"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.



Chapter 7: The Life Of A Great City.

And so a new life began for Cuthbert beneath the roof of his uncle.

He found favour in the sight of Martin Holt because of his unpretending ways, his willingness, nay, his eagerness to learn, his ready submission to the authority exercised by the master of the house upon all beneath his roof, and the absence of anything like presumption or superciliousness on his nephew's part on the score of his patrician birth on his father's side. Trevlyn though he was, the lad conformed to all the ways and usages of the humbler Holts; and even Mistress Susan soon ceased to look sourly at him, for she found him as amenable to her authority as to that of Martin, and handy and helpful in a thousand little nameless ways.

He was immensely interested in everything about him. He would as willingly sit and baste a capon on the spit as ramble abroad in the streets, if she would but answer his host of inquiries about London, its ways and its sights. Mistress Susan was not above being open to the insidious flattery of being questioned and listened to; and to find herself regarded as an oracle of wisdom and a mine of information could not but be soothing to her vanity, little as she knew that she possessed her share of that common feminine failing.

Then Cuthbert was a warm appreciator of her culinary talents. The poor boy, who had lived at the Gate House on the scantiest of commons, and had been kept to oaten bread and water sometimes for a week together for a trifling offence, felt indeed that he had come to a land of plenty when he sat down day after day to his uncle's well-spread table, and was urged to partake of all manner of dishes, the very name of which was unknown to him. His keen relish of her dainties, combined with what seemed to her a very modest consumption of them, pleased Mistress Susan not a little; whilst for his own part Cuthbert began to look heartier and stronger than he had ever done before. The slimness of attenuation was merged in that of wiry strength and muscle. His dark eyes no longer looked out from hollow caverns, and the colour which gradually stole into his brown cheek bespoke increase of health and well being.

Martin and Susan looked on well pleased by the change. They liked the lad, and found his Popery of such a mild kind that they felt no misgiving as to its influence upon the girls. Cuthbert was as willing to go to a privately conducted Puritan service as to mass, and liked the appointed service of the Establishment rather better than either. Martin did not hinder his attending the parish church, though he but rarely put in an appearance himself. He was not one of the bitter opponents of the Establishment, but he was a bitter opponent of persecution for conscience' sake, and he was naturally embittered by the new rigour with which the old laws of conformity were enforced. However, he was true to his principles in that he let Cuthbert go his own way freely, and did not forbid Cherry to accompany him sometimes to church, where she found much entertainment and pleasure in watching the fashionable people come and go; and perhaps her father divined that she would give more attention to the mode of the ladies' headgears and hair dressing and the cut of their farthingales than to any matters of doctrine that might be aired in the pulpit.

As for Cuthbert, he drank in voraciously all that he heard and all that he saw in this strange place, which seemed to him like the Babylon of old that the Puritan pastors raved over in their pulpits. He was to be allowed his full liberty for some weeks, to see the sights of the city and learn his way about it. Perhaps after Christmastide his uncle would employ him in his shop or warehouse, but Martin wished to take the measure of the lad before he put him to any task.

So Cuthbert roamed the London streets wondering and amazed. He saw many a street fight waged between the Templars and 'prentices, and got a broken head himself from being swept along the tide of mimic battle. He saw the rude and rabble mob indulging in their favourite pastime of upsetting coaches (hell carts as they chose to dub them), and roaring with laughter as the frightened occupants strove to free themselves from the clumsy vehicles. Cuthbert got several hard knocks as a reward for striving to assist these unlucky wights when they chanced to be ladies; but he was too well used to blows to heed them over much, and could generally give as good as he got.

The fighting instinct often got him into tight places, as when he suddenly found himself surrounded by a hooting mob of ruffians in one of the slums of "Alsatia," as Whitefriars was called, where he had imprudently adventured himself. And this adventure might have well had a fatal termination for him, as this was a veritable den of murderers and villains of the deepest dye, and even the authorities dared not venture within its purlieus to hunt out a missing criminal without a guard of soldiers with them. The abuse of "Sanctuary" was well exemplified by the existing state of things here; and though Cuthbert was doing no ill to any soul, but merely gratifying his curiosity by prowling about the narrow dens and alleys, the cry of "A spy! a spy!" soon brought a mob about him, whilst his readiness to engage in battle caused the tumult to redouble itself in an instant.

The lad had just realized his danger, and faced the fact that the chances of escaping alive were greatly against him, when a window in a neighbouring house was thrown open, and a stern, musical voice exclaimed:

"For shame, my children, for shame! Is it to be one against a hundred? Is that Alsatia's honour? What has the lad done?"

Cuthbert raised his eyes and beheld the tonsured head of a priest clad in a rusty black cassock, who was standing at the only window to be seen in a blank wall somewhat higher than that of the other houses surrounding it. The effect of those words on the angry multitude was wonderful. The hands raised to strike were lowered, and voices on all sides exclaimed:

"It is Father Urban; we may not withstand him."

Still the anger of the mob was not calmed in a moment, and fierce voices exclaimed in threatening accents:

"A spy! he is a spy!"

"Then bring him hither to me; I will judge him," said the priest, in the same tones of calm assurance. "If I find him worthy of death, I will give him over to your hands again."

"That will do; Father Urban shall judge him!" cried a brawny fellow who seemed to be something of a leader with his fellows. "The Father never lied to us yet. He will give him back if he finds him a spy."

Cuthbert was now jostled and hustled, but not in the same angry fashion, to a small narrow door in a deep embrasure, and when this door presently swung back on its hinges, the crowd surged quickly backwards as though in some sort afraid. Within the narrow doorway stood the priest, a small, slim man in rusty black, with a crucifix suspended from his rosary, which he held up before the crowd, who most of them crossed themselves with apparent devotion.

"Peace be with you, my children!" was his somewhat incongruous salutation to the blood-thirsty mob; and then turning his bright but benignant eyes upon Cuthbert, he said:

"This is a leper house, my son. Yet methinks thou wilt be safer here a while than in the street. Dost thou fear to enter? If thou dost, we must e'en talk where we are."

"I have no fear," answered Cuthbert, who indeed only experienced a lively curiosity.

The priest seemed pleased with the answer, and drew him within the sheltering door; and Cuthbert followed his guide into a long, low room, where a table was spread with trenchers and pitchers, whilst an appetizing odour arose from a saucepan simmering on the fire and stirred by one of the patients, upon whom Cuthbert gazed with fascinated interest.

"He is well nigh cured," answered the priest. "Our sick abide on the floor above; but there be not many here now. The plague carried off above half our number last year.

"But now of thine own matters, boy: how comest thou hither? Thou art a bold lad to venture a stranger into these haunts, unless thou be fleeing a worse peril from the arm of the law; and neither thy face nor thy dress looks like that. Hast thou not heard of Whitefriars and its perils? or art thou a rustic knave, unversed in the ways of the town?"

Cuthbert told his story frankly enough. He had lost himself in the streets, and was in the forbidden region before he well knew. A few kindly and dexterous questions from Father Urban led him to tell all that there was to know about himself, his parentage and his past; and the priest listened with great attention, scanning the face of the youth narrowly the while.

"Trevlyn—the name is known to us. It was a good old name once, and may be still again. I have seen thy father, Nicholas Trevlyn. It may be I shall see him again one day. Be true to thy father's faith, boy; be not led away by hireling shepherds. The day is coming on England when the true faith shall spread from end to end of the land, and all heretics shall be confounded! See that thou art in thy place in that day! See that thou art found by thy father's side in the hour of victory!"

Cuthbert hung his head a little, and a flush crept into his cheek; but the priest did not appear to heed these slight indications of embarrassment, as he moved slowly up the stairs to the window above to tell the expectant crowd to disperse, as their victim was no spy, but an honest country lad, whose father was known to the priest, and who had lost his way in London, and strayed inadvertently into their midst.

Then the crowd having dispersed to seek fresh amusement, the priest, at Cuthbert's desire, showed him all over this leper house, and told him much respecting the condition of the miserable inmates before they had been admitted to this place of refuge; and Cuthbert gazed with awe-stricken eyes at the scarred and emaciated sufferers, filled with compassion and not loathing, and at last drew forth one of his golden pieces from his purse and asked the priest to expend it for the benefit of the poor lepers.

