Had Miss Diana expressed her intention of purchasing ten ponies for Rupert, it would have made no impression then on Chattaway. In his terrible suspense and fear, a pony more or less was an insignificant thing, and he received the announcement in silence, to the intense surprise of Miss Diana, who had expected to see him turn round in a blaze of anger.
"Are you not well?" she asked.
"Well? Quite well. I—I over-heated myself riding, and—and feel quite chilly now. What should hinder my being well?" he continued, resentfully.
"I say I shall buy a pony for Rupert. Those walks to Blackstone are too much for him. I think it must be that which is making him feel so ill."
"I wish you'd not bother me!" peevishly rejoined Chattaway. "Buy it, if you like. What do I care?"
"I'll thank you to be civil tome, Mr. Chattaway," said Miss Diana, with emphasis. "It is of no use your being put out about this business of Cris and the accident; and that's what you are, I suppose. Fretting over it won't mend it."
Mr. Chattaway caught at the mistake. "It was such an idiotic trick, to put an untried horse into harness, and let it smash the dog-cart!" he cried. "Cris did it in direct disobedience, too. I had told him he should not buy that horse."
"Cris does many things in disobedience," calmly rejoined Miss Diana. "I hope it has not injured Edith."
"She must have been foolish——"
A ring at the hall-bell—a loud, long, imperative ring—and Mr. Chattaway's voice abruptly stopped.Hestopped: stopped and stood stock still in the middle of the room, eyes and ears open, his whole senses on the alert. A prevision rushed over him that the messenger of evil had come.
"Are you expecting any one?" inquired Miss Diana.
"Be still, can't you?" almost shrieked Chattaway. Her voice hindered his listening.
They were opening the hall-door, and Chattaway's face was turning livid. James came into the room.
"A gentleman, sir, is asking to see Mr. Rupert."
"What gentleman?" interposed Miss Diana, before Chattaway could move or look.
"I don't know him, ma'am. He seems strange to the place; has a white beard, and looks foreign."
"He wants Mr. Rupert, did you say?"
"When I opened the door, first, ma'am, he asked if he could see young Squire Trevlyn; so I wanted to know who he meant, and said my master, Mr. Chattaway, was the Squire, and he replied that he meant Master Rupert, the son of Squire Trevlyn's heir, Mr. Joe, who had died abroad. He is waiting, ma'am."
Chattaway turned his white face upon the man. His trembling hands, his stealthy movements, showed his abject terror; even his very voice, which had dropped to a whisper.
"Mr. Rupert's in bed, and can't be seen, James. Go and say so."
Miss Diana had stood in amazement—first, at James's message; secondly, at Mr. Chattaway's strange demeanour. "Why, who is it?" she cried to the servant.
"He didn't give his name, ma'am."
"Will you go, James?" hoarsely cried Mr. Chattaway. "Go and get rid of the man."
"But he shall not get rid of him," interrupted Miss Diana. "I shall see the man. It is the strangest message I ever heard in my life. What are you thinking of, Squire?"
"Stop where you are!" returned Mr. Chattaway, arresting Miss Diana's progress. "Do you hear, James? Go and get rid of this man. Turn him out, at any cost."
Did Mr. Chattaway fear the visitor had come to take possession of the house in Rupert's name? Miss Diana could only look at him in astonishment. His face wore the hue of death; he was evidently almost beside himself with terror. For once in her life she did not assert her will, but suffered James to leave the room and "get rid" of the visitor in obedience to Mr. Chattaway.
He appeared to have no trouble in accomplishing it. A moment, and the hall-door was heard to close. Chattaway opened that of the dining-room.
"What did he say?"
"He said nothing, sir, except that he'd call again."
"James, does he—does he look like a madman?" cried Mr. Chattaway, his tone changing to what might almost be called entreaty. "Is he insane, do you think? I could not let a madman enter the house, you know."
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure. His words were odd, but he didn't seem mad."
Mr. Chattaway closed the door and turned to his sister-in-law, who was more puzzled than she had ever been in her life.
"I think it is you who are mad, Chattaway."
"Hush, Diana! I have heard of this man before. Sit down, and I will tell you about him."
He had come to a rapid conclusion that it would be better to confide to her the terrible news come to light. Not his own fears, or the dread which had lain deep in his heart: only this that he had heard.
We have seen how the words of the stranger had been exaggerated by Hatch to Mr. Chattaway, and perhaps he now unconsciously exaggerated Hatch's report. Miss Diana listened in consternation. A lawyer!—come down to depose them from Trevlyn Hold, and institute Rupert in it! "I never heard of such a thing!" she exclaimed. "He can't do it, you know, Chattaway."
Chattaway coughed ruefully. "Of course he can't. At least I don't see how he can, or how any one else can. My opinion is that the man must be mad."
Miss Diana was falling into thought. "A friend of Joe's?" she mused aloud. "Chattaway, could Joe have left a will?"
"Nonsense!" said Chattaway. "If Joe Trevlyn did leave a will, it would be null and void. He died in his father's lifetime, and the property was not his to leave."
"True. There can be no possibility of danger," she added, after a pause. "We may dismiss all fear as the idle wind."
"I wonder whether Rupert knows anything about this?"
"Rupert! What should he know about it?"
"I can't say," returned Mr. Chattaway, significantly. "I think I'll go up and ask him," he added, in a sort of feverish impulse.
Without a moment's pause he hastened upstairs to Rupert's room. But the room was empty!
Mr. Chattaway stood transfixed. He had fully believed Rupert to be in bed, and the silent bed, impressed, seemed to mock him. A wild fear came over him that Rupert's pretence of going to bed had been aruse—he had gone out to meet that dangerous stranger.
He flew down the stairs as one possessed; shouting "Rupert! Rupert!" The household stole forth to look at him, and the walls echoed the name. But from Rupert himself there came no answer. He was not in the Hold.
Rupert's leaving the Hold, however, had been a very innocent matter. The evening sun was setting gloriously, and he thought he would stroll out for a few minutes before going to his room. When he reached the lodge he went in and flung himself down on the settle, opposite old Canham and his pipe.
"How's Madam?" asked the old man. "What an accident it might have been!"
"So it might," assented Rupert, "Madam will be better after a night's rest. Cris might have killed her. I wonder how he'd have felt then?"
When Rupert came to an anchor, no matter where, he was somewhat unwilling to move from it. The settle was not a comfortable seat; rather the contrary; but Rupert kept to it, talking and laughing with old Canham. Ann was at the window, catching what remained of the fading light for her sewing.
"Here's that strange gentleman again, father!" she suddenly exclaimed in a whisper.
Old Canham turned his head, and Rupert turned his. The gentleman with the beard was going by in the direction of Trevlyn Hold as if about to make a call there.
"Ay, that's him," cried old Canham.
"What a queer-looking chap!" exclaimed Rupert. "Who is he?"
"I can't make out," was old Canham's reply. "Me and Ann have been talking about him. He came strolling inside the gates this afternoon with a red umberellar, looking here and looking there, and at last he see us, and come up and asked what place this was; and when I told him it was Trevlyn Hold, he said Trevlyn Hold was what he had been seeking for, and he stood there talking a matter o' twenty minutes, leaning his arms on the window-sill. He thought you was the Squire, Master Rupert. He had a red umberellar," repeated old Canham, as if the fact were remarkable.
