The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trevlyn Hold, by Mrs. Henry Wood This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Trevlyn Hold Author: Mrs. Henry Wood Release Date: May 14, 2011 [EBook #36106] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREVLYN HOLD *** Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net TREVLYN HOLD A Novel BY MRS. HENRY WOOD AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH THOUSAND London MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1904 All rights reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THOMAS RYLE CHAPTER II. SUPERSTITION CHAPTER III. IN THE UPPER MEADOW CHAPTER IV. LIFE OR DEATH? CHAPTER V. MAUDE TREVLYN CHAPTER VI. THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD CHAPTER VII. MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT CHAPTER VIII. REBELLION CHAPTER IX. EMANCIPATION CHAPTER X. MADAM'S ROOM CHAPTER XI. RUPERT CHAPTER XII. UNANSWERED CHAPTER XIII. OPINIONS DIFFER CHAPTER XIV. NO BREAKFAST CHAPTER XV. TORMENTS CHAPTER XVI. MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE CHAPTER XVII. DEAD BEAT CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD IMPRESSION CHAPTER XIX. A FIT OF AMIABILITY CHAPTER XX. AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE CHAPTER XXI. THE STRANGER CHAPTER XXII. COMMOTION CHAPTER XXIII. COMING VERY CLOSE CHAPTER XXIV. A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM'S CHAPTER XXV. NEWS FOR MISS DIANA CHAPTER XXVI. AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY CHAPTER XXVII. A WALK BY STARLIGHT CHAPTER XXVIII. AT DOCTORS' COMMONS CHAPTER XXIX. A WELCOME HOME CHAPTER XXX. MR. CHATTAWAY COMES TO GRIEF CHAPTER XXXI. DOWN THE SHAFT CHAPTER XXXII. A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY CHAPTER XXXIII. THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN CHAPTER XXXIV. THE NEXT MORNING CHAPTER XXXV. AN ILL-STARRED CHASTISEMENT CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FIRE CHAPTER XXXVII. A NIGHT SCENE CHAPTER XXXVIII. NORA'S DIPLOMACY CHAPTER XXXIX. ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS CHAPTER XL. THE EXAMINATION CHAPTER XLI. A NIGHT ENCOUNTER CHAPTER XLII. NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD CHAPTER XLIII. JAMES SANDERS CHAPTER XLIV. FERMENT CHAPTER XLV. AN APPLICATION CHAPTER XLVI. A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM CHAPTER XLVII. SURPRISE CHAPTER XLVIII. DANGER CHAPTER XLIX. A RED-LETTER DAY CHAPTER L. DILEMMAS CHAPTER LI. A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY CHAPTER LII. A DAY OF MISHAPS CHAPTER LIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY CHAPTER LIV. A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM CHAPTER LV. THE DREAD COME HOME CHAPTER LVI. DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST CHAPTER LVII. A VISIT TO RUPERT CHAPTER LVIII. A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY CHAPTER LIX. NEWS FOR MAUDE CHAPTER LX. A BETTER HEIRSHIP CHAPTER LXI. A BETTER HEIRSHIP By Charles W. Wood, F.R.G.S. TREVLYN HOLD CHAPTER I THOMAS RYLE The fine summer had faded into autumn, and the autumn would soon be fading into winter. All signs of harvest had disappeared. The farmers had gathered the golden grain into their barns; the meads looked bare, and the partridges hid themselves in the stubble left by the reapers. Perched on the top of a stile which separated one field from another, was a boy of some fifteen years. Several books, a strap passed round to keep them together, were flung over his shoulder, and he sat throwing stones into a pond close by, softly whistling as he did so. The stones came out of his pocket. Whether stored there for the purpose to which they were now being put, was best known to himself. He was a slender, well-made boy, with finely-shaped features, a clear complexion, and eyes dark and earnest. A refined face; a good face—and you have not to learn that the face is the index of the mind. An index that never fails for those gifted with the power to read the human countenance. Before him at a short distance, as he sat on the stile, lay the village of Barbrook. A couple of miles beyond the village was the large town of Barmester. But you could reach the town without taking the village en route. As to the village itself, there were several ways of reaching it. There was the path through the fields, right in front of the stile where that schoolboy was sitting; there was the green and shady lane (knee-deep in mud sometimes); and there were two high- roads. From the signs of vegetation around—not that the vegetation was of the richest kind—you would never suspect that the barren and bleak coal-fields lay so near. Only four or five miles away in the opposite direction—that is, behind the boy and the stile—the coal-pits flourished. Farmhouses were scattered within view, had the boy on the stile chosen to look at them; a few gentlemen's houses, and many cottages and hovels. To the left, glancing over the field and across the upper road—the road which did not lead to Barbrook, but to Barmester—on a slight eminence, rose the fine old- fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. Rather to the right, behind him, was the less pretentious but comfortable dwelling called Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the property and residence of Squire Trevlyn, had passed, with that gentleman's death, into the hands of Mr. Chattaway, who now lived in it; his wife having been the Squire's second daughter. Trevlyn Farm was tenanted by Mr. Ryle; and the boy sitting on the stile was Mr. Ryle's eldest son. There came, scuffling along the field-path from the village, as fast as her dilapidated shoes permitted her, a wan-looking, undersized girl. She had almost reached the pond, when a boy considerably taller and stronger than the boy on the stile came flying down the field on the left, and planted himself in her way. "Now then, little toad! Do you want another buffeting?" "Oh, please, sir, don't stop me!" she cried, beginning to sob loudly. "Father's dying, and mother said I was to run and tell them at the farm. Please let me go by." "Did I not order you yesterday to keep out of these fields?" asked the tall boy. "The lane and roads are open to you; how