Trevlyn Hold Part 86

"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Edith. Connell and Connell? What should I do, writing to Connell and Connell?"

She explained about the letter, reciting its contents as accurately as she remembered them. Rupert only stared.

"Acting for me!--I to take possession of the Hold! Well, I don't know anything about it," he wearily answered. "Why does not Mr. Chattaway go up and ask them what they mean? Connell and Connell don't know me, and I don't know them. Am I in a fit state to write letters, Aunt Edith?"

"It seemed to me the most unlikely thing in the world, Rupert, but what else was I to think?"

"They'd better have written to say I was going to take possession of the grave," he resumed; "there'd be more sense in that. Perhaps I am, Aunt Edith."

More sense in it? Ay, there would be. Every pulse in Mrs. Chattaway's heart echoed the words. She did not answer, and a pause ensued only broken by his somewhat painful breathing.

"Do you think I shall die, Aunt Edith?"

"Oh, my boy, I hope not; I hope not! But it is all in G.o.d's will.

Rupert, darling, it seems a sad thing, especially to the young, to leave this world; but do you know what I often think as I lie and sigh through my sleepless nights: that it would be a blessed change both for you and for me if G.o.d were to take us from it, and give us a place in heaven."

Another pause. "You can tell Mr. Chattaway you feel sure I had nothing to do with the letter, Aunt Edith."

She shook her head. "No, Rupert; the less I say the better. It would not do; I should fear some chance word on my part might betray you: and all I could say would not make any impression on Mr. Chattaway."

"You are not going!" he exclaimed, as she rose from her seat on the bed.

"I must. I wish I could stay, but I dare not; indeed it was not safe to-night to come in at all."

"Aunt Edith, if you could only stay! It is so lonely. Four-and-twenty hours before I shall see you or Maude again! It is like being left alone to die."

"Not to die, I trust," she said, her tears falling fast. "We shall be together some time for ever, but I pray we may have a little happiness on earth first!"

Very full was her heart that night, and but for the fear that her red eyes would betray her, she could have wept all the way home. Stealing in at a side door, she gained her room, and found that Mr. Chattaway, fortunately, had not discovered her absence.

A few minutes after she entered, the house was in a commotion. Sounds were heard proceeding from the kitchen, and Mrs. Chattaway and others hastened towards it. One of the servants was badly scalded. Most unfortunately, it happened to be the cook, Rebecca. In taking some calve's-foot jelly from the fire, she had inadvertently overturned the boiling liquid.

Miss Diana, who was worth a thousand of Mrs. Chattaway in an emergency, had the woman placed in a rec.u.mbent position, and sent one of the grooms on horseback for Mr. King. But Miss Diana, while sparing nothing that could relieve the sufferer, did not conceal her displeasure at the awkwardness.

"Was it _jelly_ you were making, Rebecca?" she sternly demanded.

Rebecca was lying back in a large chair, her feet raised. Everyone was crowding round: even Mr. Chattaway had come to ascertain the cause of the commotion. She made no answer.

Bridget did; rejoicing, no doubt, in her superior knowledge. "Yes, ma'am, it was jelly: she had just boiled it up."

Miss Diana wheeled round to Rebecca. "Why were you making jelly? It was not ordered."

Rebecca, not knowing what to say, glanced at Mrs. Chattaway. "Yes, it was ordered," murmured the latter. "I ordered it."

"You!" returned Miss Diana. "What for?" But Miss Diana spoke in surprise only; not objecting: it was so very unusual for Mrs. Chattaway to interfere in the domestic arrangements. It surprised them all, and her daughters looked at her. Poor Mrs. Chattaway could not put forth the plea that it was being made for herself, for calve's-foot jelly was a thing she never touched. The confusion on his wife's face attracted the notice of Mr. Chattaway.

"Possibly you intended to regale old Canham?" he scornfully said, alluding to what had pa.s.sed that day. Not that he believed anything so improbable.

"Madam knows the young ladies like it, and she told me to make some,"

good-naturedly spoke up Rebecca in the midst of her pain.

The excuse served, and the matter pa.s.sed. Miss Diana privately thought what a poor housekeeper her sister would make, ordering things when they were not required, and Mr. Chattaway quitted the scene. When the doctor arrived and had attended to the patient, Mrs. Chattaway, who was then in her room, sent to request him to come to her before he left, adding to the message that she did not feel well.

He came up immediately. She put a question or two about the injury to the girl, which was trifling, he answered, and would not keep her a prisoner long; and then Mrs. Chattaway lowered her voice, and spoke in the softest whisper.

"Mr. King, you must tell me. Is Rupert worse?"

"He is very ill," was the answer. "He certainly grows worse instead of better."

"Will he die?"

"I do believe he will die unless he can be got out of that unwholesome place. The question is, how is it to be done?"

"It cannot be done; it cannot be done unless Mr. Chattaway can be propitiated. That is the only chance."

"Mr. Chattaway never will be," thought Mr. King. "Everything is against him where he is," he said aloud: "the air of the room, the constant fear upon him, the want of proper food. The provisions conveyed to him at chance times are a poor subst.i.tute for the meals he requires."

"And they will be stopped now," said Mrs. Chattaway. "Rebecca has prepared them privately, but she cannot do so now. Mr. King, _what_ can be done!"

"I don't know, indeed. It will not be safe to attempt to move him. In fact, I question if he would consent to it, his dread of being discovered is so great."

"Will you do all you can?" she urged.

"To be sure," he replied. "I _am_ doing all I can. I got him another bottle of port in to-day. If you only saw me trying to dodge into the lodge unperceived, and taking observations before I whisk out again, you would say that I am as anxious as you can be, my dear lady. Still--I don't hesitate to avow it--I believe it will be life or death, according as we can manage to get him away from that hole and set his mind at rest."

He wished her good night, and went out.

"Life or death!" Mrs. Chattaway stood at the window, and gazed into the dusky night, recalling over and over again the ominous words. "Life or death!" There was no earthly chance, except the remote one of appeasing Mr. Chattaway.

CHAPTER LIII

A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY

George Ryle by no means liked the uncertainty in which he was kept as to the Upland Farm. Had Mr. Chattaway been any other than Mr. Chattaway, had he been a straightforward man, George would have said, "Give me an answer, Yes or No." In point of fact, he did say so; but was unable to get a reply from him, one way or the other. Mr. Chattaway was pretty liberal in his sneers as to one with no means of his own taking so extensive a farm as the Upland; but he did not positively say, "I will not lease it to you." George bore the sneers with equanimity. He possessed that very desirable gift, a sweet temper; and he was, and could not help feeling that he was, so really superior to Mr. Chattaway, that he could afford that gentleman's evil tongue some lat.i.tude.

But the time was going on; it was necessary that a decision should be arrived at; and one morning George went up again to the Hold, determined to receive a final answer. As he was entering the steward's room, he met Ford, the Blackstone clerk, coming out of it.

"Is Mr. Chattaway in there?" asked George.

"Yes," replied Ford. "But if you want any business out of him this morning, you won't get it. I have tramped all the way up here about a hurried matter and have had my walk for my pains. Chattaway won't do anything or say anything; doesn't seem capable; says he shall be at Blackstone by-and-by. And that's all I've got to go back with."

"Why won't he?"

"Goodness knows. He seems to have had a shock or fright: was staring at a letter when I went in, and I left him staring at it when I came out, his wits evidently wool-gathering. Good morning, Mr. Ryle."