TREVUVN HOLD 
 
 ja 
 
 Mrs. Henry Wood
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 ^^^.-.?Wf»4^
 
 TREVLYN HOLD 
 
 a
 
 V/ood^ t lie/) C?n'c&.j Mvs. Mei^rj^^ Wooci 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 a Nobtl. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "east LYNNE," "the CHANNINGS," '-'johnny LUDLO^V," ETC. 
 
 Jpiftj)--Jpouit!) ^IjousanU. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 ^ublisfjcrs in ©rtinarg to li^rv ftlajrstg tijc ©ucnt. 
 
 1895. 
 
 (.<4// ri£^/fts restt-ved.)

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ClIAITER PAGE 
 
 I, The Scarlet Cravat ... ... ... ... i 
 
 II. The Hole in the Path ... .., ... lo 
 
 III. Chattaway's Bull ... ... ... ... 15 
 
 IV. Life or Death ... ... ... ... 23 
 
 V. Looking on the Dead ... ... ... 28 
 
 VI. The Romance of Trevlyn Hold ... ... 42 
 
 VII. Mr. Ryle's Last Will and Testament ... 48 
 
 VIII. iNciriENT Rebellion .. ... ... 61 
 
 IX. Emancipation... ... ... ... ... 67 
 
 X. Madam's Room ... ... ... ... 80 
 
 XI. Like the Slippers in Easiekn Story... ... S4 
 
 XII. A Night Bell unanswered ... ... 92 
 
 XIII. Opinions differ .. ... ... ... 99 
 
 XIV. No Breakfast for Rupert ... ... 112 
 
 XV. Torments for the Master of Trevlyn Hold 120 
 
 XVI. Mr. Chattaway's Office ... ... ... 125 
 
 XVII. Dead beat ... ... ... ... .•• I35 
 
 XVIII. Mrs. Chattaway's "Old Impression" ... 140 
 
 XIX. A Fit of Amiability in Cris ... ... ... 150 
 
 XX. An Invasion at the Parsonage ... ... 155
 
 VI CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXT. The Stranger with the Red Umbrella ... 163 
 
 XXII. The Collection in the Road ... ... 170 
 
 XXIII. The Danger coming very Close ... ... 176 
 
 XXIV. A Meeting at Mark Canha>['s ... ... 186 
 
 XXV. News for Miss Diana ... ... ... 195 
 
 XXVI. An Impromptu Journey ... ... ... 201 
 
 XXVII. A Walk by Starlight .. ... ... 208 
 
 XXVIII. A Visit to Doctors' Commons ... ... 216 
 
 XXIX. A Welcome Home ... ... ... ... 223 
 
 XXX. Mr. Chattaway come to Grief ... ... 231 
 
 XXXI. Who was down the Shaft? ... ... ... 240 
 
 XXXII. A Shock for Mr. Ch.\ttaway ... ... 245 
 
 XXXIII. The Old Trouble again ... ... ... 252 
 
 XXXIV. The Next Morning ... ... ... 260 
 
 XXXV. An Ill-Omened Chastisement ... ... 268 
 
 XXXVI. The Blaze ... ... ... ... 275 
 
 XXXVII. A Night Scene 283 
 
 XXXVIII. Nora's Diplomacy ... ... ... 290 
 
 XXXIX, Another Visitor for Mrs. Sanders ... ... 301 
 
 XL. The Examination ... ... ... 306 
 
 XLI. A Night Encounter ... ... ... ... 317 
 
 XLII. News for Trevlyn Hold ... .. ... 321 
 
 XLIII. The Revelation of Mr. James Sanders ... 327 
 
 XLIV. Ferment ... ... ... ... ... 336 
 
 XLV. An Application to a Magistrate ... ... 343 
 
 XLVI. A Fright for Ann Canham ... ... 350 
 
 XLVII. Surprise for George Ryle ... ... ... 358 
 
 XLVIII. Danger ... ... ... ... ... 365 
 
 XLTX. A Red-Letter Day at Trevlyn Farm ... 373 
 
 L. A Dilemma in more Ways than One ... 381
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 CHAl'TUR 1-AOE 
 
 LI. A Letter for Mr. Ciiattaway ... ... 386 
 
 LIL A D.\Y oi- Mishaps ... ... ... 393 
 
 LIIL A Surprise for Mr. Chattaway ... ... 402 
 
 LIV. A Ghost for Old Canham , ... -.- 410 
 
 LV. The Dread come Home to Mr. Ciiattaway .. 419 
 
 LVL Doubts cleared at Last ... .... ■• 426 
 
 LVIL A Visit to Rupert ... ... ... •■• 435 
 
 LVin. A Conversation with Mr. Chattaway ... 442 
 
 LIX. News for Maude ... ... ... ••• 45^ 
 
 LX. A Better Heirship ... ... ... 45^ 
 
 LXL In the Church at Barbrook... ... ... 4^'7
 
 W, O. JfEWMAN, 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 
 
 The fine summer had faded into autumn, and the autumn 
 would soon be fading into winter. All signs of harvest had 
 disappeared. The farmers had gathered the golden grain into 
 their barns; the meads looked bare, and the partridges hid 
 themselves in the stubble left by the reapers. 
 
 Perched on the top of a stile which separated one field from 
 another, was a boy of some fifteen years. Several books, a 
 strap passed round to keep them together, were flung over his 
 shoulder, and he sat throwing stones into a pond close by, 
 softly whistling as he did so. The stones came out of his 
 pocket. Whether stored there for the purpose to which they 
 were now being put, was best known to himself. He was a 
 slender, well-made boy, with finely-shaped features, a clear 
 complexion, and eyes dark and earnest. A refined face ; a 
 good face — and you have not to learn that the face is the 
 outward index of the mind within. An index that never fails 
 for those gifted with the power to read the human countenance. 
 
 Before him at a short distance, as he sat on the stile, lay the 
 village of Barbrook. A couple of miles beyond the village was 
 the large town of Barmester. But you could reach the town 
 without taking the village en route. As to the village itself, 
 there were several ways of reaching it. There was the path 
 through the fields, right in front of the stile where that school- 
 boy was sitting ; there was the green and shady lane (knee-deep 
 in mud sometimes) ; and there were two high-roads. From the 
 signs of vegetation around — not that the vegetation was of the 
 richest kind — you would never suspect that the barren and 
 bleak lands of coal-fields lay so near. Only four or five miles 
 
 Tievlyn Hold. 1
 
 2 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 away in the opposite direction — that is, behind the boy and the 
 stile — the coal-pits flourished. Farmhouses 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 Bar- 
 brook, but to Barmester — on a slight eminence, rose the fine 
 but old-fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. Rather to the 
 right, behind him, was the less pretentious, but comfortable 
 dwelling, called Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the 
 property and residence of Squire Trevlyn, had passed, with 
 that gentleman's death, into the hands of Mr. Chattaway, 
 who now lived in it ; his wife having been the Squire's 
 second daughter. Trevlyn Farm was tenanted by Mr. Ryle ; 
 and the boy 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 was tied on with a piece of rag ; 
 the other, not being tied on with anything, constantly came off, 
 and impeded her progress. She had almost gained the pond, 
 when a boy considerably taller and stronger than the one on 
 the stile came flying down the field "on the left, and planted 
 himself in her way. 
 
 " Now then, you little toad ! Do you want another buffet" 
 ing ? " 
 
 " Oh, please, sir, don't stop me ! " she cried, beginning to 
 sob unnecessarily loudly. " Father's a-dying, and mother said 
 I was to run and tell them at the farm. Please let me go by." 
 
 "Did I not order you yesterday to keep out of these 
 fields ? " asked the tall boy. " 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 Til do it." 
 
 " I say," called out at this juncture the lad on the stile, 
 "you keep your hands oif her." 
 
 The child's assailant turned sharply at the sound. He had 
 not seen that any one was there. For one moment he relaxed 
 his hold of the girl, but the next appeared to change his mind, 
 and began to shake her. She turned her face, in all its tears 
 and its dirt, towards the stile. 
 
 " Oh, Master George, make him let me go ! Fm a-hasting 
 on to your house, Master George. Father, he's lying all
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 3 
 
 white upon the bed ; and mother said I was to come off and 
 tell of it." 
 
 George leaped off the stile, and advanced. " You let her go, 
 Cris Chattaway ! " 
 
 Cris Chattaway turned his anger upon George. " Mind 
 your own business, you beggar ! It is no concern of yours." 
 
 " It is, if I choose to make it mine. Let her go, I say. 
 Don't be a coward." 
 
 "What's that you call me?" asked Cris Chattaway. "A 
 coward? Take that." 
 
 He had picked up a hard clod of earth, and dashed it in 
 George Ryle's face. The boy was not one to stand a gratuitous 
 blow, and Mr. Christopher, before he knew what was coming, 
 found himself on the ground. The girl, released, flew to the 
 stile and scrambled over it. George stood his ground, waiting 
 for Cris to get up ; he was less tall and strong, but he would 
 not run away. 
 
 Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself up. He 7cias 
 a coward ; and fighting, when it came to close quarters, was 
 not to his mind. Stone-throwing, or water-squirting, or pea- 
 shooting — any annoyance that might be safely carried on at a 
 distance — he was an adept in ; but hand-to-hand fighting — Cris 
 did not relish that. 
 
 " See if you don't suffer for this, George Ryle ! " 
 
 George laughed good-humouredly, and sat down on the stile 
 as before. Cris was dusting the earth off his clothes. 
 
 " You have called me a coward, and you have knocked me 
 down. I'll enter it in my memorandum-book, George Ryle." 
 
 " Do," equably returned George. " I never knew any but 
 cowards set upon girls." 
 
 " I'll set upon her again, if I catch her using this path. 
 There's not a more impudent little wretch in all the parish. 
 Let her try it, that's all." 
 
 "She has a right to use this path as much as I have." 
 
 " Not if I choose to say she shan't use it. You won't have 
 the right long." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " said George. " What is to take it from 
 me ? " 
 
 " The Squire says he shall cause this way through the fields 
 to be closed." 
 
 " Who says it ? " asked George, with marked emphasis — and 
 the sound grated on Cris Chattaway's ear. 
 
 " The Squire says so," he roared. " Are you deaf? "
 
 4 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Ah," said George. " But Mr. Chattaway can't close it. 
 My father says he has not the power." 
 
 " Voi^r father ! " contemptuously rejoined Cris Chattaway. 
 " He would like his leave asked, perhaps. When the Squire 
 says he shall do a thing, he means it." 
 
 " At any rate, it is not done yet," was the significant answer. 
 " Don't boast, Cris." 
 
 Cris had been making off, and was some distance up the 
 field. He turned to address George. 
 
 " You know, you beggar, that if I don't go in and polish you 
 off it's because I can't condescend to tarnish my hands. When 
 I fight, I like to fight with gentlepeople." And with that he 
 turned tail, and decamped quicker than before. 
 
 "Just so," shrieked George. "Especially if they wear 
 petticoats." 
 
 A sly shower of earth came back in answer. But it hap- 
 pened, every bit of it, to steer clear of him, and George kept 
 his seat and his equanimity. 
 
 " What has he been doing now, George ?" 
 
 George turned his head ; the question came from some one 
 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 a bright auburn. 
 
 " Where did you spring from, Rupert ? " 
 
 " I came down by the hedge. You did not hear me. You 
 were calling after Cris. Has he been beating you, George ? " 
 
 " Beating me ! " returned George, throwing back his hand- 
 some 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 stile, and fixed his 
 eyes on the clear blue evening sky — for the sun was drawing 
 towards its setting. He was a sensitive, romantic, strange sort 
 of boy ; gentle and loving by nature, but given to violent fits 
 of passion. People said he inherited the latter from his grand- 
 father, Squire Trevlyn. Others of the Squire's descendants 
 had inherited the same. Under happier auspices, Rupert 
 might have learnt to subdue these bursts of passion. Had he 
 possessed a kind home and loving friends, how different might 
 have been his destiny. 
 
 " George, I wish papa had lived ! " 
 
 "The whole parish has need to wish that," returned George. 
 "I wish you stood in his shoes ! That's what I wish."
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 5 
 
 " Instead of Uncle Chattaway. Old Canham says I ought 
 to stand in them. He says he thinks I shall, some time, be- 
 cause justice is almost 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 only 
 a tithe of what he sometimes says, he'd turn him from the 
 lodge, neck and crop, in spite of Miss Diana. What /s, 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 had a 
 caning yesterday for another boy, and I had to make the best 
 of that." 
 
 Rupert still looked up at the sky. " If it were not for Aunt 
 Edith," quoth he, " I'd run away." 
 
 " You little stupid ! Where would you run to ? " 
 
 "Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no dinner to-day." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because Cris carried a tale to him. But it was false, 
 George." 
 
 " Did you tell Chattaway it was false ? " 
 
 " Yes. But wliere's the use ? He always believes Cris be- 
 fore me." 
 
 " Have you had no dinner? " 
 
 Rupert shook his head. " I took a bit of bread off the tray 
 as they were carrying it through the hall. That's all I have 
 had." 
 
 " Then I'd advise you to make double-quick haste home to 
 your tea," said George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going 
 to do to mine." 
 
 George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. 
 Looking round when he was well on his way, he saw 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 moderately-sized house, with a 
 rustic porch covered with jessamine, and a large garden, more 
 useful than ornamental, intervening between it and the high- 
 road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was straight and 
 narrow ; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose-trees and 
 hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, 
 and other plain fruit-trees, grew amidst vegetables of various
 
 6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 sorts. A productive garden, if not an elegant one. At the 
 side of the house the fold-yard palings and a five-barred 
 gate divided it from the public road, and behind the house 
 were the barns and other outdoor buildings belonging to the 
 farm. 
 
 From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half 
 sitting-room, half kitchen. It was called "Nora's room." 
 Nora generally sat in it ; George and his brother did their 
 lessons in it ; the actual 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, black-eyed, talkative little woman, of five or 
 six-and-thirty, from the window of the best kitchen, saw her 
 approaching. 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, she looked wretched 
 enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle. 
 He had been at home ill the last day or two ; or, as the phrase 
 ran in the farm, was "off his work." 
 
 " If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. 
 " How can her mother keep her in that state ? Just look at 
 that Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle ! " 
 
 Sorting large bunches of sweet herbs on a table at the back 
 of the room, was a tall, upright woman. Her dress was plain, 
 but her manner and bearing bespoke the lady. Those familiar 
 with the district would have recognized in her handsome, but 
 somewhat masculine face, a likeness to the well-formed, power- 
 ful features of the late Squire Trevlyn. She was that gentle- 
 man's eldest daughter, and had given mortal umbrage to her 
 family when she quitted Trevlyn Hold to become the second 
 wife of Mr. Ryle. George Ryle was not her son. She had 
 only two children • Trevlyn, a boy two years younger than 
 George ; and a little girl of eight, named Caroline. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle turned 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 with a fling. The girl halted a few paces off 
 the porch, and dropped a curtsey. 
 
 " Please, father be dreadful bad," began she. " He be lying 
 on the bed and he don't stir, and he have got nothing but
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 7 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 "Please," whimpered the child, "she haven't had time to 
 tidy me to-day, father's been so bad, and t'other frock was 
 tored in the washin'." 
 
 " Of course," assented Nora. " Everything is ' tored ' that 
 she has to do with, and it never gets mended. If ever there 
 was a poor, moithering, thriftless thing, it's that mother of 
 yours. She has no needles and no thread, I suppose, and 
 neither soap nor water ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ryle came forward to interrupt the colloquy. " What 
 is the matter with your father, Letty ? Is he worse ? " 
 
 Letty dropped half-a-dozen curtseys in succession. " 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 ? " 
 
 " Have you brought anything to put it in ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Ryle. 
 
 " No, 'm." 
 
 "It's not likely," chimed in Nora. "Meg Sanders wouldn't 
 think to send so much as a cracked teacup. Shall I put a drop 
 in a bottle, and give it to her?" continued Nora, turning to 
 Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Ryle. " I must know what's the matter 
 with him before I send brandy. Go back to your mother, 
 Letty. Tell her I shall be going past her cottage presently, 
 and will call in." 
 
 The child turned and scuffled off. Mrs. Ryle resumed to 
 Nora : 
 
 " Should it be another attack of inward inflammation, brandy 
 would be the worst thing he could take. He drinks too much, 
 does Jim Sanders." 
 
 " His inside's like a barrel — always waiting to be filled," 
 remarked Nora. " He'd drink the sea dry if it ran beer. 
 What with his drinking, and her untidiness, small wonder that 
 the children are in rags. I am surprised the master keeps him 
 on ! " 
 
 " He only drinks by fits and starts, Nora. His health will 
 not let him do more."
 
 8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "■ No, it won't," acquiesced Nora. " And I misdoubt me but 
 this bout may be the ending of him. That hole was not dug 
 for nothing." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Mrs. Ryle. *' Find Treve, will you, Nora; 
 and get him ready." 
 
 "Treve," a young 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 some- 
 where about the farm, and put into visiting condition. He 
 and his mother were invited to take tea at Barbrook. In point 
 of fact, the invitation had been for Mrs. Ryle only ; but she 
 could not bear to stir anywhere without her darling boy 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 They had barely departed when George entered. Nora had 
 then spread the tea on the table, and was standing cutting 
 bread-and-butter. 
 
 " Where are they all ? " asked George, depositing his books 
 upon a small sideboard. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " I saved it you from dinner," said Nora, bringing forth a 
 plate from a closet. " It is not much. Treve's stomach is as 
 craving for pies as Jim Sanders's is for beer ; and Mrs. Ryle 
 
 would give him all he wanted, if it cleared the dish Is 
 
 that somebody calling ? " she broke off, going to the window. 
 " George, it's Mr. Chattaway ! See what he wants." 
 
 A gentleman on horseback had reined in close to the gate : 
 a spare man, rather above the middle height, with a pale, leaden 
 sort of complexion, small, cold light eyes, and mean-looking 
 features. George ran down the path. 
 
 " Is your father at home, 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 business any longer, 
 and if he does not pay the money right off, I'll make him 
 pay it." 
 
 Something not unlike an ice-shaft shot through George
 
 THE SCARLET CRAVAT. 9 
 
 Ryle's heart. He knew there was trouble between his house 
 and Mr. Chattaway ; that his father was, in pecuniary matters, 
 at Mr. Chattaway's mercy. Was this move, this message, the 
 result of his recent encounter with Cris Chattaway? A hot 
 flush dyed his face, and he wished — for liis father's sake — that 
 he had let Mr. Cris alone. For his father's sake he was now 
 ready to eat humble-pie to INIr. Chattaway, though there never 
 lived a boy less inclined to eat humble-pie in a general way 
 than George Ryle. He went close up to the horse and raised 
 his honest eyes fearlessly. 
 
 " Has Christopher been complaining to you, Mr. Chat- 
 taway ? " 
 
 "No. What has he to complain of? " 
 
 " Not much," answered George, his fears subsiding. " Only 
 I know he does carry tales." 
 
 " Were there no tales to carry he could not carry them," 
 coldly remarked Mr. Chattaway. "I have not' seen Chris- 
 topher 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 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 there. 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 m.essage, did he?" cried Mr. Ryle, who, 
 if he could be angered by 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 you, papa." 
 
 " Yes ; it is no matter to Chattaway how he browbeats me 
 and exposes my affairs. He has been at it for years. Has he 
 gone home ? " 
 
 " I think so," replied George. " He rode that way." 
 
 " I'll stand it no longer, and I'll tell him so to his face," 
 continued Mr. Ryle. " Let him do his best and his worst." 
 
 Taking up his hat, Mr. Ryle strode out of the house, dis- 
 daining Nora's invitation to tea, and leaving on the table his 
 neck-scarf, a large square of soft scarlet merino, which he had
 
 lo TREVLYN HOLD- 
 
 worn into Barmester. Recently suffering from sore throat, 
 Ivlrs. Ryle had induced him to put it on when he rode out that 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Look there ! " cried Nora. " He has left his cravat." 
 
 Snatching it up, she ran after Mr. Ryle, catching him when 
 he was half-way down the path. He took k from her with a 
 hasty movement, and went along swinging it in his hand. But 
 he did not attempt to put it on, 
 
 " It is just like the master," grumbled Nora to George. 
 " He has had that warm woollen thing on for hours, and now 
 goes off without it ! He'll get his throat bad again." 
 
 " I am afraid," said George, " papa's gone to have it out with 
 Mr. 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 IN THE PATH. 
 
 Later, when George was working assiduously at his lessons 
 and Nora was sewing, both by the help of the same candle-— 
 for an array of candles 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 and inflamed eyes, came in, curtseying. It was an 
 honest face, a meek face ; although it looked as if its owner 
 had a meal about once a week. 
 
 " Evening, Miss Dickson ; evening. Master George. I have 
 stepped round to ask the missis whether I shall be wanted on 
 Tuesday." 
 
 " The missis is out," said Nora. " She has been talking of 
 putting off the wash till the week after, but I don't know that 
 she will. If 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 Sanders's illness.
 
 THE HOLE IN THE PATH. II 
 
 " He has dreadful bouts, poor fellow ! " observed Ann 
 Can ham. 
 
 " But six times out of the seven he brings them on through 
 his own fault," tartly returned Nora. " Many and many a time 
 I have told him he'd do for himself, and now I think he has 
 done it. This bout, it strikes me, is his last." 
 
 " Is he so ill as that ? " exclaimed Ann Canham. And 
 George looked up from his exercise-book in surprise. 
 
 "I don't know that he is," said Nora; "but " 
 
 Nora broke suddenly off. She dropped her work, and bent 
 her head towards Ann Canham in the distance. 
 
 " We have had a strange thing happen here, Ann Canham," 
 she continued, her voice falling to a whisper; "and if it's not 
 a warning of death, never you believe me again. This morn- 
 ing George, did you hear the dog in the night ? " 
 
 " 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 hke a human creature. 
 You couldn't call it a howl; it had too much pain in it. He 
 was at it all night long ; I couldn't sleep for it. The missis 
 says she couldn't sleep for it. Molly heard it at times, but 
 dropped off to sleep again; those hard-worked servants are 
 heavy sleepers. 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 
 window 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 thrown up on either 
 side of it. That dog had done it in the night ! " 
 
 Ann Canham, possibly feeling herself uncomfortably aloof 
 from the company when graves became the topic, drew her 
 chair nearer the table. George sat, his pen arrested ; his large 
 eyes, wide open, were turned on Nora — not with a gaze of fear, 
 but with one of merriment. 
 
 " A great big hole, about twice the length of our rolling-pin, 
 and wide in proportion, all hollowed and scratched out," went 
 on Nora. " I called the cow-boy, and asked him what it looked 
 like. ' A grave,' says he, without a minute's hesitation. Molly 
 came out, and they two filled it in again, and trod the path 
 down. The marks have been plain enough all day. The master
 
 13 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 has been talking a long while of having that path gravelled, but 
 it has not been done." 
 
 "And the hole was scratted by the dog?" proceeded Ann 
 Canham, unable to get over the wonder. 
 
 " It was scratted by the dog," 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 house. 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." 
 
 " 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 Nora. " We have had that dog ever so 
 many years, and he never did such a thing before. Rely upon 
 it, it's Jim Sanders's warning. How you stare, George ! " 
 
 " Well I may stare, to hear you," was George's answer. 
 "How can you put faith in such rubbish, Nora?" 
 
 "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. Nora, your argument won't hold water. If the dog 
 had meant to give notice that he was digging a hole for Jim 
 Sanders, he would have dug it before his own door, not before 
 ours." 
 
 " Go on ! go on ! " cried Nora, sarcastically. " There's no 
 profit arguing 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 in its 
 place with much humility. Indeed, humility was her chief 
 characteristic. " I'll come round in the morning, and know 
 about the wash, if you please, ma'am," she said to Nora. 
 " Father, he'll be wanting 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,
 
 THE HOLE IN THE PATH. 13 
 
 the latter a diminutive boy, with dark curls and a handsome 
 face. 
 
 "Jim Sanders is much better," remarked Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " He is all right again now, and will be at work in a day or 
 two. It must have been a sort of fainting-fit he had this after- 
 noon, and his wife got frightened. I told him to rest to- 
 morrow, and come up the next day, if he felt strong enough." 
 
 George turned to Nora, his eyes dancing, " What of the hole 
 now ? " he asked. 
 
 "Wait and see," snapped Nora. "And if you are imperti- 
 nent, George, I'll never save you pie or pudding again." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle went into the sitting-room, but came back speedily, 
 when she found it dark and untenanted. " W^here's the master?" 
 she exclaimed. " Surely he 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. Ryle in surprise, for there 
 was something like deadly feud between Trevlyn Hold and 
 Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 George explained ; telling of Mr. Chattaway's message, and 
 the subsequent proceedings upon it. Nora added her word, 
 that " as sure as fate, he was having it out with Chattaway." 
 Nothing else would keep him at Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 But Mrs. Ryle knew that her husband, meek-spirited, easy- 
 natured, was not one to "have it out" with any one, even with 
 his enemy Chattaway. 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 parlour. 
 
 But still there was no Mr. Ryle. Ten o'clock struck, and 
 Mrs. Ryle grew, not exactly uneasy, but curious as to what 
 could have become of him. What could he be stopping at the 
 Hold for ? 
 
 "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 swinging it in his hand. There's John Finder 
 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 what can be detaining him."
 
 14 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Perhaps he has gone somewhere else ? " said George. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Ryle. "He would neither go anywhere 
 else, nor, I think, stop at Chattaway's. This is Tuesday 
 evening." 
 
 A conclusive argument. Tuesday evening was invariably 
 devoted by Mr. Ryle to his farm accounts, and he never 
 suffered anything to interfere with that evening's work. George 
 threw his cap on his head, and started on his errand. 
 
 It was a starlight night, cold and clear, and George went 
 along wliistling. A quarter-of-an-hour's walk along the turn- 
 pike road brought him to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently 
 the whole way, for the land was higher at Trevlyn Hold than 
 at Trevlyn Farm. A white gate, by the side of a lodge, opened 
 to the shrubbery or avenue — a dark walk, wide enough for two 
 carriages to pass abreast, with the elm trees nearly meeting 
 overhead. The shrubbery wound up to a lawn, which stretched 
 before the windows of the house: an old fashioned, com- 
 modious stone-built house, with gable roofs, and a handsome 
 flight of steps before the entrance-hall. George ascended the 
 steps and rang the bell. 
 
 " Is papa ready to come home ? " he asked, not very cere- 
 moniously, of the servant who answered it. 
 
 The man paused, as though he scarcely understood. " Mr. 
 Ryle is not here, sir," was the answer. 
 
 " How long has he been gone?" 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 again. " Mr. Ryle has 
 not been here, sir. I thought he had not." 
 
 George wondered. Could he be out somewhere with Chat- 
 taway ? " Is Mr. Chattaway at home ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Master is in bed," said the servant. " He came home to- 
 day about five, or thereabouts, not feeling well, and he went to 
 bed as soon as tea was over." 
 
 George turned away. Where could his father have gone to, 
 if not to Mr. Chattaway's ? Where was he to look for him ? 
 As he passed the lodge, Ann Canham was locking the gate, of 
 which she and her father were tlie 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 side-gate.
 
 CHATTAWAY'S BULL. 15 
 
 " Have you seen my father anywhere, since you left our liouse 
 this evening?" he asked. 
 
 " No, I have not, Master George." 
 
 " I can't think where he can be. I thought he was at Chat- 
 taway'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 be ! Good night, Ann Canhani." 
 
 "Master George," she interrupted, "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 tones of doubt. " But, Master George, I 
 didn't like what Nora told us. I can't bear them tokens from 
 dumb animals. I never knew them fail." 
 
 "Jim Sanders is all right, I tell you," said heathen George. 
 " ISIamma has been there, and he is coming to his work the 
 day after to-morrow. " Good night." 
 
 "Good night, sir," answered Ann Canham, in her usual 
 humble fashion, as she retreated within the lodge. And George 
 went through the gate, and stood there in hesitation, looking 
 up and down the road. But it was apparently of no use to go 
 elsewhere in the uncertainty; and he turned towards home, 
 wondering much. 
 
 What had become of Mr. Ryle ? " 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 chattaway's bull. 
 
 The stars shone bright and clear as George Ryle walked down 
 the slight descent of the turnpike-road, wondering what had 
 become of his father. Any other night but this, Tuesday, he 
 might not have wondered about it; but George could not 
 remember the time when Tuesday evening had been devoted 
 to anything but the farm accounts. John Finder, who acted 
 as a sort of bailiff, had been in the kitchen some hours with 
 his weekly memoranda, to go through them as usual with his 
 master ; and George knew that his father would not willingly 
 keep the man waiting.
 
 i6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 George went along whistling a tune ; he was fond of whistling. 
 About half-way between Trevlyn Hold and his own house, the 
 sound of some other tune being whistled struck upon his ear. 
 A turn in the road brought a lad into view, wearing a smock- 
 frock. It was the waggoner's boy at Trevlyn Hold. He ceased 
 when he came up to George, and touched his hat in rustic 
 fashion. 
 
 " Have you seen anything of my father, Bill ? " 
 
 " Not since this afternoon, Master George," was the answer. 
 " I see him then. He was a-turning into that there field of 
 ourn, just above here, next to where the bull be. A-going up 
 to the Hold, mayhap; else what should he a-do there?" 
 
 " What time was that ? " asked George. 
 
 The boy tilted his hat and considered a moment "'Twas 
 afore the sun setted," said he, at length, " I am sure o* that. 
 He had 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. Crossing 
 this field and the one next to it, both of them large, would 
 bring a passenger close to Trevlyn Hold, cutting off, perhaps, 
 two minutes of the high-road, which wound round the fields. 
 But the fields were scarcely ever favoured, on account of the 
 bull. This bull had been a subject of much contention in the 
 neighbourhood, and was popularly called "Chattaway's bull." 
 It was a savage animal, and had once got out of the field and 
 frightened several people almost to death. The neighbours 
 said Mr. Chattaway ought to keep it under lock and key. Mr. 
 Chattaway said he should keep it where he pleased : and he 
 generally pleased to keep it in the field. This barred it to 
 pedestrians ; and Mr. Ryle must undoubtedly have been in hot 
 haste to reach Trevlyn Hold to choose that dangerous route. 
 
 A hundred fears darted througli George Ryle's mind. He 
 was more thoughtful, it may be said more imaginative, than 
 boys of his age generally are. George and Cris Chattaway 
 had once had a run from the bull, and only saved themselves 
 by desperate speed. Venturing into the field one day when 
 the animal was apparently grazing quietly in a remote corner, 
 they had not anticipated his running at them. George remem- 
 bered this ; he remembered the terror excited when the bull 
 had broken loose. Had his father been attacked by the bull ? 
 — perhaps killed by it ?
 
 CHATTAWAY'S BULL. 17 
 
 His heart beating, George retraced his steps, and turned into 
 the first field. He liastened across it, glancing keenly on all 
 sides — as keenly, at least, as the night allowed him. Not in 
 this field would be the danger, since it was interdicted to the 
 bull ; and George reached the gate of the other, and stood 
 looking into it. 
 
 Apparently it was quite empty. The bull was probably safe 
 in its shed then, in Chattaway's farmyard. George could see 
 nothing — nothing except the grass stretched out in the star- 
 light. He threw his eyes in every direction, but could not 
 perceive his father, or any trace of him. *' What a simpleton 
 I am," thought George, " to fear that such an out-of-the-way 
 
 thing could have happened ! Papa must " 
 
 ' What was that? George abruptly concluded his sentence, 
 and held his breath. A sound, not unUke a groan, had smote 
 upon his ear. And there it came again ! " Holloa ! " shouted 
 George, and cleared the gate with a bound. "What's that? 
 Who is it ? " 
 
 A moan answered him ; and George Ryle, guided by the 
 sound, hastened to the spot. It was only a little way off, along 
 by the hedge separating the fields. All the undefined fear, 
 which George, not a minute ago, had felt inclined to treat as 
 groundless, was indeed but a prevision of the terrible reality. 
 Mr. Ryle lay in a narrow, dry ditch : and, but for that friendly 
 ditch, he had probably been gored to death on the spot. 
 
 " Who is it ? " he asked feebly, as his son bent over him, try- 
 ing to distinguish what he could in the darkness. "George?" 
 
 " Oh, papa ! what has happened ? " 
 
 "Just my death, lad." 
 
 It was a sad tale. One that is often talked of in the place, in 
 connection with Chattaway's bull. In crossing the second field 
 — indeed, as soon as he entered it — Mr. Ryle was attacked by 
 the furious beast, and tossed into the ditch, where he lay help- 
 less. The people said then, and say still, that the scarlet cravat 
 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 encoun- 
 tered. "Perhaps I can get you out, papa," he said. "Though 
 I may not be able myself to get you home." 
 
 " No, George ; it will take stronger help than yours to get 
 me out of this." 
 
 " I had better go up to the Hold, then. It is nearer than 
 our house." 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 2
 
 i8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "George, you will not go to the Hold," said Mr. Ryle, autho- 
 ritatively. " I will not be beholden for help to Chattaway. 
 He has been the ruin of my peace, and now his bull has done 
 for me." 
 
 George bent down closer. There was no room for him to 
 get into the ditch ; it was very narrow. " Papa, are you shiver- 
 ing with cold ? " 
 
 " With cold and pain. The frost strikes keen upon me, and 
 my pain is great." 
 
 George instantly took off his jacket and waistcoat, and laid 
 them gently on his father, his tears dropping silently in the 
 dark night. " I'll 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 so that she may not be 
 alarmed. " 
 
 George flew away. At the end of the second field, staring 
 over the gate near the high-road, stood the boy. Bill, whose 
 ears George's shouts had reached. He was not a 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 ? " 
 
 " Bill, run down for your life to the second field," panted 
 George, seizing him in his desperation. " In the ditch, a few 
 yards along the hedge to the right, my father is lying. Go and 
 stop by him, until I come back with help." 
 
 " Lying in the ditch ! " repeated Bill, unable to gather his 
 ideas upon the communication. " What's a-done it. Master 
 George? Drink?" 
 
 "Brink!" indignantly retorted George. "When did you 
 know Mr. Ryle the worse for drink ? 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. 
 
 " I have seen no bull. The bull must have been in its shed 
 hours ago. Stand by him. Bill, and I'll give you sixpence to- 
 
 morrow " 
 
 They separated. George tore down the road, wondering 
 how he should fulfil the injunction of his father not to frighten
 
 CHATTAWAY'S BULL, 19 
 
 Mrs. Ryle in telling the news. Molly, very probably looking 
 ■after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard gate as he 
 passed it. (ieorge 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 ; 
 but so bunglingly did she execute her commission, that not 
 only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn came flocking to the 
 porch, George could only go in then. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in answer to their 
 questions, " Papa has had a fall, and — and says he cannot walk 
 home. Perhaps his ankle's sprained." 
 
 " What has become of your jacket and waistcoat, you naughty 
 boy ? " cried 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. 
 
 Trevlyn 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," 
 
 •' Where 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." 
 
 The first thing Treve did zcas to cry out, George clapped 
 his hand before his mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who 
 were full of curiosity, both as to George's jacketless state and 
 George's news, had followed them into the passage. 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, Ryle in his pain and earnestness, " There 
 is an accident, mamma ; but it is not so bad as that," 
 
 Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure ; very few people had 
 ever seen //^r ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her 
 husband had little need to caution George as he had done. She 
 laid her hand upon George's shoulder and looked calmly into
 
 20 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 his face. "Tell me the truth," she said in tones of quiet com- 
 mand. "What is the injury?" 
 
 " I do not know yet " 
 
 ■ " The 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 Chattaway's bull?" 
 she uttered. 
 
 " 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 acting. She sought 
 John Finder and issued her orders clearly and concisely. Men 
 were got together ; a mattress with holders was made ready ; 
 and the procession started under the convoy of George, who 
 had been made to put on another jacket by Nora. Bill, the 
 waggoner's boy, had been faithful, and was found by the side of 
 Mr.^Ryle. 
 
 " I'm glad you be come," was the boy's salutation. " He 
 have been groaning and shivering awful. It set me on to 
 shiver too." 
 
 As if to escape from the evil. Bill ran oif, there and then, 
 across the field, and never drew breath until he reached Trevlyn 
 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 farmyard door — for farming was 
 carried on at Trevlyn Hold as well as at Trevlyn Farm — he 
 passed through sundry passages to the well-lighted hall. There 
 he seemed to hesitate at his temerity, but at length gave an 
 awkward knock at the door of the general sitting-room. 
 
 A large, handsome room. Reclining in an easy-chair was a 
 pretty and pleasing woman, looking considerably younger than 
 she really was. Small features, a profusion of curling auburn 
 hair, light blue eyes, a soft, yielding expression of countenance, 
 and a gentle voice, were the adjuncts of a young woman, rather 
 than of one approaching middle-age. A stranger, entering, 
 might have taken her for a young unmarried woman ; and yet 
 she was mistress of Trevlyn Hold, the mother of that great girl 
 of sixteen at the table, now playing backgammon and quarrel- 
 ling 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 uni-
 
 CHATTAWAY'S BULL, 2i 
 
 versally called Madam Chattaway — as from time immemorial 
 it had been customary to designate the mistress of Trevlyn 
 Hold — she was in fact no better than a nonentity in it, possess- 
 ing little authority, and assuming less. She has been telling her 
 children several times that their hour for bed has passed ; she 
 has begged them not to quarrel ; she has suggested that if they 
 will not go to bed, Maude should do so ; but she may as well 
 talk to the winds. 
 
 Miss Chattaway possesses a will of her own. She has the 
 same insignificant features, the pale leaden complexion, the 
 small, sly, keen light eyes that characterize her father. She 
 would like to hold undisputed sway as the house's mistress ; 
 but the inclination has to be concealed ; for the real mistress 
 of Trevlyn Hold may not be displaced from power. She is 
 sitting in the background, at a table apart, bending over her 
 desk. A tall, majestic lady, in a stiff green silk dress and an 
 imposing cap, in person very like Mrs. Ryle. It is Miss Trevlyn, 
 usually called Miss Diana, the youngest daughter of the late 
 Squire. You would take her to be at least ten years older than 
 her sister, Mrs. Chattaway, but in point of fact she is that lady's 
 junior by a year. Miss Trevlyn is, to all intents and purposes, 
 mistress of Trevlyn Hold, and she rules its internal economy 
 with a firm sway. 
 
 " Maude, you should go to bed," Mrs. Chattaway had said for 
 the fourth or fifth time. 
 
 A graceful girl of thirteen turned her dark, violet-blue eyes 
 and her pretty light curls upon Mrs. Chattaway. She had been 
 leaning on the table watching the backgammon. Something of 
 the soft, sweet expression visible in Mrs. Chattaway's face might 
 be traced in this child's : but in Maude it was blended with 
 greater intellect. 
 
 " It is not my fault. Aunt Edith," she gently said. " I should 
 like to go. I am tired." 
 
 " Will you be quiet, Maude ! " broke from Miss Chattaway. 
 " Mamma, I wish you wouldn't 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. 
 
 " You can hold your tongue and wait where you are, and not 
 be ungrateful," was the response of Octavia Chattaway. " But 
 for papa's kindness, you would not have a bed to go to, Cris, 
 you are cheating ! that was not sixes ! "
 
 22 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 It was at this juncture that the awkward knock came to the 
 door. " Come in ! " called out Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 Either her gentle voice was not heard, for Cris and his sister 
 were disputing just then, or the boy's modesty would not allow 
 him to respond. He knocked again. 
 
 " See who it is, Cris," came forth the ringing voice of Miss 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 Cris did not choose to obey, ''Open the door, Maude," 
 said he. 
 
 Maude did as she was bid : she had little chance allowed her 
 in that house of doing otherwise. Opening the door, she saw 
 the boy standing there. "What is it, Bill.?" she asked in 
 surprise. 
 
 "Please, is the Squire in there, Miss Maude?" 
 
 " No," answered Maude. " He has gone to bed : he is not 
 well." 
 
 This appeared to be a poser for Bill, and he stood consider- 
 ing. " Is Madam in there ? " he presently asked. 
 
 " Who is it, Maude ? " came again in Miss Trevlyn's com- 
 manding tones. 
 
 Maude turned her head. " It is Bill Webb, Aunt Diana." 
 
 "What does he want?" 
 
 Bill stepped in. " Please, Miss Diana, I came to tell the 
 Squire the news. I thought he might be angry of me if I did 
 not, seeing as I knowed of it." 
 
 " The news ? " repeated Miss Diana, looking imperiously at 
 Bill. 
 
 " 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. Cris and his sister, in their haste, upset 
 the backgammon-board. 
 
 " IVhat do you say. Bill ? " gasped Mrs. Chattaway, with white 
 face and faltering tongue. 
 
 " It's true, ma'am," said Bill. " The bull set on him this 
 afternoon, and tossed him into the ditch. Master George 
 found him there a short while a-gone, groaning awful." 
 
 There was a startled pause. Maude broke the silence with a 
 sob of pain, and Mrs. Chattaway, in her consternation, seized 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 
 Pinder and others have brought a bed, and they be carrying of 
 him home on it."
 
 LIFE OR DEATH? 23 
 
 " What brought Mr. Ryle in that field ? " asked Miss Diana. 
 
 " He tolled me, ma'am, as he was a-coming up here to see 
 the Sc^uire, and took that way to save time," 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway fell back a little. " Cris," said she to her 
 son, "go down to the farm and see what the injury is. I can- 
 not sleep in the uncertainty. It may be fatal." 
 
 Cris tossed his head. "You know, mother, I'd do almost 
 anything to oblige you," he said, in his smooth accent, which 
 seemed to carry a false sound with it, " but I can't go to the 
 farm. Mrs. Ryle might insult me : there's no love lost between 
 us." 
 
 " If the accident happened this afternoon, how was it that it 
 was not discovered when the bull was brought in from the field 
 to his shed to-night ? " cried Miss Trevlyn, speaking as much 
 to herself as to any one else. 
 
 Bill shook his head. " I dun know," he replied. "For one 
 thing, Mr. Ryle was right down in the ditch, and couldn't 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 only been listened to ! " exclaimed Mrs, Chatta- 
 way, in wailing accents. "How many a time have I asked 
 that the bull should be parted with, before he did some fatal 
 injury. And now it has come ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LIFE OR DEATH? 
 
 Mr. Ryle was carried home on the mattress, and laid on the 
 large table in the sitting-room, by the surgeon's directions. 
 Mrs. Ryle, clear-headed, and of calm judgment, had sent for 
 medical advice even before sending for her husband. The 
 only doctor available for immediate purposes was Mr. King, 
 who lived about half-way between the farm and the village. 
 He attended at once, and was at the house before his patient. 
 Mrs. Ryle had sent also to Barmester for another surgeon, but 
 he could not arrive just yet. It was by Mr. King's direction 
 that the mattress was placed on the large table in the parlour. 
 
 " Better there ; better there," acquiesced the sufferer, when 
 he heard the order given. " I don't know how they'd get me 
 up the stairs."
 
 24 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mr. King, a man getting in years, was left alone with his 
 patient. The examination over, he came forth from the room 
 and sought Mrs. Ryle, who was waiting for the report. 
 
 " The internal injuries are extensive, I fear," he said. " They 
 lie chiefly here " — touching his chest and right side. 
 
 " Will he live, Mr. King?" she interrupted. " Do not tem- 
 porize, but let me know the truth. Will he live ? " 
 
 " You have asked me a question that I cannot yet answer," 
 returned the surgeon. " My examination has been hasty and 
 superficial : I was alone, and I knew you were anxiously wait- 
 ing. With the help of Mr. Benage, we may be able to arrive 
 at some more decisive opinion. I fear the injuries are serious." 
 
 Yes, they Avere serious ; and nothing could be done, as it 
 seemed, to remedy them or alleviate the pain. Mr. Ryle lay 
 helpless on the bed, giving vent to his regret and anguish in 
 somewhat homely phraseology. It was the phraseology of this 
 simple farmhouse ; that to which he had been accustomed ; 
 and he was not likely to change it now. Gentlemen by de- 
 scent, he and his father had been content to live as plain 
 farmers only, in speech as well as in work. 
 
 He lay groaning, lamenting his imprudence, now that it 
 was too late, in venturing within the reach of that dangerous 
 animal. The rest waited anxiously and restlessly the appear- 
 ance of the surgeon. For Mr. Benage of Barmester had a 
 world-wide reputation, and such men seem to bring consolation 
 with them. If any one 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 clasped, his head lying lightly upon them, he was 
 listening for the sound of the gig which had been despatched 
 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 again by this." 
 
 He was right. The gig was bowling swiftly along, containing 
 the well-known surgeon and the messenger despatched 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 time and the worst was known. There would be 
 but a few more hours of life for Mr. Ryle. 
 
 Mr, King would remain, doing what he could to comfort, to
 
 LIFE OR DEATH? 25 
 
 soothe pain. Mr. Benage must return to Barmester, for he 
 was wanted there ; and the horse was put to the gig to take 
 liim back again. Refreshment was offered him, but he decHned 
 it. Nora waylaid him in the garden as he was going down, 
 and caught him by the arm. 
 
 " 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 outer room 
 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. " Ryle stood near 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. Ryle's 
 head, and covered him with blankets and a counterpane ; a 
 , stranger would have thought him lying on a bed. He looked 
 grievously wan, and the surgeon administered something in a 
 glass from time to time. 
 
 " Come here, my boys," he suddenly said, " Come close to 
 me." 
 
 They approached, 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 least thought 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 would let your mother stop on, she might keep 
 things together, and get clear of him ia 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 trust him. 
 Maude, you'll do your best for them ? For him, as for the 
 younger ones ? " 
 
 " I will," said Mrs, Ryle. 
 
 " Ay, I know you will. I leave them all to you, and you 
 will 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 
 to that. Treve, you must do the best you can in whatever
 
 26 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 station you may be called to. 1 don't know what it will be. 
 My boys, there's nothing before you but work. Do you under- 
 stand 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 whilst 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 George, who could no longer con- 
 trol his sobs. 
 
 *' My days seem to have been made up of nothing but strug- 
 gling, and quarrelling, and care. Struggling to keep my head 
 above water, and quarrelling with Chattaway. The end 
 seemed far-off, ages away, something as 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 as suddenly ; cutting them off in their 
 carelessness, and their sins. • Do not spend your days in 
 quarrelling, my boys ; be working on a bit for the end whilst 
 time is given you to do it. I don't know how it will be in the 
 world I am about to enter. Some fancy that when once we 
 have entered it, we shall see what is going on here, in our. 
 families and homes. For that thought, if for no other, I would 
 ask you to try and keep right. If you were to go wrong, think 
 how it would grieve me ! I should always be saying that I 
 might have trained you better, and had not done so. Oh, 
 children ! it is only when we come to lie here that we see all 
 our shortcomings. You would not like to grieve me, George ? " 
 
 " Oh, papa, no ! " said George, his sobs deepening. " Indeed 
 I will try to do my best. I shall be always thinking that per- 
 haps you are watching me." 
 
 " There's One greater than I always watching you, George. 
 And that is God. Act well in His sight ; not in mine. Doctor, 
 I must have some more of that stuff again. I feel a queer 
 sinking." 
 
 Mr. King rose, poured some drops into a wine-glass of water, 
 and administered them. 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 own mother, but you have never known another,
 
 LIFE OR DEATH? 27 
 
 and she has been as one to you. Listen to her always, and 
 she will lead you aright. If I had listened to her, I shouldn't 
 be lying where I am now. A week or two ago I wanted the 
 character of that outdoor man from Chattaway. ' Don't go 
 through the field with the bull in it,' she said to me before I 
 started. ' Better keep where he can't touch you.' Do you 
 remember it, Maude ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ryle simply bowed her head in reply. She was feeling 
 the scene deeply, but emotion she would not show. 
 
 " I heeded what your mother said, and went up to Chat- 
 taway's by the roadway, avoiding the fields," resumed Mr. Ryle. 
 "This last afternoon, when I was going up again and had got 
 to the field gate, I turned to it, for it cut off a few steps, and 
 my temper was up. I thought of what your mother would 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 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 there 
 to-morrow, you'll see it in shreds about the field. Children, 
 obey your mother ; there'll be double the necessity for it when 
 I am gone." 
 
 The boys had been obedient hitherto. At least, George had 
 been. 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 maybe 
 it's for the best that she's away, for I should hardly have borne 
 to part with her. ]\Iaude ! 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 a delicate little mite : but that will 
 be as God pleases. I wish I could have stopped wdth you all 
 a bit longer — if it's not sinful to wish contrary to God's will. 
 Is Mr. King there ? " 
 
 Wx. 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 should be obliged if you'd just write out a few directions. 
 I should like to write them myself, but it can't be ; you'll put 
 down the sentences just as I speak them. I have not made 
 my will. I put it off, and put it off, thinking I could do it at 
 any time ; but now the end's come, and it is not done. Death 
 surprises a great many, I fear, as he has surprised me. It
 
 2^28 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 seems that if I could only have one day more of health, I would 
 do many things that I have left undone. You shall write down 
 my wishes, doctor. It will do as well ; for there's only them- 
 selves, and they won't dispute one with the other. Let a little 
 table be brought, and pen, ink, and paper." 
 
 He lay quiet while these directions were obeyed, and then 
 began again. 
 
 " I am in very little pain, considering that I am going ; not 
 half as much as when I lay 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 ofl 
 blue sky in the darkest trouble; and the more implicitly we trust, 
 the more blue sky we shall find. I have not been what I ought 
 to be, especially in the matter of disputing with Chattaway — 
 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 the 
 table ready ? " 
 
 " It is all ready," said Mr. King. 
 
 " Then leave me alone with the doctor a short time, 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 look that the 
 face, lying there, was assuming, struck upon her ominously. 
 
 " After all, the boy was right," she murmured. " The hole, 
 scratched before this house, was not meant for Jim Sanders." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 
 
 The sun rose_ gloriously, dispersing the early October frost, 
 and shedding its 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 fold-yard gate. He had 
 strolled out without his hat, and had bent his head down in his 
 giief. Not that he was shedding tears now. He had shed 
 plenty during the night; but tears cannot flow always, even 
 from an aching heart,
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 29 
 
 Hasty steps were heard approaching down 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 hap- 
 pened? Is he dead?" 
 
 " He is dying," rephed George. " The doctors are with him. 
 Mr. King has been here all night, and Mr. Benage has just 
 come again from Barmester. They have sent us 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. What brought him near the bull ? " 
 
 " He was going through the field up to your house, and the 
 bull set on him " 
 
 "But when? when?" hastily interrupted Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " It was yesterday afternoon. Papa came in directly after 
 you rode away, and I gave him your message. 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 
 that that excited the bull. He was tossed into the ditch, and 
 lay there, undiscovered, until past ten at night." 
 
 "And he is badly hurt?" 
 
 "He is dying," replied George, "dying no.v. I think that is 
 why they sent us from the room." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway paused in dismay. Though a hard, selfish 
 man, who had taken delight in quarrelling 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 ; 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 sorry to hear it. What- 
 ever will the farm do without him? How shall you all 
 get on ? " 
 
 "It is thinking of that which has been troubling him all
 
 30 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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, 
 determined to speak out. 
 
 " Hard, he called me, did he ? " said Mr. Chattaway. " It's 
 not my hardness that has been in fault, George, but 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. 
 
 " My equal 1 Working Tom Ryle equal with the Chatta- 
 ways ! A man who rents two or three hundred acres and does 
 half the work on them himself, the equal of the landlord who 
 owns them and ever so many more to them ! — the equal of the 
 Squire of Trevlyn Hold ! Where did you pick up those notions, 
 George Ryle ? " 
 
 George had a great mind to say that in point of strict justice 
 Mr. Chattaway had no more right to be Squire of Trevlyn 
 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 ; 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 re- 
 sumed, in the same thin, unpleasant tones — never was there a 
 voice more thin and wiry than his. "It's natural you should 
 
 have got 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 money owing to you. But if 
 you will not press us, if you will let mamma stay on the farm, 
 I " 
 
 " That's enough," interrupted Mr. Chattaway, " Never 
 trouble your head, George, about business that's above you. 
 Anything that's between 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," answered George ; some vague and indistinct 
 idea floating to his mind that a death-bed reconciliation might 
 help to smooth future difficulties.
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 31 
 
 He led the way 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 ever regarded that gentleman in the light of a common 
 enemy, and could with 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 ? " whispered Mr. Chattaway ; while George 
 lifted his white and startled face. 
 
 " Yes, he is dead ! " broke forth Nora, in sobs ; " and per- 
 haps 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." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, it appeared, did not like it. He turned from 
 the door, drawing George with him. 
 
 "George, 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. Tell her that if there's any 
 little thing she could fancy from the Hold, to let Edith know, 
 and she'll gladly 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 Avith his aching heart ; an 
 orphan now. Treve and Caroline 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 supplied the place 
 of one. She had done her duty by him ; but it had not been 
 in love ; not very much in gentleness. Of her own children 
 she was inordinately fond ; she had not been so of George 
 — which perhaps was in accordance with human nature. It 
 had never troubled George much ; but somehow the fact now 
 struck upon him 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 everyday 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 that the master was
 
 32 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 no longer here to command, or to deal with. Work, especially 
 farm work, must go on, although death may have accomplished 
 its mission. 
 
 The butcher, riding fast, hai nearly reached the gate, and 
 George was turning away from it to retire indoors, when the 
 unhappy thought came upon him — Who is to see this man ? 
 His father no longer there, who must represent him ? — must 
 answer comers — must stand in his place? It brought the 
 fact of what had happened more practically before George 
 Ryle's mind than anything else had brought it. He stood 
 where he was, instead of turning away. He must rise superior 
 to his grief that day, and be useful ; he must rise above his 
 years in the future, for his step-mother's sake. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. George," cried the butcher, as he rode 
 up. " Is the master about ? " 
 
 " No," answered George, speaking as steadily as he could. 
 " He — he will never be about again. He is dead." 
 
 The butcher thought it a boy's joke. " None of that, young 
 gentleman ! " said he, with a laugh. " Which way shall I go to 
 find him ? " 
 
 " Mr. Cope," said George, raising his grave face — and its ex- 
 pression struck a chill to the man's heart — " I should not joke 
 upon the subject of death. My father was attacked by Chatta- 
 way's bull yesterday evening, and has died of the injuries." 
 
 " Lawk a mercy 1 " uttered the startled man. " Attacked by 
 Chattaway's bull ! and — and — died of the injuries ! Sure-ly it 
 can't be ! " 
 
 George had turned his face away ; it was getting 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 neighbour, I'd stop him from injuring 
 another, no matter what might be its value. Dear me ! Mr. 
 George, I'd rather have heard any news than this." 
 
 George's head was completely, turned away now. The 
 butcher roused himself to think 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 shillings split us. But I'll give in sooner than not have.
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 33 
 
 'cm. Who is going to carry on the deahngs in Mr. Ryle's 
 place ? Who can I speak to ? " 
 
 " You can see John Finder," answered George. " He knows 
 most about things." 
 
 The butcher guided his horse througli the fold-yard, scatter- 
 ing the cocks and hens in various directions, and gained the 
 barn. John Finder was in it, and came out to him; and George 
 escaped indoors. 
 
 It was a sad day. The excitement over, the doctors de- 
 parted, the gossipers and neighbours dispersed, the village 
 carpenter having come and taken a certain measure, the house 
 was left to its monotonous quiet ; that distressing quiet which 
 tells upon the spirits. Nora's voice Avas subdued, and Molly 
 went about on tiptoe. The boys wished it was over ; that, and 
 many more days to come. Treve fairly broke bounds about 
 twelve, said he could not bear it, and went out amongst 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 be careful 
 how he drove. Not that he had never driven before ; but Mr. 
 Ryle, or some one else, had always been in the gig with him. 
 Now he was alone ; and it brought his loss again more forcibly 
 before him. 
 
 He reached Barmester, and saw his sister Caroline, who was 
 staying there on a visit. She was not overwhelmed with grief, 
 but, on the contrary, appeared to have taken the matter coolly 
 and lightly. The fact was, the little girl had no definite ideas 
 on the subject of death. She had never been brought into 
 contact with it, and could not at all realize the fact told her, 
 that she would never see papa again. Better for the little 
 heart perhaps that it was so ; enough of sorrow comes with 
 later years ; and Mrs. Ryle may have judged wisely in deciding 
 to keep the child where she was until after the funeral. 
 
 W^hen George reached home, he found Nora at tea alone. 
 Master Treve had chosen to take his with his mamma in her 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 3
 
 34 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 chamber. George sat down with Nora. The shutters were 
 closed, and the room was bright with fire and candle ; but to 
 George all things were dreary. 
 
 "Why don't you eat?" asked Nora, presently, perceiving 
 that the bread-and-butter remained untouched. 
 
 " I'm not hungry," replied George. 
 
 " Not hungry? Did you have tea at Barmester?" 
 1 " I did not have anything," he said. 
 
 " Now, look you here, George. If you are going to give way 
 to your grief Mercy me ! What's that ? " 
 
 Some one had come in hastily at the door. 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 panting, as one who has outrun her 
 breath, her fair curls falling, her cheeks crimson, her dark blue 
 eyes glistening. On the pretty arms were clasped coral 
 bracelets, and a thin gold chain, bearing a coral cross, was on 
 her neck. It was Maude Trevlyn, whom you saw at Trevlyn 
 Hold last night. So out of place did she look in that scene, 
 that Nora for once was silent. She could only stare. 
 
 " I ran away, Nora," said Maude, coming forward. " Octave 
 has a party, but they won't miss me if I stay only a little time. 
 I have wanted to come all day, but they would not let me." 
 
 " Who would not ? " asked Nora. 
 
 " Not any of them. Even Aunt Edith. Nora, is it true ? 
 Is it true that he is dead ? " she reiterated, her pretty hands 
 clasped with emotion, and her great blue eyes cast upwards at 
 Nora, waiting for the answer. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Maude ! you might have heard it was true enough 
 up at the Hold. And so they have a party, have they ! Some 
 folk in Madam Chattaway's place might have had the grace 
 to put it off, when their sister's husband was lying dead ! " 
 
 " It is not Aunt Edith's fault. You know it is not, Nora. 
 George, you know it also. She has been crying several times 
 to-day ; and she asked long and long ago for the bull to be 
 sent off. But he was not sent. Oh, George, I am so sorry ! I 
 wish I could have seen him before he died. There was no 
 one I liked so Avell as Mr. Ryle." 
 
 "Will you have some tea?" asked Nora. 
 
 " No, I must not stay. Should Octave miss me she will tell 
 of me, and then I should be punished. What do you think ? 
 Rupert displeased Cris in some way, and Miss Diana sent him 
 to bod away from all the pleasure. It is a shame ! "
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD, 35 
 
 " It is all a shame together, up at Trevlyn Hold — all that 
 concerns Rupert," said Nora, not, perhaps, very judiciously. 
 
 " Nora, where did he die ? " asked Maude, in a whisper. 
 " Did they take him up to his bedroom when they brought 
 him home ? " 
 
 *' They carried him in there," said Nora, pointing to the 
 sitting-room door. " He is lying there now." 
 
 " 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 ?" 
 
 "Who told you anything about that?" asked Nora, sharply. 
 
 " Ann Canham came and told it at the Hold. Was it so, 
 Nora?" 
 
 Nora nodded. "A great hole, Miss Maude, nearly big 
 enough to lay the master in. Not that I thought it was a 
 token for Jiivi ! I thought only of Jim Sanders. And some 
 folk laugh at these warnings ! " she added. " There sits one," 
 pointing to George. 
 
 "Well, never mind it now, Nora," said George, hastily. 
 Never was 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 ? " 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 girl. 
 
 " Don't go, Maude. Nora, you must not let her go in. She 
 might not like it. It would not be right." 
 
 Now, of all things, Nora had a dislike to be dictated to, 
 especially by those she called children. She saw no reason 
 why Maude should not look upon the dead if she wished to 
 do so, and she gave a sharp word of reprimand to George, all 
 in an undertone. How could they speak aloud, entering into 
 that presence ? 
 
 " Maude, Maude ! " he whispered. " I would advise you 
 not to go in." 
 
 " Let me go, George 1 " she pleaded. " I should like to see
 
 36 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 in her eyes ; " I was in a 
 hurry 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 ad- 
 vanced on tip-toe, her heart beating, her breath held with awe. 
 She halted at the foot of the table, looked eagerly upwards, and 
 saw What was it that she saw ? 
 
 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 bound of terror, and 
 she fell back with a convulsive shriek. Before Nora knew well 
 what had occurred, George had her in the other room, his 
 arms wound about her with a sense of protection. Nora came 
 out and closed the door, vexed with herself for having allowed 
 her to enter, 
 
 " You should have told me you had never seen anybody 
 dead before. Miss Maude," cried she, testily. " How was 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 looked bad." 
 
 Maude was clinging tremblingly to George, sobbing hysteri- 
 cally. " Don't be angry with me," she whispered. " I did not 
 think he would look like that." 
 
 " Oh, Maude, dear, I am not angry ; I am only sorry," he said 
 soothingly. " There's nothing really to be frightened at. Papa 
 loved you very much ; almost as much as he loved me." 
 
 " I will take you back, Maude," said George, when she was 
 ready to go. 
 
 " Yes, please," she eagerly answered. " I should not dare 
 to go alone now. I should be fancying I saw — you know. 
 That it was looking out at me from the hedges." 
 
 Nora folded her shawl well over her again, and George drew 
 her closer to him that she might feel his presence as well as 
 see it. Nora watched them down the path, right over the hole 
 which the restless dog had favoured the house with a night or 
 two before. 
 
 They went up tlie road. An involuntary shudder shook 
 George's frame as he passed the turning which led to the fatal 
 field. He seemed to see his father in the unequal conflict. 
 Maude felt the movement.
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 37 
 
 " It is never going to be out again, George," she whispered. 
 
 " What ? " he asked, his thoughts buried deeply just then. 
 
 " The bull. I heard Aunt Diana talking to Mr. Chattaway, 
 She said it must not be set at liberty again, or we might have 
 the law down upon Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Yes ; that's all Miss Trevlyn and he care for — the law," re- 
 turned 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 
 foce turned 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. 
 
 " Mamma and papa are better off," continued 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 in silence until they turned in at the great gate by 
 the lodge. The lodge was a round building, containing two 
 rooms upstairs and two down. Its walls were not very sub- 
 stantial, and the sound of voices could be heard from inside the 
 window. Maude stopped in consternation. 
 
 " George ! that is Rupert talking ! " 
 
 " Rupert ! You told me he was in bed." 
 
 " He was sent to bed. He must have got out of the window 
 again. I am sure it is his voice. Oh, what will be done if it 
 is found out ? " 
 
 George Ryle swung himself on to the very narrow ledge 
 which ran 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._ 
 
 '* 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. Ann Canham had come hastening to the 
 door, opened it a few inches, and stood peeping out. Maude 
 took the opportunity to slip past her into the room. 
 
 But no trace of her brother was there. Mark Canham was 
 sitting in his usual invalid seat by the lire, smoking a pipe, his 
 back towards the door.
 
 38 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Where is he gone ? " cried Maude. 
 
 " Where's who gone ? " roughly spoke old Canham, without 
 turning his head. " There ain't nobody here." 
 
 " Father, it's Miss Maude," interposed Ann Canham, closing 
 the outer door, after allowing George to enter. " Who be you 
 taking her for?" 
 
 The old man, partly disabled by rheumatism, put down his 
 pipe, and contrived to turn in his chair. " Eh, Miss Maude ! 
 Why, who'd ever have thought of seeing you to-night?" 
 I "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 great way. 
 Folks is ofttimes deluded by it." 
 
 •* Mark Canham, 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. " Rupert !" she called 
 out, " it is only I and George Ryle. You need not hide 
 yourself." 
 
 It brought forth Rupert ; 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 Cris," he said. " He is learning to be as 
 sly as a fox : though I don't know that he was ever anything 
 else. When I am ordered to bed before my time, he has 
 taken to 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 down to Aunt Ryle's, and 
 George has brought me back again." 
 
 " Will you be pleased to sit down. Miss Maude ? " asked 
 Ann Canham, dusting a chain 
 
 " Eh, but that's a pretty picture ! " cried old Canham, gazing 
 at Maude, who had slipped off her heavy shawl, and stood 
 warming her hands at the fire. 
 
 Mark Canham was right. A very pretty picture. He 
 extended the hand that was not helpless, and laid it on her 
 wrist.
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 39 
 
 " Miss Maude, I mind me seeing your mother looking just 
 as you look now. The Squire was out, and the young ladies 
 at the Hold thought they'd give a dance, and Parson Dean 
 and Miss Emily were invited to it. I don't know that they'd 
 have been asked if the Squire had been at home, matters not 
 being smooth between him and 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 ! 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, casting his eyes on the old man — 
 eyes sparkling with excitement — " if they had lived, my papa 
 and mamma, I should not have been sent to bed to-night 
 because there's another party at Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Mark's only answer was to put up his hands with an in- 
 dignant gesture. Ann Canham was still offering the chair to 
 Maude. Maude declined it. 
 
 " I cannot stop, Ann. They will miss me if I don't return. 
 Rupert, you will come ? " 
 
 " To be boxed up in my bedroom, whilst the rest of you are 
 enjoying yourselves," cried Rupert. " They would like to 
 take the spirit out of me ; they have been trying at it a long 
 time." 
 
 Maude wound her arm within his. " Do come, Rupert ! " 
 she whispered coaxingly. " Think of the disturbance if Cris 
 should find you here and tell ! " 
 
 " And tell ! " repeated Rupert, in mocking tones. " A^oi 
 to tell would be impossible to Cris Chattaway. It's what he'd 
 delight in more than in gold. I'd not be the sneak Cris 
 Chattaway is for the world." 
 
 But Rupert appeared to think it well to depart with his 
 sister. As they were going out, old Canham spoke to George. 
 
 "And Miss Trevlyn, sir — how does she bear it? Forgive 
 me, I'm always a-forgetting myself and going back to the old 
 days. 'Tvvas but a 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
 
 40 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 him not to bear it well just then. The tears rushed to his 
 eyes unbidden. The old man marked them. 
 
 " There's one comfort for ye, Master George," he said, in 
 low tones : " that he has took all his neighbours' sorrow with 
 him. And as much couldn't be said if every gentleman round 
 about here was cut off by death." 
 
 The significant tone was not needed to tell George that the 
 words "every gentleman" was meant for Mr. Chattaway. 
 The master of Trevlyn Hold was, in fact, no greater favourite 
 with old Canham than he was with George Ryle. 
 
 " Mind how you get in, Master Rupert, so that they don't 
 fall upon you," whispered Ann Canham, as she held open the 
 lodge door. 
 
 " I'll mind, Ann Canham," was the boy's answer. " Not 
 that I should care much if they did," he added. " I am 
 getting tired of it." 
 
 She stood and watched them up the dark walk until a turn 
 in the road hid them from view, and then closed the door. 
 " If they don't take to treat him kinder, I misdoubt me but 
 he'll be doing something desperate, as the dead-and-gone heir, 
 Rupert, did," she remarked, sitting down by her father. 
 
 " Like enough," was the old man's reply, taking up his pipe 
 again. " He have 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 
 angry with me." 
 
 ' " Do you know what I should have done in Chattaway's 
 place, George ? " cried the boy, impulsively. " I should have 
 loaded my gun the minute I heard of it, and shot the beast 
 between the eyes. Chattaway would, if he were half a man." 
 
 " It is of no use talking of it, Rupert," answered George, in 
 a sadly subdued tone. " It would not mend the evil." 
 
 " Only fancy their having this rout to-night, while Mr. Ryle 
 is lying dead ! " indignantly resumed Rupert. " Aunt Edith 
 ought to have interfered for once, and stopped it." 
 
 "Aunt Edith did interfere," spoke up Maude. "She said 
 it must be put off. But Octave would not hear of it, and Miss 
 Diana said Mr Ryle was no blood rcla » "
 
 LOOKING ON THE DEAD. 41 
 
 Maude dropped her voice. They were now in view of the 
 house and its lighted windows ; and some one, probably hearing 
 their footsteps, came bearing down upon them with a fleet step. 
 It was Cris Chattaway. Rupert stole into the trees, and dis- 
 appeared : Maude, holding George's arm, bore bravely on, and 
 met him. 
 
 ■ "MVhere have you been, Maude? The house has been 
 searched for you. What brings _j'(?.y here ?" he roughly added 
 to George. 
 
 " I came because I chose to come," was George's answer. 
 
 " None of that insolence," returned Cris. " We don't waHt 
 you here to-night. Just be off from this." 
 
 Was Cris Chattaway's motive a good one, under his rudeness ? 
 Did he feel ashamed of the gaiety going on, while Mr. Ryle, his 
 uncle by marriage, was lying dead, under circumstances so un- 
 liappy? Was he anxious to conceal the unseemly proceeding 
 from George ? Perhaps so. 
 
 " I shall go back when I have taken Maude to the hall-door," 
 said George. "Not before." 
 
 Anything that might have been said further by Cris, was in- 
 terrupted 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 
 underground." 
 
 " See him ! " cried Miss Trevlyn. 
 
 "Yes. It was 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. Kyle's unhappy fate. George wrung 
 her hand, and lifted his hat to Miss Trevlyn as he turned 
 away. 
 
 But ere he had well plunged into the dark avenue, there 
 came swift and stealthy steps behind him. A soft hand was 
 laid upon him, and a soft voice spoke, broken by its tears : 
 
 " Oh, George, I am so sorry ! 1 have felt all day as if it would 
 almost be my death. I think I could have given my own life 
 to save his."
 
 42 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "I know, I know," he answered, "I know how you will 
 feel it." And George, utterly unmanned, burst into tears 
 also. 
 
 It was Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 It is impossible to go on without a word of retrospect. The 
 Ryles, gentlemen by descent, had once been rich men, but they 
 were openhanded and heedless, and in the time of George's 
 grandfather, the farm (not called the farm then) passed into 
 the possession of the Trevlyns of the Hold, who had a mort- 
 gage on it. They named it Trevlyn Farm, and Mr. Kyle and 
 his son remained on it as tenants ; as tenants where they had 
 once been owners. 
 
 After old Mr. Kyle'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 grew up sickly 
 as a matter of course. A delicate, beautiful girl in appearance, 
 but not strong. People (who are always fond, you know, of 
 settling everj'body else's business for them) deemed that she 
 made a poor match in marrying Thomas Ryle. It was whis- 
 pered, however, that he himself might have made a greater 
 match, 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 Ryle. 
 
 ' Soon after the marriage. Parson Berkeley died — to the in- 
 tense grief of his daughter, Mrs. Ryle. He was succeeded in 
 the curacy and parsonage by a young clergyman 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 Trev- 
 lyn held to the old. Proud, haughty, overbearing, but honour- 
 able and generous, Squire Trevlyn had known no master, no
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD. 43 
 
 opposer ; he was lord of the neighbourhood, and was bowed 
 down to accordingly. Mr. Dean would not give way, the Squire 
 would not give way ; and the little seed of dissension grew and 
 spread. Obstinacy begets obstinacy. That which a slight 
 yielding on either side, a little mutual good-feeling, might have 
 removed at first, became at length a terrible breach, the talk of 
 a county. 
 
 Meanwhile Thomas Ryle's fair young wife died, leaving an 
 infant boy — George. In spite of her husband's loving care, in 
 spite of having been shielded from all work and management, 
 so necessary 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. Rupert, 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 so : 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 great deal of grass land on the 
 estate, but the coal-mines in the distance made 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 Trevlyn's ; he 
 was of a thoughtless, impetuous nature ; and he fell into trouble 
 and ran away from his country. He embarked for a distant 
 port, which he did not live to reach. And Joseph became 
 the heir. 
 
 Very different, he, from his brother Rupert. Gentle and 
 yielding, like his sister Edith, the Squire half despised him. 
 The Squire would have preferred him passionate, haughty, and 
 overbearing — a true Trevlyn. But the Squire had no intention 
 of superseding him in the succession of Trevlyn Hold. Pro- 
 vided Joseph lived, none other would be its inheritor. Provided. 
 Joseph — always called Joe — appeared to have inherited his 
 mother's 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 marriage. He 
 chose Emily Dean ; the pretty and lovable sister of Squire 
 Trevlyn's bete noire, the obstinate parson. *' I would rather
 
 44 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 you took a wife out of the parish workhouse, Joe," the Squire 
 said, in his anger, Joe said little in reply, but he held to 
 his choice ; and one fine morning the marriage was cele- 
 brated 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 his evenings 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. Ryle did not possess. " I shall have to leave it, and try 
 and take a farm in better condition," he said at Jength to the 
 Squire. 
 
 The Squire, with all his faults and his overbearing temper, 
 was generous and considerate. 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 him, Mr, Ryle 
 accepted it, to the amount of two thousand pounds. He gave 
 a bond for the sum, and the Squire on his part promised to 
 renew the lease upon the present terms, when the time of re- 
 newal came, and not to raise the rent. This promise was not 
 given in writing : but none ever doubted the word 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 marry 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 
 after the death of his fair young wife Mary, Miss Trevlyn of the 
 Hold stepped into her shoes, and became the step-mother of 
 the little 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 for- 
 given 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 
 great 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 ; but they 
 did 7iot 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
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD. 45 
 
 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 permanent the estrangement between the Squire and 
 Mr. Ryle, for it was thought that Squire Trevlyn would have to 
 look out for another heir. 
 
 News had come home of poor Joe Trevlyn's failing health. 
 He had taken up his abode in the south of France on his mar- 
 riage : for even then the 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 would never, if he could help it, bequeath Trevlyn 
 Hold to a won^an. A little girl, Maude, was born in due time 
 to Joe Trevlyn and his wife ; and not long after this, there 
 arrived the tidings that Joe's health was rapidly failing. Mr. 
 Chattaway, selfish, mean, sly, covetous, began to entertain hopes 
 that he should be named the heir ; he began to work on for it 
 in stealthy determination. He did not forget that, were it 
 bequeathed to the husband of one of the daughters, Mn 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. Ryle and 
 his wife. And in this he was joined by Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 She, haughty and imperious, resented the marriage of her sister 
 with one of inferior 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 reign 
 jointly at Trevlyn Hold with him and enjoy part of its revenues, 
 if he came into the inheritance. 
 
 Before the news came of Joe Trevlyn's death — and it was 
 some months in coming — Squire Trevlyn had taken to his bed. 
 Never 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, would not 
 have shown that he did so ; never a man less inclined than the 
 Squire to allow his private emotions to be seen : but in his 
 weakened state, he gave way to lamentation for his heir (his 
 heii-, note you, more than his son) every hour in the day. 
 Over and over again he regretted that the little child, Maude,
 
 46 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 left by Joe, was not a boy. Nay, had it not l)een for his pre- 
 judice against her mother, he would have willed the estate to 
 her, girl though she was. Now was ]\Ir. Chattaway'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 wrecked mind, that black was white — and his plans suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 To the will which had bequeathed the estate to the eldest 
 son, dead Rupert, the Squire added a codicil, to the effect that, 
 failing his two sons, James Chattaway was the inheritor. But 
 all this was kept a profound secret. 
 
 I During the time the Squire lay ill, Mr. Ryle went to Trevlyn 
 Hold, and succeeded in obtaining an interview. Mr. Chatta- 
 way was out that day, or he had never accomplished it. Miss 
 Uiana Trevlyn was out. All the Squire's animosity departed 
 the moment he saw Thomas Ryle'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 
 amongst 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; only strange because it was so 
 very unexpected. Joseph Trevlyn's widow had given birth to 
 a boy ! On the very day that little Maude was twelve months 
 old, exactly three months after Joe's death, this little fellow was 
 born. Mr. Chattaway opened the letter, and I'll leave you to 
 judge of his state of mind. A male heir, after he had made 
 everything so safe and sure ! 
 
 i 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
 
 THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD, 47 
 
 second letter, which rendered the affair a little more compli- 
 cated. Young Mrs. Trevlyn was dead. She had died, leaving 
 the two little ones, Maude and the infant. 
 
 Squire Trevlyn was always saying, "Oil, that Joe had left a 
 boy ; that Joe had left a boy !" And now, as it was found, Joe 
 /lad left one. But Mr. Chattaway 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 arranged his plans, and 
 wrote off hastily to stop their departure. He told the Squire 
 that Joe's widow had died, leaving Maude; but he 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 born to Trevlyn. 
 
 The danger was over then. Mr. Chattaway was legal in- 
 heritor. 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 
 of them; 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 that they ought to have enjoyed. Mr. Chattaway 
 was at times almost cruel to Rupert ; Christopher exercised 
 upon him all sorts of galling and petty tyranny, as Octave 
 Chattaway did upon Maude ; and the neighbourhood, you may 
 be quite sure, did not fail to talk. Lut it was not known 
 abroad, you understand, except to one or two, that Mr. Chat- 
 taway had kept the fact of Rupert's birth from 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 owner of Trevlyn Hold, and possessed sway in the 
 neighbourhood. 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 wrote notes in the third person, " Squire Chat- 
 taway presents his compliments," etc. ; or, " the Squire of
 
 48 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold desires," etc., etc., 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 recognized 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 time 
 had James Chattaway enjoyed his sway. 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. 
 
 And it must be mentioned that the first thing Mr. Chattaway 
 did, after the death of Squire Trevlyn, was to sue Mr. Ryle 
 upon the bond ; which he had not destroyed, although ordered 
 to do so by the Squire. The ne.xt thing he did was to raise the 
 farm to a ruinous rent. Mr. Ryle, naturally indignant, remon- 
 strated, and there had been ill-feeling between them from that 
 hour to this ; but Chattaway had the law on his own side. 
 Some of the bond was paid off; but altogether, what with the 
 increased rent, the bond and its interest, and a succession of 
 ill-luck on the farm, Mr. Ryle had scarcely been 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 Vn. 
 
 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 their neighbours' opinions. In a smaller place 
 the inhabitants are almost as one family, and their actions are 
 chiefly governed by that pertinent remark, " What will people 
 say ? " In these narrow communities, numbers of which are 
 scattered about England, it is considered 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 ; afford- 
 ing the parish a theme of gossip for weeks afterwards. Hence
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 49 
 
 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 spite of the bad 
 terms they had been on ; in spite of Mrs. Ryle's own bitter 
 feelings against Chattaway and Trevlyn Hold generally ; in 
 spite of Mr. Ryle's death having been caused by Chattaway's 
 bull — Mr. Chattaway received a formal invitation to attend as 
 mourner the remains to the grave. And it never would have 
 entered into Mr. Chattaway's idea of good manners to de- 
 cline it. 
 
 An inquest had been held at the nearest inn. The verdict 
 returned was " Accidental Death," with a deodand of five 
 pounds upon 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 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 con- 
 sideration for his own pocket. Feeling ran high in the 
 vicinity ; fear also ; the stoutest hearts could feel no security 
 that the bull might not have a tilt at them : and Chattaway, 
 on his part, was as little certain that an effectual silencer 
 would not be dealt out to the bull some quiet night. There- 
 fore, he resolved to part with him. Apart from his misdoings, 
 he was a valuable animal, worth a great deal more than Mr. 
 Chattaway would like to lose ; and the bull was dismissed. 
 
 The day of the funeral arrived, and those bidden to it began 
 to assemble 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 
 Jim's fate. A table of eatables was laid out in the entrance- 
 room : cold round of beef, and bread-and-cheese, with large 
 supplies of ale. To help to convey a coffin to church without 
 being first regaled with a good meal, was a thing that Barbrook 
 had never heard of, and never wished to hear of. The select 
 members of the company were shown to the large drawing- 
 room, where the refreshment consisted of port and sherry, and 
 a plate of " pound " cake. These were the established rules 
 of hospitality at all genteel, well-to-do funerals : wine and 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 4
 
 so TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 pound cake for the gentlefolks ; cold beef and ale for the men. 
 They had been observed at Squire Trevlyn's ; at Mr. Ryle's 
 father's; at every substantial funeral within the memory of 
 Barbrook. Mr. Chattaway, Mr. Berkeley (a distant relative 
 of Mr. Ryle's first wife), Mr. King the surgeon, and Farmer 
 Apperley comprised the assemblage in the drawing-room. 
 
 At two o'clock, after some little difficulty in getting it into 
 order, the sad procession started. It had then been joined 
 by George and Trevlyn Ryle. A great many spectators had 
 collected to view and attend it. The infrequency of a funeral 
 in 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; chiefly women and 
 children. Many dropped a tear for the premature death of 
 one who had lived amongst them as a good master, a kind 
 neighbour. 
 
 They left him in his grave, by the side of his long-ago-dead 
 wife, Mary Berkeley. As George stood at the head of his 
 father's coflin, during the ceremony in the churchyard, the 
 gravestone with its name was right in front of him; his 
 mother's name : " Mary, the wife of Thomas Ryle, and only 
 daughter of the Rev. George Berkeley." None knew with what 
 a feeling of loneliness the orphan boy turned from the spot, as 
 the last words of the minister died away. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle, in her widow's weeds, was seated in the drawing- 
 room on their return, as the gentleman filed into it. In 
 Barbrook custom, the relatives of the deceased, near or distant, 
 were expected to assemble together for the remainder of the 
 day ; or for a portion of it. The gentlemen would sometimes 
 smoke, and the ladies in their deep mourning sat with their 
 hands folded in their laps, resting on their snow-white handker- 
 chiefs. The conversation was only allowed to run on family 
 matters, future 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 per- 
 ceptible 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 had 
 called her " Maude : " but that was over now. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle turned from the offered hand. " No," she said, 
 speaking in quiet but most decisive tones. " I cannot forget
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 51 
 
 the past sufficiently for that, James Chattaway. On this day 
 it is forcibly present to me." 
 
 They sat down. Trevlyn 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 
 them ; no one seemed to notice him. And so much the 
 better ; 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. Ryle, the night when he 
 lay in extremity. It had not been unfolded since. Mr. 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 writing of this is Mr. Ryle's," he 
 said. " He expressly requested me to pen down his own 
 tvords, just as they came from his lips. He " 
 
 " Is it a will ? " interrupted Farmer Apperley, a little gentle- 
 man, with a red face and a large nose. He had come to the 
 funeral in top boots, which constituted his idea of full dress. 
 
 " You can call it a will, if you please," replied Mr, King. 
 " I am not sure that the law would do so. It was in con- 
 sequence 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. 
 
 " 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 killing of me 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 knows, 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 tried 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 all 
 the money that has been laid out upon it, and no one 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 old age, I 
 might have left you better oft",
 
 52 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I should like to bequeath the furniture and all that is in the 
 house, and the stock, and the beasts, and all that I die pos- 
 sessed of, to my dear wife, Maude — but it's not of any use, for 
 Chattaway will sell up — except the silver tankard, and that 
 should go to Trevlyn. But for having * T. R.' upon it, it should 
 go to George, for he is the eldest. T. R. stood for my father, 
 and T. R. has stood for me, and T. R. will stand for Trevlyn. 
 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 a 
 very good one, and George can have his initials engraved on 
 the shield at the back. 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 keepsakes had it been in his 
 power. 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 should 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 run of the three-cornered paddock, 
 and I should like to see her on it, sweet little soul ! — but 
 Chattaway's bull has stopped it. And don't grudge the cost 
 of a little saddle for her ; and Roger can break it in ; and 
 mind you are all true and tender with my dear little girl. If I 
 thought you wouldn't be, I would rather have her with me in 
 my coffin. But you are good lads — though Treve is hasty 
 when his temper's put out — and I know you'll be to her what 
 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 was in my mind ; and now I give it to her. But 
 Where's the use ? Chattaway will sell up. 
 
 " If he does sell up, to the last stick and stone, he won't 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 hi's death-bed. 
 He told me it was made all right with Chattaway ; that Chatta-
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 53 
 
 ^vay 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 on the bond, 
 or he would have given it me then ; but he said Chattaway 
 sliould burn 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 done for 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 out of it. 1 don't say this for their 
 sakes more than for his ; but because from my heart I believe 
 it to be the truth. George has his head on his shoulders the 
 right way, and I would advise his mother to keep him on the 
 fiinn ; he will 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 and do for them, 
 as his bull has done for me. 
 
 " And now, my dear George andTreve, I repeat it to you, be 
 good boys to your mother. Obey her in all things. Maude, 
 I have left all to you in preference to dividing it between you 
 and them, for which there is no time ; 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 wish you to bequeath to them in 
 equal shares what you die possessed of. George is not your son, 
 
 but he is mine, and But perhaps I'd better not say what 
 
 I was going to say, doctor. And, my boys, 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.' 
 ^^'hen 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 
 hardly ever 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 ; and that night will come for you before 
 you are aware of it. So, wo>-/c — and 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 as for ourselves. It was often
 
 54 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 in my mind that I ought to work more for God — that I ought 
 to think more of Him ; and I used to say, ' I will do so 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 coriie ; 
 and I can see things would have been made easier to me if I 
 had done it — score it again, 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 would ask my neighbour Apperley to 
 give them his advice 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 Chattaway 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 would 
 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 have got on with- 
 out her. And now I am growing faint, doctor, and I think the 
 end is coming. God bless you all, my dear ones. Amen." 
 
 A deep silence fell on the room as Mr. King ceased. He 
 folded the paper, and laid it on the table near 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 will be yours 
 with right goodwill at all times and seasons. The more so, 
 that you know if I had been cut off in this way, my poor friend 
 Ryle would have been the first to offer to do as much for my 
 wife and boys, and have thought no trouble of it. George, 
 you can come over and ask me about things, just as you would 
 ask your father ; or send for me up here to the farm ; and what- 
 ever work I may be at at home, though it was the putting out 
 of a barn on fire, I'd 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 put no 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 altogether : at any rate, I heard 
 nothing of it. As successor to the estate, the bond came into 
 my possession ; and in my wife and children's interest I could
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 55 
 
 not consent to destroy it. No one but a soft-hearted man — 
 and that's what Ryle was, poor fellow — would have thought 
 of asking such a thing. But I was willing to give him every 
 facility for paying it, and I did do so. No ! It was not my 
 hardness that was in fault, but his pride and nonsense, and his 
 thinking I ought not to ask for my own money " 
 
 " If you bring up these things, James Chattaway, I must 
 answer them," interrupted Mrs. Ryle. " I would prefer not to 
 be forced to do it to-day." 
 
 " I do not want to bring them up in any unpleasant 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 present rent — it is well 
 worth it — to pay me interest for the money owing, and a yearly 
 sum towards diminishing the debt, you are welcome to do it." 
 
 Just what Nora had predicted ! Mr. Chattaway loved money 
 too greatly to run the risk of losing part of the debt — as he 
 probably would do if he turned them from the farm. Mrs. 
 Ryle bowed her head in cold acquiescence. She saw no way 
 open to her except 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-morrow morning." 
 
 "Very good; I'll be here," he answered. "And I am glad 
 it is decided amicabl3^" 
 
 The rest of those present appeared also to be glad. Perhaps 
 they had feared some unpleasant recrimination might take 
 place between Mrs. Ryle and James Chattaway. Thus relieved, 
 they unbent a little, and crossed their legs as if inclined 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 I 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 studies alto-
 
 56 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 gether ? " returned George, in tones of dismay, " You know, 
 mamma " 
 
 " It cannot be helped, George," she interrupted, speaking 
 in the uncompromising and 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 of fifteen has not had schooling enough, I'd like 
 to know when he has had it ? " interposed Farmer Apperley, 
 who neither understood 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 did the Dutch 
 professor, to whom George Primrose wished to teach Greek, 
 but who declined 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 was it with Farmer 
 Apperley. 
 
 "What do you learn at school, George?" questioned Mr. 
 Berkeley. 
 
 "Latin and Greek, and mathematics, and " 
 
 *'But, George, where will be the good of such things to 
 you ? " cried Farmer Apperley, not allowing him to end the 
 catalogue. " Latin and Greek and mathematics ! that is fine, 
 that is ! " 
 
 " I don't see much good in giving a boy that sort of educa- 
 tion 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," observed George, 
 very independendy, "although I may have to leave school." 
 
 " Why need you keep it up } " asked Mr. Chattaway, turning 
 to look full at George. 
 
 "Why?" echoed George. " I like it, for one thing. And 
 a knowledge of the classics is necessary to a gentleman, nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " Necessary to what ? " cried Mr. Chattaway.
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 57 
 
 *' To a gentleman," repeated George. 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Chattavvay. " Do you think of being one?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," repeated George, in a tone as decisive as any 
 ever used by his step-mother. 
 
 This bold assertion nearly took away the breath of Farmer 
 Apperley. Had George E.yle announced his intention of be- 
 coming a Botany Bay convict, Mr. Apperley's consternation 
 had been scarcely less. The same word bears different con- 
 structions to different minds. Tliat of "gentleman" in the 
 mouth of George, could only bear one to the plain and simple 
 farmer. 
 
 " Hey, lad ! What wild 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 outset ? T'here 
 is nothing for you to look forward to but work. Your father 
 said it." 
 
 " Of course I look forward to work, 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 misusing terms," 
 remarked the surgeon, who was an old inhabitant of that rustic 
 district, and a little more advanced than the rest. " What you 
 meant to say was, that you would be a good, honourable, up- 
 right man ; not a mean one. " Was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes," said George, after an imperceptible hesitation. 
 " Something of that sort." 
 
 " The boy did not express himself clearly, you see," said Mr. 
 King, looking round on the rest. " He means well." 
 
 " 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 
 gentleman 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 anything, 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 replied the farmer. 
 "A man may do this if he has a good fat banker's book, George, 
 but not else." 
 
 George made no remark. To have explained how very dif- 
 ferent his ideas 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.
 
 58 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Where idle and roving notions are taken up, there's only 
 one cure for them ! " he remarked, in short, uncompromising 
 tones. "And that is hard work." 
 
 But that George's spirit was subdued, he 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. Ryle, speaking generally, but not to Mr. 
 Chattaway. " He is too young to do much good on the farm. 
 And there's John Pinder." 
 
 "John Pinder would do his best, no doubt," said Mr. Chat- 
 taway. 
 
 " 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," inter- 
 posed George, his heart beating a shade quicker. 
 
 " He thought it best that I should exercise my own judg- 
 ment in the matter," corrected Mrs. Ryle. " The worst is, it 
 takes money to place 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 living, 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 ? " 
 
 " True," mused Mrs. Ryle, agreeing for once with Mr. Chat- 
 taway. " He could not be of much use at present. But the 
 cost of placing him out } " 
 
 "Of course he could not," repeated Mr. Chattaway, with an 
 eagerness which might have betrayed his motive, but that he 
 coughed it down. "Perhaps I may be able to manage the 
 putting him out for you, without cost. I 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. Ryle thinks fit that you shall 
 go," returned Mr. Chattaway, in his hard, cold tones. " If I 
 can get you into the establishment of Wall and Barnes without 
 premium, it will be a first-rate thing for you." 
 
 All the blood in George Ryle's body seemed to rush to his 
 face. Poor though they had become in point of money, trade
 
 MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 59 
 
 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 com- 
 motion. 
 
 " Well ? " said ^L^. Chattaway. 
 
 They remained gazing at each other. George with his 
 changing face, flushing to crimson, fading to paleness; Mr. 
 Chattaway with his composed, leaden one. His light eyes were 
 sternly directed to George, but he did not glance at IMrs. Ryle. 
 George was the first to speak. 
 
 "You shall never force me there, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway rose from his seat, took George by the 
 shoulder, and turned him towards the window. The view did 
 not take in much of the road to Barbrook ; 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 — what 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 re- 
 quests ; 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. Ryle, enlarging persua- 
 sively upon the advantages of the plan. 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 him 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. Chat- 
 taway?" asked George, his breast heaving rebelliously. 
 
 " Christopher ! " indignantly responded Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 "Christopher's heir to Trev Christopher isn't you," he 
 
 concluded, cutting his first retort short. In the presence of
 
 6o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mrs, Ryle it might not be altogether prudent to allude to the 
 heirship of Cris to Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 The sum named conciliated the ear of Mr. Apperley, other- 
 wise he had not listened with any favour to the plan. " Ten 
 thousand pounds ! And Wall but a middle-aged man ! That's 
 worth thinking of, George." 
 
 " I could never live in a shop ; the close air, the confine- 
 ment, would stifle me," said George, with a groan, putting aside 
 for the moment his more forcible objections. 
 
 " You'd rather live in a thunder-storm, with the rain coming 
 down on your head in bucketfuls," said Mr. Chattaway, sarcas- 
 tically. 
 
 " A great deal," said George. 
 
 Farmer Apperley did not detect the irony of 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 between 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 towards 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, haughtj-, self-willed, it 
 always was ; but more cold, more haughty, more self-willed 
 than usual now. He turned and left the room, his heart burst- 
 ing, crossed the kitchen, and passed into the room whence his 
 father had been carried only two hours before. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! papa ! " he sobbed, " if you were only back 
 again ! "
 
 ( 6i ) 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 
 
 Borne down by the powers above him, George Ryle could 
 only succumb to their will. Persuaded by the eloquence of 
 Mr. Chattaway, Mrs. Ryle became convinced that placing 
 George in the establishment of Wall and Barnes was the most 
 appropriate thing that could be found for him, the most pro- 
 mising. The wonder was, that she should have brought her- 
 self 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 own anxiety 
 to get George settled in something away from home. Down 
 deep in the heart of Mrs. Ryle, there was seated a deep sense 
 of injury — of injustice — of wrong. 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 fother had bequeathed Trevlyn Hold to Chattaway; and 
 Chattaway's son was now the heir ; whereas, in her opinion, it 
 was her son, Trevlyn Ryle, who should be occupying that desir- 
 able distinction. How Mrs. Ryle reconciled it to her con- 
 science to ignore the claims of young Rupert Trevlyn, she best 
 knew. 
 
 She did ignore them. She cast no more thought to Rupert 
 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 to her two 
 dead brothers, it was her son who should have come in. Was 
 she not the eldest daughter ? What right had that worm, Chat- 
 taway, 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 eventually to possess Trevlyn Hold. Never, 
 Cris Chattaway.
 
 62 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 A determination immutable as the rock ; a purpose in the 
 furtherance of which she never swerved 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 Trevlyn Hold whilst the 
 children of Joseph Trevlyn lived. If Chattaway chose to wrest 
 their rights from them, to make his son Cris 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 recognize 
 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 deeper and deeper in her 
 heart, overspreading all its healthy fibres. 
 
 With this great destiny in view for Treve, it will readily be 
 understood why she did not purpose bringing him up to any 
 profession, or sending him out in the world. Her intention 
 was, that Treve should live at home, as soon as his school-days 
 were over ; should be master of Trevlyn Farm, until he could 
 become master of Trevlyn Hold. And for this reason, and 
 this alone, she did not care to keep George with her. Trevlyn 
 Farm might be a living for one son ; it would not be for two : 
 neither would 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 trust- 
 worthy ; her interests would be his ; and she felt dubious about 
 confiding all management to John Finder. But these sugges- 
 tions were overruled by the thought that it would not be 
 desirable for George to acquire a footing on the farm as its 
 master, and then to be turned from it when the time came for 
 Treve. As much for George's sake as for Treve's, she felt this ; 
 and she determined to place George at something away, where 
 his interests and Treve's would not clash with each other. 
 
 Wall and Barnes were flourishing and respectable tradesmen, 
 silk-mercers and linen-drapers ; their establishment a large 
 one, the oldest and best-conducted in Barmester. Had it been
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 6^ 
 
 suggested to Mrs. Ryle to place Treve there, she would have 
 retorted in haughty indignation. And yet she was sending 
 George ! 
 
 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. 
 Ryle's usual clear-sightedness must have been just then ob- 
 scured, not to perceive it. Had his own interests 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 pre- 
 mium — the youth being expected to perform an unusual variety 
 of work for the favour, to be at once an apprentice and a 
 general factotum, at the beck and call of the establishment. 
 Under those concessions, AVall 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 on in fiery 
 indignation against the measure, every feeling of his heart re- 
 belled at it. But, of opposition, he could make none : none 
 that served him. Chattaway quietly put him down ; Mrs. Ryle 
 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 any one (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 yea, 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 as yet particularly defined — 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 jebellion George did not enter upon. The injunction 
 of his dead father lay on him all too forcibly — " Obey and 
 reverence your mother." And so the agreement was made, and
 
 64 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 George Ryle was to go to Wall and Barnes, to be bound to 
 them for seven years. 
 
 He stood leaning out of the casement window, 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 questions which arose in his mind had been 
 better left out of it. 
 
 " What rigJit have they so to dispose of me ? " he asked, 
 alluding, it must be confessed, to the trio, Chattaway, Mrs. 
 Ryle, and Mr. Apperley. " They know that if papa had lived, 
 they would 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 stretch 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 ! What's 
 this for, George? What are you doing? — trying to catch your 
 death at the open window ? " 
 
 "As good catch 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 ? " 
 
 " ^Vhy 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 Chattaway had been a 
 thousand 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 : is 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.
 
 INCIPIENT REBELLION. 65 
 
 There was no way of escape. Chattaway had decided ir, 
 Mrs. Ryle had acquiesced, and George was conducted to the 
 new house, and took up his abode in it, rebelHous feeUngs 
 choking his heart, rebelHous words rising to his lips. 
 
 I]ut he did his utmost to beat the rebellion down. The 
 charge of his dead father was ever before him — to render all 
 duty and obedience to his step-mother — and George was mind- 
 ful of it. He felt as one crushed under a M-hole weight of 
 despair; he felt as one who had been rudely thrust from his 
 proper place on 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 from its nature. To help make up this 
 ])arcel, to undo that; to take down these goods, to put up 
 others. He ran to the post with letters — and that was a de- 
 lightful phase of his life, compared with the rest of its phases — 
 he carried 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 
 bow and smile, and say "sir" and "ma'am." You will readily 
 conceive what all this was to a proud boy. George might 
 liave run away from it altogether, but that the image of that 
 table in the sittmg-room, and of him who lay upon it, was 
 ever before him, whispering to him to shrink not from his 
 duty. 
 
 Not a moment of idleness was allowed to George ; however 
 the shopmen might enjoy leisure intervals when customers were 
 few, there was no interval 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 in work he did, or its quantity ; 
 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. " Where is the use of my having 
 gone to school at all ? " he would sometimes ask himself. He 
 would soon become as oblivious of Latin and Greek as IMr. 
 Chattaway could wish ; and his prospects of adding to his 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 5
 
 66 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 drawing near for the indentures 
 to be signed, binding him to the business for years, Mr. Chat- 
 taAvay 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. Giving his horse to 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. Litde 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. 
 Chattaway, of Trevlyn Hold, was an object of consideration just 
 then. He shook hands with Mr. ^^'all, who came forward from 
 some remote region ; he turned and shook hands condescend- 
 ingly with George. 
 
 " And how does he suit ? " blandly inquired Mr. Chattaway. 
 " Can you make anything of him ? " 
 
 " He does his best," was the reply of JNIr. '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 hira." 
 
 "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. 
 Ryle'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
 
 EMANCIPATION. 67 
 
 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 supposed it would 
 not quite do to say so ; neither would it answer any end. Mr. 
 Chattaway shook hands with Mn ^^^all, gave a nod to George, 
 and he and his scarlet coat loomed out again. 
 
 " Will it last my life ? — will this dreadful slavery last my 
 life ? " burst from George Ryle's rebellious heart. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 On the following day, Sunday, George walked home : ]\Irs. 
 Ryle had told him he might come and spend the day at the 
 Farm. All were at church except Molly, and George went to 
 meet them. Several groups were coming along ; and presently 
 he met Cris Chattaway, Rupert Trevlyn, and his brother Treve, 
 walking together. 
 
 " Where's mamma ? " asked George. 
 
 " She stepped indoors with Mrs. Apperley," answered Treve. 
 " She said she'd follow me on directly." 
 
 " How do you relish linen-drapering ? " asked Cris Chatta- 
 way, 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. 
 
 " ]\Iy father said you expressed fears before you went that 
 you'd find the air at the shop stifling," went on Cris, not 
 asking what the one exception might be. " Is it hopelessly 
 so?" 
 
 " Isn't it ! " returned George. " The black hole in Calcutta 
 must have been cool and pleasant in comparison with it." 
 
 " I wonder you are alive," continued Cris. 
 
 " 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, Cris ; that the sight of 
 you might bring me to again." 
 
 "There you go!" exclaimed Treve Ryle. "I wonder it
 
 68 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 you two could let each other alone if you were bribed to 
 doit?" 
 
 "Cris 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 afternoon, 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 Ryle's face burnt. He knew that Mr. Chattaway 
 had been speaking of him with ridicule at Trevlyn Hold, in 
 connection with his new occupation. " 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 I wanted 
 one. The master of Trevlyn won't need to go into a linen- 
 draper's shop, George Ryle." 
 
 "Look here, Cris. That shop is horrid, 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 would rather 
 bind myself to it for twenty years, than be master of Trevlyn 
 Hold, if I came to it as you will come to it — by wrong." 
 
 Cris broke into a shrill, derisive whistle. It was being pro- 
 longed to an apparently interminable 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 ! are you going to shake me ? " 
 
 "Walk along as a gentleman should, then," returned Miss 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 She went on. Miss Chattaway walked 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 mourning assumed for Mr. Ryle. 
 But the gowns were not new; and the bonnets were the 
 bonnets of the past summer, with the coloured flowers taken 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway slackened her pace, and George found him- 
 self 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."
 
 EMANCIPATION. 69 
 
 " 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, feeling that 
 he could open his heart to Mrs. Chattaway, as he could to no 
 one else in the wide 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 was 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 feel as though I would almost rather be — be " 
 
 " Be what, dear ? " 
 
 " Be dead, than stop." 
 
 " Hush, George ! " she cried, almost with a shudder. " Ran- 
 dom figures of speech never do any good ! I have learnt it. 
 In the old days, when " 
 
 She suddenly broke off what she was saying and glided for- 
 ward without further notice. She caught in hers, as she passed, 
 the hand of Maude, who was then walking by the side of the 
 boys. George looked round for the cause of 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 Treve'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 
 sunt 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 barren, I'd work my arms off, but what I'd get to- 
 gether 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
 
 70 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 soul to speak to. What do you think Chattaway did this 
 week ? " 
 
 " Something mean, I suppose ! " 
 
 " 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. Kyle's, keeping his pigs clean. 
 I should like a bit of this meat ; I think I'll take a sparerib ; 
 and it can go against Mrs. Ryle's account with me.' With that, 
 he laid hold of a fine sparerib, the finest of the two, and called 
 a boy who was standing by, and sent him up with it at once to 
 Trevlyn Hold. What do you think of that ? " 
 
 " Think ! 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 again." 
 
 " 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 any. 
 
 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, and, hidden by those shawls, was a private 
 desk, belonging to Mr. Wall. The visitor approached George 
 and saluted him. 
 
 " Well, you are busy ! " 
 
 George lifted his head at the well-known voice — Nora's. 
 Her attention appeared chiefly attracted by the box of lace.
 
 EMANCIPATION. 7I 
 
 " What a mess it is in ! 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 
 cannot tell you how I dislike it ! " he exclaimed, with a burst 
 of feeling that betrayed its own pain. " I would 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 doing; 
 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 myself, I can hardly 
 bear my thoughts. I think how he will be grieved, if he can 
 see what goes on in this world. You know he said something 
 about that when he was dying — the dead retaining their con- 
 sciousness of the doings here." 
 
 " Have you objected to be bound ? " 
 
 " I have not objected. I don't mean to object. Papa 
 charged me to obey Mrs. Ryle, and not cross her — and I won't 
 forget that ; therefore I shall 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 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 take 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 any- 
 thing 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 !" uttered Nora. But having no good argu- 
 ments at hand, she thought it as well to leave him, and took 
 her departure. 
 
 The day arrived on which George was to be bound It was
 
 72 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 a gloomy Novemoer 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 hopelessly wet, 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, 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 should have been told on the dial of the 
 church clock of Barmester, he would be irrevocably bound to 
 it — have become as much a part and parcel of it as the silks 
 that were displayed in its windows, as the shawls which ex- 
 hibited themselves in all their gay and gaudy colours. As he 
 stood there, he was feeling 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 eleven ! It was the hour 
 fixed for signing the indentures which would bind him to 
 servitude for years ; and he, George Ryle, looked to the ex- 
 tremity of the street, expecting the appearance of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Considering the manner in which Mr. Chattaway had urged 
 on the binding, George had thought he would be half-an-hour 
 before the time, rather than five minutes beyond it. He looked 
 eagerly to the extremity of the street, at the same time dread- 
 ing the sight he sought for. 
 
 " George Ryle ! " The call came ringing on his ears in a 
 sharp, imperative tone, and he turned in obedience to it. He 
 was 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 was terribly awkward at the work. 
 
 It advanced slowly. In addition to the inaptitude 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 interrup- 
 tions. 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 departing. On that cold, gloomy day, the doors were kept 
 closed.
 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 73 
 
 As the lady walked away, George leaned out, and took 
 another gaze. Mr. Chattaway was not in sight. The clocks 
 were then striking a quarter to twelve. A feeling of sometliing 
 like hope, but vague 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. There came 
 round that far corner a horseman 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 groom, 
 who had followed at the same pace. The false, faint hope 
 was over; and George walked back to his cards and his 
 trimmings, as one from whom all spirit has gone out. 
 
 A message was brought to him almost immediately 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 upstairs. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, in his top-boots and spurs, stood warming 
 his 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 fireplace. On the centre table, as 
 he passed it, lay an official-looking parchment rolled up, a 
 large inkstand with writing materials by its side. George had 
 not the least doubt that the parchment was no other than that 
 formidable document, yclept Indentures. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had taken up the same opinion. He ex- 
 tended his riding-whip towards the parchment, 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 Mn Chattaway. 
 
 He was pointing now to the upper part of the sleeve of 
 George's jacket. Some ravellings of cotton had collected 
 there unnoticed. George took them ofi", and put them on the 
 fire.
 
 74 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " It is only a badge of my trade, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 Whether Mr. Chattaway detected the bitterness of the 
 words — not the bitterness of sarcasm, but of despair — cannot 
 be told. He laughed pleasantly, and before the laugh was 
 over, Mr. Wall came in. Mr. Chattaway removed his hat now, 
 and laid it with his riding-whip beside the indentures. 
 
 " I am later than I ought to be," observed Mr. Chattaway, 
 as they shook hands. "The fact is, I was on the point of 
 starting, when my manager at the colliery came up. His busi- 
 ness was important, 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, apparently un- 
 noticed, remained standing on the hearthrug. A few minutes 
 were spent conversing on different subjects, and then Mr. 
 Chattaway turned to the parchment. 
 
 " These are the indentures, I presume ? " 
 
 <'Yes." 
 
 " I called on Mrs. Ryle last evening. She requested me to 
 say that should her signature be required, as the boy's nearest 
 relative and guardian — as his only parent, it may be said, in 
 fact — she should be ready to affix it at any given time." 
 
 " It will not be required," replied Mr. \Va\\, in a clear voice. 
 " I shall not take George Ryle as an apprentice." 
 
 A stolid look of surprise struggled to Mr. Chattaway'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," continued Mr. 
 Wall, taking the indentures in his hand. " It has been so 
 much time and parchment wasted. However, that is not of 
 great consequence. I will be at the loss, as the refusal comes 
 from my side." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway found his tongue — found it volubly. " 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 ominous curl 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.
 
 EMANCIPATION. 71; 
 
 " What have you been guilty of, sir, to cause this change of 
 intentions ? " shouted Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " He has not been guilty of anything," interposed Mr. Wall, 
 who appeared to be enjoying a smile at George's astonishment 
 and Mr, Chattaway'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 agreeable voice, as the idea 
 dawned upon him that Mr. Wall had been joking. 
 
 "Indeed, I will not. If Mrs. Ryle offered me a thousand 
 pounds 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 pursuit 
 his calling, is a cruel injustice, wherever it is knowingly in- 
 flicted. I myself was a victim to it." 
 
 " My boy," added I\Ir. Wall, laying his hand on George's 
 shoulder, " you have a marked distaste to the mercery business. 
 Is it not so ? Speak out fearlessly. Don't regard me as your 
 master — I shall never be that, you hear — but as your friend." 
 
 " Yes, I have," replied George. 
 
 " You think it a cruel piece of injustice to have put you to 
 it : you shall never more feel an interest in life ; you'd as soon 
 be with poor Mr. Ryle in his coffin ! 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 ! " 
 
 George was too much confused to answer. His face turned 
 scarlet. Undoubtedly Mr. Wall had overheard his conversa- 
 tion with Nora. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was looking red and angry. When his face 
 did turn red, it presented a charming brick-dust hue. "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 brick-dust turned to green. "He is no 
 nephew of mine. What next will you say. Wall ? " 
 
 " Your step-nephew, then, to be correct," equably rejoined 
 Mr. Wall. " You remember when we left school together, you
 
 nd TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and I, and began to turn our thoughts to the business of hfe? 
 Your father wished you to go into the bank as clerk, you 
 know ; and mine " 
 
 " But he did not get his wish, more's the luck," again inter- 
 posed 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 \lx. Wall, in a good-tempered, matter-of- 
 fact tone. " You did not expect then to be exalted to Trevlyn 
 HoW. Nonsense, Chattaway ! We are old friends, you know. 
 But, let me continue. I overheard a certain conversation of 
 this boy's with Nora Dickson, and it seemed to bring my own 
 early life back to me. AVith 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 success- 
 ful trade for years, in this very house, and nothing would do 
 but I must succeed him in it. In 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 experience ; 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 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. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 " Absolutely and positively. He can remain in the house a 
 few days longer if it will suit his convenience, or he can leave 
 to-day. I am not displeased with you," added Mr. Wall, turn- 
 ing 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 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 well for her," replied George, boldly. " My 
 
 <(
 
 EMANCIPATION. 77 
 
 belief is that the farm never would have got along with John 
 Pinder for its manager." 
 
 " Vou think you would make a better?" said Mr. Chattaway, 
 his thin lip curling. 
 
 " 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 unwillingly the tips of two of his fingers. 
 
 Mr. Wall laughed as he grasped 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," 
 coldly rejoined i\Ir. 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, Wall. And I beg }ou 
 will not bring me here again upon a fool's errand." 
 
 George went into the shop, to get from it some personal 
 trifles that he had left there. He deemed it well to depart at 
 once, and carry, himself, 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 suddenly lifted 
 into elysium." 
 
 He started on his way, leaving his things to be sent after 
 him. His footsteps scarcely touched the ground. Not a rough 
 ridge of the road, felt he ; not a sharp stone ; not a hill. 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 ? " 
 
 " ^Vhere'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 humours just now, so I'd 
 advise you not to go in." 
 
 "What about?" asked George, taking it for granted that she 
 had heard the news about himself, and that that was the 
 grievance. But he was agreeably undeceived. 
 
 " It's about John Pinder. He has been having two of the 
 meads ploughed up, and he never asked the missis first. She 
 is angry."
 
 78 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " 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 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 drawing-room. Mrs. Ryle 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 widow's cap, was resolutely severe. It changed to astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Strange to say, she was writing to Mr. Wall to stop the 
 signature of the indentures, or to desire that 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. Ryle. 
 
 *■' 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 ; other- 
 wise he would never have troubled himself about me. It is 
 not in his nature." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle gazed at George steadfastly, as if weighing his 
 words, and presently knitted her brow. George could read her 
 countenance tolerably well. He felt sure she had arrived at a 
 similar conclusion, and that it irritated her. He resumed. 
 
 " It looks bad for you, mamma ; but you must 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 farm 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 master of the farm to-day, George, under me. 
 Deferring 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," replied George. 
 " I will do my best for you in all ways, mamma. You will 
 soon see how useful I can be."
 
 EMANCIPATION. 79 
 
 " Very well. But I may as well mention one thing to you. 
 When Treve shall be old enough, it is he who will be 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 my own son. We will endeavour to find a better farm for 
 you, George, before that time shall come." 
 
 " Just as you please," said George, cheerfully. " Now that I 
 am emancipated from that dreadful nightmare, my prospects 
 look very bright to me. I'll do the best I can on the farm, 
 remembering 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." 
 
 "\V'hich will not be for some years to come," said Mrs. 
 Ryle, feeling pleased with the boy's cheerful, acquiescent spirit. 
 " Treve will not be old enough for " 
 
 ]Mrs. Ryle was interrupted. The door had opened, and 
 there appeared Mr. Chattaway, showing himself in. Nora 
 never affected to be too courteous to that gentleman ; and on 
 his coming to the house to ask for Mrs. Ryle a second time, 
 she had curtly answered that Mrs. Ryle was in the best parlour 
 (the more familiar name for the drawing-room in the farm- 
 house), and allowed hnn to find his own way to it. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway looked surprised at seeing George ; he had 
 not bargained for his arriving home so soon. Extending his 
 hand towards him, he turned to Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " There's a dutiful son for you ! You hear what he has 
 done ? — returned on your hands as a bale of worthless goods." 
 
 " Yes, I hear that Mr. Wall has declined to take him," was 
 her composed answer. "■ It has happened for the best, ^^'hen 
 he arrived just now, I was writing to Mr. Wall, requesting that 
 he might noi be bound." 
 
 " And why ? " asked Mr. Chattaway, in considerable amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I find that I am unable to do without him," said Mrs. Ryle, 
 her tone harder and firmer than ever; her eyes, stern and 
 stead)'', thrown full on Chattaway. " I have tried the experi- 
 ment, and it has failed. I cannot do without one by my side 
 devoted to my interests ; and John Finder cannot get on with- 
 out a master." 
 
 "And do you think you'll find what you want in him ! — in 
 fhat inexperienced schoolboy ? " burst forth Mr. Chattaway.
 
 8o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I do," replied Mrs. Ryle, her tone so significantly decisive 
 as to be almost offensive. " He takes his standing from this 
 day as master of Trevlyn 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." 
 
 " My arrangements with 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." 
 
