“In what way, Sir?” demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
“You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.”
“Make good your assertions,” cried Trenchard, furiously, “or——”
“To the proof,” interrupted the stranger, calmly. “You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. The eldest, Constance, was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of my information.”
“If this is the extent of it, Sir,” returned the knight, ironically, “you may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.”
“Perhaps so,” rejoined the stranger; “but I have others in reserve, not so generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. Where I am in error, you can set me right.—Your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the Second, and borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that monarch, turned his back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards recognise their claims to the crown. It was said, that he received an affront from James, in the shape of a public reprimand, which his pride could not forgive. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession.”
“So far you are correct,” observed Trenchard; “still, this is no secret.”
“Suffer me to proceed,” replied the stranger. “The opinions, entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had deserted. Finding remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to threats; and when threats failed, he adopted more decided measures.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Trenchard.
“As yet,” pursued the stranger, “Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son's allowance to a third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation, he even went so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter, Aliva, who was then betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford.”