There appeared to be no place on earth for Rupert Trevlyn. Most people have some little nook they can fit themselves into and call their own; but he had none. He was only on sufferance at the Hold, and was made to feel more of an interloper in it day by day.
What could be the source of this ill-feeling towards Rupert? Did some latent dread exist in the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and from thence reach that of Cris, whispering that he, Rupert, the true heir of Trevlyn Hold, might at some future day, through some unforeseen and apparently impossible chance, come into his rights? No doubt it was so. There are no other means of accounting for it. It may be, they deemed, that the more effectually he was kept under, treated as an object to be despised, lowered from his proper station, the less chance would there be of that covert dread growing into a certainty. Whatever its cause, Rupert was shamefully put upon. It is true that he sat at their table, occupied the same sitting-room. But at table he was placed below the rest, was served last, and from the plainest dish. Mrs. Chattaway's heart would ache; it had ached for many a year; but she could not alter it. In their evenings, when the rest were gathered round the fire, Rupert would be left out in the cold. Nothing in the world did he so covet as a warm seat near the fire. It had been sought by his father when he was Rupert's age, and perhaps Miss Diana remembered this, for she would call Rupert forward, and sharply rebuke those who would have kept him from it.
But Miss Diana was not always in the room; not often, in fact. She had her own sitting-room upstairs, as Mrs. Chattaway had hers; and both ladies more frequently retired to them in an evening, leaving the younger ones to enjoy themselves, with their books and work, their music and games, unrestrained by their presence. And poor Rupert was condemned to remote quarters, where no one noticed him.
From that point alone, the cold, it was a severe trial. Of weakly constitution, a chilly nature, warmth was to Rupert Trevlyn almost an essential of existence. And it was what he rarely had at Trevlyn Hold. No wonder he was driven out. Even old Canham's wood fire, that he might get right into if he pleased, was an improvement upon the drawing-room at the Hold.
After parting with George Ryle, Maude Trevlyn, in obedience to the imperious wills of her pupils, turned her steps homewards. Emily was a boisterous, troublesome, disobedient girl; Edith was more gentle and amiable, in looks and disposition resembling her mother; but the example of her sisters was infectious, and spoiled her. There was another daughter, Amelia, older than they were, and at school at Barmester: a very disagreeable girl indeed.
"What was George Ryle saying to you, Maude?" somewhat insolently asked Emily.
"He was talking of Rupert," she incautiously answered, her mind buried in thought.
When they reached the Hold, Mr. Chattaway's horse was being led about by a groom, waiting for its master, who had returned, and was indoors. As they crossed the hall, they met him coming out of the breakfast-room. Octave was with him, talking.
"Cris would have waited, no doubt, papa, had he known you wanted him. He ate his breakfast in a hurry, and went out. I suppose he has gone to Blackstone."
"I particularly wanted him," grumbled Mr. Chattaway, who was never pleasant at the best of times, but would be unbearable if put out. "Cris knew I should want him this morning. First Rupert, and then Cris! Are you all going to turn disobedient?"
He made a halt at the door, putting on his riding-glove. They stood grouped around him—Octave, Maude, and Emily. Edith had run out, and was near the horse.
"I would give a crown-piece to know what Mr. Rupert did with himself last night," he savagely uttered. "John," exalting his voice, "have you any idea where Rupert Trevlyn hid himself all night?"
The locking-out had been known to the household, and afforded considerable gossip. John had taken part in it; joined in its surmises and comments; therefore he was not at fault for a ready answer.
"I don't know nothing certain, sir. It ain't unlikely he went down to the Sheaf o' Corn, and slept there."
"No, no, he did not," involuntarily burst from Maude.
It was an unlucky admission, for its tone was decisive, implying that she knew where he did sleep. She spoke in the moment's impulse. The Shear of Corn was the nearest public-house; notorious for its irregular doings; and Maude felt shocked at the bare suggestion that Rupert would enter such a place.
Mr. Chattaway turned to her. "Wheredidhe sleep? What do you know about it?" Maude's face grew hot and cold. She opened her lips to answer, but closed them again without speaking, the words dying away in her uncertainty and hesitation.
Mr. Chattaway may have felt surprised. He knew perfectly well that Maude had held no communication with Rupert that morning. He had seen Rupert come in and go out; and Maude had not stirred from his presence. He bent his cold grey eyes upon her.
"From whom have you been hearing of Rupert's doings?"
It is very probable that Maude would have been at a loss for an answer, but she was saved a reply, for Emily spoke up before she had time to give one, ill-nature in her tone and words.
"Maude must have heard it from George Ryle. You saw her talking to him, papa. She said he had been speaking of Rupert."
Mr. Chattaway did not ask another question. It would have been superfluous to do so, in the conclusion he had come to. He believed Rupert had slept at Trevlyn Farm. How else could George Ryle have become acquainted with his movements?
"They'll be hatching a plot to try to over-throw me," he muttered to himself as he went out to his horse: for his was one of those mean, suspicious natures that are always fancying the world is antagonistic to them. "Maude Ryle has been wanting to get me out of Trevlyn Hold ever since I came into it. From the very hour she heard the Squire's will read, and found I had inherited, she has been planning and plotting for it. She would rather see Rupert in it than me; and rather see her pitiful Treve in it than anyone. Yes, yes, Mr. Rupert, we know what you frequent Trevlyn Farm for. But it won't answer. It's waste of time. They must change England's laws before they can upset Squire Trevlyn's will. But it's not less annoying to know that my tenure is constantly being hauled over and peered into, to see if they can't find a flaw in it, or insert one of their own making."
It was strange that these fears should continually trouble the master of Trevlyn Hold. A man who legally holds an estate, on which no shade of a suspicion can be cast, need not dread its being wrested from him. It was in Squire Trevlyn's power to leave the Hold and its revenues to whom he would. Had he chosen to bequeath it to an utter stranger, it was in his power to do so: and he had bequeathed it to James Chattaway. Failing direct male heirs, it may be thought that Mr. Chattaway had as much right to it as anyone else. At any rate, it had been the Squire's pleasure to bequeath it to him, and there the matter ended. That the master of Trevlyn Hold was ever conscious of a dread his tenure was to be some time disturbed, was indisputable. He never betrayed it to any living being by so much as a word; he strove to conceal it even from himself; but there it was, deep in his secret heart. There it remained, and there it tormented him; however unwilling he might have been to acknowledge the fact.
Could it be that a prevision of what was really to take place was cast upon him?—a mysterious foreshadowing of the future? There are people who tell us such warnings come.
