Works of Ellen Wood, page 599
Mr. Chattaway was not in a good humour that morning — which is not saying much: but he was in an unusually bad one. A man who rented a small farm of fifty acres under him had come in to pay his annual rent. That is, he had paid part of it, pleading unavoidable misfortune for not being able to make up the remainder, and begging time and grace. It did not please Mr. Chattaway — never a more exacting man than he with his tenants — and the unhappy defaulter wound up the displeasure to a climax by inquiring, innocently and simply, really not meaning any offence, whether any news of the poor young Squire had come to light.
Mr. Chattaway had not done digesting the unpalatable remark when George entered. “Good morning, Mr. Chattaway,” was his greeting. And perhaps of all his tenants George Ryle was the only one who did not on these occasions, when they met face to face as landlord and tenant, address him by his coveted title of “Squire.”
“Good morning,” returned Mr. Chattaway, shortly and snappishly. “Take a seat.”
George drew a chair to the table at which Mr. Chattaway sat. Opening a substantial bag, he counted out notes and gold, and a few shillings in silver, which he divided into two portions; then, with his hands, he pushed each nearer Mr. Chattaway, one after the other.
“This is the year’s rent, Mr. Chattaway; and this, I am happy to say, is the last instalment of the debt and interest which my father owed — or was said to owe — to Squire Trevlyn. Will you be so good as to give me a receipt in full?”
Mr. Chattaway swept towards him the heap designated as the rent, apparently ignoring the other. “What have you deducted?” he asked, in angry tones, as he counted it over, and found that it came somewhat short of the sum expected.
“Not much,” replied George; “only what I have a right to deduct. The fences, and —— But I have the accounts with me,” he continued, taking three or four papers from his pocket. “You can look them over.”
Mr. Chattaway scrutinised the papers one by one, but he was unable to find anything to object to in the items. George Ryle knew better than to deduct money for anything that did not fall legally to the landlord. But it was in Mr. Chattaway’s nature to dispute.
“If I brought this matter of the fences into court I believe it would be given against you.”
“I don’t think you believe anything of the sort,” returned George, good-humouredly. “If you have any great wish to try it, you can do so: but the loss would be yours.”
Probably Mr. Chattaway knew that it would be. He said no more, but proceeded to count the other money. It was all there, both principal and interest. In vain Mr. Chattaway opened his books of the days gone by, and went over old figures; he could not claim another fraction. The long-pending two thousand pounds, the disputed loan, which had caused so much heart-burning, and had led in a remote degree to Mr. Ryle’s violent death, was at length paid off.
“As I have paid former sums under the same protest that my father did, so I now pay this last and final one,” said George, in a civil but straightforward and business-like tone. “I believe that Squire Trevlyn cancelled the debt on his death-bed; I and my mother have lived in that belief; but there was no document to prove it, and we have had to bear the consequences. It is all, however, honourably paid now.”
Mr. Chattaway could not demur to this, and gave a receipt — in full, as George expressed it — for that and the year’s rent. As George put the former safely in his pocket-book, he felt like a bird released from a long and cruel imprisonment. He was a free man and a joyous one.
“That farm of yours has turned out well of late years,” observed Mr. Chattaway.
“Very well: there’s the proof,” pointing to the money. “To tell you the truth, I gave myself two more years to pay it off in, and Mrs. Ryle thought it would take longer. But I have prospered in my bargains with stock. Would you be afraid to try me on a farm on my own account?”
Had it been any eligible person except George Ryle, Mr. Chattaway would probably have said he should not be afraid; but Chattaway did not like George Ryle. He disliked him, as a mean, ill-principled man will dislike and shun an honourable one.
“I should think that when you are making Trevlyn Farm answer so well, you would be loth to leave it,” he remarked ungraciously.
