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 TEEVLYN HOLD; 
 
 SQUIRE TREVLYN'S HEIR.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/trevlynholdorsqu01wood
 
 TREVLYN HOLD; 
 
 OR, 
 
 SQUIEE TEEVLYN'S HEIE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," ''DANESBURY HOUSE," &c. 
 
 IN THEEE YOLUIMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BEOTHEES, 18, CATHEEINE ST., STEAND, 
 1864. 
 
 [The right of Trcuislation is reserved.]
 
 LONDON 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHXTEFRIARS.
 
 ^ 
 
 .i. 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. I. 
 
 PAGE 
 THE SCAELET CKAVAT 1 
 
 . . 19 
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE HOLE IN THE GAEDEX PATH 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 chattaway's bull 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LIFE ? OR DEATH ? ^^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD 57 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE KOMANCE OF TEEVLYN HOLD S4 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. RYLE's LAST "\VILL AND TESTAMENT . . .97 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION .... 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EMANCIPATION 
 
 122 
 
 135
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PAGE 
 madam's room 161 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN THE EASTERN STORY . . .170 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A NIGHT-BELL TJNANSWEEED 185 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER 200 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT 225 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TORMENTS FOR THE MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD . . 241 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY's OFFICE 252 
 
 CHAPTER XYI I. 
 
 DEAD BEAT 271 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION" . . . . 282 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN ORIS 301 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE 311
 
 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 
 
 The fine hot summer had faded into autumn, 
 and the autumn would soon be fading into winter. 
 All signs of the harvest had disappeared. The 
 farmers had gathered the golden grain into their 
 barns ; the meads looked bare, and the partridges 
 hid themselves in the stubbie 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 whistUng 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 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 complexion, and eyes dark and earnest. A refined 
 face ; a good face — and you have not to learn that 
 the face is the outward index of the mind mthin. 
 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 get to 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 w^here that school-boy was sit- 
 ting ; there was the gi'een and shady lane (knee- 
 deep in mud sometimes) ; and there were two 
 high roads. To look at the signs of vegetation 
 around (not that the vegetation was of the richest 
 kind), you would not suspect that the barren and 
 bleak lands of coal fields lay so near. But four 
 or five miles away in the opposite direction — that 
 is, behind the boy and the stile — the coal pits 
 flourished. Farm-houses were scattered within 
 view, had the young gentleman on the stile 
 chosen to look at them ; a few gentlemen's houses, 
 and many cottages and hovels. To his left hand, 
 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
 
 THE SCAELET CRAVAT. 3 
 
 l3ut old-fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. 
 Bearing rather to the right at the back of him 
 was the less pretensions, bnt comfortable dwelling, 
 called Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the 
 property and residence of Sqnire 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 he 
 now sitting on the stile was Mr. Ryle's eldest 
 son. 
 
 There came, scuffling along the field-path from 
 the village, a wan-looking, under-sized girl, as fast 
 as her dilapidated shoes permitted her. The one 
 shoe Avas tied on with a piece of rag ; the other, 
 being tied on with nothing, came off perpetually, 
 thereby impeding her progress. She had nearly 
 gained the pond, when a boy considerably taller 
 and stronger than the one on the stile came flying- 
 down the field from the left, and planted himself 
 in her way. 
 
 " Now then, you little toad ! Do you want 
 another buffeting ? " 
 
 " Oh, please, sir, don't stop me ! " she cried, 
 beginning to sob unnecessarily loud. " Father's a 
 dpng, 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 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 these fields ? " asked tlie tall boy. " There's the 
 lane and there are the roads open to you ; how 
 dare you come here ? 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, "you keep your hands off her." 
 
 The child's ^ assailant turned sharply round at 
 the sound. He had not seen that anybody was 
 there. For one moment he relaxed his hold of 
 th^ girl, but the next appeared to think better of 
 it, and began to shake her. She turned her face, 
 quite a sight with its tears and its dirt, towards 
 the stile. 
 
 '' Oh, Master George, make him let me go I 
 I'm a hasting on to your house. Master George. 
 Father, he's lying all white upon the bed ; and 
 mother said I was to come off and tell of it." 
 
 George leaped ojff the stile, and advanced. 
 " You let her go, Cris Chattaway ! " 
 
 Oris 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 Chatta- 
 way. " A coward ? Take that." 
 
 He had picked up a hard clod of earth, and
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. O 
 
 dashed it in George Kyle's face. The boy was 
 not one to stand a gratuitovis blow, and Mr. Chris- 
 topher, before he knew what was coming, found 
 himself on the ground. The girl, released, flew to 
 the stile and scrambled over it head foremost. 
 George stood his ground, waiting for Oris to get 
 up ; he was less tall and strong, but he would not 
 run away. 
 
 Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself 
 up. He UU8 a coward; and fighting, when it 
 came to close quarters, was not to his mind, 
 Stone-throwing, or water-squirting, or pea-shoot- 
 ing — any safe annoyance that might 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 1 " 
 
 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 put it in my memoran- 
 dum book, George Ryle." 
 
 " Put it," equably returned George. "I never 
 knew any hut 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 all the parish. Let her try it, that's 
 aU."
 
 6 TRETV^LYN HOLD. 
 
 " She has a right to use this path as much as 1 
 have." 
 
 " Not if I choose to say she shan't use it. You- 
 won't have the right long." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " said George. " What is to take 
 it from me ? " 
 
 " The squke 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 Chiis Chat- 
 taway's ear. 
 
 " The squire says so/' he roared. " Are you 
 deaf?" 
 
 *' All/' said George. " But Mr. Chattaway can't 
 close it. My father says he has not the power." 
 
 " Your father ! " contemptuously rejoined Oris 
 Chattaway. " He would like his leave asked, 
 perhaps. Wlien the squire says he shall do a 
 thing, he means it." 
 
 " At any rate, it is not done yet/' was the sig- 
 nificant answer of George. " Don't boast, Oris." 
 
 Oris had been making off, and was some dis- 
 tance 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. AVlien I fight, I like to 
 fight with gentlepeople." And with that he 
 turned tail, and decamped quicker than before.
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 7 
 
 " Just SO," shrieked out George. " Especially 
 if they wear petticoats." 
 
 A sly shoAver of earth came back in answer. 
 But it hajDpened, every bit of it, to stear clear 
 of him, and George kept his seat and his equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 " What has he been doing now, George ? " 
 
 George turned his head ; the question came 
 from some one close behind him. There stood a 
 lovely boy of some twelve years old, his beautiful 
 features set off by dark blue eyes and silky curls 
 of bright auburn. 
 
 " Where did you spring from, Rupert ? " 
 
 " I came down by the hedge. You did not 
 hear me. You were calling after Oris. Has he 
 been beating you, George ? " 
 
 " Beating me ! " returned George, throwing 
 back his handsome face with a laugh. " I don't 
 think he would like to try that on, Rupert. He 
 could not beat me with impunity, as he does you." 
 
 Rupert Trevlyn laid his cheek on the top rail 
 of the stile, and fixed his eyes on the clear blue 
 of the evening sky — for the sun was drawing 
 tov/ards its setting. He was a sensitive, ro- 
 mantic, strange sort of boy ; gentle and loving 
 by natm-e, but given to violent fits of passion. 
 People said he inherited the latter from his 
 grandfather. Squire Trevlyn. Others of the
 
 8 TREYLYX HOLD. 
 
 squire's descendants had inherited the same. 
 Under happier auspices, Rupert might haYe 
 learnt to subdue these bursts of passion. Had he 
 possessed a kind home and loYing friends, ho^Y 
 different might have been his destiny ! 
 
 " George, I wish my papa had lived ! " 
 
 "The whole parish has need to wish that," 
 returned George. " I wish you stood in his 
 shoes ! That's wdiat 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 nearly sure 
 to come uppermost in the end." 
 
 " Look here, Rupert ! " gravely returned George 
 Ryle. " Don't you go listening to old Canham. 
 He talks nonsense, and it will do neither of you 
 good. If Chattaway heard but 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 the right of law, I suppose," answered 
 George ; " at least, he will have it. Make the 
 best of it, Ru. There are lots of things that I 
 have to make the best of I got a caning yes- 
 terday for another boy, and I had to make the 
 best of that."
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. y 
 
 Eupert still looked up at the sky. " If it were 
 not for Aunt Edith," quoth he, " I'd run away." 
 
 " You little stupid ! Where yv ould you run 
 to?" 
 
 "Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no din- 
 ner to-day." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because Oris carried a tale to him. But it 
 was false, George." 
 
 " Did you tell Chattaway it was false ?" 
 
 " Yes. But w here's the use ? He always 
 believes Oris before me." 
 
 " Have you had no dinner ? " 
 
 Rupert shook his head. " I snatched a bit of 
 bread off the tray as they were carrying it through 
 the hall, and a piece of fat that Oris left on his 
 plate. That's all I had." 
 
 " Then I'd advise you to make double quick 
 haste home to your tea," said George, jumping 
 over the stile, " as I am going to do to mine." 
 
 He, George, ran swiftly across the back fields 
 towards his home. Looking back when he was 
 well on his way, he saw the lad, Rupert, still 
 leaning on the stile with his face turned upward. 
 
 Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion of a girl 
 had scuffled along to Trevlyn Farm — a very 
 moderate-sized house, with a rustic porch covered 
 with jessamine, and a large garden, more useful
 
 10 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 tlian omameutal, 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 holly- 
 hocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, rasp- 
 berries ; apple, plum, and other plain fruit trees, 
 grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A pro- 
 ductive garden, if not an elegant one. At the 
 side of the house was the fold-yard palings and a 
 five-barred gate, dividing it from the public road, 
 and at the back of the house were situated the 
 barns and other out-door buildinors. 
 
 o 
 
 From the porch the entrance led direct into a 
 room, half sitting-room, half kitchen. It was 
 called '' Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it ; 
 George and his brother did their lessons in it ; 
 the real kitchen being at the back. A parlour 
 opening from this room on the right, whose 
 window looked into the fold-yard, was the general 
 sitting-room of the family. 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, biack-eyed, talkative little 
 woman, of five or six-and-thirty, saw her approach 
 fi'om the window of the best kitchen. It was 
 Nora. What with the child's ragged frock and 
 tippet, her broken straw bonnet, her slipshod 
 shoes, and her face smeared with dirt and tears.
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 11 
 
 she looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim 
 Sanders, was the 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 1 " was Nora's 
 exclamation. " How can her mother keep her in 
 that state ? Just look at that Letty Sanders, Mrs. 
 Eyle ! " 
 
 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 
 bespoke the lady. Those familiar with the dis- 
 trict 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 daugh- 
 ter, 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 but two children : Trevlyn, a 
 boy two years younger than George ; and a little 
 girl of eight, named Caroline. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle turned round, and glanced at the 
 garden path and at Letty Sanders. " She is an 
 object ! See what she wants, Nora." 
 
 Nora, who had no patience with idleness and 
 its signs, opened the door Avith a fliug. The girl
 
 12 TKEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 halted a feAv paces off the porch, and dropped a 
 cuitsey. 
 
 " Please, father be dreadful bad," began she- 
 " He be lying on the bed and he don't stir, and 
 he have got nothing but white in his face ; and, 
 please, mother said I was to come and tell the 
 missus, and ask her for a spoonful o' 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 1" 
 
 " Please," whimpered the child, " she haven't 
 had time to tidy me to-day, father's been so bad, 
 and t'other frock vv^as tored in the washin'." 
 
 " Of course," assented Nora. " Everything is 
 ' tored ' that she has to do with, and it never gets 
 mended. If ever there was a poor, moithering, 
 thriftless thing, it's that mother of yours. She 
 has got no needles and no thread, I suppose, and 
 neither soap nor water ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ryle came forward to interrupt the col- 
 loquy. " What is the matter with your father, 
 Letty ? Is he worse ? " 
 
 Letty dropped at least ten curtseys in succes- 
 sion. " Please, 'm, it's his inside as have been 
 bad again, but mother's afeared he's dying. He 
 has fell back upon the bed, and he don't stir nor 
 breathe. She says, will you please send him a 
 spoonful o' brandy f "
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 13 
 
 " Have you brought anything to put it in ? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 "No,'m." 
 
 " It's not likely," chimed in Nora. " Meg San- 
 ders 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. You 
 go back to your mother, Letty. Tell her I shall 
 be going past her cottage presently, and will call 
 m. 
 
 The child turned and scuffled off. Mrs. Ryle 
 resumed to Nora — 
 
 " Should it be another attack of inward inflam- 
 mation, brandy would be the worst thing he could 
 take. He drinks too much, does Jim Sanders." 
 
 " His inside's like a ya^\TLing ban-el — always 
 waiting to be filled," remarked Nora. " He'd 
 drink the sea dry if 'twas nmning with beer. 
 What with his drinking, and her untidiness, small 
 wonder that the children are in rags. I am sur- 
 prised the master keeps him on 1" 
 
 " He only drinks by fits and starts, Nora. His 
 health will not let him do more." 
 
 " No, it won't," acquiesced Nora. "And I mis 
 doubt me but this bout may be the ending of 
 him. That hole was not dug for nothing."
 
 14 TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " Nonsense," said Mrs. Ryle. " Find Treve, will 
 you, Nora ; and get him ready." 
 
 " Treve," a yonng gentleman given to have his 
 own way, and to be kept very much from school 
 on account of " delicate health," a malady more 
 imaginary than real, was found somewhere about 
 the farm, and put into visiting condition. He 
 and his mother were invited to take tea at Bar- 
 brook. In point of fact, the invitation had been 
 for Mrs. E-yle only ; but she could not bear to 
 stir an}^vhere without her darling boy Trevlyn. 
 
 They had barely departed when George en- 
 tered. Nora had then got the tea on the table, 
 and was standino^ cuttins^ slices of bread-and- 
 butter. 
 
 " "Where are they all ? " asked George, deposit- 
 ing his books upon a small sideboard at the 
 back. 
 
 " Your mamma and Treve are off to tea at Mrs. 
 Apperley's," replied Nora. "And the master, he 
 rode over to Barmester this afternoon, and is not 
 back yet. Sit down, George. Would you like a 
 taste of pumpkin pie ? " 
 
 " Try me," responded George. " Is there any 1 " 
 
 '' I saved it you from dinner," said Nora, bring- 
 ing forth a plate of pie from a closet. " It is not 
 over much. Treve, his stomach is as craving for 
 pies as Jim Sanders's is for beer ; and Mrs. Ryle,
 
 THE SCARLET CRAYAT. 15 
 
 she'd give him all he wanted, if it cleared the 
 
 dish. He . Is that somebody calling ? " she 
 
 broke off. runninor to the window. " Georo-e, it's 
 Mr. Chattaway ! Go and 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 featm^es. 
 George ran down the garden path. 
 
 '' Is your father at home, George ? " 
 
 " 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, 
 George, that I have had another letter from Butt, 
 and that I'll trouble him to attend to it. Tell 
 your father I will not be pestered with this busi- 
 ness any longer, and if he does not j)ay the money 
 right off, I'll make him pay it." 
 
 Somethinc^ not unlike an ice-shaft shot throuo-h 
 George Hyle's heart. He knew there was trouble 
 between his house and Mr. Chattaway ; that his 
 father was, in pecuniary matters, at Mr. Chatta- 
 way's mercy. Was this move, this message, the 
 result of his recent encounter with Cris Chatta- 
 way ? A hot flush died 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
 
 16 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 to eat liuml^le pie to Mr. Chattaway, though there 
 never lived a boy less inclined to eat humble pie 
 in a general way than was George Ryle. He 
 went close up to the horse and raised his honest 
 eyes fearlessly. 
 
 '' Has Christopher been comjDlaining to you, 
 Mr. Chattaway?" 
 
 " No. Yf hat has he to complain of ? " 
 
 " Not much," answered George, his fears subsid- 
 ing. ''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 trying to suspect 
 him of something. Take care that you deliver 
 my message correctly, sir." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway rode away, and George returned 
 to his pumpkin pie. He had scarcely eaten it — 
 with remarkable relish, for the cold dinner which 
 he took with him to school daily was little more 
 than a lunch — when Mr. Ryle entered. He came 
 in by the back door, having been round to the 
 stables to leave 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.
 
 THE SCARLET CEAVAT. 17 
 
 Eyle, who, if he could be angered b}^ one thing, 
 it was on this very subject — Chattaway's claims 
 against him. " He might have kept it in until he 
 saw me himself." 
 
 " He bade me tell it you, papa." 
 
 " Yes ; it is no matter to Chattaway how he 
 browbeats me and exposes my affairs. It is 
 what he has been at for years. Is he gone 
 home ? " 
 
 " I think so," replied George. " He rode that 
 way." 
 
 " I'll stand it no longer, and I'U tell him so to 
 his face," continued Mr. Ryle. "Let him do his 
 best and his worst." 
 
 Snatching up his hat, Mr. Ryle strode out of 
 the house, disdaining Nora's invitation to tea, and 
 leaving on the table his neck shawl, a large square 
 of soft scarlet merino, which he had worn to 
 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 
 scarlet cravat." 
 
 Snatching up the neckerchief, she ran after Mr. 
 Ryle, catching him when he was half-way down 
 the path. He took it from her with a hasty 
 movement, more, as it seemed, to be rid of the 
 importunity than as though he wanted it for use, 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and went along swinging it in his hand. But he 
 did not attempt to put it on. 
 
 " It is just Hke the master," grumbled Nora to 
 George. " He has had that warm w^oollen thing on 
 for hours, and now goes off mthout it ! He'll get 
 his thi'oat bad again. There's some men would go 
 about naked, for all the care they take of their 
 health, if it wasn't for the fear that folks might 
 stare at them." 
 
 "I am afraid," said George, "papa's gone to 
 have it out with Mi\ Chattaway." 
 
 " And serve Chattaway right if he is," returned 
 Nora. "It is what the master has threatened this 
 many a day."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE HOLE m THE GARDEN PATH. 
 
 Later, when George was working assiduously 
 at his lessons and Nora was sewing, both by the 
 help of the same candle — for an an-ay of candles 
 all alight at once was not more common 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 to match, and inflamed 
 eyes, came in, curtseying. It was an honest face, 
 a meek face ; although it looked as if it got 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 to the 
 week after, but I don't know that she will. If 
 
 c 2
 
 20 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 you sit down a bit, Ann Canham, maybe she'll 
 be in." 
 
 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 Saunders's illness. 
 
 " He has dreadful bouts, poor fellow ! " observed 
 Ann Canham. 
 
 " But six times out of the seven he brings 
 them on through his own fault," tartly re- 
 turned 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 with 
 surprise. 
 
 " I don't know that he is," said Nora ; 
 "but " 
 
 With the word " but," Nora broke suddenly off. 
 She dropped her work, leaned her arms upon the 
 table, and bent her head towards Ann Canham in 
 the distance. 
 
 " We have had a strange thing happen here, 
 Ann Canham," she continued, her voice falHng to 
 a mysterious whisper ; " and if it's not a warning 
 of death, never you believe me again. This 
 morning . George, did you hear the dog in
 
 THE HOLE IX THE GARDEN PATH. 21 
 
 the night ? " she again broke the thread of her 
 discourse to ask. 
 
 " No," answered George. 
 
 " Boys sleep sound," she remarked to Ann 
 Canham. " You might drive a coach and six 
 through their room, and not wake them. His 
 chamber's back, too. Last night the dog got 
 round to the front of the house," she continued, 
 " and there he was, all night long, sighing and 
 moaning like a human creature. You couldn't 
 call it a howd ; it had too much pain in its sound. 
 He ^vas at it all night long ; I couldn't sleep for 
 it. The missis says she couldn't sleep for it. 
 Molly heard it at times, but dropped off to sleep 
 again ; those hard-worked servants are heavy for 
 sleep. Well, this morning I was up first, the master 
 next, Molly next ; but the master, he went out by 
 the back way, and saw nothing. By-and-by, I spied 
 something out of this Avindow on the garden path, 
 as if somebody had been digging there ; so I went 
 out. Ann Canham, it was for all the world like 
 a grave ! — a great hole, with the earth of the 
 path thrown up on either side of it. That dog 
 had done it in the night ! " 
 
 Ann Canham, possibly feeling herself incon- 
 veniently aloof from the company when graves 
 became the topic, surreptitiously drew her chair 
 nearer the table. George sat, his pen an'ested ;
 
 22 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 his large eyes, wide open, were turned on Nora — 
 not with a gaze of fear, however — more one of 
 merriment. 
 
 "A great big hole, about t^-ice the length of 
 our rolling-pin, and mde in proportion, all hol- 
 lowed and scratched out," went on Nora. "I 
 called the cow-boy, and asked him what it looked 
 like. ' A grave,' says he, without a minute's hesi- 
 tation. Molly came out, and they two filled it in 
 again, and trod the path down. The marks of it 
 have been plain enough to be seen all day. The 
 master has been talking a long while of having 
 that path gi'avelled, but it has not been done." 
 
 " And the hole was scratted out by the dog ? " 
 proceeded Ann Canham, unable to overget the 
 wonder. 
 
 " It was scratted out by the dog," emphatically 
 answered Nora, using the same phraseology in her 
 earnestness. " And everybody knows what it's a 
 sign of — that there's death coming to the house, 
 or to somebody belonging to the bouse. Whether 
 it's your own dog that scratches it, or whether 
 it's somebody else's dog comes and scratches it, no 
 matter ; when a hole is made in that manner, it's 
 a sure and certain 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."
 
 THE HOLE IX THE GARDEX PATH. 23 
 
 " It's odd how the dogs can know ! " remarked 
 Ann Canham, meekly. 
 
 " Those dumb animals have an instinct within 
 them that we can't understand," said I^ora. " We 
 have had that dog ever so many years, and he 
 never did such a thing before. I^ely upon it 
 that it's Jim Sanders's warning. How you stare, 
 George ! " 
 
 . " Well I may stare, to hear you," was George's 
 answer. "How can you put faith in such rubbish, 
 Nora 1 " 
 
 " Just hark at him ! " exclaimed Nora to Ann 
 Canham. " Boys are half heathens. I'd not 
 laugh in that irreverent way, if I were you, 
 George, because Jim Sanders's time is come." 
 
 " I am not laughing at that," said George ; " I 
 am laughing at you. Look here, 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 
 door, wouldn't he, not before ours ? There is no 
 reason in it." 
 
 " Go on ! go on ! " cried Nora, sarcastically. 
 " It's no profit to argue with disbelieving boys. 
 They'd stand it out to your face that the sun 
 never shone." 
 
 Ann Canham rose from her chair, and put it back 
 to its place with much humility. Indeed, humility
 
 24 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of manner and temperament was her chief charac- 
 teristic. "I'll come round in the morning, and 
 know about the wash, if you please, ma'am," 
 she said to Nora. " Father, he'll be want- 
 ing his supper, and will wonder where I'm 
 a-staying." 
 
 She departed. Nora gave George a lecture 
 upon disbelief 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, a diminutive boy the latter, mth dark 
 curls and a handsome face. 
 
 " Jim Sanders is considerably better," remarked 
 Mrs. Ryle. " He is all right again now, and will 
 be at work again 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 1 " he asked. 
 
 " Wait and see," snapjoed Nora. " And if you 
 are impertinent, George, I'll never save you pie or 
 pudding again." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle went into the contiguous sitting- 
 room, but came back speedily when she found it 
 in darkness and untenanted. " Where's the mas-
 
 THE HOLE IX THE GARDEX PATH. 25 
 
 ter ? " she exclaimed. " Surely lie is home from 
 Barmester ! " 
 
 "Papa has been home ages ago," said George. 
 " He's gone up to the Hold." 
 
 " Up to the Hold; " repeated Mrs. Eyle in gTeat 
 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 upon it. 
 Nora added her word, that " as sure as fate, he 
 was having it out with Chattaway." Nothing else 
 would keep him at Trevl}m Hold. 
 
 But Mrs. Ryle knew that her husband, meek- 
 spmted, easy-natured, was not one to "have it 
 out" with anybody, even with his enemy Chatta- 
 way. He might say a few words, but it was all he 
 would say, and the interview would be sure to end 
 almost as soon as begun. She took off her things, 
 and Molly carried the supper-tray into the par- 
 lour. 
 
 But still there was no Mr. Eyle. Ten o'clock 
 struck, and Mrs. Eyle grew, not exactly uneasy, 
 but curious, as to Avhat could have become of him. 
 What could he be stopping for at the Hold ? 
 
 " It wouldn't surprise me to hear that his throat 
 has been taken so bad he can't come back," said 
 Nora. " Closing up, or something. He unwound 
 his scarlet cravat from his neck, and went away
 
 26 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 swinging it in his hand, instead of giving his neck 
 the benefit of it. There's John Pinder waiting all 
 this while 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 papa. I cannot think T\^hat he 
 can be staying for." 
 
 " Perhaps he has gone somewhere else ? " said 
 George. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Ryle. " He would neither go 
 anyAvhere else, nor, I think, stop at Chattaway's. 
 This is Tuesday evening." 
 
 An argument all conclusive. Tuesday evening 
 was invariably devoted by Mr. Ryle to his farm 
 accounts, and he never suffered anything to inter- 
 fere with that evening's work. George threw his 
 cap on his head, and started on his errand. 
 
 It was a starlisrht niofht, cold and clear, and 
 George went along whistling. A quarter of an 
 hour's walk along the turnpike road brought him 
 to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently the whole 
 of the way, for the land was higher at Trevl3m 
 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 car-
 
 THE HOLE IN THE GARDEN PATH. 27 
 
 riages to pass abreast, with the elm trees nearly 
 meeting over head. The shrubbery, wound up to 
 a lawn, which stretched before the windows of the 
 house : an old-fashioned, commodious, stone-built 
 house, with cables to the roof, and a handsome 
 flight of steps before the entrance hall. George 
 ascended the steps and rang the bell. 
 
 " Is papa ready to come home V he asked, not 
 very ceremoniously, of the servant who answered it. 
 
 '' The man paused, as though he scarcely under- 
 stood. " Mr. Ryle is not here, sir," was the answer. 
 
 "How long has he been gone?" resumed 
 George. 
 
 " 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 came back. "Mr. 
 Eyle has not been here, 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."
 
 28 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 George turned away. Where could, his father 
 have gone to, if not to Mr. Chattaway's ? Where 
 was he to look for him ? As he passed the lodge, 
 Ann Canham was locking the gate, she and her 
 father being its keepers. It was a whim of Mr. 
 Chattaway's that the large gate should be locked 
 at night ; but not until after ten. Foot passengers 
 could go in by the small gate at its side. 
 
 " Have you seen my father any^vhere, since you 
 left our house this evening ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, I have not, Master George." 
 
 " I can't think where he can be. I thought he 
 w^as at Chattaway's, but they say he has not been 
 there." 
 
 " At Chattaway's ! He'd not go there, would 
 he, Master George ? " 
 
 " He started to go there this afternoon. It's 
 very odd where he can have gone ! Good night, 
 Ann Canham." 
 
 " Master George," she inten'upted, " do you 
 happen to have heard how it's going with Jim 
 Sanders ?" 
 
 " Oh, he is better," said George. 
 
 " Better ! " slowly repeated Ann Canham. 
 "Well, I hope he is," she added, in a tone of 
 much doubt. " But, Master George, I didn't like 
 what Nora told us. I can't bear them tokens 
 from dumb animals. I never kneAv them fail."
 
 THE HOLE IN THE GARDEN PATH. 29 
 
 '' Jim Sanders is all right, I tell you, Ann Can- 
 ham," said heathen George. " Mamma has been 
 there, and he is coming to his work the day after 
 to-moiTOw. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, sir," answered Ann Canham, in 
 her usual humble fashion, as she retreated mthin 
 the lodge. And George went through the gate, 
 and stood there in hesitation, looking up and 
 do\\m the road. But it was apparently of no use 
 to go elsewhere in the uncertainty ; and he turned 
 back towards home, wondering much. 
 
 What had become of Mr. Ryle ?
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 chattaway's bull. 
 
 The stars shone bright and clear overhead 
 as George Ryle walked down the slight descent 
 of the smooth turnpike road, wondering what 
 could have become of his father. Any other 
 night but this, Tuesday, his mind might have 
 raised no marvel about it ; but George could not 
 remember the time when Tuesday evening had 
 been devoted to anything but the farm accounts. 
 John Finder, who acted as a sort of bailiff, had 
 been waiting in the kitchen some hours with his 
 weekly memorandums, to go through them as 
 usual with his master ; and George knew that 
 his father would not willingly keep the man 
 waiting. 
 
 George went along whistling a tune; he was 
 fond of whistling. About midway between 
 Trevlyn Hold and his own house, the sound of 
 some other tune being whistled struck upon his 
 ear, marring the unity of his own. A turn in the
 
 CHATTA way's BULL. ol 
 
 road brought a lad into view, wearing a smock 
 frock. It was the waggoner's boy at Trevlyn Hold. 
 He ceased whistling when he came up to George, 
 and touched his hat in a rustic fashion. 
 
 " Have you seen anything of my father, Bill ?" 
 
 " Not since this afternoon, Master George," was 
 the answer. " I see him then. He was a-turning 
 into that there field of our'n, just above here, next 
 to where the bull be. A-going up to the Hold, 
 mayhap ; else what should he a do there V 
 
 " What time was that ?'"' asked George. 
 
 The boy tilted his hat to scratch his head ; 
 possibly in the hope that the action might help 
 him in his elucidation of the time asked for. 
 " 'Twas afore the sun setted," said he, at length, 
 " I am sure o' that. He had got some'at red in 
 his hand, and the sun gloamed on it enough to 
 set one's eyes a- dazzling." 
 
 The boy went on 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 Mr. Chattaway's. The crossing of this 
 field and the one contiguous to it, both of them 
 of large dimensions, would bring a passenger out 
 close to Trevlyn Hold, cutting off, perhaps, two 
 minutes of the high road, which wound round 
 the fields. But the fields were scarcely ever so 
 favoured, on account of the bull This buU had
 
 32 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 been a subject of much contention in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and was popularly called " Chatta way's 
 bull." It was a savage animal, and had once 2'ot 
 out of the field and frightened several people 
 nearly to death. The neighbours said Mr. Chat- 
 taway ought to keep him in his shed, under 
 safe lock and key. Mr. Chattaway said he should 
 keep him where he pleased : and he generally 
 pleased to keep him in the field. This ban-ed it 
 to pedestrians ; and Mi\ Kyle must undoubtedly 
 have been in hot haste to reach Trevlyn Hold for 
 him to choose that dangerous 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 in general 
 are. George and Oris 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 gi-azing 
 quietly in a remote corner, they had not antici- 
 pated his making an onset 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 
 kiHed ? 
 
 His heart beating, his life-blood bounding, 
 George retraced his steps, and turned into the 
 first field. He hastened across it, glancing keenly
 
 chattaway's bull. 33 
 
 on all sides — as keenly, at least, as the niglit 
 allowed him. Not in this field would be the 
 danger, since it was an interdicted field to the 
 bull ; and George gained the gate of the other, 
 and stood looking into it. 
 
 Apparently it was quite empty. The bull was 
 probably safe in his shed then, in Chattaway's 
 farm-yard. George could see nothing — nothing 
 save the short grass stretched out in the starlight. 
 He threw his eyes in every direction of the exten- 
 sive plain, but he could not perceive his father, 
 or any trace of him. "What a simpleton I 
 am," thought George, "to fear such an out-of- 
 the-way thing could have happened ! Papa 
 must -' 
 
 What was that 1 George brought his sentence 
 to an abrupt conclusion, and 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 ; a succession of moans ; 
 and George Ryle hastened to the spot, guided by 
 the sound. It was but a little way off, down 
 along by the hedge separating the two fields. 
 All the undefined fear, which George, not a 
 minute ago, had felt inclined to treat as a vagary 
 of an absurd imagination, was indeed but a dread 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 M TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 prevision of the terrible reality. Mr. Kyle lay 
 in a narrow, deep, dry ditcli : and, but for that 
 friendly ditch, he had probably been gored to 
 death on the spot. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked he feebly, as his son bent 
 over him, trjdng to distingTiish what he could in 
 the darkness. " George ?" 
 
 " O 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 stiU, 
 that the scarlet cloth he carried excited the anger 
 of the bull 
 
 George raised his voice in a loud shout for help, 
 hoping it might reach the ears of the boy whom 
 he had recently encountered. " Perhaps I can 
 get you out, joapa," 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." 
 
 " George, you will not go to the Hold," said Mr. 
 Ryle authoritatively. " I vnll not be beholden for
 
 chattaway's bull. 35 
 
 help to Chattaway. He has been the i-uin 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 ; it was very narrow. 
 *' Papa, are you shivering with cold? " 
 
 " With cold and pain. The frost strikes keen 
 upon me, and my inward pain is great." 
 
 George instantly took off his jacket and waist- 
 coat, and laid them gently on his father, his tears 
 dropping fast and silently in the dark night. " I'll 
 go 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 mamma, George. Tell her 
 at first that I am a little hurt and can't walk 
 home ; break it to her in a way so that she may 
 not be alarmed." 
 
 George flew away. At the end of the second 
 field, staring over its space from the top of the 
 gate near the high road, stood the boy, Bill, whose 
 ears George's shouts had reached. He was not a 
 very 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 there 
 bull got loose again ? " 
 
 D 2
 
 36 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Bill, you run down for your life to the second 
 field/' panted George, seizing upon him in his 
 desperation. "In the ditch, a few yards along the 
 hedge to the right, there's my father lying. You 
 go and stop by him, until I come back with help." 
 " Lying in the ditch I " repeated Bill, unable to 
 gather his ideas upon the communication. "What's 
 a-done it, Master George ? Drink ? " 
 
 " Drink ! " indignantly retorted George. " When 
 did you know Mr. Ryle the worse for drink 1 It's 
 Chattaway's bull ; that's what has done it. Make 
 haste down to him. Bill. You might hear his 
 groans all this way if you listened." 
 
 " Is the bull there ? " asked Bill, as a measure of 
 precaution. 
 
 " I have seen no bull. The bull must have 
 been in his shed hours ago. Stand by him, Bill, 
 and I'll give you sixpence to-mon'ow." 
 
 They separated different ways. Tears falling, 
 brain working, legs flying, George tore down the 
 road, wondering how he should fulfil the injunction 
 of his father not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in the 
 telling of the news. Molly, very probably looking 
 after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard 
 gate as he passed it. George made her go into 
 the house the front way and whisper to Nora to 
 come out ; to tell her that " somebody " wanted to 
 speak to her. Molly, a good-natured girl, obeyed ;
 
 chattaway's bull. 37 
 
 but so bungliugiy did she execute her commission, 
 that not only Nora, but Mrs. Kyle and Trevljm 
 came flocking out wonderingly to the porch. George 
 could only go in then. 
 
 " Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in an- 
 swer to their shower of questions, " Papa has had 
 a fall, and — and says he cannot Avalk home. 
 Perhaps his ankle's sprained." 
 
 "What has become of your jacket and waist- 
 coat, you naughty boy ? " cried out Nora, laying 
 hold of George as if she meant to shake him. 
 
 " Don't, Nora. They are safe enough. Is John 
 Pinder still in the kitchen ? " continued George, 
 escaping from the room. 
 
 Trevl5m ran after him. " I say 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. He " 
 
 " Wliere is papa ? " interrupted Treve. 
 
 " He is lying in a ditch in the large meadow. 
 Chattaway's bull has attacked him. I am not sure 
 but he will die."
 
 38 TEE^TLYX HOLD. 
 
 The first thing Treve did, vxts to cry out. A 
 great shriek. George clapped his hand before his 
 mouth. But Mrs. Kyle and Nora, who were full 
 of curiosity, both as to George's jacketless state, 
 and George's news, had followed them into the 
 passage, and were standing by. Treve began to 
 cry. 
 
 " He has got dreadful news about papa, he 
 says," sobbed Treve. " He 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. 
 Kyle in liis 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 ever seen her ruffled. It was not in 
 her nature to be so, and her husband had little 
 need to give George the caution that he did give 
 him. She laid her hand upon George's shoulder 
 and looked calmly into his face. " TeU me the 
 truth," she said in a tone of quiet command. 
 " What is the injury ? " 
 
 " I do not know it yet " 
 
 " Tlie truth, boy, I said," she sternly interposed. 
 
 " Indeed, mamma, I do not yet know what it is. 
 He has been attacked by Chattaway's bull." 
 
 It was Nora's turn now to shriek. " By Chatta- 
 way's bull ? " she uttered.
 
 chattaway's bull. o9 
 
 " 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 covered him over with my 
 jacket and waistcoat ; he was shivering with cold 
 and pain." 
 
 While George was talking, Mrs. Ryle was act- 
 ing. She sought John Pinder and issued her 
 orders clearly and concisely. Men were got to- 
 gether ; a mattress mth secure holders was made 
 ready ; and the procession started under the con- 
 voy of George, who had been made put on another 
 jacket by Nora. Bill, the wagoner's boy, had been 
 faithful, and was found by the side of Mr. Ryle. 
 
 " I'm glad you be come," was the boy's saluta- 
 tion. " He have been groaning and shivering 
 awful. It set me on to shiver too."* 
 
 As if to escape from the shivering, Bill ran off, 
 there and then, at his utmost speed across the 
 field, and never drew breath until he reached 
 Trevljm Hold. In spite of his somewhat stolid 
 properties, he felt a sort of pride in being the 
 first to impart the story there. Entering the 
 house by the back, or farm-yard door — for fanning 
 was earned on at Trevlyn Hold as well as at 
 Trevlyn Farm he passed through sundry pas- 
 sages to the well-hghted hall. There he seemed 
 to hesitate at his temerity, but at length gave an
 
 40 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 awkward knock at the door of the q-eneral sitting;"- 
 room. 
 
 A commodious and handsome room. Lying 
 back 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 ex- 
 pression of countenance, and a gentle voice, were 
 many of them adjuncts of a young woman, rather 
 than of one approaching middle age. A stranger, 
 entering, might have taken her for a young un- 
 manned woman ; and yet she was the mistress of 
 Trevlyn Hold, the mother of that great girl of 
 sixteen at the table, now playing at backgam- 
 mon and quarrelling with her brother Christopher. 
 Mistress in name only. Although the wife of its 
 master, Mr. Chattaway, and the daughter of its 
 late master, Squire Trevlyn ; although she was 
 universally called 3fadam Chattaway — as it had 
 been customary from time immemorial to desig- 
 nate 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 ; but she may as well 
 have talked to the winds.
 
 chattaway's bull. 41 
 
 Miss Chattaway possesses a will of lier o^\ii. 
 She has the same insignificant features, the pale 
 leaden complexion, the small but sly and 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 ; 
 to be kept imder ; for the real mistress of Trevlyn 
 Hold may not be displaced from power. She is 
 sitting at the back there, 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. K,yle. It is Miss Trevlyn, usually 
 called Miss Diana, the youngest daughter of the 
 late squke. You would take her to be ten years 
 older at least 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, the 
 mistress of Trevl3Ti Hold, and she niles mth a 
 firm sway its internal economy. 
 
 " Maude, you should go to bed," Mrs. Chattaway 
 had said for the fourth or fifth time. 
 
 A gi'aceful girl of thirteen turned her dark, 
 violet-blue eyes and her pretty light curls round 
 to 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 her, 
 Maude, it was blended with greater intellect.
 
 42 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 "It is not my fault, Aunt Edith/' she gently 
 said. " I should like to go. I am tired." 
 
 " Will you be quiet, Maude 1 " broke from Miss 
 Chattaway. " Mamma, I wish you'd not be so 
 tiresome, worrying 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. "I can be 
 saying my prayers." 
 
 •' You can hold your tongue and wait where you 
 are, and not be ungrateful," was the response of 
 Octavia Chattaway. " But for my papa's kindness, 
 you'd not have a bed to go to. Cris, you are 
 cheatinof ! that was not double-six ! " 
 
 It was at this juncture that the awkward knock 
 came to the door. " Come in ! "' called out Mrs. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 Either her soft voice was not heard, for Cris and 
 his sister were loud just then, or else the boy's 
 modesty did not allow him to respond. He 
 knocked again. 
 
 "See who it is, Cris," came forth the ringing, 
 decisive voice of Miss Trevl}Ti. 
 
 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 othenvise.
 
 chattaway's bull. 4S 
 
 Opening the door, she saw the boy standing there. 
 " What is it, Bill ? " she asked in some surprise. 
 
 " Please, is the squire in there. Miss Maude ? " 
 
 " No," answered Maude. " He is gone to bed : 
 he is not well." 
 
 This appeared to be a poser for Bill, and he 
 stood to consider. '' Is Madam in there ? " he 
 presently asked. 
 
 " Who is it, Maude ? " came again in Miss Trev- 
 lyn's commanding tones. 
 
 Maude turned her head. "It is Bill Webb, 
 Aunt Diana." 
 
 "What does he want?" 
 
 Bill stepped in then. "Please, Miss Diana, I 
 came to tell the squire the news. I thought he 
 might be angry of me if I did not come, seeing as 
 I knowed of it." 
 
 " The news ? " repeated Miss Diana, looking im- 
 periously at Bill. 
 
 " Of the mischief what the bull have done. He 
 have gone and gored Farmer Ryle." 
 
 The words arrested the attention of all. They 
 came forward, as with one impulse. Oris and his 
 sister, in their haste to quit their backgammon, 
 upset the board. 
 
 " What do you say, Bill ? " gasped Mrs. Chatta- 
 way, with a white face and faltering tongue. 
 
 " It's true, ma'am," said Bill. " The bull set on
 
 44 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 him this afternoon, and tossed him into the ditch. 
 Master George found him there a short while 
 a-gone, groaning a^^^ul." 
 
 There was a sad pause. Maude broke the 
 silence with a sob of pain^ and Mrs. Chattaway, in 
 her consternation, laid hold of the arm of the boy. 
 " Bill, I — I — hope he is not much injured ! " 
 
 "He says as it's his death, ma'am," answered 
 Bill. " John Binder and others have brought a bed, 
 and they be canying of him home on it." 
 
 " What brought IVIi-. Ryle in that field ? " asked 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 " He telled me, ma'am, as he was a-coming up 
 here to see the squire, and took that way to save 
 time." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway fell a little back. " Oris," said 
 she to her son, " go down to the farm and see what 
 the injury is. I cannot slee^D in the uncertainty. 
 It may be fatal." 
 
 Oris tossed his head. " You know, mother, I'd 
 do anything almost to oblige you," he said, in his 
 smooth accent, which seemed to carry a false sound 
 with it, " but I can't go to the farm. Mrs. Kyle 
 might insult me : there's no love lost between 
 us." 
 
 " If the accident happened this afternoon, how 
 was it that it was not discovered when the bull 
 was fetched in from the field to his shed to-night?'*
 
 chattaway's bull. 45 
 
 cried Miss Trevlyn, speaking as much to herself 
 as to anybody else. 
 
 Bill shook his head. " I dun know," he replied. 
 "For one thing, Mr. Kyle was right down in 
 the ditch and could' nt be seen. And the bull, 
 maybe, had went to the top o' the field then, 
 Miss Diana, where the groaning wouldn't be 
 heard." 
 
 " If I had but been listened to ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Chattaway, in a waihng accent. "How 
 many a time have I asked that the bull should 
 be parted with, before he did some irreparable 
 injury. And now it has come ! "
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 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 of head 
 and calm of judgment, had sent for medical ad^dce 
 even before sending for her husband. The only 
 available doctor for immediate purposes was Mr. 
 King. He lived near, about midway between the 
 farm and the village. He attended at once, and 
 was at the house before his patient. Mrs. Kyle 
 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 and he who lay 
 upon it was lifted on to the large table in the 
 parlour. 
 
 " Better there ; better there," acquiesced the 
 sufferer, when he heard the order given. " I 
 don't know how they'd get me u}^ the winding 
 stairs." 
 
 Mr. King, a man getting in years, was left alone
 
 LIFE? OR DEATH? 47 
 
 with his patient. The examination over, he came 
 forth from the room and sought Mrs. Ryle, who 
 was waiting for the report. 
 
 "The internal injmies are extensive, I fear," he 
 said. " They he chiefly here " — touching his chest 
 and right side. 
 
 " Will he live, Mr. King ? " she inteiTupted. 
 " Do not temporise, but let me know the truth. 
 Can he live?" 
 
 " You have asked me a question that I cannot 
 yet answer," returned the surgeon. " My exami- 
 nation has been superficial and hasty : I was alone 
 in making it, and I knew you were anxiously 
 waiting. With the help of Mr. Benage, we may 
 be able to arrive at some more decisive opinion. 
 I do fear the injuries are great." 
 
 Yes, they were great ; and nothing could be 
 done, as it seemed, to remedy them or alleviate 
 the pain. Mr. Ryle lay on the bed helpless, giving 
 vent to his regret and anguish in somewhat 
 homely phraseology. It was the phraseology of 
 the simple farm house ; that to which he had been 
 accustomed ; it was not likely he would change it 
 now. By descent gentlemen, he and his father 
 had been content to live as j)lain farmers only, in 
 speech as well as in work. 
 
 He lay there groaning, lamenting his impru- 
 dence, now it was too late, in venturing mthin the
 
 48 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 reach of that dangerous animal. The rest waited 
 anxiously and restlessly the appearance of the 
 surgeon. For Mr. Benage of Barmester had a 
 world-wide reputation, and such men seem to 
 bring comfort with them. If anybody could apply 
 healing remedies to the injuries and save his life, 
 it was Mr. Benage, 
 
 George Ryle had taken up his station at the 
 garden gate. His hands clasping it, his head 
 lying lightly on its iron spikes at the top, he was 
 listening for the sound of the gig which had been 
 dispatched to Barmester. Nora at length came 
 out to him. 
 
 " You'll catch cold, George, stopping there in 
 the keen night air." 
 
 " The air won't hurt me to-night. Listen, Nora ! 
 I thought I heard something. They might be 
 back by this." 
 
 He was right. The gig was bowling swiftly up, 
 containing the well-known surgeon and the mes- 
 senger that had been dispatched for him. The 
 surgeon, a little man, quick and active, was 
 out of the gig before it had well stopped, passed 
 George and Nora with a nod, and entered the 
 house. 
 
 A short while and the worst was known. There 
 would be but a few more hours of life for Mr. 
 Ryle.
 
 LIFE? OR DEATH? 4d 
 
 Mr. King would remain, doing what he could 
 to comfort, to soothe pain. Mr. Benage must 
 return to Barmester, for he was wanted there ; 
 and the horse was put to the gig again to convey 
 him. Some refreshment was offered him, but he 
 dechned it. ISTora waylaid him in the garden as 
 he was going down it to the gig, and caught him 
 by the ai'm. 
 
