THE NEXT MORNING
The full light of day had not come, and the autumn night's gentle frost
lingered yet upon the grass, when the master of Trevlyn Hold rose from
his uneasy couch. Things were troubling him; and when the mind is
uneasy, the night's rest is apt to be disturbed.
That business of the mine explosion was not over, neither were its
consequences to Mr. Chattaway's pocket. The old far regarding the
succession, which for some days had been comparatively quiet, had broken
out again in his mind, he could not tell why or wherefore; and the
disobedience of Rupert, not only in remaining out too late the previous
night, but in not coming in at all, angered him beyond measure.
Altogether, his bed had not been an easy one, and he arose with the dawn
unrefreshed.
It was not the fact of having slept little which got him up at that
unusually early hour; but necessity has no law, and he was obliged to
rise. A famous autumn fair, held at some fifteen miles' distance, and
which he never failed to attend, was the moving power. His horse was to
be ready for him, and he would ride there to breakfast; according to his
annual custom. Down he went; sleepy, cross, gaping; and the first thing
he did was to stumble over a pair of boots at the back-door.
The slightest thing would put Mr. Chattaway out when in his present
temper. For the matter of that, a slight thing would put him out at any
time. What business had the servants to leave boots about in _his_ way?
They knew he would be going out by the back-door the first thing in the
morning, on his way to the stables. Mr. Chattaway gave the things a
kick, unbolted the door, and drew it open. Whose were they?
Now that the light was admitted, he saw at a glance that they were a
gentleman's boots, not a servant's. Had Cris stolen in by the back-door
last night and left his there? No; Cris came in openly at the front,
came in early, before Mr. Chattaway went to bed. And--now that he looked
more closely--those boots were too small for Cris.
They were Rupert's! Yes, undoubtedly they were Rupert's boots. What
brought them there? Rupert could not pass through thick walls and barred
up doors. Mr. Chattaway, completely taken back, stooped and stared at
the boots as if they had been two curious animals.
A faint sound interrupted him. It was the approach of the first servant
coming down to her day's work; a brisk young girl called Bridget, who
acted as kitchenmaid.
"What brings these boots here?" demanded Mr. Chattaway, in the repelling
tone he generally used to his servants.
Bridget advanced and looked at them. "They are Mr. Rupert's, sir,"
answered she.
"I did not ask you whose they were: I asked what brought them here.
These boots must have been worn yesterday."
"I suppose he left them here last night; perhaps came in at this door,"
returned the girl, wondering what business of her master's the boots
could be.
"Perhaps he did not," retorted Mr. Chattaway. "He did not come in at all
last night."
"Oh yes, he did, sir. He's in his room now."
"Who's in his room?" rejoined Mr. Chattaway, believing the girl was
either mistaken or telling a wilful untruth.
"Mr. Rupert, sir. Wasn't it him you were asking about?"
"Mr. Rupert is not in his room. How dare you say so to my face?"
"But he is," said the girl. "Leastways, unless he has gone out of it
this morning."
"Have you been in his room to see?" demanded Mr. Chattaway, in his
ill-humour.
"No, sir, I have not; it's not likely I should presume to do such a
thing. But I saw Mr. Rupert go into his room last night; so it's only
natural to suppose he is there this morning."
The words confounded Mr. Chattaway. "You must have been dreaming, girl."
"No, sir, I wasn't; I'm sure I saw him. I stepped on my gown and tore it
as I was going up to bed last night, and I went to the housemaid's room
to borrow a needle and cotton to mend it. I was going back across the
passage when I saw Mr. Rupert at the end of the corridor turn into his
chamber." So far, true. Bridget did not think it necessary to add that
she had remained a good half-hour gossiping with the housemaid. Mr.
Chattaway, however, might have guessed that, for he demanded the time,
and Bridget confessed it was past eleven.
Past eleven! The whole house, himself excepted, had gone upstairs at
half-past ten, and Rupert was then not in. Who had admitted him?
"Which of you servants opened the door to him?" thundered Mr. Chattaway.
