The story begins with the mysterious death of Sir Richard Trevlyn. All the reader knows is that Richard's wife, Alice, who is pregnant with their first child, listens through a keyhole in the library door to a conversation Richard has with a visitor. What she hears horrifies her, she faints, and a servant, Hester, finds her and helps her to bed. Alice insists Richard not be disturbed, but Hester is worried and goes to the library anyway to tell him his wife is ill. She finds him slumped over his desk, dead.Twelve years later the child, Lillian, meets a stranger on the grounds, a sixteen year old boy named Paul who applies for work on the estate. He does his job well, advancing in position and earning the affection of family and servants alike. Some of the servants suspect he may be more than a mere gardener or groom, but they like him and when he leaves without a word to anyone they are confused and disappointed.
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CLASSIC MYSTERY PRESENTS
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This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.
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Copyright © 2018 CLASSIC MYSTERY PRESENTS
CHAPTER I: THE PROPHECY
CHAPTER II: PAUL
CHAPTER III: SECRET SERVICE
CHAPTER IV: VANISHED
CHAPTER V: A HERO
CHAPTER VI: FAIR HELEN
CHAPTER VII: THE SECRET KEY
CHAPTER VIII: WHICH?
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?”
“In the library, sir.”
Flinging the card into the fire, he watched it turn to ashes before he spoke, with averted eyes: “Only some annoying business, love; I shall soon be with you again. Lie and rest till I come.”
With a hasty caress he left her, but as he passed a mirror, his wife saw an expression of intense excitement in his face. She said nothing, and lay motionless for several minutes evidently struggling with some strong impulse.
“He is ill and anxious, but hides it from me; I have a right to know, and he’ll forgive me when I prove that it does no harm.”
As she spoke to herself she rose, glided noiselessly through the hall, entered a small closet built in the thickness of the wall, and, bending to the keyhole of a narrow door, listened with a half-smile on her lips at the trespass she was committing. A murmur of voices met her ear. Her husband spoke oftenest, and suddenly some word of his dashed the smile from her face as if with a blow. She started, shrank, and shivered, bending lower with set teeth, white cheeks, and panic-stricken heart. Paler and paler grew her lips, wilder and wilder her eyes, fainter and fainter her breath, till, with a long sigh, a vain effort to save herself, she sank prone upon the threshold of the door, as if struck down by death.
“Mercy on us, my lady, are you ill?” cried Hester, the maid, as her mistress glided into the room looking like a ghost, half an hour later.
“I am faint and cold. Help me to my bed, but do not disturb Sir Richard.”
A shiver crept over her as she spoke, and, casting a wild, woeful look about her, she laid her head upon the pillow like one who never cared to lift it up again. Hester, a sharp-eyed, middle-aged woman, watched the pale creature for a moment, then left the room muttering, “Something is wrong, and Sir Richard must know it. That black-bearded man came for no good, I’ll warrant.”
At the door of the library she paused. No sound of voices came from within; a stifled groan was all she heard; and without waiting to knock she went in, fearing she knew not what. Sir Richard sat at his writing table pen in hand, but his face was hidden on his arm, and his whole attitude betrayed the presence of some overwhelming despair.
“Please, sir, my lady is ill. Shall I send for anyone?”
No answer. Hester repeated her words, but Sir Richard never stirred. Much alarmed, the woman raised his head, saw that he was unconscious, and rang for help. But Richard Trevlyn was past help, though he lingered for some hours. He spoke but once, murmuring faintly, “Will Alice come to say good-bye?”
“Bring her if she can come,” said the physician.
Hester went, found her mistress lying as she left her, like a figure carved in stone. When she gave the message, Lady Trevlyn answered sternly, “Tell him I will not come,” and turned her face to the wall, with an expression which daunted the woman too much for another word.
Hester whispered the hard answer to the physician, fearing to utter it aloud, but Sir Richard heard it, and died with a despairing prayer for pardon on his lips.
When day dawned Sir Richard lay in his shroud and his little daughter in her cradle, the one unwept, the other unwelcomed by the wife and mother, who, twelve hours before, had called herself the happiest woman in England. They thought her dying, and at her own command gave her the sealed letter bearing her address which her husband left behind him. She read it, laid it in her bosom, and, waking from the trance which seemed to have so strongly chilled and changed her, besought those about her with passionate earnestness to save her life.
For two days she hovered on the brink of the grave, and nothing but the indomitable will to live saved her, the doctors said. On the third day she rallied wonderfully, and some purpose seemed to gift her with unnatural strength. Evening came, and the house was very still, for all the sad bustle of preparation for Sir Richard’s funeral was over, and he lay for the last night under his own roof. Hester sat in the darkened chamber of her mistress, and no sound broke the hush but the low lullaby the nurse was singing to the fatherless baby in the adjoining room. Lady Trevlyn seemed to sleep, but suddenly put back the curtain, saying abruptly, “Where does he lie?”
“In the state chamber, my lady,” replied Hester, anxiously watching the feverish glitter of her mistress’s eye, the flush on her cheek, and the unnatural calmness of her manner.
“Help me to go there; I must see him.”
“It would be your death, my lady. I beseech you, don’t think of it,” began the woman; but Lady Trevlyn seemed not to hear her, and something in the stern pallor of her face awed the woman into submission.
Wrapping the slight form of her mistress in a warm cloak, Hester half-led, half-carried her to the state room, and left her on the threshold.
“I must go in alone; fear nothing, but wait for me here,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Five minutes had not elapsed when she reappeared with no sign of grief on her rigid face.
“Take me to my bed and bring my jewel box,” she said, with a shuddering sigh, as the faithful servant received her with an exclamation of thankfulness.
When her orders had been obeyed, she drew from her bosom the portrait of Sir Richard which she always wore, and, removing the ivory oval from the gold case, she locked the former in a tiny drawer of the casket, replaced the empty locket in her breast, and bade Hester give the jewels to Watson, her lawyer, who would see them put in a safe place till the child was grown.
“Dear heart, my lady, you’ll wear them yet, for you’re too young to grieve all your days, even for so good a man as my blessed master. Take comfort, and cheer up, for the dear child’s sake if no more.”
“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.
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