by Ellen Wood
How was he to get sufficient food at the lodge? Mr. King said he must have full nourishment, with wine, strong broths, and other things in addition. It was the only chance, in his opinion, to counteract the weakness that was growing upon him, and which bid fair soon to attain an alarming height. Mrs. Chattaway, George Ryle, even the doctor himself would have been quite willing to supply the cost; but even so, where was the food to be dressed? — who was to do it? — how was it to be smuggled in? This may appear a trifling difficulty in theory, but in practice it was found almost insurmountable.
“Can’t you dress a sweetbread?” Mr. King testily asked Ann Canham, when she was timidly confessing her incapability in the culinary art. “I’d easily manage to get it up here.”
This was the first day Rupert’s appetite had come back to him, just after the turn of the fever. Ann Canham hesitated. “I’m not sure, sir,” she said meekly. “Could it be put in a pot and boiled?”
“Put in a pot and boiled!” repeated Mr. King, nettled at the question. “Much goodness there’d be in it when it came out! It’s just blanched and dipped in egg crumbs, and toasted in the Dutch oven. That’s the best way of doing them.”
Egg crumbs were as much of a mystery to Ann Canham as sweetbreads themselves. She shook her head. “And if, by ill-luck, Mr. Chattaway came in and saw a sweetbread in our Dutch oven before our fire, sir; or smelt the savour of it as he passed — what then?” she asked. “What excuse could we make to him?”
This phase of the difficulty had not before presented itself to the surgeon’s mind. It was one that could not well be got over; the more he dwelt upon it the more he became convinced of this. George Ryle, Mrs. Chattaway, Maude, all, when appealed to, were of the same opinion. There was too much at stake to permit the risk of exciting any suspicions on the part of Mr. Chattaway.
But it was not only Chattaway. Others who possessed noses were in the habit of passing the lodge: Cris, his sisters, Miss Diana, and many more: and some of them were in the habit of coming into it. Ann Canham was giving mortal offence, causing much wonder, in declining her usual places of work; and many a disappointed housewife, following Nora Dickson’s example, had come up, in consequence, to invade the lodge and express her sentiments upon the point. Ann Canham was driven to the very verge of desperation in trying to frame plausible excuses, and had serious thoughts of making believe to take to her bed herself — had she possessed just then a bed to take to.
In the dilemma Mrs. Chattaway came to the rescue. “I will contrive it,” she said: “the food shall be supplied from the Hold. My sister does not personally interfere, giving her orders in the morning, and I know I can manage it.”
But Mrs. Chattaway found she had undertaken what it would scarcely be possible to perform. What had flashed across her mind when she spoke was, “The cook is a faithful, kind-hearted woman, and I know I can trust her.” Mrs. Chattaway did not mean trust her with the secret of Rupert, but trust her to cook a few extra dishes quietly and say nothing about them. Yes, she might, she was sure; the woman would be true. But it now struck Mrs. Chattaway with a sort of horror, to ask herself how she was to get them away when cooked. She could not go into the kitchen herself, have meat, fowl, or jelly put into a basin, and carry it off to the lodge. However, that was an after-care. She spoke to the cook, who was called Rebecca, told her she wanted some nice things dressed for a poor pensioner of her own, and nothing said about it. The woman was pleased and willing; all the servants were fond of their mistress; and she readily undertook the task and promised to be silent.
CHAPTER LI
A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY
Although an insignificant place, Barbrook and its environs received their letters early. The bags were dropped by the London mail train at Barmester in the middle of the night; and as the post-office arrangements were well conducted — which cannot be said for all towns — by eight o’clock Barbrook had its letters.
Rather before that hour than after it, they were delivered at Trevlyn Hold. Being the chief residence in the neighbourhood, the postman was in the habit of beginning his round there; it had been so in imperious old Squire Trevlyn’s time, and was so still. Thus it generally happened that breakfast would be commencing at the Hold when the post came in.
It was a morning of which we must take some notice — a morning which, as Mr. Chattaway was destined afterwards to find, he would have cause to remember to his dying day. If Miss Diana Trevlyn happened to see the postman approaching the house, she would most likely walk to the hall-door and receive the letters into her own hands. And it was so on this morning.