The singularity of the affair was, that no grounds could exist for this latent fear. Whence then should it arise? Why, from that source whence it arises in many people—a bad conscience. It was true the estate had been legally left to him; but he knew that his own handiwork, his deceit, had brought it to him; he knew that when he suppressed the news of the birth of Rupert, and suffered Squire Trevlyn to go to his grave uninformed of the fact, he was guilty of nothing less than a crime in the sight of God. Mr. Chattaway had heard of that inconvenient thing, retribution, and his fancy suggested that it might possibly overtakehim.
If he had only known that he might have set his mind at rest as to the plotting and planning, he would have cared less to oppose Rupert's visits to the Farm. Nothing could be further from the thoughts of Rupert, or George Ryle, than any plotting against Chattaway. Their evenings, when together, were spent in harmless conversation, in chess, without so much as a reference to Chattaway. But that gentleman did not know it, and tormented himself accordingly.
He mounted his horse, and rode away. As he was passing Trevlyn Farm, buried in unpleasant thoughts, he saw Nora Dickson at the fold-yard gate, and turned his horse's head towards her.
"How came your people to give Rupert Trevlyn a bed last night? They must know it would very much displease me."
"Give Rupert Trevlyn a bed!" repeated Nora, regarding Mr. Chattaway with the uncompromising stare she was fond of according to that gentleman. "He did not sleep here."
"No!" replied Mr. Chattaway.
"No," reiterated Nora. "What should he want with a bed here? Has he not his own at Trevlyn Hold? A bed there isn't much for him, when he ought to have owned the whole place; but I suppose he can at least count upon that."
Mr. Chattaway turned his horse short round, and rode away without another word. He always got the worst of it with Nora. A slight explosion of his private sentiments with regard to her was given to the air, and he again became absorbed on the subject of Rupert.
"Where, then,didhe pass the night?"
It was Nora's day for churning. The butter was made twice a week at Trevlyn Farm, and the making fell to Nora. She was sole priestess of the dairy. It was many and many a long year since any one else had interfered in it: except, indeed, in the actual churning. One of the men on the farm did that for her in a general way; but to-day they were not forthcoming.
When Nora was seen at the fold-yard gate by Mr. Chattaway, idly staring up and down the road, she was looking for Jim Sanders, to order him in to churn. Not the Jim Sanders mentioned in the earlier portion of our history, but Jim's son. Jim the elder was dead: he had brought on rather too many attacks of inflammation (a disease to which he was predisposed) by his love of beer; and at last one attack worse than the rest came, and proved too much for him. The present Jim, representative of his name, was a youth of fourteen, not over-burdened with brains, but strong and sound, and was found useful on the farm, where he was required to be willing to do any work that came first to hand.
Just now he was wanted to churn. The man who usually performed that duty was too busy to be spared to-day; therefore it fell to Jim. But Jim could not be seen anywhere, and Nora returned indoors and commenced the work herself.
The milk at the right temperature—for Nora was too experienced a dairy-woman not to know that if she attempted to churn at the wrong one, it would be hours before the butter came—she took out the thermometer, and turned the milk into the churn. As she was doing this, the servant, Nanny, entered: a tall, stolid girl, remarkable for little except height.
"Is nobody coming in to churn?" asked she.
"It seems not," answered Nora.
"Shall I do it?"
"Not if I know it," returned Nora. "You'd like to quit your work for this pastime, wouldn't you? Have you the potatoes on for the pigs?"
"No," said Nanny.
"Then go and see about, it. You know it was to be done to-day. And I suppose the fire's burning away under the furnace."
Fanny stalked out of the dairy. Nora churned away steadily, and turned her butter on to the making-up board in about three-quarters of an hour. As she was proceeding with it, she saw George ride into the fold-yard, and leave his horse in the stable. Another minute and he came in.
"Has Mr. Callaway not come yet, Nora?"
"I have seen nothing of him, Mr. George."
George took out his watch: the one bequeathed him by his father. It was only a silver one—as Mr. Ryle had remarked—but George valued it as though it had been set in diamonds. He would wear that watch and no other as long as he lived. His initials were engraved on it now: G. B. R. standing for George Berkeley Ryle.
"If Callaway cannot keep his appointment better than this, I shall beg him not to make any more with me," he remarked. "The last time he kept me waiting three-quarters of an hour."
"Have you seen Jim Sanders this morning?" asked Nora.
"I saw him in the stables as I rode out."
"I should like to find him!" said Nora. "He is skulking somewhere. I have had to churn myself."
"Where's Roger?"
"Roger couldn't hinder his time indoors to-day. Mr. George, what's up at Trevlyn Hold again about Rupert?" resumed Nora, turning from her butter to glance at George.
"Why do you ask?"
"Chattaway rode by an hour ago when I was outside looking after Jim Sanders. He stopped his horse and asked how we came to give Rupert a bed last night, when we knew that it would displease him. Like his insolence!"
"What answer did you make?" said George, after a pause.
"I gave him one," replied Nora, significantly. "Chattaway needn't fear not getting an answer when he comes to me. He knows that."
"But what did you say about Rupert?"
"I said that he had not slept here. If Chattaway——"
Nora was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Chattaway's daughter, Octave. She had come to the farm, and, attracted by the sound of voices in the dairy, made her way to it. Miss Chattaway had taken it into her head lately to be friendly, to honour the farm with frequent visits. Mrs. Ryle neither encouraged nor repulsed her. She was civilly indifferent: but the young lady chose to take that as a welcome. Nora did not show her much greater favour than she was in the habit of showing her father. She bent her head over her butter-board, as if unaware that any one had entered.
George removed his hat which he had been wearing, as she stepped on to the cold floor of the dairy, and took the hand held out to him.
"Who would have thought of seeing you at home at this hour?" she exclaimed, in the winning manner which she could put on at times, and always did put on for George Ryle.
"And in Nora's dairy, watching her make up the butter!" he answered, laughing. "The fact is, I have an appointment with a gentleman this morning, and he is keeping me waiting, and making me angry. I can't spare the time."
"You look angry!" exclaimed Octave, laughing at him.
"Looks go for nothing," returned George.
"Is your harvest nearly in?"
"If this fine weather only lasts four or five days longer, it will be all in. We have had a glorious harvest this year. I hope every one's as thankful as I am."
"You have some especial cause for thankfulness?" she observed.
"I have."
She had spoken lightly, and was struck by the strangely earnest answer. George could have said that but for that harvest they might not quite so soon have discharged her father's debt.
"When shall you hold your harvest home?"
