by Ellen Wood
He reached Barmester, and saw his sister Caroline, who was staying there on a visit. She was not overwhelmed with grief, but, on the contrary, appeared to have taken the matter coolly and lightly. The fact was, the little girl had no definite ideas on the subject of death. She had never been brought into contact with it, and could not at all realise the fact told her, that she would never see papa again. Better for the little heart perhaps that it was so; sorrow enough comes with later years; and Mrs. Ryle judged wisely in deciding to keep the child where she was until after the funeral.
When George reached home, he found Nora at tea alone. Master Treve had chosen to take his with his mother in her chamber. George sat down with Nora. The shutters were closed, and the room was bright with fire and candle; but to George all things were dreary.
“Why don’t you eat?” asked Nora, presently, perceiving the bread-and-butter remained untouched.
“I’m not hungry,” replied George.
“Did you have tea in Barmester?”
“I did not have anything,” he said.
“Now, look you here, George. If you are going to give way to —— Mercy on us! What’s that?”
Some one had entered hastily. A lovely girl in a flowing white evening dress and blue ribbons in her hair. A heavy shawl fell from her shoulders to the ground, and she stood panting, as one who has run quickly, her fair curls falling, her cheeks crimson, her dark blue eyes glowing. On the pretty arms were coral bracelets, and a thin gold chain was on her neck. It was Maude Trevlyn, whom you saw at Trevlyn Hold last night. So out of place did she look in that scene, that Nora for once was silent, and could only stare.
“I ran away, Nora,” said Maude, coming forward. “Octave has a party, but they won’t miss me if I stay only a little time. I have wanted to come all day, but they would not let me.”
“Who would not?” asked Nora.
“Not any of them. Even Aunt Edith. Nora, is it true? Is it true that he is dead?” she reiterated, her pretty hands clasped with emotion, her great blue eyes cast upwards at Nora, waiting for the answer.
“Oh, Miss Maude! you might have heard it was true enough up at the Hold. And so they have a party! Some folk in Madam Chattaway’s place might have had the grace to put it off, when their sister’s husband was lying dead!”
“It is not Aunt Edith’s fault. You know it is not, Nora. George, you know it also. She has cried very much to-day; and she asked long and long ago for the bull to be sent off. But he was not sent. Oh, George, I am so sorry! I wish I could have seen him before he died. There was no one I liked so well as Mr. Ryle.”
“Will you have some tea?” asked Nora.
“No, I must not stay. Should Octave miss me she will tell of me, and then I should be punished. What do you think? Rupert displeased Cris in some way, and Miss Diana sent him to bed away from all the pleasure. It is a shame!”
“It is all a shame together, up at Trevlyn Hold — all that concerns Rupert,” said Nora, not, perhaps, very judiciously.
“Nora, where did he die?” asked Maude, in a whisper. “Did they take him up to his bedroom when they brought him home?”
“They carried him in there,” said Nora, pointing to the sitting room door. “He is lying there now.”
“I want to see him,” she continued.
Nora received the intimation dubiously.
“I don’t know whether you had better,” said she, after a pause.
“Yes, I must, Nora. What was that about the dog scratching a grave before the porch?”
“Who told you anything about that?” asked Nora, sharply.
“Ann Canham came up to the Hold and spoke about it. Was it so, Nora?”
Nora nodded. “A hole, Miss Maude, nearly big enough to lay the master in. Not that I thought it a token for him! I thought only of Jim Sanders. And some folk laugh at these warnings!” she added. “There sits one,” pointing to George.
“Well, never mind it now,” said George, hastily. Never was a boy less given to superstition; but, with his father lying where he was, he somehow did not care to hear much about the mysterious hole.
Maude moved towards the door. “Take me in to see him,” she pleaded.
“Will you promise not to be frightened?” asked Nora. “Some young people can’t bear the sight of death.”
“What should I fear?” returned Maude. “He cannot hurt me.”
Nora rose in acquiescence, and took up the candle. But George laid his hand on the girl.