"That will I gladly do, my son. But I must not let thee linger longer here; for although I myself hold that the whole and sound are not affected by the taint, there be leeches of repute who swear 'tis death to abide long beside the leper."

"Thou hast not found it so, Father. Dost thou live here?"

"Nay, I have no home. I go hither and thither as duty calls me. But I am often here with these sick folks of mine, whom so few men will dare approach unto. But I myself have never been the worse for my ministrations here, and I have no fears for thee, though I would not have thee linger. We will be going now, and I will be thy guide out of these dens of the earth, else might some more untoward thing befall thee when none might be nigh to succour thee."

The priest and the youth passed out together. The early dusk was beginning to fall, and Cuthbert was glad enough of the protection of Father Urban's companionship. All saluted the priest as he passed by, and few even looked askance at his comrade. The influence of these Roman Catholics over the hearts and feelings of the masses has always been very great—something of an enigma and a grievance to those who would fain see naught but evil within the fold of Rome. But facts are stubborn things, and the facts have been in this matter in their favour. England as a nation was slowly but surely throwing off the Papal yoke, and emerging from a region of darkness and superstition. Nevertheless, the influence of the priest was a living and often a beneficent influence amongst the most degraded of the people, and he could and did obtain a reverent hearing when no man else coming in the name of Christ would have been listened to for a single moment.

As the pair moved along the dark, noisome streets, Father Urban spoke again in his quick, imperious way.

"Thou spakest awhile ago of one Master Robert Catesby; hast thou seen aught of him since thy arrival in London?"

"No," answered Cuthbert; "I have had much else to do and to think of. But I must to him one day, and demand my purse again, else may he think I have been left for dead on the highway."

"He is a good man and a true," said the priest. "Thou wilt do well to keep his friendship an thou mayest. Catesby and Trevlyn come of a good stock; it were well they should consort together."

Cuthbert recalled some of the strange words spoken by Master Robert on the road, and wondered if he recalled them aright. They seemed to partake of the character of fierce threats. He was not certain that he altogether relished the thought of such friendship.

"Mine uncle might not wish me to consort with him," said the lad, with a little hesitation. "He is but a wool stapler, as I have told thee, and his friends are simple folks like himself. He meddles not in matters that gentlefolks love. He has no fine company to his house. Since it be my lot to abide beneath his roof—"

"Thou must needs conform to his ways; is that so, boy?" asked the Father, interrupting the rather lame and confused speech, and smiling as he did so. "Ay, conform, conform! Conformity is the way of the world today! I would not bid thee do otherwise. Yet one bit of counsel will I give thee ere we part. Think not that thou canst not conform and yet do thy duty by the true faith, too. Be a careful, watchful inmate of thine uncle's house; yet fear not to consort with good men, too, when thy chance comes. Thou needst not tell thine uncle all. Thou hast reached man's estate, and it is ordained of God that men should shake off the fetters that bind them in youth, and act and judge for themselves. My counsel is this: be wary, be prudent, be watchful, and lose no opportunity of gaining the trust of all men. So wilt thou one day live to do service to many; and thou wilt better understand my words the longer thou livest in this great city, and learnest more of what is seething below the surface of men's lives."

And with a few words of dismissal and blessing the Father sent Cuthbert on his way, standing still and looking after him till the slight figure was lost to sight in the darkness.

"There goes a man who by his face might have a great future before him," mused the priest. "It is with such faces as that that men have gone to prison and to death."

Cuthbert bent his steps towards the bridge, interested and excited by his recent adventure, his thoughts directed into a new channel, his memory recalling the first companion of his lonely journey, and the charm of that companion's personality and address. So many other things had passed since, impressions had jostled so quickly one upon the other, that he had scarce thought again of Master Robert Catesby or the purse he had to claim from him. His new uncle's liberality had made him rich, and a certain natural reserve had held him silent in his Puritan relative's house about any person not likely to find favour in Martin Holt's estimation. He had been equally reticent about his strange adventure with the gipsies, though he scarce knew why he should not speak of that. But, as a matter of fact, every day brought with it such a crowd of new impressions that the earlier ones had already partially faded from his mind.

But the words of the priest had awakened a new train of thought. Cuthbert resolved not to delay longer the reclamation of his own property. He spoke to Cherry that same evening about his lost purse, giving her a brief account of his ride across Hammerton Heath, and she was eager for him to ask his own, lest he should lose it altogether.

"For gay gallants are not always to be trusted, for all that they look so fine and speak so fair," she said, nodding her pretty curly head, an arch smile in her big gray eyes. "I have heard my father say so a hundred times. I would go quickly and claim mine own again. But tell me the rest of the adventure. What didst thou, left thus alone upon the lone heath? I trow it was an unmanly and unmannerly act to leave thee thus. What befell thee then?"

Cuthbert looked round cautiously; but there was no one listening to the chatter of this pair of idlers in the window. Mistress Susan's voice was heard below scolding the serving wench, and Martin Holt was poring over some big ledger whilst Jemima called over the figures of a heap of bills. Keziah was at her spinning wheel, which hummed merrily in the red firelight; and Cherry was seizing advantage of her aunt's absence to chatter instead of work.

Cherry had from the first been Cuthbert's confidante and friend. It was taken for granted by this time that this should be so. Nobody was surprised to see them often together, and Cherry had never found the house on the bridge so little dull as when Cuthbert came in night by night to give her the most charming and exciting accounts of his doings and adventures. Once, too, she had gone with him to see some sights. They had paraded Paul's Walk together, and Cuthbert had been half scandalized and wholly astonished to see a fine church desecrated to a mere fashionable promenade and lounging place and mart. They had watched some gallants at their tennis playing another day, and had even been present at the baiting of a bear, when they had come unawares upon the spectacle in their wanderings. But Cuthbert's ire had been excited through his humanity and love for dumb animals, and Cherry had been frightened and sickened by the brutality of the spectacle. And when Martin Holt had inveighed against the practice with all a Puritan's vehemence, Cuthbert had cordially agreed, and had thus drawn as it were one step nearer the side of the great coming controversy which his uncle had embraced.

These expeditions together had naturally drawn the cousins into closer bonds of intimacy. Cherry felt privileged to ask questions of Cuthbert almost at will, and he had no wish to hide anything from her.

"I will tell thee that adventure some day when we are alone," he answered. "I have often longed to share the tale with thee, but we have had so much else to speak of. I was taken prisoner by the robbers, and conveyed to a ruined mill, where some of their comrades and some wild gipsies dwell, as I take it, for the greater part of the inclement winter. I thought my end had surely come when first I saw the fierce faces round me; but there was one who called herself their queen, and who made them quit their evil purpose. She put me to sit beside her at the board, and when the morning came she fed me again and bid me ride forth without fear. She told me certain things to boot, which I must not forget: but those I will not speak of till you know the whole strange story. I may not tell it here. I would not that any should know it but thee, Cherry. But some day when we can get into some lonely place together I will tell thee all, and we will think together how the thing on which my mind is set may be accomplished."

Cherry's eyes were dilated with wonder and curiosity. Her cousin all at once took rank as a hero and knight of romance. He had already experienced a wonderful adventure, and there was plainly some mystery behind which was to be made known to her later.

What a proud thing it was to have such a cousin! How she despised honest Jacob now, with his large hands and heavy ways! She had laughed at him ever since she could remember, and had ordered him about much as though he were a faithful dog always ready to do her bidding; but she had never quite realized what a clumsy boor he was till their handsome, dark-faced Trevlyn cousin had come amongst them, with his earnest eyes, his graceful movements, and his slim, attractive person. Cuthbert's manners, that in fine society would have been called rustic and unformed, were a great advance on anything Cherry had seen in her own home, save in the person of Anthony Cole and his son. She admired him immensely, and he was rapidly becoming the sun and centre of her life; whilst Cuthbert, who had always been used to the companionship of a sister, and who found several fanciful resemblances as well as so many points of contrast between the lively Cherry and the pensive Petronella, was glad enough of her sisterly friendship and counsel, and did not lose in favour with his uncle that he succeeded in pleasing and brightening the life of his youngest born, who was in truth the idol of his heart, though he would sooner have cut off his right hand than have let her know as much too plainly.

