A NIGHT SCENE
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 man _may_ be 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.
"It _was_ Rupert 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 stopped _him_. 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 not _you_ turn 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 was _his_ work. 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!