Everett-Green Evelyn
The Lost Treasure of Trevlyn: A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot
Chapter 18: "Saucy Kate."
"Wife, what ails the child?"
Lady Frances Trevlyn raised her calm eyes from her embroidery, and gave one swift glance around the room, as if to make sure that she and her husband were alone.
"Dost thou speak of Kate?" she asked then in a low voice.
"Ay, marry I do," answered Sir Richard, as he took the seat beside the glowing hearth, near to his wife's chair, which was his regular place when he was within doors. "I scarce know the child again in some of her moods. She was always wayward and capricious, but as gay and happy as the day was long-as full of sunshine as a May morning. Whence come, then, all these vapours and reveries and bursts of causeless weeping? I have found her in tears more oft these last three months than in all the years of her life before; and though she strives to efface the impression by wild outbreaks of mirth, such as we used of old to know, there is something hollow and forced about these merry moods, and the laugh will die away the moment she is alone, and a look will creep upon her face that I like not to see."
"Thou hast watched her something closely, Richard."
"Ay, truly I have. I would have watched any child of mine upon whom was passing so strange a change; but thou knowest that Kate has ever been dear to me-I have liked to watch her in her tricksy moods. She has been more full of affection for me than her graver sisters, and even her little whims and faults that we have had to check have but endeared her to me the more. The whimsies of the child have often brought solace to my graver cares. I love Kate right well, and like not to see this change in her. What dost thou think of it, goodwife?"
Lady Frances shook her head gravely.
"Methinks the child has something on her mind, and her sisters think so likewise, but what it is we none of us can guess. She keeps her secret well."
"It is not like Kate to have a secret; it is still less like her to hide it."
"That is what I feel. I have looked day by day and hour by hour for her to come to me or to thee to tell what is in her mind. But the weeks have sped by and her lips are still sealed, and, as thou sayest, she is losing her gay spirits, or else her gaiety is over wild, but doth not ring true; and there is a look in her eyes that never used to be there, and which I like not."
"I know the look well-one of wistful, unsatisfied longing. It goes to my heart to see it there. And hast thou noted that the bloom is paling in her cheeks, and that she will sit at home long hours, dreaming in the window seat or beside the hearth, when of old she was for ever scouring the woods, and coming home laden with flowers or ferns or berries? I like it not, nor do I understand it. And thou sayest her sisters know not the cause? I thought that young maidens always talked together of their secrets."
"Kate doth not. I have talked with Cecilia anent the matter, and she knows not the cause. Bess has opined that this change first appeared when it was decided that we went not to London this year, as we had talked of doing earlier in the summer. Bess says she noted then how disappointed Kate appeared; and she is of opinion that she has never been the same since."
Sir Richard stroked his beard with meditative gravity, and looked into the fire.
"It is true that the change has come upon her since that decision was made; and yet I find it something difficult to think that such was the cause. Kate never loved the life of the city, and was wild with delight when she first tasted the sweets of freedom in these woods and gardens. She loves her liberty right well, and has said a thousand times how glorious a thing it is to range at will as she does here. Capricious as the child has often shown herself, it is hard to believe that she is pining already for what she left with so glad a heart. It passes my understanding; I know not what to think."
Lady Frances raised her eyes for a moment to her husband's face, and then asked quietly:
"Hast thou ever thought whether some secret love may be the cause of all?"
The knight started and looked full at his wife.
"I have indeed thought some such thing, but I can scarce believe that such is the case with our Kate."
"Yet it is often so when maidens change and grow pale and dreamy, and sit brooding and thinking when erst they laughed and played. Kate is double the woman she was six months gone by. She will sit patiently at her needle now, when once she would throw it aside after one short hour; and she will seek to learn all manner of things in the still room and pantry that she made light of a short while back, as matters of no interest or concern to her. She would make an excellent housewife if she had the mind, as I have always seen; and now she does appear to have the mind, save when her fits of gloom and sadness be upon her, and everything becomes a burden."
Sir Richard looked aroused and interested. A smile stole over his face.
"Our saucy Kate in love, and that secretly! Marry, that is something strange; and yet I am not sorry at the thought, for I feared her fancy was something too much taken by her cousin Culverhouse; and since his father must look for a large dower for his son's bride, our Kate could never have been acceptable to him. Nor do I like the marriage of cousins so close akin, albeit in these times men are saying that there be no ill in such unions."
