MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE
It was Nora's day for churning. The butter was made twice a week at
Trevlyn Farm, and the making fell to Nora. She was sole priestess of the
dairy. It was many and many a long year since any one else had
interfered in it: except, indeed, in the actual churning. One of the men
on the farm did that for her in a general way; but to-day they were not
forthcoming.
When Nora was seen at the fold-yard gate by Mr. Chattaway, idly staring
up and down the road, she was looking for Jim Sanders, to order him in
to churn. Not the Jim Sanders mentioned in the earlier portion of our
history, but Jim's son. Jim the elder was dead: he had brought on rather
too many attacks of inflammation (a disease to which he was predisposed)
by his love of beer; and at last one attack worse than the rest came,
and proved too much for him. The present Jim, representative of his
name, was a youth of fourteen, not over-burdened with brains, but strong
and sound, and was found useful on the farm, where he was required to be
willing to do any work that came first to hand.
Just now he was wanted to churn. The man who usually performed that duty
was too busy to be spared to-day; therefore it fell to Jim. But Jim
could not be seen anywhere, and Nora returned indoors and commenced the
work herself.
The milk at the right temperature--for Nora was too experienced a
dairy-woman not to know that if she attempted to churn at the wrong one,
it would be hours before the butter came--she took out the thermometer,
and turned the milk into the churn. As she was doing this, the servant,
Nanny, entered: a tall, stolid girl, remarkable for little except
height.
"Is nobody coming in to churn?" asked she.
"It seems not," answered Nora.
"Shall I do it?"
"Not if I know it," returned Nora. "You'd like to quit your work for
this pastime, wouldn't you? Have you the potatoes on for the pigs?"
"No," said Nanny.
"Then go and see about, it. You know it was to be done to-day. And I
suppose the fire's burning away under the furnace."
Fanny stalked out of the dairy. Nora churned away steadily, and turned
her butter on to the making-up board in about three-quarters of an hour.
As she was proceeding with it, she saw George ride into the fold-yard,
and leave his horse in the stable. Another minute and he came in.
"Has Mr. Callaway not come yet, Nora?"
"I have seen nothing of him, Mr. George."
George took out his watch: the one bequeathed him by his father. It was
only a silver one--as Mr. Ryle had remarked--but George valued it as
though it had been set in diamonds. He would wear that watch and no
other as long as he lived. His initials were engraved on it now: G. B.
R. standing for George Berkeley Ryle.
"If Callaway cannot keep his appointment better than this, I shall beg
him not to make any more with me," he remarked. "The last time he kept
me waiting three-quarters of an hour."
"Have you seen Jim Sanders this morning?" asked Nora.
"I saw him in the stables as I rode out."
"I should like to find him!" said Nora. "He is skulking somewhere. I
have had to churn myself."
"Where's Roger?"
"Roger couldn't hinder his time indoors to-day. Mr. George, what's up at
Trevlyn Hold again about Rupert?" resumed Nora, turning from her butter
to glance at George.
"Why do you ask?"
"Chattaway rode by an hour ago when I was outside looking after Jim
Sanders. He stopped his horse and asked how we came to give Rupert a bed
last night, when we knew that it would displease him. Like his
insolence!"
"What answer did you make?" said George, after a pause.
"I gave him one," replied Nora, significantly. "Chattaway needn't fear
not getting an answer when he comes to me. He knows that."
"But what did you say about Rupert?"
"I said that he had not slept here. If Chattaway----"
Nora was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Chattaway's daughter,
Octave. She had come to the farm, and, attracted by the sound of voices
in the dairy, made her way to it. Miss Chattaway had taken it into her
head lately to be friendly, to honour the farm with frequent visits.
Mrs. Ryle neither encouraged nor repulsed her. She was civilly
indifferent: but the young lady chose to take that as a welcome. Nora
did not show her much greater favour than she was in the habit of
showing her father. She bent her head over her butter-board, as if
unaware that any one had entered.
George removed his hat which he had been wearing, as she stepped on to
the cold floor of the dairy, and took the hand held out to him.
"Who would have thought of seeing you at home at this hour?" she
exclaimed, in the winning manner which she could put on at times, and
always did put on for George Ryle.
"And in Nora's dairy, watching her make up the butter!" he answered,
laughing. "The fact is, I have an appointment with a gentleman this
morning, and he is keeping me waiting, and making me angry. I can't
spare the time."
