There is a terror which shakes man's equanimity to its foundation—and that terror fell upon Trevlyn Hold. At the evening hour its inmates were sitting in idleness; the servants gossiping quietly in the kitchen, the girls lingering over the fire in the drawing-room; when those terrible sounds disturbed them. With a simultaneous movement, all flew to the hall, only to see Mr. Chattaway leaping down the stairs, followed by his wife and Miss Diana Trevlyn.
"What is it? What is the matter?"
"The rick-yard is on fire!"
None knew who answered. It was not Mr. Chattaway's voice; it was not their mother's; it did not sound like Miss Diana's. A startled pause, and they ran out to the rick-yard, a terrified group. Little Edith Chattaway, a most excitable girl, fell into hysterics, and added to the confusion of the scene.
The blaze was shooting upwards, and men were coming from the out-buildings, giving vent to their dismay in various exclamations. One voice was heard distinctly above all the rest—that of Miss Diana Trevlyn.
"Who has done this? It must have been purposely set on fire."
She turned sharply on the group of servants as she spoke, as if suspecting one of them. The blaze fell on their alarmed faces, and they visibly recoiled; not from any consciousness of guilt, but from the general sense of fear which lay upon all. One of the grooms spoke impulsively.
"I heard voices not a minute ago in the rick-yard," he cried. "I was going across the top there to fetch a bucket of water from the pump, and heard 'em talking. One was a woman's. I saw a light, too."
The women-servants were grouped together, staring helplessly at the blaze. Miss Diana directed her attention particularly to them: she possessed a ready perception, and detected such unmistakable signs of terror in the face of one of them, that she drew a rapid conclusion. It was not the expression of general alarm, seen on the countenance of the rest; but a lively, conscious terror. The girl endeavoured to draw behind, out of sight of Miss Diana.
Miss Diana laid her hand upon her. It was Bridget, the kitchenmaid. "You know something of this!"
Bridget burst into tears. A more complete picture of helpless fear than she presented at that moment could not well be drawn. In her apron was something hidden.
"What have you got there?" sharply continued Miss Diana, whose thoughts may have flown to incendiary adjuncts.
Bridget, unable to speak, turned down the apron and disclosed a little black puppy, which began to whine. There was nothing very guilty about that.
"Were you in the rick-yard?" questioned Miss Diana; "was it your voice Sam heard?" And Bridget was too frightened to deny it.
"Then, what were you doing? What brought you in the rick-yard at all?"
Mrs. Chattaway, timid Mrs. Chattaway, trembling almost as much as Bridget, but who had compassion for every one in distress, came to the rescue. "Don't, Diana," she said. "I am sure Bridget is too honest a girl to have taken part in anything so dreadful as this. The rick may have got heated and taken fire spontaneously."
"No, Madam, I'd die before I'd do such a thing," sobbed Bridget, responding to the kindness. "If I was in the rick-yard, I wasn't doing no harm—and I'm sure I'd rather have went a hundred miles the other way if I'd thought what was going to happen. I turned sick with fright when I saw the flame burst out."
"Was it you who screamed?" inquired Miss Diana.
"I did scream, ma'am. I couldn't help it."
"Diana," whispered Mrs. Chattaway, "you may see she's innocent."
"Yes, most likely; but there's something behind for all that," replied Miss Diana, decisively. "Bridget, I mean to come to the bottom of this business, and the sooner you explain it, the less trouble you'll get into. I ask what took you to the rick-yard?"
"It wasn't no harm, ma'am, as Madam says," sobbed Bridget, evidently very unwilling to enter on the explanation. "I never did no harm in going there, nor thought none."
"Then it is the more easily told," responded Miss Diana. "Do you hear me? What business took you to the rick-yard, and who were you talking to?"
There appeared to be no help for it; Bridget had felt this from the first; she should have to confess to her rustic admirer's stolen visit. And Bridget, whilst liking him in her heart, was intensely ashamed of him, from his being so much younger than herself.
"Ma'am, I only came into it for a minute to speak to a young boy; my cousin, Jim Sanders. Hatch came into the kitchen and said Jim wanted to see me, and I came out. That's all—if it was the last word I had to speak," she added, with a burst of grief.
"And what did Jim Sanders want with you?" pursued Miss Diana, sternly.
"It was to show me this puppy," returned Bridget, not choosing to confess that the small animal was brought as a present. "Jim seemed proud of it, ma'am, and brought it up for me to see."
A very innocent confession; plausible also; and Miss Diana saw no reason for disbelieving it. But she was one who liked to be on the sure side, and when corroborative testimony was to be had, did not allow it to escape her. "One of you find Hatch," she said, addressing the maids.
Hatch was found with the men-servants and labourers, who were tumbling over each other in their endeavours to carry water to the rick under the frantic directions of their master. He came up to Miss Diana.
"Did you go into the kitchen, and tell Bridget Jim Sanders wanted her in the rick-yard?" she questioned.
I think it has been mentioned once before that this man, Hatch, was too simple to answer anything but the straightforward truth. He replied that he did so; had been called to by Jim Sanders as he was passing along the rick-yard near the stables, who asked him to go to the house and send out Bridget.
"Did he say what he wanted with her?" continued Miss Diana.
"Not to me," replied Hatch. "It ain't nothing new for that there boy to come up and ask for Bridget, ma'am. He's always coming up for her, Jim is. They be cousins."
A well-meant speech, no doubt, on Hatch's part; but Bridget would have liked to box his ears for it there and then. Miss Diana, sufficiently large-hearted, saw no reason to object to Mr. Jim's visits, provided they were paid at proper times and seasons, when the girl was not at her work. "Was any one with Jim Sanders?" she asked.
"Not as I saw, ma'am. As I was coming back after telling Bridget, I see Jim a-waiting there, alone. He——"
"How could you see him? Was it not too dark?" interrupted Miss Diana.
"Not then. Bridget kep' him waiting ever so long afore she came out. Jim must a' been a good half-hour altogether in the yard; 'twas that, I know, from the time he called me till the blaze burst out. But Jim might have went away afore that," added Hatch, reflectively.
"That's all, Hatch; make haste back again," said Miss Diana. "Now, Bridget, was Jim Sanders in the yard when the flames broke out, or was he not?"
"Yes, ma'am, he was there."
"Then if any suspicious characters got into the rick-yard, he would no doubt have seen them," thought Miss Diana, to herself. "Do you know who did set it on fire?" she impatiently asked.
Bridget's face, which had regained some of its colour, grew white again. Should she dare to tell what she had heard about Rupert? "I did not see it done," she gasped.
"Come, Bridget, this will not do," cried Miss Diana, noting the signs. "There's more behind, I see. Where's Jim Sanders?"
She looked around as she spoke but Jim was certainly not in sight. "Do you know where he is?" she sharply resumed.
Instead of answering, Bridget was taken with a fresh fit of shivering. It amazed Miss Diana considerably.
