Trevelyan's Little Daughters ... With illustrations by Reginald B. Birch

Front matter

" The ol I man .... thanked the child us she handed him the money." Pa^e 63. Trevelyan's Little Daughters BY VIRNA SHEARD WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH. Toronto : WILLIAM BRIGGS 29 to 33 Richmond Street West Montreal: C. W. Coates Halifax: S. F. Huestis Entered according to Act of the Parliament os Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight, by William Briggs, at tbe Department of Agriculture. Œo Ob? Æiotber ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE 'The old man .... thanked the child as she handed him the money" Frontispiece "She advanced to the centre of the room, and .... dropped them a deep and most elaborate curtsey " • 91 "Raphael Reggeoletto!" she cried, "it is my dear lad; it is my dear, dear lad I "

Chapter I

It was morning of the second day in the new year, and Edwin Van Norman, a gray and silent figure, sat at his breakfast-table alone. The sunshine streamed warmly through windows facing the south-east, a glorious wood fire sent long goldenred flames fluttering up the chimney of the wide fire-place ; the table sparkled with old china and chased silver ; chif fonniere and mantel gleamed where the light caught them, and a gay little French clock ticked away in frivolous fashion — almost, indeed, as though it snapped the fingers of its tiny hands straightway in the face of that hoary tyrant Time. Everything in the beautiful room looked bright and cheery save the master. He was not more than three or four and forty, a man of iron strength and of iron will, one who controlled by a look ; for words were ever few with him and smiles fewer.

There were those who said Edwin Van Norman never smiled ; but that was going too far — he did smile sometimes, and then it was worth remembering. During the years behind him he had fought many a battle with the world and himself, and had come off victor, but his face was lined and serious, the heavy hair on his temples snow-white. Alone and single-handed he had rebuilt the fallen fortunes of his fathers. Long before, his people had been planters in the south, his father and himself being the last of the old stock. After the war he was without a father, and the land and money of many generations had been swept awTay, He then, a lad of sixteen, turned his thoughts to New York, his mother's old home. Behind were devastation, ruin, loss ; before, the future, and in his strong young soul a vow that all that had been taken from them should be given back — all but his father ; they could not make good that heart-breaking loss.

Every thing else, though, should be paid, to the utter most farthing. So they came north, where the struggle began and went on, till now at forty-four years he could say he had more than won. It had been as an unknown, penniless boy he first came to the city, with only his beloved mother beside him. That long past day was becoming as part of a dream — for now, when she was no longer here, he was rich, and a power in the land of busy, money-making men. Luck in affairs of the world had followed him from that time onward — such luck that he was watched from afar by those less fortunate, and had more than once been called " Van Norman of the golden touch." When he was thirty he had married Violet Trevelyan, a charming young English girl. She was lovely to look on, and had most winning ways with her.

They were both entirely happy, and, when their baby-boy was born, thought themselves quite the richest young people in all the wide State. And he was a wonderful baby. In many of the rooms of the house there now hung one exquisite picture — the same sunny face looking out of it always — the picture of a baby-boy with short brown curls, and a mouth made for kisses. His dimpled shoulders rose soft and white out of the pretty frock he wore, and his eyes seemed to tell of gladness and delight. That baby had been king of their hearts for three short summers ; then he laid his sceptre down and went away. What dreams went with him, what castles in the air crumbled to pieces at his going, only the father knew. But his place was left desolate, for no other child had come in all the years to fill it.

Still the great fortune wrent on piling up, and Edwin Van Norman took his soul's pleasure out of making it greater. Now he sat with the Herald before him, and his sombre eyes fixed upon the fire — thinking. Presently there was a soft rustle in the hall, and a little figure in a fluffy morning dress flew into the room. " I'm late again, Eddie ! " she exclaimed, " Oh quite half an hour late, so there's another of my good resolutions gone. Some one told me on New Year's Day," nodding airily, "that those resolutions would resemble our egg-shell cups and saucers — easily broken, you know, and very easily chipped. Really, dear, I don't intend to be the ' Amen ' at breakfast any longer, because " — with a dimple flickering at the corner of her mouth — " getting up late is very injurious — it shortens one's days !

