Chapter I
Trevlyn lands and Trevlyn gold,
Heir nor heiress e’er shall hold,
Undisturbed, till, spite of rust,
Truth is found in Trevlyn dust.
“This is the third time I’ve found you poring over that old rhyme. What is the charm, Richard? Not its poetry I fancy.” And the young wife laid a slender hand on the yellow, time-worn page where, in Old English text, appeared the lines she laughed at.
Richard Trevlyn looked up with a smile and threw by the book, as if annoyed at being discovered reading it. Drawing his wife’s hand through his own, he led her back to her couch, folded the soft shawls about her, and, sitting in a low chair beside her, said in a cheerful tone, though his eyes betrayed some hidden care, “My love, that book is a history of our family for centuries, and that old prophecy has never yet been fulfilled, except the ‘heir and heiress’ line. I am the last Trevlyn, and as the time draws near when my child shall be born, I naturally think of his future, and hope he will enjoy his heritage in peace.”
“God grant it!” softly echoed Lady Trevlyn, adding, with a look askance at the old book, “I read that history once, and fancied it must be a romance, such dreadful things are recorded in it. Is it all true, Richard?”
“Yes, dear. I wish it was not. Ours has been a wild, unhappy race till the last generation or two. The stormy nature came in with old Sir Ralph, the fierce Norman knight, who killed his only son in a fit of wrath, by a blow with his steel gauntlet, because the boy’s strong will would not yield to his.”
“Yes, I remember, and his daughter Clotilde held the castle during a siege, and married her cousin, Count Hugo. ‘Tis a warlike race, and I like it in spite of the mad deeds.”
“Married her cousin! That has been the bane of our family in times past. Being too proud to mate elsewhere, we have kept to ourselves till idiots and lunatics began to appear. My father was the first who broke the law among us, and I followed his example: choosing the freshest, sturdiest flower I could find to transplant into our exhausted soil.”
“I hope it will do you honor by blossoming bravely. I never forget that you took me from a very humble home, and have made me the happiest wife in England.”
“And I never forget that you, a girl of eighteen, consented to leave your hills and come to cheer the long-deserted house of an old man like me,” returned her husband fondly.
“Nay, don’t call yourself old, Richard; you are only forty-five, the boldest, handsomest man in Warwickshire. But lately you look worried; what is it? Tell me, and let me advise or comfort you.”
“It is nothing, Alice, except my natural anxiety for you—Well, Kingston, what do you want?”
Trevlyn’s tender tones grew sharp as he addressed the entering servant, and the smile on his lips vanished, leaving them dry and white as he glanced at the card he handed him. An instant he stood staring at it, then asked, “Is the man here?”
“In the library, sir.”
“I’ll come.”
Flinging the card into the fire, he watched it turn to ashes before he spoke, with averted eyes: “Only some annoying business, love; I shall soon be with you again. Lie and rest till I come.”
With a hasty caress he left her, but as he passed a mirror, his wife saw an expression of intense excitement in his face. She said nothing, and lay motionless for several minutes evidently struggling with some strong impulse.
“He is ill and anxious, but hides it from me; I have a right to know, and he’ll forgive me when I prove that it does no harm.”
As she spoke to herself she rose, glided noiselessly through the hall, entered a small closet built in the thickness of the wall, and, bending to the keyhole of a narrow door, listened with a half-smile on her lips at the trespass she was committing. A murmur of voices met her ear. Her husband spoke oftenest, and suddenly some word of his dashed the smile from her face as if with a blow. She started, shrank, and shivered, bending lower with set teeth, white cheeks, and panic-stricken heart. Paler and paler grew her lips, wilder and wilder her eyes, fainter and fainter her breath, till, with a long sigh, a vain effort to save herself, she sank prone upon the threshold of the door, as if struck down by death.
“Mercy on us, my lady, are you ill?” cried Hester, the maid, as her mistress glided into the room looking like a ghost, half an hour later.
“I am faint and cold. Help me to my bed, but do not disturb Sir Richard.”
A shiver crept over her as she spoke, and, casting a wild, woeful look about her, she laid her head upon the pillow like one who never cared to lift it up again. Hester, a sharp-eyed, middle-aged woman, watched the pale creature for a moment, then left the room muttering, “Something is wrong, and Sir Richard must know it. That black-bearded man came for no good, I’ll warrant.”
At the door of the library she paused. No sound of voices came from within; a stifled groan was all she heard; and without waiting to knock she went in, fearing she knew not what. Sir Richard sat at his writing table pen in hand, but his face was hidden on his arm, and his whole attitude betrayed the presence of some overwhelming despair.