"Did Jim do it?" she sharply asked.
"No, no," answered Bridget. "When I got to Jim he had somehow lost the puppy"—glancing down at her apron—"and we had to look about for it. It was just in the minute he found it that the flames broke forth. Jim was showing of it to me, ma'am, and started like anything when I shrieked out."
"And what has become of Jim?"
"I don't know," sobbed Bridget. "Jim seemed like one dazed when he turned and saw the blaze. He stood a minute looking at it, and I could see his face turn all of a fright; and then he flung the puppy into my arms and scrambled off over the palings, never speaking a word."
Miss Diana paused. There was something suspicious in Jim's making off in the manner described; it struck her so at once. On the other hand she had known Jim from his infancy—known him to be harmless and inoffensive.
"An honest lad would have remained to see what assistance he could render towards putting it out, not have run off in that cowardly way," spoke Miss Diana. "I don't like the look of this."
Bridget made no reply. She was beginning to wish the ground would open and swallow her up for a convenient half-hour; wished Jim Sanders had been buried also before he had brought this trouble upon her. Miss Diana, Madam, and the young ladies were surrounding her; the maid-servants began to edge away suspiciously; even Edith had dismissed her hysterics to stare at Bridget.
Cris Chattaway came leaping past them. Cris, who had been leisurely making his way to the Hold when the flames broke out, had just come up, and after a short conference with his father, was now running to the stables. "You are a fleet horseman, Cris," Mr. Chattaway had said to him: "get the engines here from Barmester." And Cris was hastening to mount a horse, and ride away on the errand.
Mrs. Chattaway caught his arm as he passed. "Oh, Cris, this is dreadful! What can have caused it?"
"What?" returned Cris, in savage tones—not, however, meant for his mother, but induced by the subject. "Don't you know what has caused it? He ought to swing for it, the felon!"
Mrs. Chattaway in her surprise connected his words with what she had just been listening to. "Cris!—do you mean——It never could have been Jim Sanders!"
"Jim Sanders!" slightingly spoke Cris. "What should have put Jim Sanders into your head, mother? No; it was your favoured nephew, Rupert Trevlyn!"
Mrs. Chattaway broke into a cry as the words came from his lips. Maude started a step forward, her face full of indignant protestation; and Miss Diana imperiously demanded what he meant.
"Don't stop me," said Cris. "Rupert Trevlyn was in the yard with a torch just before it broke out, and he must have set it on fire."
"It can't be, Cris!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, in accents of intense pain, arresting her son as he was speeding away. "Who says this?"
Cris twisted himself from her. "I can't stop, mother, I say. I am going for the engines. You had better ask my father; it was he told me. It's true enough. Whowoulddo it, except Rupert?"
The shaft lanced at Rupert struck to the heart of Mrs. Chattaway; unpleasantly on the ear of Miss Diana Trevlyn: was anything but agreeable to the women-servants. Rupert was liked in the household, Cris hated. One of the latter spoke up in her zeal.
"It's well to try to throw it off the shoulders of Jim Sanders on to Mr. Rupert! Jim Sanders——"
"And what have you to say agin' Jim Sanders?" interrupted Bridget, fearing, it may be, that the crime should be fastened on him. "Perhaps if I had spoken my mind, I could have told it was Mr. Rupert as well as others could; perhaps Jim Sanders could have told it, too. At any rate, it wasn't——"
"What is that, Bridget?"
The quiet but imperative interruption came from Miss Diana. Excitement was overpowering Bridget. "It was Mr. Rupert, ma'am; Jim saw him fire it."
"Diana! Diana! I feel ill," gasped Mrs. Chattaway, in faint tones. "Let me go to him; I cannot breathe under this suspense."
She meant her husband. Pressing across the crowded rick-yard—for people, aroused by the sight of the flames, were coming up now in numbers—she succeeded in reaching Mr. Chattaway. Maude, scared to death, followed her closely. She caught him just as he had taken a bucket of water to hand on to some one standing next him in the line, causing him to spill it. Mr. Chattaway turned with a passionate word.
"What do you want here?" he roughly asked, although he saw it was his wife.
"James, tell me," she whispered. "I felt sick with suspense, and could not wait. What did Cris mean by saying it was Rupert?"
"There's not a shadow of doubt that it was Rupert," answered Mr. Chattaway. "He has done it out of revenge."
"Revenge for what?"
"For the horsewhipping I gave him. When I joined you upstairs just now, I came straight from it. I horsewhipped him on this very spot," continued Mr. Chattaway, as if it afforded him satisfaction to repeat the avowal. "He had a torch with him, and I—like a fool—left it with him, never thinking of consequences, or that he might use it in the service of felony. He must have fired the rick in revenge."
Mrs. Chattaway had been gradually drawing away from the heat of the blaze; from the line formed to pass buckets for water on to the flames, which crackled and roared on high; from the crowd and confusion prevailing around the spot. Mr. Chattaway had drawn with her, leaving his place in the line to be filled by another. She fell against a distant rick, sick unto death.
"Oh, James! Why did you horsewhip him? What had he done?"
"I horsewhipped him for insolence; for bearding me to my face. I bade him tell me who let him in last night when he returned home, and he set me at defiance by refusing to tell. One of my servants must be a traitor, and Rupert is screening him."
A great cry escaped her. "Oh, what have you done? It was I who let him in."
"You!" foamed Mr. Chattaway. "It is not true," he added, the next moment. "You are striving also to deceive me—to defend him."
"It is true," she answered. "I saw him come to the house from my dressing-room window, and I went down the back-stairs and opened the door for him. If he refused to betray me, it was done in good feeling, out of love for me, lest you should reproach me. And you have horsewhipped him for it!—you have goaded him on to this crime! Oh, Rupert! my darling Rupert!"
Mr. Chattaway turned impatiently away; he had no time to waste on sentiment when his ricks were burning. His wife detained him.
"It has been a wretched mistake altogether, James," she whispered. "Say you will forgive him—forgive him for my sake!"
"Forgive him!" repeated Mr. Chattaway, his voice assuming quite a hissing angry sound. "Forgive this? Never. I'll prosecute him to the extremity of the law; I'll try hard to get him condemned to penal servitude. Forgivethis! You are out of your mind, Madam Chattaway."
Her breath was coming shortly, her voice rose amidst sobs, and she entwined her arms about him caressingly, imploringly, in her agony of distress and terror.
"For my sake, my husband! It would kill me to see it brought home to him. He must have been overcome by a fit of the Trevlyn temper. Oh, James! forgive him for my sake."
"I never will," deliberately replied Mr. Chattaway. "I tell you that I will prosecute him to the utmost limit of the law; I swear it. In an hour's time from this he shall be in custody."
He broke from her; she staggered against the rick, and but for Maude might have fallen. Poor Maude, who had stood and listened, her face turning to stone, her heart to despair.
