And what were the emotions of Mrs. Chattaway? They were of a mixed nature. In spite of the very small comfort which possession of the Hold had brought her individually; in spite of the feeling of usurpation, ofwrong, which had ever rested unpleasantly upon her; she would have been superior to frail human nature, had not a sense of dismay struck upon her at its being thus suddenly wrested from them. She knew not what her husband's means might be: whether he had anything or nothing, by saving or otherwise, that he could call his own, apart from the revenues of the Hold: but she did know sufficient to be sure that it could not be a tithe of what was needed to keep them; and where were they to go with their helpless daughters? That these unpleasant considerations floated through her mind in a vague, confused vision was true; but far above them came a rush of thought, of care, closer to the present hour. Her brother had said—and there was determination not to be mistaken in his tones—that unless Mr. Chattaway produced Rupert Trevlyn, he would publicly charge him with the murder. Nothing but the strongest self-control had restrained Mrs. Chattaway from avowing all when she heard this. Mr. Chattaway was a man not held in the world's favour, but he was her husband; and in her eyes his faults and failings had ever appeared in a venial light. She would have given much to stand out and say, "You are accusing my husband wrongfully; Rupert is alive, and I am concealing him."
But she did not dare do this. That very husband would have replied, "Then I order Rupert into custody—how dared you conceal him?" She took an opportunity of asking George Ryle the meaning of the warning despatched by Nora. George could not explain it. He had met Bowen accidentally, and the officer had told him in confidence that they had received a mysterious hint that Rupert Trevlyn was not far off—hence George's intimation. It was to turn out that theotherRupert Trevlyn had been spoken of: but neither Bowen nor George knew this.
George Ryle rapidly drew his own conclusion from this return of Squire Trevlyn: it would be the preservation of Rupert; was the very best thing that could have happened for him. It may be said, the only thing. The tether had been lengthened out to its extreme limits, and to keep him much longer where he was, would be impossible; or, if they so kept him, it would mean death. George Ryle saw that a protector for Rupert had arisen in Squire Trevlyn.
"He must be told the truth," he whispered to Mrs. Chattaway.
"Yes, perhaps it may be better," she answered; "but I dare not tell him. Will you undertake it?"
He nodded, and began to wonder what excuse he could invent for seeking a private conference with the newly-returned Squire. But while he plotted and planned, Maude rendered it unnecessary.
By a sense of the fitness of things, the state-rooms at the Hold, generally kept for visitors, were assigned by Miss Diana to her brother. He was shown to them, and was in the act of gazing from the window at the well-remembered features of the old domain when there stole in upon him one, white and tearless, but with a terrified imploring despair in her countenance.
"Maude, my child, what is it? I like your face, my dear, and must have you henceforth for my very own child!"
"Not me, Uncle Rupert, never mind me," she said, the kindly tones telling upon her breaking heart and bringing forth a gush of tears. "If you will only love Rupert!—only get Mr. Chattaway to forgive him!"
"But he may be dead, child."
"Uncle Rupert, if he were not dead—if you found him now, to-day," she reiterated—"wouldyoudeliver him up to justice? Oh, don't blame him; don't visit it upon him! It was the Trevlyn temper, and Mr. Chattaway should not have provoked it by horsewhipping him."
"Iblame him!Ideliver a Trevlyn up to justice!" echoed Squire Trevlyn, with a threatening touch of the Trevlyn temper at that very moment. "What are you saying, child? If Rupert is in life he shall have his wrongs righted from henceforth. The cost of a burnt rick? The ricks were mine, not Chattaway's. Rupert Trevlyn is my heir, and he shall so be recognised and received."
She sank down before him crying softly with the relief his words brought her. Squire Trevlyn placed his hand on her pretty hair, caressingly. "Don't grieve so, child; he may not be dead. I'll find him if he is to be found. The police shall know they have a Squire Trevlyn amongst them again."
"Uncle Rupert, he is very near; lying in concealment—ill—almost dying. We have not dared to betray it, and the secret is nearly killing us."
He listened in amazement, and questioned her until he gathered the outlines of the case. "Who has known of this, do you say?"
"My aunt Edith, and I, and the doctor; and—and—George Ryle."
The consciousness with which the last name was brought out, the sudden blush, whispered a tale to keen Squire Trevlyn.
"Halloa, Miss Maude! I read a secret.Thatwill not do, you know. I cannot spare you from the Hold for all the George Ryles in the world. You must be its mistress."
"My aunt Diana will be that," murmured Maude.
"That she never shall be whilst I am master," was the emphatic rejoinder. "If Diana could look quietly on and see her father deceived, help to deceive him; see Chattaway usurp the Hold to the exclusion of Joe's son, and join in the wickedness, she has forfeited all claim to it: she shall neither reign nor reside in it. No, my little Maude, you must live with me, as mistress of Trevlyn Hold."
Maude's tears were flowing in silence. She kept her head down.
"What is George Ryle to you?" somewhat sternly asked Squire Trevlyn. "Do you love him?"
"I had no one else to love: they were not kind to me—except my aunt Edith," she murmured.
He sat lost in thought. "Is he a good man, Maude? Upright, honourable, just?"
"That, and more," she whispered.
"And I suppose you love him? Would it quite break your heart were I to issue my edict that you should never have him; to say you must turn him over to Octave Chattaway?"
It was only a jest. Maude took it differently, and lifted her glowing face. "But he does not like Octave! It is Octave who likes——"
She had spoken impulsively, and now that recollection came to her she hesitated. Squire Trevlyn, undignified as it was, broke into a subdued whistle.
"I see, young lady. And so, Mr. George has had the good taste to like some one better than Octave. Well, perhaps I should do so, in his place."
