NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD
When Mr. and Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana had driven home from
Barmester, they were met with curious faces, and eager questions, the
result of the day's proceedings not having reached the Hold. It added to
the terrible mortification gnawing the heart of Mr. Chattaway to confess
that Rupert was discharged. He had been too outspoken that morning
before his children and household of the certain punishment in store for
Rupert--his committal for trial.
And the mortification was destined to be increased on another score.
Whilst they were seated at a sort of high tea--Cris came in from
Blackstone with some news. The Government inspectors had been there that
day, and chosen to put themselves out on account of the absence of Mr.
Chattaway, whom they had expected at the office.
"They mean mischief," observed Cris. "How far _can_ they interfere?" he
asked, turning to his father. "Could they force you to go to the expense
they hint at?"
Mr. Chattaway really did not know. He sat looking surly and gloomy,
buried in rumination, and by-and-by rose and left the room. Soon after
this, George Ryle entered, to take Rupert to the farm. George knew now
that Rupert had walked home: Bluck, the farrier, had told him so. But
Rupert, it appeared, was not yet come in.
So George waited: waited and waited. It was a most uncomfortable
evening. Mrs. Chattaway was palpably nervous and anxious, and Maude, who
sat apart, as if conscious that Rupert's fault in some degree reflected
upon her, was as white as a sheet. When George rose to leave it was
nearly eleven. Rupert, it must be supposed, had taken shelter somewhere
for the night, and Mr. Chattaway did not appear in a hurry to return.
None had any idea where Mr. Chattaway was to be found: when he left the
house, they only supposed him to be going to the out-buildings.
The whole flood of moonlight came flushing on George Ryle, as he stood
for a moment at the door of the Hold. He lifted his face to it, thinking
how beautiful it was, when the door was softly opened behind him, and
Maude came out, pale and shivering.
"Forgive my following you, George," she whispered, in pleading tones. "I
could not ask you before them, but I am ill with suspense. Tell me, is
the danger over for Rupert?"
George took her hand in his. He looked down with tender fondness upon
the unhappy girl; but hesitated in his answer.
She bent her head, and there came a half-breathed whisper of pain. "Do
you believe he did it?"
"Maude, my darling, I do believe he did it; you ask me for the truth,
and I will not give you anything else. But I believe that he must have
been in a state of madness, irresponsible for his actions."
"What can be done?" she gasped.
"Nothing. Nothing, except that we must endeavour to conciliate Mr.
Chattaway. If he can be appeased, the danger will pass."
"Never will he be appeased!" she answered. "He will think of the value
of the ricks, the money lost to him. George, if it comes to the
worst--if they try Rupert, I shall die."
"Hush, my dear, hush! Try and look on the bright side of things, Maude;
your grieving cannot influence Rupert, and will harm you. Nothing shall
be left undone on my part to serve him. I wish I had more influence with
Mr. Chattaway."
"No one has any influence with him,--no one in the world; unless it is
Aunt Diana."
"She has--and I can talk to her as I could not to Chattaway. I intend to
see her privately in the morning. Maude, how you shiver!"
George bent to take his farewell, and went on his way. Ere he was quite
out of sight, he turned to take a last look at her. She was standing in
the white moonlight, her hands clasped, her face one sad expression of
distress and despair. A vague feeling came over George that this
despondency of Maude's bore ill omen for poor Rupert. But he could not
have told why the feeling should come to him, and he put it from him as
absurd and foolish.
The night wore on at the Hold, and its master did not return. All sat
up, ladies, children, and servants; wondering where he could be. It was
close upon midnight when his ring sounded at the locked door.
Mr. Chattaway came in with his face scratched and a bruise over one eye.
The servant stared in astonishment, and noticed, as his master
unbuttoned a light overcoat, that the front of his shirt was torn. Mr.
Chattaway was not one to be questioned by his servants, and the man went
off to the kitchen and reported the news.
"Good Heavens, papa! what have you done to your face?"
The exclamation came from Octave, who was the first to catch sight of
him as he entered the room. Mr. Chattaway responded by an angry demand
why they were not in bed, what they did sitting up at that hour: and he
began to light the bed-candles.
"What _have_ you done to your face?" reiterated Miss Diana, coming close
to take a nearer view.
"Nothing," was his curt response.
"What's the use of saying that?" retorted Miss Diana. "It looks as
though you had been fighting. And your shirt's torn!"
"I tell you there's nothing the matter with it; or with my shirt
either," he said testily. "Can't you take an answer?" And, as if to put
an end to questioning, he took a candle and went up to his room.
The scratches were less apparent in the morning, and the bruise was only
a slight one. Cris, in his indifferent manner, said the Squire must have
walked into the branches of a thorny tree.
By tacit consent they avoided all mention of Rupert. It is possible that
even Miss Diana did not care to mention his name to Mr. Chattaway.
Whilst they were at breakfast, Hatch came and put his head inside the
door.
"Jim Sanders is back, sir."
Mr. Chattaway started up, a certain flashing light in his dull eyes that
boded no good to Jim. "Where is he?" he cried. "How do you know?"
"Ted, the cow-boy, has just seen him at work at Mr. Ryle's as usual,
sir. I thought you might like to know it, and made bold to come in and
tell ye. Ted asked him where he had runned away to yesterday, and Jim
answered he had not runned away at all; only overslep' hisself."
