Trevlyn Hold: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

Rupert shook his head. "I took some bread off the tray as they were carrying it through the hall. That's all I have had."

"Then I'd advise you to make double haste home to your tea," said George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going to do to mine."

George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. Looking round when he was well on his way, he saw Rupert still leaning on the stile with his face turned upward.

Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion had scuffled along to Trevlyn Farm—a very moderately-sized house with a rustic porch covered with jessamine, and a large garden, more useful than ornamental, intervening between it and the high-road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was straight and narrow; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose trees and hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, and other plain fruit-trees grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A productive if not an elegant garden. At the side of the house the fold-yard palings and a five-barred gate separated it from the public road, and behind the house were the barns and other outdoor buildings belonging to the farm.

From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half sitting-room, half kitchen, called "Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it; George and his brother did their lessons there; the actual kitchen being at the back of it. A parlour opening from this room on the right, whose window looked into the fold-yard, was the general sitting-room. The best sitting-room, a really handsome apartment, was on the other side of the house. As the girl scuffled up to the porch, an active, black-eyed, talkative little woman, of five or six-and-thirty saw her approaching from the window of the best kitchen. That was Nora. What with her ragged frock and tippet, broken straw bonnet, and slipshod shoes, the child looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle. He had been at home ill the last day or two; or, as the phrase ran in the farm, was "off his work."

"If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. "How can her mother keep her in that state? Just look at Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle!"

Sorting large bunches of sweet herbs on a table at the back of the room was a tall, upright woman. Her dress was plain, but her manner and bearing betrayed the lady. Those familiar with the district would have recognised in her handsome but somewhat masculine face a likeness to the well-formed, powerful features of the late Squire Trevlyn. She was that gentleman's eldest daughter, and had given mortal umbrage to her family when she quitted Trevlyn Hold to become the second wife of Mr. Ryle. George Ryle was not her son. She had only two children; Trevlyn, a boy two years younger than George; and a little girl of eight, named Caroline.

Mrs. Ryle turned, and glanced at the path and Letty Sanders. "She is indeed an object! See what she wants, Nora."

Nora, who had no patience with idleness and its signs, flung open the door. The girl halted a few paces from the porch, and dropped a curtsey.

"Please, father be dreadful bad," began she. "He be lying on the bed and don't stir, and his face is white; and, please, mother said I was to come and tell the missus, and ask her for a little brandy."