Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  They — as you remember — proceeded immediately to Trevlyn Farm; and words were spoken between them which no time could efface. Impulsive words, telling of the love that had long lain in the heart of each, almost as suppressed, quite as deep, as the great dread which had made the skeleton in Mr. Chattaway’s.

  The hilarity of the evening had progressed, as they found on entering. The company were seated round the table eating the good things, and evidently enjoying themselves heartily. The parlour-door was crowded with merry faces. Mrs. Ryle and others were at one end of the large room; George steered Maude direct to the parlour; the group made way for her, and welcomed her noisily.

  But there came no smile to the face of Octave Chattaway. With a severe eye and stern tones, she confronted Maude, her lips drawn with anger.

  “Maude, what do you do here? How dare you come?”

  “Is there any harm in it, Octave?”

  “Yes, there is,” said Miss Chattaway, with flashing eyes. “There is harm because I desired you not to come. A pretty thing for Mrs. Ryle to be invaded by half-a-dozen of us! Have you no sense of propriety?”

  “Not a bit of it,” gaily interrupted George. “No one understands that in connection with a harvest-home. I have been to the Hold for Maude, Octave; and should have brought Edith and Emily, but they were in bed.”

  “In bed!” exclaimed Caroline Ryle, in surprise.

  “Having retired in mortification and tears at being excluded from the delights of a harvest-home,” continued George, with mock gravity. “Miss Chattaway had preached propriety to them, and they could only bow to it. We must manage things better another time.”

  Octave’s cheeks burnt. Was George Ryle speaking in ridicule? To stand well with him, she would have risked much.

  “They are better at home,” she quietly said: “and I have no doubt Mrs. Ryle thinks so. Two of us are sufficient to come. Quite sufficient, in my opinion,” she pointedly added, turning a reproving look on Maude. “I am surprised you should have intruded — —”

  “Blame me, if you please, Miss Chattaway — if you deem blame due anywhere,” interrupted George. “I have a will of my own, you know, and I took possession of Maude and brought her, whether she would or no.”

  Octave pushed her hair back with an impatient movement. Her eyes fell before his; her voice, as she addressed him, turned to softness. George was not a vain man; but it was next to impossible to mistake these signs; though neither by word nor look would he give the faintest colouring of hope to them. If Octave could only have read the indifference at his heart! nay, more — his positive dislike!

  “Did you see anything of Rupert?” she asked, recalling his attention to herself.

  “I saw nothing of any one but Maude. I might have laid hands on all I found; but there was no one to meet, Maude excepted. What makes you so cross about it, Octave?”

  She laughed pleasantly. “I am not cross, George,” lowering her tones, “sometimes I think you do not understand me. You seem to — —”

  Octave’s words died away. Coming in at the door was the tall, conspicuous form of the parsonage guest, Mr. Daw. Maude was just then standing apart, and he went deliberately up to her and kissed her forehead.

  Startled and resentful, a half-cry escaped her lips; but Mr. Daw laid his hand gently on her arm.

  “My dear young lady, I may almost claim that as a right. I believe I was the first person, except your mother, who ever pressed a kiss upon your little face. Do you know me?”

  Maude faltered in her answer. His appearance and salutation had altogether been so sudden, that she was taken by surprise; but she did not fail to recognise him now. Yet she hesitated to acknowledge that she knew him, on account of Octave Chattaway. Rupert had told her all about the stranger; but it might be inconvenient to say so much to an inmate of Trevlyn Hold.

  “It was I who christened you,” he resumed. “It was I who promised your father to — to sometimes watch over you. But I could not keep my promise; circumstances worked against it. And now that I am brought for a short time into the same neighbourhood, I may not call to see you.”

  “Why not?” exclaimed Maude, wondering much.

  “Because those who are your guardians forbid me. I went to the Hold and asked for you, and then became aware that in doing so I had committed something like a crime, or what was looked upon as one. Should Rupert, your brother, regain possession of his father’s inheritance and his father’s home, then, perhaps, I may be a more welcome visitor.”

