by Ellen Wood
They left him in his grave, by the side of his long-dead wife, Mary Berkeley. As George stood at the head of his father’s coffin, during the ceremony in the churchyard, the gravestone with its name was in front of him; his mother’s name: “Mary, the wife of Thomas Ryle, and only daughter of the Rev. George Berkeley.” None knew with what feeling of loneliness the orphan boy turned from the spot, as the last words of the minister died away.
Mrs. Ryle, in her widow’s weeds, was seated in the drawing-room on their return, as the gentlemen filed into it. In Barbrook custom, the relatives of the deceased, near or distant, were expected to assemble together for the remainder of the day; or for a portion of it. The gentlemen would sometimes smoke, and the ladies in their deep mourning sat with their hands folded in their laps, resting on their snow-white handkerchiefs. The conversation was only allowed to run on family matters, future prospects, and the like; and the voices were amicable and subdued.
As the mourners entered, they shook hands severally with Mrs. Ryle. Chattaway put out his hand last, and with perceptible hesitation. It was many a year since his hand had been given in fellowship to Mrs. Ryle, or had taken hers. They had been friendly once, and in the old days he had called her “Maude”: but that was over now.
Mrs. Ryle turned from the offered hand. “No,” she said, speaking in quiet but decisive tones. “I cannot forget the past sufficiently for that, James Chattaway. On this day it is forcibly present to me.”
They sat down. Trevlyn next his mother, called there by her. The gentlemen disposed themselves on the side of the table facing the fire, and George found a chair a little behind them; no one seemed to notice him. And so much the better; the boy’s heart was too full to bear much notice then.
On the table was placed the paper which had been written by the surgeon, at the dictation of Mr. Ryle, the night when he lay in extremity. It had not been unfolded since. Mr. King took it up; he knew that he was expected to read it. They were waiting for him to do so.
“I must premise that the dictation of this is Mr. Ryle’s,” he said. “He expressly requested me to write down his own words, just as they came from his lips. He — —”
“Is it a will?” interrupted Farmer Apperley, a little man, with a red face and a large nose. He had come to the funeral in top boots, which constituted his idea of full dress.
“You can call it a will, if you please,” replied Mr. King. “I am not sure that the law would do so. It was in consequence of his not having made a will that he requested me to write down these few directions.”
The farmer nodded; and Mr. King began to read.
“In the name of God: Amen. I, Thomas Ryle.
“First of all, I bequeath my soul to God: trusting that He will pardon my sins, for the sake of Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen.
“It’s a dreadful blow, this meeting my death by Chattaway’s bull. The more so, that I am unable to leave things straightforward for my wife and children. They know — at least, my wife knows, and all the parish knows — the pressure that has been upon me, through Chattaway coming down upon me as he has done. I have been as a bird with its wings clipped. As soon as I tried to get up, I was pulled down again.
“Ill luck has been upon me besides. Beasts have died off, crops have failed. The farm’s not good for much, for all the money that has been laid out upon it, and I alone know the labour it has cost. When you think of these things, my dear wife and boys, you’ll know why I do not leave you better provided for. Many and many a night have I lain awake upon my bed, fretting, and planning, and hoping, all for your sakes. Perhaps if that bull had spared me to old age, I might have left you better off.
“I should like to bequeath the furniture and all that is in the house, the stock, the beasts, and all that I die possessed of, to my dear wife, Maude — but it’s not of any use, for Chattaway will sell up — except the silver tankard, and that should go to Trevlyn. But for having ‘T.R.’ upon it, it should go to George, for he is the eldest. T.R. stood for my father, and T.R. has stood for me, and T.R. will stand for Trevlyn. George, though he is the eldest, won’t grudge it him, if I know anything of his nature. And I give to George my watch, and I hope he’ll keep it for his dead father’s sake. It is only a silver one; but it’s a very good one, and George can have his initials engraved on the shield. The three seals, and the gold key, I give to him with it. The red cornelian has our arms on it. For we had arms once, and my father and I have generally sealed our letters with them: not that they have done him or me any good. And let Treve keep the tankard faithfully, and never part with it. And remember, my dear boys, that your poor father would have left you better keepsakes had it been in his power. You must prize these for the dead giver’s sake. But there! it’s of no use talking, for Chattaway will sell up, watch and tankard, and all.
