"Then Kate must be sent away," said Lady Frances, gravely and severely; "I cannot and will not have her here, mixing as before with her sisters with this cloud hanging upon her, with this secret still shadowing her life. She has proved unworthy of our confidence. I am more pained and displeased than I can say. She must go. She must not be able to tell Cecilia that she might have been Lady Fortescue but for her marriage with Culverhouse. She is no longer to be trusted. She must go forth from home as a punishment for her wrongdoing. I feel that I cannot bear to see her about the house, knowing how she has deceived us. She shall go forth this very day."

Sir Richard stood considering. He too was deeply displeased with his daughter, though he had some sympathy with the ardent and impulsive lovers, who had got themselves into a queer plight, and had thrown much perplexity upon others. But he decidedly agreed with his wife that it would be better for Kate to go—and to go in disgrace, that she might feel herself punished by being severed from her sisters when the first wedding of the family was taking place (save her own woodland nuptials). And it would doubtless save some natural embarrassment to Sir Robert himself to have one of the sisters out of the way before he formally espoused the other; though, to be sure, such a proposition as his had been was a common enough thing in those days.

"It would be good to send her away; but whither can she go?"

"Where better than to Lady Humbert and Mistress Dowsabel, who have ofttimes asked us to send a daughter to enliven their dull solitude? We have ever excused them on account of their youth and high spirits, fearing they would be moped to death in that dismal place; but it will be the very house for our wayward Kate to go to repent of her ill deeds. If you will write a letter to them, we will send it forthwith by a mounted messenger, and the answer will be back before dark. If she is to go, she can start with the first light of tomorrow morning, and we can get her mails packed ready tonight; for she must not disgrace her state, but must be furnished with all things fitting to her condition."

Sir Richard thought that no other plan better than this could be devised for his erring daughter; and though he could not but feel some compassion for the girl, condemned to be the companion of a pair of aged and feeble gentlewomen such as his aunts had long been, was nevertheless of opinion that the captivity and dullness would be salutary, and despatched his letter without delay.

That same night Kate, who had passed the long hours in weeping and rejoicing, and in all those conflicting phases of feeling common to the young, heard with a mixture of' pleasure and dismay that she was to be sent in disgrace to the keeping of her great aunts, and that without delay; also that she was not even to say goodbye to her sisters, or to see them again until something had been decided as to her future and the validity of her wilful espousals. She was made to feel that she had committed a terrible sin, and one that her parents would find it hard to forgive; yet she could not help exulting slightly in the thought that they had been obliged to take the matter so seriously; and she had a dim hope that her aged relatives, when she did come to them, might not prove altogether so crabbed and cross as she had always been led to suppose. Perhaps she might find a warm corner even in their old hearts.



Chapter 19: The Cross Way House.

With the first light of day the start was to be made. Kate, who had slept little, was ready betimes, had dressed herself in her riding suit long before she was sent for, and was employing herself in wondering if she would after all be permitted to say farewell to her sisters, and whether she should have an opportunity of asking her mother's pardon for her wrongdoing in this matter of her secret espousals.

The girl had suffered a good deal during these past months. She had not realized when yielding to Culverhouse's persuasions how hard it would be to live beneath her parents' roof with this secret preying on her mind. She had not realized what a weight it would become in time, and she had looked for a speedy meeting with her cousin and betrothed in London, whither Sir Richard had intended taking his family for a while before the autumn set in. Kate had looked forward then to making her confession to her parents and his, and winning pardon for them both, as she felt sure of doing when she had his support in the telling of the tale. But the change of her father's plans, and the absence from England of Lord Culverhouse, who had been sent on a mission to France by his father, put an end to all these hopes, and she had felt the burden of her secret heavy indeed. Moreover, she was fearful lest Culverhouse should in some sort repent him of the step he had taken and wish it undone. Kate had but a small share of vanity, and only a very modest appreciation of her own attractions, and it seemed to her as though her cousin, moving as he did in the gay world of fashion, must surely see many other maidens tenfold more beautiful and graceful. Suppose he were to repent of his secret betrothal; suppose his troth plight weighed heavy on his spirit? what misery that would be for both! And during these long months of silence such thoughts and fears had preyed upon the girl's spirit, and had produced in her the change that both her parents had observed.

Wherefore now that the confession had been made, and the burdensome secret was a secret no longer, a reaction set in that was almost like relief. She felt certain, since all was known, that Culverhouse would come forward and stand boldly beside her and lay claim to her hand before the world as he had talked of doing when he had led her to the troth plight on that May Day that seemed so long ago now.

Even the thought of the journey and the visit to her father's great aunts was not altogether distasteful. She was more afraid of meeting her mother's sorrowful glances than stern ones from strangers. Kate had no lack of courage, and the love of variety and change was implanted in her as strongly as it is in most young things; so that when Philip knocked at her door as the first rays of the October sun were gilding the trees and fields, it was with a smiling face that she opened to him, whilst he looked at her with something of smiling surprise in his glance.

"Art ready, my sister? the horses will be at the door in a few short minutes. I am glad to see thee so bright and happy. I had feared to discover thee bathed in tears of woe."

"Perchance I ought to be heavier hearted than I am," answered Kate, with a swift glance at Philip through her long lashes. "I do repent me that I have angered our father and mother. I know that I have been wrong to keep the secret; perchance I was wrong to let Culverhouse persuade me. But that the thing is done I cannot truly repent; the only thing which would make me wish that vow unsaid would be if Culverhouse were to wish to be free of his troth plight."

"Which I trow he never will be," answered Philip warmly, as he laid his hand on Kate's shoulder.

Those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy. Kate knew all his love for Petronella, and his anxiety for her since her flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with Cuthbert in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers.

"He has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we played together as children. Save that concealment ever leads to trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings of, I could find it in my heart to wish that Petronella and I were wed in like fashion. But our mother is sorely grieved at what thou hast done—going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy parents before they passed thy lips, and should have been made in different fashion and in a different place. Howbeit no doubt time will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought. When we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my father and I will to London to speak with Lord Andover of this business. I trust all will end well for thee, sister. But thou must learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that they do not fear to give thee to Culverhouse at last, since it must needs be so."

Kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her brother's words.

"In very sooth I will try, Philip. I thank thee for thy good counsel. I will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts. I will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy my mother when she makes inquiry of them."

Kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through the forest and across the heath that day. Her father was stern and grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her. Philip and she talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure, and observed a befitting decorum and quietness. Sir Richard made his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him exactly how and where it had taken place. As they stopped to bait the horses at the little hostelry, he made various inquiries concerning the priest and his annual visitation to the wake on May Day, and his face looked none the less severe as he heard the replies.

"Methinks the knot hath been something tightly tied—too tight for it to be easily unloosed," whispered Philip to his sister as he lifted her to the saddle after the noontide halt; and she could not but answer by a bright smile, which she saw reflected in his face.

The day, which had been bright and fine, turned dull and lowering as the riders neared the Cross Way House, as the residence of Lady Humbert was called; and Kate looked curiously at the house as they approached it, wondering what sort of a life its inmates led.

To her eyes, accustomed to the seclusion of park and grounds, the most striking feature of this house was that it stood actually upon the road itself. It occupied an angle of the cross formed by the junction of four roads, and its north and east windows looked out straight upon these two highways, with nothing intervening between them but some twenty feet of paved walk enclosed behind walls ten feet high, and guarded by strong gates of wrought iron.

Doubtless to the south and west there were gardens and grounds. The walls seemed to run a long way along the road, and Kate felt certain that she should find seclusion and privacy there. She could see tall trees rearing their heads above the wall, and was certain from the aspect of the house, which was sufficiently imposing, that she should find within the ease and luxury to which she was accustomed.

On the whole, she rather liked the prospect of looking out upon the roads. If Culverhouse were to ride by, she could signal to him from the windows. She could watch the fine folk passing to and fro on their way to London. Possibly a belated traveller might ask shelter at the house, and amuse them with tales of adventure and peril. Kate had time to think of many things as their horses stood at the gates awaiting admittance; and when these were thrown back at last, and they rode through an archway and into a centre courtyard round which the house was built, the girl was delighted with everything; for the quadrangular structure was a novelty to her, and a novelty which took her fancy not a little. There were servants to look after the horses; and it was plain the travellers were expected, for they were quickly ushered into the house by one of the great doors which opened on a wide flight of steps leading down into the court, and were there met by an aged majordomo, who greeted them with ceremonious solemnity.

"My lady is looking for you, sir," he said to Sir Richard; and turning to Kate, he added, in the same mechanical fashion, "Your maid will show you to your room, madam. My lady will see you after you have recovered from the fatigues of the journey."

Kate was not in the least fatigued, but she was too well brought up to remonstrate in any way. The maid was hovering in the background; an elderly woman with a capable face and slightly repellent manner. It was plain to Kate that her relatives would not receive her till they had learned more of the details of her banishment from home from her father, and had made up their minds how to treat her. She felt that even the serving woman regarded her somewhat in the light of a culprit, and it was with a mind divided betwixt amusement and girlish shame that she followed the attendant into the bed chamber that had been prepared for her.

