Cuthbert kissed her many times before he let her go, reminded her again of the place where he himself might be found, and then walked slowly with her towards the old Gate House, only letting her go when she desired it, and watching her glide towards the little door with a sense of sinking at heart which he could hardly explain.

As for Petronella, she stole within the door, which she bolted behind her, as she had found it, and felt her way up the narrow winding stairs that led to the ground floor of the house. The postern door was below that level, and had a little stair of its own leading to the house, from which it was again shut off by another door at the top. When Petronella had stolen out to meet Cuthbert, she had left this door open, so as to avoid all needless noise; but when she reached the head of the stairs she found it closed, and her heart gave a sudden throb of dismay as she stood quite still listening and wondering.

Surely she had left it open? her memory had not deceived her! No; she remembered debating the matter with herself and deciding to do so. Could it have shut by itself afterwards? She could scarcely believe it. It was a heavy oaken door, that moved ponderously on its hinges; and the night was calm and breathless. No current of air could have blown upon it. Had some person from above come down and shut it after her? and if so, who could that person be? and had he suspected that she had slipped out into the night, and for what purpose?

With a wildly-beating heart and a frame that felt ready to sink into the ground with fear, Petronella tried the latch of the door, and found it yield to her hand. She pressed it open and then stood suddenly still, a gasp of terror and dismay escaping her; for there, in the middle of the hall, the moonlight falling full upon his tall rugged figure, stood her father, waiting with folded arms for his truant daughter, a look upon his stern face that she shivered to behold.

"So, girl!" he exclaimed, making one stride forward and catching the frail wrist in a vice-like grasp which almost extorted a cry of pain—"so, my daughter, thou hast come in from this midnight tryst with thy lover! And what dost thou think is the reward a father bestows upon a daughter who leaves his house at this dead hour of the night to meet the man he has bidden her eschew for ever?"

Petronella's agitation was so great that she was well-nigh swooning. Her nerves had been on the strain for some time. The excitement of seeing Cuthbert again, of hearing his story and telling her own, had been considerable. And now to be confronted by a furious father, and accused of having broken her solemn pledge, and of having met her lover at an hour of the night when no virtuous maiden would dream of such a tryst, was more than she could bear. Slipping to her knees, she laid her hand upon her father's robe, and clutching hold of it, as if for support, she gasped out the one word:

"Pardon! pardon!"

"Thou mayest well sue for pardon, false jade; but to win it is another matter. Say, vile girl, whom I blush to call my daughter—say how oft hast thou thus gone forth to meet thy lover?"

"Father—father, revile me not thus!" cried the girl, beside herself with agitation, fearful of betraying Cuthbert's near presence to the Gate House, lest the angry man should contrive to do him some injury or gain some hold upon him, yet terrified at the accusations levelled at her own head, which seemed to bear some show of reason. "Father, have pity; drive me not to despair, as thou didst drive my brother. I am so lonely and so miserable. Pity me! pardon me!"

"Answer my question, base girl. How oft hast thou done this deed before tonight?"

"Never before, my father, never before! Ah, do not be too hard upon me! I have done no wrong—I swear it!"

"Keep thy false oaths for thy false lover!" cried the angry man; "I will have none of them. Thou hast passed me thy word once, and I believed thee, and thou hast played me false. I will never believe thee again—never, never! Thou hast made thy bed, and thou shalt lie upon it."

And with that the angry man flung the kneeling girl from him with such violence that she fell against the wall, and striking her head sharply, sank stunned and unconscious at his feet.

"Serve her right well, the false minx, the evil jade!" spoke the heartless father, as he strode back to his own room without so much as going across to the girl to know if she were severely hurt. "She will be safe enow for this night. She will not seek to go forth again. She shall smart for this bare-faced defiance. I will not be set at naught by both of my children. I will not—I will not!"

When Petronella awoke from what seemed to her a long dream, she found herself in her own bed, tended by the deaf-and-dumb servant, who was sitting beside her and watching her with wistful glances. A glad smile lighted up the woman's face as Petronella made a sign that showed she recognized her; but no speech was possible between them, and the girl was too weary to care to ask questions by means of the series of signals long since established between them. She turned her eyes from the light, and fell asleep again like a tired child.

For several days her life was more like one long sleep than anything else. It was some while before she remembered any of the events immediately preceding this mysterious attack of illness; and when she did remember, the events of that night seemed to stand out in fearful colours.

Yet there was one thought of comfort: Cuthbert was not far away. Since her father had openly accused her of vileness, deceit, and treachery; since he had struck her down so cruelly, and had not even come to see her in her helplessness and weakness, must not Cuthbert's surmise be the true one—must he not surely be mad? She could see by the old woman's cowering looks if the door moved on its hinges, how much she feared the terrible master; and when Petronella was sufficiently recovered to be able to enter into the kind of conversation by means of signals which in some sort resembled the finger talking of more modern times, she learned that indeed her father was in a more black and terrible mood than ever before, and that old Martha herself went in fear of her life.

Bit by bit the old woman made the girl understand what had happened. Shortly after the day upon which she had found her young mistress lying cold and insensible on the stone floor of the hall, Philip Trevlyn had come to the Gate House, and had demanded an interview with the owner. Right well did both the women know the nature of that errand, though none had been present but the young lover and the enraged father. There could be no manner of doubt but that, incited to it by Cuthbert's tale, he had come to make a definite offer of marriage, and doubtless had tried to bribe the avaricious old man by some tempting offer of gold or land. But whatever had been the terms in which the proposal was couched, anger had proved a stronger passion with Nicholas than greed. Philip had been driven from the house with a fury that threatened actual violence, and for hours afterwards Nicholas had raged up and down the house like a wild beast in a cage. He had once gone up to his daughter's room with a face so full of fury that the old woman had feared he meant to fall upon her then and there; but even he had been calmed by a glance at the still, unconscious face upon the pillow, so white and bloodless and death-like; and the man had gone down with a quieter footfall than he had mounted, but had been brooding in sullen fury ever since, so that the old servant had feared to approach him even to bring him his needful food. She had spent almost all her time up with her young mistress, afraid to leave her by night or day lest some mischance should befall her.

All this the girl gradually understood as she became strong enough to take in the silent talk of the old woman. She knew that she must have lain some days in this state of unconsciousness, for the trees were greener than they had been when she had seen them last, and the sunlight was fast gaining its golden summer-like glow. There was something exhilarating in the beauty and richness of reviving nature, and even Petronella's wan cheek kindled into a flush of pleasure as she looked forth once again upon the fair world around her dismal home.

Home? no, that was no longer the word for it. Slowly but surely the knowledge had come to her that Cuthbert had been right, and that this house could no longer be a home to her. Right well did she credit now, what had never entered her mind before, that her father had brooded and brooded until his very mind had become unhinged. He was not master of his words when he spoke to her as he had done upon that terrible night; he was not master of his actions when he had flung her away and left her lying unconscious on the stone floor. There was even some slight comfort in this thought, though it settled for ever the doubt in her mind. She must leave the Gate House so soon as she was strong enough to walk, and she must find her brother in the forest, and place herself beneath his care.

The old servant approved the plan. She herself could find a refuge at Trevlyn Chase; but that house would be no shelter for her young mistress. Her father's authority would be enough to carry her back into captivity; and what her fate would be, were she to have escaped him once and be again brought back, was a thought to shudder at.

"I must go back to Cuthbert," she said to herself, as she looked over the fair landscape, and thought longingly of the cool, dim woods, and the free life of the forest. Her own home was nothing now but a prison house. She knew that if she presented herself before her father sound and whole, she would at once be placed under some close restraint that would effectually hinder her from carrying out her plan. He would sooner kill her, as she verily believed, than permit her such liberty as might enable her to meet by accident or design any member of the household from the Chase. If she were to succeed in her escape, the attempt must be made whilst her father still believed her too feeble to stir from her bed; after that she would be too closely watched for it to be possible.

The old woman entered into this scheme with alacrity and zeal. Petronella kept to her bed; and when Nicholas Trevlyn demanded by signs how it fared with his daughter, he was answered by solemn shakings of the head. If he mounted the stairs to see with his own eyes how she was, he saw her lying upon the bed with closed eyes and wan face, and would smile with an evil smile and mutter that she was safe enough now—safe enough now.

Yet each day hope and the good food the shrewd old woman contrived to provide for her did its work upon Petronella's frail body, and she grew better every hour. Indeed, after some while she felt stronger than she had done for many weeks before her illness; and in due time even the fond old woman began to see that there was no need to postpone longer the scheme of escape.

It was a simple little scheme, yet one which promised success if carefully carried out. Nicholas Trevlyn was accustomed to take night by night a posset of mead, brewed in some particular way by Martha. She was, upon the night planned as the one for the escape of Petronella, to add to this posset some drops of a concoction prepared by herself from herbs, which would infallibly produce sound and deep sleep within two hours. The master of the house asleep, all would be simple. The two women would sally forth by the postern door, and make for the forest. With the first light of the dawn, Martha would seek the shelter of Trevlyn Chase, whilst Petronella sought her brother in the pixies' dell. Nicholas Trevlyn would awake the next morning to find himself alone in the old Gate House that he had made intolerable for any other inmate.



Chapter 16: The Pixies' Dell.

After leaving Petronella close to her home, and watching the slight figure vanish within the postern door, Cuthbert turned his own steps towards the Chase, resolved to see Philip and tell him what had passed between him and his sister before returning to the forest dell where he had resolved to keep his watch.

He would not make any disturbance at the house at this dead hour of the night; but as he was familiar with the place, he quickly found his way to a small pavilion in the garden, the door of which was not locked at night, and stretching himself upon a wooden settle which stood there, he quickly fell asleep, and slept soundly and well until awakened by the sound of a startled exclamation.