"But about Rupert?" she pleaded.
"Ah, about Rupert. I must go to him at once. Mark Canham stared as I came through the gate just now, as one scared out of his wits. He must have been puzzled by the likeness."
Squire Trevlyn went down to the hall, and was putting on his hat when they came flocking around, asking whether he was going out, offering to accompany him, Diana requesting him to wait whilst she put on her bonnet. But he waved them off: he preferred to stroll out alone, he said; he might look in and have a talk with some of his father's old dependants—if any were left.
George Ryle was standing outside, deliberating as to how he should convey the communication, little thinking it had already been done. Squire Trevlyn came up, and passed an arm within his.
"I am going to the lodge," he remarked. "You may know whom I want to see there."
"You have heard, then!" exclaimed George.
"Yes. From Maude. By-the-by, Mr. George, what secret understanding is there between you and that young lady?"
George looked surprised; but he was not one to lose his equanimity. "It is no longer a secret, sir. I have confided it to Miss Diana. If Mr. Chattaway will grant me the lease of a certain farm, I shall speak to him."
"Mr. Chattaway! The farms don't belong to him now, but to me."
George laughed. "Yes, I forgot. I must come to you for it, sir. I want the Upland."
"And you would like to take Maude with it?"
"Oh, yes! I must take her with it."
"Softly, sir. Maude belongs to me, just as the farms do: and I can tell you for your consolation, and you must make the best of it, that I cannot spare her from the Hold. There; that's enough. I have not come home to have my will disputed: I am a true Trevlyn."
A somewhat uncomfortable silence ensued, and lasted until they reached the lodge. Squire Trevlyn entered without ceremony. Old Mark, who was sitting before the hearth apparently in deep thought, turned his head, saw who was coming in, rose as quickly as his rheumatism allowed him, and stared as if he saw an apparition.
"Do you know me, Mark?"
"To my dazed eyes it looks like the Squire," was Mark's answer, slowly shaking his head, as one in perplexity. "But I know it cannot be. I stood at these gates as he was carried out to his last home in Barbrook churchyard. The Squire was older, too."
"The Squire left a son, Mark."
"Sir—sir!" burst forth the old man, after a pause, as the light flashed upon him. "Sir—sir! You surely are never the young heir, Mr. Rupert, we have all mourned as dead?"
"Do you remember the young heir's features, Mark?"
"Ay, I have never forgot them, sir."
"Then look at mine."
There was doubt no longer; and Mark Canham, in his enthusiastic joy forgetting his rheumatism, would almost have gone down on his knees in thankfulness. He brought himself up with a groan. "I be fit for nothing now but to nurse my rheumatiz, sir. And you be the true Rupert Trevlyn—Squire from henceforth? Oh, sir, say it!"
"I am the Squire, Mark. But I came here to see another Rupert Trevlyn—he who will be Squire after me."
Old Mark shook his head. He glanced towards the staircase as he spoke, and dropped his voice to a whisper, as if fearing that it might penetrate to one who was lying above.
"If he don't get better soon, sir, he'll never live to be the Squire. He's very ill. Circumstances have been against him, it can't be denied; but I fear me it was in his constitution from the first to go off, as his father, poor Mr. Joe, went off afore him."
"Nonsense," said the Squire. "We'll get him well again!"
"And what of Chattaway?" asked old Canham. "He'll never forego his vengeance, sir. I have been in mortal fear ever since Master Rupert's been lying here. The fear had selfishness in it, maybe," he added, ingenuously; "for Chattaway'd turn me right off, without a minute's warning, happen he come to know of it. He's never liked my being at the lodge at all, sir; and would have sent me away times and again but for Miss Diana."
"Ah," said the Squire. "Well, it does not rest with him now. What has he allowed you, Mark?"
"Half-a-crown a week, sir."
"Half-a-crown a week?" repeated Squire Trevlyn, his mouth curling with displeasure. "How have you lived?"
"It have been a poor living at best, sir," was the simple answer. "Ann works hard, at home or out, but she don't earn much. Her eyes be bad, sir; happen you may call to mind they was always weak and ailing. The Squire fixed my pay here at five shillings a week, and Chattaway changed it when he come into power. Miss Diana's good to us; but for her and the bit o' money Ann can earn, I don't see as we could ha' got along at all."
"Would you like the half-a-crown changed back again to five shillings, Mark?"
"I should think it was riches come to me right off, Squire."
"Then you may reckon upon it from this day."
He moved to the staircase as he spoke, leaving the old man in an ecstasy of delight. Ann Canham, who had shrunk into hiding, came forward. Her father turned triumphantly.
"Didn't I tell ye it was the Squire? And you to go on at me, saying I was clean off my wits to think it! I know'd it was no other."
"But you said it was the dead Squire, father," was poor Ann's meek response.
"It's all the same," cried old Canham. "There'll be a Trevlyn at the Hold again; and our five shillings a week is to come back to us. Bless the Trevlyns! they was always open-handed."
"Father, what a dreadful come-down for Chattaway! What will he do? He'll have to turn out."
"Serve him right!" shouted Mark. "How many homes have he made empty in his time! Ann, girl, I have kep' my eyes a bit open through life, in spite of limbs cramped with rheumatiz, and I never failed to notice one thing—them who are fond o' making others' homes desolate, generally find their own desolate afore they die. Chattaway'll get a taste now of what he have been so fond o' dealing out to others. I hope the bells'll ring the day he turns out o' the Hold!"
"But Madam will have to turn out with him!" meekly suggested Ann Canham.
It took Mark back. He liked Madam as much as he disliked her husband. "Happen something'll be thought of for Madam," said he. "Maybe the new Squire'll keep her at the Hold."