"Next Thursday; this day week," replied George. "Will you come to it?"
"Thank you," said Octave. "Yes, I will."
Had it been to save his life, George Ryle could not have helped the surprise in his eyes, as he turned them on Octave Chattaway. He had asked the question in the careless gaiety of the moment; really not intending it as an invitation. Had he proffered it in all earnestness, he never would have supposed it one to be accepted by Octave. Mr. Chattaway's family were not in the habit of visiting at Trevlyn Farm.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," thought George. "I don't know what Mrs. Ryle will say to this; but ifshecomes, some of the rest shall come also."
It almost seemed as if Octave had divined part of his thoughts. "I must ask my aunt Ryle whether she will have me. By way of bribe, I shall tell her that I delight in harvest-homes."
"We must have you all," said George. "Your sisters and Maude. Treve will be home I expect, and the Apperleys will be here."
"Who else?" asked Octave. "But I don't know about my sisters and Maude."
"Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. They and the Apperleys always come."
"Our starched old parson!" uttered Octave. "He is not a favourite with us at the Hold."
"I think he is with your mother."
"Oh, mamma's nobody. Of course we are civil to the Freemans, and exchange dull visits with them occasionally. You must be passably civil to the parson you sit under."
There was a pause. Octave advanced to Nora, who had gone on diligently with her work, never turning her head, or noticing Miss Chattaway by so much as a look. Octave drew close and watched her.
"How industrious you are, Nora!—just as if you enjoyed the occupation. I should not like to soil my hands, making up butter."
"There are some might make it up in white kid gloves," retorted Nora. "The butter wouldn't be any the better for it, Miss Chattaway."
At this juncture Mrs. Ryle's voice was heard, and Octave left the dairy in search of her. George was about to follow when Nora stopped him.
"What is the meaning of this new friendship—these morning calls and evening visits?" she asked; her eyes thrown keenly on George's face.
"How should I know?" he carelessly replied.
"If you don't, I do," she said. "Can you take care of yourself, George?"
"I believe I can."
"Then do," said Nora, with an emphatic nod. "And don't despise my caution: you may want it."
He laughed in his light-heartedness: but he did not tell Nora how unnecessary her warning was.
Later in the day, George Ryle had business which took him to Blackstone. It was not an inviting ride. The place, as he drew near, had that dreary aspect peculiar to the neighbourhood of mines. Rows of black, smoky huts were to be seen, the dwellings of the men who worked in the pits; and little children ran about with naked legs and tattered clothing, their thin faces white and squalid.
"Is it the perpetual dirt they live in makes these children look so unhealthy?" thought George—a question he had asked himself a hundred times. "I believe the mothers never wash them. Perhaps think it would be superfluous, where even the very atmosphere is black."
Black, indeed! Within George's view at that moment might be seen high chimneys congregating in all directions, throwing out volumes of smoke and flame. Numerous works were around, connected with iron and other rich mines abounding in the neighbourhood. Valuable areas for the furtherance of civilisation, the increase of wealth; but not pleasant to the eye, as compared with green meadows and blossoming trees.
The office belonging to Mr. Chattaway's colliery stood in a particularly dreary offshoot from the main road. It was a low but not very small building, facing the road on one side, looking to those tall chimneys and the dreary country on two of the others. On the fourth was a sort of waste ground, which appeared to contain nothing but various heaps of coal, a peculiar description of barrow, and some round shallow baskets. The building looked like a great shed; it was roofed over, and divided into partitions.
As George rode by, he saw Rupert standing at the narrow entrance door, leaning against it, as if in fatigue or idleness. Ford, the clerk, a young man accustomed to taking life easily, and to give himself little concern as to how it went, was standing near, his hands in his pockets. To see them doing nothing was sufficient to tell George that Chattaway was not about, and he rode up to the office.
"You look tired, Rupert."
"I am tired," answered Rupert. "If things are to go on like this, I shall grow tired of life altogether."
"Not yet," said George, cheeringly. "You may talk of that some fifty years hence."
Rupert made no answer. The sunlight fell on his fair features and golden hair. There was a haggardness in those features, a melancholy in the dark blue eyes, George did not like to see. Ford, the clerk, who was humming the verse of a song, cut short the melody, and addressed George.
"He has been in this gay state all the afternoon, sir. A charming companion for a fellow! It's a good thing I'm pretty jolly myself, or we might get consigned to the county asylum as two cases of melancholy. I hope he won't make a night of it again, that's all. Nothing wears out a chap like a night without bed, and no breakfast at the end of it."
"It isn't that," said Rupert. "I'm sick of it altogether. There has been nothing but a row here all day, George—ask Ford. Chattaway has been on at all of us. First, he attacked me. He demanded where I slept, and I wouldn't tell him. Next, he attacked Cris—a most unusual thing—and Cris hasn't got over it yet. He has gone galloping off, to gallop his ill-temper away."
"Chattaway has?"
"Not Chattaway; Cris. Cris never came here until one o'clock, and Chattaway wanted him, and a row ensued. Next, Ford came in for it: he had made a mistake in his entries. Something had uncommonly put out Chattaway—that is certain. And to improve his temper, the inspector of collieries came to-day and found fault, ordering things to be done that Chattaway says he won't do."
"Where's Chattaway now?"
"Gone home. I wish I was there, without the trouble of walking," added Rupert. "Chattaway has been ordering a load of coals to the Hold. If they were going this evening instead of to-morrow morning, I protest I'd take my seat upon them, and get home that way."
"Are you so very tired?" asked George.
"Dead beat."
"It's the sitting up," put in Ford again. "I don't think much of that kind of thing will do for Mr. Rupert Trevlyn."
"Perhaps it wouldn't do for you," grumbled Rupert.
George prepared to ride away. "Have you had any dinner, Rupert?" he asked.
"I made an attempt, but my appetite had gone by. Chattaway was here till past two o'clock, and after that I wasn't hungry."
"He tried some bread-and-cheese," said Ford. "I told him if he'd get a chop I'd cook it for him; but he didn't."
"I must be gone," said George. "You will not have left in half-an-hour's time, shall you, Rupert?"
"No; nor in an hour either."
George rode off over the stony ground, and they looked after him. Then Ford bethought himself of a message he was charged to deliver at one of the pits, and Rupert went indoors and sat down to the desk on his high stool.
Within the half-hour George Ryle was back again. He rode up to the door, and dismounted. Rupert came forward, a pen in hand.
"Are you ready to go home now, Rupert?"
Rupert shook his head. "Ford went to the pit and is not back yet; and I have a lot of writing to do. Why?"
