Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

Dumps began rather to excuse himself than to explain. Such a thing hadn’t never happened to him before; and it was Mr. Apperley’s fault, for he met that gentleman nigh Meg Sanders’s door, who told him Jim was all right, and gone home to bed.

  This was the first time Mr. Apperley’s name had been mentioned in connection with the affair, and the magistrates ordered him before them. Nora insinuated her way to the front, and Mrs. Chattaway’s face bent lower, to conceal its anxious expression, the wild beating of her heart.

  “Did you meet James Sanders last night, Mr. Apperley?” inquired the chairman.

  “Yes; I did, sir. I was going home, when the danger was over, and the fire had got low, and I came upon Jim Sanders near his cottage, coming from the direction of Layton’s Heath. Knowing he had been wanted, I laid hold of him: but the boy told me, simply enough, where he had been, — to Barbrook, Barmester, and Layton’s Heath after the engines. He was then hastening to the Hold to help at the fire. I told him the fire was out, and he might get to bed.”

  “And you told Dumps that he had gone to bed?”

  “I did. I never supposed but Jim went home then and there; and when I met Dumps a few minutes afterwards, I told him so. I can’t understand it at all. The boy seemed almost too tired to move, and no wonder — and where he could have gone instead, is uncommon odd to me. It’s to know whether his mother speaks truth in saying he did not go in,” added the farmer, gratuitously imparting a little of his mind to the Bench.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He said where he had been, and that he was going up to the Hold,” replied the witness, in tones of palpable hesitation, as if weighing his words.

  “You are sure it was Jim Sanders?” asked a very silent magistrate who sat at the end of the bench.

  Mr. Apperley opened his eyes at this. “Sure it was Jim Sanders? Why, of course I’m sure of it?”

  “Well, it appears that only you, so far as can be learnt, saw Jim Sanders at all near the spot after the alarm went out.”

  “Like enough,” answered the farmer. “If the boy went to all these places, one after the other, he couldn’t be at the Hold. But there’s no mistake about my having seen him, and talked to him.”

  The danger appeared to be over. The Bench seemed to have no intention of asking further questions of Mr. Apperley, and Nora breathed freely again. But it often happens that when we deem ourselves most secure, hidden danger is all the nearer. As the witness was turning round to retire, Flood, the lawyer, stepped forward.

  “A moment yet, if you please, Mr. Apperley. I must ask you a question or two, with the permission of the Bench. I believe you had met Jim Sanders before that, last night — soon after the breaking out of the fire?”

  “Yes,” replied the farmer; “it was at the bend of the road between the Hold and Barbrook. I had that minute caught sight of the flame, not knowing rightly where it was or what it was, and Jim came running up and said, as well as he could speak for his hurry and agitation, that it was in Mr. Chattaway’s rick-yard.”

  “Agitated, was he?” asked the Bench; and a keen observer might have noticed Mr. Flood’s brow contract with a momentary annoyance.

  “So agitated as hardly to know what he was saying, as it appeared to me,” returned the witness. “He went away at great speed in the direction of Barbrook; on his way — as I learnt afterwards — to fetch the fire-engines.”

  “And very laudable of him to do so,” spoke up the lawyer. “But I have a serious question to put to you now, Mr. Apperley; be so good as to attend to me, and speak up. Did not Jim Sanders distinctly tell you that it was Rupert Trevlyn who had fired the rick?”

  Mr. Apperley paused in indecision. On the one hand, he was a plain, straightforward, honest man, possessing little tact, no cunning; on the other, he shrank from harming Rupert. Nora’s words had left a strong impression upon him, and the mysterious absence of Jim Sanders was also producing its effect, as it was on three-parts of the people in court. He and they were beginning to ask why Jim should run away unless he had been guilty.

  “Have you lost your voice, Mr. Apperley?” resumed the lawyer. “Did or did not Jim Sanders say it was Rupert Trevlyn who fired the rick?”

  “I cannot say but he did,” replied Mr. Apperley, as an unpleasant remembrance came across him that he had proclaimed this fact the previous night to as many as chose to listen, to which incaution Mr. Flood no doubt owed his knowledge. “But Jim appeared so flustered and wild,” he continued, “that my belief is — and I have said this before — that he didn’t rightly know what he was saying.”

  “Unless I am misinformed, you had just before met Rupert Trevlyn,” continued Mr. Flood. “He was wild and flustered, was he not?”

  “He was.”

  “Were both coming from the same direction?”

  “Yes. As if they had run straight from the Hold.”

  “From the rick-yard, eh?”

  “It might be that they had; ’twas pretty straight, if they leaped a hedge or two.”

  “Just so. You were walking soberly along the high-road, on your way to Bluck the farrier’s, when you were startled by the apparition of Rupert Trevlyn flying from the direction of the rick-yard like a wild animal — I only quote your own account of the fact, Mr. Apperley. Rupert was pale and breathless; in short, as you described him, he must have been under the influence of some great terror, or guilt. Was this so? Tell their worships.”

  “It was so,” replied Mr. Apperley.

  “You tried to stop him, and you could not; and as you stood looking after him, wondering whether he was mad, and, if not mad, what could have put him into such a state, Jim Sanders came up and told you a piece of news that was sufficient to account for any amount of agitation — namely, that Rupert Trevlyn had just set fire to one of the ricks in the yard at the Hold.”

