George sat down, heart and brain throbbing. He did not see his duty very distinctly before him then. His father certainty had charged him to obey his mother's requests; he had left him entirely subject to her control; but George felt perfectly sure that his father would never have placed him in a shop; would not have allowed him to enter one.
Mr. Chattaway continued talking, but the boy heard him not. He was bending towards Mrs. Ryle, enlarging persuasively upon the advantages of the plan. He knew that Wall and Barnes had taken a boy into their house without premium, he said, and he believed he could induce them to waive it in George's case. He and Wall had been at school together; had passed many an impatient hour over the Latin previously spoken of; had often called in to have a chat with him in passing. Wall was a ten-thousand-pound man now; and George might become the same in time.
"How would you like to place Christopher at it, Mr. Chattaway?" asked George, his heart beating rebelliously.
"Christopher!" indignantly responded Mr. Chattaway. "Christopher's heir to Trev——Christopher isn't you," he concluded, cutting his first retort short. In the presence of Mrs. Ryle it might not be altogether prudent to allude to the heirship of Cris to Trevlyn Hold.
The sum named conciliated the ear of Mr. Apperley, otherwise he had not listened with any favour to the plan. "Ten thousand pounds! And Wall hardly a middle-aged man! That's worth thinking of, George."
"I could never live in a shop; the close air, the confinement, the pettiness of it, would stifle me," said George, with a groan, putting aside for the moment his more forcible objections.
"You'd rather live in a thunder-storm, with the rain coming down on your head in bucketfuls," said Mr. Chattaway, sarcastically.
"A great deal," said George.
Farmer Apperley did not detect the irony of Mr. Chattaway's remark, or the bitterness of the answer. "You'll say next, boy, that you'd rather turn sailor, exposed to the weather night and day, perched midway between sky and water!"
"A thousand times," was George's truthful answer. "Mother, let me stay at the farm!" he cried, the nervous motion of his hands, the strained countenance, proving how momentous was the question to his grieved heart. "You do not know how useful I should soon become! And my father wished it."
Mrs. Ryle shook her head. "You are too young, George, to be of use. No."
George seemed to turn white. He was approaching Mrs. Ryle with an imploring gesture; but Mr. Chattaway caught his arm and pushed him towards his seat again. "George, if I were you, I would not, on this day, cross my mother."
George glanced at her. Not a shade of love, of relenting, was there on her countenance. Cold, haughty, self-willed, it always was; but more cold, more haughty, more self-willed than usual now. He turned and left the room, crossed the kitchen, and passed into the room whence his father had been carried only two hours before.
"Oh, father! father!" he sobbed; "if you were only back again!"
Borne down by the powers above him, George Ryle could only succumb to their will. Persuaded by the eloquence of Mr. Chattaway, Mrs. Ryle became convinced that placing George in the establishment of Wall and Barnes was the most promising thing that could be found for him. The wonder was, that she should have brought herself to listen to Chattaway at all, or have entertained for a moment any proposal emanating from him. There could have been but one solution to the riddle: that of her own anxiety to get George settled in something away from home. Deep down in the heart of Mrs. Ryle, there was seated a keen sense of injury—of injustice—of wrong. It had been seated there ever since the death of Squire Trevlyn, influencing her actions, warping her temper—the question of the heirship of Trevlyn. Her father had bequeathed Trevlyn Hold to Chattaway; and Chattaway's son was now the heir; whereas, in her opinion, it was her son, Trevlyn Ryle, who should be occupying that desirable distinction. How Mrs. Ryle reconciled it to her conscience to ignore the claims of young Rupert Trevlyn, she best knew.
Ignore them she did. She gave no more thought to Rupert in connection with the succession to Trevlyn, than if he had not existed. He had been barred from it by the Squire's will, and there it ended. But, failing heirs to her two dead brothers, it washerson who should have come in. Was she not the eldest daughter? What right had that worm, Chattaway, to have insinuated himself into the Squire's home? into—it may be said—his heart? and so willed over to himself the inheritance?
A bitter fact to Mrs. Ryle; a fact which rankled in her heart night and day; a turning from the path of justice which she firmly intended to see turned back again. She saw not how it was to be accomplished; she knew not by what means it could be brought about; she divined not yet how she should help in it; but she was fully determined that it should be Trevlyn Ryle eventually to possess Trevlyn Hold. Never Cris Chattaway.
A determination immutable as the rock: a purpose in the furtherance of which she never swerved or faltered; there it lay in the archives of her most secret thoughts, a part and parcel of herself, not the less indulged because never alluded to. It may be that in the death of her husband she saw her way to the end somewhat more clearly; his removal was one impediment taken from the path. She had never but once given utterance to her ambitious hopes for Trevlyn: and that had been to her husband. His reception of them was a warning never to speak of them again to him. No son of his, he said, should inherit Trevlyn Hold whilst the children of Joseph Trevlyn lived. If Chattaway chose to wrest their rights from them, make his son Cris usurper after him, he, Thomas Ryle, could not hinder it; but his own boy Treve should never take act or part in so crying a wrong. So long as Rupert and Maud Trevlyn lived, he could never recognise other rights than theirs. From that time forward Mrs. Ryle kept silence with her husband, as she did with others; but the roots of the project grew deeper and deeper in her heart, overspreading all its healthy fibres.
With this destiny in view for Treve, it will readily be understood why she did not purpose bringing him up to any profession, or sending him out in the world. Her intention was, that Treve should live at home, as soon as his school-days were over; should be master of Trevlyn Farm, until he became master of Trevlyn Hold. And for this reason, and this alone, she did not care to keep George with her. Trevlyn Farm might be a living for one son; it would not be for two; neither would two masters on it answer, although they were brothers. It is true, a thought at times crossed her whether it might not be well, in the interests of the farm, to retain George. He would soon become useful; would be trustworthy; her interests would be his; and she felt dubious about confiding all management to John Pinder. But these suggestions were overruled by the thought that it would not be desirable for George to acquire a footing on the farm as its master, and be turned from it when the time came for Treve. As much for George's sake as for Treve's, she felt this; and she determined to place George at something away, where his interests and Treve's would not clash with each other.
Wall and Barnes were flourishing and respectable silk-mercers and linen-drapers; their establishment a large one, the oldest and best-conducted in Barmester. Had it been suggested to Mrs. Ryle to place Treve there, she would have retorted in haughty indignation. And yet there she was sending George.
What Mr. Chattaway's precise object could be in wishing to get George away from home, he alone knew. That he had such an object, there could be no shadow of doubt about; and Mrs. Ryle's usual clear-sightedness must have been just then obscured not to perceive it. Had his own interests or pleasure not been in some way involved, Chattaway would have taken no more heed as to what became of George than he did of a clod of earth in that miserable field just rendered famous by the ill-conditioned bull. It was Chattaway who did it all. He negotiated with Wall and Barnes; he brought news of his success to Mrs. Ryle; he won over Farmer Apperley. Wall and Barnes had occasionally taken a youth without premium—the youth being expected to perform an unusual variety of work for the favour, to be at once an apprentice and a general factotum, at the beck and call of the establishment. Under those concessions, Wall and Barnes had been known to forego the usual premium; and this great boon was, through Mr. Chattaway, offered to George Ryle. Chattaway boasted of it; enlarged upon his luck to George; and Mrs. Ryle—accepted it.
