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?"