by Ellen Wood
“To whom would he have left it, do you fancy?”
“Well — I suppose,” slowly turning the matter over in his mind— “I suppose, in that case, it would have been Aunt Diana. But there is Maude, Aunt Ryle, and we need not discuss it. George and Maude will have it, and their children after them.”
“Poor boy!” she said, with a touch of compassion; “it is a sad fate for you! Not to live to inherit!”
A gentle smile rose to his face, and he pointed upwards. “There’s a better heirship for me, Aunt Ryle.”
It was upon returning from this memorable interview with Squire Trevlyn, that Mrs. Ryle met Octave Chattaway and stopped to speak.
“Are you getting settled, Octave?”
“Tolerably so. Mamma says she shall not be straight in six months to come. Have you been to the Hold?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Ryle, turning her determined gaze on Octave. “Have you heard the news? That the Squire has chosen his heir?”
“No,” breathlessly rejoined Octave. “We have heard that Rupert is beyond hope; but nothing else. It will be Maude, I conclude.”
“It is to be George Ryle.”
“George Ryle!” repeated Octave, in amazement.
“Yes. I believe it will be left to him, not to Maude. But it will be all the same. He is to marry her, and to take the name of Trevlyn. George never told me this. He just said to-day that he was going to live at the Hold; but he never said it was as Maude’s husband and the Squire’s heir. How prospects have changed!”
Changed! Ay, Octave felt it to her inmost soul, as she leaned against the gate, and gazed in thought after Mrs. Ryle. Gazed without seeing or hearing, deep in her heart’s tribulation, her hand pressed upon her bosom, her pale face quivering as it was turned to the winter sky.
CHAPTER LXI
A BETTER HEIRSHIP
Bending in tenderness over the couch of Rupert Trevlyn was Mrs. Chattaway. Madam Chattaway no longer; she had quitted that distinctive title on quitting Trevlyn Hold. It was a warm day early in May, and Rupert had lingered on; the progress of the disease being so gradual, so imperceptible, that even the medical men were deceived; and now that the end had come, they were still saying that he might last until the autumn.
Rupert had been singularly favoured: some, stricken by this dire malady, are so. Scarcely any of its painful features were apparent; and Mr. Daw wrote word that they had not been in his father. There was scarcely any cough or pain, and though the weakness was certainly great, Rupert had not for one single day taken to his bed. Until within two days of this very time, when you see Mrs. Chattaway leaning over him, he had gone out in the carriage whenever the weather permitted. He could not sit up much, but chiefly lay on the sofa as he was lying now, facing the window, open to the warm noon-day sun. The room was the one you have frequently seen before, once the sitting-room of Mrs. Chattaway. When the Chattaways left the Hold, Rupert had changed to their rooms; and would sit there and watch the visitors who came up the avenue.
Mrs. Chattaway had been staying at the Hold since the previous Tuesday, for Maude was away from it. Maude left it with George Ryle on that day, but they were coming home this Saturday evening, for both were anxious not to be long away from Rupert. Rupert sadly wanted to attend the wedding, and the Squire and Mr. Freeman strove to invent all sorts of schemes for warming the church; but it persisted in remaining cold and damp, and Rupert was not allowed to venture. He sat with them, however, at the breakfast afterwards, and but for his attenuated form and the hectic excitement brought to his otherwise white and hollow cheeks, might have passed very well for a guest. George, with his marriage, had taken the name of Trevlyn, for the Squire insisted upon it, and he would come home to the Hold to-day as his permanent abode. Miss Diana received mortal offence at the wedding-breakfast, and sat cold and impenetrable, for the Squire requested his elder sister to preside in right of birth, and Miss Diana had long considered herself far more important than Mrs. Ryle, and had expected to be chief on that occasion herself.
“Shall we invite Edith or Diana to stay with you whilst Maude’s away?” the Squire had inquired of Rupert. And a flush of pleasure came into the wan face as he answered, “My aunt Edith. I should like to be again with Aunt Edith.”
