MR. CHATTAWAY COMES TO GRIEF
A few days passed on, and strange rumours began to be rife in the
neighbourhood. Various rumours, vague at the best; but all tending to
one point--the true heir was coming to his own again. They penetrated
even to the ears of Mr. Chattaway, throwing that gentleman into a state
not to be described. Some said a later will of the Squire's had been
found; some said a will of Joe Trevlyn's; some that it was now
discovered the estate could only descend in the direct male line, and
consequently it had been Rupert's all along. Chattaway was in a raging
fever; it preyed upon him, and turned his days to darkness. He seemed to
look upon Rupert with the most intense suspicion, as if it were from him
alone--his plotting and working--that the evil would come. He feared to
trust him out of his sight; to leave him alone for a single instant.
When he went to Blackstone he took Rupert with him; he hovered about all
day, keeping Rupert in view, and brought him back in the evening.
Miss Diana had not yet bought the pony she spoke of, and Chattaway
either mounted him on an old horse that was good for little now, and
rode by his side, or drove him over. Rupert was intensely puzzled at
this new consideration, and could not make it out.
One morning Mr. Chattaway so far sacrificed his own ease as to
contemplate walking over: the horses were wanted that day. "Very well,"
Rupert answered, in his half-careless, half-obedient fashion, "it was
all the same to him." And so they started. But as they were going down
the avenue a gentleman was discerned coming up it. Mr. Chattaway knit
his brows and peered at him; his sight for distance was not quite as
good as it had been.
"Who's this?" asked he of Rupert.
"It is Mr. Peterby," replied Rupert.
"Peterby!" ejaculated Chattaway. "What Peterby?"
"Peterby of Barmester, the lawyer," explained Rupert, wondering that
there was any need to ask.
For only one gentleman of the name of Peterby was known to Trevlyn Hold,
and Mr. Chattaway was, so to say, familiar with him. He had been
solicitor to Squire Trevlyn, and though Mr. Chattaway had not continued
him in that post when he succeeded to the estate, preferring to employ
Mr. Flood, he yet knew him well. The ejaculation had not escaped him so
much in doubt as to the man, as to what he could want with him. But Mr.
Peterby was solicitor for some of his tenants, and he supposed it was
business touching the renewal of leases.
They met. Mr. Peterby was an active little man of more than sixty years,
with a healthy colour and the remains of auburn hair. He had walked all
the way from Barmester, and enjoyed the walk as much as a schoolboy.
"Good morning, Mr. Chattaway," he said, holding out his hand, "I am
fortunate in meeting you. I came early, to catch you before you went to
Blackstone. Can you give me half-an-hour's interview?"
Mr. Chattaway thought he should not like to give the interview. He was
in a bad temper, in no mood for business, and he really wanted to be at
Blackstone. Besides all that he had no love for Mr. Peterby. "I am
pressed for time this morning," he replied, "am much later than I ought
to have been. Is it anything particular you want me for?"
"Yes, very particular," was the answer, delivered in uncompromising
tones. "I must request you to accord me the interview, Mr. Chattaway."
Mr. Chattaway turned back to the house with his visitor, and marshalled
him into the drawing-room. Rupert remained at the hall-door.
"I have come upon a curious errand, Mr. Chattaway, and no doubt an
unwelcome one; though, from what I hear, it may not be altogether
unexpected," began the lawyer, as they took seats opposite each other.
"A question has been arising of late, whether Rupert Trevlyn may not
possess some right to the Hold. I am here to demand if you will give it
up to him."
Was the world coming to an end? Chattaway thought it must be. He sat and
stared at the speaker as if he were in a dream. Was _every one_ turning
against him? He rubbed his handkerchief over his hot face, and
imperiously demanded of Mr. Peterby what on earth he meant, and where he
could have picked up his insolence.
"I am not about to wrest the estate from you, Mr. Chattaway, or to
threaten to do so," was the answer. "You need not fear that. But--you
must be aware that you have for the last twenty years enjoyed a position
that ought in strict justice to belong to the grandson of Squire
Trevlyn."
"I am not aware of anything of the sort," groaned Chattaway. "What do
you mean by 'wresting the estate'?"