  The room stood in consternation. To some of them, at any rate, these words were new; to the ears of Octave Chattaway they were tainted with darkest treason. Octave had never heard anything of this bold stranger’s business at Barbrook, and she gazed at him with defiant eyes and parted lips.

  “Were you alluding to the Hold, sir?” she asked in a cold, hard voice, which might have been taken for Chattaway’s own.

  “I was. The Hold was the inheritance of Rupert Trevlyn’s father: it ought to be that of Rupert.”

  “The Hold is the inheritance of my father,” haughtily spoke Octave. “Is he mad?” she added in a half-whisper, turning to George.

  “Hush, Octave. No.”

  It was not a pleasant or even an appropriate theme to be spoken of in the presence of Mr. Chattaway’s daughters. George Ryle, at any rate, thought so, and was glad that a burst of rustic merriment came overpoweringly at that moment from the feasting in the other room.

  Under cover of the noise, Octave approached Nora. Nora immediately drew an apple-pie before her, and began to cut unlimited helpings, pretending to be absorbed in her work. She had not the least inclination for a private interview with Miss Chattaway. Miss Chattaway was one, however, not easily repulsed.

  “Nora, tell me — who is that man, and what brings him here?”

  “What man, Miss Chattaway?” asked Nora, indifferently, unable to quite help herself. “Ann Canham, how many are there to be served with pie still?”

  “That man. That bold, bad man who has been speaking so strangely.”

  “Does he speak strangely?” retorted Nora.

  “His voice is gruff certainly. And what a lot of plum-pudding he is eating! He is our young master’s new waggoner, Miss Chattaway.”

  “Not he!” shrieked Octave, in her anger. “Do you suppose I concern myself with those stuffing clodhoppers? I speak of that tall, strange man amongst the guests.”

  “Oh, he!” said Nora, carelessly glancing over her shoulder. “Nanny, here’s unlimited pie, if it’s wanted. What about him, Miss Chattaway?”

  “I asked you who he was, and what brought him here.”

  “Then you had better ask himself, Miss Chattaway. He goes about with a red umbrella; and that’s about all I know of him.”

  “Why does Mrs. Ryle invite suspicious characters to her house?”

  “Suspicious characters! Is he one? Madge Sanders, if you let Jim cram himself with pie in that style, you’ll have something to do to get him home. He is staying at the parsonage, Miss Chattaway; an acquaintance of Mr. Freeman’s. I suppose they brought him here to-night out of politeness; it wouldn’t have been good manners to leave him at home. He is an old friend of the Trevlyns, I hear; has always believed, until now, that Master Rupert enjoyed the Hold — can’t be brought to believe he doesn’t. It is a state of things that does sound odd to a stranger, you know.”

  Octave might rest assured she would not get the best of it with Nora. She turned away with a displeased gesture, and regained the sitting-room, where refreshments for Mrs. Ryle’s friends were being laid. But somehow the sunshine of the evening had gone out for her. What had run away with it? The stranger’s ominous words? No; for those she had nothing but contempt. It was George Ryle’s unsatisfactory manner, so intensely calm and equable. And those calm, matter-of-fact manners, in one beloved, tell sorely upon the heart.

  The evening passed, and it grew time to leave. Cris Chattaway and Rupert had come in, and they all set off in a body to Tre
vlyn Hold — those who had to go there. George went out with them.

  “Are you coming?” asked Octave.

  “Yes, part of the way.”

  So Octave stood, ready to take his arm, never supposing that he would not offer it; and her pulses began to beat. But he turned round as if waiting for something, and Octave could only walk on a few steps. Soon she heard him coming up and turned to him. And then her heart seemed to stand still and bound on again with fiery speed, and a flush of anger dyed her brow. He was escorting Maude on his arm!

  “Oh, George, do not let Maude trouble you,” she exclaimed. “Cris will take care of her. Cris, come and relieve George of Maude Trevlyn.”

  “Thank you, Octave; it’s no trouble,” replied George, his tone one of indifference. “As I brought Maude out, it is only fair that I should take her home — the task naturally falls to me, you see.”

