A NIGHT ENCOUNTER
The first to press up to Rupert Trevlyn after his restored liberty was
George Ryle. George held a very decided opinion upon the unhappy case;
but strove to bury it five-fathom deep in his heart, and he hated Mr.
Chattaway for the inflicted horsewhipping. Holding his arm out to
Rupert, he led him towards the exit; but the sea of faces, of friendly
voices, of shaking hands, was great, and somehow he and Rupert were
separated.
"It is a new lease of life for me, George," whispered a soft, sweet
voice in his ear, and he turned to behold the glowing cheeks of Mrs.
Chattaway, glowing with thanksgiving and unqualified happiness.
Unqualified? Ah, if she could only have looked into the future, as
George did in his forethought! Jim Sanders would probably not remain
absent for ever. But he suffered his face to become radiant as Mrs.
Chattaway's, as he stayed to talk with her.
"Yes, dear Mrs. Chattaway, was it not a shout! I will drive Rupert home.
I have my gig here. Treve shall walk. I wonder--I have been wondering
whether it would not be better for all parties if Rupert came and stayed
a week with Treve at the Farm? It might give time for the unpleasantness
to blow over between him and Mr. Chattaway."
"How good you are, George! If it only might be! I'll speak to Diana."
She turned to Miss Diana Trevlyn and George saw Rupert talking with Mr.
Peterby. At that moment, some one took possession of George.
It was Mr. Wall, the linen-draper. He had been in court all the time,
his sympathies entirely with the prisoner, in spite of his early
friendship with the master of Trevlyn Hold. Ever since that one month
passed at Mr. Wall's house, which George at the time thought the
blackest month that could have fallen to the lot of mortal, Mr. Wall and
George had been great friends.
"This has been a nasty business," he said in an undertone. "Where _is_
Jim Sanders?"
George disclaimed, and with truth, all knowledge on the point. Mr. Wall
resumed.
"I guess how it was; an outbreak of the Trevlyn temper. Chattaway was a
fool to provoke it. Cruel, too. He had no more right to take a whip to
Rupert Trevlyn than I have to take one to my head-shopman. Were the
ricks insured?"
"No. There's the smart. Chattaway never would insure his ricks; never
has insured them. It is said that Miss Diana has often told him he
deserved to have his ricks burnt down for being penny wise and pound
foolish."
"How many were burnt?"
"Two: and another damaged by water. It is a sharp loss."
"Ay. One he won't relish. Rupert is not _secure_, you know," continued
Mr. Wall in a spirit of friendly warning. "He can be taken up again."
"I am aware of that. And this time I think it will be very difficult to
lay the spirit of anger in Mr. Chattaway. Good evening. I am going to
drive Rupert home. Where has he got to?"
George had cause to reiterate the words "Where has he got to?" for he
could not see him anywhere. His eyes roved in vain in search of Rupert.
Mr. Peterby was alone now.
George went hunting everywhere. He inquired of every one, friend and
stranger, if they had seen Rupert, but all in vain; he could not meet or
hear of him. At last he gave up the search, and started for home, Treve
occupying the place in the gig he had offered to Rupert.
Where was Rupert? In a state of mind not to be described, he had stolen
away in the dusky night from the mass of faces, the minute he was
released by Mr. Peterby, and made the best of his way out of Barmester,
taking the field way towards the Hold. He felt in a sea of guilt and
shame. To stand there a prisoner, the consciousness of guilt upon
him--for he knew he had set fire to the rick--was as the keenest agony.
When his previous night's passion cooled down, it was replaced by an
awful sense--and the word is not misplaced--of the enormity of his act.
It was a positive fact that he could not remember the details of that
evil moment; but an innate conviction was upon him that he did thrust
the burning brand into the rick and had so revenged himself on Mr.
Chattaway. He turned aghast as he thought of it: in his sober senses he
would be one of the last to commit so great a wickedness--would shudder
at its bare thought. Not only was the weight of the guilt upon his mind,
but a dread of the consequences. Rupert was no hero, and the horror of
the punishment that might follow was working havoc in his brain. If he
had escaped it for this day, he knew sufficient of our laws to be aware
that he might not escape it another, and that Chattaway would prove
implacable. The disgrace of a trial, the brand of felon--all might be
his. Perhaps it was fear as much as shame which took Rupert alone out of
Barmester.
He knew not where to go. He reached the neighbourhood of the Hold,
passed it, and wandered about in the moonlight, sick with hunger, weary
with walking. He began to wish he had gone home with George Ryle; and he
wished he could see George Ryle then, and ask his advice. To the Hold,
to face Chattaway, he dared not yet go; nay, with that consciousness of
guilt upon him, he shrank from facing his kind aunt Edith, his sister
Maude, his aunt Diana. A sudden thought flashed into his mind--and for
the moment it seemed like an inspiration--he would go after Mr. Daw and
beg a shelter with him.