“Don’t go, Maude. Nora, you must not let her go in. She might regret it. It would not be right.”
Now, of all things, Nora disliked being dictated to, especially by those she called children. She saw no reason why Maude should not look upon the dead if she wished to do so, and gave a sharp word of reprimand to George, in an undertone. How could they speak aloud, entering that presence?
“Maude, Maude!” he whispered. “I would advise you not to go in.”
“Let me go!” she pleaded. “I should like to see him once again. I did not see him for a whole week before he died. The last time I ever saw him was one day in the copse, and he got down some hazel-nuts for me. I never thanked him,” she added, tears in her eyes. “In a hurry to get home, I never stayed to thank him. I shall always be sorry for it. George, I must see him.”
Nora was already in the room with the candle. Maude advanced on tiptoe, her heart beating with awe. She halted at the foot of the table and looked eagerly upwards.
Maude Trevlyn had never seen the dead, and her heart gave a bound of terror, and she fell back with a cry. Before Nora knew well what had occurred, George had her in the other room, his arms wound about her with a sense of protection. Nora came out and closed the door, vexed with herself for having allowed her to enter.
“You should have told me you had never seen any one dead before, Miss Maude,” cried she, testily. “How was I to know? And you ought to have come right up to the top before looking.”
Maude was clinging tremblingly to George, sobbing hysterically. “Don’t be angry with me,” she whispered. “I did not think he would look like that.”
“Oh, Maude, I am not angry; I am only sorry,” he said soothingly. “There’s nothing really to be frightened at. Papa loved you very much; almost as much as he loved me.”
“Shall I take you back, Maude?” said George, when she was ready to go.
“Yes, please,” she eagerly answered. “I should not dare to go alone now. I should be fancying I saw — it — looking out at me from the hedges.”
Nora folded her shawl well over her again, and George drew her closer to him that she might feel his presence as well as see it. Nora watched them down the path, right over the hole the restless dog had favoured the house with a night or two ago.
They went up the road. An involuntary shudder shook George’s frame as he passed the turning which led to the fatal field. He seemed to see his father in the unequal conflict. Maude felt the movement.
“It is never going to be out again,” she whispered.
“What?” he asked, his thoughts buried deeply just then.
“The bull. I heard Aunt Diana talking to Mr. Chattaway. She said it must not be set at liberty again, or we might have the law down upon Trevlyn Hold.”
“Yes; that’s all Miss Trevlyn and he care for — the law,” returned George, in tones of pain. “What do they care for the death of my father?”
“George, he is better off,” said she, in a dreamy manner, her face turned towards the stars. “I am very sorry; I have cried a great deal over it; and I wish it had never happened; I wish he was back with us; but still he is better off; Aunt Edith says so. You don’t know how she has felt it.”
“Yes,” answered George, his heart very full.
“Mamma and papa are better off,” continued Maude. “Your own mother is better off. The next world is a happier one than this.”
George made no rejoinder. Favourite though Maude was with George Ryle, those were heavy moments for him
. They proceeded in silence until they turned in at the great gate by the lodge: a round building, containing two rooms upstairs and two down. Its walls were not very substantial, and the sound of voices could be heard within. Maude stopped in consternation.
“George, that is Rupert talking!”
“Rupert! You told me he was in bed.”
“He was sent to bed. He must have got out of the window again. I am sure it is his voice. Oh, what will be done if it is found out?”
George Ryle swung himself on to the very narrow ledge under the window, contriving to hold on by his hands and toes, and thus obtained a view of the room.
“Yes, it is Rupert,” said he, as he jumped down. “He is sitting talking to old Canham.”
But the slightness of structure which allowed voices to be heard within the lodge also allowed them to be heard without. Ann Canham came hastening to the door, opened it a few inches, and stood peeping. Maude took the opportunity to slip past her into the room.
But no trace of her brother was there. Mark Canham was sitting in his usual invalid seat by the fire, smoking a pipe, his back towards the door.
“Where has he gone?” cried Maude.
“Where’s who gone?” roughly spoke old Canham, without turning his head. “There ain’t nobody here.”
