of time. Cherry advised him not to speak openly of his visit
to the tavern, for her father held all such places in abhorrence,
and would likely speak in slighting terms of any person who could
frequent them. He had better prosecute his errand secretly, and
tell her the result at the end. Cherry dearly loved a little bit of
mystery, and was very anxious that Cuthbert should continue to
occupy his present position in her father's good graces.

The Cat and Fiddle was none too well looking a place when Cuthbert
succeeded at last in finding it. It had one door in the
thoroughfare of Holborn, but it ran back some way, and its other
doors opened into a narrow alley turning off from the main street
under a low archway. As Cuthbert pushed open the door of the public
room, he saw several men with faces of decidedly unprepossessing
type sitting together at a table engrossed in talk, and these all
looked quickly up as he entered, and gazed at him with undisguised
suspicion.

A burly man, who had the look of a host, came forward, and asked
his business rather roughly. Strangers did not appear to meet any
warmth of welcome at this place. Cuthbert answered that he sought
news of Master Robert Catesby, who had bidden him inquire at that
place for him. As that name passed his lips he saw a change pass
over the face of his questioner, and the answer was given with a
decided access of friendliness.

"He is not here now, but he will be here anon. He comes to dine
shortly after noon, and will spend some hours here today on
business. If it please you, you can wait for him."

"I thank you, but I will come again later," answered Cuthbert, who
was by no means enamoured of the place or the company.

He was surprised that his travelling companion, who appeared a man
of refined speech and habits, should frequent such an evil-looking
place as this. But the habits of the dwellers in cities were as yet
strange to him, and it might be his ignorance, he thought, which
made it appear suspicious to him.

"And if he asks who has inquired for him, what shall I say?" asked
the host, whilst the men at the table continued to stare and listen
with every appearance of interest.

"My name is Trevlyn," answered Cuthbert shortly, disliking, he
hardly knew why, the aspect and ways of the place.

He fancied that a slight sensation followed this announcement.
Certainly the landlord bowed lower than there was occasion for as
he held open the door for his visitor to pass out. Cuthbert was
puzzled, and a little annoyed. He was half inclined not to go there
again; but curiosity got the better of his resolve as the afternoon
hours drew on. After all, what did it matter what manner of man
this was, since he need never see him again after today? It would
be foolish not to reclaim his money, and might lead Master Robert
Catesby to inquire for him at his uncle's house, and that he did
not wish. The thing had better be done, and be done quickly. How
foolish it would be to go back to Cherry and say he had not
accomplished his errand because some odd-looking men had stared at
him, and because the tavern was ill smelling and dirty!

It was three o'clock, however, before the youth again entered the
unsavoury abode. As December had already come, the days were
approaching their shortest limit; and as heavy clouds hung in the
sky, the streets already began to look dark. Within the ill-lighted
tavern the obscurity was still greater. Cuthbert pushed his way
through the door, and found himself amongst the afternoon drinkers,
who were making the room ring with ribald songs and loud laughter.
But the host quickly singled him out, and approached with an air of
deference.

"The gentleman you asked for is upstairs. He directed that you
should be sent to him on your arrival. I am too busy to go up the
stairs with you, but you cannot miss the way. He is in the room
upon the first floor; the first door to the right hand will lead
you to him. He has one or two gentlemen with him, but he will be
glad to see you, too."

Cuthbert was glad to get out of the noisy room below, and, shutting
the door behind him, mounted the dark stairs. He opened the first
door to the right, after knocking once or twice in vain, and found
himself in a very small apartment, very ill lighted by a tiny
window, and altogether empty.

He looked round in surprise. Dim as was the twilight, he could not
be mistaken in the emptiness of the room. He wondered if the man
had misled him purposely, and a little vague uneasiness stole over
him. The noises from below had hitherto drowned any other sound;
but as for some cause unknown to himself these suddenly and
entirely ceased for the space of some half minute, he became aware
of voices close at hand; and almost before he realized his
position, he had caught several quickly and eagerly spoken
sentences.

"They show no mercy; let no mercy be shown to them!" said one
voice, in low, menacing accents. "Six saintly priests have died in
cruel agonies by the bloody hangman's hands but a few weeks past;
and look ye, what has been the fate of that godly, courageous old
man of Lancashire who has dared to raise his voice in reprobation
of these barbarities? Fined, imprisoned, despoiled of all; and all
but condemned to be nailed to the pillory, that his ears might be
sliced off! Even that fate was all but inflicted by yon infamous
Star Chamber, who respect neither virtue nor gray hairs, so they
may fill the King's coffers and destroy all godliness in the land!
It was but by two votes he escaped that last anguish and
degradation. How say ye, friends? Can any scheme be too desperate
if it rids us of such tyrants and rulers at one blow?"

An eager murmur arose at that--assent, indignation, wrath--and
again the same voice spoke in the same low, eager tones:

"And the way is open; the house is ours. But a few feet of masonry
to tunnel through, and the thing is done. Shall we shrink? shall we
hesitate? I trow not. Strong arms, silent tongues, a high
courage--that is all we want."

"And a few more strong arms to help us at the work, for it will be
a labour of Hercules to get it done."

At that moment the noise from below burst out anew, and Cuthbert
heard no more of this mysterious colloquy. He had not time to think
over the meaning of the words he had heard, or indeed to attach any
particular significance to them. He was always hearing fierce
threats bandied about between ardent partisans of Romanist and
Puritan, and was beginning to pay small heed to such matters. He
did not realize now that he had surprised any conspirators at their
work. He knocked boldly at the door of the room, to which the place
where he stood was plainly the antechamber, and a loud voice bid
him enter.

There was no light in the apartment, save that which filtered in
through the dirty window, and it was plain that the meeting,
whatever its nature, was breaking up. Several men were standing
about in their cloaks and hats, the latter slouched down upon their
brows, so that their faces could not be distinguished in the gloom.
Two or three passed Cuthbert hastily as he entered, before he had
time even to see if one of them was the companion of his journey;
but though he found some trouble in distinguishing features, his
own were visible enough as he stood facing the window, and out of
the shadows stepped a tall man, who greeted him with extended hand.

"Good e'en to you, Cuthbert Trevlyn, and a fair welcome to London
town! I trust you have not been in dangers and difficulties, and
that you but now come to claim your own again? How fared it with
you on the heath that night? Were you in any wise maltreated or
rough handled by the gentlemen of the road?"

"Nay; I was rather treated to a good supper and a night's lodging,
and not so much as deprived of my steed. I trow had he shown
something more of mettle I might not have so preserved him; but one
or two of them who mounted him pronounced him of no use even as a
pack horse."

Catesby laughed pleasantly, and putting his hand into his doublet
drew forth the purse intrusted to him, and placed it in Cuthbert's
hands.

"They would not have been so obliging, I fear, had you chanced to
have this upon your person. Take it, boy, and look within and see
that all is safe. I have not parted with it since the night of our
journey. I trow you will find your treasure as it left your hand."

"I am sure of it," answered Cuthbert gratefully; "and I return you
many thanks for your goodwill and sound counsel in the matter. But
for your good offices I should have lost all. I trust you yourself
escaped without misadventure?"

Cuthbert was now anxious to be gone. His errand was accomplished.
The atmosphere of this place was offensive to him, and he was
uneasy without well knowing why. His companion seemed to divine
this; and the room being now cleared of all other guests, he put
his hat on his head and said, "We will go out into the fresh air.
The Cat and Fiddle is better as a resort by day than by night. I
would fain know something of your whereabouts and fortunes, boy. I
have taken a liking for you, and the name of Trevlyn sounds
pleasantly in mine ears."

The old sense of fascination began to fall upon Cuthbert, as
Catesby, taking him familiarly by the arm, led him out into the
street, and walked along with him in the direction of his home,
drawing him out by questions, and throwing in bits of anecdote,
jest, and apt remark, that made his conversation a pleasure and an
education. Cuthbert forgot his anxieties and vague suspicions in
his enjoyment of the conversation of an accomplished man of the
world; and there was a subtle flattery in the sense that this man,
scholar and gentleman as he was, had condescended to a liking for
and an interest in his insignificant self, and was of his own
accord inviting confidence and friendship.

"I once had a young brother; thou something favourest him," was the
only explanation he gave of the sudden fancy formed when Cuthbert
spoke gratefully of his kindness. "I am growing out of youth
myself, but I like the companionship of youth when I can get it. I
would fain see more of thee, boy, an thou art thine own master, and
can come and visit me at the place I may appoint."

Cuthbert was pleased and flattered, and said he should be proud to
come, but hoped it would not be at the tavern, as his uncle
misliked such places of entertainment.

"It is an ill-smelling spot; I mislike it myself," answered
Catesby. "Nay, we can do better than that now. There is a house at
Lambeth where I often frequent with my friends. It is something
lonely; but thou art a brave lad, and wilt not fear that."

He turned and looked Cuthbert keenly over as he spoke, and heaved a
short sigh.

"Thou art marvellous like the brother I lost," he said. "I would
that I might have thee for my servant; but thou art too gently born
for that, I trow."

Cuthbert had well-nigh promised lifelong service on the spot, so
peculiar was the influence and fascination exercised upon him by
this man; but he remembered his uncle and his duty to him, and
pulled himself up as he replied soberly:

"I am poor enow--poorer than many a servant--having naught but what
is given me by others. But I have mine uncle's will to do. I may
take no step without asking counsel of him."

"Ay, verily; and this secret of our friendship thou must hide from
him. Thou knowest that I am of the forbidden faith, and my presence
in London must be hid. I may trust thee thus far with my secret?
Thou wilt not reveal my name to others?"

"Never, since thou hast told me not."

"Good lad; I knew thou mightest be trusted. And thou wilt come to
see me as I shall ask?"

"If I can make shift to do so I will very willingly."

"I shall remind thee of thy promise. And now, farewell. I have
business in another quarter. We shall meet again anon."



Chapter 8: Cuthbert And Cherry Go Visiting.


All this while Kate's letter to her cousin Lord Culverhouse had
lain stowed away in the safe leathern pocket of Cuthbert's riding
dress, into which her deft white hands had sewed it for safety, and
he had made no attempt to deliver it to its owner, nor to see
whether the young Viscount would have will or power to further his
own success in life.

The reason for this delay was no lack of goodwill on the part of
the youth, but was simply due to the fact that Lord Andover and his
family were not in London at this season, but were in their family
place in Hampshire, and not expected to reach London much before
the Christmas season.

This much Cuthbert had discovered early on in his stay in town; for
Kate had described to him the situation of her uncle's house in the
Strand, and he had made inquiry at the porter's lodge the very
first time he had passed by. But hearing this, and not wishing to
entrust the letter into any hands but those of Lord Culverhouse
himself, he had gone away again, and the excitements of the new
life had speedily driven the thought of Kate's commission out of
his mind.

But now the merry Christmas season was close at hand. Mistress
Susan was thrice as busy and as sharp tongued as usual, getting
forward her preparations for that time of jollity and good cheer,
and making the bridge house fairly reek with the mixed flavours of
her numerous concoctions and savoury dishes.

Martin Holt's Puritanism, which would prevent his countenancing
anything like drunkenness, revelling, or the gross sports and
amusements which still held full sway over the people at festive
seasons, did not withhold him from keeping a well-spread table at
which to ask his friends to sit, still less from sending out to his
poorer neighbours portions of the good cheer which has always
seemed appropriate to the Christmas season. So he raised no protest
against the lavish expenditure in meats and spices, rose water,
ambergris, sugar and herbs, nor complained that his sister and
daughters seemed transformed for the nonce into scullions, and had
scarce time to sit down to take a meal in peace, for fear that some
mishap occurred to one of the many stew pans crowding each other
upon the stove.

He was used to it, and it appeared the inevitable preliminary to
Yuletide; though Cuthbert looked on in amaze, and marvelled how any
household could consume the quantities of victuals under
preparation, be their hospitality and generosity what it might.

As he walked abroad in the streets he saw much the same sort of
thing everywhere going on. Cooks and scullions were scouring the
streets and markets for all manner of dainties. Farmers were
driving through the streets flocks of young porkers, squealing
lustily and jostling the passers by; and cooks and housewives would
come rushing out from the houses to secure a pig and carry it off
in triumph; whilst here and there a servant in livery might be seen
with a basket from which a peacock's tail floated, carrying off
this costly prize to adorn the table of some nobleman or wealthy
merchant.

Passing by Lord Andover's house in the Strand on the day before the
eve of Christmas, Cuthbert saw, by the stir and bustle and
liveliness of the courtyard, that the family had plainly returned.
On making inquiry he discovered that his surmise was correct, and
he walked home resolving to lose no more time in delivering his
letter, and wondering if he could contrive to take Cherry with him
when he paid the visit, to secure for her a sight of the gay
streets and a peep into Lord Andover's big house. The poor child
had been regularly mewed up at home the whole of the past week
helping her sharp-tongued aunt. It was nothing but fair that she
should taste a little enjoyment now; and he determined to try to
get his uncle's consent before speaking a word to Cherry herself.
Susan Holt never opposed her brother, though she often disapproved
of his lenience towards his youngest child, whose love of pleasure
she looked upon as a peril and a snare.

When Cuthbert made his modest request to take Cherry out on the
morrow to see the sights of the streets, and the houses all decked
with holly, the father smiled an indulgent smile and gave a ready
assent. If Cuthbert would be careful where he took her, and not let
her be witness of any of the vile pastimes of cock fighting, bull
or bear baiting, or the hearer of scurrilous or blasphemous
language, he might have her companionship and welcome; and it would
doubtless amuse her to go into Lord Andover's kitchen, where
messengers generally waited who had brought notes or messages for
members of the family, being treated to cups of sack and other
hospitality; and as he was a good man, his household would be well
ordered, and the maid would be treated with due civility and
respect.

"The child is kept something strait by her good aunt," said Martin,
a smile hovering round the corner of his lips. "We are not all cut
to the same pattern, and Cherry takes not as kindly to the gravity
of life as did her sisters. A little change will do her no harm. It
boots not too far to resist the promptings of nature."

How Cherry's eyes laughed and sparkled, and how her pretty face
flushed and dimpled when Cuthbert whispered to her of the pleasure
in store for her. She had been looking a little harassed and weary
after her long seclusion from the fresh air, striving to please
Aunt Susan, who never would be pleased; but this made amends for
all. Worthy Susan sniffed and snorted when Martin told her to give
the child a holiday on the morrow; but as all her preparations were
well-nigh complete, she did not really want the girl, and contented
herself with hoping that her indulgent father would not live to rue
the day when he thought fit to indulge her wanton love for
unhallowed sights and amusements.

Martin did not reply. Perhaps he felt that his sister was more
consistent and stanch to the Puritan principles than he was himself
in this matter; but he did not rescind his decision. And after a
surreptitious meal behind the pantry door together on the morrow,
whilst Mistress Susan was engaged upstairs over the weighty matter
of the linen to adorn the festal board that evening and on
Christmas Day itself, the pair stole quietly off about eleven
o'clock, leaving word with Martin in passing out that they would be
back before dark.

Cherry danced along as though she had wings to her feet, as they
quitted the bridge and plunged into the narrow but bustling and
busy streets. She had always been kept rigorously at home on all
occasions of public rejoicing and merriment, and it was a perfect
delight to her to see the holiday look about the passers by, and
exchange friendly good wishes with such acquaintances as she met by
the way. She had put on her best gown, and a little ruff round her
neck: her aunt would not let her wear such "gewgaws" in a general
way, but the girl loved to fabricate them out of odds and ends, in
imitation of the ladies she saw passing in the street. She wore the
gray cloak and hood she had had on when first Cuthbert had come to
her assistance by the river, and her rosy laughing face peeped
roguishly out from the warm and becoming head gear. But suddenly,
as they were passing a house in East Cheape, she paused and glanced
up at Cuthbert with a bewitching little look of pleading.

"Wait but here for me a little five minutes," she said; "I have an
errand to my cousin Rachel."

She was gone in a moment, slipping through the open door and
leaving Cuthbert outside in the street. He knew the house for her
uncle Dyson's, and was in no way alarmed about her. Nor was she
long in rejoining him again. But when she came out, laughing,
blushing, and dimpling, he scarce knew her for the moment, so
transformed was she; and he stood perfectly mute before the radiant
young vision his eyes encountered.

The sober black under-petticoat had been replaced by one of vivid
scarlet taffeta, quilted with elaboration, and further adorned with
embroidery in white silk. The gray upper robe was the same as
before, the soft stuff and quiet tone harmonizing and contrasting
well with the bright hue of the petticoat. The little feet were
encased in the daintiest of strong buckled shoes, and in scarlet
hose to match the quilted skirt; whilst the cloak and hood were now
of soft white lamb's-wool cloth, such as Abraham Dyson made a
specialty of in his business; and the vivid delicate colour upon
the girl's laughing face as it peeped out of the snowy hood was set
off to the greatest possible advantage by the pure white frame, so
suited to the child's infantile style of beauty.

"Why, Cherry, I scarce know thee!" cried Cuthbert, amazed.

"I scarce know myself," answered the laughing girl, blushing and
dimpling with mischievous pleasure; "and I trust none else will
know me neither if we meet more friends by the way. I will pull my
hood well over my face, for I would not have this frolic reach Aunt
Susan's ears. She would make a mighty coil anent it. But oh, I have
so longed for pretty things such as Rachel wears Why is it wrong to
love bright colours and soft fabrics? I will not believe it is.
When I am grown to woman's estate, and have a home of my own to
regulate, I will wear what I choose and what becomes me best. It is
folly to think God loves not beauty and brightness. Has He not made
the sky blue, the trees green, the flowers of every hue of the
rainbow? Does He not paint the sky with brilliant hues? Why is man
alone of his creatures to be dull and sad?"

"Nay, I know not; I am unlearned in these questions. But how got
you these fine clothes? Did Mistress Rachel lend them?"

"Rachel has always longed to give this petticoat to me. She is
weary of it, and it is something too short for her; but I knew I
might never wear it, and that Aunt Susan would chide me roundly for
bringing such a thing home. So Rachel said she would lay it by for
me when her new robe came home at Christmastide. Then she whispered
to me last week that her father had a present for me--a cloak and
hood that he thought my father would let me wear, albeit Aunt Susan
might ill like it. So passing the house today, methought I might
slip in and ask Rachel if I might wear the new cloak and hood to
Lord Andover's; and forthwith she had me up to her room and into
this scarlet petticoat in a twinkling, and mine uncle brought the
white cloak and hood himself and fastened it on me, and Jacob came
with the shoes and said he had had them made strong for the muddy
streets, but smart with the buckles on the top. And here I be the
happiest girl in all London town! Nay, Cuthbert, but I feel as if
my feet could dance of themselves all the way!"

Her happiness was infectious. Cuthbert felt more like a
light-hearted boy than ever he had done in his life before. His
lively little companion, clinging to his arm and chattering like a
magpie, effectually drove away all grave thoughts. The sun shone
brightly in the steely-blue sky; the frost had made the streets
absolutely clean and dry. Walking, even in the most trodden places,
was easy and pleasant, and everybody seemed in excellent good
humour.

Many admiring glances were levelled at the pair as they passed
along--the charming blushing damsel in the white hood, and the
distinguished-looking youth with the grave dark face. Cuthbert
gratified the little girl's curiosity by taking her up and down
Paul's Walk as they passed through St. Paul's Churchyard, and by
the time they gained Fleet Street and Temple Bar she had reached
the limit of her farthest walk westward.

They spent several minutes before the clock of St. Dunstan's in the
West, and watched the bronze figures striking on their bells as the
hour of midday sounded forth from many steeples. Then Cherry must
needs go down to the river banks between the gentlemen's gardens
and see how the river looked from here. She was a little awed by
the grandeur of the houses all along the Strand, and wondered
mightily what it could feel like to be one of the fine Court dames
who drove in and out of the great gates in gilded coaches, or
ambled forth upon snow-white palfreys, attended by lackeys afoot
and on horseback.

Another hour had passed in delighted watching of the street sights
and the fine folks who dwelt in these parts, before Cuthbert led
her under the archway of the great courtyard, and told her that
this was Lord Andover's house. It was one of the finest in the
Strand, and it was plain that some gay festivity was in foot or in
preparation; for there was such a to-ing and fro-ing of serving
men, lackeys and scullions, such a clatter of voices, such an air
of hurry and jollity on every face, that Cherry could have looked
and listened for ever, but that Cuthbert hurried her through the
crowd towards a big door opening into the courtyard, and whispered
in her ear:

"They all be too busy to heed me here. Come to the house, and see
what hap we have there. I may deliver this letter to none other
save Lord Culverhouse himself."

The great door which stood wide open proved to be that of the
kitchen--a vast hall in itself, along the farther side of which
were no less than six huge fireplaces. Cooks and scullions stood at
each of these, shouting out orders and moving to and fro; while a
perfect crowd of menials and servants, messengers and idlers, stood
or sat about, chatting, laughing, and even gaming in corners. Huge
tankards of ale, hot and strongly spiced, stood upon the table, and
every one who passed by appeared permitted to help himself at will.

Busy and noisy as this place was, an air of good fellowship and
good humour pervaded it which was reassuring and pleasant; and
before the cousins had stood many minutes in their corner, a
serving man came up and asked them civilly enough of their
business. Cuthbert replied that he had a letter which he had been
charged to give into Lord Culverhouse's own hands; and hearing
that, the servant gave a keen look at the pair, and apparently
satisfied with his inspection, bid them follow him.

He took them up a wide staircase, and brought them out into another
large hall, where servants of a different class were gathered
together--the liveried footmen and pages and lackeys, and some
waiting women, very grandly attired, who speedily beckoned Cherry
amongst them, and began making much of her, rather as though she
were a little child, feeding her with comfits and cakes and spiced
wine, examining her soft white cloak, and asking a host of
questions as to where she got it, who was the maker, and if her
uncle sold his wares to the public.

Cherry had pretty, dainty little ways of her own, and was not in
the least shy where she felt herself liked. She did not even miss
Cuthbert when he was summoned away, so happy was she to be talked
to by these fine waiting women, who were kind and comfortable souls
enough. She learned on her side that there was to be a play given
in half-an-hour's time within the house itself, and that all the
serving men and women were permitted to witness it. She was pressed
to stay and see it herself, and her eyes beamed with delight at the
bare thought. To see a play had always been the very height of her
youthful ambition, and had not father said that she could get no
hurt at Lord Andover's house?

Presently Cuthbert came back, his face aglow with pleasure.

"Cherry," said he, "I have seen Lord Culverhouse, and methinks
Kate's letter was like a talisman; for after reading it he bid me
welcome as though I were in some sort a kinsman, and said that I
must stay and see the mask that is to be played here in a short
while, and remain as a guest at the feast which will follow, where
the boar's head is to be brought in, and all sorts of revelry are
to be held. I told him I could not stay till dark, for that we had
promised to be home ere that; but that I would gladly see the play
acting an I might. And then I told him of thee, and he bid me go
fetch thee. My cousin, said he, must i' faith be in some sort his
cousin, since Kate, who was his cousin, also spoke of me as one. I
told him nay, but that thou wert cousin only on my mother's side;
but he laughed, and would not listen, and bid me fetch thee, that
he might place thee well to see the mummery. So come with me, fair
cousin, for we must not keep him waiting."

Cherry's cheeks were dyed with bewitching blushes, and her big gray
eyes were shining like stars, as she followed her cousin,
accompanied by a little murmur of congratulation from the waiting
women, who had all fallen in love with the charming child. She
looked a perfect picture as she stood before Lord Culverhouse in
her scarlet petticoat and snow-white hood, making her pretty quaint
reverence to him, hardly daring to raise her eyes, but quite lost
in the glamour of the honour done to her in being thus noticed by a
real lord and good humouredly dubbed a cousin.

And then her hand was actually taken by this handsome and elegant
young gallant, and she felt herself being conducted through rooms
the magnificence of which she could not take in in her timid, hasty
glances. She had almost begun to think it all a dream from which
she must soon awaken, when she heard her companion say in his sweet
voice:

"Mother mine, have you room beneath your ample wing for a little
city guest--a cousin of Cuthbert Trevlyn, who has brought me a most
welcome missive from my dear cousin Kate?"

And then Cherry looked up with a pretty, frightened, trusting
glance, to find herself being examined and smiled at by quite a
bevy of wonderfully-dressed ladies, who after one good look began
to laugh in a very reassuring and kindly way, and made room in
their midst for the little city maiden with that ease of true good
breeding which has ever been the truest test of the blue blood of
the English aristocracy. She looked such a child, in her pretty
confusion and bashfulness, that not one of them resented her
presence amongst them. Courtesy and kindliness had always been Lady
Andover's salient characteristics, and there was a native
refinement and quaint simplicity about Cherry that would have gone
far to disarm severer critics than the present company round Lady
Andover.

"Come, my pretty child," she said; "thou shalt sit beside me, and
tell me all about thyself. The name of Trevlyn is well known and
well loved in this house. Thou comest under good auspices."

And so Cherry again found herself the plaything and pet of a group
of good-humoured people, though this time they were fine ladies in
dresses that fairly took away her breath, as she ventured to study
them with eager, furtive glances. She answered all their questions
with pretty, candid frankness; told of her adventure in the osier
beds, and of Cuthbert's timely rescue; told of her life under her
father's roof, and her simple daily duties and pleasures. And the
grand ladies listened and laughed, and made much of her; and her
soft white hood was removed and admired, and passed round almost as
it had been amongst the waiting women. Cherry felt quite bashful at
sitting amongst those fine ladies with no cover for her head but
her own curls; but she noted that the younger ladies present had no
adornment beside that, unless it were a bow of ribbon or a few
sparkling pins: so she took courage, and her hot cheeks burned less
brightly, though she could not help her eyes sparkling and dancing
beneath their long lashes as she wondered what in the world her
aunt Susan would say could she see her for a moment in her present
surroundings.

And then the play began, and Cherry sat entranced from the moment
the curtain rose till it fell again. She had never seen anything of
the sort before, and was perfectly captivated and carried away,
living in the glamour of absolute enchantment, and amusing her
fashionable companions almost as much by her artless admiration and
enthusiasm as the players did by their mummery and stage tricks.

But time was flying all too fast, and almost as soon as the curtain
fell for the last time, Cuthbert came up and carried her away, Lord
Culverhouse walking with them once more through the long rooms, and
insisting on their partaking of some spiced wine and game pasty
before going out into the cold air again.

What with the fumes of the wine, the extraordinary grandeur of the
house, and the wonderful nature of the adventure altogether, Cherry
hardly knew whether or not she any longer trod on solid ground as
she pursued her way along the streets clinging tight to Cuthbert's
arm. It was growing dusk now, and Cuthbert was anxious to get his
charge home before the early darkness should have fallen upon the
city. They hardly spoke as they wended their way. Cherry gave a
little gasp from time to time indicative of her unbounded delight,
whilst Cuthbert was thinking pleasantly of the kind and cordial
reception he had met with from Lord Culverhouse.

Both felt more or less in dreamland till they reached Abraham
Dyson's house, where Cherry ran indoors again to rid herself of her
finery.

When she emerged once more into the familiar streets of the city,
her cheeks had lost a little of their bloom, her eyes some of their
star-like brightness; and heaving a great sigh as she took
Cuthbert's arm, she said:

"Ah me! it is a hard fate to be a city maid and a Puritan's
daughter. I shall never see such lovely sights again! And oh, how
happy I should be if only I could be a lady, and live where
everything is soft and beautiful and gentle! Oh how I shall dream
of it all now! But it will never be anything but a dream!" and a
great tear like a diamond sparkled on the thick lashes and rolled
down the girl's soft cheek.

Cuthbert had been thinking hard as he stood there in the gathering
darkness. He was rather taken out of himself, which was perhaps the
reason he forgot all prudence and reserve. Bending suddenly over
Cherry, he kissed away the tears on her cheeks, and said in low,
passionate tones:

"Nay, sweet Cherry, weep not for that. I will make thee yet a lady,
whom none shall dare flout. I have loved thee, sweet cousin, from
the day I found thee by the river in hapless plight. And when I
have found the lost treasure of Trevlyn, and have brought luck and
fortune to each one that bears the old name, then will I come and
wed thee, sweet coz; and thou wilt be a Trevlyn then, and none
shall dare to scorn thee for thy good father's honest name. My
father did wed a Holt, and his son shall do the same. Tell me,
Cherry, dost thou love me well enough to be my little wife one day?
for by the mass I will have none other; and if thou lovest me not I
will go unwed all the days of my life!"

Cherry turned hot and cold, flushed scarlet, and then grew pale as
this speech proceeded, till at the last words the red came back in
a flood, and hiding her face on Cuthbert's shoulder, she sobbed
out:

"Oh, how could I love anybody else? O Cuthbert, how happy thou hast
made me! Art sure thou speakest sooth?"

"Sooth! ay, that I do. Thou art the sweetest maid the sun e'er
looked on. Thou wert the fairest of all that gay company at my Lord
Andover's, and many beside myself said as much. Cherry, thou shalt
one day be my own true wife; and if kind fortune do but favour me,
thou shalt have gold and jewels and fine robes enow, and shalt hold
up thy head with the best of them: see if it be not so!"

A boy and girl wooing certainly, but none the less hearty for that.
The love had been growing silently for many weeks, the young folks
scarcely knowing what they were learning to be to each other. And
now these sudden burning words had revealed all, and Cherry felt
more than ever that she trod on air and moved in a dream; only this
time there was the pleasant sense that the dream would not vanish
away in smoke, but would become more and more a living reality.

But there was something Cuthbert had said which yet required
explanation, and presently she looked up and asked:

"What didst thou mean when thou spokest of a lost treasure? What is
it, and who has lost it?"

And then Cuthbert forthwith plunged into the story of the lost
treasure of Trevlyn, as he had heard it from his cousin Kate; and
Cherry listened with parted lips, thinking that it was almost like
living in some play to be hearing this strange tale.

When she heard of the gipsies and their vengeful words, she stopped
suddenly short and gazed intently at Cuthbert.

"This is the second time thou hast spoken of gipsies," she said, in
a whisper. "Thou hast yet to tell me the tale of how thou didst
spend a night in the gipsies' cave. Cuthbert, were those gipsies
thou didst light upon that night of thy flight the same as have
stolen the treasure from Trevlyn?"

"Cherry, I trow that they are," he answered, in a very low voice,
bending his head closer over her as he spoke. "Listen, and I will
tell thee all. There was an old fierce woman, with hair as white as
driven snow, among them, who, when she heard the name of Trevlyn,
launched at me a glance of hatred that I never can forget; and I
knew well by her looks and her words that, had she had her will, I
should have suffered the same fate that her mother had done from
the hands of my grandfather. I knew not then that it was her mother
who had been burnt by him as a witch; but I saw the evil purposed
me, and knew she was my foe. But a stately woman--the old gipsy's
daughter, as I later learned--interposed on my behalf, and her all
obeyed as queen, even her mother bowing down before her. She
protected me, and bid me sit at table with them, saw me served with
the best, and at night showed me herself to a ruinous bed chamber
where, however, a weary man might comfortably lodge. There she left
me, but bid me not to undress; and presently after I had slept, I
know not how many hours, I was awakened by her entrance with a dim
light, and she bid me rise but speak low, as she had somewhat of
moment to say to me. She asked me then of myself and my kindred;
and I asked her many things, and to my questions she gave ready
response. Last of all, I dared to name the lost treasure, and I saw
a new look come upon her face. I said that I had heard enough to
make me think it had been stolen and hidden in the forest, and I
asked her if in her wanderings there she had heard aught of it. I
saw that the question moved her. I saw her flashing glance rest on
me again and again, and her lips tremble as though she fain would
speak, and yet was half afraid to do so. Every moment I suspected
more and more that she knew somewhat; but whether or no she would
reveal this I dared not guess. At the last the eager light died out
of her eyes. She answered that she had heard somewhat of the story,
but that she herself knew naught. The treasure had been lost many
years before she had first seen the light, and men had long ceased
to look for it, albeit there were many traditions that it would one
day be found. As to that she knew naught; but she promised me this
thing, that she would ask and strive to learn if any in the forest
knew more than she. And she bid me meet her at a certain cave in
the heart of the forest upon May Day next, when she said she would
speak with me again anent this same matter."

Cherry's lips were parted, her eyes were full of wonder and
curiosity. She shivered with excitement and surprise.

"Thinkest thou that she knows the place?"

"That I know not, but I trow well that she knows more than she said
then, and that I shall learn more when I seek her again, and we are
not in a walled place where eavesdroppers may lurk with itching
ears."

"Then thou wilt keep the tryst?"

"Assuredly I will."

"And thou art not afraid that harm will befall thee? Oh beware,
Cuthbert, of that wicked, fierce old woman!"

"Oh, I fear her not. Their queen has bidden me. They dare not defy
her. I shall go to the forest and keep the tryst. I trow there be
much yet for me to know."

Cherry hesitated and trembled, and hesitated again, and finally
said in a low whisper:

"Cuthbert, it may be that there is a speedier and a safer way of
discovering what thou wouldst know."

"And what way is that, sweet coz?"

Again came the little pause of hesitation, and then Cherry said:

"We might consult the wise woman.

"The wise woman! and who is she?"

"There be many of them," answered Cherry, still speaking in a very
low and rapid whisper. "But breathe not a word at home, for father
says they be surely in league with the devil, if they be not
impostors who deserve whipping at the cart's tail. But Rachel went
to one three years back, and the dame told her a husband would come
wooing within three short months, and told the colour of his hair
and his eyes. And sure enough it all came true, and now she is
quickly to be wed. And others have done the like, and the things
have all come true. And she is not a wicked woman neither, for she
cures agues and fevers, and the leeches themselves ask her simples
of her. There may be wicked women plying this trade too; I know not
how that may be. But this dame is not wicked; Rachel goes to her
still, and she has never deceived her yet. But she liveth very
secretly now, as a wise woman must needs to in these times; for the
King, they say, is very wroth against all such, and in the country
men are going about from him and burning all who practise such
arts, and otherwise cruelly maltreating them. So no man speaks
openly of them now, though they still ply their trade in secret."

"Hast thou ever been to one thyself, Cherry?"

Her face was all in a glow. She clung closer to Cuthbert's arm.

"Chide me not, and tell not my father; but I went with Rachel once,
when she went to have a wart charmed that was causing her much
vexation. I asked nothing of the dame myself; but she took my hand
and looked into my eyes, and she nodded her head and chuckled and
made strange marks upon a bit of paper, which she said was casting
my horoscope. And then she told me that I had an ugly lover that I
loved not, but that another more gently born should come in time,
and that we should love each other well and be faithful through
all, and that I should end by being a lady with all I wanted at
command."

And there Cherry stopped, blushing and palpitating with happiness
and shy joy; whilst Cuthbert, struck by this very remarkable and
original specimen of fortune telling, began to think he might do
worse than consult this same wise woman who had gauged his
sweetheart's case so fairly.

He himself had no scruples. He had a strong belief in necromancy,
and had never heard that there was sin in its practice. He was
still Romanist enough at heart to look upon the confessional as an
easy and pleasant way of getting rid of the burden of an uneasy
conscience. His mind was very open to conviction and impression in
religious matters. He was no bigot, but he had a constitutionally
inherited tendency towards the old faith that was possibly stronger
than he knew. Had he seen his father's party in power, persecuting
and coercing, he would have had scant sympathy or love for them and
their ways; but as the contrary was now the case, and he saw them
downtrodden and abused, he felt considerable drawings towards them,
and these drawings were not the less strong from the intercourse he
was enjoying almost daily with Anthony Cole and his son Walter.

Cuthbert's love of learning and eager wish to improve his
scholarship drew him almost daily to the dark little shop in the
bridge, wedged in, as it were, between two larger and more imposing
structures, where the father and son plied a modest trade and lived
somewhat hazardously; for they did not hesitate to circulate
pamphlets and leaflets the sale of which had been forbidden, and
which might at any time get them into serious trouble with the
authorities, and lead to imprisonment, if not to death.

But to return to the pair now closely approaching their home, and
lagging somewhat in their walk to prolong the talk for a few
minutes. Cherry was in a fever of curiosity and impatience, and
longed to hear her lover speak the word.

"It is so long to wait till May Day; and I trow that she could tell
us all. Say, Cuthbert, shall we go to her?"

It was sweet to Cuthbert to hear the little word "we" dropping so
naturally from Cherry's lips. He pressed the hand that lay upon his
arm, and looked down into the upraised eager face.

"Wilt thou go with me an I go?"

"To be sure I will. I should love to be thy companion."

"And brave thy father's wrath should he find out?"

Cherry clung yet closer to his arm.

"I fear nothing when thou art beside me, Cuthbert. I would go with
thee to death."

He stooped and kissed her eagerly, passionately.

"Then thy sweet will shall be law," he answered, "and I will go as
soon as thou canst make shift to take me."

Cherry uttered a little cry of delight.

"Ah, how pleased I am--how pleased I am! We will go this very week,
so soon as the Yuletide stir be past. O Cuthbert, Cuthbert, what a
wondrous day this has been! Methinks it must surely be a dream. But
thou art no dream; thou art real and true. So long as thou art near
me and with me, I shall know that it is all true."



Chapter 9: The Wise Woman.


"Cuthbert! alas, Cuthbert!"

"Why, how now? What ails thee, Cherry?"

"Cuthbert, my father hath been speaking with me."

"Well, and wherefore not? Thy father is no stern tyrant like mine,
sweet coz."

Cherry was panting with excitement and what appeared like terror.
She clung fast to Cuthbert's arm, and her eyes were dilated with
fear. She was an excitable little mortal, so he did not feel any
great alarm at her looks, but strove to reassure her in a friendly,
brotherly fashion. The Christmas festivities and excitements, which
had lasted above a week, had doubtless done something to upset the
balance of her mind. She had been so extravagantly and overwhelmingly
happy with the remembrance of her adventure at Lord Andover's house,
and her knowledge of the secret between herself and Cuthbert, that
the young man had felt half afraid lest she should contrive to betray
it to others by her blushes, her bright, fitful glances, and her
newborn softness in his presence, which gave a sweeter quality to her
childish charms. He himself did not wish Martin Holt to be aware that
anything had passed between him and Cherry till he could come boldly
forward and ask her at her father's hands, having the wherewithal
to support her. He had been surprised into an admission of youthful
devotion, and he by no means wished the words unsaid; for the secret
understanding now existing betwixt himself and Cherry was the sweetest
element in his daily life, and he was more and more in love every day
with his charming cousin. But he knew that until he could come with his
share of the Trevlyn treasure in his hands, he could scarce hope or
look for a patient hearing from the shrewd man of business. And though
he himself was increasingly confident that the treasure had been hidden
out of spite, and not really made away with, and that some day it would
be found, he knew that this opinion would be regarded by the world at
large as a chimera of ardent youth, and that Martin Holt for one would
bid him lay aside all such vain and idle dreams, and strive by steady
perseverance in business to win for himself a modest independence. Only
to the young, the ardent, the lovers of imaginative romance, had the
notion of hidden treasure any charm.

And here was Cherry crying, palpitating, trembling in his arms as
though some great trouble menaced them.

"What ails thee, sweetheart?" he asked, with playful tenderness;
and Cherry choked back her sobs to answer:

"Cuthbert, he has spoken to me of marriage--my father. He has told
me plainly what he purposes for me. He and my uncle Dyson have
talked of it together. I am to wed my cousin Jacob. O Cuthbert,
Cuthbert! what must I do? what must I say?"

Cuthbert heard the news in silence. It was not altogether
unexpected, but he had scarce looked to have heard the subject
openly broached so soon. Cherry had been regarded in her home as
such a child, and her father, sisters, and aunt had so combined to
speak and think of her as such, that although her eighteenth
birthday was hard at hand, and she was certainly of marriageable
age, he had not looked to have to face this complication in the
situation quite so quickly. But as he stood holding Cherry in his
arms (for she had come to him in the upper parlour at an hour when
all the household were elsewhere engaged, and there was no fear of
interruption), a look of stern purpose and resolution passed across
the young man's face--an expression which those who knew the
Trevlyn family would have recognized as a true Trevlyn look. His
face seemed to take added years and manliness as that expression
crossed it; and looking tenderly down at the quivering Cherry, he
asked:

"Thinkest thou that he has seen or suspected aught?"

"I know not. He said no word of that, only looked hard at me as be
spoke of Jacob."

"And what saidst thou?"

"Alack! what could I say? I did but tell him I had no thoughts of
such a thing. I prayed he would not send me from him. I told him I
was over young to think of marriage, and besought him to speak of
it no more. And as my tears began to flow I could say no more."

"And he?"

"He reminded me that many another girl was a wedded wife and mother
at my age; and then I turned and said that since Jemima and Kezzie
were yet unwed--ay, and Rachel too, for all her rosy cheeks and her
dowry--it was hard that I should have to be the one to be turned
first out of the nest. And at that I cried the more; and he put his
arm about me, and said he had no thought to grieve me, and did not
think that Jacob would wish me vexed in the matter. And I begged
for a year's grace; and, after thinking and pondering awhile, he
answered that he had no wish to hurry things on--that I was full
young to leave my girlhood behind and be saddled with the cares of
a household. And then it came out that the haste was all Uncle
Dyson's doing. Rachel is to be wed at Easter, and he wants his son
to bring home a wife to nurse Aunt Rebecca and mind his house. And
when I heard that I was in a pretty rage; for I cannot abide Aunt
Rebecca, who is as cross as a bear with a sore head, and she cannot
abear the sight of me. I know not wherefore I have offended her,
but so it is. And I know naught of managing a house, and so Aunt
Susan will tell them an they ask her. So I dared to stamp my foot,
and to tell father I would not wed Jacob to be made his mother's
slave; that I would rather live and die a maid like the good Queen
who has been taken from us. And father, he scarce seemed to know
what to say. I know he muttered something about its being a sore
pity it was not Jemima or Kezzie that had been chosen. And then he
bethought him that it was not right to let a daughter see too much
of his mind, or speak too much of her own; and he bid me begone
something sternly, declaring he would think the matter over, but
that he looked for dutiful obedience from any child of his, and
that I was not to think I might set up mine own will against his
whatever his decision might be in the end."

Cherry's tempest of tears was by this time ended, and she spoke
collectedly enough, raising her eyes now and then to the grave face
of her lover to mark the effect of her words upon him. Cuthbert's
face was grave but not unhopeful, and taking Cherry's hand firmly
in his as she ended her tale, he said:

"If he will but put the matter off for a year, all will be well. If
the treasure is to be found at all, I shall have found it by then.
Let these dark winter days but change to the long soft ones of
spring, and I go forth into the forest upon my quest. When I return
laden with my share of the spoil, I trow I shall be able to win and
wed my Cherry, be there never so many Jacobs in the field before
me!"

Cherry laughed a soft little laugh, and her fears and tremblings
ceased for the time being. Looking fondly up into Cuthbert's face,
she said:

"And why wait till the spring to begin? Hast forgotten what we
spoke of not long since? The wise woman--let us go to her! Thou
hast money, and I trow she will be able to tell thee somewhat of
the treasure. Men say that she hath a marvellous gift."

Waiting was slow work, and Cuthbert was by no means averse to
testing the skill of the old sorceress. He had a certain amount of
faith in the divinations of magic, and at least it could do no harm
to see what the beldam would say. He would but have to risk a gold
or silver piece, and it would satisfy Cherry that he was not
loitering and half hearted.

"I will go gladly an thou canst come with me. But when shall it be?
I have heard that these witches and diviners only exercise their
skill at night, and how couldst thou be abroad with me then? There
would be a pretty coil if it were discovered that we were not
within doors."

But Cherry was full of invention, and had all a woman's wit and
readiness of resource. She was a true daughter of Eve, this little
rosy-cheeked maiden; and when her heart was set on a thing, she,
could generally find the means to carry it out.

"Listen!" she said, after pausing a few moments to think the thing
out. "Any time after dark will do for the wise woman. It matters
not for it to be late in the night, so long as the sun be down and
the world wrapped in gloom. That happens early enow in these winter
days. Now do thou listen and heed me, Cuthbert. Thou hast heard of
good Master Harlow, hast thou not?"

"Ay, verily! I have heard of little else these many days!" answered
Cuthbert, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "I am well nigh
weary of the sound of his name. He is a notable Puritan preacher,
is he not?"

"Ay, verily, most notable and most wearisome!" answered Cherry,
with a delightful little grimace. "Thou speakest of being weary of
the sound of his name. Thou wouldst be tenfold more weary of the
sound of his voice didst thou but attend one of his preachings. I
have known him discourse for four hours at a time--all men hanging
on his words as if they were those of God Himself, and only poor
little me well nigh dead from weariness and hunger"

"I marvel not at that," answered Cuthbert. "Four hours would tax
the patience of the most ardent disciple."

"Nay, but thou little knowest. There be those amongst my father's
sect who call it all too short, who would listen, I verily believe,
till they dropped from their benches with starvation. But however
that may be, this Master Harlow is one of the hunted martyrs of the
cause, and he is not allowed to exercise his gifts save by stealth;
and the preaching, of which thou hast heard these many whispers, is
to be held by night, and in some obscure cellar underground, where
they who go will be safe from all molestation from spies and foes."

"Ah!" said Cuthbert, looking quickly at her, "and thou thinkest
that this will be our chance?"

"Let them but once start forth without us and all will be well,"
answered Cherry quickly. "The only trouble will be that Aunt Susan
loves to drag me whither she knows I love not to go, and father
thinks that these wearisome discourses are for the saving of souls.
He will wish to take the twain of us. It must be ours to escape him
and abide at home."

"And how can we compass that?"

"For thee it will be easy," answered Cherry. "Thou must promise
Walter Cole to assist him with some task of printing or binding
that same evening, and tell my father that thou art not seasoned to
long discourses, and hast no desire to fill the room of another who
would fain hear the words of life from the notable man. There will
be more crowding to hear him than the room will hold, so that it
will be no idle plea on thy part. Once thou art gone I can yawn and
feign some sort of ache or colic that will make me plead to go to
bed rather than attend the preaching. Aunt Susan will scold and
protest it is but mine idleness and sinfulness in striving to avoid
the godly discourse; but father will not compel me to go. And when
all have started thou canst return, and we will together to the
wise woman; and be she never so long with her divinations, we shall
have returned long ere they have done, and none will know of the
visit."

Cuthbert agreed willingly to this plan. A bit of mischief and
frolic was as palatable to young folks in the seventeenth century
as it is in the nineteenth, and as a frolic those two regarded the
whole business. They were both full of curiosity about the wise
woman and her divinations, and it seemed to Cherry that to fail in
taking advantage of her skill when they had the chance of doing so
would be simple folly and absurdity. If she could read the secrets
of the future, surely she must be able to tell them somewhat of the
lost treasure.

Cherry's plan was carried out to the letter without the least real
difficulty, and without raising any suspicion. Martin Holt was not
particularly anxious that the exact locality of the underground
meeting place should be known to his nephew, who had not professed
himself by any means on the Puritan side as yet, though listening
with dutiful and heedful attention whenever his uncle spoke to him
on the matter of his tenets. As for Cherry, her dislike to sermons
had long been openly declared, and it was scarcely expected that
she would patiently endure another of the discourses that had
caused her such distaste before.

And so it came about that upon a chill, frosty January night,
Cuthbert and Cherry stood before a small, narrow house in Budge
Row--a house that seemed to be jammed in between its two
neighbours, and almost crushed by their overhanging gables and
heavy beams; and Cherry, with a trembling hand, gave a peculiar
knock, thrice repeated, upon the stout panels of the narrow door,
that at the third summons opened slowly and noiselessly, as if
without any human agency.

The dark passage thus revealed to view was black as pitch, and
Cuthbert involuntarily recoiled. But Cherry had been here before,
and knew the place, and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Courage!" she said, in a voice that quivered with excitement and
not with fear; "it is always so here. Walk boldly in; there is
naught to hurt us. When the door has closed we shall see a light."

Stepping across the threshold, and keeping fast hold of Cherry's
arm, his quick glance roving from side to side in search of any
possible foe lurking in the shadows, Cuthbert entered this strange
abode, and felt rather than saw that the door closed noiselessly
behind them, whilst he heard the shooting of a heavy bolt, and
turned with a start, for it seemed impossible that this could have
been done without some human hand to accomplish the deed. But his
sense of touch assured him that he and Cherry were the only persons
at this end of the narrow passage, and with a light shiver at the
uncanny occurrence, he made up his mind to follow this adventure to
the end.

"See, there is the light!" whispered Cherry, who was quivering with
excitement. "That is the sign that the wise woman is ready. We have
to follow it. It will lead us to her."

The light was dim enough, but it showed plainly in the pitchy
darkness of the passage, and seemed to be considerably above them.

"We must mount the stairs," whispered Cherry, feeling her way
cautiously to the foot of the rickety flight; and the cousins
mounted carefully, the dun light, which they did not see--only the
reflections it cast brightening the dimness--going on before, until
they reached an upper chamber, the door of which stood wide open, a
soft radiance shining out, whilst a strange monotonous chanting was
heard within.

Upon the threshold of the room stood a huge black cat with
bristling tail and fiery eyes. It seemed as though he would dispute
the entrance of the strangers, and Cuthbert said to himself that he
had never seen an uglier-looking brute of the kind since the
monster wildcat he had killed in the forest about his home. He drew
Cherry a pace backwards, for the creature looked crouching for a
spring.

"It is the wise woman's cat, her familiar spirit!" whispered the
girl, in a very low voice. "Show him a piece of money; then he will
let us pass. He takes toll of those who come to the wise woman.
Show him the gold, and then place it within that shell. After that
he will let us go in."

Cuthbert took a small piece of gold from his purse. He held it up
before the formidable-looking creature, and then let it drop into a
shell fixed in the outer wall of the room. He heard it fall as if
through a slot, and fancied that some person within the room had
taken it out and examined it. There was a slight peculiar call, and
the cat, whose tail had begun to grow less, and whose snarlings had
ceased at sight of the coin, now sprang suddenly backwards and
vanished within the room, whilst a cracked voice was heard bidding
them enter.

"That is the voice of the wise woman," said Cherry. "Come,
Cuthbert, and fear nothing."

Together the pair stepped over the threshold, and again the door
closed noiselessly behind them, and the bolt flew as it seemed of
itself into its socket. Cuthbert did not altogether relish this
locking of doors behind them as they went; but Cherry, who had been
here before, did not seem to mind, and doubtless it was but
prudence that had taught the old woman to carry on her arts
secretly if she wished to escape imprisonment or death.

Glancing curiously round him, Cuthbert saw himself in a long, low,
narrow room that was all in deep shadow save at the upper end,
where a soft bright light was burning, carefully shaded at one
side, and so arranged that whilst it illuminated the features of
those who stood beside the table behind which the oracle sat, it
left the features of the wise woman herself in the deepest shadow,
a pair of small black beady eyes being at first glance the only
feature Cuthbert could distinguish.

The lamp stood upon a table, and the old woman, clad from head to
foot in a long black mantle, sat on the farther side. There were a
few implements of her profession about her--one or two big books, a
crystal bowl containing some black fluid very clear and sparkling,
an ebony wand, and a dusky mirror in a silver frame. She fixed her
bright bead-like eyes upon her guests as they advanced, and asked
in her cracked, harsh tones:

"Who comes here?"

"Two persons desirous of testing your skill," answered Cuthbert
boldly. "It is told me that you can read the future; I would ask if
you can also look back into the past?"

He felt the snake-like glance bent fixedly upon him. There was a
subtle fascination in those eyes, and he looked into them fixedly
whether he would or no. As his eyes became used to the dimness in
which the old woman sat, he saw that her face was brown and
wrinkled like a fragment of ancient parchment, that her features
were very sharp and wasted, and that there was something weird and
witch-like in her whole aspect. He felt as though he had seen
before some face that that withered one faintly resembled, but in
the confusion of the moment he could put no name to it. He wanted
to keep his head, and to retain his firmness and acuteness, but he
was conscious of a strange whirling in his brain as the old woman
continued to gaze and gaze upon him as though she would never be
satisfied with her inspection.

At last she spoke again.

"And who art thou that comest so boldly to pry into the dead
secrets of the past?"

"I am one Cuthbert Trevlyn, son of a house that has suffered sore
vicissitudes. I come to ask the skill of the wise woman in
discovering a secret long hidden from our family."

He stopped suddenly, for the woman held up her hand as if to stop
him, and her voice took a strange hissing tone.

"Silence! Enough--thou hast spoken enough. Let me now tell thee the
rest. I will tell thee what thou hast come to seek for. Silence! I
will consult the spirits; they will tell me all."

Drawing nearer to her the crystal bowl, the old woman bent her head
over it, and whispered incantations, as it seemed, over its
contents. For a while there was deep silence in the room, and
Cherry felt chill with excitement and wonder. This was very
different from the reception she and her cousin Rachel had met.
They had but been bidden to show their hands, and had then seen
some cabalistic characters formed by the wise woman, from which she
had told them all they wished to know. But there had been nothing
half so mysterious as this, and the girl felt certain that the wise
woman regarded Cuthbert and his questions with far greater interest
than any she had bestowed upon the fortunes or the ailments of
Rachel.

Presently there arose, as if in the far, far distance, a sound of
voices faint and confused. Cherry clung to Cuthbert's arm, and
looked about her with a pale, scared face, half expecting to see
the room filled with disembodied spirits; but his glance never
shifted from the down-bent face of the wise woman, and he half
suspected that the sounds proceeded in some way from her, albeit
they seemed to float about in the air round them, and to approach
and die away at will.

Suddenly the old woman raised her head and spoke.

"Thy mission to me this day is to ask news of the lost treasure of
Trevlyn."

Cherry started, and so did Cuthbert. There could be no doubting the
old woman's power now. If she could see so much in her bowl, could
she not likewise see where that lost treasure lay buried?

"Thou speakest sooth, mother," he said boldly. "It is of the lost
treasure I would speak. Canst tell me if it still remains as it was
when it was lost? Canst tell me the spot where it lies hid, that I
may draw it thence? If thou canst lead me to it, thou shalt not
lose thy reward; thou shalt be rich for life."

The youth spoke eagerly; but a curious smile crept over the old
woman's face at his words.

"Foolish boy!" she said. "Seest thou not that if gold were my
desire I have but to discover the place where the treasure lies to
some stalwart knave sworn to do my bidding, and all would be mine?
Could I not sell this golden secret to the highest bidder, an
wealth was all I craved? Foolish, foolish boy--impetuous like all
thy race! What hast thou to offer me that I may not obtain by one
wave of this wand?"

Cuthbert was silent, wondering alike at the old woman and her
words. If she was not disposed to sell her golden secret (and what
she said was but too true--that the treasure would be more to her
than any reward), what hope was there of her revealing it to him?
He stood silent and perplexed, waiting for the old woman to speak
again.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, after a long pause, "methought that
the hope of finding the treasure had long since been abandoned by
thy race."

"That may well be, but it has not been so abandoned by me. Whilst I
have youth and health and strength, I will not give up that hope.
I, the grandson of Isabel Wyvern, will not cease to strive till I
have won back the lost luck that was to return to that house
through the daughters' sons."

It was almost at random that Cuthbert had spoken these words, but
some recollection had come over him of the story he had heard of
the devotion of certain gipsy people to the family of the Wyverns,
and their prognostications concerning them. This woman, with the
brown and crumpled skin and the beady black eyes, was very like
some of those wild gipsy folk he had seen from time to time in the
forest. Was it not just possible that she might be one of their
tribe, who for some reason or some physical infirmity had abandoned
the wandering life, and had set up for a wise woman in the heart of
the great city? Was there not some strange community of knowledge
and interest amongst all these wandering people? and might she not
in any case know something about the families of foe and friend,
and the loss of the vast treasure one day to be restored?

As his grandmother's name passed his lips, Cuthbert was certain
that he saw a flicker pass across the wise woman's face; but she
bent her head again over her bowl, and for some minutes remained in
deep silence. Then she looked up and scanned his face again.

"Let me see thy hand," she said.

He held it out fearlessly, and she bent over it for some time.

"It is a good hand," she said at length, "and its owner may look
for prosperity in life, But he must heed one thing, and that is his
own over-bold rashness. He must beware of trusting all men. He must
beware of fatal fascination. He must beware of a darkly-flowing
river, and the dark cellar beyond. He must have the courage to say
'nay'--the courage to fly as well as to fight. Young man, thou hast
over-much curiosity. In these times of peril men must walk warily.
Choose the safe path, and keep therein. Think not to play with edge
tools and yet keep thy fingers unscarred."

Cuthbert felt the colour rising in his face. He felt the home
thrust embodied in these words. He knew that they were a warning
addressed to that side of his character which urged him to make
friends on all sides, and strive to see good in all men, and to
avoid joining himself to any one party in Church or State whilst in
measure belonging to all. For a man of quality he knew such a
course would be impossible and foolishly perilous, but he had felt
secure in his own insignificance. He, however, well understood the
warning, and so he marked the words about the flowing river and
dark cellar, and though by no means understanding them now, he
resolved that he would not forget.

But Cherry was shivering with excitement, and at last she could
keep silence no longer. The wise woman had been kind to her before;
surely she would not resent it if she spoke now.

"But the treasure, mother, the treasure," she urged. "Canst not
thou help us there?"

The old woman shifted her bright eyes to the flushed face of the
girl, and a flicker passed over her face as she repeated:

"Us--us? And what part or lot has Martin Holt's daughter in the
lost treasure of Trevlyn? What, my pretty child, has thy handsome
lover come so soon? and art thou looking already to be made a lady
of by him?"

The girl hid her blushing face on Cuthbert's shoulder, whilst he
answered with boyish straightforwardness:

"I will wed my cousin Cherry or none else. We have plighted our
troth secretly, and she shall one day be my bride. If thou canst
help me in this matter, it will make our lot easier; but, poor or
rich, she shall be mine!"

The old woman nodded her head several times, and Cuthbert fancied
that a greater benignity of expression crossed her wrinkled face.

"Brave words! brave words!" she muttered, "and a brave heart
behind. Grandson to Isabel Wyvern! Ay, so it is; and there is
Wyvern in that face as well as Trevlyn. For her sake--for her sake!
Ay, I would do much for that.

"Boy," she said suddenly, raising her voice and speaking in her
witch-like accents again, "thou hast spoken a name which is as a
talisman, and though thou hast asked a hard thing, I will help thee
an I can. Yet I myself know naught. It is the familiar spirits that
know, and they will not always come even at my call; they will not
always speak sooth at my bidding. I can but use my arts; the rest
lies with them; and this is a secret that has been long-time hid."

"Ay, and the time has now come when it should be revealed,"
answered Cuthbert boldly. "Use what arts thou wilt! I ask the
answer to my question. I would know where the lost treasure lies."

As he spoke these words the room became suddenly darkened. Around
them again as they stood there seemed to float voices and whispers,
though not one articulate word could either hear. In the gloom they
saw nothing save the fiery eyes of the great cat, which appeared to
be crouched upon the table beside its mistress. The whisperings and
voices, sometimes accompanied by soft or mocking laughter,
continued for the space of several moments, and appeared to be
interrupted at last by the tap of the wise woman's wand upon the
table, which three times repeated enforced a sudden silence.

The silence was for a moment more awe inspiring than what had gone
first; but before Cherry had more time than sufficed to nip
Cuthbert hard by the hand, they heard the old woman's voice, in an
accent of stern command, uttering one single word:

"Speak!"

There was a brief pause, and then a sweet low voice rose in the
room and seemed to float round them, whilst the words with their
rhythmic cadence fell distinctly on the ears of the listening pair:

"Three times three--on a moonlight night,
The oak behind, the beech to right;
Three times three--over ling and moss,
Robin's gain is Trevlyn's loss.

"Three times three--the war is long,
Yet vengeance hums, and the back is strong;
Three times three--the dell is deep,
It knows its secret well to keep.

"Three times three--the bones gleam white,
None dare pass by day or night;
Three times three--the riddle tell!
The answer lies in the pixies' well."

The voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

"Is that all?" asked the harsh accents of the wise woman.

"That is all the spirits choose to tell," answered the soft voice,
already, as it seemed, far away; and in another moment the lamp
shone forth again.

The cat leaped down from the table with a hissing sound, and the
old woman was revealed in her former position, resting her two
elbows on the table, her withered face supported in the palm of her
hand.

"Thou hast heard?"

"Ay, but I have not understood. Canst thou read the riddle to me?"

But the old woman shook her head.

"That may not be; that thou must do for thyself. I will write down
the words for thee, that thou mayest not forget; but thou, and thou
alone, must find the clue."

