Works of Ellen Wood, page 572
George did go and ask for himself. He could not understand it at all; and he had no more fancy for allowing Cris Chattaway the use of his horse than Nora had. He supposed they had exchanged steeds; though why they should do so, he could not imagine.
Sam Atkins was in the stable, talking to Roger, one of the men about the farm. George saw at a glance that his horse had been ridden hard.
“Who rode this horse home?” he inquired, as the groom touched his hat to him.
“Young Mr. Chattaway, sir.”
“And Mr. Rupert: what did he ride?”
“Mr. Rupert, sir? I don’t think he is come home.”
“Where’s Mr. Cris Chattaway’s own horse?”
“He left it at Blackstone, sir. It fell dead lame, he says. I be going for it now.”
George paused. “I lent my horse to Mr. Rupert,” he said. “Do you know why he did not use it himself?”
“I don’t know nothing about it, sir. Mr. Cris came home just now on your horse, told me to bring it down here, go on to Blackstone for his, and mind I led it gently home. He never mentioned Mr. Rupert.”
Considerably later — in fact, it was past nine o’clock — Rupert Trevlyn appeared. George Ryle was leaning over the gate at the foot of his garden in a musing attitude, the bright stars above him, the slight frost of the autumn night rendering the air clear, though not cold, when he saw a figure slowly winding up the road. It was Rupert Trevlyn. The same misfortune seemed to have befallen him that had befallen the horse, for he limped as he walked.
“Are you lame, Rupert?” asked George.
“Lame with fatigue; nothing else,” answered Rupert in that low, half-inaudible voice which a very depressed physical state will induce. “Let me come in and sit down half-an-hour, George, or I shall never get to the Hold.”
“How came you to let Cris Chattaway ride my horse home? I left it for you.”
“Let him! He mounted and galloped off without my knowing — the sneak! I should be ashamed to be guilty of such a trick. I declare I had half a mind to ride his horse home, lame as it was. But that the poor animal is evidently in pain, I would have done so.”
“You are very late.”
“I have been such a time coming. The truth is, I sat down when I was half-way here, so dead tired I couldn’t stir a step further; and I dropped asleep.”
“A wise proceeding!” cried George, in pleasant though mocking tones. He did not care to say more plainly how unwise it might be for Rupert Trevlyn. “Did you sleep long?”
“Pretty well. The stars were out when I awoke; and I felt ten times more tired when I got up than I had felt when I sat down.”
George placed him in a comfortable armchair, and got him a glass of wine, Nora brought some refreshment, but Rupert could not eat.
“Try it,” urged George.
“I can’t,” said Rupert; “I am completely done up.”
He leaned back in the chair, his fair hair falling on the cushions, his bright face — bright with a touch of inward fever — turned upwards to the light. Gradually his eyelids closed, and he dropped into a calm sleep.
George sat watching him. Mrs. Ryle, who was still poorly, had retired to her chamber for the night, and they were alone. Very unkindly, as may be thought, George woke him soon, and told him it was time to go.
“Do not deem me inhospitable, Rupert; but it will not do for you to be locked out again to-night.”
“What’s the time?” asked Rupert.
“Considerably past ten.”
“I was in quite a nice dream. I thought I was being carried along in a large sail belonging to a ship. The motion was pleasant and soothing. Past ten! What a bother! I shall be half dead again before I get to the Hold.”
“I’ll lend you my arm, Ru, to help you along.”
“That’s a good fellow!” exclaimed Rupert.
He got up and stretched himself, and then fell back in his chair, like a leaden weight. “I’d give five shillings to be there without the trouble of walking,” quoth he.
“Rupert, you will be late.”
“I can’t help it,” returned Rupert, folding his arms and leaning back again in the chair. “If Chattaway locks me out again, he must. I’ll sit down in the portico until morning, for I sha’n’t be able to stir another step from it.”
