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Page 3
The funeral was a very poor one. A kind city missionary prayed over the
remains, and the hearse was followed to Potter's Field only by Mat and
Arch--ragged and tattered, but sincere mourners.
When they came back Mat took Arch's hand and led him into the wretched
den she called home.
"You shall stay here, Arch, with Grandma Rugg and me. She said you might
if you'd be a good boy, and not plague the cat. Grandma's a rough one,
but she ain't kicked me since I tore her cap off. I'm too big to be
kicked now. Sit down, Arch; you know you can't stay at home now."
Yes, to be sure he could not stay there any longer. No one knew that any
better than Arch. The landlord had warned him out that very morning. A
half-quarter's rent was still due, and the meagre furniture would barely
suffice to satisfy his claim. Hitherto, Mrs. Trevlyn had managed to pay
her expenses, but, now that she was gone, Arch knew that it was more than
folly to think of renting a room. But he could not suppress a cry of pain
when they came to take away the things; and when they laid their rude
hands on the chair in which his mother died, poor Arch could endure no
more, but fled out into the street, and wandered about till hunger and
weariness forced him back to the old haunt.
He accepted the hospitality of Grandma Rugg, and made his home with her
and Mat. The influences which surrounded him were not calculated to
develop good principles, and Arch grew rude and boisterous, like the
other street boys. He heard the vilest language--oaths were the rule
rather than the exception in Grigg Court, as the place was called--and
gambling, and drunkenness, and licentiousness abounded. Still, it was
singular how much evil Arch shunned.
But there was growing within him a principle of bitter hatred, which one
day might embitter his whole existence. Perhaps he had cause for it; he
thought he had, and cherished it with jealous care, lest it should be
annihilated as the years went on.
From his mother's private papers he had learned much of her history that
he had before been ignorant of. She had never spoken to him very freely
of the past. She knew how proud and high his temper was, and acted with
wisdom in burying the story of her wrongs in her own breast.
His father, Hubert Trevlyn, had come of a proud family. There was no
bluer blood in the land than that which ran in the veins of the Trevlyns.
Not very far back they had an earl for their ancestor, and, better than
that, the whole long lineage had never been tarnished by a breath of
dishonor.
Hubert was the sole child of his father, and in him were centred many
bright and precious hopes. His father was a kind parent, though a stern
one, who would never brook a shade of disobedience in this boy upon whom
his fondest hopes and aspirations were fixed.
When Hubert was about twenty-four he went into the country for his
health, which was never very robust, and while there he met Helen
Crayton. It was a case of love at first sight, but none the less pure and
steadfast account. Helen was an orphan--a poor seamstress, but beautiful
and intelligent beyond any woman he had ever met. They loved, and they
would not be cheated out of their happiness by any worldly opposition.
Hubert wrote to his father, informing him of his love for Helen, and
asking his consent to their union. Such a letter as he received in
return! It bade him give up the girl at once and return home. If he
ever spoke to her again he was disowned forever! He might consider
himself houseless and homeless.
Hubert had some of the proud Trevlyn blood in his composition, and this
letter roused it thoroughly. A week afterward he was the husband of Helen
Crayton. He took his young wife to the city, and, having something of a
talent for painting, he opened a studio, hoping to receive sufficient
patronage from his friends to support his family in comfort.
But he had not rightfully calculated the extent of his father's hatred.
He made himself the evil genius of his disobedient son; and, in
consequence, nothing Hubert touched prospered. Mr. Trevlyn destroyed the
confidence of his friends in him; he circulated scandalous reports of
his wife; he made the public to look with suspicious eyes upon the
unfortunate pair, and took the honestly earned bread out of their very
mouths. From bad to worse it went on, until, broken in health and
spirits, Hubert made an appeal to his father. It was a cold, wet night,
and he begged for a little food for his wife and child. They were
literally starving! Begged of his own father, and was refused with
curses. Not only refused, but kicked like a dog from the door of his
childhood's home! There was a fearful storm that night, and Hubert did
not come back. All night his young wife sat waiting for him, hushing the
feeble cries of the weary infant upon her breast. With the dawn, she
muffled herself and child in a shawl, and went forth to seek him. Half
way from her wretched home to the palatial mansion of Mr. Trevlyn she
found her husband, stone dead, and shrouded in the snow--the tender,
pitiful snow, that covered him and his wretchedness from sight.
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