Works of Ellen Wood, page 579
“Madam,” said Mr. Daw, “did the enormity of the injustice never strike you?”
“Will you be so good as to tell me by what right you interfere?” returned Miss Diana. “I cannot conceive what business it can be of yours.”
“I think the redressing of the injustice should be made the business of everyone.”
“What a great deal everyone would have to do!” exclaimed Miss Diana.
“With regard to my right of interference, Miss Trevlyn, the law might not give me any; but I assume it by the bond of friendship. I was with his father when he died; I was with his mother. Poor thing! it was only within the last six or seven hours of her life that danger was apprehended. They both died in the belief that their children would inherit Trevlyn Hold. Madam,” quite a blaze of light flushing from his dark eyes, “I have lived all the years since, believing they were in the enjoyment of it.”
“You believed rightly,” equably rejoined Miss Diana. “They have been in the enjoyment of it. It has been their home.”
“As it may be the home of any of your servants,” returned Mr. Daw; and Miss Diana did not like the comparison.
“May I ask,” she continued, “if you came into this neighbourhood for the express purpose of putting this ‘injustice’ to rights?”
“No, madam, I did not. But it is unnecessary for you to be sarcastic with me. I wish to urge the matter upon you in a friendly rather than an adverse spirit. Business connected with my own affairs brought me to London some ten days ago, from the place where I had lived so long. As I was so near, I thought I would come down and see my former friend Freeman, before starting homewards; for I dare say I shall never again return to England. I knew Barbrook Parsonage and Trevlyn Hold were not very far apart, and I anticipated the pleasure of meeting Joe Trevlyn’s children, whom I had known as infants. I never supposed but that Rupert was in possession of Trevlyn Hold. You may judge of my surprise when I arrived yesterday and heard the true state of the case.”
“You have a covert motive in this,” suddenly exclaimed Miss Diana, in a voice that had turned to sharpness.
“Covert motive?” he repeated, looking at her.
“Yes. Had you been, as you state, so interested in the welfare of Rupert Trevlyn and his sister, does it stand to reason that you would never have inquired after them through all these long years?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Trevlyn: the facts are precisely as I have stated them. Strange as it may seem, I never once wrote to inquire after them, and the neglect strikes me forcibly now. But I am naturally inert, and all correspondence with my own country had gradually ceased. I did often think of the little Trevlyns, but it was always to suppose them as being at Trevlyn Hold, sheltered by their appointed guardian.”
“What appointed guardian?” cried Miss Diana.
“Yourself.”
“I! I was not the appointed guardian of the Trevlyns.”
“Indeed you were. You were appointed by their mother. The letter — the deed, I may say, for I believe it to have been legally worded — was written when she was dying.”
Miss Trevlyn had never heard of any deed. “Who wrote it?” she asked, after a pause.
“I did. When dangerous symptoms set in, and she was told she might not live, Mrs. Trevlyn sent for me. She had her little baby baptized Rupert, for it had been her husband’s wish that the child, if a boy, should be so named, and then I sat down by her bedside at her request, and wrote the document. She entreated Miss Diana Trevlyn — you, madam — to reside at Trevlyn Hold as its mistress, when it should lapse to Rupert, and be the guardian and protector of her children, until Rupert came of age. She besought you to love them, and be kind to them for their father’s sake; for her sake; for the sake, also, of the friendship which had once existed between you and her. This will prove to you,” he added in a different tone, “that poor Mrs. Trevlyn, at least, never supposed there was a likelihood of any other successor to the estate.”
“I never heard of it,” exclaimed Miss Diana, waking up as from a reverie. “Was the document sent to me?”
“It was enclosed in the despatch which acquainted Squire Trevlyn with Mrs. Trevlyn’s death. I wrote them both, and I enclosed them together, and sent them.”
“Directed to whom?”
“To Squire Trevlyn.”
Miss Diana sent her thoughts into the past. It was Chattaway who had received that despatch. Could he have dared to suppress any communication intended for her? Her haughty brow grew crimson at the thought; but she suppressed all signs of annoyance.