And George? Every pulse in his body coursed on in fiery indignation against the measure, every feeling of his heart rebelled. But of opposition he could make none: none that served him. Chattaway quietly put him down; Mrs. Ryle met all remonstrances with the answer that she haddecided; and Farmer Apperley laboured to convince him that it was a slice of good fortune, which any one (under the degree of a gentleman who rode to cover in a scarlet coat and white smalls) might jump at. Was not Wall, who had not yet reached his five-and-fortieth year, a ten-thousand pound man? Turn where George would, there appeared to be no escape for him. He must give up all the dreams of his life—not that the dreams had been as yet particularly defined—and become what his mind revolted at, what he knew he should ever dislike bitterly. Had he been a less right-minded boy, he would have defied Chattaway, and declined to obey Mrs. Ryle. But that sort of rebellion George did not enter upon. The injunction of his dead father lay on him all too forcibly—"Obey and reverence your mother." And so the agreement was made, and George Ryle was to go to Wall and Barnes, to be bound to them for seven years.
He stood leaning out of the casement window the night before he was to enter; his aching brow bared to the cold air, cloudy as the autumn sky. Treve was fast asleep, in his own little bed in the far corner, shaded and sheltered by its curtains; but there was no such peaceful sleep for George. The thoughts he was indulging were not altogether profitable; and certain questions which arose in his mind had been better left out of it.
"Whatrighthave they so to dispose of me?" he soliloquised, alluding, it must be confessed, to the trio, Chattaway, Mrs. Ryle, and Apperley. "Theyknowthat if my father had lived, they would not have dared to urge my being put to it. I wonder what it will end in? I wonder whether I shall have to be at it always? It isnotright to put a poor fellow to what he hates most of all in life, and will hate for ever and for ever."
He gazed out at the low stretch of land lying under the night sky, looking as desolate as he. "I'd rather go for a sailor!" broke from him in his despair; "rather——"
A hand on his shoulder caused him to start and turn. There stood Nora.
"If I didn't say one of you boys was out of bed! What's this, George? What are you doing?—trying to catch your death at the open window."
"As good catch my death, for all I see, as live in the world, now," was George's answer.
"As good be a young simpleton and confess it," retorted Nora, angrily. "What's the matter?"
"Why should they force me to that horrible place at Barmester?" cried George, following up his thoughts, rather than answering Nora. "I wish Chattaway had been a thousand miles away first! What business has he to interfere about me?"
"I wish I was queen at odd moments, when work seems coming in seven ways at once, and only one pair of hands to do it," quoth Nora.
George turned from the window. "Nora, look here! You know I am a gentleman born and bred:isit right to put me to it?"
Nora evaded an answer. She felt nearly as much as the boy did; but she saw no way of escape for him, and therefore would not oppose it.
There was no way of escape. Chattaway had decided it, Mrs. Ryle had acquiesced, and George was conducted to the new house, and took up his abode in it, rebellious feelings choking his heart, rebellious words rising to his lips.
But he did his utmost to beat down rebellion. The charge of his dead father was ever before him, and George was mindful of it. He felt as one crushed under a weight of despair; as one who had been rudely thrust from his proper place on earth: but he constantly battled with himself and his wrongs, and strove to make the best of it. How bitter the struggle, none save himself knew: its remembrance would never die out from memory.
The new work seemed terrible; not for its amount, though that was great; but from its nature. To help make up this parcel, to undo that; to take down these goods, to put up others. He ran to the post with letters—and that was a delightful phase of his life, compared with the rest—he carried out brown paper parcels. He had to stand behind the counter, and roll and unroll goods, and measure tapes and ribbons. You will readily conceive what all this was to a proud boy. George might have run away from it altogether, but that the image of that table in the sitting-room, and of him who lay upon it, was ever before him, whispering to him not to shrink from his duty.
Not a moment's idleness was George allowed; however the shopmen might enjoy leisure intervals when customers were few, there was no such interval for him. He was the new scapegoat of the establishment; often doing the work that of right did not belong to him. It was perfectly well known to the young men that he had entered as a working apprentice; one who was not to be particular in work he did, or its quantity; and therefore he was not spared. He had taken his books with him, classics and others; he soon found he might as well have left them at home. Not one minute in the twenty-four hours could he devote to them. His hands were full of work until bed-time; and no reading was permitted in the chambers. "Where is the use of my having gone to school at all?" he would sometimes ask himself. He would soon become as oblivious of Latin and Greek as Mr. Chattaway could wish; and his prospects of adding to his stock of learning were such as would have gladdened Farmer Apperley's heart.
One Saturday, when George had been there about three weeks, and the day was drawing near for the indentures to be signed, binding him to the business for years, Mr. Chattaway rode up in the very costume that was the subject of Farmer Apperley's ire, when worn by those who ought not to afford to wear it. The hounds had met that day near Barmester, had found their fox, and been led a round-about chase, the fox bringing them back to their starting-point to resign his brush; and the master of Trevlyn Hold, on his splashed hunter, in his scarlet coat, white smalls and boots, splashed also, rode through Barmester on his return, and pulled up at the door of Wall and Barnes. Giving his horse to a street boy to hold, he entered the shop, whip in hand.
The scarlet coat, looming in unexpectedly, caused a flutter in the establishment. Saturday was market-day, and the shop was unusually full. The customers looked round in admiration, the shopmen with envy. Little chance thought those hard-worked, unambitious young men, that they should ever wear a scarlet coat, and ride to cover on a blood hunter. Mr. Chattaway, of Trevlyn Hold, was an object of consideration just then. He shook hands with Mr. Wall, who came forward from some remote region; then turned and shook hands condescendingly with George.
"And how does he suit?" blandly inquired Mr. Chattaway. "Can you make anything of him?"
"He does his best," was the reply. "Awkward at present; but we have had others who have been as awkward at first, I think, and who have turned out valuable assistants in the long run. I am willing to take him."
"That's all right then," said Mr. Chattaway. "I'll call in and tell Mrs. Ryle. Wednesday is the day he is to be bound, I think?"
"Wednesday," assented Mr. Wall.
"I shall be here. I am glad to take this trouble off Mrs. Ryle's hands. I hope you like your employment, George."
"I do not like it at all," replied George. And he spoke out fearlessly, although his master stood by.
"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Chattaway, with a false-sounding laugh. "Well, I did not suppose you would like it too well at first."
Mr. Wall laughed also, a hearty, kindly laugh. "Never yet did an apprentice like his work too well," said he. "It's their first taste of the labour of life. George Ryle will like it better when he is used to it."
"I never shall," thought George. But he supposed it would not quite do to say so; neither would it answer any end. Mr. Chattaway shook hands with Mr. Wall, nodded to George, and he and his scarlet coat loomed out again.
"Will it last for ever?—will this dreadful slavery last throughout my life?" broke from George Ryle's rebellious heart.
On the following day, Sunday, George walked home: Mrs. Ryle had told him to come and spend the day at the Farm. All were at church except Molly, and George went to meet them. Several groups were coming along; and presently he met Cris Chattaway, Rupert Trevlyn, and his brother Treve, walking together.
"Where's my mother?" asked George.
"She stepped indoors with Mrs. Apperley," answered Treve. "Said she'd follow me on directly."
"How do you relish linen-drapering?" asked Cris Chattaway, in a chaffing sort of manner, as George turned with them. "Horrid, isn't it?"
