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?"
Jacob passed his large hand across his face, and looked at Cuthbert with an expression of perplexity.
"They are Papists," he said at last, in a slightly vague and inconclusive fashion.
Cuthbert laughed aloud.
"Why, that I know well; and I am not scared by the name, as some of your Puritan folk seem to be. Papists, after all, are fellow men--and fellow Christians too, if it comes to that. It was a Christian act of theirs to take to their home that hunted priest whom we rescued that foggy night, Jacob. Many would have made much ado ere they had opened their doors to one in such plight. Thou canst not deny that there was true Christian charity in that act."
"Nay, nay, I would not try to deny it," answered Jacob, in his calm, lethargic way, still regarding Cuthbert with a look of admiration and curiosity, somewhat as a savage regards a white man, scarce knowing from moment to moment what his acts will be. "Yet for all that I would warn thee to keep away from that house. Men whisper that there be strange doings there. I know not the truth of what is spoken. But we walk in slippery places; it were well to take heed to our steps."
Cuthbert returned Jacob's look with one equally tinged with curiosity.
"Nay now, speak more openly. What dost thou mean, good Jacob? What do men say anent these Coles?"
Jacob glanced round and instinctively lowered his voice.
"It is not of the Coles alone that they speak; it is of the whole faction of the Papists. I know not what is said or what is known in high places; but this I know, that there be strange whispers abroad."
Cuthbert's eyes lighted. A slight thrill ran through him. He recalled the words recently spoken to him by his whilom friends. But all he said was:
"Verily men are ever whispering. It was the same cry when I was here a year agone, and no great thing has happened; wherefore this new fear?"
Jacob shook his head. His answer was spoken in a slow, ponderous fashion.
"Men will speak and whisper; yet the world wags on as before, and men well-nigh cease to listen or heed. But mark my word, Cuthbert, there be no smoke where there is not fire; and these Papists, who are for ever plotting, plotting, plotting, will one day spring some strange thing upon the world. There be so many cries of 'Wolf!' that folks begin to smile and say the real wolf will never come. But that follows not. I like not this ever-restless secret scheming and gathering together in dark corners. It is not for their religion that I hate and distrust the Papists. I know little about matters of controversy. I meddle not in things too high for me. But I hate them for their subtlety, their deceitful ways, their lying, and their fraud. Thou knowest how they schemed and plotted the death of good Queen Bess; we citizens of London find it hard to forgive them that! We love not the son of this same Mary Stuart, whom of old the Papists strove to give us for our Queen; yet he is our lawful King, accepted by the nation as our sovereign; and failing him I know not whom we might choose to reign over us. Wherefore say I, Down with these schemers and plotters! If men wish their grievances redressed, let them work in the light and not in the dark. We Protestants know that it is Bible law that evil must never be done that good may come; but the Papists hold that they may do never so many crimes and evil deeds if they may but win some point of theirs at last. Thou dost not hold such false doctrine, I trow, Cuthbert? thou art a soul above such false seeming."
Cuthbert drew his brows together in a thoughtful reverie.
"I trow thou hast the right of it, Jacob," he answered. "I love not dark scheming, nor love I these endless plots. Yet in these days of oppression it must be hard for men to act openly. If they be driven to secret methods, the fault is less theirs than that of their rulers."
"There be faults on both sides, I doubt not," answered Jacob, with calm toleration. "But two evils make not one good; and the Puritans who suffer in like fashion do not plot to overthrow their rulers."
"How knowest thou that the Papists do?" asked Cuthbert quickly.
"It has always been their way," answered Jacob; "and though I know but little of the meaning of the sinister whispers I hear, we have but to look back to former days to see how it has ever been. Think of the two plots of this very reign, the 'Bye' and the 'Main'! What was their object but the subversion of the present rulers? What they have tried before they will try again; and we who live beside this great river, and mingle with those who come from beyond the seas, do see and hear many things that others would not know. There have been comings and goings of late that I have not liked. It may be that mine eyes have played me false, but methought one dark night I saw a figure strangely like Father Urban land at the wharf, and he was incontinently joined by Walter Cole, who took him hastily and secretly away."
Cuthbert started slightly, and Jacob continued:
"And yet when I whispered a question to Walter a few days later concerning the priest, of whose welfare I have asked from time to time since I had a hand in his rescue, he told me that he was still beyond the seas, and that it was not like he would ever set foot on English soil again."