"I shouldn't think any of us did, sir. I can answer for me and cook and
Mary. We never heard Mr. Rupert ring at all last night: and if we had,
we shouldn't have dared let him in after your forbidding it."
The girl was evidently speaking the truth, and Mr. Chattaway was thrown
into perplexity. Who _had_ admitted him? Could it have been Miss Diana
Trevlyn? Scarcely. Miss Diana, had she taken it into her head, would
have admitted him without the least reference to Mr. Chattaway; but she
would not have done it in secret. Had it pleased Miss Diana to come down
and admit Rupert, she would have done it openly; and what puzzled Mr.
Chattaway more than anything, was the silence with which the admission
had been accomplished. He had sat with his ears open, and not the
faintest sound had reached them. Was it Maude? No: he felt sure Maude
would be even more chary of disobeying him than the servants. Then who
was it? A half-suspicion of his wife suggested itself to him, only to be
flung away the next moment. His submissive, timorous wife! She would be
the last to array herself against him.
But the minutes were passing, and Mr. Chattaway had no time to waste.
The fair commenced early, its business being generally over before
mid-day. He went round to the stables, found his horse ready, and rode
away, the disobedience he had just discovered filling his mind to the
exclusion of every other annoyance.
He soon came up with company. Riding out of the fold-yard of Trevlyn
Farm as he passed it, came George Ryle and his brother Treve. They were
bound for the same place, and the three horses fell in together.
"Are you going?" exclaimed Mr. Chattaway to Trevlyn, surprise in his
tone.
"Of course I am," answered Treve. "There's always some fun at Whitterbey
fair. George is going to initiate me to-day into the mysteries of buying
and selling cattle."
"Against you set up for yourself?" remarked Mr. Chattaway, cynically.
"Just so," said Treve. "I hope you'll find me as good a tenant as you
have found George."
George was smiling. "He is about to settle down into a steady-going
farmer, Mr. Chattaway."
"When?" asked Chattaway.
George hesitated, and glanced at Trevlyn, as if waiting for the answer
to come from him.
"At once," said Treve, readily. "There's no reason why it should not be
known. I am home for good, Mr. Chattaway, and don't intend to leave it
again."
"And Oxford?" returned Chattaway, surprised at the news. "You had
another term to keep."
"Ay, but I shall not keep it. I have had enough of Oxford. One can't
keep straight there, you know: there's no end of expense to be gone
into; and my mother is tired of it."
"Tired of the bills?"
"Yes. Not but that paying them has been George's concern more than hers.
No one can deny that; but George is a good fellow, and _he_ has not
complained."
"Are there to be two masters on Trevlyn Farm?"
"No," cried Treve. "I know my place better, I hope, than to put my
incompetent self above George--whatever my mother may wish. So long as
George is on Trevlyn Farm, he is sole master. But he is going to leave
us, he says."
Mr. Chattaway turned to George, as if for confirmation. "Yes," answered
George, quietly; "I shall try to take a farm on my own account. You have
one soon to be vacant that I should like, Mr. Chattaway."
"I have?" exclaimed Mr. Chattaway. "There's no farm of mine likely to be
vacant that would suit your pocket. You _can't_ mean you are turning
your ambitious eyes to the Upland?" he added, after a moment's pause.
"Yes, I am," replied George. "And I must have a talk with you about it.
I should like the Upland Farm."
"Why, it would take----"
George did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence.
They were at that moment passing the parsonage, and Mr. Freeman, in a
velvet skull-cap and slippers, was leaning over the gate. George checked
his horse.
"Well, did he get safe off last night?" asked Mr. Freeman.
"Yes, at last. The train was forty minutes behind time."
"Ah! it's a shame they don't arrange matters so as to make that
ten-o'clock train more punctual. Passengers are often kept waiting
half-an-hour. Did you and Rupert remain to see him off?"
"Yes," replied George.
"Then Rupert would be late home," observed the clergyman, turning to
Chattaway, who had also reined in. "I hope you excused him, Mr.
Chattaway, under the circumstances."
