Rupert came down to breakfast the next morning. He was cold, sick, shivery; little better than he had felt the previous night; his chest sore, his breathing painful. A good fire burnt in the grate of the breakfast-room—Miss Diana was a friend to fires, and caused them to be lighted as soon as the heat of summer had passed—and Rupert bent over it. He cared for it more than for food; and yet it was no doubt having gone without food the previous day which was causing the sensation of sickness within him now.
Miss Diana glided in, erect and majestic. "How are you this morning?" she asked of Rupert.
"Pretty well," he answered, as he warmed his thin white hands over the blaze. "I have the old pain here a bit"—touching his chest. "It will go off by-and-by, I dare say."
Miss Diana had her eyes riveted on him. The extreme delicacy of his countenance—its lines of fading health—struck upon her greatly. Was he looking worse? or was it that her absence from home for three weeks had caused her to notice it more than she had done when seeing him daily? She asked herself the question, and could not decide.
"You don't look very well, Rupert."
"Don't I? I have not felt well for this week or two. I think the walking to Blackstone and back is too much for me."
"You must have a pony," she continued after a pause.
"Ah! that would be a help to me," he said, his countenance brightening. "I might get on better with what I have to do there. Mr. Chattaway grumbles, and grumbles, but I declare, Aunt Diana, that I do my best. The walk there seems to take away all my energy, and, by the time I sit down, I am unfit for work."
Miss Diana went nearer to him, and spoke in lower tones. "What was the reason that you disobeyed Mr. Chattaway with regard to coming in?"
"I did not do it intentionally," he replied. "The time slipped on, and it got late without my noticing it. I think I told you so last night, Aunt Diana."
"Very well. It must not occur again," she said, peremptorily and significantly. "If you are locked out in future, I shall not interfere."
Mr. Chattaway came in, with a discontented gesture and a blue face. He was none the better for his sleepless night, and the torment which had caused it. Rupert drew away from the fire, leaving the field clear for him: as a schoolboy does at the entrance of his master.
"Don't let us have this trouble repeated," he roughly said to Rupert. "As soon as you have breakfasted, make the best of your way to Blackstone: and don't lag on the road."
"Rupert's not going to Blackstone to-day," said Miss Diana.
Mr. Chattaway turned upon her: no very pleasant expression on his countenance. "What's that for?"
"I shall keep him at home for a week, and have him nursed. After that, I dare say he'll be stronger, and can attend better to his duty in all ways."
Mr. Chattaway could willingly have braved Miss Diana, if he had only dared. But he did not dare. He strode to the breakfast-table and took his seat, leaving those who liked to follow him.
It has been remarked that there was a latent antagonism ever at work in the hearts of George Ryle and Octave Chattaway; and there was certainly ever constant and visible antagonism between the actions of Mr. Chattaway and Miss Diana Trevlyn, as far as they related to the ruling economy of Trevlyn Hold. She had the open-heartedness of the Trevlyns—he, the miserly selfishness of the Chattaways. She was liberal on the estate and in the household—he would have been niggardly to the last degree. Miss Diana, however, was the one to reign paramount, and he was angered every hour of his life by seeing some extravagance—as he deemed it—which might have been avoided. He could indemnify himself at the mines; and there he did as he pleased.
Breakfast over, Mr. Chattaway went out. Cris went out. Rupert, as the day grew warm and bright, strolled into the garden, and basked on a bench in the sun. He very much enjoyed these days of idleness. To sit as he was doing now, feeling that no exertion whatever was required of him; that he might stay where he was for the whole day, and gaze up at the blue sky as he fell into thought; or watch the light fleecy clouds that rose above the horizon, and form them into fantastic pictures—constituted one of the pleasures of Rupert Trevlyn's life. Not for the bright blue of the sky, the ever-changing clouds, the warm sunshine and balmy air—not for all these did he care so much as for therest. The delightful consciousness that he might be as quiet as he pleased; that no Blackstone or any other far-off place would demand him; that for a whole day he might be atrest—there lay the charm. Nothing could possibly have been more suggestive of his want of strength—as anyone might have guessed possessed of sufficient penetration.
No. Mr. Chattaway need not have feared that Rupert was hatching plots against him, whenever he was out of his sight. Had poor Rupert possessed the desire, he lacked the energy.
The dinner hour at Trevlyn Hold, nominally early, was frequently regulated by the will or movements of the master. When he said he could only be home at a given hour—three, four, five, six, as the case might be—the cook had her orders accordingly. To-day it was fixed for four o'clock. At two (the more ordinary dinner hour) Cris came in.
Strictly speaking, it was ten minutes past two, and Cris burst into the dining-room with a heated face, afraid lest he should come in for the end of the meal. Whatever might be the hour fixed, dinner had to be on the table to the minute; and it generally was so. Miss Diana was an exacting mistress. Cris burst in, hair untidy, hands unwashed, desperately afraid of losing his share.
He drew a long face. Not a soul was in the room, and the dining-table showed its bright mahogany. Cris rang the bell.
"What time do we dine to-day?" he asked sharply of the servant who answered it.
"At four, sir."
"What a nuisance! And I am as hungry as a hunter. Get me something to eat. Here—stop—where are they all?"
"Madam's at home, sir; and I think Miss Octave's at home. The rest are out."
Cris muttered something which was not heard, which perhaps he did not intend should be heard; and when his luncheon was brought in, he sat down to it with great satisfaction. After he had finished, he went to the stables, and by-and-by came in to find his sister.
"Octave, I want to take you for a drive. Will you go?"
The unwonted attention on her brother's part quite astonished Octave. Before now she had asked him to drive her out, and been met with a rough refusal. Cris was of that class of young men who see no good in overpowering their sisters with attention.
"Get your things on at once," said Cris.
Octave felt dubious. She was writing letters to some particular friends with whom she kept up a correspondence, and did not care to be interrupted.
"Where is it to go, Cris?"
"Anywhere. We can drive through Barmester, and so home by the cross-roads. Or we'll go down the lower road to Barbrook, and go on to Barmester that way."
The suggestion did not offer sufficient attraction to Octave. "No," said she, "I am busy, and shall not go out this afternoon. I don't care to drive out when there's nothing to go for."
"You may as well come. It isn't often I ask you."
"No, that it is not," returned Octave, with emphasis. "You have some particular motive in asking me now, I know. What is it, Cris?"
"I want to try my new horse. They say he goes beautifully in harness."
"What! that handsome horse you took a fancy to the other day?—that papa said you should not buy?"
Cris nodded. "They let me have him for forty-five pounds."
"Where did you get the money?" wondered Octave.
"Never you mind. I have paid ten pounds down, and they'll wait for the rest. Will you come?"
"No," said Octave. "I sha'n't go out to-day."
The refusal perhaps was somewhat softened by the dashing up to the door of the dog-cart with the new purchase in it; and Cris ran out. A handsome animal certainly, but apparently restive. Mrs. Chattaway came through the hall, dressed for walking. Cris seized upon her.
"Mother, dear, you'll go for a drive with me," cried he, caressingly. "Octave won't—ill-natured thing!"
It was so unusual a circumstance to find herself made much of by her son, spoken to affectionately, that Mrs. Chattaway, in surprise and gratitude, forthwith ascended the dog-cart. "I am glad to accompany you, dear," she softly said. "I was only going to walk in the garden."
