Works of Ellen Wood, page 604
Poor Octave Chattaway! When George had remarked that his coveted wife was a gentlewoman, and must live accordingly, the words had imparted to her a meaning George himself never gave them. She was the gentlewoman to whom he alluded.
Ere the scarlet had faded, her father entered the room. Octave bent over the table drawing a pattern. Mr. Chattaway stood at the window, his hands in his pockets, a habit of his when in thought, and watched George Ryle walking away in the distance.
“He wants the Upland Farm, Octave.”
Mr. Chattaway presently remarked, without turning round. “He thinks he can get on in it.”
Miss Chattaway carried her pencil to the end of the line, and bent her face lower. “I should let him have it, papa.”
“The Upland Farm will take money to stock and carry on; no slight sum,” remarked Mr. Chattaway.
“Yes. Did he say how he should manage to get it?”
“From Apperley. He will have his work cut out if he is to begin farming on borrowed money; as his father had before him. It is only this very day that he has paid off that debt, contracted so many years ago.”
“And no wonder, on that small Trevlyn Farm. The Upland is different. A man would grow rich on the one, and starve on the other.”
“To take the best farm in the world on borrowed money, would entail uphill work. George Ryle will have to work hard; and so must his wife, should he marry.”
Octave paused for a moment, apparently mastering some intricacies in her pattern. “Not his wife; I do not see that. Aunt Maude is a case in point; she has never worked at Trevlyn Farm.”
“She has had her cares, though,” returned Mr. Chattaway. “And she would have had to work — but for Nora Dickson.”
“The Upland Farm could afford a housekeeper if necessary,” was Octave’s answer.
Not another word was spoken. Mr. Chattaway’s suspicions were confirmed, and he determined when George Ryle again asked for the farm lease and for Octave, to accord both with rather more graciousness than he was accustomed to accord anything.
Things did not turn out, however, quite in accordance with his expectations. The best of us are disappointed sometimes, you know. George Ryle pressed for the farm, but did not press for Octave. In point of fact, he never mentioned her name, or so much as hinted at any interest he might feel in her; and Mr. Chattaway, rather puzzled and very cross, abstained from promising the farm. He put off the question, very much to George’s inconvenience, who set it down to caprice.
But the time came for Mr. Chattaway’s eyes to be opened, and he awoke to the cross-purposes which had been at work. On the afternoon of the day mentioned in the last chapter, during Mrs. Chattaway’s stolen visit to Rupert, Mr. Chattaway was undeceived. He had been at home all day, busy over accounts and other matters in the steward’s room; and Miss Diana, mindful of her promise to George Ryle, to speak a word in his favour relative to the Upland Farm, entered that room for the purpose, deeming it a good opportunity. Mr. Chattaway had been so upset since the receipt of the second letter from Connell and Connell, that she had hitherto abstained from mentioning the subject. He was seated at his desk, and looked up with a start as she abruptly entered; the start of a man who lives in fear.
“Have you decided whether George Ryle is to have the Upland Farm?” she asked, plunging into the subject without circumlocution, as it was the habit of Miss Diana Trevlyn to do.
“No, not precisely. I shall see in a day or two.”
“But you promised him an answer long before this.”
“Ah,” slightingly spoke Mr. Chattaway. “It’s not always convenient to keep one’s promises.”
“Why are you holding off?”
“Well, for one thing, I thought of retaining that farm in my own hands, and keeping a bailiff to look after it.”
“Then you’ll burn your fingers, James Chattaway. Those who manage the Upland Farm should live at the Upland Farm. You can’t properly manage both places, that and Trevlyn Hold; and you live at Trevlyn Hold. I don’t see why you should not let it to George Ryle.”
Mr. Chattaway sat biting the end of his pen. Miss Diana waited; but he did not speak, and she resumed.
“I believe he will do well on it. One who has done so much with that small place, Trevlyn Farm, and its indifferent land, will not fail to do well on the Upland. Let him have it, Chattaway.”
“You speak as if you were interested in the matter,” remarked Mr. Chattaway, resentfully.