dare you come this way? I promised you I'd shake the inside out of you if I caught you here again, and now I'll do it." "I say," called out at this juncture the lad on the stile, "keep your hands off her." The child's assailant turned sharply at the sound. He had not seen that any one was there. For one moment he relaxed his hold, but the next appeared to change his mind, and began to shake the girl. She turned her face, in its tears and dirt, towards the stile. "Oh, Master George, make him let me go! I'm hasting to your house, Master George. Father's lying all white upon the bed; and mother said I was to come off and tell of it." George leaped off the stile, and advanced. "Let her go, Cris Chattaway!" Cris Chattaway turned his anger upon George. "Mind your own business, you beggar! It is no concern of yours." "It is, if I choose to make it mine. Let her go, I say. Don't be a coward." "What's that you call me?" asked Cris Chattaway. "A coward? Take that!" He had picked up a clod of earth, and dashed it in George Ryle's face. The boy was not one to stand a gratuitous blow, and Mr. Christopher, before he knew what was coming, found himself on the ground. The girl, released, flew to the stile and scrambled over it. George stood his ground, waiting for Cris to get up; he was less tall and strong, but he would not run away. Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself up. He was a coward; and fighting, when it came to close quarters, was not to his liking. Stone-throwing, water-squirting, pea-shooting—any annoyance that might safely be carried on at a distance—he was an adept in; but hand-to-hand fighting—Cris did not relish that. "See if you don't suffer for this, George Ryle!" George laughed good-humouredly, and sat down on the stile as before. Cris was dusting the earth off his clothes. "You have called me a coward, and you have knocked me down. I'll enter it in my memorandum-book, George Ryle." "Do," equably returned George. "I never knew any but cowards set upon girls." "I'll set upon her again, if I catch her using this path. There's not a more impudent little wretch in the whole parish. Let her try it, that's all." "She has a right to use this path as much as I have." "Not if I choose to say she sha'n't use it. You won't have the right long." "Oh, indeed!" said George. "What is to take it from me?" "The Squire says he shall cause this way through the fields to be closed." "Who says it?" asked George, with marked emphasis—and the sound grated on Cris Chattaway's ear. "The Squire says so," he roared. "Are you deaf?" "Ah," said George. "But Mr. Chattaway can't close it. My father says he has not the power to do so." "Your father!" contemptuously rejoined Cris Chattaway. "He would like his leave asked, perhaps. When the Squire says he shall do a thing, he means it." "At any rate, it is not done yet," was the significant answer. "Don't boast, Cris." Cris had been making off, and was some distance up the field. He turned to address George. "You know, you beggar, that if I don't go in and polish you off it's because I can't condescend to tarnish my hands. When I fight, I like to fight with gentlefolk." And with that he turned tail, and decamped quicker than before. "Just so," shrieked George. "Especially if they wear petticoats." A sly shower of earth came back in answer. But it happened, every bit of it, to steer clear of him, and George kept his seat and his equanimity. "What has he been doing now, George?" George turned his head; the question came from one behind him. There stood a lovely boy of some twelve years old, his beautiful features set off by dark blue eyes and bright auburn curls. "Where did you spring from, Rupert?" "I came down by the hedge. You were calling after Cris and did not hear me. Has he been threshing you, George?" "Threshing me!" returned George, throwing back his handsome head with a laugh. "I don't think he would try that on, Rupert. He could not thresh me with impunity, as he does you." Rupert Trevlyn laid his cheek on the stile, and fixed his eyes on the clear blue evening sky—for the sun was drawing towards its setting. He was a sensitive, romantic, strange sort of boy; gentle and loving by nature, but given to violent fits of passion. People said he inherited the latter from his grandfather, Squire Trevlyn. Other of the Squire's descendants had inherited the same. Under happier auspices, Rupert might have learnt to subdue these bursts of passion. Had he possessed a kind home and loving friends, how different might have been his destiny! "George, I wish papa had lived!" "The whole parish has need to wish that," returned George. "I wish you stood in his shoes! That's what I wish." "Instead of Uncle Chattaway. Old Canham says I ought to stand in them. He says he thinks I shall, some time, because justice is sure to come uppermost in the end." "Look here, Rupert!" gravely returned George Ryle. "Don't go listening to old Canham. He talks nonsense, and it will do neither of you any good. If Chattaway heard a tithe of what he sometimes says, he'd turn him from the lodge, neck and crop, in spite of Miss Diana. What is, can't be helped, you know, Rupert." "But Cris has no right to inherit Trevlyn over me." "He has legal right, I suppose," answered George; "at least, he will have it. Make the best of it, Ru. There are lots of things I have to make the best of. I had a caning yesterday for another boy, and I had to make the best of that." Rupert still looked up at the sky. "If it were not for Aunt Edith," quoth he, "I'd run away." "You little stupid! Where would you run to?" "Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no dinner to-day." "Why not?" "Because Cris carried a tale to him. But it was false, George." "Did you tell Chattaway it was false?" "Yes. But where's the use? He always believes Cris before me." "Have you had no dinner?" Rupert shook his head. "I took some bread off the tray as they were carrying it through the hall. That's all I have had." "Then I'd advise you to make double haste home to your tea," said George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going to do to mine." George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. Looking round when he was well on his way, he saw Rupert still leaning on the stile with his face turned upward. Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion had scuffled along to Trevlyn Farm—a very moderately-sized house with a rustic porch covered with jessamine, and a large garden, more useful than ornamental, intervening between it and the high- road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was straight and narrow; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose trees and hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, and other plain fruit-trees grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A productive if not an elegant garden. At the side of the house the fold-yard palings and a five-barred gate separated it from the public road, and behind the house were the barns and other outdoor buildings belonging to the farm. From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half sitting-room, half kitchen, called "Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it; George and his brother did their lessons there; the actual kitchen being at the back of it. A parlour opening from this room on the right, whose window looked into the fold-yard, was the general sitting-room. The best sitting-room, a really handsome apartment, was on the other side of the house. As the girl scuffled up to the porch, an active, black- eyed, talkative little woman, of five or six-and-thirty saw her approaching from the window of the best kitchen. That was Nora. What with her ragged frock and tippet, broken straw bonnet, and slipshod shoes, the child looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle. He had been at home ill the last day or two; or, as the phrase ran in the farm, was "off his work." "If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. "How can her mother keep her in that state? Just look at Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle!" Sorting large bunches of sweet herbs on a table at the back of the room was a tall, upright woman. Her dress was plain, but her manner and bearing betrayed the lady. Those familiar with the district would have recognised in her handsome but somewhat masculine face a likeness to the well-formed, powerful features of the late Squire Trevlyn. She was that gentleman's eldest daughter, and had given mortal umbrage to her family when she quitted Trevlyn Hold to become the second wife of Mr. Ryle. George Ryle was not her son. She had only two children; Trevlyn, a boy two years younger than George; and a little girl of eight, named Caroline. Mrs. Ryle turned, and glanced at the path and Letty Sanders. "She is indeed an object! See what she wants, Nora." Nora, who had no patience with idleness and its signs, flung open the door. The girl halted a few paces from the porch, and dropped a curtsey. "Please, father be dreadful bad," began she. "He be lying on the bed and don't stir, and his face is white; and, please, mother said I was to come and tell the missus, and ask her for a little brandy." "And how dare your mother send you up to the house in this trim?" demanded Nora. "How many crows did you frighten as you came along?" "Please," whimpered the child, "she haven't had time to tidy me to-day, father's been so bad, and t'other frock was tored in the washin'." "Of course," assented Nora. "Everything is 'tored' that she has to do with, and never gets mended. If ever there was a poor, moithering, thriftless thing, it's that mother of yours. She has no needles and no thread, I suppose, and neither soap nor water?" Mrs. Ryle came forward to interrupt the colloquy. "What is the matter with your father, Letty? Is he worse?" Letty dropped several curtseys in succession. "Please, 'm, his inside's bad again, but mother's afeared he's dying. He fell back upon the bed, and don't stir nor breathe. She says, will you please send him some brandy?" "Have you brought anything to put it into?" inquired Mrs. Ryle. "No, 'm." "Not likely," chimed in Nora. "Madge Sanders wouldn't think to send so much as a cracked teacup. Shall I put a drop in a bottle, and give it to her?" continued Nora, turning to Mrs. Ryle. "No," replied Mrs. Ryle. "I must know what's the matter with him before I send brandy. Go back to your mother, Letty. Tell her I shall be going past her cottage presently, and will call in." The child turned and scuffled off. Mrs. Ryle resumed: "Should it be another attack of internal inflammation, brandy would be the worst thing he could take. He drinks too much, does Jim Sanders." "His inside's like a barrel—always waiting to be filled," remarked Nora. "He'd drink the sea dry, if it ran beer. What with his drinking, and her untidiness, small wonder the children are in rags. I am surprised the master keeps him on!" "He only drinks by fits and starts, Nora. His health will not let him do more." "No, it won't," acquiesced Nora. "And I fear this bout may be the ending of him. That hole was not dug for nothing." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Ryle. "How can you be so foolishly superstitious, Nora? Find Treve, will you, and get him ready." "Treve," a young gentleman given to having his own way, and to be kept very much from school on account of "delicate health," a malady less real than imaginary, was found somewhere about the farm, and put into visiting condition. He and his mother were invited to take tea at Barbrook. In point of fact, the invitation had been for Mrs. Ryle only; but she could not bear to stir anywhere without her darling boy Trevlyn. They had barely departed when George entered. Nora had then laid the tea-table, and was standing cutting bread-and- butter. "Where are they all?" asked George, depositing his books upon a sideboard. "Your mother and Treve are off to tea at Mrs. Apperley's," replied Nora. "And the master rode over to Barmester this afternoon, and is not back yet. Sit down, George. Would you like some pumpkin pie?" "Try me," responded George. "Is there any?" "I saved it from dinner,"—bringing forth a plate from a closet. "It is not much. Treve's stomach craves for pies as much as Jim Sanders's for beer; and Mrs. Ryle would give him all he wanted, if it cleared the larder——Is some one calling?" she broke off, going to the window. "George, it's Mr. Chattaway! See what he wants." A gentleman on horseback had reined in close to the