DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST
Many a painting has been handed down to posterity whose features bore
not a tithe of the interest presented at that moment in the old hall of
the Trevlyns. The fine figure of the stranger, standing with the air of
a chieftain, conscious of his own right; the keen gaze of Miss Diana,
regarding him with puzzled equanimity; and the slow horror of conviction
that was rising to the face of Mr. Chattaway. Behind all, stealing in by
a side-door, came the timid steps, the pale questioning looks of Mrs.
Chattaway, not yet certain whether the intruder was an earthly or a
ghostly visitor.
Mr. Chattaway was the first to recover himself. He looked at the
stranger with a face that strove to be haughty, and would have given the
whole world to possess the calm equanimity of the Trevlyns, the
unchanged countenance of Miss Diana; but his leaden face wore its worst
and greenest tinge, his lips quivered as he spoke--and he was conscious
of it.
"_Who_ do you say you are? Squire Trevlyn? He has been in his grave long
ago. We do not tolerate impostors here."
"I hope you do not," was the reply of the stranger, turning his face
full on the speaker. "_I_ will not in future, I can tell you that. True,
James Chattaway: one Squire Trevlyn is in his grave; but he lives again
in me. I am Rupert Trevlyn, and Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
Yes, it was Rupert Trevlyn. The young Rupert Trevlyn of the old days;
the runaway heir. He, whom they had so long mourned as dead (though
perhaps none had mourned very greatly), had never died, and now had come
home, after all these years, to claim his own.
Mr. Chattaway backed against the wall, and stood staring with his livid
face. To contend was impossible. To affect to believe that it was not
Rupert Trevlyn and the true heir, next in legal succession to his
father, the old Squire, would have been child's play. The
well-remembered features of Rupert grew upon his memory one by one.
Putting aside that speaking likeness to the Squire, to the Trevlyns
generally, Mr. Chattaway, now that the first moments of surprise were
over, would himself have recognised him. He needed not the
acknowledgment of Miss Diana, the sudden recognition of his wife, who
darted forward, uttering her brother's name, and fell sobbing into his
arms, to convince him that it was indeed Rupert Trevlyn, the
indisputable master from henceforth of Trevlyn Hold.
He leaned against the wall, and took in all the despair of his position.
The latent fear so long seated in his heart, that he would some time
lose Trevlyn Hold, had never pointed to _this_. In some far-away mental
corner Chattaway had vaguely looked forward to lawsuits and contentions
between him and its claimant, poor Rupert, son of Joe. He had fancied
that the lawsuits might last for years, he meanwhile keeping possession,
perhaps up to the end. Never had he dreamed that it would suddenly be
wrested from him by indisputable right; he had never believed that he
himself was the usurper; that a nearer and direct heir, the Squire's
son, was in existence. The Squire's will, leaving Trevlyn Hold to his
eldest son, had never been cancelled.
And this was the explanation of the letters from Connell, Connell and
Ray, which had so annoyed Mr. Chattaway and puzzled his wife. "Rupert
Trevlyn was about to take up his own again--as Squire of Trevlyn Hold."
True; but it was this Rupert Trevlyn, not that one.
The explanation he might have entered into is of little moment to us;
the bare fact is sufficient. It was an explanation he gave only
partially to those around, descending to no details. He had been
shipwrecked at the time of his supposed death, and knew that an account
of his death had been sent home. That was true. Why he had suffered it
to remain uncontradicted he did not explain; and they could only surmise
that the crime of which he had been suspected kept him silent. However
innocent he knew himself to be, whilst others at home believed him
guilty he was not safe, and he had never known until recently that his
reputation had been cleared. So much he did say. He had been half over
the world, he told them, but had lived chiefly in South America, where
he had made a handsome fortune.
"And whose children are these?" he asked, as he passed into the
drawing-room, where the sea of wondering faces was turned upon him.
"_You_ should be James Chattaway's daughter," he cried, singling out
Octave, "for you have the face of your father over again."