Alas for the Trevlyn temper! How many times has the regret to be repeated! Were the world filled with lamentations for the unhappy state of mind to which some of its mortals give way, they could not atone for the ill inflicted. It is not a pleasant topic to enlarge upon, and I have lingered in my dislike to approach it.
When Rupert leaped the palings and flew away over the field, he was totally incapable of self-government for the time being. I do not say this in extenuation. I say that such a state of things is lamentable, and ought not to be. I only state that it was so. The most passionate temper ever born with manmaybe kept under, where the right means are used—prayer, ever-watchful self-control, stern determination; but how few there are who find the means! Rupert Trevlyn did not. He had no clear perception of what he had done; he probably knew he had thrust the blazing torch into the rick; but he gave no thought whatever to consequences, whether the hay was undamaged or whether it burst forth into a flame.
He flew over the field as one possessed; he flew over a succession of fields; the high-road intervened, and he was passing over it in his reckless career, when he was met by Farmer Apperley. Not, for a moment, did the farmer recognise Rupert.
"Hey, lad! What in the name of fortune has taken you?" cried he, laying his hand upon him.
His face distorted with passion, his eyes starting with fury, Rupert tore on. He shook the farmer's hand off him, and pressed on, leaping the low dwarf hedge opposite, and never speaking.
Mr. Apperley began to doubt whether he had not been deceived by some strange apparition—such, for instance, as the Flying Dutchman. He ran to a stile, and stood there gazing after the mad figure, which seemed to be rustling about without purpose; now in one part of the field, now in another: and Mr. Apperley rubbed his eyes and tried to penetrate more clearly the obscurity of the night.
"ItwasRupert Trevlyn—if I ever saw him," decided he, at length. "What can have put him into this state? Perhaps he's gone mad!"
The farmer, in his consternation, stood he knew not how long: ten minutes possibly. It was not a busy night with him, and he would as soon linger as go on at once to Bluck the farrier—whither he was bound. Any time would do for his orders to Bluck.
"I can't make it out a bit," soliloquised he, when at length he turned away. "I'm sure it was Rupert; but what could have put him into that state? Halloa! what's that?"
A bright light in the direction of Trevlyn Hold had caught his eye. He stood and gazed at it in a second state of consternation equal to that in which he had just gazed after Rupert Trevlyn. "If I don't believe it's a fire!" ejaculated he.
Was every one running about madly? The words were escaping Mr. Apperley's lips when a second figure, white, breathless as the other, came flying over the road in the selfsame track. This one wore a smock-frock, and the farmer recognised Jim Sanders.
"Why, Jim, is it you? What's up?"
"Don't stop me, sir," panted Jim. "Don't you see the blaze? It's Chattaway's rick-yard."
"Mercy on me! Chattaway's rick-yard! What has done it? Have we got the incendiaries in the county again?"
"It was Mr. Rupert," answered Jim, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I see him fire it. Let me go on, please, sir."
In very astonishment, Mr. Apperley loosed his hold of the boy, who went speeding off in the direction of Barbrook. The farmer propped his back against the stile, that he might gather his scared senses together.
Rupert Trevlyn had set fire to the rick-yard! Had he really gone mad?—or was Jim Sanders mad when he said it? The farmer, slow to arrive at conclusions, was sorely puzzled. "The one looked as mad as the other, for what I saw," deliberated he. "Any way, there's the fire, and I'd better make my way to it: they'll want hands if they are to put that out. Thank God, it's a calm night!"
He took the nearest way to the Hold; another helper amidst the many now crowding the busy scene. What a babel it was!—what a scene for a painting!—what a life's remembrance! The excited workers as they passed the buckets; the deep interjections of Mr. Chattaway; the faces of the lookers-on turned up to the lurid flames. Farmer Apperley, a man more given to deeds than words, rendered what help he could, speaking to none.
He had been at work some time, when a shout broke simultaneously from the spectators. The next rick had caught fire. Mr. Chattaway uttered a despairing word, and the workers ceased their efforts for a few moments—as if paralysed with the new evil.
"If the fire-engines would only come!" impatiently exclaimed Mr. Chattaway.
Even as he spoke a faint rumbling was heard in the distance. It came nearer and nearer; its reckless pace proclaiming it a fire-engine. And Mr. Chattaway, in spite of his remark, gazed at its approach with astonishment; for he knew there had not been time for the Barmester engines to arrive.
It proved to be the little engine from Barbrook, one kept in the village. A very despised engine indeed; from its small size, one rarely called for; and which Mr. Chattaway had not so much as thought of, when sending to Barmester. On it came, bravely, as if it meant to do good service, and the crowd in the rick-yard welcomed it with a shout, and parted to make way for it.
Churlish as was Mr. Chattaway's general manner, he could not avoid showing pleasure at its arrival. "I am glad you have come!" he exclaimed. "It never occurred to me to send for you. I suppose you saw the flames, and came of your own accord?"
"No, sir, we saw nothing," was the reply of the man addressed. "Mr. Ryle's lad, Jim Sanders, came for us. I never see a chap in such commotion; he a'most got the engine ready himself."
The mention of Jim Sanders caused a buzz around. Bridget's assertion that the offender was Rupert Trevlyn had been whispered and commented upon; and if some were found to believe the whisper, others scornfully rejected it. There was Mr. Chattaway's assertion also; but Mr. Chattaway's ill-will to Rupert was remembered that night, and the assertion was doubtfully received. A meddlesome voice interrupted the fireman.
"Jim Sanders! why 'twas he fired it. There ain't no doubt he did. Little wonder he seemed frighted."
"Did he fire it?" interrupted Farmer Apperley, eagerly. "What, Jim? Why, what possessed him to do such a thing? I met him just now, looking frightened out of his life, and he laid the guilt on Rupert Trevlyn."
"Hush, Mr. Apperley!" whispered a voice at his elbow, and the farmer turned to see George Ryle. The latter, with an almost imperceptible movement, directed his attention to the right: the livid face of Mrs. Chattaway. As one paralysed stood she, her hands clasped as she listened.
"Yes, it was Mr. Rupert," protested Bridget, with a sob. "Jim Sanders told me he watched Mr. Rupert thrust the lighted torch into the rick. He seemed not to know what he was about, Jim said; seemed to do it in madness."
"Hold your tongue, Bridget," interposed a sharp commanding voice. "Have I not desired you already to do so? It is not upon the hearsay evidence of Jim Sanders that you can accuse Mr. Rupert."
The speaker was Miss Diana Trevlyn. In good truth, Miss Diana did not believe Rupert could have been guilty of the act. It had been disclosed that the torch in the rick-yard belonged to Jim Sanders, had been brought there by him, and she deemed that fact suspicious against Jim. Miss Diana had arrived unwillingly at the conclusion that Jim Sanders had set the rick on fire by accident; and in his fright had accused Rupert, to screen himself. She imparted her view of the affair to Mr. Apperley.
