The morning sun shone upon the crowded court, as the Bench waited for the appearance of Mr. Jim Sanders. The windows, large, high, and guiltless of blinds, faced the south-east, and the warm autumn rays poured in, to the discomfort of those on whom they directly fell. They fell especially on the prisoner; his fair hair, his winning countenance. They fell on the haughty features of Miss Diana Trevlyn, leaning forward to speak to Mr. Peterby, who had been summoned in haste by herself, that he might watch the interests of Rupert. They fell on the sad face of Mrs. Chattaway, bent downwards until partly hidden under its falling curls; and they fell on the red face of Farmer Apperley, who was in a brown study, gently flicking his top-boot with his riding-whip.
One, who had come pressing through the crowd, extended her hand, and touched the farmer on the shoulder. He turned to behold Nora Dickson.
"Mr. Apperley, did your wife make those inquiries for me about that work-woman at the upholsterer's, whether she goes out by the day or not?" asked Nora, as though speaking for the benefit of the court in general.
Mr. Apperley paused to collect his thoughts upon the subject. "Ididhear the missis say something about that woman," he remarked at length. "I can't call to mind what, though. Brown, isn't her name?"
"We must have her, or somebody else," continued Nora, in the same tones. "Our drawing-room winter-curtains must be turned top for bottom; and as to the moreen bed-furniture——"
"Silence there!" interrupted an authoritative voice. And then there came again the same call which had already been echoed through the court twice before—
"James Sanders!"
"Just step here to the back, and I'll send your wife a message for the woman," resumed Nora, in defiance of the mandate just issued.
The farmer did not see why the message could not have been given to him where he was; but we are all apt to yield to a ruling power, and he followed Nora.
She struggled through the crowded doorway of the court into a comparatively empty stone hall. The farmer contrived to follow her; but he was short and stout, and emerged purple with the exertion. Nora cast her cautious eyes around, and then bent towards him with the softest whisper.
"Look here, Mr. Apperley. If they examineyou, you have no need to tell everything, you know."
Mr. Apperley, none of the keenest at taking a hint, stared at Nora. He could not understand. "Are you talking about the upholstering woman?" asked he, in his perplexity.
"Rubbish!" retorted Nora. "Do you suppose I brought you here to talk about her? You have not a bit of gumption—as everybody knows. Jim Sanders is not to be found; at least, it seems so," continued Nora, with a short cough; "for that's the third time they have called him. Now, if they examine you—as I suppose they will, by Bowen saying you might be wanted, there's no need to go and repeat what Jim said about Rupert Trevlyn's guilt when you met him last night down by his cottage."
"Why! how did you know I met Jim last night?" cried the farmer, staring at Nora.
"There's no time to explain now: I didn't dream it. You liked Joe Trevlyn: I have heard you say it."
"Ay, I did," replied the farmer, casting his thoughts back.
"Well, then, just bring to your mind how that poor lad, his son, has been wronged and put upon through life; think of the critical position he stands in now; before a hundred eyes—brought to it through that usurper, Chattaway. Don'tyouhelp on the hue and cry against him, I say. You didn't see him fire the rick; you only heard Jim Sanders say that he fired it; and you are not called upon to repeat that hearsay evidence.Don't do it, Mr. Apperley."
"I suppose I am not," assented he, after digesting the words.
"Indeed you are not. If Jim can't be found, and you don't speak, I think it's not much of a case they'll make out against him. After all, Jimmayhave done it himself, you know."
She turned away, leaving the farmer to follow her, and he, slow at coming to conclusions, stopped where he was, pondering all sides of the question in his mind.
But there's a word to say about Policeman Dumps. Nothing could exceed the consternation experienced by that functionary at the non-appearance of Jim Sanders. On their arrival at Barmester, they had searched for him in vain. Dumps would not believe that he had been purposely deceived, although the stern eyes of his superior were bent on him with a very significant look. "Get the fleetest conveyance you can, and be off to Barbrook and see about it," were the whispered commands of the latter. "A pretty go, this is! I shall have the Bench blowing me up in public!"
The Bench, vexed at the fruitless calls for Jim Sanders, looked much inclined to blow some one up. They were better off in regard to the sun than their audience, since they had their backs to it. The chairman, who sat in the middle, was a Mr. Pollard, a kindly, but hasty and opinionated man. He ordered the case to proceed, while the principal witness, Jim Sanders, was being looked for.
Mr. Flood, the lawyer from Barmester, acting for Mr. Chattaway, stated the case shortly and concisely. And the first witness called upon was Mr. Chattaway, who descended from the bench to give his evidence.
He was obliged to confess to his shame. He stood there before the condemning faces around, and acknowledged that the chastisement spoken to was a fact—that hehadlaid his horsewhip on the shoulders of Rupert Trevlyn. He was pressed for the why and wherefore—Chattaway was no favourite with his brother-magistrates, and they did not show him any remarkable favour—and he had further to confess that the provocation was totally inadequate to the punishment.
"State your grounds for charging your nephew, Rupert Trevlyn, with the crime," said the Bench.
"There is not the slightest doubt that he did it in a fit of passion," said Mr. Chattaway. "There was no one but him in the rick-yard, so far as I saw, and he had a lighted torch in his hand. This torch he dropped for a moment, but I suppose picked it up again."
"It is said that James Sanders was also in the rick-yard; and the torch was his."
"I did not see James Sanders. I saw only Rupert Trevlyn, and he had the torch in his hand when I went up. Not many minutes after I quitted the rick-yard the flames broke out."
Apparently this was all Mr. Chattaway knew of the actual facts. The man Hatch was called, and testified to the fact that Jim Sanders was in the rick-yard. Bridget, the kitchenmaid, in a state of much tremor, confirmed this, and confessed she was there subsequently with Jim, that he had a torch, and they saw the flames break out. She related her story pretty circumstantially, winding up with the statement that Jim told her Mr. Rupert had set it on fire.
"Stop a bit, lass," interrupted Mr. Peterby. "You have just stated to their worships that Jim Sanders flew off the moment he saw the flames burst forth, never stopping to speak a word.Nowyou say he told you it was Mr. Rupert who fired it. How do you reconcile the contradiction?"
"He had told me first, sir," answered the girl. "He said he saw the master horsewhip Mr. Rupert, and Mr. Rupert in his passion caught up the torch which had fell, thrust it into the rick, and then leaped over the palings and got away. Jim pulled the torch out of the rick, and all the hay that had caught, as he thought; he told me all this when he was showing me the puppy. I suppose a spark must have been left in to smoulder, unknown to him."
"Now don't you think that you and he and the torch and the puppy, between you, managed to get the spark there, instead of its having 'smouldered,' eh, girl?" sarcastically asked Mr. Peterby.
Bridget burst into tears. "No, I am sure we did not," she answered.
