Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Where is Maude?” he suddenly asked.

  Maude stepped forward, somewhat surprised.

  “Not you, child. One who must be thirty good years older than you. My sister, Maude Trevlyn.”

  “She married Thomas Ryle, of the Farm,” answered Miss Diana, who had rapidly determined to be the best of friends with her brother. “It was not a fitting match for her, and she entered upon it without our consent; nay, in defiance of us all. She lives there still; and — and — here she is!”

  For once in her life Miss Diana was startled into betraying surprise. There, coming in at the door, was her sister Maude, Mrs. Ryle; and she had not been at the Hold for years and years.

  Nora, keen-witted Nora, had fathomed the mystery as she walked home. One so strangely resembling old Squire Trevlyn must be very closely connected with him, she doubted not, and worked out the problem. It must be Rupert Trevlyn, come (may it not be said?) to life again. Before she entered, his features had been traced on her memory, and she hastened to acquaint Mrs. Ryle.

  That lady lost no time in speeding to the Hold. George accompanied her. There was no agitation on her face; it was a true Trevlyn’s in its calm and quiet, but she greeted her brother with words of welcome.

  “I have not entered this house, Rupert, my brother, since its master died; I would not enter it whilst a usurper reigned. Thank Heaven, you have come. It will end all heart-burnings.”

  “Heart-burnings? of what nature? But who are you?” he broke off, looking at George. Then he raised his hand, and laying it on his shoulder, gazed into his face. “Unless I am mistaken, you are your father’s son.”

  George laughed. “My father’s son, I believe, sir, and people tell me I am like him; yet more like my mother. I am George Berkeley Ryle.”

  “Is he here? I and Tom Ryle were good friends once.”

  “Here!” uttered George, with emotion he could not wholly suppress. “He has been dead many years. He was killed.”

  Squire Trevlyn lifted his hands. “It will all come out, bit by bit, I suppose: one record of the past after another. Maude” — turning to his sister— “I was inquiring of the days gone by. If the Trevlyns have held a name for nothing else in the county, they have held one for justice; and I want to know how it was that my father — my father and yours — willed away his estate from poor Joe’s boy. Good Heavens,” he broke off abruptly, as he caught sight of her face in the red light of the declining sun, “how wonderfully you have grown like my father! More so even than I have!”

  It was so. As Mrs. Ryle stood there, haughty and self-possessed, they might have deemed it the old Squire over again. “You want to know why my father willed away his estate from Joe’s son?” she said. “Ask Chattaway; ask Diana Trevlyn,” with a sweep of the hand to both. “Ask them to tell you who kept it from him that a son was born to Joe. They did. The Squire made his will, went to his grave, never knowing that young Rupert was born. Ask them to tell you how it was that, when in accordance with this fact the will was made, my father constituted his second daughter’s husband his heir, instead of my husband; mine, his eldest daughter’s. Ask them, Rupert.”

  “Heart-burnings? Yes, I can understand,” murmured Squire Trevlyn.

  “Ask him — Chattaway — about the two thousand pounds debt to Mr. Ryle,” she continued, never flinching from her stern gaze, never raising her voice above its calm tones of low, concentrated indignation. “You have just said that you and Tom Ryle were friends, Rupert. Yes, you were friends; and had you reigned after my father, he, my husband, would not have been hunted to his death.”

  “Maude! What are you saying?”

  “The truth. Wherever that man Chattaway could lay his oppressive hand, he has laid it. He pursued my husband incessantly during life; it was through that pursuit — indirectly, I admit — that he met his death. The debt of two thousand pounds, money which had been lent to Mr. Ryle, he, my father, cancelled on his death-bed; he made my husband a present of it; he would have handed him the bond then and there, but it was in Chattaway’s possession, and he said he would send it to him. It never was sent, Rupert; and the first use Chattaway made of his new power when he came into the Hold, was to threaten to sue my husband upon the bond. The Squire had given my husband his word to renew the lease on the same terms, and you know that his word was never broken. The second thing Chattaway did was to raise the rent. It has been nothing but uphill work with us.”