"I am Miss Chattaway," she answered, drawing from him with a scornful
gesture. "Papa," she whispered, going up to the cowed, shrinking figure,
who had followed in the wake of the rest, "who is that man?"
"Hush, Octave! He has come to turn us out of our home."
Octave gazed as one suddenly blinded. She saw the strange likeness to
the Trevlyns, and it flashed into her mind that it must be the Uncle
Rupert, risen from the supposed dead, of whom she had heard so much. She
saw him notice her two sisters; saw him turn to Maude, and gaze
earnestly into her face.
"You should be a Trevlyn. A softer, fairer face than Joe's, but the same
outlines. What is your name, my dear?"
"Maude Trevlyn, sir."
"Ay. Joe's child. Have you any brothers or sisters?"
"One brother."
Squire Trevlyn--we must give him his title henceforth--looked round the
room, as if in search of the brother. "Where is he?"
Maude shivered; but he waited for an answer, and she gave it. "He is not
here, sir."
"And now tell me a little of the past," he cried, wheeling round on his
sister Diana. "Who is the reigning master of Trevlyn Hold?"
She indicated Chattaway with her finger. "He is."
"He! Who succeeded my father--in my place?"
"He did. James Chattaway."
"Then where was Joe?"
"Joe was dead. He had died a few months previously."
"Leaving--how many children did you say--two?"
"Two--Maude and Rupert."
"The latter still an infant, I presume, at the time of my father's
death?"
"Quite an infant."
"Nevertheless, he was Squire of Trevlyn Hold, failing me. Why did he not
succeed?"
There came no answer. He looked at them all in succession; but even Miss
Diana Trevlyn's undisturbable equanimity was shaken for the moment. It
was Mr. Chattaway who plucked up courage to reply, and he put on as bold
a front as he could.
"Squire Trevlyn judged it well to will the estate to me. What would a
child in petticoats do, reigning at Trevlyn Hold?"
"He might have reigned by deputy. Where is Rupert? I must see him!"
But had they been keen observers they might have detected that Squire
Trevlyn put the questions not altogether with the tone of a man who
seeks information. In point of fact he was as wise as they were as to
the principal events which had followed on the Squire's death. He had
remained in London two or three weeks since landing; had gathered all
the information that could be afforded him by Connell and Connell, and
had himself dictated the letters which had so upset Mr. Chattaway; more
than that, he had, this very morning, halted at Barmester, on his way to
Trevlyn Hold, had seen Mr. Peterby, and gleaned many details. One thing
Mr. Peterby had not been able to tell him, whether the unfortunate
Rupert was living or dead.
"Where is Maude?" he suddenly asked.
Maude stepped forward, somewhat surprised.
"Not you, child. One who must be thirty good years older than you. My
sister, Maude Trevlyn."
"She married Thomas Ryle, of the Farm," answered Miss Diana, who had
rapidly determined to be the best of friends with her brother. "It was
not a fitting match for her, and she entered upon it without our
consent; nay, in defiance of us all. She lives there still;
and--and--here she is!"
For once in her life Miss Diana was startled into betraying surprise.
There, coming in at the door, was her sister Maude, Mrs. Ryle; and she
had not been at the Hold for years and years.
Nora, keen-witted Nora, had fathomed the mystery as she walked home. One
so strangely resembling old Squire Trevlyn must be very closely
connected with him, she doubted not, and worked out the problem. It must
be Rupert Trevlyn, come (may it not be said?) to life again. Before she
entered, his features had been traced on her memory, and she hastened to
acquaint Mrs. Ryle.
That lady lost no time in speeding to the Hold. George accompanied her.
There was no agitation on her face; it was a true Trevlyn's in its calm
and quiet, but she greeted her brother with words of welcome.
"I have not entered this house, Rupert, my brother, since its master
died; I would not enter it whilst a usurper reigned. Thank Heaven, you
have come. It will end all heart-burnings."
"Heart-burnings? of what nature? But who are you?" he broke off, looking
at George. Then he raised his hand, and laying it on his shoulder, gazed
into his face. "Unless I am mistaken, you are your father's son."