As Cherry also was of opinion that Cuthbert ought to reclaim his money, he resolved to do so upon the morrow without any further loss of time. Cherry advised him not to speak openly of his visit to the tavern, for her father held all such places in abhorrence, and would likely speak in slighting terms of any person who could frequent them. He had better prosecute his errand secretly, and tell her the result at the end. Cherry dearly loved a little bit of mystery, and was very anxious that Cuthbert should continue to occupy his present position in her father's good graces.

The Cat and Fiddle was none too well looking a place when Cuthbert succeeded at last in finding it. It had one door in the thoroughfare of Holborn, but it ran back some way, and its other doors opened into a narrow alley turning off from the main street under a low archway. As Cuthbert pushed open the door of the public room, he saw several men with faces of decidedly unprepossessing type sitting together at a table engrossed in talk, and these all looked quickly up as he entered, and gazed at him with undisguised suspicion.

A burly man, who had the look of a host, came forward, and asked his business rather roughly. Strangers did not appear to meet any warmth of welcome at this place. Cuthbert answered that he sought news of Master Robert Catesby, who had bidden him inquire at that place for him. As that name passed his lips he saw a change pass over the face of his questioner, and the answer was given with a decided access of friendliness.

"He is not here now, but he will be here anon. He comes to dine shortly after noon, and will spend some hours here today on business. If it please you, you can wait for him."

"I thank you, but I will come again later," answered Cuthbert, who was by no means enamoured of the place or the company.

He was surprised that his travelling companion, who appeared a man of refined speech and habits, should frequent such an evil-looking place as this. But the habits of the dwellers in cities were as yet strange to him, and it might be his ignorance, he thought, which made it appear suspicious to him.

"And if he asks who has inquired for him, what shall I say?" asked the host, whilst the men at the table continued to stare and listen with every appearance of interest.

"My name is Trevlyn," answered Cuthbert shortly, disliking, he hardly knew why, the aspect and ways of the place.

He fancied that a slight sensation followed this announcement. Certainly the landlord bowed lower than there was occasion for as he held open the door for his visitor to pass out. Cuthbert was puzzled, and a little annoyed. He was half inclined not to go there again; but curiosity got the better of his resolve as the afternoon hours drew on. After all, what did it matter what manner of man this was, since he need never see him again after today? It would be foolish not to reclaim his money, and might lead Master Robert Catesby to inquire for him at his uncle's house, and that he did not wish. The thing had better be done, and be done quickly. How foolish it would be to go back to Cherry and say he had not accomplished his errand because some odd-looking men had stared at him, and because the tavern was ill smelling and dirty!

It was three o'clock, however, before the youth again entered the unsavoury abode. As December had already come, the days were approaching their shortest limit; and as heavy clouds hung in the sky, the streets already began to look dark. Within the ill-lighted tavern the obscurity was still greater. Cuthbert pushed his way through the door, and found himself amongst the afternoon drinkers, who were making the room ring with ribald songs and loud laughter. But the host quickly singled him out, and approached with an air of deference.

"The gentleman you asked for is upstairs. He directed that you should be sent to him on your arrival. I am too busy to go up the stairs with you, but you cannot miss the way. He is in the room upon the first floor; the first door to the right hand will lead you to him. He has one or two gentlemen with him, but he will be glad to see you, too."

Cuthbert was glad to get out of the noisy room below, and, shutting the door behind him, mounted the dark stairs. He opened the first door to the right, after knocking once or twice in vain, and found himself in a very small apartment, very ill lighted by a tiny window, and altogether empty.

He looked round in surprise. Dim as was the twilight, he could not be mistaken in the emptiness of the room. He wondered if the man had misled him purposely, and a little vague uneasiness stole over him. The noises from below had hitherto drowned any other sound; but as for some cause unknown to himself these suddenly and entirely ceased for the space of some half minute, he became aware of voices close at hand; and almost before he realized his position, he had caught several quickly and eagerly spoken sentences.

"They show no mercy; let no mercy be shown to them!" said one voice, in low, menacing accents. "Six saintly priests have died in cruel agonies by the bloody hangman's hands but a few weeks past; and look ye, what has been the fate of that godly, courageous old man of Lancashire who has dared to raise his voice in reprobation of these barbarities? Fined, imprisoned, despoiled of all; and all but condemned to be nailed to the pillory, that his ears might be sliced off! Even that fate was all but inflicted by yon infamous Star Chamber, who respect neither virtue nor gray hairs, so they may fill the King's coffers and destroy all godliness in the land! It was but by two votes he escaped that last anguish and degradation. How say ye, friends? Can any scheme be too desperate if it rids us of such tyrants and rulers at one blow?"

An eager murmur arose at that—assent, indignation, wrath—and again the same voice spoke in the same low, eager tones:

"And the way is open; the house is ours. But a few feet of masonry to tunnel through, and the thing is done. Shall we shrink? shall we hesitate? I trow not. Strong arms, silent tongues, a high courage—that is all we want."

"And a few more strong arms to help us at the work, for it will be a labour of Hercules to get it done."

At that moment the noise from below burst out anew, and Cuthbert heard no more of this mysterious colloquy. He had not time to think over the meaning of the words he had heard, or indeed to attach any particular significance to them. He was always hearing fierce threats bandied about between ardent partisans of Romanist and Puritan, and was beginning to pay small heed to such matters. He did not realize now that he had surprised any conspirators at their work. He knocked boldly at the door of the room, to which the place where he stood was plainly the antechamber, and a loud voice bid him enter.

There was no light in the apartment, save that which filtered in through the dirty window, and it was plain that the meeting, whatever its nature, was breaking up. Several men were standing about in their cloaks and hats, the latter slouched down upon their brows, so that their faces could not be distinguished in the gloom. Two or three passed Cuthbert hastily as he entered, before he had time even to see if one of them was the companion of his journey; but though he found some trouble in distinguishing features, his own were visible enough as he stood facing the window, and out of the shadows stepped a tall man, who greeted him with extended hand.

"Good e'en to you, Cuthbert Trevlyn, and a fair welcome to London town! I trust you have not been in dangers and difficulties, and that you but now come to claim your own again? How fared it with you on the heath that night? Were you in any wise maltreated or rough handled by the gentlemen of the road?"

"Nay; I was rather treated to a good supper and a night's lodging, and not so much as deprived of my steed. I trow had he shown something more of mettle I might not have so preserved him; but one or two of them who mounted him pronounced him of no use even as a pack horse."

Catesby laughed pleasantly, and putting his hand into his doublet drew forth the purse intrusted to him, and placed it in Cuthbert's hands.

"They would not have been so obliging, I fear, had you chanced to have this upon your person. Take it, boy, and look within and see that all is safe. I have not parted with it since the night of our journey. I trow you will find your treasure as it left your hand."

"I am sure of it," answered Cuthbert gratefully; "and I return you many thanks for your goodwill and sound counsel in the matter. But for your good offices I should have lost all. I trust you yourself escaped without misadventure?"

Cuthbert was now anxious to be gone. His errand was accomplished. The atmosphere of this place was offensive to him, and he was uneasy without well knowing why. His companion seemed to divine this; and the room being now cleared of all other guests, he put his hat on his head and said, "We will go out into the fresh air. The Cat and Fiddle is better as a resort by day than by night. I would fain know something of your whereabouts and fortunes, boy. I have taken a liking for you, and the name of Trevlyn sounds pleasantly in mine ears."

The old sense of fascination began to fall upon Cuthbert, as Catesby, taking him familiarly by the arm, led him out into the street, and walked along with him in the direction of his home, drawing him out by questions, and throwing in bits of anecdote, jest, and apt remark, that made his conversation a pleasure and an education. Cuthbert forgot his anxieties and vague suspicions in his enjoyment of the conversation of an accomplished man of the world; and there was a subtle flattery in the sense that this man, scholar and gentleman as he was, had condescended to a liking for and an interest in his insignificant self, and was of his own accord inviting confidence and friendship.