So we won't count this time, and to-morrow you shall see." His bright little wife was very dear to the heart of Van Norman. She knew nothing of the many schemes he was turning over in that wise brain of his, and wished to understand nothing of his heavy responsibilities and cares ; but she looked to him as to a tower of strength, — he was the one who gave her the desires of her heart, and she was but the spoiled child of fortune. A butterfly she had been when he married her, a butterfly she wras now, and no one could have guessed her age as she sat, a thing of pink and white ribbons, laces and smiles, behind the big tea-urn. She was like a Dresden figure — like anything delicate, lovely, breakable — and he smiled at her his own rare and quickly passing smile. " You are late, sweetheart, and I believe every thing is cold.

Shall I ring for them to bring something hot ? " " No, no, thank you," she answered, " it will do very well : I had my chocolate. Here are the letters," as the footman brought them in. " Five for you, six for me. I always have the most, don't I ? One, two, three, invitations ; four, one of Madam Dumouriez's charity bazaars; five, note from Major Willoughby — can't come Friday evening — awfully sorry— sprained his ankle. Poor man ! So on and so on, he always has such a lot to say. ' TeU Edwdn to drop in and see a poor beggar — laid up on sofa for three weeks.' You had better go and see him, Eddie. Ah ! six, one from dear old Jack ! dear old Jack ! Cornwall postmark ; he must be home. Oh, what heavy paper ; I can't break the enve lope. At last! now let me see what he says." There was silence in the sunshiny room save for the crackling of the burning logs and a sound of sleigh-bells passing on the road — then a little cry, and the fluttering of a letter to the floor.

"Why, Violet, what is it?" exclaimed her husband. " Nothing wrong with Jack, I hope ? Or the children, or Margarita ? " No answer, only she stooped, picked the letter up, and handed it to him. " Read it," she said ; and the tears were rolling down her face. Van Norman took the letter and read : — " Charleston, Cornwall, December — " Dearest Violet : — " I am in desperate trouble, and need your help. I had hoped to be home earlier, but the weather was rough, and we could not make it. A presentiment of evil followed me, a feeling that something wras wrong, and against heavy odds I managed to reach Cornwall three nights ago. They had cabled that Margarita was ill, but the message failed me. " She was dying, Violet, and only lived till I came ; she said she would have lived till I came anyway.

I cannot write about that, and there is no need ; you will understand. " My three little maids ! What is best for them ? I do not dare look ahead. There is only the sea for me after this, but can you not come and stay here for a while ? It may be in a few weeks I will find my way again. " Old Madelon is taking charge of everything, and I must be off on the 7th. My heart is broken, and I would be away, for there is no rest here. " We have so long looked forward to the time these voyages should be over, and we be together. They will never be over now. I shall see my children often, but my beloved will be nearer to me on sea than on land. Send word if you will come, and when. ' Your brother "Jack Trevelyan. They looked at each other. " This is hard," said Van Norman, " I suppose he must leave when his ship does."

" Oh, Eddie ! Eddie !" she cried, with her eyes swimming in tears, " Think of those three chil dren alone, wdth only old Madelon. I'll have to go, won't I ?" " Well, if you do, dear," he said gently, " it will have to be alone : I can't leave New York this winter." "Alone!" she exclaimed, "Alone! you don't know what you say ; I never could go alone ! I could not." " Then what will you do ?" he asked slowly. There was a long pause ; again the fire rustled, and the bells jingled outside. Presently Violet rose, went over to her husband, laying one hand softly on his shoulder. " Eddie," she said, then stopped. " Eddie, dear, they could come here." Van Norman spoke no word, but gazed, with face grave and set, into the fire ; then turned to where the baby smiled down at them, with his ever unclouded eyes. " Tell Jack to bring them," he said.

Chapter II

When the great liner left Liverpool, on the 7 th of January, there were three small maidens aboard, in charge of an old Italian nurse, and their father was the captain. Those who had known Captain Jack Trevelyan before, and had crossed with him on other voy ages, looked at him twice now to be certain they were right before they spoke. Could this be the happy fellow they remembered, with sparkling blue eyes and bronzed and ruddy face, that to all had been the soul of merriment ? They used to say he carried the sunshine with him, that the best weather followed him, the best luck. Those who had seen him on the bridge during a storm invariably went back to their cabins with quieter nerves and lighter hearts, for he had that in his face which gave them confidence. He was an English man, a sailor, a gentleman to the manner born, and the youngest and most popular sea captain on all the ocean steamers, so it was said.