Springing to his feet, bewildered for a moment, and unable to remember where he was, he found himself confronted by the eager, startled face and big lustrous eyes of his cousin Kate.

"Cuthbert! thou here!" she exclaimed in amaze. "Thou surely hast not brought me ill news of my—of Culverhouse!" and a deep flush overspread her face as she spoke.

Cuthbert hastened to reassure her. He explained that he had not seen Culverhouse since they parted in the forest, and that his own errand was of a private nature, and concerned himself and his sister.

"Ah, poor Petronella! methinks a hard lot is hers, Cuthbert. My brother does what he may; yet that is but little, and of late he has not been able so much as to get sight of her. Yet I see not what thou canst do for her. Thy father is even more incensed against thee than against us!"

"I came but to see with mine own eyes how she fared, and to breathe a word of hope in her ear. Kate, sweet coz, let me breathe that same word in thine; for thou wast the one to give me hope and confidence when all besides looked on me as a wild dreamer. Methinks I am on the track of the lost treasure. Methinks with patience and care I shall find it yet."

Kate's eyes kindled and glowed.

"Nay, now, that is good hearing! Said I not ever that the old saws spake sooth? And is not the luck to return to the house of Wyvern through its daughters' sons? Cuthbert, tell me more—tell me all! how is it thou hast succeeded where all besides have failed?"

"I cannot lay claim to success as yet," answered Cuthbert, smiling. "I have not said the treasure is mine, only that I trow I know where soon I may lay hands upon it. Sweet Kate, when all that gold is brought back to the halls of Trevlyn Chase whence it was taken, sure thy dowry will be fair enough to win Lord Andover's smiles. Sure thou wilt not then be afraid to own—"

But Kate laid her soft hand upon his lips and glanced round with startled eyes. Courageous as she was to carry out a bold resolution, she was not free from nervous timidity, too.

"Speak not the words, good Cuthbert, neither here nor yet within the walls of the Chase. I have not dared to breathe to them at home the thing I have done. Heaven pardon me if it were a sin; but I may not wish it undone. It is so sweet to feel myself his; and if it be as thou sayest, we may not have long to wait ere he may claim me before the world. But if thou findest the treasure thyself, will it not be all thine?"

"I trow not, and I trust thou hast no such evil thoughts of me, fair cousin, as to think that I would keep all, when but a portion was my father's share, and that will scarce be mine whilst he lives. I do but hope to restore it to those to whom it rightfully belongs. I trow there will be enough to make all glad and happy, and I doubt not that something of good hap may come to me thereby. But to lay claim to all—why, that would be a scurvy thought, unworthy a man of honour."

Kate's bright face was full of eager sympathy and approval.

"I like thee, Cuthbert," she cried; "I like thy honest thoughts and words. Thou art in sooth a very proper youth. Thou art worthy of thy Wyvern blood, which I hold to be purer than that of Trevlyn, which has times and again been stained by acts of malice, greed, and violence. But see, the sun is rising in the sky! We must back to the house for the morning meal. And, Cuthbert, good Cuthbert, thou wilt keep my secret? Thou wilt not tell of our meeting on May Day in the forest?"

"Never a word an thou biddest me not," answered Cuthbert, with a smile. "So that is to be a secret, Lady Culverhouse?"

She recoiled with a little start, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aglow.

"O Cuthbert, I had not thought that my name was changed. Lady Culverhouse! What a pleasant sound it has! But oh, not a word at home! I dare not tell them aught till Culverhouse be by my side. I misdoubt me that I did right to let him persuade me thus; and yet I could not say him nay, and I longed to hear the words spoken that should bind us to each other. But I dare not tell my father! I trow both he and my mother would chide full sternly. In truth, I fear me it were scarce a maidenly act. But, O Cuthbert, love is so strong—so hard a task master. Where he drives, it seems that one needs must go;" and she looked up at him with such arch appeal that he felt those glances would go far to soften the sternest parental heart.

"In truth, I believe thee, fair coz, and I will keep thy secret faithfully. It is safe with me; and I trust that all will end happily when the lost treasure shall return to the house of Trevlyn."

And talking eagerly upon this theme, which was also to be kept secret from all the world besides, the cousins walked towards the house. Cuthbert received a warm and hearty greeting from all his kinsfolks there, who were pleased that he should have kept his promise and have come to see them with the long days of early summer.

Sir Richard and his wife were both pleased with the fashion in which the youth had developed; his intelligence and information were now plainly apparent, and had taken a fresh impetus from the new surroundings in which he had found himself. He could talk with discrimination and insight on all the leading topics of the day, had plainly lost much of his old rusticity of thought and speech, and had become an interesting and self-possessed youth.

But his errand was really to Philip, and to him he spoke in private of his sister's story, and how she had promised to obey her father and to see him no more. Cuthbert could assure the disappointed lover that this was no indication of coldness on Petronella's part, but that it was done from a sense of filial duty, combined with a fear of some violence on her father's part towards her lover should he be provoked too far. Cuthbert was as certain as Philip could wish that Petronella's heart was entirely his. He had read the girl's secret in the tones of her voice and in the shy glances of her soft eyes. He told Philip, too, of the gold that was awaiting the girl in her uncle's keeping, and added that he was certain sure that Martin Holt would be glad enough to give it over to his niece if she had a sturdy husband of the Reformed faith to take care of her and it. His only fear was of its falling into the hands of the Papists, which thing would have been abhorrent to the grand sire whose legacy the money was. That fear laid to rest, he would be glad to be rid of the charge, and to give over the gold to its rightful owner.

Philip's heart was with Petronella, and he had not concerned himself as yet with any thoughts as to her poverty and his own somewhat impecunious position as his father's heir, but with three sisters to be provided for out of the revenues of the impoverished estate. He was man of the world enough to know that this dowry would do much to smooth his path when the time should come for making known his case to his parents, but for the moment his thoughts were all with the lonely girl shut up so relentlessly by her father.

"I will see Nicholas Trevlyn," he said, with stern decision. "Things have gone too far not to go further. I will see him, and make formal application for his daughter's hand. He can but refuse me, and I shall tell him plainly that I decline to give her up at any word of his. I can wait with patience till she is of age to judge for herself; but she is the woman of my choice, and her alone will I wed if she will have me."

Cuthbert's face was grave and troubled.

"And waiting for that, she may well be done to death within those walls, as I should have been had I not fled. I am in trouble of heart anent my sister. I pray she may find her way to me yet in the free forest!"

Philip started and looked surprised.

"Is there likelihood of that?"

"I know not. I bid her come if our father should grow more harsh, and told her where I likeliest might be found. I purpose to dwell for a while myself in the forest, albeit thou wouldst mock me if thou knewest the wherefore."

"To search for the lost treasure, I doubt not," said Philip with a smile, remembering the talk of the autumn previous. "Marry thou hast my best wishes for a happy quest. But what couldst thou do with a tender maid out in the woods with thee?"

"I scarce know that myself; but anything would be better than life with a madman—as I trow our father is like to become an he change not his habit of life. Belike I would take her to mine uncle on the bridge; yet perchance he would not thank me for adding to his charges.

"If we had other relatives—"

"Why, and so ye have, even as we have. Hast never heard of my Lady Humbert and Mistress Dowsabel Wyvern? They must be kinsfolk of thine as well as of ours, and they dwell not very far distant from here, albeit I myself have never visited them."

Cuthbert raised his head and looked eagerly at Philip.

"I would know more of that," he said.

"It is not much I can tell thee. This Lady Humbert is a widow, and is sister to that Gertrude Wyvern who was my grandam and thy aunt. Mistress Dowsabel is her younger sister; and albeit they are both now of a good old age, they dwell together, with only servants for company, in a house thou wouldst have passed on the road to London hadst thou not taken the lonelier way across the heath. My father and mother go each year to see after their welfare, and a letter comes now and again from them with greetings or questions. We of the younger generation have never been to visit them, since they are too old to wish for the presence of the young, and love not to see the changeless current of their lives interrupted. I remember that of old, when we were in disgrace for some prank, our grandam would shake her head at us and vow we should be sent to her sister Dowsabel for chastisement, and stay with her till we learned better manners. So we have grown up in the fancy that these kinswomen be something stern and redoubtable ladies. Nevertheless, if thou wast to put thy sister beneath their care, I trow they would receive her with kindness and treat her well, and she would scarce regret the Gate House were the captivity never so hard. Nor would Nicholas Trevlyn be like to seek her there, though at the Chase he would find her at once, were we to strive to aid her flight as we aided thine."

Cuthbert saw this plainly, and asked a few more eager questions about these ladies and where they might be found. He hardly knew whether or not he expected Petronella to flee away to him, but at least it would do no harm to be prepared in case she did so.

Philip told him all he knew, which was not much. The house would be easily found, as it stood upon the highroad just a mile from a large village, its gates opening straight upon the road, although at the back were gardens and pleasaunces and a clear trout stream. It seemed to Cuthbert as he listened that such a place as this might prove a safe haven of refuge for his sister should one be needed, and he resolved that if she once came to him he would persuade her to place herself beneath the protection of these ladies.

He would well have liked to see her again, to have whispered something of this new plan into her ears. But though he lingered much about the house during the two short weeks he spent at the Chase, he saw no glimpse of his sister, and he did not dare to summon her out to meet him at night, lest haply the suspicions of the grim old tyrant should be aroused.

Leaving Philip fully determined to see Nicholas Trevlyn ere long, to lay before him his formal proposal for Petronella's hand, and confident that all at the Chase would befriend her as far as it was possible; Cuthbert, afraid to linger longer in the immediate vicinity of the Gate House, took his departure for the forest, resolved to give himself over heart and soul to the search after the missing treasure, and not to give it up until every nook and corner of the pixies' dell had been subjected to the closest scrutiny.