"There's only about one thing in this world more horrid," answered George.
"My father said you expressed fears before you went that you'd find the air stifling," went on Cris, not asking what the one exception might be. "Is it hopelessly so?"
"The black hole in Calcutta must have been cool and pleasant in comparison with it," returned George.
"I wonder you are alive," continued Cris.
"I wonder I am," said George, equably. "I was quite off in a faint one day, when the shop was at the fullest. They thought they must have sent for you, Cris; that the sight of you might bring me to again."
"There you go!" exclaimed Treve Ryle. "I wonder if youcouldlet each other alone if you were bribed to do it?"
"Cris began it," said George.
"I didn't," said Cris. "Ishouldlike to see you at your work, though, George! I'll come some day. The Squire paid you a visit yesterday afternoon, he told us. He says you are getting to be quite the counter cut; one can't serve out yards of calico without it, you know."
George Ryle's face burnt. He knew Mr. Chattaway had ridiculed him at Trevlyn Hold, in connection with his new occupation. "It would be a more fitting situation for you than for me, Cris," said he. "And now you hear it."
Cris laughed scornfully. "Perhaps it might, if I wanted one. The master of Trevlyn won't need to go into a linen-draper's shop."
"Look here, Cris. That shop is horrid, and I don't mind telling you that I find it so; not an hour in the day goes over my head but I wish myself out of it; but I would rather bind myself to it for twenty years than be master of Trevlyn Hold, if I came to it as you will come to it—by wrong."
Cris broke into a shrill, derisive whistle. It was being prolonged to an apparently interminable length, when he found himself rudely seized from behind.
"Is that the way you walk home from church, Christopher Chattaway? Whistling!"
Cris looked round and saw Miss Trevlyn. "Goodness, Aunt Diana! are you going to shake me?"
"Walk along as a gentleman should, then," returned Miss Trevlyn.
She went on. Miss Chattaway walked by her side, not deigning to cast a word or a look to the boys as she swept past. Gliding up behind them, holding the hand of Maude, was gentle Mrs. Chattaway. They all wore black silk dresses and white silk bonnets: the apology for mourning assumed for Mr. Ryle. But the gowns were not new; and the bonnets were the bonnets of the past summer, with the coloured flowers removed.
Mrs. Chattaway slackened her pace, and George found himself at her side. She seemed to linger, as if she would speak with him unheard by the rest.
"Are you pretty well, my dear?" were her first words. "You look taller and thinner, and your face is pale."
"I shall look paler before I have been much longer in the shop, Mrs. Chattaway."
Mrs. Chattaway glanced her head timidly round with the air of one who fears she may be heard. But they were alone now.
"Are you grieving, George?"
"How can I help it?" he passionately answered, feeling that he could open his heart to Mrs. Chattaway as he could to no one else in the wide world. "Is it a proper thing to put me to, dear Mrs. Chattaway?"
"I said it was not," she murmured. "I remarked to Diana that I wondered Maude should place you there."
"It was not my mother so much as Mr. Chattaway," he answered, forgetting possibly that it was Mr. Chattaway's wife to whom he spoke. "At times, do you know, I feel as though I would almost rather be—be——"
"Be what, dear?"
"Be dead, than remain there."
"Hush, George!" she cried, almost with a shudder. "Random figures of speech never do any good! I have learnt it. In the old days, when——"
She suddenly broke off and glided forward without further notice. As she passed she caught up the hand of Maude, who was then walking by the side of the boys. George looked round for the cause of desertion, and found it in Mr. Chattaway. That gentleman was coming along with a quick step, one of his younger children in his hand.
The Chattaways turned off towards Trevlyn Hold, and George walked on with Treve.
"Do you know how things are going on at home, Treve, between my mother and Chattaway?" asked George.
"Chattaway's a miserable screw," was Treve's answer. "He'd like to grind down the world, and doesn't let a chance escape him. Mamma says it's a dreadful sum he has put upon her to pay yearly, and she does not see how the farm will do it, besides keeping us. I wish we were clear of him! I wish I was as big as you, George! I'd work my arms off, but I'd get together the money to pay him!"
"I'm not allowed to work," said George. "They have thrust me away from the farm."
"I wish you were back at it; I know that! Nothing goes on as it used to, when you were there and papa was alive. Nora's cross, and mamma's cross; and I have not a soul to speak to. What do you think Chattaway did this week?"
"Something mean, I suppose!"
"Mean! We killed a pig, and while it was being cut up, Chattaway marched in. 'That's fine meat, John Pinder,' said he, when he had looked at it a bit; 'as fine as ever I saw. I should like a bit of this meat; I think I'll take a sparerib; and it can go against Mrs. Ryle's account with me.' With that, he laid hold of a sparerib, the finest of the two, called a boy who was standing by, and sent him up with it at once to Trevlyn Hold. What do you think of that?"
"Think! That it's just the thing Chattaway would do every day of his life, if he could. Mamma should have sent for the meat back again."
"And enrage Chattaway! It might be all the worse for us if she did."
"Is it not early to begin pig-killing?"
"Yes. John Pinder killed this one on his own authority; never so much as asking mamma. She was so angry. She told him, if ever he acted for himself again, without knowing what her pleasure might be, she should discharge him. But it strikes me John Pinder is fond of doing things on his own head," concluded Treve, sagaciously; "and will do them, in spite of everyone, now there's no master over him."
The day soon passed. George told his mother how terribly he disliked being where he was placed; worse than that, how completely unsuited he was to the business. Mrs. Ryle coldly said we all had to put up with what we disliked, and he would grow reconciled to it in time. There was evidently no hope for him; and he returned to Barmester at night, feeling there was not any.
On the following afternoon, Monday, some one in deep mourning entered the shop of Wall and Barnes, and asked if she could speak to Mr. Ryle. George was at the upper end of the shop. A box of lace had been accidentally upset on the floor, and he had been called to set it straight. Behind him hung two shawls, and, hidden by those shawls, was a desk, belonging to Mr. Wall. The visitor approached George and saluted him.
"Well, youarebusy!"
George lifted his head at the well-known voice—Nora's. Her attention appeared chiefly attracted by the lace.
"What a mess it is in! And you don't go a bit handy to work, towards putting it tidy."
"I shall never be handy at this sort of work. Oh, Nora! I cannot tell you how I dislike it!" he exclaimed, with a burst of feeling that betrayed its own pain. "I would rather be with my father in his coffin!"
"Don't talk nonsense!" said Nora.
"It is not nonsense. I shall never care for anything again in life, now they have put me here. It was Chattaway's doing; you know it was, Nora. My mother never would have thought of it. When I remember that my father would have objected to this for me just as strongly as I object to it myself, I can hardlybearmy thoughts. I think how he will grieve, if he can see what goes on in this world. You know he said something about that when he was dying—the dead retaining their consciousness of what is passing here."
"Have you objected to be bound?"
"I have not objected. I don't mean to object. My father charged me to obey Mrs. Ryle, and not cross her—and I won't forget that; therefore I shall remain, and do my duty to the very best of my power. But it was a cruel thing to put me to it. Chattaway has some motive for getting me off the farm; there's no doubt about it. I shall stay if—if——"
"Why do you hesitate?" asked Nora.