"I thought we would have gone home together. You shall ride my horse, and I'll walk; it will tire you less than going on foot."
"You are very kind," said Rupert. "Yes, I should like to ride. I was thinking just now, that if Cris were worth anything, he'd let me ride his horse home. But he's not worth anything, and would no more let me ride his horse and walk himself, than he'd let me ride him."
"Has Cris not gone home?"
"I fancy not. Unless he has gone by without calling in. Will you wait, George?"
"No. I must walk on. But I'll leave you the horse. You can leave it at the Farm, Rupert, and walk the rest of the way."
"I can ride on to the Hold, and send it back."
George hesitated a moment. "I would rather you left it at the Farm, Rupert. It will not be far to walk after that."
Rupert acquiesced. Did he wonder why he might not ride the horse to the Hold? George would not say, "Because even that slight attention must, if possible, be kept from Chattaway."
He fastened the bridle to a hook in the wall, where Mr. Chattaway often tied his horse, where Cris sometimes tied his. There was a stable near; but unless they were going to remain in the office or about the pits, Mr. Chattaway and his son seldom put up their horses.
George Ryle walked away with a quick step, and Rupert returned to his desk. A quarter-of-an-hour passed on, and the clerk did not return. Rupert grew impatient for his arrival, and went to the door to look out for him. He did not see Ford; but he did see Cris Chattaway. Cris was approaching on foot, at a snail's pace, leading his horse, which was dead lame.
"Here's a nice bother!" called out Cris. "How I am to get back home, I don't know."
"What has happened?" returned Rupert.
"Can't you see what has happened? How it happened, I am unable to tell you. All I know is, the horse fell suddenly lame, and whined like a child. Something must have run into his foot, I conclude. Whose horse is that? Why, it's George Ryle's," Cris exclaimed as he drew sufficiently near to recognise it. "What brings his horse here?"
"He has lent it to me, to save my walking home," said Rupert.
"Where is he? Here?"
"He has gone home on foot. I can't think where Ford's lingering," added Rupert, walking into the yard, and mounting one of the smaller heaps of coal for a better view of the road by which Ford might be expected to arrive. "He has been gone this hour."
Cris was walking off in the direction of the stable, carefully leading his horse. "What are you going to do with him?" asked Rupert. "To leave him in the stable?"
"Until I can get home and send the groom for him.I'mnot going to cool my heels, dragging him home," retorted Cris.
Rupert retired indoors, and sat down on the high stool. He still had some accounts to make up. They had to be done that evening; and as Ford did not come in to do them, he must. Had Ford been there, Rupert would have left him to do it, and gone home at once.
"I wonder how many years of my life I am to wear out in this lively place?" thought Rupert, after five minutes of uninterrupted attention given to his work, which slightly progressed in consequence. "It's a shame that I should be put to it. A paid fellow at ten shillings a week would do it better than I. If Chattaway had a spark of good feeling in him, he'd put me into a farm. It would be better for me altogether, and more fitting for a Trevlyn. Catch him at it! He wouldn't let me be my own master for——"
A sound as of a horse trotting off interrupted Rupert's cogitations. He came down from his stool. A thought crossed him that George Ryle's horse might have got loose, and be speeding home riderless, at his own will and pleasure.
It was George Ryle's horse, but not riderless. To Rupert's intense astonishment, he saw Mr. Cris mounted on him, and leisurely riding away.
"Halloa!" called Rupert, speeding after the horse and his rider. "What are you going to do with that horse, Cris?"
Cris turned his head, but did not stop. "I'm going to ride him home. His having been left here just happens right for me."
"You get off," shouted Rupert. "The horse was lent to me, not to you. Do you hear, Cris?"
Cris heard, but did not stop: he was urging the horse on. "Youdon't want him," he roughly said. "You can walk, as you always do."
Further remonstrance, further following, was useless. Rupert's words were drowned in the echoes of the horse's hoofs, galloping away in the distance. Rupert stood, white with anger, impotent to stop him, his hands stretched out on the empty air, as if their action could arrest the horse and bring him back again. Certainly the mortification was bitter; the circumstance precisely one of those likely to affect an excitable nature; and Rupert was on the point of going into that dangerous fit known as the Trevlyn passion, when its course was turned aside by a hand laid upon his shoulder.
He turned, it may almost be said, savagely. Ford was standing there out of breath, his good-humoured face red with the exertion of running.
"I say, Mr. Rupert, you'll do a fellow a service, won't you? I have had a message that my mother's taken suddenly ill; a fit, they say, of some sort. Will you finish what there is to do here, and lock up for once, so that I can go home directly?"
Rupert nodded. In his passionate disappointment, at having to walk home when he expected to ride, at being treated as of no moment by Cris Chattaway, it seemed of little consequence to him how long he remained, or what work he had to do: and the clerk, waiting for no further permission, sped away with a fleet foot. Rupert's face was losing its deathly whiteness—there is no whiteness like that born of passion or of sudden terror; and when he sat down again to the desk, the hectic flush of reaction was shining in his cheeks and lips.
Well, oh, well for him, could these dangerous fits of passion have been always arrested on the threshold, as this had been arrested now! The word is used advisedly: they brought nothing less than danger in their train.
But, alas! this was not to be.
Nora was at some business or other in the fold-yard, when the servant at Trevlyn Hold more especially devoted to the service of Cris Chattaway entered the gate with George Ryle's horse. As he passed Nora on his way to the stables, she turned, and the man spoke.
"Mr. Ryle's horse, ma'am. Shall I take it on?"
"You know the way," was Nora's short answer. She did not regard the man with any favour, reflecting upon him, in her usual partial fashion, the dislike she entertained for his master and Trevlyn Hold in general. "Mr. Trevlyn has sent it, I suppose."
"Mr. Trevlyn!" repeated the groom, betraying some surprise.
Now, it was a fact that at Trevlyn Hold Rupert was never called "Mr. Trevlyn." That it was his proper title was indisputable; but Mr. Chattaway had as great a dislike to hear Rupert called by it as he had a wish to hear himself styled "the Squire." At the Hold, Rupert was "Mr. Rupert" only, and the neighbourhood generally had fallen into the same familiar mode when speaking of him. Nora supposed the man's repetition of the name had insolent reference to this; as much as to say, "Who's Mr. Trevlyn?"
"Yes, Mr. Trevlyn," she resumed in sharp tones of reprimand. "He is Mr. Trevlyn, Sam Atkins, and you know he is, however some people may wish it forgotten. He is not Mr. Rupert, and he is not Mr. Rupert Trevlyn, but he is Mr. Trevlyn; and if he had his rights, he'd be Squire Trevlyn. There! you may go and tell your master that I said so."