It was easy to obtain from Philip all such tools as would be needful for the task of excavation. Although the young man himself had small hopes of Cuthbert's success, he was interested in spite of himself in the proposed plan, and would have been more so had he known how much had been already discovered. But Cuthbert kept much of that to himself, not willing that tattling tongues should spread the rumour. Only to real believers in the hidden treasure did he care to speak of the gipsy's strange words and the visit to the wise woman of Budge Row. Philip, he thought, would smile, and perhaps he would speak of the matter to his father, who in turn might name it to some one else, and so it might come round, through the gipsy spies and watchers, to the ears of Long Robin himself. That, as Cuthbert well knew, would be well-nigh destruction to all his cherished hopes; yet one who believed not would smile at his fears, and could scarce be expected to observe the needful caution.

As Cuthbert started for his nine miles' tramp in the cool of the evening, with his tools slung across his shoulders, he was glad to think that he had resisted the temptation to speak openly of this matter to any but Petronella and Kate. With them he well knew the secret was safe, for they entertained for Long Robin just the same suspicious fear as he did himself, and their lips were sealed even as his own.

The walk was nothing for his strong young limbs; but as he approached the lonely dell, he instinctively slackened his speed, and proceeded with greater caution. The thick growth of the trees made the place dark in spite of the moon, which hung low in the sky and shone between the trees in long silvery beams; and the tangled path which once had led to the forest well had been long overgrown with a mass of bramble and underwood, through which it was hard to force a way.

But Cuthbert cautiously proceeded, listening intently for any sounds of life to indicate the presence of Long Robin, the only being likely to be near at such an hour; but all appeared to be intensely still, and presently he commenced his cautious descent into the dell itself, and at last stood beside the old stone wall that guarded the mouth of the well.

Cuthbert had heard something of that well since he had been at his uncle's house. Some of the old servants at the Chase knew the forest well, and he had been told the story of the pixies' dell: how it had once been a noted spot in the forest, and how travellers turned aside to drink the waters, which were not only fresh and clear and cold, even on the most sultry summer's day, but were reported to possess healing properties, especially if taken at certain hours of the night and in certain phases of the moon. Long ago there had been a monastery near the well, and the monks had dispensed the waters to the applicants who came. But the monastery had fallen into ruins and had disappeared, and after that the pixies were given the credit of the healing waters. People came to drink them, though less frequently than before; and as the place grew more lonely and deserted, rumours began to float about that the pixies were inimical to man, and that the waters no longer possessed their old power. Later on still, a more terrible thing was discovered: it was said that it was death to approach that dell and drink the waters. Men's bones had been found in great numbers close about that spot, and it was plain that they must belong to the unhappy wights who, disregarding cautions, had ventured to the place, and had died before they could get away from thence.

After that, as may well be guessed, no sick folks had cared to trouble the dell again. Travellers made a wide circuit to avoid it, and it was held to be the place of most evil repute in the forest.

All this story was well understood by Cuthbert, who felt no fear of the spot, only a little natural awe as he recollected the deed that had once been done there. The moon was going down as he looked about him; the dark hour before morning was about to fall upon the world. He looked about for a resting place in which to conceal himself till he could commence his search, and found the place he desired in a hollow tree, just beyond the circle of smooth sward that surrounded the well itself.

Plainly this tree had been used before for a like purpose. The leaves had been carefully raked together within, and were covered by a warm rug, in which Cuthbert was not sorry to wrap himself, for the night air was sharp and chilly though the days were hot.

"Long Robin's rug, or I greatly mistake me," he said with a smile. "I trow he would be sore amazed were he to come and find me here. Howbeit he would but take me for a passing wayfarer, since he knows not my face, and I misdoubt me if he come tonight. He fears too much Joanna's watchful eyes and Miriam's jealous ones. I will sleep in peace till daylight dawns, and then I will begin my search."

Sleep came quickly to the lad's eyes, but it was only light, for with the first blush of dawn he awoke and prepared to commence his work.

His tools he had hidden away beneath the heap of leaves which had formed his bed, and he did not disturb them for the time being, but walked forth and examined the dell for himself before making any excavation.

First his attention was given to the patch of greensward around the well; but this was so smooth and even that it seemed as if it had not been disturbed for ages. Such soft emerald turf, as Cuthbert well knew, was the growth of centuries, and there was no sort of trace or seam to indicate the handiwork of man.

Round and round the open space he paced, his eyes fixed upon the ground beneath his feet, his quick glance shifting from spot to spot, as he strove for some indication, however faint, of the existence of some hidden hoard.

"Yet it is certain to be well hid. It were strange if I did light upon it in the first hour," he said to himself at length, covering his disappointment with a smile. "I will break my fast with the good fare given me by my fair cousin Kate, and will taste the waters of the magic well. I trow I shall take no harm from them. Long Robin will scarce have poisoned the spring from which he himself must ofttimes drink."

Whilst he partook of his simple meal, he looked about him with keen and eager glances, wondering where he should next search, and striving to see traces of footsteps in the sandy sides of the dell, or breaks in the tangled growth of underwood that would indicate some track used by Robin. Cuthbert shrewdly suspected that he would not be able to resist the temptation of going frequently to the spot where the buried treasure lay, to see if the ground remained undisturbed, and he thought that the surest way of discovering this spot was to seek for traces likely to be left by him; or, failing these, to watch patiently from some obscure spot till the gipsy came again to the dell, when it was probable he might betray the secret by his own movements.

"If I dig and delve before the clue is mine, I may chance to put him on his guard, and find nothing. No; I will be patient—I will be very cautious. Success comes to him that can wait. Long Robin is a foe not to be despised or trifled with; I can tell that from his own words and Joanna's. He would take a hundred lives to save his golden secret. He is cautious and cunning and wary. I must try to be the same."

All that long summer's day Cuthbert prowled up and down the dell, searching for some trace, however slight, which should give him the clue, and searching in vain. The only path where the undergrowth was in any way trodden was the one by which he and Robin alike approached the well, the old, half-obliterated track that once had been so freely used. All around the sides of the dell, fern and bramble, hazel and undergrowth of all kinds, grew in wild confusion. Search as he would, Cuthbert could find nothing like a path of any kind. Did Robin indeed trust to that tangled undergrowth to keep his secret hid? And if so, what chance was there of its being found unless the whole dell was dug up?

A short while back it seemed so much to have found out this dell. When he had been resolved to search the whole forest through, no wonder the task had been practically impossible; but when he had had indications of a confined locality, he had looked upon his work as well-nigh accomplished, and had come here with a heart full of high hopes. And now he was confronted by difficulties that appeared almost as insurmountable as before; for he plainly saw the hopelessness of attempting single-handed to delve the whole dell over. Robin would return before the task was more than begun. He would guess the import, would set a close watch, and would slay the bold invader of his haunted dell without pity or remorse. Whilst the only other plan, that of bringing a gang of men to work strong enough to be a guard to themselves, was simply out of the question for Cuthbert. He had no money himself. His uncle Martin would certainly not give him the gold in the box for any such hare-brained scheme; whilst to appeal to Sir Richard, with nothing to back his statements but what would be looked upon as old wives' fables and gipsy delusions, would only be to provoke ridicule and scorn. The Trevlyns had long given up the treasure as lost beyond recall. They had no sort of hope of recovering it, and the present owner of the Chase and his lady were in particular very greatly averse to any sort of dealings with occult magic and gipsy lore.

Cuthbert had a shrewd notion that there was little enough of magic in any of the words and dark sayings he had heard. He had been let just a very little behind the scenes, and had his own opinions on the subject. His faith in spirits and familiars had been greatly shaken; but he knew that his story would sound wild and improbable, and he was by no means sure that even Joanna would consent to appear before Sir Richard and repeat it all to him. She was anxious to do her part towards making restitution; but, having put the clue in Cuthbert's hands, would very likely consider that part done, and decline to be questioned further by any one.

"What I do I must do alone," said Cuthbert to himself, with a sigh, at the close of that day of toil and discouragement. "Well, I should have been mightily surprised had I lighted on the treasure at the close of the first day. I ought not to be thus discouraged, and yet I am. Still there is one more thing to do. If I can but watch Long Robin, surely I shall learn somewhat from him. I vow that that is better far than prowling aimlessly about the dell. Let me spend my time and strength in building for myself some nook high up in one of yon trees, from which vantage ground I may spy upon his doings. If I can but get me up high enough, I can watch him from spot to spot. Sure I should be stupider than a daylight owl an I could not learn somewhat from his looks and actions on his next visit. And it will be safer for me to have mine own perch. I will venture to sleep one more night in the tree; but after that I will sleep by day and watch by night, for it is plain that he is a night bird in his visits here."

The next day Cuthbert set to work with a better heart. It was not difficult to find the sort of nook he wanted high up in the branches of a great sycamore. The oaks were hardly thick enough yet to conceal him, and the foliage of the elm was somewhat scanty still, for all that the season was forward. But by good hap there chanced to be, amongst the tall trees that fringed the round of sward, a noble sycamore in full leaf and very thick; and by skillful contrivance, and with the help of his tools, Cuthbert quickly built himself up there a small but secure and commodious platform, upon which he could perch himself at ease and watch the whole of the dell. Even if he fell asleep, he was in no danger of falling; and if he could obtain the needful supplies of food, he could keep watch there unseen for an indefinite time. He had plenty of provision so far, for he had been supplied with dry and salted provisions enough to last a week. These he took up to his nest, and also his tools, which he resolved to keep beside him for safety; and having spent the best part of the day in this labour of ingenuity and patience, and having then quenched his thirst by long draughts of clear cold water, he ascended to his perch with an armful of dried bracken—the eighth such load he had carried up—and as he arranged his riding cloak upon the soft and fragrant cushion thus prepared, he said to himself with a smile that he could afford to be patient now, for he had a commodious castle all his own, and could await with patience the advance of the foe.

