A BETTER HEIRSHIP
Bending in tenderness over the couch of Rupert Trevlyn was Mrs.
Chattaway. Madam Chattaway no longer; she had quitted that distinctive
title on quitting Trevlyn Hold. It was a warm day early in May, and
Rupert had lingered on; the progress of the disease being so gradual, so
imperceptible, that even the medical men were deceived; and now that the
end had come, they were still saying that he might last until the
autumn.
Rupert had been singularly favoured: some, stricken by this dire malady,
are so. Scarcely any of its painful features were apparent; and Mr. Daw
wrote word that they had not been in his father. There was scarcely any
cough or pain, and though the weakness was certainly great, Rupert had
not for one single day taken to his bed. Until within two days of this
very time, when you see Mrs. Chattaway leaning over him, he had gone out
in the carriage whenever the weather permitted. He could not sit up
much, but chiefly lay on the sofa as he was lying now, facing the
window, open to the warm noon-day sun. The room was the one you have
frequently seen before, once the sitting-room of Mrs. Chattaway. When
the Chattaways left the Hold, Rupert had changed to their rooms; and
would sit there and watch the visitors who came up the avenue.
Mrs. Chattaway had been staying at the Hold since the previous Tuesday,
for Maude was away from it. Maude left it with George Ryle on that day,
but they were coming home this Saturday evening, for both were anxious
not to be long away from Rupert. Rupert sadly wanted to attend the
wedding, and the Squire and Mr. Freeman strove to invent all sorts of
schemes for warming the church; but it persisted in remaining cold and
damp, and Rupert was not allowed to venture. He sat with them, however,
at the breakfast afterwards, and but for his attenuated form and the
hectic excitement brought to his otherwise white and hollow cheeks,
might have passed very well for a guest. George, with his marriage, had
taken the name of Trevlyn, for the Squire insisted upon it, and he would
come home to the Hold to-day as his permanent abode. Miss Diana received
mortal offence at the wedding-breakfast, and sat cold and impenetrable,
for the Squire requested his elder sister to preside in right of birth,
and Miss Diana had long considered herself far more important than Mrs.
Ryle, and had expected to be chief on that occasion herself.
"Shall we invite Edith or Diana to stay with you whilst Maude's away?"
the Squire had inquired of Rupert. And a flush of pleasure came into the
wan face as he answered, "My aunt Edith. I should like to be again with
Aunt Edith."
So Mrs. Chattaway had remained with him, and passed the time as she was
doing now--hovering round his couch, giving him all her care, caressing
him in her loving, gentle manner, whispering of the happy life on which
he was about to enter.
She had some eau-de-cologne in her hand, and was pouring it on a
handkerchief to pass it lightly over his brow and temples. In doing this
a drop went into his eye.
"Oh, Rupert, I am so sorry! How awkward I am!"
It smarted very much, but Rupert smiled bravely. "Just a few minutes'
pain, Aunt Edith. That's all. Do you know what I have got to think
lately?"
She put the cork into the long green bottle, and sat down close to his
sofa. "What, dear?"
"That we must be blind, foolish mortals to fret so much under
misfortunes. A little patience, and they pass away."
"It would be better for us all if we had more patience, more trust," she
answered. "If we could leave things more entirely to God."
Rupert lay with his eyes cast upwards, blue as the sky he looked at. "I
would have tried to put that great trust in God, had I lived," he said,
after a pause. "Do you know, Aunt Edith, at times I do wish I could have
lived."
"I wish so, too," she murmured.
"At least, I should wish it but for this feeling of utter fatigue that
is always upon me. I sha'n't feel it up there, Aunt Edith."
"No, no," she whispered.
"When you get near to death, knowing that it is upon you, as I know it,
I think you obtain clearer views of the reality of things. It seems to
me, looking back on the life I am leaving, as if it were of no
consequence at what period of life we die; whether young or old; and yet
how terrible a calamity death is looked upon by people in general."
"It needs sorrow or illness to reconcile us to it, Rupert. Most of us
must be tired of this life ere we can bring ourselves to anticipate
another, and wish for it."
