Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Mrs. Ryle expressed herself as not being too confident of him — whether of his industry or qualifications she did not state. George had given one or two hints that when Treve came home for good, he must look out for something else; but Mrs. Ryle had waived away the hints as if they were unpleasant to her. Treve must prove what metal he was made of, before assuming the management, she briefly said. And George suffered the subject to drop.

  Treve had now but one more term to keep at the university. At the conclusion of the previous term he had not returned home: remaining on a visit to a friend, who had an appointment in one of the colleges. But Treve’s demand for money had become somewhat inconvenient to Mrs. Ryle, and she had begged George to pay Oxford a few days’ visit, that he might see how Treve was really going on. George complied, and proceeded to Oxford, where he found Treve absent — as in the last chapter you heard him say to Maude Trevlyn.

  Mrs. Trevlyn sat by the drawing-room fire, enveloped in her shawl, and supported by her pillows. The thought of these things was bringing a severe look to her proud face. She had scarcely seen George since his return; had not exchanged more than ten words with him. But those ten words had not been of a cheering nature; and she feared things were not going on satisfactorily with Treve. With that hard look on her features, how wonderfully her face resembled that of her dead father!

  Presently George came in. Mrs. Ryle looked up eagerly at his entrance.

  “Are you better?” he asked, advancing, and bending with a kindly smile. “It is long since you had such a cold as this.”

  “I shall be all right in a day or two,” she answered. “Yesterday I thought I was going to have a long illness, my chest was so painful. Sit down, George. What about Treve?”

  “Treve was not at Oxford. He had gone to London.”

  “You told me so. What had he gone there for?”

  “A little change, Ferrars said. He had been gone a week.”

  “A little change? In plain English, a little pleasure, I suppose. Call it what you will, it costs money.”

  George had seated himself opposite to her, his arm resting on the centre table, and the red blaze lighting up his frank, pleasant face. In figure he was tall and slight; his father, at his age, had been so before him.

  “Why did you not follow him to London?” resumed Mrs. Ryle. “It would have been less than a two hours’ journey from Oxford.”

  George turned his large dark eyes upon her, some surprise in them. “How was I to know where to look for him, if I had gone?”

  “Could Mr. Ferrars not give you his address?”

  “No. I asked him. Treve had not told him where he should put up. In fact, Ferrars did not think Treve knew himself. Under these circumstances, my going to town would have been only waste of time and money.”

  “It is of no use your keeping things from me,” resumed Mrs. Ryle, after a pause. “Has Treve contracted fresh debts at Oxford?”

  “I fancy he has. A few.”

  “A ‘few’ — and you ‘fancy!’ George, tell me the truth. That you know he has, and that they are not a few.”

  “That he has, I believe to be true: I gathered as much from Ferrars. But I do not think they are serious; I do not indeed.”

  “Why did you not inquire? I would have gone to every shop in the town, in order to ascertain. If he is contracting more debts, who is to pay them?”

  George was silent.

  “When shall we be clear of Chattaway?” she abruptly resumed. “When will the last payment be due?”

  “In a month or two’s time. Principal and interest will all be paid off then.”

  “It will take all your efforts to make up the sum.”

  “It will be ready, mother. It shall be.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But it will not be ready, George, if a portion is to be taken from it for Treve.”

  George knit his brow. He was falling into thought.

  “I must get rid of Chattaway,” she resumed. “He has been weighing us down all these years like an incubus; and now that emancipation has nearly come, were anything to delay it, I should — I think I should go mad.”

  “I hope and trust nothing will delay it,” answered George. “I am more anxious to get rid of Chattaway than, I think, even you can be. As to Treve, his debts must wait.”

  “But it would be more desirable that he should not contract them.”

  “Of course. But how are we to prevent his contracting them?”

  “He ought to prevent it himself. You did not contract debts.”

  “I!” he rejoined, in surprise. “I had no opportunity of doing so. Work and responsibility were thrown upon me before I was old enough to think of pleasure: and they kept me steady.”

