IN THE UPPER MEADOW
The stars shone bright and clear as George Ryle walked down the slight
descent of the turnpike-road, wondering what had become of his father.
Any other night but this, he might not have wondered about it; but
George could not remember the time when Tuesday evening had been devoted
to anything but the farm accounts. John Pinder, who acted as a sort of
bailiff, had been in the kitchen some hours with his weekly memoranda,
to go through them as usual with his master; and George knew his father
would not willingly keep the man waiting.
George went along whistling a tune; he was given to whistling. About
half-way between Trevlyn Hold and his own house, the sound of another
whistle struck upon his ear. A turn in the road brought a lad into view,
wearing a smock-frock. It was the waggoner's boy at Trevlyn Hold. He
ceased when he came up to George, and touched his hat in rustic fashion.
"Have you seen anything of my father, Bill?"
"Not since this afternoon, Master George," was the answer. "I see him,
then, turning into that field of ours, next to where the bull be. Going
up to the Hold, mayhap; else what should he do there?"
"What time was that?" asked George.
The boy considered a moment. "'Twas afore the sun set," he said at
length, "I am sure o' that. He had some'at red in his hand, and the sun
shone on it fit to dazzle one's eyes."
The boy went his way; George stood and thought. If his father had turned
into the field indicated, there could be no doubt that he was hastening
to Chattaway's. Crossing this field and the one next to it, both large,
would bring one close to Trevlyn Hold, cutting off, perhaps, two minutes
of the high-road, which wound round the fields. But the fields were
scarcely ever favoured, on account of the bull. This bull had been a
subject of much contention in the neighbourhood, and was popularly
called "Chattaway's bull." It was a savage animal, and had once got out
of the field and frightened several people almost to death. The
neighbours said Mr. Chattaway ought to keep it under lock and key. Mr.
Chattaway said he should keep it where he pleased: and he generally
pleased to keep it in the field. This barred it to pedestrians; and Mr.
Ryle must undoubtedly have been in hot haste to reach Trevlyn Hold to
choose the route.
A hundred fears darted through George Ryle's mind. He was more
thoughtful, it may be said more imaginative, than boys of his age
generally are. George and Cris Chattaway had once had a run from the
bull, and only saved themselves by desperate speed. Venturing into the
field one day when the animal was apparently grazing quietly in a remote
corner, they had not anticipated his running at them. George remembered
this; he remembered the terror excited when the bull had broken loose.
Had his father been attacked by the bull?--perhaps killed by it?
His heart beating, George retraced his steps, and turned into the first
field. He hastened across it, glancing on all sides as keenly as the
night allowed him. Not in this field would the danger be; and George
reached the gate of the other, and stood looking into it.
Apparently it was quite empty. The bull was probably safe in its shed
then, in Chattaway's farmyard. George could see nothing--nothing except
the grass stretched out in the starlight. He threw his eyes in every
direction, but could not perceive his father, or any trace of him. "What
a simpleton I am," thought George, "to fear that such an out-of-the-way
thing could have happened! He must----"
What was that? George held his breath. A sound, not unlike a groan, had
smote upon his ear. And there it came again! "Holloa!" shouted George,
and cleared the gate with a bound. "What's that? Who is it?"
A moan answered him; and George Ryle, guided by the sound, hastened to
the spot. It was only a little way off, down by the hedge separating the
fields. All the undefined fear George, not a minute ago, had felt
inclined to treat as groundless, was indeed but a prevision of the
terrible reality. Mr. Ryle lay in a narrow, dry ditch: and, but for that
friendly ditch, he had probably been gored to death on the spot.
"Who is it?" he asked feebly, as his son bent over him, trying to
distinguish what he could in the darkness. "George?"
"Oh, papa! what has happened?"
"Just my death, lad."
It was a sad tale. One that is often talked of in the place, in
connection with Chattaway's bull. In crossing the second field--indeed,
as soon as he entered it--Mr. Ryle was attacked by the furious beast,
and tossed into the ditch, where he lay helpless. The people said then,
and say still, that the red cravat he carried excited the anger of the
bull.
George raised his voice in a shout for help, hoping it might reach the
ears of the boy whom he had recently encountered. "Perhaps I can get you
out, papa," he said, "though I may not be able myself to get you home."
"No, George; it will take stronger help than yours to get me out of
this."
"I had better go up to the Hold, then. It is nearer than our house."
"You will not go to the Hold," said Mr. Ryle, authoritatively. "I will
not be beholden to Chattaway. He has been the ruin of my peace, and now
his bull has done for me."
George bent down closer. There was no room for him to get into the
ditch, which was very narrow. "Papa, are you shivering with cold?"
"With cold and pain. The frost strikes keenly upon me, and my pain is
great."
George instantly took off his jacket and waistcoat, and laid them gently
on his father, his tears dropping silently in the dark night. "I'll run
home for help," he said, speaking as bravely as he could. "John Pinder
is there, and we can call up one or two of the men."