 " Will the master see to-morrow's sun, sir ? " 
 
 " It's rising, he may. He will not see its 
 setting." 
 
 Can you picture to yourselves what that night 
 was, for the house and its inmates ? In the 
 parlour, gathered round the table on which lay 
 the dying man, were Mrs. Ryle, George and 
 Trevlyn, the surgeon, and sometimes Nora. In 
 the room outside was collected a larger group : 
 John Finder, the men who had borne him home, 
 and Molly ; with a few others whom the news of 
 the accident had brought together. 
 
 Mrs. Kyle stood close to her husband. George 
 and Trevlyn seemed scarcely to know where to 
 stand, or what to do with themselves ; and Mr. 
 King sat in a chair in the recess of the bay 
 window. They had placed a pillow under Mr. 
 Kyle's head, and covered him over with blankets 
 and a countei-pane ; a stranger would judge him 
 to be lying on a bed. He looked gi'ievously wan 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and the surgeon administered something to him 
 in a glass from time to time. 
 
 " Come here, boys/' he suddenly said ; " come 
 close to me." 
 
 They approached close, as he said, and leaned 
 over him. He took a hand of each. George 
 swallowed down his tears in the best way that he 
 could. Trevlyn looked scared and frightened. 
 
 " Children^ I am going. It has pleased God to 
 cut me off in the midst of my career, just when I 
 had the least thoughts of death. I don't know 
 how it will be with you, my dear ones, or how it 
 will be with the old home. Chattaway can sell 
 up everything if he chooses ; and I fear there's 
 little hope but he'll do it. If he'd let your mother 
 stop on, she might keep things together, and get 
 clear of him in time. George will be growing up 
 more of a man every day, and he may soon learn 
 to be useful in the farm, if his mother thinks well 
 to keep him on it. Maude, you'll do the best for 
 them? For him, as well as for the younger 
 ones ? " 
 
 "I will," said Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " Ay, I know you will. I leave them all to you, 
 and you'll act for the best. I think it's well that 
 George should be upon the farm, as I am taken 
 from it ; but you and he will see. Treve, you 
 must do the best you can at whatever station you
 
 LIFE ? OR DEATH ? 51 
 
 are called to. I don't know what it will be. My 
 boys, there's nothing before you but to work. Do 
 you understand that ? " 
 
 " Fully," was George's answer. Treve seemed 
 too bewildered to give one. 
 
 " To work with all your might ; your shoulders 
 to the wheel. Do your best in all ways. Be 
 honest and single-hearted in the sight of God ; 
 work for Him while you are working for your- 
 selves, and then He will prosper you. I wish I 
 had worked for Him more than I have done ! " 
 
 A pause, broken only by the heavy sobs of 
 George, who could no longer control them. 
 
 " My days seem to have been made up of nothing 
 but struggling, and quarrelling, and care. Strug- 
 gling to keep my head above water, and quarrelling 
 with Chattaway. The end seemed a far-off vista, 
 ages away, something like heaven seems. And 
 now the end's come, and heaven's come — that is, 
 I must set out upon the journey that leads to it. 
 I misdoubt me but the end comes to many in the 
 same sudden way ; cutting them off in their care- 
 lessness, and their sins. Do not you spend your days 
 in quarrelling, my boys ; just be working on a bit 
 for the end, while there's time given you to do it. 
 I don't know how it will be in the world I am 
 about to enter. Some fancy that v/hen once we 
 have entered it, we shall see what is going on here, 
 
 E 2
 
 52 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 in our families and homes. For that thought, if 
 for no other, I'd ask you to try and keep right. 
 If you were to go -wTong, think how it would 
 grieve me ! I should always be wailing out that 
 I might have trained you better, and had not. 
 
 children ! it is only when we come to lie here 
 that we see all our shortcomings. You'd not like 
 to grieve me, George ? " 
 
 " papa, no ! " said George, his sobs deepening. 
 "Indeed I will try to do my best. I shall be 
 thinking always that perhaps you are watching 
 me." 
 
 "There's One greater than I always watching 
 you, George. And that's God. Act well in his 
 sight ; not in mine. Doctor, I must have that 
 stuff again. I feel a queer sinking in my inside." 
 
 Mr. King rose, poured some drops into a -wine- 
 glass of water, and administered it. The patient 
 lay a few moments, and then took his sons' hands, 
 as before. 
 
 " And now, children, for my last charge to you. 
 Reverence and love your mother. Obey her in all 
 things. George, she is not your mother by blood, 
 but you have never known another, and she has 
 been to you as such. Listen to her always, and 
 she will lead you aright. If I had listened to her, 
 
 1 shouldn't be lying where I am now, with my side 
 stove in. A week or two ago I wanted to get the
 
 LIFE ? OR DEATH ? 53 
 
 character of that out-door man from Chattaway. 
 ' Don't go through the field with the bull in it,' 
 she said to me before I started. ' The bull won't 
 hurt me,' I answered her. ' He knows me as well 
 as he knows his master.' 'Thomas, don't trust 
 him,' she said to me again. ' Better keep where 
 he can't touch 3^ou.' Do you remember it, 
 Maude?" 
 
 Mrs. Ryle simply bowed her head in reply. 
 That she Avas feeling the scene deeply there could 
 be little doubt ; but emotion she would not 
 show. 
 
 "Well, I heeded what your mother said, and 
 went up to Chattaway's by the roadway, avoiding 
 the fields," resumed Mr. Ryle. " This last after- 
 noon, when I was going up again and had got to 
 the field gate, I turned to it, for it cut off a few 
 steps of the way, and my temper was up. When 
 people's tempers are up, they don't stop to go a 
 round ; if there's a long way and a short way, 
 they'll take the shortest. I thought of what she'd 
 say, as I swung in, but I didn't let it stop me. It 
 must have been that red neckerchief that put him 
 up, for I was no sooner over the gate than he 
 bellowed out savagely and butted at me. It was 
 all over in a minute ; I was in the ditch, and he 
 went on, bellowing and tossing and tearing at the 
 cloth. If you go to-moiTow, youll see it in shreds
 
 54 TRE^XYX HOLD. 
 
 about the field. Cliildren, obey yonr mother ; 
 there'll be double the necessity for it when I am 
 gone." 
 
 The boys had been obedient hitherto. At 
 least, George had. Trevlyn was too much 
 indulged to be perfectly so. George promised 
 that he would be so still. 
 
 " I wish I could have seen the little wench," 
 resumed the dying man, the tears gathering on 
 his eyelashes. " But may-be it's for the best that 
 she's away, for I'd hardly have borne to part with 
 her. Maude ! George ! Treve ! I leave her to 
 you all. Do the best you can by her. I don't 
 know that she'll be spared to grow up, for she's 
 but a delicate little mite : but that mil be as 
 God pleases. I wish I could have stopped with 
 you all a bit longer — if it's not sinful to wish 
 contrary to God's will. Is Mr. King there ? " 
 
 Mr. King had resumed his seat in the bay 
 window, and was partially hidden by the curtain. 
 He came forward. " Is there anything I can do 
 for you, Mr. Ryle ? " 
 
 "I'd be obliged if you'd just T\Tite out a few 
 directions. I'd like to write them myself, but it 
 can't be ; you'll put down the words just as I 
 speak them. I have not made my will. My wife 
 has said to me often, ' Thomas, you ought to make 
 a -svill ; ' and I knew I ought, but I put it off, and
 
 LIFE? OR DEATH? 55 
 
 « 
 
 put it off, thinking I could do it any time ; but now 
 the end's come, and it is not done. Death surprises 
 a gi'eat many, I fear, as he has surprised me. It 
 seems that if I could only have one day more of 
 health, I would do many things that I have left 
 undone. You shall j)ut down my wishes, doctor. 
 It will do as well ; for there's only themselves, 
 and they won't dispute one with the other. Let a 
 little table be brought here, and pen and ink and 
 paper." 
 
 He lay quiet while these directions were 
 obeyed, and then began to speak again. 
 
 " I am in very little pain, considering that I am 
 going ; not half as much as when I lay doubled 
 in that ditch. Thank God for it ! It might have 
 been, that I could not have left a written line, or 
 said a word of farewell to you. There's sure to be 
 a bit of blue sky in the darkest trouble ; and the 
 more implicitly we trust, the more blue sky 
 there'll be. I have not been what I ought to be, 
 especially in the matter of disputing with Chatta- 
 way — not but what it's Chattaway's hardness 
 that has been in fault. But God is taking me 
 from a world of care, and I trust he will forgive 
 all my shortcomings for our Saviour's sake. Is 
 that table ready ? " 
 
 " It is all ready," said Mr. King. 
 
 " Then you'll leave me alone with the doctor a
 
 56 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 short while, dear ones," he resumed. " We shall 
 not keep you out long." 
 
 Nora, who had brought in the things required, 
 held the door open for them to pass through. 
 The pinched, blue look that the face, lying there, 
 was assuming, struck upon her ominously. 
 
 " After all, the boy was right," she muimured. 
 " The hole, scratched before this house, was not 
 meant for Jim Sanders."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 
 
 The morning sun rose gloriously, melting the 
 signs of the early October frost, and shedding its 
 glad beams upon the world. But the beams fall 
 upon dark scenes sometimes ; perhaps more often 
 than on bright ones. 
 
 George Ryle was leaning on the gate of the 
 fold yard. He had strolled out without his hat, 
 and had bent his head down on the gate in his 
 grief Not that he was shedding tears now. He 
 had shed plenty during the night ; but tears can- 
 not flow always without cessation, even from an 
 aching heart. 
 
 Hasty steps were heard approaching in the 
 road, and George raised his head. They were Mr. 
 Chattaway's. He stopped suddenly at sight of 
 George. 
 
 " George, what is this about your father ? 
 What has happened ? Is he dead ? " 
 
 " He is dying," replied George. " The doctors
 
 58 TREYLYX HOLD. 
 
 are witli him. Mr. King has been here all night, 
 and Mr. Benage has just come again from Bar- 
 mester. They have sent ns out of the room ; me 
 and Treve. They let mamma stop." 
 
 " But how on earth did it happen ? " asked Mr. 
 Chattaway. " I cannot make it out. The first thing 
 I heard when I woke this morning, was, that Mr. 
 Ryle had been gored to death by the bull, ^^^lat 
 brought him near the bull ? " 
 
 " He was going through the field up to your 
 house, and the bull set on him " 
 
 " But when ? but when ? " hastily interrupted 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " It was yesterday afternoon. Papa came in 
 directly after you rode away, and I gave him the 
 message you left. He said he would go up then 
 to the Hold, and speak to you ; and he took the 
 field way instead of the road." 
 
 " Now, how could he take it ? He knew that 
 way was hardly safe for strangers. Not but what 
 the bull ought to have known him." 
 
 " He had a scarlet cravat in his hand, and he 
 thinks it was the sight of that which excited the 
 bull. He was tossed into the ditch, and lay there, 
 unfound, until past ten at night." 
 
 " And he is badly hurt ? " 
 
 " He is dying," replied George, " dying now. I 
 think that is why they sent us from the room."
 
 LOOKING OX THE DEAD. 59 
 
 Mr. Cliattaway paused in dismay. Though a 
 hard, selfish man, who had taken delight in quar- 
 relling with Mr. Ryle and putting upon him, he 
 did possess some feelings of humanity as well as 
 his neighbours ; and the terrible nature of the 
 case naturally called them forth. George strove 
 manfully to keep down his tears ; the speaking of 
 the circumstances was almost too much for him, 
 but he did not care to give way before the world, 
 especially before that unit in it, represented by 
 Mr. Chattaway. Mr. Chattaway rested his elbow 
 on the gate and looked down at George. 
 
 " This is very shocking, lad. I am sony to hear 
 it. Whatever will the farm do without him ? 
 How shall you all get on ? " 
 
 " It is the thinking of that which has been 
 troubling him all night," said George, speaking by 
 snatches lest his sobs should burst forth. "He 
 said we might get a living at the farm, if you 
 would let us do it. If you would not be hard," 
 added George, det^n:nined to speak out. 
 
 " Hard, he called me, did he ? " said Mr. Chatt- 
 away. " It's not my hardness that has been in 
 fault, George ; Init his pride. He has been as 
 saucy and independent as if he did not owe a 
 shilling ; always making himself out my equal." 
 
 " He is your equal, Mr. Chattaway," said George, 
 speaking meekly in his sadness.
 
 60 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " My equal ! Working Tom Kyle equal with 
 the Chattaways ! A man that rents two or three 
 hundred acres and does half the work on them 
 himself the equal of the landlord that owns them 
 and ever so many more on to them ! — the equal of 
 the Squire of Trevlyn Hold ! A^Tiere did you 
 pick up those notions, George Ryle ? " 
 
 George had a gTcat mind to say that in point of 
 strict justice Mr. Chattaway had no more right to 
 be the Squire of Trevljm Hold, or to own those 
 acres, than his father had ; not quite so much 
 right, if it came to that. He had a great mind to 
 say that the Ryles were gentlemen, and once 
 owners of what his father only rented now. But 
 George remembered they were in Chattaway's 
 power; that he could sell them up, and turn them 
 off the farm, if he pleased ; and he held his 
 tongue. 
 
 " Not that I blame you for the notions," Mr. 
 Chattaway resumed, in the same thin unpleasant 
 tone — never was there a voice more thin and wiry 
 in its sound. " It's natural you should have got 
 hold of them from Ryle, for they were his. He 
 
 was always But there ! I won't say any 
 
 more, with him lying there, poor fellow. We'll 
 let it drop, George." 
 
 " I do not know how things are, between you 
 and my father," said George, " except that there's
 
 LOOKING OX THE DEAD. 61 
 
 money owing to you. But if you will not press 
 us, if you will let mamma stay on tlie farm, 
 I " 
 
 '' That's enough," inteiTupted Mr. Chattaway. 
 "Never you trouble your head, George, about 
 business that's above you. Anything that's be- 
 tween me and your father, or your mother, either, 
 is no concern of yours ; you are not old enough 
 for interference yet. I should like to see him. 
 Do you think I may go in ? " 
 
 " "We can ask," answ^ered Georsre ; some vagoie 
 and indistinct idea floating to his mind that a 
 death-bed reconciliation might tend to smoothe 
 future difficulties. 
 
 He led the way to the house through the fold 
 yard. Nora was coming out at the back door as 
 they advanced to it, her eyes wet. 
 
 " Nora, do you think Mr. Chattaway may go in 
 to see my father ? " asked George. 
 
 "If it will do Mr. Chattaway any good," 
 responded Nora, who never regarded that gentle- 
 man but in the light of a common enemy, and 
 could wdth difficulty bring herself to be commonly 
 civil to him. " It's all over ; but Mr. Chattaway 
 can see what's left of him." 
 
 " Is he dead 1 " whispered Mr. Chattaway ; 
 while George lifted his white and startled foce. 
 
 " Yes, he is dead ! " broke forth Nora, in a fit
 
 62 TREVLYI^ HOLD. 
 
 of sobs ; " and perhaps there may be some that 
 will wish now they had been less hard with him in 
 life. The doctors and Mrs. Ryle have just come 
 out, and the women have gone in to put him 
 straight and comfortable. Mr. Chattaway can go 
 in also, if he'd like it.*' 
 
 Mi\ Chattaway, it appeared, did not like it. He 
 turned from the door, drawing George with him. 
 
 "George, you'll tell your mother that I am 
 grieved and vexed at her trouble, and I wish that 
 beast of a bull had been stuck, before he had done 
 what he has. You tell her that if there's any 
 Httle thing she could fancy from the Hold, to let 
 Edith know, and she'd be glad to send it to her. 
 Good-bye lad. You and Treve must keep up, you 
 know." 
 
 He passed out by the fold-yard gate, as he had 
 entered, and George leaned upon it again with his 
 acliing heart ; an oi'phan now. Treve and Caro- 
 line had their mother left, but he had no one. 
 It is true he had never known a mother, and Mrs. 
 Ryle, his father's second wife, had acted to him as 
 such. She had done her duty by him, as her 
 duty ; but it had not been in love ; not much in 
 gentleness. Of her own children she was inordi- 
 nately fond; she had not been so of George — 
 which perhaps Avas in accordance with human 
 nature. It had never troubled George much ;
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 63 
 
 but somehow the fact struck upon his rnind now 
 with a sense of intense loneliness. His father 
 had loved him deeply and sincerely ; but — he was 
 gone. 
 
 In spite of his heavy sorrow, George was awake 
 to the sounds going on in the distance, the every 
 day labour of life. The cow-boy was calling to 
 his cows ; one of the men, acting for Jim Sanders, 
 was going out with the team. And now there 
 came a butcher, riding up from Barmester, and 
 George knew he had come about some beasts, all 
 unconscious as yet that the master was no longer 
 here to command, or to deal. Work, especially 
 farm work, must go on, although death may have 
 been accomplishing its mission. 
 
 The butcher, riding fast, had nearly reached the 
 gate, and George was turning away from it to 
 retire in-doors, when the unhappy thought came 
 startlingly upon him — Who is to see this man ? 
 His father no longer there, who must represent 
 him ? — must answer comers — must stand in his 
 shoes? It brought the fact of what had happened 
 more palpably, more practically before George 
 E-yle's mind than anjrthing else had brought it. 
 He stood where he was, instead of turning away. 
 He must rise up superior to his grief that day, 
 and be useful ; he must rise up above his years in 
 the future days, for his step-mother's sake.
 
 64 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. George," cried the butcher, 
 as he rode up. '' Is the master about ? " 
 
 " No," answerd George, speaking as steadily as 
 he could. " He — he will never be about again. 
 He is dead." 
 
 The butcher took it as a boy's joke. "None 
 of that gammon, young gentleman ! " said he with 
 a laugh. " Which way shall I go to find him ? 
 He has not laid in bed, and overslep' himself, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Mr. Cope," said George, raising his grave face 
 upwards — and the expression of it struck a chill 
 to the man's heart — " I should not joke upon the 
 subject of death. My father was attacked by 
 Chattaway's bull yesterday evening, and he has 
 died of the injuries." 
 
 " Lawk a mercy 1" uttered the startled man. 
 " Attacked by Chattaway's bull 1 and — and — died 
 of the injuries 1 Sure-ly it can't be ! " 
 
 George had turned his face away ; it was get- 
 ting more than he could bear. 
 
 " Have Chattaway killed the bull ? " was the 
 next question put by the butcher. 
 
 " I suppose not." 
 
 " Then he is no man and no gentleman if he 
 don't do it. If a beast of mine injured a neigh- 
 bour, I'd stop him from injuring another, no 
 matter what might be its value. Dear me ! Mr.
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 65 
 
 George, I'd rather have heard any news than 
 this." 
 
 George's head was completely turned away now. 
 The butcher roused himself to tliink of business. 
 His time was short, for he had to be back again 
 in the town before his shop opened for the day. 
 
 " I came up about the beasts," he said. " The 
 master as good as sold 'em to me yesterday ; it 
 was only a matter of a few shilHngs split us. 
 But I'll give in sooner than noj^ have 'em. Who 
 is going to carry on the dealings in Mr. Eyle's 
 place ? Who can I speak to ? " 
 
 " You can see John Finder," answered George. 
 " He knows most about things." 
 
 The butcher guided his horse through the fold- 
 yard, scattering the cocks and hens in various 
 directions, and gained the barn. John Finder was 
 in it, and came out to him ; and George escaped 
 in-doors. 
 
 It was a sad, weary day. The excitement 
 over, the doctors departed, the gossipers and 
 neighbours dispersed, the village carpenter having 
 come and taken a certain measure, then the 
 house was left to its monotonous quiet ; that 
 distressing quiet which tells upon the spirits. 
 Nora's voice was subdued, and Molly went about 
 on tiptoe. The boys wished it was over ; that, 
 and many more days to come. Treve fairly broke 
 
 VUL. I. F
 
 66 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 bounds about twelve, said he could not bear it, 
 and went out amid the men. In the afternoon 
 George was summoned upstairs to the chamber of 
 Mrs. Ryle, where she had remained since the 
 morning. 
 
 " George, you shall go to Barmester," she said. 
 " I wish to know how Caroline bears the news, 
 poor child ! Mr. Benage said he would call and 
 break it to her ; but I cannot get her grief out of 
 my head. You can go over in the gig ; but don't 
 stay. Be home by tea-time." 
 
 It is more than probable that George felt the 
 commission as a relief, and he started as soon as 
 the gig was ready. As he went out of the yard, 
 Nora called after him to mind how he drove. 
 Not that he had never driven before ; but Mr. 
 Kyle, or some one else, had always been in the 
 ofior with him. Now he was alone : and it served 
 to bring his loss again more forcibly present to 
 him. 
 
 He reached Barmester, and saw his sister Caro- 
 line, who was staying there on a visit. She was 
 not overwhelmed with grief ; not by any means ; 
 on the contrary, she appeared to have taken the 
 matter coolly and lightly. The fact Avas, 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
 
 LOOKIXG OX THE DEAD. 67 
 
 she would never see papa again. Better for the 
 little heart perhaps that it wsiS so, enough of 
 soiTOw comes with later years ; aod Mrs. Ryle 
 may have 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 mamma in her chamber. George sat 
 do^^Ti with Xora. The shutters of the window 
 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 that the plate of bread and butter 
 remained untouched. 
 
 " I'm not hungry," replied George. 
 
 '' Not hungry ? Did you have tea at Bar- 
 mester ? " 'j- 
 
 " I did not have anything," he said. 
 
 " Now, look you here, George. If you are 
 
 going to give way to your gi'ief Mercy me ! 
 
 What's that?" 
 
 Some one had come hastily in at the door, 
 sending it back with a burst. A lovely girl, in a 
 flowing white evening dress, and blue ribbons in 
 her hair. A heavy shawl, which she had worn on 
 her shoulders, fell to the ground, and she stood 
 there panting, like one who has outnin her 
 breath, her fair curls falling, her cheeks crimson, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 her dark blue eyes glistening. On the pretty 
 arms, about half way up, were clasped some coral 
 bracelets, and a thin gold chain, bearing a coral 
 cross, rested on her neck. It was Maude Trevlyn, 
 whom you saw at Trevlyn Hold last night. So 
 entirely out of place did she look altogether in 
 that scene, that Nora for once lost her tongue. 
 She could only stare. 
 
 " I ran away, Nora," said Maude, coming for- 
 w^ard. " Octave has got a party, but they Avon't 
 miss me if I stay but a little while. 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 1 Is it true that he is dead ? " she 
 reiterated, her pretty hands clasped together in 
 emotion, and her gi'eat blue eyes glistening with 
 tears as they w^ere cast upwards at Nora's, 
 waiting for the answer. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Maude 1 you might have heard it 
 was tnie enough up at the Hold. And so they 
 have got a party, have they ! Some folks in 
 Madam Chattaway's place might have had the 
 gTace 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. She has been
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 69 
 
 crying several times to-day ; and she asked long 
 and long ago for the bull to be sent off. But 
 he was not sent. O George, I am so sorry ! I 
 wish I could have come to see him before he 
 died. There was nobody I liked so well as Mr. 
 Kyle." 
 
 " Will you have some tea ? " asked Nora. 
 
 " No, I must not stop. Should Octave miss me 
 she will tell of me, and then I should be punished. 
 What do you think ? Rupert displeased Oris in 
 some way, and Miss Diana sent him to bed out 
 of 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 bed- 
 room when they brought him home ? " 
 
 " They carried him in there," said Nora, 
 pointing to the sitting-room door. " He is lying- 
 there now." 
 
 " Nora, 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 ? " added Maude. " Did he scratch out a 
 grave before the porch 1 "
 
 70 TKEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " Who told you anything about that ? " asked 
 Nora, sharply. 
 
 "Ann Canham came and told it at the Hold. 
 Was it so, Nora 1 " 
 
 Nora nodded. "A gTeat hole. Miss Maude, 
 nearly big enough to lay the master in. Not that 
 I thought it was a token for Jthn ; I thought of 
 Jim Sanders. And some folks laugh at these 
 warnings ! " she added, in a burst of feeling. 
 " There sits one," pointing to George. 
 
 " Well, never mind it now, Nora," said George, 
 hastily. Never was there a boy less given to 
 superstition ; but, somehow, with his father lying 
 where he was, he did not care to hear much about 
 the mysterious hole. 
 
 Maude moved towards the door. " Take me in. 
 to see him, Nora," she pleaded. 
 
 " Will you promise not to be frightened 1 " 
 asked Nora. " Some young people can't endure 
 the sight of a dead person." 
 
 " Why should I be frightened ? " returned 
 Maude. " He cannot hurt me." 
 
 Nora rose in acquiescence, and took up the 
 candle. But George laid his hand on the little 
 girl. 
 
 "Don't go, Maude. Nora, you must not let 
 her go in. It — it — she might not like it. It 
 would not be right."
 
 LOOKING OX THE DEAD. 71 
 
 Now, of all things, Nora had a dislike to be 
 dictated to, especially by those whom she called 
 children. She saw no reason why Maude should 
 not look upon the dead if she had a mind to do 
 so, and she gave a sharp word of reprimand to 
 George, all in an undertone. How could they 
 speak loud, entering into that presence ? 
 
 " Maude, Maude ! " he whispered. " I would 
 advise you not to go in." 
 
 " Yes, yes, let me go, George 1 " 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, the tears 
 streaming from her eyes ; " I was in a huiTy to 
 get home, and I never stayed to thank him. I 
 shall always be sorry for it. I must see him, 
 George." 
 
 Nora was already in the room with the candle. 
 Maude advanced on tip-toe, her heai-t beating, 
 her breath held with awe. She halted at the foot 
 
 of the table, looked eagerly upwards, and saw 
 
 What was it that she saAV ? 
 
 A white, ghastly face, cold and still, with its 
 white bands tied up round it, and its closed eyes. 
 Maude Trevlyn had never seen the dead, and her 
 heart gave a great bound of terror, and she fell
 
 72 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 away with a loud, convulsive shriek. Before 
 Nora knew w^ell what had occurred, George had 
 her in the other room, his arms wound about her 
 to impart 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 
 anybody dead before, Miss Maude," cried she, 
 testily. " How w^as I to know ? And you ought 
 to have come right up to the top before you 
 turned your eyes on it. Of course, glancing up 
 from the foot, they look bad." 
 
 Maude was clinging to George, trembling exces- 
 sively, sobbing hysterically. "Don't be angry 
 with me," she whispered. " I did not think he 
 would be hke that." 
 
 *' Maude, dear, I am not angry ; I am only 
 sorry," he soothingly said. " There's nothing 
 really to be frightened at. Papa loved you very 
 much ; almost as much as he loved me." 
 
 "I Yvill 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 
 fancpng I saw — I saw — you know. That it was 
 looking out to me from the hedges." 
 
 Nora folded her shawl well over her again, and 
 George drew her close to him that she might feel
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. /3 
 
 Lis presence as well as see it. Nora watched 
 them dowTL the path, right over the hole which 
 the restless dog had favoured the house with a 
 night or two before. 
 
 They went on up the road. An involuntary shud- 
 der 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, and drew closer to him. 
 
 "It is never going to be out again, George," 
 she whispered. 
 
 " What 1 " he asked, his thoughts bviried deeply 
 jus-t then. 
 
 "The bull. I heard Aunt Diana talkmg to 
 Mr. Chattaway. She said it must not be set at 
 liberty again, or we might have the hiw down 
 upon Trevljm Hold." 
 
 " Yes ; that's all Miss Trevl}^! and he care for 
 — the law," returned George, in a tone 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 upwards towards the 
 stars. " I am very sorry ; I have cried a great 
 deal to-day 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 cried." 
 
 " Yes," answered George, his heart very full.
 
 74 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Mamma and papa are better off," contmued 
 Maude. " Your own mamma 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 along in 
 silence until they turned in at the great gate by 
 the lodge. The lodge was a round building, con- 
 taining two rooms up and two down. Its walls were 
 not very substantially built, and the sound of voices 
 could be heard from inside the window. Maude 
 stopped in consternation. 
 
 " George ! George ! that is Rupert talking I " 
 
 " 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 the top of the 
 very nan'ow ledge which ran along underneath the 
 window, contriving to hold on by his hands and 
 toes. The inside shutter ascended only three 
 parts up the window, and George thus obtained a 
 view of the room above it. 
 
 " Yes, it is Rupert," said he, as he jumped down. 
 " He is sitting there, talking to old Canham." 
 
 But the same slightness of structure which 
 allowed inside noises to be heard without the 
 lodge, allowed outside noises to be heard within.
 
 LOOKING OX THE DEAD. 7o 
 
 Aim Canham had come hastening to the door, 
 opened it a few inches, and stood peeping out. 
 Maude took the opportunity to shp past her into 
 the room. 
 
 But no trace of her brother was there. Mark 
 Canham was sitting in his usual invaUd seat by 
 the fire, smoking a pipe, his back towards the door. 
 
 "Where is he gone ? " cried Maude. 
 
 " Where's who gone ? " roughly spoke old Can- 
 ham, without turning his head. " There ain't 
 nobody here." 
 
 "Father, it's Miss Maude," intei-posed Ann 
 Canham, closing the outer door, after alio wing- 
 George to enter. " Who be you a taking her 
 for?" 
 
 The old man, partly disabled by rheumatism, 
 put down his pipe, and contrived to turn in his 
 chair. "Ah, Miss Maude ! AVhy who'd ever have 
 thought of seeing you to-night ? " 
 
 " Where is Rupert gone ? " 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 gi'eat way. Folks is ofttimes deluded by it."
 
 7b TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " Mark Canliam, I tell you, we " 
 
 " Wait a minute, George," interrupted Maude. 
 She opened the door which led into the outer 
 room, and stood with it in her hand, looking into 
 the darkness. " Hupert ! " she called out, " it is 
 only I and George Ryle. You need not hide 
 yourself." 
 
 It brought forth E-upert ; that lovely boy, with 
 his large blue eyes and his auburn curls. There 
 was a great likeness between him and Maude ; but 
 Maude's hair was lighter. 
 
 " I thought it was Oris," 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 dodge 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 came away, 
 too, without their knowing it. I have been do■v^al 
 to Aunt Kyle's, and George has brought me back 
 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 let her heavy 
 shawl slip off, and stood warming her hands at the 
 fire.
 
 LOOKIXG OX THE DEAD. 77 
 
 Mark Canliam was right. A very pretty pic- 
 ture, she, with her flowing white dress, her fair 
 neck and arms, and the blue ribbons in her falling 
 hair. He extended the one hand that was not 
 helpless, and laid it on her wrist. 
 
 " Miss Maude, I mind me seeing your mother 
 looking just as you look now. The squire Avas 
 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 
 the 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, handing round 
 the negus and things. It doesn't seem so long- 
 ago I 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, earnestly casting his 
 eyes on the old man — eyes that sparkled with ex- 
 citement — " if they had lived, my papa and 
 mamma, I should not have been sent to bed to-
 
 78 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 night because there's anotlier party at Trevl}Ti 
 Hold." 
 
 Mark's only answer was to put up liis hands 
 with an indignant gesture. Ann Canham was 
 still offering the chair to Maude. Maude declined 
 it. 
 
 "I cannot stop, Ann Canham. They will be 
 missing me if I don't return. Rupert, you will 
 come ? " 
 
 "To be mured up in my bed-room, while the rest 
 of you are enjoying yourselves," cried Rupert. 
 '' They would like to get the spirit out of me ; they 
 have been trying at it a long while." 
 
 Maude wound her arm within his. '' Do come, 
 Rupert !" she coaxingly whispered. "Think of the 
 disturbance if Oris should find you here and 
 tell!" 
 
 "And tell ! " repeated Rupert, his tone a mock- 
 ing one. " Xot to tell would be impossible to Oris 
 Chattaway. It's what he'd delight in more than 
 in gold. I'd not be the sneak Oris Chattaway is 
 for the world." 
 
 But Rupert appeared to think it well to depart 
 with his sister. As they were going out, old Can- 
 ham spoke to George. 
 
 " And Miss Trevlyn, sir — how does she bear 
 it? Forgive me, I'm always a forgetting myself 
 and going back to the old days. 'Twas but a
 
 LOOKIXG OX THE DEAD. 79 
 
 week a-gone I called Madam ' Miss Edith' to her 
 face. I should ha said ' Mrs. Ryle/ sir." 
 
 " She bears it very well, Mark," answered 
 George. 
 
 Something, George himself could not have told 
 what, caused liirti not to bear it well just then. 
 The tears rushed to his eyes unbidden, and they 
 hung: tremblinsf on the lashes. The old man 
 marked it. 
 
 '"There's one comfort for ye, Master George," 
 he said, in a lov/ tone ; " 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 the words " every gentleman " was 
 meant for Mr. Chattaway. The master of 
 Trevlyn Hold was, in fact, no greater favour- 
 ite with old Canham than he was with George 
 Ryle. 
 
 " Mind how you get in, Master Rupert, so that 
 they don't fall upon you," whispered Ann Canham, 
 as she held open the lodge door. 
 
 " Til mind, Ann Canham," was the boy's an- 
 swer. " Not that I should care much if they 
 did," he added, in the next breath. "I am getting 
 tired of it." 
 
 She stood and watched them up the dark walk
 
 80 THEYLYN HOLD. 
 
 until a turning 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 be 
 doing something desperate, as the dead-and-gone 
 heir, Rupert, did," she remarked, sitting down by 
 her father. 
 
 " Likely enough," was the old man's reply, 
 taking up his pipe again. " He have got the true 
 Trevlyn temper, have young Rupert." 
 
 " I say, 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 cried to go down last night when 
 Bill Webb brought the news ; and they were angiy 
 with me." 
 
 "Do you know what I should have done in 
 Chattaway's place, George ? " cried the boy, im- 
 pulsively. " 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 a sadly subdued tone. " It would not 
 have mended the evil." 
 
 " Only fancy their having this rout to-night.
 
 LOOKIXG ON THE DEAD. 81 
 
 while Mr. Ryle is lying dead 1 " indignantly re- 
 sumed 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 blood rela " 
 
 Maude dropped her voice. They were now in 
 view of the house, of its lighted windows, and 
 some one, hearing probably their footsteps, came 
 bearing down upon them with a fleet step. It 
 was Oris Chattaway. Rupert stole amidst 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 over for you. What brings you 
 here ? " he roughly added to George. 
 
 "I came because I chose to come," was George's 
 answer. 
 
 "None of that insolence." returned Oris. "We 
 don't want you here to-night. Just be off from 
 this." 
 
 Was Oris Chattaway's motive a good one, under 
 his rudeness ? Did he feel ashamed of the gaiety 
 going on, while Mr.«Ryle, his uncle by marriage, 
 was lying dead, under circumstances so unhappy ? 
 Was he anxious to conceal the unseemly i^roceed- 
 ing from George ? Perhaps so.
 
 82 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " 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 Oris, was interrupted by the appearance of Miss 
 Trevlyn. She was standing on the steps. 
 
 " Where have you been, Maude ? " 
 
 " To Trevlyn Farm, Aunt Diana," was Maude's 
 truthful answer. " You would not let me go in 
 the day, so I have been now. It seemed to me 
 that I must see him before he was put under- 
 ground." 
 
 " To see Jiion ! " cried Miss Trevlyn. 
 
 "Yes. It v/as all I went for. I did not see 
 my aunt. Thank you, George, for bringing me 
 home," she continued, stepping in. " Good night. 
 I would have given all I have for it never to have 
 happened." 
 
 •She burst into a passionate flood of tears as she 
 spoke — the result, no doubt, of her previous 
 fright and excitement, as well as of her sorrow 
 for Mr. Eyle's unhappy fate. George ^vi-ung 
 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 be- 
 hind him. A soft hand was laid upon him, and a 
 .soft voice spoke, broken by its tears : 
 
 " 0, George, I am so sony ! I have felt all day
 
 LOOKIXG OX THE DEAD. 83 
 
 as if it would almost be my death. I think I 
 could have given my own life to save his." 
 
 "I know, I know," he answered. "I know how 
 you will feel it." And George, utterly unmanned, 
 burst into tears, and sobbed with her. 
 
 It was Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 G 2
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ROIVIANCE OF TREYLYX HOLD. 
 
 It is impossible to get on without a word of 
 retrospect. The Ryles, gentlemen by descent, 
 had been rich men once, 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 Trevl}Tis of the 
 Hold, who had a mortgage on it. They named 
 it Trevlyn Farm, and Mr. Kyle and his son re- 
 mained on it as tenants ; as tenants where they 
 had once l)een owners. 
 
 After old Mr. Ryle's death, his son married the 
 daughter of the curate of Barbrook, the Reverend 
 George Berkeley, familiarly known as Parson 
 Berkeley. In point of fact, the parish knew no 
 other pastor, for its rector was an absentee. Mary 
 Berkeley was an only child ; she had been petted, 
 and physicked, and nursed, after the manner of 
 only children ; and she gi'ew up sickly as a matter 
 of course, xV delicate, beautiful girl in appea.r-
 
 THE EOMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD. 85 
 
 ance, but not strong. People (who are always 
 fond, you know, of settling everybody else's busi- 
 ness for them) deemed that she made a poor 
 match in marrying Thomas Ryle. It was whis- 
 pered, however, that he might have made a 
 greater match for himself, had he chosen — no 
 other than Squire Trevlyn's eldest daughter. 
 There was not so handsome, so attractive a man 
 in all the country round as Thomas Kyle. 
 
 Soon after the marriage, Parson Berkeley died 
 — to the intense grief of his daughter, Mrs. Ryle. 
 He was succeeded in the curacy and parsonage 
 by a young clerg}Tiian just in priest's orders, the 
 Reverend Shafto Dean. A well-meaning man, 
 but opinionated and self-sufficient in the highest 
 degree, and before he had been one month at the 
 parsonage, he and Squire Trevlyn were at issue. 
 Mr. Dean wished to introduce certain new fashions 
 and customs into the church and parish, Squire 
 Trevlyn held to the old. Proud, haughty, over- 
 bearing, but honourable and generous. Squire 
 Trevl3m had known no master, no opposer ; he 
 was lord of the neighbourhood, and was bowed 
 down to as such. Mr. Dean would not give way, 
 the Squire would not give way ; and the little 
 seed of dissension gi^ew and grew, and spread and 
 spread. Obstinacy begets obstinacy. What a 
 slight yielding on either side, a little mutual good
 
 86 TREVLYIN^ HOJ.D. 
 
 feeling, might have been removed at first, became 
 at length a terrible breach, a county's talk. 
 
 Meanwhile Thomas Ryle's fair young wife died, 
 _eaving an infant boy — George. In spite of her 
 husband's loving care, in spite of her having been 
 shielded from all Avork and management, so neces- 
 sary on a farm, she died. Nora Dickson, a humble 
 relative of the Ryle family, who had been partially 
 brought up on the farm, was housekeeper and 
 manager. She saved all trouble to young Mrs. 
 Ryle : but she could not save her life. 
 
 The past history of Trevlyn Hold was a romance 
 in itself Squire Trevlyn had five children : 
 Rupert, Maude, Joseph, Edith, and Diana. Ru- 
 pert, Maude, and Diana were imperious as their 
 father ; Joseph and Edith were mild, yielding, 
 and gentle, as had been their mother. Rupert 
 was of course regarded as the heir, intended to 
 be such : but the property was not entailed. 
 An ancestor of Squire Trevlyn's coming from some 
 distant part — it was said Cornwall — bought it and 
 settled down upon it. There was not a gi'eat deal 
 of grass land on the estate, but the coal mines in 
 the distance rendered it valuable. Of all his 
 children, Rupert, the eldest, was the squire's 
 favourite : but poor Rupert did not live to come 
 into the estate. He had inherited the fits of 
 passion characteristic of the Trevlyns ; he was of
 
 THE EOiL\^'CE OF TRE'VT.YX HOLD. 87 
 
 a thoughtless, impetuous nature ; and he fell into 
 trouble and ran from his country. He embarked 
 for a distant port, ^Yhich he did not live to reach. 
 And that left Joseph the heir. 
 
 Quite different, he, from his brother Rupert. 
 Gentle and yielding, like his sister Edith, the 
 squire half despised him. The squire would have 
 preferred him to be passionate, and haughty, and 
 overbearing — a time Trevlyn. But the squire 
 had no intention of superseding him in the suc- 
 cession of Trevlyn Hold. Provided Joseph lived, 
 none other would be its inheritor. Provided. 
 Joseph — called Joe ahvays — appeared to have 
 inherited his mother's feeble constitution ; and 
 she had died early, of decline. 
 
 Yielding, however, as Joe Trevlyn was naturally, 
 on one point he did not prove himself so — that of 
 his mamage. He chose Emily Dean ; the pretty 
 and loveable sister of Squire Trevl}Ti's hete noire, 
 the obstinate parson. " I'd rather you took a 
 wife out of the parish workhouse, Joe," the squhe 
 said, in his vexation and anger. Joe said little 
 in answering argument, but he held to his own 
 choice ; and one fine morning the marriage was 
 celebrated by the obstinate parson himself in the 
 church at Barbrook. 
 
 The squire and Thomas Ryle were close friends, 
 and the former was fond of passing
 
 88 TEEVLTN HOLD. 
 
 at the farm. The farm was not a productive one. 
 The land; never of the richest, had become poorer 
 and poorer : it wanted draining and manuring ; 
 it wanted, in short, money laid out upon it ; and 
 that money Mr. R3-le did not possess. " I shall 
 have to leave it, and try and take a farm that's 
 in better condition," he said at length to the 
 squire. 
 
 The squire, with all his faults of passion and 
 his overbearing sway, was a generous and con- 
 siderate man. He knew what the land wanted ; 
 money spent on it ; he knew Mr. Ryle had not 
 the money to spend, and he offered to lend it. 
 Mr. Ryle accepted it, and had two thousand 
 pounds. He gave a bond for the sum, and the 
 squii-e on his part promised to renew the lease 
 upon the present terms, when the time of renewal 
 came, and not to raise the rent. This promise 
 was not given in writing : but none ever thought 
 to doubt the Avord of Squire Trevlyn. 
 
 The first of Squire Trevlyn's children to marry, 
 had been Edith : she had married some years 
 before, Mr. Chattaway. The two next to many 
 had been Maude and Joseph. Joseph, as you 
 have heard, married Emily Dean ; Maude, the 
 eldest daughter, became the second wife of Mr. 
 Ryle. A twelvemonth subsequent to the death 
 of his fair young wife Mary, Miss Trevlvn of the
 
 THE ro:mance of trevlyx hold. 89 
 
 Hold steiDped into her shoes, and became the 
 step-mother of the Httle baby-boy, George. The 
 youngest daughter, Diana, never married. 
 
 Miss Trevlyn, in marrying Thomas Ryle, gave 
 mortal offence to some of her kindred. The 
 squire himself would have forgiven it ; nay, 
 perhaps have grown to like it — for he never could 
 do otherwise than like Thomas Ryle — but he was 
 constantly incited against it by his family. Mr. 
 Chattaway, who had no gi'eat means of living of 
 his own, was at the Hold on a long long visit, 
 with his wife and two little children, Christopher 
 and Octavia. They were always saying they 
 must leave and leave ; bat they did not leave ; 
 they stayed on. Mr. Chattaway made himself 
 useful to the squire on business matters, and 
 whether they ever would leave was a question. 
 She, Mrs. Chattaway, was too gentle-spirited 
 and loving to speak against her sister and Mr. 
 Ryle; but Chattaway and Miss Diana Trevlyn 
 kept up the ball. In point of fact, they had a 
 motive — at least, Chattaway had — for making the 
 estrangement between the squire and Mr. Ryle 
 a permanent one, for it was thought that Squire 
 Trevl}Ti would have to look out for another heir. 
 
 News had come home of poor Joe Trevlyn's 
 fading health. He had taken up his abode in 
 the south of France on his mamage : for even
 
 90 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 tben tlie doctors had begun to say that a more 
 genial climate, than this, could alone save the life 
 of the heir to Trevlyn. Bitterly as the squire 
 had felt the marriage, angry as he had been with 
 Joe, he had never had the remotest thought of 
 disinheriting him. He was the only son left : 
 and Squire Trevlyn ayouM never, if he could help 
 it, bequeath Trevlpi Hold to a woman. A little 
 girl, Maude, was born in due time to Joe Trevlyn 
 and his wife ; and not long after this, there 
 arrived home the tidings that Joe's health was 
 rapidly faihng. Mr. Chattaway, selfish, mean, 
 sly, covetous, began to entertain hopes that lie 
 should be named the heir ; he began to work on 
 for it in stealthy earnestness. He did not forget 
 that, were it bequeathed to the husband of one 
 of the daughters, Mr. Ryle, as the husband of the 
 eldest, might be considered to possess most claim 
 to it ; no wonder then that he did all he could, 
 secretly and openly, to incite the squire against 
 Mr. R3de and his wife. And in this he was joined 
 by Miss Diana Trevljm. She, haughty and im- 
 perious, resented the marriage of her sister A\dth 
 one inferior in position, and willingly espoused 
 the cause of Mr. Chattaway as against Thomas 
 Ryle. It was whispered, about, none knew with 
 what truth, that Miss Diana made a compact 
 with Chattaway, to the effect that she should
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLTX HOLD. 91 
 
 reign jointly at Trevlyn Hold with him and enjoy 
 part of the revenues, did he come mto the in- 
 heritance. 
 
 Before the news came of Joe Trevlyn's death — ■ 
 and it was some months in coming — Squire Trev- 
 lyn had taken to his bed. j^s'ever did man seem 
 to fade so rapidly as the squire. Not only his 
 health, but his mind failed him ; all its vigour 
 seemed gone. He mourned poor Joe excessively : 
 in rude health and strength, he would not have 
 mourned him ; at least, he would not have sho^^m 
 that he did ; never a man less inclined than the 
 squire to suffer his private emotions to be seen : 
 but in his v/ea.kened state of mind and body, he 
 gave way to lamentation for his heir (liis heir, 
 note you, more than his son) ever}^ hour in the 
 day. Over and over again he regretted that the 
 little child, Maude, left by Joe, was not a boy : 
 nay, if it had not been for his prejudice against 
 her mother, he would have willed the estate to 
 her, o'irl thouo'h she was. Now was Mr. Chatta- 
 way's time : he put forth in glowing colours his 
 own claims, as Edith's husband ; he made golden 
 promises ; he persuaded the poor squire, in his 
 wi'eck of mind and body, that black Avas wliite — 
 and he succeeded in his plans. 
 
 To the will which had bequeathed the estate to 
 the eldest son, dead Rupert, the squire added a
 
 92 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 codicil, to the effect that, failing liis two sons, 
 James Chattaway was the inheritor. But all this 
 was kept a profound secret. 
 