George laughed. "My father's son, I believe, sir, and people tell me I
am like him; yet more like my mother. I am George Berkeley Ryle."
"Is he here? I and Tom Ryle were good friends once."
"Here!" uttered George, with emotion he could not wholly suppress. "He
has been dead many years. He was killed."
Squire Trevlyn lifted his hands. "It will all come out, bit by bit, I
suppose: one record of the past after another. Maude"--turning to his
sister--"I was inquiring of the days gone by. If the Trevlyns have held
a name for nothing else in the county, they have held one for justice;
and I want to know how it was that my father--my father and
yours--willed away his estate from poor Joe's boy. Good Heavens," he
broke off abruptly, as he caught sight of her face in the red light of
the declining sun, "how wonderfully you have grown like my father! More
so even than I have!"
It was so. As Mrs. Ryle stood there, haughty and self-possessed, they
might have deemed it the old Squire over again. "You want to know why my
father willed away his estate from Joe's son?" she said. "Ask Chattaway;
ask Diana Trevlyn," with a sweep of the hand to both. "Ask them to tell
you who kept it from him that a son was born to Joe. _They_ did. The
Squire made his will, went to his grave, never knowing that young Rupert
was born. Ask them to tell you how it was that, when in accordance with
this fact the will was made, my father constituted his second daughter's
husband his heir, instead of my husband; mine, his eldest daughter's.
Ask them, Rupert."
"Heart-burnings? Yes, I can understand," murmured Squire Trevlyn.
"Ask _him_--Chattaway--about the two thousand pounds debt to Mr. Ryle,"
she continued, never flinching from her stern gaze, never raising her
voice above its calm tones of low, concentrated indignation. "You have
just said that you and Tom Ryle were friends, Rupert. Yes, you were
friends; and had you reigned after my father, he, my husband, would not
have been hunted to his death."
"Maude! What are you saying?"
"The truth. Wherever that man Chattaway could lay his oppressive hand,
he has laid it. He pursued my husband incessantly during life; it was
through that pursuit--indirectly, I admit--that he met his death. The
debt of two thousand pounds, money which had been lent to Mr. Ryle, he,
my father, cancelled on his death-bed; he made my husband a present of
it; he would have handed him the bond then and there, but it was in
Chattaway's possession, and he said he would send it to him. It never
was sent, Rupert; and the first use Chattaway made of his new power when
he came into the Hold, was to threaten to sue my husband upon the bond.
The Squire had given my husband his word to renew the lease on the same
terms, and _you_ know that his word was never broken. The second thing
Chattaway did was to raise the rent. It has been nothing but uphill work
with us."
"I'll right it now, Maude," he cried, with all the generous impulse of
the Trevlyns. "I'll right that, and all else."
"We have righted it ourselves," she answered proudly. "By dint of
perseverance and hard work, not on my part, but on _his_"--pointing to
George--"we have paid it off. Not many days ago, the last instalment of
the debt and interest was handed to Chattaway. May it do him good! _I_
should not like to grow rich upon unjust gains."
"But where is Rupert?" repeated Squire Trevlyn. "I must see Rupert."
Ah, there was no help for it, and the whole tale was poured into his
ear. Between Mrs. Ryle's revelations on the one side, and Chattaway's
denials on the other, it was all poured into the indignant but perhaps
not surprised ear of the new master of Trevlyn. The unkindness and
oppression dealt out to Rupert throughout his unhappy life, the burning
of the rick, the strange disappearance of Rupert. He gave no token that
he had heard it all before. Mrs. Ryle spared nothing. She told him of
the suspicion so freely dealt out by the neighbourhood that Chattaway
had made away with Rupert. Even then the Squire returned no sign that he
knew of the suspicion as well as they did.
"Maude," he said, "where is Rupert? Diana, _you_ answer me--where is
Rupert?"
They were unable to answer. They could only say that he was absent, they
knew not how or where.