 " When 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, immediately appeared. Mrs. Ryle 
 extended her hand imperiously, the forefinger pointed out. 
 
 "The door for Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 madam's room. 
 
 Leading out of Mrs. Chattaway's dressing-room was a com- 
 fortable apartment, 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. Chat- 
 taway frequendy 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 get it recognized or adopted. 
 When a written invitation came to the Hold— a rare event, for 
 the good old-fashioned custom of inviting verbally was chiefly 
 followed there — it would be worded, " Mr. and Madam Chat- 
 taway," and Chattaway's face would turn green as he read it. 
 No, never ! He enjoyed the substantial good of being pro- 
 l)rictor of Trevlyn Hold, he received its revenues, he held sway 
 as its lord and master ; but its honours were not given to him. 
 It was so much gall and wormwood to Chattaway.
 
 MADAM'S ROOM. 8i 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway stood at this window on tliat dull morning 
 in November mentioned in the last chapter, her eyes strained 
 outwards. What was she gazing at ? Those lodge chimneys ? 
 — The dark and almost bare trees that waved to and fro in the 
 wintry wind ? — The extensive landscape stretching out in the 
 distance, not fine to-day, but dull and cheerless? — Or on 
 the shifting clouds in the grey skies ? Not on any of these ; 
 her eyes, though apparently bent on all, in reality saw nothing. 
 They were fiixed in vacancy ; buried, like her thoughts, inwards. 
 
 She wore a muslin gown with dark purple spots upon it ; her 
 collar was fastened with a bow of black ribbon, her sleeves 
 were confined with black ribbons at the wrist. She was passing 
 a finger under one of these wrist-ribbons, round and round, as 
 if the ribbon were tight ; in point of fact, it was a proof of her 
 abstraction, and she knew not that she was 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. 
 
 Some one opened the door, and peeped in. It was Maude 
 Trevlyn. Her frock was of the same material as Mrs, Chatta- 
 way's gown, 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 
 went on so shamefully, Aunt Edith, ridiculing George Ryle ; and 
 when I took his part, Cris hit me here " — pointing to the side of 
 her face — "a sharp blow. It was stupid of me to cry, though." 
 
 "Cris did?" exclaimed Mrs, Chattaway. 
 
 "I know I provoked him," candidly acknowledged Maude. 
 *' I'm afraid I flew into a passion ; and you know. Aunt Edith, 
 I don't mind what I say when I do that. I told Cris that he 
 would be placed at something not half as good as a linen- 
 draper's some time, for he'd want a living when Rupert came 
 into Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Maude ! Maude ! hush ! " exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway in a 
 tone of terror. " You must not say that." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 6
 
 82 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway stooped and kissed her, a strangely-marked 
 expression of tribulation, shrinking and hopeless, upon her 
 countenance. 
 
 "Oh, Maude! I am so ill!" 
 
 Maude felt awed ; and somewhat puzzled. " 111, Aunt 
 Edith ? " 
 
 "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 under my weight of care. Some- 
 times I wonder why I am kept on earth." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith ! You " 
 
 A knock at the room door. It was followed by the entrance 
 of a female servant's face. She could not see Mrs. Chattaway ; 
 only Maude. 
 
 "Is Miss Diana here, Miss Maude?" 
 
 " No. Only Madam." 
 
 "What is it, Phcebe?" called out Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 The girl came in now. " Master Cris wants to know if he 
 can take out the gig, ma'am ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell anything about it," said Mrs. 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 ? " she repeated. " No ; 
 Cris cannot take it. Go and tell him so, Maude. Phoebe, 
 return to your work." 
 
 Maude ran away, and Phoebe went off grmiibling, not aloud, 
 but to herself; no one 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 down opposite Mrs. Chattaway, 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 lov/ tones. 
 " 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 apprenticing 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 nothing less. I
 
 MADAM'S ROOM. 83 
 
 could 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 must also pursue his son." 
 
 "You always were weak, you know, Edith," was the com- 
 posed rejoinder of Miss Trevlyn. " Why Chattaway 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 Barmester, as he is being 
 placed, was 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 Mrs. Chattaway, with more of passion in 
 her tone, " as if his father must be looking on at us, and con- 
 demning us from his grave." 
 
 " If you will worry yourself over it, you must," was the re- 
 joinder of Miss Trevlyn. " It is very foolish, Edith, and it can 
 do no earthly good. He is bound by this time, and the thing 
 is irrevocable." 
 
 " Perhaps that is the reason — because it is irrevocable — 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 other wrong, which I cheat myself sometimes into for- 
 getting ; a wrong " 
 
 " Be silent ! " imperatively interrupted Miss Trevlyn, and 
 the next moment Oris Chattaway 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 Trevlyn. 
 
 Cris insolently turned from her, and walked up to Mrs. 
 Chattaway. " May I not take the gig, mamma ? " 
 
 If there was one thing irritated the sweet temper of INIrs. 
 Chattaway, it was being appealed to against any decision of 
 Diana's. She knew that she possessed no power ; that she was 
 a nonentity in the house ; and though she bowed to her depen- 
 dency, 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, Cris. I know nothing about things 
 downstairs ; I cannot say one way or the other. The horses 
 and vehicles are specially the things that your papa will not 
 have meddled with. Do you remember taking out the dog-cart 
 without leave, and the result ? "
 
 84 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Cris looked angry ; perhaps the reminiscence wris not agree- 
 able. Miss Diana interfered. 
 
 " You will not take out the gig, Cris. I have said it." 
 
 " 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 Cris, a glow of triumph lighting his 
 flxce, " He is bound by this time. I wonder the Squire is not 
 back again ! " 
 
 The Squire was back again. As Cris 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. Chatta- 
 way's face. 
 
 " Papa, may I take out the gig ? I want to go to Barmester, 
 to pay a visit of congratulation to George Ryle." 
 
 " No, you will not take out the gig," said Mr. Chattaway, the 
 allusion exciting his vexation almost beyond bearing. 
 
 Cris thought he might have been misunderstood. Cris 
 deemed that his proclaimed intention would find favour with 
 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," thundered Mr. 
 Chattaway. " What's more, he is not going to be bound. He 
 has left it, and is at home again." 
 
 Cris gave a blank stare of amazement, and Mrs. Chattaway 
 let her hands fall silently upon her lap, and heaved a gentle 
 sigh, as if some great good had come to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN EASTERN STORY. 
 
 None of us can stand still in life. Everything rolls on its 
 course towards the end of all things. The world goes on, and 
 its events ; we go on, in one universal progress : nothing can 
 arrest itself — nothing can be diverted from the appointed laws 
 of advancement. 
 
 In noting down a family's or a life's history, it must of neces-
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN EASTERN STORY. 85 
 
 sity occur that periods in it will be differently marked. Years 
 at times will glide quietly on, giving forth few events worthy of 
 record ; and again, it will happen that occurrences, varied and 
 momentous, will be crowded into an incredibly short space. 
 Events, sufficient one would think to fill up the allotted life of 
 man — threesoore years and ten — will follow one another in 
 rapid succession in the course of as many months ; nay, of as 
 many days. 
 
 Thus it was with the history of the Trevlyns, and those con- 
 nected with them. After the lamentable death of Mr. Ryle, 
 the new agreement touching money-matters between Mr. 
 Chattaway and Mrs. Ryle, and the setdement of George Ryle 
 in 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 children into girls and boys. Cris 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 children. Miss Diana Trevlyn had 
 taken care that Maude should be well educated, and she paid 
 the expenses of it from her own pocket, in spite of Mr. Chatta- 
 way's sneers. ^Vhcn Maude was 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 into 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 ; and 
 Maude for the past three years had been governess at Trevlyn 
 Hold. 
 
 But Rupert ? Rupert was found not to be so easily disposed 
 of. There's no knowing what Chattaway, in his ill-feeling, 
 might have put Rupert to, had he been at liberty to place him 
 as he pleased. If he had not shown any superfluous considera- 
 tion in placing out George Ryle — or rather in essaying to place 
 him out — it was not likely he would show it to one whom he 
 liated 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 consequ(;^ntly could not be converted into a
 
 86 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 
 clergyman 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 engineering. 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 
 returned as ineligible to Trevlyn Hold. Ineligible ! Was he 
 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 — in his liability 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 weak- 
 ness — 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 responsibility. 
 
 So, times and again, Rupert was returned on the hands of 
 Mr. Chattaway. To describe that gentleman's wrath would 
 take a pen dipped in gall. Was Rupert Jiever to be got rid of.? 
 It was as the slippers in the Eastern story, which persisted in 
 turning up, their unhappy owner knew not how. And up 
 came Rupert Trevlyn. The boy could not help his ill-health ; 
 but you may be sure Mr. Chattaway's favour to him was not 
 increased by it. " I shall put him in the office at Blackstone," 
 said he. And Miss Diana acquiesced. 
 
 Blackstone was the name of the locality where Mr. Chatta- 
 way's mines were situated. An appropriate name, for the place 
 was black enough, and stony enough, and dreary enough for 
 anything. A low, barren, level country, its flatness alone broken 
 by the signs of the pits, its uncompromising gloom enlivened 
 only by the ascending fires which blazed up near the pits at 
 night, and illumined the country for miles round. The pits 
 were not all coal : iron mines and other mines Avere scattered 
 with them. On Chattaway's property, however, there was coal 
 alone. Long rows of houseSj as dreary as the barren country,
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN EASTERN STORY. 87 
 
 were built near : they were occupied by the workers in the 
 mines. The overseer or manager for Mr. Chattaway was 
 named Finder, a brother to John Finder, who was on Mrs. 
 Ryle's farm ; but Chattaway chose to interfere very much with 
 the executive 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 business items 
 transacted ; a low building, of one storey only, consisting of 
 three or four rooms. In this office he kept one regular 
 clerk, a young man named Ford, and into this same office he 
 put Rupert Trevlyn. 
 
 But many and many and many a day was Rupert ailing ; 
 weak, sick, feverish, coughing, and unable to go to it. But for 
 Diana Trevlyn, Chattaway might have driven him there ill or 
 well. Not that Miss Diana possessed any extraordinary affec- 
 tion for Rupert : she did not keep him at home from love, or 
 from motives of indulgence. But hard, cold, and imperious 
 though she was, INIiss Diana owned somewhat of the large 
 open-handedness of the Trevlyns : she could not be guilty of 
 trivial spite, or petty meanness. She ruled the servants with 
 an iron hand; but in case of their falling into sickness or 
 trouble, she had them generously cared for. So with respect 
 to Rupert. It may be that she regarded him as an interloper; 
 that she would have been better pleased were he removed else- 
 where. 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 occupa- 
 tion, if he felt ill or incapable of it. She deplored his ill-health ; 
 but, ill health upon him. Miss Diana was not one to ignore it, 
 to reproach him with it, or to put hindrances in the way of his 
 being nursed. 
 
 It was a tolerably long walk for Rupert in a morning to 
 Blackstone. Cris Chattaway, when he chose to go over, rode 
 on horseback ; and Mr. Cris did not infrequently choose to go 
 over, for he had the same propensity as his father — that of 
 throwing himself into every petty detail, and interfering un- 
 warrantably. In disposition, father and son were alike — mean, 
 stingy, grasping. To save a sixpence, Chattaway would almost 
 have sacrificed a miner's life. Improvements which other mine 
 owners had introduced into their pits, into the working of them, 
 Chattaway held aloof from. In his own person, however, Cris 
 was not disposed to be saving. He had his horse, and he 
 had his servant, and he favoured an extensive wardrobe, and
 
 88 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 
 Rupert Trevlyn walked. Better that the order of travelling 
 had been reversed, 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 imper- 
 ceptible to a strong man, but sufficiently apparent to Rupert 
 Trevlyn, who would be fatigued with the day's work. 
 
 Not that he had hard work to do. But even sitting on the 
 office stool tired him. Another thing that tired him — and 
 which, no doubt, was for him excessively pernicious — was the 
 loss 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 had at Blackstone was only 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 old scraps brought from 
 Trevlyn Hold. It was not often that Rupert had the money 
 to buy steak or anything else, his supply of that indispensable 
 commodity, the current coin of the realm, being very limited. 
 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 brihg on the disease feared for Rupert Trevlyn. 
 One of sound constitution, reveUing in health and strength, 
 might not have been much the worse for tlie deprivation in 
 the long-run ; but Rupert did not come under the head of that 
 favoured class of humanity. 
 
 It was a bright day in that mellow season when the summer 
 is merging into autumn. A few fields of the later grain were 
 lying out yet, but most of the golden store had been gathered 
 into barns. The sunlight glistened on the leaves of the trees, 
 lighting up their rich tints of brown and red — tints which never 
 come until the season of passing away. 
 
 Halting at a stile which led from a lane into a field white 
 with stubble, were two children and a young lady. Not very 
 young children, either, for the younger of the two must have
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN EASTERN STORY. 89 
 
 Ijeen thirteen. Pale girls both, with light hair, and just now a 
 disagreeable expression of countenance. They were insisting 
 upon crossing that stile to go through the field : one of them, 
 in fact, was already mounted on it, and they did not like the 
 denial that was being dealt out to them. 
 
 *' 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 we want to go. What 
 dislike have you to the field, pray, that we may not cross it ? " 
 
 " I have no dislike to it, Emily. I am only obeying your 
 papa's injunctions. You know he has forbidden you to go on 
 Mrs. Ryle's lands." 
 
 She spoke in calm tones ; in a sweet, persuasive voice. She 
 had a sweet and gentle face, too, with its delicate features, and 
 its large blue eyes. It is Maude Trevlyn, grown into woman- 
 hood. Eight years have passed since you last saw her, and 
 she is twenty-one. In spite of her girlish and graceful figure, 
 which scarcely reaches to the middle height, she bears about 
 her a look of the Trevlyns. Her head is well set 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. Ryle's," retorted the young lady on 
 the stile. " They are papa's." 
 
 "They are Mrs. Ryle's so long as she rents them. It is all the 
 same. Mr. Chattaway has forbidden you to cross them. Come 
 down from the stile, Emily." 
 
 " I shan't. I shall jump over it." 
 
 It was ever thus. Except 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 denied the ordinary 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 of the stile, 
 preparatory to carrying out her threat of jumping over it, when 
 the sound of a horse was heard, and she turned her head. 
 Riding along tlie lane at a quick pace was a gentleman of 
 some three or four-and-twenty years : a tall man, as far as 
 could be seen, who sat his horse well. He reined in when he 
 saw them, and bent down 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.. 
 
 .^'^. 
 
 TT. G. J^EWMJJf»
 
 90 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Maude's cheeks had turned crimson. " Quite well," she 
 stammered, in answer to his greeting, losing her self-possession 
 in a remarkable degree. " When did you return 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 again, and got home last night — to Nora's discomfiture.'' 
 
 Maude looked into his face with a questioning glance. 
 She had quite recovered her self-possession. " Why ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 George Ryle laughed. "Nora had turned my bedroom 
 inside out, and I found nothing in it but wet boards. She 
 accused me, in her vexation, of coming back on purpose." 
 
 " Did you sleep on the wet boards ?" asked Emily. 
 
 " No, I slept in Treve's room. Take care, Edith ! " 
 
 Maude hastily drew Edith Chattaway back. She had gone 
 too 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, leaning down and speaking in 
 a whisper, " are things any brighter than they were ? " 
 
 Again the soft colour came into her face, and she threw him 
 a glance from her dark blue eyes. If ever glance spoke of indig- 
 nation, that did. " What change can there be ? " she breathed. 
 " Rupert is ill again," she added in louder tones. 
 
 " 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 the other two, and cantered 
 down the lane, lifting his hat to Miss Chattaway, who was 
 coming up from the distance. 
 
 She was advancing quickly across the common, behind the 
 fence on the other side of the lane. A tall, thin, bony young 
 woman, looking her full age of four or five-and-twenty, with the 
 same leaden-coloured complexion as of yore, and the disagree- 
 ably sly grey eyes. She wore a puce silk paletot, as they are 
 called, made coat fashion, and a brown hat with black lace 
 falling from its brim : an unbecoming costume for one so tall.
 
 LIKE THE SLIPPERS IN EASTERN STORY. gi 
 
 " That was 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 saw you coming." 
 
 Octave made no reply. She mounted the stile by the side 
 of Emily, and gazed after the horseman, apparently to see what 
 direction he would take when he came to the end of the lane. 
 Patiently watching, she saw him turn into another lane, which 
 branched off to the left. Octave Chattaway jumped over the 
 stile, and went swiftly across the field. 
 
 " She's gone to meet him," was Emily's comment. 
 
 It was precisely what Miss Chattaway had gone to ao. 
 Passing through a copse after quitting the field, she emerged 
 from it, 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 hastening 
 to catch me ? " 
 
 " I need not have done so but for your gallantry in riding 
 off the moment you saw me," she answered, resentment in her 
 tones. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I did not know you wanted me. I 
 was in a hurry." 
 
 " It seemed so — by your stopping to speak so long to the 
 children and Maude," she returned, with irony. And George 
 Ryle's laugh was a conscious one. 
 
 There was an ever latent antagonism seated in the minds of 
 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 reach him 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 their 
 secret thoughts and motives were known to the other. Yes, 
 there was constant antagonism between them ; if the word may 
 be applied to Octave Chattaway, who had learnt to value more 
 highly than was good for her the society of George Ryle. Did 
 he so value hers ? Octave wore 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, 
 there constantly arose the bitter conviction that he did not care 
 for her.
 
 92 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I wished to ask you about the book you promised to get 
 me," she said. " Have you procured it ? " 
 
 " No; and I am sorry to say that I cannot meet with it," 
 repUed George. " I thought of it at Oxford, and went into 
 every bookseller's shop in the place, unsuccessfully. I told 
 you it was difficult to be had. I must get them to write to 
 London for it from Barmester." 
 
 "It is an insignificant book. It costs only three-and-six- 
 pence." 
 
 " True. Its insignificance may explain its scarcity. Good 
 afternoon, Octave." 
 
 "Will you come to the Hold this evening?" she asked, as 
 he was riding awa}^ 
 
 " Thank you. I am not sure that I can. j\Iy day or two's 
 absence has made me busy." 
 
 Octave Chattaway drew back under cover of the trees, and 
 there halted. She did not retreat until every trace of that fine 
 young horseman she was gazing after had faded from her sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 
 
 It is singular to observe how lightly the marks of Time some- 
 times 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 ever to follow her ; 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 window 
 of her room upstairs — Madam's room — for hours, apparently 
 contemplating the outer world ; in reality seeing nothing. 
 
 As she was sitting now. The glories of the bright day had 
 faded into twilight ; the sun no longer lit up the many hues 
 of the autumn foliage ; all the familiar points in the charm- 
 ing landscape had faded to indistinctness ; old Canham's
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 93 
 
 chimneys at the lodge were becoming obscure, and the red 
 light thrown up from the mines and works was beginning to 
 show out on the right in the extreme distance. Mrs. Chattaway 
 leaned her elbow on the old-fashioned armchair as she sat in 
 it, and rested her cheek upon her hand. Had you looked at 
 her eyes, gazing out so pertinaciously upon the fading landscape, 
 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 which 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 shown to 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 only 
 in pain; her life was one never-ending sorrow — sorrow for 
 Rupert. 
 
 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 willingly 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 essentially disagreeable 
 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 visited^ that wrong upon 
 her husband, even in thought, as it ought to have been visited. 
 None could realize more intensely its consequences than she 
 realized them in her secret heart. Expiate it? Ay, she 
 expiated it again and again, if her sufi"erings could only have 
 been reckoned as atonement. 
 
 But they could not. They were enjoying Trevlyn 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 attire bought for their children, every mark 
 of honour or substantial comfort which their position brought 
 to them, seemed to rise up reproachfully before the face of Mrs. 
 Chattaway, and say, "The money to procure all this is not 
 yours and your husband's; it is wrenched from Rupert." And
 
 9+ 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 she could do nothing to remedy it ; she could only wage ever- 
 continued battle with the knowledge, and with the sting it 
 brouglit. No remedy existed. 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. If the whole world ranged 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 remorse with greater 
 force home to Mrs. Chattaway. It m.ay be that her incessantly 
 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 in- 
 tensity which brings an aching to the heart. When the baby 
 orphan was brought home to her from its foreign birthplace, 
 with its rosy cheeks and its golden curls-^when it put out its 
 little arms to her, and gazed at her with its loving blue eyes, 
 her heart went out to it there and then, and she caught it to 
 her with a love more passionate than any ever given to her 
 own children. The irredeemable wrong inflicted on the un- 
 conscious child, fixed itself on her conscience in that hour, 
 never to be lifted from it. 
 
 If ever a woman lived a dual life, that woman was Mrs. 
 Chattaway. Her true aspect — that in which she sawjierself as 
 she really was — was as different from the one presented to the 
 world as is light 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 woman, who could not, or 
 might not — at any rate, who did not — take upon herself even 
 the ordinary authority of the head of a household. They little 
 thought that that weak woman, remarkable for nothing but in- 
 difference, passed her days in distress, in care, in thought. 
 The inherent timidity (it had existed in her mother) which had 
 been her bane in former days, was her bane still. She had not 
 dared to rise up against her husband when the injustice was 
 inflicted upon Rupert Trevlyn; she did not dare openly to 
 rise up now against the petty wrongs daily dealt out to him. 
 There may have been a latent consciousness in her mind that 
 if she did so rise up it would not alter things for the better, and 
 it might make them worse for Rupert. Probably it would have 
 been found so ; and that the non-interference was for the best.
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 95 
 
 There were many tilings 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 altogether from 
 going to Blackstone ; she wished greater indulgences for him 
 at home; she wished he might 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 un- 
 heeded on his ear, as must be supposed by their not being 
 answered. He replied to one of them — the hint of the warmer 
 climate — with a prolonged stare and a demand as to what 
 romantic absurdity she could be thinking of Mrs. Chattaway 
 had never mentioned it again. In these cases of constitutional 
 timidity, 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 petty annoyances ; and 
 yet she could not interfere openly to help him ! 
 
 Even now, as she sat watching the deepening shades of 
 night, she 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 merriment downstairs 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 Cris and 
 Octave to exclude Rupert from the general society, the evening 
 gatherings of the family, as far as they could do so ; and if, 
 through the presence of herself or of Miss Diana, they could 
 not absolutely deny his entrance, they took care to treat him 
 with cavalier indifference. She sat on, revolving these bitter 
 thoughts in the gloom, 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 ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am a great deal better. I feel quite well. Why are 
 you sitting alone in the dark, Aunt Edith ? " 
 
 " It is not quite dark yet. What are they doing below, 
 Rupert ? I hear plenty of laughter."
 
 96 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 . ''They are playing at some game, 1 think." 
 
 " At what ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was taking a place with them, when Oc- 
 tave, as usual, said they were enough without me ; so I came 
 away." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway made no reply. She never spoke a re- 
 proachful word of her children to Rupert, whatever she might 
 feel ; she never, by so much as a breathing, cast a reproach 
 on her husband to living mortal. Rupert leaned his head on 
 her shoulder, as if he were weary. Sufficient light was left to 
 show how delicate were his features, how attractive was his 
 face. The lovely countenance of his boyhood characterized 
 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. Chattaway's : and it was not surprising, for Joe Trevlyn 
 and his sister Edith had been remarkably alike v/hen they were 
 young. 
 
 " Is Cris come in ? " asked Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 Rupert rose as he spoke, and stretched himself. The verb 
 s'eniiiiyer was one he often felt himself obliged to conjugate, in 
 his evenings at Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 " I think I shall go down for an hour to Trevlyn Farm." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway started. She, as it seemed, shrank from the 
 words. " Not to-night, Rupert ! " 
 
 " It is so dull at home, Aunt Edith." 
 
 " They are merry enough downstairs." 
 
 " They are. But Octave takes care that I shall not be merry 
 with them." 
 
 What could she answer ? 
 
 " 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, 
 understood by Rupert, was evidently conveyed by them. 
 
 " Yes," was all he answered ; the tones of his voice telling of 
 undisguised resentment. 
 
 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."
 
 A NIGHT BELL UNANSWERED. 97 
 
 She stood at the Avindow, and watched him away from the 
 house and down the avenue, i)raying that he might 7wt forget 
 the hour. It liad pleased Mr. Chattaway lately to forbid 
 Rupert's entrance to the house, unless he returned to it by 
 half-past ten. That this motive was entirely that of ill- 
 naturedly crossing Rupert, there could be little doubt. Driven 
 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 
 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 ensued. 
 A similar 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 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 Rupert ? " 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. 
 
 "Cris 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 sym- 
 pathy for the whole human race. " Mr. Rupert must be quick 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 7
 
 98 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 if he intends to come inside to-night. Give your mamma her 
 bed-candle." 
 
 It may appear almost incredible that Mrs. Chattaway should 
 meekly take her candle and follow her daughter upstairs with- 
 out remonstrance, when she would have given the world to sit 
 up longer. She was becoming quite feverish 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 will against her 
 husband's was a thing she had never yet done ; in small things 
 as in great, she had bowed to his mandates without making the 
 faintest shadow of resistance. 
 
 Octave wished her mamma good night, went into her room, 
 and closed the door. Mrs. Chattaway was turning into hers 
 when she saw Maude creeping down the upper stairs. She 
 came noiselessly along the corridor, her face pale with agitation, 
 and her heart beating. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith, what will be done ? " she murmured. " It 
 is half-past ten, and he is not home." 
 
 " Maude, my poor child, you can do nothing," was the whis- 
 pered 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 
 falling as a knell. Hot tears were dropping from the eyes of 
 Maude. 
 
 "What will become of him, Aunt Edith? Where will he 
 sleep ? " 
 
 " Hush, Maude ! Run back." 
 
 It was time to run ; and Mrs. Chattaway spoke the words 
 in startled tones. The heavy foot of the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold was heard crossing the hall to ascend the stairs. Maude 
 stole back, and Mrs. Chattaway passed into her dressing-room. 
 
 She sat down on a chair, and pressed her hands upon her 
 bosom to still its beating. Her suspense and agitation were 
 terrible. A sensitive nature, such as Mrs. Chattaway's, feels 
 emotion in a most painful degree. Every sense was strung to 
 its utmost tension. She listened for Rupert's footfall outside ; 
 she waited with a sort of horror for the ringing of the house- 
 bell that should announce his arrival, her whole frame sick and 
 fliint. 
 
 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
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 99 
 
 in, she passed into the bedroom, where Mr. Chattaway was 
 undressing. 
 
 "Shall I go down and open the door, James ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " It is only five minutes over the half-hour.' 
 
 " Five minutes are the same in effect as five hours," answered 
 Mr. Chattaway, taking ofi" his waistcoat. " Unless he can be 
 in before the half-hour, he docs not come in at alir 
 
 " It may be Cris," she resumed. 
 
 " Nonsense ! You know it is not Cris. Cris has 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." 
 
 "I tell you— No." 
 
 There was no appeal against it. She knew there might be 
 none. But she clasped her hands in agony, and gave utterance 
 to the 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 XIIL 
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 
 
 The nights were chilly in the early autumn, and a blazing fire 
 burnt in the drawing-room grate at Trevlyn Farm. On a com- 
 fortable sofa, drawn close to it, sat Mrs. Ryle, a warm shawl 
 thrown over her black silk gown — warm eider-down cushions 
 heaped around her. A violent cold had made an invalid of 
 her for some days past, but she was getting better. Her face 
 was softened by a white cap of delicate lace ; but its lines had 
 grown 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
 
 loo TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 she gradually grew to feel his value. Had they 
 been really mother and son, they could not have been better 
 friends. In the beginning she was inclined to discountenance 
 sundry ways and habits which George favoured. He did not 
 turn himself into a working 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 supervision, he urged : were his hands engaged 
 on one place, his eyes could not be using themselves to ad- 
 vantage a mile or two off; and after all, it was only the cost of 
 an additional day-labourer. His argument carried reason with 
 it ; and that keen and active man, Farmer Apperley, who deemed 
 idleness the greatest sin (next, perhaps, to going out hunting) 
 that a young farmer could be guilty of, nodded his approval. 
 George did not put aside his books ; his classics, and his 
 studies in general literature ; quite the contrary. In short, 
 George Ryle appeared 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, undemonstrative way ; and 
 Mrs. Ryle had at length fallen in with it. Perhaps she now saw 
 its wisdom. That he was essentially a gentleman, in person as 
 in manners, in mind as in conduct, she could but acknowledge, 
 and slie 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. Trevlyn Ryle was not turning out quite so satis- 
 factorily as was desirable. There was nothing very objection- 
 able to be urged against him ; but Mrs. Ryle was accustomed 
 to measure by a high standard of excellence ; and 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 Grammar School where he had 
 been educated, and this had rendered the additional cost a 
 light one. Treve, once at Oxford, did not get on quite so fast 
 as he might have done. Treve spent ; Treve seemed to have
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. loi 
 
 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 Squire of Trevlyn Hold, and Treve reckoned upon its 
 fulfilment more confidently than was good for him. JMeanwhilc, 
 until the lucky chance arrived 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 master- 
 ship of Trevlyn Farm, in accordance with the plan originally 
 fixed upon by Mrs. Ryle. He would not be altogether un- 
 qualified for this : he had been out and about the farm since 
 he was a child, and had seen how it should be worked. 
 Whether he would give sufficient personal attention to it, was 
 another matter. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle 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 waived away the hints as if they were unpleasant to her. 
 Treve must prove yet what metal he was made of, before as- 
 suming 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 appoint- 
 ment in one of the colleges. But Treve's demand for money 
 had become somewhat inconvenient to Mrs. Ryle, 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. Trevlyn sat by the drawing-room fire, enveloped in her 
 shawl, and leaning on her pillows. 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 with 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.
 
 I02 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "Are you better?" he asked, advancing to her, and bending 
 down with a kindly smile. " It is long since you had a cold 
 such as this." 
 
 " I shall be all right in a day or two," she answered. "Yes- 
 terday I thought I was going to have a long illness, my chest 
 was so sore and painful. Sit down, George. What about 
 Treve?" 
 
 " Treve was not at Oxford. He had gone to London." 
 
 "You told me so. What had he gone to London for?" 
 
 "A little change, Ferrars said. He had been gone a week." 
 
 " A little change ? In plain English, a little pleasure, 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 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 London, George?" re- 
 sumed 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 put up. 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 ivish you could have seen Treve ! " 
 
 " So do I. But I might look for him a whole 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 me 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 Ferrars. But I do not think they are many ; I do not 
 indeed." 
 
 " Why did you not inquire ? I would have gone to every 
 shop in the town, in order to ascertain. If he is contracting 
 more debts, who is to pay them, George ? "
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 103 
 
 George was silent. 
 
 " When shall we be clear of Chattaway ? " she abruptly re- 
 ' sumed. "\Vhen 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 up, George, 
 if a portion is to be taken from it for Treve." 
 
 George knitted his brow. He was falling into thought. 
 
 " I f/i2is^ get rid of Chattaway," she resumed. " He has been 
 weighing us down all these years like an incubus ; and now that 
 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. Ryle. 
 
 " Of course. But how are we to prevent his contracting 
 them ? " 
 
 " He ought to prevent it himself. Vo?( did not contract 
 these miserable debts, George." 
 
 " I ! " he rejoined, in surprise. " I had no opportunity of 
 doing so. 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 acquired, 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 was 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 
 gendeman's education was therefore essential to him : hence I 
 sent him to Oxford." 
 
 George made no reply. Mrs. Ryle felt vexed at it. She knew 
 that George did not approve her policy in regard to Trevlyn. 
 She charged him with it now, and George would not deny it. 
 
 "What I think unwise," he said, "is your having led Treve 
 to build hopes upon succeeding to Trevlyn Hold," '
 
 I04 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 — Cris Chattaway," she said, with flashing eyes. 
 " You know that." 
 
 George could have answered that neither of them had a right 
 to it, in justice, whilst Rupert Trevlyn lived ; but Rupert and 
 his claims had 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 grievances ; but when 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 property to Maude, a girl, and I expected then 
 that my son would inherit. Was it not natural that I should 
 do so? — was it not his right? — I was the Squire's eldest 
 daughter. I had him named Trevlyn ; I wrote 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, probably speaking 
 impulsively. 
 
 "Be still. Rupert was not born then, and his succession 
 was afterwards barred by my father's will. Through deceit 
 practised on him, I grant you : but I had no hand in that deceit. 
 I named my boy Trevlyn ; I regarded him as the heir ; and 
 when the Squire died and his will was opened, it was found 
 that he had bequeathed all to Chattaway. If you think I have 
 ever once faltered in my hope— my resolve— \o see Trevlyn 
 some time displace the Chattaways, George, you do not know 
 much of human nature." 
 
 " I grant what you say," replied George, " that, of the two, 
 Trevlyn has more just right to it than Cris Chattaway. But 
 has it ever occurred to you to ask, hotv Cris is to be displaced?" 
 
 Mrs. Ryle did not answer. She sat beating her foot upon 
 the ottoman, as one whose mind is not at ease. George con- 
 tinued — 
 
 "It appears to me to be the wildest possible fallacy, the bare 
 idea of Trevlyn's being able to displace Cris Chattaway in the 
 succession. If we lived in the barbarous ages, when inheri- 
 tances were wrested from their possessors by force of arms, when 
 the turn of a battle decided the ownership of a castle, then
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 105 
 
 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 one beside Cris. 
 FaiUng his death — and he is strong and healthy — he must 
 succeed. Why, even were Rupert — forgive my alluding to him 
 again — to urge his claims, there would be no hope for him. 
 Mr. Chattaway holds the estate by right of law ; he has willed 
 it to his son ; and that son cannot be displaced in the succession 
 by any extraneous efforts of others." 
 
 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 
 aching brain. George spoke again. 
 
 " And therefore, the very improbability — I may almost say 
 the impossibility — of Treve's ever succeeding to Trevlyn Hold, 
 renders it unwise that he should have been taught to build upon 
 it. Far 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 George. " The 
 property is Mr. Chattaway's— legally his, and it cannot be taken 
 from him. It will be Cris's after him." 
 
 " Cris may die," said Mrs. Ryle ; her sharpness of tone 
 proving that she was vexed at having no better argument to 
 urge. 
 
 "And if he were to die? If Cris died to-morrow, Treve 
 would be no nearer succession. Chattaway has daughters, and 
 he would will it to each of them in turn, 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 Chattaway ! He could have been 
 nothing less. I have thought so many times." 
 
 " But it was made, and it cannot now be altered. Will you 
 pardon me for saying that it would have been better had you 
 accepted the state of affairs, and endeavoured to reconcile 
 yourself to them ? " 
 
 " It would have been better V^ 
 
 "Yes. To rebel against what cannot be remedied brings 
 nothing 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
 
 io6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 great pity that he has been led to think of it. He might have 
 shown himself more ready to settle down steadily had he never 
 become possessed of the notion that he might some time 
 supersede Cris Chattaway." 
 
 " He shall supersede him " 
 
 The door opened to admit a visitor, and Mrs. Ryle could 
 not conclude 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 
 Treve'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 deprived of his right by Squire 
 Trevlyn's will, and there was an end to it. Mrs. Ryle rather 
 liked Rupert ; or, it may be better to say, she did not dis\\V.Q. 
 him ; really to like any one except Treve, was 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 lifting a linger. In 
 the event of her possessing no son to be jealous for, she might 
 have taken up the wrongs of Rupert. There is no saying — 
 just to thwart Chattaway. 
 
 ''Why, Rupert," said George, rising, and cordially 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 
 waving 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 stay in for, there." 
 
 He edged himself closer to the hearth with a slight shiver. 
 Fie was painfully susceptible to cold. George took the poker 
 and stirred the fire, and the blaze went flashing up, playing 
 on the familiar objects of the handsome room, lighting up 
 the slender figure, the well-formed features, the large blue 
 eyes of Rupert, and bringing out all the suspicious signs of 
 constitutional delicacy. The transparent fairness of complexion 
 and the rich bloom of the cheeks, might alike have whispered 
 a warning.
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER, 107 
 
 *' Octave thought you were going up there to-night, George." 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 " The two Beecroft girls arc there, and they turned me out 
 of the drawing-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 pretty 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 from her subject, and as abruptly resum- 
 ing it. "You will do well to obey him, Rupert. When I 
 make a rule in this house, I never permit it to be broken. ^^ 
 
 A valuable hint, if Rupert had only taken it for his guidance. 
 He meant well : he never meant, for all his light and careless 
 speaking, to be disobedient to Mr. Chattaway's mandate as to 
 the time of returning. 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 up 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 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 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 the dead. Rupert threw up some more gravel as 
 silently as he could. 
 
 He had not to wait very long this time. Cautiously, slowly, 
 as though the very movement feared being heard, the blind 
 was drawn aside, and the face of Mrs. Chattaway, wet with 
 tears, appeared, looking down at him. He could see that she 
 had not begun to undress. She shook her head ; she raised 
 her hands and clasped them with a gesture of despair ; and
 
 io8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 her lips formed themselves into the words, " I may not let you 
 in." 
 
 He could not hear the words ; but he read the expression 
 of the whole all too clearly — that Chattaway would not suffer 
 him to be admitted. Mrs. Chattaway, dreading possibly that 
 her husband might cast his eyes inside her dressing-room, 
 quietly let the blind fall again, and removed her shadow from 
 the window. 
 
 Now what was Rupert to do ? Lie down on the grass that 
 skirted the avenue, and take his night's rest under the trees, 
 the cold air freezing him, and the night dews wetting him ? A 
 strong frame, revelling in superfluous health, might risk that ; 
 but not Rupert Trevlyn. 
 
 He walked round the house, and tried its back entrance. 
 It was quite fast. He knocked, but no answer came. He 
 looked up at the windows ; lights shone in one or two of the 
 upper rooms ; but there came no sign that any one 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 so, but for the recollection of Mrs. Ryle's stern 
 voice and sterner face when she remarked to him that, as he 
 knew the rule made for his going in, he must not break it. 
 Rupert had never got on too cordially with Mrs. Ryle. He 
 remembered shrinking from her haughty face when he was a 
 child ; and somehow he shrank from it still. No ; he would 
 not knock them up at Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 What must he do ? Should he walk about until morning ? 
 Suddenly a thought came to him — were the Canhams in bed ? 
 If not, he could go there, and lie on their settle. The Canhams 
 never Avent 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 his 
 course, Rupert walked down the avenue. At the first turning 
 he ran against Cris Chattaway, who was coming leisurely 
 up it. 
 
 " Oh, 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 blue eyes opened in the starlight. " Have you not 
 your latch-key ? "
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. 109 
 
 " What should hinder me ? " responded Cris. " I'm 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, Ruj)ert ! It's of no use following me to the 
 door, for I shall not let you in." 
 
 " Yes you will, Cris." 
 
 " / zvill not" responded Cris, speaking emphatically, but with 
 the same plausible suavity that he had spoken throughout. 
 Rupert's temper was getting up. 
 
 " Cris, I wouldn't show myself such a hang-dog sneak as you 
 to be made king of England. If every one had their rights, 
 Trevlyn Hold would be mine, to shut you out of it if I 
 pleased. But I wouldn't please. If but a dog were turned 
 out of his kennel at night, I would let him come into the Hold 
 for shelter." 
 
 Cris put his latch-key in the lock. "/ don't turn you out. 
 You must battle that question with the Squire. Keep off, Ru. 
 If he says you may be let in at eleven o'clock, all well and 
 good ; but I'm not going to encourage you in disobeying his 
 orders." 
 
 He opened the door a few inches, wound himself in, and shut 
 it in Rupert's face. He made a great noise in putting up the 
 bar, which noise was not in the least necessary. Rupert had 
 given him his true appellation — that of sneak. He was one : a 
 false-hearted, plausible, cowardly sneak. As he stood at a 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 upstairs 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, and she 
 had apparently thrown a shawl over her shoulders to come out 
 to Cris. It was an old-fashioned spun-silk shawl, with a grey 
 border and a white centre : not so white, however, as the face 
 of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " Cris ! " she said, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking
 
 no TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 in the faintest, most timid 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." 
 
 I " You might have done it just for once, Cris," his mother 
 answered. " I know not what will become of him, out of doors 
 on this sharp night." 
 
 Cris disengaged his arm, and continued his way up to his 
 room. He slept on the upper floor. Maude was standing at 
 the door of her chamber when he passed — as Mrs. Chattaway 
 had been. 
 
 ' "Cris — wait a minute," she said, for he was hastening by. "I 
 want to speak a word to you. Have you seen Rupert? " 
 
 "Seen him and heard him too," boldly avowed Cris. "He 
 wanted me to let him in." 
 
 " Which, of course, you would not do ? " answered Maude, 
 bitterly. " I wonder if you ever performed a good-natured action 
 in your life ? " 
 
 " Can't remember," mockingly retorted Cris. 
 
 " Where is Rupert ? What is he going to do ? " 
 
 " You know where he is as well as I do : I suppose you could 
 hear him. As to what he is going to do, I didn't ask him. 
 Roost in a tree, perhaps, with the birds." 
 
 Maude retreated into her room and closed the door. She 
 flung herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of passionate 
 tears. Her heart ached for her brother with pain that amounted 
 to agony : she could have forced down her proud spirit and 
 knelt to Mr. Chattaway to beg clemency for him : she could 
 almost have sacrificed her own life if it might bring comfort to 
 Rupert, whom she loved so well. 
 
 He — Rupert — stamped off from the door when it was closed 
 against him by Cris Chattaway, feeling as if- he would like to 
 stamp upon Cris himself. Arrived in front of the lodge, he 
 stood and whistled, and presently Ann Canham, who was un- 
 dressing in the dark to save candle, looked from the upper 
 casement in her nightcap. 
 
 " Why, it's never you, Master Rupert ! " she exclaimed, in 
 intense surprise. 
 
 " They have locked me out, Ann. 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,
 
 OPINIONS DIFFER. in 
 
 begging pardon for the presumption, Ann Canham proposed 
 that Master Rupert should go up to her bed, and she'd make 
 hcFself contented with the settle. It was only a flock, and very- 
 small, she said ; but it would be rather better than the settle. 
 Rupert would not hear of it. He threw himself on the hard 
 narrow bench that they called the settle, and protested that if 
 Ann Canham said another word about giving up her bed, he 
 would go out and spend the night in the avenue. So she was 
 fain to go back to it herself. 
 
 A dreary night 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 the old man was 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." 
 
 " Cris came up whilst I was ringing to be let in. He went 
 in himself, but would not let me enter." 
 
 " He's a reptile," said old Canham in his anger. " Eh me ! " 
 he added, sitting down with difficulty in his armchair, and 
 extending the crutch before him, "what a mercy it would have 
 been if Mr. Joe had lived ! Chattaway would never have been 
 stuck up in authority then. Better that the Squire had left 
 Trevlyn Hold to Miss Diana." 
 
 "They say he would not leave it to a woman." 
 
 "That's true, Master Rupert. And of his children 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, 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 7C'/y did he go ? " persisted Rupert. 
 
 " It was a bad business, I say. He, the heir, had fallen into 
 wild ways, 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."
 
 & 
 
 112 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 A shiver passed through Rupert's frame. "ZT^ killed him, 
 do you mean ? — my uncle, Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " No, it wasn't he that killed him — as was proved a Ion 
 while afterwards. But you see at the time it wasn't known 
 exactly who had done it : they were all in league together, as 
 may be said; all in the mess. Any way, the young heir, 
 whether in fear or 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 away." 
 
 " But people never could have believed that he, a Trevlyn, 
 killed a man ? " said Rupert, indignantly. 
 
 Old Canham paused. " You have heard of the Trevlyn 
 temper, Master Rupert ? " 
 
 " Who hasn't ? " returned Rupert. " They say I have a 
 touch of it." 
 
 " Well, those that believed it laid it to that temper, you see. 
 They thought the heir had been overtook by a fit of passion 
 that wasn't to be governed, and might have done the mischief 
 in it. In those fits 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 Canham 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 patronize and make much 
 of in his humble way; whom he encouraged in all sorts of 
 vain and delusive notions — Rupert 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 Canham out of it. Harm- 
 less treason, however; consisting of rebellious words only. 
 There was neither plotting nor hatching; old Canham and 
 Rupert never glanced at that ; both were perfectly aware that 
 Chattaway held his place by a sure tenure, which could not be 
 disturbed.
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 113 
 
 Many years ago, before Squire Trevlyn died, Mark Canham 
 had grown ill in his service. In his service he had caught the 
 \iolent cold which ended in an incurable rheumatic affection. 
 The Stiuire 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 A\ished to turn the 
 old man out again (but it must be observed in a parenthesis 
 that, though universally styled old Canham, the man was not 
 so old in years as in appearance), and to place some one else 
 in the lodge. I think, when there is no love lost between 
 people, as the saying 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 ]\Iiss Trevlyn 
 ])ut her veto upon it. She openly declared that Squire Trev- 
 lyn'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 Trevlyn ; but he did succeed in 
 reducing the weekly allowance by just half. Half-a-crown per 
 week was all the regular money enjoyed by the lodge since the 
 time of Squire Trevlyn. Miss Diana sometimes gave a trifle 
 from her private purse ; and the gardener was allowed to make 
 an occasional present of vegetables that were in danger of 
 spoiling : at the beginning of winter, too, a load of wood would 
 be stacked in the shed behind the lodge, through the fore- 
 thought of Miss Diana. But it was not much altogether to 
 keep two people upon ; and Ann Canham was glad to accept 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 net 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 bare 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. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 8
 
 114 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " 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, 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 own, father," Ann Canham ventured to retort. 
 " Poor Master Rupert haven't got no right to it now." 
 
 " It's a shame but what he had. Why, Chattaway has no 
 more moral right to that there fine estate than I have ! " added 
 the old man, holding up his left arm in the heat of argument. 
 "If Master Rupert and Miss Maude were dead, — if Joe 
 Trevlyn had never left a child at all, — there's others would 
 have a right to it before Chattaway." 
 
 " But Chattaway has it, father, and nobody can't alter it, or 
 hinder his having it," sensibly returned Ann. " You'll have 
 your milk cold." 
 
 The breakfast hour at Trevlyn Hold was early, and when 
 Rupert entered, he found most of the family downstairs. 
 Rupert ran upstairs to his bedroom, where he washed and 
 refreshed himself as much as was possible after his hard night. 
 He was one upon whom only a night's want of bed would tell 
 seriously. When he descended to the breakfast-room, they were 
 all assembled except Cris and Mrs. Chattaway. Cris was given 
 to lying in bed in a morning, and the self-indulgence was 
 permitted. Mrs. Chattaway also was apt to be late, coming 
 down generally when breakfast was nearly over. 
 
 Rupert took his place at the breakfast-table. Mr. Chattaway, 
 who was at that moment raising his coffee-cup to his lips, put 
 it down and stared at him. As he might have stared at some 
 stranger who had intruded and sat down amongst them. 
 
 " What do you want ? " asked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Want ? " repeated Rupert, not understanding. " Only my 
 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 have 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 allowed to enter," 
 objected Rupert again. 
 
 " That is no business of yours," said Mr. Chattaway. " All 
 you have to do is to obey the rules I lay down. And I will 
 have them obeyed," he added, more sternly,
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 115 
 
 Rupert sat on, unoccupied. Octave, who Was presiding at 
 the table, did not give him any coffee ; no one attempted to 
 hand him anything to eat. Maude was seated opi)osite to him : 
 he could see that the unpleasantness was agitating her pain- 
 fully ; that her colour went and came ; that she toyed with her 
 breakfast, but could not swallow it : least of all, dared she 
 interfere to give even so much as a little dry bread to her 
 ill-fated brother. 
 
 " Where did you sleep last night, pray ? " inquired Mr. 
 Chattaway, pausing in the midst of helping himself to some 
 pigeon-pie, as he looked at Rupert. 
 
 " Not in this house," curtly replied Rupert. The unkind- 
 ness seemed to be changing his very nature. It had continued 
 long and long ; it had been shown in many and various forms. 
 
 'i he master of Trevlyn Hold finished helping himself to the 
 pie, and began eating it with 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 dg not break 
 their fasts in my house." 
 
 Rupert pushed back his chair, and rose. Happening to 
 glance across at Maude, he saw that her tears were dropping 
 silently. Oh, it was an unhappy home for both ! Rupert 
 crossed the hall to the door : he thought he might as well 
 depart at. once for Blackstone. Fine as the morning was, the 
 air, as he passed out, struck coldly upon him, and he turned 
 back for an overcoat. Sitting up does not give any one an 
 additional warmth. 
 
 It was in his bedroom. As he came down with it on his 
 arm, Mrs. Chattaway was crossing the corridor. 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 dreamt that you were running 
 up to the door from the waves of the sea, which were rushing 
 onwards to overtake you. I thought you were knocking at the 
 door, and we could not get down 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
 
 ii6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 time. It was only just turned half-past when I got here ; Mr. 
 Chattaway might havo let me in without any great stretch of 
 indulgence," he added, his tone one of bitterness. " So might 
 Cris." 
 
 " 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 Canhams 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 will be ordering me from the house. If I knew 
 where to go I wouldn't stop in it another day. I would not, 
 Aunt Edith." 
 
 " Have you had nothing — nothing ? " 
 
 "Nothing. I would go round to the dairy and get some 
 milk, but that I expect I should be told of. I'm off to Black- 
 stone now. Good-bye." 
 
 The tears were filling her eyes as she lifted them in their sad 
 yearning. He stooped and kissed her. 
 
 " Don't grieve, Aunt Edith. You can't make it better for 
 me. I have got the cramp like anything," he carelessly observed 
 as he went off. " It is through lying in the cold on that hard 
 settle." 
 
 " Rupert ! Rupert ! " 
 
 He turned back, half in alarm. The tone was one of wild, 
 painful entreaty. 
 
 "You will come home to-night, Rupert?" 
 - " Yes. Depend upon me." 
 
 She remained a few minutes longer, to watch him down the 
 avenue. He had put on his coat, and went along with slow 
 and hesitating steps ; very different from the firm, careless steps 
 of a strong frame, springing from a happy heart. Mrs. Chat- 
 taway pressed her hands upon her brow, lost in a painful vision. 
 If his father, her once dearly-loved brother Joe, could be look- 
 ing on at the injustice done on earth, what would he think of 
 the portion 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 witli- 
 out cheerfulness. Octave passed her a cup of coffee, which was 
 cold ; and then asked her what she would take to eat. But she 
 said she was not hungry that morning, and would eat nothing.
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 117 
 
 *' 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 was sitting 
 pale and quiet; her air that of one who has to bear some long, 
 wearmg pain. 
 
 " If you have finished your breakfast, Maude, you can be 
 getting ready to take the children for their walk," said Octave, 
 speaking with her usual assumption of authority — an assump- 
 tion 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 Blackstone. Whilst the animal was being 
 saddled, he rejoiced his eyes with his rich stores ; the corn 
 heaped in his barns, the fine hay-ricks in his rick-yard. All 
 very satisfactory, very consoling to the covetous master of 
 Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 He went out, riding hither and thither. Half-an-hour after- 
 wards, when in the lane 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 continued his 
 way. That gentleman had been better pleased had George 
 stopped. 
 
 " Are you hastening on to avoid me, Mr. Ryle ? " he called 
 out, in his sullen temper. " You might have seen that I 
 wished to speak to you, by the pace at which I urged my 
 horse." 
 
 George reined in, and turned to face Mr. Chattaway. "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 Trevlyn 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.
 
 Ii8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 some mistake, or you would certainly not 
 speak to me as you are now doing. I do not encourage 
 Rupert to my mother's house, in one sense of the word ; I 
 never press for his yisits. 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 back 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 Rupert, it is not from our side that the interdict shall come. 
 So long as Rupert pays us these visits of friendship— 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 
 welcome." 
 
 " 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 close the doors of our house 
 on Rupert when there exists no reason why they should be 
 closed — 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 hfe, 
 George Ryle. From that past time when I wished to place 
 you with Wall and Barnes, you have done nothing but act in 
 opposition 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
 
 NO BREAKFAST FOR RUPERT. 119 
 
 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. Chattaway, 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, 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 waggoner's 
 carelessness, and the cost of making it good lies with you. 
 Have you anything more to say to me ? " he asked, after a 
 pause. " I am very busy this morning." 
 
 " Only this," replied Mr. Chattaway, in significant tones. 
 " That the more you encourage Rupert Trevlyn, by making him 
 a companion, the worse it will be for him." 
 
 George lifted his hat in salutation : he could only be a 
 gentleman, even to Chattaway. The master of Trevlyn Hold 
 replied by an ungracious nod, and turned his horse back down 
 the lane. As George rode on, he met Edith and Emily Chatta- 
 way — 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 look pale and ill, Maude," he said, his low voice full 
 of sympathy, his hand retaining hers. " Is it about Rupert? " 
 
 "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 an idea — I have felt it for some time — that 
 any attention show to Rupert, no matter by whom, only makes 
 his position w^orse with Chattaway. And Chattaway has now 
 confirmed it, Maude, by telling me so." 
 
 Maude's eyelids drooped. " Oh, how sad it is ! " she ex-
 
 I20 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 claimed, with emotion — " and for one in his weak state ! If 
 he were only strong as the rest of us are, it would be of less 
 importance. I fear — I do fear that he must have slept under 
 the trees in the avenue," she continued, lifting her eyes in her 
 distress. " Mr. Chattaway inquired where he had passed the 
 night, and Rupert answered " 
 
 " I can relieve your fears so far, Maude," interrupted George, 
 glancing round, as if to make sure that no ears were near. 
 " He was at old Canham's." 
 
 Maude heaved a deep sigh in her relief. " You are certain, 
 George ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Rupert told me so just now. He said how 
 hard he found the settle. Here come your charges back again, 
 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 i's 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. 
 
 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 they can fit themselves into 
 and call their own ; but he had none. He was only on suffer- 
 ance at the Hold : he was made to feel stranger and stranger 
 in it day by day. 
 
 What could be the source of this ill-feeling towards Rupert ? 
 Did some latent dread exist in the heart of Mr. Chattaway, 
 and from thence penetrate 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
 
 TORMENTS FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 121 
 
 chance would there be of tliat covert dread growing into a 
 certainty. AVhatever 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 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. 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 of the plainer, that it 
 might seem less hard to Rupert, In their evenings, when the 
 rest were gathered round the 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 was so coveted by 
 Rupert Trevlyn as a warm seat by the fire. It had been 
 coveted by his father when he was Rupert's age, and perhaps 
 Miss Diana remembered this, for she would call Rupert for- 
 ward to the fire, and sharply rebuke those who would have 
 kei)t him from it. 
 
 But Miss Diana was not always in the room ; not often, in 
 fact. She had her private sitting-room upstairs, as Mrs. Chat- 
 taway 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 presence. And poor Rupert was 
 condemned to the remoter quarters of the room, where no one 
 noticed him. 
 
 From that point alone, the cold, it was a bitter trial. Of 
 weakly constitution, shivery by nature, a good fire was to 
 Rupert Trevlyn almost an essential of existence. And it was 
 what he rarely had 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 Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 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, turned her steps homewards. Emily was a boisterous, 
 troublesome, disobedient girl; Edith was more gentle, more 
 amiable, in looks and disposition 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 disagreeable girl indeed.
 
 122 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "What was George Ryle saying to you, Maude?" somewhat 
 insolently asked Emily. 
 
 " He was talking of Rupert," 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 indoors. As they crossed the hall, they riiet 
 him coming out of the breakfast-room. Octave was with him, 
 talking. 
 
 "Cris 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 unbearable if put out. " Cris knew I should want 
 him this morning. First Rupert, and then Cris ! Are you all 
 going to turn disobedient ? " 
 
 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 him- 
 self all night ? " 
 
 The locking-out had been known to the household; 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 slep' there." 
 
 *' No, no, he did not," involuntarily burst from Maude. 
 
 It was an unlucky admission, for its tone was 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 irregular doings, and 
 Maude felt shocked at the bare suggestion that Rupert would 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned to her. " Where did he sleep ? What 
 do you know about it ? " 
 
 Maude's face turned hot and cold. She opened her lips to 
 answer, but closed them again without speaking, the words 
 dying away in her uncertainty and hesitation.
 
 TORMENTS FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 123 
 
 Mr. Chattaway may have felt surprised. He knew perfectly 
 well that Maude had held no communication with Rupert that 
 morning. He had seen Rupert come in ; he had seen him go 
 out j 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 violated 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 
 and 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 Rupert had slept at Trevlyn Farm. How else 
 could George Ryle have had cognizance 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 to them. " Maude 
 Ryle 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 nmst do away with 
 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 constantly being plotted against ; hauled over and 
 peered into, and turned and twisted about, to see if they can't 
 find a flaw in it, or insert one of their own manufecture." 
 
 It was a strange thing that these fears should continually 
 hold possession of the mind of the master of Trevlyn Hold. 
 Not suspicion touching the plotting and the hatching; that 
 came naturally to him ; but latent fears lest his ownershij) 
 should be shaken. A man who legally holds an estate, on 
 which no shade of a suspicion can be cast, need not dread its
 
 124 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 being wrested from him. It was in Squire Trevlyn's power to 
 leave the Hold and its revenues to whom he would. Had he 
 chosen to bequeath it to an utter stranger, it was in his power 
 to do so : 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 pleasure to bequeath it to him, and there the 
 matter was at an end. // icas looked upon as at an end by every 
 one except Chattaway. ^V]^y, I say, should it not have been 
 looked upon as at an end by him ? Ay, there's the mystery. 
 None can fathom the curious workings of the human heart. 
 That the master of Trevlyn Hold was ever conscious of a 
 dread that his tenure was to be some time disturbed, was in- 
 disputable. He never betrayed it to any living being by so 
 much as a word ; he strove to conceal 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 the fact. 
 
 Could it be that a prevision of what w^as really to take place 
 was cast upon him ? — a mysterious foreshadowing of the future. 
 There are people who tell us that such warnings come. 
 
 The singularity of the affair was, that no grounds could exist 
 for this latent fear. Why, then, should it show itself? In 
 point of right and justice, Rupert Trevlyn wms undoubtedly the 
 true heir ; but right and justice cannot contend against law, as 
 we know by the instances daily presented to our notice ; and 
 there was no more chance that Rupert could succeed in 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 ; he was secure in it by the power of 
 the law ; but he knew that his own handiwork, his deceit, had 
 brought it to him ; he knew that when he suppressed the news 
 of the birth of Rupert, and suffered Squire Trevlyn to go to his 
 grave uninformed 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 lihn. 
 
 If he had only known that he might have set his mind at rest 
 as to the plotting and planning, he would have cared less to
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 125 
 
 oppose Rupert's visits to Trevlyn Farm. Nothing could be 
 further from the tlioughts of Rupert, or from George Ryle, than 
 any plotting against Chattaway. Their evenings, when together, 
 were spent in harmless conversation, in chess, in other rational 
 ways, without so much as a reference to Chattaway, Rut that 
 gentleman did not know it, and tormented himself accordingly. 
 • He mounted his horse, and rode away. As he was passing 
 Trevlyn Farm, buried in unpleasant 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 a bed last 
 night ? They must know it would very much displease me." 
 
 " Give Rupert Trevlyn a bed ! " repeated Nora, regarding 
 Mr. Chattaway with the uncompromising stare which she was 
 fond of according to that gentleman. " 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 his own at Trevlyn Hold ? One bed there 
 isn't much for him, when he might have expected to own the 
 whole 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 Avilh 
 Nora. A slight explosion of his private sentiments with regard 
 to her was given to the air, and he again became absorbed on 
 the subject of Rupert. 
 
 " Where, then, i/i'd he pass the night ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY's OFFICE. 
 
 It was Nora's day for churning. The butter was made twice 
 a week at Trevlyn Farm, and the making fell to Nora. She 
 was sole priestess of the dairy. It was many and many a long 
 year since any one but herself had interfered in it : except, 
 indeed, in the actual churning. One of the men on the farm 
 did that for her in a general way : and the words, " It was 
 Nora's day for churning," would be looked upon by any one 
 familiar with the executive of Trevlyn Farm as a figure of speech.
 
 126 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 In point of fact, they would have proved 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 mentioned in the earlier portion of our 
 history, but Jim's son. Jim the elder was dead : he had 
 brought on rather too many attacks of inflammation (a disease 
 to which he was predisposed) by 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 fourteen, not overburdened 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 first to hand. 
 
 Just now he was wanted to churn. The man who usually 
 performed that duty was too busy out of doors to be spared 
 to-day : therefore it fell to Jim. But Nora could not see Jim 
 anywhere, and she returned indoors and commenced the work 
 herself. 
 
 ■ The milk at the right temperature— for Nora was too ex- 
 perienced 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 servant entered : a tall, 
 stolid girl, remarkable for little except her height : Nanny, by 
 name. 
 
 " Ain't nobody coming in to churn ? " asked she. 
 
 *' It seems not," answered Nora. 
 
 ''Shall I doit?" 
 
 '■' 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 potatoes 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." 
 
 Fanny stalked out of the dairy. She almost always went 
 about in pattens, which made her look like a giantess moving 
 in the house. Nora churned away steadily, using her arms 
 alternately, and turning 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 George ride into the fold-yard, and leave 
 his horse in tlie stable. Another minute and lie came in.
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 127 
 
 " Has 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 Mr. Ryle had remarked — 
 but George valued it as though it had been set in diamonds. 
 He would wear that watch and no other as long as he lived. 
 His initials were engraved on it now : G. B. R. standing for 
 George Berkeley Ryle. 
 
 " If Callaway cannot keep his appointments better than 
 this, I shall beg him not to make any more with me," he re- 
 marked. " The last time he came he kept me waiting three- 
 quarters of an hour." 
 
 " Have you seen Jim Sanders this morning ? " asked Nora. 
 
 " Jim Sanders ? I saw him in the stables as I rode 
 out." 
 
 " I should like to find him ! " said Nora. " He is skulking 
 somewhere. I have had to churn myself." 
 
 " Where's Roger, then ? " 
 
 " Roger couldn't hinder his time indoors 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. 
 
 " I gave him one," replied Nora, significantly. " Chattaway 
 needn't fear he'll not get an answer when he comes to me. He 
 knows that." 
 
 " But what did you say about Rupert?" 
 
 " I said we had not given him a bed. That he had not slept 
 here. If Chattaway " 
 
 Nora's speech was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Chat- 
 taway'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 Trevlyn 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 sliowing her father. She bent her
 
 128 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 head over her butter-board, as if unaware that any one had 
 entered. 
 
 George took off his hat wliich he had been wearing, as she 
 stepped on to the cold floor of the dairy, and took the hand 
 which was held out to him. 
 
 " Are you quite well, Miss Chattaway ? " 
 
 " Who would have thought of seeing you at home at this 
 hour ? " she exclaimed, in the pretty, winning manner which 
 she could put on at times, and which she always did put on to 
 George Ryle. 
 
 "And in Nora's dairy, watching her make up the butter!" 
 he answered, in his pleasant, laughing tone. " The fact is, I 
 have an appointment with a gentleman this morning, and he is 
 keeping me waiting and making me angry. I can't spare the 
 time to be indoors." 
 
 " You look angry ! " exclaimed Octave, laughing at him. 
 
 " Looks go far enough," returned George. 
 
 " Is your harvest nearly in ?" 
 
 "If this fine weather only lasts four or five days longer, it 
 will be all in. We have had a glorious harvest this year. I 
 hope every one'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 answer 
 struck upon her. George could have said that but for that 
 plentiful harvest they might not quite so soon have discharged 
 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 not have 
 helped the surprise in his eyes, as he turned them on Octave 
 Chattaway. He had asked the question in the careless gaiety 
 of the moment ; really not intending it as an invitation. If he 
 had meant it as an invitation, and proffered it in all earnest- 
 ness, 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. Ryle will say to this ; but if she comes, some 
 of the rest shall come also."
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 129 
 
 It almost seemed as if Octave had divined part of his thoughts. 
 ** I must ask my aunt Ryle whether she will 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 
 will be here." 
 
 " Who else will be here ? " a.sked Octave. " But I don't 
 know about my sisters and Maude." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. They and the Apperleys 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 with your mamma." 
 
 " Oh, mamma's nobody. Of course we are civil to the Free- 
 mans, and exchange dull visits with 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 by so much as a look. Octave 
 drew close and watched her. 
 
 " How industrious you are, Nora ! — just as if you enjoyed 
 the occupation. I should not like to soil my hands, making 
 up butter." 
 
 " There are some might make it up in white kid gloves," 
 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 
 left the dairy in search of her. George was about to follow 
 when Nora stopped him. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this new friendship for us here — 
 these morning calls, and proffered evening vi.sits ? " she asked ; 
 her voice full of seriousness, her eyes thrown keenly on George's 
 face. 
 
 " How should I know ? " he carelessly replied. 
 
 " If you don't, I do," she said. " Can you take care of your- 
 self, George Ryle ? " 
 
 " I believe I can." 
 
 " Then do," said Nora, with an emphatic nod. " And don't 
 despise my caution : perhaps you may want it." 
 
 He laughed in his light-heartedness : but he did not tell 
 Nora how unnecessary her warning was. 
 
 Later in the day, George Ryle had business which took him 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 9
 
 I30 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 to Black, tone. It was not an inviting ride. The place, as he 
 drew near, had that flat, dreary aspect pecuHar to the neighbour- 
 hood of mines. Rows 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, 
 whose thin faces were white and squalid. 
 
 " Is it the perpetual dirt 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 think it would be a work of supereroga- 
 tion, where all around is so black — even the very atmosphere." 
 
 Black, indeed ! Within George's view at that moment might 
 be seen high chimneys congregating in all directions, throwing 
 out volumes of smoke and flame. Numerous works were 
 established around, connected with iron and other productions 
 of the rich mines which abounded in the neighbourhood. 
 Valuable land for the use of man — for the furtherance of 
 civilization, the increase of wealth ; but not pleasant to the 
 eye, as compared with the luxuriance of other spots, with 
 their bright air, their green meadows and blossoming trees. 
 
 The office belonging to Mr. Chattaway's colliery stood in a 
 particularly dreary offshoot from 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 country on two of the 
 others. On the fourth was a sort of enclosed yard or waste 
 ground, which appeared to contain nothing but different heaps 
 of coal, a peculiar description of barrow, and some round 
 shallow baskets. The building looked like a great shed ; it was 
 roofed over, and divided inside into partitions. 
 
 As George rode by, he saw Rupert standing at the narrow 
 entrance door, leaning against its side, as if in fatigue or idle- 
 ness. Ford, the clerk, a young man accustomed to take life 
 easily, 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 about, and he rode up to the office. 
 
 " You look tired, Rupert." 
 
 " I am tired," answered Rupert. " If things are to go on 
 like this, I shall grow tired of life altogether." 
 
 " Not yet," said George, cheeringly. " You may talk of that, 
 perhaps, some fifty years hence." 
 
 Rupert made no answer. The sunlight fell on his fair 
 features, on his golden hair. There was a haggardness in
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 131 
 
 those features, a melancholy in the dark blue eyes, that 
 George did not like to see. Ford, the clerk, who was hum- 
 ming the verse of a song, cut short the melody, and addressed 
 George. 
 
 "He has been in this gay state all the afternoon, 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 next day like a night without bed, and no 
 breakfast at the end of it." 
 
 " It isn't that," said Rupert. " 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. 
 Next, he 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 him, and a row ensued. 
 Next, Ford came in for it : he had made a mistake in his 
 entries. Something had uncommonly put out Chattaway — 
 that was certain. And to improve 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. Chattaway has been order- 
 ing 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. 
 ' " (ieorge prepared to ride away. " Have you had any dinner, 
 Rupert ? " he asked. 
 
 " I made an attempt, but my appetite had gone by. Chatta- 
 way was here till past two o'clock, and after that I wasn't 
 hungry." 
 
 " He tried some bread-and-cheese," said Ford. " I told
 
 133 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 him if he'd get a piece of steak I'd cook it for him, if lie was 
 too tired to cook it himself; but he didn't." 
 
 " I must be gone," said George. "You will not have left in 
 half-an-hour's time, shall you, Rupert ? " 
 " No ; nor in an hour either." 
 
 George rode off over the stony ground, and they looked after 
 him. Then Ford bethought himself of a message he was 
 charged to deliver at one of the pits, and Rupert went indoors 
 and sat down to the desk on his high stool. 
 
 Within the half-hour George Ryle was back again. He rode 
 up to the door, and dismounted. Rupert came forward, a pen 
 in 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 we would have gone home together. You shall 
 ride my horse, and FU 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, that if Oris were worth 
 anything, he'd let me ride his horse home. But he's not worth 
 anything, and he'd no more let me ride his horse and walk 
 himself, than he'd let me ride him." 
 " Has 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 Fll 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 a moment before he spoke. " I would prefer 
 
 that you should leave it at the Farm, Rupert. 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, " Be- 
 cause even that slight attention must, if possible, be kept from 
 Chattaway." 
 
 He fastened the bridle to a hook in the wall, 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 away with a quick step, and Rupert 
 returned to his desk. A quarter-of-an-hour passed on, and the
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE. 13^ 
 
 clerk, Ford, did not return. Rupert grew 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. Cris was approach- 
 ing on foot, at a snail's pace, leading his horse, which was dead 
 lame. 
 
 " Here's a nice bother ! " 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? Hoiv it happened, I 
 am unable to tell you. All I know is, the horse fell suddenly 
 lame, and whined 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 drew sufficiently near to recognize it. "What 
 brings his horse here." 
 
 " He has lent it to me, to save my walking home," said 
 Rupert. 
 
 " Where 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 
 one of the smaller heaps of coal for a better view of the road 
 from the colliery, by which Ford might be expected to arrive. 
 " He has been gone this hour." 
 
 Cris was walking off in the direction of the stable, carefully 
 leading his horse. " What are you going to do with him ? " 
 asked Rupert. "To leave him in the stable?" 
 
 " Until I can get home and send the groom for him. Fm 
 not going to cool my heels, dragging him home," retorted Cris. 
 
 Rupert retired indoors, and sat down on the high stool. He 
 still had some accounts to make up. They had to be done 
 that evening ; and as Ford did not come in to do them, he 
 must. Had Ford been there, Rupert would have left him to 
 do it, and gone home at once. 
 
 " I wonder how many years of my life I am to wear out in 
 this lively place ? " thought Rupert, after five minutes of 
 uninterrupted attention given to his work, which slightly 
 progressed in consequence. " 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 altogether, 
 and more fitting for a Trevlyn, Catch him at it ! He wouldn't 
 let me be my own master for " 
 
 A sound as of a horse trotting off from the door interrupted
 
 134 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Rupert's cogitations. He came down from his stool. A thought 
 crossed him that George Ryle's horse might have got loose, 
 and be speeding home riderless, at his own will and pleasure. 
 
 It was George Ryle's horse, but not riderless. To Rupert's 
 intense astonishment, he saw ]\Ir, Cris mounted on him, 
 leisurely riding away. 
 
 " Halloa ! " called Rupert, speeding after the horse and his 
 rider. " What are you going to do with that horse, Cris ?" 
 
 Cris 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, Cris ? " 
 
 Cris heard, but did not stop : he was urging the horse on. 
 " Vou don't want him," he roughly said. " You can walk, as 
 you always do." 
 
 Further remonstrance, further following, was useless. Rupert's 
 words were drowned in the echoes of the horse's hoofs, gallop- 
 ing away in the distance. 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 again. Certainly the mortification was bitter; the cir- 
 cumstance precisely one of those likely to excite the choler of 
 an excitable nature ; and Rupert was on the point of going into 
 that 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 stand- 
 ing 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 ? " 
 
 Rupert nodded. In his passionate disappointment, at having 
 to walk home when he expected to ride, at being put upon, 
 treated as of no moment by Cris Chattaway, it seemed of little 
 consequence to him how long he remained, or what work he 
 had to do : and the clerk, waiting for no further permission, 
 sped away with a fleet foot. Rupert's face was losing its deathly 
 whiteness — there is no whiteness like 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 checks and lips.
 
 DEAD BEAT. 135 
 
 Well, oh, well for him, could these dangerous fits of passion 
 have been always arrested on the threshold, as this had been 
 arrested now ! The word dangerous is used 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 Trevlyn Hold, more especially devoted to the 
 service of Cris 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 1 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. Trevlyn ! " repeated the groom, betraying some sur^ 
 prise. 
 
 Now, it was a fact that at Trevlyn Hold Rupert was never 
 called " Mr. Trevlyn." That it was his proper style and title, 
 was indisputable ) but Mr. Chattaway had as great 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 reference to this ; as 
 much as to say, "Who's Mr. Trevlyn?" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Trevlyn," she resumed, in a sharp tone of repri- 
 mand. " He is Mr. Trevlyn, Sam Atkins, and you know that 
 he is, however some people may wish that it should be for- 
 gotten. 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
 
 136 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 saying naught again it, ma'am," cried he, when he had re- 
 covered himself sufficiently to speak. " But Mr. Rupert didn't 
 send me with the horse at all. It was young Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " What had he to do with it ? " resentfully asked Nora. 
 
 " He rode it home from Blackstone." 
 
 " He rode it ? Cris Chattaway ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the groom. " He has 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 the stable, 
 and went indoors. 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 Blackstone for 
 Rupert Trevlyn. To hear now that it was Cris who had had 
 the benefit of it, and not Rupert, excited Nora's indignation. 
 But the indignation would have increased fourfold had she 
 known that Mr. Cris had ridden 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 told me you had left your 
 horse at Blackstone for Rupert Trevlyn, to save his walking 
 home ? " 
 
 '•'So I did," replied George. 
 
 "Then it's Cris Chattaway who has come home on it. I'd 
 see him far enough before he should have the use of my 
 horse ! " 
 
 "It can't be," returned George. "You must be mistaken, 
 Nora ; Cris had his own horse there." 
 
 "You can go and ask for yourself," rejoined Nora, in crusty 
 tones, 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 Cris Chattaway who rode it from Blackstone." 
 
 George did go and ask for himself He could not under- 
 stand it at all ; and he had no more fancy for allowing Cris 
 Chattaway the use of his horse than Nora had. He supposed 
 they had exchanged steeds ; though why they should do so, he 
 could not imagine : that Cris had used his, and Rupert the one 
 belonging to Cris. 
 
 Sam Atkins was in the stable, talking to Roger, one of the 
 men about the farm. George saw at a glance that his horse 
 had been ridden hard. 
 
 "Who rode this horse home?" he inquired, as the groom 
 touched his hat to him.
 
 DEAD BEAT. 137 
 
 "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 to bring it down here 
 immediate. His orders was, to go on to Blackstone for his, 
 and to mind I led it gently home. He never mentioned Mr. 
 Rupert." 
 
 Considerably later — in fact, it was past nine o'clock — Rupert 
 Trevlyn appeared. George Ryle was leaning over the gate at 
 the foot of his garden in a musing attitude, the bright stars 
 above him, the slight frost of the autumn night rendering the 
 air clear, though not cold, when he saw a figure come slowly 
 winding up the road. It was Rupert Trevlyn. The same mis- 
 fortune seemed to have befallen him that had befallen the 
 horse, for he limped as he walked. 
 
 " Are you lame, Rupert ? " asked George. 
 
 " Lame with fatigue ; nothing else," answered Rupert in that 
 low, half-inaudible voice whicli a very depressed physical state 
 will induce. " Let me come in and sit down half-an-hour, George, 
 or I shall never get to the Hold." 
 
 "How was it that you let Cris Chattaway ride my horse 
 home ? I left it for you ? " 
 
 " 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 evidently 
 in pain, I would have done it ! " 
 
 "You are very late." 
 
 " I have been such a time 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 very wise proceeding ! " cried George, in pleasant 
 though mocking tones. He did not care to say more plainly 
 how ?/;nvise — nay, how pernicious — it might be for Rupert 
 Trevlyn. " Did you sleep long ? " 
 
 " Pretty well. The stars were out when I awoke ; and I felt
 
 138 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 ten times more tired when J 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 refresh- 
 ment, but Rupert could not eat. 
 
 " Try it," urged George. 
 
 " I can't," said Rupert; "I am completely done over." 
 
 He leaned back in the chair, his fair curls falling t»n the 
 cushions, his bright face — bright with 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, who was still poorly, 
 had retired to her chamber for the niglit, and they were alone. 
 Very unkindly, as may be thought, George woke him soon, and 
 told him it was time 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 I was being carried 
 along in a large sail belonging to a ship. The motion was 
 pleasant and soothing. Past ten ! What a bother 1 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 ! " 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 
 cat-c as of exertion : whether he got in or not, whether he passed 
 the 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 was some time getting off; and they heard the 
 far-off church clock at 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. 
 
 " 1 was somewhere about this spot when the half-hour struck
 
 t)EAD BEAT. 139 
 
 last night, for your clocks were fast," remarked Rupert. " I 
 ran all the way home after that — with what success, you know. 
 I can't run 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 
 Chattaway." 
 
 The Hold was closed for the night. Lights 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 INIr. Chattaway to the window of his wife's dressing- 
 room in very surprise. One or two more windows in different 
 parts of the 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, ringing voice, which might be heard dis- 
 tinctly ever so far off. *' He could scarcely get here from 
 fatigue and illness. But for taking a rest at my mother's 
 house, and having the help of my arm up here, I question if 
 lie 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 Ryle, as any 
 housebreaker might come — except 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 tii-ed and ill." 
 
 " I will not let him in," raved Mr. Chattaway. " How dare 
 you, I ask ? " 
 
 "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. " Rtipert could not get
 
 140 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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. Chattaway. 
 
 " Who says he couldn't get home in time if he had wanted 
 to come ? " called out Cris from a window on the upper story. 
 " Does it take him five or six hours to walk from Blackstone ? " 
 
 "Is that you, Christopher?" asked George, falling 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 Black- 
 stone this afternoon, and ride him home ? " 
 
 " I chose to do it," said Cris. 
 
 " I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to walk. It had 
 been more in accordance with generosity — 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 — you were 
 more capable of walking home than he." 
 
 Miss Diana craned forth her neck. " Chattaway, 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 
 turned, and it was thrown open by Octave Chattaway. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY's " OLD IMPRESSION." 
 
 It was surely a scene to excite some interest, if only the interest 
 of curiosity, that was presented at Trevlyn Hold that night. 
 Octave Chattaway in evening dress — for she had not begun 
 to prepare for bed, although some time in her chamber — stand- 
 ing at the hall-door which she had opened ; Miss Diana pressing 
 forward from the back of the hall in a hastily assumed dressing- 
 gown ; Mr. Chattaway in a waistcoat ; Cris in greater disha- 
 bille ; 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, except such as 
 was afforded by a candle carried by Miss Trevlyn ; but she 
 stepped forward and lighted the lamp. 
 
 " Now then," said she. " What is all this ? "
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S "OLD IMPRESSION." 141 
 
 " It is this," returned the master of Trevlyn Hold : "that I 
 make rules for the proper regulation of my household, and 
 a beardless boy chooses to break them. I should think " — 
 turning shortly upon Miss Diana—" that you are not the one 
 to countenance that." 
 
 " No," said she ; " when rules are made they must be kept. 
 What is your defence, Rupert? " 
 
 Rupert had thrown himself upon a bench against the w all in 
 utter weariness of mind and body. "I don't care to make any 
 defence," said he, in his apathy, as he leaned his cheek upon 
 liis 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. Cris let himself in 
 with his latch-key, but he would not let me in." 
 
 Miss Diana glanced at Cris, but she said nothing. Mr. 
 Chattaway interrupted. George, erect, fearless, 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. 
 No very unjustifiable interference, surely, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " But it is, sir. And I ask why you presume to do it ? " 
 
 " Presume ? " returned George, pausing after the word. But 
 there was no answer to it, and he went on. "I saw Rupert 
 to-night, accidentally, as he was coming from Blackstone. It 
 was about nine o'clock. I was at my garden-gate. He ap- 
 peared 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 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 will have no interference of yours between the 
 Hold and Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Chattaway, you may make yourself perfectly easy," 
 returned George, some sarcasm in his tone. "Nothing could
 
 143 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 be farther 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 sufficient reason for the contrary, I shall 
 certainly observe common courtesy to Rupert when he comes 
 in my way." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " interposed Miss Diana. " Who says you are 
 not to show courtesy to Rupert, George ? Do you ? " she 
 asked, wheeling sharply round on Chattaway. 
 
 " There's one thing requires explanation," said Mr. Chatta- 
 way, turning to Rupert, and drowning Miss Diana's voice. 
 " How came you to stop at Blackstone till this time of night ? 
 Where had you been loitering ? " 
 
 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 down on the way and 
 dropped asleep." 
 
 " Sat down on your way and dropped asleep ! " echoed Miss 
 Diana. " What made you do that ? " 
 
 " I don't know. 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 understand that it is the last night I 
 shall suffer my rules to be set at naught. You shall be in to 
 time, or you do not come in at all." 
 
 Rupert 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 
 whispered. 
 
 She gave no answer. She only laid her hand upon his as he 
 passed^ and so momentary was the action that it escaped 
 unobserved, except by one pair of eyes — and those were 
 Octave Chattaway'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 went 
 down the avenue.
 
 MRS. CIIATTA WAY'S "OLD IMPRESSION." 143 
 
 They were all dispersing. There was nothing now to remain 
 up for. Chatlaway 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, not in a pleasant 
 tone, as he followed her in. 
 
 " Why did you shut out Rupert last night ? " 
 
 *' Because I chose to do it ! " 
 
 " But suppose I chose that he should not be shut out ? " 
 returned Miss Diana. 
 
 "Then we shall split," angrily 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 Cris; 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 Rupert," 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 insure that, is to lock him out at first when he 
 transgresses. 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. " Only coming up- 
 stairs seems to tire me," he said, in tones of apology. "I 
 should not have lain a minute." 
 
 Miss Diana threw back her head a little, and looked at 
 Rupert. The determined will of the Trevlyns shone out from 
 every 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 
 no one else will tell him." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 ** Because he might lay blame where no blame is due. Chatta- 
 way turned me from the door, Aunt Diana, and Cris, who came
 
 i^i. TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 xA.nn from the lodge, as he turned me 
 from the door." 
 
 "Oh no, he wouldn't," said Miss Diana, ''if it were my 
 pleasure to keep them in it. Do you feel ill, Rupert ? " 
 
 " I feel middhng. It is that I am tired, I suppose. I shall 
 be all right in the morning." 
 
 Miss Diana descended to her own room. Inside, waiting 
 for her, was Mrs. Chattaway. Mrs. Chattaway had a shawl 
 thrown over her shoulders, and seemed to be shivering. 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!" 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 some- 
 times 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 ? " 
 
 " I shall never have done with its remembrance. I don't 
 often speak of it ; once, it may be, in seven years, not more. 
 Better for me that I could speak of it ; it would prey less upon 
 my heart !" 
 
 " You have benefited by it as much as any one 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 
 escape. 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 angrily, 
 but searchingly and critically, as a doctor looks at a patient 
 supposed to be afflicted with mania.
 
 E^i^;-^^'^-''^^^. 
 
 MRS. CHATTAWAY'S ''OLD IMPRESSION." 145 
 
 " If you do not take care, Edith, you will become insane 
 upon this point, as I believe I have warned you before," she 
 said, with calmness. "I am not sure but you are slightly 
 touched now ! " 
 
 " I do not think I am," replied poor Mrs. Chattaway, passing 
 her hand over her brow. " I feel confused enough here some- 
 times, but there's no fear that madness will really come. If 
 thinking could have turned me mad, I should have been mad 
 \ ears ago." 
 
 " The very act of your coming here in this state of excite- 
 ment, when you should be going to your bed, and of saying 
 what you do say, must be nothing less than a degree of mad- 
 ness." 
 
 " 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 Rupert 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 — 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 allow it. If you would only allow Rupert to 
 be treated with common kindness " 
 
 " He is not treated with unkindness," interrupted Miss 
 Diana. 
 
 " It appears to me that he is treated with nothing but 
 unkindness. He " 
 
 " Is he beaten? — is he starved?" 
 
 *' The system pursued towards him is altogether unkind," 
 persisted Mrs. Chattaway. " Indulgences dealt out to our own 
 children are denied to him. When I think that he might be 
 the true master of Trevlyn Hold " 
 
 " Edith, I will not listen to this," interrupted Miss Diana. 
 "What has come to you to-night?" 
 
 A shiver passed over the frame of Mrs. Chattaway. She 
 was sitting on a low toilette chair covered with white drapery, 
 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; nothing else. I do feel 
 it so sometimes." 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 10
 
 146 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " 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 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 wish 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. 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 
 7i'here 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 Rupert had 
 only obeyed the 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 the wrong done to Rupert, rendering 
 things, as she aptly expressed it, more miserable than she 
 could bear, 
 
 " I'll talk to Rupert to-morrow morning," said Miss Diana. 
 " I shall add my authority to Chattaway'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 life, and 
 which had their origin in this new and ill-omened order, 
 touching his coming home at night. 
 
 "Edith," said Miss Diana, "I would recommend you to get 
 less sensitive on the subject of Rupert. It is growing with 
 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
 
 Mrs. chattaway's "old impression." 14^ 
 
 sister, " that old impression has come again ! I thought it 
 had worn itself out. I thought it might have left me for ever." 
 
 Miss Diana almost lost her patience. Her own mind was a 
 very contrast to her sister's ; the two were as widely opposite 
 in their organization as the poles. Fanciful, dreamy, vacillating, 
 weak, the one; the other strong, practical, matter-of-fact. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by 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 we inflicted on Rupert 
 would avenge itself — that in some way he would come into his 
 inheritance, and we should be despoiled of it. I felt so certain 
 of it, that every morning of my life when I got up I seemed to 
 look for its fulfilment before the day closed. 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 present 
 with 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 con- 
 tempt 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?" interrupted 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 Trevlyn. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway crept softly along the corridor to her own 
 dressing-room. She was in hopes that her husband by that 
 time was in bed and asleep. What was her surprise, then, to 
 see him sitting at the table when she entered, not undressed, 
 and as wide awake as she was. 
 
 " You have business with Diana late," he remarked. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway felt wholly and entirely subdued ; she nad 
 felt so since the previous night, when Rupert was denied
 
 l48 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 admittance. The painful timidity, clinging to her always, 
 seemed partially to have left her for a time. It was as though 
 she had not the strength left to be shy ; almost as Rupert felt 
 in his weariness of body, she was 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 impression that used to cling to me always 
 that some change was at hand regarding Rupert. I lost it 
 for a great 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 a 
 few steps lower in social grade, might have felt inclined to beat 
 her. '• I have ever felt that Rupert 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 speech. 
 
 "I don't exactly think 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 under- 
 stand. Like Miss Diana Trevlyn, he was very matter-of-fact, 
 comprehending nothing but what could be seen and felt ; and 
 his wife might as well have spoken to him in an unknown 
 tongue as of " presentiments." He drew a rapid conclusion 
 that some unpleasant fact, bearing upon the dread which he 
 had long felt, must have come to his wife's knowledge. 
 
 " What have you heard ? " he gasped.
 
 MRS. CHATTA WAY'S "OLD IMPRESSION." 149 
 
 " I have heard nothing ; nothing whatever. I " 
 
 " Then what on earth are you talking about? " 
 
 " Did you understand me, James ? I say that the impression 
 was once firmly seated in my mind that Rupert would somehow 
 be restored to what — 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 heard anything? Any plot? — any con- 
 spiracy 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 ? 
 
 " Then, what do you mean ? " he asked, after a pause. 
 " Why should such an idea arise? " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway was silent. She could not tell him the 
 truth ; could not say that she believed it was the constant 
 dwelling upon the wrong and injustice, which had first sug- 
 gested the notion that the wrong would inevitably recoil on its 
 workers. 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 
 Trevlyn did not. Too often there were certain verses of Holy 
 Writ spelling out their syllables upon her brain. "Remove 
 not the old landmark ; and enter not into the fields of the 
 fatherless ; for their Redeemer is mighty ; he shall plead their 
 cause with 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 bestow- 
 ing upon her a sharp lecture for indulging in them. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, wondering 
 from what quarter the first glimmer of the mischief would come.
 
 15° TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRIS. 
 
 Rupert came down to breakfast the next morning. He was 
 cold, sick, shivery ; little 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 
 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 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 fading health — struck 
 upon 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. Chattaway 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 repHed. "The time 
 slipped on, and it got late without my noticing it. I think I 
 told you so last night, Aunt Diana.'
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRIS. 151 
 
 " Very well. It must not occur again," she 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 a blue face. He was none the better 
 for his sleepless night, and the torment which had caused it, 
 Rupert 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 pleasant expression 
 on his countenance. " ^Vhat'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 antagonism ever 
 at work in the hearts of George Ryle and Octave Chattaway ; 
 and there was certainly ever constant and visible antagonism 
 between the actions of Mr. Chattaway and Miss Diana Trevlyn, 
 as far as they related to the ruling economy of 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 ex- 
 trava<?ance — 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. 
 Rupert, 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 into
 
 152 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 groups of many fantastic things — constituted one of the pleasures 
 of Rupert Trevlyn's life. Not for the bright blue of the sky, 
 not for the ever-changing clouds, not even for the warm sun- 
 shine 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-off 
 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 any one might have 
 guessed possessed of sufficient penetration. 
 
 No. Mr. Chattaway need not have feared that Rupert was 
 hatching plots against him, whenever he was out of his sight. 
 Had poor Rupert possessed the desire, he lacked the energy. 
 
 The dinner hour at Trevlyn Hold, nominally early, was 
 frequently regulated by the will or the movements of the master. 
 AMien he said he could only be home at 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) Cris came in. 
 
 Strictly speaking, it was ten minutes past two, and Cris 
 burst into the dining-room with a heated face, afraid lest he 
 should come in for the end 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 
 pulled the bell. 
 
 "What time do we dine to-day?" he asked sharply 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 ! — where are they all ? " 
 
 " Madam's at home, sir; and I think ]\Iiss 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 ? "
 
 A FIT OF AMIABILITY IN CRIS. 153 
 
 The unwonted attention on her brother's part quite astonished 
 Octave. Before now she had asked him to drive her out, and 
 been met with a rough refusal. Cris was of that class of young 
 gentlemen who see no good in overpowering their sisters with 
 attention. 
 
 " Get your things on at once," said Cris. 
 
 Octave felt dubious. She was writing letters to some par- 
 ticular friends with whom she kept up a correspondence, 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 down the lower road to Bar- 
 brook, and go on to Barmester that way." 
 
 The suggestion did not offer sufficient attraction 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. " Vou 
 have some particular motive in asking me to go now, I know. 
 What is it, Cris ? " 
 
 " I want to try my new horse. They say he'll go beautifully 
 in harness." 
 
 " What ! that handsome horse you took a fancy to the other 
 day ? — that papa said you should not buy ? " 
 
 Cris nodded. " They let me have him for forty-five pounds." 
 
 " Where did you get the money ? " wondered Octave. 
 
 "Never you mind. I have paid ten pounds down, and 
 they'll wait for the rest. ^Vill you come ? " 
 
 " 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 
 Cris ran out. A handsome animal certainly, but apparently 
 a remarkably restive one. Mrs. Chattaway came through the 
 hall, dressed for walking. Cris 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 affectionately, that Mrs. Chattaway, 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 Cris had gathered the reins in his hand and
 
 154 , TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 taken his place beside her, George Ryle came up, and some- 
 what hindered the departure. 
 
 " I have been to Barmester to see CaroUne this morning, 
 Mrs. Chattaway, and have brought you a message from AmeUa," 
 he said, keeping his hold on the dog-cart as he spoke — as much 
 as he could do sOj for the prancing 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 used, unless she is allowed the holiday also." 
 
 " Caroline is coming to the harvest-home ? " 
 
 " Yes. I told Amelia " 
 
 Holding on any longer 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 do." 
 
 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 loving accents. " It 
 is not often Cris finds time to drive me. Thank you all the 
 same." 
 
 Cris gave the horse its head, and the animal dashed off. 
 Geors;e stood watchinsr until a turn in the avenue hid them from 
 view, and then gave utterance to an involuntary exclamation — 
 
 " 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,
 
 ( 155 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 On the lower road, leading from Trevlyn Farm to Barbrook, 
 was situated Barbrook Rectory. A pretty house, covered with 
 ivy, standing in the midst of a productive garden, and sur- 
 rounded by green fields. An exceedingly pretty place for its 
 size, that parsonage — it was never styled anything 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 occupant was the Reverend John Freeman. 
 Occupant of the parsonage house, you understand ; not incum- 
 bent of the living. The living was in the gift of a neighbouring 
 cathedral ; it was held by one of the chapter ; and he delegated 
 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 this 
 canon should take place — a very old man, both as to his years 
 and his occupancy of his prebendal stall — changes would be 
 made, and the next incumbent would have to reside 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 Reverend Shafto Dean, of 
 whom you have heard. Mr. Dean had remained at Barbrook 
 only a very short time after his sister's marriage to Joe Trevlyn. 
 That event had not tended to allay the irritation existing 
 between Trevlyn Hold and the parsonage, and on some pro- 
 motion being offered to Mr. Dean, he embraced it. The 
 promotion given him was in the West Indies : he would not 
 have chosen a residence there under happier auspices ; but he 
 felt sick of the ceaseless contention with Squire Trevlyn. Mr. 
 Dean went out to the West Indies, and died of fever within six 
 months of his arrival. Mr. Freeman had succeeded him at 
 Barbrook, 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 making both 
 ends to meet at the end of the year upon the moderate sum of
 
 156 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 one hundred pounds sterling, you will wonder how even that 
 servant could be retained. But a clergyman has advantages in 
 some points over the rest of the world : at least, this one had ; 
 his house being rent-free, and his garden supplying more 
 vegetables and fruit than his household could consume. Some 
 of the choicer fruit, indeed, he sold : and I hope you won'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 receive. He was a quiet, pleasant little man 
 of fifty, with a fair face and a fat double chin. Never an ill 
 word had he had with any one 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 
 shelling the peas for dinner, as sitting in state, waiting for 
 company. 
 
 At the back of the parsonage house, detached from it, was a 
 room called the brewhouse, where sundry abnormal duties, 
 quite out of the regular routine of things, were performed. A 
 boiler 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. 
 Cris Chattaway contrived to separate his dog-cart from its 
 shafts, or to let his new horse do it for him, of which you will 
 hear more presently, this brewhouse was so filled with steam 
 that you could not see across it. A tall, strong, rosy-faced 
 woman, looking about thirty years of age, was standing over a 
 washing-tub, rubbing away ; and in the boiler, bubbling and 
 seething, the white linen heaved up and down like the waves 
 of a small sea. 
 
 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 Farm. Some five years ago she came to an 
 issue with the ruling potentates, 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 flags. Indeed, it was 
 much the fashion in that neighbourhood for the maid-servant 
 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 ignoble things, 
 when the church-clock striking out caused her to pause, and
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 157 
 
 glance up through the open window. She was counting 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 a handful o' coloured 
 things and the flannels ! If missis was at home, she'd say I'd 
 been wasting all my morning, gossiping." 
 
 An accusation which Mrs. Freeman might have made with 
 great truth. There was not a more inveterate gossip tlian 
 Molly in the parish : and her propensity had lost her her last 
 place. 
 
 She turned to the boiler, seized the rolling-pin, and poked 
 down the rising clothes with a fierceness which seemed to wish 
 to make up for the lost hours. Then she dashed open the 
 little iron door underneath, threw on a shovel of coals, and shut 
 it again. 
 
 " This surplice is wearing as thin as anything in front," 
 soliloquized she, recommencing her work at the tub. " I'd 
 better not rub it too much. But it's just in the very place 
 where 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, these surplices : 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 visitors ; 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 preferred the former course, for a second knock, 
 louder than the first, sent its echoes through the house. Molly 
 brought her wet arms out of the water, gave them a rub upon a 
 towel, and then went on her way grumbling. 
 
 "It's that bothering Mother Hurnall, I know! 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 an interfering, mischief-making old toad, and if she does 
 come in, I'll " 
 
 Molly had opened the door, 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 eyes, a kindly but firm expression on his sallow face, a
 
 iS8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 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 
 before 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 Reverend Mr. Freeman," began the stranger. " Is he at 
 home?" 
 
 " No, sir, he's not," replied Molly, dropping another and a 
 more assured curtsey. There was something about the stranger's 
 voice, his straightforward glance, which insensibly quieted her 
 fears. " My master and mistress are both gone 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 
 said at length. " I came — I have come a great many hundred 
 miles, and I reckoned very much upon seeing my old 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 to get back again. I have come 
 down from London on purpose to see Mr. Freeman. It is 
 many years since we met, and I thought, if quite agreeable, I 
 would 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 fingers to her temple in 
 consideration, " that he lived somewhere over in France, that 
 Mr. Daw. I think he was a clergyman. 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-furniture, 
 and he exclaimed and said it must be Mr. Daw's wife."
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. 159 
 
 " Right — right in all," said the gentleman. " I am Mr. 
 t)aw." 
 
 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 convinced he was really the person he pro- 
 fessed to be. " I can see but one thing to do," he said, " you 
 must give me house-room until Mr. Freeman 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 parlour — a sunny 
 apartment, redolent of the scent of mignonette, boxes of which 
 grew outside the windows. " I don't care at all for dinner," he 
 carelessly observed. " A crust of bread and a little fresh butter, 
 with a cup of milk, if you happen to have it, will do as well for 
 me as dinner." 
 
 Molly left him, to see what she could do in the way of enter- 
 tainment, 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 washing day ! "\Vell, 
 there ! it's of no good worrying. The wash must go, that's all. 
 If I can't finish to-day, I must finish to-morrow. Bother ! 
 There'll be the trouble and expense of lighting the furnace over 
 again ! I think he's what he says he is. I've heard them red 
 umberellas is used in France." 
 
 She carried in a tray of refreshment — bread, butter, cheese, 
 milk, and honey. She had pulled down the sleeves of her gown, 
 and straightened her hair, and put on a clean apron, and taken 
 off her pattens. Mr. Daw detained her while he helped him- 
 self, 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 neighbour- 
 hood, is there not ? " 
 
 " Right over there, sir," replied Molly, extending her hand 
 in a slanting direction from the window. " You might see its 
 chimblies but for them trees." 
 
 " I suppose the young master of Trevlyn has grown to be a 
 fine man ? " 
 
 Molly turned up her nose. She never supposed but the 
 question alluded to Cris, and Cris was no favourite of hers. 
 She had imbibed the prejudice, possibly, during her service at 
 Trevlyn Farm.
 
 l6o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '•'/don't call him so," said she, sliortly. "A weazened-face 
 fellow, with an 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 than he is. But 
 I don't know who'd have him," added Molly, in her prejudice. 
 " /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 
 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 of. 
 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 stared at each other, as people at cross-purposes often 
 do. " Of whom are you speaking? " asked Mr. Daw, at length. 
 
 " Of Cris Chattaway, sir. You asked me about the young 
 master of Trevlyn Hold. Cris will be its master after his father. 
 Old Chattaway's its master now." 
 
 " Chattaway ? Chattaway ? " repeated the stranger to him- 
 self, as if recalling the name. " I remember. It was he 
 who— — Is Rupert Trevlyn dead ? " he hastily asked. 
 
 '' Oh no, sir." 
 
 " Why, then, is he not the master of Trevlyn Hold ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know," replied Molly, after some considera- 
 tion. " I suppose because Chattaway is." 
 
 " But surely Rupert Trevlyn inherited it on the death of his 
 grandfather, Squire Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " No, he didn't inherit it, sir. It was Chattaway." 
 
 So interested in the argument had the visitor become, that 
 he neglected his plate, and was looking at Molly with astonished 
 eyes. " 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/'
 
 AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE. i6i 
 
 •' Who is Mr. Chattaway ? What is his connection with the 
 Trcvlyns ? I forget." 
 
 " His wife was Miss Edith Trevlyn, the Squire's daughter. 
 There was but three of 'em,— Mrs. Ryle, 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 Trevlyn live with Miss Diana?" he broke off 
 again. 
 
 _" Yes, sir ; they all live at the Hold. The Chattaways, and 
 Miss Diana, and young Mr. Rupert. Miss Diana has been out 
 on a visit these two or three weeks past, but I heard this morn- 
 ing 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. " Governess to Chat- 
 taway'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 edi- 
 cations, they say : plays and sings first-rate ; and so they made 
 her the governess." 
 
 "But has she no fortune— no income?" reiterated the 
 stranger, lost in wonder. 
 
 " Not a penny-piece," returned Molly, decisively. " Her and 
 Mr. Rupert haven't a halfpenny between 'em of their own. 
 He's clerk, or something of that sort, at Chattaway's coal mine, 
 down yonder." 
 
 "But they were the heirs to the estate," the stranger per- 
 sisted. " 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 question 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 inheritance 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." 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 11
 
 162 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " He is the heir — he is the heir ! " reiterated Mr. Daw. *' 1 
 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 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 folding clothes together, but she said she knew 
 nothing about it. She wasn't married then." 
 
 "Who is Nora?" inquired Mr. Daw. 
 
 " She's the housekeeper and manager at Trevlyn Farm ; 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, 
 with pride. 
 
 Apparently the boast was lost upon him ; he did not seem 
 to hear it. " Not the heir to Trevlyn ! " he muttered ; "not 
 the heir to Trevlyn ! It's a puzzle to me." 
 
 "I'm sorry 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 indoor servants. The name's Whittaker, 
 sir." 
 
 Mr. Daw did not show himself very much interested in the 
 name, or in the worthy millers themselves. He was lost in a 
 reverie. Molly made a movement about the plates and 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 the heir all through 
 these long years ! "
 
 ( i63 ) 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE STRANGER WITH THE RED UMBRELLA, 
 
 When Mrs. Chattaway and Cris drove off in the dog-cart, 
 George Ryle did not follow them down the avenue, but turned 
 to pursue his way round the house, which would take him to 
 the fields, a shorter cut to his own land than if he took the 
 road. For a long time after his father's death, George could 
 not bear to go through the field Avhich had been so fatal to 
 him ; but he lived down the feeling by the aid of that great 
 reconciler to all things — Time. 
 
 Happening to cast his eyes on the ornamental grounds as he 
 skirted them, which lay on this side of the Hold, he saw Rupert 
 Trevlyn. Leaping a dwarf hedge of azaroles, he hastened to 
 him. 
 
 " Well, old fellow ! Taking a nap ? " 
 
 Rupert opened his half-closed eyes, and looked round with 
 alacrity. " I thought it was Cris again ! " he exclaimed. •' He 
 was here just now." 
 
 " Cris has gone out with his mother in the dog-cart. I don't 
 like the horse he is driving her with, though." 
 
 " Is it that new horse he has been getting? " 
 
 " Yes ; the one Allen has bad to sell." 
 
 "What's the matter with it?" asked Rupert. "I saw it 
 carrying Allen one day, and thought it a beautiful animal ! " 
 
 " It has a vicious temper, as I have been given to understand. 
 And I believe it has never been properly broken-in for harness. 
 How do you feel to-day, Rupert ? " 
 
 " No great shakes. I wish I was as strong as you, George." 
 
 George laughed pleasantly ; and his voice, when he spoke, 
 had a soothing sound in it. " So you may be, by the time you 
 are as old as I am. Why, you have hardly done growing yet, 
 Rupert. There's plenty of time for you to get strong." 
 
 " What brings you up here, George ? Anything particular? " 
 
 " I saw Amelia to-day, and brought a message from her to 
 her mamma. Caroline is coming home for the harvest-home, 
 and Amelia wants to come too." 
 
 " Oh, they'll let her," cried Rupert. " The girls can do just 
 as they like." 
 
 He, Rupert, leaned his chin on his hand, and began thinking
 
 164 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of Amelia Chattaway. She was the oldest of the three younger 
 children, and was at first under the tuition of Maude. But 
 Maude could do nothing with her, the young lady liking to be 
 master and mistress ; in fact, she was too old both for Maude's 
 control and her instruction, and it was deemed well to place 
 her at a good school at Barmester, the school at which Caroline 
 Ryle was being educated. Somehow Rupert's comforts were 
 never added to by the presence of Amelia in the house, and 
 he might have given way to a hope that she Avould not come 
 home, if he had been of a disposition to encourage such feelings. 
 
 Octave, who had discerned George Ryle from the windows 
 of the Hold, came out to them, her pink parasol shading her 
 face from the sun. A short while, and Miss Trevlyn came 
 home and joined them ; next came Maude and her charges. 
 It was quite a merry gathering. Miss Trevlyn unbent from 
 her coldness, as she could do sometimes ; Octave was all smiles 
 and suavity, and every one, except Rupert, seemed at ease. 
 Altogether, George Ryle was beguiled into doing what could 
 not be often charged upon him — spending a good part of an 
 afternoon in idleness. 
 
 But he went away at last. And as he was turning into the 
 first field — never called anything but " the Bull field," by the 
 country people, from the hour of Mr. Ryle's accident — he en- 
 countered Jim Sanders, eager and breathless. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked George. " What do you want 
 here?" 
 
 " I was a-speeding up to the Hold to tell 'em, sin There 
 have been an accident with Mr. Cris's dog-cart. I thouglit I'd 
 warn the men up at his place." 
 
 "What accident?" hastily asked George, mentally beholding 
 one sole object, and that was Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " I don't know yet, sir, what it is. I was in the road by the 
 gate, when a horse came tearing along with some broken shafts 
 after it. It was that horse of Allen's which I see Mr. Cris a- 
 d riving out an hour ago in his dog-cart, and Madam along of 
 him. So I cut across the fields at once." 
 
 " You can go on," said George ; " some of the men will be 
 about. Should you see Miss Diana, or any of the young ladies, 
 take care that you say nothing to them. Do you hear ? " 
 
 " I'll mind, sir." 
 
 Jim Sanders hastened out of the field on his way to the back 
 premises of the Hold, and George flew onwards. When he 
 gained the road, he looked up and down, but could sec no
 
 THE STRANGER WITH THE RED UMBRELLA. 165 
 
 traces of the accident. Nothing was in sight. Which way 
 should he turn ? Where had it occurred ? He began reproach- 
 ing himself for not asking Mr. Jim Sanders which way the 
 horse had been coming from. As he halted in indecision, 
 some one suddenly came round the turning of the road lov/cr 
 down. It was Mr. Cris Chattaway, with a rueful expression of 
 countenance, and a gig-whip in his hand. 
 
 George made but few strides towards him. " What is the 
 worst, Cris ? Let me know it." 
 
 " I'll have him taken in charge and prosecuted, as sure as a 
 gun," raved Cris. " I will. It's infamous that these things 
 should be allowed in the public road." 
 
 " What — the horse ? " exclaimed George. 
 
 " Horse be hanged ! " politely returned Cris, whose irritation 
 was excessive. " It v>-asn't the horse's fault. Nothing could 
 go steadier and better than he went all the way and back again, 
 as far as this " 
 
 "Where's Mrs. Chattaway?" interrupted George. 
 , " On the bank, down there. She's all right ; only shaken a 
 bit. The fellow's name was on the thing, and I have copied it 
 down, and I've sent a man off for a constable. I'll teach him 
 that he can't go about the country, plying his trade and frighten- 
 ing gentlemen's horses with impunity." 
 
 In spite of Cris's incoherence and passion, George con- 
 trived to gather an inkling of the facts. They had taken a 
 short, easy drive down the lower road and through Barbrook, 
 the horse going (according to Cris) beautifully. But on the 
 road home, in that lonely part between the Hold and Trevlyn 
 Farm, there stood a razor-grinder with his machine, grinding a 
 knife. Whether the whirr of the wheel did not please the horse ; 
 whether it was the aspect of the machine ; or whether it might 
 be the razor-grinder himself, a somewhat tattered object in a 
 fur cap, the animal no sooner came near, than he began his 
 favourite dance on the hind legs and backed towards the ditch. 
 Cris did his best. He was a good whip, and a fearless one ; 
 but he could not conquer. The horse turned Mrs. Chattaway 
 into the ditch, relieved his mind by a few kicks, and started off 
 with part of the shafts behind him. 
 
 " Are you much hurt, dear Mrs. Chattaway ? " asked George, 
 tenderly, as he bent over her. 
 
 She looked up with a smile, but her face was of a death-like 
 whiteness. Fortunately, the ditch, a v.ide ditch, was dry; and 
 she sat on the sloping bank, her feet resting in it. The
 
 i66 FREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 dog-cavt lay near, and several gazers, chiefly labouring men, 
 stood around, staring helplessly. The razor-grinder was pro- 
 testing his immunity from blame, and the hapless machine 
 remained in its place untouched, drawn close to the pathway 
 on the opposite side of the road. 
 
 " You need not look at me so anxiously, George," Mrs. Chat- 
 taway replied, the smile still on her face. " I don't believe I 
 am hurt. One of my elbows is smarting, but I really feel no 
 pain anywhere. I am shaken, of course \ but that's not much. 
 I wish I had taken your advice, not to sit behind that horse." 
 
 " Cris says he went beautifully, until he was friglitened." 
 
 "Did Cris say so? It appeared to me that he had trouble 
 with him all the way ; but Cris knows, of course. He has gone 
 to the Hold to bring the carriage for me, but I don't care to 
 sit here to be stared at longer than I can help," she added, 
 with a half-smile. 
 
 George leaped into the ditch, and partly helped and partly 
 lifted her up the bank, and took her on his arm. She walked 
 slowly, however, and leaned heavily upon him. When they 
 reached the lodge, old Canham was gazing up and down the 
 road, and Ann came out, full of consternation. They had seen 
 the horse with the broken shafts gallop past. 
 
 " Then there's no bones broke, thank Heaven ! " said Ann 
 Canham, with tears in her meek eyes. 
 
 She drew forward her father's armchair before the open door, 
 and ]\Irs. Chattaway sat down in it. She felt that she must 
 have air, she said. " If I had but a drop o' brandy for 
 Madam ! " cried old Canham, as he stood near her and leaned 
 all his weight on his stick. 
 
 George caught up the words. '^ I will go to the Hold and 
 get some." And before Mrs. Chattaway could stop him, or say 
 that she would prefer not to take the brandy he was away. 
 
 Almost at the same moment they heard the fast approach of 
 a horse, and the master of Trevlyn Hold rode in at the gates. 
 To describe his surprise when he saw his wife sitting, an 
 apparent invalid, in old Canham's chair, and old Canham and 
 Ann standing near in evident consternation, almost as pale as 
 she was, would be a difficult task. He reined in so quickly 
 that his horse was flung back on its haunches. 
 
 " Is anything the matter ? Has Madam been taken ill ? " 
 
 " There has been an accident, sir," answered Ann Canham, 
 with a meek curtsey. " Mr. Christopher was driving out 
 Madam in the dog-cart, and they were throwcd out."
 
 THE STRANGER WITH THE RED UMBRELLA. 167 
 
 Mr. Chattavvay got off his horse. " How did it happen ? " 
 he asked of his wife, an angry expression crossing his face. 
 " Was it Cris's fault ? I hate that random driving of his ! "_ 
 
 " I am not hurt, James ; only a little shaken," she repHed, 
 with gentleness. " Cris was not to blame. There was a 
 razor-grinder in the road, grinding knives, and it frightened the 
 horse." 
 
 " Which horse was he driving ? " demanded Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 "A new one. One he bought from Allen." 
 
 The reply did not please Mr. Chattaway. " I told Cris he 
 should not buy that horse," he angrily said. " Is the dog-cart 
 injured ?" 
 
 It was apparent from the question that Mr. Chattaway had 
 not passed the debris on the road. He must have come the 
 other way, or perhaps across the common. Mrs. Chattaway 
 did not dare to say that she believed the dog-cart was very 
 much injured. " The shafts are broken," she said, " and some- 
 thing more." 
 
 " \Vhere did it occur ? " growled Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " A little lower down the road. George Ryle came up soon 
 after it happened, and I walked here with him. Cris went on 
 to the Hold to send the carriage, but I shall get home with- 
 out it." 
 
 " It might have been worse, Squire," interposed old Can- 
 ham, who, as a dependant of Trevlyn Hold, felt compelled 
 sometimes to give the " Squire " his title to his face, though he 
 never would, or did, behind his back. "Nothing hardly 
 happens to us, sir, in this world, but what's more eased to us 
 than it might be." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had stood with his horse's bridle over his 
 arm. " Would you like to walk home with me now ? " he asked 
 of his wife. " I can lead the horse." 
 
 "Thank you, James. I think I must rest here a little 
 longer. I had only just got here when you came up." 
 
 " I'll send for you," said Mr. Chattaway. " Or come back 
 myself when I have left the horse at home. Mr. Cris will hear 
 more than he likes from me about this business." 
 
 " Such an untoward thing has never happened to Mn Cris 
 afore, sir," observed Mark Canham. "There's never a surer 
 nor better driver than him for miles round. The young heir, 
 now, he's different : a bit timid, I fancy, and " 
 
 "Who?" burst forth Mr. Chattaway, taking his foot from 
 the stirrup, for he was about to mount, and hurling down
 
 i6S TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 daggers at Mark Canham. " The young heir ! To whom do 
 you dare apply that title ? " 
 
 Had the old man purposely launched a sly shaft at the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold, or had he spoken only in inadver- 
 tence? He hastened to repair the damage, as he best 
 could. 
 
 " Squire, I be growing old now — more by sickness, though, 
 than by age — and things and people gets moithered together 
 in my mind. In the bygone days, it was a Rupert Trevlyn 
 that was the heir, and I can't at all times call to mind that this 
 Rupert Trevlyn is not so : the name is the same, you see. 
 What has set me to make such a stupid mistake this afternoon 
 I can't tell, unless it was the gentleman's words that was here 
 but an hour ago. He kept calling Master Rupert the heir ; 
 and he wouldn't call him nothing else." 
 
