"Mrs Lloyd," he said, "I thought we had made a truce. Mind, you are
the one who breaks it, not I."
The woman laughed mockingly.
"We may as well understand one another," said Trevor; "so speak out.
You have been forcing that poor girl, day after day, to throw herself in
my way--have you not?"
"Yes."
She nodded her head many times, as she said the word with quite a sharp
hiss.
"You wanted me to take a fancy to her?"
"Yes."
"To marry her?"
"Yes."
"And make her the mistress of Penreife?"
"Yes; and I mean to do it."
Trevor stared at her, in wonder at the effrontery displayed.
"And, in your foolish vanity, you thought such a thing possible?"
"Yes."
"Regardless of the poor girl's feelings?"
"Yes--yes--yes!" said Mrs Lloyd, slowly. "I know what is for her
good--and yours."
"Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, coldly, "I would gladly keep to my promise
with you, that you should never leave Penreife. If harm to your
prospects comes of this, don't blame me. You had better go back to the
house."
He turned, as if to walk away; but she caught him sharply by the wrist.
"Stop!" she cried, angrily. "Tell me this. Have you been trying to
make an engagement with that wax doll up at Tolcarne?"
"You insolent old--There, go back, Mrs Lloyd," he cried, checking
himself. "You must be mad."
"Mad? Yes, enough to make me, you wild, ungrateful boy," she cried, her
fingers tightening round his wrist, so that it would have taken a
violent effort to free himself. "Stop, and listen to me."
Trevor looked at her, his anger cooling; for he thought the housekeeper
was suffering from mental excitement brought on by the disappointment
consequent upon the failure of her plans.
"What do you want to say?" he said, quietly.
"A great deal. Ah, you see, you must listen. Now tell me--that Miss
Rea, have you been talking to her father and mother?"
"Yes," said Trevor, thinking it better to humour her till he could get
her back to the house.
"Then go and break it all off--at once. Do you hear--at once."
"And why, pray?" said Trevor, smiling--the position, now that his anger
had passed, seeming ridiculous.
"Because you are to marry little Mary, as I wish," said Mrs Lloyd, in a
quick whisper.
"The parties, neither of them being agreed. Come, Mrs Lloyd, let's get
back to the house."
"Richard," cried the woman, shaking his arm--"listen. Do you hear me?
How dare you laugh at me like this?"
"Come, Mrs Lloyd--come, nurse, what are you thinking about?" said
Trevor, good-humouredly. But he was beginning to fret under the
opposition.
"Of your fixture--of your good, boy. Now, listen to me, Richard. I
have long planned this out. I have brought Mary here, educated her, and
prepared her for it."
"And now she has fallen in love with Humphrey, and they are going to
marry," said Trevor, laughing.
But the smile passed away as he saw the malignant look in the woman's
face.
"Humphrey!" she exclaimed, and as she uttered the name she spat upon the
ground--"Humphrey shall go. Humphrey shall not stay here. I hate him!
His being here is a curse to me."
"Her own son. The woman is crazy," thought Trevor; and he looked
anxiously in her eyes.
"Mrs Lloyd," he began; but she caught him by the other wrist, and her
strength in her excitement was prodigious.
"Richard," she exclaimed, "will you mind me--will you do as I wish, and
marry Polly?"
"Come to the house, and let's talk about it there, nurse," he said,
kindly.
"No--no! here--here! I say you _shall_ have her, or, mark me, you shall
rue it. There, I know what you think; but I'm as sane as you are--more
sane, for you would throw yourself away, and I won't let you."
"Come, Mrs Lloyd, there must be an end to this. Come to the house."
"Stay where you are, boy," she cried, with her eyes flashing. "Will you
obey me?"
"No--no--no," said Trevor, impatiently, and he tried to extricate
himself. "Nurse, you are mad."
"Don't call me nurse," she cried, viciously. "Do as I bid you, or I'll
make you rue it till your deathbed. But, no, I can't do that. Richard,
you shall mind me--you shall obey me in this. I have a right to be
minded."
"Mrs Lloyd, you have gone to the extent of your right, and beyond it;
from henceforth you and your husband must find another home. You shall
have a comfortable income, but this cannot go on. There, I cannot leave
you in this way--come up to the house."
He tried to lead her, but she broke away.
"You will have it then?" she hissed, in a hoarse whisper. "Richard, is
this the way you treat your mother?"
"My--"
Trevor started back to the extent of their arms, looking at the woman
aghast. The fancy that she was distraught had passed away during the
last few minutes, and there was such an air of decision and truth in her
words and looks that he staggered beneath the shock. The past, her
determined action, her opposition to his will--so different to the
behaviour of a dependent, and explained at the time on the score of old
service--and many little words and looks, notably her passionate embrace
on the night of the encounter in the study, all came back to him like a
flash, and he could find no words for quite a minute.
"It's a lie!" he said at last. "Woman, how dare you? My father was too
honourable a gentleman ever to descend to a low intrigue with one of his
servants."
"Yes," said the woman, "and Martha Jane Lloyd was too good a wife to
have listened to him if he had."