“Please, sir, my lady is ill. Shall I send for anyone?”
No answer. Hester repeated her words, but Sir Richard never stirred. Much alarmed, the woman raised his head, saw that he was unconscious, and rang for help. But Richard Trevlyn was past help, though he lingered for some hours. He spoke but once, murmuring faintly, “Will Alice come to say good-bye?”
“Bring her if she can come,” said the physician.
Hester went, found her mistress lying as she left her, like a figure carved in stone. When she gave the message, Lady Trevlyn answered sternly, “Tell him I will not come,” and turned her face to the wall, with an expression which daunted the woman too much for another word.
Hester whispered the hard answer to the physician, fearing to utter it aloud, but Sir Richard heard it, and died with a despairing prayer for pardon on his lips.
When day dawned Sir Richard lay in his shroud and his little daughter in her cradle, the one unwept, the other unwelcomed by the wife and mother, who, twelve hours before, had called herself the happiest woman in England. They thought her dying, and at her own command gave her the sealed letter bearing her address which her husband left behind him. She read it, laid it in her bosom, and, waking from the trance which seemed to have so strongly chilled and changed her, besought those about her with passionate earnestness to save her life.
For two days she hovered on the brink of the grave, and nothing but the indomitable will to live saved her, the doctors said. On the third day she rallied wonderfully, and some purpose seemed to gift her with unnatural strength. Evening came, and the house was very still, for all the sad bustle of preparation for Sir Richard’s funeral was over, and he lay for the last night under his own roof. Hester sat in the darkened chamber of her mistress, and no sound broke the hush but the low lullaby the nurse was singing to the fatherless baby in the adjoining room. Lady Trevlyn seemed to sleep, but suddenly put back the curtain, saying abruptly, “Where does he lie?”
“In the state chamber, my lady,” replied Hester, anxiously watching the feverish glitter of her mistress’s eye, the flush on her cheek, and the unnatural calmness of her manner.
“Help me to go there; I must see him.”
“It would be your death, my lady. I beseech you, don’t think of it,” began the woman; but Lady Trevlyn seemed not to hear her, and something in the stern pallor of her face awed the woman into submission.
Wrapping the slight form of her mistress in a warm cloak, Hester half-led, half-carried her to the state room, and left her on the threshold.
“I must go in alone; fear nothing, but wait for me here,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Five minutes had not elapsed when she reappeared with no sign of grief on her rigid face.
“Take me to my bed and bring my jewel box,” she said, with a shuddering sigh, as the faithful servant received her with an exclamation of thankfulness.
When her orders had been obeyed, she drew from her bosom the portrait of Sir Richard which she always wore, and, removing the ivory oval from the gold case, she locked the former in a tiny drawer of the casket, replaced the empty locket in her breast, and bade Hester give the jewels to Watson, her lawyer, who would see them put in a safe place till the child was grown.
“Dear heart, my lady, you’ll wear them yet, for you’re too young to grieve all your days, even for so good a man as my blessed master. Take comfort, and cheer up, for the dear child’s sake if no more.”
“I shall never wear them again” was all the answer as Lady Trevlyn drew the curtains, as if to shut out hope.
Sir Richard was buried and, the nine days’ gossip over, the mystery of his death died for want of food, for the only person who could have explained it was in a state which forbade all allusion to that tragic day.
For a year Lady Trevlyn’s reason was in danger. A long fever left her so weak in mind and body that there was little hope of recovery, and her days were passed in a state of apathy sad to witness. She seemed to have forgotten everything, even the shock which had so sorely stricken her. The sight of her child failed to rouse her, and month after month slipped by, leaving no trace of their passage on her mind, and but slightly renovating her feeble body.
Who the stranger was, what his aim in coming, or why he never reappeared, no one discovered. The contents of the letter left by Sir Richard were unknown, for the paper had been destroyed by Lady Trevlyn and no clue could be got from her. Sir Richard had died of heart disease, the physicians said, though he might have lived years had no sudden shock assailed him. There were few relatives to make investigations, and friends soon forgot the sad young widow; so the years rolled on, and Lillian the heiress grew from infancy to childhood in the shadow of this mystery.
Chapter II
“Come, child, the dew is falling, and it is time we went in.”
“No, no, Mamma is not rested yet, so I may run down to the spring if I like.” And Lillian, as willful as winsome, vanished among the tall ferns where deer couched and rabbits hid.