gate: a spare man, rather above the middle height, with a pale, leaden sort of complexion, small, cold light eyes and mean-looking features. George ran down the path. "Is your father at home?" "No. He is gone to Barmester." A scowl passed over Mr. Chattaway's brow. "That's the third time I have been here this week, and cannot get to see him. Tell your father that I have had another letter from Butt, and will trouble him to attend to it. And further tell your father I will not be pestered with this business any longer. If he does not pay the money right off, I'll make him pay it." Something not unlike an ice-bolt shot through George Ryle's heart. He knew there was trouble between his house and Mr. Chattaway; that his father was, in pecuniary matters, at Mr. Chattaway's mercy. Was this message the result of his recent encounter with Cris Chattaway? A hot flush dyed his face, and he wished—for his father's sake—that he had let Mr. Cris alone. For his father's sake he was now ready to eat humble-pie, though there never lived a boy less inclined to humble-pie in a general way than George Ryle. He went close up to the horse and raised his honest eyes fearlessly. "Has Christopher been complaining to you, Mr. Chattaway?" "No. What has he to complain of?" "Not much," answered George, his fears subsiding. "Only I know he does carry tales." "Were there no tales to carry he could not carry them," coldly remarked Mr. Chattaway. "I have not seen Christopher since dinner-time. It seems to me that you are always suspecting him of something. Take care you deliver my message correctly, sir." Mr. Chattaway rode away, and George returned to his pumpkin pie. He had scarcely finished it—with remarkable relish, for the cold dinner he took with him to school daily was little more than a luncheon—when Mr. Ryle entered by the back-door, having been round to the stables with his horse. He was a tall, fine man, with light curling hair, mild blue eyes, and a fair countenance pleasant to look at in its honest simplicity. George delivered the message left by Mr. Chattaway. "He left me that message, did he?" cried Mr. Ryle, who, if he could be angered by anything, it was on this very subject of Chattaway's claims against him. "He might have kept it until he saw me himself." "He bade me tell you, papa." "Yes; it is no matter to Chattaway how he browbeats me and exposes my affairs. He has been at it for years. Has he gone home?" "I think so," replied George. "He rode that way." "I'll stand it no longer, and I'll tell him so to his face," continued Mr. Ryle. "Let him do his best and his worst." Taking up his hat, Mr. Ryle strode out of the house, disdaining Nora's invitation to tea, and leaving on the table a scarf of soft scarlet merino, which he had worn into Barmester. Recently suffering from sore throat, Mrs. Ryle had induced him to put it on when he rode out that afternoon. "Look there!" cried Nora. "He has left his cravat on the table." Snatching it up, she ran after Mr. Ryle, catching him half-way down the path. He took the scarf from her with a hasty movement, and went along swinging it in his hand. But he did not attempt to put it on. "It is just like the master," grumbled Nora to George. "He has worn that warm woollen thing for hours, and now goes off without it! His throat will be bad again." "I am afraid papa's gone to have it out with Mr. Chattaway," said George. "And serve Chattaway right if he has," returned Nora. "It is what the master has threatened this many a day." CHAPTER II SUPERSTITION Later, when George was working diligently at his lessons, and Nora was sewing—both by the help of the same candle: for an array of candles was not more indulged in than other luxuries in Mr. Ryle's house—footsteps were heard approaching the porch, and a modest knock came to the door. "Come in," called out Nora. A very thin woman, in a washed-out cotton gown, with a thin face and inflamed eyes, came in, curtseying. It was an honest face, a meek face; although it looked as if its owner had a meal about once a week. "Evening, Miss Dickson; evening, Master George. I have stepped round to ask the missis whether I shall be wanted on Tuesday." "The missis is out," said Nora. "She has been talking of putting off the wash till the week after, but I don't know that she will do so. If you sit down a bit, Ann Canham, she'll come in, perhaps." Ann Canham seated herself respectfully on the edge of a remote chair. And Nora, who liked gossiping above every earthly thing, began to talk of Jim Sanders's illness. "He has dreadful bouts, poor fellow!" observed Ann Canham. "But six times out of seven he brings them on through his own fault," tartly returned Nora. "Many and many a time I have told him he'd do for himself, and now I think he has done it. This bout, it strikes me, is his last." "Is he so ill as that?" exclaimed Ann Canham. And George looked up from his exercise-book in surprise. "I don't know that he is," said Nora; "but——" Nora broke suddenly off, dropped her work, and bent her head towards Ann Canham. "We have had a strange thing happen here," she continued, her voice falling to a whisper; "and if it's not a warning of death, never believe me again. This morning——George, did you hear the dog in the night?" "No," answered George. "Boys sleep soundly," she remarked to Ann Canham. "You might drive a coach-and-six through their room, and not wake them. His room's at the back, too. Last night the dog got round to the front of the house, and there he was, all night long, sighing and moaning like a human creature. You couldn't call it a howl; there was too much pain in it. He was at it all night long; I couldn't sleep for it. The missis says she couldn't sleep for it. Well, this morning I was up first, the master next, Molly next; but the master went out by the back-way and saw nothing. By-and-by I spied something out of this window on the garden path, as if some one had been digging there; so out I went. It was for all the world like a grave!—a great hole, with the earth thrown up on either side of it. That dog had done it in the night!" Ann Canham, possibly feeling uncomfortably aloof from the company when graves became the topic, drew her chair nearer the table. George sat, his pen arrested; his large wide-open eyes turned on Nora—not with fear, but merriment. "A great hole, twice the length of our rolling-pin, and wide in proportion, all hollowed and scratched out," went on Nora. "I called the cow-boy, and asked him what it looked like. 