His patience was not, however, destined to be very sorely taxed. He had fallen into a light sleep, and was dreaming of a hand-to-hand struggle with Long Robin, when some unwonted sound smote upon his ears, and he started up all alert on the instant.

He knew that sound; he had heard it before. It was the wild, unearthly noise made by Robin to increase the fear of this dell in the hearts of any chance wayfarers who might haply be within hearing. In a few more seconds Cuthbert, peering down from his leafy canopy, saw the tall form thrusting itself through the underwood; and Robin, with a loud laugh, threw himself upon the low wall of the pixies' well.

He was talking and muttering to himself, but Cuthbert could not catch the words. He seemed in a merry mood, for he laughed aloud once or twice, and drank of the well and laughed again. Once Cuthbert thought he caught the words "treasure" and "safe," but of that he could not be certain; and it was not easy to see how Robin could know this, seeing he had not stirred three paces from the well.

And then a sudden flash came into Cuthbert's soul like one of inspiration. Suppose the treasure was in the well itself? What more likely? Would not that be the safest place of all? For the precious metals would not hurt through contact with the water; and had he not heard that the waters of this well possessed peculiar properties for preserving anything thrown into them?

Cuthbert's heart beat so fast that he almost feared Robin would hear his deep breathing; but the man was looking down into the well, laughing to himself in the peculiarly malevolent fashion that Cuthbert had heard before. He never moved from the side of the well for the long hour he remained; and Cuthbert, waiting in feverish impatience till he should be gone, felt as though he had never known an hour so long.

But it ended at last. The tall figure reared itself upright, and he heard the voice distinctly now.

"I must be going—I must be going. Miriam will be asking questions. That hag is the plague of my life. All safe—all safe. And now I will depart."

The tall figure put on its stooping gait, which appeared to be second nature, and went slouching away through the underwood along the narrow track. Cuthbert waited till there had been a long spell of perfect silence, and then he glided with cat-like caution to the ground.

"I may not be able to see anything by this light, not even the glint of gold beneath the clear waters. But he seemed to see. He looked down and muttered, 'Safe—safe!' Beshrew me but I trow I have the secret now! The pixies' well—the hidden secret it guards so well. All is true! all is true! Why did I not think of it before?"

Creeping to the side of the well, Cuthbert peered over the edge and gazed fixedly into the dark water. What was it he saw? Was that moonlight shining and glinting there; or was it—could it be—Hold, what is this?

With a stifled cry Cuthbert strove to spring to his feet; but the attempt was vain. He was encircled in the bear-like grip of a pair of arms that were strong as bands of iron around him. He felt as though all the breath were being pressed out of him, and in his ear there rang a hideous laugh, the sound of which he knew but too well.

"Fool!" cried a hoarse voice, hissing the words in his ears—"fool of a mad boy to trust a treacherous gipsy tale! So thou thoughtest to outwit Long Robin! Thou thoughtest to win back the lost treasure to the house of Trevlyn! Mad boy—fool of a hardy knave! But yet thou shalt have thy wish—thou shalt have thy will. Thou shalt see with thine own eyes that long-lost treasure."

There was a cruel sneer in the man's eyes, a mocking inflection in his voice, that sent a thrill of cold horror through Cuthbert's veins. He was absolutely powerless in that merciless clasp. He felt the strength leaving his limbs and his head turning giddy. He only just knew it when he was laid upon the grass, his captor's knee firmly planted on his chest; and then he felt his hands and feet being tightly and securely bound, whilst the stars in the sky seemed to reel and dance before his eyes, and he said to himself, without realizing the import of his own words:

"He is going to kill me; he is going to kill me."

"Yes, I am going to kill thee, mad boy," said Long Robin coolly, as though he had heard the spoken word. "I am going to kill thee, as I kill all those who dare to thwart my will or cross my path. I shall kill thee; but thou shalt first have the desire of thine eyes and of thine heart. Thou shalt see and thou shalt touch the long-lost treasure! Thou shalt learn the secret ere thou diest, and thy ghost can impart it to thy friends."

With a brutal and almost diabolical laugh, Long Robin rose to his feet and leaned over the well. He seemed to be raising from it some heavy weight, and Cuthbert heard a heavy thud fall upon the grass.

"Now, thou shalt go to join the lost treasure. The Trevlyns when they find it will find their lost kinsman, too! Ha, ha! they are welcome to that find; they are welcome to it!" and the man stooped to lift the bound and helpless Cuthbert in his strong arms.

Cuthbert closed his eyes. He knew well what was coming. A fall, a sullen splash, one brief ineffectual struggle, and then black darkness. He tried to breathe a prayer, but could form no words. He thought of Cherry, of Petronella, and sharp stabs of pain seemed to run through him. One minute more and all would be over. But what an endless minute that was, whilst he felt the grip upon his body growing firmer as the giant prepared to lift him.

What was that?

"Crack!"—a sudden flash from the dark underwood, and with a loud cry his captor dropped him, and staggered backwards, to fall a few paces farther on, where he lay rigid and motionless. Then from the thicket there came the sound of a quick sharp cry, and a slim figure rushed forward with the gasping question:

"Is he dead? Oh, have I killed him?"

And Cuthbert, raising his head, and scarce believing aught of this could be anything but a fevered dream, uttered the one word:

"Petronella!"



Chapter 17: Brother And Sister.

"Petronella! thou here!"

"Brother—brother mine—art thou hurt?"

"Never a whit, though I looked to be a dead man ere this. Sister, take my knife and cut my bonds; yon man may rise again, and I must be free to defend myself and thee."

Petronella cast a scared and fearful glance at the long dark figure lying face downwards upon the sward, showing signs of life only by a spasmodic twitching of the limbs; and then drawing Cuthbert's long hunting knife from his belt, she cut the cords that bound his hands and feet, and in another moment he sprang up and shook himself, keeping a wary eye all the while upon the prostrate foe. But he did not go to his side at once; he was too keenly aroused and interested by this sudden appearance of his sister.

"Petronella! I can scarce credit my senses. How comest thou here, and at such an hour?"

"I am doing as thou biddest me," she answered in a low voice: "I am flying from our home, even as thou wast forced to fly. I verily believe that thou art right, and that our father is well-nigh mad. I dared not remain. Even old Martha feared to linger longer under that roof. She has found safe refuge, I trust, at Trevlyn Chase. Thou didst go there, my brother, after parting from me?"

"Ay, verily I did, and stayed there a matter of some two weeks, ever hoping to see thy face again, and to hear how it fared with thee. But thou camest not."

"I could not," answered the girl, in the same low tone; "I was in my bed, unable to move hand or foot, unable to know night from day. Cuthbert, the night I went forth to thee in the chantry our father missed me from the house. He thought I had gone to meet Philip in the wood at night. He reviled me cruelly, and I feared to tell him it was thou I had gone to see. Then, I know not how, but I fear he struck me. A great blackness came before mine eyes; and when I opened them again a week or more had passed, and I knew, as I began to understand what had chanced, that I could no longer remain beneath the roof of the Gate House."

Cuthbert ground his teeth in sudden fury.

"Struck thee, my gentle sister! Nay, I can scarce credit it; and were he any other than my father—"

"But he is our father," answered the girl gently. "And truly methinks, Cuthbert, that his lonely brooding has something unhinged his mind. Let us think of him only with pity."

Cuthbert put his arm about her tenderly.

"Tell me the rest of thy story, sister. How camest thou here so opportunely, to play the part of Amazon and save thy brother's life?"

She shivered a little, as if afraid even to think what she had done, but her words were quietly and clearly spoken.

"That is soon told. Old Martha nursed me back to health again, and our stern father hindered her not in her tendance of me. And this very night we made our plans, and she put a concoction of herbs into his nightly potion, which caused him to sleep too sound to awake for any sound within or without the house. Then we softly stole away without let or hindrance—she to go to the Chase, I to walk across the moorland and forest as thou hadst bidden me, to find thee here."

"And thou didst arm thyself ere thou wentest forth?"

She looked up with strange earnestness into his face.

"I know not if the thought were sin, Cuthbert," she said, "but as I slipped through the dark house ere our flight, my eyes fell upon that pair of heavy pistols always loaded that our father keeps ever on the mantle shelf of the hall. I thought of the lessons thou hadst given me in old days, and knew I could pull the trigger were I so minded, and send the bullet whizzing through the air. I had no thought of harming any man as I put forth my hand and took one of the weapons. I was thinking rather of myself. I had heard men speak of perils worse than death that may beset weak and helpless women alone in the world. I knew not if I might find thee as I hoped. I could not but fear that some mischance might keep us sundered. I thought of my father's cruel wrath should he discover my flight, and pursue and overtake. It seemed to me, standing in the darkness of the old Gate House, that it would be better to perish than to be dragged thither again to die of misery and harsh captivity. I said within myself, 'Sure, if it be sin, it is one that God would pardon. It is not well for me to go forth without some weapon which might end all, were it to be the less peril to die than to live.' And so I took the pistol and carried it in my girdle."

"And then?"

"Then we went forth together, and Martha walked with me awhile. But as I felt the clear fresh air of the night fanning my cheek, and the dewy sweetness of the grass beneath my feet, I grew strong and full of courage. I felt certain by what thou hadst told me that I was on the right track. The moon and the stars shone in the sky and guided my steps. I sent Martha away, and journeyed on alone. It was sweet to find myself free, to see the heavens above my head, and to hear the soft night breezes. In the clear brightness of the night I could see far about me, and I knew that I was alone and had naught to fear. Thanks to Martha's good nursing and the food she had contrived for me, I was stronger than I had been for many long days and weeks. It was happiness to use my limbs, and I was not wearied by my journey. I entered the forest track at last, and quickly found the path that thou hadst spoken to me of. I knew then that I was near my journey's end, and my heart was light within me."

"Didst thou not fear the dark wood and the many strange sounds of the night?"