This was a more sumptuous apartment than her room at home, and looked comfortable enough in the glow of the great fire of logs. The hangings of the bed were dark and heavy, and the carved oak furniture was also sombre in its polished blackness; but there was a thick square carpet on the floor, which was a luxury Kate had never possessed in her bed chamber before, and the mirrors and silver sconces for the candles all bespoke an ease and luxury that reminded Kate of what life would be like when she lived as a Countess or Viscountess in her own house, with Lord Culverhouse as lord and master.

"This is your room," said the woman. "Your mails arrived earlier in the day, and your things have been put away in the cupboard there and in the bureau yonder. My lady gave orders you were to be served with something to eat and drink in your own room, and that she would visit you later. There is another young lady visiting in the house; she will come and see you if you will permit her."

"Very willingly," answered Kate, who was always ready for company, and very curious to know something about these great aunts of hers, whom she had never seen as yet. "I shall be glad of food, as I liked not what they served us with at the inn in the forest. As for the young lady, albeit I know not who she can be, I should gladly welcome her. I have no love for too much of my own company; wherefore the sooner she comes the better shall I be pleased."

The woman withdrew, and Kate removed her hat and gloves, and looked about her with quick, searching glances.

"A good room in sooth, and no bad prison, if prisoner I am to be. And since I may have company, I can scarce be in such dire disgrace as that. I wonder who this visitor may be? Some Wyvern, belike; but doubtless we shall learn to take pleasure in each other.

"Soft! are those steps without? Yes; and some one knocks at the door.

"Enter, enter, I pray. I am right glad—What! do my eyes deceive me? Sure I am in some strange dream! Petronella! Surely it cannot be Petronella! The features are the same; but the Petronella I once knew was wan and frail as a fair wood lily, and thou—nay, but it cannot be!"

"But it is—it is!" cried the girl, making a bound forward and flinging her arms round Kate's neck in an ecstasy of happiness; "and, O Kate, I have seen him again! I saw him ride to the door by thy side! Perchance I shall even have words with him ere he journey forth again! Ah, how rejoiced was I when I heard that thou wert coming! O Kate, I have such news for thee—such news, such news!"

The two girls were folded in each other's arms. Between every few words they paused to kiss and laugh in the very exuberance of their happiness. It seemed like a dream to Kate; she could scarce believe her eyes.

"Petronella—but how earnest thou here?"

"I came when the weather grew so inclement that Cuthbert would no longer let me share his forest life. He brought me to this house, and our aunts, when they heard our story, opened their doors to me; and I have been here three whole weeks—ever since the summer's heats broke in storms of rain. But here I go by the name of Ellen Wyvern, lest haply it should come to my father's ears that I am here, and he should fetch me away. But I have almost ceased to quake at that thought; I have had my freedom so long."

"I scarce know thee, thou art so changed—so full of sunshine and courage," cried Kate. "Erstwhile thou wert like a creature of moonlight and vapour; a breath seemed as though it would blow thee away. What has befallen to change thee so? What hast thou been doing all this while? And where is Cuthbert?"

"Cuthbert is yet in the forest," answered Petronella, sinking her voice to the merest whisper, as if afraid that even the walls would have ears. "His task is not yet finished. It is one that takes great skill and patience and watchfulness. But it is being accomplished by slow and sure degrees. Ah, Kate! what news thinkest thou that I have for thee? The time has not yet come when the world may know all; but I trow that thou mayest know, for thou hast ever been with us in the secret of the quest."

Kate's face flushed and paled; her heart beat fast with hope and wonder. She well knew what difference to her future would be made by the restoration to the house of Trevlyn of that lost treasure. She could scarce frame the words she longed to speak, but her eyes asked the question for her; and Petronella, putting her lips close to her cousin's ear, whispered the wondrous news that the lost treasure was found.

"Found—really found!" and Kate gave a great gasp. "Nay, but, Petronella, tell me how."

Petronella laid a warning hand upon Kate's lips.

"Nay, cousin, but thou must call me Ellen here. And we must wait till the household be at rest, and we share the same bed, ere I dare to pour into thine ears all the tale. And thou must promise to breathe no word of it, bad nor good, till the moment has come for the world to know. It will not be long now, I trow; but we are pledged, and were it not that I know well thou art stanch and true, I dared not have shared the joyful secret with thee."

"It is safe with me," cried Kate; "I will never betray it. O Ellen, how I long to hear the whole! But since that may not be now, tell me more of these great aunts of ours. What treatment am I to look for beneath their roof? Am I to be received as kinswoman or as prisoner? for marry I know not myself."

Petronella's face kindled into smiles, those bright happy smiles that gave it a charm never seen in past days. She bent an arch glance upon her cousin, and then made reply.

"The Lady Humbert is a fine stately dame, before whom my heart quailed mightily when first I stood before her. Her voice is sharp; her eyes look you through and through; her frown sets you quaking, and makes you wish the earth would swallow you up. But for all that, when once you get to know her, you find that a warm heart beats beneath her stiff bodice, and that though she will speak sharply to you before your face, she will do you many a kind act of which you know little or nothing. Mistress Dowsabel is younger, smaller, less fearsome to the eye; indeed she is timorous and often full of fears herself. She too is kind, though I truly think that Lady Humbert has the larger heart. They love each other well, and are willing to befriend all who have claims of kindred. For the rest, they live much secluded from the world, and think that the times are sadly changed for the worse since the days when they were young."

"And what think they of me?" asked Kate, with natural girlish self consciousness.

Petronella repeated her arch glance.

"To me they say that thou art a wilful maid who needest watching and stern guarding. They shake their heads at such loose marriage, and tell me to take warning and not fall into like folly and sin through overmuch love of my own way. But I heard them talking together of thee when they forgot that I was by; and then there was something different in their words, and I could scarce forbear to smile."

"What said they then?" asked Kate eagerly.

"My Lady Humbert, she said that Lord Andover was a good man and stanch, and that all spoke well of his son. They added that if thou wouldst one day be Countess of Andover, they would gladly think that thou wouldst worthily fill that place. Aunt Dowsabel asked if thou hadst made a good beginning in this hasty marriage or troth plight of thine; whereat Lady Humbert gave a laugh, and said she was glad that thou hadst had the spirit of thy ancestors in thee, and that for her part, if you were both true and stanch in your love, she saw small harm in letting love have the mastery over prudence. And then it turned out, as I learned from their talk, that she herself had run away to be married when she was a girl, and that she had never for one hour repented the act. So she plainly felt that thou wast her own kinswoman in all faith; and although she may speak to thee with stern rebuke, thou mayest know in thy heart that she thinks kindly of thee, and that she will stand thy friend with thy father, and make the peace with thy mother if she may."

Kate's face flushed happily.

"Nay, now, that is good hearing! Why did we not know these good aunts before? I can go before them with a light heart now. I repent me of nothing save that I displeased my parents, and hid the matter from them all this while. I trow I shall never repent that I let Culverhouse persuade me to plight my troth to him."

Kate was glad of the assurance Petronella's words had given her when she was presently summoned before her relatives, and stood in the dim panelled room before their straight-backed chairs, feeling the stern eyes of Lady Humbert fixed full upon her, whilst she heard that her father and brother had already left, since it was only pain and grief to them to be beneath the same roof as their obdurate and disobedient daughter and sister.

Kate received the lecture addressed her by the mistress of the house with all becoming humility, and without that sinking of heart that she might otherwise have felt at the cold stern tone; and she gladly passed her word, when desired to do so, not to go beyond the precincts of the great walled garden without special permission. In her walks and rides abroad she was always to be attended, and was to promise never to slip away from her escort. If she would faithfully promise this, she might be allowed the companionship of Ellen Wyvern, now a guest beneath the roof of Cross Way House; and to give this promise cost Kate no pang, for she had no feverish desire after unfettered liberty, but was content to await the time she knew must shortly come now, when Culverhouse would come to claim her for his own, and would find her no longer the portionless maiden she once had been, but dowered with some of the rich spoil from that long-lost hoard.

Supper was served in solemn state in the dining parlour, and the two girls sat with their aged relatives to partake of it. Petronella was a little sad that Philip had gone without even knowing of her presence beneath that roof: but she was certain their meeting would not be much longer delayed, and was content to wait. The Wyvern sisters did not keep a great establishment, as their means were not large, though they clung to the old house which had come down to them, and would have sacrificed much rather than sell it. But Kate soon discovered that the largest rooms were shut up and partially dismantled in order that comfort should reign in those parts of the house that were habitually used; that the staff of servants was but small; and that of these nearly all were old men and women who had grown gray and enfeebled in the service of the family, and were kept on by the present mistresses, who themselves disliked any changes in their establishment, and who could hardly see their way to finding the wages that able-bodied servants would look to receive. So they lived in this very quiet fashion, surrounded by retainers almost as aged as themselves, and led on the whole a happy and a placid life. Petronella was proving of so much use that the burden of her maintenance was not felt, and Sir Richard Trevlyn made generous arrangements for the cost of his daughter. But there was something altogether quaint and curious in the life of the house, and Kate thought it exceedingly interesting even before the first evening had passed.