“Will you allow me to renew my acquaintance with little Maude?” resumed Mr. Daw. “Little Maude then, and a lovely child; a beautiful girl, as I hear, now.”
Miss Diana hesitated — a very uncommon thing for her to do. It is strange what trifles turn the current of feelings: and this last item of intelligence had wonderfully softened her towards this stranger. But she remembered the interests at stake, and thought it best to be prudent.
“You must pardon the refusal,” she said. “I quite appreciate your wish to serve Rupert Trevlyn, but it can only fail, and further intercourse will not be agreeable to either party. You will allow me to wish you good morning, and to thank you.”
She rang the bell, and bowed him out, with all the grand courtesy belonging to the Trevlyns. As he passed through the hall, he caught a glimpse of a lovely girl with a delicate bloom on her cheeks and large blue eyes. Instinct told him it was Maude; and he likewise thought he traced some resemblance to her mother. He took a step forward involuntarily, to accost her, but recollecting himself, drew back again.
It was scarcely the thing to do: in defiance of Miss Diana Trevlyn’s recent refusal.
CHAPTER XXVI
AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY
The dew was lying upon the grass in the autumn morning as the Squire of Trevlyn Hold rode from his door. He had hurried over his breakfast, his horse waiting for him, and he spurred him impatiently along the avenue. Ann Canham had not yet opened the gate. Upon hearing a horse’s hoofs, she ran out to do so; and stood holding it back, dropping her humble curtsey as Mr. Chattaway rode past. He vouchsafed not the slightest notice: neither by glance nor nod did he appear conscious of her presence. It was his usual way.
“He’s off to Blackstone early,” thought Ann, as she fastened back the gate.
But Mr. Chattaway did not turn towards Blackstone. He turned in the opposite direction and urged his horse to a gallop. Ann Canham looked after him.
“He has business at Barmester, maybe,” was the conclusion to which she came.
Nothing more sure. He rode briskly to the town, and pulled up his horse almost at the same spot where you once saw him pull it up before — the house of Messrs. Wall and Barnes.
Not that he was about to visit that flourishing establishment this morning. Next to it was a private house, on the door-plate of which might be read, “Mr. Flood, Solicitor”: and he was the gentleman Mr. Chattaway had come to see.
Attracted probably by the clatter of the horse — for Chattaway had pulled up suddenly, and with more noise than he need have done, there came one to the shop-door and looked out. It was Mr. Wall, and he stepped forth to shake hands with Chattaway.
“Good morning, Chattaway. You are in Barmester betimes. What lovely weather we are having for the conclusion of the harvest!”
“Very; it has been a fine harvest altogether,” replied Chattaway; and from his composure no one could have dreamt of the terrible care and perplexity running riot in his heart. “I want to say a word to Flood about a lease that is falling in, so I thought I’d start early and make a round of it on my way to Blackstone.”
“An accident occurred yesterday to your son and Madam Chattaway, did it not?” asked Mr. Wall. “News of it was flying about last night. I hope they are not much hurt.”
“Not at all. Cris was so stupid as to attempt to drive a horse unbroken for driving — a vicious temper, too. The dog-cart is half smashed. Here, you! come here.”
The last words were addressed to a boy in a tattered jacket, who was racing after a passing carriage. Mr. Chattaway wanted him to hold his horse; and the boy quickly changed his course, believing the office would be good for sixpence at least.
The lawyer’s outer door was open. There was a second door in the passage, furnished with a knocker: the office opened on the left. Mr. Chattaway tried the office-door; more as a matter of form than anything else. It was locked, as he expected, and would be until nine o’clock. So he gave an imposing knock at the other.
“I shall just catch him after breakfast,” soliloquised he, “and can have a quiet quarter-of-an-hour with him, undisturbed by —— Is Mr. Flood at home?”
He had tried the door as a matter of form, and in like manner put the question, passing in without ceremony: the servant arrested him.