So Mrs. Chattaway had remained with him, and passed the time as she was doing now — hovering round his couch, giving him all her care, caressing him in her loving, gentle manner, whispering of the happy life on which he was about to enter.
She had some eau-de-cologne in her hand, and was pouring it on a handkerchief to pass it lightly over his brow and temples. In doing this a drop went into his eye.
“Oh, Rupert, I am so sorry! How awkward I am!”
It smarted very much, but Rupert smiled bravely. “Just a few minutes’ pain, Aunt Edith. That’s all. Do you know what I have got to think lately?”
She put the cork into the long green bottle, and sat down close to his sofa. “What, dear?”
“That we must be blind, foolish mortals to fret so much under misfortunes. A little patience, and they pass away.”
“It would be better for us all if we had more patience, more trust,” she answered. “If we could leave things more entirely to God.”
Rupert lay with his eyes cast upwards, blue as the sky he looked at. “I would have tried to put that great trust in God, had I lived,” he said, after a pause. “Do you know, Aunt Edith, at times I do wish I could have lived.”
“I wish so, too,” she murmured.
“At least, I should wish it but for this feeling of utter fatigue that is always upon me. I sha’n’t feel it up there, Aunt Edith.”
“No, no,” she whispered.
“When you get near to death, knowing that it is upon you, as I know it, I think you obtain clearer views of the reality of things. It seems to me, looking back on the life I am leaving, as if it were of no consequence at what period of life we die; whether young or old; and yet how terrible a calamity death is looked upon by people in general.”
“It needs sorrow or illness to reconcile us to it, Rupert. Most of us must be tired of this life ere we can bring ourselves to anticipate another, and wish for it.”
“Well, I have not had so happy a life here,” he unthinkingly remarked. “I ought not to murmur at exchanging it for another.”
No, he had not. The words had been spoken without thought, innocent of intentional reproach; but she was feeling them to the very depths of her long-tried heart. Mrs. Chattaway was not famous for the control of her emotions, and she broke into tears as she rose and bent over him.
“The recollection of the past is ever upon me, Rupert, night and day. Say you forgive me! Say it now, ere the time for it shall have gone by.”
He looked surprised. “Forgive you, dear Aunt Edith? I have never had anything to forgive you; and others I have forgiven long ago.”
“I lie awake at night and think of it, Rupert,” she said, her tones betraying her great emotion. “Had you been differently treated, you might not have died just as your rights are recognised. You might have lived to be the inheritor as well as the heir of Trevlyn.”
Rupert lay pondering. “But I must have died at last,” he said. “And I might not have been any the better for it. Aunt Edith, it seems to me to be just this. I am twenty-one years old, and a life of some sort is before me, a life here, or a life there. At my age it is only natural that I should look forward to the life here, and I did so until I grew sick with weariness and pain. But if that life is the better and happier one, does it not seem a favour to be taken to it before my time? Aunt Edith, I say that as death comes on, I believe we see things as they really are, not as they seem. I was to have inherited Trevlyn Hold: but I shall exchange it for a better inheritance. Let this comfort you.”
She sat, weeping silently, holding his hand in hers. Rupert said no more, but kept his eyes fixed upwards in thought. Gradually the lids closed, and his breathing, somewhat more regular than when awake, told that he slept. Mrs. Chatta
way laid his hand on the coverlet, dried her eyes, and busied herself about the room.
About half-an-hour afterwards he awoke. She was sitting down then, watching him. It almost seemed as if her gaze had awakened him, for she had only just taken her seat.
“Have they come?” were his first words.
“Not yet, Rupert.”
“Not yet! Will they be long? I feel sinking.”
Mrs. Chattaway hastily called for the refreshment Rupert had until now constantly taken. But he turned his head away as it was placed before him.
“My dear, you said you were sinking!”