Rupert was in that physical depression which reacts upon the mind. Whether he got in or not, whether he passed the night in a comfortable bed, or under the trees in the avenue, seemed of very little moment in his present state of feeling. Altogether he was some time getting off; and they heard the far-off church clock at Barbrook chime the half-past ten before they were half-way to the Hold. The sound came distinctly to their ears on the calm night air.
“I was somewhere about this spot when the half-hour struck last night, for your clocks were fast,” remarked Rupert. “I ran all the way home after that — with what success, you know. I can’t run to-night.”
“I’ll do my best to get you in,” said George. “I hope I sha’n’t be tempted, though, to speak my mind too plainly to Chattaway.”
The Hold was closed for the night. Lights appeared in several of the windows. Rupert halted when he saw the light in one of them. “Aunt Diana must have returned,” he said; “that’s her room.”
George Ryle rang a loud, quick peal at the bell. It was not answered. He rang again, a sharp, urgent peal, and shouted with his stentorian voice; a prolonged shout that could not have come from the lungs of Rupert; and it brought Mr. Chattaway to the window of his wife’s dressing-room in surprise. One or two more windows in different parts of the house were thrown up.
“It is I, Mr. Chattaway. I have been assisting Rupert home. Will you be good enough to have the door opened?”
Mr. Chattaway was nearly struck dumb with the insolence of the demand, coming from the quarter it did. He could scarcely speak at first, even to refuse.
“He does not deserve your displeasure to-night,” said George, in his clear, ringing tones, which might be heard distinctly ever so far off. “He could scarcely get here from fatigue and illness. But for taking a rest at my mother’s house, and having the help of my arm up here, I question if he would have got as far. Be so good as to let him in, Mr. Chattaway.”
“How dare you make such a request to me?” roared Mr. Chattaway, recovering himself a little. “How dare you come disturbing the peace of my house at night, like any house-breaker — except that you make more noise about it!”
“I came to bring Rupert,” was George’s answer. “He is waiting to be let in; tired and ill.”
“I will not let him in,” raved Mr. Chattaway. “How dare you, I ask?”
“What is all this?” broke from the amazed voice of Miss Diana Trevlyn. “What does it mean? I don’t comprehend it in the least.”
George looked up at her window. “Rupert could not get home by the hour specified by Mr. Chattaway — half-past ten. I am asking that he may be admitted now, Miss Trevlyn.”
“Of course he can be admitted,” said Miss Diana.
“Of course he sha’n’t,” retorted Mr. Chattaway.
“Who says he couldn’t get home in time if he had wanted to come?” called out Cris from a window on the upper story. “Does it take him five or six hours to walk from Blackstone?”
“Is that you, Christopher?” asked George, falling back a little that he might see him better. “I want to speak to you. By what right did you take possession of my horse at Blackstone this afternoon, and ride him home?”
“I chose to do it,” said Cris.
“I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to walk. It would have been more generous — though you may not understand the word — had you left it for him. He was not in bed last night; has gone without food to-day — you were more capable of walking home than he.”
Miss Diana craned forth her neck. “Chattaway, I must inquire into this. Let that front-door be opened.”
“I will not,” he answered. And he banged down his window with a resolute air, as if to avoid further colloquy.
But in that same moment the lock of the front-door was turned, and it was thrown open by Octave Chattaway.
CHAPTER XVIII
AN OLD IMPRESSION
It was surely a scene to excite some interest, if only the interest of curiosity, that was presented at Trevlyn Hold that night. Octave Chattaway in evening dress — for she had not begun to prepare for bed, although some time in her chamber — standing at the hall-door which she had opened; Miss Diana pressing forward from the back of the hall in a hastily assumed dressing gown; Mr. Chattaway in a waistcoat; Cris in greater déshabille; and Mrs. Chattaway dressed as was Octave.
Rupert came in, coughing with the night air, and leaning on the arm of George Ryle. There was no light, except such as was afforded by a candle carried by Miss Trevlyn; but she stepped forward and lighted the lamp.
“Now then,” said she. “What is all this?”
“It is this,” returned the master of Trevlyn Hold: “that I make rules for the proper regulation of my household, and a beardless boy chooses to break them. I should think” — turning shortly upon Miss Diana— “that you are not the one to countenance that.”
