CHAPTER XLVI
A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM
So the magistrates declined to interfere, and Mr. Chattaway went about a free man. But not untainted; for the neighbourhood was still free in its comments, and openly accused him of having made away with Rupert. Mr. Chattaway had his retaliation; he offered a reward for the recovery of the incendiary, Rupert Trevlyn, and the walls for miles round were placarded with handbills. Urged by him, the police recommenced their search, and Mr. Chattaway actually talked of sending for an experienced detective. One thing was indisputable—if Rupert were in life he must keep from the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold. Nothing could save him from the law, if taken the second time. Jim Sanders would not be kidnapped again; he had already testified to it officially; and Mr. Chattaway thirsted for vengeance.
Take it for all in all, it was breaking the heart of Mrs. Chattaway. Looked at in any light, it was bad enough. The fear touching her husband, not the less startling from its improbability, was over, for he had succeeded in convincing her that so far he was innocent; but her fears for Rupert kept her in a constant state of terror. Miss Diana publicly condemned Rupert. This hiding from justice (if he was hiding) she regarded as only a degree less reprehensible than the crime itself; as did Mrs. Ryle; and had Miss Diana met Rupert returning some fine day, she would have laid her hand upon him as effectually as Mr. Dumps himself, and said, "You shall not escape again." Do not mistake Miss Diana; it would not have pleased her to see Rupert standing at the bar of justice to be judged by the laws of his country. She would have taken Rupert home to the Hold, and said to Chattaway, "Here he is, but you must and shall forgive him: you must forgive him, because he is a Trevlyn; and a Trevlyn cannot be disgraced." Miss Diana had full confidence in her own power to command this. Others wisely doubted whether any amount of interference on any part would now avail with Mr. Chattaway. His wife felt that it would not. She felt that were poor Rupert to venture home, even twelve months hence, trusting that time and mercy had effected his pardon, he would be sacrificed; between Miss Diana's and Mr. Chattaway's opposing policies, he would inevitably be sacrificed. Altogether, Mrs. Chattaway's life was more painful now Rupert had gone than it had been when he was at the Hold.
Cris was against Rupert; Octave was bitterly against him; Maude went about the house with a white face and beating heart, health and spirits giving way under the tension. Suspense is, of all evils, the worst to bear: and they who loved Rupert, Maude and her Aunt Edith, were hourly victims to it. The bow was always strung. On the one hand was the latent doubt that he had come to some violent end that night, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's denial; on the other hand, the lively dread that he was concealing himself, and might be discovered by the police every new day the sun rose. They had speculated so much upon where he could be, that the ever-recurring thought now brought only its heart-sickness; and Maude had the additional pain of hearing petty shafts launched at her because she was his sister. Mrs. Chattaway prayed upon her bended knees that, hard to be borne as the suspense was, Rupert might not return until time should have softened the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and the grievous charge be done away with for want of a prosecutor.
Nora was in the midst of bustle at Trevlyn Farm. And Nora was also in a temper. It was the annual custom there, when the busy time of harvest was over, to institute a general house-renovating: summer curtains were taken down, winter ones were put up, carpets were shaken, floors and paint scoured; and the place, in short, to use an ordinary expression, was turned inside out.
There was more than usual to be done this year: for mendings and alterations had to be made in sundry curtains, and the upholstering woman, named Brown, had been at Trevlyn Farm the last day or two, getting forward with her work. Nora's ruse in the court at Barmester, to wile Farmer Apperley to a private conference, had really some point in it, for negotiations were going on with that industrious member of the upholstering society through Mrs. Apperley, who had recommended her.
Mrs. Brown sat in the centre of a pile of curtains, steadily plying her needle: the finishing stitches were being put to the work; at least, they would be before night closed in. Mrs. Brown, a sallow woman with a chronic cold in her head, preferred to work in outdoor costume; a black poke bonnet and faded woollen shawl crossed over her shoulders. Nora stood by her in a very angry mood, her arms folded, just as though she had nothing to do: a circumstance to be recorded in these cleaning times.
For Nora never let the grass grow under her feet, or under any one else's feet, when there was work in hand. By dint of beginning hours before daylight, and keeping at it hours after nightfall, she succeeded in getting it all over in one day. Herself, Nanny, and Ann Canham put their best energies into it, one or two of the men were set to rub up the mahogany furniture, and Mrs. Ryle had almost entirely to dispense with being waited upon. And Nora's present anger arose from the fact that Ann Canham, by some extraordinary mischance, had not made her appearance.