"I feared somewhat, but chided myself for that fear. But it was well I felt it, else might I not have crept along as I did with such mouse-like stillness; and but for that, yon man"—with a shuddering glance at Long Robin on the ground—"would surely have found me."

Cuthbert started and asked her how that was.

"I will tell thee, brother. I was drawing very nigh this dell, and I felt as by some instinct that it was close at hand, when I heard the sound of footsteps coming thence, and I well-nigh ran forth calling thee by name, for I felt assured it must be thou. But then some impulse of fear possessed me, and I trembled in every limb, and instead of running forth to meet him who was coming, I hid myself within the shadows of a deep hollow tree, scarce daring to breathe lest I should be discovered. And scarce had I done this before a tall figure crept out along the path, and halted so close beside me that I well-nigh screamed aloud in my terror, for I thought for sure I was discovered. But no: he had not paused for that, and as he stood scarce three ells from my hiding place I heard him mutter to himself; and I knew by what thou hadst told me, and by his tall form and long white beard, that it was Long Robin who was so near.

"And couldst thou hear what he said?"

"I could hear many words, and fierce ones, too—words that made my flesh creep, and turned me sick with fear for thee, my brother. He muttered that he was watched and spied upon. He spoke of other footfalls than his own in the dell, and cursed Joanna for striving to outwit him, vowing he would slay her if once he found that she had dared to set others to watch him. He spoke the name of Trevlyn once or twice. It was as if he had heard somewhat of thee and of thine errand to the Gipsy Queen—something he must surely have heard, else could he not have spoken of the 'Trevlyn spawn,' and what he would do if one of that 'brood' dared to come betwixt him and his design. And then he leaned against a tree and waited, listening with an intentness that showed a deep suspicion; and he must have heard sounds that I could not—for my heart beat so wildly I feared he would hear it where he stood—and he smote his hands softly together and laughed a low laugh like that of a demon."

"I have heard that laugh; I know it well," whispered Cuthbert. "It is indeed what thou callest it. Doubtless he heard my cautious descent from the tree. What did he then?"

"I heard his next words plainly, and they sent a thrill of cold horror through me, for too well I divined their import.

"'He is there!' he hissed between his teeth—'he is there! I shall catch him red handed in the act. Good! He shall not leave the dell alive; he shall join the seven who strove before to know too much. Long Robin's hand has not lost its cunning, and it will strike the more heartily when aimed against one of the false, hateful brood.'

"And then, Cuthbert, I saw it all in a moment. I knew that thou wert in the glen, and that he was going forward to kill thee. And for a moment my head swam, and I well-nigh swooned with terror, and could not even lift my voice to shout to thee and warn thee to fly for thy life."

"It was well thou didst not," answered Cuthbert; "for I should scarce have heard or understood, and he would but have turned his destroying hand against thee ere he went forward to slay me. Thou didst do better than cry aloud, my sister."

She shivered slightly and pressed close up to him.

"When the mist passed from my eyes and I could see, Long Robin was no more there, and in awful fear what might even then be happening, I stole down as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me towards the centre of the dell. Ere I could see aught I heard thy voice raised in a sharp cry, Cuthbert, and then I heard fierce, cruel words spoken, mingled with that laugh that makes the blood run chill in the veins. I crept as fast as I could through the tangled underwood, and then I saw before me a terrible sight. Yon man was binding thee hand and foot with bonds that thou couldst not break, and I knew that he would kill thee without mercy, even as he had threatened. It was then that I remembered for the first time the weapon I carried at my side, and as I took it in my hands I felt a strange coldness come upon me. I trembled no longer. I felt calm and resolute and fearless. I crept cautiously out of the brushwood, though I kept still in the shadow of the trees, and I drew nearer and nearer, expecting every instant to be seen. I dared not fire till I was very close. It was long since I had discharged such a weapon, and I knew well that thy life and mine both hung upon that one charge. Robin rose suddenly to his feet after binding thee, and I thought for certain I was seen. But no; he turned and leaned over the well, and drew forth from it yon huge round slab of stone, which he flung there on the grass as thou seest it. When his back was thus turned I crept nearer yet. I would have fired then, but still feared to miss. Then he bent over thee and lifted thee in his arms. He could not see me then, he was too much engrossed in his task. I saw well what he meant to do—to fling thee bound and helpless into the well, where the lost treasure, methinks from his words, must lie.

"The rest thou knowest. Coming up close behind, I fired my pistol. He dropped thee and fell himself, and I feared that he was dead. Brother, it is something fearful to have killed a man, though it was to save life. Wilt thou not go to him and see if he yet lives? We ought to show charity even to our foes."

Cuthbert was willing enough to do this since he had heard his sister's story, which had not taken many minutes in the telling. He went across to the spot where Long Robin lay, and turned him gently over.

Although the sight of death was by no means familiar to Cuthbert, it took only one glance to show him that this man was dying or dead. His face was ghastly and drawn, and his limbs were already growing rigid and motionless. The heavy charge of the pistol had done its work surely and fully: the bullet had passed through the spine, and had entered the vital organs. There was little effusion of blood, but death was delayed only a few minutes. Even as Cuthbert looked at him, the man gave a deep groan. His eyelids flickered a few moments, and then his jaw dropped, a quiver passed through his frame, which then became absolutely still.

Cuthbert shook his head.

"He is dead!" cried Petronella, in a voice of compunction and awe—"he is dead; and I have killed him!"

She put her hands before her eyes and shivered. It was something of a terror to her that she should have done this thing. She shook in every limb.

"I did not mean to kill him—I never thought of killing him; I only thought of how to save thee, Cuthbert. O brother, brother, what shall I do? Will they hang me for it?"

"Never," cried Cuthbert, throwing his strong arm about her and smiling at her words. "Sweet Petronella, thou hast naught to fear. This man has long been an outlaw and a robber. He has many lives to answer for himself, as well as innumerable acts of violence with robbery. Even were it not so, thou couldest not be held in any wise guilty by law either of God or man. May Heaven forgive me if I sin, but I am right glad thy bullet did its work so well. Our enemy thus removed from our path, the secret of the lost treasure lies with thee and me. Petronella, I doubt it not for a moment now, that treasure lies at the bottom of the pixies' well. My only wonder is that none have thought of this before."

Petronella pointed to the circular slab lying wet and sparkling in the moonlight upon the sward beside the well.

"Look there!" she said: "it is that that has helped to hide the secret so long. Robin is cunning. He is deep, he is full of artifice. He has given to the well a false bottom, of which perchance none knows but himself. He knows how to raise it from the well, as I saw him do; but all the world beside would hold it in truth to be the well's bottom. Beneath yon slab the treasure lies. Cuthbert, thou hast found the secret. Thou wilt be the one to restore the fortunes of our house."

"Methinks it will be more thou than I, sweet sister," answered Cuthbert, gladly and proudly, as he leaned over the low stone wall and gazed eagerly into the deep, dark water. "And right glad am I that we should be together when we find the treasure trove. Canst see aught in yon deep hole, Petronella?"

She shook her head.

"Nor I neither. We must wait for daylight for that, and then perchance it will not reveal itself to our eyes. Yet it is there. I am certain sure of it; and although it may be something difficult to rescue even now, I doubt not that with patience and time we may succeed. Petronella, I will tomorrow to the village nighest at hand, whilst thou dost rest up in yon tree out of the way of all harm, where I have prepared a place of comfort. I will purchase there a suit of boy's clothes for thee to wear whilst thou dost share my forest life; it will be safer for thee, and more commodious likewise. I will also buy us victuals and a coil of rope. Then we twain can set to work over our task, and it will be strange indeed if we be balked in it, seeing that the hardest part is already accomplished. The secret is ours!"

Petronella's eyes sparkled beneath their heavy fringes. There was a spice of adventure and romance about this that could not but be delightful to any young spirit.

"Thou wilt not then tell our kinsfolk at the Chase, and ask their aid in this?"

Cuthbert shook his head.

"I will tell no man aught. I will ask for nothing till the treasure is in mine own hands!" he cried, with a gesture of triumph and pride. "They would believe naught when I spoke of the treasure before. They might even yet laugh us to scorn were we to tell our tale and point to the well as the place. No: we have done all alone thus far; let us do all alone even to the end. Time presses not. We have the summer before us. We have possession of this dell, where no foot but that of yon dead man ever dared to tread. He thus removed from our path, none else will spy upon us nor hinder us. We are safer here than in any other spot in the forest.

"Say, sister, wilt thou be my helper in this labour, be it small or great?"

She laid her hand trustingly in his; her dark eyes glowed.

"Gladly, gladly will I share the labour and the toil, my brother. O Cuthbert, it seems a happy and a fitting thing that the luck of the house should return to the Trevlyns of the Chase through the two poor cousins whom they befriended in their hour of need. They were kind to us when our life was darkest; it will be sweet to think that they will win happiness through us."

"Ay, and Philip's bride will be no longer a portionless damsel, but will have gold enough and to spare. Sweet sister, Philip hath spoken to me openly of his love. He hath been ere this to ask thee at thy father's hand."

"Ay, and was driven forth with blows and curses."

"Thou hast heard it? But thinkest thou he will take that for an answer? Nay, Petronella, thou wilt one day be his bride; and I will give thee to him with a joyful heart, for he loved thee in the days of our poverty and distress; so that one knows his love is for thee and thee alone, not for the fair dowry thou wilt presently bring."

Petronella hid her happy, blushing face on her brother's shoulder, and thus they stood awhile, till the girl drew back with a light shiver and said:

"Cuthbert, can it be right for us thus to stand thinking of our own happiness, whilst he lies there so still and cold?"

