"You must try and prevent it, doctor—you must save him," she cried; and her imploring accents, her trembling hands, proved to the surgeon how great was her emotion.
He shook his head: the issues of life and death were not in his power. "My dear lady, I will do what I am enabled to do; more, I cannot. We poor human doctors can only work under the hand of God."
CHAPTER XLIX
A RED-LETTER DAY
There are some happy days in the most monotonous, the least favoured life; periods on which we can look back always, even to the life's end, and say, "That was a red-letter day!"
Such a day had arisen for Trevlyn Farm. Perhaps never, since the unhappy accident which had carried away its master, had so joyful a day dawned for Mrs. Ryle and George—certainly never one that brought half the satisfaction; for George Ryle was going up to the Hold to clear off the last instalment of Mr. Chattaway's debt.
It was the lifting of a heavy tax; the removal of a cruel nightmare—a nightmare that had borne them down, had all but crushed them with its weight. How they had toiled, striven, persevered, saved, George and Nora alone knew. They knew it far better than Mrs. Ryle; she had joined in the saving, but little in the work. To Mrs. Ryle the debt seemed to have been cleared off quickly—far more quickly than had appeared likely at the time of Mr. Ryle's death. And so it had been. George Ryle was one of those happy people who believe in the special interposition and favour of God; and he believed that God had shown favour to him, and helped him with prosperity. It could not be denied that Trevlyn Farm had been blessed with remarkable prosperity since George's reign there. Season after season, when other people complained of short returns, those of Trevlyn Farm had flourished. Harvests had been abundant; cattle, sheep, poultry—all had richly prospered. It is true George brought keen intelligence, ever-watchful care to bear upon it; but returns, even with these, are not always satisfactory. They had been so with him. His bargains in buying and selling stock had been always good, yielding a profit—for he had entered into them somewhat largely—never dreamt of by his father. The farmers around, seeing how all he put his hand to seemed to flourish, set it down to his superior skill, and talked one to another, at their fairs and markets, of "young Ryle's cuteness." Perhaps the success might be owing to a very different cause, as George believed—and nothing could have shaken that belief—the special blessing of Heaven!
Yes, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's oppression, they had flourished. It had seemed like magic to that gentleman how they had kept up and increased the payments to him, in addition to their other expenses. That the debt should be ready to be finally cancelled he scarcely believed, although he had received intimation to that effect.
It did not please him. Dear as money was to the master of Trevlyn Hold, he had been better pleased to keep George Ryle still under his thumb. He had not been favoured with the same success: his corn had, some seasons, been thin in the ear; his live stock unhealthy; his bargains had turned out losses instead of gains; he had made bad debts; his coal-mine had exploded; his ricks had been burnt. Certainly no extraordinary luck had followed Mr. Chattaway—rather the contrary; and he regarded George Ryle with anger and envy; a great deal more than would have pleased George, had he known it. Not that George cared, in the abstract, whether he had Mr. Chattaway's anger or good will; but George wanted to stand so far well with him as to obtain the lease of his best farm. A difficult task!