But before Cris had gathered the reins in his hand and taken his place beside her, George Ryle came up, and somewhat hindered the departure.
"I have been to Barmester to see Caroline this morning, Mrs. Chattaway, and have brought you a message from Amelia," he said, keeping his hold on the dog-cart as he spoke—as much as he could do so, for the restive animal.
"That she wants to come home, I suppose?" said Mrs. Chattaway, smiling.
"The message I was charged with was, that shewouldcome home," he said, smiling in answer. "The fact is, Caroline is coming home for a few days: and Amelia thinks she will be cruelly used unless she is allowed holiday also."
"Caroline is coming to the harvest-home?"
"Yes. I told Amelia——"
Holding on any longer became impossible; and George drew back, and took a critical survey of the new horse. "Why, it is the horse Allen has had for sale!" he exclaimed.
"What brings him here, Cris?"
"I have bought him," shortly answered Cris.
"Have you? Mrs. Chattaway, I would advise you not to venture out behind that horse. He has not been broken in for driving."
"He has," returned Cris. "You mind your own business. Do you think I should drive him if he were not safe? He's only skittish. I understand horses, I hope, as well as you do."
George turned to Mrs. Chattaway. "Do not go with him," he urged. "Let Cris try him first alone."
"I am not afraid, George," she said, in loving accents. "It is not often Cris finds time to drive me. Thank you all the same."
Cris gave the horse its head, and the animal dashed off. George stood watching until a turn in the avenue hid them from view, and then gave utterance to an involuntary exclamation:
"Cris has no right to risk the life of his mother."
Not very long afterwards, the skittish horse was flying along the road, with nothing of the dog-cart left behind him, but its shafts.
On the lower road, leading from Trevlyn Farm to Barbrook, stood Barbrook Rectory. A pretty house, covered with ivy, standing in the midst of a flourishing garden, and surrounded by green fields. An exceedingly pretty place for its size, that parsonage—it was never styled anything else—but very small. Fortunately the parsons inhabiting it had none of them owned large families, or they would have been at fault for room.
The present occupant was the Reverend John Freeman. Occupant of the parsonage house, but not incumbent of the living. The living, in the gift of a neighbouring cathedral, was held by one of the chapter; and he delegated his charge (beyond an occasional sermon) to a curate. It had been so in the old time when Squire Trevlyn flourished, and it was so still. Whispers were abroad that when the death of this canon should take place—a very old man, both as to years and occupancy of his prebendal stall—changes would be made, and the next incumbent would have to reside on the living. But this has nothing to do with us, and I don't know why I have alluded to it.
Mr. Freeman had been curate of the place for more than twenty years. He succeeded the Reverend Shafto Dean, of whom you have heard. Mr. Dean had remained at Barbrook only a very short time after his sister's marriage to Joe Trevlyn. That event had not tended to allay the irritation existing between Trevlyn Hold and the parsonage, and on some promotion being offered to Mr. Dean he accepted it. The promotion given him was in the West Indies: he would not have chosen a residence there under happier auspices; but he felt sick of the ceaseless contention of Squire Trevlyn. Mr. Dean went out to the West Indies, and died of fever within six months of his arrival. Mr. Freeman had succeeded him at Barbrook, and Mr. Freeman was there still: a married man, without children.
The parsonage household was very modest. One servant only was kept; and if you have the pleasure of making both ends meet at the end of the year upon the moderate sum of one hundred pounds sterling, you will wonder how even that servant could be retained. But a clergyman has advantages in some points over the rest of the world: at least this one had; his house was rent-free, and his garden supplied more vegetables and fruit than his household could consume. Some of the choicer fruit he sold. His superfluous vegetables he gave away; and many and many a cabbage leaf full of gooseberries and currants did the little parish children look out for, and receive. He was a quiet, pleasant little man of fifty, with a fair face and a fat double chin. Never an ill word had he had with any one in the parish since he came into it. His wife was pleasant, too, and talkative; and would as soon be caught by visitors making puddings in the kitchen, or shelling peas for dinner, as sitting in state in the drawing-room.
At the back of the house, detached from it, was a room called the brewhouse, where sundry abnormal duties, quite out of the regular routine of things, were performed. A boiler was in one corner, a large board or table which would put up or let down at will was under the casement, and the floor was paved. On the morning of the day when Mr. Cris Chattaway contrived to separate his dog-cart from its shafts, or to let his new horse do it for him, of which you will hear more presently, this brewhouse was so filled with steam that you could not see across it. A tall, strong, rosy-faced woman, looking about thirty years of age, was standing over a washing-tub; and in the boiler, bubbling and seething, white linen heaved up and down like the waves of a small sea.
You have seen the woman before, though the chances are you have forgotten all about her. It is Molly, who once lived at Trevlyn Farm. Some five years ago she came to an issue with the ruling potentates, Mrs. Ryle and Nora, and the result was a parting. Since then Molly had been living at the parsonage, and had grown to be valued by her master and mistress. She looks taller than ever, but wears pattens to keep her feet from the wet flags.
Molly was rubbing vigorously at her master's surplice—which shared the benefits of the wash with more ignoble things, when the church-clock striking caused her to pause and glance up through the open window. She was counting the strokes.
"Twelve o'clock, as I'm alive! I knew it must have gone eleven, but never thought it was twelve yet! And nothing out but a handful o' coloured things and the flannels! If missis was at home, she'd say I'd been wasting all my morning gossiping."
An accusation Mrs. Freeman might have made with great truth. There was not a more inveterate gossip than Molly in the parish; and her propensity had lost her her last place.
She turned to the boiler, seized the rolling-pin, and poked down the rising clothes with a fierceness which seemed to wish to make up for the lost hours. Then she dashed open the little iron door underneath, threw on a shovel of coals, and shut it again.
"This surplice is wearing as thin as anything in front," soliloquised she, recommencing at the tub. "I'd better not rub it too much. But it's just in the very place where master gets 'em most dirty. If I were missis, I should line 'em in front. His other one's going worse. They must cost a smart penny, these surplices. Now, who's that?"
Molly's interjection was caused by a flourishing knock at the front-door. It did not please her. She was too busy to answer useless visitors; unless because her master and mistress were out.
"I won't go to the door," decided she, in her vexation. "Let 'em knock again, or go away."
The applicant preferred the former course, for a second knock, louder than the first, echoed through the house. Molly brought her wet arms out of the water, dried them, and went on her way grumbling.
"It's that bothering Mother Hurnall, I know! And ten to one but she'll walk in, under pretence of resting, and poke her nose into my brewhouse, and see how my work's getting on. An interfering, mischief-making old toad, and if shedoescome in, I'll——"
Molly had opened the door, and her words came to an abrupt conclusion. Instead of the interfering mischief-maker, there stood a gentleman; a stranger: a tall, oldish man, with a white beard and white whiskers, jet-black eyes, a kindly but firm expression on his sallow face, a carpet-bag in one hand, a large red umbrella in the other.
Molly dropped a dubious curtsey. Beards were not much in fashion in that simple country place, neither were red umbrellas, and her opinion vacillated. Was the gentleman before her some venerable, much-to-be-respected patriarch; or one of those conjurers who frequented fairs in a caravan? Molly had had the gratification of seeing the one perform who came to the last fair, and he wore a white beard.
