Works of Ellen Wood, page 558
A hundred fears darted through George Ryle’s mind. He was more thoughtful, it may be said more imaginative, than boys of his age generally are. George and Cris Chattaway had once had a run from the bull, and only saved themselves by desperate speed. Venturing into the field one day when the animal was apparently grazing quietly in a remote corner, they had not anticipated his running at them. George remembered this; he remembered the terror excited when the bull had broken loose. Had his father been attacked by the bull? — perhaps killed by it?
His heart beating, George retraced his steps, and turned into the first field. He hastened across it, glancing on all sides as keenly as the night allowed him. Not in this field would the danger be; and George reached the gate of the other, and stood looking into it.
Apparently it was quite empty. The bull was probably safe in its shed then, in Chattaway’s farmyard. George could see nothing — nothing except the grass stretched out in the starlight. He threw his eyes in every direction, but could not perceive his father, or any trace of him. “What a simpleton I am,” thought George, “to fear that such an out-of-the-way thing could have happened! He must — —”
What was that? George held his breath. A sound, not unlike a groan, had smote upon his ear. And there it came again! “Holloa!” shouted George, and cleared the gate with a bound. “What’s that? Who is it?”
A moan answered him; and George Ryle, guided by the sound, hastened to the spot. It was only a little way off, down by the hedge separating the fields. All the undefined fear George, not a minute ago, had felt inclined to treat as groundless, was indeed but a prevision of the terrible reality. Mr. Ryle lay in a narrow, dry ditch: and, but for that friendly ditch, he had probably been gored to death on the spot.
“Who is it?” he asked feebly, as his son bent over him, trying to distinguish what he could in the darkness. “George?”
“Oh, papa! what has happened?”
“Just my death, lad.”
It was a sad tale. One that is often talked of in the place, in connection with Chattaway’s bull. In crossing the second field — indeed, as soon as he entered it — Mr. Ryle was attacked by the furious beast, and tossed into the ditch, where he lay helpless. The people said then, and say still, that the red cravat he carried excited the anger of the bull.
George raised his voice in a shout for help, hoping it might reach the ears of the boy whom he had recently encountered. “Perhaps I can get you out, papa,” he said, “though I may not be able myself to get you home.”
“No, George; it will take stronger help than yours to get me out of this.”
“I had better go up to the Hold, then. It is nearer than our house.”
“You will not go to the Hold,” said Mr. Ryle, authoritatively. “I will not be beholden to Chattaway. He has been the ruin of my peace, and now his bull has done for me.”
George bent down closer. There was no room for him to get into the ditch, which was very narrow. “Papa, are you shivering with cold?”
“With cold and pain. The frost strikes keenly upon me, and my pain is great.”
George instantly took off his jacket and waistcoat, and laid them gently on his father, his tears dropping silently in the dark night. “I’ll run home for help,” he said, speaking as bravely as he could. “John Pinder is there, and we can call up one or two of the men.”
“Ay, do,” said Mr. Ryle. “They must bring a shutter, and carry me home on it. Take care you don’t frighten your mother, George. Tell her at first that I am a little hurt, and can’t walk; break it to her so that she may not be alarmed.”
George flew away. At the end of the second field, staring over the gate near the high-road, stood the boy Bill, whose ears George’s shouts had reached. He was not a sharp-witted lad, and his eyes and mouth opened with astonishment to see George Ryle come flying along in his shirt-sleeves.
“What’s a-gate?” asked he. “Be that bull loose again?”
“Run for your life to the second field,” panted George, seizing him in his desperation. “In the ditch, a few yards along the hedge to the right, my father is lying. Go and stay by him, until I come back with help.”
“Lying in the ditch!” repeated Bill, unable to collect his startled senses. “What’s done it, Master George?”
“Chattaway’s bull has done it. Hasten down to him, Bill. You might hear his groans all this way off, if you listened.”
“Is the bull there?” asked Bill.
“I have seen no bull. The bull must have been in its shed hours ago. Stand by him, Bill, and I’ll give you sixpence to-morrow.”
They separated. George tore down the road, wondering how he should fulfil his father’s injunction not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in telling the news. Molly, very probably looking after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard gate as he passed. George sent her into the house the front way, and bade her whisper to Nora to come out; to tell her “somebody” wanted to speak to her. Molly obeyed; but executed her commission so bunglingly, that not only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn came flocking to the porch. George could only go in then.
“Don’t be frightened, mamma,” he said, in answer to their questions. “My father has had a fall, and — and says he cannot walk home. Perhaps he has sprained his ankle.”
“What has become of your jacket and waistcoat?” cried Nora, amazed to see George standing in his shirt-sleeves.
“They are safe enough. Is John Pinder still in the kitchen?” continued George, escaping from the room.
Trevlyn ran after him. “George, have you been fighting?” he asked. “Is your jacket torn to ribbons?”
George drew the boy into a dark angle of the passage. “Treve,” he whispered, “if I tell you something about papa, you won’t cry out?”
“No, I won’t cry out,” answered Treve.
“We must get a stretcher of some sort up to him, to bring him home. I am going to consult John Pinder.”
“Where is papa?” interrupted Treve.