Mr. Chattaway hastened from the room, followed by Cris; and Mrs.
Chattaway took the opportunity to ask Hatch if he had seen or heard
anything of Mr. Rupert. But Hatch only stood stolidly in the middle of
the carpet, and made no reply.
"Did you not hear Madam's question, Hatch?" sharply asked Miss Diana.
"Why don't you answer it?"
"Because I don't like to," responded stolid Hatch. "Happen Madam mayn't
like to hear the answer, Miss Diana."
"Nonsense!" quickly cried Miss Trevlyn. "Have you heard of him?"
"Well, yes, I have," answered Hatch. "They be talking of it now in the
sheep-pen."
"What are they saying?" asked Mrs. Chattaway, in eager tones.
But the man remained silent, staring at his mistress.
"What are they saying?--do you hear?" imperatively repeated Miss Diana.
Hatch could not hold out longer. "They be saying that he's dead, ma'am."
"That he is--_what_?"
"They be saying that Mr. Rupert's dead," equably repeated Hatch; "he was
killed down in the little grove last night, as you go through the fields
to Barbrook. I didn't like to tell the Squire, because they be saying
that if he be killed, happen the Squire have killed him."
Only for a moment did Miss Diana Trevlyn lose her self-possession. She
raised her hands to still the awestruck terror around her, and glanced
at Mrs. Chattaway's blanched face. "Hatch, where did you hear this?"
"In the sheep-pen, ma'am. The men be a-talking on't. They say he was
killed last night--murdered."
Her own face for once in her life was turning white. "Be still, all of
you, and remain here," she said. "Edith, if ever you had need of
self-command, it is now."
She went straight off to the sheep-pen, bidding Hatch follow her. From
the first moment Hatch had spoken, there had risen up before her, as an
ugly picture--a dream to be shunned--the scratched and bruised face of
Mr. Chattaway.
The sheep-pen was empty: the men had dispersed. Cris came out of the
stables, and she signed to him. He advanced to meet her. "Where is your
father?" she asked.
"Off to Barbrook," returned Cris. "Sam wasn't long getting his horse
ready, was he? He has gone to order Bowen to look after Mr. Jim
Sanders."
"Have you heard this report about Rupert?" she resumed, her hushed tones
imparting to Cris a vague sense of something unpleasant.
"I have not heard any report about him. What is the report? That he's
dead?"
"Yes; that he is dead."
Cris had spoken in a half-jesting, half-sneering tone; but his face
changed at the answer, consternation in every feature, "What on earth do
you mean, Aunt Diana? Rupert----"
"Good morning, Miss Diana."
They turned to behold George Ryle. He had come up thus early to know if
they had news of Rupert. The scared expression of their faces struck him
that something was wrong.
"You have bad news, I see. What is it?"
Miss Diana rapidly turned over a question in her mind. Should she
mention this report to George? Yes; he was thoroughly trustworthy; and
might be of use.
"Hatch came in a few minutes ago, and frightened us very greatly," she
said. "I was just telling Cris about it. The man says there's a report
going about that Rupert is--is"--she scarcely liked to bring out the
word--"is dead."
"What?" uttered George.
"That he has been killed--murdered," continued Miss Diana. "George, I
want to get at the truth of it."
He could not rejoin just at first. News, such as that, takes time to
revolve. He could only look at them alternately; his heart, for Rupert's
sake, beating fast. Miss Diana repeated what Hatch had said. "George,"
she concluded, "I cannot go after these men, examining into the truth or
falsehood of the report, but you might."
George started away impulsively ere she had well spoken. Hatch mentioned
the names of the men who had been talking, and George hastened to look
for them over the fields. Cris was following, but Miss Diana caught him
by the arm.
"Not you, Cris; stop where you are."
"Stop where I am?" returned Cris, indignantly, who had a very great
objection to being interfered with by Miss Diana. "I shall not, indeed.
I don't pretend to have had much love for Rupert, but I'm sure I shall
look into it if there's such a report as that about. He must have killed
himself, if he is dead."
But Miss Diana kept her hand upon him. "Remain where you are, I say.
They are connecting your father's name with it in a manner I do not
understand, and it will be better you should be quiet until we know
more."
She went on to the house as she spoke. Cris stared after her in blank
dismay, wondering what the words meant, yet sufficiently discomposed to
give up his own will for once, and remain quiet, as she had suggested.
Meanwhile, Mr. Chattaway, unconscious of the commotion at the Hold, was
galloping towards Barbrook. He reined in at the police-station, and
Bowen came out to him.
"I know what you have come about, Mr. Chattaway," cried the man, before
that gentleman could speak. "It's to tell us that Jim Sanders has turned
up. We know all about it, and Dumps has gone after him. Hang the boy!
giving us all this bother."
"I'll have him punished, Bowen."
"Well, sir, it's to know whether he won't get enough punishment as it
is. His going off looks uncommonly suspicious--as I said yesterday:
looks as if he had had a finger in the pie."
"Is Dumps going to bring him on here?"
"Right away, as fast as he can march him. Impudent monkey, going to work
this morning, just as if nothing had happened! Dumps'll be on to him.
They won't be long, sir."
"Then I'll wait," decided Mr. Chattaway.