"Well, I have not had so happy a life here," he unthinkingly remarked.
"I ought not to murmur at exchanging it for another."
No, he had not. The words had been spoken without thought, innocent of
intentional reproach; but she was feeling them to the very depths of her
long-tried heart. Mrs. Chattaway was not famous for the control of her
emotions, and she broke into tears as she rose and bent over him.
"The recollection of the past is ever upon me, Rupert, night and day.
Say you forgive me! Say it now, ere the time for it shall have gone by."
He looked surprised. "Forgive you, dear Aunt Edith? I have never had
anything to forgive you; and others I have forgiven long ago."
"I lie awake at night and think of it, Rupert," she said, her tones
betraying her great emotion. "Had you been differently treated, you
might not have died just as your rights are recognised. You might have
lived to be the inheritor as well as the heir of Trevlyn."
Rupert lay pondering. "But I must have died at last," he said. "And I
might not have been any the better for it. Aunt Edith, it seems to me to
be just this. I am twenty-one years old, and a life of some sort is
before me, a life _here_, or a life _there_. At my age it is only
natural that I should look forward to the life here, and I did so until
I grew sick with weariness and pain. But if that life is the better and
happier one, does it not seem a favour to be taken to it before my time?
Aunt Edith, I say that as death comes on, I believe we see things as
they really are, not as they seem. I was to have inherited Trevlyn Hold:
but I shall exchange it for a better inheritance. Let this comfort you."
She sat, weeping silently, holding his hand in hers. Rupert said no
more, but kept his eyes fixed upwards in thought. Gradually the lids
closed, and his breathing, somewhat more regular than when awake, told
that he slept. Mrs. Chattaway laid his hand on the coverlet, dried her
eyes, and busied herself about the room.
About half-an-hour afterwards he awoke. She was sitting down then,
watching him. It almost seemed as if her gaze had awakened him, for she
had only just taken her seat.
"Have they come?" were his first words.
"Not yet, Rupert."
"Not yet! Will they be long? I feel sinking."
Mrs. Chattaway hastily called for the refreshment Rupert had until now
constantly taken. But he turned his head away as it was placed before
him.
"My dear, you said you were sinking!"
"Not _that_ sort of sinking, Aunt Edith. Nothing that food will remedy."
A tremor came over Mrs. Chattaway. She detected a change in his voice,
saw the change in his countenance. It has just been said, and not for
the first time in this history, that she could not boast of much
self-control: and she hurried from the room, calling for Squire Trevlyn.
He heard her, and came immediately, wondering much. "It is Rupert," she
said in irrepressible excitement. "He says he is dying."
Rupert had not said so: though, perhaps, what he did say was almost
equivalent to it, and she had jumped to the conclusion. When Squire
Trevlyn reached him, he was lying with his eyes closed and the changed
look on his white face. A servant stood near the table where the tray of
refreshment had been placed, gazing at him.
The Squire hastily felt his forehead, then his hand. "What ails you, my
boy?" he asked, subduing his voice as it never was subdued, save to the
sick Rupert.
Rupert opened his eyes. "Have they come, uncle? I want Maude."
"They won't be long now," looking at his watch. "Don't you feel so well,
Rupert?"
"I feel like--going," was the answer: and as Rupert spoke he gasped for
breath. The servant stepped forward and raised his head. Mrs. Chattaway,
who had again come in, broke into a cry.
"Edith!" reproved the Squire. "A pretty one you are for a sick room! If
you cannot be calm and quiet, better keep out of it."
He quitted it himself as he spoke, called for his own groom, and bade
him hasten for Mr. King. Rupert looked better when he returned; the
spasm, or whatever it was, had passed, and he was holding the hand of
Mrs. Chattaway.
"Aunt Edith was frightened," he said, turning his eyes on his uncle.
"She always was one to be frightened at nothing," cried the Squire. "Do
you feel faint, my boy?"
"It's gone now," answered Rupert.