  “I’ll right it now, Maude,” he cried, with all the generous impulse of the Trevlyns. “I’ll right that, and all else.”

  “We have righted it ourselves,” she answered proudly. “By dint of perseverance and hard work, not on my part, but on his” — pointing to George— “we have paid it off. Not many days ago, the last instalment of the debt and interest was handed to Chattaway. May it do him good! I should not like to grow rich upon unjust gains.”

  “But where is Rupert?” repeated Squire Trevlyn. “I must see Rupert.”

  Ah, there was no help for it, and the whole tale was poured into his ear. Between Mrs. Ryle’s revelations on the one side, and Chattaway’s denials on the other, it was all poured into the indignant but perhaps not surprised ear of the new master of Trevlyn. The unkindness and oppression dealt out to Rupert throughout his unhappy life, the burning of the rick, the strange disappearance of Rupert. He gave no token that he had heard it all before. Mrs. Ryle spared nothing. She told him of the suspicion so freely dealt out by the neighbourhood that Chattaway had made away with Rupert. Even then the Squire returned no sign that he knew of the suspicion as well as they did.

  “Maude,” he said, “where is Rupert? Diana, you answer me — where is Rupert?”

  They were unable to answer. They could only say that he was absent, they knew not how or where.

  It may be that Squire Trevlyn feared the suspicion might be too true a one; for he turned suddenly on James Chattaway, his eye flashing with a severe light.

  “Tell me where the boy is.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Chattaway.

  “He may be dead!”

  “He may — for all I can say to the contrary.”

  Squire Trevlyn paused. “Rupert Trevlyn is my heir,” he slowly said, “and I will have him found. James Chattaway, I insist on your producing Rupert.”

  “Nobody can insist upon the impossible.”

  “Then listen. You don’t know much of me, but you knew my father; and you may remember that when he willed a thing, he did it: that same spirit is mine. Now I register a vow that if you do not produce Rupert Trevlyn, or tell me where I may find him, dead or alive, I will publicly charge you with the murder.”

  “I have as much reason to charge you with it, as you have to charge me,” returned Mr. Chattaway, his anger rising. “You have heard them tell you of my encounter with Rupert on the evening following the examination before the magistrates. I declare on my sacred word of honour — —”

  “Your word of honour!” scornfully apostrophised Mrs. Ryle.

  “That I have never seen Rupert Trevlyn since the moment I left him on the ground,” he continued, turning his dark looks on Mrs. Ryle, but never pausing. “I have sought in vain for him since; the police have sought; and he is not to be found.”

  “Very well,” said the Squire. “I have given you the alternative.”

  Mr. Chattaway opened his lips to reply; but to the surprise of all who knew him, suddenly closed them again, and left the room. To describe the trouble the man was in would be impossible. Apart from the general perplexity brought by this awful arrival of a master for Trevlyn Hold, there was the lesser doubt as to what should be his own conduct. Should it be abject submission, or war to the knife? Mr. Chattaway’s temper would have inclined him to the latter; but he feared it might be bad policy for his own interest; and self-interest had always been paramount with James Chattaway. He stood outside the house, where he had wandered, and cast his eyes on the fine old place, the fair domain stretching around. Facing him was the ric
k-yard, which had given rise to so much discomfort, trouble, and ill-feeling. Oh, if he could only dispute successfully, and retain possession! But a conviction lay on his heart that even to attempt such would be the height of folly. That he, thus returned, was really the true Rupert Trevlyn, who had decamped in his youth, now a middle-aged man, was apparent as the sun at noon-day. It was apparent to him; it would be apparent to the world. The returned wanderer had remarked that his identity would be established by proof not to be disputed; but Mr. Chattaway felt no proof was necessary. Of what use then to hold out? And yet! to quit this fine possession, to sink into poverty and obscurity in the face and eyes of the local world — that world which had been ready enough, as it was, to cast contempt on the master of Trevlyn Hold — would be as the bitterest fate that ever fell upon man. In that cruel moment, when all was pressing upon his imagination with fearfully vivid colours, it seemed that death would be as a boon in comparison.