"Then," cried Trevor, in a fury, "how dare you say what you did?"
"Because, my boy, it is the truth. You are my flesh and blood."
"You are mad!" exclaimed Trevor. "Loose my wrist, woman, or I shall
hurt you."
He looked sharply round, but there was no help at hand; for his first
impulse was to tie her wrists, and have her carried to the house. But
she prisoned one of his the tighter, by placing her other bony hand a
little higher.
"_I'm_ not mad, Richard," she said, quietly; "and when you hear me, you
will see that you must mind me; for, at a word from me, all your riches
would be swept away, and you might change places with your keeper."
"Humphrey!" ejaculated Richard, his brain in a whirl of doubt. "Tell
me--what do you mean?"
"Only this," said the woman, hoarsely. "That Mrs Trevor and I had sons
almost together. Humphrey and you were the two boys. Do you
understand?"
"No," said Richard, fiercely. "Go on."
"I got my sister, Dinah Price, from Caerwmlych to come and be nurse for
both, for I was in the house--the maid Jane, as they called me then. Do
you want to hear more?"
"Go on," said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.
"One day I sat thinking. There was death in the house, Richard, and I
was wondering about the fixture--how hard it would be if my fine boy
should grow up to poverty through the changes that might take place, and
me perhaps sent away by a new mistress. I was jealous, too, of the
Trevors' boy, petted and pampered and waited upon, while my darling had
to take his chance. I tell you it made me nearly mad sometimes, for I
was ill and weak; and I think the devil came and tempted me, knowing how
I was."
"Go on," said Richard; for she stopped, and the great drops of sweat
were standing on his brow.
"One day, boy, I felt that I could bear it no longer. Dinah had gone
down to the kitchen to join the servants watching the funeral; and I sat
thinking, when the Trevors' baby cried, and no one went. I had you on
my knee, Richard, nursing you, and I went up, innocently enough, to
quiet the motherless little bairn, and as I saw it lying alone there in
its cradle, my heart yearned over the poor little thing, and I took it
in my arms, when it nestled to my breast so pitifully, that I nursed it
as I did you, and sat there with you both in my arms."
Her voice was very husky now; but her words came firmly, and bore the
impress of truth.
"It was then, Richard, that the temptation came; for all at once, as I
looked down upon you both, the thought came, and I shivered. Then all
opened out before me--a bright life, wealth, position, a great future
for the helpless babe I held; and I said why should it not be for my
boy. I shrank from it for a moment, not more. Then it seemed so easy,
so sure, that I did not hesitate. In two minutes you had on the little
master's night-gown, and he wore yours; and I laid _you_, Dick--my boy--
my flesh and blood, in the cradle, and stole downstairs with theirs."
There was a faint rustle amongst the leaves overhead; but no one heeded,
and the woman went on.
"As soon as I got down, shivering with fear, a sort of hysterical fit
came over me, and I got worse; I grew so feverish that I had to lie
down, and I was ill for weeks; but that passed off, and the struggle
began. Ah, Richard, boy, your poor mother bore it all for you--that you
might be rich and happy, while she suffered the tortures of hell; her
heart yearning to take you to her heart, hearing you cry as she lay
awake at nights with a stranger nursed at her breast. But that passed
off when you both grew bigger; and you know how I treated you after, as
I saw you grow up. People said I was hard to Humphrey. Perhaps I was,
but I was never hard to you; and many a night I've cried myself to sleep
with joy, when I have found you loving and affectionate, soothing me for
the jealous tortures I suffered because I could not call you mine. But
I said `no, there is no going back; you have made him, let it be.'"
"And Lloyd?" said Richard, hoarsely--"did he know of this?"
"Yes, I told him, and he would have confessed; but he did not dare. My
boy, when you spoke to me that night in your room--when for the first
time for years I kissed you, I felt that I must tell you all."
"It's monstrous!" cried Richard, and his face looked ten years older.
"But, no; I won't believe it--it can't be true."
"Not true!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing. "Ask
your father. Is it so hard," she added, bitterly, "to find that you
have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?"
"It is impossible!" cried Richard.
"Hush, hold your tongue!" she said, angrily. "You know the secret now--
keep it. What is it to a soul? I never had the heart to send Humphrey
away, but treated him well. Send him away now--give him money to go
away. He'll soon forget Polly. You must many her; and Richard--say a
kind word to me," she whispered, softening, "kiss me once--once only, my
boy--your mother--before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold
her peace for ever."
She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin
hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her
face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.
"Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me--once only. And you'll marry
her, won't you, and make her happy? One kiss, my own boy."
She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of
loathing, and thrust her away.
"Mother? No!" he cried. "I can't call you that. Woman, you thought to
bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse. Don't
touch me. Don't come near me. Take away your hands. I cannot bear
it."
She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.
"Dick," she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing
his knees. "Your mother. One loving word."
"I can't," he gasped--"I can't. It is too much. An impostor--a
pretender; and now to be an outcast! My God! what have I done that I
should suffer this? Oh, Tiny! My love--my love!"
Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper,
as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the
woods--the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with
a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in
the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.
Volume 2, Chapter XIX.