George Ryle had gone upstairs, and prepared the wondering Rupert for the appearance of his uncle. As the latter entered, his tall head bowing, he halted in dismay. In the fair face bent towards him from the bed, the large blue eyes, the bright, falling hair, he believed for the moment he saw the beloved brother Joe of his youth. But in the hollow, hectic cheeks, the drawn face, the parched lips, the wasted hands, the attenuated frame, he read too surely the marks of the disease which had taken off that brother; and a conviction seated itself in the Squire's mind that he must look elsewhere for his heir.
"My poor boy! Joe's boy! This place is killing you!"
"No, Uncle Rupert, it is not that at all. It is the fear."
Squire Trevlyn could not breathe. He looked up at the one pane, and pushed it open with his stick. The cold air came in, and he seemed relieved, drawing a long breath. But the same current, grateful to him, found its way to the lungs of Rupert, and he began to cough violently. "It's the draught," panted the poor invalid.
George Ryle closed the window again, and the Squire bent over the bed. "You must come to the Hold at once, Rupert."
The hectic faded on Rupert's face. "It is not possible," he answered. "Mr. Chattaway would denounce me."
"Denounce you!" hotly repeated Squire Trevlyn. "Denounce my nephew and my brother Joe's son! He had better let me see him attempt it."
In the impulse, characteristic of the Trevlyns, the Squire turned to descend the stairs. He was going to have Rupert brought home at once. George Ryle followed him, and arrested him in the avenue.
"Pardon me, Squire Trevlyn. You must first of all make sure of Chattaway. I am not clear also but you must make sure of the police."
"What do you mean?"
"The police have the matter in hand. Are they able to relinquish it, even for you?"
They stood gazing at each other in doubt and discomfort. It was an unpleasant phase of the affair; and one which had certainly not until that moment presented itself to Squire Trevlyn's view.
They stood together, deep in dispute—Squire Trevlyn of the Hold, and he who had so long reigned at the Hold, its usurper. In that very rick-yard which had recently played so prominent a part in the career of the unhappy Rupert, stood they: the Squire—bold, towering, haughty; Chattaway—cowardly, shrinking, indecisive.
It was of that very Rupert they were talking. Squire Trevlyn hastened home from the lodge, and found Chattaway in the rick-yard: he urged upon him the claims of Rupert for forgiveness, for immunity from the consequences of his crime; urged upon him itsnecessity; for a Trevlyn, he said, must not be disgraced. And Mr. Chattaway appeared to be turning obstinate; to say that he never would forgive him or release him from its consequences. He pointed to the blackened spots, scarcely yet cleared of theirdébris. "Is a crime like that to be pardoned?" he asked.
"What caused the crime? Who drove him to it?" And Mr. Chattaway had no plausible answer at hand.
"When you married into the Trevlyn family, you married into its faults," resumed the Squire. "At any rate, you became fully acquainted with them. You knew as much of the Trevlyn temper as we ourselves know. I ask you, then, how could you be so unwise—to put the question moderately—as to provoke it in Rupert?"
"Evil tempers can be subdued," returned Mr. Chattaway. "And ought to be."
"Just so. They can be, and they ought to be. But unfortunately we don't all of us do as we can and ought to do. Do you? I have heard it said in the old days that James Chattaway's spirit was a sullen one: have you subdued its sullenness?"
"I wish you wouldn't wander from the point, Mr. Trevlyn."
"I am keeping pretty near to the point. But I can go nearer to it, if you please. How could you, James Chattaway, dare to horsewhip a Trevlyn? Your wife's nephew, and her brother's son! Whatever might be the provocation—but, so far as I can learn, there was no just provocation—how came you so far to forget yourself and your temper as to strike him? One, possessing the tamest spirit ever put into man, might be expected to turn at the cruel insult you inflicted on Rupert. Did you do it with the intention of calling up the Trevlyn temper?"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Chattaway.
"It will not do to say nonsense to me, sir. Setting fire to the rick was your fault, not his; the crime was occasioned by you; and I, the actual owner of those ricks, shall hold you responsible for it. Yes, James Chattaway, those ricks were mine; you need not dispute what I say; the ricks were mine then, as they are now. They have been mine, in point of fact, ever since my father's death. You may rely upon one thing—that had I known the injustice that was being enacted, I should have returned long ago."
"Injustice!" cried Mr. Chattaway. "What injustice?"
"What injustice! Has there been anythingbutinjustice? When my father's breath left his body, his legitimate successor (in my absence and supposed death) was his grandson Rupert; this very Rupert you have been goading on to ill, perhaps to death. Had my brother Joe lived, would you have allowedhimto succeed, pray?"
"But your brother Joe did not live; he was dead."
"You evade the question."
"It is a question that will answer no end," cried Mr. Chattaway, biting his thin lips, and feeling very like a man being driven to bay. "Of course he would have succeeded. But he was dead, and Squire Trevlyn chose to make his will in my favour, and appoint me his successor."
"Beguiled by treachery. He was suffered to go to his grave never knowing that a grandson was born to him. Were I guilty of the like treachery, I could not rest in my bed. I should dread that the anger of God would be ever coming down upon me."
"The Squire did well," growled Mr. Chattaway. "What would an infant have done with Trevlyn Hold?"
"Granted for a single moment that it had been inexpedient to leave Trevlyn Hold to an infant, it was not to you it should have been left. If Squire Trevlyn must have bequeathed it to a son-in-law, it should have been to him who was the husband of his eldest daughter, Thomas Ryle."