"Don't you likewise think that this pretty little bit of news regarding Mr. Rupert may have been a fable of Mr. Jim's invention, to excuse his own carelessness?" went on the lawyer.
"I am certain it was not, sir," she sobbed. "When Jim told me about Mr. Rupert, he never thought the rick was on fire."
They could not get on at all without Jim Sanders. Mr. Peterby's insinuations were pointed; nay, more; for he boldly asserted that the rick was far more likely to have been fired by Jim than Rupert—that is, by a spark from that gentleman's torch, whilst engaged with two objects so exacting as a puppy and Bridget. Jim himself could alone clear up the knotty question, and the Court gave vent to its impatience, and wished they were at the heels of Policeman Dumps who had gone in search of him.
But the heels of Policeman Dumps could not by any means have flown more quickly over the ground, had the whole court been after him in full cry. In point of fact, they were not his own heels that were at work, but those of a fleet little horse, drawing the light gig in which the policeman sat. So effectually did he whip up this horse, that in considerably less time than half-an-hour, Mr. Dumps was nearing Jim's dwelling. As he passed the police-station at Barbrook, the only solitary policeman left to take care of the interests of the district was fulfilling his duty by taking a lounge against the door-post.
"Have you seen anything of Jim Sanders?" called out Mr. Dumps, partially checking his horse. "He has never made his appearance yonder, and I'm come after him."
"I hear he's off," answered the man.
"Off! Off where?"
"Cut away," was the explanatory reply. "He hasn't been seen since last night."
Allowing himself a whole minute to take in the news, Mr. Dumps whipped on his horse, and gave utterance to a very unparliamentary word. When he burst into Mrs. Sanders's cottage, which was full of steam, and she before a washing-tub, he seized that lady's arm in so emphatic a manner that perceiving what was coming, she gave a scream, and very nearly plunged her head into the soap-suds.
Mr. Dumps ungallantly shook her. "Now, you just answer me," cried he; "and if you speak a word of a lie this time you'll get transported, or something as bad. What made you tell me last night Jim had come home and was in bed? Where is he?"
She supposed he knew all—all the wickedness of her conduct in screening him; and it had the effect of hardening her. She was, as it were, at bay; and deceit was no longer possible.
"If you did transport me I couldn't tell where he is. I don't know. I never set eyes on him all the blessed night, and that's the naked truth. Let me go, Mr. Dumps: it's no good choking me."
Mr. Dumps looked ready to choke himself. He had been deceived, and turned aside from the execution of his duty, his brother constables would have the laugh against him, Bowen would blow up, the Bench at Barmester was waiting, Jim was off—and that wretched woman had done it all! Mr. Dumps ground his teeth in impotent rage.
"I'll have you punished as sure as my name's what it is, Madge Sanders, if you don't tell me the truth," he foamed. "Is Jim in this here house?"
"You be welcome to search the house," she replied, throwing open the staircase door, which led to the loft. "I'm telling nothing but truth now, though I was frighted into doing summit else last night; frighted to death a'most, and so I was this morning when I said he'd gone on to Barmester."
Mr. Dumps felt inclined to shake her again: we are sure to be more angry with others when we have ourselves to blame; how could he have been fool enough to place such blind confidence in Farmer Apperley? One thing forced itself on his conviction; the woman was stating nothing but fact now.
"You persist in it to my face that you don't know where Jim is?" he cried.
"I swear I don't. There! I swear I have never set eyes on him since last night when he came home after work, and went out to take his black puppy to Trevlyn Hold. He never came in after that."
"You just dry those soap-suddy arms of yours, put your bonnet on, and come straight off, and tell that to the magistrates," commanded Mr. Dumps, in sullen tones.
She did not dare resist. Putting on her bonnet, flinging her old shawl across her shoulders, she was marshalled by Mr. Dumps to the gig. To look after Jim was a secondary consideration. To make his own excuse good was the first; and if Jim had had a matter of twelve-hours' start, he might be at twelve-hours' distance.
Not to be found! Jim Sanders had made his escape, and was not to be found! reiterated the indignant Bench, when Mrs. Sanders and her escort appeared. What did Bowen mean, by asserting that Jim was ready to be called upon?
Bowen shifted the blame from his own shoulders to those of Dumps; and Dumps, with a red face, shifted it on to Mrs. Sanders. She was sternly questioned, and made the same excuse she had made to Dumps—it was his saying to her that Jim had returned, and was in bed, that caused her in her fright to agree with it, and reply that he was. But she had not seen Jim, and he had never been a-nigh home since he went out with the puppy in the earlier part of the evening. She knew no more where Jim was than Dumps himself knew.
That she told the truth appeared to be pretty clear to the magistrates, and to punish her for having so far used deceit to screen her son, might have been neither just nor legal. They turned back on Dumps.
"What induced you to put such a leading question to the woman, assuming the boy was at home and in bed?" they severely asked.
Dumps began rather to excuse himself than to explain. Such a thing hadn't never happened to him before; and it was Mr. Apperley's fault, for he met that gentleman nigh Meg Sanders's door, who told him Jim was all right, and gone home to bed.
This was the first time Mr. Apperley's name had been mentioned in connection with the affair, and the magistrates ordered him before them. Nora insinuated her way to the front, and Mrs. Chattaway's face bent lower, to conceal its anxious expression, the wild beating of her heart.
"Did you meet James Sanders last night, Mr. Apperley?" inquired the chairman.
"Yes; I did, sir. I was going home, when the danger was over, and the fire had got low, and I came upon Jim Sanders near his cottage, coming from the direction of Layton's Heath. Knowing he had been wanted, I laid hold of him: but the boy told me, simply enough, where he had been,—to Barbrook, Barmester, and Layton's Heath after the engines. He was then hastening to the Hold to help at the fire. I told him the fire was out, and he might get to bed."
"And you told Dumps that he had gone to bed?"
"I did. I never supposed but Jim went home then and there; and when I met Dumps a few minutes afterwards, I told him so. I can't understand it at all. The boy seemed almost too tired to move, and no wonder—and where he could have gone instead, is uncommon odd to me. It's to know whether his mother speaks truth in saying he did not go in," added the farmer, gratuitously imparting a little of his mind to the Bench.
"What did he say to you?"
"He said where he had been, and that he was going up to the Hold," replied the witness, in tones of palpable hesitation, as if weighing his words.
"You are sure it was Jim Sanders?" asked a very silent magistrate who sat at the end of the bench.
Mr. Apperley opened his eyes at this. "Sure it was Jim Sanders? Why, of course I'm sure of it?"
"Well, it appears that only you, so far as can be learnt, saw Jim Sanders at all near the spot after the alarm went out."
"Like enough," answered the farmer. "If the boy went to all these places, one after the other, he couldn't be at the Hold. But there's no mistake about my having seen him, and talked to him."