With swift fingers she transcribed some characters on a fragment of
parchment, and Cuthbert marvelled at the skill in penmanship the
old woman displayed when she gave the paper into his hands. It was
with a beating heart that he scanned the mysterious characters; but
the old woman had risen to her feet, and motioned them away.

"Begone!" she cried, "begone! I have no more to say. Heed my
warning. Beware of menaced perils. The perils of the forest are
less than the perils of the city; and an open foe is better than a
false friend--a friend who lures those that trust him to a common
destruction, even though he himself be ready to share it. Harden
thine heart--beware of thine own merciful spirit. Turn a deaf ear
to the cry of the pursued. Swim with the current, and strive not to
stem it. And now go! I have said my say. Thou hast fortune within
thy grasp an thou hast wits to find it and hold it."

There was no disobeying the imperious gesture of the old woman.
Cuthbert would fain have lingered to ask more questions, but he
dared not do so. With a few brief words of thanks and farewell, he
took Cherry's hand and turned away. The bolt of the door flew back;
the door opened of itself again. The cat stalked on before down the
dark staircase, and a faint gleam from above showed them the way
down. The outer door sprang open before and closed behind them, and
the next minute Cuthbert was hurrying his companion along the dark
street, pulling her into the shadow of a doorway if any sounds
announced the approach of any of the tavern roisterers, and so
protecting her from any danger or peril till they stood at last in
safety beneath Martin Holt's roof, and looked wonderingly into each
other's eyes, as if questioning whether it had not all been part
and parcel of a dream.

They had not been long gone; a bare hour had elapsed since they had
stolen out into the darkness together. There was no fear that any
other member of Martin Holt's household would be back for a
considerable time. The two conspirators bent over the scrap of
parchment they placed between them on the table, and pored
earnestly over it together.

"What does it mean, Cuthbert? what can it mean? Canst read the
words aright?"

"Ay, it is well writ. I can read it, but I know not what it means."

"Read it again to me."

He obeyed, and she forthwith began to ask a hundred questions.

"'Three times three'--that comes so many times. What can that mean,
Cuthbert? it must mean something."

"Yes, doubtless, but I know not what."

"And again, 'Robin's gain is Trevlyn's loss.' Cuthbert, who may
Robin be?"

"I know not: Yet stop--hold! Yes, I have it now. Not that it may be
aught of import. Robin is a name a score of men may bear even in
one village. But when the robbers of the road found themselves at
the ruined mill where the gipsies were, I heard the leader ask,
'Where is Long Robin?'"

"And was he there?" asked Cherry eagerly.

"I know not: none answered the question, and I heeded it no more.
Most like he was but some serving man they wanted to take the
horses."

"Cuthbert, it seems plain that some Robin has stolen this treasure,
and carried it off and hidden it. The verses must mean that!"

"Ay, I doubt it not, Cherry," answered Cuthbert, smiling; "but see
you not, fair cousin, that almost any person knowing of this lost
treasure and the legend of the gipsies' hate could have strung
together words like these? All men hold that it may still be hidden
in the forest around the Chase; but there be deep dells by the
dozen, and the pixies, men say, have all fled away. And there be
wells that run dry, and men find fresh ones bursting out where
never water was before. These lines scarce show me more than I have
known or thought before."

"But they do, they do!" cried Cherry excitedly. "They tell that it
was Robin who has stolen it. Cuthbert, when thou goest to the
forest next thou must find this Long Robin and see if it can be
he."

The young man smiled at her credulity and enthusiasm. He was not so
entirely sceptical as to some possible clue being given by these
verses as he would have her believe, but he could not see any
daylight yet, and wished to save her from disappointment.

"That is scarce like to be. The treasure was stolen nigh on fifty
years agone, and he must have been a lusty robber who stole it
then--scarce like to be living now. But we will think of this more.
The wise woman must have dealings with a familiar, else how could
she have known our errand? We must heed her words well; they may be
words of wisdom. She knew strange things from my hand. I marvel how
she could read it all there."

Cuthbert looked upon his palm and shook his head. It was all a
mystery to him. But he had greater faith in the wise woman than he
altogether felt prepared to admit, and as he sought his couch that
night he kept saying over and over to himself the magic words he
had heard.

"'Three times three--three times three!' What can that signify? In
the forest perchance I shall read the riddle aright. Or perchance
the gipsy queen, the dark-eyed Joanna, will aid me in the search.
If I could but trust her, she might see things that I cannot in
these lines. Would that the winter were past; would that the summer
were about to come! The perils of the forest are to be less to me
than the perils of the city. I wonder what perils menace me here.
Beneath my father's roof I oft went in peril of my life; but
here--why, here I feel safer than ever in my life before!"



Chapter 10: The Hunted Priest.


The two friends that Cuthbert had made of his own sex during the
first weeks spent beneath his uncle's roof were the same two guests
he had seen at the supper table on the evening of his arrival--Walter
Cole and Jacob Dyson.

Both these men were several years older than himself, but in a
short time he became exceedingly intimate with the pair, and thus
obtained insight into the home life of persons belonging to the
three leading parties in the realm. The Puritan element was
strongly represented in Martin Holt's house, the Romanist in that
of the Coles, whilst the Dysons, although springing from a Puritan
stock, had been amongst those willing to conform to the laws as
laid down in the late Queen's time. Both Rachel and Jacob preferred
the Episcopal form of worship to any other, and openly marvelled at
the taste of those who still frequented the private conventicles,
where unlicensed preachers, at the risk of liberty and even life,
held forth by the hour together upon their favourite doctrines and
arguments.

But honest Jacob was no theologian. He did not hesitate to assert
openly his ignorance of all controversy, and his opinion that it
mattered uncommonly little what a man believed, so long as he led
an upright life and did his duty in the world. He was "fair sick"
of long-drawn arguments, the splitting of hairs, and those
questions which the theologians of all parties took such keen joy
in discussing--though, as nobody ever moved his opponent one whit,
the disputes could only be held for the love the disputants felt
for hearing themselves talk. Jacob had long since claimed for
himself the right to leave the room when politics and religion came
under discussion. As an only son, he had some privileges accorded
him, and this was one he used without stint.

Honest Jacob had taken an immediate and great liking for Cuthbert
Trevlyn from the first appearance of that youth at his uncle's
house. Though himself rough and uncouth of aspect, clumsy of gait
and slow of speech, he was quick to see and admire beauty and wit
in others. He had picked out Cherry from amongst her sisters for
those qualities of brightness and vivacity in which he felt himself
so deficient, and it seemed as though he took to Cuthbert for very
much the same reason.

Cuthbert was ready enough to accept the advances of this
good-natured youth. He was a stranger in this great city, whilst
Jacob knew it well. He was eager to hear and see and learn all he
could; and though Jacob's ideas were few and his powers of
observation limited, he was still able to answer a great many of
the eager questions that came crowding to the lips of the stranger
as they walked the streets together. And when Cuthbert accompanied
Jacob to his home, Abraham Dyson could fill up all the blank in his
son's story, and was secretly not a little pleased with Cuthbert's
keen intelligence and ready interest.

The Dysons were merchants in a small way of business, but were
thriving and thrifty folks. They and the Holts had been in close
relations one with the other for more than one generation, and any
relative of Martin Holt's would have been welcome at their house.
Cuthbert was liked on his own account; and soon he became greatly
fascinated by the river-side traffic, took the greatest interest in
the vessels that came to the wharves to be unladed, and delighted
in going aboard and making friends with the sailors. He quickly
came to learn the name of every part of the ship, and to pick up a
few ideas on the subject of navigation. Whenever a vessel came in
from the New World but recently discovered, he would try to get on
board and question the sailors about the wonders they had seen.
Afterwards he would discourse to Jacob or to Cherry of the things
he had learned, and would win more and more admiration from both by
his brilliant powers of imagination and description.

So the river became, as it were, a second home to him. Abraham
Dyson had more than one wherry of his own in which Cuthbert was
welcome to skim about upon the broad bosom of the great river. He
soon became so skillful with the rude oars or the sail, that he was
a match for the hardiest waterman on the river, and more than once
Cherry had been permitted to accompany Cuthbert and Jacob upon some
excursion up or down stream.

And now, after many weeks of pleasant comradeship, Cuthbert found
himself in the unenviable position of standing rival to his friend
in the affections of Cherry, and the more he thought about it the
less he liked the situation. He could not give Cherry up--that was
out of the question; besides, had he renounced her twenty times
over, that would not improve Jacob's case one whit. Cherry was her
father's own daughter, and, with all her kittenish softness, had a
very decided will of her own. She was not the sort of daughter to
be bought and sold, or calmly made over like a bale of wool. She
would certainly insist on having a voice in the matter, and her
choice was not likely at any time to fall upon the worthy but
unprepossessing Jacob.

All this Cuthbert understood with the quick apprehension of a
lover; but it was very doubtful if Jacob would so see things, and
Cuthbert felt as though there was something of treachery in
accepting and returning his many advances of friendship whilst all
the time he was secretly affianced to the girl for whose hand Jacob
had made formal application, and had been formally accepted, though
for the present, on account of the maiden's tender years, the
matter was allowed to stand over.

With Walter Cole there was no such hindrance to friendship, and
just at this juncture Cuthbert prosecuted and confirmed his
intimacy at that house by constant visits there. He was greedy of
information and book learning, and in this narrow dim dwelling,
literally stacked with books, papers, and pamphlets of all kinds,
and partially given over to the mysteries of the printing press,
seldom worked save at dead of night, Cuthbert's expanding mind
could revel to its full content.

He devoured every book upon which he could lay hands--history,
theology, philosophy; nothing came amiss to him. He would sit by
the hour watching Anthony Cole at work setting type, asking him
innumerable questions about what he had been last reading, and
finding the white-headed bookseller a perfect mine of information.

Controversy and the vexed topics of the day were generally avoided
by common consent. The Coles had learned through bitter experience
the necessity for silence and reticence. Everybody knew them for
ardent and devoted sons of Rome, and they were under suspicion of
issuing many of the pamphlets against the policy of the King that
raised ire in the hearts of the great ones of the land. But none of
these "seditious" writings had so far been traced to them, and they
still lived in comparative peace, although the tranquillity
somewhat resembled that of the peaceful dwellers upon the sides of
a volcanic mountain, within whose crater grumblings and mutterings
are heard from time to time.

Cuthbert's frequent visits, and the manifest pleasure he took in
their society, were a source of pleasure to both father and son;
and though they never showed this pleasure too openly, or asked him
to continue his visits or help them in their night work, they did
not refuse his help when offered, and sometimes would look at each
other and say:

"He is drawing nearer; he is drawing nearer. Old traditions, race
instincts, are telling upon him. He is too true a Trevlyn not to
become a member of the true fold. His vagrant fancy is straying
here and there. He is tasting the bitter-sweet fruit of knowledge
and restless search after the wisdom of this world. But already he
begins to turn with loathing from the cold, lifeless Puritan code.
Anon he will find that the Established Church has naught to give
him save the husk, from which the precious grain has been carefully
extracted."

"Father Urban thinks well of him," Walter once remarked, as they
discussed the youth after his departure one evening. "He has met
him, I know not where, and believes that there may be work for him
to do yet. We want those with us who have the single mind and
honest heart, the devotion that counts not the cost. All that is
written on the lad's face. If he breaks not away from us, he may
become a tool in a practised hand to do a mighty work."

Cuthbert, however, went on his way all unconscious of the notice he
was arousing in certain quarters. His mind was filled just now with
other matters than those of religious controversy. He had become
rather weary of the strife of tongues, and was glad to busy himself
with the practical concerns of life that did not always land him in
a dilemma or a difficulty.

Abraham Dyson was having a new sloop built for trading purposes,
and both Jacob and Cuthbert took the keenest interest in the
progress of the work. The sloop was to be called the Cherry Blossom
when complete, and it was Abraham Dyson's plan that the christening
of the vessel by Cherry herself should be the occasion of her
formal betrothal to his son.

This ceremony, however, would not take place for some while yet, as
at present the little vessel was only in the earlier stages of
construction. Neither Jacob nor Cuthbert had heard anything about
this secondary plan, but both took the greater interest in the
sloop from the fact that she was to be named after Cherry.

Cuthbert visited her daily, and Jacob as often as his duties at his
father's warehouse allowed him. On this particular bright February
afternoon the pair had been a great part of their time on the
river, skimming about in the wherry, and examining every part of
the little vessel under the auspices of the master builder. Dusk
had fallen upon the river before they landed, and a heavy fog
beginning to rise from the water made them glad to leave it behind.
They secured the wherry to the landing stage, leaving the oars in
her, as they not unfrequently did when returning late, and were
pursuing their way up the dark and unsavoury streets, when the
sound of a distant tumult smote upon their ears, and they arrested
their steps that they might listen the better.

Cuthbert's quick ears were the first to gather any sort of meaning
from the discordant shouts and cries which arose.

"They are chasing some wretched fugitive!" he said in a low voice.
"That is the sound of pursuit. Hark! they are coming this way. Who
and what are they thus hounding on?"

Nearer and nearer came the surging sound of many voices and the
hurried trampling of feet.

"Stop him--catch him--hold him!" shouted a score of hoarse voices,
rolling along through the fog-laden air long before anything could
be seen. "Stop him, good folks, stop him! stop the runaway
priest--stop the treacherous Jesuit! He is an enemy to peace--a
stirrer up of sedition and conspiracy! Down with him--to prison
with him! it is not fit for such a fellow to live. Down with
him--stop him!"

"A priest!" exclaimed Cuthbert between his shut teeth, a sudden
gleam corning into his eyes. "Jacob, heard you that? A priest--a
man of God! one man against a hundred! Canst thou stand by and see
such a one hunted to death? that cannot I."

Jacob cared little for priests--indeed, he had no very good opinion
of the race, and none of Cuthbert's traditional reverence; but he
had all an Englishman's love of fair play, and hated the cruelty
and cowardice of an angry mob as he hated anything mean and vile,
and he doubled back his wrist bands and clinched his horny fists as
he answered:

"I am with thee, good Cuthbert. We will stand for the weaker side.
Priest or no, he shall not be hounded to death in the streets
without one blow struck in his defence. But how to find him in this
fog?"

"We need not fight; that were mere madness," answered Cuthbert in
rapid tones. "Ours is to hurry the fugitive into the wherry, loose
from shore, and out into the river; and then they may seek as they
will, they can never find us. Mist! hark! the cries come nigher. If
the quarry is indeed before them, it must be very nigh. Mark! I
hear a gliding footfall beside the wall. Keep close to me; I go to
the rescue."

Cuthbert sprang swiftly through the darkness, and in a moment he
felt the gown of a priest in his hand, and heard the sound of the
distressed breathing of one hunted well nigh to the verge of
exhaustion. As the hunted man felt the clasp upon his robe he
uttered a little short, sharp cry, and made as if he would have
stopped short; but Cuthbert had him fast by the arm, and hurried
him along the narrow alley towards the river, upholding him over
the rough ground, and saying in short phrases: "Fear nothing from
us, holy Father; we are friends. We have come to save you. Trust
only to us and, believe me, in three more minutes we shall be
beyond the reach of these savage pursuers. The river is before us,
though we see it not, and our boat awaits us there. Once aboard,
they may weary themselves in their vain efforts to catch us; they
will never find us in this fog.

"Here is the water side. Have a care how you step--Jacob, hold fast
the craft whilst the Father steps in. So. All is well; cast off and
I will follow."

There was the sound of a light spring; the boat gave a slight
lurch, and then, gliding off into the mysterious darkness of the
great river, was lost to sight of shore in the wreaths of foggy
vapour.

"Where is the hound? where is the caitiff miscreant? Has he thrown
himself into the river? Drowning is too good for such a dog as he!"
shouted angry voices on the river's bank, and through the still air
the sound of trampling footsteps could be heard up and down the
little wharf which formed the landing stage.

"I hear the sound of oars!" shouted one.

"He has escaped us--curse the cunning of that Papist brood!" yelled
another.

"Let us get a boat and follow," counselled a third; but this was
more easily said than done, as there was no other boat tied up at
that landing stage, and the fog rendered navigation too difficult
and dangerous to be lightly attempted. With sullen growls and many
curses the mob seemed to break up and disperse; but the leaders
appeared to stand in discussion for some moments after the rest had
gone, and several sentences were distinctly heard by those in the
boat, who thought it safer to drift with the tide awhile close to
the shore than to use their oars and betray their close proximity
to their foes.

"We shall know him again; and if he dares to show his face in the
city, we will have him at last, even if we have to search for him
in Alsatia with a band of soldiers. He has too long escaped the
doom he merits, the plotter and schemer, the vile dog of a seminary
priest! Once let us get him into our hands and he shall be hanged,
drawn, and quartered, like those six of his fellows. No mercy for
the Jesuits; it is not fit that such fellows should camber the
earth. There will be no peace for this realm till we have destroyed
them root and branch."

The boat had now drifted too far for the conversation to be any
longer audible. Jacob gave a long, low whistle, and took to the
oars. Cuthbert, who sat beside the priest in the stern, had his
hand upon the tiller; and as the fog cloud lifted just a little, so
that the darkness about them became hardly more than that of
twilight, he looked at the silent, motionless figure beside him,
and exclaimed in surprise:

"Father Urban!"

A slight smile hovered for a moment over the wan face of the
priest. He lifted his thin hand and said solemnly:

"Peace be with thee, my son."

Cuthbert bent his head in reverence, and then turned again towards
the Father.

"What hast thou done that they should rail at thee thus--thou the
friend of the poor, the friend even of the leper? What has come to
them that they turn thus against thee? Sure, but a few short weeks
ago and thou didst hold back an angry crowd by the glance of thine
eye."

"My son, trust not in the temper of the crowd, in the goodwill of
the multitude. Was it not the same crowd who on the Sabbath
shouted, 'Hosanna to the Son of David!' that on the Friday yelled,
'Crucify Him! crucify Him!' Never put faith in man, still less in
the multitude that is ever swayed like a reed, and may be driven
like a wave of the sea hither and thither as the wind listeth.

"And then I was not amongst mine own flock. I had--rashly,
perchance--adventured myself further than I ought, for I had a
message of consequence to execute, and I have not been wont to hide
myself from my fellow men. But there is no knowing in these fearful
times of lawlessness and savage hate what will be the temper either
of rulers or people. It seems that I am known--that there is some
warrant out against me. So be it. If I must flee from this city to
another, holier men have done the like ere now. I would mine errand
had been completed. I would I had accomplished my task. But--"

The priest's voice had been growing fainter for some moments.
Cuthbert supposed it to be a natural caution on his part, lest even
Jacob should hear him as he plied his oars; but as he came to this
sudden stop, he felt that the slight frame collapsed in some way,
and leaned heavily against him as he sat. Turning his eyes from the
dim, rippling water, so little of which could be seen in the
darkness and the fog, to the face of the priest, he saw that it had
turned ghastly pale, and that the eyes were glazing over as if with
the approach of death. Plainly the fugitive had received some
bodily hurt of which he had not spoken, and the question what to do
with their helpless burden became a difficult one to answer.

"My father will not receive him," said Jacob, shaking his head, as
he leaned upon his oars and let the boat drift along with the tide
that was carrying them towards the bridge. "He hates the priests
worse than your good uncle and mine, who has something of a fellow
feeling for them in these days of common persecution; and you know
well what sort of a welcome we should receive from him did we
arrive with a seminary priest in our arms."

"And I trow the mob would be upon us ere we had got him safe
housed, and for aught we could do to stop it might tear him limb
from limb in our very sight."

"Ay, there is always some rumour afoot of a new Papist plot; and
whether it be true or no, the people set on to harry the priests as
dogs harry the hunted hare. I know not what to do. To land with him
will do neither good to him nor to us. A fine coil there would be
at home if my father heard of me mixing myself up with Jesuit
traitors; and Martin Holt would not be much better pleased
neither."

"Martin Holt is not my father," answered Cuthbert, with a touch of
haughtiness; "and let him say what he will, I must save this man's
life, even if it cost me mine own. Thou knowest how he saved me
that day in the dens of Whitefriars. To leave him to the mercy of
the howling mob would be an act of blackest treachery; it would
disgrace my manhood for ever."

"Tush, man, who asked that of thee?" answered Jacob, with something
of a smile at the lad's impetuosity. "I love not a black cassock
nor a tonsured head so passing well; but a man is a man, even
though he be a priest, and I call shame upon those who would thus
maltreat a brother man, and the more so when he is one who has
visited the sick and tended the leper, and been the friend of those
who have no friends in this great city. I would no sooner than thou
give him up to the will of the mob; but we must bethink ourselves
where he may be in safety stowed, else the mob will have him
whether we will or no. All I was meaning by my words was that
neither my home nor thine could be the place for him."

"I ask thy pardon, good Jacob, for my heat," answered Cuthbert
humbly. "I should have known better thy good heart than to have
thought such a thing of thee."

"Nay, nay; I am no hero."

"Thou art a kindly hearted and an honest man, which I misdoubt me
if all the world's heroes are," answered Cuthbert quickly. "And
now, Jacob, it behoves us to think. Yes, I have it. We must ask
counsel of Master Anthony Cole. He would be the one to hide Father
Urban if it could be done. Let me land nigh to the bridge, and go
to them and tell them all; and do thou push out once more and
anchor the craft beneath the pier on which their house rests.
Methinks when I have taken counsel with them I can make shift to
slip down the wooden shaft of that pier, and so hold parley with
thee. Walter has done the like before now, and I am more agile in
such feats than he; moreover, I can swim like a duck if I should
chance to miss my hold, and so reach the water unawares. That will
be the best, for the boat may not linger at the wharf side. We know
not what news may be afoot in the city, nor that there may not be
searchers bent on finding Father Urban, let him land where he may."

Whether or not Jacob relished this adventure, he was too stanch and
too honest hearted to turn back now. The priest lay insensible at
the bottom of the boat, his head pillowed upon the cloaks the
youths had sacrificed for his better comfort. It was plainly a
matter of consequence that he should soon be housed in some
friendly shelter. His gray face looked ghastly in the dim moonlight
which began to struggle through the fog wreaths. When Cuthbert
leaped lightly ashore hard by the bridge, and Jacob sheered off
again in the darkness, he felt as though he were out alone on the
black river, with only a corpse for company.

"If it were but for Cherry's sake, I would do ten-fold more," he
murmured, as he glanced up in the direction of the wool stapler's
shop, and pictured pretty Cherry stepping backwards and forwards at
her spinning wheel. "But I trow she will hear naught of it; or if
she does, she will think only of Cuthbert's share. Alack! I fear me
she will never think of me now. Why should she, when so proper a
youth is nigh? If he should go away and leave her, perchance her
heart might turn to me for comfort; but I fear me he looks every
day more tenderly into her bright eyes. How could he live beneath
the roof and not learn to love her? He would be scarce human,
scarce flesh and blood, were he to fail in loving her; and what is
my chance beside his? I might, almost as well yield her at once,
and take good Kezzie instead. Kezzie would make a better
housewife--my mother has told me so a hundred times; and I am fond
of her, and methinks she--"

But there Jacob stopped short, blushing even in the darkness at the
thought of what he had nearly said. Anchoring against the wooden
piles of the bridge, and letting his fancy run riot as it would, he
indulged in a shifting daydream, in which pain and a vague sense of
consolation were oddly blended. He sighed a good many times, but he
smiled once or twice likewise, and at last he gave himself a shake
and spoke out aloud.

"At least it shall make no cloud and no bitterness betwixt us
twain. He is a fine lad and a noble one, and he deserves more at
Dame Fortune's hands than such a clown as I. Shall I grudge him his
luck if he gets her? never a whit! There may not be more than one
Cherry in the world, but there are plenty of good wives and honest
maidens who will brighten a man's home for him."

Musing thus, Jacob kept his watch, and was not long in hearing
strange and cautious sounds above his head. Looking up, he beheld a
lithe form slipping, in something of a snake fashion, down the
woodwork of the bridge, and the next moment Cuthbert sprang softly
down, so deftly that the wherry only rolled a little at the shock.

"Hast thought me long? Hast been frozen with cold? I have made all
the haste I could. All is planned. This is not strange work to
them. See, I have brought with me this cradle of cord. We can place
Father Urban within, and they will draw him up from above, that no
man shall see him enter their house. All the windows be shuttered
and barred by now. None will see or hear. They have harboured many
a fugitive before, I take it. They had all the ropes and needful
gear ready beneath their hand at a moment's notice."

Whilst he was speaking, Cuthbert was wrapping the inanimate figure
in the cloaks, and placing it gently in the hammock, as we should
call it, that, suspended by strong cords from above, had assisted
him in his descent to the boat. Then at a given signal this
hammock, with its human load, was slowly and steadily drawn
upwards, with a cautious, silent skill that betokened use and
experience; and as the eager watchers pushed out their boat a
little further into the river, they saw the bulky object vanish at
last within the dimly-lighted window of the tall, narrow house. A
light was flashed for a moment from the window, and then all was
wrapped in darkness.

"All is well," exclaimed Cuthbert, with an accent of relief; "and I
trow that not a living soul but our two selves knows whither the
priest has fled. He is safe from that savage, howling mob. Methinks
I hear their cries still! It was just so they yelled and hooted
round me when Father Urban came so timely to my rescue."

Mistress Susan chid Cuthbert somewhat roundly for being late for
supper that night. But when he said he had been belated by the fog
on the river with Jacob, the excuse was allowed to stand. Cherry
was eager to know the progress making with her namesake, and no
inconvenient questions were asked of Cuthbert when once her
chattering tongue had been unloosed.

Cuthbert's dreams were a little troubled and uneasy that night; but
he woke in good spirits, and was anxious to know the state of
Father Urban. He made an early excuse for visiting the Coles'
abode, and found the elder man busy over his type.

He looked up with a smile as Cuthbert appeared, but laid his
fingers on his lips.

"Be cautious; he has but just sunk to sleep after a night of
wakeful pain. He is anxious to see thee. He asked for thee a score
of times in the night; but he must not be wakened now. Thou hast
done a good deed, boy. Had Father Urban fallen a victim to yon
hooting mob last eve, a deadly blow would have been dealt to the
faith of this land."

"And is his sickness very sore? has he any grievous hurt?"

"He was sore knocked about and bruised ere he first wrenched
himself from the officer of the law who sprang upon him with an
order of arrest. Two of his ribs be broke; and that long and
fearful race for his life did cause him sore pain and greater
injury, so that a fever has been set up, and he has had to lose
much blood to allay it. But he is quiet and at rest just now. Thou
hadst better come again at sundown; he will doubtless be awake
then. He has somewhat to say to thee, I know. I believe that he has
some mission to entrust to thee. Thou hast a kindly heart and a
strong arm. I trow thou wilt not fail him now."

Anthony Cole looked fixedly into the boy's face, and Cuthbert
returned the glance unflinchingly. He was possessed by the generous
feeling all young and ardent natures know of keen desire to assist
further any person already indebted to them for past grace. The
fact that already he had run some risk on account of Father Urban
only made Cuthbert the more anxious to help him in whatever manner
might best conduce to his well being and comfort. He looked full at
his interlocutor, and said:

"Whatever I may with honour and right do for Father Urban shall not
be lacking. I owe him my life. I can never grudge any service for
him, be it great or small."

"Well spoken, my boy," answered the bookseller, with his calm,
penetrating smile. "May the blessed saints long preserve untainted
that true nobility of soul."

Cuthbert spent a restless day, wondering what mission the priest
had for him, and whether his uncle would be angry at him for
meddling in any such matters. But Martin Holt was friendly with
several of the Papist families about him, notably with the Coles
themselves; and Cuthbert had a growing sense of his own
independence and the right to choose his own associates and his own
path in life.

It was growing dusk when he stood beside the narrow bed on which
Father Urban lay. The light filtered in scantily through the narrow
window pane, and illumined a face lined by pain and white with
exhaustion. Upon the bed lay a packet which looked like papers, and
one of the priest's wasted hands lay upon it as if to guard it. As
Cuthbert bent over him and spoke his name, Father Urban looked up,
and a dim light crept into his eyes.

"Is it thou, my son, come at last?"

"Yes, Father. What may I do for thee?"

"Wilt thou do one small service more for me, my son?"

"Willingly, Father, if it lies within my power."

"It is well within thy power, boy. It is not the power I question,
but the will. We live in dangerous days. Art willing to partake of
the peril which compasses the steps of those who tread in the old
ways wherein the fathers trod?"

"Try me and see," was the quiet reply.

Perhaps none could better have suited the astute reader of
character. The hollow eyes lighted, and the old man bent upon
Cuthbert a searching glance whilst he seemed to pause to gather
strength.

"I would have thee take this packet," he said, speaking slowly and
with some pain and difficulty. "There is no superscription; and
sooner than let them be found by others on thy person, fling them
into the river, or cut them to fragments with thy dagger; and
plunge thy dagger into thine own heart sooner than be taken with
them upon thee. But with caution and courage and strength (and I
know that thou hast all of these) thou canst avoid this peril. What
thy part is, is but this: Deliver this packet into the hand of
Master Robert Catesby himself. Thou knowest him. Thou wilt make no
error. Seek him not at any tavern or public place. Go to a lone
house at Lambeth, with moss-grown steps down to the water's edge.
Go by thine own wherry thither, and go alone. Thou canst not
mistake the house. There is none like it besides. It stands upon
the water, and none other building is nigh at hand; but a giant elm
overshadows it, and there is a door scarce above high water level
and steps that lead from it. Knock three times, thus, upon that
door"--and the priest gave a curious tap, which Cuthbert repeated
by imitation; "and when thou art admitted, ask for Robert Catesby,
and give him the packet. That is all. Thy mission will then be
done. Wilt thou do as much for me?"

Cuthbert answered, without the least hesitation:

"I will."



Chapter 11: The Lone House On The River.


"Cuthbert, do not go--ah, do not go!"

"And wherefore not, my Cherry?"

"I am afraid. I had such dreams last night. And, Cuthbert, didst
thou not heed? Notedst thou not how in handing the salt at supper
thy hand shook, and it was spilled? I like not such auguries; they
fill my heart with fear. Do not go--ah, do not!"

Cuthbert smiled as he caressed his little love, not averse to
feeling her soft arms clinging round his neck, yet quite disposed
to laugh at her youthful terrors.

"But what dost thou fear, sweetheart?"

"I fear everything," she replied, with inconsequent vehemence. "I
remember the stories I have heard of the wiles of the priests, and
how they tempt unwary men to their destruction. What is this Father
Urban to thee, that thou shouldst risk aught for him? I will not
let thee go--I will not!"

"Father Urban saved my life."

"And thou hast saved his. That debt is paid in full," was the
prompt response. "He saved thee at no peril to himself; thou hast
saved him when it might have cost thee thy life. Thou owest him
nothing--nothing! Why should he ask this further service of thee?"

Cuthbert smiled. Cherry's petulance and vehemence amused him. Her
little spoiled-child tempers and exactions were beginning to have a
great charm. He scarcely knew how much of the deeper fears of
dawning womanhood were beginning to intermingle with the "child's"
eager love of her own way. Love was gradually transforming Cherry,
but the transformation was as yet scarcely seen, and the added
charm of her new softness and timidity had hardly begun to be
observed by those about her.

"He is sorely sick, sweetheart, and he has asked this thing of me.
I have passed my word. Thou wouldst not have me go back therefrom?"

"He should not have asked thee; he had no right," flashed out
Cherry, in some despite. "Why did he not ask Walter Cole? he was a
fitter person than thou."

"And wherefore so?"

"Why, everybody knows him for a pestilent Papist!" answered Cherry,
with a flash of her big eyes. "Nothing he did would surprise
anybody. He is suspected already; whilst thou--nay, Cuthbert,
wherefore dost thou laugh?"

"Marry, at the logic of thy words, sweetheart! Father Urban desires
a safe and secret messenger, and thou wouldst have him employ one
already suspected and watched! That were a strange way of setting
to work, Why, I may come and go unquestioned. No man has suspected
me of aught, and I am one of those who willingly conform to the
laws. With Walter things be far different: he might be stopped and
searched by any suspicious knave who saw him pushing forth into the
river."

"And a good riddance, too!" cried Cherry, who was in no humour to
be tolerant of the Romanists, who were, as she thought, putting her
lover in peril. "I hate those plotting, secret, cunning Papists!
They are like men who are always mining in the dark, working and
striving in deadly secret, no man knowing what will next be heard
or seen. I like not such ways. I like not that thou shouldst meddle
with them. Those be treasonable papers, I doubt not. Cuthbert, it
is not meet that thou shouldst have dealings with traitors!"

Cuthbert smiled, but the earnestness with which Cherry spake
impressed him in spite of himself. It had been one thing to make
this promise to the sick priest who trusted him, but it was a
different matter to be told that he was meddling in treason. Still,
what did Cherry know about it? She was but a child.

"I know that there be treasons and treacherous plots enow in the
world," answered Cherry, as he put the question to her. "I hear
more than men think; and since thou hast been here, Cuthbert, I
have listened and heeded as I was not wont to do. All men whisper
of the treachery and malice of the Papists. All men know that had
they their will the King would be sent to death or imprisonment,
and some other person placed upon the throne."

"I know not how that may be," answered Cuthbert slowly, "and I have
no concern in such matters. All I have to do is to give these
papers to one whom I know, and who has befriended me; and that must
I do at all cost, for my word is pledged, and thou wouldst not have
me go back from that, wouldst thou, Cherry?"

"I would not have thee run into danger," answered Cherry, sticking
persistently to her point with true feminine insistence, "and I
know better than thou canst do what evil haps befall them who
meddle in matters too hard for them, and that they reek not of.

"Cuthbert," drawing a little nearer and speaking in a breathless
whisper, "dost call to mind what the wise woman said: how thou wast
to beware of the dark river--the flowing river? And yet thou wilt
venture forth upon it this eve! I like it not; I like it not! I
would that I could make a prisoner of thee, that thou mightest not
go."

"It were sweet imprisonment to be held in such thrall," answered
Cuthbert, smiling, as he loosed the clasp of the warm arms from
about his neck; "but this time, sweetheart, I must needs go. I will
be cautious and careful. I are too much upon the river in the
wherry for any to question my coming or going. None knew aught of
our rescue of the hunted priest; none but thyself knows of him nor
where he lies. It is impossible that any can suspect me yet; and
for the future, for thy sweet sake, I will be cautious how I
adventure myself into any like peril, if peril there be."

With that Cherry had to be content, for Cuthbert was immovable
where his word was pledged, and she had perforce to let him go,
since he would not be stayed.

"Tell thy father that I sup tonight with Abraham Dyson," said
Cuthbert, as he kissed her for the last time before he left. "It
may be I shall not be home in time for the supper, and I would not
be too close questioned on my return. I will go thither when I have
landed once more. Good Jacob will wish for news of Father Urban."

Cuthbert was gone, Cherry looking wistfully after him. She had
already begun to know something of the pain as well as of the joy
of love. She felt that there was in Cuthbert's nature a strain of
self devotion and heroism which frightened her whilst it enthralled
her fancy. She had an instinct that he would never turn back in any
quest he had undertaken for the peril he might have to face. She
felt that in him she was realizing her vague ideals of knightly
prowess and dauntless courage; but all the same, unless she might
be at his side to share the peril, she would almost have felt
happier had this fearless bravery been somewhat less.

Cuthbert meantime pursued his way with a light heart, his packet of
papers securely buttoned in the breast of his doublet. The keen air
of the February afternoon fanned his face. His heart was full of
tender thoughts of Cherry and her sweet affection for him. How soon
would it be possible, he wondered, to claim her as his own; and
what would Martin Holt say to the frustration of one of his
favourite schemes?

Of his present mission, and of any peril likely to accrue to him
therefrom, Cuthbert thought little or nothing. He did not see how
he could possibly come under suspicion simply from fulfilling the
priest's request. It would have been brutal to refuse; and what
harm could he do to himself or others by simply delivering a packet
of papers?

He had almost promised Master Robert Catesby before this to visit
him in his river-side house. Doubtless this was the very place for
which he was now bound. Anything like an adventure was agreeable to
one of Cuthbert's imaginative nature, and a spice of possible
danger did not detract from the sense of fascination, even though
he might not see wherein the danger lay.

The wherry he was wont to use lay moored near to the Three Cranes,
and no one heeded or questioned him as he stepped in and pushed off
into the river. A couple of soldiers were lounging upon the little
wharf and watching the small craft as they came and went. They
appeared to take some note of Cuthbert, as of others who passed by,
but they did not speak to him, and he wondered what their business
was there.

A fragment of talk between two watermen reached him as he began
rowing out in the direction of the Cherry Blossom; for he did not
wish to take the upstream direction till twilight should have
fallen and his movements would escape unheeded, and the voices of
these men as they passed him reached him clearly over the water.

"On the lookout for the runaway priest, I take it. Thou surely
didst hear how he gave them the slip in the fog, just when they
thought they had him safe. He had been well bruised and battered.
It was a marvel how he got free. But he knew the narrow lanes well,
and doubled like a hare. Doubtless he had his friends in waiting,
for he slipped into some craft and eluded pursuit. But for the fog
they would have made sure of him that time. They say he--"

But the rest of the sentence was lost in the distance, and Cuthbert
laughed silently as he plied his oars.

"Beshrew me, but they make a mighty coil anent this good Father
Urban. One would have thought they could have made shift to lay
hands on him before were he so notable a miscreant. He was not in
hiding when I saw him first; he appeared to go about the city
fearlessly. Doubtless it is but some new panic on the part of the
King. God help us all now that we be ruled over by such a poor
poltroon!"

Cuthbert had caught the prevailing contempt for the foolish and
feeble James that was shared by the nation in general, and London
in particular.

They put up with him to avoid the horrors and confusion of a
disputed succession and a possible repetition of the bloody strife
of the Roses; but there was not one section of the community with
whom he was popular: even the ecclesiastics of the Episcopal party
despised whilst they flattered and upheld him. Cuthbert felt an
access of zeal in his present mission in the thought that it would
be displeasing to the unkingly mind of the King. He had seen the
ungainly monarch riding through Westminster one day not long since,
and the sight of his slovenly and undignified figure, trapped out
in all the extravagance of an extravagant age, his clumsy seat on
horseback (of which, nevertheless, he was not a little proud), and
his goggle eyes and protruding tongue, filled the young man with
disgust and dislike. But for the noble bearing and boyish beauty of
the Prince of Wales, who rode beside his father, his disgust would
have been greater; and all men were somewhat more patient with the
defects of the father in prognosticating better and happier times
when young Henry should succeed to the throne.

Nevertheless treasonable plottings at this juncture did not appear
as fearful and horrible as they had done in the days of "good Queen
Bess," who, with all her faults and follies, contrived to keep her
people's affection in a marvellous fashion, as her sire had done
before her. Men who would have recoiled with horror at a whisper
against the Queen's Majesty, shrugged their shoulders with
comparative indifference when they heard vague whispers of Popish
or Puritan plots directed more or less against the person of King
James. Any warm personal love and loyalty was altogether lacking to
the nation, and with it was lacking the element which has always
been the strongest bulwark of the sovereign's safety.

James appears to have been dimly conscious of this, always
insisting on wearing heavy and cumbersome garments, quilted so
strongly as to defy the thrust of a dagger. A monarch who goes
about in habitual fear of assassination betrays his knowledge that
he has failed to win the love or veneration of his subjects.

Cuthbert mused idly of these things as he pushed out into the
middle of the river, and then eased up and looked about him to see
if his movements were observed. It was beginning to grow dusk now.
The sun had dipped behind the trees and buildings. The two sentries
on the wharf had turned their backs upon the river, and were
entering a tavern. The other wherries were all making for the
shore, and the tide was running in strongly and carrying Cuthbert's
boat upstream for him in the direction whither he would go.

Letting himself drift with the tide, and contenting himself with
keeping the prow in the right direction, Cuthbert drifted on his
way quite as fast as he cared to. He had not often been as far up
the stream as this, since business always took him down towards the
shipping in the mouth of the river. He had never before gone higher
up than the Temple Stairs, and now as he drifted past these and saw
the fine pile of Westminster rising before his eyes, he felt a
thrill of admiration and awe, and turned in his seat the better to
observe and admire.

Westminster was almost like another town in those days, divided
from the busy walled city of London by fields and gardens and fine
mansions standing in their own grounds. On the south side of the
river the houses were few and far between, and save at Southwark,
hardly any attempt at regular building had been made. Past the
great Palace of Whitehall and Westminster, with its Parliament
Houses rising majestic against the darkening sky, drifted the
lonely little boat. And then Cuthbert took his oars and pulled for
the southern bank; for he knew that Lambeth was not very much
farther away, and he recalled to mind the directions of the priest,
how to find it and know it.

Trees fringed the southern bank here, leafless at this season, but
still imparting a certain dark dreariness to the scene. The hoot of
an owl occasionally broke the silence, and sent light shivers
through Cuthbert's frame. He was not free from superstition, and
the evil-omened bird was no friend of his. He would rather not have
heard its harsh note just at this time; and he could have wished
that the river did not look so inky black, or that the trees did
not cast such weird shadows.

But the tide ran strong beneath the overhanging bank, and Cuthbert
was carried onwards without any effort of his own. There was
something just a little uncanny in this swift force. It reminded
Cuthbert of relentless destiny sweeping him onward whether or not
he would go.

But it was too late to consider or turn back even if such had been
his desire. Already he began to see white gleams as of stone work
along the water's edge. The willow trees came to an end; a wall
bounded the river for fifty yards or more, and then there arose
before his eyes the structure of the lonely old house, guarded by
its giant elms--a house seeming to be actually built upon the water
itself, one door, as Cuthbert had been told, opening upon the
flight of steps which at high water were almost covered.

It was well nigh high water now, and Cuthbert could bring the prow
of his boat to within a foot of the door. There were rings all
along the topmost step for the mooring of small craft, and he
quickly made fast his wherry and stood at the iron-clamped portal.

How dark and silent and lonely the house looked, rising gaunt and
dim in the uncertain light! Who would choose such a spot for a
home? Surely only those whose deeds would not bear the light of
day. And why that deadly silence and torpor in a house inhabited by
human beings? It seemed unnatural and uncanny, and as a great white
owl swept by on silent wing with a hollow note of challenge,
Cuthbert felt a chill sense of coming ill creep through his veins
and run down his spine; and fearful lest his resolution should
desert him at the last, he raised his hand and gave the
thrice-repeated knock he had been taught by Father Urban.

He doubted if the signal would be heard. He could scarcely believe
that the house boasted any inhabitants, but soon he heard a heavy
yet cautious tread approach the door from the other side. Some
heavy bolts were drawn back, and the door was opened a little way.

"Who is there?" asked a muffled voice.

"One wishful to see Master Robert Catesby."

"Why come to this back door, then? Why not approach the house by
the front way, like an honest man?"

Cuthbert was rather taken aback by this question. He answered with
a touch of sharpness:

"I came the way I was bidden to come. If I am in fault, the blame
lies with him who sent me."

"And who is that?"

"Father Urban."

At the sound of that name the door was cautiously opened a little
further, and Cuthbert felt himself confronted by a man whose face
still remained in deep shadow.

"You come from Father Urban, and with a message to Robert Catesby?"

"Not a message; a packet which methinks contains papers. I was
bidden to deliver them into no hand but his, and to destroy both
them and myself sooner than let them fall into alien hands."

At that the door opened wider yet, and Cuthbert could look along a
dark stone passage, at the end of which glowed a light. His
companion's first suspicions now appeared laid to rest.

"Come in, come in. Speak not thus aloud without, even at this dead
hour of dim loneliness. Men like ourselves stand in sore need of
every caution. Come in, and let me lock the door behind us. There
may be spies lurking even round these walls."

"Spies!" echoed Cuthbert, as he strode along the passage towards
the light. "I fear no spies; I have naught to conceal!"

But the other man was drawing the heavy bolts, and did not hear
this remark. He followed Cuthbert into the great vaulted kitchen,
which was illumined by a noble fire, the warmth of which was very
welcome to the youth after his chilly voyage on the river. There
was some cooking going on at the stove, and an appetizing odour
filled the air.

Cuthbert turned his curious glance upon the custodian of this
strange place, and saw a man who was evidently a gentleman, though
very plainly and simply dressed, and employed at this moment in
menial toil. He had a thin, worn face, and his eyes gleamed
brightly under their heavy brows. He looked like one who had seen
both trouble and suffering, and had grown somewhat reckless under
successive miseries,

He on his side was attentively regarding Cuthbert.

"Thy name, good youth?" he asked abruptly.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," was the unhesitating rejoinder.

The lad had not yet learned the prudence of reticence in dealing
with strangers. He was neither ashamed of his errand nor of his
name.

"Trevlyn--Trevlyn. It is a good name, and I have heard it before. I
have heard Catesby speak of thee. So thou hast come with papers for
him? Art thou indeed to be one of us?"

The question was asked almost in a whisper, accompanied by a very
keen and searching glance. Cuthbert did not exactly know what to
make of it.

He shook his head as he replied:

"Nay, I know naught of that. I am but a messenger from Father
Urban, who was in sore straits but two days back, and well-nigh
fell into the hands of his foes with these papers upon him. I had
the good hap to help him to escape the peril; and as he was sore
hurt, he begged of me to carry them to Master Catesby and deliver
them with mine own hand. This have I come to do. He bid me seek
this house, for that I should likely find him here. If he be not
so, I pray you direct me where he may be found; for I have no mind
to return with my task unfulfilled, nor yet to carry about with me
these same papers an hour longer than need be."

"Heaven forfend!" ejaculated the custodian of the place with
unfeigned anxiety. "Father Urban in peril! Father Urban sore hurt!
We must know more of this business, and that without delay. Art
sure he is safe for the present? Art sure he hath not fallen into
the hands of the King's hirelings?"

"He is safe enow for the nonce."

"And where--where is he hidden?"

Cuthbert gave the man a keen look as he answered:

"That will I tell to none save Master Robert Catesby himself, whom
I know. You, good sir, are a stranger to me, albeit, I doubt not, a
very worthy gentleman."

The man's thin face lighted up with a gleam of approval.

"You are i' the right, young sir; you are i' the right of it," he
said. "In these days of peril and trouble men cannot walk too
warily. My name is Robert Kay, and the fate which has been your
father's has been mine, too. I have been ruined and beggared for my
devotion to my faith; and but for Master Robert Catesby and others
who have given me assistance and employment, I might well have
starved in some garret ere now. Yet I was gently born and nurtured,
and mine only cause of offence was the religion which but a
generation back all men in this realm honoured and loved.
Well-a-day! alack-a-day! we have fallen on evil times. Yet there is
still a God in the heavens above us, and our turn may come--yea,
our turn may come!"

The fierce wild gesture that accompanied these words recalled to
Cuthbert's mind the same sort of prediction and menace uttered by
Catesby on the night of their journey together over Hammerton
Heath. He felt at once a lively curiosity and a sense of awe and
repulsion; but he made no remark, and Kay quickly recovered
himself.

"It boots not to linger. We must to Catesby without delay. He must
hear your news, young man, and must learn of you the fate of Father
Urban. You will come with me to find him?"

"Very gladly, an you know where he is to be found."

A curious expression flitted across the man's face.

"Ay, that do I know well; nor is he far from here. We shall soon
reach him in that wherry of yours. He is but across the river at
Westminster, in the house of Thomas Percy, who has a lodging there
in right of his office and stewardship to my Lord of Northumberland."

Kay glanced rather keenly into Cuthbert's face as he spoke these
words, but they evoked no answering spark of intelligence, and
again the mask fell, leaving the face expressionless and weary as
before.

"I can take you across in my boat right well," answered Cuthbert;
"and the sooner we start the better I shall be pleased, for I have
a dark journey back tonight, and there be sentries on the watch
along the banks who may perchance ask somewhat too curiously of my
movements an I be detained late."

"Nay, then let us hurry," said Kay restlessly; "for Catesby will
not be back for many hours, and we must needs find him. I will but
tarry to get my cloak, and then we will to the boat."

He vanished as he spoke through an open door, and Cuthbert stood
looking inquisitively about him. There were several deep recesses
in this vault-like place, and in one of these were piled a large
number of small barrels, the contents of which Cuthbert guessed to
be wine or spirits. He was rather amused at the store thus got
together, and thought that Master Kay and his companions knew how
to enjoy themselves, even though they did lead lonely and troubled
lives. His eyes were still fixed upon the barrels when Kay
returned, and a smile hovered round the corners of his lips. The
man seemed to note the glance, and looked sharply at him.

"Thou knowest the meaning of those?" he said suddenly; and Cuthbert
smiled again as he answered readily:

"Ay, verily that do I."

That was all which then passed. Kay took up a lantern and led the
way. Cuthbert followed, and soon the door was unbarred and barred
again behind them, the wherry was pushed out into deep water, and
Cuthbert's strong arms were soon propelling it across the river,
Kay steering carefully, and with the air of a man well used to the
transit.

He cautioned quietness as they neared the shore, but in the little
creek where the boat was pushed up not a living thing was seen.
Another boat somewhat larger in build was already in the creek, and
there was a post to which craft could he made fast whilst the
owners landed. Kay dexterously performed this office, and taking
Cuthbert by the arm, bid him muffle his face in the collar of his
cloak, and walk cautiously and with circumspection. They quickly
reached the great block of buildings of which the Houses of
Parliament formed the most conspicuous feature; and diving down a
narrow entry, Kay paused suddenly before a low-browed door, and
gave the peculiar knock Cuthbert had learned from the priest.

The door was quickly opened, and a rough head thrust forth.

"Who goes there?"

"It is I, good Bates--I and a gentleman--one of us--come on
business that brooks no delay with Master Robert Catesby. Go summon
thy master, good knave, without delay. It is needful this gentleman
speak with him at once."

Kay had been leading Cuthbert along a passage with the familiarity
of a friend of the house, whilst the serving man barred the door,
and answered somewhat gruffly, as though disturbed by the
interruption:

"Nay, if he is one of us, let him seek the master below. He is
there, and hard at work, and will not be best pleased at being
called away. I have but just come up myself. I am weary as a hunted
hare and thirsty as a fish in a desert. Find my master thyself,
Master Kay; I am no servant of thine."

Kay appeared in no way astonished at this rough answer. He went on
before without any remark, and Cuthbert, not knowing what else to
do, followed. Presently they reached the head of a long flight of
stairs that seemed to descend into the very heart of the earth, and
from below there arose strange hollow sounds--the sound of blows
steadily struck upon some hard substance; it seemed as though they
were struck upon the very rock itself.

Greatly amazed, and wondering not a little what it could mean,
Cuthbert paused at the head of this long flight, and saw his
companion prepare to descend; but just at that moment the sound of
blows ceased. A cry and confusion of voices arose, as if the
speakers were somewhere in the heart of the earth; and almost
immediately there dashed up the stairs a man with stained garments,
bloodshot eyes, and a white, scared face, crying out in fearful
terror:

"The bell! the bell! the tolling bell! God and the Holy Saints
protect us! It is our death knell--our death knell!"

Kay seized the man by the arm.

"What ails you, man? what is it?" he asked, quickly and sternly;
but at that moment the pale face of Robert Catesby appeared, and he
was followed by a tall bearded man of very soldierly bearing, who
said, in calm, authoritative accents:

"I have here some holy water, blessed by the Pope himself. If we do
but sprinkle the walls with that and bid the daring fiend cease,
all will be well. It is no work of God; it is a work of the devil,
striving to turn us aside from our laudable and righteous purpose.
Prove me if it be not so. If yon booming bell sounds again after
this holy water has been sprinkled, then will I own that it is God
fighting against us; but if it cease after this has been sprinkled,
then shall we know that heaven is on our side and only the powers
of darkness against us."

"So be it," answered Catesby, quickly and decisively; "thou shalt
make trial of it, good Guido. I trow we shall learn by that token
that God is on our side."

All this Cuthbert saw and heard, as he stood in the shadow at the
top of the stairs consumed by a burning curiosity. Something had
occurred of such overwhelming interest as to obliterate even from
Kay's mind for the moment the errand on which he had come, and his
presence in the house at this moment awoke no question amongst the
men assembled there, who were plainly otherwise engrossed. All
vanished again down the stairs, and Cuthbert stole after them with
cautious footfalls, too eager to discover what could be so moving
them to consider what he was doing.

It was easy to track, by their voices and the light they carried,
the men who had preceded him. The long flight of stairs terminated
in a long stone passage, deadly cold; and this led in turn to a
great cellar, at the far end of which a group of seven men was
assembled. They appeared to be standing round the entrance to a
small tunnel, and this tunnel they had plainly been making
themselves; for a number of tools for boring and picking lay about,
and the faces, hands, and clothes of the assembled party plainly
indicated the nature of their toil, albeit from their speech and
bearing it was plain that all were gentlemen.

Robert Catesby was sprinkling the walls of this tunnel with some
water, using words of supplication and exorcism, and his companions
stood bare headed around him. A great hush fell upon all as this
ceremony ceased, and all seemed to listen intently.

"There is no sound; the devil hath taken flight. I knew how it
would be!" spoke the tall dark man exultantly. "And now, comrades,
to work again, for we have heard the last of our knell tonight. No
powers of darkness can stand before the charm of His Holiness's
power."

With an air of relief and alacrity the gentlemen seized their
tools, and again the hollow or ringing sounds commenced to sound in
that dim place; but Kay had plucked Robert Catesby by the sleeve,
and was whispering some words in his ear.

Catesby turned quickly round, made a few strides towards the
staircase, and then catching sight of Cuthbert, stopped short, and
seized Kay by the arm.

"Fool!" he cried, in a low, hissing tone, "what possessed you to
bring him here? We are undone!"

"Nay, but he knows; he is one of us."

"He is not; it is a lie! If he said so, he is a foul spy!"

And then striding up to Cuthbert with eyes that gleamed
murderously, he looked into the youth's face, and suddenly the fury
died out of his own.

"Why, it is Cuthbert Trevlyn! Good luck to you, good youth! I had
feared I know not what. But thou art stanch and true; thou art a
chip of the old block. If it had to be some one, better thee than
any other. Boy, thou hast seen a sight tonight that must have
awakened thy curiosity. Swear to secrecy--swear to reveal
nothing--and I will tell thee all."

"Nay, tell me nothing," answered Cuthbert firmly; "I love not
mysteries. I would fain forget all I have heard and seen. Let me
tell thee of Father Urban--let me give thee his letters; but tell
me naught in return. I will not know--I will not."

Cuthbert spoke with sudden vehemence. He and Catesby were mounting
the stairs together. As they reached the dim vestibule above,
Catesby took him by the arm and looked him searchingly in the face,
as he said:

"Maybe thou art in the right. It may be better so. But thou must
swear one thing ere thou goest hence, and that is--to reveal to no
living soul what thou hast seen this night. Know, boy, that if thou
wilt not swear this--"

But Cuthbert shook himself free, and looked proudly at his
interlocutor.

"Nay, threaten me not, good Master Catesby, else I may be moved to
defy thee and thy power. For the goodwill I bear thee, and for that
I loathe and abhor those craven souls who will betray their fellow
men to prison and death, I will give thee my word of honour to hold
sacred all that I have seen and heard in this house this night. I
know not what it means, nor do I desire to know. Be it for good or
be it for ill, it is thy secret, not mine, and with me it is safe.
But I will not be threatened nor coerced--no, not by any man. What
I will not give for friendship and brotherly love, no man shall
wrest from me through fear."

Catesby looked at the lad with his flashing eyes and proudly-held
head, and a smile illuminated his features. Whether or not his
companions would have been satisfied with this pledge, he himself
was content, and with a kindly grip of the hand he said:

"Enough, boy, enough! I like thy spirit, and I ask thy pardon for
dreaming of treating thee in any unworthy fashion. And now let us
talk of Father Urban and what has befallen him; and give to me
these papers of which thou hast been such a careful custodian."

An hour later, Cuthbert's wherry floated out into midstream once
more, and swiftly sped along the dark water, propelled by a pair of
strong young arms. Could any have seen the rower's face, it would
have been seen to be grave and rather pale. The lights of the
bridge beginning to gleam ahead of him as he looked over his
shoulder, Cuthbert muttered to himself:

"This has been a strange night's work, and there be more in all
than I can rightly understand. Pray Heaven I be not further
entangled in such mysteries and secrets! Well did the wise woman
bid me beware of underground cellars. Would I had never been into
that ill place this night!"



Chapter 12: May Day In The Forest.


"Canst put up with my company, good Cuthbert? for I have a mind to
travel with thee."

Cuthbert turned quickly as these words fell upon his ear, and found
himself face to face with a gay-looking youth dressed all in
forester's green, whom at first he took for a stranger, till the
young man with a laugh removed his wide-brimmed hat, so that the
evening light fell full upon his handsome boyish face; and Cuthbert
exclaimed, with a start of surprise:

"Verily, it is Lord Culverhouse!"

"And thy very good cousin, Cuthbert Trevlyn," said the Viscount, as
he linked his arm within that of his would-be comrade. "So let
there be no more ceremony betwixt thee and me; for we are both bent
upon a merry time in the forest, and we will fare forth thither
together as brothers and friends."

"With all my heart," answered Cuthbert warmly; for he loved
companionship, and greatly liked what he had seen of Kate's cousin
and lover, the gay and handsome Lord Culverhouse. He had been once
or twice recently to the great house in the Strand, generally
rowing himself up to the garden steps, and sometimes taking the
Viscount upon the river with him. In this way they had struck up a
certain friendliness and intimacy; and Cuthbert had spoken to Lord
Culverhouse of his proposed visit to the forest on May Day,
although without explaining to him the real and chief object of
that journey. Culverhouse had not at the time expressed any desire
to accompany him, though he had asked a good many questions
respecting the forest and the forest fetes held upon that day.
Cuthbert had observed an unwonted animation in his eyes as he had
done so; but nothing in the young nobleman's manner had prepared
him for this freak on his part, and he had actually failed at the
first moment to recognize this fanciful figure in its smart
forester's dress when first saluted by the wearer. But he was glad
enough of the meeting, and the proposition of travelling in company
was very welcome, though he still had one qualm to set at rest.

"I only go on foot, my lord. Doubtless you have a horse in waiting,
and will soon outride me."

"A horse! not I. I have neither beast nor man in waiting. I travel
alone and on foot, and for the nonce am no more Lord Culverhouse,
but only Rupert de Grey--thy trusty comrade Rupert--and a would-be
follower of bold Robin Hood, did he but hold his court with his
merry, merry men in the free forest now. See, I wear his livery. I
feel as free as air. I marvel I never thought of such a masquerade
before. We will have a right merry time this joyous springtide. How
long dost thou purpose to remain in the greenwood thyself?"

"I know not," answered Cuthbert, as the pair strode southward
together, quickly leaving behind the last houses of London, and
striking away in the direction of the forest whither both were
bound. It was the last day in April: the soft south wind was
blowing in their faces, the trees were beginning to hang out their
tassels of tender green, the hawthorn was bursting into bloom and
filling the air with its fragrance. It was, in fact, the eve of one
of those old-fashioned May Days which seem utterly to have gone by
now, and all nature was rejoicing in the sweet exaltation of the
happy springtide, full of the promises of the golden summer to
come.

Cuthbert's heart swelled with delight as he looked about him and
felt that the strife and bustle of the great city were at last
shaken off. In spite of the spell exercised upon him by the life of
London, he had for some weeks been pining like a caged bird for the
freedom of the country again, the vault of the sky alone above him,
the songs of the birds in his ears. The spring had brought to him
yearnings and desires which he scarcely understood, and latterly he
had been counting the days which must pass ere he should find
himself in the forest once again.

In his uncle's house matters were growing a little strained. Martin
Holt undoubtedly suspected something of the matter betwixt him and
Cherry, and as plainly disapproved. He looked upon Cherry as
promised to her cousin Jacob, and doubtless he thought the steady,
plodding, slow-witted son of the house of Dyson a far safer husband
for his feather-brained youngest than handsome Cuthbert Trevlyn,
with his gentler birth, his quick and keen intelligence, and his
versatile, inquiring mind, which was always inclining him to meddle
in matters better left alone, and to judge for himself with an
independence that was perilous in times like these. Not that Martin
Holt was himself averse to independence of judgment, rather the
reverse; but he knew the dangers besetting the path of those who
were resolved to think and judge for themselves, and he would fain
have seen his youngest and dearest child safely made over to the
care of one who would be content to go through life without asking
troublesome questions or intermeddling with matters of danger and
difficulty, and would conform to all laws, civil and religious,
without a qualm, recognizing the King's will as supreme in all
matters, temporal and spiritual, without a doubt or a scruple.
Cherry would be safe with Jacob, that was Martin's feeling, whilst
with Cuthbert he could have no such security. Cuthbert had still
his way to make in the world, and it had not yet appeared that he
would be of any use in business matters. He was clever with his
pen. He was a good scholar, and had been able to make himself
useful to his uncle in a number of small matters where his
quickness and sharp wits had room to work. He was also of no small
use in the matter of the building and fitting up of the new sloop,
in which he took such keen interest. He would go over every bit of
the work, comparing it with what he saw in other vessels, and
learning quickly to distinguish good workmanship from bad. He
became so ready of resource and suggestion when any small
difficulty occurred, that both Martin Holt and Abraham Dyson
learned to think exceedingly well of his abilities, and employed
him largely in matters where quickness of observation and
apprehension was wanted. But for all that, and despite the fact
that he had earned some considerable sum of money (as he reckoned
it) during the winter and spring months, he had shown no great
desire to settle himself down to any steady occupation or trade,
and neither of the elder men saw any opening for him that should
give him regular and permanent occupation.