Thirteen years before, when he was a gay young sailor, mate on a trader bound for south ern parts, whilst going through the Mediter ranean they stopped at Naples, and by some misadventure were detained there for a month. Jack Trevelyan had plenty of time on his hands, some money, and lots of friends. He passed his days as it pleased him best, and his nights with the young rollicking fellows of the city, amongst whom was one Reggeoletto, son of an old notary and antiquarian. Antonio Reggeoletto, the elder, a man of wealth, had the name of being avaricious and disagreeable past all believing. Antonio, the younger, though distinctly a scapegrace, was his father's idol, and able, by means unknown to others, to wile money out of his pockets and forgiveness out of his heart. The old man had for housekeeper a niece.

Years before two children, Raphael and Margarita Reggeoletto, had been left orphans. They were the children of his brother, and quite destitute, therefore he took them in the name of charity — may the deed stand him in good stead. He had made their lives most unhappy, but they lived with him, " cribbed, cabined and confined," till Raphael was sixteen. Then the boy, who loved the sea and hated his uncle, shipped before the mast, and was heard of no more. Before going he promised his sister that he would return rich and powerful, to take her away with him. That was a boy's dream. Then he had kissed the forlorn little maid and gone away. Twelve years had passed. Margar ita was twenty and she still waited for him to come back. Jack Trevelyan was taken to the old notary's house by the gay Antonio, and there he met Margarita Reggeoletto.

So beautiful, so sad she was, so unlike any other girl the young sailor had seen, that he loved her from the first. He felt like the prince in some fairy tale who had come to rescue a princess long shut up from the world and its doings in a gloomy prison — for indeed the old gray stone house, with its high walled garden and small iron-studded doors, was not unlike a prison. It was a chance-meeting, for Margarita seldom saw any of her cousin's friends ; but this was fate, and from the first they loved each other. Again and again they met, in spite of close barred windows and cruel uncle. The end was that they were married, and wdien his vessel left Naples, Trevelyan, by permission of the captain, took with him his wife, beautiful, but no longer sad, for she knew she had left behind in the old walled house all real unhappiness.

To see them together had been a sight to remember, and the common sailors thought of it for many a day — both were so young, so radiant, so fearless of the future, as they started out on life's voyage. Captain Trevelyan was thinking of that far ofl time now, as he walked his deck under the light of the stars. It did not seem far away to him. He remembered every line of her grace ful girlish figure, every turn of her lovely head, every tone of her voice. He had known but very little of her language, she a little of his ; but their eyes had spoken the language of the whole world, and there was no misunderstanding. And so he was walking and thinking — his 2 heavy pilot coat buttoned close to his throat, for the night was cold— walking and thinking of the past and of the future. Those three children of his could not stay long in New York — he would not wish it — still it was the only way.

Oh ! he hoped that Violet would be good to them. She was so fond of the world and its gaieties, her home so filled with company coming and going through most of the year — she herself so taken up with the thousand and one things that enter into the life of a woman of fashion — that there would not be much time left for those three little maids. Still she was most kind, he knew, and before many years Daisy would be old enough to take charge of the others. Dear Daisy — " little Dame Durden " he sometimes called her — such a contrast to Maida, the merriest of all merry madcaps ! He smiled at the thought. There was only a year between those two, and Daisy was now twelve. Maida had been the most demonstrative in her grief at first, — there was nothing to be done but let the storm wear itself away — and now, when they were but two days out, she was the brightest of all.

Such was her buoyant nature. T he other were quieter ; they reminded him of the " still waters." But the Baby ! she was but seven. If it were not for old Madelon, he thought, she would have stayed with him. Yet what could he do wdth a child on these constant voyages of his ? It could not be ! No, it was out of the question ; and he continued to pace up and down in deep perplexity. By and by he fancied he saw a small dark figure making its way across the slippery deck, now holding on to the railing, now steadying itself by a deck-chair, — yes, it was coming towards him. " Who is this? " he called. " Daisy, father," she answered. " Are you alone ? " " Yes, dear, come on ; but it's very late and cold." " I could not rest below, father, and I thought I'd find you. Maida and Gwyneth are sound asleep, so some of us are not troubling you," she said apologetically.

" You are no trouble, darling ! " he answered, "but I'm afraid to have you come to me up here at night ; you mustn't do so again. Now, though, you may stay a little while, for I have a few things to say. Are you warm ? " " Yes, I'm warm, father, quite warm. They stood by the deck-railing looking out over the wide, dark water, and listening to the wind whistling above. It was very solemn, Daisy thought. Her father was different — older — and his voice had lost altogether its happy ring. It was still a wonderful voice — a voice that could sound above the tumult of wind and water, and be heard mellow and full from end to end of his ship — but a sad voice now, she thought. Presently he spoke. " We have all been very sorrowful, Daisy ! " "Yes, father!" she said, in a little muffled tone. " I always will be, dear ; but for you and the others such sorrow is not good.

