Trevlyn Hold. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ did not choose to obey. "Open the door, Maude," said he.

      Maude did as she was bid: she had little chance allowed her in that house of doing otherwise. Opening the door, she saw the boy standing there. "What is it, Bill?" she asked in surprise.

      "Please, is the Squire there, Miss Maude?"

      "No," answered Maude. "He is not well, and has gone to bed."

      This appeared to be a poser for Bill, and he stood considering. "Is Madam in there?" he presently asked.

      "Who is it, Maude?" came again in Miss Trevlyn's commanding tones.

      Maude turned her head. "It is Bill Webb, Aunt Diana."

      "What does he want?"

      Bill stepped in. "Please, Miss Diana, I came to tell the Squire the news. I thought he might be angry with me if I did not, seeing as I knowed of it."

      "The news?" repeated Miss Diana, looking imperiously at Bill.

      "The mischief the bull have done. He's gone and gored Farmer Ryle."

      The words arrested the attention of all. They came forward, as with one impulse. Cris and his sister, in their haste, upset the backgammon-board.

      "What do you say, Bill?" gasped Mrs. Chattaway, with white face and faltering voice.

      "It's true, ma'am," said Bill. "The bull set on him this afternoon, and tossed him into the ditch. Master George found him there a short while agone, groaning awful."

      There was a startled pause. "I—I—hope he is not much injured?" said Mrs. Chattaway at last, in her consternation.

      "He says it's his death, ma'am. John Pinder and others have brought a bed, and be carrying of him home on it."

      "What brought Mr. Ryle in that field?" asked Miss Diana.

      "He telled me, ma'am, he was a-coming up here to see the Squire, and took that way to save time."

      Mrs. Chattaway fell back a little. "Cris," said she to her son, "go down to the farm and see what the injury is. I cannot sleep in the uncertainty. It may be fatal."

      Cris tossed his head. "You know, mother, I'd do almost anything to oblige you," he said, in his smooth accents, which had ever a false sound in them, "but I can't go to the farm. Mrs. Ryle might insult me: there's no love lost between us."

      "If the accident happened this afternoon, why was it not discovered when the bull was brought to his shed to-night?" cried Miss Trevlyn.

      Bill shook his head. "I dun know, ma'am. For one thing, Mr. Ryle was in the ditch, and couldn't be seen. And the bull, maybe, had gone to the top o' the field again, where the groaning wouldn't be heard."

      "If I had only been listened to!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, in wailing accents. "How many a time have I asked that the bull should be parted with, before he did some fatal injury. And now it has come!"

      CHAPTER IV

      LIFE OR DEATH?

      Mr. Ryle was carried home on the mattress, and laid on the large table in the sitting-room, by the surgeon's directions. Mrs. Ryle, clear-headed and of calm judgment, had sent for medical advice even before sending for her husband. The only doctor available for immediate purposes was Mr. King, who lived about half-way between the farm and the village. He attended at once, and was at the house before his patient. Mrs. Ryle had sent also to Barmester for another surgeon, but he could not arrive just yet. It was by Mr. King's direction that the mattress was placed on the large table in the parlour.

      "Better there; better there," acquiesced the sufferer, when he heard the order given. "I don't know how they'd get me up the stairs."

      Mr. King, a man getting in years, was left alone with his patient. The examination over, he came forth from the room and sought Mrs. Ryle, who was waiting for the report.

      "The internal injuries are extensive, I fear," he said. "They lie chiefly here"—touching his chest and right side.

      "Will he live, Mr. King?" she interrupted. "Do not temporise, but let me know the truth. Will he live?"

      "You have asked me a question I cannot yet answer," returned the surgeon. "My examination has been hasty and superficial: I was alone, and knew you were anxiously waiting. With the help of Mr. Benage, we may be able to arrive at some decisive opinion. I fear the injuries are serious."

      Yes, they were serious; and nothing could be done, as it seemed, to remedy them or alleviate the pain. Mr. Ryle lay helpless on the bed, giving vent to his regret and anguish in somewhat homely phraseology. It was the phraseology of this simple farmhouse; that to which he had been accustomed; and he was not likely to change it now. Gentlemen by birth and pedigree, he and his father had been content to live as plain farmers only, in language as well as work.

      He lay groaning, lamenting his imprudence, now that it was too late, in venturing within the reach of that dangerous animal. The rest waited anxiously and restlessly the appearance of the surgeon. For Mr. Benage of Barmester had a world-wide reputation, and such men seem to bring consolation with them. If any one could apply healing remedies and save his life, it was Mr. Benage.

      George Ryle had taken up his station at the garden gate. His hands clasped, his head lying lightly upon them, he was listening for the sound of the gig which had been despatched to Barmester. Nora at length came out to him.

      "You'll catch cold, George, out here in the keen night air."

      "The air won't hurt me to-night. Listen, Nora! I thought I heard something. They might be back again by this."

      He was right. The gig was bowling swiftly along, containing the well-known surgeon and messenger despatched for him. The surgeon, a little man, quick and active, was out of the gig before it had well stopped, passed George and Nora with a nod, and entered the house.

      A short time, and the worst was known. There would be but a few more hours of life for Mr. Ryle.

      Mr. King would remain, doing what he could to comfort, to soothe pain. Mr. Benage must return to Barmester, for he was wanted there. Refreshment was offered him, but he declined it. Nora waylaid him in the garden as he was going down.

      "Will the master see to-morrow's sun, sir?"

      "It's rising now; he may do so. He will not see its setting."

      Can you picture to yourselves what that night was for the house and its inmates? In the parlour, gathered round the table on which lay the dying man supported by pillows and covered with blankets, were Mrs. Ryle, George and Trevlyn, the surgeon, and sometimes Nora. In the outer room was collected a larger group: John Pinder, the men who had borne him home, and Molly; with a few others whom the news of the accident had brought together.

      Mrs. Ryle stood near her husband. George and Trevlyn seemed scarcely to know what to do with themselves; and Mr. King sat in a chair in the recess of the bay window. Mr. Ryle looked grievously wan, and the surgeon administered medicine from time to time.

      "Come here, my boys," he suddenly said. "Come close to me."

      They approached as he spoke, and leaned over him. He took a hand of each. George swallowed down his tears in the best way that he could. Trevlyn looked frightened.

      "Children, СКАЧАТЬ