"He has too much of the gay gallant about him for my taste,"
Abraham would say. "He is more Trevlyn than Holt; and some folks
say more Wyvern than Trevlyn. Be that as it may, he is a gentleman
to the fingertips; and one might as well try to tame an eagle as
set him down to the round of work that comes natural to lads like
Jacob."

And Martin Holt would nod assent, feeling that there was something
about his sister's son that would never assimilate with the life of
a merchant tradesman. He liked his nephew, and thought well of him
in many ways; but he was not sorry to receive his request for leave
to revisit his old haunts and his own kindred when the long spring
days were upon the world; and he bid the lad please himself for the
future, and return or not as he best liked. There was the gold to
be given up to him when he should make formal claim for it. Martin
had satisfied himself by now that he was worthy to be intrusted
with it; but Cuthbert intended Petronella to have the bulk of that,
so that she might wed Philip, if they were both inclined that way.
As for himself, he was still bent on finding the lost treasure of
Trevlyn, and he had vowed the whole of the long summer to the
search, resolved that he would find it, be the perils and
perplexities what they might.

So that although he saw by his uncle's manner that he was not
especially anxious to see him back soon, and shrewdly guessed that
this was in part on Cherry's account, he did not let the matter
distress him. When good Jacob had had his turn, and had failed in
winning Cherry's hand, and when he himself should return laden with
the treasure which should enable him to place his little love in a
nest in all ways worthy of her, surely then his uncle would give
her up to him without opposition. This was how he spoke to Cherry,
comforting her as the hour for his departure drew near, and vowing
eternal constancy and unchanging love. He was beginning to feel
that he was doing his cause more harm than good by lingering on,
unable to declare himself, yet betraying himself, as he often felt,
in a hundred little nameless ways. It would be better for all when
the wrench was finally made; and neither he nor Cherry doubted for
a moment that he would be successful in his search, and would come
riding up at last to the house on the bridge, the gayest of gay
gallants, to claim Cherry in the sight of all, lifting her upon his
horse, and riding away with her in the fashion of the bold knights
of old, whose deeds of prowess they both so greatly admired.

It was this brilliant prospect of glory to come which consoled
Cherry and reconciled her to the parting of the present. Hard as it
would be to live without Cuthbert, she would strive to do so in the
thought that he would come again ere long and take her away for
ever from the life which was becoming odious to her, she scarce
knew why. So they had parted in hope as well as in sorrow, and
Cuthbert felt all his elasticity of spirit returning to him as he
strode along by his unexpected comrade's side.

"I know not how long I shall be absent from London," he said in
answer to Culverhouse's question. "There be many things depending
on that. I have set myself a task, and I know not how long a time
it will take to accomplish. And you, my good lord, how goes it with
you? Are you about to visit Trevlyn Chase, as you will be thus
near, and see your kinsfolks there?"

"Call me not good lord, call me Rupert, as I have bidden thee
before!" was the quick response, as a flush dyed for the moment the
smooth fair cheek of the Viscount. "Cuthbert, since we are to
travel together, I must needs tell thee my secret. I am not bound
for Trevlyn Chase. My father has forbidden me for the nonce to
visit there, not for any ill will he bears our kinsfolk, but--but
that--"

"But that he fears the bright eyes of Mistress Kate, and hopes by
keeping you apart to help thee to forget? Is it not so, Rupert?"

"Marry, thou hast well guessed. Or has it been no guess? Hast thou
heard aught?"

"My cousin Kate herself told me somewhat of it," answered Cuthbert;
"but she laughed to scorn the artifice. She is not made of the
stuff that forgets."

"Heaven's blessing be upon her for a true-hearted maiden!" cried
Culverhouse, with a lover's easily-stirred enthusiasm. "Cuthbert,
since thou knowest so much, thou shalt know more. I have made shift
to write to Kate about this purpose of mine to visit the forest
glades on blithe May Day; and she has sent me a little missive,
fresh and sweet and dainty like herself, to tell me that she will
ride forth herself into the forest that day, and giving the slip to
her sisters or servants, or any who may accompany her, will meet me
without fail in a certain dell that doubtless I shall find from the
directions she gives. There is a giant yew tree in the midst that
would hide six men in its hollow trunk, and a laughing streamlet
circles well-nigh round it. She tells me it has got the name of
Oberon's Horseshoe."

"I know the place well," answered Cuthbert. "I can guide thee
thither. So Mistress Kate will meet thee there! It is like her. She
has a daring spirit. I would I could help her to her dowry."

"Her dowry! thou!" echoed Culverhouse in surprise; and then as they
walked onwards through the dewy night, Cuthbert could not but tell
a little of his purpose to the comrade who had intrusted him with
his own secret; and Culverhouse listened with the greatest
interest, albeit without quite the same sanguine hope of success
that Cuthbert himself entertained. Still, he was of opinion that a
patient search and inquiry instituted by an obscure lad like
Cuthbert, used to rough ways and the life of the forest, would be
more likely to succeed than one set on foot by any person better
known. If the old tradition were true that the gipsies had hidden
the gold again in spite, it was possible that after this lapse of
time the old hatred would have died out, and that somebody might be
willing to betray the precious secret for a sufficient reward. At
any rate Cuthbert's idea of living in the forest and cultivating
and studying these strange folk was amply worth a trial. If his
quest succeeded, the whole Trevlyn family would be once more
wealthy and prosperous; if not, no harm would have been done, and
the youth would have enjoyed his free life and new experiences
after the winter spent in the confinement of the great city.

The travellers walked on through the twilight and until long after
moonrise. They had put a good twelve miles between them and London
before they talked of halting. They had no intention of seeking
shelter for the night in any wayside hostelry. A hollow tree would
give them all the cover they needed, and both had brought with them
such supply of provision as would render them independent of chance
hospitality for twenty-four hours at least.

Cuthbert's quick eyes soon sought out the sort of resting place
they desired--a great oak, into whose hollowed trunk the dead
leaves had drifted, and were now piled up into a soft heap. Lying
luxuriously upon this easy couch, the two travellers took such
refreshment as each needed; and as Cuthbert saw in the distance
before them the bold outlines of the high ground, part of which
went by the name of Hammerton Heath, he recounted to his companion
his adventure there the November previous, and by what means he had
saved his purse from the hands of the robbers.

Culverhouse listened to the story, and when it was done he said:

"Take heed, good Cuthbert, that thou dost not meet with a worse
mischance than the loss of thy purse. I would sooner have mine
filched from me by freebooters than owe aught to Robert Catesby
that could give him any claim upon me."

Cuthbert looked up quickly. Since that night when he had delivered
the papers to Catesby, and had seen and heard so much that was
mysterious, he had gradually let the strange incident slip from his
memory. Nothing had occurred to recall it, or to render him in any
wise uneasy. He had seen nothing of Catesby or his companions.
Father Urban had said that they had all dispersed into the country.
He himself shortly took leave of the Coles, and was taken off by a
boat on a dark night to reach a vessel about to start for Spain.
The whole incident seemed more like a dream than a reality now; and
Cuthbert's vague sense of uneasiness had by this time died quite
away.

"What dost thou mean?" he asked, as the Viscount's words fell on
his ear.

"No more than this, that yon Catesby is a dangerous man. I know
naught against him, save that he is a Papist of the type I like
not--a plotting, designing, desperate type, that ofttimes injure
themselves far more than they injure others, yet too often drag
their friends and those who trust them to destruction with
them--and all for some wild and foolish design which they have not
the wits to carry through, and against which Heaven itself fights
to its overthrow. Have no dealings with this same Catesby, good
Cuthbert; thou wilt rue it an thou dost."

"I am not like to see him again," answered Cuthbert slowly. "He is
gone I know not whither. If men look thus darkly upon him,
doubtless he will not adventure himself in London again."

"I know not how that may be. My father hath heard disquieting
rumours of late, and the name of Robert Catesby is mingled in all
of them. However, he speaks little to me of matters of state. Men
in high places are for ever hearing whispers and rumours, and it
boots not to give over-much credence to every idle tale. Only, what
thou spakest of this Catesby recalled the matter to my mind. He is
a man to fear, to avoid. He has a way with him that wins men's
hearts; yet it is but the fatal fascination of the glittering
snake, that snares the fluttering bird to its destruction. So, at
least, I have heard."

Cuthbert made no direct reply. He would have liked to tell
Culverhouse of the incident of the lonely house on the river, and
the dark cellar in which Catesby and others had been at work; but
his tongue was bound by his promise. Moreover, the hour for sleep
was at hand, and the travellers, wrapping themselves in their
cloaks and stretching their limbs upon their soft couch, were soon
lost in the land of dreams.

The following morning dawned as fair and clear and bright as heart
could wish. It was just such a May Day as one pictures in reading
of those old-time festivities incident to that joyous season. And
the forest that day was alive with holiday makers and rustic folks,
enjoying themselves to the full in all the green glades and bosky
dells. Culverhouse and Cuthbert found it hard to push along upon
their way into the heart of the forest, so attractive were the
scenes enacted in every little clearing that had become the site of
a tiny hamlet or village, so full of hospitality to wayfarers was
every house they passed, and so merry were the dances being footed
on the greensward, in which every passer by was expected to take a
part.

Culverhouse, in his green forester's dress, daintily faced with
silver, a silver hunting horn slung round his neck, was an object
of universal admiration, and the fact that he was plainly some
wealthy gentleman masquerading and playing a part did not in any
way detract from the interest his appearance excited. His merry,
courteous ways and well-turned compliments won the hearts of
maidens and matrons alike, whilst his deft and elegant dancing was
the admiration of all who watched; and he was besought on all hands
to stay, and found no small difficulty in pursuing his way into the
forest itself.

However, they had made an early start, and as they drew near to the
denser part of the wood interruptions became less frequent, and
presently ceased altogether. Cuthbert found a track he knew which
led straight to the trysting place with Kate; and though from time
to time the travellers heard distant sounds of mirth and revelry
proceeding from the right hand or the left, they did not come upon
any groups of gipsies or freebooters, who were doubtless enjoying
the day after their own fashion, and the two pursued their way
rapidly and without molestation.

"This is the place," said Cuthbert at length, as the underwood grew
thick and tangled and the path became almost lost. "And see, yonder
is a lady's palfrey tethered to a tree. Mistress Kate is the first
at the tryst. Go down thither to her, and I will wait here and
guard her steed; for there be many afoot in the forest this day,
and all may not be so bent on pleasure taking that they will not
wander about in search of gain, and a fair palfrey like yon would
be no small prize."

Culverhouse readily consented to this arrangement, and for some
time Cuthbert was left to a solitary enjoyment of the forest. He
caressed the horse, which responded with great gentleness and
goodwill; and then he lay down in luxurious ease, his hands crossed
behind his head, his face turned upwards towards the clear blue of
the sunny sky, seen through the delicate tracery of the bursting
buds of elm and beech. It was a perfect feast for eye and ear to
lie thus in the forest, listening to the songs of the birds, and
watching the play of light and shadow. Fresh from the roar and the
bustle of the city, Cuthbert enjoyed it as a thirsty traveller in
the desert enjoys a draught of clear cold water from a spring. He
was almost sorry when at last the sound of voices warned him that
the lovers' stolen interview was at an end, and that they were
approaching him at last.

Kate's bright face was all alight with happiness and joy as she
appeared, holding fast to her lover's arm. She greeted Cuthbert
with the prettiest air of cousinly affection, asked of himself and
his welfare with undisguised interest, and then told them of some
rustic sports being held at a village only three miles distant, and
begged Culverhouse to take her to see the spectacle. She had set
her heart upon it all day, and there would be no danger of her
being seen in the crowd sure to be assembled there to witness the
sights. Her sisters had no love for such shows, and nobody would be
greatly troubled at her hardihood in escaping from the escort of
her servants. She was always doing the like, and no harm had ever
befallen her. Her father was wont to call her his Madcap, and her
mother sometimes chided, and feared she would come to ill by her
wild freaks; but she had always turned up safe and sound, and her
independent ways had almost ceased to excite comment or uneasiness.
On May Day, when all the world was abroad and in good humour, they
would trouble still less on her account. Kate had no fear of being
overtaken and brought back, and had set her heart on going with
Culverhouse to this village fete and fair. She had heard much of
it, yet had never seen it. Sure this was the very day on which to
go.

Culverhouse would have gone to the moon with her had she asked
it--or would at least have striven to do so--and his assent was
cordially given. Cuthbert knew the place well; and Kate was quickly
mounted on the palfrey, Culverhouse walking at her bridle-rein,
whilst Cuthbert walked on ahead to choose the safest paths, and
warn them of any peril in the road. He could hear scraps of
lover-like dialogue, that sent his heart back to Cherry, and made
him long to have her beside him; but that being impossible, he gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the present, and found pleasure in
everything about him.

He had been before to this gay fair, held every May Day, to which
all the rustic folks from far and near flocked with one accord. He
knew well the look of the tents and booths, the bright dresses of
the women, the feats of skill and strength carried on between the
younger men, the noise, the merriment, the revelry that towards
sundown became almost an orgie.

But in the bright noon-day light all was at its best. Kate was
delighted with everything, especially with the May Queen upon her
throne, surrounded by her attendant maidens in their white holiday
dresses, with their huge posies in their hands. This was the place
for love making, and it attracted the lovers not a little.
Cuthbert, who undertook to tie up the horse in some safe place, and
then wandered alone through the shifting throng, found them still
upon the green when he rejoined them after his ramble. Plainly
there was something of interest greater than before going on in
this quarter. People were flocking to the green, laughing,
chattering, and questioning. Blushing girls were being led along by
their ardent swains; some were protesting, others laughing.
Cuthbert could not make out what it was all about, and presently
asked a countryman why the folks were all in such a coil.

"Why? because the priest has come, and all who will may be wed by
him. He comes like this every May Day, and he stands in the church
porch, and he weds all who come to him for a silver sixpence, and
asks no questions. Half our folks are so wed year by year, for
there be no priest or parson here this many years, not since the
last one was hunted to death by good Queen Bess--Heaven rest her
soul! The church is well nigh falling to pieces as it stands; but
the porch is the best part of it, and the priest who comes says it
is consecrated ground, and so he can use it for his weddings. That
is what the coil is about, young sir. You be a stranger in these
parts, I take it?"

Cuthbert was not quite a stranger, but he had never heard before of
these weddings.

"Are they lawfully wed whom he marries?" he asked; but the man only
shook his head.

"Nay, as for that I know naught, nor do any of the folks hereabouts
neither. But he is a priest, and he says the right words, and joins
their hands and calls them man and wife. No man can do more so far
as my poor wits tell me. Most of our young folks--ay, and some of
the old ones too--have been married that fashion, and I can't see
that there is aught amiss with them. They be as happy and
comfortable as other folks."

Cuthbert moved on with the interested crowd to see these haphazard
weddings. It was plain that the marrying of a number of young
couples was looked upon as part of the May Day sports. It was a
pretty enough sight to see some of the flower-crowned blushing
girls in their festal white, led along by their gaily-bedecked
swains in the direction of the church, which was hard by the open
village green. Some other importunate youths were eagerly pleading
their cause, and striving to drag their mistresses to the nuptial
altar amid the laughter and encouragement of the bystanders.
Cuthbert moved along in search of his companions, greatly amused by
all he saw and heard; and presently he caught sight of Kate and
Culverhouse standing together close beside the church, half hidden
within a small embrasure enclosed between two buttresses. Her face
was covered with brilliant blushes, whilst he had hold of her hand,
and seemed to be pleading with her with impassioned earnestness. As
Cuthbert approached he heard these words:

"Nay, sweetest Kate, why hold back? Have we not loved each other
faithfully and long? Why dost thou fear?"

"O Culverhouse, methinks it would be wrong. How can we know that
such wedlock would be lawful? Methinks my mother would break her
heart did she think the knot had been thus loosely tied."

"Nay, but, Kate, thou scarce takest my meaning as yet. This pledge
given betwixt us before yon priest would be to us but the betrothal
troth plight. I doubt myself whether such wedlock would be lawful;
nor would I dare to call thee my wife did none but he tie the knot.
But listen, sweet coz: if we go before him and thus plight our
troth and join our hands together, none will dare to bid us wed
another. It will be too solemn a pledge to be lightly broken. Men
think gravely of such matters as solemn betrothal, and in days to
come if they should urge upon thee or me to wed with another, we
have but to tell of what was done this day, and they will cease to
strive to come between us more.

"O sweetest mistress, fairest Kate, let us not part today without
some pledge of mutual faith and constancy! Let me hold this little
hand and place my token on thy finger; then be the time of waiting
never so long, I shall know that at last I may call thee mine
before all the world!"

Kate was quivering, blushing, trembling with excitement, though not
with fear; for she loved Culverhouse too completely to feel aught
but the most perfect confidence in him and his honour and faith.

"If only I could be sure it was not wrong!" she faltered.

"Wrong to plight thy hand, when thy heart is long since given?" he
asked, with tender playfulness. "Where can the wrong be there?"

"I know not. I would fain be altogether thine. But what would my
father and mother say?"

It was plain already that she was yielding. Culverhouse drew her
tenderly towards him.

"Nay, sweet coz, there be times when the claim of the parent must
give place to the closer claim of the lover, the husband. Does not
Scripture itself tell us as much? Trust me, I speak for our best
good. Let us but go together before this priest and speak the words
that, said in church, would make us man and wife, and none will
dare to keep us apart for ever, or bid us wed with another. Such
words must be binding upon the soul, be the legal bond little or
much. It is hard to say what the force of such a pledge may be; but
well I know that neither my father nor thine would dare to try to
break it, once they were told how and when it had been made. Thou
wilt be mine for ever, Kate, an thou wilt do this thing."

The temptation was too great to be resisted. To plight her troth
thus to Culverhouse, in a fashion which might not be wholly ignored
or set aside, was a thing but too congenial to the daring and
ardent temperament of the girl. With but a few more quivers of
hesitation she let herself be persuaded; and Culverhouse, turning
round with a radiant smile of triumph, saw that Cuthbert was
standing beside them, sympathy and interest written upon his face.

"Thou wilt be witness to our espousals, good cousin," he said
gaily, as he led his betrothed to the porch, where the crowd made
way for them right and left, seeing well the purpose for which
these gentlefolks had come. It pleased them mightily that this fine
young forester with his air of noble birth, and this high-born
maiden in her costly riding dress, should condescend to come before
the priest here in their own little church porch, and plight their
troth as their own young folks were doing.

A hush of eager expectation fell upon the crowd as Culverhouse led
his betrothed love before the priest; and when the ring, bought
from an old peddler who always attended at such times and found
ready sale for his wares, was placed on Kate's slim finger, a
murmur of applause and sympathy ran through the crowd, and Kate
quivered from head to foot at the thought of her own daring.

The thing was done. She and Culverhouse had plighted themselves in
a fashion solemn enough to hinder any person from trying to make
light of their betrothal. Right or wrong, the deed was done, and
neither looked as though he or she wished the words unsaid.

But Kate dared not linger longer. Cuthbert fetched her palfrey, and
Culverhouse lifted her to the saddle; and hiring a steed from a
farmer for a brief hour, promising to bring it back in time for the
good man to jog home again at dusk, the newly-plighted pair rode
off into the forest together, he promising to see her to within
sight of her own home before taking a last adieu.

Cuthbert stood looking after them with a smile on his lips.

"Now, if Heaven will but speed my quest and give me happy success,
I trow those twain may yet be wed again, no man saying them nay;
for if sweet Mistress Kate can but bring with her the dower the
treasure will afford, none will forbid the union: she will be
welcomed by Lord Andover as a fitting wife for his son and heir!"



Chapter 13: The Gipsy's Tryst.


"This is surely the spot. Methinks she will not fail me. Moonrise
was the hour she named. I will wait with what patience I may till
she comes to keep the tryst."

So said Cuthbert to himself as, at the close of that long and
varied day, he stood at the mouth of a natural cave, half hidden by
tangled undergrowth, which had been appointed months ago by Joanna
the gipsy as the place where on May Day evening she would meet him,
and tell him more of the matter so near to his heart.

Culverhouse and he had parted company when the former had escorted
towards her home the lady of his choice, to whom his troth had been
so solemnly plighted a short while before. The young Viscount was
going to make his way rapidly to London again; but Cuthbert
purposed a long stay in the forest. The search for the lost
treasure might be a matter of weeks, possibly of months. But he was
very well resolved not to give it up until the search had been
pursued with unabated zeal to the last extremity, and he himself
was fully satisfied as to its fate. Nothing but actual knowledge
that it had been dissipated and dispersed should induce him to
abandon the quest.

Standing at the mouth of the cave, leaning against the rocky wall,
and enjoying the deep solitude of the forest and its tranquil
stillness, Cuthbert revolved many matters in his mind, and it
seemed more certain than ever that the finding of the treasure
alone could save him and many that he loved from manifold
difficulties and perplexities. How that treasure would smooth the
path and bring happiness and ease to the Trevlyn family! Surely it
was well worth a more vigorous search than had long been made!
Cuthbert took from his pocket the bit of parchment containing the
mystic words of the wise woman, or her familiar spirit, and perused
them again and again, albeit he knew them well nigh by heart.

"Thou art here! It is well."

Cuthbert started at the sound of the rich, deep tones, and found
himself confronted by the queenly-looking gipsy. He had not heard
her approach. She seemed to have risen from the very ground at his
feet. But he was scarcely surprised. She had the air of one who
could come and go at will even upon the wings of the wind.

"I am here," answered Cuthbert, making a courteous salutation. "I
thank thee that thou hast not forgotten the tryst."

"I never forget aught, least of all a promise," answered Joanna,
with her queenly air of dignity. "I come to strive to do my share
to atone a wrong and render restitution where it is due. What paper
is that, boy, that thou studiest with such care?"

Cuthbert handed her the scrap of parchment. He did not know if she
would have learning to decipher it; but the writing appeared to
have no difficulties for her. She read the words in the clear light
of the May evening, albeit the sun had set and the crescent moon
was hanging like a silver lamp in the sky; and as she did so she
started slightly, and fixed a keenly penetrating glance upon
Cuthbert.

"Where didst thou get these lines, boy?"

"They were given me by a wise woman, whom I consulted to see if she
could aid me in this matter."

"A wise woman! And where didst thou find her?"

"In London town, where she practises her arts, and many come unto
her by secret. She is veritably that which she professes, for she
told me the object of my quest ere I had told mine errand to her."

"But thou hadst told her thy name?"

"Yes, verily, I had done that."

"And knowing that, she divined all. Verily thou hast seen Esther
the witch! And this was all she knew--this was all she knew!"

Joanna's head was bent over the parchment. Her eyes were full of
fire. Her words seemed addressed rather to herself than to
Cuthbert, and they excited his ardent curiosity.

"And who is Esther? and dost thou know her? thou speakest as if
thou didst."

"All of us forest gipsies know Esther well. She is one of us,
though she has left the forest to dwell in cities. According to the
language of men, she is my aunt. She is sister to old Miriam, whom
thou sawest in the forest mill, and who would have done thee to
death an I had not interposed to save thee. And Miriam is my
mother, albeit I am her queen, and may impose my will on her."

"And does she know aught of the lost treasure?" asked Cuthbert,
with eager impatience.

"I had hoped she did," answered Joanna slowly, her eyes still bent
on the paper. "I have seen her myself since I saw thee last. I have
spoken with her on this same matter. I could not draw from her what
I strove to do; but I see now that I prepared the way, and that
when thou didst go by chance to her, she was ready for thee. But if
this is all she knows, it goes not far. Still it may help--it may
help. In a tangled web, no one may say which will be the thread
which patiently followed may unravel the skein."

"Belike she knows more than she would say," suggested Cuthbert
quickly. "If she can look into the future, sure she may look into
the past likewise--"

But Joanna stopped him by a strange gesture.

"Peace, foolish boy! Thinkest thou if gipsy lore could unravel the
riddle, that it had not long ago become known to me? We have our
gifts, our powers, our arts, and well we know how to use them be it
for good or ill. But we know full well what the limits are. And if
men know it not, it is more their blindness than our skill that
keeps them in ignorance. And if they give us more praise and wonder
than we merit, do they not also give us hatred and enmity in like
meed? Have we not gone through fire and sword when men have risen
up against us and called us sorcerers? Have we not suffered for our
reputation; and do we not therefore deserve to wear it with what
honour we may?"

The woman spoke with a strange mixture of bitterness, earnestness,
and scorn--scorn, as it seemed, almost of herself and of her tribe,
yet a scorn so proudly worn that it scarce seemed other than a mark
of distinction to the wearer. Cuthbert listened in amaze and
bewilderment. It was all so different from what he had looked for.
He had hoped to consult an oracle, to learn hidden secrets of which
the gipsies had cognizance through their mysterious gifts; and,
behold, he was almost told that these same gifts were little more
than the idle imagining of superstitious and ignorant men.

"Then canst thou tell me nothing?" he asked.

"I can tell thee much," was the steady answer, "albeit not all that
thou wouldst know; that will still be thine to track out with
patience and care. But these lines may help; they may contain a
clue. I wonder how and where Esther learned them! But come within
the cave. The evening air grows chill, and I and thou have both
walked far, and stand in need of refreshment. All is ready for us
within. Come; I will lead the way."

Joanna stepped on before, and Cuthbert followed. He had thought the
cave a small and shallow place before, but now he discovered that
this shallow cavity in the rock was but the antechamber, as it
were, to a larger cavern, where twenty men might sit or lie at
ease; and the entrance to this larger place was through a passage
so narrow and low that none who did not know the secret would think
it possible to traverse it.

Cuthbert wondered if he were letting himself be taken in a trap as
he followed the gipsy through this narrow way; but he trusted
Joanna with the confidence of instinct which is seldom deceived,
and presently felt that they had emerged into some larger and wider
place. In a few moments the gipsy had produced a light, and the
proportions of the larger cavern became visible. It was a vaulted
place that had been hollowed out of the ruddy sandstone either by
some freak of nature or by the device of men, and had plainly been
adapted by the wandering gipsy tribes as a place of refuge and
resort. There were several rude pieces of furniture about--a few
pallet beds, some benches, and a table. On this table was now
spread the wherewithal for a modest repast--some cold venison, some
wheaten bread, a piece of cheese, and a flagon of wine. Cuthbert,
who had fared but scantily all that day, was ready enough to obey
the gipsy's hospitable invitation, and seated himself at the board.
She helped him liberally to all that was there, but appeared to
want nothing herself; and whilst Cuthbert satisfied his hunger she
commenced the tale, part of which in its bare outline was already
known to him.

"Thou knowest the story of the witch burned on the village common,
nigh to Trevlyn Chase, by the order of the knight then ruling in
that house? Dost know too that that woman was my grandam, the
mother of Miriam and of Esther?"

"I knew that not," answered Cuthbert.

"But so it was," pursued Joanna, her big dark eyes fixed upon the
flickering flame of the lamp she had kindled. "I never saw my
grandam myself; she had met her doom before I saw the light. Yet I
have heard the tale so ofttimes told that methinks I see myself the
threatening crowd hooting the old woman to her fiery death, the
stern knight and his servants watching that the cruel law was
carried out, and the gipsy tribe hanging on the outskirts of the
wood, yet not daring to adventure themselves into the midst of the
infuriated villagers, watching all, and treasuring up the curses
and maledictions poured upon the proud head of Sir Richard as the
old woman went to her death."

"A cruel death, in all truth," said Cuthbert. "Yet why hold Sir
Richard in fault? He was not the maker of that law; he was but the
instrument used for its enforcement, the magistrate bound to see
the will of the sovereign performed. Most like he could not help
himself, were his heart never so pitiful. I trow the Trevlyns have
always done their duty; yet I misdoubt me if by nature they have
been sterner or more cruel than other men."

A faint smile flickered round the lips of the gipsy. She went on
with her story without heeding this plea.

"They had made shift to see her once before her death--my mother,
my father, and Esther with them. Upon those three she had laid a
solemn charge--a charge to be handed down to their children, and
passed throughout all the tribe--a charge of deadly hatred to all
that bore the name of Trevlyn--a charge to deal them one day some
terrible blow in vengeance for her death, a vengeance that should
be felt to the third and fourth generation."

"I have heard somewhat of that," said Cuthbert.

"Ay, the old woman raved out her curses in the hearing of all as
she was fastened to the stake and the flames leaped about her. All
heard and many treasured up those words, and hence the tradition
always in men's mouths that the treasure of Trevlyn was filched by
the gipsy folks in fulfilment of that curse. But now another word.
My grandam laid another charge upon the tribe and all who claimed
kindred with her; and that charge was that all should give loving
and watchful care and tender service to the house of Wyvern; that
all bearing that name should be the especial care of the
gipsies--they and their children after them, whether bearing the
old name or not. The Wyverns had been true friends to the gipsy
folk, had protected them in many an hour of peril, had spoken them
gently and kindly when all men else spoke ill of them, had given
them food and shelter and a place to live in; and to my grandam had
given a home and sanctuary one bitter winter's night, when, pursued
by foes who strove then to get her into their hands and do her to
death, she flung herself upon their charity, and received a welcome
and a home in her hour of peril and sore need. It was beneath the
roof of the Wyverns that Esther first saw the light; and in
gratitude for their many acts of charity and kindness my grandam,
ere she died, laid instructions on all who owned her sway that the
Wyverns and all descended from them should be sacred to the
gipsies--watched over and guarded from all ill."

"Ah!" said Cuthbert, drawing a long breath; "and shortly after that
a Wyvern wedded with this same Sir Richard."

"Ay, and that but just one short month before his house was to have
been burned about his head, and he himself slain had he come forth
alive. All the plans were laid, and it was to be done so soon as he
should return to the Chase after long absence. Long Robin had
planned it all, and he had a head as clever and a will as firm as
any man that ever lived. He had thought of all--he had everything
in order; and then came the news that the knight had wed with
Isabel Wyvern, the tenderest, the sweetest, the gentlest maiden
that ever drew breath; and when they knew that, even Long Robin
knew that no hand could thenceforward be raised against the
knight."

"Long Robin--who is he?" questioned Cuthbert eagerly.

"He is Miriam's husband--my father," answered Joanna, a strange
shadow passing across her face.

"And does he yet live?"

The gipsy paused and hesitated.

"Ask any other member of the tribe, and they will tell thee that he
does; but for me, I do not know, I cannot tell."

Cuthbert looked at her in amaze.

"Not know, and he thy father!"

A curious smile crossed her face.

"We think little of such ties amongst the gipsy folk. The tie
betwixt us all is stronger than the simple one of blood. We are all
of one race--of one stock; that is enough for us. The lesser is
swallowed up of the greater."

"But thy mother lives; she must know?"

Joanna's dark eyes glowed strangely.

"Ay, she verily must know; but will she tell what she knows? If it
be as I suspect, she must be in the plot."

"What plot?" asked Cuthbert, beginning to feel bewildered with all
this intricacy of mystery.

"Thou hadst better hear my story to the end," answered Joanna with
a slight smile; "then thou wilt better comprehend. Listen to me,
and ask thy questions when I have done."

"Speak on, then," said Cuthbert, glad enough to hold his peace; "I
will give good heed to all thou sayest."

And Joanna continued her tale.

"Sir Richard, wedded to Isabel Wyvern, might no longer be the mark
for the gipsy's curse. Esther was then queen of the tribe, and with
her, love for the Wyverns far outweighed hatred towards the
Trevlyns. She gave it out that no hair of his head should be hurt;
the vengeance must wait. If it were to be carried out, it must be
upon another generation. So said the queen, and none dared openly
lift the voice against her; but there were angry mutterings and
murmurings in the tribe, and none were more wroth at this decree
than Miriam and Long Robin."

"Her sister and that sister's husband."

"Ay. Long Robin was the head of the tribe, and loved not to yield
to the sway of a woman; but amongst us there has always been a
queen, and he was powerless to hinder the rest from owning Esther's
rule. But he and Miriam withdrew in wrathful indignation for a time
from the rest of the tribe, and brooded over schemes of vengeance,
and delighted themselves in every misfortune that befell the house
of Trevlyn. It was whispered by many that these two had a hand in
the death of more than one fair child. If their beasts sickened, or
any mischance happened, men laid it to the door of Miriam and Long
Robin. But for mine own part, I trow that they had little to do
with any of these matters. Trouble is the lot of many born into
this world. The Trevlyns had no more than their fair share of
troubles that I can see. One fine stalwart son grew up to manhood,
and in time he too wedded into the house of Wyvern--married thy
grandam the fair Mistress Gertrude, whose eyes thou hast, albeit in
many points a Trevlyn."

"And what said Miriam then?"

"She liked it not well. Sullen, brooding hatred had gained
possession of her and of Long Robin. As Esther and some of the
tribe had learned to forgive Trevlyn for the sake of Wyvern, those
twain and a few others had come to hate Wyvern for their alliance
with Trevlyn.

"All this I have been told by Esther. I was not born till after the
treasure had been stolen--born when my mother had long ceased to
look for offspring, and had no love for the infant thrust upon her
care. I was taken from my infancy by Esther, who trained me up,
with the consent of all the tribe, to take her place as their queen
when I should have grown to womanhood. Esther loved not the roving
life of the forest; she had other wishes for herself. She practised
divination and astrology and many dark arts, and wished a settled
place of abode for herself when she could leave the tribe. She
brought me up and taught me all I knew; and she has told me all she
knows about that strange night on which the treasure of Trevlyn was
taken--and lost!"

"Lost--lost by the Trevlyns truly; but surely thou dost not mean
that they who stole it lost it likewise!"

Joanna's dark eyes were fixed. She seemed to be looking backwards
to a far-distant time. Her voice was low and monotonous as she
proceeded with her tale.

"The years had flown by since Miriam and Long Robin had divided
themselves from the tribe; and they had long since returned, though
still keeping aloof in part from the rest--still forming, as it
were, a separate party of their own. Long Robin had dealings with
the robbers of the King's highway; he often accompanied them on
their raids, he and some of the men with him. The tribe began to
have regular dealings with the freebooters, as thou hast seen. They
come to us for shelter and for food. They divide their spoil with
us from time to time. Since the hand of all men has been against
us, our hands have been raised freely against the world. Our
younger men all go out to join the highwaymen. We are friends and
brothers, and the wronged and needy resort to us, and are made
welcome."

Joanna threw back her proud head as though rejoicing in this
lawless freedom; and then giving herself a little moment for
recollection, she returned to the main course of her narrative.

"It was easy for us gipsies, roving hither and thither and picking
up the news from travellers on the road, to know all that was going
on about us and in the world beyond. We had scouts all over the
forest. We knew everything that passed; and when the treasure was
borne in the dead of night from Trevlyn Chase, and hidden beneath
the giant oak in the forest, we knew where and wherefore it was so
hidden, and the flame of vengeance long deferred leaped into
Miriam's eyes.

"'This is our hour!' she cried; 'this the day for which we have had
long patience! Thus can we smite the false Trevlyns, yet do them no
bodily hurt; thus can we smite them, and lay no hand upon the house
of Wyvern. It is the Trevlyns that love the red gold; the grasping,
covetous Trevlyns who will feel most keenly this blow! Upon the
gentler spirits of the ladies the loss of wealth will fall less
keenly. The proud men will feel it. They will gnash their teeth in
impotent fury. Our vow of vengeance will be accomplished. We shall
smite the foe by taking away from him the desire of his heart, and
yet lay no hand upon any who is loved by a Wyvern.'

"And this desire after vengeance took hold of all those gathered in
the ruined mill that night, whilst into Long Robin's eyes there
crept a gleam which Esther liked not to see; for it spoke of a lust
after gold for its own sake which she had striven to quench amongst
her children, and she wished not to see them enriched beyond what
was needful for their daily wants, knowing that the possession of
gold and treasure would bring about the slackening of those bonds
which had hitherto bound them together."

Joanna paused, and looked long into Cuthbert's attentive face. He
asked no question, and presently she continued:

"Esther laid this charge upon those who were to go forth after the
treasure: They might move it from its present resting place, and
hide it somewhere in the forest, as securely as they would; but no
man should lay hands upon the spoil. It should be hidden away
intact as it was found. It should belong to none, but be guarded by
all; so that if the day should come when the Trevlyns should have
won the love and trust of their whilom foes, we should have the
power to make restitution to them in full."

Cuthbert started, and his eyes gleamed beneath their dark brows;
but Joanna lifted her hand and continued:

"Remember I am telling the tale as I learned it from Esther. As she
spoke those words she saw a dark gleam shine in Robin's eyes--saw a
glitter of rage and wrath that told her he would defy her if he
dared. The rest opposed her not. The wild, free life of the forest
had not bred in them any covetous lust after gold. So long as the
day brought food and raiment sufficient for their needs they asked
no more. Men called them robbers, murderers, freebooters; but
though they might deserve these names, there was yet much good in
them. They robbed the rich alone; to the poor they showed
themselves kindly and generous. They were eager to find and secrete
this treasure, but agreed by acclamation that it should not be
touched. Only Robin answered not, but looked askance with evil eye;
and him alone of the eight men intrusted with the task did she
distrust."

"Then why was he sent?"

"Verily because he was too powerful to be refused. It would have
made a split in the camp, and the end of that might no man see. She
was forced to send him in charge of the expedition; and he alone of
the eight that went forth ever returned to the mill."

"What!" cried Cuthbert, "did some mischance befall them?"

"That is a thing that no man knows," answered Joanna darkly. "It is
as I have said: Long Robin, and he alone, ever came back to the
mill. He was five days gone, and men said he looked ten years older
in those days. He told a strange tale. He said that the treasure
had been found and secreted, but that the sight of the gold had
acted like strong drink upon his seven comrades: that they had
vowed to carry it away and convert it into money, that they might
be rich for the rest of their days; and that when he had opposed
them, bidding them remember the words of the queen, they had set
upon him, had bound him hand and foot, and had left him to perish
in a cave, whence he had only been released by the charity of a
passer by, when he was well-nigh starved with hunger and cold. He
said that he had gone at once to the place where the treasure had
been hid, and had found all of it gone. The seven covetous men had
plainly carried it off, and he prophesied that they would never be
seen again."

"And they never were?"

"Never!" answered Joanna, in that same dark way; "for they were all
dead men!"

"Dead! how came they so?"

"Listen, and I will tell thee. I cannot prove my words. The fate of
the seven lies wrapped in mystery; but Esther vows that they were
all slain in the heart of the forest by Long Robin. She is as
certain of it as though she saw the deed. She knows that as the men
were carrying their last loads to the hiding place, wherever that
might be, Long Robin lay in wait and slew them one by one, taking
them unawares and plunging his knife into the neck of each, so that
they fell with never a cry. She knows it from strange words uttered
by him in sleep; knows it from the finding in the forest not many
years since of a number of human bones and seven skulls, all lying
near together in one place. Some woodmen found the ghastly remains;
and from that day forward none has cared to pass that way. It was
whispered that it was the work of fairies or gnomes, and the dell
is shunned by all who have ever heard the tale."

"As the lines say!" cried Cuthbert, in great excitement. "Thinkest
thou that it is in that dell that the treasure lies hid?"

"Esther thinks so, but she knows not; and I have hunted and hunted
in vain for traces of digging and signs of disturbance in the
ground, but I have sought in vain. Long Robin keeps his secret
well. If he knows the place, no living soul shares his knowledge.
It may be that long since all has been removed. It may be he has
vast wealth stored up in some other country, awaiting the moment
when he shall go forth to claim it."

A puzzled look crossed Cuthbert's face. He put his hand to his
head.

"Thou speakest of Robin as though he were yet alive, and yet thou
hast said thou thinkest him dead. And there is Miriam--surely she
knows all. I am yet more than half in the dark."

"None may wholly know what all this means," answered Joanna; "but
upon me has Esther laid the charge to strive that restitution be
done, since now the house of Trevlyn has become the friend and
champion of the poor and oppressed, and the present knight is a
very proper gentleman, well worthy of being the son and the
grandson of the house of Wyvern. This charge she laid upon me five
long years agone, when she bid the tribe own me their queen, for
that her age and infirmities hindered her from acting longer as
such. Ever since then I have been pondering and wondering how this
thing may be done; but I have had to hold my peace, for if but a
whisper got abroad and so came to Miriam's ears, I trow that the
treasure, if still it lies hidden in the forest, would forthwith be
spirited away once more."

"Then Miriam knows the hiding place?"

"I say not that, I think not that. I have watched, and used every
art to discover all I may; and I well believe that Miriam herself
knows not the spot, but that she knows it lies yet in the forest,
and that when the hour is come she and Robin together will bear it
away, and keep it for ever from the house of Trevlyn."

"But sure if they are ever to enjoy their ill-gotten gains it
should be soon," said Cuthbert. "Miriam is old, and Long Robin can
scarce be younger--"

"Hold! I have not done. Long Robin, her husband, was older by far
than she. If the old man who goes by that name be indeed he, he
must be nigh upon fourscore and ten. But I have long doubted what
no man else doubts. I believe not that yon gray-beard is Robin; I
believe that it is another who masquerades in old man's garb, but
has the strength and hardihood of youth beneath that garb and that
air of age."

"Marry! yet how can that be?"

"It might not be so hard as thou deemest. In our tribe our men
resemble each other closely, and have the same tricks of voice and
speech. Nay, it was whispered that many of the youths were in very
truth sons to Robin; and one of these so far favoured him that they
were ever together, and he was treated in all ways like a son.
Miriam loved him as though he had been her own. Where Long Robin
went there went this other Robin, too. He was as the shadow of the
other. And a day came when they went forth together to roam in
foreign lands, and Miriam with them. They were gone for full three
years. We gave up the hope of seeing them more. But suddenly they
came amongst us again--two of them, not three. They said the
younger Robin had died of the plague in foreign lands, and all men
gave heed to the tale. But from the first I noted that Long Robin's
step was firmer than when he went forth, that there was more power
in his voice, more strength in his arm. True, he goes about with
bowed back; but I have seen him lift himself up when he thought
there was none to see him, and stretch his long arms with a
strength and ease that are seldom seen in the very aged. He can
accomplish long rides and rambles, strange in one so old; and our
people begin to regard him with awe, as a man whom death has passed
by. But I verily believe that it was old Robin who passed away, and
that this man is none other but young Robin; and that in him and
him alone is reposed the secret of the lost treasure, that he may
one day have it for his own."

"And why to him?" questioned Cuthbert, drawing his brows together
in the effort to understand; "why to him rather than to Miriam or
any other of the tribe?"

"Verily because he was the one being in the world beloved of Long
Robin. Miriam he trusted not, for that she was a woman, and he held
that no woman, however faithful, might be trusted with a secret. I
have heard him say so a hundred times, and have seen her flinch
beneath the words, whilst her eyes flashed fire. Methinks that Long
Robin loved gold with the miser's greed--loved to hoard and not to
spend--loved to feel it in his power, but desired not to touch it.
Miriam was content so long as vengeance on the Trevlyns had been
taken. She wanted not the gold herself so long as it was hidden
from them. But the secret was one that must not die, and to young
Robin it has been intrusted. And if I mistake me not, he has other
notions regarding it, and will not let it lie in its hiding place
for ever. He is sharp and shrewd as Lucifer. He knows by some
instinct that I suspect and that I watch him, and never has he
betrayed aught to me. But sure am I that the secret rests with him;
and if thou wouldst find it out, it is Long Robin's steps that thou
must dog and watch."

"I will watch him till I have tracked him to his lair!" cried
Cuthbert, springing to his feet in great excitement. "I will never
rest, day nor night, until the golden secret is mine!"



Chapter 14: Long Robin.


The gipsy had left him, gliding away in the moonlight like a
veritable shadow; and Cuthbert, left alone in the dim cave, buried
his face in his hands and sank into a deep reverie.

This, then, was the meaning of it all: the long-deferred vengeance
of the gipsy tribe; the avaricious greed of one amongst their
number, who had committed dastardly crimes so as to keep the secret
hiding place in his own power alone; the secret passed on (as it
seemed) to one who feigned to be what he was not, and was cunningly
awaiting time and opportunity to remove the gold, and amass to
himself this vast hoard; none beside himself of all the tribe
heeding or caring for it, all holding to the story told long ago of
the seven men who had disappeared bearing away to foreign lands the
stolen treasure. A generation had well-nigh passed since that
treasure had been filched from the grasp of the Trevlyns. The
stalwart fellows who had been bred up amongst the gipsies, or had
joined the bands of freebooters with whom they were so closely
connected, knew little of and cared nothing for the tradition of
the hidden hoard. They found gold enough in the pockets of the
travellers they waylaid to supply their daily needs; the free life
of the forest was dear to them, and left them no lingering longings
after wealth that might prove a burden instead of a joy to its
possessor.

Out of those who had been living when the treasure was stolen and
lost, only Miriam and Long Robin (if indeed it were he) and Esther
remained alive. Esther had retired to London, and was lost to her
people. Miriam had done everything to encourage the belief that the
treasure had been made away with by the seven helpers who had gone
forth, but had never returned to tell the tale. Esther, who had
thought very differently, had confined her suspicious for a time to
her own bosom, and later on had spoken of them only to Joanna. Upon
her had she laid the charge to strive to make restitution, now that
vengeance had been inflicted and the curse of the old witch
fulfilled. To Joanna it belonged to restore prosperity to the house
of Wyvern through the daughters' sons, and it was for her to strive
to learn where the treasure lay, and give notice of the spot to the
Trevlyns.

The queen had done all that she could. She had watched with close
attention the pair with whom Esther believed the secret to lie.
Miriam, her mother, knew not the spot, of that she was convinced;
but she did know that the treasure had been hidden somewhere in the
forest by her husband, and that the exact place was known to the
white-bearded man whom she and others called Long Robin.

About that weird old man, said to be well-nigh a hundred years old,
a flavour of romance existed. Men looked upon him as bearing a
charmed existence. He went his lonely way unheeded by all. He was
said to have dealings with the fairies and the pixies of the
forest. All regarded him with a species of awe. He had drawn, as it
were, a charmed circle about himself and his ways. None desired to
interfere with him; none questioned his coming or going. All
brought to him a share of the spoil taken on the roads as a matter
of right and due, but none looked to receive aught in return from
him. He and Miriam, from their great age, lived as it were apart.
They took the place of patriarchal heads of the tribe, and were
treated with reverence and filial respect by all.

The question Cuthbert had pressed home on Joanna was why, this
being so, the treasure had not been moved away before this, so that
Miriam should end her days in peace and luxury, instead of growing
old in the wilds of the forest.

Joanna's reply had been that she did not think Miriam had ever
really wished to leave the free forest life; that with her,
vengeance upon the Trevlyns had been the leading impulse of her
life; and that she had no covetous desires herself after the gold.
Old Robin had loved it with the miser's love; but doubtless the
younger Robin (if indeed the long-bearded man were he) was waiting
till such time as Miriam should be dead, and he alone in full
possession of the golden secret. Then he would without doubt bear
it away and live like a prince the rest of his days; but for the
present he made no move, and Joanna was very certain that he
suspected her of watching him, as indeed she did, and he had shown
himself as cunning as any fox in baffling her when she had sought
to discover any of his haunts. Her watching had been in vain,
because she was suspected of a too great knowledge, and was looked
upon as dangerous. But where she failed Cuthbert might succeed, for
he was absolutely unknown to Robin, and if the two were to meet
face to face in the forest, it would be impossible that the wily
old man (if old he were) should suspect him of any ulterior
purpose.

Robin had not been at the mill the night that Cuthbert had been
brought there by Tyrrel and his companions. Joanna had described
him so graphically that the lad was certain of knowing him were he
to come across him in the forest. She had also indicated to him the
region in which she suspected him most generally to lurk when he
spent days and sometimes weeks alone in the forest. She believed
that during the summer months, when the forest became the resort of
many wandering bands of gipsies or of robbers and outlaws, he kept
a pretty close and constant watch upon the spot where his treasure
lay hid. The dell, at the head of which the bones of the seven
murdered men had been found, was certainly a favourite spot of his;
and she believed it was owing to some trickery of his that men
still declared it haunted by evil or troubled spirits. Travellers
passing that way had been scared almost out of their senses by the
sight of a ghostly white figure gliding about, or by the sound of
hollow moans and the rattling of chains. None but the ignorant
stranger ever ventured within half-a-mile of that ill-omened spot.
Cuthbert, as he sat thinking over the gipsy's words and charge, saw
clearly that there was ample room for suspicion that here the
treasure might lie, since Robin took such pains to scare away all
men from the spot.

The light burned dim; but Cuthbert still sat on beside the rude
table where he had supped. Before him lay the scrap of parchment
with the doggerel lines of the wise woman inscribed upon them. It
had been something of a shock to his faith to find that the wise
woman knew all his story beforehand, and had had no need to dive
into the spirit world to ask the nature of his errand. He felt
slightly aggrieved, as though he had been tricked and imposed upon.
He was very nearly burning the parchment in despite; but Joanna had
bidden him keep it, and had added, with a slight significant smile:

"Keep it, boy; and think not too hardly of those who juggle with
men's fears and fancies, to obtain the greater sway upon them. It
is not always used amiss. As for those lines, there may be more in
them yet than thou or I can see at this moment. For there may be
words in them that have been spoken by Long Robin in his dreams.
Esther has told me such before now. She knew not their meaning, nor
do I; but that they have a meaning she is very sure. 'Three times
three'--that was what he was muttering ever. It was the burden of
his thought, even as she made it the burden of her song. Keep the
lines; they may serve thy turn yet. Esther is a wise woman. She did
not give thee that paper for naught."

The day had well-nigh dawned before Cuthbert flung himself upon one
of the pallet beds in the cave, and fell asleep from sheer
weariness of mind and body; but he was young, and sleep came
quickly and held him in a fast embrace. The silence and darkness of
this underground place were favourable to a long spell of repose.
The youth did not open his eyes till the sun had passed its
meridian many hours, though no ray of daylight glinted into that
dim abode.

It might have been the middle of the night for all he knew when he
opened his eyes once again; and when he did so he lay perfectly
still, for he was convinced that he was yet in the midst of some
strange dream. He was in the cave of red sandstone where he had
fallen asleep, lying in the darkest corner of all upon a straw
pallet, with his sad-coloured cloak over him; but the cave itself
was lighter than it had been when he had fallen asleep. Two torches
flamed upon the table, and by the bright flame they cast upon the
objects near to them, Cuthbert saw a strange and weird-looking
figure.

This figure was that of a man, who was seated at table, and had
evidently been partaking of some refreshment. He was dressed in
outlandish garb, and in a fashion which was only affected now by
very old men, who had worn such garments all their lives, and were
averse to change. Cuthbert had occasionally seen such a dress
amongst the aged folks about his home, but this was more fanciful
than any assumed by a mere rustic, and gave to the tall thin figure
a certain air of distinction. A soft felt hat with a high crown lay
upon the table; and the light shone full upon a face that was
seamed by tiny wrinkles, and upon a thick head of hair that was
either flaxen or white, Cuthbert could scarcely say which. The face
was almost entirely hidden by a tangled growth of beard as white as
snow, which beard descended almost to the man's waist, and was of
wonderful fineness and bushiness. At the first glance the
impression produced by this strange apparition was that he was a
man immensely old; but a closer examination might well raise
doubts. The air and bearing of the man were strangely alert for an
octogenarian, and the way in which he tackled the hard bread and
cheese which still stood before him was scarcely like the fashion
in which the aged generally eat.

Cuthbert held his breath as he gazed. Was this a dream--the outcome
of his talk with the gipsy? No, he was awake; he became more and
more sure of it. But lying perfectly still, and not betraying his
presence by so much as a deeply-drawn breath, he gazed and gazed as
if fascinated upon the face of this strange being, and in his heart
he said:

"Long Robin himself!"

He was certain of it; there could be no manner of mistake. Dress,
air, everything corresponded with Joanna's description. For a
moment a sick fear crossed his mind lest he should have left upon
the table the fragment of parchment with the mystic words upon it,
for he had had no idea that the cave would be invaded that night.
But no; the habit of caution had been strong within him, and he had
put the paper away before retiring to his corner. Plainly the man
before him had no suspicion that any living soul was near. The deep
shadows of the cave hid Cuthbert completely from view, and the
secret entrance to the inner cave was doubtless known to very few.
None would suspect the presence of a hidden stranger there.

As Cuthbert watched as if fascinated, Robin ceased eating, and
pushed back his stool, rising to his feet quickly, and showing the
grand proportions of his tall figure, which certainly deserved the
epithet of "long." He stretched his arms, and swung them backwards
and forwards with a gesture strangely unlike that of age; and
throwing back his broad shoulders, he began pacing to and fro in
the cave with a firm, elastic tread seldom seen after the meridian
of life is passed.

"Joanna is right," thought Cuthbert, crouching closer against the
wall and into the shadows; for he had no wish to be discovered by
this giant, who would probably have scant mercy upon an observer
who might have taken his measure and discovered his secret now that
he was off his guard. "In all truth this man is not old; he can
scarce be above forty years. It is by some clever artifice that he
whitens his beard to that snow-like hue. He himself is young and
strong. He shows it in every movement."

He certainly did, pacing to and fro with rapid strides; and
presently he began to mutter words and phrases to himself, Cuthbert
listening with all his ears.

"A curse upon the women!" he said more than once; "they are the
very plague of my life! Miriam's besotted love, Joanna's suspicions
and her accursed watch upon me, both hinder my plans. If the twain
were in league together, it could not be worse. Miriam implores me
with tears and lamentations to wait till she be laid in the tomb
for the fulfilment of my cherished dream. And if I thwart her too
far, there is no telling what she may not say or do. Love and hate
in jealous natures such as hers are terribly near akin, and the
love may change to burning hatred if once I provoke her too far.
She knows not all, but she knows too much. She could spoil my hand
full well if she did but tell all she knows. And that jade Joanna,
how I hate her! She has been well drilled by that witch Esther, who
ought long ere this to have been hanged or burned. I would I could
set the King's officers on her now, but if I did I should have the
whole tribe at my throat like bloodhounds, and not even my great
age would serve to save me from their fury.

"Ha, ha! ha, ha!" and a sardonic laugh rang through the cave.
"Would that I could wed Joanna to Tyrrel, who would give his soul
to call her his. Once the wife of a member of the band, and some of
her power would go. I misdoubt me if any would long call her queen;
and when she had babes to fill her mind and her thoughts, she would
soon cease to watch me with those suspicions eyes of hers, and to
make me fear continually for my secret. Would that they were both
dead! Would that I could kill them even as he killed the other
seven who had a share in the golden secret! I would strangle them
with my own hands if I did but dare. Once those two removed from my
path and my way would be plain. I could remove it all, bit by bit
and piece by piece, away from this accursed forest, of which I am
sick to the death. Then in some far-off foreign land of perpetual
sunshine, I could reign a prince and a king, and life would be one
long dream of ease and delight; no more toil, no more privation, no
more scorching summer heat or biting winter cold. I have seen what
the life of the East is like--the kneeling slaves, the harem of
beauteous dark-eyed women, the dream-like indolence and ease. That
is the life for me. That is whither I and my treasure will go. A
plague upon old Miriam, that she clings to these cold forests and
the sordid life we live here! But for her insane jealousy and love
I would defy Joanna and go. But the pair of them are too much for
me. I must find a way of ridding myself of one or both. I will not
be bound like this for ever!"

The man raised his right hand and shook it with a vehement,
threatening gesture; and then relapsing into sudden moody silence,
continued his pacing to and fro, wrapped in gloomy thought.

Cuthbert held his breath as this monologue proceeded, and a sense
of unlooked-for triumph made his heart swell within him. Here was
proof positive that the treasure lay still in the forest; that it
had not been taken thence and dissipated; that it still remained to
be found by his unremitting endeavours. The youth felt almost as
though the victory were already his. What might not a few weeks of
patient perseverance bring? He would dog Robin's' steps like a
bloodhound. He had not been brought up to hardship and forest life
for nothing. To sleep in the open, to live scantily on such fare as
might be picked up at the huts of the woodmen or in the camps of
the gipsies, was nothing to him. He would live on roots and wild
fruits sooner than abandon his quest. Nothing should come between
him and his overmastering resolve to win back for the house of
Trevlyn the long-lost treasure.

But as he mused and Robin impatiently paced the floor of the
cavern, the torches burned slowly down, till one flickered and went
out and the other showed signs of speedy extinction. Robin, with a
start and an oath, stopped in his walk and muttered that he must be
gone. He placed upon his head the slouched hat, that at once
concealed his features, and gave a different expression to his
face. As he donned his hat and took up a heavy oaken staff that lay
upon the table, his whole aspect changed. He seemed to don likewise
a new action, a new outward appearance altogether. His straight
back bent and assumed a stoop such as one sees in men who have long
grown old. There came a feebleness into his gait, a slight
uncertainty into his movements. And all this was done so naturally,
so cleverly, that Cuthbert, as he gazed fascinated at the figure
before him, could scarcely believe that his eyes had not played him
some strange trick--could scarcely credit that this could be the
same being as the upright, stalwart man, whose movements he had
been watching during the past half hour. But all this only went to
show how shrewd Joanna's surmise had been, and every corroborating
fact increased Cuthbert's confidence in all that she had told him.

Leaving the last torch to die into obscurity by itself, Long Robin
made for the opening in the wall which led to the outer cave, and
Cuthbert rose swiftly and silently and crept after him, gaining the
opening in time to see the tall figure slouching across the
moorland track in the direction of the westering sun.

Afraid of following too closely, and so of being seen, Cuthbert
retreated once more into the cave, and had the forethought to fill
his wallet with the remains of the meal of which both he and Long
Robin had partaken. He did not know exactly what was his best
course to pursue, but it seemed a pity to let Long Robin out of his
sight without tracking him to some one of his lairs or hiding
places.

Cuthbert now knew that he had slept during the greater part of the
day, and taking a draught of mead, and rapidly munching some bread
and cheese, he fortified himself for his evening stroll, and then,
before the torch actually expired, found his way to the opening
again, and so out upon the moor.

Far away, but still distinctly visible against the bright sky, was
the tall figure of the gipsy. Cuthbert was not afraid of being seen
at so great a distance, but he still took the precaution of keeping
all the tallest bushes and clumps of flowering gorse between him
and the quarry he was following; and when at length the trees of
the wooded tracts rose up before his eyes, he quickened his pace
slightly, and gained decidedly upon Robin before he glided into the
dark pine forest.

Before doing this, the gipsy turned back and looked carefully
round; but Cuthbert was already crouching behind a bush, and
escaped observation. As soon as Robin had fairly disappeared, the
youth rose and ran quickly after him, and soon caught glimpses of
the tall, stooping figure wending its way amongst the ruddy pine
stems, now dyed golden and crimson in the glow of the bright
sunset.

On and on he went in the fading light, and on and on went Cuthbert
in steady pursuit. This part of the forest was strange to the
youth, but it was familiar enough to the gipsy. From the mechanical
way in which he chose his track, and the direct certainty with
which he walked, it was plain that he knew every inch of the road,
and could have found the path by night as well as by day.

"Sure it must lead to the haunted dell," thought Cuthbert, as the
gloom deepened around him and the wood grew denser and denser. The
pines began to be mingled with other trees. The undergrowth was
thicker and more tangled. It was not always easy for Cuthbert to
force his way along. He paused sometimes in fear lest his steps and
the cracking of the boughs should be heard by the man in advance of
him.

On and on they went, and now the track became more distinct, and it
led downwards. An owl in a tree overhead hooted as Cuthbert passed
by, and something of a cold shiver ran through the young man's
frame; he stumbled over the outspread root of a gnarled old oak,
and fell, making more noise than he liked.

The owl flew away, hooting ominously as it seemed to his strained
nerves, and the hooting was answered as from the very heart of the
dell, if dell it was, mingled with many other strange and fierce
sounds. Cuthbert rose to his feet and crept forward with a beating
heart, and as he did so he heard a shout of demoniacal laughter
which chilled the very blood in his veins, and seemed to raise the
hair upon his head, so unearthly was the sound.