 During the time the squire lay ill, Mr. Byle 
 went to Trevljm Hold, and succeeded in obtaining 
 an interview. Mr. Chattaway was out that day, 
 or he had never accomplished it. Miss Diana 
 Trevlyn was out. All the squire's animosity went 
 away the moment he saw Thomas Kyle's long 
 familiar face. He lay clasping his hand, and 
 lamenting their estrangement ; he told him he 
 should cancel the two thousand pound bond, 
 giving the money as his daughter's fortune ; he 
 said his promise of renewing the lease of the 
 farm to him on the same terms would be held 
 sacred, for he had left a memorandum to that 
 effect amidst his papers. He sent for a certain 
 box, in which the bond for the two thousand 
 pounds had been placed, and searched for it, 
 intending to give it to him then, but the bond was 
 not there, and he said that Mr. Chattaway, who 
 managed all his affairs now, must have placed it 
 elsewhere ; but he would ask him for it when he 
 came in, and it should be destroyed before he 
 slept. Altogether, it was a most pleasant and 
 satisfactory interview. 
 
 But strange news arrived from abroad ere the 
 squire died. Not strange, certainly, in itself ;
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD. 93 
 
 only strange because it was so very unexpected. 
 Joseph Trevlpi's widow had given birth to a boy ! 
 On the very day that little Maude was twelve 
 months old, exactly three months subsequent to 
 Joe's death, this little fellow was bom. Mr. 
 Chattaway opened the letter, and I'll leave you 
 to judge of his state of mind. A male heir, after 
 he had got everything so sure and safe ! 
 
 But Mr. Chattaway was not a man to be balked. 
 He would not be deprived of the inheritance, if 
 he could by any possible scheming retain it, no 
 matter what wrong he dealt out to others. James 
 Chattaway had as little conscience as most people. 
 The whole of that day he never spoke of the 
 news, he kept it to himself, and the next morning 
 there arrived a second letter, which rendered the 
 affair a little more complicated. Young Mrs. 
 Trevlyn was dead. She had died, leaving the two 
 little ones, Maude and the infant. 
 
 Squire Trevlyn was always saying, " Oh, that Joe 
 had left a boy ; that Joe had left a boy ! " And now, 
 as it was found, Joe had left one. But Mr. Chatta- 
 Avay kindly determined that the fact should never 
 reach the squire's ears to gladden them. Some- 
 thing had to be done, however, or the little children 
 would be coming to Trevlyn. Mr. Chattaway 
 an-anged his j)lans, and wrote off hastily to stop 
 their departure. He told the squire that Joe's
 
 94 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 widow had died, leaving Maude ; but lie never said 
 a word about the baby boy. Had the squire lived, 
 perhaps it could not have been kept from him ; 
 but he did not live ; he went to his grave all too 
 soon, never knowing that there was a male heir 
 bom to Trevlyn. 
 
 The danger was over then. Mr. Chattaway was 
 the legal inheritor ; had Joe left ten boys, they 
 could not have displaced him. Trevlyn Hold was 
 his by the squire's will, and could not be wrested 
 from him. The two little ones, friendless and 
 penniless, were brought home to the Hold. Mrs. 
 Trevlyn had lived long enough to name the infant 
 " Rupert," after the old squire and the heir who 
 had run away and died. Poor Joe had always 
 said that if ever he had a boy, it should be named 
 after his brother. 
 
 There they had been ever since, these two 
 orphans, aliens in the home that ought to have 
 been theirs ; lovely children, both ; but Rupert 
 had the passionate Trevlyn temper. It was not 
 made a systematically unkind home for them ; 
 Miss Diana would not have allowed that ; but it 
 was a very different home from what they ought 
 to have enjoyed. Mr. Chattaway was at times 
 almost cruel to Rupert ; ChristojDher exercised 
 upon him all soi-ts of galling and petty tyi'anny, as 
 Octave Chattaway did upon Maude ; and the neigh-
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYX HOLD. 95 
 
 bourbood, you may he quite sure, did not fail to 
 talk. But it Yv^as not known abroad, you understand, 
 save to one or too, that Mr. Chattaway had kept 
 the fact of Rupert's birth from the knowledge of 
 the squire. 
 
 He stood tolerably well with his fellow men, did 
 Chattaway, In himself he was not liked ; nay, 
 he was very much disliked ; but he was the owner 
 of Trevlyn Hold, and possessed sway in the 
 Beighbourhood. One thing, he could not get the 
 title of squire accorded to him. In vain he strove 
 for it ; he exacted it from his tenants ; he WTote 
 notes in the third person, " Squire Chattaway 
 presents his compliments," &c. ; or, " the Squire 
 of Trevlyn Hold desires," &c., &c., all in vain. 
 People readily accorded his wife the title of 
 Madam — as it was the custom to call the mistress 
 of Trevlyn Hold — she was the old squire's 
 daughter, and they recognised her claim to it, 
 but they did not give that of squire to her 
 husband. 
 
 These things had happened years ago, for 
 Maude and Rupert are now aged respectively 
 thirteen and twelve, and all that while had 
 James Chattaway enjoyed his sv/ay. Never, 
 never ; no, not even in the still night when the 
 voice of conscience in most men is so suggestive ; 
 never giving a thought to the wrong dealt out to 
 Rupert.
 
 96 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 And it must be mentioned that the first thing 
 Mr. Chattaway did, after the death of Squire 
 Trevlyn, was to sue Mr. Byle upon the bond ; 
 which he had not destroyed, although ordered to 
 do so by the squire. The next thing he did was 
 to raise the rent of the farm to a ruinous price. 
 Mr. E-yle, naturally indignant, remonstrated, and 
 there had been ill-feeling between them from that 
 hour to this ; but Chattaway had the law on his 
 owTi side. Some of the bond was paid off; but 
 altogether, what with the raised rent, and the 
 bond and its interest, and a succession of ill-luck 
 on the farm, Mr. Ryle had been scarcely able to 
 keep his head above water. As he said to his 
 wife and children, when the bull had done its 
 work, — he was taken from a world of care.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. RYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 Etiquette, touching the important ceremonies 
 of buryings and christenings, is much more 
 observed in the country than in towns. To rural 
 districts this remark especially applies. In a 
 large town, people don't know their next door 
 neighbours, don't care for those neighbours' 
 opinions ; in a small place the inhabitants are 
 almost as one family, and their actions are chiefly 
 governed by that pertinent remark, " What will 
 people say V In these Httle communities, num- 
 bers of which are scattered about England, it is 
 held necessary on the occasion of a funeral to 
 invite all kith and kin. Omit to do so, and it 
 would be set down as a premeditated slight ; 
 affording a theme of gossip to the parish for 
 weeks afterwards. Hence Mr. Chattaway, being 
 a connection — brother-in-law, in fact, of the 
 deceased gentleman's wife — was invited to follow 
 the remains of Thomas Ryle to the grave. In 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 spite of the bad terms they had been upon ; in 
 spite of Mrs. Ryle's own bitter feelings against 
 Chattaway and Trevlyn Hold generally ; m spite 
 of Mr. Ryle's death having been caused by what 
 did cause it — Chattaway's bull — Mr. Cha,ttaway 
 received a formal invitation, in Avriting, to attend, 
 as mourner, the remains to the grave. And it 
 never would have entered into the notion of Mr. 
 Chattaway's good manners to decline it. 
 
 An inquest had been held at the nearest inn. 
 The verdict returned was "Accidental Death," 
 with a deodand of five pounds ujDon the bull. 
 Which Mr. Chattaway had to pay. 
 
 The bull was already condemned. Not to 
 annihilation ; but to be taken to a distant fair, 
 and there sold ; whence he would be conveyed to a 
 home in other pastures, where he might possibly 
 gore somebody else. It was not consideration for 
 the feelings of the Ryle family which induced Mr. 
 Chattaway to adopt this step, and so rid the 
 neighbourhood of the animal; but consideration 
 for his own pocket. Feeling ran high in the 
 vicinity ; fear also ; the stoutest hearts could feel 
 no security that the bull might not be for having 
 a tilt at them : and Chattaway, on his part, was 
 at as little certainty that an effectual silencer 
 would not be surreptitiously dealt out to the bull 
 some quiet night. Therefore, he resolved to part
 
 ME. RYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 99 
 
 with him ; apart from his misdoings, he was a 
 vakiable animal, Avorth a great deal more than Mr. 
 Chattaway would like to lose ; and the bull was 
 dismissed. 
 
 The day of the funeral came, and those bidden 
 to it began to arrive about one o'clock : that is, 
 the undertaker's men, the clerk, and the carriers. 
 Of the latter, Jim Sanders made one. " Better 
 that he had gone than his master," said Nora, in 
 a matter-of-fact, worldly spirit of reasoning, as her 
 thoughts were cast back to the mysterious hole 
 with which she had gratuitously, and the reader 
 will no doubt say absurdly, coupled the fate of 
 Jim. A table of eatables was laid out in the 
 entrance room : cold round of beef, and bread- 
 and-cheese, with ale in cans. To help convey a 
 coffin to church without being plentifully regaled 
 with a good meal first, was a thing that Barbrook 
 had never heard of, and never wished to hear. 
 The select of the company were shoAvn to the 
 large drawing-room, where the refreshment con- 
 sisted of port and sherry wine, and a j^late of 
 *' pound " cake. These were the established rules 
 of hospitality at all genteel, well-to-do funerals : 
 wine and pound cake for the gentlefolks ; cold 
 beef and ale for the men. They had been 
 observed at Squire Trevlyn's ; they had been 
 observed at Mr. Kyle's father's; they had been 
 
 H 2
 
 100 TKEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 observed at every substantial funeral within the 
 memory of Barbrook. Mr. Chattaway, Mr. Berke- 
 ley (a distant relative of Mr. Byle's first wife), Mr. 
 King the surgeon, and Farmer Apperley, comprised 
 the assemblage in the drawing-room. 
 
 At two, after some little difficulty in getting 
 it into order, the sad procession started. It had 
 then been joined by George and Trevlyn Ryle. 
 A gi'eat many spectators had collected to view 
 and attend it. The somewhat infrequency of a 
 funeral of the respectable class, combined with 
 the circumstances attending the death, drew them 
 together : and before the church was reached, 
 where it was met by the clergyman, it had a train 
 half a mile long after it ; mostly women and 
 children. Many dropped a tear for the unhappy 
 fate, the premature death of one who had lived 
 among them, a good master, a kind neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 They left him in his gTave, by the side of his 
 long-dead young Avife, Mary Berkeley. As George 
 stood at the head of his father's coffin, during 
 the ceremony in the churchyard, the gi'ave-stone 
 with its name was right in front of his eyes ; his 
 mother's name. "Mary, the wife of Thomas 
 Ryle, and only daughter of the Rev. George 
 Berkeley." None knew with what a shiveriag 
 feeling of loneliness the orphan boy turned from
 
 MR. RYLE'S last will AND TESTAMENT. 101 
 
 the spot, as the last words of the minister's voice 
 died away. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle, in her widow's weeds, was seated in 
 the drawing-room on their return, as the gentle- 
 men filed into it. In Barbrook custom, the 
 relatives of the deceased, near or distant, were 
 expected to congTegate together for the remainder 
 of the day ; or for a portion of its remainder. 
 The gentlemen would sometimes smoke pipes, 
 and the ladies in their deep mourning sat Avith 
 their hands folded in their laps, resting on their 
 snow-white handkerchiefs. The conversation was 
 only allowed to run on family matters, prospects, 
 and the like ; and the voices were amicable and 
 subdued. 
 
 As the mourners entered, they shook hands 
 severally -with Mrs. Ryle. Chattaway put out his 
 hand last, and with perceptible hesitation. It 
 was many a year since his hand had been given 
 in fellowship to Mrs. Ryle, or had taken hers. 
 They had been friendly once, and in the old days 
 he used to call her " Maude : " but that was over 
 now. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle turned from the offered hand. 
 "No," she said, si^eaking in a quiet but most 
 decisive tone. "I cannot forget the past suffi- 
 ciently for that, James Chattaway. On this day 
 it is forcibly present to me."
 
 102 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 They sat clown. Trevl}Ti next his mother, 
 called there by her. The gentlemen disposed 
 themselves on the side of the table facing the fire, 
 and George found a chair a little behind : nobody 
 seemed to notice him. And so much the better \ 
 for the boy's heart was too full to bear much 
 notice then. 
 
 On the table was placed the paper which had 
 been written by the surgeon, at the dictation of 
 Mr. E-yle, the night when he lay in extremity. 
 It had not been unfolded since. Mi-. King took 
 it up ; he knew that he was expected to read it. 
 They were waiting for him to do so. 
 
 "I must premise that the wording of this is 
 Mr. Kyle's," he said. " He expressly requested 
 me to pen doTVTi his oivn ivords, just as they 
 issued from his lips. He " 
 
 " Is it a will?" inteiTupted Farmer Apperley, a. 
 little gentleman, with a red face and large nose. 
 He had come to the funeral in top boots ; they 
 constituting liis ideas of full dress. 
 
 " You can call it a ynqII, if you please," replied 
 Mr. King. " I am not sure that the law would. 
 It was in consequence of his not having made a 
 will that he requested me to write down these 
 few directions." 
 
 The farmer nodded ; and Mr. King began to 
 read.
 
 MR. EYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 103 
 
 " In the name of God : Amen. I, Thomas 
 Ryle. 
 
 " First of all, I bequeath my soul to God. 
 Trusting that he will pardon my sins, for the 
 sake of Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen. 
 
 *^It's a dreadful blow, the cutting of me off by 
 that bull of Chattaway's. The more so, that I 
 am unable to leave things straightforward for my 
 wife and children. They know — at least, my wife 
 does, and all the parish knows — the pressure that 
 has been upon me, through Chattaway coming 
 down upon me as he has done. I have been as 
 a bird with its wings clipped ; as soon as I'd try- 
 to get up, I was pulled down again. 
 
 " 111 luck has been upon me besides. Beasts 
 have died off, and crops have failed ; the farm's 
 not good for much, for aU the money that has 
 been laid out upon it, and nobody but me knows 
 the labour it has cost. When you think of these 
 things, my dear wife and boys, you'll know why I 
 do not leave you better provided for. Many and 
 many a night have I laid awake upon my bed, 
 fretting, and planning, and hoping, all for your 
 sakes. Perhaps if that bull had spared me to an 
 old age, I might have left you better off. 
 
 "I'd like to bequeath the furniture and all 
 that is in the house, and the stock, and the beasts, 
 and all that I die possessed of, to my dear wife.
 
 104? TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 Maude — but it's not of any good, for Chattaway 
 will sell up — except the silver tankard, and that 
 should go to Trevlyn. But for having 'T. E.' 
 upon it, it should go to George, for he is the 
 eldest. T. K. stood for my father, and T. R. has 
 stood for me, and T. R. will stand for Trevlj-n. 
 George, though he is the eldest, won't grudge it 
 him, if I know anything of his nature. And I 
 give to George my watch, and I hope he'll keep 
 it for his dead father's sake. It is only a silver 
 one, as I dare say you have noticed, doctor ; but 
 it's very good to go, and George can have his 
 initials engTaved on the shield at the back, ' G. B. 
 R.' And the three seals, and the gold key, I give 
 to him with it. The red cornelian has our arms 
 on it ; for we had arms once, and my father and I 
 have generally sealed our letters with them : not 
 that they have done him or me any good. And 
 let Treve keep the tankard faithfully, and never 
 part with it ; and remember, my dear boys, that 
 your poor father would have left you better keej)- 
 sakes had it been in his j^ower. You must prize 
 these for the dead giver's sake. But there ! it's 
 of no use talking, for Chattaway, he'll sell up, 
 watch and tankard, and all. 
 
 *' And I'd like to leave that bay foal to my dear 
 little Caroline. It will be a rare pretty creature 
 when it's bigger. And you must let it have the
 
 MR. RYLE'S last VfILL AND TESTAMENT. 105 
 
 run of the three-cornered paddock, and I should 
 like to see her on it, sweet little soul ! — but Chat- 
 taway's bull has stopped it. And don't grudge 
 the cost of a little saddle for her ; and Roger, he 
 can break it in ; and mind you are all true and 
 tender with my dear little wench, and if I thought 
 you wouldn't be, I'd like to have her with me in 
 my coffin. But you are good lads — though Treve 
 he is hasty when his temper's put out — and I 
 know you'll be to her Avhat brothers ought to be. 
 I always meant that foal for Carry, since I saw 
 how pretty it was likely to grow^, though I didn't 
 say what w^as in my mind ; and now I give it to 
 her. But where's the use ? Chattaway, he'll sell 
 up. 
 
 " If he does sell up, to the last stick and stone, 
 he'll not get his debt in full. Perhaps not much 
 above the half of it ; for things at a forced sale 
 don't bring their value. You have put down ' his 
 debt/ Mr. King, I suppose ; but it is not his debt. 
 I am on my death-bed, and I say that the two 
 thousand pounds was made a present of to me by 
 the squire on his death-bed. He told me it was 
 made all riglit with Chattaway ; that Chattaway 
 understood the promise given to me, not to raise 
 the rent ; and that he'd be the same just landlord 
 to me that the squire had been. The squire could 
 not lay his hand upon the bond, or he w^ould have
 
 106 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 given it me then ; but he said Chattaway should 
 bum it as soon as he entered, which would be in 
 an hour or two. Chattaway knows whether he 
 has acted up to this ; and now his bull has finished 
 me. 
 
 " And I wish to tell Chattaway that if he'll act 
 a fair part as a man ought, and let my wife and 
 the boys stop on the farm, he'll stand a much 
 better chance of getting the money, than he would 
 if he turns them off it. I don't say this for their 
 sakes more than for his ; but because from my 
 very heart I believe it to be the truth. George 
 has got his head on his shoulders the right way, 
 and I'd advise his mother to keej) him on the 
 farm ; he'll be getting older every day. Not but 
 that I wish her to use her own judgment in all 
 things, for her judgment is good. In time, they 
 may be able to pay off Chattaway ; in time they 
 may be able even to buy back the farm, for I 
 cannot forget that it belonged to my forefathers^ 
 and not to the squire. That is, if Chattaway will 
 be reasonable, and let them stop on it, and not be 
 hard and pressing. But perhaps I am talking 
 nonsense, doctor, for he may turn them off, as his 
 bull has turned off me. 
 
 " And now, my dear George and Treve, I repeat 
 it to you, be good boys to^your mother. Obey her 
 in aU things. Maude, I have left all to you in
 
 MR. RYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 107 
 
 preference to dividing it between you and tliem, 
 which there's no time for ; but I know you'll do 
 the right thing by them : and when it comes to 
 your turn to leave — if Chattaway don't sell up — 
 I'd wish you to bequeath to them in equal shares 
 what you die possessed of. George is not your 
 son, but he is mine, and — and — perhaps I'd better 
 not say what I was going to say, doctor. Maude, 
 I leave all to you, trusting to your justice to leave 
 all in turn to them in equal portions ; to the three 
 — George, Treve, and Caroline. And, my boys, 
 you be loving and obedient to your mother, and 
 work for her to the best of your ability ; work for 
 her, and work for yourselves. Work while it's 
 day. In that book which I have not read so 
 much as I ought to have read, it says ' The night 
 Cometh when no man can work.' Wlien we hear 
 that read in church, or when we get the book out 
 on a Sunday evening and read it to ourselves, 
 that night seems a long, long way off. It seems 
 so far off that it can never hardly be any concern 
 of ours ; and it is only when we are cut off 
 suddenly that we find how very near it is. That 
 night has come for me, through Chattaway's bull ; 
 and that night will come for you before you are 
 aware. So, ivorh — and please to score that, doctor. 
 God has placed us in this world to work, and not 
 to be ashamed of it ; and to work for Him as well
 
 108 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 as for ourselves. It was often in my mind that I 
 ought to work more for God — that I ought to 
 think of Him more ; and I used to say, ' I will 
 soon, when a bit of this bother's off my mind.' 
 But the bother was always there, and I never did 
 it. And now the end's come, and I am cut off in 
 the midst through that bull of Chattaway's ; and 
 I can see things would have been made easier to 
 me if I had done it — score it, doctor — and I say 
 it as a lesson to you, my children. 
 
 "And I think that's about all ; and I am much 
 obliged to you, doctor, for writing this. I hope 
 they'll be able to manage things on the farm, and 
 I'd ask my neighbour Apperley to give them his 
 advice a bit now and then, for old friendship's 
 sake, until George shall be older, and to put him 
 in a way of buying and selling stock. If Chatta- 
 way don't sell up, that is. If he does, I hardly 
 know how it will be. Perhaps God will put them 
 in some other way, and take care of them. And 
 I'd leave my best thanks to Nora, for she has been 
 a true friend to us all, and I don't know how the 
 house would ha^?e got along without her. And 
 now I am growing faint^ doctor, and I think the 
 end is coming. God bless you all, my dear oues. 
 Amen." 
 
 A deep silence fell on the room as Mr. King 
 ceased. He folded up the paper, and laid it on
 
 MR. RYLE'S last will AND TESTAMENT. 109 
 
 the table near to Mrs. Ryle. The first to speak 
 was Farmer Apperley. 
 
 " Any help that I can be of to you and George, 
 Mrs. Ryle, and to all of you, is heartily at your 
 service. It'll be yours Avith right good will at all 
 times and seasons. The more so, that you know 
 if it had been me cut off in this way, my poor 
 friend Ryle would have been the first to offer to 
 do so nmch for my wife and boys, and have 
 thought no trouble of it. George, you come over 
 and ask me about things, just as you would ask 
 your father ; or send for me up here to the farm ; 
 and whatever work I may be at at home, though 
 it was the putting out of a barn as was a-fire, I'd 
 quit it to come.'' 
 
 "And now it is my turn to speak," said Mr. 
 Chattaway. "And, Mrs. Ryle, I give you my 
 promise, in the presence of these gentlemen, that 
 if you choose to remain on the farm, I will not 
 put a hindrance upon it. Your husband thought 
 me hard — unjust ; he said it before my face and 
 behind my back. My opinion always has been 
 that he entirely mistook Squire Trevlyn in that 
 last interview he had with him. I do not think 
 it was ever the squire's intention to cancel the 
 bond : Ryle must have misunderstood him alto- 
 gether : at any rate, I heard nothing of it. As 
 the successor in the estate, the bond came into
 
 110 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 my possession ; and in my mfe and children's 
 interest I could not consent to suppress it. No- 
 body but a soft-hearted man — and that's what 
 Eyle was, poor fellow — would have thought of 
 asking such a thing. But I was willing to give him 
 all facilities for paying it, and I did do so. • No ! 
 It was not my hardness that was in fault, but his 
 pride and his nonsense, and his thinking I ought 
 not to ask for my own money " 
 
 " If you bring uj) these things, James Chatta- 
 way, I must answer them," interrupted Mrs. 
 Kyle. " I would prefer not to be forced to do it 
 to-day." 
 
 '•1 do not want to bring them up in an un- 
 pleasant spirit," answered Mr. Chattaway ; " or to 
 say it was his fault or my fault. We'll let bygones 
 be bygones. He is gone, poor man ; and I wish 
 that savage beast of a bull had been in four 
 quarters, before he had done the mischief! All I 
 would now say, is, that I'll put no impediment to 
 your remaining on the farm. We will not go into 
 business details this afternoon, but I will come in 
 any day that you like to appoint, and talk it over. 
 If you choose to keep on the farm at its j)resent 
 rent — it is well worth it — and to j}ay me interest 
 for the money that's owing, and a yearly sum — 
 as shall be agTeed upon — towards diminishing the 
 debt, you are welcome to do it."
 
 ME. EYLE'S last will AND TESTA31ENT. Ill 
 
 Just what Nora had predicted ! Mr. Chatta- 
 way loved money too greatly to nm the risk of 
 losing part of the debt — as he probably would do 
 if he turned them off the farm. Mrs. Ryle bowed 
 her head in cold acquiescence. She saw no other 
 way open to her, save that of accepting the offer. 
 Very probably Mr. Chattaway knew that there 
 was no other. 
 
 " The sooner things are settled, the better," she 
 remarked. " I will name eleven o'clock to-mori'ow 
 morning." 
 
 " Very good ; I'll be here," he answered. 
 *' And I am glad it is decided harmoniously." 
 
 The rest of those present appeared also to be 
 glad. Perhaps they had feared some unpleasant 
 recrimination might take place between JVIrs. 
 Ryle and James Chattaway. Thus relieved, they 
 unbent a little, and crossed their legs as if in- 
 clined to become more sociable. 
 
 "What shall you do with the boys, Mrs. 
 Ryle ? " suddenly asked Farmer Apperley. 
 
 " Treve, of course, will go to school as usual," 
 
 she replied. "George 1 have not decided 
 
 about George." 
 
 "Shall I have to leave school ?" cried George, 
 looking up with a start. 
 
 " Of course you will," said Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " But what will become of my Latin ; of my
 
 112 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 studies altogether ? " returned George, in a tone of 
 
 dismay. " You know, mamma, I " 
 
 "It cannot be helped, George," she inter- 
 rupted, speaking in the uncomj)romisingly decisive 
 manner, so characteristic of her ; as it was of her 
 sister, Miss Diana Trevlyn. " You must turn 
 your attention to something more profitable than 
 schooling, now." 
 
 "If a boy at fifteen has not had schooling 
 enough, I'd like to knoAv when he has had it 1 " 
 interposed Farmer Apperley, who neither under- 
 stood nor approved of the strides which education 
 and intellect had made since the time when he 
 was a boy. Very substantial people in his day 
 had been content to learn to read and write and 
 -cipher, and to deem that amount of learning 
 sufficient to grow rich upon. As the Dutch pro- 
 fessor did, to whom George Primrose wished to 
 teach Greek, but who dechned the offer. He had 
 never learned Greek ; he had lived, and ate, and 
 slept without Greek ; and therefore he did not 
 see any good in Greek. Thus it was with 
 Farmer Apperley. 
 
 " What do you learn at school, George ? " ques- 
 tioned Mr. Berkeley. 
 
 " Latin and Greek, and mathematics, and " 
 
 " But, George, where will be the good of such 
 things to you ? " cried Farmer Apperley, not
 
 MR. RYLE'S last will AXD TESTAMENT. 113 
 
 allowing him to finish the catalogue. "Latin 
 and Greek and mathematics ! that is fine, that 
 is!" 
 
 "I don't see much good in giving a boy 
 that style of education myself/' put in Mr. 
 Chattaway, before any one else had time to speak. 
 "Unless he is to be reared to a profession, the 
 classics only lie fallow in the memory. I hated 
 them, I know that ; I and my brother, too. 
 Many and many a caning we have had over our 
 Latin, until we wished the books at the bottom of 
 the sea. Twelve months after we left school we 
 could not have construed a page, had it been put 
 before us. That's all the good learning Latin did 
 for us." 
 
 "I shall keep up my Latin and Greek," ob- 
 served George, very independently, " although I 
 may have to leave school." 
 
 " Why need you keep it up ? " asked Mr. 
 Chattaway, turning his head to take a full look 
 at George. 
 
 " Why ? " echoed George. " I like it, for one 
 thing. And a knowledge of the classics is neces- 
 sary to a gentleman, now-a-days." 
 
 " Necessary to what ? " cried Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " To a gentleman," repeated George. 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Chattaway. "Do you think of 
 being one ? " 
 
 TOL. I. I
 
 114 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 "Yes, I do/' replied George, in a tone as 
 decisive as any ever nsed by his stepmother. 
 
 This bold assertion nearly took away the 
 breath of Farmer Apperley. Had George Ryle 
 announced his intention to become a Botany Bay 
 convict, Mr. Apperley's consternation had been 
 scarcely less. The same word will bear different 
 constmctions to different minds. That of " gen- 
 tleman " in the month of George, could only bear 
 one to the plain and simple farmer. 
 
 " Hey, lad I What Avild notions have ye been 
 getting in your head ? " he asked. 
 
 " George," spoke Mrs. Ryle almost at the 
 same moment, " are you going to give me 
 trouble at the very onset ? There is nothing for 
 you to look forward to, but w^ork. Your father 
 said it." 
 
 " Of course I look forward to w^ork, mamma," 
 returned George, as cheerfully as he could speak 
 that sad afternoon. " But that will not prevent 
 my being a gentleman." 
 
 "George, I fancy you may be somewhat mis- 
 using terms," remarked the surgeon, who was an 
 old inhabitant of that rustic district, and little 
 more advanced in notions than the rest. " What 
 you meant to say was, that you would be a good, 
 honourable, upright man ; not a mean one. Was 
 it not r'
 
 MR. RYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 115 
 
 " Yes," said George, after an imperceptible hesi- 
 tation. " Something of that." 
 
 " The boy did not express himse Ifclearly, you 
 see," said Mr. King, looking round on the rest. 
 " He means right." 
 
 " Don't you ever talk about being a gentleman 
 again, my lad," cried Farmer Apperley, with a 
 sagacious nod. "It would make the neighbours 
 think you were going on for bad ways. A gentle- 
 man is one who follows the hounds in white 
 smalls and a scarlet coat, and goes to dinners and 
 drinks wine, and never puts his hands to any- 
 thing, but leads an idle life." 
 
 " That is not the sort of gentleman I meant," 
 said George. 
 
 " It is to be hoped it's not," emphatically re- 
 plied the farmer. " A man may do this if he has 
 got a good fat banker's book, George, but not else." 
 
 George made no answering remark. To have 
 explained how very different his notions of a 
 gentleman were from those of Farmer Apperley' s, 
 might have involved him in a long conversation. 
 His silence was looked suspiciously upon by Mr. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 " Where idle and roving notions are taken up, 
 
 there's only one cure for them 1 " he remarked, 
 
 in a short, uncompromising tone. " And that is 
 
 hard work." 
 
 I 2
 
 116 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 But that George's spirit was subdued, lie might 
 have hotly answered that he had taken up neither 
 idle nor roving notions. As it was, he sat in 
 silence. 
 
 " I doubt whether it will be prudent to keep 
 George at home," said Mrs. Kyle, speaking gene- 
 rally, but not to Mr. Chattaway. " He is too 
 young to do much good upon the farm. And 
 there's John Pinder." 
 
 " John Pinder would do his best, no doubt," 
 said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " The question is — if I do resolve to put George 
 
 out, what can I put him to ? " resumed Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " Papa thought it best that I should stay on the 
 
 farm," interposed George, his heart beating a shade 
 
 quicker. 
 
 " He thought it best that I should exercise my 
 own judgment in the matter," corrected Mrs. Ryle. 
 " The worst is, it takes money to j)lace a lad out," 
 she added, looking at Farmer Apperley. 
 "It does that," replied the farmer. 
 "There's nothing like a trade for boys," said 
 Mr. Chattaway, impressively. " They learn to get 
 a good li\dng, and they are kept out of mischief. 
 It appears to me that Mrs. Ryle will have enough 
 expense upon her hands, without the cost and 
 keep of George being added to it. What service 
 can so young a boy do the farm ? "
 
 MR. RYLE'S last will AXD TESTAMENT. 117 
 
 " True/' mused Mrs. Ryle, agreeing for once 
 with Mr. Chattaway. " He could not be of much 
 use at present. But the cost of placing him out ? " 
 
 " Of course he could not," repeated Mr. Chatta- 
 way, with an eagerness which might have betrayed 
 his motive to suspicion, but that he coughed it 
 down. " Perhaps I may be able to manage the 
 putting him out for you, without cost. 1 know of 
 an eligible place where there's a vacancy. The 
 trade is a good one, too." 
 
 " I am not going to any trade," spoke George, 
 looking Mr. Chattaway full in the face. 
 
 " You are going where Mrs. Eyle thinks fit that 
 you shall go," returned Mr. Chattaway, in his hard, 
 cold tone. " If I can get you into the establish- 
 ment of Wall and Barnes without premium, it 
 will be a first-rate thing for you." 
 
 All the blood in George Kyle's body seemed to 
 rush to his face. Poor though they had become in 
 point of money, trade had been unknown in their 
 family, and its sound in George's ears, as applied 
 to himself, was something terrible. "That is a 
 retail shop ! " he cried, rising from his seat in a 
 commotion. 
 
 " Wei] ? " said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 They remained gazing at each *other. George 
 ■with his changing face, flushing to crimson, fading 
 to paleness ; Mr. Chattaway with his composed,
 
 118 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 leaden one. His light eyes were sternly directed 
 to George, but he did not glance at Mr. Ryle. 
 George was the first to speak. 
 
 '' You should never force me there, Mr. Chatta- 
 way." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway rose from his seat, took George 
 by the shoulder, and turned him to^Yards the 
 window. The view did not overlook much of the 
 road to Barbrook, the lower road ; but a glimpse 
 of it might be caught sight of here and there, 
 winding along in the distance. 
 
 " Boy ! do you remember what was carried 
 down that road this afternoon — Avha-fe you followed 
 next to, with your younger brother ? He said 
 that you were not to cross your mother, but to 
 obey her in all things. These are early moments 
 to begin to turn against your father's dying 
 charge." 
 
 George sat down, his brain throbbing, his heart 
 beating. He did not see his duty very distinctly 
 before him then. His father certainly had charged 
 him to obey his mother's bequests, he had left him 
 entirely subject to her control ; but George felt 
 perfectly sure that his father would never have 
 placed him in a retail shop ; would not have 
 allowed him to enter one. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway continued talking, but the boy 
 heard him not. He was bending towards Mrs.
 
 MR. RYLE's last will AND TESTAMENT. 119 
 
 Kyle, enlarging upon the advantages of the plan 
 in persuasive langTiage. He knew that Wall and 
 Barnes had taken a boy into their house without 
 premium, he said, and he believed he could induce 
 them to waive it in George's case. He and Wall 
 had been at school together ; had passed many an 
 impatient hour over the Latin, previously spoken 
 of; and he often called in to have a chat with liim 
 in passing. Wall was a ten thousand pound man 
 now ; and George might become the same in time. 
 
 " How would you like to place Christopher at 
 it, Mr. Chattaway ? " asked George, his breast 
 heaving rebelliously. 
 
 " Christopher !" indignantly responded Mr. Chat- 
 taway. " Christopher's heir to Trev Christo- 
 pher isn't you," he concluded, cutting his iii'st 
 retort short. In the presence of Mrs. Ryle it 
 might not be altogether prudent to allude to the 
 heirship of Cris to Trevljm Hold. 
 
 The sum named conciliated the ear of Mr. 
 Apperley, otherwise he had not listened Avith any 
 favour to the plan. " Ten thousand jDounds ! And 
 Wall but a middle-aged man! That's worth 
 thinking of, George." 
 
 " I could never live in a shop ; the close air, the 
 confinement, would stifle me," said George, with a 
 sort of groan, putting aside for the moment his 
 more forcible objections.
 
 120 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " You'd rather live in a thunder-storrQ, with the 
 rain coming down on your head in bucketfuls/* 
 said Mr. Chattaway, sarcastically. 
 
 " A great deal," said George. 
 
 Farmer Apperley did not detect the irony af 
 Mr. Chattaway's remark, or the bitterness of the 
 answer. " You'll say next, boy, that you'd rather 
 go for a sailor, and be exposed to the weather 
 night and day, perched midway at ween sky and 
 water ! " 
 
 "So I would," was George's truthful answer. 
 " Mamma ! let me stay at the farm ! " he cried, 
 the nervous motion of his hands, the strained 
 countenance, proving how momentous was the 
 question to his grieved heart. " You do not 
 know how useful I should soon become ! And 
 papa wished it." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle shook her head. " You are too young, 
 George, to be of use. No." 
 
 George seemed to turn white ; face, and heart, 
 and all. He was approaching Mrs. Ryle with an 
 imploring gesture ; but Mr. Chattaway caught his 
 arm and pushed him to his seat again. " George, 
 if I were you, I would not, on this day, cross my 
 mother." 
 
 George glanced at her. Not a shade of love, 
 of relenting, was there on her countenance. Cold, 
 haughty, self-willed, it always was ; but more cold,
 
 MR. RYLE'S last will AND TESTAMENT. 121 
 
 more haughty, more self-willed than usual now. 
 He turned and left the room, his heart bursting, 
 crossed the kitchen, and passed into the room 
 whence his father had been carried but two hours 
 before. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! papa ! " he sobbed, " if you were 
 but back again ! "
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 INCIPIENT EEBELLIOK 
 
 Borne clowii by the powers above him, George 
 Byle could only succumb to their will. Persuaded 
 by the eloquence of Mr. Chattaway, Mrs. Ryle 
 became convinced that the placing out of George 
 in the establishment of Wall and Barnes was the 
 most appropriate thing that could be found for 
 him, the most promising. The gi'eat wonder was, 
 that she should have brought herself to listen to 
 Chattaway at all, or have entertained for a moment 
 any proposal emanating from him. There could 
 have been but one solution to the riddle : that of 
 her owTi anxiety to get George settled in some- 
 thing away from home. Down deep in the heart 
 of Mrs. Ryle, there was seated a deep sense of 
 injury — of injustice — of wi'ong. It had been 
 seated there ever since the death of Squire 
 Trevlyn, influencing her actions, warping her 
 temper — the question of the heirship of Trevlyn. 
 Her father had bequeathed Trevlyn Hold to
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 123 
 
 Chattaway ; and Chattaway's son was now the 
 heir ; whereas, in her opinion, it was her son, 
 Trevlyn Ryle, who should be occupying that 
 desirable distinction. How Mrs. Ryle reconciled 
 it to her conscience to ignore the claims of young 
 Eupeii: Trevl}Ti, she best knew. 
 
 She did ignore them. She cast no more thought 
 to Ptupert in connection with the succession to 
 Trevlyn, than if he had not been in existence- 
 He had been barred from it by the squire's will, 
 and there it ended. But, failing heirs of her two 
 dead brothers, it was her son who should have 
 come in. Was she not the eldest daughter? 
 What right had that worm, Chattaway, to have 
 insinuated himself into the home of the squire ? 
 into — it may be said — his heart? and so willed 
 over to himself the inheritance ? 
 
 A bitter fact to Mrs. Ryle ; a fact which rankled 
 in her heart by night and by day ; a turning from 
 the path of justice which she firmly intended to 
 see turned back again. She saw not how it was 
 to be accomplished ; she knew not by what means 
 it could be brought about ; she divined not yet 
 how she should help in it ; but she was fully 
 determined that it should be Trevlyn Ryle even- 
 tually to possess Trevl}m Hold. Never, Oris 
 Chattaway. 
 
 A determination immutable as the rock ] a
 
 124^ TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 purpose in the furtherance of which she never 
 swei-ved nor faltered ; there it lay in the archives 
 of her most secret thoughts, a part and parcel of 
 herself, not the less nourished because never 
 spoken of. It may be, that in the death of her 
 husband she saw her way to the end somewhat 
 more clearly ; that his removal was but one 
 impediment taken from the path. She had never 
 given utterance to her ambitious hopes for Trevlyn 
 but once ; and that had been to her husband. 
 His reception of them was a warning to her never 
 to speak of them again to him. No son of his, 
 he said, should inherit Trevl3rn Hold while the 
 children of Joseph Trevlyn lived. If Chattaway 
 chose to wrest their rights from them, to make his 
 son Oris the usurper after him, he, Mr. Ryle, could 
 not hinder it ; but his own boy Treve should never 
 take act or part in so crying a wrong. So long as 
 Rupert and Maude Trevlyn lived, he could never 
 recognise other rights than theirs. From that 
 time forward Mrs. Ryle held her tongue to 
 her husband, as she had done to all else ; but 
 the roots of the project grew deej^er and 
 deeper in her heart, overspreading all its healthy 
 fibres. 
 
 With this gTeat destiny in view for Treve, it 
 will readily be understood why she did not purpose 
 bringing him up to any profession, or sending him
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 125 
 
 out in the world. Her intention was, that Treve 
 should live at home, as soofi as his school-days 
 were over ; should be the master of Trevlyn 
 Farm, until he could become the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold. And for this reason, and this alone, she 
 did not care to keep George with her. Trevtyn 
 Farm, might be a living for one son ; it would not 
 be for two : neither Avould two masters on it 
 answer, although they were brothers. It is true, 
 a thought at times crossed her whether it might 
 not be well, in the interests of the farm, to retain 
 George. He would soon become useful ; he would 
 be trustworthy ; her interests would be his ; and 
 she felt dubious about confiding all management 
 to John Pinder. But these suggestions were over- 
 ruled by the thought that it would not be desir- 
 able for George to acquire a footing on the farm 
 as its master, and then to be turned from it when 
 the time came for the mastership of Treve. As 
 much for George's sake as for Trove's, she felt 
 this ; and she deterpained to place George at 
 something away, where his interests and Trove's 
 would not clash. 
 
 Wall and Barnes were flourishing and respect- 
 able tradesmen, silk -mercers and linendrapers ; 
 their establishment a large one, the oldest and 
 best conducted in Barmester. Had it been sug- 
 gested to Mrs. Kyle to place Treve there, she
 
 126 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 would have retorted in haughty inchgnation. And 
 yet she was sendmg George 1 
 
 "What Mr. Chattaway's precise object could be, 
 in wishing to get George away from home, he 
 alone knew. That he had such an object, there 
 could be no shadow of doubt ; and Mrs. Eyle's 
 usual clear-sightedness must have been just then 
 obscured, not to perceive it. Had his own inte- 
 rests or pleasure not been in some way involved, 
 Chattaway would have taken no more heed as to 
 what became of George, than he did of a clod of 
 earth in that miserable field just rendered famous 
 by the doings of the ill-conditioned bull. It was 
 Chattaway who did it all. He negotiated with 
 Wall and Barnes ; he brought news of his success 
 to Mrs. Ryle ; he won over Farmer Apperley. 
 Wall and Barnes had occasionally taken a youth 
 without premium — ^the youth being expected to 
 perform an unusual variety of work for the favour, 
 to make himself conjointly into an apprentice 
 and a servant-in-gener?J, to be at the beck and 
 call of the establishment. Under those conces- 
 sions, Wall and Barnes had been known to forego 
 the usual premium ; and this great boon was, 
 through Mr. Chattaway, offered to George Ryle. 
 Chattaway boasted of it ; he enlarged upon his 
 luck to George ; and Mrs. Ryle — accepted it. 
 
 And George ? Every pulse in his body coursed
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 127 
 
 on in fiery indignation against the measure, every 
 feeling of his heart rebelled at it. But, of oppo- 
 sition, he could make none : none that served him. 
 Chattaway quietly put him down ; Mrs. Eyle met 
 all his remonstrances with the answer that she 
 had decided ; and Farmer Apperley laboured to 
 convince him that it was a slice of good fortune, 
 which anybody (under the degree of a gentleman 
 who rode to cover in a scarlet coat and white 
 smalls) might jump at. Was not Wall, who had 
 not yet reached his five-and-fortieth year, a ten 
 thousand pound man ? Turn where George would, 
 there appeared to be no escape for him ; no refuge. 
 He must give up all the dreams of his life — not 
 that the dreams had been of any particular colour 
 yet awhile — and become what his mind quite 
 revolted at, what he knew he should never do 
 anything but dislike bitterly. Had he been a less 
 right-minded boy, less dutiful, he would have 
 openly rebelled, have defied Chattaway ; have 
 declined to obey Mrs. Ryle. But that sort of 
 rebellion George did not enter upon. The injunc- 
 tion of his dead father lay on him all too forcibly 
 — " Obey and reverence your mother." And so 
 the agreement was made, and George Byle Avas to 
 go to Wall and Barnes, to be bound to them for 
 seven years. 
 
 He stood leanino' out of the casement window.
 
 128 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 the night before he was to enter ; his aching brow 
 bared to the cold air, cloudy as the autumn sky. 
 Treve was fast asleep, in his own little bed in the 
 far corner, shaded and sheltered by its curtains : 
 but there was no such peaceful sleep for George. 
 The thoughts to which he was giving vent were 
 not altogether profitable ones ; and certain ques- 
 tions which arose in his mind had been better left 
 out of it. 
 
 " What right have they so to dispose of me ? " 
 he asked, alluding, it must be confessed, to the 
 trio, Chattaway, Mrs. Ryle, and Mr. Apperley. 
 "They kno^v that if papa had lived, they'd not 
 have dared to urge my being put to it. I wonder 
 what it will end in ^ I wonder whether I shall 
 have to be at it always ? It is not right to put a 
 poor fellow to what he hates most of all in 
 life, and what he'll hate for ever and for ever." 
 
 He gazed out at the low gloomy line of land 
 lying under the night sky, looking as desolate as 
 he was. " I'd rather go for a sailor ! " broke from 
 him in his despair ; " I'd rather " 
 
 A hot hand on his shoulder caused him to start 
 and turn. There stood Nora. 
 
 "If I didn't say one of you boys was out of 
 bed 1 AVhat's this for, George ? What are you 
 doing ? — trying to catch your death at the open 
 window ? "
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 129 
 
 "As good catcli my death, for all I see, as live 
 in this world, now," was George's answer. 
 
 " As good be a young simpleton and confess to 
 it," retorted Nora, angrily. " What's the matter, 
 George ? " 
 
 " Why should they force me to that place at 
 Barmester ? " cried George, following up his 
 grieved thoughts, rather than replying to Nora's 
 question. " I wish Chattawa}' had been a thou- 
 sand miles away first ! What business has he to 
 interfere about me ? " 
 
 " I wish I was queen at odd moments, when 
 work seems to be coming in seven ways at once, 
 and only one pair of hands to do it," quoth 
 Nora. 
 
 George turned from the window. " Nora, look 
 here ! You know I am a gentleman born : it^ it 
 right to put me to it ? " 
 
 Nora evaded an answer. She felt nearly as 
 much as the boy did ; but she saw no way of 
 escape for him, and therefore would not oppose 
 it. 
 
 There was no way of escape. Chattaway had 
 decided it, Mrs. Hyle had acquiesced, and George 
 Avas conducted to the new house, and took up his 
 abode in it, rebellious feelings choking his heart, 
 rebellious words rising to his lips. 
 
 But he did his utmost to beat the rebellion 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 down. The charge of his dead father was ever 
 before him— to render all duty and obedience to 
 his step-mother — and George was mindful of it. 
 He felt as one crushed under a whole weight of 
 despair ; he felt as one who had been rudely 
 thrust from his proper place on the earth : but he 
 did constant battle with himself and his wrongs, 
 and strove to make the best of it. How bitter 
 the struggle was, none, save himself, knew ; its 
 remembrance would never die out from his 
 memory. 
 