"Ay, do," said Mr. Ryle. "They must bring a shutter, and carry me home
on it. Take care you don't frighten your mother, George. Tell her at
first that I am a little hurt, and can't walk; break it to her so that
she may not be alarmed."
George flew away. At the end of the second field, staring over the gate
near the high-road, stood the boy Bill, whose ears George's shouts had
reached. He was not a sharp-witted lad, and his eyes and mouth opened
with astonishment to see George Ryle come flying along in his
shirt-sleeves.
"What's a-gate?" asked he. "Be that bull loose again?"
"Run for your life to the second field," panted George, seizing him in
his desperation. "In the ditch, a few yards along the hedge to the
right, my father is lying. Go and stay by him, until I come back with
help."
"Lying in the ditch!" repeated Bill, unable to collect his startled
senses. "What's done it, Master George?"
"Chattaway's bull has done it. Hasten down to him, Bill. You might hear
his groans all this way off, if you listened."
"Is the bull there?" asked Bill.
"I have seen no bull. The bull must have been in its shed hours ago.
Stand by him, Bill, and I'll give you sixpence to-morrow."
They separated. George tore down the road, wondering how he should
fulfil his father's injunction not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in telling the
news. Molly, very probably looking after her sweetheart, was standing at
the fold-yard gate as he passed. George sent her into the house the
front way, and bade her whisper to Nora to come out; to tell her
"somebody" wanted to speak to her. Molly obeyed; but executed her
commission so bunglingly, that not only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn
came flocking to the porch. George could only go in then.
"Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in answer to their questions. "My
father has had a fall, and--and says he cannot walk home. Perhaps he has
sprained his ankle."
"What has become of your jacket and waistcoat?" cried Nora, amazed to
see George standing in his shirt-sleeves.
"They are safe enough. Is John Pinder still in the kitchen?" continued
George, escaping from the room.
Trevlyn ran after him. "George, have you been fighting?" he asked. "Is
your jacket torn to ribbons?"
George drew the boy into a dark angle of the passage. "Treve," he
whispered, "if I tell you something about papa, you won't cry out?"
"No, I won't cry out," answered Treve.
"We must get a stretcher of some sort up to him, to bring him home. I am
going to consult John Pinder."
"Where is papa?" interrupted Treve.
"Lying in a ditch in the large meadow. Chattaway's bull has attacked
him. I am not sure but he will die."
The first thing Treve did _was_ to cry out. George put his hand over his
mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who were full of curiosity, both as to
George's jacketless state and George's news, had followed into the
passage. Treve began to cry.
"He has dreadful news about papa, he says," sobbed Treve. "Thinks he's
dead."
It was all over. George must tell now, and he could not help himself.
"No, no, Treve, you should not exaggerate," he said, turning to Mrs.
Ryle in his pain and earnestness. "There is an accident, mamma; but it
is not so bad as that."
Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure; very few people had seen _her_
ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her husband had little
need to caution George as he had done. She laid her hand upon George's
shoulder and looked calmly into his face. "Tell me the truth," she said
in tones of quiet command. "What is the injury?"
"I do not know yet----"
"The truth, boy, I said," she sternly interposed.
"Indeed I do not yet know what it is. He has been attacked by
Chattaway's bull."
It was Nora's turn now. "By Chattaway's bull?" she shrieked.
"Yes," said George. "It must have happened immediately after he left
here at tea-time, and he has been lying ever since in the ditch in the
upper meadow. I put my jacket and waistcoat over him; he was shivering
with cold and pain."
While George was talking, Mrs. Ryle was acting. She sought John Pinder
and issued her orders clearly and concisely. Men were got together; a
mattress with holders was made ready; and the procession started under
the convoy of George, who had been made to put on another jacket. Bill,
the waggoner's boy, had been faithful, and was found by the side of Mr.
Ryle.
"I'm glad you be come," was the boy's salutation. "He's been groaning
and shivering awful. It set me shivering too."
As if to escape from the evil, Bill ran off, there and then, across the
field, and never drew in until he reached Trevlyn Hold. In spite of his
somewhat stolid propensities, he felt a sort of pride in being the first
to impart the story there. Entering the house by the back, or farmyard
door--for farming was carried on at Trevlyn Hold as well as at Trevlyn
Farm--he passed through sundry passages to the well-lighted hall. There
he seemed to hesitate at his temerity, but at length gave an awkward
knock at the door of the general sitting-room.
A large, handsome room. Reclining in an easy-chair was a pretty and
pleasing woman, looking considerably younger than she really was. Small
features, a profusion of curling auburn hair, light blue eyes, a soft,
yielding expression, and a gentle voice, were the adjuncts of a young
woman, rather than of one approaching middle-age. A stranger, entering,
might have taken her for a young unmarried woman; and yet she was
mistress of Trevlyn Hold, the mother of that great girl of sixteen at
the table, now playing backgammon and quarrelling with her brother
Christopher. Mistress in name only. Although the wife of its master, Mr.