"You look angry!" exclaimed Octave, laughing at him.
"Looks go for nothing," returned George.
"Is your harvest nearly in?"
"If this fine weather only lasts four or five days longer, it will be
all in. We have had a glorious harvest this year. I hope every one's as
thankful as I am."
"You have some especial cause for thankfulness?" she observed.
"I have."
She had spoken lightly, and was struck by the strangely earnest answer.
George could have said that but for that harvest they might not quite so
soon have discharged her father's debt.
"When shall you hold your harvest home?"
"Next Thursday; this day week," replied George. "Will you come to it?"
"Thank you," said Octave. "Yes, I will."
Had it been to save his life, George Ryle could not have helped the
surprise in his eyes, as he turned them on Octave Chattaway. He had
asked the question in the careless gaiety of the moment; really not
intending it as an invitation. Had he proffered it in all earnestness,
he never would have supposed it one to be accepted by Octave. Mr.
Chattaway's family were not in the habit of visiting at Trevlyn Farm.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," thought George. "I don't know what
Mrs. Ryle will say to this; but if _she_ comes, some of the rest shall
come also."
It almost seemed as if Octave had divined part of his thoughts. "I must
ask my aunt Ryle whether she will have me. By way of bribe, I shall tell
her that I delight in harvest-homes."
"We must have you all," said George. "Your sisters and Maude. Treve will
be home I expect, and the Apperleys will be here."
"Who else?" asked Octave. "But I don't know about my sisters and Maude."
"Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. They and the Apperleys always come."
"Our starched old parson!" uttered Octave. "He is not a favourite with
us at the Hold."
"I think he is with your mother."
"Oh, mamma's nobody. Of course we are civil to the Freemans, and
exchange dull visits with them occasionally. You must be passably civil
to the parson you sit under."
There was a pause. Octave advanced to Nora, who had gone on diligently
with her work, never turning her head, or noticing Miss Chattaway by so
much as a look. Octave drew close and watched her.
"How industrious you are, Nora!--just as if you enjoyed the occupation.
I should not like to soil my hands, making up butter."
"There are some might make it up in white kid gloves," retorted Nora.
"The butter wouldn't be any the better for it, Miss Chattaway."
At this juncture Mrs. Ryle's voice was heard, and Octave left the dairy
in search of her. George was about to follow when Nora stopped him.
"What is the meaning of this new friendship--these morning calls and
evening visits?" she asked; her eyes thrown keenly on George's face.
"How should I know?" he carelessly replied.
"If you don't, I do," she said. "Can you take care of yourself, George?"
"I believe I can."
"Then do," said Nora, with an emphatic nod. "And don't despise my
caution: you may want it."
He laughed in his light-heartedness: but he did not tell Nora how
unnecessary her warning was.
Later in the day, George Ryle had business which took him to Blackstone.
It was not an inviting ride. The place, as he drew near, had that dreary
aspect peculiar to the neighbourhood of mines. Rows of black, smoky huts
were to be seen, the dwellings of the men who worked in the pits; and
little children ran about with naked legs and tattered clothing, their
thin faces white and squalid.
"Is it the perpetual dirt they live in makes these children look so
unhealthy?" thought George--a question he had asked himself a hundred
times. "I believe the mothers never wash them. Perhaps think it would be
superfluous, where even the very atmosphere is black."
Black, indeed! Within George's view at that moment might be seen high
chimneys congregating in all directions, throwing out volumes of smoke
and flame. Numerous works were around, connected with iron and other
rich mines abounding in the neighbourhood. Valuable areas for the
furtherance of civilisation, the increase of wealth; but not pleasant to
the eye, as compared with green meadows and blossoming trees.
The office belonging to Mr. Chattaway's colliery stood in a particularly
dreary offshoot from the main road. It was a low but not very small
building, facing the road on one side, looking to those tall chimneys
and the dreary country on two of the others. On the fourth was a sort of
waste ground, which appeared to contain nothing but various heaps of
coal, a peculiar description of barrow, and some round shallow baskets.
The building looked like a great shed; it was roofed over, and divided
into partitions.