But making the sign of the cross upon his brow, and striving to
keep his presence of mind and his courage unimpaired by ghostly
terrors, Cuthbert still pursued his way downwards into this dim,
strange place. He felt more and more certain that this was the
pixies' dell of which the verses spoke--the dell wherein some deed
of darkness had been committed that caused it to be shunned of all;
and it needed all his native stoutness of heart to enable him to
conquer his fears and pursue his way, as he reflected on the foul
murders that had been committed not far off, and wondered if indeed
the restless souls of those to whom Christian burial had been
denied hovered by night about the ill-omened spot, to fright away
all travellers who strove to pass that way.

For a while the fearful sounds of hooting and laughter continued,
under cover of which he crept nearer and nearer to the centre of
the dell. Presently they ceased, and a death-like silence ensued.
Cuthbert dared not move, and scarcely dared to breathe. This was
the most trying experience he had yet had. He had felt far less
fear on the darkly-flowing river and in that strange underground
cellar, against both of which the wise woman had warned him.

But after a long pause of silence he heard another and a different
laugh--a laugh in which he recognized the sardonic intonation he
had recently heard from the lips of Long Robin.

"I trow that has been enow," spoke a voice nigh at hand, though the
speaker was invisible owing to the thick growth of bushes. "If that
sound were caused by aught but a rabbit or wildcat, I wager the
hardy traveller has taken to his heels and fled. But I misdoubt me
that it was anything human. There be sounds and to spare in the
forest at night. It is long since I have been troubled by visitors
to this lone spot. The pixies and I have the dell to ourselves. Ha,
ha!"

"Robin's voice again!" whispered Cuthbert to himself, creeping
forward with the cautious, snake-like movement that he had learned
when snaring birds or rabbits to furnish the scanty larder at the
Gate House. He advanced by slow degrees, and soon gained what he
desired--a view of his quarry and of the heart of the dell.

In the fading light he could see both plainly. Long Robin was
seated upon a low stone wall overgrown with moss, that seemed to be
built around a well; for it was of circular construction, and to
the listener was borne the faint sound of running water, though the
sound seemed to come from the very heart of the earth. Round this
well was a space of smooth greensward--sward that appeared to have
been untouched for centuries. All around, the sides of the dell
rose up, covered with a thick growth of wood and copse. It was a
lovely spot in all truth, but lonely to the verge of desolation.
Cuthbert dimly remembered having heard fragments of legends
respecting a pixies' dell in the heart of the forest--a dell
avoided by all, for that no man who ventured in came forth alive.
Most likely this was the place; most likely the legend of fear
surrounding it was due to some exaggerated version of old Robin's
ghastly crime in bygone years.

Cuthbert gazed and gazed with a sense of weird fascination. He
fully believed that in some spot not many yards from where he stood
lay hidden the lost treasure of Trevlyn, and that the secret of
that resting place remained known to one man only in the whole
world; and that was the man before him!

A wild impulse seized Cuthbert to spring upon that bowed figure,
and, holding a knife to the man's throat, to demand a full
revelation of that secret as the price of life. Perhaps had he not
seen but an hour before how upright, powerful, and stalwart that
bending figure could be, he would have done it then and there. But
with that memory clear in his mind, together with his knowledge of
the perfectly unscrupulous character of the gipsy, he felt that
such a step would be the sheerest madness; and after gazing his
fill at the motionless figure, he softly crept away once more.

He lay hidden in the bushes till he heard Long Robin leave the dell
and go crashing through the underwood with heavy steps, cursing as
he went the two women who stood between him and his desire. It was
plain from his muttered words that he was going back to the camp
now. Plainly he had paid his visit to the hoard and found all safe
and undisturbed. Cuthbert was more and more convinced that the
treasure lay here, as Esther had always believed; and it would be
strange indeed, being so near, if he could not find it in time.

But he would not search tonight; he had the whole summer before
him. Plainly Long Robin was not going to take any immediate step
for the removal of the treasure; and during the last hours a great
longing had come upon Cuthbert to see Petronella again. He was
within ten miles of his old home now, and the thoughts of his
sister had been mingling with these other thoughts of the lost
treasure. Surely he could find his way to the Gate House from this
lonely dell, and once there, by making a signal at his sister's
window, he could advise her of his presence and gain a stolen
interview.

So taking his bearings from the moon, he struck boldly across the
lonely waste of forest that lay between him and his former home,
and soon found himself tramping over the ling and moss of the high
ridge of common land with which the woody tracts of the forest were
frequently interspersed.

As he thus tramped the words of the verses began singing in his
head: "Three times three--o'er ling and moss." What was that three
times three? The question mingled with his dreams of his sister,
and suddenly the thought came to him, Could the three times three
be miles--miles from the giant oak from beneath which the treasure
had been taken? Three times three--it might well be so. The
distance was surely about nine miles. The spot where the Trevlyns
had hid their treasure lay directly in Cuthbert's way as he marched
steadily towards the Gate House. He saw the giant oak rise up
before him in the moonlight, and he hastened to the spot and stood
beneath the overhanging branches.

Standing beneath it with the oak behind him, he looked straight
along the way he had come across the bog and moss. Surely there
were nine miles, and little more or less, between the one spot and
the other. And again, with the oak behind there was a beech at his
right hand, and straight before him the road to the pixies' dell.
Well, it might not be much, yet it seemed like a link in the chain.
Esther had perchance heard Robin mutter these numbers in his
troubled sleep. Surely he had been thinking or dreaming of that
long nine miles' tramp, and the words he had used to direct the men
whom afterwards he had foully and treacherously murdered!

"I am on the track! I am on the track!" cried Cuthbert exultantly,
as he pursued his way. "The secret lies hid in the pixies' dell.
Surely if I have learned as much as that, I cannot be long in
finding out the whole!"

And with thoughts of his sister, of Cherry, of Kate, warm in his
heart, Cuthbert sped gaily along in the direction of his old home.

Midnight struck from the clock in the turret of Trevlyn Chase as
the youth approached the gray walls of the old Gate House. How grim
and hoary it looked in the white moonlight! Something of a faint
shiver of repulsion ran through Cuthbert's frame as he looked upon
the familiar outline of the building. Was it possible that all but
the few last months of his life had been spent there? It seemed to
him that the old life was already like a dim and distant dream, and
that the fuller life he had enjoyed since leaving was the only one
that had any reality about it.

But he well knew the habits and the sullen ferocity of the grim old
man his father, and it was with cautious steps that he approached
the walls. No light burned in any window. The inmates of the
building were doubtless wrapped in sleep. He well knew his sister's
window, and cutting himself a long hazel bough, he gently swept it
to and fro across the glass. This had always been a signal between
them in their childhood, and many had been their nocturnal rambles
taken together when Cuthbert had contrived to escape from the house
before it was locked up, and had then called Petronella and
assisted her down by the tangled ivy that clung to the gray old
walls. He knew she would recognize in a moment who was outside when
she heard the tapping of that hazel wand; and it seemed indeed as
if she did, for in a moment the window was opened, and a soft
tremulous voice asked eagerly:

"Cuthbert, can it be thou?"

"It is indeed I, sweet sister. Canst thou come to me? Hast thou
lost thy cunning or thy lightness of foot? I am here to help thee."

"I will come to thee anon; but the little postern door is seldom
locked since thou art gone, and I can get out thus. Linger not
beside the house, Cuthbert; speed to the chantry--I will meet thee
there. He might hear or see thee here. Do not linger; go. I will be
with thee anon; I will not keep thee but a few short minutes. But
do not tarry; go!"

There was such earnestness in her soft whispers that Cuthbert did
not attempt to reply save by a brief nod. He slid away in the
darkness and took the familiar but now tangled path to the chantry,
looking round the old ruin with loving eyes; for it was the one
spot connected with his home not fraught with memories of pain and
fear.

"Poor little timid Petronella!" he mused. "Was I right to leave her
thus alone with our harsh father? Yet I could do nothing for her;
and it seemed as though my presence in the house stirred him up to
continual fury. I would I had a home to bring her to. I would I
might carry her off with me now. But what could she do in the
forest, away from the haunts of men? Nay, she must tarry here but a
little while. Then will I come and claim her. Then will she have
dowry worthy her name and state. Oh that lost treasure, that lost
treasure! what happiness will there be in store for very many when
that lost treasure is found!"

And then he paused and held out his arms, for light steps were
speeding towards him through the dewy grass, and Petronella, with a
little sobbing cry, flung herself upon him, to be enfolded in a
strong embrace.



Chapter 15: Petronella.


"Cuthbert, is it--can it really be thou?"

"Petronella--sister! What happiness to see thee once more!"

She clung to him almost sobbing in the excitement of pure
happiness. He could feel that she trembled in his arms, and he
enfolded the slight frame ever closer and closer.

"Sweetest sister, fear not! Dost fear I could not protect thee from
harm? Believe me, thou hast a wondrous different brother now from
the cowed and timorous lad who went forth from these doors but six
short months back. Fear not, my sister; look up, and let me see thy
face. I would learn how it has fared with thee since we parted that
night on this very spot, though it now seems so long ago."

Petronella heaved a long sigh, and her tremblings gradually ceased.
It seemed as though the brotherly clasp of those strong arms
stilled her fears and brought comfort and soothing. But as Cuthbert
held her closely to him, it seemed to him almost as though he
clasped a phantom form rather than one of solid flesh and blood.
There seemed nothing of the girl but skin and bone; and looking
anxiously into the small oval face, he noted how wistful and hollow
the great dark eyes had grown, and how pinched and worn every
feature. Had it always been so with her? He scarce knew, for we
heed little the aspect of those about us when we are young and
inexperienced.

Petronella had always been somewhat shadowy and wan, had always
been slight and slim and small. But was she always as wan and
slight as she now seemed? or did he observe it the more from the
contrast it presented to Cherry's blooming beauty, to which his
eyes had grown used? He asked the question anxiously of himself,
but could not answer it.

Then drawing Petronella into the full light of the silver moon, he
made her sit beside him on a fragment of mouldering wall, and
holding her thin hands in a warm clasp, he scanned her face with
glances of earnest scrutiny.

"My sister, hast thou been ill?"

She shook her head with a pathetic little smile.

"Alas, no! Methinks I am a true Trevlyn for that. Sickness passes
me by and seizes upon others who might so much better be spared."

"Why dost thou say 'alas' to that, sweet sister?"

"Verily because there be times when I would so gladly lay down my
head never to lift it more. For me death would be sweeter than
life. The dead rest in God's peaceful keeping--my good aunt at the
Chase has told me so, and I no longer fear the scorching fires of
purgatory. I have a little New Testament now of my own, full of
sweet promises and words of love and peace. When I read of the
pearly gates and the streets of gold, and the city into which
nothing unholy may enter, I long sorely to leave behind this world
of sin and sorrow and find a refuge there.

"But I would know more of thee, Cuthbert, and of what thou hast
seen and done since thou hast left the Gate House. For me I have
naught to tell. Life here is ever the same. But thou must have done
and seen so much. May I not hear thy tale? May I not learn how it
has fared with thee?"

Cuthbert was willing enough to outpour his story to her, sitting
beside her in the old chantry, where so many happy hours of their
shadowed childhood had been spent. He told of his adventures by the
way, of his night with the gipsies, of his timely rescue of Cherry
and his admittance to his uncle's house. He told of his uncle's
wonderful story of the gold that was to be all for his sister; told
of the life at the bridge house, and his attachment to his cousin
Cherry. The only matter he named not was that of his meeting with
Master Robert Catesby, and all that had followed in which he was
concerned. Petronella would only be bewildered by so many strange
things. It was enough to tell her of his recent adventures in the
forest, and his growing hopes of coming upon traces of the lost
treasure.

Petronella listened to the whole of this tale with parted lips and
wide-open eyes, as a child listens to a tale of fairy romance and
wonder. She could scarce believe that all these strange things had
befallen her own brother; but as she questioned and he answered,
she gradually began to understand, to enter into his feelings, and
to obtain a clearer comprehension of the situation of affairs. Her
intercourse with the Trevlyns of the Chase had done something to
widen her knowledge of life, and Cuthbert found that her mind had
matured and expanded in a fashion he had hardly expected. He
wondered where she had picked up some of the bits of experience
that fell from her lips from time to time, and he looked somewhat
searchingly into her face.

"Methinks, my sister, that time has not stood still with thee since
I went away. Thou art wondrous wise for thy years. Who has been thy
instructor?"

Even in the moonlight he could see the sudden flush that dyed her
cheek and neck at the question.

"I have been to the Chase as much as our father would
permit--indeed, I fear me I have been oftener; but I was very
lonely, and they were all so kind. And Philip, he has been often
here. He has been in very truth a--a--brother to me in thy place.
Methinks but for him I should almost have died. But, O Cuthbert, it
is hard, it is hard!"

The last words were spoken with such sudden passion and vehemence
that the youth started and looked once again at his sister. Of old,
Petronella had always been so gentle, so meek and yielding, that to
hear such an outburst from her startled him not a little.

"What is hard, sweet sister?"

"To be the daughter of--of--such a father as ours," she answered,
lowering her voice and speaking with infinite sadness now. "Heaven
knows I have striven to love him, have striven to obey him, have
striven to be all a daughter should!"

"Ay, verily thou hast!" answered Cuthbert warmly. "I have chidden
thee many a time before this for the meekness that raised no
protest let him be never so harsh. Thou hast done more than thy
share, sweet Petronella. None can blame thee for rebellious
thoughts or words. If he will none of our love or service, the
fault is his, not ours--thine least of all, for thou wast ever
gentle and meek."

"I have tried," repeated Petronella sadly; "and when thou hadst
gone and the tempest had something subsided, I tried as never
before to be a loving daughter, and make up to him for the loss of
his son. But he would have none of my love. He drove me from his
presence with bitter words. I had perforce to seek others, if I
were to live at all; and though he hurled taunts and harsh speeches
at me oftentimes, he did not forbid me that house, albeit he scarce
knew perchance how oft I was there, since he shut himself up more
and more, and sometimes saw me not from one week's end to the
other."

"What a lone life for thee, my sister!"

"Yes, it was lone, save for the comradeship of our cousins. But
that was better, far better, than what followed."

Cuthbert looked quickly at her, and his eyes darkened.

"And what did follow, Petronella?"

She bent her head a little, that he might not see the expression of
her face. Her words were falteringly spoken.

"It was not many weeks since--it was when the days began to lengthen
out, and the forest paths to grow decked with flowers--that some evil
thoughts of suspicion came into his head, I know not how, and he
dogged my steps as I wandered in the woods; and twice--nay, thrice--he
came suddenly upon us as we walked together in the woodland dells."

"'We? who was with thee, sister?"

"Philip," she answered very softly, and there was something in the
tender intonation with which she spoke the name that told a tale
Cuthbert was not slow to read. He had guessed as much before, but
this made assurance doubly sure; and with the sympathy of the
ardent young lover, he put his hand on Petronella's and pressed it
tenderly. She understood the meaning of that clasp, and looked
gratefully at him, going on with more confidence afterwards.

"It was with Philip that he found me; and the sight filled him with
a sullen fury--the fury that thou knowest, brother, which brooks no
opposition, no words. He would not hear Philip speak. He struck him
on the mouth--a cruel blow that caused the blood to spring forth;
and he dragged me away by main force, and locked me up in the
pillared chamber, vowing to keep me a prisoner all my life an I
would not promise never to speak with Philip again."

"And thou?"

"I told him I would promise naught save to meet him no more in the
forest. I was glad to promise that; for I feared our savage father
might kill him in a fit of fury were he to find us again together.
I should have been terrified to wander forth with him more. I
promised that, but I would promise no more."

"And did that satisfy him?" asked Cuthbert breathlessly. "Tell me
all, my sister. He did not dare lay hands on thee?"

Petronella smiled faintly.

"Methinks he would dare anything he wished; but he let himself be
satisfied with that pledge. Only he kept me many days in that dim
place of terror, and gave me but scant prisoner's fare the while.
Cuthbert, as thou art free and thou art nigh, wilt thou to Trevlyn
Chase for me ere thou goest back into the forest, and tell Philip
what has befallen me, and that I may no more hope to meet him in
our favourite haunts? Tell him all I have told to thee, and bid him
keep himself from this house. It is an ill place! an ill place! Ah,
Cuthbert, were I but a man like thee, I would fare forth as thou
hast done. I would not stay beneath yon roof to be starved in soul
and body and spirit. O father, father!"

The cry was one of exceeding bitterness, and yet in it spoke a
patience that moved Cuthbert strangely.

"Sister, my sister!" he cried, in accents of suppressed agitation,
"I know not how to leave thee here. Petronella, why not forth with
me to the forest? Sure I could protect thee there and give thee a
better home beneath the greenwood trees than our father does
beneath yon grim walls. And, sister, I could take thee to our
uncle, Martin Holt. Sure he would give thee asylum with him, as he
gave to me. Thou wouldst have Cherry for a sister. Thou--"

But Petronella shrank away a little, and looked scared at the
thought. Hers was one of those timid natures that find it easier to
endure even a terrible wrong than to take a bold step to escape
from it. The life of the forest might have attracted her, for she
loved the freedom of the woodlands, and had no fears of loneliness
or privation. But she had heard from Cuthbert of the bands of
outlaws and gipsies, of Long Robin and his murderous hatred; and of
other perils which she felt she had scarce courage to face. She
feared that if she let Cuthbert carry her off she would but prove a
burden and a care, whilst the thought of London and the strange
relations there filled her with distaste and dread.

"Nay, nay, my brother; I have borne much--I will bear a little
more. I love the old Gate House as thou hast never loved it; and
perchance after this storm there may be a lull of quiet peace. I
should but hamper thee, and hold thee back from that great purpose;
and--"

"But Martin Holt, he would welcome thee; and once beneath his
roof--"

"Nay, Cuthbert, it might well be that our father would guess
whither I had fled, and would come and drag me back. I am not of an
age to resist him. And I am a helpless woman, not a man. I have
thought many times of flight, but I fear me it would but lead to
worse."

"I know not that," answered Cuthbert thoughtfully. "Our uncle
Martin is a good man; and, Petronella, remember that whether or no
thy brother finds the lost treasure, he holds in his keeping a
dowry for thee that will make thee no unworthy mate for Philip
Trevlyn when the day comes for him to claim thee as his bride. Nay,
hide not thy face, sister."

"Alas, alas, my brother! that day will never come! My father--"

"Nay, courage, sweetheart; our father's power lasts not for ever,
and we will be happy yet in spite of him. And, sister mine, we must
have kinsfolks somewhere of the house of Wyvern. Our father never
speaks to us of any such matters; but hast thou heard aught at the
Chase?"

Petronella looked quickly up at him.

"Ay, I have heard them speak of kinsfolk of that family, albeit I
heeded not greatly what they said. Are they our kinsfolk likewise?"

"Ay, verily, inasmuch as our grandam was a Wyvern; and there have
been Wyverns of two generations that have wed with the Trevlyns, as
thou hast heard in the story of the lost treasure, which I have
told to thee. Sister, it might be that thou mightest find a refuge
with them safer than with mine uncle of the bridge, who might
perchance think I asked too much were I to bring my sister to him,
albeit he is a kind man and a just; but--"

"But I trust I may not have to flee," said Petronella, with the
same air of shrinking that she had shown before. "I have borne so
much; surely I can bear the rest, until thou hast found the
treasure, and all is changed for us. When thou art rich and great,
and high in favour with all, then perchance thou canst prevail even
with our stern father, and win his leave to carry hence thy poor
little sister. Till then I will strive to remain."

Cuthbert took her hand and held it between his.

"Petronella, I like it not--I like not to leave thee here; but it
must be as thou desirest. Only, remember one thing, my sister. I am
nigh at hand. I am in the forest, not many miles away; and if
things should become worse with thee, thou canst fly to me thither;
thou wilt find me, doubtless, in or about the pixies' dell, of
which thou hast heard me speak, for it is there that my closest
watch will be held. Thinkest thou that thou canst find the place?"

"I trow so; thou hast told me how to do so. Nine miles across the
open forest, starting from the Trevlyn oak, with the great beech to
the right. If I am forced to fly, I will fly thither by night, and
the stars will be my guide. Brother, it is good to feel that thou
art near."

"Ay, Petronella, I am glad indeed; for I fear me sometimes that our
father--"

"What, Cuthbert?"

"That he must surely be going mad. It is hard to believe he could
so persecute his children were it not so, and it is not fitting
that thou shouldest dwell beneath the roof of a madman."

The girl shivered slightly, and her dark eyes dilated.

"Thinkest thou so, Cuthbert? Sure I had thought it was his wrath at
finding that we loved not the faith in which he has brought us up;
that first thou and then I have learned to find comfort in the holy
Book he has denied to us, and to find that there be other holy
things than our priests have taught us, and purer truths than
methinks they know themselves. I thought that was why his anger
burned so hotly against us. That was his quarrel with thee, and
methinks he must have suspected me, else would he scarce have
dogged my steps as he did."

"It may be so," answered Cuthbert; "but I fear me he has brooded
over his wrongs and his sins until he is well-nigh beside himself.
My sister, let not thy patience lead thee into peril. Remember what
I have said, and whither I may be found. I will take thy message to
Philip. He shall be bidden not to anger thy father further by
seeking thee. After that it is for thee to decide whether thou
canst still live in such solitude as must then be thine at the Gate
House, or whether thou wilt fly to me in the forest."

"I will remember," answered Petronella, rising to her feet; for
even here, and at this hour, and with her brother for her
companion, she dared not linger long. "Tell my kind aunt that the
Testament she gave me is the solace and happiness of my life. I
think of her words every day, and they are written on my heart.
Though I see her not, my blessing rests upon her. I would that she
could know what peace and joy she has helped to bring into my
lonely lot."

"I will tell her," answered Cuthbert, as he took the slight form
into his arms. "She will be rejoiced to hear it, I doubt not. I
too, my sister, have shared some of that peace myself. I have found
that the faith in which we were reared, albeit it holds much of
golden truth, has been so overlaid by artifice of man that the gold
is sadly tarnished. I have some deep love for it yet, but I love
better the purer faith that I have learned from the written Word of
God, and have heard from the lips of godly men of the Established
Church of the land. I have seen and heard much in yon great city,
and methinks that all creeds have much that is true--much that is
the same; but it seems the nature of man to fight and wrangle over
the differences, instead of rejoicing in the unity of a common
faith; wherefore there be misery and strife and jealousy abounding,
and the adversaries may well blaspheme. But I came not to talk such
matters with thee, sweet sister; they baffle the wisdom of the
wisest. Keep fast hold of the peace thou hast found, and let no man
take it from thee. I would I lived not in the midst of such weary
war of words. There be times when the heart sickens at it, and one
is fain to lay all aside sooner than have to own allegiance to any
one party, when one sees the bad as well as the good of all."

Petronella's eyes were wide with astonishment and perplexity. She
felt as though she had a very Solon for a brother when Cuthbert
talked after this serious fashion. But she too had heard from the
Trevlyns of the Chase somewhat of the burning questions of the day,
and she was not wholly uninstructed in the matter.

"That is one boon granted to us weak women," she said, with a
shadowy little smile. "We are not called upon to take part in the
world's battlefield. We may think our own thoughts, and go our
quiet way in the main unheeded and unmolested. But I am glad that
thou dost see as I do, my brother. It is sweet to find accord in
those we love. And now I must be gone; I dare not linger longer.
Heaven bless and keep thee ever! I shall carry my daily load more
lightly for this happy hour spent together."

Cuthbert kissed her many times before he let her go, reminded her
again of the place where he himself might be found, and then walked
slowly with her towards the old Gate House, only letting her go
when she desired it, and watching her glide towards the little door
with a sense of sinking at heart which he could hardly explain.

As for Petronella, she stole within the door, which she bolted
behind her, as she had found it, and felt her way up the narrow
winding stairs that led to the ground floor of the house. The
postern door was below that level, and had a little stair of its
own leading to the house, from which it was again shut off by
another door at the top. When Petronella had stolen out to meet
Cuthbert, she had left this door open, so as to avoid all needless
noise; but when she reached the head of the stairs she found it
closed, and her heart gave a sudden throb of dismay as she stood
quite still listening and wondering.

Surely she had left it open? her memory had not deceived her! No;
she remembered debating the matter with herself and deciding to do
so. Could it have shut by itself afterwards? She could scarcely
believe it. It was a heavy oaken door, that moved ponderously on
its hinges; and the night was calm and breathless. No current of
air could have blown upon it. Had some person from above come down
and shut it after her? and if so, who could that person be? and had
he suspected that she had slipped out into the night, and for what
purpose?

With a wildly-beating heart and a frame that felt ready to sink
into the ground with fear, Petronella tried the latch of the door,
and found it yield to her hand. She pressed it open and then stood
suddenly still, a gasp of terror and dismay escaping her; for
there, in the middle of the hall, the moonlight falling full upon
his tall rugged figure, stood her father, waiting with folded arms
for his truant daughter, a look upon his stern face that she
shivered to behold.

"So, girl!" he exclaimed, making one stride forward and catching
the frail wrist in a vice-like grasp which almost extorted a cry of
pain--"so, my daughter, thou hast come in from this midnight tryst
with thy lover! And what dost thou think is the reward a father
bestows upon a daughter who leaves his house at this dead hour of
the night to meet the man he has bidden her eschew for ever?"

Petronella's agitation was so great that she was well-nigh
swooning. Her nerves had been on the strain for some time. The
excitement of seeing Cuthbert again, of hearing his story and
telling her own, had been considerable. And now to be confronted by
a furious father, and accused of having broken her solemn pledge,
and of having met her lover at an hour of the night when no
virtuous maiden would dream of such a tryst, was more than she
could bear. Slipping to her knees, she laid her hand upon her
father's robe, and clutching hold of it, as if for support, she
gasped out the one word:

"Pardon! pardon!"

"Thou mayest well sue for pardon, false jade; but to win it is
another matter. Say, vile girl, whom I blush to call my
daughter--say how oft hast thou thus gone forth to meet thy lover?"

"Father--father, revile me not thus!" cried the girl, beside
herself with agitation, fearful of betraying Cuthbert's near
presence to the Gate House, lest the angry man should contrive to
do him some injury or gain some hold upon him, yet terrified at the
accusations levelled at her own head, which seemed to bear some
show of reason. "Father, have pity; drive me not to despair, as
thou didst drive my brother. I am so lonely and so miserable. Pity
me! pardon me!"

"Answer my question, base girl. How oft hast thou done this deed
before tonight?"

"Never before, my father, never before! Ah, do not be too hard upon
me! I have done no wrong--I swear it!"

"Keep thy false oaths for thy false lover!" cried the angry man; "I
will have none of them. Thou hast passed me thy word once, and I
believed thee, and thou hast played me false. I will never believe
thee again--never, never! Thou hast made thy bed, and thou shalt
lie upon it."

And with that the angry man flung the kneeling girl from him with
such violence that she fell against the wall, and striking her head
sharply, sank stunned and unconscious at his feet.

"Serve her right well, the false minx, the evil jade!" spoke the
heartless father, as he strode back to his own room without so much
as going across to the girl to know if she were severely hurt. "She
will be safe enow for this night. She will not seek to go forth
again. She shall smart for this bare-faced defiance. I will not be
set at naught by both of my children. I will not--I will not!"

When Petronella awoke from what seemed to her a long dream, she
found herself in her own bed, tended by the deaf-and-dumb servant,
who was sitting beside her and watching her with wistful glances. A
glad smile lighted up the woman's face as Petronella made a sign
that showed she recognized her; but no speech was possible between
them, and the girl was too weary to care to ask questions by means
of the series of signals long since established between them. She
turned her eyes from the light, and fell asleep again like a tired
child.

For several days her life was more like one long sleep than
anything else. It was some while before she remembered any of the
events immediately preceding this mysterious attack of illness; and
when she did remember, the events of that night seemed to stand out
in fearful colours.

Yet there was one thought of comfort: Cuthbert was not far away.
Since her father had openly accused her of vileness, deceit, and
treachery; since he had struck her down so cruelly, and had not
even come to see her in her helplessness and weakness, must not
Cuthbert's surmise be the true one--must he not surely be mad? She
could see by the old woman's cowering looks if the door moved on
its hinges, how much she feared the terrible master; and when
Petronella was sufficiently recovered to be able to enter into the
kind of conversation by means of signals which in some sort
resembled the finger talking of more modern times, she learned that
indeed her father was in a more black and terrible mood than ever
before, and that old Martha herself went in fear of her life.

Bit by bit the old woman made the girl understand what had
happened. Shortly after the day upon which she had found her young
mistress lying cold and insensible on the stone floor of the hall,
Philip Trevlyn had come to the Gate House, and had demanded an
interview with the owner. Right well did both the women know the
nature of that errand, though none had been present but the young
lover and the enraged father. There could be no manner of doubt but
that, incited to it by Cuthbert's tale, he had come to make a
definite offer of marriage, and doubtless had tried to bribe the
avaricious old man by some tempting offer of gold or land. But
whatever had been the terms in which the proposal was couched,
anger had proved a stronger passion with Nicholas than greed.
Philip had been driven from the house with a fury that threatened
actual violence, and for hours afterwards Nicholas had raged up and
down the house like a wild beast in a cage. He had once gone up to
his daughter's room with a face so full of fury that the old woman
had feared he meant to fall upon her then and there; but even he
had been calmed by a glance at the still, unconscious face upon the
pillow, so white and bloodless and death-like; and the man had gone
down with a quieter footfall than he had mounted, but had been
brooding in sullen fury ever since, so that the old servant had
feared to approach him even to bring him his needful food. She had
spent almost all her time up with her young mistress, afraid to
leave her by night or day lest some mischance should befall her.

All this the girl gradually understood as she became strong enough
to take in the silent talk of the old woman. She knew that she must
have lain some days in this state of unconsciousness, for the trees
were greener than they had been when she had seen them last, and
the sunlight was fast gaining its golden summer-like glow. There
was something exhilarating in the beauty and richness of reviving
nature, and even Petronella's wan cheek kindled into a flush of
pleasure as she looked forth once again upon the fair world around
her dismal home.

Home? no, that was no longer the word for it. Slowly but surely the
knowledge had come to her that Cuthbert had been right, and that
this house could no longer be a home to her. Right well did she
credit now, what had never entered her mind before, that her father
had brooded and brooded until his very mind had become unhinged. He
was not master of his words when he spoke to her as he had done
upon that terrible night; he was not master of his actions when he
had flung her away and left her lying unconscious on the stone
floor. There was even some slight comfort in this thought, though
it settled for ever the doubt in her mind. She must leave the Gate
House so soon as she was strong enough to walk, and she must find
her brother in the forest, and place herself beneath his care.

The old servant approved the plan. She herself could find a refuge
at Trevlyn Chase; but that house would be no shelter for her young
mistress. Her father's authority would be enough to carry her back
into captivity; and what her fate would be, were she to have
escaped him once and be again brought back, was a thought to
shudder at.

"I must go back to Cuthbert," she said to herself, as she looked
over the fair landscape, and thought longingly of the cool, dim
woods, and the free life of the forest. Her own home was nothing
now but a prison house. She knew that if she presented herself
before her father sound and whole, she would at once be placed
under some close restraint that would effectually hinder her from
carrying out her plan. He would sooner kill her, as she verily
believed, than permit her such liberty as might enable her to meet
by accident or design any member of the household from the Chase.
If she were to succeed in her escape, the attempt must be made
whilst her father still believed her too feeble to stir from her
bed; after that she would be too closely watched for it to be
possible.

The old woman entered into this scheme with alacrity and zeal.
Petronella kept to her bed; and when Nicholas Trevlyn demanded by
signs how it fared with his daughter, he was answered by solemn
shakings of the head. If he mounted the stairs to see with his own
eyes how she was, he saw her lying upon the bed with closed eyes
and wan face, and would smile with an evil smile and mutter that
she was safe enough now--safe enough now.

Yet each day hope and the good food the shrewd old woman contrived
to provide for her did its work upon Petronella's frail body, and
she grew better every hour. Indeed, after some while she felt
stronger than she had done for many weeks before her illness; and
in due time even the fond old woman began to see that there was no
need to postpone longer the scheme of escape.

It was a simple little scheme, yet one which promised success if
carefully carried out. Nicholas Trevlyn was accustomed to take
night by night a posset of mead, brewed in some particular way by
Martha. She was, upon the night planned as the one for the escape
of Petronella, to add to this posset some drops of a concoction
prepared by herself from herbs, which would infallibly produce
sound and deep sleep within two hours. The master of the house
asleep, all would be simple. The two women would sally forth by the
postern door, and make for the forest. With the first light of the
dawn, Martha would seek the shelter of Trevlyn Chase, whilst
Petronella sought her brother in the pixies' dell. Nicholas Trevlyn
would awake the next morning to find himself alone in the old Gate
House that he had made intolerable for any other inmate.



Chapter 16: The Pixies' Dell.


After leaving Petronella close to her home, and watching the slight
figure vanish within the postern door, Cuthbert turned his own
steps towards the Chase, resolved to see Philip and tell him what
had passed between him and his sister before returning to the
forest dell where he had resolved to keep his watch.

He would not make any disturbance at the house at this dead hour of
the night; but as he was familiar with the place, he quickly found
his way to a small pavilion in the garden, the door of which was
not locked at night, and stretching himself upon a wooden settle
which stood there, he quickly fell asleep, and slept soundly and
well until awakened by the sound of a startled exclamation.

Springing to his feet, bewildered for a moment, and unable to
remember where he was, he found himself confronted by the eager,
startled face and big lustrous eyes of his cousin Kate.

"Cuthbert! thou here!" she exclaimed in amaze. "Thou surely hast
not brought me ill news of my--of Culverhouse!" and a deep flush
overspread her face as she spoke.

Cuthbert hastened to reassure her. He explained that he had not
seen Culverhouse since they parted in the forest, and that his own
errand was of a private nature, and concerned himself and his
sister.

"Ah, poor Petronella! methinks a hard lot is hers, Cuthbert. My
brother does what he may; yet that is but little, and of late he
has not been able so much as to get sight of her. Yet I see not
what thou canst do for her. Thy father is even more incensed
against thee than against us!"

"I came but to see with mine own eyes how she fared, and to breathe
a word of hope in her ear. Kate, sweet coz, let me breathe that
same word in thine; for thou wast the one to give me hope and
confidence when all besides looked on me as a wild dreamer.
Methinks I am on the track of the lost treasure. Methinks with
patience and care I shall find it yet."

Kate's eyes kindled and glowed.

"Nay, now, that is good hearing! Said I not ever that the old saws
spake sooth? And is not the luck to return to the house of Wyvern
through its daughters' sons? Cuthbert, tell me more--tell me all!
how is it thou hast succeeded where all besides have failed?"

"I cannot lay claim to success as yet," answered Cuthbert, smiling.
"I have not said the treasure is mine, only that I trow I know
where soon I may lay hands upon it. Sweet Kate, when all that gold
is brought back to the halls of Trevlyn Chase whence it was taken,
sure thy dowry will be fair enough to win Lord Andover's smiles.
Sure thou wilt not then be afraid to own--"

But Kate laid her soft hand upon his lips and glanced round with
startled eyes. Courageous as she was to carry out a bold
resolution, she was not free from nervous timidity, too.

"Speak not the words, good Cuthbert, neither here nor yet within
the walls of the Chase. I have not dared to breathe to them at home
the thing I have done. Heaven pardon me if it were a sin; but I may
not wish it undone. It is so sweet to feel myself his; and if it be
as thou sayest, we may not have long to wait ere he may claim me
before the world. But if thou findest the treasure thyself, will it
not be all thine?"

"I trow not, and I trust thou hast no such evil thoughts of me,
fair cousin, as to think that I would keep all, when but a portion
was my father's share, and that will scarce be mine whilst he
lives. I do but hope to restore it to those to whom it rightfully
belongs. I trow there will be enough to make all glad and happy,
and I doubt not that something of good hap may come to me thereby.
But to lay claim to all--why, that would be a scurvy thought,
unworthy a man of honour."

Kate's bright face was full of eager sympathy and approval.

"I like thee, Cuthbert," she cried; "I like thy honest thoughts and
words. Thou art in sooth a very proper youth. Thou art worthy of
thy Wyvern blood, which I hold to be purer than that of Trevlyn,
which has times and again been stained by acts of malice, greed,
and violence. But see, the sun is rising in the sky! We must back
to the house for the morning meal. And, Cuthbert, good Cuthbert,
thou wilt keep my secret? Thou wilt not tell of our meeting on May
Day in the forest?"

"Never a word an thou biddest me not," answered Cuthbert, with a
smile. "So that is to be a secret, Lady Culverhouse?"

She recoiled with a little start, her eyes dancing, her cheeks
aglow.

"O Cuthbert, I had not thought that my name was changed. Lady
Culverhouse! What a pleasant sound it has! But oh, not a word at
home! I dare not tell them aught till Culverhouse be by my side. I
misdoubt me that I did right to let him persuade me thus; and yet I
could not say him nay, and I longed to hear the words spoken that
should bind us to each other. But I dare not tell my father! I trow
both he and my mother would chide full sternly. In truth, I fear me
it were scarce a maidenly act. But, O Cuthbert, love is so
strong--so hard a task master. Where he drives, it seems that one
needs must go;" and she looked up at him with such arch appeal that
he felt those glances would go far to soften the sternest parental
heart.

"In truth, I believe thee, fair coz, and I will keep thy secret
faithfully. It is safe with me; and I trust that all will end
happily when the lost treasure shall return to the house of
Trevlyn."

And talking eagerly upon this theme, which was also to be kept
secret from all the world besides, the cousins walked towards the
house. Cuthbert received a warm and hearty greeting from all his
kinsfolks there, who were pleased that he should have kept his
promise and have come to see them with the long days of early
summer.

Sir Richard and his wife were both pleased with the fashion in
which the youth had developed; his intelligence and information
were now plainly apparent, and had taken a fresh impetus from the
new surroundings in which he had found himself. He could talk with
discrimination and insight on all the leading topics of the day,
had plainly lost much of his old rusticity of thought and speech,
and had become an interesting and self-possessed youth.

But his errand was really to Philip, and to him he spoke in private
of his sister's story, and how she had promised to obey her father
and to see him no more. Cuthbert could assure the disappointed
lover that this was no indication of coldness on Petronella's part,
but that it was done from a sense of filial duty, combined with a
fear of some violence on her father's part towards her lover should
he be provoked too far. Cuthbert was as certain as Philip could
wish that Petronella's heart was entirely his. He had read the
girl's secret in the tones of her voice and in the shy glances of
her soft eyes. He told Philip, too, of the gold that was awaiting
the girl in her uncle's keeping, and added that he was certain sure
that Martin Holt would be glad enough to give it over to his niece
if she had a sturdy husband of the Reformed faith to take care of
her and it. His only fear was of its falling into the hands of the
Papists, which thing would have been abhorrent to the grand sire
whose legacy the money was. That fear laid to rest, he would be
glad to be rid of the charge, and to give over the gold to its
rightful owner.

Philip's heart was with Petronella, and he had not concerned
himself as yet with any thoughts as to her poverty and his own
somewhat impecunious position as his father's heir, but with three
sisters to be provided for out of the revenues of the impoverished
estate. He was man of the world enough to know that this dowry
would do much to smooth his path when the time should come for
making known his case to his parents, but for the moment his
thoughts were all with the lonely girl shut up so relentlessly by
her father.

"I will see Nicholas Trevlyn," he said, with stern decision.
"Things have gone too far not to go further. I will see him, and
make formal application for his daughter's hand. He can but refuse
me, and I shall tell him plainly that I decline to give her up at
any word of his. I can wait with patience till she is of age to
judge for herself; but she is the woman of my choice, and her alone
will I wed if she will have me."

Cuthbert's face was grave and troubled.

"And waiting for that, she may well be done to death within those
walls, as I should have been had I not fled. I am in trouble of
heart anent my sister. I pray she may find her way to me yet in the
free forest!"

Philip started and looked surprised.

"Is there likelihood of that?"

"I know not. I bid her come if our father should grow more harsh,
and told her where I likeliest might be found. I purpose to dwell
for a while myself in the forest, albeit thou wouldst mock me if
thou knewest the wherefore."

"To search for the lost treasure, I doubt not," said Philip with a
smile, remembering the talk of the autumn previous. "Marry thou
hast my best wishes for a happy quest. But what couldst thou do
with a tender maid out in the woods with thee?"

"I scarce know that myself; but anything would be better than life
with a madman--as I trow our father is like to become an he change
not his habit of life. Belike I would take her to mine uncle on the
bridge; yet perchance he would not thank me for adding to his
charges.

"If we had other relatives--"

"Why, and so ye have, even as we have. Hast never heard of my Lady
Humbert and Mistress Dowsabel Wyvern? They must be kinsfolk of
thine as well as of ours, and they dwell not very far distant from
here, albeit I myself have never visited them."

Cuthbert raised his head and looked eagerly at Philip.

"I would know more of that," he said.

"It is not much I can tell thee. This Lady Humbert is a widow, and
is sister to that Gertrude Wyvern who was my grandam and thy aunt.
Mistress Dowsabel is her younger sister; and albeit they are both
now of a good old age, they dwell together, with only servants for
company, in a house thou wouldst have passed on the road to London
hadst thou not taken the lonelier way across the heath. My father
and mother go each year to see after their welfare, and a letter
comes now and again from them with greetings or questions. We of
the younger generation have never been to visit them, since they
are too old to wish for the presence of the young, and love not to
see the changeless current of their lives interrupted. I remember
that of old, when we were in disgrace for some prank, our grandam
would shake her head at us and vow we should be sent to her sister
Dowsabel for chastisement, and stay with her till we learned better
manners. So we have grown up in the fancy that these kinswomen be
something stern and redoubtable ladies. Nevertheless, if thou wast
to put thy sister beneath their care, I trow they would receive her
with kindness and treat her well, and she would scarce regret the
Gate House were the captivity never so hard. Nor would Nicholas
Trevlyn be like to seek her there, though at the Chase he would
find her at once, were we to strive to aid her flight as we aided
thine."

Cuthbert saw this plainly, and asked a few more eager questions
about these ladies and where they might be found. He hardly knew
whether or not he expected Petronella to flee away to him, but at
least it would do no harm to be prepared in case she did so.

Philip told him all he knew, which was not much. The house would be
easily found, as it stood upon the highroad just a mile from a
large village, its gates opening straight upon the road, although
at the back were gardens and pleasaunces and a clear trout stream.
It seemed to Cuthbert as he listened that such a place as this
might prove a safe haven of refuge for his sister should one be
needed, and he resolved that if she once came to him he would
persuade her to place herself beneath the protection of these
ladies.

He would well have liked to see her again, to have whispered
something of this new plan into her ears. But though he lingered
much about the house during the two short weeks he spent at the
Chase, he saw no glimpse of his sister, and he did not dare to
summon her out to meet him at night, lest haply the suspicions of
the grim old tyrant should be aroused.

Leaving Philip fully determined to see Nicholas Trevlyn ere long,
to lay before him his formal proposal for Petronella's hand, and
confident that all at the Chase would befriend her as far as it was
possible; Cuthbert, afraid to linger longer in the immediate
vicinity of the Gate House, took his departure for the forest,
resolved to give himself over heart and soul to the search after
the missing treasure, and not to give it up until every nook and
corner of the pixies' dell had been subjected to the closest
scrutiny.

It was easy to obtain from Philip all such tools as would be
needful for the task of excavation. Although the young man himself
had small hopes of Cuthbert's success, he was interested in spite
of himself in the proposed plan, and would have been more so had he
known how much had been already discovered. But Cuthbert kept much
of that to himself, not willing that tattling tongues should spread
the rumour. Only to real believers in the hidden treasure did he
care to speak of the gipsy's strange words and the visit to the
wise woman of Budge Row. Philip, he thought, would smile, and
perhaps he would speak of the matter to his father, who in turn
might name it to some one else, and so it might come round, through
the gipsy spies and watchers, to the ears of Long Robin himself.
That, as Cuthbert well knew, would be well-nigh destruction to all
his cherished hopes; yet one who believed not would smile at his
fears, and could scarce be expected to observe the needful caution.

As Cuthbert started for his nine miles' tramp in the cool of the
evening, with his tools slung across his shoulders, he was glad to
think that he had resisted the temptation to speak openly of this
matter to any but Petronella and Kate. With them he well knew the
secret was safe, for they entertained for Long Robin just the same
suspicious fear as he did himself, and their lips were sealed even
as his own.

The walk was nothing for his strong young limbs; but as he
approached the lonely dell, he instinctively slackened his speed,
and proceeded with greater caution. The thick growth of the trees
made the place dark in spite of the moon, which hung low in the sky
and shone between the trees in long silvery beams; and the tangled
path which once had led to the forest well had been long overgrown
with a mass of bramble and underwood, through which it was hard to
force a way.

But Cuthbert cautiously proceeded, listening intently for any
sounds of life to indicate the presence of Long Robin, the only
being likely to be near at such an hour; but all appeared to be
intensely still, and presently he commenced his cautious descent
into the dell itself, and at last stood beside the old stone wall
that guarded the mouth of the well.

Cuthbert had heard something of that well since he had been at his
uncle's house. Some of the old servants at the Chase knew the
forest well, and he had been told the story of the pixies' dell:
how it had once been a noted spot in the forest, and how travellers
turned aside to drink the waters, which were not only fresh and
clear and cold, even on the most sultry summer's day, but were
reported to possess healing properties, especially if taken at
certain hours of the night and in certain phases of the moon. Long
ago there had been a monastery near the well, and the monks had
dispensed the waters to the applicants who came. But the monastery
had fallen into ruins and had disappeared, and after that the
pixies were given the credit of the healing waters. People came to
drink them, though less frequently than before; and as the place
grew more lonely and deserted, rumours began to float about that
the pixies were inimical to man, and that the waters no longer
possessed their old power. Later on still, a more terrible thing
was discovered: it was said that it was death to approach that dell
and drink the waters. Men's bones had been found in great numbers
close about that spot, and it was plain that they must belong to
the unhappy wights who, disregarding cautions, had ventured to the
place, and had died before they could get away from thence.

After that, as may well be guessed, no sick folks had cared to
trouble the dell again. Travellers made a wide circuit to avoid it,
and it was held to be the place of most evil repute in the forest.

All this story was well understood by Cuthbert, who felt no fear of
the spot, only a little natural awe as he recollected the deed that
had once been done there. The moon was going down as he looked
about him; the dark hour before morning was about to fall upon the
world. He looked about for a resting place in which to conceal
himself till he could commence his search, and found the place he
desired in a hollow tree, just beyond the circle of smooth sward
that surrounded the well itself.

Plainly this tree had been used before for a like purpose. The
leaves had been carefully raked together within, and were covered
by a warm rug, in which Cuthbert was not sorry to wrap himself, for
the night air was sharp and chilly though the days were hot.

"Long Robin's rug, or I greatly mistake me," he said with a smile.
"I trow he would be sore amazed were he to come and find me here.
Howbeit he would but take me for a passing wayfarer, since he knows
not my face, and I misdoubt me if he come tonight. He fears too
much Joanna's watchful eyes and Miriam's jealous ones. I will sleep
in peace till daylight dawns, and then I will begin my search."

Sleep came quickly to the lad's eyes, but it was only light, for
with the first blush of dawn he awoke and prepared to commence his
work.

His tools he had hidden away beneath the heap of leaves which had
formed his bed, and he did not disturb them for the time being, but
walked forth and examined the dell for himself before making any
excavation.

First his attention was given to the patch of greensward around the
well; but this was so smooth and even that it seemed as if it had
not been disturbed for ages. Such soft emerald turf, as Cuthbert
well knew, was the growth of centuries, and there was no sort of
trace or seam to indicate the handiwork of man.

Round and round the open space he paced, his eyes fixed upon the
ground beneath his feet, his quick glance shifting from spot to
spot, as he strove for some indication, however faint, of the
existence of some hidden hoard.

"Yet it is certain to be well hid. It were strange if I did light
upon it in the first hour," he said to himself at length, covering
his disappointment with a smile. "I will break my fast with the
good fare given me by my fair cousin Kate, and will taste the
waters of the magic well. I trow I shall take no harm from them.
Long Robin will scarce have poisoned the spring from which he
himself must ofttimes drink."

Whilst he partook of his simple meal, he looked about him with keen
and eager glances, wondering where he should next search, and
striving to see traces of footsteps in the sandy sides of the dell,
or breaks in the tangled growth of underwood that would indicate
some track used by Robin. Cuthbert shrewdly suspected that he would
not be able to resist the temptation of going frequently to the
spot where the buried treasure lay, to see if the ground remained
undisturbed, and he thought that the surest way of discovering this
spot was to seek for traces likely to be left by him; or, failing
these, to watch patiently from some obscure spot till the gipsy
came again to the dell, when it was probable he might betray the
secret by his own movements.

"If I dig and delve before the clue is mine, I may chance to put
him on his guard, and find nothing. No; I will be patient--I will
be very cautious. Success comes to him that can wait. Long Robin is
a foe not to be despised or trifled with; I can tell that from his
own words and Joanna's. He would take a hundred lives to save his
golden secret. He is cautious and cunning and wary. I must try to
be the same."

All that long summer's day Cuthbert prowled up and down the dell,
searching for some trace, however slight, which should give him the
clue, and searching in vain. The only path where the undergrowth
was in any way trodden was the one by which he and Robin alike
approached the well, the old, half-obliterated track that once had
been so freely used. All around the sides of the dell, fern and
bramble, hazel and undergrowth of all kinds, grew in wild
confusion. Search as he would, Cuthbert could find nothing like a
path of any kind. Did Robin indeed trust to that tangled
undergrowth to keep his secret hid? And if so, what chance was
there of its being found unless the whole dell was dug up?

A short while back it seemed so much to have found out this dell.
When he had been resolved to search the whole forest through, no
wonder the task had been practically impossible; but when he had
had indications of a confined locality, he had looked upon his work
as well-nigh accomplished, and had come here with a heart full of
high hopes. And now he was confronted by difficulties that appeared
almost as insurmountable as before; for he plainly saw the
hopelessness of attempting single-handed to delve the whole dell
over. Robin would return before the task was more than begun. He
would guess the import, would set a close watch, and would slay the
bold invader of his haunted dell without pity or remorse. Whilst
the only other plan, that of bringing a gang of men to work strong
enough to be a guard to themselves, was simply out of the question
for Cuthbert. He had no money himself. His uncle Martin would
certainly not give him the gold in the box for any such
hare-brained scheme; whilst to appeal to Sir Richard, with nothing
to back his statements but what would be looked upon as old wives'
fables and gipsy delusions, would only be to provoke ridicule and
scorn. The Trevlyns had long given up the treasure as lost beyond
recall. They had no sort of hope of recovering it, and the present
owner of the Chase and his lady were in particular very greatly
averse to any sort of dealings with occult magic and gipsy lore.

Cuthbert had a shrewd notion that there was little enough of magic
in any of the words and dark sayings he had heard. He had been let
just a very little behind the scenes, and had his own opinions on
the subject. His faith in spirits and familiars had been greatly
shaken; but he knew that his story would sound wild and improbable,
and he was by no means sure that even Joanna would consent to
appear before Sir Richard and repeat it all to him. She was anxious
to do her part towards making restitution; but, having put the clue
in Cuthbert's hands, would very likely consider that part done, and
decline to be questioned further by any one.

"What I do I must do alone," said Cuthbert to himself, with a sigh,
at the close of that day of toil and discouragement. "Well, I
should have been mightily surprised had I lighted on the treasure
at the close of the first day. I ought not to be thus discouraged,
and yet I am. Still there is one more thing to do. If I can but
watch Long Robin, surely I shall learn somewhat from him. I vow
that that is better far than prowling aimlessly about the dell. Let
me spend my time and strength in building for myself some nook high
up in one of yon trees, from which vantage ground I may spy upon
his doings. If I can but get me up high enough, I can watch him
from spot to spot. Sure I should be stupider than a daylight owl an
I could not learn somewhat from his looks and actions on his next
visit. And it will be safer for me to have mine own perch. I will
venture to sleep one more night in the tree; but after that I will
sleep by day and watch by night, for it is plain that he is a night
bird in his visits here."

The next day Cuthbert set to work with a better heart. It was not
difficult to find the sort of nook he wanted high up in the
branches of a great sycamore. The oaks were hardly thick enough yet
to conceal him, and the foliage of the elm was somewhat scanty
still, for all that the season was forward. But by good hap there
chanced to be, amongst the tall trees that fringed the round of
sward, a noble sycamore in full leaf and very thick; and by
skillful contrivance, and with the help of his tools, Cuthbert
quickly built himself up there a small but secure and commodious
platform, upon which he could perch himself at ease and watch the
whole of the dell. Even if he fell asleep, he was in no danger of
falling; and if he could obtain the needful supplies of food, he
could keep watch there unseen for an indefinite time. He had plenty
of provision so far, for he had been supplied with dry and salted
provisions enough to last a week. These he took up to his nest, and
also his tools, which he resolved to keep beside him for safety;
and having spent the best part of the day in this labour of
ingenuity and patience, and having then quenched his thirst by long
draughts of clear cold water, he ascended to his perch with an
armful of dried bracken--the eighth such load he had carried
up--and as he arranged his riding cloak upon the soft and fragrant
cushion thus prepared, he said to himself with a smile that he
could afford to be patient now, for he had a commodious castle all
his own, and could await with patience the advance of the foe.

His patience was not, however, destined to be very sorely taxed. He
had fallen into a light sleep, and was dreaming of a hand-to-hand
struggle with Long Robin, when some unwonted sound smote upon his
ears, and he started up all alert on the instant.

He knew that sound; he had heard it before. It was the wild,
unearthly noise made by Robin to increase the fear of this dell in
the hearts of any chance wayfarers who might haply be within
hearing. In a few more seconds Cuthbert, peering down from his
leafy canopy, saw the tall form thrusting itself through the
underwood; and Robin, with a loud laugh, threw himself upon the low
wall of the pixies' well.

He was talking and muttering to himself, but Cuthbert could not
catch the words. He seemed in a merry mood, for he laughed aloud
once or twice, and drank of the well and laughed again. Once
Cuthbert thought he caught the words "treasure" and "safe," but of
that he could not be certain; and it was not easy to see how Robin
could know this, seeing he had not stirred three paces from the
well.

And then a sudden flash came into Cuthbert's soul like one of
inspiration. Suppose the treasure was in the well itself? What more
likely? Would not that be the safest place of all? For the precious
metals would not hurt through contact with the water; and had he
not heard that the waters of this well possessed peculiar
properties for preserving anything thrown into them?

Cuthbert's heart beat so fast that he almost feared Robin would
hear his deep breathing; but the man was looking down into the
well, laughing to himself in the peculiarly malevolent fashion that
Cuthbert had heard before. He never moved from the side of the well
for the long hour he remained; and Cuthbert, waiting in feverish
impatience till he should be gone, felt as though he had never
known an hour so long.

But it ended at last. The tall figure reared itself upright, and he
heard the voice distinctly now.

"I must be going--I must be going. Miriam will be asking questions.
That hag is the plague of my life. All safe--all safe. And now I
will depart."

The tall figure put on its stooping gait, which appeared to be
second nature, and went slouching away through the underwood along
the narrow track. Cuthbert waited till there had been a long spell
of perfect silence, and then he glided with cat-like caution to the
ground.

"I may not be able to see anything by this light, not even the
glint of gold beneath the clear waters. But he seemed to see. He
looked down and muttered, 'Safe--safe!' Beshrew me but I trow I
have the secret now! The pixies' well--the hidden secret it guards
so well. All is true! all is true! Why did I not think of it
before?"

Creeping to the side of the well, Cuthbert peered over the edge and
gazed fixedly into the dark water. What was it he saw? Was that
moonlight shining and glinting there; or was it--could it be--Hold,
what is this?

With a stifled cry Cuthbert strove to spring to his feet; but the
attempt was vain. He was encircled in the bear-like grip of a pair
of arms that were strong as bands of iron around him. He felt as
though all the breath were being pressed out of him, and in his ear
there rang a hideous laugh, the sound of which he knew but too
well.

"Fool!" cried a hoarse voice, hissing the words in his ears--"fool
of a mad boy to trust a treacherous gipsy tale! So thou thoughtest
to outwit Long Robin! Thou thoughtest to win back the lost treasure
to the house of Trevlyn! Mad boy--fool of a hardy knave! But yet
thou shalt have thy wish--thou shalt have thy will. Thou shalt see
with thine own eyes that long-lost treasure."

There was a cruel sneer in the man's eyes, a mocking inflection in
his voice, that sent a thrill of cold horror through Cuthbert's
veins. He was absolutely powerless in that merciless clasp. He felt
the strength leaving his limbs and his head turning giddy. He only
just knew it when he was laid upon the grass, his captor's knee
firmly planted on his chest; and then he felt his hands and feet
being tightly and securely bound, whilst the stars in the sky
seemed to reel and dance before his eyes, and he said to himself,
without realizing the import of his own words:

"He is going to kill me; he is going to kill me."

"Yes, I am going to kill thee, mad boy," said Long Robin coolly, as
though he had heard the spoken word. "I am going to kill thee, as I
kill all those who dare to thwart my will or cross my path. I shall
kill thee; but thou shalt first have the desire of thine eyes and
of thine heart. Thou shalt see and thou shalt touch the long-lost
treasure! Thou shalt learn the secret ere thou diest, and thy ghost
can impart it to thy friends."

With a brutal and almost diabolical laugh, Long Robin rose to his
feet and leaned over the well. He seemed to be raising from it some
heavy weight, and Cuthbert heard a heavy thud fall upon the grass.

"Now, thou shalt go to join the lost treasure. The Trevlyns when
they find it will find their lost kinsman, too! Ha, ha! they are
welcome to that find; they are welcome to it!" and the man stooped
to lift the bound and helpless Cuthbert in his strong arms.

Cuthbert closed his eyes. He knew well what was coming. A fall, a
sullen splash, one brief ineffectual struggle, and then black
darkness. He tried to breathe a prayer, but could form no words. He
thought of Cherry, of Petronella, and sharp stabs of pain seemed to
run through him. One minute more and all would be over. But what an
endless minute that was, whilst he felt the grip upon his body
growing firmer as the giant prepared to lift him.

What was that?

"Crack!"--a sudden flash from the dark underwood, and with a loud
cry his captor dropped him, and staggered backwards, to fall a few
paces farther on, where he lay rigid and motionless. Then from the
thicket there came the sound of a quick sharp cry, and a slim
figure rushed forward with the gasping question:

"Is he dead? Oh, have I killed him?"

And Cuthbert, raising his head, and scarce believing aught of this
could be anything but a fevered dream, uttered the one word:

"Petronella!"



Chapter 17: Brother And Sister.


"Petronella! thou here!"

"Brother--brother mine--art thou hurt?"

"Never a whit, though I looked to be a dead man ere this. Sister,
take my knife and cut my bonds; yon man may rise again, and I must
be free to defend myself and thee."

Petronella cast a scared and fearful glance at the long dark figure
lying face downwards upon the sward, showing signs of life only by
a spasmodic twitching of the limbs; and then drawing Cuthbert's
long hunting knife from his belt, she cut the cords that bound his
hands and feet, and in another moment he sprang up and shook
himself, keeping a wary eye all the while upon the prostrate foe.
But he did not go to his side at once; he was too keenly aroused
and interested by this sudden appearance of his sister.

"Petronella! I can scarce credit my senses. How comest thou here,
and at such an hour?"

"I am doing as thou biddest me," she answered in a low voice: "I am
flying from our home, even as thou wast forced to fly. I verily
believe that thou art right, and that our father is well-nigh mad.
I dared not remain. Even old Martha feared to linger longer under
that roof. She has found safe refuge, I trust, at Trevlyn Chase.
Thou didst go there, my brother, after parting from me?"

"Ay, verily I did, and stayed there a matter of some two weeks,
ever hoping to see thy face again, and to hear how it fared with
thee. But thou camest not."

"I could not," answered the girl, in the same low tone; "I was in
my bed, unable to move hand or foot, unable to know night from day.
Cuthbert, the night I went forth to thee in the chantry our father
missed me from the house. He thought I had gone to meet Philip in
the wood at night. He reviled me cruelly, and I feared to tell him
it was thou I had gone to see. Then, I know not how, but I fear he
struck me. A great blackness came before mine eyes; and when I
opened them again a week or more had passed, and I knew, as I began
to understand what had chanced, that I could no longer remain
beneath the roof of the Gate House."