Rupert glanced up in surprise. "Thought I was the Squire?"
"He came into this neighbourhood, he said, believing nothing less but that you were the rightful Squire, and couldn't make out why you were not: he had been away from England a many years, and had believed it all the while. He said you were the true Squire, and you should be helped to your right."
"Why! who can he be?" exclaimed Rupert, in excitement.
"Ah, that's it—who can he be?" returned old Canham. "Me and Ann have been marvelling. He said that he used to be a friend of the dead heir, Mr. Joe. Master Rupert, who knows but he may be somebody come to place you in the Hold?"
Rupert was leaning forward on the settle, his elbow on his knee, his eye fixed on old Canham.
"How could he do that?" he asked after a pause. "How could any one do it?"
"It's not for us to say how, Master Rupert. If anybody in these parts could have said, maybe you'd have been in it long before this. That there stranger is a cute 'un, I know. White beards always is a sign of wisdom."
Rupert laughed. "Look here, Mark. It is no good going over that ground again. I have heard about my 'rights' until I am tired. The subject vexes me; it makes me cross from its very hopelessness. I wish I had been born without rights."
"This stranger, when he called you the heir of Trevlyn Hold, and I told him you were not the heir, said I was right; you were not the heir, but the owner," persisted old Canham.
"Then he knew nothing about it," returned Rupert. "It'simpossiblethat Chattaway can be put out of Trevlyn Hold."
"Master Rupert, there has always been a feeling upon me that he will be put out of it," resumed old Canham. "He came to it by wrong, and wrong never lasts to the end without being righted. Who knows that the same feeling ain't on Chattaway? He turned the colour o' my Sunday smock when I told him of this stranger's having been here and what he'd said."
"Did you tell him?" quickly cried Rupert.
"I did, sir. I didn't mean to, but it come out incautious-like. I called you the young heir to his face, and excused myself by saying the stranger had been calling you so, and I spoke out the same without thought. Then he wanted to know what stranger, and all about him. It was when Madam was resting here after the accident. Chattaway rode by and saw her, and got off his horse: it was the first he knew of the accident. If what I said didn't frighten him, I never had a day's rheumatiz in my life. His face went as white as Madam's."
"Chattaway go white!" scoffed Rupert. "What next? I tell you what it is, Mark; you fancy things. Aunt Edith may have been white; she often is; but not he. Chattaway knows that Trevlyn Hold is his, safe and sure. Nothing can take it from him—unless Squire Trevlyn came to life again, and made a fresh will. He's not likely to do that, Mark."
"No; he's not likely to do that," assented the old man. "Once we're out of this world, Master Rupert, we don't come back again. The injustice we have left behind us can't be repaired that way."
Rupert rose. He went to the window, opened it, and leaned out whistling. He was tired of the subject as touching himself; had long looked upon it as an unprofitable theme. As he stood there enjoying the calmness of the evening the tall man with the white beard came back again down the avenue.
Mr. Daw, for he it was, had the red umbrella in his hand. He turned his head to the window as he passed it, looked steadily at Rupert, paused, went close up, and put his hand on Rupert's arm.
"You are Rupert Trevlyn?"
"Yes," replied Rupert.
"I should have known you anywhere from your resemblance to your father; I should have known you had I met you in the crowded streets of London. You are wonderfully like him."
"Where did you know my father?" inquired Rupert.
Instead of answering, the stranger opened the house-door and stepped into the room. Ann curtseyed; old Canham rose and stood with his hat in his hand—that white beard seemed to demand respect. He—the stranger—took Rupert's hand in his.
"I have been up to the house to inquire for you: but they told me you were not well, and had gone to rest."
"Did they?" said Rupert. "I had intended to lie down, but the evening was so pleasant that I came out instead. You spoke of my father: did you know him?"
"I knew him very well," said the stranger, taking the seat Ann had been dusting before offering; a ceremony she apparently considered a mark of respect. "Though my acquaintance with him was short, it was close. Do you know who baptized you?"
"No," replied Rupert, rather astonished at the question.
"I did. I christened your sister Maude; I baptized you. You were to be christened in England, your mother said, but she wished you baptized ere the journey commenced, and I did it when you were only a day old. Ah, poor thing! she hoped to make the journey with you when she should be strong enough; but another journey claimed her—that of death! Before you were two days old she died. It was I who wrote to announce your birth to Squire Trevlyn; it was I who, by the next post, announced your mother's death. It was I—my young friend, it was I—who buried your father and your mother."
"You are a clergyman, then?" said Rupert, somewhat dubious about the beard, and the very unclerical cut of the stranger altogether.
It may be that Mr. Daw noticed the doubtful glances, and entered upon an explanation. How, when a working curate, he had married a young lady of fortune, but of delicate health, and had gone abroad with her, throwing up for the time his clerical preferment. The doctors had said that a warm climate was essential to her; as they had said, if you remember, in the case of Joe Trevlyn. It happened that both parties sought the same place—the curate and his wife, Joe and Mrs. Trevlyn—and a close friendship sprang up between them. A short time and Joe Trevlyn died; a shorter time still, and his wife died. There was no English clergyman near the spot, and Mr. Daw gave his services. He baptized the children; he buried the parents. His own fate was a happier one, for his wife lived. She lived, but did not grow strong. It may be said—you have heard of such cases—that she only existed from day to day. She had so existed all through those long years; from that time until within a few months of this. "If you attempt to take her back to England, she will not live a month," the local medical men had said; and perhaps they were right. He had gone to the place for a few months' sojourn, and never left it for over twenty years. It reads like a romance. His wife's fortune had enabled him to live comfortably, and in a pecuniary point of view there was no need to seek preferment or exercise his calling. He would never seek it now. Habit and use are second nature, and the Reverend William Daw had learnt to be an idle man; to love the country of his adoption, his home in the Pyrenees; to believe that its genial climate had become necessary to himself. His business in England concluded (it was connected with his late wife's will), he was hastening back to it. Had preferment been offered him, he would have doubted his ability to fulfil its duties after so many years of leisure. The money that was his wife's would be his for the remainder of his days; so on that score he was at rest. In short, the Reverend William Daw had degenerated into a useless man; one to whom all exertion had become a trouble. He honestly confessed to it now, as he sat before Rupert Trevlyn; told him he had been content to live wholly for the country of his adoption, almost completely ignoring his own; had kept up no correspondence with it. Of friends he could, as a young curate, boast but few, and he had been at no pains to keep them. At first he had believed that six or twelve months would be the limit of his absence from England, and he was content to let friendships await his return. But he did not return; and the lapsed correspondence was too pleasant to his indolent tastes to be reopened. He told all this quietly now to Rupert Trevlyn, and said that to it he owed his ignorance of the deposition of Rupert from Trevlyn Hold. Mr. Freeman was one of his few old college friends, and he might have heard all about it years ago had he only written to him.
