SUPERSTITION
Later, when George was working diligently at his lessons, and Nora was
sewing--both by the help of the same candle: for an array of candles was
not more indulged in than other luxuries in Mr. Ryle's house--footsteps
were heard approaching the porch, and a modest knock came to the door.
"Come in," called out Nora.
A very thin woman, in a washed-out cotton gown, with a thin face and
inflamed eyes, came in, curtseying. It was an honest face, a meek face;
although it looked as if its owner had a meal about once a week.
"Evening, Miss Dickson; evening, Master George. I have stepped round to
ask the missis whether I shall be wanted on Tuesday."
"The missis is out," said Nora. "She has been talking of putting off the
wash till the week after, but I don't know that she will do so. If you
sit down a bit, Ann Canham, she'll come in, perhaps."
Ann Canham seated herself respectfully on the edge of a remote chair.
And Nora, who liked gossiping above every earthly thing, began to talk
of Jim Sanders's illness.
"He has dreadful bouts, poor fellow!" observed Ann Canham.
"But six times out of seven he brings them on through his own fault,"
tartly returned Nora. "Many and many a time I have told him he'd do for
himself, and now I think he has done it. This bout, it strikes me, is
his last."
"Is he so ill as that?" exclaimed Ann Canham. And George looked up from
his exercise-book in surprise.
"I don't know that he is," said Nora; "but----"
Nora broke suddenly off, dropped her work, and bent her head towards Ann
Canham.
"We have had a strange thing happen here," she continued, her voice
falling to a whisper; "and if it's not a warning of death, never believe
me again. This morning----George, did you hear the dog in the night?"
"No," answered George.
"Boys sleep soundly," she remarked to Ann Canham. "You might drive a
coach-and-six through their room, and not wake them. His room's at the
back, too. Last night the dog got round to the front of the house, and
there he was, all night long, sighing and moaning like a human creature.
You couldn't call it a howl; there was too much pain in it. He was at it
all night long; I couldn't sleep for it. The missis says she couldn't
sleep for it. Well, this morning I was up first, the master next, Molly
next; but the master went out by the back-way and saw nothing. By-and-by
I spied something out of this window on the garden path, as if some one
had been digging there; so out I went. It was for all the world like a
grave!--a great hole, with the earth thrown up on either side of it.
That dog had done it in the night!"
Ann Canham, possibly feeling uncomfortably aloof from the company when
graves became the topic, drew her chair nearer the table. George sat,
his pen arrested; his large wide-open eyes turned on Nora--not with
fear, but merriment.
"A great hole, twice the length of our rolling-pin, and wide in
proportion, all hollowed and scratched out," went on Nora. "I called the
cow-boy, and asked him what it looked like. 'A grave,' said he, without
a moment's hesitation. Molly came out, and they two filled it in again,
and trod the path down. The marks have been plain enough all day. The
master has been talking a long while of having that path gravelled, but
it has not been done."
"And the hole was scratched by the dog?" proceeded Ann Canham, unable to
get over the wonder.
"It was scratched by the dog," answered Nora. "And every one knows it's
a sign that death's coming to the house, or to some one belonging to the
house. Whether it's your own dog scratches it, or somebody else's dog,
no matter; it's a sure sign that a real grave is about to be dug. It may
not happen once in fifty years--no, not in a hundred; but when it does
come, it's a warning not to be neglected."
"It's odd how the dogs can know!" remarked Ann Canham, meekly.
"Those dumb animals possess an instinct we can't understand," said Nora.
"We have had that dog ever so many years, and he never did such a thing
before. Rely upon it, it's Jim Sanders's warning. How you stare,
George!"
"I may well stare, to hear you," was George's answer. "How can you put
faith in such rubbish, Nora?"
"Just hark at him!" exclaimed Nora. "Boys are half heathens. I wouldn't
laugh in that irreverent way, if I were you, George, because Jim
Sanders's time has come."
"I am not laughing at that," said George; "I am laughing at you. Nora,
your argument won't hold water. If the dog had meant to give notice that
he was digging a hole for Jim Sanders, he would have dug it before his
own door, not before ours."
"Go on!" cried Nora, sarcastically. "There's no profit arguing with
unbelieving boys. They'd stand it to your face the sun never shone."
Ann Canham rose, and put her chair back in its place with much humility.
Indeed, humility was her chief characteristic. "I'll come round in the
morning, and know about the wash, if you please, ma'am," she said to
Nora. "Father will be wanting his supper, and will wonder where I'm
staying."
She departed. Nora gave George a lecture upon unbelief and irreverence
in general, but George was too busy with his books to take much notice
of it.
The evening went on. Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn returned, the latter a
diminutive boy, with dark curls and a handsome face.