“Only two, ma’am,” the postman said, as he delivered them to her.
She looked at the addresses. The one was a foreign letter, bearing her own name, and she recognised the handwriting of Mr. Daw; the other bore the London postmark, and was addressed “James Chattaway, Esquire, Trevlyn Hold, Barmester.”
With an eager movement, somewhat foreign to the cold and stately motions of Miss Diana Trevlyn, she broke the seal of the former; there, at the hall-door as she stood. A thought flashed into her mind that Rupert might have found his way at length to Mr. Daw, and that gentleman was intimating the same — as Miss Diana by letter had requested him to do. It was just the contrary, however. Mr. Daw wrote to beg a line from Miss Diana, as to whether tidings had been heard of Rupert. He had visited his father and mother’s grave the previous day, he observed, and did not know whether that had caused him to think more than usual of Rupert; but, all the past night and again to-day, he had been unable to get him out of his head; a feeling was upon him (no doubt a foolish one, he added in a parenthesis) that the boy was taken, or that some other misfortune had befallen him, or was about to befall him, and he presumed to request a line from Miss Diana Trevlyn to end his suspense.
She folded the letter when read; put it into the pocket of her black silk apron, and returned to the breakfast-room, with the one for Mr. Chattaway. As she did so, her eyes happened to fall upon the reverse side of the letter, and she saw it was stamped with the name of a firm — Connell, Connell, and Ray.
She knew the firm by name; they were solicitors of great respectability in London. Indeed, she remembered to have entertained Mr. Charles Connell at the Hold for a few days in her father’s lifetime, that gentleman being at the time engaged in some legal business for Squire Trevlyn. They must be old men now, she knew, those brothers Connell; and Mr. Ray, she believed to have heard, was son-in-law to one of them.
“What can they have to write to Chattaway about?” marvelled Miss Diana; but the next moment she remembered they were the agents of Peterby and Jones, of Barmester, and concluded it was some matter connected with the estate.
Miss Diana swept to her place at the head of the breakfast-table. It was filled, with the exception of two seats: the armchair opposite to her own, Mr. Chattaway’s; and Cris’s seat at the side. Cris was not down, but Mr. Chattaway had gone out to the men. Mrs. Chattaway was in her place next Miss Diana. She used rarely to be down in time to begin breakfast with the rest, but that was altered now. Since these fears had arisen concerning Rupert, it seemed that she could not rest in her bed, and would quit it almost with the dawn.
Mr. Chattaway came in as Miss Diana was pouring out the tea, and she passed the letter down to him. Glancing casually at it as it lay beside his plate, he began helping himself to some cold partridge. Cris was a capital shot, and the Hold was generally well supplied with game.
“It is from Connell and Connell,” remarked Miss Diana.
“From Connell and Connell!” repeated Mr. Chattaway, in a tone of bewilderment, as if he did not recognise the name. “What should they be writing to me about?” But he was too busy with the partridge just then to ascertain.
“Some local business, I conclude,” observed Miss Diana. “They are Peterby’s agents, you know.”
“And what if they are?” retorted Mr. Chattaway. “Peterby’s have nothing to do with me.”
That was so like Cha
ttaway! To cavil as to what might be the contents of the letter, rather than put the question at rest by opening it. However, when he looked up from his plate to stir his tea, he tore open the envelope.
He tore it open and cast his eyes over the letter. Miss Diana happened to be looking at him. She saw him gaze at it with an air of bewilderment; she saw him go over it again — there were apparently but some half-dozen lines — and then she saw him turn green. You may cavil at the expression, but it is a correct one. The leaden complexion with which nature had favoured Mr. Chattaway did assume a green tinge in moments of especial annoyance.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Miss Diana.
Mr. Chattaway replied by a half-muttered word, and dashed the letter down. “I thought we had had enough of that folly,” he presently said.
“What folly?”
