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 pass, with the elm trees nearly meeting overhead. The shrubbery wound up to a lawn stretched before the windows of the house: a large, old-fashioned 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.