"I was just about to bid thee give me leave to bury him, whilst thou dost rest thyself awhile. We will not grudge him that last service; and it will be safer and better to do it here than to give notice of his death to the gipsies and outlaws, and so bring them down upon us in this place, provoking perchance their vengeance upon ourselves. I have here a spade, brought to dig after the treasure. I little thought it would first be used to dig Long Robin's grave. But the task had better be done, and that quickly. The man is dead as a stone. We will bury him away out of our sight ere we do aught beside."

Petronella assented with a slight shudder. She could not regret the death of the giant gipsy, who himself made so light of human life, and would have slain her brother before her eyes without a qualm. But she shivered each time she looked at the motionless form, and was glad when, after some hours of hard work beneath the trees, Cuthbert succeeded in dragging the corpse away and in covering it up from sight. Kneeling beside the rude grave, the girl breathed a prayer for the soul of the departed man, and repeated many an ave and paternoster, in the hope of smoothing for him his passage into eternity (being still considerably imbued with the teachings of her early life, which the newer and clearer faith had by no means eradicated), and then she rose comforted and relieved, feeling as though a dark weight had passed from her spirit.

Daylight had now come, and the girl was very weary. She looked so wan and white that Cuthbert was alarmed, and fed her tenderly with the best his wallet could supply; after which he took her up to his nest in the sycamore, first bringing the rug that was lying in the hollow tree to wrap around her. There he succeeded in making her so comfortable and secure that she fell asleep almost at once, and he was hopeful she would sleep the whole time of his absence, for she was worn out with fatigue, and only just recovering from an illness. How she had borne the fatigues of that night he scarce knew; but she possessed her share of the Trevlyn tenacity of purpose, and her strong will had conquered the feebleness of her frame.

It was a satisfaction to see her sink into a tranquil sleep, and secure in the certainty that she could not be seen by any person entering the dell. Certain that none but a chance traveller ever did come nigh this haunted spot, he was not afraid to leave her; and after studying the simple contrivance by which the round slab was raised and lowered in the well, he dropped it to its former position, and went on his way to the village with a light heart.

The secret of the lost treasure, he was fully certain, was now his; and though the work of rescue might require time and patience and labour, he was convinced it could be accomplished, and that he, with the help of his sister, should find himself competent for the task.

It was evening before he returned, but he found Petronella where he had left her. She had slept almost unbrokenly throughout the day, and was now greatly refreshed and invigorated. The air of the forest and the sweet breath of the pines were enough, as she said, to give her new life; and she descended eagerly to meet and greet her brother, and to examine the purchases he had made.

The first excitement was the ass who bore the heavy load. Cuthbert had had some trouble in making a way for the creature to pass down into the dell; but once here, he would never stray away of his own accord. Indeed, he appeared to have no disposition that way, for he began at once to crop the emerald sward around the well with an air of great contentment, whilst Cuthbert unloaded him and displayed his purchases to his sister.

"There is thy suit, young Peter," he said with a smile. "I trow thou wilt make a pretty boy, and wilt find thyself more fitted for our new life thus habited, and canst rove in the forest thus clad, an thou hast a mind that way, more safely than thou couldest in a maid's dress. And here is wine to put some colour into thy pale cheeks, and food to last us many a day, and blankets to wrap about us by night when the wind blows chill, and this heavy cloak to keep the rain from thee when the skies weep. And see, here is a rope which I trow will let me to the very bottom of the well, an we can once turn the water some other way; and the ass can drag me forth again—and the treasure likewise—when once this matter has been accomplished. The hot, dry weather is coming apace. Men say already that the springs be something low. All this favours our plans; and if I can find the spring that feeds this well, as like enough I may, then will I make shift to turn its waters another way, and the pixies' well shall be dry!"

Petronella gazed at him in surprise.

"Brother, whence comes all this knowledge to thee? I should never have dreamed such a thing might be!"

"But I have read of such things being done ere now," answered Cuthbert eagerly. "I have spent many an hour at Master Cole's shop upon the bridge reading of such matters—how men mine and counter-mine, and dig and delve, and sink wells and drain them, and do many strange things of which we never dreamed in past days. In times of war it is wondrous how many shifts of that or like kind they think of and perform. I little thought how soon I myself should want some such thing accomplished; but I read all eagerly, and Master Anthony Cole explained much that perplexed me; and I trow I might e'en do some such thing myself, with thee and this patient beast to help me in my toil!"

It was with undisguised admiration that Petronella regarded her brother, and very happy and merry was the meal taken together beside the well under the green-wood trees. It was hard to realize that this smiling girl, with the faint pink bloom in her cheek, and the bright eager eyes, was the cowed and sorrowful Petronella of a few days back. Cuthbert looked at her with glad pride as she talked to him and petted the docile ass, who came and stood beside them and got a full share of such things as were pleasant to his palate. Petronella had never had the care of a live thing before, and was delighted with the affection shown towards her at once by the gentle creature.

Her sleep that night in the tree was sound and refreshing; and when she joined Cuthbert, dressed in her suit of boys' garments; laughing, blushing, and delighted with the freedom of motion that they gave her; he found it hard to believe it was really Petronella, and vowed it would not be hard to call her Peter, for that there was little enough of the Petronella of old days to be found in her.

And from that day forward a happy life began for the brother and sister thus strangely located in the pixies' dell. Each day saw the girl growing stronger, brighter, and happier, till she could scarcely believe it was so short a time since she had fled from her father's house; whilst Cuthbert, intent upon his plans and his engineering operations, grew brown and muscular and self reliant, watching carefully and tenderly over his sister, but spending his time in healthful toil, and in working out self-imposed problems, confident that these would in the end succeed in enabling him to carry out the purpose of his heart.

The pixies' well proved very deep. Soundings taken by the rope showed that only too clearly. The water flowed three feet over the false bottom Robin had contrived the better to conceal his hiding place, whilst below that there was fully ten feet of water; and Petronella's face grew long as she saw the result of the sounding, for she could not imagine how any treasure could be got at that lay thirteen feet below the surface of the water.

"Never mind that, sister mine," said Cuthbert. "Belike it is to that very fact that it owes its long safety. Even Robin must have known that to bring it forth again must be a matter of time and patience. He could not visit it in a moment of haste or fright, and filch a piece away as he would. Doubtless the place was chosen by the old Long Robin of past days for the very difficulty there must be in bringing forth the prize. I have often thought that no buried treasure could so long have escaped prying hands and covetous spirits. Bit by bit some would have gone. It is the water that has been the best protection."

Petronella saw the force of that argument; but as she leaned over the wall, trying to peer into the dark depths whilst Cuthbert talked of his scheme for draining it dry, she heaved a little sigh, and said:

"And what if, after all that long labour, there be no treasure there in spite of all we believe?"

He looked a little taken aback, but was struck by the practical nature of the suggestion. He pondered awhile, and then he spoke.

"That is a thought worthy of consideration," he said. "It were a foolish thing to waste the whole summer only to be deceived in the end.

"Peter," he added suddenly, as if struck by a new idea, "I am no fearer of water. I can dive and swim, and I have long wind, and can hold my breath a great while. Thinkest thou that if I were to leap into the well and dive to the bottom, thou couldst give me the rope when I reappeared, and with the aid of the ass pull me forth again? I can dive through the water, I trow, albeit the well is none too wide. But I could not climb the steep stone sides; thou and the ass must help me there."

Petronella was a little timid of the experiment lest harm should befall her brother, and persuaded him at last to tie the rope about him ere he dived, so that in the event of his striking his head, or in any other way hurting himself, she would have power to pull him up and out, even if he should have lost consciousness. After making her promise not to use this power unless she were fully persuaded he was in some difficulty and unable to help himself, Cuthbert consented to this amendment; and when all preparations were complete he balanced himself for a moment on the edge of the well, and then launched himself downwards in a line as straight as an arrow.

Eagerly and breathlessly Petronella watched for his reappearance, holding her own breath the while, as though in some way that would help the diver. He was long gone, as it seemed to her. She had been forced to take one deep respiration, and was almost tempted to pull at the rope in her hand, when the water suddenly became again disturbed and full of bubbles, and a head appeared above it again.

"Cuthbert!" she exclaimed, in a tone of glad relief, "O Cuthbert, what hast thou found?"

He was clinging to the rope with one hand; the other was beneath the water out of sight. He raised his eyes, and said between his gasping breaths:

"Draw me up; the water is chill as ice!"

From the sound of his voice she could not tell whether success had crowned the attempt or not. She turned without another word, and led the donkey onwards, gently drawing Cuthbert from the depths of the well. As she did so he gave a sudden shout of triumph, and springing over the side of the wall, flung at her feet a solid golden flagon richly chased, with the arms of the Trevlyns engraved upon it.

"I scarce dared to look at what I had got as I came up!" he cried, as he sprang high into the air in the exuberance of his spirit; "but that will lay all doubt at rest. The lost treasure of Trevlyn is lost no longer, and Cuthbert and Petronella have found it!"



Chapter 18: "Saucy Kate."

"Wife, what ails the child?"

Lady Frances Trevlyn raised her calm eyes from her embroidery, and gave one swift glance around the room, as if to make sure that she and her husband were alone.

"Dost thou speak of Kate?" she asked then in a low voice.

"Ay, marry I do," answered Sir Richard, as he took the seat beside the glowing hearth, near to his wife's chair, which was his regular place when he was within doors. "I scarce know the child again in some of her moods. She was always wayward and capricious, but as gay and happy as the day was long—as full of sunshine as a May morning. Whence come, then, all these vapours and reveries and bursts of causeless weeping? I have found her in tears more oft these last three months than in all the years of her life before; and though she strives to efface the impression by wild outbreaks of mirth, such as we used of old to know, there is something hollow and forced about these merry moods, and the laugh will die away the moment she is alone, and a look will creep upon her face that I like not to see."

"Thou hast watched her something closely, Richard."

