Trevlyn Hold Part 3

Indeed, humility was her chief characteristic. "I'll come round in the morning, and know about the wash, if you please, ma'am," she said to Nora. "Father will be wanting his supper, and will wonder where I'm staying."

She departed. Nora gave George a lecture upon unbelief and irreverence in general, but George was too busy with his books to take much notice of it.

The evening went on. Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn returned, the latter a diminutive boy, with dark curls and a handsome face.

"Jim Sanders is much better," remarked Mrs. Ryle. "He is all right again now, and will be at work in a day or two. It must have been a sort of fainting-fit he had this afternoon, and his wife got frightened. I told him to rest to-morrow, and come up the next day if he felt strong enough."

George turned to Nora, his eyes dancing. "What of the hole now?" he asked.

"Wait and see," snapped Nora. "And if you are impertinent, I'll never save you pie or pudding again."

Mrs. Ryle went into the sitting-room, but came back speedily when she found it dark and untenanted. "Where's the master?" she exclaimed.

"Surely he has returned from Barmester!"

"Papa came home ages ago," said George. "He has gone up to the Hold."

"The Hold?" repeated Mrs. Ryle in surprise, for there was something like deadly feud between Trevlyn Hold and Trevlyn Farm.

George explained; telling of Mr. Chattaway's message, and the subsequent proceedings. Nora added that "as sure as fate, he was having it out with Chattaway." Nothing else would keep him at Trevlyn Hold.

But Mrs. Ryle knew that her easy-natured husband was not one to "have it out" with any one, even his enemy Chattaway. He might say a few words, but it was all he would say, and the interview would end almost as soon as begun. She took off her things, and Molly carried the supper-tray into the parlour.

But still there was no Mr. Ryle. Ten o'clock struck, and Mrs. Ryle grew, not exactly uneasy, but curious as to what could have become of him.

What _could_ be detaining him at the Hold?

"It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he has been taken too bad to come back," said Nora. "He unwound his scarlet cravat from his throat, and went away swinging it in his hand. John Pinder's waiting all this time in the kitchen."

"Have you finished your lessons, George?" asked Mrs. Ryle, perceiving that he was putting his books away.

"Every one," answered George.

"Then you shall go up to the Hold, and walk home with your father. I cannot think what is delaying his return."

"Perhaps he has gone somewhere else," said George.

"He would neither go anywhere else nor remain at Chattaway's," said Mrs.

Ryle. "This is Tuesday evening."

A conclusive argument. Tuesday evening was invariably devoted by Mr.

Ryle to his farm accounts, and he never suffered anything to interfere with that evening's work. George put on his cap and started on his errand.

It was a starlight night, cold and clear, and George went along whistling. A quarter of an hour's walk up the turnpike road brought him to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently the whole way, for the land was higher at Trevlyn Hold than at Trevlyn Farm. A white gate, by the side of a lodge, opened to the shrubbery or avenue--a dark walk wide enough for two carriages to pa.s.s, with the elm trees nearly meeting overhead.

The shrubbery wound up to a lawn stretched before the windows of the house: a large, old-fas.h.i.+oned stone-built house, with gabled roofs, and a flight of steps leading to the entrance-hall. George ascended the steps and rang the bell.

"Is my father ready to come home?" he asked, not very ceremoniously, of the servant who answered it.

The man paused, as though he scarcely understood. "Mr. Ryle is not here, sir," was the answer.

"How long has he been gone?"

"He has not been here at all, sir, that I know of. I don't think he has."

"Just ask, will you?" said George. "He came here to see Mr. Chattaway.

It was about five o'clock."

The man went away and returned. "Mr. Ryle has not been here at all, sir.

I thought he had not."

George wondered. Could he be out somewhere with Chattaway? "Is Mr.

Chattaway at home?" he inquired.

"Master is in bed," said the servant. "He came home to-day about five, or thereabouts, not feeling well, and he went to bed as soon as tea was over."

George turned away. Where could his father have gone to? Where to look for him? As he pa.s.sed the lodge, Ann Canham was locking the gate, of which she and her father were the keepers. It was a whim of Mr.

Chattaway's that the larger gate should be locked at night; but not until after ten. Foot-pa.s.sengers could enter by the side-gate.

"Have you seen my father anywhere, since you left our house this evening?" he asked.

"No, I have not, Master George."

"I can't imagine where he can be. I thought he was at Chattaway's, but they say he has not been there."

"At Chattaway's! He wouldn't go there, would he, Master George?"

"He started to do so this afternoon. It's very odd! Good night, Ann."

"Master George," she interrupted, "do you happen to have heard how it's going with Jim Sanders?"

"He is much better," said George.

"Better!" slowly repeated Ann Canham. "Well, I hope he is," she added, in doubting tones. "But, Master George, I didn't like what Nora told us.

I can't bear tokens from dumb animals, and I never knew them fail."

"Jim Sanders is all right, I tell you," said heathen George. "Mamma has been there, and he is coming to his work the day after to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night, sir," answered Ann Canham, as she retreated within the lodge. And George went through the gate, and stood in hesitation, looking up and down the road. But it was apparently of no use to search elsewhere in the uncertainty; and he turned towards home, wondering much.

What had become of Mr. Ryle?

CHAPTER III

IN THE UPPER MEADOW

The stars shone bright and clear as George Ryle walked down the slight descent of the turnpike-road, wondering what had become of his father.

Any other night but this, he might not have wondered about it; but George could not remember the time when Tuesday evening had been devoted to anything but the farm accounts. John Pinder, who acted as a sort of bailiff, had been in the kitchen some hours with his weekly memoranda, to go through them as usual with his master; and George knew his father would not willingly keep the man waiting.