"Then come and ratify it in writing," rejoined the Squire, turning towards the Hold.
"You are ready to doubt my word," resentfully spoke Mr. Chattaway, feeling considerably aggrieved.
Squire Trevlyn threw back his head. It spoke as plainly as ever motion spoke that he did doubt it. As he strode on to the house, Chattaway in his wake, they came across Cris. Unhappy Cris! His day of authority and assumption had set. No longer was he the son of the master of Trevlyn Hold; henceforth Mr. Cris must set his wits to work, and take his share in the active labour of life. He stood leaning over the palings, biting a bit of straw as he gazed at Squire Trevlyn; but he did not say a word to the Squire or the Squire to him.
With the aid of pen and ink Mr. Chattaway gave an ungracious promise to pardon Rupert. Of course it had nothing formal in it, but the Squire was satisfied, and put it in his pocket.
"Which is Rupert's chamber here?" he asked. "It had better be got ready. Is it an airy one?"
"For what purpose is it to be got ready?" returned Mr. Chattaway.
"In case we find him, you know."
"You would bring him home? Here? to my house?"
"No; I bring him home to mine."
Mr. Chattaway's face went quite dark with pain. In good truth it was Squire Trevlyn's house; no longer his; and he may be pardoned for momentarily forgetting the fact. There are brief intervals even in the deepest misery when we lose sight of the present.