  “You were not naturally inclined to spend, George.”

  “There’s no knowing what I might have acquired, had I been sent out into the world, as Treve has,” he rejoined.

  “It was necessary that Treve should go to college,” said Mrs. Ryle, quite sharply.

  “I am not saying anything to the contrary,” George quietly answered. “It was right that he should go — as you wished it.”

  “I shall live — I hope I shall live — I pray that I may live — to see Trevlyn lawful possessor of the Hold. A gentleman’s education was essential to him: hence I sent him to Oxford.”

  George made no reply. Mrs. Ryle felt vexed. She knew George disapproved her policy in regard to Trevlyn, and charged him with it now. George would not deny it.

  “What I think unwise is your having led Treve to build hopes upon succeeding to Trevlyn Hold,” he said.

  “Why?” she haughtily asked. “He will come into it.”

  “I do not see how.”

  “He has far more right to it than he who is looked upon as its successor — Cris Chattaway,” she said, with flashing eyes. “You know that.”

  George could have answered that neither of them had a just right to it, whilst Rupert Trevlyn lived; but Rupert and his claims had been so completely ignored by Mrs. Ryle, as by others, that his advancing them would have been waived away as idle talk. Mrs. Ryle resumed, her voice unsteady. It was most rare that she suffered herself to speak of these past grievances; but when she did, her vehemence mounted to agitation.

  “When my boy was born, the news that Joe Trevlyn’s health was failing had come home to us. I knew the Squire would never leave the property to Maude, and I expected that my son would inherit. Was it not natural that I should do so? — was it not his right? — I was the Squire’s eldest daughter. I had him named Trevlyn; I wrote a note to my father, saying he would not now be at fault for a male heir, in the event of poor Joe’s not leaving one — —”

  “He did leave one,” interrupted George, speaking impulsively.

  “Rupert was not born then, and his succession was afterwards barred by my father’s will. Through deceit, I grant you: but I had no hand in that deceit. I named my boy Trevlyn; I regarded him as the heir; and when the Squire died and his will was opened, it was found he had bequeathed all to Chattaway. If you think I have ever once faltered in my hope — my resolve — to see Trevlyn some time displace the Chattaways, you do not know much of human nature.”

  “I grant what you say,” replied George; “that, of the two, Trevlyn has more right to it than Cris Chattaway. But has it ever occurred to you to ask, how Cris is to be displaced?”

  Mrs. Ryle did not answer. She sat beating her foot upon the ottoman, as one whose mind is not at ease. George continued:

  “It appears to me the wildest possible fallacy, the bare idea of Trevlyn’s being able to displace Cris Chattaway in the succession. If we lived in the barbarous ages, when inheritances were wrested by force of arms, when the turn of a battle decided the ownership of a castle, then there might be a chance that Cris might lose Trevlyn Hold. As it is, there is none. There is not the faintest shadow of a chance that it can go to any one beside Cris. Failing his death — and he is strong and healthy — he must succeed. Why, even were Rupert �
� forgive my alluding to him again — to urge his claims, there would be no hope for him. Mr. Chattaway legally holds the estate; he has willed it to his son; and that son cannot be displaced by others.”

  Her foot beat more impatiently; a heavier line settled on her brow. Often and often had the arguments now stated by her step-son occurred to her aching brain. George spoke again.

  “And therefore, the improbability — I may say the impossibility — of Treve’s ever succeeding renders it unwise that he should have been taught to build upon it. Far better, mother, the thought had never been so much as whispered to him.”

  “Why do you look at it in this unfavourable light?” she cried angrily.

  “Because it is the correct light. The property is Mr. Chattaway’s — legally his, and it cannot be taken from him. It will be Cris’s after him. It is simply madness to think otherwise.”

  “Cris may die,” said Mrs. Ryle sharply.