"Like enough," was the response of Mr. Apperley. "Some of these boys have no more caution in 'em than if they were children of two years old. But what could have put Rupert into such a state? If anybody ever looked insane, he did to-night."
"When?" asked Miss Diana, eagerly, and Mrs. Chattaway pressed nearer with her troubled countenance.
"It was just before I came up here. I was on my way to Bluck's and someone with a white face, breathless and panting, broke through the hedge right across my path. I did not know him at first; he didn't look a bit like Rupert; but when I saw who it was, I tried to stop him, and asked what was the matter. He shook me off, went over the opposite hedge like a wild animal, and there tore about the field. If he had been an escaped lunatic from the county asylum, he couldn't have run at greater speed."
"Did he say nothing?" a voice interrupted.
"Not a word," replied the farmer. "He seemed unable to speak. Well, before I had digested that shock, there came another, flying up in the same mad state, and that was Jim Sanders. I stoppedhim. Nearly at the same time, or just before it, I had seen a light shoot up into the sky. Jim said as well as he could speak for fright, that the rick-yard was on fire, and Mr. Rupert had set it alight."
"At all events, the mischief seems to lie between them," remarked some voices around.
There would have been no time for this desultory conversation—at least, for the gentlemen's share in it—but that the fire-engine had put a stop to their efforts. It had planted itself on the very spot where the line had been formed, scattering those who had taken part in it, and was rapidly getting itself into working order. The flames were shooting up terribly now, and Mr. Chattaway was rushing here, there, and everywhere, in his frantic but impotent efforts to subdue them. He was not insured.
George Ryle approached Mrs. Chattaway, and bent over her, a strange tone of kindness in his every word: it seemed to suggest how conscious he was of the great sorrow that was coming upon her. "I wish you would let me take you indoors," he whispered. "Indeed it is not well for you to be here."
"Where is he?" she gasped, in answer. "Could you find him, and remove him from danger?"
A sure conviction had been upon her from the very moment that her husband had avowed his chastisement of Rupert—the certainty that it was he, Rupert, and no other who had done the mischief. Her own brothers—but chiefly her brother Rupert—had been guilty of one or two acts almost as mad in their passion. He could not help his temper, she reasoned—some, perhaps, may say wrongly; and if Mr. Chattaway had provoked him by that sharp, insulting punishment, he, more than Rupert, was in fault.
"I would die to save him, George," she whispered. "I would give all I am worth to save him from the consequences. Mr. Chattaway says he will prosecute him to the last."
"I am quite sure you will be ill if you stay here," remonstrated George, for she was shivering from head to foot; not, however, with cold, but with emotion. "I will go with you to the house, and talk to you there."
"To the house!" she repeated. "Do you suppose I could remain in the house to-night? Look at them; they are all out here."
She pointed to her children; to the women-servants. It was even so: all were out there. Mr. Chattaway, in passing, had once or twice sharply demanded what they, a pack of women, did in such a scene, and the women had drawn away at the rebuke, but only to come forward again. Perhaps it was not in human nature to keep wholly away from that region of excitement.
A half-exclamation of fear escaped Mrs. Chattaway's lips, and she pressed a few steps onwards.
Holding a close and apparently private conference with Mr. Apperley, was Bowen, the superintendent of the very slight staff of police stationed in the place. As a general rule, these rustic districts are too peaceable to require much supervision from the men in blue.
"Mr. Apperley, you will not turn against him!" she implored, from between her fevered and trembling lips; and in good truth, Mrs. Chattaway gave indications of being almost as much beside herself that night as the unhappy Rupert. "Is Bowen asking you where you saw Rupert, that he may go and search for him? Do notyouturn against him!"
"My dear, good lady, I haven't a thing to tell," returned Mr. Apperley, looking at her in surprise, for her manner was strange. "Bowen heard me say, as others heard, that Mr. Rupert was in the Brook field when I came from it. But I have nothing else to tell of him; and he may not be there now. It's hardly likely he would be."
Mrs. Chattaway lifted her white face to Bowen. "You will not take him?" she imploringly whispered.
The man shook his head—he was an intelligent officer, much respected in the neighbourhood—and answered her in the same low tone. "I can't help myself, ma'am. When charges are given to us, we are obliged to take cognisance of them, and to arrest, if need be, those implicated."
"Has this charge been given you?"
"Yes, this half-hour ago. I was up here almost with the breaking out of the flames, for I happened to be close by, and Mr. Chattaway made his formal complaint to me, and put it in my care."
Her heart sank within her. "And you are looking for him?"
"Chigwell is," replied the superintendent, alluding to a constable. "And Dumps has gone after Jim Sanders."
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed a voice at her elbow. It was that of George Ryle; and Mrs. Chattaway turned in amazement. But George's words had not borne reference to her, or to anything she was saying.
"It is beginning to rain," he exclaimed. "A fine, steady rain would do us more good than the engines. What does that noise mean?"
A murmur of excitement had arisen on the opposite side of the rick-yard, and was spreading as fast as did the flame. George looked in vain for its cause: he was very tall, and raised himself on tiptoe to see the better: as yet without result.
But not for long. The cause soon showed itself. Pushing his way through the rick-yard, pale, subdued, quiet now, came Rupert Trevlyn. Not in custody; not fettered; not passionate; only very worn and weary, as if he had undergone some painful amount of fatigue. It was only that the fit of passion had left him; he was worn-out, powerless. In the days gone by it had so left his uncle Rupert.
Mr. Bowen walked up, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "I am sorry to do it, sir," he said, "but you are my prisoner."
"I can't help it," wearily responded Rupert.
But what brought Rupert Trevlyn back into the very camp of the Philistines? In his terrible passion, he had partly fallen to the ground, partly flung himself down in the field where Mr. Apperley saw him, and there lay until the passion abated. After a time he sat up, bent his head upon his knees, and revolved what had passed. How long he might have stayed there, it is impossible to say, but that shouts and cries in the road aroused him, and he looked up to see that red light, and men running in its direction. He went and questioned them. "The rick-yard at the Hold was on fire!"
An awful consciousness came across him that it washiswork. It is a fact, that he did not positively remember what he had done: that is, had no clear recollection of it. Giving no thought to the personal consequences—any more than an hour before he had measured the effects of his work—he began to hasten to the Hold as fast as his depressed physical state would permit. If he had created that flame, it was only fair he should do what he could towards putting it out.
The clouds cleared, and the rain did not fulfil its promise as George Ryle had fondly hoped. But the little engine from Barbrook did good service, and the flames were not spreading over the whole rick-yard. Later, the two great Barmester engines thundered up, and gave their aid towards extinguishing the fire.
And Rupert Trevlyn was in custody for having caused it!
