TORMENTS
There appeared to be no place on earth for Rupert Trevlyn. Most people
have some little nook they can fit themselves into and call their own;
but he had none. He was only on sufferance at the Hold, and was made to
feel more of an interloper in it day by day.
What could be the source of this ill-feeling towards Rupert? Did some
latent dread exist in the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and from thence reach
that of Cris, whispering that he, Rupert, the true heir of Trevlyn Hold,
might at some future day, through some unforeseen and apparently
impossible chance, come into his rights? No doubt it was so. There are
no other means of accounting for it. It may be, they deemed, that the
more effectually he was kept under, treated as an object to be despised,
lowered from his proper station, the less chance would there be of that
covert dread growing into a certainty. Whatever its cause, Rupert was
shamefully put upon. It is true that he sat at their table, occupied the
same sitting-room. But at table he was placed below the rest, was served
last, and from the plainest dish. Mrs. Chattaway's heart would ache; it
had ached for many a year; but she could not alter it. In their
evenings, when the rest were gathered round the fire, Rupert would be
left out in the cold. Nothing in the world did he so covet as a warm
seat near the fire. It had been sought by his father when he was
Rupert's age, and perhaps Miss Diana remembered this, for she would call
Rupert forward, and sharply rebuke those who would have kept him from
it.
But Miss Diana was not always in the room; not often, in fact. She had
her own sitting-room upstairs, as Mrs. Chattaway had hers; and both
ladies more frequently retired to them in an evening, leaving the
younger ones to enjoy themselves, with their books and work, their music
and games, unrestrained by their presence. And poor Rupert was condemned
to remote quarters, where no one noticed him.
From that point alone, the cold, it was a severe trial. Of weakly
constitution, a chilly nature, warmth was to Rupert Trevlyn almost an
essential of existence. And it was what he rarely had at Trevlyn Hold.
No wonder he was driven out. Even old Canham's wood fire, that he might
get right into if he pleased, was an improvement upon the drawing-room
at the Hold.
After parting with George Ryle, Maude Trevlyn, in obedience to the
imperious wills of her pupils, turned her steps homewards. Emily was a
boisterous, troublesome, disobedient girl; Edith was more gentle and
amiable, in looks and disposition resembling her mother; but the example
of her sisters was infectious, and spoiled her. There was another
daughter, Amelia, older than they were, and at school at Barmester: a
very disagreeable girl indeed.
"What was George Ryle saying to you, Maude?" somewhat insolently asked
Emily.
"He was talking of Rupert," she incautiously answered, her mind buried
in thought.
When they reached the Hold, Mr. Chattaway's horse was being led about by
a groom, waiting for its master, who had returned, and was indoors. As
they crossed the hall, they met him coming out of the breakfast-room.
Octave was with him, talking.
"Cris would have waited, no doubt, papa, had he known you wanted him. He
ate his breakfast in a hurry, and went out. I suppose he has gone to
Blackstone."
"I particularly wanted him," grumbled Mr. Chattaway, who was never
pleasant at the best of times, but would be unbearable if put out. "Cris
knew I should want him this morning. First Rupert, and then Cris! Are
you all going to turn disobedient?"
He made a halt at the door, putting on his riding-glove. They stood
grouped around him--Octave, Maude, and Emily. Edith had run out, and was
near the horse.
"I would give a crown-piece to know what Mr. Rupert did with himself
last night," he savagely uttered. "John," exalting his voice, "have you
any idea where Rupert Trevlyn hid himself all night?"
The locking-out had been known to the household, and afforded
considerable gossip. John had taken part in it; joined in its surmises
and comments; therefore he was not at fault for a ready answer.
"I don't know nothing certain, sir. It ain't unlikely he went down to
the Sheaf o' Corn, and slept there."
"No, no, he did not," involuntarily burst from Maude.
It was an unlucky admission, for its tone was decisive, implying that
she knew where he did sleep. She spoke in the moment's impulse. The
Shear of Corn was the nearest public-house; notorious for its irregular
doings; and Maude felt shocked at the bare suggestion that Rupert would
enter such a place.
Mr. Chattaway turned to her. "Where _did_ he sleep? What do you know
about it?" Maude's face grew hot and cold. She opened her lips to
answer, but closed them again without speaking, the words dying away in
her uncertainty and hesitation.