“Mr. Flood’s out, sir. He is gone to London.”
“Gone to London!” ejaculated Chattaway.
“Yes, sir, not an hour ago. Went by the eight o’clock train.”
It was so complete a check to all his imaginings, that for a minute the master of Trevlyn Hold found speech desert him. Many a bad man on the first threat of evil flies to a lawyer, in the belief that he can, by the exercise of his craft, bring him out of it. Chattaway, after a night of intolerable restlessness, had come straight off to his lawyer, Flood, with the intention of confiding the whole affair to him, and asking what was to be done in it; never so much as glancing at the possibility of that legal gentleman’s absence.
“Went up by the eight o’clock train?” he repeated when he found his voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“And when’s he coming home?”
“He expects to be away about a week, sir.”
A worse check still. Chattaway’s terrible fear might have waited a day; but a week! — he thought suspense would drive him mad. He was a great deal too miserly to spend money upon an unnecessary journey, yet there appeared nothing for it but to follow Mr. Flood to London. That gentleman had heard perplexing secrets of Chattaway’s before, had always given him the best advice, and remained faithful to the trust; and Chattaway believed he might safely confide this new danger to him. Not to any other would he have breathed a word. In short, Flood was the only confidential adviser he possessed in the world.
“Where will Mr. Flood put up in London?”
“I can’t say, sir. I don’t know anything about where he stays. He goes up pretty often.”
“At the old place, I daresay,” muttered Chattaway to himself. “If not, I shall learn where, through his agents in Essex Street.”
He stood a moment on the pavement before mounting. A slow and cheap train would leave Barmester in half-an-hour for London. Should he go by that train? — go from Barmester, instead of returning home and taking the train at the little station near his own home? Was there need of so much haste? In Chattaway’s present frame of mind the utmost haste he could make was almost a necessary relief: but, on the other hand, would his sudden departure excite suspicion at home, or draw unwelcome attention to his movements abroad? Deep in thought was he, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. Turning sharply, he saw the honest face of the linen-draper close to his.
“The queerest thing was said to me last night, Chattaway. I stepped into Robbins, the barber’s, to have my hair and whiskers trimmed, and he told me a great barrister was down here, a leading man from the Chancery court, come upon some business connected with you and the late Squire Trevlyn. With the property, I mean.”
Chattaway’s heart leaped into his mouth.
“I thought it a queer tale,” continued Mr. Wall. “His mission here being to restore Rupert Trevlyn to the estates of his grandfather, Robbins said. Is there anything in it?”
Had the public already got hold of it, then? Was the awful thing no longer a fear but a reality? Chattaway turned his face away, and tried to be equal to the emergency.
“You are talking great absurdity, Wall. Who’s Robbins? Were I you, I should be ashamed to repeat the lies propagated by that chattering old woman.”
Mr. Wall laughed. “He certainly deals in news, does Robbins; it’s part of his trade. Of course one only takes his marvels for what they are worth. He got this from Barcome, the tax-collector. The man had arrived at the scene of the dog-cart accident shortly after its occurrence, and heard this barrister — who, as it seems, was also there — speaking publicly of the object of his mission.”
Chattaway snatched the reins from the ragged boy’s hands and mounted; his air expressing all the scorn he could command. “When they impound Squire Trevlyn’s will, then they may talk about altering the succession. Good morning, Wall.”
A torrent of howls, accompanied by words a magistrate on the bench must have treated severely, saluted his ears as he rode off. They came from the aggrieved steed-holder. Instead of the sixpence he fondly reckoned on, Chattaway had flung him a halfpenny.
He rode to an inn near the railway station, went in and called for pen and ink. The few words he wrote were to Miss Diana. He found himself obliged to go up unexpectedly to London on the business which she knew of, and requested her to make any plausible excuse for his absence that would divert suspicion from the real facts. He should be home on the morrow. Such was the substance of the note.