"Softly, my good sir; there's no need to put yourself out with me. I am
come on a straightforward, peaceable errand; not one of war. A friendly
errand, if you will allow me so to express myself."
The master of the Hold could only marvel at the words. A friendly
errand! requiring him to give up his possessions!
Mr. Peterby proceeded to explain; and as there is no time to give the
interview in detail, it shall be condensed. It appeared that the
Reverend Mr. Daw had in his zeal sought out the solicitors of the late
Squire Trevlyn. He had succeeded in impressing upon them a sense of the
great injustice dealt out to Rupert; had avowed his intention of
endeavouring, by any means in his power, to remedy this injustice; but
at this point he had been somewhat obscure, and had, in fact, caused the
lawyers to imagine that this power was real and tangible. Could there
be, they asked themselves afterwards, any late will of Squire Trevlyn's
which would supersede the old one? It was the only hinge on which the
matter could turn; and Mr. Daw's mysterious hints certainly encouraged
the thought. But Mr. Daw had said, "Perhaps Chattaway will give up
amicably, if you urge it upon him," and Mr. Peterby had now come for
that purpose.
"What you say is utterly absurd," urged Chattaway; the long explanation,
which Mr. Peterby had given openly and candidly, having afforded him
time to recover somewhat of his fears and his temper. "I can take upon
myself most positively to assert that no will or codicil was made, or
attempted to be made, by Squire Trevlyn, subsequently to the one on
which I inherit. Your firm drew that up."
"I know we did," replied the lawyer. "But that does not prove that none
was drawn up after it."
"But I tell you there was not any. I am certain upon the point."
"Well, it was the only conclusion we could come to," rejoined Mr.
Peterby. "This Mr. Daw must have some grounds for urging the thing on;
he wouldn't be so stupid as to do so if he had none."
"He has none," said Chattaway.
"Ah, but I am sure he has. But for being convinced of this, do you
suppose I should have come to you now, asking you to give up an estate
which you have so long enjoyed? I assure you I came as much in your
interests as in his. If there is anything in existence by which you can
be disturbed, it is only fair you should know of it."
Fair! In Mr. Chattaway's frame of mind, he could scarcely tell what was
fair and what was not fair. The interview was prolonged, but it brought
forth no satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps none could be expected. Mr.
Peterby took his departure, impressed with the conviction that the
present owner of Trevlyn Hold would retain possession to the end,
contesting it inch by inch; and as he walked down the avenue he asked
himself whether he had not been induced to enter upon a foolish errand,
in coming to suggest that it should be voluntarily resigned.
The master of Trevlyn Hold watched him away, and then opened the
breakfast-room door. "Where's Rupert?" he inquired, not seeing Rupert
there.
"Rupert?" answered Mrs. Chattaway, looking up. "I think he has gone to
Blackstone. He wished me good morning; and I saw him walk down the
avenue."
All things seemed to be against Mr. Chattaway. Here was Rupert out of
sight now; it was hard to say where he might have gone, or what mischief
he might be up to. As he turned from the door, Cris Chattaway's
horse--the unlucky new one which had damaged the dog-cart--was brought
up, and Cris appeared, prepared to mount him.
"Where are you going, Cris?"
"Nowhere in particular this morning," answered Cris. "I have a nasty
headache, and a canter may take it away."
"Then I'll ride your horse to Blackstone," returned Mr. Chattaway.
"Alter the stirrups, Sam."
"Why, where's your own horse?" cried Cris, with a blank look.
"In the stable," shortly returned Chattaway.
He mounted the horse and rode away, his many cares perplexing him. A
hideous wall separating him from all good fortune seemed to be rising up
round about him; and the catastrophe he so dreaded--a contest between
himself and Rupert Trevlyn for possession of the Hold--appeared to be
drawing within the range of probability. In the gloomy prospect before
him, only one loophole of escape presented itself to his
imagination--the death of Rupert.
