MAUDE TREVLYN
The sun rose gloriously, dispersing the early October frost, and
brightening the world. But the sunbeams fall upon dark scenes sometimes;
perhaps more often than upon happy ones.
George Ryle was leaning on the fold-yard gate. He had strolled out
without his hat, and his head was bent in grief. Not that he was
shedding tears now. He had shed plenty during the night; but tears
cannot flow for ever, even from an aching heart.
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.
"What is this about your father? What has happened? Is he dead?"
"He is dying," replied 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 my mother
remain with him."
"But how on earth did it happen?" asked 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 passing through the field up to your house, and the bull
attacked him----"
"But when? when?" hastily interrupted Mr. Chattaway.
"Yesterday afternoon. My father came in directly after you rode away,
and I gave him your message. He said he would go up to the Hold at once,
and speak to you; and took the field way instead of the road."
"Now, how could he take it? He knew it was hardly safe for strangers.
Not but that the bull ought to have known him."
"He had a red cravat in his hand, and he thinks that excited the bull.
It tossed him into the ditch, and he lay there, undiscovered, until past
ten at night."
"And he is badly hurt?"
"He is dying," replied George, "dying now. I think that is why they sent
us from the room."
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; relating 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 will the farm
do without him? How shall you all get on?"
"Thinking of that has been troubling him all night," said George. "He
said we might get a living at the farm, if you would let us do it. If
you would not be hard," he added, determined to speak out.
"Hard, he called me, did he?" said Mr. Chattaway. "It's not my hardness
that has been in fault, but his pride. He has been as saucy and
independent as if he did not owe me a shilling; always making himself
out my equal."
"He is your equal," said George, speaking gently in his sadness.
"My equal! Working Tom Ryle the equal of the Chattaways! A man who rents
two or three hundred acres and does half the work himself, the equal of
the landlord who owns them and ever so many more to them!--equal to the
Squire of Trevlyn Hold! Where did you pick up those notions, boy?"
George had a great mind to say that in 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 now rented. But George remembered they were in Chattaway's
power; he could sell them up, and turn them from the farm, if he
pleased; and he held his tongue.
"Not that I blame you for the notions," Mr. Chattaway resumed, in the
same thin, unpleasant 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 my mother remain on the farm, I----"
"That's enough," interrupted Mr. Chattaway. "Never trouble your head
about business that's above you. Anything between me and your father, or
your mother either, is no concern of yours; you are not old enough to
interfere 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.
He led the way through the fold-yard. Nora was coming out at the
back-door as they advanced.
"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; whilst George lifted his white
and startled face.
"He is dead!" broke forth Nora; "and perhaps there may be some that will
wish now they had been less hard with him in life. The doctors and Mrs.
Ryle have just come out, and the women have gone in to put him straight
and comfortable. Mr. Chattaway can go in also, if he would like it."
Mr. Chattaway, it appeared, did not like it. He turned from the door,
drawing George with him.
"George, tell your mother I am grieved at her trouble, and wish that
beast of a bull had been stuck before he had done this. Tell her 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, with 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; nor 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 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 sounds 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
no longer here to command, or deal with. Work, especially farm work,
must go on, although death may have accomplished its mission.
The butcher, riding fast, had nearly reached the gate, and George was
turning away 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 done. He stood where he was, instead of turning
away. That day he must rise superior to grief, and be useful; 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 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. "Where shall I find him?"
"Mr. Cope," said George, raising his grave face--and its expression
struck a chill to the man's heart--"I should not joke upon the subject
of death. My father was attacked by Chattaway's bull yesterday evening,
and has died of the injuries."
"Lawk-a-mercy!" uttered the startled man. "Attacked by Chattaway's bull!
and--and--died of the injuries! Surely it can't be so!"
George had turned his face away; the strain was getting too much for
him.
"Has Chattaway killed the bull?" was the man's next question.
"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 stay him from injuring another, no matter
what its value. Dear me! Mr. George, I'd rather have heard any news than
this."
George's head was quite turned away now. The butcher roused himself to
think of business. His time was short, for he had to be in the town
again 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 'em. Who is going to carry on the
dealings in Mr. Ryle's place? Who can I speak to?"
"You can see John Pinder," answered George. "He knows most about
things."
The man guided his horse through the fold-yard, scattering the cocks and
hens, and reached the barn. John Pinder came out to him; and George
escaped indoors.
It was a sad day. The excitement over, the doctors departed, the
gossipers and neighbours dispersed, the village carpenter having come
and taken certain measures, the house was left to its monotonous quiet;
that distressing quiet which tells upon the spirits. Nora's voice was
subdued, 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 must 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 realise the fact
told her, that she would never see papa again. Better for the little
heart perhaps that it was so; sorrow enough comes with later years; and
Mrs. Ryle judged wisely in deciding to keep the child where she was
until after the funeral.
When George reached home, he found Nora at tea alone. Master Treve had
chosen to take his with his mother in her 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 the
bread-and-butter remained untouched.
"I'm not hungry," replied George.
"Did you have tea in Barmester?"
"I did not have anything," he said.
"Now, look you here, George. If you are going to give way to----Mercy on
us! What's that?"
Some one had entered hastily. A lovely girl in a flowing white evening
dress and blue ribbons in her hair. A heavy shawl fell from her
shoulders to the ground, and she stood panting, as one who has run
quickly, her fair curls falling, her cheeks crimson, her dark blue eyes
glowing. On the pretty arms were coral bracelets, and a thin gold chain
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, and 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, 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! 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 cried very much 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 well 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 bed away from all the pleasure. It
is a shame!"