"I have been directed to this house as the residence of the Reverend Mr. Freeman," began the stranger. "Is he at home?"
"No, sir, he's not," replied Molly, dropping another and more assured curtsey. There was something about the stranger's voice and straightforward glance which quieted her fears. "My master and mistress are both gone out for the day, and won't be home till night."
This seemed a poser for the stranger. He looked at Molly, and Molly looked at him. "It is very unfortunate," he said at length. "I have come a great many hundred miles, and reckoned very much upon seeing my old friend Freeman. I shall be leaving England again in a few days."
Molly opened her eyes. "Come a great many hundred miles, all to see master!" she exclaimed.
"Not to see him," answered the stranger, with a smile at Molly's simplicity—not that he looked like a smiling man in general, but a very sad one. "I had to come to England on business, and I travelled a long way to get here, and shall have to travel the same long way to get back again. I have come from London on purpose to see Mr. Freeman. It is many years since we met, and I thought, if quite agreeable, I would sleep a couple of nights here. Did you ever happen to hear him mention an old friend of his, named Daw?"
The name struck on Molly's memory: it was a somewhat peculiar one. "Well, yes, I have, sir," she answered. "I have heard him speak of a Mr. Daw to my mistress. I think—I think—he lived somewhere over in France, that Mr. Daw. And he was a clergyman. My master lighted upon a lady's death a short time ago in the paper, while I was in the parlour helping my missis with some bed-furniture, and he exclaimed and said it must be Mr. Daw's wife."
"Right—right in all," said the gentleman. "I am Mr. Daw."
He took a small card-case from his pocket, and held out one of its cards to Molly; deeming it well, no doubt, that the woman should be convinced he was really the person he professed to be. "I can see but one thing to do," he said, "you must give me house-room until Mr. Freeman comes home this evening."
"You are welcome, sir. But my goodness! there's nothing in the house for dinner, and I'm in the midst of a big wash."
He shook his head as he walked into the parlour—a sunny apartment, redolent of mignonette, boxes of which stood outside the windows. "I don't in the least care about dinner," he carelessly observed. "A crust of bread, a little fresh butter, and a cup of milk, will do as well for me as anything more substantial."
Molly left him, to see what she could do in the way of entertainment, and take counsel with herself. "If it doesn't happen on purpose!" she ejaculated. "Anything that upsets the order of the house is sure to come on washing day! Well, it's no good worrying. The wash must go. If I can't finish to-day, I must finish to-morrow. I think he's what he says he is; and I've heard them red umbrellas is used in France."
She carried in a tray of refreshment—bread, butter, cheese, milk, and honey, and had adjusted the sleeves of her gown, straightened her hair, put on a clean apron, and taken off her pattens. Mr. Daw detained her whilst he helped himself, asking divers questions; and Molly, nothing loth, ever ready for a gossip, remembered not her exacting brewhouse.
"There is a place called Trevlyn Hold in this neighbourhood, is there not?"
"Right over there, sir," replied Molly, extending her hand. "You might see its chimneys but for them trees."
"I suppose the young master of Trevlyn has grown into a fine man?"
Molly turned up her nose, never supposing but the question alluded to Cris, and Cris was no favourite of hers: a prejudice possibly imbibed during her service at Trevlyn Farm.
"I don't call him so," said she, shortly. "A weazened-face fellow, with an odd look in his eyes as good as a squint! He's not much liked about here, sir."
"Indeed! That's a pity. Is he married? I suppose not though, yet. He is young."
"There's many a one gets married younger than he is. But I don't know who'd have him," added Molly, in her prejudice. "I wouldn't, if I was a young lady."
"Who has acted as his guardian?" resumed Mr. Daw.
Molly scarcely understood the question. "A guardian, sir? That's somebody that takes care of a child's money, who has no parents, isn't it?Hehas no guardian that I ever heard of, except it's his father."
Mr. Daw laid down his knife. "The young master of Trevlyn has no father," he exclaimed.
"Indeed he has, sir," returned Molly. "What should hinder him?"
"My good woman, you cannot know what I am talking about. His father died years and years ago. I was at his funeral."
Molly opened her mouth in very astonishment. "His father is alive now, sir, at any rate," cried she, after a pause. "I saw him ride by this house only yesterday."
They stared at each other, as people at cross-purposes often do. "Of whom are you speaking?" asked Mr. Daw, at length.
"Of Cris Chattaway, sir. You asked me about the young master of Trevlyn Hold. Cris will be its master after his father. Old Chattaway's its master now."
"Chattaway? Chattaway?" repeated the stranger, as if recalling the name. "I remember. It was he who——Is Rupert Trevlyn dead?" he hastily asked.
"Oh, no, sir."
"Then why is he not master of Trevlyn Hold?"
"Well, I don't know," replied Molly, after some consideration. "I suppose because Chattaway is."
"But surely Rupert Trevlyn inherited it on the death of his grandfather, Squire Trevlyn?"
"No, he didn't inherit it, sir. It was Chattaway."
So interested in the argument had the visitor become, that he neglected his plate, and was looking at Molly with astonished eyes. "Why did he not inherit it? He was the heir."
"It's what folks can't rightly make out," answered the woman. "Chattaway came in for it, that's certain. But folks have never called him the Squire, though he's as sick as a dog for it."
"Who is Mr. Chattaway? What is his connection with the Trevlyns? I forget."
"His wife was Miss Edith Trevlyn, the Squire's daughter. There was but three of 'em,—Mrs. Ryle, and her, and Miss Diana. Miss Diana was never married, and I suppose won't be now."
"Miss Diana?—Miss Diana? Yes, yes, I recollect," repeated the stranger. "It was Miss Diana whom Mrs. Trevlyn——Does Rupert Trevlyn live with Miss Diana?" he broke off again.
"Yes, sir; they all live at the Hold. The Chattaways, and Miss Diana, and young Mr. Rupert. Miss Diana has been out on a visit these two or three weeks past, but I heard this morning that she had come home."
"There was a pretty little girl—Maude—a year older than her brother," proceeded the questioner. "Where is she?"
"She's at the Hold, too, sir. They were brought to the Hold quite little babies, those two, and they have lived at it ever since, except when they've been at school. Miss Maude's governess to Chattaway's children."
Mr. Daw looked at Molly doubtingly. "Governess to Chattaway's children?" he mechanically repeated.
Molly nodded. She was growing quite at home with her guest. "Miss Maude has had the best of educations, they say: plays and sings wonderful; and so they made her the governess."
"But has she no fortune—no income?" reiterated the stranger, lost in wonder.
"Not a penny-piece," returned Molly, decisively. "Her and Mr. Rupert haven't a halfpenny between 'em of their own. He's clerk, or something of that sort, at Chattaway's coal mine, down yonder."
"But they were the heirs to the estate," the stranger persisted. "Their father was son and heir to Squire Trevlyn, and they are his children! How is it? How can it be?"
The words were spoken in the light of a remark. Mr. Daw was evidently debating the question with himself. Molly thought the question was put to her.
"I don't know the rights of it, sir," was all she could answer. "All I can tell you is, the Chattaways have come in for it, and the inheritance is theirs. But there's many a one round about here calls Mr. Rupert the heir to this day, and will call him so, in spite of Chattaway."