Yet all the while she was longing to hear Petronella's tale, and was glad when the tapestry work was put away, and formal good nights had been exchanged. The girls ran up to the guest chamber prepared for Kate, which they had agreed to share together from that time forth. It did not take them long to slip into bed; and old Dyson, the waiting woman, who also acted as housekeeper, came quickly in to see that the lights were safely extinguished, after which only the glow of the fire illuminated the darkness of the big room; and Kate in an eager whisper begged Petronella to lose no time in telling her tale.

With breathless eagerness she heard of the girl's flight from home, and of her rescue of Cuthbert from the very jaws of death. She could not understand Petronella's shuddering horror at the thought of having killed a man.

"I would have killed fifty, and been glad to rid the earth of them were they such wretches as Long Robin!" she cried.

Then in deep silence she heard of Cuthbert's dive into the well, and of the golden flagon he had brought up as an earnest of what was to come. Petronella went on to say that, having made absolutely sure of the presence of the treasure in the well, Cuthbert had then directed all his energies to detecting the sources of the hidden springs that fed it, and after long search and patience had satisfied himself that it was filled by two, both rising in the high ground not far distant.

He had then set to work to see how these waters could be diverted so as to leave the well dry at his will; and though it had taken months to perform this feat, and had only been done at the cost of immense labour and trouble, still it had been done, and one day in early September the brother and sister had stood together to see the water ebbing slowly and more slowly away, until at last their eyes beheld a vast quantity of silver and gold lying exposed at the bottom of the well, and knew that the lost treasure of Trevlyn was theirs indeed.

But their labours were not yet ended. It was plain to both that they must quickly find some safe spot whither they could transport it all, else some passing traveller might even now see and report what he had seen, and so rob them of the fruit of their toil.

Afraid to go to Trevlyn Chase for help, lest the news should in some way leak out to Nicholas at the Gate House, and also because the brother and sister had set their hearts on accomplishing the task entirely alone, it suddenly entered Cuthbert's head to take his sister to the Cross Way House, and ask of its owners protection for her through the approaching inclement season; and then, if satisfied that these Wyvern kinswomen were to be trusted, and were friendly of disposition towards them, to whisper the secret of the treasure trove in their ears, and ask leave to deposit it all within the great strongroom underground, that the Wyvern house had always boasted, and of which the secret was known to very few.

This was the plan that had been carried out. His reception by Lady Humbert, and her kindness to the lonely Petronella when her pitiful story was told, quite decided Cuthbert to confide the golden secret to her. She listened in amaze, but was highly pleased at being the first person to know it. She laid her hand on Cuthbert's head, and spoke to him of the old saw which predicted that fortune should return to the Wyverns through the daughters' sons, and declared that he was fulfilling the prophecy she had longed to live to see come true. Cuthbert trusted that such indeed would be the case, but did not know whether the Wyverns had any lot or share in the treasure trove. Whereat the old lady smiled, and said that she laid no claim to the gold—it was none of theirs, and never would be; but still, with her hand on Cuthbert's head, she declared that after herself and her sister he should reign at the Cross Way House, and that his share of the treasure, which in all sooth should be a large one, since but for him it might never have been found, would go to restore the fallen fortunes of the house, and to fulfil in very truth the fondly-cherished prediction.

Cuthbert's amazement had naturally been great; but this fair prospect held out to him had but given greater zest to his enterprise. Not to a single soul in the house would Lady Humbert confide the secret, lest amongst themselves the faithful old servants should gossip, and rumour get abroad that the lonely house was worth attacking. In the dead of night, upon appointed dates, Cuthbert brought to a certain iron-barred window the laden ass bearing his costly burden, and Petronella and Lady Humbert themselves received the treasure and bore it piece by piece to the secret room. Not a creature slept on that side of the house—not a living being knew what was passing in the dead hours of the night; and in this fashion the treasure was being brought, Cuthbert descending the well, into which a little water had now filtered—enough to conceal the treasure from a passing observer if such there should chance to be—and with the assistance of their four-footed friend, drawing up as much as the patient beast could carry, and transporting it by night to this very house.

"When all is done," concluded Petronella—"and every load we think must surely be the last, there is so much of it—then he will forth to seek the gipsy in the forest, and tell her that the task is done. After that he will to London, to see how it fares with his cousins there, and to tell my uncle something of his tale, demanding, as I right well believe, the hand of our cousin Cherry in wedlock, since he may now support a wife in all comfort and ease. When that is done he will hither again, and Lady Humbert will ask to her house a gathering of kinsfolk for the Yuletide festival. And then the great secret will be told. The treasure will be divided between the Trevlyns assembled beneath this roof; and I trow, sweet Kate, that my Lord Culverhouse will contrive to be here, and that when the good news has been told to all, he will have small work in getting the parental blessing for those nuptials that will be celebrated anew with pomp and rejoicing, and will make thee in very truth, and without shadow of a doubt, the Viscountess Culverhouse."

Kate, laughing and quivering, clasped Petronella in her arms, as she cried between laughter and tears:

"And when that good hap befalls me, sweet Petronella, I will warrant that Philip will be in no wise behind in claiming his bride, and that thou as well as I shalt find that the recovered treasure of Trevlyn has smoothed our path to wedded happiness!"



Chapter 20: How It Fared With Cherry.

"Gramercy! what next, I wonder! Here's a pretty kettle of fish! I always did say that no good came of letters. I wish folks had more sense than to spend their time writing! I never get a letter but what it brings a peck of bother with it."

Mistress Susan Holt was the speaker. She held in her hand a piece of paper which she was eying with many a scornful sniff. It had been left at the bridge house by a courier riding through to Westminster from the south country, and Martin Holt had called his sister down to his business parlour to open and read the missive.

He now looked up from his books with a pardonable curiosity to say:

"Well, sister Susan, letters do not trouble thee oft. And what may be the news in this one? and from whom comes it?"

"From Prudence Dyson."

"Prudence at the Cross Way House? And what says she? it is long since we had news of her."

"So long that I had almost forgot where she was: and I marvel she should trouble us thus. Thy daughters are not serving wenches, Martin. What can Prudence be thinking of?"

Martin smiled slightly. It seemed to him that beneath his sister's iron rule his daughters did little but toil after the fashion of serving wenches from morning to night. As for Susan herself, she worked harder than any servant she had ever had beneath her sway.

"What says the letter?" he asked briefly; "what is the matter that angers thee?"

"I am not angry," answered Susan sharply. "I trust I know my duty better as a Christian than to be angered over trifles. I am but surprised at such a request. Prudence Dyson asks if I can spare one of my nieces and thy daughters to dwell for a while at Cross Way House, to help her with her duties there."

Martin Holt did not appear to see anything very unreasonable or extraordinary in that request.

"What has caused her to wish it?" he asked quietly. "Is she in any way ill or disabled?"

"It is not that; it is that there be two young ladies of gentle birth dwelling now beneath Lady Humbert's care. Prudence desires to give them all due tendance and service; but as thou knowest, Martin, the household purse there is not deep, and Prudence strives might and main to do all she can to save her kind mistress from needless cost. She is striving now to attend herself upon all four ladies; and she says that the young maidens are very kindly and gentle and helpful. But she likes not to see them wait upon themselves, and she knows that my Lady Humbert would wish them to have all needful service. Wherefore she asks if thou couldst spare a daughter to go thither for a while to help her by waiting on the young damsels. And I—"

"Well, and wherefore not?" said Martin, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Prudence is a good woman, and my dead wife loved her best of all her family. I know that Lady Humbert is a woman into whose house any father might trust his daughter without a fear. As for the question of serving wenches, I trow the wench who goes will have an easier time than the sisters who abide at home. Susan, I think it only right to help Prudence in this matter; I can see no reason against so doing."

Susan seldom opposed the master of the house, but she looked a little sour and displeased.

"We shall have Christmas upon us right soon; we can ill spare any hands then," she said.

"O—ho! So it is the thought of thine own pies and stuffed meats that weighs with thee!" said Martin with a laugh. "Then I will tell thee what I will do. I will send Cherry, whom thou art ever chiding for being useless to thee. She shall go to wait upon the two young madams and help good Prudence at the Cross Way House, and thou shalt keep thy two useful nieces at home with thee."

Susan's brow cleared somewhat, but she made a movement of her bony shoulders indicative of scorn.

"Cherry may go with all my heart, for she is idler and more useless than ever, and does naught from morning to night but sit at the window, watching the folks in the street, and turning from red to pale and pale to red as though she were a bride looking for the arrival of her bridegroom. I have no patience with such ways. I knew no good would come of always spoiling the child. I can do naught with her now; she heeds not a word I say. Ofttimes she does not even know that I am speaking to her. She may go, and welcome! but I misdoubt me that Prudence will thank thee for the loan. Much good and much service she will get out of Keren Happuch!"

Martin Holt looked thoughtfully at his sister.

"That is partly why I am glad the child should go. I too have seen a change in her. Methinks she is feeling the long hot summer in the city. There be many that have told me that she is not looking as she should do. This idleness shows something of indisposition, I take it. Doubtless she will receive benefit from a change of air and occupation. She loves to be in the open air, and at the Cross Way House there will be gardens and pleasaunces and orchards where she may perchance be suffered to wander at will. Prudence will be kind to her, and I shall send her gladly."