Cuthbert was silent. But he presently asked a question.
"But who is this Father Urban? and why should his appearance mean aught, or disturb thee?"
"Father Urban is a Jesuit, and one of those they call seminary priests, and all such are held in detestation and suspicion above all other Papists. When men lay hands on them they show them scant mercy. It is a saying in this land that when treason and murder and wickedness is abroad, a seminary priest is sure to be the leading spirit. When those two last plots were hatching, this Father Urban was in the country. He has returned now, and many men are looking abroad with fear, wondering how soon the calm will be interrupted. I like it not; I like it not; and I caution thee to keep away from yon house, and to have no dealings with the Papists. They be treacherous friends as well as wily foes. It were best and safest for thee to keep away from all such. Thou art not one of them; why shouldest thou consort with them?"
"I do not consort with them," answered Cuthbert; "but I have none of thy hatred for the name, and these men have been kind and friendly to me. I owe much to the lessons Anthony Cole has taught me. I have no knowledge of their secrets, but I cannot see why I may not speak a friendly word with them; even my uncle does that."
"Ay, but he goes not to their house--and his name is not Trevlyn."
"But what of that? the Trevlyns are now a stanch family, in favour with the King and his counsellors."
"Ay, but the name is not forgotten in many quarters as belonging to a race of persecuting Papists. It takes long for old memories to die out. Thou hadst better take heed, Cuthbert. A whisper against thee would soon spread and take root. I prithee meddle not in such matters, lest some ill befall thee!"
Cuthbert thanked honest Jacob for his goodwill and for his warning, but he could not see that it was needed. He was but an obscure youth, of no note in the world. He had no dealings with any of those plots of which men were whispering, and he could not see how any act of his could raise suspicion of any sort against him. He was growing intensely curious about the seething fire beneath the outer crust of quietness and security. If some great plot were hatching, if some great upheaval were at hand, why might not he scent out something beforehand? Why might not he discover what was baffling the sagacity of others? He had no wish to be a spy or an informer; he had too much generous sympathy with the oppressed for that. But he was intensely curious about it all, and he felt as though his youth and obscurity would be his best protection if he chose to make some investigations on his own account.
The old eager thirst for knowledge was coming upon him. The old love of adventure, which had run him into many perils already, had not been quenched by his recent experiences. Success had crowned his labours in the forest; why should that success desert him now? And then the thought came to him that he might by chance discover something which might be of use to his own kinsmen. He knew that Sir Richard Trevlyn and his son Philip--Petronella's lover--were in London. Might it not be possible that they had better be elsewhere at such a time? Jacob's words about the Trevlyns might perchance be true. He had heard his uncle say the same before. If any possible peril should be menacing them, how gladly would he find it out and warn them in time! It began to appear to the youth in the light of a duty to pursue his investigation, and it was just such a task as best appealed to his ardent and fiery temperament.
But he scarce knew what the first step had better be; so he gave up the day following to seeking out Lord Culverhouse, and learning from him what was the feeling in high quarters.
Culverhouse greeted him warmly, and at once begged him to ride out with him into the pleasant regions where the parks now stand, which were then much larger, and only just taking any semblance of park, being more like fields with rides running across them. Each succeeding king did something for the improvement of this region, though the open ground became considerably diminished as stately buildings grew up around it.
"Cuthbert," said the Viscount, when they had left the busy streets and were practically alone and out of earshot of any chance passers by, "dost thou know that the matter of our secret wedding is now known?"
"I heard so from Mistress Kate, who has been sent away from home in disgrace, but is bearing her captivity cheerfully, with my sister for her companion."
Culverhouse was eager to hear everything Cuthbert could tell him, and was delighted that his lady love was happy in her honourable captivity. When he had asked every question he could think of, he went on with his own side of the story.
