Trevlyn Hold
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Mr. Chattaway saw no way of entering opposition to this; he could not abuse him for taking tea at the parsonage; could not well forbid it in the future. "What time did you come home?" he continued.
"It was eleven o'clock," avowed Rupert. "I went with Mr. Daw to the station to see him off, and the train was behind time. I thought it was coming up every minute, or I would not have stayed."
Mr. Chattaway had known as much before. "How did you get in?" he asked.
Rupert hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I was let in."
"I conclude you were. By whom?"
"I would rather not tell."
"But I choose that you shall tell."
"No," said Rupert. "I can't tell, Mr. Chattaway."
"But I insist on your telling," thundered Chattaway. "I order you to tell."
He lifted his riding-whip menacingly as he spoke. Rupert stood his ground fearlessly, the expression of his face showing out calm and firm, as the torchlight fell upon it.
"Do you defy me, Rupert Trevlyn?"
"I don't wish to defy you, sir, but it is quite impossible that I can tell you who let me in last night. It would not be fair, or honourable."
His refusal may have looked like defiance to Mr. Chattaway, but in point of fact it was dictated by a far different feeling—regard for his aunt Edith. Had any one else in the Hold admitted him, he might have confessed it, under Mr. Chattaway's stern command; but he would have died rather than bring her, whom he so loved, into trouble with her husband.
"Once more, sir, I ask you—will you tell me?"
"No, I will not," answered Rupert, with that quiet determination which creates its own firmness more surely than any bravado. Better for him that he had told! better even for Mrs. Chattaway.
Mr. Chattaway caught Rupert by the shoulder, lifted his whip, and struck him—struck him not once, but several times. The last stroke caught his face, raising a thick weal across it; and then Mr. Chattaway, his work done, walked quickly away towards his house, never speaking, the whip resting quietly in his hand.
Alas, for the Trevlyn temper! Maddened by the outrage, smarting under the pain, the unhappy Rupert lost all self-command. Passion had never overcome him as it overcame him now. He knew not what he did; he was as one insane; in fact, he was insane for the time being—irresponsible (may it not be said?) for his actions. With a yell of rage he picked up the torch, then blazing on the ground, dashed into the rick-yard as one possessed, and thrust the torch into the nearest rick. Then leaping the opposite palings, he tore away across the fields.
Jim Sanders had been a witness to this: and to describe Jim's consternation would be beyond the power of any pen. Standing in the darkness, out of reach of Mr. Chattaway's eyes, he had heard and seen all. Snatching the torch out of the rick—for the force with which Rupert had driven it in kept it there—Jim pulled out with his hands the few bits of hay already ignited, stamped on them, and believed the danger to be over. Next, he began to look for his puppy.
"Mr. Rupert can't have taken it off with him," soliloquised he, pacing the rick-yard dubiously with his torch, eyes and ears on the alert. "He couldn't jump over them palings with that there puppy in his arms. It's a wonder that a delicate one like him could jump 'em at all, and come clean over 'em."
Mr. Jim Sanders was right: it was a wonder, for the palings were high. But it is known how strong madmen are, and I have told you that Rupert was mad at that moment.
Jim's search was interrupted by fresh footsteps, and Bridget, the maid you saw in the morning talking to Mr. Chattaway, accosted him. She was a cousin of Jim's, three or four years older than he; but Jim was very fond of her, in a rustic fashion, deeming the difference of age nothing, and was always finding his way to the Hold with some mark of good will.
"Now, then! What do you want to-night?" cried she, for it was the pleasure of her life to snub him. "Hatch comes in just now, and says, 'Jim Sanders is in the rick-yard, Bridget, a-waiting for you.' I'll make you know better, young Jim, than send me in messages before a kitchen-ful."
"I've brought you a little present, Bridget," answered Jim, deprecatingly; and it was this offering which had taken Jim to the Hold. "The beautifullest puppy you ever see—if you'll accept him; black and shiny as a lump of coal. Leastways, I had brought him," he added, ruefully. "But he's gone, and I can't find him."
Bridget had a weakness for puppies—as Jim knew; consequently, the concluding part of his information was not agreeable to her.
"You have brought me the beautifullest puppy—and have lost him and can't find him! What d'ye mean by that, Jim? Can't you speak sense, so as a body may understand?"
Jim supposed he had worded his communication imperfectly. "There's been a row here," he explained, "and it frighted me so that I dun know what I be saying. The master took his riding-whip to Mr. Rupert and horsewhipped him."