"I once had a young brother; thou something favourest him," was the only explanation he gave of the sudden fancy formed when Cuthbert spoke gratefully of his kindness. "I am growing out of youth myself, but I like the companionship of youth when I can get it. I would fain see more of thee, boy, an thou art thine own master, and can come and visit me at the place I may appoint."

Cuthbert was pleased and flattered, and said he should be proud to come, but hoped it would not be at the tavern, as his uncle misliked such places of entertainment.

"It is an ill-smelling spot; I mislike it myself," answered Catesby. "Nay, we can do better than that now. There is a house at Lambeth where I often frequent with my friends. It is something lonely; but thou art a brave lad, and wilt not fear that."

He turned and looked Cuthbert keenly over as he spoke, and heaved a short sigh.

"Thou art marvellous like the brother I lost," he said. "I would that I might have thee for my servant; but thou art too gently born for that, I trow."

Cuthbert had well-nigh promised lifelong service on the spot, so peculiar was the influence and fascination exercised upon him by this man; but he remembered his uncle and his duty to him, and pulled himself up as he replied soberly:

"I am poor enow—poorer than many a servant—having naught but what is given me by others. But I have mine uncle's will to do. I may take no step without asking counsel of him."

"Ay, verily; and this secret of our friendship thou must hide from him. Thou knowest that I am of the forbidden faith, and my presence in London must be hid. I may trust thee thus far with my secret? Thou wilt not reveal my name to others?"

"Never, since thou hast told me not."

"Good lad; I knew thou mightest be trusted. And thou wilt come to see me as I shall ask?"

"If I can make shift to do so I will very willingly."

"I shall remind thee of thy promise. And now, farewell. I have business in another quarter. We shall meet again anon."



Chapter 8: Cuthbert And Cherry Go Visiting.

All this while Kate's letter to her cousin Lord Culverhouse had lain stowed away in the safe leathern pocket of Cuthbert's riding dress, into which her deft white hands had sewed it for safety, and he had made no attempt to deliver it to its owner, nor to see whether the young Viscount would have will or power to further his own success in life.

The reason for this delay was no lack of goodwill on the part of the youth, but was simply due to the fact that Lord Andover and his family were not in London at this season, but were in their family place in Hampshire, and not expected to reach London much before the Christmas season.

This much Cuthbert had discovered early on in his stay in town; for Kate had described to him the situation of her uncle's house in the Strand, and he had made inquiry at the porter's lodge the very first time he had passed by. But hearing this, and not wishing to entrust the letter into any hands but those of Lord Culverhouse himself, he had gone away again, and the excitements of the new life had speedily driven the thought of Kate's commission out of his mind.

But now the merry Christmas season was close at hand. Mistress Susan was thrice as busy and as sharp tongued as usual, getting forward her preparations for that time of jollity and good cheer, and making the bridge house fairly reek with the mixed flavours of her numerous concoctions and savoury dishes.

Martin Holt's Puritanism, which would prevent his countenancing anything like drunkenness, revelling, or the gross sports and amusements which still held full sway over the people at festive seasons, did not withhold him from keeping a well-spread table at which to ask his friends to sit, still less from sending out to his poorer neighbours portions of the good cheer which has always seemed appropriate to the Christmas season. So he raised no protest against the lavish expenditure in meats and spices, rose water, ambergris, sugar and herbs, nor complained that his sister and daughters seemed transformed for the nonce into scullions, and had scarce time to sit down to take a meal in peace, for fear that some mishap occurred to one of the many stew pans crowding each other upon the stove.

He was used to it, and it appeared the inevitable preliminary to Yuletide; though Cuthbert looked on in amaze, and marvelled how any household could consume the quantities of victuals under preparation, be their hospitality and generosity what it might.

As he walked abroad in the streets he saw much the same sort of thing everywhere going on. Cooks and scullions were scouring the streets and markets for all manner of dainties. Farmers were driving through the streets flocks of young porkers, squealing lustily and jostling the passers by; and cooks and housewives would come rushing out from the houses to secure a pig and carry it off in triumph; whilst here and there a servant in livery might be seen with a basket from which a peacock's tail floated, carrying off this costly prize to adorn the table of some nobleman or wealthy merchant.

Passing by Lord Andover's house in the Strand on the day before the eve of Christmas, Cuthbert saw, by the stir and bustle and liveliness of the courtyard, that the family had plainly returned. On making inquiry he discovered that his surmise was correct, and he walked home resolving to lose no more time in delivering his letter, and wondering if he could contrive to take Cherry with him when he paid the visit, to secure for her a sight of the gay streets and a peep into Lord Andover's big house. The poor child had been regularly mewed up at home the whole of the past week helping her sharp-tongued aunt. It was nothing but fair that she should taste a little enjoyment now; and he determined to try to get his uncle's consent before speaking a word to Cherry herself. Susan Holt never opposed her brother, though she often disapproved of his lenience towards his youngest child, whose love of pleasure she looked upon as a peril and a snare.

When Cuthbert made his modest request to take Cherry out on the morrow to see the sights of the streets, and the houses all decked with holly, the father smiled an indulgent smile and gave a ready assent. If Cuthbert would be careful where he took her, and not let her be witness of any of the vile pastimes of cock fighting, bull or bear baiting, or the hearer of scurrilous or blasphemous language, he might have her companionship and welcome; and it would doubtless amuse her to go into Lord Andover's kitchen, where messengers generally waited who had brought notes or messages for members of the family, being treated to cups of sack and other hospitality; and as he was a good man, his household would be well ordered, and the maid would be treated with due civility and respect.

"The child is kept something strait by her good aunt," said Martin, a smile hovering round the corner of his lips. "We are not all cut to the same pattern, and Cherry takes not as kindly to the gravity of life as did her sisters. A little change will do her no harm. It boots not too far to resist the promptings of nature."

How Cherry's eyes laughed and sparkled, and how her pretty face flushed and dimpled when Cuthbert whispered to her of the pleasure in store for her. She had been looking a little harassed and weary after her long seclusion from the fresh air, striving to please Aunt Susan, who never would be pleased; but this made amends for all. Worthy Susan sniffed and snorted when Martin told her to give the child a holiday on the morrow; but as all her preparations were well-nigh complete, she did not really want the girl, and contented herself with hoping that her indulgent father would not live to rue the day when he thought fit to indulge her wanton love for unhallowed sights and amusements.

Martin did not reply. Perhaps he felt that his sister was more consistent and stanch to the Puritan principles than he was himself in this matter; but he did not rescind his decision. And after a surreptitious meal behind the pantry door together on the morrow, whilst Mistress Susan was engaged upstairs over the weighty matter of the linen to adorn the festal board that evening and on Christmas Day itself, the pair stole quietly off about eleven o'clock, leaving word with Martin in passing out that they would be back before dark.

Cherry danced along as though she had wings to her feet, as they quitted the bridge and plunged into the narrow but bustling and busy streets. She had always been kept rigorously at home on all occasions of public rejoicing and merriment, and it was a perfect delight to her to see the holiday look about the passers by, and exchange friendly good wishes with such acquaintances as she met by the way. She had put on her best gown, and a little ruff round her neck: her aunt would not let her wear such "gewgaws" in a general way, but the girl loved to fabricate them out of odds and ends, in imitation of the ladies she saw passing in the street. She wore the gray cloak and hood she had had on when first Cuthbert had come to her assistance by the river, and her rosy laughing face peeped roguishly out from the warm and becoming head gear. But suddenly, as they were passing a house in East Cheape, she paused and glanced up at Cuthbert with a bewitching little look of pleading.

"Wait but here for me a little five minutes," she said; "I have an errand to my cousin Rachel."

She was gone in a moment, slipping through the open door and leaving Cuthbert outside in the street. He knew the house for her uncle Dyson's, and was in no way alarmed about her. Nor was she long in rejoining him again. But when she came out, laughing, blushing, and dimpling, he scarce knew her for the moment, so transformed was she; and he stood perfectly mute before the radiant young vision his eyes encountered.