 Mr, Chattaway's face grew darker. " What gentleman was 
 that, pray ? " 
 
 "I never see him afore in my life, sir," returned old 
 Canham. " He was a stranger to the place, and he asked all 
 manner of questions about it. He called Master Rupert the 
 heir, and I stopped him, saying he made a mistake, for Master 
 Rupert was not the heir. And he answered I was right so far, 
 that Master Rupert, instead of being the heir of Trevlyn Hold, 
 was its master and owner. I couldn't help staring at him when 
 he said it." 
 
 Chattaway felt as if his blood were curdling. Was this the 
 first act in the great drama which he had so long dreaded ? 
 " Where did he come from ? What sort of a man was he ?" 
 he mechanically asked, all symptoms of anger dying away in 
 his sudden fear. 
 
 Old Canham shook his head. " I don't know nothing about 
 where he's from, sir. He came strolling inside the gates, as 
 folks strange to a place will do, looking about 'em just for 
 curiosity's sake. He saw me a-sitting at the open winder, and 
 he asked what place this was, and I told him it was Trevlyn 
 Hold. He said he thought so, that he had been walking about 
 looking for Trevlyn Hold : and he leaned his arm upon the 
 winder-sill, and put nigh upon a hundred questions to me." 
 
 " What were the questions ? " eagerly rejoined Mr. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 " I should be puzzled to tell you half of 'em, sir, but they all 
 bore upon Trevlyn Hold. About the Squire's death, and the 
 will, and the succession ; about everything in short. At last I
 
 THE STRANGER WITH THE RED UMBRELLA. 169 
 
 told him that I didn't know the rightful particulars myself, and 
 he'd better go to you or Miss Diana." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway stole a glance at her husband. Her face 
 was paler than the accident had made it ; with a more alarmed 
 pallor. The impression clinging to her mind, and of wliich she 
 had spoken to her husband the previous night— that Rupert 
 Trevlyn was on the eve of being restored to his rights— seemed 
 terribly strong upon her now. 
 
 " He was a tall, thin, strange-looking man, with a foreign 
 look about him, and a red umberellar," continued old Canham. 
 "A long white beard he had, sir, like a goat, and a odd hat 
 made of cloth or crape, or some mourning stuff. His tongue 
 wasn't quite like an English tongue, either. I shouldn't wonder 
 but he was a lawyer, Squire : no one else wouldn't surely think 
 of putting such a string of questions " 
 
 "Did he — did he put the questions as an official person 
 might put them ? " rapidly interrupted Mr. Chattawa}-. 
 
 Old Canham hesitated ; at a loss what precise reply to give. 
 " He put 'em as though he wanted answers to 'em," returned 
 he at length. " He said a word or two, sir, that made me 
 think he'd been intimate once with the young Sc^uire, Mr. Joe, 
 and he asked whether his boy or his girl had growed up most 
 like him. He wondered, he said, whether he should know 
 either of 'em by the likeness, when he came to meet 'em, as he 
 should do to-day or to-morrow." 
 
 " And what more ? " gasped Mr, Chattawa}'. 
 
 " I'here was nothing more, Squire, in particular. He took 
 his elbow off the winder-sill, and he went through the gates 
 again and down the road. It seemed to me as if he had come 
 into the neighbourhood for some special purpose connected 
 with them questions." 
 
 It seemed so to some one else also. When the master of 
 Trevlyn Hold mounted his horse and rode him slowly through 
 the avenue towards home, a lively fear, near and terrible, liad 
 replaced that vague dread which had so long lain latent in his 
 heart.
 
 170 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE COLLECTION IN THE ROAD. 
 
 The beauty of the calm autumn afternoon was marred by tne 
 hubbub and commotion of the crowd in the road. The rays of 
 the sun came filtering through the foliage of the trees, the deep 
 blue sky was without a cloud, the air was still and balmy : the 
 whole imparted an idea of peace. But in that dusty highway, 
 so lonely at other times, there had gathered a throng of people, 
 and they talked and swayed, and altogether made much clatter 
 and disturbance. 
 
 A throng that was momentarily being added to. Stragglers 
 came up from all directions with eager eyes and open mouth. 
 An accident, such as this which had befallen Madam Chatta- 
 way and her son, is an event in a locality where accidents are 
 rare. An upset and broken shafts may be seen any day in the 
 streets of London, but in a rustic place it is one of the incidents 
 to be remembered for a lifetime. 
 
 The affair had got wind. How these affairs do get wind 
 who can tell ? It had been exaggerated in the usual fashion. 
 " Madam was killed ; and the dog-cart smashed to pieces ; and 
 the horse lamed ; and Mr. Cris wounded." Half the gaping 
 people who came up believed it all : and the chief hubbub was 
 caused, not so much by discussing the accident, as by en- 
 deavouring to explain that its effects were not very disastrous. 
 
 The news had travelled with its embellishments to Trevlyn 
 Farm, amidst other places ; and it brought out Nora. Without 
 waiting to put anything on, she took her way to the spot. 
 Mrs. Ryle was expecting company that afternoon, and Nora 
 was at leisure and en gra?idc toilette : a black silk gown, its 
 flounces edged with velvet, and a cap of blonde lace trimmed 
 with white flowers. The persons who were gathered on the 
 spot made way for her. The wrecked dog-cart lay partly in the 
 ditch, partly out of it. Opposite was the grinding-machine, its 
 owner now silent and crestfallen, as he inwardly speculated 
 upon what the law could do to him. 
 
 "Then it's not true that Madam's killed?" cried Nora, after 
 listening to the various explanations. 
 
 A dozen voices answered the question. " Madam warn't 
 hurt to speak of, only shook a bit : she had telled 'em so her-
 
 THE COLLECTION IN THE ROAD, 171 
 
 self. She had walked off on Mr. George Ryle's arm, without 
 waiting for the carriage that Mr. Cris had gone to fetch." 
 
 " I'll be about that Jim Sanders," retorted Nora, wrathfully. 
 " How dare he come bringing in such tales ? He said Madam 
 was lying dead in the road." 
 
 She had barely spoken, when the throng standing over the 
 dog-cart was invaded by a new-arrival, one who had been walk- 
 ing in a neighbouring field, and wondered what the collection 
 could mean. The rustics fell back and stared at him : first, 
 because he was a stranger ; secondly, because his appearance 
 was somewhat out of the common way; thirdly, because he 
 carried a red umbrella. A tall man with a long white beard, a 
 hat, the like of which had never been seen by country eyes, and 
 a foreign look. 
 
 You will at once recognize him for the traveller who had in- 
 troduced himself at the parsonage as the Reverend Mr. Daw, a 
 friend of its owner. The crowd, having had no such intro- 
 duction, could only stare, marvelling where he came from, and 
 whether he had dropped from the clouds. He had been out 
 all the afternoon, taking notes of the neighbourhood, and since 
 his conversation with old Canham — which you heard related 
 afterwards to Mr. Chattaway, to that gentleman's intense dread 
 ■ — he had plunged into the fields on the opposite side of the 
 way. There he had remained, musing and wandering, until 
 aroused by the commotion in the road, to which he speedily 
 made his way. 
 
 " What has happened ? " he exclaimed. " An accident ? " 
 
 The assemblage fell back to give him a wide berth. Rustics 
 are prone to be suspicious of strangers, if their appearance is 
 peculiar, and not one of them found a ready answer to the 
 question. Nora, however, whose tongue had, perhaps, never 
 been at fault in its whole career, stood her ground. 
 
 " There's not much damage done, as far as I can learn," she 
 said, in her usual free manner. " The dog-cart's the worst of it. 
 There it lies. It was Cris Chattaway's own ; and I should think 
 it will be a lesson to him not to be so fond of driving strange 
 horses." 
 
 " Is it to the Chattaways that the accident has occurred ? " 
 asked the stranger. 
 
 Nora nodded. She was stooping down to survey more criti- 
 cally the damages done to the dog-cart. "Cris Chattaway 
 was driving his mother out," she said, rising, " He was 
 trying a strange horse, and this was the result," touching the.
 
 173 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 wheel with her foot. " Madam was thrown into the ditch 
 here." 
 
 " And hurt ? " laconically asked Mr. Daw. 
 
 " Only shaken — as they say. But a shaking may be danger- 
 ous for one so delicate as Madam Chattaway. A pity but it 
 had been himP 
 
 Nora spoke the last word with emphasis so demonstrative 
 that her hearer raised his eyes in wonderment. " Of whom do 
 you speak ? " he said. 
 
 " Of Chattaway : Madam's husband. A shaking might do 
 him good." 
 • " You don't like him, apparently," observed the stranger. 
 
 " I don't know who does," freely spoke Nora. 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. Daw, quietly. "Then I am not singular. / 
 don't." 
 
 " Do you know him } " she rejoined. 
 
 But to this the stranger gave no answer ; he had evidently 
 no intention of giving any ; and the reticence whetted Nora's 
 curiosity more than any answer could have done, however 
 obscure or mysterious. Perhaps no living woman within a 
 circuit of five miles had a curiosity equal to that of Nora 
 Dickson. 
 
 " \A'here have you known Chattaway ? •' she exclaimed. 
 
 "It does not matter," said the stranger. "He is in the 
 enjoyment of Trevlyn HoM, I hear." 
 
 To say " I hear," as applied to the subject, imparted the idea 
 that the stranger had only just gained the information. Nora 
 threw her quick black eyes searchingly upon him. 
 
 " Have you lived in a wood not to know that James Chatta- 
 way was possessor of Trevlyn Hold ? " she said, with her cha- 
 racteristic plainness of speech. "He has enjoyed it these 
 twenty years, to the exclusion of Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 "Rupert Trevlyn is its rightful owner," said the stranger, 
 almost as demonstratively as Nora herself could have spoken. 
 
 " Ah," said Nora, with a sort of indignant groan, " the whole 
 parish knows that. But Chattaway has possession of it, you 
 see." 
 
 "Why doesn't some one help Rupert Trevlyn to his rights?" 
 
 " Who's to do it ? " crossly responded Nora. " Can you ? " 
 
 " Possibly," returned the stranger. 
 
 Had the gentleman asserted that lie might possibly cause the 
 moon to shine by day instead of by night, Nora could not have 
 shown more intense surprise. " Help— him— to— his— rights ? "
 
 THE COLLECTION IN THE ROAD. 173 
 
 slic slowly repeated. "Do you mean to say you could displace 
 Chattaway ? " 
 
 " Possibly," was the repeated answer. 
 
 "Why — who are you?" uttered the amazed Nora. 
 
 A smile flitted for a moment over Mr. Daw's countenance, 
 the first symptom of a break to its composed sadness. JJut he 
 gave no reply. 
 
 "Do you know Rupert Trevlyn ?" she reiterated. 
 
 But even to that there was no direct answer. " I came to 
 this place partly to see Rupert Trevlyn," were the words that 
 issued from his lips. "I knew his father; he w\as my dear 
 friend." 
 
 "Who can he be?" was the question reiterating itself in 
 Nora's active brain. " Are you a lawyer ? " she asked, the idea 
 suddenly occurring to her : as it had, you may remember, to 
 old Canhani. 
 
 Mr Daw coughed. " Lawyers are keen men," was his 
 answering remark, and Nora could have beaten him for its 
 vagueness. But before she could say more, an interruption 
 occurred. 
 
 This conversation had been carried on aloud; neither the 
 stranger nor Nora having deemed it necessary to speak in a 
 low tone. The consequence of which was, that those in the 
 midst of whom they stood had listened with open ears, drawing 
 their own deductions — and very remarkable deductions some 
 of them were. The knife-grinder — though a stranger to the 
 local politics, and totally uninterested in them — had listened 
 with the rest. One conclusion that he hastily came to at 
 this juncture, was, that the remarkable-looking gentleman with 
 the white beard was a lawyer ; and he pushed himself to the 
 front of the throng. 
 
 "You be a lawyer, master," he broke in, with some excite- 
 ment. " Would you mind telling of me whether they can harm 
 me. If I ain't at liberty to ply my trade under a roadside 
 hedge but I must be took up and punished for it, why, it's a 
 fresh wrinkle as I've got to learn. I've done it all my life ; 
 others as is in the same trade does it ; can the law touch us ? " 
 
 Mr. Daw had turned in wonderment. He had heard nothing 
 of the grinding-machine in connection with the accident, and 
 the man's address was unintelligible. A score of voices hastened 
 to enlighten him, but before it was well done^ the eager knife- 
 grinder's voice rose above the rest. 
 
 " Can the laws touch me for it, master ? "
 
 m TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," was the answer. 
 
 The man's low brow scowled fitfully : he was somewhat ill- 
 looking to the eye of a physiognomist. " What'll k cost ? " he 
 roughly said, taking from his pocket a bag in which was a hand- 
 ful of copper money mixed with a sprinkling of small silver, 
 mostly sixpenny and fourpenny pieces. " I might have knowed 
 a la\\7er wouldn't give nothing for nothing, but I'll pay to know. 
 If the laws can be down upon me for grinding a knife in the 
 highway as is open to the world, all I can say is, that the laws 
 is infamous." 
 
 He stood looking at the stranger, with an air and manner of 
 demand, not of supplication — and rather insulting demand, too. 
 Mr. Daw showed no signs of resenting the incipient insolence ; 
 on the contrary, his voice took a kind and sympathizing tone. 
 
 " My good man, you may put up your money. I can give 
 you no information about the law, simply because I am ignorant 
 of its bearing on these cases. In the old days, when I was an 
 inhabitant of England, I have seen many a machine such as 
 yours plying its trade in the public roads, and the law, as I 
 supposed, could not touch them, neither did it attempt to. But 
 that may be altered now : there has been time enough for it ; 
 years and years have passed since I last set foot on English 
 soil." 
 
 The razor-grinder, frowning none the less, thrust his bag into 
 his pocket again, and began to push back to the spot from 
 whence he had come. The gaping mob had listened with 
 open ears. But they had gained little further information. 
 Whether he was a lawyer or whether he was not ; where he 
 had come from, and what his business was amongst them, 
 unless it was the placing of young Rupert Trevlyn in possession 
 of his "rights," they could not tell. 
 
 Nora could not tell — and the fact did not please her. If 
 there was one thing that provoked Nora Dickson more than 
 all else, it was to be balked in her curiosity. She felt that she 
 had been balked now. Turning away in a temper, speaking 
 not a syllable to the stranger by way of a polite adieu, she 
 began to retrace her steps to Trevlyn Farm, holding up the 
 flounces of her black silk gown, that they might not come in 
 contact with the dusty road. 
 
 But — somewhat to her surprise — she found that the mysteri- 
 ous stranger had also extricated himself from the busy mob, 
 and was following her. Nora was rather on the high ropes just 
 then, and would not notice him. He, however, accosted her.
 
 THE COLLECTION IN THE ROAD. 17^ 
 
 " By what I gathered from a word or two you let fall, I 
 should assume that you are a friend of Rupert Trevlyn's, 
 ma'am ? " 
 
 " I hope I am," said Nora, mollified at the prospect of en- 
 lightenment. " Few folks about here but arc friends to him, 
 unless it's Chattaway and that lot at the Hold." 
 
 " Then perhaps you will have no objection to inform me — if 
 you can inform me — how it was that Mr. Chattaway came into 
 possession of the Hold, in place of young Rupert Trevlyn. I 
 cannot understand how it could possibly have been. Until I 
 came here this day, I never supposed but that the lad, Rupert, 
 was the Squire of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll first of all tell me what you want the in- 
 formation for ? " returned Nora. " I don't know who you are, 
 sir, remember." 
 
 "You heard me say I was a friend of his father's; I should 
 like to be a friend to the boy. It appears to me to be a mon- 
 strous injustice that he should not have succeeded to the estate 
 of his ancestors. Has he been legally deprived of it ? " 
 
 " As legally as a properly-made will could deprive him," was 
 the reply of Nora. " Legality and justice don't always go 
 together in our parts : I don't know what they may do in 
 3'ours." 
 
 "Joe Trevlyn— my friend — was the direct heir to Trevlyn 
 Hold. LTpon his death his son became the heir. Why did he 
 not succeed ? " 
 
 " There are folks that say he was cheated out of it," replied 
 Nora, in very significant tones. 
 
 " Cheated out of it ? " 
 
 " It is said that the news of Rupert's birth was never suffered 
 to reach the ears of Scjuire Trevlyn. That the Squire went to 
 his grave, never knowing that he had a grandson in the direct 
 male line — went to it after willing the estate to Chattaway." 
 
 " Kept from it, by whom ? " eagerly cried Mr. Daw. 
 
 " By those who had an interest in keeping it from him— 
 Chattaway and Miss Diana Trevlyn. It is so said, I say : / 
 don't assert it. There may be danger in speaking too openly 
 to a stranger," candidly added Nora. 
 
 " There is no danger in speaking to me," he frankly said. 
 " I have told you but the truth — that I am a friend of young 
 Rupert Trevlyn's. Chattaway is no.t a friend of mine, and I 
 never saw him in my life." 
 
 Nora, won over to forget caution and ilhtempcr, opened lier
 
 176 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 heart to the stranger. She told him all she knew of the fraud 
 — a tacit fraud, surely, if not an active one — she told him of 
 Rupert's friendlessness, of his undesirable position at the Hold. 
 Nora's tongue, set going upon any grievance which she felt 
 strongly, could not be stopped. It was like the wheels of a 
 clock, that once wound up, must and will run down. They 
 walked on until the fold-yard gate of Trevlyn Farm was 
 reached. There Nora came to a halt. And there she was in 
 the midst of a concluding oration, delivered with forcible 
 eloquence, and there the stranger was listening eagerly, when 
 they were interrupted by George Ryle. 
 
 Nora ceased suddenly. The stranger looked round, and 
 seeing a gentleman-like man who evidently belonged in some 
 way to Nora, lifted his hat. George returned it. 
 
 " It's somebody strange to the place," unceremoniously pro- 
 nounced Nora, by way of introducing him to George. " He 
 was asking about Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. 
 
 If they had possessed extraordinarily good eyes, any one of the 
 three, they might have detected a head peering at them over a 
 hedge about two fields off, in the direction of Trevlyn Hold. 
 The head was Mr. Chattaway's. That gentleman rode home 
 from the lodge, after hearing old Canham's account of the 
 mysterious visit, in a state not to be described. Encountering 
 Miss Diana, he despatched her with Octave to the lodge to see 
 after his wife ; he met George Ryle, and told him his services 
 were no further needed — that Madam wanted neither him nor 
 the brandy; he sent his horse to the stable, and went indoors : 
 all in a confused state of agitation, as if he scarcely knew what 
 he was about. 
 
 Dinner wms ready ; the servants were perplexed at no one's 
 coming in for it, and they asked if the Squire would sit down 
 to it without Madam. He sit down to dinner — in that awful 
 uncertainty ? No ; rather would he steal out and poke and 
 pry about until he had learned something. 
 
 He left the house and plunged into the fields. He did not 
 go back down the avenue, go openly past the lodge into the
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. 177 
 
 road : cowards, with their fear upon them, prowl about stealthily 
 — as Chattaway was doing now. Very grievously was the fear 
 upon him. 
 
 He walked hither and hither : he stood for some minutes in 
 the field which had once been so fatal to poor ]\Ir. Ryle ; his 
 arms were folded, his head was bent, his newly-awakened 
 imagination was in full play. He crept to the outer field, and 
 walked under cover of its hedge until he came opposite all that 
 hubbub and confusion. There he halted, and found himself a 
 peep-hole, and took in by degrees all that was to be seen : the 
 razor-grinder and his machine, the dog-cart and its dilapida- 
 tions, and the mob. Eagerly, anxiously did his restless eyes 
 scan that mob ; but he, upon whom they hoped to rest, was 
 not amongst them. For you may be sure that Mr. Chattaway 
 was searching after none but the dreaded stranger. Miserly as 
 he was, he would have given a ten-pound note out of his pocket 
 to obtain only a moment's look at him. He had been telling 
 over all the enemies he had ever made, as far as he could 
 remember them. Was it one of those? — some one who might 
 owe him a grudge, and was taking this way of paying it out? 
 Or was it a danger coming from a totally unknown quarter ? 
 Ten pounds ! Chattaway would have given fifty then for a 
 good view of the stranger ; and his eyes were unmindful of the 
 unfriendly thorns, in their feverish anxiety to penetrate to the 
 very last of that lazy throng, idling away the summer's after- 
 noon. 
 
 The stranger was certainly not amongst them. Chattaway 
 knew every chattering soul of the whole lot. Some of his un- 
 conscious labourers made a part, and he only wished he dared 
 appear and send them flying. But he did not care to do so. 
 If ever there was a cautious man where he and his interests 
 were concerned, it was Chattaway ; and he would not run the 
 risk of meeting this man face to face. No, no; rather let him 
 get a bird's-eye view of him first, that he might be upon his 
 guard. 
 
 It was no use looking any longer at the dt'I>n's in the road 
 and the gatherers around it. The state of the dog-cart did not 
 by any means tend to soothe his feelings ; neither did the sight 
 of George Ryle, who passed through the crowd in the direction 
 of his own home. He could see what a pretty penny it would 
 take to repair the one ; he knew not how many pence it might 
 take to set right any mischief being hatched by the other. Mr. 
 Chattaway turned away. He bore along noiselessly by the side 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. l"
 
 178 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of the hedge, and then over a stile into a lower field, and then 
 into another. That brought him in view of Trevlyn Farm, and 
 — and — what did his restless eyes catch sight of? 
 
 Leaning on the fold-yard gate, dressed up in a style that was 
 not often seen, stood Nora Dickson ; on the other side was 
 George Ryle, and with him one who might be recognized at 
 the first glance — the strange-looking man, with his white hair, 
 his red umbrella, and his queer hat, as described by old Can- 
 ham. There could be no mistake about it ; he it was : and the 
 perspiration poured off the master of Trevlyn Hold in his 
 mortal fear. 
 
 What were they hatching, those three? What zvere they 
 hatching? That it did look suspicious must be confessed, to 
 one whose fears were awakened, as were Chattaway's \ for their 
 heads were in close contact, and their attention was absorbed. 
 Was he stopping at Trevlyn Farm, this man of treason ? Un- 
 doubtedly he was : else why should Nora Dickson be decked 
 out in company attire ? Chattaway had always believed George 
 Ryle to be a rogue, but now he knew him to be one. 
 
 It was a pity that Chattaway could not be listening as well 
 as peeping. He would only have heard the gentleman explain 
 to George Ryle who he was ; his name, his calling, and where 
 he was visiting in Barbrook. So far, Chattaway's doubts would 
 have been at rest ; but he would have heard no worse. George 
 was less impulsive than Nora, and would not be likely to enter 
 on the discussion of the claims of Rupert Trevlyn versus Chat- 
 taway, with a new acquaintance. 
 
 A very few minutes, and they separated. The conversation 
 had been general since George came up ; not a word having 
 been said that could have alarmed intruding ears. Nora has- 
 tened indoors ; George turned off to his rick-yard ; and the 
 stranger stood in the road and gazed leisurely about him, as if 
 he were considering the points for a sketch in v/ater-colours. 
 Presently he disappeared from Chattaway's view. 
 
 That gentleman, taking a short time to recover himself, came 
 to the conclusion that he might as well disappear also, in the 
 direction of his home ; where no doubt dinner was arrested, 
 and its hungry candidates speculating upon what could have 
 become of the master. It was of no use his remaining where 
 he was. He had ascertained one point — that the dreaded 
 enemy was an utter stranger to him. More than that he did 
 not see that he could ascertain, in this early stage. He could 
 not go boldly up to Nora or to George Ryle, tax them with
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. 179 
 
 their treachery, and demand who and what the stranger was ; 
 he could still less go to the man himself. Cunning must be 
 met with cunning ; and the owner of Trevlyn Hold would no 
 more have confessed to any fear or doubt that he should lose 
 Trevlyn Hold, than he would voluntarily have resigned that 
 desirable possession. 
 
 He wiped his damp face and set forth on his walk home, 
 stepping out pretty briskly. It was as undesirable that sus- 
 picion should be directed towards his fear by those at home, 
 as by outsiders. Were only an inkling of his fear to get 
 abroad, it seemed to Chattaway that it would be half the 
 business towards wresting Trevlyn Hold from him : he would 
 not have it known that he feared it could be wrested from 
 him. Therefore he walked on briskly, concocting a tale to 
 account for his delay — that he had been to see a cow that 
 was ill. 
 
 With the motion of walking, his courage partially came back 
 to him ; so exhilarating is bodily exertion on the human mind. 
 The reaction once set in, his hopes went up, until he almost 
 began to despise his recent terrible fear. It was absurd, he 
 reasoned with himself ; absurd to suppose this stranger could 
 have anything to do with himself and Rupert Trevlyn. He 
 was only some inquisitive traveller looking about the place for 
 his amusement, and in so doing had picked up bits of gossip, 
 and was seeking further information about them — all to while 
 away an idle hour. Besides, the will was the Squire's will, and 
 it could not be set aside ; in our well-ordered country, a dead 
 man's will, legally made, was held inviolate. If all the old 
 women philanthropists of the kingdom ranged themselves into 
 a body and took up the cause of Rupert Trevlyn, they could 
 not act against that will. What a fool he had been to put him- 
 self in a fever on account of the man ! 
 
 These consoling thoughts drowning the mind's latent dread — 
 or rather making pretence to do so, for that the dread was there 
 still, and would not be drowned, Chattaway was miserably con- 
 scious — he went on increasing his speed. At last, in turning 
 into another field, he nearly knocked down a man running in 
 the same direction, who had come up at right angles : a labourer 
 named Hatch, who worked on his farm. 
 
 It was a good opportunity for Mr. Chattaway to let off a 
 little of his ill-humour, and he demanded where the man had 
 been skulking, and why he was away from his work. Hatch 
 answered that, hearing of the accident to Madam and the young
 
 i8o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Squire, he and his fellow-labourers had been induced to run to 
 the spot in the hope of affording help. 
 
 " Hold your tongue," said Mr. Chattaway. " Help ! You 
 went off to see what there was to be seen, and for nothing else, 
 leaving the rick half made. I have a great mind to dock you 
 of a half-day's pay. What ? Not been away five minutes ? 
 Why, it's " 
 
 He came to a momentary pause. He could not say, as he 
 was about to do : " It's a good twenty since I saw you there," 
 for that would have betrayed more than he wished to betray. 
 »He changed the words. 
 
 "You have been there ever so long; you know you have. 
 Is there so much to look at in a broken dog-cart, that you and 
 the rest of you must neglect my work ? " 
 
 The man took off his straw hat and rubbed his head gently : 
 his common resort when in a quandary. They had hindered a 
 great deal more time than was necessary, even allowing that 
 going to the scene of action was at all essential ; and they had 
 certainly not bargained for its coming to the knowledge of the 
 Squire. Hatch, too simple or too honest to invent excuses, 
 could only make the best of the facts as they stood. 
 
 "'Twarn't looking at the dog-cart what kep' us. Squire. 
 'Twere listening to a strange-looking gentleman what were 
 there : a man with a white beard and a red umberellar. He 
 were talking about this here place, Trevlyn Hold, a-saying as 
 it belonged to Master Rupert, and he were a-going to help him 
 to it." 
 
 Chattaway turned away his face. Instinct taught him that even 
 this stolid serf should not see the cold moisture that suddenly 
 oozed from its every pore. " What did he say ? " he cried, 
 commanding his voice to an accent of scorn. 
 
 Hatch considered. And you — who heard what the man 
 with the white beard really did say — must not too greatly 
 blame the exaggerated reply. Hatch did not purposely de- 
 ceive his master ; but he did what a great many of us are apt 
 to do — he answered according to the impression made on his 
 imagination. He and the rest of the listeners had drawn their 
 own conclusions, and it was in accordance with those conclu- 
 sions he now spoke, rather than with the actual words he had 
 heard. Had any one told Hatch he was telling untruths, he 
 would have stared in amazement. 
 
 " He said for one thing. Squire, as he didn't like you. It 
 were "
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. iSi 
 
 " How does he know me ? " broke from Mr. Chattaway, in 
 his impulsiveness. 
 
 " Nora Dickson — 'twere she he were talking to — asked him, 
 but he wouldn't answer. He's a lawyer, he is, and " 
 
 " How do you know that he's a lawyer ? " again interrupted 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 *' 'Cause he said it," was the prompt reply of Hatch. And 
 the man had no idea that it was an untruthful one. He as 
 much believed the white-bearded stranger to be a lawyer as 
 that he himself was a day-labourer. " He said as he had 
 come here to help Master Rupert to his rights ; he said as he 
 had come to displace you from 'em. Our hairs stood all on 
 end to hear him, Squire." 
 
 " Who is he ? — where does he come from ? " And to save 
 his very life Chattaway could not have helped the words issuing 
 forth in gasps. 
 
 " He never said where he come from — save that he hadn't 
 been in England for a many year. We was a wondering among 
 ourselves where he come from, after he walked off with Nora 
 Dickson." 
 
 " I,)oes she know?" 
 
 " No, that her don't, Squire. He come up while she were a 
 standing there, and she wondered who he were, like we did. 
 'Twere through her asking of him questions that he said so 
 much." 
 
 " But — what has he to do with my affairs ?— what has he 
 to do with Rupert Trevlyn?" passionately rejoined Mr. Chat- 
 taway. 
 
 It was a query that Hatch was unable to answer. " He said 
 as he were a friend of the dead heir, Mr. Joe — I mind well he 
 said that— and he said as he had come to this here i)lace partly 
 to see Master Rupert. He didn't seem to have knowed afore 
 as Master Rupert had not got the Hold, and Nora Dickson — 
 she's free of tongue, she is — asked if he'd lived in a wood not 
 to ha' knowed that. So then he said as he should help him to 
 his rights, and Nora she said, ' What ! and displace Chatta- 
 way ? ' and he said, 'Yes.' We was so took aback. Squire, that 
 we stopped a bit longer maybe nor we ought, and that's what 
 it was as kep' us from the rick." 
 
 Every pulse of his heart beating, every drop of blood cours- 
 ing in fiery heat, the master of Trevlyn Hold reached his home. 
 He went in, and left his hat in the hall, and entered the 
 dining-room, as a man in some awful dream. A friend of Joe
 
 i82 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 Trevlyn's ! — come to help Rupert to his rights ! — to displace 
 him I The words rang their changes on his brain. 
 
 They had not waited dinner, It had been Miss Diana's 
 pleasure that it should be commenced, and Mr. Chattaway took 
 a seat mechanically. Mechanically he heard that his wife had 
 declined partaking of it — had been ill when she reached home j 
 that Rupert, after a hasty meal, had gone upstairs to lie down, 
 at the recommendation of Miss Diana; that Cris had now gone 
 off to the damaged dog-cart. He was as a man stunned. 
 Miss Diana, who in his absence had taken the head of the 
 table, called for a warm plate, and sent some meat to Mr. 
 Chattaway. He took a mouthful of it, but found he could not 
 swallow it. 
 
 "Have you dined?" inquired Miss Diana, perceiving that he 
 laid down his knife and fork. 
 
 " No ; but I am not hungry. I'll have a drop of brandy-and- 
 water, I think. Get some hot water, James," he added to the 
 servant. 
 
 The man brought the water, and Maude rose from her seat 
 and mixed it. She placed the glass before him, and hastened 
 to bring some biscuits. "They are very nice," she said, in a 
 timid voice. "Fresh made to-day." It was impossible for 
 Maude Trevlyn to speak otherwise than timidly to Mr. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 " No, my dear, thank you. I can't eat them now." 
 
 Was it Chattaivay speaking in that gentle tone — in those 
 affectionate words? Maude blushed with the novelty, and 
 Octave looked up in amazement. Octave came to the conclu- 
 sion that her papa believed he had been speaking to her. 
 Octave Chattaway had yet to learn that there is nothing like 
 the anticipation of some dreadful evil for taking the spirit out 
 of man or woman. Chattaway felt utterly unnerved. 
 
 The cloth was removed and the dessert placed upon the 
 table. After taking a little fruit, the younger ones dispersed ; 
 Maude went upstairs to see how Mrs. Chattaway was ; the rest 
 to the drawing-room. The master of Trevlyn Hold paced the 
 carpet, lost in thought. The silence was broken by Miss 
 Diana. 
 
 " Squire, I am not satisfied with the appearance of Rupert 
 Trevlyn. I fear he maybe falling into worse health than usual. 
 It must be looked to, and more care taken of him. I intend 
 to buy him a pony to ride to and fro between here and Black- 
 stone."
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. 1S3 
 
 Had Miss Diana expressed her intention of purchasing ten 
 ponies for Rupert, it would have made no impression then on 
 Chattaway. In his terrible suspense and fear, a i)ony more or 
 less was as an insignificant thing, and he received the announce- 
 ment in silence, to the intense surprise of Miss Diana, who had 
 expected to see him turn round in a blaze of anger. 
 
 "i\re you not well?" she asked. 
 
 " Well ? Quite well. I — I heated myself with riding, and 
 — and feel quite chilly now. What should hinder my being 
 well ? " he continued, resentfully. 
 
 " I say I shall buy a pony for Rupert. Those walks back- 
 wards and forwards to Blackstone are too much for him. I 
 think it must be that which is making him feel so ill ; so I shall 
 buy a. pony for him." 
 
 "I wish you'd not bother me!" peevishly rejoined Chatta- 
 way. " Buy it, if you like. What do I care ? " 
 
 " I'll thank you to be civil to inc, Mr. Chattaway," said 
 Miss Diana, with emphasis. " It is of no use your being 
 put out about this business of Cris and the accident ; and 
 that's what you are, I suppose. Fretting over it Avon't 
 mend it." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway caught at the mistake, eagerly favouring it. 
 "It was such an idiotic trick, to put an untried horse into 
 harness, and to let it smash the dog-cart ! " he cried. " Cris 
 did it in direct disobedience, too. I had told him he should 
 not buy that horse." 
 
 " Cris does many things in disobedience," calmly rejoined 
 Miss Diana. *' I hope it has not injured Edith." 
 
 " She must have been foolish " 
 
 A ring at the hall-bell — a loud, long, imperative ring — and 
 Mr. Chattaway's voice abruptly stopped. He stopped : stopped 
 in his walk, and stood stock still in the midst of the carpet, 
 his eyes and ears alike open, his head bent forward, his whole 
 senses on the alert. A prevision rushed over him that the 
 messenger of evil had come. 
 
 "Are you expecting any one?" inquired Miss Diana. 
 
 " Be still, can't you ? " almost shrieked Chattaway, throwing 
 his hands up as in imploring agony. Her voice hindered his 
 listening. 
 
 They were opening the hall-door then, and Chattaway's face 
 was turning livid. There ensued a colloquy, and then James 
 came into the room. 
 
 " A gentleman, sir, is asking to see Mr. Rupert."
 
 i84 TREVLYN HOLD: 
 
 " What gentleman ? " interposed Miss Diana, before Chatta- 
 way could move or look. 
 
 " I don't know him, ma'am," replied James. " He seems 
 strange to the place. He has a white beard, and looks foreign." 
 
 " He wants Mr. Rupert, did you say ? " 
 
 " When I opened the door, first, ma'am, he asked if he could 
 see young Squire Trevlyn ; so I wanted to know who he meant, 
 and said my master, Mr. Chattaway, was the Squire, and he 
 replied that he meant the rightful Squire, Master Rupert, the 
 son of Squire Trevlyn's heir, Mr. Joe, who had died abroad. 
 He is waiting, ma'am." 
 
 Chattaway turned his white face upon the man. His trem- 
 bling hands, his stealthy movements, showed his abject terror ; 
 even his very voice, which had dropped to the lowest whisper. 
 
 "Mr. Rupert's in bed, and can't be seen, James. Go and 
 say so." 
 
 Miss Diana had stood in utter amazement — first, at the 
 words repeated by James ; secondly, at Mr. Chattaway's strange 
 demeanour. "Why, who is it?" she cried to the servant. 
 
 " He didn't say his name, ma'am. He " 
 
 "Will you go, James?" hoarsely cried Mr, Chattaway. "Go 
 — go ? Get rid of the man ? " 
 
 " But he shall not get rid of him," interrupted Miss Diana. 
 " I shall see the man. It is the strangest message I ever heard 
 in my life. What are you thinking of. Squire ? " 
 
 " Be still ! Stop where you are ! " returned Mr. Chattaway, 
 arresting Miss Diana's progress to the door. " Do you hear, 
 James ? Go and get rid of this man. Turn him out, at any 
 cost." 
 
 Did Mr. Chattaway fear that the visitor had come to take 
 possession of the house in Rupert's name ? Miss Diana could 
 only look at him in wonderment. His face wore the hue of 
 death ; drops of water were gathering on it ; he was evidently 
 almost beside himself with some wild terror. For once in her 
 life she did not assert her will, but suffered James to leave the 
 room and " get rid " of the visitor in obedience to Mr. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 He appeared to have no trouble in accomplishing it. A 
 moment, and the hall-door was heard to close upon him. Chat- 
 taway opened that of the dining-room 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " He said nothing, sir, except that he'd call again." 
 
 " James, docs he — does he look like a madman ? " cried Mr.
 
 THE DANGER COMING VERY CLOSE. 185 
 
 Chattaway, liis tone changing to what might ahnost be called 
 entreaty. " Is he insane, do you think ? I could not let a 
 madman enter the house, you know." 
 
 " I don't know, sir, I'm sure. His words were very odd, but 
 he didn't seem mad." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway closed the door on the servant, and turned to 
 his sister-in-law, who was regarding him in doubt, more puzzled 
 than she had ever been in her life. 
 
 " I think it is you who are mad, Chattaway." 
 
 " Hush, Diana ! I have heard of this man before. Sit 
 down, and I will tell you about him." 
 
 He had come to a rapid conclusion that it would be better 
 to tell her ; to make her the confidant of the terrible news come 
 to light. Not of his own fears, or of the dread whicii had lain 
 deep in his heart : only of this that he had heard. 
 
 We have seen how the words of the stranger had been 
 exaggerated by Hatch to Mr. Chattaway, and perhaps he now 
 unconsciously exaggerated Hatch's words to him. Miss Diana 
 listened in consternation. A lawyer ! — come down here to 
 depose them from Trevlyn Hold, and institute Rupert in it ! 
 " I never heard of such a thing ! " she exclaimed. " He can't 
 do it, you know, Chattaway." 
 
 Chattaway coughed ruefully. " Of course he can't. At least 
 I don't see how he can, or how any one else can. My opinion 
 is that the man is mad." 
 
 Diana Trevlyn was falling into thought. "A friend of 
 Joe's?" she mused aloud. "Chattaway, could Joe have left a 
 will ? " 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Chattaway. He had thought the case 
 over and over in all its bearings, and knew no harm could come 
 from that quarter. " If Joe Trevlyn did leave a will, it would 
 be null and void," he said. " He died in his father's lifetime, 
 and the property was not his to leave." 
 
 "True. There can be no possibility of danger," she added, 
 after a pause. " We may dismiss all fear as the idle wind." 
 _. " I wonder whether Rupert knows anything of this ? " 
 
 " Rupert ! What should he know of it ? " 
 
 " I can't say," returned Mr. Chattaway, significantly. " I 
 think I'll go up and ask him," he added, in a sort of feverish 
 impulse. 
 
 Without a moment's pause, not waiting to hear what Miss 
 Diana was saying, he hastened upstairs to Rupert's room. 
 But the room was empty !
 
 i86 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway stood transfixed. He had fully believed 
 Rupert to be in bed, and the silent bed, unpressed, seemed to 
 mock him. A strangely wild fear came over him that Rupert's 
 pretence of going to bed had been but a ruse — that he had 
 gone out to meet that dangerous stranger. 
 
 He flew down the stairs as", one possessed ; he dashed into 
 rooms, shouting " Rupert ! Rupert ! " The household stole 
 forth to look at him, and the walls echoed the name, " Rupert ! 
 Rupert ! " But from Rupert himself there came no answer. 
 He was not in the Hold. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM's. 
 
 Rupert's leaving the Hold, however, had been a very innocent 
 matter. The evening sun was setting gloriously, and he 
 thought he would stroll out for a few minutes before going to 
 his chamber. When he reached the lodge he went in and 
 flung himself on the settle, opposite old Canham and his pipe. 
 
 " How's Madam ?," asked the old man. " What an accident 
 it might have been ! " 
 
 "So it might," assented Rupert. "Madam will be better 
 after a night's rest. Cris might have killed her. I wonder how 
 he'd have felt then ? " 
 
 When Rupert came to an anchor, no matter where, he was 
 somewhat unwilling to move from it. The settle was not a 
 comfortable seat ; rather the contrary ; but Rupert kept to it, 
 talking and laughing with old Canham. Ann was at the 
 window, catching what remained of the fading light for her 
 sewing. 
 
 " Here's that strange gentleman again, father ! " she suddenly 
 exclaimed in a whisper. 
 
 Old Canham turned his head, and Rupert turned his. The 
 gentleman with the beard was going by in the direction of 
 Trevlyn Hold, as if about to make a call there. 
 
 " Ay, that's him," cried old Canham. 
 
 "What a queer-looking chap!" exclaimed Rupert. "Who 
 is he?" 
 
 " I can't make out," was old Canham's reply. " Me and 
 Ann have been a-talking of him. He came strolling inside the
 
 A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM'S. 187 
 
 gates this afternoon with a red umberellar, a-looking here and 
 a-looking there, and at last he see us, and come up and asked 
 what place this was ; and when I told him it was Trevelyn 
 Hold, he said Trcvlyn Hold was what he had been seeking for, 
 and he stood there talking, a matter o' twenty minutes, leaning 
 his arms on the winder-sill. He thought you was the Scjuire, 
 Master Rupert. He had a red umberellar/' repeated old Can- 
 ham, as if the fact were remarkable. 
 
 Rupert glanced up in surprise. " Thought I was the 
 Squire?" 
 
 " He came into this neighbourhood, he said, believing nothing 
 less but that you were the rightful Squire, and he couldn't make 
 out yet why you were not : he had been away from England a 
 many years, he said, and had been believing it all the while. 
 He said you were the true Squire, and you should be helped to 
 your rights." 
 
 "Why ! who can he be?" exclaimed Rupert, in excitement. 
 
 "Ah, that's it — who can he be," returned old Canham. 
 " Me and Ann have been a-marvelling. He said — leastways, 
 he as good as said — that he used to be a friend of the dead 
 heir, Mr. Joe. Master Rupert, who knows but he may be 
 somebody come to place you in the Hold ? " 
 
 Rupert was leaning forward on the settle, his elbow on his 
 knee, his eyes fixed on old Canham. 
 
 " How could he do that ?" he asked after a pause. " How 
 could any one do it ? " 
 
 " It's not for us to say how, Master Rupert. If anybody in 
 these parts could have said how it could be done, maybe 
 you'd have been in it long afore this. That there stranger 
 is a 'cute 'un, I know. White beards always is a sign of 
 wisdom." 
 
 Rupert laughed. " I suppose you are thinking of the 
 patriarchs ; and we are apt to attribute wisdom to them. That 
 man, now gone by, struck me as not a bad representation of 
 our ideas of a patriarch. Only " 
 
 " He ain't broad enough," interrupted old Canham ; and 
 Rupert laughed again at the earnest tone. " Look at them 
 patriarchs on the east winder at church. Master Rupert ; what 
 fine broad men they be ! This one's a lawyer, as it strikes 
 me, and if he is come to help you to your rights, we shall all 
 bless him for 't." 
 
 "Look here, Mark. It is no good going over that ground 
 again. I have heard about my ' rights ' until I am tired. The
 
 i88 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 subject vexes me ; it makes me cross from its very hopelessness. 
 I wish I had been born without rights." 
 
 " But you weren't born without 'em," contended old Canham. 
 " Your grandfather was the Squire of Trevlyn Hold ; and Mr. 
 Joe, he was the heir — after the first heir, Mr. Rupert, died — 
 and you be Mr. Joe's son. You were^i^t born without rights." 
 
 " Old ground, old ground, Mark," cried Rupert impatiently. 
 " I wish you would not go over it. It's all true enough ; I 
 know it as well as you : my grandfather was Squire of Trevlyn 
 Hold, and my father was his heir, and I am my father's son. 
 But there the rights end. The rights are Chattaway's : and 
 they never can be mine." 
 
 " This stranger, when he called you the heir of Trevlyn 
 Hold, and I told him you were not the heir, he said I was 
 right ; you were not the heir, but the owner," persisted old 
 Canham. 
 
 " Then he knew nothing about it," returned Rupert. " It's 
 impossible that Chattaway can be put out of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Master Rupert, there has always been a feeling upon me 
 that he will be put out of it," resumed old Canham. ''He 
 came to it by wrongs, and wrongs never lasts out to the end 
 without being righted. Who knows that the same feeling ain't 
 on Chattaway ? He turned the colour o' my Sunday smock- 
 frock when I telled him o' this stranger's having been here and 
 what he'd said." 
 
 " Did you tell him ? " quickly cried Rupert. 
 
 " I telled him. I didn't mean to, but it come out of me un- 
 cautious-like. I called you the young heir to his face, and I 
 excused myself by saying that the stranger had been a-calling 
 you so, and I spoke out the same without thought. Then, in 
 course, he wanted to know what stranger, and all about him. 
 It WAS when Madam was resting here after the accident. Chat- 
 taway rode by and saw her, and got off his horse : it was the 
 first he knew of the accident. If what I said didn't frighten 
 him, I never had a day's rheumatiz in my life. His face went 
 as white as Madam's." 
 
 " Chattaway go white ! " scoffed Rupert. " What next ? I 
 tell you what it is, Mark ] you fancy things. Aunt Edith may 
 have been white ; she often is ; but not he. Chattaway knows 
 that Trevlyn Hold is his, safe and sure. Nothing can take it 
 from him — unless Squire Trevlyn came to life again, and made 
 a fresh will. He's not likely to do that, Mark." 
 
 " No ; he's not likely to do that," assented the old man.
 
 A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM'S. 189 
 
 " Once we be out of this world, Master Rupert, we don't come 
 back again. The injustice that we have left behind us — and 
 some of us do leave injustice — can't be repaired in that way." 
 
 Rupert rose. He went to the window, opened it, and leaned 
 out, whistling. He was tired of the subject of " injustice " as 
 touching himself; he had long believed it to be an unprofitable 
 theme. He whistled through a whole piece of music that 
 Maude was in the habit of playing, and was recommencing it 
 when the tall man witli the white beard came back again down 
 the avenue. 
 
 Mr. Daw, for he it was, had the red umbrella in his hand. 
 He turned his head to the window as he passed it, looked 
 steadily at Rupert, paused, went close up, and put his hand on 
 Rupert's arm. 
 
 " You are Rupert Trevlyn ! " 
 
 " That is my name," replied Rupert. 
 
 " I should have known you anywhere from your resemblance 
 to your father ; I should have known you had I met you in the 
 crowded streets of London. You are wonderfully like him." 
 
 " Where did you know my father ? " inquired Rupert. 
 
 In place of answer the stranger opened the house-door and 
 stepped into the room. Ann curtseyed ; old Canham rose and 
 stood with his hat in his hand — that white beard seemed to 
 demand respect. He — the stranger — took Rupert's hand in 
 his. 
 
 " I have been up to the house to inquire for you : but they 
 told me you were not well, and had gone to rest." 
 
 "Did they?" said Rupert, "I had intended to lie down, 
 but the evening was so pleasant that I came out instead. You 
 spoke of my father : did you know him ? " 
 
 " I knew him very well," said the stranger, taking the seat 
 which Ann Canham had been dusting before offering ; a cere- 
 mony, the dusting, which she apparently considered as a mark 
 of respect. " Though my acquaintance with him was short, it 
 was close. Do you know who baptized you } " 
 
 " No," replied Rupert, rather astonished at the question. 
 
 " I did. I christened your sister Maude ; I baptized you. 
 You were to be christened in England, your mother said, but 
 she wished you baptized ere the journey commenced, and I 
 did it when you were only a day old. Ah, poor thing ! she 
 thought to make the journey with you when she should be 
 strong enough ; but another journey claimed her— that of 
 death ! Before you were two days old she died. It was I who
 
 190 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 wrote to announce your birth to Squire Trevlyn ; it was I who, 
 by the next post, announced your mother's death. It was I — 
 my young friend, it was I — who buried your father and your 
 mother." 
 
 "You are a clergyman, then?" said Rupert, somewhat 
 dubious about the beard, and the very unclerical cut of the 
 stranger altogether. 
 
 It may be that Mr. Daw saw the doubtful glances, and he 
 entered upon an explanation. How he, when a working curate, 
 had married a young lady of fortune, but of delicate health, and 
 had then gone abroad with her, throwing up for the time his 
 clerical preferment. The doctors had said that a warm climate 
 was essential to her ; as they had said, if you remember, in the 
 case of Joe Trevlyn. It happened that both parties sought the 
 same place — the curate and his wife, Joe and Mrs. Trevlyn — 
 and a close friendship sprang up between them. A short while 
 and Joe Trevlyn died ; a shorter time still, and his wife died. 
 There was no English clergyman near the spot, and Mr. Daw 
 gave his services. He baptized the children ; he buried the 
 parents. His own fate was a happier one, for his wife lived. 
 She lived, but she did not get well. It may be said — you have 
 surely heard of such cases — that she only existed from day to 
 day. She had so existed all through those long years, from 
 that time until within a few months of this. " If you attempt 
 to take her back to England, she will not live a month," the 
 local medical men had said ; and perhaps they were right. He 
 remained on in the place, never quitting it. He had gone to 
 it for a few months' sojourn, and he never left it for over twenty 
 years. It reads like a romance. His wife's fortune had enabled 
 him to live comfortably, and in a pecuniary point of view there 
 was no need for him to seek preferment or to exercise his call- 
 ing. He would never seek it now. Habit and use, as we read, 
 are second nature, and the Reverend Mr. Daw had learnt to 
 be an idle man. He had learnt to love the country of his 
 adoption, his home in the Pyrenees ; he had grown to believe 
 that its genial climate was necessary to himself. His business 
 in England concluded (it was connected with his late wife's 
 will), he was hastening back to it. Had preferment been 
 offered to him, he would have doubted his ability to fulfil its 
 duties after so many years of disuse. The money that was his 
 wife's was his now ; would be his for the remainder of his days ; 
 so on that score he was at rest. In short, the Reverend William 
 Daw had degenerated into an idle, useless man ; one to whom
 
 A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM'S. 191 
 
 all exertion had become a trouble. He honestly confessed to 
 it now, as he sat before Rupert Trevlyn ; he told him that he 
 had been content to live wholly for the country of his adoption, 
 almost completely ignoring his own. He had kept up no 
 correspondence with it. Of friends he could, as a young curate, 
 boast but few, and he had been at no pains to keep them. At 
 first he had believed that six or twelve months would be the 
 limit of his absence from England, and he was content to leave 
 the renewal of all friendships until his return. But he did not 
 return ; he stayed on ; and the infrequent letter writing, once 
 entered upon, was too pleasant to his indolent tastes not to be 
 retained. He told all this quietly now to Rupert Trevlyn, and 
 said that to it he owed his ignorance of the deposition of 
 Rupert from Trevlyn Hold. Mr. Freeman was one of his few 
 old college friends, and he might have heard all about it years 
 ago had he only written to him. 
 
 " I cannot understand how it is that Mr. Chattaway should 
 have succeeded," he cried, bending his dark eyes upon Rupert. 
 " I can scarcely believe the fact now ; it has amazed me, as 
 one may say. Had there been no direct male heir ; had your 
 father left only Maude, for instance, I could have understood 
 its being left away from her, although it would have been 
 unjust." 
 
 " The Trevlyn property is not entailed," said Rupert. 
 
 ''I am aware of that. During the last few months of your 
 father's life, we were like brothers, and I knew all particulars as 
 well as he did. He had married in disobedience to his father's 
 will, but he never for a moment glanced at the contingency of 
 himself or his children being disinherited. I cannot understand 
 why Squire Trevlyn should have willed the estate from his son's 
 children." 
 
 " He only knew of Maude — as they say." 
 
 " Still less can I understand how Mr. Chattaway can keep it. 
 Were an estate willed to me, away from those who had a greater 
 right to it, I should never retain it. I could not reconcile it 
 to my conscience to do so. How can Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 Rupert laughed — he believed that conscience and Mr. Chat- 
 taway had not a great deal to do with each other. " It is not 
 much of his own interests that Mr. Chattaway will give up 
 voluntarily," he observed. "Were my grandfather the Squire 
 alive, Chattaway would not give up Trevlyn Hold to him, unless 
 forced to it." 
 
 Old Canham could contain himself no longer. The conver-
 
 192 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 sation did not appear to be coming to the point, " Be you a 
 going to help young Master Rupert to regain his rights, sir ? " 
 he eagerly asked. 
 
 " I would — if I knew how to do it," said Mr. Daw. " I shall 
 certainly represent to Mr. Chattaway the injustice — the wicked 
 injustice — of the present state of things. When I wrote to the 
 Squire on the occasion of your birth and Mrs. Trevlyn's death," 
 he added, looking at Rupert, " the answers to me were signed 
 ' J. Chattaway,' — the writer being no doubt the same Mr. 
 Chattaway. He wrote again to me later, after Squire Trevlyn's 
 death, requesting me to despatch the nurse and children to 
 England." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Rupert carelessly, "it was safe enough for 
 us to come then. Squire Trevlyn dead, and the estate willed 
 to Chattaway, there was no longer danger from me. If my 
 grandfather had got to know that I was in existence, there 
 would have been good-bye to Chattaway's ambition. At least, 
 people say so ; I don't know." 
 
 The indifference of the tone forcibly struck Mr. Daw. " Don't 
 yo7i feel the injustice ? " he asked. " Don't you care that 
 Trevlyn Hold should be yours ? " 
 
 "As to the injustice, I have grown up seeing the estate 
 Chattaway's, and I suppose I don't feel it as I ought to. Of 
 course, I should like it to be mine, but in the absence of all 
 probability that it will be mine, it is as well not to think about 
 it. Have you heard of the Trevlyn temper ? " he continued, a 
 merry smile dancing in his eyes as he threw them on the 
 stranger. 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "They tell me I have inherited it, as I suppose a true 
 Trevlyn ought to do. Were I to think too much of the in- 
 justice, I might arouse the temper : and it would answer no 
 end, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I have heard of the Trevlyn temper," repeated the 
 stranger. " I have heard what it did for the first heir, Rupert 
 Trevlyn." 
 
 " But it did not do it for him," passionately burst forth 
 Rupert. " I never heard — I never heard until the other day — 
 not so many hours ago — of the slur that was cast upon his 
 name. It was not he who shot the man ; he had no hand in 
 it : it was proved so later. Ask old Canham." 
 
 " Well, well," said the stranger, " it's all past and done with. 
 Poor Joe reposed every confidence in mc ; treating me as a
 
 A MEETING AT MARK CAN HAM'S. 193 
 
 brother. It was a singular coincidence that the Squire's sons 
 should both die abroad. I hope," he added, looking kindly at 
 Rupert, " that yours will be a long life. Are you — are you 
 very strong ? " 
 
 He put the question hesitatingly. He had heard from Nora 
 that Rupert was not strong ; and now that he saw him he was 
 painfully struck with his delicate appearance. Rupert answered 
 bravely. 
 
 " I should be very well if it were not for that confounded 
 Blackstone walk night and morning. It's that that knocks me 
 up." 
 
 " Chattaway had no call to put him to it, sir," interrupted 
 Mark Canham again. " It's not work for a Trevlyn." 
 
 " Not for the heir of Trevlyn Hold," acquiesced the stranger. 
 " But I must be going. I have not seen my friend Freeman 
 yet, and I should like to be at the railway station when he 
 arrives. What time shall I see you in the morning?" he 
 added, to Rupert. " And what time can I see Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 " You can see me at any time," replied Rupert. " But I 
 can't answer for him. He breakfasts early, and generally goes 
 out afterwards." 
 
 Had the Reverend Mr. Daw been able to see through a few 
 trunks of trees, he might have seen Mr. Chattaway then. For 
 there, hidden amidst the trees of the avenue, only a few paces 
 from the lodge, was he. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was pretty nearly beside himself that night. 
 When he found that Rupert Trevlyn was not in the house, 
 vague fears, to which he did not wait to give a more tangible 
 name, rushed over his imagination. Had Rupert stolen from 
 the house to meet this dangerous stranger clandestinely ? He — 
 Chattaway — scarcely knowing what he did, seized his hat and 
 followed the stranger down the avenue, when he left the Hold 
 after his useless visit. 
 
 Not to follow him with bold steps; to come up to him 
 openly and say, " What is your business with Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 No, no : cords would not have dragged Mr. Chattaway into 
 that dreaded presence until he was sure of his ground. 
 
 He stole down, with a fleet, soft foot, on the well-trimmed 
 grass beside the avenue, and close upon the lodge he overtook 
 the stranger. Mr. Chattaway glided into the trees. 
 
 Peeping out from his hiding-place, he saw the stranger pause 
 before the lodge window : he heard him accost Rupert 
 Trevlyn ; he watched him enter. And there he had been 
 
 Trevlyn Hold, 13
 
 194 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 since — his ears straining, his pulses beating, altogether in an 
 agony both of body and mind. 
 
 Do as he would, he could not hear their conversation. 
 The sound of the voices came upon him through the open 
 window, but not the words spoken : and nearer he dared not 
 go, for the trees near the lodge would not hide him. He 
 might have gone round to the back and been sheltered, but he 
 would have seen and heard nothing. 
 
 Hark ! they were coming out. Chattaway's eyes glared 
 and his teeth were set, as he cautiously looked round tlie trees. 
 The man's ugly red umbrella was in one hand ; the other was 
 laid on Rupert's shoulder. " Will you walk with me a little 
 way ? " he heard the stranger say. 
 
 " No, not this evening," Avas Rupert's reply. " I must go 
 back to the Hold." 
 
 But he, Rupert, turned to walk with him to the gate, and 
 My. Chattaway took the opportunity to hasten back toward the 
 Hold. When Rupert, after shaking hands with the stranger 
 and calling out a good evening to the inmates of the lodge as 
 he passed it, went up the avenue, he met the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold pacing leisurely down it, as if he had come out for a 
 stroll. 
 
 " Halloa ! " he cried, with something of theatrical amaze- 
 ment. " I thought you were in bed ! " 
 
 "I came out instead," replied Rupert. "The evening was 
 so fine." 
 
 " Who was that queer-looking man just gone out at the 
 gates ? " asked Mr. Chattaway, with well-assumed indifference. 
 
 Rupert answered readily. His disposition was naturally 
 open to a fault, and he saw no reason for concealing what he 
 knew of tlie stranger. He was not aware that Chattaway had 
 ever seen him until this moment. 
 
 "It is some one who has come on a visit to the parsonage. 
 He is a clergyman himself " It's a curious name, though — 
 Daw." 
 
 " Daw ? Daw ? " repeated Mr. Chattaway, biting his lips to 
 keep some colour in them. " Where have I heard that name 
 — in connection with a clergyman ? " 
 
 " He said he had some correspondence Avith you years ago. 
 At the time when my mother died, and I was born. He 
 knew my father and mother well. He has been telling me 
 this in at old Canham's." 
 
 All that past time, its events, its correspondence, flashed
 
 NEWS FOR MISS DIANA. 195 
 
 over Mr. Chattaway's memory — flaslied over it with a strange 
 dread. "What has he come here for?" he asked quickly. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Rupert. " He Whatevcr's 
 
 this ? " 
 
 It was a tremendous noise and shouting from many people, 
 who appeared, dragging something along behind them. Both 
 turned simultaneously — the mast^er of Trevlyn Hold in awful 
 fear. Could it be the stranger coming back with a flock of 
 constables at his heels, to wrest the Hold from him? And if 
 you deem these fears exaggerated, my reader, you know very 
 little oC this kind of terror. 
 
 It was nothing but a procession of those eager idlers, whom 
 you saw in the road. They were dragging home the dilapi- 
 dated, unlucky dog-cart : Mr. Cris at their head. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 NEWS FOR MISS DIANA. 
 
 In that pleasant room at the parsonage, with its sweet-scented 
 mignonette boxes throwing in their perfume, and its vases of 
 freshly-cut autumn flowers, sat the Reverend Mr. Freeman at 
 breakfast, his wife, and their visitor. It was a simple meal. 
 All meals were simple at Barbrook Parsonage : as they gene- 
 rally are where means are limited. And you have not yet to 
 learn, I dare say, that comfort and simplicity frequently go 
 together : while comfort and grandeur more rarely do. There 
 was no lack of comfort at Mr. Freeman's : there was no lack of 
 plenty in moderation. Coffee and rich milk : home-made 
 bread and the freshest of butter, new-laid eggs and autumn 
 watercress. It was by no means starvation. 
 
 Mr. Daw, however, paid less attention to the meal than he 
 might have done had his mind been less preoccupied. The 
 previous evening, when he and Mr. Freeman had first met, 
 after an absence from each other of more than twenty years, 
 their conversation had naturally run on their own personal in- 
 terests : past events had to be related. But this morning they 
 could go to other subjects, and Mr. Daw was not slow to do 
 so. They were talking — you may have guessed it — of the 
 Trevlyns. 
 
 Mr. Daw grew warm upon the subject. As he had done
 
 196 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 the previous day, when Molly placed the meal before him, he 
 almost forgot to eat. And yet Mr. Daw, in spite of his assur- 
 ance to Molly that he considered a crust of bread and a cup 
 of milk was a meal for a prince, or some assertion equivalent 
 to it, did know how to appreciate good things. In plainer 
 words, he was partial to them. Idle men who have no occu- 
 pation for their days and years sometimes grow to be so. 
 
 " You are sparing the eggs," said Mrs. Freeman, a good- 
 natured woman with a large nose, thin cheeks, and prominent 
 teeth. " I wish you would eat more, Mr. Daw. We will get 
 you some ham to-morrow morning." 
 
 Mr. Daw replied by taking another egg from the stand and 
 chopping off its top. But there it remained. He was enlarg- 
 ing on the injustice dealt out to Rupert Trevlyn, 
 
 " It ought to be remedied, you know. Freeman. It must be 
 remedied. It is a crying shame in the sight of God and man." 
 
 The curate — for Mr. Freeman was nothing more, for all his 
 many years' services — smiled good-humouredly. He never 
 used hard words. He preferred to let wrongs, which were no 
 business of his, right themselves, or remain wrongs. He liked 
 to take life as it came, easily and pleasantly. 
 
 "We can't alter it," he said. "We have no power to 
 interfere with Chattaway. He has enjoyed Trevlyn Hold these 
 twenty years, and he must enjoy it still." 
 
 " I don't know about that," returned Mr. Daw. " I don't 
 know that he must enjoy it still. At any rate, he ought not 
 to do so. Had I lived in this neighbourhood as you have, 
 Freeman, I should have tried to get him out of it before 
 this." 
 
 The parson raised his eyes. " He holds it by Squire 
 Trevlyn's will." 
 
 " But there's such a thing as shaming people out of in- 
 justice," returned Mr. Daw. "Has any one represented to 
 Chattaway the fearful injustice he is guilty of in his conduct 
 towards Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " I can't say," equably answered the parson. *' I have not." 
 
 " Will you go with me and do it to-day ? " 
 
 " Well — no ; I think I'd rather not. Daw. If any good 
 could come of it, perhaps I might do so ; but there's not. 
 And I find it answers best not to meddle with the affairs of 
 other folk." 
 
 " But the wrongs dealt out to him are so great," persisted 
 Mr. Daw, in his championship. " Not content with having
 
 NEWS FOR MISS DIANA. 197 
 
 wrested Trevlyn Hold from the boy, Chattaway converts him 
 into a common labourer in some coal office of his, making him 
 walk to and fro night and morning. You know him ? " 
 
 " Know him ? " repeated Mr. Freeman. " I have known him 
 well since he first came here, a child in arms." In truth, it was 
 a superfluous question. 
 
 " Did you know his father ? 
 
 " No ; I never saw his father. It was after his father went 
 abroad that I came to Barbrook." 
 
 " I was going to ask, if you had known him, whether you 
 did not remark the extraordinary resemblance the young man 
 bears to his father. The likeness is great; the form of the 
 features, the voice, the general resemblance ; but I alluded 
 more immediately to the suspicious delicacy of the face. 
 I should fear that the boy will go-off as his father did, 
 and " 
 
 " I have said a long while that he ought to live upon cod- 
 liver oil," interposed Mrs. Freeman, who was doctor in 
 ordinary to her husband's parish, and very decided in her 
 opinion and remedies. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, that boy must die — if he is to die — Squire of 
 Trevlyn Hold. I shall use all my means while I am here to 
 bring this Chattaway to a sense of his injustice — to induce him 
 to resign his possessions to the rightful owner. The boy seems 
 to me to have had no friend in the world to take up his cause. 
 What this Miss Diana can have been about, to stand tamely 
 by and not interfere with him, I cannot conceive. She is the 
 sister of his father." 
 
 " Better let it alone, Daw," said the parson. " Rely upon it, 
 you will make no impression on Chattaway. It — it — you must 
 excuse me for saying it, but it's quite foolish to think that you 
 will. All Chattaway has in the world is Trevlyn Hold : he is 
 not likely to throw himself out of it." 
 
 " I could not let it alone now," impulsively answered Mr. 
 Daw. " The boy seems to have no friend, I say ; and I con- 
 sider that I have a right to constitute myself his friend. I'll 
 say more than that — I should not be worthy the name of a man 
 were I not to do it. I intended to stop with you only two 
 nights ; you'll give me house-room a little longer, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 "We'll give it you for two months, and gladly, if you can 
 put up with our primitive mode of living," was the hospitable 
 answer of the curate.
 
 198 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mr. Daw shook his head. " Two months I could not 
 remain ; two weeks I might. I cannot go away leaving things 
 in this most unsatisfactory state ; I should have it on my 
 conscience. The first thing I shall do this morning will be to 
 go to the Hold, and seek an interview with Chattaway." 
 
 But Mr. Daw did not succeed in obtaining the interview with 
 Chattaway. When he arrived at Trevlyn Hold, he was told 
 the Squire was out. It was correct ; Chattaway had ridden out 
 immediately after breakfast. The stranger next asked for Miss 
 Diana, and to her he was admitted. 
 
 Chattaway had said to Miss Diana in private, before starting, 
 " Don't receive him should he come here ; don't speak to him ; 
 don't let his foot pass over the door-sill." Very unwise advice, 
 as Miss Diana judged; and she did not take it. Miss Diana 
 had the sense to remember that an unknown evil is more to be 
 feared than a known one. So long as we can see our enemies' 
 tactics, we may meet and grapple with them ; but who can 
 fight in the dark ? The stranger was ushered into the drawing- 
 room by order of Miss Diana, and she came to him. 
 
 It was not a satisfactory interview, since nothing came of it ; 
 but it was a decently civil one. Miss Diana was cold, 
 reserved, and somewhat haughty, but courteous ; Mr. Daw was 
 pressing, urgent, but respectful and gentlemanly. Rupert 
 Trevlyn was the indisputable owner by right of Trevlyn Hold, 
 was the substance of the points urged by the one ; Squire 
 Trevlyn was his own master, and made his own will, and it 
 was not for his children and dependents to interfere against 
 it, still less for a stranger, was the persistent answer of the 
 other. 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Daw, " did the enormity of the injustice 
 never strike you ? " 
 
 " Will you be so good as to tell me by what right you 
 interfere?" returned Miss Diana. "I cannot conceive what 
 business it can be of yours." 
 
 " I think the redressing of injustice should be made the 
 business of every one." 
 
 " What a great deal every one would have to do ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 " As with regard to my right of interference. Miss Trevlyn, 
 the law might not give me any ; but I assume it by the bond 
 of friendship. I was with his father when he died ; I was with 
 his mother. Poor thing ! it was only within the last six or' 
 seven hours of her life that danger was apprehended. They
 
 NEWS FOR MISS DIANA. 199 
 
 both (lied in the belief that their children would inherit 
 Trevlyn Hold, Madam," he added, quite a blaze of light 
 flashing from his dark eyes, " I have lived all the years since, 
 believing that they were in the enjoyment of it." 
 
 "You believed rightly," equably rejoined Miss Diana. 
 " They have been in the enjoyment of it. It has been their 
 home." 
 
 " As it may be called the home of any of your serva-nts," 
 returned Mr. Daw; and Miss Diana did not like the com- 
 parison. 
 
 "May I ask," she continued, "if you came into this neigh- 
 bourhood for the express purpose of putting this 'injustice' to 
 rights ? " 
 
 " No, madam, I did not. But there's no necessity for you 
 to be sarcastic with me. I wish to urge the matter upon you 
 in a friendly spirit, rather than in an adverse one. Business 
 connected with my own affairs brought me to London some 
 ten days ago, from the place where I had lived so long. As I 
 was so near, I thought I would come down and see my former 
 friend Freeman, before starting for home again; for I dare say 
 I shall never more return to England. I knew Barbrook 
 Parsonage and Trevlyn Hold were not very far apart, and I 
 anticipated also the pleasure of meeting Joe Trevlyn's children, 
 whom I had known as infants. I never supposed but that 
 Rupert was in possession of Trevlyn Hold — that he had been 
 so ever since his grandfather's death. You may judge what my 
 surprise was when I arrived yesterday and heard the true state 
 of the case. It is very probable that it struck upon me even 
 more forcibly than the facts deserved, from my being so entirely 
 unprepared for it." 
 
 "You have a covert motive in this," suddenly exclaimed 
 ]\Iiss Diana, in a voice that had turned to sharpness. 
 
 " Covert motive ? " he repeated, looking at her. 
 
 "Yes. Had ycu been, as you state, so interested in the 
 welfare of Rupert Trevlyn and his sister, does it stand to reason 
 that you would never have inquired after them through all 
 these long years ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Trevlyn : the facts are precisely 
 as I have stated them. Strange as it may seem, I never did 
 once write to inquire after them, and the neglect strikes forcibly 
 upon me now. But I am, I believe, naturally inert, and all 
 correspondence with my own country had gradually ceased. I 
 did often think of the little Trevlyns, but it was always to sup-
 
 200 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 pose them as being at their own home, Trevlyn Hold, sheltered 
 by their appointed guardian." 
 
 " What appointed guardian ? " cried Miss Diana. 
 
 " Yourself." 
 
 " I ! I was not the appointed guardian of the Trevlyns." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Trevlyn, you were. You were appointed by 
 their mother. The letter — the deed, I may say, for I believe it 
 to have been worded in all legal form — was written when she 
 was dying." 
 
 Miss Trevlyn had never heard of anything of the sort ; of 
 any deed. " Who wrote it ? " she asked, after a pause. 
 
 " I did. When dangerous symptoms set in, and she was told 
 that she might not live, Mrs. Trevlyn sent for me. She had 
 her little baby baptized Rupert, for it had been 'her husband's 
 wish that the child, if a boy, should be so named, and then I 
 sat down by her bedside at her request, and wrote the docu- 
 ment. She entreated Miss Diana Trevlyn — you, madam — to 
 reside at Trevlyn Hold as its mistress, when it should lapse to 
 Rupert, and be the guardian and protector of her children, 
 until Rupert should be of age. She besought you to love them, 
 and be kind to them for their father's sake ; for her sake ; for 
 the sake, also, of the friendship which had once existed between 
 you and her. This will prove to you. Miss Trevlyn," he added 
 in a different tone, '' that poor Mrs. Trevlyn, at least, never 
 supposed there was a likelihood of any other successor to the 
 estate." 
 
 " I never heard of it," exclaimed Miss Diana, waking up as 
 from a reverie. " Was the document sent to me ? " 
 
 " It was enclosed in the despatch which acquainted Squire 
 Trevlyn with Mrs. Trevlyn's death. I wrote them both, and I 
 enclosed them together, and sent them." 
 
 " Directed to whom ? " 
 
 " To Squire Trevlyn." 
 ■ Miss Diana cast her thoughts back. It was Chattaway who 
 had received that despatch. Could he — could Jie have dared 
 to suppress any communication intended for her ? Her haughty 
 brow grew crimson at the thought ; but she suppressed all signs 
 of annoyance. 
 
 " Will you allow me to renew my acquaintance with little 
 Maude ? " resumed Mr. Daw. " Little Maude then, and a 
 lovely child; a beautiful young lady, as I hear, now." 
 
 Miss Diana hesitated — a very uncommon thing for her to do. 
 It is strange what trifles turn the current of feelings : and this
 
 AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. -oi 
 
 last item of intelligence bad wonderfully softened her towards 
 this stranger. But she remembered the interests at stake^ and 
 thought it best to be prudent. 
 
 " You must pardon the refusal," she said. " I quite appre- 
 ciate your wish to serve Rupert Trevlyn, but it can only fail, 
 and further intercourse will not be agreeable to either party. 
 You will allow me to wish you good morning, and to thank 
 you." 
 
 She rang the bell, and bowed him out, with all the grand 
 courtesy belonging to the Trevlyns. As he passed through the 
 hall, he caught a glimpse of a lovely girl, with a delicate bloom 
 on her cheeks and large blue eyes. Instinct told him it was 
 Maude ; and he likewise thought he traced some resemblance 
 to her mother. He took a step forward involuntarily, to accost 
 her, but recollected himself, and drew back again. 
 
 It was scarcely the thing to do : in defiance of the recent 
 direct refusal of Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. 
 
 The dew had been wet upon the grass in the autumn morning 
 as the Squire of Trevlyn Hold rode from his door. He had 
 hurried over his breakfast, his horse waiting for him, and he 
 spurred him impatiently along the avenue. Ann Canham had 
 not yet opened the gate. Upon hearing a horse's hoofs, she 
 ran out to do so ; and stood aside holding it back, and dropped 
 her humble curtsey as Mr. Chattaway rode past. He vouch- 
 safed not the slightest notice of her : neither by glance nor 
 nod did he appear conscious of her presence. It was his usual 
 way. 
 
 " He's off to Blackstone early," thought Ann Canham, as she 
 fastened back the gate. 
 
 But Mr. Chattaway did not turn towards Blackstone. He 
 turned in the opposite direction — to the left — and urged his 
 horse to a gallop. Ann Canham looked after him. 
 
 " He have business at Barmester, maybe," was the conclusion 
 to which she came. 
 
 Nothing more sure. Mr. Chattaway had business at Bar- 
 mester. He rode briskly to the town, and pulled up his horse 
 
 '-- W, G. J^EWMAJf,
 
 202 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 almost at the same spot where you once saw him pull it up 
 before — the house of Messrs. Wall and Barnes. 
 
 Not that he was about to visit that flourishing establishment 
 this morning. Next to it was a private house, on the door-plate 
 of which might be read, " Mr. Flood, Solicitor : " and he was 
 the gentleman whom Mr. Chattaway had come to see. 
 
 Attracted probably by the clatter of the horse — for Chattaway 
 had pulled up suddenly, and caused more noise than he need 
 have done, the animal rather resenting the summary check, 
 being fresh and somewhat restive — there came a face to the 
 shop-door and looked out. It was that of Mr, Wall. He 
 stepped forth to shake hands with Chattaway. 
 
 " How are you this morning ? You are in Barmester betimes. 
 What lovely weather we are having for the conclusion of the 
 harvest ! " 
 
 " Very ; it has been a fine harvest altogether," replied Chat- 
 taway ; and from his composure no one could have dreamt of 
 the terrible care and perplexity that were running riot in his 
 heart. " I want to say a word to Flood about a lease that is 
 falling in, so I thought I'd start early and make a round of it on 
 my way to Blackstone." 
 
 How subtle are the workings of the human heart ! Had 
 that been Chattawa/s real business with the lawyer, he would 
 not have gratuitously bestowed it on Mr. Wall ; never was 
 there a man less open in the ordinary affairs of life than 
 Chattaway. Some vague feeling of wishing to divert suspicion 
 or unpleasant conjecture from what he did want, was swaying 
 him. 
 
 "An accident occurred yesterday to your son and Madam 
 Chattaway, did it not ? " asked Mr. Wall. " News of it was 
 flying about last evening. I hope they are not much hurt ? " 
 
 " Not at all. Cris was so stupid as to attempt to drive a 
 horse unbroken for harness — one with a vicious temper, too. 
 The dog-cart is smashed half to pieces. Here, you ! come 
 here." 
 
 The last words were addressed to a boy in a tattered jacket, 
 who was racing after a passing carriage, having a mind to take 
 a ride behind. Mr. Chattaway wanted him to hold his horse ; 
 and the boy changed his course with alacrity, believing the 
 office would be good for sixpence at least. 
 
 The outer door of the lawyer's house was open. There was 
 a second door in the passage, furnished with a knocker ; the 
 office opened on the left. Mr. Chattaway tried the office-door :
 
 AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. 203 
 
 more as a matter of form than anything else. It was fast, as 
 he expected, and would be until nine o'clock. So he gave an 
 imposing knock at the other. 
 
 " I shall just catch him after his breakfast," soliloquized he, 
 whilst he waited for it to be answered, " and can have a quiet 
 
 quarter-of-an-hourwith him, undisturbed by cli Is Mr. Flood 
 
 at home ? " 
 
 As he had tried the door in a mere matter of form, so he now 
 put this question as one, and was passing in without ceremony. 
 But the servant arrested him. 
 
 " Mr. Flood's out, sir. He is gone to London." 
 
 " Gone to London ! " ejaculated Chattaway. 
 
 " Yes, sir. not an hour ago. He went by the eight-o'clock 
 train." 
 
 It was so complete a check to all lois imaginings, that for a 
 minute the master of Trevlyn Hold found speech desert him. 
 A great many bad men fly on the first threat of evil to a lawyer, 
 in the firm belief that he can, by the exercise of his craft, bring 
 them out of it. Chattaway, after a night of intolerable restless- 
 ness, had come straight off to his lawyer, Mr. Flood, with the 
 intention of confiding the whole affair to him, and asking what 
 was to be done in it ; never giving so much as a glance at the 
 possibility of that legal gentleman's absence. 
 
 " Went up by the eight-o'clock train ? " he repeated when he 
 found his voice. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " And when's he coming home ? " 
 
 " He expects to be away about a week, sir." 
 
 A worse check still. Chattaway's terrible fear might have 
 waited in abeyance for a day ; but for a week ! — he thought he 
 would go mad before its end. He was a great deal too miserly 
 to spend money upon an unnecessary journey, but there 
 appeared to be nothing for it but to follow Mr. Flood to London. 
 That gentleman had heard perplexing secrets of Chattaway's 
 before, had always given him the best advice, and remained 
 faithful to the trust ; and Chattaway believed he might safely 
 confide to him this new and most dangerous fear. Not to any 
 other would he have breathed a word. In short, the only 
 confidential adviser he possessed in the world was Mr. Flood. 
 
 "Where will Mr. Flood put up in London?" 
 
 " I can't say, sir. I don't know anything about where he 
 stays. He goes up pretty often." 
 
 " At the old place, I dare say," muttered Chattaway to him-
 
 204 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 self. " If not, I shall learn where, through his agents in Essex 
 Street." '- 
 
 He stood a moment in consideration on the pavement 
 before mounting. There was a train — a slow and cheap one, 
 that would leave Barmester in half-an-hour for London. 
 Should he go by that train ? — go from Barmester, instead of 
 returning home to give them warning, and take the train at 
 the little station near his own home? Was there need of 
 haste so great? In Chattaway's present frame of mind the 
 utmost haste he could make was almost a necessary relief to 
 it : but, on the other hand, would his departing in this sudden 
 and unaccountable manner excite suspicion at home and 
 abroad, or draw unwelcome attention to his movements ? 
 Deep, deep in thought was he, when a hand was laid upon his 
 shoulder. Turning sharply, he saw the honest hearty face of 
 the linen-draper close to his. 
 
 " The queerest thing was said to me last night, Chattaway. 
 I stepped into Robbins the barber's, to have my hair and 
 whiskers trimmed, and he told me a great barrister was down 
 here, a leading man from the Chancery court, come upon some 
 business connected wath you and the late Squire Trevlyn. 
 With the property, I mean." 
 
 Chattaway's heart leaped into his mouth. 
 
 " I thought it a queer tale," continued Mr. AVall. " His 
 mission here — the Chancery messenger's — being to restore 
 Rupert Trevlyn to the estates of his grandfather, Robbins said. 
 Is there anything in it?" 
 
 Had the public already got hold of it, then? Was the 
 awful thing no longer a fear but a reality ? Chattaway turned 
 his face away, and tried to be equal to the emergency. At 
 another time, the fanciful aspects that gossip acquires in 
 spreading, might have afforded him amusement. 
 
 " You are talking great absurdity, Wall. Robbins ! Who's 
 Robbins? Were I you, I should be ashamed to repeat the 
 lies propagated by that chattering old woman." 
 
 Mr. Wall laughed. " He certainly deals in news, does 
 Robbins ; it's part of his trade. Of course one only takes his 
 marvels for what they are worth. He got f/i/s from Barcome, 
 the tax-collector. The man had arrived at the scene of 
 accident to the dog-cart shortly after its occurrence, and he 
 heard this barrister — who, as it seems, was also there — speaking 
 publicly of the object of his mission." 
 
 Chattaway snatched the bridle of his horse from the ragged
 
 AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. 205 
 
 boy's hands, and mounted ; his air, his face, expressing all the 
 scorn he could command. " When they can impound Squire 
 Trevlyn's will, then they may talk about altering the succession. 
 Good morning, Wall." 
 
 A torrent of howls, interspersed with words that a magistrate 
 on the bench must have shown himself cognizant of, saluted his 
 ears as he rode off. They came from the aggrieved steed- 
 holder. Instead of the sixpence he so fondly reckoned on, 
 Chattaway had flung him a halfpenny. 
 
 He rode to an inn near the railway station, went in and 
 called for pen and ink. The few words he wrote were to Miss 
 Diana. He found himself obliged to go unexpectedly to 
 London on the business which she hietv of, and requested her 
 to make any plausible excuse for his absence that would divert 
 suspicion from the real facts. He should be home on the 
 morrow. Such was the substance of the note. 
 
 He addressed it to Miss Trevlyn of Trevlyn Hold, sealed it 
 with his own seal and marked it "private." A most un- 
 necessary additional security, the last. No inmate of Trevlyn 
 Hold would dare to open the most simple missive, bearing 
 the address of Miss Trevlyn. Then he called one of the 
 stable-men. 
 
 " I want this letter taken to my house," he said. " It is in 
 a hurry. Can you go at once ? " 
 
 The man replied that he could. 
 
 "Stay — you may ride my horse," added Mr. Chattaway, 
 as if the thought that moment struck him. " You will get 
 there in half the time that you would if you walked." 
 
 " Very well, sir. Shall I bring him back for you ? " 
 
 " Um— m — m, no, I'll walk," decided Mr. Chattaway, stroking 
 his chin as if to help his decision. " Leave the horse at the 
 Hold." 
 
 The man mounted the horse and rode away, never supposing 
 that Mr. Chattaway had been playing off a little ruse for his 
 especial benefit, and that he had no intention of going to 
 Trevlyn Hold that day, but was bound for a place rather 
 farther off. In this innocent state of unconsciousness, he 
 reached the Hold, while Mr. Chattaway made a detour and 
 gained the station by a cross route, where he took train for 
 London. 
 
 Cris Chattaway's groom, Sam Atkins, was standing with his 
 young master's horse before the house, in waiting for that 
 gentleman, when the messenger arrived. Not the new horse
 
 2o6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of tlie previous day's notoriety, not the one lamed at Black- 
 stone ; but a despised and steAdy old animal sometimes used 
 in the plough. 
 
 ''What! there haven't been another accident sure-ly ! " ex- 
 claimed vSam Atkins, in his astonishment at seeing Mr. Chatta- 
 way's steed brought home. " Where's the Squire?" 
 
 " He's all right ; he have sent me up here with this," was the 
 man's reply, producing the note. And at that moment Miss 
 Diana Trevlyn appeared at the hall-door. [Miss Diana was 
 looking out for Mr Chattaway. After the communication 
 made to her that morning by Mr. Daw — that he had forwarded 
 to the Hold a document containing the last wishes of Mrs. 
 Trevlyn, which appointed her (whether legally or not) the 
 guardian of the two children — she could only come to the 
 conclusion that the paper had been suppressed by Chattaway, 
 and she was waiting in much wrath to demand his explanation 
 of it. 
 
 " What brings the Squire's horse back ? " she imperiously 
 demanded. 
 
 Sam Atkins handed her the note, which she opened and read. 
 Read it twice attentively, and then turned indoors. " Chatta- 
 way's a fool!" she angrily decided. "He is allowing this 
 mare's-nest to take hold of his fears. He ought to know that 
 while my father's will is in existence no power on earth can 
 deprive him of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 She went upstairs to Mrs. Chattavvay's sitting-room. That 
 lady, considerably recovered from the shock of the fall, was 
 seated at the table, writing an affectionate letter to her daughter 
 Amelia, telling her she might come home with Caroline Ryle. 
 Miss Diana went straight up to the table, took a seat, and 
 without the least apology or ceremony, closed Mrs. Chattaway's 
 desk. 
 
 "I want your attention for a moment, Edith. You can 
 write afterwards. Can you carry your memory back to the 
 morning, so many years. ago, when we received the news of 
 Rupert's birth?" 
 
 " No effort is needed to do that, Diana. I think of it all 
 too often." 
 
 "Very good. Then perhaps, without effort, you can recall 
 the day following that, when the letter came announcing Mrs. 
 Trevlyn's death ? " 
 
 "Yes, I remember it also." 
 
 " The minute details ? Could you, for instance, relate any
 
 AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY. 207 
 
 of the circumstances attending the arrival of that letter, if 
 required to do so in a court of law ? AVhat time of the day 
 it came, who opened it, where it was opened, and so forth ? " 
 
 " Why do you ask me ? " returned Mrs. Chattaway, surprised 
 at the questions. 
 
 " I ask you to be answered. I have a reason for wishing to 
 recall these past things. Think it over." 
 
 " Both the letters, so far as I can recollect, were given to 
 Mr. Chattaway, and he opened them. He was in the habit 
 then of opening papa's business letters. I have no doubt they 
 were opened in the steward's room ; James used to be there a 
 great deal with the accounts and other matters connected with 
 the estate. I cannot think why you ask me this." 
 
 "I have always known that James Chattaway did open 
 those letters," said Miss Diana ; " but I thought you might 
 have been present at their opening. Were you ? " 
 
 " No. I remember his coming into my chamber later, and 
 telling me Mrs. Trevlyn was dead. I never shall forget the 
 sliock I felt." 
 
 " Attend to me, Edith. I have reason to believe tliat inside 
 the last of those letters there was an inclosure for me. It 
 never reached me. Do you know what became of it ? " 
 
 The blank surprise on Mrs. Chattaway's countenance, her 
 open questioning gaze at her sister, was a sufficient denial with- 
 out words. 
 
 "I see you do not," said Miss Diana. "And now I am 
 going to ask you something else. Did you ever hear that 
 Emily Trevlyn, when she was dying, left a request that I should 
 be guardian to her children ? " 
 
 " Never," replied Mrs. Chattaway. " Have you been 
 dreaming these things, Diana? "Why should you ask about 
 them now ? " 
 
 "I leave dreams to you, Edith," was Miss Diana's reply. 
 " My health is too sound to admit of sleeping dreams : my 
 mind too practical to indulge in waking ones. Never mind 
 why I asked : it was only as a personal matter of my own. 
 By the wa)', I have had a line from your husband, written 
 from Barmester. A little business has taken him out, and he 
 may not be home until to-morrow. We are not to sit up for 
 him." 
 
 "Has he gone to Nettleby hop fair?" hastily rejoined Mrs. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 " Maybe," said Miss Diana, carelessly. " At any rate, say
 
 2o8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 nothing about his absence to any one. The children are 
 unruly if they know he is away. I suppose he will be home 
 to-morrow." 
 
 But Mr. Chattaway was not home on the morrow. Miss 
 Diana was burning with impatience for his return ; that ex- 
 planation was being waited for, and she was one who brooked 
 not delay : but she was obliged to submit to it now. Day after 
 day passed on, Mr. Chattaway was still absent from Trevlyn 
 Hold. 
 
 " What a time he is away ! " quoth the servants in their 
 familiar intercourse with each other. " He might be buying 
 up all the hops in Nettleby." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 A WALK BY STARLIGHT. 
 
 A HARVEST-HOME used to be a great /^/^ in farmhouses ; chiefly 
 so, as you are aware, for its servants and labourers. It is so in 
 some houses still. A rustic, homely, social gathering ; with 
 plenty, in a plain way, to eat and drink, and where the masters 
 and mistresses and their guests enjoy themselves as freely as 
 their dependents. 
 
 Trevlyn Farm was lighted up to-night. The best kitchen, 
 that large entrance room where you have seen Nora sitting 
 sometimes, and which was never used for kitchen purposes, was 
 set out with a long table as for dinner. Cold beef and ham, 
 substantial and savoury meat pies, fruit pies, cakes, cheese, ale 
 and cider, were being placed on it. Seats, chiefly benches, 
 lined the walls, and the rustic labourers were coming sheepishly 
 in. Some of them had the privilege of bringing their wives, 
 who came in a great deal less sheepishly than the men. 
 
 Nanny was in full attire, a new green stuff gown and white 
 apron ; Molly from the parsonage was flaunting in a round cap, 
 which the fashionable servants wore in Barmester, with red 
 streamers hanging down ; Ann Canham had a new Scotch 
 plaid kerchief, white and purple, crossed on her shoulders ; 
 and Jim Sanders's mother, being rather poorly off for smart 
 caps, wore a bonnet. These four were to do the waiting ; and 
 Nora was casting over them all the superintending eye of a
 
 A WALK BY STARLIGHT. 209 
 
 mistress, George Ryle liked to make his liarvest-homes liberal 
 and comfortable, and Mrs. Ryle seconded it. She was of the 
 open-handed nature of the Trevlyns. 
 
 What Mrs. Ryle would have done, but for Nora Dickson, it 
 was impossible to say. She really took little more manage- 
 ment in the house than a visitor would take. Her will, it is 
 true, was law : she gave orders, often in minute details ; but 
 she left the execution of them to others. Though she had 
 married Thomas Ryle, the tenant of Trevlyn Farm, she never 
 forgot that she was the daughter of Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 She sat in the small room opening from the supper-room — 
 small in comparison with the drawing-room, but still com- 
 modious. On the harvest-home night, the visitors — Mrs. Ryle's 
 visitors — were received in that ordinary room and sat there, 
 forming, it may be said, part of the supper-room company, for 
 the door was kept wide, and the great people went in and out, 
 mixing with the small. George Ryle and the parson, Mr. 
 Freeman, would be more in the supper-room than in the other ; 
 they were two who liked to see the hard-working people happy 
 now and then. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle had taken up her place in the sitting-room ; her 
 gown of rich black silk and her real lace cap contrasting with 
 the more showy attire of J^Irs. Apperley, who sat next her. Mrs. 
 Apperley was in a stiff brocade, yellow satin stripes flanking 
 wavy lines of flowers. It had been her gala robe for years and 
 years, and looked new yet. A wonderfully handsome silk, had 
 it not been out of date. Mrs. Apperley's two daughters, in 
 cherry-coloured ribbons and cherry-coloured hair-nets, were as 
 gay as she was ; they were whispering to Caroline Ryle, a 
 graceful girl in dark-blue silk, with the blue eyes and the fair 
 hair of her deceased father. Farmer Apperley, in top-boots, 
 was holding an argument on the state of the country with a 
 young gentleman who sat carelessly on the arm of the old- 
 fashioned sofa, a young man of middle height and dark hair, 
 stout for his years. It was Trevlyn Ryle. George had set his 
 back against the wall, and was laughingly quizzing the Miss 
 Apperleys, of which they were blushingly conscious. Were 
 you to believe Nora, there was scarcely a young lady within 
 the circuit of a couple of leagues but was privately setting her 
 cap at handsome George. 
 
 A bustle in the outer room, and Nanny appeared with an 
 announcement : " Parson and Mrs. Freeman." I am not re- 
 sponsible for the style of the introduction : you may hear it for 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 14;
 
 2IO TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 yourselves if you choose to penetrate to some of our rural 
 districts. 
 
 Parson and Mrs. Freeman came in without ceremony ; the 
 parson with his hat c^nd walking-stick, Mrs. Freeman in a 
 green calico wadded hood and an old cloak. George, with 
 laughing gallantry, helped her to take them off, and handed 
 them to Nanny, and Mrs. Freeman went up to the pier-glass 
 and settled the white bows in her cap to greater effect. 
 
 " But I thought you were to have brought your friend," said 
 Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " He will come in presently," replied the parson. "A letter 
 arrived for him by this evening's post, and he wished to answer 
 it." 
 
 Farmer Apperley turned from his colloquy with Trevlyn. 
 " D'ye mean that droll-looking man who walks about with a red 
 umbrella and a goat's beard, parson ? " 
 
 "The same," said Mr. Freeman, settling his double chin 
 more comfortably in his cravat, which was white this evening. 
 " He has been staying with us for a week past." 
 
 "Ay. Some foreign folk, isn't he, named Daw? There's 
 all sorts of tales abroad in the neighbourhood, as to what he is 
 stopping dov/n here for. I don't know whether they be correct." 
 
 '•' I don't know much about it myself, either," said Mr. Free- 
 man. " I am glad to entertain him as an old friend, but for 
 any private affairs or views of his, I don't meddle with them." 
 
 " Best plan," nodded the farmer in approval. And the sub- 
 ject, thus indistinctly hinted at, was allowed to drop, owing 
 probably to the presence of Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " The Chattaways are coming here to-night," suddenly ex- 
 claimed Caroline Ryle. She spoke only to Mary Apperley, but 
 there was a pause in the general conversation just then, and the 
 remark was audible to the room. Mr. Apperley took it up. 
 
 " Who's coming ? The Chattaways ! Which of the Chatta- 
 ways ? " he said in some surprise, knowing that they had never 
 been in the' habit of paying evening visits to Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 "All the girls, and Maude," replied Caroline. "I don't 
 know whether Rupert will come ; and I don't think Cris was 
 asked." 
 
 " Eh, but that's a new move," cried Farmer Apperley, his 
 long intimacy with the Farm justifying the freedom. " Did you 
 invite them ? " 
 
 " In point of fact, they invited themselves," interposed Mrs. 
 Ryle, before George, to whom the question had been addressed,
 
 A WALK BY STARLIGHT. 211 
 
 could speak, "At least, Octave did so: and then George, I 
 believe, asked the rest of the girls." 
 
 "They won't come," said Farmer Apperley. 
 
 " Not come ! " interrupted Nora, sharply, who kept going in 
 and out between the two rooms. " That's all you know about 
 it, Mr. Apperley. Octave Chattaway is as sure to come here 
 to-night " 
 
 " Nora ! " 
 
 The interruption came from George. Was he afraid of what 
 she might say in her heat? Or did he see, coming in then at 
 the outer door. Octave herself? Octave was coming in — as if 
 to refute the opinion of Mr. Apperley. 
 
 But only Amelia was with her. A tall girl with a large 
 mouth and very light hair, ever on the giggle. " ^Vhere are 
 the rest ? " impulsively asked George, his accent too unguarded 
 to conceal its disappointment. 
 
 Octave detected it. She had thrown off her cloak and stood 
 forth in attire scarcely suited to the occasion — a pale blue 
 evening dress of damask, a silver necklace, silver bracelets, and 
 a wreath of silver flowers in her hair. Nanny could hardly take 
 the cloak for staring. " What ' rest ? ' " asked Octave. 
 
 "Your sisters and Maude. They promised to come.' 
 
 Octave tossed her head good-humouredly. "Z>^ you think 
 we could inflict the whole string on Mrs. Ryle ? Two of us 
 will be sufficient to represent the family." 
 
 " Inflict ! On a harvest-home night ! " called out Trevlyn. 
 " You know, Octave, the more the merrier, then." 
 
 " Why, I really believe that's Treve ! " exclaimed Octave. 
 " When did you come ? " 
 
 " This morning. You have grown thinner. Octave." 
 
 " It is nothing to you if I have," retorted Octave, offended at 
 the remark. The point was a sore one ; Octave being un- 
 pleasantly conscious that she was thin to ugliness. '^You 
 have got plump enough, at any rate." 
 
 " To be sure," said Treve. " I'm always jolly. It was too 
 bad of you, Octave, not to bring the rest." 
 
 " So it was," said Amelia. " They had dressed for it, and at 
 the last moment Octave made them stay at home." 
 
 But George was not going to take this quietly. Saying 
 nothing, he left the room and made the best of his way to 
 Trevlyn Hold, But the rooms seemed deserted. At length 
 he found Maude in the schoolroom ; ostensibly correcting 
 exercises ; in reality crying. After they had dressed for the
 
 212 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 visit, Octavia had placed her veto upon it, and Emily and 
 Edith had retired to bed in very vexation. Miss Diana was 
 not at home ', she was spending the evening out with Mrs. 
 Chattaway, and Octave had had it all her own way. 
 " I have come for you, Maude," said George. 
 Maude's heart beat with the anticipation, " I do not 
 know whether I may dare to go," she said, glancing shyly 
 at him, 
 
 " Has any one forbidden you except Octave ? " 
 " Only Octave." 
 
 Lying on a chair, George saw a bonnet and a cloak v/hich he 
 recognized as Maude's. In point of fact, she had thrown them 
 off when forbidden the visit by Miss Chattaway. His only 
 answer was to fold the cloak around her. And she put on the 
 bonnet, and went out with him, shocked at her own temerity, 
 but unable to resist the temptation. 
 
 "You are trembling, Maude," he cried, drawing her closer 
 to him as he bent his head. 
 
 " I am afraid of Octave. I know she will be so angry. What 
 if she should meet me with insulting words ? " 
 
 " Then — Maude — you will give me leave to answer her ? " 
 "Yes. Oh yes." 
 
 " It will involve more than you are thinking of," said 
 George, laughing at her eager tone. " I must tell her, if neces- 
 sary, that I have a right to defend you." 
 
 Maude stopped in her surprise, and half drew her arm from 
 his as she looked up at him in the starlight. His pointed tone 
 stirred all the pulses in her heart. 
 
 " You cannot have mistaken me, Maude, for this long while 
 ,past," he quietly said. " If I have not spoken to you more 
 openly ; if I do not yet speak out to the world, it is that I see 
 at present little prospect before us. I would prefer not to 
 speak to others until that shall be more assured." 
 
 Maude, in spite of the intense feeling of happiness which 
 was rising within her with a force not to be suppressed, felt half 
 sick with fear. What of the powders of Trevlyn Hold ? 
 
 " Yes, there might be opposition there," said George, 
 divining her thoughts, "and the result — great unpleasantness 
 altogether. I am independent enough to defy them, but you 
 are not, Maude. For that reason I will not speak if I can help 
 it. I hope Octave will not too greatly provoke me." 
 
 Maude started, as a thought flashed over her, and she looked 
 up at George, a terrified expression in her face. "You nius^
 
 A WALK BY STARLIGHT. 213 
 
 not speak, George ; you must not, for my sake. Were Octave 
 only to suspect this, she — she " 
 
 "Might treat you to a bowl of poison— after the stage 
 fashion in what they call the good old days," he said, laughing. 
 " Child, do you think I have been blind ? I understand." 
 
 " You will be silent, then ? " 
 
 " Yes," 1^ answered, after a pause. " I will, at present, 
 Maude." 
 
 They had taken the way through the fields — it was the 
 nearest way — and George spoke of his affairs as he walked ; 
 more confidentially than he had ever in his life entered upon 
 them to any one. That he had been in a manner sacrificed to 
 the interests of Treve, there was no denying, and though he 
 did not allude to it in so many words, it was impossible to 
 ignore the fact entirely to Maude. A short while, one more 
 term to keep at Oxford, and Treve was to enter ofiicially upon 
 his occupation of Trevlyn Farm. The lease would be trans- 
 ferred to his name ; he would be its sole master ; and George 
 must look out for another home : but until then he was bound 
 to the farm — and bound most unprofitably. To the young, 
 however, all things wear a hopeful hue. What would some of 
 us give in after-life for the coulcur-dc-rose which almost invari- 
 ably imbues its threshold ! 
 
 " By the spring I may be settled in a farm of my own, 
 Maude. I have been casting a longing eye to the Upland. 
 Its lease will be out at Lady-day, and Carteret leaves it. An 
 unwise man in my opinion, he : to leave a certainty of com- 
 petency here, for uncertain riches in the New World. But 
 that is his business; not mine. I should like the Upland 
 Farm." 
 
 Maude's breath was nearly taken away. It was the only 
 large farm on the Trevlyn estate. " You surely would not 
 risk that, George ! What an undertaking ! " 
 
 " Especially with Chattaway for a landlord, you would say. 
 I shall take it if I can get it. The worst is, I should have to 
 borrow money," he added, in a very serious tone. "And bor- 
 rowed money weighs one down like an incubus. Witness 
 what it did for my father. But I dare say we should manage 
 to get along." 
 
 Maude opened her lips. She was wishing to say something 
 
 that she did not quite well know how to say. I — I fear " 
 
 and there she stopped in timidity. 
 
 " What do you fear, Maude ? "
 
 214 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "I don't know how I should ever manage in a farm," she 
 said, feeling that she ought to speak out her doubts, but iDlush- 
 ing vividly under cover of the dark night at having to do it. 
 " I have been brought up so — so — uselessly — as regards domes- 
 tic duties." 
 
 "Maude," he gravely said, "if I thought I should marry a 
 wife only to make her work, I should not marry at all. We 
 will manage better than that. You have been brought up a 
 lady ; and, if I may avow the truth, I should not care for my 
 wife to be anything else. My mother — I mean Mrs. Ryle — 
 has never done anything of the sort, you know, thanks to good 
 Nora. And there are more Noras in the world. Shall I tell 
 you a favourite scheme of mine, one that has been in my mind 
 for some time now ? " 
 
 She turned — waiting to hear it. 
 
 " To give a shelter to Rupert. You and I. To welcome 
 him to our home. We could contrive to make him happier 
 than he is made now." 
 
 Maude's heart leaped at the vision. " Oh, George ! if it 
 could be ! How good you are ! Rupert " 
 
 " Hush, Maude ! " The sudden check was not spoken to 
 interrupt any expression touching his "goodness;" George 
 would only have laughed at that ; but because he had become 
 conscious of the proximity of others walking and talking like 
 themselves. Two voices were in contention with each other ; 
 or, if not in contention, speaking as if their opinions did not 
 precisely coincide : and to George's intense astonishment, he 
 recognized one of the voices as Mr. Chattaway's. He uttered 
 a suppressed exclamation. 
 
 " It cannot be, George," she whispered. " He is miles and 
 miles away. Even allowing that he had returned, what should 
 bring him here? — he would have gone direct to the Hold." 
 
 But George was positive that it was Chattaway's voice. 
 They — the people to whom the voices belonged — were advanc- 
 ing down the path on the other side the hedge, and would 
 probably be coming through the gate, right in front of George 
 and Maude. To meet Chattaway was not particularly coveted 
 by either of them, even at the most convenient of opportunities, 
 and at the present time it was not at all convenient. George 
 drew Maude under one of the great elm trees, which over- 
 shadowed the hedge on this side. 
 
 "Just for a moment, Maude, until they shall have passed. 
 I am certain it is Chattaway ! "
 
 A WALK BY STARLIGHT. 215 
 
 The gate swung open and somebody came through it. Only 
 one. Sure enough it was Chattaway. He strode onwards, 
 muttering to himself, a brown paper parcel in his hand. But 
 ere he had gone many steps, he halted, turned, came creeping 
 back, and stood peering over the gate at the man who was 
 walking away. A little movement of his head to the right, and 
 Mr. Chattaway might have seen George and Maude standing 
 there. 
 
 But he did not. He was grinding his teeth and working his 
 disengaged hand, and was altogether too much occupied with 
 the departing man, to pay undesirable attention to what might 
 be around himself. Finally, his display of anger somewhat 
 cooling down, he turned again and continued his way towards 
 Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 " Who can it be that he is so angry with ? "' whispered 
 Maude. 
 
 " Hush ! " cautioned George. " His ears are sharp." 
 
 Very still they remained until he was at a safe distance, and 
 then they went through the gate.' Almost beyond their view 
 a tall man was pacing slowly along in the direction of Trevlyn 
 Farm, a red umbrella (but in truth George guessed at its 
 colour in the light night, rather than distinguished it) whirling- 
 round and round in his hand. 
 
 "Ah, just as I thought," was George's comment to him- 
 self. 
 
 "Who is it, George?" 
 
 "That stranger who is visiting at the parsonage." 
 
 " He seemed to be quarrelling with Mr. Chattav/ay." 
 
 " I. don't know. Their voices were loud. I wonder if 
 Rupert has found his way to the Farm?" 
 
 " Octave forbade him to go." 
 
 " Were I Ru I should break through her trammels at any 
 rate, and show myself a man," remarked George. " He may 
 have done so to-night" 
 
 They turned in at the garden-gate, and gained the porch. 
 All signs of the stranger had disappeared, and sounds of merri- 
 ment came from within. 
 
 George turned Maude's face to his. " You will not forget, 
 my love ? " 
 
 " Forget what ? " she shyly answered. 
 
 " That from this night \ve begin a new life. Henceforth, wo. 
 belong to each other. Maude, Maude ! you will not forget 1 " 
 he feverishly continued.
 
 2i6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I shall not forget," she softly whispered. 
 
 And, possibly by way of a reminder, Mr. George, under cover 
 of the shaded and silent porch, took his first lover's kiss from 
 her lips. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 VISIT TO doctors' COMMONS. 
 
 But where had Mr. Chattaway been all that time ? And how 
 came it that he was seen by George Ryle and Maude hovering 
 about his own ground at night, when he was supposed to be 
 miles away ? The explanation can be given. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway found, as many of us do, that lets and hin- 
 drances intrude themselves into the most simple plans. When 
 he took the sudden resolution that morning, now some days 
 ago, to run up to London from Barmester after Flood the law- 
 yer, and sent his horse home, and also a word of communica- 
 tion to Miss Diana Trevlyn, to the effect that he should be 
 home on the morrow, he never supposed that his journey would 
 be a prolonged one. Nothing more easy, as it appeared, than 
 to catch Flood at his hotel, get a quarter-of-an-hour's conversa- 
 tion with him, hear his advice, and be home again. But a 
 check intervened. 
 
 Upon arriving at the London terminus, Mr. Chattaway got 
 into a cab, and drove to the hotel ordinarily used by Mr. Flood. 
 After a dispute with the cab-driver — and Mr. Chattaway was 
 one who generally did have disputes with cab-drivers — he en- 
 tered the hotel, and asked to see Mr. Flood. 
 
 " Mr. Flood ? — Mr. Flood ? " repeated the waiter whom he 
 had accosted. " There's no gentleman of that name staying 
 here, sir." 
 
 " I mean Mr. Flood of Barmester," irritably rejoined the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold. " Perhaps you don't know him 
 personally. He came up this morning an hour or two ago." 
 
 The waiter was a fresh one, and did not know Mr. Flood 
 personally. He went to another waiter, and the latter came 
 forward to Mr. Chattaway. But the man's information was 
 correct ; ]\Ir. Flood of Barmester had not arrived. 
 
 *' He travelled by the eight-o'clock train." persisted Mr,
 
 A VISIT TO DOCTORS' COMMONS. 217 
 
 Chattaway, as if he found the denial difficult to reconcile with 
 that fact. "He must be in London." 
 
 "All I can say, sir, is that he has not come here," returned 
 the head-waiter. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was considerably put out. In his impatience, 
 the delay seemed most irritating. He quitted the hotel, and 
 bent his steps towards Essex Street, where the agents of Mr. 
 Flood lived. Chattaway went in eagerly, fully hoping, and 
 consequently expecting, that the first object his eyes should rest 
 on would be his confidential adviser. 
 
 His eyes did not receive that satisfaction. Some clerks were 
 in the room, also one or two persons who appeared to be 
 strangers ; clients, probably ; but there was no Mr. Flood, and 
 the clerks could give no information of him. One of the firm, 
 a Mr. Newby, appeared and shook hands with Mr, Chattaway, 
 whom he had once or twice seen. 
 
 " Flood ? Yes. We had a note from Flood yesterday morn- 
 ing, telling us to get some accounts prepared, as he should be 
 in town in the course of a day or two. He has not come yet ; 
 be up to-morrow perhaps." 
 
 " But he has come," reiterated Chattaway, " I have followed 
 him up to town. I want to see him upon a matter of im- 
 portance." 
 
 " Oh, come, has he ?" carelessly replied Mn Newby, and the 
 indifferent manner appeared almost like an insult to Chatta- 
 way in that gentleman's impatient frame of mind. " He'll be 
 in later, then." 
 
 " He is sure to come here ? " inquired Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Quite sure. We shall have a good bit of business to 
 transact with him this time." 
 
 " Then, if you'll allow me, Fll wait here. I must see him, 
 and I want to get back to Barbrook as soon as possible." 
 
 Mr. Chattaw^ay was told that he was welcome to wait, if it 
 pleased him to do so, and a chair was handed him in the 
 entrance room, where the clerks were writing, and he took his 
 seat in it. He sat there until he was well-nigh driven wild with 
 impatience. The room was in a continual bustle ; persons 
 constantly coming in and going out. For the first hour or so, 
 to watch the swaying door afforded Chattaway a sort of relief; 
 for in every fresh visitor (until he came into view) he expected 
 to see Mr. Flood. But this grew tedious at last, and the ever- 
 recurring disappointment told upon his temper. 
 
 Evening came, the hour for closing the office, and the
 
 2i8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 country lawyer had not made his appearance. " It is most 
 extraordinary," remarked Chattaway to Mr. Nevvby. 
 
 " He has been about some other business, and couldn't get 
 to us to-day, I suppose," rejoined Mr. Newby, in the most p'ro- 
 vokingly matter-of-fact tone. " If he has come up for a week, 
 as you say, he must have some important affair on hand ; in 
 which case it may be a day or two before he finds his way to 
 us." 
 
 A most unsatisfactory conclusion for Mr. Chattaway ; but that 
 gentleman was obliged to put up with it, in the absence of any 
 hope more tangible. He went back to the hotel, and there 
 found that Mr. Flood was still among the non-arrivals. 
 
 It was bad enough, that day and night's disappointment and 
 suspense for Chattaway ; but when it came to be extended 
 over more days and nights, you may judge how it was in- 
 creased. Mr. Flood did not make his appearance. Chatta- 
 way, in a state of fume, divided his time between the hotel, 
 the agents' office in Essex Street, and the Euston Square 
 station, in the wild hope of coming upon the lawyer. All to 
 no purpose. He telegraphed to Barmester, and received for 
 reply that Mr. Flood was in London, and so he redoubled his 
 hauntings at the different expected meeting-places, and worked 
 himself into a fever. 
 
 It appeared to him absolutely necessary that he should con- 
 sult Flood before venturing back to home quarters, where he 
 should inevitably meet that dangerous enemy. But how could 
 he see Flood ? — where look for him ? Barmester telegraphed 
 up that Mr. Flood was in London ; the agents persisted in 
 their assertion that they expected him hourly, each day, at their 
 office, and yet Chattaway could not come upon him. He tore 
 into all the courts open in the long vacation ; he prowled about 
 the Temple, about Lincoln's Inn, and other places where 
 lawyers congregated, in the delusive hope that he might by 
 good luck meet with him. All, I say, in vain ; and Chattaway 
 had been very nearly a week from home, when his hopes were 
 at length realized. There were other lawyers whom he might 
 have consulted — Mr. Newby himself, for instance — but he 
 shrank from laying bare his dread to a stranger. 
 
 He was walking slowly up Ludgate Hill, his hands in his 
 pockets, his brow knit, altogether in a disconsolate manner, 
 some vague intention in his mind of taking a peep inside 
 Doctors' Commons, when, by the merest accident, he happened 
 to turn his eyes on the string of vehicles passing up and down.
 
 A VISIT TO DOCTORS' COMMONS. 219 
 
 In that same moment a cab, extricating itself from the long 
 line, whirled past him in the direction of Fleet Street ; and its 
 occupant was Flood the lawyer. 
 
 All his listlessness was gone. His eyes starting, Chattaway 
 threw himself into the midst of the crowding carriages, and 
 tore shouting after the cab. The sober foot-passengers thought 
 he had gone mad : but they were bent on their own eager busi- 
 ness, and had only time for a wondering glance. Chattaway 
 bore on his way, and succeeded in keeping the cab in view. 
 By the time it stopped at the hotel, to which it turned, and the 
 lawyer had alighted, a portmanteau in hand, and was paying 
 the driver, Chattaway was up with him, breathless, excited, 
 grasping his arm as one demented. 
 
 " What on earth's the matter ?" exclaimed Mr. Flood, in as- 
 tonishment. '' Vou here, Chattaway? Do you want me?" 
 
 " I followed you to town by the next train a week ago ; I 
 have been looking for you ever since," gasped Chattaway, un- 
 able to regain his breath between the race and the excitement. 
 "Where have you been hiding yourself? Your agents have 
 been expecting you all this time." 
 
 " I dare say they have. I wrote to say I should be with 
 them in a day or two. I thought I should be, then." 
 
 " But where have you been ? " 
 
 " Over to France. A client wrote to me from Paris " 
 
 " To France ! " interrupted Mr. Chattaway in his anger, feel- 
 ing the announcement as a special and personal grievance. 
 What right had his legal adviser to be dancing his heels in 
 France, when he had been searching for him in London? 
 
 " I did not intend to stay," continued Mr. Flood. " I took 
 the express route, 77c? Folkestone, and meant to return without 
 delay ; but when I reached my client, I found the affair on 
 which he wanted me was complicated, and I had to wait the 
 dilatoriness of French lawyers," 
 
 " You have been lingering over the seductions of Paris ; 
 nothing else," growled Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 The lawyer laughed pleasantly. "No, on my honour. I 
 did go about to see some of the sights while I was waiting for 
 my business ; but they did not detain me by one unnecessary 
 minute. What is it that you want with me ? " 
 
 They entered the hotel, and Mr. Chattaway took him into a 
 private room, unwashed and unrefreshed as the traveller was, 
 and laid the case before him : the sudden appearance of the 
 mysterious stranger at Barbrook, his open avowal that he had
 
 220 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 come to depose Chattaway from the Hold, and place in it 
 Rupert Trevlyn. 
 
