A RED-LETTER DAY
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 day dawned
for Mrs. Ryle and George--certainly never one that brought half the
satisfaction; for George Ryle was going up to the Hold to clear off the
last instalment of Mr. Chattaway's debt.
It was the lifting of a heavy tax; the removal of a cruel nightmare--a
nightmare that had borne them down, had all but crushed them with its
weight. How they had toiled, striven, persevered, saved, George and Nora
alone knew. They knew it far better than Mrs. Ryle; she had joined in
the saving, but 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
blessed with remarkable prosperity since George's reign there. Season
after season, when other people complained of short returns, those of
Trevlyn Farm had flourished. Harvests had been abundant; cattle, sheep,
poultry--all had richly prospered. It is true George brought keen
intelligence, ever-watchful care to bear upon it; but returns, even with
these, are not always satisfactory. They had been so with him. His
bargains in buying and selling stock had been always good, yielding a
profit--for he had entered into them somewhat largely--never 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 fairs and markets, of "young Ryle's cuteness." Perhaps
the success might be owing to a very different cause, as George
believed--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 like magic to that gentleman 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. Dear as money was to the master of Trevlyn Hold,
he had been better pleased to keep George Ryle still under his thumb.
_He_ had not been favoured with the same success: his corn had, some
seasons, been thin in the ear; his live stock 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 good will; but
George wanted to stand so far well with him as to obtain the lease of
his best farm. A difficult task!
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; see the tenants and
work-people upon other matters; transact business generally--for it was
not until the advent of Mr. Chattaway that Trevlyn Hold had been without
its steward or bailiff. 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 displeasure 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 remark 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 snappishly. "Take a
seat."
George drew a chair to the table at which Mr. Chattaway sat. Opening a
substantial bag, he counted out 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. "What have you deducted?" 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."
Mr. Chattaway scrutinised the papers one by one, but he was unable to
find anything to object to in the items. George Ryle knew better than to
deduct money for anything that did 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 court I believe it would be
given against you."
"I don't think you believe anything of the sort," 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, both principal and
interest. 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, and 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 in that
belief; but there was no document to prove it, and we have had to bear
the consequences. It is all, however, honourably paid now."
Mr. Chattaway could not demur to this, and gave a receipt--in full, as
George expressed it--for that and the year's rent. As George put the
former safely in his pocket-book, he felt like a bird released 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. "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 prospered in my bargains with
stock. Would you be afraid to try me on a farm on my own account?"
Had it been any eligible person except George Ryle, Mr. Chattaway would
probably have said he should not be afraid; but 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 answer so well,
you would be loth to leave it," he remarked ungraciously.
"So I might be, were Trevlyn Farm mine alone. Of all the returns which
have accrued from my care and labour, not a shilling has found its way
to me: I 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 mother would have allowed me to take my
portion. I believe 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 off--at least, if I can
settle as I hope. My mother wishes the lease transferred into Trevlyn's
name. I suppose there will be no objection to it."
"I'll consider 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 Chattaway. "A man without a shilling--and
you have just informed me you don't possess one--can't undertake the
Upland Farm. That farm's only suited to a gentleman"--and he laid an
offensive stress upon the word: "one whose pockets are 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 in 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 returned resentfully.
"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 better. All the neighbours would be glad to see me
take the Upland Farm."
Mr. Chattaway's breath was almost taken away with the insolence. "Had
you not better constitute yourself manager of my estate, and let my
farms to whom you please?" he cried sarcastically. "How dare you
interfere with my tenants, or with those who would become my tenants?"
"I have not interfered with them. This client of Mr. Peterby's happened
to mention to me that he had asked the firm to make inquiries about the
Upland Farm. I immediately rejoined that it was the very farm I was
hoping to take myself; and he determined of his own goodwill not to
oppose me."
"Who was it?"
"One who would not have suited you, if you have set your mind upon 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 called a gentleman. It is Cope, the
butcher--I may as well tell you. Since he retired from his shop, he
finds time hangs on his hands, and has resolved to turn farmer. Mr.
Chattaway, I hope you will let me have it."
"It appears to me nothing less than audacity to ask it," was the
chilling retort. "Pray, where's your money to come from to stock it?"
"It's all ready," said George.
Mr. Chattaway looked at him, thinking the assertion 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 in reply.
"I repeat that the money is ready," continued George. "Mr. Chattaway, 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."
Mr. Chattaway was very much surprised. It was not much in Farmer
Apperley's line to lend money: he was too cautious a man.
"It's quite 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 take it."
"I should have thought you had had enough of farming land upon borrowed
money," ungenerously retorted Chattaway.
"So I have--from one point of view," was the composed answer. "But I
have managed to clear off the debt, you see, and don't doubt I shall be
able to do the same again. Apperley proposes only a fair rate of
interest; considerably less than I have been paying you."
"It is strange 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 equally
large. But I should have to go a greater distance, and I don't care to
do that. As to being a single man--perhaps that might be remedied if you
will let me have the Upland."
He spoke with a laugh; yet Mr. Chattaway detected a serious meaning in
the tone, and 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?"
"As soon as circumstances will allow me to do so."
"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 now; you will know sometime."
"I suppose I shall, if the match ever comes off," returned Chattaway, in
a very cross-grained manner. "If it has to wait until you rent the
Upland Farm, it may wait indefinitely."
"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," was the dogged reply. "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 and 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 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--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 here"--touching his
breast-pocket. "I have paid it under protest, as I have always told Mr.
Chattaway; for I fully believe Squire Trevlyn cancelled it."
"If I thought 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? I may be thinking of getting a wife; and the Upland is the
only farm in the neighbourhood 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 lesser one suffice her?"
"No. She is a gentlewoman born and bred, and must live as one."
"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 startled from the conclusion of his sentence. Over Miss
Diana's shoulder, gazing at him with a strangely wild expression, was
the face of Octave Chattaway, her lips parted, her face crimson.