But you must not think worse of Mr. Chattaway than he deserves. He did
not deliberately contemplate such a calamity; or set himself to hope for
it. The imagination is rebelliously evil, often uncontrollable; and the
thought rose up unbidden and unwished for. Mr. Chattaway could not help
it; could not at first drive it away again; the somewhat dangerous
argument, "Were Rupert dead I should be safe, and it is the only means
by which I can feel assured of safety," did linger with him longer than
was expedient; but he never for one moment contemplated the possibility
as likely to take place; most certainly it never occurred to him that he
could be accessory to it. Though not a good man, especially in the way
of temper and covetousness, Chattaway would have started with horror had
he supposed he could ever be so bad as that.
He rode swiftly along in the autumn morning, urging his horse to a hard
gallop. Was his haste merely caused by his anxiety to be at Blackstone,
or that he would escape from his own thoughts? He rode directly to the
coal mine, up to the mouth of the pit. Two or three men, looking like
blackamoors, were standing about.
"Why are you not down at work?" angrily demanded Mr. Chattaway. "What do
you do idling here!"
They had been waiting for Pennet, the men replied. But word had just
been brought that Pennet was not coming.
"Where is he?" asked Mr. Chattaway. "Skulking again?"
"I dunna think he be skulking, sir," was the reply of one. "He's bad
a-bed."
An angry frown darkened Mr. Chattaway's countenance. Truth to say, this
man, Pennet, though a valuable workman from his great strength, his
perseverance when in the pit, did occasionally absent himself from it,
to the wrath of his overseers; and Mr. Chattaway knew that illness might
be only an excuse for taking a holiday in the drinking shop.
"I'll soon see that," he cried. "Bring that horse back. If Pennet is
skulking, I'll discharge him this very day."
He had despatched his horse round to the stable; but now mounted him
again, and was riding away, after ordering the men down to their work,
when he stopped to ask a question respecting one of his overseers.
"Is Bean down the shaft?"
No; the men thought not. They believed he was round at the office.
Mr. Chattaway turned his horse's head towards the office, and galloped
off, reining in at the door. The clerk Ford and Rupert Trevlyn both came
out.
"Oh, so you have got here!" ungraciously grunted Mr. Chattaway to
Rupert. "I want Bean."
"Bean's in the pit, sir," replied Ford.
"The man told me he was not in the pit," returned Mr. Chattaway. "They
said he was here."
"Then they knew nothing about it," observed Ford. "Bean has been down
the pit all the morning."
Mr. Chattaway turned to Rupert. "Go down the shaft and tell Bean to come
up. I want him."
He rode off as he spoke, and Rupert departed for the pit. The man Pennet
lived in a hovel, one of many, about a mile and a half away. Chattaway,
between haste and temper, was in a heat when he arrived. A
masculine-looking woman with tangled hair came out to salute him.
"Where's Pennet?"
"He's right bad, master."
Mr. Chattaway's lip curled. "Bad from drink?"
"No," replied the woman, defiantly; for the owner of the mine was held
in no favour, and this woman was of too independent a nature to conceal
her sentiments when provoked. "Bad from rheumatiz."
He got off his horse, rudely pushed her aside, and went in. Pennet was
dressed, but was lying on a wooden settle, as the benches were called in
that district.
"I be too bad for the pit to-day, sir; I be, indeed. This, rheumatiz
have been a-flying about me for weeks; and now it's settled in my loins,
and I can't stir."
"Let's see you walk," responded Chattaway.
Pennet got off the bench with difficulty, and walked across the brick
floor slowly, his arms behind him.
"I thought so," said Chattaway. "I knew you were skulking. You are as
well able to walk as I am. Be off to the pit."
The man lifted his face. "If you was in the pain I be, master, you
wouldn't say so. I mote drag myself down to 'im, but I couldn't work."
"We will see about that," said Mr. Chattaway, in his determined manner.
"You work to-day, my man, or you never work again for me: so take your
choice."
There was a pause. Pennet looked irresolute, the woman bitter. Perhaps
what these people hated most of all in Chattaway was his personal
interference and petty tyranny. What he was doing now--looking up the
hands--was the work of an overseer; not of the owner.
"Come," he authoritatively repeated. "I shall see you start before me.
We are too busy for half of you to be basking in idleness. Are you
going? Work to-day, or leave the pit, just which you please."
The man glanced at his children--a ragged little group, cowering in
silence in a corner, awed by the presence of the master; took his cap
without a word, and limped slowly away, though apparently scarcely able
to drag one foot before the other.