“So I might be, were Trevlyn Farm mine alone. Of all the returns which have accrued from my care and labour, not a shilling has found its way to me: I have worked entirely for others. But for the heavy costs which have been upon us, the chief of which were Treve’s expenses and this old debt of Squire Trevlyn’s, there would have been a fair sum to put by yearly, and I imagine my mother would have allowed me to take my portion. I believe she intends to do so by Treve, and I hope Treve will make as good a thing of the farm as I have made.”
“That’s not likely,” slightingly spoke Mr. Chattaway.
“He may do well if he chooses; there’s no doubt about it, and he can always come to me for advice. I shall not be far off — at least, if I can settle as I hope. My mother wishes the lease transferred into Trevlyn’s name. I suppose there will be no objection to it.”
“I’ll consider it,” shortly replied Mr. Chattaway.
“And now, Mr. Chattaway,” George continued, with a smile, “I want you to promise me the lease of the Upland Farm. It will be vacant in spring.”
“You are mad to ask it,” said Chattaway. “A man without a shilling — and you have just informed me you don’t possess one — can’t undertake the Upland Farm. That farm’s only suited to a gentleman” — and he laid an offensive stress upon the word: “one whose pockets are lined with money. I have had an application for the Upland Farm, which I think I shall accept. In fact, for the matter of that, I had some thought of retaining it in my own hands, and putting in a bailiff to manage it.”
“You had better let it to me,” returned George, not losing his good humour. “Was the application made to you by Mr. Peterby?”
Mr. Chattaway stared in surprise at his knowing so much. “What if it was?” he returned resentfully.
“Why, then, I can tell you that it will not be repeated. Mr. Peterby’s client — I am not sure that I am at liberty to mention his name — has given up the idea. Partly because I have told him I want the farm myself, and he says he won’t oppose me, out of respect to my father’s memory; partly because Mr. Peterby has heard of another likely to suit him as well, if not better. All the neighbours would be glad to see me take the Upland Farm.”
Mr. Chattaway’s breath was almost taken away with the insolence. “Had you not better constitute yourself manager of my estate, and let my farms to whom you please?” he cried sarcastically. “How dare you interfere with my tenants, or with those who would become my tenants?”
“I have not interfered with them. This client of Mr. Peterby’s happened to mention to me that he had asked the firm to make inquiries about the Upland Farm. I immediately rejoined that it was the very farm I was hoping to take myself; and he determined of his own goodwill not to oppose me.”
“Who was it?”
“One who would not have suited you, if you have set your mind upon a gentleman,” freely answered George. “He is an honest man, and a man whose coffers are well lined through his own industry; but he could not by any stretch of imagination be called a gentleman. It is Cope, the butcher — I may as well tell you. Since he retired from his shop, he finds time hangs on his hands, and has resolved to turn farmer. Mr. Chattaway, I hope you will let me have it.”
“It appears to me nothing less than audacity to ask it,” was the chilling retort. “Pray, where’s your money to come from to stock it?”
“It’s all ready,” said George.
Mr. Chattaway looked at him, thinking the assertion a joke. “If you have nothing better to do with your time than to jest it away, I have with mine,” was the delicate hint he gave in reply.
“I repeat that the money is ready,” continued George. “Mr. Chattaway, I do not wish to conceal anything from you: to be otherwise than quite open with you. The money to stock the Upland Farm is going to be lent to me; you will be surprised when I tell you by whom — Mr. Apperley.”
Mr. Chattaway was very much surprised. It was not much in Farmer Apperley’s line to lend money: he was too cautious a man.
“It’s quite true,” said George, laughing. “He has so good an opinion of my skill as a farmer, or of the Upland Farm’s capabilities, that he has offered to lend me sufficient money to take it.”
“I should have thought you had had enough of farming land upon borrowed money,” ungenerously retorted Chattaway.
“So I have — from one point of view,” was the composed answer. “But I have managed to clear off the debt, you see, and don’t doubt I shall be able to do the same again. Apperley proposes only a fair rate of interest; considerably less than I have been paying you.”
“It is strange that you, a young and single man, should raise your ambitious eyes to the Upland Farm.”