“Lying in a ditch in the large meadow. Chattaway’s bull has attacked him. I am not sure but he will die.”
The first thing Treve did was to cry out. George put his hand over his mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who were full of curiosity, both as to George’s jacketless state and George’s news, had followed into the passage. Treve began to cry.
“He has dreadful news about papa, he says,” sobbed Treve. “Thinks he’s dead.”
It was all over. George must tell now, and he could not help himself. “No, no, Treve, you should not exaggerate,” he said, turning to Mrs. Ryle in his pain and earnestness. “There is an accident, mamma; but it is not so bad as that.”
Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure; very few people had seen her ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her husband had little need to caution George as he had done. She laid her hand upon George’s shoulder and looked calmly into his face. “Tell me the truth,” she said in tones of quiet command. “What is the injury?”
“I do not know yet — —”
“The truth, boy, I said,” she sternly interposed.
“Indeed I do not yet know what it is. He has been attacked by Chattaway’s bull.”
It was Nora’s turn now. “By Chattaway’s bull?” she shrieked.
“Yes,” said George. “It must have happened immediately after he left here at tea-time, and he has been lying ever since in the ditch in the upper meadow. I put my jacket and waistcoat over him; he was shivering with cold and pain.”
While George was talking, Mrs. Ryle was acting. She sought John Pinder and issued her orders clearly and concisely. Men were got together; a mattress with holders was made ready; and the procession started under the convoy of George, who had been made to put on another jacket. Bill, the waggoner’s boy, had been faithful, and was found by the side of Mr. Ryle.
“I’m glad you be come,” was the boy’s salutation. “He’s been groaning and shivering awful. It set me shivering too.”
As if to escape from the evil, Bill ran off, there and then, across the field, and never drew in until he reached Trevlyn Hold. In spite of his somewhat stolid propensities, he felt a sort of pride in being the first to impart the story there. Entering the house by the back, or farmyard door — for farming was carried on at Trevlyn Hold as well as at Trevlyn Farm — he passed through sundry passages to the well-lighted hall. There he seemed to hesitate at his temerity, but at length gave an awkward knock at the door of the general sitting-room.
A large, handsome room. Reclining in an easy-chair was a pretty and pleasing woman, looking considerably younger than she really was. Small features, a profusion of curling auburn hair, light blue eyes, a soft, yielding expression, and a gentle voice, were the adjuncts of a young woman, rather than of one approaching middle-age. A stranger, entering, might have taken her for a young unmarried woman; and yet she was mistress of Trevlyn Hold, the mother of that great girl of sixteen at the table, now playing backgammon and quarrelling with her brother Christopher. Mistress in name only. Although the wife of its master, Mr. Chattaway, and daughter of its late master, Squire Trevlyn; although universally called Madam Chattaway — as from time immemorial it had been customary to designate the mistress of Trevlyn Hold — she was in fact no better than a nonentity in it, possessing little authority, and assuming less. She has been telling her children several times that their hour for bed has passed; she has begged them not to quarrel; she has suggested that if they will not go to bed, Maude should do so; but she may as well talk to the winds.
Miss Chattaway possesses a will of her own. She has the same insignificant features, pale leaden complexion, small, sly, keen light eyes that characterise her father. She would like to hold undisputed sway as the house’s mistress; but the inclination has to be concealed; for the real mistress of Trevlyn Hold may not be displaced. She is sitting in the background, at a table apart, bending over her desk. A tall, majestic lady, in a stiff green silk dress and an imposing cap, in person very like Mrs. Ryle. It is Miss Trevlyn, usually called Miss Diana, the youngest daughter of the late Squire. You would take her to be at least ten years older than her sister, Mrs. Chattaway, but in point of fact she is that lady’s junior by a year. Miss Trevlyn is, to all intents and purposes, mistress of Trevlyn Hold, and she rules its internal economy with a firm sway.
“Maude, you should go to bed,” Mrs. Chattaway had said for the fourth or fifth time.
A graceful girl of thirteen turned her dark, violet-blue eyes and pretty light curls upon Mrs. Chattaway. She had been leaning on the table watching the backgammon. Something of the soft, sweet expression visible in Mrs. Chattaway’s face might be traced in this child’s; but in Maude it was blended with greater intellect.
“It is not my fault, Aunt Edith,” she gently said. “I should like to go. I am tired.”
“Be quiet, Maude!” broke from Miss Chattaway. “Mamma, I wish you wouldn’t worry about bed! I don’t choose Maude to go up until I go. She helps me to undress.”
Poor Maude looked sleepy. “I can be going on, Octave,” she said to Miss Chattaway.
“You can hold your tongue and wait, and not be ungrateful,” was the response of Octavia Chattaway. “But for papa’s kindness, you would not have a bed to go to. Cris, you are cheating! that was not sixes!”
It was at this juncture that the awkward knock came to the door. “Come in!” cried Mrs. Chattaway.
Either her gentle voice was not heard, for Cris and his sister were disputing just then, or the boy’s modesty would not allow him to respond. He knocked again.
“See who it is, Cris,” came forth the ringing voice of Miss Trevlyn.
Cris 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.