“And I should like to leave that bay foal to my dear little Caroline. It will be a pretty creature when it’s bigger. You must let it have the run of the three cornered paddock, and I should like to see her on it, sweet little soul! — but Chattaway’s bull has stopped it. And don’t grudge the cost of a little saddle for her; and Roger can break it in; and mind you are all true and tender with my dear little girl. You are good lads — though Treve is hasty when his temper’s put out — and I know you’ll be to her what brothers ought to be. I always meant that foal for Carry, since I saw how pretty it was likely to grow, though I didn’t say so; and now I give it to her. But where’s the use? Chattaway will sell up.
“If he does sell up, to the last stick and stone, he won’t get his debt in full. Perhaps not much above half of it; for things at a forced sale don’t bring their value. You have put down ‘his debt,’ I suppose; but it is not his debt. I am on my death-bed, and I say that the two thousand pounds was made a present of to me by the Squire on his death-bed. He told me it was made all right with Chattaway; that Chattaway understood the promise given to me, not to raise the rent; and that he’d be the same just landlord to me that the Squire had been. The Squire could not lay his hand on the bond, or he would have given it me then; but he said Chattaway should burn it as soon as he entered, which would be in an hour or two. Chattaway knows whether he has acted up to this; and now his bull has done for me.
“And I wish to tell Chattaway that if he’ll act a fair part as a man ought, and let my wife and the boys stop on the farm, he’ll stand a much better chance of getting the money, than he would if he turns them out of it. I don’t say this for their sakes more than for his; but because from my heart I believe it to be the truth. George has his head on his shoulders the right way, and I would advise his mother to keep him on the farm; he will be getting older every day. Not but that I wish her to use her own judgment in all things, for her judgment is good. In time, they may be able to pay off Chattaway; in time they may be able even to buy back the farm, for I cannot forget that it belonged to my forefathers, and not to the Squire. That is, if Chattaway will be reasonable, and let them stop on it, and not be hard and pressing. But perhaps I am talking nonsense, for he may turn them off and do for them, as his bull has done for me.
“And now, my dear George and Treve, I repeat it to you, be good boys to your mother. Obey her in all things. Maude, I have left all to you in preference to dividing it between you and them, for which there is no time; but I know you’ll do the right thing by them: and when it comes to your turn to leave — if Chattaway don’t sell up — I wish you to bequeath to them in equal shares what you die possessed of. George is not your son, but he is mine, and —— But perhaps I’d better not say what I was going to say. And, my boys, work while it’s day. In that Book which I have not read so much as I ought to have read, it says, ‘The night cometh when no man can work.’ When we hear that read in church, or when we get the Book out on a Sunday evening and read it to ourselves, that night seems a long, long way off. It seems so far off that it can hardly ever be any concern of ours; and it is only when we are cut off suddenly that we find how very near it is. That night has come for
me; and that night will come for you before you are aware of it. So, work — and score that, doctor. God has placed us in this world to work, and not to be ashamed of it; and to work for Him as well as for ourselves. It was often in my mind that I ought to work more for God — that I ought to think more of Him; and I used to say, ‘I will do so when a bit of this bother’s off my mind.’ But the bother was always there, and I never did it. And now the end’s come; and I can see things would have been made easier to me if I had done it — score it again, doctor — and I say it as a lesson to you, my children.