The danger appeared to be over. The Bench seemed to have no intention of asking further questions of Mr. Apperley, and Nora breathed freely again. But it often happens that when we deem ourselves most secure, hidden danger is all the nearer. As the witness was turning round to retire, Flood, the lawyer, stepped forward.
"A moment yet, if you please, Mr. Apperley. I must ask you a question or two, with the permission of the Bench. I believe you had met Jim Sanders before that, last night—soon after the breaking out of the fire?"
"Yes," replied the farmer; "it was at the bend of the road between the Hold and Barbrook. I had that minute caught sight of the flame, not knowing rightly where it was or what it was, and Jim came running up and said, as well as he could speak for his hurry and agitation, that it was in Mr. Chattaway's rick-yard."
"Agitated, was he?" asked the Bench; and a keen observer might have noticed Mr. Flood's brow contract with a momentary annoyance.
"So agitated as hardly to know what he was saying, as it appeared to me," returned the witness. "He went away at great speed in the direction of Barbrook; on his way—as I learnt afterwards—to fetch the fire-engines."
"And very laudable of him to do so," spoke up the lawyer. "But I have a serious question to put to you now, Mr. Apperley; be so good as to attend to me, and speak up. Did not Jim Sanders distinctly tell you that it was Rupert Trevlyn who had fired the rick?"
Mr. Apperley paused in indecision. On the one hand, he was a plain, straightforward, honest man, possessing little tact, no cunning; on the other, he shrank from harming Rupert. Nora's words had left a strong impression upon him, and the mysterious absence of Jim Sanders was also producing its effect, as it was on three-parts of the people in court. He and they were beginning to ask why Jim should run away unless he had been guilty.
"Have you lost your voice, Mr. Apperley?" resumed the lawyer. "Did or did not Jim Sanders say it was Rupert Trevlyn who fired the rick?"
"I cannot say but he did," replied Mr. Apperley, as an unpleasant remembrance came across him that he had proclaimed this fact the previous night to as many as chose to listen, to which incaution Mr. Flood no doubt owed his knowledge. "But Jim appeared so flustered and wild," he continued, "that my belief is—and I have said this before—that he didn't rightly know what he was saying."
"Unless I am misinformed, you had just before met Rupert Trevlyn," continued Mr. Flood. "Hewas wild and flustered, was he not?"
"He was."
"Were both coming from the same direction?"
"Yes. As if they had run straight from the Hold."
"From the rick-yard, eh?"
"It might be that they had; 'twas pretty straight, if they leaped a hedge or two."
"Just so. You were walking soberly along the high-road, on your way to Bluck the farrier's, when you were startled by the apparition of Rupert Trevlyn flying from the direction of the rick-yard like a wild animal—I only quote your own account of the fact, Mr. Apperley. Rupert was pale and breathless; in short, as you described him, he must have been under the influence of some great terror, orguilt. Was this so? Tell their worships."
"It was so," replied Mr. Apperley.
"You tried to stop him, and you could not; and as you stood looking after him, wondering whether he was mad, and, if not mad, what could have put him into such a state, Jim Sanders came up and told you a piece of news that was sufficient to account for any amount of agitation—namely, that Rupert Trevlyn had just set fire to one of the ricks in the yard at the Hold."
It was utterly impossible that Mr. Apperley in his truth could deny this, and a faint cry broke from the lips of Mrs. Chattaway. But when Mr. Flood had done with the farmer, it was Mr. Peterby's turn to question him. He had not much to ask him, but elicited the positive avowal—and the farmer seemed willing to make as much of it as did Mr. Peterby—that Jim Sanders was in as great a state of agitation as Rupert Trevlyn, or nearly so. He, Mr. Apperley, summed up the fact by certain effective words.
"Yes, they were both agitated—both wild; and if those signs were any proof of the crime, the one looked as likely to have committed it as the other."
The words told with the Bench. Mr. Flood exerted his eloquence to prove that Rupert Trevlyn, and he alone, must have been guilty. Not that he had any personal ill-feeling towards Rupert; he only spoke in his lawyerly instinct, which must do all it could for his client's cause. Mr. Peterby, on the other hand, argued that the circumstances were more conclusive of the guilt of James Sanders. Mr. Apperley had testified that both were nearly equally agitated; and if Rupert was the most so, it was only natural, for a gentleman's feelings were more easily stirred than an ignorant day-labourer's. In point of fact, this agitation might have proceeded from terror alone in each of them. Looking at the case dispassionately, what real point was there against Rupert Trevlyn? None. Who dared to assert that he was guilty? No one but the runaway, James Sanders, who most probably proffered the charge to screen himself. Where was James Sanders, Mr. Peterby continued, looking round the court. Nowhere: he had decamped; and this, of itself, ought to be taken by all sensible people as conclusive of guilt. He asked the Bench, in their justice, not to remand Rupert Trevlyn, as was urged by Mr. Flood, but to discharge him, and issue a warrant for the apprehension of James Sanders.
Ah, what anxious hearts were some of those in court as the magistrates consulted with each other. Mr. Chattaway had had the grace not to return to his seat, and waited, as did the rest of the audience. Presently the chairman spoke—and it is very possible that the general disfavour in which Mr. Chattaway was held had insensibly influenced their decision.
It appeared to the Bench, he said, that there were not sufficient facts proved against Rupert Trevlyn to justify their keeping him in custody, or in remanding the case. That he may have smarted in passion under the personal chastisement inflicted by Mr. Chattaway was not unlikely, and that gentleman had proved that, when he left the rick-yard, the lighted torch was, so to say, in possession of the prisoner. Mr. Apperley had likewise testified to meeting Rupert Trevlyn soon afterwards in a state of wild agitation. In the opinion of the Bench, these facts were not worth much: the lighted torch was proved to be in the possession of James Sanders in the rick-yard after this, as it had been before it; and the prisoner's agitation might have been solely the effect of the beating inflicted on him by Mr. Chattaway. Except the assertion of the boy, James Sanders, as spoken to by Mr. Apperley and the servant-maid, Bridget Sanders, there was nothing to connect the prisoner with the actual crime. It had been argued by Mr. Peterby that James Sanders himself had probably committed it, wilfully or accidentally, and that his absence might be regarded as pretty conclusive proof of this. Be that as it might, the Bench had come to the decision that there were not sufficient grounds for detaining the prisoner, and therefore he was discharged.
He was discharged! And the shout of approbation that arose in court made the very walls ring.
The first to press up to Rupert Trevlyn after his restored liberty was George Ryle. George held a very decided opinion upon the unhappy case; but strove to bury it five-fathom deep in his heart, and he hated Mr. Chattaway for the inflicted horsewhipping. Holding his arm out to Rupert, he led him towards the exit; but the sea of faces, of friendly voices, of shaking hands, was great, and somehow he and Rupert were separated.
