The Lost Treasure of Trevlyn: A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot

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

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

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

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

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

"You sent for me, my father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Richard looked very grave.

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

"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?"