"I cannot understand how Mr. Chattaway should have succeeded," he cried, bending his dark eyes upon Rupert. "I can scarcely believe the fact now; it has amazed me, as one may say. Had there been no direct male heir; had your father left only Maude, for instance, I could have understood its being left away from her, although it would have been unjust."
"The property is not entailed," said Rupert.
"I am aware of that. During the last few months of your father's life, we were like brothers, and I knew all particulars as well as he did. He had married in disobedience to his father's will, but he never for a moment glanced at the possibility of disinheritance. I cannot understand why Squire Trevlyn should have willed the estate from his son's children."
"He only knew of Maude—as they say."
"Still less can I understand how Mr. Chattaway can keep it. Were an estate willed to me, away from those who had a greater right to it, I should never retain it. I could not reconcile it to my conscience to do so. How can Mr. Chattaway?"
Rupert laughed—he believed that conscience and Mr. Chattaway had not a great deal to do with each other. "It is not much Mr. Chattaway would give up voluntarily," he observed. "Were my grandfather alive, Chattaway would not resign Trevlyn Hold to him, unless forced to it."
Old Canham could contain himself no longer. The conversation did not appear to be coming to the point. "Be you going to help young Master Rupert to regain his rights, sir?" he eagerly asked.
"I would—if I knew how to do it," said Mr. Daw. "I shall certainly represent to Mr. Chattaway the injustice—the wicked injustice—of the present state of things. When I wrote to the Squire on the occasion of your birth and Mrs. Trevlyn's death," looking at Rupert, "the answers to me were signed 'J. Chattaway,'—the writer being no doubt this same Mr. Chattaway. He wrote again, after Squire Trevlyn's death, requesting me to despatch the nurse and children to England."
"Oh, yes," said Rupert carelessly, "it was safe enough for us to come then. Squire Trevlyn dead, and the estate willed to Chattaway, there was no longer danger from me. If my grandfather had got to know that I was in existence, there would have been good-bye to Chattaway's ambition. At least people say so;Idon't know."
The indifferent tone forcibly struck Mr. Daw. "Don'tyoufeel the injustice?" he asked. "Don't you care that Trevlyn Hold should be yours?"
"I have grown up seeing the estate Chattaway's, and I suppose I don't feel it as I ought to. Of course, I should like it to be mine, but as it never can be mine, it is as well not to think about it. Have you heard of the Trevlyn temper?" he continued, a merry smile dancing in his eyes as he threw them on the stranger.
"I have."
"They tell me I have inherited it, as I suppose a true Trevlyn ought to do. Were I to think too much of the injustice, it might rouse the temper; and it would answer no end, you know."
"Yes, I have heard of the Trevlyn temper," repeated the stranger. "I have heard what it did for the first heir, Rupert Trevlyn."
"But it did not do it for him," passionately returned Rupert. "I never heard until the other day—not so many hours ago—of the slur that was cast upon his name. It was not he who shot the man; he had no hand in it: it was proved so later. Ask old Canham."
"Well, well," said the stranger, "it's all past and done with. Poor Joe reposed every confidence in me; treating me as a brother. It was a singular coincidence that the Squire's sons should both die abroad. I hope," he added, looking kindly at Rupert, "that yours will be a long life. Are you—are you strong?"
The question was put hesitatingly. He had heard from Nora that Rupert was not strong; and now that he saw him he was painfully struck with his delicate appearance. Rupert answered bravely.
"I should be very well if it were not for that confounded Blackstone walk night and morning. It's that knocks me up."
"Chattaway had no call to put him to it, sir," interrupted Mark Canham again. "It's not work for a Trevlyn."
"Not for the heir of Trevlyn Hold," acquiesced the stranger. "But I must be going. I have not seen my friend Freeman yet, and should like to be at the railway station when he arrives. What time shall I see you in the morning?" he added, to Rupert. "And what time can I see Mr. Chattaway?"
"You can see me at any time," replied Rupert. "But I can't answer for him. He breakfasts early, and generally goes out afterwards."
Had the Reverend William Daw been able to glance through a few trunks of trees, he might have seen Mr. Chattaway then. For there, hidden amidst the trees of the avenue, only a few paces from the lodge, was he.
Mr. Chattaway was pretty nearly beside himself that night. When he found that Rupert Trevlyn was not in the house, vague fears, to which he did not wait to give a more tangible name, rushed over his imagination. Had Rupert stolen from the house to meet this dangerous stranger clandestinely? He—Chattaway—scarcely knowing what he did, seized his hat and followed the stranger down the avenue, when he left the Hold after his fruitless visit.
Not to follow him openly and say, "What is your business with Rupert Trevlyn?" Cords would not have dragged Mr. Chattaway into that dreaded presence until he was sure of his ground.
He stole down with a fleet foot on the soft grass beside the avenue, and close upon the lodge he overtook the stranger. Mr. Chattaway glided into the trees.
Peeping from his hiding-place, he saw the stranger pause before the lodge window: heard him accost Rupert Trevlyn; watched him enter. And there he had been since,—altogether in an agony both of mind and body.
Do as he would, he could not hear their conversation. The sound of voices came upon him through the open window, but not the words spoken: and nearer he dared not go.
Hark! they were coming out. Chattaway's eyes glared and his teeth were set, as he cautiously looked round. The man's ugly red umbrella was in one hand; the other was laid on Rupert's shoulder. "Will you walk with me a little way?" he heard the stranger say.
"No, not this evening," was Rupert's reply. "I must go back to the Hold."
But he, Rupert, turned to walk with him to the gate, and Mr. Chattaway took the opportunity to hasten back toward the Hold. When Rupert, after shaking hands with the stranger and calling out a good evening to the inmates of the lodge as he passed, went up the avenue, he met the master of Trevlyn Hold pacing leisurely down it, as if he had come out for a stroll.
"Halloa!" he cried, with something of theatrical amazement. "I thought you were in bed!"
"I came out instead," replied Rupert. "The evening was so fine."
"Who was that queer-looking man just gone out at the gates?" asked Mr. Chattaway, with well-assumed indifference.
Rupert answered readily. His disposition was naturally open to a fault, and he saw no reason for concealing what he knew of the stranger. He was not aware that Chattaway had ever seen him until this moment.
"It is some one who has come on a visit to the parsonage: a clergyman. It's a curious name, though—Daw."
"Daw? Daw?" repeated Mr. Chattaway, biting his lips to get some colour into them. "Where have I heard that name—in connection with a clergyman?"
"He said he had some correspondence with you years ago: at the time my mother died, and I was born. He knew my father and mother well: has been telling me this at old Canham's."
All that past time, its events, its correspondence, flashed over Mr. Chattaway's memory—flashed over it with a strange dread. "What has he come here for?" he asked quickly.
"I don't know," replied Rupert. "He said——Whatever's this?"
A tremendous shouting from people who appeared, dragging something behind them. Both turned simultaneously—the master of Trevlyn Hold in awful fear. Could it be the stranger coming back with constables at his heels, to wrest the Hold from him? And if, my reader, you deem these fears exaggerated, you know very little of this kind of terror.
It was nothing but a procession of those idlers you saw in the road, dragging home the unlucky dog-cart: Mr. Cris at their head.