"He is the heir—he is the heir!" reiterated Mr. Daw. "I can prove——"
Again came that break in his discourse which had occurred before. Molly resumed.
"Master will be able to tell you better than me, sir, why the property should have went from Master Rupert to Chattaway. It was him that buried the old Squire, sir, and he was at the Hold after, and heard the Squire's will read. Nora told me once that he, the parson, cried shame upon it when he came away. But she was in a passion with Chattaway when she said it, so perhaps it wasn't true. I asked my missis about it one day that we was folding clothes together, but she said she knew nothing about it. She wasn't married then."
"Who is Nora?" inquired Mr. Daw.
"She's housekeeper and manager at Trevlyn Farm; a sort of relation. It was where I lived before I come here, sir; four year turned I was at that one place. I have always been one to keep my places a good while," added Molly, with pride.
Apparently the boast was lost upon him; he did not seem to hear it. "Not heir to Trevlyn!" he muttered; "not heir to Trevlyn! It puzzles me."
"I'm sorry master's out," repeated Molly, with sympathy. "But you can hear all about it to-night. They'll be home by seven o'clock. Twice a year, or thereabouts, they both go over to stop a day with missis's sister. Large millers they be, fourteen mile off, and live in a great big handsome house, and keep three or four indoor servants. The name's Whittaker, sir."
Mr. Daw did not show himself very much interested in the name, or in the worthy millers themselves. He was lost in a reverie. Molly made a movement about the plates and cheese and butter; insinuated the glass of milk under his very nose. All in vain.
"Not the heir!" he reiterated again; "not the heir! And I have been picturing him in my mind as the heir all through these long years!"
When Mrs. Chattaway and Cris drove off in the dog-cart, George Ryle did not follow them down the avenue, but turned to pursue his way round the house, which would take him to the fields: a shorter cut to his own land than the road. For a long time after his father's death, George could not bear to go through the field which had been so fatal to him; but he had lived down the feeling with the aid of that great reconciler—Time.
Happening to cast his eyes on the grounds as he skirted them, which lay on this side the Hold, he saw Rupert Trevlyn. Leaping a dwarf hedge of azaroles, he hastened to him.
"Well, old fellow! Taking a nap?"
Rupert opened his half-closed eyes, and looked round. "I thought it was Cris again!" he exclaimed. "He was here just now."
"Cris has gone out with his mother in the dog-cart. I don't like the horse he is driving, though."
"Is it that new horse he has been getting?"
"Yes; the one Allen had to sell."
"What's the matter with it?" asked Rupert. "I saw it carrying Allen one day, and thought it a beautiful animal!"
"It has a vicious temper, as I have been given to understand. And I believe it has never been properly broken in for driving. How do you feel to-day, Rupert?"
"No great shakes. I wish I was as strong as you, George."
George laughed pleasantly; and his voice, when he spoke, had a soothing sound in it. "So you may be, by the time you are as old as I am. Why, you have hardly done growing yet, Rupert. There's plenty of time for you to get strong."
"What brings you up here, George? Anything particular?"
"I saw Amelia to-day, and brought a message from her to her mother. Caroline is coming to us for the harvest-home, and Amelia wants to come too."
"Oh, they'll let her," cried Rupert. "The girls can do just as they like."
He, Rupert, leaned his chin on his hand, and began thinking of Amelia Chattaway. She was the oldest of the three younger children, and was at first under the tuition of Maude. But Maude could do nothing with her, the girl liking and taking; in fact she was too old both for Maude's control and instruction, and it was thought well to place her at a good school at Barmester, the school at which Caroline Ryle was being educated. Somehow Rupert's comforts were never added to by the presence of Amelia in the house, and he might have given way to a hope that she would not come home, had he been of a disposition to encourage such feelings.
Octave, who had discerned George Ryle from the windows of the Hold, came out to them, her pink parasol shading her face from the sun. A short time and Miss Trevlyn came home and joined them; next came Maude and her charges. It was quite a merry gathering. Miss Trevlyn unbent from her coldness, as she could do sometimes; Octave was all smiles and suavity, and every one, except Rupert, seemed at ease. Altogether, George Ryle was beguiled into doing what could not be often charged upon him—spending a good part of an afternoon in idleness.
But he went away at last. And as he was turning into the first field—never called anything but "the Bull field," by the country people, from the hour of Mr. Ryle's accident—he encountered Jim Sanders, eager and breathless.
"What's the matter?" asked George. "What do you want here?"
"I was speeding up to the Hold to tell 'em, sir. There's been an accident with Mr. Cris's dog-cart. I thought I'd warn the men up at his place."
"What accident?" hastily asked George, mentally beholding one sole object, and that was Mrs. Chattaway.
"I don't know yet, sir, what it is. I was in the road by the gate, when a horse came tearing along with broken shafts after it. It was that horse of Allen's which I saw Mr. Cris driving out an hour ago in his dog-cart, and Madam along of him. So I cut across the fields at once."
"You can go on," said George; "some of the men will be about. Should you see Miss Diana, or any of the young ladies, take care you say nothing to them. Do you hear?"
"I'll mind, sir."
Jim Sanders hastened out of the field on his way to the back premises of the Hold, and George flew onwards. When he gained the road, he looked up and down, but could see no traces of the accident. Nothing was in sight. Which way should he turn? Where had it occurred? He began reproaching himself for not asking Jim Sanders which way the horse had been coming from. As he halted in indecision some one suddenly came round the turning of the road lower down. It was Cris Chattaway, with a rueful expression and a gig-whip in his hand.
George made but few strides towards him. "What is the worst, Cris? Let me know it."
"I'll have him taken in charge and prosecuted, as sure as a gun," raved Cris. "I will. It's infamous that these things should be allowed in the public road."
"What—the horse?" exclaimed George.
"Horse be hanged!" politely returned Cris, whose irritation was excessive. "It wasn't the horse's fault. Nothing could go steadier and better than he went all the way and back again, as far as this——"
"Where's Mrs. Chattaway?" interrupted George.
"On the bank, down there. She's all right; only shaken a bit. The fellow's name was on the thing, and I have copied it down, and I've sent a man off for a constable. I'll teach him that he can't go about the country, plying his trade and frightening gentlemen's horses with impunity."
In spite of Cris's incoherence and passion, George contrived to gather an inkling of the facts. They had taken a short, easy drive down the lower road and through Barbrook, the horse going (according to Cris) beautifully. But on the road home, in that lonely part between the Hold and Trevlyn Farm, there stood a razor-grinder with his machine, grinding a knife. Whether the whirr of the wheel did not please the horse; whether it was the aspect of the machine; or whether it might be the razor-grinder himself, a somewhat tattered object in a fur cap, the animal no sooner came near, than he began to dance and backed towards the ditch. Cris did his best. He was a good whip and a fearless one; but he could not conquer. The horse turned Mrs. Chattaway into the ditch, relieved his mind by a few kicks, and started off with part of the shafts behind him.
"Are you much hurt, dear Mrs. Chattaway?" asked George, tenderly, as he bent over her.