  “If Cris died to-morrow, Treve would be no nearer succession. Chattaway has daughters, and would will it to each in turn rather than to Treve. He can will it away as he pleases. It was left to him absolutely.”

  “My father was mad when he made such a will in favour of Chattaway! He could have been nothing less. I have thought so many times.”

  “But it was made, and cannot now be altered. Will you pardon me for saying that it would have been better had you accepted the state of affairs, and endeavoured to reconcile yourself to them?”

  “Better?”

  “Yes; much better. To rebel against what cannot be remedied can only do harm. I would a great deal rather Treve succeeded to Trevlyn Hold than Cris Chattaway: but I know Treve never will succeed: and, therefore, it is a pity it was ever suggested to him. He might have settled down more steadily had he never become possessed of the idea that he might some time supersede Cris Chattaway.”

  “He shall supersede him — —”

  The door opened to admit a visitor, and he who entered was no other than Rupert Trevlyn. Ignore his claims as she would, Mrs. Ryle felt it would not be seemly to discuss before him Treve’s chance of succession. She had in truth completely put from her all thought of the claims of Rupert. He had been deprived of his right by Squire Trevlyn’s will, and there was an end to it. Mrs. Ryle rather liked Rupert; or, it may be better to say, she did not dislike him; really to like any one except Treve, was not in her nature. She liked Rupert in a negative sort of way; but would not have helped him to his inheritance by lifting a finger. In the event of her possessing no son to be jealous for, she might have taken up the wrongs of Rupert — just to thwart Chattaway.

  “Why, Rupert,” said George, rising, and cordially shaking hands, “I heard you were ill again. Maude told me so to-day.”

  “I am better to-night. Aunt Ryle, they said you were in bed.”

  “I am better, too, Rupert. What has been the matter with you?”

  “Oh, my chest again,” said Rupert, pushing the waving hair from his bright and delicate face. “I could hardly breathe this morning.”

  “Ought you to have come out to-night?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” carelessly answered Rupert. “For all I see, I am as well when I go out as when I don’t. There’s not much to stay in for, there.”

  Painfully susceptible to cold, he edged himself closer to the hearth with a slight shiver. George took the poker and stirred the fire, and the blaze went flashing up, playing on the familiar objects of the room, lighting up the slender figure, the well-formed features, the large blue eyes of Rupert, and bringing out all the signs of constitutional delicacy. The transparent fairness of complexion and the bloom of the cheeks, might have whispered a warning.

  “Octave thought you were going up there to-night, George.”

  “Did she?”

  “The two Beecroft girls are there, and they turned me out of the drawing-room. Octave said ‘I wasn’t wanted.’ Will you play chess to-night, George?”

  “If you like; after supper.”

  “I must be home by half-past ten, you know. I was a minute over the half-hour the other night, and one of the servants opened the door for me. Chattaway pretty nearly rose the roof off, he was so angry; but he could not decently turn me out again.”

  “Chattaway is master of Trevlyn Hold for the time being,” remarked Mrs. Ryle. “Not Squire; never Squire” — she broke off, straying abruptly from her subject, and as abruptly resuming it. “You will do well to obey him, Rupert. When I make a rule in this house, I never permit it to be broken.”

  A valuable hint, if Rupert had only taken it for guidance. He meant well: he never meant, for all his light and careless speaking, to disobey Mr. Chattaway’s mandate. And yet it happened that very night!

  The chess-board was attractive, and the time slipped on to half-past ten. Rupert said a hasty good night, snatched up his hat, tore through the entrance-room and made the best speed his lungs allowed him to Trevlyn Hold. His heart was beating as he gained it, and he rang that peal at the bell which had sent its echoes through the house; through the trembling frame and weak heart of Mrs. Chattaway.

  He rang — and rang. There came back no sign that the ring was heard. A light shone in Mrs. Chattaway’s dressing-room; and Rupert took up some gravel, and gently threw it against the window. No response was accorded in answer to it; not so much as the form of a hand on the blind; the house, in its utter stillness, might have been the house of the dead. Rupert threw up some more gravel as silently as he could.