He addressed it to Miss Trevlyn of Trevlyn Hold, sealed it with his own seal, and marked it “private.” A most unnecessary additional security, the last. No inmate of Trevlyn Hold would dare to open the most simple missive, bearing the address of Miss Trevlyn. Then he called one of the stable-men.
“I want this letter taken to my house,” he said. “It is in a hurry. Can you go at once?”
The man replied that he could.
“Stay — you may ride my horse,” added Mr. Chattaway, as if the thought that moment struck him. “You will get there in half the time that you would if you walked.”
“Very well, sir. Shall I bring him back for you?”
“Um — m — m, no, I’ll walk,” decided Mr. Chattaway, stroking his chin as if to help his decision. “Leave the horse at the Hold.”
The man mounted the horse and rode away, never supposing Mr. Chattaway had been playing off a little ruse upon him, and had no intention of going to Trevlyn Hold that day, but was bound for a place rather farther off. In this innocent state he reached the Hold, while Mr. Chattaway made a détour and gained the station by a cross route, where he took train for London.
Cris Chattaway’s groom, Sam Atkins, was standing with his young master’s horse before the house, in waiting for that gentleman, when the messenger arrived. Not the new horse of the previous day’s notoriety, nor the one lamed at Blackstone, but a despised and steady old animal sometimes used in the plough.
“There haven’t been another accident surely!” exclaimed Sam Atkins, in his astonishment at seeing Mr. Chattaway’s steed brought home. “Where’s the Squire?”
“He’s all right; and has sent me up here with this,” was the man’s reply, producing the note. And at that moment Miss Diana Trevlyn appeared at the hall-door. Miss Diana was looking out for Mr. Chattaway. After the communication made to her that morning by Mr. Daw, she could only come to the conclusion that the paper had been suppressed by Chattaway, and was waiting in much wrath to demand his explanation of it.
“What brings the Squire’s horse back?” she imperiously demanded.
Sam Atkins handed her the note, which she opened and read. Read it twice attentively, and then turned indoors. “Chattaway’s a fool!” she angrily decided, “and is allowing this mare’s nest to prey on his fears. He ought to know that while my father’s will is in existence no earthly power can deprive him of Trevlyn Hold.”
She went upstairs to Mrs. Chattaway’s sitting-room. That lady, considerably recovered from the shock of the fall, was writing an affectionate letter to her daughter Amelia, telling her she might come home with Caroline Ryle. Miss Diana went straight up to the table, took a seat, and without the least apology closed Mrs. Chattaway’s desk.
“I want your attention for a moment, Edith. You can write afterwards. Carry your memory back to the morning, so many years ago, when we received the news of Rupert’s birth?”
“No effort is need to do that, Diana. I think of it all too often.”
“Very good. Then perhaps, without effort, you can recall the day following, when the letter came announcing Mrs. Trevlyn’s death?”
“Yes, I remember it also.”
“The minute details? Could you, for instance, relate any of the circumstances attending the arrival of that letter, if required to do so in a court of law? What time of the day it came, who opened it, where it was opened, and so forth?”
“Why do you ask me?” returned Mrs. Chattaway, surprised at the questions.
“I ask you to be answered. I have a reason for wishing to recall these past things. Think it over.”
“Both letters, so far as I can recollect, were given to Mr. Chattaway, and he opened them. He was in the habit then of opening papa’s business letters. I have no doubt they were opened in the steward’s room; James used to be there a great deal with the accounts and other matters connected with the estate.”
“I have always known that James Chattaway did open those letters,” said Miss Diana; “but I thought you might have been present when he did so. Were you?”
“No. I remember his coming into my chamber later, and telling me Mrs. Trevlyn was dead. I never shall forget the shock I felt.”
“Attend to me, Edith. I have reason to believe that the last of those letters contained an inclosure for me. It never reached me. Do you know what became of it?”
The blank surprise on Mrs. Chattaway’s countenance, her open questioning gaze, was a sufficient denial.
“I see you do not. And now I am going to ask you something else. Did you ever hear that Emily Trevlyn, when she was dying, left a request that I should be guardian to her children?”