Mr. Chattaway may have felt surprised. He knew perfectly well that Maude
had held no communication with Rupert that morning. He had seen Rupert
come in and go out; and Maude had not stirred from his presence. He bent
his cold grey eyes upon her.
"From whom have you been hearing of Rupert's doings?"
It is very probable that Maude would have been at a loss for an answer,
but she was saved a reply, for Emily spoke up before she had time to
give one, ill-nature in her tone and words.
"Maude must have heard it from George Ryle. You saw her talking to him,
papa. She said he had been speaking of Rupert."
Mr. Chattaway did not ask another question. It would have been
superfluous to do so, in the conclusion he had come to. He believed
Rupert had slept at Trevlyn Farm. How else could George Ryle have become
acquainted with his movements?
"They'll be hatching a plot to try to over-throw me," he muttered to
himself as he went out to his horse: for his was one of those mean,
suspicious natures that are always fancying the world is antagonistic to
them. "Maude Ryle has been wanting to get me out of Trevlyn Hold ever
since I came into it. From the very hour she heard the Squire's will
read, and found I had inherited, she has been planning and plotting for
it. She would rather see Rupert in it than me; and rather see her
pitiful Treve in it than anyone. Yes, yes, Mr. Rupert, we know what you
frequent Trevlyn Farm for. But it won't answer. It's waste of time. They
must change England's laws before they can upset Squire Trevlyn's will.
But it's not less annoying to know that my tenure is constantly being
hauled over and peered into, to see if they can't find a flaw in it, or
insert one of their own making."
It was strange that these fears should continually trouble the master of
Trevlyn Hold. A man who legally holds an estate, on which no shade of a
suspicion can be cast, need not dread its being wrested from him. It was
in Squire Trevlyn's power to leave the Hold and its revenues to whom he
would. Had he chosen to bequeath it to an utter stranger, it was in his
power to do so: and he had bequeathed it to James Chattaway. Failing
direct male heirs, it may be thought that Mr. Chattaway had as much
right to it as anyone else. At any rate, it had been the Squire's
pleasure to bequeath it to him, and there the matter ended. That the
master of Trevlyn Hold was ever conscious of a dread his tenure was to
be some time disturbed, was indisputable. He never betrayed it to any
living being by so much as a word; he strove to conceal it even from
himself; but there it was, deep in his secret heart. There it remained,
and there it tormented him; however unwilling he might have been to
acknowledge the fact.
Could it be that a prevision of what was really to take place was cast
upon him?--a mysterious foreshadowing of the future? There are people
who tell us such warnings come.
The singularity of the affair was, that no grounds could exist for this
latent fear. Whence then should it arise? Why, from that source whence
it arises in many people--a bad conscience. It was true the estate had
been legally left to him; but he knew that his own handiwork, his
deceit, had brought it to him; he knew that when he suppressed the news
of the birth of Rupert, and suffered Squire Trevlyn to go to his grave
uninformed of the fact, he was guilty of nothing less than a crime in
the sight of God. Mr. Chattaway had heard of that inconvenient thing,
retribution, and his fancy suggested that it might possibly overtake
_him_.
If he had only known that he might have set his mind at rest as to the
plotting and planning, he would have cared less to oppose Rupert's
visits to the Farm. Nothing could be further from the thoughts of
Rupert, or George Ryle, than any plotting against Chattaway. Their
evenings, when together, were spent in harmless conversation, in chess,
without so much as a reference to Chattaway. But that gentleman did not
know it, and tormented himself accordingly.
He mounted his horse, and rode away. As he was passing Trevlyn Farm,
buried in unpleasant thoughts, he saw Nora Dickson at the fold-yard
gate, and turned his horse's head towards her.
"How came your people to give Rupert Trevlyn a bed last night? They must
know it would very much displease me."
"Give Rupert Trevlyn a bed!" repeated Nora, regarding Mr. Chattaway with
the uncompromising stare she was fond of according to that gentleman.
"He did not sleep here."
"No!" replied Mr. Chattaway.
"No," reiterated Nora. "What should he want with a bed here? Has he not
his own at Trevlyn Hold? A bed there isn't much for him, when he ought
to have owned the whole place; but I suppose he can at least count upon
that."
Mr. Chattaway turned his horse short round, and rode away without
another word. He always got the worst of it with Nora. A slight
explosion of his private sentiments with regard to her was given to the
air, and he again became absorbed on the subject of Rupert.
"Where, then, _did_ he pass the night?"