'A grave,' said he, without a moment's hesitation. Molly came out, and they two filled it in again, and trod the path down. The marks have been plain enough all day. The master has been talking a long while of having that path gravelled, but it has not been done." "And the hole was scratched by the dog?" proceeded Ann Canham, unable to get over the wonder. "It was scratched by the dog," answered Nora. "And every one knows it's a sign that death's coming to the house, or to some one belonging to the house. Whether it's your own dog scratches it, or somebody else's dog, no matter; it's a sure sign that a real grave is about to be dug. It may not happen once in fifty years—no, not in a hundred; but when it does come, it's a warning not to be neglected." "It's odd how the dogs can know!" remarked Ann Canham, meekly. "Those dumb animals possess an instinct we can't understand," said Nora. "We have had that dog ever so many years, and he never did such a thing before. Rely upon it, it's Jim Sanders's warning. How you stare, George!" "I may well stare, to hear you," was George's answer. "How can you put faith in such rubbish, Nora?" "Just hark at him!" exclaimed Nora. "Boys are half heathens. I wouldn't laugh in that irreverent way, if I were you, George, because Jim Sanders's time has come." "I am not laughing at that," said George; "I am laughing at you. Nora, your argument won't hold water. If the dog had meant to give notice that he was digging a hole for Jim Sanders, he would have dug it before his own door, not before ours." "Go on!" cried Nora, sarcastically. "There's no profit arguing with unbelieving boys. They'd stand it to your face the sun never shone." Ann Canham rose, and put her chair back in its place with much humility. Indeed, humility was her chief characteristic. "I'll come round in the morning, and know about the wash, if you please, ma'am," she said to Nora. "Father will be wanting his supper, and will wonder where I'm staying." She departed. Nora gave George a lecture upon unbelief and irreverence in general, but George was too busy with his books to take much notice of it. The evening went on. Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn returned, the latter a diminutive boy, with dark curls and a handsome face. "Jim Sanders is much better," remarked Mrs. Ryle. "He is all right again now, and will be at work in a day or two. It must have been a sort of fainting-fit he had this afternoon, and his wife got frightened. I told him to rest to-morrow, and come up the next day if he felt strong enough." George turned to Nora, his eyes dancing. "What of the hole now?" he asked. "Wait and see," snapped Nora. "And if you are impertinent, I'll never save you pie or pudding again." Mrs. Ryle went into the sitting-room, but came back speedily when she found it dark and untenanted. "Where's the master?" she exclaimed. "Surely he has returned from Barmester!" "Papa came home ages ago," said George. "He has gone up to the Hold." "The Hold?" repeated Mrs. Ryle in surprise, for there was something like deadly feud between Trevlyn Hold and Trevlyn Farm. George explained; telling of Mr. Chattaway's message, and the subsequent proceedings. Nora added that "as sure as fate, he was having it out with Chattaway." Nothing else would keep him at Trevlyn Hold. But Mrs. Ryle knew that her easy-natured husband was not one to "have it out" with any one, even his enemy Chattaway. He might say a few words, but it was all he would say, and the interview would end almost as soon as begun. She took off her things, and Molly carried the supper-tray into the parlour. But still there was no Mr. Ryle. Ten o'clock struck, and Mrs. Ryle grew, not exactly uneasy, but curious as to what could have become of him. What could be detaining him at the Hold? "It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he has been taken too bad to come back," said Nora. "He unwound his scarlet cravat from his throat, and went away swinging it in his hand. John Pinder's waiting all this time in the kitchen." "Have you finished your lessons, George?" asked Mrs. Ryle, perceiving that he was putting his books away. "Every one," answered George. "Then you shall go up to the Hold, and walk home with your father. I cannot think what is delaying his return." "Perhaps he has gone somewhere else," said George. "He would neither go anywhere else nor remain at Chattaway's," said Mrs. Ryle. "This is Tuesday evening." A conclusive argument. Tuesday evening was invariably devoted by Mr. Ryle to his farm accounts, and he never suffered anything to interfere with that evening's work. George put on his cap and started on his errand. It was a starlight night, cold and clear, and George went along whistling. A quarter of an hour's walk up the turnpike road brought him to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently the whole way, for the land was higher at Trevlyn Hold than at Trevlyn Farm. A white gate, by the side of a lodge, opened to the shrubbery or avenue—a dark walk wide enough for two carriages to pass, with the elm trees nearly meeting overhead. The shrubbery wound up to a lawn stretched before the windows of the house: a large, old-fashioned stone-built house, with gabled roofs, and a flight of steps leading to the entrance-hall. George ascended the steps and rang the bell. "Is my father ready to come home?" he asked, not very ceremoniously, of the servant who answered it. The man paused, as though he scarcely understood. "Mr. Ryle is not here, sir," was the answer. "How long has he been gone?" "He has not been here at all, sir, that I know of. I don't think he has." "Just ask, will you?" said George. "He came here to see Mr. Chattaway. It was about five o'clock." The man went away and returned. "Mr. Ryle has not been here at all, sir. I thought he had not." George wondered. Could he be out somewhere with Chattaway? "Is Mr. Chattaway at home?" he inquired. "Master is in bed," said the servant. "He came home to-day about five, or thereabouts, not feeling well, and he went to bed as soon