Susan again made her peculiar gesture, as much as to say that she washed her hands of responsibility in the matter.

"She is thy daughter—do as thou wilt, Martin; but I warn thee that no good will come of it. Going amongst ladies will make her think herself a finer lady than ever: and now as it is she will scarce deign to soil her dainty hands with anything coarser than the making of light pastry. Thou wilt spoil her for a city man's wife; and I know not how Abraham Dyson will take it. Prudence is his sister, to be sure, and it is to do her a kindness; but Jacob wants a useful wife—and, as I understood, they were resolved not to delay the marriage beyond Christmas. Rachel has been six months wed, and the house wants a mistress who can move about and look to things."

Martin was looking very thoughtful. He did not reply for a while, and then he said slowly:

"Send the child to me, Susan; I will speak to her of this myself."

"Ay, thou hadst best do so, for I might as well speak to the walls as to Keren Happuch," said Mistress Susan as she went on her way up the stairs, by no means pleased at the easy fashion in which her brother took this matter.

Susan loved a grand fuss and talk and discussion over every trifle in the day's round, and this was more than a trifle. Her tongue was as active as her hands, and she would talk by the hour as she worked, until those about her grew weary of the very sound of her voice.

Martin Holt, who was fully alive to his sister's many virtues and valuable qualities, did find her something of a trial also, and it never struck him as at all inexplicable that the self willed and impetuous little Cherry should often be at loggerheads with her aunt.

As she stole down the staircase and stood before him with a wondering, questioning look in her big eyes, he eyed her keenly, and could not but see that some of the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and that she had in some way changed during the past months.

"Cherry," he said, taking her small hand in his and speaking in an unwontedly gentle way, "has thy aunt told thee wherefore I want thee?"

"No, father; she said that thou wouldst tell me."

"And so I will; but tell me first if there is aught amiss with thee. I have missed thy laugh of late, and thou hast lost some of thy roses. Does aught ail thee, child?"

Sudden tears welled up in Cherry's eyes; her lip began to tremble.

"I know not, I know not," she answered, with a little sob. "It only seems sometimes as though I could not bear the life any longer; it is all so drear, so dull, so dead! one day like another—always the same. Sometimes I think the narrow house will stifle me! O father, chide me not; I have struggled against the feeling, but the life is killing me! I know not how to bear it—alone."

The last word was almost a whisper, and escaped Martin's ears. He was regarding his child with a thoughtful and perplexed countenance. He fancied that he was somewhat in the position of a mother hen who sees its foster brood of ducklings take to the water for the first time. He did not understand this outburst in the least. Cherry's restless discontent was an enigma to him. But he saw that it was real, and that it was a source of trouble and suffering to herself; and he wisely resolved neither to rebuke nor condemn her, but simply to treat it as the symptom of a malady of the body which might be cured by a few months' change and relaxation.

The child was half frightened at her own boldness, and stood trembling before him, Her aunt would have boxed her ears and sent her to bed for such a confession; but her father only looked at her as though he were trying to read her very soul, and Cherry instinctively dropped her eyes, as if fearful that another secret would be read there—a secret which she kept locked up closely in her breast, and would not for the world that any other should know.

"Cherry," said Martin Holt, speaking slowly and quietly, "I know not what to think of thy words, save that thy disordered fancies come from a disordered health. Thou hast been looking less robust than I like to see thee; wherefore I think it well that thou shouldest have some change in thy life, and see if that will cure thee. Thy good aunt Prudence Dyson, a younger sister of thy mother, has sent to ask me if I will spare her one of my daughters to help wait upon some young madams staying with my Lady Humbert. Thou hast not been brought up to such duties, but thou hast quick hands and eyes, and, I trust, a willing heart, and I have resolved to send thee. Thou wilt be in the country, and the change will doubtless be good for thee. I shall look to receive thee back restored to thine old self again. The Cross Way House stands south from this by some seventeen miles, and is not very far away from the forest of which Cuthbert used to talk, and Trevlyn Chase where his kinsfolk live. Thou mayest hear somewhat of him there, for methinks the ladies Wyvern are in some sort his kinsfolk, too. I marvel that all these months have gone by without a word or a sign from him. Thou canst ask if aught has been heard of him. I trust no mishap has befallen the lad. He promised us news of himself ere now."

Had the room been less dim and dark, Martin might have seen the sudden alternations of red and white in Cherry's cheek as these last words were spoken; but the twilight was drawing in apace, and she kept her face down bent. But her heart was beating fast with throbs of gladness as well as astonishment. The idea of being sent away from home to the house of strangers was something fearful, but the last clause had given her food for eager anticipation. Where would she not go for news of Cuthbert, for whom she was now pining, and pining all the more sadly because she might speak to none of her anxiety and trouble?

Cuthbert had said he should be some months away; but she had looked for him at Michaelmas, and now October was speeding along, and yet there was no sign. Cherry had all a London girl's terror of the forests and their perils. She remembered how he had spoken of danger when last he had ridden through, and how nearly the terrible old gipsy had fulfilled her vow of vengeance by wreaking it upon his head. Might she not have found him and have slain him when he lived hidden away in the forest? Might not his search for the lost treasure have led him into many deadly perils? If living and free, why had he not written or appeared to her by this time? Could it be—oh, could it be—that he had forgotten her, and was keeping purposely away? Almost sooner would she believe him dead; but either fear filled her with dread and dismay.

And now a new throb of hope was in her heart. Once near the forest and what might she not hear or see? Might she not even find him herself? In her ignorance and inexperience anything seemed possible if only she might escape from the trammels of city life, and from the Argus eye of her aunt Susan.

"And am I to go and help my aunt Prudence, father?"

"Yes; I think it is but right and kind that thou shouldst do so. Thou art willing thyself?—and wilt thou be docile and teachable?"

"I will strive in all things to please her."

"That is well. I shall trust thee to do credit to thy name."

"And when am I to go, father?"

"So soon as I can find escort for thee; and that methinks will not be long, since the house stands directly on the road betwixt London and Southampton. Thou hadst best look to thy clothes and such things as thou mayest need there; for I would not lose a chance of sending thee safely guarded. I shall to Abraham Dyson this very evening, to ask what business is doing by road with Southampton just now."

"And how long shall I be away, father?"

"Nay, child, that I know not. Prudence makes no mention of that. Haply, I take it, a matter of three months or so, since had the ladies been leaving shortly she would scarce have sent so urgently for thee. Thou wilt not be home for thy Christmas, I fear; but thou wilt be in a good and a godly house, with thine own aunt to watch over thee; and I trow that thou wilt so act and comport thyself as to bring credit and not disgrace upon the name thou bearest."

"I will try, good father," answered Cherry with great meekness; and her father kissed her and bid her begone, for that he was about to go forth and talk to Abraham Dyson on this matter.

Cherry went up to her room feeling bewildered, half frightened, and yet elated and pleased. Something had come to break at last the long monotony of the life which she felt was crushing the spirit out of her. She was going to a place where it seemed that she must surely have news of Cuthbert, and where, if she did not pass him on the road, she would certainly be nearer to him.

Her sisters, greatly astonished, could scarcely believe their ears when told that Cherry was really going away; and Keziah hung over her with wistful eyes, assisting her to get her clothes ready, and wondering what the house would seem like without its rebellious and most attractive member.

"Methinks it will be duller than ever," she said. "Jacob will scarce care to come if thou art gone."

"Jacob! why, I trow he will but come the more," answered Cherry, with a saucy gleam in her eye as she looked in Kezzie's grave face. "He will come to thee for comfort, my sister, and I trow that thou wilt give it him in full measure."

Keziah's grave face lighted up somewhat.

"Thinkest thou that? Indeed I would gladly try. Jacob is a good lad and a kind one. I marvel thou dost not treat him better, Cherry."

"I like Jacob; he is very good. We are great friends," answered Cherry hastily, "but—"

There she broke off and busied herself over her trunk, saying as she leaned so far into it that her face could not be seen, "Kezzie, if Cuthbert should come back, thou wilt tell him where I have gone. Tell him I am with his kinsfolk, and ask him if he goes that way to pay a visit to them."

"I will," answered Keziah, who had her own ideas about Cuthbert's sudden and entire disappearance; "but I fear me we shall see Cuthbert no more. He—"

"Why sayest thou so? What dost thou know? What dost thou mean, Keziah? Hast thou heard aught of him?"

"Bless the child—no—" answered Keziah hastily "How should I know aught of him? But, Cherry, my sweet sister, be not angry with me if I say it. Cuthbert is a Trevlyn, for all that our aunt was his mother. He is of rank above ours. He may have made friends in his own walk in life. He may repent him of the friendships he made at the bridge house. Be not wroth with me for saying it, but men before him have gone forth and returned not to those who looked for them. But if he comes I will tell him—I will tell him all. Only do not too greatly count upon it. I grieve so lest thou shouldest be disappointed."

Cherry said nothing. She would not even by a word seem to doubt Cuthbert's fidelity. Keziah, if she did not know how matters stood betwixt them, knew enough to have a very shrewd suspicion of it. She had been in some sort Cherry's confidante. Both the sisters had some knowledge of each other's secret.

