Lord Oakleigh had spoken of another as the prospective playmate of Cordelia—his son, Matthew.
And Matthew Brandon played with her often, though she would always leave him for the companionship of his grandfather.
Matthew Brandon was now entering his sixteenth years—just the age of the smuggler’s son. He was not what would be called a handsome boy.
His complexion was dark; his hair intensely black; and his eyes, deeply set in their sockets, were small, with an unusually narrow space between them.
His face was not a mirror of frankness; and the servants were painfully aware of two lamentable facts: First, he could be cruel and vengeful; and second, he could lie. Of this, however, his grandfather was ignorant.
The servants loved him too well to pain him by the telling, while the boy was wise and wary enough to hide his darker side from those who had authority to punish.
On the same November day that saw the smuggler chief lay dying in the stone cottage by the Cove, Sir William Chester lay dying in one of the tapestried chambers of Allerdale Castle.
He had sent for Matthew, and the boy had come—had come reluctantly enough from the making of a rabbit-trap.
With his failing hand on the lad’s head, Sir William told him of his father—told him what a good, true and loyal man he was.
“And may I not hope, my boy, that you will grow up to be like him? You don’t know how dearly he loves you; how proud he is of his son; nor do you realize how much of his joy and gladness in the future is dependent upon your success in life. Oh! Matthew! Matthew! Will you not strive, with all your might, to make your father happy and blessed? You can do it. Let him know that his beloved boy is good and true, and honest, and kind of heart—let him know this, and he will be as happy as a man can be. You will try, won’t you?”