As George rode by, he saw Rupert standing at the narrow entrance door,
leaning against it, as if in fatigue or idleness. Ford, the clerk, a
young man accustomed to taking life easily, and to give himself little
concern as to how it went, was standing near, his hands in his pockets.
To see them doing nothing was sufficient to tell George that Chattaway
was not about, and he rode up to the office.
"You look tired, Rupert."
"I am tired," answered Rupert. "If things are to go on like this, I
shall grow tired of life altogether."
"Not yet," said George, cheeringly. "You may talk of that some fifty
years hence."
Rupert made no answer. The sunlight fell on his fair features and golden
hair. There was a haggardness in those features, a melancholy in the
dark blue eyes, George did not like to see. Ford, the clerk, who was
humming the verse of a song, cut short the melody, and addressed George.
"He has been in this gay state all the afternoon, sir. A charming
companion for a fellow! It's a good thing I'm pretty jolly myself, or we
might get consigned to the county asylum as two cases of melancholy. I
hope he won't make a night of it again, that's all. Nothing wears out a
chap like a night without bed, and no breakfast at the end of it."
"It isn't that," said Rupert. "I'm sick of it altogether. There has been
nothing but a row here all day, George--ask Ford. Chattaway has been on
at all of us. First, he attacked me. He demanded where I slept, and I
wouldn't tell him. Next, he attacked Cris--a most unusual thing--and
Cris hasn't got over it yet. He has gone galloping off, to gallop his
ill-temper away."
"Chattaway has?"
"Not Chattaway; Cris. Cris never came here until one o'clock, and
Chattaway wanted him, and a row ensued. Next, Ford came in for it: he
had made a mistake in his entries. Something had uncommonly put out
Chattaway--that is certain. And to improve his temper, the inspector of
collieries came to-day and found fault, ordering things to be done that
Chattaway says he won't do."
"Where's Chattaway now?"
"Gone home. I wish I was there, without the trouble of walking," added
Rupert. "Chattaway has been ordering a load of coals to the Hold. If
they were going this evening instead of to-morrow morning, I protest I'd
take my seat upon them, and get home that way."
"Are you so very tired?" asked George.
"Dead beat."
"It's the sitting up," put in Ford again. "I don't think much of that
kind of thing will do for Mr. Rupert Trevlyn."
"Perhaps it wouldn't do for you," grumbled Rupert.
George prepared to ride away. "Have you had any dinner, Rupert?" he
asked.
"I made an attempt, but my appetite had gone by. Chattaway was here till
past two o'clock, and after that I wasn't hungry."
"He tried some bread-and-cheese," said Ford. "I told him if he'd get a
chop I'd cook it for him; but he didn't."
"I must be gone," said George. "You will not have left in half-an-hour's
time, shall you, Rupert?"
"No; nor in an hour either."
George rode off over the stony ground, and they looked after him. Then
Ford bethought himself of a message he was charged to deliver at one of
the pits, and Rupert went indoors and sat down to the desk on his high
stool.
Within the half-hour George Ryle was back again. He rode up to the door,
and dismounted. Rupert came forward, a pen in hand.
"Are you ready to go home now, Rupert?"
Rupert shook his head. "Ford went to the pit and is not back yet; and I
have a lot of writing to do. Why?"
"I thought we would have gone home together. You shall ride my horse,
and I'll walk; it will tire you less than going on foot."
"You are very kind," said Rupert. "Yes, I should like to ride. I was
thinking just now, that if Cris were worth anything, he'd let me ride
his horse home. But he's not worth anything, and would no more let me
ride his horse and walk himself, than he'd let me ride him."
"Has Cris not gone home?"
"I fancy not. Unless he has gone by without calling in. Will you wait,
George?"
"No. I must walk on. But I'll leave you the horse. You can leave it at
the Farm, Rupert, and walk the rest of the way."
"I can ride on to the Hold, and send it back."
George hesitated a moment. "I would rather you left it at the Farm,
Rupert. It will not be far to walk after that."
Rupert acquiesced. Did he wonder why he might not ride the horse to the
Hold? George would not say, "Because even that slight attention must, if
possible, be kept from Chattaway."
He fastened the bridle to a hook in the wall, where Mr. Chattaway often
tied his horse, where Cris sometimes tied his. There was a stable near;
but unless they were going to remain in the office or about the pits,
Mr. Chattaway and his son seldom put up their horses.