The next evening, just before it grew dark, as Cherry was sitting alone in the upper parlour, exempt from household toil that she might get her own wardrobe ready, and now having laid her needle aside because she could no longer see, the door opened, and the tall, loose figure of Jacob Dyson appeared framed against the dark background of the staircase behind, and the girl sprang to her feet with a little exclamation of pleasure and welcome.

"I thought that thou wouldst come to see me, Jacob. Thou hast heard that I am going away?"

"Ay, I have heard it. Art thou glad to be going, Cherry?"

"Yes, verily I am. I am sick at heart for news of him, and perchance I may get it where I be going. I shall be near his home and his kinsfolk."

Jacob had sat down, and was turning his cap round and round in those large red hands that were such an offence to the girl. After a few moments of silence he looked up and said:

"Cherry, hast thou ever thought of the things thou hast said to me—of the promise thou hast given?"

She bent her head low, and the whispered "Yes," was barely audible.

"Thou wilt not go back from thy word?"

She raised her head suddenly and said:

"No, Jacob, I will not go back from my word. Thou hast been very good and kind and patient; and if in time to come it should be proved that Cuthbert is dead, or has wed another and been false to me, then I will say naught against thee, but will do as my father saith, and strive to make thee a good wife. But I have never promised to love thee as a wife should love her husband. Thou must not expect that of me, Jacob."

She lifted her eyes to his with a look that sent a quick thrill through him. He put out one of his hands and took hers, saying in very gentle tone, though his gestures were slightly uncouth:

"I will only strive might and main to win thy love, sweetheart. Methinks if thy heart were once free again thou mightest learn the lesson."

She shook her head and answered very low:

"Thou couldst learn to love again, good Jacob; but I—never. I would that thou couldst look around thee, and find a good and useful wife whom thy mother would welcome; who would love thee well, and whom thou couldst love without let. There be such—I am well assured of it. As for me, even though some day thou shouldst gain my hand, my heart can never be thine."

Jacob looked at her with a wistful, dog-like devotion, and heaved a heavy sigh. That unselfish and faithful youth was going through a rather hard probation, such as so often falls upon the best and warmest hearted of earth's sons, who have been denied those outward graces that charm the fancy and take the eye. He had long since divined the secret of the attachment betwixt Cuthbert and Cherry; and when urged by his father to press his own suit, had been backward in so doing. On Cuthbert's disappearance he had one day spoken openly to Cherry of his suspicions, and she had frankly told him all, begging him to keep their secret, and to hold off his own suit until Cuthbert's quest should be over, and he could come to claim her as his own.

Truth to tell, Jacob had little belief in the finding of the lost treasure; but he did believe in Cuthbert, whom he loved only second to Cherry, and whom he would any day have set before himself. He made Cherry a promise that it should be as she desired; that he would give her time to test Cuthbert's sincerity before he spoke another word of marriage with her. But he also timidly asked in return for the sacrifice he was making, and as a reward for his championship, that if Cuthbert should never return, if harm should befall him in the forest, or if some other maiden should win his heart and hand, that then Cherry should become his wife, and let him try to comfort her by his own devoted and life-long love.

Cherry had given the promise without overmuch persuasion. What good would life be to her without Cuthbert? she had argued. If she could make any one else happy, she might as well do it as not. Jacob was very good. He would be kind to her and patient with her, whilst her aunt Susan would be just the reverse. Life under such conditions, beneath that unsympathetic rule, would be well-nigh unendurable. It would be better for her own sake to wed Jacob and escape from it all. And when the promise had been given, it seemed so little likely that she would be called upon to fulfil it! Even now she scarcely contemplated it seriously, for her heart was filled with hope. Was she herself not going towards the forest and Cuthbert? Surely she would hear somewhat of him there!

"I shall ask none other woman to be my wife until I know that thou canst never be mine, Cherry," answered Jacob, with gentle obstinacy. "I shall never wish aught of ill to Cuthbert. Thou knowest that I would stand betwixt him and peril an I might. But till he stands at thy side and claims thee as his own, I will not give thee up. I can bide my time—I can wait and watch."

She looked at him with suddenly dilating eyes, as though a qualm of fear had smitten her.

"But, Jacob, if he were to come hither when I be gone, thou wouldst not hinder him from finding me; thou wouldst not do him any ill turn that we might be kept apart? That would not be fair; it would be an ill thing. It would be—"

She stopped suddenly short, for Jacob had risen, and seemed to stand towering above her, with something majestic in his air that she had certainly never observed there before.

"Cherry! for what dost thou take me?" he asked, his voice quivering with an emotion that showed him to be deeply moved. "Hast thou so vile an opinion of the man thou mayest some day call thy husband, the man who bears the name of thy dead mother, that thou canst think such evil thoughts of him? No, Cherry, I will not hinder him from finding thee. I will in no wise stand between you. I will aid him with all that is in my power to find thee. If peril should menace him and I could stand betwixt him and it, I would do so gladly. I would lay down my life for him, if by so doing thou and he might one day be happy. Dost think that I prize my life so high, since I may not win the crown that would make its happiness? If I may not live for thee, Cherry, methinks I would sooner die for thee, if by so doing I might win thee happiness and love. I love thee and I love Cuthbert. I ask nothing better than that I may in some sort serve and save you twain."

And with a gesture of rugged dignity of which Cherry was keenly aware, and which raised Jacob to an altogether different level in her mind, he held out his hand as if to seal the compact, and without waiting for her broken words of explanation and apology, turned and walked out of the room.

Two days later Cherry started forth upon her travels. Her father went part of the way with her, and left her but seven miles from the end of her journey. She was escorted by a body of merchants and their servants, who were transporting some merchandise to Southampton, and were a goodly company in themselves for fear of assault from the robbers of the road. As they had quantities of valuables with them, they intended to travel only during the daylight hours, and after leaving Cherry at the Cross Way House, would put up for the night at the nearest town on the southern side of the forest.

How Cherry's heart beat as her fellow travellers pointed out the wall and chimneys of her destination, and the whole party reined up at the door! The Cross Way House was well known to travellers as being one of the regular landmarks along the road. It was a hospitable mansion for any wayfarers in distress, and its mistress was held in high repute, and had never yet been molested or threatened by the highway bands, who might have been troublesome to the members of any household whose walls abutted so close upon the road. Lady Humbert was reaping the reward for the renowned kindness of heart of the whole Wyvern family towards all the lowly, the unfortunate, and the oppressed; and though many a fugitive fleeing from the robbers had found shelter within her walls, these had proved as safe shelter as the walls of any ancient sanctuary; for once within Lady Humbert's gates and not even the most hated and hunted foe need fear further molestation.

Cherry had heard some such words as these as the party had jogged onwards together; and now she found herself standing timidly at the back entrance of the house, her box beside her, and one of her uncle's friends at her side. When the door was opened and her guardian spoke her name and errand, she was quickly made welcome to enter, and after saying a hasty goodbye to the kindly merchant, found herself traversing several long stone passages, till she was finally ushered into a low parlour, where an elderly woman sat brewing over the fire some concoction which looked like one of Mistress Susan's compounds of berries and spice.

"Sure it is my good aunt, Prudence Dyson," said Cherry, as the woman looked quickly round. "Methinks I should have guessed that anywhere, thou art so like to my uncle."

The woman came forward and saluted her niece gravely and kindly.

"Thou art Martin Holt's daughter? What is thy name, child? I could scarce make it out from Susan's letter, for she is no scholar, as she ofttimes says. I am right glad to welcome thee, and I trust thou comest to us with a willing heart?"

"A right willing heart," answered the girl, smiling bravely, despite the strangeness of her surroundings; for there was something home-like and comforting in the aspect of her aunt and in the sound of her voice. "I was glad my father's choice lighted on me, and I will strive to please in all I do. My name is Cherry—at least that is how I am always called. And who are the ladies upon whom I am to wait?"

"The one whom thou wilt chiefly serve is Mistress Kate Trevlyn, a daughter of Sir Richard Trevlyn of the Chase. I know not if thou knowest aught of the family, but most like thou art aware that thy aunt Bridget made a luckless marriage with one Nicholas Trevlyn, whereby she cast herself adrift from all her family. Why, child, what a colour thou hast! What dost thou know of this matter?"

"I know my cousin Cuthbert Trevlyn," answered Cherry, trying to speak naturally, though her heart beat wildly all the while. "He came to us a year ago, and remained beneath my father's roof till the summer had well-nigh come. From him we learned much of the family; and right glad am I to think that I may serve Mistress Kate, who was a kind friend to him in times past. My cousin Cuthbert was much beloved by all our house whilst he remained beneath our roof. We have not heard of him this many a day. Dost thou know aught of him, my aunt?"

Prudence Dyson gave her niece a quick, sharp glance, and then answered a little evasively:

"Thou must ask that question of Mistress Kate, my dear, if she will please to talk with thee. She may have had news of him belike. As for us of this household, we hear but little of what happens in the world beyond. We are all growing old together."

