Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “How long were you absent?” inquired Captain Mynn of Mr. Chattaway.

  “About six or seven minutes, I think. I ran to the other end of the field, and looked into the lane, but the boy had escaped out of sight, and I walked back again. It would take about seven minutes; the field is large.”

  “And after that?”

  “Finding, as I tell you, that Rupert had disappeared, I re-traversed the ground over the lower field, and went on to Barbrook, where I had business. I never saw Rupert Trevlyn after I left him on the ground. The inference, therefore — nay, the absolute certainty — is, that he got up and escaped.”

  A pause. “You did not reach home, I believe, until midnight, or thereabouts,” remarked Captain Mynn. “Some doubts have been raised as to where you could have spent your time.”

  And this question led to the very core of the suspicion. Mr. Chattaway appeared to feel that it did, and hesitated. So far he had spoken freely and openly enough, not with the ungracious, sullen manner that generally characterised him, but he hesitated now.

  “Strange to say,” he resumed, “I could not account for the whole of my time that evening. That is, if I were asked for proof, I am not sure that it could be furnished. I was anxious to see Hurnall, the agent for the Boorfield mines, and that’s where I went. My son had brought home news from Blackstone, that they were going to force me to make certain improvements in my pit, and I wanted to consult Hurnall about it. He is up to every trick and turn, and knows what they can compel an owner to do and what they can’t. When I reached Hurnall’s house, he was out; might return immediately, the servant said, or might not be home till late. She asked me if I would go in and wait; but I had no fancy for a close room, after being boxed up all day in the court here, and said I would walk about. I walked about for two mortal hours before Hurnall came; and then went indoors with him. That’s the whole truth, I’ll swear.”

  “Then I would have avowed it before, had I been you,” cried Mr. Peterby. “It’s your silence has done half the mischief, and given colouring to the rumours.”

  “Silence!” cried Mr. Chattaway, angrily. “When a man’s accused of murder by a set of brainless idiots it is punishment he’d like to give them, not self-defence.”

  “Ah!” said the lawyer, “but we can’t always do as we like; if we could, the world might be better worth living in.”

  Mr. Chattaway turned to the magistrate. “I have told you the whole truth, so far as I know it; and you may judge whether these unneighbourly reports have not merited all my contempt. You can question Hurnall, who will tell you where he met me, and how long I stayed with him. As to Rupert Trevlyn, I have no more idea where he is than Mr. Peterby himself has. He will turn up some time, there’s not the least doubt about it; and I solemnly declare that I’ll then bring him to justice, should it be ten years hence.”

  There was nothing more for Mr. Chattaway to wait for, and he went out with his solicitor. Mr. Peterby turned to Captain Mynn with a questioning glance.

  The magistrate shook his head. “My opinion is that you cannot proceed with this, Mr. Peterby. Were you to bring the matter officially before the Bench, I for one would not entertain it; neither, I am sure, would my brother-magistrates. Mr. Chattaway is no favourite of ours, but he must receive justice. That there are suspicious points connected with the case, I can’t deny; but every one may be explained away. If what he says be true, they are explained now.”

  “All but the two hours, when he says he was walking about, waiting for Hurnall.”

  “It may have been so. No; upon these very slight grounds, it is of no use to press for a warrant against Mr. Chattaway. The very enormity of the crime would almost be its answer. A man of position and property, a county magistrate, guilty of the crime of murder in these enlightened days! Nonsense, Peterby!”

  And Mr. Peterby mentally echoed the words; and went forth prepared to echo them to those who had urged him to make the charge.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM

  So the magistrates declined to interfere, and Mr. Chattaway went about a free man. But not untainted; for the neighbourhood was still free in its comments, and openly accused him of having made away with Rupert. Mr. Chattaway had his retaliation; he offered a reward for the recovery of the incendiary, Rupert Trevlyn, and the walls for miles round were placarded with handbills. Urged by him, the police recommenced their search, and Mr. Chattaway actually talked of sending for an experienced detective. One thing was indisputable — if Rupert were in life he must keep from the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold. Nothing could save him from the law, if taken the second time. Jim Sanders would not be kidnapped again; he had already testified to it officially; and Mr. Chattaway thirsted for vengeance.