I would have you remember your mother as she was — bright, lovely, full of life— not as I found her, or after wards — " He stopped abruptly, and the ship slipped on through the night; perchance the man saw beyond there that white, white face he loved. A long pause. Then a little cheek rubbed gently against his rough jacket. " I'll try to be cheerful, father." " Do, dear, I cannot bear to see you look so unhappy, or Baby — you know what I mean. To-morrow we must try to cheer them up a bit, won't we ? And another thing, Daisy, when you reach Aunt Violet's you may not always find it smooth sailing, not always. I know she is most kind ; but you three children will be often alone with old Madelon, I fancy, and if there should be any storms, little capfuls of wind, darling," he said, trying to see her face in the dark, "you must be brave, and think first of Maida and Baby."

" I'll try, father," the child answered, with a half stifled sob, " I'll think of you out here, in a different storm, perhaps ; and — and, any way, we have had the worst storm we can have, dear father." " I know," he said, " I know," and bracing back his strong square shoulders, turned, put his arms around her, and carried her safely below. " Remember, to-morrow we must be brighter," he said, as they parted wdth many a fond good-night.

Chapter III

Old Madelon had been a servant in the house of Antonio Reggeoletto when he brought his dead brother's children home. She loved them, and hated and feared their uncle. Many times during the years she had lived wdth the old man she might have married and gone away ; but, wdth a noble devotion, she stayed on and made them as happy as she was able. It became her life's business to outwit the old notary whenever she could, to get ahead of him if she might. She grieved for the boy Raphael when he ran away to sea, and never ceased to look for tidings of him from the ships that came into the Bay of Naples. Many a summer evening had she spent among the foreign sailors, coming in or going out of port, asking of one and all some word of the lad ; but none of them could tell her of him. And time went on.

When the young Prince Charming came to carry away her beautiful mistress, Madelon, then a woman of sixty, went with them. She could not bear the thought of parting, and so she, too, sailed upon that happy voyage. After a year passed they went to England to the home stead of the Trevelyans in Cornwall. It had long been closed, this old picturesque ivy-covered house, for death had come there, and many changes. Roses red and white swTung against the small diamond-paned windows, and looked in at the empty rooms. Lilacs knocked softly, with perfumed plumes, at the doors; around about trees grew close and heavy, and the place seemed like a nest from which the birds had flown. But voices were heard echoing through the quaint rooms again, and the windows were thrown open to the sun. There Daisy was born, and her mother grew to love the place passion ately.

By and by came Maida and Gwyneth, and in the sea-girt isle of ideal homes was no sweeter one. When its doors had to be shut again — when news came that the children were to go to New York — old Madelon said quietly, " I must go, too," so here she was with them. Thus far on the voyage the poor old nurse had been unable to leave her stateroom, and Captain Trevelyan had had all the responsibility of the the care of his little daughters, who, fortunately, were good sailors. They were on deck with him whenever his duties permitted it, wrapped in dark ulsters, and with curls flying from under their " Tams." All three were lovely — Daisy with serious dark face; Maida, like Daisy, only she was never still, and had many dimples. They were like their mother, both of them, true daughters of the South ; but Baby was simply a small feminine edition of her father.

Her eyes were the color of the sea, and as changeable ; and as for her hair, everybody said it was a wonder, so it must have been. Her mother had thought it the most beautiful thing in the world, and as for her father, well, it was too much like his own for him to say what he thought ; but while his was close and curly, Gwyneth's floated about her in a golden cloud. Once their mother had said to Madelon, "They are my three Graces." Old Madelon had looked at them a moment, and then replied in her own tongue, " When they grow up they will be three Fates ! " On the next morning Daisy remembered what her father had said, and tried to talk more brightly to the little ones while they were dressing. " Do try, Gwyneth, not to look sorrowfully at father to-day — no, that way, the way you're looking now, darling," she said, as Baby's lips began to tremble.

