NEWS FOR MAUDE
You should have seen the procession going up the avenue. Not that first
night; but in the broad glare of the following noon-day. How Squire
Trevlyn contrived to make things straight with the superintendent,
Bowen, he best knew. Poor misguided Rupert was a free man again, and
Policeman Dumps was busiest of all in helping to move him.
The easiest carriage the Hold afforded was driven to the lodge. A
shrunken, emaciated object Rupert looked as he tottered down the
staircase, Squire Trevlyn standing below to catch him if he made a false
step, George Ryle, ready with his protecting arm, and Mr. King,
talkative as ever, following close behind. Old Canham stood leaning on
his stick, and Ann curtsied behind the door.
"It is the proudest day of my life, Master Rupert, to see you come to
your rights," 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."
"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; has lain on that hard
settle at night, and had no other bed since I have been here. She has
offended all her employers, to stop at home and attend on me."
Poor Ann Canham's tears were falling. "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 please excuse the poor 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 don't come back to you. What did you earn? ten shillings a
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 overcome to answer; and the Squire stepped out with Rupert
and found himself in the midst of a crowd. The incredible news of his
return had spread far and wide, and people of all grades were flocking
to the Hold to welcome him home. Old men, friends of the late Squire;
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 helped Rupert into the carriage. He shook
hands twenty times with the Squire, and linked his arm with 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 in
the carriage, which had been thrown open to the fine day. The air seemed
to revive Rupert greatly. They watched him as he talked with George
Ryle, who walked with his arm on the carriage door; they pressed round
to get a word with him. Rupert, emancipated from the close confinement,
the terrible _dread_, felt as a bird released from its cage, and his
spirits went up to fever-heat.
He held out his hands to one and another; and laughingly told them that
in a week's time he should be in a condition to run a race with the best
of them. "But you needn't expect him," put in Mr. King, by way of
warning. "Before he is well enough to run races, I shall order him off
to a warmer climate."
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, earnest sympathy, and he held out his hand impulsively.
It was that of Jim Sanders, and as the boy sprang forward he burst into
tears.
"You and I must be better friends than ever, Jim. Cheer up. What's the
matter?"
"It's to see you looking like this, sir. You'll get well, sir, won't
you?"
"Oh yes; I feel all right now, Jim. A little tired, that's all. 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 undecided whether to
receive the offending Rupert with a welcome, burst forth into a
reproach, or run away and hide himself. Rupert decided it by walking up
to him, and holding out his hand.
"Let us be friends, Mr. Chattaway. I have long repented of my mad
passion, and I thank you for absolving me from its consequences. Perhaps
you are sorry on your side for the treatment that drove me to it. We
will be 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. Somehow 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, and he could not rebel against it. There might be no attempt to
dispute the claims of Squire Trevlyn; Mr. Chattaway was as completely
deposed as though he had never held it.
Rupert was installed in his luxurious room, everything within it that
could contribute to his ease and comfort. Squire Trevlyn had been
tenderly attached to his brother Joe when they were boys together. He
robust, manly; Joe delicate. It may be that the want of strength in the
younger only rendered him dearer to the elder brother. Perhaps it was
only the old affection for Joe transferred 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 that Rupert had only
come 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 that he must get
stronger first; and his tone was significant.
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 climate--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 Barmeston."
"Call in all the doctors you like, Squire, if it will afford 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, as far as might be, his
passage to the grave.
But a word must be spoken of the departure of Mr. Chattaway 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 began to turn his thoughts practically to the
future.
Squire Trevlyn had promised not to take from him anything 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 in the shape of work. His thoughts
turned, not unnaturally, to 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 my sister Edith to sink into obscurity, but she may live upon
the Upland Farm without losing caste; it is a fine place both as to land
and residence. Therefore, I'll let it you, I say, upon one condition."
Maude Trevlyn happened to be present at the conversation, and spoke in
the moment's impulse.
"Oh, Uncle Rupert! you promised----"
"Well, Miss Maude?" he cried, and fixing his eyes on her glowing face.
Maude timidly continued.
"I thought you promised someone else the Upland Farm."
"That favourite of yours and of Rupert's, George Ryle? But I am not
going to let him have it. Well, 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 carrying 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. Chattaway.
"The matter is, that I find the land impoverished. You have spared money
upon it in your mistaken policy, and the inevitable result has followed.
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. 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-spoken: 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
punishment 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, sir?--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 absolutely
confounded. "Refunding it to whom?"
"To the Ryles, 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 honour, 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 looking round for Maude, discerned her at the end of the
room, her head bent in sorrow.
"What's this, 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 peculiar, and she raised her timid eyelids. "A better one!"
she stammered.
"Yes. Trevlyn Hold."
Maude looked aghast. "What do you mean, Uncle Rupert?"
"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 up, utterly unable to understand him.
"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! Did you think I had come home to make my dead brother's children
unhappy? You will know me better by and by, Maude."