  Whilst he was thus standing, torn with contending emotions, Cris ran up in excitement from the direction of the stables. He had left his horse there on his return from Blackstone, and some vague and confused version of the affair had been told him. “What’s this, father?” he asked, in loud anger. “They are saying that Rupert Trevlyn has come boldly back, and claims the Hold. Have you given him into custody?”

  Mr. Chattaway raised his dull eyes. The question only added to his misery. “Yes, Rupert Trevlyn has come back,” he said; “but — —”

  “Is he in custody?” impatiently interrupted Cris. “Are the police here?”

  “It is another Rupert Trevlyn, Cris; not that one.”

  Something in his father’s manner struck unpleasantly on the senses of Cris Chattaway, subduing him considerably. “Another Rupert Trevlyn!” he repeated, in hesitating tones. “What are you saying?”

  “The Rupert Trevlyn of old; the Squire’s runaway son; the heir,” said Mr. Chattaway, as if it comforted him to tell out all the bitter truth. “He has come back to claim his own, Cris — Trevlyn Hold.”

  And Mr. Cris fell against the wall, side by side with his father, and stared in dismayed consternation.

  CHAPTER LVII

  A VISIT TO RUPERT

  And what were the emotions of Mrs. Chattaway? They were of a mixed nature. In spite of the very small comfort which possession of the Hold had brought her individually; in spite of the feeling of usurpation, of wrong, which had ever rested unpleasantly upon her; she would have been superior to frail human nature, had not a sense of dismay struck upon her at its being thus suddenly wrested from them. She knew not what her husband’s means might be: whether he had anything or nothing, by saving or otherwise, that he could call his own, apart from the revenues of the Hold: but she did know sufficient to be sure that it could not be a tithe of what was needed to keep them; and where were they to go with their helpless daughters? That these unpleasant considerations floated through her mind in a vague, confused vision was true; but far above them came a rush of thought, of care, closer to the present hour. Her brother had said — and there was determination not to be mistaken in his tones — that unless Mr. Chattaway produced Rupert Trevlyn, he would publicly charge him with the murder. Nothing but the strongest self-control had restrained Mrs. Chattaway from avowing all when she heard this. Mr. Chattaway was a man not held in the world’s favour, but he was her husband; and in her eyes his faults and failings had ever appeared in a venial light. She would have given much to stand out and say, “You are accusing my husband wrongfully; Rupert is alive, and I am concealing him.”

  But she did not dare do this. That very husband would have replied, “Then I order Rupert into custody — how dared you conceal him?” She took an opportunity of asking George Ryle the meaning of the warning despatched by Nora. George could not explain it. He had met Bowen accidentally, and the officer had told him in confidence that they had received a mysterious hint that Rupert Trevlyn was not far off — hence George’s intimation. It was to turn out that the other Rupert Trevlyn had been spoken of: but neither Bowen nor George knew this.

  George Ryle rapidly drew his own conclusion from this return of Squire Trevlyn: it would be the preservation of Rupert; was the very best thing that could have happened for him. It may be said, the only thing. The tether had been lengthened out to its extreme limits, and to keep him much longer where he was, would be impossible; or, if they so kept him, it would mean death. George Ryle saw that a protector for Rupert had arisen in Squire Trevlyn.

  “He must be told the truth,” he whispered to Mrs. Chattaway.

  “Yes, perhaps it may be better,” she answered; “but I dare not tell him. Will you undertake it?”

  He nodded, and began to wonder what excuse he could invent for seeking a private conference with the newly-returned Squire. But while he plotted and planned, Maude rendered it unnecessary.

  By a sense of the fitness of things, the state-rooms at the Hold, generally kept for visitors, were assigned by Miss Diana to her brother. He was shown to them, and was in the act of gazing from the window at the well-remembered features of the old domain when there stole in upon him one, white and tearless, but with a terrified imploring despair in her countenance.

  “Maude, my child, what is it? I like your face, my dear, and must have you henceforth for my very own child!”