  Take it for all in all, it was breaking the heart of Mrs. Chattaway. Looked at in any light, it was bad enough. The fear touching her husband, not the less startling from its improbability, was over, for he had succeeded in convincing her that so far he was innocent; but her fears for Rupert kept her in a constant state of terror. Miss Diana publicly condemned Rupert. This hiding from justice (if he was hiding) she regarded as only a degree less reprehensible than the crime itself; as did Mrs. Ryle; and had Miss Diana met Rupert returning some fine day, she would have laid her hand upon him as effectually as Mr. Dumps himself, and said, “You shall not escape again.” Do not mistake Miss Diana; it would not have pleased her to see Rupert standing at the bar of justice to be judged by the laws of his country. She would have taken Rupert home to the Hold, and said to Chattaway, “Here he is, but you must and shall forgive him: you must forgive him, because he is a Trevlyn; and a Trevlyn cannot be disgraced.” Miss Diana had full confidence in her own power to command this. Others wisely doubted whether any amount of interference on any part would now avail with Mr. Chattaway. His wife felt that it would not. She felt that were poor Rupert to venture home, even twelve months hence, trusting that time and mercy had effected his pardon, he would be sacrificed; between Miss Diana’s and Mr. Chattaway’s opposing policies, he would inevitably be sacrificed. Altogether, Mrs. Chattaway’s life was more painful now Rupert had gone than it had been when he was at the Hold.

  Cris was against Rupert; Octave was bitterly against him; Maude went about the house with a white face and beating heart, health and spirits giving way under the tension. Suspense is, of all evils, the worst to bear: and they who loved Rupert, Maude and her Aunt Edith, were hourly victims to it. The bow was always strung. On the one hand was the latent doubt that he had come to some violent end that night, in spite of Mr. Chattaway’s denial; on the other hand, the lively dread that he was concealing himself, and might be discovered by the police every new day the sun rose. They had speculated so much upon where he could be, that the ever-recurring thought now brought only its heart-sickness; and Maude had the additional pain of hearing petty shafts launched at her because she was his sister. Mrs. Chattaway prayed upon her bended knees that, hard to be borne as the suspense was, Rupert might not return until time should have softened the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and the grievous charge be done away with for want of a prosecutor.

  Nora was in the midst of bustle at Trevlyn Farm. And Nora was also in a temper. It was the annual custom there, when the busy time of harvest was over, to institute a general house-renovating: summer curtains were taken down, winter ones were put up, carpets were shaken, floors and paint scoured; and the place, in short, to use an ordinary expression, was turned inside out.

  There was more than usual to be done this year: for mendings and alterations had to be made in sundry curtains, and the upholstering woman, named Brown, had been at Trevlyn Farm the last day or two, getting forward with her work. Nora’s ruse in the court at Barmester, to wile Farmer Apperley to a private conference, had really some point in it, for negotiations were going on with that industrious member of the upholstering society through Mrs. Apperley, who had recommended her.

  Mrs. Brown sat in the centre of a pile of curtains, steadil
y plying her needle: the finishing stitches were being put to the work; at least, they would be before night closed in. Mrs. Brown, a sallow woman with a chronic cold in her head, preferred to work in outdoor costume; a black poke bonnet and faded woollen shawl crossed over her shoulders. Nora stood by her in a very angry mood, her arms folded, just as though she had nothing to do: a circumstance to be recorded in these cleaning times.

  For Nora never let the grass grow under her feet, or under any one else’s feet, when there was work in hand. By dint of beginning hours before daylight, and keeping at it hours after nightfall, she succeeded in getting it all over in one day. Herself, Nanny, and Ann Canham put their best energies into it, one or two of the men were set to rub up the mahogany furniture, and Mrs. Ryle had almost entirely to dispense with being waited upon. And Nora’s present anger arose from the fact that Ann Canham, by some extraordinary mischance, had not made her appearance.