"It is all a shame together, up at Trevlyn Hold--all that concerns
Rupert," said Nora, not, perhaps, very judiciously.
"Nora, where did he die?" asked Maude, in a whisper. "Did they take him
up to his bedroom when they brought him home?"
"They carried him in there," said Nora, pointing to the sitting room
door. "He is lying there now."
"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 scratching a grave
before the porch?"
"Who told you anything about that?" asked Nora, sharply.
"Ann Canham came up to the Hold and spoke about it. Was it so, Nora?"
Nora nodded. "A hole, Miss Maude, nearly big enough to lay the master
in. Not that I thought it a token for _him_! 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," said George, hastily. Never was a boy less
given to superstition; but, with his father lying where he was, he
somehow did not care to hear much about the mysterious hole.
Maude moved towards the door. "Take me in to see him," she pleaded.
"Will you promise not to be frightened?" asked Nora. "Some young people
can't bear the sight of death."
"What should I fear?" 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 regret it.
It would not be right."
Now, of all things, Nora disliked being 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 gave a sharp word of reprimand to
George, in an undertone. How could they speak aloud, entering that
presence?
"Maude, Maude!" he whispered. "I would advise you not to go in."
"Let me go!" she pleaded. "I should like to see him once again. I did
not see him for a whole week before he died. The last time I ever saw
him was one day in the copse, and he got down some hazel-nuts for me. I
never thanked him," she added, tears in her eyes. "In a hurry to get
home, I never stayed to thank him. I shall always be sorry for it.
George, I must see him."
Nora was already in the room with the candle. Maude advanced on tiptoe,
her heart beating with awe. She halted at the foot of the table and
looked eagerly upwards.
Maude Trevlyn had never seen the dead, and her heart gave a bound of
terror, and she fell back with a cry. 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 any one dead before, Miss
Maude," cried she, testily. "How was I to know? And you ought to have
come right up to the top before looking."
Maude was clinging tremblingly to George, sobbing hysterically. "Don't
be angry with me," she whispered. "I did not think he would look like
that."
"Oh, Maude, 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."
"Shall I 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--it--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 the restless dog had favoured
the house with a night or two ago.
They went up the 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.
"It is never going to be out again," 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," returned
George, in tones of pain. "What do they care for the death of my
father?"
"George, he is better off," said she, in a dreamy manner, her face
turned towards the stars. "I am very sorry; I have cried a great deal
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 felt it."
"Yes," answered George, his heart very full.
"Mamma and papa are better off," continued Maude. "Your own mother 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: a round building, containing
two rooms upstairs and two down. Its walls were not very substantial,
and the sound of voices could be heard within. 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 under the window,
contriving to hold on by his hands and toes, and thus obtained a view of
the room.
"Yes, it is Rupert," said he, as he jumped down. "He is sitting talking
to old Canham."
But the slightness of structure which allowed voices to be heard within
the lodge also allowed them to be heard without. Ann Canham came
hastening to the door, opened it a few inches, and stood peeping. 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 fire, smoking a pipe, his back towards the
door.
"Where has 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 the young lady
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?"
"Where is Rupert?" 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----"
"Wait a minute!" interrupted Maude. She opened the door leading into the
inner room, and stood looking into its darkness. "Rupert!" she called;
"it is only George and I. You need not hide."
It brought forth Rupert; that lovely boy, with his large blue eyes and
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 dodging 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 also came away without their knowing
it. I have been down to Aunt Ryle's, and George has brought me home
again."
"Will you be pleased, to sit down, Miss, Maude?" asked Ann Canham,
dusting a chair.
"Eh, but that's a pretty picture!" cried old Canham, gazing at Maude,
who had 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 towards her.
"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 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. 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, throwing his eyes on the old man--eyes sparkling
with excitement--"if they had lived, 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 indignant gesture.
Ann Canham was still offering the chair to Maude. Maude declined it.
"I cannot stay, 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; 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, mockingly. "_Not_ to tell would be
impossible to Cris Chattaway. It's what he'd delight in more than in
gold. I wouldn't 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 Mrs. Ryle, sir--how does she bear it?"
"She bears it very well, Mark," answered George, as 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 he alluded to
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 they don't fall upon you,"
whispered Ann Canham, as she held open the lodge door.
"I'll mind," 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 do something desperate, as the
dead-and-gone heir, Rupert, did," she remarked, sitting down near her
father.
"Like enough," was the old man's reply, taking up his pipe again. "He
has the true Trevlyn temper, have young Rupert."
"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 begged 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 sadly
subdued tones. "That 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 real rela----"
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 disappeared: Maude, holding George's arm, bore
bravely on, and met him.
"Where have you been, Maude? The house has been searched for you. What
brings _you_ here?" he roughly added to George.
"I came because I chose to come," was George's answer.
"None of your insolence," returned Cris. "We don't want 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, whilst Mr. Ryle, his uncle by marriage,
was lying dead, under circumstances so unhappy? 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 interrupted by
the appearance of Miss Trevlyn. She was standing on the steps.
"Where have you been, Maude?"
"To Trevlyn Farm," was Maude's truthful answer. "You would not let me go
during 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. George, thank you
for bringing me home," she continued, stepping in. "Good-night. I would
have given all I possess for it never to have happened."
She burst into a flood of tears as she spoke--the result, no doubt, of
her previous fright and excitement, as well as her sorrow for Mr. Ryle'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 tears:
"Oh, George, I am so sorry! I have felt all day as if it would almost be
my death. I think I could have given my own life to save his."
"I know, I know! I know how _you_ will feel it," replied George, utterly
unmanned by the true and unexpected sympathy.
It was Mrs. Chattaway.