George Ryle walked away with a quick step, and Rupert returned to his
desk. A quarter-of-an-hour passed on, and the clerk did not return.
Rupert grew impatient for his arrival, and went to the door to look out
for him. He did not see Ford; but he did see Cris Chattaway. Cris was
approaching on foot, at a snail's pace, leading his horse, which was
dead lame.
"Here's a nice bother!" called out Cris. "How I am to get back home, I
don't know."
"What has happened?" returned Rupert.
"Can't you see what has happened? How it happened, I am unable to tell
you. All I know is, the horse fell suddenly lame, and whined like a
child. Something must have run into his foot, I conclude. Whose horse is
that? Why, it's George Ryle's," Cris exclaimed as he drew sufficiently
near to recognise it. "What brings his horse here?"
"He has lent it to me, to save my walking home," said Rupert.
"Where is he? Here?"
"He has gone home on foot. I can't think where Ford's lingering," added
Rupert, walking into the yard, and mounting one of the smaller heaps of
coal for a better view of the road by which Ford might be expected to
arrive. "He has been gone this hour."
Cris was walking off in the direction of the stable, carefully leading
his horse. "What are you going to do with him?" asked Rupert. "To leave
him in the stable?"
"Until I can get home and send the groom for him. _I'm_ not going to
cool my heels, dragging him home," retorted Cris.
Rupert retired indoors, and sat down on the high stool. He still had
some accounts to make up. They had to be done that evening; and as Ford
did not come in to do them, he must. Had Ford been there, Rupert would
have left him to do it, and gone home at once.
"I wonder how many years of my life I am to wear out in this lively
place?" thought Rupert, after five minutes of uninterrupted attention
given to his work, which slightly progressed in consequence. "It's a
shame that I should be put to it. A paid fellow at ten shillings a week
would do it better than I. If Chattaway had a spark of good feeling in
him, he'd put me into a farm. It would be better for me altogether, and
more fitting for a Trevlyn. Catch him at it! He wouldn't let me be my
own master for----"
A sound as of a horse trotting off interrupted Rupert's cogitations. He
came down from his stool. A thought crossed him that George Ryle's horse
might have got loose, and be speeding home riderless, at his own will
and pleasure.
It was George Ryle's horse, but not riderless. To Rupert's intense
astonishment, he saw Mr. Cris mounted on him, and leisurely riding away.
"Halloa!" called Rupert, speeding after the horse and his rider. "What
are you going to do with that horse, Cris?"
Cris turned his head, but did not stop. "I'm going to ride him home. His
having been left here just happens right for me."
"You get off," shouted Rupert. "The horse was lent to me, not to you. Do
you hear, Cris?"
Cris heard, but did not stop: he was urging the horse on. "_You_ don't
want him," he roughly said. "You can walk, as you always do."
Further remonstrance, further following, was useless. Rupert's words
were drowned in the echoes of the horse's hoofs, galloping away in the
distance. Rupert stood, white with anger, impotent to stop him, his
hands stretched out on the empty air, as if their action could arrest
the horse and bring him back again. Certainly the mortification was
bitter; the circumstance precisely one of those likely to affect an
excitable nature; and Rupert was on the point of going into that
dangerous fit known as the Trevlyn passion, when its course was turned
aside by a hand laid upon his shoulder.
He turned, it may almost be said, savagely. Ford was standing there out
of breath, his good-humoured face red with the exertion of running.
"I say, Mr. Rupert, you'll do a fellow a service, won't you? I have had
a message that my mother's taken suddenly ill; a fit, they say, of some
sort. Will you finish what there is to do here, and lock up for once, so
that I can go home directly?"
Rupert nodded. In his passionate disappointment, at having to walk home
when he expected to ride, at being treated as of no moment by Cris
Chattaway, it seemed of little consequence to him how long he remained,
or what work he had to do: and the clerk, waiting for no further
permission, sped away with a fleet foot. Rupert's face was losing its
deathly whiteness--there is no whiteness like that born of passion or of
sudden terror; and when he sat down again to the desk, the hectic flush
of reaction was shining in his cheeks and lips.
Well, oh, well for him, could these dangerous fits of passion have been
always arrested on the threshold, as this had been arrested now! The
word is used advisedly: they brought nothing less than danger in their
train.
But, alas! this was not to be.