"There was a fine coil when Sir Richard brought the news, and I was rated more soundly than I have been since I was a little lad and lost my father's best falcon through letting it loose when the falconer was not by to whistle it back. There has been a mighty talking and arguing as to whether such wedlock as ours be lawful, and no man seems rightly to know. That we must be wed again in more orderly fashion all agree, if we are to live together as man and wife; but none will dare to say that we may break the pledge we gave each to the other that day. My father talked at first of moving some high court to set us free; but my mother shook her head and said that vows so solemnly spoken before God and in His name might never rightly be annulled by man. She was grieved and as angered as she knows how to be at our hot-headed rashness, and spoke to me words which hurt me more than my father's ratings. Yet she holds steadfastly to this--that we are betrothed too firmly to be parted; and what she holds she can generally make my father hold, for he thinks much of her piety and true discernment."
"So that thou art out of thy trouble for the nonce?"
Culverhouse laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
"I say not that, for they tell us it will be many years ere we can hope to be wed again in due form; and waiting is weary work."
"And why should you wait?"
Culverhouse laughed again.
"That is soon answered. My father has always told me that I must wed a lady of wealth if I am to wed young. Our estates are encumbered. We have more state to keep up than we well know how to manage. We have had troubles and losses even as the Trevlyns have. I have known this well. I cannot complain of my father. Nevertheless I chose my Kate without any dowry before all the world beside, and I am prepared to abide by my choice. But we shall have to wait; we shall have to possess our souls in patience. They all tell us that; and I gainsay them not. I am young. I have friends in high places. I will win a name for myself, and a fortune too, ere my head be gray. Alas for the old days of chivalry, when men might ride forth to fame and glory, and win both that and wealth in a few short years! Those bright days are gone for ever. Still methinks I will conquer fate yet!"
Culverhouse looked as though fitted indeed for some career of chivalrous daring. He and Cuthbert would gladly have ridden forth together upon some knightly quest; but the days for such things had gone by, as both recognized with a sigh. Still there was brightness in Cuthbert's eyes as he said:
"Mistress Kate will spend her Christmas at the Cross Way House, and I trow that others of the Trevlyns will do the like. If thou wilt be one of the party there upon that day, I doubt not that there will be a welcome for thee; and perchance thou wilt find then that thy nuptials need not be so long postponed. A golden key may be found which will unlock many doors."
Culverhouse looked quickly and eagerly at his companion, but could ask no more even had he wished, as they were at that moment joined by two friends of his, young men about the Court, who at once began to talk of the approaching opening of Parliament and the grand show that would accompany the act.
The King's love for fine dress, fine pageants, and fine shows, of which he was the sun and centre (in his own opinion at least), was well known by this time. These young sprigs of the nobility amused themselves by making game freely of his Majesty behind his back, ridiculing his vanity, mimicking his ungainly action, especially upon horseback (though he considered himself a most finished and accomplished rider), and describing to Culverhouse the fine new robes he had ordered for the occasion, and which were to surpass in grandeur anything he had ever worn before.
"Folks talked of the vanity of our good Queen Bess, and called her mighty extravagant; but beshrew me if she were half as vain or extravagant as our noble King Jamie! It is a marvel he cannot see how ten-fold uglier he makes his ugly person by trapping himself out in all such frippery and gorgeous apparel."
So the young men chatted on in lightsome fashion, and Cuthbert, who listened to every word, could not gather that the smallest uneasiness had penetrated the minds of those who moved in these high places. Culverhouse talked with equal gaiety and security. Certainly he had no suspicion of coming ill. The mutterings of discontent the seething of the troubled waters, the undefined apprehensions of many of the classes of the people, were apparently unknown and unheeded here. All was sunshine and brightness in the region of palaces. But if these youths had entertained any secret misgivings, they would have discussed them freely together.
Culverhouse kept Cuthbert to dinner, and he was kindly received by the Earl's family. Lady Andover even remembered to ask after Cherry, and won Cuthbert's heart by so doing. She questioned him in private about the marriage in the church porch, of which he had been witness, and plainly all he told her only went to strengthen her conviction that the matter had gone too far to admit of any drawing back without some breach of faith that was akin to sacrilege.
After the meal, which seemed stately and long to Cuthbert, Culverhouse asked him would he like to see the Houses of Parliament, where the King would shortly meet his Lords and Commons. Cuthbert eagerly assented, and the two youths spent some time in wandering about the stately buildings, to which Culverhouse could obtain easy admittance; the Viscount explaining to his companion where the King sat and where his immediate counsellors, to all of which Cuthbert listened with marked attention.
There were several attendants and ushers within the building, and Culverhouse told him that orders had been given to keep strict watch over the building both by night and day.
