“I shall never wear them again” was all
the answer as Lady Trevlyn drew the curtains, as if
to shut out hope.
Sir Richard was buried and, the nine days’ gossip
over, the mystery of his death died for want of food,
for the only person who could have explained it was
in a state which forbade all allusion to that tragic
day.
For a year Lady Trevlyn’s reason was in danger.
A long fever left her so weak in mind and body that
there was little hope of recovery, and her days were
passed in a state of apathy sad to witness. She
seemed to have forgotten everything, even the shock
which had so sorely stricken her. The sight of
her child failed to rouse her, and month after month
slipped by, leaving no trace of their passage on her
mind, and but slightly renovating her feeble body.
Who the stranger was, what his aim in coming, or why
he never reappeared, no one discovered. The contents
of the letter left by Sir Richard were unknown, for
the paper had been destroyed by Lady Trevlyn and no
clue could be got from her. Sir Richard had died
of heart disease, the physicians said, though he might
have lived years had no sudden shock assailed him.
There were few relatives to make investigations, and
friends soon forgot the sad young widow; so the years
rolled on, and Lillian the heiress grew from infancy
to childhood in the shadow of this mystery.
PAUL
“Come, child, the dew is falling, and it is
time we went in.”
“No, no, Mamma is not rested yet, so I may run
down to the spring if I like.” And Lillian,
as willful as winsome, vanished among the tall ferns
where deer couched and rabbits hid.
Hester leisurely followed, looking as unchanged as
if a day instead of twelve years had passed since
her arms received the little mistress, who now ruled
her like a tyrant. She had taken but a few steps
when the child came flying back, exclaiming in an
excited tone, “Oh, come quick! There’s
a man there, a dead man. I saw him and I’m
frightened!”
“Nonsense, child, it’s one of the keepers
asleep, or some stroller who has no business here.
Take my hand and we’ll see who it is.”
Somewhat reassured, Lillian led her nurse to one of
the old oaks beside the path, and pointed to a figure
lying half hidden in the fern. A slender, swarthy
boy of sixteen, with curly black hair, dark brows,
and thick lashes, a singularly stern mouth, and a
general expression of strength and pride, which added
character to his boyish face and dignified his poverty.
His dress betrayed that, being dusty and threadbare,
his shoes much worn, and his possessions contained
in the little bundle on which he pillowed his head.
He was sleeping like one quite spent with weariness,
and never stirred, though Hester bent away the ferns
and examined him closely.
“He’s not dead, my deary; he’s asleep,
poor lad, worn out with his day’s tramp, I dare
say.” “I’m glad he’s alive,
and I wish he’d wake up. He’s a pretty
boy, isn’t he? See what nice hands he’s
got, and his hair is more curly than mine. Make
him open his eyes, Hester,” commanded the little
lady, whose fear had given place to interest.