"Thomas Ryle!" contemptuously ejaculated Mr. Chattaway. "A poor, hard-working farmer——"
"Don't attempt to disparage Thomas Ryle to me, sir," thundered the Squire; and the voice, the look, the rising anger were so like the old Squire of the days gone by, that Mr. Chattaway positively recoiled. "Thomas Ryle was a good and honourable man, respected by all; he was a gentleman by birth and breeding; he was a gentleman in mind and manners—and that could never be said of you, James Chattaway. Work! To be sure he worked; and so did his father. They had to work to live. Their farm was a poor one; and extra labour was needed to make up for the money which ought to have been spent upon it, but which they possessed not, for their patrimony had dwindled away. They might have taken a more productive farm; but they preferred to remain upon that one because it was their own, descended from their forefathers. It had to be sold at last, but they still remained on it, and they worked, always hoping to prosper. You used the word 'work' as a term of reproach! Let me tell you, that if the fact of working is to take the gentle blood out of a man, there will be little gentle blood left for the next generation. This is a working age, sir; the world has grown wise, and we most of us work with hands or head. Thomas Ryle's son is a gentleman, if I ever saw one—and I am mistaken if his looks belie his mind—and he works. Do not disparage Thomas Ryle again to me. I think a sense of the injury you did him, must induce you to do it."
"What injury did I do Thomas Ryle?"
"To usurp Trevlyn Hold over him was an injury. It was Rupert's: neither yours nor his; but had it come to one of you, it should have been to him;youhad no manner of right to it. And what about the two thousand pounds bond?"
Squire Trevlyn asked the last question in an altered and very significant tone. Mr. Chattaway's green face grew greener.
"I held the bond, and I enforced its payment in justice to my wife and children. I could do no less."
"In justice to your wife and children!" retorted Squire Trevlyn. "James Chattaway, did a thought ever cross you of God's justice? I believe from my very heart that my father cancelled that bond upon his dying bed, died believing Thomas Ryle released from it; and you, in your grasping, covetous nature, kept the bond with an eye to your own profit. Did you forget that the eye of the Great Ruler of all things was upon you, when you pretended to destroy that bond? Did you suppose that Eye was turned away when you usurped Trevlyn Hold to the prejudice of Rupert? Did you think you would be allowed to enjoy it in security to the end? It may look to you, James Chattaway, as it would to any superficial observer, that there has been wondrous favour shown you in this long delay of justice. I regard it differently. It seems to me that retribution has overtaken you at the worst time: not the worse for you, possibly, but for your children. By that inscrutable law which we learn in childhood, a man's ill-doings are visited on his children: I fear the result of your ill-doing will be felt by yours. Had you been deposed from Trevlyn Hold at the time you usurped it, or had you not usurped it, your children must have been brought up to play their parts in the busy walks of life; to earn their own living. As it is, they have been reared to idleness and luxury, and will feel their fall in proportion. Your son has lorded it as the heir of Trevlyn Hold, as the future owner of the works at Blackstone, and lorded it, as I hear, in a very offensive manner. He will not like to sink down to a state of dependency; but he will have to do it."
"Where have you been gathering your account of things?" interposed Mr. Chattaway.
"Never mind where. I have gathered it, and that is sufficient. And now—to go back to Rupert Trevlyn. Will you give me a guarantee that he shall be held harmless?"
"No," growled Mr. Chattaway.
"Then it will be war to the knife between you and me. Mind you—I do not think there's any necessity to ask you this; as the ricks were not yours, but mine, at the time of the occurrence, you could not, as I believe, become the prosecutor. But I prefer to be on the safe side. On the return of Rupert, if you attempt to prosecute him, the first thing that I shall do will be to insist that he prosecutes you for the assault, and I shall prosecute you for the usurpation of Trevlyn Hold. So it will be prosecution and counter-prosecution, you see. Mark you, James Chattaway, I promise you to do this, and you know I am a man of my word. I think we had better let bygones be bygones. What are you going to do about the revenues of the Hold?"
"The revenues of the Hold!" stammered Mr. Chattaway, wiping his hot face, for he did not like the question.
"The past rents. The mesne profits you have received and appropriated since Squire Trevlyn's death. Those profits are mine."
"In law, possibly," was the answer. "Not in justice."
"Well, we'll go by law," complacently returned the Squire, a spice of mischief in his eye. "Which have you gone by all these years? Law, or justice? The law would make you refund all to me."
"The law would be cunning to do it," was the answer. "If I have received the revenues, I have spent them in keeping up Trevlyn Hold."
"You have not spent them all, I suspect; and it would be productive of great trouble and annoyance to you were I to come upon you for them. But now, look you, James Chattaway: I will be more merciful than you have been to others, and say nothing about them, for my sister Edith's sake. In the full sense of the word, I will let bygones be bygones."
The ex-master of Trevlyn Hold gazed out from the depths of his dull gray eyes: gazed upon vacancy, buried in thought. It might be well to make a friend of the Squire. On the one hand was the long-cherished revenge against Rupert; on the other was his own interest. Should he gratify revenge, or study himself? Ah, you need not ask; revenge may be sweet, but with Mr. Chattaway his own interest was sweeter. The scales were not equally balanced.
He saw that Squire Trevlyn's heart was determined on the pardon of Rupert; he knew that the less he beat about the bush the better; and he spoke at once. "I'll forgive him," he said. "Rupert Trevlyn behaved infamously, but——"
"Stop, James Chattaway. Pardon him, or don't pardon him, as you please; but we will have no names over it. Rupert Trevlyn shall have none cast at him in my presence."
"It is of no consequence. He did the wrong in the eyes of the neighbourhood, and they don't need to be reminded of what he is."