Chattaway, and daughter of its late master, Squire Trevlyn; although
universally called _Madam_ Chattaway--as from time immemorial it had
been customary to designate the mistress of Trevlyn Hold--she was in
fact no better than a nonentity in it, possessing little authority, and
assuming less. She has been telling her children several times that
their hour for bed has passed; she has begged them not to quarrel; she
has suggested that if they will not go to bed, Maude should do so; but
she may as well talk to the winds.
Miss Chattaway possesses a will of her own. She has the same
insignificant features, pale leaden complexion, small, sly, keen light
eyes that characterise her father. She would like to hold undisputed
sway as the house's mistress; but the inclination has to be concealed;
for the real mistress of Trevlyn Hold may not be displaced. She is
sitting in the background, at a table apart, bending over her desk. A
tall, majestic lady, in a stiff green silk dress and an imposing cap, in
person very like Mrs. Ryle. It is Miss Trevlyn, usually called Miss
Diana, the youngest daughter of the late Squire. You would take her to
be at least ten years older than her sister, Mrs. Chattaway, but in
point of fact she is that lady's junior by a year. Miss Trevlyn is, to
all intents and purposes, mistress of Trevlyn Hold, and she rules its
internal economy with a firm sway.
"Maude, you should go to bed," Mrs. Chattaway had said for the fourth or
fifth time.
A graceful girl of thirteen turned her dark, violet-blue eyes and pretty
light curls upon Mrs. Chattaway. She had been leaning on the table
watching the backgammon. Something of the soft, sweet expression visible
in Mrs. Chattaway's face might be traced in this child's; but in Maude
it was blended with greater intellect.
"It is not my fault, Aunt Edith," she gently said. "I should like to go.
I am tired."
"Be quiet, Maude!" broke from Miss Chattaway. "Mamma, I wish you
wouldn't worry about bed! I don't choose Maude to go up until I go. She
helps me to undress."
Poor Maude looked sleepy. "I can be going on, Octave," she said to Miss
Chattaway.
"You can hold your tongue and wait, and not be ungrateful," was the
response of Octavia Chattaway. "But for papa's kindness, you would not
have a bed to go to. Cris, you are cheating! that was not sixes!"
It was at this juncture that the awkward knock came to the door. "Come
in!" cried Mrs. Chattaway.
Either her gentle voice was not heard, for Cris and his sister were
disputing just then, or the boy's modesty would not allow him to
respond. He knocked again.
"See who it is, Cris," came forth the ringing voice of Miss Trevlyn.
Cris did not choose to obey. "Open the door, Maude," said he.
Maude did as she was bid: she had little chance allowed her in that
house of doing otherwise. Opening the door, she saw the boy standing
there. "What is it, Bill?" she asked in surprise.
"Please, is the Squire there, Miss Maude?"
"No," answered Maude. "He is not well, and has gone to bed."
This appeared to be a poser for Bill, and he stood considering. "Is
Madam in there?" he presently asked.
"Who is it, Maude?" came again in Miss Trevlyn's commanding tones.
Maude turned her head. "It is Bill Webb, Aunt Diana."
"What does he want?"
Bill stepped in. "Please, Miss Diana, I came to tell the Squire the
news. I thought he might be angry with me if I did not, seeing as I
knowed of it."
"The news?" repeated Miss Diana, looking imperiously at Bill.
"The mischief the bull have done. He's gone and gored Farmer Ryle."
The words arrested the attention of all. They came forward, as with one
impulse. Cris and his sister, in their haste, upset the
backgammon-board.
"_What_ do you say, Bill?" gasped Mrs. Chattaway, with white face and
faltering voice.
"It's true, ma'am," said Bill. "The bull set on him this afternoon, and
tossed him into the ditch. Master George found him there a short while
agone, groaning awful."
There was a startled pause. "I--I--hope he is not much injured?" said
Mrs. Chattaway at last, in her consternation.
"He says it's his death, ma'am. John Pinder and others have brought a
bed, and be carrying of him home on it."
"What brought Mr. Ryle in that field?" asked Miss Diana.
"He telled me, ma'am, he was a-coming up here to see the Squire, and
took that way to save time."
Mrs. Chattaway fell back a little. "Cris," said she to her son, "go down
to the farm and see what the injury is. I cannot sleep in the
uncertainty. It may be fatal."
Cris tossed his head. "You know, mother, I'd do almost anything to
oblige you," he said, in his smooth accents, which had ever a false
sound in them, "but I can't go to the farm. Mrs. Ryle might insult me:
there's no love lost between us."
"If the accident happened this afternoon, why was it not discovered when
the bull was brought to his shed to-night?" cried Miss Trevlyn.
Bill shook his head. "I dun know, ma'am. For one thing, Mr. Ryle was in
the ditch, and couldn't be seen. And the bull, maybe, had gone to the
top o' the field again, where the groaning wouldn't be heard."
"If I had only been listened to!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, in wailing
accents. "How many a time have I asked that the bull should be parted
with, before he did some fatal injury. And now it has come!"