Lady Frances shook her head gravely.
"I would sooner see daughter of mine wedded in a lowlier sphere. My heart shrinks from the thought of seeing any child of ours in the high places of this world. There be snares and pitfalls abounding there. We have seen enough to know so much. There be bitter strivings and envyings and hatreds amongst those of lofty degree. I would have my children wed with godly and proper men; but I would sooner give them to simple gentlemen of no high-sounding title, than to those whose duties in life will call them to places round about the throne, and will throw them amidst the turmoil of Court life."
Sir Richard smiled at this unworldly way of looking at things; but the Trevlyns had suffered from being somewhat too well known at Court, and he understood the feeling.
"Truly we live in perilous times," he said thoughtfully, "and obscurity is often the best security for happiness and well being. But to return to Kate. If she is truly forgetting her girlish fancy for her cousin, as I would gladly believe-and she has not set eyes on him this year and more-towards whom can her fancy be straying?"
"Thou dost not think she can be pining after her cousin?"
"Nay, surely not," was the quick and decided answer. "Had she pined it would have been at the first, when they were separated from each other, and thou knowest how gay and happy she was then. It is but these past few months that we have seen the change. Depend upon it, there is some one else. Would that it might be good Sir Robert Fortescue, who has been here so much of late, and has paid much attention to our saucy Kate! Wife, what thinkest thou of that? He is an excellent good man, and would make a stanch and true husband. He is something old for the child, for sure; but there is no knowing how the errant fancy of maidenhood will stray."
"I would it might be so," answered Lady Frances. "Sir Robert is a good and a godly man, and I would gladly give our restless, capricious Kate to one who could be father and husband in one. But I confess the thought had not come to me, nor had I thought that he came hither to seek him a wife."
Sir Richard smiled meaningly.
"Nor had I until of late; but I begin to think that is his object. He pays more heed to the girls than he did when first he came to visit us, and he has dropped a word here and a hint there, all pointing in one direction. And dost thou not note that our Kate is often brightest and best when he is by? I had never thought before that her girlish fancy might have been caught by his gray hair and soldier-like air; yet many stranger things have happened. Wife, dost thou think it can be?"
"I would it were; it would be well for all. I will watch and see, and do thou likewise. I had not thought the child's fancy thus taken; but if it were so, I should rejoice. He would be a good husband and a kind one, and our headstrong second daughter will need control as well as love in the battle of life."
So the parents watched with anxious eyes, eager to see some indication which should encourage them in this newly-formulated hope. When once the idea had been started, it seemed to both as if nothing could be better than a marriage between their high-spirited but affectionate and warm-hearted daughter and this knight of forty summers, who had won for himself wealth and fame, and a soldier's reputation for unblemished honour and courage in many foreign lands. If not exactly the man to produce an immediate impression on the heart of a young girl, he might well win his way to favour in time; and certainly it did seem as though Kate took pleasure in listening to his stories of flood and field, whilst her bright eyes and merry saucy ways (for she was still her old bright self at times, and never more frequently so than in the company of Sir Robert) appeared very attractive to him.
When we are increasingly wishful for a certain turn in affairs, and begin sedulously to watch for it, unconsciously setting ourselves to work to aid and abet, and push matters on to the desired consummation, it is wonderful how easy it is to believe all is going as we wish, and to see in a thousand little trifling circumstances corroboration of our wishes. Before another fortnight had sped by, Kate's parents had almost fully persuaded themselves of the truth of their suspicion. They were convinced that the attachment between their child and their guest was advancing rapidly, and a day came when Sir Richard sought his wife with a very happy expression of countenance.
"Well, wife, the doubt will shortly be at an end. Sir Robert has spoken openly at last."
"Spoken of his love for our Kate?"
"Not in these words, but the meaning is the same. He has asked me if I am willing to entrust one of my daughters to his keeping."
"One of our daughters?" repeated Lady Frances. "And did he not name Kate? He cannot love them all."