“Not that sort of sinking, Aunt Edith. Nothing that food will remedy.”
A tremor came over Mrs. Chattaway. She detected a change in his voice, saw the change in his countenance. It has just been said, and not for the first time in this history, that she could not boast of much self-control: and she hurried from the room, calling for Squire Trevlyn. He heard her, and came immediately, wondering much. “It is Rupert,” she said in irrepressible excitement. “He says he is dying.”
Rupert had not said so: though, perhaps, what he did say was almost equivalent to it, and she had jumped to the conclusion. When Squire Trevlyn reached him, he was lying with his eyes closed and the changed look on his white face. A servant stood near the table where the tray of refreshment had been placed, gazing at him.
The Squire hastily felt his forehead, then his hand. “What ails you, my boy?” he asked, subduing his voice as it never was subdued, save to the sick Rupert.
Rupert opened his eyes. “Have they come, uncle? I want Maude.”
“They won’t be long now,” looking at his watch. “Don’t you feel so well, Rupert?”
“I feel like — going,” was the answer: and as Rupert spoke he gasped for breath. The servant stepped forward and raised his head. Mrs. Chattaway, who had again come in, broke into a cry.
“Edith!” reproved the Squire. “A pretty one you are for a sick room! If you cannot be calm and quiet, better keep out of it.”
He quitted it himself as he spoke, called for his own groom, and bade him hasten for Mr. King. Rupert looked better when he returned; the spasm, or whatever it was, had passed, and he was holding the hand of Mrs. Chattaway.
“Aunt Edith was frightened,” he said, turning his eyes on his uncle.
“She always was one to be frightened at nothing,” cried the Squire. “Do you feel faint, my boy?”
“It’s gone now,” answered Rupert.
Mrs. Chattaway poured out some cordial, and he drank it without difficulty. Afterwards he seemed to revive, and spoke to them now and then, though he lay so still as to give an idea that all motion had departed from him. Even when the sound of wheels was heard in the avenue he did not stir, though he evidently heard.
“It’s only Ralph,” remarked the Squire. “I sent him out in the gig.”
Rupert slightly shook his head and a half-smile illumined his face. The Squire also became aware of the fact that what they heard was not the noise of gig-wheels. He went down to the hall-door.
It was the carriage bringing back the bride and bridegroom. Maude sprang lightly in, and the Squire took her in his arms.
“Welcome home, my darling!”
Maude laughed and blushed, and the Squire left her and turned to George.
“How is Rupert, sir?”
“He has been famous until half-an-hour ago. Since then there has been a change. You had better go up at once; he has been asking for you and Maude. I have sent for King.”
George drew his wife’s hand within his arm, and led her upstairs. No one was in the room with Rupert, except Mrs. Chattaway. He never moved or stirred, as they advanced and bent over him, Maude throwing off her bonnet; he only gazed up at their faces with a happy smile.
Maude’s eyes were swimming; George was startled. Surely death was even now upon him. It had come closer in this short interval between Squire Trevlyn’s departure from the room and his return.
Rupert lay passively, his wasted hands in theirs. Maude was the first to give way. “My darling brother! I did not expect to find you like this.”
“I am going on before, Maude,” he breathed, his voice so low they had to stoop to catch it. “You will come later.”
A cry from Mrs. Chattaway interrupted him. “Oh, Rupert, say you forgive the past! You have not said it. You must not die with unforgiveness in your heart.”
He looked at her wonderingly; a look which seemed to ask if she had forgotten his assertion only an hour ago. He laid his hands feebly together holding them raised. “God bless and forgive all who may have been unkind to me, as I forgive them — as I have forgiven them long ago. God bless and forgive us all, and take us when this life is over to our heavenly home; for the sake of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”
“Amen!” said the Squire.
A deep silence fell on them only to be broken by the entrance of Mr. King. He came quietly up to the sofa, glanced at Rupert, and kept his eyes fixed for the space of a minute. Then he turned to the Squire. The face was already the face of the dead. With the sorrows and joys of this world, Rupert Trevlyn had done for ever.