"The master!" uttered the girl. "What! Mr. Chattaway?"
"He come through the yard when I was with Mr. Rupert a-showing him the puppy, and they had words, and the master horsewhipped him. I stood round the corner frighted to death for fear Chattaway should see me. And Mr. Rupert must have dropped the puppy somewhere, but I can't find him."
"Where is Mr. Rupert? How did it end?"
"He dashed into the yard across to them palings, and leaped 'em clean," responded Jim. "And he'd not have cleared 'em with the puppy in his arms, so I know it must be somewhere about. And he a'most set that there rick a-fire first," the boy added, in a whisper, pointing in the direction of the particular rick, from which they had strayed in Jim's search. "I pretty nigh dropped when I saw it catch alight."
Bridget felt awed, yet uncertain. "How could he set a rick a-fire, stupid?" she cried.
"With the torch. I had lighted it to show him the puppy, and he had it in his hand; had it in his hand when Chattaway began to horsewhip him, but he dropped it then; and when Chattaway went away, Mr. Rupert picked it up and pushed it into the rick."
"I don't like to hear this," said the girl, shivering. "Suppose the rick-yard had been set a-fire! Which rick was it? It mayn't–"
"Just hush a minute, Bridget!" suddenly interrupted Jim. "There he is!"
"There's who?" asked she, peering around in the darkness. "Not master!"
"Law, Bridget! I meant the puppy. Can't you hear him? Them squeaks is his."
Guided towards the sound, Jim at length found the poor little animal. It was lying close to the spot where Rupert had leaped the palings. The boy took it up, fondling it almost as a mother would fondle a child.
"See his glossy skin, Bridget! feel how sleek it is! He'll lap milk out of a saucer now! I tried him–"
A scream from Bridget. Jim seemed to come in for nothing but shocks to his nerves this evening, and almost dropped the puppy again. For it was a loud, shrill, prolonged scream, carrying a strange amount of terror as it went forth in the still night air.
Meanwhile Mr. Chattaway had entered his house. Some of the children who were in the drawing-room heard him and went into the hall to welcome him after his long day's absence. But they were startled by the pallor of his countenance; it looked perfectly livid as the light of the hall-lamp fell upon it. Mr. Chattaway could not inflict such chastisement on Rupert without its emotional effects telling upon himself. He took off his hat, and laid his whip upon the table.
"We thought you would be home before this, papa."
"Where's your mother?" he rejoined, paying no attention to their remark.
"She is upstairs in her sitting-room."
Mr. Chattaway turned to the staircase and ascended. Mrs. Chattaway was not in her room; but the sound of voices in Miss Diana's guided him to where he should find her. This sitting-room, devoted exclusively to Miss Diana Trevlyn, was on the side of the house next the rick-yard and farm-buildings, which it overlooked.
The apartment was almost in darkness; the fire had dimmed, and neither lamp nor candles had been lighted. Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana sat there conversing together.
"Who is this?" cried the former, looking round. "Oh, is it you, James? I did not know you were home again. What a fine day you have had for Whitterbey!"
Mr. Chattaway growled something about the day not having been particularly fine.
"Did you buy the stock you thought of buying?" asked Miss Diana.
"I bought some," he said, rather sulkily. "Prices ran high to-day."
"You are home late," she resumed.
"I came round by Blackstone."
It was evident by his tone and manner that he was in one of his least genial humours. Both ladies knew from experience that the wisest plan at those times was to leave him to himself, and they resumed their own converse. Mr. Chattaway stood with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, his eyes peering into the dark night. Not in reality looking at anything, or attempting to look; he was far too deeply engaged with his thoughts to attend to outward things.
He was beginning very slightly to repent of the horsewhipping, to doubt whether it might not have been more prudent had he abstained from inflicting it. As many more of us do, when we awake to reflection after some act committed in anger. If Rupert was to be dreaded; if he, in connection with others, was hatching treason, this outrage would only make him a more bitter enemy. Better, perhaps, not to have gone to the extremity.
But it was done; it could not be undone; and to regret it were worse than useless. Mr. Chattaway began thinking of the point which had led to it—the refusal of Rupert to say who had admitted him. This at least Mr. Chattaway determined to ascertain.
"Did either of you let in Rupert last night?" he suddenly inquired, looking round.
"No, we did not," promptly replied Miss Diana, answering for Mrs. Chattaway as well as for herself, which she believed she was perfectly safe in doing. "He was not in until eleven, I hear; we went up to bed long before that."