The sober black under-petticoat had been replaced by one of vivid scarlet taffeta, quilted with elaboration, and further adorned with embroidery in white silk. The gray upper robe was the same as before, the soft stuff and quiet tone harmonizing and contrasting well with the bright hue of the petticoat. The little feet were encased in the daintiest of strong buckled shoes, and in scarlet hose to match the quilted skirt; whilst the cloak and hood were now of soft white lamb's-wool cloth, such as Abraham Dyson made a specialty of in his business; and the vivid delicate colour upon the girl's laughing face as it peeped out of the snowy hood was set off to the greatest possible advantage by the pure white frame, so suited to the child's infantile style of beauty.

"Why, Cherry, I scarce know thee!" cried Cuthbert, amazed.

"I scarce know myself," answered the laughing girl, blushing and dimpling with mischievous pleasure; "and I trust none else will know me neither if we meet more friends by the way. I will pull my hood well over my face, for I would not have this frolic reach Aunt Susan's ears. She would make a mighty coil anent it. But oh, I have so longed for pretty things such as Rachel wears Why is it wrong to love bright colours and soft fabrics? I will not believe it is. When I am grown to woman's estate, and have a home of my own to regulate, I will wear what I choose and what becomes me best. It is folly to think God loves not beauty and brightness. Has He not made the sky blue, the trees green, the flowers of every hue of the rainbow? Does He not paint the sky with brilliant hues? Why is man alone of his creatures to be dull and sad?"

"Nay, I know not; I am unlearned in these questions. But how got you these fine clothes? Did Mistress Rachel lend them?"

"Rachel has always longed to give this petticoat to me. She is weary of it, and it is something too short for her; but I knew I might never wear it, and that Aunt Susan would chide me roundly for bringing such a thing home. So Rachel said she would lay it by for me when her new robe came home at Christmastide. Then she whispered to me last week that her father had a present for me—a cloak and hood that he thought my father would let me wear, albeit Aunt Susan might ill like it. So passing the house today, methought I might slip in and ask Rachel if I might wear the new cloak and hood to Lord Andover's; and forthwith she had me up to her room and into this scarlet petticoat in a twinkling, and mine uncle brought the white cloak and hood himself and fastened it on me, and Jacob came with the shoes and said he had had them made strong for the muddy streets, but smart with the buckles on the top. And here I be the happiest girl in all London town! Nay, Cuthbert, but I feel as if my feet could dance of themselves all the way!"

Her happiness was infectious. Cuthbert felt more like a light-hearted boy than ever he had done in his life before. His lively little companion, clinging to his arm and chattering like a magpie, effectually drove away all grave thoughts. The sun shone brightly in the steely-blue sky; the frost had made the streets absolutely clean and dry. Walking, even in the most trodden places, was easy and pleasant, and everybody seemed in excellent good humour.

Many admiring glances were levelled at the pair as they passed along—the charming blushing damsel in the white hood, and the distinguished-looking youth with the grave dark face. Cuthbert gratified the little girl's curiosity by taking her up and down Paul's Walk as they passed through St. Paul's Churchyard, and by the time they gained Fleet Street and Temple Bar she had reached the limit of her farthest walk westward.

They spent several minutes before the clock of St. Dunstan's in the West, and watched the bronze figures striking on their bells as the hour of midday sounded forth from many steeples. Then Cherry must needs go down to the river banks between the gentlemen's gardens and see how the river looked from here. She was a little awed by the grandeur of the houses all along the Strand, and wondered mightily what it could feel like to be one of the fine Court dames who drove in and out of the great gates in gilded coaches, or ambled forth upon snow-white palfreys, attended by lackeys afoot and on horseback.

Another hour had passed in delighted watching of the street sights and the fine folks who dwelt in these parts, before Cuthbert led her under the archway of the great courtyard, and told her that this was Lord Andover's house. It was one of the finest in the Strand, and it was plain that some gay festivity was in foot or in preparation; for there was such a to-ing and fro-ing of serving men, lackeys and scullions, such a clatter of voices, such an air of hurry and jollity on every face, that Cherry could have looked and listened for ever, but that Cuthbert hurried her through the crowd towards a big door opening into the courtyard, and whispered in her ear:

"They all be too busy to heed me here. Come to the house, and see what hap we have there. I may deliver this letter to none other save Lord Culverhouse himself."

The great door which stood wide open proved to be that of the kitchen—a vast hall in itself, along the farther side of which were no less than six huge fireplaces. Cooks and scullions stood at each of these, shouting out orders and moving to and fro; while a perfect crowd of menials and servants, messengers and idlers, stood or sat about, chatting, laughing, and even gaming in corners. Huge tankards of ale, hot and strongly spiced, stood upon the table, and every one who passed by appeared permitted to help himself at will.

Busy and noisy as this place was, an air of good fellowship and good humour pervaded it which was reassuring and pleasant; and before the cousins had stood many minutes in their corner, a serving man came up and asked them civilly enough of their business. Cuthbert replied that he had a letter which he had been charged to give into Lord Culverhouse's own hands; and hearing that, the servant gave a keen look at the pair, and apparently satisfied with his inspection, bid them follow him.

He took them up a wide staircase, and brought them out into another large hall, where servants of a different class were gathered together—the liveried footmen and pages and lackeys, and some waiting women, very grandly attired, who speedily beckoned Cherry amongst them, and began making much of her, rather as though she were a little child, feeding her with comfits and cakes and spiced wine, examining her soft white cloak, and asking a host of questions as to where she got it, who was the maker, and if her uncle sold his wares to the public.

Cherry had pretty, dainty little ways of her own, and was not in the least shy where she felt herself liked. She did not even miss Cuthbert when he was summoned away, so happy was she to be talked to by these fine waiting women, who were kind and comfortable souls enough. She learned on her side that there was to be a play given in half-an-hour's time within the house itself, and that all the serving men and women were permitted to witness it. She was pressed to stay and see it herself, and her eyes beamed with delight at the bare thought. To see a play had always been the very height of her youthful ambition, and had not father said that she could get no hurt at Lord Andover's house?

Presently Cuthbert came back, his face aglow with pleasure.

"Cherry," said he, "I have seen Lord Culverhouse, and methinks Kate's letter was like a talisman; for after reading it he bid me welcome as though I were in some sort a kinsman, and said that I must stay and see the mask that is to be played here in a short while, and remain as a guest at the feast which will follow, where the boar's head is to be brought in, and all sorts of revelry are to be held. I told him I could not stay till dark, for that we had promised to be home ere that; but that I would gladly see the play acting an I might. And then I told him of thee, and he bid me go fetch thee. My cousin, said he, must i' faith be in some sort his cousin, since Kate, who was his cousin, also spoke of me as one. I told him nay, but that thou wert cousin only on my mother's side; but he laughed, and would not listen, and bid me fetch thee, that he might place thee well to see the mummery. So come with me, fair cousin, for we must not keep him waiting."

Cherry's cheeks were dyed with bewitching blushes, and her big gray eyes were shining like stars, as she followed her cousin, accompanied by a little murmur of congratulation from the waiting women, who had all fallen in love with the charming child. She looked a perfect picture as she stood before Lord Culverhouse in her scarlet petticoat and snow-white hood, making her pretty quaint reverence to him, hardly daring to raise her eyes, but quite lost in the glamour of the honour done to her in being thus noticed by a real lord and good humouredly dubbed a cousin.

And then her hand was actually taken by this handsome and elegant young gallant, and she felt herself being conducted through rooms the magnificence of which she could not take in in her timid, hasty glances. She had almost begun to think it all a dream from which she must soon awaken, when she heard her companion say in his sweet voice:

"Mother mine, have you room beneath your ample wing for a little city guest—a cousin of Cuthbert Trevlyn, who has brought me a most welcome missive from my dear cousin Kate?"

And then Cherry looked up with a pretty, frightened, trusting glance, to find herself being examined and smiled at by quite a bevy of wonderfully-dressed ladies, who after one good look began to laugh in a very reassuring and kindly way, and made room in their midst for the little city maiden with that ease of true good breeding which has ever been the truest test of the blue blood of the English aristocracy. She looked such a child, in her pretty confusion and bashfulness, that not one of them resented her presence amongst them. Courtesy and kindliness had always been Lady Andover's salient characteristics, and there was a native refinement and quaint simplicity about Cherry that would have gone far to disarm severer critics than the present company round Lady Andover.