  Octave did not see it at all, and resentfully pursued her way; something very like hatred for Maude taking possession of her breast. It is not pleasant to write of these things; but I know of few histories in which they can be quite avoided, if the whole truth is adhered to, for many and evil are the passions assailing the undisciplined human heart.

  “Good-bye!” George whispered to Maude as he left her. “This night begins a new era in our lives.”

  The Hold was busy when they entered. Mrs. Chattaway and her sister had just returned from Barmester, and were greeted by Mr. Chattaway. They had expected him for so many days past, and been disappointed, that his appearance now brought surprise with it. He answered the questions evasively put to him by Mrs. Chattaway and Diana, as to where he had been. Business had kept him, was all they could obtain from him.

  “I cannot think what you have done for clothes, James,” said Mrs. Chattaway.

  “I have done very well,” he retorted. “Bought what I wanted.”

  But it was not upon the score of his wardrobe, or what had kept him so long, that Miss Diana Trevlyn required Chattaway. She had been waiting since the first morning of his absence, for information on a certain point, and now demanded it in a peremptory manner.

  “Chattaway,” she began, when the rest had dispersed, and she waited with him, “I have had a strange communication made to me. In that past time — carry your thoughts back to it, if you please — when there came to this house the news of Rupert Trevlyn’s birth and his mother’s death — do you remember it?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Mr. Chattaway. “What should hinder me?”

  “The tidings were conveyed by letter. Two letters came, the second a day after the first.”

  “Well?” returned Chattaway, believing the theme, in some shape or other, was to haunt him for ever. “What of the letters?”

  “In that last letter, which must have been a heavy one, there was a communication enclosed for me.”

  “I don’t remember it,” said Mr. Chattaway.

  “It was no doubt there. A document written at the request of Mrs. Trevlyn; appointing me guardian to the two children. What did you do with it?”

  “I?” returned Chattaway, speaking with apparent surprise, and looking full at Miss Diana with an unmoved face. “I did nothing with it. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You must have taken it out and suppressed it,” observed Miss Diana.

  “I never saw it or heard of it,” obstinately persisted Chattaway. “Why should I? You might have been their appointed guardian, and welcome, for me: you have chiefly acted as guardian. I tell you, Diana, I neither saw nor heard of it: you need not look so suspiciously at me.”

  “Is he telling the truth?” thought Miss Diana, and her keen eyes were not lifted from Mr. Chattaway’s face. But that gentleman was remarkably inscrutable, and never appeared more so than at this moment.

  “If he did not do anything with it,” continued Miss Diana in her train of thought, “what could have become of the thing? Where can it be?”

  CHAPTER XXX

  MR. CHATTAWAY COMES TO GRIEF

  A few days passed on, and strange rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood. Various rumours, vague at the best; but all tending to one point — the true heir was coming to his own again. They penetrated even to the ears of Mr. Chattaway, throwing that gentleman into a state not to be described. Some said a later will of the Squire’s had been found; some said a will of Joe Trevlyn’s; some that it was now discovered the estate could only descend in the direct male line, and consequently it had been Rupert’s all along. Chattaway was in a raging fever; it preyed upon him, and turned his days to darkness. He seemed to look upon Rupert with the most intense suspicion, as if it were from him alone — his plotting and working — that the evil would come. He feared to trust him out of his sight; to leave him alone for a single instant. When he went to Blackstone he took Rupert with him; he hovered about all day, keeping Rupert in view, and brought him back in the evening.

  Miss Diana had not yet bought the pony she spoke of, and Chattaway either mounted him on an old horse that was good for little now, and rode by his side, or drove him over. Rupert was intensely puzzled at this new consideration, and could not make it out.

  One morning Mr. Chattaway so far sacrificed his own ease as to contemplate walking over: the horses were wanted that day. “Very well,” Rupert answered, in his half-careless, half-obedient fashion, “it was all the same to him.” And so they started. But as they were going down the avenue a gentleman was discerned coming up it. Mr. Chattaway knit his brows and peered at him; his sight for distance was not quite as good as it had been.

  “Who’s this?” asked he of Rupert.

  “It is Mr. Peterby,” replied Rupert.