She looked up with a smile, but her face was of a death-like whiteness. Fortunately, the ditch, a wide one, was dry; and she sat on the sloping bank, her feet resting in it. The dog-cart lay near, and several gazers, chiefly labouring men, stood around, helplessly staring. The razor-grinder was protestinghisimmunity from blame, and the hapless machine remained in its place untouched, drawn close to the pathway on the opposite side of the road.
"You need not look at me so anxiously, George," Mrs. Chattaway replied, the smile still on her face. "I don't believe I am hurt. One of my elbows is smarting, but I really feel no pain anywhere. I am shaken, of course; but that's not much. I wish I had taken your advice, not to sit behind that horse."
"Cris says he went beautifully, until he was frightened."
"Did Cris say so? It appeared to me that he had trouble with him all the way; but Cris knows, of course. He has gone to the Hold to bring the carriage for me, but I don't care to sit here to be stared at longer than I can help," she added, with a half-smile.
George leaped into the ditch, and partly helped and partly lifted her up the bank, and took her on his arm. She walked slowly, however, and leaned heavily upon him. When they reached the lodge, old Canham was gazing up and down the road, and Ann came out, full of consternation. They had seen the horse with the broken shafts gallop past.
"Then there's no bones broke, thank Heaven!" said Ann, with tears in her meek eyes.
She drew forward her father's armchair before the open door, and Mrs. Chattaway sat down in it, feeling she must have air, she said. "If I had but a drop o' brandy for Madam!" cried old Canham, as he stood near leaning all his weight on his stick.
George caught up the words. "I will go to the Hold and get some." And before Mrs. Chattaway could stop him, or say that she would prefer not to take the brandy he was away.
Almost at the same moment they heard the fast approach of a horse, and the master of Trevlyn Hold rode in at the gates. To describe his surprise when he saw his wife sitting, an apparent invalid, in old Canham's chair, and old Canham and Ann standing in evident consternation, almost as pale as she was, would be a difficult task. He reined in so quickly that his horse was flung back on its haunches.
"Is anything the matter? Has Madam been taken ill?"
"There has been an accident, sir," answered Ann Canham, with a meek curtsey. "Mr. Christopher was driving out Madam in the dog-cart, and they were thrown out."
Mr. Chattaway got off his horse. "How did it happen?" he asked his wife, an angry expression crossing his face. "Was it Cris's fault? I hate that random driving of his!"
"I am not hurt, James; only a little shaken," she replied, with gentleness. "Cris was not to blame. There was a razor-grinder in the road, grinding knives, and it frightened the horse."
"Which horse was he driving?" demanded Mr. Chattaway.
"A new one. One he bought from Allen."
The reply did not please Mr. Chattaway. "I told Cris he should not buy that horse," he angrily said. "Is the dog-cart injured?"
It was apparent from the question that Mr. Chattaway had not passed thedébrison the road. He must have come the other way, or perhaps across the common. Mrs. Chattaway did not dare to say she believed the dog-cart was very much injured. "The shafts are broken," she said, "and something more."
"Where did it occur?" growled Mr. Chattaway.
"A little lower down the road. George Ryle came up soon after it happened, and I walked here with him. Cris went on to the Hold to send the carriage, but I shall get home without it."
"It might have been worse, Squire," interposed old Canham, who, as a dependant of Trevlyn Hold, felt compelled sometimes to give the "Squire" his title to his face, though he never would, or did, behind his back. "Nothing hardly happens to us, sir, in this world, but what's more eased to us than it might be."
Mr. Chattaway had stood with his horse's bridle over his arm. "Would you like to walk home with me now?" he asked his wife. "I can lead the horse."
"Thank you, James. I think I must rest here a little longer. I had only just got here when you came up."
"I'll send for you," said Mr. Chattaway. "Or come back myself when I have left the horse at home. Mr. Cris will hear more than he likes from me about this business."
"Such an untoward thing has never happened to Mr. Cris afore, sir," observed Mark Canham. "There's never a better driver than him for miles round. The young heir, now, he's different: a bit timid, I fancy, and——"
"Who?" burst forth Mr. Chattaway, taking his foot from the stirrup, for he was about to mount, and hurling daggers at Mark Canham. "The young heir! To whom do you dare apply that title!"
Had the old man purposely launched a sly shaft at the master of Trevlyn Hold, or had he spoken inadvertently? He hastened to repair the damage as he best could.
"Squire, I be growing old now—more by sickness, though, than by age—and things and people gets moithered together in my mind. In the bygone days, it was a Rupert Trevlyn that was the heir, and I can't at all times call to mind that this Rupert Trevlyn is not so: the name is the same, you see. What has set me to make such a stupid mistake this afternoon, I can't tell, unless it was the gentleman's words that was here but an hour ago. He kept calling Master Rupert the heir; and he wouldn't call him nothing else."
Mr. Chattaway's face grew darker. "What gentleman was that, pray?"
"I never see him before in my life, sir," returned old Canham. "He was a stranger to the place, and asked all manner of questions about it. He called Master Rupert the heir, and I stopped him, saying he made a mistake, for Master Rupert was not the heir. And he answered I was right so far, that Master Rupert, instead of being the heir of Trevlyn Hold, was its master and owner. I couldn't help staring at him when he said it."
Chattaway felt as if his blood were curdling. Was this the first act in the great drama he had so long dreaded? "Where did he come from? What sort of a man was he?" he mechanically asked, all symptoms of anger dying away in his sudden fear.
Old Canham shook his head. "I don't know nothing about where he's from, sir. He came strolling inside the gates, as folks strange to a place will do, looking about 'em just for curiosity's sake. He saw me sitting at the open window, and he asked what place this was, and I told him it was Trevlyn Hold. He said he thought so, that he had been walking about looking for Trevlyn Hold, and he leaned his arm upon the sill, and put nigh upon a hundred questions to me."
"What were the questions?" eagerly rejoined Mr. Chattaway.
"I should be puzzled to tell you half of 'em, sir, but they all bore upon Trevlyn Hold. About the Squire's death, and the will, and the succession; about everything in short. At last I told him that I didn't know the rightful particulars myself, and he'd better go to you or Miss Diana."
Mrs. Chattaway stole a glance at her husband. Her face was paler than the accident had made it; with a more alarmed pallor. The impression clinging to her mind, and of which she had spoken to her husband the previous night—that Rupert Trevlyn was on the eve of being restored to his rights—seemed terribly strong upon her now.
"He was a tall, thin, strange-looking man, with a foreign look about him, and a red umberella," continued old Canham. "A long white beard he had, sir, like a goat, and an odd hat made of cloth or crape, or some mourning stuff. His tongue wasn't quite like an English tongue, either. I shouldn't wonder but he was a lawyer, Squire: no one else wouldn't surely think of putting such a string of questions——"
"Did he—did he put the questions as an official person might put them?" rapidly interrupted Mr. Chattaway.
Old Canham hesitated; at a loss what precise reply to give. "He put 'em as though he wanted answers to 'em," returned he at length. "He said a word or two, sir, that made me think he'd been intimate once with the young Squire, Mr. Joe, and he asked whether his boy or his girl had growed up most like him. He wondered, he said, whether he should know either of 'em by the likeness, when he came to meet 'em, as he should do to-day or to-morrow."
"And what more?" gasped Mr. Chattaway.