"Well, there are moments," he answered, "when a fear comes over me whether Icanbear and stay on. You see, Nora, it is Chattaway and my mother's will balancing against all the hopes and prospects of my life. I know that my father charged me to obey my mother; but, on the other hand, I know that if he were alive he would be pained to see me here; would be the first to take me away. When these thoughts come forcibly upon me, I doubt whether I can remain."
"You must not encourage them," said Nora.
"I don't encourage them; they come in spite of me. The fear comes; it is always coming. Don't say anything at home, Nora. I have made up my mind to stop, and I'll try hard to do it. As soon as I am out of my time I'll go off to India, or somewhere, and forget the old life in the new one."
"My goodness!" uttered Nora. But having no good arguments at hand, she thought it as well to leave him, and took her departure.
The day arrived on which George was to be bound. It was a gloomy November day, and the tall chimneys of Barmester rose dark and dismal against the outlines of the grey sky. The previous night had been hopelessly wet, and the mud in the streets was ankle-deep. People who had no urgent occasion to be abroad, drew closer to their comfortable fire-sides, and wished the dreary month of November was over.
George stood at the door of the shop, having snatched a moment to come to it. A slender, handsome boy, with his earnest eyes and dark chestnut hair, looking far too gentlemanly to belong to that place. Belong to it! Ere the stroke of another hour should have been told on the dial of the church clock of Barmester, he would be irrevocably bound to it—have become as much a part and parcel of it as the silks displayed in its windows, the shawls exhibited in their gay and gaudy colours. As he stood there, he was feeling that no fate on earth was ever so hopelessly dark as his: feeling that he had no friend either in earth or heaven.
One, two; three, four! chimed out over the town through the leaden atmosphere. Half-past eleven! It was the hour fixed for signing the indentures which would bind him to servitude for years; and he, George Ryle, looked to the extremity of the street, expecting the appearance of Mr. Chattaway.
Considering the way in which Mr. Chattaway had urged on the matter, George had thought he would be half-an-hour before the time, rather than five minutes behind it. He looked eagerly to the extremity of the street, at the same time dreading the sight he sought for.
"George Ryle!" The call came ringing in sharp, imperative tones, and he turned in obedience to it. He was told to "measure those trimmings, and card them."
An apparently interminable task. About fifty pieces of ribbon-trimmings, some scores of yards in each piece, all off their cards. George sighed as he singled out one and began upon it—he was terribly awkward at the work.
It advanced slowly. In addition to the inaptitude of his fingers for the task, to his intense natural distaste for it—and so intense was that distaste, that the ribbons felt as if they burnt his fingers—in addition to this, there were frequent interruptions. Any of the shopmen who wanted help called to George Ryle; and once he was told to open the door for a lady who was departing.
As she walked away, George leaned out, and took another gaze. Mr. Chattaway was not in sight. The clocks were then striking a quarter to twelve. A feeling of something like hope, but vague and faint and terribly unreal, dawned over his heart. Could the delay augur good for him?—was it possible that there could be any change?
How unreal it was, the next moment proved. There came round that far corner a horseman at a hand-gallop, his horse's hoofs scattering the mud in all directions. It was Mr. Chattaway. He reined up at the private door of Wall and Barnes, dismounted, and consigned his horse to his groom, who had followed at the same pace. The false, faint hope was over; and George walked back to his cards and his trimmings, as one from whom all spirit has gone out.
A message was brought to him almost immediately by one of the house servants: Squire Chattaway waited in the drawing-room. Squire Chattaway had sent the message himself, not to George, to Mr. Wall; but Mr. Wall was engaged at the moment with a gentleman, and sent the message on to George. George went upstairs.
Mr. Chattaway, in his top boots and spurs, stood warming his hands over the fire. He had not removed his hat. When the door opened, he raised his hand to do so; but seeing it was only George who entered, he left it on. He was much given to the old-fashioned use of boots and spurs when out riding.
"Well, George, how are you?"
George went up to the fireplace. On the centre table, as he passed it, lay an official-looking parchment rolled up, an inkstand by its side. George had not the least doubt that the parchment was no other than that formidable document, his Indentures.
Mr. Chattaway had taken up the same opinion. He extended his riding whip towards the parchment, and spoke in a significant tone, turning his eye on George.
"Ready?"
"It is no use attempting to say I am not," replied George. "I would rather you had forced me to become one of the lowest boys in your coal-mines, Mr. Chattaway."
"What's this?" asked Mr. Chattaway.
He was pointing now to the upper part of the sleeve of George's jacket. Some ravellings of cotton had collected there unnoticed. George took them off, and put them in the fire.
"It is only a badge of my trade, Mr. Chattaway."
Whether Mr. Chattaway detected the bitterness of the words—not the bitterness of sarcasm, but of despair—cannot be told. He laughed pleasantly, and before the laugh was over, Mr. Wall came in. Mr. Chattaway removed his hat now, and laid it with his riding-whip beside the indentures.
"I am later than I ought to be," observed Mr. Chattaway, as they shook hands. "The fact is, I was on the point of starting, when my colliery manager came up. His business was important, and it kept me the best part of an hour."
"Plenty of time; plenty of time," said Mr. Wall. "Take a seat."
They sat down near the table. George, apparently unnoticed, remained standing on the hearth-rug. A few minutes were spent conversing on different subjects, and then Mr. Chattaway turned to the parchment.
"These are the indentures, I presume?"
"Yes."
"I called on Mrs. Ryle last evening. She requested me to say that should her signature be required, as the boy's nearest relative and guardian—as his only parent, it may be said, in fact—she should be ready to affix it at any given time."
"It will not be required," replied Mr. Wall, in a clear voice. "I shall not take George Ryle as an apprentice."
A stolid look of surprise struggled to Mr. Chattaway's leaden face. At first, he scarcely seemed to take in the full meaning of the words. "Not take him?" he rejoined, staring helplessly.
"No. It is a pity these were made out," continued Mr. Wall, taking up the indentures. "It has been so much time and parchment wasted. However, that is not of great consequence. I will be at the loss, as the refusal comes from my side."
Mr. Chattaway found his tongue—found it volubly. "Won't he do? Is he not suitable? I—I don't understand this."
"Not at all suitable, in my opinion," answered Mr. Wall.
Mr. Chattaway turned sharply upon George, a strangely evil look in his dull grey eye, an ominous curl in his thin, dry lip. Mr. Wall likewise turned; but on his face there was a reassuring smile.
And George? George stood there as one in a dream; his face changing to perplexity, his eyes strained, his fingers intertwined with the nervous grasp of emotion.
"What have you been guilty of, sir, to cause this change of intentions?" shouted Mr. Chattaway.
"He has not been guilty of anything," interposed Mr. Wall, who appeared to be enjoying a smile at George's astonishment and Mr. Chattaway's discomfiture. "Don't blame the boy. So far as I know and believe, he has striven to do his best ever since he has been here."
"Then why won't you take him? Youwilltake him," added Mr. Chattaway, in a more agreeable voice, as the idea dawned upon him that Mr. Wall had been joking.
"Indeed, I will not. If Mrs. Ryle offered me a thousand pounds premium with him, I should not take him."
Mr. Chattaway's small eyes opened to their utmost width. "And why not?"