“I am not sure but I am,” equably answered Miss Diana. “I see no reason why you should not let him the farm; for there’s no doubt he will prove a good tenant. He has spoken to me about its involving something more, should he obtain it,” she continued, after a pause.
“Ah,” said Mr. Chattaway, without surprise. “Well?”
“He wants us to give him Maude.”
Mr. Chattaway let fall his pen and it made a dreadful blot on his account-book, as he turned his head sharply on Miss Diana.
“Maude! You mean Octave.”
“Pooh!” cried Miss Diana. “Octave has been spending her years looking after a mare’s nest: people who do such foolish things must of necessity meet disappointment. George Ryle has never cared for her, never cast a thought to her.”
Mr. Chattaway’s face was turning its disagreeable colour; and his lips were drawn as he glared at Miss Trevlyn. “He has been always coming here.”
“Yes. For Maude — as it turns out. I confess I never thought of it.”
“How do you know this?”
“He has asked for Maude, I tell you. His hopes for years have been fixed upon her.”
“He shall never have her,” said Mr. Chattaway, emphatically. “He shall never have the Upland Farm.”
“It was the decision — with regard to Maude — that crossed me in the first moment. I like him; quite well enough to give him Maude, or to give him Octave, had she been the one sought; but I do not consider his position suitable — —”
“Suitable! Why, he’s a beggar,” interrupted Mr. Chattaway, completely losing sight of his own intentions with regard to his daughter. “George Ryle shall smart for this. Give him Maude, indeed!”
“But if Maude’s happiness is involved in it, what then?” quietly asked Miss Diana.
“Don’t be an idiot,” was the retort of Mr. Chattaway.
“I never was one yet,” said Miss Diana, equably. “But I have nearly made up my mind to give him Maude.”
“You cannot do it without my consent. She is under my roof and guardianship, and I tell you that she shall never leave it for that of George Ryle.”
“You should bring a little reason to your aid before you speak,” returned Miss Diana, with that calm assumption of intellectual superiority which so vexed Mr. Chattaway whenever it peeped out. “What are the true facts? Why, that no living being, neither you nor any one else, can legally prevent Maude from marrying whom she will. You have no power to prevent it. She and Rupert have never had a legally-appointed guardian, remember. But for the loss of that letter, written at the instance of their mother when she was dying, and which appears to have vanished so mysteriously, I should have been their guardian,” pointedly concluded Miss Diana. “And might have married Maude as I pleased.”
Mr. Chattaway made no reply, except that he nervously bit his lips. If Diana Trevlyn turned against him, all seemed lost. That letter was upon his conscience as he sat there; for he it was who had suppressed it.
“And therefore, as in point of fact we have no power whatever vested in us, as Maude might marry whom she chose without consulting us, and as I like George Ryle on his own account, and she likes him better than the whole world, I consider that we had better give a willing consent. It will be making a merit of necessity, you see, Chattaway.”
Mr. Chattaway saw nothing of the sort; but he dared not too openly defy Miss Trevlyn. “You would marry her to a beggar!” he cried. “To a man who does not possess a shilling! You must have a great regard for her!”
“Maude has no money, you know.”
“I do know it. And that is all the more reason why her husband should possess some.”
“They will get on, Chattaway, at the Upland Farm.”
“I dare say they will — when they have it. I shall not lease the Upland Farm to a man who has to borrow money to go into it.”
“I might be brought to obviate that difficulty,” rejoined Miss Diana, in her coldest and hardest manner, as she gazed full at Mr. Chattaway. “Since I learnt that their mother left the children to me, I have felt a sort of proprietary right in them, and shall perhaps hand over to Maude, when she leaves us, sufficient money to stock the Upland Farm. The half at least of what I possess will some time be hers.”
Was this the result of his having suppressed that dying mother’s letter? Be very sure, Mr. Chattaway, that such dealings can never prosper! So long as there is a just and good God above us, they can but bring their proper recompense.
Mr. Chattaway did not trust himself to reply. He drew a sheet of paper towards him, and dashed off a few lines upon it. It was a peremptory refusal to lease the Upland Farm to George Ryle. Folding it, he placed it in an envelope, directed it, and rang the bell.