"Ay, truly I have. I would have watched any child of mine upon whom was passing so strange a change; but thou knowest that Kate has ever been dear to me—I have liked to watch her in her tricksy moods. She has been more full of affection for me than her graver sisters, and even her little whims and faults that we have had to check have but endeared her to me the more. The whimsies of the child have often brought solace to my graver cares. I love Kate right well, and like not to see this change in her. What dost thou think of it, goodwife?"

Lady Frances shook her head gravely.

"Methinks the child has something on her mind, and her sisters think so likewise, but what it is we none of us can guess. She keeps her secret well."

"It is not like Kate to have a secret; it is still less like her to hide it."

"That is what I feel. I have looked day by day and hour by hour for her to come to me or to thee to tell what is in her mind. But the weeks have sped by and her lips are still sealed, and, as thou sayest, she is losing her gay spirits, or else her gaiety is over wild, but doth not ring true; and there is a look in her eyes that never used to be there, and which I like not."

"I know the look well—one of wistful, unsatisfied longing. It goes to my heart to see it there. And hast thou noted that the bloom is paling in her cheeks, and that she will sit at home long hours, dreaming in the window seat or beside the hearth, when of old she was for ever scouring the woods, and coming home laden with flowers or ferns or berries? I like it not, nor do I understand it. And thou sayest her sisters know not the cause? I thought that young maidens always talked together of their secrets."

"Kate doth not. I have talked with Cecilia anent the matter, and she knows not the cause. Bess has opined that this change first appeared when it was decided that we went not to London this year, as we had talked of doing earlier in the summer. Bess says she noted then how disappointed Kate appeared; and she is of opinion that she has never been the same since."

Sir Richard stroked his beard with meditative gravity, and looked into the fire.

"It is true that the change has come upon her since that decision was made; and yet I find it something difficult to think that such was the cause. Kate never loved the life of the city, and was wild with delight when she first tasted the sweets of freedom in these woods and gardens. She loves her liberty right well, and has said a thousand times how glorious a thing it is to range at will as she does here. Capricious as the child has often shown herself, it is hard to believe that she is pining already for what she left with so glad a heart. It passes my understanding; I know not what to think."

Lady Frances raised her eyes for a moment to her husband's face, and then asked quietly:

"Hast thou ever thought whether some secret love may be the cause of all?"

The knight started and looked full at his wife.

"I have indeed thought some such thing, but I can scarce believe that such is the case with our Kate."

"Yet it is often so when maidens change and grow pale and dreamy, and sit brooding and thinking when erst they laughed and played. Kate is double the woman she was six months gone by. She will sit patiently at her needle now, when once she would throw it aside after one short hour; and she will seek to learn all manner of things in the still room and pantry that she made light of a short while back, as matters of no interest or concern to her. She would make an excellent housewife if she had the mind, as I have always seen; and now she does appear to have the mind, save when her fits of gloom and sadness be upon her, and everything becomes a burden."

Sir Richard looked aroused and interested. A smile stole over his face.

"Our saucy Kate in love, and that secretly! Marry, that is something strange; and yet I am not sorry at the thought, for I feared her fancy was something too much taken by her cousin Culverhouse; and since his father must look for a large dower for his son's bride, our Kate could never have been acceptable to him. Nor do I like the marriage of cousins so close akin, albeit in these times men are saying that there be no ill in such unions."

Lady Frances shook her head gravely.

"I would sooner see daughter of mine wedded in a lowlier sphere. My heart shrinks from the thought of seeing any child of ours in the high places of this world. There be snares and pitfalls abounding there. We have seen enough to know so much. There be bitter strivings and envyings and hatreds amongst those of lofty degree. I would have my children wed with godly and proper men; but I would sooner give them to simple gentlemen of no high-sounding title, than to those whose duties in life will call them to places round about the throne, and will throw them amidst the turmoil of Court life."

Sir Richard smiled at this unworldly way of looking at things; but the Trevlyns had suffered from being somewhat too well known at Court, and he understood the feeling.

"Truly we live in perilous times," he said thoughtfully, "and obscurity is often the best security for happiness and well being. But to return to Kate. If she is truly forgetting her girlish fancy for her cousin, as I would gladly believe—and she has not set eyes on him this year and more—towards whom can her fancy be straying?"

"Thou dost not think she can be pining after her cousin?"

"Nay, surely not," was the quick and decided answer. "Had she pined it would have been at the first, when they were separated from each other, and thou knowest how gay and happy she was then. It is but these past few months that we have seen the change. Depend upon it, there is some one else. Would that it might be good Sir Robert Fortescue, who has been here so much of late, and has paid much attention to our saucy Kate! Wife, what thinkest thou of that? He is an excellent good man, and would make a stanch and true husband. He is something old for the child, for sure; but there is no knowing how the errant fancy of maidenhood will stray."

"I would it might be so," answered Lady Frances. "Sir Robert is a good and a godly man, and I would gladly give our restless, capricious Kate to one who could be father and husband in one. But I confess the thought had not come to me, nor had I thought that he came hither to seek him a wife."

Sir Richard smiled meaningly.

"Nor had I until of late; but I begin to think that is his object. He pays more heed to the girls than he did when first he came to visit us, and he has dropped a word here and a hint there, all pointing in one direction. And dost thou not note that our Kate is often brightest and best when he is by? I had never thought before that her girlish fancy might have been caught by his gray hair and soldier-like air; yet many stranger things have happened. Wife, dost thou think it can be?"

"I would it were; it would be well for all. I will watch and see, and do thou likewise. I had not thought the child's fancy thus taken; but if it were so, I should rejoice. He would be a good husband and a kind one, and our headstrong second daughter will need control as well as love in the battle of life."

So the parents watched with anxious eyes, eager to see some indication which should encourage them in this newly-formulated hope. When once the idea had been started, it seemed to both as if nothing could be better than a marriage between their high-spirited but affectionate and warm-hearted daughter and this knight of forty summers, who had won for himself wealth and fame, and a soldier's reputation for unblemished honour and courage in many foreign lands. If not exactly the man to produce an immediate impression on the heart of a young girl, he might well win his way to favour in time; and certainly it did seem as though Kate took pleasure in listening to his stories of flood and field, whilst her bright eyes and merry saucy ways (for she was still her old bright self at times, and never more frequently so than in the company of Sir Robert) appeared very attractive to him.

When we are increasingly wishful for a certain turn in affairs, and begin sedulously to watch for it, unconsciously setting ourselves to work to aid and abet, and push matters on to the desired consummation, it is wonderful how easy it is to believe all is going as we wish, and to see in a thousand little trifling circumstances corroboration of our wishes. Before another fortnight had sped by, Kate's parents had almost fully persuaded themselves of the truth of their suspicion. They were convinced that the attachment between their child and their guest was advancing rapidly, and a day came when Sir Richard sought his wife with a very happy expression of countenance.

"Well, wife, the doubt will shortly be at an end. Sir Robert has spoken openly at last."

"Spoken of his love for our Kate?"

"Not in these words, but the meaning is the same. He has asked me if I am willing to entrust one of my daughters to his keeping."

"One of our daughters?" repeated Lady Frances. "And did he not name Kate? He cannot love them all."

"He spoke of Cecilia and Kate both," answered Sir Richard. "Sir Robert is not a hot-headed youth, full of the fire of a first passion. He wishes an alliance with our house, and he sees that Cecilia, with her four years' seniority, would perchance in the eyes of the world be the more suitable wife; and he admires her beauty, and thinks well of her dutifulness, her steadiness, and her many virtues. Yet it is Kate that takes his fancy most, and if he could hope to win the wayward fancy and the warm heart of our second child, she is the one whom he would fain choose as his own. He has spoken freely and frankly to me, and it comes to this: he would willingly marry Cecilia, and doubtless make her an excellent husband, and value the connection with the house of Trevlyn; but if he could succeed in winning the love of our saucy Kate, he would sooner have her than the more staid sister, only he fears his gray hairs and his wrinkles will unfit him as a suitor for the child. But we, who suspect her heart of turning towards him, have little fear of this. Kate's sharp eyes have looked beneath the surface. She has shown that she has a wise head upon her shoulders. So I told Sir Robert—"

"Not that the child had loved him unbidden, I trust, my husband? I would not have him think that!"

"Verily no, goodwife; but I told him there was no man living to whom I would more gladly give a daughter of mine; and that I would sound both of the maidens, and see how their hearts were set towards him. But I trow he went away happy, thinking he might win Kate after all. I could not but whisper a word of hope, and tell him how wondrous tame the wild bird had latterly become, and how that her mother had wondered whether thoughts of love had entered into her head."

Lady Frances smiled, half shaking her head the while, yet not entirely displeased even with such an admission as that. She had been watching her daughter closely of late, and she had tried to think as she wished to think; the consequence being that she had reached a very decided conclusion in accordance with her desires, and had small doubts as to the state of her daughter's heart.

"I verily believe the child's sadness has come from the fear that her youth will stand as a bar to her happiness. She knows Sir Robert is old enough to be her father, and fears that his attentions are paid as to a child. Thus has she striven to grow more wise, more womanly, more fit to be the mistress of his house. Methinks I see it all. And what is the next thing to be done? Must we speak with the child?"

"Ay, verily; for I have promised an answer to Sir Robert before many days have passed. He is to come again at the week's end, and his bride is to be presented to him. Thinkest thou that Cecilia will be grieved to find her younger sister preferred before her? Does she, too, think aught of Sir Robert?"

"I trow she likes him well, though whether she has thought of him as husband or lover I know not. She is more discreet than Kate, and can better hide her feelings. I doubt not were her hand asked she would give it gladly; but more than that I cannot say."

"Then let us hope her heart has not been deeply touched, for I should be sorry to give her pain. But let us incontinently send for Kate hither at once to us. I shall rejoice to see the light of untroubled happiness shining once again in those bright eyes. I would fain see my saucy Kate her own self again ere she leaves us as a wedded wife."