"The King is not like our good Queen--Heaven rest her soul!" said the Viscount, laughing. "He does not trust his people. He is always in fear of some mischance either through accident or design. Well may the great Shakespeare have said: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!' Albeit the King would do better to have a little more courage."
This was the first word Cuthbert had heard of any uneasiness in high quarters, and he asked with some eagerness:
"Meanest thou that the King fears some evil to himself at this time?"
"No; I have heard naught of that. The country seems unwontedly quiet. It is the fear which never leaves him--the fear that makes him wear a doublet so thickly quilted that it would suffice to turn the sharpest blade, even as a suit of chain mail. He is always dreading assassination. That is why he wills such close watch to be kept, lest haply any evil-disposed person might find hiding within the walls and spring upon him unawares. Methinks it is an unkingly fear, but there it be, and he carries it ever with him. The Queen had none such--nor had she need; and as thou knowest, when once an assassin did approach her when she was alone in her garden, the glance of her eye kept him cowed and at bay till her gentlemen could hasten to her side. She was a Queen in very truth! I would we had more of her like!"
Culverhouse spoke out aloud, careless of being overheard, for he was but speaking the thoughts of the whole nation. Cuthbert echoed his wish with all sincerity; and still looking round and about him with keen interest, went through a certain mental calculation which caused him at last to ask:
"And what buildings lie around or beneath this?"
"I know not exactly how that may be. There is a house close beside this where methinks I have heard that Master Thomas Percy dwells, the steward to my Lord of Northumberland. I know not what lies beneath; it may be some sort of cellar.
"Dost thou know, fellow, whether there be cellars beneath this place?"
Culverhouse spoke to a man-at-arms who appeared to be on duty there, and who had for some moments been regarding Cuthbert with close scrutiny, and had now drawn slowly near them. Cuthbert was vaguely aware that the man's face was in some way familiar to him, but he had no recollection where he had seen him before.
"Master Thomas Percy has rented the cellar beneath, where his coals be stored," answered the man carelessly; and Cuthbert, who had asked the question rather haphazard and without exactly knowing why, moved away to examine a piece of fine carving close at hand.
Whilst he was doing this he knew that the man-at-arms asked Culverhouse a question, to which the latter gave ready reply, and he heard the name of Trevlyn pass his lips. At the moment he heeded this little, but the remembrance came back to him later.
As he passed out he noted that the man still continued to gaze after him, as though wishful to read his face by heart. He was standing beside a companion warder then, pointing out, as it seemed, the visitor to the other fellow. Was it only fancy, or did Cuthbert really hear the name of Father Urban pass in a whisper between them? Puzzled, and even a shade uneasy, he followed Culverhouse to the outer door, A flash of memory seemed then to recall to him the faces of these two men. Had he not seen them keeping watch at the wharf for Father Urban that day so long ago? He was almost certain it had been so. But what of that? How could they possibly connect him with the fugitive priest?
It would soon be dusk now, so the comrades said adieu to each other and went their several ways. Cuthbert had come as far as the Strand by boat, and had only to drop down and find it there; but somehow he felt more disposed to linger about these solemn old buildings, and try to piece together the things he had seen and heard.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, he wandered round the great pile till he came to the narrow entry he had once traversed, leading up from the river to the door of the house where he had seen Catesby and his companions at their mysterious toil. The house looked dark as night now. Not a single gleam penetrated the gloom. Already the last of the twilight had faded into night, but no ray of any kind shone from any of the casements.
Cuthbert stood looking thoughtfully up at the house, hardly knowing why he did so, his fancy running riot in his excited brain and conjuring up all manner of fantastic visions, when suddenly and silently the door opened. A gleam of light from behind showed in relief the figure of a tall man muffled in a cloak, a soft felt hat being drawn over the brow and effectually concealing the features; but one glance sufficed to convince Cuthbert that this cloaked and muffled individual was none other than the same tall dark man who had produced the holy water blessed by the Pope and had had it sprinkled around the spot where those mysterious men were at work in Percy's house. Filled with a burning curiosity that rendered him impervious to the thought of personal risk, Cuthbert first shrank into a dark recess, and then with hushed and noiseless footfall followed the tall figure in its walk.
