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.