Trevlyn Hold Part 70

"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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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, pa.s.sed 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 inst.i.tuted 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 a.s.sumed quite an exaggerated importance to his mind. He worked himself into--not the pa.s.sion 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?

CHAPTER XLII

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 flus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+vering.

"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."