Had it not been for the earnestness with which they were talking, the aunt and niece might have heard a light footfall down the passage. The door was softly pushed open, and a clear voice asked:

"Is Mistress Dowsabel's hot posset ready, Dyson? she has asked for it more than once."

Both women started and turned round, and Cherry uttered a little involuntary cry, whilst the name "Cuthbert" sprang to her lips so fast that she was not sure that she had not uttered it aloud. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of the dark-eyed girl who had brought the message.

"I will take it at once," said Dyson, hastily lifting it from the fire. "I crave my lady's pardon for being late with it; but my niece from London has but just arrived, and I was hindered for the moment.

"Cherry, wait here till I return, and then I will speak more with thee."

Dyson hurried away with the posset, and the two girls stood gazing at each other, a light of welcome and amaze in both their eyes.

"Cherry! did she call thee Cherry? and from London, too? And Kate bath ofttimes said that—Oh, why waste words?" cried the girl, breaking off quickly. "Tell me, art thou Martin Holt's daughter? art thou my brother Cuthbert's Cherry?"

"Thy brother? then thou art Petronella!" cried Cherry, in a maze of bewilderment; and even as she spoke the name she felt Petronella's arms about her, and they were laughing and kissing, questioning and exclaiming, all in the most incoherent fashion, yet contriving to make each other understand some fragments of their respective stories, till at last Petronella drew herself away and laid her hand on Cherry's arm, saying as she did so:

"But remember that here I am Ellen Wyvern, and not even good Dyson knows more than that. Be on thy guard, good coz, and only speak familiarly to me in secret. O Cherry, how I have longed to see thee—Cuthbert's Cherry, of whom I have heard so much! And how comest thou hither? Has he sent thee?"

"He? I have not seen him these six months past. Petronella, sweet cousin, give me good news of him."

"Why, so I can—the very best. He has found the treasure. It is safely lodged here. And he has gone forth into the forest again, first to tell the tale to the gipsy queen, who has been his friend through all, and then to return to London to thy father's house to seek his Cherry once again, and claim her hand before all the world."



Chapter 21: The Gipsy's Warning.

"Thy task is done, and it is well done. But now get thee from the forest with all speed, for there is peril to thee here."

So said Joanna, standing before Cuthbert in the pixies' dell, her hand upon the low stone wall, her tall figure drawn up to its full height. She had been looking thoughtfully down into the sparkling water, which was now filling the well as of old, whilst Cuthbert told his tale with graphic power. An expression of calm triumph was on her face as she heard how the long-lost hoard was lying safely stored within the house of the Wyverns—a house sacred to the gipsies and safe from any raids of robbers, such was the esteem in which that name was held. She looked like one whose task is done, who feels a heavy load lifted from the mind; but the glance fixed upon Cuthbert's eager face was also one of gravity and meaning.

"The forest is no place for thee now," she said; "get thee hence as fast as thou canst."

"And wherefore so?" asked Cuthbert, surprised. "Methought the peril ceased with the death of—"

"Hush!" said the gipsy, almost sternly; "bethink thee that there may be listeners even now about us in these thick bushes, and guard thy words with caution. Remember the strange links that bind together those of the wild gipsy blood; and remember that Long Robin lies in his bloody grave not far from here."

She lowered her voice as she spoke, and Cuthbert instinctively followed her example.

"But no man knows that."

"How canst thou tell?"

"None saw the deed. It was done in the dead of night. Ere morning came he was laid below the earth. Thou thyself knew not what had befallen him till I spoke the word."

He looked at her as if in momentary distrust; but the calm gaze and the noble countenance of the gipsy seemed to reassure him. Joanna, who had read his thought, smiled slightly.

"Nay, boy, thou needst not fear treachery from Joanna, and the gipsy queen will give thee all protection in her power. Have I not told thee that upon me, when I received that title, was laid the charge of seeing the stolen treasure restored to the house of Trevlyn? To thy courage and resolve and perseverance and skill belongs it that this charge is now fulfilled. Thou needst not fear that any ill will or lack of caution on Joanna's part will cause evil to light upon thy head. But there are others with whom thou mayest have to reckon. There is Miriam, to whom Long Robin was as the apple of the eye."

"Yet he was not her husband (he is no aged man), and he can scarce have been her son."

"No matter. As I have told thee ere this, there be strange bonds betwixt us of the gipsy blood, binding closer and firmer than ever ties of kinship do. Miriam loved yon man with a love passing all others. She has missed him these many weeks. She is frantic with anxious grief. She is convinced that some ill has befallen him. She is rousing to anger and vengeance the whole tribe. They have vowed that they will find Robin, whether he be dead or alive, and that if dead they will avenge them on his murderer. Already suspicion has fallen upon thee. Dost think thy many journeys through the forest have passed unnoted by us?"

"I have never seen a soul; I had not known myself watched."

"Luckily for thee thou hast not been watched, else would little of the treasure have been placed in safe keeping. Thou hast reaped the benefit Robin hoped to reap himself alone when he surrounded this dell as with a barrier that no man might pass. Even the most daring spirits of our tribe dare not come here; and Miriam, who bids them scour the forest in all other directions, fears to tell them to come hither, albeit I well know she will shortly search the spot herself if Robin come not soon. Then she will find the grave; it will not escape her eyes. First she will think the lost treasure lies there, for I am convinced that Robin never told her the full secret. Then when she looks farther, she will find what that grave really contains; and thou hadst best be far away ere that day comes. Thou hast been seen. Thy journeyings in the forest have provoked wonder and curiosity. Let Miriam once learn that Robin lies there, and the whole truth will flash upon her; and then look thou to thyself!"

These words were spoken with such significance that Cuthbert experienced an involuntary qualm of fear.

"I thank thee for the warning," he said; "I will avail myself of thy kind counsel. I had thought of journeying to London ere this. There, it may be, I shall be hidden from their malice."

"Thou wilt be safer there than here," answered the gipsy quietly; "I will not say thou wilt be truly safe in any spot if Miriam's ire be once roused against thee. She has a wondrous fierce spirit, and she has influence with our people second only to mine. And then there hung about Long Robin a mysterious charm. Men loved him not—they feared and distrusted him; and yet, were it to be known that he had met his death by violence, Miriam would have but small trouble in stirring up the hearts of a score of stout fellows vowed to vengeance. In the forest thou wilt have small chance of thy life."

"Perchance they will follow me to London," said Cuthbert; "if so, it will be small use to fly."

"In London our folks have fears for themselves," answered the gipsy queen. "Half of them are outlawed; the other half lie beneath the suspicion of sorcery, which in these days is almost worse. They may hover about the dens of the city, but they will fear to molest thee elsewhere. Thou must take heed how thou venturest beyond the city walls, for Tyrrel and his men may be lurking beyond on the watch."

"Methought Tyrrel and Miriam were no such friends," said Cuthbert, recollecting the night when he had been brought to the mill. "Will he take up her quarrel?"

"If she can make him believe that Robin had the secret of the lost treasure, and that thou didst force the secret from him ere thou laidest him in his grave, he will take up the quarrel in right good earnest, and rest not till he has learned where the treasure has been hid. We of the gipsy tribe have as little believed in that hid treasure as the house of Trevlyn, hence its safety all these years. But let Miriam once tell what she knows—which is something, I warrant—and there may be many who will then believe that the secret was in Robin's keeping. They will be certain sure that thou wouldst not have killed the man until thou hadst made sure of the treasure. It would be acting like the fabled yokel who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. Wherefore be gone. Hide thyself in London town. In a few weeks or months the chase may be over; but for the time being beware of the forest!"

"I will," answered Cuthbert. "I thank thee for thy good counsel. I will be speedily gone."

Joanna stood looking reflectively at him.

"Thou wouldst he safest within the walls that shelter the treasure—with thy kinsfolk of the house of Wyvern."

"Nay, but I must first go to London," answered Cuthbert quickly; "I have been long absent. My kinsfolk there will be looking for news of me. And perchance my presence in the house of my kinswomen might imperil them. I would not be a cause of danger to them."

"Thou art a bold and true-hearted lad," answered Joanna; "and it may be well that for the nonce thou shouldest keep away from the Cross Way House. Thy presence there might awaken suspicion; though I scarce believe that any lust of gold would drive our people to attack that house. Go then to London, and lose thyself there awhile. Presently thou mayest return and see how thy sister fareth; but not too soon—not too soon!"

Cuthbert started.

"My sister!" he said; "how knowest thou that?"

Joanna smiled her lofty smile.

"Ask a gipsy how she knoweth what takes place within the limits of her domain! Tush, boy! thinkest thou that I do not know all that passes in the forest? Thy sister has done well to find a shelter there. She is safer at the Cross Way House than in this dell with thee."

"If she is safe I can well look to myself," answered Cuthbert, with the confidence of youth and strength. "To be warned where the peril lies is half the battle. I will be cautious—I will be wary; and having naught to keep me in the forest, I will start for London town this very day."

"Ay, do so, and without an hour's delay. Old Miriam is raging like a fury. Tyrrel may at any moment return, and I trow she will rouse him to bitter enmity towards thee. Fly, before any strive to stay thee. And when thou hast reached the city, go once again to Esther. Tell her that the deed is done, the treasure found, that it lies in the house of the Wyverns, and that the luck has come back to the house, as was always said, through the daughters' sons."