"Come, my pretty child," she said; "thou shalt sit beside me, and tell me all about thyself. The name of Trevlyn is well known and well loved in this house. Thou comest under good auspices."

And so Cherry again found herself the plaything and pet of a group of good-humoured people, though this time they were fine ladies in dresses that fairly took away her breath, as she ventured to study them with eager, furtive glances. She answered all their questions with pretty, candid frankness; told of her adventure in the osier beds, and of Cuthbert's timely rescue; told of her life under her father's roof, and her simple daily duties and pleasures. And the grand ladies listened and laughed, and made much of her; and her soft white hood was removed and admired, and passed round almost as it had been amongst the waiting women. Cherry felt quite bashful at sitting amongst those fine ladies with no cover for her head but her own curls; but she noted that the younger ladies present had no adornment beside that, unless it were a bow of ribbon or a few sparkling pins: so she took courage, and her hot cheeks burned less brightly, though she could not help her eyes sparkling and dancing beneath their long lashes as she wondered what in the world her aunt Susan would say could she see her for a moment in her present surroundings.

And then the play began, and Cherry sat entranced from the moment the curtain rose till it fell again. She had never seen anything of the sort before, and was perfectly captivated and carried away, living in the glamour of absolute enchantment, and amusing her fashionable companions almost as much by her artless admiration and enthusiasm as the players did by their mummery and stage tricks.

But time was flying all too fast, and almost as soon as the curtain fell for the last time, Cuthbert came up and carried her away, Lord Culverhouse walking with them once more through the long rooms, and insisting on their partaking of some spiced wine and game pasty before going out into the cold air again.

What with the fumes of the wine, the extraordinary grandeur of the house, and the wonderful nature of the adventure altogether, Cherry hardly knew whether or not she any longer trod on solid ground as she pursued her way along the streets clinging tight to Cuthbert's arm. It was growing dusk now, and Cuthbert was anxious to get his charge home before the early darkness should have fallen upon the city. They hardly spoke as they wended their way. Cherry gave a little gasp from time to time indicative of her unbounded delight, whilst Cuthbert was thinking pleasantly of the kind and cordial reception he had met with from Lord Culverhouse.

Both felt more or less in dreamland till they reached Abraham Dyson's house, where Cherry ran indoors again to rid herself of her finery.

When she emerged once more into the familiar streets of the city, her cheeks had lost a little of their bloom, her eyes some of their star-like brightness; and heaving a great sigh as she took Cuthbert's arm, she said:

"Ah me! it is a hard fate to be a city maid and a Puritan's daughter. I shall never see such lovely sights again! And oh, how happy I should be if only I could be a lady, and live where everything is soft and beautiful and gentle! Oh how I shall dream of it all now! But it will never be anything but a dream!" and a great tear like a diamond sparkled on the thick lashes and rolled down the girl's soft cheek.

Cuthbert had been thinking hard as he stood there in the gathering darkness. He was rather taken out of himself, which was perhaps the reason he forgot all prudence and reserve. Bending suddenly over Cherry, he kissed away the tears on her cheeks, and said in low, passionate tones:

"Nay, sweet Cherry, weep not for that. I will make thee yet a lady, whom none shall dare flout. I have loved thee, sweet cousin, from the day I found thee by the river in hapless plight. And when I have found the lost treasure of Trevlyn, and have brought luck and fortune to each one that bears the old name, then will I come and wed thee, sweet coz; and thou wilt be a Trevlyn then, and none shall dare to scorn thee for thy good father's honest name. My father did wed a Holt, and his son shall do the same. Tell me, Cherry, dost thou love me well enough to be my little wife one day? for by the mass I will have none other; and if thou lovest me not I will go unwed all the days of my life!"

Cherry turned hot and cold, flushed scarlet, and then grew pale as this speech proceeded, till at the last words the red came back in a flood, and hiding her face on Cuthbert's shoulder, she sobbed out:

"Oh, how could I love anybody else? O Cuthbert, how happy thou hast made me! Art sure thou speakest sooth?"

"Sooth! ay, that I do. Thou art the sweetest maid the sun e'er looked on. Thou wert the fairest of all that gay company at my Lord Andover's, and many beside myself said as much. Cherry, thou shalt one day be my own true wife; and if kind fortune do but favour me, thou shalt have gold and jewels and fine robes enow, and shalt hold up thy head with the best of them: see if it be not so!"

A boy and girl wooing certainly, but none the less hearty for that. The love had been growing silently for many weeks, the young folks scarcely knowing what they were learning to be to each other. And now these sudden burning words had revealed all, and Cherry felt more than ever that she trod on air and moved in a dream; only this time there was the pleasant sense that the dream would not vanish away in smoke, but would become more and more a living reality.

But there was something Cuthbert had said which yet required explanation, and presently she looked up and asked:

"What didst thou mean when thou spokest of a lost treasure? What is it, and who has lost it?"

And then Cuthbert forthwith plunged into the story of the lost treasure of Trevlyn, as he had heard it from his cousin Kate; and Cherry listened with parted lips, thinking that it was almost like living in some play to be hearing this strange tale.

When she heard of the gipsies and their vengeful words, she stopped suddenly short and gazed intently at Cuthbert.

"This is the second time thou hast spoken of gipsies," she said, in a whisper. "Thou hast yet to tell me the tale of how thou didst spend a night in the gipsies' cave. Cuthbert, were those gipsies thou didst light upon that night of thy flight the same as have stolen the treasure from Trevlyn?"

"Cherry, I trow that they are," he answered, in a very low voice, bending his head closer over her as he spoke. "Listen, and I will tell thee all. There was an old fierce woman, with hair as white as driven snow, among them, who, when she heard the name of Trevlyn, launched at me a glance of hatred that I never can forget; and I knew well by her looks and her words that, had she had her will, I should have suffered the same fate that her mother had done from the hands of my grandfather. I knew not then that it was her mother who had been burnt by him as a witch; but I saw the evil purposed me, and knew she was my foe. But a stately woman—the old gipsy's daughter, as I later learned—interposed on my behalf, and her all obeyed as queen, even her mother bowing down before her. She protected me, and bid me sit at table with them, saw me served with the best, and at night showed me herself to a ruinous bed chamber where, however, a weary man might comfortably lodge. There she left me, but bid me not to undress; and presently after I had slept, I know not how many hours, I was awakened by her entrance with a dim light, and she bid me rise but speak low, as she had somewhat of moment to say to me. She asked me then of myself and my kindred; and I asked her many things, and to my questions she gave ready response. Last of all, I dared to name the lost treasure, and I saw a new look come upon her face. I said that I had heard enough to make me think it had been stolen and hidden in the forest, and I asked her if in her wanderings there she had heard aught of it. I saw that the question moved her. I saw her flashing glance rest on me again and again, and her lips tremble as though she fain would speak, and yet was half afraid to do so. Every moment I suspected more and more that she knew somewhat; but whether or no she would reveal this I dared not guess. At the last the eager light died out of her eyes. She answered that she had heard somewhat of the story, but that she herself knew naught. The treasure had been lost many years before she had first seen the light, and men had long ceased to look for it, albeit there were many traditions that it would one day be found. As to that she knew naught; but she promised me this thing, that she would ask and strive to learn if any in the forest knew more than she. And she bid me meet her at a certain cave in the heart of the forest upon May Day next, when she said she would speak with me again anent this same matter."

Cherry's lips were parted, her eyes were full of wonder and curiosity. She shivered with excitement and surprise.

"Thinkest thou that she knows the place?"

"That I know not, but I trow well that she knows more than she said then, and that I shall learn more when I seek her again, and we are not in a walled place where eavesdroppers may lurk with itching ears."

"Then thou wilt keep the tryst?"

"Assuredly I will."

"And thou art not afraid that harm will befall thee? Oh beware, Cuthbert, of that wicked, fierce old woman!"

"Oh, I fear her not. Their queen has bidden me. They dare not defy her. I shall go to the forest and keep the tryst. I trow there be much yet for me to know."