"It is a new lease of life for me, George," whispered a soft, sweet voice in his ear, and he turned to behold the glowing cheeks of Mrs. Chattaway, glowing with thanksgiving and unqualified happiness.
Unqualified? Ah, if she could only have looked into the future, as George did in his forethought! Jim Sanders would probably not remain absent for ever. But he suffered his face to become radiant as Mrs. Chattaway's, as he stayed to talk with her.
"Yes, dear Mrs. Chattaway, was it not a shout! I will drive Rupert home. I have my gig here. Treve shall walk. I wonder—I have been wondering whether it would not be better for all parties if Rupert came and stayed a week with Treve at the Farm? It might give time for the unpleasantness to blow over between him and Mr. Chattaway."
"How good you are, George! If it only might be! I'll speak to Diana."
She turned to Miss Diana Trevlyn and George saw Rupert talking with Mr. Peterby. At that moment, some one took possession of George.
It was Mr. Wall, the linen-draper. He had been in court all the time, his sympathies entirely with the prisoner, in spite of his early friendship with the master of Trevlyn Hold. Ever since that one month passed at Mr. Wall's house, which George at the time thought the blackest month that could have fallen to the lot of mortal, Mr. Wall and George had been great friends.
"This has been a nasty business," he said in an undertone. "WhereisJim Sanders?"
George disclaimed, and with truth, all knowledge on the point. Mr. Wall resumed.
"I guess how it was; an outbreak of the Trevlyn temper. Chattaway was a fool to provoke it. Cruel, too. He had no more right to take a whip to Rupert Trevlyn than I have to take one to my head-shopman. Were the ricks insured?"
"No. There's the smart. Chattaway never would insure his ricks; never has insured them. It is said that Miss Diana has often told him he deserved to have his ricks burnt down for being penny wise and pound foolish."
"How many were burnt?"
"Two: and another damaged by water. It is a sharp loss."
"Ay. One he won't relish. Rupert is notsecure, you know," continued Mr. Wall in a spirit of friendly warning. "He can be taken up again."
"I am aware of that. And this time I think it will be very difficult to lay the spirit of anger in Mr. Chattaway. Good evening. I am going to drive Rupert home. Where has he got to?"
George had cause to reiterate the words "Where has he got to?" for he could not see him anywhere. His eyes roved in vain in search of Rupert. Mr. Peterby was alone now.
George went hunting everywhere. He inquired of every one, friend and stranger, if they had seen Rupert, but all in vain; he could not meet or hear of him. At last he gave up the search, and started for home, Treve occupying the place in the gig he had offered to Rupert.
Where was Rupert? In a state of mind not to be described, he had stolen away in the dusky night from the mass of faces, the minute he was released by Mr. Peterby, and made the best of his way out of Barmester, taking the field way towards the Hold. He felt in a sea of guilt and shame. To stand there a prisoner, the consciousness of guilt upon him—for he knew he had set fire to the rick—was as the keenest agony. When his previous night's passion cooled down, it was replaced by an awful sense—and the word is not misplaced—of the enormity of his act. It was a positive fact that he could not remember the details of that evil moment; but an innate conviction was upon him that he did thrust the burning brand into the rick and had so revenged himself on Mr. Chattaway. He turned aghast as he thought of it: in his sober senses he would be one of the last to commit so great a wickedness—would shudder at its bare thought. Not only was the weight of the guilt upon his mind, but a dread of the consequences. Rupert was no hero, and the horror of the punishment that might follow was working havoc in his brain. If he had escaped it for this day, he knew sufficient of our laws to be aware that he might not escape it another, and that Chattaway would prove implacable. The disgrace of a trial, the brand of felon—all might be his. Perhaps it was fear as much as shame which took Rupert alone out of Barmester.
He knew not where to go. He reached the neighbourhood of the Hold, passed it, and wandered about in the moonlight, sick with hunger, weary with walking. He began to wish he had gone home with George Ryle; and he wished he could see George Ryle then, and ask his advice. To the Hold, to face Chattaway, he dared not yet go; nay, with that consciousness of guilt upon him, he shrank from facing his kind aunt Edith, his sister Maude, his aunt Diana. A sudden thought flashed into his mind—and for the moment it seemed like an inspiration—he would go after Mr. Daw and beg a shelter with him.
But to get to Mr. Daw, who lived in some unknown region in the Pyrenees, and had no doubt crossed the Channel, would take money, time, and strength. As the practical views of the idea came up before him, he abandoned it in utter despair. Where should he go and what should he do? He sat down on the stile forming the entrance to a small grove of trees, through which a near road led to Barbrook; in fact, it was at the end of that very field in which Mr. Apperley had seen him the previous evening. Some subtle instinct, perhaps, took his wandering steps to it. As he leaned against the stile, he became conscious of the advance of some one along the narrow path leading from Barbrook—a woman, by her petticoats.
It was a lovely night. The previous night had been dull, but on this one the moon shone in all her splendour. Rupert did not fear a woman, least of all the one approaching, for he saw that it was Ann Canham. She had been at work at the parsonage. Mrs. Freeman, taking advantage of the departure of their guest, had instituted the autumn cleaning, delayed on his account; and Ann had been there to-day, helping Molly, and was to go also on the morrow. A few happy tears dropped from her eyes when she saw him.
"The parson's already home with the good news, sir. But why ever do you sit here, Master Rupert?"
"Because I have nowhere to go to," returned Rupert.
Ann paused, and then spoke timidly. "Isn't there the Hold, as usual, sir?"
"I can't go there. Chattaway might horsewhip me again, you know, Ann."
The bitter mockery with which he spoke brought pain to her. "Where shall you go, sir?"
"I don't know. Lie down under these trees till morning. I am awfully hungry."
Ann Canham opened a basket which she carried, and took out a small loaf, or cake. She offered it to Rupert, curtseying humbly.
"Molly has been baking to-day, sir; and the missis, she gave me this little loaf for my father. Please take it, sir."
Rupert's impulse was to refuse, but hunger was strong within him. He took a knife from his pocket, cut it in two, and gave one half back to Ann Canham.
"Tell Mark I had the other, Ann. He won't grudge it to me. And now go home. It's of no use your stopping here."
She made as if she would depart, but hesitated. "Master Rupert, I don't like to leave you here so friendless. Won't you come to the lodge, sir, and shelter there for the night?"
"No, that I won't," he answered. "Thank you, Ann; but I am not going to get you and Mark into trouble as I have got myself."
She sighed as she finally went away. Would this unhappy trouble touching Rupert ever be over?
Perhaps Rupert was asking the same. He ate the bread, and sat on the stile afterwards, ruminating. He was terribly bitter against Chattaway; but for his wicked conduct he should not now be the outcast he was. All the wrongs of his life rose up before him. The Hold that ought to be his, the rank he was deprived of, the wretched humiliations that were his daily portion. They assumed quite an exaggerated importance to his mind. He worked himself into—not the passion of the previous night, but into an angry, defiant temper; and he wished he could meet Chattaway face to face, and return the blows, the pain of which was still upon him.