He did not answer, although the query was put by Miss Diana Trevlyn. She pressed it, and Mr. Chattaway flung the letter across the table to her. “You can read it, if you choose.” With some curiosity Miss Diana took it up, and read as follows: —
“Sir,
“We beg to inform you that the true heir of Trevlyn Hold, Rupert Trevlyn, is about to put in his claim to the estate, and will shortly require to take possession of it. We have been requested to write this intimation to you, and we do so in a friendly spirit, that you may be prepared to quit the house, and not be taken unawares, when Mr. Trevlyn — henceforth Squire Trevlyn — shall arrive at it.
“We are, sir, your obedient servants,
“Connell, Connell, and Ray.
“James Chattaway, Esquire.”
“Then Rupert’s not dead!” were the first words that broke from Miss Diana’s lips. And the exclamation, and its marked tone of satisfaction, proved of what nature her fears for Rupert had been.
Mrs. Chattaway started up with white lips. “What of Rupert?” she gasped; believing nothing else than that discovery had come.
Miss Diana, without in the least thinking it necessary to consult Mr. Chattaway’s pleasure first, handed her the letter. She read it rapidly, and her fears calmed down.
“What an absurdity!” she exclaimed. Knowing as she did the helpless position of Rupert, the contents sounded not only absurd, but impossible. “Some one must have written it to frighten you, James.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Chattaway, compressing his thin lips; “it comes from the Peterby quarter. A felon threatening to take possession of Trevlyn Hold!”
But in spite of the scorn he strove to throw into his manner; in spite of his indomitable resolution to bring Rupert to punishment when he appeared; in spite of even his wife, Rupert’s best friend, acknowledging the absurdity of this letter, it disturbed him in no measured degree. He stretched out his hand for it, and read it again, pondering over every word; he pushed his plate from him, as he gazed on it. He had had sufficient breakfast for one day; and gulping down his tea, declined to take more. Yes, it was shaking his equanimity to its centre; and the Miss Chattaways and Maude, only imperfectly understanding what was amiss, looked at each other, and at him.
Mrs. Chattaway began to feel indignant that poor Rupert’s name should be thus made use of; only, so far as she could see, for the purpose of exciting Mr. Chattaway further against him. “But Connells’ is a most respectable firm,” she said aloud, following out her thoughts; “I cannot comprehend it.”
“I say it comes from Peterby,” roared Mr. Chattaway. “He and Rupert are in league. I dare say Peterby knows where he’s concealed.”
“Oh no, no; you are mistaken,” broke incautiously from the lips of Mrs. Chattaway.
“No! Do you know where he is, pray, that you speak so confidently?”
The taunt recalled her to a sense of the danger. “James, what I meant was this: it is scarcely likely Rupert would be in league with any one against you,” she said in low tones. “I think he would rather try to conciliate you.”
“If you think this letter emanates from Peterbys’ why don’t you go down and demand what they mean by writing it?” interposed Miss Diana Trevlyn, in her straightforward, matter-of-fact tone.
He nodded his head significantly. “I shall not let the grass grow under my feet before I am there.”
“I cannot think it’s Peterby and Jones,” resumed Miss Diana. “They are quite as respectable as the Connells, and I don’t believe they would ally themselves with Rupert, after what he has done. I don’t believe they would work mischief secretly against any one. Anything they may have to do, they’d do openly.”
Had Mr. Chattaway prevailed with himself so far as to put his temper and prejudices aside, this might not have been far from his own opinion. He had always, in a resentful sort of way, considered Mr. Peterby an honourable man. But if Peterby was not at the bottom of this, who was? Connell, Connell, and Ray were his town agents.
The very uncertainty only made him the more eager to get to them and set the matter at rest. He knew it was of no use attempting to see Mr. Peterby before ten o’clock, but he would see him then. He ordered his horse to be ready, and rode into Barmester attended by his groom. As ten o’clock struck, he was at their office-door.
A quarter-of-an-hour’s detention, and then he was admitted to Mr. Peterby’s room. That gentleman was sweeping a pile of open letters into a corner of the table at which he sat, and the master of Trevlyn Hold shrewdly suspected that his waiting had been caused by Mr. Peterby’s opening and reading them. He proceeded at once to the business that brought him there, and taking his own letter out of his pocket, handed it to Mr. Peterby.