"He spoke of Cecilia and Kate both," answered Sir Richard. "Sir Robert is not a hot-headed youth, full of the fire of a first passion. He wishes an alliance with our house, and he sees that Cecilia, with her four years' seniority, would perchance in the eyes of the world be the more suitable wife; and he admires her beauty, and thinks well of her dutifulness, her steadiness, and her many virtues. Yet it is Kate that takes his fancy most, and if he could hope to win the wayward fancy and the warm heart of our second child, she is the one whom he would fain choose as his own. He has spoken freely and frankly to me, and it comes to this: he would willingly marry Cecilia, and doubtless make her an excellent husband, and value the connection with the house of Trevlyn; but if he could succeed in winning the love of our saucy Kate, he would sooner have her than the more staid sister, only he fears his gray hairs and his wrinkles will unfit him as a suitor for the child. But we, who suspect her heart of turning towards him, have little fear of this. Kate's sharp eyes have looked beneath the surface. She has shown that she has a wise head upon her shoulders. So I told Sir Robert-"
"Not that the child had loved him unbidden, I trust, my husband? I would not have him think that!"
"Verily no, goodwife; but I told him there was no man living to whom I would more gladly give a daughter of mine; and that I would sound both of the maidens, and see how their hearts were set towards him. But I trow he went away happy, thinking he might win Kate after all. I could not but whisper a word of hope, and tell him how wondrous tame the wild bird had latterly become, and how that her mother had wondered whether thoughts of love had entered into her head."
Lady Frances smiled, half shaking her head the while, yet not entirely displeased even with such an admission as that. She had been watching her daughter closely of late, and she had tried to think as she wished to think; the consequence being that she had reached a very decided conclusion in accordance with her desires, and had small doubts as to the state of her daughter's heart.
"I verily believe the child's sadness has come from the fear that her youth will stand as a bar to her happiness. She knows Sir Robert is old enough to be her father, and fears that his attentions are paid as to a child. Thus has she striven to grow more wise, more womanly, more fit to be the mistress of his house. Methinks I see it all. And what is the next thing to be done? Must we speak with the child?"
"Ay, verily; for I have promised an answer to Sir Robert before many days have passed. He is to come again at the week's end, and his bride is to be presented to him. Thinkest thou that Cecilia will be grieved to find her younger sister preferred before her? Does she, too, think aught of Sir Robert?"
"I trow she likes him well, though whether she has thought of him as husband or lover I know not. She is more discreet than Kate, and can better hide her feelings. I doubt not were her hand asked she would give it gladly; but more than that I cannot say."
"Then let us hope her heart has not been deeply touched, for I should be sorry to give her pain. But let us incontinently send for Kate hither at once to us. I shall rejoice to see the light of untroubled happiness shining once again in those bright eyes. I would fain see my saucy Kate her own self again ere she leaves us as a wedded wife."
So Kate was summoned, and came before her parents with something of timidity in her aspect, looking furtively from one to the other, as if a question trembled on her lips that she did not dare to utter.
She had changed in many ways from the gay, laughing girl of a few months back. There were the same resolution and individuality in the expression of the face, and the delicate features had by no means lost all their old animation and bloom; but there was greater depth in the dark eyes, and more earnestness and gravity in the expression of both eyes and mouth. There was added sweetness as well as added thoughtfulness; and mingling strangely with these newer expressions was one still stranger on the face of Kate-a look of shrinking, almost of fear, as though she were treading some dangerous path, where lurked hidden perils that might at any moment overwhelm her.
The swift look of wistful questioning, the nervous movements of the slim hands, the parted lips and quickly coming breath, were not lost upon the parents, who were watching the advance of their daughter with no small interest and curiosity. But the smile upon both faces seemed to reassure the girl; and as her father held out his hand, she came and stood beside him willingly, looking from one to the other with fluttering breath and changing colour.
"You sent for me, my father?"
"Yes, Kate; we have somewhat to say to thee, thy mother and I. Canst guess what that something is?"
A vivid blush for a moment dyed her cheek and as quickly faded; but she did not speak, only shook her head.
Sir Richard gave his wife a quick smile, and took Kate's hand in his.
"My child," he said, with unwonted tenderness, "why hast thou been keeping a secret from thy mother and me?"
Kate started and drew her hand away, moving a pace farther off, and regarding her father with wide open, dilated eyes.