  “Not me, Uncle Rupert, never mind me,” she said, the kindly tones telling upon her breaking heart and bringing forth a gush of tears. “If you will only love Rupert! — only get Mr. Chattaway to forgive him!”

  “But he may be dead, child.”

  “Uncle Rupert, if he were not dead — if you found him now, to-day,” she reiterated— “would you deliver him up to justice? Oh, don’t blame him; don’t visit it upon him! It was the Trevlyn temper, and Mr. Chattaway should not have provoked it by horsewhipping him.”

  “I blame him! I deliver a Trevlyn up to justice!” echoed Squire Trevlyn, with a threatening touch of the Trevlyn temper at that very moment. “What are you saying, child? If Rupert is in life he shall have his wrongs righted from henceforth. The cost of a burnt rick? The ricks were mine, not Chattaway’s. Rupert Trevlyn is my heir, and he shall so be recognised and received.”

  She sank down before him crying softly with the relief his words brought her. Squire Trevlyn placed his hand on her pretty hair, caressingly. “Don’t grieve so, child; he may not be dead. I’ll find him if he is to be found. The police shall know they have a Squire Trevlyn amongst them again.”

  “Uncle Rupert, he is very near; lying in concealment — ill — almost dying. We have not dared to betray it, and the secret is nearly killing us.”

  He listened in amazement, and questioned her until he gathered the outlines of the case. “Who has known of this, do you say?”

  “My aunt Edith, and I, and the doctor; and — and — George Ryle.”

  The consciousness with which the last name was brought out, the sudden blush, whispered a tale to keen Squire Trevlyn.

  “Halloa, Miss Maude! I read a secret. That will not do, you know. I cannot spare you from the Hold for all the George Ryles in the world. You must be its mistress.”

  “My aunt Diana will be that,” murmured Maude.

  “That she never shall be whilst I am master,” was the emphatic rejoinder. “If Diana could look quietly on and see her father deceived, help to deceive him; see Chattaway usurp the Hold to the exclusion of Joe’s son, and join in the wickedness, she has forfeited all claim to it: she shall neither reign nor reside in it. No, my little Maude, you must live with me, as mistress of Trevlyn Hold.”

  Maude’s tears were flowing in silence. She kept her head down.

  “What is George Ryle to you?” somewhat sternly asked Squire Trevlyn. “Do you love him?”

  “I had no one else to love: they were not kind to me — except my aunt Edith,” she murmured.

  He sat lost in thought. “Is he a good man, Maude? Upright, honourable, just?”

  “That, and more,” she whispered.


  “And I suppose you love him? Would it quite break your heart were I to issue my edict that you should never have him; to say you must turn him over to Octave Chattaway?”

  It was only a jest. Maude took it differently, and lifted her glowing face. “But he does not like Octave! It is Octave who likes — —”

  She had spoken impulsively, and now that recollection came to her she hesitated. Squire Trevlyn, undignified as it was, broke into a subdued whistle.

  “I see, young lady. And so, Mr. George has had the good taste to like some one better than Octave. Well, perhaps I should do so, in his place.”

  “But about Rupert?” she pleaded.

  “Ah, about Rupert. I must go to him at once. Mark Canham stared as I came through the gate just now, as one scared out of his wits. He must have been puzzled by the likeness.”

  Squire Trevlyn went down to the hall, and was putting on his hat when they came flocking around, asking whether he was going out, offering to accompany him, Diana requesting him to wait whilst she put on her bonnet. But he waved them off: he preferred to stroll out alone, he said; he might look in and have a talk with some of his father’s old dependants — if any were left.

  George Ryle was standing outside, deliberating as to how he should convey the communication, little thinking it had already been done. Squire Trevlyn came up, and passed an arm within his.

  “I am going to the lodge,” he remarked. “You may know whom I want to see there.”

  “You have heard, then!” exclaimed George.

  “Yes. From Maude. By-the-by, Mr. George, what secret understanding is there between you and that young lady?”

  George looked surprised; but he was not one to lose his equanimity. “It is no longer a secret, sir. I have confided it to Miss Diana. If Mr. Chattaway will grant me the lease of a certain farm, I shall speak to him.”