Amidst all the human beings collected in and about the burning rick-yard of Trevlyn Hold, perhaps no one was so utterly miserable, not even excepting the unhappy Rupert, as its mistress, Mrs. Chattaway.Hestood there in custody for a dark crime; a crime for which the punishment only a few short years before would have been the extreme penalty of the law; he whom she had so loved. In her chequered life she had experienced moments of unhappiness than which she had thought no future could exceed in intensity; but had all those moments been concentrated into one dark and dreadful hour, it could not have equalled the trouble of this. Her vivid imagination leaped over the present, and held up to view but one appalling picture of the future—Rupert working in chains. Poor, unhappy, wronged Rupert! whom they had kept out of his rights; whom her husband had now by his ill-treatment goaded to the ungovernable passion which was the curse of her family: and this was the result.
Every pulse of her heart beating with its sense of terrible wrong; every chord of love for Rupert strung to its utmost tension; every fear that an excitable imagination can depict within her, Mrs. Chattaway leaned against the palings in utter faintness of spirit. Her ears took in with unnatural quickness the comments around. She heard some hotly avowing their belief that Rupert was not guilty, except in the malicious fancy of Mr. Chattaway; heard them say that Chattaway was scared and startled that past day when he found Rupert was alive, instead of dead, down in the mine: even the more moderate observed that after all it was only Jim Sanders's word for it; and if Jim did not appear to confirm it, Mr. Rupert must be held innocent.
The wonder seemed to be, where was Jim? He had not reappeared on the scene, and his absence certainly looked suspicious. In moments of intense fear, the mind receives the barest hint vividly and comprehensively, and Mrs. Chattaway's heart bounded within her at that whispered suggestion.If Jim Sanders did not appear Rupert must be held innocent.Was there no possibility of keeping Jim back? By persuasion—by stratagem—by force, even, if necessary? The blood mounted to her pale cheek at the thought, red as the lurid flame which lighted up the air. At that moment she saw George Ryle hastening across the yard near to her and glided towards him. He turned at her call.
"You see! They have taken Rupert!"
"Do not distress yourself, dear Mrs. Chattaway," he answered. "I wish you could have been persuaded not to remain in this scene: it is altogether unfit for you."
"George," she gasped, "doyoubelieve he did it?"
George Ryle did believe it. He had heard about the horsewhipping; and aware of that mad passion called the Trevlyn temper, he could not do otherwise than believe it.
"Ah, don't speak!" she interrupted, perceiving his hesitation. "I see you condemn him, as some around us are condemning him. But," she added, with feverish eagerness, "there is only the word of Jim Sanders against him. They are saying so."
"Very true," replied George, heartily desiring to give her all the comfort he could. "Mr. Jim must make good his words before we can condemn Rupert."
"Jim Sanders has always been looked upon as truthful," interposed Octave Chattaway, who had drawn near. Surely it was ill-natured to say so at that moment, however indisputable the fact might be!
"It has yet to be proved that Jim made the accusation," said George, replying to Octave. "Although Bridget asserts it, it is not obliged to be fact. And even if Jim did say it, he may have been mistaken. He must show that he was not mistaken before the magistrates to-morrow, or the charge will fall to the ground."
"And Rupert be released?" added Mrs. Chattaway eagerly.
"Certainly. At least, I suppose so."
He passed on his way; Octave went back to where she had been standing, and Mrs. Chattaway remained alone, buried in thought.
A few minutes, and she glided out of the yard. With stealthy steps, and eyes that glanced fearfully around her, she escaped by degrees beyond the crowd, and reached the open field. Then, turning an angle at a fleet pace, she ran against some one who was coming as swiftly up. A low cry escaped her. It seemed to her that the mere fact of being encountered like this, was sufficient to betray the wild project she had conceived. Conscience is very suggestive.
But it was only Nora Dickson: and Nora in a state of wrath. When the alarm of fire reached Trevlyn Farm, its inmates had hastened to the scene with one accord, leaving none in the house but Nora and Mrs. Ryle. Mrs. Ryle, suffering from some temporary indisposition, was in bed, and Nora, consequently, had to stay and take care of the house, doing violence to her curiosity. She stood leaning over the gate, watching the people hasten by to the excitement from which she was excluded; and when the Barbrook engine thundered past, Nora's anger was unbounded. She felt half inclined to lock up the house, and start in the wake of the engine; the fierce if innocent anathemas she hurled at the head of the truant Nanny were something formidable; and when that damsel at length returned, Nora would have experienced the greatest satisfaction in shaking her. But the bent of her indignation changed; for Nanny, before Nora had had time to say so much as a word, burst forth with the news she had gathered at the Hold. Rupert Trevlyn fired the hay-rick because Mr. Chattaway had horsewhipped him.
Nora's breath was taken away: wrath for her own grievance merged in the greater wrath she felt for Rupert's sake. Horsewhipped him? That brute of a Chattaway had horsewhipped Rupert Trevlyn? A burning glow rushed over her as she listened; a resentful denial broke from her lips: but Nanny persisted in her statement. Chattaway had locked out Rupert the previous night, and Madam, unknown to her husband, admitted him: Chattaway had demanded of Rupert who let him in, but Rupert, fearing to compromise Madam, refused to tell, and then Chattaway used the horsewhip.
Nora waited to hear no more. She started off to the Hold in her indignation; not so much now to take part in the bustling scene, or to indulge her curiosity, as to ascertain the truth of this shameful story. Rupert could scarcely have felt more indignant pain at the chastisement, than Nora at hearing it. Close to the outer gate of the fold-yard, she encountered Mrs. Chattaway.
A short explanation ensued. Nora, forgetting possibly that it was Mrs. Chattaway to whom she spoke, broke into a burst of indignation at Mr. Chattaway, a flood of sympathy for Rupert. It told Mrs. Chattaway that she might trust her, and her delicate fingers entwined themselves nervously around Nora's stronger ones in her hysterical emotion.
"It must have been done in a fit of the Trevlyn temper, Nora," she whispered imploringly, as if beseeching Nora's clemency. "The temper was born with him, you know, and he could not help that—and to be horsewhipped is a terrible thing."
If Nora felt inclined to doubt the report before, these words dispelled the doubt, and brought a momentary shock. Nora was not one to excuse or extenuate a crime so great as that of wilfully setting fire to a rick-yard: to all who have to do with farms, it is especially abhorrent, and Nora was no exception to the rule; but in this case by some ingenious sophistry of her own, she did shift the blame from Rupert's shoulders, and lay it on Mr. Chattaway's; and she again expressed her opinion of that gentleman's conduct in very plain terms.
"He is in custody, Nora!" said Mrs. Chattaway with a shiver. "He is to be examined to-morrow before the magistrates, and they will either commit him for trial, or release him, according to the evidence. Should he be tried and condemned for it, the punishment might be penal servitude for life!"
