"Then I'll ride your horse to Blackstone," returned Mr. Chattaway. "Alter the stirrups, Sam."
"Why, where's your own horse?" cried Cris, with a blank look.
"In the stable," shortly returned Chattaway.
He mounted the horse and rode away, his many cares perplexing him. A hideous wall separating him from all good fortune seemed to be rising up round about him; and the catastrophe he so dreaded—a contest between himself and Rupert Trevlyn for possession of the Hold—appeared to be drawing within the range of probability. In the gloomy prospect before him, only one loophole of escape presented itself to his imagination—the death of Rupert.
But you must not think worse of Mr. Chattaway than he deserves. He did not deliberately contemplate such a calamity; or set himself to hope for it. The imagination is rebelliously evil, often uncontrollable; and the thought rose up unbidden and unwished for. Mr. Chattaway could not help it; could not at first drive it away again; the somewhat dangerous argument, "Were Rupert dead I should be safe, and it is the only means by which I can feel assured of safety," did linger with him longer than was expedient; but he never for one moment contemplated the possibility as likely to take place; most certainly it never occurred to him that he could be accessory to it. Though not a good man, especially in the way of temper and covetousness, Chattaway would have started with horror had he supposed he could ever be so bad as that.
He rode swiftly along in the autumn morning, urging his horse to a hard gallop. Was his haste merely caused by his anxiety to be at Blackstone, or that he would escape from his own thoughts? He rode directly to the coal mine, up to the mouth of the pit. Two or three men, looking like blackamoors, were standing about.
"Why are you not down at work?" angrily demanded Mr. Chattaway. "What do you do idling here!"
They had been waiting for Pennet, the men replied. But word had just been brought that Pennet was not coming.
"Where is he?" asked Mr. Chattaway. "Skulking again?"
"I dunna think he be skulking, sir," was the reply of one. "He's bad a-bed."