In that pleasant room at the parsonage, with its sweet-scented mignonette boxes, and vases of freshly-cut flowers, sat the Reverend Mr. Freeman at breakfast, with his wife and visitor. It was a simple meal. All meals were simple at Barbrook Parsonage: as they generally are where means are limited. And you have not yet to learn, I dare say, that comfort and simplicity frequently go together: whilst comfort and grandeur are often separated. There was no lack of comfort and homely fare at Mr. Freeman's. Coffee and rich milk: home-made bread and the freshest of butter, new-laid eggs and autumn watercress. It was by no means starvation.
Mr. Daw, however, paid less attention to the meal than he might have done had his mind been less preoccupied. The previous evening, when he and Mr. Freeman had first met, after an absence of more than twenty years, their conversation had naturally run on their own personal interests: past events had to be related. But this morning they could go to other subjects, and Mr. Daw was not slow to do so. They were talking—you may have guessed it—of the Trevlyns.
Mr. Daw grew warm upon the subject. As on the previous day, when Molly placed the meal before him, he almost forgot to eat. And yet Mr. Daw, in spite of his assurance that he was contented with a crust of bread and a cup of milk knew how to appreciate good things. In plainer words, he liked them. Men who have no occupation for their days and years sometimes grow into epicureans.
"You are sparing the eggs," said Mrs. Freeman, a good-natured woman with a large nose, thin cheeks, and prominent teeth. Mr. Daw replied by taking another egg from the stand and chopping off its top. But there it remained. He was enlarging on the injustice dealt out to Rupert Trevlyn.
"It ought to be remedied, you know, Freeman. It must be remedied. It is a wrong in the sight of God and man."
The curate—Mr. Freeman was nothing more, for all his many years' services—smiled good-humouredly. He never used hard words: preferring to let wrongs, which were no business of his, right themselves, or remain wrongs, and taking life as it came, easily and pleasantly.
"We can't alter it," he said. "We have no power to interfere with Chattaway. He has enjoyed Trevlyn Hold these twenty years, and must enjoy it still."
"I don't know about that," returned Mr. Daw. "I don't know that he must enjoy it still. At any rate, he ought not to do so. Had I lived in this neighbourhood as you have, Freeman, I should have tried to get him out of it before this."
The parson opened his eyes in surprise.
"There's such a thing as shaming people out of injustice," continued Mr. Daw. "Has any one represented to Chattaway the fearful wrong he is guilty of in his conduct towards Rupert Trevlyn?"
"I can't say," equably answered the parson. "I have not."
"Will you go with me and do it to-day?"
"Well—no; I think I'd rather not, Daw. If any good could come of it, perhaps I might do so; but nothing could come of it. And I find it answers best not to meddle with the affairs of other folk."
"The wrongs dealt out to him are so great," persisted Mr. Daw. "Not content with having wrested Trevlyn Hold from the boy, Chattaway converts him into a common labourer in some coal office of his, making him walk to and fro night and morning. You know him?"
"Know him?" repeated Mr. Freeman. "I have known him since he first came here, a child in arms." In truth, it was a superfluous question.
"Did you know his father?"
"No; I came to Barbrook after his father went abroad."
"I was going to ask, if you had known him, whether you did not remark the extraordinary resemblance the young man bears to his father. The likeness is great; and he has the same suspiciously delicate complexion. I should fear that the boy will go off as his father did, and——"
"I have long said he ought to take cod-liver oil," interposed Mrs. Freeman, who was doctor in ordinary to her husband's parish, and very decided in her opinions.
"Well, ma'am, that boy must die—if he is to die—Squire of Trevlyn Hold. I shall use all my means while I am here to induce this Chattaway to resign his possessions to the rightful owner. The boy seems to have had no friend in the world to take up his cause. What this Miss Diana can have been about, to stand tamely by and not interfere, I cannot conceive. She is the sister of his father."
"Better let it alone, Daw," said the parson. "Rely upon it, you will make no impression on Chattaway. You must excuse me for saying it, but it's quite foolish to think that you will; quixotic and absurd. Chattaway possesses Trevlyn Hold—is not likely to resign it."
"I could not let it alone now," impulsively answered Mr. Daw. "The boy seems to have no friend, I say; and I have a right to constitute myself his friend. I should not be worthy the name of man were I not to do it. I intended to stay with you only two nights; you'll give me house-room a little longer, won't you?"
"We'll give it you for two months, and gladly, if you can put up with our primitive mode of living," was the hospitable answer.
Mr. Daw shook his head. "Two months I could not remain; two weeks I might. I cannot go away leaving things in this unsatisfactory state. The first thing I shall do this morning will be to call at the Hold, and seek an interview with Chattaway."
But Mr. Daw did not succeed in obtaining the interview with Chattaway. When he arrived at Trevlyn Hold, he was told the Squire was out. It was correct; Chattaway had ridden out immediately after breakfast. The stranger next asked for Miss Diana, and was admitted.
Chattaway had said to Miss Diana in private, before starting, "Don't receive him should he come here; don't let his foot pass over the door-sill." Very unwise advice, as Miss Diana judged; and she did not take it. Miss Diana had the sense to remember that an unknown evil is more to be feared than an open one. No one can fight in the dark. The stranger was ushered into the drawing-room by order of Miss Diana, and she came to him.
It was not a satisfactory interview, since nothing came of it; but it was a decently civil one. Miss Diana was cold, reserved, somewhat haughty, but courteous; Mr. Daw was pressing, urgent, but respectful and gentlemanly. Rupert Trevlyn was by right the owner of Trevlyn Hold, was the substance of the points urged by the one; Squire Trevlyn was his own master, made his own will, and it was not for his children and dependants to raise useless questions, still less for a stranger, was the answer of the other.
"Madam," said Mr. Daw, "did the enormity of the injustice never strike you?"
"Will you be so good as to tell me by what right you interfere?" returned Miss Diana. "I cannot conceive what business it can be of yours."
"I think the redressing of the injustice should be made the business of everyone."
"What a great deal everyone would have to do!" exclaimed Miss Diana.
"With regard to my right of interference, Miss Trevlyn, the law might not give me any; but I assume it by the bond of friendship. I was with his father when he died; I was with his mother. Poor thing! it was only within the last six or seven hours of her life that danger was apprehended. They both died in the belief that their children would inherit Trevlyn Hold. Madam," quite a blaze of light flushing from his dark eyes, "I have lived all the years since, believing they were in the enjoyment of it."
"You believed rightly," equably rejoined Miss Diana. "They have been in the enjoyment of it. It has been their home."
"As it may be the home of any of your servants," returned Mr. Daw; and Miss Diana did not like the comparison.
"May I ask," she continued, "if you came into this neighbourhood for the express purpose of putting this 'injustice' to rights?"
"No, madam, I did not. But it is unnecessary for you to be sarcastic with me. I wish to urge the matter upon you in a friendly rather than an adverse spirit. Business connected with my own affairs brought me to London some ten days ago, from the place where I had lived so long. As I was so near, I thought I would come down and see my former friend Freeman, before starting homewards; for I dare say I shall never again return to England. I knew Barbrook Parsonage and Trevlyn Hold were not very far apart, and I anticipated the pleasure of meeting Joe Trevlyn's children, whom I had known as infants. I never supposed but that Rupert was in possession of Trevlyn Hold. You may judge of my surprise when I arrived yesterday and heard the true state of the case."