 "But who is he?" inquired Mr. Flood. 
 
 "A lawyer," was the reply — for you must remember that Mr. 
 Chattaway could only speak in accordance with the supposed 
 facts ; the facts as they had been exaggerated to him. " I know 
 nothing more about the man, except that he avows he has 
 come to Barbrook to deprive me of my property, and take up 
 the cause of Rupert Trevlyn. But he can't do it, you know, 
 Flood. The Hold is mine, and must remain mine." 
 
 " Of course he can't," acquiesced the lawyer. " Why need 
 you put yourself out about it?" 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was wiping the moisture from his face. The 
 words, " But he can't do it, you know, Flood," had been spoken 
 more as a question, suggested by his fears, than as an assertion 
 of his belief. He sat looking at the lawyer. 
 
 "I can't deny that it has troubled me," he said : "that it'is 
 troubling me still. What would my family do — my children — 
 if we were turned from the Hold ? " 
 
 It was the lawyer's turn to look. He could not make out 
 Chattaway. No power on earth, so far as his belief and know- 
 ledge went, could wrest Trevlyn Hold from its present master. 
 Why, then, these fears ? Were they born of nervousness ? But 
 Chattaway was not a nervous man. 
 
 "Trevlyn Hold is as much yours as this hat" — touching the 
 one at his elbow — "is mine," he resumed. "It came to you 
 by legal bequest ; you have enjoyed it these twenty years, and 
 to deprive you of it is beyond human power. Unless," he 
 added, after a pause, "unless indeed " 
 
 "Unless what?" eagerly interrupted Mr. Chattaway, his 
 heart thumping against his side. 
 
 " Unless — it was only an idea that crossed me — there should 
 prove to be a flaw in Squire Trevlyn's will. But that's not pro- 
 bable." 
 
 " It's impossible," gasped Chattaway, his fears, in defiance of 
 the words, taking a new and startling turn. " It's impossible 
 that there could have been anything defective in the will. Flood." 
 
 " It's next to impossible," acquiesced the la.wyer ; " though 
 such mistakes have been known. Who drew it up ? " 
 
 " The Squire's solicitors, Peterby and Jones." 
 
 "Then it's all right, you may be sure. Peterby and Jones 
 are not men likely to insert errors in their deeds. I should not 
 trouble myself about the matter,"
 
 A VISIT TO DOCTORS' COMMONS. 2:1 
 
 Mr. Chattaway sat in silence, revolving many things. How 
 he wished he could take the advice and not " trouble himself" 
 about the matter ! " What made you think there might be a 
 flaw in the will ? " he presently asked. 
 
 " Nay, I did not think there was : the train of thought led 
 me to the idea that there might be ; that was all. When a 
 case is offered to me for consideration," continued Mr. Flood, 
 " it is my habit to glance at it in all its bearings. You tell me 
 that a stranger has made his appearance at Barbrook, avowing 
 an intention of displacing you from Trevlyn Hold in favour 
 of Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 *' Well, then, I instantly, whilst you were speaking, began to 
 grasp that case, to turn it about in my mind ; and I see that 
 there is no possible way by which you can be displaced, so far 
 as I know and believe. You enjoy it in accordance with Squire 
 Trevlyn's will, and so long as that will remains in force, you are 
 safe — provided the will has no flaw in it." 
 
 "Why should you think it has a flaw in it?" reiterated Mr. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 " I don't think it. I don't fear it. I only mentioned it as 
 the remotest possible solution — the only ground of pretence 
 for the manner in which you tell me this man is acting. I 
 make no doubt that the will is what it has always been sup- 
 posed to be — perfectly legal ; and that the stranger's expressed 
 intention will turn out to be all moonshine." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway sat biting his lips. His own opinion had 
 always been (and, it may be said, was in contradistinction to 
 that great dread ever hidden in his heart) that he was safe 
 under the will and through the will. Never for a moment in 
 the wildest flight of fear had he given a glance to the possibility 
 that the will could be illegal. On that will he had relied, how- 
 ever dark and vague his fears had seemed : it had been his 
 sheet-anchor. The idea, therefore, now suggested by Mr. 
 Flood was perhaps the most alarming that could have been 
 presented to him. 
 
 " If there were any flaw in the will," he began — and the very 
 mention of the cruel words almost rent his heart in two — 
 " could you detect it, by reading the will over ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Flood. 
 
 " Then let us go at once, and set this awful uncertainty at rest." 
 
 ■ He had risen from his seat so eagerly and hastily that Mr. 
 Flood scarcely understood. " Go where ? " he asked.
 
 223 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " To Doctors' Commons. We can see it there by paying a 
 shilling." 
 
 " Oh — ay. I'll go if you like. But I must have a wash first, 
 and a mouthful of refreshment. I have had neither since leav- 
 ing Boulogne, and the crossing — ugh ! I don't want to think 
 of it." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway controlled his impatience in the best manner 
 he was able. He went out and called a cab to the door, and 
 took his place in it before Mr. Flood was ready — which would, 
 in all probability, entail one of Mr. Chattaway's favourite dis- 
 putes with the driver when they should arrive at their destina- 
 tion. At length they were fairly on their way — to the very spot 
 for which Mr. Chattaway had been making once before that 
 morning. 
 
 Difficulties surmounted, including the cabman, Mr. Flood 
 was soon deep in the perusal of Squire Trevlyn's will. He read 
 it over slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes and head bent, his 
 whole attention absorbed in the task. At its conclusion, he 
 turned and looked full at Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 "You are perfectly safe," he said. " The will is right and 
 legal in every point." 
 
 The relief brought a glow into Chattaway's dusky face. " I 
 thought it strange if it could be wrong," he cried, drawing a 
 deep breath. 
 
 " It is only the codicil, you see, which affects you," continued 
 Mr. Flood, pointing to the deed before them. " The will 
 appears to have been made years before the codicil, and leaves 
 the estate to the eldest son Rupert, and failing him, to Joseph. 
 Rupert died ; Joe died ; and then the codicil was drawn up, 
 willing it to you. You come in, you see, after the two sons ; 
 contingent on their death ; no mention whatever is made of the 
 child Rupert." 
 
 Chattaway coughed. He did not deem it necessary to re- 
 peat that Squire Trevlyn had never known that the child Rupert 
 was in existence : but Mr. Flood was, no doubt, aware of that fact. 
 
 '• It's a good thing for you that Joe Trevlyn died before his 
 father," carelessly remarked Mr. Flood, as he glanced again at 
 the will. 
 
 " Why ? " cried Chattaway. 
 
 '' Because, had he not, this codicil would be valueless," ex- 
 plained the lawyer. " It is " 
 
 " But he was dead, and it gives the estate to me," fiercely .in- 
 terrupted Chattaway, going into a white heat again.
 
 A WELCOME HOME. 223 
 
 " Yes, yes. But it was a good thing, I say, for you. Had 
 Joe been alive, he would have come in, in spite of this codicil ; 
 and he could have bequeathed the. property to his boy after 
 him." 
 
 " Do you suppose I don't know all that ?" retorted Chatta- 
 way. " It was only in consequence of Joe Trevlyn's death that 
 the estate was willed to me. Had he lived, I never should have 
 had it, or expected it." 
 
 The peevish tone of his voice betrayed how sore was the 
 subject altogether, and Mr. Flood smiled. " You need not be 
 cross over it, Chattaway," he said ; " there's no cause for that. 
 And now you may go home to the Hold in peace, without 
 having your sleep disturbed by dreams of ejection. And if 
 that unknown friend of yours should happen to mention in 
 your hearing his kind intention of deposing you for Rupert 
 Trevlyn, tell him, with my compliments, to come up here and 
 read Squire Trevlyn's will." 
 
 Partially reassured, if not entirely satisfied, Mr. Chattaway 
 lost little time in taking his departure from London. He 
 quitted it that same afternoon, and arrived at Barbrook ter- 
 minus just after dark, whence he started for the Hold. 
 
 But he did not proceed to it as most other travellers in his 
 rank of life would have done. He did not call a fly and drive 
 to it ; he preferred to go on foot. He did not even walk openly 
 along the broad highway, but turned into the by-paths, where 
 he might be pretty sure of not meeting a soul, and stole cauti- 
 ously along, peering on all sides, as if he were looking out for 
 something he cither longed or dreaded to see. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A WELCOME HOME. 
 
 Was there a fate upon the master of Trevlyn Hold ? — was he 
 never to be at rest ? — could not even one little respite be allowed 
 him in this, the first hour of his return home ? It seemed not. 
 He was turning into the first of those fields you have so often 
 heard of, next to the one which had been the scene of poor 
 Mr. Ryle's unhappy end, when a tall man suddenly pounced 
 upon him, came to a standstill, and spoke.
 
 224 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I believe I am not mistaking in supposing that I address 
 Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 In his panic Mr. Chattaway nearly dropped a small parcel 
 which he held. An utter fear had taken possession of him, 
 even to the loss of his self-possession : for in the speaker he 
 recognized that dreaded enemy ; that man who had proclaimed 
 that he was about to work evil against him. It seemed like a 
 terrible omen, the meeting him in this, the first moment of his 
 arrival. 
 
 " I have been wishing to see you for some days past," con- 
 tinued the stranger, " and have been to the Hold three or four 
 times to ask if you had come home. I was a friend of the late 
 Joe Trevlyn's. I am a friend now of his son." 
 
 " Yes," stammered Chattaway — for in his great fear he did 
 not follow his first impulse, which had been to meet the words 
 with a torrent of anger. " May I ask what it is you want with 
 me ? " 
 
 " I wish to converse with you upon the subject of Rupert 
 Trevlyn. I would endeavour to impress upon your notice the 
 grievous wrong inflicted upon him in keeping him out of the 
 Hold — the property of his forefathers. I do not think you can 
 ever have reflected properly upon the matter, Mr. Chattaway, 
 or can have looked upon it in its true light — otherwise you 
 would surely never deprive him of what is so indisputably his." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, his fears taking deeper and deeper possession 
 of him, had turned into the field, in the hope of walking away 
 from the stranger. In any direction, no matter what, so that 
 he could get rid of him — for what to answer he did not know. 
 It must be conciliation or defiance ; but he could not decide 
 in that hurried moment which would be the better policy. The 
 stranger also turned and kept up with him, 
 
 " My name is DaW;^ Mr. Chattaway. You may possibly re- 
 member it, for I had the honour of a little correspondence with 
 you about the time of Mrs. Trevlyn's death. It was I who 
 transmitted to you the account of the birth of the boy Rupert. 
 I am now informed that that fact was not suffered to reach the 
 ears of Squire Trevlyn." 
 
 " I wish to hear nothing about it, sir ; I desire to hold no 
 communication with you at all," cried Mr. Chattaway, bearing 
 on his way. 
 
 " But it may be better for you that you should do so, and I 
 ask it in courtesy," persisted Mr. Daw, striding beside him. 
 " Appoint your own time and place, and I will wait upon you.
 
 A WELCOME HOME. 225 
 
 These tilings are always better settled amicably than the re- 
 verse : litigation generally brings a host of evil in its train ; and 
 Rupert Trevlyn has no money to risk in it. Not but that his 
 costs could come out of the estate," equably concluded Mr. 
 Daw. 
 
 The master of Trevlyn Hold turned passionately round, 
 arresting his course for an instant. " Litigation ! what do you 
 mean ? How dare you speak to me in this manner ? Who 
 but a footpad would accost a gentleman by night, as you are 
 accosting me ? " 
 
 The discourteous thrust did not seem to put out Mr. Daw. 
 " I only wish you to appoint a time to see me— at your own 
 home, or anywhere else you may please," he reiterated, not 
 losing his good manners. " But I am not to be balked in this, 
 Mr. Chattaway. I have taken up the cause of Rupert Trevlyn, 
 and I shall try and carry it through." 
 
 A blaze of anger burst from Mr, Chattaway. His words, 
 his tones, were alike fiercely passionate, and Mr. Daw turned 
 away. " I will see you when you are in a reasonable mood," 
 he said. "To-morrow I will call at the Hold, and I hope 
 you v.ill meet me more amicably than you have done to- 
 night." 
 
 " I will never meet you ; I will never see or listen to you," 
 retorted Mr. Chattaway, his anger mastering him and causing 
 him to forget prudence. " If you want to know by what right 
 I retain the Hold over the boy, Rupert Trevlyn, go and consult 
 Squire Trevlyn's will. There ! That is the only answer you 
 will get from me." 
 
 Panting with the anger he could not restrain, Mr. Chattaway 
 stood and watched the calm, retreating steps of the stranger, 
 and then turned his own in the direction of home ; unconscious 
 that he in his turn was also watched, and by two who were very 
 close to him— George Ryle and Maude Trevlyn. 
 
 They — as you remember — proceeded immediately to Trevlyn 
 Farm ; and words were spoken between them which no time 
 could efface. Impulsive vi'ords, telling of the love that had 
 long lain in the heart of each, almost as suppressed, quite as 
 deep, as the great dread which had made the skeleton in Mr. 
 Chattaway's. 
 
 The hilarity of the evening had made much progress, as they 
 found on entering. The company were seated round the table 
 eating the good things, and evidently enjoying themselves 
 heartily. The parlour-door was crowded with merry faces. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 15
 
 226 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 Mrs. Ryle and others were at one end of the large room : 
 but George steered Maude dh-ect to the parlour; and the 
 group round its door made way for her, and welcomed her 
 noisily. 
 
 But there came no smile to the face of Octave Chattaway. 
 Pushing her way through the rest with a severe eye and stern 
 tone, she confronted Maude. Her lips were drawn with anger. 
 
 "Maude Trevlyn, what do you do here? How dare you 
 come ? " 
 
 " Is there any harm in it. Octave ? " 
 
 "Yes, there is," said Miss Chattaway, with flashing eyes. 
 "There is harm because I desired that you would not come. 
 A pretty thing for Mrs. Ryle to be invaded by half-a-dozen of 
 us ! Have you no sense of propriety ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it," gaily interrupted George. " No one under- 
 stands that in connection with a harvest-home. I have been 
 to the Hold for Miss Maude, Octave ; and I should have brought 
 Edith and Emily, but they were in bed." 
 
 " In bed !" exclaimed Caroline Ryle, in surprise. 
 
 "Having retired to it in mortification and tears at being 
 excluded from the delights of a harvest-home," continued 
 George, with mock gravity. " Miss Chattavv^ay had preached 
 propriety to them, and they could only bow to it, ^ye must 
 manage things better another time." 
 
 Octave's cheeks burnt. Was George Ryle speaking this in 
 ridicule ? — ridicule of her ? To stand well with him, she would 
 have risked much, 
 
 "They are better at home," she quietly said : " and I have no 
 doubt Mrs. Ryle thinks so. Two of us are enough to come. 
 Quite enough, in my opinion," she pointedly added, turning a 
 reproving look on Maude. " I am surprised that you should 
 have intruded " 
 
 " Blame me, if you please, Miss Chattaway — if you deem that 
 blame is due anywhere," interrupted George. " I have a will of 
 my own, you know, and I took possession of Miss Maude and 
 brought her, whether she would or no." 
 
 Octave pushed her hair back with an impatient movement. 
 Her eyes fell before his ; her voice, as she addressed him, turned 
 to softness. George was not a vain man ; but it was next to 
 impossible to mistake these signs ; though neither by word nor 
 look would he give the faintest colouring of hope to them. If 
 Octave could only have read the indifference at his heart ! nay, 
 more — his positive dislike !
 
 A WELCOME HOME, 227 
 
 "Did you see anything of Rupert, George?" she asked, 
 recalUng his attention to herself. 
 
 " I saw nothing of any one but Maude. I might have laid 
 hands on all I found ; but there was no one to meet, Maude 
 excepted. What makes you so cross about it, Octave ? " 
 
 She laughed pleasantly. " I am not cross. George," she 
 added, in lower tones, " sometimes I think you do not under- 
 stand me. You seem to " 
 
 Octave's words died away. Coming in at the door was the 
 tall, conspicuous form of the parsonage guest, Mr. Daw. Maude 
 was just then standing apart, and he went deliberately up to her 
 and kissed her forehead. 
 
 Startled and resentful, a half-cry escaped her lips, and she 
 turned instinctively towards George. But Mr. Daw laid his 
 hand gently on her arm. 
 
 '' My dear young lady, I may almost claim that as a right. 
 1 believe I was the first person, except your mother, who ever 
 pressed a kiss upon your little face. Do you know me ? " 
 
 Maude faltered in her answer. His appearance and saluta- 
 tion had been altogether so sudden, that slie was taken by sur- 
 prise; but she did not fail to recognize him now. Yet she 
 hesitated to acknowledge that she knew him, on account of the 
 presence of Octave Chattaway. Rupert had told her all about 
 the stranger ; but it might be inconvenient to say so much to an 
 inmate of Trevlyn Hold. . 
 
 "It was I who christened you," he resumed. "It was I 
 who promised your father to — to sometimes watch over you. 
 But I could not keep my promise ; circumstances worked 
 against it. And now that I am brought for a short time into 
 the same neighbourhood tliat you inhabit, I may not call to 
 see you." 
 
 "^Vhy not?" exclaimed Maude, wondering much. 
 
 " Because those who are your guardians deny it to me. I 
 went to the Hold and asked for you, and then became aware 
 that in doing so I had committed something like a crime, or 
 what was looked upon as one. Should Rupert, your brother, 
 regain possession of his father's inheritance and his father's 
 home, then, perhaps, I may be a more welcome visitor to it." 
 
 The room stood in consternation. To some of them, at any 
 rate, these words were new ; to the ears of Octave Chattaway 
 they were tainted with the darkest treason. Octave had never 
 heard aught of this bold stranger's business at Barbrook, and 
 she gazed at him with defiant eyes and lips apart.
 
 ^.2Z TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "Were you alluding to the Hold, sir?" she asked in a cold, 
 hard voice, which might have been taken for Chattaway's own. 
 
 " I was. The Hold was the inheritance of Rupert Trevlyn's 
 father : it ought to be that of Rupert." 
 
 " The Hold is the inheritance of my father," haughtily spoke 
 Octave. "Is he mad?" she added in a half- whisper, turning 
 to George. 
 
 " Hush, Octave. No." 
 
 It was not a pleasant or even an appropriate theme to be 
 spoken of in the presence of Mr. Chattaway's daughters. George 
 Ryle, at any rate, thought so, and he was glad that a burst of 
 rustic merriment, so loud as to drown everything else for a time, 
 came overpoweringly at that moment from the feasting in the 
 other room. 
 
 Under cover of the noise, Octave approached Nora. Nora 
 immediately drew an apple-pie before her, and began to cut 
 unlimited helpings from it, pretending to be absorbed by her 
 work. She had not the least inclination for a private interview 
 with Miss Chattaway. Miss Chattaway was one, however, not 
 easily repulsed. 
 
 " Nora, tell me — who is that man, and what brings him 
 here?" 
 
 "What man. Miss Chattaway?" asked Nora, indifferently, 
 unable quite to help herself. " Ann Canham, how many are 
 there to serve with pie still?" 
 
 ^'■That man. That bold, bad man who has been speaking so 
 strangely." 
 
 " Does he speak strangely?" retorted Nora. " His voice is 
 gruff certainly. And what a lot of plum-pudding he is eating ! 
 He is our young master's new waggoner, Miss Chattaway." 
 
 " Not he ! " shrieked Octave, in her anger. " Do you suppose 
 I concern myself with those stuffing clodhoppers ? I speak of 
 that tall, strange man amongst the guests." 
 
 " Oh, he ! " said Nora, carelessly glancing over her shoulder. 
 " Nanny, here's plenty of pie if it's wanted. What about him, 
 Miss Chattaway ? " 
 
 " I asked you who he was, and what brought him here." ' 
 
 " Then you had better ask it of himself, Miss Chattaway. He 
 goes about with a red umbrella ; and that's about all I know of 
 him for certain." 
 
 "Why does Mrs. Ryle invite suspicious characters to her 
 house ? " 
 
 "Suspicious characters! Is he one? Meg Sanders, if you
 
 A WELCOME HOME. 229 
 
 let Jim cram himself with pie in that style, you'll have something 
 to do to get him home. He is stopping at the parsonage, Miss 
 Chattaway ; an acquaintance of Mr. Freeman's. I suppose they 
 brought him here to-night out of politeness ; it wouldn't have 
 been good manners to leave him at home. He is an old friend 
 of the Trevlyns, I hear; has always believed, until now, that 
 Master Rupert enjoyed the Hold — can't be brought to believe 
 that he doesn't. It is a state of things that does sound odd to 
 a stranger, you know." 
 
 Octave might rest assured that she would not get the best of 
 it with Nora. She turned away with a displeased gesture, and 
 regained the sitting-room, where refreshments for Mrs. Ryle's 
 friends were now being laid. But somehow the sunshine of the 
 evening had gone out for her. What had run away with it ? 
 The ominous words of the stranger ? No ; the worst sentiment 
 that Octave cast to them was contempt. It was George Ryle's 
 unsatisfactory manner that vexed her ; unsatisfactory, because 
 so intensely calm and equable. And those calm, matter-of-fact 
 manners, in one beloved, tell sorely upon the heart. 
 
 The evening passed, and it grew time to leave. Cris Chat- 
 taway and Rupert had come in, and they all set off in a body 
 to Trevlyn Hold — those who had to go there. George went 
 out with them. 
 
 "Are you coming?" asked Octave. 
 
 " Yes, part of the way " 
 
 So Octave stood, ready to take his arm, never supposing that 
 he would not offer it ; and her pulses began to beat. But he 
 turned round as if waiting for" something, and Octave could 
 only walk on a few steps. Soon she heard him coming up with 
 a brisk step, and she turned to him. And then her heart 
 seemed to stand still and bound on again with fiery speed, and 
 a flush of anger dyed her brow. He had taken Maude on his 
 arm ! 
 
 " Oh, George, do not let Maude trouble you," she exclaimed. 
 "Cris will take care of her. Cris, come and relieve George of 
 Maude Trevlyn." 
 
 " Thank you. Octave ; it's no trouble," replied George, his 
 tone one of indifference. "As I brought Maude out, it is 
 only fair that I should take her home — the task falls to me, you 
 see." 
 
 Octave did not see it at all, and she pursued her w\iy sul- 
 lenly and resentfully ; something very like hatred for Maude 
 taking possession of her breast. It is not pleasant to write of
 
 230 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 these things, especially when they may be looked upon as 
 somewhat misplaced ; but I know of few histories in which 
 they can be quite avoided, if the whole truth is adhered to, for 
 many and evil are the passions assailing the undisciplined 
 human heart. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " George whispered to Maude as he left her. 
 " This night begins a new era in our lives." 
 
 The Hold was busy when they entered it. Mrs. Chattaway 
 and her sister had just returned from Barmester, and were 
 greeted by Mr. Chattaway. They had expected him for so 
 many days past, and been disappointed, that his appearance 
 now brought surprise with it. He answered the questions 
 evasively put to him by Mrs, Chattaway and Diana, as to 
 where he had been. Business had kept him, was all they could 
 obtain. 
 
 " I cannot think what you have done for clothes, James," 
 said Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " I have done very well," he retorted. " I bought what I 
 wanted." 
 
 But it was not upon the score of his wardrobe, or what had 
 kept him so long, that Miss Diana Trevlyn required speech of 
 Chattaway. She had been waiting all that time, since the first 
 morning of his absence, for information on a certain point, and 
 she now demanded it in a peremptory manner. 
 
 " Chattaway," she began, when the rest had dispersed, and 
 she waited with him, " I have had a strange communication 
 made to me. In that past time — carry your thoughts back to 
 it, if you please — when there came to this house the news of 
 Rupert Trevlyn's birth and his mother's death — do you re- 
 member it ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Mr. Chattaway. "What should hinder 
 me?" 
 
 "The tidings were conveyed by letter. Two letters came, 
 the second a day after the first." 
 
 " Well ? " returned Mr. Chattaway, believing the theme, in 
 some shape or other, was to haunt him for ever. " W^hat of 
 the letters?" 
 
 "In that last letter, which must have been a heavy one, 
 there was a communication enclosed for me." 
 
 " I don't remember it," said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " It was no doubt there. A document written at the request 
 of Mrs. Trevlyn ; constituting me guardian to the two children. 
 What did you do with it ? "
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY COME TO GRIEF. 231 
 
 " I ? " returned Chattaway. and he spoke with apparent sur- 
 prise, and looked full at Miss Diana with an unmoved face. 
 " I did nothing with it. I don't know anything about it." 
 
 " You must have taken it out and suppressed it," observed 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 " I never saw it or heard of it," obstinately persisted Chatta- 
 way. " Why should I ? You might have been their appointed 
 guardian, and welcome, for me : you have chiefly acted as 
 guardian. I tell you, Diana, I neither saw it nor heard of it : 
 you need not look so suspiciously at me." 
 
 " Is he telling the truth ? " thought Miss Diana, and her 
 keen eyes were not lifted from Mr. Chattaway's face. But that 
 gentleman was remarkably inscrutable, and never appeared 
 more so than at this moment. 
 
 " If he did 7wt do anything with it," continued Miss Diana 
 in her train of thought, " what could have become of the 
 thing ? Where can it be ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY COME TO GRIEF. 
 
 A FEW days passed on, and strange rumours began to be rife 
 in the neighbourhood. Various rumours, vague at the best ; 
 but all tending to one point — that the true heir was coming to 
 his own again. They penetrated even to the ears of Mr. 
 Chattaway, throwing that gentleman into a state not to be 
 described. Some said a later will of the Squire's had been 
 found ; some said a will of Joe Trevlyn's ; some that it was 
 now discovered the estate could only descend in the direct 
 male line, and that consequently it had been Rupert's all 
 along. Chattaway Avas in a raging fever ; it preyed upon him, 
 and turned his days to darkness. He seemed to look upon 
 Rupert with the most intense suspicion, as if it were from him 
 alone— from his plotting and working, you understand — that 
 the evil would come. He feared to trust him out of his sight ; 
 to leave him alone for a single instant. When he went to 
 Blackstone he took Rupert with him ; he hovered about there 
 all day, keeping Rupert in sight, and he brought him back in 
 the evening. Miss Diana had not yet bought the pony she 
 spoke of for Rupert's use, and Chattaway either mounted him
 
 232 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 on an old horse that was good for little now, and rode by his 
 side, or else drove him over. Rupert was intensely puzzled at 
 this new consideration for him, and could not make it out. 
 
 One morning Mr. Chattaway so far sacrificed his own ease 
 as to contemplate walking over. The horses were wanted that 
 day, and he told Rupert they would walk. " Very well," 
 Rupert answered, in his half-careless, half-obedient fashion, "it 
 was all the same to him." And so they started. But as they 
 were going down the avenue a gentleman was discerned 
 coming up it. Mr. Chattaway knitted his brows and peered 
 at him ; his sight for a distance was not quite so good as it 
 had been. ^ 
 
 " Who's this ?" asked he of Rupert. 
 
 *' It is Mr. Peterby," replied Rupert. 
 
 " Mr. Peterby ! " ejaculated Chattaway. " What Peterby ? " 
 
 " Peterby of Barmester, the lawyer," explained Rupert, won- 
 dering that there was any need to ask. 
 
 For only one gentleman of the name of Peterby was known 
 to Trevlyn Hold, and Mr. Chattaway was, so to say, familiar 
 with him. He had been solicitor to Squire Trevlyn, and 
 though Mr. Chattaway had not continued him in that post 
 when he succeeded to the estate, preferring to employ Mr. 
 Flood, he yet knew him well. His ejaculation, "What 
 Peterby ? " had not escaped him so much in doubt as to the 
 man, but as to what he could want with him. But Mr. 
 Peterby was solicitor for some of his tenants, and he sup- 
 posed some business might be arising touching the renewal of 
 leases. 
 
 They met. Mr. Peterby was an active little man of more 
 than sixty years, with a healthy colour in his face, and the 
 remains of auburn hair. He had walked all the way from 
 Barmester, and enjoyed the walk as much as a schoolboy. 
 " Good morning, Mr. Chattaway," he said, holding out his 
 hand, " I am fortunate to meet you. I came early, to catch 
 you before you went to Blackstone. Can you give me half-an- 
 hour's interview ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway thought he should not like to give the inter- 
 view. He was in a bad temper, in no mood for business, and 
 he really wanted to be at Blackstone. Besides all that, he had 
 no love for Mr. Peterby. " I am pressed for time this morn- 
 ing," he replied, "am much later than I ought to have been. 
 Is it anything particular that you want me for ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is j very particular," was the answer, delivered in
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY COME TO GRIEF. 233 
 
 an uncompromising tone. " I must request you to accord me 
 the interview, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned back to the house with his visitor. 
 Ke marshalled him into the drawing-room, and Rupert re- 
 mained whistling at the hall-door. 
 
 " I have come upon a curious errand, Mr. Chattaway, and 
 no doubt an unwelcome one ; though, from Avhat I hear, it 
 may not be altogether unexpected," began the gentleman, as 
 they took seats opposite each other. " A question has been 
 arising of late, whether Rupert Trevlyn may not possess some 
 right to the Hold. I am here to demand of you if you will 
 give it up to him." 
 
 Was the world coming to an end ? Chattaway thought it 
 must be. He sat and stared at the speaker as if he were in a 
 dream, ^^'as every one turning against him ? Was the awful 
 thing coming publicly upon him, without disguise? He rubbed 
 his handkerchief over his hot face, and imperiously demanded 
 of Mr. Peterby what on earth he meant, and where he could 
 have picked up his insolence. 
 
 " I am not about to wrest the estate from you, Mr. Chatta- 
 way, or to threaten to do so," was the answen " You need 
 not fear that. But — you must be aware that you have for the 
 last twenty years enjoyed a position that ought in strict justice 
 to belong to the grandson of Squire Trevlyn." 
 
 " I am not aware of anything of the sort," groaned Chatta- 
 way. " What do you mean by ' wresting the estate ? ' " 
 
 " Softly, my good sir ; there's no need to put yourself out 
 with me. I am come on a straightforward, peaceable errand ; 
 not one of war. A friendly errand, if you will allow me so to 
 express myself." 
 
 The master of Trevelyn Hold could only marvel at the 
 speech. A friendly errand ! requiring him to give up his 
 possessions ! 
 
 Mr. Peterby proceeded to explain ; and as there is no time 
 to give the interview in detail, the explanation shall be con- 
 densed. It appeared that the Reverend Mr. Daw had in his 
 zeal sought out the solicitors of the late Squire Trevlyn. He 
 had succeeded in impressing upon them a sense of the great 
 injustice dealt out to Rupert ; had avowed his intention of 
 endeavouring, by any means in his power, to remedy this in- 
 justice ; but at this point he had been somewhat obscure, and 
 had, in fact, caused (perhaps inadvertently) the lawyers to 
 imagine that this power was something real and tangible.
 
 234 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Could there be (they asked themselves afterwards) any late 
 will of Squire Trevlyn's which would supersede the old one ? 
 It was the only hinge on which the matter could turn ; and 
 Mr, Daw's mysterious hints certainly encouraged the thought. 
 But he, Mr. Daw, had said, " Perhaps Chattaway will give up 
 amicably, if you urge it upon him," and Mr. Peterby had now 
 come for that purpose. 
 
 " But what you say is utterly absurd," urged Chattaway ; 
 the long explanation, which Mr. Peterby had given in an open 
 and candid manner, having afforded him time to recover some- 
 what of his fears and his temper. "I can take upon myself 
 most positively to assert that there was no will or codicil made, 
 or attempted to be made, by Squire Trevlyn, subsequent to the 
 one on which I inherit. Your house drew that up." 
 
 "I know we did," replied the lawyer. "But that does not 
 prove that none was drawn up after it." 
 
 " But I tell you that there was not any. I am certain upon 
 the point." 
 
 " Well, it was the only conclusion we could come to," re- 
 joined Mr. Peterby. " This Mr. Daw must have some grounds 
 for urging the thing on ; he wouldn't be so stupid as to do so 
 if he had none." 
 
 " He has none," said Chattaway. 
 
 " Ah, but I am sure he has. But for being convinced of 
 this, do you suppose I should have come to you now, asking 
 you to give up an estate which you have so long enjoyed ? I 
 assure you I came as much in your interests as in his. If there 
 is anything a-gate by which you can be disturbed, it is only 
 fair that you should knov/ of it." 
 
 Fair ! In Mr. Chattaway's frame of mind, he could scarcely 
 tell what was fair and what was not fair. The interview was 
 prolonged, but it brought forth no satisfactory conclusion. 
 Perhaps one could not be expected from it. Mr. Peterby took 
 his departure, fully impressed with the conviction that the 
 present owner of Trevlyn Hold would retain possession to the 
 end, would contest it inch by inch ; and as he walked down 
 the avenue he asked himself whether he had not been induced 
 to enter upon a foolish errand, in coming to suggest that it 
 should be voluntarily resigned. 
 
 The master of Trevlyn Hold watched him away, and then 
 opened the breakfast-room door, "Where's Rupert?" he 
 inquired, not seeing Rupert there. 
 
 "Rupert?" answered Mrs, Chattaway, looking up. "I
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY COME TO GRIEF. 235 
 
 think he has gone to Blackstone. . He wished me good morn- 
 ing ; and I saw him walk down the avenue." 
 
 All things seemed to be against Mr. Chattaway. Here was 
 Rupert out of sight now ; it was hard to say where he might 
 have gone, or what mischief he might be in. As he turned 
 from the door, Cris Chattaway's horse — the unlucky new ,one 
 which had damaged the dog-cart — was brought up, and Cris 
 appeared, prepared to mount him. 
 
 " Where are you going, Cris ? " 
 
 " Nowhere in particular this morning," answered Cris. " I 
 have a nasty headache, and a canter may take it away." 
 
 " Then I'll ride your horse to Blackstone, if you don't want 
 him," returned Mr. Chattaway. " Alter the stirrups, Sam." 
 
 "Why, where's your own horse?" cried Cris, with a very 
 blank look. 
 
 " In the stable," shortly returned Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 He mounted the horse and rode away, his many cares per- 
 plexing him. A hideous wall separating him from all good 
 fortune seemed to be rising up round about him ; and the 
 catastrophe he so dreaded — a contest between himself and 
 Rupert Trevlyn for possession of the Hold — appeared to be 
 drawing within the range of probability. In the gloomy 
 prospect before him, only one loophole of escape presented 
 itself to his imagination — the death of Rupert. 
 
 But you must not think worse of Mr. Chattaway than he 
 deserves. He did not deliberately contemplate any such 
 calamity ; he did not set himself to hope for it. The imagina- 
 tion is rebelliously evil, often uncontrollable ; and the thought 
 rose up unbidden and unwished for. Mr. Chattaway could not 
 help it ; he could not at first drive it away again ; the some- 
 what dangerous argument, " Were Rupert dead I should be 
 safe, and it is the only means by which I can feel assured of 
 safety," did linger with him longer than was expedient : but he 
 never for one moment contemplated the possibility as likely to 
 take place ; most certainly it never occurred to him that he 
 could be accessory to it. Though not a good man, especially 
 in the way of temper and covetousness, Mr, Chattaway would 
 have started with horror from himself had he supposed he 
 could ever be so bad as that. 
 
 He rode swiftly along in the charming autumn morning, 
 urging his horse to a hard gallop. W^as his haste merely 
 caused by his anxiety to be at Blackstone, or that he would 
 escape from his own thoughts ? He rode directly to the coal
 
 236 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 mine, up to the mouth of the pit. Two or three men, looking 
 like blackamoors, were standing about there. 
 
 " Why are you not down at work ? " angrily demanded Mr. 
 Chattaway. " What do you do idling here ! " 
 
 They had been waiting for Pennet, the men replied. But 
 word had just been brought that Pennet was not coming. 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked Mr. Chattaway. " Skulking again ? " 
 
 " I dunna think he be skulking, sir," was the reply of one. 
 " He be bad a-bed." 
 
 An angry frown darkened Mr. Chattaway's countenance. 
 Truth to say, this man, Pennet, though a valuable workman 
 from his great strength, his perseverance when in the pit, did 
 occasionally absent himself from it, to the wrath of his over- 
 seers ; and Mr. Chattaway knew that the words " bad a-bed " 
 might be only an excuse for taking a holiday in the drinking 
 shop. 
 
 " I'll soon see that," he cried. " Bring that horse back. If 
 Pennet is skulking, I'll discharge him this very day." 
 
 He had despatched his horse round to the stable by a man ; 
 but he now mounted him again, and was riding away, after 
 ordering the men down to their work, when he stopped to ask 
 a question respecting one of his overseers. 
 
 " Is Bean down the shaft ? " 
 
 No ; the men thought not: They believed he was round at 
 the office. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned his horse's head towards the office, 
 and galloped off, reining in at the door. The clerk Ford and 
 Rupert Trevlyn both came out. 
 
 "Oh, so you have got here!" ungraciously grunted Mr. 
 Chattaway to Rupert. " I want Bean." 
 
 " Bean's in the pit, sir," replied Ford. 
 
 " The man told me he was not in the pit," returned Mr. 
 Chattaway. " They said he was here." 
 
 " Then they knew nothing about it," observed Ford. " Bean 
 has been down in the pit all the morning." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned to Rupert. " You go down the shaft 
 and tell Bean to come up. I want him." 
 
 He rode off as he spoke, and Rupert departed for the pit. 
 The man Pennet lived in a hovel, one of many, about a mile 
 and a half away. Chattaway, between haste and temper, was 
 in a heat when he arrived. A masculine-looking woman with 
 tangled hair came out to salute him. 
 
 <* Where's Pennet ? "
 
 MR. CHATTAWAY COME TO GRIEF. 237 
 
 " He's right bad, master." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's lip curled. " Bad from drink?" 
 
 " No," replied the woman, defiantly ; for the owner of the 
 mine was held in no favour, and this woman was of too inde- 
 pendent a nature to conceal her sentiments when provoked. 
 " Bad from rheumatiz." 
 
 He got off his horse, rudely pushed her aside, and went in. 
 Pennet was dressed, but was lying on a wooden settle, as the 
 benches were called in that district. 
 
 " I be too bad for the pit to-day, sir ; I be, indeed. This 
 rheumatiz have been a-flying about me for weeks ; and now it's 
 a-settled in my loins, and I can't stir." 
 
 " Let's see you walk," responded Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Pennet got off the bench, it seemed with difiticulty, and 
 walked across the brick floor slowly, his arms behind him. 
 
 "I thought so," said Mr. Chattaway. "I knew you were 
 skulking. You are as well able to walk as I am. Be off to the 
 pit." 
 
 The man lifted his face. "If you was in the pain I be, 
 master, you wouldn't say so. I mote drag myself down to 'im, 
 but I couldn't work." 
 
 "We will see that," said Mr. Chattaway, in his determined 
 manner, " You'll work to-day, my man, or you'll never work 
 again for me : so you may take your choice." 
 
 There was a pause. Pennet looked irresolute, the woman 
 bitter Perhaps what these people hated most of all in 
 Chattaway was his personal interference, his petty tyranny. 
 What he was doing now — looking up the hands — was the work 
 of an overseer ; not of the owner. 
 
 " Come," he authoritatively repeated. " I shall see you start 
 before me. We are too busy for half of you to be basking in 
 idleness. Are you going, Pennet ? You work to-day, or you 
 leave the pit, just which you please." 
 
 The man glanced at his children — a ragged little group, 
 cowering in silence in a corner, awed by the presence of the 
 master ; took his cap without a word, and limped slowly away, 
 though apparently scarcely able to drag one foot before the 
 other. 
 
 " Where be your bowels of compassion ? " cried the woman, 
 in her audacity, placing herself before Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 *' I know where my whip will be if you don't get out of my 
 way and change your tone," was his answer. " What do you 
 mean, woman, by speaking so to me ? "
 
 238 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "Them as have no compassion for their men, but treads 'em 
 down like so many beasts o' burden, may come, perhaps, to 
 be treaded down themselves," was the woman's retort, as she 
 withdrew out of Mr. Chattaway's vicinity. 
 
 He made no answer, except that he lifted his whip signifi- 
 cantly. As he rode off, he saw Pennet pursuing his way to 
 the mine by the nearest path — one inaccessible to horses. 
 When he was parallel with the man, he lifted his whip as 
 significantly at him as he had done at the wife, and then urged 
 his horse to a gallop. It was a busy day with them, both in 
 the office and in the mine ; and Chattaway, taking as you 
 perceive a somewhat practical part in his affairs, had wished to 
 be present some two hours before. Consequently, these 
 delays had not improved his temper. 
 
 About midway between the Pennets' hut and the mine, 
 were the decaying walls of what had once been a shed Part 
 of the wall was still standing, about breast high. It lay right 
 in Mr. Chattaway's way : one single minute given to turning 
 either to the right or the left, and he would have avoided it. 
 But he saw no reason for avoiding it : he had leaped it often : 
 it was not likely that he would in his hurry turn from it now. 
 
 He urged his horse to it, and the animal was in the very act 
 of taking the leap, when a sudden obstacle interposed. A 
 beggar man, who had been quietly ensconced on the other 
 side, basking in the sun and eating his dinner, heard the 
 movement, and not wishing to be run over or leaped upon, 
 started up to fly from danger. The movement, so close and 
 sudden, startled the horse, causing him to strike the wall 
 instead of clearing it : he fell, and his master with him. 
 
 The horse was not hurt, and soon found its legs. If the 
 animal had misbehaved himself a few days previously, under 
 the hands of Mr. Cris, he appeared determined to redeem his 
 character now. He stood patient and silent, turning his head 
 to Mr. Chattaway, as if waiting for him to get up. 
 
 Which that gentleman strove to do. But he found he could 
 not. Something was the matter with one of his ankles, and he 
 was in a towering passion. The offending beggar scuttered off, 
 frightened at his unbounded rage, his threats of vengeance. 
 
 The intemperate words of passion did him no good ; you 
 may be very sure of that ; they never do any one good. For 
 more than an hour Mr. Chattaway lay there, his horse patiently 
 standing by him, and no one coming to his aid. It would 
 have seemed to him that he lay three times as long, but that he
 
 MR. CHATTAWA.Y COME TO GRIEF.' 239 
 
 had his watch, and could consult it as often as he pleased. It 
 was an unfrequented by-road, leading nowhere in particular, 
 except to the hovels; and Mr. Chattaway had therefore full 
 benefit of the solitude. 
 
 The first person to come up was no other than Mrs. Pennet 
 — Mogg Pennet, as she was familiarly called. Her tall, gaunt 
 form came striding along, and her large eyes grew larger as she 
 saw who was lying there. 
 
 " Ah, master ! what's it your turn a'ready ! Have you been 
 there ever sin' ? Can't you get up ? ' 
 
 "Find assistance," he cried in a curt tone of authority. 
 "Mount my horse sideways, and you'll go the quicker." 
 
 " Na, na ; I mount na horse. The brute might be a-flinging 
 me, as it seems he ha' flinged you. Women and horses be best 
 apart. Shall I help you up ? " 
 
 His haughty, ill-conditioned spirit would have prompted him 
 to say " No ; " his helplessness and impatience obliged him to 
 say " Yes." The powerful woman took him by the shoulders 
 and raised him. So far, so good. But his ankle gave him 
 intense pain ; was, in short, almost useless ; and a cry escaped 
 him. In his agony, he flung her rudely from him Avith Lis 
 elbow. " Go and get assistance, woman." 
 
 " Be that'n the thanks I get ? Ah ! it be coming home to 
 ye, be it ! Ye sent my man off to work in pain ; he couldn't 
 hardly crawl, he couldn't : how d'you like pain yerself ? If the 
 leg's broke, Squire, you'll ha' time to lie and think on't." 
 
 She strode on, Mr. Chattaway sending an ugly word after 
 her, and soon came in sight of the mine — which appeared to 
 be in an unusual bustle. A crowd was collected round the 
 mouth of the pit, and people were running to it from all 
 quarters. Loud talking, gesticulating, confusion prevailed : 
 what could be the cause of it ? 
 
 "Happen they be looking for him as is lying yonder!" 
 quoth she. But scarcely were the words out of her mouth 
 when a group of women running, frantically throwing their 
 arms up, filling the air with their cries and lamentations, came 
 in sight. Her coarse face grew white and her heart turned 
 sick as the fatal truth burst upon her conviction. There had 
 been an accident in the mine J
 
 240 . TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 WHO WAS DOWN THE SHAFT? 
 
 It was only too true. Whether from fire-damp, the rushing in 
 of water, or some other cause of mischief to which coal-pits are 
 liable, was as yet scarcely known : nothing was certain except 
 the terrible calamity itself. Of the men who had gone down 
 the mine that morning, some were dead, others dying. Mogg 
 Pennet echoed the shrieks of the women as she flew forward 
 and pushed herself through the crowd collected round the 
 mouth of the pit. The same confusion prevailed there that 
 prevails in similar scenes of distress and disaster elsewhere. 
 
 "And Mr. Chattaway himself was down the shaft, you say? 
 He went down this morning? My friends, it is altogether an 
 awful calamity." 
 
 The woman pushed in yet further and confronted the speaker, 
 with her white face, its lips drawn with mental anguish. He 
 was the minister of a dissenting chapel near, a Mr. Lloyd, and 
 was well known to the miners, some of whom went regularly 
 to hear him preach. 
 
 " No, sir ; Chattaway was na down the shaft ; he is na one of 
 the dead, more luck to him," she said, her words brought out 
 brokenly, her bosom heaving. " Chattaway have this morning 
 made me a widda and my young children fatherless. My man 
 was stiff with rheumatiz, he was — no more fit to go to work 
 nor I be to go down that shaft and carry up his poor murdered 
 body. I knowed his errand as soon as I heerd his horse's 
 feet. He made him get off the settle, and he druv him out to 
 work as he'd drive a dog ; and when I told him of his hardness, 
 he lifted up his whip agin me. Yes ! Pennet's down with the 
 rest of 'em; sent by him : and I be a lone widda." 
 
 " Her says right," interposed a voice, breaking the pause 
 which the words had caused. " It wasn't the master as went 
 down the shaft ; it were young Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 " Rupert Trevlyn," uttered the minister in startled tones. 
 " I hope he is not down." 
 
 "Yes, he's down, sir." 
 
 " But where can Mr. Chattaway be ? " exclaimed Ford the 
 clerk, who made one of the throng. " Do you know, Mogg 
 Pennet?"
 
 WHO WAS DOWN THE SHAFT? 241 
 
 " He's where ill-luck have overtook him for his cruelty to 
 us," answered Mogg Pennet, flinging her hair from her sorrow- 
 ful face. "I telled him the ill he forced on others might 
 happen come home to him — that he might soon be lying' in 
 his pain, for aught he knew. And he went right off to the ill 
 then and there — and he's a-lying in it." 
 
 The sympathies of the hearers were certainly not given to 
 Mr. Chattaway. He was no favourite with his poor depen- 
 dents at Blackstone, any more than he was with his neighbours 
 around the Hold. But the woman's words were strange, and 
 they pressed for an explanation. 
 
 " He be lying under the wall o' the old ruin," was her reply. 
 " I come upon him there, and I guess his brave horse had flung 
 him. When I'd ha' lifted him, he cried out with pain— as my 
 poor man was a-crying ih the night with his back— and I saw 
 him lay hisself down again after I'd left him. And Chattaway, 
 he swore at me for my help— and you can go to him and be 
 swored at too ! Happen his leg be broke." 
 
 The minister turned away to seek Mr. Chattawa}'. Unless 
 completely disabled, it was necessary that he should be at the 
 scene ; no one of any particular authority was there to give 
 orders ; and the inevitable confusion attendant on such a 
 calamity was thereby much increased. Ford the clerk sped 
 after Mr. Lloyd, and one or two stragglers followed him ; but 
 the rest were chained to the more exciting scene of the 
 disaster. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had raised himself when they reached him, 
 and was holding on by the wall. He broke into a storm of 
 explanation and grumbling, especially at Ford, and asked why 
 he could not have found him out sooner. As if Ford could 
 divine what had befallen him ! Mr. Lloyd stooped and touched 
 the ankle, which was a good deal swollen. It was sprained, 
 Chattaway said ; but he thought he could manage to get on 
 his horse with their assistance. He abused the beggar un- 
 mercifully, and expressed his intention of calling a meeting of 
 his brother-magistrates, that measures might be taken to rid 
 the country of tramps and razor-grinders ; and he finished up 
 in the heat of argument by calling the accident which had be- 
 fallen him a cursed misfortune. 
 
 " Hush ! " quietly interrupted Mr. Lloyd. " I should call it 
 a blessing." 
 
 Chattaway stared at him, and deemed that he was carrying 
 religion rather too far. As he looked, it struck him that both 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. "16
 
 242 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 of his rescuers wore very sad countenances ; Ford in particular 
 was excessively crestfallen, A sarcastic smile crossed his face. 
 
 " A blessing ! to have my ankle sprained, and to waste my 
 morning in this fashion ? Thank you, Mr. Lloyd ! You gentle- 
 men who have nothing better to do with your time than to 
 preach it away may think little of such an interruption, but to 
 men of business it is not agreeable. A blessing ! " 
 
 " Yes, I believe it to have come to you as such — sent direct 
 from God. Were you not going into the pit this morning?" 
 
 "Yes, I was," impatiently answered Mr. Chattaway. "I 
 should be there now, but for this — blessing ! I wish you would 
 not " 
 
 "Just so," interrupted Mr. Lloyd, calmly. "And this fall 
 has no doubt saved your life. There has been an accident in 
 tlie pit, and the poor fellows who went down a few hours ago 
 full of health and life, are about to be carried up dead." 
 
 The words brought Mr. Chattaway to his senses. " An acci- 
 dent ! " he repeated. " What accident ? — of what nature ? " he 
 added, turning hastily to Ford. 
 
 "Fire-damp, I believe, sir." 
 
 "Who was down ?" was the next eager question. 
 
 "The usual men, sir. And — and — Mr. Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 Chattaway with some difficulty repressed a shout. Idea after 
 idea crowded upon his brain, one chasing another. Foremost 
 amongst them rose distinctly the one thought of the morning 
 from which he had striven to escape and could not : " Nothing 
 can bring me security save the death of Rupert." Had the 
 thought, the half-encouraged Avish, brought on its realization ? 
 
 " Rupert Trevlyn down the shaft ! " he repeated, the moisture 
 breaking from every pore of his face. " I know he went down ; 
 I sent him ; but — but — did he not come up again ?" 
 
 "No," gloomily replied Ford, who really liked Rupert; "he 
 is down now. There's no hope that he'll come up alive." 
 
 Whether in his consternation he did not feel the ailments of 
 body, or that his ankle, from the rest it had had, was really less 
 painful than at first, Mr. Chattaway contrived to get pretty 
 comfortably to the scene of action. The crowd had increased ; 
 people were coming up from far and near. Medical men had 
 arrived, ready to give their services in case any sufferers were 
 brought up alive. One of them examined Mr. Chattaway's 
 ankle, and bound it up ; the hurt, he said, was only a tem- 
 porary one. 
 
 He, the owner of that pit, sat down on the side of a hand-
 
 WHO WAS DOWN THE SHAFT? 243 
 
 barrow, for he could not stand, and issued his orders in a sharp, 
 concise tone ; and the bodies began to be brought to the sur- 
 face. One of the first to appear was that of the unfortunate 
 man, Bean, to whom he had sent the message by Rupert. 
 Chattaway looked on, half dazed. Would Rupert's body be 
 the next ? He could not realize the fact that he, from whom 
 he had dreaded he knew not what, should soon be laid at his 
 feet, cold and lifeless. Was he glad or sorry ? Did grief for 
 Rupert predominate ? That there should be some sort of 
 grief for him who had grown up in his house was only natural, 
 even from Chattaway. Or did the intense relief that the death 
 must bring overpower any warmer feeling? Perhaps Mr. 
 Chattaway could not yet tell. 
 
 They were being brought up pretty quickly now, and were 
 laid on the ground beside him, to be recognized by the un- 
 happy relatives. The men to whom Chattaway had spoken 
 that morning were amongst them : he had ordered them down 
 as he rode off, and one and all had obeyed the mandate. Did 
 he regret their fate ? Did he compassionate the weeping wives 
 and children ? In a degree, perhaps, yes ; but not as most 
 men would have done, 
 
 A tall form interposed between him and the mouth of the 
 pit — that of IMogg Pennet She had been watching for a body 
 which had not yet been brought up. Suddenly she turned to 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " You have killed him, master ; you have made my children 
 orphans. But for your coming on in your hardness to drive 
 him out when he warn't fit to go, we should ha' had somebody 
 still to work for us. Happen you may have heered of a curse ? 
 I'd like to give ye one now." 
 
 " Somebody take this woman away," cried Mr. Chattaway. 
 "She'll be better at home." 
 
 "Ay, take her av.-ay," retorted Mogg; "don't let her plaints 
 be heered, lest folk might say they be just. Send her home to 
 her fatherless children, and send her dead man after her to lie 
 among 'em till he's buried. Happen, when you come to your 
 death, Mr. Chattaway, you'll have us all afore your mind, to 
 comfort you ! " 
 
 She stopped. Another ill-fated man was being drawn up, 
 and she turned to wait for it, her hands clenched, her face 
 white and haggard in its intensity. The burden came, and was 
 laid near the rest ; but it was not the one for which she was 
 waiting. Another woman darted forward ; she knew it too well;
 
 244 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and she clasped her hands round it, and sobbed in agony, 
 Mogg Pennet turned resolutely to the mouth of the pit again, 
 watching still. 
 
 " Be they all dead ? How many was down ? " 
 
 The voice came from behind Mogg Pennet, and she screamed 
 and started round. There stood her husband. How had he 
 escaped from the pit ? 
 
 " I haven't been a-nigh it," he answered. " I couldn't get 
 down to the pit, try as I would, without a rest, and I halted at 
 Green's. Who's dead among 'em, and who's alive ? " 
 
 " God be thanked ! " exclaimed Mogg Pennet, with a sob. 
 
 All Mr. Chattaway's faculties were strained on the mouth of 
 that yawning pit, and what it might yield up. As body after 
 body was brought to the surface — seven of them were up now 
 — he cast his anxious looks upon it, expecting to recognize 
 the fair face, the silken hair of Rupert Trevlyn. Expecting 
 and yet dreading — don't think him worse than he was ; with 
 the frightened, half-shrinking dread ordinarily experienced by 
 women, or by men of nervous and timid temperament. So 
 utterly did this suspense absorb him as to make him almost 
 oblivious to the painful features of the scene, the wails of woe, 
 the bursts of lamentation. 
 
 Happening for a minute to turn his eyes from the pit, he saw 
 in the distance a pony-carriage approaching, which looked un- 
 commonly like that of Miss Diana Trevlyn. Instinct told him 
 that the two figures seated in it were his wife and Miss Diana, 
 although as yet he could not see whether they were women or 
 men. It was slowly winding down a distant hill, and would 
 have to ascend another and come over the flat stretch of 
 country ere it could reach them. He beckoned his clerk Ford 
 to him in a sort of terror, 
 
 " Run, Ford ! Make all speed. I think I see Miss 
 Trevlyn's pony-carriage yonder with the ladies in it. Don't let 
 them approach. Tell them to turn aside, to the office, and I'll 
 come to them. Anywhere; anywhere but here." 
 
 Ford ran with all his might. He met the carriage just at 
 the top of the nearest hill, and unceremoniously laid his hand 
 upon the pony, giving Mr. Chattaway's message as well as his 
 breathless state would allow — begging that they would turn 
 aside and not approach the pit. 
 
 It was evident that they were strangers as yet to the news, 
 but the crowd and excitement round the pit had been causing 
 them apprehension and a foreshadowing of the truth. Miss
 
 A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 245 
 
 Diana, paying, as it appeared, little heed to the message, ex- 
 tended her whip in the direction of the scene. 
 
 " I see what it is, Ford. Don't beat about the bush. How 
 many were down the shaft ? " 
 
 " A great many, ma'am," was Ford's reply. " The pit was in 
 full work to-day." 
 
 " Was it fire-damp ? " 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway's safe, you say ? He was not down ? I 
 suppose he was not likely to be down ? " 
 
 " No," answered Ford. But the thought of Mr. Chattaway's 
 accident from another source, which he did not know whether 
 to disclose or not, and the consciousness of a worse calamity, 
 caused him to speak hesitatingly. ]\Iiss Diana was quick of 
 apprehension, and it awoke it. 
 
 " Was any one down the shaft besides the men ? Was — 
 Where's Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 Ford looked as if he dared not answer. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway caught the alarm. She half rose in the low 
 carriage, and stretched out her hands in a pleading attitude ; 
 as though Ford held the issues of life and death. 
 
 " Oh, speak, speak ! He was not down the shaft ! Surely 
 Rupert was not down the shaft ! " 
 
 " He had gone down but a short time before," said the 
 young man in a whisper — for where was the use of denying the 
 fact, now that they had guessed it ? " We shall all mourn him, 
 ma'am. I had almost as soon it had been me." 
 
 " Gone down the shaft but a short time before ! " mechani- 
 cally repeated Miss Diana in her horror. But she was inter- 
 rupted by a cry from Ford. Mrs. Chattaway had fallen back 
 on her seat in a fainting-fit. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 
 
 The brightness of the day was turning to gloom, as if the 
 heavens sympathized with the melancholy scene upon earth. 
 Quietly pushing his way through the confusion, the moans and 
 lamentations, the dense mass of human beings surrounding the 
 mouth of the pit, was a tall individual whose acquaintance you
 
 246 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 have made before. It was Mr. Daw with his red umbrella : 
 the latter an unvarying appendage, whether the sun was shining 
 or the clouds dropped rain. He went straight up to certain 
 pale faces lying there in a row, and glanced at them one by 
 one. 
 
 " They are saying that Rupert Trevlyn is amongst the 
 sufferers," he observed to those nearest to him. 
 
 " So he is, master." 
 
 " I do not see him here." 
 
 " No ; he ain't up yet." 
 
 " Is there no hope that he may be brought to the surface 
 alive ? " 
 
 They shook their heads. " Not now. He have been down 
 too long. There's not a chance for him." 
 
 Something like emotion passed over Mr. Daw's features. 
 
 "How came he to be down the pit?" he asked. "Was it 
 his business to go down ? " 
 
 " Not in ord'nary. No : 'tworn't once in six months as there 
 was aught to take him there." 
 
 " Then what took him there to-day?" was Mr. Dav/'s next 
 question. 
 
 " The master sent him," replied the man, pointing towards 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Apparently Mr. Daw had not observed Mr. Chattaway 
 before, and he turned and walked towards him. Vexation at 
 the loss of Rupert — it may be surely called vexation rather 
 than grief, since he had not known Rupert sufficiently long 
 to love him — a loss so sudden and terrible, was rendering 
 Mr. Daw unjust. Chattaway's worst enemy could not fairly 
 blame that gentleman with reference to the fate of Rupert : 
 but Mr. Daw was in a hasty mood. 
 
 "Is it true that you sent Rupert Trevlyn down the shaft 
 only a few minutes before this calamity occurred ? " 
 
 The address and the speaker equally took Mr. Chattaway 
 by surprise. His attention was riveted on something then 
 being raised from the shaft, and he had not noticed the stranger. 
 Hastily turning his head, he saw, first the conspicuous red um- 
 brella, next its obnoxious and dangerous owner. 
 
 Ah, but no longer dangerous now. That terrible fear was 
 over for ever. With the first glimpse, Mr. Chattaway's face 
 had turned to a white heat, from the force of habit ; but the 
 next moment's reflection reassured him, and he retained his 
 equanimity.
 
 A SHOCK FOR MR. CH ATT AW AY. 247 
 
 " What did you say, sir ? " 
 
 " Was there no one else, Mr. Chattaway, to serve your turn, 
 but you must send down your wronged and unhappy nephew ? " 
 reiterated Mr. Daw, in a tone that penetrated to every ear. 
 '*' I have heard it said, since I came into this neighbourhood, 
 that Mr. Chattaway would be glad, if by some lucky chance 
 Squire Trevlyn's grandson and legal heir could be put out of 
 his path. It seems he has succeeded in accomplishing it." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's face grew dark and frowning. " Take care 
 what you say, sir, or you shall answer for your words. I ask 
 you what you mean." 
 
 "And I ask you — Was there no one you could despatch this 
 morning into that dangerous mine, then on the very eve of 
 exploding, but that helpless boy Rupert, who might not resist 
 your authority, and so went to his death ? Was there no one, 
 I ask?" 
 
 Mr. Daw's zeal was decidedly outrunning his discretion. It 
 is the province of exaggeration to destroy its cause, and the 
 unfounded charge — which, temperately put, might have inflicted 
 its sting — fell comparatively harmless on the ear of Mr. Chatta- 
 way. He could only stare and wonder — as if a proposition 
 liad been put to him in some foreign language. 
 
 "Why — bless my heart ! — are you mad? "he presently ex- 
 claimed. His tone was sufficiently equable. " Could / tell the 
 mine was going to explode ? Had but the faintest warning of 
 such a catastrophe reached me, do you suppose I should not 
 have taken measures to empty the pit of all human souls ? — ■ 
 ay, though it had been necessary to go down myself and face 
 the danger. I am as sorry for Rupert's fate as you can be : 
 but the blame is not mine. It is not any one's — unless it be 
 his own. There was plenty of time — time and again — for him 
 to leave the pit after he had delivered the message I sent him 
 down with, had he chosen to do so. But I suppose he stopped 
 gossiping with the men. This land belongs to me, sir. Unless 
 you have any business here, I must request you to leave it." 
 
 There was so much truth in what Mr. Chattaway urged that 
 the stranger began to be a little ashamed of his heat. " Never- 
 theless, it is a thorn removed from your path," he cried aloud. 
 " And you would have removed him from it yourself long ago, 
 could you have done it without sin." 
 
 A half murmur of assent arose from the crowd. The stranger 
 had hit the exact facts. Could the master of Trevlyn Hold 
 have removed Rupert Trevlyn from his path without "sin."
 
 248 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 .without danger or trouble, it had long ago been done. In 
 short, were it as easy to put some obnoxious individual out of 
 life, as it is to stow away an offending piece of furniture, Mr. 
 Chattaway had most assuredly not waited until now to rid him- 
 self of Rupert : and those listeners knew it, 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned his frowning face on the incautious 
 murmurers ; but before more could be said by any one, the 
 circle was penetrated by some new-comers, one of them in 
 distress of mind that could not be hidden or controlled. Mrs. 
 Chattaway having recovered from her apparent fainting-fit — 
 though in reality she had not lost consciousness, and her closed 
 eyes and intense paleness had led to the mistake — the pony- 
 carriage had been urged with all speed to the scene of action. 
 In vain the clerk Ford reiterated Mr. Chattaway's protest 
 against their approaching it. Miss Diana Trevlyn was not one 
 to attend against her will to the protests of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " I would have saved his life with my own ; I would have 
 gone down the shaft in his place had it been possible," wailed 
 poor Mrs. Chattaway, wringing her hands, and wholly for- 
 getting all the reticence usually imparted by the presence of 
 her husband. 
 
 Her grief was genuine; and the throng sympathized with 
 her almost as it did with those despairing women, weeping in 
 their new widowhood. But the neighbours had not to learn 
 now that Madam Chattaway loved her dead brother's children, 
 if her husband did not. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake don't take on so here ! " growled Mr. 
 Chattaway, in impotent anger. " Have you no sense of the 
 fitness of things ? " 
 
 But his wife, however meekly subservient at other times, was 
 not in a state for subservience then. She could not define the 
 sensations that oppressed her ; she only felt that all was over ; 
 the unhappy boy had gone from them for ever ; that the cruel 
 wrongs inflicted on him throughout life were now irreparable. 
 
 " He has gone with all our unkindness on his head," she 
 wailed, partially unconscious, no doubt, of what she said ; 
 "gone to meet his father, my poor lost brother, bearing to 
 him the tale of his wrongs ! Oh, if " 
 
 " Be silent, will you ? " shrieked Chattaway. " Are you 
 going mad, Edith ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway covered her face with her hands, and leaned 
 against the barrow on which her husband was sitting. Miss 
 Diana Trevlyn, who had been gathering various particulars.
 
 A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 249 
 
 from the crowd, who had said a word of comfort (though it 
 was Httle comfort they could Hsten to yet) to the miserable 
 women, came up at this moment to Chattaway. 
 
 " It was a very unhappy thing that you should have sent 
 Rupert into the pit this morning," she said, her face wearing 
 its most haughty severity. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " But I could not foresee what was 
 about to happen. It — it might have been Cris. Had Cris 
 been in the way at the time, and not Rupert, I should have 
 despatched him." 
 
 " Chattaway, I would give all my fortune to have him back 
 again. I " 
 
 A strange noise and shouting on the outskirts of the crowd 
 attracted their attention, and Miss Diana brought her sentence 
 to an abrupt conclusion, and turned sharply towards it, for the 
 shouts bore the sound of congratulation and triumph ; and a 
 few voices were half breaking into hurrahs. Strange sounds, 
 in that awful death-scene ! 
 
 Who was this advancing towards them? The crowd had 
 parted to give him place, and he came leaping to the centre, 
 all haste and excitement — a fair, gentlemanly young man, with 
 his silken curls uncovered, and his cheeks hectic with excitement. 
 Mrs. Chattaway cried aloud with a joyful cry, and her husband's 
 eyes and mouth slowly opened as though he saw a spectre. 
 
 It was Rupert Trevlyn. Rupert, it appeared, had not been 
 down the pit at all. Sufficiently obedient to Mr. Chattaway, 
 but not implicitly obedient to the letter, Rupert, when he 
 reached the pit's mouth, had seen the last of those men 
 descending whom Chattaway had imperiously ordered down, 
 and he sent the message to Bean by him. His chief induce- 
 ment was that he had just met a gentleman of his acquaintance 
 who had come to tell him of a pony for sale — for Rupert had 
 been making inquiries for one, having been commissioned to 
 do so by Miss Trevlyn. It required little pressing to induce 
 Rupert to abandon the office and Blackstone for some hours, 
 and start off to see this pony. And that was where he had 
 been. Mrs. Chattaway clasped her hands round his neck, in 
 utter defiance of her husband's prejudices, unremembered then, 
 and sobbed forth her emotion. 
 
 " Why, Aunt Edith, you never thought I was one of them, 
 did you ? Bless you ! I am never down the pit. I should 
 not be likely to fall into such a calamity as that. Poor fellows ! 
 I must go and ascertain who was there."
 
 250 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 The crowd, finding Rupert safe, broke into a cheer, and a 
 voice shouted — could it have been Mr. Daw's ? — " Long live 
 the heir ! long live young Squire Trevlyn ! " and the words 
 were taken up and echoed in the air. 
 
 And Mr. Chattaway? If you want me to describe his 
 emotions to you, I cannot do it. They were of a mixed 
 nature. We must not go so far as to say that he regretted to 
 see Rupert back in life ; that he did not feel any satisfaction 
 at his having escaped the dreadful fate ; but with his re- 
 appearance all the old fears returned. They returned tenfold 
 from the very fact of his short immunity from them, and the 
 audacious words of the crowd turned his face green. In con- 
 junction with the more audacious words previously spoken by 
 the stranger and the very demonstrative behaviour of his wife, 
 they were as a sudden blow to Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Those shouters saw his falling countenance, his changed 
 look, and drew their own conclusions. " Ah ! he'd put away 
 the young heir if he could," they whispered to one another. 
 " But he haven't got shut of him this time." 
 
 No ; INIr. Chattaway certainly had not. 
 
 " God has been merciful to your nephew," interposed the 
 peaceful voice of Mr. Lloyd, drawing near. " He has been 
 pleased to save him, though He has seen fit to take others. 
 We know not why it should be — that some should be struck 
 down, and others spared. His ways are not as our ways." 
 
 They lay there, a long line of them, and the minister pointed 
 with his finger as he spoke. Most of the faces looked calm 
 and peaceful. Oh ! were they ready ? Had they lived to 
 make God their friend ? Had they lived trusting in Christ 
 their Saviour ? My friends, this sudden call comes to others 
 as well as to miners : it behoves us all to be ready for it. 
 
 As the day drew on, the excitement did not lessen; and 
 Mr. Chattaway almost forgot the hurt, which he would have 
 made a great deal of at another time. But the ankle was con- 
 siderably swollen and inflamed, giving him pain still, and it 
 caused him to quit the scene for home earlier than he might 
 otherwise have done. 
 
 He left Cris in his place to superintend, to direct, to be 
 the controlling head and hand. Cris was not incompetent for 
 the task ; but he might have displayed a little more sympathy 
 with the sufferers without compromising his dignity. Cris had 
 arrived in much bustle and excitement at the scene of action, 
 putting eager questions about Rupert, as to how he came to
 
 A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 251 
 
 be down tlie shaft, and whether he was really dead. Tiie 
 report that he was dead had reached Cris Chattaway's ears at 
 some miles' distance, as it had reached those of many others. 
 
 It reached Maude Trevlyn's. The servants at Trevlyn Hold 
 heard it, and they foolishly went to Maude. "There had been 
 an explosion in the pit, and Master Rupert was amongst the 
 killed." Maude was as one stricken with horror. She did not 
 faint, did not cry ; she put on a shawl and bonnet mechanically, 
 as she would for any ordinary walk, and went out of the house 
 on her way to Blackstone. " Don't go, Maude ; it will only 
 be more painful to you," Octave had said in a kindly tone, as 
 she saw her about to depart ; but Maude went on as though 
 she heard not. She turned towards the fields, and bore 
 swiftly on with a dry eye and burning brow. As she was 
 jurning from the fields into the road, she met George Ryle. 
 
 " ^^'here are you going, Maude ? " 
 
 " Oh, George, don't stop me ! I had no one but him." 
 
 But George did stop her. He saw her countenance of 
 despair, and suspected what was wrong. Putting his arm 
 gently round her, he held her so that she should not go on. 
 Maude supposed he had heard the tidings, and was unwilling 
 that she should approach the terrible scene. 
 
 " Maude, my darling, be comforted. You have been hearing 
 the report that Rupert was a sharer in the calamity, as I heard 
 it ; but the report was a false one. Rupert is alive and well. 
 I am telling you the happy truth, ]\Iaude." 
 
 Overcome by emotion, IMaude leaned upon him and sobbed 
 out her tears ; tears more blissful than she had perhaps ever 
 shed. Mr. George would have had no objection to apply 
 himself to the task of soothing her until the shades of night 
 should fall ; but scarcely a minute had they so stood when an 
 interruption, in the shape of some advancing vehicle, was 
 heard. These envious interruptions will occur at the most 
 unwelcome moments, as perhaps your own experience may 
 enable you to bear witness to. 
 
 It proved to be the pony-carriage of Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 Mr. Chattaway with his lame foot sat beside her, and Mrs. 
 Chattaway occupied the groom's place behind. Miss Diana, 
 who chose to drive her own pou}'^, although she had a gentle- 
 man at hand, pulled up in surprise at the sight of Maude. 
 
 "I had heard that Rupert was killed," she explained, ad- 
 vancing to the carriage, her face still wet with tears. " But 
 George Ryle, whom I have just met, has told me the truth."
 
 252 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " And so you were starting for Blackstone ! " returned 
 Miss Diana. " Would it have done any good, child ? But 
 that is just like you, Maude. You will act upon impulse to the 
 end of life." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway bent forward with her sweetest smile. " He 
 is not injured, Maude ; he is on his way home, alive and well. 
 I am sorry that you should have heard what you did." 
 
 " It seems to me that the whole parish has heard it," 
 ejaculated Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 • Room was made for Maude beside Mrs. Chattaway, and the 
 pony-carriage went on. It had gone only a few paces when 
 the Reverend Mr. Daw came in sight. Was the man gifted 
 with ubiquity ! But an hour or two, as it seemed, and he had 
 been bearding Mr. Chattaway at the mine. He lifted his hat 
 as he passed, and Miss Diana and Maude bowed in return. 
 He did not approach the carriage, or attempt to stop it ; but 
 went on with long strides, as does one in a hurry. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, who had never looked towards the man, 
 never moved a muscle of his face, turned his head to steal a 
 glance at him when he deemed he was at a safe distance. 
 There stood Mr. Daw, talking to George Ryle, one hand 
 stretched out in the heat of argument, the other grasping the 
 red umbrella, which was turned over his shoulder. 
 
 " Treason, treason ! " mentally ejaculated the master of 
 Trevlyn Hold, and he raised his handkerchief to wipe the 
 moisture that was gathering on his face. " How I might have 
 laughed at them now, if — if — if that had turned out to be true 
 about Rupert ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN. 
 
 From ten days to a fortnight went by, and affairs were resuming 
 their ordinary routine. All outward indications of the accident 
 at the pit were gone ; the bodies of the poor sufferers were 
 buried ; the widows, mothers, orphans, had begun to realize 
 their destitution. It was not all quite done with, however. 
 The inquest, adjourned from time to time, was not yet con- 
 cluded ; and popular feeling ran high against Mr. Chattaway. 
 Certain precautions, having reference to the miners' safety,
 
 THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN. 253 
 
 which ought to have been observed in the pit, had not been 
 observed ; and hence the calamity had arisen. Other owners 
 of mines in the vicinity had caused these precautions to be put 
 in use long ago ; but Mr. Chattaway, whether from inertness, 
 or regard to expense, had not done so. People spoke out 
 freely now, not only in asserting that these means of safeguard 
 must no longer be delayed — and of that Mr. Chattaway was 
 himself sensible, in a disbelieving, sullen sort of way — but also 
 that it was incumbent on him to do something for the widows 
 and orphans. A most distasteful hint to a man of so near a 
 disposition as Mr. Chattaway. Miss Diana Trevlyn had gone 
 down to the desolate homes and rendered them glad with her 
 bounty ; but to make anything like a permanent provision for 
 them was Mr. Chattaway's business, and not hers. The sufferers 
 believed that Mr. Chattaway was not likely to make even the 
 smallest for them ; and they were not far wrong. His own 
 hurt, the sprained ankle, had speedily recovered, and was now 
 well again. 
 
 And the officious stranger, and his interference for the 
 welfare of Rupert ? That also was falling to the ground, and he, 
 Mr. Daw, was now on the eve of departure. However well 
 meant these efforts of his had been, they could only be impotent 
 in the face of Squire Trevlyn's will. Mr. Daw himself was at 
 length convinced of the fact, and he began to doubt whether 
 his zeal had not outrun his discretion. Messrs. Peterby and 
 Jones angrily told him that it had, when he acknowledged, in 
 answer to their imperative question, that he had had no grounds 
 whatever to go upon, save goodwill to Rupert. Somewhat of 
 this changed feeling may have prompted him to call at Trevlyn 
 Hold to pay a farewell visit of civility ; which he did do, and 
 got into hot water. 
 
 He asked for Miss Diana Trevlyn. But Miss Diana 
 happened to be out, and Octave, who was seated at the piano 
 when he was shown in, whirled round upon the stool in anger. 
 She had taken the most intense dislike to this officious man : 
 possibly a shade of the same dread which filled her father's 
 heart had penetrated hers. 
 
 " Miss Trevlyn ! If Miss Trevlyn were at home, she would 
 not receive you," was her haughty salutation, as she rose from 
 her stool. " It is impossible that you can be received at the 
 Hold. Unless I am mistaken, sir, you had an intimation of 
 this from Squire Chattaway." 
 
 "My visit, young lady, was not to Mr. Chattaway, but to
 
 254 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Miss Treviyn. So long as the Hold is Miss Trevlyn's resi- 
 dence, her friends must call at it — although it may happen to 
 be also that of Mr. Chattaway. I am sorry she is out : I wish 
 to say a word to her before my departure. I leave to-night for 
 good." 
 
 " And a good thing too," said angry Octave, forgetting her 
 manners. But this answer had not conciliated her, especially 
 the very pointed tone with which he had called her father Mr. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 vShe rang the bell loudly to recall the servant. She did not 
 ask him to sit, but stood with her finger pointed to the door ; 
 and Mr. Daw had no resource but to obey the movement and 
 go out — somewhat, it must be confessed, ignominiously. 
 
 In the avenue he met Miss Treviyn, and she was more civil 
 to him than Octave had been. " I leave to-night," he said to 
 her. " I go back to my residence abroad, never in all proba- 
 bility again to quit it. I should have been glad to serve poor 
 Rupert by helping him to his rights — Miss Treviyn, I cannot 
 avoid calling them so — but I find the law and Mr. Chattaway 
 are stronger than my wishes. It was, perhaps, foolish of me 
 ever to take up the notion, and I feel half inclined to apologize 
 to Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " Of all visionary notions, that was about the wildest I ever 
 heard of," said Miss Diana. 
 
 "Yes ; one utterly vain and useless. I see it now. I do not 
 the less feel Rupert Trevlyn's position, you must understand ; 
 the injustice dealt out to him lies with as keen a sense on my 
 mind as it ever did : but I do see how hopeless, and on my 
 part how foolish, was any attempt at remedy. 1 should be 
 willing to say this to Mr. Chattaway if I saw him, and to tell 
 him I had done with it for ever. Mr. Freeman hints • to me 
 that I was not justified in thus attempting to disturb, the peace 
 of a family, and he may be right. But, Miss Treviyn, may I 
 ask you to be kind to Rupert } " 
 
 Miss Treviyn threw back her head. " I have yet to learn 
 that I am not kind to him, sir." 
 
 " I mean with a tender kindness. I fancy I see in him 
 indications of the same disease that was so fatal to his father. 
 It has been on my mind to invite him to go back home with 
 me, and try what the warmer climate may do for him ; but the 
 feeling (amounting almost to a prevision) that the result in his 
 case would be the same as it was in his father's, withholds 
 me, I should not like to take him out to die : neither would
 
 THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN. 255 
 
 I charge myself with the task of nursing one in a fatal 
 malady." 
 
 " You are very good," said Miss Diana, somewhat stiffly. 
 " Rupert will do well where he is, I have no doubt : and for 
 myself, I do not anticipate any such illness for him. I wish 
 you a pleasant journey, Mr. Daw." 
 
 " Thank you, madam. I leave him to your kindness. It 
 seems to me only a duty I owe to his dead father to mention 
 to you that he may need extra care and kindness ; and there's 
 none so fitting to bestow it upon him as you — the guardian 
 appointed by his mother." 
 
 " By the way, I cannot learn anything about that docu- 
 ment," resumed Miss Diana. " Mr. Chattaway says that it 
 never came to hand." 
 
 " Madam, it must have come to hand. If the letter in which 
 it was enclosed reached Trevlyn Hold, it is a pretty good proof 
 that the document also reached it. Mr. Chattaway must be 
 mistaken." 
 
 Miss Diana did not see how, unless he was wilfully mistaken 
 — was falsely denying the fact. "A thought struck me the other 
 day, which I wish to mention to you," she said aloud, quitting 
 the subject for a different one. " The graves of my brother and 
 his wife — are they kept properly in order ? " 
 
 " Quite so," he answered. " I see to that." 
 
 " Then you must allow me to repay to you any expense you 
 may have been put to. I " 
 
 " Not so," he interrupted. " There is no expense — or none 
 to speak of. The ground was purchased for ever, a perpetiiitc, 
 as we call it over there, and the shrubs planted on the site re- 
 quire little or no care to keep them in order. Now and then I 
 do a half-day's work there myself, for the love of my lost friends. 
 Should you ever travel so far — and I should be happy to wel- 
 come you — you will find their last resting-place well attended 
 to, Miss Trevlyn." 
 
 " I thank you much," she said in heartier tones, as she held 
 out her hand, "And I regret now that circumstances have 
 prevented my extending hospitality to you." 
 
 And so they parted amicably. And the great ogre which Mr. 
 Chattaway had feared would eat him up, had subsided into a 
 very harmless man indeed. Miss Diana stepped on to the Hold, 
 deciding that her respected brother-in-law tuas a booby for having 
 been so easily frightened into terror. 
 
 As Mr. Daw passed the lodge, old Canham was airing him-
 
 256 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 self at the door, Ann being out at work. The gentleman 
 stopped. 
 
 " You were not here when I passed just now," he said. " I 
 looked in at the window, and opened the door, but could see 
 no one." 
 
 • " I was in the back place, maybe, sir. When Ann's absent, 
 I has to get my own meals, and wash up my cups and things." 
 
 " I must say ferewell to you. I leave to-night." 
 
 " Leave the place ! What, for good, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Daw. " In a week's time from this, 1 
 hope to be comfortably settled in my own home, some hundreds 
 of miles away." 
 
 " And Master Rupert ? and the Hold ? " returned old Canham, 
 the corners of his mouth considerably drawn down. " Is he to 
 be rei'stated in it?" 
 
 Mr. Daw shook his head, " I did all I could, and it did not 
 succeed : I can do no more. My will is good enough — as I 
 think I have proved ; but I have no power." 
 
 " Then it's all over again, sir — dropped through, as may be 
 said ? " 
 
 " It has." 
 
 Old Canham leaned heavily on his crutch, lost in thought. 
 "It won't drop for ever, sir," he presently raised his head to 
 say. " There have been something within me a long, long while, 
 a whispering that Master Rupert's as safe to come to his own 
 afore he dies, as that I be to go into my grave. When this stir 
 took place, following on your arrival here, I thought the time 
 had come then. It seems it hadn't ; but come it zvi7/, as sure 
 as that I be saying it — as sure as that he's the true heir of Squire 
 Trevlyn." 
 
 " I hope it will," was the warm answer. " You will none of 
 you rejoice in it more truly than I. My friend Freeman has 
 promised to write occasionally to me, and " 
 
 Mr. Daw was interrupted. Riding his shaggy pony in at the 
 lodge gate — a strong, brisk little Welsh animal bought a week 
 ago for him by Miss Diana, was Rupert himself Upon how 
 slender a thread do the great events of life turn ! The reflec- 
 tion is so trite that it seems the most unnecessary reiteration to 
 repeat it ! but there are times when it is brought to the mind 
 with an intensity that is positively startling. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, by the merest accident — as it appeared to 
 him — had forgotten a letter that morning when he went to 
 Blackstone. He had written it before leaving home, intending
 
 THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN. 257 
 
 ■ to post it on his road, but left it on his desk. It was drawing 
 towards the close of the afternoon before he remembered it. 
 He then ordered Rupert to ride home as fast as possible and 
 post it, so that it might be in time for the evening mail. And 
 this Rupert had now come to do. All very simple, you will 
 say : but I can tell you that but for the return of Rupert Trevlyn 
 at that hour, the most tragical part of this history would in all 
 probability never have taken place, and you must have gone 
 without the cream of the story. 
 
 "The very man 1 was wishing to see !" exclaimed Mr. Daw, 
 arresting Rupert and his pony in their career. "I feared I 
 should have to leave without wishing you good-bye." 
 
 "Are you going to-day?" asked Rupert. 
 
 "To-night. You seem in a hurry." 
 
 " I am in a hurry," replied Rupert, as he explained about the 
 letter. " If I don't make haste, I shall lose the post." 
 
 "But I want to talk to you a bit. Do you go back to 
 Blackstone ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; not to-day." 
 
 "Suppose you come in to the parsonage for an hour or two 
 this evening ? " suggested Mn Daw. " Come to tea. I am 
 sure they'll be glad to see you." 
 
 " All right ; I'll come," cried Rupert, cantering off. 
 
 But a few minutes, and he cantered down again, the letter in 
 his hand. Old Canham was alone then. Rupert looked to- 
 wards him, and nodded as he went past. There was a receiving- 
 house for letters at a solitary general shop, not far beyond 
 Trevlyn Farm, and to this Rupert went, posted the letter, and 
 returned to Trevlyn Hold. Sending his pony to the stable, he 
 began to put himself to rights for his visit to Mr. Freeman's — 
 a most ill-fated visit, as it was to turn out. 
 
 They took tea at the parsonage at six, as he knew, and he 
 had to hasten to be in time. He had made his scanty dinner, 
 as usual, at Blackstone. In descending the stairs from his 
 room, he encountered Mrs. Chattaway in the lower corridon 
 
 "Are you going out, Rupert? " 
 
 " I am going to the parsonage, Aunt Edith. Mr. Daw leaves 
 this evening, and he asked me to go in for an hour or two." 
 
 "Very well. Remember me kindly to Mrs-. Freeman. And, 
 Rupert — my dear " 
 
 " What?" he asked, arresting his hasty footsteps and turning 
 to speak. 
 
 " You will not be late ? " 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 17
 
 25S TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "No, no," he answered, his careless tone a contrast to her 
 almost solemn one. " It's all right, Aunt Edith." 
 
 But for that encounter with Mrs. Chattaway, the Hold would 
 have been in ignorance of Rupert's movements that evening. 
 He spent a very pleasant one. It happened that George Ryle 
 called in also at the parsonage on Mr. Freeman, and was 
 induced to remain. Mrs. Freeman was hospitable, and put 
 before them a good supper, to which Rupert at least did 
 justice. 
 
 The up-train was due at Barbrook station at ten o'clock, 
 and George Ryle and Rupert accompanied Mr. Daw to it. The 
 parson did not : he did not care to go out at night, unless 
 called forth by duty. They reached the station five minutes 
 before the hour, and Mr. Daw took his ticket and waited for 
 the train. 
 
 Waited a long time. Ten o'clock struck, and the minutes 
 went on and on. George, who was pacing the narrow platform 
 with him, drew Rupert aside and spoke. 
 
 " Should you not get back to the Hold ? Chattaway may 
 lock you out again." 
 
 " Let him," carelessly answered Rupert. " I shall get in 
 somehow, I dare say." 
 
 It was not George's place to control Rupert Trevlyn, and 
 they paced the platform as before, talking with Mr. Daw. Half- 
 past ten, and no train ! The porters stood about, looking and 
 wondering ; the station-master was fidgety : he wanted to get 
 home to bed." 
 
 "Will it come at all?" asked Mr. Daw, whose patience 
 appeared exemplary. 
 
 "Oh, it '11 come, safe enough," was the reply of one of the 
 two porters. " It never keeps its time, this train don't : but it's 
 not often as late as this." 
 
 " Why does it not keep its time ? " 
 
 " 'Cause it have got to wait at Layton's Heath for a cross- 
 train ; and if that don't keep its time — and it never do — this un 
 can't." 
 
 With which satisfactory explanation, the porter made a dash 
 into a shed, and appeared to be busy with what looked like a 
 collection of dark lanthorns. 
 
 " I shall begin to wish I had taken my departure this after- 
 noon, as I intended, if this delay is to be much prolonged," 
 l-emarked Mr. Daw. 
 
 Kvcn as he spoke, there were indications of the arrival of the
 
 THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN. 259 
 
 train. At twenty minutes to eleven it came up, and tlie station- 
 master gave some sharp words to the guard. The guard returned 
 them in kind ; its want of punctuaHty was not his fault. IMr. 
 Daw took his seat, and George and Rupert hastened away to 
 their respective homes. But it was nearly eleven o'clock, and 
 Rupert, in spite of his boasted bravery, did fear the wrath of 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 The household had retired to their rooms, but that gentleman 
 was sitting up, looking over some accounts. The fact of Rupert's 
 absence was known to him, and he experienced a grim satisfoc- 
 tion in reflecting that the keys were turned upon him — that he 
 was locked out for the night. It is impossible for me to explain 
 to you why this should have imparted satisfaction to the mind 
 of Mr. Chattaway; there are things in this world not easily 
 explained, and you must be contented with the simple fact that 
 it was so. 
 
 But Mrs. Chattaway ? She had gone to her chamber sick 
 and trembling, feeling that the old trouble was about to be 
 renewed this night. If the lad was not allowed to come in, 
 where could he go? where find a shelter? Could she let him 
 in, was the thought that hovered in her mind. She would, if 
 she could accomplish it without the knowledge of her husband. 
 And that might be practicable to-night, for he was shut up and 
 absorbed by those accounts of his. 
 
 Gently opening her dressing-room window, she watched for 
 Rupert : watched until her heart failed her. You know how 
 long the time seems in this sort of waiting. It appeared to her 
 that he was never coming— as it had recently appeared to Mr. 
 Daw, with regard to the train. The distant clocks were begin- 
 ning to chime eleven when he arrived. He saw his aunt ; saw 
 the signs that she made to him, and contrived to hear and 
 understand her whispered words. 
 
 "Creep round to the back-door, and I will let you in." 
 
 So Rupert crept softly round \ walking on the grass : and 
 Mrs. Chattaway crept softly down the stairs without a light, 
 undid the bolt of the door silently, and admitted Rupert. 
 
 " Thank you, dear Aunt Edith. I could not well help being 
 late. The train " 
 
 "Not a word, not a breath!" she interrupted, in a terrified 
 whisper, " Take off your boots, and go up to bed without noise." 
 
 Rupert obeyed her in silence. They stole upstairs, the one 
 after the other. Mrs. Chattaway turned into her room, and 
 Rupert went on and gained his.
 
 26o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 And the master of Trevlyn Hold, bending over his account- 
 books, knew nothing of the disobedience that had been enacted 
 towards him, but sat there expecting and expecting to hear 
 Rupert's ring echoing through the house. Better, far better 
 that he had heard it ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 
 
 The full light of day had not come, and the autumn night's 
 gentle frost lingered yet upon the grass, when the master of 
 Trevhn Hold rose from his uneasy couch. Things were trou- 
 bling him ; and when the mind is not easy, the night's rest is 
 apt to be disturbed. 
 
 That business of the mine explosion v.'as not over, neither 
 were its consequences to the pocket of Mr, Chattaway. The 
 old fear in regard to the succession, which for some days had 
 been comparatively buried, had broken out again in his mind, 
 he could not tell why or wherefore ; and the defiant disobedi- 
 ence of Rupert, not only in stopping out too late the previous 
 night, but in not coming in at all, angered him beyond every- 
 thing. Altogether, his bed had not been an easy one, and he 
 arose with the dawn unrefreshed. 
 
 It was not the fact of having slept little which got him up at 
 that unusually early hour ; that would rather have caused him 
 to lie the longer ; but necessity has no law, and he was obliged 
 to rise. A famous autumn fair, held at some fifteen miles' 
 distance, and which he never failed to attend, was the moving 
 power. His horse was to be ready for him, and he would ride 
 there to breakfast ; according to his annual custom. Down he 
 went ; sleepy, cross, gaping ; and the first thing he did was to 
 stumble over a pair of boots at the back-.loor. 
 
 The slightest thing would put Mr. Chattaway out when in his 
 present temper. For the matter of that, a slight thing would 
 put him out at any time. What business had the servants to 
 leave boots about in his way ? They knew he would be going 
 out at that back-door the first thing in the morning, on his way 
 to the stables. Mr. Chattaway gave the things a kick, unbolted 
 the door, and drew it open. Whose were they ? 
 
 Now that the light was admitted, he saw at a glance that they
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 261 
 
 were a gentleman's boots, not a servant's. Had Cris stolen in 
 by the back-door last night and left his boots there ? No ; Cris 
 came in openly at the front, came in early, before Mr. Chatta- 
 way went to bed. And — now that he looked more closely — 
 those boots were too small for Cris. 
 
 They were Rupert's ! Yes, undoubtedly they were Rupert's 
 boots. What brought them there? Rupert could not have 
 entered to leave them : he could not pass through thick walls 
 and barred-up doors. Mr. Chattaway, completely taken back, 
 stooped and stared at the boots as if they had been two curious 
 animals. 
 
 A faint noise interrupted him. It was the approach of the 
 first servant coming down to her day's work ; a brisk young 
 girl called Bridget, who acted as kitchenmaid. 
 
 " What brings these boots here ? " demanded Mr. Chattaway, 
 in the repelling tone he generally used to his servants. 
 
 Bridget advanced and looked at them. "They are Mr. 
 Rupert's, sir," answered she. 
 
 " I did not ask you whose they were : I can see that for my- 
 self. I asked what brought them here. These boots are dirty ; 
 they must have been worn yesterday." 
 
 " I suppose he must have left them here last night ; perhaps 
 he came in at this door," returned the girl, wondering what 
 business of her master's the boots could be. 
 
 "Perhaps he did not," retorted Mr. Chattaway. " He did 
 not come in at all last night." 
 
 "Oh yes, he did, sir. He's upstairs in bed now." 
 
 "Who's upstairs in bed?" rejoined Mr. Chattaway, believing 
 the girl was either mistaken or telling him a wilful untruth. 
 
 " Mr. Rupert, sir. ^^'asn't it him you were asking about?" 
 
 "Mr. Rupert is not upstairs in bed. How dare you say so 
 to my face ? " 
 
 " But he is," said the girl. " Leastways, unless he has gone 
 out of it this morning." 
 
 " Have you been into his room to see ? " demanded Mr. 
 Chattaway, in his ill-humour. 
 
 "No, sir, I have not ; it's not likely I should presume to do 
 such a thing. But I saw Mr. Rupert go into his room last 
 night ; so it's only natural to suppose he is there this morning." 
 
 The words confounded Mr. Chattaway. " You say you saw 
 Mr. Rupert go into his room last night ? You must have been 
 dreaming, girl." 
 
 " No, sir, I wasn't ; Im sure I saw him, I stepped on my
 
 262 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 gown and tore itas I was going up to bed last night, and I went 
 to the housemaid's room to borrow a needle and cotton to 
 mend it. I was going back across the passage with my candle 
 in my hand, when I saw Mr. Rupert at the end of the corridor 
 turning into his chamber." So far, true. But Bridget did not 
 think it necessary to add that she had remained a good half- 
 hour gossiping with the housemaid, before going back with the 
 needle and cotton. Mr. Chattaway, however, might have 
 guessed that, for he demanded to know the time, and Bridget 
 confessed that it had gone eleven. 
 
 Gone eleven ! The whole house, himself excepted, had gone 
 upstairs at half-past ten, and Rupert was then not in. How 
 had he got in ? Who had admitted him ? 
 
 " Which of you servants opened the door to him ? " thundered 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " I shouldn't think any of us did, sir. I can answer for me 
 and cook and Mary. We never heard Mr. Rupert ring at all 
 last night : and if we had heard him, we shouldn't have went 
 down to let him in after your forbidding it. I said to cook 
 when I got back to our room that Mr. Rupert had come in, 
 and she said she supposed master had opened the door to 
 him." 
 
 The girl was evidently speaking truth, and Mr. Chattaway 
 was thrown into perplexity. He believed as she did— that not 
 a servant would dare to go down and admit Rupert in the 
 face of his command to the contrary. Who had admitted 
 him ? Could it have been ]\Iiss Diana Trevlyn ? Scarcely. 
 Miss Diana, had she so taken it in her head, would have ad- 
 mitted him without the least reference to the feelings of Mr, 
 Chattaway J but then she would not have done it in secret. 
 Had it pleased Miss Diana to come down and admit Rupert, 
 she would have done it openly ; and what puzzled Mr. Chatta- 
 way more than anything, was the silence with which the ad- 
 mission had been accomplished. He had sat with his ears 
 open, and not the faintest sound had reached them. Was it 
 Maude ? No : he felt sure that Maude would be even more 
 chary than the servants of disobeying him. Then who was it? 
 A half-suspicion of his wife suggested itself to him, only to be 
 flung away the next moment. His submissive, timorous wife ! 
 She would be the last, he thought, to array herself against him. 
 
 But the minutes were getting on, and Mr. Chattaway had no 
 time to waste. The fair commenced early, its business being 
 generally over before mid-day. He went round to the stables,
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 263 
 
 ibund his horse ready for him, and rode away, the disobedience 
 he had just discovered fiUing his mind to the exclusion of every 
 other annoyance. 
 
 He soon came up with company. Riding out of the fold- 
 yard of Trevlyn l-arm as he passed it, came George Ryle and 
 his brother Treve. They were bound for the same place as 
 Mr. Chattaway, and the three horses fell in abreast. 
 
 "Are you going .'^" exclaimed Mr. Chattaway to Trevlyn, 
 some surprise in his tone. 
 
 " Of course I am," answered Treve. " There's always some 
 fun at Whitterbey fair. George is going to initiate me to-day 
 into the mysteries of buying and selling cattle." 
 
 "Against you set up for yourself? " remarked Mr. Chattaway, 
 some cynicism in his tone. 
 
 " Just so," said Treve, who detected it. " I hope you'll 
 find me as good a tenant as you have found George." 
 
 George was smiling. " He is about to settle down into a 
 steady-going farmer, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 "When?" asked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 George opened his mouth to speak, but appeared to hesitate. 
 
 He glanced at Trevlyn, as if w-aiting for the answer to come 
 from him. 
 
 " At once," said Treve, readily. " There's no reason why it 
 should not be told. I am home for good, Mr. Chattaway : I 
 don't intend to leave it again." 
 
 " And Oxford ? " returned Mr. Chattaway, surprised at the 
 news. "You had another term to keep." 
 
 " Ay, but I shall not keep it. I have had enough of Oxford. 
 One can't keep straight there, you know : there's no end of 
 expense to be gone into ; and my mother is tired of it." 
 
 " Tired of the bills," said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Yes. Not but that the paying them has been George's con- 
 cern, more than hers. No one can deny that it has been ; but 
 George is a good fellow, and he has not complained." 
 
 "Are there to be two masters on Trevlyn Farm ? " questioned 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " No," cried Treve, before George could speak. " I know 
 my place better, I hope, than to put my incompetent self above 
 George — whatever my mother may wish. So long as George 
 is on Trevlyn Farm, he is its sole master. But he is going to 
 leave us, he says." 
 
 Mr. Cliattaway turned to George, as if seeking confirmation 
 or denial to the words. " Yes," answered George, quietly ; '' I
 
 264 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 shall try to take a farm on my own account. You have one 
 soon to be vacant that I should like, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 "I have?" exclaimed Mr. Chattaway. "There's no farm 
 of mine likely to be vacant that would suit your pocket. You 
 can't mean that you are casting your ambitious eyes to the 
 Upland ? " he added, after a moment's pause. 
 
 "Yes, I am," replied George. "I must have a talk with 
 you about it. I should like the Upland Farm.'' 
 
 '• Why, it would take " 
 
 George did not wait to hear the conclusion of the 
 sentence. 
 
 They were at that moment passing the parsonage, and JNIr. 
 Freeman, in a velvet skull-cap and slippers, was leaning over 
 the gate. George turned to it, and checked his horse. 
 
 "Well, did he get safe off last night?" asked Mr. Freeman. 
 
 " Yes, at last. The train was forty minutes behind time." 
 
 " Ah ! it's a shame they don't arrange matters so as to make 
 that ten-o'clock train more punctual. Passengers have to be 
 there at ten o'clock, because once in a way it is up to time ; 
 and often they are kept waiting half-an-hour. Did you and 
 Rupert remain to see him off?" 
 
 "Yes," replied George. 
 
 "Then Rupert would be late home," observed the clergy- 
 man, turning to Mr. Chattaway, who had also reined in, and was 
 sitting all ears open. " I hope you excused him, IMr. Chatta- 
 way, under the circumstances." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway said something in answer, very indistinctly, 
 and the clergyman took it to imply that he had excused Rupert. 
 George said good morning, and turned his horse onwards ; 
 they must make good speed, unless they would be "a day too 
 late for the fair." 
 
 Not a syllable of the above conversation had Mr. Chattaway 
 understood ; it had been as Hebrew to him. He did not like 
 the allusion of the clergyman to his " excusing the lateness of 
 Rupert's return," for it proved that his harsh rule, touching 
 Rupert's entrance at night, had become public propert)^ 
 
 "I did not quite take Mr. Freeman," he said, turning 
 equably to George, and speaking in careless accents. " Were 
 you out last night with Rupert ? " 
 
 "Yes. We spent the evening at the parsonage with ]\Ir. 
 Daw, and then went to see him off by the ten-o'clock train. 
 It is a shame, as Mr. Freeman says, that the train is not made 
 to keep better time. It was Mr. Daw's last night here."
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 265 
 
 "And therefore you and Rupert must spena it with liim ! 
 It is a sudden friendshij)." 
 
 " I don't know that there's much friendship in the matter," 
 replied George. " Rupert, I beUeve, was at the parsonage by 
 appointment, but I called in accidentally. I did not know 
 until I went in that Mr. Daw was leaving." 
 
 " Is he returning to France ? " 
 
 "Yes. He crosses the Channel to-night. We shall never 
 see him again, I expect ; he said he should never more quit 
 his home, so far as he believed." 
 
 " Is he a madman ? " 
 
 " A madman ! " echoed George Ryle. " Certainly not." 
 
 " He talked enough folly and treason for one." 
 
 " Run away with by his zeal, I suppose," remarked George. 
 " No one paid any attention to him. Mr. Chattawaj-, do 
 you think we Barbrook people could not raise a commotion 
 about the irregularity of that ten-o'clock train, and so get it 
 rectified ? " 
 
 " Its irregularity does not concern me," returned I\Ir. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 " It would if you had to travel by it ; or to see friends off by 
 it as I and Rupert had last night. Nearly forty-five minutes 
 were we cooling our heels on the platform of the station. It 
 must have been eleven o'clock when Rupert reached the Hold. 
 I suppose he was let in." 
 
 " It appears he did get let in," replied Mr. Chattaway, in a 
 tone which was by no means a genial one. " I don't know by 
 whom yet; but 1 will know before to-night." 
 
 '•' If any one locked me out of my home, I should break the 
 first window handy," cried bold Treve, who had been brought 
 up by his mother in direct defiance of Mr. Chattawa}', and 
 would a great deal rather show him contempt than civility. 
 "Rupert's a muff that he doesn't do it." 
 
 George urged on his horse. Words between Treve and Mr. 
 Chattaway would not be agreeable, and the latter gentleman's 
 face was turning fiery. " I am sure we shall be late," he cried. 
 " Let us see what mettle our steeds are made of" 
 
 It diverted the anticipated dispute. Treve, who was im- 
 pulsive at times, dashed on with a spring, and Mr. Chattaway 
 and George followed. Before they reached Whitterbey, they 
 fell in with other horsemen, farmers and gentlemen, bound on 
 the same errand as themselves, and got separated. 
 
 Beyond a casual view of them now and then in the crowded
 
 266 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 fair, Mr. Chattaway did not again see George and Treve until 
 they all met at what was called the ordinary — the one-o'clock 
 dinner. Of these ordinaries there were several held in the 
 town on the great fair day, but Mr. Chattaway and George 
 Ryle had been in the habit of attending the same. Immediately 
 after the meal was over, Mr. Chattaway ordered his horse, and 
 set off home. 
 
 It was earlier than he usually left, for the gentlemen liked to 
 sit an hour or two after dinner at these annual meetings, and 
 discuss the state of affairs in general, especially those relating 
 to farming; but Mr. Chattaway intended to take Blackstone 
 on his road home, and that would carry him some miles out 
 of his way. 
 
 He did not arrive at Blackstone until five o'clock. Rupert 
 had gone home ; Cris, who had been playing at master all day 
 in the absence of Mr. Chattaway, had also gone home, and 
 only Ford was left. That Cris should have left, Mr. Chat- 
 taway thought nothing of; but his spirit angrily resented the 
 departure of Rupert, 
 
 "It's coming to a pretty pass," he exclaimed, "if he thinks 
 he can go and come at the hours he pleases. What has he 
 been about to-day ? " 
 
 " We have none of us done much to-day, sir," replied Ford. 
 " There have been so many interruptions. They had Mr. 
 Rupert before them at the inquest, and examined him " 
 
 "Examined //////.'" interrupted Mr. Chattaway. "What 
 about?" 
 
 " About the precautions taken for safety, and all that," re- 
 joined Ford, who liked to launch a shaft or two at his master 
 when he might do it without detection. " Mr. Rupert could 
 not tell them much, though, as he was not in the habit of being 
 down in the pit ; and then they called some of the miners 
 again." 
 
 " To what time is it adjourned ? " growled Mr. Chattaway, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " It's not adjourned, sir ; it's over." 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Chattaway, feeling a sort of relief. " What 
 was the verdict ? " 
 
 "The verdict, sir? Mr. Cris wrote it down, and took it up 
 to the Hold for you." 
 
 " What was it ? You can tell me its substance, I suppose." 
 
 "Well, it was 'Accidental death.' But there was something 
 also about the absence of necessary precautions in the mine 3
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 267 
 
 and a recommendation was added that you should therefore 
 do something for the widows." 
 
 The very verdict that Chattaway had so dreaded ! As is the 
 case with many cowards, he cotdd not feel independent of the 
 opinion of his neighbours, and he knew the verdict would not 
 be of good odour in their ears. And the suggestion that he 
 should do something for the widows — it positively appalled 
 him. Finding no reply, Ford continued. 
 
 " We had siDme gentlemen in here afterwards, sir. I don't 
 know Avho they were ; strangers : they said they must see you, 
 so they are coming to-morrow. We were wondering whether 
 they were Government inspectors, or anything of that sort. 
 They asked when the second shaft to the pit was going to be 
 begun." 
 
 " The second shaft to the pit ! " repeated Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " It's what they said," answered Ford. " But it will be a 
 fine expense, if that has to be made." 
 
 An expense, the very suggestion of which turned that miserly 
 heart cold. Mr. Chattaway thought the world was terribly 
 against him , certainly, what with one source of annoyance and 
 another, that day had not been one of pleasure. In point of 
 fact, Mr, Chattaway was of too suspicious a nature ever to 
 enjoy much ease. It may be thought that with the departure 
 of the dreaded stranger, he would have experienced complete 
 immunity from the fears which had latterly so shaken him. 
 Not so ; the departure had only served to augment them. He 
 had been informed by Miss Diana on the previous night of Mr. 
 Daw's proposed return to his distant home, of his having re- 
 linquished Rupert's cause, of his half apology for having ever 
 taken it up ; he had heard again from George Ryle this morn- 
 ing that the gentleman had actually gone. Most men would 
 have accepted this as a welcome relief, a termination to the un- 
 pleasantness, and been thankful for it ; but Mr. Chattaway, in his 
 suspicious nature, doubted whether it did not mean treachery ; 
 whether it was not, in short, a ruse of the enemy. Terribly 
 awakened were his fears that day. He suspected an ambush 
 in every turn, a thief behind every tree ; and he felt that he 
 hated Rupert with a very bitter hatred. 
 
 Poor Rupert at that moment did not look like one to be 
 either hated or dreaded, could Mr. Chattaway have seen him 
 through some telescope. When Mr. Chattaway was sitting in 
 his arm-chair in his office. Ford meekly standing by to be 
 questioned, Rupert was toiling on foot towards Trevlyn Hold.
 
 268 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 In his good nature he had left his pony at home for the benefit 
 of Edith and Emily Chattaway. Since its purchase, they had 
 not ceased teasing him to let them try it, and he had this day 
 complied, and walked to Blackstone. He looked pale, worn, 
 weary ; his few days of riding to and fro had unfitted him for 
 the walk, at least in inclination, and Rupert seemed to feel the 
 fatigue this evening more than ever. 
 
 That day had not brought satisfaction to Rupert, any more 
 than it had to Mr. Chattaway. It was impossible but that his 
 hopes should have been excited by the movement — it may be 
 said the boasts — made by Mr. Daw ; slightly, if in no very great 
 degree. And now they were .over. That gentleman had taken 
 his departure for good, and the hopes had faded, and there 
 was an end to it altogether. Rupert had felt it keenly that 
 morning as he walked to Blackstone ; had felt that he and hope 
 had bid adieu to each other for ever. Was his life to be passed 
 at the work of that dreary mine ? — was he never to rise from it ? 
 It seemed not. The day, too, was spent even more un- 
 pleasantly than usual, for Cris was in one of his overbearing 
 moods, and goaded Rupert's spirit almost to explosion. Had 
 Rupert been the servant of Cris Chattaway, the latter could 
 not have treated him with more complete contempt and un- 
 kindness than he did this day. I don't say that Rupert did 
 not provoke him. Cris asked him in a friendly manner enough 
 who let him in to the Hold the previous night, and Rupert 
 answered that it was no business of his. Cris then insisted 
 upon knowing, but Rupert only laughed at him : and so Cris, 
 in his petty spite, paid him out for it, and made the day one 
 long humiliation to Rupert. Rupert reached home at last, and 
 took his tea with the family. He kissed Mrs. Chattaway ten 
 times, and whispered to her that he had kept counsel, and that 
 he would never, never, for her sake, be late again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV, 
 
 AN ILL-OMENED CHASTISEMENT. 
 
 It was growing dusk on this same night, and Rupert Trevlyn 
 stood in the rick-yard, talking to Jim Sanders. Rupert had 
 been paying a visit to his pony in the stable, to see that it was 
 alive after the exercise the young ladies had given it, — not a
 
 AN ILL-OMENED CHASTISEMENT. 269 
 
 little, by all accounts. The nearest way from the stables to 
 the front of the house was through the rick-yard, and Rupert 
 was returning from his visit of inspection when he came upon 
 Jim Sanders, leaning his back against a hay-rick, Mr. Jim had 
 stolen up to the Hold on a little private matter of his own. In 
 his arms was a little black puppy, very very young, as might be 
 known by the faint squeaks it made. 
 
 "Halloa, Jim! Is that you?" exclaimed Rupert, having 
 some trouble to discern who it was in the fading light. " AVhat 
 have you got squeaking there ? " 
 
 Jim displayed the little animal. " He's only a few days old, 
 sir," said he, " but he's a fine fellow. Just look at his ears ! " 
 
 "How am I to look?" rejoined Rupert. " It's almost pitch 
 dark." 
 
 " Stop a bit," said Jim. He produced a sort of torch from 
 underneath his smock-frock, and by some contrivance set it 
 alight. The wood blazed away, sending up its flame in the 
 yard, but they advanced into the wide open space, away from 
 the ricks and from danger. These torches, cut from a peculiar 
 wood, were common enough in the neighbourhood, and were 
 found very useful on a dark night by those who had to go 
 about any job of outdoor work. They gave the light of a dozen 
 candles, and were not liable to be extinguished with every 
 breath of wind. Dangerous things for a rick-yard, you will say : 
 and so they were in incautious hands. 
 
 They moved to a safe spot at some distance from the ricks. 
 The puppy lay in Rupert's arms now, and he took the torch in 
 his hand, whilst he examined it. But not a minute had they 
 thus stood, when some one came upon them with hasty steps. 
 It was Mr. Chattaway. He had, no doubt, just returned from 
 Blackstone, and was going in after leaving his horse in the 
 stable. Jim Sanders disappeared, but Rupert stood his ground, 
 the lighted torch still in his one hand, the puppy lying in 
 the other. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" angrily demanded Mr, Chat- 
 taway. 
 
 " Not much," said Rupert. " I was only looking at this little 
 puppj'," showing it to Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 The puppy did not concern Mr. Chattaway. It could not 
 work him treason, and Rupert was at liberty to look at it if he 
 chose ; but Mr, Chattaway would not let the opportunity slip 
 of questioning him on another matter. It was the first time 
 they had met, remember, since that little episode which had
 
 270 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 so disturbed Mr. Chattaway in the morning— that of finding 
 Rupert's boots. 
 
 " Pray where did you spend last evening ?" he began. 
 
 " At the parsonage," freely answered Rupert ; and Mr. 
 Chattaway detected, or fancied he detected, defiant indepen- 
 dence in the voice, which alone, to his ears, must speak of 
 treason. " It was the last evening of Mr. Daw's stay there, and 
 he asked me to spend it with him." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway saw no way of entering an opposition to 
 this ; he could not abuse him for taking tea at the parsonage j 
 he could not well forbid it to him for the future. " What time 
 did you come home ? " he continued. 
 
 " It was eleven o'clock," avowed Rupert. " I went with Mr. 
 Daw to the station to see him off, and the train was long 
 behind its time. I thought it was coming up every minute, or 
 I would not have stayed." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had known as much before. " How did you 
 get in ? " he asked. 
 
 Rupert hesitated for a moment before speaking. " I was 
 let in." 
 
 " I conclude you were. By whom ? " 
 
 "I'd rather not tell, if you please." 
 
 " But I choose that you shall tell." 
 
 " No," said Rupert. " I can't tell that, Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " But I insist on your telling," thundered Mr. Chattaway. 
 "I order you to tell?" 
 
 He lifted his riding-whip, which was in his hand, menacingly 
 as he spoke. Rupert stood his ground fearlessly, the expression 
 of his face showing out calm and firm, as the torchlight fell 
 upon it." 
 
 " Do you defy me, Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " I don't wish to defy you, sir, but it is quite impossible that 
 I can tell you who let me in last night. It would not be fair, 
 or honourable." 
 
 His refusal may have looked like defiance to Mr. Chattaway, 
 but in point of fact it was dictated by a far different feeling — 
 regard for his aunt P^dith. Had any one else in the Hold 
 admitted him, he might have confessed to it, under Mr. Chatta- 
 way's stern command ; but he would have died rather than 
 bring her, whom he so loved, into trouble with her husband. 
 
 " Once more, sir, I ask you — will you tell me ? " 
 
 " No, I will not," answered Rupert, with that quiet determi- 
 nation which imparts its own firmness stronger than any
 
 AN ILL-OMENED CHASTISEMENT. 271 
 
 bnavado. Better for him that he had told ! better even for 
 Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway caught Rupert by the shoulder, lifted his 
 whip, and struck him — struck him not once, but several times. 
 The last stroke caught him in the face, and raised a thick weal 
 across it ; and then Mr. Chattaway, his work done, walked 
 quickly away towards his house, never speaking, the whip 
 resting quietly in his hand. 
 