"Where be your bowels of compassion?" cried the woman, in her audacity,
placing herself before Mr. Chattaway.
"I know where my whip will be if you don't get out of my way and change
your tone," was his answer. "What do you mean, woman, by speaking so to
me?"
"Them as have no compassion for their men, but treads 'em down like
beasts o' burden, may come, perhaps, to be treaded down themselves," was
the woman's retort, as she withdrew out of Mr. Chattaway's vicinity.
He made no answer, except that he lifted his whip significantly. As he
rode off, he saw Pennet pursuing his way to the mine by the nearest
path--one inaccessible to horses. When he was near the man, he lifted
his whip as significantly at him as he had done at the wife, and then
urged his horse to a gallop. It was a busy day, both in the office and
in the mine; and Chattaway, taking as you perceive a somewhat practical
part in his affairs, had wished to be present some two hours before.
Consequently, these delays had not improved his temper.
About midway between the Pennets' hut and the mine were the decaying
walls of what had once been a shed. Part of the wall was still standing,
about four feet high. It lay right in Mr. Chattaway's way: one single
minute given to turning either to the right or left, and he would have
avoided it. But he saw no reason for avoiding it: he had leaped it
often: it was not likely that he would in his hurry turn from it now.
He urged his horse to it, and the animal was in the very act of taking
the leap, when a sudden obstacle interposed. A beggar, who had been
quietly ensconced on the other side, basking in the sun and eating his
dinner, heard the movement, and not wishing to be run over started up to
escape the danger. The movement frightened the horse, causing him to
strike the wall instead of clearing it: he fell, and his master with
him.
The horse was not hurt, and soon found its legs. If the animal had
misbehaved himself a few days previously, under the hands of Mr. Cris,
he appeared determined to redeem his character now. He stood patient and
silent, turning his head to Mr. Chattaway, as if waiting for him to get
up.
Which that gentleman strove to do. But he found he could not. Something
was the matter with one of his ankles, and he was in a towering passion.
The offending beggar scampered off, frightened at his unbounded rage and
threats of vengeance.
The intemperate words did him no good; you may be very sure of that;
they never do any one good. For more than an hour Mr. Chattaway lay
there, his horse patiently standing by him, and no one coming to his
aid. It would have seemed that he lay three times as long, but that he
had his watch, and could consult it as often as he pleased. It was an
unfrequented by-road, leading nowhere in particular, except to the
hovels; and Chattaway had therefore full benefit of the solitude.
The first person to come up was no other than Mrs. Pennet--Meg Pennet,
as she was familiarly called. Her tall, gaunt form came striding along,
and her large eyes grew larger as she saw who was lying there.
"Ah, master! what's it your turn a'ready! Have you been there ever sin'?
Can't you get up?"
"Find assistance," he cried in curt tones of authority. "Mount my horse
and you'll go the quicker."
"Na, na; I mount na horse. The brute might be flinging me, as it seems
he ha' flinged you. Women and horses be best apart. Shall I help you
up?"
His haughty, ill-conditioned spirit would have prompted him to say "No";
his helplessness and impatience obliged him to say "Yes." The powerful
woman took him by the shoulders and raised him. So far, so good. But his
ankle gave him intense pain; was, in short, almost useless; and a cry
escaped him. In his agony, he flung her rudely from him with his elbow.
"Go and get assistance, woman."
"Be that'n the thanks I get? Ah! it be coming home to ye, be it! Ye sent
my man off to work in pain; he couldn't hardly crawl: how d'you like
pain yerself? If the leg's broke, Squire, you'll ha' time to lie and
think on't."
She strode on, Chattaway sending an ugly word after her, and soon came
in sight of the mine--which appeared to be in an unusual bustle. A crowd
had collected round the mouth of the pit, and people were running to it
from all quarters. Loud talking, gesticulating, confusion prevailed:
what could be causing it?
"Happen they be looking for him as is lying yonder!" quoth she. But
scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a group of women running,
filling the air with cries and lamentations, came in sight. Her coarse
face grew white and her heart turned sick as the fatal truth burst upon
her conviction. There had been an accident in the mine!