Chattaway answered something very indistinctly, and the clergyman took
it to imply that he _had_ excused Rupert. George said good morning, and
turned his horse onwards; they must make good speed, unless they would
be "a day too late for the fair."
Not a syllable of the above conversation had Mr. Chattaway understood;
it had been as Hebrew to him. He did not like Mr. Freeman's allusion to
his "excusing the lateness of Rupert's return," for it proved that his
harsh rule had become public property.
"I did not quite take Mr. Freeman," he said, turning equably to George,
and speaking in careless accents. "Were you out last night with Rupert?"
"Yes. We spent the evening at the parsonage with Mr. Daw, and then went
to see him off by the ten-o'clock train. It is a shame, as Mr. Freeman
says, that the train is not made to keep better time. It was Mr. Daw's
last night here."
"And therefore you and Rupert must spend it with him! It is a sudden
friendship."
"I don't know that there's much friendship in the matter," replied
George. "Rupert, I believe, was at the parsonage by appointment, but I
called in accidentally. I did not know that Mr. Daw was leaving."
"Is he returning to France?"
"Yes. He crosses the Channel to-night. We shall never see him again, I
expect; he said he should never more quit his home, so far as he
believed."
"Is he a madman?"
"A madman! Certainly not."
"He talked enough folly and treason for one."
"Run away with by his zeal, I suppose," remarked George. "No one paid
any attention to him. Mr. Chattaway, do you think we Barbrook people
could not raise a commotion about the irregularity of that ten-o'clock
train, and so get it rectified?"
"Its irregularity does not concern me," returned Mr. Chattaway.
"It would if you had to travel by it; or to see friends off by it as
Rupert and I had last night. Nearly forty-five minutes were we cooling
our heels on the platform. It must have been eleven o'clock when Rupert
reached the Hold. I suppose he was let in."
"It appears he did get in," replied Mr. Chattaway, in by no means a
genial tone. "I don't know by whom yet; but I will know before
to-night."
"If any one locked me out of my home, I should break the first window
handy," cried bold Treve, who had been brought up by his mother in
defiance of Mr. Chattaway, and would a great deal rather treat him with
contempt than civility. "Rupert's a muff not to do it."
George urged on his horse. Words between Treve and Mr. Chattaway would
not be agreeable, and the latter gentleman's face was turning fiery. "I
am sure we shall be late," he cried. "Let us see what mettle our steeds
are made of."
It diverted the anticipated dispute. Treve, who was impulsive at times,
dashed on with a spring, and Mr. Chattaway and George followed. Before
they reached Whitterbey, they fell in with other horsemen, farmers and
gentlemen, bound on the same errand, and got separated.
Beyond a casual view of them now and then in the crowded fair, Mr.
Chattaway did not again see George and Treve until they all met at what
was called the ordinary--the one-o'clock dinner. Of these ordinaries
there were several held in the town on the great fair day, but Mr.
Chattaway and George Ryle had been in the habit of attending the same.
Immediately after the meal was over, Mr. Chattaway ordered his horse,
and set off home.
It was earlier than he usually left, for the men liked to sit an hour or
two after dinner at these annual meetings, and discuss the state of
affairs in general, especially those relating to farming; but Mr.
Chattaway intended to take Blackstone on his road home, and that would
carry him some miles out of his way.
He did not arrive at Blackstone until five o'clock. Rupert had gone
home; Cris, who had been playing at master all day in the absence of Mr.
Chattaway, had also gone home, and only Ford was there. That Cris should
have left, Mr. Chattaway thought nothing of; but his spirit angrily
resented the departure of Rupert.
"It's coming to a pretty pass," he exclaimed, "if he thinks he can go
and come at any hour he pleases. What has he been about to-day?"
"We have none of us done much to-day, sir," replied Ford. "There have
been so many interruptions. They had Mr. Rupert before them at the
inquest, and examined him----"
"Examined _him_!" interrupted Chattaway. "What about?"
"About the precautions taken for safety, and all that," rejoined Ford,
who liked to launch a shaft or two at his master when he might do it
with discretion. "Mr. Rupert could not tell them much, though, as he was
not in the habit of being down in the pit; and then they called some of
the miners again."