 The new work seemed terrible ; not for its 
 amount, though that was great ; but for its 
 nature. To help make up this parcel, to undo 
 that ; to take down these goods, to put up others. 
 He ran to the post with letters — and that was a 
 delightful phase of his life, compared with the 
 rest of its phases — he caiTied out big bundles in 
 brown paper ; once a yard measure was added. 
 He had to stand behind the counter, and roll and 
 unroll goods, and measure tapes and ribbons, and 
 ]x>w and smile, and say " sir " and " ma'am." You 
 will readily conceive what all this was to a proud 
 boy. George might have run away from it alto- 
 gether, but that the image of that table in the 
 sitting-room, and of him who lay upon it, was 
 ever before him, whispering to him to shrink not 
 from his duty.
 
 INCIPIENT EEBELLIOX. 131 
 
 Not a moment of idleness was allowed to 
 George ; however the shopmen might enjoy 
 leisure intervals when customers ran slack, there 
 was no inten^al of leisure for him. He was the 
 new scapegoat of the establishment ; often doing 
 the work that of right did not belong to him. It 
 was perfectly well known to the young men that 
 he had entered as a working apprentice ; one 
 who was not to be particular what work he did, or 
 its quantity, in consideration of his non-premium 
 terms ; and therefore he was not spared. He had 
 taken his books with him, classics and others ; he 
 soon found that he might as well have left them 
 at home. Not one minute in all the twenty-four 
 hours could he devote to them : his hands were full 
 of work until the last moment, up to bed-time ; 
 and no reading was permitted in the chambers. 
 " Wliere is the use of my having gone to school 
 at all ? " he sometimes would ask himself. He 
 would soon become as oblivious of Latin and 
 Greek as Mr. Chattaway could wish ; indeed, his 
 prospects of adding to his stock of learning were 
 such as would have gladdened Farmer Apperley's 
 heart. 
 
 One Saturday, when George had been there 
 about three weeks, and when the day was draw- 
 ing near for the indentures to be signed, binding 
 him to the business for years, Mr. Chattaway
 
 132 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 rode up in the very costume that was the 
 subject of Farmer Apperley's ire, when worn 
 by those who ought not to afford to wear it. 
 The hounds had met that day near Barmester, 
 had found their fox, and been led a round- 
 about chase, the fox bringing them back to 
 their starting-point, to resign his brush ; and 
 the master of Trevlyn Hold, on his splashed 
 but fine hunter, in his scarlet coat, white 
 smalls and boots, splashed also, rode through 
 Barmester on his return, and pulled up at the 
 door of Wall and Barnes. Givino- his horse to 
 
 o 
 
 a street boy to hold, he entered the shop, whip 
 in hand. 
 
 The scarlet coat, looming in unexpectedly, 
 caused a flutter in the establishment. Saturday 
 was market-day, and the shop was unusually full. 
 The customers looked round in admiration, the 
 shopmen with envy ; little chance was there, 
 thought those hard-worked, unambitious young 
 men, that they should ever wear a scarlet coat, 
 and ride to cover on a blood hunter. Mr. Chat- 
 taway, of Trevlyn Hold, was an object of con- 
 sideration just then. He shook hands with Mr. 
 Wall, who came forward from some remote 
 region ; he turned and shook hands condescend- 
 ingly with George. 
 
 "And how does he suit?" blandly inquired
 
 I^X1PIE:^T PtEBELLIOX. 133 
 
 Mr. Cbattaway. " Can yon make anything of 
 him?" 
 
 " He does his best," was the reply of Mr. Wall 
 " Awkward at present ; but we have had others 
 who have been as awkward at first, I think, and 
 who have turned out valuable assistants in the 
 long run. I am willing to take him." 
 
 " That's all right, then," said Mr. Chattaway 
 " I'll call in and tell Mrs. Ryle. Wednesday is 
 the day he is to be bound, I think ? " 
 
 "Wednesday," assented Mr. Wall. 
 
 " I shall be here. I am glad to take this 
 trouble off Mrs. Kyle's hands. I hope you like 
 your employment, George." 
 
 " I do not like it at all," replied George. And 
 he spoke out fearlessly, although his master stood 
 
 by. 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " said Mr. Chattaway, with a 
 false-sounding laugh. " Well, I did not suppose 
 you would like it too well at first." 
 
 Mr. Wall laughed also, a hearty, kindly laugh. 
 "Never yet was there an apprentice liked his 
 work too well," said he. " It's their first taste of 
 the labour of life. George Ryle will like it better 
 when he is used to it." 
 
 " I never shall," thought George. But he sup- 
 posed it would not quite do to say so ; neither 
 would it answer any end. Mr. Chattaway shook
 
 134 " TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 hands with Mr. Wall, gave a nod to George, and 
 
 he and his scarlet coat loomed out again. 
 
 • "Will it last my life ? — will this dreadful slaver 
 
 last my Hfe ? " burst from George Kyle's rebellious 
 
 heart.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 On the following day, Sunday, George walked 
 home : Mrs. Byle had told him he might come 
 and spend the day. All were at church except 
 Molly, and George went to meet them. Several 
 groups were coming along ; and presently he met 
 Oris Chattaway, Rupert Trevlyn, and his brother 
 Treve, walking together. 
 
 " Where's mamma ? " asked George. 
 
 " She stepped in-doors with Mrs. Apperley," 
 answered Treve. " She said she'd follow me on 
 directly." 
 
 " How do you relish linendrapering ? " asked 
 Oris Chattaway, in a chaffing sort of manner, 
 as George turned with them. " Horrid, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 ''There's only about one thing in this world 
 more horrid," answered George. 
 
 " My father said you expressed fears before 
 you went that you'd find the air at the shop
 
 136 THEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 stifliuo;," went on Oris, not askinc]: v/liat the one 
 exception might be. " Is it hopelessly so ? " 
 
 " Isn't it I " returned George. " The black 
 hole in Calcutta must have been cool and 
 pleasant in comparison with it." 
 
 " I wonder you are alive," continued Oris. 
 
 " I wonder I am/' said George, equably. " I was 
 quite off in a faint one day, when the shop was at 
 the fullest. They thought they must have sent 
 for you, Oris ; that the sight of you might bring 
 me to again." 
 
 " There you go ! " exclaimed Treve Eyle. " I 
 wonder if you two could let each other alone if 
 you were bribed to do it 1 " 
 
 " Oris began it," said George. 
 
 " I didn't," said Cris. " I should like to see you 
 at your work, though, George ! I'll come some 
 day. The squire paid you a visit yesterday after- 
 noon, he told us. He says you are getting to be 
 quite the polite cut ; one can't serve out yards of 
 calico without it, you know." 
 
 George E-yle's face burnt. He knew that Mr. 
 Chattaway had been speaking of him with ridicule 
 at Trevlyn Hold, in connection with his new occu- 
 pation. " It would be a more fitting situation 
 for you than for me, Cris," said he. " And now 
 you hear it." 
 
 Cris laughed scornfully. *' Perhaps it might, if
 
 EMANCIPATION. 137 
 
 I wanted one. The master of Trevlyn won't 
 need to go into a linendraper's shop, George 
 Ryle." 
 
 " Look here, Oris. That shop is honid, and I 
 don't mind telling you that I find it so, that not 
 an hour in the day goes over my head but I wish 
 myself out of it ; but I Avould rather bind myself 
 to it for twenty years, than be the master of 
 Trevlyn Hold, if I came to it as you will come to 
 it — by ^vrong." 
 
 Cris broke into a shrill, derisive whistle. It 
 was being prolonged to an apparently intermin- 
 able length, when he found himself rudely seized 
 from behind. 
 
 " Is that the way you walk home from church, 
 Christopher Chattaway ? Whistling ! " 
 
 Cris looked round and saw Miss Trevlyn. 
 " Goodness, Aunt Diana I are you going to shake 
 me?" 
 
 "Walk along as a gentleman should, then," 
 returned Miss Trevlyn. 
 
 She went on. Miss Chattaway v/alked by her 
 side, not deigning to cast a word or a look to the 
 boys as she swept past. Gliding up behind them, 
 holding the hand of Maude, was gentle Mrs. 
 Chattaway. They all wore black silk dresses 
 and white silk bonnets : the apology for mourn- 
 ing assumed for Mr. Ryle. But the gowns were
 
 138 TEEYLYN HOLD. 
 
 not new ; and the bonnets were but the bonnets 
 of the past summer, with the coloured flowers 
 taken out. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway slackened her pace, and George 
 found himself at her side. She seemed to linger, 
 as if she would speak with him, unheard by the 
 rest. 
 
 " Are you pretty well, my dear ? " were her 
 first words. " You look taller and thinner, and 
 your face is pale." 
 
 ''I shall look paler ere I have been much 
 longer in the shop, Mrs. Chattaway." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway glanced her head timidly round 
 with the air of one who fears she may be heard. 
 But they were alone now. 
 
 " Are you grieving, George ? " 
 
 " How can I help it ? " he passionately answered, 
 eehng that he could open his heart to Mrs. Chat- 
 taway, as he could to no one else in the Avide world. 
 "Is it a proper thing to put me to, dear Mrs. 
 Chattaway ? " 
 
 " I said it was not," she murmured. " I said 
 to Diana that I wondered Maude should place 
 you there." 
 
 " It Avas not mamma ; it was not mamma so 
 much as Mr. Chattaway," he answered, forgetting 
 possibly that it was Mr. Chattaway's wife to 
 whom he spoke. "At times, do you know, I
 
 EMANCIPATION. 1S9 
 
 feel as though I would almost rather be^ — 
 be " 
 
 "Be what, dear?" 
 
 " Be dead, than stop." 
 
 " Hush, George ! " she cried, almost with a shud- 
 der. " Random figures of speech never do good ; 
 I have learnt it. In the old days, when " 
 
 She suddenly broke off what she was saying, 
 and glided forward without further notice, catch- 
 ing Maude's hand in hers as she passed, who was 
 then walking by the side of the boys. George 
 looked round for the cause of the desertion, and 
 found it in Mr. Chattaway. That gentleman 
 was coming along with a quick step, one of his 
 younger children in his hand. 
 
 The Chattaways turned off towards Trevlyn 
 Hold, and George walked on with Treve. " Do 
 you know how things are going on at home, 
 Treve, between mamma and Chattaway?" asked 
 George. 
 
 "Chattaway's a miserable screw," was Trove's 
 answer. "He'd like to grind down the world, 
 and he doesn't let a chance escape him of doing 
 it. Mamma says it's a dreadful sum he has put 
 upon her to pay yearly, and she does not see how 
 the farm will do it, besides keeping us. I wish 
 we were clear of him ! I wish I was as big as 
 you, George ! I'd work the farm baiTcn, I'd work
 
 140 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 my arms off, but what I'd get together the money 
 to pay him !" 
 
 " They won't let me work," said George. " They 
 have thrust me away from the farm." 
 
 " I wish you were back at it ; I know that ! 
 Nothing goes on as it used to, when you were 
 there and papa was alive. Nora's cross, and 
 mamma's cross ; and I have not a soul to speak 
 to. What do you think Chattaway did this 
 week r 
 
 " Something mean, I suppose !" 
 
 " Mean ! Mean and double mean. We killed 
 a pig, and while it was being cut up, Chattaway 
 marched in. 'That's fine meat, John Pinder,' 
 said he, when he had looked at it a bit ; ' as fine 
 as I ever saw. That was a good plan of Mr. 
 Ryle's, the keeping his pigs clean. I should like 
 a bit of this meat ; I think I'll take a sparerib ; 
 and it can go against Mi-s. Ryle's account with 
 me.' With that, he laid hold of a fine sparerib, 
 the finest of the two, and called to the boy who 
 was standing by, and sent him up with it at 
 once to Trevlyn Hold. What do you think of 
 thatl" 
 
 " Think I That it's just the thing Chattaway 
 would be doing every day of his life, if he 
 could. Mamma should have sent for the meat 
 back."
 
 EMANCIPATION. 141 
 
 " And anger Chattaway ? It might be all the 
 worse for us if she did." 
 
 " Is it not early to begin pig-killing ?" 
 
 " Yes. John Pinder killed this one on his own 
 authority : never so much as asking mamma. She 
 was so angry. She told him, if ever he acted for 
 himself again, without knowing what her pleasure 
 might be, she should discharge him. But it 
 strikes me John Pinder is 'fond of doing things 
 on his own head," concluded Treve, sagaciously ; 
 " and that he will do them, in spite of mamma, 
 now there's no master over him." 
 
 The day soon passed. George told his mamma 
 how terribly he disliked being where he was 
 placed ; worse than that, how completely unsuited 
 he believed he was to the business. Mrs. Ryle 
 coldly said we all had to put up with what we 
 disliked, and that he would get reconciled to it in 
 time. There was evidently no hope for him ; and 
 he returned to Barmester at night, feeling that 
 there was not. 
 
 On the following afternoon, Monday, some one 
 in deep mourning entered the shop of Wall and 
 Barnes, and asked if she could speak to Master 
 Ryle. George was at the upper end of the shop. 
 A box of lace had been accidentally upset on the 
 floor, and he had been called to set it to rights. 
 Behind him hung two shawls, open, and further
 
 142 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 back, hidden by those shawls, was a private desk, 
 belonging to Mr. Wall. The visitor approached 
 George and saluted him. 
 
 " Well, you are busy I" 
 
 George lifted his head at the well-known voice-^ 
 Nora's. Her attention appeared chiefly attracted 
 by the box of lace. 
 
 " What a mess it is in 1 And you don't go a 
 bit handy to work, towards putting it tidy." 
 
 " I shall never be handy at this sort of work. 
 Oh, Nora I I cannot tell you how I dislike it !" he 
 exclaimed, with a burst of feeling that betrayed 
 its own pain. " I'd rather be with papa in his 
 coffin !" 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense !" said Nora. 
 
 " It is not nonsense. I shall never care for 
 anything again in life, now they have put me 
 here. It was Chattaway's doings ; you know it 
 was, Nora. Mamma never would have thought 
 of it. When I remember that papa would have 
 objected to this for me just as strongly as I object 
 to it for myself, I can hardly hear my thoughts. 
 I think how he will be orrieved, if he can see what 
 Qfoes on in this world. You know he said some- 
 thing about that when he Avas dying — the dead 
 retaining their consciousness of the doings here." 
 
 " Have you objected to be bound ?" 
 
 " I have not objected. I don't mean to object.
 
 EMANCIPATIOX. 148 
 
 Papa charged me to obey Mrs. E,yle, and not cross 
 her — and I won't forget that ; therefore I shaR 
 remain, and do my duty to the very best of my 
 power. But it was a cruel thing to put me to it. 
 Chattaway has some motive for getting me off 
 the farm ; there's no doubt of it. I shall stay 
 if— if " 
 
 " Why do you hesitate ? " asked Nora. 
 
 " Well, there are moments," he answered, " when 
 a fear comes over me whether I can bear on, 
 and stay. You see, Nora, it is Chattaway's and 
 mamma's will balancing against all the hopes and 
 prospects of my life. I know that my father 
 charged me to obey mamma ; but on the other 
 hand, I know that if he were alive he would be 
 pained to see me here ; would be the first to 
 snatch me away. When these thoughts come 
 forcibly upon me, I doubt whether I can stay." 
 
 '" You must not encourage them," said Nora. 
 
 "I don't think I encourage them. But they 
 come in spite of me. The fear comes ; it is 
 always coming. Don't say anything to mamma, 
 Nora. I have made my mind up to stop, and I'll 
 try hard to do it. As soon as I am out of my time 
 I'll go off to India, or somewhere, and forget the 
 old life in a new one." 
 
 "My goodness me !" uttered Nora. But having 
 no good answering arguments at hand, she
 
 ]44! TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Ihouglit it as well to leave him, and took lier 
 departure. 
 
 The day arrived on which George was to be 
 bound. It was a gloomy November day, and the 
 tall chimneys of Barmester rose dark and dull 
 and dismal against the outlines of the grey sky. 
 The previous night had been a hopelessly wet 
 one, and the mud in the streets was ankle-deep. 
 People who had no urgent occasion to be abroad, 
 drew closer to their comfortable firesides, and 
 wished the dreary month of November was over. 
 
 George stood at the door of the shop, having 
 snatched a moment to come to it. A slender, 
 handsome boy, he w^as, with his earnest eyes 
 and his dark chestnut hair, looking too gentle- 
 manly to belong to that shop. Belong to it ! Ere 
 the stroke of another hour sliould have been told 
 on the dial of the church clock of Barmester, he 
 would be bound to it b}" an irrevocable bond — 
 have become as much a part and parcel of it as 
 the silks that were displayed in its windows, as 
 the shawls which exhibited themselves in all 
 their gay and gaudy colours. As he stood there, 
 he was feelino^ that no fate on earth was ever so 
 hopelessly dark as his : he was feeling that he 
 had no friend either in earth or heaven. 
 
 One, two ; three, four ! chimed out over the 
 town through the leaden atmosphere. Half-past
 
 EMANCIPATION. 145 
 
 eleven ! It was the hour fixed for the siofnino- of 
 the indentures which would bind him to servitude 
 for years ; and he, George Ryle, looked to the 
 extremity of the street, expecting the appearance 
 of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Considering the manner in which Mr. Chatta- 
 way had urged the binding on, George had 
 thought he would be half an hour before the 
 hour, rather than five minutes beyond it. He 
 looked eagerly to the extremity of the street, at 
 the same time dreading the sight he sought for. 
 
 " George Ryle I " The call came ringing on 
 his ears in a sharp, imperative tone, and he 
 turned in, in obedience to it. He Avas told to 
 " measure those trimmings, and card them." 
 
 An apparently interminable task. About fifty 
 pieces of ribbon-trimmings, some scores of yards 
 in each piece, all off their cards. George sighed 
 as he singled out one and began upon it — he wa?; 
 terribly awkward at the work. 
 
 It advanced slowly. In addition to the inajo- 
 titude of his fingers for the task, to his intense 
 natural distaste of it — and so intense was that 
 distaste, that the ribbons felt as if they burnt his 
 fingers — in addition to this, there were frequent 
 interruptions. Any of the shopmen who wanted 
 help called to George Ryle ; and once he was 
 told to open the door for a lady who was de- 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 14 G TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 parting. On tliat cold, gloomy day, tlie doors 
 were kept shut. 
 
 As the lady walked away, George leaned out, 
 and took another gaze. Mr. Chattaway was not 
 in sight. The clocks were then striking the 
 quarter to twelve. A feeling of something like 
 hope, but vagTie and faint, and terribly unreal, 
 dawned over his heart. Could the delay augur 
 good for him ? — was it possible that there could 
 be any change ? 
 
 How unreal it was, the next moment proved to 
 him. There came round that far corner a horse- 
 man at a hand-gallop, his horse's hoofs scattering 
 the mud in all directions. It was Mr. Chattaway. 
 He reined up at the private door of Wall and 
 Barnes, dismounted, and consigned his horse to 
 his gi'oom, who had followed at the same pace, 
 splashing the mud also. The false, faint hope 
 was over ; and George walked back to his cards 
 and his trimmings, like one from whom the spirit 
 has gone out. 
 
 A message was brought to him almost imme- 
 diately by one of the house servants : Squire 
 Chattaway waited in the drawing-room. Squire 
 Chattaway had sent the message himself, not to 
 George ; to Mr. Wall. But Mr. Wall was engaged 
 at the moment with a gentleman, and he sent the 
 message on to George. George went up-stairs.
 
 EMANCIPATION. 147 
 
 Mr. Cliattaway, in his top boots and spurs, 
 stood warming Lis hands over the fire. He had 
 not removed his hat. When the door opened, he 
 raised his hand to do so ; but seeing it was only 
 George who entered, he left it on. He was much 
 given to the old-fashioned use of boots and spurs 
 when he rode abroad. 
 
 " Well, George, how are you ? " 
 
 George went up to the fire-place. On the 
 centre table, as he passed it, lay an official-looking 
 parchment rolled up, a large inkstand with ^viiting 
 materials by its side. George had not the least 
 doubt that the parchment was no other than that 
 formidable document, yclept Indentures. 
 
 Mr. Chattaw^ay had taken up the same opinion. 
 He extended his riding-whip towards the parch- 
 ment, and spoke in a significant tone, turning his 
 eye on George. 
 
 " Ready ? " 
 
 " It is no use attempting to say I am not," 
 replied George. " I would rather you had forced 
 me to be one of the lowest boys in your coal 
 mines, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " What's this ? " asked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 He was pointing now to the uj^per part of the 
 sleeve of George's jacket. Some ravellings of 
 cotton had collected there unnoticed. George 
 took them off, and put them on the fire. 
 
 I. 2
 
 148 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 "It is only a mark of my trade, Mr. C'liatta- 
 way." 
 
 Whether Mr. Chattaway detected the bitterness 
 of the words — not the bitterness of sarcasm, but 
 of despair — cannot be told. He laughed plea- 
 santly, and before the laugh was over, Mi\ Wall 
 came in. Mr. Chattaway removed his hat now, 
 and laid it with his riding-whip alongside of the 
 indentures. 
 
 " I am later than I ought to be," observed Mr. 
 Chattaway, as they shook hands. " The fact is, 
 1 was on the jDoint of starting, when my manager 
 at the colliery came up. His business was im- 
 portant, and it kept me the best part of an 
 hour." 
 
 " Plenty of time ; plenty of time," said Mr. 
 Wall. " Take a seat." 
 
 They sat down near the table. George, appa- 
 rently unnoticed, remained standing on the 
 hearthrug. A few minutes were spent con- 
 versing on different subjects, and then Mr. Chat- 
 taway turned to the parchment. 
 
 " These are the indentures, I presume ? " 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 " I called on Mrs. Kyle last evening. She 
 requested me to say that should her signature be 
 required, as the boy's nearest relative and guar- 
 dian — as his only parent, it may be said, in fact
 
 EMANCIPATIOX. 149 
 
 — she slioukl be ready to affix it at any given 
 time." 
 
 " It Avill not be required," replied Mr. Wall, in a 
 clear voice. " I shall not take George Ryle as an 
 apprentice." 
 
 A stolid look of surprise struggled to ^Ii'. Chat- 
 taway's leaden face. At first, he scarcely seemed 
 to take in the full meaning of the words. " Not 
 take him ? " he rejoined, staring helplessly. 
 
 " No. It is a pity these were made out," con- 
 tinued Mr. Wall, taking the indentures in his hand. 
 " It has been so much time and paper wasted. 
 However, that is not of gi'eat consequence. I ^vi\\ 
 be at the loss, as the refusal comes from my side." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway found his tongue — found it volu- 
 bly. " Won't he do ? Is he not suitable ? I— I 
 don't understand this." 
 
 " Not at all suitable, in my opinion," answered 
 Mr. Wall. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned sharply upon George, a 
 strangely evil look in his dull grey eye, an omi- 
 nous twist in his thin, dry lip. Mr. Wall likewise 
 turned ; but on his face there was a reassuring 
 smile. 
 
 And George ? George stood there as one in a 
 dream ; his face changing to perplexity, his eyes 
 strained to wonder, his fingers intertwined with 
 the nervous grasp of emotion.
 
 150 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " What have you been guilty of, sir, to cause 
 this change of intentions ? " shouted Mr. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 '' He has not l)een guilty at all," interjDOsed Mr. 
 Wall, who appeared to be enjoying a smile at 
 George's bewildered astonishment and Mr. Chat- 
 taway's discomfiture. "Don't blame the boy. So 
 far as I know and believe, he has striven to do his 
 best ever since he has been here." 
 
 " Then why won't you take him ? You will 
 take him," added Mr. Chattaway, in a more agree- 
 able voice, as the idea dawned upon him that Mr. 
 Wall had been joking. 
 
 "Indeed, I will not. If Mrs. Ryle offered me 
 £1000 premium with him, I should not take 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway' s small eyes opened to their 
 utmost width. " And why would you not ? " 
 
 " Because, knowing what I know now, I believe 
 that I should be committing an injustice upon the 
 boy ; an injustice which nothing could repair. To 
 condemn a youth to pass the best years of his life 
 at an uncongenial pursuit, to make the jDursuit 
 his calling, is a cruel injustice, wherever it is 
 knomngly inflicted. I myself was a victim to it." 
 
 " My boy," added Mr. Wall, laying his hand on 
 George's shoulder, " you have a marked distaste to 
 the silk mercery business. Is it not so ? Sj)eak
 
 EMANCIPATION. 151 
 
 out fearlessly. Don't regard me as your master 
 —I shall never be that, you hear— but as your 
 friend ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have," rephed George. 
 " You think it a cruel piece of injustice to have 
 put you to it : you shall never more feel an inte- 
 rest in life ; you'd as soon be with poor Mr. Ryle 
 in his cofEn 1 And when you are out of your 
 time, you mean to start for India or some out-of- 
 the-world place, and begin life afresh 1 " 
 
 George was too much confused to answer. His 
 face turned scarlet. Undoubtedly Mr. Wall had 
 heard his conversation with Nora. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was looking red and angiy. 
 When his face did turn red, it presented a charm- 
 ing hue of brick-dust, garnished with yellow. 
 " It is only scamps who take a dislike to what 
 they are put to," he exclaimed. "And their dislike 
 is all pretence." 
 
 " I differ from you in both propositions," replied 
 Mr. Wall. " At any rate, I do not think it the 
 case with your nephew." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's salmon colour turned to gi-een. 
 " He is no nephew of mine. What next will you 
 say,WaU?" 
 
 "Your step-nephew, then, to be correct," equably 
 rejoined Mr. Wall. " You remember when we 
 left school together, you and I, and began to
 
 152 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 turn our thoughts to the business of life ? Your 
 father wished joii to go into the bank as clerk, 
 you know ; and mine " 
 
 "But he did not get his wish, more's the luck," 
 again interposed Mr. Chattaway, not pleased at 
 the allusion. "A poor start in life that would 
 have been for the future squire of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Pooh ! " rejoined Mr. Wall, in a good-tem- 
 pered, matter-of-fact tone. "You did not look 
 forward then to be exalted to Trevlyn Hold. 
 Nonsense, Chattaway ! We are old friends, you 
 know. But, let me continue. I heard a certain 
 conversation of this boy's with Nora Dickson, and 
 it seemed to bring my owti early life back to me. 
 With every word that he spoke, I had a fellow 
 feeling. My father insisted that I should follow 
 the same business that he was in ; this. He 
 carried on a successful trade for years, in this very 
 house ; and nothing would do but I must succeed 
 him in it. I vain I urged my repugnance to it, 
 my dislike ; in vain I said I had formed other 
 views for myself ; I was not listened to. In those 
 days it was not the fashion for sons to run counter 
 to their fathers' will ; at least, such was my expe- 
 rience ; and into the business I came. I have 
 reconciled myself to it by dint of time and habit ; 
 liked it, I never have ; and I have always felt that 
 it was — as I heard this boy express it — a cruel
 
 EMANCIPATION. 153 
 
 wrong to force me into it. You cannot, therefore, 
 be surprised that I decline so to force another. I 
 will never do it knowingly." 
 
 " You decline absolutely to take him ? " asked 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Absolutely and positively. He can remain in 
 the house a few days longer if it will suit his con- 
 venience, or he can leave to-day. I am not dis- 
 pleased with you," added Mr. Wall, turning to 
 George and holding out his hand. " We shall part 
 good friends." 
 
 George seized it and grasped it, his countenance 
 glowing, a whole world of gratitude shining forth 
 from his eyes as he lifted them to Mr. Wall. " I 
 shall always think you have been the best friend 
 I ever had, sir, next to my father." 
 
 " I hope it will prove so, George. I hope you 
 will find some pursuit in life more congenial to 
 you than this."' 
 
 Mr. Chattaway took his hat and his whip from 
 the table. "This will be fine news for your 
 mother, sir ! " cried he severely to George. 
 
 " It may turn out wxll for her," replied George, 
 boldly. "My belief is that the farm never 
 would have got along with John Pinder for its 
 manager." 
 
 " You think you would make a better ? " said 
 Mr. Chattaway, his thin lip curling.
 
 L54 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " I can be true to her, at any rate," said George. 
 " And I can have my eyes about me." 
 
 " Good morning," resumed Mr. Chattaway to 
 Mr. Wall, putting out umviUingly the tips of two 
 of his fingers. 
 
 Mr. Wall laughed as he gTasped them. " I do 
 not see why you should be vexed, Mr. Chattaway. 
 The boy is no son of yours. For myself, all I can 
 say is, that I have been actuated by motives of 
 regard for his interest." 
 
 " It remains to be proved whether it will be for 
 his interest," coldl}" rejoined Mr. Chattaway. 
 "Were I his mother, and this check were dealt 
 out to me, I should send him off to break stones 
 on the road. Good morning, AVall. And I beg 
 yoLi will not bring me here again upon a fool's 
 errand." 
 
 George went into the shop, to get from it some 
 few personal trifles that he had left there. He 
 deemed it well to depart at once, and carry, him- 
 self, the news home to Mrs. Ryle. The cards and 
 trimmings lay in the unfinished state that he had 
 left them. What a change, that moment and this ! 
 One or two of the employes noticed his radiant 
 countenance. 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " they asked. 
 
 " Yes," answered George. '' I have been sud- 
 denly lifted into elysium."
 
 EIVLVNCIPATION. 1 -5 5 
 
 He started on his way, leaving his things to be 
 sent after him. His footsteps scarcely touched 
 the gi'ound. Not a rough ridge of the road, felt 
 he ; not a sharp stone ; not a hill ; it seemed like 
 a smooth, soft bowling-gToen. Only when he 
 turned in at the gate did he remember there was 
 his mother's displeasure to be met and grappled 
 with. 
 
 Nora gave a shriek when he entered the house, 
 " George ! whatever brings you here ? " 
 
 " Where's mamma ? " was George's only answer. 
 
 " She's in the best parlour," said Nora. " And 
 I can tell you that she's not in the best of hu- 
 mours just now, so I'd advise you not to go in." 
 
 " What about ? " asked George, taking it for 
 gi'anted that she had heard the news of himself, 
 and that that was the grievance. But he was 
 agreeably undeceived. 
 
 " It's about John Pinder. He has been havinof 
 two of the meads ploughed ujd, and he never asked 
 the missis first. She is angry." 
 
 " Has Chattaway been here to see mamma, 
 Nora?" 
 
 " He came up here on horseback in a desperate 
 hurry half-an-hour ago ; but she was out on the 
 farm, so he said he'd call again. It was through 
 her going abroad this morning that she discovered 
 what they were about with the fields. She says
 
 loQ TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 she thinks John Pinder must be going out of his 
 mind ; to take things upon himself, in the way he 
 is doing." 
 
 George bent his steps to the draiving-room. 
 Mrs. Kyle was seated before her desk, writing a 
 note. The expression of her face, as she looked 
 up at George between the white lappets of her 
 mdow's cap, was resolutely severe. It changed to 
 astonishment. 
 
 Strange to say she was YTiting to Mr. Wall to 
 stop the signature of the indentures, or to desire 
 they might be cancelled if signed. She could not 
 do without George at home, she said ; and she 
 told him why she could not. 
 
 "Mamma," said George, "will you be angry if 
 I tell you something that has struck me in all 
 this?" 
 
 "Tell it," said Mrs. Kyle. 
 
 " I feel quite certain that Chattaway has been 
 acting with a motive ; that he has some private 
 reason for wishing to get me away from home. 
 That's what he has been working for ; otherwise 
 he would never have troubled himself about me. 
 It is not in his nature." 
 
 Mrs. Kyle gazed at George steadfastly, as if 
 weighing his words, and presently knitted her 
 brow. George could read her countenance tole- 
 rably well. He felt sure she had arrived at a
 
 EMANCIPATIOX. 157 
 
 similar conclusion, and that it irritated her. He 
 resumed. 
 
 '' It looks bad for you, mamma ; but you mus 
 not think I say this selfishly. Twenty times I 
 have asked myself the question, Why does he wish 
 me away ? And I can only think that he would 
 like the fann to go to rack and ruin, so that you 
 may be driven off it." 
 
 " Nonsense, George." 
 
 " Well, I can't tell what else it can be." 
 
 " If so, he is defeated," said Mrs. Ryle. " You 
 will take your place as mast er of the farm to-day, 
 George, under me. Defemng to me in all things, 
 you understand ; giving no orders on your own 
 responsibility, taking my pleasure upon the merest 
 trifle." 
 
 " I should not think of doing otherwise,'" 
 repHed George. ''I will do my best for you in 
 aU ways, mamma. You will soon see how useful 
 I can be." 
 
 " Yery well. But I may as well mention one 
 thing to you. When Treve shall be old enough, 
 it is he who will be the master here, and you must 
 resign the place to him. It is not that I wish to 
 set the younger of your father's sons unjustly 
 above the head of the elder. This farm will 
 be a living but for one of you ; barely that ; 
 and I prefer that Treve should have it ; he is
 
 158 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 my own son. We will endeavour to find a better 
 arm for yon, George, before tliat time shall 
 come." 
 
 "Just as 3^ou please," said George, cheerfully. 
 " Now that I am emancipated from that dreadful 
 nightmare, my prospects look of a bright rose- 
 colour. I'll do the best I can on the farm, remem- 
 bering that I do it for Treve's future benefit ; not 
 for mine. Something else will turn up for me, no 
 doubt, before I'm ready for it." 
 
 '' Wntiich wdll not be for some years to come, 
 George," said Mrs. Ryle, feeling pleased with the 
 boy s cheerful, acquiescent spirit. " Treve will not 
 be old enough for " 
 
 Mrs. Ryle w^as interrupted. The room door had 
 opened, and there appeared Mr. Chattaway, show- 
 ing himself in. Nora never affected to be too 
 courteous to that gentleman ; and on his coming 
 to the house to ask for Mrs. Kyle a second time, 
 she had curtly answered that Mrs. Ryle was in the 
 best parlour (the more familiar name for the draw- 
 ing-room in the farm-house), and allowed him to 
 find his own way to it. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway looked surprised at seeing 
 George ; he had not bargained for his arriving 
 at home so soon. Extending his hand towards 
 him, he turned to Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " There's a dutiful son for you ! You hear
 
 EMANCIPATION. 1 9 
 
 what he has done ? — that he has returned on 
 your hands as a bale of worthless goods." 
 
 " Yes, I hear that Mr. Wall has declined to take 
 him," was her composed an&wer. " It has happened 
 for the best. When he anived just now, I was 
 writing to Mr. Wall, requesting that he might not 
 be bound." 
 
 " And why 'i " asked Mr. C /hattaway, in consider- 
 able amazement. 
 
 "I find that I am unable to do without him," 
 said Mrs. Ryle, her tone harder and firmer than 
 ever ; her eyes, stern and steady, thrown full on 
 Chattaway. " I tried the experiment, and it has 
 failed. I cannot do without one by my side 
 devoted to my interests ; and John Pinder cannot 
 get along without a master." 
 
 " And do you think you'll find what you want 
 in him ! — in that inexperieuced schoolboy ? " burst 
 forth Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " I do," replied Mrs. Ryle, her tone so signifi- 
 cantly decisive as to be almost offensive. " He 
 takes his standing from this day, the master of 
 Trevl3ni Farm ; subject only to me." 
 
 "I wish you joy of him!" angrily returned 
 Chattaway. "But you must understand, Mrs. 
 Ryle, that your having a boy at the head of affairs 
 will oblige me to look more keenly after my 
 interests.'
 
 160 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 *'My aiTangements witli you are settled/* she 
 said. " So long as I fulfil my part, that is all that 
 concerns you, James Chattaway." 
 
 "You'll not fulfil it, if you put him at the head 
 of things." 
 
 " Wlien I fail, you can come here and tell me of 
 it. Until then, I would prefer that you should 
 not intrude on Trevlyn Farm." 
 
 She rang the bell violently as she spoke, and 
 Molly, who was passing along the passage, imme- 
 diately appeared, staring and wondering. Mrs. 
 Ryle extended her hand imperiously, the fore- 
 finger pointed out. 
 
 " The door for Mr. Chattaway."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MADAiVl'S ROOM. 
 
 Leading out of the dressing-room of Mrs. Chat 
 taway was a moderate-sized, comfortable apart- 
 ment, fitted up as a sitting-room, its hangings of 
 chintz, and its furniture maple-wood. It was 
 called in the household " Madam's Room," and it 
 was where Mrs. Chattaway frequently sat. Yes ; 
 the house and the neighbourhood accorded her 
 readily the title which usage had long given to 
 the mistress of Trevlyn Hold : but they would 
 not give that of " Squire " to her husband. I 
 wish particularly to repeat this. Strive for it as 
 he would, force his personal servants to observe 
 the title as he did, he could not set it recog-nised 
 or adopted. When a written invitation came to 
 the Hold — a rare event, for the good old-fashioned 
 custom of inviting b}^ word of mouth was mostly 
 followed there — it would be worded, " Mr. and 
 Madam Chattaway," and Chattaway's face turned 
 green as he read it. No, never ! He enjoyed the
 
 162 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 substantial good of being tlie proprietor of Trevlyn 
 Hold, lie received its revenues, lie held sway as 
 its lord and master ; but its lionours were not 
 given to him. Which was so much gall and 
 wormwood to Chattaway. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway stood at this window on that 
 dull morning in November mentioned in the last 
 chapter, her eyes strained outvvards. What was 
 she gazing on ? On those lodge chimneys ? — on 
 the dark and nearly bare trees that waved to and 
 fro in the wintry wind ? — on the extensive land- 
 scape stretching out in the distance, not fine to- 
 day, but dull and cheerless ? — or on the shifting 
 clouds of the grey skies ^ Not on any of these ; 
 her eyes, though apparently bent on all, in reality 
 saw none. They were fixed in vacancy ; buried 
 like her thoughts, inwards. 
 
 She wore a mushn gown v>ith dark purple spots 
 upon it ; her collar was fastened with a bow of 
 black ribbon, her sleeves were confined with black 
 ribbons at the vrrist. She w^as passing a finger 
 imderneath one of these WTist-iibbons, round and 
 round, as if the ribbon were tight ; in point of 
 tact, it was a proof of her abstraction, and she 
 knew not that she Y\^as doing it. Her smooth hair 
 fell in curls on her fair face, and her blue eyes 
 were bright as with a slight touch of inward 
 fever.
 
 madam's room. 163 
 
 Some one opened the door, and peeped in. It 
 was Maude Trevl3'n. Her frock was of tlie same 
 material as the gown of Mrs. Chattaway, and a 
 sash of black ribbon encircled her waist. Mrs. 
 Chattaway did not turn, and Maude came forward. 
 
 "Are you well to-day, Aunt Edith ?" 
 
 " Not very, dear." Mrs. Chattaway took the 
 pretty young head within her arm as she answered, 
 and fondly stroked the bright curls. "You have 
 been crying, Maude !" 
 
 Maude shook back her curls with a smile, as if 
 she meant to be brave ; to make light of the 
 accusation. " Cris and Octave v/ent on so shame- 
 fully. Aunt Edith, ridiculing George Ryle ; and 
 when I took his part, Cris hit me here " — pointing 
 to the side of her face — " a sharp blov/. It was 
 stupid of me to cry, though." 
 
 " Cris did ? " exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " But I know I provoked him,'' candidly acknow- 
 ledged Maude. " I'm afraid I got into a passion ; 
 and you know, Aunt Edith, I don't mind what I 
 say when I do get into one. I told CVis that he 
 would be placed at something not half as good as 
 a linendraper's some time, for he'd want a living 
 when Hupert came into Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 "Maude! Maude ! hush !" exclaimed Mi's. Chat- 
 taway in a tone of terror. " You must not say 
 that." 
 
 M 2
 
 1()4 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I know I must not, Aunt Edith ; I know it is 
 wrong ; wrong to think it, and foolish to say it. 
 It was my temper. I am very sorry." 
 
 She nestled close to Mrs. Chattaway, caressing 
 and penitent. Mrs. Chattaway stooped and kissed 
 her, a strangely-marked expression of tribulation, 
 of tribulation shrinking and hopeless, upon her 
 countenance. 
 
 ''Oh, Maude! I am so ill!" 
 
 Maude felt awed ; and somewhat puzzled. " 111, 
 Aunt Edith V 
 
 " There is an illness of mind worse than that of 
 body, Maude ; inward trouble is more wearing 
 than outward, child ! I feel as though I should 
 sink ; sink under my weight of care. Sometimes 
 I wonder why I am kept on earth." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith ! You " 
 
 A knocking at the room door. It was followed 
 by the entrance of the upper part of a female 
 servant's face. She could not see Mi's. Chattaway ; 
 only Maude. 
 
 " Is Miss Diana here. Miss Maude ?" 
 
 "No. Only Madam." 
 
 "What is it, Phoebe?" called out Mrs. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 The girl came in now. " Master Cris wants to 
 know if he can take out the gig, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell an}i:hing about it," said Mrs.
 
 madam's room. 165 
 
 Chattaway. " You must ask Miss Diana. Maude, 
 see ; that is your Aunt Diana's step on the stairs 
 now." 
 
 Miss Trevlyn came in. "The gig 1" she re- 
 peated. " No ; Oris cannot take it. Go and tell 
 him so, Maude. Phoebe, return to your work." 
 
 Maude ran away, and Phoebe went off gi'um- 
 bling, not aloud, but to herself ; nobody dared 
 grumble in the hearing of Miss Trevlyn. She had 
 spoken in a sharp tone to Phoebe, and the girl did 
 not like sharp tones when addressed to herself 
 As Miss Trevlyn sat dowai opposite Mrs. Chatta- 
 way, the feverish state of that lady's countenance 
 struck upon her attention. 
 
 " What is the matter, Edith ?" 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway buried her elbow on the sofa- 
 cushion, and pressed her hand on her face, half 
 covering it, before she spoke. " I cannot get over 
 this business," she answered in a low tone. " To- 
 day — perhaps naturally — I am feeling it more 
 than is good for me. It makes me ill, Diana." 
 
 "What business ?" asked Miss Trevlyn. 
 
 " This binding out of George Ryle." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Miss Diana. 
 
 " It is not the proper thing for him, Diana ; 
 you admitted yesterday that it was not. The boy 
 says that it is the blighting of his whole future 
 life : and I feel that it is nothinsr less. I could
 
 166 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 not sleep last night for thinking* of it. Once I 
 dozed off, and fell into an ugly dream : " she 
 shivered. " I thought Mr. Ryle came to me, and 
 asked whether it was not enough that we .had 
 heaped care upon him in life, and then sent him 
 to his death, but we must pursue his son." 
 
 " You always were weak, you knovs', Edith," 
 was the composed rejoinder of Miss Trevlyn. 
 "Why Cliattaway should be interfering with 
 George Ryle, I cannot understand ; but it surely 
 need not give concern to you. The proper person 
 to put a veto on his being placed at Bamiester, 
 as he is being placed, Avas Maude Ryle. If she 
 did not see fit to do it, it is no business of ours." 
 
 " It seems to me as if he had no one to stand 
 up for him. It seems," added ^Irs. Chattawa}^ 
 with more of passion in her tone, " as if his father 
 must be lookino- on at us and condemninof us from 
 his OTave." 
 
 " If you will worry yourself over it, you must," 
 was the rejoinder of Miss Trevlyn. '■' It is very 
 foolish, Edith, and it can do no earthly good. He 
 is bound by this tune, and the thing is iiTevo- 
 cable." 
 
 " Perhaps that is the reason — because it is irre- 
 vocable — that it presses upon me to-day with a 
 greater weight. It has made me think of the 
 past, Diana," she added in a whisper. " Of that
 
 MxVdam's room. 167 
 
 other wi'ong-, which I cheat myself sometimes into 
 forgetting; a ^vi'ong " 
 
 " Be silent !" imperatively interrupted Miss 
 Trevlyn, and the next moment Oris Chattav^ay 
 bounded into the room. 
 
 " What's the reason I can't have the gig ?" he 
 began. " Who says I can't have it ?" 
 
 " I do," said Miss Trevl}^. 
 
 Oris insolently turned from her, and walked up 
 to Mrs. Chattav/ay. "May I not take the gig, 
 mamma ?" 
 
 If one thing irritated the sv/eet temper of Mrs. 
 Chattaway, it was the being appealed to against 
 any decision of Diana's. She knew that she pos- 
 sessed no power ; that she was a nonentity in the 
 house ; and though she bowed to her dependency, 
 and had no resource but to bow to it, she did not 
 like it to be brought palpably before her. 
 
 "Don't apply to me, Oris. I know nothing 
 about things down-stairs ; I cannot say, one way 
 or the other. The horses and vehicles are the 
 things in particular that your papa will not have 
 meddled with. Do you remember taking out the 
 dog-cai*t without leave, and the result ? " 
 
 Cris looked angTy ; perhaps the reminiscence 
 was not agreeable. Miss Diana interfered. 
 
 " You will not talie out the gig, Cris. I have 
 said it."
 
 168 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Then see if I don't walk ! And if I am not 
 home to dinner, Aunt Diana, you can just tell the 
 squire that the thanks are due to you." 
 
 "Where is it that you wish to go?" asked Mrs. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 " I am going to Barmester. I want to wish 
 that fellow joy of his indentures," added Oris, a 
 glow of triumph lighting his face. " He is bound 
 l)y this time. I wonder the squire is not back 
 again !" 
 
 The squire was back again. As Oris spoke, his 
 tread was heard on the stairs, and he came into 
 the room. Cris was too full of his own concerns 
 to note the expression of Mr. Chattaway's face. 
 
 " Papa, may I take out the gig ? I want to go 
 to Barmester, to pay a visit of congratulation to 
 George Ryle." 
 
 " JSTo, you will not take out the gig," said Mr. 
 Chattaway, the allusion exciting his vexation 
 almost beyond bearing. 
 
 Cris thought he might have been misunder- 
 stood. Cris deemed that his proclaimed intention 
 would find favour vaih. Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " I suppose you have been binding that fellow, 
 papa, I want to go and ask him how he likes 
 it." 
 
 " No, sir, I have not been binding him," thun- 
 dered Mr. Chattaway. " What's more, he is not
 
 . madam's eoom. 169 
 
 going to be bound. He lias left it, and is at 
 home again." 
 
 Cris gave a blank stare of puzzled wondeiTaent, 
 and Mrs. Chattaway let lier hands fall silently 
 upon her lap, and heaved a gentle sigh, as if some 
 great good had come to her.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPEKS IX THE EASTERN STOEY. 
 
 NOXE of US can stand still in life. Everything 
 rolls on its coiu'se towards the end of all things. 
 The world goes on ; its events go on ; we go on, 
 in one universal progress : nothing can arrest it- 
 self — nothing can be diverted from the appointed 
 laws of progression. 
 
 In noting down a family's or a life's historj^, it 
 must of necessity occur that periods in it will be 
 differently marked. Years at times wall ghde 
 quietly on, giving forth little of event in them 
 worthy of record ; while, again, it w ill happen 
 that occurrences, varied and momentous, will be 
 crowded into an incredibly short space. Events, 
 sufficient one would think to fill ujd the allotted 
 life of man — threescore years and ten — will follow 
 one another in rapid succession in the course of as 
 many months. Nay, of as many days. 
 
