And he almost forced him through a folding-door into a passage communicating with the back staircase.
Chetwynd had disappeared before the attorney and his clerk reached the hall; but Mr. Carteret stopped for a moment to speak to the old butler.
“Ah, we've had a frightful scene, Norris!” he said. “It will surprise me if the old gentleman survives it. I suppose Mr. Chetwynd is gone?”
“I really can't say, sir. He was here a few minutes ago.”
“I'm sure he looked wild enough when he passed me just now,” observed the clerk. “I thought he'd have thrown me over the banisters.”
“Nothing could be more injudicious, and, I may add, more unfeeling, than his conduct to his father,” remarked Carteret.
“I'm sorry to hear it,” said the butler; “but you must make some allowance for him.”
“I can make every allowance,” rejoined the attorney. “But no good purpose can be answered by such violence as he gave way to. On the contrary, irreparable harm is done.”
“I very much fear so. He used language towards Mrs. Calverley that I don't think she will ever forgive It's of the last importance that he should be set right with her. Should you see him before he goes, tell him so.”
“I will, sir--if I _do_ see him. There's master's bell. Excuse me; I must go upstairs.”
“Don't mind me, Norris. I can let myself out. As I drive back, at Mrs. Calverley's request, I shall call on Doctor Spencer, and send him to see Mr. Calverley at once. That will save time.”
And he flew upstairs; while Mr. Carteret and his clerk went out at the front door.
“Has anybody just left the house, Edward?” inquired Mr. Carteret of his groom, who was waiting with the phaeton near the door.
“I fancied he was not gone,” thought the attorney. “I am glad I spoke to Norris.”
|Chetwynd had become more tranquillised since he entered the room that had once belonged to him--and that might be said to belong to him still--since it had always been kept for him.
A comfortable bed-chamber, with windows looking upon the garden. Night was now coming on, but it was still light enough to see every object in the room, and Chetwynd examined them with interest--almost with emotion.
The furniture was precisely the same he had left; the narrow iron bed, without curtains, and covered with an eider-down quilt--the easy-chair on which he used to sit and smoke--the books on the shelf and the prints on the walls, were still there, as of yore. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.