The cloaked man walked quietly, but without any appearance of fear. He skirted round the great block of buildings of which the Houses of Parliament were composed, until he reached a door in the rear of that building, within a deep arch sunk a little way below the level of the ground, and this door he opened, but closed it after him, and locked it on the inside.
Unable to follow further, Cuthbert put his ear to the keyhole, and heard distinctly the sound of footsteps descending stone stairs till the sound changed to the unbarring of a lower door, and then all was silence.
Cuthbert looked keenly around him, and soon made out that these steps must certainly lead down to the cellar beneath the Parliament Houses of which he had recently heard. That other cellar he had visited so many months before was close at hand--close to these great buildings; and this tall dark man seemed to have some mysterious connection with both.
What could it all mean? what did it mean? Cuthbert felt as though he were on the eve of some strange discovery, but what that discovery could be he could not guess.
He was aroused from his reverie by the sound of approaching footfalls along the roadway, and he hastily stood upright and walked onwards to meet the advancing pedestrian. The man carried a light which he flashed in Cuthbert's face, and the youth saw that it was one of the men-at-arms on guard over these buildings.
"What are you doing here?" asked the man civilly, though in slightly peremptory fashion.
"I did not know that this road was anything but public," answered Cuthbert, with careless boldness. "I have walked in London streets before now, no man interfering with me."
"Have a care how and where you walk at night," returned the man, passing by without further comment. "There be many perils abroad in the streets--more than perchance you wot of."
Cuthbert thanked him for the hint, and went on his way. He would have liked well enough to linger till the tall man emerged again, but he saw that to do so would only excite suspicion.
Although it was quite dark by this time, it was not really late; for it was the last day of October save one, and masses of heavy cloud obscured the sky. Now and again a ray of moonlight glinted through these ragged masses, but for the rest it was profoundly dark in the narrow streets, and only a little lighter on the open river.
The tide was running in fast, with a strong cold easterly wind. Cuthbert saw that it would be hard work to row against it.
"Better wait for the ebb; it will not be long in coming now," he said to himself as he noted the height of the tide; and stepping into his boat, he pulled idly out into midstream, as being a safer place of waiting than the dark wharf, to find himself drifting up with the strong current, which he did not care to try to stem.
"Beware of the dark-flowing river!" spoke a voice within him; "beware of the black cellar!"
He started, for it almost seemed as though some one had spoken the words in his ear, and a little thrill of fear ran through him. But all was silent save for the wash of the current as it bore him rapidly onwards, and he knew that the voice was one in his own head.
Upwards and upwards he drifted; was it by his own will, or not? He did not himself know, he could not have said. He only knew that a spell seemed upon him, that an intense desire had seized him to look once again upon that lonely house beside the river bank. He had no wish to try to obtain entrance there. He felt that he was treading the dark mazes of some unhallowed plot. But this very suspicion only increased his burning curiosity; and surely there could no harm come of one look at that dark and lonely place.
No volition of his own was needed to carry him onwards; wind and tide did all that. He had merely to keep his place and steer his little bark up the wide river. He saw against the sky the great pile of Westminster. He had drifted almost across the river by that time. He was seated in the bow of the boat, just dipping an oar from time to time as it slipped along beneath the trees. And now the moon shone out for a few minutes clear and bright. It did not shine upon his own craft, gliding so stealthily beneath the bare trees that fringed the wall of the very house he had come to see; but it did gleam upon another wherry out in midstream, rowed by a strong man wrapped in a cloak, and directed straight for the same spot. Cuthbert started, and caught hold of a bough of a weeping willow, bringing his boat to a standstill in a place where the shadow was blackest. He had no wish to be found in this strange position. He would remain hidden until this other boat had landed at the steps. He would be hidden well where he was. He had better be perfectly silent, and so remain.
A sound of voices above his head warned him that he was not the only watcher, and for a moment he feared that, silent as had been his movements, his presence had been discovered. But some one spoke in anxious accents, and in that voice he recognized the clear and mellow tones of Robert Catesby. He was speaking in a low voice to some companion.
"If he comes not within a short while, I shall hold that all is lost. I fear me we did wrong to send him. That letter--that letter--that luckless letter! who can have been the writer?"
"Tresham, I fear me without doubt, albeit he denied it with such steadfast boldness. Would to heaven that fickle hound had never been admitted to our counsels! That was thy doing, Catesby."