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                             TREVLYN HOLD

                               A Novel

                          BY MRS. HENRY WOOD

     AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC.


    _ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH THOUSAND_

    London
    MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
    NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

    1904

    _All rights reserved_




TREVLYN HOLD




CHAPTER I

THOMAS RYLE


The fine summer had faded into autumn, and the autumn would soon be
fading into winter. All signs of harvest had disappeared. The farmers
had gathered the golden grain into their barns; the meads looked bare,
and the partridges hid themselves in the stubble left by the reapers.

Perched on the top of a stile which separated one field from another,
was a boy of some fifteen years. Several books, a strap passed round to
keep them together, were flung over his shoulder, and he sat throwing
stones into a pond close by, softly whistling as he did so. The stones
came out of his pocket. Whether stored there for the purpose to which
they were now being put, was best known to himself. He was a slender,
well-made boy, with finely-shaped features, a clear complexion, and eyes
dark and earnest. A refined face; a good face--and you have not to learn
that the face is the index of the mind. An index that never fails for
those gifted with the power to read the human countenance.

Before him at a short distance, as he sat on the stile, lay the village
of Barbrook. A couple of miles beyond the village was the large town of
Barmester. But you could reach the town without taking the village _en
route_. As to the village itself, there were several ways of reaching
it. There was the path through the fields, right in front of the stile
where that schoolboy was sitting; there was the green and shady lane
(knee-deep in mud sometimes); and there were two high-roads. From the
signs of vegetation around--not that the vegetation was of the richest
kind--you would never suspect that the barren and bleak coal-fields lay
so near. Only four or five miles away in the opposite direction--that
is, behind the boy and the stile--the coal-pits flourished. Farmhouses
were scattered within view, had the boy on the stile chosen to look at
them; a few gentlemen's houses, and many cottages and hovels. To the
left, glancing over the field and across the upper road--the road which
did not lead to Barbrook, but to Barmester--on a slight eminence, rose
the fine old-fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. Rather to the right,
behind him, was the less pretentious but comfortable dwelling called
Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the property and residence of
Squire Trevlyn, had passed, with that gentleman's death, into the hands
of Mr. Chattaway, who now lived in it; his wife having been the Squire's
second daughter. Trevlyn Farm was tenanted by Mr. Ryle; and the boy
sitting on the stile was Mr. Ryle's eldest son.

There came, scuffling along the field-path from the village, as fast as
her dilapidated shoes permitted her, a wan-looking, undersized girl. She
had almost reached the pond, when a boy considerably taller and stronger
than the boy on the stile came flying down the field on the left, and
planted himself in her way.

"Now then, little toad! Do you want another buffeting?"

"Oh, please, sir, don't stop me!" she cried, beginning to sob loudly.
"Father's dying, and mother said I was to run and tell them at the farm.
Please let me go by."

"Did I not order you yesterday to keep out of these fields?" asked the
tall boy. "The lane and roads are open to you; how dare you come this
way? I promised you I'd shake the inside out of you if I caught you here
again, and now I'll do it."

"I say," called out at this juncture the lad on the stile, "keep your
hands off her."

The child's assailant turned sharply at the sound. He had not seen that
any one was there. For one moment he relaxed his hold, but the next
appeared to change his mind, and began to shake the girl. She turned her
face, in its tears and dirt, towards the stile.

"Oh, Master George, make him let me go! I'm hasting to your house,
Master George. Father's lying all white upon the bed; and mother said I
was to come off and tell of it."

George leaped off the stile, and advanced. "Let her go, Cris Chattaway!"

Cris Chattaway turned his anger upon George. "Mind your own business,
you beggar! It is no concern of yours."

"It is, if I choose to make it mine. Let her go, I say. Don't be a
coward."

"What's that you call me?" asked Cris Chattaway. "A coward? Take that!"

He had picked up a clod of earth, and dashed it in George Ryle's face.
The boy was not one to stand a gratuitous blow, and Mr. Christopher,
before he knew what was coming, found himself on the ground. The girl,
released, flew to the stile and scrambled over it. George stood his
ground, waiting for Cris to get up; he was less tall and strong, but he
would not run away.

Christopher Chattaway slowly gathered himself up. He _was_ a coward; and
fighting, when it came to close quarters, was not to his liking.
Stone-throwing, water-squirting, pea-shooting--any annoyance that might
safely be carried on at a distance--he was an adept in; but hand-to-hand
fighting--Cris did not relish that.

"See if you don't suffer for this, George Ryle!"

George laughed good-humouredly, and sat down on the stile as before.
Cris was dusting the earth off his clothes.

"You have called me a coward, and you have knocked me down. I'll enter
it in my memorandum-book, George Ryle."

"Do," equably returned George. "I never knew any _but_ cowards set upon
girls."

"I'll set upon her again, if I catch her using this path. There's not a
more impudent little wretch in the whole parish. Let her try it, that's
all."

"She has a right to use this path as much as I have."

"Not if I choose to say she sha'n't use it. _You_ won't have the right
long."

"Oh, indeed!" said George. "What is to take it from me?"

"The Squire says he shall cause this way through the fields to be
closed."

"_Who_ says it?" asked George, with marked emphasis--and the sound
grated on Cris Chattaway's ear.

"The Squire says so," he roared. "Are you deaf?"

"Ah," said George. "But Mr. Chattaway can't close it. My father says he
has not the power to do so."

"_Your_ father!" contemptuously rejoined Cris Chattaway. "He would like
his leave asked, perhaps. When the Squire says he shall do a thing, he
means it."

"At any rate, it is not done yet," was the significant answer. "Don't
boast, Cris."

Cris had been making off, and was some distance up the field. He turned
to address George.

"You know, you beggar, that if I don't go in and polish you off it's
because I can't condescend to tarnish my hands. When I fight, I like to
fight with gentlefolk." And with that he turned tail, and decamped
quicker than before.

"Just so," shrieked George. "Especially if they wear petticoats."

A sly shower of earth came back in answer. But it happened, every bit of
it, to steer clear of him, and George kept his seat and his equanimity.

"What has he been doing now, George?"

George turned his head; the question came from one behind him. There
stood a lovely boy of some twelve years old, his beautiful features set
off by dark blue eyes and bright auburn curls.

"Where did you spring from, Rupert?"

"I came down by the hedge. You were calling after Cris and did not hear
me. Has he been threshing you, George?"

"Threshing me!" returned George, throwing back his handsome head with a
laugh. "I don't think he would try that on, Rupert. He could not thresh
me with impunity, as he does you."

Rupert Trevlyn laid his cheek on the stile, and fixed his eyes on the
clear blue evening sky--for the sun was drawing towards its setting. He
was a sensitive, romantic, strange sort of boy; gentle and loving by
nature, but given to violent fits of passion. People said he inherited
the latter from his grandfather, Squire Trevlyn. Other of the Squire's
descendants had inherited the same. Under happier auspices, Rupert might
have learnt to subdue these bursts of passion. Had he possessed a kind
home and loving friends, how different might have been his destiny!

"George, I wish papa had lived!"

"The whole parish has need to wish that," returned George. "I wish you
stood in his shoes! That's what I wish."

"Instead of Uncle Chattaway. Old Canham says I ought to stand in them.
He says he thinks I shall, some time, because justice is sure to come
uppermost in the end."

"Look here, Rupert!" gravely returned George Ryle. "Don't go listening
to old Canham. He talks nonsense, and it will do neither of you any
good. If Chattaway heard a tithe of what he sometimes says, he'd turn
him from the lodge, neck and crop, in spite of Miss Diana. What _is_,
can't be helped, you know, Rupert."

"But Cris has no right to inherit Trevlyn over me."

"He has legal right, I suppose," answered George; "at least, he will
have it. Make the best of it, Ru. There are lots of things I have to
make the best of. I had a caning yesterday for another boy, and I had to
make the best of that."

Rupert still looked up at the sky. "If it were not for Aunt Edith,"
quoth he, "I'd run away."

"You little stupid! Where would you run to?"

"Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no dinner to-day."

"Why not?"

"Because Cris carried a tale to him. But it was false, George."

"Did you tell Chattaway it was false?"

"Yes. But where's the use? He always believes Cris before me."

"Have you had no dinner?"

Rupert shook his head. "I took some bread off the tray as they were
carrying it through the hall. That's all I have had."

"Then I'd advise you to make double haste home to your tea," said
George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going to do to mine."

George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. Looking
round when he was well on his way, he saw Rupert still leaning on the
stile with his face turned upward.

Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion had scuffled along to Trevlyn
Farm--a very moderately-sized house with a rustic porch covered with
jessamine, and a large garden, more useful than ornamental, intervening
between it and the high-road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was
straight and narrow; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose trees
and hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, and
other plain fruit-trees grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A
productive if not an elegant garden. At the side of the house the
fold-yard palings and a five-barred gate separated it from the public
road, and behind the house were the barns and other outdoor buildings
belonging to the farm.

From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half sitting-room,
half kitchen, called "Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it; George and
his brother did their lessons there; the actual kitchen being at the
back of it. A parlour opening from this room on the right, whose window
looked into the fold-yard, was the general sitting-room. The best
sitting-room, a really handsome apartment, was on the other side of the
house. As the girl scuffled up to the porch, an active, black-eyed,
talkative little woman, of five or six-and-thirty saw her approaching
from the window of the best kitchen. That was Nora. What with her ragged
frock and tippet, broken straw bonnet, and slipshod shoes, the child
looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle.
He had been at home ill the last day or two; or, as the phrase ran in
the farm, was "off his work."

"If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. "How _can_ her
mother keep her in that state? Just look at Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle!"

Sorting large bunches of sweet herbs on a table at the back of the room
was a tall, upright woman. Her dress was plain, but her manner and
bearing betrayed the lady. Those familiar with the district would have
recognised in her handsome but somewhat masculine face a likeness to the
well-formed, powerful features of the late Squire Trevlyn. She was that
gentleman's eldest daughter, and had given mortal umbrage to her family
when she quitted Trevlyn Hold to become the second wife of Mr. Ryle.
George Ryle was not her son. She had only two children; Trevlyn, a boy
two years younger than George; and a little girl of eight, named
Caroline.

Mrs. Ryle turned, and glanced at the path and Letty Sanders. "She is
indeed an object! See what she wants, Nora."

Nora, who had no patience with idleness and its signs, flung open the
door. The girl halted a few paces from the porch, and dropped a curtsey.

"Please, father be dreadful bad," began she. "He be lying on the bed and
don't stir, and his face is white; and, please, mother said I was to
come and tell the missus, and ask her for a little brandy."

"And how dare your mother send you up to the house in this trim?"
demanded Nora. "How many crows did you frighten as you came along?"

"Please," whimpered the child, "she haven't had time to tidy me to-day,
father's been so bad, and t'other frock was tored in the washin'."

"Of course," assented Nora. "Everything is 'tored' that she has to do
with, and never gets mended. If ever there was a poor, moithering,
thriftless thing, it's that mother of yours. She has no needles and no
thread, I suppose, and neither soap nor water?"

Mrs. Ryle came forward to interrupt the colloquy. "What is the matter
with your father, Letty? Is he worse?"

Letty dropped several curtseys in succession. "Please,'m, his inside's
bad again, but mother's afeared he's dying. He fell back upon the bed,
and don't stir nor breathe. She says, will you please send him some
brandy?"

"Have you brought anything to put it into?" inquired Mrs. Ryle.

"No,'m."

"Not likely," chimed in Nora. "Madge Sanders wouldn't think to send so
much as a cracked teacup. Shall I put a drop in a bottle, and give it to
her?" continued Nora, turning to Mrs. Ryle.

"No," replied Mrs. Ryle. "I must know what's the matter with him before
I send brandy. Go back to your mother, Letty. Tell her I shall be going
past her cottage presently, and will call in."

The child turned and scuffled off. Mrs. Ryle resumed:

"Should it be another attack of internal inflammation, brandy would be
the worst thing he could take. He drinks too much, does Jim Sanders."

"His inside's like a barrel--always waiting to be filled," remarked
Nora. "He'd drink the sea dry, if it ran beer. What with his drinking,
and her untidiness, small wonder the children are in rags. I am
surprised the master keeps him on!"

"He only drinks by fits and starts, Nora. His health will not let him do
more."

"No, it won't," acquiesced Nora. "And I fear this bout may be the ending
of him. That hole was not dug for nothing."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Ryle. "How can you be so foolishly superstitious,
Nora? Find Treve, will you, and get him ready."

"Treve," a young gentleman given to having his own way, and to be kept
very much from school on account of "delicate health," a malady less
real than imaginary, was found somewhere about the farm, and put into
visiting condition. He and his mother were invited to take tea at
Barbrook. In point of fact, the invitation had been for Mrs. Ryle only;
but she could not bear to stir anywhere without her darling boy Trevlyn.

They had barely departed when George entered. Nora had then laid the
tea-table, and was standing cutting bread-and-butter.

"Where are they all?" asked George, depositing his books upon a
sideboard.

"Your mother and Treve are off to tea at Mrs. Apperley's," replied Nora.
"And the master rode over to Barmester this afternoon, and is not back
yet. Sit down, George. Would you like some pumpkin pie?"

"Try me," responded George. "Is there any?"

"I saved it from dinner,"--bringing forth a plate from a closet. "It is
not much. Treve's stomach craves for pies as much as Jim Sanders's for
beer; and Mrs. Ryle would give him all he wanted, if it cleared the
larder----Is some one calling?" she broke off, going to the window.
"George, it's Mr. Chattaway! See what he wants."

A gentleman on horseback had reined in close to the gate: a spare man,
rather above the middle height, with a pale, leaden sort of complexion,
small, cold light eyes and mean-looking features. George ran down the
path.

"Is your father at home?"

"No. He is gone to Barmester."

A scowl passed over Mr. Chattaway's brow. "That's the third time I have
been here this week, and cannot get to see him. Tell your father that I
have had another letter from Butt, and will trouble him to attend to it.
And further tell your father I will not be pestered with this business
any longer. If he does not pay the money right off, I'll make him pay
it."

Something not unlike an ice-bolt shot through George Ryle's heart. He
knew there was trouble between his house and Mr. Chattaway; that his
father was, in pecuniary matters, at Mr. Chattaway's mercy. Was this
message the result of his recent encounter with Cris Chattaway? A hot
flush dyed his face, and he wished--for his father's sake--that he had
let Mr. Cris alone. For his father's sake he was now ready to eat
humble-pie, though there never lived a boy less inclined to humble-pie
in a general way than George Ryle. He went close up to the horse and
raised his honest eyes fearlessly.

"Has Christopher been complaining to you, Mr. Chattaway?"

"No. What has he to complain of?"

"Not much," answered George, his fears subsiding. "Only I know he does
carry tales."

"Were there no tales to carry he could not carry them," coldly remarked
Mr. Chattaway. "I have not seen Christopher since dinner-time. It seems
to me that you are always suspecting him of something. Take care you
deliver my message correctly, sir."

Mr. Chattaway rode away, and George returned to his pumpkin pie. He had
scarcely finished it--with remarkable relish, for the cold dinner he
took with him to school daily was little more than a luncheon--when Mr.
Ryle entered by the back-door, having been round to the stables with his
horse. He was a tall, fine man, with light