Sam Atkins, a civil, quiet young fellow, was overpowered with astonishment at Nora's burst of eloquence. "I'm not saying naught against it, ma'am," cried he, when he had sufficiently recovered. "But Mr. Rupert didn't send me with the horse at all. It was young Mr. Chattaway."
"What had he to do with it?" resentfully asked Nora.
"He rode it home from Blackstone."
"Herode it? Cris Chattaway!"
"Yes," said the groom. "He has just got home now, and told me to bring the horse back at once."
Nora desired the man to take the horse to the stable, and went indoors. She could not understand it. When George returned home on foot, and she inquired what he had done with his horse, he told her that he had left it at Blackstone for Rupert Trevlyn. To hear now that Cris had reaped the benefit of it, and not Rupert, excited Nora's indignation. But the indignation would have increased fourfold had she known that Mr. Cris had ridden the horse hard and made adétourof some five miles out of his way, to transact a private matter of business of his own. She went straight to George, who was seated at tea with Mrs. Ryle.
"Mr. George, I thought you told me you had left your horse at Blackstone for Rupert Trevlyn, to save his walking home?"
"So I did," replied George.
"Then it's Cris Chattaway who has come home on it. I'd seehimfar enough before he should have the use of my horse!"
"It can't be," returned George. "You must be mistaken, Nora; Cris had his own horse there."
"You can go and ask for yourself," rejoined Nora, crustily, not at all liking to be told she was mistaken. "Sam Atkins is putting the horse in the stable, and says Cris Chattaway rode it from Blackstone."
George did go and ask for himself. He could not understand it at all; and he had no more fancy for allowing Cris Chattaway the use of his horse than Nora had. He supposed they had exchanged steeds; though why they should do so, he could not imagine.
Sam Atkins was in the stable, talking to Roger, one of the men about the farm. George saw at a glance that his horse had been ridden hard.
"Who rode this horse home?" he inquired, as the groom touched his hat to him.
"Young Mr. Chattaway, sir."
"And Mr. Rupert: what did he ride?"
"Mr. Rupert, sir? I don't think he is come home."
"Where's Mr. Cris Chattaway's own horse?"
"He left it at Blackstone, sir. It fell dead lame, he says. I be going for it now."
George paused. "I lent my horse to Mr. Rupert," he said. "Do you know why he did not use it himself?"
"I don't know nothing about it, sir. Mr. Cris came home just now on your horse, told me to bring it down here, go on to Blackstone for his, and mind I led it gently home. He never mentioned Mr. Rupert."
Considerably later—in fact, it was past nine o'clock—Rupert Trevlyn appeared. George Ryle was leaning over the gate at the foot of his garden in a musing attitude, the bright stars above him, the slight frost of the autumn night rendering the air clear, though not cold, when he saw a figure slowly winding up the road. It was Rupert Trevlyn. The same misfortune seemed to have befallen him that had befallen the horse, for he limped as he walked.
"Are you lame, Rupert?" asked George.
"Lame with fatigue; nothing else," answered Rupert in that low, half-inaudible voice which a very depressed physical state will induce. "Let me come in and sit down half-an-hour, George, or I shall never get to the Hold."
"How came you to let Cris Chattaway ride my horse home? I left it for you."
"Lethim! He mounted and galloped off without my knowing—the sneak! I should be ashamed to be guilty of such a trick. I declare I had half a mind to ride his horse home, lame as it was. But that the poor animal is evidently in pain, I would have done so."
"You are very late."
"I have been such a time coming. The truth is, I sat down when I was half-way here, so dead tired I couldn't stir a step further; and I dropped asleep."
"A wise proceeding!" cried George, in pleasant though mocking tones. He did not care to say more plainly howunwise it might be for Rupert Trevlyn. "Did you sleep long?"
"Pretty well. The stars were out when I awoke; and I felt ten times more tired when I got up than I had felt when I sat down."
George placed him in a comfortable armchair, and got him a glass of wine, Nora brought some refreshment, but Rupert could not eat.
"Try it," urged George.
"I can't," said Rupert; "I am completely done up."
He leaned back in the chair, his fair hair falling on the cushions, his bright face—bright with a touch of inward fever—turned upwards to the light. Gradually his eyelids closed, and he dropped into a calm sleep.
George sat watching him. Mrs. Ryle, who was still poorly, had retired to her chamber for the night, and they were alone. Very unkindly, as may be thought, George woke him soon, and told him it was time to go.
"Do not deem me inhospitable, Rupert; but it will not do for you to be locked out again to-night."
"What's the time?" asked Rupert.
"Considerably past ten."
"I was in quite a nice dream. I thought I was being carried along in a large sail belonging to a ship. The motion was pleasant and soothing. Past ten! What a bother! I shall be half dead again before I get to the Hold."
"I'll lend you my arm, Ru, to help you along."
"That's a good fellow!" exclaimed Rupert.
He got up and stretched himself, and then fell back in his chair, like a leaden weight. "I'd give five shillings to be there without the trouble of walking," quoth he.
"Rupert, you will be late."
"I can't help it," returned Rupert, folding his arms and leaning back again in the chair. "If Chattaway locks me out again, he must. I'll sit down in the portico until morning, for I sha'n't be able to stir another step from it."
Rupert was in that physical depression which reacts upon the mind. Whether he got in or not, whether he passed the night in a comfortable bed, or under the trees in the avenue, seemed of very little moment in his present state of feeling. Altogether he was some time getting off; and they heard the far-off church clock at Barbrook chime the half-past ten before they were half-way to the Hold. The sound came distinctly to their ears on the calm night air.
"I was somewhere about this spot when the half-hour struck last night, for your clocks were fast," remarked Rupert. "I ran all the way home after that—with what success, you know. I can't run to-night."
"I'll do my best to get you in," said George. "I hope I sha'n't be tempted, though, to speak my mind too plainly to Chattaway."
The Hold was closed for the night. Lights appeared in several of the windows. Rupert halted when he saw the light in one of them. "Aunt Diana must have returned," he said; "that's her room."
George Ryle rang a loud, quick peal at the bell. It was not answered. He rang again, a sharp, urgent peal, and shouted with his stentorian voice; a prolonged shout that could not have come from the lungs of Rupert; and it brought Mr. Chattaway to the window of his wife's dressing-room in surprise. One or two more windows in different parts of the house were thrown up.