 Alas, for the Trevlyn temper ! Maddened by the outrage, 
 smarthig under the pain, the unhappy Rupert lost all self-com- 
 mand. Passion had never overcome him as it ove/came him 
 now. He knew not what he did ; he was as one insane ; in 
 fact, he was insane for the time being — irresponsible (may it 
 not so be said?) for his actions. With a yell of rage he picked 
 up the torch, then blazing on the ground, dashed into the rick- 
 yard as one possessed, and thrust the torch into the nearest 
 rick. Then, leaping the opposite palings of the yard, he tore 
 away across the fields. 
 
 Jim Sanders had been a witness to this : and to describe 
 Jim's consternation would be beyond any pen. He had stood 
 in the obscurity, out of reach of INIr. Chattaway's eyes, and had 
 heard and seen all. Snatching the torch out of the rick — for 
 the force with which Rupert had driven it in kept it there — Jim 
 pulled out witli his hands the few bits of hay already ignited, 
 stamped on them, and believed the danger to be over. Next, 
 he began to look for his puppy. 
 
 " Mr. Rupert can't have taken it off with him," soliloquized 
 he, pacing the rick-yard dubiously with his torch, his eyes and 
 ears alike on the alert. " He couldn't jump over them palings 
 with that there puppy in his arms. It's a wonder that a 
 delicate one like him could jump 'em at all, and come clean 
 over 'em." 
 
 Mr. Jim Sanders was right : it was a wonder, for the palings 
 were high. But it is known how strong madmen are, and I 
 have told you that Rupert was one then. 
 
 Jim's search was interrupted by fresh footsteps, and Bridget, 
 the maid you saw in the morning talking to Mr. Chattaway, ac- 
 costed him. She was a cousin of Jim's, three or four years 
 older than himself ; but Jim was uncommonly fond of her, in 
 a rustic fashion, deeming the difference of age nothing, and 
 was always finding his way to the Hold with some mark of 
 good will. 
 
 "Now, then ! what do you want to night .^" cried she, for it
 
 273 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 was the pleasure of her life to snub and domineer over him. 
 " Hatch comes in just now, and says, says he, ' Jim Sanders is 
 in the rick-yard, Bridget, a-waiting for you.' I'll make you 
 know better, young Jim, than to send me in them messages 
 before a kitchen-full." 
 
 " I've brought you a little present, Bridget," answered Jim. 
 deprecatingly : and it was to make this offering which had 
 taken Jim to the Hold. " It's the beautifuUest puppy you ever 
 see— if you'll only accept of him; as black and shiny as a lump 
 of coal. Leastways, I had brought him," he added, in rueful 
 accents. " But he's gone, and I can't find him." 
 
 Bridget had a weakness for puppies — as was known to Jim ; 
 consequently, the concluding part of his information was not 
 palatable to her. She attacked him in regard to it. 
 
 " You have brought me the beautifuUest puppy I ever see — 
 and you have lost him and can't find him ! What d'ye mean 
 by that, young Jim? Can't you speak sense, so as a body may 
 understand? " 
 
 Jim supposed he had worded his communication impertectly. 
 "There have been a row here," he explained, " and it frighted 
 me so that I dun know what I be saying. The master, he 
 took his riding-whip to Mr. Rupert and horsewhipped him." 
 
 " The master ! " uttered the girl. " What ! Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 " He come through the yard when I was with Ivlr. Rupert 
 a-showing him the puppy, and they had some words, and the 
 master he horsewhipped him. I stood round the corner of the 
 pales, frighted to death a'most for fear Chattaway should see 
 me. And Mr. Rupert, he must have dropped the puppy some- 
 where, but I can't find him." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Rupert ? How did it end ? " 
 
 " He dashed into the yard and across to them palings, and 
 he leaped 'em clean," responded Jim. "And he'd not have 
 cleared 'em, Bridget, if he'd had the puppy in his arms, so I 
 know it must be about somewhere. And he a'most set that 
 there rick a-fire first," the boy added, lowering his voice to a 
 whisper, and pointing in the direction of the particular rick, 
 from which they had strayed some distance in Jim's search. 
 " I pretty nigh dropped when I saw it catch alight." 
 
 Bridget felt awed, startled, but yet uncertain. " How could 
 he set a rick a-fire, stupid ? " she cried. 
 
 " With the torch. I had lighted it to show him the puppy, 
 and he had it in his hand ; he had it in his hand when Chat- 
 taway began to horsewhip him, but he dropped it then ; and
 
 AN ILL-OMENED CHASTISEMENT. 273 
 
 when Chattaway went away, Mr. Rupert picked it up and 
 pushed it into the rick." 
 
 "I don't like to hear this," said tlie girl, shivering. "Sup- 
 pose the rick-yard had been set a-fire ! ^Vhich rick was it ? 
 It mayn't " 
 
 "Just hush a minute, Bridget!" suddenly interrupted Jim. 
 " There he is ! " 
 
 "There's who?" asked she, peering around her in the 
 growing darkness. " Not master ! " 
 
 "Law, Bridget! I meant the puppy. Can't you hear him? 
 Them squeaks is his." 
 
 Guided towards the sound, Jim at length found the poor 
 little animal. It was lying close to the spot where Rupert had 
 leaped the palings. The boy took it up, fondling it almost as 
 a mother would have fondled a child. 
 
 " See his pretty glossy skin, Bridget ! just feel how sleek it is ! 
 He'll lap milk out of a saucer now ! I tried him afore I brought 
 him out ; and if you " 
 
 A scream from Bridget. Jim seemed to come in for nothing 
 but shocks to his nerves this evening, and he almost dropped 
 the puppy again. For it was a loud, shrill, prolonged scream, 
 one carrying a strange amount of terror to the ear, as it went 
 forth ill the still night air. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Chattavt-ay had entered his house. Some of 
 the children who were in the drawing-room heard him come in, 
 and went forth to the hall to welcome him after his long day's 
 absence. But they were startled by the pallor of his counte- 
 nance ; it looked perfectly livid as the light of the hall-lamp 
 fell upon it. Mr. Chattaway could not inflict such chastise- 
 ment on Rupert without its emotional effects telling upon 
 himself He took off his hat, and laid his vhip upon the 
 table. 
 
 "We thought you would be home before this, papa," 
 
 "Where's your mamma?" he rejoined, paying no attention 
 to their remark. 
 
 " She is upstairs in her sitting-room," 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned to the staircase and ascended. Mrs. 
 Cliattaway was not in her room ; but the sound of voices in 
 Miss Diana's guided him to where he should find her. This 
 sitting-room, devoted exclusively to Miss Diana Trevlyn, Avas 
 on the side of the house next the rick-yard and farm buildings, 
 which it overlooked. 
 
 The apartment was almost in darkness ; the fire in the grate 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 18
 
 274 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 had dimmed, and neither lamp nor candles had been lighted. 
 Mrs. Chattavvay and Miss Diana sat there conversing together. 
 
 "Who is this?" cried the former, looking round, "Oh, is 
 it you, James ? I did not know you were home again. What 
 a fine day you have had for Whitterbey ' " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway growled something about the day not having 
 been particularly fine- 
 
 "Did you buy the stock you thought of buying?" asked 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 " I bought some," he said, rather sulkily. " Prices ran high 
 to-day." 
 
 "You are home late," she resumed. 
 
 " I came round by Blackstone." 
 
 It was evident by his tone and manner that he was in one of 
 his least genial humours. Both the ladies knew from experience 
 that the wisest plan at those times was to leave him to himself, 
 and they resumed their own converse. Mr Chattaway stood 
 with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, his eyes peering 
 out into the dusky night. Not in reality looking at anything, 
 or attempting to look ■. he was far too deeply busied with his 
 thoughts to pay attention to outward things. 
 
 He was beginning very slightly to repent of the horsewhipping, 
 to doubt whether it might not have been more prudent had he 
 abstained from inflicting it. As do many more of us, when we 
 awake to reflection after some act committed in passion. If 
 Rupert teas to be dreaded ; if he, in connection with others, 
 was hatching treason, this outrage would only make of him a 
 more bitter enemy. Better, perhaps, not to have gone to the 
 extremity. 
 
 But it was done ; it could not be undone ; and to regret it 
 were worse than useless. Mr. Chattaway began thinking of 
 the point which had led to it — the refusal of Rupert to say who 
 had admitted him. This at least Mr, Chattaway determined to 
 ascertain.- 
 
 "Did either of you let in Rupert last nigh-t?" he suddenly 
 inquired, looking round. 
 
 " No, we did not," promptly replied TMiss Diana, answering 
 for Mrs- Chattaway as well as for herself, which she believed 
 she was perfectly safe in doing. " He was not in until eleven, 
 I hear ; we went up to bed long before that." 
 
 " Then who did let him in ? " exclaimed Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " One of the servants, of course," rejoined Miss Diana. 
 
 " But they say they did not," he answered.
 
 THE i3LAZE. 275 
 
 " Have you asked them all ? " 
 
 No. Mr. Chattaway remembered that he had not asked 
 them all, and he came to the conclusion that one of them must 
 have been the culprit. He turned to the window agam, stand- 
 ing sulkily as before, and vowing in his own mind that the 
 offender, whether man or woman, should be turned summarily 
 out of the Hold. 
 
 " If you have been to Blackstone, you have heard that the 
 inquest is over, James," observed Mrs. Chattawa)', anxious to 
 turn the conversation from the subject of last night. " Did 
 you hear the verdict ? " 
 
 " I heard it," he growled. 
 
 " It is not an agreeable verdict, Chattaway," remarked Miss 
 Diana. " Better that you had made these improvements in 
 the mine — as I urged upon you long ago — than wait to be 
 forced to do them." 
 
 " I am not forced yet," retorted Chattaway. " They must =■ 
 
 Halloa ! What's that ? " 
 
 His sudden exclamation called them both to the window. 
 A bright light, a blaze, was shooting up into the sky. At the 
 same moment a shrill scream of terror — the scream from Bridget 
 — arose with it. 
 
 " The rick-yard ! the rick-yard ! " exclaimed Miss Diana. 
 "It is on fire!" 
 
 Mr. Chattaway stood for an instant as one paralyzed. The 
 next he was leaping down the stairs^ something like a yell 
 bursting from him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE BLAZE. 
 
 There is a terror, which, from its very suddenness, shakes 
 man's equanimity to its foundation — and that terror fell upon 
 Trevlyn Hold. At the twilight hour of the evening — for it 
 was not yet quite dark — its inmates were sitting mostly in idle- 
 ness ; the servants gossiping quietly in the kitchen, the young 
 ladies lingering over the fire in the drawing-room ; when those 
 awful sounds of fear interrupted them — the cry of their father 
 in the room above ; the cry, shrill and prolonged, from outside 
 the house. With a simultaneous movement, all flew to the
 
 276 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 hall, only to see "Sh: Chattaway leap down the slaiis, followed 
 by his wife and Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 
 " Oh, papa I what is it ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 " The rick-yard is on fire ! " 
 
 None of them knew who answered. It was not Mr. Chatta- 
 way's voice ; it was not their mother's ; it did not sound like 
 Miss Diana's. A startled pause, and they ran out to the rick- 
 yard, a terrified company. Little Edith Chattaway, a most 
 excitable girl, fell into hysterics, and only added to the con- 
 fusion of the scene. 
 
 The blaze was shooting upwards, and men were coming up 
 from the out-buildings, as they gave vent to their dismay in 
 various exclamations. One voice was heard distinctly above 
 all the rest— that of Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 
 " Who has done this ? It must have been purposely set on 
 fire." 
 
 She turned sharply on the group of servants as she spoke, 
 as if suspecting one of them. The blaze fell on their alarmed 
 faces, and they visibly recoiled ; not from any consciousness of 
 guilt, but from the general sense of fear which lay upon all. 
 One of the grooms spoke impulsively. 
 
 "I heard voices not a minute ago in the rick-yard," he cried. 
 " I'll swear I heard 'em. I was a-going across the top there to 
 fetch a bucket of water from the pump for the stables, and I 
 heard 'em talking. One was a woman's I saw a light, too." 
 
 The women-servants were grouped together, staring help- 
 lessly at the blaze. Miss Diana directed her attention par- 
 ticularly to them : she had a ready perception, a keen sight, 
 and she detected signs of terror so unmistakable in the face of 
 one of them, that she could not help drawing a rapid conclusion. 
 It was not the expression of general alarm, of surprise, of 
 doubt depicted on the countenance of the rest ; but an appre- 
 hensive, lively, conscious terror. The girl began endeavouring 
 to draw behind, out of the sight of Miss Diana. 
 
 Miss Diana laid her hand upon her. It was Bridget, the 
 kitchenmaid. " You know something of this ! " 
 
 Bridget burst into tears. A more complete picture of help- 
 less fear than she presented at that moment could not well be 
 drawn. In her apron, held up as it seemed unconsciously, was 
 something hidden. 
 
 " What have you got there ? " sharply continued Miss Diana, 
 whose thoughts may have flown to tow and matches, and other 
 incendiary adjuncts.
 
 THE BLAZE. 277 
 
 Bridget, unable to speak, turned down the ap. mi and disclosed 
 a little black puppy : which, as if not liking to be displayed to 
 general gaze, began to whine. 'I'herc was nothing very guilty 
 about him ; but Jkidget's sobs were redoubled. 
 ■ "Were you in the rick-yard ?" questioned Miss Diana ; '• was 
 it your voice that Sam heard ?" And Bridget was too terribly 
 frightened to deny it. 
 
 " Then, pray, what were you doing ? What brought you in 
 the rick-yard at all ? " 
 
 But Mrs. Chattaway, timid Mrs. Chattaway, who was trembling 
 almost as much as Bridget, but who had compassion for every 
 one in distress, came to the rescue. " Don't, Diana," she said. 
 " I am sure Bridget is too good and honest a girl to have taken 
 part in so dreadful a thing as this. The rick may have got 
 heated and taken fire spontaneously." 
 
 " No, Madam, I'd die before I'd do such a thing," sobbed 
 Bridget, in answer to the kindness. " If I was in the rick-yard, 
 I wasn't doing no harm — and I'm sure I'd rather have went a 
 hundred mile the other way if I'd thought what was going to 
 happen. I turned sick with fright when I saw tlie flame burst 
 out." 
 
 " Was it you who screamed ?" inquired Miss Diana. 
 
 "I did scream, ma'am. I couldn't help it." 
 
 " Diana," whispered Mrs. Chattaway, " you may see she's 
 innocent." 
 
 " Yes, most likely ; but there's something behind for all 
 that," replied Miss Diana, in her decisive tone. " Bridget, I 
 mean to come to the bottom of this business, and the sooner 
 you explain it, the less trouble you'll be at. I ask what took 
 you to the rick-yard ? " 
 
 " It wasn't no harm, ma'am, as Madam says," sobbed 
 Bridget, evidently very unwilling to enter on the explanation. 
 " Oh, ma'am ! I never did no harm in going there, nor 
 thought none." 
 
 " Then it is the more easily told," responded Miss Diana. 
 "■ Do you hear me, girl ? What business took you to the rick- 
 yard, and who Avere you talking with ? " 
 
 There appeared to be no help for it ; Bridget had felt there 
 would not be from the first ; she should have to confess to her 
 rustic admirer's stolen visit. And Bridget, while liking him ni 
 her heart, was intensely ashamed of him, from his being i ) 
 niuch younger than herself. 
 
 " Ma'am, I only came into it for a minute to speak to a
 
 278 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 young boy; my cousin, Jim Sanders. Hatch, he came into 
 the kitchen and said young Jim wanted to see me, and I came 
 out. That's all — if it was the last word I had to speak," she 
 added, with a burst of grief. 
 
 "And Jim Sanders? What did he want with you? "pur- 
 sued Miss Diana, with uncompromising sternness. 
 
 " It was to show me this puppy," returned Bridget, not 
 choosing to confess that the small animal was brought as a 
 present. "Jim seemed proud of it, he did, ma'am, and he 
 brought it up for me to see." 
 
 A very innocent confession ; plausible also ; and Miss Diana 
 saw no reason for disbelieving it. But she was one who liked 
 to be on the sure side, and when corroborative testimony was 
 to be had to a fact, she did not allow it to escape her. " One 
 of you find Hatch," she said, addressing the maids. 
 
 Hatch was found with the men-servants and labourers, who 
 were knocking over each other in their eager endeavours to 
 carry water to the rick, under the frantic and confused direc- 
 tions of their master. Hatch's smock-frock was already wring- 
 ing wet through the upsetting of a bucket over him. He came 
 up to Miss Diana. 
 
 " Did you go into the kitchen, and tell Bridget that Jim 
 Sanders wanted her in the rick-yard ? " she questioned. 
 
 I think it has been mentioned once before that this man. 
 Hatch, was too honest or too simple to answer anything but 
 the straightforward truth. He replied that he did so ; that he 
 had been called to by Jim Sanders as he was passing along at 
 the top of the rick-yard near the stables, w^ho asked him to go 
 to the house and send out Bridget. 
 
 " Did he say w^hat he wanted with her ? " continued Miss 
 Diana. 
 
 "Not to me," replied Hatch. "It ain't nothing new for 
 that there boy to come up and ask for Bridget, ma'am," he 
 continued. " He's always coming up for her, Jim is. They 
 be cousins." 
 
 A well-meant, good-natured speech, no doubt, on Hatch's 
 part ; but Bridget would have liked to box his ears for it there 
 and then. Miss Diana, liberal-minded, sufficiently large-hearted, 
 saw no reason to object to Mr. Jim's visits, provided they were 
 paid at proper times and seasons, when the girl was not at her 
 work, " Was any one with Jim Sanders ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not aa I saw, ma'am. As I was coming back after telling 
 Bridget, I see Jim a-waiting there, all by hisself. He • "
 
 THE BLAZE. 279 
 
 " How could you see him ? Was it not too dark ? inter- 
 rupted Miss Diana. 
 
 " Not then. Bridget, she kep' him waiting ever so long 
 afore she came out. Jim must 'a' been a good half-hour altogether 
 in the yard ; 'twere that, I know, from the time he called me 
 till the blaze burst out. But Jim might have went away afore 
 that," added Hatch, reflectively. 
 
 "That's all. Hatch; make haste back again,"' said Miss 
 Diana. "Now, Bridget," she resumed, "was Jim Sanders in 
 the yard when the flames burst out, or was he not ? '' 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, he was there." 
 
 "Then if any suspicious characters got into the rick-yard 
 and did the mischief, he would no doubt have een them," 
 thought Miss Diana, to herself. "' Do you know who did set 
 it on fire ? " she impatiently asked. 
 
 Bridget's face, which had regained some of its colour, grew 
 white again — white as the apron she wore. Should she dare to 
 tell what she had heard about Rupert ? "I did not see it done," 
 she gasped. 
 
 " Come, Bridget, this will not do," cried Miss Diana, noting 
 the signs. " There's more behind, I see. Where's Jim 
 Sanders ? " 
 
 She looked around as she spoke — looked into the obscurity, 
 into the light and shade cast by the flames. Jim was certainly 
 not in sight. " Do you know where he is ? " she sharply re- 
 sumed to Bridget. 
 
 But instead of answering, Bridget was taken with a fresh fit 
 of shivering. It amazed Miss Diana considerably 
 
 " Did Jim do it? " she sharply asked. 
 
 " No, no," answered Bridget, bursting into fresh tears. 
 "When I got to Jim he had somehow lost the puppy" — glanc- 
 ing down at her apron — " and we had to look about for it It 
 was only just in the minute he found it that the- flames broke 
 forth. Jim, he was showing of it to me, ma'am, and he started 
 like anything when I shrieked out." 
 
 " Could he not see them as well as you ? " cried Miss Diana. 
 
 " He had his back to 'em and I had my face," answered 
 Bridget. 
 
 " And where is Jim Sanders ? What has become of him ? " 
 
 " I don't know," sobbed Bridget. "Jim, he seemed like one 
 dazed when he turned and saw the blaze. He stood a minute 
 looking at it, and I could see his face turn all of a fright ; the 
 blaze made it light enough to see anything; and then he flung
 
 28o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 the puppy into my arms and scrambled off over the palings, 
 never speaking a word." 
 
 Miss Diana paused. There was something suspicious in 
 Jim's making off in the clandestine manner described ; it struck 
 her so at once. On the other hand she had known Jim from 
 his infancy — knovrn him to be of a harmless, inoffensive nature. 
 
 " An honest lad would have remained to see what assistance 
 he could render towards putting it out, not have run off in that 
 cowardly way," spoke Miss Diana. "Bridget, girl, I don't like 
 the look of this." 
 
 Bridget made no reply, except by her tears. She was be- 
 ginning to wish the ground would open and swallow her up for 
 a convenient half-hour ; she wished Jim Sanders had been 
 actually buried in it before he had brought this trouble upon 
 her. Miss Diana, Madam, and the young ladies were sur- 
 rounding her ; the maid-servants began to edge away from her 
 suspiciously; even Miss Edith had ceased her sobs and her 
 hysterics to stare at Bridget. 
 
 Cris Chattaway came leaping past them. Cris, who had been 
 leisurely making his way to the Hold — very near it, in fact, 
 when the flames broke out — had just come up, and after a short 
 conference with his father, was now running to the stables. 
 " You are a fleet horseman, Cris," Mr. Chattaway had said to 
 him: "get the engines here from Barmester." And Cris was 
 hastening to mount a horse, and ride away on the errand. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway caught his arm as he passed. "Oh, Cris, 
 this is dreadful ! What can have caused it? " 
 
 "What!" returned Cris, in a savage tone — not, however, 
 meant for his mother, but induced by the subject. " Don't you 
 know what has caused it ? He ought to swing for it, the felon :" 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway was surprised. She connected his words 
 with what she had just been listening to. " Cris ! — do you 
 mean Lt never could have been Jim Sanders ! " 
 
 " Jim Sanders ! " slightingly spoke Cris. " What should have 
 put Jim Sanders in your head, mother? No; it was your 
 fovoured nephew, Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway broke into a cry as the words came from his 
 lips. Maude started a step forward, her face full of indignant 
 ])rotestation ; and Miss Diana imperiously demanded what he 
 meant. 
 
 " Don't stop me," said Cris. "Rupert Trevlyn was in the 
 yard with a torch just before it broke out, and he must have 
 fired it."
 
 THE BLAZE. 281 
 
 " It can't be, Cris ! " exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, her accent 
 one of intense pain, and she laid hold of her son as he was 
 speeding away. " Who says this ? " 
 
 Cris twisted himself from her, " I can't stop, mother, I say, 
 I am going for the engines. You had better ask my father ; it 
 was he told me. It's true enough : who would do it, except 
 Rupert?" 
 
 The shaft lanced at Rupert struck to the heart of Mrs. Chat- 
 taway ; it struck unpleasantly on the ear of Miss Diana Trev- 
 lyn ■. it did not sound agreeably to some of the women-servants. 
 Rupert was liked in the household, Cris hated. One of the 
 latter spoke up in her zeal 
 
 " It's well, it is, to try to throw it off the shoulders of that 
 Jim Sanders on to Mr, Rupert! Jim Sanders " 
 
 "And what have you got to say agin' Jim Sanders ? " inter- 
 rupted Bridget, aroused by the innuendo — fearful, it may be, 
 of a danger that the crime should be fastened on him. " Per- 
 haps if I had spoke my mind, I could have told as it was Mr. 
 Rupert as well as others could ; perhaps Jim Sanders could 
 have told it, too. At any rate, it wasn't " 
 
 " What is that, Bridget ? "' 
 
 The quiet but most imperative interruption came from Miss 
 Diana. Bridget fell on her knees ; excitement was overpower- 
 ing her. "It was Mn Rupert, ma'am; it was; Jim saw him 
 fire it." 
 
 " Diana ! Diana ! I feel ill," gasped Mrs. Chattawa}', in 
 a faint tone. " Let me go to him ; I cannot breathe under' this 
 suspense." 
 
 She meant to her husband. Pressing across the confused 
 and crowded rick-yard — for people, aroused by the sight of the 
 flames, were coming up now in numbers — she succeeded in 
 gaining Mr. Chattaway. Maude, scared nearly to death, 
 followed her closely. She caught him just as he had taken a 
 bucket of water to hand on to some one standing next him in 
 the line, thereby causing him to spill it. Mr. Chattaway turned 
 with a passionate word. 
 
 "What do you want here? " he roughly asked, although l:e 
 saw it was his wife. 
 
 "James, tell me," she pleadingly whispered. "I felt sick 
 with suspense ; I could not wair. ^^■hat did Cris mean by 
 saying it was Rupert." 
 
 " It was," answered Mr. Chattaway. "There's not a shadow 
 of doubt that it was Rupert. He has done it in revenge,"'
 
 282 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 I 
 
 " Revenge for what ? " she asked. 
 
 " For the horsewhipping I gave him. When I joined you 
 upstairs just now, I came straight from it. I horsewhipped 
 him here, on this very spot," continued Mr. Chattaway, as if it 
 afforded him satisfaction to repeat his avowal of the fact. " He 
 had a torch with him, and I — hke a fool — left it with him, 
 never thinking of consequences, or that he might use it to 
 become a felon. He must have fired the rick in revenge." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway had been gradually drawing away from the 
 proximity of the blaze ; from the line formed to pass buckets 
 for water on to the flames, which crackled and roared on high ; 
 from the crowd and confusion that prevailed around the spot. 
 Mr. Chattaway had drawn with her, leaving his place in the 
 line to be filled up by another. She fell against a distant rick, 
 feeling sick unto death. 
 
 " Oh, James ! Why did you horsewhip him ? What had 
 he done ? " 
 
 " I horsewhipped him for insolence ; for bearding me to my 
 face. I bade him tell me who let him in last night when he 
 returned home, and he set me at defiance by refusing to tell. 
 One of my servants must be a traitor, and Rupert is screening 
 him." 
 
 A great cry escaped her. " Oh, what have you done ? It 
 was I who let him in." 
 
 " Vou ! " foamed ISIr. Chattaway. " It is not true," he added, 
 the next moment. " You are striving also to deceive me — to 
 defend him." 
 
 '•' It is true," she answered. ''• I saw him come to the house 
 from my dressing-room window, and I went down the back- 
 stairs and opened the door for him. If he refused to betray 
 me, it was done in good-feeling, in love towards me, lest you 
 should reproach me And you have horsewhipped him for it ! 
 — you have goaded him on to this crime ! Oh, Rupert ! my 
 darling Rupert ! " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned impatiently away ; he had no time to 
 waste on sentiment when his ricks were burning. His wife 
 detained him. 
 
 " It has been a wretched mistake altogether, James," she 
 whispered. " Say you will forgive him — forgive him for my 
 sake ! " 
 
 " Forgive him ! " repeated Mr. Chattaway, his voice assum- 
 ing quite a hissing sound in his anger. " Forgive this ? Never. 
 I'll prosecute him to the extremity of the law; I'll try hard
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 283 
 
 to get him condemned to penal servitude for life. lorgive this ! 
 You are out of your mind, Madam Chattaway." 
 
 Her breath was coming shortly, her voice rose amidst sobs, 
 and she entwined her arms about him caressingly, imploringly, 
 in her agony of distress and terror. 
 
 " For my sake, my husband ! It would kill me to see it 
 brought home to him. He must have been overcome by a fit 
 of the Trevlyn temper. Oh, James ! forgive him for my sake," 
 
 " I never will," deliberately replied Mr. Chattaway. " I tell 
 you that I will prosecute him to the utmost limit of the law ; I 
 swear it. In an hour's time from this he will be in custody." 
 
 He broke from her, and she staggered against the rick. 
 But for ]\Iaude she might have fallen. Poor Maude, who had 
 stood and listened, her face turning to stone, her heart to 
 despair. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 Alas for the Trevlyn temper ! How many times has the 
 regret to be repeated ! Were the world filled with lamenta- 
 tions for this most unhappy state of mind to which some of its 
 mortals give way, they could not atone for the ill inflicted. It 
 is not a pleasant topic to enlarge upon, and I seem to have 
 lingered unnecessarily in dislike to approach it. 
 
 When Rupert leaped the palings and flew away over the 
 field, he was totally incapable of self-government for the time 
 being. I do not say this in extenuation. I say that such a 
 state of things is most lamentable, and ought not to be. I only 
 state that it was so. The most passionate temper ever born 
 with man may be kept under, where the right means are used 
 — prayer, ever-watchful self-control, stern determination ; but 
 how few there are who find the means ! Rupert Trevlyn did 
 not. He had no clear perception of what he had done ; he 
 probably knew that he had thrust the blazing torch into the 
 rick ; but he gave no thought whatever to consequences, 
 whether the hay was undamaged or whether it should burst 
 forth into a flame. 
 
 He flew over the field as one possessed ; he flew over a 
 succession of fields; the high-road intervened, and he was
 
 2S4 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 passing over it in his reckless career, when he was encountered 
 by Farmer Apperley. Not, for a moment, did the farmer 
 recognize Rupert. 
 
 "Hey, lad ! What in the name of fortune has taken you ?" 
 cried he, laying his hand upon him. 
 
 His face distorted with passion, his eyes starting with fury, 
 Rupert tore on. He shook the farmer's hand off him, and 
 pressed on, leaping the low dwarf hedge opposite, and never 
 speaking. 
 
 Mr. Apperley began to doubt whether he had not been 
 deceived by some strange apparition — such, for instance, as 
 the popular Flying Dutchman. He ran to a stile, and stood 
 there gazing after the mad figure, which seemed to be flying 
 about heedlessly, without purpose. It had not gone out of the 
 field : now in one part of it, now in another : and Mr. Apperley 
 rubbed his eyes and tried to penetrate more clearly the obscurity 
 of the night. 
 
 " It 7C'as Rupert Trevlyn — if I ever saw him," decided he, at 
 length. " What can have put him into this state ? Perhaps 
 he's gone mad ! " 
 
 The farmer, in his consternation, stood there he knew not 
 how long : ten minutes it may have been. It was not a busy 
 night with him, and he would as soon linger at that gate as go 
 on at once to Bluck the farrier — where he was bound to. Any 
 time would do to give his orders to Bluck. 
 
 "Well, I can't make it out a bit," soliloquized he, when he 
 at length turned away. " I'm sure it was Rupert ; but what 
 could have put him into that state? Halloa? what's that ?" 
 
 A bright light in the direction of Trevlyn Hold had caught 
 his eye. He stood and gazed at it in a second state of con- 
 sternation equal to that in which he had just gazed after Rupert 
 Trevlyn. " If I don't believe it's a fire ! " ejaculated he. 
 
 Was every one running about madly ? The words were es- 
 caping Mr. Apperley's lips when a second figure, white, breath- 
 less as the other, came flying over the road in the self-same 
 spot. This one wore a smock-frock, and the farmer recognized 
 Jim Sanders. 
 
 " Why, Jim, is it you ? What's up ? " 
 
 "Don't stop me, sir," panted Jim. "Don't you see the 
 blaze there ? It's Chattaway's rick-yard." 
 
 " Mercy on me ! Chattaway's rick-yard ! What has done 
 it? Have we got the incendiaries in the county again ?" 
 
 *' It was Mr. Rupert," answered Jim, dropping his voice
 
 A NIGHT SCENE, 285 
 
 to a whisper. " I see him fire it. Let mc get on, please, 
 
 sir." 
 
 In very astonishment, Mr. Ai)per]ey loosed his hold of the 
 boy, who went speeding off in the direction of liartMook. The 
 farmer propped his back against the stile, that he might gather 
 together his scared senses. 
 
 ^Rupert Trevlyn had fired the rick-yard ! Had he really gone 
 mad? — or was Jim Sanders mad when he said it? The farmer, 
 a slow man to arrive at conclusions, was sorely puzzled. " The 
 one looked as mad as t'other, for what I saw," deliberated he. 
 "Any way, however, there's the fire, and I'd better make my 
 way to it : they'll want hands if they are to put that out. Thank 
 God, it's a calm night ! " 
 
 He took the nearest way to the Hold; another helper amidst 
 the many now crowding the busy scene. What a Babel of 
 confusion it was ! — what a scene for a painting, could it have 
 been transferred to canvas ! — what a life's remembrance ! The 
 noise of the excited men as they passed the buckets ; the deep 
 interjections of Mr. Chattaway ; and the faces of the lookers-on, 
 turned up to the lurid flame. Farmer Apperley, a man more 
 given to deeds than words, rendered what help he could, 
 speaking to none. 
 
 He had been at work some time, when a shout broke simul- 
 taneously from, the spectators. The next rick had caught fire. 
 Mr. Chattaway uttered a despairing word, and the workers 
 ceased for a few moments their efforts— as if paralyzed with 
 the additional evil. 
 
 " If the fire-engines would only come ! " impatiently ex- 
 claimed Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Even as he spoke a faint rumbling was heard in the distance. 
 It came nearer and nearer; its reckless pace proclaiming it to 
 be a fire-engine. And Mr. Chattaway, in spite of his remark 
 of impatience, gazed at its approach with astonishment ; for he 
 knew there had not been time for the Barmester engines to 
 arrive. 
 
 It proved to be the little engine from Barbrook, one kept 
 in the village. A very despised engine indeed ; from its small 
 size, one rarely called for ; and which Mr. Chattaway had not 
 so much as thought of, when sending for the superior engines 
 from Barmester. On it came, glibly, as if it meant to do good 
 service, and the crowd in the rick-yard welcomed it with a 
 shout, and parted to give it space. 
 
 Cliurlish as was Mr. Chattawav's general manner, he couid
 
 286 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 not avoid showing somewhat of his satisfaction at its arrival. 
 " I am so glad you have come ! " he exclaimed. " I never 
 thought to send to you. I suppose you saw the flames, and 
 came of your own accord ? " 
 
 "No, sir, we never saw nothing," was the reply of the man 
 he addressed. " Mr. Ryle's lad, Jim Sanders, came for us. I 
 never see a chap in such a commotion; he a'most got the 
 engine ready hisself." 
 
 The mention of the name, Jim Sanders, caused a buzz 
 around. The acknowledgment of the kitchen-maid Bridget, 
 that the offender was Rupert Trevlyn, had been whispered and 
 commented upon ; and if some were found to believe the 
 whisper, others scornfully rejected it. There was Mr. Chatta- 
 way's assertion, also, that it was Rupert ; but Mr. Chattaway's 
 ill-will to Rupert was remembered that night, and the assertion 
 was received doubtfully. A meddlesome voice interrupted the 
 fireman. 
 
 "Jim Sanders ! why that was the one what fired it. There 
 ain't no doubt he did. Little wonder he seemed frighted." 
 
 "Did he fire it?" interrupted Farmer Apperley, eagerly. 
 "What, Jim? Why, what possessed him to do such a tiling? 
 I met him just now, like one frightened out of his life, and he 
 laid the guilt on Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 " Hush, Mr. Apperley ! " whispered a cautioning voice at his 
 elbow, and the farmer turned to see George Ryle. The latter, 
 with an almost imperceptible movement, directed his attention 
 to the right, to the livid face of Mrs. Chattaway. As one 
 paralyzed stood she, her hands clasped, listening to the words. 
 
 " Yes, it was Mr. Rupert," protested Bridget, with a sob. 
 "Jim Sanders told me that he watched Mr. Rupert thrust the 
 lighted torch into the rick. He seemed not to know what he 
 was about, Jim said ; he seemed to do it in a passion." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Bridget," interposed a sharp command- 
 ing voice. " Have I not desired you already to do so ? It is 
 not upon the hearsay evidence of Jim Sanders that you can 
 accuse Mr. Rupert." 
 
 The speaker was Miss Diana Trevlyn. In good truth, Miss 
 Diana did not believe that Rupert could have been guilty of 
 the act. It had been disclosed that the torch in the rick-yard 
 belonged to Jim Sanders, had been brought there by him, and 
 she deemed that fact suspicious against Jim. Miss Diana had 
 arrived unwillingly at the conclusion that Jim Sanders had set 
 the rick on fire by accident; and in his fright had accused
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 28; 
 
 Rupert, to scteeii himself. She imparted her view of the affair 
 to Mr. Apperley. 
 
 " Like enough," was tlie response of Mr. Apperley when he 
 had listened. " Some of these boys have no more caution in 
 'em than if they were children of two years old. But what 
 could have put Rupert into such a state?" he added; the 
 thought occurring to him, " If anybody ever looked mad, he 
 did this night." 
 
 "When?" asked Miss Diana, eagerly, and Mrs. Chattaway 
 pressed up closer with her white countenance. 
 
 " I saw him just before I came up here. I was on my way 
 to Bluck's, and somebody with a white face, breathless and 
 panting, came bursting through the hedge right across my path. 
 I did not know him at first ; he didn't look a bit like Rupert ; 
 but when I saw who it was, I tried to stop him, and I asked 
 what was the matter. He shook me off, and went over the 
 opposite hedge like a wild animal, and there he tore about the 
 field. If he had been a lunatic escaped from the county asylum, 
 he couldn't have run at greater speed." 
 
 " Did he say nothing ? " some voice interrupted. 
 
 " Not a word," replied the farmer. " He did not look as if 
 he could speak. Well, before I had digested that shock, or 
 come to any manner of reflection as to what it could mean, there 
 came another, flying up in the same mad state, and that was 
 Jim Sanders. I stopped hivi. Nearly at the same time, or 
 just before it, I had seen a light shoot up towards the sky. 
 Jim said as well as he could talk for fright, that the rick-yard 
 at the Hold was on fire, and that Mr. Rupert had set it 
 alight." 
 
 "At all events, the mischief seems to lie between them," re- 
 marked some voices around. 
 
 There would have been no time for this desultory conversa- 
 tion — at least, for the gentlemen's share in it — but that the fire- 
 engine had put a stop to their efforts. It had planted itself on 
 the very spot where the line had been formed, scattering those 
 who had taken part in it, and was rapidly getting itself into 
 working order. The flames were shooting up terribly now, 
 and Mr. Chattaway was rushing here, there, and everywhere, in 
 his frantic but impotent efforts to subdue them. He was not 
 insured. 
 
 George Ryle approached Mrs. Chattaway, and bent over 
 her, a strange tone of kindness in his every word : it seemed 
 to suggest how conscious he was of the great sorrow that was
 
 288 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 coming upon her. "I wish you would let me take you iiV' 
 doors," he whispered. " Indeed it is not well for you to be 
 here." 
 
 " Where is he ? " she gasped^ in answer. " Could you find 
 him, and remove him from danger ? " 
 
 A conviction, sure and not to be shaken, had been upon 
 her from the very moment that her husband had avowed his 
 chastisement of Rupert — the conviction that it was he, Rupert, 
 and no other, who had done the mischief Her own brothers 
 —chiefly, however, her brother Rupert — /lad been guilty of 
 one or two acts almost as mad in their passion. He could 
 not help his temper, she reasoned — some, perhaps, may say 
 wrongly ; and if Mr. Chattaway had provoked him by that 
 sharp and insulting punishment, it was he who was in fault 
 more than Rupert. 
 
 " I would die to save him, George," she whispered. " I 
 would give all 1 am worth to save him from the consequences, 
 Mr. Chattaway says he will prosecute him to the last." 
 
 " I am quite sure you will be ill if you stay here," remon- 
 strated George, for she was shivering from head to foot ; not, 
 however, with cold, but with emotion. " I will go with you 
 to the house, and talk to you there." 
 
 " To the house ! " she repeated. " Do you suppose I could 
 stay in the house to-night ? Look at them ; they are all out 
 here." 
 
 She pointed to her children ; to the women-servants. It was 
 even so : all were out there. Mr. Chattaway, in passing, had 
 once or twice sharply demanded what they, a pack of women, 
 did in a scene such as that, and the women had drawn away at 
 the rebuke, but only to come forward again. Perhaps it was 
 not in human nature to keep wholly away from that scene of 
 excitement. 
 
 A half-exclamation of fear escaped Mrs. Chattaway's lips, and 
 she pressed a few steps onwards. 
 
 Holding a close and apparently private conference with Mr. 
 Apperley, was Bowen, the superintendent of the very slight 
 staff of police stationed in the place. 
 
 As a general rule, these rustic districts are too peaceable to 
 rccjuire much supervision from the men in blue. 
 
 " Mr. Apperley, you will not turn against him!" she im- 
 plored, from between her fevered and trembling lips; and in 
 good truth, Mrs. Chattaway gave indications of being almost 
 as much beside herself that night as was the unhappy Rupert.
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 289 
 
 " Is Bowen asking you where you saw Rupert, that he may go 
 and find him ? Do not you turn against him ! " 
 
 " My dear, good lady, I haven't a thing to tell," returned 
 Mr. Apperley, looking at her in surprise, for her manner was 
 very strange. " Bowen heard me say, as everybody else within 
 some feet around us heard me, that Mr. Rupert was in the 
 Brook field when I came from it. But I have nothing else to 
 tell of him ; and he may not be there now. It's hardly likely 
 that he should be." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway lifted her white face to Bowen. " You will 
 not take him ?" she imploringly whispered. 
 
 The man shook his head — he was an intelligent officer, much 
 respected in the neighbourhood— and answered her in the same 
 low tone, " I can't help myself, ma'am. When charges are 
 given to us, we are obliged to take cognizance of them, and to 
 arrest, if need be, those implicated." 
 
 " Has this charge been given you?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, this half-hour ago. I was up here almost with the 
 breaking out of the flames, for I happened to be close by, and 
 Mr. Chattaway made his formal complaint to me, and put it in 
 my charge." 
 
 Her heart sank within her. "And you are looking for 
 him ? " 
 
 " Chigwell is," replied the superintendent, alluding to a 
 policeman. " And Dumps is gone to see after Jim Sanders." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " exclaimed a voice at her elbow. It was 
 that of George Ryle ; and Mrs. Chattaway turned to him in 
 amazement. But George's words had not borne reference to 
 her, or to anything she was saying. 
 
 "It is beginning to rain," he exclaimed. "A fine, steady 
 rain would do us more good than the engines. What does that 
 noise mean ? " 
 
 A murmur of excitement had arisen on the opposite side 
 of the rick-yard, and was spreading as fast as did the flame. 
 George looked in vain for its cause : he was very tall, and 
 raised himself on tiptoe to see the better : as yet without result. 
 
 But not for long. The cause soon showed itself. Pushing 
 his way through the rick-yard, pale, subdued, quiet now, came 
 Rupert Trevlyn. Not in custody ; not fettered ; not passionate ; 
 only very worn and weary, as if he had undergone some pain- 
 ful amount of fatigue. It was only that tlie fit of passion had 
 left him ; he was worn-out, weary, powerless. In the days 
 gone by it had so left his uncle Rupert. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. lU
 
 iQO 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 I^Ir. Bowen walked up, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. 
 "I am sorry to do it, sir," he said, " but you are my prisoner." 
 
 " I can't help it," wearily responded Rupert. 
 
 But what brought Rupert Trevlyn back into the very camp 
 of the Philistines ? Rupert, in his terrible passion, had partly 
 fallen to the ground, partly flung himself down in the field 
 where Mr. Apperley saw him, and there he lay until the 
 passion abated. Then he gathered himself up so far as to sit, 
 and bent his head upon his knees, and revolved what had 
 passed. How long he might have stopped there, it is impos- 
 sible to say, but that shouts and cries in the road aroused him, 
 and he lifted his head to see that red light, and men running 
 in its direction. He went and questioned them. " The rick- 
 yard at the Hold was on fire ! " 
 
 An awful consciousness came across him that it was his 
 work. It is a fact, that he did not positively remember what 
 he had done : that is to say, had no very clear recollection of 
 it. Giving no thought to consequences, to himself — any more 
 than he had an hour before given thought to the consequences 
 of his work — he began to hasten to the Hold as fast as his 
 depressed physical state would permit. If he had caused that 
 flame, it was only fair that he should do what he could towards 
 putting it out. 
 
 The clouds cleared away, and the rain did not fulfil its 
 promise as George Ryle had fondly hoped. But the little 
 engine from Barbrook did good service, and the flames were 
 not spreading over the whole rick-yard. Later, the two great 
 Barmester engines thundered up, and gave their aid towards 
 the extinguishing of the fire. 
 
 And Rupert Trevlyn was in custody for having caused it ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIlI. 
 
 Nora's diplomacy. 
 
 Amidst all the human beings collected in and about the burn- 
 ing rick-yard of Trevlyn Hold, perhaps no one was so intensely 
 miserable, not even excepting the unhappy Rupert, as its 
 mistress, Mrs. Chattaway. He stood there in custody for a 
 dark crime ; a crime for which the punishment only a few 
 short years before would have been the extreme penalty of the
 
 NORA'S DIPLOMACY. 291 
 
 law ; he whom she had so loved. In her chequered hfe of 
 pain she had experienced moments of unhappiness than which 
 she had thought no future could exceed them in intensity ; but 
 had all those moments been concentrated into one dark and 
 dreadful hour, it could not have equalled the trouble of this. 
 The confusion of the scene, its noise, its bustle, its moving 
 mass of humanity, its red light, now dim and apparently 
 subdued, now shooting up with renewed glare, moved before 
 her actual sight as scenes in a phantasmagoria, even as the 
 dread consequences moved before the sight of her mind. Her 
 vivid imagination leaped over the present, and held up to her 
 view but one appalling picture of the future — Rupert working 
 in chains. Poor, unhappy, wronged Rupert ! whom they had 
 kept out of his rights ; whom her husband had now by his 
 personal ill-treatment goaded to the ungovernable passion 
 which was the curse of her family : and this was the result. 
 
 Every pulse of her heart beating with its sense of the terrible 
 wrong ; every chord of love for Rupert strung to its utmost 
 tension ; every fear that an excitable imagination can depict 
 raised up within her, INIrs. Chattaway leaned against the palings 
 at the upper part of the yard in utter faintness of spirit. Her 
 ears took in with unnatural quickness the free comments 
 around. Under shelter of an obscure light, making part of a 
 busy crowd, people will speak out opinions that they might 
 shrink from proclaiming in broad noonday. She heard some 
 hotly avow their belief that Rupert was not guilty, except in 
 the malicious fancy of Mr. Chattaway j she heard them say that 
 Chattaway was " all scared like," that past day when he found 
 that Rupert was alive, instead of dead, down in the mine : 
 even the more moderate ones observed that after all it was 
 only Jim Sanders's word for it ; and that if Jim did not appear 
 to confirm it, Mr. Rupert must be held innocent. 
 
 The wonder appeared to be, where was Jim? He had not 
 reappeared on the scene, and his absence certainly wore a 
 suspicious look. In moments of intense fear, the mind receives 
 the slightest word, the barest hint, vividly and comprehensively, 
 and ISIrs. Chattaway's heart bounded within her at that 
 whispered suggestion. If Jim Sanders did not appear to confirm 
 his word Rupert must be held innocent. Was there no possibility 
 of keeping Jim back ? By persuasion — by stratagem — by force, 
 even, if necessary? The blood came mounting to her pale 
 cheek at the thought, red as the lurid flame which lighted up 
 the air. At that moment she saw George Ryle hastening
 
 20,2 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 across the yard near to her. She ghded towards him, and he* 
 turned in answer to her call. 
 
 "You see ! They have taken Rupert ! " 
 
 "Do not distress yourself, dear Mrs, Chattaway," he an- 
 swered. " I wish you could have been persuaded not to 
 remain in this scene : it is altogether unfit for you." 
 
 "George," she gasped, "do jou believe he did it?" 
 
 George Ryle did believe it. He had heard about the horse- 
 whipping ; and, knowing of that mad and evil passion called 
 the Trevlyn temper, he could not do otherwise than believe it. 
 
 " Ah, don't speak ! " she interrupted, perceiving his hesita- 
 tion. " I see you condemn him, as sonie of those around us 
 are condemning. But," she added, with feverish eagerness, 
 "there is only the word of Jim Sanders against him. They 
 are saying so." 
 
 " Very true," replied George, in hearty tones, desiring to 
 give her any comfort that he could. " Mr. Jim must make 
 good his words before we can condemn Rupert." 
 
 "Mamma, Jim Sanders has always been looked upon as 
 truthful," interposed Octave Chattaway, who had drawn near. 
 Surely, it was ill-natured to say so at that moment, however 
 indisputable the fact might be ! 
 
 " It has to be proved yet that Jim did make the accusation," 
 said George, in reply to Octave. " It is not obliged to be the 
 fact, although Bridget asserts it. And even if Jim did say it, 
 he may have been mistaken. He must show that he was not 
 mistaken before the magistrates to-morrow, or the charge will 
 fall to the ground." 
 
 " And Rupert be released ? " added Mrs. Chattaway, in 
 suspicious eagerness. 
 
 "Certainly. At least, I should suppose so." 
 
 He passed on his way ; Octave went back to where she had 
 been standing, and Mrs. Chattaway remained alone, buried in 
 thouLrht. 
 
 A few minutes, and she stole out of the yard. With stealthy 
 steps, and eyes that glanced fearingly around her lest her 
 movements should be v/atched, she escaped by degrees beyond 
 the crowd, and emerged in the open field. Then, turning an 
 angle at a fleet pace — as if, now that she was out of the reach 
 of prying eyes, she would lose no time on the errand she Avas 
 bound — she ran against some one who was coming swiftly up. 
 Mrs. Chattaway's heart-blood coursed on with' violence, and a 
 low cry escaped her. It seemed, in her self-consciousness, that
 
 NORA'S DIPLOMACY. 293 
 
 the mere fact of being encountered like this, was sufficient to 
 betray the wild project she had conceived and was now bent 
 on. Conscience is very suggestive. 
 
 But it was only Nora Dickson : and Nora in a state of over- 
 flowing wrath. When the alarm that there was a fire at the 
 Hold reached Trevlyn Farm, its inmates had hastened out to 
 the scene with one accord, leaving none in the house but Nora 
 and Mrs. Ryle. Mrs. Ryle, suffering from some temporary in- 
 disposition, was in bed, and Nora, in consequence, had to stay 
 and take care of the house, doing grievous violence to her 
 curiosity. She stood leaning over the gate, watching the 
 people hasten by to the delightful scene of excitement from 
 which she was per force excluded ; and when the Barbrook 
 engine thundered past, Nora danced with impotent anger. 
 She felt half inclined to lock up the house, and Mrs. Ryle, 
 and start in the wake of the engine ; the fierce if innocent 
 anathemas she hurled at the head of the unconscious and 
 truant Nanny, were something formidable; and when that 
 damsel at length found her way back, Nora would have ex- 
 perienced the greatest satisfaction in shaking her. But the 
 bent of her indignation changed ; for Nanny, before Nora had 
 had time to visit it upon her by so much as a word, burst forth 
 with the news she had gathered at the Hold. It was Rupert 
 Trevlyn who fired the hayrick, because Mr. Chattaway had 
 horsewhipped him. 
 
 Nora's breath was taken away : wrath for her own grievance 
 was merged in the greater wrath she felt for the sake of Rupert. 
 Horsewhipped him? That brute of a Chattaway had horse- 
 whipped Rupert Trevlyn ! A burning glow rushed over her as 
 she listened ; a resentful denial broke from her lips : but 
 Nanny persisted that her statement was correct. Chattaway 
 had locked out Rupert the previous night, and Madam, un- 
 known to her husband, admitted him : Chattaway had demanded 
 of Rupert who let him in, but Rupert, fearing to compromise 
 Madam, refused to tell, and then Chattaway used the horse- 
 whip. 
 
 Nora waited to hear no more. She started off to the Hold 
 in her strong indignation ; not so much now to take part in the 
 bustling scene going on there, or to indulge her curiosity, as 
 to ascertain the truth of this shameful story. Rupert could 
 scarcely have felt more indignant pain at the chastisement, 
 than Nora felt at hearing it. Close to the outer gate of the 
 fold-yard, she encountered Mrs. Chattaway.
 
 294 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 A short explanation ensued. Nora, forgetting possibly in 
 her heart that it was Mrs. Chattaway to whom she spoke, broke 
 into a burst of indignation at Mr. Chattaway, a flood of 
 sympathy for Rupert. It told Mrs. Chattaway that she might 
 trust her, trust her fully, and her delicate fingers entwined 
 themselves nervously around Nora's stronger ones in her 
 hysterical emotion. 
 
 " It must have been done in a fit of the Trevlyn temper, 
 Nora," she whispered imploringly, as if beseeching Nora's 
 clemency for him. " The temper was born with him, you 
 know, Nora, and he could not help that — and to be horse- 
 whipped is a terrible thing." 
 
 If Nora felt inclined to doubt the report before, these words 
 dispelled the doubt, and brought to her a momentary shock. 
 Nora was not one to excuse or extenuate a crime so great as 
 that of wilfully setting fire to a rick-yard : to all who have to 
 do with farms, with rick-yards, it is especially abhorrent, and 
 Nora was no exception to the rule. But in this case she did, 
 by some ingenious sophistry of her own, shift the blame from 
 Rupert's shoulders, and lay it on Mr. Chattaway's ; and she 
 again expressed her opinion of that gentleman's conduct in 
 pretty plain terms. 
 
 "He is in custody, Nora!" said Mrs. Chattaway with a 
 shiver. " He is to be examined to-morrow before the magis- 
 trates, and they will either commit him for trial, or release him, 
 according to the evidence. Should he be tried and condemned 
 for it, the punishment might be penal servitude for life." 
 
 " Heaven help him ! " ejaculated Nora in her dismay at this 
 new feature presented to her view. " That would be a climax 
 to his unhappy life ! " 
 
 " But if they can prove nothing against him to-morrow, the 
 magistrates will not commit him," resumed Mrs. Chattaway, 
 who had scarcely paused to give time for Nora's observation. 
 " There's nothing against him ; nothing to prove it but Jim 
 Sanders's word : and — Nora," — she feverishly added — " perhaps 
 we can keep Jim back ? " 
 
 " Jim Sanders's word ! " repeated Nora, who as yet had not 
 heard of Jim's word in connection with the affair. " What has 
 Jim to do with it?" 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway explained. She mentioned all that was said 
 to have passed, Bridget's declaration, and her own miserable 
 conviction that it was but too true. She just spoke of the 
 suspicion cast on Jim himself by several doubters, but in a
 
 NORA'S DIPLOMACY. 
 
 295 
 
 slighting way, which proved that the suspicion found no weight 
 with her ; and she told of his disappearance from the scene. 
 "I was on my way to search for him," she continued; "but I 
 don't know where to search. Oh, Nora, won't you go with me 
 and help me ? I would kneel to Jim, and implore him not to 
 come forward against Rupert ; I will be ever kind to Jim, and 
 take care of his welfare, if he will only hear me ! I will try to 
 bring him on in life." 
 
 Nora, impulsive as was Mrs. Chattaway, but with far greater 
 calmness of mind, strength of judgment, turned without a word. 
 From that moment she entered into the plot heart and soul. 
 If Jim Sanders could be kept back by mortal means, Nora 
 would keep him. She revolved matters rapidly in her mind as 
 she went along, but had not proceeded many steps when she 
 halted, and laid her hand on the arm of her companion. 
 
 " I had better go alone about this business. Madam Chatta- 
 way. If you'll trust to me, it shall be done — if it can be done. 
 You'll catch your death, coming out with nothing on, this cold 
 night : and I'm not sure that it would answer for you to be 
 seen in it." 
 
 " I must go on, Nora," was the earnest answer. " I cannot 
 rest until I see what chance there is of finding Jim. As to 
 catching cold, I have been standing in the open air since the 
 fire broke out, and have not felt whether it was cold or hot. I 
 am too feverish to-night for any cold to affect me." 
 
 Nevertheless, she untied her black silk apron as she spoke, 
 and folded it over her head, concealing all her fair falling curls. 
 Nora made no further remonstrance. 
 
 The most obvious place to look for Jim was evidently his 
 own home ; at least, it was the one that occurred to Nora. 
 Jim had the honour of residing with his mother in a lonely 
 three-cornered cottage, which could boast of two rooms and a 
 loft in the roof It was a good step to it, and they walked 
 swiftly along, exchanging a sentence now and then, in hushed 
 tones. As they came within view of it, Nora's quick sight de- 
 tected the head (generally a very untidy one) of Mrs. Sanders, 
 airing itself at the open door. 
 
 "You halt here, Madam Chattaway," she whispered, pointing 
 to a friendly hedge, and let me go on and feel ?iiy way with 
 her. She'll be a great deal more difficult to deal with than 
 Jim ; and the more I reflect, the more I am convinced that it 
 will not do for you to be seen in it." 
 
 So far, Mrs. Chattaway acquiesced. She stopped under
 
 296 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 cover of the hedge, and Nora went on alone. But when she 
 had really gained the door, it was shut ; no one was at it. She 
 lifted the cumbrous, old-fashioned wooden latch, and entered. 
 The door had no other fastening ; strange as that fact may 
 sound to the dwellers in towns. The woman had backed 
 against the further wall, and was staring at the intruder with a 
 face of dread. Keen Nora noted the signs, drew a very natural 
 deduction from them, and sliaped her tactics accordingly. 
 
 " Where's Jim ? " began she, in a decisive but not unkind 
 tone. 
 
 " It's not true what they are saying of him. Miss Dickson," 
 gasped the woman. " I could be upon my Bible oath that he 
 never did it. Jim ain't of that wicked natur ; he'd not harm 
 a fly." 
 
 " But there are such things as accidents, you know, IMeg 
 Sanders," promptly answered Nora, who had no doubt as to 
 her cue now. " It's a certain thing that he was in the rick- 
 yard with a lighted torch ; and boys, as everybody knows, are 
 the most careless animals on earth. Is Jim here ? I suppose 
 you have him in hiding ? " 
 
 " I haven't set eyes on Jim since night fell," the woman 
 ansv.'ered. 
 
 "Look here, Meg Sanders, you had better avow the truth to 
 me. I have come down as a friend, to see what can be done 
 for Jim ; and I can tell you this, that I would rather keep him 
 in hiding — or put him in hiding, for the matter of that — than 
 show liim up to the police, and say, ' You'll find Jim Sanders 
 so-and-so.' Tell me the whole truth, and I'll stand Jim's friend. 
 Has he not been about our place from a little chap in petticoats, 
 when he was put to hurrish the crows away from the land ? 
 It's not likely we should want to harm Jim." 
 
 Her words reassured the woman, but she persisted in her 
 denial. " I declare to goodness, ma'am, that I know nothing 
 of where he is," she said, pushing back her untidy hair, caps 
 being articles of luxury that Mrs. Sanders's pocket did not 
 allow her to indulge in. " He come in here after he left work, 
 and tidied hisself a bit, and went off with one of them puppies 
 of his ; and he has never been back since." 
 
 " Yes," said Nora. " He took the puppy to the Hold, and 
 was showing it to Bridget when the fire burst out — that's the tale 
 that's told to me. But Jim had a torch, they say ; and torches 
 are dangerous things in rick-yards " 
 
 "Jim's a fool !" was the complimentary interruption of Jim's
 
 NORA'S DIPLOMACY. 297 
 
 mother. " His head's running wild over that fine flighty gawky 
 thing, Bridget — as ain't worth her salt. I asked him what he 
 was bringing on that puppy for, and he said for Bridget — and 
 I told him he was a simpleton for his pains. And now this has 
 come of it ! " 
 
 " How did you hear of Jim's being connected with the 
 fire?" 
 
 " I have had a dozen past here, opening their mouths to tell 
 me of it," resentfully spoke the woman. " Some of 'em said 
 Mr. Rupert was mixed up in it, and that the police were after 
 him as well as after Jim." 
 
 " It is true that Mr. Rupert is said to be mixed up in it," 
 said Nora, speaking with a purpose. " And he is taken into 
 custody." 
 
 " Into custody? " echoed Mrs. Sanders, in a scared whisper. 
 
 " Yes, he is ; and Jim must be hidden away for the next 
 four-and-twenty hours, or they'll take him. Where's he to be 
 found ? " 
 
 " I couldn't tell you if you killed me for't," protested Meg 
 Sanders, in her fear; and her tones were an earnest of the 
 truth. " Maybe he is in hiding— have gone and put hisself 
 into 't in his fear of Chattaway and the p'lice. Though I'll 
 take my oath he never did it wilful. If he /lad a torch, why, a 
 spark of it might have blowed on to a loose bit of hay and fired 
 it : but he never did it wilful. It ain't a windy night, either," 
 she added reflectively. " Eh ! the fool that that there Jim has 
 been ever since he was born ! " 
 
 Nora paused. In the uncertainty as to where to look for 
 Jim, she did not see her way particularly clear to accomplish 
 the object in view. She took a few moments' rapid counsel 
 with herself 
 
 " Listen, Meg Sanders, and pay attention to what I say to 
 you," she cried impressively. " I can't do for Jim what I 
 wanted to do, because he is not to be found. But now, mind : 
 should he come in after I am gone, send him off" instantly to 
 me at the farm. Tell him to dodge in and out under the trees 
 and hedges on his way, and to take care that nobody catches 
 sight of him. When he gets to the farm, he must come to the 
 front-door, and knock gently with his knuckles : I shall be in 
 the room." 
 
 "And then?" questioned Mrs. Sanders, looking puzzled. 
 
 " I'll take care what then ; I'll take care of //;>;/. Now, do 
 you understand ? "
 
 298 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '• Yes, yes," said the woman. " I'll be sure to do it, Miss 
 Dickson." 
 »> " Mind you do," said Nora. " And now, good night to you." 
 
 Mrs. Sanders was coming to the door with the candle, 
 officiously to light her visitor over its threshold ; but Nora 
 peremptorily sent her back, giving her at the same time a piece 
 of advice in rather a sharp tone — to keep her cottage dark and 
 silent that night, lest the attention of passers-by might be drawn 
 to it. 
 
 It was not cheering news to carry back to poor Mrs, Chatta- 
 way. That timid, trembling, unhappy lady had left the shelter 
 of the hedge — where she probably found her crouching position 
 not a very easy one — and was standing behind the huge trunk 
 of a tree at a little distance, her arms clasping it for support, 
 as she threw her whole weight upon it To stand long, un- 
 aided, was almost a physical impossibility to her, for her spine 
 was weak. She saw Nora, and came forward. 
 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
 " He is not at home. His mother does not know where he 
 is. She had heard that Hush ! Who's this ? " 
 
 Nora's voice dropped, and they retreated behind the tree. 
 To be seen in the vicinity of Jim Sanders's cottage would not 
 have been politic considering the object they had in view — 
 that of burying the gentleman for a time. The steps advanced 
 closer, and Nora, stealing a peep round the trunk, recognized 
 ' Farmer Apperley. 
 
 He was coming from the direction of the Hold ; and they 
 rightly judged, seeing him walking pretty leisurely, that the 
 danger must be over. At the same moment they became con- 
 scious of footsteps approaching from another direction. They 
 were coming across the road, bearing rather towards the Hold, 
 and in another moment would meet Mr. Apperley. Footsore, 
 weary, but yet excited, and making what haste he could, their 
 owner came in view, disclosing the face and person of Mr. Jim 
 Sanders. Mrs. Chattaway uttered a suppressed exclamation, 
 and would have started forward ; but Nora, with more caution, 
 held her back. 
 
 The farmer heard the cry, and looked round, but he could 
 see nothing, and probably thought his ears had deceived him. 
 As he turned his head again, there, right in front of him, was 
 Jim Sanders. Quick as lightning his powerful grasp was laid 
 Vipon the boy's shoulder. 
 
 " Now then ! Where have you been skulking ? "
 
 NORA'S DIPLOMACY. -99 
 
 "Lawk a mercy ! I han't been skulking, sir," returned Jim, 
 apparently surprised at the salutation. " I be a'most ready to 
 drop with the speed I've made." 
 
 Poor, ill-judged Jim ! In point of fact he had done more, 
 indirectly, towards putting out the fire, than had Farmer 
 Apperley and ten of the best men at his back. Jim's horror 
 and consternation when he saw the flames burst forth had taken 
 from him all thought — all power, as may be said — except instinct. 
 Instinct led him to Barbrook, to apprise the fire-engine there : 
 he saw it otf, and then hastened all the way to Barm ester, and 
 actually gave notice to the engines and urged their departure 
 before the arrival of Cris Chattaway on his fleet horse. From 
 Barmester Jim started off to Layton's Heath — a place standing 
 at an acute angle between Barmester and Barbrook, but further 
 from both places than those two towns were apart from each 
 other — and posted off the engines from there also. And now 
 Jim was toiling back again, footsore and weary, but somewhat 
 excited still, and was bending his course to Trevlyn Hold, to 
 render his poor assistance towards putting out the flames. 
 Rupert Trevlyn had always been a favourite of Jim's. Rupert 
 in his good-natured way had petted Jim, and the boy in his 
 unconscious gratitude was striving to amend the damage which 
 he saw Rupert cause. In after-days, this night's walk— or rather 
 run of Jim's, for he must have flown over the ground — was told 
 of as a marvel verging on the impossible. Men are apt to for- 
 get the bodily marvels that may be done under the influence of 
 any of the great emotions. 
 
 Something of this — of where he had been and for what pur- 
 pose—Jim explained to the farmer, and Mr. Apperley released 
 his hold upon him. 
 
 "They are saying up there, lad" — indicating the Hold — 
 " that you had a torch in the rick-yard." 
 
 "So I had," replied Jim. "But I didn't do no damage 
 with it." 
 
 " You told me that it was Rupert Trevlyn who had fired the 
 rick." 
 
 "And so it was," replied Jim. "He was holding that there 
 torch of mine, when Mr. Chattaway came up ; a looking at the 
 puppy, we was. And Chattaway he had a word or two with 
 him, and then he horsewhipped him ; and Mr. Rupert caught 
 up the torch, which he had let fall, and pushed it into the rick. 
 I see him," added Jim, conclusively. 
 
 Mr. Apperley stroked his chin, He also liked Rupert, and.
 
 300 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 he very much condemned the extreme chastisement inflicted 
 by Mr. Chattaway. He did not go so far as to deem it an 
 excuse, as Nora did— scarcely, perhaps, a paUiation — for the 
 mad act of Rupert ; but it is certain he did not condemn it as 
 he would have condemned it in another, or if committed under 
 different circumstances. He felt grieved and uncomfortable ; 
 he was conscious of a sore feeling in his mind ; and he heartily 
 wished the whole night's work could be blotted out from the 
 record of deeds done, and that Rupert was free again and 
 guiltless. 
 
 "Well, lad, it's a bad job altogether," he observed; "but 
 you don't seem to have been to blame except for taking a 
 lighted torch into a rick-yard. Never you do such a thing 
 again. You see what has come of it." 
 
 "We warn't anigh the ricks when I lighted the torch," 
 pleaded Jim. " We was yards off 'em." 
 
 " That don't matter. There's always danger. I'd turn off 
 the best man I have on my farm, if I saw him venture into the 
 rick-yard with a torch. Don't you be such a fool again. Where 
 are you off to now?" he added; for Jim, with a touch of his 
 hat, was passing on. 
 
 " Up to the Hold, sir. I'm a-going help put out the fire." 
 
 " The fire's out— or nigh upon it ; and you'd best stop where 
 you are. If you show your face there, you'll get taken up by 
 the police — they are looking out for you. And I don't see 
 that you've done anything to merit a night's lodging in the 
 lock-up," added the farmer, in his sense of justice. " Better 
 pass it in your bed. You'll be wanted before the Bench to- 
 morrow; but it's as good to go before them a free lad, as 
 a prisoner. The prisoner they have already taken, Rupert 
 Trevlyn, is enough. Never you take a torch anigh ricks 
 
 agam. 
 
 _ With this reiterated piece of advice, Mr. Apperley departed. 
 Jim stood in indecision, revolving in a dazed kind of way the 
 various pieces of information gratuitously bestowed upon him. 
 He himself suspected ; in danger of being took up by them 
 perlice!— and Mr. Rupert a prisoner! and the fire out, or 
 a'most out ! It might be better, perhaps, that he went in to 
 his cottage hard by, and got to sleep as Mr. Apperley advised, 
 if he was not too over-tired to sleep. 
 
 But before Jim saw his way clearly out of the maze, or had 
 come to any decision, he found himself seized from behind with 
 a grasp fast and firm as had been Mr. Apperley's. A vision of
 
 ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS. 3DI 
 
 A file of policemen brought a rush of fear to Jim's mind, of hot 
 blood to his face. But the arms proved to be only Nora Dick- 
 son's, and a soft, gentle voice of entreaty was whispering a 
 prayer into his ear, almpst as the prayer of an angel. Jim 
 started in amazement, and looked round. 
 
 " Lawk a mercy ! " ejaculated he. *' Why, it's Madam Chat- 
 taway ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS. 
 
 A FEW minutes after his encounter with Jim Sanders, to which 
 interview Mrs. Chattaway and Nora had been unseen witnesses. 
 Farmer Apperley met Policeman Dumps, to whom, if you 
 remember, the superintendent had referred as having been 
 despatched in search of Jim. Jle came up from the direction 
 of Barbrook. 
 
 "I can't find him nowhere," was his salutation to ]\Ir. Ap- 
 perley, " I have been a'most all over the lands of Mr. Kyle, 
 and in every hole and corner of Barbrook, and he ain't no- 
 where. I'm a-going on now to his own home, just for form's 
 sake ; but that's about the last place he'd hide in," 
 
 "Are you speaking of Rupert Trevlyn?" asked Mr. Apper- 
 ley, who knew nothing of the man's having been sent in search 
 of the other. 
 
 "No, sir, not him. That there Jim Sanders," 
 
 "Oh, you need not look after him," relied the farmer, "I 
 have just met him, Jim's all right. It was not he who did the 
 mischief. He has been after all the fire-engines on foot, and 
 is just come back, dead-beat. He was going on to the Hold 
 to help put out the fire, but I told him it was all but out, and 
 that he could go home. There's not the least necessity to look 
 after Jim." 
 
 Mr. Dumps — whose clear-sightedness was certainlynot enough 
 to set the I'hames on fire, policeman though he was — received 
 the news without any qualm of doubt. " I thought it a odd 
 thing for Jim Sanders to do. He haven't got daring enough," 
 he remarked. " That there kitchenmaid was right, I'll be 
 bound, as to its being Mr, Rupert in his passion. Gone in 
 home, did you say, sir ? "
 
 302 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " In his bed by this time, I should say," replied the farmer. 
 " They have got Mr. Rupert, Dumps." 
 
 "Have they?" returned Dumps, in a sort of admiration 
 given to the success of his brother-officers. " But it's a nasty 
 charge," he concluded, after a pause. "I shouldn't be sorry 
 that he got off it." 
 
 The farmer continued his road towards Barbrook : the police- 
 man went the other way. As he came to the cottage inhabited 
 by the Sanders family, it occurred to him that he might as well 
 ascertain the fact of Jim's safety, and he went to the door and 
 knocked at its panels; a moderate knock, neither loud nor 
 gentle. Mrs. Sanders opened it instantly, believing that it was 
 the wanderer. When she saw policeman Dumps standing there, 
 she thought she should have died with fright. 
 
 " Your son has just come in all right, I hear, Meg Sanders. 
 Farmer Apperley have told me." 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied she, dropping a curtsey, The untruthful 
 reply came from her in her terror, almost unconsciously ; but 
 there may have been some latent thought in her heart to mis- 
 lead the policeman. 
 
 " Is he gone to bed? I don't want to disturb him if he is." 
 
 "Yes, sir," again replied she, trembling enough to give Mr. 
 Dumps his suspicions, had he been of a suspicious nature, and 
 the doorway not quite so dark. 
 
 "Well, they have got ]\Ir. Rupert Trevlyn, so the examina- 
 tion will take place to-morrow morning. Your son had better 
 go right over to Barmester the first thing after breakfast : tell 
 him to make for the police-station, and stop there till he sees 
 me. He'll have to give evidence, you know." 
 
 " Very well, sir," repeated the woman, in an agony of fear 
 lest Jim should make his unfortunate appearance. " Jim ain't 
 guilty, sir : he'd not harm a fly." 
 
 " No, he ain't guilty \ but somebody else is, I suppose ; and 
 Jim must tell what he knows. You mind he sets off in time. 
 Or — stop. Perhaps he had better come to the little station at 
 Barbrook, and go over with us. Yes ; that'll be best." 
 
 " To-night, sir?" asked she, timidly, not knowing what else 
 to say. 
 
 " To-night ? — no. What should we do with him to-night ? 
 He must be there at eight o'clock in the morning ; or a little 
 afore it. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, sir." 
 
 She watched him off, quite unable to understand the case,
 
 ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS. 303 
 
 for she had seen nothing of Jim, and Nora Dickson had not 
 long gone. Mr. Dumps made his way to the head-quarters at 
 Barbrook. They consisted of a moderately sized house, to 
 get into which you had to dive down three steps ; and when, 
 later on, Bowen came in with his prisoner, Rupert Trevlyn, 
 Dumps informed him that Jim Sanders was all right, and 
 would be there by eight o'clock. 
 
 " Have you got him — all safe ? " 
 
 " I haven't got him," replied Dumps. " There warn't no 
 need for that. And he was abed and asleep," he added, im- 
 proving upon his information. " It was him that went for all 
 the injines, and he was dead tired." 
 
 "Your orders were to take him," curtly returned Bowen. 
 He believed in the innocence of Jim as much as Dumps did, 
 but he was not tolerant to the disobedience of orders. " He 
 was seen with a lighted torch in the rick-yard, and that's 
 enough." 
 
 Rupert Trevlyn looked round quickly. This conversation 
 had occurred as Bowen was going through the room with his 
 ppsoner to consign the latter to a more secure one. "Jim 
 Sanders did no harm with the torch, Bowen. He lighted it 
 to show me a little puppy of his ; nothing more. There is no 
 need to accuse Jim. He ' 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Trevlyn, but I'd rather not hear 
 anything from you one way or the other," interrupted Bowen. 
 " Don't you as much as open your mouth about it, sir, unless 
 you're obliged ; and I speak in your interest when I give you 
 this advice. Many a prisoner has brought home the guilt to 
 himself through his own tongue, and which else never might 
 have been brought home to him." 
 
 Rupert took the hint, and subsided into silence. He was . 
 consigned to his quarters for the night, and no doubt passed it 
 as agreeably as was consistent with the circumstances. 
 
 The fire had not spread beyond a rick or two. It was quite 
 out before midnight; and the engines, which had done 
 effectual service, were on their way home again. At eight 
 o'clock the following morning a fly was at the door to convey 
 Rupert Trevlyn to Barmester. Mr. Bowen, a cautious man, 
 deemed it well that the chief witness — it may be said, the 
 only witness to any purpose — should be transported thither by 
 the same conveyance. But that witness, Mr. Jim Sanders, 
 delayed his appearance unwarrantably, and Dumps, in much 
 wrath, started after him on the run. Back he came panting — •
 
 304 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 it was not more than a quarter-of-a-mile to the mothers 
 cottage. 
 
 " He is gone on, the stupid blunderer," cried he to Bowen ; 
 " Mrs. Sanders says he's at Barmester by this time. He'll be 
 at the station there, no doubt." 
 
 So the party started in state : Mr. Bowen, and Dumps, and 
 Rupert Trevlyn inside ; and he who had been sent to capture 
 him, Mr. Chigwell, on the box. There was just as much 
 necessity for the two men to go as there was for you or for 
 me ; but they would not have missed the day's excitement for 
 the world : and Bowen did not interpose his veto. 
 
 The noise and bustle at the fire had been great, but it was 
 scarcely greater than that which prevailed that morning at 
 Barmester. Excitement had not often obtained so exclusive 
 a place, and men and women of all grades and classes thronged 
 the streets, eagerly asking for fresh details of the previous 
 night's great event. 
 
 As a matter of course, various and most contradictory 
 versions were afloat ; it is invariably the case. All that was 
 certainly known were the bare facts ; Mr. Chattaway h^d 
 horsewhipped Rupert Trevlyn ; a fire had almost immediately 
 burst out in the rick-yard ; and Rupert was in custody on the 
 charge of wilfully causing it. 
 
 Belief in Rupert's guilt was accorded a very limited degree. 
 People could not forget the ill-feeling supposed to exist 
 towards him in the breast of Mr. Chattaway; and the flying 
 reports that it was Jim Sanders who had been the culprit, 
 accidentally, if not wilfully, obtained far more credence than 
 the other. The curious populace would have subscribed a 
 good round sum to be allowed to question Jim to their hearts' 
 content. 
 
 But a growing rumour, freezing the very marrow in the bones 
 of their curiosity, had come abroad. It was said that Jim 
 had disappeared ; was not to be seen under the local skies ; 
 and it was this that caused the chief portion of the public 
 excitement. For in point of fact, when Bowen and the rest 
 arrived at Barmester, Jim Sanders could not be found or heard 
 of. 1 )umps was despatched back to Barbrook in search of him. 
 
 The hearing was fixed for ten o'clock ; and before that hour 
 struck, the magistrates, a full bench of them — had taken their 
 places. Many familiar faces were to be seen in the crowded 
 court — I mean familiar to you, my readers ; for the local world 
 was alive with interest and curiosity. Rich and poor, friends
 
 ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS. 305 
 
 and foes, all had pressed in as long as there was a place 
 unoccupied. In one part of the crowd might be seen the 
 face of George Ryle, grave and subdued ; in another, the dark 
 flashing eyes of Nora Dickson ; yonder were the red cheeks 
 of Mr. Apperley ; nearer, the pale and concerned countenance 
 of the Reverend Mr. Freeman. Just before the commencement 
 of the proceedings, the carriage from Trevlyn Hold drove up, 
 and there descended from it Mr, and Madam Chattaway, and 
 Miss Diana Trevlyn. A strange fashion, you will say, that 
 they (the ladies) should appear ; but it was not deemed strange 
 in the locality. Miss Diana had asserted her determination to 
 be present in a tone quite beyond the power of Mr. Chattaway 
 to contradict, even had he wished to do so ; and thus he had 
 no plea for refusing his wife. How ill she looked ! Scarcely 
 a heart but ached for her. The two ladies sat in a retired 
 spot, and Mr. Chattaway — who was in the commission of the 
 peace, but did not exercise the privilege once in a dozen years 
 — took his place on the bench. 
 
 Then the prisoner was brought in, civilly conducted by 
 Superintendent Bowen. He had the handsome Trevlyn 
 features, but tempered with the same delicacy which had 
 characterized his father's — a delicacy he, Joe, had inherited 
 from his mother, the Squire's lost wife; he, Rupert, had the 
 bright blue eyes and the silky curls which distinguished Mrs. 
 Chattaway. He looked pale, subdued, meek, gentlemanly — 
 not in the least like one who would set fire to a hay-rick. 
 
 " Have you all your witnesses, Bowen ? " inquired the pre- 
 siding magistrate. 
 
 " All but one, sir, and I expect him here directly ; I have 
 sent to see after him," was the reply of Bowen. " In fact, I'm 
 not sure but he is here," added the man, standing on tiptoe, 
 and stretching his neck upwards ; " the crowd's so great one 
 can't see who's here and who isn't. If he can be heard first, • 
 his evidence may be conclusive, and save the trouble of 
 examining the others." 
 
 " You can call him,'' observed the magistrate. " If he is 
 here, he will answer. What's the name ? " 
 
 "James Sanders, your worship." 
 
 " Call James Sanders," returned his worship, exalting his voice. 
 
 The call was made in obedience, and "James Sanders! 
 James Sanders ! " went ringing through the court, and the 
 walls and roof echoed the crj'. 
 
 But there was no other answer. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 20
 
 3o6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 
 
 The morning sun — for the day was a bright one — shone upon 
 the crowded court, as the Bench waited for the appearance of 
 Mr. Jim Sanders. The windows, large and high, and guiltless 
 of blinds, unless the accumulated dust on them could be called 
 so, faced the south-east, and the warm autumn rays poured in, 
 to the discomfort of any eyes on which they directly fell. 
 They fell especially on the prisoner ; on his fair hair, his winning 
 countenance, his delicate face. They fell on the haughty 
 features of Miss Diana Trevlyn, leaning forward to speak to 
 Mr. Peterby, who had been summoned in haste to the court by 
 herself, that he might watch the interests of Rupert. They 
 fell on the sad face of Mrs. Chattaway, bent downwards until 
 partly hidden under its falling curls ; and they fell on the red 
 face of Farmer Apperley, who was in a brown study, and gently 
 flicking his top-boot with his riding-whip, as conveniently as 
 the throng permitted him. 
 
 One, who had come pressing through the crowd, extended 
 her hand, and touched the farmer on the shoulder. He 
 turned to behold Nora Dickson. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Apperley, did your wife ever make those 
 inquiries for me about that work-woman at the upholsterer's, 
 whether she goes out by the day, or not ? " asked Nora, as if 
 speaking for the benefit of the court in general. 
 
 Mr. Apperley paused before he replied : he was collecting 
 his thoughts upon the subject. " I did hear the missis say 
 something about that woman," said he at length. "I can't 
 call to mind what, though. Brown, isn't her name?" 
 
 "We must have her, or somebody else," continued Nora, in 
 the same loud tones. " Our drawing-room winter curtains 
 must be turned top for bottom ; and as to the moreen bed- 
 furniture " 
 
 '■'■ Silence there ! " interrupted an authoritative voice. And 
 then there came. again the same call which had already been 
 echoed through the court twice before — 
 
 " James Sanders ! " 
 
 " Just step here to the back, and I'll give your wife a message 
 for the woman, if she'll be so good as deliver it," resumed Nora,
 
 THE EXAMINATION, 307 
 
 who persisted in her high tones, in defiance of the mandate 
 just issued. 
 
 The farmer did not see why he need push his way tlirough 
 the throng to the back, or why the message could not have 
 been given to him where he was ; but we are all apt to yield to 
 a ruling power, and he made his way after Nora. 
 
 She twisted herself through the crowded doorway of the 
 court into a stone hall, which was comparatively empty. The 
 farmer contrived to follow her; but he was short and stout, 
 and he emerged purple with the exertion. Nora cast her 
 cautious eyes around, and then bent towards him with the 
 softest whisper. 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Apperley. If they examine j'^//, you have 
 no need to tell everything, you know." 
 
 Mr. Apperley, none of the keenest at taking a hint, stared at 
 Nora. He could not understand. " What — are you talking 
 about the upholstering woman ? " asked he in his perplexity. 
 
 " Rubbish ! " retorted Nora. " Do you suppose I brought 
 you here to talk about her ? You have not a bit of gumption 
 — as everybody knows. Jim Sanders is not to be found ; at 
 least, it seems so," continued Nora, with a short cough ; " for 
 that's the third time they have called for him. Now, if they 
 examine you — as I suppose they will, by Bowen saying you 
 might be wanted, there's no need, you know, for you to go and 
 repeat what Jim said when you met him last night down by 
 his cottage, about Rupert Trevlyn's being guilty." 
 
 "Why! how did you know I met Jim there last night?" 
 cried the farmer, staring at Nora. 
 
 " There's no time to explain now : I didn't dream it. You 
 liked Joe Trevlyn : I have heard you say it." 
 
 " Ay, I did," replied the farmer, casting his thoughts back. 
 
 " Well, then, just bring to your mind how that poor lad, his 
 son, has been wronged and put upon through life ; think of the 
 critical position he stands in now ; there, right before a hun- 
 dred eyes — brought to it through that usurper, Chattaway. 
 Don't you help on the hue and cry against him, I say. You 
 didn't see him fire the rick ; you only heard Jim Sanders say 
 that he fired it ; and you are not called upon in any sort of 
 justice to repeat that hearsay evidence. Don't do it, Mr. 
 Apperley." 
 
 "I suppose I am not," assented he, doubtingly, after digest- 
 ing the words. 
 
 " Indeed, you are not. If Jim can't be found, and you don't
 
 3o8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 speak, I think it's not much of a case they 11 make out 
 against him. After all, Jim may have done it himself, you 
 know." 
 
 She turned away, leaving the farmer to follow her. " And 
 if the woman can come, next week will do better for us than 
 any other, please let Mrs. Apperley say," called she aloud, as 
 she began to push her way back into court. 
 
 The farmer, slow at coming to conclusions, stopped where he 
 was, pondering all sides of the question in his mind. 
 
 But there's a word to say about Policeman Dumps. Nothing 
 could exceed the consternation experienced by that functionary 
 at the non-appearance of Jim Sanders. On their arrival at 
 Barmester, they had searched for him in vain. Dumps would 
 not believe that he had been purposely deceived, although the 
 stern eyes of his superior, Bowen, were bent on him with a 
 very significant look. " Get the fleetest conveyance you can, 
 and be off to Barbrook and see about it," were the whispered 
 commands of the latter. " A pretty go, this is ! I shall have 
 the Bench blowing of me up in public ! "' 
 
 The Bench, vexed at the fruitless calls for Jim Sanders, 
 looked much inclined to blow some one up. They were better 
 off in regard to the sun than their audience, since they had 
 their backs to it. The chairman, who sat in the middle, was a 
 Mr. Pollard, a kindly, but hasty and opinionated man. He 
 ordered the case to proceed, while the principal witness, Jim 
 Sanders, was being looked for. 
 
 Mr. Flood, the lawyer from Barmester, acting for Mr. 
 Chattaway, stated the case shortly and concisely. And the 
 first witness called upon was Mr. Chattaway, who descended 
 from the bench to give his evidence. 
 
 He was obliged to confess to his shame. He stood there 
 before the condemning faces around, and ackno\\ledged that 
 the chastisement spoken to was a fact — that he had laid his 
 horsewhip on the shoulders of Rupert Trevlyn. He was 
 pressed for the why and wherefore — -Chattaway was no favourite 
 with his brother-magistrates, and they did not show him any 
 remarkable favour — and he had further to confess that the 
 provocation was totally inadequate to the punishment. 
 
 "State your grounds for charging your nephew, Rupert 
 Trevlyn, with the crime," said the Bench. 
 
 " There is not the slightest doubt that he did it in a fit of 
 passion," said Mr. Chattaway. " There was no one but him in 
 the rick-yard, so lar as I saw, Jind he had a lighted torch in his
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 309 
 
 hand. This torch he dropped for a moment, but I suppose he 
 picked it up again." 
 
 " It is said that James Sanders was also in the rick-yard ; 
 that tlie torch was his." 
 
 " I cannot say. I did not see James Sanders. I saw only 
 Rupert Trevlyn, and he had the torch in his hand when I went 
 up. It Avas not many minutes after I quitted the rick-yard, 
 leaving him in it, that I saw the flames break out." 
 
 Apparently this was all Mr. Chattaway knew of the actual 
 facts. The man Hatch was called, and testified to the fact 
 that Jim Sanders was in the rick-yard. Bridget, the kitchen- 
 maid, in a state of much tremor, confirmed this, and confessed 
 that she was ihere subsequently with Jim, that he had a torch, 
 and that they saw the flames break out. She related her story 
 pretly circumstantially, winding it up with the statement that 
 Jim had told her it was Mr. Rupert who set it on fire. 
 
 "Stop a bit, lass," interrupted Mr. Peterby. "You have 
 just stated to their worships that Jim Sanders flew off like one 
 dazed with fright the minute he saw the flames burst forth, 
 never stopping to speak a word. Noiv you say he told you it 
 was Mr. Rupert who fired it. How do you reconcile the con- 
 tradiction ? " 
 
 " He had told me first, sir," answered the girl. " He said he 
 saw the master horsewhip Mr. Rupert, and Mr. Rupert in his 
 passion caught up the torch which had fell, and thrust it into 
 the rick, and then leaped over the palings and got away. Jim, 
 he pulled the torch out of the rick, and all the hay that had 
 caught, as he thought ; he told me all this when he was showing 
 me the puppy. I suppose a spark must have stopped in to 
 smoulder there, unknown to him." 
 
 " Now don't you think that you and he and the torch and 
 the puppy, between you, managed to get the spark there, instead 
 of its having ' smouldered,' eh, girl ? " sarcastically asked Mr. 
 Peterby. 
 
 Bridget burst into tears. " No, I am sure we did not," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Don't you likewise think that this pretty little bit of news 
 regarding Mr. Rupert may have been a fable of Mr. Jim's in- 
 vention,"to excuse his own carelessness or crime?" went on 
 the lawyer. 
 
 "I am certain it was not, sir," she sobbed. "When Jim 
 told me about Mr. Rupert, he never thought the rick was 
 a-fire."
 
 3IO TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 They could not get on at all without Jim Sanders. Mr. 
 Peterby's insinuations regarding Jim were pointed ; nay, more 
 than his insinuations, for he boldly asserted that the rick was 
 far more likely to have been fired by Jim than Rupert — that is, 
 by a spark from that careless gentleman's torch, while engaged 
 with two objects so exacting as a puppy and Bridget. It 
 appeared that Jim himself could alone clear up the knotty 
 question, and the Court gave vent to its impatience, and wished 
 they were at the heels of Policeman Dumps who had gone after 
 him. 
 
 But the heels of Policeman Dumps could not by any manner 
 of means have been flying more quickly over the ground, had 
 the whole court been after him in full cry. In point of fact, 
 they were not his own heels that were at work, but those of a 
 fleet little horse, drawing the light gig in which the policeman 
 sat. So effectually did he whip up this horse, that in consider- 
 ably less time than half-an-hour, Mr. Dumps was nearing Jim's 
 dwelling. As he passed the police-station at Barbrook, the 
 only solitary policeman left to take care that day of the interests 
 of the district was fulfilling his duty by taking a lounge against 
 the door-post. 
 
 "Have you seen anything of that there Jim Sanders?" 
 called out Mr. Dumps, partially checking his horse. " He 
 has never made his appearance yonder, and I'm. come after 
 him." 
 
 " I hear he's off," answered the man. 
 
 "Off! Off where?" 
 
 " Cut away," was the explanatory reply. " He haven't been 
 seen since last night." 
 
 Allowing himself a whole minute to' take in the news, Mr. 
 Dumps whipped on his horse, and gave utterance to a very un- 
 parliamentary word. When he burst into Mrs. Sanders's 
 cottage, which was full of steam, and she before a washing-tub, 
 he seized that lady's arm in so emphatic a manner that she, 
 perceiving what was coming, gave a short scream, and plunged 
 her face and head into the soap-suds. 
 
 ]\Ir. Dumps ungallantly shook her clear of them. " Now 
 then, you just answer me," cried he ; " and if you speak a word 
 of a lie this time maybe you'll get transported, or summat as 
 bad. What made you tell me last night that Jim had come 
 home and was in bed ? Where is he ? " 
 
 She supposed he knew all — all the wickedness of her conduct 
 :'n screening him ; and it had the effect of hardening her. She
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 3tl 
 
 Was driven, as it were, to bay ; and deceit was no longer avail- 
 al)le either for her or for Jim. 
 
 " If you did transport me I couldn't tell where he is. I don't 
 know. I never set eyes on him all the blessed night, and that's 
 the naked truth. Let me go, Mr. Dumps : it's no good choking 
 of me." 
 
 Mr. Dumps looked ready to choke, himself. He had been 
 deceived, and turned aside from the execution of his duty — he, 
 Policeman Dumps ; and the other police would have the laugh 
 at him, and Bowen would blow up, and the Bench at Barmester 
 was waiting, and Jim was off — and that there wretched woman 
 had done it all ! Mr. Dumps ground his teeth in his impotent 
 rage. 
 
 " I'll have you punished as sure as my name's what it is, Meg 
 Sanders, if you don't tell me the truth about Jim," he foamed. 
 " Is he in this here house?" 
 
 " You be welcome to search the house," she replied, flinging 
 open the staircase door, which led to the loft. " I'm not a- 
 telling nothing but truth now, though I was frighted into doing 
 of summat else last night. You says, says you, ' Your son 
 have just come in all right, I hear, Mrs. Sanders, Farmer 
 Apperley have told me;' and the words put me up to say as 
 he had come in. I was frighted to death a'most, sir, and so 
 I was this morning when I said he'd gone on to Barmester." 
 
 Mr. Dumps felt inclined to shake her : we are sure to be 
 more angry with others when we have ourselves to blame ; 
 how could he have been fool enough to place such blind 
 confidence in Farmer Apperley? One thing forced itself on 
 his conviction; the woman was speaking nothing but truth 
 now. 
 
 " You persist in it to my face that you don't know where Jim 
 is ? " he cried. 
 
 " I swear I don't. There ! I swear I have never set eyes on 
 him since last night when he came home after work, and went 
 out to take his black puppy up to Trevlyn Hold. He never 
 come in after that." 
 
 "You just dry that soap-suddy head of yourn, and put your 
 bonnet on it, and come straight off, and tell that to the magis- 
 trates," commanded Mr. Dumps, in sullen tones. 
 
 She did not dare resist. She put on the bonnet, and flung 
 her old shawl across her shoulders, and was marshalled by Mr. 
 Dumps to the gig. To look after Jim was a secondary con- 
 sideration. To make his own excuse good was the first ; and if
 
 512 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Jim had had a matter of twelve-hours' start, he might be at 
 twelve-hours' distance. 
 
 Not to be found ! Jim Sanders had made his escape, and 
 was not to be found ! reiterated the indignant Bench, when 
 Mrs. Sanders and her escort appeared. What did Bowen mean, 
 they asked, by asserting to them that Jim was ready to be 
 called upon ? 
 
 Bowen shifted the blame from his own shoulders to those 
 of Dumps ; and Dumps, with a red face, shifted it on to Mrs. 
 Sanders. She was sternly questioned, and made the same 
 excuse that she had made to Dumps — it was through his saying 
 to her, evidently assuming it, that Jim had returned, and was 
 in bed, which caused her in her fright to agree with it, and 
 reply that he was. She was frighted a'most out of her senses, 
 she added ; but she'd take her oath to the truth now — that she 
 had not seen Jim, and that he had never been anigh home 
 since he went out of it with the puppy in the earlier part of the 
 evening, and that she knew no more where Jim was than Mr. 
 Dumps himself did. 
 
 That she told the truth appeared to be pretty clear to the 
 magistrates, and to punish her for having so far used deceit to 
 screen her son, might have been neither just nor legal. They 
 turned back on Dumps. 
 
 " What induced you to put such a leading question to the 
 woman, assuming that the boy was at home and in bed ? " was 
 their severe question. 
 
 Dumps turned his hat round in his hand in a very sheep- 
 faced manner, and began rather to excuse himself than to 
 explain. Such a thing hadn't never happened to him afore as to 
 be blinded ; and it were Mr. Apperley's fault, for he met that 
 gentleman nigh Meg Sanders's door, and he told him Jim was 
 all right, and was gone in home to bed. 
 
 This was the first time Mr. Apperley's name had been men- 
 tioned in connection with the affair, and the magistrates ordered 
 him before them. Nora insinuated her way to the front, and 
 stood looking at him as he gave his evidence ; whilst Mrs. Chat- 
 taway's face bent lower, to conceal its anxious expression, the 
 wild beating of her heart. 
 
 " Did you meet James Sanders last night, Mr. Apperley?" 
 inquired the chairman. "As Policeman Dumps asserts?" 
 
 " Yes ; I did, sir. I was going home, when the danger was 
 over, and the fire had got low, and I came upon Jim Sanders 
 near his cottage, coming from the direction of Layton's Heath.
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 313 
 
 Knowing he had been looked after, I laid hold of him : but the 
 boy told me, all simple like, where he had been, which was after 
 the different engines — to Barbrook, to Barmester, and to Lay- 
 ton's Heath — and he was then hastening to the Hold to help 
 at the fire. I told him the fire was close upon out, and that he 
 might go in and get to bed." 
 
 "And you told Dumps that he had gone in to bed?" 
 
 " I did. I never supposed but that Jim went straight in, 
 then and there ; and when I met Dumps a few minutes after- 
 wards, I told him he had so gone. I can't make it out — I can't 
 understand it at all. The boy seemed almost too tired to move, 
 and no wonder — and why he did not go in, or where he could 
 have gone instead, is uncommon odd to me. It's to know 
 whether his mother speaks truth in saying he did not go in," 
 added the farmer, gratuitously imparting a little of his mind to 
 the Bench. 
 
 "What did he say to you ?" 
 
 " He said where he had been, and he said he was going up 
 to the Hold," replied the witness, in tones of palpable hesita- 
 tion, as if he were weighing his words before speaking them. 
 
 " You are sure it was Jim Sanders ? " asked a very silent 
 magistrate who sat at the end of the bench. 
 
 Mr. Apperley opened his eyes at this. " Sure it was Jim 
 Sanders? Yes; I'm sure of that, sir. I know him well 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, it appears that only you, so far as can be learnt, 
 saw Jim Sanders at all near the spot after the alarm went 
 out."" 
 
 "Like enough,'" answered the farmer. "If the boy went to 
 all these places, one after the other, he couldn't be nigh the 
 Hold. He must have come on at a fine speed, to be back as 
 soon as he was. But there's no mistake about my having seen 
 him, and talked to him ; and I am sure I as much thought he 
 went right into his home as I think I am standing here this 
 minute, else I never should have asserted it to Dumps." 
 
 The danger appeared to be over. The Bench seemed to 
 have no intention of asking further questions of Mr. Apperley, 
 and Nora breathed freely again. But it often happens that 
 when we deem ourselves most secure, hidden danger is all the 
 nearer. As the witness was turning round to retire. Flood, the 
 lawyer, stepped forward. 
 
 "A moment yet, if you please, Mr. Apperley. I must ask 
 you a question or two, with the permission of the Bench. I
 
 314 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 believe you had met Jim Sanders before that, last night — soon 
 after the breaking out of the fire ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the farmer ; " it was at the bend of the road 
 between the Hold and Barbrook. I had that minute caught 
 sight of the flame, not knowing rightly where it was or what it 
 was, and Jim came running up and said, as well as he could 
 speak for his hurry and agitation, that it was in Mr, Chattaway's 
 rick-yard." 
 
 " Agitated, was he ? " asked the Bench ; and a keen observer 
 might have noticed Mr. Flood's brow contract with a momen- 
 tary annoyance. 
 
 " He was so agitated as to be almost unaware of what he 
 was saying, as it appeared to me," returned the witness. " He 
 went away at great speed in the direction of Barbrook ; on 
 his way — as I learnt afterwards — to fetch the fire-engines." 
 
 "And very laudable of him to do so," spoke up the lawyer. 
 " But I have a serious question to put to you now, Mr. Apperley ; 
 be so good as to attend to me, and speak up. Did not Jim 
 Sanders distinctly tell you that it was Rupert Trevlyn who had 
 fired the rick ? " 
 
 Mr. Apperley paused in indecision. On the one hand, he 
 was a plain, straightforward, honest man, possessing little tact, 
 no cunning ; on the other, he shrank from doing harm to 
 Rupert. Nora's words had left a strong impression upon him, 
 and the mysterious absence of Jim Sanders was also producing 
 its effect, as it was on three-parts of the people in court. He 
 and they were beginning to ask why Jim should run away unless 
 he had been guilty. 
 
 " Have you lost your tongue, Mr. Apperley ? " resumed the 
 lawyer. " Did or did not Jim Sanders say that it was Rupert 
 Trevlyn who fired the rick ? " 
 
 " I cannot say but he did," replied Mr. Apperley, as an un- 
 pleasant remembrance came across him of having proclaimed 
 this fact liimself the previous night at Trevlyn Hold to as many 
 as chose to listen, to which incaution (as he began to think it 
 now) Mr. Flood no doubt owed his knowledge. " But Jim ap- 
 peared so flustered and wild," he continued, "that my belief is 
 ■ — and I have said this before — that he didn't rightly know what 
 he was saying." 
 
 " Unless I am misinformed, you had just before met Rupert 
 Trevlyn," continued Mr. Flood. " He was wild and flustered, 
 was he not ? " 
 
 " He was. Worse than |im of the two."
 
 THE EXAMINATION, 31$ 
 
 "Were both coming from the same direction?*' 
 
 " Yes. As if they had run straight from the Hold." 
 
 " From the rick-yard, eh ? " 
 
 "It might be that they had ; 'twas pretty straight from there, 
 if they leaped a hedge or two." 
 
 "Just so. You were walking soberly along the high-road, 
 on your way to Bluck the farrier's, when you were startled by 
 the apparition of Rupert Trevlyn flying from the direction of 
 the rick-yard like a wild animal — I only quote your own account 
 of the fact, Mr. Apperley; your own words. Rupert was pale 
 and breathless ; in short, as you described him, he must have 
 been under the influence of some great terror, or" — and the 
 lawyer's words grew ominously slow and distinct — " of guilt. 
 Was this so? Tell their worships." 
 
 " It was so," replied Mr. Apperley. 
 
 " You tried to stop him, and you could not ; and as you 
 stood looking after him, wondering whether he was mad, and, 
 if not mad, what could have put him into such a state, Jim 
 Sanders came up and told you a piece of news that was suffi- 
 cient to account for any amount of agitation — namely, that 
 Rupert Trevlyn had just set fire to one of the ricks in the yard 
 at the Hold." 
 
 It was utterly impossible that Mr. Apperley in his truth could 
 deny this, and a faint cry broke from the lips of Mrs. Chatta- 
 way. But when ]\Ir. Flood had done with the farmer, it was 
 Mr. Peterby's turn to question him. He had not much to ask 
 him, but he elicited from him the positive avowal — and the 
 farmer seemed to be willing to make as much of it as did Mr. 
 Peterby — that Jim Sanders was in as great a state of agitation 
 as Rupert Trevlyn, or nearly as great. He, Mr, Apperley, 
 summed up the fact by certain effective words. 
 
 " Yes, they were both agitated, — both wild ; and if those signs 
 were any proof of the crime, the one looked as likely to have 
 committed it as the other." 
 
 The words told with the Bench, Mr. Flood exerted his elo- 
 quence to prove that Rupert Trevlyn, and he alone, must have 
 been guilty. Not that he had any personal ill-feeling to Rupert; 
 he only spoke in his lawyerly instinct, which must do all it 
 could for his client's cause. Mr. Peterby, on the other hand, 
 argued that the detailed circumstances were more conclusive 
 of the guilt of James Sanders. Mr. Apperley had testified that 
 both were nearly equally agitated ; and if Rupert was the most 
 so, it was only natural, for a gentleman's feelings were more
 
 3i6 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 easily stirred than an ignorant day-labourer's. In point of fact, 
 this agitation might have proceeded from terror alone in each 
 of them. Looking at the case dispassionately, what real point 
 was there against Rupert Trevlyn? None. Who dared to 
 assert that he was guilty ? No one but the runaway, James 
 Sanders, who most probably proffered the charge to screen 
 himself. Where was James Sanders, ]\Ir. Peterby continued, 
 looking round the court? Nowhere: he had decamped; and 
 this, of itself, ought to be taken by all sensible people as the 
 most conclusive proof of guilt. He asked the Bench, in their 
 justice, not to remand Rupert Trevlyn, as was urged by Mr. 
 Flood, but to discharge him, and issue a warrant for the 
 apprehension of James Sanders. 
 
 Ah, v.hat anxious hearts were some of those in court as tlie 
 magistrates consulted with each other. Mr. Chattawayhad had 
 the grace not to return to his seat, and he waited, as did the 
 rest of the audience. Presently the chairman spoke — and it is 
 very possible that the general disfavour in which Mr. Chatta- 
 way was held had insensibly influenced their decision. 
 
 It appeared to the Bench, he said, that there was not suffi- 
 cient facts proved against Rupert Trevlyn to justify their keep- 
 ing him in custody, or in remanding the case. That he may 
 have smarted in passion under the personal chastisement in- 
 flicted by Mr. Chattaway was not unlikely, and that gentleman 
 had proved that, when he left the rick-yard, the lighted torch 
 was, so to say, in possession of the prisoner. Mr. Apperley 
 had likewise testified to meeting Rupert Trevlyn soon after- 
 wards in a state of wild agitation. In the opinion of the Bench, 
 these facts were not worth much : the lighted torch, as was 
 proved, was in the possession of James Sanders in the rick-yard 
 after this, as it had been before it ; and the prisoner's agitation 
 might have been solely the effect of the beating inflicted on him 
 by Mr. Chattaway. Except the assertion of the boy, James 
 Sanders, as spoken to by Mr. Apperley and the servant-maid, 
 Bridget Sanders, there was nothing to' connect the prisoner 
 with the actual crime. It had been argued by Mr. Peterby 
 that James Sanders himself had probably committed it, wilfully 
 or accidentally, and that his absence might be regarded as a 
 pretty conclusive proof of this. Be that as it might, the Bench 
 had come to the decision that there were not sufficient grounds 
 for detaining the prisoner, and therefore he was discharged. 
 
 He was discharged ! And the shout of approbation that 
 arose in court made the very walls ring.
 
 { 31/ 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A NIGHT ENCOUNTER. 
 
 The first to press up to Rupert Trevlyn after his restored liberty, 
 was George Ryle. George held a very decided opinion upon 
 the unhapi)y case ; but he strove to bury it five-fathom deep in 
 his heart, and he hated Mr. Chattaway for the inflicted horse- 
 whipping. Holding his arm out to Rupert, he led him towards 
 the exit ; but the sea of faces, of friendly voices, of shaking 
 hands, was great, and somehow he and Rupert were separated. 
 
 " It is a new lease of life for me, George," whispered a soft, 
 sweet voice in his ear, and he turned to behold the glowing 
 cheeks of Mrs. Chattaway. Glowing with thanksgiving and only 
 unqualified happiness. 
 
 Unqualified? Ah, if she could only have looked into the 
 future, as George did in his forethought ! Jim Sanders would 
 probably not remain absent for ever. But he suffered his face 
 to become radiant as Mrs. Chattaway's, as he stayed to talk 
 with her, 
 
 "Yes, dear Mrs. Chattaway was it not a shout? I will 
 drive Rupert home. I have my gig here. Treve shall walk. 
 I wonder — 1 have been wondering whether it would not be 
 better for all parties if Rupert came and stayed a week with 
 Treve at the Farm ? It might give time for the unpleasantness 
 to blow over between him and Mr. Chattaway.'' 
 
 " How good you are, George ! If it only might be ! I'll 
 speak to Diana." 
 
 She turned to Miss Diana Trevlyn and George saw Rupert 
 talking with Mr. Peterby. At that moment, some one took 
 possession of George. 
 
 It was Mr. Wall, the linendraper. He had been in court 
 all the time, his sympathies entirely with the prisoner, in spite of 
 his early friendship with the master of Trevlyn Hold. Ever 
 since that one month passed at Mr. Wall's house, which George 
 at the time thought the blackest month that could have fallen 
 to the lot of mortal, Mr. Wall and George had been great 
 friends. 
 
 "This has been a nasty business, George," he said in an 
 undertone. " Where is Jim Sanders ^ "
 
 3i8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 George disclaimed, and with truth, all knowledge on the 
 point. Mr, Wall resumed. 
 
 " I guess how it was ; an outbreak of the Trevlyn temper. 
 Chattaway was a fool to provoke it. Cruel, too. He had no 
 more right to take a whip to Rupert Trevlyn than I have to 
 take one to my head-shopman. Were the ricks insured ? " 
 
 " No. There's the smart with Chattaway. He never would 
 insure his ricks ; never has insured them. It is said — I don't 
 know with what truth — that INIiss Diana has often told him he 
 deserved to have his ricks burnt down for being penny wise 
 and pound foolish." 
 
 " How many were burnt ? " 
 
 " Two : and another damaged with the water. It is a smart 
 loss." 
 
 "Ay. One he won't relish. Rupert is not secure, you 
 know," continued Mr. Wall in a spirit of friendly warning. 
 " He can be taken up again." 
 
 " I am aware of that. And this time I think it will be very 
 difficult -to lay the spirit of anger in Mr. Chattaway. Good 
 evening. I am going to drive Rupert home. Where has he 
 got to?" 
 
 George had cause to reiterate the words "Where has he got 
 to ? " for he could not see him anywhere. His eyes roved in 
 vain in search of Rupert. Mr. Peterby, as he could see, was 
 alone now. 
 
 George went hunting for him everywhere. He inquired of 
 every one, friend and stranger, if they had seen Rupert, but all 
 in vain ; he could not meet him or hear of him. At last he 
 gave up the search, and started for home, Treve occupying the 
 place in the gig which he had offered to Rupert. 
 
 Where was Rupert ? Rupert, in a state of mind not to be 
 described, had stolen away in the dusky night from the mass of 
 faces, the minute he was released by Mr. Peterby, and made 
 the best of his way out of Barmester, taking the field way 
 towards the Hold. He felt in a sea of guilt and shame. To 
 stand there a prisoner, the consciousness of guilt upon him 
 — for he knew that he did fire the rick — was as the very 
 keenest agony. When his previous night's passion cooled 
 down, it was rei)laced by an awful sense — and the word 
 "awful" is not misplaced — of the enormity of his act. It was 
 a positive fact that he could not remember the details of that 
 evil moment ; but an innate conviction was upon him that he 
 did thrust the burning brand into the rick and had so revenged
 
 A NIGHT ENCOUNTER. 319 
 
 himself on Mr. Chattaway. He turned aghast as he thought 
 of it : in his sober senses he would be one of the last to commit 
 so great a wickedness — would shudder at its bare thought. 
 Not only was the weight of the guilt upon his mind, but a dread 
 of the consequences, Rupert was no hero, and the horror of 
 the pvjiishnietit that might follow was working havoc in his 
 brain. If he had escaped it for this day, he knew enough of 
 our laws to be aware that he might not escape it another, and 
 that Chattaway would prove implacable. The disgrace of a 
 trial, the brand of felon — all might be his. Perhaps it was fear 
 as much as shame which took Rupert alone out of Barmester. 
 
 He knew not where to go. He reached the neighbourhood 
 of the Hold, passed it, and wandered about in the moonlight, 
 sick with hunger, weary with walking. He began to wish he 
 had gone home with George Ryle j and he wished he could see 
 George Ryle then, and ask his advice. To the Hold, to face 
 Chattaway, he dared not yet go ; nay, with that consciousness 
 of guilt upon him, he shrank from facing his kind aunt Edith, 
 his sister Maude, his aunt Diana. A sudden thought flashed 
 into his mind — and for tlie moment it seemed like an in- 
 spiration — he would go after Mr. Daw and beg a shelter with 
 him. 
 
 But to get to Mr. Daw, who lived in some unknown region 
 in the Pyrenees, and had no doubt, crossed the Channel on 
 his journey, would take money, time, and strength. As the 
 practical views of the idea came up before him one by one, he 
 abandoned it in utter despair. Where should he go and what 
 should he do ? He sat down on the stile forming the entrance 
 to a small grove of trees, through which a near road led to Bar- 
 brook ; in fact, it was at the end of that very field where Mn 
 Apperley had seen him the previous evening careering like a 
 wild animal. Some subtle instinct, perhaps, took his wandering 
 steps to it. As he leaned against the stile, he became conscious 
 of the advance of some one along the narrow path leading from 
 Barbrook — a woman, by her petticoats. 
 
 , It was a lovely night, the moon very bright. The previous 
 night had been dull, but on this one the moon shone in all her 
 splendoun Rupert did not fear a woman, least of all the one 
 approaching, for he saw that it was Ann Canham. She had 
 been at work at the parsonage. Mrs. Freeman, taking ad- 
 vantage of the departure of their guest, had instituted the 
 autumn half-yearly cleaning, delayed on his account ; and Ann 
 had been there to-day, helping Alolly, and was to go also on
 
 330 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 the morrow. A few happy tears dropped from her eyes when 
 she saw him. 
 
 " The parson's already home with the good news, sir. But 
 why ever do you sit here, Master Rupert ? " 
 
 " Because I have nowhere to go to," returned Rupert. 
 
 Ann paused, and then spoke timidly. " Isn't there the Hold, 
 as usual, sir ? " 
 
 " I can't go there. Chattaway might horsewhip me again, 
 you know, Ann." 
 
 The bitter mockery with which he spoke brought pain to her. 
 " Where shall you go, sir? " 
 
 "I don't know. Lie down under these trees till morning. 
 I am awfully hungry." 
 
 Ann Canham opened a basket which she carried, and took 
 out a small loaf, or cake. She offered it to Rupert, curtseying 
 humbly. 
 
 " Molly has been baking today, sir ; and the missis, she gave 
 me this little loaf for my father. Please to accept of it, sir." 
 
 Rupert's impulse was to refuse, but hunger was strong with- 
 in him. He took a knife from his pocket, cut it in two, and 
 gave one half back to Ann Canham. 
 
 "Tell Mark I had the other, Ann. He won't grudge it to 
 me. And now you go on home. It's of no use your stopping 
 here." 
 
 She made as if she would depart, but hesitated. " Master 
 Rupert, I don't like to leave you here, so friendless. Won't 
 you come to the lodge, sir, and shelter there for the night ? " 
 
 "No, that I won't," he answered. "Thank you, Ann; but 
 I am not going to get you and Mark into trouble as I have got 
 myself." 
 
 She sighed as she finally went away. When would this 
 unhappy trouble, touching Rupert, be over? Ever? 
 
 Perhaps Rupert was asking the same. He ate the bread, 
 and sat on the stile afterwards, ruminating. He was terribly 
 bitter against Chattaway; he felt that but for his wicked 
 conduct he should not now be the outcast he was. All the 
 wrongs of his life rose up before him. The Hold that ought 
 to be his, the rank he was deprived of, the wretched humilia- 
 tions that were his daily portion. They assumed quite an 
 exaggerated importance to his mind. He worked himself into 
 — not the passion of the previous night, but into an angry, 
 defiant temper ; and he wished he could meet Chattaway face 
 to face, and return the blows the pain of which was still upon him.
 
 NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD. 3:1 
 
 With a cry that ahiiost burst from his lips in terror, with a 
 fethng verging on the supernatural, he suddenly saw Chattavvay 
 before him. Rupert recovered himself, and though his heart 
 beat pretty fast, he kept his seat on the stile in his defiant 
 humour. 
 