With a cry that almost burst from his lips in terror, with a feeling verging on the supernatural, he suddenly saw Chattaway before him. Rupert recovered himself, and though his heart beat pretty fast, he kept his seat on the stile in his defiant humour.
And Mr. Chattaway? Every drop of blood in that gentleman's body had bubbled up with the unjust leniency shown by the magistrates, and had remained at fever heat. Never, never had his feelings been so excited against Rupert as on this night. As he came along he was plotting with himself how Rupert could be recaptured on the morrow—on what pretext he could apply for a warrant against him. That miserable, detested Rupert! He made his life a terror through that latent dread, he was a burden on his pocket, he brought him into disfavour with the neighbourhood, he treated him with cavalier insolence, and now had set his ricks on fire. And—there he was! Before him in the moonlight. Mr. Chattaway bounded forward, and seized him by the shoulder.
A struggle ensued. Blows were given on either side. But Mr. Chattaway was the stronger: he flung Rupert to the ground; and a dull, heavy human sound went forth on the still night air.
Did the sound come from Rupert, or from Chattaway? No; Rupert was lying motionless, and Chattaway knew he had made no sound himself. He looked up in the trees; but it had not been the sound of a night-bird. A rustling caught his ear behind the narrow grove, and Chattaway bounded towards it, just in time to see a man's legs flying over the ground in the direction of Barbrook.
Who had been a witness to the scene?
When Mr. and Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana had driven home from Barmester, they were met with curious faces, and eager questions, the result of the day's proceedings not having reached the Hold. It added to the terrible mortification gnawing the heart of Mr. Chattaway to confess that Rupert was discharged. He had been too outspoken that morning before his children and household of the certain punishment in store for Rupert—his committal for trial.
And the mortification was destined to be increased on another score. Whilst they were seated at a sort of high tea—Cris came in from Blackstone with some news. The Government inspectors had been there that day, and chosen to put themselves out on account of the absence of Mr. Chattaway, whom they had expected at the office.
"They mean mischief," observed Cris. "How farcanthey interfere?" he asked, turning to his father. "Could they force you to go to the expense they hint at?"
Mr. Chattaway really did not know. He sat looking surly and gloomy, buried in rumination, and by-and-by rose and left the room. Soon after this, George Ryle entered, to take Rupert to the farm. George knew now that Rupert had walked home: Bluck, the farrier, had told him so. But Rupert, it appeared, was not yet come in.
So George waited: waited and waited. It was a most uncomfortable evening. Mrs. Chattaway was palpably nervous and anxious, and Maude, who sat apart, as if conscious that Rupert's fault in some degree reflected upon her, was as white as a sheet. When George rose to leave it was nearly eleven. Rupert, it must be supposed, had taken shelter somewhere for the night, and Mr. Chattaway did not appear in a hurry to return. None had any idea where Mr. Chattaway was to be found: when he left the house, they only supposed him to be going to the out-buildings.
The whole flood of moonlight came flushing on George Ryle, as he stood for a moment at the door of the Hold. He lifted his face to it, thinking how beautiful it was, when the door was softly opened behind him, and Maude came out, pale and shivering.
"Forgive my following you, George," she whispered, in pleading tones. "I could not ask you before them, but I am ill with suspense. Tell me, is the danger over for Rupert?"
George took her hand in his. He looked down with tender fondness upon the unhappy girl; but hesitated in his answer.
She bent her head, and there came a half-breathed whisper of pain. "Do you believe he did it?"
"Maude, my darling, I do believe he did it; you ask me for the truth, and I will not give you anything else. But I believe that he must have been in a state of madness, irresponsible for his actions."
"What can be done?" she gasped.
"Nothing. Nothing, except that we must endeavour to conciliate Mr. Chattaway. If he can be appeased, the danger will pass."
"Never will he be appeased!" she answered. "He will think of the value of the ricks, the money lost to him. George, if it comes to the worst—if they try Rupert, I shall die."
"Hush, my dear, hush! Try and look on the bright side of things, Maude; your grieving cannot influence Rupert, and will harm you. Nothing shall be left undone on my part to serve him. I wish I had more influence with Mr. Chattaway."
"No one has any influence with him,—no one in the world; unless it is Aunt Diana."
"She has—and I can talk to her as I could not to Chattaway. I intend to see her privately in the morning. Maude, how you shiver!"
George bent to take his farewell, and went on his way. Ere he was quite out of sight, he turned to take a last look at her. She was standing in the white moonlight, her hands clasped, her face one sad expression of distress and despair. A vague feeling came over George that this despondency of Maude's bore ill omen for poor Rupert. But he could not have told why the feeling should come to him, and he put it from him as absurd and foolish.
The night wore on at the Hold, and its master did not return. All sat up, ladies, children, and servants; wondering where he could be. It was close upon midnight when his ring sounded at the locked door.
Mr. Chattaway came in with his face scratched and a bruise over one eye. The servant stared in astonishment, and noticed, as his master unbuttoned a light overcoat, that the front of his shirt was torn. Mr. Chattaway was not one to be questioned by his servants, and the man went off to the kitchen and reported the news.
"Good Heavens, papa! what have you done to your face?"
The exclamation came from Octave, who was the first to catch sight of him as he entered the room. Mr. Chattaway responded by an angry demand why they were not in bed, what they did sitting up at that hour: and he began to light the bed-candles.
"Whathaveyou done to your face?" reiterated Miss Diana, coming close to take a nearer view.
"Nothing," was his curt response.
"What's the use of saying that?" retorted Miss Diana. "It looks as though you had been fighting. And your shirt's torn!"
"I tell you there's nothing the matter with it; or with my shirt either," he said testily. "Can't you take an answer?" And, as if to put an end to questioning, he took a candle and went up to his room.
The scratches were less apparent in the morning, and the bruise was only a slight one. Cris, in his indifferent manner, said the Squire must have walked into the branches of a thorny tree.
By tacit consent they avoided all mention of Rupert. It is possible that even Miss Diana did not care to mention his name to Mr. Chattaway. Whilst they were at breakfast, Hatch came and put his head inside the door.
"Jim Sanders is back, sir."
Mr. Chattaway started up, a certain flashing light in his dull eyes that boded no good to Jim. "Where is he?" he cried. "How do you know?"
"Ted, the cow-boy, has just seen him at work at Mr. Ryle's as usual, sir. I thought you might like to know it, and made bold to come in and tell ye. Ted asked him where he had runned away to yesterday, and Jim answered he had not runned away at all; only overslep' hisself."