"You have a covert motive in this," suddenly exclaimed Miss Diana, in a voice that had turned to sharpness.
"Covert motive?" he repeated, looking at her.
"Yes. Had you been, as you state, so interested in the welfare of Rupert Trevlyn and his sister, does it stand to reason that you would never have inquired after them through all these long years?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Trevlyn: the facts are precisely as I have stated them. Strange as it may seem, I never once wrote to inquire after them, and the neglect strikes me forcibly now. But I am naturally inert, and all correspondence with my own country had gradually ceased. I did often think of the little Trevlyns, but it was always to suppose them as being at Trevlyn Hold, sheltered by their appointed guardian."
"What appointed guardian?" cried Miss Diana.
"Yourself."
"I! I was not the appointed guardian of the Trevlyns."
"Indeed you were. You were appointed by their mother. The letter—the deed, I may say, for I believe it to have been legally worded—was written when she was dying."
Miss Trevlyn had never heard of any deed. "Who wrote it?" she asked, after a pause.
"I did. When dangerous symptoms set in, and she was told she might not live, Mrs. Trevlyn sent for me. She had her little baby baptized Rupert, for it had been her husband's wish that the child, if a boy, should be so named, and then I sat down by her bedside at her request, and wrote the document. She entreated Miss Diana Trevlyn—you, madam—to reside at Trevlyn Hold as its mistress, when it should lapse to Rupert, and be the guardian and protector of her children, until Rupert came of age. She besought you to love them, and be kind to them for their father's sake; for her sake; for the sake, also, of the friendship which had once existed between you and her. This will prove to you," he added in a different tone, "that poor Mrs. Trevlyn, at least, never supposed there was a likelihood of any other successor to the estate."
"I never heard of it," exclaimed Miss Diana, waking up as from a reverie. "Was the document sent to me?"
"It was enclosed in the despatch which acquainted Squire Trevlyn with Mrs. Trevlyn's death. I wrote them both, and I enclosed them together, and sent them."
"Directed to whom?"
"To Squire Trevlyn."
Miss Diana sent her thoughts into the past. It was Chattaway who had received that despatch. Could he have dared to suppress any communication intended for her? Her haughty brow grew crimson at the thought; but she suppressed all signs of annoyance.
"Will you allow me to renew my acquaintance with little Maude?" resumed Mr. Daw. "Little Maude then, and a lovely child; a beautiful girl, as I hear, now."
Miss Diana hesitated—a very uncommon thing for her to do. It is strange what trifles turn the current of feelings: and this last item of intelligence had wonderfully softened her towards this stranger. But she remembered the interests at stake, and thought it best to be prudent.
"You must pardon the refusal," she said. "I quite appreciate your wish to serve Rupert Trevlyn, but it can only fail, and further intercourse will not be agreeable to either party. You will allow me to wish you good morning, and to thank you."
She rang the bell, and bowed him out, with all the grand courtesy belonging to the Trevlyns. As he passed through the hall, he caught a glimpse of a lovely girl with a delicate bloom on her cheeks and large blue eyes. Instinct told him it was Maude; and he likewise thought he traced some resemblance to her mother. He took a step forward involuntarily, to accost her, but recollecting himself, drew back again.
It was scarcely the thing to do: in defiance of Miss Diana Trevlyn's recent refusal.
The dew was lying upon the grass in the autumn morning as the Squire of Trevlyn Hold rode from his door. He had hurried over his breakfast, his horse waiting for him, and he spurred him impatiently along the avenue. Ann Canham had not yet opened the gate. Upon hearing a horse's hoofs, she ran out to do so; and stood holding it back, dropping her humble curtsey as Mr. Chattaway rode past. He vouchsafed not the slightest notice: neither by glance nor nod did he appear conscious of her presence. It was his usual way.
"He's off to Blackstone early," thought Ann, as she fastened back the gate.
But Mr. Chattaway did not turn towards Blackstone. He turned in the opposite direction and urged his horse to a gallop. Ann Canham looked after him.
"He has business at Barmester, maybe," was the conclusion to which she came.
Nothing more sure. He rode briskly to the town, and pulled up his horse almost at the same spot where you once saw him pull it up before—the house of Messrs. Wall and Barnes.
Not that he was about to visit that flourishing establishment this morning. Next to it was a private house, on the door-plate of which might be read, "Mr. Flood, Solicitor": and he was the gentleman Mr. Chattaway had come to see.
Attracted probably by the clatter of the horse—for Chattaway had pulled up suddenly, and with more noise than he need have done, there came one to the shop-door and looked out. It was Mr. Wall, and he stepped forth to shake hands with Chattaway.
"Good morning, Chattaway. You are in Barmester betimes. What lovely weather we are having for the conclusion of the harvest!"
"Very; it has been a fine harvest altogether," replied Chattaway; and from his composure no one could have dreamt of the terrible care and perplexity running riot in his heart. "I want to say a word to Flood about a lease that is falling in, so I thought I'd start early and make a round of it on my way to Blackstone."
"An accident occurred yesterday to your son and Madam Chattaway, did it not?" asked Mr. Wall. "News of it was flying about last night. I hope they are not much hurt."
"Not at all. Cris was so stupid as to attempt to drive a horse unbroken for driving—a vicious temper, too. The dog-cart is half smashed. Here, you! come here."
The last words were addressed to a boy in a tattered jacket, who was racing after a passing carriage. Mr. Chattaway wanted him to hold his horse; and the boy quickly changed his course, believing the office would be good for sixpence at least.
The lawyer's outer door was open. There was a second door in the passage, furnished with a knocker: the office opened on the left. Mr. Chattaway tried the office-door; more as a matter of form than anything else. It was locked, as he expected, and would be until nine o'clock. So he gave an imposing knock at the other.
"I shall just catch him after breakfast," soliloquised he, "and can have a quiet quarter-of-an-hour with him, undisturbed by——Is Mr. Flood at home?"
He had tried the door as a matter of form, and in like manner put the question, passing in without ceremony: the servant arrested him.
"Mr. Flood's out, sir. He is gone to London."
"Gone to London!" ejaculated Chattaway.
"Yes, sir, not an hour ago. Went by the eight o'clock train."
It was so complete a check to all his imaginings, that for a minute the master of Trevlyn Hold found speech desert him. Many a bad man on the first threat of evil flies to a lawyer, in the belief that he can, by the exercise of his craft, bring him out of it. Chattaway, after a night of intolerable restlessness, had come straight off to his lawyer, Flood, with the intention of confiding the whole affair to him, and asking what was to be done in it; never so much as glancing at the possibility of that legal gentleman's absence.
"Went up by the eight o'clock train?" he repeated when he found his voice.
"Yes, sir."
"And when's he coming home?"
"He expects to be away about a week, sir."