"And how have the neighbourhood judged?" sternly asked Squire Trevlyn. "Which side have they espoused—yours, or his? Don't talk to me, sir; I have heard more than you suppose. I know what shame the neighbours have cast on you for years on the score of Rupert; the double shame cast on you since these ricks were burnt. Will you pardon him?"
"I have said so," was the sullen reply.
"Then come and ratify it in writing," rejoined the Squire, turning towards the Hold.
"You are ready to doubt my word," resentfully spoke Mr. Chattaway, feeling considerably aggrieved.
Squire Trevlyn threw back his head. It spoke as plainly as ever motion spoke that he did doubt it. As he strode on to the house, Chattaway in his wake, they came across Cris. Unhappy Cris! His day of authority and assumption had set. No longer was he the son of the master of Trevlyn Hold; henceforth Mr. Cris must set his wits to work, and take his share in the active labour of life. He stood leaning over the palings, biting a bit of straw as he gazed at Squire Trevlyn; but he did not say a word to the Squire or the Squire to him.
With the aid of pen and ink Mr. Chattaway gave an ungracious promise to pardon Rupert. Of course it had nothing formal in it, but the Squire was satisfied, and put it in his pocket.
"Which is Rupert's chamber here?" he asked. "It had better be got ready. Is it an airy one?"
"For what purpose is it to be got ready?" returned Mr. Chattaway.
"In case we find him, you know."
"You would bring him home? Here? to my house?"
"No; I bring him home to mine."
Mr. Chattaway's face went quite dark with pain. In good truth it was Squire Trevlyn's house; no longer his; and he may be pardoned for momentarily forgetting the fact. There are brief intervals even in the deepest misery when we lose sight of the present.
Cris came in. "Dumps, the policeman, is outside," he said. "Some tale has been carried to the police-station that Rupert Trevlyn has returned, and Dumps has come to see about it. The felon Rupert!" pointedly exclaimed Cris.
"Don't call names, sir," said Squire Trevlyn to him as he went out. "Look here, Mr. Christopher Chattaway," he stopped to add. "You may possibly find it to your advantage to be in my good books; but that is not the way to get into them; abuse of my nephew and heir, Rupert Trevlyn, will not recommend you to my favour."
The police-station had certainly heard a confused story of the return of Rupert Trevlyn, but before Dumps reached the Hold he learnt the wondrous fact that it was another Rupert; the one so long supposed to be dead; the real Squire Trevlyn. He had learnt that Mr. Chattaway was no longer master of the Hold, but had sunk down to a very humble individual indeed. Mr. Dumps was not particularly gifted with the perceptive faculties, but the thought struck him that it might be to the interest of the neighbourhood generally, including himself and the station, to be on friendly terms with Squire Trevlyn.
"Did you want me?" asked the Squire.
"I beg pardon, sir. It was the other Mr. Rupert Trevlyn that I come up about. He has been so unfortunate as to get into a bit of trouble, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing," said the Squire. "Mr. Chattaway withdraws from the prosecution. In point of fact, if any one prosecuted it must be myself, since the ricks were mine. But I decline to do so. It is not my intention to prosecute my nephew and heir. Mr. Rupert will be the Squire of Trevlyn Hold when I am gone."
"Will he though, sir?" said Mr. Dumps, humbly.
"He will. You may tell your people at the station that I put up with the loss of the ricks. What do you say—the magistrates? The present magistrates and I were boys together, Mr. Constable: companions; and they'll be glad to see me home again; you need not trouble your head about the magistrates. You are all new at the police-station, I expect, since I left the country—in fact, I forget whether there was such a thing as a police-station then or not—but you may tell your superiors that it is not the custom of the Squires of Trevlyn to proclaim what they cannot carry out. The prosecution of Rupert Trevlyn is at an end, and it never ought to have been instituted."
"Please, sir, I had nothing to do with it."
"Of course not. The police have not been to blame. I shall walk down to-night, or to-morrow morning, to the station, and put things on a right footing. Your name is Dumps, I think?"
"Yes, sir—at your service."
"Well, Dumps, that's for yourself. Hush! not a word. It's not given to you as a constable, but as an honest man to whom I wish to offer an earnest of my future favour. And now come into the Hold, and take something to eat and drink."
The gratified Dumps, hardly knowing whether he stood on his head or his heels, and inwardly vowing eternal allegiance to the new Squire, stepped into the Hold, and was consigned to the hospitality of the lower regions. Mr. Chattaway groaned in agony when he heard the kindly orders echoing through the hall—to put before Mr. Dumps everything that was good to eat and drink. That is, he would have groaned, but for the questionable comfort of recollecting that the Hold and its contents no longer belonged to him.
As the Squire was turning round, he encountered Diana.
"I have been inquiring after my nephew's chamber. Is it an airy one?"
"Your nephew's?" repeated Miss Diana, not understanding. "Do you mean Christopher's?"
"I mean Rupert's. Let me see it."
He stepped up the stairs as he spoke, with the air of a man not born to contradiction. Miss Diana followed, wonderingly. The room she showed him was high up, and very small. The Squire threw his head back.
"Thishis room? I see! it has been all of a piece. This room was a servant's in my time. I am surprised atyou, Diana."
"It is a sufficiently comfortable room," she answered: "and I used occasionally to indulge him with a fire. Rupert never complained."
"No, poor fellow! complaint would be of little use from him, as he knew. Is there a large chamber in the house unoccupied? one that would do for an invalid."
"The only large spare rooms in the house are the two given to you," replied Miss Diana. "They are the best, as you know, and have been kept vacant for visitors. The dressing-room may be used as a sitting-room."