“Not at all. If I don’t take the Upland, I shall take some other equally large. But I should have to go a greater distance, and I don’t care to do that. As to being a single man — perhaps that might be remedied if you will let me have the Upland.”
He spoke with a laugh; yet Mr. Chattaway detected a serious meaning in the tone, and he gazed hard at George. It may be that his thoughts glanced at his daughter Octave.
There was a long pause. “Are you thinking of marrying?”
“As soon as circumstances will allow me to do so.”
“And who is the lady?”
George shook his head; a very decisive shake, in spite of the smile on his lips. “I cannot tell you now; you will know sometime.”
“I suppose I shall, if the match ever comes off,” returned Chattaway, in a very cross-grained manner. “If it has to wait until you rent the Upland Farm, it may wait indefinitely.”
“You will promise me the lease of it, Mr. Chattaway. You cannot think but I shall do the land justice, or be anything but a good tenant.”
“I won’t promise anything of the sort,” was the dogged reply. “I’ll promise you, if you like, that you never shall have the lease of it.”
And, talk as George would, he could not get him into a more genial frame of mind. At length he rose, good-humoured and gay; as he had been throughout the interview.
“Never mind for the present, Mr. Chattaway. I shall not let you alone until you promise me the farm. There’s plenty of time between now and spring.”
As he was crossing the hall on his way to the door, he saw Miss Diana Trevlyn, and stopped to shake hands with her. “You have been paying your rent, I suppose,” she said.
“My rent and something else,” replied George, in high spirits — the removal of that incubus which had so long lain on him had sent them up to fever heat. “I have handed over the last instalment of the debt and interest, Miss Diana, and have the receipt here” — touching his breast-pocket. “I have paid it under protest, as I have always told Mr. Chattaway; for I fully believe Squire Trevlyn cancelled it.”
“If I thought my father cancelled it, Mr. Chattaway should never have had my approbation in pressing it,” severely spoke Miss Diana. “Is it true that you think of leaving Trevlyn Farm? Rumour says so.”
“Quite true. It is time I began life on my own account. I have been asking Mr. Chattaway to let me have the Upland.”
“The Upland! You!” There was nothing offensive in Miss Diana’s exclamation: it was spoken in simple surprise.
“Why not? I may be thinking of getting a wife; and the Upland is the only farm in the neighbourhood I would take her to.”
Miss Diana smiled in answer to his joke, as she thought it. “The house on the Upland Farm is quite a mansion,” she returned, keeping up the jest. “Will no lesser one suffice her?”
“No. She is a gentlewoman born and bred, and must live as one.”
“George, you speak as if you were in earnest. Are you really thinking of being married?”
“If I can get the Upland Farm. But — —”
George was startled from the conclusion of his sentence. Over Miss Diana’s shoulder, gazing at him with a strangely wild expression, was the face of Octave Chattaway, her lips parted, her face crimson.
CHAPTER L
DILEMMAS
About ten days elapsed, and Rupert Trevlyn, lying in concealment at the lodge, was both better and worse. The prompt remedies applied by Mr. King had effected their object in abating the fever; it had not developed into brain-fever or typhus, and the tendency to delirium was arrested; so far he was better. But these symptoms had been replaced by others that might prove not less dangerous in the end: great prostration, alarming weakness, and what appeared to be a settled cough. The old tendency to consumption was showing itself more plainly than it had ever shown itself before.
He had had a cough often enough, which had come and gone again, as coughs come to a great many of us; but the experienced ear of Mr. King detected a difference in this one. “It has a nasty sound in it,” the doctor privately remarked to George Ryle. Poor Ann Canham, faint at heart lest this cough should betray his presence, pasted up all the chinks, and kept the door hermetically closed when any one was downstairs. Things usually go by contrary, you know; and it seemed that the lodge had never been so inundated with callers.