Cuthbert ground his teeth in sudden fury.

"Struck thee, my gentle sister! Nay, I can scarce credit it; and
were he any other than my father--"

"But he is our father," answered the girl gently. "And truly
methinks, Cuthbert, that his lonely brooding has something unhinged
his mind. Let us think of him only with pity."

Cuthbert put his arm about her tenderly.

"Tell me the rest of thy story, sister. How camest thou here so
opportunely, to play the part of Amazon and save thy brother's
life?"

She shivered a little, as if afraid even to think what she had
done, but her words were quietly and clearly spoken.

"That is soon told. Old Martha nursed me back to health again, and
our stern father hindered her not in her tendance of me. And this
very night we made our plans, and she put a concoction of herbs
into his nightly potion, which caused him to sleep too sound to
awake for any sound within or without the house. Then we softly
stole away without let or hindrance--she to go to the Chase, I to
walk across the moorland and forest as thou hadst bidden me, to
find thee here."

"And thou didst arm thyself ere thou wentest forth?"

She looked up with strange earnestness into his face.

"I know not if the thought were sin, Cuthbert," she said, "but as I
slipped through the dark house ere our flight, my eyes fell upon
that pair of heavy pistols always loaded that our father keeps ever
on the mantle shelf of the hall. I thought of the lessons thou
hadst given me in old days, and knew I could pull the trigger were
I so minded, and send the bullet whizzing through the air. I had no
thought of harming any man as I put forth my hand and took one of
the weapons. I was thinking rather of myself. I had heard men speak
of perils worse than death that may beset weak and helpless women
alone in the world. I knew not if I might find thee as I hoped. I
could not but fear that some mischance might keep us sundered. I
thought of my father's cruel wrath should he discover my flight,
and pursue and overtake. It seemed to me, standing in the darkness
of the old Gate House, that it would be better to perish than to be
dragged thither again to die of misery and harsh captivity. I said
within myself, 'Sure, if it be sin, it is one that God would
pardon. It is not well for me to go forth without some weapon which
might end all, were it to be the less peril to die than to live.'
And so I took the pistol and carried it in my girdle."

"And then?"

"Then we went forth together, and Martha walked with me awhile. But
as I felt the clear fresh air of the night fanning my cheek, and
the dewy sweetness of the grass beneath my feet, I grew strong and
full of courage. I felt certain by what thou hadst told me that I
was on the right track. The moon and the stars shone in the sky and
guided my steps. I sent Martha away, and journeyed on alone. It was
sweet to find myself free, to see the heavens above my head, and to
hear the soft night breezes. In the clear brightness of the night I
could see far about me, and I knew that I was alone and had naught
to fear. Thanks to Martha's good nursing and the food she had
contrived for me, I was stronger than I had been for many long days
and weeks. It was happiness to use my limbs, and I was not wearied
by my journey. I entered the forest track at last, and quickly
found the path that thou hadst spoken to me of. I knew then that I
was near my journey's end, and my heart was light within me."

"Didst thou not fear the dark wood and the many strange sounds of
the night?"

"I feared somewhat, but chided myself for that fear. But it was
well I felt it, else might I not have crept along as I did with
such mouse-like stillness; and but for that, yon man"--with a
shuddering glance at Long Robin on the ground--"would surely have
found me."

Cuthbert started and asked her how that was.

"I will tell thee, brother. I was drawing very nigh this dell, and
I felt as by some instinct that it was close at hand, when I heard
the sound of footsteps coming thence, and I well-nigh ran forth
calling thee by name, for I felt assured it must be thou. But then
some impulse of fear possessed me, and I trembled in every limb,
and instead of running forth to meet him who was coming, I hid
myself within the shadows of a deep hollow tree, scarce daring to
breathe lest I should be discovered. And scarce had I done this
before a tall figure crept out along the path, and halted so close
beside me that I well-nigh screamed aloud in my terror, for I
thought for sure I was discovered. But no: he had not paused for
that, and as he stood scarce three ells from my hiding place I
heard him mutter to himself; and I knew by what thou hadst told me,
and by his tall form and long white beard, that it was Long Robin
who was so near.

"And couldst thou hear what he said?"

"I could hear many words, and fierce ones, too--words that made my
flesh creep, and turned me sick with fear for thee, my brother. He
muttered that he was watched and spied upon. He spoke of other
footfalls than his own in the dell, and cursed Joanna for striving
to outwit him, vowing he would slay her if once he found that she
had dared to set others to watch him. He spoke the name of Trevlyn
once or twice. It was as if he had heard somewhat of thee and of
thine errand to the Gipsy Queen--something he must surely have
heard, else could he not have spoken of the 'Trevlyn spawn,' and
what he would do if one of that 'brood' dared to come betwixt him
and his design. And then he leaned against a tree and waited,
listening with an intentness that showed a deep suspicion; and he
must have heard sounds that I could not--for my heart beat so
wildly I feared he would hear it where he stood--and he smote his
hands softly together and laughed a low laugh like that of a
demon."

"I have heard that laugh; I know it well," whispered Cuthbert. "It
is indeed what thou callest it. Doubtless he heard my cautious
descent from the tree. What did he then?"

"I heard his next words plainly, and they sent a thrill of cold
horror through me, for too well I divined their import.

"'He is there!' he hissed between his teeth--'he is there! I shall
catch him red handed in the act. Good! He shall not leave the dell
alive; he shall join the seven who strove before to know too much.
Long Robin's hand has not lost its cunning, and it will strike the
more heartily when aimed against one of the false, hateful brood.'

"And then, Cuthbert, I saw it all in a moment. I knew that thou
wert in the glen, and that he was going forward to kill thee. And
for a moment my head swam, and I well-nigh swooned with terror, and
could not even lift my voice to shout to thee and warn thee to fly
for thy life."

"It was well thou didst not," answered Cuthbert; "for I should
scarce have heard or understood, and he would but have turned his
destroying hand against thee ere he went forward to slay me. Thou
didst do better than cry aloud, my sister."

She shivered slightly and pressed close up to him.

"When the mist passed from my eyes and I could see, Long Robin was
no more there, and in awful fear what might even then be happening,
I stole down as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me towards
the centre of the dell. Ere I could see aught I heard thy voice
raised in a sharp cry, Cuthbert, and then I heard fierce, cruel
words spoken, mingled with that laugh that makes the blood run
chill in the veins. I crept as fast as I could through the tangled
underwood, and then I saw before me a terrible sight. Yon man was
binding thee hand and foot with bonds that thou couldst not break,
and I knew that he would kill thee without mercy, even as he had
threatened. It was then that I remembered for the first time the
weapon I carried at my side, and as I took it in my hands I felt a
strange coldness come upon me. I trembled no longer. I felt calm
and resolute and fearless. I crept cautiously out of the brushwood,
though I kept still in the shadow of the trees, and I drew nearer
and nearer, expecting every instant to be seen. I dared not fire
till I was very close. It was long since I had discharged such a
weapon, and I knew well that thy life and mine both hung upon that
one charge. Robin rose suddenly to his feet after binding thee, and
I thought for certain I was seen. But no; he turned and leaned over
the well, and drew forth from it yon huge round slab of stone,
which he flung there on the grass as thou seest it. When his back
was thus turned I crept nearer yet. I would have fired then, but
still feared to miss. Then he bent over thee and lifted thee in his
arms. He could not see me then, he was too much engrossed in his
task. I saw well what he meant to do--to fling thee bound and
helpless into the well, where the lost treasure, methinks from his
words, must lie.

"The rest thou knowest. Coming up close behind, I fired my pistol.
He dropped thee and fell himself, and I feared that he was dead.
Brother, it is something fearful to have killed a man, though it
was to save life. Wilt thou not go to him and see if he yet lives?
We ought to show charity even to our foes."

Cuthbert was willing enough to do this since he had heard his
sister's story, which had not taken many minutes in the telling. He
went across to the spot where Long Robin lay, and turned him gently
over.

Although the sight of death was by no means familiar to Cuthbert,
it took only one glance to show him that this man was dying or
dead. His face was ghastly and drawn, and his limbs were already
growing rigid and motionless. The heavy charge of the pistol had
done its work surely and fully: the bullet had passed through the
spine, and had entered the vital organs. There was little effusion
of blood, but death was delayed only a few minutes. Even as
Cuthbert looked at him, the man gave a deep groan. His eyelids
flickered a few moments, and then his jaw dropped, a quiver passed
through his frame, which then became absolutely still.

Cuthbert shook his head.

"He is dead!" cried Petronella, in a voice of compunction and
awe--"he is dead; and I have killed him!"

She put her hands before her eyes and shivered. It was something of
a terror to her that she should have done this thing. She shook in
every limb.

"I did not mean to kill him--I never thought of killing him; I only
thought of how to save thee, Cuthbert. O brother, brother, what
shall I do? Will they hang me for it?"

"Never," cried Cuthbert, throwing his strong arm about her and
smiling at her words. "Sweet Petronella, thou hast naught to fear.
This man has long been an outlaw and a robber. He has many lives to
answer for himself, as well as innumerable acts of violence with
robbery. Even were it not so, thou couldest not be held in any wise
guilty by law either of God or man. May Heaven forgive me if I sin,
but I am right glad thy bullet did its work so well. Our enemy thus
removed from our path, the secret of the lost treasure lies with
thee and me. Petronella, I doubt it not for a moment now, that
treasure lies at the bottom of the pixies' well. My only wonder is
that none have thought of this before."

Petronella pointed to the circular slab lying wet and sparkling in
the moonlight upon the sward beside the well.

"Look there!" she said: "it is that that has helped to hide the
secret so long. Robin is cunning. He is deep, he is full of
artifice. He has given to the well a false bottom, of which
perchance none knows but himself. He knows how to raise it from the
well, as I saw him do; but all the world beside would hold it in
truth to be the well's bottom. Beneath yon slab the treasure lies.
Cuthbert, thou hast found the secret. Thou wilt be the one to
restore the fortunes of our house."

"Methinks it will be more thou than I, sweet sister," answered
Cuthbert, gladly and proudly, as he leaned over the low stone wall
and gazed eagerly into the deep, dark water. "And right glad am I
that we should be together when we find the treasure trove. Canst
see aught in yon deep hole, Petronella?"

She shook her head.

"Nor I neither. We must wait for daylight for that, and then
perchance it will not reveal itself to our eyes. Yet it is there. I
am certain sure of it; and although it may be something difficult
to rescue even now, I doubt not that with patience and time we may
succeed. Petronella, I will tomorrow to the village nighest at
hand, whilst thou dost rest up in yon tree out of the way of all
harm, where I have prepared a place of comfort. I will purchase
there a suit of boy's clothes for thee to wear whilst thou dost
share my forest life; it will be safer for thee, and more
commodious likewise. I will also buy us victuals and a coil of
rope. Then we twain can set to work over our task, and it will be
strange indeed if we be balked in it, seeing that the hardest part
is already accomplished. The secret is ours!"

Petronella's eyes sparkled beneath their heavy fringes. There was a
spice of adventure and romance about this that could not but be
delightful to any young spirit.

"Thou wilt not then tell our kinsfolk at the Chase, and ask their
aid in this?"

Cuthbert shook his head.

"I will tell no man aught. I will ask for nothing till the treasure
is in mine own hands!" he cried, with a gesture of triumph and
pride. "They would believe naught when I spoke of the treasure
before. They might even yet laugh us to scorn were we to tell our
tale and point to the well as the place. No: we have done all alone
thus far; let us do all alone even to the end. Time presses not. We
have the summer before us. We have possession of this dell, where
no foot but that of yon dead man ever dared to tread. He thus
removed from our path, none else will spy upon us nor hinder us. We
are safer here than in any other spot in the forest.

"Say, sister, wilt thou be my helper in this labour, be it small or
great?"

She laid her hand trustingly in his; her dark eyes glowed.

"Gladly, gladly will I share the labour and the toil, my brother. O
Cuthbert, it seems a happy and a fitting thing that the luck of the
house should return to the Trevlyns of the Chase through the two
poor cousins whom they befriended in their hour of need. They were
kind to us when our life was darkest; it will be sweet to think
that they will win happiness through us."

"Ay, and Philip's bride will be no longer a portionless damsel, but
will have gold enough and to spare. Sweet sister, Philip hath
spoken to me openly of his love. He hath been ere this to ask thee
at thy father's hand."

"Ay, and was driven forth with blows and curses."

"Thou hast heard it? But thinkest thou he will take that for an
answer? Nay, Petronella, thou wilt one day be his bride; and I will
give thee to him with a joyful heart, for he loved thee in the days
of our poverty and distress; so that one knows his love is for thee
and thee alone, not for the fair dowry thou wilt presently bring."

Petronella hid her happy, blushing face on her brother's shoulder,
and thus they stood awhile, till the girl drew back with a light
shiver and said:

"Cuthbert, can it be right for us thus to stand thinking of our own
happiness, whilst he lies there so still and cold?"

"I was just about to bid thee give me leave to bury him, whilst
thou dost rest thyself awhile. We will not grudge him that last
service; and it will be safer and better to do it here than to give
notice of his death to the gipsies and outlaws, and so bring them
down upon us in this place, provoking perchance their vengeance
upon ourselves. I have here a spade, brought to dig after the
treasure. I little thought it would first be used to dig Long
Robin's grave. But the task had better be done, and that quickly.
The man is dead as a stone. We will bury him away out of our sight
ere we do aught beside."

Petronella assented with a slight shudder. She could not regret the
death of the giant gipsy, who himself made so light of human life,
and would have slain her brother before her eyes without a qualm.
But she shivered each time she looked at the motionless form, and
was glad when, after some hours of hard work beneath the trees,
Cuthbert succeeded in dragging the corpse away and in covering it
up from sight. Kneeling beside the rude grave, the girl breathed a
prayer for the soul of the departed man, and repeated many an ave
and paternoster, in the hope of smoothing for him his passage into
eternity (being still considerably imbued with the teachings of her
early life, which the newer and clearer faith had by no means
eradicated), and then she rose comforted and relieved, feeling as
though a dark weight had passed from her spirit.

Daylight had now come, and the girl was very weary. She looked so
wan and white that Cuthbert was alarmed, and fed her tenderly with
the best his wallet could supply; after which he took her up to his
nest in the sycamore, first bringing the rug that was lying in the
hollow tree to wrap around her. There he succeeded in making her so
comfortable and secure that she fell asleep almost at once, and he
was hopeful she would sleep the whole time of his absence, for she
was worn out with fatigue, and only just recovering from an
illness. How she had borne the fatigues of that night he scarce
knew; but she possessed her share of the Trevlyn tenacity of
purpose, and her strong will had conquered the feebleness of her
frame.

It was a satisfaction to see her sink into a tranquil sleep, and
secure in the certainty that she could not be seen by any person
entering the dell. Certain that none but a chance traveller ever
did come nigh this haunted spot, he was not afraid to leave her;
and after studying the simple contrivance by which the round slab
was raised and lowered in the well, he dropped it to its former
position, and went on his way to the village with a light heart.

The secret of the lost treasure, he was fully certain, was now his;
and though the work of rescue might require time and patience and
labour, he was convinced it could be accomplished, and that he,
with the help of his sister, should find himself competent for the
task.

It was evening before he returned, but he found Petronella where he
had left her. She had slept almost unbrokenly throughout the day,
and was now greatly refreshed and invigorated. The air of the
forest and the sweet breath of the pines were enough, as she said,
to give her new life; and she descended eagerly to meet and greet
her brother, and to examine the purchases he had made.

The first excitement was the ass who bore the heavy load. Cuthbert
had had some trouble in making a way for the creature to pass down
into the dell; but once here, he would never stray away of his own
accord. Indeed, he appeared to have no disposition that way, for he
began at once to crop the emerald sward around the well with an air
of great contentment, whilst Cuthbert unloaded him and displayed
his purchases to his sister.

"There is thy suit, young Peter," he said with a smile. "I trow
thou wilt make a pretty boy, and wilt find thyself more fitted for
our new life thus habited, and canst rove in the forest thus clad,
an thou hast a mind that way, more safely than thou couldest in a
maid's dress. And here is wine to put some colour into thy pale
cheeks, and food to last us many a day, and blankets to wrap about
us by night when the wind blows chill, and this heavy cloak to keep
the rain from thee when the skies weep. And see, here is a rope
which I trow will let me to the very bottom of the well, an we can
once turn the water some other way; and the ass can drag me forth
again--and the treasure likewise--when once this matter has been
accomplished. The hot, dry weather is coming apace. Men say already
that the springs be something low. All this favours our plans; and
if I can find the spring that feeds this well, as like enough I
may, then will I make shift to turn its waters another way, and the
pixies' well shall be dry!"

Petronella gazed at him in surprise.

"Brother, whence comes all this knowledge to thee? I should never
have dreamed such a thing might be!"

"But I have read of such things being done ere now," answered
Cuthbert eagerly. "I have spent many an hour at Master Cole's shop
upon the bridge reading of such matters--how men mine and
counter-mine, and dig and delve, and sink wells and drain them, and
do many strange things of which we never dreamed in past days. In
times of war it is wondrous how many shifts of that or like kind
they think of and perform. I little thought how soon I myself
should want some such thing accomplished; but I read all eagerly,
and Master Anthony Cole explained much that perplexed me; and I
trow I might e'en do some such thing myself, with thee and this
patient beast to help me in my toil!"

It was with undisguised admiration that Petronella regarded her
brother, and very happy and merry was the meal taken together
beside the well under the green-wood trees. It was hard to realize
that this smiling girl, with the faint pink bloom in her cheek, and
the bright eager eyes, was the cowed and sorrowful Petronella of a
few days back. Cuthbert looked at her with glad pride as she talked
to him and petted the docile ass, who came and stood beside them
and got a full share of such things as were pleasant to his palate.
Petronella had never had the care of a live thing before, and was
delighted with the affection shown towards her at once by the
gentle creature.

Her sleep that night in the tree was sound and refreshing; and when
she joined Cuthbert, dressed in her suit of boys' garments;
laughing, blushing, and delighted with the freedom of motion that
they gave her; he found it hard to believe it was really
Petronella, and vowed it would not be hard to call her Peter, for
that there was little enough of the Petronella of old days to be
found in her.

And from that day forward a happy life began for the brother and
sister thus strangely located in the pixies' dell. Each day saw the
girl growing stronger, brighter, and happier, till she could
scarcely believe it was so short a time since she had fled from her
father's house; whilst Cuthbert, intent upon his plans and his
engineering operations, grew brown and muscular and self reliant,
watching carefully and tenderly over his sister, but spending his
time in healthful toil, and in working out self-imposed problems,
confident that these would in the end succeed in enabling him to
carry out the purpose of his heart.

The pixies' well proved very deep. Soundings taken by the rope
showed that only too clearly. The water flowed three feet over the
false bottom Robin had contrived the better to conceal his hiding
place, whilst below that there was fully ten feet of water; and
Petronella's face grew long as she saw the result of the sounding,
for she could not imagine how any treasure could be got at that lay
thirteen feet below the surface of the water.

"Never mind that, sister mine," said Cuthbert. "Belike it is to
that very fact that it owes its long safety. Even Robin must have
known that to bring it forth again must be a matter of time and
patience. He could not visit it in a moment of haste or fright, and
filch a piece away as he would. Doubtless the place was chosen by
the old Long Robin of past days for the very difficulty there must
be in bringing forth the prize. I have often thought that no buried
treasure could so long have escaped prying hands and covetous
spirits. Bit by bit some would have gone. It is the water that has
been the best protection."

Petronella saw the force of that argument; but as she leaned over
the wall, trying to peer into the dark depths whilst Cuthbert
talked of his scheme for draining it dry, she heaved a little sigh,
and said:

"And what if, after all that long labour, there be no treasure
there in spite of all we believe?"

He looked a little taken aback, but was struck by the practical
nature of the suggestion. He pondered awhile, and then he spoke.

"That is a thought worthy of consideration," he said. "It were a
foolish thing to waste the whole summer only to be deceived in the
end.

"Peter," he added suddenly, as if struck by a new idea, "I am no
fearer of water. I can dive and swim, and I have long wind, and can
hold my breath a great while. Thinkest thou that if I were to leap
into the well and dive to the bottom, thou couldst give me the rope
when I reappeared, and with the aid of the ass pull me forth again?
I can dive through the water, I trow, albeit the well is none too
wide. But I could not climb the steep stone sides; thou and the ass
must help me there."

Petronella was a little timid of the experiment lest harm should
befall her brother, and persuaded him at last to tie the rope about
him ere he dived, so that in the event of his striking his head, or
in any other way hurting himself, she would have power to pull him
up and out, even if he should have lost consciousness. After making
her promise not to use this power unless she were fully persuaded
he was in some difficulty and unable to help himself, Cuthbert
consented to this amendment; and when all preparations were
complete he balanced himself for a moment on the edge of the well,
and then launched himself downwards in a line as straight as an
arrow.

Eagerly and breathlessly Petronella watched for his reappearance,
holding her own breath the while, as though in some way that would
help the diver. He was long gone, as it seemed to her. She had been
forced to take one deep respiration, and was almost tempted to pull
at the rope in her hand, when the water suddenly became again
disturbed and full of bubbles, and a head appeared above it again.

"Cuthbert!" she exclaimed, in a tone of glad relief, "O Cuthbert,
what hast thou found?"

He was clinging to the rope with one hand; the other was beneath
the water out of sight. He raised his eyes, and said between his
gasping breaths:

"Draw me up; the water is chill as ice!"

From the sound of his voice she could not tell whether success had
crowned the attempt or not. She turned without another word, and
led the donkey onwards, gently drawing Cuthbert from the depths of
the well. As she did so he gave a sudden shout of triumph, and
springing over the side of the wall, flung at her feet a solid
golden flagon richly chased, with the arms of the Trevlyns engraved
upon it.

"I scarce dared to look at what I had got as I came up!" he cried,
as he sprang high into the air in the exuberance of his spirit;
"but that will lay all doubt at rest. The lost treasure of Trevlyn
is lost no longer, and Cuthbert and Petronella have found it!"



Chapter 18: "Saucy Kate."


"Wife, what ails the child?"

Lady Frances Trevlyn raised her calm eyes from her embroidery, and
gave one swift glance around the room, as if to make sure that she
and her husband were alone.

"Dost thou speak of Kate?" she asked then in a low voice.

"Ay, marry I do," answered Sir Richard, as he took the seat beside
the glowing hearth, near to his wife's chair, which was his regular
place when he was within doors. "I scarce know the child again in
some of her moods. She was always wayward and capricious, but as
gay and happy as the day was long--as full of sunshine as a May
morning. Whence come, then, all these vapours and reveries and
bursts of causeless weeping? I have found her in tears more oft
these last three months than in all the years of her life before;
and though she strives to efface the impression by wild outbreaks
of mirth, such as we used of old to know, there is something hollow
and forced about these merry moods, and the laugh will die away the
moment she is alone, and a look will creep upon her face that I
like not to see."

"Thou hast watched her something closely, Richard."

"Ay, truly I have. I would have watched any child of mine upon whom
was passing so strange a change; but thou knowest that Kate has
ever been dear to me--I have liked to watch her in her tricksy
moods. She has been more full of affection for me than her graver
sisters, and even her little whims and faults that we have had to
check have but endeared her to me the more. The whimsies of the
child have often brought solace to my graver cares. I love Kate
right well, and like not to see this change in her. What dost thou
think of it, goodwife?"

Lady Frances shook her head gravely.

"Methinks the child has something on her mind, and her sisters
think so likewise, but what it is we none of us can guess. She
keeps her secret well."

"It is not like Kate to have a secret; it is still less like her to
hide it."

"That is what I feel. I have looked day by day and hour by hour for
her to come to me or to thee to tell what is in her mind. But the
weeks have sped by and her lips are still sealed, and, as thou
sayest, she is losing her gay spirits, or else her gaiety is over
wild, but doth not ring true; and there is a look in her eyes that
never used to be there, and which I like not."

"I know the look well--one of wistful, unsatisfied longing. It goes
to my heart to see it there. And hast thou noted that the bloom is
paling in her cheeks, and that she will sit at home long hours,
dreaming in the window seat or beside the hearth, when of old she
was for ever scouring the woods, and coming home laden with flowers
or ferns or berries? I like it not, nor do I understand it. And
thou sayest her sisters know not the cause? I thought that young
maidens always talked together of their secrets."

"Kate doth not. I have talked with Cecilia anent the matter, and
she knows not the cause. Bess has opined that this change first
appeared when it was decided that we went not to London this year,
as we had talked of doing earlier in the summer. Bess says she
noted then how disappointed Kate appeared; and she is of opinion
that she has never been the same since."

Sir Richard stroked his beard with meditative gravity, and looked
into the fire.

"It is true that the change has come upon her since that decision
was made; and yet I find it something difficult to think that such
was the cause. Kate never loved the life of the city, and was wild
with delight when she first tasted the sweets of freedom in these
woods and gardens. She loves her liberty right well, and has said a
thousand times how glorious a thing it is to range at will as she
does here. Capricious as the child has often shown herself, it is
hard to believe that she is pining already for what she left with
so glad a heart. It passes my understanding; I know not what to
think."

Lady Frances raised her eyes for a moment to her husband's face,
and then asked quietly:

"Hast thou ever thought whether some secret love may be the cause
of all?"

The knight started and looked full at his wife.

"I have indeed thought some such thing, but I can scarce believe
that such is the case with our Kate."

"Yet it is often so when maidens change and grow pale and dreamy,
and sit brooding and thinking when erst they laughed and played.
Kate is double the woman she was six months gone by. She will sit
patiently at her needle now, when once she would throw it aside
after one short hour; and she will seek to learn all manner of
things in the still room and pantry that she made light of a short
while back, as matters of no interest or concern to her. She would
make an excellent housewife if she had the mind, as I have always
seen; and now she does appear to have the mind, save when her fits
of gloom and sadness be upon her, and everything becomes a burden."

Sir Richard looked aroused and interested. A smile stole over his
face.

"Our saucy Kate in love, and that secretly! Marry, that is
something strange; and yet I am not sorry at the thought, for I
feared her fancy was something too much taken by her cousin
Culverhouse; and since his father must look for a large dower for
his son's bride, our Kate could never have been acceptable to him.
Nor do I like the marriage of cousins so close akin, albeit in
these times men are saying that there be no ill in such unions."

Lady Frances shook her head gravely.

"I would sooner see daughter of mine wedded in a lowlier sphere. My
heart shrinks from the thought of seeing any child of ours in the
high places of this world. There be snares and pitfalls abounding
there. We have seen enough to know so much. There be bitter
strivings and envyings and hatreds amongst those of lofty degree. I
would have my children wed with godly and proper men; but I would
sooner give them to simple gentlemen of no high-sounding title,
than to those whose duties in life will call them to places round
about the throne, and will throw them amidst the turmoil of Court
life."

Sir Richard smiled at this unworldly way of looking at things; but
the Trevlyns had suffered from being somewhat too well known at
Court, and he understood the feeling.

"Truly we live in perilous times," he said thoughtfully, "and
obscurity is often the best security for happiness and well being.
But to return to Kate. If she is truly forgetting her girlish fancy
for her cousin, as I would gladly believe--and she has not set eyes
on him this year and more--towards whom can her fancy be straying?"

"Thou dost not think she can be pining after her cousin?"

"Nay, surely not," was the quick and decided answer. "Had she pined
it would have been at the first, when they were separated from each
other, and thou knowest how gay and happy she was then. It is but
these past few months that we have seen the change. Depend upon it,
there is some one else. Would that it might be good Sir Robert
Fortescue, who has been here so much of late, and has paid much
attention to our saucy Kate! Wife, what thinkest thou of that? He
is an excellent good man, and would make a stanch and true husband.
He is something old for the child, for sure; but there is no
knowing how the errant fancy of maidenhood will stray."

"I would it might be so," answered Lady Frances. "Sir Robert is a
good and a godly man, and I would gladly give our restless,
capricious Kate to one who could be father and husband in one. But
I confess the thought had not come to me, nor had I thought that he
came hither to seek him a wife."

Sir Richard smiled meaningly.

"Nor had I until of late; but I begin to think that is his object.
He pays more heed to the girls than he did when first he came to
visit us, and he has dropped a word here and a hint there, all
pointing in one direction. And dost thou not note that our Kate is
often brightest and best when he is by? I had never thought before
that her girlish fancy might have been caught by his gray hair and
soldier-like air; yet many stranger things have happened. Wife,
dost thou think it can be?"

"I would it were; it would be well for all. I will watch and see,
and do thou likewise. I had not thought the child's fancy thus
taken; but if it were so, I should rejoice. He would be a good
husband and a kind one, and our headstrong second daughter will
need control as well as love in the battle of life."

So the parents watched with anxious eyes, eager to see some
indication which should encourage them in this newly-formulated
hope. When once the idea had been started, it seemed to both as if
nothing could be better than a marriage between their high-spirited
but affectionate and warm-hearted daughter and this knight of forty
summers, who had won for himself wealth and fame, and a soldier's
reputation for unblemished honour and courage in many foreign
lands. If not exactly the man to produce an immediate impression on
the heart of a young girl, he might well win his way to favour in
time; and certainly it did seem as though Kate took pleasure in
listening to his stories of flood and field, whilst her bright eyes
and merry saucy ways (for she was still her old bright self at
times, and never more frequently so than in the company of Sir
Robert) appeared very attractive to him.

When we are increasingly wishful for a certain turn in affairs, and
begin sedulously to watch for it, unconsciously setting ourselves
to work to aid and abet, and push matters on to the desired
consummation, it is wonderful how easy it is to believe all is
going as we wish, and to see in a thousand little trifling
circumstances corroboration of our wishes. Before another fortnight
had sped by, Kate's parents had almost fully persuaded themselves
of the truth of their suspicion. They were convinced that the
attachment between their child and their guest was advancing
rapidly, and a day came when Sir Richard sought his wife with a
very happy expression of countenance.

"Well, wife, the doubt will shortly be at an end. Sir Robert has
spoken openly at last."

"Spoken of his love for our Kate?"

"Not in these words, but the meaning is the same. He has asked me
if I am willing to entrust one of my daughters to his keeping."

"One of our daughters?" repeated Lady Frances. "And did he not name
Kate? He cannot love them all."

"He spoke of Cecilia and Kate both," answered Sir Richard. "Sir
Robert is not a hot-headed youth, full of the fire of a first
passion. He wishes an alliance with our house, and he sees that
Cecilia, with her four years' seniority, would perchance in the
eyes of the world be the more suitable wife; and he admires her
beauty, and thinks well of her dutifulness, her steadiness, and her
many virtues. Yet it is Kate that takes his fancy most, and if he
could hope to win the wayward fancy and the warm heart of our
second child, she is the one whom he would fain choose as his own.
He has spoken freely and frankly to me, and it comes to this: he
would willingly marry Cecilia, and doubtless make her an excellent
husband, and value the connection with the house of Trevlyn; but if
he could succeed in winning the love of our saucy Kate, he would
sooner have her than the more staid sister, only he fears his gray
hairs and his wrinkles will unfit him as a suitor for the child.
But we, who suspect her heart of turning towards him, have little
fear of this. Kate's sharp eyes have looked beneath the surface.
She has shown that she has a wise head upon her shoulders. So I
told Sir Robert--"

"Not that the child had loved him unbidden, I trust, my husband? I
would not have him think that!"

"Verily no, goodwife; but I told him there was no man living to
whom I would more gladly give a daughter of mine; and that I would
sound both of the maidens, and see how their hearts were set
towards him. But I trow he went away happy, thinking he might win
Kate after all. I could not but whisper a word of hope, and tell
him how wondrous tame the wild bird had latterly become, and how
that her mother had wondered whether thoughts of love had entered
into her head."

Lady Frances smiled, half shaking her head the while, yet not
entirely displeased even with such an admission as that. She had
been watching her daughter closely of late, and she had tried to
think as she wished to think; the consequence being that she had
reached a very decided conclusion in accordance with her desires,
and had small doubts as to the state of her daughter's heart.

"I verily believe the child's sadness has come from the fear that
her youth will stand as a bar to her happiness. She knows Sir
Robert is old enough to be her father, and fears that his
attentions are paid as to a child. Thus has she striven to grow
more wise, more womanly, more fit to be the mistress of his house.
Methinks I see it all. And what is the next thing to be done? Must
we speak with the child?"

"Ay, verily; for I have promised an answer to Sir Robert before
many days have passed. He is to come again at the week's end, and
his bride is to be presented to him. Thinkest thou that Cecilia
will be grieved to find her younger sister preferred before her?
Does she, too, think aught of Sir Robert?"

"I trow she likes him well, though whether she has thought of him
as husband or lover I know not. She is more discreet than Kate, and
can better hide her feelings. I doubt not were her hand asked she
would give it gladly; but more than that I cannot say."

"Then let us hope her heart has not been deeply touched, for I
should be sorry to give her pain. But let us incontinently send for
Kate hither at once to us. I shall rejoice to see the light of
untroubled happiness shining once again in those bright eyes. I
would fain see my saucy Kate her own self again ere she leaves us
as a wedded wife."

So Kate was summoned, and came before her parents with something of
timidity in her aspect, looking furtively from one to the other, as
if a question trembled on her lips that she did not dare to utter.

She had changed in many ways from the gay, laughing girl of a few
months back. There were the same resolution and individuality in
the expression of the face, and the delicate features had by no
means lost all their old animation and bloom; but there was greater
depth in the dark eyes, and more earnestness and gravity in the
expression of both eyes and mouth. There was added sweetness as
well as added thoughtfulness; and mingling strangely with these
newer expressions was one still stranger on the face of Kate--a
look of shrinking, almost of fear, as though she were treading some
dangerous path, where lurked hidden perils that might at any moment
overwhelm her.

The swift look of wistful questioning, the nervous movements of the
slim hands, the parted lips and quickly coming breath, were not
lost upon the parents, who were watching the advance of their
daughter with no small interest and curiosity. But the smile upon
both faces seemed to reassure the girl; and as her father held out
his hand, she came and stood beside him willingly, looking from one
to the other with fluttering breath and changing colour.

"You sent for me, my father?"

"Yes, Kate; we have somewhat to say to thee, thy mother and I.
Canst guess what that something is?"

A vivid blush for a moment dyed her cheek and as quickly faded; but
she did not speak, only shook her head.

Sir Richard gave his wife a quick smile, and took Kate's hand in
his.

"My child," he said, with unwonted tenderness, "why hast thou been
keeping a secret from thy mother and me?"

Kate started and drew her hand away, moving a pace farther off, and
regarding her father with wide open, dilated eyes.

"A secret!" she faltered, and grew very pale.

Sir Richard smiled, and would have taken her hand once more, but
that she glided from his reach, still watching him with an
expression he found it hard to read. Her mother laid down her
embroidery, and studied her face with a look of aroused uneasiness;
but the father was utterly without suspicion of approaching any
hidden peril, and continued in the same kindly tones.

"Nay, now, my girl, thou needest not fear!" he said. "All young
maidens give their hearts away in time; and so as thou givest thine
worthily, neither thy father nor thy mother will chide."

Kate gave one or two gasps, and then spoke with impassioned
earnestness.

"O father, I could not help it! I strove against it as long as I
might. I feared it was a thing that must not be. But love was too
strong. I could not fight for ever."

"Tut--tut, child! why shouldest thou fight? Why didst thou not
speak to thy mother? Girls may breathe a secret into a mother's ear
that is not to be spoke elsewhere. Thou shouldest have told her,
child, and have spared thyself much weary misery."

Kate's head was hung very low; neither parent could see her face.

"I did not dare," she answered softly; "I knew that I was wrong. I
feared to speak."

"Thou art a strange mixture of courage and fear, my saucy Kate. I
would once have vowed that thou wouldst fear not to speak aloud
every thought of thy heart. But love changes all, I ween, and makes
sad cowards of the boldest of us. And so thou didst wait till he
declared his love, and fretted out thy heart in silence the while?"

Kate lifted her head and looked at her father, a faint perplexity
in her eyes.

"Nay, I ever knew he loved me. It was that I feared thy
displeasure, my father. I had heard thee say--"

"Nothing against Sir Robert, I warrant me," cried Sir Richard
heartily; whilst Kate took one backward step and exclaimed:

"Methought Sir Robert was Cecilia's lover! Why speak you to me of
him, my father?"

Sir Richard rose to his feet in great perplexity, looking at his
wife, who was pale and agitated.

"Cecilia's lover--what meanest thou, child?" he asked quickly. "I
was speaking to thee of thine own lover. Sir Robert would fain wed
with thee, and methought thou hadst already given him thy heart."

"No--no--no!" cried Kate, shrinking yet further away. "I had no
thoughts of him. O father, how couldst thou think it? He is a kind
friend; but I have thought him Cecilia's knight, and I trow she
thinks of him thus herself."

Lady Frances now spoke to her daughter for the first time, fixing
her eyes upon her, and addressing her with composure, although
visibly struggling against inward agitation.

"Listen to me, daughter Kate. Thou hast spoken words which, if they
refer not to Sir Robert, as thy father and I believed, have need to
be explained. Thou hast spoken of loving and of being beloved; what
dost thou mean by that? Who is he that has dared--"

"O mother, thou knowest that; thou hast heard it a hundred times.
It is Culverhouse, my cousin, who--"

But Sir Richard's face had clouded suddenly over. He had set his
heart on marrying Kate to his friend Sir Robert, who would, he
believed, make her an excellent husband; and he had long ago given
a half pledge to Lord Andover to thwart and oppose the youthful
attachment which was showing itself between Kate and Culverhouse.
The Earl wished a grand match for his son, and the Trevlyn pride
was strong in Sir Richard, who would never have had a daughter of
his wed where she was not welcome. He also disliked marriages
between first cousins, and made of that a pretext for setting his
face against the match, whilst remaining on perfectly friendly
terms with the Viscount and all his family. He had hoped and quite
made up his mind that that boy-and-girl fancy had been laid at rest
for ever, and was not a little annoyed at hearing the name of her
cousin fall so glibly from Kate's lips.

"Silence, foolish girl!" he said sternly. "Hast thou not been told
a hundred times to think no more of him? How dost thou dare to
answer thy mother thus? Culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is
no match for thee. It is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy
dwell still on him. Methought thou hadst been cured of that
childish liking long since. But if it has not been so, thou shalt
soon be cured now!"

Kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and
there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly
formidable. No one knew better than his favourite daughter that
when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no
hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or
adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she
shrank yet further away as she asked:

"What dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?"

"I mean, Kate," answered Sir Richard, not unkindly, but so
resolutely that his words fell upon her ear like a knell, "that the
best and safest plan of curing thee of thy fond and foolish fancy,
which can never come to good, is to wed thee with a man who will
make thee a kind and loving husband, and will maintain thee in the
state to which thou hast been born. Wherefore, prepare to wed with
Sir Robert Fortescue without delay, for to him I will give thy hand
in wedlock so soon as we can have thee ready to be his bride."

Kate stood for a moment as if transfixed and turned to stone, and
then she suddenly sank upon her knees at her father's feet.

"Father," she said, in a strange, choked voice, that indicated an
intense emotion and agitation, "thou canst not make me the wife of
another; for methinks I am well nigh, if not altogether, the wife
of my cousin Culverhouse."

"What?" almost shouted Sir Richard, making one step forward and
seizing his daughter by the arm. "Wretched girl, what is this that
thou sayest? The wife of thy cousin Culverhouse! Shame upon thee
for so base a falsehood! How dost thou dare to frame thy lips to
it?"

"It is no falsehood!" answered Kate, with flashing eyes, springing
to her feet and confronting her parents with all her old courage,
and with a touch of defiance. "I would have kneeled to ask your
pardon for my rashness, for my disobedience, for the long
concealment; but I am no liar, I speak but the truth. Listen, and I
will tell all. It was on May Day, and I rode forth into the forest
and distanced pursuit, and joined my cousin Culverhouse, as we had
vowed to do. We thought then of naught but the joy of a day
together in the forest, and had not dreamed of such a matter as
wedlock. But then to the church porch came one calling himself a
priest. They say he comes every year, and weds all who will come to
him. And many did. And Culverhouse and I stood before him, and he
joined our hands, and we made our vows, and he pronounced us man
and wife before all assembled there. And whether it be binding
wedlock or no, it is to us a solemn betrothal made before God and
man; and not all the commands thou couldst lay upon me, my father,
could make me stand up and vow myself to another as I have vowed
myself to Culverhouse. I should hold myself forsworn; I should be
guilty of the vilest crime in the world. Thou wilt not ask it of
me. Thou canst not know, even as I do not know, whether that
wedlock is not valid before man, as it is before God."

A thunderbolt falling between them could scarcely have produced
more astonishment and dismay. Lady Frances sank back in her seat
white with horror and bewilderment, whilst Sir Richard stood as if
turned to stone; and when at last he was able to speak, it was to
order Kate to her room in accents of the sternest anger, bidding
her not to dare to leave it until he brought her forth himself.

Kate fled away gladly enough, her mind rent in twain betwixt
remorse at her own disobedience and deceit, triumph in having
stopped Sir Robert's suit by so immovable an obstacle, and relief
that the truth was out at last, even though her own dire disgrace
was the result. The secret had preyed terribly on her mind of late,
and had been undermining her health and spirits. Terrible as the
anger of her parents might be, anything to her open nature seemed
better than concealment; and she dashed up to her own room in a
whirl of conflicting emotions, sinking down upon the floor when she
reached it to try to get into order her chaotic thoughts.

Meantime husband and wife, left alone to their astonishment, stood
gazing at each other in blank amaze.

"Husband," said Lady Frances at last, "surely such wedlock is not
lawful?"

"I cannot tell," he answered gloomily; "belike it is not. Yet a
troth plight made in so solemn a fashion, and before so many
witnesses, is no light thing; and the child may not be wedded to
another whilst the smallest shadow of doubt remains. Doubtless
Culverhouse foresaw this, the bold knave, and persuaded the child
into it. Well it has served his purpose. Sir Robert must be content
with Cecilia. But the artfulness of the little jade! I never
thought Kate would so deceive us--"

"It is that that breaks my heart!" cried the mother--"that, and the
thought that she should be willing to go before some Popish priest
and take her vows to him. Oh, it cannot be binding on the child--it
cannot be binding! And Sir Robert is stanch in the Reformed faith;
he is just the husband that wild girl needs. Husband, can nothing
be done?"

Sir Richard looked very grave.

"That would be hard to tell without strict inquiries. I doubt me if
we could learn all before next May Day, when we might get hold of
the man himself and find out who and what he is. Such wedlock as
his cannot be without flaw, and might be made invalid by law; but,
wife, there is no getting over this, that the child took her vows
in the name of God, and I dare not act as though such vows were
unspoken. Her youth and ignorance may plead in part for her. She
scarce knew the solemnity of the step she was taking. Culverhouse
won upon her and over persuaded her, I do not doubt. I do not seek
to excuse her. I am grievously displeased and disappointed. But I
cannot and I will not give her to Sir Robert; Cecilia must be his
wife."

"Then Kate must be sent away," said Lady Frances, gravely and
severely; "I cannot and will not have her here, mixing as before
with her sisters with this cloud hanging upon her, with this secret
still shadowing her life. She has proved unworthy of our
confidence. I am more pained and displeased than I can say. She
must go. She must not be able to tell Cecilia that she might have
been Lady Fortescue but for her marriage with Culverhouse. She is
no longer to be trusted. She must go forth from home as a
punishment for her wrongdoing. I feel that I cannot bear to see her
about the house, knowing how she has deceived us. She shall go
forth this very day."

Sir Richard stood considering. He too was deeply displeased with
his daughter, though he had some sympathy with the ardent and
impulsive lovers, who had got themselves into a queer plight, and
had thrown much perplexity upon others. But he decidedly agreed
with his wife that it would be better for Kate to go--and to go in
disgrace, that she might feel herself punished by being severed
from her sisters when the first wedding of the family was taking
place (save her own woodland nuptials). And it would doubtless save
some natural embarrassment to Sir Robert himself to have one of the
sisters out of the way before he formally espoused the other;
though, to be sure, such a proposition as his had been was a common
enough thing in those days.

"It would be good to send her away; but whither can she go?"

"Where better than to Lady Humbert and Mistress Dowsabel, who have
ofttimes asked us to send a daughter to enliven their dull
solitude? We have ever excused them on account of their youth and
high spirits, fearing they would be moped to death in that dismal
place; but it will be the very house for our wayward Kate to go to
repent of her ill deeds. If you will write a letter to them, we
will send it forthwith by a mounted messenger, and the answer will
be back before dark. If she is to go, she can start with the first
light of tomorrow morning, and we can get her mails packed ready
tonight; for she must not disgrace her state, but must be furnished
with all things fitting to her condition."

Sir Richard thought that no other plan better than this could be
devised for his erring daughter; and though he could not but feel
some compassion for the girl, condemned to be the companion of a
pair of aged and feeble gentlewomen such as his aunts had long
been, was nevertheless of opinion that the captivity and dullness
would be salutary, and despatched his letter without delay.

That same night Kate, who had passed the long hours in weeping and
rejoicing, and in all those conflicting phases of feeling common to
the young, heard with a mixture of' pleasure and dismay that she
was to be sent in disgrace to the keeping of her great aunts, and
that without delay; also that she was not even to say goodbye to
her sisters, or to see them again until something had been decided
as to her future and the validity of her wilful espousals. She was
made to feel that she had committed a terrible sin, and one that
her parents would find it hard to forgive; yet she could not help
exulting slightly in the thought that they had been obliged to take
the matter so seriously; and she had a dim hope that her aged
relatives, when she did come to them, might not prove altogether so
crabbed and cross as she had always been led to suppose. Perhaps
she might find a warm corner even in their old hearts.



Chapter 19: The Cross Way House.


With the first light of day the start was to be made. Kate, who had
slept little, was ready betimes, had dressed herself in her riding
suit long before she was sent for, and was employing herself in
wondering if she would after all be permitted to say farewell to
her sisters, and whether she should have an opportunity of asking
her mother's pardon for her wrongdoing in this matter of her secret
espousals.

The girl had suffered a good deal during these past months. She had
not realized when yielding to Culverhouse's persuasions how hard it
would be to live beneath her parents' roof with this secret preying
on her mind. She had not realized what a weight it would become in
time, and she had looked for a speedy meeting with her cousin and
betrothed in London, whither Sir Richard had intended taking his
family for a while before the autumn set in. Kate had looked
forward then to making her confession to her parents and his, and
winning pardon for them both, as she felt sure of doing when she
had his support in the telling of the tale. But the change of her
father's plans, and the absence from England of Lord Culverhouse,
who had been sent on a mission to France by his father, put an end
to all these hopes, and she had felt the burden of her secret heavy
indeed. Moreover, she was fearful lest Culverhouse should in some
sort repent him of the step he had taken and wish it undone. Kate
had but a small share of vanity, and only a very modest
appreciation of her own attractions, and it seemed to her as though
her cousin, moving as he did in the gay world of fashion, must
surely see many other maidens tenfold more beautiful and graceful.
Suppose he were to repent of his secret betrothal; suppose his
troth plight weighed heavy on his spirit? what misery that would be
for both! And during these long months of silence such thoughts and
fears had preyed upon the girl's spirit, and had produced in her
the change that both her parents had observed.

Wherefore now that the confession had been made, and the burdensome
secret was a secret no longer, a reaction set in that was almost
like relief. She felt certain, since all was known, that
Culverhouse would come forward and stand boldly beside her and lay
claim to her hand before the world as he had talked of doing when
he had led her to the troth plight on that May Day that seemed so
long ago now.

Even the thought of the journey and the visit to her father's great
aunts was not altogether distasteful. She was more afraid of
meeting her mother's sorrowful glances than stern ones from
strangers. Kate had no lack of courage, and the love of variety and
change was implanted in her as strongly as it is in most young
things; so that when Philip knocked at her door as the first rays
of the October sun were gilding the trees and fields, it was with a
smiling face that she opened to him, whilst he looked at her with
something of smiling surprise in his glance.

"Art ready, my sister? the horses will be at the door in a few
short minutes. I am glad to see thee so bright and happy. I had
feared to discover thee bathed in tears of woe."

"Perchance I ought to be heavier hearted than I am," answered Kate,
with a swift glance at Philip through her long lashes. "I do repent
me that I have angered our father and mother. I know that I have
been wrong to keep the secret; perchance I was wrong to let
Culverhouse persuade me. But that the thing is done I cannot truly
repent; the only thing which would make me wish that vow unsaid
would be if Culverhouse were to wish to be free of his troth
plight."

"Which I trow he never will be," answered Philip warmly, as he laid
his hand on Kate's shoulder.

Those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy. Kate knew
all his love for Petronella, and his anxiety for her since her
flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with Cuthbert
in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and
he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers.

"He has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we
played together as children. Save that concealment ever leads to
trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings
of, I could find it in my heart to wish that Petronella and I were
wed in like fashion. But our mother is sorely grieved at what thou
hast done--going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own
kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy
parents before they passed thy lips, and should have been made in
different fashion and in a different place. Howbeit no doubt time
will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought.
When we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my
father and I will to London to speak with Lord Andover of this
business. I trust all will end well for thee, sister. But thou must
learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that
they do not fear to give thee to Culverhouse at last, since it must
needs be so."

Kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her
brother's words.

"In very sooth I will try, Philip. I thank thee for thy good
counsel. I will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts. I
will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy
my mother when she makes inquiry of them."

Kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through
the forest and across the heath that day. Her father was stern and
grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her. Philip and she
talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure,
and observed a befitting decorum and quietness. Sir Richard made
his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him
exactly how and where it had taken place. As they stopped to bait
the horses at the little hostelry, he made various inquiries
concerning the priest and his annual visitation to the wake on May
Day, and his face looked none the less severe as he heard the
replies.

"Methinks the knot hath been something tightly tied--too tight for
it to be easily unloosed," whispered Philip to his sister as he
lifted her to the saddle after the noontide halt; and she could not
but answer by a bright smile, which she saw reflected in his face.

The day, which had been bright and fine, turned dull and lowering
as the riders neared the Cross Way House, as the residence of Lady
Humbert was called; and Kate looked curiously at the house as they
approached it, wondering what sort of a life its inmates led.

To her eyes, accustomed to the seclusion of park and grounds, the
most striking feature of this house was that it stood actually upon
the road itself. It occupied an angle of the cross formed by the
junction of four roads, and its north and east windows looked out
straight upon these two highways, with nothing intervening between
them but some twenty feet of paved walk enclosed behind walls ten
feet high, and guarded by strong gates of wrought iron.

Doubtless to the south and west there were gardens and grounds. The
walls seemed to run a long way along the road, and Kate felt
certain that she should find seclusion and privacy there. She could
see tall trees rearing their heads above the wall, and was certain
from the aspect of the house, which was sufficiently imposing, that
she should find within the ease and luxury to which she was
accustomed.

On the whole, she rather liked the prospect of looking out upon the
roads. If Culverhouse were to ride by, she could signal to him from
the windows. She could watch the fine folk passing to and fro on
their way to London. Possibly a belated traveller might ask shelter
at the house, and amuse them with tales of adventure and peril.
Kate had time to think of many things as their horses stood at the
gates awaiting admittance; and when these were thrown back at last,
and they rode through an archway and into a centre courtyard round
which the house was built, the girl was delighted with everything;
for the quadrangular structure was a novelty to her, and a novelty
which took her fancy not a little. There were servants to look
after the horses; and it was plain the travellers were expected,
for they were quickly ushered into the house by one of the great
doors which opened on a wide flight of steps leading down into the
court, and were there met by an aged majordomo, who greeted them
with ceremonious solemnity.

"My lady is looking for you, sir," he said to Sir Richard; and
turning to Kate, he added, in the same mechanical fashion, "Your
maid will show you to your room, madam. My lady will see you after
you have recovered from the fatigues of the journey."

Kate was not in the least fatigued, but she was too well brought up
to remonstrate in any way. The maid was hovering in the background;
an elderly woman with a capable face and slightly repellent manner.
It was plain to Kate that her relatives would not receive her till
they had learned more of the details of her banishment from home
from her father, and had made up their minds how to treat her. She
felt that even the serving woman regarded her somewhat in the light
of a culprit, and it was with a mind divided betwixt amusement and
girlish shame that she followed the attendant into the bed chamber
that had been prepared for her.

This was a more sumptuous apartment than her room at home, and
looked comfortable enough in the glow of the great fire of logs.
The hangings of the bed were dark and heavy, and the carved oak
furniture was also sombre in its polished blackness; but there was
a thick square carpet on the floor, which was a luxury Kate had
never possessed in her bed chamber before, and the mirrors and
silver sconces for the candles all bespoke an ease and luxury that
reminded Kate of what life would be like when she lived as a
Countess or Viscountess in her own house, with Lord Culverhouse as
lord and master.

"This is your room," said the woman. "Your mails arrived earlier in
the day, and your things have been put away in the cupboard there
and in the bureau yonder. My lady gave orders you were to be served
with something to eat and drink in your own room, and that she
would visit you later. There is another young lady visiting in the
house; she will come and see you if you will permit her."

"Very willingly," answered Kate, who was always ready for company,
and very curious to know something about these great aunts of hers,
whom she had never seen as yet. "I shall be glad of food, as I
liked not what they served us with at the inn in the forest. As for
the young lady, albeit I know not who she can be, I should gladly
welcome her. I have no love for too much of my own company;
wherefore the sooner she comes the better shall I be pleased."

The woman withdrew, and Kate removed her hat and gloves, and looked
about her with quick, searching glances.

"A good room in sooth, and no bad prison, if prisoner I am to be.
And since I may have company, I can scarce be in such dire disgrace
as that. I wonder who this visitor may be? Some Wyvern, belike; but
doubtless we shall learn to take pleasure in each other.

"Soft! are those steps without? Yes; and some one knocks at the
door.

"Enter, enter, I pray. I am right glad--What! do my eyes deceive
me? Sure I am in some strange dream! Petronella! Surely it cannot
be Petronella! The features are the same; but the Petronella I once
knew was wan and frail as a fair wood lily, and thou--nay, but it
cannot be!"

"But it is--it is!" cried the girl, making a bound forward and
flinging her arms round Kate's neck in an ecstasy of happiness;
"and, O Kate, I have seen him again! I saw him ride to the door by
thy side! Perchance I shall even have words with him ere he journey
forth again! Ah, how rejoiced was I when I heard that thou wert
coming! O Kate, I have such news for thee--such news, such news!"

The two girls were folded in each other's arms. Between every few
words they paused to kiss and laugh in the very exuberance of their
happiness. It seemed like a dream to Kate; she could scarce believe
her eyes.

"Petronella--but how earnest thou here?"

"I came when the weather grew so inclement that Cuthbert would no
longer let me share his forest life. He brought me to this house,
and our aunts, when they heard our story, opened their doors to me;
and I have been here three whole weeks--ever since the summer's
heats broke in storms of rain. But here I go by the name of Ellen
Wyvern, lest haply it should come to my father's ears that I am
here, and he should fetch me away. But I have almost ceased to
quake at that thought; I have had my freedom so long."

"I scarce know thee, thou art so changed--so full of sunshine and
courage," cried Kate. "Erstwhile thou wert like a creature of
moonlight and vapour; a breath seemed as though it would blow thee
away. What has befallen to change thee so? What hast thou been
doing all this while? And where is Cuthbert?"

"Cuthbert is yet in the forest," answered Petronella, sinking her
voice to the merest whisper, as if afraid that even the walls would
have ears. "His task is not yet finished. It is one that takes
great skill and patience and watchfulness. But it is being
accomplished by slow and sure degrees. Ah, Kate! what news thinkest
thou that I have for thee? The time has not yet come when the world
may know all; but I trow that thou mayest know, for thou hast ever
been with us in the secret of the quest."

Kate's face flushed and paled; her heart beat fast with hope and
wonder. She well knew what difference to her future would be made
by the restoration to the house of Trevlyn of that lost treasure.
She could scarce frame the words she longed to speak, but her eyes
asked the question for her; and Petronella, putting her lips close
to her cousin's ear, whispered the wondrous news that the lost
treasure was found.

"Found--really found!" and Kate gave a great gasp. "Nay, but,
Petronella, tell me how."

Petronella laid a warning hand upon Kate's lips.

"Nay, cousin, but thou must call me Ellen here. And we must wait
till the household be at rest, and we share the same bed, ere I
dare to pour into thine ears all the tale. And thou must promise to
breathe no word of it, bad nor good, till the moment has come for
the world to know. It will not be long now, I trow; but we are
pledged, and were it not that I know well thou art stanch and true,
I dared not have shared the joyful secret with thee."

"It is safe with me," cried Kate; "I will never betray it. O Ellen,
how I long to hear the whole! But since that may not be now, tell
me more of these great aunts of ours. What treatment am I to look
for beneath their roof? Am I to be received as kinswoman or as
prisoner? for marry I know not myself."

Petronella's face kindled into smiles, those bright happy smiles
that gave it a charm never seen in past days. She bent an arch
glance upon her cousin, and then made reply.

"The Lady Humbert is a fine stately dame, before whom my heart
quailed mightily when first I stood before her. Her voice is sharp;
her eyes look you through and through; her frown sets you quaking,
and makes you wish the earth would swallow you up. But for all
that, when once you get to know her, you find that a warm heart
beats beneath her stiff bodice, and that though she will speak
sharply to you before your face, she will do you many a kind act of
which you know little or nothing. Mistress Dowsabel is younger,
smaller, less fearsome to the eye; indeed she is timorous and often
full of fears herself. She too is kind, though I truly think that
Lady Humbert has the larger heart. They love each other well, and
are willing to befriend all who have claims of kindred. For the
rest, they live much secluded from the world, and think that the
times are sadly changed for the worse since the days when they were
young."

"And what think they of me?" asked Kate, with natural girlish self
consciousness.

Petronella repeated her arch glance.

"To me they say that thou art a wilful maid who needest watching
and stern guarding. They shake their heads at such loose marriage,
and tell me to take warning and not fall into like folly and sin
through overmuch love of my own way. But I heard them talking
together of thee when they forgot that I was by; and then there was
something different in their words, and I could scarce forbear to
smile."

"What said they then?" asked Kate eagerly.

"My Lady Humbert, she said that Lord Andover was a good man and
stanch, and that all spoke well of his son. They added that if thou
wouldst one day be Countess of Andover, they would gladly think
that thou wouldst worthily fill that place. Aunt Dowsabel asked if
thou hadst made a good beginning in this hasty marriage or troth
plight of thine; whereat Lady Humbert gave a laugh, and said she
was glad that thou hadst had the spirit of thy ancestors in thee,
and that for her part, if you were both true and stanch in your
love, she saw small harm in letting love have the mastery over
prudence. And then it turned out, as I learned from their talk,
that she herself had run away to be married when she was a girl,
and that she had never for one hour repented the act. So she
plainly felt that thou wast her own kinswoman in all faith; and
although she may speak to thee with stern rebuke, thou mayest know
in thy heart that she thinks kindly of thee, and that she will
stand thy friend with thy father, and make the peace with thy
mother if she may."

Kate's face flushed happily.

"Nay, now, that is good hearing! Why did we not know these good
aunts before? I can go before them with a light heart now. I repent
me of nothing save that I displeased my parents, and hid the matter
from them all this while. I trow I shall never repent that I let
Culverhouse persuade me to plight my troth to him."

Kate was glad of the assurance Petronella's words had given her
when she was presently summoned before her relatives, and stood in
the dim panelled room before their straight-backed chairs, feeling
the stern eyes of Lady Humbert fixed full upon her, whilst she
heard that her father and brother had already left, since it was
only pain and grief to them to be beneath the same roof as their
obdurate and disobedient daughter and sister.

Kate received the lecture addressed her by the mistress of the
house with all becoming humility, and without that sinking of heart
that she might otherwise have felt at the cold stern tone; and she
gladly passed her word, when desired to do so, not to go beyond the
precincts of the great walled garden without special permission. In
her walks and rides abroad she was always to be attended, and was
to promise never to slip away from her escort. If she would
faithfully promise this, she might be allowed the companionship of
Ellen Wyvern, now a guest beneath the roof of Cross Way House; and
to give this promise cost Kate no pang, for she had no feverish
desire after unfettered liberty, but was content to await the time
she knew must shortly come now, when Culverhouse would come to
claim her for his own, and would find her no longer the portionless
maiden she once had been, but dowered with some of the rich spoil
from that long-lost hoard.