But to get to Mr. Daw, who lived in some unknown region in the Pyrenees,
and had no doubt crossed the Channel, would take money, time, and
strength. As the practical views of the idea came up before him, he
abandoned it in utter despair. Where should he go and what should he do?
He sat down on the stile forming the entrance to a small grove of trees,
through which a near road led to Barbrook; in fact, it was at the end of
that very field in which Mr. Apperley had seen him the previous evening.
Some subtle instinct, perhaps, took his wandering steps to it. As he
leaned against the stile, he became conscious of the advance of some one
along the narrow path leading from Barbrook--a woman, by her petticoats.
It was a lovely night. The previous night had been dull, but on this one
the moon shone in all her splendour. Rupert did not fear a woman, least
of all the one approaching, for he saw that it was Ann Canham. She had
been at work at the parsonage. Mrs. Freeman, taking advantage of the
departure of their guest, had instituted the autumn cleaning, delayed on
his account; and Ann had been there to-day, helping Molly, and was to go
also on the morrow. A few happy tears dropped from her eyes when she saw
him.
"The parson's already home with the good news, sir. But why ever do you
sit here, Master Rupert?"
"Because I have nowhere to go to," returned Rupert.
Ann paused, and then spoke timidly. "Isn't there the Hold, as usual,
sir?"
"I can't go there. Chattaway might horsewhip me again, you know, Ann."
The bitter mockery with which he spoke brought pain to her. "Where shall
you go, sir?"
"I don't know. Lie down under these trees till morning. I am awfully
hungry."
Ann Canham opened a basket which she carried, and took out a small loaf,
or cake. She offered it to Rupert, curtseying humbly.
"Molly has been baking to-day, sir; and the missis, she gave me this
little loaf for my father. Please take it, sir."
Rupert's impulse was to refuse, but hunger was strong within him. He
took a knife from his pocket, cut it in two, and gave one half back to
Ann Canham.
"Tell Mark I had the other, Ann. He won't grudge it to me. And now go
home. It's of no use your stopping here."
She made as if she would depart, but hesitated. "Master Rupert, I don't
like to leave you here so friendless. Won't you come to the lodge, sir,
and shelter there for the night?"
"No, that I won't," he answered. "Thank you, Ann; but I am not going to
get you and Mark into trouble as I have got myself."
She sighed as she finally went away. Would this unhappy trouble touching
Rupert ever be over?
Perhaps Rupert was asking the same. He ate the bread, and sat on the
stile afterwards, ruminating. He was terribly bitter against Chattaway;
but for his wicked conduct he should not now be the outcast he was. All
the wrongs of his life rose up before him. The Hold that ought to be
his, the rank he was deprived of, the wretched humiliations that were
his daily portion. They assumed quite an exaggerated importance to his
mind. He worked himself into--not the passion of the previous night, but
into an angry, defiant temper; and he wished he could meet Chattaway
face to face, and return the blows, the pain of which was still upon
him.
With a cry that almost burst from his lips in terror, with a feeling
verging on the supernatural, he suddenly saw Chattaway before him.
Rupert recovered himself, and though his heart beat pretty fast, he kept
his seat on the stile in his defiant humour.
And Mr. Chattaway? Every drop of blood in that gentleman's body had
bubbled up with the unjust leniency shown by the magistrates, and had
remained at fever heat. Never, never had his feelings been so excited
against Rupert as on this night. As he came along he was plotting with
himself how Rupert could be recaptured on the morrow--on what pretext he
could apply for a warrant against him. That miserable, detested Rupert!
He made his life a terror through that latent dread, he was a burden on
his pocket, he brought him into disfavour with the neighbourhood, he
treated him with cavalier insolence, and now had set his ricks on fire.
And--there he was! Before him in the moonlight. Mr. Chattaway bounded
forward, and seized him by the shoulder.
A struggle ensued. Blows were given on either side. But Mr. Chattaway
was the stronger: he flung Rupert to the ground; and a dull, heavy human
sound went forth on the still night air.
Did the sound come from Rupert, or from Chattaway? No; Rupert was lying
motionless, and Chattaway knew he had made no sound himself. He looked
up in the trees; but it had not been the sound of a night-bird. A
rustling caught his ear behind the narrow grove, and Chattaway bounded
towards it, just in time to see a man's legs flying over the ground in
the direction of Barbrook.
Who had been a witness to the scene?