“And I think that’s about all; and I am much obliged to you, doctor, for writing this. I hope they’ll be able to manage things on the farm, and I would ask my neighbour Apperley to give them his advice now and then, for old friendship’s sake, until George shall be older, and to put him in a way of buying and selling stock. If Chattaway don’t sell up, that is. If he does, I hardly know how it will be. Perhaps God will put them in some other way, and take care of them. And I would leave my best thanks to Nora, for she has been a true friend to us all, and I don’t know how the house would have got on without her. And now I’m growing faint, doctor, and I think the end is coming. God bless you all, my dear ones. Amen.”
A deep silence fell on the room as Mr. King ceased. He folded the paper, and laid it on the table near Mrs. Ryle. The first to speak was Farmer Apperley.
“Any help that I can be of to you and George, Mrs. Ryle, and to all of you, is heartily at your service. It will be yours with right goodwill at all times and seasons. The more so, that you know if I had been cut off in this way, my poor friend Ryle would have been the first to offer to do as much for my wife and boys, and have thought no trouble of it. George, you can come over and ask me about things, just as you would ask your father; or send for me up here to the farm; and whatever work I may be at at home, though it was putting out a barn on fire, I’d come.”
“And now it is my turn to speak,” said Mr. Chattaway. “And, Mrs. Ryle, I give you my promise, in the presence of these gentlemen, that if you choose to remain on the farm, I will put no hindrance upon it. Your husband thought me hard — unjust; he said it before my face and behind my back. My opinion always has been that he entirely mistook Squire Trevlyn in that last interview he had with him. I do not think it was ever the Squire’s intention to cancel the bond; Ryle must have misunderstood him altogether: at any rate, I heard nothing of it. As successor to the estate, the bond came into my possession; and in my wife and children’s interest I could not consent to destroy it. No one but a soft-hearted man — and that’s what Ryle was, poor fellow — would have thought of asking such a thing. But I was willing to give him every facility for paying it, and I did do so. No! It was not my hardness that was in fault, but his pride and nonsense, and his thinking I ought not to ask for my own money — —”
“If you bring up these things, James Chattaway, I must answer them,” interrupted Mrs. Ryle. “I would prefer not to be forced to do it to-day.”
“I do not want to bring them up in any unpleasant spirit,” answered Mr. Chattaway; “or to say it was his fault or my fault. We’ll let bygones be bygones. He is gone, poor man; and I wish that savage beast of a bull had been in four quarters before he had done the mischief! All I would now say, is, that I’ll put no impediment to your remaining on the farm. We will not go into business details this afternoon, but I will come in any day you like to appoint, and talk it over. If you choose to keep on the farm at its present rent — it is well worth it — to pay me interest for the money owing, and a yearly sum towards diminishing the debt, you are welcome to do it.”
Just what Nora had predicted! Mr. Chattaway loved money far too much to run the risk of losing part of the debt — as he probably would do if he turned them from the farm. Mrs. Ryle bowed her head in cold acquiescence. She saw no way open to her but that of accepting the offer. Mr. Chattaway probably knew there was no other.
“The sooner things are settled, the better,” she remarked. “I will name eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Very good; I’ll be here,” he answered. “And I am glad it is decided amicably.”
The rest of those present also appeared glad. Perhaps they had feared some unpleasant recrimination might take place between Mrs. Ryle and James Chattaway. Thus relieved, they unbent a little, and crossed their legs as if inclined to become more sociable.
“What shall you do with the boys, Mrs. Ryle?” suddenly asked Farmer Apperley.
“Treve, of course, will go to school as usual,” she replied. “George —— I have not decided about George.”
“Shall I have to leave school?” cried George, looking up with a start.
“Of course you will,” said Mrs. Ryle.
“But what will become of my Latin; my studies altogether?” returned George, in tones of dismay. “You know, mamma — —”
“It cannot be helped, George,” she interrupted, speaking in the uncompromising, decisive manner, so characteristic of her; as it was of her sister, Diana Trevlyn. “You must turn your attention to something more profitable than schooling, now.”