Mr. Chattaway hastened from the room, followed by Cris; and Mrs. Chattaway took the opportunity to ask Hatch if he had seen or heard anything of Mr. Rupert. But Hatch only stood stolidly in the middle of the carpet, and made no reply.
"Did you not hear Madam's question, Hatch?" sharply asked Miss Diana. "Why don't you answer it?"
"Because I don't like to," responded stolid Hatch. "Happen Madam mayn't like to hear the answer, Miss Diana."
"Nonsense!" quickly cried Miss Trevlyn. "Have you heard of him?"
"Well, yes, I have," answered Hatch. "They be talking of it now in the sheep-pen."
"What are they saying?" asked Mrs. Chattaway, in eager tones.
But the man remained silent, staring at his mistress.
"What are they saying?—do you hear?" imperatively repeated Miss Diana.
Hatch could not hold out longer. "They be saying that he's dead, ma'am."
"That he is—what?"
"They be saying that Mr. Rupert's dead," equably repeated Hatch; "he was killed down in the little grove last night, as you go through the fields to Barbrook. I didn't like to tell the Squire, because they be saying that if he be killed, happen the Squire have killed him."
Only for a moment did Miss Diana Trevlyn lose her self-possession. She raised her hands to still the awestruck terror around her, and glanced at Mrs. Chattaway's blanched face. "Hatch, where did you hear this?"
"In the sheep-pen, ma'am. The men be a-talking on't. They say he was killed last night—murdered."
Her own face for once in her life was turning white. "Be still, all of you, and remain here," she said. "Edith, if ever you had need of self-command, it is now."
She went straight off to the sheep-pen, bidding Hatch follow her. From the first moment Hatch had spoken, there had risen up before her, as an ugly picture—a dream to be shunned—the scratched and bruised face of Mr. Chattaway.
The sheep-pen was empty: the men had dispersed. Cris came out of the stables, and she signed to him. He advanced to meet her. "Where is your father?" she asked.
"Off to Barbrook," returned Cris. "Sam wasn't long getting his horse ready, was he? He has gone to order Bowen to look after Mr. Jim Sanders."
"Have you heard this report about Rupert?" she resumed, her hushed tones imparting to Cris a vague sense of something unpleasant.
"I have not heard any report about him. What is the report? That he's dead?"
"Yes; that he is dead."
Cris had spoken in a half-jesting, half-sneering tone; but his face changed at the answer, consternation in every feature, "What on earth do you mean, Aunt Diana? Rupert——"
"Good morning, Miss Diana."
They turned to behold George Ryle. He had come up thus early to know if they had news of Rupert. The scared expression of their faces struck him that something was wrong.
"You have bad news, I see. What is it?"
Miss Diana rapidly turned over a question in her mind. Should she mention this report to George? Yes; he was thoroughly trustworthy; and might be of use.
"Hatch came in a few minutes ago, and frightened us very greatly," she said. "I was just telling Cris about it. The man says there's a report going about that Rupert is—is"—she scarcely liked to bring out the word—"is dead."
"What?" uttered George.
"That he has been killed—murdered," continued Miss Diana. "George, I want to get at the truth of it."
He could not rejoin just at first. News, such as that, takes time to revolve. He could only look at them alternately; his heart, for Rupert's sake, beating fast. Miss Diana repeated what Hatch had said. "George," she concluded, "I cannot go after these men, examining into the truth or falsehood of the report, but you might."
George started away impulsively ere she had well spoken. Hatch mentioned the names of the men who had been talking, and George hastened to look for them over the fields. Cris was following, but Miss Diana caught him by the arm.
"Not you, Cris; stop where you are."
"Stop where I am?" returned Cris, indignantly, who had a very great objection to being interfered with by Miss Diana. "I shall not, indeed. I don't pretend to have had much love for Rupert, but I'm sure I shall look into it if there's such a report as that about. He must have killed himself, if he is dead."
But Miss Diana kept her hand upon him. "Remain where you are, I say. They are connecting your father's name with it in a manner I do not understand, and it will be better you should be quiet until we know more."
She went on to the house as she spoke. Cris stared after her in blank dismay, wondering what the words meant, yet sufficiently discomposed to give up his own will for once, and remain quiet, as she had suggested.
Meanwhile, Mr. Chattaway, unconscious of the commotion at the Hold, was galloping towards Barbrook. He reined in at the police-station, and Bowen came out to him.
"I know what you have come about, Mr. Chattaway," cried the man, before that gentleman could speak. "It's to tell us that Jim Sanders has turned up. We know all about it, and Dumps has gone after him. Hang the boy! giving us all this bother."
"I'll have him punished, Bowen."
"Well, sir, it's to know whether he won't get enough punishment as it is. His going off looks uncommonly suspicious—as I said yesterday: looks as if he had had a finger in the pie."
"Is Dumps going to bring him on here?"
"Right away, as fast as he can march him. Impudent monkey, going to work this morning, just as if nothing had happened! Dumps'll be on to him. They won't be long, sir."
"Then I'll wait," decided Mr. Chattaway.
George Ryle speedily found the men spoken of by Hatch as having held the conversation in the sheep-pen. But he could gather nothing more certain from them than Miss Diana had gathered from Hatch. Upon endeavouring to trace the report to its source he succeeded in finding out that one man alone had brought it to the Hold. This man declared he heard it from his wife, and his wife had heard it from Mrs. Sanders.
Away sped George Ryle to the cottage of Mrs. Sanders: passing through the small grove of trees, spoken of in connection with this fresh report, the nearest way to Barbrook and the cottage from the upper road, but lonely and unfrequented. He found the woman busy at the work Mr. Dumps had interrupted the previous day—washing. With some unwillingness on her part and much circumlocution, George drew her tale from her. And to that evening we may as well return for a few minutes, for we shall arrive at the conclusion much more quickly than Mrs. Sanders.
It was dark when the woman walked home from Barmester—Dumps not having had the politeness to drive her, as in going,—and she found her kitchen as she had left it. Her children—she had three besides Jim—were out in the world, Jim alone being at home with her. Mrs. Sanders lighted a candle, and surveyed the scene: grate black and cold; washing-tub on the bench, wet clothes lying over it; bricks sloppy. "Drat that old Dumps!" ejaculated she. "I'd serve him out if I could. And I'd like to serve out that Jim, too. This comes of dancing up to the Hold after Bridget with that precious puppy!"
She put things tolerably straight for the night, made herself some tea, and began to think. What had become of Jim? And did he or did he not have anything to do with the fire? Not wilfully; she could answer for that; but accidentally? She looked into vacancy, and shook her head in a timid, doubtful manner, for she knew that torches in rick-yards might prove dangerous adjuncts to suspicion.
"I wonder what they could do to him, happen they proved it were a spark from his torch?" she deliberated. "Sure they'd never transport for an accident! Dumps said transportation were too good for Jim, but——"
The train of thought was interrupted, the door burst open, and by no less a personage than Jim himself. Jim, as it appeared, in a state of fear and agitation. His breath came fast, and his eyes had a wild, terrified stare in them.