 Thus it w^as with the history of the Trevljiis, 
 and those connected with them. After the lament-
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN THE EASTERN STORY. 171 
 
 able deatli of Mr. E,yle, the neY>r agi^eement toucli- 
 ing money matters betv/een Mr. Chattaway and 
 Mrs. Byle, and the settlement of George Ryle m 
 his own home, it may be said in his father's place, 
 little occurred for some years worthy of note. 
 Time seemed to pass on uneventfully. The girls 
 and the boys grew into men and women ; the 
 little children into growing-up girls and boys. 
 Oris Chattaway lorded it in his own offensive 
 manner as the squire's son — as the future squire ; 
 his sister Octavia was not more amiable than of 
 yore, and Maude Trevlyn was governess to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Chattaway's younger cliildren. Miss 
 Diana Trevlyn had taken care that Maude shovild 
 be well educated, and she paid the expenses of it 
 from her own pocket, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's 
 sneers. When Maude w^as eighteen years of age, 
 the question arose, What shall be done with her? 
 " She shall go out and be a governess," said Mr. 
 Chattaway. " Where will be the profit of all her 
 fine education, if it's not to be made use of?" 
 " No," dissented Miss Diana ; " a Trevlyn cannot 
 be sent out in the world to earn her own living : 
 our family have not come to that." "I won't keep 
 her in idleness," growled Chattaway. " Very 
 well," said Miss Diana ; " make her governess to 
 your girls, Edith and Emily : it will save the cost 
 of their schooling." And the advice was taken ;
 
 172 TKEYLYX HOLD. 
 
 and Maude for the past three years now had been 
 governess at Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 But Rupert ? Rupert was not found to be so 
 easily disposed of There's no knowing what 
 Chattaway, in his ill-feeling, might have put 
 Rupert to, had he been free to place him as he 
 pleased. If he had not shown any superfluous 
 consideration in the placing out of George Ryle — 
 or rather in the essaying to place him out — it was 
 not likely he would show it to one whom he hated 
 as he hated Rupert.. But here Miss Diana stepped 
 in, as she had done with regard to Maude. Rupert 
 was a Trevlyn, she said, and consequently could 
 not be converted into a chimney-sweep or a shoe- 
 black : he must get his living at something more 
 befitting his degree. Chattaway demurred, but he 
 knew better than to run counter to any mandate 
 issued by Diana Trevlyn. 
 
 Several things were tried for Rupert. He was 
 placed with a clerg^Txian to study for the Church ; 
 he went to an LL.D. to read for the Bar ; he was 
 consigned to a wealthy grazier, to be made into 
 a farmer ; he was posted off to Sir John Rennet, 
 to be initiated into the science of civil engineer- 
 ing. And he came back from all. As one after 
 the other venture was made, so it failed, and a 
 very short space of time would see Rupert re- 
 turned as ineligible to Trevlyn Hold. Ineligible !
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN THE EASTERN STORY. 173 
 
 Was lie deficient in capacity ? No. He was only 
 deficient in that one great blessing, without which 
 life can bring no enjoyment — health. In his 
 weakness of chest and lungs — in his liabihty to 
 take cold — in his suspiciously delicate frame, 
 Rupert Trevlyn was ominously like his dead 
 father. The clergyman, the doctor of laws, the 
 hearty grazier, and the far-famed engineer, thought 
 after a month's trial that they would rather not 
 take charge of him. He had a fit of illness — it 
 may be better to say of weakness — in the 
 house of each ; and they, no doubt, one and all, 
 deemed that a pupil predisposed to disease — it 
 may be almost said to death — as Rupert Trevlyn 
 appeared to be, would bring with him too much of 
 responsibility. 
 
 So, times and again, Rupert was returned on 
 the hands of Mr. Chattaway. To describe that 
 gentleman's \\Tath would take a pen dipped in 
 gall. Was Rupert never to be got rid of? It was 
 as the slippers in the well-read Eastern story, 
 which persisted in turning up, their unhappy 
 owner knew not how. From the bottom of tlie 
 sea — from a grave dug deep in the earth — from a 
 roaring furnace of fire — up came those miserable 
 slippers again and again. And up came Rupert 
 Trevlyn. The boy could not help his ill-health ; 
 but you may be sure Mr. Chattaway's favour to
 
 174 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 him was not increased. '•' I shall -put him in the 
 office at Blackstone/' said he. And Miss Diana 
 acqniesced. 
 
 Blackstone was the name of the locality where 
 Mr. Chattaway's mines were situated. An appro- 
 priate name, for the place was black enough, and 
 stony enough, and dreaiy enough for an}i:hing. 
 A low, barren, level country, its utter flatness 
 alone broken by the signs of the pits, its uncom- 
 promising gloom enlivened only by the ascending 
 hres vvhich blazed up near the pits at night, and 
 illumined the country for miles round. The pits 
 were not all of coal : iron mines and other mines 
 were scattered with them. On Chattaway's 
 property, however, there was coal alone. Long- 
 rows of houses, as dreary as the barren country, 
 were built neai' : they were occupied by the 
 workers in the mines. Tlie ovei^eer or manasrer 
 for Mr. Chattaway v/as named Pinder, a brother 
 to John Pinder, who was on ]Mrs. Ride's farm ; 
 but Chattaway chose to interfere very much with 
 the executive of things himself, and may almost 
 have been called his own overseer. He had an 
 office near to the pits, in which accounts were 
 kept, the men paid, and other items of business 
 transacted ; a low building, of one story only, 
 consisting of three or four rooms. In this office 
 he kept one regular clerk, a young man named
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IX THE EASTERN STORY. 175 
 
 Ford, and into this same office lie put E-upert 
 Trevlyn. But many and many and many a day 
 was Rupert ailing ; weak, sick, feverisli, coughing, 
 and unable to go to it. But for Diana Trevlyn, 
 Chattaway might have driven him thither, sick or 
 well. Not that Miss Diana possessed any extra- 
 ordinary affection for Eupert : she did not keep 
 him at home from love, or from motives of in- 
 dulgence. But hard, cold, and imperious though 
 she was. Miss Diana owned sumewhat of the larofe 
 open-handedness of the Trevlyns : she could not 
 be guilty of trivial spite, of petty meanness. She 
 ruled the servants with an iron hand ; but in 
 case of their falling into sickness or trouble, she 
 had them generously well cared for. So with 
 respect to Eupert. It may be that she regarded 
 him as an interloper ; that she would have been 
 better pleased were he removed far away. She 
 had helped to deprive him of his birthright, but 
 she did not treat him with personal unkindness ; 
 and she would have been the last to say he must 
 go out to his daily occupation, if he felt ill or in- 
 capable of it. She deplored his ill-health ; but, 
 the ill-health upon him, Miss Diana was not one 
 to ignore it, to reproach him with it, or to put hin- 
 drances in the way of his being nursed. 
 
 It vvas a tolerably long walk for Eupert in a 
 morning to Blackstone. Oris Chattaway, when
 
 176 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 he chose to go over, rode on horseback ; and Mr, 
 Oris did not unfrequently choose to go over, for he 
 had the same propensity as his father had — that 
 of throwing himself into every petty detail, and 
 interfering unwarrantably. In disposition, father 
 and son were alike — mean, sting}^, grasping. To 
 save a sixpence, Chattaway would almost have 
 sacrificed a miner's life. Improvements which 
 other mine o\^mers had introduced into their pits, 
 into the working of them, Chattaway held aloof 
 from. In his own person, however, Oris was not 
 disposed to spare entirely. He had his horse, 
 and he had his servant, and he favoured an ex- 
 tensive wardrobe, and was given altogether to 
 various little odds and ends of self-indulgence. 
 
 Yes, Cris Chattaway rode to Blackstone ; with 
 his groom behind him sometimes, when he chose 
 to make a dash ; and Kupert Trevlyn walked. 
 Better that the order of travelling had been re- 
 versed, for that walk, morning and evening, was 
 not too good for Rupert in his weakly state. He 
 would feel it particularly in an evening. It was a 
 gradual ascent nearly all the way from Blackstone 
 to Trevlyn Hold, almost imperceptible to a strong- 
 man, but sufficiently apparent to Bupert Trevlyn, 
 who would be fatigued with the day's work. 
 
 Not that he had hard work to do. The sitting- 
 only on the stool at the office tired him. Another
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN THE EASTERN STORY. 177 
 
 thing that tired him — and which, no doubt, was 
 for him excessively pernicious — was the depriva- 
 tion of his regular meals. Except on Sundays, or 
 on those days when he was not well enough to 
 leave Trevlyn Hold, he had no dinner : what he 
 got at Blackstone was but an apology for one. 
 The clerk, Ford, who lived at nearly as great a 
 distance from the place as Rupert, used to cook 
 himself a piece of steak at the office grate. But 
 that the coals were lying about in heaps and cost 
 nothing, Chattaway might have objected to the 
 fire being used for any such purpose. Rupert 
 occasionally cooked himself some steak ; but he 
 more frequently dined upon bread and cheese, or 
 upon some cold scraps brought from Trevlyn 
 Hold. It vjas not often that Rupert had the 
 money necessary to buy the steak, his supply of 
 that indispensable commodity, the current coin of 
 the realm, being of the most limited extent. 
 Deprived of his dinner, deprived of his tea — tea 
 being generally over when he got back to the 
 Hold — that, of itself, was almost sufficient to 
 bring on the disease feared for Rupert Trevlyn. 
 One of sound constitution, revelling in hearty 
 health and strength, might not have been much 
 the worse for the deprivation in the long run ; but 
 Rupert did not come under the head of that 
 favoured class of humanity. 
 
 TOL. I. N
 
 178 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 It was a bright day in that mellow season when 
 the summer is merging into autnmn. A few 
 fields of the later sort of gi'ain were lying out yet, 
 but most of the golden store had been gathered 
 into its barns. The sunlioht glistened on the 
 leaves of the trees, lighting up their ri€h tints of 
 brown and red — tints which never come imtil the 
 season of passing ^way. 
 
 Halting at a stile which led from a lane into a 
 field white with stubble, were two children and a 
 young lad}^ Not very much of children, either, 
 for the younger of the tY*^o must have been 
 thirteen. Pale giiis both, with light hair, and 
 just now a disagi-eeable expression of countenance. 
 They were insisting uj)on crossing that stile to go 
 through the field : one of tliem, in fact, was already 
 mounted on it, and they did not like the denial 
 that was being dealt out to tliem. 
 
 "You cross old thing!" cried she on the stile, 
 turning her head to make a face at the lady who 
 was interposing her veto. " You always object 
 to our going where Ave want to go. Wliat dis- 
 like have you to the field, pray, that we may not 
 cross it V 
 
 *'l htive no dislike to it, Emily. I am but 
 obeying your papa's injunctions. You know he 
 has forbidden you to go on the lands of Mrs. 
 Ryle."
 
 IKE THE SLIPPEKS IN THE EASTERN STORY. l79 
 
 She spoke in a calm tone ; in a sweet, persua- 
 sive, gentle voice. She had a sweet and gentle 
 face, too, with its delicate features, and its large 
 blue eyes. It is Maude Trevlyn, grown into a 
 woman. Eight years have passed since you last 
 saw her, and she is twenty-one. In spite of her 
 girhsh and graceful figure, which scarcely reaches 
 to the middle height, she bears about her a look 
 of the Trevl3ms. Her head is set well upon her 
 shoulders, thrown somewhat back, as you may see 
 in Miss Diana Trevlyn. She wore a grey flowing 
 cloak, and a pretty blue bonnet. 
 
 " The lands are not Mrs. Kyle's," contentiously 
 retorted the young lady on the stile. " They are 
 papa's." 
 
 "They are Mrs. Kyle's so long as she rents 
 them. It is all the same. Mi'. Chattaway has 
 forbidden you to cross them. Come down from the 
 style, Emily." 
 
 " I shan't. I shall jump over it." 
 
 It was ever thus. Save when in the presence 
 of Miss Diana Trevlyn, the girls were openly rude 
 and disobedient to Maude. Expected, though she 
 was, to teach them, she was yet debarred from the 
 common authority vested in a governess. And 
 Maude could not emancipate herself: she must 
 suffer and submit. 
 
 Emily Chattaway put her foot over the top bar
 
 180 • TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of the stile, preparatory to carrying out her threat 
 of jumping over it, when the near sound of a 
 horse was heard, and she turned her head. Rid- 
 ing along the lane at a quick pace was a gentle- 
 man of some three or four-and-twenty years : a 
 tall man, so far as could be seen, who sat his 
 horse well. He reined in when he saw them, 
 and bent do^\Ti a pleasant face, with a pleasant 
 smile upon it. The sun shone into his fine 
 dark eyes, as he stooped to shake hands with 
 Maude. 
 
 Maude's cheeks had turned to ciimson. "Quite 
 well," she stammered, in answer to his greeting, 
 losing her self-possession in a remarkable degree. 
 " When did you come home ? " 
 
 " Last night. I was away two days only, instead 
 of the four anticipated. Miss Emily, you'll fall 
 backwards if you don't mind." 
 
 " No, I shan't," said Emily. " Why did you not 
 stay longer ? " 
 
 " I found Treve away when I reached Oxford, so 
 I came back, and got home last night — to Nora's 
 discomfiture." 
 
 Maude looked in his face with a questioning 
 glance. She had quite recovered her self-posses- 
 sion. " Why ? " she asked. 
 
 George Ryle laughed. " Nora had turned my 
 bed-room inside out. Nothing: was in it but the
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN THE EASTERN STORY. 181 
 
 boards, and they were wet. She accused me, in 
 her vexation, of coming back on purpose." 
 
 " Did you sleep on the wet boards ? " asked 
 Emily. 
 
 " No, I slept in Trove's room. Take care, 
 Edith!" 
 
 Maude hastily drew Edith Chattaway back. 
 She had gone very near the horse. "How is Mrs. 
 Ryle ? " asked Maude. " We heard yesterday she 
 was not well." 
 
 '' She is suffering very much from a cold. I 
 have scarcely seen her. Maude," he added, lean- 
 ing down and speaking in a whisper, " are things 
 any brighter ? " 
 
 Again the soft colour came into her face, and 
 she cast a glance from her dark blue eyes at his. 
 If ever glance spoke of indignation, that did : 
 not indignation at hmi ; rather at the state of 
 things in general — a state which he knew well. 
 " What change can there be ? " she breathed. 
 " Rupert is ill again," she added, in a louder tone. 
 
 " Rupert ! " 
 
 '' At least, he is poorly, and is at home to-day- 
 But he is better than he was yesterday " 
 
 " Here comes Octave," interrupted Emily. 
 
 George Ryle put his horse in motion. Shaking 
 hands with Maude, he said a hasty good-bye to 
 th e other two, and cantered down tlie lane, lifting
 
 18-2 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 his hat to Miss Chattaway, who was coining up at 
 right angles from the distance. 
 
 She was advancing very quickly across the 
 common, behind the fence on the other side of 
 the lane. A tall, thin, bony young woman, look- 
 ing her full age of four or five-and-twenty, with 
 the same dull, leaden-coloured complexion as of 
 yore, and the disagreeably sly grey eyes. She 
 wore a puce silk paletot, as they are called, made 
 coat fashion, and a brown hat with a black lace 
 falling from its shading brim : an unbecoming cos- 
 tume for one so tall. 
 
 " That Avas George Ryle ! " she exclaimed, as 
 she came up. " What brings him back already?" 
 
 " He found his brother away when he reached 
 Oxford," was Maude's reply. 
 
 "I think he was very rude, not to stop and 
 speak to you. Octave," observed Emily Chattaway. 
 '"He sav/ you coming." 
 
 Octave made no reply. She mounted the stile 
 by the side of Emily, and gazed after the horse- 
 man, apparently to see what direction he would 
 take when he came to the end of the lane. 
 Patiently Avatching, her hand shading her eyes 
 from the sun, she saw him turn into another lane, 
 which branched off to the left. Octave Chatta- 
 way jumped over the stile, and ran swiftly across 
 the field.
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPEES IX THE EASTERN STORY. 183 
 
 " She's gone to meet him," was the comment of 
 Emily. 
 
 It was precisely Avhat Miss Chattaway AflcZ gone 
 to do. Penetrating through a copse after quitting 
 the held, she emerged from it out of breath, just 
 as George was riding quietly past. He halted and 
 stooped to shake hands with her, as he had done 
 with Maude. 
 
 "You are out of breath, Octave. Have you 
 been running to catch me ? " 
 
 '• I need not have run but for your gTeat gal- 
 lantry in riding off the moment you saw me," she 
 answered, resentment in her tone. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I did not know you 
 wanted me. I was in a liurry." 
 
 " It seemed as if 3'ou were — by your stopping 
 to speak so long to the children and Maude," she 
 returned, with irony. And George Ryle's answer- 
 ing laugh was a conscious one. 
 
 There' was an ever perpetual latent antagonism 
 seated in the minds of them both. There was a 
 latent consciousness of it running through their 
 hearts. When George Ryle saw Octave hastening 
 across the common, he knew as surely as though 
 he had been told it, that she was speeding to come 
 up ere he should be gone ; when Octave saw him 
 ride away, a sure voice whispered her that he so 
 rode to avoid meeting her ; and each felt that
 
 184 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 their secret thoughts and motives were kno^vii to 
 the other. Yes, there was constant antagonism 
 between them ; if the word may be apphed to 
 Octave Chattaway, who had learnt to vakie more 
 highly than was good for her the society of George 
 Ryle. Did he so value hers ? Octave pined out 
 her heart, hoping for it. But in the midst of her 
 unwise love for him ; in the midst of her never- 
 ceasing efforts to be in his presence, near to him, 
 anywhere that he was, there constantly arose the 
 bitter conviction that she was no more to him 
 than the idle wind ; there arose a bitter con- 
 sciousness that he did not care for her, 
 
 '' I wished to ask you about the book that you 
 promised to get me," she said. " Have you pro- 
 cured it ? " 
 
 " No ; and I am sorry to say that I cannot meet 
 with it/' replied George. " I thought of it at 
 Oxford, and went into every bookseller's shop in 
 the place, unsuccessfully. I told yoii it was 
 difficult to be had. I must get them to -wTite to 
 London for it from Barmester." 
 
 '' It is an insignificant book. It costs but three- 
 and-sixpence." 
 
 " True. Its insignificance may be the expla- 
 nation of its scarcity. Good afternoon, Octave." 
 
 "Will you come to the Hold this evening?" she 
 asked, as he was riding away.
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IX THE EASTERN STORY. 185 
 
 " Thank you. I am not sure that I can. My 
 day or two's absence has made me busy." 
 
 Octave Chattaway drew back under the cover 
 of the trees, and there halted. She did not 
 retreat until every trace of that fine young- 
 horseman whom she was gazing after, had faded 
 from her sight in the distance.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A XIGHT BELL UXAXSWERED. 
 
 It is singular to observe how lightty the wear- 
 ing marks of Time sometimes pass over the human 
 form and face. An instance of this might be seen 
 in Mrs. Chattaway. It was strange that it should 
 be so in her case. Her health was not good, and 
 she certainly was not a happy woman. Illness 
 was frequently her portion ; care seemed to follow 
 her perpetually ; and it is upon these sufferers of 
 mind and body that Time is fond of leaving his 
 traces. He had not left them on Mrs. Chattaway; 
 her face was fair and fresh as it had been eight 
 years ago ; her hair fell in its mass of curls ; her 
 eyes were still blue, and clear, and bright. 
 
 And yet anxiety was her constant companion. 
 It may be said that remorse never left her. She 
 would sit at the windovv' of her room UjD-stairs 
 — Madam's room — for hours, apparently con- 
 templating the outer world ; in reality seeing 
 nothing.
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSVv^ERED. 187 
 
 As she was sittinor now. The crlories of the 
 bright day had faded into twiUght ; the sun no 
 longer lit up the many hues of the autumn 
 foliage ; the various familiar points in the charm- 
 ing landscape had revealed them^selves into one 
 indistinct Kne of a dusky colour; old Canham's 
 chimneys at the lodge were becoming obscure, and 
 the red light thrown up from the mines V\^as begin- 
 ning to show itself on the right in the extreme 
 distance. Mrs. Chattaway leaned her elbow on 
 the old-fashioned ann-chair as she sat in it, and 
 rested her cheek upon her hand. Had you looked 
 at her eyes, gazing out so pertinaciously where the 
 past day had been, you might have seen that they 
 had no speculation in them. They were deep in 
 the world of thought. 
 
 That constitutional timidity of hers had been 
 nothing but a blight to her throughout her life. 
 Reticence in a woman is good ; but not that 
 timorous reticence wliich is the result of fear ; 
 which dare not speak up for itself, even to oppose 
 a wrong. Every wrong inflicted upon Rupert 
 Trevlyn — every unkindness showeTed down upon 
 him — every pang of sickness, whether of mind or 
 body, which happier circumstances might have 
 spared to him, was avenged over and over again 
 in the person of Mrs. Chattaway. It may be 
 said that she lived but in pain ; her life was
 
 188 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 one pei'petual, never-ending aching — aching for 
 Kupert. 
 
 In the old days, when her husband had chosen 
 to deceive Squire Trevlyn as to the existence of 
 Rupert, she had not dared to avow the truth, and 
 say to her father, " There is an heir born." She 
 dared not fly in the face of her husband, and say 
 it ; and, it may be, that she was too Avillingly 
 silent for her husband's sake. It would seem 
 strange, but that we know what fantastic tricks 
 our passions play us, that pretty, gentle Edith 
 Trevlyn should have loved that essential^ dis- 
 agreeable man, James Chattaway. But so it was. 
 And, while deploring the fact of the wrong dealt 
 out to Rupert — it may almost be said expiating 
 it — Mrs. Chattaway never ^dsited that wrong upon 
 her husband, even in thought, as it ought to have 
 been visited. None could realise more intensely 
 its consequences than she realised them in her 
 secret heart. Expiate it ? Ay, she expiated it 
 again and again, if her sufferings could only have 
 been reckoned as expiation. 
 
 But they could not. They were enjoying Trev- 
 lyn Hold and its benefits, and Rupert was little 
 better than an outcast on the face of the earth. 
 Every dinner that was put upon their table, every 
 article of expensive attire bought for their chil- 
 dren, every mark of honour or substantial comfort
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 189 
 
 which their position brought to them, seemed to 
 rise up reproachfully before the face of Mrs. Chat- 
 taway, and say, " The money to procure all this is 
 not yours and your husband's ; it is wrenched 
 from Rupert." And she could do nothing to 
 remedy it ; she could only wage ever-continued 
 battle with the knowledge, and with the sting it 
 brought. There existed no remedy. It was not 
 simply that she could not apply a remedy, but 
 there existed none to apply. They had not come 
 into the inheritance by legal fraud or wrong : they 
 succeeded to it fairly and openly, according to the 
 legally-made will of Squire Trevlyn. Did the 
 v/hole world range itself on Rupert's side, pressing 
 that the property should be resigned to him, Mr. 
 Chattaway had only to point with his finger to the 
 will, and say, " You cannot act against that." 
 
 It may be that this very fact brought the re- 
 morse with gi'eater force home to Mrs. Chattaway. 
 It may be that her incessant dwelling upon it 
 caused a morbid state of feeling, which of itself 
 served to increase the malady. Certain it is, that 
 by night and by day the wrongs of Rupert were 
 ever pressing painfully ,on her mind. She loved 
 him with that strange intensity wliich l)rings an 
 aching to the heart. When the baby orphan was 
 brought home to her from its foreign birth-place, 
 the pretty baby with its rosy cheeks and its golden
 
 190 TREYLYX HOLD. 
 
 curls — when it put out its little arms to her, and 
 gazed at her with its loving blue eyes, her heart 
 gushed out to it there and then, and she caught it 
 to her Yvdth a Avail of love more passionately fond 
 than any ever given to her oayh children. The 
 irredeemable Avi'ong inflicted on the unconscious 
 child, fixed itself on her conscience in that hour, 
 never to be lifted from it. 
 
 If ever a woman lived a two-faced life, that 
 Yroman was Mrs. Chattaway. Her true aspect — 
 that in which she saw herself as she really w^as — 
 was as different from the one presented to the world 
 as light is from darkness. Do not blame her. It 
 was difficult to help it. The world and her own 
 family saw in Mrs. Chattaway a weak, gentle, 
 apathetic vroman, Avho could not, oi' might not — 
 at any rate, who did not — take upon herself even 
 the ordinar}^ authority of a famil}- 's head, a house- 
 hold's mistress. They little thought that that 
 weak woman, remarkable for nothing but indiffer- 
 >ence, j)assed her days in inward distress, in care, 
 in thought. The inherent timidity (it had ex- 
 isted in her mother) Avhich had been her bane in 
 former days, v\^as her bane still. She had not 
 dared to rise up against her husband when the 
 great injustice Avas inflicted upon Rupert Treviyn ; 
 she did not dare openly to rise up now against 
 the ]3etty wrongs daily dealt out to him. There
 
 A NIGHT BELL UK ANSWERED. 191 
 
 may kave been a latent consciousness in her mind 
 that if she did rise up it would not alter tliingft 
 for the better, and it might make them Avorse for 
 Rupert. Probably it would have been found so ; 
 and that the non-interference was for the best. 
 
 There were many things she could have wished 
 done for Rupert, and she went so far as to hint at 
 some of them to Mr. Chattaway. She wished he 
 could be relieved entirely of going to Blackstone ; 
 she wished more indulgences might be his at 
 home ; she wished he could be transported to a 
 warmer climate. A bare suggestion of one or 
 other of these things she dropped, once in a way, 
 to Mr. Chattaway. They fell unheeded on his 
 ear, as must be supposed, by their not being 
 answered. He replied to one : the hint of the 
 warm climate — replied to it with a prolonged 
 stai-e and a demand to know v/hat romantic 
 absm'dity she could be thinking of Mrs. Chatta- 
 way had never mentioned it again ; in these cases 
 of constitutional timidity of min\d, a rebuff, let it 
 be ever so slight, is sufficient to close the lips for 
 ever. Poor lady ! she would have sacrificed her 
 own comfort to give peace and comfort to the 
 unhappy Rupert. He was miserably put upon, 
 he was treated with less consideration than were 
 the servants, he was made to feel his dependent 
 state daily and hourly by sundry petty annoy-
 
 192 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 ances ; and yet she could not interfere openly to 
 help him ! 
 
 Even now, as she sat watching the deepening 
 shades of the coming night, slie was dwelling on 
 this ; resenting it in her heart, for his sake. It 
 was the evening of the day when the young ladies 
 had met George Ryle in the lane. She could 
 hear the sounds of memment down-stairs from 
 her children and their visitors, and she felt sure 
 that Rupert did not make one amongst them. It 
 had long been the pleasure of Oris and Octave to 
 exclude Rupert from the general society, the 
 evening gatherings of the family, so far as they 
 could exclude him ; and if, through the presence 
 of herself or of Miss Diana, they could not abso- 
 lutely deny his entrance, they took care to treat 
 him with cavalier indifference. She sat on, revolv- 
 ing these bitter thoughts in the gloom succeeding 
 to the departed day, until roused by the entrance 
 of an intruder. 
 
 It was Rupert himself He approached Mrs, 
 Chattaway, and she fondly threw her arm round 
 him, and drew him down to a chair by her side. 
 Only when they were alone could she show him 
 these marks of affection, or prove to him that he 
 did not stand in the world entirely isolated from 
 all ties of love. 
 
 " Do you feel better to-night, Rupert ? "
 
 A XIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 193 
 
 '' Oh, I am a great deal better. I feel quite 
 well. AVhy are you sitting by yourself in the dark, 
 Aunt Edith?" 
 
 '•It is not dark yet. What are they doing 
 below, Kupert ? I hear jolenty of laughter." 
 
 " They are playing at some game, I think." 
 
 " At what ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was taking a place with them, 
 but Octave, as usual, said they were enough with- 
 out me ; so I came away." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway made no reply. She never 
 spoke a reproachful word of her children to Rupert, 
 whatever she might feel ; she never, by so much 
 as a breath, cast a reproach on her husband to 
 living mortal. Kupert leaned his head on her 
 shoulder, as if he v^ere weary. Sufficient light 
 was left to show how delicate were his features, 
 how attractive was his face. The lovely counte- 
 nance of his boyhood characterised him still — the 
 suspiciously bright cheeks and the silken hair. 
 Of middle height, his frame slender and fragile, 
 he scarcely looked his twenty years. There 
 was a resemblance in his face to Mrs. Chat- 
 taway's : and it was not surprising, for Joe 
 Trevlyn and his sister Edith had been remarkably 
 alike when they were young. 
 
 "Is Oris come in?" asked Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Rupert rose as lie spoke, and stretched himself. 
 The verb s'ennuyer was one he often felt himself 
 obKged to conjugate, in his evenings at Trevlyn 
 Hold. 
 
 " I think I shall go down for an hour to Trevl}Ti 
 Farm." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway started. She, as it seemed 
 shrunk from the words. " Not to-night, Rupert !" 
 
 " It is so dull at home, Aunt Edith." 
 
 " They are merry enough down stairs." 
 
 " They are. But Octave takes care that I shall 
 not be merry with them." 
 
 What could she answer to it ? 
 
 ''Well, then, Rupert, you will be sure to be 
 home," she said, after a while. And the pained 
 emphasis with which she spoke the words " be 
 sure," no pen could express. Some meaning, un- 
 derstood by Rupert, was evidently conveyed by 
 them. 
 
 " Yes," was all he answered ; the tone of hLs 
 voice telling of resentment, not disguised. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway caught him to her, and hid her 
 face upon his shoulder. " For my sake, Rupert, 
 darling ! for my sake !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, dear Aunt Edith : I'll be sure to be 
 in time," he reiterated. " I'll not forget the hour, 
 as I did the other night," 
 
 She stood at the window, and watched him
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 19/) 
 
 away from the house and do^ii the avenue, pray- 
 ing that he might not forget the hour. It had 
 pleased Mr. Chattaway lately to forbid Rupert's 
 entrance to the house, unless he returned to it by 
 half-past ten. That his motive was entirely that 
 of ill-naturedly crossing Rupert, there could be 
 little doubt. Driven out by unkindness from the 
 Hold, Rupert had taken to spending his evenings 
 with George Ryle ; sometimes at the houses of 
 other friends ; now and then he would invade old 
 Canham's. Rupert's hour for coming in from 
 these visits was about eleven ; he generally had 
 managed to be in by the time the clock struck ; 
 but the master of Trevlyn Hold suddenly issued 
 a peremptory mandate that he must be in by 
 half-past ten ; failing strict obedience as to time, 
 he was not to be let in at all. Rupert resented 
 it, and one or two unpleasant scenes had been the 
 result. The like rule was not applied to Cris 
 who might come in any hour he pleased. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway descended to the drawing-room. 
 Two young ladies, the daughters of neighbours, 
 were spending the evening there, and they were 
 playing at proverbs with intense relish : Maude 
 Trevlyn, the guests, and the Miss Chattaways. 
 Octave alone joined in it listlessly, as if her 
 thoughts were far away. Her restless glances 
 towards the door seemed to say that she was 
 
 o 2
 
 196 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 watching for the entrance of one who did not 
 come. 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Chattaway came home, and they 
 sat down to supper. Afterwards, the young ladies 
 departed, and the younger children went to bed. 
 Ten o'clock struck, and the time went on again. 
 
 "Where's Kupert?" Mr. Chattaway suddenly 
 asked of his wife. 
 
 " He went down to Trevlyn Farm, James," she 
 said, unable, had it been to save her life, to speak 
 without deprecation. 
 
 He gave no answer by word or look to his 
 wife ; but he rang the bell, and ordered the 
 household to bed. Miss Diana Trevlyn was out 
 upon a visit. 
 
 " Oris and Rupert are not in, papa," observed 
 Octave, as she lighted her mamma's candle and 
 her own. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway took out his watch. ''Twenty- 
 five minutes past ten," he said, in his hard, impassive 
 manner — a manner which imparted the idea that 
 he was utterly destitute of sympathy for the 
 whole human race. "Mr. Rupert must be quick 
 if he intends to come inside to-night. Give your 
 mamma her bed candle." 
 
 It may appear almost incredible that Mrs. Chat- 
 taway should meekly take her candle and follow her 
 daughter up the stairs without remonstrance, when
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 197 
 
 she would have given the world to sit up longer. 
 She was getting quite in a fever on Rupert's 
 account, and she would have wished to wait in 
 that room until his ring was heard. But to set 
 up her own \vill against her husband's w^as a 
 thing she had never yet done ; in small things 
 as in great, she had bowed to his mandates with- 
 out making the faintest shadow of resistance. 
 
 Octave VN^ished her mamma sfood nio-ht, went 
 into her room, and closed the door. Mrs. Chat- 
 taway was turning into hers when she saw Maude 
 creeping down the upper stairs. She came noise- 
 lessly along the corridor, her face pale with agi- 
 tation, and her heart beating. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith, what will be done ?" she mur- 
 mured. " It is half-past ten, and he is not home." 
 
 '' Maude, my poor child, you can do nothing," 
 was the whispered answer, the tone as full of pain 
 as Maude's. *' Go back to your room, dear ; your 
 uncle may be coming up." 
 
 The great clock in the hall struck the half- 
 hour ; its sound came booming up like a knell. 
 Hot tears were dropj^ing from the eyes of Maude. 
 
 " What will become of him, Aunt Editli ? Wiere 
 will he sleep?" 
 
 '' Hush Maude ! Run back." 
 
 It was time for her to run ; and Mrs. Chattaway 
 spoke the words in a tone of startled terror. The
 
 198 TSEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 heavy foot of tlie master of Trevl^Ti Hold was 
 heard crossing the hall to ascend the stairs. 
 Maude stole noiselessly back, and Mrs, Chattaway 
 passed into her dressing-room. 
 
 She sat down, on a chair, and pressed her hands 
 upon her bosom to still the beating. Her sus- 
 pense and agitation were terrible. A sensitive, 
 timid nature, such as ]\Irs. Chattaway's, feels 
 emotion in a most painful degi'ee. Every sense 
 was strung to its utmost tension. She listened 
 for E-upert's footfall outside ; she waited v/ith a 
 sort of horror for the ringing of the house-bell 
 that should announce his arrival, her whole frame 
 feeling sick and faint. 
 
 At last, one came running up the avenue at a 
 fleet pace, and the echoes of the bell were heard 
 resounding through the house. 
 
 Not daring to defy her husband by going down 
 to let him in, unless she had permission, she 
 passed into the bed-room, Vvhere Mr. Chattaway 
 v/as undressing. 
 
 "Shall I go down and open the door, James?" 
 
 "iSo." 
 
 " It is only five minutes over the half-hour." 
 
 '•'Five minutes are the same in effect as five 
 hours," answered Mr. Chattaway, taking off his 
 Vv^aistcoat. " Unless he can be in before the 
 half hour, he does 7i.ot covie in at all!'
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 199 
 
 " It may be Oris," she resumed. 
 
 " Nonsense ! You know it is not Oris. Oris 
 lias his latch-key." 
 
 Another alarming peal. 
 
 " He can see the light in my dressing-room," 
 she urged, with parched lips. "Oh, James, let 
 me go down." 
 
 ^a tell you— No." 
 
 There was no appeal against it. She knew 
 there might be none. But she clasped her hands 
 together in agony, and gave utterance to the 
 chief distress at her heart. 
 
 " Where will he sleep ? Where can he go, if 
 we deny him entrance ?" 
 
 " Where he chooses. He does not come in 
 here." 
 
 And Mrs. Chattaway went back to her dressing- 
 room, and listened in despair to the continued 
 appeals from the bell. Appeals which she might 
 not answer.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 OPINIOXS DIFFER. 
 
 The nights were chilly in the early autumn, 
 and a blazing lire burnt in the drawing-room grate 
 at Trevlyn Farm. On a comfortable sofa, drawn 
 close to it, sat Mrs. Ryle, a warm shawl thrown 
 over her black silk go^vn — ^^varm cushions of eider 
 down heaped around her. A violent cold h?cd 
 made an invalid of her for some days past, but 
 she w^as getting better. Tier face was softened by 
 a white cap of delicate lace; but its lines had 
 gTOwn haughtier and firmer with her years. She 
 wore well, and was handsome still. 
 
 Trevlyn Farm had prospered. It was a lucky 
 day for Mrs. Ryle when she decided upon her 
 step-son's remaining on it. He had brought 
 energy and goodwill to bear on his work ; he had 
 brought a clear head and calm intelligence ; and 
 time had contributed judgment and experience. 
 Mrs. Ryle knew that she could not have been 
 better served than she had been by George, and
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 201 
 
 she gi'adually grew to feel his value. Had they 
 been really mother and son, they could not have 
 been better friends. In the onset she was inclined 
 to discountenance sundry ways and habits v/hich 
 George favoured. He did not make himself into 
 a vjorklnf/ farmer, as his father had done, and as 
 Mrs. Ryle deemed he ought to do. George 
 objected. A man who worked on his own farm 
 must necessarily give to it less of general super- 
 vision, he urged : were his hands engaged on one 
 spot, his eyes could not be using themselves to 
 advantage a mile or two off ; and after all, it was 
 but the cost of an additional day-labourer. His 
 argument carried reason with it ; and that keen 
 farmer and active man. Farmer Apperley, who 
 deemed idleness the greatest sin (next, jDerhaps, to 
 going out hunting) that a young farmer could be 
 guilty of, nodded his apjDroval. George did not 
 put aside his books ; his classics, and his studies 
 in general literature : quite the contrar}'. In 
 short, George 11)^0 ajopeared to be going in for a 
 gentleman — as Cris Chattaway chose to term it — 
 a great deal more than Mrs. Ryle considered 
 would be profitable for him or for her. But 
 George had held on his course, in a quiet, unde- 
 monstrative way ; and Mrs. Ryle had at length 
 fallen in with it. Perhaps she now saw its 
 wisdom. That he was essentially a gentleman, in
 
 202 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 person as in manners, in mind as in conduct, she 
 could but acknowledge, and she felt a pride in 
 him which she had never thought to feel in any- 
 one, save Treve. 
 
 Could she feel pride in Treve ? Not much, with 
 all her partiality. Trevl3rQ Kyle was not turning 
 out in quite so satisfactory a manner as was desir- 
 able. There was nothing very objectionable to be 
 urged against him ; but Mrs. Ryle was accustomed 
 to measure' by a high standard of excellence ; a,nd 
 of that Treve fell uncommonly short. She had 
 not deemed it well that George Ryle should be 
 too much of a gentleman, but she had determined 
 to make Trevlyn into one. Upon the completion 
 of his school life, he was sent to Oxford. The cost 
 of this might have been imprudently heavy for 
 Mrs. Ryle's pocket, had she borne it unassisted ; 
 but Trevlyn had gained a valuable scholarship at 
 the Barmester Grammer ^ School where he had 
 been educated, and this had rendered the addi- 
 tional cost light. Treve, once at Oxford, did not 
 get on quite so fast as he might have done. 
 Treve spent ; Treve seemed to have plenty of wild 
 oats to sow ; Treve thought he should like a life 
 of idleness better than one of farming. His 
 mother had foolishly whispered to him the fond 
 hope that he might some time be the Squire of 
 Trevlyn Hold, and Treve reckoned upon its fulfil-
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 230 
 
 ment more confidently than was good for him. 
 Meanwhile, until the lucky chance befel which 
 should give him the inheritance (though by what 
 miracle the chance should fall was at present 
 hidden in the womb of mystery), Treve, upon the 
 completion of his studies at college, was to assume 
 the mastership of Trevlyn Farm, in accordance 
 with the plan, originally fixed upon by Mrs. Ryle. 
 He would not be altogether unqualified for this : 
 lie had been out and about on the farm since he 
 was a child, and had seen how it should be worked. 
 Whether he would give sufficient personal atten- 
 tion to it, was another matter. 
 
 Mrs. E,yle expressed herself as not being too 
 confident of him — whether of his industry or his 
 qualifications she did not state. George had 
 given one or two hints that when Treve came 
 home for good, he must look out for something 
 else ; but Mrs. Ryle had v/aived away the hints 
 as if they were unpleasant to her. Treve must 
 be proved yet, what metal he was made of, before 
 assuming the full management, she briefly said. 
 And George suffered the subject to drop. 
 
 Treve had now but one more term to keep at 
 the university. At the conclusion of the previous 
 term he had not returned home : he remained on 
 a visit to a friend, who had an appointment in one 
 of the colleges. But Trove's demands for money
 
 ^204 TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 become somewhat inconvenient to Mrs. E,yle, and 
 she had begged George to pay Oxford a few days' 
 visit, that he might see how Treve was really 
 going on. George complied, and proceeded to 
 Oxford, where he found Treve absent — as you 
 heard him, in the last chapter, say to Maude 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 Mrs. Trevl}Ti sat by the drawing-room fire, 
 enveloped in her shawl, and leaning on her pil- 
 lows. The thought of these things was bringing 
 a severe look to her proud face. She had scarcely 
 seen George since his return ; had not exchanged 
 more than ten words with him. But those ten 
 words had not been of a cheering nature ; and she 
 feared things were not going on satisfactorily wdtli 
 Treve. With that severely hard look on her 
 features, how wonderfully her face resembled that 
 of her dead father ! 
 
 Presently George came in. Mrs. Ryle looked 
 eagerly up at his entrance. 
 
 " Are you better 1 " he asked, advancing to 
 her, and bending down with a kindly smile. 
 " It is a long while since you had a cold such 
 as this." 
 
 *'I shall be all right in a day or two," she 
 answered. " Yesterda}-, I thought I was going to 
 have a long bout of it, my chest was so sore. Sit 
 down, George. What about Treve ? "
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 205 
 
 " Treve was not at Oxford. He had gone to 
 London." 
 
 " You told me that much. What had he gone 
 to London for ? " 
 
 " A Httle change, FeiTars said. He had been 
 gone a week." 
 
 " A httle change 1 In plain Eglish, a little plea- 
 sure, I suppose. Call it what you will, it costs 
 money, George." 
 
 George had seated himself opposite to her, his 
 arm resting on the centre table, and the red blaze 
 of the fire lighting up his frank and pleasant face. 
 In figure he was tall, slight, gentlemanly ; his 
 father, at his age, had been so before him. 
 
 "Why did you not follow him to LondoD, 
 George ? " resumed Mrs. Ryle. " It would have 
 been but a two hours' journey from Oxford. Not 
 so much as that." 
 
 George turned his large dark eyes upon her, 
 some surprise in them. " How was I to know 
 where to look for him, if I had gone ? " 
 
 " Could Mr. Ferrars not give you his address ? " 
 
 " No. I asked him. Treve had not told him 
 where he should stop. In fact, Ferrars did not 
 think Treve knew where, himself Under those 
 circumstances, my going to town might have been 
 only a waste of time and money." 
 
 " I luish you could have seen Treve ! "
 
 206 TB.EVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "So do I. But I might have been looking for 
 liim a week without finding him, in a place like 
 London. And the harvest was not all in at home, 
 you know, mother." 
 
 " It is of no use your keeping things from me, 
 George," resumed Mrs. Ryle, after a pause. " Has 
 Treve contracted fresh debts at Oxford ? " 
 
 " I fancy he has. A few." 
 
 " A ' few ! ' — and you ' fancy ! ' George, tell the 
 truth. That you know he has, and that they are 
 not a few." 
 
 " That he has, I believe to be true : I gathered 
 so much from Fen'ars. But I do not think they 
 are many; I do not indeed." 
 
 " Why did yau not inquire ? I would have 
 gone to every shop in the town, but what I would 
 have ascertained. If he is contracting more debts, 
 who is to pay them, George ? " 
 
 George was silent. 
 
 " When shall we be clear of Chattaway ? " she 
 abruptly resumed. " When will the last payment 
 be due ? " 
 
 "In a month or two's time. Principal and 
 interest will all be paid off then.'' 
 
 " It will take all your exertions to get the sum 
 up." 
 
 " It will be got up, mother. It shall be." 
 
 " Yes ; I don't doubt it. But it will not be got
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 207 
 
 up, George, if a portion is to be taken from it for 
 Treve." 
 
 George knitted his brow. He was falling into 
 thought. 
 
 " I 'must get rid of Chattaway," she resumed. 
 " He has been weighing us down all these years 
 like an incubus ; and no^v that the emancipation 
 has nearly come, were anything to frustrate it, I 
 should — I should — George, I think I should go 
 mad." 
 
 " I hope and trust nothing will frustrate it," 
 answered George. " I am more anxious to get rid 
 of Chattaway than, I think, even you can be. As 
 to Treve, his debts must wait." 
 
 " But it would be more desirable that he should 
 not contract them," observed Mrs. Eyle. 
 
 '' Of course. But how are we to prevent his 
 contracting them ? " 
 
 ''He ought to prevent himself. You did not 
 contract these miserable debts, George." 
 
 "I!" he rejoined, in surprise. "I had no 
 opportunity of doing it. Work and responsibility 
 were thrown upon me before I was old enough to 
 think of pleasure : and they served to keep me 
 steady." 
 
 " You were not naturally inclined to spend, 
 George." 
 
 " There's no knowing what I might have ac-
 
 208 TEEYLYN HOLD. 
 
 quired an inclination for, had I been sent out into 
 the world, as Treve has," he rejoined. 
 
 " It was necessary that Treve should go to the 
 university," said Mrs. Ryle, quite sharply. 
 
 "I am not saying that it was not," George 
 answered, quietly. " It Avas right that he should 
 go, as you wished it." 
 
 " George, I shall live — I hope I shall live — I 
 pray that I may live — to see Trevlyn the lawful 
 possessor of Trevlyn Hold. A gentleman's educa- 
 tion was therefore essential to him : hence I sent 
 him to Oxford." 
 
 George made no reply. Mrs. Eyle felt chafed 
 at it. She knew that George did not approve her 
 policy in regard to Trevl}m. She charged him 
 with it now, and George v/ould not deny it. 
 
 " What I think unwise," he said, " is your 
 having led Treve to build hopes upon the succes- 
 sion to Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 '' Why ? " she haughtily asked. " He will come 
 into it." 
 
 " I do not see how," quietly remarked George. 
 
 " He has far more right to it than he who is 
 looked upon as its successor — Oris Chattaway," 
 she said, with flashing eyes. " You know that." 
 