"Then who did let him in?" exclaimed Mr. Chattaway.
"One of the servants, of course," rejoined Miss Diana.
"But they say they did not," he answered.
"Have you asked them all?"
No. Mr. Chattaway remembered that he had not asked them all, and he came to the conclusion that one of them must have been the culprit. He turned to the window again, standing sulkily as before, and vowing in his own mind that the offender, whether man or woman, should be summarily turned out of the Hold.
"If you have been to Blackstone, you have heard that the inquest is over, James," observed Mrs. Chattaway, anxious to turn the conversation from the subject of last night. "Did you hear the verdict?"
"I heard it," he growled.
"It is not an agreeable verdict," remarked Miss Diana. "Better you had made these improvements in the mine—as I urged upon you long ago—than wait to be forced to do them."
"I am not forced yet," retorted Chattaway. "They must–Halloa! What's that?"
His sudden exclamation called them both to the window. A bright light, a blaze, was shooting up into the sky. At the same moment a shrill scream of terror—the scream from Bridget—arose with it.
"The rick-yard!" exclaimed Miss Diana. "It is on fire!"
Mr. Chattaway stood for an instant as one paralysed. The next he was leaping down the stairs, something like a yell bursting from him.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE FIRE
There is a terror which shakes man's equanimity to its foundation—and that terror fell upon Trevlyn Hold. At the evening hour its inmates were sitting in idleness; the servants gossiping quietly in the kitchen, the girls lingering over the fire in the drawing-room; when those terrible sounds disturbed them. With a simultaneous movement, all flew to the hall, only to see Mr. Chattaway leaping down the stairs, followed by his wife and Miss Diana Trevlyn.
"What is it? What is the matter?"
"The rick-yard is on fire!"
None knew who answered. It was not Mr. Chattaway's voice; it was not their mother's; it did not sound like Miss Diana's. A startled pause, and they ran out to the rick-yard, a terrified group. Little Edith Chattaway, a most excitable girl, fell into hysterics, and added to the confusion of the scene.
The blaze was shooting upwards, and men were coming from the out-buildings, giving vent to their dismay in various exclamations. One voice was heard distinctly above all the rest—that of Miss Diana Trevlyn.
"Who has done this? It must have been purposely set on fire."
She turned sharply on the group of servants as she spoke, as if suspecting one of them. The blaze fell on their alarmed faces, and they visibly recoiled; not from any consciousness of guilt, but from the general sense of fear which lay upon all. One of the grooms spoke impulsively.
"I heard voices not a minute ago in the rick-yard," he cried. "I was going across the top there to fetch a bucket of water from the pump, and heard 'em talking. One was a woman's. I saw a light, too."
The women-servants were grouped together, staring helplessly at the blaze. Miss Diana directed her attention particularly to them: she possessed a ready perception, and detected such unmistakable signs of terror in the face of one of them, that she drew a rapid conclusion. It was not the expression of general alarm, seen on the countenance of the rest; but a lively, conscious terror. The girl endeavoured to draw behind, out of sight of Miss Diana.
Miss Diana laid her hand upon her. It was Bridget, the kitchenmaid. "You know something of this!"
Bridget burst into tears. A more complete picture of helpless fear than she presented at that moment could not well be drawn. In her apron was something hidden.
"What have you got there?" sharply continued Miss Diana, whose thoughts may have flown to incendiary adjuncts.
Bridget, unable to speak, turned down the apron and disclosed a little black puppy, which began to whine. There was nothing very guilty about that.
"Were you in the rick-yard?" questioned Miss Diana; "was it your voice Sam heard?" And Bridget was too frightened to deny it.
"Then, what were you doing? What brought you in the rick-yard at all?"
Mrs. Chattaway, timid Mrs. Chattaway, trembling almost as much as Bridget, but who had compassion for every one in distress, came to the rescue. "Don't, Diana," she said. "I am sure Bridget is too honest a girl to have taken part in anything so dreadful as this. The rick may have got heated and taken fire spontaneously."
"No, Madam, I'd die before I'd do such a thing," sobbed Bridget, responding to the kindness. "If I was in the rick-yard, I wasn't doing no harm—and I'm sure I'd rather have went a hundred miles the other way if I'd thought what was going to happen. I turned sick with fright when I saw the flame burst out."
"Was it you who screamed?" inquired Miss Diana.