"I will," answered Cuthbert; and bidding a farewell to the gipsy, to whose protection and goodwill he owed so much, he left the dell and made his way rapidly through the forest, till he struck the road which would lead him to London.

He would not turn out of the direct way to go to the Cross Way House, though he would gladly have seen his sister and Kate and his aged kinswomen again. He did not wish them to know of the peril which might threaten his own path, nor did he desire to draw attention to that house by directing his steps thither in broad daylight. Plainly his presence in the forest had already excited remark. He had been seen far oftener than he had known. If he did not linger, but pursued his way to London without delay, he might reach it by nightfall, and that was no small inducement to him. Petronella knew that he was bound thither; she would not reckon on seeing him again. And there was Cherry at the other end. The thought of seeing her again that very day drew him onwards like a magnet. During these long weeks of search and hard toil, the thought of Cherry had been the best sweetener of his labour. He had talked of her with his sister, he had dreamed of her when he lay down to sleep at night, and now he was on his way to see her, to tell her all the tale, and ask her at her father's hand. The thought was sweet to intoxication, and his eager anticipation seemed to put wings to his feet.

How different were his feelings as he drew near to the great city this second time! It was just about a year since he had entered it for the first time, a stranger, homeless, well-nigh penniless, and very uncertain of the reception he should receive from his kinsfolk on the bridge. Now he stepped towards the region of shining lights with all confidence and joy. He was rich past his wildest hopes, for the treasure had proved to be far greater than even his fondest dreams had credited; and he knew that when division was made, it would be no niggard portion that would fall to the share of the finder. He had won for himself such goodwill from his kinsfolk as would stand him in good stead in days to come. He had enlarged his scholarship, made for himself a number of friends of all degrees, and, above all, had won the love of his cousin Cherry, and a position which would enable him speedily to ask her at her father's hands. He would fulfil his boyish promise made last Yuletide, when he vowed her that the day should come when she should no longer pine for the innocent gaieties and luxuries of wealth, but should herself be a lady of some degree, and should have her house and her horses and servants, and a bright and happy future with the husband of her choice.

Now he had set foot upon the bridge, and was eagerly traversing the familiar roadway, as the short daylight faded and the lights from the houses shone out brighter and brighter in the gloom. His uncle's house was almost in sight. His heart was beating high with anticipation and delight, when a hand was laid suddenly upon his shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with Anthony Cole.

He was about to exclaim in words of pleasure and welcome, when his attention was arrested by the strange expression upon the thin, eager face—an expression so strange that it checked the commonplace words of greeting that sprang naturally to Cuthbert's lips, and he waited in silence for what Anthony should say.

"Thou hast come! it is well," said the latter, in tones that were little above a whisper. "Methought that thou wouldst not be absent at such a time. Well doth it behove every true son of the Church to rally round her at such a moment. I felt assured that thou wouldst be here. Others beside me have been watching for thee. It is well. Keep thine own counsel; be wary, be discreet. And now go. It boots not that we be seen talking together thus. When thou hast fitting opportunity, come secretly to my house; thou wilt be welcome there."

And half pushing Cuthbert from him before the bewildered youth had time to speak a single word, the printer disappeared within his own door, and Cuthbert was left to make his way to his uncle's house.

"Beshrew me if I know what Master Anthony means!" said Cuthbert to himself. "I trow there be matters stirring in London town of which we in the country know nothing. How strange it is that one can hardly set foot in this great seething city without hearing words of mystery—without feeling oneself enwrapped in its strange atmosphere of doubt and perplexity. Something is doubtless astir of which I know naught; but at my uncle's house I shall hear all."

The shutters were just being put up at Martin Holt's as Cuthbert stepped across the threshold. The servant uttered a cry of astonishment as he saw his master's nephew, and Martin himself came forward from the little room behind.

"Bless me, is it thou, Cuthbert?" he exclaimed in surprise. "Well, boy, thou art welcome since thou art come, though we had almost begun to think thou hadst forgot us and thy promise to return. Come upstairs and greet thy aunt and cousins. Hast thou seen aught of Cherry, as thou comest from the south?"

Cuthbert stepped back a pace, and some of the light went out of his face.

"Cherry!" he stammered, taken aback. "How should I have seen her? Is she not here?"

"Not for a matter of four days. She is helping her aunt, Prudence Dyson at the Cross Way House, to wait upon some guests the ladies are entertaining. Methought if you had come that way you might have chanced upon her."

A keen thrill of disappointment ran through Cuthbert's frame. To think how near he had been to Cherry and had never guessed it! If only he had called at the Cross Way House that day!

"I have not been there for the matter of a week. I was last at Trevlyn Chase; but mine uncle and his son have gone to London, as I heard. I had hoped to find Cherry here."

"Well, thou wilt find all but her. Go up, go up! Thou wilt need refreshment after thy journey, and thou shalt hear the news as we sup. Thine old room shall be made ready for thee. I am glad to see thy face again, boy; and would hear thy story anon."

Cuthbert received a warmer welcome than he had looked for from the aunt and cousins upstairs. Perhaps they were all missing the brightness that had left them when Cherry went. Perhaps the vacant place at the board day by day was an offence to the conservative eye of Mistress Susan. But whatever was the cause, there was no denying the cordiality of the reception accorded to him; and after the lonely life of the forest, and all his wanderings there, his strange resting places, and many hours of watching, toil, and anxious fear, it seemed pleasant indeed to be sitting at this hospitable board, warmed by the friendly glow of the fire, and discussing the savoury viands that always adorned a table of Mistress Susan's spreading, and which did indeed taste well after the hardy and sometimes scanty fare he had known in the forest.

But his open-air life had done him good in many ways. His uncle smiled, and told him he had grown to be a very son of Anak, and that he was as brown as a gipsy; whilst his cousins looked at him with furtive admiration, and Keziah could almost have wept that Cherry was not there to welcome him.

Cuthbert, however, quickly got over his disappointment on this score, and after swallowing a few sighs, was content to think that it might indeed be best so. Cherry would learn where he was from Petronella, and would hear from her that his heart was still her own, and that success had crowned his search after the lost treasure. He could go to seek her shortly, when the gipsy tribe should have drawn away from that part of the forest into the quarters they preferred during the winter months. Were she to be here, he must surely betray himself, and should have to speak immediately to Martin Holt of his desire to make Cherry his wife. Somehow, when face to face with his uncle, he felt less confident of winning his sanction for this step than he had done when away from him in the forest. There it had seemed perfectly simple so long as he could show the father that he had the means to keep a wife in comfort. Now he began to wonder if this would be enough. Hints were dropped by both the Holts regarding Cherry's approaching marriage with Jacob Dyson. Mistress Susan openly regretted her absence from home as hindering that ceremony; and although Martin Holt spoke with more reticence, it was plain he was still cherishing the hope of the match when his wilful youngest should be a little older.

It might be that Cherry's absence at this time was fortunate rather than the reverse. Cuthbert, at any rate, was relieved from the necessity for immediate action; and when he had spoken a little of himself, his kinsfolk, and the visits he had paid during his wanderings in the forest (keeping the real object of those wanderings quite out of the talk), he turned his conversation to other matters, and asked what was passing in London, and what was chiefly stirring men's minds.

"Marry it is the opening of Parliament that is the chiefest thing," said Martin Holt. "It is said in the city that his Majesty loves not his good Parliament; and truly it looks like it, since he has put off its opening so many a time. First it was to have been last February, then not till the third of this present month. Now it is again prolongued till the fifth of November next; but I trow his Majesty will scarce dare to postpone again. His people like not those rulers who fear to meet those who are chosen by them to debate on matters of the state. It looks not well for the sovereign to fear to meet his people."

Cuthbert, who knew little about such matters, asked many questions about Parliament and its assemblies. His uncle answered him freely and fully, and explained to him exactly the site of the building where the great body assembled.

"Thou canst take the wherry thou used to love so well, and row thyself to Westminster one of these days, and look well at the Parliament Houses," said Martin Holt. "It is a grand spectacle to see the King come in state to open the assembly. Thou mayest see that sight, too, an thou purposest to stay with us so long."

"I would gladly do so," answered Cuthbert, who remembered that he was bidden not to return to the forest too quickly. He knew that, now he was safely away, Joanna would allow all search to be made after him there, and that it would soon be ascertained that he had fled. But whilst that search was going on, he was safest in London, and was glad enough of the opportunity of seeing any gay pageant.

As he lay in his narrow bed that night, enjoying the comfort of it after his chilly nook in the tree, which had been his best shelter of late, and somewhat disturbed by the noises that from time to time arose from the street below, he recalled to mind the strange greeting he had received from Anthony Cole, and wondered anew at his mysterious words.

And then his fancy somehow strayed to the great Parliament Houses of which his uncle had spoken. He remembered that strange dark journey across the river from Lambeth and the lonely house there to Westminster and its lofty palaces. He recalled the locality of the house he had entered, where Catesby and his friends were assembled at some strange toil, and the terrified aspect these men all wore when some unexpected sound had smitten upon their ears. He recalled the sudden fierce grip of Catesby's hand upon his arm before he recognized the face of the stranger within their midst. He recollected the threats he had striven to speak binding him to the silence he was so willing to promise.