With his presence, Mrs. Sanders's maternal apprehensions for his safety merged into anger. She laid hold of Jim and shook him—kindly, as she expressed it; but poor Jim found little kindness in it.
"Mother, what's that for?"
"That's what it's for," retorted his mother, giving him a sound box on the ear. "You'll dance out with puppies again up to that good-for-nothing minx of a Bridget!—and you'll set rick-yards a-fire!—and you'll go off and hide yourself, and let the place be searched by the police!—and me drawn into trouble, and took off by that insolent Dumps in a stick-up gig to Barmester, and lugged afore the court! Now, where have you been?"
Jim made no return in kind. All the spirit the boy possessed seemed to have gone out of him. He sat down meekly on a broken chair, and began to shiver. "Don't, mother," said he. "I've got a fright."
"A fright!" indignantly responded Mrs. Sanders. "And what sort of a fright do you suppose you have given others? Happen Madam Chattaway might have died of it, they say.Youtalk of a fright! Who hasn't been in a fright since you took the torch into the yard and set the ricks alight?"
"It isn't that," said Jim. "I ain't afraid of that; I didn't do it. Nora knows I didn't, and Mr. Apperley knows, and Bridget knows. I've no cause to be afeard of that."
"Then what are you quaking for?" angrily demanded Mrs. Sanders.
"I've just got a fright," he answered. "Mother, as true as we be here, Mr. Rupert's dead. I've just watched him killed."
Mrs. Sanders's first proceeding on receipt of this information was to stare; her second to discredit it, believing Jim was out of his mind, or dreaming. "Talk sense, will you?" cried she.
"I'm not a-talking nonsense," he answered. "Mother, as sure as us two be living here, I see it. It were in the grove, up by the field. I saw him struck down."
The woman began to think there must be something in the tale. "It's Mr. Rupert you be talking of?"
"Yes, and it was him as set the rick a-fire. And now he's murdered! Didn't I run fast! I was in mortal fear."
"Who killed him?"
Jim looked round timorously, as if thinking the walls might have ears. "I daren't say," he shivered.
"But you must say."
He shook his head. "No, I'll never tell it—unless I'm forced. He might be for killingme. When the hue and cry goes about to-morrow, and folks is asking who did it, there'll be nobody to answer. I shall keep dark, because I must. But if Ann Canham had waited and seen it, I wouldn't ha' minded saying; she'd ha' been a witness as I told the truth."
"If you don't speak plainer I'll box your ears again," was the retort. "What about Ann Canham?"
"Well, I met her at the top o' the field as I was turning into 't. That were but a few minutes afore. She'd been to work at the parson's, she said. I say, mother, you don't think they'll come after me here?" he questioned, his tone full of doubt.
"Theydidcome after ye, to some purpose," wrathfully responded Mrs. Sanders. "My belief is you've come home with your head turned. I'd like to know where you've been hiding."
"I've been nowhere but up in the tallet at master's," replied Jim. "I crep' in there last night, dead tired, and never woke this morning. Hay do make one sleep; it's warmer than bed."
We need not follow the interview any further. At the close of the night she knew little more than she had known at its commencement beyond the assertion that Rupert Trevlyn was killed. Jim went off in the morning to his work as usual, and she resumed her labours of the day before. Nora had scarcely shown her wisdom in releasing Jim so quickly; but it may be that to keep him longer concealed in the "tallet" was next door to impossible.
Mrs. Sanders was interrupted in her work by George Ryle. She smoothed down the coarse towel pinned before her, and put her untidy hair behind her ears as her master entered. He questioned her as to the report which had been traced to her, and she disclosed what she had heard from Jim. Not much in itself, but it wore an air of mystery George could not understand and did not like. He left her to go in search of Jim.
But another, as we have heard, had taken precedence of him in searching for that gentleman—Policeman Dumps. Mr. Dumps found him in the out-buildings at Trevlyn Farm, working as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened. The man's first move, fearing perhaps a second escape, was to clap a pair of handcuffs on him.
"There, you young reptile! You'll go off again, will you, after committing murder!"
Now, in point of fact, Mr. Dumps had really no particular reason for using the word. He only intended to imply that Mr. Jim's general delinquency deserved a strong name. Jim took it in a different light.
"It wasn't me murdered him!" he said, terrified almost out of his life at the handcuffs. "I only see it done. Why should I murder him, Mr. Dumps?"
"Who's talking about murder?" cynically returned Dumps, forgetting probably that he had used the word. "The setting of the rick-yard on fire was enough for you, warn't it, without anything else added on to it?"
"Oh, you mean the fire," said Jim, considerably relieved. "I didn't do that, neither, and there'll be plenty to prove it. I thought you meant the murder."
Dumps surveyed his charge critically, uncertain what to make of him. He proceeded to questioning; setting about it in an artistic manner that was perhaps characteristic of his calling.
"Which murder might be you meaning of, pray?"
"Mr. Rupert's."
"Mr.——What be you talking of?" uttered Dumps, staring at Jim in the utmost astonishment.
And now Jim Sanders found he had been caught in a trap, one not expressly laid for him. He could have bitten his tongue out with vexation. That the death of Rupert Trevlyn would become public property, he had never doubted, but he had intended to remain silent upon the subject.
It was too late to retract now, and he must make the best of it, and put up with the consequences.
"Who says Mr. Rupert's murdered?" persisted Dumps.
"So he is," sullenly answered Jim. "But I didn't do it."
Mr. Dumps's rejoinder was to seize Jim by the collar, and march him off in the direction of the station as fast as he could walk. The farming men, who had been collecting since the policeman's arrival, followed to the fold-yard gate, and stood staring, supposing he was taken on suspicion of having caused the fire. Nora, shut up in her dairy, had seen nothing, or there's no knowing but she might have flown out to the rescue.
Not another word was spoken; indeed the pace at which Mr. Dumps chose to walk prevented it. When they reached the station, Mr. Chattaway was talking to Bowen. Jim went into a shivering fit at the sight of Chattaway, and strove to hide behind Policeman Dumps.
"So you have turned up!" exclaimed Bowen. "And now, where did you get to yesterday?"
Jim did not answer; he appeared to wish to avoid Mr. Chattaway, and trembled visibly. Bowen was on the point of inquiring what made him quake in that fashion, when Mr. Chattaway's voice broke in like a peal of thunder.
"How dared you be guilty of suppressing evidence? How dared you run away?"
Bowen turned the boy round to face him. "Just state where you got to, Jim Sanders."
"I didn't run away," replied Jim. "I lay down in the tallet at the farm atop o' the hay, and never woke all day yesterday. Miss Dickson can say I was there, for she come and found me there at night, and sent me off. There warn't no cause for me to run away," he somewhat fractiously repeated, as if weary of having to harp upon the same string. "It wasn't me that fired the rick."