Cherry hesitated and trembled, and hesitated again, and finally said in a low whisper:

"Cuthbert, it may be that there is a speedier and a safer way of discovering what thou wouldst know."

"And what way is that, sweet coz?"

Again came the little pause of hesitation, and then Cherry said:

"We might consult the wise woman.

"The wise woman! and who is she?"

"There be many of them," answered Cherry, still speaking in a very low and rapid whisper. "But breathe not a word at home, for father says they be surely in league with the devil, if they be not impostors who deserve whipping at the cart's tail. But Rachel went to one three years back, and the dame told her a husband would come wooing within three short months, and told the colour of his hair and his eyes. And sure enough it all came true, and now she is quickly to be wed. And others have done the like, and the things have all come true. And she is not a wicked woman neither, for she cures agues and fevers, and the leeches themselves ask her simples of her. There may be wicked women plying this trade too; I know not how that may be. But this dame is not wicked; Rachel goes to her still, and she has never deceived her yet. But she liveth very secretly now, as a wise woman must needs to in these times; for the King, they say, is very wroth against all such, and in the country men are going about from him and burning all who practise such arts, and otherwise cruelly maltreating them. So no man speaks openly of them now, though they still ply their trade in secret."

"Hast thou ever been to one thyself, Cherry?"

Her face was all in a glow. She clung closer to Cuthbert's arm.

"Chide me not, and tell not my father; but I went with Rachel once, when she went to have a wart charmed that was causing her much vexation. I asked nothing of the dame myself; but she took my hand and looked into my eyes, and she nodded her head and chuckled and made strange marks upon a bit of paper, which she said was casting my horoscope. And then she told me that I had an ugly lover that I loved not, but that another more gently born should come in time, and that we should love each other well and be faithful through all, and that I should end by being a lady with all I wanted at command."

And there Cherry stopped, blushing and palpitating with happiness and shy joy; whilst Cuthbert, struck by this very remarkable and original specimen of fortune telling, began to think he might do worse than consult this same wise woman who had gauged his sweetheart's case so fairly.

He himself had no scruples. He had a strong belief in necromancy, and had never heard that there was sin in its practice. He was still Romanist enough at heart to look upon the confessional as an easy and pleasant way of getting rid of the burden of an uneasy conscience. His mind was very open to conviction and impression in religious matters. He was no bigot, but he had a constitutionally inherited tendency towards the old faith that was possibly stronger than he knew. Had he seen his father's party in power, persecuting and coercing, he would have had scant sympathy or love for them and their ways; but as the contrary was now the case, and he saw them downtrodden and abused, he felt considerable drawings towards them, and these drawings were not the less strong from the intercourse he was enjoying almost daily with Anthony Cole and his son Walter.

Cuthbert's love of learning and eager wish to improve his scholarship drew him almost daily to the dark little shop in the bridge, wedged in, as it were, between two larger and more imposing structures, where the father and son plied a modest trade and lived somewhat hazardously; for they did not hesitate to circulate pamphlets and leaflets the sale of which had been forbidden, and which might at any time get them into serious trouble with the authorities, and lead to imprisonment, if not to death.

But to return to the pair now closely approaching their home, and lagging somewhat in their walk to prolong the talk for a few minutes. Cherry was in a fever of curiosity and impatience, and longed to hear her lover speak the word.

"It is so long to wait till May Day; and I trow that she could tell us all. Say, Cuthbert, shall we go to her?"

It was sweet to Cuthbert to hear the little word "we" dropping so naturally from Cherry's lips. He pressed the hand that lay upon his arm, and looked down into the upraised eager face.

"Wilt thou go with me an I go?"

"To be sure I will. I should love to be thy companion."

"And brave thy father's wrath should he find out?"

Cherry clung yet closer to his arm.

"I fear nothing when thou art beside me, Cuthbert. I would go with thee to death."

He stooped and kissed her eagerly, passionately.

"Then thy sweet will shall be law," he answered, "and I will go as soon as thou canst make shift to take me."

Cherry uttered a little cry of delight.

"Ah, how pleased I am—how pleased I am! We will go this very week, so soon as the Yuletide stir be past. O Cuthbert, Cuthbert, what a wondrous day this has been! Methinks it must surely be a dream. But thou art no dream; thou art real and true. So long as thou art near me and with me, I shall know that it is all true."



Chapter 9: The Wise Woman.

"Cuthbert! alas, Cuthbert!"

"Why, how now? What ails thee, Cherry?"

"Cuthbert, my father hath been speaking with me."

"Well, and wherefore not? Thy father is no stern tyrant like mine, sweet coz."

Cherry was panting with excitement and what appeared like terror. She clung fast to Cuthbert's arm, and her eyes were dilated with fear. She was an excitable little mortal, so he did not feel any great alarm at her looks, but strove to reassure her in a friendly, brotherly fashion. The Christmas festivities and excitements, which had lasted above a week, had doubtless done something to upset the balance of her mind. She had been so extravagantly and overwhelmingly happy with the remembrance of her adventure at Lord Andover's house, and her knowledge of the secret between herself and Cuthbert, that the young man had felt half afraid lest she should contrive to betray it to others by her blushes, her bright, fitful glances, and her newborn softness in his presence, which gave a sweeter quality to her childish charms. He himself did not wish Martin Holt to be aware that anything had passed between him and Cherry till he could come boldly forward and ask her at her father's hands, having the wherewithal to support her. He had been surprised into an admission of youthful devotion, and he by no means wished the words unsaid; for the secret understanding now existing betwixt himself and Cherry was the sweetest element in his daily life, and he was more and more in love every day with his charming cousin. But he knew that until he could come with his share of the Trevlyn treasure in his hands, he could scarce hope or look for a patient hearing from the shrewd man of business. And though he himself was increasingly confident that the treasure had been hidden out of spite, and not really made away with, and that some day it would be found, he knew that this opinion would be regarded by the world at large as a chimera of ardent youth, and that Martin Holt for one would bid him lay aside all such vain and idle dreams, and strive by steady perseverance in business to win for himself a modest independence. Only to the young, the ardent, the lovers of imaginative romance, had the notion of hidden treasure any charm.

And here was Cherry crying, palpitating, trembling in his arms as though some great trouble menaced them.

"What ails thee, sweetheart?" he asked, with playful tenderness; and Cherry choked back her sobs to answer:

"Cuthbert, he has spoken to me of marriage—my father. He has told me plainly what he purposes for me. He and my uncle Dyson have talked of it together. I am to wed my cousin Jacob. O Cuthbert, Cuthbert! what must I do? what must I say?"

Cuthbert heard the news in silence. It was not altogether unexpected, but he had scarce looked to have heard the subject openly broached so soon. Cherry had been regarded in her home as such a child, and her father, sisters, and aunt had so combined to speak and think of her as such, that although her eighteenth birthday was hard at hand, and she was certainly of marriageable age, he had not looked to have to face this complication in the situation quite so quickly. But as he stood holding Cherry in his arms (for she had come to him in the upper parlour at an hour when all the household were elsewhere engaged, and there was no fear of interruption), a look of stern purpose and resolution passed across the young man's face—an expression which those who knew the Trevlyn family would have recognized as a true Trevlyn look. His face seemed to take added years and manliness as that expression crossed it; and looking tenderly down at the quivering Cherry, he asked:

"Thinkest thou that he has seen or suspected aught?"

"I know not. He said no word of that, only looked hard at me as be spoke of Jacob."

"And what saidst thou?"

"Alack! what could I say? I did but tell him I had no thoughts of such a thing. I prayed he would not send me from him. I told him I was over young to think of marriage, and besought him to speak of it no more. And as my tears began to flow I could say no more."

"And he?"