 George could have answered that neither of 
 them had a right to it, in fair justice, while Rupert 
 Trevlyn lived ; but Rupert and his claims had
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 209 
 
 been so completely ignored by Mrs. Ryle, as by 
 others, that his urging them would have been 
 waived away as idle talk. Mrs. Ryle resumed, 
 her voice unsteady in its tones. It was most rare 
 that she suffered herself to speak of these past 
 giievances ; but Avhen she did, her vehemence 
 amounted to agitation. 
 
 " When my boy was born, the news that Joe 
 Trevlyn's health was failing had come home to us. 
 I knew the squire would never leave the pro- 
 perty to Maude, a girl, and I looked then for my 
 son to inherit it. AVas it not natural that I 
 should ? — was it not his right ? — I was the squire's 
 eldest daughter. I had him named Trevlyn ; I 
 T>Tote a note to my father, saying that he would 
 not now be at fault for a male heir, in the event 
 of poor Joe's not leaving one " 
 
 " He did leave one," interrupted George, speak- 
 ing probably in impulsive thoughtlessness. 
 
 " Be still. Rupert was not born then, and his 
 succession was aftei'wards barred b}^ my father's 
 will. Through deceit practised on him, I grant 
 you : but I liad no hand in that deceit. I named 
 my boy Trevl}^! ; I regarded him as the certain 
 heir ; and when the squire died and his v/ill was 
 opened, it was found that he had bequeathed all 
 to Chattawa}^ If you think I have ever once 
 faltered since in my hope — my resolve — to see 
 
 YOL. I. p
 
 210 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 Trevlpi some time displace the Cliattaways, 
 George, 3^011 do not know much of human nature." 
 '•' I grant what you say," replied George, 
 " that of the two, Trevl}Ti has more just right to 
 it than Oris Chattaway. But has it ever occurred 
 to you to ask, Itovj Cris is to he displaced ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ryle did not answer. She sat beating her 
 foot upon the ottoman, as one whose mind is not 
 a.t ease. George continued — 
 
 " It appears to me to he the wildest possible 
 fallacy, the bare idea of Trevlyn's being able to 
 disj)lace Cris Chattaway in the succession. If 
 we lived in the barbarous ages, when inheritances 
 were wrested away from their possessors by force 
 of arms, when the turn of a battle decided the 
 ownership of a castle, then there might be a 
 chance of Trevlyn Hold being taken from Cris 
 Chattaway. As it is, there is none. There is 
 not the faintest shadow of a chance that it 
 can go to any beside Cris. Faihng his death 
 — and he is strong and hearty — he must suc- 
 ceed. Wliy, even were Rupert — forgive my allud- 
 ing to him again — to urge his claims, there would 
 be no hope for hun. Mr. Chattaway holds the 
 estate by the sure tenm-e of legality ; he has 
 willed it to his son ; and that son cannot be dis- 
 placed in the succession by any extraneous effoiis 
 of others."
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 211 
 
 Her foot beat the velvet more impatiently ; a 
 heavier line settled on her brow. Often and 
 often had the very arguments now put into words 
 by her step-son, brought their weight to her 
 etching brain. George spoke again. 
 
 " And therefore, the very improbability — I may 
 almost say the impossibility — of Trove's ever suc- 
 ceeding to Trevlyn Hold, renders it unmse that 
 he should have been taught to build upon it. 
 Fa<r better, mother, that the contingency had 
 never been so much as whispered to him." 
 
 "Why do you look at it in this unfavourable 
 light ?" she burst forth. 
 
 "Because it is the correct light," answered 
 Oeorge. "The property is Mr. Chattaway's — 
 legally his, and it cannot be taken from him. It 
 will be Cris's after him." 
 
 " Oris may die," said Mrs. Kyle ; her sharpness 
 of tone proving that she was vexed at having no 
 better argument to urge. 
 
 " And if he were to die ? If Oris died to-morrow, 
 Treve would be no nearer the succession. Cliat- 
 taway has daughters, and he would will it to each 
 of them in rotation, rather than to Treve. He 
 can will it away as he pleases. It was left to him 
 absolutely." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle lifted her hands. "My father was 
 mad when he made such a will in favour of Chat- 
 
 p2
 
 212 thevlyn hold. 
 
 taway ! He could have been notliing less. I have 
 thought so many times." 
 
 " But it was made, and it cannot no^Y be 
 altered. Will you pardon me for saying that it 
 V/'ould have been better had j^ou accepted the 
 vstate of affairs, and endeavoured to reconcile your- 
 self to them?" 
 
 " It would have been heiter ! " 
 
 " Yes ;" he decisive^ reiterated. " The rebel- 
 ling against what cannot be remedied never brings 
 anything but dissatisfaction. I would a great 
 deal rather see Treve succeed to Trevlyn.Hold 
 than Cris Chattaway : but I know that Treve never 
 will succeed : and, therefore, it is a great pity 
 that he has been led to think of it. He might 
 have shown himself mora ready to settle down 
 to steadiness, had he never become possessed 
 with the notion that he might some time super- 
 sede Cris Chattaway." 
 
 " He shall supersede him, George. He " 
 
 The door opened to admit a visitor, and Mrs. 
 Ryle could not finish her sentence. For he who 
 entered was Rupert Trevlyn. Ignore his dormant 
 claims as she would, Mrs. Ryle felt that it would 
 be scarcely seemly to discuss before him Trove's 
 chance of succession to Trevlyn Hold. She had 
 •in truth completely put out of her mind all 
 thought of the claims of Rupert. He had been
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. ^lo 
 
 deprived of Lis right by Squire Trevlyn's will, 
 and there was an end to it. Mrs. Eyle rather 
 liked Kupert ; or, it may be better to say, she 
 did not dislike hini ; really to like any one sa,ve 
 Treve, v/as not in her nature. She liked Rupert 
 in a cold, negative sort of a way ; but she would 
 not have helped him to his inheritance by the 
 lifting of a finger. In the event of her possessing 
 no son to be jealously covetous for, she might 
 have taken up the wrongs of Rupert. There's no 
 telling — just to thwart Chattaway. 
 
 " Why, Rupert," said George, rising, and cor- 
 dially taking his hand, " I heard you were ill 
 again. Maude told me so to-day." 
 
 " I am better to-night, George. Aunt Ryle, 
 they said you were in bed." 
 
 " I am better, too, Rupert," she answered. 
 ^' What has been the matter with you ?" 
 
 " Oh, it was my chest again ;" said Rupert, 
 pushing the vraving hair from his bright and 
 delicate face. " I could hardly breathe this 
 morning." 
 
 " Ought you to have come out to-night ?" 
 
 " I don't think it matters," carelessly answered 
 Rupert. " For all I see, I am as well when I go 
 out as when I don't. There's not much to stop 
 in for, there." 
 
 He edged himself closer in to the hearth with
 
 ^i-^ TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 a slight shiver. He was painfully susceptive to 
 the feeling of cold. George took the poker and 
 stirred the fire, and the blaze went flickering 
 aloft, playing on the familiar objects of the hand- 
 some room, lighting up the slender figure, the 
 well-formed features, the large blue eyes of Ru- 
 pert, and bringing out to view all the suspicious 
 signs of latent constitutional delicacy. The trans- 
 parent fairness of complexion and the rich bloom 
 of the cheeks, might alike have v/hispered a 
 warnino'. 
 
 " Octave thought you were going up there to- 
 night, George." 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 "The two Beecroft girls are there, and they 
 turned me out of the diawing-room. Octave 
 told me ' I wasn't wanted.' Will you play at 
 chess to-night, George ?" 
 
 "If you like ; when I have had my supper." 
 
 " I must be home by half-past ten, you know. 
 I was a minute over the half hour the other 
 night, and one of the servants opened the door 
 for me. Chattaway jDretty nearly rose the roof 
 off, he was so angry ; but he could not decently 
 turn me out again." 
 
 "Chattaway is master for the time being of 
 Trevlyn Hold," remarked Mrs. Ryle. "Not squire; 
 never squire " — she broke off, straying abruptly
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 215 
 
 from her subject, and as abruptly resuming it. 
 '■' You will do well to obey him, Rupert. When I 
 make a rule in this house, Rupert Trevlyn, I never 
 permit it to he broken" 
 
 A valuable hint, if Rupert had but taken it for 
 his guidance. He meant well : he never meant, 
 for all his light and careless speaking, to be dis- 
 obedient to Mr. Chattaway's mandate as to the 
 time of his retimiing. And yet the disobedience 
 happened that very night ! 
 
 The chess-board was attractive, and the time 
 slipped on to half-past ten. Rupert said a hasty 
 good night, snatched his hat, tore through the 
 entrance-room at a pace to frighten Nora, and 
 made the best speed his lungs allowed him to 
 Trevlyn Hold. His heart was beating, his breath 
 was panting as he gained it, and he rang that 
 peal at the bell which had sent its echoes through 
 the house ; through the trembling frame, the weak 
 heart of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 He rang — and rang. There came back no an- 
 swering sign that the ring was heard. A light 
 shone in Mrs. Chattaway's dressing-room ; and 
 Rupert took up some gravel, and gently threw it 
 against the window. No response was accorded 
 in answer to it ; he saw not so much as the form 
 of a hand on the blind : the house, in its utter 
 stillness, might have been taken for the house of
 
 216 TREYLYX HOLD. 
 
 the dead. Rupert threw up some more graYel as 
 silently as he could. 
 
 He had not to wait very long this time. Cau- 
 tiously, slowly, as though the very movement feared 
 being heard, the blind was dra^vn aside, and the 
 face of Mrs. Chattaway, wet with streaming tears, 
 appeared, looking down at him. He could see 
 that she had not begTin to undress. She shook 
 her head ; she raised her hands and clasped them 
 with a gesture of deprecating despair ; and her 
 lips formed themselves into the words, "I may not 
 let you in." 
 
 He could not read the words ; but he read the 
 expression of the whole all too clearly — that Chat- 
 taway would not suffer him to be admitted. Mrs. 
 Chattaway, dreading j)ossibly that her husband 
 might cast his eyes inside her dressing-room, 
 quietly let fall the blind again, and removed her 
 shadow from the window. 
 
 Now what was Rupert to do ? Lie down on 
 the level grass there that skirted the avenue, 
 and take his night's rest under the trees, vrith 
 the cold air freezing him, and the night dews 
 wetting him? A strong frame, revelling in super- 
 fluous health might risk that ; but not Rupert 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 He walked round the house, and tried its back 
 entrance. It was quite fast. He knocked at it,
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 217 
 
 but no answer came. He looked up at the win- 
 dows ; lights shone in one or two of the upper 
 rooms ; but thei'e came no sign that anybody 
 meant to let him in. 
 
 A momentary thought came over him that he 
 would go back to Trevlyn Farm, and crave a 
 night's shelter there. He would have done it, but 
 for the recollection of Mrs. Kyle's stern voice and 
 sterner face when she remarked to him that, as he 
 knew the rule made for his going in, he need not 
 break it. Rupert had never got on too cordially 
 with Mrs. Ryle. He remembered shrinking from 
 her haughty face when he was a little child : and 
 somehow he shrank from it still. No ; he would 
 not knock them up at Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 What nmst he do? Should he walk about 
 until morning? Should he sit down on the upper 
 step of the door-sill, inside the portico, and cower 
 in the angle for the night ? Suddenly a thought 
 came to him — were the Canhams in bed? If not, 
 he could get in there, and lie on their settle. The 
 Canhams never went to bed very early. Ann 
 Canham sat up to lock the great gate — it was 
 Chattaway's pleasure that it should not be done 
 until after ten o'clock ; and old Canham liked to 
 sit up, smoking his pipe. 
 
 With a brisk step, now that he had decided on 
 a course, Rupert walked down the avenue. At the
 
 218 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 first turning he ran against Cris Chattaway, who 
 was coming leisurely up it. 
 
 " O, Cris ! I am so glad ! You'll let me in. 
 They have shut me out to-night." 
 
 " Let you in !" repeated Cris. "I can't." 
 
 Rupert's bkie eyes opened in the starlight. 
 " Have you not your latch-key ? " 
 
 " "What should hinder me ? " responded Cris. 
 " Tm going in ; but I can't let you go in." 
 
 " Why not ? " hotly asked Rupert. 
 
 " I don't choose to fly in the face of the squire's 
 orders. He has commanded you to be in before 
 half-past ten, or not to come in at all. It has 
 gone half-past ten long ago : is hard upon 
 eleven." 
 
 " If you can go in after half-past ten, why can't 
 I go in ? " cried Rupert. 
 
 '' It's not my affair/' said Cris, with a yawn. 
 " Don't bother. Now look here, Rupert ! It's of 
 no use your following me to the door, for I shall 
 not let you in." 
 
 "Yes you will, Cris." 
 
 " / will not" responded Cris, speaking empha- 
 tically, but with the same plausible suavity that 
 he had spoken throughout. Rupert's temper was 
 getting up. 
 
 " Cris, I'd not show myself such a hang-dog 
 sneak as you to be made King of England. If
 
 OPINIOXS DIFFEE.' 211) 
 
 everybody had their rights, Trevlyn Hold would 
 08 mine, to shut you out of it if I pleased. But I'd 
 not please. If but a dog were turned out of his 
 kennel at night, I'd let him come into the Hold 
 for shelter." 
 
 Oris put his latch-key in the lock. "J don't 
 turn you out. You must battle that question 
 with the squire. Keep off, Pai. If he says you 
 may be let in at eleven o'clock, all vrell and 
 good : but I'm not going to encourage you in 
 disobeying his orders." 
 
 He opened the door a few inches, v/ound him- 
 self in, and shut it in Eupert's face. He made a 
 great noise in putting up the bar, Avhich noise 
 was not in the least necessary. Rupert had given 
 him his true appellation — sneak. He v^as one : 
 a false-hearted, plausible -mannered, cowardly 
 sneak. As he stood at a marble table in the hall, 
 and struck a match to light his candle, his puny 
 face and his dull light eyes betrayed the most 
 complaisant enjoyment. 
 
 He went up the stairs smiling. He had to pass 
 the angle of the corridor where his mother's 
 rooms were situated. She glided silently out as 
 he was going by. Her dress was off then, and 
 she had apparently thrown a shawl over her 
 shoulders to come out to Oris. It was an old- 
 fashioned spun silk shawl, with a grey border, its
 
 220 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 middle wliite : not so wliite, however, as the face 
 of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 '•'Cris!" she said, laying her hand upon his arm, 
 and speaking in the faintest, most timorous of 
 whispers, " why did you not let him in ? " 
 
 '' I thought we had been ordered not to let 
 him in," returned he of the deceitful nature. " / 
 have been ordered. I know that." 
 
 " You might have done it just for once, Oris," 
 his mother answered. " I know not what will 
 become of him, out of doors on this sharp night." 
 
 Oris disengaged his arm, and continued his 
 vv^ay up to his room. He slept on the upper floor. 
 Maude was standing at the door of her chamber 
 v/hen he passed — as Mrs. Chattaway had been. 
 
 '•' Cris — wait a minute," she said, for he w^as 
 hastening by. " I want to speak a word to you. 
 Have you seen Rupert ?" 
 
 " Seen him and heard him too," boldly avowed 
 Cris. " He w^anted me to let him in." 
 
 '•'Which, of course, you would not do?" an- 
 svrered Maude, bitterly. " I wonder if you 
 ever performed a good-natured action in your 
 
 life r 
 
 " Can't remember," mockingly retorted Cris. 
 " Where is EuDert ? What is he o-oino- to do ?" 
 " You know where he is as Avell as I do : I sup- 
 pose you could hear him. As to what he is going
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 221 
 
 to do, I didn't ask liim. Roost in a tree, perhaps, 
 vdth the birds." 
 
 Maude retreated into lier room and closed the 
 door. She flung herself on a chair, and burst 
 into a flood of passionate tears. Her heaii; ached 
 for her brother with an aching that amounted to 
 agony: she could have forced down her proud 
 spirit and knelt to Mr. Chattaway to beg clemency 
 for him : she could have almost sacrificed her own 
 life if it might bring comfort to Rupert, whom she 
 loved so Avell. 
 
 He — Rupert — stamped off from the door when 
 it was closed against him by Cris Chattaway, feel- 
 ing as if he would like to stamp upon Cris. 
 Arrived in front of the lodge, he stood and 
 whistled, and presently Ann Canham, who was 
 undressing in the dark to save candle, looked from 
 the upper casement in her night-cap. 
 
 " Why, it's never you. Master Rupert ! " she ex- 
 claimed, in the intensity of her surprise. 
 
 " They have locked me out, Ann Canham. 
 Can you manage to come down and open the 
 door to me without disturbing your father? If 
 you can, I'll lie on the settle for to-night." 
 
 Once inside, there ensued a contest. In her 
 humble way, begging pardon for the presumption, 
 Ann Canham proposed that Master Rupert 
 should go up to her bed, and she'd make herself
 
 222 TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 contented with the settle. It was but a flock, 
 and very small, she said ; but it would be rather 
 better than the settle. Eupert would not. He 
 threw himself on the hard narrow bench that 
 they called the settle, and protested that if Ann 
 Canham said another vrord about giving up her 
 bed, lie'd go outside and stop the night in the 
 avenue. So she v^as fain to go back to it herself. 
 
 A dreary night it was for him, that wearying 
 bench ; and the morning found him with a cold 
 frame and stiffened limbs. He was stamping one 
 foot on the floor to stamp the cramp out of it, 
 when old Canham entered, leaning on a crutch. 
 Ann had told him the news, and it got the old 
 man up before his time. 
 
 " But who shut you out. Master Rupert ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Chattaway." 
 
 "Ann says that Mr. Cris went in pretty late 
 last night. After she had locked the big gate." 
 
 " Oris came up while I was ringing to be let in. 
 He went in himself, ])ut would not let me enter." 
 
 '■ He's a reptile," said old Canham in his anger. 
 ^' Eh me ! " he added, sitting down ^\dth difficulty 
 in his arm chair, and extending the cratch out 
 before him, " what a mercy it would have been if 
 poor Mr. Joe had lived ! Chattaway would never 
 have been stuck up in authority then. Better
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 223 
 
 that the squire iiad left Trevlyn Hold to Miss 
 Diana." 
 
 " They say he would not leave it to a vroman." 
 
 "That's true, Master Rupert. And of his chil- 
 dren there were but his daughters left. The two 
 sons had gone. The heir Rupert first : he died 
 on the high seas ; and Mr. Joe, he went next." 
 
 " I say, Mark Canham, why did the heir, Rupert, 
 go on the seas ? " 
 
 Old Canham shook his head. " Ah, it was a 
 bad business. Master Rupert. It's as well not to 
 talk of it." 
 
 " But ivhy did he go ? " persisted Rupert. 
 
 " It was a bad business, I say. He, the heir, 
 had fallen into wild waj^s, had got to like bad 
 company, and that. He went out one night with 
 some poachers — ^just for the fun of it. It wasn't 
 on these lands. He meant no harm, but he was 
 young and random, and he went out and put a 
 gauze over his face as they did, — just, I say, for the 
 fun of it. Master Rupert, that night they killed 
 a gamekeeper." 
 
 A shiver of dismay passed through Rupert's 
 frame. '' He killed him, do you mean ? — my uncle, 
 Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 "No, it wasn't he that killed him — as was 
 proved a long while afterwards. But you see at 
 the time it wasn't known exactly vrho had done
 
 224? TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 it : they were all in league, as may be said ; all 
 in the mess. Any way, the young heir, whether 
 in his fear or his shame, perhaps both, went off in 
 secret, and before many months had gone over, 
 the bells here were tolling for him. He had died 
 far awa}^" 
 
 " But peojDle never could have believed that he, 
 a Trevlyn, killed a man ? " said Rupert, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 Old Canhan paused. " You have heard of the 
 Trevlyn temper, Master Rupert ? " 
 
 " Who hasn't ?" returned Rupert. " They say I 
 have got a touch of it." 
 
 '•' Well, those that believed it laid it to that 
 temper, you see. The}^ thought the heir had been 
 overtook by a fit of passion that wasn't to be 
 ofoverned, and mio-ht have done the mischief in it. 
 In them attacks of passion, a man is mad." 
 
 " Is he," abstractedly remarked Rupert, falling 
 into a reverie. He had never before heard this 
 episode in the history of the uncle whose name he 
 bore — Rupert Trevlyn.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 
 
 Old Canliam stood at the door of his lodge, 
 his bald head stretched out. He was gazing 
 after one who was winding through the avenue, 
 in the direction of Trevlyn Hold, one whom it 
 was old Canham's delight to patronise and make 
 much of in his humble way ; whom he encouraged 
 in all sorts of vain and delusive notions — Kupert 
 Trevlyn. Could Mr. Chattaway have divined that 
 bitter treason was talked against himself nearly 
 every time Rupert dropped into the lodge, he 
 might have tried hard to turn old Canliam out 
 of it. Harmless treason, however; consisting of 
 rebellious words only. There was neither plot- 
 ting nor hatching ; old Canliam and Rupert never 
 glanced at that ; both were perfectly aware that 
 Chattaway held his place by a sure tenure, which 
 could not be shaken. 
 
 Many years ago, before Squire Trevlyn died, 
 Mark Canliam had gro^\Ti ill in his service. In 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 22Q TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 his direct service lie had caught the violent cold 
 which ended in an incurable rheumatic affection. 
 The squire settled him in the lodge, then just 
 vacant, and allowed him five shillings a week. 
 When the squire died, Chattaway would have 
 undone this. He mshed to turn the old man out 
 again (but it must be observed in a parenthesis 
 that, though universally styled old Canham, the 
 man was less old in years than in appearance), 
 and to place some one else in the lodge. I think, 
 when there is no love lost between people, as the 
 sajdng runs, each side is conscious of it. Chat- 
 taway disliked Mark Canham, and he had a 
 shrewd suspicion that Mark returned the feeling 
 with interest. But he found that he could not 
 dismiss him from the lodge, for Miss Trevlyn put 
 her veto upon it. She openly declared that 
 Squire Trevlyn's act in placing his old servant 
 there should be reverenced ; she promised Mark 
 that he should not be turned out of it as long 
 as he lived. Chattaway had no resource but to 
 bow to it ; he might not cross [Diana Trevljm ; 
 but he did succeed in reducing the weekly allow- 
 ance by just haK Half-a-crown per week v/as 
 all the certain money enjoyed by the lodge since 
 the time of Squire Trevlyn. Miss Diana some- 
 times gave a trifle from her private purse ; and 
 the gardener was allowed to make an occasional
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 227 
 
 present of vegetables that were in danger of 
 spoiling : at the beginning of winter, too, a load 
 of Avood would be stacked in the shed behind the 
 lodge, through the kind forethought of Miss 
 Diana. But it was not much altogether to keep 
 two people upon : and Ann Canham was glad to 
 accept of a day's hard work offered her at any of 
 the neighbouring houses, or to do a little plain 
 sewing at home. Very fine sewing she could not 
 do, for she suffered from her eyes, which were 
 generally more or less inflamed. 
 
 Old Canham watched Rupert until the turnings 
 of the avenue hid him from view, and then drew 
 back into the room. Ann was busy with the 
 breakfast. A loaf of oaten bread was on the 
 clothless table, and a basin of skim milk, which 
 she had just made hot, was placed before her 
 father. A smaller cup of it served for her own 
 share : and that constituted their breakfast. 
 Three mornings a week Ann Canham had the 
 privilege of fetching a quart of skim milk from 
 the dairy at the Hold. Chattaway growled at 
 the extravagance of the gift, but he did no more, 
 for it was Miss Diana's pleasure that it should be 
 supplied. 
 
 " Chattaway '11 go a bit too far, if he don't 
 mind," observed Old Canham to his daughter, in 
 relation to Rupert. " He must be of a bad nature, 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 TPwEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 to lock him out of his own house. For the matter 
 of that, however, he is of a bad one ; and it's 
 knowed he is." 
 
 " It is not his OAvn, father," Ann Canham ven- 
 tured to sa}^ in dissent. "Poor Master Eupert 
 haven't got no right to it now." 
 
 " It's a shame but what he had. Why, Chat- 
 taway has got no more moral right to that there 
 fine estate than I have ! " added the old man, 
 holding out his left arm straight in the heat of 
 argument, the arm that was not helpless. "If 
 Master Rupert and Miss Maude were dead, — if 
 Joe Trevl3Ti had never left a child at all, — there's 
 others w^ouM have a right to it before Chatta- 
 way." 
 
 " But Chattaway has got it, father, and nobody 
 can't alter it, or hinder his having it," sensibly 
 returned Ann Canham. " You'll have your milk 
 cold." 
 
 The breakfast hour at Trevlyn Hold was early, 
 and when Rupert entered, he found most of the 
 family doA^Tis-tairs. Rupert ran up-stairs to his 
 bed-room, where he washed and refreshed himself 
 as much as was possible after his hard night. 
 He was one upon whom only a night's lack of bed 
 would seriously tell, \\lien he descended to the 
 breakfast-room, they were all assembled except 
 Oris and Mrs. ChattaAvay. Cris was given to
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 229 
 
 lying in bed in a morning, and the self-indulgence 
 was winked at. Mrs. Chattaway also was apt to 
 be behind-liand, coming down generally when the 
 breakfast was nearly over. 
 
 Kupert took his place at the breakfast table. 
 Mr. Chattaway, who was at that moment raising 
 his coffee cup to his lips, put it doAvn and stared 
 at him. As he might have stared had some 
 stranger from the outside intruded and sat down 
 amongst them. 
 
 " What do you want ? " asked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Want ? " repeated Rupert, not understanding. 
 " Only m*y breakfast." 
 
 " Which you will not get here," calmly and 
 coldly returned Mr. Chattaway. " If you cannot 
 come home to sleep at night, you shall not get 
 your breakfast here in the morning." 
 
 " I did come home," said Rupert ; " but I was 
 not let in." 
 
 " Of course you were not. The household had 
 retired." 
 
 " Cris came home after I did, and was allowecP 
 to enter," objected Rupert again. 
 
 " That is no business of yours," said Mr. Chat- 
 taway. " All you have to do is to obey the rules- 
 I lay down. And I Avill have them obeyed," he 
 added, more sternly. 
 
 Rupert sat on, unoccupied. Octave, who was
 
 230 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 presiding at the breakfast table, did not give him 
 any coffee ; nobody attempted to hand him any- 
 thing to eat. Maude was seated opposite to 
 him: he could see that the unpleasantness was 
 agitating her painfully ; that her colour went and 
 came ; that she toyed with her breakfast, but 
 could not swallow it : least of all, dared she inter- 
 fere to give even so much as a bit of dry bread to 
 her ill-fated brother. 
 
 " Where did you sleep last night, pray 1 " in- 
 quired Mr. Chattaway, j)ausing in the midst of 
 helping himself to some pigeon-pie, as he looked 
 at Rupert to put the question. 
 
 " Not in this house," curtly replied Rupert. 
 The unkindness seemed to be changing his very 
 nature. It had continued long and long ; it had 
 been shown in many and various forms. 
 , The master of Trevlyn Hold finished helping 
 himself to the pie, and began eating it with great 
 apparent relish. He was about half-way through 
 the plateful when he again stopped to address 
 Rupert, who was sitting in silence, nothing but 
 the table-cloth before him. 
 
 " You need not wait. If you stop there until 
 mid-day, you'll get no breakfast. Gentlemen who 
 sleep outside do not break their fast in my 
 house." 
 
 Rupert pushed back his chair, and rose. Hap-
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 231 
 
 pening to glance across at Maude, he saw that her 
 tears were dropping silently. Oh, it was an un- 
 happy home for them both ! Rupert crossed the 
 hall to the door : he thought he might as well 
 depart at once for Blackstone. Fine as the morn- 
 ing was, the air, as he passed out, struck him vnih. 
 a chill, and he turned back to get an overcoat. 
 Sitting up does not impart a sense of additional 
 warmth to the frame. 
 
 It was in his bed-room. As he came do^vn with 
 it on his arm, Mrs. Chattaway was crossing the 
 corridor to descend. She drew him inside her 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " I could not sleep," she murmured ; " I was 
 awake nearly all night, grieving and thinking of 
 you. Just before daylight I dropped into a sleep, 
 and then I dreamt that you were running up to 
 the door from the rising waves of the sea, which 
 were rushing onwards to overtake you. I thought 
 you were knocking at the door, and we could not 
 get do^vn to it in time, and the waters came on 
 and on. Rupert, darling, all this is telling upon 
 me. Why did you not come in ? " 
 
 " I meant to be in, Aunt Edith ; indeed, I did ; 
 but I was playing at chess with George Ryle, and 
 did not notice the time. It was but just turned 
 half-past when I got here ; Mr. Chattaway might 
 have let me in without any great stretch of indul-
 
 232 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 gence," lie added, his tone one of bitterness. " So 
 might Oris." 
 
 " What did you do ? " she asked. 
 
 " I got in at old Canham's, and lay on their 
 settle. Don't repeat this, or it may get the Can- 
 hams into trouble." 
 
 " Have you had breakfast yet ? " 
 
 " I am not to have any." 
 
 The words startled her. " Rupert ! " 
 
 "Mr. Chattaway ordered me from the table. 
 The next thing, I expect, he Vvill be ordering me 
 from the house. If I knew where to go, I'd 
 not stop in it another day. I would not. Aunt 
 Edith." 
 
 " Have you had nothing — nothing ? " 
 
 " Nothing. I'd go round to the dairy and get 
 a draught of milk, but that I expect I should 
 be told upon. I'm off to Blackstone now^ Good- 
 bye." 
 
 The tears were filling her eyes as she lifted 
 them in their sad yearning. He stooj^ed and 
 kissed her. 
 
 " Don't grieve, Aunt Edith. You can't make 
 it better for me. I have got the cramp like any- 
 thing," he carelessly observed as he went off. 
 " It is through lying in the cold on that hard 
 settle." 
 
 " Rupert ! Rupert ! "
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 233 
 
 He turned back, half in alarm. The tone was 
 one of painful, wild entreaty. 
 
 " You will come home to-night, Rupert ? " 
 
 " Yes. Depend upon me." 
 
 She remained a few minutes longer, to watch 
 him do^vn the avenue. He had put on his coat 
 then, and went along with slow and hesitating 
 steps ; they did not seem like the firm, careless 
 steps of a hearty frame, springing from a happy 
 heart. Mrs. Chattaway pressed her hands upon 
 her brow, lost in a painful vision. If his father, 
 her once dearly-beloved brother Joe, could be 
 looking on at the injustice done on earth, what 
 would he think of the portion of it meted out to 
 Rupert ? 
 
 She descended to the breakfast-room. Mr. 
 Chattaway had finished his breakfast and was 
 rising. She kissed her children one by one ; she 
 sat down patiently and silently, smiling with out- 
 ward cheerfulness. Octave passed her a cup of 
 coffee, which was cold ; and they asked her what 
 she would take to eat. But she said she was not 
 hungry that morning, and would eat nothing. 
 
 " Rupert's gone away without his breakfast, 
 mamma," cried Emily. " Papa would not let him 
 have it. Serve him right ! He stayed out all 
 night." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway stole a glance at Maude. She
 
 234 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 was sitting pale and quiet, and lier bread-and- 
 butter uneaten before her ; lier air that of one 
 who has to bear some long, wearing pain. 
 
 " If you have finished your breakfast, Maude, 
 you can be getting ready to take the children for 
 their walk," said Octave, speaking ^\dth her usual 
 assumption of authority — an assumption which 
 Maude at least might not dispute. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway left the room, and ordered his 
 horse to be got ready. He was going to ride over 
 his land for an hour before proceeding to Black- 
 stone. While the animal was being saddled, he 
 rejoiced his eyes with his rich stores ; the com 
 heaped in his barns, the fine ricks of hay in his 
 rick-yard. All very satisfactory, very consoling 
 to the covetous mind of the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold. 
 
 He went out, riding hither and thither. Half 
 an hour afterwards when in the lane, spoken of 
 previously, which skirted Mrs. Ryle's lands on the 
 one side and his on the other, he saw another 
 horseman before him. It was George Ryle. Mr. 
 Chattaway touched his horse with the spur, and 
 rode up to him at a hand gallop. George turned 
 his head, saw it was Mr. Chattaway, and con- 
 tinued his way. That gentleman had been better 
 pleased that George had stopped. 
 
 " Are you hastening on to avoid me, Mr. Ryle ?"
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 235 
 
 he called out, in his sullen temper. " You might 
 have seen that I wished to speak to you, by the 
 pace to which I urged my horse." 
 
 George reined in, and turned to face Mr. Chat- 
 taway. " I saw nothing of the sort," he answered. 
 " Had I known that you wanted me, I should 
 have stopped ; but it is no unusual circumstance 
 for me to see you riding fast about your land." 
 
 " Well, what I have to say is this : that I'd 
 recommend you not to get Rupert Trevl}^! to 
 your house at night, and to keep him there to 
 unreasonable hours." 
 
 George paused. " I don't understand you, Mr. 
 Chattaway." 
 
 " Don't you ? " retorted that gentleman. " I'm 
 not talking Dutch. Rupert Trevlyn has taken to 
 frequent your house of late ; it's not altogether 
 good for him." 
 
 " Do you fear that he will get any harm in it ?" 
 quietly asked George. 
 
 "I think it would be better for him that he 
 should stay away. Is the Hold not sufficient for 
 him to spend his evenings in, but he must seek 
 amusement elsewhere ? I shall be obliged to you 
 not to encourage his visits." 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway," said George, his face full of 
 earnestness, as he turned it to that gentleman's, 
 " it appears to me that you are labouring under
 
 236 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 some mistake, or you would certainly not speak 
 to me as you are now doing. I do not encourage 
 Kupert to my mother's house, in one sense of the 
 word ; I never press for his visits. When he 
 does come, I show myself happy to see him and 
 make him welcome — as I should do by any other 
 visitor. Common courtesy demands this of me." 
 
 " You do press for his visits," said Mr. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 '' I do not," firmly repeated George. " Shall I 
 tell you why I do not ? I have no wish but to 
 be open in the matter. An impression has seated 
 itself in my mind that his visits to our house 
 displease you, and therefore I have not encouraged 
 them." 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Chattaway was rather taken aback 
 at this answer. At any rate, he made no reply 
 to it. 
 
 " But to receive him courteously when he does 
 come, I cannot help doing," continued George. 
 " I shall do it still, Mr. Chattaway. If Trevlyn 
 Farm is to be a forbidden house to Eupert, it is 
 not from our side that the interdict shall come. 
 So long as Rupert pays us these visits of friend- 
 ship — and what harm you can think they do him, 
 or why he should not pay them, I am unable to 
 conceive — so long he will be met with a wel- 
 come."
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 237 
 
 *' Do you say this to oppose me ? " 
 
 " Far from it. If you will look at the case in 
 an unprejudiced light, you may perhaps see that 
 I speak in accordance with the commonest usages 
 of civility. To shut the doors of our house on 
 Rupert when there exists no reason why they 
 should be shut — and most certainly he has given 
 us none — would be a breach of good feeling and 
 good manners that we might blush to be guilty of." 
 
 " You have been opposing me all the later 
 years of your life, George Ryle. From that past 
 time when I wished to place you with Wall and 
 Barnes, you have done nothing but act in opposi- 
 tion to me." 
 
 " I have forgiven that," said George, pointedly, 
 a glow rising to his face at the recollection. '' As 
 to any other opposition, I am unconscious of it. 
 You have given me advice occasionally respecting 
 the farm ; but the advice has not in general tallied 
 with my own opinion, and therefore I have not 
 taken it. If you call that opposing you, Mr. 
 Chattaway, I cannot help it." 
 
 " I see you have been mending that fence in 
 the three-cornered paddock," remarked Mr. Chat- 
 taway, passing to another subject, and speaking 
 in a different tone. Possibly, he had had enough 
 of the last. 
 
 " Yes," said George. " You would not mend it,
 
 238 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and therefore I have had it done. I cannot let 
 my cattle get into the pound. I shall deduct the 
 expense from the rent." 
 
 "You'll not," said Mr. Chattaway. "I won't 
 be at the cost of a penny piece of it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will," returned George, equably. 
 "The damage was done by your team, through 
 your wagoner's carelessness, and the cost of 
 making it good lies with you. Have you any- 
 thing more to say to me ? " he asked, after a 
 pause. " I am very busy this morning." 
 
 " Only this," replied Mr. Chattaway, in a sig- 
 nificant tone. "That the more you encourage 
 Eupert Trevl3rn, by making him a companion, 
 the worse it will be for him." 
 
 George lifted his hat in farewell salutation : he 
 could but be a gentleman, even to Chattaway. 
 The master of Trevtyn Hold replied by an un- 
 gracious nod, and turned his horse back dovm. the 
 lane. As George rode on, he met Edith and 
 Emily Chattaway — the children, as Octave had 
 styled them — ^running towards him at full speed. 
 They had seen their father, and were hastening 
 after him. Maude came up more leisurely. 
 George stooped to shake hands with her. 
 
 " You are looking pale and ill, Maude," he said, 
 his low voice full of sympathy, his hand retaining 
 hers. " Is it about Rupert ? "
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 239 
 
 " Yes," she replied, striving to keep down her 
 tears. "He was not allowed to come in last 
 night. He has been sent away without breakfast 
 this morning." 
 
 "I know all about it," said George. I met 
 Rupert just now, and he told me. I asked him 
 if he would go to Nora for some breakfast — I 
 could not do less, you know," added George, 
 musingly, as if debating the question with himself. 
 " But he declined. I am almost glad he did." 
 
 Maude was surprised. " Why ? " she asked. 
 
 " Because I have a notion in my mind — I 
 have felt it for some time — that any attention 
 shown to Bupert, no matter by whom, only 
 makes his position worse with Chattaway. And 
 Chattaway has now confirmed it, Maude, by tell- 
 ing me as much." 
 
 Maude's eyelids drooped over her eyes ; she 
 was trying to hide the gathering tears. " Oh, 
 how sad it is ! " she exclaimed, with emotion — 
 ^' and for one in his weak state ! If he were but 
 strong as the rest of us are, it would be of less 
 vital import. I fear — I do fear that he must 
 have slept under the trees in the avenue," she 
 continued, lifting her eyes now in her distress, 
 and forgetting what was in them. " Mr. Chat- 
 taway inquired where he had passed the night, 
 and Eupert answered "
 
 240 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I can relieve your fears so far, Maude/' inter- 
 rupted George, glancing round, as if to make 
 doubly sure that no undesirable ears were near. 
 " He Avas at old Canham's." 
 
 Maude heaved a deep sigh in her relief "You 
 are sure, George ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Rupert told me so just now. He 
 said how hard he found the settle. Here come 
 your charges back, Maude ; so I will say good- 
 bye." 
 
 She suffered her hand to linger in his, but her 
 heart was too full to speak. George bent lower. 
 
 " Do not make the grief heavier than you can 
 bear, Maude. It is grief — real grief ; but happier 
 times may be in store for Rupert — and for you." 
 
 He released her hand, and cantered down the 
 lane ; and the two girls came up, telling Maude 
 that they should go home now, for they had 
 walked long enough. And Maude might not 
 attempt to oppose her will to that of her pupils.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TORMENTS FOR THE MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 There appeared to be no place on earth for 
 Rupert Trevlyn. Most people have some little 
 nook that they can fit themselves into and call 
 their own ; but he had none. He was but suf- 
 fered at the Hold : he was made to feel stranger 
 and stranger in it day by day. 
 
 What could be the true source of this ill feelinof 
 towards Rupert? Did there exist some latent 
 dread in the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and from 
 thence penetrating to that of Cris, whispering 
 that he, Rupert, the true heir of Trevlyn 
 Hold, might at some future day, through some 
 unforeseen and apparently impossible chance, come 
 into his rights ? No doubt it was so. There are 
 no other means of accounting for it. It may be, 
 they deemed that the more effectually he was 
 kept under, treated as an object to be despised^ 
 lowered from his proper station, the less chance 
 would there be of that covert dread gi'owing into 
 
 VOL. I. B *
 
 242 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 a certainty. Whatever may have been its cause, 
 Rupert was shamefully put upon. It is true that 
 he sat at their table at meals — that he sat in the 
 same sitting-room. But at the table he was placed 
 below the rest, at any inconvenient corner, where 
 there was no room for his legs or his plate ; where 
 he was served last, and from the plainest dish. 
 If two dishes were on the table — boiled mutton 
 and roast turkey, let us say — while Mr. Chatta- 
 way's children revelled to their content in the 
 turkey and its sauces, Rupert had the mutton 
 dealt out to him. Mrs. Chattaway's heart would 
 ache ; but she could not alter it ; it had ached 
 from the same cause for many a year. Maude's 
 ached : and Maude would decline the rich viands 
 and eat the poor ones, that it might seem less hard 
 to Rupert. There were times, indeed, when Miss 
 Trevlyn v/ould speak up. " Rupert, don't you 
 prefer turkey ? " " Yes, Aunt Diana" — and jVIiss 
 Diana would call down the table, "Mr. Chattaway, 
 give Rupert some tui'key; he prefers it." But 
 this did not happen often : perhaps Miss Diana 
 was unobservant. In their evenings, when the 
 rest were gathered round the comfortable fire, 
 Rupert would be pushed back with the remote 
 chairs and tables, and left there to make the best 
 of the cold. Nothing in the world, of petty 
 wants, was so coveted by Rupert Trevlyn as a
 
 TORMENTS FOE, MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 243 
 
 waiin seat by the fire. It had been coveted by 
 his father when he was Eupert's age, and perhaps 
 Miss Diana remembered this, for she would call 
 Kupert forward to the fire, and sharply rebuke 
 those who would have kept him from it. 
 
 But Miss Diana was not always in the room ; 
 not often, in fact. She had her private sitting- 
 room up-stairs, as Mrs. Chattaway had hers ; and 
 both ladies more frequently retired to them in an 
 evening, leaving the younger ones to enjoy them- 
 selves, with their books and their work, their 
 music and their games, unrestrained by their pre- 
 sence. And poor Rupert was condemned to the 
 remote, cold, unsocial quarters of the room, where 
 nobody noticed him. 
 
 In that point alone, the cold, it was a bitter 
 trial. Of sjDare, thin frame, weakly of constitu- 
 tion, shiveiy by nature, a good fire and a place 
 close to it was to Rupert Trevlyn almost an es- 
 sential of existence. And it was what he rarely 
 got at Trevlyn Hold. No wonder he was driven 
 out. Even old Canham's wood fire, that he might 
 get right into if he pleased, was an improvement 
 upon the drawing-room at Trevlyru 
 
 But this digression is not getting on with the 
 story, and you will not thank me for it. After 
 parting with George Ryle, Maude Trevlyn, in 
 obedience to the imperious mandates of her pupils, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 turned her steps homewards. Emily was a bois- 
 terous, troublesome, disobedient girl ; Edith was 
 more gentle, more amiable, in looks and disposi- 
 tion resembling her mother ; but the example' of 
 her sisters was infectious, and spoiled her. There 
 was another daughter, Amelia, older than they 
 were, and at school at Barmester : a very disagree- 
 able girl indeed. 
 
 " What was George Ryle saying to you, Maude ?" 
 somewhat insolently asked Emily. 
 
 "He was talking of Kupert," she incautiously 
 answered, her mind buried in thought. 
 
 When they reached the Hold, Mr. Chattaway's 
 horse was being led about by a groom, waiting for 
 its master, who had returned, and was in-doors. 
 As they crossed the hall, they met him coming 
 out of the breakfast-room. Octave was with 
 him, talking. 
 
 " Oris would have waited, no doubt, papa, had 
 he known you wanted him. He ate his breakfast 
 in a hurry, and went out. I suppose he has gone 
 to Blackstone." 
 
 ''I particularly wanted him," grumbled Mr. 
 Chattaway, who never was pleasant-tempered at 
 the best of times, but would show himself unbear- 
 able if put out. " Oris knew I should want him 
 this morning. First Kupert, and then Oris ! Are 
 you all going to turn disobedient ?"
 
 TORMENTS FOPw MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 245 
 
 He made a halt at the door when he came to 
 it, putting on his riding-glove. They stood grouped 
 around him — Octave, Maude, and Emily. Edith 
 had run out, and was near the horse. 
 
 " I would give a crown piece to know what Mr. 
 Rupert did with himself last night," he savagely 
 uttered. " John," exalting his voice, " have you 
 any idea where Rupert Trevlyn hid himself all 
 night?" 
 
 The locking-out had been known to the house- 
 hold ; had afforded it considerable gossip. John 
 had taken part in it ; had joined in its surmises 
 and its comments ; therefore he was not at fault 
 for a ready answer. 
 
 " I don't know nothing certain, sir. It ain't 
 unlikely as he went down to the ' Sheaf o' Corn,' 
 and sle^y there." 
 
 " No, no, he did not," involuntarily burst from 
 Maude. 
 
 It was not a lucky admission, for its tone was 
 confidently decisive, implying that she knew where 
 he did sleep. She spoke in the moment's impulse. 
 The "Sheaf of Corn" was the nearest public 
 house ; it was notorious for its iiTegular doings, 
 and Maude felt shocked at the bare suggestion 
 that Rupert would enter such a place. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned to her. " Where did he 
 sleep ? What do you know about it ? "
 
 246 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Maude's face turned hot and cold. She opened 
 her lips to answer, but closed them agahi without 
 speaking, the words dying away in her uncer- 
 tainty and hesitation. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway may have felt surprised. He 
 knew perfectly well that Maude had held no com- 
 munication with Rupert that morning. He had 
 seen Rupert come in ; he had seen him go out ; 
 and Maude, the whole of the time, had not stirred 
 from his presence. He bent his cold grey eyes 
 upon her. 
 
 " From whom have you been hearing of Rupert's 
 doings ?" 
 
 It is very probable that Maude would have been 
 quite at a loss for an answer. To say, " I know 
 nothing of where Rupert slept," would have vio- 
 lated the rules of truth ; but to avow that the 
 lodge had sheltered him would not be expedient, 
 for its inmates' sake. Maude, however, was saved 
 a reply, for Emily spoke up before she had time 
 to give one, ill-nature in her tone, ill-nature in 
 her words. 
 
 " Maude must have heard it from George Ryle. 
 You saw her talking to him, papa. She said he 
 had been speaking of Rupert." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway did not ask another question. 
 It would have been superfluous to do so, in the 
 conclusion he had come to. He believed that
 
 TORMENTS FOR MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 247 
 
 Rupert had slept at Trevlyn Farm. How else 
 could George Ryle have had cognisance of his 
 movements ? 
 