"I don't want it as a sitting-room, or a dressing-room either," replied the Squire. "I prefer to dress in my bedroom, and there are sufficient sitting-rooms downstairs for me. Let this bed of Rupert's be carried down to that room at once."
"Who for?"
"For one who ought to have occupied the best rooms from the first—Rupert. Had he been properly treated, Diana, he would not have brought this disgrace upon himself."
Miss Diana wondered whether her ears deceived her. "For Rupert!" she repeated. "Where is Rupert? Is he found?"
"He has never been lost," was the curt rejoinder. "He has been all the time within a stone's throw—sheltered by Mark Canham, whom I shall not forget."
She could not speak from perplexity; scarcely knowing whether to believe the words or not.
"Your sister Edith—and James Chattaway may thank fortune that she is his wife, or I should visit the past in a very different manner upon him—and little Maude, and that handsome son of Tom Ryle's, have been in the secret; have visited him in private; stealthily doing for him what they could: but the fear and responsibility have well-nigh driven Edith and Maude to despair. That's where Rupert has been, Diana: where he is. I have not long come from him."
Anger blazed forth from the eyes of Miss Diana Trevlyn. "And why could not Edith have communicated the fact to me?" she cried. "I could have done for him better than they."
"Perhaps not," significantly replied the Squire: "considering that Chattaway was ruler of Trevlyn Hold, and you have throughout upheld his policy. But Trevlyn has another ruler now, and Rupert a protector."
Miss Diana made no reply. She was too vexed to make one. Turning away, she flung a shawl over her shoulders, and marched onwards to the lodge, to pay a visit to the unhappy Rupert.
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 terribledread, 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."
A short time, and people had settled down in their places. Squire Trevlyn was alone at the Hold with Maude and Rupert, the Chattaways were at the Upland Farm, and Miss Diana Trevlyn had taken up her abode in a pretty house belonging to herself. Circumstances had favoured the removal of Mr. Chattaway from the Hold almost immediately after the arrival of Squire Trevlyn. The occupant of the Upland Farm, who only remained in it because his time was not up until spring, was glad to find it would be an accommodation if he quitted it earlier; he did so, and by Christmas the Chattaways were installed in it.
Mr. Chattaway had set to work in earnest.
Things were changed with him. At the Hold, whether he was up and doing, or lay in bed in idleness, his revenues came in to him. At the Upland Farm he must be up early and in bed late, for the eye of a master was necessary if the land was to yield its increase; and by that increase he and his family had now to live. There was a serious battle with Cris. It was deemed advisable for the interest of both parties—that is, for Mr. Cris and his father—that the younger man should enter upon some occupation of his own; but Cris resolutely refused. He could find plenty to do on the Upland Farm, he urged, and wouldn't be turned out of his home. In fact, Mr. Cris had lived so long without work, that it was difficult, now he was leaving his youth behind him, to begin it. Better, as Squire Trevlyn said, the change had been made years ago. It was certainly hard for Cris; let us acknowledge it. He had been reared to the expectation of Trevlyn Hold and its revenues; had lorded it as the future master. When he rose in the morning, early or late, as inclination prompted him, he had nothing more formidable before him than to ride about attended by his groom. He had indulged in outdoor sports, hunting, shooting, fishing, at will; no care upon him, except how he could most agreeably get through the day. He had been addicted to riding or driving into Barmester, lounging about the streets for the benefit of admiring spectators, or taking a turn in the billiard-rooms. All that was over now; Mr. Cris's leisure and greatness had come to an end; his groom would take service elsewhere, his fine horse must be used for other purposes than pleasure. In short, poor Cris Chattaway had fallen from his high estate, as many another has fallen before him, and must henceforth earn his bread before he ate it. "There's room for both on the Upland Farm, and a good living for both," Cris urged upon his father; and though Mr. Chattaway demurred, he gave way, and allowed Cris to remain. With all his severity to others, he had lost his authority over his children, especially over Cris and Octave, and perhaps he scarcely dared to maintain his own will against that of Cris, or tell him he should go if he chose to stay. Cris had no more love for work than anyone else has brought up to idleness; and Cris knew quite well that the easiest life he could now enter upon would be that of pretending to be busy upon the farm. When the dispute was at its height between himself and his father, as to what the future arrangements should be, Cris so far bestirred himself as to ask Squire Trevlyn to give him the post of manager at Blackstone. But the Squire had heard quite enough of the past doings there, and told Cris, with the plainness that was natural to him, that he would not have either him or his father in power at Blackstone, if they paid him in gold. And so Cris was at home.
There were other changes also in Mr. Chattaway's family. Maude's tuition, that Octave had been ever ready to find fault with, was over for ever, and Octave had taken her place. Amelia was at home, for expenses had to be curtailed. An outlay quite suitable for the master of Trevlyn Hold would be imprudent in the tenant of the Upland Farm. They found Maude's worth now that they had lost her; could appreciate the sweetness of her temper, her gentle patience. Octave, who also liked an idle life, had undertaken the tuition of her sisters with a very bad grace: hating the trouble and labour. She might have refused but for Miss Diana Trevlyn. Miss Diana had not lost her good sense or love of ruling on leaving Trevlyn Hold, and openly told Octave that she must bend to circumstances as well as her parents, and that if she would not teach her sisters, she had better go out as governess and earn her living. Octave could have annihilated Miss Diana for the unwelcome suggestion—but she offered no further opposition to the arrangement.