“What’s that?” asked Miss Diana.
“My reply to Ryle. He shall never rent the Upland Farm.”
In Mr. Chattaway’s impatience, he did not give time for the bell to be answered, but opened the door and shouted. It was no one’s business in particular to answer that bell; and Sam Atkins, who was in the kitchen, waiting for orders from Cris, ran forward at Mr. Chattaway’s call.
“Take this letter down to Trevlyn Farm instantly,” was the command. “Instantly, do you hear?”
But in the very act of the groom’s taking it from Mr. Chattaway’s hand, there came that violent ringing at the hall-door of which you have heard. Sam Atkins, thinking possibly the Hold might be on fire, as the ricks had been not so long ago, flew to open it, though it was not his place to do so.
And Mr. Chattaway, disturbed by the loud and imperative summons, stood where he was, and looked and listened. He saw the entrance of the stranger, and heard the announcement: “Squire Trevlyn, of Trevlyn Hold.”
Miss Diana Trevlyn heard it, and came forth, and they stood like two living petrifactions, gazing at the apparition. Miss Diana, strong-minded woman that she was, did think for the moment that she saw her father. But her senses came to her, and she walked slowly forward to meet him.
“You must be my brother, Rupert Trevlyn! — risen from the dead.”
“I am; but not risen from the dead,” he answered, taking the hands she held out. “Which of them are you? Maude?”
“No; Diana. Oh, Rupert! I thought it was my father.”
It was indeed him they had for so many years believed to be dead; Rupert Trevlyn, the runaway. He had come home to claim his own; come home in his true character; Squire Trevlyn, of Trevlyn Hold.
But Mr. Chattaway, in his worse and wildest dreams, had never bargained for this!
CHAPTER LVI
DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST
Many a painting has been handed down to posterity whose features bore not a tithe of the interest presented at that moment in the old hall of the Trevlyns. The fine figure of the stranger, standing with the air of a chieftain, conscious of his own right; the keen gaze of Miss Diana, regarding him with puzzled equanimity; and the slow horror of conviction that was rising to the face of Mr. Chattaway. Behind all, stealing in by a side-door, came the timid steps, the pale questioning looks of Mrs. Chattaway, not yet certain whether the intruder was an earthly or a ghostly visitor.
Mr. Chattaway was the first to recover himself. He looked at the stranger with a face that strove to be haughty, and would have given the whole world to possess the calm equanimity of the Trevlyns, the unchanged countenance of Miss Diana; but his leaden face wore its worst and greenest tinge, his lips quivered as he spoke — and he was conscious of it.
“Who do you say you are? Squire Trevlyn? He has been in his grave long ago. We do not tolerate impostors here.”
“I hope you do not,” was the reply of the stranger, turning his face full on the speaker. “I will not in future, I can tell you that. True, James Chattaway: one Squire Trevlyn is in his grave; but he lives again in me. I am Rupert Trevlyn, and Squire of Trevlyn Hold.”
Yes, it was Rupert Trevlyn. The young Rupert Trevlyn of the old days; the runaway heir. He, whom they had so long mourned as dead (though perhaps none had mourned very greatly), had never died, and now had come home, after all these years, to claim his own.
Mr. Chattaway backed against the wall, and stood staring with his livid face. To contend was impossible. To affect to believe that it was not Rupert Trevlyn and the true heir, next in legal succession to his father, the old Squire, would have been child’s play. The well-remembered features of Rupert grew upon his memory one by one. Putting aside that speaking likeness to the Squire, to the Trevlyns generally, Mr. Chattaway, now that the first moments of surprise were over, would himself have recognised him. He needed not the acknowledgment of Miss Diana, the sudden recognition of his wife, who darted forward, uttering her brother’s name, and fell sobbing into his arms, to convince him that it was indeed Rupert Trevlyn, the indisputable master from henceforth of Trevlyn Hold.