 " They'll be hatching a plot to try to overthrow 
 me," he muttered to himself, as he went out to his 
 horse : for his was one of those mean, suspicious 
 natures which are always fancying the world is 
 putting itself in antagonism against them. "Maude 
 E-yle has been wanting to get me out of Trevlyn 
 Hold ever since I came into it. From the very 
 hour when she heard the squire's will read, and 
 found I had inherited, she has been planning and 
 plotting for it. She'd rather see Rupert in it 
 than me ; and she'd rather see her pitiful son 
 Treve in it than any. Yes, yes, Mr. Rupert, we 
 know what you frequent Trevlyn Farm for. But 
 it won't answer. It's waste of plans and waste of 
 time ; it's waste of wickedness. They must do 
 away with the executive of England's laws, before 
 they can upset Squire Trevlyn's will. I'm safe in 
 the estate. But it's not less annoying to know 
 that my tenure is continually plotted against ; 
 hauled over and peered into with their tongues 
 and brains, and turned and twisted about, to see 
 if they can't find a flaw in it, or insert one of their 
 own manufacture." 
 
 It was a most strange thing that these sus- 
 picious fears should hold perpetual place in the
 
 248 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 mind of the master of Trevlyn Hold. Not the 
 suspicion touching the plotting and the hatching ; 
 that came natural to him ; but the latent fears 
 lest his ownership should be shaken. A man who 
 holds an estate by means of a legal will, on which 
 no shade of a suspicion can be cast, need not 
 dread its being wrested from him. It was in 
 Squire Trevlyn's power to leave the Hold and its 
 revenues to whom he Avould. Had he chosen to 
 bequeath it to an utter stranger, one taken at 
 hazard from the list of names in the London 
 Directory, it was in his power so to do : and he 
 had bequeathed it to James Chattaway. Failing 
 direct male heirs, it may be thought that Mr. 
 Chattaway had as much right to it as any one 
 else ; at any rate, it had been the Squire's plea- 
 sure to bequeath it to him ; the bequest was made 
 in all due and legal and proper form, and there 
 the matter was at an end. It was looked upon 
 as at an end hy everybody except Ghattaivay. 
 Except Chattaway ! Why, I say, should it not 
 3iave been looked upon as at an end by him ? 
 Ay, there's the strange mystery. None can fathom 
 the curious depths of the human heart. That the 
 "master of Trevlyn Hold was ever conscious of a 
 vague dread that his tenure was to be some time 
 disturbed, Avas indisputable. He never betrayed 
 it to any living being by so much as a word ;
 
 TORMENTS FOR MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 249 
 
 he strove to hide it even from himself; he 
 pretended to ignore it altogether : but there it 
 was, down deep in his secret heart. There it 
 remained, and there it tormented him ; however 
 ■unwilling he might have been to acknowledge 
 that fact. 
 
 Could it be that a prevision of what was really 
 to take place was cast upon him ? — a myste- 
 rious, not-to-be-accounted-for foreshadowing of 
 the future. There are people who tell us that 
 such warnings come. 
 
 The singularity of the affair was, that no 
 grounds, or possible suspicion of grounds, could 
 exist for this latent fear. Why, then, should it 
 show itself ? In point of right, of justice, there's 
 no question that Rupert Trevl}^! was the true 
 heir ; but right and justice cannot contend against 
 law, as we know by the instances presented to 
 our notice every day ; and there was no more 
 chance that Rupert could succeed in the face of 
 the Squire's will, than that old Canham at the 
 lodge could succeed. Had the Squire's two sons 
 been living, he could have willed the estate to 
 Chattaway, had he chosen. Whence, then, arose 
 the fear ? Why, from that source whence it arises 
 in many people — a bad conscience. It was true 
 the estate had been legally left to him ; that he 
 was secure in it by the power of law ; but he
 
 250 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 knew that his own nefarious handiwork, his deceit, 
 had brought it to him ; he knew that when he 
 suppressed the news of the birth of Kupert, and 
 suffered Squire Trevlyn to go to his grave unin- 
 formed of the fact, he was guilty of nothing less 
 than a crime in the sight of God. Mr. Chattaway 
 had heard of that inconvenient thing, retribution, 
 and his fancy suggested that it might possibly 
 overtake hiTn. 
 
 If he had but known that he might have set 
 his mind at rest as to the plotting and planning, 
 he would have cared less to oppose Rupert's visits 
 to Trevlyn Farm. Nothing could be further from 
 the thoughts of Rupert, or from George Ryle, 
 than any hatching of plots against Chattaway. 
 Their evenings, when together, were spent in 
 harmless conversation, in chess, in other rational 
 ways, without so much as a reference to Chatta- 
 way. But that gentleman did not know it, and 
 tormented himself perpetually. 
 
 He got on his horse, and rode away. As he 
 was passing Trevlyn Farm, buried in his un- 
 pleasant thoughts, which of course turned upon 
 that terrible bugbear of his life, hatching and 
 plotting, he saw Nora Dickson at the fold-yard 
 gate. A thought struck him, and he turned his 
 horse's head towards her. 
 
 " How came your people to give Rupert Trevlyn
 
 TORMENTS FOR MASTER OF TREVLYN HOLD. 251 
 
 a bed last night ? They must know it would 
 very much displease me." 
 
 " Give Rupert Trevlyn a bed I" repeated Nora, 
 regarding Mr. Chattaway with the uncompromising 
 stare which she was fond of according that gentle- 
 man. " He did not have a bed here." 
 
 ''No !" replied Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " No/' reiterated Nora. " What should he want 
 with a bed here? Has he not got his own at 
 Trevlyn Hold ? One bed there isn't much for 
 him, when he might have expected to own the 
 whole of the place ; but I suppose he can at least 
 count upon that." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned his horse short round, 
 and rode away without another word. He always 
 got the worst of it with Nora. A trifling explo- 
 sion of his private sentiments with regard to her 
 was spoken to the air, and he again became 
 absorbed on the subject of Rupert. 
 
 " Where, then, did he pass the night ? "
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 
 
 It was Nora's day for churning. The butter 
 was made twice a-week at Trevljn Farm, and the 
 making of it fell to Nora. She was sole priestess 
 of the dairy : it was many and many a long year 
 since anybody but herself had interfered in it : 
 excejDt, indeed, in the churning. One of the men 
 on the farm did that for her in a general way : 
 and the w^ords above, with which this chapter 
 commences, " It was Nora's day for churning," 
 would be looked upon by anybody familiar with 
 the executive of Trevlvn Farm as a fiorure of 
 
 t/ o 
 
 speech. 
 
 In point of fact, however, they would have 
 proved to be literally true as to this particular 
 day. When Nora was detected at the fold-yard 
 gate by Mr. Chattaway, idly staring up and down 
 the road, she was looking for Jim Sanders, to 
 order him in to churn. Not the Jim Sanders 
 whom you heard mentioned in the earlier portion
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY's OFFICE. 253 
 
 of our histoiy, but Jim's son. Jim the elder was 
 dead : he had brought on rather too many attacks 
 of inward inflammation (a disease to which he 
 was predisposed) with his love of beer ; and at 
 last one attack worse than the rest came, and 
 proved too much for him. The present Jim, 
 representative of his name, was a youth of four- 
 teen, not overdone with brains, but strong of 
 muscle and sound of limb, and was found handy 
 on the farm, where he was required to make 
 himself useful at any work that came uppermost. 
 
 Just now he was wanted to turn the churn. 
 The man who usually performed that duty was 
 too busy out of doors to be spared for it to-day : 
 therefore it fell to Jim. But Nora could not see 
 Jim anywhere, and she returned in-doors and 
 commenced the work herself. 
 
 The milk at the right temperature — for Nora 
 was too experienced a dairy woman not to know 
 that if she attempted to churn at the wrong one, 
 it would be hours before the butter came — she 
 took out the thermometer, and turned the milk 
 into the churn. As she was doing this, the ser- 
 vant entered : a tall, stolid girl, remarkable for 
 little except her height : Nanny, by name. 
 
 " Ain't nobody coming in to churn 1 " asked 
 she. 
 
 " It seems not," answered Nora.
 
 254 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " Shall I do it ? " 
 
 " Not if I know it," returned Nora. " You'd 
 like to quit your work for this straightforward 
 pastime, wouldn't you ? Have you got the pota- 
 toes on for the pigs ? " 
 
 " No/' said Nanny, sullenly. 
 
 " Then go and see about it. You know it was 
 to be done to-day. And I suppose the fire's 
 burning and wasting away under the furnace in 
 readiness." 
 
 Nanny stalked out of the dairy. She nearly 
 always went about in pattens, which made her 
 look like some great giantess moving in the house. 
 Nora churned steadily away, using her arms alter- 
 nately, and turned her butter on to the making- 
 up board in about three-quarters of an hour. As 
 she was proceeding to make it up, she saw through 
 the wired window George ride into the fold-yard, 
 and leave his horse in the stable. Another 
 minute, and he came in. 
 
 '' Is Mr. Callaway not come yet, Nora ? " 
 
 " I have seen nothing of him, Mr. George." 
 
 George took out his watch : the one bequeathed 
 him by his father. It was only a silver one — as it 
 may be in your remembrance. Mr. Ryle remarked 
 — but George valued it as though it had been set 
 in diamonds. He would be sure to wear that 
 watch and no other so long as he should live. His
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 255 
 
 initials were engraved on it now : G. B. R. stand- 
 ing for George Berkeley Kyle. 
 
 " If Callaway cannot keep his appointments 
 better than this, I shall beg him not to make 
 any more with me," he remarked. " The last 
 time he came he kept me waiting three parts of 
 an hour." 
 
 " Have you seen Jim Sanders this morning ? " 
 asked Nora. 
 
 " Jim Sanders ? I saw him in the stable as I 
 rode out." 
 
 " I should like to find him ! " said Nora. " He 
 is skulking somewhere. I have had to chum 
 myself." 
 
 "Where's Roger, then?" 
 
 "Roger couldn't hinder his time in-doors to- 
 day. I say, Mr. George, what's the matter up at 
 Trevlyn Hold again about Rupert?" resumed 
 Nora, turning from her butter to glance at 
 George. 
 
 "Why do you ask ?" was his reply. 
 
 '' Chattaway rode by an hour ago when I was 
 outside looking after Jim Sanders. He stopped 
 his horse, and asked how we came to give Rupert 
 a bed last night, when we knew that it would 
 displease him. Like his insolence ! " 
 
 " What answer did you make ? " said George, 
 after a pause.
 
 256 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I gave him one," replied Nora, significantly. 
 " Chattaway needn't fear he'll get no answer 
 when he comes to me. He knows that." 
 
 " But what did yon say about Rupert ? " 
 
 '' I said we had not given him a bed. That he 
 he had not slept here. If Chattaway " 
 
 Nora s speech Avas interrupted by the entrance 
 of Mr. Chattaway's daughter, Octave. She had 
 come to the farm, and, attracted by the sound of 
 voices in the dairy, made her way to it at once. 
 Miss Chattaway had taken it into her head lately 
 to be friendly at Trevljni Farm, honouring it with 
 frequent visits. Mrs. Ryle neither encouraged nor 
 repulsed her. She was civilly indifferent ; but 
 the young lady chose to take that as a welcome. 
 Nora did not show her much greater favour than 
 she was in the habit of showing her father. She 
 bent her head over her butter-board, as if unaware 
 that anybody had entered. 
 
 George took off his hat, which he had been 
 wearing, as she stepped on to the cold floor of 
 the dairy, and received her hand, which was held 
 out to him. " Are you quite well, Miss Chatta- 
 way ?" 
 
 "Who would have thought of seeing you at home 
 at this hour ? " she exclaimed, in the pretty, win- 
 ning manner she could put on at times, and which 
 she always did put on to George Ryle.
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 257 
 
 " And in Xora's dairy, watching her make up 
 the butter!" he answered, in his free, pleasant, 
 laughing tone. " The fact is, I have an appoint- 
 ment with a gentleman this morning, and he is 
 keeping me waiting and making me angry. I 
 can't spare the time to be in-doors." 
 
 " You look angry ! " exclaimed Octave, laughing 
 at him. 
 
 " Looks go for nothing," returned George. 
 
 " Is your harvest nearly in ? " 
 
 " If this fine weather shall only last four or five 
 days longer, it will be all in. We have had a 
 glorious harvest this year. I hope everybody's as 
 thankful for it as I am." 
 
 " You have some especial cause to be thankful 
 for it ? " she observed. 
 
 " I have." 
 
 She had spoken lightly, and the strangely 
 earnest tone of the answer struck upon her. 
 George could have said that but for that plentiful 
 harvest they might not quite so soon have got rid 
 of her father's debt. 
 
 " When shall you hold your harvest home ? " 
 
 " Next Thursday ; this day week," replied 
 George. " Will you come to it ? " 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Octave. "Yes, I 
 will." 
 
 Had it been to save his life, George Ryle could 
 
 YOL. I. S
 
 258 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 not liave helped tlie sui'prise in his eyes, as he 
 turned them on Octave Chattaway. He had 
 asked the question in the Hght, careless gaiety of 
 the moment ; really not intending it as an invita- 
 tion ; if he had meant it as an invitation, and 
 proffered it in all earnestness, he never would 
 have supposed it one to be accepted by Octave. 
 Mr. Chattaway's family had not been in the habit 
 of visiting at Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 " In for a penny, in for a pound," thought 
 George. " I don't know what Mrs. Eyle will say 
 to this ; but if she comes, some of the rest shall 
 come." 
 
 It almost seemed as if Octave had divined part 
 of his thoughts. " I must ask my Aunt Kyle 
 whether she wnW. have me. I shall tell her, by 
 way of bribe, that I delight in harvest homes." 
 
 " We must have you all," said George. " Your 
 sisters and Maude. Treve will be at home I 
 expect, and the Apperleys wdll be here." 
 
 " Vv^ho else vv^ill be here ? " asked Octave. "But 
 I don't know about m}^ sisters and Maude." 
 
 '' Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. They and the Apper- 
 leys always come." 
 
 " That starched old parson ! " uttered Octave. 
 '"' Does he come to a harvest home ? He is not a 
 favourite with us at the Hold." 
 
 '' I think he is v/ith your mamma."
 
 MR. CKATTAWAy'S OFFICE. 259 
 
 " Oh, mamma's nobody. Of course we are civil 
 to the Freemans, and exchange dull visits A^dth 
 them once or twice a-year. You must be passably 
 civil to the parson you sit under." 
 
 There was a pause. Octave advanced nearer 
 to Nora, who had gone on diligently with her 
 work, never turning her head, or noticing Miss 
 Chattaway b}^ so much as a look. Octave drew 
 close and watched her. 
 
 ''How industrious you are, Kora ! — as if you 
 enjoyed the occupation. I should not like to 
 grease my hands, making up butter." 
 
 " There are some might make it up in white kid 
 gloves to save their hands," retorted Nora. " The 
 butter wouldn't be any the better for it, Miss 
 Chattaway." 
 
 At this juncture Mrs. Ryle's voice was heard, 
 and Octave quitted the dairy to go in search of 
 her. George was about to folloAv when Nora 
 stopped him. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this new friendship 
 for us here — of these morning calls, and proffered 
 evening visits?" she asked ; her voice full of grave 
 seriousness, her eyes thrown keenly on George's 
 face. 
 
 '' How should I know ? " he carelessly replied. 
 
 '' If you don't, I do," slie said. '' Can you take 
 care of yourself, George Ryle ? " 
 
 s 2
 
 260 TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " I believe I can." 
 
 " Then do/' said Xora, with an emphatic nod. 
 *' And don't despise my caution : perhaps you may 
 want it." 
 
 He laughed in his gay light-heartedness : but 
 he did not tell jSTora hov/ entirely unnecessary her 
 precautionary warning was. 
 
 Later in the day, George Ryle had business 
 which took him to Blackstone. It was no inviting 
 ride. The place, as he drew near, had that flat, 
 dreary, black aspect peculiar to the neighbourhood 
 of mines in work. Kows of black and smoky huts 
 were to be seen, the dwellings of the men who 
 worked in the pits ; and little children ran about 
 with naked legs and tattered clothing, w^hose thin 
 faces were of squalid whiteness. 
 
 " Is it the perpetual dhi they live in that makes 
 these children look so unhealthy?" thought George 
 — a question he had asked himself a hundred 
 times. '' I believe the mothers never wash them ; 
 perhaps they deem it v/ould be a work of supere- 
 rogation, where all around is so black — even to 
 the very atmosphere." 
 
 Black, indeed ! Within George's view at that 
 moment might be seen high chimneys congregat- 
 ing in all directions, their tall tops throwing out 
 their volumes of smoke and flame. Numerous 
 works were established around, connected with
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 261 
 
 iron and other productions of the richly-endowed 
 mines which abounded in the neighbourhood. 
 Valuable parts of land for the use of man — for 
 the furtherance of his civilisation, his comforts — 
 for the increase of his wealth ; but not pleasant 
 for his eye, as compared with the rich fertilisation 
 of other spots, with their clear air, their green 
 meadows, and their blossoming trees. 
 
 The office belonging to the colliery of Mr. Chat- 
 taway stood in a particularly dreary angle of the 
 main road. It was a low but not very small 
 building, facing the road on one side, looking to 
 those tall chimneys and the dreary flat of country 
 on two of the others. On the fourth was a sort of 
 inclosed yard or waste ground, which appeared to 
 contain nothing but different heaps of coal, a pe- 
 culiar description of barrow, and some round shal- 
 low baskets. The building looked like a gi'eat 
 shed ; it was roofed over, and divided inside into 
 partitions. 
 
 As George rode by, he saw Rupert standing at 
 the naiTOw entrance door, leaning against its side, 
 as if in fatigue or idleness. Ford, the clerk, a 
 young man accustomed to take life in an easy man- 
 ner, and to give himself little concern as to how 
 it went, was standing near, his hands in his 
 pockets. To see them thus, doing nothing, was 
 sufficient to tell George that Chattaway was not
 
 262 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 about, and he rode across the strip of waste land" 
 intervening between the road and the office. 
 
 *' You look tired, K-upert." 
 
 " It's what I am," answered Rupert. " If things 
 are to go on like this, I shall grow tired of life." 
 
 " Not yet," said George, cheeringly. " You may 
 talk of that, perhaps, some fifty years hence." 
 
 Kupert made no answer. The sunlight (which 
 had decidedly a black shade in it) fell on his fair 
 features, on his golden hair. There was a hag- 
 gardness in those features, a melancholy look in 
 the dark blue eyes, that George did not like to 
 see. Ford, the clerk, who was humming the verse 
 of a song, cut short the melody in its midst, and 
 addressed George. 
 
 " He has been in this gay state all the after- 
 noon, sir. A charming companion for a fellow ! 
 It's a good thing I'm pretty jolly myself, or we 
 might both get consigned to the county asylum ; 
 two cases of melancholy madness. I hope he won't 
 make a night of it again — that's all. Nothing 
 wears out a chap for the day like no bed, and no 
 breakfast at the end of it." 
 
 " It isn't that," said Rupei-t. '' I'm sick of it 
 altogether. There has been nothing but a row 
 here all day, George — ask Ford. Chattaway has 
 been on at us all. First, he attacked me : he 
 demanded where I slept, and I wouldn't tell him :
 
 Mn. chattaway's office. 263 
 
 next, lie attacked Cris — a most unusual thing — 
 and Cris has not got over it yet. He has gone 
 galloping off, to gallop his ill temper away." 
 
 " Chattaway has ? " 
 
 " Not Chattaway ; Cris. Cris never came here 
 until one o'clock, and Chattaway had wanted hirn, 
 and there ensued a row. Next, Ford came in for 
 it : he had made his entries wrong. Something 
 had uncommonly put out Chattaway — that was 
 certain ; and to mend his temper, the inspector of 
 collieries came to-day and found fault, ordering 
 things to be done that Chattaway says he won't do." 
 
 " Where's Chattaway now ? " 
 
 "Oh, he's gone home. I wish I was there," 
 added Rupert, " without the trouble of walking to 
 it. Chattaway has been ordering a load of coals 
 to the Hold. If they were going this evening 
 instead of to-morrow morning, I protest I'd take 
 my seat upon them, and get home that way." 
 
 " Are you so very tired ? " asked George. 
 
 "Dead beat." 
 
 " It's the sitting up," put in Ford again. " I 
 don't think much of that kind of thing will do for 
 Mr. Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 " Perhaps it wouldn't do for you," grumbled 
 Rupert. 
 
 George prepared to ride away. " Have you had 
 any dinner, Rupert ? " he asked.
 
 264 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I tried some, but my appetite had gone by. 
 Chattaway was here till past two o'clock, and after 
 that I wasn't hungiy." 
 
 " He tried at bread-and-cheese," said Ford. " I 
 told him if he'd get a piece of steak I'd cook it 
 for him, if he was too tired to cook it himself ; but 
 he didn't." 
 
 " I must be gone," said George. " You wdll 
 not have left in half an hour's time, shall you, 
 Rupert ? " 
 
 " No ; nor in an hour either." 
 
 George rode off over the black and stony ground, 
 and they looked after him. Then Ford bethought 
 himself of a messao^e he was charo^ed to deliver at 
 one of the pits, and Rupert went in-doors and sat 
 do^vn to the desk on his high stool. 
 
 "Within the half-hour George Ryle was back. 
 He rode up to the door, and dismounted. Rupert 
 came forward, a pen in his hand. 
 
 "Are you ready to go home now, Rupert?" 
 
 Rupert shook his head. " Ford went to the 
 pit, and is not back yet ; and I have a lot of 
 writing to do. Why ? " 
 
 " I thought w^e would have gone home together. 
 You shall ride my horse, and I'll walk ; it will 
 tire you less than going on foot." 
 
 " You are very kind, George," said Rupert. " Yes, 
 I should like to ride. I was thinking just now,
 
 MR. CH ATT A way's OFFICE. 265 
 
 that if Oris were worth anything, he'd let me ride 
 his horse back. But he's not worth anything, and 
 he'd no more let me ride his horse and walk him- 
 self, than he'd let me ride him." 
 
 '' Is Cris not gone home ? " 
 
 " I fancy not. Unless he has gone by without 
 calling in. Will you wait, George ? " 
 
 " No. I must walk on. But I'll leave you the 
 horse. You can leave it at the Farm, Rupert, and 
 walk the rest of the way." 
 
 "I can ride on to the Hold, and send it back." 
 
 George hesitated for half a moment before he 
 spoke. " I would prefer that you should leave it 
 at the Farm, Ruj^ert. It will not be far for you to 
 walk after that." 
 
 Rupert acquiesced. Did he wonder why he 
 might not ride the horse to the Hold ? George 
 would not say to him, " Because even that slight 
 attention must, if possible, be kept from Chat- 
 taway." 
 
 He fastened the bridle to a hook in the wall's 
 angle, where Mr. Chattaway often tied his horse, 
 where Cris sometimes tied his. There was a 
 stable near ; but unless they were going to remain 
 in the office or about the pits, Mr. Chattaway and 
 his son seldom put up their horses. 
 
 George Ryle walked avv^ay with a hearty step, 
 and Rupert returned to his desk. A quarter of an
 
 266 TEEYLYN HOLD. 
 
 hour passed on, and the clerk, Ford, did not return. 
 Rupert got impatient for his arrival, and went to 
 the door to look out for him. He did not see 
 Ford ; but he did see Cris Chattaway. Oris was 
 approaching on foot, at a snail's pace, leading his 
 horse, which was dead lame. 
 
 "Here's a nice bother I " called out Cris. " How 
 I am to get back home, I don't know.' 
 
 " What has happened ? " returned Rupert. 
 
 " Can't you see what has happened ? How it 
 happened, I am unable to tell you. All I know is, 
 the horse fell suddenly lame, and whined out like 
 a child. Something must have run into his foot, 
 I conclude : is there still, perhaps ? Whose horse 
 is that ? Why, it's George Ryle's," concluded 
 Cris, in the same breath, as he drev^ sufficiently 
 near to recognise it. "What brings his horse 
 here."' 
 
 " He has lent it to me, to save my walking 
 home," said E,upei*t. 
 
 " ^Y}l&re is he ? Here ? " 
 
 " He has gone home on foot. I can't think 
 where Ford's lingering," added Rupert, walking 
 into the yard, and mounting on one of the 
 smaller heaps of coal to get a better view of the 
 side road from the collier}-, by which Ford might 
 be expected to arrive. " He has been gone this 
 hour."
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 267 
 
 Oris was Y/alking off in the direction of the 
 stable, carefully leading his horse. ''What are 
 you going to do with him V asked E-upert. " To 
 leave him in the stable ?" 
 
 " Until I can get home and send the groom for 
 him. I'tiI not going to cool my heels, dragging 
 him home," retorted Oris. 
 
 Rupert retii'ed in-doors, and sat doYvTi on the 
 high stool. He had some accounts to make up 
 yet. They had to be done that evening ; and as 
 Ford did not come in to do them, he must. Had 
 Ford been there, Rupert vx^ould have left him to 
 do it, and gone home at once. 
 
 " I wonder how many years bf my life I am to 
 wear out in this lively place ?" thought Rupert, 
 after five minutes of uninteirupted attention 
 given to his work, which in consequence slightly 
 progressed. " It's a shame that I should be put 
 to it. A paid fellow at ten shillings a-week 
 would do it better than I. If Chattaway had 
 a spark of good feeling in him, he'd put me 
 into a farm. It would be better for me alto- 
 gether, and more fitting for a Trevlyn. Catch 
 him at it 1 He'd not let me be my own master 
 for " 
 
 A sound as of a horse trotting off from the 
 door interrupted Rupert's cogitations. He flew 
 off his stool to see. A thought crossed him that
 
 268 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 George Ryle's horse might have got loose, and be 
 speeding home riderless, at his own will and 
 pleasure. 
 
 George Ryle's horse it was, but not riderless. 
 To Rupert's intense astonishment, he saw Mr. Oris 
 mounted on him, leisurely riding away. 
 
 " Halloa 1" called out Rupert, speeding after the 
 horse and his rider. " What are you going to do 
 with that horse. Oris ?" 
 
 Oris turned his head but did not stop. " I'm 
 going to ride him home. His having been left 
 here just happens right for me." 
 
 "You get off," shouted Rupert. "The horse 
 was lent to me, not to you. Do you hear. Oris V 
 
 Oris heard, but did not stojD : he was urging 
 the horse faster. " Tou don't want him," he 
 roughly said. " You can walk, as you always 
 do." 
 
 Further remonstrance, further following, was use- 
 less. Rupert's words were drowned in the echoes 
 of the horse's hoofs, galloping away in the dis- 
 tance. Rupert stood, white with anger, impotent 
 to stop him, his hands stretched out on the empty 
 air, as if their action could arrest the horse and 
 bring him back. Certainly the mortification v/as 
 bitter ; the circumstance precisely one of those 
 likely to excite the choler of an excitable nature ; 
 and Rupert was on the point of going into that
 
 ME. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 269 
 
 dangerous fit of madness known as the Trevlyn 
 passion, when its course was turned aside by a 
 hand being laid upon his shoulder. 
 
 He turned, it may almost be said, savagely. 
 Ford was standing there out of breath, his good- 
 humoured face red with the exertion of running. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Rupert, you'll do a fellow a service, 
 won't you ? I have had a message that my 
 mother's taken suddenly ill; a fit, they say, of 
 some sort. Will you finish what there is to do 
 here, and lock up for once, so that I can go home 
 directly?" 
 
 Eupert nodded. In his passionate disappoint- 
 ment about the horse, at having to walk home 
 when he expected to ride, at being put upon, 
 treated as of no account by Oris Chattaway, it 
 seemed of little moment to him how long he 
 remained, or what work he had to do : and the 
 clerk, waiting for no farther permission, sped away 
 with a fleet foot. Rupert's face was losing its 
 deathly whiteness — there is no degree of whiteness 
 like unto that born of passion or of sudden terror ; 
 and when he sat down again to the desk, the 
 hectic of reaction was shining in his cheeks and 
 lips. 
 
 Well, oh, well for him, could these dangerous 
 fits of passion have been always arrested in their 
 course on the threshold, as this had been arrested
 
 270 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 now ! The word dangerous is put advisedly : 
 they brought nothing less than danger in their 
 train. 
 
 But, alas ! this was not to be.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DEAD BEAT. 
 
 Nora was at some business or other in the 
 fold-yard, when the man-servant at TrevljTi Hold, 
 more especially devoted to the service of Oris 
 Chattaway, came in at the gate with George 
 Ryle's horse. As he passed Nora on his way to 
 the stables, she turned round, and the man 
 spoke. 
 
 " Mr. Ryle's horse, ma'am. Shall I take it 
 on?" 
 
 " You know the way," was Nora's short answer. 
 She did not regard the man with any favour, 
 reflecting upon him, in her usual partial fashion, 
 the dislike she entertained for his master and for 
 Trevlyn Hold in general. " Mr. Trevlyn has sent 
 it, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Mr. Trevl3ni ! " repeated the groom, betraying 
 some surprise. 
 
 Now, it was a fact that at Trevlyn Hold, Rupert 
 was never called " Mr. Trevlyn." Tho.t it was
 
 272 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 his proper style and title, was indisputable ; but 
 Mr. Chattaway had as gi-eat a dislike to hear 
 Rupert called by it as he had a wish to hear 
 himself styled " the squire." At the Hold, Rupert 
 was " Mr. Rupert" only, and the neighbourhood 
 generally had fallen into the same familiar style 
 when speaking of or to him. Nora supposed the 
 man's repetition of the name had insolent refe- 
 rence to this ; as much as to say, " Who's Mr. 
 Trevlyn 1 " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Trevlyn," she resumed, in a sharp 
 tone of reprimand. " He is Mr. Trevlyn, Sam 
 Atkins, and you know that he is, however some 
 people may wish that it should be forgotten. He 
 is not Mr. Rupert, and he is not Mr. Rupert 
 Trevlyn, but he is Mr. Trevlyn ; and if he had 
 his rights, he'd be Squire Trevlyn. There ! you 
 may go and tell your master that I said it." 
 
 Sam Atkins, a civil, quiet young fellow, was 
 overpowered with astonishment at Nora's burst 
 of eloquence. " I'm not saying aught again it, 
 ma'am," cried he, when he had recovered himself 
 sufficiently to speak. " But Mr. Rupert didn't 
 send me with the horse at all. It was young 
 Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " What had he got to do with it ? " resentfully 
 asked Nora. 
 
 " He rode it home from Blackstone."
 
 DEAD BEAT. 273 
 
 '' He rode it 1 Oris Chattaway ? " 
 
 " Yes/' said the gi'oom. '' He lias just got 
 home now, and he told me to bring the horse 
 back at once." 
 
 Nora pointed to the man to take the horse on 
 to its stable, and went in-doors. She could not 
 understand it. When George returned home on 
 foot, and she inquired what he had done with his 
 horse, he told her that he had left it at Black- 
 stone for Rupert Trevlyn. To hear now that it 
 was Oris who had had the benefit of it, and not 
 Rupert, excited Nora's indignation. But the 
 indiomation would have increased fourfold had 
 
 o 
 
 she known that Mr. Oris had rode the horse hard, 
 and made a detour of some five miles out of his 
 way, to transact a matter of private business of 
 his own. She went straight to George, who was 
 seated at tea with Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 ''Mr. George, I thought you said to me that 
 you had left your horse at Blackstone for Rupert. 
 Trevlyn, to save his walking home ? " 
 
 " So I did," replied George. 
 
 " Then it's Oris Chattaway who has come home 
 on it. I'd see liirn far enough before he should 
 have the benefit of my horse !" 
 
 " It can't be," returned George ; " you must be 
 mistaken, Nora ; Oris had his own horse there." 
 
 "You can go and ask for yourself," rejoined
 
 274^ TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Nora, in a crusty tone, not at all liking to be told 
 that she was mistaken, " Sam Atkins is putting 
 the horse in the stable, and he says it was Cri& 
 Chattaway who rode it from Blackstone." 
 
 George did go and ask for himself. He could 
 not understand it at all; and he had no more 
 fancy for allowing Oris Chattaway the use of his 
 horse than Nora had. He supposed they had 
 been exchanging steeds ; though why they should 
 do so, he could not imagine : that Oris had used 
 his, and Rupert the one belonging to Oris. 
 
 Sam Atkins was in the stable, talking to Roger, 
 one of the men about the farm. George sav/ at 
 a glance that his horse had been ridden hard. 
 
 " Who rode this horse home 1 " he inquired, as 
 the groom touched his hat to him. 
 
 " Young Mr. Chattaway, sir." 
 
 " And Mr. Rupert : what did he ride ? " 
 
 " Mr. Rupert, sir ? I don't think he is come 
 home." 
 
 " Where's Mr. Cris Chattaway's own horse ? " 
 
 "He have left it at Blackstone, sir. It fell 
 dead lame, he says. I be going for it now." 
 
 George paused. "I lent my horse to Mr. 
 Rupert," he said. "Do you know how it was 
 that he did not use it himself? " 
 
 " I don't know nothing about it, sir. Mr. Cris 
 came home just now on your horse, and told me
 
 DEAD BEAT. 275 
 
 to bring it do-vvn here immediate. His orders 
 was, to go on to Blackstone for his, and to mind 
 I led it gently home. He never mentioned Mr. 
 Eupert." 
 
 Considerably later — in fact, it was past nine 
 o'clock — Rupert Trevljrn appeared- George Ryle 
 was leaning over the gate at the foot of his 
 garden in a musing attitude, the bright stars 
 above him, the slisfht frost of the autumn nio^ht 
 rendering the air clear, though not veiy cold, 
 when he saw a figure come slowjy winding up 
 the road. It was Rupert Trevlyn. The same 
 misfortune seemed to have befallen him that had 
 befallen the horse, for he limped as he walked. 
 
 " Are you lame, Eupert ? " asked George. 
 
 ''Lame with fatigue; nothing else," answered 
 Eupeit in that low, half-inaudible voice which 
 a very depressed state of physical energy will 
 induce. Let me come in and sit down half an 
 hour, George, or I shall never £jet to the Hold." 
 
 " How was it that you let Cris Chattaway ride 
 my horse home ? I left it for yourself." 
 
 " Let him ! He mounted and galloped off 
 without my knowing — the sneak ! I should be 
 ashamed to be guilty of such a trick. I declare 
 I had half a mind to ride his horse home, lame as 
 it was. But that the poor animal is in evident 
 
 pain, I would have done it ! " 
 
 T 2
 
 276 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " You are very late." 
 
 " I have been such a Avhile coming. The truth 
 is, I sat down when I was half way here ; I was 
 so dead tired I couldn't stir a step ; and I dropped 
 asleep." 
 
 " A veiy wise proceeding ! " cried George, in a 
 pleasant, though mocking tone. He did not care 
 to say more plainly how uimise — nay, how per- 
 nicious, it might be for Rupert Trevlyn. "Did 
 you sleep long ? " 
 
 ''Pretty well. The stars were out when I 
 awoke ; and I felt ten times more tired when I 
 got up than I had felt when I sat down." 
 
 George placed him in the most comfortable 
 arm-chair they had, and got him a glass of wine. 
 Nora brought some refreshment, but Rupert could 
 not eat it. 
 
 " Try it," urged George. 
 
 " I can't," said Eupert ; " I am completely done 
 over." 
 
 He leaned back in the chair, his fair curls falling 
 on its cushions, his bright face — ^bright mth a 
 touch of inward fever — turned upwards to the 
 light. Gradually his eyelids closed, and he 
 dropped into a calm sleep. 
 
 George sat watching him. Mrs. Ryle, wlio was 
 poorly still, had retired to her chamber for the 
 night, and they were alone. Very unkindly, as
 
 DEAD BEAT. 277 
 
 may be thought, George woke him soon, and told 
 him it was time for him to go. 
 
 " Do not deem me inhospitable, Rupert ; but it 
 will not do for you to be locked out again to- 
 night." 
 
 " What's the time ? " asked Rupert. 
 
 " Considerably past ten." 
 
 " I was in such a nice dream. I thought 1 was 
 being carried along in a large sail belonging to a 
 ship. The motion was pleasant and soothing to a 
 degree. Past ten ! What a bother ! I shall be 
 half dead again before I get to the Hold." 
 
 '■' I'll lend you my arm, Ru, to help you along." 
 
 " That's a good fellow 1 " exclaimed Rupert. 
 
 He got up and stretched himself, and then fell 
 back in his chair, like a leaden weight. " I'd 
 give five shillings to be there without the trouble 
 of walking," quoth he. 
 
 " Rupert, you will be late." 
 
 " I can't help it," returned Rupert, folding his 
 arms and leaning back again in the chair. " If 
 Chattaway locks me out again, he must. I'll sit 
 down in the portico until morning, for I shan't be 
 able to stir another step from it." 
 
 Rupert was in that physically depressed state 
 which reacts upon the mind. It may be said that 
 he was as incapable of care as of exertion : 
 whether he got in or not, whether he passed the
 
 278 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 night in a comfortable bed, or "under the trees in 
 the avenue, seemed of very little moment in his 
 present state of feeling. Altogether, he Avas some 
 time getting off; and they heard the remote 
 church clock of Barbrook chime out the half-past 
 ten before they were half-way to the Hold. The 
 sound came distinctly to their ears on the calm 
 night air. 
 
 "I was somewhere about this spot when the 
 half-hour struck last night, for your clocks were 
 fast," remarked Rupert. " I ran all the way home 
 after that — mth what success, you know. I can't 
 rim to-night." 
 
 " I'll do my best to get you in," said George. 
 " I hope I shan't be tempted, though, to speak my 
 mind too plainly to Chattavv^ay." 
 
 The Hold was closed for the nio'ht. Ligfhts 
 appeared in several of the windows. Rupert 
 halted when he saw the light in one of them. 
 " Aunt Diana must have returned," he said ; 
 " that's her room." 
 
 George Ryle rang a loud, quick peal at the bell. 
 It was not answered. He then rang again : a 
 sharp, imperative, urgent peal, and shouted out 
 with his stentorian voice ; a prolonged shout that 
 could not have come from the lungs of Rupert ; 
 and it brought Mr. Chattaway to the window of 
 his wife's dressing-room in very surprise. One or
 
 DEAD BEAT. 279 
 
 two more windows in different parts of tlie house 
 were thrown up. 
 
 " It is I, Mr. Chattaway. I have been assisting 
 Rupert home. Will you be so kind as to allow 
 the door to be opened ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was nearly struck dumb with 
 the insolence of the demand, coming from the 
 quarter it did. He could scarcely speak at first, 
 even to refuse. 
 
 " He does not deserve your displeasure to- 
 night/' said George, in his clear, frank, ringing 
 voice, which might be heard distinctly ever so far. 
 " He could scarcely get here from fatigue and ill- 
 ness. But for taking a rest at my mother's house, 
 and having the help of my arm thence here, I 
 question if he would have got as far. Be so good 
 as to let him in, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " How dare you make such a request to me ? " 
 roared Mr. Chattaway, recovering himself a little. 
 ''■ How dare you come disturbing the peace of my 
 house at night, George Byle, as any housebreaker 
 might come — save that you make more noise 
 about it ! " 
 
 " I came to bring Rupert," was George's clear 
 answer. " He is waiting here to be let in ; he is 
 tired and ill." 
 
 " I will not let him in," raved Mr. Chattaway. 
 " How dare you, I ask ? "
 
 280 TREYLYN HOLD. 
 
 " What is all this ? " broke from the amazed 
 voice of Miss Diana Trevlyn. "What does it 
 mean ? I don't comprehend it in the least." 
 
 George looked up at her window. "Rupert 
 coidd not get home by the hour specified by Mr. 
 Chattaway — half-past ten. I am asking that he 
 may be admitted now. Miss Trevlyn." 
 
 " Of course he can be admitted," said Miss 
 Diana. 
 
 "Of course he shan't," retorted Mr. Chat- 
 taway. 
 
 " Who says he couldn't get home in time if he 
 had wanted to come ? " called out Oris from a 
 window on the upper story. " Does it take him 
 five or six hours to walk from Black stone ? " 
 
 " Is that you, Christopher ? " asked George, going 
 a little back that he might see him better. " I 
 want to speak to you. By what right did you 
 take possession of my horse at Blackstone this 
 afternoon, and ride him home ? " 
 
 " I chose to do it," said Oris. 
 
 " I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to 
 walk. It had been more in accordance with gene- 
 rosity — though you may not understand the word 
 — had you left it for him. He was not in bed last 
 night ; he has gone without food to-day — jou w^ere 
 more capable of walking home than he." 
 
 Miss Diana craned forth her neck. " Chattavvay,
 
 DEAD BEAT. 281 
 
 I must inquire into this. Let that front door be 
 opened." 
 
 "I will not/' he answered. And he banged 
 down his window with a resolute air, as if to 
 avoid further colloquy. 
 
 But in that same moment the lock of the front 
 door was heard to turn, and it was thrown open 
 by Octave Chattaway.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S "OLD I^EPRESSION." 
 
 It was surely a scene to excite some interest, if 
 only the interest of curiosity, tliat was presented 
 at Trevlyn Hold that night. Octave Chattaway 
 in evening dress — for she had not begun to pre- 
 pare for bed, although some time in her chamber 
 — standing at the hall-door which she had opened ; 
 Miss Diana pressing forward from the back of the 
 hall in a hastily thrown-on di'essing-gown ; Mr. 
 Chattaway in a waistcoat ; Cris in greater dis- 
 habille ; and Mrs. Chattaway dressed as was 
 Octave. 
 
 Rupert came in, coughing with the night air, 
 and leaning on the arm of George Ryle. There 
 was no light, save what was afforded by a candle 
 carried by Miss Trevlyn ; but she stepped forward 
 and hghted the lamp. 
 
 " Now then," said she. " What is all this ? " 
 
 "It is this," returned the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold : " that I make rules for the proper regula-
 
 ^IRS. CHATTAAYAY'S '' OLD IMPEESSION." 283 
 
 tion of my household, and a beardless boy chooses 
 to break them. I should think " — turning shortly 
 iipon Miss Diana — " that you are not the one to 
 countenance that." 
 
 " ISTo," said she ; " when rules are made they 
 must be kept. What is your defence, Rupert 1 " 
 
 Rupert had thrown himself upon a bench against 
 the wall in utter weariness both of mind and 
 body. " I don't care to make any defence," said 
 he in his apathy, as he leaned his cheek upon his 
 hand, and fixed his blue eyes on Miss Trevlyn ; 
 " I don't know that there's much defence to make. 
 Mr. Chattaway orders me to be in by half-past 
 ten. I was at George Ryle's last night, and I a 
 little exceeded the time, getting here five minutes 
 or so after it, so I was locked out. Oris let him- 
 self in with his la.tch-key, but he would not let in 
 me." 
 
 IStliss Diana glanced at Oris, but she said nothing. 
 Mr. Chattaway interrupted. George, erect, fear- 
 less, was standing opposite to the group, and it 
 was to him that Mr. Chattaway turned. 
 
 " What I want to know is this — by what right 
 you interfere, George Ryle ? " 
 
 "I am not aware that I have interfered — 
 except by giving Rupert my arm up the hill, and 
 by asking you to admit him. ISTo very unjustifi- 
 able interference, surely, Mr. Chattaway."
 
 284^ TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 " But it is, sir. And I ask why you presume to 
 doit?" 
 
 " Presume ? " returned George, making a pause 
 after tlie word. But there was no answer to it, 
 and he went on. " I saw Rupert to-night, acci- 
 dentally, as he was coming from Blackstone. It 
 was about nine o'clock. I was at my garden- 
 gate. He appeared terribly tired, and wished to 
 come into the house and rest. There he fell 
 asleep. I awoke him in time, but he seemed to 
 be too weary to get here himself, and I came with 
 him to help him along. He walked slowly — 
 painfully I should say ; and it made him arrive 
 later than he ought to have arrived. Will you be 
 so good, Mr. Chattaway, as to explain what part 
 of this interference was unjustifiable ? I do not 
 see that I could have done less." 
 
 " You will see that you do less for the future," 
 growled Mr. Chattaway. " I Avill have no inter- 
 ference of yours between the Hold and Bupert 
 Trevlyn." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Chattaway, you may make yourself 
 perfectly easy," returned George, some sarcasm in 
 his tone. "Nothing could be fartJier from my 
 intention than to interfere in any way with you, 
 or with the Hold, or with Rupert in connection 
 with you and the Hold. But, as I told you this 
 morning, until you show me any good and suffi-
 
 MKS. CHATTA^yAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION." 285 
 
 cient reason for the contrary, I shall certainly 
 observe common courtesy to Rupert when he 
 comes in my v\-ay." 
 
 " JN'onsense ! " intei-posed Miss Diana. " Who 
 says you are not to show courtesy to Eupert, 
 George ? Do you ? " she asked, wheeling sharply 
 round on Chattaway. 
 
 '' There's one thing requires explanation," said 
 Mr. Chattaway, turning to Rupert, and dro\vning 
 Miss Diana's voice. " How came you to stop at 
 Blackstone till this time of night? Where had 
 you been lagging ? " 
 
 Rupert answered the questions mechanically, 
 never lifting his head. " I didn't leave until late. 
 Ford wanted to go home, and I had to stop. 
 After that I sat do^\TL on the way and dropped 
 asleep." 
 
 " Sat down on your way and dropped asleep I " 
 echoed Miss Diana. " What made you do that ? " 
 
 " I don't knoAv. I had been tired all day. I 
 had no bed, you hear, last night. I suppose I can 
 go to mine now ? " he added, rising. " I want it 
 badly enough." 
 
 " You can go — for this time," assented the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold. " But you will under- 
 stand that it is the last night I shall suffer my 
 rules to be set at nought. You shall be in to 
 time, or you do not come in at all."
 
 28G TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Eupert shook hands with George Ryle, spoke a 
 general " Good night " to the rest collectively, 
 and went towards the stairs. At the back of the 
 hall, lingering there in her timidity, stood Mrs. 
 Chattaway. '' Good night, dear Aunt Edith," he 
 vfhispered. 
 
 She gave no answer. She only laid her hand 
 upon his as he passed, and so momentary was the 
 action that it escaped unobserved, save by one 
 pair of eyes — and those were Octave Chatta- 
 way's. 
 
 George was the next to go. Octave put out 
 her hand to him. '' Does Caroline come to the 
 harvest home ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Yes, I think so. Good night." 
 
 "Good night," replied Octave, amiably. '"I 
 am glad you took care of Rupert." 
 
 " She's as false as her father," thought George, 
 as he commenced his strides down the avenue. 
 
 They were all dispersing. There was nothing 
 now to stay up for. Chattaway was turning to 
 the staircase, when Miss Diana stepped inside one 
 of the sitting-rooms, carrying her candle with her, 
 and beckoned to him. 
 
 " What do you want, Diana ? " he asked, in not 
 a pleasant tone, as he followed her in. 
 
 " Why did you shut out Rupert last night ? " 
 
 '' Because I chose to do it ! "
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION." 287 
 
 " But suppose I choose that he should not be 
 shut out," returned Miss Diana. 
 