Hester leisurely followed, looking as unchanged as if a day instead of twelve years had passed since her arms received the little mistress, who now ruled her like a tyrant. She had taken but a few steps when the child came flying back, exclaiming in an excited tone, “Oh, come quick! There’s a man there, a dead man. I saw him and I’m frightened!”
“Nonsense, child, it’s one of the keepers asleep, or some stroller who has no business here. Take my hand and we’ll see who it is.”
Somewhat reassured, Lillian led her nurse to one of the old oaks beside the path, and pointed to a figure lying half hidden in the fern. A slender, swarthy boy of sixteen, with curly black hair, dark brows, and thick lashes, a singularly stern mouth, and a general expression of strength and pride, which added character to his boyish face and dignified his poverty. His dress betrayed that, being dusty and threadbare, his shoes much worn, and his possessions contained in the little bundle on which he pillowed his head. He was sleeping like one quite spent with weariness, and never stirred, though Hester bent away the ferns and examined him closely.
“He’s not dead, my deary; he’s asleep, poor lad, worn out with his day’s tramp, I dare say.” “I’m glad he’s alive, and I wish he’d wake up. He’s a pretty boy, isn’t he? See what nice hands he’s got, and his hair is more curly than mine. Make him open his eyes, Hester,” commanded the little lady, whose fear had given place to interest.
“Hush, he’s stirring. I wonder how he got in, and what he wants,” whispered Hester.
“I’ll ask him,” and before her nurse could arrest her, Lillian drew a tall fern softly over the sleeper’s face, laughing aloud as she did so.
The boy woke at the sound, and without stirring lay looking up at the lovely little face bent over him, as if still in a dream.
“Bella cara,” he said, in a musical voice. Then, as the child drew back abashed at the glance of his large, bright eyes, he seemed to wake entirely and, springing to his feet, looked at Hester with a quick, searching glance. Something in his face and air caused the woman to soften her tone a little, as she said gravely, “Did you wish to see any one at the Hall?”
“Yes. Is Lady Trevlyn here?” was the boy’s answer, as he stood cap in hand, with the smile fading already from his face.
“She is, but unless your business is very urgent you had better see Parks, the keeper; we don’t trouble my lady with trifles.”
“I’ve a note for her from Colonel Daventry; and as it is not a trifle, I’ll deliver it myself, if you please.”
Hester hesitated an instant, but Lillian cried out, “Mamma is close by, come and see her,” and led the way, beckoning as she ran.
The lad followed with a composed air, and Hester brought up the rear, taking notes as she went with a woman’s keen eye.
Lady Trevlyn, a beautiful, pale woman, delicate in health and melancholy in spirit, sat on a rustic seat with a book in her hand; not reading, but musing with an absent mind. As the child approached, she held out her hand to welcome her, but neither smiled nor spoke.
“Mamma, here is a—a person to see you,” cried Lillian, rather at a loss how to designate the stranger, whose height and gravity now awed her.
“A note from Colonel Daventry, my lady,” and with a bow the boy delivered the missive.
Scarcely glancing at him, she opened it and read:
My Dear Friend,
The bearer of this, Paul Jex, has been with me some months and has served me well. I brought him from Paris, but he is English born, and, though friendless, prefers to remain here, even after we leave, as we do in a week. When I last saw you you mentioned wanting a lad to help in the garden; Paul is accustomed to that employment, though my wife used him as a sort of page in the house. Hoping you may be able to give him shelter, I venture to send him. He is honest, capable, and trustworthy in all respects. Pray try him, and oblige,
Yours sincerely,
J. R. Daventry
“The place is still vacant, and I shall be very glad to give it to you, if you incline to take it,” said Lady Trevlyn, lifting her eyes from the note and scanning the boy’s face.
“I do, madam,” he answered respectfully.
“The colonel says you are English,” added the lady, in a tone of surprise.
The boy smiled, showing a faultless set of teeth, as he replied, “I am, my lady, though just now I may not look it, being much tanned and very dusty. My father was an Englishman, but I’ve lived abroad a good deal since he died, and got foreign ways, perhaps.”
As he spoke without any accent, and looked full in her face with a pair of honest blue eyes under the dark lashes, Lady Trevlyn’s momentary doubt vanished.
“Your age, Paul?”
“Sixteen, my lady.”
“You understand gardening?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And what else?”
“I can break horses, serve at table, do errands, read aloud, ride after a young lady as groom, illuminate on parchment, train flowers, and make myself useful in any way.”