"Heaven help him!" ejaculated Nora in her dismay at this new feature presented to her view. "That would be a climax to his unhappy life!"
"But if they can prove nothing against him to-morrow, the magistrates will not commit him," resumed Mrs. Chattaway. "There's nothing to prove it but Jim Sanders's word: and—Nora,"—she feverishly added—"perhaps we can keep Jim back?"
"Jim Sanders's word!" repeated Nora, who as yet had not heard of Jim in connection with the affair. "What has Jim to do with it?"
Mrs. Chattaway explained. She mentioned all that was said to have passed, Bridget's declaration, and her own miserable conviction that it was but too true. She just spoke of the suspicion cast on Jim by several doubters, but in a manner which proved the suspicion had no weight with her: and she told of his disappearance from the scene. "I was on my way to search for him," she continued; "but I don't know where to search. Oh, Nora, won't you help me? I would kneel to Jim, and implore him not to come forward against Rupert; I will be ever kind to Jim, and look after his welfare, if he will only hear me! I will try to bring him on in life."
Nora, impulsive as Mrs. Chattaway, but with greater calmness of mind and strength of judgment, turned without a word. From that moment she entered heart and soul into the plot. If Jim Sanders could be kept back by mortal means, Nora would keep him. She revolved matters rapidly in her mind as she went along, but had not proceeded many steps when she halted, and laid her hand on the arm of her companion.
"I had better go alone about this business, Madam Chattaway. If you'll trust to me, it shall be done—if it can be done. You'll catch your death, coming out with nothing on, this cold night: and I'm not sure that it would be well for you to be seen in it."
"I must go on, Nora," was the earnest answer. "I cannot rest until I have found Jim. As to catching cold, I have been standing in the open air since the fire broke out, and have not known whether it was cold or hot. I am too feverish to-night for any cold to affect me."
Nevertheless, she untied her black silk apron, and folded it over her head, concealing all her fair falling curls. Nora made no further remonstrance.
The most obvious place to look for Jim was his own home; at least so it occurred to Nora. Jim had the honour of residing with his mother in a lonely three-cornered cottage, which boasted two rooms and a loft. It was a good step to it, and they walked swiftly, exchanging a sentence now and then in hushed tones. As they came within view of it, Nora's quick sight detected the head (generally a very untidy one) of Mrs. Sanders, airing itself at the open door.
"You halt here, Madam Chattaway," she whispered, pointing to a friendly hedge, "and let me go on and feel my way with her. She'll be a great deal more difficult to deal with than Jim; and the more I reflect, the more I am convinced it will not do for you to be seen in it."
So far, Mrs. Chattaway acquiesced. She remained under cover of the hedge, and Nora went on alone. But when she had really gained the door, it was shut; no one was there. She lifted the old-fashioned wooden latch, and entered. The door had no other fastening; strange as that fact may sound to dwellers in towns. The woman had backed against the further wall, and was staring at the intruder with a face of dread. Keen Nora noted the signs, drew a very natural deduction, and shaped her tactics accordingly.
"Where's Jim?" began she, in decisive but not unkindly tones.
"It's not true what they are saying, Miss Dickson," gasped the woman. "I could be upon my Bible oath that he never did it. Jim ain't of that wicked sort, he'd not harm a fly."
"But there are such things as accidents, you know, Mrs. Sanders," promptly answered Nora, who had no doubt as to her course now. "It's certain that he was in the rick-yard with a lighted torch; and boys, as everyone knows, are the most careless animals on earth. I suppose you have Jim in hiding?"
"I haven't set eyes on Jim since night fell," the woman answered.
"Look here, Mrs. Sanders, you had better avow the truth to me. I have come as a friend to see what can be done for Jim; and I can tell you that I would rather keep him in hiding—or put him into hiding, for the matter of that—than betray him to the police, and say, 'You'll find Jim Sanders so-and-so.' Tell me the whole truth, and I'll stand Jim's friend. He has been about our place from a little chap in petticoats, when he was put to hurrish the crows, and it's not likely we should want to harm him."
Her words reassured the woman, but she persisted in her denial. "I declare to goodness, ma'am, that I know nothing of him," she said, pushing back her untidy hair. "He come in here after he left work, and tidied hisself a bit, and went off with one of them puppies of his; and he has never been back since."
"Yes," said Nora. "He took the puppy to the Hold, and was showing it to Bridget when the fire broke out—that's the tale that's told to me. But Jim had a torch, they say; and torches are dangerous things in rick-yards——"
"Jim's a fool!" was the complimentary interruption of Jim's mother. "His head's running wild over that flighty Bridget, as ain't worth her salt. I asked him what he was bringing on that puppy for, and he said for Bridget—and I told him he was a simpleton for his pains. And now this has come of it!"
"How did you hear of Jim's being connected with the fire?"
"I have had a dozen past here, opening their mouths," resentfully spoke the woman. "Some of 'em said Mr. Rupert was mixed up in it, and the police were after him as well as after Jim."
"It is true that Mr. Rupert is said to be mixed up in it," said Nora, speaking with a purpose. "And he is taken into custody."
"Into custody?" echoed Mrs. Sanders, in a scared whisper.
"Yes; and Jim must be hidden away for the next four and twenty hours, or they'll take him. Where's he to be found?"
"I couldn't tell you if you killed me for't," protested Mrs. Sanders; and her tones were earnestly truthful. "Maybe he is in hiding—has gone and put himself into 't in his fear of Chattaway and the police. Though I'll take my oath he never did it wilful. If hehada torch, why, a spark of it might have caught a loose bit of hay and fired it: but he never did it wilful. It ain't a windy night, either," she added reflectively. "Eh! the fool that there Jim has been ever since he was born!"
Nora paused. In the uncertainty as to where to look for Jim, she did not see her way very clearly to accomplishing the object in view, and took a few moments' rapid counsel with herself.
"Listen, Mrs. Sanders, and pay attention to what I say," she cried impressively. "I can't do for Jim what I wanted to do, because he is not to be found. But now mind: should he come in after I am gone, send him off instantly to the farm. Tell him to dodge under the trees and hedges on his way, and take care that no one catches sight of him. When he gets to the farm, he must come to the front-door, and knock gently with his knuckles: I shall be in the room."
"And then?" questioned Mrs. Sanders, looking puzzled.
"I'll take care what then; I'll take care ofhim. Now, do you understand?"
"Yes, yes," said the woman. "I'll be sure to do it, Miss Dickson."
"Mind you do," said Nora. "And now, good-night to you."
Mrs. Sanders was officiously coming to the door with the candle, to light her visitor; but Nora peremptorily sent her back, giving her at the same time a piece of advice in rather sharp tones—to keep her cottage dark and silent that night, lest the attention of passers-by might be drawn to it.