A worse check still. Chattaway's terrible fear might have waited a day; but a week!—he thought suspense would drive him mad. He was a great deal too miserly to spend money upon an unnecessary journey, yet there appeared nothing for it but to follow Mr. Flood to London. That gentleman had heard perplexing secrets of Chattaway's before, had always given him the best advice, and remained faithful to the trust; and Chattaway believed he might safely confide this new danger to him. Not to any other would he have breathed a word. In short, Flood was the only confidential adviser he possessed in the world.
"Where will Mr. Flood put up in London?"
"I can't say, sir. I don't know anything about where he stays. He goes up pretty often."
"At the old place, I daresay," muttered Chattaway to himself. "If not, I shall learn where, through his agents in Essex Street."
He stood a moment on the pavement before mounting. A slow and cheap train would leave Barmester in half-an-hour for London. Should he go by that train?—go from Barmester, instead of returning home and taking the train at the little station near his own home? Was there need of so much haste? In Chattaway's present frame of mind the utmost haste he could make was almost a necessary relief: but, on the other hand, would his sudden departure excite suspicion at home, or draw unwelcome attention to his movements abroad? Deep in thought was he, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. Turning sharply, he saw the honest face of the linen-draper close to his.
"The queerest thing was said to me last night, Chattaway. I stepped into Robbins, the barber's, to have my hair and whiskers trimmed, and he told me a great barrister was down here, a leading man from the Chancery court, come upon some business connected with you and the late Squire Trevlyn. With the property, I mean."
Chattaway's heart leaped into his mouth.
"I thought it a queer tale," continued Mr. Wall. "His mission here being to restore Rupert Trevlyn to the estates of his grandfather, Robbins said. Is there anything in it?"
Had the public already got hold of it, then? Was the awful thing no longer a fear but a reality? Chattaway turned his face away, and tried to be equal to the emergency.
"You are talking great absurdity, Wall. Who's Robbins? Were I you, I should be ashamed to repeat the lies propagated by that chattering old woman."
Mr. Wall laughed. "He certainly deals in news, does Robbins; it's part of his trade. Of course one only takes his marvels for what they are worth. He gotthisfrom Barcome, the tax-collector. The man had arrived at the scene of the dog-cart accident shortly after its occurrence, and heard this barrister—who, as it seems, was also there—speaking publicly of the object of his mission."
Chattaway snatched the reins from the ragged boy's hands and mounted; his air expressing all the scorn he could command. "When they impound Squire Trevlyn's will, then they may talk about altering the succession. Good morning, Wall."
A torrent of howls, accompanied by words a magistrate on the bench must have treated severely, saluted his ears as he rode off. They came from the aggrieved steed-holder. Instead of the sixpence he fondly reckoned on, Chattaway had flung him a halfpenny.
He rode to an inn near the railway station, went in and called for pen and ink. The few words he wrote were to Miss Diana. He found himself obliged to go up unexpectedly to London on the businesswhich she knew of, and requested her to make any plausible excuse for his absence that would divert suspicion from the real facts. He should be home on the morrow. Such was the substance of the note.
He addressed it to Miss Trevlyn of Trevlyn Hold, sealed it with his own seal, and marked it "private." A most unnecessary additional security, the last. No inmate of Trevlyn Hold would dare to open the most simple missive, bearing the address of Miss Trevlyn. Then he called one of the stable-men.
"I want this letter taken to my house," he said. "It is in a hurry. Can you go at once?"
The man replied that he could.
"Stay—you may ride my horse," added Mr. Chattaway, as if the thought that moment struck him. "You will get there in half the time that you would if you walked."
"Very well, sir. Shall I bring him back for you?"
"Um—m—m, no, I'll walk," decided Mr. Chattaway, stroking his chin as if to help his decision. "Leave the horse at the Hold."
The man mounted the horse and rode away, never supposing Mr. Chattaway had been playing off a littleruseupon him, and had no intention of going to Trevlyn Hold that day, but was bound for a place rather farther off. In this innocent state he reached the Hold, while Mr. Chattaway made adétourand gained the station by a cross route, where he took train for London.
Cris Chattaway's groom, Sam Atkins, was standing with his young master's horse before the house, in waiting for that gentleman, when the messenger arrived. Not the new horse of the previous day's notoriety, nor the one lamed at Blackstone, but a despised and steady old animal sometimes used in the plough.
"There haven't been another accident surely!" exclaimed Sam Atkins, in his astonishment at seeing Mr. Chattaway's steed brought home. "Where's the Squire?"
"He's all right; and has sent me up here with this," was the man's reply, producing the note. And at that moment Miss Diana Trevlyn appeared at the hall-door. Miss Diana was looking out for Mr. Chattaway. After the communication made to her that morning by Mr. Daw, she could only come to the conclusion that the paper had been suppressed by Chattaway, and was waiting in much wrath to demand his explanation of it.
"What brings the Squire's horse back?" she imperiously demanded.
Sam Atkins handed her the note, which she opened and read. Read it twice attentively, and then turned indoors. "Chattaway's a fool!" she angrily decided, "and is allowing this mare's nest to prey on his fears. He ought to know that while my father's will is in existence no earthly power can deprive him of Trevlyn Hold."
She went upstairs to Mrs. Chattaway's sitting-room. That lady, considerably recovered from the shock of the fall, was writing an affectionate letter to her daughter Amelia, telling her she might come home with Caroline Ryle. Miss Diana went straight up to the table, took a seat, and without the least apology closed Mrs. Chattaway's desk.
"I want your attention for a moment, Edith. You can write afterwards. Carry your memory back to the morning, so many years ago, when we received the news of Rupert's birth?"
"No effort is need to do that, Diana. I think of it all too often."
"Very good. Then perhaps, without effort, you can recall the day following, when the letter came announcing Mrs. Trevlyn's death?"
"Yes, I remember it also."
"The minute details? Could you, for instance, relate any of the circumstances attending the arrival of that letter, if required to do so in a court of law? What time of the day it came, who opened it, where it was opened, and so forth?"
"Why do you ask me?" returned Mrs. Chattaway, surprised at the questions.
"I ask you to be answered. I have a reason for wishing to recall these past things. Think it over."
"Both letters, so far as I can recollect, were given to Mr. Chattaway, and he opened them. He was in the habit then of opening papa's business letters. I have no doubt they were opened in the steward's room; James used to be there a great deal with the accounts and other matters connected with the estate."
"I have always known that James Chattaway did open those letters," said Miss Diana; "but I thought you might have been present when he did so. Were you?"
"No. I remember his coming into my chamber later, and telling me Mrs. Trevlyn was dead. I never shall forget the shock I felt."
"Attend to me, Edith. I have reason to believe that the last of those letters contained an inclosure for me. It never reached me. Do you know what became of it?"
The blank surprise on Mrs. Chattaway's countenance, her open questioning gaze, was a sufficient denial.
"I see you do not. And now I am going to ask you something else. Did you ever hear that Emily Trevlyn, when she was dying, left a request that I should be guardian to her children?"
"Never. Have you been dreaming these things, Diana? Why should you ask about them now?"
"I leave dreams to you," was Miss Diana's reply. "My health is too sound to admit of sleeping dreams; my mind too practical to indulge in waking ones. Never mind why I asked: it was only as a personal matter of my own. By the way, I have had a line from your husband, written from Barmester. A little business has taken him out, and he may not be home until to-morrow. We are not to sit up for him."