Mrs. Chattaway poured out some cordial, and he drank it without
difficulty. Afterwards he seemed to revive, and spoke to them now and
then, though he lay so still as to give an idea that all motion had
departed from him. Even when the sound of wheels was heard in the avenue
he did not stir, though he evidently heard.
"It's only Ralph," remarked the Squire. "I sent him out in the gig."
Rupert slightly shook his head and a half-smile illumined his face. The
Squire also became aware of the fact that what they heard was not the
noise of gig-wheels. He went down to the hall-door.
It was the carriage bringing back the bride and bridegroom. Maude sprang
lightly in, and the Squire took her in his arms.
"Welcome home, my darling!"
Maude laughed and blushed, and the Squire left her and turned to George.
"How is Rupert, sir?"
"He has been famous until half-an-hour ago. Since then there has been a
change. You had better go up at once; he has been asking for you and
Maude. I have sent for King."
George drew his wife's hand within his arm, and led her upstairs. No one
was in the room with Rupert, except Mrs. Chattaway. He never moved or
stirred, as they advanced and bent over him, Maude throwing off her
bonnet; he only gazed up at their faces with a happy smile.
Maude's eyes were swimming; George was startled. Surely death was even
now upon him. It had come closer in this short interval between Squire
Trevlyn's departure from the room and his return.
Rupert lay passively, his wasted hands in theirs. Maude was the first to
give way. "My darling brother! I did not expect to find you like this."
"I am going on before, Maude," he breathed, his voice so low they had to
stoop to catch it. "You will come later."
A cry from Mrs. Chattaway interrupted him. "Oh, Rupert, say you forgive
the past! You have not said it. You must not die with unforgiveness in
your heart."
He looked at her wonderingly; a look which seemed to ask if she had
forgotten his assertion only an hour ago. He laid his hands feebly
together holding them raised. "God bless and forgive all who may have
been unkind to me, as I forgive them--as I have forgiven them long ago.
God bless and forgive us all, and take us when this life is over to our
heavenly home; for the sake of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."
"Amen!" said the Squire.
A deep silence fell on them only to be broken by the entrance of Mr.
King. He came quietly up to the sofa, glanced at Rupert, and kept his
eyes fixed for the space of a minute. Then he turned to the Squire. The
face was already the face of the dead. With the sorrows and joys of this
world, Rupert Trevlyn had done for ever.
THE END
By Charles W. Wood, F.R.G.S.
Glories of Spain.
_EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESS._
"In 'Glories of Spain' Mr. Charles W. Wood has added another
highly-interesting volume to his series of books dealing with
Continental travel. We ourselves have seen just enough of Spain
to make us long to see more, and the beautifully illustrated
book before us, with its glowing descriptions of architecture
and scenery, renders this longing well-nigh irresistible. Mr.
Wood has all the zeal of an enthusiast for all that is really
beautiful in Nature or in art. He has the pen of a ready
writer, he is keenly observant of all those small details which
go to make up a beautiful picture, and he is able to transfer
to paper, in most realistic form, the impressions he has
gathered.... This book is something more than a guide, even of
the highest character. The author makes friends with all sorts
and conditions of men and women, and by his own sympathetic
character draws from each his life's story, which is here set
down in telling manner. Mr. Wood is gifted, too, with an ample
fund of humour."--_Westminster Gazette._
"Mr. Wood is an ideal guide. A keen observer, nothing escapes
his practised eye, whilst his highly cultivated artistic
instincts and tastes revel in the atmosphere of romance and
poetry in which the country is steeped; and his 'enthusiasm for
humanity' makes him feel an interest in every human being with
whom he is brought into contact. There are some delightful
talks with all sorts and conditions of men and women in the
book."--_Literature._
"Mr. Wood's new volume has all the charm of his earlier books.
It is a world of enchantment into which we wander, and Mr. Wood
knows how to excite our interest in the quaint houses, the
gorgeous cathedrals, and the warm-hearted people in the
north-eastern corner of Spain. Mr. Wood is an enthusiast, and
his readers will quickly share his enthusiasm. His pictures are
works of art, steeped in poetry and sunshine."--_London
Quarterly Review._
"This narrative of travel affords light and pleasant reading.