“If a boy of fifteen has not had schooling enough, I’d like to know when he has had it?” interposed Farmer Apperley, who neither understood nor approved of the strides education and intellect had made since he was a boy. Substantial people in his day had been content to learn to read and write and cipher, and deem that amount of learning sufficient to grow rich upon. As did the Dutch professor, to whom George Primrose wished to teach Greek, but who declined the offer. He had never learned Greek; he had lived, and ate, and slept without Greek; and therefore he did not see any good in Greek. Thus was it with Farmer Apperley.
“What do you learn at school, George?” questioned Mr. Berkeley.
“Latin and Greek, and mathematics, and — —”
“But, George, where will be the good of such things to you?” cried Farmer Apperley, not allowing him to end the catalogue. “Latin and Greek and mathematics! What next, I wonder!”
“I don’t see much good in giving a boy that sort of education myself,” put in Mr. Chattaway, before any one else had time to speak. “Unless he is to take up a profession, the classics only lie fallow in the mind. I hated them, I know that; I and my brother, too. Many and many a caning we have had over our Latin, until we wished the books at the bottom of the sea. Twelve months after we left school we could not have construed a page, had it been put before us. That’s all the good Latin did for us.”
“I shall keep up my Latin and Greek,” observed George, very independently, “although I may have to leave school.”
“Why need you keep it up?” asked Mr. Chattaway, turning full upon George.
“Why?” echoed George. “I like it, for one thing. And a knowledge of the classics is necessary to a gentleman.”
“Necessary to what?” cried Mr. Chattaway.
“To a gentleman,” repeated George.
“Oh,” said Mr. Chattaway. “Do you think of being one?”
“Yes, I do,” repeated George, in tones as decisive as any ever used by his step-mother.
This bold assertion nearly took away the breath of Farmer Apperley. Had George Ryle announced his intention of becoming a convict, Mr. Apperley’s consternation had been scarcely less. The same word bears different constructions to different minds. That of “gentleman” in the mouth of George, could only bear one to the simple farmer.
“Hey, lad! What wild notions have ye been getting into your head?” he asked.
“George,” said Mrs. Ryle almost at the same moment, “are you going to give me trouble at the very outset? There is nothing for you to look forward to but work. Your father said it.”
“Of course I look forward to work,” returned George, as cheerfully as he could speak that sad afternoon. “But that will not prevent my being a gentleman.”
“George, I fancy you may be somewhat misusing terms,” remarked the surgeon, who was an old inhabitant of that rustic district
, and a little more advanced than the rest. “What you meant to say was, that you would be a good man, honourable and upright; nothing mean about you. Was it not?”
“Yes,” said George, after an imperceptible hesitation. “Something of that sort.”
“The boy did not express himself clearly, you see,” said Mr. King, looking round on the rest. “He means well.”
“Don’t you ever talk about being a gentleman again, my lad,” cried Farmer Apperley, with a sagacious nod. “It would make the neighbours think you were going in for bad ways. A gentleman is one who follows the hounds in white smalls and scarlet coat, goes to dinners and drinks wine, and never puts his hands to anything, but leads an idle life.”
“That is not the sort of gentleman I meant,” said George.
“It is to be hoped not,” replied the farmer. “A man may do this if he has a good fat balance at his banker’s, but not else.”
George made no remark. To have explained how very different his ideas of a gentleman were from those of Farmer Apperley might have involved him in a long conversation. His silence was looked suspiciously upon by Mr. Chattaway.
“Where idle and roving notions are taken up, there’s only one cure for them!” he remarked, in short, uncompromising tones. “And that is hard work.”
But that George’s spirit was subdued, he might have hotly answered that he had taken up neither idle nor roving notions. As it was, he sat in silence.
“I doubt whether it will be prudent to keep George at home,” said Mrs. Ryle, speaking generally, but not to Mr. Chattaway. “He is too young to do much on the farm. And there’s John Pinder.”
“John Pinder would do his best, no doubt,” said Mr. Chattaway.
“The question is — if I do resolve to put George out, what can I put him to?” resumed Mrs. Ryle.