He leaned against the wall, and took in all the despair of his position. The latent fear so long seated in his heart, that he would some time lose Trevlyn Hold, had never pointed to this. In some far-away mental corner Chattaway had vaguely looked forward to lawsuits and contentions between him and its claimant, poor Rupert, son of Joe. He had fancied that the lawsuits might last for years, he meanwhile keeping possession, perhaps up to the end. Never had he dreamed that it would suddenly be wrested from him by indisputable right; he had never believed that he himself was the usurper; that a nearer and direct heir, the Squire’s son, was in existence. The Squire’s will, leaving Trevlyn Hold to his eldest son, had never been cancelled.
And this was the explanation of the letters from Connell, Connell and Ray, which had so annoyed Mr. Chattaway and puzzled his wife. “Rupert Trevlyn was about to take up his own again — as Squire of Trevlyn Hold.” True; but it was this Rupert Trevlyn, not that one.
The explanation he might have entered into is of little moment to us; the bare fact is sufficient. It was an explanation he gave only partially to those around, descending to no details. He had been shipwrecked at the time of his supposed death, and knew that an account of his death had been sent home. That was true. Why he had suffered it to remain uncontradicted he did not explain; and they could only surmise that the crime of which he had been suspected kept him silent. However innocent he knew himself to be, whilst others at home believed him guilty he was not safe, and he had never known until recently that his reputation had been cleared. So much he did say. He had been half over the world, he told them, but had lived chiefly in South America, where he had made a handsome fortune.
“And whose children are these?” he asked, as he passed into the drawing-room, where the sea of wondering faces was turned upon him. “You should be James Chattaway’s daughter,” he cried, singling out Octave, “for you have the face of your father over again.”
“I am Miss Chattaway,” she answered, drawing from him with a scornful gesture. “Papa,” she whispered, going up to the cowed, shrinking figure, who had followed in the wake of the rest, “who is that man?”
“Hush, Octave! He has come to turn us out of our home.”
Octave gazed as one suddenly blinded. She saw the strange likeness to the Trevlyns, and it flashed into her mind that it must be the Uncle Rupert, risen from the supposed dead, of whom she had heard so much. She saw him notice her two sisters; saw him turn to Maude, and gaze earnestly into her face.
“You should be a Trevlyn. A softer, fairer face than Joe’s, but the same outlines. What is your name, my dear?”
“Maude Trevlyn, sir.”
“Ay. Joe’s child. Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“One brother.”
Squire Trevlyn — we must give him his title henceforth — looked round the room, as if in search of the brother. “Where is he?”
Maude shivered; but he waited for an answer, and she gave it. “He is not here, sir.”
“And now tell me a little of the past,” he cried, wheeling round on his sister Diana. “Who is the reigning master of Trevlyn Hold?”
She indicated Chattaway with her finger. “He is.”
“He! Who succeeded my father — in my place?”
“He did. James Chattaway.”
“Then where was Joe?”
“Joe was dead. He had died a few months previously.”
“Leaving — how many children did you say — two?”
“Two — Maude and Rupert.”
“The latter still an infant, I presume, at the time of my father’s death?”
“Quite an infant.”
“Nevertheless, he was Squire of Trevlyn Hold, failing me. Why did he not succeed?”
There came no answer. He looked at them all in succession; but even Miss Diana Trevlyn’s undisturbable equanimity was shaken for the moment. It was Mr. Chattaway who plucked up courage to reply, and he put on as bold a front as he could.
“Squire Trevlyn judged it well to will the estate to me. What would a child in petticoats do, reigning at Trevlyn Hold?”
“He might have reigned by deputy. Where is Rupert? I must see him!”
But had they been keen observers they might have detected that Squire Trevlyn put the questions not altogether with the tone of a man who seeks information. In point of fact he was as wise as they were as to the principal events which had followed on the Squire’s death. He had remained in London two or three weeks since landing; had gathered all the information that could be afforded him by Connell and Connell, and had himself dictated the letters which had so upset Mr. Chattaway; more than that, he had, this very morning, halted at Barmester, on his way to Trevlyn Hold, had seen Mr. Peterby, and gleaned many details. One thing Mr. Peterby had not been able to tell him, whether the unfortunate Rupert was living or dead.