"Because, knowing what I know now, I believe that I should be committing an injustice upon the boy; an injustice which nothing could repair. To condemn a youth to pass the best years of his life at an uncongenial pursuit, to make the pursuit his calling, is a cruel injustice wherever it is knowingly inflicted. I myself was a victim to it. My boy," added Mr. Wall, laying his hand on George's shoulder, "you have a marked distaste to the mercery business. Is it not so? Speak out fearlessly. Don't regard me as your master—I shall never be that, you hear—but as your friend."
"Yes, I have," replied George.
"You think it a cruel piece of injustice to have put you to it: you will never more feel an interest in life; you'd as soon be with poor Mr. Ryle in his coffin! And when you are out of your time, you mean to start for India or some out-of-the-world place, and begin life afresh!"
George was too much confused to answer. His face turned scarlet. Undoubtedly Mr. Wall had overheard his conversation with Nora.
Mr. Chattaway was looking red and angry. When his face did turn red, it presented a charming brick-dust hue. "It is only scamps who take a dislike to what they are put to," he exclaimed. "And their dislike is all pretence."
"I differ from you in both propositions," replied Mr. Wall. "At any rate, I do not think it the case with your nephew."
Mr. Chattaway's brick-dust grew deeper. "He is no nephew of mine. What next will you say, Wall?"
"Your step-nephew, then, to be correct," equably rejoined Mr. Wall. "You remember when we left school together, you and I, and began to turn our thoughts to the business of life? Your father wished you to go into the bank as clerk, you know; and mine——"
"But he did not get his wish, more's the luck," again interposed Mr. Chattaway, not pleased at the allusion. "A poor start in life that would have been for the future Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
"Pooh!" rejoined Mr. Wall, in a good-tempered, matter-of-fact tone. "You did not expect then to be exalted to Trevlyn Hold. Nonsense, Chattaway! We are old friends, you know. But, let me continue. I overheard a certain conversation of this boy's with Nora Dickson, and it seemed to bring my own early life back to me. With every word he spoke, I had a fellow-feeling. My father insisted that I should follow the business he was in; this one. He carried on a successful trade for years, in this very house, and nothing would do but I must succeed to it. In vain I urged my repugnance to it, my dislike; in vain I said I had formed other views for myself; I was not listened to. In those days it was not the fashion for sons to run counter to their fathers' will; at least, such was my experience; and into the business I came. I have reconciled myself to it by dint of time and habit; liked it, I never have; and I have always felt that it was—as I heard this boy express it—a cruel wrong to force me into it. You cannot, therefore, be surprised that I decline so to force another. I will never do it knowingly."
"You decline absolutely to take him?" asked Mr. Chattaway.
"Absolutely and positively. He can remain in the house a few days longer if it will suit his convenience, or he can leave to-day. I am not displeased with you," added Mr. Wall, turning to George, and holding out his hand. "We shall part good friends."
George seized it and grasped it, his countenance glowing, a whole world of gratitude shining from his eyes as he lifted them to Mr. Wall. "I shall always think you have been the best friend I ever had, sir, next to my father."
"I hope it will prove so. I trust you will find some pursuit in life more congenial to you than this."
Mr. Chattaway took up his hat and whip. "This will be fine news for your mother, sir!" cried he, severely.
"It may turn out well for her," replied George, boldly. "My belief is the farm never would have got along with John Pinder as manager."
"You think you would make a better?" said Mr. Chattaway, his thin lip curling.
"I can be true to her, at any rate," said George. "And I can have my eyes about me."
"Good morning," resumed Mr. Chattaway to Mr. Wall, putting out unwillingly the tips of two fingers.
Mr. Wall laughed. "I do not see why you should be vexed, Mr. Chattaway. The boy is no son of yours. For myself, all I can say is, that I have been actuated by motives of regard for his interest."
"It remains to be proved whether it will be for his interest," coldly rejoined Mr. Chattaway. "Were I his mother, and this check were dealt out to me, I should send him off to break stones on the road. Good morning, Wall. And I beg you will not bring me here again upon a fool's errand."
George went into the shop, to get from it some personal trifles he had left there. He deemed it well to depart at once, and carry the news home to Mrs. Ryle himself. The cards and trimmings lay in the unfinished state he had left them. What a change, that moment and this! One or two of the employés noticed his radiant countenance.
"Has anything happened?" they asked.
"Yes," answered George. "I have been suddenly lifted into paradise."
He started on his way, leaving his things to be sent after him. His footsteps scarcely touched the ground. Not a rough ridge of the road felt he; not a sharp stone; not a hill. Only when he turned in at the gate did he remember there was his mother's displeasure to be met and grappled with.
Nora gave a shriek when he entered the house. "George!What brings you here?"
"Where's my mother?" was George's only answer.
"In the best parlour," said Nora. "And I can tell you she's not in the best of humours just now, so I'd advise you not to go in."
"What about?" asked George, taking it for granted she had heard the news about himself, and that was the grievance. But he was agreeably undeceived.
"It's about John Pinder. He has been having two of the meads ploughed up, and he never asked the missis first. Sheisangry."
"Has Chattaway been here to see my mother, Nora?"
"He came up on horseback in a desperate hurry half-an-hour ago; but she was out on the farm, so he said he'd call again. It was through going out this morning that she discovered what they were about with the fields. She says she thinks John Pinder must be going out of his mind, to take things upon himself in the way he is doing."
George bent his steps to the drawing-room. Mrs. Ryle was seated before her desk, writing a note. The expression of her face as she looked up at George between the white lappets of her widow's cap was resolutely severe. It changed to astonishment.
Strange to say, she was writing to Mr. Wall to stop the signing of the indentures, or to desire that they might be cancelled if signed. She could not do without George at home, she said; and she told him why she could not.
"Mamma," said George, "will you be angry if I tell you something that has struck me in all this?"
"Tell it," said Mrs. Ryle.
"I feel quite certain Chattaway has been acting with a motive; he has some private reason for wishing to get me away from home. That's what he has been working for; otherwise he would never have troubled himself about me. It is not in his nature."
Mrs. Ryle gazed at George steadfastly, as if weighing his words, and presently knit her brow. George could read her countenance tolerably well. He felt sure she had arrived at a similar conclusion, and that it irritated her. He resumed.
"It looks bad for you, mother; but you must not think I say this selfishly. Twenty minutes I have asked myself the question, Why does he wish me away? And I can only think that he would like the farm to go to rack and ruin, so that you may be driven from it."
"Nonsense, George."
"Well, what else can it be?"
"If so, he is defeated," said Mrs. Ryle. "You will take your place as master of the farm from to-day, George, under me. Deferring to me in all things, you understand; giving no orders on your own responsibility, taking my pleasure upon the merest trifle."
"I should not think of doing otherwise," replied George. "I will do my best for you in all ways, mother. You will soon see how useful I can be."
"Very well. But I may as well mention one thing to you. When Treve shall be old enough, it is he who will be master here, and you must resign the place to him. It is not that I wish to set the younger of your father's sons unjustly above the head of the elder. This farm will be a living but for one of you; barely that; and I prefer that Treve should have it; he is my own son. We will endeavour to find a better farm for you before that time shall come."
"Just as you please," said George, cheerfully. "Now that I am emancipated from that dreadful nightmare, my prospects look very bright to me. I'll do the best I can on the farm, remembering that I do it for Treve's future benefit; not for mine. Something else will turn up for me, no doubt, before I'm ready for it."