"I did scream, ma'am. I couldn't help it."
"Diana," whispered Mrs. Chattaway, "you may see she's innocent."
"Yes, most likely; but there's something behind for all that," replied Miss Diana, decisively. "Bridget, I mean to come to the bottom of this business, and the sooner you explain it, the less trouble you'll get into. I ask what took you to the rick-yard?"
"It wasn't no harm, ma'am, as Madam says," sobbed Bridget, evidently very unwilling to enter on the explanation. "I never did no harm in going there, nor thought none."
"Then it is the more easily told," responded Miss Diana. "Do you hear me? What business took you to the rick-yard, and who were you talking to?"
There appeared to be no help for it; Bridget had felt this from the first; she should have to confess to her rustic admirer's stolen visit. And Bridget, whilst liking him in her heart, was intensely ashamed of him, from his being so much younger than herself.
"Ma'am, I only came into it for a minute to speak to a young boy; my cousin, Jim Sanders. Hatch came into the kitchen and said Jim wanted to see me, and I came out. That's all—if it was the last word I had to speak," she added, with a burst of grief.
"And what did Jim Sanders want with you?" pursued Miss Diana, sternly.
"It was to show me this puppy," returned Bridget, not choosing to confess that the small animal was brought as a present. "Jim seemed proud of it, ma'am, and brought it up for me to see."
A very innocent confession; plausible also; and Miss Diana saw no reason for disbelieving it. But she was one who liked to be on the sure side, and when corroborative testimony was to be had, did not allow it to escape her. "One of you find Hatch," she said, addressing the maids.
Hatch was found with the men-servants and labourers, who were tumbling over each other in their endeavours to carry water to the rick under the frantic directions of their master. He came up to Miss Diana.
"Did you go into the kitchen, and tell Bridget Jim Sanders wanted her in the rick-yard?" she questioned.
I think it has been mentioned once before that this man, Hatch, was too simple to answer anything but the straightforward truth. He replied that he did so; had been called to by Jim Sanders as he was passing along the rick-yard near the stables, who asked him to go to the house and send out Bridget.
"Did he say what he wanted with her?" continued Miss Diana.
"Not to me," replied Hatch. "It ain't nothing new for that there boy to come up and ask for Bridget, ma'am. He's always coming up for her, Jim is. They be cousins."
A well-meant speech, no doubt, on Hatch's part; but Bridget would have liked to box his ears for it there and then. Miss Diana, sufficiently large-hearted, saw no reason to object to Mr. Jim's visits, provided they were paid at proper times and seasons, when the girl was not at her work. "Was any one with Jim Sanders?" she asked.
"Not as I saw, ma'am. As I was coming back after telling Bridget, I see Jim a-waiting there, alone. He–"
"How could you see him? Was it not too dark?" interrupted Miss Diana.
"Not then. Bridget kep' him waiting ever so long afore she came out. Jim must a' been a good half-hour altogether in the yard; 'twas that, I know, from the time he called me till the blaze burst out. But Jim might have went away afore that," added Hatch, reflectively.
"That's all, Hatch; make haste back again," said Miss Diana. "Now, Bridget, was Jim Sanders in the yard when the flames broke out, or was he not?"
"Yes, ma'am, he was there."
"Then if any suspicious characters got into the rick-yard, he would no doubt have seen them," thought Miss Diana, to herself. "Do you know who did set it on fire?" she impatiently asked.
Bridget's face, which had regained some of its colour, grew white again. Should she dare to tell what she had heard about Rupert? "I did not see it done," she gasped.
"Come, Bridget, this will not do," cried Miss Diana, noting the signs. "There's more behind, I see. Where's Jim Sanders?"
She looked around as she spoke but Jim was certainly not in sight. "Do you know where he is?" she sharply resumed.
Instead of answering, Bridget was taken with a fresh fit of shivering. It amazed Miss Diana considerably.
"Did Jim do it?" she sharply asked.
"No, no," answered Bridget. "When I got to Jim he had somehow lost the puppy"—glancing down at her apron—"and we had to look about for it. It was just in the minute he found it that the flames broke forth. Jim was showing of it to me, ma'am, and started like anything when I shrieked out."
"And what has become of Jim?"
"I don't know," sobbed Bridget. "Jim seemed like one dazed when he turned and saw the blaze. He stood a minute looking at it, and I could see his face turn all of a fright; and then he flung the puppy into my arms and scrambled off over the palings, never speaking a word."