  It was utterly impossible that Mr. Apperley in his truth could deny this, and a faint cry broke from the lips of Mrs. Chattaway. But when Mr. Flood had done with the farmer, it was Mr. Peterby’s turn to question him. He had not much to ask him, but elicited the positive avowal — and the farmer seemed willing to make as much of it as did Mr. Peterby — that Jim Sanders was in as great a state of agitation as Rupert Trevlyn, or nearly so. He, Mr. Apperley, summed up the fact by certain effective words.

  “Yes, they were both agitated — both wild; and if those signs were any proof of the crime, the one looked as likely to have committed it as the other.”

  The words told with the Bench. Mr. Flood exerted his eloquence to prove that Rupert Trevlyn, and he alone, must have been guilty. Not that he had any personal ill-feeling towards Rupert; he only spoke in his lawyerly instinct, which must do all it could for his client’s cause. Mr. Peterby, on the other hand, argued that the circumstances were more conclusive of the guilt of James Sanders. Mr. Apperley had testified that both were nearly equally agitated; and if Rupert was the most so, it was only natural, for a gentleman’s feelings were more easily stirred than an ignorant day-labourer’s. In point of fact, this agitation might have proceeded from terror alone in each of them. Looking at the case dispassionately, what real point was there against Rupert Trevlyn? None. Who dared to assert that he was guilty? No one but the runaway, James Sanders, who most probably proffered the charge to screen himself. Where was James Sanders, Mr. Peterby continued, looking round the court. Nowhere: he had decamped; and this, of itself, ought to be taken by all sensible people as conclusive of guilt. He asked the Bench, in their justice, not to remand Rupert Trevlyn, as was urged by Mr. Flood, but to discharge him, and issue a warrant for the apprehension of James Sanders.

  Ah, what anxious hearts were some of those in court as the magistrates consulted with each other. Mr. Chattaway had had the grace not to return to his seat, and waited, as did the rest of the audience. Presently the chairman spoke — and it is very possible that the general disfavour in which Mr. Chattaway was held had insensibly influenced their decision.

  It appeared to the Bench, he said
, that there were not sufficient facts proved against Rupert Trevlyn to justify their keeping him in custody, or in remanding the case. That he may have smarted in passion under the personal chastisement inflicted by Mr. Chattaway was not unlikely, and that gentleman had proved that, when he left the rick-yard, the lighted torch was, so to say, in possession of the prisoner. Mr. Apperley had likewise testified to meeting Rupert Trevlyn soon afterwards in a state of wild agitation. In the opinion of the Bench, these facts were not worth much: the lighted torch was proved to be in the possession of James Sanders in the rick-yard after this, as it had been before it; and the prisoner’s agitation might have been solely the effect of the beating inflicted on him by Mr. Chattaway. Except the assertion of the boy, James Sanders, as spoken to by Mr. Apperley and the servant-maid, Bridget Sanders, there was nothing to connect the prisoner with the actual crime. It had been argued by Mr. Peterby that James Sanders himself had probably committed it, wilfully or accidentally, and that his absence might be regarded as pretty conclusive proof of this. Be that as it might, the Bench had come to the decision that there were not sufficient grounds for detaining the prisoner, and therefore he was discharged.

  He was discharged! And the shout of approbation that arose in court made the very walls ring.

  CHAPTER XLI

  A NIGHT ENCOUNTER

  The first to press up to Rupert Trevlyn after his restored liberty was George Ryle. George held a very decided opinion upon the unhappy case; but strove to bury it five-fathom deep in his heart, and he hated Mr. Chattaway for the inflicted horsewhipping. Holding his arm out to Rupert, he led him towards the exit; but the sea of faces, of friendly voices, of shaking hands, was great, and somehow he and Rupert were separated.

  “It is a new lease of life for me, George,” whispered a soft, sweet voice in his ear, and he turned to behold the glowing cheeks of Mrs. Chattaway, glowing with thanksgiving and unqualified happiness.

  Unqualified? Ah, if she could only have looked into the future, as George did in his forethought! Jim Sanders would probably not remain absent for ever. But he suffered his face to become radiant as Mrs. Chattaway’s, as he stayed to talk with her.

  “Yes, dear Mrs. Chattaway, was it not a shout! I will drive Rupert home. I have my gig here. Treve shall walk. I wonder — I have been wondering whether it would not be better for all parties if Rupert came and stayed a week with Treve at the Farm? It might give time for the unpleasantness to blow over between him and Mr. Chattaway.”

  “How good you are, George! If it only might be! I’ll speak to Diana.”

  She turned to Miss Diana Trevlyn and George saw Rupert talking with Mr. Peterby. At that moment, some one took possession of George.

  It was Mr. Wall, the linen-draper. He had been in court all the time, his sympathies entirely with the prisoner, in spite of his early friendship with the master of Trevlyn Hold. Ever since that one month passed at Mr. Wall’s house, which George at the time thought the blackest month that could have fallen to the lot of mortal, Mr. Wall and George had been great friends.

  “This has been a nasty business,” he said in an undertone. “Where is Jim Sanders?”

  George disclaimed, and with truth, all knowledge on the point. Mr. Wall resumed.

  “I guess how it was; an outbreak of the Trevlyn temper. Chattaway was a fool to provoke it. Cruel, too. He had no more right to take a whip to Rupert Trevlyn than I have to take one to my head-shopman. Were the ricks insured?”

  “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 mass 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 passion 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, passed 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 instituted 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 assumed quite an exaggerated importance to his mind. He worked himself into — not the passion 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.