Mr. Wood has an agreeable way, like certain old-fashioned
travellers, of breaking the stream of travel or of description
with some romantic story. These episodes add not a little to
the reader's enjoyment."--_St. James's Gazette._
"Readers of Mr. Wood's travel books scarcely require any
reminder of the bright and facile style in which he records the
impressions and incidents of his wayfaring."--_Westminster
Gazette._
"Mr. Wood is an excellent cicerone and, moreover, has what
every traveller in a foreign country has not--an evident
capacity for making friends with the natives. He is an
enthusiastic admirer of the beauties alike of Spanish nature
and Spanish art."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
"By degrees the persevering reader begins to realise that he is
'doing' Catalonia in the company of one who not only possesses
a fund of quiet humour and a cultivated mind, and an observant
eye for the beauties of Nature and of the works of man, but is
also endowed with a fine power of sympathy, which attracts to
him, in quite an unusual degree, the confidence of those with
whom he comes in contact."--_Daily News._
"Mr. Wood's 'Glories of Spain' is enough to increase
perceptibly the flow of travellers in Spain.... The real value
of the book will be found in its treatment of the architectural
and other glories which still remain to the impoverished
Peninsula. Mr. Wood's account of them and their associations
ought to divert the attention of tourists with means and energy
from more conventional paths."--_Yorkshire Post._
"Mr. Wood has a singularly fascinating style in presenting his
impressions of these old-world lands. To an observant eye and a
listening ear he adds a charm of manner which is rare amongst
authors who specialise in travel-talk. The book makes excellent
reading. It is a book to get, a book to read, and a book to
keep."--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._
"Mr. Wood has provided us with such a charming description of
his travels that deep regret is felt when the sojourn in Spain
draws to its close--regret which, we are sure, must have been
very keenly felt by the author. This regret will be thus felt
by Mr. Wood's readers. Mr. Wood is a consummate artist in his
special field of literature, as the reading public long since
discovered. In this last book we are not disappointed. 'Glories
of Spain' is indeed a charming literary production, and seems
to us a book to keep in a prominent place upon the exclusive
bookshelf, a book to be read and re-read, a book to
love."--_Western Daily Press._
"We should like to dwell at greater length on a book which is
so brimful of the charm of a lovely land and an interesting
people; but we trust enough has been said to recommend it to
the attention of all lovers of the picturesque, whether in
Nature or humanity."--_Glasgow Herald._
"A subject so entrancing in the hands of so experienced a
traveller as Mr. Charles W. Wood could not fail to prove
interesting.... Mr. Wood has a keen appreciation of the
ludicrous, and can relate a comical incident or a practical
joke with appropriate lightness; while he is by no means
insensible to the pathos and romance inseparable from Spanish
story.... The book is so equal in style that it is difficult to
select one portion of it as being better than the rest.... He
relates tales of Saragosa as moving and pathetic as any ever
imagined by poet or novelist. Valencia, the 'Garden of Spain,'
also receives its share of eloquent and vivid language; and,
indeed, there is no place within the wide range of this tour
which does not supply some prolific theme for the author's
glowing pen."--_Dundee Advertiser._
"Mr. Wood's brilliant word-sketches, with never a line too
much, give exactly the true feeling for Spanish architecture
and the picturesque scenes of Spanish life.... What one finds
above all is the insight into human nature and the
comprehension of suffering and self-denial in unexpected
places, which are qualities in an author the rarest and
choicest. Anyone can describe, after a fashion, the old cities
of northern Spain, but very few can make their people live in
cold print and draw the reader to them by the warm touch of
sympathy. This Mr. Wood does, and does amazingly. This book is
a gallery of Spanish portraits, full of character, and pathos,
and humour, and simplicity. We would not spare one of them, and
we do not know which we like best; all we wish is that the
author may go again and paint us some more."--_Saturday
Review._