"A secret!" she faltered, and grew very pale.
Sir Richard smiled, and would have taken her hand once more, but that she glided from his reach, still watching him with an expression he found it hard to read. Her mother laid down her embroidery, and studied her face with a look of aroused uneasiness; but the father was utterly without suspicion of approaching any hidden peril, and continued in the same kindly tones.
"Nay, now, my girl, thou needest not fear!" he said. "All young maidens give their hearts away in time; and so as thou givest thine worthily, neither thy father nor thy mother will chide."
Kate gave one or two gasps, and then spoke with impassioned earnestness.
"O father, I could not help it! I strove against it as long as I might. I feared it was a thing that must not be. But love was too strong. I could not fight for ever."
"Tut-tut, child! why shouldest thou fight? Why didst thou not speak to thy mother? Girls may breathe a secret into a mother's ear that is not to be spoke elsewhere. Thou shouldest have told her, child, and have spared thyself much weary misery."
Kate's head was hung very low; neither parent could see her face.
"I did not dare," she answered softly; "I knew that I was wrong. I feared to speak."
"Thou art a strange mixture of courage and fear, my saucy Kate. I would once have vowed that thou wouldst fear not to speak aloud every thought of thy heart. But love changes all, I ween, and makes sad cowards of the boldest of us. And so thou didst wait till he declared his love, and fretted out thy heart in silence the while?"
Kate lifted her head and looked at her father, a faint perplexity in her eyes.
"Nay, I ever knew he loved me. It was that I feared thy displeasure, my father. I had heard thee say-"
"Nothing against Sir Robert, I warrant me," cried Sir Richard heartily; whilst Kate took one backward step and exclaimed:
"Methought Sir Robert was Cecilia's lover! Why speak you to me of him, my father?"
Sir Richard rose to his feet in great perplexity, looking at his wife, who was pale and agitated.
"Cecilia's lover-what meanest thou, child?" he asked quickly. "I was speaking to thee of thine own lover. Sir Robert would fain wed with thee, and methought thou hadst already given him thy heart."
"No-no-no!" cried Kate, shrinking yet further away. "I had no thoughts of him. O father, how couldst thou think it? He is a kind friend; but I have thought him Cecilia's knight, and I trow she thinks of him thus herself."
Lady Frances now spoke to her daughter for the first time, fixing her eyes upon her, and addressing her with composure, although visibly struggling against inward agitation.
"Listen to me, daughter Kate. Thou hast spoken words which, if they refer not to Sir Robert, as thy father and I believed, have need to be explained. Thou hast spoken of loving and of being beloved; what dost thou mean by that? Who is he that has dared-"
"O mother, thou knowest that; thou hast heard it a hundred times. It is Culverhouse, my cousin, who-"
But Sir Richard's face had clouded suddenly over. He had set his heart on marrying Kate to his friend Sir Robert, who would, he believed, make her an excellent husband; and he had long ago given a half pledge to Lord Andover to thwart and oppose the youthful attachment which was showing itself between Kate and Culverhouse. The Earl wished a grand match for his son, and the Trevlyn pride was strong in Sir Richard, who would never have had a daughter of his wed where she was not welcome. He also disliked marriages between first cousins, and made of that a pretext for setting his face against the match, whilst remaining on perfectly friendly terms with the Viscount and all his family. He had hoped and quite made up his mind that that boy-and-girl fancy had been laid at rest for ever, and was not a little annoyed at hearing the name of her cousin fall so glibly from Kate's lips.
"Silence, foolish girl!" he said sternly. "Hast thou not been told a hundred times to think no more of him? How dost thou dare to answer thy mother thus? Culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is no match for thee. It is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy dwell still on him. Methought thou hadst been cured of that childish liking long since. But if it has not been so, thou shalt soon be cured now!"
Kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly formidable. No one knew better than his favourite daughter that when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she shrank yet further away as she asked:
"What dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?"
"I mean, Kate," answered Sir Richard, not unkindly, but so resolutely that his words fell upon her ear like a knell, "that the best and safest plan of curing thee of thy fond and foolish fancy, which can never come to good, is to wed thee with a man who will make thee a kind and loving husband, and will maintain thee in the state to which thou hast been born. Wherefore, prepare to wed with Sir Robert Fortescue without delay, for to him I will give thy hand in wedlock so soon as we can have thee ready to be his bride."