"Jim Sanders is much better," remarked Mrs. Ryle. "He is all right again
now, and will be at work in a day or two. It must have been a sort of
fainting-fit he had this afternoon, and his wife got frightened. I told
him to rest to-morrow, and come up the next day if he felt strong
enough."
George turned to Nora, his eyes dancing. "What of the hole now?" he
asked.
"Wait and see," snapped Nora. "And if you are impertinent, I'll never
save you pie or pudding again."
Mrs. Ryle went into the sitting-room, but came back speedily when she
found it dark and untenanted. "Where's the master?" she exclaimed.
"Surely he has returned from Barmester!"
"Papa came home ages ago," said George. "He has gone up to the Hold."
"The Hold?" repeated Mrs. Ryle in surprise, for there was something like
deadly feud between Trevlyn Hold and Trevlyn Farm.
George explained; telling of Mr. Chattaway's message, and the subsequent
proceedings. Nora added that "as sure as fate, he was having it out with
Chattaway." Nothing else would keep him at Trevlyn Hold.
But Mrs. Ryle knew that her easy-natured husband was not one to "have it
out" with any one, even his enemy Chattaway. He might say a few words,
but it was all he would say, and the interview would end almost as soon
as begun. She took off her things, and Molly carried the supper-tray
into the parlour.
But still there was no Mr. Ryle. Ten o'clock struck, and Mrs. Ryle grew,
not exactly uneasy, but curious as to what could have become of him.
What _could_ be detaining him at the Hold?
"It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he has been taken too bad to come
back," said Nora. "He unwound his scarlet cravat from his throat, and
went away swinging it in his hand. John Pinder's waiting all this time
in the kitchen."
"Have you finished your lessons, George?" asked Mrs. Ryle, perceiving
that he was putting his books away.
"Every one," answered George.
"Then you shall go up to the Hold, and walk home with your father. I
cannot think what is delaying his return."
"Perhaps he has gone somewhere else," said George.
"He would neither go anywhere else nor remain at Chattaway's," said Mrs.
Ryle. "This is Tuesday evening."
A conclusive argument. Tuesday evening was invariably devoted by Mr.
Ryle to his farm accounts, and he never suffered anything to interfere
with that evening's work. George put on his cap and started on his
errand.
It was a starlight night, cold and clear, and George went along
whistling. A quarter of an hour's walk up the turnpike road brought him
to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently the whole way, for the land was
higher at Trevlyn Hold than at Trevlyn Farm. A white gate, by the side
of a lodge, opened to the shrubbery or avenue--a dark walk wide enough
for two carriages to pass, with the elm trees nearly meeting overhead.
The shrubbery wound up to a lawn stretched before the windows of the
house: a large, old-fashioned stone-built house, with gabled roofs, and
a flight of steps leading to the entrance-hall. George ascended the
steps and rang the bell.
"Is my father ready to come home?" he asked, not very ceremoniously, of
the servant who answered it.
The man paused, as though he scarcely understood. "Mr. Ryle is not here,
sir," was the answer.
"How long has he been gone?"
"He has not been here at all, sir, that I know of. I don't think he
has."
"Just ask, will you?" said George. "He came here to see Mr. Chattaway.
It was about five o'clock."
The man went away and returned. "Mr. Ryle has not been here at all, sir.
I thought he had not."
George wondered. Could he be out somewhere with Chattaway? "Is Mr.
Chattaway at home?" he inquired.
"Master is in bed," said the servant. "He came home to-day about five,
or thereabouts, not feeling well, and he went to bed as soon as tea was
over."
George turned away. Where could his father have gone to? Where to look
for him? As he passed the lodge, Ann Canham was locking the gate, of
which she and her father were the keepers. It was a whim of Mr.
Chattaway's that the larger gate should be locked at night; but not
until after ten. Foot-passengers could enter by the side-gate.
"Have you seen my father anywhere, since you left our house this
evening?" he asked.
"No, I have not, Master George."
"I can't imagine where he can be. I thought he was at Chattaway's, but
they say he has not been there."
"At Chattaway's! He wouldn't go there, would he, Master George?"
"He started to do so this afternoon. It's very odd! Good night, Ann."
"Master George," she interrupted, "do you happen to have heard how it's
going with Jim Sanders?"
"He is much better," said George.
"Better!" slowly repeated Ann Canham. "Well, I hope he is," she added,
in doubting tones. "But, Master George, I didn't like what Nora told us.
I can't bear tokens from dumb animals, and I never knew them fail."
"Jim Sanders is all right, I tell you," said heathen George. "Mamma has
been there, and he is coming to his work the day after to-morrow. Good
night."
"Good night, sir," answered Ann Canham, as she retreated within the
lodge. And George went through the gate, and stood in hesitation,
looking up and down the road. But it was apparently of no use to search
elsewhere in the uncertainty; and he turned towards home, wondering
much.
What had become of Mr. Ryle?