as tea was over." George turned away. Where could his father have gone to? Where to look for him? As he passed the lodge, Ann Canham was locking the gate, of which she and her father were the keepers. It was a whim of Mr. Chattaway's that the larger gate should be locked at night; but not until after ten. Foot-passengers could enter by the side-gate. "Have you seen my father anywhere, since you left our house this evening?" he asked. "No, I have not, Master George." "I can't imagine where he can be. I thought he was at Chattaway's, but they say he has not been there." "At Chattaway's! He wouldn't go there, would he, Master George?" "He started to do so this afternoon. It's very odd! Good night, Ann." "Master George," she interrupted, "do you happen to have heard how it's going with Jim Sanders?" "He is much better," said George. "Better!" slowly repeated Ann Canham. "Well, I hope he is," she added, in doubting tones. "But, Master George, I didn't like what Nora told us. I can't bear tokens from dumb animals, and I never knew them fail." "Jim Sanders is all right, I tell you," said heathen George. "Mamma has been there, and he is coming to his work the day after to-morrow. Good night." "Good night, sir," answered Ann Canham, as she retreated within the lodge. And George went through the gate, and stood in hesitation, looking up and down the road. But it was apparently of no use to search elsewhere in the uncertainty; and he turned towards home, wondering much. What had become of Mr. Ryle? CHAPTER III IN THE UPPER MEADOW The stars shone bright and clear as George Ryle walked down the slight descent of the turnpike-road, wondering what had become of his father. Any other night but this, he might not have wondered about it; but George could not remember the time when Tuesday evening had been devoted to anything but the farm accounts. John Pinder, who acted as a sort of bailiff, had been in the kitchen some hours with his weekly memoranda, to go through them as usual with his master; and George knew his father would not willingly keep the man waiting. George went along whistling a tune; he was given to whistling. About half-way between Trevlyn Hold and his own house, the sound of another whistle struck upon his ear. A turn in the road brought a lad into view, wearing a smock- frock. It was the waggoner's boy at Trevlyn Hold. He ceased when he came up to George, and touched his hat in rustic fashion. "Have you seen anything of my father, Bill?" "Not since this afternoon, Master George," was the answer. "I see him, then, turning into that field of ours, next to where the bull be. Going up to the Hold, mayhap; else what should he do there?" "What time was that?" asked George. The boy considered a moment. "'Twas afore the sun set," he said at length, "I am sure o' that. He had some'at red in his hand, and the sun shone on it fit to dazzle one's eyes." The boy went his way; George stood and thought. If his father had turned into the field indicated, there could be no doubt that he was hastening to Chattaway's. Crossing this field and the one next to it, both large, would bring one close to Trevlyn Hold, cutting off, perhaps, two minutes of the high-road, which wound round the fields. But the fields were scarcely ever favoured, on account of the bull. This bull had been a subject of much contention in the neighbourhood, and was popularly called "Chattaway's bull." It was a savage animal, and had once got out of the field and frightened several people almost to death. The neighbours said Mr. Chattaway ought to keep it under lock and key. Mr. Chattaway said he should keep it where he pleased: and he generally pleased to keep it in the field. This barred it to pedestrians; and Mr. Ryle must undoubtedly have been in hot haste to reach Trevlyn Hold to choose the route. A hundred fears darted through George Ryle's mind. He was more thoughtful, it may be said more imaginative, than boys of his age generally are. George and Cris Chattaway had once had a run from the bull, and only saved themselves by desperate speed. Venturing into the field one day when the animal was apparently grazing quietly in a remote corner, they had not anticipated his running at them. George remembered this; he remembered the terror excited when the bull had broken loose. Had his father been attacked by the bull?—perhaps killed by it? His heart beating, George retraced his steps, and turned into the first field. He hastened across it, glancing on all sides as keenly as the night allowed him. Not in this field would the danger be; and George reached the gate of the other, and stood looking into it. Apparently it was quite empty. The bull was probably safe in its shed then, in Chattaway's farmyard. George could see nothing—nothing except the grass stretched out in the starlight. He threw his eyes in every direction, but could not perceive his father, or any trace of him. "What a simpleton I am," thought George, "to fear that such an out-of-the-way thing could have happened! He must——" What was that? George held his breath. A sound, not unlike a groan, had smote upon his ear. And there it came again! "Holloa!" shouted George, and cleared the gate with a bound. "What's that? Who is it?" A moan answered him; and George Ryle, guided by the sound, hastened to the spot. It was only a little way off, down by the hedge separating the fields. All the undefined fear George, not a minute ago, had felt inclined to treat as groundless, was indeed but a prevision of the terrible reality. Mr. Ryle lay in a narrow, dry ditch: and, but for that friendly ditch, he had probably been gored to death on the spot. "Who is it?" he asked feebly, as his son bent over him, trying to distinguish what he could in the darkness. "George?" "Oh, papa! what has happened?" "Just my death, lad." It was a sad tale. One that is often talked of in the place, in connection with Chattaway's bull. In crossing the second field—indeed, as soon as he entered it—Mr. Ryle was attacked by the furious beast, and tossed into the ditch, where he lay helpless. The people said then, and say still, that the red cravat he carried excited the anger of the bull. George raised his voice in a shout for help, hoping it might reach the ears of the boy whom he had recently