"It is I, Mr. Chattaway. I have been assisting Rupert home. Will you be good enough to have the door opened?"
Mr. Chattaway was nearly struck dumb with the insolence of the demand, coming from the quarter it did. He could scarcely speak at first, even to refuse.
"He does not deserve your displeasure to-night," said George, in his clear, ringing tones, which might be heard distinctly ever so far off. "He could scarcely get here from fatigue and illness. But for taking a rest at my mother's house, and having the help of my arm up here, I question if he would have got as far. Be so good as to let him in, Mr. Chattaway."
"How dare you make such a request to me?" roared Mr. Chattaway, recovering himself a little. "How dare you come disturbing the peace of my house at night, like any house-breaker—except that you make more noise about it!"
"I came to bring Rupert," was George's answer. "He is waiting to be let in; tired and ill."
"I will not let him in," raved Mr. Chattaway. "How dare you, I ask?"
"Whatisall this?" broke from the amazed voice of Miss Diana Trevlyn. "What does it mean? I don't comprehend it in the least."
George looked up at her window. "Rupert could not get home by the hour specified by Mr. Chattaway—half-past ten. I am asking that he may be admitted now, Miss Trevlyn."
"Of course he can be admitted," said Miss Diana.
"Of course he sha'n't," retorted Mr. Chattaway.
"Who says he couldn't get home in time if he had wanted to come?" called out Cris from a window on the upper story. "Does it take him five or six hours to walk from Blackstone?"
"Is that you, Christopher?" asked George, falling back a little that he might see him better. "I want to speak to you. By what right did you take possession of my horse at Blackstone this afternoon, and ride him home?"
"I chose to do it," said Cris.
"I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to walk. It would have been more generous—though you may not understand the word—had you left it for him. He was not in bed last night; has gone without food to-day—you were more capable of walking home than he."
Miss Diana craned forth her neck. "Chattaway, I must inquire into this. Let that front-door be opened."
"I will not," he answered. And he banged down his window with a resolute air, as if to avoid further colloquy.
But in that same moment the lock of the front-door was turned, and it was thrown open by Octave Chattaway.
It was surely a scene to excite some interest, if only the interest of curiosity, that was presented at Trevlyn Hold that night. Octave Chattaway in evening dress—for she had not begun to prepare for bed, although some time in her chamber—standing at the hall-door which she had opened; Miss Diana pressing forward from the back of the hall in a hastily assumed dressing gown; Mr. Chattaway in a waistcoat; Cris in greater déshabille; and Mrs. Chattaway dressed as was Octave.
Rupert came in, coughing with the night air, and leaning on the arm of George Ryle. There was no light, except such as was afforded by a candle carried by Miss Trevlyn; but she stepped forward and lighted the lamp.
"Now then," said she. "What is all this?"
"It is this," returned the master of Trevlyn Hold: "that I make rules for the proper regulation of my household, and a beardless boy chooses to break them. I should think"—turning shortly upon Miss Diana—"that you are not the one to countenance that."
"No," said she; "when rules are made they must be kept. What is your defence, Rupert?"
Rupert had thrown himself upon a bench against the wall in utter weariness of mind and body. "I don't care to make any defence," said he, in his apathy, as he leaned his cheek upon his hand, and fixed his blue eyes on Miss Trevlyn; "I don't know that there's much defence to make. Mr. Chattaway orders me to be in by half-past ten. I was at George Ryle's last night, and I a little exceeded the time, getting here five minutes or so after it, so I was locked out. Cris let himself in with his latch-key, but he would not let me in."
Miss Diana glanced at Cris, but said nothing. Mr. Chattaway interrupted. George, erect, fearless, was standing opposite the group, and it was to him that Chattaway turned.
"What I want to know is this—by what rightyouinterfere, George Ryle?"
"I am not aware that I have interfered—except by giving Rupert my arm up the hill, and asking you to admit him. No very unjustifiable interference, surely, Mr. Chattaway."
"But it is, sir. And I ask why you presume to do it?"
"Presume? I saw Rupert to-night, accidentally, as he was coming from Blackstone. It was about nine o'clock. He appeared terribly tired, and wished to come into the house and rest. There he fell asleep. I awoke him in time, but he seemed too weary to get here himself, and I came with him to help him along. He walked slowly—painfully I should say; and it made him later than he ought to have arrived. Will you be so good, Mr. Chattaway, as to explain what part of this was unjustifiable interference? I do not see that I could have done less."
"You will see that you do less in future," growled Mr. Chattaway. "I will have no interference of yours between the Hold and Rupert Trevlyn."
"You may make yourself perfectly easy," returned George, some sarcasm in his tone. "Nothing could be farther from my intention than to interfere in any way with you, or with the Hold, or with Rupert in connection with you and the Hold. But, as I told you this morning, until you show me good and sufficient reason for the contrary, I shall observe common courtesy to Rupert when he comes in my way."
"Nonsense!" interposed Miss Diana. "Who says you are not to show courtesy to Rupert? Do you?" wheeling sharply round on Chattaway.
"There's one thing requires explanation," said Mr. Chattaway, turning to Rupert, and drowning Miss Diana's voice. "How came you to stop at Blackstone till this time of night? Where had you been loitering?"
Rupert answered the questions mechanically, never lifting his head. "I didn't leave until late. Ford wanted to go home, and I had to stop. After that I sat down on the way and dropped asleep."
"Sat down on your way and dropped asleep!" echoed Miss Diana. "What made you do that?"
"I don't know. I had been tired all day. I had no bed, you hear, last night. I suppose I can go to mine now?" he added, rising. "I want it badly enough."
"You can go—for this time," assented the master of Trevlyn Hold. "But you will understand that it is the last night I shall suffer my rules to be set at naught. You shall be in to time, or you do not come in at all."
Rupert shook hands with George Ryle, spoke a general "Good night" to the rest collectively, and went towards the stairs. At the back of the hall, lingering there in her timidity, stood Mrs. Chattaway. "Good night, dear Aunt Edith," he whispered.
She gave no answer: only laid her hand upon his as he passed: and so momentary was the action that it escaped unobserved, except by one pair of eyes—those of Octave Chattaway.
George was the next to go. Octave put out her hand to him. "Does Caroline come to the harvest-home?" she inquired.
"Yes, I think so. Good night."
"Good night," replied Octave, amiably. "I am glad you took care of Rupert."
"She's as false as her father," thought George, as he went down the avenue.
They were all dispersing. There was nothing now to remain up for. Chattaway was turning to the staircase, when Miss Diana stepped inside one of the sitting-rooms, carrying her candle, and beckoned to him.