"But you saw it fired?" cried Mr. Chattaway.
Jim stole round, so as to put Dumps between him and the questioner. Mr. Bowen brought him to again. "There's no need to dodge about like that," cried he, repeating Jim's words. "Just speak up the truth; but you are not forced to say anything to criminate yourself."
"I can tell 'em," thought Jim to himself; "it won't hurt him, now he's dead. It was Mr. Rupert," he said aloud. "After he got the horsewhipping, he caught up the torch and pushed it into one o' the ricks; and that's as true as I be living."
"You saw him do this?"
"I was watching all the while, round the pales. He seemed like one a'most mad, and it frighted me. I pulled the burning hay out o' the rick, and thought I pulled it all out, but suppose a spark must ha' stopped in. I was frighted worse afterwards when the flames burst out, and I ran off for the engines. I telled Mr. Apperley I'd been for 'em when I met him at night."
The boy's earnest tones and honest eyes, lifted to Bowen's, convinced that experienced officer that it was the truth. But he chose to gaze implacably at the culprit, never relaxing his sternness of voice.
"Then what made you go and hide yourself? Out with the truth!"
Jim's eyes fell now. "I was tired to death," he said, "and crep' up into the tallet at master's, and went to sleep. And I never woke in the morning, when I ought to ha' woke."
This was so far probable that itmightbe true. But before Bowen could go on questioning he was interrupted by Mr. Chattaway.
"He has confessed sufficient, Bowen—it was Rupert Trevlyn. But he deserves punishment for the trouble he has put everyone to; and there must be a fresh examination. Keep him safely here, and take care he's not tampered with. I am obliged to go to Blackstone to-day, but the hearing can take place to-morrow, if you'll apprise the magistrates. And—Bowen—mind you accomplish that other matter to-day that I have charged you with."
The last sentence, spoken emphatically and slowly, Mr. Chattaway turned round to deliver as he was going out. Bowen nodded in acquiescence; and Chattaway mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of Blackstone.
Jim Sanders, looking the picture of misery in his handcuffs, stood awkwardly in a corner of the room; it was a square room with a boarded floor; and a railed-off desk. Bowen had gone within these rails as Mr. Chattaway departed, and was busy writing a few detached words or sentences, that looked like memoranda. Dumps was gazing after the retreating figure of Mr. Chattaway.
"Call Chigwell," said Bowen, glancing at the small door which led into the inner premises. "There's work for both of you to-day."
But before Dumps could do this, he was half-knocked over by some one entering. It was George Ryle. He took in a view of affairs at a glance: Bowen writing; Dumps doing nothing; Mr. Jim Sanders handcuffed.
"So you have come to grief?" said George to the latter. "You are just the man I wanted, Jim. Bowen," he added, going within the railings and lowering his voice, "have you heard this report about Rupert Trevlyn?"
"I have heard he is probably off, sir," was Bowen's answer. "Two of the men are going out now to look after him. Mr. Chattaway has signed a warrant for his apprehension."
George paused. "There is a report that he is dead," he resumed.
"Dead!" echoed Bowen, aghast. "Rupert Trevlyn dead! Who says it?"
George looked round at Jim. The boy stood white and shivery; but before any questions could be asked, Dumps came forward and spoke.
"Hewas talking of that," he said to Bowen, indicating Jim. "When I clapped the handcuffs on him, he turned scared, and began denying it was him that did the murder. I asked him what he meant, and who was murdered, and he said it was Mr. Rupert Trevlyn."
Bowen looked thunderstruck, little as it is in the way of police officers to show emotion of any kind. "What grounds has he for saying that?" he exclaimed, gazing keenly at Jim. "Mr. Ryle, where did you hear the report?"
"I heard it just now at Trevlyn Hold. It would have alarmed them very much had they believed it. Mr. Chattaway was away, and Miss Trevlyn requested me to inquire into it, and bring back news—as she assumed I should—of its absurdity. I believe we must go to Jim for information," added George, "for I have traced the report to him."
Bowen beckoned Jim within the railings; where there was just sufficient space for the three. Dumps stood outside, leaning on the bars. "Have you been doing mischief to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn?" asked the superintendent.
"Me!" echoed Jim—and it was evident that his astonishment was genuine. "I wouldn't have hurt a hair of his head," he added, bursting into tears. "I couldn't sleep for vexing over it. It wasn't me."
Bowen quietly took off the handcuffs, and laid them on the desk. "There," said he, in a kindlier tone; "now you can talk at your ease. Let us hear about this."
"I'm afeard, sir," responded Jim.
"There's nothing to be afeard of, if you are innocent. Do you know of any ill having happened to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn?"
"I know he's dead," answered Jim. "They blowed me up for saying it was him set the rick a-fire, and I was sorry I had said it; but now he's gone, it don't matter, and I can say still that it was him fired it."
"Who blew you up?"
"Some on 'em," answered Jim, doing his best to evade the question.
"Well, what is this about Mr. Rupert? If you are afraid to tell me, tell your master there," suggested Bowen. "I'm sure he is a kind master to you; all the parish knows that."
"Itmustbe told, Jim," said George Ryle, impressively, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "What are you afraid of?"
"Mr. Chattaway might kill me for telling, sir," said unwilling Jim.
"Nonsense! Mr. Chattaway would be as anxious to know the truth as we are."
"But if it was him did it?" whispered Jim, glancing fearfully round the whitewashed walls of the room, as he had glanced around those of his mother's cottage.
A blank pause. Mr. Bowen looked at George, whose face had turned hectic with the surprise, thedreadthe words had brought. "You must speak out, Jim," was all he said.
"It was in the little grove last night," rejoined the boy. "I was running home after Nora Dickson turned me out o' the tallet, and when I got up to 'em they was having words——"
"Who were having words?"
"Mr. Chattaway and Master Rupert. I was scared, and crep' in amid the trees, and they never saw me. And then I heard blows, and I looked out and saw Mr. Rupert struck down to the earth, and he fell as one who hasn't got no life in him, and I knew he was dead."
"And what happened next?" asked Bowen.
"I don't know, sir. I come off then, and got into mother's. I didn't dare tell her it was Chattaway killed him. I wouldn't tell now, only you force me."
Bowen was revolving things in his mind, this and that. "Not five minutes ago Chattaway gave me orders to have Rupert Trevlyn searched for and taken up to-day," he muttered, more to himself than to George Ryle. "He knew he was skulking somewhere in the neighbourhood, he said; skulking, that was the word. I don't know what to think of this."
Neither did his hearers know, Mr. Jim Sanders possibly excepted. "I wonder," slowly resumed Bowen, a curious light coming into his eyes, "what brought those scratches on the face of Mr. Chattaway?"