Evelyn Everett-Green - The Lost Treasure of Trevlyn - A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot

But Tyrrel roughly interposed.

"No more of that, mother," he said. "We have wiped out that old score long ago. The lad is a bold lad, Trevlyn or no. Let us to supper now, and forget those accursed beldam's tales. Where is Long Robin, and what is he doing? and where is Joanna tonight?"

"Here," answered a clear, full voice from the shadows of the inglenook, and forth there stepped a very queenly-looking woman, in the prime of life, when youth's bloom has not been altogether left behind, and yet all the grace of womanhood, with its dignity and ease, has come to give an added charm. One glance from the old woman's face to that of the young one showed them to be mother and daughter, and it did not take a sharp eye to see that Tyrrel, as he was always called, was deeply enamoured of the beautiful Joanna, though treated by her with scant notice, and as though he were yet a boy, scarce worthy of being looked at or spoken to.

She stood in the glow of the fire, a tall, graceful presence, to the full as picturesque as her gipsy mother, and far more attractive. Cuthbert's eyes turned upon her with an unconscious appeal in them; for it suddenly dawned upon him that for a Trevlyn to adventure himself amongst these wild gipsy folks was like putting the head into a lion's mouth.

It almost seemed as though Joanna read this doubt and this fear; for a flashing smile crossed her dark face, and she held out a shapely hand to lead the guest to the table.

"Thou art welcome to our board, Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, "as is any hapless stranger in these wilds, be he Trevlyn or no. Thou shalt eat our salt this night, and then woe betide the man who dares to lay hand on thee;" and such a glance was flashed around from her magnificent dark eyes as caused each one that met it to resolve to take good heed to his ways. "Thou shalt come and go unmolested; Joanna the Gipsy Queen has so decreed it!"

Every one present, the old woman included, bent the head at these words, and Cuthbert felt by some instinct that his life was now safe.

"Keren Happuch."

"Yes, aunt."

The reply came only after a brief pause, as though the rosy-cheeked maiden at the casement would fain have declined to answer to that abhorred name had she dared-which was indeed pretty much the case; for though it was undeniably her own, and she could not gainsay the unpalatable fact, nobody in the world but Aunt Susan ever aggrieved her by using it. Even her grave father had adopted the "Cherry" that was universal alike with relatives and friends, and the girl never heard the clumsy and odious appellation without a natural longing to box the offender's ears.

"What art doing, child?" questioned the voice from below.

Now Cherry was undeniably idling away the morning hours by looking out of her window at the lively scene below; and perhaps it was scarce wonderful that the sights and sounds without attracted her. It was a sunny November morning, and the sun was shining quite hotly; for the soft wind from the south was blowing-it had suddenly veered round in the night-and all nature seemed to be rejoicing in the change. The river ran sparkling on its way to the sea; the barges and wherries, and larger craft that anchored in the stream or plied their way up and down, gave animation and brightness to the great water way; whilst the old bridge, with its quaint-timbered houses with their projecting upper stories, its shops with their swinging signs, and noisy apprentices crying their masters' wares or playing or quarrelling in the open street, and its throngs of passers by, from the blind beggar to the gay court gallant, provided a shifting and endless panorama of entertainment to the onlooker, which pretty Mistress Cherry certainly appreciated, if no one else in that grave Puritan household did the like. But possibly she thought that her aunt's question must not be too literally answered, for she hastily skipped across the panelled chamber, seized her distaff, and answered meekly;

"I am about to spin, aunt."

"Humph!" the answer sounded more like a grunt than anything else, and warned Cherry that Mistress Susan, her father's sister, who had ruled his household for the past ten years, since the death of his wife, was in no very amiable temper.

"I know what that means. Thy spinning is a fine excuse for idling away thy time in the parlour, when thou mightest be learning housewifery below. Much flax thou spinnest when I am not by to watch! It is a pity thou wert not a fine lady born!"

Cherry certainly was decidedly of this opinion herself, albeit she would not have dared to say as much. She liked soft raiment, bright colours, dainty ways, and pretty speeches. Looking down from her window upon the passers by, it was her favourite pastime to fancy herself one of the hooped and powdered and gorgeously-apparelled ladies, with their monstrous farthingales, their stiff petticoats, their fans, their patches, and their saucy, coquettish ways to the gentlemen in their train. All this bedizenment, which had by no means died out with the death of a Queen who had loved and encouraged it, was dear to the eyes of the little maiden, whose own sad-coloured garments and severe simplicity of attire was a constant source of annoyance to her. Not that she wished to ape the fine dames in her small person. She knew her place better than that. She was a tradesman's daughter, and it would ill have beseemed her to attire herself in silk and velvet, even though the sumptuary laws had been repealed. But she did not see why she might not have a scarlet under-petticoat like Rachel Dyson, her own cousin, or a gay bird's wing to adorn her hat on holiday occasions. The utmost she had ever achieved for herself was a fine soft coverchief for her head, instead of the close unyielding coif which all her relatives wore, which quite concealed their hair, and gave a quaint severity to their square and homely faces. Cherry's face was not square, but a little pointed, piquant countenance, from which a pair of long-lashed gray eyes looked forth with saucy, mischievous brightness. Her skin was very fair, with a peach-like bloom upon it, and her pretty hair hung round it in a mass of red gold curls.

Cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her family. But she had contrived to assume the softly-flowing coverchief, more like a veil than a cap, which was infinitely becoming to the sweet childish face, and allowed the pretty curls to be seen flowing down on either side till they reached the shoulders. For the rest, her dress was severely plain in its simplicity: the snow-white kerchief, crossed in front and made fast behind; the under-petticoat of gray homespun, just showing the black hose and buckled shoes beneath; and the over-dress of sombre black or dark brown, puffed out a little over the hips in the pannier fashion, but without any pretence at following the extravagances of the day. The sleeves buttoned tightly to the lower arm, though wider at the cuff, and rose high upon the shoulder with something of a puff. It was a simple and by no means an unbecoming style of costume; but Cherry secretly repined at the monotony of always dressing in precisely the same fashion. Other friends of her own standing had plenty of pretty things suited to their station, and why not she? If she asked the question of any, the answer she always got was that her father followed the Puritan fashions of dressing and thinking and speaking, and that he held fine clothes in abhorrence. Cherry would pout a little, and think it a hard thing that she had been born a Puritan's daughter; but on the whole she was happy and contented enough, only she did reckon the rule of Aunt Susan in her father's house as something of a hardship.

But it did not do to offend that worthy dame, who was the very model of all housewives, and whose careful management and excellent cookery caused Martin Holt's house to be something of a proverb and a pattern to other folks' wives. So now the girl replied submissively: