Trevlyn Hold Part 100

A change came over Squire Trevlyn's face. "I shall never marry," he said, with emphasis; and to Mrs. Ryle's ears there was a strange solemnity in his tones. "You need not ask me why, for I shall not enter into reasons; let the a.s.surance suffice--_I shall never marry_. Trevlyn Hold will be as securely theirs as though I bequeathed it to them by deed of gift."

"Rupert, this is a blow for my son."

"If you persist in considering it so, I cannot help that. It must have been very foolish of you ever to cast a thought to your son's succeeding, whilst Joe's children were living."

"Foolish! when one of my sons--my step-son, at any rate--is to succeed, as it seems!"

The Squire laughed. "You must talk to Maude about that. They had settled their plans together before I came home. If Treve turns out all he should be, I may remember him before I die. Trevlyn Farm was originally the birthright of the Ryles; I may possibly make it so again in the person of Treve. Don't let us go on with the discussion; it will only be lost labour. Will you see Rupert?"

She had the sense to see that if it were prolonged until night, it would indeed be useless, and she rose to follow him into the next room.

Rupert, not looking very ill to-day, sat near the fire. Maude was reading to him.

"Is it you, Aunt Ryle!" he called out feebly. "You never come to see me."

"I am sorry to hear you are so poorly, Rupert."

"I am not half as ill as I feared I should be," he said. "I thought by this time it--it would have been all over. But I seem better. Where's George?"

"George is at home. I have been talking to your uncle about him. Until to-day I did not know what was in contemplation."

"He'll make a better Squire than I should have made," cried Rupert, lifting his eyes--bluer and brighter than ever, from disease--to her face. Maude made her escape from the room, and Squire Trevlyn had not entered it, so they were alone. "But, Aunt Ryle, I want it to be soon; before I die. I should like George to be here to see the last of me."

"I think I might have been informed of this before," observed Mrs. Ryle.

"It has not been told to any one. Uncle Rupert and I, George and Maude have kept the secret between us. Only think, Aunt Ryle! that after all the hopes, contentions, heart-burnings, George Ryle should succeed to Trevlyn Hold."

She could not bear this repeated harping on the one string. George's conduct to his step-mother had been exemplary, and she was not insensible to the fact; but she was one of those second wives who feel an instinctive dislike to their step-children. Very bitter, for Treve's sake, was her heart-jealousy now.

"I will come in and see you another day, Rupert," she said, rising abruptly. "This morning I am too vexed to remain longer."

"What has vexed you, Aunt Ryle?"

"I hoped that Treve--failing you--would have been the heir."

Rupert opened his eyes in wonder. "Treve?--whilst Maude lives! Not he. I can tell you what I think, Aunt Ryle; that had there been no Maude, Treve would never have come in for the Hold. I don't fancy Uncle Rupert would have left it to him."

"To whom would he have left it, do you fancy?"

"Well--I suppose," slowly turning the matter over in his mind--"I suppose, in that case, it would have been Aunt Diana. But there is Maude, Aunt Ryle, and we need not discuss it. George and Maude will have it, and their children after them."

"Poor boy!" she said, with a touch of compa.s.sion; "it is a sad fate for you! Not to live to inherit!"

A gentle smile rose to his face, and he pointed upwards. "There's a better heirship for me, Aunt Ryle."

It was upon returning from this memorable interview with Squire Trevlyn, that Mrs. Ryle met Octave Chattaway and stopped to speak.

"Are you getting settled, Octave?"

"Tolerably so. Mamma says she shall not be straight in six months to come. Have you been to the Hold?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Ryle, turning her determined gaze on Octave. "Have you heard the news? That the Squire has chosen his heir?"

"No," breathlessly rejoined Octave. "We have heard that Rupert is beyond hope; but nothing else. It will be Maude, I conclude."

"It is to be George Ryle."

"George Ryle!" repeated Octave, in amazement.

"Yes. I believe it will be left to him, not to Maude. But it will be all the same. He is to marry her, and to take the name of Trevlyn. George never told me this. He just said to-day that he was going to live at the Hold; but he never said it was as Maude's husband and the Squire's heir.

How prospects have changed!"

Changed! Ay, Octave felt it to her inmost soul, as she leaned against the gate, and gazed in thought after Mrs. Ryle. Gazed without seeing or hearing, deep in her heart's tribulation, her hand pressed upon her bosom, her pale face quivering as it was turned to the winter sky.

CHAPTER LXI

A BETTER HEIRSHIP

Bending in tenderness over the couch of Rupert Trevlyn was Mrs.

Chattaway. Madam Chattaway no longer; she had quitted that distinctive t.i.tle on quitting Trevlyn Hold. It was a warm day early in May, and Rupert had lingered on; the progress of the disease being so gradual, so imperceptible, that even the medical men were deceived; and now that the end had come, they were still saying that he might last until the autumn.

Rupert had been singularly favoured: some, stricken by this dire malady, are so. Scarcely any of its painful features were apparent; and Mr. Daw wrote word that they had not been in his father. There was scarcely any cough or pain, and though the weakness was certainly great, Rupert had not for one single day taken to his bed. Until within two days of this very time, when you see Mrs. Chattaway leaning over him, he had gone out in the carriage whenever the weather permitted. He could not sit up much, but chiefly lay on the sofa as he was lying now, facing the window, open to the warm noon-day sun. The room was the one you have frequently seen before, once the sitting-room of Mrs. Chattaway. When the Chattaways left the Hold, Rupert had changed to their rooms; and would sit there and watch the visitors who came up the avenue.

Mrs. Chattaway had been staying at the Hold since the previous Tuesday, for Maude was away from it. Maude left it with George Ryle on that day, but they were coming home this Sat.u.r.day evening, for both were anxious not to be long away from Rupert. Rupert sadly wanted to attend the wedding, and the Squire and Mr. Freeman strove to invent all sorts of schemes for warming the church; but it persisted in remaining cold and damp, and Rupert was not allowed to venture. He sat with them, however, at the breakfast afterwards, and but for his attenuated form and the hectic excitement brought to his otherwise white and hollow cheeks, might have pa.s.sed very well for a guest. George, with his marriage, had taken the name of Trevlyn, for the Squire insisted upon it, and he would come home to the Hold to-day as his permanent abode. Miss Diana received mortal offence at the wedding-breakfast, and sat cold and impenetrable, for the Squire requested his elder sister to preside in right of birth, and Miss Diana had long considered herself far more important than Mrs.

Ryle, and had expected to be chief on that occasion herself.

"Shall we invite Edith or Diana to stay with you whilst Maude's away?"

the Squire had inquired of Rupert. And a flush of pleasure came into the wan face as he answered, "My aunt Edith. I should like to be again with Aunt Edith."

So Mrs. Chattaway had remained with him, and pa.s.sed the time as she was doing now--hovering round his couch, giving him all her care, caressing him in her loving, gentle manner, whispering of the happy life on which he was about to enter.

She had some eau-de-cologne in her hand, and was pouring it on a handkerchief to pa.s.s it lightly over his brow and temples. In doing this a drop went into his eye.

"Oh, Rupert, I am so sorry! How awkward I am!"

It smarted very much, but Rupert smiled bravely. "Just a few minutes'

pain, Aunt Edith. That's all. Do you know what I have got to think lately?"

She put the cork into the long green bottle, and sat down close to his sofa. "What, dear?"

"That we must be blind, foolish mortals to fret so much under misfortunes. A little patience, and they pa.s.s away."

"It would be better for us all if we had more patience, more trust," she answered. "If we could leave things more entirely to G.o.d."

Rupert lay with his eyes cast upwards, blue as the sky he looked at. "I would have tried to put that great trust in G.o.d, had I lived," he said, after a pause. "Do you know, Aunt Edith, at times I do wish I could have lived."