encountered. "Perhaps I can get you out, papa," he said, "though I may not be able myself to get you home." "No, George; it will take stronger help than yours to get me out of this." "I had better go up to the Hold, then. It is nearer than our house." "You will not go to the Hold," said Mr. Ryle, authoritatively. "I will not be beholden to Chattaway. He has been the ruin of my peace, and now his bull has done for me." George bent down closer. There was no room for him to get into the ditch, which was very narrow. "Papa, are you shivering with cold?" "With cold and pain. The frost strikes keenly upon me, and my pain is great." George instantly took off his jacket and waistcoat, and laid them gently on his father, his tears dropping silently in the dark night. "I'll run home for help," he said, speaking as bravely as he could. "John Pinder is there, and we can call up one or two of the men." "Ay, do," said Mr. Ryle. "They must bring a shutter, and carry me home on it. Take care you don't frighten your mother, George. Tell her at first that I am a little hurt, and can't walk; break it to her so that she may not be alarmed." George flew away. At the end of the second field, staring over the gate near the high-road, stood the boy Bill, whose ears George's shouts had reached. He was not a sharp-witted lad, and his eyes and mouth opened with astonishment to see George Ryle come flying along in his shirt-sleeves. "What's a-gate?" asked he. "Be that bull loose again?" "Run for your life to the second field," panted George, seizing him in his desperation. "In the ditch, a few yards along the hedge to the right, my father is lying. Go and stay by him, until I come back with help." "Lying in the ditch!" repeated Bill, unable to collect his startled senses. "What's done it, Master George?" "Chattaway's bull has done it. Hasten down to him, Bill. You might hear his groans all this way off, if you listened." "Is the bull there?" asked Bill. "I have seen no bull. The bull must have been in its shed hours ago. Stand by him, Bill, and I'll give you sixpence to- morrow." They separated. George tore down the road, wondering how he should fulfil his father's injunction not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in telling the news. Molly, very probably looking after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard gate as he passed. George sent her into the house the front way, and bade her whisper to Nora to come out; to tell her "somebody" wanted to speak to her. Molly obeyed; but executed her commission so bunglingly, that not only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn came flocking to the porch. George could only go in then. "Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in answer to their questions. "My father has had a fall, and—and says he cannot walk home. Perhaps he has sprained his ankle." "What has become of your jacket and waistcoat?" cried Nora, amazed to see George standing in his shirt-sleeves. "They are safe enough. Is John Pinder still in the kitchen?" continued George, escaping from the room. Trevlyn ran after him. "George, have you been fighting?" he asked. "Is your jacket torn to ribbons?" George drew the boy into a dark angle of the passage. "Treve," he whispered, "if I tell you something about papa, you won't cry out?" "No, I won't cry out," answered Treve. "We must get a stretcher of some sort up to him, to bring him home. I am going to consult John Pinder." "Where is papa?" interrupted Treve. "Lying in a ditch in the large meadow. Chattaway's bull has attacked him. I am not sure but he will die." The first thing Treve did was to cry out. George put his hand over his mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who were full of curiosity, both as to George's jacketless state and George's news, had followed into the passage. Treve began to cry. "He has dreadful news about papa, he says," sobbed Treve. "Thinks he's dead." It was all over. George must tell now, and he could not help himself. "No, no, Treve, you should not exaggerate," he said, turning to Mrs. Ryle in his pain and earnestness. "There is an accident, mamma; but it is not so bad as that." Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure; very few people had seen her ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her husband had little need to caution George as he had done. She laid her hand upon George's shoulder and looked calmly into his face. "Tell me the truth," she said in tones of quiet command. "What is the injury?" "I do not know yet——" "The truth, boy, I said," she sternly interposed. "Indeed I do not yet know what it is. He has been attacked by Chattaway's bull." It was Nora's turn now. "By Chattaway's bull?" she shrieked. "Yes," said George. "It must have happened immediately after he left here at tea-time, and he has been lying ever since in the ditch in the upper meadow. I put my jacket and waistcoat over him; he was shivering with cold and pain." While George was talking, Mrs. Ryle was acting. She sought John Pinder and issued her orders clearly and concisely. Men were got together; a mattress with holders was made ready; and the procession started under the convoy of George, who had been made to put on another jacket. Bill, the waggoner's boy, had been faithful, and was found by the side of Mr. Ryle. "I'm glad you be come," was the boy's salutation. "He's been groaning and shivering awful. It set me shivering too." As if to escape from the evil, Bill ran off, there and then, across the field, and never drew in until he reached Trevlyn Hold. In spite of his somewhat stolid propensities, he felt a sort of pride in being the first to impart the story there. Entering the house by the back, or farmyard door—for farming was carried on at Trevlyn Hold as well as at Trevlyn Farm—he passed through sundry passages to the well-lighted hall. There he seemed to hesitate at his temerity, but at length gave an awkward knock at the door of the general sitting-room. A large, handsome room. Reclining in an easy-chair was a pretty and pleasing woman, looking considerably younger than she really was. Small features, a profusion of curling auburn hair, light blue eyes, a soft, yielding expression, and a gentle voice, were the adjuncts of a young woman, rather than of