So Kate was summoned, and came before her parents with something of timidity in her aspect, looking furtively from one to the other, as if a question trembled on her lips that she did not dare to utter.

She had changed in many ways from the gay, laughing girl of a few months back. There were the same resolution and individuality in the expression of the face, and the delicate features had by no means lost all their old animation and bloom; but there was greater depth in the dark eyes, and more earnestness and gravity in the expression of both eyes and mouth. There was added sweetness as well as added thoughtfulness; and mingling strangely with these newer expressions was one still stranger on the face of Kate—a look of shrinking, almost of fear, as though she were treading some dangerous path, where lurked hidden perils that might at any moment overwhelm her.

The swift look of wistful questioning, the nervous movements of the slim hands, the parted lips and quickly coming breath, were not lost upon the parents, who were watching the advance of their daughter with no small interest and curiosity. But the smile upon both faces seemed to reassure the girl; and as her father held out his hand, she came and stood beside him willingly, looking from one to the other with fluttering breath and changing colour.

"You sent for me, my father?"

"Yes, Kate; we have somewhat to say to thee, thy mother and I. Canst guess what that something is?"

A vivid blush for a moment dyed her cheek and as quickly faded; but she did not speak, only shook her head.

Sir Richard gave his wife a quick smile, and took Kate's hand in his.

"My child," he said, with unwonted tenderness, "why hast thou been keeping a secret from thy mother and me?"

Kate started and drew her hand away, moving a pace farther off, and regarding her father with wide open, dilated eyes.

"A secret!" she faltered, and grew very pale.

Sir Richard smiled, and would have taken her hand once more, but that she glided from his reach, still watching him with an expression he found it hard to read. Her mother laid down her embroidery, and studied her face with a look of aroused uneasiness; but the father was utterly without suspicion of approaching any hidden peril, and continued in the same kindly tones.

"Nay, now, my girl, thou needest not fear!" he said. "All young maidens give their hearts away in time; and so as thou givest thine worthily, neither thy father nor thy mother will chide."

Kate gave one or two gasps, and then spoke with impassioned earnestness.

"O father, I could not help it! I strove against it as long as I might. I feared it was a thing that must not be. But love was too strong. I could not fight for ever."

"Tut—tut, child! why shouldest thou fight? Why didst thou not speak to thy mother? Girls may breathe a secret into a mother's ear that is not to be spoke elsewhere. Thou shouldest have told her, child, and have spared thyself much weary misery."

Kate's head was hung very low; neither parent could see her face.

"I did not dare," she answered softly; "I knew that I was wrong. I feared to speak."

"Thou art a strange mixture of courage and fear, my saucy Kate. I would once have vowed that thou wouldst fear not to speak aloud every thought of thy heart. But love changes all, I ween, and makes sad cowards of the boldest of us. And so thou didst wait till he declared his love, and fretted out thy heart in silence the while?"

Kate lifted her head and looked at her father, a faint perplexity in her eyes.

"Nay, I ever knew he loved me. It was that I feared thy displeasure, my father. I had heard thee say—"

"Nothing against Sir Robert, I warrant me," cried Sir Richard heartily; whilst Kate took one backward step and exclaimed:

"Methought Sir Robert was Cecilia's lover! Why speak you to me of him, my father?"

Sir Richard rose to his feet in great perplexity, looking at his wife, who was pale and agitated.

"Cecilia's lover—what meanest thou, child?" he asked quickly. "I was speaking to thee of thine own lover. Sir Robert would fain wed with thee, and methought thou hadst already given him thy heart."

"No—no—no!" cried Kate, shrinking yet further away. "I had no thoughts of him. O father, how couldst thou think it? He is a kind friend; but I have thought him Cecilia's knight, and I trow she thinks of him thus herself."

Lady Frances now spoke to her daughter for the first time, fixing her eyes upon her, and addressing her with composure, although visibly struggling against inward agitation.

"Listen to me, daughter Kate. Thou hast spoken words which, if they refer not to Sir Robert, as thy father and I believed, have need to be explained. Thou hast spoken of loving and of being beloved; what dost thou mean by that? Who is he that has dared—"

"O mother, thou knowest that; thou hast heard it a hundred times. It is Culverhouse, my cousin, who—"

But Sir Richard's face had clouded suddenly over. He had set his heart on marrying Kate to his friend Sir Robert, who would, he believed, make her an excellent husband; and he had long ago given a half pledge to Lord Andover to thwart and oppose the youthful attachment which was showing itself between Kate and Culverhouse. The Earl wished a grand match for his son, and the Trevlyn pride was strong in Sir Richard, who would never have had a daughter of his wed where she was not welcome. He also disliked marriages between first cousins, and made of that a pretext for setting his face against the match, whilst remaining on perfectly friendly terms with the Viscount and all his family. He had hoped and quite made up his mind that that boy-and-girl fancy had been laid at rest for ever, and was not a little annoyed at hearing the name of her cousin fall so glibly from Kate's lips.

"Silence, foolish girl!" he said sternly. "Hast thou not been told a hundred times to think no more of him? How dost thou dare to answer thy mother thus? Culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is no match for thee. It is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy dwell still on him. Methought thou hadst been cured of that childish liking long since. But if it has not been so, thou shalt soon be cured now!"

Kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly formidable. No one knew better than his favourite daughter that when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she shrank yet further away as she asked:

"What dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?"

"I mean, Kate," answered Sir Richard, not unkindly, but so resolutely that his words fell upon her ear like a knell, "that the best and safest plan of curing thee of thy fond and foolish fancy, which can never come to good, is to wed thee with a man who will make thee a kind and loving husband, and will maintain thee in the state to which thou hast been born. Wherefore, prepare to wed with Sir Robert Fortescue without delay, for to him I will give thy hand in wedlock so soon as we can have thee ready to be his bride."

Kate stood for a moment as if transfixed and turned to stone, and then she suddenly sank upon her knees at her father's feet.

"Father," she said, in a strange, choked voice, that indicated an intense emotion and agitation, "thou canst not make me the wife of another; for methinks I am well nigh, if not altogether, the wife of my cousin Culverhouse."

"What?" almost shouted Sir Richard, making one step forward and seizing his daughter by the arm. "Wretched girl, what is this that thou sayest? The wife of thy cousin Culverhouse! Shame upon thee for so base a falsehood! How dost thou dare to frame thy lips to it?"

"It is no falsehood!" answered Kate, with flashing eyes, springing to her feet and confronting her parents with all her old courage, and with a touch of defiance. "I would have kneeled to ask your pardon for my rashness, for my disobedience, for the long concealment; but I am no liar, I speak but the truth. Listen, and I will tell all. It was on May Day, and I rode forth into the forest and distanced pursuit, and joined my cousin Culverhouse, as we had vowed to do. We thought then of naught but the joy of a day together in the forest, and had not dreamed of such a matter as wedlock. But then to the church porch came one calling himself a priest. They say he comes every year, and weds all who will come to him. And many did. And Culverhouse and I stood before him, and he joined our hands, and we made our vows, and he pronounced us man and wife before all assembled there. And whether it be binding wedlock or no, it is to us a solemn betrothal made before God and man; and not all the commands thou couldst lay upon me, my father, could make me stand up and vow myself to another as I have vowed myself to Culverhouse. I should hold myself forsworn; I should be guilty of the vilest crime in the world. Thou wilt not ask it of me. Thou canst not know, even as I do not know, whether that wedlock is not valid before man, as it is before God."

A thunderbolt falling between them could scarcely have produced more astonishment and dismay. Lady Frances sank back in her seat white with horror and bewilderment, whilst Sir Richard stood as if turned to stone; and when at last he was able to speak, it was to order Kate to her room in accents of the sternest anger, bidding her not to dare to leave it until he brought her forth himself.

Kate fled away gladly enough, her mind rent in twain betwixt remorse at her own disobedience and deceit, triumph in having stopped Sir Robert's suit by so immovable an obstacle, and relief that the truth was out at last, even though her own dire disgrace was the result. The secret had preyed terribly on her mind of late, and had been undermining her health and spirits. Terrible as the anger of her parents might be, anything to her open nature seemed better than concealment; and she dashed up to her own room in a whirl of conflicting emotions, sinking down upon the floor when she reached it to try to get into order her chaotic thoughts.

Meantime husband and wife, left alone to their astonishment, stood gazing at each other in blank amaze.

"Husband," said Lady Frances at last, "surely such wedlock is not lawful?"

"I cannot tell," he answered gloomily; "belike it is not. Yet a troth plight made in so solemn a fashion, and before so many witnesses, is no light thing; and the child may not be wedded to another whilst the smallest shadow of doubt remains. Doubtless Culverhouse foresaw this, the bold knave, and persuaded the child into it. Well it has served his purpose. Sir Robert must be content with Cecilia. But the artfulness of the little jade! I never thought Kate would so deceive us—"

"It is that that breaks my heart!" cried the mother—"that, and the thought that she should be willing to go before some Popish priest and take her vows to him. Oh, it cannot be binding on the child—it cannot be binding! And Sir Robert is stanch in the Reformed faith; he is just the husband that wild girl needs. Husband, can nothing be done?"

Sir Richard looked very grave.

"That would be hard to tell without strict inquiries. I doubt me if we could learn all before next May Day, when we might get hold of the man himself and find out who and what he is. Such wedlock as his cannot be without flaw, and might be made invalid by law; but, wife, there is no getting over this, that the child took her vows in the name of God, and I dare not act as though such vows were unspoken. Her youth and ignorance may plead in part for her. She scarce knew the solemnity of the step she was taking. Culverhouse won upon her and over persuaded her, I do not doubt. I do not seek to excuse her. I am grievously displeased and disappointed. But I cannot and I will not give her to Sir Robert; Cecilia must be his wife."