  It was bringing things almost to a standstill, as Nora complained to Mrs. Brown. The two cleaners were Nanny and Ann Canham. Nanny was doing her part, but what was to become of the other part? And where was Ann Canham? Nora kept her eyes turned to the window, as she talked and grumbled, watching for the return of Jim Sanders, whom she had despatched to see after Ann.

  Presently she saw him approaching, went to the door and threw it open long before the lad reached it. “She can’t come,” he called out at length.

  “Not come!” echoed Nora, in wrathful consternation, looking as if she felt inclined to beat Jim for bringing the message. “What on earth does she mean by that?”

  “She said her father was ill, and she couldn’t leave him,” returned Jim.

  Nora could scarcely speak from indignation. Old Canham, as was known to the neighbourhood, had been ailing for years, and it had never kept Ann at home before. “I don’t believe it,” said she, in her perplexity.

  “I don’t think I do, neither,” returned Jim. “I’m a’most sure old Canham was right afore the fire, smoking his pipe as usual. She put the door to behind her, all in a hurry, while she talked to me, but not afore I see old Canham there. I be next to certain of it.”

  Nora could not understand the state of affairs. Ann Canham, humble, industrious, grateful for any day’s work offered to her, had never failed to come, when engaged, in all Barbrook’s experience. What was to be done? The morrow was Saturday, and to have the cleaning extended to that day would have upset the farm’s regularity and Nora’s temper for a month.

  Nora took a sudden resolution. She put on her bonnet and shawl and set off for the lodge, determined to bring Ann Canham back willing or unwilling, or know the reason why. This contretemps would be quite a life-long memory for Nora.

  Without any superfluous knocking, Nora turned the handle of the door when she reached the lodge. But the door was locked. “What can that be for?” ejaculated Nora — for she had never known the lodge locked in the day-time. “She expects I shall come after her, and thinks she’ll keep me out!”

  Without an instant’s delay, Nora’s face was at the window, to reconnoitre the interior. She saw the smock-frock of old Mark disappearing through the opposite door as quickly as was consistent with his rheumatism. Nora rattled the handle of the door with one hand, and knocked sharply on its panel with the other. Ann opened it.

  “Now, Ann Canham, what’s the meaning of this?” she began, pushing past Ann, who stood in the way, almost as if she would have kept her out.

  “I beg a humble pardon, ma’am, a hundred times,” was the low, deprecating answer. “I’d do anything rather than disappoint you — such a thing has never happened to me yet — but I’m obliged. Father’s too poorly for me to leave him.”

  Nora surveyed her critically. The woman was evidently in a state of discomfort, if not terror. She trembled visibly, and her lips were white.

  “I got a boy to run down to Mrs. Sanders’s this morning at daylight, and ask her to take my place,” resumed Ann Canham. “Until Jim came up here a short while ago, I never thought but she had went.”

  “What’s the reason you can’t come?” demanded Nora, uncompromisingly stern.

  “I’d come but for father.”

  “You needn’t peril your soul with deliberate untruths,” interrupted angry Nora. “There’s nothing the matter with your father; nothing that need hinder your coming out. If he’s well enough to be in the house-place, smoking his pipe, he’s well enough to be left. He was smoking. And what’s that?” — pointing to the pipe her eyes had detected in the corner of the hearth.

  Ann Canham stood the picture of helplessness under the reproach. She stammered out that she “daredn’t leave him: he wasn’t himself to-day.”

  “He was sufficiently himself to make off on seeing me,” said angry Nora. “What’s to become of my cleaning? Who’s to do it if you don’t? I insist upon your coming, Ann Canham.”

  It appeared almost beyond Ann Canham’s courage to bring out a second refusal, and she burst into tears. She had never failed before, and hoped, if forgiven this time, never to fail again: but to leave her father that day was impossible.