THE END
WILLIAM ALLAIR
OR, RUNNING AWAY TO SEA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER I.
THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY.
I LIKE writing for boys, and I am going to tell them a story of real life. I hope all those who are especially inclined to be scapegraces will learn it by heart.
Never was there a pleasanter village than that of Whittermead, situated in a charming nook of old England. It had its colony of gentlemen’s houses, its clustering cottages, its farm homesteads. An aristocratic village it was pleased to call itself, and a loyal village, too; which was the cause, possibly, why sundry old-fashioned customs, that had become obsolete in most places, reigned there still in triumph. Its enemies were apt to ridicule the place, and reproach it as being, in reference to the world in general, “a day behind the fair.”
Two days in the year were kept as public holidays, and Whittermead, in its ultra loyalty, prided itself upon the fact. The days were the twenty-ninth of May, and the fifth of November. Had the show on the one day, and the Guy Fawkeses and fireworks on the other, been done away with, the boys would have broken out into open rebellion; more particularly, the scholars of Dr Robertson’s school, a semi-public school of renown in the county. It is with the twenty-ninth of May that we have to do; but not a very recent one; I am telling you of years ago.
In the heart of the town there stood a white, detached house. It was inhabited by a gentleman of the name of Allair; a solicitor of good practice for a small local place. His eldest son, William, gives the title to this book.
On the morning spoken of, the church bells rang out a merry peal, heralding in the holiday; so early, that few people were awake to hear them. Their sound aroused many, — amongst others, William Allair. He started from his pillow, a good-looking, fair boy of fifteen, and stared around him.
“The bells already!” cried he, winking and blinking his blue eyes between sleep and wake. “And — if I don’t believe it’s a fine morning!”
Taking a flying leap from his bed, he pulled aside the window curtain, and the glorious beauty of a bright morning burst upon his delighted view — all the more beautiful from its contrast to many preceding days. The weather had been dull and gloomy up to the very last night, and bets were pending that the t
wenty-ninth would be the same. Boys ought not to bet; but they do: and I see no use to ignore the fact, when writing of them. It was a lovely landscape that met William’s sight, as he looked forth; for this house of Mr Allair, built on a gentle eminence, commanded a view of the surrounding country. The blue sky, dark and serene, was without a cloud; the grass, fresh with the bright green of spring, glittered with dew drops; the hedges were gay with the white and pink-flowering May; the early birds were singing sweetly; and the many coloured flowers were opening to the morning sun. William Allair took it all in with greedy eyes, with a rapt movement of half-disbelieving delight.
“What a stupid I was, not to take Jenniker’s bet that the day would be a bad one!”
He glanced at his watch, and found that it had stopped. In his flurry of anticipation the night before, he had forgotten to wind it up. Perhaps it was already late! Bursting out of the room with dismay at the thought, en chemise-de-nuit, as he was, he sprang across the corridor, and drummed sharply on the opposite door.
“Who’s there? What is it?” cried a drowsy voice from the inside — that of his sister Alice.
He opened the door, and thrust in his head. “Now, you girls! Are you going to sleep all day? I knew what your boast was worth — that you’d be up first and call me.”
“Is it late?” asked Alice, turning her head upon the pillow: while a pretty little face beside her rose up and stared. —
“I am afraid it is. I forgot to wind up my watch. Of course! that’s sure to be the case — the only morning I cared to know the time.”
“I do believe it is fine!” exclaimed Alice. “Is it William?” —
“If you get up, you’ll see. It’s not pouring cats and dogs. Get up, Rose. I’ll give you ten minutes to dress in. Shall I call Edmund?”
“No,” replied Alice Allair. “Mamma forbid it last night She said he was never well throughout the day if aroused up early. And it is true. If you’ll shut the door, William, we will soon dress.”