Trevlyn Hold. Henry Wood
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