one approaching middle-age. A stranger, entering, might have taken her for a young unmarried woman; and yet she was mistress of Trevlyn Hold, the mother of that great girl of sixteen at the table, now playing backgammon and quarrelling with her brother Christopher. Mistress in name only. Although the wife of its master, Mr. Chattaway, and daughter of its late master, Squire Trevlyn; although universally called Madam Chattaway—as from time immemorial it had been customary to designate the mistress of Trevlyn Hold—she was in fact no better than a nonentity in it, possessing little authority, and assuming less. She has been telling her children several times that their hour for bed has passed; she has begged them not to quarrel; she has suggested that if they will not go to bed, Maude should do so; but she may as well talk to the winds. Miss Chattaway possesses a will of her own. She has the same insignificant features, pale leaden complexion, small, sly, keen light eyes that characterise her father. She would like to hold undisputed sway as the house's mistress; but the inclination has to be concealed; for the real mistress of Trevlyn Hold may not be displaced. She is sitting in the background, at a table apart, bending over her desk. A tall, majestic lady, in a stiff green silk dress and an imposing cap, in person very like Mrs. Ryle. It is Miss Trevlyn, usually called Miss Diana, the youngest daughter of the late Squire. You would take her to be at least ten years older than her sister, Mrs. Chattaway, but in point of fact she is that lady's junior by a year. Miss Trevlyn is, to all intents and purposes, mistress of Trevlyn Hold, and she rules its internal economy with a firm sway. "Maude, you should go to bed," Mrs. Chattaway had said for the fourth or fifth time. A graceful girl of thirteen turned her dark, violet-blue eyes and pretty light curls upon Mrs. Chattaway. She had been leaning on the table watching the backgammon. Something of the soft, sweet expression visible in Mrs. Chattaway's face might be traced in this child's; but in Maude it was blended with greater intellect. "It is not my fault, Aunt Edith," she gently said. "I should like to go. I am tired." "Be quiet, Maude!" broke from Miss Chattaway. "Mamma, I wish you wouldn't worry about bed! I don't choose Maude to go up until I go. She helps me to undress." Poor Maude looked sleepy. "I can be going on, Octave," she said to Miss Chattaway. "You can hold your tongue and wait, and not be ungrateful," was the response of Octavia Chattaway. "But for papa's kindness, you would not have a bed to go to. Cris, you are cheating! that was not sixes!" It was at this juncture that the awkward knock came to the door. "Come in!" cried Mrs. Chattaway. Either her gentle voice was not heard, for Cris and his sister were disputing just then, or the boy's modesty would not allow him to respond. He knocked again. "See who it is, Cris," came forth the ringing voice of Miss Trevlyn. Cris did not choose to obey. "Open the door, Maude," said he. Maude did as she was bid: she had little chance allowed her in that house of doing otherwise. Opening the door, she saw the boy standing there. "What is it, Bill?" she asked in surprise. "Please, is the Squire there, Miss Maude?" "No," answered Maude. "He is not well, and has gone to bed." This appeared to be a poser for Bill, and he stood considering. "Is Madam in there?" he presently asked. "Who is it, Maude?" came again in Miss Trevlyn's commanding tones. Maude turned her head. "It is Bill Webb, Aunt Diana." "What does he want?" Bill stepped in. "Please, Miss Diana, I came to tell the Squire the news. I thought he might be angry with me if I did not, seeing as I knowed of it." "The news?" repeated Miss Diana, looking imperiously at Bill. "The mischief the bull have done. He's gone and gored Farmer Ryle." The words arrested the attention of all. They came forward, as with one impulse. Cris and his sister, in their haste, upset the backgammon-board. "What do you say, Bill?" gasped Mrs. Chattaway, with white face and faltering voice. "It's true, ma'am," said Bill. "The bull set on him this afternoon, and tossed him into the ditch. Master George found him there a short while agone, groaning awful." There was a startled pause. "I—I—hope he is not much injured?" said Mrs. Chattaway at last, in her consternation. "He says it's his death, ma'am. John Pinder and others have brought a bed, and be carrying of him home on it." "What brought Mr. Ryle in that field?" asked Miss Diana. "He telled me, ma'am, he was a-coming up here to see the Squire, and took that way to save time." Mrs. Chattaway fell back a little. "Cris," said she to her son, "go down to the farm and see what the injury is. I cannot sleep in the uncertainty. It may be fatal." Cris tossed his head. "You know, mother, I'd do almost anything to oblige you," he said, in his smooth accents, which had ever a false sound in them, "but I can't go to the farm. Mrs. Ryle might insult me: there's no love lost between us." "If the accident happened this afternoon, why was it not discovered when the bull was brought to his shed to-night?" cried Miss Trevlyn. Bill shook his head. "I dun know, ma'am. For one thing, Mr. Ryle was in the ditch, and couldn't be seen. And the bull, maybe, had gone to the top o' the field again, where the groaning wouldn't be heard." "If I had only been listened to!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, in wailing accents. "How many a time have I asked that the bull should be parted with, before he did some fatal injury. And now it has come!" CHAPTER IV LIFE OR DEATH? Mr. Ryle was carried home on the mattress, and laid on the large table in the sitting-room, by the surgeon's directions. Mrs. Ryle, clear-headed and of calm judgment, had sent for medical advice even before sending for her husband. The only doctor available for immediate purposes was Mr. King, who lived about half-way between the farm and the village. He attended at once, and was at the house before his patient. Mrs. Ryle had sent also to Barmester for another surgeon, but he could not arrive just yet. It was by Mr. King's direction that the mattress was placed on the large table in the parlour. "Better there; better there," acquiesced the suf...