Supper was served in solemn state in the dining parlour, and the
two girls sat with their aged relatives to partake of it.
Petronella was a little sad that Philip had gone without even
knowing of her presence beneath that roof: but she was certain
their meeting would not be much longer delayed, and was content to
wait. The Wyvern sisters did not keep a great establishment, as
their means were not large, though they clung to the old house
which had come down to them, and would have sacrificed much rather
than sell it. But Kate soon discovered that the largest rooms were
shut up and partially dismantled in order that comfort should reign
in those parts of the house that were habitually used; that the
staff of servants was but small; and that of these nearly all were
old men and women who had grown gray and enfeebled in the service
of the family, and were kept on by the present mistresses, who
themselves disliked any changes in their establishment, and who
could hardly see their way to finding the wages that able-bodied
servants would look to receive. So they lived in this very quiet
fashion, surrounded by retainers almost as aged as themselves, and
led on the whole a happy and a placid life. Petronella was proving
of so much use that the burden of her maintenance was not felt, and
Sir Richard Trevlyn made generous arrangements for the cost of his
daughter. But there was something altogether quaint and curious in
the life of the house, and Kate thought it exceedingly interesting
even before the first evening had passed.

Yet all the while she was longing to hear Petronella's tale, and
was glad when the tapestry work was put away, and formal good
nights had been exchanged. The girls ran up to the guest chamber
prepared for Kate, which they had agreed to share together from
that time forth. It did not take them long to slip into bed; and
old Dyson, the waiting woman, who also acted as housekeeper, came
quickly in to see that the lights were safely extinguished, after
which only the glow of the fire illuminated the darkness of the big
room; and Kate in an eager whisper begged Petronella to lose no
time in telling her tale.

With breathless eagerness she heard of the girl's flight from home,
and of her rescue of Cuthbert from the very jaws of death. She
could not understand Petronella's shuddering horror at the thought
of having killed a man.

"I would have killed fifty, and been glad to rid the earth of them
were they such wretches as Long Robin!" she cried.

Then in deep silence she heard of Cuthbert's dive into the well,
and of the golden flagon he had brought up as an earnest of what
was to come. Petronella went on to say that, having made absolutely
sure of the presence of the treasure in the well, Cuthbert had then
directed all his energies to detecting the sources of the hidden
springs that fed it, and after long search and patience had
satisfied himself that it was filled by two, both rising in the
high ground not far distant.

He had then set to work to see how these waters could be diverted
so as to leave the well dry at his will; and though it had taken
months to perform this feat, and had only been done at the cost of
immense labour and trouble, still it had been done, and one day in
early September the brother and sister had stood together to see
the water ebbing slowly and more slowly away, until at last their
eyes beheld a vast quantity of silver and gold lying exposed at the
bottom of the well, and knew that the lost treasure of Trevlyn was
theirs indeed.

But their labours were not yet ended. It was plain to both that
they must quickly find some safe spot whither they could transport
it all, else some passing traveller might even now see and report
what he had seen, and so rob them of the fruit of their toil.

Afraid to go to Trevlyn Chase for help, lest the news should in
some way leak out to Nicholas at the Gate House, and also because
the brother and sister had set their hearts on accomplishing the
task entirely alone, it suddenly entered Cuthbert's head to take
his sister to the Cross Way House, and ask of its owners protection
for her through the approaching inclement season; and then, if
satisfied that these Wyvern kinswomen were to be trusted, and were
friendly of disposition towards them, to whisper the secret of the
treasure trove in their ears, and ask leave to deposit it all
within the great strongroom underground, that the Wyvern house had
always boasted, and of which the secret was known to very few.

This was the plan that had been carried out. His reception by Lady
Humbert, and her kindness to the lonely Petronella when her pitiful
story was told, quite decided Cuthbert to confide the golden secret
to her. She listened in amaze, but was highly pleased at being the
first person to know it. She laid her hand on Cuthbert's head, and
spoke to him of the old saw which predicted that fortune should
return to the Wyverns through the daughters' sons, and declared
that he was fulfilling the prophecy she had longed to live to see
come true. Cuthbert trusted that such indeed would be the case, but
did not know whether the Wyverns had any lot or share in the
treasure trove. Whereat the old lady smiled, and said that she laid
no claim to the gold--it was none of theirs, and never would be;
but still, with her hand on Cuthbert's head, she declared that
after herself and her sister he should reign at the Cross Way
House, and that his share of the treasure, which in all sooth
should be a large one, since but for him it might never have been
found, would go to restore the fallen fortunes of the house, and to
fulfil in very truth the fondly-cherished prediction.

Cuthbert's amazement had naturally been great; but this fair
prospect held out to him had but given greater zest to his
enterprise. Not to a single soul in the house would Lady Humbert
confide the secret, lest amongst themselves the faithful old
servants should gossip, and rumour get abroad that the lonely house
was worth attacking. In the dead of night, upon appointed dates,
Cuthbert brought to a certain iron-barred window the laden ass
bearing his costly burden, and Petronella and Lady Humbert
themselves received the treasure and bore it piece by piece to the
secret room. Not a creature slept on that side of the house--not a
living being knew what was passing in the dead hours of the night; and
in this fashion the treasure was being brought, Cuthbert descending
the well, into which a little water had now filtered--enough to
conceal the treasure from a passing observer if such there should
chance to be--and with the assistance of their four-footed friend,
drawing up as much as the patient beast could carry, and transporting
it by night to this very house.

"When all is done," concluded Petronella--"and every load we think
must surely be the last, there is so much of it--then he will forth
to seek the gipsy in the forest, and tell her that the task is
done. After that he will to London, to see how it fares with his
cousins there, and to tell my uncle something of his tale,
demanding, as I right well believe, the hand of our cousin Cherry
in wedlock, since he may now support a wife in all comfort and
ease. When that is done he will hither again, and Lady Humbert will
ask to her house a gathering of kinsfolk for the Yuletide festival.
And then the great secret will be told. The treasure will be
divided between the Trevlyns assembled beneath this roof; and I
trow, sweet Kate, that my Lord Culverhouse will contrive to be
here, and that when the good news has been told to all, he will
have small work in getting the parental blessing for those nuptials
that will be celebrated anew with pomp and rejoicing, and will make
thee in very truth, and without shadow of a doubt, the Viscountess
Culverhouse."

Kate, laughing and quivering, clasped Petronella in her arms, as
she cried between laughter and tears:

"And when that good hap befalls me, sweet Petronella, I will
warrant that Philip will be in no wise behind in claiming his
bride, and that thou as well as I shalt find that the recovered
treasure of Trevlyn has smoothed our path to wedded happiness!"



Chapter 20: How It Fared With Cherry.


"Gramercy! what next, I wonder! Here's a pretty kettle of fish! I
always did say that no good came of letters. I wish folks had more
sense than to spend their time writing! I never get a letter but
what it brings a peck of bother with it."

Mistress Susan Holt was the speaker. She held in her hand a piece
of paper which she was eying with many a scornful sniff. It had
been left at the bridge house by a courier riding through to
Westminster from the south country, and Martin Holt had called his
sister down to his business parlour to open and read the missive.

He now looked up from his books with a pardonable curiosity to say:

"Well, sister Susan, letters do not trouble thee oft. And what may
be the news in this one? and from whom comes it?"

"From Prudence Dyson."

"Prudence at the Cross Way House? And what says she? it is long
since we had news of her."

"So long that I had almost forgot where she was: and I marvel she
should trouble us thus. Thy daughters are not serving wenches,
Martin. What can Prudence be thinking of?"

Martin smiled slightly. It seemed to him that beneath his sister's
iron rule his daughters did little but toil after the fashion of
serving wenches from morning to night. As for Susan herself, she
worked harder than any servant she had ever had beneath her sway.

"What says the letter?" he asked briefly; "what is the matter that
angers thee?"

"I am not angry," answered Susan sharply. "I trust I know my duty
better as a Christian than to be angered over trifles. I am but
surprised at such a request. Prudence Dyson asks if I can spare one
of my nieces and thy daughters to dwell for a while at Cross Way
House, to help her with her duties there."

Martin Holt did not appear to see anything very unreasonable or
extraordinary in that request.

"What has caused her to wish it?" he asked quietly. "Is she in any
way ill or disabled?"

"It is not that; it is that there be two young ladies of gentle
birth dwelling now beneath Lady Humbert's care. Prudence desires to
give them all due tendance and service; but as thou knowest,
Martin, the household purse there is not deep, and Prudence strives
might and main to do all she can to save her kind mistress from
needless cost. She is striving now to attend herself upon all four
ladies; and she says that the young maidens are very kindly and
gentle and helpful. But she likes not to see them wait upon
themselves, and she knows that my Lady Humbert would wish them to
have all needful service. Wherefore she asks if thou couldst spare
a daughter to go thither for a while to help her by waiting on the
young damsels. And I--"

"Well, and wherefore not?" said Martin, stroking his chin
thoughtfully. "Prudence is a good woman, and my dead wife loved her
best of all her family. I know that Lady Humbert is a woman into
whose house any father might trust his daughter without a fear. As
for the question of serving wenches, I trow the wench who goes will
have an easier time than the sisters who abide at home. Susan, I
think it only right to help Prudence in this matter; I can see no
reason against so doing."

Susan seldom opposed the master of the house, but she looked a
little sour and displeased.

"We shall have Christmas upon us right soon; we can ill spare any
hands then," she said.

"O--ho! So it is the thought of thine own pies and stuffed meats
that weighs with thee!" said Martin with a laugh. "Then I will tell
thee what I will do. I will send Cherry, whom thou art ever chiding
for being useless to thee. She shall go to wait upon the two young
madams and help good Prudence at the Cross Way House, and thou
shalt keep thy two useful nieces at home with thee."

Susan's brow cleared somewhat, but she made a movement of her bony
shoulders indicative of scorn.

"Cherry may go with all my heart, for she is idler and more useless
than ever, and does naught from morning to night but sit at the
window, watching the folks in the street, and turning from red to
pale and pale to red as though she were a bride looking for the
arrival of her bridegroom. I have no patience with such ways. I
knew no good would come of always spoiling the child. I can do
naught with her now; she heeds not a word I say. Ofttimes she does
not even know that I am speaking to her. She may go, and welcome!
but I misdoubt me that Prudence will thank thee for the loan. Much
good and much service she will get out of Keren Happuch!"

Martin Holt looked thoughtfully at his sister.

"That is partly why I am glad the child should go. I too have seen
a change in her. Methinks she is feeling the long hot summer in the
city. There be many that have told me that she is not looking as
she should do. This idleness shows something of indisposition, I
take it. Doubtless she will receive benefit from a change of air
and occupation. She loves to be in the open air, and at the Cross
Way House there will be gardens and pleasaunces and orchards where
she may perchance be suffered to wander at will. Prudence will be
kind to her, and I shall send her gladly."

Susan again made her peculiar gesture, as much as to say that she
washed her hands of responsibility in the matter.

"She is thy daughter--do as thou wilt, Martin; but I warn thee that
no good will come of it. Going amongst ladies will make her think
herself a finer lady than ever: and now as it is she will scarce
deign to soil her dainty hands with anything coarser than the
making of light pastry. Thou wilt spoil her for a city man's wife;
and I know not how Abraham Dyson will take it. Prudence is his
sister, to be sure, and it is to do her a kindness; but Jacob wants
a useful wife--and, as I understood, they were resolved not to
delay the marriage beyond Christmas. Rachel has been six months
wed, and the house wants a mistress who can move about and look to
things."

Martin was looking very thoughtful. He did not reply for a while,
and then he said slowly:

"Send the child to me, Susan; I will speak to her of this myself."

"Ay, thou hadst best do so, for I might as well speak to the walls
as to Keren Happuch," said Mistress Susan as she went on her way up
the stairs, by no means pleased at the easy fashion in which her
brother took this matter.

Susan loved a grand fuss and talk and discussion over every trifle
in the day's round, and this was more than a trifle. Her tongue was
as active as her hands, and she would talk by the hour as she
worked, until those about her grew weary of the very sound of her
voice.

Martin Holt, who was fully alive to his sister's many virtues and
valuable qualities, did find her something of a trial also, and it
never struck him as at all inexplicable that the self willed and
impetuous little Cherry should often be at loggerheads with her
aunt.

As she stole down the staircase and stood before him with a
wondering, questioning look in her big eyes, he eyed her keenly,
and could not but see that some of the bloom had faded from her
cheeks, and that she had in some way changed during the past
months.

"Cherry," he said, taking her small hand in his and speaking in an
unwontedly gentle way, "has thy aunt told thee wherefore I want
thee?"

"No, father; she said that thou wouldst tell me."

"And so I will; but tell me first if there is aught amiss with
thee. I have missed thy laugh of late, and thou hast lost some of
thy roses. Does aught ail thee, child?"

Sudden tears welled up in Cherry's eyes; her lip began to tremble.

"I know not, I know not," she answered, with a little sob. "It only
seems sometimes as though I could not bear the life any longer; it
is all so drear, so dull, so dead! one day like another--always the
same. Sometimes I think the narrow house will stifle me! O father,
chide me not; I have struggled against the feeling, but the life is
killing me! I know not how to bear it--alone."

The last word was almost a whisper, and escaped Martin's ears. He
was regarding his child with a thoughtful and perplexed
countenance. He fancied that he was somewhat in the position of a
mother hen who sees its foster brood of ducklings take to the water
for the first time. He did not understand this outburst in the
least. Cherry's restless discontent was an enigma to him. But he
saw that it was real, and that it was a source of trouble and
suffering to herself; and he wisely resolved neither to rebuke nor
condemn her, but simply to treat it as the symptom of a malady of
the body which might be cured by a few months' change and
relaxation.

The child was half frightened at her own boldness, and stood
trembling before him, Her aunt would have boxed her ears and sent
her to bed for such a confession; but her father only looked at her
as though he were trying to read her very soul, and Cherry
instinctively dropped her eyes, as if fearful that another secret
would be read there--a secret which she kept locked up closely in
her breast, and would not for the world that any other should know.

"Cherry," said Martin Holt, speaking slowly and quietly, "I know
not what to think of thy words, save that thy disordered fancies
come from a disordered health. Thou hast been looking less robust
than I like to see thee; wherefore I think it well that thou
shouldest have some change in thy life, and see if that will cure
thee. Thy good aunt Prudence Dyson, a younger sister of thy mother,
has sent to ask me if I will spare her one of my daughters to help
wait upon some young madams staying with my Lady Humbert. Thou hast
not been brought up to such duties, but thou hast quick hands and
eyes, and, I trust, a willing heart, and I have resolved to send
thee. Thou wilt be in the country, and the change will doubtless be
good for thee. I shall look to receive thee back restored to thine
old self again. The Cross Way House stands south from this by some
seventeen miles, and is not very far away from the forest of which
Cuthbert used to talk, and Trevlyn Chase where his kinsfolk live.
Thou mayest hear somewhat of him there, for methinks the ladies
Wyvern are in some sort his kinsfolk, too. I marvel that all these
months have gone by without a word or a sign from him. Thou canst
ask if aught has been heard of him. I trust no mishap has befallen
the lad. He promised us news of himself ere now."

Had the room been less dim and dark, Martin might have seen the
sudden alternations of red and white in Cherry's cheek as these
last words were spoken; but the twilight was drawing in apace, and
she kept her face down bent. But her heart was beating fast with
throbs of gladness as well as astonishment. The idea of being sent
away from home to the house of strangers was something fearful, but
the last clause had given her food for eager anticipation. Where
would she not go for news of Cuthbert, for whom she was now pining,
and pining all the more sadly because she might speak to none of
her anxiety and trouble?

Cuthbert had said he should be some months away; but she had looked
for him at Michaelmas, and now October was speeding along, and yet
there was no sign. Cherry had all a London girl's terror of the
forests and their perils. She remembered how he had spoken of
danger when last he had ridden through, and how nearly the terrible
old gipsy had fulfilled her vow of vengeance by wreaking it upon
his head. Might she not have found him and have slain him when he
lived hidden away in the forest? Might not his search for the lost
treasure have led him into many deadly perils? If living and free,
why had he not written or appeared to her by this time? Could it
be--oh, could it be--that he had forgotten her, and was keeping
purposely away? Almost sooner would she believe him dead; but
either fear filled her with dread and dismay.

And now a new throb of hope was in her heart. Once near the forest
and what might she not hear or see? Might she not even find him
herself? In her ignorance and inexperience anything seemed possible
if only she might escape from the trammels of city life, and from
the Argus eye of her aunt Susan.

"And am I to go and help my aunt Prudence, father?"

"Yes; I think it is but right and kind that thou shouldst do so.
Thou art willing thyself?--and wilt thou be docile and teachable?"

"I will strive in all things to please her."

"That is well. I shall trust thee to do credit to thy name."

"And when am I to go, father?"

"So soon as I can find escort for thee; and that methinks will not
be long, since the house stands directly on the road betwixt London
and Southampton. Thou hadst best look to thy clothes and such
things as thou mayest need there; for I would not lose a chance of
sending thee safely guarded. I shall to Abraham Dyson this very
evening, to ask what business is doing by road with Southampton
just now."

"And how long shall I be away, father?"

"Nay, child, that I know not. Prudence makes no mention of that.
Haply, I take it, a matter of three months or so, since had the
ladies been leaving shortly she would scarce have sent so urgently
for thee. Thou wilt not be home for thy Christmas, I fear; but thou
wilt be in a good and a godly house, with thine own aunt to watch
over thee; and I trow that thou wilt so act and comport thyself as
to bring credit and not disgrace upon the name thou bearest."

"I will try, good father," answered Cherry with great meekness; and
her father kissed her and bid her begone, for that he was about to
go forth and talk to Abraham Dyson on this matter.

Cherry went up to her room feeling bewildered, half frightened, and
yet elated and pleased. Something had come to break at last the
long monotony of the life which she felt was crushing the spirit
out of her. She was going to a place where it seemed that she must
surely have news of Cuthbert, and where, if she did not pass him on
the road, she would certainly be nearer to him.

Her sisters, greatly astonished, could scarcely believe their ears
when told that Cherry was really going away; and Keziah hung over
her with wistful eyes, assisting her to get her clothes ready, and
wondering what the house would seem like without its rebellious and
most attractive member.

"Methinks it will be duller than ever," she said. "Jacob will
scarce care to come if thou art gone."

"Jacob! why, I trow he will but come the more," answered Cherry,
with a saucy gleam in her eye as she looked in Kezzie's grave face.
"He will come to thee for comfort, my sister, and I trow that thou
wilt give it him in full measure."

Keziah's grave face lighted up somewhat.

"Thinkest thou that? Indeed I would gladly try. Jacob is a good lad
and a kind one. I marvel thou dost not treat him better, Cherry."

"I like Jacob; he is very good. We are great friends," answered
Cherry hastily, "but--"

There she broke off and busied herself over her trunk, saying as
she leaned so far into it that her face could not be seen, "Kezzie,
if Cuthbert should come back, thou wilt tell him where I have gone.
Tell him I am with his kinsfolk, and ask him if he goes that way to
pay a visit to them."

"I will," answered Keziah, who had her own ideas about Cuthbert's
sudden and entire disappearance; "but I fear me we shall see
Cuthbert no more. He--"

"Why sayest thou so? What dost thou know? What dost thou mean,
Keziah? Hast thou heard aught of him?"

"Bless the child--no--" answered Keziah hastily "How should I know
aught of him? But, Cherry, my sweet sister, be not angry with me if
I say it. Cuthbert is a Trevlyn, for all that our aunt was his
mother. He is of rank above ours. He may have made friends in his
own walk in life. He may repent him of the friendships he made at
the bridge house. Be not wroth with me for saying it, but men
before him have gone forth and returned not to those who looked for
them. But if he comes I will tell him--I will tell him all. Only do
not too greatly count upon it. I grieve so lest thou shouldest be
disappointed."

Cherry said nothing. She would not even by a word seem to doubt
Cuthbert's fidelity. Keziah, if she did not know how matters stood
betwixt them, knew enough to have a very shrewd suspicion of it.
She had been in some sort Cherry's confidante. Both the sisters had
some knowledge of each other's secret.

The next evening, just before it grew dark, as Cherry was sitting
alone in the upper parlour, exempt from household toil that she
might get her own wardrobe ready, and now having laid her needle
aside because she could no longer see, the door opened, and the
tall, loose figure of Jacob Dyson appeared framed against the dark
background of the staircase behind, and the girl sprang to her feet
with a little exclamation of pleasure and welcome.

"I thought that thou wouldst come to see me, Jacob. Thou hast heard
that I am going away?"

"Ay, I have heard it. Art thou glad to be going, Cherry?"

"Yes, verily I am. I am sick at heart for news of him, and
perchance I may get it where I be going. I shall be near his home
and his kinsfolk."

Jacob had sat down, and was turning his cap round and round in
those large red hands that were such an offence to the girl. After
a few moments of silence he looked up and said:

"Cherry, hast thou ever thought of the things thou hast said to
me--of the promise thou hast given?"

She bent her head low, and the whispered "Yes," was barely audible.

"Thou wilt not go back from thy word?"

She raised her head suddenly and said:

"No, Jacob, I will not go back from my word. Thou hast been very
good and kind and patient; and if in time to come it should be
proved that Cuthbert is dead, or has wed another and been false to
me, then I will say naught against thee, but will do as my father
saith, and strive to make thee a good wife. But I have never
promised to love thee as a wife should love her husband. Thou must
not expect that of me, Jacob."

She lifted her eyes to his with a look that sent a quick thrill
through him. He put out one of his hands and took hers, saying in
very gentle tone, though his gestures were slightly uncouth:

"I will only strive might and main to win thy love, sweetheart.
Methinks if thy heart were once free again thou mightest learn the
lesson."

She shook her head and answered very low:

"Thou couldst learn to love again, good Jacob; but I--never. I
would that thou couldst look around thee, and find a good and
useful wife whom thy mother would welcome; who would love thee
well, and whom thou couldst love without let. There be such--I am
well assured of it. As for me, even though some day thou shouldst
gain my hand, my heart can never be thine."

Jacob looked at her with a wistful, dog-like devotion, and heaved a
heavy sigh. That unselfish and faithful youth was going through a
rather hard probation, such as so often falls upon the best and
warmest hearted of earth's sons, who have been denied those outward
graces that charm the fancy and take the eye. He had long since
divined the secret of the attachment betwixt Cuthbert and Cherry;
and when urged by his father to press his own suit, had been
backward in so doing. On Cuthbert's disappearance he had one day
spoken openly to Cherry of his suspicions, and she had frankly told
him all, begging him to keep their secret, and to hold off his own
suit until Cuthbert's quest should be over, and he could come to
claim her as his own.

Truth to tell, Jacob had little belief in the finding of the lost
treasure; but he did believe in Cuthbert, whom he loved only second
to Cherry, and whom he would any day have set before himself. He
made Cherry a promise that it should be as she desired; that he
would give her time to test Cuthbert's sincerity before he spoke
another word of marriage with her. But he also timidly asked in
return for the sacrifice he was making, and as a reward for his
championship, that if Cuthbert should never return, if harm should
befall him in the forest, or if some other maiden should win his
heart and hand, that then Cherry should become his wife, and let
him try to comfort her by his own devoted and life-long love.

Cherry had given the promise without overmuch persuasion. What good
would life be to her without Cuthbert? she had argued. If she could
make any one else happy, she might as well do it as not. Jacob was
very good. He would be kind to her and patient with her, whilst her
aunt Susan would be just the reverse. Life under such conditions,
beneath that unsympathetic rule, would be well-nigh unendurable. It
would be better for her own sake to wed Jacob and escape from it
all. And when the promise had been given, it seemed so little
likely that she would be called upon to fulfil it! Even now she
scarcely contemplated it seriously, for her heart was filled with
hope. Was she herself not going towards the forest and Cuthbert?
Surely she would hear somewhat of him there!

"I shall ask none other woman to be my wife until I know that thou
canst never be mine, Cherry," answered Jacob, with gentle
obstinacy. "I shall never wish aught of ill to Cuthbert. Thou
knowest that I would stand betwixt him and peril an I might. But
till he stands at thy side and claims thee as his own, I will not
give thee up. I can bide my time--I can wait and watch."

She looked at him with suddenly dilating eyes, as though a qualm of
fear had smitten her.

"But, Jacob, if he were to come hither when I be gone, thou wouldst
not hinder him from finding me; thou wouldst not do him any ill
turn that we might be kept apart? That would not be fair; it would
be an ill thing. It would be--"

She stopped suddenly short, for Jacob had risen, and seemed to
stand towering above her, with something majestic in his air that
she had certainly never observed there before.

"Cherry! for what dost thou take me?" he asked, his voice quivering
with an emotion that showed him to be deeply moved. "Hast thou so
vile an opinion of the man thou mayest some day call thy husband,
the man who bears the name of thy dead mother, that thou canst
think such evil thoughts of him? No, Cherry, I will not hinder him
from finding thee. I will in no wise stand between you. I will aid
him with all that is in my power to find thee. If peril should
menace him and I could stand betwixt him and it, I would do so
gladly. I would lay down my life for him, if by so doing thou and
he might one day be happy. Dost think that I prize my life so high,
since I may not win the crown that would make its happiness? If I
may not live for thee, Cherry, methinks I would sooner die for
thee, if by so doing I might win thee happiness and love. I love
thee and I love Cuthbert. I ask nothing better than that I may in
some sort serve and save you twain."

And with a gesture of rugged dignity of which Cherry was keenly
aware, and which raised Jacob to an altogether different level in
her mind, he held out his hand as if to seal the compact, and
without waiting for her broken words of explanation and apology,
turned and walked out of the room.

Two days later Cherry started forth upon her travels. Her father
went part of the way with her, and left her but seven miles from
the end of her journey. She was escorted by a body of merchants and
their servants, who were transporting some merchandise to
Southampton, and were a goodly company in themselves for fear of
assault from the robbers of the road. As they had quantities of
valuables with them, they intended to travel only during the
daylight hours, and after leaving Cherry at the Cross Way House,
would put up for the night at the nearest town on the southern side
of the forest.

How Cherry's heart beat as her fellow travellers pointed out the
wall and chimneys of her destination, and the whole party reined up
at the door! The Cross Way House was well known to travellers as
being one of the regular landmarks along the road. It was a
hospitable mansion for any wayfarers in distress, and its mistress
was held in high repute, and had never yet been molested or
threatened by the highway bands, who might have been troublesome to
the members of any household whose walls abutted so close upon the
road. Lady Humbert was reaping the reward for the renowned kindness
of heart of the whole Wyvern family towards all the lowly, the
unfortunate, and the oppressed; and though many a fugitive fleeing
from the robbers had found shelter within her walls, these had
proved as safe shelter as the walls of any ancient sanctuary; for
once within Lady Humbert's gates and not even the most hated and
hunted foe need fear further molestation.

Cherry had heard some such words as these as the party had jogged
onwards together; and now she found herself standing timidly at the
back entrance of the house, her box beside her, and one of her
uncle's friends at her side. When the door was opened and her
guardian spoke her name and errand, she was quickly made welcome to
enter, and after saying a hasty goodbye to the kindly merchant,
found herself traversing several long stone passages, till she was
finally ushered into a low parlour, where an elderly woman sat
brewing over the fire some concoction which looked like one of
Mistress Susan's compounds of berries and spice.

"Sure it is my good aunt, Prudence Dyson," said Cherry, as the
woman looked quickly round. "Methinks I should have guessed that
anywhere, thou art so like to my uncle."

The woman came forward and saluted her niece gravely and kindly.

"Thou art Martin Holt's daughter? What is thy name, child? I could
scarce make it out from Susan's letter, for she is no scholar, as
she ofttimes says. I am right glad to welcome thee, and I trust
thou comest to us with a willing heart?"

"A right willing heart," answered the girl, smiling bravely,
despite the strangeness of her surroundings; for there was
something home-like and comforting in the aspect of her aunt and in
the sound of her voice. "I was glad my father's choice lighted on
me, and I will strive to please in all I do. My name is Cherry--at
least that is how I am always called. And who are the ladies upon
whom I am to wait?"

"The one whom thou wilt chiefly serve is Mistress Kate Trevlyn, a
daughter of Sir Richard Trevlyn of the Chase. I know not if thou
knowest aught of the family, but most like thou art aware that thy
aunt Bridget made a luckless marriage with one Nicholas Trevlyn,
whereby she cast herself adrift from all her family. Why, child,
what a colour thou hast! What dost thou know of this matter?"

"I know my cousin Cuthbert Trevlyn," answered Cherry, trying to
speak naturally, though her heart beat wildly all the while. "He
came to us a year ago, and remained beneath my father's roof till
the summer had well-nigh come. From him we learned much of the
family; and right glad am I to think that I may serve Mistress
Kate, who was a kind friend to him in times past. My cousin
Cuthbert was much beloved by all our house whilst he remained
beneath our roof. We have not heard of him this many a day. Dost
thou know aught of him, my aunt?"

Prudence Dyson gave her niece a quick, sharp glance, and then
answered a little evasively:

"Thou must ask that question of Mistress Kate, my dear, if she will
please to talk with thee. She may have had news of him belike. As
for us of this household, we hear but little of what happens in the
world beyond. We are all growing old together."

Had it not been for the earnestness with which they were talking,
the aunt and niece might have heard a light footfall down the
passage. The door was softly pushed open, and a clear voice asked:

"Is Mistress Dowsabel's hot posset ready, Dyson? she has asked for
it more than once."

Both women started and turned round, and Cherry uttered a little
involuntary cry, whilst the name "Cuthbert" sprang to her lips so
fast that she was not sure that she had not uttered it aloud. Her
eyes were fixed upon the face of the dark-eyed girl who had brought
the message.

"I will take it at once," said Dyson, hastily lifting it from the
fire. "I crave my lady's pardon for being late with it; but my
niece from London has but just arrived, and I was hindered for the
moment.

"Cherry, wait here till I return, and then I will speak more with
thee."

Dyson hurried away with the posset, and the two girls stood gazing
at each other, a light of welcome and amaze in both their eyes.

"Cherry! did she call thee Cherry? and from London, too? And Kate
bath ofttimes said that--Oh, why waste words?" cried the girl,
breaking off quickly. "Tell me, art thou Martin Holt's daughter?
art thou my brother Cuthbert's Cherry?"

"Thy brother? then thou art Petronella!" cried Cherry, in a maze of
bewilderment; and even as she spoke the name she felt Petronella's
arms about her, and they were laughing and kissing, questioning and
exclaiming, all in the most incoherent fashion, yet contriving to
make each other understand some fragments of their respective
stories, till at last Petronella drew herself away and laid her
hand on Cherry's arm, saying as she did so:

"But remember that here I am Ellen Wyvern, and not even good Dyson
knows more than that. Be on thy guard, good coz, and only speak
familiarly to me in secret. O Cherry, how I have longed to see
thee--Cuthbert's Cherry, of whom I have heard so much! And how
comest thou hither? Has he sent thee?"

"He? I have not seen him these six months past. Petronella, sweet
cousin, give me good news of him."

"Why, so I can--the very best. He has found the treasure. It is
safely lodged here. And he has gone forth into the forest again,
first to tell the tale to the gipsy queen, who has been his friend
through all, and then to return to London to thy father's house to
seek his Cherry once again, and claim her hand before all the
world."



Chapter 21: The Gipsy's Warning.


"Thy task is done, and it is well done. But now get thee from the
forest with all speed, for there is peril to thee here."

So said Joanna, standing before Cuthbert in the pixies' dell, her
hand upon the low stone wall, her tall figure drawn up to its full
height. She had been looking thoughtfully down into the sparkling
water, which was now filling the well as of old, whilst Cuthbert
told his tale with graphic power. An expression of calm triumph was
on her face as she heard how the long-lost hoard was lying safely
stored within the house of the Wyverns--a house sacred to the
gipsies and safe from any raids of robbers, such was the esteem in
which that name was held. She looked like one whose task is done,
who feels a heavy load lifted from the mind; but the glance fixed
upon Cuthbert's eager face was also one of gravity and meaning.

"The forest is no place for thee now," she said; "get thee hence as
fast as thou canst."

"And wherefore so?" asked Cuthbert, surprised. "Methought the peril
ceased with the death of--"

"Hush!" said the gipsy, almost sternly; "bethink thee that there
may be listeners even now about us in these thick bushes, and guard
thy words with caution. Remember the strange links that bind
together those of the wild gipsy blood; and remember that Long
Robin lies in his bloody grave not far from here."

She lowered her voice as she spoke, and Cuthbert instinctively
followed her example.

"But no man knows that."

"How canst thou tell?"

"None saw the deed. It was done in the dead of night. Ere morning
came he was laid below the earth. Thou thyself knew not what had
befallen him till I spoke the word."

He looked at her as if in momentary distrust; but the calm gaze and
the noble countenance of the gipsy seemed to reassure him. Joanna,
who had read his thought, smiled slightly.

"Nay, boy, thou needst not fear treachery from Joanna, and the
gipsy queen will give thee all protection in her power. Have I not
told thee that upon me, when I received that title, was laid the
charge of seeing the stolen treasure restored to the house of
Trevlyn? To thy courage and resolve and perseverance and skill
belongs it that this charge is now fulfilled. Thou needst not fear
that any ill will or lack of caution on Joanna's part will cause
evil to light upon thy head. But there are others with whom thou
mayest have to reckon. There is Miriam, to whom Long Robin was as
the apple of the eye."

"Yet he was not her husband (he is no aged man), and he can scarce
have been her son."

"No matter. As I have told thee ere this, there be strange bonds
betwixt us of the gipsy blood, binding closer and firmer than ever
ties of kinship do. Miriam loved yon man with a love passing all
others. She has missed him these many weeks. She is frantic with
anxious grief. She is convinced that some ill has befallen him. She
is rousing to anger and vengeance the whole tribe. They have vowed
that they will find Robin, whether he be dead or alive, and that if
dead they will avenge them on his murderer. Already suspicion has
fallen upon thee. Dost think thy many journeys through the forest
have passed unnoted by us?"

"I have never seen a soul; I had not known myself watched."

"Luckily for thee thou hast not been watched, else would little of
the treasure have been placed in safe keeping. Thou hast reaped the
benefit Robin hoped to reap himself alone when he surrounded this
dell as with a barrier that no man might pass. Even the most daring
spirits of our tribe dare not come here; and Miriam, who bids them
scour the forest in all other directions, fears to tell them to
come hither, albeit I well know she will shortly search the spot
herself if Robin come not soon. Then she will find the grave; it
will not escape her eyes. First she will think the lost treasure
lies there, for I am convinced that Robin never told her the full
secret. Then when she looks farther, she will find what that grave
really contains; and thou hadst best be far away ere that day
comes. Thou hast been seen. Thy journeyings in the forest have
provoked wonder and curiosity. Let Miriam once learn that Robin
lies there, and the whole truth will flash upon her; and then look
thou to thyself!"

These words were spoken with such significance that Cuthbert
experienced an involuntary qualm of fear.

"I thank thee for the warning," he said; "I will avail myself of
thy kind counsel. I had thought of journeying to London ere this.
There, it may be, I shall be hidden from their malice."

"Thou wilt be safer there than here," answered the gipsy quietly;
"I will not say thou wilt be truly safe in any spot if Miriam's ire
be once roused against thee. She has a wondrous fierce spirit, and
she has influence with our people second only to mine. And then
there hung about Long Robin a mysterious charm. Men loved him
not--they feared and distrusted him; and yet, were it to be known
that he had met his death by violence, Miriam would have but small
trouble in stirring up the hearts of a score of stout fellows vowed
to vengeance. In the forest thou wilt have small chance of thy
life."

"Perchance they will follow me to London," said Cuthbert; "if so,
it will be small use to fly."

"In London our folks have fears for themselves," answered the gipsy
queen. "Half of them are outlawed; the other half lie beneath the
suspicion of sorcery, which in these days is almost worse. They may
hover about the dens of the city, but they will fear to molest thee
elsewhere. Thou must take heed how thou venturest beyond the city
walls, for Tyrrel and his men may be lurking beyond on the watch."

"Methought Tyrrel and Miriam were no such friends," said Cuthbert,
recollecting the night when he had been brought to the mill. "Will
he take up her quarrel?"

"If she can make him believe that Robin had the secret of the lost
treasure, and that thou didst force the secret from him ere thou
laidest him in his grave, he will take up the quarrel in right good
earnest, and rest not till he has learned where the treasure has
been hid. We of the gipsy tribe have as little believed in that hid
treasure as the house of Trevlyn, hence its safety all these years.
But let Miriam once tell what she knows--which is something, I
warrant--and there may be many who will then believe that the
secret was in Robin's keeping. They will be certain sure that thou
wouldst not have killed the man until thou hadst made sure of the
treasure. It would be acting like the fabled yokel who killed the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Wherefore be gone. Hide thyself in
London town. In a few weeks or months the chase may be over; but
for the time being beware of the forest!"

"I will," answered Cuthbert. "I thank thee for thy good counsel. I
will be speedily gone."

Joanna stood looking reflectively at him.

"Thou wouldst he safest within the walls that shelter the
treasure--with thy kinsfolk of the house of Wyvern."

"Nay, but I must first go to London," answered Cuthbert quickly; "I
have been long absent. My kinsfolk there will be looking for news
of me. And perchance my presence in the house of my kinswomen might
imperil them. I would not be a cause of danger to them."

"Thou art a bold and true-hearted lad," answered Joanna; "and it
may be well that for the nonce thou shouldest keep away from the
Cross Way House. Thy presence there might awaken suspicion; though
I scarce believe that any lust of gold would drive our people to
attack that house. Go then to London, and lose thyself there
awhile. Presently thou mayest return and see how thy sister fareth;
but not too soon--not too soon!"

Cuthbert started.

"My sister!" he said; "how knowest thou that?"

Joanna smiled her lofty smile.

"Ask a gipsy how she knoweth what takes place within the limits of
her domain! Tush, boy! thinkest thou that I do not know all that
passes in the forest? Thy sister has done well to find a shelter
there. She is safer at the Cross Way House than in this dell with
thee."

"If she is safe I can well look to myself," answered Cuthbert, with
the confidence of youth and strength. "To be warned where the peril
lies is half the battle. I will be cautious--I will be wary; and
having naught to keep me in the forest, I will start for London
town this very day."

"Ay, do so, and without an hour's delay. Old Miriam is raging like
a fury. Tyrrel may at any moment return, and I trow she will rouse
him to bitter enmity towards thee. Fly, before any strive to stay
thee. And when thou hast reached the city, go once again to Esther.
Tell her that the deed is done, the treasure found, that it lies in
the house of the Wyverns, and that the luck has come back to the
house, as was always said, through the daughters' sons."

"I will," answered Cuthbert; and bidding a farewell to the gipsy,
to whose protection and goodwill he owed so much, he left the dell
and made his way rapidly through the forest, till he struck the
road which would lead him to London.

He would not turn out of the direct way to go to the Cross Way
House, though he would gladly have seen his sister and Kate and his
aged kinswomen again. He did not wish them to know of the peril
which might threaten his own path, nor did he desire to draw
attention to that house by directing his steps thither in broad
daylight. Plainly his presence in the forest had already excited
remark. He had been seen far oftener than he had known. If he did
not linger, but pursued his way to London without delay, he might
reach it by nightfall, and that was no small inducement to him.
Petronella knew that he was bound thither; she would not reckon on
seeing him again. And there was Cherry at the other end. The
thought of seeing her again that very day drew him onwards like a
magnet. During these long weeks of search and hard toil, the
thought of Cherry had been the best sweetener of his labour. He had
talked of her with his sister, he had dreamed of her when he lay
down to sleep at night, and now he was on his way to see her, to
tell her all the tale, and ask her at her father's hand. The
thought was sweet to intoxication, and his eager anticipation
seemed to put wings to his feet.

How different were his feelings as he drew near to the great city
this second time! It was just about a year since he had entered it
for the first time, a stranger, homeless, well-nigh penniless, and
very uncertain of the reception he should receive from his kinsfolk
on the bridge. Now he stepped towards the region of shining lights
with all confidence and joy. He was rich past his wildest hopes,
for the treasure had proved to be far greater than even his fondest
dreams had credited; and he knew that when division was made, it
would be no niggard portion that would fall to the share of the
finder. He had won for himself such goodwill from his kinsfolk as
would stand him in good stead in days to come. He had enlarged his
scholarship, made for himself a number of friends of all degrees,
and, above all, had won the love of his cousin Cherry, and a
position which would enable him speedily to ask her at her father's
hands. He would fulfil his boyish promise made last Yuletide, when
he vowed her that the day should come when she should no longer
pine for the innocent gaieties and luxuries of wealth, but should
herself be a lady of some degree, and should have her house and her
horses and servants, and a bright and happy future with the husband
of her choice.

Now he had set foot upon the bridge, and was eagerly traversing the
familiar roadway, as the short daylight faded and the lights from
the houses shone out brighter and brighter in the gloom. His
uncle's house was almost in sight. His heart was beating high with
anticipation and delight, when a hand was laid suddenly upon his
shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with Anthony
Cole.

He was about to exclaim in words of pleasure and welcome, when his
attention was arrested by the strange expression upon the thin,
eager face--an expression so strange that it checked the
commonplace words of greeting that sprang naturally to Cuthbert's
lips, and he waited in silence for what Anthony should say.

"Thou hast come! it is well," said the latter, in tones that were
little above a whisper. "Methought that thou wouldst not be absent
at such a time. Well doth it behove every true son of the Church to
rally round her at such a moment. I felt assured that thou wouldst
be here. Others beside me have been watching for thee. It is well.
Keep thine own counsel; be wary, be discreet. And now go. It boots
not that we be seen talking together thus. When thou hast fitting
opportunity, come secretly to my house; thou wilt be welcome
there."

And half pushing Cuthbert from him before the bewildered youth had
time to speak a single word, the printer disappeared within his own
door, and Cuthbert was left to make his way to his uncle's house.

"Beshrew me if I know what Master Anthony means!" said Cuthbert to
himself. "I trow there be matters stirring in London town of which
we in the country know nothing. How strange it is that one can
hardly set foot in this great seething city without hearing words
of mystery--without feeling oneself enwrapped in its strange
atmosphere of doubt and perplexity. Something is doubtless astir of
which I know naught; but at my uncle's house I shall hear all."

The shutters were just being put up at Martin Holt's as Cuthbert
stepped across the threshold. The servant uttered a cry of
astonishment as he saw his master's nephew, and Martin himself came
forward from the little room behind.

"Bless me, is it thou, Cuthbert?" he exclaimed in surprise. "Well,
boy, thou art welcome since thou art come, though we had almost
begun to think thou hadst forgot us and thy promise to return. Come
upstairs and greet thy aunt and cousins. Hast thou seen aught of
Cherry, as thou comest from the south?"

Cuthbert stepped back a pace, and some of the light went out of his
face.

"Cherry!" he stammered, taken aback. "How should I have seen her?
Is she not here?"

"Not for a matter of four days. She is helping her aunt, Prudence
Dyson at the Cross Way House, to wait upon some guests the ladies
are entertaining. Methought if you had come that way you might have
chanced upon her."

A keen thrill of disappointment ran through Cuthbert's frame. To
think how near he had been to Cherry and had never guessed it! If
only he had called at the Cross Way House that day!

"I have not been there for the matter of a week. I was last at
Trevlyn Chase; but mine uncle and his son have gone to London, as I
heard. I had hoped to find Cherry here."

"Well, thou wilt find all but her. Go up, go up! Thou wilt need
refreshment after thy journey, and thou shalt hear the news as we
sup. Thine old room shall be made ready for thee. I am glad to see
thy face again, boy; and would hear thy story anon."

Cuthbert received a warmer welcome than he had looked for from the
aunt and cousins upstairs. Perhaps they were all missing the
brightness that had left them when Cherry went. Perhaps the vacant
place at the board day by day was an offence to the conservative
eye of Mistress Susan. But whatever was the cause, there was no
denying the cordiality of the reception accorded to him; and after
the lonely life of the forest, and all his wanderings there, his
strange resting places, and many hours of watching, toil, and
anxious fear, it seemed pleasant indeed to be sitting at this
hospitable board, warmed by the friendly glow of the fire, and
discussing the savoury viands that always adorned a table of
Mistress Susan's spreading, and which did indeed taste well after
the hardy and sometimes scanty fare he had known in the forest.

But his open-air life had done him good in many ways. His uncle
smiled, and told him he had grown to be a very son of Anak, and
that he was as brown as a gipsy; whilst his cousins looked at him
with furtive admiration, and Keziah could almost have wept that
Cherry was not there to welcome him.

Cuthbert, however, quickly got over his disappointment on this
score, and after swallowing a few sighs, was content to think that
it might indeed be best so. Cherry would learn where he was from
Petronella, and would hear from her that his heart was still her
own, and that success had crowned his search after the lost
treasure. He could go to seek her shortly, when the gipsy tribe
should have drawn away from that part of the forest into the
quarters they preferred during the winter months. Were she to be
here, he must surely betray himself, and should have to speak
immediately to Martin Holt of his desire to make Cherry his wife.
Somehow, when face to face with his uncle, he felt less confident
of winning his sanction for this step than he had done when away
from him in the forest. There it had seemed perfectly simple so
long as he could show the father that he had the means to keep a
wife in comfort. Now he began to wonder if this would be enough.
Hints were dropped by both the Holts regarding Cherry's approaching
marriage with Jacob Dyson. Mistress Susan openly regretted her
absence from home as hindering that ceremony; and although Martin
Holt spoke with more reticence, it was plain he was still
cherishing the hope of the match when his wilful youngest should be
a little older.

It might be that Cherry's absence at this time was fortunate rather
than the reverse. Cuthbert, at any rate, was relieved from the
necessity for immediate action; and when he had spoken a little of
himself, his kinsfolk, and the visits he had paid during his
wanderings in the forest (keeping the real object of those
wanderings quite out of the talk), he turned his conversation to
other matters, and asked what was passing in London, and what was
chiefly stirring men's minds.

"Marry it is the opening of Parliament that is the chiefest thing,"
said Martin Holt. "It is said in the city that his Majesty loves
not his good Parliament; and truly it looks like it, since he has
put off its opening so many a time. First it was to have been last
February, then not till the third of this present month. Now it is
again prolongued till the fifth of November next; but I trow his
Majesty will scarce dare to postpone again. His people like not
those rulers who fear to meet those who are chosen by them to
debate on matters of the state. It looks not well for the sovereign
to fear to meet his people."

Cuthbert, who knew little about such matters, asked many questions
about Parliament and its assemblies. His uncle answered him freely
and fully, and explained to him exactly the site of the building
where the great body assembled.

"Thou canst take the wherry thou used to love so well, and row
thyself to Westminster one of these days, and look well at the
Parliament Houses," said Martin Holt. "It is a grand spectacle to
see the King come in state to open the assembly. Thou mayest see
that sight, too, an thou purposest to stay with us so long."

"I would gladly do so," answered Cuthbert, who remembered that he
was bidden not to return to the forest too quickly. He knew that,
now he was safely away, Joanna would allow all search to be made
after him there, and that it would soon be ascertained that he had
fled. But whilst that search was going on, he was safest in London,
and was glad enough of the opportunity of seeing any gay pageant.

As he lay in his narrow bed that night, enjoying the comfort of it
after his chilly nook in the tree, which had been his best shelter
of late, and somewhat disturbed by the noises that from time to
time arose from the street below, he recalled to mind the strange
greeting he had received from Anthony Cole, and wondered anew at
his mysterious words.

And then his fancy somehow strayed to the great Parliament Houses
of which his uncle had spoken. He remembered that strange dark
journey across the river from Lambeth and the lonely house there to
Westminster and its lofty palaces. He recalled the locality of the
house he had entered, where Catesby and his friends were assembled
at some strange toil, and the terrified aspect these men all wore
when some unexpected sound had smitten upon their ears. He recalled
the sudden fierce grip of Catesby's hand upon his arm before he
recognized the face of the stranger within their midst. He
recollected the threats he had striven to speak binding him to the
silence he was so willing to promise.

What did it all mean? what could it mean? Lying in the dark, and
turning the matter over and over in his mind, Cuthbert began to
feel some fearful and sinister suspicions.

The month when all this had happened had been early in the year;
was it January, or early February? He could scarce remember, but he
knew it was one or the other. And had not his uncle said that
Parliament was to have met in February? Now that it was about to
meet soon again, had not Anthony spoken words implying that some
muster of friends was looked for in London; and had not Anthony and
his son always regarded him in the light of a friend and ally?

Cuthbert was by this time aware that he had but little love left
for the creed in which he had been reared. It seemed to him that
all, or at any rate far the greater part, of what was precious in
that creed was equally open to him in the Church established in the
land, together with the liberty to read the Scriptures for himself,
and to exercise his own freedom of conscience as no priest of the
Romish Church would ever let him exercise it. With him there had
been no wild revulsion of feeling, no sense of tearing and rending
away from one faith to join himself to another. His own convictions
had been of gradual growth, and he still felt and would always feel
a certain loving loyalty towards the Church of his childhood.
Still, he was increasingly convinced of the fact that it was not
within that fold that he himself could ever find true peace and
conviction of soul; and though no ardent theologian, and by no
means given over to controversy and dogmatism, he had reached a
steady conclusion as to his own faith, and one that was little
likely to be shaken.

At the same time he was kindly disposed to those of his countrymen
who were still beneath the Papal yoke, and were suffering for their
old allegiance. He honoured their constancy, and felt even a boyish
sense of shame in having, as it were, deserted the weaker side when
it was in trouble and undergoing persecution. He felt a qualm of
uneasiness when he thought of this, and would gladly have shared
the perils if he could have shared the convictions of those who had
striven to make him their friend. Cuthbert was a little in advance
of his times in the facility with which he set aside matters of
opinion in the choosing of his friends. Those were days in which
men were seldom able to do this. They still divided themselves into
opposing camps, and hated not only the opinions embraced by their
rivals, but the rivals themselves, without any discrimination at
all. To be intimate and friendly with those of hostile opinions was
far more rare then than it has since become; and Cuthbert, who
possessed that faculty, was liable to be greatly misunderstood, and
to run into perils of which he little dreamed.

Thinking of those things he had seen that strange night led him to
wonder more and more what it could all mean; and, accordingly, upon
the morrow the first visit he paid was to Anthony Cole on the
bridge, hoping that through him this curiosity might be in some way
satisfied.

Cuthbert took the privilege accorded him in old times, and walked
through the house and up the narrow staircase without pausing in
the shop below. It was still early, and business had not yet begun.
The house was very silent; but he heard low-toned voices above, and
pursued his way towards them. As he did so a door, the existence of
which had never been discovered by him before, though he thought
the house was well known by him from attic to basement, suddenly
opened from the staircase, and a head appeared for a single
instant, and was as suddenly withdrawn. The door closed sharply,
and he heard the click as of a spring falling back to its place. He
passed his hand across his eyes as he exclaimed beneath his breath:

"Sure that was Father Urban--"

But he began to feel doubtful as to his right to come and go in
this house at will, and was about to descend the stairs quietly
again, when a door opened from above, and some one came hastily
down the stairs. Cuthbert fancied he saw the gleam of some weapon
in the hand of the advancing figure, and felt that he had better be
upon his guard.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn!" exclaimed a familiar voice, and a hand was
slipped beneath the doublet, and there was no further gleam of cold
steel. "I am right glad to welcome thee. It is well for friends to
muster at such a time. Comest thou with news?"

Walter Cole was the speaker. His face too wore something of the
look which Cuthbert had observed on the father's the previous
evening--an expression of strained expectancy, as if with long
waiting mind and spirit had alike grown worn and over anxious. The
bright eyes scanned his face eagerly. Cuthbert felt half ashamed of
his ignorance of and indifference to the burning questions of the
day.

"I have heard naught, I know naught. I have been living the life of
the forests these past months," he answered, following Walter into
a small room where they had often worked together. "I have heard no
word of what was passing in the world; I come to learn that here."

The eagerness faded from Walter's face. He spoke much more quietly.

"Belike thou wert right to hide and live thus obscure; many of our
leaders have done the like. It is ofttimes the best and the safest
plan. But the time is at hand, and we must rally around them now.
When the hour has struck and when the deed is done, then will it be
for us to work--then will our hour of toil come. East and west,
north and south, must we spur forth with the tidings. The whole
nation must hear it and be roused. The blow must be struck whilst
the iron is hot. Thus and only thus can we be secure of the
promised victory."

Walter spoke quietly, yet with an undercurrent of deep enthusiasm
that struck an answering chord in Cuthbert's heart. All true and
deep feeling moved him to sympathy. His friend was talking in
riddles to him; but he felt the earnestness and devotion of the
man, and his sympathy was at once aroused.

"What hour? what blow? what deed?" he asked wonderingly. "I know
not of what thou speakest."

Walter drew his brows together and regarded him with an expression
of intense and wondering scrutiny. When he spoke it was in a
different tone, as though he were carefully weighing his every
word, as though he were a little uncertain of the ground on which
he stood. There was something of evasive vagueness in his tone,
whilst his eyes were fixed on Cuthbert's face as though he would
read his very soul.

"Methought thou knewest how cruelly we suffered, and that we trust
some stroke of kind fortune's wheel may ere long make life
something better for us. The King meets his Parliament soon. Then
is the time when men's grievances may be discussed, and when there
is hope for all that wiser and more merciful laws may be passed. We
have gathered together at this time to see what may be done. We are
resolved, as thou must surely know, not to suffer like this for
ever. Half the people of the realm be with us. It were strange if
nothing could be accomplished. Cuthbert Trevlyn, answer me this:
thou dost wish us well; thou art not a false friend--one who would
deceive and betray?"

"Never, never, never!" answered Cuthbert, with all the heat of
youth and generous feeling. "I would never betray those who have
trusted me, not though they were my foes. And I too hate and
abominate these iniquitous laws that persecute men's bodies for
what they hold with their minds and souls. I have suffered
persecution myself. I know how bitter a thing it is. I would have
every man free to believe that which his conscience approves. I
would join with any who would implore the King to show mercy and
clemency to his persecuted subjects."

Walter's face relaxed; he looked relieved and pleased.

"Methought that we could trust thee, Cuthbert. Thou art a Trevlyn;
it must needs be thou art stanch. I am right glad that thou art
here. There may be work yet for thee to do. Thou wilt abide in
thine uncle's house until--"

"Until Parliament opens at least," answered Cuthbert quickly. "I
have said as much to him, I would fain be there then and see it
all. And my presence in the forest is known by foes; it is no place
for me longer."

Then breaking off, for he had not meant to say so much, and had no
wish to be further questioned on the subject, he asked in a low
tone:

"Sure it was Father Urban whose face I saw on the stairs but now?"

"Hist! silence!" whispered Walter, with a glance enforcing caution;
"do not breathe that name even within these walls. He is here at
risk of his life; but at such a moment he will not be away. A
warrant is out against him. He may not venture abroad by night or
day. But he can be useful in a thousand ways, for he knows more
than any other man of some matters appertaining to the state. And
if our hopes be realized, then he will emerge from his prison and
rove the country from end to end. He has friends in every place. To
him we shall look for guidance in a hundred ways."

Walter's eyes glowed. He looked like one to whom triumph is a
certainty--one who anticipates success and already tastes the
sweets thereof. Cuthbert was growing uncomfortable. He felt as
though he were hearing more than he ought to do. True, the Coles
had talked in very much this fashion all through the dark days of
the previous winter when he had been so much with them. They were
always looking for a day of release, always dwelling on the bright
prospects of the future. But some instinct told Cuthbert that there
was a difference now in the fashion of their talk, and he was made
uncomfortable by it though he scarce knew why.

He rose to go.

"I have but just returned. I have many visits to pay. I will come
again anon," he said.

"Ay, but come not too openly. Let us not be seen consorting
together. And as thou walkest the street, keep thine eyes and thine
ears open and attent, and learn ever what men say and think. If
thou hearest aught of moment, bring it to us. Every whisper may be
of value. And now farewell. Come not again by day, but slip in by
the door in the archway when all be wrapped in gloom. So it is
safest."

Cuthbert drew a deep breath of relief when he stood once again in
the fresh air. He walked rapidly through the familiar sunny streets
and strove to forget the impression made upon him by the recent
interview.

"Plots, plots, plots!" he muttered--"nothing but dark plots, and
the hope that things will thus be set right. I misdoubt me if it
will ever be by such means. Poor souls! I pity them with all my
heart; but I like not their ways. They are not the ways of truth,
of uprightness, of equity. Methinks I had better hold aloof and
have no dealings with them. They seem to think because I like
them--the men themselves--and mislike these persecutions even as
they do, that I am one with them and understand their ways and
their deeds. But I do not, I do not, and I think not that I ever
shall. I will go mine own way, and they must go theirs. It were
best not to meddle too much in strange matters. Now I will go and
seek honest Jacob. From him methinks I shall get as warm a welcome,
but a welcome that is not tinged with these mysteries and dark
words."



Chapter 22: Whispers Abroad.


"Have naught to do with them, Cuthbert! I like them not."

"Yet they be good men, and stanch and true. Thou hast said so
thyself a score of times in my hearing, good Jacob. Why should I
avoid them now? What have they done amiss?"

Jacob passed his large hand across his face, and looked at Cuthbert
with an expression of perplexity.

"They are Papists," he said at last, in a slightly vague and
inconclusive fashion.

Cuthbert laughed aloud.

"Why, that I know well; and I am not scared by the name, as some of
your Puritan folk seem to be. Papists, after all, are fellow
men--and fellow Christians too, if it comes to that. It was a
Christian act of theirs to take to their home that hunted priest
whom we rescued that foggy night, Jacob. Many would have made much
ado ere they had opened their doors to one in such plight. Thou
canst not deny that there was true Christian charity in that act."

"Nay, nay, I would not try to deny it," answered Jacob, in his
calm, lethargic way, still regarding Cuthbert with a look of
admiration and curiosity, somewhat as a savage regards a white man,
scarce knowing from moment to moment what his acts will be. "Yet
for all that I would warn thee to keep away from that house. Men
whisper that there be strange doings there. I know not the truth of
what is spoken. But we walk in slippery places; it were well to
take heed to our steps."

Cuthbert returned Jacob's look with one equally tinged with
curiosity.

"Nay now, speak more openly. What dost thou mean, good Jacob? What
do men say anent these Coles?"

Jacob glanced round and instinctively lowered his voice.

"It is not of the Coles alone that they speak; it is of the whole
faction of the Papists. I know not what is said or what is known in
high places; but this I know, that there be strange whispers
abroad."

Cuthbert's eyes lighted. A slight thrill ran through him. He
recalled the words recently spoken to him by his whilom friends.
But all he said was:

"Verily men are ever whispering. It was the same cry when I was
here a year agone, and no great thing has happened; wherefore this
new fear?"

Jacob shook his head. His answer was spoken in a slow, ponderous
fashion.

"Men will speak and whisper; yet the world wags on as before, and
men well-nigh cease to listen or heed. But mark my word, Cuthbert,
there be no smoke where there is not fire; and these Papists, who
are for ever plotting, plotting, plotting, will one day spring some
strange thing upon the world. There be so many cries of 'Wolf!'
that folks begin to smile and say the real wolf will never come.
But that follows not. I like not this ever-restless secret scheming
and gathering together in dark corners. It is not for their
religion that I hate and distrust the Papists. I know little about
matters of controversy. I meddle not in things too high for me. But
I hate them for their subtlety, their deceitful ways, their lying,
and their fraud. Thou knowest how they schemed and plotted the
death of good Queen Bess; we citizens of London find it hard to
forgive them that! We love not the son of this same Mary Stuart,
whom of old the Papists strove to give us for our Queen; yet he is
our lawful King, accepted by the nation as our sovereign; and
failing him I know not whom we might choose to reign over us.
Wherefore say I, Down with these schemers and plotters! If men wish
their grievances redressed, let them work in the light and not in
the dark. We Protestants know that it is Bible law that evil must
never be done that good may come; but the Papists hold that they
may do never so many crimes and evil deeds if they may but win some
point of theirs at last. Thou dost not hold such false doctrine, I
trow, Cuthbert? thou art a soul above such false seeming."

Cuthbert drew his brows together in a thoughtful reverie.

"I trow thou hast the right of it, Jacob," he answered. "I love not
dark scheming, nor love I these endless plots. Yet in these days of
oppression it must be hard for men to act openly. If they be driven
to secret methods, the fault is less theirs than that of their
rulers."

"There be faults on both sides, I doubt not," answered Jacob, with
calm toleration. "But two evils make not one good; and the Puritans
who suffer in like fashion do not plot to overthrow their rulers."

"How knowest thou that the Papists do?" asked Cuthbert quickly.