Life was very hard just then for Octave Chattaway. She had inherited the envious, selfish disposition of her father, and the very fact that Maude and herself had changed positions was sufficient to vex her almost beyond endurance. She had become the drudge whose days must be passed beating grammar into the obtuse minds of her rebellious sisters; Maude, the mistress of Trevlyn Hold. How things would go on it was difficult to say; for the scenes that frequently took place between Octave and her pupils disturbed to a grave degree the peace of the Upland Farm. Octave was impatient, fretful, and exacting; they were tantalising and disobedient. Quarrels were incessant; and now and then it came to blows. Octave's temper urged her to personal correction, and the girls retorted in kind.
It is in human nature to exaggerate, and Octave not only exaggerated her troubles but wilfully made the worst of them. Instead of patiently sitting down to her new duties, and striving to perform them so that in time they might become a pleasure, she steeled herself against them. A terrible jealousy of Maude had taken possession of her; jealousy in more senses than one. There was a gate in their grounds overlooking the highway to Trevlyn Hold, and it was Octave's delight to stand there and watch, at the hour when Maude might be expected to pass. Sometimes in the open carriage—sometimes she would drive in a closed one, but always accompanied by the symbols of wealth and position, fine horses, attendant servants—Miss Maude Trevlyn, of Trevlyn Hold. And Octave would watch stealthily until they were out of sight, and gather fresh food for her unhappy state of mind. It would seem strange she should thus torment herself, but that the human heart is full of such contradictions.
One day that she was standing there, Mrs. Ryle passed. And it may as well be remarked that, Mr. Chattaway excepted, Mrs. Ryle seemed most to resent the changes: not her brother's return, but some of its results. In the certainty of Rupert's not living to succeed—and it was a certainty now—Mrs. Ryle had again cherished hopes for her son Trevlyn. She had been exceedingly vexed when she heard the Upland Farm was leased to Mr. Chattaway, and thought George must have played his cards badly. She allowed her resentment to smoulder for a time, but one day so far forgot herself as to demand of George whether he thought two masters would answer upon the Farm; and hinted that it was time he left, and made room for Treve.
George, though his cheek burnt—for her, not for himself—calmly answered, that he expected shortly to leave it: relieving her of his presence, Treve of his personal advice and help.
"But you did not get the Upland?" she reiterated. "And I have been told this morning that the other farm you thought of is let over your head."
"Stay, mother," was George's answer. "You are ready to blame Squire Trevlyn for letting these farms, and not to me; but my views have altered. I do not now wish to lease the Upland, or any other farm. Squire Trevlyn has proposed something else to me—I am to manage his own land for him."
"Manage his land for him! Do you mean the land attached to Trevlyn?"
"Yes."
"And where shall you live?"
"With him: at Trevlyn Hold."
Mrs. Ryle could scarcely speak from amazement. "I never heard of such a thing!" she exclaimed, staring excessively at the smile hovering on his lips, which he vainly endeavoured to suppress. "What can it mean?"
"It is assured, unhappily, that Rupert cannot live. Had he regained health and strength, he would have filled this place. But he will not regain it. Squire Trevlyn spoke to me, and I am to be with him at the Hold."
George did not add that he at first fought with Squire Trevlyn against going to the Hold, asits heir—for indeed it meant nothing less. He would rather make his own fortune than have it made for him, he said. Very well, the Squire answered equably, he could give up the Hold if he liked, but he must give up Maude with it. And you may guess whether George would do that.
But Mrs. Ryle did not recover from her surprise or see things clearly. "Of course, I can understand that Rupert Trevlyn would have held sway on the estate, just as a son would; but what my brother can mean by wanting a 'manager' I cannot understand. You say you are toliveat Trevlyn Hold?"
The smile grew very conspicuous on George's lips. "It is so arranged," he answered. "And therefore I no longer wish to rent the Upland."
Mrs. Ryle stared as if she did not believe it. She fell into deep thought—from which she suddenly started, put on her bonnet, and went straight to Trevlyn Hold.
A pretty little mare's nest she indulged in as she went along. If Rupert was to be called away from this world, the only fit and proper person to succeed him as the Squire's heir was her son Treve. In which case, George would not be required as manager, and their anticipated positions might be reversed; Treve take up his abode at the Hold, George remain at the farm.
Squire Trevlyn was alone. She gave herself no time to reconsider the propriety of speaking at all, or what she should say; but without circumlocution told him that, failing Rupert, Trevlyn must be the heir.
"Oh, dear, no," said the Squire. "You forget Maude."
"Maude!"
"If poor Rupert is to be taken, Maude remains to me. And she will inherit Trevlyn Hold."
Mrs. Ryle compressed her lips. "Is it well to leave Trevlyn Hold to a woman? Your father would not do it, Rupert."
"I am not bound to adopt the prejudices of my father. I imagine the reason of his disinheriting Maude—whose birth and existence it appears he did know of—was the anger he felt towards Joe and her mother, for having married in opposition to him. But that does not extend to me. Were I capable of leaving the estate away from Joe's children, I should deem myself as bad as Chattaway."
"Maude is a girl; it ought not to be held by a girl," was Mrs. Ryle's reiterated answer.
"Well, that objection need not trouble you; for in point of fact, it will be held by Maude's husband. Indeed, I am not sure but I shall bequeath it direct to him. I believe I shall do so."
"She may never marry."
"She will marry immediately. You don't mean to say he has not let you into the secret?" as he gazed on her puzzled face. "Has George told you nothing?"
"He has just told me that he was coming here as your manager," she replied, not in the least comprehending Squire Trevlyn's drift.
"And as Maude's husband. My manager, eh? He put it in that way, did he? He will come here as my son-in-law—I may say so for I regard Maude as my daughter and recognised successor. George Ryle comes here as the future Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
Mrs. Ryle was five minutes recovering herself. Utterly unable to digest the news, she could do nothing but stare. George Ryle inheritor of Trevlyn Hold! Was she awake or dreaming?