"Which will not be for some years to come," said Mrs. Ryle, feeling pleased with the boy's acquiescent spirit. "Treve will not be old enough for——"
Mrs. Ryle was interrupted. The door had opened, and there appeared Mr. Chattaway, showing himself in. Nora never affected to be too courteous to that gentleman; and on his coming to the house to ask for Mrs. Ryle a second time, she had curtly answered that Mrs. Ryle was in the best parlour (the more familiar name for the drawing-room in the farmhouse), and allowed him to find his own way to it.
Mr. Chattaway looked surprised at seeing George; he had not bargained for his arriving home so soon. Extending his hand towards him, he turned to Mrs. Ryle.
"There's a dutiful son for you! You hear what he has done?—returned on your hands as a bale of worthless goods."
"Yes, I hear that Mr. Wall has declined to take him," was her composed answer. "It has happened for the best. When he arrived just now, I was writing to Mr. Wall requesting that he mightnotbe bound."
"And why?" asked Mr. Chattaway in considerable amazement.
"I find I am unable to do without him," said Mrs. Ryle, her tone harder and firmer than ever; her eyes, stern and steady, thrown full on Chattaway. "I have tried the experiment, and it has failed. I cannot do without one by my side devoted to my interests; and John Pinder cannot get on without a master."
"And do you think you'll find what you want in him!—in that inexperienced schoolboy?" burst forth Mr. Chattaway.
"I do," replied Mrs. Ryle, her tone so significantly decided, as to be almost offensive. "He takes his standing from this day as master of Trevlyn Farm; subject only to me."
"I wish you joy of him!" angrily returned Chattaway. "But you must understand, Mrs. Ryle, that your having a boy at the head of affairs will oblige me to look more keenly after my interests."
"My arrangements with you are settled," she said. "So long as I fulfil my part, that is all that concerns you, James Chattaway."
"You'll not fulfil it, if you put him at the head of things."
"When I fail you can come here and tell me of it. Until then, I prefer that you should not intrude on Trevlyn Farm."
She rang the bell sharply as she spoke, and Molly, who was passing along the passage, immediately appeared. Mrs. Ryle extended her hand imperiously, the forefinger pointed.
"The door for Mr. Chattaway."
Leading out of Mrs. Chattaway's dressing-room was a comfortable apartment, fitted up as a sitting-room, with chintz hangings and maple-wood furniture. It was called in the household "Madam's Room," and here Mrs. Chattaway frequently sat. Yes; the house and the neighbourhood accorded her readily the title which usage had long given to the mistress of Trevlyn Hold: but they would not give that of "Squire" to her husband. I wish particularly to repeat this. Strive for it as he would, force his personal servants to observe the title as he did, he could not get it recognised or adopted. When a written invitation came to the Hold—a rare event, for the old-fashioned custom of inviting verbally was chiefly followed there—it would be worded, "Mr. and Madam Chattaway," and Chattaway's face would turn green as he read it. No, never! He enjoyed the substantial good of being proprietor of Trevlyn Hold, he received its revenues, he held sway as its lord and master; but its honours were not given to him. It was so much gall and wormwood to Chattaway.
Mrs. Chattaway stood at this window on that dull morning in November mentioned in the last chapter, her eyes strained on the distance. What was she gazing at? Those lodge chimneys?—The dark, almost bare trees that waved to and fro in the wintry wind?—The extensive landscape stretching out in the distance, not fine to-day, but dull and cheerless?—Or on the shifting clouds in the grey skies? Not on any of these; her eyes, though apparently bent on all, in reality saw nothing. They were fixed on vacancy; buried, like her thoughts.
She wore a muslin gown, with dark purple spots upon it; her collar was fastened with a bow of black ribbon, her sleeves were confined with black ribbons at the wrist. She was passing a finger under one of these wrist-ribbons, round and round, as if the ribbon were tight; in point of fact, it was only a proof of her abstraction. Her smooth hair fell in curls on her fair face, and her blue eyes were bright as with a slight touch of inward fever.
Some one opened the door, and peeped in. It was Maude Trevlyn. Her frock was of the same material as Mrs. Chattaway's gown, and a sash of black ribbon encircled her waist. Mrs. Chattaway did not turn, and Maude came forward.
"Are you well to-day, Aunt Edith?"
"Not very, dear." Mrs. Chattaway took the pretty young head within her arm as she answered, and fondly stroked the bright curls. "You have been crying, Maude!"
Maude shook back her curls with a smile, as if she meant to be brave; make light of the accusation. "Cris and Octave went on so shamefully, Aunt Edith, ridiculing George Ryle; and when I took his part, Cris hit me a sharp blow. It was stupid of me to cry, though."
"Cris did?" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway.
"I know I provoked him," candidly acknowledged Maude. "I'm afraid I flew into a passion; and you know, Aunt Edith, I don't mind what I say when I do that. I told Cris that he would be placed at something not half as good as a linen-draper's some time, for he'd want a living when Rupert came into Trevlyn Hold."
"Maude! Maude! hush!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway in tones of terror. "You must not say that."
"I know I must not, Aunt Edith; I know it is wrong; wrong to think it, and foolish to say it. It was my temper. I am very sorry."
She nestled close to Mrs. Chattaway, caressing and penitent. Mrs. Chattaway stooped and kissed her, a strangely marked expression of tribulation, shrinking and hopeless, upon her countenance.
"Oh, Maude! I am so ill!"
Maude felt awed; and somewhat puzzled. "Ill, Aunt Edith?"
"There is an illness of the mind worse than that of the body, Maude. I feel as though I should sink under my weight of care. Sometimes I wonder why I am kept on earth."
"Oh, Aunt Edith!"
A knock at the room door, followed by the entrance of a female servant. She did not observe Mrs. Chattaway; only Maude.
"Is Miss Diana here, Miss Maude?"
"No. Only Madam."
"What is it, Phœbe?" asked Mrs. Chattaway.
"Master Cris wants to know if he can take the gig out, ma'am?"
"I cannot tell anything about it. You must ask Miss Diana. Maude, see; that is your Aunt Diana's step on the stairs now."
Miss Trevlyn came in. "The gig?" she repeated. "No; Cris cannot take it. Go and tell him so, Maude. Phœbe, return to your work."
Maude ran away, and Phœbe went off grumbling, not aloud, but to herself; no one dared grumble in the hearing of Miss Trevlyn. She had spoken in sharp tones to Phœbe, and the girl did not like sharp tones. As Miss Trevlyn sat down opposite Mrs. Chattaway, the feverish state of that lady's countenance arrested her attention.
"What is the matter, Edith?"
Mrs. Chattaway buried her elbow on the sofa-cushion, and pressed her hand to her face, half covering it, before she spoke. "I cannot get over this business," she answered in low tones. "To-day—perhaps naturally—I am feeling it more than is good for me. It makes me ill, Diana."
"What business?" asked Miss Trevlyn.
"This apprenticing of George Ryle."
"Nonsense," said Miss Diana.
"It is not the proper thing for him, Diana; you admitted so yesterday. The boy says it is the blighting of his whole future life; and I feel that it is nothing less. I could not sleep last night for thinking about it. Once I dozed off, and fell into an ugly dream," she shivered. "I thought Mr. Ryle came to me, and asked whether it was not enough that we had heaped care upon him in life, and then sent him to his death, but must also pursue his son."