"It has always been their way," answered Jacob; "and though I know
but little of the meaning of the sinister whispers I hear, we have
but to look back to former days to see how it has ever been. Think
of the two plots of this very reign, the 'Bye' and the 'Main'! What
was their object but the subversion of the present rulers? What
they have tried before they will try again; and we who live beside
this great river, and mingle with those who come from beyond the
seas, do see and hear many things that others would not know. There
have been comings and goings of late that I have not liked. It may
be that mine eyes have played me false, but methought one dark
night I saw a figure strangely like Father Urban land at the wharf,
and he was incontinently joined by Walter Cole, who took him
hastily and secretly away."

Cuthbert started slightly, and Jacob continued:

"And yet when I whispered a question to Walter a few days later
concerning the priest, of whose welfare I have asked from time to
time since I had a hand in his rescue, he told me that he was still
beyond the seas, and that it was not like he would ever set foot on
English soil again."

Cuthbert was silent. But he presently asked a question.

"But who is this Father Urban? and why should his appearance mean
aught, or disturb thee?"

"Father Urban is a Jesuit, and one of those they call seminary
priests, and all such are held in detestation and suspicion above
all other Papists. When men lay hands on them they show them scant
mercy. It is a saying in this land that when treason and murder and
wickedness is abroad, a seminary priest is sure to be the leading
spirit. When those two last plots were hatching, this Father Urban
was in the country. He has returned now, and many men are looking
abroad with fear, wondering how soon the calm will be interrupted.
I like it not; I like it not; and I caution thee to keep away from
yon house, and to have no dealings with the Papists. They be
treacherous friends as well as wily foes. It were best and safest
for thee to keep away from all such. Thou art not one of them; why
shouldest thou consort with them?"

"I do not consort with them," answered Cuthbert; "but I have none
of thy hatred for the name, and these men have been kind and
friendly to me. I owe much to the lessons Anthony Cole has taught
me. I have no knowledge of their secrets, but I cannot see why I
may not speak a friendly word with them; even my uncle does that."

"Ay, but he goes not to their house--and his name is not Trevlyn."

"But what of that? the Trevlyns are now a stanch family, in favour
with the King and his counsellors."

"Ay, but the name is not forgotten in many quarters as belonging to
a race of persecuting Papists. It takes long for old memories to
die out. Thou hadst better take heed, Cuthbert. A whisper against
thee would soon spread and take root. I prithee meddle not in such
matters, lest some ill befall thee!"

Cuthbert thanked honest Jacob for his goodwill and for his warning,
but he could not see that it was needed. He was but an obscure
youth, of no note in the world. He had no dealings with any of
those plots of which men were whispering, and he could not see how
any act of his could raise suspicion of any sort against him. He
was growing intensely curious about the seething fire beneath the
outer crust of quietness and security. If some great plot were
hatching, if some great upheaval were at hand, why might not he
scent out something beforehand? Why might not he discover what was
baffling the sagacity of others? He had no wish to be a spy or an
informer; he had too much generous sympathy with the oppressed for
that. But he was intensely curious about it all, and he felt as
though his youth and obscurity would be his best protection if he
chose to make some investigations on his own account.

The old eager thirst for knowledge was coming upon him. The old
love of adventure, which had run him into many perils already, had
not been quenched by his recent experiences. Success had crowned
his labours in the forest; why should that success desert him now?
And then the thought came to him that he might by chance discover
something which might be of use to his own kinsmen. He knew that
Sir Richard Trevlyn and his son Philip--Petronella's lover--were in
London. Might it not be possible that they had better be elsewhere
at such a time? Jacob's words about the Trevlyns might perchance be
true. He had heard his uncle say the same before. If any possible
peril should be menacing them, how gladly would he find it out and
warn them in time! It began to appear to the youth in the light of
a duty to pursue his investigation, and it was just such a task as
best appealed to his ardent and fiery temperament.

But he scarce knew what the first step had better be; so he gave up
the day following to seeking out Lord Culverhouse, and learning
from him what was the feeling in high quarters.

Culverhouse greeted him warmly, and at once begged him to ride out
with him into the pleasant regions where the parks now stand, which
were then much larger, and only just taking any semblance of park,
being more like fields with rides running across them. Each
succeeding king did something for the improvement of this region,
though the open ground became considerably diminished as stately
buildings grew up around it.

"Cuthbert," said the Viscount, when they had left the busy streets
and were practically alone and out of earshot of any chance passers
by, "dost thou know that the matter of our secret wedding is now
known?"

"I heard so from Mistress Kate, who has been sent away from home in
disgrace, but is bearing her captivity cheerfully, with my sister
for her companion."

Culverhouse was eager to hear everything Cuthbert could tell him,
and was delighted that his lady love was happy in her honourable
captivity. When he had asked every question he could think of, he
went on with his own side of the story.

"There was a fine coil when Sir Richard brought the news, and I was
rated more soundly than I have been since I was a little lad and
lost my father's best falcon through letting it loose when the
falconer was not by to whistle it back. There has been a mighty
talking and arguing as to whether such wedlock as ours be lawful,
and no man seems rightly to know. That we must be wed again in more
orderly fashion all agree, if we are to live together as man and
wife; but none will dare to say that we may break the pledge we
gave each to the other that day. My father talked at first of
moving some high court to set us free; but my mother shook her head
and said that vows so solemnly spoken before God and in His name
might never rightly be annulled by man. She was grieved and as
angered as she knows how to be at our hot-headed rashness, and
spoke to me words which hurt me more than my father's ratings. Yet
she holds steadfastly to this--that we are betrothed too firmly to
be parted; and what she holds she can generally make my father
hold, for he thinks much of her piety and true discernment."

"So that thou art out of thy trouble for the nonce?"

Culverhouse laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I say not that, for they tell us it will be many years ere we can
hope to be wed again in due form; and waiting is weary work."

"And why should you wait?"

Culverhouse laughed again.

"That is soon answered. My father has always told me that I must
wed a lady of wealth if I am to wed young. Our estates are
encumbered. We have more state to keep up than we well know how to
manage. We have had troubles and losses even as the Trevlyns have.
I have known this well. I cannot complain of my father.
Nevertheless I chose my Kate without any dowry before all the world
beside, and I am prepared to abide by my choice. But we shall have
to wait; we shall have to possess our souls in patience. They all
tell us that; and I gainsay them not. I am young. I have friends in
high places. I will win a name for myself, and a fortune too, ere
my head be gray. Alas for the old days of chivalry, when men might
ride forth to fame and glory, and win both that and wealth in a few
short years! Those bright days are gone for ever. Still methinks I
will conquer fate yet!"

Culverhouse looked as though fitted indeed for some career of
chivalrous daring. He and Cuthbert would gladly have ridden forth
together upon some knightly quest; but the days for such things had
gone by, as both recognized with a sigh. Still there was brightness
in Cuthbert's eyes as he said:

"Mistress Kate will spend her Christmas at the Cross Way House, and
I trow that others of the Trevlyns will do the like. If thou wilt
be one of the party there upon that day, I doubt not that there
will be a welcome for thee; and perchance thou wilt find then that
thy nuptials need not be so long postponed. A golden key may be
found which will unlock many doors."

Culverhouse looked quickly and eagerly at his companion, but could
ask no more even had he wished, as they were at that moment joined
by two friends of his, young men about the Court, who at once began
to talk of the approaching opening of Parliament and the grand show
that would accompany the act.

The King's love for fine dress, fine pageants, and fine shows, of
which he was the sun and centre (in his own opinion at least), was
well known by this time. These young sprigs of the nobility amused
themselves by making game freely of his Majesty behind his back,
ridiculing his vanity, mimicking his ungainly action, especially
upon horseback (though he considered himself a most finished and
accomplished rider), and describing to Culverhouse the fine new
robes he had ordered for the occasion, and which were to surpass in
grandeur anything he had ever worn before.

"Folks talked of the vanity of our good Queen Bess, and called her
mighty extravagant; but beshrew me if she were half as vain or
extravagant as our noble King Jamie! It is a marvel he cannot see
how ten-fold uglier he makes his ugly person by trapping himself
out in all such frippery and gorgeous apparel."

So the young men chatted on in lightsome fashion, and Cuthbert, who
listened to every word, could not gather that the smallest
uneasiness had penetrated the minds of those who moved in these
high places. Culverhouse talked with equal gaiety and security.
Certainly he had no suspicion of coming ill. The mutterings of
discontent the seething of the troubled waters, the undefined
apprehensions of many of the classes of the people, were apparently
unknown and unheeded here. All was sunshine and brightness in the
region of palaces. But if these youths had entertained any secret
misgivings, they would have discussed them freely together.

Culverhouse kept Cuthbert to dinner, and he was kindly received by
the Earl's family. Lady Andover even remembered to ask after
Cherry, and won Cuthbert's heart by so doing. She questioned him in
private about the marriage in the church porch, of which he had
been witness, and plainly all he told her only went to strengthen
her conviction that the matter had gone too far to admit of any
drawing back without some breach of faith that was akin to
sacrilege.

After the meal, which seemed stately and long to Cuthbert,
Culverhouse asked him would he like to see the Houses of
Parliament, where the King would shortly meet his Lords and
Commons. Cuthbert eagerly assented, and the two youths spent some
time in wandering about the stately buildings, to which Culverhouse
could obtain easy admittance; the Viscount explaining to his
companion where the King sat and where his immediate counsellors,
to all of which Cuthbert listened with marked attention.

There were several attendants and ushers within the building, and
Culverhouse told him that orders had been given to keep strict
watch over the building both by night and day.

"The King is not like our good Queen--Heaven rest her soul!" said
the Viscount, laughing. "He does not trust his people. He is always
in fear of some mischance either through accident or design. Well
may the great Shakespeare have said: 'Uneasy lies the head that
wears a crown!' Albeit the King would do better to have a little
more courage."

This was the first word Cuthbert had heard of any uneasiness in
high quarters, and he asked with some eagerness:

"Meanest thou that the King fears some evil to himself at this
time?"

"No; I have heard naught of that. The country seems unwontedly
quiet. It is the fear which never leaves him--the fear that makes
him wear a doublet so thickly quilted that it would suffice to turn
the sharpest blade, even as a suit of chain mail. He is always
dreading assassination. That is why he wills such close watch to be
kept, lest haply any evil-disposed person might find hiding within
the walls and spring upon him unawares. Methinks it is an unkingly
fear, but there it be, and he carries it ever with him. The Queen
had none such--nor had she need; and as thou knowest, when once an
assassin did approach her when she was alone in her garden, the
glance of her eye kept him cowed and at bay till her gentlemen
could hasten to her side. She was a Queen in very truth! I would we
had more of her like!"

Culverhouse spoke out aloud, careless of being overheard, for he
was but speaking the thoughts of the whole nation. Cuthbert echoed
his wish with all sincerity; and still looking round and about him
with keen interest, went through a certain mental calculation which
caused him at last to ask:

"And what buildings lie around or beneath this?"

"I know not exactly how that may be. There is a house close beside
this where methinks I have heard that Master Thomas Percy dwells,
the steward to my Lord of Northumberland. I know not what lies
beneath; it may be some sort of cellar.

"Dost thou know, fellow, whether there be cellars beneath this
place?"

Culverhouse spoke to a man-at-arms who appeared to be on duty
there, and who had for some moments been regarding Cuthbert with
close scrutiny, and had now drawn slowly near them. Cuthbert was
vaguely aware that the man's face was in some way familiar to him,
but he had no recollection where he had seen him before.

"Master Thomas Percy has rented the cellar beneath, where his coals
be stored," answered the man carelessly; and Cuthbert, who had
asked the question rather haphazard and without exactly knowing
why, moved away to examine a piece of fine carving close at hand.

Whilst he was doing this he knew that the man-at-arms asked
Culverhouse a question, to which the latter gave ready reply, and
he heard the name of Trevlyn pass his lips. At the moment he heeded
this little, but the remembrance came back to him later.

As he passed out he noted that the man still continued to gaze
after him, as though wishful to read his face by heart. He was
standing beside a companion warder then, pointing out, as it
seemed, the visitor to the other fellow. Was it only fancy, or did
Cuthbert really hear the name of Father Urban pass in a whisper
between them? Puzzled, and even a shade uneasy, he followed
Culverhouse to the outer door, A flash of memory seemed then to
recall to him the faces of these two men. Had he not seen them
keeping watch at the wharf for Father Urban that day so long ago?
He was almost certain it had been so. But what of that? How could
they possibly connect him with the fugitive priest?

It would soon be dusk now, so the comrades said adieu to each other
and went their several ways. Cuthbert had come as far as the Strand
by boat, and had only to drop down and find it there; but somehow
he felt more disposed to linger about these solemn old buildings,
and try to piece together the things he had seen and heard.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he wandered round the great pile
till he came to the narrow entry he had once traversed, leading up
from the river to the door of the house where he had seen Catesby
and his companions at their mysterious toil. The house looked dark
as night now. Not a single gleam penetrated the gloom. Already the
last of the twilight had faded into night, but no ray of any kind
shone from any of the casements.

Cuthbert stood looking thoughtfully up at the house, hardly knowing
why he did so, his fancy running riot in his excited brain and
conjuring up all manner of fantastic visions, when suddenly and
silently the door opened. A gleam of light from behind showed in
relief the figure of a tall man muffled in a cloak, a soft felt hat
being drawn over the brow and effectually concealing the features;
but one glance sufficed to convince Cuthbert that this cloaked and
muffled individual was none other than the same tall dark man who
had produced the holy water blessed by the Pope and had had it
sprinkled around the spot where those mysterious men were at work
in Percy's house. Filled with a burning curiosity that rendered him
impervious to the thought of personal risk, Cuthbert first shrank
into a dark recess, and then with hushed and noiseless footfall
followed the tall figure in its walk.

The cloaked man walked quietly, but without any appearance of fear.
He skirted round the great block of buildings of which the Houses
of Parliament were composed, until he reached a door in the rear of
that building, within a deep arch sunk a little way below the level
of the ground, and this door he opened, but closed it after him,
and locked it on the inside.

Unable to follow further, Cuthbert put his ear to the keyhole, and
heard distinctly the sound of footsteps descending stone stairs
till the sound changed to the unbarring of a lower door, and then
all was silence.

Cuthbert looked keenly around him, and soon made out that these
steps must certainly lead down to the cellar beneath the Parliament
Houses of which he had recently heard. That other cellar he had
visited so many months before was close at hand--close to these
great buildings; and this tall dark man seemed to have some
mysterious connection with both.

What could it all mean? what did it mean? Cuthbert felt as though
he were on the eve of some strange discovery, but what that
discovery could be he could not guess.

He was aroused from his reverie by the sound of approaching
footfalls along the roadway, and he hastily stood upright and
walked onwards to meet the advancing pedestrian. The man carried a
light which he flashed in Cuthbert's face, and the youth saw that
it was one of the men-at-arms on guard over these buildings.

"What are you doing here?" asked the man civilly, though in
slightly peremptory fashion.

"I did not know that this road was anything but public," answered
Cuthbert, with careless boldness. "I have walked in London streets
before now, no man interfering with me."

"Have a care how and where you walk at night," returned the man,
passing by without further comment. "There be many perils abroad in
the streets--more than perchance you wot of."

Cuthbert thanked him for the hint, and went on his way. He would
have liked well enough to linger till the tall man emerged again,
but he saw that to do so would only excite suspicion.

Although it was quite dark by this time, it was not really late;
for it was the last day of October save one, and masses of heavy
cloud obscured the sky. Now and again a ray of moonlight glinted
through these ragged masses, but for the rest it was profoundly
dark in the narrow streets, and only a little lighter on the open
river.

The tide was running in fast, with a strong cold easterly wind.
Cuthbert saw that it would be hard work to row against it.

"Better wait for the ebb; it will not be long in coming now," he
said to himself as he noted the height of the tide; and stepping
into his boat, he pulled idly out into midstream, as being a safer
place of waiting than the dark wharf, to find himself drifting up
with the strong current, which he did not care to try to stem.

"Beware of the dark-flowing river!" spoke a voice within him;
"beware of the black cellar!"

He started, for it almost seemed as though some one had spoken the
words in his ear, and a little thrill of fear ran through him. But
all was silent save for the wash of the current as it bore him
rapidly onwards, and he knew that the voice was one in his own
head.

Upwards and upwards he drifted; was it by his own will, or not? He
did not himself know, he could not have said. He only knew that a
spell seemed upon him, that an intense desire had seized him to
look once again upon that lonely house beside the river bank. He
had no wish to try to obtain entrance there. He felt that he was
treading the dark mazes of some unhallowed plot. But this very
suspicion only increased his burning curiosity; and surely there
could no harm come of one look at that dark and lonely place.

No volition of his own was needed to carry him onwards; wind and
tide did all that. He had merely to keep his place and steer his
little bark up the wide river. He saw against the sky the great
pile of Westminster. He had drifted almost across the river by that
time. He was seated in the bow of the boat, just dipping an oar
from time to time as it slipped along beneath the trees. And now
the moon shone out for a few minutes clear and bright. It did not
shine upon his own craft, gliding so stealthily beneath the bare
trees that fringed the wall of the very house he had come to see;
but it did gleam upon another wherry out in midstream, rowed by a
strong man wrapped in a cloak, and directed straight for the same
spot. Cuthbert started, and caught hold of a bough of a weeping
willow, bringing his boat to a standstill in a place where the
shadow was blackest. He had no wish to be found in this strange
position. He would remain hidden until this other boat had landed
at the steps. He would be hidden well where he was. He had better
be perfectly silent, and so remain.

A sound of voices above his head warned him that he was not the
only watcher, and for a moment he feared that, silent as had been
his movements, his presence had been discovered. But some one spoke
in anxious accents, and in that voice he recognized the clear and
mellow tones of Robert Catesby. He was speaking in a low voice to
some companion.

"If he comes not within a short while, I shall hold that all is
lost. I fear me we did wrong to send him. That letter--that
letter--that luckless letter! who can have been the writer?"

"Tresham, I fear me without doubt, albeit he denied it with such
steadfast boldness. Would to heaven that fickle hound had never
been admitted to our counsels! That was thy doing, Catesby."

"Ay, and terribly do I repent me of it, Winter. I upbraid myself as
bitterly as any can upbraid me for the folly. But hark--listen! I
hear the plash of oars. See, there is a boat! It is he--it is
Fawkes! I know him by his height and his strong action. Heaven be
praised! All cannot yet be lost! Move upwards yet a few paces, and
we will speak to him here alone before we take him within doors to
the others.

"Guido Fawkes! Good Guy, is that verily thou?"

"Verily and in truth, my masters. Has the time seemed long?"

"Terribly long. How foundest thou all?"

"All well--all as I left it weeks ago. There has been no soul
within. Gunpowder, faggots, iron bars, and stones--all are as
before; and above, the coal and faggots carefully concealing all.
Why this anxiety and fear, Catesby? it was not wont to be so with
thee."

"No; but I have something of terrible import to reveal to thee,
good Guy. And first I must ask thy pardon for thus exposing thee to
peril as this day I did. I sent thee on this mission of inspection;
but I ought first to have told thee that we are in fear and
trembling lest we have been betrayed!"

"Betrayed!" echoed Fawkes with a fierce oath, "and by whom?"

"That we know not. But some days since, my Lord Mounteagle received
a mysterious warning bidding him absent himself from this meeting
of Parliament, for that a blow should then be struck, no man seeing
who dealt it. Wherefore we fear--"

"Mounteagle!" cried Fawkes, interrupting fiercely; "then the
traitor is yon false hound Tresham!"

"So we all thought till we charged him with it, and had he blenched
or shrunk our daggers should have been buried in his heart!"
answered Winter in low, fierce accents; "but he swore he knew
naught of it, and that with so bold a front and so open an air that
for very doubt of his guilt we could not smite him. There may be
other traitors in the camp. There was that lad thou, or thy fool of
a servant, Catesby, once brought amongst us. I liked it not then.
He should not have been let go without solemn oath taken on pain of
death. Trevlyn, methinks, was the name. I hear he has been seen in
London again of late. Why does he haunt us? what does he suspect?"

"Tush! thou art dreaming. Trevlyn! why, that is a good name, and
the lad knows nothing, and is, moreover, stanch.

"Guido, thou hast not said that thou dost pardon us for sending
thee on so perilous an errand this day."

"Thou needst not repent, Catesby. I should have adventured myself
the same had I known all. I have sworn myself to this task, and I
go not back to mine own country till all be accomplished."



Chapter 23: Peril For Trevlyn.


Cuthbert stood at the door of the narrow house in Budge Row,
seeking speech of the wise woman.

It was a blustering night--the first night in November. The wind
howled and shrieked round the corners of the streets; the rain
pattered down and splashed the garments of the few pedestrians who
had braved the storm. It was but seven of the clock, yet Budge Row
was dark and quiet as though midnight had settled down upon the
city. Scarce any gleams of light filtered through the cracks in the
shutters, and only the sound of a distant watchman's cry broke the
silence of the night.

Cuthbert had once before sought this house, but had knocked in vain
for admittance. Either the wise woman was from home, or else she
had no intention of receiving visitors. Since then his mind had
been engrossed by other matters, and he had not thought again of
Joanna's charge concerning Esther. But recent mysterious
occurrences had made him desirous not only of telling her his own
tale, but of seeking information from her; and here he stood in the
wind and rain making request for admittance.

Softly and silently the door swung open at last, and he saw before
him the dark passage he had traversed a year before with Cherry,
the dim light from above just guiding his steps as he moved. The
same juggleries were repeated as on that occasion. The outer door
swung back and bolted itself behind him. The invisible light
wavered and flickered and showed him his way. The black cat
appeared ready to dispute his entrance into the room till he had
dropped his coin into the box; and when he entered the dim place
where the wise woman ensconced herself, he saw her as before,
seated behind the lamp which shed its light upon him, but left her
face in deep shadow. All was precisely as it had been upon a former
occasion--all but his reception by the wise woman herself.

That, however, was altogether different; for the moment she saw who
her visitor was, she rose suddenly from her chair and exclaimed in
excited tones:

"Cuthbert Trevlyn, why hast thou not come hither sooner?"

"I did, but could not find thee."

She made an impatient exclamation.

"And thou wert content not to find me, and came not again and yet
again! Foolish boy! Did not Joanna warn thee to seek me out and
tell me all? I know well that she did. She is loyal and true. And
so, boy, the lost treasure is found, and is safe beneath the roof
of that house which shelters the honoured heads of the Wyverns?"

"Yes, it is all there."

The old woman flung up her arms with a gesture of triumph.

"I knew it: I knew it I knew that the prophecy would fulfil itself,
for all Miriam's spite and Long Robin's greed. Boy, thou hast done
well, thou hast done very well. But thou hast been more bold than
secret. Thou art suspected. Miriam has been here. She is raging
like a lioness robbed of her whelps. She loved yon fierce man who
called himself Long Robin, yet was neither husband of hers, still
less her son, with a love more wild and fierce than thou wilt ever
understand. She vows that she will be revenged. She vows that the
Trevlyns shall yet smart. She suspects not thee alone, but all who
bear the name. Boy, boy, why didst thou not seek me earlier?"

Cuthbert made no response. He was looking in amaze at this old
woman, who had now come forth from her nook behind the table, and
was speaking to him without any assumption of prophetic power, but
as one anxious human creature to another. He saw in her a strange
likeness to old Miriam, and to the dark gipsy queen; but he
marvelled at the excitement she evinced, and the eager intensity of
her gaze. It was so different from her aspect when last he had seen
her, so much more natural and full of human concern and anxiety.

"I have looked for thee day by day. I said in my heart, surely thou
wouldst come quickly. And now, in lieu of seeking safety and
counsel, thou hast been running blindly into those very perils of
which I warned thee long ago. As if it were not enough to have
Tyrrel and all his crew, with old Miriam at their back, resolved to
hunt thee down and wrest the treasure from thee!"

Cuthbert started and looked intently at her.

"Miriam! Tyrrel! what can they know?"

"Miriam can piece together facts as well as I," answered Esther in
rapid tones; "and thou oughtest by this to know what power that
gives to those who possess the gift. In brief, I will tell thee
what I myself have learned from her and others. She missed Long
Robin, waited for his return till despair took the place of
expectation. She knew that one of two things had happened--either
that he had made off with the treasure, or that he had been done to
death in the forest by some secret foe. Burning with fear and fury,
she caused search to be made. The grave was found where the body
lay. Rage filled the hearts of all the tribe, for the strange old
man was venerated and feared, albeit he was not greatly beloved;
and as thou knowest, amongst our people an injury done to one is
avenged by all. Thou hadst been seen in the forest, seen moving to
and fro in mysterious fashion. Many had wondered what thy business
was, but none had interfered; for thou wast known to be under the
protection of Joanna, and the word of the queen is sacred. But now
that may serve no longer to protect thee. Miriam has declared aloud
that Robin was the keeper of the long-lost treasure, that he was
hoarding it up in some secret spot, ready to divide it amongst the
whole tribe when the moment should have come. In fervid words she
described the golden hoard--the hoard which I know well that evil
man meant to make all his own when the time came that he might
escape from the jealous watch kept upon him by Miriam. He was but
waiting for her death, which may not be far distant, since she is
subject to strange seizures of the heart which defy all our skill
in curing. Then would he have fled, and taken all the treasure with
him. He would have shared the spoil with none, as Miriam well
knows. But she is using her power and her half knowledge of the
secret for her own ends, and one of those ends is--"

The old woman paused, looking straight at Cuthbert, who regarded
her fixedly, and now asked in a low voice:

"Is what?"

"The destruction of the house of Trevlyn, root and branch."

A gleam of angry defiance shone in his eyes.

"Still that mad hatred? But why should we fear her? Let her do her
worst!"

Esther raised a warning hand.

"Peace, boy!" she said; "be not so full of recklessness and scorn.
Miriam is an adversary not to be despised. Miriam is sworn to the
task of vengeance upon thy house. She will not let this fresh deed
of thine pass without striving might and main to fulfil that
vengeance which thou hast now made void."

"Made void?"

"Ay, by the finding of the treasure. She is assured that this is
what thou hast done. She has persuaded Tyrrel and his band of it,
and all are resolved to find it for themselves. She is acting with
the craftiness of her nature. She has persuaded them that all the
Trevlyns are in the golden secret. Wherefore vengeance is not
directed against thee alone, but against all who bear thy name--Sir
Richard and his son, who are in this city now."

Cuthbert drew his brows together in a frown.

"They know naught of it," he said hastily.

"That may be; but they are Trevlyns, and that is enough for Miriam.
It is not the gold she covets; it is vengeance upon all who bear
that name. She stirs the avarice and cupidity of others, that they
may do the work she wishes done. And she works in other dark ways,
too. She has tools which few suspect, and she uses them for her own
ends without scruple. And thou, foolish boy, blind and self willed
as thou art, unheeding my warnings, hast played into her hands; and
now others as well as thyself may be brought into sore peril
through thine own foolhardy recklessness."

The old woman's eyes were gleaming brightly. They were fixed upon
Cuthbert with keen intensity. He felt himself change colour beneath
their glance, and he answered with some uneasiness:

"What hast thou to chide me with? Wherein have I been guilty of
recklessness that may be hurtful to others?"

"Did I not charge thee to beware the dark-flowing river; to avoid
the black cellar; to have no dealings with strange men; to have the
courage to say nay to what was asked of thee? Hast. thou avoided
these perils? No! thou hast been led on by thy reckless hardihood
and insensate curiosity. Hast thou said no to what has been asked
of thee! No! thou hast ever done the things required of thee,
making excuse to forget warnings and disobey those who have
counselled thee for thy good. And what has come of it? Verily, that
the name of Trevlyn has been whispered amongst the names of
traitors suspected of foul crimes, and that thine own kindred now
stand in dire peril from thine own defiant hardihood."

Cuthbert started and made a step forward.

"Woman, what meanest thou?" he asked with breathless eagerness. "I
understand not the meaning of thy words."

Esther continued to gaze at him with her bright keen eyes.

"Understandest thou not that there be on foot at this very moment a
vile plot for the destruction at one blow of the King, the nobles,
and the whole house of his Peers--a plot to blow them all into the
air at the moment of their assembly upon the fifth day of this
month?"

Cuthbert recoiled in horror. A sudden illumination came upon him.
He put together chance words dropped, expressions used, things he
had seen as well as what he had heard, and his face grew pale with
conflicting emotions and his extreme bewilderment.

"What?" he gasped; "is that what it means? Is that the hideous deed
to be done? Great Heavens protect us from such men, if it has come
to that!

"How knowest thou this thing?" he added, turning almost fiercely
upon the old woman, who was still regarding him steadily. "If it be
as thou sayest, sure such a fearful secret would be held sacred
from all."

Esther smiled her strange smile.

"Secrets known to many have a wondrous fashion of leaking out. And,
moreover, the wise woman has means thou knowest naught of for
learning the things concealed from the world. Cuthbert Trevlyn,
look back, search thy memory, and thou wilt surely know that I have
spoken naught but the truth. If thou art not one of them, thou
knowest their dark secrets; thou canst not deny it!"

Again he recoiled from her.

"I know their secrets! I one of them! Woman, dost thou believe this
vile thing of me?

"No, I believe it not. I know that thou hast but let thyself be led
into dire peril through that foolish, generous weakness of youth
and thy Trevlyn blood, against which I have warned thee--and warned
thee in vain. But dost thou think thou canst despise the warnings
of the wise woman and escape deadly peril? Cuthbert Trevlyn, listen
to me and heed me well. This thing is known--is known in high
places. The King and his counsellors have had intelligence thereof.
The deed of darkness will be frustrated, and heads will fall
beneath the axe of the executioner. Already whispers are going
abroad--already the guilty ones are watched and spied upon; and
with the guilty there are those suspected who know naught of this
vile deed. Shall I say more, or can thine own quick wits supply the
rest?"

Cuthbert had turned a little pale. His eyes were fixed upon this
woman's face.

"Tell me all," he said hoarsely. "What dost thou mean by these dark
sayings?"

"I mean," she answered, in clear low tones, "that there is peril
for Trevlyn in this thing. Thine own rashness, Miriam's spite and
quickness of wit to avail herself of every trifling matter that
passes, the presence in London of Sir Richard and his son at this
time, the old tradition surrounding the name of Trevlyn--all are
helping on the work; all are pointing in one direction. Rash boy,
thou hast been seen with Father Urban in the streets--a Jesuit, a
seminary priest, a man suspected of many plots and many daring acts
of courage and cunning. Thou art suspected to have been concerned
in his escape one dark and foggy night, when thou wert on the river
in thy wherry; and he must have been taken on board some such
craft. Thou hast been seen with others who are suspected of being
mixed up in this business. Thou hast appeared within the city walls
when they appeared; when they were absent thou wast absent
likewise. Thou wouldst not heed warnings when yet there was time;
thou must now take double heed to thy steps--"

"Thou spokest of Sir Richard and his son but now," cried Cuthbert,
interrupting hastily. "For myself, I must take the consequences of
my rashness. The fault is mine, and if harm comes to me I can bear
it; but if others have been imperilled through me, I should never
forgive myself. Tell me plainly if this has been so; keep me not in
suspense! How can one word be breathed against the loyalty of a man
faithful and true as Sir Richard, and a stanch Protestant to boot?"

The old woman shook her head meaningly.

"A man's character and reputation and life may too easily be
whispered away in these evil times. But listen to me, Cuthbert
Trevlyn, and all may yet be well. Thou hast been noted, spied upon,
observed. There be those who have seen thee in strange places and
strange company, and it behoves thee to look well to thyself. But
for thy kinsmen, methinks that no whisper regarding them has as yet
reached high quarters. As thou sayest, Sir Richard's loyalty is
known, and men will not easily believe such ill of him. Yet he were
best to be gone. Miriam is at work. Miriam has tools that even I
wot not of, and she hates the head of Trevlyn's house with a bitter
and undying hatred. Let but this thing be known--as known it will
be to all the world in a few more days--and she will leave no stone
unturned to overwhelm him in the ruin that must then fall upon so
many. Vengeance such as that would be dear to her heart. She would
weave her web right skilfully to entrap his unsuspecting steps.
Wherefore let him begone--let all who bear the name of Trevlyn
begone, and that right speedily. Flight will not be thought flight
now; for this thing is as yet a profound secret, and thou must not
breathe a word that I have spoken to thee abroad, else thou mayest
do harm of which thou little reckest. Let him go speedily; and go
thou likewise, and do not tarry. If thou wouldst undo the harm thy
rashness has well-nigh brought to thy kinsfolk, carry them this
warning, and make them listen."

"That will I do right speedily," answered Cuthbert, whose heart was
beating high with excitement and agitation. "Did harm befall them
through deed of mine, I should never forgive myself."

"Go then," answered Esther; "go, and be thou cautious and wary.
Remember thou hast many foes, and that the hour of peril darkens
over this land. Strange things will be heard and seen ere many days
have passed. Take heed that thou be far away from hence ere the day
of reckoning comes. Take heed that Miriam's vow of vengeance be not
accomplished, and that the house of Trevlyn be drawn into the
vortex!"

Cuthbert descended the stairs with uncertain steps, his mind in a
whirl of conflicting feelings. He believed that Esther was sincere
in her desire for the welfare of the house of Trevlyn. He trusted
her, and he saw that she had in some way or another become
possessed of information concerning himself of a very particular
and intimate kind. This being so, it was easy to believe that she
had discovered other matters of hidden import; and he was quite
disposed to give her credit for dealings in magic and charms which
should show her the things that were to be.

The horror of the knowledge of this plot was upon him as he went
forth into the streets and felt the keen air and the cold rain
dashing in his face. He could not doubt the truth of Esther's
words. All he had seen and heard tallied too well with it to leave
in his mind any room for doubt. A plot of some sort he had always
suspected--he would have been foolish indeed to have come to any
other conclusion; but a plot of such malignity and such diabolical
scope would never have presented itself to his mind. He found it
hard to believe that such a terrible thing could be menaced against
the King and the nobles of the land, many amongst whom must surely
be of the same faith as those conspirators who were plotting in the
dark.

And then the peril that menaced the Trevlyns--what of that?
Cuthbert remembered the looks bent upon him a few days back by the
men-at-arms in the Parliament House. He remembered the light of the
sentry flashing in his face as he turned away from the door in at
which the tall man they called Guido Fawkes had vanished but a few
moments before. He knew that he had been observed more than once
with some attention as he had stepped on board his wherry, or had
brought it up to the mooring place. Could it be that he was really
watched and suspected? It seemed like it, indeed. And what was more
serious still, his kinsmen were like to fall under suspicion
through his rash disregard of warnings.

For himself Cuthbert cared comparatively little--perhaps rather too
little--for he possessed a strong dash of his father's stubbornness
of disposition; and in him the Trevlyn courage was intermingled
with a good deal of absolute rashness and hardihood; but the
thought that Sir Richard and his family should suffer for his sake
was intolerable. That must at all cost be prevented. Surely he
could warn them and avert the danger.

As the youth walked rapidly westward through the miry streets, he
was revolving the situation rapidly in his mind, and at last he
reached a conclusion which he muttered aloud as he went.

"That will be the best: I will to mine uncle and Philip and tell
them that. It will make them hasten away at once; but I will not go
with them. If I am suspected I must not be seen with them, nor seem
to have dealings with them. If they leave town and I remain, none
will suspect that I have warned them and sent them forth. To fly
with them would at once raise such thoughts. Here must I remain,
and let myself be seen abroad, so will they the better escape
Miriam's evil intent. Sir Richard has friends at Court. Lord
Andover and others will speak for him if need be. I doubt me much,
he being quietly gone, whether any will dare to strive to bring his
name into disgrace. There be those to find who are the guilty ones.
Sure they may let the innocent go free. As for me, I will not flee.
I would fain see the end of this matter. And perchance I might even
warn Master Robert Catesby of the peril that hangs over his head.
Strange how so gentle and courteous a gentleman can sell himself to
a work of such devilish wickedness!"

Divided betwixt horror of the deed and pity for the conspirators
who had been practically discovered and frustrated in their evil
work, and who had doubtless persuaded themselves and been persuaded
by their ghostly advisers that it was an act of virtue and justice
and right, Cuthbert walked on, wondering more and more at the
strange vagaries of human conscience, and at the extraordinary self
delusion possible to the sons of the Romish faction.

It was long since he had decided definitely and of resolute
conviction to cast in his lot with those who held the Reformed
faith; but had he ever had any secret doubts and leanings towards
the faith in which he had been reared, the revelations of that
night would have proved enough for him. He knew--none better--that
this diabolic deed was planned and executed with the full consent,
approbation, and blessing of the Romanist priests, and might even
be known to the Pope himself. Sorrowful and indignant as Cuthbert
had often been for the persecuted Romanists, and keenly as his
sympathies would have been stirred had they risen in man-like
fashion to claim liberty of conscience and fight boldly for the
cause in which their hearts were bound up, he could regard a plot
like this with nothing but loathing and horror. He wondered that
men could be found willing to sell themselves to such iniquity. Yet
he knew, from what he had himself seen, that these were no mere
hirelings bought over with money to do this thing, but that they
were gentlemen, most of them of noble birth and large means, all of
them actuated by motives of devotion and religious enthusiasm; and
that they did not prize their own lives or regard them as in any
way precious, but would gladly offer them up so that this thing
might be accomplished.

Well, it was a mystery, and one that he could not fathom. He could
only feel thankful that no compulsion lay upon him to make known
what he had seen and heard. His word had been pledged to Catesby
and Father Urban, and how to have broken it he knew not. But there
was no call for him even to think of this. It was not he who had
discovered this strange plot. The knowledge of it was already with
the King and his ministers. The conspirators themselves were half
aware of this; Cuthbert well remembered the words of fear
concerning some letter spoken in the lonely garden at Lambeth but a
couple of days back.

How dared they, knowing so much, pursue their dark scheme? The
youth shuddered as he marvelled at them. Did they believe
themselves yet secure? What a fearful thing security such as that
might become! Cuthbert longed to warn them, yet feared to
intermeddle further in such a matter. And at least his first
business lay in the warning he must instantly convey to Sir
Richard, and that without revealing more of the truth than was
absolutely necessary. Cuthbert was worldly wise enough to be well
aware that the greatest protection his kinsmen could have against
suspicion was absolute ignorance of the matter of which they stood
suspected.

Sir Richard was absent when Cuthbert asked for him, but his son was
at home, and the visitor was ushered into a room where Philip and
Culverhouse were sitting together conversing by the glow of a
bright fire of sea coal.

He was made very welcome by his cousin, and quickly plunged into
the matter in hand.

"Philip," he said, "I have come to ask whether the business that
has brought you to town is yet accomplished."

"Yes, verily," answered Philip, surprised. "We came to talk of
Kate's rash marriage with Culverhouse there, and if it was such as
might safely be ignored. My Lord and Lady of Andover, however, had
adjudged that their son is too far pledged to draw back, and that
for the sake of the lady's honour and happiness they must be held
to be solemnly betrothed. Their punishment will be the long waiting
ere they may truly wed; but Culverhouse means to tell all his tale
in the ears of the Prince of Wales, and he holds that the kindly
youth will doubtless give him some post about his royal person that
may be a stepping stone to further wealth and advancement."

"My Lord Culverhouse need scarce do that," said Cuthbert, speaking
in short, abrupt sentences. "Let me tell my news in a few words.
The lost treasure of Trevlyn is found. It is hidden in the Cross
Way House, where Mistress Kate and my sister Petronella are at this
moment sheltering. It was thought the safest spot, for that the
gipsies and the robbers of the road alike think kindly of the
ladies of the Wyvern family, and hold their abode sacred--"

Cuthbert was at this moment arrested by a storm of questions and
eager exclamations, which he had some small trouble in answering or
setting aside. When he had so far satisfied his eager listeners as
to be able to take up the thread of what he was saying, he went on
in the same quick, abrupt fashion as before.

"I thought the treasure safe when I hid it there; but I have had a
warning this night from one who knows well the temper of the gipsy
folk. I hear that suspicion has been aroused in the tribe--that
there is a resolve abroad to win it back. There is a man called
Tyrrel, a notable highway robber, who has vowed to regain it for
himself and his men. If this be so, I fear me that even the
sanctuary of the Wyvern House will not suffice. In that house there
are but women and a few old men--servants, little able to withstand
a concerted attack. I have heard this news but tonight, and I have
come straight on to tell thee, Philip. If your business in London
be done, why shouldst not thou and thy father return forthwith
home, and abide awhile at the Cross Way House, to see what fares
there, and to protect the household should Tyrrel and his men
attack? Methinks that they may stand in need of the presence of
kinsmen at such a time as that. I hear that ill is meant by these
fierce men to all who bear the name of Trevlyn. Two of the women
within those doors bear that name; wherefore--"

But Cuthbert had no need to complete his sentence; both young men
had started at once to their feet.

"Kate in peril!" cried Culverhouse, between his shut teeth; "then
verily her husband must find his way to her side."

"Petronella at the Cross Way House, exposed to alarm and attack!"
cried Philip; "then must I be there to shelter and protect her."

"We will forth this very night!" cried Culverhouse. "I will to the
house and get ready my servants to accompany me."

"I will make all preparation here!" echoed Philip, "and only await
my father's return.

"Cuthbert, thinkest thou that they are in peril this very night?
Speak; tell us all!"

"I trow not," answered Cuthbert with some decision, knowing that
his object was well accomplished and that the Trevlyns would make
all speed to leave London, yet scarcely himself wishing them to
hurry off in the night like fugitives in fear for themselves. "I am
certain sure that no immediate peril hangs over them, or I should
have been more urgently warned. I would not have you hasten thus. I
trow it would more alarm the ladies to be aroused by you in the
middle of the night than to see you come riding thither later in
the day on the morrow. Surely it would be better to wait for day.
The night is black and tempestuous; it will be hard to find the
road. Tomorrow with the first of the sunlight you may well ride
forth."

Culverhouse and Philip both saw the soundness and reasonableness of
this counsel, and knew that their respective fathers would both
concur in this opinion, though their own impatience chafed at the
delay.

"And thou--what wilt thou do thyself, Cuthbert?" asked Philip;
"come with us to Cross Way House?"

Cuthbert hesitated a few moments, debating within himself what were
best. He had been warned on the one hand to flee the forest, on the
other to flee the city. If his mysterious gipsy friends were right,
for him there was peril in both places. But it certainly seemed to
him that his own presence and company would add to the perils of
his kinsmen; and his decision was speedily taken.

"I hope to join you there anon," he said; "but I have something set
my heart upon seeing this grand pageant when his Majesty shall open
his Parliament on the fifth. Methinks I will stay for that, and
then perchance I will forth to the Cross Way House."

He looked keenly at both his companions as he spoke, but neither
face wore the least look of any secret intelligence. He was certain
that no whisper of the plot had reached their ears.

"Ay, do so, and come and tell us all," said Culverhouse gaily. "I
had thought to be there myself, but I must to my Kate's side.

"Philip, thy father will be something loath to leave London ere
that day. Thinkest thou that thou canst persuade him?"

"I trow I can," answered Philip; and then they both turned on
Cuthbert, asking him for a more detailed account of his search
after and his discovery of the lost treasure, hanging with eager
interest on his words.

It was late ere he left their lodgings, and the family at the
bridge house had retired to rest. He found his way to his room; but
little sleep visited his eyes that night, and the fitful dreams
which came to him betwixt waking and sleeping seemed charged with
ominous warnings.

Sir Richard Trevlyn heard his son's story in great surprise, but he
hesitated not a moment as to the course of action they must pursue.

"I would it had been brought to Trevlyn Chase. We have a household
of men there, and could well defy these rogues of the road. But
Cross Way House has no such defences, and it is tenanted mainly by
helpless women, and we must lose no time in going to their
assistance. I have heard long since of this man--Tyrrel. He is a
notable outlaw, and there is a price upon his head. The forest will
be well freed of him if we can overthrow him. He has owed his
safety again and again to his reckless riding and the alliance and
good fellowship he has with the forest gipsies. It is time the
whole brood were smoked out from their hiding places. They want
destroying, root and branch!"

Sir Richard found it easier to remember that the treasure had been
stolen and hidden by the gipsy people than that it had been
restored partly through the assistance of the woman Joanna, the
queen. However, there was little time for further talk. The night
was already advanced, and on the morrow they were to make as early
a start as was practicable.

Sir Richard had not many servants of his own, but Culverhouse could
bring a good dozen men with him. Unluckily the storm raged all
through the earlier hours of the following day, and it was not till
noon that a start could be made. However, the seventeen miles' ride
could be easily made before dark, although the roads were deep in
mud, and travelling in the open country was both tedious and bad.

The last of the scattered hamlets had been passed. The sun glowed
red before them in an angry, lowering sky. Sir Richard and his son
and Lord Culverhouse paused on the brow of the ridge to look both
before and behind. They had in their impatience outridden their
servants, who, less well mounted, found some difficulty in spurring
along the deep mire of the ill-made roads. They could but just see
them on the horizon of the last ridge, coming onwards at an even
jog trot, which seemed the swiftest pace they aspired to.

Before lay the long waste of forest--trees and heather intermixed
in long stretches alternating one with the other. A good seven
miles lay between them and their destination, and the sun was
already nearing the horizon, and would soon dip behind it.

"We must push on something faster," said Culverhouse impatiently,
"if we are to reach Cross Way House before dark."

"We have already far outridden our men," said Sir Richard, frowning
slightly as he turned his head to look over his shoulder; "and this
is the worst part of the road before us."

"But we are well mounted and well armed," urged Culverhouse, "and
if we wait for the men we shall lose the rest of the daylight.
Surely if there be any footpads about, the fact that we are
followed by so goodly a train will serve to scare them away. And we
have no valuables upon our persons. They will get cold steel and
hot lead for their pains, an they venture to molest us, instead of
silver or gold."

"Very true," said Philip, who was as eager as his cousin and endued
with full share of Trevlyn courage and impetuosity; "we can never
wait till those sluggards have come up. The fault is not theirs:
they are not so well mounted as ourselves. We shall never keep our
horses to their pace, try we never so hard."

"Forward then, and let us ride as fast as our steeds can carry us!"
said Sir Richard with a smile; "for if we wait not for our men, the
daylight is our best friend. We are all familiar with the road, and
our horses likewise. Forward! and all eyes keep a sharp lookout to
left and right. At least we will not be set upon unawares."

Putting spurs to their horses very gladly, the younger men placed
themselves one on each side of Sir Richard, and the good horses
settled themselves to a steady hand gallop, which was the best and
surest pace for getting over those rough muddy roads.

Three miles had been safely traversed. Absolute solitude and
silence seemed to reign throughout the woodland tracks. But the
darkest of the forest still lay ahead of them, and the red ball of
the sun had just dipped behind the ridge in front.

"It will be dark beneath the trees," said Sir Richard; "have a
care, lads, how you ride.

"Philip, thine eyes are better than mine. Dost thou see aught there
to the right of the road, just beneath that great oak?"

Philip had seen already, and his answer was quickly spoken.

"They be horsemen," he said--"horsemen drawn up and, as it were,
awaiting us. I fear me we shall not pass without molestation. But
my counsel is not to pause, rather to gallop still on steadily, as
though we saw them not. But let us be ready; and if they dare to
molest us, let us with one accord discharge our pieces in their
faces. That will disconcert them for a moment, and we may perchance
outride them. We are but three miles and a half from Cross Way
House. I trow we can make shift to reach its friendly shelter; and
once there we shall be safe."

"It is useless to pause now," answered Sir Richard, who was always
cool and self possessed in moments of real peril. "Our men are a
mile behind, and to hesitate would be to lose all. A bold front is
our greatest safeguard. We are all well skilled in the use of arms.
Be watchful and vigilant, and make you sure that every shot and
every stroke will tell. We have need of all our strength, if we are
attacked. But they may let us pass unmolested; they may guess that
our followers are behind."

Culverhouse said nothing, but he set his teeth hard and his eyes
flashed ominously. He had never tasted real warfare before, and it
seemed to fire the blood in his veins and send it tingling through
his body. Each rider so shifted his carbine that it could be
readily used at a moment's notice.

And now they had reached the forest aisle. Their good horses, still
galloping freely and easily, bore them rapidly onwards. They had
almost reached that silent, motionless band awaiting them with
sinister quietude. In another moment they would have passed them,
when, on a sudden, a voice rang out clear and sharp through the
still air:

"Halt! stand! Stand, or we fire!"

"Ride on and fire!" said Sir Richard in calm tones; and the next
moment the echoes were awakened by three sharp reports of firearms
and by a yell--three yells--of human rage and pain. A roar of
execration and menace arose from twenty throats, and twenty blades
gleamed brightly in the gathering dusk. But already the riders had
passed the little band, sweeping by before they were well aware of
it. And as they did so, they heard a voice exclaim, sharpened by
rage and pain:

"It is they--it is our foes! I knew it--I knew it! Those are the
Trevlyn brood that we were warned would pass--the false sire and
his son and nephew. After them, my men! Let them not escape your
vengeance! Take them, or slay them, but let them not escape! They
have the treasure. We will have them. The vengeance of the gipsy
tribe shall be consummated! They shall not make it void. They shall
give life for life--blood for blood!"

"They shall! they shall! They shall not escape us. We will be
avenged, and the red gold shall be our reward!"

Sir Richard set his teeth as he heard these words, and dug his
spurs into the sides of his horse, causing the noble animal, who
seemed to share his master's knowledge of the deadly peril they
were in, to spring forward with redoubled speed.

"We must save ourselves by flight; they are six to one!" he said in
low tones to his companions, who kept pace for pace at his side.
"It will be a race for life; and if we are beaten, all we can do is
to sell our lives as dearly as may be. It is not robbery alone, it
is vengeance, the old grudge against the Trevlyns. But if we can
but make Cross Way House ere we are outridden, we may save
ourselves yet."



Chapter 24: Kate's Courage.


Lady Humbert had left the Cross Way House for a three days' visit
to a sick relative who had sent an urgent message to her. Mistress
Dowsabel remained in charge of the house and its small establishment,
lessened considerably by the removal of four of the men servants who
had attended their mistress on her journey.

Mistress Dowsabel would gladly have accompanied her sister, for she
was always nervous and ill at ease in her absence, but she was
withheld by two considerations. In the first place, she was
suffering from what was then termed a rheum, which we should call a
bad cold in the head, so that the idea of a wet cold journey of
some hours' duration was exceedingly unwelcome; in the second, it
was not thought seemly by either sister that the young girls, their
guests, should be left in the house without some guardian and
protector; and Mistress Dowsabel therefore decided to put her fears
on one side and remain in charge.

"And beside, what is there to fear?" Lady Humbert had said, in her
decisive and cheery fashion. "We are quiet and peaceable folks, and
have naught to dread either at home or abroad. I shall strive to be
but three nights absent; and our merry Kate will uphold thy
spirits, sister, till my return. Thou wilt be better by the
fireside than journeying in the saddle this tempestuous weather."

This fact was self evident, and Mistress Dowsabel had no desire to
leave the fireside.

"I must e'en do the best I can without thee, sister," she said. "I
doubt not my fears be foolish. I will strive that the girls be not
affected thereby."

"I trow it would be no easy matter to teach them to Kate," said
Lady Humbert with a smile. "She has all the spirit of Wyvern and
Trevlyn combined. She will be a stanch protector for thee,
Dowsabel, if thou art troubled by strange noises in the wainscot,
or by the barking of the dogs without."

"Thou thinkest me a sad coward, sister; and so perchance I am,"
said meek Mistress Dowsabel. "But if ever thou art absent from the
house, I am beset by a thousand fears that assail me not at any
other time. My heart is heavy as lead within me now."

But Lady Humbert could not delay her journey on that account. She
said something equivalent to "Fiddle dee dee!" and hastened forward
her preparations with her customary energy. Kate flitted about and
chattered merrily to her, having won her way by that time to a very
soft spot in the heart of her ancient kinswoman.

"I am glad to leave thee with thy aunt Dowsabel, child," said Lady
Humbert before she left. "Ellen will read to her and see to her
possets and her little fire-side comforts; but thou wilt assist her
to overlook the household and servants, and cheer up her spirits
and her courage if either should flag. She is strangely timid when
I am not by. Thou must do what thou canst to keep away her fears."

"Fears!" echoed Kate, laughing; "why, wherefore should we fear?"

"There is small cause, but Dowsabel is by nature timorous, and she
will lean on thee, child though thou art, when I am gone. There be
certain charges I would lay upon thee. The men will be gone, all
but old Thomas within doors and Joshua without; wherefore I will
ask thee to go round the house thyself at dusk each eve, and see
that all bolts and bars be securely drawn. That is Andrew's work,
but he will be with me. Dyson and thou hadst better go together--or
thou and Cherry. Thou wilt not be afraid of such a task?"

"Afraid? marry no! Cherry and I will do it gladly. She is a
merry-hearted lassie, and I like her well. Is there aught else, my
lady aunt?"

Lady Humbert, standing beside the fire and drawing on her riding
gloves, looked into Kate's bright face with a thoughtful smile.

"If I could trust thy discretion as I trust thy courage and sense,
my giddy-pated maiden, there is one more charge I would lay upon
thee."

The light of laughter in Kate's eyes changed suddenly to something
deeper and graver. She came one step nearer and laid her hand on
Lady Humbert's arm.

"Try me," she said simply. "Methinks I am not so giddy as they deem
me. I have thought, I have suffered, I have been forced to possess
my soul in patience. Try and see if I may not be trusted in this
thing."

Lady Humbert gazed a moment into the clear eyes, and then said:

"I will try thee, child. It is no such heavy charge I would lay
upon thee, yet it is one that thy aunt Dowsabel would fear to
undertake. She would fain close the doors of the Cross Way House
against all strangers and wayfarers who come to them in the absence
of the mistress; but that is not my wish. Dost thou know, child,
the name the Cross Way House has ever held with those who fare
through the forest tracks?"

"I have heard it spoken of as a place where none in need is ever
turned away," answered Kate.

"Ay, and so it was in those good old days when Wyverns held open
house here, and were beloved from far and near. Alas! those good
old days are passed away; for our fortunes are fallen, and we have
no longer the power to entertain in such bounteous fashion. And yet
I have striven, as thou hast doubtless seen, that the poor, the
aged, the sick, and the needy are never turned from these doors
without bite or sup to cheer their hearts and send them rejoicing
on their way. Strange persons come to the house from time to time;
but all are admitted to such good cheer as is ours to offer, and
never has my hospitality been abused. Fugitives from the robbers of
the road have been admitted here; yet never has this lone house
been attacked. Wounded robbers have sought shelter here, bleeding
nigh to death, and their wounds have been dressed by these hands,
and their lives saved through our ministrations. To the cry of
poverty or distress the doors have ever opened, be the distressed
one worthy or no. Never have we had cause to regret what we have
done for evil men or good. Never has our hospitality been repaid by
treachery or deceit."

"And now?" asked Kate as Lady Humbert paused.

"Now my timid sister would have the doors closed for the days that
I am absent and the men with me. She says she fears for the
treasure. She says there is more peril now than of old. She may be
right; but I see not why the danger be greater, since none know the
secret save those who are pledged to keep it, and it goes against
me that the traditions of the house should be broken. Can I trust
thee, Kate, to take my place in this? Wilt thou strive to still thy
aunt's fears and keep watch over all who come and go, that our
doors may still open to the poor, whilst no needless terrors be
inflicted on the timid women who will be forced to keep guard
alone?"

"I will gladly strive to do all I may," answered Kate, who had been
Lady Humbert's companion now long enough to know much of her
methods.

"It may well be that none will come," said Lady Humbert cheerfully,
with a smile and a nod of approval. "These be ill days for
travellers, and in the winter season few pass this way. But such as
do seek shelter from the storm or from hunger or peril must not be
turned away disappointed. Look to it, Kate. I trust that matter to
thee. I shall ask thee for the account of thy stewardship on my
return."

And then the mistress of the house gathered her train together and
set forth, riding her steady old horse as fearlessly as though she
had been fifty years younger, and nodding a brisk farewell all
round as she turned out of the gate upon the highway so close at
hand.

Mistress Dowsabel wept feebly for a short while, and seemed
disposed to start and tremble at every sound. But Petronella got a
book and settled herself to read to her, whilst she forgot her
fears in the intricacies of her well-beloved tapestry work. As for
Kate, she called to Cherry, and began to set about those household
duties which the mistress of the house had given into her charge,
so that the timid invalid might be spared all trouble and anxiety.

Cherry was a very happy girl in those days. Her position in that
household was slightly anomalous, and at first it had been a little
difficult to find the right niche for her. As the niece of Dyson,
who had summoned her thither to act in the capacity of lady's maid,
her place would by rights have been the servants' hall and kitchen;
but then, as Kate had seen at once, it would scarce be right for
Cuthbert Trevlyn's future wife to take so lowly a station as that
of a serving wench.

Cuthbert was no longer the impecunious son of Nicholas Trevlyn,
dependent upon his own wit and energy for the place he might hold
in the world. He was the finder of that vast hoard of lost
treasure, which had proved so far more valuable than the most
sanguine hopes had pictured. By every rule of right and justice a
large share of this treasure should come to him. He would be a man
of wealth and station; and it had been openly announced by these
sisters of the house of Wyvern that they intended to make him their
heir. They had taken a great liking to him. They had no near
kindred of their own. He was the grandson of one of the Wyverns,
and a degree nearer them than the other Trevlyns, so they were
quite resolved upon this step.

So when Kate, with the courage and frankness inherent in her
nature, had told the old ladies of Cuthbert's betrothal, Petronella
adding all she knew of the constancy of her brother's attachment to
Martin Holt's daughter, Lady Humbert recognized in a moment that it
would not do to treat the girl as a mere dependent. She must be
admitted to some other position, and trained for that station in
life to which her marriage would entitle her.

Lady Humbert had all the class exclusiveness of her race; but she
was a large-hearted woman to boot, and had an uncommon share of
common sense. She would have been glad had Cuthbert's choice fallen
elsewhere; but as it had not done so, and as Cherry was as faithful
to him as he to her, there was only one thing to be done, and that
was to make the best of the matter, and strive to see the best side
only. The girl must be admitted to the position of companion to
Petronella and Kate. She must be taught the refinements of life in
another station, and gradually fitted for the life that lay before
her.

It had been a great relief to find the girl so pretty, so gentle in
her ways, so eager to please, so naturally dainty and particular.
Cherry had quick apprehension and ready adaptability of nature. She
took to the new ways like a duck to the water. She had a sweet
voice and a refined fashion of speaking. In a very short while she
looked as much at home in the presence of the ladies as Petronella
herself. Kate found indeed that the city-bred maiden was more
advanced in many things than the recluse of the Gate House. She set
herself busily to the task of drilling both her companions in the
arts of dancing, deportment, the use of the globes, and of playing
upon the harpsichord; and found in both apt and eager pupils. Both
girls had much natural grace and a great desire to improve
themselves. Petronella was by nature dreamy and studious, whilst
Cherry was all life, brightness, and vivacity. She and Kate
gradually drew together, and would spend hours rambling in the
extensive gardens and shrubberies behind the house, or riding out,
with Andrew in attendance, through some of the forest tracks.

Petronella, on the other hand, preferred remaining at home, reading
to the elderly ladies, and being by them instructed in many matters
of political and religious import. Her mind was rapidly enlarging.
She was unconsciously fitting herself daily more and more to be
Philip's wife; whilst their very differences seemed to draw the
three girls more closely together, and they felt by this time like
sisters as well as companions.

Lady Humbert's absence was a matter of some excitement to Kate and
Cherry, upon whom many small duties now devolved.

The house certainly felt lonely with so many of its ordinary
inhabitants absent. The great empty rooms were kept strictly
locked. The gates in front of the house were likewise locked by day
as well as night, and only the small door at the back was to be
opened until the return of the mistress. So the timid Dowsabel had
decreed; and she had directed that the keys of the outer doors
should be brought to her; and by day they were laid in her sight
upon the chimney ledge, whilst at night they were placed beneath
her pillow. Kate made a wry face, but did not otherwise protest.
Time was passing quietly by, and there seemed little probability
that their tranquillity would be disturbed.

"I would fain wish for some small adventure in Lady Humbert's
absence, just to show that she has not put her faith in us in
vain!" said Kate, as the girls sought their couch on the second
night of the mistress's absence. "There has not been so much as a
beggar to the gate. These storms of wind and rain seem to keep all
within doors."

"I fear me I am but a coward," answered Petronella, "for I am glad
when night follows day and there be naught to alarm us. Perchance
sitting with our aunt Dowsabel so much, I learn somewhat of her
fears from her."

"A truce to fear!" cried Kate, as she unbound her hair and tossed
the heavy mane out of her eyes and over her shoulders. "Would that
we lived in days when women might do and dare somewhat for those
they loved, or for their country! I should love to have to hold
this house against a rabble of hooting foes!"