"There was nothing more, Squire, in particular. He took his elbow off the window-sill, and went through the gates again down the road. It seemed to me as if he had come into the neighbourhood for some special purpose connected with the questions."
It seemed so to some one else also. When the master of Trevlyn Hold mounted his horse and rode him slowly through the avenue towards home, a lively fear, near and terrible, had replaced that vague dread which had so long lain latent in his heart.
The beauty of the calm autumn afternoon was marred by the hubbub in the road. The rays of the sun came filtering through the foliage of the trees, the deep blue sky was without a cloud, the air was still and balmy: imparting an idea of peace. But in that dusty highway, so lonely at other times, a crowd of people had gathered, and they talked and swayed, and made much clatter and disturbance.
The affair had got wind. How these affairs do get wind who can tell? It had been exaggerated in the usual fashion. "Madam was killed; the dog-cart smashed to pieces; the horse lamed; and Mr. Cris wounded." Half the gaping people who came up believed it all: and the chief hubbub was caused, not so much by discussing the accident, as by endeavouring to explain that its effects were not very disastrous.
The news had travelled with its embellishments to Trevlyn Farm, amidst other places; and it brought out Nora. Without waiting to put anything on, she took her way to the spot. Mrs. Ryle was expecting company that afternoon, and Nora was at leisure anden grande toilette: a black silk gown, its flounces edged with velvet, and a cap of blonde lace trimmed with white flowers. The persons who were gathered on the spot made way for her. The wrecked dog-cart lay partly in the ditch, partly out of it. Opposite was the grinding-machine, its owner now silent and crestfallen, as he inwardly speculated upon what the law could do to him.
"Then it's not true that Madam's killed?" cried Nora, after listening to the various explanations.
A dozen voices answered. "Madam wasn't hurt to speak of, only a bit shook: she had told them so herself. She had walked off on Mr. George Ryle's arm, without waiting for the carriage that Mr. Cris had gone to fetch."
"I'll be about that Jim Sanders," retorted Nora, wrathfully. "How dare he come in with such tales? He said Madam was lying dead in the road."
She had barely spoken, when the throng standing over the dog-cart was invaded by a new-arrival, one who had been walking in a neighbouring field, and wondered what the collection could mean. The rustics fell back and stared at him: first, because he was a stranger; secondly, because his appearance was somewhat out of the common way; thirdly, because he carried a red umbrella. A tall man with a long white beard, a hat, the like of which had never been seen by country eyes, and a foreign look.
You will at once recognise him for the traveller who had introduced himself at the parsonage as the Reverend Mr. Daw, a friend of its owner. The crowd, having had no such introduction, could only stare, marvelling whether he had dropped from the clouds. He had been out all the afternoon, taking notes of the neighbourhood, and since his conversation with old Canham—which you heard related afterwards to Mr. Chattaway, to that gentleman's intense dread—he had plunged into the fields on the opposite side of the way. There he had remained, musing and wandering, until aroused by the commotion which he speedily joined.
"What has happened?" he exclaimed. "An accident?"
The assemblage fell back. Rustics are prone to be suspicious of strangers, if their appearance is peculiar, and not one of them found a ready answer. Nora, however, whose tongue had, perhaps, never been at fault in its whole career, stood her ground.
"There's not much damage done, as far as I can learn," she said, in her usual free manner. "The dog-cart's the worst of it. There it lies. It was Cris Chattaway's own; and I should think it will be a lesson to him not to be so fond of driving strange horses."
"Is it to the Chattaways the accident has occurred?" asked the stranger.
Nora nodded. She was stooping down to survey more critically the damages done to the dog-cart. "Cris Chattaway was driving his mother out," she said, rising. "He was trying a strange horse, and this was the result," touching the wheel with her foot. "Madam was thrown into the ditch here."
"And hurt?" laconically asked Mr. Daw.
"Only shaken—as they say. But a shaking may be dangerous for one so delicate as Madam Chattaway. A pity but it had beenhim."
Nora spoke the last word with emphasis so demonstrative that her hearer raised his eyes in wonderment. "Of whom do you speak?" he said.
"Of Chattaway: Madam's husband. A shaking might do him good."
"You don't like him, apparently," observed the stranger.
"I don't know who does," freely spoke Nora.
"Ah," said Mr. Daw, quietly. "Then I am not singular.Idon't."
"Do you know him?" she rejoined.
But to this the stranger gave no reply; he had evidently no intention of giving any; and the silence whetted Nora's curiosity more than any answer could have done, however obscure or mysterious. Perhaps no living woman within a circuit of five miles possessed curiosity equal to that of Nora Dickson.
"Where have you known Chattaway?" she exclaimed.
"It does not matter," said the stranger. "He is in the enjoyment of Trevlyn Hold, I hear."
To say "I hear," as applied to the subject, imparted the idea that the stranger had only just gained the information. Nora threw her quick black eyes searchingly upon him.
"Have you lived in a wood not to know that James Chattaway was possessor of Trevlyn Hold?" she said, with her characteristic plainness of speech. "He has enjoyed it these twenty years to the exclusion of Rupert Trevlyn."
"Rupert Trevlyn is its rightful owner," said the stranger, almost as demonstratively as Nora herself could have spoken.
"Ah," said Nora, with a sort of indignant groan, "the whole parish knows that. But Chattaway has possession of it, you see."
"Why doesn't some one help Rupert Trevlyn to his rights?"
"Who's to do it?" crossly responded Nora. "Can you?"
"Possibly," returned the stranger.
Had the gentleman asserted that he might possibly cause the moon to shine by day instead of by night, Nora could not have shown more intense surprise. "Help—him—to—his—rights?" she slowly repeated. "Do you mean to say you could displace Chattaway?"
"Possibly," was the repeated answer.
"Why—who are you?" uttered the amazed Nora.
A smile flitted for a moment over Mr. Daw's countenance, the first symptom of a break to its composed sadness. But he gave no reply.
"Do you know Rupert Trevlyn?" she reiterated.
But even to that there was no direct answer. "I came to this place partly to see Rupert Trevlyn," were the words that issued from his lips. "I knew his father; he was my dear friend."
"Who can he be?" was the question reiterating itself in Nora's active brain. "Are you a lawyer?" she asked, the idea suddenly occurring to her: as it had, you may remember, to old Canham.
Mr. Daw coughed. "Lawyers are keen men," was his answering remark, and Nora could have beaten him for its vagueness. But before she could say more, an interruption occurred.
This conversation had been carried on aloud; neither the stranger nor Nora having deemed it necessary to speak in undertones. The consequence of which was, that those in the midst of whom they stood had listened with open ears, drawing their own deductions—and very remarkable deductions some of them were. The knife-grinder—though a stranger to the local politics, and totally uninterested in them—had listened with the rest. One conclusionhehastily came to, was, that the remarkable-looking gentleman with the white beardwasa lawyer; and he pushed himself to the front.
"You be a lawyer, master," he broke in, with some excitement. "Would you mind telling of me whether theycanharm me. If I ain't at liberty to ply my trade under a roadside hedge but I must be took up and punished for it, why, it's a fresh wrinkle I've got to learn. I've done it all my life; others in the same trade does it; can the law touch us?"