"Has he gone to Nettleby hop-fair?" hastily rejoined Mrs. Chattaway.
"Perhaps so," said Miss Diana, carelessly. "At any rate, say nothing about his absence to any one. The children are unruly if they know he is away. I suppose he will be home to-morrow."
But Mr. Chattaway was not home on the morrow. Miss Diana was burning with impatience for his return; that explanation was being waited for, and she was one who brooked not delay: but she was obliged to submit to it now. Day after day passed on, and Mr. Chattaway was still absent from Trevlyn Hold.
A harvest-home used to be a greatfêtein farmhouses; chiefly so, as you are aware, for its servants and labourers. It is so in some houses still. A rustic, homely gathering; with plenty of good fare in a plain way, and where the masters and mistresses and their guests enjoy themselves as freely as their dependants.
Trevlyn Farm was lighted up to-night. The best kitchen, where you have seen Nora sitting sometimes, and never used for kitchen purposes, was set out with a long table. Cold beef and ham, substantial and savoury meat pies, fruit pies, cakes, cheese, ale and cider, were being placed on it. Benches lined the walls, and the rustic labourers were coming sheepishly in. Some of them had the privilege of bringing their wives, who came in a great deal less sheepishly than the men.
Nanny was in full attire, a new green stuff gown and white apron; Molly from the parsonage was flaunting in a round cap, patronised by the fashionable servants in Barmester, with red streamers; Ann Canham had a new Scotch plaid kerchief, white and purple, crossed on her shoulders; and Jim Sanders's mother, being rather poorly off for smart caps, wore a bonnet. These four were to do the waiting; and Nora was casting over them all the superintending eye of a mistress. George Ryle liked to make his harvest-homes liberal and comfortable, and Mrs. Ryle seconded it with the open-handed nature of the Trevlyns.
What Mrs. Ryle would have done but for Nora Dickson it was impossible to say. She really took little more management in the house than a visitor would take. Her will, it is true, was law: she gave orders, but left their execution to others. Though she had married Thomas Ryle, of Trevlyn Farm, she never forgot that she was the daughter of Trevlyn Hold.
She sat in the small room opening from the supper-room—small in comparison with the drawing-room, but still comfortable. On harvest-home night, Mrs. Ryle's visitors were received in that ordinary room and sat there, forming as it were part of the supper-room company, for the door was kept wide, and the great people went in and out, mixing with the small. George Ryle and Mr. Freeman would be more in the supper-room than in the other; they were two who liked to see the hard-working people happy now and then.
Mrs. Ryle had taken up her place in the sitting-room; her rich black silk gown and real lace cap contrasting with the more showy attire of Mrs. Apperley, who sat next her. Mrs. Apperley was in a stiff brocade, yellow satin stripes flanking wavy lines of flowers. It had been her gala robe for years and years, and looked new yet. Mrs. Apperley's two daughters, in cherry-coloured ribbons and cherry-coloured nets, were as gay as she was; they were whispering to Caroline Ryle, a graceful girl in dark-blue silk, with the blue eyes and the fair hair of her deceased father. Farmer Apperley, in top-boots, was holding an argument on the state of the country with a young man of middle height and dark hair, who sat carelessly on the arm of the old-fashioned sofa. It was Trevlyn Ryle. George had set his back against the wall, and was laughingly quizzing the Miss Apperleys, of which they were blushingly conscious. Were you to believe Nora, there was scarcely a young lady within the circuit of a couple of leagues but was privately setting her cap at handsome George.
A bustle in the outer room, and Nanny appeared with an announcement: "Parson and Mrs. Freeman." I am not responsible for the style of the introduction: you may hear it for yourselves if you choose to visit some of our rural districts.
Parson and Mrs. Freeman came in without ceremony; the parson with his hat and walking stick, Mrs. Freeman in a green calico hood and an old cloak. George, with laughing gallantry, helped her to take them off, and handed them to Nanny, and Mrs. Freeman went up to the pier-glass and settled the white bows in her cap to greater effect.
"But I thought you were to have brought your friend," said Mrs. Ryle.
"He will come in presently," replied the parson. "A letter arrived by this evening's post, and he wished to answer it."
Farmer Apperley turned from his debate with Trevlyn. "D'ye mean that droll-looking man who walks about with a red umbrella and a beard, parson?"
"The same," said Mr. Freeman, settling his double chin more comfortably in his white cravat. "He has been staying with us for a week past."
"Ay. Some foreign folk, isn't he, named Daw? There's all sorts of tales abroad in the neighbourhood as to what he is doing down here. I don't know whether they be correct."
"I don't know much about it myself either," said Mr. Freeman. "I am glad to entertain him as an old friend, but as for any private affairs or views of his, I don't meddle with them."
"Best plan," nodded the farmer. And the subject, thus indistinctly hinted at, was allowed to drop, owing probably to the presence of Mrs. Ryle.
"The Chattaways are coming here to-night," suddenly exclaimed Caroline Ryle. She spoke only to Mary Apperley, but there was a pause in the general conversation just then, and Mr. Apperley took it up.
"Who's coming? The Chattaways! Which of the Chattaways?" he said in some surprise, knowing they had never been in the habit of paying evening visits to Trevlyn Farm.
"All the girls, and Maude. I don't know whether Rupert will come; and I don't think Cris was asked."
"Eh, but that's a new move," cried Farmer Apperley, his long intimacy with the Farm justifying the freedom. "Did you invite them?"
"In point of fact, they invited themselves," interposed Mrs. Ryle, before George, to whom the question had been addressed, could speak. "At least, Octave did so: and then George, I believe, asked the rest of the girls."
"They won't come," said Farmer Apperley.
"Not come!" interrupted Nora, sharply, who kept going in and out between the two rooms. "That's all you know about it, Mr. Apperley. Octave Chattaway is sure to be here to-night——"
"Nora!"
The interruption came from George. Was he afraid of what she might say impulsively? Or did he see, coming in at the outer door, Octave herself, as though to refute the opinion of Mr. Apperley?
But only Amelia was with her. A tall girl with a large mouth and very light hair, always on the giggle. "Where are the rest?" impulsively asked George, his accent too unguarded to conceal its disappointment.
Octave detected it. She had thrown off her cloak and stood in attire scarcely suited to the occasion—a pale blue evening dress of damask, a silver necklace, silver bracelets, and a wreath of silver flowers in her hair. "What 'rest'?" asked Octave.
"Your sisters and Maude. They promised to come."
Octave tossed her head good-humouredly. "Doyou think we could inflict the whole string on Mrs. Ryle? Two of us are sufficient to represent the family."
"Inflict! On a harvest-home night!" called out Trevlyn. "You know, Octave, the more the merrier on these occasions."
"Why, I really believe that's Treve!" exclaimed Octave. "When did you arrive?"
"This morning. You have grown thinner, Octave."
"It is nothing to you if I have," retorted Octave, offended at the remark. The point was a sore one; Octave being unpleasantly conscious that she was thin to plainness. "Youhave grown plump enough, at any rate."
"To be sure," said Treve. "I'm always jolly. It was too bad of you, Octave, not to bring the rest."