"So should not I," answered Petronella. "I love not strife and
warfare; I am for quietude and peace," and she smiled into Kate's
flushed face, whilst Cherry looked from one to the other, scarce
knowing with which she sided.

She had something of Kate's daring, and dearly admired it in her;
but she shared in part Petronella's shrinking from strife and
danger, a shrinking that to Kate was inexplicable.

The night came and went in quietness and peace. The day passed
without any event. Kate paced impatiently up and down the big hall
as the sun went down in red and gold, sullen and lowering as it
neared the horizon, but shining to the last. She had not been
beyond the limits of the garden since Lady Humbert had gone. Now it
seemed as if a restless fit had come upon her, and grasping Cherry
by the arm, she cried:

"Let us go into the long gallery overhead and dance--dance--dance!
My feet are fairly aching for some exercise. Come thou and dance
with me."

Kate's word was almost always law to Cherry, though she thought it
a dreary place to select just at this hour of approaching darkness.
Still, there would be a little light glimmering in through that
long row of windows, and with Kate who would be afraid?

The key was in the door. The polished boards of the long ballroom
lay gleaming with ghostly shimmer in the fading light. The pictures
on the walls seemed to stare at the two intruders with cold
displeasure. Cherry shivered slightly as the chill struck her. It
seemed to her as if these stately knights and dames themselves must
surely come down from their frames at such an hour as this; and
silently disport themselves in this long gallery. She was glad to
feel Kate's arm about her as she commenced circling round and round
in her light and airy fashion. As the warm blood began tingling in
their veins the pace grew faster and faster, and Cherry's
chilliness and fear alike left her. Up and down, round and round,
flew the light girlish feet. The exercise was delightful to both
after the inaction of two long days. Up and down, round and round,
as though they would never tire; and as they danced the twilight
changed to night, and only glimmering moonbeams fell within the row
of windows, lighted the long gallery, and fell upon the flickering
figures of the two girls.

But their eyes had grown used to the darkness, and they heeded it
not. Cherry's thoughts had flown off to Cuthbert, Kate's to
Culverhouse. The rapid exercise stimulated thought, and both hearts
beat high with the glowing hope of youth. When at last they paused,
laughing and breathless, at the upper end of the long room, their
eyes were shining brightly, there was a vivid colour in their
checks. They only wished to gather breath and then on again.

"It is hot--it is stifling!" cried Kate, as she threw back her
tumbled hair. "I must have air--air! I will open this window; we
can look out such a way from it. O Cherry, think--this big window
looks straight out towards London! Ah, why are not our eyes strong
enough to see our loved ones there!"

Cherry laughed and blushed in the darkness, and Kate's strong hand
undid the bolt and latch and flung the great casement wide. The
cool night air rushed in, and both girls, heated with exercise,
were glad to rest their elbows on the stone mullion and lean out
into the breezy night.

"It is delicious!" cried Kate; "it is the elixir of life!"

Then the girls were silent for a few moments, till they both
started at the same sound.

"That was a gun!" cried Kate suddenly, leaning further out of the
window. "Listen, Cherry! There again--another shot! That can only
mean one thing!"

"What thing?" asked Cherry, growing suddenly pale with excitement
and fear.

"Highwaymen attacking travellers!" answered her companion, standing
straight up, but with her head still inclined in an attitude of
keen attention. "Listen, Cherry, listen! Is it the beating of my
heart, or is that sound the galloping of horses' hoofs upon the
road? Hark! Yes, they grow louder they come this way! Down, Cherry!
We must rush to the gates and have them open and take them in!

"Cherry, listen! Be calm, be quiet! Run thou to old Thomas and to
Dyson and the rest; tell them what we have heard. I must for the
keys. I must have them whether our aunt wills it or no. There be no
place of refuge save this for miles around. Here must they find
shelter from their foes. It is Lady Humbert's will; I must fulfil
it."

All the while Kate spoke she was running swiftly along the boarded
floor, with Cherry keeping pace at her side; and as she dashed down
the staircase she paused for a moment and took from the place where
they hung two matchlocks, which she knew were always kept loaded,
and these she laid quietly down in the hall. Then she opened the
parlour door, and walked boldly forward to the spot where the keys
lay. Possessing herself of these, she said quietly:

"Be not affrighted, Aunt Dowsabel, but there be folks in trouble on
the road. They are pursued by robbers, I fear. I am about to unlock
the gates, that we may draw them into safe shelter here."

Petronella sprang to her feet, and Mistress Dowsabel uttered a
sharp scream of terror.

"Kate, I forbid it--I forbid it!" she gasped. "The gates shall not
be unlocked! Dost hear, child? They shall not be unlocked! We shall
have the whole horde upon us, we poor unprotected women! Kate, come
back, come back! The keys are mine; I am mistress here! It shall
not be done! Girl, I will not be thus defied!"

But Kate was already half through the hall, where the terrified
servants were mustering. She had seized up the matchlocks, and now
thrust one of them into old Thomas's shaking hands.

"Take it!" she said, "and when I am gone lock and bolt the door
behind me an your lady desires it. But I will not disobey my Lady
Humbert, and she would have done as I do now. I go to the gate and
I hold it open. I draw within its shelter the pursued, and I strive
to close it against the pursuers. All within these walls will be
safe.

"Thy place is here, Thomas, beside thy mistress. She will die with
terror if thou leave her. I am strong enough to unbar the gates
alone, and I have this weapon, which I know how to use.

"Hark! there be cries along the road. The pursuit draws nigh."

Kate flung open the great door and sprang out into the dusky
darkness beyond, and Petronella and Cherry, casting one glance at
each other, caught up a gleaming weapon from the wall, where many
hung, and dashed out after her.

"Shut and lock the door behind us, an you fear for yourselves!"
cried Kate, as she led the way down the short flight of steps.

"Girls!" she cried, turning her flushed and resolute face upon her
companions, "we three will stand together for weal or woe this
night. It may be that we shall save life. We can but lose our own,
come what may. Are you ready to face the peril? for these gates
must be unbarred."

"We are ready," answered both, as they stood beside her holding her
weapon, whilst her strong young hands turned the ponderous key in
the lock and slipped back the heavy bolts.

All this while the thundering thud of galloping horse hoofs was
approaching nearer and nearer, mingling with the fierce vindictive
shouts of the pursuers, that sent thrills of terror through the
hearts of two of the girls, but made Kate set her teeth together,
and braced her nerves and muscles till they felt as if turned to
steel.

"Girls," she said, "listen! I open this gate--so, and stand here
with my weapon. As the pursued make for this house, as they most
surely will, I shout to them as they near it to fling themselves
from their horses and rush in. If they understand, they will do so;
but there may be delay. If the pursuers are close at hand, I shall
fire at the foremost, and methinks I shall not miss. My hands will
be thus occupied. It must be your task to swing to and shut the
gate behind the pursued. If any assailant strive to follow, strike
him down without mercy. Methinks a woman's arm can deal a hard
blow! I trow mine could. But, above all, be it your task to guard
the gate. Is it understood?"

"It is!" answered both girls in a breath.

They looked back at the house, so close behind them that it was
hard to feel afraid. The door stood ajar, and faces peered out into
the darkness; but Mistress Dowsabel's shrill voice was still heard
within, and she was plainly hindering any of the servants from
going forth to the assistance of the brave girls without, terrified
almost out of her wits at what might occur.

The high wall hid the road from the three who stood beside the
gate, but the gasping breath of the horses could now be heard,
whilst the fierce cries of pursuit had changed to an ominous
silence, as though not even a breath was to be wasted--every nerve
being strained to the effort of the chase.

It was terrible to be able to see nothing. Petronella suddenly made
a rush towards the wall, and finding foothold here and there in the
chinks of the brick work, contrived to swing upwards her light
frame till she could look over the top.

"There be three pursued," she cried to those below; "and methinks
the hindermost is wounded, he sways so terribly in the saddle. The
pursuers are close behind; it seems well nigh as if they must come
up with them.

"Oh, well done, good horses; oh, well done!

"Kate, they be close at hand; they are making for the gate as a
dove to its nest!"

Then Kate suddenly threw both doors wide and stood out in the dim
moonlight.

"Fling yourselves from your horses, gentlemen, and come in!" she
cried, in clear, penetrating tones. "There is shelter behind these
walls. And the first man who dares to follow I shoot dead!"

Then as the foremost horseman obeyed her, flinging himself from the
saddle, and staggering rather than walking within the gates, at
either one of which stood one of the two girlish guardians, ready
at a moment's notice to fling them together again, a quick sharp
cry broke from Kate's lips, together with the one word:

"Father!"

The second horseman was now within the gates; the third was close
behind. But there was a yell as of triumph, and suddenly Kate's
eyes flashed fire. There was the sharp report of a gun. The girl
flung the smoking weapon in the face of a second assailant, and
dragged within the gate the prostrate form of the third traveller.
Cherry and Petronella banged to the iron portals in the very faces
of the foremost assailants, who had recoiled for a moment before
Kate's blows, and drew the heavy bolts; whilst the shower of oaths
and curses which arose from the rest of the band, who rode up at
that moment, showed how fully they recognized their defeat.

Even the horses had escaped them; for the sagacious animals had
recognized their locality, and had made for the yard door at the
back, where Joshua had admitted them without delay, glad enough to
do anything to assist the hardly-beset travellers in their hour of
need.

The travellers had sunk down just within the gates, so breathless
and exhausted that for the first few seconds they did not even know
how and by whom their rescue had been effected. But the banging to
of the gates, and the sullen murmurs of the highwaymen as they had
drawn off, recognizing their defeat, showed those within that for
the moment the peril was past. The doors were then thrown open;
lights streamed forth into the darkness. Sir Richard Trevlyn rose
to his feet, passing his hand across his brow, to find his son
passionately embracing the dark-eyed Petronella, who clung to him,
fairly sobbing in her excitement and wonder; whilst Kate knelt
beside the prostrate figure of Culverhouse, who lay with closed
eyes almost like one dead.

"Kate, my girl, is it to thee we owe our deliverance?"

"Father, is he dead--is he dead?"

The cry was so full of anguish that it went to the father's heart;
and disregarding the shrill welcome and asseverations of Mistress
Dowsabel, who had just recognized, to her immense relief, that they
had admitted their own kinsmen to their doors, he bent over the
Viscount, and lifted him in his arms.

"Dead! not a bit of it. Dead men do not ride as he did. But he was
wounded in the arm, and has been losing blood fast, and doubtless
fainted the moment the strain was over. See, we will lay him here
on this settle beside the fire. Give him some wine, and bind up
that arm, my girl. Thou wilt choose to wait upon him thyself, I
trow. He will soon be able to thank thee for this timely rescue. I
must hear more of thy tale when I have spoken with thine aunt."

All was confusion now in the house, but confusion of a pleasant and
bustling kind. Joshua brought news that the highwaymen had
retreated in disappointment and dudgeon, but, true to their
principles, without any attempt at taking vengeance upon the Cross
Way House. Sir Richard was striving to soothe the agitation of the
timid Dowsabel, and hearing of the absence of the mistress of the
house; whilst servants hurried to and fro, setting the table for
supper, and vying with each other to provide comforts for the weary
travellers, who had been through so much peril and hard riding.

Petronella sat beside Philip in a deep embrasure, and had eyes and
ears for him alone. Kate and Cherry, under the direction of Dyson,
bound up Lord Culverhouse's arm, and soon had the satisfaction of
seeing the colour come back into his face, and his closed eyes
slowly open.

When they did this they dwelt for some moments upon Kate's face in
a dreamy fashion, as though their owner thought himself still in
some sort of a dream; but when she raised his head and put a cup to
his lips, he seemed to awake with a start, and after thirstily
draining the contents of the vessel, he caught her hand,
exclaiming:

"Kate--my Kate!--is it truly thou?"

She gave a little cry of joy at hearing him speak in tones so like
his own. He pressed the hand he held, whilst she knelt beside him
and whispered softly in his ear:

"It is I, indeed, thy little wife. O Culverhouse--and I thought
that thou hadst but come hither to die!"

There was a catch in her voice that told how great had been the
strain of the past minutes--greater than he could know just then.
She found it hard to keep back the tears as she knelt beside him,
listening whilst he whispered to her of all that had been said
about that sudden marriage of theirs, and how that none would dare
to call him free of his plighted word.

"And so thou art in very truth my betrothed wife, sweet Kate," he
said, "and none may part us now. It was as I said when I bid thee
come and plight thy troth. It was a pledge too solemn to be broken.
My father and mother say so, and so does thy father. We may not be
able to wed just yet; but if what I hear be true, sure our day of
waiting need not be so very long."

The colour had come back into her face now; her eyes were sparkling
in their old fashion. She looked indeed the same "saucy Kate" that
he had known and loved ever since his early boyhood.

There were steps behind them, and Sir Richard emerged from the room
where he had been holding counsel with Mistress Dowsabel. He looked
at the two beside the fireplace, and at that other pair in the
window, both too much absorbed in each other to heed him; and with
a smile upon his face he strode forward and laid his hand upon
Kate's shoulder.

"And so, my headstrong daughter, it is to that strong will of
thine, and the reckless courage I have sometimes chidden, that we
owe our lives and our safety today?" he said.

Culverhouse looked up eagerly.

"What sayest thou, sir?" he asked, whilst Kate's face crimsoned
over from brow to chin.

"Say, my lad? why, I say that but for this hardy wench of mine,
who, instead of retreating behind the strong walls of the house,
flung open with her own hands the iron gates to let us in, we
should by this time have been in sorry plight enow, had we not all
been dead men. It was she who opened those gates when all else
feared to do so--she who (aided by her two companions, whom she
inspired by her own courage) saved us from our foes. It was she who
shot down the foremost enemies, who would else have had thy life,
Culverhouse, and with her own hands dragged thee, all unconscious
as thou wert, within these gates.

"Wherefore, as to thee, boy, I owe my life (for that thou didst
receive in thine arm the charge that else would have dashed out my
brains), and that to her we both owe this timely rescue, methinks
that no wife nor daughter could do more, and that we must let
bygones be bygones and wed you so soon as may be. I will give my
fatherly blessing to you twain, for you are worthy of each other,
and have proved it this night. And so soon as you can win the
sanction of your good parents to your nuptials, Culverhouse, I will
give my saucy Kate to you without a doubt or a fear."



Chapter 25: "On The Dark Flowing River."


"That is our man! Seize him, bind him, and bring him before the
chief!"

Cuthbert heard these words spoken in a clear low tone not far away;
but the fog wreaths were hanging upon the river, and he could not
see the speakers. Instinctively he bent harder to his oar. The
wherry shot at redoubled speed through the dull, gleaming water;
but there were sounds astern of other plashing oars, the sound of
voices low yet eager, and Cuthbert felt sure he heard the name of
Trevlyn spoken in accents of subdued fierceness. He could hear by
the sound of the oars in the rowlocks that there were many rowers
in the pursuing boat. That they were in pursuit of him he could not
doubt, and he set his teeth hard as he plied his oars, for he felt
that the issue of this chase might mean life or death to him.

Esther's warning was ringing in his ears: "Beware the dark-flowing
river--the lone house--the black cellar!"

How had he regarded that warning? He had not heeded it at all. He
had let his curiosity and love of adventure conquer both prudence
and caution; and now he was well aware that he was in some
immediate and imminent peril.

He had been warned to fly from London, but he had not obeyed that
warning. This had been partly out of generosity to his kinsmen, for
it seemed to him that by his presence amongst them he might be
increasing the peril in which they stood, and he had been told that
that was in great part due to his own rashness and hardihood.

He had remained in London. This day was the very eve of that fifth
of November on which the King's Parliament was to assemble in
state. All the city was silent and tranquil. The vague sense of
expectation and excitement that Cuthbert had observed amongst some
of his acquaintances a few days back seemed now to have died down.
Was it the hush that immediately precedes the breaking of the storm
cloud; or had the fearful tale whispered to him by the wise woman
been but the product of her weird fancy, and all his fears and
terrors groundless?

This was the question which had been agitating Cuthbert during the
past two days; and upon this dim, foggy afternoon he had taken his
wherry and resolved to find out for himself the whole truth of the
matter.

Cuthbert had not forgotten Robert Catesby, or the priest to whom he
always felt he owed his life. If any plot were in hand at this
juncture, both these men were most certainly concerned in it. And
at the lone house at Lambeth he could surely get speech of Catesby,
or learn where he was to be found; and it seemed to Cuthbert that
he could not sleep another night until he had set at rest the
doubts and fears crowding his mind.

Did he go with a view of warning Catesby that the plot was
discovered--that the dark secret was out? He himself scarcely knew.
He was not at all sure that he believed himself in the hideous
magnitude of the contemplated deed as Esther had described it.
Remembering as he did all he had heard and seen, he could not doubt
that some secret plot was afoot, but he thought it highly probable
that the scope and purpose of it had been misunderstood; and there
was certainly this feeling in his mind, that a timely word of
warning to those concerned might serve to avert a terrible doom
from any who might lie already under suspicion.

He had not been able to gain speech with Father Urban; for although
he was convinced the priest was in hiding within the house of the
Coles, both father and son resolutely denied this, and it seemed of
late as though they distrusted Cuthbert himself, and desired no
more of his company.

Martin Holt and honest Jacob Dyson had warned him to be cautious in
his dealings with any of the Romish persuasion, and Cuthbert had
been content to take this advice. But this last afternoon before
the great day so long anticipated might surely be put to some good
purpose, and the thought that those men in that Lambeth house might
be unwittingly remaining to be caught in a trap impelled Cuthbert
to strive to have speech with Master Robert Catesby and put him on
his guard, if he could not persuade him to abandon whatever rash
scheme he had in his head.

Sympathy with the persecuted went some small way in blinding
Cuthbert's eyes to the terrible nature of the purposed crime.
Moreover, he thought it like enough that Esther had heard a grossly
exaggerated account of what was determined. Still, what she had
heard others might have heard, and nothing was too bad to find
credit with those who planned and desired the ruin of all who held
views different from their own.

These and similar thoughts had been occupying Cuthbert's mind as he
bent to his oars and propelled his light wherry upstream towards
the lonely house. The tide was running out, and rowing was hard
work; but he was making progress steadily, and had no thought of
any personal peril until the sound of voices through the fog broke
upon his ear, and he realized that he himself was an object of
pursuit.

Then the wise woman's warnings flashed across him with vivid
distinctness. Had she not bidden him beware of just those perils
which he seemed resolved to court? Why had he forgotten or
disregarded her words? Had they not proved words of wisdom again
and again? And now here was he on the dark-flowing river alone,
unarmed save for the dagger in his belt, and far from all chance of
help.

Just behind was a boat in hot pursuit, and there were many rowers
in that boat, as the sounds told him. If he could hear their oars,
they could hear his. And though the twilight was creeping on, the
fog seemed to be lifting. Only the vapour wreaths hid him from the
gaze of his foes. If these were to be dispersed his last chance was
gone.

The river was absolutely lonely and deserted at this time of year
and at this spot. Lower down, schooners and barges were moored.
Near to the bridge he might have had some hope of being heard had
he shouted aloud for aid; here there was no such hope. He was away
on the Lambeth side: there were no houses and no boats of any kind.
His only chance lay in reaching the shore, springing to land, and
trusting to his fleetness to carry him into hiding. The lonely
house could not be far away. Perchance within its walls he might
find a hiding place, or gain admittance within its doors. At least
that was the only chance he had; and inspired by this thought he
drove his light wherry swiftly through the water, and felt the keel
grate against the bank almost before he was prepared for it.

The pursuers were still coming on, but did not appear to be
distressing themselves. Probably they felt so secure of their prey
that they could afford to be moderately cautious in the midst of
these fog wreaths that made river travelling somewhat perilous.
Cuthbert shipped his oars and sprang lightly ashore, leaving the
wherry to its fate. Then he raced like a hunted hare along the
margin of the river, and before five minutes had passed he had
scrambled up and leaped the wall of this lonely river-side house,
and was crouching breathless and exhausted in a thick covert upon
the farther side, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit.

These were not long in coming. He heard regular steps approaching
the wall, and a voice said:

"Here are the tracks. He got over here. Follow, and find him now.
He is in a trap!"

"Am I indeed in a trap?" thought Cuthbert, setting his teeth hard;
"that remains to be proved!"

And gliding out from the covert with that noiseless movement he had
learned during his residence in the forest, he raced like a
veritable shadow in the direction of the house.

He had reached the building rising black and grim against the
darkening sky; he had almost laid his hand upon the knocker,
intending to make known his presence and his peril, and demand
admittance and speech with Master Robert Catesby, when forth from
the shadows of the porch stepped a tall dark figure, and he felt a
shiver of dismay run through him as a loaded pistol was levelled at
his head.

"It is the spy again--the spy I have sworn to sweep from our path.
False Trevlyn, thine hour has come!"

A puff of smoke--a loud report. Cuthbert had flung up his hand to
shield his face, for the barrel was aimed straight at his temple.
He was conscious of a sudden stinging pain in his wrist. A
momentary giddiness seized him, and he stumbled and fell. A
sardonic laugh seemed to ring in his ears. He thought he heard the
banging of a door and the drawing of heavy bolts. Probably the man
who had fired was so certain of his aim that he did not even pause
to see how the shot had told.

"Your tongue will not wag again before the morrow!"

Those words seemed to be ringing in Cuthbert's ears, and then for a
moment all was blackness and darkness, with a sense of distress and
suffocation and stabs of sudden pain.

When he awoke from what he first thought had been a nightmare
dream, he was puzzled indeed to know where he was, and for a while
believed that he was dreaming still, and that he should soon awake
to find himself in his little attic chamber in the bridge house.
But as his senses gradually cleared themselves he became aware that
he was in no such safe or desirable spot. He was lying on some
cloaks in the bow of a large boat, which was being rowed steadily
and silently up stream by four stalwart men. The daylight was gone,
but so too was the fog, and the moon was shining down and giving a
sufficient light. In the stern of the boat sat two other men, whose
faces Cuthbert could dimly see, though their hats were drawn down
over their brows. These faces did not seem entirely unfamiliar, yet
he could not remember where it was he had seen them before. His
senses were cloudy and confused. He felt giddy and exhausted. He
had no disposition to try to move; but he soon found that even had
he been so disposed he could have accomplished little. His feet
were bound together by a cord, and his right hand was bound up and
utterly powerless. He remembered the shot levelled at him in the
garden of the river-side house, and felt certain that his wrist was
broken.

And who were these men who were carrying him away captive, and what
was their motive? He imagined that they must surely be those fierce
pursuers who had striven to capture him upon the river, and who had
followed him into the garden where he had hoped to hide himself
from their malice. Doubtless they had found him as he lay in a
momentary faint, and had borne him back to their boat; though what
was their motive in thus capturing him, and whither they were now
transporting him, he could not imagine. His mind was still confused
and weak. Esther's words of warning seemed to mingle with the
gurgle of the water against the bows of the boat. His temples
throbbed, there was burning pain in his wounded arm; but the night
wind fanned his brow, and brought with it a certain sense of
refreshment.

Hitherto there had been unbroken silence in the boat, and the
rowers had steadily plied their oars without uttering a word; but
now that they were out in mid river, without the smallest fear of
pursuit, far away from sight or sound from the shore, they paused
as by common consent, and one of them suddenly said:

"Now, comrades, we must settle which it is to be. Are we to take
him to Miriam or to Tyrrel?"

Those words told Cuthbert who were his captors. He was in the hands
of the gipsies or highwaymen--probably the prisoner of a mixed band
who had joined together to effect his capture. As the discussion
went on it became more evident that there were two parties and two
factions, both anxious to possess his person, and he listened with
bated breath and a beating heart to every word that passed.

"I say to Miriam," spoke up one swarthy fellow, with a backward
look towards the prisoner in the bow. "Miriam is wild to have him.
She is certain sure he has killed Long Robin. She would give her
two eyes to have vengeance on some Trevlyn. Why not let her have
the boy, to do with as she will?"

"Because all she cares for is to burn him alive, as her old mother
was burnt by some Trevlyn long ago; and what good would that do to
the rest of us? Long Robin was no such friend to us. If Miriam's
story be true, he was a treacherous fox, and deserved the fate he
got. If he it was who stole and hid the treasure, and kept the
secret all these years, hoping to enjoy the fruits of it alone,
why, he was a knave and a villain, say I; and that old hag is
little better. What do we care for her vow of vengeance? what is it
to us? Tyrrel, now, wants the prisoner for a purpose. This lad
knows where the treasure is, and he must give up the secret to us.
Once we know where he found it, and if moved where he has stowed
it, we shall speedily be rich for the rest of our days. You all
know that the forest is getting something too hot for us. Tyrrel
has decreed that we must go elsewhere, where we are less known. It
would be a thousand pities to go without this treasure, since it
really lies beneath our hand. A curse upon Long Robin, say I, for
keeping it hid all these years! It was a scurvy trick! and Miriam
was privy to it. I will raise no hand to help her. She may die with
her vow unfulfilled for all I care. Had she but acted fairly by us,
then would we have given yon lad up to her tender mercies; but not
now--not now!"

A murmur of assent ran through the whole party. The only one to
demur was the first speaker.

"The old woman got her death blow when Robin's corpse was found.
She will not last many weeks more, they say. I should well like to
bring her a bit of happiness at the end; and her one cry is for
vengeance upon the Trevlyn brood. She would well like to have yon
prisoner brought bound to her, Why not lead him first to Tyrrel and
then to Miriam?"

"When Tyrrel has him, he will decree what is done with him, not
we," said another voice. "He has no love for Miriam and her
insensate hate. Miriam and Long Robin have both played us false;
and Tyrrel loves the dark-eyed Joanna, and she will not stoop to
any deed of cruelty or tyranny. He will have a care how he treats
the boy over whom her mantle has once been thrown. But the secret
of the gold he must and will have. We will not let him go without
that."

"To Tyrrel then!" cried several voices with one accord. "I trow he
will have scant patience with any son of the house of Trevlyn,
since he was so bested by those other Trevlyns but two short
evenings back. He will be glad enow to have this lad brought before
him, for he verily feared that the whole brood had found shelter
within the gates of the Cross Way House."

Cuthbert listened eagerly to these last words, which told him that
his kinsmen at least had escaped peril and had found a safe shelter
where the treasure lay. Knowing that this was so, and that the
treasure was under their safe keeping, even did these men throw
aside the tradition of years and make a raid upon the home of the
Wyverns, his mind became somewhat calmed, although his own fate was
terribly uncertain, and he might have to pay the penalty of his
rashness with his life.

The rowers bent to their oars once again when this knotty point had
been settled. They rowed on steadily for a short time, and then out
of the darkness came a sharp clear hail.

"Who goes there?"

"Friends. We have caught the quarry; we are bringing him to
Tyrrel."

"Good. He has been waiting with impatience this two hours for news.
His wound doth not make him the more patient."

"We bring him at least the best medicine.

"Easy, lads! Ship your oars. Catch hold of her prow, Toby. So here
we are safe and sound, and there is the prisoner!"

Cuthbert had raised his head, and supporting himself on his left
elbow was gazing about him from side to side. He was still in the
middle of the river; but the boat was now alongside a big barge
moored in midstream, and from this barge several lights were
gleaming, whilst voices were answering and asking questions, and
the name of Tyrrel passed continually from mouth to mouth.

Then the rowers in the bow came and lifted him bodily in their
arms, taking care not to be needlessly rough with the broken arm
that gave him considerable pain; and so soon as he was placed upon
the barge, the rope that bound his feet was cut, somebody remarking
that it was needless now to hobble him, since he was safely on
board and beneath the eye of the whole crew.

"And where is Tyrrel?" asked several voices.

"Below in the cabin, and waiting impatiently for news. Go, and take
the boy with you; the sight of him will be the best medicine for
him."

Cuthbert was led along, dazed and bewildered, but calm from a sense
of his own helplessness, and perhaps from bodily weakness, too.
This weakness surprised him, for he did not know how much blood he
had lost, and he could not account for the way in which the lights
swam before his eyes and his steps reeled, as he was taken down a
dark ladder-like staircase and into a low long room with a swinging
lamp suspended from the ceiling. It felt close and airless after
the coldness of the night, and everything swam in a mist before his
eyes; but he heard a voice not altogether unfamiliar say in
authoritative accents: "Let him sit down, and give him a stoup of
wine;" and presently his vision cleared, and he found himself
sitting at one side of a rude table opposite the highway chieftain
Tyrrel, whose face he well remembered. They were surrounded by a
ring of stalwart men, some of whose faces were vaguely familiar to
him from having been seen at the old mill a year ago from now.

He noted that Tyrrel's face was pale, and that his head was
bandaged. It was plain that he had received recent injuries, and
apparently these did not smooth his temper. His face was dark and
stern, and the eyes that looked straight at Cuthbert gleamed
ominously beneath their heavy brows.

"Well, boy," he said at length, seeing Cuthbert's gaze fasten upon
him with inquiry and recognition, "so we meet again."

Cuthbert answered nothing. He did not intend to speak a needless
word. He had some inkling now of the motive for his capture, but he
was not going to show his hand.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," said Tyrrel, in brief, terse sentences, "I have
not brought thee here to bandy words with thee; I will to the point
at once. I will tell thee why thou art here. Thou art in deadly
peril from without. There is a vile Popish plot but recently
discovered. The perpetrators and conspirators will all be seized
upon the morrow. Thou art held to be one of these. Thou wilt be
seized amongst others. Innocent or guilty, it matters not. Thou
wilt die the traitor's death--the hideous doom of those accused of
high treason. Thou wilt be lucky if thou art not racked first to
make thee confess what men hold (whether truly or falsely) that
thou knowest. I have interposed to save thee from that fate. I have
had thee pursued and brought hither to me. I can and I will save
thee and hide thee till all pursuit is over. But thou must purchase
my protection at a price."

Cuthbert listened as one in a dream. He knew that Tyrrel might be
speaking truth. He knew that he had received warnings before
telling him he was suspected and watched. He recalled many past
moments when he had felt that he had placed himself in a false
position and might have laid himself open to misconstruction. But
he had never thought himself in actual peril from the arm of the
law. Was Tyrrel speaking the truth now, or was he only striving to
intimidate him for his own ends?

Fixing his dark eyes full upon the face of the man opposite, he
asked:

"And what is that price?"

"The secret of the Trevlyn treasure," was the calm reply--"the
secret thou didst learn from Long Robin ere thou didst lay him in
his bloody grave, and which now thou holdest alone. Where is the
treasure, boy? Speak, and all will be well. For bethink thee, if
thou holdest thy peace I give thee up on the morrow to the
myrmidons of the law, and the golden secret will perish with thee,
none profiting thereby. Tell it but to me, and by that honour which
I have ever held sacred, thou shalt be released and placed in a
secure hiding place till all hue and cry be past. Speak, then, for
thy silence can aid none--least of all thyself. Tell the whole
story and guide us to the treasure, and all will be well."

Cuthbert sat silent and motionless, turning the matter rapidly over
in his mind. What should he do? Would it be a lasting disgrace to
yield to thoughts of personal peril, and reveal all he knew? That
revelation would not place the treasure in Tyrrel's hands. He might
fear to assail the Cross Way House; and now that house might be so
well guarded that it could defy attack.

Should he risk it? Should he tell all? For a moment he was half
disposed to do so; but another thought followed, and the words were
checked ere they had reached his lips.

What if further business had taken away Sir Richard and his son
from the lonely house? What if, in the tumult and alarm that the
news of such a plot would spread through the kingdom, the household
within those walls should be left unprotected by these kinsmen, who
might have occasion to make their way to their own home to see how
it fared with those left there?

He knew the fearless character of Lady Humbert. She would never
keep Sir Richard from his wife at a time of anxiety and possible
peril. They might already have left the Cross Way House for Trevlyn
Chase (for Lady Humbert knew that the secret of the treasure lay
with none but themselves, and would have no fears for that). And if
in the dead of night the whole force of the gipsy folk and the
highwaymen--or even these latter alone, if they could not get the
gipsies to join with them--were to sweep down and attack that
solitary house, what chance would its inmates have against them?
None, absolutely none! The golden hoard would speedily be made away
with; the treasure would be lost to Trevlyn for ever, and all the
golden hopes and dreams that had been centred upon it would be
dispersed to the winds.

Should he have it always on his mind that he had sold the secret
from craven fear? Should he ever know peace of mind or self respect
again?

Never! he would die first. And surely since he had no dealings in
this plot, and was innocent of all thought of treason, no hurt
could come to him even were he given up. Surely he could prove his
innocence, though with his head so confused as it now was he scarce
knew how he should be able to parry and answer the questions
addressed to him. Perchance some knowledge of his peril would reach
the ears of Lord Culverhouse, and he would come to his aid. At
least he would not be coerced and threatened into betraying his
secret. Tyrrel might do his worst; he would defy him.

He looked straight at the robber chief, who sat awaiting his reply
with a cold smile of triumph on his face, and answered briefly:

"I shall tell you nothing."

A gleam of anger shone in the man's eyes.

"Have a care how thou answerest me. Remember that thy secret will
perish with thee when thou goest to the traitor's death."

"It will not," answered Cuthbert coolly. "There be others of my
kindred that know it. The treasure will be saved for Trevlyn, do
what thou wilt with me."

"I shall do as I have said," answered Tyrrel, speaking very clearly
and distinctly. "My plans are all well laid. If within two hours
thou hast not altered thy mind, thou wilt be rowed ashore by my
men, bound hand and foot. Thou wilt then be given in custody to
some good friends of ours on shore, who lie not under suspicion as
we do. By them thou wilt be guarded till morning breaks, and then
all London will be ringing with the news of this foul plot, and men
will be ready to tear limb from limb all those who are so much as
suspected to have had dealings with the false traitors who have
planned all. Then wilt thou, Cuthbert Trevlyn, whose name has
already been whispered abroad as one having cognizance of this
matter, be handed over to the tender mercies of the law. It will be
told of thee how thou wast caught in the very garden of the house
where these vile conspirators resort, and that thou didst fight
like a fury to save thyself from capture. Thy dealings with Father
Urban will be remembered against thee, and many another thing
beside. A traitor's death will be thine end; and thou wilt wish in
vain when those dark hours come upon thee thou hadst saved thyself
when yet there was time. I give thee two hours to bethink thee of
these things. If thou wilt speak plainly, tell us all thou knowest,
and help to place the treasure in our hands, we will save thee from
the fate that awaits thee on shore. If not, we will give thee over
to it; and then no power on earth can save thee."

But Cuthbert's mind had already been made up, and he did not waver.
He knew himself innocent of all complicity in the plot, and he
clung to the hope that his innocence might be proved. In no case
would he purchase his freedom by a loss of self respect, by a
cowardly yielding up of that very treasure it had been the dream of
his life to restore to the house of Trevlyn. Argument and menace
were alike thrown away upon him; and two hours later, bound hand
and foot, as Tyrrel had said, he was thrown roughly into the bottom
of the wherry, and rowed downstream in dead silence, he knew not
whither.



Chapter 26: Jacob's Devotion.


"If thou wouldst save thy friend from a terrible fate, come hither
to me without delay."

Jacob stood gazing at this scrap of parchment as one in a dream,
his slow wits only taking in by degrees the meaning of the
mysterious words.

"Thy friend," he repeated slowly, "thy friend! What friend? I have
many. Terrible fate! Saints preserve us, what means that? Can it be
Cuthbert who is in peril--that rash Cuthbert, for ever diving into
matters he had far, far better let alone, and burning his fingers
for naught? Can it be of him it speaks? Belike it may. There have
been ugly whispers abroad of late. Mine uncle told me only this day
that some constables came to his door asking some trivial questions
anent his household, and speaking of Cuthbert by name. It would be
like his folly at such a moment to run his head into a noose.

"But he shall not be hurt if I can help it. Who is this wise woman
who sends the message? Methinks I have heard Rachel speak of her
ere now. Well, I can but go visit her and hear what she would have
to say. I know the house in Budge Row; I took Rachel to the door
once. For myself, I love not such hocus pocus; but if it be a
matter of Cuthbert's safety, I will e'en go and listen to her tale.
If she wants to filch money from me for foul purposes, she will
find she has come to the wrong man. I will pay for nothing till I
have got my money's worth."

It was already dark. Jacob had been partaking of one of Martin
Holt's hospitable suppers. Cuthbert had been absent, and Mistress
Susan had remarked with some acrimony that the young man was
growing a deal too fine in his ways for them. He came and went just
at pleasure; and she did not think it well to encourage him in his
idleness and irregularities. Martin opined that he had been amusing
himself by watching the preparations for the grand doings on the
morrow. The King was in London, and would open his Parliament the
next day. Little was being talked of but that event all over London
that night.

And now, on reaching his home, Jacob found this brief missive
awaiting him, and started forth again, wondering not a little
whither it would lead him. The streets were almost empty. Budge Row
was dark and silent as the grave. Yet as he looked up at the tall
narrow house, a window from above was softly opened, and a low
voice over his head spoke in soft, urgent accents:

"Hist! make no sound. Wait but a moment. I will open to you."

Jacob waited, and almost immediately the door was cautiously
opened, and a head looked round, a pair of dark eyes peering up
into his face.

"It is well, Jacob Dyson, thou hast come," said the same voice, in
the lowest of low whispers. "But I may not speak with thee here.
Thou must come with me elsewhere. Tyrrel's men are in this house,
carousing in their cups. But they have ears like the wild things of
the forest. I may not bring thee within the door. They think that I
be gone to my chamber to sleep. They will seek me no more tonight.
And before the morrow dawns our task must be accomplished."

"And what is that task?" asked Jacob breathlessly.

"To free Cuthbert Trevlyn from the bonds that hold him; to save him
from the power of those who will, when the morning dawns; deliver
him up to the emissaries of the law as one who has taken part in
the vilest plot that has ever been conceived by heart of man!"

Jacob started, and faced his companion, who was hurrying him along
the dark streets at a rapid pace.

"Plot, woman! what dost thou mean?" he cried, alarmed and
distrustful, and yet impelled to let her lead him whither she
would, dominated by the power of her strong will. "I must know more
of this matter ere I go further. I have heard fell whispers ere
now, but I know not what their truth be. I am a peaceable,
law-abiding citizen. I mix myself not up in such doubtful matters.
Speak plainly, and tell me what thou knowest, and what evil or harm
threatens Cuthbert Trevlyn, or I vow I will go no further with
thee. I will not be made a tool of; I will not walk in the dark."

He stopped short, and she did the same, still holding his arm in a
close clutch. They had reached one of the many city churches; the
big building loomed up before them dark and tall. The wise woman
drew her companion within the shelter of the deep porch. Here they
could speak at will; none could overhear them now.

"I will tell thee all in as few words as may be. Thou knowest me as
the wise woman of Budge Row; but once I was the queen of the
woodland, the queen of the gipsy tribes there, and I still hold
some power over the children of the forest. They still bring me
news of all that passes there. Cuthbert Trevlyn has found the lost
treasure, and in finding it has killed one of the tribe. Hatred and
greed have been alike stirred up. Many are bound together against
him. If he cannot be snatched this night from the clutches into
which he has let himself fall--oh, why would he not heed my
warnings?--nothing can avail to save him.

"Listen, Jacob Dyson. Tyrrel, the notable highwayman, upon whose
head a price has long been set, has this night taken Cuthbert
Trevlyn prisoner, hoping to win from him the secret of the hidden
treasure which now lies in his keeping. Cuthbert has refused to
tell him aught; and now he purposes to strive to turn this to good
account for himself by delivering him up to the officers of the law
upon the morrow, as being concerned in a fearful plot that tomorrow
will make the ears of all England tingle.

"Dost thou stare at that? hast thou indeed heard aught of it? There
have been whispers abroad; but the matter hath been kept wondrous
close. Cuthbert Trevlyn has by his hardihood, his curiosity, and
his fidelity to friends, who are no true friends to him, placed
himself in jeopardy. He ought to be in hiding now; for if upon the
morrow the name of Trevlyn gets noised abroad, there will be scant
mercy shown him by the judges of this land."

"Cuthbert a prisoner! Cuthbert delivered up to judgment!" cried
Jacob, aghast. "What meanest thou, woman? What hath he done?"

"He bath done no evil; but he hath shown himself imprudent and
reckless. He has been seen in company he ought to have fled; he has
visited places against which he was warned. Tyrrel knows this.
Tyrrel knows how to turn to his advantage everything of like
nature. Tyrrel will give him up at the moment when hue and cry is
being made for all concerned in this matter. He will give him up,
and men will bear witness where and how he was seized, where and
how he has been seen before this. Men's minds will be all aflame
with rage and fear. The wildest tale will obtain credence, and
there be nothing so wild in what they may truly say of Cuthbert
Trevlyn. The Tower gates will close upon him, and they will only
open to him when he is led forth to die. Have I not lived long
enough to know that? If he he not saved tonight, nothing can avail
to save him afterwards."

Jacob felt a strange thrill run through him at these words,

"And why dost thou tell me this, of all men, woman? What can I do
to save him?"

He saw that she had raised her face as if to strive to scan the
expression on his; but the darkness foiled her, neither could he
see aught but the gleam of her dark eyes.

"I come to thee because time presses, and I know not where else to
turn. Thou hast been his friend before; wilt thou play a friend's
part now, even if it be fraught with peril?"

Jacob paused a few seconds before replying, and then said simply,
"What can I do?"

"I will tell thee," answered Esther, speaking rapidly. "Cuthbert
Trevlyn lies bound in a house not far away. Tomorrow, so soon as
the news of the plot is noised abroad, and all is in commotion to
discover the conspirators, he will be delivered up to those who are
searching for these; and if thou knewest as much as I, thou wouldst
know that nothing then can save him. But there be yet twelve hours
before this can happen, and if he can be rescued within those
twelve hours, and lodged with me in my house at Budge Row, I will
undertake to hide him so well till all hue and cry be past and over
that none shall find him; and before the glad Yuletide season has
come to rejoice men's hearts, he shall be free to go where he will
and show his face with the best of them."

This and much more did the eager gipsy pour into Jacob's astonished
ears as he stood in the shadow of the deep porch. Every detail of
the capture was made known to him, the whole plot laid bare, as she
had heard it from the lips of the men who had borne Cuthbert
ashore, and had then been so cunningly plied with heating liquor by
the astute old woman that they had babbled freely of those very
things that Tyrrel would fain have had held secret as the grave, at
least for twenty-four hours longer.

Jacob listened, and as he listened his mind was strangely stirred.
Here was his rival in deadly peril of his life; and if Cuthbert
were once to be removed from his path, had not Cherry almost
promised, in time, to be his wife? And had he not done all he knew
to warn Cuthbert from just those friendships and associations which
had ended by placing him in this terrible peril? Could anything
more be looked for from him? What did this strange woman think that
he could accomplish?

Cuthbert was truly his friend and comrade. He had proved it once by
risking his life to aid and abet him. But now what could he do? And
surely in these perilous times, when all men knew they must walk
warily, it behoved him to take heed to his steps.

"And what can I do?" he asked, as the woman paused.

"Art thou willing to strive to save him at some peril to thyself?"

Jacob paused for a full minute. A host of tumultuous feelings
rushed and surged through his brain. A thousand conflicting
impulses swayed him as he revolved the situation with all the
rapidity of quickened thought.

It was but a minute, yet it seemed like an hour to him before he
placed his hand upon that of the eager woman and answered steadily:

"I am willing."

She clutched his hand and held it fast.

"My heart did not deceive me. I knew that thou wert a true man.
Jacob Dyson, listen to my words, and take good heed to them, and I
will strive so to work that no harm shall befall thee, albeit I may
not deny that thou mayest stand in some jeopardy. Take and put on
this long cloak that I carry beneath my arm; wrap it well about
thee, and turn up its collar that it hide well thy face. Pull thy
hat down over thy eyes--so. And now take this ring and put it upon
thy finger. I have told thee where Cuthbert Trevlyn is lodged this
night. Go to the house and ask speech of Master Dibbler. When thou
seest him, show him that ring, and tell him that Esther, the wise
woman, has sent thee with it, and that she desires him to let thee
have a brief interview alone with his prisoner, who has something
to say to thee for me of the utmost value to all. Show not thy
face, show only the ring, and unless I be greatly deceived, he will
take thee to the prisoner forthwith, and lock thee up together
alone. The rest thou canst almost divine. Thou must lose no time,
but cut the cords that bind him, wrap him in this cloak--ye are
much of a height--and so muffled he may well pass out in the
darkness unheeded. Thou must stay behind in the prison bound as he
was bound. In the morning thou wilt be given over to the officers
of the law; for I misdoubt me much that Dibbler will ever find out
the trick that has been played upon him. He never saw Cuthbert
Trevlyn before, and I trow he has scarce observed what manner of
man he is. He will deliver thee up for one Cuthbert Trevlyn, taken
in the act of fleeing to the house where the conspirators are known
to lodge.

"But I trow that thy father's solid weight and Esther's acuteness
can soon serve to set thee at liberty. It will be an easy task to
show to all the world that thou art Jacob Dyson, a peaceable
citizen, and that thou hast been wrongly apprehended in the place
of another. Thou wilt be able to prove that at the hour men say
they found thee in that dark garden thou wast in thy father's or
thine uncle's house. Thy captors will be confused, enraged,
bewildered, and will have to explain how they come to be striving
to pass off Jacob Dyson as an evil doer. I trow well we can turn
the tables upon them.

"Art thou willing to run some small peril for the sake of serving
one who has called thee friend?"

And Jacob, with scarce a moment's pause, replied once again, "I am
willing."

Next day, the morning of the fifth of November, 1605, dawned clear
and still and bright. London was early astir; for was not the King
to open his Parliament that day? and were not hundreds of loyal
subjects going to line the streets to see the procession pass? If
the King were not popular, the Prince of Wales, Prince Henry, was;
and a sight was a sight to the simple folk of those days, even as
it is still.

But before long a curious change passed over the face of the London
streets. A breath--a whisper--a fleeting rumour. Men's faces grew
suddenly pale and grave. Women uttered sharp exclamations of
astonishment and fear. People pressed together into knots, asking
quick questions and awaiting the answers in breathless expectancy;
and presently the whispers became changed into open cries and
shouts. A smothered roar as of execration and menace ran through
the streets, being caught up and passed from mouth to mouth till it
was surging along like a great billow on the wide Atlantic sea.

"A Popish plot!"

"Down with the Papists!"

"Blow up the whole of the Parliament Houses--King, Lords, and
Commons!"

"Heard ye ever the like before?"

"Taken in the very act--with the barrels of gunpowder laid ready,
and the slow match in his hand!"

"A curse upon all such vile traitors!"

"A curse upon the Papists!"

"England will never know peace till she has destroyed them root and
branch!"

"Down with the whole brood of them--the vile scum of a vile race!"

These and many like cries were passing through the crowd in great,
gusty shouts. Martin Holt, standing at the door of his shop, was
just taking in the sense of what was passing, and anxiously
ruminating upon the fact that Cuthbert had not been home all the
night, when Abraham Dyson came hurrying up, his face pale with
apprehension.

"Good Master Holt, hast thou heard the news?"

"That the Papists have tried to blow up the Parliament Houses? Can
such a thing be true?"

"As true as daylight; there is no manner of doubt as to that. But I
have another trouble than that, which has been happily averted.
They tell me my boy has been arrested as one of the conspirators. I
am about to hasten down and inquire into it.

"Martin, where is Cuthbert?"

"I have not seen him since yesterday noon. What of him? Has he--the
foolish, hot-headed boy--gone and run himself into like trouble?"

"I know not--I know naught of him; only methought they might be
together, being such friends and comrades."

"They were not together yesterday. Jacob supped here with us, and
knew naught of Cuthbert then."

"Supped with you last night! that is good hearing, for men say he
was seen at Lambeth then, where the conspirators have some house or
hiding place. Come thou with me, good Martin, I prithee. I must
take solid men to witness for my lad, and bring him safely home
again. I warrant me he has had no dealings in yon foul plot! He
hates the very name of Popery and scheming."

Martin Holt lost not a moment in following his friend, who was
joined by several sober and wealthy merchants and citizens, all
deeply indignant at the insult received by their friend in this
false accusation of Jacob.

Abraham Dyson had been warned by a letter of the peril in which his
son stood--a mysteriously-worded letter, but one that was evidently
written by a friend. It advised that Dyson and his friends should
proceed at once to Westminster and Whitehall, where the excitement
would be at its height, and there they would find Jacob in custody,
and would doubtless be able speedily to obtain his release, since
he had been arrested under a misapprehension.

Whoever had written these words had plainly known the truth; for
when the city men had almost fought their way through a howling and
wildly excited mob, they found Jacob, bound and guarded, being just
led before some of the King's counsellors under the name of
Cuthbert Trevlyn.

"That man is not Cuthbert Trevlyn," shouted old Abraham, forgetting
all but the fact that he saw his son in dire and deadly peril.
"This is a quiet and peaceable Protestant citizen. Here am I with
friends ready to testify the same. This is nothing but another vile
Papist plot, conceived to strive to do to death good, peaceable
citizens of contrary faith, while they escape the doom their
traitorous villainy deserves!"

This astute form of vindication roused another clamour from the
crowd. There was not the smallest difficulty in proving Jacob's
identity, in establishing his innocence and obtaining his release.
Those in authority saw at once that it was one of those innumerable
cases of mistaken identity, and did not even care to waste time
over a close inquiry into circumstances; whilst the bystanders were
raving in indignant sympathy, perfectly convinced that it was all
the work of the conspirators themselves, to try to throw their own
guilt upon the innocent, and by no means sure that their own turn
might not come next.

When Jacob was free, he turned to the King's counsellors and said:

"If it please you gentlemen to fall upon and make away with a
notable band of outlaws and robbers, who have long made the terror
of the southern roads, they be all beneath your very hand
today--gathered together in an old barge not far above Lambeth,
where they be waiting the issue of this day's work, knowing far
more about it than peaceable and well-minded men should do. Tyrrel
is the name of the leader, and he and the best part of his band
will hold high revel there this night. They will fall an easy prey
in your hands if it please you to send and take them."

The crowd shouted in delight. There was no love lost between the
citizens of London and those freebooters who made all travel so
perilous, and the name of Tyrrel was widely known and widely
feared. The counsellors conferred together awhile and asked many
questions of Jacob, and then they released him with courteous words
of regret, intimating that if good came of this hunt after the
outlaws he should not lose his reward.

His father lost no time in getting him safely home, and questioning
him closely as to how he came to find himself in such a
predicament; but all he answered was that he and Cuthbert had been
about a good deal together, and that they had been mistaken for one
another. As for Cuthbert, he was safe enough, but would remain in
hiding for some few weeks. He was innocent of all complicity in the
plot; but his carelessness had caused him to be suspected of some
knowledge of it, and suspicion at a moment of popular frenzy was
almost as fatal as actual guilt. When the real culprits had been
discovered and had paid the penalty of their crime, smaller persons
would be safe once more. Silence and obscurity were the safest
shields for the present, and to no living soul did he reveal the
secret of Cuthbert's hiding place.

London was soon ringing with the news of the death or capture of
the plotters of the Gunpowder Treason, as it quickly began to be
called; and those interested in the matter heard with satisfaction
that Tyrrel and his band had been surprised, and all upon the barge
had been either apprehended or slain. Tyrrel had died sword in
hand, as became a man of his calling, and the few who had escaped
to their old haunts had warned their comrades there, who had fled
the south country forthwith, and were scattered no man knew
whither.

Only to one person did Jacob presently tell the whole story of that
strange night when he set out to rescue Cuthbert from dire peril,
and that person was his cousin Keziah. The tale aroused her deepest
interest, and from that moment Jacob became to her a hero as well
as an idol. The honest youth had never been idolized before--never
in his wildest moments had he hoped to rise to the level of a hero;
and there was something so wonderful in finding himself so regarded
that it began to have a softening and even an elevating effect upon
him, and to draw forth an answering admiration and love.

The end of it was that before the Yuletide season had come, he went
blushing to Martin Holt to ask for the hand of his second daughter
Keziah in marriage instead of that of Cherry, whose heart had from
the first been given elsewhere; and it was arranged that the
marriage should take place almost at once, for Jacob pleaded he had
waited long enough for his wife, and Keziah's only wish was to
please her future lord and master.



Chapter 27: Yuletide At The Cross Way House.


Lady Humbert had got her own way--she generally did when her mind
was set upon a thing--and a large and merry party was assembled
beneath the hospitable roof of the Cross Way House to spend the
festive Yuletide there together.

Sir Richard was not sorry just at this juncture to extend his visit
to these kinswomen, whose known loyalty and adhesion to the
Protestant cause had made the name of Wyvern respected and held in
high repute even at the King's Court. It had been with equal
satisfaction that he had married his eldest daughter Cecilia to Sir
Robert Fortescue, and had allowed Lord Culverhouse openly to
proclaim his betrothal with Kate.

For strange things had been happening in the world of London since
the discovery of that abortive Gunpowder Treason; and, in the first
panic, the name of Trevlyn had freely been whispered abroad. Sir
Richard's friends had trembled for him, and had counselled him to
keep perfectly quiet and let the evil whisper die a natural death
if it would.

For two long weeks the family at the Chase lived upon tenterhooks.
Every day they feared to hear the approach of some messenger with
tidings of woe. There was terror in many hearts when a loud
explosion in the middle of the night roused them all from their
beds; but it was quickly seen that this explosion did not
immediately concern them, and that it must have proceeded from the
old Gate House, which was already wrapped in flames. The servants
hurried down to assist, but were too late. It was only many hours
later that the charred remains of what had once been two human
beings were found amongst the smoking ruins. A whisper went abroad
that a certain well-known seminary priest, by name Father Urban,
had fled from London, and had taken refuge with Nicholas Trevlyn.
It was surmised that the two must have been preparing themselves
for a siege, and that their ammunition had unexpectedly ignited and
caused the catastrophe.

To say that any one deplored the fate of the gloomy old man, who
was supposed to be little better than a maniac, would be going
altogether too far. Petronella shed a few tears, but they were
tears rather of relief than of sorrow; while Sir Richard felt that
he could breathe more freely when his contumacious kinsman had
ceased to live at his door.

The whisper which had alarmed his friends died a natural death so
soon as the real facts connected with the plot came to be known,
and the number and names of the true conspirators discovered.
Indeed, further inquiry appeared to elicit the fact that Cuthbert
Trevlyn had been striving to unravel and expose the plot, and that
he had been shot down by one of the genuine plotters as a spy and a
foe. As he had not since been seen or heard of, considerable
anxiety was felt in some quarters for his safety. Sir Richard was
causing inquiries to be made in London. Cherry was beginning to go
about looking pale and hollow eyed. Lady Humbert, who always
cheerily avowed that everything would come right in time, was
secretly not a little anxious, until a few days before the Yuletide
season, when she was called out into her own back regions to
interview a strange woman who was asking for her, and found herself
face to face with Joanna, the gipsy queen.

For a moment she scarcely knew the woman again, for she had put off
her distinctive dress, and was habited like a simple countrywoman.
Her face, too, had lost its brilliant colouring, and her eyes were
softer than of yore. She told the astonished Lady Humbert that her
mother Miriam was lately dead, that the tribe over whom she ruled
had been dispersed and scattered she knew not whither, and that she
had no wish to gather about her the remnants of the gipsy folk, who
had long been more disposed to consort with robbers and outlaws
than to submit to her sway. She was weary of the old life, and
desired something more tranquil. She asked if she could serve Lady
Humbert in the capacity of dairy woman or laundress, and was
promptly answered in the affirmative.

She then went on to whisper that first she must to London, and that
she would bring back Cuthbert Trevlyn with her, and be with them
again on the Christmas Eve. More than this she would not say; but
Lady Humbert trusted her implicitly, and after that she went about
the house with a bright face and brisk step, laughed at Cherry's
wistful looks, and declared that she would wait no longer for the
absentee, but on Christmas Eve would have up out of the strongroom
all the treasure hidden there, and would hand it over to its lawful
owners, the Trevlyns--Sir Richard, as head of the house, being the
fittest person now to have charge of it.

There was a little murmur of remonstrance, Cuthbert's name being
mentioned. Was it fair to do anything till he returned? But some
persons began to fear he never would be seen again. All were deeply
interested in the treasure; and Lady Humbert clinched the matter by
declaring that her mind was made up, and that she would do as she
had said.

What a wonderful sight it was as piece after piece of rich old
plate, some gold, some silver, all richly chased and embossed, was
brought by the servants and placed by Lady Humbert's direction upon
the long tables in the old banqueting hall, now unused for half a
century! Breathless and wondering, the Trevlyns stood by watching,
Sir Richard exclaiming in delighted recognition of various family
heirlooms he had often heard described, and which transcended even
the fancies he had formed about them. And, besides the wonderful
plate, there were jewels and gold in abundance, small coffers
filled with golden coins and precious stones, sufficient for a
king's ransom.

Kate stood clinging to Culverhouse's arm, her eyes as bright as
stars. It was to her the realization of a wonderful dream; and as
she gazed and gazed upon the sparkling hoard, which she knew would
smooth her own path in life and that of the lover of her choice,
she glanced up at him with kindling glances to say:

"Nay, but what a splendid treasure! I never dreamed of aught like
this! But oh, it seems to spoil it all not to have Cuthbert! It was
he who found it, when nearly all the rest of the world derided the
hope of such a thing. Oh, why is he not here to be with us today?"

"Why not, indeed?"

A door at the far end of the room was thrown suddenly open. Lady
Humbert, who had withdrawn herself for a few moments, came forward
smiling and beaming, and behind her--who?

Petronella, who was standing at Philip's side, not far away,
uttered a quick, sharp cry of rapture, and flung herself into
Cuthbert's arms.

"Cuthbert!" cried Kate, with a forward bound; and the next minute
Cuthbert was surrounded by a crowd of eager questioners, and so
belaboured with greetings, inquiries, and congratulations that he
himself could not get in a word, but stood looking smilingly from
one to another till his eyes met the eager, wistful glance of a
pair of limpid blue ones, and with a quick cry of "Cherry!" he
shook off the detaining clasp of all other hands, and went straight
across to the spot where she stood blushing, quivering, and hardly
able to believe the evidences of her senses.

All made way for him smilingly, for the secret of his love was an
open one now, and Cherry had endeared herself to all the family by
her gentleness and pretty, clinging ways.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I come to claim thee at last, and to claim
thee with thy good father's ready consent and promised blessing.
Cherry, it is to Jacob's devotion and generosity that we owe this
happiness, for he it was who saved my life, and might well have
risked his own to do so. But he thought not of that; he only
thought how he might serve me, and redeem a promise he had made to
thee. And now he has his reward. He was wedded to thy sister a
short week back, being unwilling to wait longer. And he bids me
give thee a brother's love and greeting, hoping that thou wilt find
a place for a brother in thine heart, and wilt give to him a
sister's love."

"Oh, that indeed I will! Good Jacob! kind Jacob!" cried Cherry,
who, bewildered by this rush of happiness, scarce knew what she
said or did; but it was enough that she had Cuthbert back again
safe and sound.

To her the voices questioning and exclaiming and eagerly displaying
to her lover the treasure he had never been able to examine and had
never seen massed together, sounded like the murmur of troubled
waters. She stood with Cuthbert's hand in hers, gazing at him as
one in a dream, and it was only when Lady Humbert took her hand and
imprinted a kiss upon her cheek that she seemed suddenly to awake
from her trance.

"There, little one! I trow thou dost not half know what is in store
for thee! We shall lose our merry Kate, who must be transformed
into the Viscountess Culverhouse, instead of going home chastened
and repentant for her mad folly, as was once hoped, after her
imprisonment here. And as for our quiet Petronella, she too is to
find a home of her own with Master Philip, whose share of this
golden treasure will give him all he needs. But as for thee, little
one, Cross Way House will still be thy home; for Cuthbert will be
content to abide here with us so long as we live, and reign here
with thee after we are gone.

"So thou wilt still be beneath the stern rule of an aunt, little
one. How wilt thou like that? But thou wilt have a husband to
protect thee, so that thou needest not fear too greatly.

"Say, pretty child, art thou content with Cross Way House for a
home; or dost thou wish to seek for another?"

Cherry's answer was to put her arms timidly but lovingly about Lady
Humbert's neck, as she answered, with a little sob of pure
happiness:

"With Cuthbert I should be happy anywhere, and I love Cross Way
House dearly. If you will have me, I will gladly stay and strive to
be a daughter to you and Mistress Dowsabel. It is all like some
wonderful, beautiful dream. I never thought the lost treasure of
Trevlyn could bring such happiness with it!"

THE END.








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