" It's worse for him than for us, and I believe when he sees you looking at him so — yes, the way you're looking now, dear." " But how can I help it, when I feel this way, Daisy ? " asked the child. " Well, dear," said Daisy, " Maida doesn't look so sad as that ; try to look like Maida." She glanced at her sister, who was sitting on the low locker running round their cabin. " Try to look like Maida," she said again, buttoning Gwyneth's black frock. " Maida don't feel the way I do," said Gwyneth presently. At this Maida looked up quickly, and her dark eyes, usually so laughing, grew dim. " 0 Baby, I do ! " she cried. " No, Maida, dear, not like me ; I'm the littlest," she answered. There was silence for a while, and then Maida said, " Now, Daisy, you dress, and I will brush Gwyn's hair." " I'll wait for Daisy," said Gwyn.

" Now, darling, you know I don't ever have a chance to brush your hair ; and I love to. Just let me do it this once ; I won't pull." " Well, then, you may," she replied, wdth a half sigh. " If you don't do it sometimes you'll never learn how : but I don't like the learning very much." Maida took the brush, and commenced to straighten out the glistening hair. " Does it hurt, Baby ?" she asked, pausing. " Yes, it does, a little bit, but never mind ; go on if you are enjoying yourself." " Enjoying myself, Baby ! What funny things you say. How could I enjoy myself hurting you ? But you have a tangle in it for every day in the week, and somebody has to get them out, you know, darling." " Yes, I know," said Gwyneth, meekly. The work went on till, the novelty wearing off, Maida stopped to rest. " I know one man on this boat I like," she said, reflectively.

" I should think you did," said Gwyn, "Father." " Father ? of course, father ; but I don't mean him." " Well, who then ?" looking up, with question ing blue eyes — there was only one man on board for her — " Is he a sailor ?" " Yes, he's a sailor," said Maida, " second offi cer. Haven't you seen him, Daisy ? he is dark, dark ; and his teeth shine when he talks. He told me a lovely story yesterday, about tattoo ing. " Oh, yes ; I have seen him," said Daisy ; " but I never speak to anyone I don't know, dear." " Why, he is father's second mate, and any way father introduced him to me." " Then, of course, it's all right," answered Daisy. " I shall ask father to introduce him to Daisy and me," remarked Gwyn ; " and we will ask him to be kind enough to tell us that story." " Yes, do," said Maida ; " I'd like to hear it again."

So, at the request of the children, Captain Trevelyan introduced Mr. Harry Barton, his mate, to them, and from that time to the end of the voyage he was their devoted slave and admirer. He made snug quarters for them, with chairs and rugs, behind the wheelhouse, where they sat by the hour listening to his tales of the sea, and of his adventures. He was, indeed, a very marvellous young man ; even Daisy thought so, although she hardly found it in her heart to believe the whole of those wonderful stories. It seemed impossible that anyone could have been wrecked on quite all of the cannibal islands of the South Sea, and been made king of so many of them. To be sure, he was most beautifully tattooed ; but then all sailors were, more or less. One day his cuff slipped back, and Gwyn saw what looked like an anchor.

" Please show me that big blue anchor on your arm, Mr. Barton," she said. He was delighted to have her ask him any thing ; for although he and Maida were fast friends, the other two were still a little shy, and rarely spoke to him of their own accord. " Why, certainly, with pleasure, Miss Gwyn eth," he answered, rolling up his sleeve. It was a fine anchor, and to the end of it was tat tooed a chain. " The chain seems to go a long wray, Mr. Bar ton," remarked Baby, when she was through admiring the anchor. " It does," he said. " Where does it go ? " she asked sweetly. " Well," he answered, " it goes up my arm, round my throat, and is fastened to a goddess on the back of my neck — at least, it is the South Sea islander's idea of a goddess." " Really, Mr. Barton ! I should like to see the goddess," she said.

" Ah ! Miss Gwyneth, we'll have to ask the captain about that," he replied, with a smile, amused that she should have so far forgotten her shyness. " Did it hurt very much to do it all ?" she asked, sjmipathetically. " Oh ! no, not at all ; they just take your arm, like this, and punch it full of little holes with a fine-pointed ivory stiletto, then rub in the color." " Oh ! dear me, it must have hurt dreadfully," she cried. " I am so sorry it hurt you, Mr. Bar ton." Just then the captain came up. " You seem to have made fast friends," he said. " Do you like him, Baby ?" turning to his small daughter. " Oh ! yes, father," she answered quickly ; " I have grown very fond of him ; he has had such dreadful adventures." " You see, Captain," laughed }roung Barton, " she loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them."