"So it was," said Amelia. "They had dressed for it, and at the last moment Octave made them stay at home."
But George was not going to take this quietly. Saying nothing, he left the room and made the best of his way to Trevlyn Hold. The rooms seemed deserted. At length he found Maude in the schoolroom, correcting exercises, and shedding a few quiet tears. After they had dressed for the visit, Octavia had placed her veto upon it, and Emily and Edith had retired to bed in vexation. Miss Diana was spending the evening out with Mrs. Chattaway, and Octave had had it all her own way.
"I have come for you, Maude," said George.
Maude's heart beat with anticipation. "I don't know whether I may dare to go," she said, glancing shyly at him.
"Has anyone except Octave forbidden you?"
"Only Octave."
Lying on a chair, George saw a bonnet and a cloak which he recognised as Maude's. In point of fact, she had thrown them off when forbidden the visit by Miss Chattaway. His only answer was to fold the cloak around her. And she put on the bonnet, and went out with him, shocked at her own temerity, but unable to resist the temptation.
"You are trembling," he cried, drawing her closer to him as he bent his head.
"I am afraid of Octave. I know she will be so angry. What if she should meet me with angry words?"
"Then—Maude—you will give me leave to answer her?"
"Yes. Oh yes."
"It will involve more than you think," said George, laughing at her eager tones. "I must tell her, if necessary, that I have a right to defend you."
Maude stopped in her surprise, and half drew her arm from his as she looked up at him in the starlight. His pointed tone stirred all the pulses of her heart.
"You cannot have mistaken me, Maude, this long time past," he quietly said. "If I have not spoken to you more openly; if I do not yet speak out to the world, it is that I see at present little prospect before us. I would prefer not to speak to others until that is more assured."
Maude, in spite of the intense happiness which was rising within her, felt half sick with fear. What of the powers at Trevlyn Hold?
"Yes, there might be opposition," said George, divining her thoughts, "and the result—great unpleasantness altogether. I am independent enough to defy them, but you are not, Maude. For that reason I will not speak if I can help it. I hope Octave will not provoke me to excess."
Maude started as a thought flashed over her, and she looked up at George, a terrified expression in her face. "Youmust notspeak, George; you must not, for my sake. Were Octave only to suspect this, she——"
"Might treat you to a bowl of poison—after the stage fashion of the good old days," he laughed. "Maude, do you think I have been blind? I understand."
"You will be silent, then?"
"Yes," he answered, after a pause. "For the present."
They had taken the way through the fields—it was the nearest way—and George spoke of his affairs as he walked; more confidentially than he had ever in his life entered upon them to any one. That he had been in a manner sacrificed to the interests of Treve, there was no denying, and though he did not allude to it in so many words, it was impossible to ignore the fact entirely to Maude. One more term at Oxford, and Treve was to enter officially upon his occupation of Trevlyn Farm. The lease would be transferred to his name; he would be its sole master; and George must look out for another home: but until then he was bound to the farm—and bound most unprofitably. To the young, however, all things wear a hopefulcouleur-de-rose. What would some of us give for it in after-life!
"By the spring I may be settled in a farm of my own, Maude. I have been giving a longing eye to the Upland. Its lease will be out at Lady-day, and Carteret leaves it. An unwise man in my opinion to leave a certain competency here for uncertain riches in the New World. But that is his business; not mine. I should like the Upland Farm."
Maude's breath was nearly taken away. It was the largest farm on the Trevlyn estate. "You surely would not risk that, George! What an undertaking!"
"Especially with Chattaway for a landlord, you would say. I shall take it if I can get it. The worst is, I should have to borrow money, and borrowed money weighs one down like an incubus. Witness what it did for my father. But I daresay we should manage to get along."
Maude opened her lips, wishing to say something she did not quite well know how to say. "I—I fear——" and there she stopped timidly.
"What do you fear, Maude?"
"I don't know how I should ever manage in a farm," she said, feeling she ought to speak out her doubts, but blushing vividly under cover of the dark night at having to do it. "I have been brought up so—so—uselessly—as regards domestic duties."
"Maude, if I thought I should marry a wife only to make her work, I should not marry at all. We will manage better than that. You have been brought up a lady; and, in truth, I should not care for my wife to be anything else. Mrs. Ryle has never done anything of the sort, you know, thanks to good Nora. And there are more Noras in the world. Shall I tell you a favourite scheme of mine, one that has been in my mind for some time now?"
She turned—waiting to hear it.
"To give a home to Rupert. You and I. We could contrive to make him happier than he is now."
Maude's heart leaped at the vision. "Oh, George! if it could only be! How good you are! Rupert——"
"Hush, Maude!" For he had become conscious of the proximity of others walking and talking like themselves. Two voices were contending with each other; or, if not contending, speaking as if their opinions did not precisely coincide. To George's intense astonishment he recognised one of the voices as Mr. Chattaway's, and uttered a suppressed exclamation.
"It cannot be," Maude whispered. "He is miles and miles away. Even allowing that he had returned, what should bring him here?—he would have gone direct to the Hold."
But George was positive that it was Chattaway. The voices were advancing down the path on the other side the hedge, and would probably come through the gate, right in front of George and Maude. To meet Chattaway was not particularly coveted by either of them, even at the most convenient times, and just now it was not convenient at all. George drew Maude under one of the great elm trees, which overshadowed the hedge on this side.
"Just for a moment, Maude, until they have passed. I am certain it is Chattaway!"
The gate swung open and someone came through it. Only one. Sure enough it was Chattaway. He strode onwards, muttering to himself, a brown paper parcel in his hand. But ere he had gone many steps, he halted, turned, came creeping back and stood peering over the gate at the man who was walking away. A little movement to the right, and Mr. Chattaway might have seen George and Maude standing there.
But he did not. He was grinding his teeth and working his disengaged hand, altogether too much occupied with the receding man, to pay attention to what might be around himself. Finally, his display of anger somewhat cooling down, he turned again and continued his way towards Trevlyn Hold.
"Who can it be that he is so angry with?" whispered Maude.
"Hush!" cautioned George. "His ears are sharp."
Very still they remained until he was at a safe distance, and then they went through the gate. Almost beyond their view a tall man was pacing slowly along in the direction of Trevlyn Farm, whirling an umbrella round and round in his hand.
"Just as I thought," was George's comment to himself.
"Who is it, George?"
"That stranger who is visiting at the parsonage."
"He seemed to be quarrelling with Mr. Chattaway."
"I don't know. Their voices were loud. I wonder if Rupert has found his way to the Farm?"
"Octave forbade him to go."
"Were I Ru I should break throughhertrammels at any rate, and show myself a man," remarked George. "He may have done so to-night."
They turned in at the garden-gate, and reached the porch. All signs of the stranger had disappeared, and sounds of merriment came from within.
George turned Maude's face to his. "You will not forget, Maude?"
"Forget what?" she shyly answered.
"That from this night we begin a new life. Henceforth we belong to each other. Maude! you will not forget!" he feverishly continued.
"I shall not forget," she softly whispered.
And, possibly by way of reminder, Mr. George, under cover of the silent porch, took his first lover's kiss from her lips.