What did it all mean? what could it mean? Lying in the dark, and turning the matter over and over in his mind, Cuthbert began to feel some fearful and sinister suspicions.

The month when all this had happened had been early in the year; was it January, or early February? He could scarce remember, but he knew it was one or the other. And had not his uncle said that Parliament was to have met in February? Now that it was about to meet soon again, had not Anthony spoken words implying that some muster of friends was looked for in London; and had not Anthony and his son always regarded him in the light of a friend and ally?

Cuthbert was by this time aware that he had but little love left for the creed in which he had been reared. It seemed to him that all, or at any rate far the greater part, of what was precious in that creed was equally open to him in the Church established in the land, together with the liberty to read the Scriptures for himself, and to exercise his own freedom of conscience as no priest of the Romish Church would ever let him exercise it. With him there had been no wild revulsion of feeling, no sense of tearing and rending away from one faith to join himself to another. His own convictions had been of gradual growth, and he still felt and would always feel a certain loving loyalty towards the Church of his childhood. Still, he was increasingly convinced of the fact that it was not within that fold that he himself could ever find true peace and conviction of soul; and though no ardent theologian, and by no means given over to controversy and dogmatism, he had reached a steady conclusion as to his own faith, and one that was little likely to be shaken.

At the same time he was kindly disposed to those of his countrymen who were still beneath the Papal yoke, and were suffering for their old allegiance. He honoured their constancy, and felt even a boyish sense of shame in having, as it were, deserted the weaker side when it was in trouble and undergoing persecution. He felt a qualm of uneasiness when he thought of this, and would gladly have shared the perils if he could have shared the convictions of those who had striven to make him their friend. Cuthbert was a little in advance of his times in the facility with which he set aside matters of opinion in the choosing of his friends. Those were days in which men were seldom able to do this. They still divided themselves into opposing camps, and hated not only the opinions embraced by their rivals, but the rivals themselves, without any discrimination at all. To be intimate and friendly with those of hostile opinions was far more rare then than it has since become; and Cuthbert, who possessed that faculty, was liable to be greatly misunderstood, and to run into perils of which he little dreamed.

Thinking of those things he had seen that strange night led him to wonder more and more what it could all mean; and, accordingly, upon the morrow the first visit he paid was to Anthony Cole on the bridge, hoping that through him this curiosity might be in some way satisfied.

Cuthbert took the privilege accorded him in old times, and walked through the house and up the narrow staircase without pausing in the shop below. It was still early, and business had not yet begun. The house was very silent; but he heard low-toned voices above, and pursued his way towards them. As he did so a door, the existence of which had never been discovered by him before, though he thought the house was well known by him from attic to basement, suddenly opened from the staircase, and a head appeared for a single instant, and was as suddenly withdrawn. The door closed sharply, and he heard the click as of a spring falling back to its place. He passed his hand across his eyes as he exclaimed beneath his breath:

"Sure that was Father Urban—"

But he began to feel doubtful as to his right to come and go in this house at will, and was about to descend the stairs quietly again, when a door opened from above, and some one came hastily down the stairs. Cuthbert fancied he saw the gleam of some weapon in the hand of the advancing figure, and felt that he had better be upon his guard.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn!" exclaimed a familiar voice, and a hand was slipped beneath the doublet, and there was no further gleam of cold steel. "I am right glad to welcome thee. It is well for friends to muster at such a time. Comest thou with news?"

Walter Cole was the speaker. His face too wore something of the look which Cuthbert had observed on the father's the previous evening—an expression of strained expectancy, as if with long waiting mind and spirit had alike grown worn and over anxious. The bright eyes scanned his face eagerly. Cuthbert felt half ashamed of his ignorance of and indifference to the burning questions of the day.

"I have heard naught, I know naught. I have been living the life of the forests these past months," he answered, following Walter into a small room where they had often worked together. "I have heard no word of what was passing in the world; I come to learn that here."

The eagerness faded from Walter's face. He spoke much more quietly.

"Belike thou wert right to hide and live thus obscure; many of our leaders have done the like. It is ofttimes the best and the safest plan. But the time is at hand, and we must rally around them now. When the hour has struck and when the deed is done, then will it be for us to work—then will our hour of toil come. East and west, north and south, must we spur forth with the tidings. The whole nation must hear it and be roused. The blow must be struck whilst the iron is hot. Thus and only thus can we be secure of the promised victory."

Walter spoke quietly, yet with an undercurrent of deep enthusiasm that struck an answering chord in Cuthbert's heart. All true and deep feeling moved him to sympathy. His friend was talking in riddles to him; but he felt the earnestness and devotion of the man, and his sympathy was at once aroused.

"What hour? what blow? what deed?" he asked wonderingly. "I know not of what thou speakest."

Walter drew his brows together and regarded him with an expression of intense and wondering scrutiny. When he spoke it was in a different tone, as though he were carefully weighing his every word, as though he were a little uncertain of the ground on which he stood. There was something of evasive vagueness in his tone, whilst his eyes were fixed on Cuthbert's face as though he would read his very soul.

"Methought thou knewest how cruelly we suffered, and that we trust some stroke of kind fortune's wheel may ere long make life something better for us. The King meets his Parliament soon. Then is the time when men's grievances may be discussed, and when there is hope for all that wiser and more merciful laws may be passed. We have gathered together at this time to see what may be done. We are resolved, as thou must surely know, not to suffer like this for ever. Half the people of the realm be with us. It were strange if nothing could be accomplished. Cuthbert Trevlyn, answer me this: thou dost wish us well; thou art not a false friend—one who would deceive and betray?"

"Never, never, never!" answered Cuthbert, with all the heat of youth and generous feeling. "I would never betray those who have trusted me, not though they were my foes. And I too hate and abominate these iniquitous laws that persecute men's bodies for what they hold with their minds and souls. I have suffered persecution myself. I know how bitter a thing it is. I would have every man free to believe that which his conscience approves. I would join with any who would implore the King to show mercy and clemency to his persecuted subjects."

Walter's face relaxed; he looked relieved and pleased.

"Methought that we could trust thee, Cuthbert. Thou art a Trevlyn; it must needs be thou art stanch. I am right glad that thou art here. There may be work yet for thee to do. Thou wilt abide in thine uncle's house until—"

"Until Parliament opens at least," answered Cuthbert quickly. "I have said as much to him, I would fain be there then and see it all. And my presence in the forest is known by foes; it is no place for me longer."

Then breaking off, for he had not meant to say so much, and had no wish to be further questioned on the subject, he asked in a low tone:

"Sure it was Father Urban whose face I saw on the stairs but now?"

"Hist! silence!" whispered Walter, with a glance enforcing caution; "do not breathe that name even within these walls. He is here at risk of his life; but at such a moment he will not be away. A warrant is out against him. He may not venture abroad by night or day. But he can be useful in a thousand ways, for he knows more than any other man of some matters appertaining to the state. And if our hopes be realized, then he will emerge from his prison and rove the country from end to end. He has friends in every place. To him we shall look for guidance in a hundred ways."

Walter's eyes glowed. He looked like one to whom triumph is a certainty—one who anticipates success and already tastes the sweets thereof. Cuthbert was growing uncomfortable. He felt as though he were hearing more than he ought to do. True, the Coles had talked in very much this fashion all through the dark days of the previous winter when he had been so much with them. They were always looking for a day of release, always dwelling on the bright prospects of the future. But some instinct told Cuthbert that there was a difference now in the fashion of their talk, and he was made uncomfortable by it though he scarce knew why.

He rose to go.

"I have but just returned. I have many visits to pay. I will come again anon," he said.

"Ay, but come not too openly. Let us not be seen consorting together. And as thou walkest the street, keep thine eyes and thine ears open and attent, and learn ever what men say and think. If thou hearest aught of moment, bring it to us. Every whisper may be of value. And now farewell. Come not again by day, but slip in by the door in the archway when all be wrapped in gloom. So it is safest."

Cuthbert drew a deep breath of relief when he stood once again in the fresh air. He walked rapidly through the familiar sunny streets and strove to forget the impression made upon him by the recent interview.

"Plots, plots, plots!" he muttered—"nothing but dark plots, and the hope that things will thus be set right. I misdoubt me if it will ever be by such means. Poor souls! I pity them with all my heart; but I like not their ways. They are not the ways of truth, of uprightness, of equity. Methinks I had better hold aloof and have no dealings with them. They seem to think because I like them—the men themselves—and mislike these persecutions even as they do, that I am one with them and understand their ways and their deeds. But I do not, I do not, and I think not that I ever shall. I will go mine own way, and they must go theirs. It were best not to meddle too much in strange matters. Now I will go and seek honest Jacob. From him methinks I shall get as warm a welcome, but a welcome that is not tinged with these mysteries and dark words."



Chapter 22: Whispers Abroad.

"Have naught to do with them, Cuthbert! I like them not."

"Yet they be good men, and stanch and true. Thou hast said so thyself a score of times in my hearing, good Jacob. Why should I avoid them now? What have they done amiss?"