“No,” said she; “when rules are made they must be kept. What is your defence, Rupert?”
Rupert had thrown himself upon a bench against the wall in utter weariness of mind and body. “I don’t care to make any defence,” said he, in his apathy, as he leaned his cheek upon his hand, and fixed his blue eyes on Miss Trevlyn; “I don’t know that there’s much defence to make. Mr. Chattaway orders me to be in by half-past ten. I was at George Ryle’s last night, and I a little exceeded the time, getting here five minutes or so after it, so I was locked out. Cris let himself in with his latch-key, but he would not let me in.”
Miss Diana glanced at Cris, but said nothing. Mr. Chattaway interrupted. George, erect, fearless, was standing opposite the group, and it was to him that Chattaway turned.
“What I want to know is this — by what right you interfere, George Ryle?”
“I am not aware that I have interfered — except by giving Rupert my arm up the hill, and asking you to admit him. No very unjustifiable interference, surely, Mr. Chattaway.”
“But it is, sir. And I ask why you presume to do it?”
“Presume? I saw Rupert to-night, accidentally, as he was coming from Blackstone. It was about nine o’clock. He appeared terribly tired, and wished to come into the house and rest. There he fell asleep. I awoke him in time, but he seemed too weary to get here himself, and I came with him to help him along. He walked slowly — painfully I should say; and it made him later than he ought to have arrived. Will you be so good, Mr. Chattaway, as to explain what part of this was unjustifiable interference? I do not see that I could have done less.”
“You will see that you do less in future,” growled Mr. Chattaway. “I will have no interference of yours between the Hold and Rupert Trevlyn.”
“You may make yourself perfectly easy,” returned George, some sarcasm in his tone. “Nothing could be farther from my intention than to interfere in any way with you, or with the Hold, or with Rupert in connection with you and the Hold. But, as I told you this morning, until you show me good and sufficient reason for the contrary, I shall observe common courtesy to Rupert when he comes in my way.”
“Nonsense!” interposed Miss Diana. “Who says you are not to show courtesy to Rupert? Do you?” wheeling sharply round on Chattaway.
“There’s one thing requires explanation,” said Mr. Chattaway, turning to Rupert, and drowning Miss Diana’s voice. “How came you to stop at Blackstone till this time of night? Where had you been loitering?”
Rupert answered the questions mechanically, never lifting his head. “I didn’t leave until late. Ford wanted to go home, and I had to stop. After that I sat down on the way and dropped asleep.”
“Sat down on your way and dropped asleep!” echoed Miss Diana. “What made you do that?”
“I don’t know. I had been tired all day. I had no bed, you hear, last night. I suppose I can go to mine now?” he added, rising. “I want it badly enough.”
“You can go — for this time,” assented the master of Trevlyn Hold. “But you will understand that it is the last night I shall suffer my rules to be set at naught. You shall be in to time, or you do not come in at all.”
Rupert shook hands with George Ryle, spoke a general “Good night” to the rest collectively, and went towards the stairs. At the back of the hall, lingering there in her timidity, stood Mrs. Chattaway. “Good night, dear Aunt Edith,” he whispered.
She gave no answer: only laid her hand upon his as he passed: and so momentary was the action that it escaped unobserved, except by one pair of eyes — those of Octave Chattaway.
George was the next to go. Octave put out her hand to him. “Does Caroline come to the harvest-home?” she inquired.
“Yes, I think so. Good night.”
“Good night,” replied Octave, amiably. “I am glad you took care of Rupert.”
“She’s as false as her father,” thought George, as he went down the avenue.
They were all dispersing. There was nothing now to remain up for. Chattaway was turning to the staircase, when Miss Diana stepped inside one of the sitting-rooms, carrying her candle, and beckoned to him.
“What do you want, Diana?” he asked, not in pleasant tones, as he followed her in.
“Why did you shut out Rupert last night?”
“Because I chose to do it!”
“But suppose I chose that he should not be shut out?”