Two great cares were upon those in the secret: to keep Rupert’s presence in the lodge from the knowledge of the outside world, and to supply him with proper food. Upon none did the first press so painfully as upon Rupert himself. His dread lest his place of concealment should be discovered by Mr. Chattaway was never ceasing. When he lay awake, his ears were on the strain for what might be happening downstairs, who might be coming in; if he dozed — as he did several times in the course of the day — his dreams were haunted by pursuers, and he would start up wildly in bed, fancying he saw Mr. Chattaway entering with the police at his heels. For twenty minutes afterwards he would lie bathed in perspiration, unable to get the fright or the vision out of his mind.
There was no doubt that this contributed to increase his weakness and keep him back. Let Rupert Trevlyn’s future be what it might; let the result be the very worst; one thing was certain — any actual punishment in store for him could not be worse than this anticipation. Imagination is more vivid than reality. He would lie and go through the whole ordeal of his future trial: would see himself in the dock, not before the magistrates of Barmester, but before a scarlet-robed judge; would listen to the evidence of Mr. Chattaway and Jim Sanders, bringing home the crime to him; would hear the irrevocable sentence from those grave lips — that of penal servitude. Nothing could be worse for him than these visions. And there was no help for them. Had Rupert been in strong health, he might have shaken off some of these haunting fears; lying as he did in his weakness, they took the form of morbid disease, adding greatly to his bodily sickness.
His ear strained, he would start up whenever a footstep was heard to enter the downstairs room, breathing softly to Ann Canham, or whoever might be sitting with him, the question: “Is it Chattaway?” And Ann would cautiously peep down the staircase, or bend her ear to listen, and tell him who it really was. But sometimes several minutes would elapse before she could find out; sometimes she would be obliged to go down upon some plausible errand, and then come back and tell him. The state that Rupert would fall into during these moments of suspense no pen could describe. It was little wonder that Rupert grew weaker.
And the fears of discovery were not misplaced. Every hour brought its own danger. It was absolutely necessary that Mr. King should visit him at least once a day, and each time he ran the risk of being seen by Chattaway, or by some one equally dangerous. Old Canham could not feign to be on the sick list for ever; especially, sufficiently sick to require daily medical attendance. George Ryle ran the risk of being seen entering the lodge; as well as Mrs. Chattaway and Maude, who could not abandon their stolen interviews with the poor sufferer. “It is my only happy hour in the four-and-twenty; you must not fail me!” he would say to them, imploringly holding out his fevered hands. Some evenings Mrs. Chattaway would steal there, sometimes Maude, now and then both together.
Underlying it all in Rupert’s mind was the sense of guilt for having committed so desperate a crime. Apart from those moments of madness, which the neighbourhood had been content for years to designate as the Trevlyn temper, few living men were so little likely to commit the act as Rupert. Rupert was of a mild, kindly temperament, a very sweet disposition; one of those inoffensive people of whom we are apt to say they would not hurt a fly. Of Rupert it was literally true. Only in these rare fits was he transformed; and never had the fit been upon him as on that unhappy night. It was not so much repentance for the actual crime that overwhelmed him, as surprise that he had perpetrated it. “I was not conscious of the act,” he would groan aloud; “I was mad when I did it.” Perhaps so; but the consequences remained. Poor Rupert! Remorse was his portion, and he was in truth repenting in sackcloth and ashes.
The other care upon him — supplying Rupert with appropriate nourishment — brought almost as much danger and difficulty in its train as concealing him. A worse cook than Ann Canham could not be found. It was her misfortune, rather than her fault. Living in extreme poverty all her life, no opportunity for learning or improving herself in cooking had ever been afforded her. The greatest luxury that ever entered old Canham’s lodge was a bit of toasted or boiled bacon.
It was not invalid dishes that Rupert wanted now. As soon as the fever began to leave him, his appetite returned. Certain cases of incipient consumption are accompanied by a craving for food difficult to satisfy, and this unfortunately became the case with Rupert. Had he been at the Hold, or in a plentiful home, he would have played his full part at the daily meals, and assisted their digestion with interludes besides.