The tone, half modest, half eager, in which the boy spoke, as well as the odd list of his accomplishments, brought a smile to Lady Trevlyn’s lips, and the general air of the lad prepossessed her.
“I want Lillian to ride soon, and Roger is rather old for an escort to such a little horsewoman. Don’t you think we might try Paul?” she said, turning to Hester.
The woman gravely eyed the lad from head to foot, and shook her head, but an imploring little gesture and a glance of the handsome eyes softened her heart in spite of herself.
“Yes, my lady, if he does well about the place, and Parks thinks he’s steady enough, we might try it by-and-by.”
Lillian clapped her hands and, drawing nearer, exclaimed confidingly, as she looked up at her new groom, “I know he’ll do, Mamma. I like him very much, and I hope you’ll let him train my pony for me. Will you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
As he spoke very low and hastily, the boy looked away from the eager little face before him, and a sudden flush of color crossed his dark cheek.
Hester saw it and said within herself, “That boy has good blood in his veins. He’s no clodhopper’s son, I can tell by his hands and feet, his air and walk. Poor lad, it’s hard for him, I’ll warrant, but he’s not too proud for honest work, and I like that.”
“You may stay, Paul, and we will try you for a month. Hester, take him to Parks and see that he is made comfortable. Tomorrow we will see what he can do. Come, darling, I am rested now.”
As she spoke, Lady Trevlyn dismissed the boy with a gracious gesture and led her little daughter away. Paul stood watching her, as if forgetful of his companion, till she said, rather tartly, “Young man, you’d better have thanked my lady while she was here than stare after her now it’s too late. If you want to see Parks, you’d best come, for I’m going.”
“Is that the family tomb yonder, where you found me asleep?” was the unexpected reply to her speech, as the boy quietly followed her, not at all daunted by her manner.
“Yes, and that reminds me to ask how you got in, and why you were napping there, instead of doing your errand properly?”
“I leaped the fence and stopped to rest before presenting myself, Miss Hester” was the cool answer, accompanied by a short laugh as he confessed his trespass.
“You look as if you’d had a long walk; where are you from?”
“London.”
“Bless the boy! It’s fifty miles away.”
“So my shoes show; but it’s a pleasant trip in summer time.”
“But why did you walk, child! Had you no money?”
“Plenty, but not for wasting on coaches, when my own stout legs could carry me. I took a two days’ holiday and saved my money for better things.”
“I like that,” said Hester, with an approving nod. “You’ll get on, my lad, if that’s your way, and I’ll lend a hand, for laziness is my abomination, and one sees plenty nowadays.”
“Thank you. That’s friendly, and I’ll prove that I am grateful. Please tell me, is my lady ill?”
“Always delicate since Sir Richard died.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Ten years or more.”
“Are there no young gentlemen in the family?”
“No, Miss Lillian is an only child, and a sweet one, bless her!”
“A proud little lady, I should say.”
“And well she may be, for there’s no better blood in England than the Trevlyns, and she’s heiress to a noble fortune.”
“Is that the Trevlyn coat of arms?” asked the boy abruptly, pointing to a stone falcon with the motto ME AND MINE carved over the gate through which they were passing.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Mere curiosity; I know something of heraldry and often paint these things for my own pleasure. One learns odd amusements abroad,” he added, seeing an expression of surprise on the woman’s face.
“You’ll have little time for such matters here. Come in and report yourself to the keeper, and if you’ll take my advice ask no questions of him, for you’ll get no answers.”
“I seldom ask questions of men, as they are not fond of gossip.” And the boy nodded with a smile of mischievous significance as he entered the keeper’s lodge.
A sharp lad and a saucy, if he likes. I’ll keep my eye on him, for my lady takes no more thought of such things than a child, and Lillian cares for nothing but her own will. He has a taking way with him, though, and knows how to flatter. It’s well he does, poor lad, for life’s a hard matter to a friendless soul like him.
As she thought these thoughts Hester went on to the house, leaving Paul to win the good graces of the keeper, which he speedily did by assuming an utterly different manner from that he had worn with the woman.
That night, when the boy was alone in his own room, he wrote a long letter in Italian describing the events of the day, enclosed a sketch of the falcon and motto, directed it to “Father Cosmo Carmela, Genoa,” and lay down to sleep, muttering, with a grim look and a heavy sigh, “So far so well; I’ll not let my heart be softened by pity, or my purpose change till my promise is kept. Pretty child, I wish I had never seen her!”