"To what time is it adjourned?" growled Mr. Chattaway, after a pause.
"It's not adjourned, sir; it's over."
"Oh," said Mr. Chattaway, feeling a sort of relief. "What was the
verdict?"
"The verdict, sir? Mr. Cris wrote it down, and took it up to the Hold
for you."
"What was it? You can tell me its substance, I suppose."
"Well, it was 'Accidental death.' But there was something also about the
absence of necessary precautions in the mine; and a strong
recommendation was added that you should do something for the widows."
The very verdict Chattaway had so dreaded! As with many cowards, he
_could not_ feel independent of his neighbours' opinion, and knew the
verdict would not add to his popularity. And the suggestion that he
should do something for the widows positively appalled him. Finding no
reply, Ford continued.
"We had some gentlemen in here afterwards, sir. I don't know who they
were; strangers: they said they must see you, and are coming to-morrow.
We wondered whether they were Government inspectors, or anything of that
sort. They asked when the second shaft to the pit was going to be
begun."
"The second shaft to the pit!" repeated Mr. Chattaway.
"It's what they said," answered Ford. "But it will be a fine expense, if
that has to be made."
An expense the very suggestion of which turned that miserly heart cold.
Mr. Chattaway thought the world was terribly against him. Certainly,
what with one source of annoyance and another, the day had not been one
of pleasure. In point of fact, Mr. Chattaway was of too suspicious a
nature ever to enjoy much ease. It may be thought that with the
departure of the dreaded stranger, he would have experienced complete
immunity from the fears which had latterly so shaken him. Not so; the
departure had only served to augment them. He had been informed by Miss
Diana on the previous night of Mr. Daw's proposed return to his distant
home, of his having relinquished Rupert's cause, of his half apology for
having ever taken it up; he had heard again from George Ryle this
morning that the gentleman had actually gone. Most men would have
accepted this as a termination to the unpleasantness, and been thankful
for it; but Mr. Chattaway, in his suspicious nature, doubted whether it
did not mean treachery; whether it was not, in short, a _ruse_ of the
enemy. Terribly awakened were his fears that day. He suspected an ambush
in every turn, a thief behind every tree; and he felt that he hated
Rupert with a bitter hatred.
Poor Rupert at that moment did not look like one to be either hated or
dreaded, could Mr. Chattaway have seen him through some telescope. When
Chattaway was sitting in his office, Ford meekly standing to be
questioned, Rupert was toiling on foot towards Trevlyn Hold. In his good
nature he had left his pony at home for the benefit of Edith and Emily
Chattaway. Since its purchase, they had never ceased teasing him to let
them try it, and he had this day complied, and walked to Blackstone. He
looked pale, worn, weary; his few days' riding to and fro had unfitted
him for the walk, at least in inclination, and Rupert seemed to feel the
fatigue this evening more than ever.
That day had not brought happiness to Rupert, any more than to Mr.
Chattaway. It was impossible but his hopes should have been excited by
the movement made by Mr. Daw. And now all was over. That gentleman had
taken his departure for good, and the hopes had faded, and there was an
end to it altogether. Rupert had felt it keenly that morning as he
walked to Blackstone; felt that he and hope had bid adieu to each other
for ever. Was his life to be passed at that dreary mine? It seemed so.
The day, too, was spent even more unpleasantly than usual, for Cris was
in one of his overbearing moods, and goaded Rupert's spirit almost to
explosion. Had Rupert been the servant of Cris Chattaway, the latter
could not have treated him with more complete contempt and unkindness
than he did this day. Cris asked him who let him in to the Hold the
previous night, and Rupert answered that it was no business of his. Cris
then insisted upon knowing, but Rupert only laughed at him; and so Cris,
in his petty spite, paid him out for it, and made the day one long
humiliation to Rupert. Rupert reached home at last, and took tea with
the family. He kissed Mrs. Chattaway ten times, and whispered to her
that he had kept counsel, and would never, never, for her sake, be late
again.