"It ought to be Trevlyn's," she said at length. "He is your direct relative; George Ryle is none."
"I know he is not. I leave it to him as Maude's husband, and he will take the name of Trevlyn. You should have got Maude to fall in love with the other one, if you wished him to succeed."
Perhaps it was the most unhappy moment in all Mrs. Ryle's life. Never had she given up the hope of her son's succession until now. That George should supplant him!—George, whom she had so despised! She sat beating her foot on the carpet, her pale face bent.
"It is not right; it is not right," she said, at length. "George Ryle is not worthy to succeed to Trevlyn Hold: it is reversing the order of things."
"Not worthy!" echoed Squire Trevlyn. "Your judgment must be strangely prejudiced to say so. Of all who have flocked from far and near to welcome me home, I have looked in vain for a second George Ryle. He has not his equal. If I hesitated at the first moment to give him Maude, I don't hesitate now that I know him. I can tell you that had Maude chosen unworthily, as your sister Edith did, her husband should never have come in for Trevlyn Hold."
"Is your decision irrevocable?"
"Entirely so. I wish them to be married immediately; for I should like George to be installed here as soon as possible, and, of course, he cannot come until Maude is his wife. Rupert wishes it."
"It appears to me that this arrangement is very premature," resumed Mrs. Ryle. "You may marry yet, and have children of your own."
A change came over Squire Trevlyn's face. "I shall never marry," he said, with emphasis; and to Mrs. Ryle's ears there was a strange solemnity in his tones. "You need not ask me why, for I shall not enter into reasons; let the assurance suffice—I shall never marry. Trevlyn Hold will be as securely theirs as though I bequeathed it to them by deed of gift."
"Rupert, this is a blow for my son."
"If you persist in considering it so, I cannot help that. It must have been very foolish of you ever to cast a thought to your son's succeeding, whilst Joe's children were living."
"Foolish! when one of my sons—my step-son, at any rate—is to succeed, as it seems!"
The Squire laughed. "You must talk to Maude about that. They had settled their plans together before I came home. If Treve turns out all he should be, I may remember him before I die. Trevlyn Farm was originally the birthright of the Ryles; I may possibly make it so again in the person of Treve. Don't let us go on with the discussion; it will only be lost labour. Will you see Rupert?"
She had the sense to see that if it were prolonged until night, it would indeed be useless, and she rose to follow him into the next room. Rupert, not looking very ill to-day, sat near the fire. Maude was reading to him.
"Is it you, Aunt Ryle!" he called out feebly. "You never come to see me."
"I am sorry to hear you are so poorly, Rupert."
"I am not half as ill as I feared I should be," he said. "I thought by this time it—it would have been all over. But I seem better. Where's George?"
"George is at home. I have been talking to your uncle about him. Until to-day I did not know what was in contemplation."
"He'll make a better Squire than I should have made," cried Rupert, lifting his eyes—bluer and brighter than ever, from disease—to her face. Maude made her escape from the room, and Squire Trevlyn had not entered it, so they were alone. "But, Aunt Ryle, I want it to be soon; before I die. I should like George to be here to see the last of me."
"I think I might have been informed of this before," observed Mrs. Ryle.
"It has not been told to any one. Uncle Rupert and I, George and Maude have kept the secret between us. Only think, Aunt Ryle! that after all the hopes, contentions, heart-burnings, George Ryle should succeed to Trevlyn Hold."
She could not bear this repeated harping on the one string. George's conduct to his step-mother had been exemplary, and she was not insensible to the fact; but she was one of those second wives who feel an instinctive dislike to their step-children. Very bitter, for Treve's sake, was her heart-jealousy now.
"I will come in and see you another day, Rupert," she said, rising abruptly. "This morning I am too vexed to remain longer."
"What has vexed you, Aunt Ryle?"
"I hoped that Treve—failing you—would have been the heir."
Rupert opened his eyes in wonder. "Treve?—whilst Maude lives! Not he. I can tell you what I think, Aunt Ryle; that had there been no Maude, Treve would never have come in for the Hold. I don't fancy Uncle Rupert would have left it to him."
"To whom would he have left it, do you fancy?"
"Well—I suppose," slowly turning the matter over in his mind—"I suppose, in that case, it would have been Aunt Diana. But there is Maude, Aunt Ryle, and we need not discuss it. George and Maude will have it, and their children after them."
"Poor boy!" she said, with a touch of compassion; "it is a sad fate for you! Not to live to inherit!"
A gentle smile rose to his face, and he pointed upwards. "There's a better heirship for me, Aunt Ryle."
It was upon returning from this memorable interview with Squire Trevlyn, that Mrs. Ryle met Octave Chattaway and stopped to speak.
"Are you getting settled, Octave?"
"Tolerably so. Mamma says she shall not be straight in six months to come. Have you been to the Hold?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Ryle, turning her determined gaze on Octave. "Have you heard the news? That the Squire has chosen his heir?"
"No," breathlessly rejoined Octave. "We have heard that Rupert is beyond hope; but nothing else. It will be Maude, I conclude."
"It is to be George Ryle."
"George Ryle!" repeated Octave, in amazement.
"Yes. I believe it will be left to him, not to Maude. But it will be all the same. He is to marry her, and to take the name of Trevlyn. George never told me this. He just said to-day that he was going to live at the Hold; but he never said it was as Maude's husband and the Squire's heir. How prospects have changed!"
Changed! Ay, Octave felt it to her inmost soul, as she leaned against the gate, and gazed in thought after Mrs. Ryle. Gazed without seeing or hearing, deep in her heart's tribulation, her hand pressed upon her bosom, her pale face quivering as it was turned to the winter sky.