Mr. Daw had turned in wonderment. He had heard nothing of the grinding-machine in connection with the accident, and the man's address was unintelligible. A score of voices hastened to enlighten him, but before it was well done, the eager knife-grinder's voice rose above the rest.
"Can the laws touch me for it, master?"
"I cannot tell you," was the answer.
The man's low brow scowled fitfully: he was somewhat ill-looking to the eye of a physiognomist. "What'll it cost?" he roughly said, taking from his pocket a bag in which was a handful of copper money mixed with a sprinkling of small silver. "I might know. A lawyer wouldn't give nothing for nothing, but I'll pay. If the laws can be down upon me for grinding a knife in the highway open to the world, all I can say is, that the laws is infamous."
He stood looking at the stranger, with an air of demand, not of supplication—and rather insulting demand, too. Mr. Daw showed no signs of resenting the incipient insolence; on the contrary, his voice took a kind and sympathising tone.
"My good man, you may put up your money. I can give you no information about the law, simply because I am ignorant of its bearing on these cases. In the old days, when I was an inhabitant of England, I have seen many a machine such as yours plying its trade in the public roads, and the law, as I supposed, could not touch them, neither did it attempt to. But that may be altered now: there has been time enough for it; years and years have passed since I last set foot on English soil."
The razor-grinder thrust his bag into his pocket again, and began to push back to the spot whence he had come. The mob had listened with open ears, but had gained little further information. Whether he was a lawyer or whether he was not; where he had come from, and what his business was amongst them, unless it was the placing of young Rupert Trevlyn in possession of his "rights," they could not tell.
Nora could not tell—and the fact did not please her. If there was one thing provoked Nora Dickson more than all else, it was to have her curiosity unsatisfied. She felt that she had been thwarted now. Turning away in a temper, speaking not a syllable to the stranger by way of polite adieu, she began to retrace her steps to Trevlyn Farm, holding up the flounces of her black silk gown, that they might not come into contact with the dusty road.
But—somewhat to her surprise—she found the mysterious stranger had also extricated himself from the mob, and was following her. Nora was rather on the high ropes just then, and would not notice him. He, however, accosted her.
"By what I gathered from a word or two you let fall, I should assume that you are a friend of Rupert Trevlyn's, ma'am?"
"I hope I am," said Nora, mollified at the prospect of enlightenment. "Few folks about here but are friends to him, unless it's Chattaway and his lot at the Hold."
"Then perhaps you will have no objection to inform me—if you can inform me—how it was that Mr. Chattaway came into possession of the Hold, in place of young Rupert Trevlyn. I cannot understand how it could possibly have been. Until I came here to-day, I never supposed but the lad, Rupert, was Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
"Perhaps you'll first of all tell me what you want the information for?" returned Nora. "I don't know who you are, sir, remember."
"You heard me say I was a friend of his father's; I should like to be a friend to the boy. It appears to me to be a monstrous injustice that he should not have succeeded to the estate of his ancestors. Has he beenlegallydeprived of it?"
"As legally as a properly-made will could deprive him," was the reply of Nora. "Legality and justice don't always go together in our parts: I don't know what they may do in yours."
"Joe Trevlyn—my friend—was the direct heir to Trevlyn Hold. Upon his death his son became the heir. Why did he not succeed?"
"There are folks that say he was cheated out of it," replied Nora, in very significant tones.
"Cheated out of it?"
"It is said the news of Rupert's birth was never suffered to reach the ears of Squire Trevlyn. That the Squire went to his grave, never knowing he had a grandson in the direct male line—went to it after willing the estate to Chattaway."
"Kept from it by whom?" eagerly cried Mr. Daw.
"By those who had an interest in keeping it from him—Chattaway and Miss Diana Trevlyn. It is so said, I say:Idon't assert it. There may be danger in speaking too openly to a stranger," candidly added Nora.
"There is no danger in speaking to me," he frankly said. "I have told you the truth—that I am a friend of young Rupert Trevlyn's. Chattaway is not a friend of mine, and I never saw him in my life."
Nora, won over to forget caution and ill-temper, opened her heart to the stranger. She told him all she knew of the fraud; told him of Rupert's friendlessness, his undesirable position at the Hold. Nora's tongue, set going upon any grievance she felt strongly, could not be stopped. They walked on until the fold-yard gate of Trevlyn Farm was reached. There Nora came to a halt. And there she was in the midst of a concluding oration, delivered with forcible eloquence, and there the stranger was listening eagerly, when they were interrupted by George Ryle.
Nora ceased suddenly. The stranger looked round, and seeing a gentleman-like man who evidently belonged in some way to Nora, lifted his hat. George returned it.
"It's somebody strange to the place," unceremoniously pronounced Nora, by way of introducing him to George. "He was asking about Rupert Trevlyn."
If they had possessed extraordinarily good eyes, any one of the three, they might have detected a head peering at them over a hedge about two fields off, in the direction of Trevlyn Hold. The head was Mr. Chattaway's. That gentleman rode home from the lodge, after hearing old Canham's account of the mysterious visit, in a state not to be described. Encountering Miss Diana, he despatched her with Octave to the lodge to see after his wife; he met George Ryle, and told himhisservices were no further needed—Madam wanted neither him nor the brandy; he sent his horse to the stable, and went indoors: all in a confused state of agitation, as if he scarcely knew what he was about.
Dinner was ready; the servants were perplexed at no one's coming in for it, and they asked if the Squire would sit down without Madam.Hesit down to dinner—in that awful uncertainty? No; rather would he steal out and poke and pry about until he had learned something.
He left the house and plunged into the fields. He did not go back down the avenue, openly past the lodge into the road: cowards, with their fear upon them, prowl about stealthily—as Chattaway was doing now. Very grievously was the fear upon him.
He walked hither and thither: he stood for some minutes in the field which had once been so fatal to poor Mr. Ryle; his arms were folded, his head was bent, his newly-awakened imagination was in full play. He crept to the outer field, and walked under cover of its hedge until he came opposite all that hubbub and confusion. There he halted, found himself a peep-hole, and took in by degrees all that was to be seen: the razor-grinder and his machine, the dog-cart and its dilapidations, and the mob. Eagerly, anxiously did his restless eyes scan that mob; but he, upon whom they hoped to rest, was not amongst them. For you may be sure Mr. Chattaway was searching after none but the dreaded stranger. Miserly as he was, he would have given a ten-pound note out of his pocket to obtain only a moment's look at him. He had been telling over all the enemies he had ever made, as far as he could remember them. Was it one of those?—some one who owed him a grudge, and was taking this way of paying it? Or was it a danger coming from a totally unknown quarter? Ten pounds! Chattaway would have given fifty then for a good view of the stranger; and his eyes were unmindful of the unfriendly thorns, in their feverish anxiety to penetrate to the very last of that lazy throng, idling away the summer's afternoon.
The stranger was certainly not amongst them. Chattaway knew every chattering soul there. Some of his unconscious labourers made a part, and he only wished he dared appear and send them flying. But he did not care to do so. If ever there was a cautious man where he and his interests were concerned, it was Chattaway; and he would not run the risk of meeting this man face to face. No, no; rather let him get a bird's-eye view of him first, that he might be upon his guard.