 And Mr, Chattaway ? Every drop of blood in that gentle- 
 man's body had bubbled up with the unjust leniency shown 
 by the magistrates, and had remained since at boiling heat. 
 Never, never had his feelings been so excited against Rupert 
 as they were on this night. As he came along he was plotting 
 with himself how Rupert could be recaptured on the morrow 
 ^— on what pretext he could apply for a warrant against him. 
 That miserable, detested Rupert ! He made his life a terror 
 through that latent dread, he was a burden on his pocket, he 
 brought him into disfavour with the neighbourhood, he treated 
 him with cavalier insolence, and now he had set his ricks on 
 fire. And — there he was ! There ! Before him in the moon- 
 light. Mr. Chattaway bounded forward, and seized him by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 A struggle ensued. Blows were given on either side. But 
 Mr. Chattaway was the strongest : he flung Rupert to the 
 ground ; and a dull, heavy sound went forth on the still night 
 air. 
 
 Did the sound come from Rupert, or from Mr. Chattaway ? 
 No; Rupert was lying motionless, and Mr. Chattaway knew 
 that he had made no noise himself. He looked up in the 
 trees, but it had not been shrill enough for a night-bird. A 
 rustling caught his ear behind the narrow grove, and Mr. 
 Chattaway bounded towards it. He was just in time to see a 
 man's legs emerging from it, and flying over the ground in the 
 direction of Barbrook. 
 
 A\'ho had been a witness to the scene ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLH. 
 
 NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana had driven 
 home from Barmester, they were met with curious faces and 
 eager questions, for the result of the day's proceedings had not 
 yet reached the Hold. It added to the terrible mortification 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. *-l
 
 322 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 already gnawing the heart of Mr. Chattavvay to have to confess 
 that Rupert was discharged. He had been too outspoken 
 that morning before his children and household, of the 
 certain punishment in store for Rupert — his committal for 
 trial. 
 
 And the mortification was destined to be increased on 
 another score. Whilst they were seated at refreshment — a sort 
 of dinner-tea — Cris came in from Blackstone with some news. 
 The Government inspectors had been there that day, and had 
 chosen to put themselves out on account of the absence of Mr. 
 Chattaway, whom they had reason to expect would be at the 
 office. • 
 
 " They mean mischief, I am sure," observed Cris. " How 
 far can they interfere ? " he asked, turning to his father. " Can 
 they force you to go to the expense they hint at?" 
 
 Mr. Chattaway really did not know. He sat looking surly 
 and gloomy, buried in rumination, and by-and-by he rose and 
 left the room. Soon after this, George Ryle entered. He 
 was come to fetch Rupert to the farm. George knew now that 
 Rupert had walked home : Bluck, the farrier, had told him so. 
 But Rupert, it appeared, was not yet come in. 
 
 So George waited : waited and waited. It was a most 
 uncomfortable evening. Mrs. Chattaway was palpably nervous 
 and anxious, and Maude, who sat apart, as if conscious that 
 Rupert's fault in some degree reflected upon her, his sister, 
 was as white as a sheet. It was nearly eleven when George 
 rose to leave. Rupert, it must be supposed, had taken shelter 
 somewhere for the night, and Mr. Chattaway did not appear in 
 a hurry to enter. None of them had any idea where Mr. 
 Chattaway was gone to : when he left the room, they had only 
 supposed him to be going to the outbuildings. 
 
 The whole flood of moonlight came flushing on George Ryle, 
 as he stood for a moment at the door of Trevlyn Hold. He 
 lifted his face to it, thinking how beautiful it was, when the 
 door was softly opened behind him, and Maude came out, pale 
 and shivering. 
 
 "Forgive my following you, George," she whispered, in 
 pleading, deprecating tones. "I could not ask you before 
 them, but I am ill with suspense. Tell me, is the danger over 
 for Rupert ? " 
 
 George took her hand in his. He looked down with grave 
 pity, ^Yith tender fondness, upon the unhappy girl ; but he 
 hesitated in his answer.
 
 NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD. 323 
 
 She bent her head down on George's hand, as it held both 
 hers, and tliere came up to him a half-breathed whisper of pain. 
 " Do you believe he did it ? " 
 
 " Maude, my darling, I do believe he did it ; you ask me for 
 the truth, and I will not give you anything else. But I believe 
 that he must have been in a state of madness, not responsible 
 for his actions." 
 
 " What can be done ? " she gasped. 
 
 "Nothing. Nothing, except that we must endeavour to 
 conciliate Mr. Chattaway. If he can be appeased, the danger 
 will pass away." 
 
 " He never will be appeased ! " she answered in her distress. 
 " He will think of the value of the ricks, and the money lost to 
 him. George, if it comes to the worst — if they try Rupert, I 
 shall die." 
 
 " Hush, my dear, hush ? Try and look on the bright side 
 of things, Maude ; your grieving now cannot benefit Rupert, 
 and will harm you. Nothing shall be left undone on my part 
 to serve Rupert. I wish I had more influence Avith Mr. 
 Chattaway." 
 
 " No one has any influence with him, — no one in the world ; 
 unless it is Aunt Diana." 
 
 '' She has — and I can talk to her as I could not to Chattaway. 
 I intend to see her privately in the morning. My child, how 
 you shiver ! " 
 
 " I can't help it," pleaded Maude, helplessly. 
 
 George bent to take his farewell, and then went on his way. 
 Ere he was quite out of sight, he turned to take a last look at 
 her. She was standing in the white moonlight, her hands 
 clasped; her face one sad expression of distress, fear, and 
 despair. A vague feeling of superstition came over George 
 that this despondency of Maude's bore ill omen for poor 
 Rupert. But he could not have told why the idea should 
 have come to him, and he put it from him as absurd and 
 foolish. 
 
 The night wore on at the Hold, and its master did not 
 return. All sat up, ladies, children, and servants ; all wondered 
 where he could be. It was hard upon midnight when his ring 
 sounded at the door. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway came in with his face scratched and a bruise 
 over one eye. The servant stared at him in astonishment, 
 and he noticed, as his master unbuttoned a light overcoat he 
 wore, that the front of his shirt was torn. Mr. Chattaway was
 
 32J\. TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 not a master to be questioned by his servants, and the man 
 went off to the kitchen and imparted the news. 
 
 " Good Heavens, papa ! what have you done to your face ? " 
 
 Hie exclamation came from Octave, who was the first to 
 catch sight of him as he entered the room. Mr, Chattaway 
 responded by an angry demand why they were not in bed, what 
 they did sitting up at that hour : and he began to h'ght the bed- 
 candles. 
 
 " What /mve you done to your face ? " reiterated Miss Diana, 
 coming close to him to take a nearer view. 
 
 "Nothing," was his curt response. 
 
 "What's the use of saying that?" retorted Miss Diana. 
 " Something is the matter with it. It looks as though you had 
 been fighting. And your shirt's torn \'l 
 
 " I tell you there's nothing the matter with it ; or with my 
 shirt either," he said testily. "Can't you take an answer.?" 
 And, as if to put an end to the questioning, he took a candle 
 and went up to his chamber. 
 
 The scratches were less apparent in the morning, and the 
 bruise was only a slight one. Cris, in his indifferent manner, 
 said tlie Squire must have walked up against the branches of 
 some thorny tree. 
 
 By tacit consent, as it were, they avoided all mention of 
 Rupert. It is possible that even Miss Diana did not care to 
 mention his name to ]\Ir. Chattaway. Whilst they were at 
 breakfast. Hatch came and put his head inside the door. 
 
 " Jim Sanders is back, sir." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway started up, a certain flashing light in his dull 
 eyes that boded no good to Jim. "Where is he?" he cried. 
 '' How do you know ? " 
 
 "Ted, the cow-boy, have just seen him at work at Mr. 
 Ryle's as usual, sir. I thought you might like to know it, and 
 I made bold to come in and tell ye. Ted asked him where he 
 had runned away to yesterday, and Jim answered as he had 
 not runned at all ; he had only overslep' hisself." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway hastened from the room, followed by Cris ; 
 and Mrs. Chattaway took the oj^portunity to ask Hatch if he 
 had seen or heard anything of Mr. Rupert. But Hatch only 
 stood stolidly in the middle of the carpet, and made no reply. 
 
 "Did you not hear Madam's question. Hatch?" sharply 
 asked Miss Diana. " Why don't you answer it ? " 
 
 " 'Cause I don't like to," responded stolid Hatch. " Happen 
 Madam mayn't like to hear the answer to't, Miss Diana."
 
 NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 J-3 
 
 "Nonsense!" quickly cried Miss Trevlyn. "Have you 
 licard of liim?" 
 
 '• Well, yes, I have," answered Hatch. " They be a-talking 
 of it now in the sheep-pen." 
 
 "What are they saying?" asked Mrs. Chattaway, her eager 
 tone betraying a latent dread. 
 
 But the man never answered. He turned his straw hat 
 round on his hand, and stared at his mistress. 
 
 "What are they saying? — do you hear, Hatch?"' impera- 
 tively repeated Miss Diana. 
 
 Hatch could not hold out longer. " They be a-saying that 
 he's dead, ma'am." 
 
 "That he \s—tvhaiV' 
 
 "They be saying that Mr. Rupert's dead," equably repeated 
 Hatch; " that he was killed down in the little grove last night, 
 as you go through the fields to Barbrook. I didn't like to tell 
 the Squire on't, 'cause they be saying that if he be killed, happen 
 It be the Squire that have killed him." 
 
 Only for a moment did Miss Diana Trevlyn lose her self- 
 possession. She raised her hands to still the awestruck terror 
 around her ; she glanced at Mrs. Chattaway's blanched face. 
 " Hatch, where did you hear this ? " 
 
 " In the sheep-pen. Miss Diana," repeated the man, " The 
 men tliere be a-talking on't. They say he was killed last night 
 — murdered." 
 
 Her own face for once in her life was turning white. " Be 
 still, all of you, and remain here," she said. " Edith, if ever 
 you had need of self-command, it is now." 
 
 She went straight off to the sheep-pen, calling Hatch with 
 her. From the first moment that Hatch had spoken, there had 
 risen up before her, as an ugly picture — as a dream to be 
 shunned — the scratched and bruised face of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 The sheep-pen was empty : the men had dispersed. Cris 
 canTC out of the stables, and she made a sign to him. He 
 advanced to meet her. " Where is your father ? " she asked. 
 
 " Off to Barbrook," returned Cris. " Sam wasn't long getting 
 his horse ready, was he ? He is gone to order Bowen to look 
 after Mr. Jim Sanders." 
 
 " Cris, have you heard this report about Rupert ? " she re- 
 sumed, her hushed tones imparting to Cris's ear a vague sense 
 of something unpleasant. 
 
 "I have not heard any report about him," returned Cris. 
 " What is the report ? That's he's dead ? "'
 
 326 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '•'Yes, Crls; that he is dead." 
 
 Cris had spoken in a half-jesting, half-sneering tone ; but his 
 face changed at the answer, consternation in its every feature. 
 "What on earth do you mean, Aunt Diana? Rupert " 
 
 " Good morning. Miss Diana." 
 
 They turned to behold George Ryle. He had come up thus 
 early to know if they had news of Rupert. The scared expres- 
 sion of their faces struck him that something was amiss. 
 
 "You have bad news, I see. What is it?" 
 
 Miss Diana rapidly turned over a question in her mind. 
 Should she mention this report to George ? Yes ; he was 
 thoroughly trustworthy ; and he might be of use. 
 
 " Hatch came in a few minutes ago, and he frightened us 
 very greatly," she said. " I was just telling Cris of it. The 
 man says there's a report going about that Rupert is* — is " — 
 she scarcely liked to bring it out in all its nakedness — "is 
 dead." 
 
 " What ? " uttered George. 
 
 " That he has been killed," continued Miss Diana. " George, 
 I want to get at the truth of it." 
 
 He could not rejoin just at first. News, such as that, takes 
 time in revolving. He could only look at them alternately ; 
 his heart, for Rupert's sake, beating fast. Miss Diana repeated 
 what Hatch had said. " George," she concluded, " I cannot go 
 looking after these men, examining into the truth or falsehood 
 of the report, but you might." 
 
 George started away impulsively ere she had well done 
 speaking. Hatch mentioned the names of the men who had 
 been talking, and George hastened to look for them over the 
 fields. Cris was following him, but Miss Diana caught him by 
 the arm." 
 
 " Not you, Cris ; stop where you are." 
 
 " Stop where I am ? " returned Cris, indignantly, who had a 
 very great objection to be interfered with by Miss Diana. " I 
 shall not, indeed. I don't pretend to have had much love for 
 Rupert, but I'm sure I shall look after it if there's such a report 
 as that about. He must have killed himself, if he is dead." 
 
 But Miss Diana kept her hand upon him. " Cris, remain 
 where you are, I say. They are connecting your father's name 
 with it in a manner I do not understand, and it will be better 
 that you should be still until we know more." 
 
 She went on to the house as she spoke. Cris stared after 
 her in blank dismay, wondering what could be the meaning of
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 327 
 
 the words she had spoken, yet sufficiently discomposed by 
 them to give up for once his own will, and remain quiet, as she 
 had said. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Chattaway, unconscious of the commotion 
 at the Hold, was galloping towards Barbrook. He reined in 
 at the police-station, and Bowen came out to him. 
 
 " I know what you have come about, Mr. Chattaway," cried 
 out the man, before that gentleman could speak. " It's to tell 
 us that Jim Sanders has turned up. We know all about it, 
 and Dumps is gone after him. Hang the boy ! giving us all 
 this bother." 
 
 *' I'll have him punished, Bowen." 
 
 " Well, sir, it's to know whether he won't get enough punish- 
 ment as it is. His going off looks uncommonly suspicious — 
 as I said yesterday. It looks as if he had had a finger in 
 the pie." 
 
 " Is Dumps going to bring him on here ? " 
 
 " Right away, as fast as he can march him. Impudent 
 monkey, going to his work at his master's this morning, just as 
 if nothing had happened ! Dumps '11 be on to him. They 
 won't be long, sir." 
 
 " Then I'll wait," decided Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 
 
 George Ryle speedily found the men spoken of by Hatch as 
 having held the conversation in the sheep-pen. But he could 
 gather no more certainty from them than Miss Diana had 
 gathered from Hatch. Upon endeavouring to trace the report 
 to its source — or, rather, to Vhence they heard it— he suc- 
 ceeded in finding out that one man alone had brought it to the 
 Hold ; that it was he who had told the rest. This man de- 
 clared he heard it from his wife, and that his wife had heard 
 it from Mrs. Sanders. 
 
 Away sped George Ryle to the cottage of IMrs. Sanders. He 
 went through the small grove of trees, spoken of in connection 
 with this fresh report ; it was decidedly the nearest way to 
 Barbrook and to the cottage from the upper road, but it was 
 lonely and not much frequented. He found the woman busy
 
 .,28 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 J 
 
 at the work which Mr. Dumps's interruption had not allowed 
 her to finish the previous day — washing. ^Vith some un- 
 willingness on her part and much circumlocution, George drew 
 her tale from her. And to that evening we may as well go 
 back for a few minutes, for we shall arrive at the conclusion 
 much quicker than Mrs. Sanders will tell it us. 
 
 It was dark when ]\Irs. Sanders walked home from Barmester 
 — Mr. Dumps not having had the politeness to drive her, as he 
 did in going, — and she found her kitchen as she had left it. 
 Her children — she had three besides Jim — were out in the 
 world, Jim alone being at home with her. Mrs. Sanders lighted 
 a candle, and surveyed the scene of discomfort : grate, black 
 and cold ; washing-tub on the wooden bench, wet clothes lying 
 over it ; bricks sloppy. "Drat that old Dumps!" ejaculated 
 she. " I'd serve him out if I could. And I'd like to serve out 
 that Jim, too. This comes of his dancing up to the Hold 
 after Bridget with that precious puppy? " 
 
 She put things tolerably straight for the night, got herself 
 some tea, and then began to think. Where was Jim ? What 
 had become of him ? And did he or did he not have anything 
 to do with the fire ? Not wilfully ; she could answer for that ; 
 but accidentally? She looked into vacancy, and shook her 
 head in a timid and doubtful manner, for she knew that torches 
 in rick-yards might prove dangerous adjuncts to suspicion. 
 
 " I wonder what they could do to him for't, happen they 
 proved as it were a spark from his torch ? " she deliberated. 
 "Sure they'd never transport for an accident ! Dumps said as 
 transportation were too good for Jim, but " 
 
 The colloquy was interrupted. The door burst open, and 
 no less a personage entered than Jim himself. And Jim, as it 
 appeared, was in a state of fright and agitation. His breath 
 was coming fast, and his eyes had a wild, terrified stare in them. 
 
 ^Vith his presence, Mrs. Sanders's maternal apprehensions for 
 his future safety merged into anger. She laid hold of Jim 
 and shook him — shook him kindly, as she expressed it ; but 
 poor Jim did not find much kindness in it. 
 
 " I say, mother, what's that for ? " 
 
 " That's what it's for," retorted his mother, giving him a 
 sound box on the ear. " You'll dance out with puppies again 
 up to that good-for-nothing minx of a Bridget ! — and you'll set 
 rick-yards a-fire ! — and you'll go off and hide yourself, and let 
 the place be searched by the perlice ! — and me be drawed into 
 trouble with it, and took off by that insolent Dumps in a stick-
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 329 
 
 up gig to Barmester, and lugged afore the court ! You'll do 
 that again, won't you ? Now, where have you been ? " 
 
 Jim made no return in kind. All the spirit the boy possessed 
 seemed to have gone out of him. He sat down meekly on a 
 broken chair, and began to shiver. " Don't mother," said he. 
 " I've got a fright." 
 
 " Got a fright ! " indignantly responded Mrs. Sanders. " And 
 what sort of a fright do you suppose you have give to others ? 
 ]Iappen Madam Chattaway might have died of it, they say. 
 3 Vw talk of a fright ! Who else hasn't been in a fright since 
 you took the torch into that there rick-yard and set the ricks 
 alight ? " 
 
 "It isn't that," said Jim. "I ain't afraid of that; I didn't 
 do it. Nora knows I didn't, and Mr. Apperley knows it, and 
 Bridget knows it. I've no cause to be afeard of that." 
 
 " Then what are you quaking for ? " angrily demanded Mrs. 
 Sanders. 
 
 "I've just got a fright," he answered. '• Mother, as true as 
 we be here, Mr. Rupert's dead. I've just watched him 
 killed." 
 
 Mrs. Sanders's first proceeding on the receipt of this informa- 
 tion was to stare ; her second to discredit it, to believe that 
 Jim was out of his mind, or dreaming ; her third to treat him 
 to a second shaking. " Talk sense, will you?" cried she. 
 
 " I'm not a-talking nonsense," he answered. " Mother, I tell 
 you as sure as us two be living here, I see it. It were in the 
 grove, up by the leaning field, I saw him struck down, and I 
 heard the breath go out of him." 
 
 The woman began to think there must be something in the 
 tale. " It's Mr. Rupert you be talking of?" 
 
 " Yes, and it was him as set the rick a-fire. And now he's 
 murdered ! Didn't I run fast away ! I was in mortal fear." 
 
 " Who killed him ? " 
 
 Jim looked round timorously, as if thinking the walls might 
 have ears. "I daren't say," he shivered. 
 
 " But you must say." 
 
 He shook his head. "No, I'll never tell it — wi'out I'm 
 forced. He might be for killing me. When the hue and cry 
 goes about to-morrow as he's dead, and folks is a-asking who 
 did it, there'll be nobody to answer. I shall keep dark, 'cause 
 I must. If Ann Canham had waited, though, and seen it, I'd 
 not ha' minded saying ; she'd ha' been a witness as I telled the 
 truth."
 
 330 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 " If you don't speak plainer I'll box your ears again," was 
 the interruption. " What about Ann Canham ? " 
 
 " Well, I met her at the top o' the leaning field as I was turn- 
 ing into't. That were but a few minutes afore. She'd been to 
 work at the parson's, she said. I say, mother, you don't think 
 they'll come after me here ? " he questioned, his tone full of 
 doubt. 
 
 " They did come after ye, to some purpose," wrathfully re- 
 sponded Mrs. Sanders. " My belief is as you've come home 
 with your head turned. I'd like to know where you've been 
 a-hiding." 
 
 "I've been nowhere but up in the tallet at master's," replied 
 Jim. " I crep' in there last night ; I was dead tired, and I 
 never woke this morning. Hay do make one sleep ', it's warmer 
 nor a bed." 
 
 Leaving Mrs. Sanders to dispute this affirmation with him — 
 and Jim contrived to parry her questions with skill — we need 
 not follow any longer the interview. At the close of the night, 
 she knew little more than she had known at its commence- 
 ment beyond the assertion that Rupert Trevlyn was killed. 
 Jim went off in the morning to his work as usual, and she 
 resumed her labour of the day before. Nora had scarcely 
 shown her wisdom in releasing Jim so quickly ; but it may be 
 that to keep him longer concealed in the '^ tallet" was next 
 door to an impossibility. 
 
 Mrs. Sanders was interrupted in her work by George Ryle. 
 She smoothed down the coarse towel pinned before her, and 
 put her untidy hair behind her ears as her master entered. 
 She was not much more tidy than she had been in the old 
 days, when her children used to turn out ragged and dirty. 
 He questioned her of the report which had been traced to her, 
 and she disclosed to him what she had heard from Jim. It was 
 not much in itself, but it had an air of mystery about it that 
 George could not understand and did not like. He left her to 
 go in search of Jim. 
 
 But another, as we have heard, had taken precedence of him 
 in the search after that gentleman — Policeman Dumps. Mr. 
 Dumps found him in the outbuildings at Trevlyn Farm, feed- 
 ing the pigs as unconcernedly as though nothing had hap- 
 pened. The policeman's first move, fearful perhaps of a 
 second escape, was to clap a pair of handcuffs on him. 
 
 "There, you young reptile ! You'll go off again, will you, 
 after doing murder ! "
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 331 
 
 Now, in point of fact, Mr. Dumps had really no particular 
 reason for using the concluding word. He only intended to 
 imply that Mr. Jim's general delinquency of conduct deserved 
 a strong name. Jim took it in a different light. 
 
 " It wasn't me as murdered him ! " he said, terrified almost 
 out of his life at the handcuffs. " I only see it done. What 
 for should I murder him, Mr. Dumps ? " 
 
 " Who's talking about murder ? " cynically returned Dumps, 
 forgetting probably that he had used the word. " The setting 
 of the rick-yard on fire was enough for you, warn't it, without 
 anything else added on to it ? " 
 
 " Oh, you mean the fire," said Jim, considerably relieved. 
 " I didn't do that neither, and there'll be plenty to prove it. I 
 thought you meant the murder." 
 
 Policeman Dumps surveyed his charge critically, uncertain 
 what to make of him. He proceeded to questioning ; setting 
 about it in a cunningly artistic manner that was perhaps 
 characteristic of his calling. 
 
 " Which murder might be you a-meaning of, pray ? " 
 
 " Mr. Rupert's." 
 
 "Mr. What be you a-talking of.?" uttered Dumps, in 
 
 the utmost astonishment, standing stock still to stare at Jim. 
 
 And now Jim Sanders found that he had been caught in a 
 trap, one not expressly laid for him. He could have bitten out 
 his tongue with vexation. That the death of Rupert Trevlyn 
 would become public property, he had never doubted, but he 
 had intended to remain silent upon the subject. 
 
 The handcuffs, coupled with the policeman's suggestive word, 
 had led him into the mistake — the belief that he was taken up 
 for the murder. It was too late to retract now, and he must 
 make the best of it, and put up with the consequences. 
 
 '•' Who says that Mr. Rupert's murdered ? " persisted Dumps. 
 
 "So he is," sullenly answered Jim. " But I didn't do it." 
 
 Mr. Dumps's rejoinder was to seize Jim by the collar, and 
 march him off in the direction of the station as fast as his feet 
 could go one before the other. The farming men, who had 
 been collecting from two or three parts since the policeman's 
 arrival, followed them to the fold-yard gate, and stood there to 
 stare ; they supposed he was taken on suspicion of having 
 caused the fire. Nora, shut up in her dairy, had seen nothing 
 of it, or there's no knowing but she might have flown out to 
 the rescue. 
 
 Not another word was spoken ; indeed the pace at which
 
 333 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mr. Dumps chose to walk prevented it. When they reached 
 the station, Mr. Chattaway was inside, talking with Bowen, his 
 horse fastened to the railings which ran round the corner of the 
 house. Jim went into a shivering fit at the sight of Mr. Chat- 
 taway, and strove to hide himself behind Policeman Dumps. 
 
 " So you have turned up, have you ! " exclaimed Bowen. 
 " And now, where did you get to yesterday ? " 
 
 Jim did not answer ; he appeared to wish to avoid Mr. 
 Chattaway, and he trembled visibly. Bowen was on the point 
 of inquiring what made him quake in that fashion, when Mr. 
 Chattaway's voice broke out like a peal of thunder. 
 
 " How dared you be guilty of suppressing evidence ? How 
 dared you run away ? " 
 
 Bowen turned the boy round, so that he should face him, 
 " You just state where you got to, Jim Sanders." 
 
 " I didn't run away," replied Jim. "I lay down in the tallet 
 at the farm atop o' the hay, and I never woke a'most all day 
 yesterday. Miss Dickson, she can say as I was there, for she 
 come and found me there at night, and she sent me off. There 
 warn't no cause for me to run away," he somewhat fractiously 
 repeated, as if weary of having to harp upon the same string. 
 " It wasn't me that fired the rick." 
 
 " But you saw it fired?" cried Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Jim stole round, so as to put Dumps between him and the 
 questioner. Mr. Bowen brought him to again. " There's no 
 cause for you to dodge about like tliat," cried he, repeating 
 Jim's words. " You just speak up the truth ; but you are not 
 forced to say anything that'll criminate yourself." 
 
 "I can tell 'em," thought Jim to himself; "it won't hurt 
 him, now he's dead. It was Mr. Rupert did it," he said 
 aloud. " After he got the horsewhipping, he caught up the 
 torch and pushed it into one o' the ricks ; and that's the truth, 
 as true as I be living." 
 
 "You saw him do this?" 
 
 " I was a-watching all the while. I was round the pales. 
 He seemed like one a'most mad with passion, and it frighted 
 me. I pulled the burning hay out o' the rick ; I thought I 
 pulled it all out, but I suppose a spark must ha' stopped in. I 
 was friglited worse afterwards when the flames burst out, and 
 I ran off for the engines. I telled Mr. Apperley as I'd been 
 for 'em when I met him at night, and I telled him true." 
 
 The boy's earnest tones, his honest eyes, the whole expression 
 of his face, lifted to Bowen's, convinced that experienced officer
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 333 
 
 that it was the truth. But lie chose to gaze still implacably at 
 the culprit, not to relax by so much as a semitone his sternness 
 of voice. 
 
 "Then what made you go and hide yourself? Come ! out 
 with the truth." 
 
 Jim's eyes fell now, and his flice grew confused. " I was 
 a'most tired to death," he said, "and I crep' up into the tallet 
 at master's, and I went to sleep. And I never woke in the 
 morning, when I ought to ha' woke." 
 
 There was just sufficient probability in this for Bowen to 
 know that it might be true. Before he could go on with his 
 questions he was interrupted by Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " He has confessed sufficient, Bowen — that it was Rupert 
 Trevlyn. But he deserves punishment for the trouble he has 
 put everybody to ; and there must be a fresh examination now. 
 Keep him in safety here, and take care that he's not tampered 
 with. I am obliged to go to Blackstone to-day, but the hearing 
 can take place to-morrow, if you'll apprise the magistrates. 
 And — Bowen — mind you accomplish that other matter to-day 
 that I have charged you with." 
 
 The last sentence, spoken most emphatically and slowly, Mr. 
 Chattaway turned round to deliver as he was going out. Bowen 
 nodded his head in acquiescence; and Mr. Chattaway mounted 
 his horse and rode off m the direction of Blackstone. 
 
 Jim Sanders, looking the picture of ruefulness in his hand- 
 cuffs, stood awkwardly in the corner of the room ; it was a 
 square room, with a boarded floor ; a bench ran along one side 
 of its whitewashed walls, and a railed-off desk was opposite. 
 Bowen had gone within these vails as Mr. Chattaway departed, 
 and was busy writing down a few detached words or sentences, 
 that looked like memoranda. Dumps was gazing after the 
 retreating figure of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Dumps, call Chigwell here," said Bowen, glancing at the 
 small door which led into the inner premises. "There's v.ork 
 for you both to-day." 
 
 But before Dumps could move to do this, he was half-knocked 
 over by the haste with which some one entered. It was George 
 Ryle. He took in a comprehensive view of affairs at a glance : 
 Bowen writing ; Dumps doing nothing ; Mr. Jim Sanders in 
 his handcuffs. 
 
 " Oh, you have come to grief, have you ? " said George to 
 the latter. " You are just the man I wanted to find, Jim. 
 Bowen," he added, going within the railings and lowering his
 
 334 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 voice to an undertone, " have you heard of this report about 
 Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 •' I have heard he is probably off, sir," was Bowen's answer. 
 "Two of the men are going out now to look after him. Mr. 
 Chattaway has signed a warrant for his apprehension." 
 
 George paused. " There is a report that he is dead," he 
 resumed. 
 
 " Dead ! " echoed Bowen, aghast, " Rupert Trevlyn dead ! 
 Why, who says it ? " 
 
 George looked round at Jim. The boy stood white and 
 shivery ; but before any questions could be asked of him, 
 Dumps, who had heard the words, came forward and spoke. 
 
 ^^ He was talking of that," he said to Bowen, indicating Jim. 
 "When I clapped them handcuffs ^n him, he turned as scared 
 as a girl, and began denying that it was him that did the 
 murder. I asked him what he meant by a murder, and who 
 was murdered, and he said it was Mr. Rupert Trevlyn." 
 
 The man, Bowen, looked thunderstruck, little as it is in the 
 way of police officers to show emotion of any kind. " Why, 
 what grounds can he have for saying that?" he exclaimed, 
 gazing keenly at Jim. "Mr. Ryle, where did you hear the 
 report 1 " 
 
 " I heard it just now at Trevlyn Hold. It had been carried 
 there, and would have alarmed them very much had they 
 believed it. Mr. Chattaway was away, and Miss Trevlyn 
 requested me to inquire into it, and bring back news — as she 
 assumed I should — of its absurdity. I believe we must go to 
 Jim for information," added George, looking at him as keenly 
 as did Bowen. " I have traced the report to him." 
 
 Bowen beckoned Jim within the railings, and he came; 
 there was just sufficient space for the three to cluster there. 
 Dumps stood outside, leaning his elbow on the bars. " Have 
 you been doing mischief to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn ? " asked the 
 superintendent. 
 
 " Me ! " echoed Jim — and it was evident that his astonish- 
 ment at Bowen's question was genuine. " I'd not have hurted 
 a hair of his head," he added, bursting into tears. " I couldn't 
 sleep for vexing over it. It wasn't me." 
 
 Bowen quietly took off the handcuffs, and laid them on the 
 desk. "There," said he, in a kindlier tone; "now you can 
 talk at your ease. Let us hear about this." 
 
 " I'm afeard, sir," responded Jim. 
 
 "There's nothing to be afeard of, if so be as you are inno-
 
 THE REVELATION OF MR. JAMES SANDERS. 335 
 
 cent. Do you know of any ill having happened to Mr. Rupert 
 Trevlyn ? " 
 
 '* I know that he's dead J dead and all for good," answered 
 Jim. "They blowed me up for saying it was him that set the 
 rick a-fire, and I was sorry I had said it ; but now he's gone, it 
 don't matter, and I can say still that it was him fired it." 
 
 " Who blowed you up ? " returned Bowen. 
 
 " Some on 'em," ans^vered Jim, after a moment given to con- 
 sidering how he could best evade the question. Jim believed 
 it would not do at all to say, " Miss Dickson and Madam 
 Chattaway." Rupert was a favourite of the boy's ; he would 
 almost have laid down his life for him. 
 
 " Well, what is this about Mr. Rupert ? If you are afraid 
 to tell me, tell your master there," suggested Bowen. " I'm 
 sure he is a kind master to you ; all the parish knows that." 
 
 " It must be told, Jim," said George Ryle, impressively, as he 
 laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder " What are you afraid 
 of?" 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway might kill me for telling, sir," said unwilling 
 Jim. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Mr. Chattaway would be as anxious to know 
 the truth as we are." 
 
 " But if it was him did it ? " whispered Jim, glancing fearfully 
 round the whitewashed walls of the room, as he had glanced 
 around those of his mother's cottage. 
 
 A blank pause. Mr. Bowen looked at George, whose face 
 had turned hectic with the surprise, the emotion, the dread 
 that the words had brought. " You must speak out, Jim," was 
 all he said. 
 
 " It was in the little grove last night," rejoined the boy. 
 " I was running home after Nora Dickson turned me out o' 
 the tallet, and when I got up to 'em they was having 
 words " 
 
 " Who were having words ? " was George Ryle's interruption. 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway and Master Rupert. I was scared, and I 
 crep' in amid the trees, and they never saw me. And then 
 I heard blows give, and I looked out and saw Mr. Rupert 
 struck down to the earth, and he fell as one who hasn't got no 
 life in him, and I heard the last breath go out of his body with 
 a sort of sigh, and I knew he was dead. It was just like the 
 sigh as mother's dead brother gave when the last breath went 
 out of him." 
 
 " And what then ? — what happened next ? " asked Bowen.
 
 336 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I don't know, sir. I come off then, and got into mother's. 
 I didn't dare tell her it was Chattaway killed him. I wouldn't 
 tell it now, only you force me." 
 
 Bowen was revolving things in his mmd, this and that. 
 " It's not five minutes ago that Chattaway gave me orders to 
 have Rupert Trevlyn searched for and taken up to-day," he 
 muttered, more in soliloquy than to Mr. Ryle. " He knew 
 that he was skulking somewhere in the neighbourhood, he 
 said ; skulking, that was the word. I don't know what to think 
 of this." 
 
 Neither did his hearers know what to think of it, Mr. Jim 
 Sanders possibly excepted. " I wonder — I wonder," slowly 
 resumed Bowen, a curious light coming into his eyes, " I 
 wonder what brought those scratches on the face of Mr. 
 Chattaway ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 FERMENT. 
 
 Strange rumours went abroad in the neighbourhood of Trevlyn 
 Hold, and the excitement increased hourly. Mr. Chattaway 
 had killed Rupert Trevlyn — so ran the gossip — and Jim 
 Sanders was in custody with the handcuffs on. Before the 
 night of the day on which you saw Jim in the police-station, 
 these reports, with many wild and almost impossible additions, 
 were current, and spreading largely. 
 
 With the exception of the accusation made by Jim Sanders, 
 the only corroboration to the tale appeared to rest in the fact 
 that Rupert Trevlyn was not to be found. Dumps and his 
 brother-policeman scoured the locality high and low, and could 
 find no traces whatever of him. Sober lookers-on (but it is rare 
 to find sober ones in a time of great excitement) regarded this 
 fact as favourable. Had Rupert really been murdered, or 
 even accidentally killed by a chance blow from Mr. Chatta- 
 way, surely his body would be forthcoming to confirm the tale. 
 But there were not wanting others who believed, and who did 
 not shrink from the avowal, that Mr. Chattaway was quite 
 capable of suppressing all signs of the affray, including the 
 dead body itself; though by what sleight-of-hand the act could 
 have been accomplished seemed likely to remain a mystery.
 
 FERMENT. 337 
 
 Ivjfore Mr Chattaway got home from Blackstonc in ihc 
 evening, all the rumours, good and bad — all the facts, what few 
 ihcre were — were known at Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was not unprepared to find this the case. In 
 returning, he had turned his horse to the police-station, and 
 reined in. Bowen, who saw him, came out. 
 
 ■*Has he been taken ?" demanded Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 He put the question in an earnestness of tone, some 
 impatience dashed with it, that was apparently genuine. 
 "No, he has not," replied BoAven, stroking his chin, taking 
 note of Mr. Chattaway's face — its expression and its scratches, 
 and anything else that was remarkable about it. " Dumps and 
 Chigwell have been at it all day ; are at it still ; but as yet 
 without result." 
 
 " Then they are laggards at their work ! " retorted IMr. Chat- 
 taway, his countenance darkening. " He was wandering about 
 the place last night, Bowen, and he's sure to be not far off it 
 to-day. By Heaven, he shall be unearthed ! If there's any 
 trick being played, any screening going on, as I know there 
 was yesterday with regard to that Jim Sanders, I'll have the 
 actors in it brought to justice ! " 
 
 Bowen came out of a reverie. "Would you be so good as 
 to step inside for a few minutes, Mr. Chattaway? I have a 
 word to say to you." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway got off his horse, hooked the bridle to the 
 rails, as he had hooked it in the morning, and followed 
 Bowen in. The man saw that the doors were closed, and then 
 spoke. 
 
 " There's a tale flying about, Mr. Chattaway, that Rupert 
 Trevl)'n has come to some harm. Do you know anything 
 of it ? " 
 
 " Not I," slightingly answered Mr. Chattaway. " What harm 
 should come to him ? " 
 
 " It is said that you and he met last night, had some sort of 
 encounter by moonlight, and that Rupert was — was — in short, 
 that some violence was done him." 
 
 For a full minute they remained looking at each other. The 
 policeman appeared intent on biting the feathers of his pen j 
 in reality, he was studying the face of Mr. Chattaway with a 
 comprehensive and critical acumen that his apparently careless 
 demeanour imparted little idea of. He saw the blood mount 
 up under the dark skin ; he saw the eye lighten with emotion : 
 but the emotion was more like that called forth by anger than 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. il2
 
 33S TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 by guilt. At least, so the police ofificer judged , and habit had 
 rendered him a pretty correct observer. Mr. Chattaway was 
 the first to speak. 
 
 " How do you know that anything of the sort took place ? — 
 any interview ? " 
 
 "It was watched — that is, accidentally seen. A person was 
 passing at the time, and has mentioned it to-day." 
 
 " Who was the person ? " 
 
 Bowen did not reply to the question. The omission may 
 have been accidental, since he was hastening to put one on his 
 own account. 
 
 " Do you deny this, Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 " No. I wish I had the opportunity of acknowledging it to 
 Mr, Rupert Trevlyn in the manner he deserves," continued 
 Mr, Chattaway, in what looked like a blaze of anger. 
 
 " It is said that after the — the encounter, Rupert Trevlyn 
 was left as one dead," cautiously resumed Bowen, 
 
 " Psha ! " was the scornful retort. " Dead ! He got up and 
 ran away," 
 
 A very different account from that of Jim Sanders, Bowen 
 was silent for a minute, endeavouring, most likely, to reconcile 
 the two, " Have you any objection to state to me what took 
 place, sir ? " 
 
 "I don't know that I have," was the reply, somewhat 
 sullenly delivered, "But I can't see what business it is of 
 yours." 
 
 " People are taking up odd notions about it," said Bowen. 
 
 " People may be hanged ! It's no concern of theirs." 
 
 " But if they come to me and oblige me to make it my con- 
 cern ? " returned the officer, in significant tones. " If it's all 
 fair and above-board, you had better tell me, Mr. Chattaway. 
 If it's not, perhaps the less you say the better." 
 
 It was a hint not calculated to conciliate a chafed spirit, and 
 Mr. Chattaway resented it. " How dare you, Bowen, presume 
 to throw out insinuations to me ? " he cried, snatching his 
 riding-whip off the counter, or desk, where he had laid it, and 
 stalking towards the door. "I'll tell you nothing; and you 
 may make the best and the worst of it. ' Find Rupert Trevlyn, 
 if you must know it, and get it out of him. I ask you who has 
 been spreading the rumour that I met Rupert Trevlyn last 
 night ? " 
 
 Bowen saw no reason why he should not disclose it. "It 
 was Jim Sanders," he replied.
 
 FERMENt. 33^ 
 
 '' Psha ! " contemptuously ejaculated Mr. Chattaway : and he 
 mounted his horse and rode away. 
 
 So that after this colloquy, Mr. Chattaway was in a degree 
 prepared to find that unpleasant rumours had penetrated to 
 the Hold. When he entered he could not avoid seeing the 
 shrinking, timid looks cast on him by his children ; the haughty, 
 questioning face, of Miss Diana; the horror in that of Mrs. 
 Chattaway. He took the same sullen, defiant tone with them 
 that he had taken with Bowen, denying the thing by implica- 
 tion, more than by direct assertions. He asked them all 
 whether they had gone out of their minds, that they should 
 listen to senseless tales ; and he threatened the most dire 
 revenge against Rupert when he should be found. 
 
 Thus matters went on for a few days. But the rumours did 
 not die away : on the contrary, they gathered strength and 
 plausibility. Things were in a most uncomfortable state at the 
 Hold : the family were tortured by dread and doubt that they 
 dared not give utterance to, and strove to hide ; the very 
 servants went about with stealthy footsteps, casting covert 
 glances at their master from dark corners, and running away 
 to avoid a direct meeting with him. Mr. Chattaway could not 
 help seeing all this, and it did not tend to give him equanimity. 
 
 The only thing, in the present temper of the public, that 
 could clear up this miserable doubt, was the finding Rupert. 
 But Rupert was not found. Friends and foes, police and 
 public, put out their best endeavours to accomplish it ; but no 
 more trace could be discovered of Rupert than if he had never 
 existed — or than if, as many openly said, he were buried in 
 some quiet corner of Mr. Chattaway's grounds. To- do Mr. 
 Chattaway justice, he appeared the most anxious of any for 
 Rupert's discovery : not with a view to clearing himself from 
 any vile suspicion ; that he cast completely into the shade, 
 trampled it under his foot, as it were ; but that Rupert might 
 be brought to justice for the burning of the ricks. 
 
 Perhaps I\Ir. Chattaway's enemies may be pardoned for theij 
 suspicions. It cannot be denied that there were apparent 
 grounds for them : many a man has been officially accused of 
 murder upon less. There was the well-known ill-feeling which 
 had long existed on Mr. Chattaway's part to Rupert; there was 
 the fresh dread of being displaced by him, which had latterly 
 arisen through the visit and boastings of Mr. Daw ; there was 
 the sore feeling excited on both sides by the business of the 
 rick-yard and the subsequent examination ; there was the night
 
 540 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 contest spoken of by Jim Sanders, and which Mr. Chattaway 
 did not deny ; there were the scratches and bruise visible on 
 that gentleman's face ; and there was the total disappearance of 
 Rupert. People could remember the blank look of disappoint- 
 ment which had passed over Mr. Chattaw^ay's countenance 
 when Rupert ran into the circle gathered round the pit at 
 Blackstone. " He'd ha' bin glad that he were dead," they had 
 murmured then one to another. "And happen he have put 
 him out o' the way," they murmured now. 
 
 Perhaps they did not all go so far as to suspect Mr. Chat- 
 taway of the great crime of wilful, deliberate, premeditated 
 murder : he might have killed him wilfully in the passion of the 
 moment ; he might have killed him accidentally by an unlucky 
 blow that had done its work more effectually than had been 
 intended. The fruitless search for Rupert — dead — was no 
 barrier to these suspicions ; murdered men had been hidden 
 away before, and would be again. 
 
 I have not yet mentioned the last point of suspicion, but it 
 was one much dwelt upon — the late return of Mr. Chattaway 
 to his home on the night in question. The servants had not 
 failed to talk of this, and the enemies outside took it up and 
 discussed it eagerly. It was most unusual for Mr. Chattaway 
 to be away from home at night. An unsociable man by nature, 
 and a man whose company was not sought by his neighbours 
 — for they disliked him — it was a rare thing for Mr. Chattaway 
 to spend his evenings out. He attended evening parties now 
 and then in the company of his wife and Miss Trevlyn, but it 
 was not once a year that he was invited out alone. His absence 
 therefore on this night, coupled with his late entrance, close 
 upon midnight, was the more remarkable. Where had he been 
 until that hour ? Every one wondered : every one asked it. 
 Mr. Chattaway carelessly answered his wife and Miss Diana 
 that he had been on business at Barbrook ; but he condescended 
 to give no reply or satisfaction whatever to any other living 
 mortal amongst the wonderers. In revenge, they jumped to a 
 very sensational, melodramatic, and unlikely conclusion — 
 " happen he were diggin' a grave." Some, of more audacity 
 than the rest, endeavoured to impress this conclusion on Super- 
 intendent Bowen, but that wise officer shook his head, and 
 thought it very improbable. 
 
 Altogether affairs were in anything but a calm or satisfactory 
 state. Public feeling was growing more excited, and it was 
 openly said that an investigation must take place. The narrow
 
 FERMENT. 341 
 
 grove of trees was haunted by idlers, looking after traces of 
 any recent disturbance of the-.ground tliere : they stamped on 
 the path to test its sound, they wound themselves in and out 
 amidst the trunks, they peered curiously into the neighbouring 
 grass. 
 
 Things could not remain as they were. They must fall to a 
 calm, or rise to an explosion. As the days went on without 
 news of Rupert, Mr. Chattaway expressed a conviction that 
 Rupert had made his way to Mr. Daw, and was being sheltered 
 there. A most unsatisfactory conviction for Mr. Chattaway, if 
 he really and genuinely had come to it. With those two 
 together to hatch their plots against him, he could never know 
 a moment's peace. He was most explosive against Rupert; at 
 home and abroad he never ceased to utter his threats of prose- 
 cuting him for the crime of which he had been guilty. He rode 
 every other day to the station, worrying Bowen, asking whether 
 any trace of the felon had turned up. He urged — this w-as in 
 the first day or so of the disappearance — that houses and 
 cottages should be visited and searched. Bowen quite laughed 
 at the suggestion. If Mr. Chattaway had cause to suspect 
 any particular house or cottage, they might perhaps go the 
 length of getting a warrant to search it ; but to enter dwell- 
 ings indiscriminately would be a procedure intolerable and 
 unjustifiable. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was unable to say that he had cause especially 
 to suspect any house or cottage : unless, he added in his temper, 
 it might be Trevlyn Farm. It appeared Jim Sanders had been 
 hiding there in an outbuilding : why not Rupert Trevlyn? But 
 Bowen saw and knew that it was only in his exasperation that 
 Mr. Chattaway had spoken. Trevlyn Farm was no more likely 
 to conceal Rupert Trevlyn than any other house of its standing 
 — in fact less likely ; for Mrs. Ryle would not have permitted 
 it to be done. Her dislike to any sort of underhand dealing 
 was so great, that she would not have concealed Rupert, or 
 countenanced his being concealed, had it been to save him 
 from hanging. In that she resembled Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 Miss Diana would have spent her last shilling nobly to defend 
 Rupert on his trial — had it come to a trial — but ignominiously 
 to conceal him from the reach of the law, that she would never 
 have done. The remark of Chattaway's travelled to George 
 Ryle : George happened to meet Bowen the same day, not an 
 hour after, and he spoke of it. He told Bowen that the bare 
 idea of Rupert's being concealed on their premises was absurd.,
 
 342 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and he said, on his word of honour, not only that he did not 
 know where Rupert was, but where he was likely to be : the 
 thing was to him a complete mystery. Bowed nodded. In 
 Bowen's opinion the notion of his being concealed in any 
 house was all moonshine. 
 
 I The days went on and on, and it did appear very mysterious 
 where Rupert could be, or what had been his fate. His clothes, 
 his effects, all remained unclaimed and uncalled for at Trevlyn 
 Hold. When Mrs. Chattaway came unexpectedly upon any- 
 thing that had belonged to him, she turned quite sick with the 
 fears that darted across her heart. A faint hope arose within 
 her at times, that Rupert had gone, as Mr. Chattaway loudly, 
 and perhaps others more secretly, surmised, to Mr. Daw in his 
 far-off home in the Pyrenees, but it was rejected almost as soon 
 as felt. She knew, none better, that Rupert had no means, no 
 money to carry him thither. Oh, how often, how often did she 
 wish in her heart of hearts, that they had never usurped Trevlyn 
 Hold ! It seemed that they Avere beginning to reap all the 
 bitter fruits, which had been so long ripening. 
 
 But this supposition was soon to be set aside. Two letters 
 arrived from Mr. Daw : one to Mr. Freeman, the other to 
 Rupert himself; and they completely did away with the idea 
 that had been obtaining — that Rupert Trevlyn had found his 
 way thither. 
 
 It appeared that Rupert had written an account to Mr. Daw 
 of these unhappy circumstances ; of his setting the rick on fire 
 in his passion, and his being arrested for it. He had written 
 it on the evening of the day he was discharged from custody. 
 And by the contents of his letter^ it was evident that he then 
 contemplated returning to the Hold. 
 
 •' These letters from Mr. Daw settle the question — that 
 Rupert has not gone there," observed Mr. Freeman. " But 
 they make the mystery, of where he can be, greater." 
 
 Yes, they did. And the news went forth to the neighbour- 
 hood that Rupert Trevlyn had written a letter subsequent to 
 the examination at Barmester, wherein he stated that he was 
 going straight home to the Hold. Gossip never loses in the 
 carrying, you know. 
 
 Jim Sanders, who had given his testimony as to what he saw 
 of the setting of the rick on fire, and was discharged and at work 
 again, became quite the lion of the day. He had never been 
 made so much of in his life. Tea here, supper there, sups of 
 ale everywhere. Fverybody was asking Jim the particulars of
 
 AN APPLICATION TO A MAGISTRATE. 343 
 
 that later night, and Jim, nothing loth, gave them, with the 
 addition of his own comments. 
 
 And the days went on, and the ferment and the doubts 
 increased. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 AN APPLICATION TO A MAGISTRATE, 
 
 The ferment increased. The arguments obtaining in the 
 neighbourhood were worthy of being listened to, if only from 
 a curiously logical point of view. If Rupert Trevlyn in his 
 own liandwriting had stated that he was going home to the 
 Hold on the termination of the day's proceedings at Barmester ; 
 and if Rupert Trevlyn (as was evident) never did get to the 
 Hold, clearly it was Mr. Chattaway who had killed and buried 
 him. Absurd as the deduction may be to you, my calm 
 readers, judging from a sensible, dispassionate point of view, 
 to those excited gentry, the public, it appeared not only a 
 feasible but a certain conclusion. The thing could not rest ; 
 interviews were held with Mr. Peterby, who was supposed to 
 be the only person who could take up the matter on the part 
 of the missing and ill-used Rupert; and that gentleman 
 bestirred himself to make inquiries. Which he set about in 
 secret. 
 
 One dark night, between eight and nine, the inmates of the 
 lodge were disturbed by a knocking at their door — a loud 
 imperative knocking, as if the applicant brought with him both 
 impatience and authority. Ann Canham — trying her poor eyes 
 over some dark sewing by the light of the small and solitary 
 candle — started from her chair, and remarked that her heart 
 had leaped into her mouth. 
 
 Which may have been a reason, possibly, for her standing 
 still, face and hands uplifted in consternation, instead of 
 answering the knock. It was repeated, and more imperatively. 
 
 Old Canham turned his head and looked at her. He was 
 smoking his last evening pipe over the fire. " Thee must open 
 It, Ann." 
 
 Ann, seeing no help for it, went meekly to the door, wring- 
 ing her hands. What she expected might be at the door, or 
 what she feared, was best known to herself; but in point of
 
 3U TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 fact, since Bowen, the superintendent, had pounced upon her 
 a iew days before, as she was going by the police-station, had 
 handed her inside, and put her through sundry questions as 
 we put a boy through his catechism, she had hved in a state 
 of tremor. She may have concluded it was Bowen at the 
 door now, with the fellow-pair of handcuffs to those which had 
 been fitted on Jim Sanders. 
 
 It proved to be Mr. Peterby. Ann looked surprised, but 
 lost three parts of her tremor. Dropping her humble curtsey, 
 she was about to ask his pleasure, when he brushed past her 
 without ceremony, and stepped into the kitchen. 
 
 " Shut the door," were his first words to her. " How are 
 you, Canham ? " 
 
 Mark had risen, and stood with doubtful gaze, wondenng, 
 no doubt, what the visit could mean. " I be but middlin', 
 sir," he answered, pushing his pipe in the corner of the hearth. 
 " We ain't none on us too well, sir, I reckon, with this un- 
 certainty hanging over our minds, as to poor Master Rupert." 
 
 "It is the business I have come about. Sit down, Ann 
 Canham," Mr. Peterby added, settling himself on the bench 
 opposite Mark. " I want to ask you a few questions." 
 
 " Yes, sir," she meekly answered. But her hands shook so 
 that she nearly dropped the work she had taken up. 
 
 " There's nothing to be afraid of," cried Mr. Peterby, noticing 
 the emotion. " I am not going to accuse you of putting him 
 out of sight, as it seems busy tongues are accusing somebody 
 else. On the night that this took place, the encounter spoken 
 of between Mr. Chattaway and Rupert Trevlyn, you were 
 passing, I believe, near the spot. You must tell me all you 
 saw. First of all, as I am told, you encountered Rupert." 
 
 Ann Canham raised her shaking hand to her brow, and 
 wiped the moisture that had gathered there. Mr. Peterby had 
 begun his questioning in a hard, matter-of-fact tone, as if he 
 were examining a witness in court, and it did not tend to 
 reassure her. Ann Canham was often laughed at for her 
 timidity. She gave him the account of her interview with 
 Rupert as correctly as she could remember it. 
 
 " He said nothing to you of his intention of going off any- 
 where?" asked Mr. Peterby, when she had finished. 
 
 ' Not a word, sir. He said he had nowhere to go to ; if he 
 went to the Hold, Mr, Chattaway might be for horsewhipping 
 him again. He said he thought he should lie down under the 
 trees till morning."
 
 AN APPLICATION TO A MAGISTRATE. 3^5 
 
 " Did you leave him there ? " 
 
 " I left him sitting on the stile, sir, eating the bread. He 
 had complained of hunger, and I got him to take a part of a 
 cake which ]Mr.s. l-'reeman had given me for my father." 
 
 "You told IJowen, the superintendent at the police-station, 
 that you asked him to take refuge in the lodge for the night ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," she replied, after a slight ])ause. " Mr. Bowen, 
 he put a heap of questions to me, and what with being con- 
 fused at 'em, and the fright of his calling me into the place, I 
 didn't well know what I said in answer to him." 
 
 " But you did ask Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " I asked him if he'd be pleased to take shelter in the lodge 
 till the morning, as he seemed to have nowhere to go to. But 
 he spoke out quite sharp, like, at my asking it, and said, did 
 1 think he wanted to get me and father into trouble with Mr, 
 Chattaway? So I went away, sir, leaving him there." 
 
 " Well, now, just tell me whom you met afterwards." 
 
 " I hadn't got above three-parts up the field, sir — it's up-hill, 
 you know — when I met Mr. Chattaway. I stood aside off the 
 narrow path to let him pass, and wished him good night, but 
 he didn't answer me : he went on. Just about as I came close 
 to the road-stile, I see Jim Sanders coming over it, so 1 asked 
 him where he had been, and how he had got back again, 
 having heard that he'd not been found all day, and he answered 
 rather impertinently that he'd been up in the moon. The 
 moon was uncommon bright that night, sir, which perhaps 
 made him think to say it," she simply added. 
 
 "Was that all Jim Sanders said? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, every word. He went on down the path as if he 
 was in a hurry." 
 
 " In the same direction that Mr. Chattaway had taken ? '' 
 
 " Just the same. There is but that one path, sir." 
 
 " And that was the last you saw of them ? " 
 
 Ann Canham stopped to snuff the candle before she 
 answered. " That was all, sir. I was hastening to get back 
 to father, knowing he'd be wanting me, for I was late. Mr. 
 Bowen, he kep' on telling me it was strange I heard nothing 
 of the encounter, but I never did. I must ha' been out of the 
 field long afore Mr. Chattaway could get up to Master Rupert." 
 
 " Pity but you had waited and gone back," observed Mr. 
 Peterby, musingly. " It might have prevented what occurred." 
 
 " Pity, perhaps, but I had, sir. But it never once came into 
 my head that anything bad would come of their meeting.
 
 346 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Since, after I came to know what did happen, 1 wondered I had 
 not thought of it. But if I had, sir, I shouldn't have dared to 
 go back after Mr. Chattaway. It wouldn't have been my place." 
 
 Mr. Peterby sat looking at Ann, as she thought. In point 
 of fact, he was so buried in reflection as to see nothing. He 
 rose from the settle. " And this is all you know about it ! 
 Well, it amounts to nothing beyond establishing the fact that 
 all three — Rupert Trevlyn, Mr. Chattaway, and the boy — were 
 on the spot at that time. Good night, Canham. I hope your 
 rheumatism will get easier." 
 
 Ann Canham opened the door to him, and wished him good 
 night. When he was fairly gone she slipped the bolt, and stood 
 with her back against the door, either for extra security, or to 
 recover her equanimity. 
 
 "Father, my heart was in my mouth all the time he were 
 here," she repeated. " See," — holding out her shaking hands 
 — " see the twitter I be in." 
 
 " More stupid you ! " was the sympathizing answer of old 
 Canham. 
 
 The public ferment, I say, did not lessen, and the matter was 
 at length carried before the magistrates ; in so far as that the 
 advice of one of them was asked by Mr. Peterby. It happened 
 that Mr. Chattaway had gone this very day to Barmester. He 
 was standing at the entrance to the inn-yard where he generally 
 put up, when his solicitor, Mr. Flood, approached, evidently in 
 a state of excitement. 
 
 " What a mercy that I found you ! " he exclaimed, out of 
 breath. " Jackson told me you were in town. Come along ! " 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" asked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Matter ? There's enough the matter. Peterby 's before 
 the magistrates at this very moment preferring a charge against 
 you for having murdered Rupert Trevlyn. I got a word of it 
 dropped to me in the oddest manner, and " 
 
 " IV/iat do you say ? " interrupted Mn Chattaway, his face 
 in a blaze, as he stood stock still, and refused to stir another 
 step without an answer. 
 
 " Come along, I say. There's some application being made 
 to the magistrates about you, and my advice is Mr. Chat- 
 taway," added the lawyer, in a deeper, almost an agitated tone, 
 as he abruptly broke off his words, " I assume that you are 
 innocent of this. You are ? " 
 
 " Before Heaven, I am innocent ! '' thundered Mr. Chatta- 
 way. " What do you mean, Flood ? "
 
 AN APPLICATION TO A MAGISTRATE. 347 
 
 "Then make haste. My advice to you is, go right into the 
 midst of it, and confront Peterby. Don't let the magistrates 
 hear only one side of the question, by which they would pre- 
 judge it. Make your explanation to them, and let these nasty 
 rumours be set at rest. It is my opinion that you ought to 
 have done so at first." 
 
 xA.pparently eager as himself now, Mr. Chattaway strode 
 along. They found on reaching the courts that some indifferent 
 cause was being heard by the magistrates, nothing at all con- 
 nected with Mr. Chattaway. But the explanation was obtained. 
 Mr. Peterby was in a private room with one of the Bench only 
 — a Captain Mynn. With scant ceremony the interview was 
 broken in upon by the intruders. 
 
 There was no formal complaint being made, no accusation 
 being lodged, or warrant applied for. Mr. Peterby, who was 
 on terms of intimacy with Captain ^Mynn, was laying the case 
 before him unofficially, and asking his advice as a friend. A 
 short explanation on either side ensued, and Mr. Peterby turned 
 to Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " I have had this forced upon me," he said. " I have been 
 urged for days and days past to apply for a warrant against 
 you, and I have declined. But the thing is going so far, public 
 opinion is becoming, I may say, so urgent, that I find if 1 don't 
 act, it will be taken out of my hands, and given to those who 
 have less scruple than I. I resolved, therefore, to adopt a 
 medium course; and I came here asking Captain Mynn's 
 opinion as a friend — not as a magistrate — whether I should 
 have sufficient grounds for acting. For myself, I honestly con- 
 fess I think them very slight ; and I assure you, Mr. Chattaway, 
 that I am no enemy of yours, although it may look like it at 
 this moment." 
 
 " By whom have you been urged to this ? " coldly asked Mr. 
 Chattaway. 
 
 "By more than I should care to name: the public, to give 
 them a collective term. But hoV the wonder you obtained 
 cognizance that I was here, I can't make out," he added, turn- 
 ing to Mr. Flood. " Not a soul knew of my coming." 
 
 " As we have met here, we had better have it out," was Mr. 
 Flood's answer, disregarding the question. " It is my advice 
 to Mr. Chattaway, and he wishes it. If Mr. Mynn hears your 
 side unofficially he must, in justice, hear ours. That's fair, all 
 the world over." 
 
 It was, doubtless, a not very usual, perhaps not an orthodox,
 
 348 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 mode of proceeding ; but I can tell you that things far more 
 unorthodox than that, are done in local courts every day. Mr, 
 Mynn knew by public rumour all particulars of th£ suspicion, 
 just as well as Mr. Peterby could state them, but he listened 
 attentively, as in civility bound. Mr. Chattaway did not deny 
 the encounter with Rupert : he never had denied it. He 
 acknowledged that they were neither of them very cool ; that 
 Rupert was the first to strike, and that he, Rupert, fell down, 
 or was knocked down. Immediately upon that, he, Mr Chat- 
 taway, heard a noise, went to see what it was, and found they 
 had had an eavesdropper, who was then making off across the 
 field, on the other side the grove. He, Mr. Chattaway, angry 
 at the fact, gave pursuit, in the hope of identifying the intruder 
 (whom he had since discovered to be Jim Sanders), but was 
 unable to catch him, the pursued proving himself considerably 
 the fleeter runner. When he got back to the spot, Rupert was 
 gone. 
 
 " How long may you have been absent ? " inquired Captain 
 Mynn of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " About six or seven minutes, I think. I ran to the other 
 end of the field, and looked into the lane, but the boy had 
 escaped out of sight, and I then walked back again. It would 
 take about seven minutes ; the field is large." 
 
 " And after that ? " 
 
 " I found, as I tell you, that Rupert had disappeared, and I 
 re-traversed the ground over the lower field, and went on to 
 Barbrook, where I had business. I never saw Rupert Trevlyn 
 after I left him on the ground. The inference, therefore — nay, 
 the absolute certainty — is, that he must have taken the oppor- 
 tunity of my absence to get up and escape." 
 
 A pause. " You did not get home, I believe, until twelve 
 at night, or thereabouts," remarked Captain Mynn. " Some 
 doubts have been raised — of which you are, no doubt, aware — 
 as to where you could have spent your time." 
 
 And this question led to tl7.e very core of the suspicion. Mr. 
 Chattaway appeared to feel that it did, and he hesitated. He 
 had spoken in a free, open manner enough, quite different from 
 the ungracious and sullen one that generally characterized him ; 
 but he hesitated now. 
 
 " Strange to say," he resumed, " I could not account for the 
 whole of my time that evening. That is, if I were called upon 
 to account for it by proof, 1 am not sure that it could be fur- 
 nished. I was very anxious to see Hurnall, the agent for the
 
 AN APPLICATION TO A MAGISTRATE. 349 
 
 Boorfield mines, and that's wliere I went. My son had brought 
 me home news from Blackstone, that they were going to force 
 me to make certain improvements in my pit, and I wanted to 
 consult Hurnall about it. He is up to every trick and turn, 
 and knows what they can comj^el an owner to do, and what 
 they can't. When I reached Hurnall's house, he was out; 
 might return home immediately, the servant said, or might not 
 be home till very late. She asked me if I could go in and 
 wait 3 but I had no fancy for sitting in a close room, after being 
 stifled all day in the close court hen\ and I said I would walk 
 about. I walked about for two mortal hours before Hurnall 
 came; and then I went indoors with him. That's the whole 
 truth, I'll swear." 
 
 " Then I'd have avowed it before, had I been you," cried 
 Mr. Peterby. " It's your want of self-defence that has done 
 half the mischief, and given colouring to the suspicions." 
 
 " Self-defence ! " cried Mr. Chattaway, throwing his head back. 
 " When a man's accused of murder by a set of brainless idiots, 
 it is punishment he'd like to give them, not self-defence." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the lawyer, " but we can't always do as we like : 
 if we could, the world might be better worth living in." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway turned to the magistrate. " I have told you 
 the whole truth, so far as I know it ; and you may judge whether 
 these unneighbourly reports have not merited all my contempt. 
 You can question Hurnall, who will tell you where he met me, 
 and how long I stayed with him afterwards. As to Rupert 
 Trevlyn, I have no more idea where he is than Mr. Peterby 
 himself has. He will turn up some time, there's not the least 
 doubt about it ; and I solemnly declare that I'll then bring him 
 to justice, should it be ten years hence." 
 
 There was nothing more for Mr. Chattaway to say or to 
 wait for, and he went out with his solicitor. Mr. Peterby 
 turned to Captain Mynn with a questioning glance. 
 
 The magistrate shook his head. " My opinion is that you 
 cannot proceed with this, Mr. Peterby. Were you to bring the 
 matter ofticially before the Bench, I for one would not entertain 
 it; neither, I am sure, would my brother-magistrates. Mr. 
 Chattaway is no favourite of ours, but he must receive justice. 
 That there are points of suspicion connected wdth the case, I 
 can't deny ; but every one may be explained away. If what 
 he says be true, they are explained away." 
 
 " All but the two hours, when he says he was walking about, 
 waiting for Hurnall."
 
 350 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '' It may have been so. No ; upon these very slight grounds, 
 it is of no use to press for a warrant against Mr. Chattaway. 
 The very enormity of the crime would almost be its answer. A 
 gentleman of position and property, a county magistrate, guilty 
 of the crime of murder in these enlightened days ! Nonsense, 
 Mr. Peterby ! " 
 
 And Mr. Peterby echoed the words in his own mind ; and 
 went forth prepared to echo it to those who had urged him on 
 to ask whether the charge could be made. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM. 
 
 So the magistrates declined to interfere, and Mr. Chattaway 
 went about a free man. But not an untainted one; for the 
 neighbourhood was still free in its comments, and openly 
 accused him of having made away witli Rupert. Mr. Chattaway 
 had his retaliation : he offered a reward for the recovery of the 
 incendiary Rupert Trevlyn, and the walls for miles round were 
 placarded with handbills. The police, urged to it by him, re- 
 commenced their search with vigour, and Mr. Chattaway actually 
 talked of sending to the metropolis for an experienced detective. 
 One thing was indisputable — that if Rupert were in life he must 
 keep himself from the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold. Nothing 
 could save him from the law, if taken the second time. Jim 
 Sanders would not be kidnapped again, to prevent his proving 
 the firing of the rick ; he had already testified to it officially ; 
 and Mr. Chattaway's vengeance was athirst for satisfaction. 
 
 Take it for all in all, it was well-nigh breaking the heart of 
 Mrs. Chattaway. Looking at it in any light, it was bad enougli. 
 The fear touching her husband, not the less startling and 
 terrible from its excessive improbability, was dissipated, for he 
 had succeeded in convincing her that he was, so far, innocent ; 
 but her fears for Rupert kept her in a perpetual state of inward 
 terror. Miss Diana publicly condemned Rupert. This hiding 
 from justice (if he was hiding) she regarded as only in a degree 
 less reprehensible than the crime itself; as did Mrs. Ryle ; and 
 had Miss Diana met Rupert returning home some fine day, she 
 would have laid her hand upon him as effectually as Mr. Dumps 
 himself, and said, "You shall not go again." Do not mistake
 
 A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM. 3St 
 
 Miss Diana : it would not liave pleased her to see Rupert — a 
 Trevlyn — standing at the bar of a public tribunal to be judged 
 by the laws of his country, '\^'hat she would have done was, 
 to take Rupert home to the Hold, marshalled by her hand, and 
 say to Chattaway, " Here he is, but you must forgive him : you 
 must forgive him, because he is a Trevlyn ; and a Trevlyn 
 cannot be brought to disgrace." Miss Diana had full con- 
 fidence in her own power to command this. Others wisely 
 doubted whether any amount of interference on any part would 
 avail now with Mr. Chattaway. His wife felt that it would 
 not. She felt that were poor Rupert to venture home, even 
 twelve months to come, trusting that time and clemency had 
 effected his pardon, he would be sacrificed : between Miss 
 Diana's and Mr. Chattaway's opposing policies, he would in- 
 evitably be sacrificed. Altogether, Mrs. Chattaway's life was 
 more painful now Rupert had gone than it had been when he 
 was at home. 
 
 Cris was against Rupert ; Octave was bitterly against him ; 
 Maude went about the house with a white face and shrinking 
 heart, her health and spirits giving way under the tension. 
 Suspense is, of all evils, the worst to bear : and they who loved 
 Rupert, Maude and her aunt Edith, were hourly and daily 
 victims to it. The bow was always strung. On the one hand 
 was the latent doubt that he had come to some violent end 
 that night, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's denial ; and they could 
 not divest themselves of it, try as they would, or of the wretched 
 speculation it brought in its train. On the other hand, was the 
 lively dread that he was but concealing himself, and might be 
 discovered by the police any day that the sun rose. They had 
 speculated so much upon where he could be, that the ever- 
 recurring thought brought now only its heart-sickness ; and 
 Maude had the additional pain of hearing petty shafts launched 
 at her because she was his sister. Mrs. Chattaway prayed upon 
 her bended knees that, hard to be borne as the suspense was, 
 Rupert might not come back until time should have softened 
 the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and the grievous charge pend- 
 ing against Rupert be done away wuth for the want of a 
 prosecutor. 
 
 Nora was in the midst of bustle at Trevlyn Farm. And Nora 
 was also in a temper. It was the annual custom there, when 
 the busy time of harvest was quite over, to institute a general 
 house-renovating : summer curtains were taken down, and winter 
 ones were put up, carpets were shaken, floors and paint scoured]
 
 352 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and the place, in short, to use an ordinary expression, was turned 
 inside out. 
 
 There was more than usual to be done this year : for, mend- 
 ings and alterations had to be made in sundry curtains, and 
 the upholstering woman, named Brown, had been at Trevlyn 
 Farm the last day or two, getting forward with her task. The 
 ruse made use of by Nora in the court at Barmester, to wile 
 Farmer Apperley to a private conference, had really held some 
 point in it, for negotiations were going on with that mdustrious 
 member of the upholstering society, through Mrs. Apperley, 
 who had recommended her to Nora. 
 
 Mrs. Brown sat in the centre of a pile of curtams, plying her 
 needle steadily : the finishing stitches were being put to the 
 work ; at least, they would be before night should fall. Mrs; 
 Brown, a sallow woman with a chronic cold in her head, pre- 
 ferred to work in outdoor costume ; a black poke bonnet and 
 faded woollen red plaid shawl crossed over her shoulders. 
 Nora stood by her in a very angry mood, her arms folded, just 
 as though she had nothing to do : which would be a circum- 
 stance to be recorded in these cleaning times. 
 
 For Nora never let the grass grow under her feet, or under 
 any one else's feet, when there was work to do. By dint of 
 beginning hours before daylight, and keeping at it hours after 
 nightfall — in point of fact, by making that one day in the year 
 four-and-twenty hours long instead of twelve — she succeeded 
 in getting it all over in the day. Herself, Nanny, and Ann 
 Canham put their best energies into it, one or two of the men 
 were set to rub up the mahogany furniture, and Mrs. Ryle had 
 to dispense almost entirely with being waited upon. And 
 Nora's present anger arose from the fact that Ann Canham, 
 by some extraordinary mischance, had not made her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 It was bringing things almost to a standstill, as Nora com- 
 plained to Mrs. Brown. The two cleaners of the rooms were 
 Nanny and Ann Canham. Nanny was doing her part, but what 
 was to become of the other part ? And where could Ann Can- 
 ham be? Nora kept her eyes turned to the window, as she 
 talked and grumbled, watching for the return of Jim Sanders, 
 whom she had despatched to see after Ann. 
 
 Presently she saw him approaching, and went to the door 
 and threw it open long before the lad could reach it. " She 
 can't come," he called out, at length. 
 
 "Not come ! "' echoed Nora, in wrathful consternalion, look-
 
 A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM. 353 
 
 ing as if she felt inclined to beat Jim for bringing the message. 
 " What on earth does she mean by that ? " 
 
 "Well, she said her father was poorly, and she couldn't leave 
 him," returned Jim 
 
 Nora could scarcely speak for indignation. Old Canham, as 
 was known to all the neighbourhood, had been ailing for years, 
 and it had never kept Ann at home before. " I don't believe 
 it," said she, in her perplexity. 
 
 " I don't think I do, neither," returned Jim. " I'm a'most 
 sure that old Canham was sat right afore the fire, a-smoking 
 his pipe as usual. She drawed the door to behind her, all in a 
 hurry, while she talked to me, but not afore I see old Canham 
 there. I be next to certain on it." 
 
 Nora could not understand the state of affairs. Ann Can- 
 ham, humble, industrious, grateful for any day's work offered to 
 her, had never failed to come, when engaged, in all Barbrook's 
 experience. \V'hat was to be done ? The morrow was Satur- 
 day , and, to have the cleaning extend to that day (as it inevit- 
 ably would, failing the help of Ann Canha.m), would have upset 
 the farm's regularity and Nora's temper for a month. In fact, 
 there was a doubt of its being done, as it was ; for Ann ought 
 to have been there and at work hours before. 
 
 Nora took a sudden resolution. She snatched her bonnet 
 and shawl from the pegs where they hung, and set off for the 
 lodge, determined to bring Ann Canham back willing or 
 unwilling, or to know the reason why This contretemps in the 
 yearly cleaning would never be forgotten by Nora during life. 
 
 Without any superfluous ceremony of knocking, Nora pro- 
 ceeded to open the door and enter when she reached the 
 lodge. But the door was locked. "What can that be for?" 
 ejaculated Nora — for she had never known the lodge door to 
 be locked in the daytime. " She expects I shall come after 
 her, and thinks she'll keep me out ! " 
 
 ^Vithout the intervention of an instant, Nora's face was at 
 the wintlow, to reconnoitre the interior. She saw the smock- 
 frock of old Mark disappearing through the opposite door, 
 as quickly as was consistent with his rheumatic state. Nora 
 rattled at the handle of the door with one hand, and knocked 
 sharply on its panel with the other. Ann opened it. 
 
 " Now then, Ann Canham, what's the meaning of this ? " she 
 began, pushing past Ann, who stood in the way, almost as if 
 she would have kept her out. 
 
 "I beg a humble pardon, ma'am, a hundred times," was the 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 23
 
 354 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 low, deprecating answer. " I'd do anything a'most, rather not 
 disappoint — such a thing I'm sure as never happened to me 
 yet — but I'm obhged. Father, he's too poorly for me to leave 
 him." 
 
 Nora surveyed her critically. The woman was evidently in 
 a state of discomfort, if not of terror. She was trembling 
 visibly, in spite of her efforts to suppress it, and her lips were 
 white. 
 
 " I got a boy to run down to Mrs. Sanders's this morning at 
 daylight, and ask her to go in my place," resumed Ann Can- 
 ham. " Until Jim came up here a short while agone, I never 
 thought but what she had went." 
 
 "What's the rQason you can't come?" demanded Nora, her 
 tone one of uncompromising sternness. 
 
 " I'd come but for father. He " 
 
 " You needn't peril your soul with deliberate untruths," 
 interrupted angry Nora. "A woman at your age ought to fear 
 'em, Ann Canham. There's nothing the matter with your 
 father ; nothing that need hinder your coming out. If he's 
 well enough to be here in the house place, smoking his pipe, 
 he's well enough for you to leave him. He was smoking. 
 Haven't I got the smoke now in my nostrils ? and what's 
 that ? " — pointing to the pipe which her quick eyes had 
 detected, pushed into a corner of the hearth. 
 
 Ann Canham stood the picture of confusion and helplessness 
 under the reproach. She stammered out that she " daredn't 
 leave him : he wasn't hisself to-day." 
 
 " He was enough himself to make off to avoid seeing me," 
 said angry Nora. " What's to become of my cleaning ? 
 Who's to do it if you don't? I insist upon your coming, Ann 
 Canham?" 
 
 It appeared almost beyond Ann Canham's courage to bring 
 out a second refusal, and she burst into tears as she spoke it. 
 She had never offended afore, and she hoped, if- forgiven this 
 time, never to offend again : but to leave her father that day 
 was impossible. 
 
 And Nora had to take the refusal, and make the best of it. 
 She went away, searching for the woman's motive, and came to 
 the conclusion, wanting a better, that she must have some sew- 
 ing in hand which she was compelled to finish ; but, that Mark's 
 illness was detaining her, she believed not. Still, she could not 
 comprehend it. Ann had always been so eager to oblige, so 
 simple, so open-minded. Had sewing really detained her, she
 
 A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM. 35^ 
 
 Would have brought it out to show Nora ; she would have told 
 the truth, not have laid the excuse to her father's state of 
 health. Nora was puzzled, and that was a thing she hated. 
 Ruminating upon all this as she walked along, she met Mrs. 
 Chattaway. Nora, who, when suffering under a personal 
 grievance, must dilate upon it to every one, favoured Mrs; 
 Chattaway with an account of Ann Canham, her extraordinary 
 conduct, and her ingratitude. 
 
 "Rely upon it, her father is ill," was the answer of Mrs. 
 Chattaway. " I will tell you why I think so, Nora. Yesterday 
 I was at Barmester with my sister, and as we pulled up at the 
 chemist's where I had business, Ann Canham came out with a 
 bottle of medicine in her hand. I asked her who was ill, and 
 she said it was her father. I remarked to the chemist after- 
 wards that I supposed Mark Canham had a fresh attack of 
 rheumatism, but he replied that it was fever." 
 
 " Fever ! " echoed Nora. 
 
 " I exclaimed as you do : but the chemist persisted that, by 
 Ann Canham's account, Mark must be suffering from a species 
 of low fever. As we returned, my sister stopped the pony-car- 
 riage at the lodge, and Ann came out to us. She explained it 
 differently from the chemist. What she had meant to imply 
 when she went for the medicine was, that her father was fever- 
 ish — but he was better then, she said. Altogether, I judge that 
 he is a .little worse than usual, and it may be that she was 
 afraid to leave him to-day." 
 
 " Well," said Nora, "all I can say is, that I saw old Canham 
 stealing out of the room when I knocked at it, just as though 
 he did not want to be seen. He was smoking, too. I can't 
 make it out" 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway was neither so speculative nor so curious as 
 Nora; perhaps not so keen: she viewed it as nothing extra- 
 ordinary that Mark Canham should be rather worse than usual, 
 or that his daughter should decline to go out and leave him. 
 
 Much later in the day — in fact, when the afternoon was get- 
 ting on — Ann Canham, with a wild, scared look in her face, 
 turned out of the lodge. She took the road towards Trevlyn 
 Farm. Not in an open, bold manner, as folks do who are not 
 afraid of dogs and policemen, but in a timorous, uncertain, 
 hesitating fashion, that did give the idea that she must dread 
 either the one or the other. Plunging into the fields when she 
 was nearing the farm, she stole along under cover of the hedge, 
 until she reached the one which skirted the fold-yard. Cautiously
 
 356 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 raising her face to take a view over it of what might be on the 
 other side, it came almost into contact with another face, which 
 was raised to see anything that might be seen on this — the face 
 of PoUceman Dumps. 
 
 Ann Canham uttered a shrill scream, and flew away as fast 
 as her legs could carry her. Perhaps of all living beings, Mr, 
 Dumps was about the last she would have preferred to en- 
 counter just then. That gentleman made his way to a side- 
 gate, and called after her. 
 
 " What be you afeard on, Ann Canham ? Did you think it 
 was a mad bull a-looking over at you ? " 
 
 It occurred to Ann Canham that her starting away in that 
 extraordinary fashion could only be regarded as consistent with 
 the approach of a mad bull, or some other obnoxious animal, 
 and that the policeman might be for setting himself to the 
 work of discovering her motive — for it lay in the nature of a 
 l)oliceman's work to do so. That thought, or some other, made 
 her turn slowly back again, and confront Mr. Dumps. 
 
 '•' What was you afeard on } " he repeated. 
 
 "Not of nothing in particular, please, sir," she answered. 
 '• It was the suddenness like of seeing a face there that startled 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Dumps thought she looked curiously startled still. But 
 that complacent official, being accustomed by the bare fact of 
 his presence to strike terror to the hearts of boys and other 
 parish scapegraces, did not give it a second thought. " Were 
 j-ou looking for anybody?" he asked, simply as an idle 
 question. 
 
 " No, sir. I just put my head over the hedge without 
 meaning. I didn't want nothing." 
 
 Mr. Dumps, in the lofty manner affected by some of his 
 tribe, turned on his heel without condescending so much as 
 a "good afternoon." Ann Canham pursued her way along 
 the hedge which skirted the fold-yard. Any one observing her 
 closely might have detected indications of trembling about her 
 still. In a cautious and timid manner, she at length turned 
 her head, to obtain a glimpse of Mr. Dumps's movements. 
 
 Mr. Dumps— and what had taken him into the fold-yard at 
 Mr. Ryle's, Ann Canham could not guess, unless it might be 
 that he was looking after Nanny — had turned into the road, 
 and was pursuing his way slowly down it. Every step carried 
 him farther from her: an J when he was fairly out of sight, the 
 sigh of relief she gave was long and deep.
 
 A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM. 357 
 
 But of course there was no certainty that he would not be 
 coming back again. Possibly it was that insecurity that caused 
 Ann to take stolen looks into the fold-yard, and then duck 
 her head under the hedge, as if she had been at some for- 
 bidden play. But Mr. Dumps did not come back again ; and 
 yet she continued her game. 
 
 A full hour by the sun had she been at it ; and by her 
 countenance, by the occasional almost despairing movement 
 of her hands, it might be inferred that she was growing sadly 
 anxious and weary ; when Jim Sanders emerged from one of 
 the outbuildings at the upper end of the fold-yard, and began 
 to traverse it towards the other end. To do this he had to 
 pass within a few yards of the hedge where the by-play was 
 going on ; and somewhat to his surprise he heard himself 
 called to in covert tones. Casting his eyes to the spot whence 
 the voice proceeded, he saw the well-tanned straw bonnet, the 
 care-worn brow and weak eyes of Ann Canham above the 
 hedge. She beckoned to him in a mysterious manner, and 
 then all signs of her disappeared. 
 
 " If ever I see the like o' that ! " soliloquized Jim. " What's 
 up with Ann Canham ? " He approached the hedge, and 
 bawled out to know what she wanted. 
 
 " Hush — sh — sh — sh ! " came forth the warning sound from 
 the other side. " Come round here to me, Jim." 
 
 Considerably astonished, thinking perhaps Ann Canham had 
 a litter of live puppies to show him — for, if Jim had a weakness 
 for anything on earth, it was for those charming specimens 
 of the young animal world — he made his way through the gate 
 round to Ann Canham. Ann had no puppies ; nothing but a 
 small note in her hand, wafered and pressed with a thimble. 
 
 " Is the master anywhere about, Jim?" 
 
 " He's just gone into the barn now. The men be thrashing," 
 
 Ann Canham paused a moment. Jim stared at her. 
 
 "Could you just do me a bit o' service, Jim?" she resumed. 
 
 Jim, a good-natured lad at all times, replied that he supposed 
 he could if he tried. But he stared still ; he was puzzled by 
 this extraordinary behaviour on the part of quiet Ann Canham. 
 
 " I want this bit of a letter give to him," she said, pointing 
 to what she held. " I want it give to him when he's by hisself 
 like, so that it don't get seen as it's give to him. Could you 
 manage it, Jim?" 
 
 " I dare say I could," replied Jim. " What is the letter ? 
 What's inside of him ? "
 
 358 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 *■ Wei], it concerns Mr. Ryle," said Ann Canham, after a 
 perceptible hesitation. " Jim, if you'll do this faithful for me, 
 I won't forget it. Mind you watch your opportunity ; and 
 keep the letter inside your smock-frock, for fear anybody should 
 see it." 
 
 " I'll do it," said Jim. He took the note from her, put it in 
 his trousers pocket underneath his smock-frock, and went back 
 towards the barn whisding. Ann turned homewards, flying 
 over the ground now as if she were running a race. 
 
 Jim had not to wait for an opportunity. He met his master 
 coming out of the barn. The doorway was dark ; the thrashing 
 men were at the upper end of the barn, and no eyes were near. 
 Jim could not help some of the mystery which had appeared in 
 Ann Canham's manner from extending to his own. 
 
 "What's this ?" asked George. 
 
 " Ann Canham brought it, sir. She was hiding t'other side 
 the hedge and called to me, and she telled me to be sure to 
 give it when nobody was by." 
 
 George took the missive to the door and looked at it. A 
 piece of white paper, which had apparently served to wrap tea 
 in, or something of that sort, awkwardly folded, and wafered 
 down with a thimble. No direction. 
 
 He opened it ; the wafer was not yet dry; and he saw a few 
 words in a sprawling hand : 
 
 " Don't betray me, George. Come to me in secret as soon 
 as you can. I think I am dying." 
 
 And in spite of its being without signature ; in spite of the 
 scrawled characters, the blotted words, George Ryle recognized 
 the handwriting of Rupert Trevlyn. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 SURPRISE FOR GEORGE RYLE. 
 
 On the hard flock bed in the upper back room at the lodge, he 
 lay. As George Ryle stood there bending over him, he could 
 have touched any part of the walls around. The explanation 
 of Jim Sanders that it was Ann Canham who had brought the 
 note, guided George naturally to the lodge; otherwise he
 
 SURPRISE FOR GEORGE RYLE. 359 
 
 would not have known where to look for him. One single 
 question to old Canham as he entered — " Is he here ? " — and 
 George bounded up the stairs. 
 
 Ann Canham, who was standing over the bed — her head 
 just escaped the low ceiling — turned to George. Trouble and 
 pain were on her countenance as she spoke to him. 
 
 "He. is in delirium now, sir. I was afeard he would be." 
 
 (ieorge Ryle was too astonished to make any reply. Never 
 had he cast a shade of suspicion to Rupert's being concealed 
 at the lodge. " Has he been here long? " he whispered. 
 
 " All along, sir, since the night he was missed," was the reply 
 of Ann Canham. " After I had got home that night, a quarter- 
 ofan-hour it might be, and I was telling father about Master 
 Rupert's having took the half-loaf in his hunger, he come 
 knocking at the door to be let in. Chattaway and him had 
 met and quarrelled, he told me, and he was knocked down, 
 and his shoulder was hurt, and he felt tired and sick ; and he 
 said he'd stop with us till morning, and be away afore daylight, 
 so that we should not get into trouble for sheltering him. He 
 got me to lend him my pen and ink, and he wrote a letter to 
 that there foreign gentleman, Mr. Daw. After that, with a 
 dreadful deal of pressing, sir, I got him to come up to this here 
 bed, and I lay on the settle downstairs for the night. Afore 
 daylight I was up, and had the fire alight, and the kettle on, 
 to make him a cup o' tea afore he started, but he did not come 
 down. I came up here and found him ill. His shoulder was 
 stiff and painful, and he was bruised and sore all over, and 
 he thought he couldn't get out o' bed. Well, sir, he stopped, 
 and he have been here ever since, getting worse, and me just 
 frightened out of my life, for fear he should be found by Mr. 
 Chattaway or them police, and took off to prison. I was sick 
 for the whole day after, sir, that time that Mr. Bowen called 
 me into his station-house and set on to question me." 
 
 George was occupied looking at Rupert. There could not 
 be a doubt that he was in a state of partial delirium. George 
 feared there could not be a doubt that he was in a state of 
 danger. The bed was low and narrow, evidently hard, the 
 flock of the mattress collected into lumps ; the bolster small 
 and almost as low as the bed. Rupert's head lay on it quietly 
 enough ; his hai-r, which had grown very long since his con- 
 finement, fell around him in a wavy mass ; his cheeks wore the 
 hectic of fever, his blue eyes were unnaturally bright. There 
 was no speculation in those eyes. They were partially closed,
 
 36o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 and though the entrance of George caused them to be turned 
 to him, there was no recognition in their hght. His arms were 
 flung outside the bed, the wristbands pushed up as if from 
 heat. 
 
 " I have put him on a shirt o' father's, sir, when his have 
 wanted washing," explained Ann Canham, to whom it was 
 natural to relate minute details. "Things needs to be shifted 
 oftener when one's abed nor when one's up." 
 
 " How long has he been without consciousness ? " inquired 
 George. 
 
 " Just about for the last hour, sir. He writ that letter that 
 I brought to you, and when I come back he was like this. 
 Maybe he'll come to himself again presently ; he have been as 
 bad as this at times in the last day or two. I'm so afeard of 
 its going on to brain-fever If he should get into a state of 
 raving, we could never keep his being here a secret ; he'd be 
 heard outside." 
 
 " He ought to have had a doctor to him before this." 
 
 " But how is one to be got here ? " debated Ann Canham. 
 " Once a doctor knew where Mr. Rupert was, he might be for 
 betraying it — there's the reward, you know, sir And how could 
 we get a doctor in without its being known at the Hold ? 
 What mightn't Chattaway suspect ? " 
 
 George remained silent, revolving what she said. There 
 were difficulties undoubtedly in the way. 
 
 " Nobody knows the trouble I've been in, sir, especially since 
 he got worse. At first, he just lie here quiet, more as if he 
 was glad of the rest, and my chief care was to keep folks as far 
 as I could out o' the lodge, bathe his shoulder, and bring him 
 up a share of our poor meals. But since he got worse, and the 
 fever came upon him, I've been half dazed, wondering what I 
 ought to do. There were two people I thought I might speak 
 to — you, sir, and Madam. But Ivlr. Rupert he was again it, 
 and father he was dead again it. They were afraid, you see, 
 that if only one was told, it might come to be known that he 
 was here. Father, he's old now, and a'most helpless; he 
 couldn't do a stroke towards getting his own living. If I be 
 out afore daylight at any of my places o' work, it's as much as 
 he can do to open the gate and fasten it back : and he knows 
 that Mr. Chattaway would turn us from this, right off the estate, 
 if it come to be known that we had sheltered Mr. Rupert. But 
 yesterday Mr. Rupert found he was getting worse and worse, 
 and I said to father what would become of us if he should die?
 
 SURPRISE FOR GEORGE RYLE. 361 
 
 And they both said that you should be told to-day if he was no 
 better. We did think him a trifle better this morning, but later 
 the fever came on worse, and Mr. Rupert himself said he'd 
 write a word to you, and I found a bit o' paper and brought 
 him the big Bible, and held it afore him in bed, that he might 
 lean the letter on while he writcd it." 
 
 She ceased. George, as before, was looking at Rupert. It 
 seemed to Ann Canham that he could not gaze sufficiently, but 
 in truth he was buried in thought ; fairly puzzled with the 
 difficulties that encompassed the case. 
 
 " Is it anything more than low fever ? " he asked. 
 
 " I don't think it is, sir, yet. But it may go on to more, you 
 know " 
 
 George did know. He knew that assistance was necessary 
 in more ways than one, if that worse contingency was to be 
 avoided. Medical attendance, a more airy room, generous 
 nourishment ; and how was even one of them to be accom- 
 plished, let alone all ? The close closet — it could scarcely be 
 called more— had no chimney in it; the air and light could 
 come in only through a small pane ingeniously made to rise at 
 will in the roof The narrow bed and one chair took up 
 almost all the space, leaving very little for George and Ann 
 Canham as they stood. George, coming in from the fresh air, 
 felt half stifled, sick with the closeness of the room : and this 
 must be most dangerous for the invalid. It is a mercy that 
 these inconveniences are so soothed to those who have to 
 endure them — as are most inconveniences and trials in life. 
 To an outsider they look formidable, unbearable ; but to the 
 actual sufferers they are light. George Ryle felt as if a day in 
 that atmosphere would half kill him ; but Rupert, lying in it 
 always, was sensible of no inconvenience from it. It was not, 
 however, the less injurious to him ; and it appeared that there 
 was no remedy ; there could be no removal from it. 
 
 " What have you given him ? " inquired George. 
 
 " I have made him some herb tea, sir, but it didn't seem to 
 do him good, and then I went over to Barmester to the drug- 
 gist's and got a bottle o' physic. I had to say it was for father, 
 and the druggist told me I ought to call in a doctor, when I 
 described the illness. Coming out of the shop there was Miss 
 Diana's pony-carriage at the door, and Madam met me and 
 asked who the physic was for : I never was so took aback. And 
 the physic didn't seem to do him good neither." 
 
 "I nieant as to food," returned George.
 
 362 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Ah ! sir, as to food — what could I give him but our poor 
 fare ? milk porridge and such like. I went up to the Hold one 
 day and begged a basin o' curds-and-whey, and he eat it all 
 and drank up the whey quite greedy : but I didn't dare go 
 again, for fear of their suspecting something. It's meat and 
 wine that he ought to have had from the first, sir ; but we can't 
 get such things as that. Why, sir, I shouldn't dare to be seen 
 cooking a bit o' meat : it would set Mr. Chattaway wondering 
 at once. What's to be done ? " 
 
 What, indeed? There was the question. Idea after idea 
 shot through George Ryle's mind ; wild fancies, because, under 
 the present fears, impossible to be acted upon. It might be 
 dangerous to call in a doctor. Allowing that he, the man of 
 medicine, proved true, and kept the secret, the very fact of his 
 attendance there would cause a stir at the Hold. Miss Diana 
 would come down, questioning old Canham of his ailments ; 
 and she would inevitably find that he was 7iot ill enough to re- 
 quire a doctor. A doctor might venture there once : but 
 regularly ? George did not see the way by any means clear. 
 
 But Rupert must not be left there to die. George took up 
 his delicate hand — and Rupert's hands had always been deli- 
 cate — and held it as he spoke to him. It was hot ; fevered : 
 the dry lips were fevered ; the hectic cheeks, the white brow, 
 all were burning with fever. "Don't you know me, Rupert?" 
 he bent lower to ask. 
 
 The words were so far heard that Rupert moved his head 
 from side to side on the bolster; perhaps the familiar name 
 " Rupert " may have penetrated some chord of memory ; but 
 there was no real recognition, and he began to twitch at the 
 bed-clothes with one of his hands. 
 
 George turned away. He went down the almost upright 
 ladder of a staircase, feeling that little time was to be lost. 
 Old Canham stood in his tottering fashion, leaning upon his 
 crutch, watching the descent. 
 
 "What do you think of him, Mr. George?" 
 
 " I hardly know what to think, Mark. Or rather, I know 
 what to think, but I don't know what to do. It seems to me 
 that a doctor must be got here ; and without loss of time." 
 
 Old Canham — who had sat down, for he was incapable of 
 standing long — lifted his hands with a gesture of despair. 
 *' Once the secret is give over to a doctor, sir, there's no telling 
 ^vhere it'll travel to, or what'U be the consequence to us all." 
 
 *' I think King would be true," said George. " Nay, I feel
 
 SURPRISE FOR GEORGE RYLE. 363 
 
 sure he would be true. The worst is, he's a simple-minded 
 man, and might betray it through sheer inadvertency. I would 
 a great deal rather bring Mr. Benage to him; I knotv we might 
 rely on Benage, and he is more skilful than King ; but it is not 
 practicable. To see one of the renowned Barmester surgeons 
 entering the lodge in attendance on you — for that's what it 
 must be put upon, whoever comes — might create greater com- 
 motion at the Hold than would be desirable : they would be 
 for asking what malady Mark Canham was attacked with, to 
 render necessary so out-of-the-way a proceeding ; would come 
 flocking, one and all, with their questions. No, it must be 
 King." 
 
 "Sir, couldn't you go to one o' them gentlemen yourself and 
 describe what's the matter with Master Rupert, and ask for 
 some medicine ? You needn't say who it is that's ill." 
 
 George shook his head. "It would not do, Mark; the 
 responsibility is too great. Were anything to happen to Rupert 
 ■ — and I believe he is in danger — you and I should alike blame 
 ourselves for not having called in advice to him at all risks. I 
 shall get King here somehow." 
 
 He went out as he spoke, partly perhaps to avoid further 
 opposition to what he felt must be done. Yet he did not see 
 the besetting difficulties the less, and he halted in thought out- 
 side the lodge door. 
 
 At that moment, Maude Trevlyn came in view. She was 
 alone, walking slowly down the avenue. George advanced to 
 meet her ; he could not help noticing her listless step, her pale, 
 weary face. 
 
 " Maude, what are you grieving at?" 
 
 That she had been grieving, and recently, her eyes betrayed, 
 and the words renewed it. Struggling for a brief moment, and 
 unsuccessfully, with her feelings, she gave way with a burst of 
 tears, and sobbed herself almost into hysterics. 
 
 George was startled. He drew her into the trees. " Maude, 
 Maude, you will be ill. What is this ? " 
 
 " Oh, this suspense !— this agony 1 " she breathed. " Every 
 day, almost every hour, something or other occurs to vividly 
 renew the trouble. If it could only end ! George, I cannot 
 bear it much longer. I feel as if I must go off to the ends of 
 the world and search for him. If I were only sure he was in 
 life, it would be something." 
 
 George took rapid counsel with himself. Surely Maude 
 would be safe; surely it^would be a charity, nay, a duty, to tell
 
 364 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 her ! He drew her hand in his, he bent his face — almost as 
 hectic with excitement as the unhappy Rupert's, hard by, was 
 with fever — near to hers. 
 
 " Maude ! what will you give me for the news that I have 
 heard ? I can give you tidings of Rupert. He is not dead ' 
 He is not very far away ! " 
 
 For an instant her heart stood still. But George glanced 
 round as with fear, and there was a sadness in his tone. 
 
 " He is taken ! " she exclaimed, her pulses bounding on. 
 
 *' No. But care must be observed if we v/ould prevent it. 
 He is, in that sense, at liberty, and very near to us. But it is 
 not all sunshine, Maude ; he is exceedingly ill." 
 
 " Where is he ? " she gasped. 
 
 " Will you compose yourself if I take you to him ? But we 
 have need of great caution ; we must make sure that no prying 
 eyes are spying at us." 
 
 Her very agitation proved how great had been the strain 
 upon her nervous system ; for a few minutes he thought she 
 would faint, there, leaning against the trees as she stood. 
 " Only take me to him, George," she murmured. *' I will bless 
 you for ever." 
 
 Into the lodge and up old Canham's narrow and perpen- 
 dicular staircase he led her. She entered the room timidly, 
 not with the eager bound of hope fulfilled, but with slow and 
 hesitating steps, almost as she had once entered into the pre- 
 sence of the dead, that long ago night at Trevlyn Farm. 
 
 He lay as he had lain when George went out : the eyes fixed, 
 the head beginning to turn restlessly, the one hand picking at 
 the coarse brown sheet. " Come in, Maude ; there is nothing 
 to fear; but he will not know you." 
 
 She went in with her trembling hands, her changing cheeks. 
 She stood for a moment gazing at him who lay there, as though 
 it required time to take in the scene , and then she fell on her 
 knees in a strange burst, half joy, half grief, and kissed his 
 hands, and his fevered lips. 
 
 " Oh, Rupert, my brother ! My brother Rupert."
 
 ( 365 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XLVUI. 
 
 DANGER. 
 
 The residence of the surgeon, Mr. King, was situated on tlie 
 road to Barbrook, not far from the parsonage. It was a small, 
 square, red-brick house, only two storeys high, with a great 
 bronze knocker on the door, which was particularly narrow 
 and modest. If you wanted to enter, you could either raise 
 this knocker, which would most likely bring forth Mr. King 
 himself in answer ; or, ignoring ceremony — for ceremony was 
 not much in fashion in that remote locality — you could turn 
 the handle and walk in of your own accord, as George Ryle 
 did, and admitted himself into the strip of a passage. On the 
 right was the parlour, quite a fashionable room, with a tiger- 
 skin stretched out by way of hearth-rug; on the left was a 
 small apartment fitted up with bottles and pill-boxes, where Mr. 
 King saw his patients. One sat there as George Ryle entered, 
 and the surgeon turned round, as he poured some liquid from 
 what looked like a jelly-glass with a spout, into a half-pint green 
 glass bottle. 
 
 Now, of all the disagreeable contretemps that could have 
 occurred, to meet that particular patient George felt to be 
 about the worst. Ann Canham had not been more confounded 
 at the sight of Policeman Dumps's head over the hedge, than 
 George was at Policeman Dumps himself — for it was no other 
 than that troublesome officer who sat in the patient's chair, the 
 late afternoon's sun streaming on his head. George's active 
 mind hit on a ready excuse for his own visit. 
 
 " Is my mother's medicine ready, Mr. King ? " 
 
 ''The medicine ready! Why, I sent it three good hours 
 ago ! " 
 
 "Did you? I understood them to say But there's no 
 
 harm done ; I was coming down this way. What a nice warm 
 afternoon it is ! " he exclaimed, throwing himself on a chair as 
 if he would take a little rest. " Have you been having a tooth 
 drawn. Dumps?" 
 
 " No, sir, but I've got the face-ache awful," was the reply of the 
 policeman, who was holding a handkerchief to his right cheek. 
 " It's what they call tic-douloureux, I fancy, for it comes on by
 
 366 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 fits and starts. I be out of sorts altogether, and I thought I'd 
 ask Doctor King to make me up a bottle of physic." 
 
 So the physic was for Dumps. Mr. King seemed a long 
 time over it, measuring this liquid, measuring that, shaking it 
 all up together, and gossiping the while. George, in his 
 impatience, thought it was never coming to an end. Dumps 
 seemed to be in no hurry to go, Mr. King in no hurry to 
 dismiss him. They talked over half the news of the parish. 
 They spoke of Rupert Trevlyn and his prolonged absence, and 
 Mr. Dumps gave it as his opinion that " if he warn't in hiding 
 somewhere, he were gone for good." Whether Mr. Dumps 
 meant gone to some foreign terrestrial country, or into a 
 celestial, he did not particularize. But George liked not the 
 tone given to the words "in hiding;" he fancied it too signifi- 
 cant a one. 
 
 Utterly out of patience he rose and left the room, standing 
 outside against the door-post, as if he would watch the passers- 
 by. Perhaps the movement imparted an impetus to Mr. 
 Dumps, for he also rose and took his bottle of medicine from 
 the hands of the surgeon. But he lingered yet : and George 
 thought he never was coming forth. 
 
 That desirable consummation did arrive at last. The police- 
 man departed, and paced away on his beat with his official 
 tread. George returned indoors. 
 
 " I fancied you were waiting to see me," observed Mr. King. 
 " Is anything the matter ? " 
 
 "Not with me. I want to put you upon your honour, 
 doctor," continued George, a momentary smile crossing his 
 lips. And it may as well be remarked, for the benefit of 
 hypercritics, that the salutation "doctor" was universally used 
 in Barbrook to Mr. King, as it is in many rural districts to 
 general practitioners. The p(59r used it, believing it to be his 
 proper title ; the rich, from familiar custom. 
 
 " To put me upon my honour ! " echoed the surgeon, staring 
 at George. 
 
 " I wish to let you into a secret ; but you must give me your 
 word of honour that you will be a true man, and not betray it. 
 In sliort, I want to enlist your sympathies, your kindly nature, 
 heartily in the cause." 
 
 "I suppose some of the poor have got into trouble?" cried 
 Mr. King, not very well knowing what to make of the words. 
 
 " No," said George. " Let me put a case to you. One who 
 is under the ban of the law and of his fellow-men, whom a word
 
 DANGER. 367 
 
 from them could betray to years of punishment — this one is 
 lying in sore need of medical skill ; if he cannot obtain it he 
 may soon be past its aid. Will you be the good Samaritan, and 
 give it ; and faithfully keep the secret ? " 
 
 Mr. King regarded George attentively, slowly rubbing his 
 bald head : he was a man of six-and-sixty now. " Are you 
 speaking," he asked, " of Rupert Trevlyn ? " 
 
 George paused, perhaps rather taken aback ; but the surgeon's 
 face was a kindly one, its expression benevolent. " What if I 
 were ? Would you be true to /a'm ? " 
 
 "Yes, I would: and I am surprised that you thought it 
 needful to ask. George, were the greatest criminal on earth 
 lying in secret, and wanting my aid as a doctor, I would give it 
 and be silent. I go as a healing man ; I don't go as a police- 
 man. \Veve a doctor, taken to a patient under such circum- 
 stances, to betray trust, I should consider that he had violated 
 his duty. ISIedical men are not informers." 
 
 " I felt that we might trust you," said George. " It is Rupert 
 Trevlyn. He took refuge that night at old Canham's, it seems, 
 and has been ill ever since, growing worse and worse. But 
 they fear danger now, and thought fit this afternoon to send for 
 me. Rupert scrawled a few lines himself, but before I could 
 get there he was delirious." 
 
 "Is it fever?" 
 
 " Low fever, Ann Canham says. It may go on to worse, you 
 know, doctor." 
 
 Mr. King nodded his head. " Where can they have concealed 
 him at Canham's ? There's no place for it." 
 
 " He is upstairs in a bed-closet. The most stifling hole ! I 
 felt ill whilst I stayed there. It is a perplexing affair altogether. 
 That place of itself is enough to kill any one in a fever, and 
 there's no chance of removing him from it. There's hardly a 
 chance of getting you in to see him : it must be accomplished 
 in the most cautious manner. Were Chattaway to see you 
 going in, who knows what it might lead to ? If he should, by 
 ill luck, see you," added George, after a pause, "your visit is to 
 old Canham, remember." 
 
 Mr. King gave his head its short, emphatic nod ; his frequent 
 substitute for an answer. " Rupert Trevlyn at Canham's ! " he 
 exclaimed. " Well, you have surprised me ! " 
 
 " I cannot tell you how I was surprised," returned George. 
 '• But we had better be going ; I fear he is in danger." 
 
 "Ay. Delirious, you say ? "
 
 368 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " I think so. He was quiet, but he evidently did not know 
 rac. He did not know Maude ; I met her as I was leaving the 
 lodge, and thought it only kind to tell her of the discovery. It 
 has been a most anxious time for her." 
 
 "There's another that it's an anxious time for; and that's 
 Madam Chattaway," remarked the surgeon. " I was called in 
 to see her a few days ago. But I can do nothing for her : the 
 malady is on the mind. Now I am ready." 
 
 He had been putting one or two papers in his pocket, prob- 
 ably containing some cooling powder or other remedy for 
 Rupert. George walked with him •. he wished to go in with 
 him if it could be managed , he was very anxious to hear his 
 opinion of Rupert. They pursued their way unmolested, meet- 
 ing no one of more consequence than Mr. Dumps, who ap- 
 peared to be occupied in nursing his cheek. 
 
 " So far so good," cried George, as they came in sight of the 
 lodge. " But now comes the tug of war . my walking with 
 you, if seen, is nothing ; but to be seen entering the lodge with 
 you might be a great deal. There seems no one about." 
 
 Ah ! unlucky chance ! By some untoward fatality the master 
 of Trevlyn Hold emerged in sight, commg quickly down the 
 avenue, at the moment that Mr. King had his feet on the lodge 
 steps to enter. George suppressed a groan of irritation 
 
 " There's no help for it, doctor : you must have your wits 
 about you," he whispered, "/shall go straight on as if I had 
 come to pay a visit to the Hold." 
 
 Mr. King was not perhaps the best of men to "have his wits 
 about him " on a sudden emergency , and almost as the last 
 breathed word left George's lips, Mr. Clmttaway was upon 
 them. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Chattaway," said George. " Is Cris 
 at home ? " 
 
 George continued his way as he spoke, brushing past Mr. 
 Chattaway without stopping You know what a very coward 
 is self-consciousness. The presence of Chattaway at that ill- 
 omened moment set them all inwardly trembling. George, the 
 surgeon, old Canham sitting inside, and Ann peeping from the 
 corner of the window, felt one and all as if Chattaway must 
 divine some part of the great secret locked within their breasts. 
 
 " Cris? I don't think Cris is at honie," called out Mr. Chat- 
 taway to George. " He went out after dinner." 
 
 " I am going to see," replied George, looking back to speak. 
 
 The htile delay ha J given the doctor time to collect himself,
 
 DANGER. 3C9 
 
 and he strove to look and speak as much at ease as possible. 
 He stood on the lodge step, waiting to greet Mr. Chattaway. 
 It would never do for him to make believe he was not going 
 into the lodge, as George did, for Mr. Chattaway had seen him 
 step up to it. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. Chattaway? Fine weather this ! " 
 
 " We shall have a change before long ; the glass is shifting. 
 Anybody ill here ? " continued Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Not they, I hope ! " returned the surgeon with a laugh. " I 
 give old Canham a look in now and then, when I am passing 
 and can spare the time, just for a dish of gossip and to ask 
 after his rheumatism. I suppose you thought I had quite for- 
 gotten you," he added, turning to the old man, who had risen 
 now, and stood leaning on his crutch, looking, if Mr. Chatta- 
 way could but have understood it, half frightened to death. 
 " It's a long while since I was here, Mark," 
 
 He sat down on the settle as he spoke, as if to intimate that 
 he intended to take a dish of gossip then. Mr. Chattaway — 
 ah ! can he suspect ? thought old Mark as he entered the 
 lodge ; a thing he did not do once in a year. Conscience does 
 make cowards of us — and it need not be altogether a guilty 
 conscience to do this — and it was rendering Ann Canham as 
 one paralyzed. She would have given the whole world to 
 leave the room and go up to Rupert, and guard, so far as her 
 presence could guard, against any noise he might make ; but 
 she feared the construction that might be put upon it, the sus- 
 picion it might excite. Foolish fears ! Had Rupert not been 
 there, Ann Canham would have passed in and out of the room 
 unrestrainedly, without fearing its conveying any suspicion to 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Madam Chattaway said you were ill, I remember," said he 
 to Mark Canham. " Fever, I understood. She said something 
 about seeing your fever mixture at the chemist's at Barmester." 
 
 Ann Canham turned hot and cold. She did not dare to 
 even glance at her father, still less could she prompt him ; but 
 it so happened that she, willing to spare him unnecessary 
 worry, had not mentioned the little episode of meeting Mrs. 
 Chattaway at Barmester. Old Mark was cautious, however. 
 
 " Yes, Squire. I've had a deal o' fever lately, on and off. 
 Perhaps Doctor King could give me some'at for't, better nor 
 them druggists gives," 
 
 " Perhaps I can," said Mr. King. " I'll have a talk with you 
 presently. How is Madam to-day, Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 Trevlyn Hold, 
 
 24
 
 570 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " She's as well as usual, except for grumbling," was the un- 
 gracious answer. And the master of Trevlyn Hold, perhaps 
 not finding it particularly lively there, went out as he delivered 
 it, giving a short adieu to Mr. King. 
 
 Meanwhile, George Ryle reached the Hold. Maude saw 
 his approach from the drawing-room window, and came herself 
 to the hall-door and opened it. " I wish to speak to you," she 
 sofdy whispered. 
 
 He followed her into tlie room , there was no one in it. 
 Maude closed the door, and spoke in a gentle whisper. 
 
 " May I dare to tell Aunt Edith ? " 
 
 George looked dubious. " That is a serious question, 
 Maude." 
 
 " It would raise her, as may be said, to renewed life," re- 
 turned Maude, her tone one of impassioned earnestness. 
 " George, if this suspense is to continue, she will sink under it. 
 It was very, very bad for me to bear, and I am young and 
 strong ; and I fear my aunt gets the dreadful doubt upon her 
 now and then whether — whether — that is not true that was 
 said of Mr. Chattaway ; whether Rupert was not killed that 
 night. Oh, George, let me tell her ! " 
 
 " Maude, I should be as pleased for her to know it as you. 
 My only doubt is, whether she would dare to keep the secret 
 from her husband, Rupert being actually within the precincts 
 of the Hold." 
 
 " She can be stronger in Rupert's cause than you deem. I 
 am sure that she will be safe as you— as I." 
 " Then let us tell her, Maude." 
 
 Maude's eyes grew bright with satisfaction. Taking all cir- 
 cumstances into view, there was not much cause for congratu- 
 lation ; but, compared with what had been, it seemed as joy to 
 Maude, and her heart was light. The young are ever sanguine ; 
 illness wears not a dangerous aspect to them, and this of 
 Rupert's brought to her little fear. 
 
 " I shall never repay you, George," she cried, with enthu- 
 siasm, lifting her eyes gratefully to his. " I shall never repay 
 you for allowing me to tell my poor aunt Edith." 
 
 George laughed, and made a sudden prisoner of her. "I 
 can repay myself, now, Maude." 
 And Mrs. Chattaway was told. 
 
 In the dusk of that same evening, when the skies were grey 
 to darkness, and the trees on either side the lonely avenue were 
 damp and gloomy, there glided one by them with timid and
 
 DANGER. 371 
 
 cautious step. It was Mrs. Chattaway. A soft black shawl 
 was thrown over her head and shoulders, and her gown was 
 black ; good precautions, rendering her less easy to be ob- 
 served ; and curious eyes might be about. She kept close to 
 the trees as she stole along, ready to conceal herself amidst 
 them if necessary. 
 
 And it was necessary. Surely there was a fatality clinging to 
 that spot this evening, or else Mr. Chattaway was haunting it, 
 perhaps in suspicion. One moment more, and he would have 
 met his wife ; but she heard the footsteps in time. 
 
 Her heart beating, her hands pressed upon her bosom, she 
 waited in her dark hiding-place until he had gone past. She 
 waited until she believed he was in safety in the Hold, and 
 then she went on. 
 
 The shutters were closed at the lodge, and Mrs. Chattaway 
 knocked softly at them. Alas ! alas ! I tell you there was cer- 
 tainly some untoward fate in the ascendant. In the very act 
 of doing so she was surprised by Cris. He was running in at 
 the gate. 
 
 " Goodness, mother ! who was to know you in that guise ? 
 Why, what on earth are you shaking at ? " 
 
 " You have startled me, Cris. I did not know you ; I thought 
 it some strange man running in upon me." 
 
 "What are you doing down here ? " 
 
 Ah ! what was she doing ? \^'hat was she to say ? what 
 excuse to make ? She choked down her throbbing breath, and 
 strove to speak plausibly. 
 
 " Poor old Canham has been so ailing, Cris. I must just 
 step in to see him." 
 
 Cris tossed his head in scorn. To make friendly visits to 
 sick old men was not in his line. " I'm sure I should not 
 trouble myself about that old Canham if I were you, mother," 
 cried he. 
 
