Trevlyn Hold: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"That I have never seen Rupert Trevlyn since the moment I left him on the ground," he continued, turning his dark looks on Mrs. Ryle, but never pausing. "I have sought in vain for him since; the police have sought; and he is not to be found."

"Very well," said the Squire. "I have given you the alternative."

Mr. Chattaway opened his lips to reply; but to the surprise of all who knew him, suddenly closed them again, and left the room. To describe the trouble the man was in would be impossible. Apart from the general perplexity brought by this awful arrival of a master for Trevlyn Hold, there was the lesser doubt as to what should be his own conduct. Should it be abject submission, or war to the knife? Mr. Chattaway's temper would have inclined him to the latter; but he feared it might be bad policy for his own interest; and self-interest had always been paramount with James Chattaway. He stood outside the house, where he had wandered, and cast his eyes on the fine old place, the fair domain stretching around. Facing him was the rick-yard, which had given rise to so much discomfort, trouble, and ill-feeling. Oh, if he could only dispute successfully, and retain possession! But a conviction lay on his heart that even to attempt such would be the height of folly. That he, thus returned, was really the true Rupert Trevlyn, who had decamped in his youth, now a middle-aged man, was apparent as the sun at noon-day. It was apparent to him; it would be apparent to the world. The returned wanderer had remarked that his identity would be established by proof not to be disputed; but Mr. Chattaway felt no proof was necessary. Of what use then to hold out? And yet! to quit this fine possession, to sink into poverty and obscurity in the face and eyes of the local world—that world which had been ready enough, as it was, to cast contempt on the master of Trevlyn Hold—would be as the bitterest fate that ever fell upon man. In that cruel moment, when all was pressing upon his imagination with fearfully vivid colours, it seemed that death would be as a boon in comparison.

Whilst he was thus standing, torn with contending emotions, Cris ran up in excitement from the direction of the stables. He had left his horse there on his return from Blackstone, and some vague and confused version of the affair had been told him. "What's this, father?" he asked, in loud anger. "They are saying that Rupert Trevlyn has come boldly back, and claims the Hold. Have you given him into custody?"

Mr. Chattaway raised his dull eyes. The question only added to his misery. "Yes, Rupert Trevlyn has come back," he said; "but——"

"Is he in custody?" impatiently interrupted Cris. "Are the police here?"

"It is another Rupert Trevlyn, Cris; not that one."

Something in his father's manner struck unpleasantly on the senses of Cris Chattaway, subduing him considerably. "Another Rupert Trevlyn!" he repeated, in hesitating tones. "What are you saying?"

"The Rupert Trevlyn of old; the Squire's runaway son; the heir," said Mr. Chattaway, as if it comforted him to tell out all the bitter truth. "He has come back to claim his own, Cris—Trevlyn Hold."

And Mr. Cris fell against the wall, side by side with his father, and stared in dismayed consternation.