  He had not to wait very long this time. Cautiously, slowly, as though the very movement feared being heard, the blind was drawn aside, and the face of Mrs. Chattaway appeared looking down at him. He could see that she had not begun to undress. She shook her head; raised her hands and clasped them with a gesture of despair; and her lips formed themselves into the words, “I may not let you in.”

  He could not hear the words, but read the expression of the whole all too clearly — Chattaway would not suffer him to be admitted. Mrs. Chattaway, dreading possibly that her husband might cast his eyes within her dressing-room, quietly let the blind fall again, and removed her shadow from the window.

  What was Rupert to do? Lie on the grass that skirted the avenue, and take his night’s rest under the trees in the freezing air and night dews? A strong frame, revelling in superfluous health, might possibly risk that; but not Rupert Trevlyn.

  A momentary thought come over him that he would go back to Trevlyn Farm, and ask for a night’s shelter there. He would have done so, but for the recollection of Mrs. Ryle’s stern voice and sterner face when she remarked that, as he knew the rule made for his going in, he must not break it. Rupert had never got on too cordially with Mrs. Ryle. He remembered shrinking from her haughty face when he was a child; and somehow he shrank from it still. No; he would not knock them up at Trevlyn Farm.

  What must he do? Should he walk about until morning? Suddenly a thought came to him — were the Canhams in bed? If not, he could go there, and lie on their settle. The Canhams never went to bed very early. Ann Canham sat up to lock the great gate — it was Chattaway’s pleasure that it should not be done until after ten o’clock; and old Canham liked to sit up, smoking his pipe.

  With a brisk step, now that he had decided on his course, Rupert walked down the avenue. At the first turning he ran against Cris Chattaway, who was coming leisurely up it.

  “Oh, Cris! I am so glad! You’ll let me in. They have shut me out to-night.”

  “Let you in!” repeated Cris. “I can’t.”

  Rupert’s blue eyes opened in the starlight. “Have you not your latch-key?”

  “What should hinder me?” responded Cris. “I’m going in; but I can’t let you in.”

  “Why not?” hotly asked Rupert.

  “I don’t choose to fly in the Squire’s face. He has ordered you to be in before half-past ten, or not to come in at all. It has gone half-past ten long ago: is hard upon eleven.”

  “If you can go in after half-past ten, why
can’t I?” cried Rupert.

  “It’s not my affair,” said Cris, with a yawn. “Don’t bother. Now look here. It’s of no use following me, for I shall not let you in.”

  “Yes you will, Cris.”

  “I will not,” responded Cris, emphatically. Rupert’s temper was getting up.

  “Cris, I wouldn’t show myself such a hangdog sneak as you to be made king of England. If every one had their rights, Trevlyn Hold would be mine, to shut you out of it if I pleased. But I wouldn’t please. If only a dog were turned out of his kennel at night, I would let him into the Hold for shelter.”

  Cris put his latch-key into the lock. “I don’t turn you out. You must settle that question with the Squire. Keep off. If he says you may be let in at eleven, well and good; but I’m not going to encourage you in disobeying orders.”

  He opened the door a few inches, wound himself in, and shut it in Rupert’s face. He made a great noise in putting up the bar, which was not in the least necessary. Rupert had given him his true appellation — that of sneak. He was one: a false-hearted, plausible, cowardly sneak. As he stood at a table in the hall, and struck a match to light his candle, his puny face and dull light eyes betrayed the most complaisant enjoyment.

  He went upstairs smiling. He had to pass the angle of the corridor where his mother’s rooms were situated. She glided silently out as he was going by. Her dress was off, and she had apparently thrown a shawl over her shoulders to come out to Cris: an old-fashioned spun-silk shawl, with a grey border and white centre: not so white, however, as the face of Mrs. Chattaway.

  “Cris!” she said, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in the most timid whisper, “why did you not let him in?”