"You always were weak, you know, Edith," was the composed rejoinder of Miss Trevlyn. "Why Chattaway should be interfering with George Ryle, I cannot understand; but it surely need not give concern to you. The proper person to put a veto on his being placed at Barmester, as he is being placed, was Mrs. Ryle. If she did not think fit to do it, it is no business of ours."
"It seems to me as if he had no one to stand up for him. It seems," added Mrs. Chattaway, with more passion in her tone, "as if his father must be looking down at us, and condemning us."
"If you will worry yourself over it, you must," was the rejoinder of Miss Trevlyn. "It is very foolish, Edith, and it can do no earthly good. He is bound by this time, and the thing is irrevocable."
"Perhaps that is the reason—because it is irrevocable—that it presses upon me to-day with greater weight. It has made me think of the past, Diana," she added in a whisper. "Of that other wrong, which I cheat myself sometimes into forgetting; a wrong——"
"Be silent!" imperatively interrupted Miss Trevlyn, and the next moment Cris Chattaway bounded into the room.
"What's the reason I can't have the gig?" he began. "Who says I can't have it?"
"I do," said Miss Trevlyn.
Cris insolently turned from her, and walked up to Mrs. Chattaway. "May I not take the gig, mother?"
If there was one thing irritated the sweet temper of Mrs. Chattaway, it was being appealed to against any decision of Diana's. She knew that she possessed no power; was a nonentity in the house; and though she bowed to her dependency, and had no resource but to bow to it, she did not like it brought palpably before her.
"Don't apply to me, Cris. I know nothing about things downstairs; I cannot say one way or the other. The horses and vehicles are specially the things that your father will not have meddled with. Do you remember taking out the dog-cart without leave, and the result?"
Cris looked angry; perhaps the reminiscence was not agreeable. Miss Diana interfered.
"You willnottake out the gig, Cris. I have said it."
"Then see if I don't walk! And if I am not home to dinner, Aunt Diana, you can just tell the Squire the thanks are due to you."
"Where do you wish to go?" asked Mrs. Chattaway.
"I am going to Barmester. I want to wish that fellow joy of his indentures," added Cris, a glow of triumph lighting up his face. "He is bound by this time. I wonder the Squire is not back again!"
The Squire was back again. As Cris spoke, his tread was heard on the stairs, and he came into the room. Cris was too full of his own concerns to note the expression of his face.
"Father, may I take out the gig? I want to go to Barmester, to pay a visit of congratulation to George Ryle."
"No, you will not take out the gig," said Mr. Chattaway, the allusion exciting his anger almost beyond bearing.
Cris thought he might have been misunderstood. Cris deemed that his proclaimed intention would find favour with Mr. Chattaway.
"I suppose you have been binding that fellow, father. I want to go and ask him how he likes it."
"No, sir, I have not been binding him," thundered Mr. Chattaway. "What's more, he is not going to be bound. He has left it, and is at home again."
Cris gave a blank stare of amazement, and Mrs. Chattaway let her hands fall silently upon her lap and heaved a gentle sigh, as though some great good had come to her.
None of us can stand still in life. Everything rolls on its course towards the end of all things. In noting down a family's or a life's history, its periods will be differently marked. Years will glide quietly on, giving forth few events worthy of record; again, it will happen that occurrences, varied and momentous, will be crowded into an incredibly short space of time. Events, sufficient to fill up the allotted life of man, will follow one another in rapid succession in the course of as many months; nay, of as many days.
Thus it was with the Trevlyns, and those connected with them. After the lamentable death of Mr. Ryle, the new agreement touching money-matters between Mr. Chattaway and Mrs. Ryle, and the settling of George Ryle into his own home, it may be said in his father's place, little occurred for some years worthy of note. Time seemed to pass uneventfully. Girls and boys grew into men and women; children into girls and boys. Cris Chattaway lorded it in his own offensive manner as the Squire's son—as the future Squire; his sister Octavia was not more amiable than of yore, and Maude Trevlyn was governess to Mr. and Mrs. Chattaway's younger children. Miss Diana Trevlyn had taken care that Maude should be well educated, and she paid the cost of it out of her own pocket, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's sneers. When Maude was eighteen years of age, the question arose, What shall be done with her? "She shall go out and be a governess," said Mr. Chattaway. "Of what profit her fine education, if it's not to be made use of?" "No," dissented Miss Diana; "a Trevlyn cannot be sent out into the world to earn her own living: our family have not come to that." "I won't keep her in idleness," growled Chattaway. "Very well," said Miss Diana; "make her governess to your girls, Edith and Emily: it will save the cost of schooling." The advice was taken; and Maude for the past three years had been governess at Trevlyn Hold.
But Rupert? Rupert was found not to be so easily disposed of. There's no knowing what Chattaway, in his ill-feeling, might have put Rupert to, had he been at liberty to place him as he pleased. If he had not shown any superfluous consideration in placing out George Ryle—or rather in essaying to place him out—it was not likely he would show it to one whom he hated as he hated Rupert. But here Miss Diana again stepped in. Rupert was a Trevlyn, she said, and consequently could not be converted into a chimney-sweep or a shoe-black: he must get his living at something befitting his degree. Chattaway demurred, but he knew better than run counter to any mandate issued by Diana Trevlyn.
Several things were tried for Rupert. He was placed with a clergyman to study for the Church; he went to an LL.D. to read for the Bar; he was consigned to a wealthy grazier to be made into a farmer; he was posted off to Sir John Rennet, to be initiated into the science of civil engineering. And he came back from all. As one venture after the other was made, so it failed, and a very short time would see Rupert return as ineligible to Trevlyn Hold. Ineligible! Was he deficient in capacity? No. He was only deficient in that one great blessing, without which life can bring no enjoyment—health. In his weakness of chest—his liability to take cold—his suspiciously delicate frame, Rupert Trevlyn was ominously like his dead father. The clergyman, the doctor, the hearty grazier, and the far-famed engineer, thought after a month's trial they would rather not take charge of him. He had a fit of illness—it may be better to say of weakness—in the house of each; and they, no doubt, one and all, deemed that a pupil predisposed to disease—it may be almost said to death—as Rupert Trevlyn appeared to be, would bring with him too much responsibility.
So, times and again, Rupert was returned on the hands of Mr. Chattaway. To describe that gentleman's wrath would take a pen dipped in gall. Was Rupertneverto be got rid of? It was like the Eastern slippers which persisted in turning up. And, in like manner, up came Rupert Trevlyn. The boy could not help his ill-health; but you may be sure Mr. Chattaway's favour was not increased by it. "I shall put him in the office at Blackstone," said he. And Miss Diana acquiesced.
Blackstone was the locality where Mr. Chattaway's mines were situated. An appropriate name, for the place was black enough, and stony enough, and dreary enough for anything. A low, barren, level country, its flatness alone broken by signs of the pits, its uncompromising gloom enlivened only by ascending fires which blazed up at night, and illumined the country for miles round. The pits were not all coal: iron mines and other mines were scattered with them. On Chattaway's property, however, there was coal alone. Long rows of houses, as dreary as the barren country, were built near: occupied by the workers in the mines. The overseer or manager for Mr. Chattaway was named Pinder, a brother to John Pinder, who was on Mrs. Ryle's farm: but Chattaway chose to interfere very much with the executive himself, and may almost have been called his own overseer. He had an office near the pits, in which accounts were kept, the men paid, and other business items transacted: a low building, of one storey only, consisting of three or four rooms. In this office he kept one regular clerk, a young man named Ford, and into this same office he put Rupert Trevlyn.