It was not cheering news to carry back to poor Mrs. Chattaway. That timid, trembling, unhappy lady had left the shelter of the hedge—where she probably found her crouching position not a very easy one—and was standing behind the trunk of a tree at a little distance, her whole weight leaning upon it. To stand long, unaided, was almost a physical impossibility to her, for her spine was weak. She saw Nora, and came forward.
"Where is he?"
"He is not at home. His mother does not know where he is. She had heard——Hush! Who's this?"
Nora's voice dropped, and they retreated behind the tree. To be seen in the vicinity of Jim Sanders's cottage would not have furthered the object they had in view—that of burying the gentleman for a time. The steps advanced, and Nora, stealing a peep, recognised Farmer Apperley.
He was coming from the direction of the Hold; and they rightly judged, seeing him walking leisurely, that the danger must be over. At the same moment they became conscious of footsteps approaching from another direction. They were crossing the road, bearing rather towards the Hold, and in another moment would meet Mr. Apperley. Footsore, weary, yet excited, and making what haste he could, their owner came into view, disclosing the person of Mr. Jim Sanders. Mrs. Chattaway uttered an exclamation, and would have started forward; but Nora, with more caution, held her back.
The farmer heard the cry, and looked round, but seeing nothing, probably thought his ears had deceived him. As he turned his head again, there, right in front of him, was Jim Sanders. Quick as lightning his grasp was laid upon the boy's shoulder.
"Now then! Where have you been skulking?"
"Lawk a mercy! I han't been skulking, sir," returned Jim, apparently surprised at the salutation. "I be a'most ready to drop with the speed I've made."
Poor, ill-judged Jim! In point of fact he had done more, indirectly, towards putting out the fire, than Farmer Apperley and ten of the best men at his back. Jim's horror and consternation when he saw the flames burst forth had taken from him all thought—all power, as may be said—except instinct. Instinct led him to Barbrook, to warn the fire-engine there: he saw it off, and then hastened all the way to Barmester, and actually gave notice to the engines and urged their departure before the arrival of Cris Chattaway on horseback. From Barmester Jim started to Layton's Heath—a place standing at an acute angle between Barmester and Barbrook—and posted off the engines from there also. And now Jim was toiling back again, footsore and weary, but bending his course to Trevlyn Hold to render his poor assistance in putting out the flames. Rupert Trevlyn had always been a favourite of Jim's. Rupert in his good-natured way had petted Jim, and the boy in his unconscious gratitude was striving to amend the damage which Rupert had caused. In after-days, this night's expedition of Jim's was talked of as a marvel verging on the impossible. Men are apt to forget the marvels that may be done under the influence of great emotion.
Something of this—of where he had been and for what purpose—Jim explained to the farmer, and Mr. Apperley released his hold upon him.
"They are saying up there, lad"—indicating the Hold—"that you had a torch in the rick-yard."
"So I had," replied Jim. "But I didn't do no damage with it."
"You told me it was Rupert Trevlyn who had fired the rick."
"And so it was," replied Jim. "He was holding that there torch of mine, when Mr. Chattaway came up; looking at the puppy, we was. And Chattaway had a word or two with him, and then horsewhipped him; and Mr. Rupert caught up the torch, which he had let fall, and pushed it into the rick. I see him," added Jim, conclusively.
Mr. Apperley stroked his chin. He also liked Rupert, and very much condemned the extreme chastisement inflicted by Mr. Chattaway. He did not go so far as Nora and deem it an excuse for the mad act; but it is certain he did not condemn it as he would have condemned it in another, or if committed under different circumstances. He felt grieved and uncomfortable; he was conscious of a sore feeling in his mind; and he heartily wished the whole night's work could be blotted out from the record of deeds done, and that Rupert was free again and guiltless.
"Well, lad, it's a bad job altogether," he observed; "but you don't seem to have been to blame except for taking a lighted torch into a rick-yard. Never you do such a thing again. You see what has come of it."
"We warn't nigh the ricks when I lighted the torch," pleaded Jim. "We was yards off 'em."
"That don't matter. There's always danger. I'd turn away the best man I have on my farm, if I saw him venture into the rick-yard with a torch. Don't you be such a fool again. Where are you off to now?" for Jim was passing on.
"Up to the Hold, sir, to help put out the fire."
"The fire's out—or nigh upon it; and you'd best stop where you are. If you show your face there, you'll get taken up by the police—they are looking out for you. And I don't see that you've done anything to merit a night's lodging in the lock-up," added the farmer, in his sense of justice. "Better pass it in your bed. You'll be wanted before the Bench to-morrow; but it's as good to go before them a free lad as a prisoner. The prisoner they have already taken, Rupert Trevlyn, is enough. Never you take a torch near ricks again."
With this reiterated piece of advice, Mr. Apperley departed. Jim stood in indecision, revolving in a hazy kind of way the various pieces of information gratuitously bestowed upon him. He himself suspected; in danger of being taken up by the police!—and Mr. Rupert a prisoner! and the fire out, or almost out! It might be better, perhaps, that he went in to his cottage, and got to sleep as Mr. Apperley advised, if he was not too tired to sleep.
But before Jim saw his way clearly out of the maze, or had come to any decision, he found himself seized from behind with a grasp fast and firm as Mr. Apperley's. A vision of a file of policemen brought a rush of fear to Jim's mind, hot blood to his face. But the arms proved to be only Nora Dickson's, and a soft, gentle voice of entreaty was whispering a prayer into his ear, almost as the prayer of an angel. Jim started in amazement, and looked round.
"Lawk a mercy!" ejaculated he. "Why, it's Madam Chattaway!"
A few minutes after his encounter with Jim Sanders, to which interview Mrs. Chattaway and Nora had been unseen witnesses, Farmer Apperley met Policeman Dumps, to whom, you may remember, the superintendent had referred as having been sent after Jim. He came up from the direction of Barbrook.
"I can't find him nowhere," was his salutation to Mr. Apperley. "I have been a'most all over Mr. Ryle's land, and in every hole and corner of Barbrook, and he ain't nowhere. I'm going on now to his own home, just for form's sake; but that's about the last place he'd hide in."
"Are you speaking of Rupert Trevlyn?" asked Mr. Apperley, who knew nothing of the man's search for Jim.
"No, sir; Jim Sanders."
"Oh, you need not look after him," replied the farmer. "I have just met him. Jim's all right. It was not he who did the mischief. He has been after all the fire-engines on foot, and is just come back, dead-beat. He was going on to the Hold to help put out the fire, but I told him it was out, and he could go home. There's not the least necessity to look after Jim."
Mr. Dumps—whose clearness of vision was certainly not sufficient to set the Thames on fire—received the news without any doubt. "I thought it an odd thing for Jim Sanders to do. He haven't daring enough," he remarked. "That kitchenmaid was right, I'll be bound, as to its being Mr. Rupert in his passion. Gone in home, did you say, sir?"
"In bed by this time, I should say," replied the farmer. "They have got Mr. Rupert, Dumps."