“Then we shall split,” angrily rejoined the master of Trevlyn Hold. “I say that half-past ten is quite late enough for Rupert. He is younger than Cris; you and Edith say he is not strong; is it too early?”
Mr. Chattaway was so far right. It was a sufficiently late hour; and Miss Diana, after a pause, pronounced it to be so. “I shall talk to Rupert,” she said. “There’s no harm in his going to spend an hour or two with George Ryle, or with any other friend, but he must be home in good time.”
“Just so; he must be home in good time,” acquiesced Chattaway. “He shall be home by half-past ten. And the only way to insure that, is to lock him out at first when he transgresses. Therefore, Diana, I shall follow my own way in this, and I beg you not to interfere.”
Miss Diana went up to Rupert’s room. He had taken off his coat, and thrown himself on the bed, as if the fatigue of undressing were too much for him.
“What’s that for?” asked Miss Diana, as she entered. “Is that the way you get into bed?”
Rupert rose and sat down on a chair. “Only coming upstairs seems to tire me,” he said in tones of apology. “I should not have lain a minute.”
Miss Diana threw back her head a little, and looked at Rupert: the determined will of the Trevlyns shining out in every line of her face.
“I have come to ask where you slept last night. I mean to know, Rupert.”
“I don’t mind your knowing,” replied Rupert; “I have told Aunt Edith. I decline to tell Chattaway, and I hope that no one else will tell him.”
“Why?”
“Because he might lay blame where no blame is due. Chattaway turned me from the door, Aunt Diana, and Cris, who came up just after, turned me from it also. I went down to the lodge, and Ann Canham let me in; and I lay part of the night on their hard settle, and part of the night I sat upon it. That’s where I was. But if Chattaway knew it, he’d turn old Canham and Ann from the lodge, as he turned me from the door.”
“Oh no, he wouldn’t,” said Miss Diana, “if it were my pleasure to keep them in it. Do you feel ill, Rupert?”
“I feel middling. It is that I am tired, I suppose. I shall be all right in the morning.”
Miss Diana descended to her own room. Waiting there for her was Mrs. Chattaway. In spite of a shawl thrown over her shoulders, she seemed to be shivering. She slipped the bolt of the door — what was she afraid of? — and turned to Miss Trevlyn, her hands clasped.
“Diana, this is killing me!” she wailed. “Why should Rupert be treated as he is? I know I am but a poor creature, that I have been one all my life — a very coward; but sometimes I think that I must speak out and protest against the injustice, though I should die in the effort.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” uttered Miss Diana, whose intense composure formed a strange contrast to her sister’s agitated words and bearing.
“Oh, you know! — you know! I have not dared to speak out much, even to you, Diana; but it’s killing me — it’s killing me! Is it not enough that we despoiled Rupert of his inheritance, but we must also — —”
“Be silent!” sharply interrupted Miss Diana, glancing around and lowering her voice to a whisper. “Will you never have done with that folly, Edith?”
“I shall never have done with its remembrance. I don’t often speak of it; once, it may be, in seven years, not more. Better for me that I could speak of it; it would prey less upon my heart!”
“You have benefited by it as much as any one has.”
“I cannot help myself. Heaven knows that if I could retire to some poor hut, and live upon a crust of bread, and benefit by it no more, I should do so — oh, how willingly! But there’s no escape. I am hemmed in by its consequences; we are all hemmed in by them — and there’s no escape.”
Miss Diana looked at her. Steadfastly, keenly; not angrily, but searchingly and critically, as a doctor looks at a patient supposed to be afflicted with mania.
“If you do not take care, Edith, you will become insane upon this point, as I believe I have warned you before,” she said, with calmness. “I am not sure but you are slightly touched now!”
“I do not think I am,” replied poor Mrs. Chattaway, passing her hand over her brow. “I feel confused enough sometimes, but there’s no fear that madness will really come. If thinking could have turned me mad, I should have gone mad years ago.”
“The very act of your coming here in this excited state, when you should be going to bed, and saying what you do say, must be nothing less than a degree of madness.”