 "Then we shall split," angi-ily rejoined the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold. " I say that half-past 
 ten o'clock is quite late enough for Rupert to 
 enter. He is younger than Oris ; you and Edith 
 say he is not strong ; is it too early ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was right in this. It was a 
 sufficiently late hour; and Miss Diana, after a 
 pause, pronounced it to be so. " I shall talk to 
 Eupert," she said. "There's no harm in his 
 going to spend an hour or two with George Ryle, 
 or with any other friend, but he must be home in 
 good time." 
 
 " Just so ; he must be home in good time," 
 acquiesced Chattaway. "He shall be home by 
 half-past ten. And the only way to ensure that, 
 is to lock him out at first when he transgresses it. 
 Therefore, Diana, I shall follow my own way in 
 this, and I beg you will not interfere." 
 
 Miss Diana went up to Rupert's room. He 
 had taken off his coat, and thrown himself on the 
 bed, as if the fatigue of undressing were too 
 much for him. 
 
 " What's that for ? " asked Miss Diana, as she 
 entered. " Is that the way you get into bed ? " 
 
 Rupert rose and sat down on a chair. " Onty 
 the coming up stairs seems to tire me," he said,
 
 288 TEEVLYX HOLD. 
 
 in a tone of apology. '' I should not have lain a 
 minute." 
 
 Miss Diana threw her head a little back, and 
 looked fully at Rupert. The determined will of 
 the Trevl3rQS shone out from ever}^ line of her 
 face. 
 
 " I have come to ask where you slept last night. 
 I mean to know it, Rupert." 
 
 "I don't mind your knowing it/' replied 
 Rupert ; " I have told Aunt Edith. I decline 
 to tell Chattaway, and I hope that nobody else 
 will tell him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he might lay blame where no blame 
 is due. Chattaway turned me from the door, 
 Aunt Diana, and Oris, who came up just after, 
 turned me from it also. I went down to the 
 lodge, and got Ann Canham to let me in ; and I 
 lay part of the night on their hard settle, and 
 part of the night I sat upon it. That's where I 
 was. But if Chattaway knew it, he'd be turning 
 old Canham and Ann from the lodge, as he turned 
 me from the door." 
 
 " Oh, no, he'd not," said Miss Diana, " if it 
 were my pleasure to keep them in it. Do you 
 feel ill, Rupert?" 
 
 " I feel middling. It is that I am tired, I sup- 
 pose. I shall be all right in the morning."
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION." 289 
 
 Miss Diana descended to her own room. In- 
 side it, waiting for her, was Mrs. Chattaway. 
 Mrs. Chattaway had a shawl thrown over her 
 shoulders now, and seemed to be shiverinof. She 
 slipped the bolt of the door — w^hat was she afraid 
 of? — and turned to Miss Trevlyn, her hands 
 clasped. 
 
 " Diana, this is killing me I " she wailed. 
 " Why should Rupert be treated as he is ? I 
 know I am but a poor creature, that I have been 
 one all my life — a very coward ; but sometimes I 
 think that I must speak out and protest against 
 the injustice, though I should die in the effort." 
 
 " Why, what's the matter ? " uttered Miss 
 Diana, whose intense composure formed a strange 
 contrast to her sister's agitated words and 
 bearing. 
 
 " Oh, you know ! — you know ! I have not 
 dared to speak out much, even to you, Diana ; 
 but it's killing me — it's killing me ! Is it not 
 enough that we despoiled Rupert of his inherit- 
 ance, but we must also " 
 
 " Be silent ! " sharply interrupted Miss Diana, 
 glancing around and lowering her voice to a 
 whisper. " Will you never have done with that 
 folly, Edith r' 
 
 " I shall never have done with its remembrance. 
 I don't often speak of it ; once, it may be, in 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 seven years, not more. Better for me that I 
 could speak of it ; it would prey upon my heart 
 less ! " 
 
 " You have benefited by it as much as anybody 
 has." 
 
 " Yes : I cannot help myself. Heaven knows 
 that if I could retire to some poor hut, and live 
 upon a crust, and benefit by it no more, I should 
 do so — oh, how willingly ! But there's no es- 
 cape. I am hemmed in by its consequences ; 
 we are all hemmed in by them — and there's no 
 escape." 
 
 Miss Diana looked at her. Steadfastly, keenly ; 
 not angiily, but searchingly and critically, as a 
 doctor looks at a patient supposed to be afflicted 
 with mania. 
 
 "If you do not take care, Edith, you will be- 
 come insane upon this point, as I believe I have 
 warned you before," she said with composed calm- 
 ness. " I am not sure but you are slightly 
 touched now ! " 
 
 " I do not think I am," replied poor Mrs. Chat- 
 taway, passing her hand over her brow. " I feel 
 confused enough here sometimes for madness, but 
 there's no fear that it will really come. If think- 
 ing could have turned me mad, I should have 
 been mad years ago. ' 
 
 "The very act of your coming here in this
 
 MRS. CHATTA way's " OLD IMPRESSION." 291 
 
 state of excitement, when you should be going to 
 your bed, and of saying what you do say, must be 
 nothing less than a degree of madness." 
 
 " I would go to bed if I could sleep," said Mrs. 
 Chattaway. "I lie awake night after night, 
 thinking of the past ; of the present ; thinking of 
 Kupert and of what we did for him ; thinking of 
 the treatment we deal out to him now. I think 
 of his father, poor Joe ; I think of his mother, 
 Emily Dean, whom we once so loved ; and I — and 
 I — I cannot sleep, Diana ! " 
 
 There really did seem something strange in 
 Mrs. Chattaway to-night. For once in her life, 
 Diana Trevlyn's heart beat a shade faster. 
 
 "Try and calm yourself, Edith," she said, 
 soothingly. 
 
 " I wish I could ! I should be more calm if 
 you and my husband would let me be. If you 
 would but allow Rupert to be treated with 
 common kindness " 
 
 "He is not treated with unkindness," inter- 
 rupted Miss Diana. 
 
 '' It appears to me that he is treated mth 
 nothing but unkindness. He " 
 
 " Is he beaten ? — is he starved ? " 
 
 "The system pursued towards him is alto- 
 gether unkind," persisted Mrs. Chattaway. " In- 
 dulgences dealt out to our own children are 
 
 u 2
 
 292 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 denied to him. When I think that he might be 
 the true master of Trevlyn Hold " 
 
 " Edith, I shall not listen to this," interrupted 
 Miss Diana. " TMiat has come to you to-night ? " 
 
 A shiver passed over the frame of Mrs. Chatta- 
 way. She was sitting on a low toilette chair 
 covered with white drapery, her elbow on her 
 knee, her head bent on her hand. By her reply, 
 which she did not look up to give, it appeared 
 that she took the question literally. 
 
 '' I feel the pain more than usual ; nothings else. 
 I do feel it so sometimes." 
 
 " What pain ? " asked Miss Diana. 
 
 " The pain of remorse : the pain of the wrong 
 dealt out to Rupert. It seems to be greater than 
 I can bear. Do you know," she added, raising 
 her bright, feverish eyes to Miss Diana, " that I 
 scarcely closed my eyelids once last night ? All 
 the long night through I was thinking of Rupert. 
 I fancied him lying outside on the damp grass ; I 
 fancied him " 
 
 "Stop a minute, Edith. Are you seeking to 
 blame your husband to me ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I don't blame him — I don't seek to 
 blame any one. But I wish it could be altered." 
 
 " If Rupert knows the hour for coming in — and 
 it is not an unreasonable hour — it is he who is to 
 blame if he exceeds it."
 
 MRS. CHATTA way's " OLD IMPRESSION." 293 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway could not gainsay this. In 
 point of fact, though she found that things were 
 grievously uncomfortable, wrong altogether, she 
 had not the strength of mind to say where the 
 system was deficient, or how it should be altered. 
 On this fresh agitation, the coming in at half-past 
 ten at night, she could only judge as a vacillating 
 woman. The hour, as Miss Diana said, was not 
 an unreasonable one, and Mrs. Chattaway would 
 have fallen in with it with all her heart, and 
 approved her husband's judgment in making it, if 
 E-upert had only obeyed its mandate. If Rupert 
 did not obey it — if he somewhat exceeded its 
 bounds — she would have liked that the door 
 should still be open to him, and no scolding given. 
 It was the discomfort that worried her; it was 
 mixing itself up with the old feeling of wrong 
 done to Rupert, rendering things, as she aptly 
 expressed it, more miserable than she could bear. 
 
 " ril talk to Rupert to-morrow morning," said 
 Miss Diana. " I shall add my authority to Chat- 
 taway's, and tell him that he must be in." 
 
 It may be that a shadow of the future was 
 casting itself over the mind of Mrs. Chattaway, 
 dimly and vaguely pointing to the terrible events 
 hereafter to arise — events which would throw 
 their consequences on the remainder of Rupert's 
 future life, and which had their origin in this new
 
 294 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and ill-omened mandate, touching his entrance 
 into the Hold at night. 
 
 '' Edith/' said Miss Diana, " I would recommend 
 you to get less sensitive on the subject of 
 Rupert. It is gi'omng mth you into a morbid 
 feeling." 
 
 " I wish I could ! It does grow upon me. Do 
 you know," she added, sinking her voice and 
 looking feverishly at her sister, " that old impres- 
 sion has come again ! I thought it had worn 
 itself out : I thought it might have gone away 
 for ever." 
 
 Miss Diana nearly lost her patience. Her own 
 mind was a very contrast to her sister's ; the 
 two were as widely opposite in their organisation 
 as are the north 'and the south pole. Fanciful, 
 dreamy, vacillating, and weak, the one ; the other 
 strong, practical, very matter-of-fact. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean b}'- the ' old 
 impression,' " she rejoined, with a contempt she 
 did not seek to disguise. " Is it not some new 
 folly?" 
 
 " I have told you of it in the old days, Diana. 
 I used to feel certain — certain — that the wrong 
 which vre inflicted on Rupert would avenge itself 
 — that in some way he would come into his inhe- 
 ritance, and we should be despoiled of it. I felt 
 so certain of it that eveiT morning of my life
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION." 295 
 
 when I got up I seemed to look for its fulfilment 
 before the day should close. But the time went 
 on and on, and it never was fulfilled ; — it went on 
 so long that the impression wore itself out of my 
 mind, and I ceased to expect it. But now it has 
 come again. It is stronger than ever. For some 
 weeks past it has been growing more palpable to 
 me day by day, and I cannot shake it off." 
 
 "The best thing you can do now is to go to 
 bed, and try and sleep off your folly," cried Miss 
 Trevlyn, with the stinging contempt she allowed 
 herself at rare times to show to her sister. "I 
 feel more provoked with you, Edith, than I can 
 express. A child might be pardoned for indulging 
 in such absurdities of mind ; a woman, never ! " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway rose. " I'll go to bed," she 
 meekly answered, " and get what sleep I can. I 
 remember that you cast ridicule on this feeling of 
 mine in the old days " 
 
 " Pray did anything come of it then ? " inter- 
 rupted Miss Diana, sarcastically. 
 
 " I have said it did not. And the impression 
 left me. But it has come again now. Good night, 
 Diana." 
 
 " Good night, and a more sensible frame of 
 mind to you ! " was the retort of Miss Diana 
 Trevljm. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway crept softly along the conidor
 
 296 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 to her own dressing-room. She was in hopes 
 that her husband by that time w^as in bed and 
 asleep. What was her surprise, then, to see him 
 sitting at the table w^hen she entered, not un- 
 dressed, and as wide awake as she was. 
 
 "You have business wdth Diana late," he 
 remarked. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway felt wholly and entirely sub- 
 dued : she had felt so since the previous night, 
 when Rupert was denied admittance. The pain- 
 ful timidity, clinging to her always, seemed 
 partially to have left her for a time — not to be 
 putting itself so palpably foremost. It was as 
 though she had not the strength left to be shy ; 
 almost as Rupert felt in his weariness of body, 
 she w^as past caring for anything in her utter 
 weariness of mind. Otherwise, she might not 
 have spoken to Miss Diana as she had just done : 
 most certainly she could never have spoken as she 
 was about to speak to Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " What may your business with her have 
 been ? " he resumed. 
 
 " It was not much, James," she answered. " I 
 was saying how ill I felt." 
 
 "111! With what?" 
 
 "Ill in mind, I think," said Mrs. Chattaway, 
 putting her hand to her brow. " I was telling her 
 that the old fear had come upon me ; the impres-
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY's '' OLD BIPRESSION." 297 
 
 sion that used to cling to me always that some 
 change was at hand regarding Rupert. I lost 
 it for a gi'eat many years, but it has come 
 again." 
 
 " Try and speak lucidly, if you can," was Mr. 
 Chattaway's answer. '' What has come again ? " 
 
 " It seems to have come upon me in the light 
 of a warning," she resumed, so lucidly that Mr. 
 Chattaway, had he been some steps lower in the 
 social grade, might have felt inclined to beat her. 
 "I have ever felt thatEupert would in some manner 
 regain his rights — I mean what he was deprived 
 of," she hastily added, in deprecation of the word 
 " rights," which had slipped from her. " That he 
 will regain Trevlyn Hold, and we shall lose it." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway listened in consternation, his 
 mouth gradually opening in his bewilderment. 
 " What makes you think that ? " he asked, when 
 he had found his tongue. 
 
 " I don't exactly tJdnk it, James. Think is not 
 the right word. The feeling has come upon me 
 again within the last few weeks, and I cannot 
 shake it off. I believe it to be a presentiment ; a 
 warning." 
 
 Paler and paler grew Mr. Chattaway. He did 
 not understand. Like Miss Diana Trevlyn, he 
 was very matter-of-fact, comprehending nothing 
 but what could be seen and felt ; and his wife
 
 298 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 might as well have spoken to him in an unknown 
 language as of "presentiments." He drew a 
 rapid conclusion that some unpleasant fact, bear- 
 ing upon the dread which he had long felt, must 
 have come to his wife's knowledge. 
 
 " What have you heard ? " he gasped. 
 
 " I have heard nothing ; nothing whatever. 
 I " 
 
 " Then what on earth are you talking of ? " 
 
 " Did you not understand me, James % I say 
 that the impression was once firmly seated in my 
 mind that Rupert would somehow be restored to 
 Yv'hat — to what " — she scarcely knew how to frame 
 her words with the delicacy she deemed due to 
 her husband's feelings — " to what would have 
 been his but for his father's death. And that 
 impression has now returned to me." 
 
 " But you have not heord an)rthing 1 Any plot 1 
 — any conspiracy that's being hatched against 
 us ? " he reiterated. 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway stared searchingly at his wife. 
 Did he fancy, as Miss Diana had done, that her 
 intellects were becoming disordered 1 
 
 " Why, then, what do you mean ? " he asked, 
 after a pause. "Why should such an idea 
 arise ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway was silent. She could not
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S " OLD IMPRESSION." 299 
 
 to him the truth : could not say to him that she 
 believed it was the constant dwelling upon the 
 Avrong and the injustice, which had first suggested 
 the notion that the ^vrong would inevitably recoil 
 on them, the workers of it. They had broken 
 alike the laws of God and man ; and those who 
 do so cannot be sure in this world of immunity 
 from punishment. That they had so long enjoyed 
 unmolested the inheritance gained by fraud, gave 
 no certainty that they would enjoy it to the end. 
 She felt it, if her husband and Diana Trevtyn did 
 not. Too often there were certain verses of Holy 
 Writ spelling out their syllables upon her brain. 
 " Eemove not the old landmark ; and enter not 
 into the fields of the fatherless : for their 
 Redeemer is mighty ; he shall plead their cause 
 Avith thee." 
 
 All this she could not say to Mr. Chattaway. 
 She could give him no good reason for what she 
 had said ; he did not understand imaginative 
 fancies, and he went to rest after bestowing upon 
 her a sharp lecture for indulging in such. 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of her denial, the master 
 of Trevlyn Hold could not divest himself of the 
 impression that she must have picked up some 
 scrap of news, or heard a word dropped in some 
 quarter, which had led her to say what she did. 
 And it gave him terrible discomfort.
 
 300 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Was the haunting shadow, the dread lying 
 latent in his heart, about to be changed into 
 substance ? He lay on his bed, turning uneasily 
 from side to side until morning light, and wonder- 
 ing from what quarter the first glimmer of the 
 mischief would come.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A FIT OF AmABILITY IN CRIS. 
 
 Rupert came down to breakfast the next morn- 
 ing. He was cold, sick, shivery ; Httle better than 
 he had felt the previous night ; his chest was sore, 
 his breathing painful. A good fire burnt in the 
 grate of the breakfast-room — Miss Diana was a 
 friend to fires, and caused them to be lighted as 
 soon as the heat of summer had passed — and 
 Rupert bent over it. He cared for it more than 
 for food ; and yet it was no doubt the having 
 gone without food the previous day which was 
 causing the sensation of sickness within him now. 
 :, Miss Diana glided in, erect and majestic. "How 
 are you this morning ? " she asked of Rupert. 
 
 "Pretty well," he answered, as he warmed his 
 thin white hands over the blaze. " I have got the 
 old pain here a bit " — touching his chest. " It 
 will go off by-and-by, I dare say." 
 
 Miss Diana had her eyes riveted on him. The 
 extreme delicacy of his countenance — its lines of
 
 302 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 fading health — struck Tipon her greatly. Was he 
 looking worse ? or was it that her absence from 
 home for three weeks had caused her to notice it 
 more than she had done when seeing him daily ? 
 She asked herself the question, and she could not 
 decide. 
 
 " You don t look very well, Rupert." 
 
 " Don't I ? I have not felt well for this week 
 or two. I think the walking to Blackstone and 
 back is too much for me." 
 
 " You must have a pony," she continued, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Ah ! that would be a help to me," he said, his 
 countenance brightening. " I might get on better 
 with what I have to do when there. Mr. Chatta- 
 way grumbles, and grumbles, but I declare to you, 
 Aunt Diana, that I do my best. The walk there 
 seems to take away all my energy, and, by the 
 time I sit down, I am unfit for work." 
 
 Miss Diana went nearer to him^ and spoke in 
 a lower tone. "What was the reason that you 
 disobeyed Mr. Chattaway with regard to coming 
 in?" 
 
 "I did not do it intentionally," he replied. 
 "The time slipped on, and it got late without my 
 noticing it. I think I told you so last night, 
 Aunt Diana." 
 
 " Very well. It must not occur again," she
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRIS. 303 
 
 said, peremptorily and significantly. " If you are 
 locked out in future, I shall not interfere." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway came in, settling himself into 
 his coat, with a discontented gesture and blue 
 face. He was none the better for his night of 
 sleeplessness, and the torment which had caused 
 it. E/Upert drew away from the fire, leaving the 
 field clear for him : as a schoolboy does at the 
 entrance of his master. 
 
 " Don't let us have this trouble with you 
 repeated," he roughly said to Rupert. " As soon 
 as you have breakfasted, you make the best of 
 your way to Blackstone : and don't lag on the 
 road." 
 
 " Rupert's not going to Blackstone to-day," said 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned upon her : no very plea- 
 sant expression on his countenance. " What's that 
 for?" 
 
 "I shall keep him at home for a week," she 
 said, " and let him be nursed. After that, I dare 
 say he'll be stronger, and can attend better to his 
 duty in all ways." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway could willingly have braved Miss 
 Diana, if he had only dared. But he did not dare. 
 He strode to the breakfast-table and took his seat, 
 leaving those who liked to follow him. 
 
 It has been remarked that there was a latent
 
 304 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 antagonism ever at work in the hearts of George 
 Ryle and Octave Chattaway ; and there was cer- 
 tainly ever perpetual, open, and visible antagonism 
 between the actions of Mr. Chattaway and Miss 
 Diana Trevlyn, in so far as they related to the 
 ruling economy at Trevlyn Hold. She had the 
 open-heartedness of the Trevlyns — he, the miserly 
 selfishness of the Chattaways ; she was liberal on 
 the estate and in the household — he would have 
 been niggardly to a degree. Miss Diana, however, 
 was the one to reign paramount, and he was 
 angered every hour of his life by seeing some 
 extravagance — as he deemed it — which might have 
 been avoided. He could indemnify himself at the 
 mines ; and there he did as he pleased. 
 
 Breakfast over, Mr. Chattaway went out. Cris 
 went out. Eupert, as the day grew warm and 
 bright, strolled into the garden, and basked on 
 the bench there in the sun. He very much 
 enjoyed these days of idleness. To sit as he was 
 doing now, feeling that no exertion whatever was 
 required of him ; that he might stay where he 
 was for the whole day, and gaze up at the blue 
 sky as he fell into thought ; or watch the light 
 fleecy clouds that rose above the horizon, and form 
 them in his fancy into groups of animals — of 
 mountains, of many fantastic things — constituted 
 one of the pleasures of Rupert Trevlyn's life.
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRTS. 305 
 
 Not for the bright bhie of the sky, not for the 
 wreathing and ever-changing clouds, not even for 
 the warm sunshine and the balmy air — it was not 
 for all these he cared, but for the rest The 
 delightful consciousness that he might be as still 
 as he pleased ; that no Blackstone or any other 
 far-to-be-reached place would demand him ; that 
 for a whole day he might be at rest — there lay 
 the charm. Nothing could possibly have been 
 more suggestive of his want of strength — as 
 anybody might have guessed who possessed 
 sufficient penetration. 
 
 No. Mr. Chattaway need not have feared that 
 Rupert was engaged hatching plots against him, 
 Avhenever he was out of his sight. Had poor 
 Rupert possessed the desire to hatch such, he 
 would have lacked the energy. 
 
 The dinner hour at Trevl}^! Hold, nominally 
 early, was frequently regulated by the will or the 
 movements of the master. When he said he 
 could only be home by a given hour — three, four, 
 five, six, as the case might be — then the cook had 
 her orders accordingly. It was fixed on this day 
 for four o'clock. At two (the more ordinary hour 
 for it) Oris came in. 
 
 Strictly speaking, however, it was ten minutes 
 past two, and Oris burst into the dining-room 
 with a heated face, afraid lest he should come in for 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 30 G TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 the tail of the meal. Whatever might be the 
 hour fixed, the dinner was required to be on the 
 table to the minute ; and it generally was so. 
 Miss Diana was an exacting mistress. Cris burst 
 in, hair untidy, hands unwashed, desperately afraid 
 of losing his share. 
 
 A long face drew he. Not a soul was in the 
 room, and the dining-table showed its bright 
 mahogany, nothing upon it. Cris jDulled the 
 bell. 
 
 '' What time do we dine to-day ? " he asked, in 
 a sharp tone, of the servant who answered it. 
 
 "At four, sir." 
 
 " What a nuisance ! And I am as hungry as a 
 hunter. Get me something to eat. Here — stop, 
 you ! — where are they all ? " 
 
 "Madam's at home, sir; and I think Miss^ 
 Octave's at home. The rest are out." 
 
 Cris muttered something which was not heard, 
 which perhaps he did not intend should be 
 heard ; and when his luncheon was brought in, 
 he sat down to it with great satisfaction. After 
 he had finished, he went to the stables, and by- 
 and-by came in to find his sister. 
 
 " I say. Octave, I want to take you for a drive. 
 Will you go ? " 
 
 The unwonted attention on her brother's part 
 quite astonished Octave. Before now she had
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRIS. 307 
 
 asked liim to drive her out, and been met with 
 rough refusal. Oris was of that class of young 
 gentlemen who see no good in overpowering their 
 sisters with politeness. 
 
 " Get your things on at once," said Oris. 
 
 Octave felt dubious. She was engaged writing 
 letters to some particular friends with whom she 
 kept up a cori'espondence, and did not much care 
 to be interrupted. 
 
 " Where is it to go, Cris ? " 
 
 "Anywhere. We can drive through Barmester, 
 and so home by the cross roads. Or we'll go 
 do^vn the lower road to Barbrook, and go on to 
 Barmester that way." 
 
 The suggestion did not offer sufficient attrac- 
 tion to Octave. " No," said she ; " I am busy, 
 Cris, and shall not go out this afternoon. I don't 
 care to drive out when there's nothing to go for." 
 
 " You may as well come. It isn't often I ask 
 you." 
 
 " No, that it is not," returned Octave, with 
 emphasis. " You have some particular motive in 
 asking me to go now, I know. AVhat is it, Cris ?" 
 
 " I want to try my new horse. They say he'll 
 go beautifully in harness." 
 
 '' What 1 that handsome horse you took a fancy 
 to the other day ? — that papa said you should not 
 buy?" 
 
 X 2
 
 308 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Oris nodded. "They let me have him for 
 forty-five pounds." 
 
 "Where did you get the money?" wondered 
 ctave. 
 
 "Never you mind. I have paid ten pounds 
 down, and they'll wait for the rest. Will you 
 come 1 " 
 
 " No," said Octave. " I shan't go out to-day." 
 
 The refusal perhaps was somewhat softened 
 by the dashing up to the door of the dog-cart 
 with the new purchase in it ; and Oris ran out. 
 A handsome animal certainly, but apparently a 
 remarkably sprightly one, for it was executing 
 a dance on its hind legs. Mrs. Chattaway came 
 through the hall, dressed for walking. Oris seized 
 upon her. 
 
 " Mother, dear, you'll go for a drive with me," 
 cried he, caressingly. "Octave won't — an ill- 
 natured thing ! " 
 
 It was so unusual a circumstance to find herself 
 made much of by her son, spoken to affection- 
 ately, that Mrs. Chattawa}^, in very surprise and 
 gratitude, ascended the dog-cart forthwith. " I 
 am glad to accompany you, dear," she softly said. 
 " I was only going to walk in the garden." 
 
 But before Oris had gathered the reins in his 
 hand and taken his place beside her, George Ryle 
 came up, and somewhat hindered the departure.
 
 A FIT OF AlVIIABILITY IX CRIS. 309 
 
 " I have been to Barmester to see Caroline this 
 morning, Mrs. Chattaway, and have brought you 
 a message from Ameha," he said, keeping his 
 hold on the side of the dog-cart as he spoke — as 
 much of a hold as he could keep on it, for the 
 dancing horse. 
 
 " That she wants to come home, I suppose ? " 
 said Mrs. Chattaway, smiling. 
 
 " The message I was charged with was, that she 
 would come home," he said, smiling in answer. 
 " The fact is, Caroline is coming home for a few 
 days : and Amelia thinks she will be cruelly dealt 
 by, unless she is allowed the holiday also." 
 
 " Caroline is coming to the harvest home ? " 
 
 " Yes. I told Amelia " 
 
 The holding on became impossible ; and George 
 drew back, and took a critical survey of the new 
 horse. " Why, it is the horse Allen has had for 
 sale ! " he exclaimed. " What brings him here, 
 Cris?" 
 
 " I have bought him," shortly answered Cris. 
 
 " Have you ? Mrs. Chattaway, I would not 
 advise you to venture out behind that horse. I 
 do not think he has been broken in for harness." 
 
 " He has," returned Cris. " You mind your 
 own business. Do you think I should drive him 
 if he were not safe ? He's only skittish. I 
 understand horses, I hope, as well as you."
 
 310 TREVLYX HOLD. 
 
 George turned to Mrs. Chattaway. "Do not 
 go with him," he urged, " Let Cris try him first 
 alone." 
 
 " I am not afraid. George," she said, in a loving 
 accent. " It is not often Cris finds time to drive 
 me. Thank you all the same." 
 
 Cris gave tlie horse his head, and the animal 
 dashed off. George stood watching until the 
 angle in the avenue hid them from view, and 
 then gave utterance to an involuntary exclama- 
 tion : — 
 
 "Cris has no right to risk the life of his 
 mother." 
 
 Not very long afterwards, the skittish horse 
 was flying along the road, with nothing of the 
 dog-cart left behind him, except its shafts.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 On the lower road, leading from Trevlyn Farm 
 to Barbrook, was situated Barbrook rectory. A 
 pretty house it was, covered with ivy, standing in 
 the midst of a productive garden, and surrounded 
 by green fields. An exceedingly pretty place for 
 its size, that parsonage — it was never styled any- 
 thing else — but very small. A good thing that 
 the parsons inhabiting it had none of them owned 
 large families, or they would have been at fault 
 for room. 
 
 The present incumbent was the Rev. John 
 Freeman. Incumbent of the parsonage house, 
 you understand : not of the living. The living 
 was in the gift of a neighbouring cathedral ; it 
 Avas held by one of the chapter ; and he dele- 
 gated his charge (beyond an occasional sermon) to 
 a curate. It had been so in the old time when 
 Squire Trevlyn flourished, and it was so stilL 
 Whispers were abroad that when the death of
 
 312 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 this canon should take place — a very old man, 
 both as to his years and to his occupancy of his 
 prebendal stall — changes would be made, and the 
 next incumbent of the living would have to live 
 on the living. But this has nothing to do with 
 us, and I don't know why I mentioned it. 
 
 Mr. Freeman had been curate of the place for 
 more than twenty years. He succeeded the Rev. 
 Shafto Dean, of whom you have heard. Mr. Dean 
 had remained at Barbrook but a very short time 
 after his sister's maniage to Joe Trevlyn. That 
 event had not tended to allay the irritation exist- 
 ing between Trevlyn Hold and the parsonage, 
 and on some promotion being offered to Mr. 
 Dean, he embraced it. The promotion given 
 him was in the West Indies : he would not have 
 chosen to undertake a residence there under 
 happier auspices ; but he felt sick of the con- 
 tinual contention with Squire Trevl}Ti. Mr. 
 Dean went out to the West Indies, and died : 
 carried off by fever -within six months of his 
 arrival. Mr. Freeman had succeeded him at Bar- 
 brook, and Mr. Freeman was there still : a married 
 man, without children. 
 
 The parsonage household was very modest. 
 One servant only was kept ; and if you have the 
 pleasure of forcing both ends to meet yearly upon 
 the moderate sum of one hundred pounds sterling,
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 313 
 
 you will wonder how even that servant could be 
 retained. But a clerg^Taan has advantages in 
 some points over the rest of the world : at least, 
 this one had ; his house being held rent free, and 
 his garden supplying more vegetables and fruit 
 than his household could consume. Some of the 
 choicer fruit, indeed, he sold : I hope you w^on't 
 think any the worse of him for doing so. His 
 superfluous vegetables he gave away ; and many 
 and many a cabbage leaf full of gooseberries and 
 currants did the little parish children look out 
 for, and get. He was a quiet, pleasant little man 
 of fifty, with a fair face and fat double chin : never 
 an ill word had he had ^\dth anybody in the parish 
 since he came into it. His wife was pleasant, too, 
 and talkative ; and would as soon be caught by 
 visitors making puddings in the kitchen, or shel- 
 ling the peas for dinner, as sitting up in state, 
 looking out for company. 
 
 At the back of the parsonage house, detached 
 from it, was a flagged room called the brewhouse, 
 where sundry abnormal duties, quite out of the 
 regular routine of things, were performed. A 
 furnace was in one corner, a large board or table 
 which would put up or let down at will was 
 underneath the casement, and the floor was 
 flagged. On the morning of the day when Mr. 
 Oris Chattaway contrived to separate his dog-cart
 
 314 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 from its shafts, or to let his new horse do it for 
 him, of which you will hear further presently, 
 this brewhouse was so filled with steam, that it 
 could not be seen across. A tall, strong, rosy- 
 faced woman, looking about thirty years of age, 
 was standing over a washing-tub, rubbing away ; 
 and in the furnace, bubbling and boiling, the 
 white linen heaved up and down like the waves 
 of the sea in a ground swell. Altogether, an 
 immense mass of steam congregated, and made 
 itself at home. 
 
 You have seen the woman before, though the 
 chances are that you have forgotten all about her. 
 It is Molly, who once lived at Trevlyn Fami. 
 Some five years ago she came to an issue "vvith 
 the iiiling potentates at the farm, Mrs. Ryle and 
 Nora, and the result was a parting. Since then 
 Molly had been living at the parsonage, and had 
 grown to be valued by her master and mistress. 
 She looks taller than ever, but you see she has 
 pattens on, to keep her feet off the wet stones of 
 the brewhouse. Indeed, it was much the fashion 
 in that neighbourhood for the servant-maids to 
 go about in pattens, let the flags be wet or dry. 
 
 Molly was rubbing vigorously at her master's 
 surplice — which shared the benefits of the wash 
 with more imoble thino-s, when the strikinsf out 
 of the church clock caused her to pause, and
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 315 
 
 glance up through the open casement windovr. 
 She was waiting to count the strokes. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock, as I'm alive ! I knew it must 
 have gone eleven, though I hadn't heard it strike ; 
 but I never thought it was twelve yet ! And 
 nothing out but them handful o' coloured things 
 and the flannels ! If missis was at home, she'd 
 say I'd been wasting all my morning, gossip- 
 ing." 
 
 An accusation which Mrs. Freeman might have 
 made with great truth. There was not a more 
 inveterate gossip than Molly in the parish : and 
 the waste of time her propensity caused, had lost 
 her her last place. 
 
 She turned to the furnace, seized hold of the 
 rolling-pin vfhich lay on its edge, and poked down 
 the rising clothes with a fierceness which seemed 
 as if it wished to make up for the lost hours. 
 Then she dashed open the httle iron door under- 
 neath, threw on a shovel of coal to the fire, and 
 shut it again. 
 
 " This surplice is wearing as thin as anything 
 in front," soliloquised she, recommencing her work 
 vehemently over the tub. " I'd better not rub it 
 too much. But it's just in the very place Avhere 
 master gets 'em most dirty. If I were missis, I 
 should line 'em in front. His other one's going 
 worse than this. They must cost a smart penny,
 
 316 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 these sui-plices : the linen is Now, who's 
 
 that?" 
 
 Molly's interjection was caused by a flourishing 
 knock at the front door. It did not please 
 her. She was too busy to answer useless visi- 
 tors : useless because her master and mistress 
 were out. 
 
 "I won't go to the door," decided she, in 
 her vexation. " Let 'em knock again, or go 
 away." 
 
 The applicant prefeiTed the former course, for 
 a second knock, louder than the first, sent its 
 echoes through the house. Molly jerked her wet 
 arms out of the water, gave them a dab upon a 
 towel lying handy, just to keep the soap-suds 
 from dropping on the floor, and then went on her 
 way, grumbling. 
 
 " It's that bothering Mother Hurnall, I know I 
 And ten to one but she'll walk in, under pretence 
 of resting, and poke her nose into my brewhouse, 
 and see how my work's getting on. She's a inter- 
 fering, mischief-making old toad, and if she does 
 come in, I'll " 
 
 MoUy had drawn the door open, and her words 
 came to an abrupt conclusion. Instead of the 
 meddlesome lady she had expected to see, there 
 stood a gentleman, a stranger : a tall, oldish man, 
 with a white beard and white whiskers, jet-black
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PAESONAGE. 317 
 
 eyes, a kindly but firm expression on his sallow 
 face, a carpet-bag in one hand, and a large red 
 umbrella in the other. 
 
 Molly dropped a curtsey, but a dubious one. 
 Beards were not much in fashion in that simple 
 country-place, neither were red umbrellas, and 
 her opinion vacillated. Was the gentleman be- 
 fore her some venerable much-to-be-respected 
 patriarch ; or was he one of those conjurors that 
 went about to fairs in a caravan ? Molly had 
 had the gratification of seeing the one perform 
 who came to the last fair, and he wore a white 
 beard. 
 
 "I have been directed to this house as being- 
 the residence of the Rev. Mr. Freeman," began 
 the stranger. " Is he at home ?" 
 
 "No, sir, he's not," replied Molly, dropping 
 another and a more self-assured curtsey. There 
 was something about the stranger's voice, his 
 straightforward glance, which insensibly calmed 
 her fears. " My master and mistress are both 
 ^one out for the day, and won't be home till 
 night." 
 
 This appeared to be a poser to the stranger. 
 He looked at Molly, and Molly looked at him. 
 '^ It is very unfortunate," he at length said. " I 
 came — I have come a great many hundred miles, 
 and I reckoned very much upon seeing my old
 
 318 TP.EVLYN HOLD. 
 
 friend Freeman. I shall be going away again 
 from England in a few days." 
 
 Molly had opened her eyes. " Come a great 
 many hundred miles, all to see master ! " she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 '' Not to see him/' answered the stranger, with 
 a half-smile at Molly's simplicity — not that he 
 looked like a smiling man in general, but a very 
 sad one. " I had to come to England on business, 
 and I travelled a long way to get here, and shall 
 have to travel the same long way back again. 
 I have come dovm. from London on purpose to see 
 Mr. Freeman. It is many years since we met, and 
 I thought, if quite agreeable, I'd sleep a couple 
 of nights here. Did you ever happen to hear him 
 mention an old friend of his, named Daw ? " 
 
 The name struck on Molly's memory : it was a 
 somewhat peculiar one. "Well, yes, I have, sir," 
 she answered. " I have heard him speak of a 
 Mr. Daw to my mistress. I think — I think," she 
 added, putting her soapy fingers to her temple in 
 consideration, " that he lived somewhere over in 
 France, that Mr. Daw. I think he was a clergy- 
 man. My master lighted upon a lady's death a 
 short time ago in the paper, while I was in the 
 parlour helping my missis line some bed furni- 
 ture, and he exclaimed out and said it must be 
 Mr. Daw's wife."
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 319 
 
 " Right — right to all," said the gentleman. " I 
 am Mr. Daw." 
 
 He took a small card-case from his pocket, and 
 held out one of its cards to Molly; deeming it 
 well, no doubt, that the woman should be con- 
 vinced he was really the person he professed to 
 be. "I can see but one thing to do," he said, 
 "you must give me house-room until IMr. Free- 
 man comes home this evening." 
 
 " You are welcome, sir. But my goodness ! 
 there's nothing in the house for dinner, and I'm 
 in the midst of a big wash." 
 
 He shook his head as he walked into the par- 
 lour — a sunny apartment, redolent of the scent 
 of mioTLonette, boxes of which f^rew outside the 
 windows. " I don't care at all for dinner," he 
 carelessly obsei'ved. " A crust off a loaf and a bit 
 of fresh butter, with a cup of milk, if you happen 
 to have it, will be as well for me as dinner." 
 
 Molly left him, to see about what she could do 
 in the way of entertainment, and to take counsel 
 with herself " If it doesn't happen on purpose !" 
 she ejaculated. " Anything that upsets the order 
 of the house is sure to come on a washing day ! 
 Well, there ! it's of no good woiTying. The wash 
 must go, that's all. If I can't finish it to-day, I 
 must finish it to-mori'ow. Bother ! There'll be 
 the trouble and expense of lighting the furnace
 
 820 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 over again ! I think he's what he says he is : 
 I've heard them red umberellas is used in France." 
 
 She carried in the tray of refreshment — bread,, 
 "butter, cheese, milk, and honey. She had pulled 
 down the sleeves of her grown, and straightened 
 her hair, and put on a clean check apron, and 
 taken off her pattens. Mr. Daw detained her 
 while he served himself, asking divers questions ; 
 and Molly, nothing loth, ever ready for a gossip, 
 remembered not her exacting brewhouse of work. 
 
 " There is a place called Trevlyn Hold in this 
 neighbourhood, is there not ?" 
 
 " Right over there, sir," replied Molly, extending 
 her hand in a slanting direction from the mndow, 
 " You might see its chimblies but for them trees." 
 
 " I suppose the young master of Trevl3m has 
 grown to be a fine man ? " 
 
 Molty turned up her nose. She never supposed 
 but the question alluded to Oris, and Cris was no 
 favourite of hers. She had caught the prejudice, 
 possibly, during her service at Trevl}^ Farm. 
 
 "J don't call him so," said she, shortly. "A 
 weazened-faced fellow, with a odd look in his 
 eyes as good as a squint ! He's not much liked 
 about here, sir." 
 
 " Indeed ! That's a pity. Is he married ? I 
 suppose not though, yet. He is young." 
 
 "There's many a one gets married younger
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 321 
 
 than he is. But I don't know who'd have him," 
 added Molly, in her prejudice. '' I wouldn't, if I 
 was a young lady." 
 
 '' Who has acted as his guardian ?" resumed 
 Mr. Daw. 
 
 Molly scarcely understood the question. "A 
 guardian, sir ? That's somebody that takes care 
 of a child's money, who has got no parents, isn't 
 it ? He has no guardian that I ever heard of, 
 except it's his father." 
 
 Mr. Daw laid down his knife. "The young 
 master of Trevlyn has no father," he exclaimed. 
 
 "But indeed he has," returned Molly. "What 
 should hinder his having one ?" 
 
 " My good woman, you cannot know what I am 
 talking o£ His father died years and years ago. 
 I was at his funeral." 
 
 Molly opened her mouth in very astonishment. 
 " His father is alive now, sir, at any rate," cried 
 she, after a pause. " I saw him ride by this house 
 only yesterday." 
 
 They could but stare at each other, as people at 
 cross purposes frequently do. " Of whom are you 
 speaking ?" asked Mr. Daw, at length. 
 
 " Of Oris Chattaway, sir. You asked me about 
 the young master of Trevlyn Hold. Oris will be 
 its master after his father. Old Chattaway's its 
 master now." 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 S22 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Chattaway ? Chattaway ? " repeated the 
 stranger to himself^ as if recalling the name. 
 
 '' I remember. It was he who Is Ilu2oei*t 
 
 Trevlyn dead ?" he hastily asked. 
 
 " Oh no, sir." 
 
 " Wh}^ then, is he not the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know," replied Molh^, after some 
 consideration. '' I suppose because Chattaway 
 is. 
 
 " But sm-ely Rupert Trevlyn inherited it on the 
 death of his grandfather. Squire Trevlyn ?" 
 
 '"'No, he didn't inherit it, sir. It was Chatta- 
 way." 
 
 So interested in the argument had the visitor 
 become, that he pushed his plate from him, and 
 was looking at Molly Avith astonished eyes, his 
 elbows on the table. "Why did he not inherit 
 it ? He was the heir." 
 
 " It's what folks can't rightly make out," 
 answered the woman. " Chattaway came in for 
 it, that's certain. But folks have never called 
 him the Squire, though he's as sick as a dog 
 for it." 
 
 " Who is Mr. Chattaway ? What is his connec- 
 tion with the Trevlyns ? I forget." 
 
 " His Avife was Miss Edith Trevl}Ti, the squire's 
 daughter. There was but three of 'em. — Mrs.
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 323 
 
 Kyle, and lier, and Miss Diana. Miss Diana was 
 never married, and I suppose won't be now." 
 
 "Miss Diana? — Miss Diana? Yes, yes, I 
 recollect," repeated the stranger. "It was Miss 
 
 Diana whom Mrs. Trevlyn Does Rupert 
 
 Trevl3m live with Miss Diana ?" he broke off 
 again. 
 
 "Yes, sir; they all live at the Hold. The 
 Chattaways, and Miss Diana, and young Mr. 
 Eupert. Miss Diana has been out on a visit 
 these two or three weeks past, but I heard this 
 morning that she had come home." 
 
 " There was a pretty little girl — Maude — a year 
 older than her brother," proceeded the questioner. 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 " She's at the Hold, too, sir. They were brought 
 to the Hold quite little babies, those two, and 
 they have lived at it ever since, except when 
 they've been at school. Miss Maude's governess 
 to Chattaway's children." 
 
 Mr. Daw looked at Molly doubtingly. " Gover- 
 ness to Chattaway's children ?" he mechanically 
 repeated, 
 
 Molly nodded. She was growing quite at home 
 with her guest ; quite familiar. " Miss Maude 
 has had the best of edications, they say : plays 
 and sings first-rate ; and so they made her the 
 governess."
 
 324 TKEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 ''But has she no fortune — no income?" re- 
 iterated the stranger, lost in wonder. 
 
 " Not a penny-piece," returned Molly, deci- 
 sively. " Her and Mr. Rupert haven't got a half- 
 penny between 'em of their OAvn. He's clerk, or 
 something of that, at Chattaway's coal mine, down 
 yonder." 
 
 " But they were the heirs to the estate," the 
 stranger persisted. " Their father was the son and 
 heir of Squire Trevlyn, and they are his children ! 
 How is it ? How can it be ?" 
 
 The words were spoken in the light of a remark. 
 Mr. Daw was evidently debating the wonder with 
 himself Molly thought the question was put to 
 her. 
 
 " I don't know the rights of it, sir," was all she 
 could answer. " All I can tell you is, that the 
 Chattaways have come in for it, and the inherit- 
 ance is theirs. But there's many a one round 
 about here calls Mr. Rupert the heir to this day, 
 and will call him so, in spite of Chattaway." 
 
 "He is the heir — he is the heir!" reiterated 
 Mr. Daw. " I can prove " 
 
 Again came that break in his discourse which 
 had occurred before. Molly resumed — 
 
 " Master will be able to tell you better than 
 me, sir, why the property should have went from 
 Master Rupert to Chattaway. It was him that
 
 AX INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 325 
 
 buried the old squire, sir, and he was at the Hold 
 after, and heard the squire's will read. Nora told 
 me once that he, the parson, cried shame upon it 
 when he come away. But she was in a passion 
 with Chattaway when she said it, so perhaps it 
 wasn't true. I asked my missis about it one day 
 that we was foldino- clothes tocrether, but she said 
 she knew nothing of it. She wasn't mamed then." 
 
 " Who is Nora ?" inquired Mr. Daw. 
 
 " She's the housekeeper and manager at Trevlyn 
 Farm ; she's a sort of relation to 'em. It was 
 where I lived before I come here, sir ; four year, 
 turned, I was at that one place. I have always 
 been one to keep my places a good while," added 
 Molly, Avith pride. 
 
 Apparently the boast was lost upon him ; he 
 did not seem to hear it. "Not the heir to 
 Trevl}Ti !" he muttered ; "not the heir to Trevlyn! 
 It's a puzzle to me." 
 
 " I'm Sony master's out," repeated Molly, with 
 sympathy. " But you can hear all about it to- 
 night. They'll be home by seven o'clock. Twice 
 a year, or thereabouts, they both go over to stop 
 a day with missis's sister. Large millers they be, 
 fourteen mile off, and live in a great big handsome 
 house, and keep three or four in-door servants. 
 The name's Whittaker, sir." 
 
 Mr. Daw did not show himself very much inter-
 
 326 TEEVLYN HOLD. 
 
 ested in the name, or in the worthy millers them- 
 selves. He was lost in a reverie. Molly made a 
 movement amidst the plates and the cheese and 
 butter ; she insinuated the glass of milk under his 
 very nose. All in vain. 
 
 " Not the heir ! " he reiterated again ; " not 
 the heir ! And I have been picturing him in my 
 mind as such all through these long years I" 
 
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