“Father, it’s Miss Maude,” interposed Ann Canham, closing the outer door, after allowing George to enter. “Who be you taking the young lady for?”
The old man, partly disabled by rheumatism, put down his pipe, and contrived to turn in his chair. “Eh, Miss Maude! Why, who’d ever have thought of seeing you to-night?”
“Where is Rupert?” asked Maude.
“Rupert?” composedly returned old Canham. “Is it Master Rupert you’re asking after? How should we know where he is, Miss Maude?”
“We saw him here,” interposed George Ryle. “He was sitting on that bench, talking to you. We both heard his voice, and I saw him.”
“Very odd!” said the old man. “Fancy goes a great way. Folks is ofttimes deluded by it.”
“Mark Canham, I tell you — —”
“Wait a minute!” interrupted Maude. She opened the door leading into the inner room, and stood looking into its darkness. “Rupert!” she called; “it is only George and I. You need not hide.”
It brought forth Rupert; that lovely boy, with his large blue eyes and auburn curls. There was a great likeness between him and Maude; but Maude’s hair was lighter.
“I thought it was Cris,” he said. “He is learning to be as sly as a fox: though I don’t know that he was ever anything else. When I am ordered to bed before my time, he has taken to dodging into the room every ten minutes to see that I am safe in it. Have they missed me, Maude?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I also came away without their knowing it. I have been down to Aunt Ryle’s, and George has brought me home again.”
“Will you be pleased, to sit down, Miss, Maude?” asked Ann Canham, dusting a chair.
“Eh, but that’s a pretty picture!” cried old Canham, gazing at Maude, who had slipped off her heavy shawl, and stood warming her hands at the fire.
Mark Canham was right. A very pretty picture. He extended the hand that was not helpless towards her.
“Miss Maude, I mind me seeing your mother looking just as you look now. The Squire was out, and the young ladies at the Hold thought they’d give a dance, and Parson Dean and Miss Emily were invited to it. I don’t know that they’d have been asked if the Squire had been at home, matters not being smooth between him and parson. She was older than you be; but she was dressed just as you be now; and I could fancy, as I look at you, that it was her over again. I was in the rooms, helping to wait. It doesn’t seem so long ago! Miss Emily was the sweetest-looking of ’em all present; and the young heir seemed to think so. He opened the ball with Miss Emily in spite of his sisters; they wanted him to choose somebody grander. Ah, me! and both of ’em lying low so soon after, leaving you two behind ‘em!”
“Mark!” cried Rupert, throwing his eyes on the old man — eyes sparkling with excitement— “if they had lived, papa and mamma, I should not have been sent to bed to-night because there’s another party at Trevlyn Hold.”
Mark’s only answer was to put up his hands with an indignant gesture. Ann Canham was still offering the chair to Maude. Maude declined it.
“I cannot stay, Ann. They will miss me if I don’t return. Rupert, you will come?”
“To be boxed up in my bedroom, whilst the rest of you are enjoying yourselves,” cried Rupert. “They would like to take the spirit out of me; have been trying at it a long time.”
Maude wound her arm within his. “Do come, Rupert!” she whispered coaxingly. “Think of the disturbance if Cris should find you here and tell!”
“And tell!” repeated Rupert, mockingly. “Not to tell would be impossible to Cris Chattaway. It’s what he’d delight in more than in gold. I wouldn’t be the sneak Cris Chattaway is for the world.”
But Rupert appeared to think it well to depart with his sister. As they were going out, old Canham spoke to George.
“And Mrs. Ryle, sir — how does she bear it?”
“She bears it very well, Mark,” answered George, as the tears rushed to his eyes unbidden. The old man marked them.
“There’s one comfort for ye, Master George,” he said, in low tones: “that he has took all his neighbours’ sorrow with him. And as much couldn’t be said if every gentleman round about here was cut off by death.”
The significant tone was not needed to tell George that he alluded to Mr. Chattaway. The master of Trevlyn Hold was, in fact, no greater favourite with old Canham than he was with George Ryle.