But many and many and many a day was Rupert ailing; weak, sick, feverish, coughing, and unable to go to it. But for Diana Trevlyn, Chattaway might have driven him there ill or well. Not that Miss Diana possessed any extraordinary affection for Rupert: she did not keep him at home out of love, or from motives of indulgence. But hard, cold, and imperious though she was, Miss Diana owned somewhat of the large open-handedness of the Trevlyns: she could not be guilty of trivial spite, or petty meanness. She ruled the servants with an iron hand; but in case of their falling into sickness or trouble, she had them generously cared for. So with respect to Rupert. It may be that she regarded him as an interloper; that she would have been better pleased were he removed elsewhere. She had helped to deprive him of his birthright, but she did not treat him with personal unkindness; and she would have been the last to say he must go out to his daily occupation, if he felt ill or incapable of it. She deplored his ill-health; but, ill health upon him, Miss Diana was not one to ignore it, to reproach him with it, or put hindrances in the way of his being nursed.
It was a tolerably long walk for Rupert in a morning to Blackstone. Cris Chattaway, when he chose to go over, rode on horseback; and Mr. Cris did not infrequently choose to go over, for he had the same propensity as his father—that of throwing himself into every petty detail, and interfering unwarrantably. In disposition, father and son were alike—mean, stingy, grasping. To save a sixpence, Chattaway would almost have sacrificed a miner's life. Improvements which other mine owners had introduced into their pits, into the working of them, Chattaway held aloof from. In his own person, however, Cris was not disposed to be saving. He had his horse, and he had his servant, and he favoured an extensive wardrobe, and was given altogether to various little odds and ends of self-indulgence.
Yes, Cris Chattaway rode to Blackstone; with his groom behind him sometimes, when he chose to make a dash; and Rupert Trevlyn walked. Better that the order of travelling had been reversed, for that walk, morning and evening, was not too good for Rupert in his weakly state. He would feel it particularly in an evening. It was a gradual ascent nearly all the way from Blackstone to Trevlyn Hold, almost imperceptible to a strong man, but sufficiently apparent to Rupert Trevlyn, who would be fatigued with the day's work.
Not that he had hard work to do. But even sitting on the office stool tired him. Another thing that tired him—and which, no doubt, was excessively bad for him—was the loss of his regular meals. Excepting on Sundays, or on days when he was not well enough to leave Trevlyn Hold, he had no dinner: what he had at Blackstone was only an apology for one. The clerk, Ford, who lived at nearly as great a distance from the place as Rupert, used to cook himself a chop or steak at the office grate. But that the coals were lying about in heaps and cost nothing, Chattaway might have objected to the fire being used for such a purpose. Rupert occasionally cooked himself some meat; but he more frequently dined upon bread and cheese, or scraps brought from Trevlyn Hold. It was not often that Rupert had the money to buy meat or anything else, his supply of that indispensable commodity, the current coin of the realm, being very limited. Deprived of his dinner, deprived of his tea—tea being generally over when he got back to the Hold—that, of itself, was almost sufficient to bring on the disease feared for Rupert Trevlyn. One sound in constitution, revelling in health and strength, might not have been much the worse in the long-run; but Rupert did not come under the head of that favoured class of humanity.
It was a bright day in that mellow season when summer is merging into autumn. A few fields of the later grain were lying out yet, but most of the golden store had been gathered into barns. The sunlight glistened on the leaves of the trees, lighting up their rich tints of brown and red—tints which never come until the season of passing away.
Halting at a stile which led to a field white with stubble, were two children and a young lady. Not very young children, either, for the younger of the two must have been thirteen. Pale girls both, with light hair, and just now a disagreeable expression of countenance. They were insisting upon crossing that stile to pass through the field: one of them, in fact, had already mounted, and they did not like to be thwarted in their wish.
"You cross old thing!" cried she on the stile. "You always object to our going where we want to go. What dislike have you to the field, pray, that we may not cross it?"
"I have no dislike to it, Emily. I am only obeying your father's injunctions. You know he has forbidden you to go on Mrs. Ryle's lands."
She spoke in calm tones; a sweet, persuasive voice. She had a sweet and gentle face, too, with delicate features, and large blue eyes. It is Maude Trevlyn. Eight years have passed since you last saw her, and she is twenty-one. In spite of her girlish, graceful figure, which scarcely reaches middle height, she bears a look of the Trevlyns. Her head is well set upon her shoulders, thrown somewhat back, as you may see in Miss Diana Trevlyn. She wears a grey flowing cloak, and pretty blue bonnet.
"The lands are not Mrs. Ryle's," retorted the girl on the stile. "They are papa's."
"They are Mrs. Ryle's as long as she rents them. It is all the same. Mr. Chattaway has forbidden you to cross them. Come down from the stile, Emily."
"No. I shall jump over it."
It was ever thus. Except in the presence of Miss Diana Trevlyn, the girls were openly rude and disobedient to Maude. Expected to teach them, she was denied the ordinary authority vested in a governess. And Maude could not emancipate herself: she must suffer and submit.
Emily Chattaway put her foot over the top bar of the stile, preparatory to jumping over it, when the sound of a horse was heard, and she turned her head. Riding along the lane at a quick pace was a gentleman of some three or four-and-twenty years: a tall man, as far as could be seen, who sat his horse well. He reined in when he saw them, and bent down a pleasant face, with a pleasant smile upon it. The sun shone into his fine dark eyes, as he stooped to shake hands with Maude.
Maude's cheeks had turned crimson. "Quite well," she stammered, in answer to his greeting, somewhat losing her self-possession. "When did you return home?"
"Last night. I was away two days only, instead of the four anticipated. Emily, you'll fall backwards if you don't mind."
"No, I sha'n't," said Emily. "Why did you not stay longer?"
"I found Treve away when I reached Oxford, so I came back again, and got home last night—to Nora's discomfiture."
Maude looked into his face with a questioning glance. She had quite recovered her self-possession. "Why?" she asked.
George Ryle laughed. "Nora had turned my bedroom inside out, and accused me, in her vexation, of coming back on purpose."
"Where did you sleep?" asked Emily.
"In Treve's room. Take care, Edith!"
Maude hastily drew back Edith Chattaway, who had gone too near the horse. "How is Mrs. Ryle?" asked Maude. "We heard yesterday she was not well."
"She is suffering from a cold. I have scarcely seen her. Maude," leaning down and whispering, "are things any brighter than they were?"
Again the soft colour came into her face, and she threw him a glance from her dark blue eyes. If ever glance spoke of indignation, hers did. "What change can there be?" she breathed. "Rupert is ill again," she added in louder tones.
"Rupert!"
"At least, he is not well, and is at home to-day. But he is better than he was yesterday——"
"Here comes Octave," interrupted Emily.
George Ryle gathered up his reins. Shaking hands with Maude, he said a hasty good-bye to the other two, and cantered down the lane, lifting his hat to Miss Chattaway, who was coming up from a distance.
She was advancing quickly across the common, behind the fence on the other side of the lane. A tall, thin young woman, looking her full age of four or five-and-twenty, with the same leaden complexion as of yore, and the disagreeably sly grey eyes. She wore a puce silk paletot, and a brown hat trimmed with black lace; an unbecoming costume for one so tall.