Miss Diana paused. There was something suspicious in Jim's making off in the manner described; it struck her so at once. On the other hand she had known Jim from his infancy—known him to be harmless and inoffensive.
"An honest lad would have remained to see what assistance he could render towards putting it out, not have run off in that cowardly way," spoke Miss Diana. "I don't like the look of this."
Bridget made no reply. She was beginning to wish the ground would open and swallow her up for a convenient half-hour; wished Jim Sanders had been buried also before he had brought this trouble upon her. Miss Diana, Madam, and the young ladies were surrounding her; the maid-servants began to edge away suspiciously; even Edith had dismissed her hysterics to stare at Bridget.
Cris Chattaway came leaping past them. Cris, who had been leisurely making his way to the Hold when the flames broke out, had just come up, and after a short conference with his father, was now running to the stables. "You are a fleet horseman, Cris," Mr. Chattaway had said to him: "get the engines here from Barmester." And Cris was hastening to mount a horse, and ride away on the errand.
Mrs. Chattaway caught his arm as he passed. "Oh, Cris, this is dreadful! What can have caused it?"
"What?" returned Cris, in savage tones—not, however, meant for his mother, but induced by the subject. "Don't you know what has caused it? He ought to swing for it, the felon!"
Mrs. Chattaway in her surprise connected his words with what she had just been listening to. "Cris!—do you mean–It never could have been Jim Sanders!"
"Jim Sanders!" slightingly spoke Cris. "What should have put Jim Sanders into your head, mother? No; it was your favoured nephew, Rupert Trevlyn!"
Mrs. Chattaway broke into a cry as the words came from his lips. Maude started a step forward, her face full of indignant protestation; and Miss Diana imperiously demanded what he meant.
"Don't stop me," said Cris. "Rupert Trevlyn was in the yard with a torch just before it broke out, and he must have set it on fire."
"It can't be, Cris!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, in accents of intense pain, arresting her son as he was speeding away. "Who says this?"
Cris twisted himself from her. "I can't stop, mother, I say. I am going for the engines. You had better ask my father; it was he told me. It's true enough. Who would do it, except Rupert?"
The shaft lanced at Rupert struck to the heart of Mrs. Chattaway; unpleasantly on the ear of Miss Diana Trevlyn: was anything but agreeable to the women-servants. Rupert was liked in the household, Cris hated. One of the latter spoke up in her zeal.
"It's well to try to throw it off the shoulders of Jim Sanders on to Mr. Rupert! Jim Sanders–"
"And what have you to say agin' Jim Sanders?" interrupted Bridget, fearing, it may be, that the crime should be fastened on him. "Perhaps if I had spoken my mind, I could have told it was Mr. Rupert as well as others could; perhaps Jim Sanders could have told it, too. At any rate, it wasn't–"
"What is that, Bridget?"
The quiet but imperative interruption came from Miss Diana. Excitement was overpowering Bridget. "It was Mr. Rupert, ma'am; Jim saw him fire it."
"Diana! Diana! I feel ill," gasped Mrs. Chattaway, in faint tones. "Let me go to him; I cannot breathe under this suspense."
She meant her husband. Pressing across the crowded rick-yard—for people, aroused by the sight of the flames, were coming up now in numbers—she succeeded in reaching Mr. Chattaway. Maude, scared to death, followed her closely. She caught him just as he had taken a bucket of water to hand on to some one standing next him in the line, causing him to spill it. Mr. Chattaway turned with a passionate word.
"What do you want here?" he roughly asked, although he saw it was his wife.
"James, tell me," she whispered. "I felt sick with suspense, and could not wait. What did Cris mean by saying it was Rupert?"
"There's not a shadow of doubt that it was Rupert," answered Mr. Chattaway. "He has done it out of revenge."
"Revenge for what?"
"For the horsewhipping I gave him. When I joined you upstairs just now, I came straight from it. I horsewhipped him on this very spot," continued Mr. Chattaway, as if it afforded him satisfaction to repeat the avowal. "He had a torch with him, and I—like a fool—left it with him, never thinking of consequences, or that he might use it in the service of felony. He must have fired the rick in revenge."
Mrs. Chattaway had been gradually drawing away from the heat of the blaze; from the line formed to pass buckets for water on to the flames, which crackled and roared on high; from the crowd and confusion prevailing around the spot. Mr. Chattaway had drawn with her, leaving his place in the line to be filled by another. She fell against a distant rick, sick unto death.