 He ran on as he spoke, but had not gone many steps when 
 he found his mother's arm gently laid on his. 
 
 "Cris, dear, oblige me by not saying anything of this at 
 home. Your papa has prejudices, you know ; he thinks as you 
 do ; and perhaps he would be angry with me for coming. But 
 I like to visit those who are ill, to say a kind word to them ; 
 perhaps because I am so often ill myself." 
 
 " I shan't bother myself to say anything about it," was Cris's 
 ungracious response. " I'm sure you are welcome to go, 
 mother, if it affords you any pleasure. Ugh ! fine fun it must
 
 372 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 be to sit with that rheumatic old Canham ! But as to his being 
 ill, he is not — if you mean worse than usual : I have seen him 
 about to-day." 
 
 Cris finally went off, and Mrs. Chattaway returned to the 
 door, which was gingerly opened about an inch by Ann Canham. 
 " Let me in, Ann ! let me in !" 
 
 She did not wait, she pushed her way in ; and Ann Canham, 
 all in a tremor, shut and bolted the door. Ann Canham's 
 tactics were uncertain : she was not aware whether or not it 
 was known to Mrs. Chattaway. That lady's first words 
 enlightened her, spoken as they were in the lowest whisper. 
 
 *' Is he better to-night? What does Mr. King say?" 
 
 Ann Canham lifted her hands in an access of trouble. 
 " He's not better. Madam ; he seems worse. And Mr. King 
 said it would be necessary that he should visit him once or 
 twice a day : and how can he dare venture ? It passed off very 
 well his saying this afternoon that he just called in in passing 
 to see old father; but he couldn't make that excuse to Mr. 
 Chattaway a second time." 
 
 " To Mr. Chattaway ! " she quickly repeated. " Did Mr. 
 Chattaway see Mr. King here ? " 
 
 " Worse luck, and he did. Madam. He came in with him." 
 
 A fear that almost seemed ominous arose to the heart of 
 ]\lrs. Chattaway. " If we could only get him from here to a 
 safe distance ! " she exclaimed. " There would be less danger 
 then." 
 
 But it could not be. Rupert was too ill to be moved. Mrs. 
 Chattaway was turning to the stairs, when a gentle knocking 
 was heard at the outer door. 
 
 It was only Mr. King. Mrs. Chattaway eagerly accosted 
 him with the one anxious question— was Rupert in danger? 
 
 "Well, I hope not : not in actual danger," was the surgeon's 
 answer. " But — you see — circumstances are against him." 
 
 " Yes," she said, hesitatingly, not precisely understanding 
 to what circumstances he alluded. Mr. King resumed. 
 
 "Nothing is more essential in these cases of low fever than 
 plenty of fresh air and generous nourishment. The one he 
 cannot get, lying where he does ; to obtain the other may be 
 almost as difficult. If these low fevers cannot be checked, they 
 go on very often to — to " 
 
 "To what?" she rejoined^ a terrible dread upon her that he 
 meant to say, "to death." 
 
 " To typhus," quietly remarked the surgeon.
 
 A RED-LETTER DAY AT TREVLYN FARM. 
 
 J/ 
 
 " Oh, but that is dangerous ! " she cried, clasping her hands. 
 " 77ia/ sometimes goes on to death." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. King ; and it struck her that his tone was 
 significant. 
 
 " But you must try and prevent it, doctor — you must prevent 
 it, and save him," she cried ; and her imploring accent, her 
 trembling hands, proved to the surgeon how great was her 
 emotion. 
 
 He shook his head : the issues of life and death were not in 
 his power, " My dear lady, I will do what I am enabled to 
 do ; more, I cannot. We poor human doctors can only work 
 under the hand of God." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 A RED-LETTER DAY AT TREVLYN FARM. 
 
 There are some happy days in the most monotonous, the 
 least favoured life ; periods on which we can look back 
 always, even to the life's end, and say, " That was a red-letter 
 day ! " 
 
 Such a day had arisen for Trevlyn Farm. Perhaps never, 
 since the unhappy accident which had carried away its master, 
 had so joyful a one dawned for Mrs. Ryle and George — 
 certainly never one that brought half the satisfaction; for 
 George Ryle was going up to the Hold that day to clear off 
 the last instalment of the debt to Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 It was the lifting of a heavy tax ; the removal of a cruel 
 nightmare — a nightmare that had borne them down, that had 
 all but crushed them with its cruel weight. How they had 
 toiled, and striven, and persevered, and saved, George and 
 Nora alone knew. They knew it far better than Mrs. Ryle ; 
 she had joined in the saving, but very little in the work. To 
 Mrs. Ryle the debt seemed to have been cleared off quickly — 
 far more quickly than had appeared likely at the time of Mr. 
 Ryle's death. And so it had been. George Ryle was one of 
 those happy people who believe in the special interposition 
 and favour of God; and he believed that God had shown 
 favour to him, and helped him with prosperity. It could not 
 be denied that Trevlyn Farm had been favoured with remark- 
 able prosperity since George's reign at it. Season after
 
 374 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 season, when other people complained of short returns, those 
 of Trevlyn Farm had flourished. Harvests had been abundant ; 
 crops had been abundant ; cattle, sheep, poultry — all had been 
 richly abundant. It is true that George brought keen intelli- 
 gence, ever-watchful care to bear upon it ; but returns, even 
 with these, are not always satisfactory. They had been so with 
 him in an eminent degree. His bargains in the buying and 
 selling of stock had been always good, yielding him a profit — 
 for he had entered into them somewhat largely — that had never 
 been dreamt of by his father. The farmers around, seeing how 
 all he put his hand to seemed to flourish, set it down to his 
 superior skill, and talked one to another, at their gatherings 
 at fairs and markets, of "young Ryle's 'cuteness." Perhaps the 
 success might be owing to a very different cause, as George 
 beheved — and nothing could have shaken that belief— the 
 special blessing of Heaven ! 
 
 Yes, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's oppression, they had 
 flourished. It had seemed to that gentleman like magic how 
 they had kept up and increased the payments to him, in 
 addition to their other expenses. That the debt should be 
 ready to be finally cancelled he scarcely believed, although he 
 had received intimation to that effect. 
 
 It did not please him. No ; dear as money was to the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold, he had been better pleased to keep 
 George Ryle still under his thumb, unemancipated. He had 
 not been favoured with the like success : his corn had, some 
 seasons, been thin in the ear ; his live stock had been unhealthy ; 
 his bargains had turned out losses instead of gains ; he had 
 made bad debts ; his coal-mine had exploded ; his ricks had 
 been burnt. Certainly no extraordinary luck had followed 
 Mr. Chattaway — rather the contrary ; and he regarded George 
 Ryle with anger and envy ; a great deal more than would have 
 pleased George, had he known it. Not that George cared, in 
 the abstract, whether he had Mr. Chattaway's anger or love ; 
 but George wanted to stand so far well with him as to get the 
 lease of his best farm. A difficult task ! You'll never do it, 
 George Ryle ! 
 
 Mr. Chattaway sat in what was called the steward's room 
 that fine autumn morning— but autumn was merging into 
 winter now. When rents were paid to him, it was here he sat 
 to receive them. It was where the steward, in the old days of 
 Squire Trevlyn, sat to receive them ; to see the tenants and 
 workpeople upon other matters ; to transact business generally
 
 A RED-LETTER DAY AT TREVLYN FAR^t. 375 
 
 — for it was not until the advent of Mr. Chattaway that Trevlyn 
 Hold had been without its steward or baiUff. In the estimation 
 of Miss Diana, it ought not to be without one now. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was not in a good humour that morning — 
 which is not saying much : but he was in an unusually bad one. 
 A man who rented a small farm of fifty acres under him had 
 come in to pay his annual rent. That is, he had paid part of 
 it, pleading unavoidable misfortune for not being able to make 
 up the remainder, and begging time and grace. It did not 
 please Mr. Chattaway— never a more exacting man than he 
 with his tenants — and the unhappy defaulter wound up the dis- 
 pleasure to a climax by inquiring, innocently and simply, really 
 not meaning any offence, whether any news of the poor young 
 Squire had come to light. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had not done digesting the unpalatable re- 
 mark when George entered. " Good morning, Mr. Chattaway," 
 was his greeting. And perhaps of all his tenants George Ryle 
 was the only one who did not on these occasions, when they 
 met face to face as landlord and tenant, address him by his 
 coveted title of " Squire." 
 
 " Good morning," returned Mr. Chattaway, shortly and snap- 
 pishly. " Take a seat." 
 
 George drew a chair to the table at which Mr. Chattaway sat. 
 Opening a substantial bag, he counted out of it notes and gold, 
 and a few shillings in silver, which he divided into two portions ; 
 then, with his hands, he pushed each nearer Mr. Chattaway, one 
 after the other. 
 
 "This is the year's rent, Mr. Chattaway; and this, I am 
 happy to say, is the last instalment of the debt and interest which 
 my father owed — or was said to owe — to Squire Trevlyn. Will 
 you be so good as to give me a receipt in full ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway swept towards him the heap designated as 
 the rent, apparently ignoring the other and what had been said 
 of it. " What have you deducted from it ? " he asked, in angry 
 tones, as he counted it over, and found that it came somewhat 
 short of the sum expected. 
 
 " Not much," replied George ; '' only what I have a right to 
 
 deduct. The fences, and ■ But I have the accounts with 
 
 me," he continued, taking three or four papers from his pocket. 
 " You can look them over." 
 
 Mn Chattaway scrutinized the papers one by one, but he 
 was unable to find anything to object to in the items. George 
 Ryle knew better that to deduct money for anything that did
 
 370 TREVLYN HOLJ. 
 
 not fall legally to the landlord. But it was in Mr. Chattaway's 
 nature to dispute. 
 
 " If I brought this matter of the fences into a court of law, 
 George Ryle, I believe it would be given against you." 
 
 " 1 don't think you believe anything of the sort, Mr. Chatta- 
 way," returned George, good-humouredly. " If you have any 
 great wish to try it, you can do so : but the loss would be 
 yours." 
 
 Probably Mr. Chattaway knew that it would be. He said 
 no more, but proceeded to count the other money. It was 
 all there, all that remained to be paid, both principal and in- 
 terest. In vain Mr. Chattaway opened his books of the days 
 gone by, and went over old figures ; he could not claim another 
 fraction. The long-pending two thousand pounds, the disputed 
 loan, which had caused so much heart-burning, which had led 
 in a remote degree to Mr. Ryle's violent death, was at length 
 paid off 
 
 "As I have paid former sums under the same protest that 
 my father did, so I now pay this last and final one," said 
 George, in a civil but straightforward and business-like tone. 
 '■' I believe that Squire Trevlyn cancelled the debt on his death- 
 bed ; I and my mother have lived m the belief; but there was 
 no document to prove it, and therefore we have had to bear 
 the consequences. It is all, however, honourably paid now." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway could not demur to this, and he gave a 
 receipt — in full, as George expressed it — for that and for the 
 year's rent. As George put the former safely in his pocket- 
 book, he felt like a bird set at liberty from a long and cruel 
 imprisonment. He was a free man and a joyous one. 
 
 " That farm of yours has turned out well of late years," 
 observed Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Very well : there's the proof," pointing to the money on 
 Mr. Chattaway's desk. " To tell you the truth, I gave myself 
 two more years to pay it off in, and Mrs. Ryle thought it would 
 take longer. But I have been prosperous in my bargains with 
 stock. Will you be afraid to try me on a farm on my own 
 account ? " 
 
 Had it been any eligible body except George Ryle, Mr. 
 Chattaway would probably have said he should not be afraid 
 to try him ; but Mr. Chattaway did not like George Ryle. He 
 disliked him as a mean, ill-principled man will dislike and shun 
 an honourable one. 
 
 " I should think that when you are making Trevlyn Farm
 
 A RED-LETTER DAY AT TREVLYN FARM. 377 
 
 answer so well, you would be loth to leave it," remarked Mr. 
 Chattaway, ungraciously. 
 
 " So I miglit be, were Trevlyn Farm leased on my own 
 account alone. Of all the returns which have accrued from 
 my care and labour, not a shilling has found its way to me : 
 1 have worked entirely for others. But for the heavy costs 
 which have been upon us, the chief of which were Treve's 
 expenses and this old debt of Squire Trevlyn's, there would 
 have been a fair sum to put by yearly, and I imagine my motlier 
 would have allowed me to take half as my portion. I belicA'C 
 she intends to do so by Treve, and I hope Treve will make as 
 good a thing of the farm as I have made." 
 
 " That's not likely," slightingly spoke Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " He may do well if he chooses ; there's no doubt about it , 
 and he can always come to me for advice. I shall not be far 
 away — at least, if I can settle where I hope to do. My mother 
 wishes the lease transferred into Trevlyn's name : I suppose 
 there will be no objection to it." 
 
 " I'll consider of it," shortly replied Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Chattaway," George continued, with a smile, 
 " I want you to promise me the lease of the Upland Farm. It 
 will be vacant in spring." 
 
 "You are mad to ask it," said Mr. Chattaway. "A man 
 without a shilling — and you have just informed me you don't 
 possess one — can't expect to take the Upland Farm. That 
 farm's only suitable for a gentleman" — and the master of 
 Trevlyn Hold laid an offensive stress upon the word — " and 
 one who has his pockets lined with money. I have had an 
 application for the Upland Farm, which I think I shall 
 accept. In fact, for the matter of that, I had some thought 
 of retaining it in my own hands, and putting a bailiff to 
 manage it." 
 
 " You had better let it to me," returned George, not losing 
 his good-humour. " Was the application made to you by Mr. 
 Peterby ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway stared in surprise at his knowing so much. 
 " What if it was ? " he resentfully answered. 
 
 " Why, then, I can tell you that it will not be repeated. Mr. 
 Peterby's client— I am not sure that I am at liberty to mention 
 his name — has given up the idea. Partly because I have told 
 him I want the farm myself, and he says he won't oppose me, 
 out of respect to my father's memory ; partly because Mr. 
 Peterby has heard of another likely to suit him as well, if not
 
 378 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 better. All the neighbours would be glad to see me take the 
 Upland Farm." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's breath was nearly taken away with the inso- 
 lence. " Had you not better constitute yourself manager of 
 my estate, and take possession of the Hold, and let my farms 
 to whom you will ? " he sarcastically answered. " How dare 
 you interfere with my tenants, or with those who would become 
 my tenants, George Ryle ? " 
 
 " I have not interfered with them. This client of Mr. 
 Peterby's happened to mention to me that he had asked that 
 firm to make inquiries for him about the Upland Farm, and I 
 immediately rejoined that it was the very farm I was hoping to 
 take myself; and it seems he determined of his own goodwill 
 not to oppose me." 
 
 " Who was it ? " demanded Mr. Chattaway, 
 
 " One who would not have suited you, if you have set your 
 mind upon the farm being tenanted by a gentleman," freely 
 answered George, " He is an honest man, and a man whose 
 coffers are well lined through his own industry ; but he could not 
 by any stretch of imagination be regarded as a gentleman. It is 
 Cope the butcher — I may as well tell you. Since he retired from 
 his shop, he finds his time hang on his hands, and has resolved 
 to turn farmer. Mr. Chattaway, I hope you will let it to me." 
 
 " It appears to me nothing less than audacity to ask it," was 
 the cold reply. " Pray where's your money to come from to 
 stock it ? " 
 
 " It's all ready," said George. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway looked at him, deeming the assertion to be a 
 joke. "If you have nothing better to do with your time than 
 to jest it away, I have with mine," was the delicate hint he gave 
 to George. 
 
 " But the money is ready," continued George. " Mr. Chat- 
 taway, I do not wish to conceal anything from you : to be 
 otherwise than quite open with you. The money to stock the 
 Upland Farm is going to be lent to me ; you will be surprised 
 when I tell you by whom — Mr. Apperley." 
 
 The master of Trevlyn Hold was surprised ; it was not much 
 in Farmer Apperley's line to lend money. He was too cautious 
 a man. 
 
 " It's true," said George, laughing. " He has so good an 
 opinion of my skill as a farmer, or of the Upland Farm's 
 capabilities, that he has offered to lend me sufficient money 
 to enter upon it."
 
 A RED-LETTER DAY AT TREVLYN FARM. 379 
 
 " I should have thought you had had enough of farming land 
 upon borrowed money," ungenerously retorted Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " So I have — looking at it in one point of view," was the 
 composed answer. " But I have managed to clear off the 
 debt, you see, and I don't doubt I shall be able to do the same 
 by Mr. Apperley's. He proposes only a fair rate of interest ; 
 considerably less than I have been paying you." 
 
 " It is a strange thing that you, a young and single man, 
 should raise your ambitious eyes to the Upland Farm." 
 
 " Not at all. If I don't take the Upland, I shall take some 
 other as large. But I should have to go a greater distance, 
 and I don't care to do that. As to my being a single man — 
 perhaps that might be remedied if you will let me have the 
 Upland." 
 
 He spoke with a laugh, and yet Mr. Chattaway detected 
 somewhat of a serious meaning in his tone. He gazed hard 
 at George. It may be that his thoughts glanced at his 
 daughter Octave. 
 
 There was a long pause. " Are you thinking of marrying? " 
 demanded Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " As soon as circumstances will allow me to do so," was 
 George's answer. 
 
 "And who is the lady ?" 
 
 George shook his head ; a very decisive shake, in spite of 
 the smile on his lips. " I cannot tell you that now, Mr. 
 Chattaway ; you will know it sometime." 
 
 " I suppose I shall, if the match ever comes off," returned 
 Mr. Chattaway, in a very cross-grained sort of manner. " If it 
 has to wait until you rent the Upland Farm, it may wait some 
 time." 
 
 " You will promise me the lease of it, Mr. Chattaway. You 
 cannot think but I shall do the land justice, or be anything but 
 a good tenant." 
 
 " I won't promise anything of the sort," doggedly answered 
 Mr. Chattaway. " I'll promise you, if you like, that you never 
 shall have the lease of it." 
 
 And, talk as George would, he could not get him into a more 
 genial frame of mind. At length he rose, good-humoured, 
 gay ; as he had been throughout the interview, 
 
 " Never mind for the present, Mr. Chattaway. I shall not 
 let you alone until you promise me the farm. There's plenty 
 of time between now and spring." 
 
 As he was crossing the hall on his way to the door, he saw
 
 38o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Miss Diana Trevlyn, and stopped to shake hands with her. 
 " You have been paying your rent, I suppose," she said. 
 
 " My rent and something else," replied George, in high 
 spirits — and the removal of that incubus which had so long 
 lain on him had sent them up to fever heat. *' I have handed 
 over the last instalment of the debt and interest, Miss Diana, 
 and have the receipt safe here " — touching his breast-pocket. 
 " I have paid it under protest, as I have always told Mr. 
 Chattaway ; for I fully believe that Squire Trevlyn cancelled it."' 
 
 " If I thought that my father cancelled it, Mr. Chattaway 
 should never have had my approbation in pressing it," severely 
 spoke Miss Diana. " Is it true that you think of leaving 
 Trevlyn Farm ? Rumour says so." 
 
 " Quite true. It is time I began life on my own account. I 
 have been asking Mr. Chattaway to let me have the Upland." 
 
 " The Upland ! You ! " There was nothing offensive in 
 Miss Diana's exclamation : it was spoken in simple surprise. 
 
 " Why not ?" said George. " I may be thinking of getting 
 a wife ; and the Upland is the only farm in the neighbourhood 
 that I would take her to.'' 
 
 Miss Diana smiled in answer to his joke, as she thought it. 
 '•The house on the Upland Farm is quite a mansion," she 
 returned, keeping up the jest. " Will no inferior one suffice 
 her?" 
 
 " No. She is a gentlewoman born and bred, and must live 
 as such." 
 
 " George, you speak as if you were in earnest. Are you 
 really thinking of being married ? " 
 
 " If I can get the Upland Farm. But " 
 
 George was quite startled from the conclusion of his sen- 
 tence. Over Miss Diana's shoulder, gazing at him with a 
 strangely wild expression, was the face of Octave Chattaway, 
 her lips apart, a crimson glow on her cheeks.
 
 ( 3Sr ) 
 CHAPTER I,. 
 
 A DILEMMA IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 
 
 AnouT ten days elapsed, and Rupert Trevlyn, lying in conceal- 
 ment at the lodge, was both better and worse. A contradic- 
 tion, you will say; and it does sound so. The prompt 
 remedies applied by Mr. King had effected their object in 
 abating the fever ; it had not gone on to brain-fever or to 
 typhus, and the tendency to delirium was stopped ; so far 
 he was better. But these dangerous symptoms had been 
 replaced by others that might prove not less dangerous in the 
 end : great prostration, alarming weakness, and what appeared 
 to be a settled cough. The old tendency to consumption was 
 showing itself more plainly than it had ever shown itself before. 
 
 He had had a cough often enough, which had come and 
 gone again, as coughs do come to a great many of us ; but the 
 experienced ear of Mr. King detected a difference in this one. 
 " It has a nasty sound in it," the doctor privately remarked to 
 George Ryle. Poor Ann Canham, faint at heart lest this 
 cough should be the means of betraying his presence, pasted 
 up with paper all the chinks of the door, and kept it hermeti- 
 cally closed when any one was downstairs. Things usually 
 go by contrary, you know ; and it seemed that the lodge had 
 never been so inundated with callers as it was now. 
 
 Two great cares were upon those cognizant of the secret : 
 to keep Rupert's presence in the lodge from the knowledge of 
 the outside world, and to supply him with nourishing food. 
 Upon none did the first care— it may be more appropriate to 
 call it fear — press so painfully as upon Rupert himself His 
 anxiety was incessant ; his dread, lest his place of concealment 
 should get to the knowledge of Mr. Chattaway, never ceasing. 
 When he lay awake, his ears were on the strain for what might 
 be happening downstairs, for who might be coming in ; if he 
 dozed — as he did several times in the course of the day — he 
 would be haunted by dreams of pursuers, and start wildly up 
 in bed, fancying he saw Mr. Chattaway entering the room, the 
 police at his heels. For twenty minutes afterwards he would 
 lie bathed in perspiration, unable to get the fright or the vision 
 from his mind. 
 
 There was no doubt that this contributed to increase his
 
 382 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 weakness and to keep him back. Some of you may know 
 what those sudden attacks of perspiration are, and how they 
 tend to make weaker the already weakened frame. By night 
 and by day, sleeping and waking, was the never-ceasing dread 
 of discovery upon Rupert ; there was the ever-present vision 
 of the future that must succeed that discovery — the felon's 
 exposure and punishment. Let Rupert Trevlyn's future be 
 what it might ; let the result be the very worst, one thing was 
 certain — the actual punishment could not be worse than this 
 its anticipation. Imagination is more vivid than reality. He 
 would lie and go" through the whole ordeal of his future trial. 
 He would see himself in the dock, not before the lenient 
 magistrates of Barmester, but before one of the scarlet-robed 
 judges of the realm ; he would listen to the damnatory evi- 
 dence of Mr. Chattaway, of Jim Sanders, bringing home to 
 him the crime and all its shame ; he would hear the irrevocable 
 sentence from those grave presiding lips — that of penal servi- 
 tude. Nothing could be worse for Rupert than these visions. 
 And there was no help for them. Not all the skill that the 
 faculty can put forth, not all the drugs known to science, can 
 prevent the diseased vagaries of the imagination. Had Rupert 
 been in strong bodily health, he might have been able to shake 
 off some of these haunting fears ; lying as he did in his weak- 
 ness, they took almost the form of morbid disease, certainly 
 adding greatly to the sickness of body. 
 
 His ear strained, he would start up whenever a footstep was 
 heard to enter, from without, the downstairs room, start up 
 breathing softly to Ann Canham, or to whoever might be sitting 
 with him, "Is that Chattaway?" And Ann would cautiously 
 peep down the ladder of a staircase, or bend her ear to listen, 
 and then tell him who it really was. But sometimes several 
 minutes would elapse before she could find out ; sometimes 
 she would be obliged to go down and enter the room upon 
 some plausible errand, and look, and then come back and tell 
 him. The state that Rupert would fall into during these 
 moments of suspense no pen could adequately describe : his 
 heart wildly bounding, the cold perspiration pouring from him ; 
 he feeling sick almost unto death. It was little wonder that 
 Rupert grew weaker. 
 
 And the fears of discovery were not misplaced. Every 
 hour brought its own danger. It was absolutely necessary that 
 Mr. King should visit him at least once a day, and each time 
 he ran the risk of being seen by Chattaway, or by some one
 
 A DILEMMA IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 383 
 
 equally dangerous. Old Canham could not feign to be on the 
 sick list for ever ; especially, sufticiently sick to require daily 
 medical attendance. George Ryle ran the risk of being seen 
 entering the lodge ; as well as Mrs. Chattaway and Maude, 
 who could not abandon their stolen interviews with the poor 
 sufferer. " It is my only happy hour in the four-and-twenty ; 
 you must not fail to come to me ! " he would say to them, 
 imploringly holding out his trembling and fevered hand.s. 
 Some evenings Mrs. Chattaway would steal there, sometimes 
 Maude, now and then both of them together. 
 
 Underlying it all in Rupert's mind was the sense of guilt, of 
 shame, for having committed so desperate a crime. But that 
 its record was there, in the charred spots where the ricks had 
 been, and in his own remembered conviction, he might have 
 doubted that he himself was the perpetrator. Perhaps, apart 
 from those moments of madness, which the neighbourhood 
 had been content for years to designate as the Trevlyn temper, 
 few living men were so little likely to commit the act as Rupert. 
 It may seem an anomaly to say this, but it was so. Rupert 
 was of a mild, kind temperament, of the sweetest disposition 
 in an ordinary way ; one of those inoffensive people of whom 
 we are apt to say, they would not hurt a fly. Of Rupert it 
 was literally true ; could he have gone out of his way to save 
 harming a fly, he would have done so. Only in these rare fits 
 was he transformed ; and never had the fit been upon him as 
 it was that unhappy night. 
 
 It was not so much repentance for the actual crime that 
 overwhelmed him, as surprise that he had perpetrated it. He 
 honestly believed that to commit such a crime in his sober 
 senses would be a moral impossibility. Were the temptation 
 held out to him, it seemed that he should flee in horror, that 
 he should do violence to himself rather than succumb to it. 
 " I was not conscious of the act," he would groan aloud ; " I 
 was mad when I did it." Yes, perhaps so; but the con- 
 sequences remained. Poor Rupert ! Remorse was his portion, 
 and Tie was in truth repenting in sackcloth and ashes. 
 
 The other care upon them — supplying Rupert with appro- 
 priate nourishment — brought almost as much danger and 
 difficulty in its train as concealing him. A worse cook for the 
 sick, or indeed a worse cook of any sort, than Ann Canham, 
 could not well be found. It was her misfortune, rather than 
 her fault. Living in extreme poverty all her life, no oppor- 
 tunity for learning or improving herself in cooking had ever
 
 3?4 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 been afforded her. The greatest luxury that ever penetrated 
 old Canham's lodge was a bit of toasted or boiled bacon. 
 
 It was not invalid dishes that Rupert wanted now. As soon 
 as the fever began to leave him, his appetite returned. It 
 may be known to some of you that in certain cases of incipient 
 consumption, the appetite is scarcely to be satisfied ; and this 
 unfortunately became the case with Rupert. Part of a roasted 
 fowl twice or thrice a day ; a slice or two out of a sirloin of 
 beef ; a cut from a leg of mutton ; these he craved and re- 
 quired. In short, had he been at the Hold, or in a plentiful 
 home, he would have played his full part at the daily meals, 
 and assisted their digestion with interludes besides. 
 
 How was he to get this, or any part of it, at the lodge ? 
 Mr. King said he must have full nourishment, with wine, 
 strong broths, and other things in addition. It was the only 
 chance, in his opinion, to stop or counteract the weakness 
 that was growing upon him, and which bid fair soon to attain 
 an alarming height. Mrs. Chattaway, George Ryle, even the 
 doctor himself would have been quite willing to supply the 
 cost ; but cost, though it goes a great way generally speaking, 
 is not always everything. It was not so here. Where was the 
 food to be dressed ? — who was to do it ? — how was it to be 
 smuggled in ? This may appear a vei;y trifling diflficulty in 
 theory, but I assure you that in practice it was found almost 
 insurmountable. 
 
 " Can't you dress a sweetbread ? " Mr. King testily asked 
 Ann Canham, when she was timidly confessing her incapability 
 in the culinary art. " I'd easily manage to get it up here." 
 
 This was the first day that Rupert's appetite came back to 
 him, just after the turn of the fever. Ann Canham hesitated. 
 "I'm not sure, sir," she said meekly. "Could it be put in a 
 pot and biled ? " 
 
 " Put in a pot and biled ! " repeated Mr. King, nettled at 
 the question. " Much goodness there'd be in it when it came 
 out ! It's just blanched ; blanched well, mind you, and dipped 
 in egg and crumbs, and toasted in the Dutch oven. That's 
 the nicest way of doing them." 
 
 Egg and crumbs "in connection with meat dishes were as 
 much of a mystery to Ann Canham as sweetbreads themselves. 
 She shook her head. "And if, by ill luck, Mr. Chattaway 
 come in and saw a sweetbread in our Dutch oven afore our 
 fire, sir ; or smelt the savour of it as he passed — what then ? " 
 she asked. " What excuse could we make to him? "
 
 A DILEMMA IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 385 
 
 This was a phase of the difficulty all round, which had not 
 before presented itself to the surgeon's mind. It was one 
 that could not well be got over ; the more he dwelt upon it, 
 the more he became convinced that it could not. George 
 Ryle, Mrs. Chattaway, Maude, all, when appealed to, said it 
 could not. There was too much at stake to permit the risk of 
 exciting any suspicions on the part of Mr. Chattaway; and 
 unusual cooking in the lodge would inevitably excite them. 
 
 But it was not only Mr. Chattaway. Others who possessed 
 noses were in the habit of passing the lodge : Cris, his sisters, 
 Miss Diana, and many more : and some of them were in the 
 habit of coming into it. Ann Canham was giving mortal 
 offence, was causing much wonder, in declining her usual 
 places of work : and many a disappointed housewife, following 
 Nora Dickson's example, had come up, in consequence, to 
 invade the lodge and express her sentiments personally upon 
 the point. Ann Canham, than whom one less able to contend 
 or to hold out against another's strong will could not be, was 
 driven to the very verge of desperation in trying to frame 
 plausible excuses, and she had serious thoughts of making 
 believe to take to her bed herself — had she possessed just then 
 a bed to take to. 
 
 No, it was impossible. She could not give out that her 
 father was so poorly " in'ardly " as to render it unsafe to leave 
 him — for all the excuses had to revolve round that one point — 
 or allow her astonished visitors to see a sweetbread egged and 
 crumbed, or any similar dainty, browning delicately in the 
 Dutch oven before the fire. The wonder would have raised a 
 commotion, might spread to the ears of Mr. Chattaway, and 
 one, more cunning than the rest, might connect that unusual 
 dish and Rupert Trevlyn together. At least, it so appeared 
 to those who were interested in him, who lived in daily dread, 
 almost as great as his, lest some untoward discovery should 
 take place. 
 
 In the dilemma Mrs. Chattaway came to the rescue. " I 
 will contrive it," she said : " the food shall be supplied from 
 the Hold. My sister does not interfere personally with the 
 preparation of meals, further than to give her orders in the 
 morning, and I know I can manage it." 
 
 But, as does many another of us after speaking in impulse, 
 Mrs. Chattaway found she had undertaken what it would 
 scarcely be possible for her to perform. What had flashed 
 across her mind when she spoke was, " The cook is a faithful, 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 25
 
 386 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 kind-hearted girl, and I know I can trust her." Mrs. Chatta- 
 way did not mean trust her with the secret of Rupert, but trust 
 her to cook a few extra dishes quietly and say nothing about 
 it. Yes, she n^ight, she was sure, so far trust her ; the girl 
 would cook them and be true. But it now struck Mrs. Chat- 
 taway with a sort of horror, to ask herself how she was to get 
 them away when cooked. She could not go into the kitchen 
 herself, have the meat, or fowl, or jelly, or whatever it might 
 be, put in a basin, and walk off with it to the lodge. How- 
 ever, that was an after-care. She spoke to the cook, who was 
 called Rebecca, told her she wanted some nice things dressed 
 for a poor pensioner of her own, and nothing said about it. 
 The girl was pleased and willing ; all the servants were fond 
 of their mistress; and she readily undertook the task and 
 promised silence. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway saw no reason to doubt the girl ; quite the 
 contrary. But nevertheless a strange sense of uneasiness lay 
 upon her own heart, and she felt she had undertaken that which 
 it might be impossible to perform. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 A LE'lTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 
 
 Although an insignificant place, Barbrook and its environs 
 received their letters early. The bags were dropped by the 
 London mail train at Barmester in the middle of the night ; 
 and as the post-otifice arrangements at that town were well 
 conducted — which cannot be said for all towns — by eight 
 o'clock Barbrook had its letters. 
 
 Rather before that hour than after it, they were delivered at 
 Trevlyn Hold. Being the residence of chiefest importance in 
 the neighbourhood, the postman was in the habit of beginning 
 his round there ; it had been so in imperious old Squire 
 Trevlyn's time, and it was so still. Thus it generally happened 
 that breakfast would be commencing at the Hold when the 
 post came in. 
 
 It was a morning of which we must take some notice — a 
 morning which, as Mr. Chattaway was destined afterwards to 
 find, he would have cause to remember, to date from, to his 
 dying day. If Miss Diana Trevlyn happened to see the post-
 
 A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 387 
 
 man approaching the house, she would most Hkely walk to the 
 hall-door and receive the letters into her own hands. And it 
 was so on this morning. 
 
 " Only two, ma'am," the postman said, as he delivered them 
 to her. 
 
 She looked at the address of both. The one was a foreign 
 letter, bearing her own name, and she thought she recognized 
 the handwriting of ]\Ir. Daw ; the other bore the London post- 
 mark, and was superscribed "James Chattaway, Esquire, Trevlyn 
 Hold, near Barmester." 
 
 With an eager movement, somewhat foreign to the cold and 
 stately motions of Miss Diana Trevlyn, she broke the seal of 
 the former; there, at the hall-door as she stood. A thought 
 had flashed into her mind, that the boy Rupert might have 
 found his way at length to Mr. Daw, and that gentleman be 
 conveying intimation of the same— as Miss Diana by letter 
 had requested him to do. It was just the contrary', however. 
 Mr. Daw wrote to beg a line of news from Miss Diana, as to 
 whether tidings had been heard of Rupert. He had visited 
 his father and mother's grave the previous day, he observed, 
 and he did not know whether that had caused him to think 
 more of Rupert ; but ever since, all the past night and again 
 to-day, he had been unable to get him out of his head ; a feel- 
 ing was upon him (no doubt a foolish one, he added in a 
 parenthesis) that the boy was taken, or that some other mis- 
 fortune had befallen him, or was about to befall him, and he 
 presumed to request a line from Miss Diana Trevlyn to put 
 him out of suspense. 
 
 She folded the letter when read ; pushed it into the pocket 
 of her black watered-silk apron, and returned to the breakfast- 
 room, carrjdng the one for Mr. Chattaway. As she did so, her 
 eyes happened to fall upon the back of the letter, and she saw 
 it was stamped with the name of a firm — Connell, Connell, and 
 Ray. 
 
 She knew the firm by name ; they were solicitors of great 
 respectability in London. Indeed, she remembered to have 
 entertained Mr. Charles Connell at the Hold for a few days in 
 her lather's lifetime, that gentleman being at the time engaged 
 in some law business for Squire Trevlyn. They must be old 
 men now, she knew ; those brothers Connell ; and Mr. Ray, 
 she believed to have heard, was son-in-law to one of them. 
 
 "What can they have to write to Chattaway about?" mar- 
 velled Miss Diana; but the next moment she remembered that
 
 388 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 they were the agents of Peterby and Jones, of Barmester, and 
 the matter was solved in her mind : some law matters, she 
 supposed, connected with the estate. 
 
 Miss Diana swept to her place at the head of the breakfast- 
 table. It was filled, with the exception of two of its seats. The 
 arm-chair opposite to her own was vacant, Mr. Chattaway's ; 
 and Cris's seat on the side. Cris was not down, but Mr. 
 Chattaway had gone out to the men. Mrs. Chattaway was in 
 her place next Miss Diana. She had used rarely to be down 
 in time to begin breakfast with the rest, but that was altered 
 now. Since these late fears concerning Rupert, it seemed that 
 she could not rest in her bed, and would quit it with morning 
 
 Mr. Chattaway came in as Miss Diana was pouring out the 
 tea, and she passed the letter down to him. Glancing casually 
 at it as it lay by his plate, he began helping himself to some 
 cold partridge. Cris was a capital shot, and the Hold was 
 generally well supplied with game. 
 
 " It is from Connell and Connell," remarked Miss Diana. 
 
 " From Connell and Connell ! " repeated Mr. Chattaway, 
 in a tone of bewilderment, as if he did not recognize the 
 name. 
 
 " Connell, Connell, and Ray, it is now," returned Miss Diana. 
 " The firm of the old days comes more familiar to me than the 
 later one." 
 
 " What should they be writing to me about ? " cried Mr. 
 Chattaway. But he was too busy with the partridge just then 
 to ascertain. 
 
 "About some local business, I conclude," observed Miss 
 Diana. " Octave, send me a small piece of that bacon. They 
 are Peterby's agents, you know." 
 
 " And what if they are ? " retorted Mr. Chattaway. " Peterbys 
 have nothing to do with me." 
 
 That was so like Mr. Chattaway ! To cavil as to what might 
 be the contents of the letter, rather than to put the question at 
 rest by opening it. However, when he looked off from his 
 plate to stir his tea, he took it up and tore open the envelope. 
 
 He tore open the envelope, and cast his eyes on the letter. 
 Miss Diana happened to be looking at him. She saw him gaze 
 at it with an air of bewilderment ; she saw him go over it again 
 — there were apparently but some half-dozen lines — and then 
 she saw him turn green. You may cavil at the expression if 
 you like, but it is a correct one. The leaden complexion with
 
 A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 389 
 
 which nature had favoured Mr. Chattaway did assume a green 
 tinge in moments of especial annoyance. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " questioned Miss Diana. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway repHed by a half-muttered word, and dashed 
 the letter down. '' I thought we had had enough of that folly," 
 he presently said. 
 
 "What folly?" 
 
 He did not answer, although the query was put by Miss Diana 
 Trevlyn. She pressed it, and Mr. Chattaway flung the letter 
 across the table to her. " You can read it, if you choose." With 
 some curiosity Miss Diana took it up, and read as follows : — 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 " We beg to inform you that the true heir of Trevlyn 
 Hold, Rupert Trevlyn, is about to put in his claim to the 
 estate, and will in a short period require to take possession of 
 the Hold. We have been requested to write this intimation to 
 you, and we do so in a friendly spirit, that you may be pre- 
 pared to quit the house, and not be taken unawares, when Mr. 
 Trevlyn — henceforth Squire Trevlyn — shall arrive at it. 
 " We are, sir, your obedient servants, 
 
 "CONNELL, CONNELL, AND RaV. 
 
 "James Chattaway, Esquire." 
 
 " Then Rupert's not dead ! " were the first words that broke 
 from Miss Diana's lips. And the exclamation, and its marked 
 tone of satisfaction, proved of what nature had been her fears 
 for Rupert. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway started up with white lips. "What of 
 Rupert ? " she gasped ; believing nothing else than that dis- 
 covery had come. 
 
 Miss Diana, without in the least thinking it necessary to con- 
 sult Mr, Chattaway's pleasure first, handed her the letter. She 
 read it rapidly, and her fears calmed down. 
 
 " What an absurdity ! " she exclaimed. Knowing what she 
 did know of the helpless position of Rupert, the contents 
 sounded not only absurd, but impossible. "Some one must 
 have written it mischievously; on purpose to frighten you, 
 James," 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Chattaway, compressing his thin lips; "it 
 comes from the Peterby quarter. A felon threatening to take 
 possession of Trevlyn Hold ! " 
 
 But in spite of the scorn he strove to throw into his manner ;
 
 390 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 in spite of the indomitable resolution within him to bring 
 Rupert to punishment when he did appear — and a felon could 
 not contend for Trevlyn Hold, Mr. Chattaway was right there ; 
 in spite of even his wife, Rupert's best friend, acknowledging 
 the absurdity of this letter, it did disturb him in no measured 
 degree. He stretched out his hand for it, and read it again, 
 pondering every word; he pushed his plate from him, as he 
 gazed on it. He had had enough breakfast for one day ; he 
 gulped down his tea, and declined to take more. Yes, it was 
 shaking his equanimity to its centre ; and the Miss Chattaways 
 and Maude, only imperfectly understanding what was amiss, 
 looked at each other, and at him. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway began to feel indignant that poor Rupert's 
 name should be thus made use of; only, so far as she could 
 see, for the purpose of exciting Mr. Chattaway further against 
 him. " But Connells' is a most respectable firm," she said 
 aloud, following out her thoughts ; "I cannot comprehend it." 
 
 " I say it comes from Peterby," roared Mr. Chattaway. " He 
 and Rupert are in league. I dare say Peterby knows where he's 
 concealed." 
 
 " Oh no, no ; you are mistaken," burst incautiously from the 
 lips of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " No ! Do you know where he is, pray, that you speak so 
 confidently ? " 
 
 The taunt recalled her to a sense of the danger. " James, 
 what I meant to say was this : that it is scarcely likely Rupert 
 would be in league with any one against you," she said in low 
 tones. " I think he would rather try to conciliate you." 
 
 "If you think this letter emanates from Peterbys' house, why 
 don't you go down and demand of them what they mean by 
 writing it?" interposed Miss Diana Trevlyn, in her straight- 
 forward, matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 He nodded his head significantly. " I shall not let the grass 
 grow under my feet before I am there." 
 
 " I cannot think it's Peterby and Jones," resumed Miss 
 Diana. " They are quite as respectable as the Connells, and I 
 don't believe they would league themselves with Rupert, after 
 what he has done. I don't believe they would league them- 
 selves secretly to work mischief against any one. Anything 
 they may have to do, they'd do openly." 
 
 Had Mr. Chattaway prevailed with himself so far as to put 
 his temper and his prejudices aside, this might not have been 
 far from his own opinion. He had always, in a resentful sort
 
 A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 391 
 
 of way, deemed Mr. Peterby to be an honourable man ; he 
 had never cared to be in his presence — as mean-spirited, false- 
 hearted men, conscious of their own deficiency of truth, do 
 shrink from upright ones. But if Peterby was not at the 
 bottom of this, who was? Connell, Connell, and Ray were 
 his town agents. 
 
 The very uncertainty only made him the more eager to get 
 to them and set the matter at rest. He knew it was of no use 
 attempting to see Mr. Peterby before ten o'clock, but he would 
 see him then. He ordered his horse to be ready, and rode into 
 Barmester attended by his groom. As ten o'clock struck, he 
 was at their office- door. 
 
 A quarter-of-an-hour's detention, and then he was admitted 
 to Mr. Peterby's room. That gentleman was sweeping a heap 
 of open letters into a corner of the table at which he sat, and 
 the master of Trevlyn Hold shrewdly suspected that his waiting 
 had been caused by Mr. Peterby's opening and reading of these 
 letters. He proceeded at once to the business that brought 
 him there, and taking his own letter out of his pocket, handed 
 it to Mr. Peterby. 
 
 " Connell, Connell, and Ray are your agents in London, I 
 believe? They used to be." 
 
 "And are still," said Mr. Peterby. " What is this?' 
 
 " Be so good as to read it," replied Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 The lawyer ran his eyes over it, carelessly, as it seemed to 
 those eyes watching him. Then he looked up. "Well ?" 
 
 " In writing this letter to me — I received it, you perceive, by 
 post this morning, if you'll look at the date — did they, Connell 
 and Connell, get instructions for it from you ? " 
 
 " From me ! " echoed Mr. Peterby. " Not they. I know 
 nothing at all about it. I can't make it out." 
 
 " You are a friend of Rupert Trevlyn's, and they are your 
 agents," remarked Mr. Chattaway, after a pause. 
 
 " My good sir, I tell you I know nothing whatever of this. 
 Councils are our agents ; but I never sent any communication 
 to them with regard to Rupert Trevlyn in my life ; never had 
 cause to send one. If you ask me my opinion, I should say 
 that if the lad— should he be still living— entertains hopes of 
 coming into Trevlyn Hold after this last escapade of his, he 
 must be a great simpleton. I expect you'd prosecute him, 
 instead of giving him up the Hold." 
 
 " I should," quietly answered Mr. Chattaway. " But what do 
 Connell and Connell mean by sending me such a letter as this ? "
 
 393 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '' It is more than I can tell you, Mr. Chattaway. We have 
 received a communication from them ourselves this morning 
 upon the subject. I was opening it when you were announced 
 to me as being here." 
 
 He bent over the letters previously spoken of, selected one, 
 and held it out to Mr. Chattaway. Instead of being written by 
 the firm, it was a private letter from Mr. Ray to Mr. Peterby. 
 It merely stated that the true heir of Squire Trevlyn, Rupert, 
 was about shortly to take possession of his property, the Hold, 
 and they (Connell, Connell, and Ray) should require Mr. 
 Peterby to act as local solicitor in the proceedings, should a 
 solicitor be necessary. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway began to feel cruelly uneasy. Rupert had 
 committed that great fault, and was in danger of punishment 
 for it — xvould be punished for it by his country's laws ; but in 
 this new uneasiness that important fact seemed to lose half its 
 significance. "And you have not instructed them?" he 
 repeated. 
 
 " Nonsense, Mr. Chattaway ! it is not likely. I cannot make 
 out what they mean, any more than you can. The nearest 
 conclusion I can come to is, that they must be acting from 
 instructions received from that half-parson who was here, that 
 Mr. Daw." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Chattaway, "I think not. Miss Trevlyn 
 heard from that man this morning, and he appears to know 
 nothing of Rupert. He asks for news of him." 
 
 " Well, it is a curious thing altogether. I shall write by to- 
 night's post to Ray, and inquire what he means." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway, suspicious Mr. Chattaway, pressed one more 
 question. " Have you any notion at all where Rupert is likely 
 to be ? That he is in hiding, and accessible to some people, is 
 evident from these letters from Connell's house." 
 
 " I have already informed you that I know nothing whatever 
 of Rupert Trevlyn," was the lawyer's answer. " Whether he is 
 alive or whether he is dead I know not. You cannot know less 
 of him yourself than I do." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was obliged to be contented with the answer. 
 He went out and proceeded direct to Mr. Flood's, and laid the 
 letter — his letter — before him. "What sort of thing do you 
 call that ? " he intemperately uttered, when it was read. " Con- 
 nell and Connell must be infamous men to write it." 
 
 " Stop a bit," said Mr. Flood, who had his eyes strained on 
 the letter. " There's more in this than meets the eye."
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 393 
 
 " You don't think it's a joke — done to annoy me ? " 
 
 " A joke ! Connell and Connell would not lend themselves 
 to a joke. No, I don't think it's that." 
 . " Then what do you think ? " 
 
 Mr. Flood was several minutes before he replied, and his 
 silence drove Mr. Chattaway to the verge of exasperation. " It 
 is difficult to know what to think," said the lawyer presently. 
 " I should be inclined to say they have been brought into 
 personal communication with Rupert Trevlyn, or with some- 
 body acting for him : perhaps the latter is the most probable. 
 And I should also say they must have been convinced, by 
 documentary or other evidence, of there existing a good founda- 
 tion for Rupert's claims to the Hold. Mr. Chattaway — if I 
 may speak the truth to you — I should dread this letter." 
 
 INIr. Chattaway felt as if a bucket of cold water had been 
 suddenly flung over him, and was running down his back. 
 " ^Vhy is it that you turn against me ? " 
 
 " Turn against you ! I don't know what you mean. I don't 
 turn against you ; quite the opposite. I am willing to act for 
 you ; to do anything I legally can to meet the fear." 
 : " Why ^^ you fear?" 
 
 " Because Connell, Connell, and Ray are keen and cautious 
 practitioners as well as honourable men, and I do not think 
 they would write a letter so decided as this, unless they knew 
 they were fully justified in doing so, and were prepared to follow 
 it out." 
 
 " You are a pretty Job's comforter," gasped Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 CHAPTER UI. 
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 
 
 Rebecca the servant was true. She was true and crafty in her 
 faithfulness to her mistress, and she contrived to get various 
 dainties prepared and conveyed unsuspiciously under her apron, 
 watching her opportunity, to the sitting-room of Madam, where 
 they were hidden away in a closet, and the key turned upon 
 them. So far, so good. But that was not all : the greatest 
 difficulty lay in transporting them to Rupert. 
 
 The little tricks and ruses that the lodge and those in its
 
 394 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 secret learnt to be expert in at this time, were worthy of the 
 most private inquiry office going. Ann Canham, at some given 
 hour named, would be standing at the open door of the lodge, 
 apparently enjoying an interlude of idleness ; and Mrs. Chatta- 
 way, with timid steps, and eyes that wandered everywhere lest 
 witnesses were about, would come down the avenue : opposite 
 the lodge door, by some sleight of hand, a parcel, or a basket, 
 or a bottle would be transferred from under her large shawl to 
 Ann Canham's hands. The latter would close the door and 
 slip the bolt, while the lady would walk swiftly on through the 
 gate, for the purpose of taking foot exercise in the road. Or 
 perhaps it would be Maude that went through this little rehearsal, 
 instead of Madam. But at the best it was all difficult to 
 accomplish for many reasons, and might at any time be stopped. 
 If only the extra cooking in the kitchen came to the knowledge 
 of Miss Diana Trevlyn, it would be quite impossible to venture 
 to continue that cooking, and next to impossible any longer to 
 conceal the proximity of Rupert. 
 
 One day, which must surely have dawned under some unlucky 
 star, a disastrous contretonps ensued. It happened that Mfss 
 Diana Trevlyn had arranged to take the Miss Chattaways to a 
 morning concert at Barmester. Maude might have gone, but 
 excused herself to Miss Diana : while Rupert's fate hung in the 
 balance, it was scarcely seemly, she urged, that she should be 
 seen at public festivals. Cris had gone out shooting that day ; 
 Mr. Chattaway, as was supposed, was at Barmester ; and when 
 dinner was served, only Mrs. Chattaway and Maude sat down 
 to it. It was a plain dinner — a piece of roast beef; and 
 during a momentary absence of James, who was waiting at 
 table, ]\Iaude exclaimed in a low tone — 
 
 " Aunt Edith, if we could only get a slice of this to Rupert ; 
 hot as it is ! " 
 
 " I was thinking of it," said Mrs. Chattaway. "■ If " 
 
 The servant returned to the room, and the conversation was 
 stopped. But his mistress, under some rather confused plea of 
 there being so few at table, dismissed him, saying she would 
 ring. And then the thought was carried out. A small friendly 
 sauce-tureen which happened to be on the table was made the 
 receptacle for some of the hot meat, and Maude put on her 
 bonnet and stole away with it. 
 
 An unlucky venture. In her haste to reach the lodge un- 
 molested, she spilt some of the gravy, and was stopping to wipe 
 it with her handkerchief, when she was interrupted by Mr.
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 395 
 
 Chattaway. It was close to the lodge. Maude's heart, as the 
 saying runs, came into her mouth. 
 
 " What's that ? Where are you taking it to ? " he demanded, 
 for his eyes had caught the tureen before she could slip it 
 under her mantle. 
 
 He peremptorily took it from her unresisting hand, raised the 
 cover, and saw two tempting slices of hot roast beef, and part 
 of a cauliflower. Had Maude witnessed the actual discovery 
 of Rupert by Mr. Chattaway, she could not have felt more 
 utterly sick : her face, in its dread, was a sight to look upon. 
 
 " I ask you, to whom were you taking this ? " 
 
 His resolute face, his concentrated tones, coupled with her 
 own terror, were more than poor Maude could brave. " To 
 jNIark Canham," she faltered. There was no one whatever, 
 except him, whom she could mention with the least plausibility : 
 and she could not pretend to be only taking a walk, and carry- 
 ing a tureen of meat with her for pleasure. 
 
 " Was it Madam's doings to send this ? " 
 
 Again she could only answer in the affirmative. She might 
 not say it was a servant's, she might not say it was herself; 
 there was only ]\Irs. Chattaway. Mr. Chattaway stalked off to 
 the Hold, tureen in hand. 
 
 His wife sat at the dinner-table, and James was removing 
 some pastry from it as he entered. Regardless of the man's 
 presence, he gave vent to his anger, reproaching her in no 
 measured terms for what she had done. Meat and vegetables 
 from his o\\ai table to be supplied to that profitless, good-for- 
 nothing man, Canham, who already enjoyed a house and half- 
 a-crown a week for doing nothing ! How dared she be guilty 
 of extravagance so great, of wilful waste ? And the master of 
 Trevlyn Hold called for a warm plate, turned out the contents 
 of the tureen, and actually began to eat them for his own 
 dinner. 
 
 It was a very Benjamin's portion for any one's dinner ; there 
 was no doubt of that ; more, in fact, than one man could eat, 
 unless his appetite was remarkably good. This fact did not 
 tend to lessen the anger or the astonishment of Mr. Chattaway. 
 He stared at the meat, he turned it over and over ; and he 
 talked and reproached so fast that his poor wife, between 
 mortification and terror, burst into tears; and James, who 
 possessed more delicacy than his master, escaped from the 
 room. Maude had not dared to re-enter it. 
 
 The scene came to an end ; all such scenes do, it is to be
 
 396 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 hoped ; and the afternoon went on. Mr. Chattaway went out 
 again, Cris had not come in, Miss Diana and the young ladies 
 did not return, and Mrs. Chattaway and Maude were still alone. 
 " I shall go down to see him, Maude,'' the former said in a low 
 tone, breaking an unhappy silence. "And I shall take him 
 something to eat ; I will risk it. He has had nothing from us 
 to-day." 
 
 Maude scarcely knew what to answer ; her own fright was 
 not yet over, Mrs. Chattaway dressed herself, took the little 
 provision-basket— they dared not make it a large- one — and 
 went out. It was dusk— all but dark ; Mrs. Chattaway was 
 surprised to find it so dark, but the evening was a gloomy one. 
 Scarcely daring to proceed, looking here, peering there, with 
 slow and cautious steps she walked. Meeting no one, she 
 
 gained the lodge, opened its door with a quick hand, and ■ 
 
 stole away again silently and swiftly, with perhaps the greatest 
 terror she had ever felt rushing over her heart. 
 
 For, the first figure she saw there was that of her* husband, 
 and the first voice she heard was his. She pushed her way 
 amidst the trunks of the almost leafless trees, and concealed 
 herself as she best could. 
 
 In returning that evening, it had struck Mr. Chattaway as he 
 passed the lodge that he could not do better than favour old 
 Canham with a piece of his mind, and forbid him, under pain 
 of being instantly dismissed and discarded, to rob the Hold 
 (it was so he phrased it) of so much as a scrap of bread. Old 
 Canham, knowing what there was at stake, took it patiently, 
 never denying that the beef (which Mr. Chattaway enlarged 
 upon) might have been meant for him. Ann Canham stood 
 on the upright staircase, against the closed chamber of Rupert, 
 shivering and shaking; and poor Rupert himself, who had 
 not failed to hear and recognize that loud voice, lay as one in 
 agony. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was in the midst of his last sentence of re- 
 proof, which became louder and harsher as the winding-up drew 
 near, when the front-door was suddenly opened, and as sud- 
 denly shut again. He had his back to it, but he turned round 
 just in time to catch a glimpse of somebody's petticoats before 
 the door closed. 
 
 It was a somewhat singular proceeding, and Mr. Chattaway, 
 always curious and suspicious, opened the door after a 
 minute's pause, and looked out. He could see no one. He 
 looked up the avenue — which was the way the petticoats had
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 397 
 
 seemed to turn — he looked down ; he stepped out to the gate, 
 and gazed up and down the road. Whoever it was, had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 " Did you see who it was that flung the door open in that 
 manner ? " he demanded of old Canham. 
 
 Old Canham had stood deferentially during the lecture, 
 leaning on his stick. He had not seen who it was, and there- 
 fore could answer readily, but he strongly suspected it to be 
 Mrs. Chattaway. " Maybe 'twere some 'ooman bringing sewing 
 up for Ann, Squire. They mostly comes at dusk, not to hinder 
 their own work." 
 
 "Then why couldn't they come in?" retorted Mr. Chat- 
 taway. "Why need they run away as if caught in some 
 mischief?" 
 
 Old Canham wisely declined an answer : and Mr. Chattaway, 
 after a further parting admonition, finally quitted the lodge, 
 and took his way up the avenue towards the Hold. But for 
 her dark attire, and the darker shades of evening, he might 
 have detected his wife there, watching him pass. 
 
 It seemed an unlucky day, Mrs. Chattaway, her heart beat- 
 ing with its excitement and fear, came out of her hiding-place 
 when the last echoes of his steps had died away and almost met 
 the carriage as it thundered up the avenue, bringing her daugh- 
 ters and Miss Diana from Barmester. When she did reach the 
 lodge, Ann Canham had the door open an inch or two, looking 
 out for her. "Take it," she cried, giving the basket to Ann as 
 she advanced to the stairs, " I have not a minute to stop. How 
 is he to-night ? " 
 
 " Madam," whispered Ann Canham, in her meek, unassuming 
 voice, but somehow, meek though it was, there was that in its 
 tone to-night which arrested the steps of Mrs. Chattaway, " if 
 he continues to get worse and weaker, if he cannot be got away 
 from here and from these perpet'al frights what come upon 
 him, I fear me he'll die. He has never been as bad as he is 
 to-night." 
 
 She untied her bonnet, and stole upstairs into Rupert's room. 
 By the rushlight that burned there she could see the ravages of 
 illness on his wasting features ; features that seemed to have 
 cTianged for the worse even since she had seen him that time 
 last night. He turned his blue eyes, bright and wild with 
 disease, bodily and mental, on her as she entered. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith ! Is he gone ? I thought I should just 
 have died with fright, here as I lay."
 
 398 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " He is gone, darling," she answered, bending over him, and 
 speaking with reassuring tenderness. " You look worse to-night, 
 Rupert." 
 
 "It is this stifling room, aunt; it is killing me. At least, it 
 is giving me no chance to get better. If I had only a nice airy 
 room at the Hold ! — if I could lie there without fear, and be 
 waited on — I might get better then. Aunt Edith, I wish the 
 past few weeks could be blotted out ! I wish I had not been 
 overtaken by that fit of madness ? " 
 
 Ah 1 he could not wish it as she did. Her tears silently fell 
 on his hollow cheeks, and she began in the desperate need to 
 debate in her own heart whether that, which they had deemed 
 impossible, might not be accomplished — disarming the anger of 
 I^Ir. Chattaway, and getting him to pardon Rupert. In that 
 case only could he be brought home to the Hold, or moved from 
 where he was. Perhaps — perhaps Diana might effect it ? If 
 she did not, no one could. As she thought of its utter hope- 
 lessness, there came to her recollection that recent letter from 
 Connell and Connell, which had so upset the equanimity of Mr. 
 Chattaway. She had not yet spoken of it to Rupert, but she 
 mentioned it now. Her private opinion was, that Rupert must 
 have written to the London lawyers for the purpose of vexing 
 Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " It is not right, Rupert dear," she whispered. " It cannot 
 do you any good, but harm. If it does no other harm, it will 
 increase Mr. Chattaway's angry feelings towards you. Indeed, 
 Rupert, it was wrong." 
 
 He looked up in surprise from his pillow. " I don't know 
 what you mean. Aunt Edith. Connell and Connell ? What 
 should I do, writing to Connell and Connell ? " 
 
 She explained to him what there was in the letter, reciting 
 its contents as accurately as she could remember them. Rupert 
 only stared. 
 
 " Acting for me ! — that I should soon take possession of the 
 Hold ! Well, I don't know anything about it," he wearily 
 answered. " Why does not Mr. Chattaway go up and ask them 
 what they mean ? Connell and Connell don't know me, and I 
 don't know them." 
 
 " It seemed to me the most unlikely thing in the world that 
 you should have written to them, Rupert, for there was no end 
 that it would answer ; and besides, you were lying here too ill 
 to write to any one. But then what else was I to think ? " 
 
 " They'd better hvive written to say I was going to take pos-
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 399 
 
 session of the grave," he resumed ; " there'd be more sense in 
 that. Perhaps I am, Aunt Edith." 
 
 More sense in it ? Ay, that there would be. Every pulse 
 in Mrs. Chattaway's heart echoed the words. She did not 
 answer, and there ensued a pause, broken only by the sound of 
 his somewhat painful breathing. 
 
 " Do you think I shall die. Aunt Edith?" 
 
 " Oh, my boy, I hope not ; I hope not ! But it is all in 
 God's will. Rupert, darling, it seems a sad thing, especially 
 to the young, to leave this Avorld ; but do you know what I 
 often think as I lie and sigh through my sleepless nights : 
 that it would be a blessed change both for you and for me 
 if God were to take us from it, and give us a place in 
 heaven." 
 
 Another pause. " You can tell Mr. Chattaway that you feel 
 sure I had nothing to do with the letter you speak of. Aunt 
 Edith." 
 
 She shook her head. " No, Rupert ; the less I say the better. 
 It would not do : I should fear some chance word on my part 
 might betray you : and all I could say would not make any 
 impression on Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " You are not going ! " he exclaimed, as she rose from her 
 seat on the bed, 
 
 " I must. I wish I could stay, but I dare not : indeed, it was 
 not safe to-night to come in at all." 
 
 " Aunt Edith, if you could only stay ! It is so lonely. Four- 
 and-twenty hours before I shall see you or Maude again ! It 
 is like being left alone to die." 
 
 I " Not to die, I trust," she said, the tears falling fast from her 
 eyes. " We shall be together some time for ever, but I pray 
 that we may have a little more happiness on earth first ! " 
 
 Very full was her heart that night, and but for the fear that 
 her red eyes would betray her, and questions be asked, she 
 could have wept all the way home. Stealing in at the side 
 door, she gained her room, and found that Mr. Chattaway, 
 fortunately, had not discovered her absence. 
 
 A few minutes after she entered, the house was in a commo- 
 tion. Cries were heard proceeding from the kitchen, and Mrs. 
 Chattaway and others hastened towards it. One of the servants 
 was badly scalded. Most unfortunately, it happened to be the 
 cook, Rebecca. In taking some calf's-foot jelly from the fire, 
 she had, by some inadvertence, turned the whole boiling liquid 
 over her feet.
 
 400 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Miss Diana, who was worth a thousand of Mrs. Chattaway in 
 an emergency, had the girl placed in a recumbent position, had 
 her stockings cut off, and sent one of the grooms on horseback 
 for Mr. King. But Miss Diana, while sparing nothing that 
 could assist or relieve the sufferer, did not at all conceal her 
 displeasure at the awkwardness. She cast her eyes on the pool 
 near the kitchen grate, and saw the egg-shells and lemon-peel 
 floating in it ; saw it with astonishment. 
 
 "Was it jelly you were making, Rebecca?" she demanded, 
 scarcely believing her senses. 
 
 Rebecca was lying back in a large chair, her feet raised. 
 The young ladies, the servants, were crowding round : even 
 Mr. Chattaway had come to see what might be the cause of the 
 commotion. She made no answer. 
 
 Bridget did ; rejoicing, no doubt, in her superior knowledge. 
 "Yes, ma'am, it was jelly : she had just boiled it up." 
 
 Miss Diana wheeled round to Rebecca. " What were you 
 making jelly for ? It was not ordered." 
 
 Rebecca knew not what to say. She cast an almost imper- 
 ceptible glance at Mrs. Chattaway. " Yes, it was ordered," said 
 the latter, scarcely above her breath. " I ordered it." 
 
 "You!" returned Miss Diana. "What for?" But Miss 
 Diana spoke in her surprise only ; not to find fault : it was so 
 very unusual a thing for Mrs. Chattaway to interfere in the do- 
 mestic arrangements. It surprised them all, and her daughters 
 looked at her. Poor Mrs. Chattaway could not put forth the 
 plea that it was being made for herself, for calf's-foot jelly was 
 a thing she never touched. The pause, the confusion on his 
 wife's face, attracted the notice of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Possibly you were intending to send it to regale old Canham 
 with ? " he scornfully said, in allusion to what had passed that 
 day. Not that he believed anything so improbable. 
 
 " Madam knows the young ladies like it, and she told me to 
 make some," good-naturedly spoke up Rebecca from the midst 
 of her pain. 
 
 The excuse served, and the surprise passed. Miss Diana 
 privately thought what a poor housekeeper her sister would 
 make, ordering things when they were not required, and Mr. 
 Chattaway quitted the scene. When the doctor arrived and 
 had attended to the patient, Mrs, Chattaway, who was then in 
 her room, sent to request him to come up to her before he left, 
 adding to the message that she did not feel well. 
 
 He came up immediately. She put a question or two about
 
 A DAY OF MISHAPS. 401 
 
 the injury to the girl, which was not great, he answered, and 
 would not keep her a prisoner long; and then Mrs. Chattaway 
 lowered her voice, and spoke in the softest whisper. 
 
 "Mr. King, you must tell me. Is not Rupert worse? 
 
 " He is very ill," was the answer. " He certainly gets worse 
 instead of better." 
 
 "Will he die?" 
 
 " Well, I do believe he will die, unless he can be got out of 
 that unwholesome closet of a place. The question is, how is 
 it to be done ? " 
 
 "It cannot be done, Mr. King; it cannot be done unless 
 Mr. Chattaway can be propitiated. That is the only chance." 
 
 "Mr. Chattaway never will be," thought Mr. King in his 
 heart " Everything is against him where he is," he said aloud : 
 " the bad air of the room, the perpetual fear that is upon him, 
 the want of hot and regular food. The provisions conveyed to 
 him at chance times, eaten cold, as they chiefly have to be, are 
 a poor substitute for the hot meals he requires." 
 
 "And they will be stopped now," said Mrs. Chattaway. 
 " Rebecca has cooked them for me privately, but she cannot 
 do it now. Mr. King, what can be done ? " 
 
 " I don't know, indeed. It will not be safe to attempt to 
 move him. In fact, I question if he would consent to it, his 
 dread of being discovered is so great." 
 
 "\Vill you do all you can?" she urged. 
 
 " To be sure," he replied. " I am doing all I can. I got 
 him another bottle of port-wine in to-day. If you only saw me 
 trying to dodge into the lodge unperceived, and taking my 
 observations before I whisk out, you wouldn't say but I am as 
 anxious as you can be, my dear lady. Still — I don't hesitate 
 to avow it — it will be, I believe, life or death, according as we 
 can manage to get him away from that hole he's lying in, and 
 to set his niind at rest." 
 
 He wished her good night, and went out. " Life or death ! " 
 Mrs. Chattaway stood at the window, and gazed forth at the 
 dusky night, recalling over and over again the words to her 
 heart. " Life or death ! " There was no earthly chance, 
 except the remote one of appeasing Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 26
 
 402 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 
 
 George Ryle by no means admired the uncertainty in which 
 he was kept as to the Upland Farm. Had Mr. Chattaway 
 been any other than Mr. Chattaway, had he been a straight- 
 forward man, George would have said, "Give me an answer. 
 Yes or No." In point of fact, he did say so to Mr. Chattaway ; 
 but he could not get a decisive reply from him, one way or the 
 other. Mr. Chattaway was pretty liberal in his covert sneers 
 as to one with no means of his own taking so extensive a farm 
 as the Upland ; but he did not positively say, " I will not lease 
 it to you." George bore the shafts with equanimity. He 
 possessed that very desirable gift, a sweet temper ; and he was, 
 and could not help feeling that he was, so really superior to 
 Mr. Chattaway, that he could afford to allow some latitude to 
 that gentleman's evil tongue. 
 
 But the time was going on ; it was necessary that some 
 decision should be arrived at ; and one morning George went 
 up again to the Hold, determined to receive a final answer. 
 As he was entering the steward's room, he met Ford, the clerk 
 at Blackstone, coming out of it. 
 
 "Is Mr. Chattaway in there?" asked George. 
 
 " He's there, as far as that goes," replied Ford. " But if you 
 want to get any business out of him this morning, you won't, 
 that's all. I have tramped all the way up here, about a matter 
 that's in a hurry, and I have had my walk for my pains. Chat- 
 taway won't do anything, or say anything; doesn't seem 
 capable ; says he shall be at Blackstone by-and-by. And that's 
 all I've got to go back with." 
 
 "Why won't he?" 
 
 " Goodness knows. He seems to have had some shock or 
 fright. He was staring at a letter when I went in, and I left 
 him staring at it still when I came out, his wits evidently gone 
 wool-gathering. Good morning, Mr. Ryle." 
 
 The young man went his way, and George entered the 
 room. Mr, Chattaway was seated at his desk ; an open letter 
 before him, as Ford had said. It Avas one that had been 
 delivered by that morning's post, and it had brought the
 
 A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 403 
 
 sweat of dismay out upon his brow. He looked at George 
 angrily, 
 
 " Who's this again ? Am I never to be at peace ? What do 
 you want ? " 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway, I want an answer. If you will not let me 
 the Upland Farm " 
 
 " I will give you no answer this morning, George Ryle. I 
 am otherwise occupied, and I cannot be bothered with home 
 business." 
 
 *'Will you give me an answer — at all?" 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow. Come then," 
 
 George saw that something had indeed put Mr. Chattaway 
 out ; he appeared incapable of business, as Ford had intimated, 
 and it would be policy, perhaps, to suffer the matter to rest until 
 to-morrow. But a resolution came into George's mind to do at 
 once what he had sometimes thought of doing — to make a 
 friend, if possible, of Miss Diana Trevlyn, He went about the 
 house until he found her : he was almost as much at home in 
 it as poor Rupert had been. Miss Diana happened to be 
 alone in the breakfast-room. She was looking over what 
 appeared to be bills, but she laid them aside at his entrance, 
 and she — it was a most unusual thing — condescended to ask 
 after the health of her sister, Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " Miss Diana, I want you to be my good friend," he said, in 
 the winning manner that made George Ryle liked by every 
 one, as he drew a chair near to her. " Will you whisper a word 
 for me into Mr. Chattaway's ear ? " 
 
 " About that Upland Farm ? " 
 
 "Yes. I cannot get an answer from him. He has promised 
 me one to-morrow morning, but I do not rely upon getting it. 
 I must be at some certainty. There's another farm that I 
 have my eye upon if I cannot get Mr. Chattaway's ; but it is 
 at a distance from here, and I shall not like it half so well. 
 While he keeps me shilly-shallying over this one, I may lose 
 them both. There's an old proverb, you know, about two 
 stools." 
 
 "Was that a joke the other day, the hint you gave about 
 marrying?" inquired Miss Diana. 
 
 " It was sober earnest. If I can get the Upland Farm, I 
 shall, I hope, take my wife home to it almost as soon as I am 
 installed there myself." 
 
 " Is she a good manager, a practical woman ? " 
 
 George smiled. " No. She is a lady."
 
 404 TREVLYN HOLD 
 
 " I thought so," was the remark of Miss Diana, delivered in 
 a very knowing tone. " I can tell you and your wife, George, 
 that it will be uphill work for both of you." 
 
 " For a time ; I know that. But, Miss Diana, ease, when 
 it comes, will be all the more enjoyable for having been worked 
 for. I often think that the prosperity of those who have hcJn- 
 estly worked for it and earned it, must be far sweeter than the 
 monotonous abundance of those who are born prosperous." 
 
 " That's true. The worst is, that sometimes the best years 
 of life are over before prosperity comes." 
 
 " But those years have had their pleasure, in working on for 
 it. I question whether actual prosperity ever brings the 
 pleasure that we enjoy when anticipating and working for it. 
 If we have no end to look to and scheme for, we should 
 not be happy. Will you say a word for me to him. Miss 
 Diana?" 
 
 " First of all, tell me the name of the lady. I suppose you 
 have no objection— you may trust me." 
 
 George's lips parted with a smile, and a faint flush stole over 
 his features. " I shall have to tell you before I win her. Miss 
 Diana, if only to obtain your consent to my taking her from 
 the Hold." 
 
 " My consent ! I have nothing to do with it. You must 
 get that from Mr. and Madam Chattaway." 
 
 " If I have yours, I am not sure that I should care to ask — 
 his." 
 
 " Of whom do you speak ? " she rejoined, looking puzzled. 
 
 " Of Maude Trevlyn." 
 
 Miss Diana rose from her chair, and stared at him in very 
 astonishment. " Maude Trevlyn ! " she repeated. " Since 
 when have you thought of Maude Trevlyn ? " 
 
 "Since I thought of any one — thought at all, I was going to 
 say. I loved Maude — yes, loved her, Miss Diana — when she 
 was only a child." 
 
 "And you have not thought of any one else?" 
 
 " Never. I have loved Maude, and I have been content to 
 wait for her. But that I was so trammelled with the farm at 
 home, keeping it for Mrs. Ryle and Treve, I might have spoken 
 before." 
 
 Maude Trevlyn was evidently not the lady upon whom Miss 
 Diana's suspicions had fallen. It seemed that she could not 
 recover from her surprise — could scarcely yet admit the facts 
 to her mind, so far as to realize them. " Have you never given
 
 A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 405 
 
 cause to another to — to — suspect any admiration on your 
 part ? " she resumed, breaking the silence. 
 
 " Believe me, I never have. On the contrar}'," he added, 
 glancing at Miss Diana with peculiar significance for a moment, 
 and his tone was most impressive, " I have cautiously abstained 
 from doing so." 
 
 " Ah, I see." And Miss Trevlyn's tone was not less signifi- 
 cant than his. 
 
 "Will you give her to me, Miss Diana?" he pleaded, in his 
 softest and most persuasive voice. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. " George Ryle, there may 
 be trouble over this," 
 
 " Do you mean with Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 " I mean No matter what I mean. I think there will 
 
 be trouble over it." 
 
 " There need be none if you will only sanction it. But that 
 you might misconstrue me. Miss Diana, I would urge you to 
 give her to me for Maude's own sake. This escapade of poor 
 Rupert's has rendered Mr. Chattaway's roof an undesirable one 
 
 for her." 
 
 "Maude is a Trevlyn, and must marry a gentleman," spoke 
 
 Miss Diana. 
 
 "I am one," said George, quietly. "Pardon me, Miss 
 Diana, if I remind you that my descent is equal to that of the 
 Trevlyns. In the days gone by " 
 
 " You need not enter upon it," was the interruption. " I do 
 not forget it. But gentle descent is not all that is necessary 
 to render a marriage eligible. Maude will have money, and it 
 is only right that she should marry one who possesses it in an 
 equal degree." 
 
 " Maude will not have a shilling," cried George, impulsively. 
 
 " Indeed ! Who told you so ? " 
 
 George laughed. "It is what I have always supposed. 
 Where is she to have money from ? " 
 
 " She will have a great deal of money," persisted Miss Diana. 
 " The half of my fortune, at least, will be Maude's. The other 
 half I intended for Rupert. Did you suppose the last of the 
 Trevlyns, IVIaude and Rupert, would be turned out on the world 
 penniless?" 
 
 So! It had been IMiss Diana's purpose to bequeath her 
 money to them ! Yes ; loving power though she did ; ac- 
 quiescing in the act of usurping Trevlyn Hold by Mr. Chat- 
 taway, she intended to make it up in some degree to the
 
 4o6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 children. " Has Maude learnt to care for you," she suddenly 
 asked of George. " You hesitate ! " 
 
 " If I hesitate, Miss Diana, it is not because I have no 
 answer to give, but whether it would be quite fair to Maude to 
 give it. The truth may be best, however ; she has learnt to 
 care for me. Perhaps you will answer me a question — have 
 you any objection to me personally?" 
 
 " George Ryle, had I had objection to you personally, I 
 should have ordered you out of the room the instant you men- 
 tioned Maude's name. Were your position a better one, I 
 would give you Maude to-morrow — so far as my giving could 
 avail. But to enter the Upland Farm upon borrowed money ? 
 — no ; I do not think that will do for Miss Maude Trevlyn." 
 
 " It would be a better position for her than the one she now 
 holds, as governess to Mr. Chattaway's children," replied 
 George, boldly. " A better, and a far happier." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Miss Diana. " Maude Trevlyn's position 
 at Trevlyn Hold is not to be looked upon as that of governess, 
 but as a daughter of the house. It was well that both she and 
 Rupert should have some occupation." 
 
 " And on the other score ? " resumed George. " May I dare 
 to say the truth to you, INIiss Diana, that in quitting the Hold 
 for the home I shall make for her, she will be leaving misery 
 for happiness ? " 
 
 Miss Diana rose. " That is enough for the present," said 
 she. " It has come upon me with surprise, and I must give it 
 some hours' consideration before I can even realize it. With 
 regard to the Upland Farm, I will ask Mr. Chattaway to accord 
 you preference if he can do so : the two matters are quite 
 distinct and apart one from the other. I think you might 
 prosper at the Upland Farm, and be a good tenant; but I 
 decline — and this you must distinctly understand — to give you 
 any hope now with regard to Maude." 
 
 George held out his hand with his sunny smile. *'I will 
 wait until you have considered it, Miss Diana." 
 
 She took her way at once to Mrs. Chattaway's room. Hap- 
 pening, as she passed the corridor window, to cast her eyes to 
 the front of the house, she saw George Ryle cross the lawn 
 on his way from it. At the same moment. Octave Chattaway 
 ran after him, evidently calling to him. 
 
 He stopped and turned. He could do no less. And Octave 
 stood with him, laughing and talking rather more freely than 
 she might have done, had she been aware of what had just
 
 A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY. 407 
 
 taken place. Miss Diana drew in her severe lips, changed her 
 course, and sailed back to the hall-door. Octave was coming 
 in then. 
 
 " Manners have changed since I was a girl," remarked Miss 
 Diana to her. " It would scarcely have been deemed seemly 
 then for a young lady to run after a gentleman as he was 
 leaving the house. I do not like it. Octave." 
 
 '■ Manners do change," returned Miss Chattaway, in a tone 
 that she made as slighting as she dared. " It was only George 
 Ryle, Aunt Diana." 
 
 " Do you know where Maude is ? " 
 
 " No : I know nothing about her. I think if you gave 
 Maude a word of reprimand on another score, instead of giving 
 one to me, it might not be amiss. Aunt Diana. Since Rupert 
 turned runagate — or renegade might be a better word — Maude 
 has neglected her duties shamefully with Emily and Edith. She 
 passes her time moithering, and lets them run wild." 
 
 '^Had Rupert been your brother you might have done the 
 snme," curtly rejoined Miss Diana. "A shock like that cannot 
 be lived down in a day. Allow me to give you a hint, Octave : 
 should you lose Maude for the children, you will not so 
 efficiently replace her." 
 
 ''We are not likely to lose her,'^ said Octave, opening her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I don't know that. It strikes me as being likely that we 
 shall. George Ryle wants her." 
 
 " Wants her for what ? " asked Octave, staring very much. 
 
 " He can want her but for one thing — to be his wife. He 
 lias loved her, it seems, for years." 
 
 She had turned her back on Octave as she said this, on her 
 way up again to Mrs. Chattaway's room ; never halting, never 
 looking back at the still, white face, that seemed to be turning 
 into stone as it was strained after her. 
 
 In Mrs. Chattaway's sitting-room she found that lady and 
 Maude. She entered suddenly and hastily, and had Miss 
 Diana been of a nature given to suspicion, it might have been 
 excited in her breast then. In their close contact, their start 
 of surprise when interrupted, the frightened expression of their 
 haggard countenances, there was too surely evidence of some 
 unhappy secret. Miss Diana was closely followed into the 
 room by Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 "Did you not hear me call?" he inquired of his sister- 
 in-law.
 
 4o8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "No," she replied. "I heard you on the stairs behind me, 
 but I did not hear you speak. What is it? " 
 
 " Read that," said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 He tossed an open letter to her. It was the one which had 
 so put him out ; which had rendered him incapable of attend- 
 ing to business. After digesting it alone in the best manner he 
 could, he had now come to submit it to the keen and calm 
 inspection of Miss Trevlyn. 
 
 " Oh," said she carelessly, as she looked at the writing, " it 
 is another from Connell and Connell." 
 
 " Read it, will you ? " repeated Mr. Chattaway, in low tones. 
 He was too completely shaken to be anything but subdued. 
 
 Miss Diana proceeded to do so. It was a letter shorter, if 
 anything, than the one previously received, but more peremp- 
 tory, even more decided. It simply said that Mr. Rupert 
 Trevlyn had written to inform them of his intention of taking 
 immediate possession of Trevlyn Hold, and had requested 
 them to acquaint Mr. Chattaway with the same. Miss Diana 
 read it to herself, and then read it aloud for the general 
 benefit. 
 
 " It is the most infamous thing that has ever come under my 
 notice," said Mr. Chattaway. " What right have those men, 
 those Connells, to write to me in this strain ? If Rupert 
 Trevlyn passes his time penning folly to them, is it the work 
 of a respectable firm to perpetuate — as may be said — the jokes 
 on me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway and Maude gazed at each other, perfectly 
 confounded. It was next to an impossibility that Rupert could 
 have thus written as stated, to Connell and Connell. If they 
 had only dared to defend him ! " Why suffer it to put you 
 out, James ? " Mrs. Chattaway ventured to say. " Rupert can- 
 not be writing such letters ; he cannot be thinking of attempt- 
 ing to take possession here ; the bare idea is absurd : treat it 
 as such." 
 
 " But these communications to me from Connell and Con- 
 nell are not the less disgraceful," was the reply of Mr. Chatta- 
 way. "I'd as soon be annoyed with anonymous letters." 
 
 Miss Diana Trevlyn had not spoken. The affair, to her 
 keen mind, began to wear a strange appearance. She looked 
 off from the letter — she seemed to have been examining its 
 every word — at Mr. Chattaway. " Were Connell and Connell 
 not so respectable, I should say that they have lent themselves 
 to playing a sorry joke upon you for the purpose of the worst
 
 A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY, 409 
 
 sort of annoyance : being what they are, that view falls to the 
 ground. There is only one possible solution to it : but " 
 
 "And what's that?" eagerly interrupted Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " That Rupert is amusing himself, and has contrived to im- 
 pose upon Connell and Connell some notion of the plausibility 
 of his claim " 
 
 " He has not ; he never has," broke in Mrs. Chattaway. " I 
 mean," she more calmly added, as she recollected herself, " that 
 Connell and Connell could not be imposed upon by any foolish 
 claim that might be put forth by Rupert." 
 
 " I wish you would hear me out," was the composed re- 
 joinder of IMiss Diana. " It is what I was about to say. Had 
 Connell and Connell been different men, they might be so 
 imposed upon ; but I do not think they, or any firm of similar 
 standing, would presume to write such letters as these to the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold, unless they had substantial grounds 
 for doing it." 
 
 " Then what can the letters mean ? " cried Mr. Chattaway, 
 wiping his hot face. 
 
 Ay, what could they mean ? It was indeed a puzzle, and 
 the matter began to assume a serious form. What had been 
 the vain boastings of Mr. Daw, compared with this? Cris 
 Chattaway, when he came home, and this second letter was 
 shown to him, was loudly indignant, but all the indignation 
 that Mr. Chattaway had been prone to indulge in seemed to 
 have gone out of /u'//l Mr. Flood wrote to Connell and Con- 
 nell to request an explanation, and received a courteous and 
 immediate reply. But there was no further information in it 
 than the letters themselves had contained — or than even Mr. 
 Peterby had elicited when he wrote up, on his own part, a 
 private letter to Mr. Ray : nothing but that Mr. Rupert 
 Trevlyn was about to take possession of his own again, Trevlyn 
 Hold.
 
 4IO TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold was a fine place, the cynosure and envy of 
 the neighbourhood around ; and yet it would perhaps be im- 
 possible in all that neighbourhood for any family to be found 
 so completely miserable as that which inhabited the Hold. 
 The familiar saying is a very true one : "All is not gold that 
 glitters." 
 
 Enough has been said of the trials and discomforts of Mrs. 
 Chattaway; they had been many and varied, but never had 
 trouble accumulated upon her head as it had now, The terrible 
 secret that Rupert was within hail, wasting unto death, was 
 torturing her brain by night and day. It seemed that the 
 whole weight of it lay upon her ; that she was responsible for 
 his weal and woe : if he died would reproach not lie at her 
 door, be cast upon her by the world ; would remorse not be 
 her portion for ever? It might be thrown in her teeth then 
 that she should have disclosed the secret, and not have left 
 him there to die. 
 
 But how disclose it ? Since the second letter received from 
 Connell, Connell, and Ray, Mr. Chattaway had been doubly 
 bitter against Rupert — if that was possible ; and there could be 
 no manner of doubt that to disclose to him Rupert's hiding- 
 place would only be to consign him to a prison. Mr. Chatta- 
 way was another who was miserable in his home. Suspense, 
 anticipation, are far worse than reality ; and the present master 
 of Trevlyn Hold would never realize in his own heart the cruel 
 evils attendant on being turned from the Hold (should that 
 consummation arrive) as he was realizing them now. Sus- 
 pense, dread, uncertainty, are hard to bear ; and his days were 
 one prolonged scene of torture. Miss Diana Trevlyn partook 
 of the general discomfort : for the first time in her life a sense 
 of ill oppressed her. She knew nothing of the secret regarding 
 Rupert ; she somewhat scornfully threw away the vague ideas 
 imparted by the letters from Connell and Connell ; and yet 
 Miss Diana was conscious of being oppressed with a sense of 
 ill, which weighed her down, and made her life a burden. 
 
 The evil had come at last. Retribution, which they too 
 surely invoked when they diverted God's laws of right and
 
 A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM. 411 
 
 justice from their direct course years ago, was working itself 
 out now. Retribution is a thing that viust come ; though 
 tardy, a^ it had been in this case, it is sure. Look around you, 
 you who have had much of hfe's experience, who may be 
 drawing into its "sear and yellow leaf." It is impossible but 
 that you must have gathered up in the garner of your mind 
 instances that you have noted in your career. In little things 
 and in great, the working of evil inevitably brings forth its 
 reward. Years, and years, and years may first elapse ; so many, 
 that the hour of vengeance seems to have rolled itself away 
 under the glass of time ; but we need never hope that, for it 
 cannot be. In your time, ill-doer, or in your children's, it will 
 surely come. 
 
 The agony of mind, endured now by the inmates of Trevlyn 
 Hold, seemed punishment enough for a whole lifetime and its 
 misdoings. Should they indeed be turned from it, as these 
 mysterious letters seemed to indicate, that open, tangible 
 punishment would be as nothing to what they were mentally 
 enduring now. And they could not speak of their griefs one 
 to another, and so lessen them in ever so slight a degree. ]\Ir. 
 Chattaway would not speak of the dread that was tugging at 
 his heart-strings — for it seemed to him that only to speak of 
 the possibility of being driven forth, might bring it the nearer ; 
 and his unhappy wife dared not so much as breathe the name 
 of Rupert, and the fatal secret she held. 
 
 She, Mrs. Chattaway, was puzzled more than all by these 
 letters of Connell and Connell's. Mr. Chattaway could trace 
 their source (at least he strove to do so) to the malicious mind 
 and pen of Rupert ; but Mrs. Chattaway knew that Rupert it 
 could not well be. Nevertheless, she had been staggered on 
 the arrival of the second to find it explicitly stated that Rupert 
 Trevlyn had written to them to announce his speedy intention 
 of taking possession of the Hold. " Rupert had written to 
 them !" What was she to think ? If it was not Rupert, some- 
 body else must have written to them in his name ; but who 
 would be likely to trouble themselves now for the lost Rupert ? 
 ■ — regarded as dead by three parts of the world. Had Rupert 
 written ? Mrs. Chattaway determined again to ask him, and to 
 set the question so far at rest. 
 
 33ut she did not do this immediately after the arrival of the 
 letter; not for two days after. She waited the answer which 
 Mr. Flood wrote up to Connell and Connell, spoken of in the 
 last chapter. As soon as that came, and she found that it
 
 412 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 afforded no elucidation whatever, then she resolved to question 
 Rupert upon her next stolen visit to him. That same after- 
 noon, as she returned home on foot from Barmester, she con- 
 trived to slip unseen into the lodge. 
 
 Rupert was sitting up. Mr. King had given it as his opinion 
 that to lie constantly in bed, as he was doing, was worse for 
 him than anything else ; and in truth Rupert need not have 
 been entirely confined to it had there been any other place for 
 him. Old Canham's chamber opposite was more confined, 
 more stifling, inasmuch as when the builder put in the one 
 pane that lighted it from the roof, he had forgotten to make 
 it to open. A small casement opened from the landing, but 
 it did not give air to the rooms. Look at Rupert now, as 
 Mrs. Chattaway enters ! He has managed to struggle into 
 his clothes, which hang upon him like bags, and he sits un- 
 comfortably on a small rush-bottomed chair. Rupert's back 
 looks as if it were broken ; for he is bent nearly double with 
 weakness, and his lips are white, and his cheeks are hollow, 
 and his poor, weak hands tremble with joy as they are feebly 
 raised in greeting to Mrs. Chattaway. Think what it was for 
 him ! lying for long hours, for days, in that stifling room, a 
 prey to his fears, sometimes seeing no one for two whole days 
 — for it was not every evening that an opportunity could be 
 found of entering the lodge What with the Chattaway's pass- 
 ing and repassing outside the lodge, and Ann Canham's 
 grumbling visitors inside it, I can tell you that an entrance for 
 those, who might not be seen to enter it, was not always within 
 the range of possibility. Look at poor Rupert ; at the lighting 
 up of his eye, at the kindling hectic of his cheek ! 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway contrived to squeeze herself between Rupert 
 and the door, between the wall and the bed, and sat down on 
 the edge of the latter as she took his hand in hers. " I am so 
 glad to see that you have made an effort to get up, Rupert ! " 
 she whispered. 
 
 " I don't think I shall make it again, Aunt Edith. You have 
 no conception how it has tired me. I was a good half-hour 
 getting into my coat and waistcoat." 
 
 " But you will be all the better for it." 
 
 " I don't know," said Rupert, in a spiritless tone. " I feel as 
 if there would never be any 'better' for me again." 
 
 She began telling him of what she had been purchasing for 
 him at Barmester— a tongue dressed in jelly, a box of sardines, 
 some potted meat, and similar things found in the provision
 
 A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM. 413 
 
 shops. They were not precisely the dishes suited to Rupert's 
 weakly state ; but since the accident to Rebecca he had been 
 fain to • put up with what could be thus procured. And 
 then Mrs. Chattaway opened gently upon the subject of the 
 letters. 
 
 " It seems so strange, Rupert, quite an inexphcable thing, 
 but Mr. Chattaway has had another of those curious letters 
 from that firm in London, Connell and Connell." 
 
 " Has he ? " answered Rupert, with apathy. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway looked at him with all the fancied penetra- 
 tion she possessed — in point of fact she was just one of those 
 persons who possess none — but she could not detect the faintest 
 sign of consciousness. " Was there anything about me in it ? " 
 he asked wearily. 
 
 " It was all about you. It said that you had written to Con- 
 nell and Connell, stating your intention of taking immediate 
 possession of the Hold." 
 
 This a little aroused him. " Connell and Connell have been 
 writing that to Mr. Chattaway ! ^A'hy, what queer people they 
 must be ! " 
 
 " Rupert ! You have not written to them, have you ? " 
 
 He looked at Mrs. Chattaway in surprise ; for she had 
 evidently asked the question seriously. "I am not strong 
 enough to play jokes, Aunt Edith. And if I were, I should 
 not be so senseless as to play that joke. What end would it 
 answer ? " 
 
 " I thought not/' she murmured ; " I was sure not. Setting 
 everything else aside, Rupert, you are not well enough to 
 write." 
 
 "No, I don't think I am. I don't suppose I could get down 
 a side of note-paper if I tried. I could hardly scrawl those 
 lines to George Ryle some time ago — but then the fever was 
 upon me. No, Aunt Edith : the only letter I have written 
 since I became a prisoner here was the one I wrote to Mr. 
 Daw, the night I first took shelter here, just after the encounter 
 with Mr. Chattaway, and Ann Canham posted it at Barmester 
 the next day. What on earth can possess Connell and 
 Connell ? " 
 
 " Diana argues that Connell and Connell must be receiving 
 these letters, or they would not write to Mr. Chattaway in the 
 manner they are doing. For my part, I can't make it out." 
 
 "What does Mr. Chattaway say?" asked Rupert, when a fit 
 of coughing was over. "Is he angry ? "
 
 414 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 • '' He is worse than angry," she seriously answered ; " he is 
 troubled. He thinks that you are writing them." 
 
 " No ! Why, he might know that I shouldn't dare to do 
 it : he might know that I am not well enough to write 
 them." 
 
 " Nay, Rupert, you forget that Mr. Chattaway does not know 
 you are ill." 
 
 '' To be sure ; I forgot that. '^vX troubled 1 I can't believe 
 that of Mr. Chattaway. How could a poor, weak, friendless 
 chap, such as I, contend for the possession of Trevlyn Hold ? 
 Aunt Edith, I'll tell you what it must be. If Connells are not 
 playing this joke themselves, to annoy Mr. Chattaway, some- 
 body must be playing it on them." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway acquiesced in the conclusion : it was the only 
 one at which she could arrive. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Edith, if he would only forgive me ! " sighed 
 Rupert. "When I get well— and I should get well, if I could 
 go back to the Hold to Aunt Diana's nursing, and get this fear 
 out of me — I would work night and day to pay him back the 
 cost of the ricks. If he would only forgive me ! " 
 
 Ah ! none knew better than Mrs, Chattaway how vain was 
 the wish ! With the walls freshly placarded — as they had been 
 — with further bills offering their reward for the incendiary 
 Rupert Trevlyn ; with the bitter animosity rankling in the heart 
 of Mr. Chattaway, bitter and more bitter since that last letter, 
 she could have told Rupert how worse than vain was any hope 
 of forgiveness. She could have told him, had she chosen, of 
 an unhappy scene of the past night, when she, Edith Chat- 
 taway, urged on by the miserable state of existing things and 
 her tribulation for Rupert, had so far forgotten prudence as to 
 all but kneel to her husband and beg him to forgive that poor 
 incendiary ; and Mr. Chattaway had been excited by it to the 
 very depths of anger ; had demanded of his wife whether she 
 were mad or sane, that she should dare to ask it. 
 
 "Yes, Rupert," she meekly said, "I wish it also, for your 
 sake. But, my dear, it is just an impossibility." 
 
 " If I could be got off safely out of the country, I might go 
 to Mr. Daw for a time, and get up my strength there." 
 
 "Yes, z/'you could. But in your weak state discovery would 
 be the result before you were clear from these walls. You can- 
 not take flight of your own accord, and run away in the night. 
 Every one knows you : and the police, we have heard, are 
 keeping their eyes open."
 
 A GHOST FOR OWD CANHAM. 415 
 
 * I'd bribe Dumps, if I had money- 
 
 Rupert's voice dropped. A sort of commotion had arisen 
 suddenly downstairs, and, his fears ever on the alert touching 
 the police and Mr. Chattaway, he put up his finger to enjoin 
 caution, and bent his head to listen. But no strange voice 
 could be distinguished : only those of old Canham and his 
 daughter. A short time, and Ann came up the stairs, looking 
 strange. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " panted Rupert, who was the first to 
 catch sight of her face. 
 
 " I can't think whatever's come to father, sir," she returned. 
 *' I was in the back place, a-washing up, and I heard a sort o' 
 cry from him, so I ran in. There he was a-standing with his 
 hair all on end in mortal fright, and afore I could speak he 
 began saying that he see a ghost go past. He's a-staring out o' 
 window and saying of it still. I trust his senses are not a- 
 leaving him ! " 
 
 To hear this queer assertion from sober-minded, matter-of- 
 fact old Canham, certainly did impart a suspicion that his 
 senses must have deserted him. Mrs. Chattaway rose from 
 her low seat to descend ; not on this score, but that she had 
 already lingered longer with Rupert than was prudent. She 
 found old Canham as Ann had described him, with that 
 peculiarly scared look on the face which some people deem 
 equivalent to "the hair standing on end." He was staring 
 with a fixed expression towards the Hold. 
 
 "Has anything happened to alarm you, Mark?" 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway's gentle question recalled him to himself. 
 He turned towards her, leaning heavily on his stick, the 
 expression of his eyes one of vague terror. 
 
 "It happened. Madam, as I had got out o' my seat, and was 
 a-standing to look out o' winder, thinking how fine the a'ter- 
 noon was, and how bad the land wanted rain, when he come in 
 at the gate with a fine silver-headed stick in his hand, a-turning 
 of his head about from side to side as if (but that have struck 
 me since) he was taking note of the old place again to see what 
 changes there might be in it. I was struck all of a heap when 
 I saw his figure ; 'twas just the figure it used to be, only maybe 
 a bit younger, less stout hke, but when he moved his head this 
 way and looked full at me, I felt as one turned to stone. It 
 was his face, ma'am, if I ever saw it." 
 
 " But whose ? " asked Mrs. Chattaway, smiling at his inco- 
 herence.
 
 4i6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Old Canham glanced round before he spoke ; he glanced at 
 Mrs. Chattaway, with a half-compassionate, half-inquiring glance, 
 as if not liking to speak. " Madam, it was the old Squire, my 
 late master." 
 
 " It was — who ?" demanded Mrs. Chattaway, less gentle than 
 usual in her great surprise. 
 
 " It was Squire Trevlyn ; Madam's father." 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway could do nothing but stare. She thought 
 old Canham's senses were decidedly gone. 
 
 " There never was a face like his. Miss Maude — that is, 
 Mrs. Ryle now — have his features exact ; but she's not as tall 
 and portly, being a woman. Ah, Madam, you may smile at 
 me, but it was Squire Trevlyn." 
 
 " But, Mark, you know it is an impossibility." 
 
 " Madam, 'twas him. He must ha' come out of his grave 
 for some purpose, and is a-visiting his own again. I never was 
 a believer in them things afore, or thought as the dead come 
 back to life." 
 
 Ghosts have gone out of fashion ; therefore the enlightened 
 reader will not be likely to endorse old Canham's belief. But 
 I can tell you this much : that when Mrs. Chattaway, turning 
 quickly up the avenue on her way to Trevlyn Hold, saw, at 
 no great distance from her, a gentleman standing to talk to 
 some one whom he had encountered, she stopped, as one in 
 sudden terror, and seemed about to fall or faint. Mrs. Chat- 
 taway did not believe in " the dead coming back " any more 
 than old Canham had believed in it ; but in that moment's 
 startled surprise she did think she saw her father. 
 
 She gazed at the figure standing there, her lips apart, the 
 bright complexion of her face fading to an ashy paleness. Never 
 had she seen so extraordinary a likeness. The tall, fine form, 
 somewhat less full perhaps than of yore, the distinctly-marked 
 features with their firm and haughty expression, the fresh 
 tints of the clear skin, the very manner of his handling that 
 silver-headed stick, spoke in unmistakable terms of Squire 
 Trevlyn . 
 
 Not until they parted, the two who were talking, did Mrs. 
 Chattaway observe that the other was Nora Dickson. Nora 
 came down the avenue towards her ; the stranger went on with 
 his firm step and his firmly-grasped walking-stick. Mrs. Chat- 
 taway was advancing then. 
 
 " Nora, who is that ? " she gasped. 
 
 " I am trying to collect my wits, if they are not scared away
 
 A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM. 417 
 
 for good," was Nora's response. "Madam Chattaway, you 
 might just have flung me down with a feather. I was walking 
 along, thinking of nothing, except my vexation that you were 
 not at home — for Mr. George charged me to bring this note to 
 you, and to deliver it instantly into your own hands, and 
 nobody else's — when I met him, I didn't know whether to 
 face him, or to scream, or to turn and run ; one doesn't like to 
 meet the dead ; and I declare to you. Madam Chattaway, I be- 
 lieved, in my confused brain, that it was the dead. I believed 
 it was Squire Trevlyn." 
 
 "Nora, I never saw two persons so strangely alike," she 
 breathed, mechanically taking the note from Nora's hand. 
 " Who is he ? " 
 
 ' " My brain's at work to discover who he can be," returned 
 Nora, dreamily. " I am trying to put two and two together, 
 and I can't do it ; unless the dead shall have come to life — or 
 those whom we have believed dead." 
 
 "Nora! you cannot mean my father!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Chattaway, gazing at her with a strangely perplexed face. 
 " You know that he lies buried in Barbrook churchyard. What 
 did he say to you ? " 
 
 " Not much. He saw me staring at him, I suppose, and he 
 stopped and asked me if I belonged to the Hold. I answered, 
 no ; I did not belong to it ; I was Miss Dickson, of Trevlyn 
 Farm. And then it was his turn to stare at me. ' I think I 
 should have known you,' he said. ' At least, I do now that 
 I have the clue. You are not much altered. Should you have 
 known me ? ' 'I don't know you now,' I answered : ' unless 
 you are old Squire Trevlyn come out of his grave. I never 
 saw such a likeness.' " 
 
 " And what did he say ? " eagerly asked Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 " Nothing more. He laughed a little at my speech, and went 
 on. Madam Chattaway, will you open the note, please, and see 
 if there's any answer. Mr. George said it was important." 
 
 She opened the note, which had lain unheeded in her hand, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " Do not attempt further visits. Suspicions are abroad. 
 
 " G. B. R." 
 
 She had just attempted one, and paid it. Had it been 
 watched ? A rush of fear bounded within her for Rupert's 
 sake. 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 27
 
 4i8 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "There's no answer, Nora," said Mrs. Chattaway : and she 
 turned on her way homewards, not unhke one in a dream. 
 Who was that man before her? What was his name? where 
 did he come from ? Why should he bear this strange likeness 
 to her dead father ? Ah, why, indeed ! The truth never for 
 one moment penetrated to the mind of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 He went on : he, the stranger. When he came to the lawn 
 before the house, he stepped on to it and halted. He looked 
 to this side, he looked to that ; he gazed up at the house, into 
 every window, just as one loves to look on returning to a 
 beloved home after an absence of years. He stood with his 
 head thrown back ; his right hand stretched out, the stick it 
 grasped planted firm and upright on the ground. How many 
 times had the old Squire Trevlyn stood in the selfsame attitude 
 on that same lawn I 
 
 There appeared to be no eyes about; the windows were 
 empty ; no one saw him, save Mrs. Chattaway, who hid herself 
 amidst the trees, and furtively watched him. She would not 
 have passed him for the world, and she waited until he should 
 be gone. She was unable to divest her mind of a sensation 
 that was akin to the supernatural, as she shrank from this man 
 who bore so wonderful a resemblance in all ways to her father. 
 He, the stranger, did not detect her behind him, and presently 
 he walked across the lawn, ascended the steps, and tried the 
 door. 
 
 But the door was fast. The servants would sometimes slip 
 the bolt as a protection against tramps, and they had probably 
 done so to-day. Seizing the bell-handle, the visitor rang such 
 a peal that Sam Atkins, Cris Chattaway's groom, who happened 
 to be in the house and near the door, flew Avith all speed to 
 open it. Sam had never known Squire Trevlyn ; but in this 
 stranger now before him, he could not fail to remark a great 
 general resemblance to the Trevlyn family. 
 
 *' Is James Chattaway at home ? " 
 ' To hear the master of the Hold inquired for in that uncere- 
 monious manner, rather took Sam back ; but he answered that 
 he was at home. He had no need to invite the visitor to walk 
 in, for the visitor had walked in of his own accord. " What 
 name, sir?" demanded Sam, preparing to usher the stranger 
 across the hall. 
 
 " Squire Trevlyn." 
 
 This concluded Sam Atkins's astonishment, " JV/iat name, 
 sir, did you say ? "
 
 THE DREAD COME HOME TO MR. CHATTAWAY. 419 
 
 "Squire Trevlyn. Are you deaf, man? Squire Trevlyn, of 
 Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 And the haughty motion of the head, the firm pressure of 
 the lips, might have put a spectator all too unpleasantly in 
 mind of the veritable old Squire Trevlyn, had one 'who had 
 known him been there to see. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 THE DREAD COME HOME TO MR. CHATTAWAY. 
 
 Nothing could well exceed Mr. Chattaway's astonishment at 
 hearing that George Ryle wished to make Maude Trevlyn his 
 wife. And nothing could exceed his displeasure. Not that 
 Mr. Chattaway had higher views for Maude, or deemed it an 
 undesirable match for her in a pecuniary point of view, as 
 Miss Diana Trevlyn had felt inclined to deem it. Had Maude 
 chosen to marry without any prospect at all, that would not 
 have troubled Mr. Chattaway. But what did trouble Mr. 
 Chattaway was this — that a sister of Rupert Trevlyn should 
 become connected with George Ryle. In Mr, Chattaway's 
 foolish and utterly groundless prejudices, he had suspected, as 
 you may remember, that George Ryle and Rupert had been 
 ever ready to hatch mischief against him ; and he dreaded for 
 his own sake any bond of union that might bring them closer 
 together. 
 
 There was something else. By some intuitive perception 
 Mr. Chattaway had detected that misplaced liking of his 
 daughter's for George Ryle : and this union would not have 
 been unpalatable to Mr. Chattaway. Whatever may have been 
 his ambitious views for his daughter's settlement in life ; ^yhat- 
 ever may have been his dislike to George Ryle, he was willing 
 to forego it all for his own sake. Every consideration was lost 
 sight of in that one which had always reigned paramount with 
 Mr. Chattaway— self-interest. You have not waited until now 
 to learn that James Chattaway was one of the most selfish men 
 on the face of the earth. Some men like, as far as they can, 
 to do their duty to God and to their fellow-creatures ; the 
 master of Trevlyn Hold liked to do it only to himself It had 
 been his motive-spring through life. And what sort of a
 
 420 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 garner for the Great Day do you suppose he had been laying 
 up for himself? He was soon to experience a little check here, 
 but that was little, in comparison. The ills that our evil con- 
 duct entails upon ourselves here, are as nothing to the dread 
 reckoning that we must render up hereafter. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway would have leased the Upland Farm to 
 George Ryle with all the pleasure in life, provided he could 
 have leased his daughter with it. Were George Ryle his 
 veritable son-in-law, then he would not fear any plotting machi- 
 nations against himself. Somehow, he did fear George Ryle. 
 It was not that Mr. Chattaway feared George as one fears a 
 bad man ; no one could fear George Ryle in that way ; but 
 Mr. Chattaway feared him as a good one ; as a brave, upright, 
 honourable man, who might be tempted to make common cause 
 with the oppressed against the oppressor. It may be, also, 
 that Miss Chattaway did not render herself so universally 
 agreeable in her home as she might have done, for her temper, 
 naturally a bad one, did not improve with years ; and for this 
 cause Mr. Chattaway was not sorry that the Hold should be 
 rid of her. Altogether, he contemplated with satisfaction, 
 rather than the contrary, the faint vista presented to his view, 
 of the connection of George Ryle with his family. A vista 
 that hitherto had been of the slighest possible dimensions ; one 
 which Mr. Chattaway had not been sure whether he saw or 
 not ; but he could not be quite blind to certain predilections 
 shown by Octave, though no hint of it, no allusion to it, had 
 ever been spoken on either side. 
 
 And on that first day when George Ryle, after speaking to 
 Mr. Chattaway about the lease of the Upland Farm, said a 
 joking word or two to Miss Diana of his marriage that was to 
 supervene upon it, Octave had overheard, You saw her with 
 her scarlet face of excitement looking over her aunt's shoulder : 
 a face_ which seemed to frighten George, and caused him to 
 take his leave somewhat abruptly. 
 
 Poor Octave Chattaway ! George's words, that his coveted 
 wife was a gendewoman born and bred, and must live as such, 
 had imparted to her a meaning that George himself never 
 gave them. She caught up the notion that she was the gentle- 
 woman to whom he alluded — but the notion, as you are aware, 
 was erroneous. 
 
 Ere the scarlet had faded from her cheeks, her father had 
 entered the room. Octave bent over the table drawing a 
 pattern. Mr. Chattaway stood at the window, his hands in his
 
 THE DREAD COME HOME TO MR. CHATTAWAY. 421 
 
 pockets, a habit of his when in thought, and watched George 
 Ryle walking away in the distance. 
 
 " He wants the Upland Farm, Octave," Mr. Chattaway 
 presently remarked, without turning round. " He thinks he 
 can get on at it." 
 
 Miss Chattaway carried her pencil to the end of the line, 
 and bent her face lower. " I should let it him, papa." 
 
 " The Upland Farm will take money, both to stock it and 
 carry it on ; no slight sum," remarked Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Yes. Did he say how he should manage to get it ? " 
 
 " From Apperley. He will have his work cut out if he is to 
 begin farming on borrowed money ; as his father had before 
 ' him. It is only this very day that he has paid off that debt, 
 contracted so many years ago." 
 
 " And no wonder, on the small and poor Trevlyn Farm. 
 The Upland is different. A man would grow rich on the one, 
 and starve on the other. 
 
 " The Upland is an extensive farm — the land good. But to 
 take the best farm in the world on borrowed money, would 
 entail uphill work for him. George Ryle will have to w^ork 
 hard ; and so must his wife, should he marry one." 
 
 Octave paused for a moment, apparently mastering some 
 intricacies in her pattern. " Not his wife ; I do not see that. 
 My aunt Maude is a case in point ; she has never worked on 
 Trevlyn Farm." 
 
 "She has had her cares, though," returned Mr. Chattaway. 
 "And she would have had to work — but for Nora Dickson." 
 
 " The Upland Farm could afford a housekeeper if neces- 
 sary," was Octave's answer. 
 
 Not another w'ord was spoken. Mr. Chattaway's suspicions 
 were confirmed, and he determined when George Ryle again 
 asked for the farm lease and for Octave, to accord both with 
 rather more graciousness than he was accustomed to accord 
 anything. 
 
 Things did not turn out, however, quite in accordance with 
 his expectations. The best of us are disappointed sometimes, 
 you know. George Ryle pressed very greatly for the farm, but 
 he did not press for Octave. In point of fact, he never men- 
 tioned her name, or so much as hinted at any interest he 
 might feel in her ; and ]\Ir. Chattaway, rather puzzled and very 
 cross, abstained from promising the farm. He put off the 
 question, very much to George's inconvenience, who set it 
 down to caprice.
 
 422 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 But the time came for INIr. Chattaway's eyes to be opened, 
 and he awoke to the cross-purposes which had been at work. 
 On the afternoon of the day mentioned in the last chapter, 
 during the stolen visit of Mrs. Chattaway to Rupert, Mr. Chat- 
 taway was undeceived. He had been at home all day, busy 
 over accounts and other business in the steward's room ; and 
 Miss Diana, mindful of her promise to George Ryle, to speak 
 a word in his favour relative to the Upland Farm, penetrated 
 to that room for the purpose, deeming it a good opportunit3% 
 Mr. Chattaway had been so upset since the receipt of the 
 second letter from Connell and Connell, that she had abstained 
 hitherto from mentioning the subject. Mr. Chattaway was 
 seated at his desk, and he looked up with a start as she 
 abruptly entered : the start of a man who lives in some fear. 
 
 " Have you decided about the Upland Farm — whether 
 George Ryle is to have it?" she asked, plunging into the sub- 
 ject without circumlocution, as it was the habit of Miss Diana 
 Trevlyn to do. 
 
 " No, not precisely. I shall see in a day or two." 
 
 " But you promised him an answer long before this." 
 
 " Ah," slightingly spoke Mr. Chattaway. " It's not always 
 convenient to keep one's promises." 
 
 " Why are you holding off ? " 
 
 " Well, for one thing, I thought of retaining that farm in my 
 own hands, and keeping a bailiff to look after it." 
 
 "' Then you'll burn your fingers, James Chattaway. Those 
 who manage the Upland Farm should live at the Upland 
 Farm. You can't properly manage both places, that and 
 Trevlyn Hold ; and you live at Trevlyn Hold. I don't see why 
 you should not let it to George Ryle." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway sat biting the end of his pen. Miss Diana 
 waited ; but he did not speak, and she resumed. 
 
 " I believe he will do well on it. One who has done so 
 much with that small place, Trevlyn Farm, and its not very 
 good land, will not fail to do well on the Upland. Let him 
 have it, Chattaway." 
 
 "You speak as if you were interested in his having it," 
 remarked Mr. Chattaway, resentfully, 
 
 " I am not sure but I am," equably answered Miss Diana. 
 " I see no reason why. you should not let him the farm ; 
 for there's no doubt that he will prove a good tenant. He 
 has spoken to me about its involving something more, should 
 he obtain it," she continued, after a pause.
 
 THE DREAD COME HOME TO MR. CHATTAWAY. 423 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Chattaway, without surprise. " Well ? " 
 " He wants us to give him Maude." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway let fall his pen, and it made a dreadful blot 
 on his account-book, as he turned his head sharply on Miss 
 Diana. 
 
 " Maude ! You mean Octave." 
 
 " Pooh ! " cried Miss Diana. " Octave has been spending 
 her years looking after a mare's nest : people who do such 
 foolish things must of necessity encounter disappointment. 
 George Ryle has never cared for her, never cast a thought to 
 her." 
 
 ]\Ir. Chattaway's face was turning its disagreeable colour, 
 green ; and his lips were drawn as he glared on Miss Trevlyn. 
 " He has been always coming here." 
 
 " Yes. For Maude — as it turns out. I confess I never 
 tliought of it." 
 
 " How do you know this ? " 
 
 "He has asked for Maude, I tell you. His hopes for years 
 have been fixed upon her." 
 
 " He shall never have her," said Mr. Chattaway, emphatically. 
 " He shall never have the Upland Farm." 
 