  “Peterby!” ejaculated Chattaway. “What Peterby?”

  “Peterby of Barmester, the lawyer,” explained Rupert, wondering that there was any need to ask.

  For only one gentleman of the name of Peterby was known to Trevlyn Hold, and Mr. Chattaway was, so to say, familiar with him. He had been solicitor to Squire Trevlyn, and though Mr. Chattaway had not continued him in that post when he succeeded to the estate, preferring to employ Mr. Flood, he yet knew him well. The ejaculation had not escaped him so much in doubt as to the man, as to what he could want with him. But Mr. Peterby was solicitor for some of his tenants, and he supposed it was business touching the renewal of leases.

  They met. Mr. Peterby was an active little man of more than sixty years, with a healthy colour and the remains of auburn hair. He had walked all the way from Barmester, and enjoyed the walk as much as a schoolboy. “Good morning, Mr. Chattaway,” he said, holding out his hand, “I am fortunate in meeting you. I came early, to catch you before you went to Blackstone. Can you give me half-an-hour’s interview?”

  Mr. Chattaway thought he should not like to give the interview. He was in a bad temper, in no mood for business, and he really wanted to be at Blackstone. Besides all that he had no love for Mr. Peterby. “I am pressed for time this morning,” he replied, “am much later than I ought to have been. Is it anything particular you want me for?”

  “Yes, very particular,” was the answer, delivered in uncompromising tones. “I must request you to accord me the interview, Mr. Chattaway.”

  Mr. Chattaway turned back to the house with his visitor, and marshalled him into the drawing-room. Rupert remained at the hall-door.

  “I have come upon a curious errand, Mr. Chattaway, and no doubt an unwelcome one; though, from what I hear, it may not be altogether unexpected,” began the lawyer, as they took seats opposite each other. “A question has been arising of late, whether Rupert Trevlyn may not possess some right to the Hold. I am here to demand if you will give it up to him.”

  Was the world coming to an end? Chattaway thought it must be. He sat and stared at the speaker as if he were in a dream. Was every one turning against him? He rubbed his handkerchief over his hot face, and imperiously demanded of Mr. Peterby what on earth he meant, and where he could have picked up his insolence.

  “I am not about to wre
st the estate from you, Mr. Chattaway, or to threaten to do so,” was the answer. “You need not fear that. But — you must be aware that you have for the last twenty years enjoyed a position that ought in strict justice to belong to the grandson of Squire Trevlyn.”

  “I am not aware of anything of the sort,” groaned Chattaway. “What do you mean by ‘wresting the estate’?”

  “Softly, my good sir; there’s no need to put yourself out with me. I am come on a straightforward, peaceable errand; not one of war. A friendly errand, if you will allow me so to express myself.”

  The master of the Hold could only marvel at the words. A friendly errand! requiring him to give up his possessions!

  Mr. Peterby proceeded to explain; and as there is no time to give the interview in detail, it shall be condensed. It appeared that the Reverend Mr. Daw had in his zeal sought out the solicitors of the late Squire Trevlyn. He had succeeded in impressing upon them a sense of the great injustice dealt out to Rupert; had avowed his intention of endeavouring, by any means in his power, to remedy this injustice; but at this point he had been somewhat obscure, and had, in fact, caused the lawyers to imagine that this power was real and tangible. Could there be, they asked themselves afterwards, any late will of Squire Trevlyn’s which would supersede the old one? It was the only hinge on which the matter could turn; and Mr. Daw’s mysterious hints certainly encouraged the thought. But Mr. Daw had said, “Perhaps Chattaway will give up amicably, if you urge it upon him,” and Mr. Peterby had now come for that purpose.

  “What you say is utterly absurd,” urged Chattaway; the long explanation, which Mr. Peterby had given openly and candidly, having afforded him time to recover somewhat of his fears and his temper. “I can take upon myself most positively to assert that no will or codicil was made, or attempted to be made, by Squire Trevlyn, subsequently to the one on which I inherit. Your firm drew that up.”

  “I know we did,” replied the lawyer. “But that does not prove that none was drawn up after it.”