"What do you want, Diana?" he asked, not in pleasant tones, as he followed her in.
"Why did you shut out Rupert last night?"
"Because I chose to do it!"
"But suppose I chose that he should not be shut out?"
"Then we shall split," angrily rejoined the master of Trevlyn Hold. "I say that half-past ten is quite late enough for Rupert. He is younger than Cris; you and Edith say he is not strong;isit too early?"
Mr. Chattaway was so far right. It was a sufficiently late hour; and Miss Diana, after a pause, pronounced it to be so. "I shall talk to Rupert," she said. "There's no harm in his going to spend an hour or two with George Ryle, or with any other friend, but he must be home in good time."
"Just so; he must be home in good time," acquiesced Chattaway. "He shall be home by half-past ten. And the only way to insure that, is to lock him out at first when he transgresses. Therefore, Diana, I shall follow my own way in this, and I beg you not to interfere."
Miss Diana went up to Rupert's room. He had taken off his coat, and thrown himself on the bed, as if the fatigue of undressing were too much for him.
"What's that for?" asked Miss Diana, as she entered. "Is that the way you get into bed?"
Rupert rose and sat down on a chair. "Only coming upstairs seems to tire me," he said in tones of apology. "I should not have lain a minute."
Miss Diana threw back her head a little, and looked at Rupert: the determined will of the Trevlyns shining out in every line of her face.
"I have come to ask where you slept last night. I mean to know, Rupert."
"I don't mind your knowing," replied Rupert; "I have told Aunt Edith. I decline to tell Chattaway, and I hope that no one else will tell him."
"Why?"
"Because he might lay blame where no blame is due. Chattaway turned me from the door, Aunt Diana, and Cris, who came up just after, turned me from it also. I went down to the lodge, and Ann Canham let me in; and I lay part of the night on their hard settle, and part of the night I sat upon it. That's where I was. But if Chattaway knew it, he'd turn old Canham and Ann from the lodge, as he turned me from the door."
"Oh no, he wouldn't," said Miss Diana, "if it were my pleasure to keep them in it. Do you feel ill, Rupert?"
"I feel middling. It is that I am tired, I suppose. I shall be all right in the morning."
Miss Diana descended to her own room. Waiting there for her was Mrs. Chattaway. In spite of a shawl thrown over her shoulders, she seemed to be shivering. She slipped the bolt of the door—what was she afraid of?—and turned to Miss Trevlyn, her hands clasped.
"Diana, this is killing me!" she wailed. "Why should Rupert be treated as he is? I know I am but a poor creature, that I have been one all my life—a very coward; but sometimes I think that I must speak out and protest against the injustice, though I should die in the effort."
"Why, what's the matter?" uttered Miss Diana, whose intense composure formed a strange contrast to her sister's agitated words and bearing.
"Oh, you know!—you know! I have not dared to speak out much, even to you, Diana; but it's killing me—it's killing me! Is it not enough that we despoiled Rupert of his inheritance, but we must also——"
"Be silent!" sharply interrupted Miss Diana, glancing around and lowering her voice to a whisper. "Will you never have done with that folly, Edith?"
"I shall never have done with its remembrance. I don't often speak of it; once, it may be, in seven years, not more. Better for me that I could speak of it; it would prey less upon my heart!"
"You have benefited by it as much as any one has."
"I cannot help myself. Heaven knows that if I could retire to some poor hut, and live upon a crust of bread, and benefit by it no more, I should do so—oh, how willingly! But there's no escape. I am hemmed in by its consequences; we are all hemmed in by them—and there's no escape."
Miss Diana looked at her. Steadfastly, keenly; not angrily, but searchingly and critically, as a doctor looks at a patient supposed to be afflicted with mania.
"If you do not take care, Edith, you will become insane upon this point, as I believe I have warned you before," she said, with calmness. "I am not sure but you are slightly touched now!"
"I do not think I am," replied poor Mrs. Chattaway, passing her hand over her brow. "I feel confused enough sometimes, but there's no fear that madness will really come. If thinking could have turned me mad, I should have gone mad years ago."
"The very act of your coming here in this excited state, when you should be going to bed, and saying what you do say, must be nothing less than a degree of madness."
"I would go to bed, if I could sleep," said Mrs. Chattaway. "I lie awake night after night, thinking of the past; of the present; thinking of Rupert and of what we did for him; the treatment we deal out to him now. I think of his father, poor Joe; I think of his mother, Emily Dean, whom we once so loved; and I—I cannot sleep, Diana!"
There really did seem something strange in Mrs. Chattaway to-night. For once in her life, Diana Trevlyn's heart beat a shade faster.
"Try and calm yourself, Edith," she said soothingly.
"I wish I could! I should be more calm if you and my husband would allow it. If you would only allow Rupert to be treated with common kindness——"
"He is not treated with unkindness," interrupted Miss Diana.
"It appears to me that he is treated with nothing but great unkindness. He——"
"Is he beaten?—is he starved?"
"The system pursued towards him is altogether unkind," persisted Mrs. Chattaway. "Indulgences dealt out to our own children are denied to him. When I think that he might be the true master of Trevlyn Hold——"
"I will not listen to this," interrupted Miss Diana. "What has come to you to-night?"
A shiver passed over the frame of Mrs. Chattaway. She was sitting on a low toilette chair covered with white drapery, her head bent on her hand. By her reply, which she did not look up to give, it appeared that she took the question literally.
"I feel the pain more than usual; nothing else. I do feel it so sometimes."
"What pain?" asked Miss Diana.
"The pain of remorse: the pain of the wrong dealt out to Rupert. It seems greater than I can bear. Do you know," raising her feverish eyes to Miss Diana, "that I scarcely closed my eyelids last night? All the long night through I was thinking of Rupert: fancying him lying outside on the damp grass; fancying——"
"Stop a minute, Edith. Are you seeking to blame your husband to me?"
"No, no; I don't wish to blame any one. But I wish it could be altered."
"If Rupert knows the hour for coming in—and it is not an unreasonable hour—it is he who is to blame if he exceeds it."
Mrs. Chattaway could not gainsay this. In point of fact, though she found things grievously uncomfortable, wrong altogether, she had not the strength of mind to saywherethe fault lay, or how it should be altered. On this fresh agitation, the coming in at half-past ten, she could only judge as a vacillating woman. The hour, as Miss Diana said, was not unreasonable, and Mrs. Chattaway would have fallen in with it, and approved her husband's judgment, if Rupert had only obeyed the mandate. If Rupert did not obey it—if he somewhat exceeded its bounds—she would have liked the door to be still open to him, and no scolding given. It was the discomfort that worried her; mixing itself up with the old feeling of the wrong done to Rupert, rendering things, as she aptly expressed it, more miserable than she could bear.