“Mind how you get in, Master Rupert, so they don’t fall upon you,” whispered Ann Canham, as she held open the lodge door.
“I’ll mind,” was the boy’s answer. “Not that I should care much if they did,” he added. “I am getting tired of it.”
She stood and watched them up the dark walk until a turn in the road hid them from view, and then closed the door. “If they don’t take to treat him kinder, I misdoubt me but he’ll do something desperate, as the dead-and-gone heir, Rupert, did,” she remarked, sitting down near her father.
“Like enough,” was the old man’s reply, taking up his pipe again. “He has the true Trevlyn temper, have young Rupert.”
“Maude,” began Rupert, as they wound their way up the dark avenue, “don’t they know you came out?”
“They would not have let me come if they had known it,” replied Maude. “I have been wanting to go down all day, but Aunt Diana and Octave kept me in. I begged to go down last night when Bill Webb brought the news; and they were angry with me.”
“Do you know what I should have done in Chattaway’s place, George?” cried the boy, impulsively. “I should have loaded my gun the minute I heard of it, and shot the beast between the eyes. Chattaway would, if he were half a man.”
“It is of no use talking of it, Rupert,” answered George, in sadly subdued tones. “That would not mend the evil.”
“Only fancy their having this rout to-night, while Mr. Ryle is lying dead!” indignantly resumed Rupert. “Aunt Edith ought to have interfered for once, and stopped it.”
“Aunt Edith did interfere,” spoke up Maude. “She said it must be put off. But Octave would not hear of it, and Miss Diana said Mr. Ryle was no real rela — —”
Maude dropped her voice. They were now in view of the house and its lighted windows; and some one, probably hearing their footsteps, came bearing down upon them with a fleet step. It was Cris Chattaway. Rupert stole into the trees, and disappeared: Maude, holding George’s arm, bore bravely on, and met him.
“Where have you been, Maude? The house has been searched for you. What brings you here?” he roughly added to George.
“I came because I chose to come,” was George’s answer.
“None of your insolence,” returned Cris. “We don’t want you h
ere to-night. Just be off from this.”
Was Cris Chattaway’s motive a good one, under his rudeness? Did he feel ashamed of the gaiety going on, whilst Mr. Ryle, his uncle by marriage, was lying dead, under circumstances so unhappy? Was he anxious to conceal the unseemly proceeding from George? Perhaps so.
“I shall go back when I have taken Maude to the hall-door,” said George. “Not before.”
Anything that might have been said further by Cris, was interrupted by the appearance of Miss Trevlyn. She was standing on the steps.
“Where have you been, Maude?”
“To Trevlyn Farm,” was Maude’s truthful answer. “You would not let me go during the day, so I have been now. It seemed to me that I must see him before he was put underground.”
“See him!” cried Miss Trevlyn.
“Yes. It was all I went for. I did not see my aunt. George, thank you for bringing me home,” she continued, stepping in. “Good-night. I would have given all I possess for it never to have happened.”
She burst into a flood of tears as she spoke — the result, no doubt, of her previous fright and excitement, as well as her sorrow for Mr. Ryle’s unhappy fate. George wrung her hand, and lifted his hat to Miss Trevlyn as he turned away.
But ere he had well plunged into the dark avenue, there came swift and stealthy steps behind him. A soft hand was laid upon him, and a soft voice spoke, broken by tears:
“Oh, George, I am so sorry! I have felt all day as if it would almost be my death. I think I could have given my own life to save his.”
“I know, I know! I know how you will feel it,” replied George, utterly unmanned by the true and unexpected sympathy.
It was Mrs. Chattaway.
CHAPTER VI
THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD
It is impossible to go on without a word of retrospect. The Ryles, gentlemen by a long line of ancestry, had once been rich men, but they were open-handed and heedless, and in the time of George’s grandfather, the farm (not called the farm then) passed into the possession of the Trevlyns of the Hold, who had a mortgage on it. They named it Trevlyn Farm, and Mr. Ryle and his son remained on as tenants where they had once been owners.