"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."