 " It was the decision — with regard to INIaude — that crossed 
 me in the first moment. I like him ; quite well enough to give 
 him Maude, or to give him Octave, had she been the one . 
 
 sought ; but I do not consider his position suitable " 
 
 " Suitable ! Why, he's a beggar," interrupted Mr. Chatta- 
 way, completely losing sight of his own intentions with regard 
 to his daughter. " George Ryle shall smart for this. Give him 
 Maude, indeed ! " 
 
 "But if Maude's happiness shall be involved in it, what 
 then?" quietly asked Miss Diana. 
 
 " Don't be an idiot," was the retort of Mr. Chattaway. 
 " I never was one yet," said ]\Iiss Diana, equably. " But I 
 have nearly made up my mind to give him ]\Iaude." 
 
 "You cannot do it without my consent. She is under my 
 roof and guardianship, and I tell you that she shall never leave 
 it for that of George Ryle." 
 
 " You should bring a little reason to your aid before you 
 speak," returned Miss Diana, with that calm assumption of in- 
 tellectual superiority which so vexed Mr. Chattaway whenever 
 it peeped out. " What are the true facts ? ^^'hy, that no 
 living being, neither you nor any one else, can legally prevent 
 Maude from marrying Avhom she will. You have no power to
 
 424 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 prevent it. She and Rupert have never had a legally-appointed 
 guardian, remember. But for the loss of that letter, written at 
 the instance of their mother when she was dying, and which 
 appears to have vanished in so mysterious a manner, /should 
 have been their guardian," pointedly concluded Miss Diana. 
 " And might have married Maude as I pleased." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway made no reply, except that he nervously bit 
 his lips. If Diana Trevlyn turned against him, all seemed lost. 
 That letter was upon his conscience, then, as he sat ; for he it 
 was who had suppressed it. 
 
 "And therefore, as in point of fact we have no power what- 
 ever vested in us, as Maude might marry whom she chose with- 
 out consulting us, and as I like George Ryle on his own 
 account, and s/ie likes him better than the whole world, I con- 
 sider that we had better give a willing consent. It will be 
 making a merit of necessity, you see, Chattaway." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway saw nothing of the sort ; but he dared not too 
 openly defy Miss Trevlyn. "You would marry her to a beg- 
 gar ! " he cried. " To a man who does not possess a shilling ! 
 You must have a great regard for her ! " 
 
 " Maude has no money, you know." 
 
 " I do know it. And that is all the more reason why her 
 husband should possess some." 
 
 "They will get along, Chattaway, at the Upland Farm." 
 
 " I dare say they will — when they get it. I shall not lease 
 the Upland Farm to a man who has to borrow money to go 
 into it." 
 
 " I might be brought to obviate that difficulty," rejoined Miss 
 Diana, in her coldest and hardest manner, as she gazed full at 
 Mr, Chattaway. "Since I learnt that their mother left the 
 children to me, I have felt a sort of proprietary right in them, 
 and shall perhaps hand over to Maude, when she leaves us, 
 sufficient money to stock the Upland Farm. The half at least 
 of what I possess will some time be hers." 
 
 Was ////> the result of his having suppressed that dying 
 mother's letter? Be you very sure, Mr. Chattaway, that such 
 dealings can never prosper ! So long as there is a just and 
 good God above us, they can but bring their proper recompense. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway did not trust himself to reply. Fie drew a 
 sheet of paper towards him, and dashed off a few lines upon 
 it. It was a peremptory refusal to lease the Upland Farm to 
 George Ryle. Folding it, he placed it in an envelope directed 
 it. and rang the bell.
 
 THE DREAD COME HOME TO MR. CHATTAWAY. 425 
 
 " What's that ? " asked Miss Diana. 
 
 " My reply to Ryle. He shall never rent the Upland Farm." 
 
 In Mr. Chattaway's impatience, he did not give time for the 
 bell to be answered, but opened the door and shouted. It was 
 no one's business in particular to answer that bell ; and Sam 
 Atkins, who was in the kitchen, waiting for orders from Cris, 
 ran forward at the sound of Mr. Chattaway's call. 
 
 "Take this letter down to Trevlyn Farm instantly," was the 
 command of Mr. Chattaway. "Instantly, do you hear?" 
 
 But in the very act of the groom's taking it from Mr. Chat- 
 taway's hand, there came that violent ring at the hall-door of 
 wliich you have heard. Sam Atkins, thinking possibly the 
 Hold might be on fire, as the ricks had been not so long ago, 
 flew to open it, though it was not his place to do so. 
 
 And INIr. Chattaway, disturbed by the loud and imperative 
 ring, stood where he was, and looked and listened. He saw 
 the entrance of the stranger, and heard the colloquy; heard 
 the announcement of the name : " Squire Trevlyn, of Trevl)'n 
 Hold." 
 
 Miss Diana Trevlyn heard it, and came forth, and they stood 
 like two living petrifactions, gazing at the apparition. Miss 
 Diana, strong-minded woman that she was, did think for the 
 moment that she saw her father. But her senses came to her, 
 and she walked slowly forward to meet him. 
 
 " You must be my brother, Rupert Trevlyn ! — risen from the 
 dead." 
 
 " I am ; but not risen from the dead," he answered, taking 
 the hands she held out. " Which of them are you ? Maude ? " 
 
 " No ; Diana. Oh, Rupert ! I thought it was my father." 
 
 It was indeed him whom they had for so many years believed 
 to be dead ; the runaway, Rupert Trevlyn. He had come home 
 to claim his own ; come home in his true character : Squire 
 Trevlyn, of Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 But i\Ir. Chattaway, in his worse and wildest dreams, had 
 never bargained for this !
 
 4^6 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST. 
 
 Many a painting has been handed down to posterity whose 
 features bore not a tithe of the interest that was presented at 
 that moment in the old hall of the Trevlyns. The fine figure 
 of the stranger, standing with the air of a chieftain, of a master, 
 of one who is conscious of his own power of right ; the keen 
 gaze of Miss Diana, regarding him with puzzled equanimity; 
 the gradual backing of the servant, as one scared, who will not 
 leave the scene, and yet scarcely dares stay in it ; and the slow 
 horror of conviction that was rising to the face of Mr. Chatta- 
 way. And there, behind all, stealing into the hall by a side- 
 door, came the timid steps, the pale questioning looks of Mrs. 
 Chattaway, not certain yet whether the intruder was an earthly 
 or a ghostly visitor. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway was the first to recover himself. He looked 
 at the stranger with a face that strove to be a haughty one : he 
 would have given the whole world to possess the calm equa- 
 nimity of the Trevlyns, the unchanged countenance of Miss 
 Diana ; but his leaden face wore its worst and greenest tinge, 
 and his lips had a quiver in them as he spoke — and he was 
 conscious of it. 
 
 " Whom do you say you are? Squire Trevlyn? He has 
 been in his grave long ago. We do not tolerate impostors 
 here." 
 
 " I hope you do' not," was the reply of the stranger, turning 
 his face full on the speaker. " / will not in future, I can tell 
 you that. True, James Chattaway : one Squire Trevlyn is in 
 his grave ; but he lives again in me. I am Rupert Trevlyn, 
 and the Squire of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Yes, it was Rupert Trevlyn. The young Rupert Trevlyn of 
 the old days ; the runaway heir. He, whom they had so long 
 mourned as dead (though perhaps there had not been much 
 mourning in it), never had been dead, and now had come 
 home, after all these years, to claim his own. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway backed against the wall, and stood there 
 staring with his livid face. To contend was impossible. To 
 affect to believe that it was not Rupert Trevlyn and the true 
 heir, the next in legal succession to his father, the old Squire
 
 DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST. 42J 
 
 would have been utter child's play. The well-remembered 
 features of Rupert, the heir, grew upon his memory one by one. 
 Putting aside that speaking likeness to the Squire, to the Trev- 
 lyns generally, Mr. Chattaway, now that the first moments of 
 surprise were over, would have recognized him himself. He 
 needed not the acknowledgment of Miss Diana, the sudden 
 recognition of his wife, who darted forward, uttering her 
 brother's name, and fell sobbing in his arms, to convince 
 him that it was indeed Rupert Trevlyn, the indisputable master 
 from henceforth of Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 He leaned against the wall, and took in all the despair of his 
 position. The latent fear, nay, the conviction, so long seated 
 in his heart, that he would some time lose Trevlyn Hold, had 
 never pointed to ////>. Mr. Chattaway, in some far-away corner 
 of his mind, had looked vaguely forward to lawsuits and con- 
 tentions between him and its claimant, poor Rupert, son of Joe. 
 He had surmised that the lawsuits might last for years, he 
 meanwhile keeping possession, perhaps up to the end. He 
 had never expected to have it suddenly wrested from him by 
 indisputable and lawful right ; he had never believed that he 
 himself was the usurper ; that a nearer heir, and a direct one, 
 the Squire's son, was in existence. Poor Rupert, whom he had 
 plotted against, had never yet been the heir. Joe Trevlyn, the 
 dead, had never been the heir. Rupert, the elder son, had 
 been all the time in existence. He had now come, not as a 
 claimant, not as the heir, but as the master ; and he, Chatta- 
 way, could not gainsay it. The Squire's will, leaving Trevlyn 
 Hold to his eldest son, had never been cancelled. The codicil 
 gave it to Chattaway only in the event of his death and his 
 brother Joe's. Chattaway only came in q//er them. 
 
 There is an old adage to the effect that misfortune never 
 comes from the quarter in which it is looked for. Most 
 certainly Mr. Chattaway had never looked for it from this. He 
 had dreaded, as you know, poor Rupert ; he had cast impossible 
 doubts on the will of Squire Trevlyn ; he was not sure, but a 
 vague thought had been sometimes upon him that, some time 
 or other, public feeling would so rise against him as to force 
 him to abdicate in favour of Rupert ; but never, in his wildest 
 imaginings, had he cast a thought to the possibility of the 
 direct owner, Rupert Trevlyn, being alive. He had believed 
 him as certainly dead as the old Squire whom he had seen 
 nailed down in his coffin. 
 
 And this was the explanation of the letters from Connell,
 
 428 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Connell, and Ray, which had so annoyed Mr. Chattaway and 
 puzzled his wife. " Rupert Trevlyn was about to take up his 
 own again — as Squire of Trevlyn Hold." True; but it was 
 this Rupert Trevlyn, not that. It may be that Mr. Chattaway's 
 harsh feeling towards poor Rupert, the dependant, was some- 
 what softened by the thought of how powerless he had been 
 to work him any harm in his possessions— as powerless as he 
 himself now was to work harm to the returned fugitive, hence- 
 forth the legal owner of Trevlyn. 
 
 The explanation he might have entered into, that returned 
 man, is of little moment to us ; the bare fact is sufficient — that 
 he had come, in life. It Avas an explanation he gave but 
 partially to those around, descending to no details. It was 
 true that he had been shipwrecked at the time of his supposed 
 death, and he knew that an account of his death had been sent 
 home. Why he had suffered it to remain uncontradicted he 
 did not explain ; and they could only surmise that the crime in 
 which he had been a suspected sharer tied his tongue. How- 
 ever innocent he knew himself to be, whilst others at home 
 believed him guilty he was not safe, and he had never known 
 until recently that his reputation had been cleared. So much 
 he did say. He had been half over the world, he said, but had 
 lived chiefly in South America, where he had made a handsome 
 fortune. 
 
 " And whose children are these ? " he asked, as he passed 
 into the drawing-room, where the sea of wondering faces was 
 turned upon him. " You should be James Chattaway's daugh- 
 ter," he cried, singling out Octave, " for you have the face of 
 your father over again." 
 
 " I am Miss Chattaway," she repellently answered, drawing 
 from him with a scornful gesture. " Papa," she whispered, 
 going up to the cowed, shrinking figure, who had followed in 
 the wake of the rest, " who is that man?" 
 
 " Hush, Octave ! He has come to turn us out of our home." 
 
 Octave gazed as one suddenly blinded. She saw the strange 
 likeness to the Trevlyns, and it flashed into her mind that it 
 must be the Uncle Rupert, risen from the supposed dead, of 
 whom she had heard so much. She saw him notice her two 
 sisters ; she saw him turn to Maude, lift her face with his hands, 
 and gaze on it. 
 
 " You should be a Trevlyn. A softer and fairer face than 
 Joe's, but the same outlines. What is your name, my dear ? " 
 
 " Maude Trevlyn, sir, "
 
 DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST. 429 
 
 " Ay. Joe's child. Have you any brothers or sisters ? " 
 
 " One brother." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn — we must give him his title henceforth — 
 looked round the room, as if in search of the brother. " Where 
 is he ? " 
 
 Maude shivered ; but he waited for an answer, and she gave 
 it. " He is not here, sir." 
 
 "And now tell me a little of bygones," he cried, wheeling 
 round on his sister Diana. "Who is the reigning master of 
 Trevlyn Hold ? " 
 
 She indicated Mr. Chattaway with her finger. " He is." 
 
 " He ! Who succeeded my father — in my place ? " 
 
 " He did. Mr. Chattaway." 
 
 " Then where was Joe ? " 
 
 " Joe was dead. He had died a few months previously." 
 
 " Leaving — how many children did you say — Two ? " 
 
 " Two — Maude and Rupert." 
 
 " The latter still an infant, I presume, at the time of my 
 father's death ? " 
 
 " Quite an infant." 
 
 "Nevertheless, he was the Squire of Trevlyn Hold, failing 
 me. Why did he not succeed ? " 
 
 There came no answer. He looked at them all in succes- 
 sion : but even Miss Diana Trevlyn's undisturbable equanimity 
 was shaken for the moment. It w^as Mr. Chattaway who plucked 
 up courage to reply, and he put on as bold a front as he 
 could. 
 
 " Squire Trevlyn judged it well to will the estate to me. 
 What would a child in long petticoats do, reigning at Trevl}n 
 Hold ? " 
 
 " He might have reigned by deputy. Where is Rupert ? I 
 must see him ? " 
 
 But had they been keen observers they might have detected 
 that Squire Trevlyn put the questions not altogether with tlie 
 tone of a man who seeks information through ignorance. In 
 point of fact he was as wise as they were as to the principal 
 events which had followed on the Squire's death. He had 
 remained in London two or three weeks since landing; had 
 gathered all the information that could be afiForded him by 
 Council and Connell, and had himself dictated the letters 
 which had so upset Mr. Chattaway ; more than that, he had, 
 this very morning, halted at Barmester, on his way to Trevlyn 
 Hold, had seen Mr. Peterby, and gleaned many details. One
 
 430 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 thing Mr. Peterby had not been able to tell him, whether the 
 unfortunate Rupert was living or dead. 
 
 "Wliere is Maude?" he suddenly asked. 
 
 Maude stepped forward, somewhat surprised. 
 
 " Not you, child. One who must be thirty good years older 
 than you. My sister, Maude Trevlyn." 
 
 " She married Thomas Ryle, of the Farm, Rupert," answered 
 Miss Diana, who had rapidly determined to be the best of 
 friends with her brother. " It was not a proper match for her, 
 and she entered upon it without our consent ; nay, in defiance 
 of us all. She lives there still ; and — and — here — she — is ! " 
 
 For once in her life Miss Diana was startled into betraying 
 surprise. There, coming in at the door, was her sister Maude, 
 Mrs. Ryle ; and she had not been at Trevlyn Hold for years and 
 years. 
 
 Nora, keen-witted Nora, had fathomed the mystery as she 
 walked home. That one, so strangely resembling old Squire 
 Trevlyn, must be very closely connected with him, she doubted 
 not, and she worked out the problem. It must be Rupert 
 Trevlyn, come (may it not be said ?) to life again. Before she 
 entered, his features had been traced on her memory, and she 
 hastened to acquaint Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 That lady lost no time in speeding to the Hold. George 
 accompanied her. There was no agitation on her face ; it was 
 a true Trevlyn's in its calm impassivity, but she greeted her 
 brother with words of welcome. 
 
 " I have not been in this house, Rupert, my brother, since 
 its master died ; I would not enter it while a usurper reigned 
 in it. Thank Heaven, you are come. It will end all heart- 
 burnings." 
 
 " Heart-burnings ? of what nature are they ? But who are 
 you?" he broke off, looking at George. And then he raised 
 his hand to lay it on his shoulder, and gazed into his face. 
 " Unless I am mistaken, you are your father's son." 
 
 George laughed at his quaintness. " My father's son, I 
 believe, sir, and people tell me I am like him ; but yet more 
 like my mother. I am George Berkeley Ryle." 
 
 "Is he here?— with you? I and Tom Ryle were good 
 friends once." 
 
 " Here ! " uttered George, with emotion that he could not 
 wholly suppress. " He has been dead for many years. He 
 was killed." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn lifted his hands. " It will all come out to
 
 DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST. 431 
 
 me bit by bit, I suppose : one record of the past, one calamity, 
 after another, Maude " — turning to his sister — " I was in- 
 quiruig of the past. If the Trevlyns have held a name for 
 nothing else in the county, they have held one for justice ; 
 and I want to know how it was that my father — my father and 
 yours — willed away his estate from poor Joe's boy. Good 
 Heavens, Maude," he abruptly broke off, as he caught sight of 
 her face in the red liglit of the declining sun, "how wonder- 
 fully you have grown like my father ! More so even than I 
 have ! " 
 
 It was so. As Mrs. Ryle stood there, haughty, self-possessed, 
 they might have deemed it the old Squire over again. " You 
 want to know why my father willed away his estate from Joe's 
 son ? " she said. " Ask Chattaway ; ask Diana Trevlyn," with 
 a sweep of the hand to both. " Ask them to tell you who 
 kept it from him that a son was born to Joe. They did. The 
 Squire made his will, went to his grave, never knowing that 
 young Rupert was born. Ask them to tell you how it was 
 that, when in accordance with this ignorance the will was 
 made, my father constituted his second daughter's husband his 
 heir, instead of my husband ; mine, liis eldest daughter's. Ask 
 it them, Rupert." 
 
 " Heart-burnings ? Yes, I can understand that there have 
 been heart-burnings," murmured Squire Trevelyn. 
 
 " Ask him — Chattaway — about the two thousand pounds 
 debt to Mr. Ryle," she continued, never flinching from her 
 stern gaze, never raising her voice above its calm tones of low, 
 concentrated indignation. "You have just said that you and 
 Tom Ryle were friends, Rupert. Yes, you were friends ; and 
 had you reigned after my father, he, my husband, would not 
 have been hunted to his death." 
 
 " Maude ! What are you saying ?" 
 
 " The truth. Wherever that man Chattaway could lay his 
 hand of oppression, he has laid it. He pursued my husband 
 incessantly during his life ; it was through that pursuit — inad- 
 vertently, I admit — that he met his death. The debt of two 
 thousand pounds, money which had been lent to INIr. Ryle, 
 he, my father, cancelled on his death-bed ; he made my 
 husband a present of it \ he would have handed him the bond 
 then and there, but it was in Chattaway's possession, and he 
 said he would send it to him. It never was sent, Rupert ; 
 and the first use Chattaway made of his new power when he 
 came into the Hold, was to threaten to sue my husband upon
 
 432 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 the bond. The Squue had given my husband his word to 
 renew the lease on the same terms, and you know that his 
 word was never gone from. The second thing Chattaway did 
 was to raise the rent. It has been nothing but uphill work 
 with us." 
 
 '' I'll right it now, Maude," he cried, with all the generous 
 impulse of the Trevlyns. " I'll right that, and all else." 
 
 " We have righted it for ourselves/' she answered proudly. 
 " By dint of perseverance, and hard work, not on my part, but 
 on his " — pointing to George — " we have paid it off. Not 
 many days ago, the last instalment of the debt apd interest 
 was handed to Chattaway. May it do him good ! / should 
 not like to grow rich upon unjust gains." 
 - " But where is Rupert ? " repeated Squire Trevlyn. " I 
 must see Rupert." 
 
 Ah, there was no help for it, and the whole tale was poured 
 into his ear. Between Mrs. Ryle's revelations on the one side, 
 and Chattaway's denials on the other, it was all poured into 
 the indignant but perhaps not surprised ear of the new master 
 of T.revlyn. The unkindness and oppression dealt out to 
 Rupert through his unhappy life, its terrible ending of the 
 burning of the rick, of the strange disappearance of Rupert. 
 He gave no token that he had heard it all before. Mrs. Ryle 
 spared nothing. She told him of the suspicion so freely dealt 
 out by the neighbourhood that Chattaway had made away 
 with Rupert. Even then the Squire returned no sign that he 
 knew of the suspicion as well as they did. 
 
 " Maude," he said, " where is Rupert ? Diana, you answer 
 me — where is Rupert ? " 
 
 They were unable to answer. They could only say that -he 
 was absent, and they knew not how or where. 
 
 It may be that Squire Trevlyn feared the suspicion might be 
 too true a one ; for he turned suddenly on James Chattaway, 
 his eye flashing with a severe light 
 
 *' Tell me where the boy is." 
 
 " I don't know where he is," said Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 *' He may be dead ! " 
 
 " He may — for all I can tell to the contrary." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn paused. " Rupert Trevlyn is my heir," he 
 slowly said, " and I will have him found. James Chattaway, I 
 insist on your producing Rupert." 
 
 " Nobody can insist upon an impossibility." 
 
 * Then listen. You don't know much of me, but you knew
 
 DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST. 433 
 
 my father ; and you may remember that when he willed a 
 thing, he did it : that same spirit is mine. Now I register a 
 vow that if you do not produce Rupert Trevlyn, or tell me 
 where I may find him, dead or alive, I will publicly charge you 
 with the murder." 
 
 " I have as much cause to charge you with it, as you have 
 to charge me," returned Mr. Chattaway, his anger rising. 
 " You have heard them tell you of my encounter with Rupert 
 on the evening following the examination before the magis- 
 trates. I declare on my sacred word of honour " 
 
 " Your w^ord of honour ! " scornfully apostrophized Mrs. 
 Ryle. 
 
 " That I have never seen Rupert Trevlyn since the moment 
 when I left him on the ground," he continued, turning his 
 dark looks on Mrs. Ryle, but never pausing. " I have sought 
 in vain for him since ; the police have sought ; and he is not 
 to be found." 
 
 " Very well," said the Squire. " I have given you the 
 alternative." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway opened his mouth to reply ; but to the sur- 
 prise of all who knew him, suddenly closed it again, and left 
 the room. To describe the trouble that the man was in would 
 be impossible. Apart from the general perplexity brought to 
 him by this awful arrival of a master for Trevlyn Hold, there 
 was the minor doubt as to what should be his own conduct. 
 Should it be abject submission ? or war to the knife ? Mr. 
 Chattaway's temper would have inclined him decidedly to the 
 latter course ; but he feared it might be bad policy for his 
 self-interest ; and self-interest had always been paramount with 
 James Chattaway. Should he dispute for Trevlyn Hold with 
 this new-comer ? or should he submissively yield ? He stood 
 outside the house, where he had wandered, and cast his eyes 
 on the fine old place, on the fair domain stretching around. 
 Right in face of him was the rick-yard, which had given rise 
 to so much discomfort, trouble, and ill-feeling. Oh, if he 
 could only dispute it successfully, and retain possession of it ! 
 But there lay a conviction in his heart, that even to attempt 
 such would be the height of folly. That he, thus returned, 
 was really the true Rupert Trevlyn, who had decamped in his 
 youth, now grown into a middle-aged man, was apparent as 
 the sun at noon-day. It was clearly apparent to him, Mr. 
 Chattaway : it would be apparent to the world. The returned 
 wanderer had remarked that his identity would be established 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. ^8
 
 43 + 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 by indisputable proof; but Mr. Chattaway felt that there was 
 no proof necessary to establish it. What, then, would be the 
 use of his holding out ? And yet ! to quit this fine possession, 
 to sink into poverty and obscurity in the face and eyes of the 
 local world — that world which had been ready enough, as it 
 was, to cast its contempt on the master of Trevlyn Hold — 
 would be as the very bitterest fate that ever fell upon man. 
 In that cruel moment, when it was pressing upon his imagina- 
 tion with fearfully vivid colours, it seemed that death would be 
 as a boon in comparison. 
 
 While he was thus standing, torn with contending emotions, 
 Cris ran up in excitement from the direction of the stables. 
 He had been leaving his horse there on his return from Black- 
 stone, and some vague and confused version of the affair had 
 been told to him. " What's this, father ? " he asked, in 
 demonstrative anger. '' They are saying that Rupert Trevlyn 
 has come boldly back, and is laying claim to the Hold. Have 
 you given him into custody ? " 
 
 Mr. Chattaway raised his dull eyes. The question only 
 added to his misery. " Yes, Rupert Trevlyn has come back," 
 he said; "but " 
 
 " Is he in custody ? " impatiently interrupted Cris. " Are the 
 police here ? " 
 
 " It is another Rupert Trevlyn, Cris ; not that one." 
 
 Something in his father's manner, more than the words, struck 
 unpleasantly on the senses of Cris Chattaway, subduing him 
 considerably. " Another Rupert Trevlyn ! " he repeated, in a 
 hesitating tone. " What are you saying ? " 
 
 " The Rupert Trevlyn of old ; the Squire's runagate son ; the 
 heir," said Mr. Chattaway, as if it were a comfort to tell out all 
 the bitter truth. " He has come back to claim his own, Cris — 
 Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 And Mr. Cris fell against the Avail, side by side with his father, 
 and stared in dismayed consternation. " Come back to claim 
 his own!" he mechanically repeated. "Come back to claim 
 Trevlyn Hold ! "
 
 ( 435 ) 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 A VISIT TO RUPERT. 
 
 And what were the emotions of Mrs. Chattaway ? They were 
 of a mixed nature. In spite of the shght comfort which pos- 
 session of the Hold had brought herself individually ; in spite 
 of the feeling of usurpation, of wrong, which had ever rested 
 unpleasantly upon her ; she would have been superior to frail 
 human nature, had not a sense of dismay struck upon her at its 
 being thus suddenly wrested from them. She knew not what 
 her husband's means might be ; whether he had anything or 
 nothing, by saving or otherwise, that he could call his own, 
 apart from the revenues of the Hold : but she did know enough 
 to be sure that it could not be a tithe enough to keep them ; 
 and where were they to go with their helpless daughters ? 
 That these unpleasant considerations floated through her mind 
 in a vague, confused vision was true ; but far above them came 
 a rush of thought, of care, closer to the present hour. Her 
 brother had said — and there was a determination not to be 
 mistaken in his tone — that unless Mr. Chattaway produced 
 Rupert Trevlyn, he should publicly charge him with the 
 murder. Nothing but the strongest control exercised upon 
 herself could have restrained Mrs. Chattaway from starting 
 forward and avowing all, when she heard this. Mr. Chattaway 
 was a man not held in the world's favour, but he was her 
 husband ; and in her eyes his faults and failings had ever 
 appeared in a venial light. She would have given much to 
 stand out and say, " You are accusing my husband wrongfully ; 
 Rupert is alive, and I am conceahng him." 
 
 But she did not dare to do this. That very husband would 
 have replied, " Then I order Rupert into custody — how dared 
 you conceal him ? " She took an opportunity of whispering a 
 question to George Ryle of the meaning of the warning he had 
 despatched to her by Nora. George himself could not explain 
 it. He had met Bowen accidentally, and the officer had told 
 him in confidence that they had received a mysterious hint 
 that Rupert Trevlyn was not far off — hence George's warning 
 to Mrs. Chattaway. It w-as to turn out that the other Rupert 
 Trevlyn had been spoken of : but neither Bowen nor George 
 knew this.
 
 436 TREVLYN HOLD 
 
 George Ryle, sound of judgment, clear of perception, rapidly 
 drew his own conclusion from this return of Squire Trevlyn : 
 it would be the preservation of Rupert ; it was the very best 
 thing that could have happened for him. It may be said, the 
 only thing. The tether had been lengthened out to its extreme 
 limits, and to keep him much longer where he was, in conceal- 
 ment, would be an impossibility : or, if they so kept him, it 
 would be his death. George Ryle saw that a powerful pro- 
 tector for Rupert might arise in Squire Trevlyn. 
 
 " He must be told the truth," he whispered to Mrs. Chatta- 
 way. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps it may be better," she answered. " But I 
 dare not tell him. Will you undertake it, feeling your ground 
 as you go on ? " 
 
 He nodded, and began to wonder what excuse he could in- 
 vent for seeking a private conference with the newly-returned 
 Squire. But while he plotted and planned, Maude rendered it 
 unnecessary. 
 
 By a tacit idea of the fitness of things, the state-rooms at the 
 Hold, generally kept for visitors, were assigned by Miss Diana 
 to her brother. He was shown to them, and was in the act of 
 gazing from the window at the well-remembered features of the 
 old domain, when there stole in upon him one, white and tear- 
 less, but with a terrified imploring despair in her countenance, 
 if he ever saw despair. 
 
 " Maude, my child, what is it ? I like your face, my dear, 
 and I must have you henceforth for my very own child ? " 
 
 " Not me, Uncle Rupert ; never mind me," she said, the 
 loving tone telling upon her breaking heart and bringing forth 
 a gush of tears. " If you will only love my brother Rupert ! — 
 if you will only get Mr. Chattaway to pardon him ! " 
 
 *' But he may be dead, child." 
 
 " Uncle Rupert, if he were not dead — if you found him now 
 — to-day," she reiterated, gazing up through her blinding tears 
 — " would you deliver him up to justice ? Oh, Uncle Rupert, 
 don't blame him ; don't visit it upon him ! It was the Trevlyn 
 temper, and Mr. Chattaway should not have provoked it by 
 beating him," 
 
 "/blame him ! I deliver a Trevlyn up to justice ! " echoed 
 Squire Trevlyn, with a threatening touch of the Trevlyn temper 
 at that very moment. " What are you saying, child ? If Ru- 
 pert is in life, he shall have his wrongs righted from henceforth. 
 Rubbish as to the cost of a burnt rick ! The ricks were mine,
 
 VISIT TO RUPERT. 437 
 
 in point of fact, not Chattaway's. Rupert Trevlyn is my iieir, 
 and shall be recognized and received as such." 
 
 She sank down before him and laid her head upon his 
 knees, crying softly with the relief his words brought to her. 
 Squire Trevlyn placed his hand on her pretty hair, caressingly. 
 " Don't grieve so, child ; he may not be dead. I'll find him 
 if he is to be found. I'll look up the police. They shall 
 know they have a Squire Trevlyn amongst them again." 
 
 "Uncle Rupert" — and she locked her trembling fingers 
 nervously within his as she spoke, and lifted her wet eyes to 
 his face — "I can tell you where Rupert is. He is very near; 
 lying in concealment — lying ill — almost dying. We have not 
 dared to tell of it, and the secret is nearly killing us." 
 
 He listened in amazement , he questioned her until he 
 gathered the comprehensive facts, not yet the details. " Who 
 has known of this, do you say ? " 
 
 " My aunt Edith, and I, and the doctor ; and — and — George 
 Ryle." 
 
 The consciousness with which the last name was brought 
 out, the sudden blush on the downcast cheeks, whispered a 
 tale to Squire Trevlyn. 
 
 " Halloa, Miss Maude ! I read a secret. That will not do, 
 you know. I cannot spare you from the Hold for all the 
 George Ryles in the world. You must be its mistress." 
 
 " My aunt Diana will be that," murmured Maude, with a 
 hidden face. 
 
 " That she never shall while I am its master," was the re- 
 joinder, spoken emphatically. "If Diana could look quietly 
 on and see her father deceived, or help to deceive him ; see 
 Chattaway usurp the Hold to the exclusion of Joe's son, and 
 join in the wickedness ; she has forfeited all claim in courtesy 
 to it : she shall neither reign in it nor reside in it. No, my 
 little Maude, you must live with me, the mistress of Trevlyn 
 Hold." 
 
 Maude's tears were flowing in silence. She kept her head 
 down. 
 
 "What is George Ryle to you?" somewhat sternly asked 
 Squire Trevlyn. " Do you love him ? " 
 
 " I had no one else to love : they were not kind to me — ex- 
 cept my aunt Edith," was her murmured answer. 
 
 He sat playing with her hair as it lay on his knee, his head 
 bent in thought. "Is he a good man, Maude ? Upright- 
 honourable — just ? "
 
 438 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " That, and more," she softly whispered. 
 
 " And I suppose you love him ? Would it quite break your 
 heart, now, were I to issue my edict that you should never have 
 him ; to say you must turn him over to Octave Chattaway ? " 
 
 It was only a random word. Maude took it differently, and 
 she lifted for a moment her glowing face. " But he does not 
 like Octave ! It is Octave who likes " 
 
 She had spoken in impulse, and now that recollection came 
 to her she faltered. Squire Trevlyn, undignified as it was, 
 broke into a subdued, prolonged whistle. 
 
 " I see, young lady. And so, Mr. George has had the taste 
 to like some one better than Octave. Well, perhaps I should 
 do so, in his place." 
 
 " But about Rupert ? " she pleaded. 
 
 " Ah, about Rupert. I must go at once and see him. Mark 
 Canhara stared at me as I came through the gate just now, as 
 one scared out of his wits. He must have been puzzled by the 
 likeness." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn went down to the hall, and was putting on 
 his hat when they came flocking around, asking whether he was 
 going out, offering to accompany him, Diana requesting him to 
 wait whilst she put on her bonnet. But he waved them off : 
 he would prefer to stroll out alone, he said ; he might look in 
 and have a talk with some of his father's old dependants — if 
 any of them were left. 
 
 George Ryle was standing outside, deliberating upon how he 
 should convey the communication, little thinking that it had 
 already been done. Squire Trevlyn came up, and passed his 
 arm within his. 
 
 " I am going to the lodge," he remarked. "You may know 
 why, and whom I want to see there ? " 
 
 " You have heard, then ! " exclaimed George. 
 
 "Yes. From Maude. By-the-by, Mr. George, Avhat secret 
 understanding is there between you and that young lady?" 
 
 George looked surprised ; but he was not one to lose his 
 equanimity. " It is no longer a secret, sir. I have confided 
 it to Miss Diana. If Mr. Chattaway will grant me the lease of 
 a farm that I want, I shall speak to him." 
 
 " Mr. Chattaway ! The farms don't belong to him now, but 
 to me." 
 
 George laughed. " Yes, I forgot. I must come to you for 
 it, sir. I want to take the Upland." 
 
 " And you would like to take Maude with it ? "
 
 A VISIT TO RUPERT. 439 
 
 " Oh yes ! I must take her with it." 
 
 " Softly, sir. Maiuie belongs to me, just as the farms do : 
 and I can tell you for your consolation, and you must make 
 the best of it, that I cannot spare her from the Hold. There ; 
 that's enough. I have not come home to have my will dis- 
 puted : I am a true Trevlyn." 
 
 A somewhat uncomfortable silence ensued, and lasted until 
 they reached the lodge. Squire Trevlyn entered it without 
 ceremony. Old Mark, who was sitting before the hearth 
 apparently in deep thought, turned his head, saw who was 
 coming in, rose as quickly as his rheumatism allowed him, and 
 stared as if he saw an apparition. 
 
 " Do you know me, Mark ? " 
 
 " To my dazed eyes it looks like the Squire," was Mark's 
 answer, slowly shaking his head, after the manner of one 
 thunderstruck. " But I know that it canna be. I stood at 
 these gates as he was carried out to his last home i' the church- 
 yard at Barbrook. The Squire was older, too." 
 
 " The Squire left a son, Mark." 
 
 "No!" burst forth the old man, after a pause, as the light 
 flashed upon him. "Sir — sir! You can surely never be the 
 young heir, Mr. Rupert, that we have all mourned for as 
 dead ? " 
 
 " Do you remember the young heir's features, Mark ? " 
 
 "Ay, I have never forgot 'em, sir." 
 
 "Then look at mine." 
 
 There was doubt no longer; and Mark Canham, in his 
 enthusiastic joy, attempted to kneel, forgetting his rheumatism. 
 He brought himself up with a groan. " I be fit for nothing 
 now but to nurse my rheumatiz, sir. And you be the true 
 Rupert Trevlyn ! You'll be the Squire from henceforth ? Oh, 
 sir, say it ! " 
 
 "I am the Squire, Mark," was the answer. "But I came 
 here to see another Rupert Trevlyn — he who will be the Squire 
 after me." 
 
 Old Mark shook his head. He glanced towards the stair- 
 case as he spoke, and dropped his voice to a whisper, as if 
 fearing that it might penetrate to one who was lying there. 
 
 " If he don't get better soon, sir, he'll never live to be the 
 Squire. He's very ill. Circumstances have been agin' him, it 
 can't be denied ; but maybe it was in his constitution from the 
 first to go off, as his father, poor Mr. Joe, went off afore him." 
 
 " Nonsense," said the Squire. " We'll get him well again ! "
 
 440 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "And what of Chattavvay?" asked old Canham. "He'll 
 never forego his vengeance, sir. I have been in mortal fear 
 ever since Master Rupert have been lying here. The fear had 
 some'at o' selfishness in it, maybe," he added, ingenuously ; 
 "for Chattaway, he'd turn me right off, without a minute's 
 warning, happen he come to know of it. He have never liked 
 my being at the lodge at all, sir ; he'd ha' sent me away times 
 and again but for Miss Diana." 
 
 "Ah," said the Squire. "Well, it does not rest with him 
 now. What has he allowed you, Mark ? " 
 
 " Half-a-crown a week, sir." 
 
 " Half-a-crown a week ? " repeated Squire Trevlyn, his mouth 
 curling with displeasure. " How have you lived ? " 
 
 " It haven't been but a poor live at best, sir," was the simple 
 answer. "Ann, she works hard, at home or out, but she don't 
 earn much. Her eyes be bad, sir ; happen you may call to 
 mind as they was always weak and ailing. The Squire he fixed 
 my pay here at five shillings a week, and Chattaway changed 
 it when he come into power. Miss Diana's good to us ; but 
 for her and the bit o' money Ann can earn, I don't see as we 
 could ha' got along at all." 
 
 " Would you like the half-crown changed back again to five 
 shillings, Mark?" 
 
 " I should think it was fortin come to me right off. Squire." 
 
 " Then you may reckon that it has come from this day." 
 
 He moved to the staircase as he spoke, leaving the old man 
 in an ecstasy of delight. Ann Canham, who had shrunk away 
 into hiding, came forward. Her father turned to her triumph- 
 antly. 
 
 " Didn't I tell ye it was the Squire ? And you to go on at 
 me, saying I was gone clean off my wits to think it ! I know'd 
 it was no other." 
 
 "But you said it was the dead Squire, father," was poor 
 Ann's meek response. 
 
 "It's all the same," cried old Canham. "There'll be a 
 Trevlyn at the Hold again ; and our five shillings a week is to 
 come back to us. Bless the Trevlyns ! they was always open- 
 handed." 
 
 " Father, what a dreadful come-down for Chattaway I What 
 will he do? He'll have to turn out." 
 
 " Serve him right ! " shouted Mark. " How many homes 
 have he made empty in his time ! Ann, girl, I have kep' my 
 eyes a bit open through life, in spite of having the limbs
 
 A VISIT TO RUPERT. 441 
 
 cramped with rheumatiz, and I never failed to notice one 
 thing— them who are fond o' making others' homes desolate, 
 generally finds their own desolate afore they die. Law me ! 
 Folks talk o' 'venging themselves agin the oppressor ! Let 'em 
 leave their cause in God's hands. He won't forget. Chatta- 
 way'll get a taste now of what he have been so fond o' dealing 
 out to others— hardship. I hope the bells '11 ring the day he 
 turns out o' the Hold ! " 
 
 " But Madam will have to turn out with him ! " meekly sug- 
 gested Ann Canham. 
 
 It took Mark back. He liked Madam as much as he dis- 
 liked her husband. " Happen something '11 be thought of for 
 Madam," said he. " Maybe the new Squire '11 keep her with 
 him at the Hold." 
 
 George Ryle had gone upstairs, and prepared the wondering 
 Rupert for the appearance of his uncle. As the latter entered, 
 his tall head bowing, his portly form making the stairs creak, 
 he halted in dismay. Nay, in a variety of feelings ; but dismay 
 was perhaps the most prominent. In the fair face bent to- 
 wards him from the bed, the large blue eyes, the bright, falling 
 hair, he believed for the moment he saw the beloved brother 
 Joe of his youth. But in the hollow cheeks with their hectic, 
 the drawn face, the parched and fevered lips, the ghastly 
 hands, the attenuated frame, he read too surely the marks of 
 the disease which had taken off that brother, the death Mark 
 Canham had hinted at ; and a conviction seated itself in the 
 Squire's mind that he must look elsewhere for the heir to 
 Trevlyn. 
 
 " My poor boy ! Joe's boy ! It is this place that is killing 
 you ! " 
 
 " No, Uncle Rupert, it is not that at all. It is the fear." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn could not breathe. He looked up to the one 
 pane, and pushed it open with his stick. The cold air came 
 in, and he seemed relieved, drawing a long breath. But the 
 same current that was grateful to him, found its way to the 
 lungs of Rupert, and he began to cough violently. "It is 
 the draught," panted the poor invalid. 
 
 George Ryle closed the pane again, and the Squire bent 
 over the bed. " We must have you to the Hold at once, 
 Rupert." 
 
 The hectic faded on Rupert's face. " It is not possible," he 
 answered. " Mr. Chattaway would denounce me." 
 
 " Denounce you ! " hotly repeated Squire Trevlvn. " De-
 
 442 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 nounce my nephew and my brother Joe's son ! He had better 
 let me see him attempt it." 
 
 In the impulse, characteristic of the Trevlyns, the Squire 
 turned to descend the stairs. He was going to have Rupert 
 brought home at once. George Ryle followed him, and 
 arrested him in the avenue. 
 
 t " Pardon me, Squire Trevlyn. You must first of all make 
 sure of Chattaway — that he will be harmless. I am not clear 
 also but you must make sure of the police." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " The police have the matter in hand. Can they relinquish 
 it, even for you ? " 
 
 They stood gazing at each other in doubt and discomfort. 
 It was an unpleasant phase of the affair ; and one which had 
 certainly not until that moment presented itself to Squire 
 Trevlyn's view. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY. 
 
 They stood together, deep in dispute — Squire Trevlyn of the 
 Hold, and he who had so long reigned at the Hold, its usurper. 
 In that very rick-yard which had recently played so prominent 
 a part in the career of the unhappy Rupert, stood they: the 
 Squire — bold, towering, haughty; Chattaway — cowardly, shrink- 
 ing, indecisive. 
 
 It was of that very Rupert they were talking. Squire Trev- 
 lyn hastened home from the lodge, and found Chattaway in the 
 rick-yard : he urged upon him the claims of Rupert for forgive- 
 ness, for immunity from the consequences of his crime ; he 
 urged upon him its necessity ; for a Trevlyn^ he said, must not 
 be disgraced. And Mr. Chattaway appeared to be turning 
 obstinate ; to say that he never would forgive him or release 
 him from its consequences. He pointed to the blackened 
 spots, scarcely yet cleared of their debris. " Is a crime like 
 that to be pardoned ? " he asked. 
 
 " What caused the crime ? Who drove him to it ? " And 
 Mr. Chattaway had no plausible answer at hand. 
 
 "When you married into the Trevlyn family, you (as may be 
 said) married into its faults," resumed the Souire. " At any
 
 A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY. 443 
 
 rate, you beccame fully acquainted with them. You knew as 
 much of that failing, the Trevlyn temper, as we ourselves know. 
 I ask you, then, how could you be so unwise — to put the 
 question moderately — as to provoke it in Rupert ? " 
 
 "Evil tempers can be subdued," returned Mr. Chattaway. 
 " And ought to be." 
 
 " Just so. They can be, and they ought to be. But un- 
 fortunately we don't all of us do as we can and ought. Do 
 you ? I have heard say in the old days that James Chattaway's 
 spirit was a sullen one : have you subdued its sullenness ? " 
 
 "I wish you'd not wander from the point, Mr. Trevlyn." 
 
 " I am keeping pretty near to the point. But I can go 
 nearer to it, if you please. How could you, James Chattaway, 
 dare to horsewhip a Trevlyn ? Your wife's nephew, and her 
 brother's son ! Whatever might be the provocation — but, so 
 far as I can learn, there was no just provocation — how came 
 you so far to forget yourself and your temper as to strike him ? 
 One, possessing the tamest spirit ever put into man, might be 
 expected to turn at the cruel insult you inflicted on Rupert. 
 Did you do it with the intention of calling up the Trevlyn 
 temper ? " 
 
 " Nonsense," said T^Ir. Chattaway. 
 
 " It will not do to say nonsense to me. The setting on fire 
 of the rick was your fault, not his ; the crime was led to by 
 you ; and I, the actual owner of those ricks, shall hold you 
 responsible for it. Yes, James Chattaway, those ricks were 
 mine ; you need not disclaim what I say ; the ricks were mine 
 then, as they are now. They have been mine, in point of fact, 
 ever since my father's death. You may rely upon one thing — 
 that had I known the injustice that was being enacted, I should 
 have returned long ago." 
 
 " Injustice ! " cried Mr. Chattaway. " What injustice ? " 
 
 " What injustice ! Heart alive, man, has there been any- 
 thing l>ul injustice? When my father's breath went out of his 
 body, his legitimate successor (in my absence and supposed 
 death) was his grandson Rupert ; this very Rupert whom you 
 have been goading on to ill, perhaps to death. Had my 
 brother Joe lived, would you have allowed Aim to succeed, 
 pray ? " 
 
 " But your brother Joe did not live ; he was dead." 
 
 " You evade the question." 
 
 " It is a question that will answer no end if replied to," cried 
 Mr. Chattaway, biting his thin lips, and feeling very like a man
 
 441 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 who is being driven to bay. " Of course he would have sue* 
 ceeded. But he was dead, and Squire Trevlyn chose to make 
 his will in my favour, and appoint me his successor." 
 
 " Beguiled to it by treachery. He was suffered to go to his 
 grave never knowing that a grandson, a direct heir, was born to 
 him, James Chattaway, were I guilty of the like treachery, I 
 could not rest in my bed. I should dread that the anger of 
 God would be ever coming down upon me." 
 
 "The Squire did well," growled Mr. Chattaway. "What 
 would an infant have done with Trevlyn Hold ? " 
 
 " Granted for a single moment, for the sake of argument, 
 that it had been inexpedient to leave Trevlyn Hold to an infant, 
 it was not to you it should have been left. If Squire Trevlyn 
 must have bequeathed it to a son-in-law, it should have been to 
 him who was the husband of his eldest daughter, Thomas Ryle." 
 
 " Thomas Ryle ! " contemptuously ejaculated Mr. Chattaway. 
 "A poor, hard-working farmer " 
 
 " Don't attempt to disparage Thomas Ryle to me, sir," 
 thundered the Squire ; and the voice, the look, the rising anger 
 were so like the old Squire of the days gone by, that Mr. 
 Chattaway positively recoiled. " Thomas Ryle was a good and 
 honourable man, respected by all ; he was a gentleman by birth 
 and breeding ; he was a gentleman in mind and manners — 
 and that could never be said of you, James Chattaway. Work ! 
 To be sure he worked ; and so did his father. They had to 
 work to live. Their farm was a poor one ; and extra labour 
 had to be bestowed on it to compensate for the money which 
 ought to have been spent upon it, but which they had not got 
 to spend, for their patrimony had dwindled away. They might 
 have taken a more productive farm ; but they preferred to 
 remain upon that one because it was their own, descended to 
 them from their forefathers. It had to be sold at last, but they 
 still remained on it, and they worked, always hoping to make 
 it prosper. You used the word ' work ' as a term of reproach ! 
 Let me tell you, James Chattaway, that if the fact of working 
 is to take the gentle blood out of a man, there will not be much 
 gentle blood left for the next generation. This is a working 
 age, sir ; the world has grown wise, and we most of us work 
 with the hands or with the head. Thomas Ryle's son is a 
 gentleman, if I ever saw one — and I am mistaken if his looks 
 belie his mind — and he works. Do not disparage Thomas 
 Ryle again to me. I think there must lie on your mind a sense 
 of the injury you did him, which induces you to do it."
 
 A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY. 445 
 
 " What injury did I do Thomas Ryle ? " 
 
 " To usurp Trevlyn Hold over him was an injury. It was 
 Rupert's; neither yours nor his; but had it come to one of 
 you, it should have been to liim ; you had no manner of right 
 to it. And what about the two thousand pounds bond ? " 
 
 Squire Trevlyn asked the last question in an altered and very 
 significant tone. Mr. Chattaway's green face grew greener. 
 
 " I held the bond, and I enforced its payment in justice to 
 my wife and children. I could do no less." 
 
 " In justice to your wife and children ! " retorted Squire 
 Trevlyn. " James Chattaway, did a thought ever cross you of 
 God's justice ? I believe from my very heart that my father 
 did cancel that bond upon his dying bed, that he died believing 
 Thomas Ryle released from it ; and that you, in your grasping, 
 covetous nature, kept the bond with an eye to your own profit. 
 Did you forget that the eye of the Great Ruler of all things was 
 upon you, when you pretended to destroy that bond ? The 
 eye of your earthly master, Squire Trevlyn, was soon to be 
 closed in death, and you believed yourself safe from conse- 
 quences ; did you forget that there was another eye, that of 
 your heavenly Master, which could not be closed ? Did you 
 suppose that eye was turned away, averted, when you usurped 
 Trevlyn Hold to the prejudice of Rupert ? Did you think you 
 would be allowed to enjoy it in security to the end ? It may 
 look to you, James Chattaway, as it would to any superficial 
 observer, that there has been wondrous favour shown to you 
 in this long delay of justice. I regard it differently. It seems 
 to me that retribution has overtaken you at the worst time : 
 not the worst for you, possibly, but for your children. By that 
 inscrutable law which we learn in childhood, with the Com- 
 mandments, a man's ill-doings are visited on his children : I 
 fear the result of your ill-doing will be felt by yours. Had you 
 been deposed from Trevlyn Hold at the time you usurped it, 
 or had you not usurped it, your children must have been 
 brought up to play their parts in the busy walks of life ; to 
 earn their own living. As it is, they have been reared to idle- 
 ness and luxury, and will feel their fall in proportion. Your 
 son has lorded it as the heir of Trevlyn Hold, as the future 
 owner of the works at Blackstone, and lorded it, as I hear, in 
 a very offensive manner. He will not like to sink down to a 
 state of dependency ; but he will have to do it." 
 
 " Where have you been gathering your account of things ? " 
 interposed Mr. Chattawav
 
 446 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " Never mind. I have gathered it, and that is sufificient. 
 And now — to go back to Rupert Trevlyn. Will you give me a 
 guarantee that he shall be held harmless ? " 
 
 "No," growled Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 "Then it will be war to the knife between you and me. 
 Mind you — I do not know that there's any necessity to ask 
 you this : as the ricks were not yours, but mine, at the time of 
 the occurrence, you could not, as I believe, become the prose- 
 cutor. But I prefer to be on the safe side. , On the return of 
 Rupert, if you attempt to prosecute him, the first thing that I 
 shall do will be to insist that he prosecutes you for the assault, 
 the horsewhipping, and I shall prosecute you for the usurpation 
 of Trevlyn Hold. So it will be prosecution and counter-prose- 
 cution, you see. Mark you, James Chattaway, I promise you 
 to do this, and you know I am a man of my word. I thmk we 
 had better let bygones be bygones. What are you going to 
 do about the revenues of the Hold ? " 
 
 " The revenues of the Hold ! " stammered Mr. Chattaway, 
 wiping his hot face, for he did not like the question. 
 
 " The past rents up to now. The mesne profits, which you 
 have received and appropriated since Squire Trevlyn's death. 
 Those profits are mine." 
 
 " In law," possibly, was the answer. " Not in justice." 
 
 " Well, we'll go by law," complacently returned the Squire, 
 a spice of mischief in his eye. " Which have you gone by all 
 these years ? Law, or justice ? The law would make you re- 
 fund them to me." 
 
 " The law would be cunning to do it," was the answer. " If 
 I have received the revenues, I have spent them in keeping up 
 Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " You have not spent them all, I suspect : and it would be 
 productive of great trouble and annoyance to you were I to 
 come upon you for them. But now, look you, James Chatta- 
 way : I will be more merciful than you have been to others, 
 and say nothing about them, for my sister Edith's sake. In 
 the full sense of the word, I will let bygones be bygones." 
 
 The ex-master of Trevlyn Hold gazed out from the depths 
 of his dull grey eyes. In point of fact, he was only gazing on 
 vacancy, for every sense he possessed was mentally buried. It 
 might be well to make a friend of the Squire. On the one 
 hand was the long-cherished revenge against his rival Rupert ; 
 on the other was his own self-interest. Should he gratify re- 
 venge, or should he study himself? Ah, you need not ask :
 
 A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY 447 
 
 revenge may be very sweet, but with Mr. Chattaway his own 
 self-interest was sweeter. The scales were not equally balanced, 
 and the one came down with a thump. 
 
 He saw that Squire Trevlyn's heart was set on the pardon of 
 Rupert ; he knew that with him the less he beat about the bush 
 the better ; and he spoke at once. " I'll forgive him," he said. 
 " Rupert Trevlyn behaved infamously, but " 
 
 "Stop, James Chattaway. Pardon him, or don't pardon 
 him, as you please ; but we will have no ill names over it. 
 Rupert Trevlyn shall have none cast at him in my presence." 
 
 " It is of no consequence. He did what he did in the face 
 and eyes of the neighbourhood, and they don't need to be re- 
 minded of what he is." 
 
 " And how have the neighbourhood judged ? " sternly asked 
 Squire Trevlyn. "Which side have they espoused — yours, or 
 his ? Don't talk to me James Chattaway ; I have heard more 
 than you suppose. I know what shame the neighbours have 
 been casting on you for years on the score of Rupert; the 
 double shame they have cast on you since these ricks were 
 fired. Will you pardon him ? " 
 
 " I have said so," was the sullen reply of Mr. Chattaway. 
 
 " Then come and ratify it in writing," rejoined the Squire, 
 turning towards the Hold. 
 
 " You are ready to doubt my word," resentfully spoke Mr. 
 Chattaway, feeling himself considerably aggrieved. 
 
 Squire Trevlyn threw back his head, Trevlyn fashion. It 
 spoke as plainly as ever motion spoke that he did doubt it. As 
 he strode on to the house, Mr. Chattaway in his wake, they 
 came across Cris. Unhappy Cris ! His sun of authority and 
 assumption had set. No longer was he the son of the master 
 of Trevlyn Hold, or the heir of Trevlyn Hold : henceforth Mr. 
 Cris must set his wits to work, and take his share in the active 
 labour of life. He stood leaning over the palings, biting a bit 
 of straw as he gazed at Squire Trevlyn ; but he did not say a 
 word to the Squire or the Squire to him. 
 
 With the aid of pen and ink Mr. Chattaway gave a sort of 
 ungracious promise to pardon Rupert. Of course it had 
 nothing formal in it, but the Squire was satisfied, and put it in 
 his pocket. 
 
 " Which is Rupert's chamber here ? " he asked. " It had 
 better be got ready. Is it an airy one ? " 
 
 "For what purpose is it to be got ready?" returned Mr. 
 Chattaway.
 
 448 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "For him. In case we find him, you know." 
 
 " You would bring him home ? Here ? to my house ? " 
 
 " No ; I bring him home to mine." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's face went quite dark with its pain. In good 
 truth it was Squire Trevlyn's house ; no longer his ; and he may 
 be pardoned for momentarily forgetting the fact. There are 
 brief intervals even in the darkest misery when we lose sight of 
 the present in a gleam of forgetfulness. 
 
 Cris came in. " Dumps the policeman is outside," he said. 
 " Some tale has been carried to the police-station that Rupert 
 Trevlyn has returned, and Dumps has come up to see about it. 
 The felon Rupert ! " pointedly exclaimed Cris. 
 
 " Don't call names, sir," said Squire Trevlyn to him as he 
 went out. "Look here, Mr. Christopher Chattaway," he 
 stopped to add. "You may find it to your advantage possibly 
 to be in my good books ; but that is not the way to get into 
 them ; abuse of my nephew and heir, Rupert Trevlyn, will not 
 recommend you to my favour." 
 
 The police-station had certainly heard a confused story of 
 the return of Rupert Trevlyn, but before Dumps reached the 
 Hold he learnt the wondrous fact that it was another Rupert ; 
 the one so long supposed to be dead ; the real Squire Trevlyn. 
 He had learnt that Mr. Chattaway was no longer master of the 
 Hold, but had gone down to a very humble individual indeed. 
 The moment the Squire appeared he knew Avho he must be, 
 and snatched his hat off. Mr. Dumps was not particularly 
 gifted with the perceptive faculties, but the thought did strike 
 him that it might be to the interest of the neighbourhood gene- 
 rally, including himself and the station, to be on friendly terms 
 with Squire Trevlyn. 
 
 " Did you want me ? " asked the Squire. 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir. It was the other Mr. Rupert Trevlyn 
 that I come up about. He have been so unfortunate as to get 
 into a bit of trouble, sir," added Dumps, who may have deemed 
 that Squire Trevlyn had not yet heard of it. 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," said the Squire. "Mr. Chattaway 
 withdraws from the prosecution. In point of fact, if any one 
 prosecuted it must be myself, since the ricks were mine. But 
 I decline to do so. It is not my intention to prosecute my 
 nephew and heir. Mr. Rupert will be the Squire of Trevlyn 
 Hold when I am gone." 
 
 "Will he though, sir?" said Mr. Dumps, humbly. 
 
 " He will. You may tell your people at the station that I
 
 A CONVERSATION WITH ]\IR. CHATTAWAY. 449 
 
 put up with the loss of the ricks What do you say— the 
 magistrates ? The present magistrates and I were boys to- 
 gether, Mr. Policeman ; companions ; and they'll be glad to 
 sec me home again : you need not trouble your head about 
 the magistrates. You are all new at the police-station, I 
 expect, smce I left the country — in fact, I forget whether there 
 was such a thing as a police-station then — but you may tell 
 your superiors there that it is not the custom of tlie Squires of 
 Trevlyn to proclami what they cannot carry out. The prosecu- 
 tion of Rupert Trevlyn is at an end, and it never ought to have 
 been instituted." 
 
 " Please, sir, I didn't have nothing to do with instituting of it." 
 " Of course not. I am sure the police have not been in the 
 least to blame. I shall walk down to-night, or to-morrow morn- 
 ing, to the station, and put things on a right footing. Your 
 name is Dumps, I think ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is, sir — at your service." 
 
 "Well, Dumps, that's for yourself: hush! not a word. It's 
 not given to you as a policeman, but as an honest man to 
 whom I wish to offer an earnest of my future favour. And 
 now you come into the Hold, and take something to eat and 
 drink." 
 
 The gratified Dumps, hardly knowing whether he stood on 
 his head or his heels, and inwardly vowing eternal allegiance 
 to the new Squire from henceforth, stepped into the Hold, and 
 was consigned to the hospitality of the lower regions. Mr. 
 Chattaway groaned in agony when he heard the kindly orders 
 of the Squire echoing through the hall — to put before Mr. 
 Dumps everything that was good in the house to eat and drink. 
 That is, he would have groaned, but for the negative comfort of 
 recollecting that the Hold and its contents belonged to another, 
 and not to him. 
 
 How strange it all was at the Hold — how unsettled ! it may- 
 be said, how uncomfortable ; for there was the discomfort which 
 arises from strangeness. The young ladies stood peeping and 
 listening : Octave came out as Dumps descended, and stared 
 stealthily — it was strange to hear the tones of authority from 
 other than her father or Miss Diana. As the Squire was turn- 
 ing round, he encountered Diana. 
 
 " I have been inquiring after my nephew's chamber. Is it 
 an airy one ? " 
 
 "Your nephew's?" repeated Miss Diana, not understanding. 
 "Do you mean Christopher's?" 
 
 Trevlyn Hold. 29
 
 450 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '* I mean Rupert's. Let me see it."' 
 
 He stepped up the stairs as he spoke, with the air of a man 
 who was not born to contradiction. Miss Diana followed, 
 wonderingly. The room she showed him was high up, and 
 very small. The Squire threw his head back. 
 
 " This his room ? I see ! it has been all of a piece. This 
 room was a servant's in my time. I am surprised at you, 
 Diana." 
 
 " It is a sufficiently comfortable room," she answered : " and 
 I used occasionally to indulge him with a fire in it. Rupert 
 never complained." 
 
 " No, poor fellow ! complaint would be of little use from 
 him, and that he knew. Is there a large chamber in the house 
 unoccupied ? one that would do for an invalid." 
 
 " The only large spare rooms in the house are the two given 
 to you," replied Miss Diana. " They are the best, as you know, 
 and have been kept vacant for visitors. The dressing-room may 
 be used as a sitting-room." 
 
 " I don't want it as a sitting-ropm, or a dressing-room 
 either," was the reply of the Squire. " I like to dress in my 
 bedroom, and there are enough sitting-rooms downstairs for 
 me. Let this bed of Rupert's be carried down to that room 
 at once." 
 
 "Who for?" 
 
 " For one who ought to have occupied the best rooms from 
 the first — Rupert. Had he been treated as he ought to be, 
 Diana, he would not have brought this disgrace upon him- 
 self." 
 
 Miss Diana was wondering whether her ears deceived her. 
 "For Rupert!" she repeated. "Where is Rupert? Is he 
 found?" 
 
 " He has never been lost," was the curt rejoinder. " He has 
 been all the time literally within a stone's throw — sheltered by 
 Mark Canham, whom I shall not forget." 
 
 She could not speak from perplexity; scarcely knowing 
 whether to believe the words or not. 
 
 " Your sister Edith — and James Cliattaway may thank for- 
 tune that she is his wife, or I should visit the past in a very 
 different manner upon him — and little Maude, and that hand- 
 some son of Tom Ryle's, have been privy to the secret ; have 
 been visiting him in private; have been stealthily doing for 
 him what they could do : but the fear and responsibility have 
 well-nigh driven Edith and Maude to sickness. That's where
 
 NEWS FOR MAUDE. 451 
 
 Rupert has been, Diana : where he is. I have not long come 
 from him." 
 
 Anger blazed forth from the eyes of Miss Diana Trevlyn. 
 "And why could not Edith have communicated the fact to 
 me ? " she cried. " I could have done for him better than 
 they." 
 
 " Perhaps not," significantly replied the Squire : "considering 
 that Chattaway was the ruler of Trevlyn Hold, and that you 
 have been throughout an upholder of his policy. But Trevlyn 
 has another ruler now, and Rupert a protector." 
 
 Miss Diana made no reply. She was too vexed to make 
 one. Turning away, she flung a shawl over her shoulders, and 
 marched onwards to the lodge, to pay a visit to the unhappy 
 Rupert. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 NEWS FOR MAUDE. 
 
 You should have seen the procession going up the avenue. 
 Not that first night, the night of the return of Squire Trevlyn ; 
 but in the broad- glare of the noon-day following. How Squire 
 Trevlyn contrived to make things straight with the superin- 
 tendent, Bowen, he best knew, but they zuere made straight. 
 Poor misguided Rupert was a free man again, and Policeman 
 Dumps was the busiest of all in helping to move him. 
 
 The easiest carriage that the Hold afforded was driven to 
 the lodge for Rupert. A shrunken, emaciated object he looked 
 as he tottered down the ladder of a staircase, Squire Trevlyn 
 with his powerful frame standing below to catch him if he 
 should make a false step. George Ryle was ready with his 
 protecting arm, and Mr. King, talkative as ever, followed close 
 behind. Old Canham stood leaning on his stick, and Ann, 
 shrinking into herself in her humble fashion, curtsied behind 
 the door. 
 
 " It is the proudest day of my life. Master Rupert, to see you 
 come to your rights, recognized as the heir to Trevlyn," cried 
 old Mark, stepping forward. 
 
 " Thank you for all, Mark ! " cried Rupert, impulsively, as 
 he held out his hand. " If I live, you shall see that I can be 
 grateful."
 
 452 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 '• You'll live fast enough now," interposed the Squire in his 
 tone of authority. " If King does not bring you round in no 
 time, he and I shall quarrel." 
 
 " Good-bye, Ann," said Rupert. " I owe you more than I 
 can ever repay. She has waited on me night and day. Uncle 
 Rupert ; she has lain on that hard settle at night, and had no 
 other bed since I have been here. She has offended all her 
 places of work, to stop at home to attend on me." 
 
 Poor x\nn Canham's tears were falling at the words of kind- 
 ness. " I shall get my places back, sir, I dare say. All I hope 
 is, that you'll soon be about again, Master Rupert — and that 
 you'll be pleased to excuse the ill accommodation father and 
 me have been obliged to give you." 
 
 Squire Trevlyn stood and looked at her. "Don't let it 
 break your heart if the places do not come back to you, Ann 
 Canham. What did you earn by them? — ten shillings per 
 week?" 
 
 " Oh no, sir ! Poor folks like us couldn't earn such a sum 
 as that." 
 
 " Mr. Rupert will settle that upon you from to-day. Don't 
 be overcome, woman. It is only fair, you know, that if he has 
 put your living in peril, he should make it good to you." 
 
 She was too much oppressed to answer ; she sat down on the 
 settle and sobbed, and the Squire stepped out -with Rupert and 
 found himself in the midst of a crowd. The almost incredible 
 news of his return had spread far and wide, and people of all 
 grades and degrees were flocking to the Hold to see him with 
 their own eyes, and to welcome him home. Old men, friends 
 of the late Squire Trevlyn ; middle-aged men, who had been 
 hot-headed youths when he, Rupert, went away to exile and 
 supposed death ; younger ones, who had been children then 
 and could not remember him, all were there. The chairman 
 of the magistrates' bench himself — grave now in the eyes of the 
 world as became his position, but with a suggestive conscience 
 that could not wholly ignore certain youthful escapades in 
 which he had been a sharer with the very man now resuscitated 
 as it were from death — helped Rupert into the carriage. These 
 magistrates were not likely to be harsh upon the younger 
 Rupert. Magistrates are but men ; and those of Barmester 
 had their private likings and dislikings. They would a great 
 deal rather have seen Chattaway transported than Rupert 
 Trevlyn ; and they could not help themselves, for there was no 
 prosecutor.
 
 NEWS FOR MAUDE. 453 
 
 The chairman helped Rupert into the carriage, and shook 
 hands twenty times with the Squire, and entwined his arm 
 within that gentleman's to accompany him to the Hold. The 
 carriage went at a foot-pace, Mr. King inside it with Rupert. 
 "Go slowly; he must not be shaken," were the surgeon's 
 orders to the coachman. 
 
 The spectators looked on at the young heir as he leaned his 
 head back on the soft lining of the carriage, Avhich had been 
 thrown open to the fine day. The air seemed to revive 
 Rupert greatly. The warm sun played on his face; lighting 
 up its emaciation, its suspicious hectic, the dead look of the 
 golden curls that surrounded it as a halo ; and though some 
 of them started at first at the change, they failed to detect the 
 ominous nature of the signs. That the face, always a beautiful 
 one, had never looked more beautiful than it looked now, was 
 indisputable ; and beauty is a great covering to the ravages of 
 disease 
 
 They watched him as he talked with George Ryle, who 
 walked with his arm on the carriage door ; they shouted out 
 " Long live Trevlyn's heir ! " they pressed round to get a word 
 with him. Rupert, emancipated from the close confinement, 
 from the terrible dread that had been upon him, felt as a bird 
 released from its cage — felt as we can imagine we might feel 
 were wings bestowed upon us, and we took our flight to those 
 blissful regions to which we all of us hope some time to attain ; 
 and his spirits w-ent up to fever-heat. 
 
 He held out his hands to one and to another ; he laughingly 
 told them that in a week's time he should be in a condition to 
 run a race with the best of them ; he accepted half-a-dozen 
 invitations on the spot. " But you needn't expect him," put in 
 Mr. King, byway of warning. " By the time he is well enough 
 to go out gallivanting, I shall order him oft" to a warmer climate." 
 
 " Why not order him at once, doctor? " cried one. 
 
 The surgeon coughed before he replied. " Not just yet. 
 He must get a little stronger first." 
 
 As Rupert stepped out of the carriage, he saw, amongst the 
 sea of faces pressing round, one face that struck upon his 
 notice above all others, in its yearning eagerness, its earnest 
 sympathy, and he held out his hand impulsively. It was that 
 of Jim Sanders, and as the boy sprang forward in answer, he 
 burst into tears. 
 
 "You and I must be better friends than ever, Jim. Cheer 
 up. What's the matter ? "
 
 454 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 "It's to see you looking like this, sir. Mr. Rupert, you'll 
 get well, won't you ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, I feel all right now, Jim. A little tired, perhaps. 
 You come up and see me to-morrow, and I'll tell my uncle who 
 you are and all about you." 
 
 Standing at the door of the drawing-room, in an uncertain 
 sort of attitude, was Mr. Chattaway. He was evidently un- 
 decided whether to receive the offending Rupert with a 
 welcome, to burst forth into a reproach for the past, by way of 
 relief to his feelings, or to run away altogether and hide him- 
 self Rupert decided it by walking direct up to him, and 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 " Let us be friends, Mr. Chattaway. I have heartily repented 
 of the mad passion in which I suppose I set fire to the rick, 
 and I do thank you for absolving me from the consequences. 
 Perhaps you are sorry on your side for the treatment that 
 drove me to it. We will be good friends, if you like." 
 
 But Mr. Chattaway did not respond to the generous feeling 
 or touch the offered hand. He muttered something about its 
 having been Rupert's fault, not his, and disappeared. Some- 
 how he could not stand the keen eye of Squire Trevlyn that 
 was fixed upon him. 
 
 In truth it was a terrible time for Chattaway, and the man 
 was living out his punishment. All his worst dread had come 
 upon him without warning ; a dread which at the best he had 
 perhaps looked upon as dreams of phantasy, emanating but from 
 his own wild imagination. That dread in its worst extent had 
 overtaken him, and he could not rebel against it. There 
 might be no attempt to dispute the claims of Squire Trevlyn ; 
 no standing out for his keeping possession of the Hold ; Mr. 
 Chattaway was as completely deposed as though he had never 
 held it. 
 
 Rupert was installed in his large and luxurious room, every- 
 thing being pressed into it that could in the least contribute to 
 his ease and comfort. Rupert Trevlyn (speaking of the Squire 
 now) had been tenderly attached to his brother Joe when they 
 were boys together. He so robust, so manly ; Joe so delicate. 
 It may be, that the want of strength in the younger only 
 rendered him dearer to the elder brother. As it is in the 
 nature of weakness to cling to strength, so it is in the nature 
 of strength to protect and love the weak ; of all our children 
 we love the frailest and weakest the best; the one least 
 physically capable to go througl: and contend with the battle
 
 NEWS FOR MAUDE, 45^ 
 
 of life. Perhaps it was only the old affection for Joe trans- 
 ferred now to the son ; certain it was, that the Squire's love 
 had already grown for Rupert, and all care was lavished on 
 him. 
 
 But as the days went on it became evident to all ihi\t 
 Rupert had only gone home to die. The removal over, the 
 excitement of those wonderful changes toned down, the sad 
 fact that he was certainly fading grew on Squire Trevlyn. 
 Some one suggested that a warmer climate should be tried ; 
 but Mr. King, on being appealed to, answered as he had 
 answered in the carriage — that Rupert must get stronger first ; 
 and the tone of his voice was as significant now as it had been 
 then. 
 
 Squire Trevlyn noticed it. Later, when he had the surgeon 
 to himself, he spoke to him. " King, you are concealing the 
 danger ?. Can't we move him ? " 
 
 " I would have told you before, Squire, had you asked me. 
 As to moving him to a warmer place — certainly he could be 
 moved, but he would only go there to die; and the very 
 fatigue of the journey would shorten his life." 
 
 " I don't believe it," retorted the Squire, awaking out of his 
 dismay. " You are a croaker, King. I'll call in a doctor from 
 Barmester." 
 
 *' Call in all the doctors you like, Squire, if it will give you 
 satisfaction. When they understand his case, they will tell you 
 as I do." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that he must die ? " 
 
 "I fear he must; and speedily. The day before you came 
 home I tried his lungs, and from that moment I have known 
 there was no hope. The disease must have been upon him 
 for some time ; I suppose he inherits it from his father." 
 
 The same night Squire Trevlyn sent for a physician : an 
 eminent man. But he only confirmed the opinion of Mr, 
 King. All that remained now was to break the tidings to 
 Rupert ; and to lighten, so far as might be, his passage to the 
 grave. 
 
 But a word must be spoken of the departure of Mr. Chat- 
 taway and his family from the Hold. That they must inevitably 
 leave it had been unpleasantly clear to Mr. Chattaway from 
 the very hour of Squire Trevlyn's arrival. He gave a day or 
 two to digesting the dreadful necessity, and then he began to 
 turn his thoughts practically to the future. 
 
 Squire Trevlyn had promised not to take from him anything
 
 456 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 he might have put by of his ill-gotten gains. These gains, 
 though a fair sum, were not sufficient to enable him to live 
 and keep his family, and Mr. Chattaway knew that he must do 
 something to eke them out. His thoughts turned, not un- 
 naturally, upon the Upland Farm, and he asked Squire Trevlyn 
 to let him have the lease of it. 
 
 " I'll let you have it upon one condition," said the Squire. 
 *•' I should not choose for my sister Edith to sink down into 
 obscurity, but she may live upon the Upland Farm without 
 losing caste ; it is a fine place both as to its land and its resi- 
 dence. Therefore, I'll let it you, I say. upon one condition.^ 
 
 Maude Trevlyn happened to be present at the conversation. 
 She started forward in the moment's impulse. 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Rupert ! you promised — you promised " 
 
 " Well, Miss Maude ? " he cried, coming to the relief of her 
 hesitation, and fixing his eyes on her glowing face. Maude 
 timidly continued. 
 
 " I thought you promised some one else the Upland Farm." 
 
 " That favourite of yours and of Rupert's, George Ryle ? 
 But I am not going to let him have it. VVell, Mr. Chattaway ? " 
 
 " What is the condition ? " inquired Mr Chattaway. 
 
 " That you use the land well. I shall have a clause inserted 
 in the lease by which you may cease to be my tenant at any 
 time by my giving you a twelvemonth's notice ; and if I find 
 you carry your parsimonious nature into the management of 
 the Upland Farm, as you have on this land, I shall surely take 
 it from you." 
 
 " What's the matter with this land ? " asked Mr. Chattaw'ay. 
 
 •' The matter is, that I find the land impoverished. You 
 have spared money upon it in your mistaken policy, and the 
 inevitable result has supervened. You have been penny wise 
 and pound foolish, Chattaway ; as you were when you suffered 
 the rick-yard to remain uninsured." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway's face darkened, but he made no reply to the 
 allusion. " I'll undertake to do the farm justice, Squire Trevlyn, 
 if you will lease it to me." 
 
 "Very well, I will. Let me, however, candidly assure you 
 that, but for Edith's sake, I'd see you starve before you should 
 have had a homestead on this land. It is my habit to be plain: 
 I must be especially so with you. I suffer from you in all 
 ways, James Chattaway. I suffer always in my nephew Rupert. 
 When I think of the treatment dealt out to him from you, I 
 can scarcely refrain from treating you to a taste of the punish.
 
 NEWS FOR MAUDE. 457 
 
 ment you inflicted upon him. It is possible, too, that had the 
 boy been more tenderly cared for, he might have had strength 
 to resist this disease which has crept upon him. About that I 
 cannot speak; it must lie between you and God ; his father, 
 with every comfort, could not escape it, it seems ; and possibly 
 Rupert might not have done so." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway made no reply. The Squire, after a pause, 
 during which he had been plunged in thought, continued. "I 
 suffer also in the matter of the two-thousand-pound debt of 
 Thomas Ryle's, and I have a great mind — do you hear me, 
 James Chattaway? — I have a great mind that the refunding it 
 should come out of your pocket instead of mine ; even though 
 I had to get it from you by suing you for so much of the mesne 
 profits." 
 
 " Refunding the debt ? " repeated Mr. Chattaway, looking as 
 if he would never understand anything again. " Refunding it 
 to whom ? " 
 
 " To the RyleSj of course. That money was as surely given 
 by my father to them on his death-bed, as that I am here, 
 talking to you, I feel, I know, that it was. I know that 
 Thomas Ryle, ever a man of veracity, spoke the truth when he 
 asserted it. Do you think I can do less than refund it? I 
 don't, if you do." 
 
 "George Ryle does not want it; he is capable of working 
 for his living," was the only answer Mr. Chattaway in his anger 
 could give. 
 
 " I do not suppose he will want it," was the quiet remark of 
 Squire Trevlyn ; " I dare say he'll manage to do without it. It 
 is to Mrs. Ryle that I shall refund it, sir. Between you all, I 
 find that she was cut off" with a shilling at my father's death." 
 
 Mr. Chattaway liked the conversation less and less. He 
 deemed it might be as agreeable to leave details to another 
 opportunity, and withdrew. Squire Trevlyn looked round for 
 Maude. He discerned her at the very end of the room, her 
 head bent in sorrow. The Squire suddenly raised it, and found 
 the face pale and weary. 
 
 "What's this for, young lady? Because I don't let Mr. 
 George Ryle the Upland Farm ? You great goose ! I have 
 reserved a better one for him." 
 
 The tone was very peculiar, and she raised her timid eyelids. 
 "A better one?" she stammered. 
 
 "Yes. Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Maude looked aghast. " What do you mean, Uncle Rupert ? "
 
 458 TREVLYN HOLD, 
 
 " My dear, but for this unhappy fiat which appears to have 
 gone forth for your brother Rupert, perhaps I might have let 
 the Upland Farm to George. As it is, I cannot part with 
 both of you. If poor Rupert is to be taken from me, you must 
 remain." 
 
 She looked at him, her lips apart, utterly unable to under- 
 stand hira. 
 
 " And as you appear not to be inclined to part with Mr. 
 George, all that can be done in the matter, so far as I see, is 
 that we must have him at the Hold." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Rupert!" And Maude's head and her joyous 
 tears were hidden in the loving arms that were held out to 
 shelter her. 
 
 " Child, child ! Did you think I had come home to make 
 my dead brother's children unhappy ? You will know me better 
 soon, Maude." 
 
 CHAPTER LX 
 
 A BETTER HEIRSHIP. 
 
 A SHORT time, and people had settled down into their places. 
 Squire Trevlyn was alone at the Hold with Alaude and Rupert, 
 the Chattaways were at the Upland Farm, and Miss Diana 
 Trevlyn had taken up her abode in a pretty house that be- 
 longed to herself. Circumstances had favoured the removal of 
 Mr. Chattaway from the Hold almost immediately after the 
 arrival of Squire Trevlyn ; otherwise it is hard to say how he 
 would have made up his mind to leave it; and the Squire 
 would scarcely have liked to turn him out summarily, out of 
 consideration to his sister Edith. The occupant of the Upland 
 Farm, who only remained in it because his time was not up 
 until spring, was glad to find it would be an accommodation if 
 he quitted it earlier ; he did so, and by Christmas the Chatta- 
 ways were installed in it. 
 
 Mr. Chattaway had set to work in earnest. Things were 
 changed with him. At the Hold, whether he was up and 
 doing, or whether he lay in bed in idleness, his revenues came 
 in to him. At the Upland Farm he must be up early and in 
 bed late, for the eye of a master was always necessary, if the 
 land was to yield its increase j and by that increase he and his
 
 A BETTER HEIRSHir. 450 
 
 family had now to live. There was a serious battle with Cris. 
 It was deemed advisable for the interest of both parties — that 
 is, for Mr. Cris and his father — that the younger gentleman 
 should enter upon some occupation of his own ; but Cris reso- 
 lutely refused. He could find plenty to do on the Upland 
 Farm, he urged, and he wouldn't be turned out of his home. 
 In fact, Mr. Cris had lived so long without work, that it was 
 difficult, now he was leaving his youth behind him, to begin it. 
 Better, as Squire Trevlyn said, that this change had been made 
 years ago. It was hard for Cris ; let us acknowledge it. He 
 had been reared to the expectation of Trevlyn Hold and its 
 revenues ; he had lorded it as the future master. When he 
 rose in the morning, early or late, as his inclination prompted 
 him, he had nothing more formidable before him than to take 
 a ride on his handsome horse, his groom in attendance behind 
 him. He had indulged in outdoor sports, hunting, shooting, 
 fishing, at will ; no care upon him, except how he could most 
 agreeably get through the day, or be home for dinner. He 
 had been addicted to riding or driving into Barmester, and 
 showing himself off in the streets, lounging up and down on 
 foot for the benefit of all admiring spectators, or taking a turn 
 in the billiard-rooms. All that was over now ; Mr. Cris's leisure 
 and his greatness had come to an end ; his groom would take 
 service elsewhere, his fine horse must be used for other pur- 
 poses than pleasure. In short, poor Cris Chattaway had fallen 
 from his high estate, as many another has fallen before him, 
 and must henceforth earn his bread before he ate it, "There's 
 room for us both on the Upland Farm, and a good living for 
 both," Cris urged upon his father ; and though Mr, Chattaway 
 demurred, he gave way, and allowed Cris to stop there. With 
 all his severity to others, he had lost his authority over his 
 children, especially over Cris and Octave, and perhaps he 
 scarcely dared to maintain his own will against that of Cris, or 
 tell him he should go if he chose to remain. Cris had no 
 more relish for work than any one else has who is reared to 
 idleness ; and Cris knew quite well that the easiest life he 
 could now enter upon would be that of staying at home and 
 pretending to be busy upon the farm. When the dispute was 
 at its height between himself and his father, as to what the 
 future arrangements should be, Cris so far bestirred himself as 
 to ask Squire Trevlyn to give him the pest of manager at 
 Blackstone. But the Squire had heard quite enough of the 
 past doings there, and told Cris, with the plainness that was
 
 46o TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 natural to him, that he would not have either him or his father 
 in power at Blackstone, if they paid him for it in gold. And 
 so Cris was at home. 
 
 There were other changes also in Mr. Chattaway's family. 
 Maude's tuition, that Octave had been ever ready to find fault 
 with, was over for ever, and Octave had taken her place. 
 Amelia was at home, for expenses had to be curtailed. An 
 outlay that had been quite suitable for the master of Trevlyn 
 Hold, would be unjustifiable and imprudent in the tenant of 
 the Upland Farm, They found Maude's worth now that they 
 had lost her ; they could appreciate now the sweetness of her 
 temper, the enduring, gentle patience to which she had con- 
 strained herself Octave, who liked idleness as much as Cris 
 did, had undertaken the tuition of her sisters with a very bad 
 grace : she did not positively refuse, but she hated the trouble 
 and the labour. She might have refused but for Miss Diana 
 Trevlyn. Miss Diana had not lost her good sense or her love 
 of rule in vacating Trevlyn Hold, and she openly told Octave 
 that she must bend to circumstances as well as her parents, 
 and that if she would not teach her sisters, and so save the 
 money, she had better go out as governess and help to earn it. 
 Octave could have beaten Miss Diana for the unwelcome sug- 
 gestion — she go out and earn her living ! — but she offered no 
 further opposition to the proposition that she should replace 
 Maude with her sisters. 
 
 Ay, and it was hard for Octave, as for Cris ; let us not deny 
 it. Alluding not to that one great disappointment which had 
 fallen upon her, and which may as well be passed over in 
 silence, life was hard, very hard just then, for Octave Chat- 
 taway. She had inherited the envious, selfish disposition of 
 her father, and the very fact that Maude and herself, as may be 
 said, had changed positions, was sufficient to vex her almost 
 beyond endurance. She had become the drudge whose days 
 must be passed beating grammar and spelling into the obtuse 
 minds of her rebellious sisters; Maude, the young lady of 
 Trevlyn Hold. Whether things would go on as they had begun, 
 it was difficult to say ; for the scenes that frequently took place 
 between Octave and her pupils disturbed to a grave degree the 
 peace of the Upland Farm. Octave was impatient, fretful, and 
 exacting; they were self-willed, tantalizing, and disobedient. 
 Noise and quarrels were incessant ; and it came now and then 
 to blows. Octave's temper urged her to personal correction, 
 and the girls, unused to it, retorted in kind.
 
 A BETTER HEIRSHIP, 461 
 
 It was hard for Octave ; it was different ; she may be no 
 favourite with us, but let us be just. It is in human nature to 
 exaggerate sorrow, and Octave not only exaggerated hers, but 
 did what she could wilfully to increase it. Instead of patiently 
 sitting down to her new duties, and striving to perform them so 
 that they might in time become pleasant, that her change of 
 position might be soothed to her, she steeled herself against 
 them, and augmented her chagrin by every possible means. 
 A terrible jealousy of Maude had taken possession of her; it 
 had long been smouldering ; and she did her utmost to enhance 
 it. Jealousy in more senses than one. There was a gate in 
 their grounds which overlooked the highway leading to Trevlyn 
 Hold, and it seemed to be Octave's delight to go and stand 
 there on the watch, at the hour when she might expect Maude 
 to pass. Not a day went by but Maude drove out with her 
 uncle. Sometimes in the open carriage — a new one which the 
 Squire had purchased — sometimes in a close carriage, accord- 
 ing to the weather, but always with the marks of wealth and 
 position, the fine horses, the attendant servants — Miss Maude 
 Trevlyn, of Trevlyn Hold. And Octave would watch stealthily 
 until they were out of sight, and gather in fresh food for her 
 unhappy state of envy until the next day. It would seem most 
 strange that she should thus like to torment herself, but that the 
 human heart is full of such contradictions. 
 
 One day that she was standing there, Mrs. Ryle passed. 
 And, speaking of Mrs. Ryle, it may be as well remarked that, Mr. 
 Chattaway excepted, she seemed to be the most aggrieved — not 
 at her brother's return, but at some of the results of that return. 
 In the certainty of Rupert's not living to succeed — and it was 
 all too great a certainty now — Mrs. Ryle had again cherished 
 hopes for her son Trevlyn. She had been exceedingly vexed 
 when she heard of the Upland Farm being leased to Mr. 
 Chattaway ; when she watched him and his family move into 
 it ; and she thought George must have played his cards badly. 
 She allowed her resentment to smoulder for a time, but one 
 day it burst forth, and she so far forgot herself, forgot past 
 obligations, as to demand of George whether he thought that 
 two masters would answer upon Trevlyn Farm ; and she hinted 
 that it was time he was away from it, and made room for Treve. 
 
 George, though his cheek burnt — for her, not for himself — 
 answered, with the calmest equanimity, that he expected shortly 
 to leave it — to relieve her of his presence, Treve of his personal 
 advice and help.
 
 463 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " But you did not get the Upland ? " she reiterated. " And 
 I have been told this morning that the other farm you thought 
 of is let over your head." 
 
 "Stay, mother," was George's answer. "You are ready, I 
 see, to blame Squire Trevlyn for letting these farms, and not to 
 me ; but my views are altered. I do not now wish for the 
 Upland, or any other farm. Squire Trevlyn has proposed 
 something else to me — that I should manage his own land for 
 him." 
 
 " Manage his own land for him ! " she repeated. " Do you 
 mean the land attached to Trevlyn ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And where shall you live ? " 
 
 « With him. At Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle could scarcely speak from amazement. " I never 
 heard of such a thing ! " she exclaimed, staring excessively at 
 the smile hovering on his lips, and which he vainly endeavoured 
 to suppress. " What can be the meaning of it ? " 
 
 " It is an assured fact, unhappily, that Rupert cannot live. 
 Had he regained his health and strength, he would have filled 
 this place. But he will not regain it, and Squire Trevlyn spoke 
 to me, and I am to be with him at the Hold." 
 
 George did not add that he at first fought with Squire Trevlyn 
 against going to the Hold, t'^s heir — for indeed it was as nothing 
 else. He would rather make his own fortune, than have it 
 made for him, he said. Very well, the Squire answered with 
 equanimity, he could give up the Hold if he liked, but he must 
 give up Maude with it. And you may guess whether George 
 would do that. 
 
 But Mrs. Ryle did not overcome her surprise ; she could not 
 see things clearly. " Of course, I can understand that Rupert 
 Trevlyn would have held sway on the estate, would have looked 
 after it, just as a son would do ; but what my brother can mean 
 by wanting a 'manager' — by taking you — I cannot understand. 
 You say you are to live at Trevlyn Hold ? " 
 
 The suspicious smile grew very conspicuous on George's lips. 
 " It is so arranged," he answered. " And therefore I no longer 
 wish to rent the Upland." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle stared at him as if she did not believe it. She 
 fell into deep thought — thought, from which she suddenly 
 started, put on a bonnet, and went direct to Trevlyn Hold. 
 
 A pretty little mare's nest she was indulging as she went 
 along. If Rupert was in this state, was to be called : way from
 
 A BETTER HEIRSHIP. 463 
 
 this world, the only fit and proper person to succeed him as 
 the Squire's heir was her son Treve. In which case, George 
 would not be required as manager, and their anticipated 
 positions might be reversed ; Treve take up his abode at the 
 Hold, George remain at his old home, the Farm. 
 
 She found Squire Trevlyn alone. She gave herself no time 
 to consider the propriety of speaking at all, or the words in 
 which she should speak ; but without any circumlocution what- 
 ever, she told him that, failing Rupert, Trevlyn must be his heir. 
 
 " Oh dear, no," said the Squire. " You forget Maude." 
 
 ''Maude!" 
 
 " If poor Rupert is to be taken, INIaude remains to me. And 
 she will inherit Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Mrs. Ryle bit her compressed lips. " Is it well to leave 
 Trevlyn Hold to a woman? Your father would not do it, 
 Rupert." 
 
 " I am not bound to adopt the prejudices of my father. I 
 imagine the reason of his disinheriting Maude — whose birth and 
 existence it appears he did know of — was the ill-feeling he felt 
 towards Joe and her mother, from their having married in 
 opposition to him. But that ill-feeling does not extend to me. 
 Why, Maude, were I capable of leaving the estate away from 
 Joe's children, while one of them is in existence to take it, I 
 should deem myself as bad as Chattaway." 
 
 " Maude is a girl ; it ought not to be held by a girl," was 
 Mrs. Ryle's reiterated answer. 
 
 "Well, that objection need not trouble you; for in point of 
 fact, it will be held by Maude's husband. Indeed, I am not 
 sure but I shall bequeath it direct to him. I believe I shall 
 do so." 
 
 " She may never marry." 
 
 " She will marry immediately. Why, you don't mean to say 
 he has not let you into the secret ? " broke oif Squire Trevlyn, 
 as he gazed on her puzzled face. "Has George told you 
 nothing?" 
 
 " He has just told me that he was coming here as your 
 manager," she replied, not in the least comprehending Squire 
 Trevlyn's drift. 
 
 " And as Maude's husband. My manager, eh ? He put it 
 upon that score, did he ? He will come here as my son-in-law 
 —I may say it, for I regard Maude as my daughter ; as my 
 recognized successor. George Ryle comes here as the future 
 Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
 
 46| TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Mrs. Ryle was five minutes before she recovered herself. 
 Utterly unable to digest the news, she could do nothing but 
 stare. George Ryle the future successor ! the inheritor of 
 Trevlyn Hold ! ^Vas she awake or dreaming ? 
 
 " It ought to be Trevlyn's," she said at length. " He is your 
 relative by blood , George Ryle is none," 
 
 " 1 know he is not. I do not leave it to him on the score of 
 relationship, but as Maude's husband. He will take the name 
 of Trevlyn. You should have got Maude to fall m love with 
 the other one, if you wished him to succeed." 
 
 Perhaps it was the most unhappy moment in all Mrs. Ryle's 
 life. Never had she given up the hope of her son's succession 
 until now. That George should supplant him ! — George, whom 
 she had so despised by the side of Treve — so put upon ! She 
 sat beating her foot on the carpet, her pale face bent. 
 
 " It is not right ; it is not right," she said, at length. " George 
 Ryle is not worthy to be the successor to Trevlyn Hold : it is 
 reversing the order of things." 
 
 " Not worthy ! " echoed Squire Trevlyn. " Your judgment 
 must be strangely prejudiced, Maude, to say it. Of all those 
 who have flocked here to welcome me home from the different 
 parts of the country, far and near, I have looked in vain for a 
 second George Ryle. He has not his equal. If I hesitated at 
 the first moment to give him Maude, I don't hesitate now that 
 I know him. I can tell you that had Miss Maude chosen un- 
 worthily, as your sister Edith did, her husband would never 
 have come in for Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 " Is your decision irrevocable ? " 
 
 " Entirely so. I wish them to be married immediately ; for 
 I should like George to be installed here as soon as may be , 
 and, of course, he cannot come until Maude is his. Rupert 
 wishes it." 
 
 " It appears to me that this arrangement is very premature," 
 resumed Mrs. Ryle. " You may marry yet, and have children 
 of your own." 
 
 A change came over Squire Trevlyn's face. " I shall never 
 marry," he said, with emphasis ; and to ISIrs. Ryle's ears there 
 was a strange solemnity in his tone. "You need not ask me 
 why, for I shall not enter into my reasons ; let the assurance of 
 the fact suffice — I shall 7iever- marry. Trevlyn Hold will be as 
 securely theirs as though I bequeathed it to them by deed of 
 gift." 
 
 " Rupert, this is a blow for my son."
 
 A BETTER HEIRSHIP. 465 
 
 " If you persist in considering it so, I cannot help that/' was 
 the reply of Squire Trevlyn. "It must have been very foolish 
 of you, Maude, ever to cast a thought to your son's succeeding, 
 while Joe's children were alive." 
 
 " Foolish ! when one of my sons — my step-son at any rate — 
 is to succeed, as it seems ! " 
 
 The Squire laughed. "You must talk to Maude about that. 
 They had settled plans together before I came home. If Treve 
 turns out all he should be, I may remember him before I die, 
 I\Iaude. Trevlyn Farm was originally the birthright of the 
 Ryles ; perhaps I may make it so again in the person of Treve. 
 There ! don't let us go on discussing : it will bring no good. 
 Will you see Rupert ? " 
 
 She had the sense to see that if the discussion were pro- 
 longed until night, it would indeed be productive of no good, 
 and rose to follow him into the next room. Rupert, with the 
 hectic still upon his cheeks, but not looking very ill, sat in a 
 chair near the fire. Maude was reading to him. 
 
 " Is it you, Aunt Ryle ! " he called out. " You never come 
 to see me." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear you are so poorly, Rupert." 
 
 "I am not half as ill as I feared I should be," he said. "I 
 thought by this time it — it would have been all over. But I 
 seem better. Where's George ? " 
 
 " George is at home. I have been talking to your uncle 
 about him. Until to-day I did not know what was in con- 
 templation." 
 
 " He'll make a better Squire for the Hold than I should have 
 made," cried Rupert, lifting his eyes — bluer and brighter than 
 ever, the effect of disease — to her face, whilst INIaude made her 
 escape from the room, and Squire Trevlyn had not entered it, 
 so that they were alone. "But, Aunt Ryle, I want it to be 
 soon ; I want it to be before I die. I should like George to 
 be here to see the last of me." 
 
 " I think I might have been informed of this before," observed 
 Mrs. Ryle. 
 
 " It has not been told to any one. Uncle Rupert, and I, and 
 George, and Maude have kept the secret between us. Maude 
 was shy, and did not wish it talked of. Only think. Aunt Ryle ! 
 that after all the hopes, the contentions, the heart-burnings, it 
 should be George Ryle to succeed to Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 She could not bear this repeated harping on the string ; she 
 could not bear it. George's conduct to his step-mother had 
 
 Trevlyn Hold, 30
 
 466 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 been exemplary, and she did not remain insensible to the fact ; 
 but she was one of those second wives (there are such in the 
 world) who feel an instinctive dislike — a jealousy — of their step- 
 children. Very bitter, for Treve's sake, was the jealousy that 
 burnt in her heart now. 
 
 " I will come in and see you another day, Rupert," she said, 
 starting up. " I am too vexed to remain longer this morning." 
 
 " What are you vexed about. Aunt Ryle ? " 
 
 " I was in hopes that Treve — failing you — would have been 
 made the heir of Trevlyn Hold." 
 
 Rupert opened his eyes in wonder. " Treve ? — while Maude 
 lives ! Not he. I can tell you what I think. Aunt Ryle ; that 
 Treve, had there been no Maude, would never have come in 
 for the Hold. I don't fancy Uncle Rupert would have left it 
 to him." 
 
 " To whom then would he have left it, do you fancy? " 
 
 "Well — I suppose," slowly answered Rupert, turning the 
 matter over in his mind — " I suppose, in that case, it would 
 have been my aunt Diana. But there is Maude, Aunt Ryle, 
 and we need not talk about it. George and ]\Iaude will have 
 it, and their children after them." 
 
 "Poor boy !" she said, with a touch of compassionate feel- 
 ing ; " it is a sad fate for you ! Not to live to be the heir ! " 
 
 A gentle smile rose to his face, and he pointed upwards. 
 "There's a better heirship for me, Aunt Ryle." 
 
 It was upon returning from this memorable interview with 
 Sc^uire Trevlyn, that Mrs. Ryle encountered Octave Chattaway. 
 She stopped to speak. 
 
 "Are you getting pretty well settled. Octave?" 
 
 " Tolerably so. Mamma says she shall not be straight in 
 six months to come. Have you been to the Hold ?" continued 
 Octave. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Ryle, turning her determined face full 
 on Octave. " Have you heard the news ? That the Squire 
 has chosen his heir ? " 
 
 "No," breathlessly rejoined Octave. "We have heard that 
 Rupert is entirely beyond hope ; but we have heard nothing 
 else. It will be Maude, I conclude." 
 
 " It is to be George Ryle." 
 
 " George Ryle ! " repeated Octave, in amazement. 
 
 "' Yes. I suppose it will be left to him, not to Maude. But 
 it will be all the same. He is to marry her, and to assume the 
 name of Trevlyn. George never told me of this. He just said
 
 IN THE CHURCH At BAREROOK. 467 
 
 to me to-day that he was going to Uve at the Hold ; but he 
 never said it was as Maude's husband and the Squire's heir. 
 How prospects have changed ! " 
 
 Changed ! Ay, Octave felt it to her inmost soul, as she 
 leaned against the gate, and gazed in thought after Mrs. Ryle. 
 Gazed without seeing or hearing, deep in her heart's tribulation, 
 her hand pressed upon her bosom, her pale face shivering as it 
 was turned to the winter sky. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 IN THE CHURCH AT BARBROOK. 
 
 Bending in tenderness over the couch of Rupert Trevlyn 
 was Mrs. Chattaway. Madam Chattaway no longer ; she had 
 quitted that distinctive title when she quitted Trevlyn Hold. 
 It was a warm day in early May, and Rupert had lingered on ; 
 the progress of his disease being so gradual, so imperceptible, 
 that even the medical men were deceived ; and now that the 
 end (as was soon to be seen) had come, they were still saying 
 that he might last until the autumn. 
 
 Rupert had been singularly favoured : some, stricken by this 
 dire malady, are so. Scarcely any of its painful features were 
 apparent ; and Mr. Daw wrote them word that they had not 
 been in his father. There was scarcely any cough, scarcely 
 any pain, and though the weakness was certainly great, Rupert 
 had not for one single day taken to his bed. Until within tv>"o 
 days of this very time, when you see Mrs. Chattaway leaning 
 over him, he had gone out in the carriage whenever the weather 
 permitted. He could not sit up much ; he chiefly lay on the 
 sofa as he was lying now, facing the window, which he liked to 
 have open to the warm noon-day sun. The room was the one 
 you have seen frequently before, the former sitting-room of Mrs. 
 Chattaway. When the Chattaways left the Hold, Rupert had 
 changed to their rooms ; he seemed to have a fancy for them, 
 and would sit there and watch the visitors who came up the 
 avenue. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway has been stopping at the Hold since the pre- 
 vious Tuesday, for Maude is away from it. Maude left it with 
 George Ryle on that day, but they are coming home this even-
 
 i;5S TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 ing, Saturday, for both are anxious not to be long away from 
 Rupert. Rupert sadly wanted to attend the wedding, and 
 Squire Trevlyn and Mr. Freeman strove to invent all sorts of 
 schemes for warming the church ; but the edifice persisted in 
 remaining cold and damp, and Rupert was not allowed to 
 venture into it. He sat with them, however, at the breakfast 
 afterwards, and but for his attenuated form and the peculiar 
 hectic that excitement brought to his otherwise white and hollow 
 cheeks, might have passed very well for a guest. George, with 
 his marriage, has taken the name of Trevlyn, for the Squire 
 insisted upon it; he will come home to the Hold to-day and 
 take up his permanent abode in it — Mr. Ryle Trevlyn. Miss 
 Diana received mortal offence at the wedding-breakfast, and 
 sat at the table cold and impenetrable, for the Squire requested 
 his eldest sister to preside in right of her birthright, and Miss 
 Diana had long considered herself of far more importance than 
 Mrs. Ryle, and had expected to be chief on that occasion 
 herself 
 
 "Shall we invite Edith or Diana to stay here with you while 
 Maude's away ? " the Squire had inquired of Rupert. And a 
 flush of pleasure came into the wan face as he answered, " My 
 aunt Edith. I should like to be again with Aunt Edith," 
 
 So Mrs. Chattaway had remained with him, and passed the 
 time as she was doing now — hovering round his couch, giving 
 him all her care, caressing him in her loving, gentle manner, 
 whispering of the happy life on which he was about to enter. 
 
 She had some eau-de-cologne in her hand, and was pour- 
 ing it on a handkerchief to pass it lightly over his brow and 
 temples. In doing this a drop went into his eye. 
 
 " Oh, Rupert, I am so sorry ! How awkward I am ! " 
 
 It smarted very much, but Rupert smiled bravelj'. "Just a 
 few minutes' pain. Aunt Edith, and it will all be gone. Do you 
 know what I have got to think lately ? " 
 
 She put the cork into the long narrow green bottle, and sat 
 down on the chair close to his sofa. " What, dear? " 
 
 " That we must be blind, foolish mortals to fret ourselves so 
 much under misfortunes. A little patience, a little time, and 
 they are sure to pass away." 
 
 " It would be better for us all if we had more patience, more 
 trust," she answered. "If w^e could leave things more entirely 
 to God." 
 
 Rupert lay with his blue eyes cast upwards, blue as the sky 
 he looked at. " I would have tried to put that great trust in
 
 IN THE CHURCH AT BARBROOK. 469 
 
 God, had I lived," he said, after a pause. "Do you know, 
 Aunt Edith, at times I do wish I could have lived." 
 " I wish so, too," she murmured. 
 
 " At least, I should wish it but for this great feeling of fluigue 
 that is always upon me. I shan't feel it up there, Aunt Edith." 
 " No, no," she whispered. 
 
 " AVhen you get near death, knowing for certain that it is 
 coming upon you, as I know it, I think you obtain clearer views 
 of the reality of things. It seems to me, looking back on the 
 life I am leaving, as if it were of no consequence at what period 
 we die ; whether we die young or live to be old ; and yet 
 how dreadful a calamity death is looked upon by people in 
 general." 
 
 " It needs sorrow or illness to reconcile us to it, Rupert. 
 Most of us must be tired of this life ere we can bring ourselves 
 to anticipate another, and to look for it." 
 
 " Well, I have not had so happy a life here," he unthink- 
 ingly remarked. " I ought not to murmur at exchanging it 
 for another." 
 
 No, no, he had not. The words had been spoken without 
 thought of wounding her, were quite innocent of intentional 
 reproach ; but she was feeling them to the very depths of her 
 long-bruised heart. Mrs. Chattaway was not famous for the 
 control of her emotions, and she broke into a flood of tears as 
 she rose and bent over him. 
 
 ''The recollection of the past is upon me night and day, 
 Rupert. Say that you forgive me ! Say it now, ere the time 
 for it shall have gone by." 
 
 He looked surprised. " Forgive you, dear Aunt Edith ? 
 I have never had anything to forgive you ; and others I have 
 forgiven long ago." 
 
 " I lie awake at night and thing of it, Rupert," she said, the 
 tones of her voice betraying how great was her emotion. " Had 
 you been differently treated, you might not have died just as 
 your rights are recognized. You might have lived to be the 
 inheritor as well as the heir of Trevlyn." 
 
 Rupert lay pondering the proposition. " But I must have 
 died when the end came," he said. " I might not have been any 
 the better for it. Aunt Edith, it seems to me to be just this. 
 I am twenty-one years of age, and a life of some sort is before 
 me, a life here, or a life there. At my age it is only natural 
 that I should look forward to the life here, and I did so until I 
 grew sick with the weariness of lying in pain. But now, if that 
 
 30-3
 
 470 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 life is the better and happier one — and if it were not, what 
 forlorn, hopeless creatures we should all be !— does it not seem 
 a favour to be taken to it before my time ? Aunt Edith, I say 
 that as death comes on, I believe we see things as they really 
 are, not as they seem. I was to have inherited Trevlyn Hold ; 
 but I shall exchange it for a better inheritance. Let this com- 
 fort you." 
 
 She sat, weeping silendy, holding his hand in hers. Rupert 
 said no more, but kept his eyes fixed upwards in thought. 
 Gradually the lids closed, and his breathing, somewhat more 
 regular than when he was awake, told that he slept, Mrs. 
 Chattaway laid his hand on the coverlet, dried her eyes, and 
 busied herself about the room. 
 
 About half-an-hour afterwards he awoke. She was sitting 
 down then, watching him. It almost seemed as if her gaze had 
 caused his eyes to open, for she had only just taken her seat. 
 
 " Are they come ? " were his first words. 
 
 '■'Not yet, Rupert." 
 
 " Not yet ! Will they be long ? I feel sinking," 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway hastily called for the refreshment which 
 Rupert had until now constantly taken. But he turned his 
 head away as it was placed before him. 
 
 " My dear, you said you were sinking ! " 
 
 " Not that sort of sinking, Aunt Edith. Nothing that food 
 will remedy." 
 
 A tremor came over Mrs. Chattaway. She detected a change 
 in his voice, saw the change in his countenance. It has just 
 been said, and not for the first time in this history, that she 
 could not boast of much self-control : and she ran out of the 
 room, shrieking for Squire Trevlyn. He heard her, and came 
 immediately, wondering much, " It is Rupert," she said in 
 her irrepressible excitement " He says he is dying." 
 
 Rupert had not said it : though, perhaps, what he did say 
 was almost equivalent to it, and she had jumped to the conclu- 
 sion. When Squire Trevlyn reached him, he was lying with his 
 eyes closed and the changed look on his white face. A servant 
 stood near the table where the tray of refreshment had been 
 placed, gazing at him. 
 
 The Squire hastily felt his forehead, then his hand. " What 
 ails you, my boy ? " he asked, subduing his voice as it never 
 was subdued, save to the sick Rupert. 
 
 Rupert unclosed his eyes. " Are they come, uncle ? I want 
 Maude."
 
 IN THE CHURCH AT BARBROOK. 471 
 
 *' They Avon't be long now," looking at his watch. " Don't 
 you feel so well, Rupert ? " 
 
 "I feel like— going," was the answer : and as Rupert spoke 
 he gasped for breath. The servant stepped forward and raised 
 his head. Mrs. Chattaway, who had again come in, broke into 
 a loud cry. 
 
 " Edith ! " said the St^uire, reprovingly. " A pretty one you 
 •are for a sick room ! If you cannot be calm, you had better 
 keep out of it." 
 
 He quitted it himself as he spoke, called his own groom, and 
 bade him hasten for Mr. King. Rupert looked better when he 
 returned ; the spasm, or whatever it was, had passed, and he 
 Avas holding the hand of Mrs. Chattaway. 
 
 "Aunt Edith was frightened," he said, turning his eyes on 
 his uncle. 
 
 "She always was one to be frightened at nothing," cried the 
 Squire. " Do you feel faint, my boy? " 
 
 " It's gone now," answered Rupert. 
 
 Mrs. Chattaway poured out a cordial, and he drank it without 
 difficulty Afterwards he seemed to revive considerably, and 
 spoke to them now and then, though he lay so still as to give 
 an idea that all motion had departed from him. Even when 
 the sound of wheels was heard in the avenue he did not stir, 
 though he evidently heard. 
 
 " It's only Ralph," remarked the Squire. " I sent him out in 
 the gig." 
 
 Rupert slightly shook his head then to express a negative, 
 and a half-smile illumined his face. The Squire also became 
 aware of the fact that what they heard was not the noise of gig- 
 wheels. He went down to the hall-door. 
 
 It was the carriage bringing back the bride and bridegroom. 
 Maude sprang lightly in, and the Squire took her in his arms. 
 
 " Welcome to your home, my darling 1 A brave welcome to 
 you, Madam of the Hold ! " 
 
 Maude laughed and blushed, and the Squire left her and 
 took the hand of Ceorge. Yes, it was true : henceforth she 
 was " Madam " of the Hold. 
 
 " How is Rupert, sir ? " 
 
 " Well — he has been famous until half-an-hour ago. Since 
 then there has been a change in him. You had better go uj) 
 to him at once ; he has been asking for you and Maude. I have 
 sent for King." 
 
 George drew his wife's hand within his arm, and led her up
 
 472 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 stairs. No one was in the room with Rupert, except Mrs. 
 Chattaway. He never moved, never stirred, as they advanced 
 and bent over him, Maude throwing off her bonnet , he only 
 gazed up at their faces from his sofa-pillow with a happy 
 smile. 
 
 Maude's eyes were swimming ; George was startled. Surely 
 death was now, even now, upon him. It had come closer in 
 this little minute between Squire Trevlyn's departure from the 
 room and his return. 
 
 He lay passively, his wasted hands in theirs. Maude was 
 the first to give way. " My darling brother 1 I did not think 
 to find you like this." 
 
 " I am going on before, Maude," he breathed, but his voice 
 was so low they had to stoop to catch it. "You will come 
 later." 
 
 A wailing cry interrupted him ; it came from Mrs. Chattaway. 
 " Oh, Rupert, say you forgive the past ! You have not said it. 
 You must not die with unforgiveness in your heart." 
 
 He looked at her wonderingly ; a look which seemed to ask 
 if she had forgotten his assertion of an hour ago. He laid his 
 hands together, feebly holding them raised. " Pray God bless 
 and forgive all who may have been unkind to me, as I forgive 
 them — as I have forgiven them long ago. Pray God bless and 
 forgive us all, and take us after this world's over to our home 
 in heaven ; for the sake of our Lord and Saviour Jesus 
 Christ." 
 
 " Amen ! " said the Squire. 
 
 The deep silence which fell on them, after the sonorous tones 
 of the one word had died away, was broken only by the sobs of 
 Maude, as she knelt. George laid his hand gently on her head 
 that she might feel its loving protection ; he knew how bitter 
 was the moment to her. 
 
 The next interruption was caused by Mr. King. He came 
 quietly up to the sofa, glanced at the face of Rupert, and kept 
 his eyes fixed on it for the full space of a minute. Then he 
 turned them meaningly on Squire Trevlyn. The face, though 
 they had known it not, was already the face of the dead. With 
 the sorrows and the joys of this world, Rupert Trevlyn had 
 done for ever. 
 
 The long procession of mourners wound down the avenue of 
 Trevlyn Hold. The hearse was first, containing the remains,
 
 IN THE CHURCH AT BARBROOK. 473 
 
 but all followers were on foot. With the Squire walked his 
 son-inlaw and acknowledged heir, George Ryle — or Rylc 
 Trevlyn, as he was henceforth to be called ; and next to them 
 came Mr. Chattaway, and Mrs. Ryle's son, Trevlyn. 
 
 Yes ! Mr. Chattaway, who— as may be said — had hunted 
 Rupert to death, yet saw fit to attend the funeral. Do you 
 remember that the etiquette touching funerals in this rural 
 neighbourhood was alluded to early in this history? That 
 same etiquette prevailed still ; and Mr. Chattaway had not 
 deemed it good manners to refuse when the invitation came. 
 It was not as yauies Chattaivay that it was sent to him, but as 
 Edith Trevlyn's husband ; and the Squire had a battle with 
 himself ere he could be brought to send one at all. Old 
 Canham, too infirm to walk to the church, stood at the gate in 
 his Sunday clothes, and bared his head as they swept past him, 
 paying his last respects to the dead heir of Trevlyn. 
 
 It was a large and goodly company to gather round the 
 grave. Thomas Ryle's funeral, years ago, had been scantily 
 attended ; this was different. Many faces familiar to you were 
 among them : the doctors mentioned in the story, the lawyers, 
 Mr. ^^'all of Barmester, Mr. Apperley and his sons, the clerk 
 Ford from Blackstone ; even Policeman Dumps was there. 
 How did Mr. Chattaway like standing amongst them ? How 
 did he like to feel that George Ryle, whom he would so have 
 put upon, was from henceforth his master? Suddenly the 
 even flow of Mr. Freeman's voice was marred by a burst of 
 sobs, and many eyes were turned to the quarter, and found the 
 interruption came from Jim Sanders. Mr. Dumps inwardly 
 vowed a chastisement for the breach. 
 
 The coffin was lowered into the grave of the Trevlyns, and 
 sorrowful eyes pressed forward to catch a glimpse of its plate. 
 The inscription had been made in accordance with the will 
 and pleasure of Squire Trevlyn : — ■ 
 
 RUPERT TREVLYN, 
 
 HEIR OF TREVLYN HOLD, 
 DIED MAY 2ND, AGED TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 It was SO. The true heir, was he, of Trevlyn Hold, the sole 
 heir of Squire Trevlyn. But God had taken him from his heir- 
 ship before he could enter upon it. A great calamity, some of 
 those mourners are thinking. No, it was no calamity ; for as
 
 474 tREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 Rupert himself bad said in his last illness, he had but resigned 
 a poor earthly heirship to enter upon that heavenly one which 
 fades not away. 
 
 They left his body to its kindred earth, and wound their w^ay 
 back again. Oh, my friends ! may we learn to strive for that 
 true heirship, without which all other heirships will avail us 
 nought ! Fare you well ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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