"He reminded me that many another girl was a wedded wife and mother at my age; and then I turned and said that since Jemima and Kezzie were yet unwed—ay, and Rachel too, for all her rosy cheeks and her dowry—it was hard that I should have to be the one to be turned first out of the nest. And at that I cried the more; and he put his arm about me, and said he had no thought to grieve me, and did not think that Jacob would wish me vexed in the matter. And I begged for a year's grace; and, after thinking and pondering awhile, he answered that he had no wish to hurry things on—that I was full young to leave my girlhood behind and be saddled with the cares of a household. And then it came out that the haste was all Uncle Dyson's doing. Rachel is to be wed at Easter, and he wants his son to bring home a wife to nurse Aunt Rebecca and mind his house. And when I heard that I was in a pretty rage; for I cannot abide Aunt Rebecca, who is as cross as a bear with a sore head, and she cannot abear the sight of me. I know not wherefore I have offended her, but so it is. And I know naught of managing a house, and so Aunt Susan will tell them an they ask her. So I dared to stamp my foot, and to tell father I would not wed Jacob to be made his mother's slave; that I would rather live and die a maid like the good Queen who has been taken from us. And father, he scarce seemed to know what to say. I know he muttered something about its being a sore pity it was not Jemima or Kezzie that had been chosen. And then he bethought him that it was not right to let a daughter see too much of his mind, or speak too much of her own; and he bid me begone something sternly, declaring he would think the matter over, but that he looked for dutiful obedience from any child of his, and that I was not to think I might set up mine own will against his whatever his decision might be in the end."

Cherry's tempest of tears was by this time ended, and she spoke collectedly enough, raising her eyes now and then to the grave face of her lover to mark the effect of her words upon him. Cuthbert's face was grave but not unhopeful, and taking Cherry's hand firmly in his as she ended her tale, he said:

"If he will but put the matter off for a year, all will be well. If the treasure is to be found at all, I shall have found it by then. Let these dark winter days but change to the long soft ones of spring, and I go forth into the forest upon my quest. When I return laden with my share of the spoil, I trow I shall be able to win and wed my Cherry, be there never so many Jacobs in the field before me!"

Cherry laughed a soft little laugh, and her fears and tremblings ceased for the time being. Looking fondly up into Cuthbert's face, she said:

"And why wait till the spring to begin? Hast forgotten what we spoke of not long since? The wise woman—let us go to her! Thou hast money, and I trow she will be able to tell thee somewhat of the treasure. Men say that she hath a marvellous gift."

Waiting was slow work, and Cuthbert was by no means averse to testing the skill of the old sorceress. He had a certain amount of faith in the divinations of magic, and at least it could do no harm to see what the beldam would say. He would but have to risk a gold or silver piece, and it would satisfy Cherry that he was not loitering and half hearted.

"I will go gladly an thou canst come with me. But when shall it be? I have heard that these witches and diviners only exercise their skill at night, and how couldst thou be abroad with me then? There would be a pretty coil if it were discovered that we were not within doors."

But Cherry was full of invention, and had all a woman's wit and readiness of resource. She was a true daughter of Eve, this little rosy-cheeked maiden; and when her heart was set on a thing, she, could generally find the means to carry it out.

"Listen!" she said, after pausing a few moments to think the thing out. "Any time after dark will do for the wise woman. It matters not for it to be late in the night, so long as the sun be down and the world wrapped in gloom. That happens early enow in these winter days. Now do thou listen and heed me, Cuthbert. Thou hast heard of good Master Harlow, hast thou not?"

"Ay, verily! I have heard of little else these many days!" answered Cuthbert, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "I am well nigh weary of the sound of his name. He is a notable Puritan preacher, is he not?"

"Ay, verily, most notable and most wearisome!" answered Cherry, with a delightful little grimace. "Thou speakest of being weary of the sound of his name. Thou wouldst be tenfold more weary of the sound of his voice didst thou but attend one of his preachings. I have known him discourse for four hours at a time—all men hanging on his words as if they were those of God Himself, and only poor little me well nigh dead from weariness and hunger"

"I marvel not at that," answered Cuthbert. "Four hours would tax the patience of the most ardent disciple."

"Nay, but thou little knowest. There be those amongst my father's sect who call it all too short, who would listen, I verily believe, till they dropped from their benches with starvation. But however that may be, this Master Harlow is one of the hunted martyrs of the cause, and he is not allowed to exercise his gifts save by stealth; and the preaching, of which thou hast heard these many whispers, is to be held by night, and in some obscure cellar underground, where they who go will be safe from all molestation from spies and foes."

"Ah!" said Cuthbert, looking quickly at her, "and thou thinkest that this will be our chance?"

"Let them but once start forth without us and all will be well," answered Cherry quickly. "The only trouble will be that Aunt Susan loves to drag me whither she knows I love not to go, and father thinks that these wearisome discourses are for the saving of souls. He will wish to take the twain of us. It must be ours to escape him and abide at home."

"And how can we compass that?"

"For thee it will be easy," answered Cherry. "Thou must promise Walter Cole to assist him with some task of printing or binding that same evening, and tell my father that thou art not seasoned to long discourses, and hast no desire to fill the room of another who would fain hear the words of life from the notable man. There will be more crowding to hear him than the room will hold, so that it will be no idle plea on thy part. Once thou art gone I can yawn and feign some sort of ache or colic that will make me plead to go to bed rather than attend the preaching. Aunt Susan will scold and protest it is but mine idleness and sinfulness in striving to avoid the godly discourse; but father will not compel me to go. And when all have started thou canst return, and we will together to the wise woman; and be she never so long with her divinations, we shall have returned long ere they have done, and none will know of the visit."

Cuthbert agreed willingly to this plan. A bit of mischief and frolic was as palatable to young folks in the seventeenth century as it is in the nineteenth, and as a frolic those two regarded the whole business. They were both full of curiosity about the wise woman and her divinations, and it seemed to Cherry that to fail in taking advantage of her skill when they had the chance of doing so would be simple folly and absurdity. If she could read the secrets of the future, surely she must be able to tell them somewhat of the lost treasure.

Cherry's plan was carried out to the letter without the least real difficulty, and without raising any suspicion. Martin Holt was not particularly anxious that the exact locality of the underground meeting place should be known to his nephew, who had not professed himself by any means on the Puritan side as yet, though listening with dutiful and heedful attention whenever his uncle spoke to him on the matter of his tenets. As for Cherry, her dislike to sermons had long been openly declared, and it was scarcely expected that she would patiently endure another of the discourses that had caused her such distaste before.

And so it came about that upon a chill, frosty January night, Cuthbert and Cherry stood before a small, narrow house in Budge Row—a house that seemed to be jammed in between its two neighbours, and almost crushed by their overhanging gables and heavy beams; and Cherry, with a trembling hand, gave a peculiar knock, thrice repeated, upon the stout panels of the narrow door, that at the third summons opened slowly and noiselessly, as if without any human agency.

The dark passage thus revealed to view was black as pitch, and Cuthbert involuntarily recoiled. But Cherry had been here before, and knew the place, and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Courage!" she said, in a voice that quivered with excitement and not with fear; "it is always so here. Walk boldly in; there is naught to hurt us. When the door has closed we shall see a light."

Stepping across the threshold, and keeping fast hold of Cherry's arm, his quick glance roving from side to side in search of any possible foe lurking in the shadows, Cuthbert entered this strange abode, and felt rather than saw that the door closed noiselessly behind them, whilst he heard the shooting of a heavy bolt, and turned with a start, for it seemed impossible that this could have been done without some human hand to accomplish the deed. But his sense of touch assured him that he and Cherry were the only persons at this end of the narrow passage, and with a light shiver at the uncanny occurrence, he made up his mind to follow this adventure to the end.

"See, there is the light!" whispered Cherry, who was quivering with excitement. "That is the sign that the wise woman is ready. We have to follow it. It will lead us to her."

The light was dim enough, but it showed plainly in the pitchy darkness of the passage, and seemed to be considerably above them.

"We must mount the stairs," whispered Cherry, feeling her way cautiously to the foot of the rickety flight; and the cousins mounted carefully, the dun light, which they did not see—only the reflections it cast brightening the dimness—going on before, until they reached an upper chamber, the door of which stood wide open, a soft radiance shining out, whilst a strange monotonous chanting was heard within.

Upon the threshold of the room stood a huge black cat with bristling tail and fiery eyes. It seemed as though he would dispute the entrance of the strangers, and Cuthbert said to himself that he had never seen an uglier-looking brute of the kind since the monster wildcat he had killed in the forest about his home. He drew Cherry a pace backwards, for the creature looked crouching for a spring.