"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.