Trevlyn lands and Trevlyn gold, Heir
nor heiress e’er shall hold, Undisturbed,
till, spite of rust, Truth is found in Trevlyn dust.
“This is the third time I’ve found you
poring over that old rhyme. What is the charm,
Richard? Not its poetry I fancy.” And
the young wife laid a slender hand on the yellow,
time-worn page where, in Old English text, appeared
the lines she laughed at.
Richard Trevlyn looked up with a smile and threw by
the book, as if annoyed at being discovered reading
it. Drawing his wife’s hand through his
own, he led her back to her couch, folded the soft
shawls about her, and, sitting in a low chair beside
her, said in a cheerful tone, though his eyes betrayed
some hidden care, “My love, that book is a history
of our family for centuries, and that old prophecy
has never yet been fulfilled, except the ‘heir
and heiress’ line. I am the last Trevlyn,
and as the time draws near when my child shall be born,
I naturally think of his future, and hope he will
enjoy his heritage in peace.”
“God grant it!” softly echoed Lady Trevlyn,
adding, with a look askance at the old book, “I
read that history once, and fancied it must be a romance,
such dreadful things are recorded in it. Is it
all true, Richard?”
“Yes, dear. I wish it was not. Ours
has been a wild, unhappy race till the last generation
or two. The stormy nature came in with old Sir
Ralph, the fierce Norman knight, who killed his only
son in a fit of wrath, by a blow with his steel gauntlet,
because the boy’s strong will would not yield
to his.”
“Yes, I remember, and his daughter Clotilde
held the castle during a siege, and married her cousin,
Count Hugo. ’Tis a warlike race, and I
like it in spite of the mad deeds.”
“Married her cousin! That has been the
bane of our family in times past. Being too proud
to mate elsewhere, we have kept to ourselves till idiots
and lunatics began to appear. My father was the
first who broke the law among us, and I followed his
example: choosing the freshest, sturdiest flower
I could find to transplant into our exhausted soil.”
“I hope it will do you honor by blossoming bravely.
I never forget that you took me from a very humble
home, and have made me the happiest wife in England.”
“And I never forget that you, a girl of eighteen,
consented to leave your hills and come to cheer the
long-deserted house of an old man like me,”
returned her husband fondly.
“Nay, don’t call yourself old, Richard;
you are only forty-five, the boldest, handsomest man
in Warwickshire. But lately you look worried;
what is it? Tell me, and let me advise or comfort
you.”
“It is nothing, Alice, except my natural anxiety
for you—Well, Kingston, what do you want?”
Trevlyn’s tender tones grew sharp as he addressed
the entering servant, and the smile on his lips vanished,
leaving them dry and white as he glanced at the card
he handed him. An instant he stood staring at
it, then asked, “Is the man here?”