It may be that Squire Trevlyn feared the suspicion might be too true a
one; for he turned suddenly on James Chattaway, his eye flashing with a
severe light.
"Tell me where the boy is."
"I don't know," said Mr. Chattaway.
"He may be dead!"
"He may--for all I can say to the contrary."
Squire Trevlyn paused. "Rupert Trevlyn is my heir," he slowly said, "and
I will have him found. James Chattaway, I insist on your producing
Rupert."
"Nobody can insist upon the impossible."
"Then listen. You don't know much of me, but you knew my father; and you
may remember that when he _willed_ a thing, he did it: that same spirit
is mine. Now I register a vow that if you do not produce Rupert Trevlyn,
or tell me where I may find him, dead or alive, I will publicly charge
you with the murder."
"I have as much reason to charge you with it, as you have to charge me,"
returned Mr. Chattaway, his anger rising. "You have heard them tell you
of my encounter with Rupert on the evening following the examination
before the magistrates. I declare on my sacred word of honour----"
"_Your_ word of honour!" scornfully apostrophised Mrs. Ryle.
"That I have never seen Rupert Trevlyn since the moment I left him on
the ground," he continued, turning his dark looks on Mrs. Ryle, but
never pausing. "I have sought in vain for him since; the police have
sought; and he is not to be found."
"Very well," said the Squire. "I have given you the alternative."
Mr. Chattaway opened his lips to reply; but to the surprise of all who
knew him, suddenly closed them again, and left the room. To describe the
trouble the man was in would be impossible. Apart from the general
perplexity brought by this awful arrival of a master for Trevlyn Hold,
there was the lesser doubt as to what should be his own conduct. Should
it be abject submission, or war to the knife? Mr. Chattaway's temper
would have inclined him to the latter; but he feared it might be bad
policy for his own interest; and self-interest had always been paramount
with James Chattaway. He stood outside the house, where he had wandered,
and cast his eyes on the fine old place, the fair domain stretching
around. Facing him was the rick-yard, which had given rise to so much
discomfort, trouble, and ill-feeling. Oh, if he could only dispute
successfully, and retain possession! But a conviction lay on his heart
that even to attempt such would be the height of folly. That he, thus
returned, was really the true Rupert Trevlyn, who had decamped in his
youth, now a middle-aged man, was apparent as the sun at noon-day. It
was apparent to him; it would be apparent to the world. The returned
wanderer had remarked that his identity would be established by proof
not to be disputed; but Mr. Chattaway felt no proof was necessary. Of
what use then to hold out? And yet! to quit this fine possession, to
sink into poverty and obscurity in the face and eyes of the local
world--that world which had been ready enough, as it was, to cast
contempt on the master of Trevlyn Hold--would be as the bitterest fate
that ever fell upon man. In that cruel moment, when all was pressing
upon his imagination with fearfully vivid colours, it seemed that death
would be as a boon in comparison.
Whilst he was thus standing, torn with contending emotions, Cris ran up
in excitement from the direction of the stables. He had left his horse
there on his return from Blackstone, and some vague and confused version
of the affair had been told him. "What's this, father?" he asked, in
loud anger. "They are saying that Rupert Trevlyn has come boldly back,
and claims the Hold. Have you given him into custody?"
Mr. Chattaway raised his dull eyes. The question only added to his
misery. "Yes, Rupert Trevlyn has come back," he said; "but----"
"Is he in custody?" impatiently interrupted Cris. "Are the police here?"
"It is another Rupert Trevlyn, Cris; not that one."
Something in his father's manner struck unpleasantly on the senses of
Cris Chattaway, subduing him considerably. "Another Rupert Trevlyn!" he
repeated, in hesitating tones. "What are you saying?"
"The Rupert Trevlyn of old; the Squire's runaway son; the heir," said
Mr. Chattaway, as if it comforted him to tell out all the bitter truth.
"He has come back to claim his own, Cris--Trevlyn Hold."
And Mr. Cris fell against the wall, side by side with his father, and
stared in dismayed consternation.