Kate stood for a moment as if transfixed and turned to stone, and then she suddenly sank upon her knees at her father's feet.
"Father," she said, in a strange, choked voice, that indicated an intense emotion and agitation, "thou canst not make me the wife of another; for methinks I am well nigh, if not altogether, the wife of my cousin Culverhouse."
"What?" almost shouted Sir Richard, making one step forward and seizing his daughter by the arm. "Wretched girl, what is this that thou sayest? The wife of thy cousin Culverhouse! Shame upon thee for so base a falsehood! How dost thou dare to frame thy lips to it?"
"It is no falsehood!" answered Kate, with flashing eyes, springing to her feet and confronting her parents with all her old courage, and with a touch of defiance. "I would have kneeled to ask your pardon for my rashness, for my disobedience, for the long concealment; but I am no liar, I speak but the truth. Listen, and I will tell all. It was on May Day, and I rode forth into the forest and distanced pursuit, and joined my cousin Culverhouse, as we had vowed to do. We thought then of naught but the joy of a day together in the forest, and had not dreamed of such a matter as wedlock. But then to the church porch came one calling himself a priest. They say he comes every year, and weds all who will come to him. And many did. And Culverhouse and I stood before him, and he joined our hands, and we made our vows, and he pronounced us man and wife before all assembled there. And whether it be binding wedlock or no, it is to us a solemn betrothal made before God and man; and not all the commands thou couldst lay upon me, my father, could make me stand up and vow myself to another as I have vowed myself to Culverhouse. I should hold myself forsworn; I should be guilty of the vilest crime in the world. Thou wilt not ask it of me. Thou canst not know, even as I do not know, whether that wedlock is not valid before man, as it is before God."
A thunderbolt falling between them could scarcely have produced more astonishment and dismay. Lady Frances sank back in her seat white with horror and bewilderment, whilst Sir Richard stood as if turned to stone; and when at last he was able to speak, it was to order Kate to her room in accents of the sternest anger, bidding her not to dare to leave it until he brought her forth himself.
Kate fled away gladly enough, her mind rent in twain betwixt remorse at her own disobedience and deceit, triumph in having stopped Sir Robert's suit by so immovable an obstacle, and relief that the truth was out at last, even though her own dire disgrace was the result. The secret had preyed terribly on her mind of late, and had been undermining her health and spirits. Terrible as the anger of her parents might be, anything to her open nature seemed better than concealment; and she dashed up to her own room in a whirl of conflicting emotions, sinking down upon the floor when she reached it to try to get into order her chaotic thoughts.
Meantime husband and wife, left alone to their astonishment, stood gazing at each other in blank amaze.
"Husband," said Lady Frances at last, "surely such wedlock is not lawful?"
"I cannot tell," he answered gloomily; "belike it is not. Yet a troth plight made in so solemn a fashion, and before so many witnesses, is no light thing; and the child may not be wedded to another whilst the smallest shadow of doubt remains. Doubtless Culverhouse foresaw this, the bold knave, and persuaded the child into it. Well it has served his purpose. Sir Robert must be content with Cecilia. But the artfulness of the little jade! I never thought Kate would so deceive us-"
"It is that that breaks my heart!" cried the mother-"that, and the thought that she should be willing to go before some Popish priest and take her vows to him. Oh, it cannot be binding on the child-it cannot be binding! And Sir Robert is stanch in the Reformed faith; he is just the husband that wild girl needs. Husband, can nothing be done?"
Sir Richard looked very grave.
"That would be hard to tell without strict inquiries. I doubt me if we could learn all before next May Day, when we might get hold of the man himself and find out who and what he is. Such wedlock as his cannot be without flaw, and might be made invalid by law; but, wife, there is no getting over this, that the child took her vows in the name of God, and I dare not act as though such vows were unspoken. Her youth and ignorance may plead in part for her. She scarce knew the solemnity of the step she was taking. Culverhouse won upon her and over persuaded her, I do not doubt. I do not seek to excuse her. I am grievously displeased and disappointed. But I cannot and I will not give her to Sir Robert; Cecilia must be his wife."
"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.