"I'll talk to Rupert to-morrow morning," said Miss Diana. "I shall add my authority to Chattaway's, and tell him that hemustbe in."
It may be that a shadow of the future was casting itself over the mind of Mrs. Chattaway, dimly and vaguely pointing to the terrible events hereafter to arise—events which would throw their consequences on the remainder of Rupert's life, and which had their origin in this new and ill-omened order, touching his coming home at night.
"Edith," said Miss Diana, "I would recommend you to become less sensitive on the subject of Rupert. It is growing into a morbid feeling."
"I wish I could! It does grow upon me. Do you know," sinking her voice and looking feverishly at her sister, "that old impression has come again! I thought it had worn itself out. I thought it had left me for ever."
Miss Diana almost lost patience. Her own mind was a very contrast to her sister's; the two were as opposite in their organisation as the poles. Fanciful, dreamy, vacillating, weak, the one; the other strong, practical, matter-of-fact.
"I don't know what you mean by the 'old impression,'" she rejoined, with a contempt she did not seek to disguise. "Is it not some new folly?"
"I told you of it in the old days, Diana. I used to feel certain—certain—that the wrong we inflicted on Rupert would avenge itself—that in some way he would come into his inheritance, and we should be despoiled of it. I felt so certain of it, that every morning of my life when I got up I seemed to expect its fulfilment before the day closed. But the time went on and on, and it never came. It went on so long that the impression wore itself out, I say, and now it has come again. It is stronger than ever. For some weeks past it has been growing more present with me day by day, and I cannot shake it off."
"The best thing you can do now is to go to bed, and try and sleep off your folly," cried Miss Trevlyn, with the stinging contempt she allowed herself at rare times to show to her sister. "I feel more provoked with you than I can express. A child might be pardoned for indulging in such absurdities; a woman, never!"
Mrs. Chattaway rose. "I'll go to bed," she meekly answered, "and get what sleep I can. I remember that you ridiculed this feeling of mine in the old days——"
"Pray did anything come of it then?" interrupted Miss Diana, sarcastically.
"I have said it did not. And the impression left me. But it has come again. Good night, Diana."
"Good night, and a more sensible frame of mind to you!" was the retort of Miss Diana.
Mrs. Chattaway crept softly along the corridor to her own dressing-room, hoping that her husband by that time was in bed and asleep. What was her surprise, then, to see him sitting at the table when she entered, not undressed, and as wide awake as she was.
"You have business late with Diana," he remarked.
Mrs. Chattaway felt wholly and entirely subdued; she had felt so since the previous night, when Rupert was denied admittance. The painful shyness, clinging to her always, seemed partially to have left her for a time. It was as though she had not strength left to be timid; almost as Rupert felt in his weariness of body, she was past caring for anything in her utter weariness of mind. Otherwise, she might not have spoken to Miss Diana as she had just done: most certainly she could never have spoken as she was about to speak to Mr. Chattaway.
"What may your business with her have been?" he resumed.
"It was not much, James," she answered. "I was saying how ill I felt."
"Ill! With what?"
"Ill in mind, I think," said Mrs. Chattaway, putting her hand to her brow. "I was telling her that the old fear had come upon me; the impression that used to cling to me always that some change was at hand regarding Rupert. I lost it for a great many years, but it has come again."
"Try and speak lucidly, if you can," was Mr. Chattaway's answer. "What has come again?"
"It seems to have come upon me in the light of a warning," she resumed, so lucidly that Mr. Chattaway, had he been a few steps lower in social grade, might have felt inclined to strike her. "I have ever felt that Rupert would in some manner regain his rights—I mean what he was deprived of," she hastily added, condoning the word which had slipped from her. "That he will regain Trevlyn Hold, and we shall lose it."
Mr. Chattaway listened in consternation, his mouth gradually opening in bewilderment. "What makes you think that?" he asked, when he found his voice.
"I don't exactlythinkit, James. Think is not the right word. The feeling has come upon me again within the last few weeks, and I cannot shake it off. I believe it to be a presentiment; a warning."
Paler and paler grew Mr. Chattaway. He did not understand. Like Miss Diana Trevlyn, he was very matter-of-fact, comprehending nothing but what could be seen and felt; and his wife might as well have spoken in an unknown tongue as of "presentiments." He drew a rapid conclusion that some unpleasant fact, bearing upon the dreadhehad long felt, must have come to his wife's knowledge.
"What have you heard?" he gasped.
"I have heard nothing; nothing whatever. I——"
"Then what on earth are you talking about?"
"Did you understand me, James? I say the impression was once firmly seated in my mind that Rupert would somehow be restored to what—to what"—she scarcely knew how to frame her words with the delicacy she deemed due to her husband's feelings—"to what would have been his but for his father's death. And that impression has now returned to me."
"But you have not heard anything? Any plot?—any conspiracy that's being hatched against us?"
"No, no."
Mr. Chattaway stared searchingly at his wife. Did he fancy, as Miss Diana had done, that her intellect was becoming disordered?
"Then, what do you mean?" he asked, after a pause. "Why should such an idea arise?"
Mrs. Chattaway was silent. She could not tell him the truth; could not say she believed it was the constant dwelling upon the wrong and injustice, which had first suggested the notion that the wrong would inevitably recoil on its workers. They had broken alike the laws of God and man; and those who do so cannot be sure of immunity from punishment in this world. That they had so long enjoyed unmolested the inheritance gained by fraud, gave no certainty that they would enjoy it to the end. She felt it, if her husband and Diana Trevlyn did not. Too often there were certain verses of Holy Writ spelling out their syllables upon her brain. "Remove not the old landmark; and enter not into the fields of the fatherless; for their Redeemer is mighty; he shall plead their cause with thee."
All this she could not say to Mr. Chattaway. She could give him no good reason for what she had said; he did not understand imaginative fancies, and he went to rest after bestowing upon her a sharp lecture for indulging them.
Nevertheless, in spite of her denial, the master of Trevlyn Hold could not divest himself of the impression that she must have picked up some scrap of news, or heard a word dropped in some quarter, which had led her to say what she did. And it gave him terrible discomfort.
Was the haunting shadow, the latent dread in his heart, about to be changed into substance? He lay on his bed, turning uneasily from side to side until the morning, wondering from what quarter the first glimmer of mischief would come.