"Of course he sha'n't," retorted Mr. Chattaway.
"Who says he couldn't get home in time if he had wanted to come?" called out Cris from a window on the upper story. "Does it take him five or six hours to walk from Blackstone?"
"Is that you, Christopher?" asked George, falling back a little that he might see him better. "I want to speak to you. By what right did you take possession of my horse at Blackstone this afternoon, and ride him home?"
"I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to walk. It would have been more generous--though you may not understand the word--had you left it for him. He was not in bed last night; has gone without food to-day--you were more capable of walking home than he."
Miss Diana craned forth her neck. "Chattaway, I must inquire into this. Let that front-door be opened."
"I will not," he answered. And he banged down his window with a resolute air, as if to avoid further colloquy.
But in that same moment the lock of the front-door was turned, and it was thrown open by Octave Chattaway.
It was surely a scene to excite some interest, if only the interest of curiosity, that was presented at Trevlyn Hold that night. Octave Chattaway in evening dress--for she had not begun to prepare for bed, although some time in her chamber--standing at the hall-door which she had opened; Miss Diana pressing forward from the back of the hall in a hastily assumed dressing gown; Mr. Chattaway in a waistcoat; Cris in greater déshabille; and Mrs. Chattaway dressed as was Octave.
Rupert came in, coughing with the night air, and leaning on the arm of George Ryle. There was no light, except such as was afforded by a candle carried by Miss Trevlyn; but she stepped forward and lighted the lamp.
"Now then," said she. "What is all this?"
"It is this," returned the master of Trevlyn Hold: "that I make rules for the proper regulation of my household, and a beardless boy chooses to break them. I should think"--turning shortly upon Miss Diana--"that you are not the one to countenance that."
"No," said she; "when rules are made they must be kept. What is your defence, Rupert?"
Rupert had thrown himself upon a bench against the wall in utter weariness of mind and body. "I don't care to make any defence," said he, in his apathy, as he leaned his cheek upon his hand, and fixed his blue eyes on Miss Trevlyn; "I don't know that there's much defence to make. Mr. Chattaway orders me to be in by half-past ten. I was at George Ryle's last night, and I a little exceeded the time, getting here five minutes or so after it, so I was locked out. Cris let himself in with his latch-key, but he would not let me in."