Trevlyn Hold: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

For once in her life Miss Diana was startled into betraying surprise. There, coming in at the door, was her sister Maude, Mrs. Ryle; and she had not been at the Hold for years and years.

Nora, keen-witted Nora, had fathomed the mystery as she walked home. One so strangely resembling old Squire Trevlyn must be very closely connected with him, she doubted not, and worked out the problem. It must be Rupert Trevlyn, come (may it not be said?) to life again. Before she entered, his features had been traced on her memory, and she hastened to acquaint Mrs. Ryle.

That lady lost no time in speeding to the Hold. George accompanied her. There was no agitation on her face; it was a true Trevlyn's in its calm and quiet, but she greeted her brother with words of welcome.

"I have not entered this house, Rupert, my brother, since its master died; I would not enter it whilst a usurper reigned. Thank Heaven, you have come. It will end all heart-burnings."

"Heart-burnings? of what nature? But who are you?" he broke off, looking at George. Then he raised his hand, and laying it on his shoulder, gazed into his face. "Unless I am mistaken, you are your father's son."

George laughed. "My father's son, I believe, sir, and people tell me I am like him; yet more like my mother. I am George Berkeley Ryle."

"Is he here? I and Tom Ryle were good friends once."

"Here!" uttered George, with emotion he could not wholly suppress. "He has been dead many years. He was killed."

Squire Trevlyn lifted his hands. "It will all come out, bit by bit, I suppose: one record of the past after another. Maude"—turning to his sister—"I was inquiring of the days gone by. If the Trevlyns have held a name for nothing else in the county, they have held one for justice; and I want to know how it was that my father—my father and yours—willed away his estate from poor Joe's boy. Good Heavens," he broke off abruptly, as he caught sight of her face in the red light of the declining sun, "how wonderfully you have grown like my father! More so even than I have!"

It was so. As Mrs. Ryle stood there, haughty and self-possessed, they might have deemed it the old Squire over again. "You want to know why my father willed away his estate from Joe's son?" she said. "Ask Chattaway; ask Diana Trevlyn," with a sweep of the hand to both. "Ask them to tell you who kept it from him that a son was born to Joe. They did. The Squire made his will, went to his grave, never knowing that young Rupert was born. Ask them to tell you how it was that, when in accordance with this fact the will was made, my father constituted his second daughter's husband his heir, instead of my husband; mine, his eldest daughter's. Ask them, Rupert."