"Have they?" returned Dumps. "It's a nasty charge, sir. I shouldn't be sorry that he got off it."
The farmer continued his road towards Barbrook; the policeman went the other way. As he came to the cottage inhabited by the Sanders family, it occurred to him that he might as well ascertain the fact of Jim's safety, and he went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Sanders opened it instantly, believing it to be the wanderer. When she saw policeman Dumps standing there, she thought she should have died with fright.
"Your son has just come in all right, I hear, Madge Sanders. Farmer Apperley have told me."
"Yes, sir," replied she, dropping a curtsey. The untruthful reply was spoken in her terror, almost unconsciously; but there may have been some latent thought in her heart to mislead the policeman.
"Is he gone to bed? I don't want to disturb him if he is."
"Yes, sir," replied she again.
"Well, they have got Mr. Rupert Trevlyn, so the examination will take place to-morrow morning. Your son had better go right over to Barmester the first thing after breakfast; tell him to make for the police-station, and stop there till he sees me. He'll have to give evidence, you know."
"Very well, sir," repeated the woman, in an agony of fear lest Jim should make his appearance. "Jim ain't guilty, sir: he wouldn't harm a fly."
"No, he ain't guilty; but somebody else is, I suppose; and Jim must tell what he knows. Mind he sets off in time. Or—stop. Perhaps he had better come to the little station at Barbrook, and go over with us. Yes, that'll be best."
"To-night, sir?" asked she timidly.
"To-night?—no. What should we do with him to-night? He must be there at eight o'clock in the morning; or a little before it. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
She watched him off, quite unable to understand the case, for she had seen nothing of Jim, and Nora Dickson had not long gone. Mr. Dumps made his way to the headquarters at Barbrook; and when, later on, Bowen came in with Rupert Trevlyn, Dumps informed him that Jim Sanders was all right, and would be there by eight o'clock.
"Have you got him—all safe?"
"I haven't got him," replied Dumps. "There wasn't no need for that. He was a-bed and asleep," he added, improving upon his information. "It was him that went for all the injines, and he was dead tired."
"Your orders were to take him," curtly returned Bowen, who believed in Jim's innocence as much as Dumps did, but would not tolerate disobedience to orders. "He was seen with a lighted torch in the rick-yard, and that's enough."
Rupert Trevlyn looked round quickly. This conversation had occurred as Bowen was going through the room with his prisoner to consign the latter to a more secure one. "Jim Saunders did no harm with the torch, Bowen. He lighted it to show me a little puppy of his; nothing more. There is no need to accuse Jim——"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Trevlyn, but I'd rather not hear anything from you one way or the other," interrupted Bowen. "Don't as much as open your mouth about it, sir, unless you're obliged; and I speak in your interest when I give you this advice. Many a prisoner has brought the guilt home to himself through his own tongue."
Rupert took the hint, and subsided into silence. He was consigned to his quarters for the night, and no doubt passed it as agreeably as was consistent with the circumstances.
The fire had not spread beyond a rick or two. It was quite out before midnight; and the engines, which had done effectual service, were on their way home again. At eight o'clock the following morning a fly was at the door to convey Rupert Trevlyn to Barmester. Bowen, a cautious man, deemed it well that the chief witness—it may be said, the only witness to any purpose—should be transported there by the same conveyance. But that witness, Mr. Jim Sanders, delayed his appearance unwarrantably, and Dumps, in much wrath, started in search of him. Back he came—it was not more than a quarter-of-a-mile to the mother's cottage.
"He has gone on, the stupid blunderer," cried he to Bowen; "Mrs. Sanders says he's at Barmester by this time. He'll be at the station there, no doubt."
So the party started in state: Bowen, Dumps, and Rupert Trevlyn inside; and Chigwell, who had been sent to capture him, on the box. There was just as much necessity for the presence of the two men as for yours or mine; but they would not have missed the day's excitement for the world: and Bowen did not interpose his veto.
The noise and bustle at the fire had been great, but it was scarcely greater than that which prevailed that morning at Barmester. As a matter of course, various contradictory versions were afloat; it is invariably the case. All that was certainly known were the bare facts; Mr. Chattaway had horsewhipped Rupert Trevlyn; a fire had almost immediately broken out in the rick-yard; and Rupert was in custody on the charge of causing it.
Belief in Rupert's guilt was accorded a very limited degree. People could not forget the ill-feeling supposed to exist towards him in the breast of Mr. Chattaway; and the flying reports that it was Jim Sanders who had been the culprit, accidentally, if not wilfully, obtained far more credence than the other. The curious populace would have subscribed a good round sum to be allowed to question Jim to their hearts' content.
But a growing rumour, freezing the very marrow in the bones of their curiosity, had come abroad. It was said that Jim had disappeared: was not to be found under the local skies; and it was this caused the chief portion of the public excitement. For in point of fact, when Bowen and the rest arrived at Barmester, Jim Sanders could not be seen or heard of. Dumps was despatched back to Barbrook in search of him.
The hearing was fixed for ten o'clock; and before that hour struck, the magistrates—a full bench of them—had taken their places. Many familiar faces were to be seen in the crowded court—familiar to you, my readers; for the local world was astir with interest and curiosity. In one part of the crowd might be seen the face of George Ryle, grave and subdued; in another, the dark flashing eyes of Nora Dickson; yonder the red cheeks of Mr. Apperley; nearer, the pale concerned countenance of Mr. Freeman. Just before the commencement of the proceedings, the carriage from Trevlyn Hold drove up, and there descended from it Mr. and Madam Chattaway, and Miss Diana Trevlyn. A strange proceeding, you will say, that the ladies should appear; but it was not deemed strange in the locality. Miss Diana had asserted her determination to be present in tones quite beyond the power of Mr. Chattaway to contradict, even had he wished to do so; and thus he had no plea for refusing his wife. How ill she looked! Scarcely a heart but ached for her. The two ladies sat in a retired spot, and Mr. Chattaway—who was in the commission of the peace, but did not exercise the privilege once in a dozen years—took his place on the bench.
Then the prisoner was brought in, civilly conducted by Superintendent Bowen. He looked pale, subdued, gentlemanly—not in the least like one who would set fire to a hay-rick.
"Have you all your witnesses, Bowen?" inquired the presiding magistrate.
"All but one, sir, and I expect him here directly; I have sent after him," was the reply. "In fact, I'm not sure but he is here," added the man, standing on tiptoe, and stretching his neck upwards; "the crowd's so great one can't see who's here and who isn't. If he can be heard first, his evidence may be conclusive, and save the trouble of examining the others."
"You can call him," observed the magistrate. "If he is here, he will answer. What's the name?"
"James Sanders, your worship."
"Call James Sanders," returned his worship, exalting his voice.
The call was made in obedience, and "James Sanders!" went ringing through the court; and walls and roof echoed the cry.
But there was no other answer.