“Connell, Connell, and Ray are your agents in London, I believe? They used to be.”
“And are still,” said Mr. Peterby. “What is this?”
“Be so good as to read it,” replied Mr. Chattaway.
The lawyer ran his eyes over it carelessly, as it seemed to those eyes watching him. Then he looked up. “Well?”
“In writing this letter to me — I received it, you perceive, by post this morning, if you’ll look at the date — were Connell and Connell instructed by you?”
“By me!” echoed Mr. Peterby. “Not they. I know nothing at all about it. I can’t make it out.”
“You are a friend of Rupert Trevlyn’s, and they are your agents,” remarked Mr. Chattaway, after a pause.
“My good sir, I tell you I know nothing whatever of this. Connells are our agents; but I never sent any communication to them with regard to Rupert Trevlyn in my life; never had cause to send one. If you ask me my opinion, I should say that if the lad — should he be still living — entertains hopes of coming into Trevlyn Hold after this last escapade of his, he must be a great simpleton. I expect you’d prosecute him, instead of giving him up the Hold.”
“I should,” quietly answered Mr. Chattaway. “But what do Connell and Connell mean by sending me such a letter as this?”
“It is more than I can tell you, Mr. Chattaway. We have received a communication from them ourselves this morning upon the subject. I was opening it when you were announced to me as being here.”
He bent over the letters previously spoken of, selected one, and held it out to Mr. Chattaway. Instead of being written by the firm, it was a private letter from Mr. Ray to Mr. Peterby. It merely stated that the true heir of Squire Trevlyn, Rupert, was about shortly to take possession of his property, the Hold, and they (Connell, Connell, and Ray) should require Mr. Peterby to act as local solicitor in the proceedings, should a solicitor be necessary.
Mr. Chattaway began to feel cruelly uneasy. Rupert had committed that great fault, and was in danger of punishment — would be punished by his country’s laws; but in this new uneasiness that important fact seemed to lose half its significance. “And you have not instructed them?” he repeated.
“Nonsense, Mr. Chattaway! it is not likely. I cannot make out what they mean, any more than you can. The nearest conclusion I can come to is, that they must be acting from instructions received from that semi-parson who was over here, Mr. Daw.”
“No,” said Mr. Chattaway, “I think not. Miss Trevlyn heard from that man this morning, and he appears to know nothing about Rupert. He asks for news of him.”
“Well, it is a curious thing altogether. I shall write by to-night’s post to Ray, and inquire what he means.”
Mr. Chattaway, suspicious Mr. Chattaway, pressed one more question. “Have you any idea at all where Rupert is likely to be? That he is in hiding, and accessible to some people, is evident from these letters.
“I have already informed you that I know nothing whatever of Rupert Trevlyn,” was the lawyer’s answer. “Whether he is alive or whether he is dead, I know not. You cannot know less of him yourself than I do.”
Mr. Chattaway was obliged to be contented with the answer. He went out and proceeded direct to Mr. Flood’s, and laid the letter — his letter — before him. “What sort of thing do you call that?” he intemperately uttered, when it was read. “Connell and Connell must be infamous men to write it.”
“Stop a bit,” said Mr. Flood, who had his eyes strained on the letter. “There’s more in this than meets the eye.”
“You don’t think it’s a joke — done to annoy me?”
“A joke! Connell and Connell would not lend themselves to a joke. No, I don’t think it’s that.”
“Then what do you think?”
Mr. Flood was several minutes before he replied, and his silence drove Mr. Chattaway to the verge of exasperation. “It is difficult to know what to think,” said the lawyer presently. “I should be inclined to say they have been brought into personal communication with Rupert Trevlyn, or with somebody acting for him: perhaps the latter is the more probable. And I should also say they must have been convinced, by documentary or other evidence, that a good foundation exists for Rupert’s claims to the Hold. Mr. Chattaway — if I may speak the truth to you — I should dread this letter.”