  And Nora had to make the best of the refusal. She went away searching the woman’s motive, and came to the conclusion that she must have some sewing in hand she was compelled to finish: that Mark’s illness was detaining her, she did not believe. Still, she could not comprehend it. Ann had always been so eager to oblige, so simple and straightforward. Had sewing really detained her, she would have brought it out to Nora; would have told the truth, not making her father’s health the excuse. Nora was puzzled, and that was a thing she hated. Ruminating upon all this as she walked along, she met Mrs. Chattaway. Nora, who, when suffering under a grievance, must dilate upon it to everyone, favoured Mrs. Chattaway with an account of Ann Canham’s extraordinary conduct and ingratitude.

  “Rely upon it, her father is ill,” answered Mrs. Chattaway. “I will tell you why I think so, Nora. Yesterday I was at Barmester with my sister, and as we pulled up at the chemist’s where I had business, Ann Canham came out with a bottle of medicine in her hand. I asked her who was ill, and she said it was her father. I remarked to the chemist afterwards that I supposed Mark Canham had a fresh attack of rheumatism, but he replied that it was fever.”

  “Fever!” echoed Nora.

  “I exclaimed as you do: but the chemist persisted that Mark must be suffering from a species of low fever. As we returned, my sister stopped the pony carriage at the lodge, and Ann came out to us. She explained it differently from the chemist. What she had meant to imply when she went for the medicine was, that her father was feverish — but he was better then, she said. Altogether, I suppose he is worse than usual, and she is afraid to leave him to-day.”

  “Well,” said Nora, “all I can say is that I saw old Canham stealing out of the room when I knocked at it, just as though he did not want to be seen. He was smoking, too. I can’t make it out.”

  Mrs. Chattaway was neither so speculative nor so curious as Nora; perhaps not so keen: she viewed it as nothing extraordinary that Mark Canham should be rather worse than usual, or that his daughter should decline to leave him.

  Much later in the day — in fact, when the afternoon was passing — Ann Canham, with a wild look in her face, turned out of the lodge and took the road towards Trevlyn Farm. Not openly, as people do who have nothing to fear, but in a timorous, uncertain, hesitating manner. Plunging into the fields when she was nearing the farm, she stole along under cover of the hedge, until she reached the one which skirted the fold-yard. Cautiously raising her head to see what might be on the other side, it almost came into contact with another head, raised to see anything that might be on this — the face of Policeman Dumps.

  Ann Canham uttered a shrill scream, and flew away as fast as her legs could carry her. Perhaps of all living beings, Mr. Dumps was about the last she would wish to encounter just then. That gentleman made his way to a side-gate, and called after her.

  “What be you afeard of, Ann Canham? Did
you think I was a mad bull looking over at you?”

  It occurred to Ann Canham that to start away in that extraordinary fashion could only be regarded as consistent with a guilty conscience, and the policeman might set himself to discover her motive — as it lay in the nature of a policeman to do. That or some other thought made her turn slowly back again, and confront Mr. Dumps.

  “What was you afeard of?” he repeated.

  “Of nothing in particular, please, sir,” she answered. “It was the suddenness like of seeing a face that startled me.”

  Mr. Dumps thought she looked curiously startled still. But that complacent official, accustomed to strike terror to the hearts of boys and other scapegraces, did not give it a second thought. “Were you looking for anyone?” he asked, simply as an idle question.

  “No, sir. I just put my head over the hedge without meaning. I didn’t want nothing.”

  Mr. Dumps loftily turned on his heel without condescending so much as a “good afternoon.” Ann Canham pursued her way along the hedge which skirted the fold-yard. Any one observing her closely might have detected indications of fear about her still. In a cautious and timid manner, she at length turned her head, to obtain a glimpse of Mr. Dumps’s movements.

  Dumps had turned into the road, and was pursuing his way slowly down it. Every step carried him farther from her; and when he was fairly out of sight, her sigh of relief was long and deep.