The state of the dog-cart did not by any means tend to soothe his feelings; neither did the sight of George Ryle, who passed through the crowd in the direction of his own home. He could see what a pretty penny it would take to repair the one; he knew not how many pounds it might take to set right any mischief being hatched by the other. Mr. Chattaway turned away. He bore along noiselessly by the side of the hedge, and then over a stile into a lower field, and then into another. That brought Trevlyn Farm under his vision, and—and—what did his restless eyes catch sight of?
Leaning on the fold-yard gate, dressed in a style not often seen, stood Nora Dickson; on the other side was George Ryle, and with him one who might be recognised at the first glance—the strange-looking man, with his white hair, his red umbrella, and his queer hat, as described by old Canham. There could be no mistake about it; he it was: and the perspiration poured off the master of Trevlyn Hold in his mortal fear.
What were they hatching, those three? That it looked suspicious must be confessed, to one whose fears were awakened as were Chattaway's; for their heads were in close contact, and their attention was absorbed. Was he stopping at Trevlyn Farm, this man of treason? Undoubtedly: or why should Nora Dickson be decked out in company attire? Chattaway had always believed George Ryle to be a rogue, but now he knew him to be one.
It was a pity Chattaway could not be listening as well as peeping. He would only have heard the gentleman explain to George Ryle who he was; his name, his calling, and where he was visiting in Barbrook. So far, Chattaway's doubts would have been at rest; but he would have heard no worse. George was less impulsive than Nora, and would not be likely to enter on the discussion of the claims of Rupert TrevlynversusChattaway, with a new acquaintance.
A very few minutes, and they separated. The conversation had been general since George came up; not a word having been said that could have alarmed intruding ears. Nora hastened indoors; George turned off to his rick-yard; and the stranger stood in the road and gazed leisurely about him, as though considering the points for a sketch. Presently he disappeared from Chattaway's view.
That gentleman, taking a short time to recover himself, came to the conclusion that he might as well disappear also, in the direction of his home; where no doubt dinner was arrested, and its hungry candidates speculating upon what could have become of the master. It was of no use remaining where he was. He had ascertained one point—the dreaded enemy was an utter stranger to him. More than that he did not see that he could ascertain, in this early stage.
He wiped his damp face and set forth on his walk home, stepping out pretty briskly. It was as inadvisable to make known his fears abroad as to proclaim them at home. Were only an inkling to become known, it seemed to Chattaway that it would be half the business towards wresting Trevlyn Hold from him.
As he walked on, his courage partially came back to him, and the reaction once set in, his hopes went up, until he almost began to despise his recent terror. It was absurd to suppose this stranger could have anything to do with himself and Rupert Trevlyn. He was merely an inquisitive traveller looking about the place for his amusement, and in so doing had picked up bits of gossip, and was seeking further information about them—all to while away an idle hour. What a fool he had been to put himself into a fever for nothing.
These consoling thoughts drowning the mind's latent dread—or rather making pretence to do so, for that the dread was there still, Chattaway was miserably conscious—he went on increasing his speed. At last, in turning into another field, he nearly knocked down a man running in the same direction, who had come up at right angles with him: a labourer named Hatch, who worked on his farm.
It was a good opportunity to let off a little of his ill-humour, and he demanded where the man had been skulking, and why he was away from his work. Hatch answered that, hearing of the accident to Madam and the young Squire, he and his fellow-labourers had been induced to run to the spot in the hope of affording help.
"Help!" said Mr. Chattaway. "You went off to see what there was to be seen, and for nothing else, leaving the rick half made. I have a great mind to dock you of a half-day's pay. Is there so much to look at in a broken dog-cart, that you and the rest of you must neglect my work?"
The man took off his hat and rubbed his head gently: his common resort in a quandary. Theyhadhindered a great deal more time than was necessary; and had certainly not bargained for its coming to the knowledge of the Squire. Hatch, too simple or too honest to invent excuses, could only make the best of the facts as they stood.
"'Twasn't the dog-cart kept us, Squire. 'Twas listening to a strange-looking gentleman; a man with a white beard and a red umberellar. He were talking about Trevlyn Hold, saying it belonged to Master Rupert, and he were going to help him to it."
Chattaway turned away his face. Instinct taught him that even this stolid serf should not see the cold moisture that suddenly oozed from every pore. "Whatdid he say?" he cried, in accents of scorn.
Hatch considered. And you must not too greatly blame the exaggerated reply. Hatch did not purposely deceive his master; but he did what a great many of us are apt to do—he answered according to the impression made on his imagination. He and the rest of the listeners had drawn their own conclusions, and in accordance with those conclusions he now spoke.
"He said for one thing, Squire, as he didn't like you——"
"How does he know me?" Mr. Chattaway interrupted.
"Nora Dickson asked him, but he wouldn't answer. He's a lawyer, and——"
"How do you know he's a lawyer?" again interrupted Mr. Chattaway.
"Because he said it," was the prompt reply. And the man had no idea that it was an incorrect one. He as much believed the white-bearded stranger to be a lawyer as that he himself was a day-labourer. "He said he had come to help Master Rupert to his rights, and displace you from 'em. Our hairs stood on end to hear him, Squire."
"Who is he?—where does he come from?" And to save his very life Chattaway could not have helped the words issuing forth in gasps.
"He never said where he come from—save he hadn't been in England for many a year. We was a wondering among ourselves where he come from, after he walked off with Nora Dickson."
"Does she know?"
"No, she don't, Squire. He come up while she were standing there, and she wondered who he were, as we did. 'Twere through her asking him questions that he said so much."
"But—what has he to do with my affairs?—what has he to do with Rupert Trevlyn?" passionately rejoined Mr. Chattaway.
It was a query Hatch was unable to answer. "He said he were a friend of the dead heir, Mr. Joe—I mind well he said that—and he had come to this here place partly to see Master Rupert. He didn't seem to know afore as Master Rupert had not got the Hold, and Nora Dickson asked if he'd lived in a wood not to know that. So then he said he should help him to his rights, and Nora said, 'What! displace Chattaway?' and he said, 'Yes.' We was took aback, Squire, and stopped a bit longer maybe than we ought. It was that kep' us from the rick."
Every pulse beating, every drop of blood coursing in fiery heat, the master of Trevlyn Hold reached his home. He went in, and left his hat in the hall, and entered the dining-room, as a man in some awful dream. A friend of Joe Trevlyn's!—come to help Rupert to his rights!—to displacehim! The words rang their changes on his brain.
They had not waited dinner. It had been Miss Diana's pleasure that it should be commenced, and Mr. Chattaway took a seat mechanically. Mechanically he heard that his wife had declined partaking of it—had been ill when she reached home; that Rupert, after a hasty meal, had gone upstairs to lie down, at the recommendation of Miss Diana; that Cris had now gone off to the damaged dog-cart. He was as a man stunned, and felt utterly unnerved. He sat down, but found he could not swallow a mouthful.
The cloth was removed and dessert placed upon the table. After taking a little fruit, the younger ones dispersed; Maude went upstairs to see how Mrs. Chattaway was; the rest to the drawing-room. The master of Trevlyn Hold paced the carpet, lost in thought. The silence was broken by Miss Diana.
"Squire, I am not satisfied with the appearance of Rupert Trevlyn. I fear he may be falling into worse health than usual. It must be looked to, and more care taken of him. I intend to buy him a pony to ride to and fro between here and Blackstone."