Strange rumours were abroad in the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold, and the excitement increased hourly. Mr. Chattaway had murdered Rupert Trevlyn—so ran the gossip—and Jim Sanders was in custody. Before the night of the day on which you saw Jim in the police-station, these reports, with many wild and almost impossible additions, were current, and spreading largely.
With the exception of the accusation made by Jim Sanders, the only corroboration to the tale appeared to rest in the fact that Rupert Trevlyn was not to be found. Dumps and his brother-constable scoured the locality high and low, and could find no traces of him. Sober lookers-on (but it is rare to find them in times of great excitement) regarded this as a favourable fact. Had Rupert really been murdered, or even accidentally killed by a chance blow from Mr. Chattaway, surely his body would be forthcoming to confirm the tale. But there were not wanting others who believed, and did not shrink from the avowal, that Mr. Chattaway was quite capable of suppressing all signs of the affray, including the dead body itself; though by what sleight-of-hand the act could have been accomplished seemed likely to remain a mystery.
Before Mr. Chattaway got home from Blackstone in the evening, all the rumours, good and bad, were known at Trevlyn Hold.
Mr. Chattaway was not unprepared to find this the case. In returning, he had turned his horse to the police-station, and reined in. Bowen, who saw him, came out.
"Has he been taken?" demanded Mr. Chattaway.
He put the question in an earnest tone, some impatience dashed with it, that was apparently genuine. "No, he has not," replied Bowen, stroking his chin, taking note of Mr. Chattaway's face. "Dumps and Chigwell have been at it all day; are at it still; but as yet without result."
"Then they are laggards at their work!" retorted Mr. Chattaway, his countenance darkening. "He was wandering about the place last night, and is sure to be not far off it to-day. By Heaven, he shall be unearthed! If there's any screening going on, as I know there was yesterday with regard to Jim Sanders, I'll have the actors brought to justice!"
Bowen came out of a reverie. "Would you be so good as to step inside for a few minutes, Mr. Chattaway? I have a word to say to you."
Mr. Chattaway got off his horse, hooked the bridle to the rails, as he had hooked it in the morning, and followed Bowen. The man saw that the doors were closed, and then spoke.
"There's a tale flying about, Mr. Chattaway, that Rupert Trevlyn has come to some harm. Do you know anything of it?"
"Not I," slightingly answered Mr. Chattaway. "What harm should come to him?"
"It is said that you and he met last night, had some sort of encounter by moonlight, and that Rupert was—in short, that some violence was done him."
For a full minute they remained looking at each other. The policeman appeared intent on biting the feathers of his pen; in reality, he was studying the face of Mr. Chattaway with a critical acumen his apparently careless demeanour imparted little idea of. He saw the blood mount under the dark skin; he saw the eye lighten with emotion: but the emotion was more like that called forth by anger than guilt. At least, so the police officer judged; and habit had rendered him a pretty correct observer. Mr. Chattaway was the first to speak.
"How do you know anything of the sort took place?—any interview?"
"It was watched—that is, accidentally seen. A person was passing at the time, and has mentioned it to-day."
"Who was the person?"
Bowen did not reply to the question. The omission may have been accidental, since he was hastening to put one on his own account.
"Do you deny this, Mr. Chattaway?"
"No. I wish I had the opportunity of acknowledging it to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn in the manner he deserves," continued Mr. Chattaway, in what looked like a blaze of anger.
"It is said that after the—the encounter, Rupert Trevlyn was left as one dead," cautiously resumed Bowen.
"Psha!" was the scornful retort. "Dead! He got up and ran away."
A very different account from that of Jim Sanders. Bowen was silent for a minute, endeavouring, most likely, to reconcile the two. "Have you any objection to state what took place, sir?"
"I don't know that I have," was the reply, somewhat sullenly delivered. "But I can't see what business it is of yours."
"People are taking up odd notions about it," said Bowen.
"People be hanged! It's no concern of theirs."
"But if they come to me and oblige me to make it my concern?" returned the officer, in significant tones. "If it's all fair and above-board, you had better tell me, Mr. Chattaway. If it's not, perhaps the less you say the better."
It was a hint not calculated to conciliate a chafed spirit, and Mr. Chattaway resented it. "How dare you presume to throw out insinuations to me?" he cried, snatching his riding-whip off the desk, where he had laid it, and stalking towards the door. "I'll tell you nothing; and you may make the best and the worst of it. Find Rupert Trevlyn, if you must know, and get it out of him. I ask you who has been spreading the rumour that I met Rupert Trevlyn last night?"
Bowen saw no reason why he should not disclose it. "Jim Sanders," he replied.
"Psha!" contemptuously ejaculated Mr. Chattaway: and he mounted his horse and rode away.
So that after this colloquy, Chattaway was in a degree prepared to find unpleasant rumours had reached the Hold. When he entered he could not avoid seeing the shrinking, timid looks cast on him by his children; the haughty, questioning face of Miss Diana; the horror in that of Mrs. Chattaway. He took the same sullen, defiant tone with them that he had taken with Bowen, denying the thing by implication more than by direct assertions. He asked them all whether they had gone out of their minds, that they should listen to senseless tales; and threatened the most dire revenge against Rupert when he was found.
Thus matters went on for a few days. But the rumours did not die away: on the contrary, they gathered strength and plausibility. Things were in a most uncomfortable state at the Hold: the family were tortured by dread and doubt they dared not give utterance to, and strove to hide; the very servants went about with silent footsteps, casting covert glances at their master from dark corners, and avoiding a direct meeting with him. Mr. Chattaway could not help seeing all this, and it did not tend to give him equanimity.
The only thing that could clear up this miserable doubt was to find Rupert. But Rupert was not found. Friends and foes, police and public, put out their best endeavours to accomplish it; but no more trace could be discovered of Rupert than if he had never existed—or than if, as many openly said, he were buried in some quiet corner of Mr. Chattaway's grounds. To do Mr. Chattaway justice, he appeared the most anxious of any for Rupert's discovery: not with a view to clearing himself from suspicion;thathe trampled under foot, as it were; but that Rupert might be brought to justice for burning the ricks.
Perhaps Mr. Chattaway's enemies may be pardoned for their doubts. It cannot be denied that there were apparent grounds for them: many a man has been officially accused of murder upon less. There was the well-known ill-feeling which had long existed on Mr. Chattaway's part towards Rupert; there was the dread of being displaced by him, which had latterly arisen through the visit of Mr. Daw; there was the sore feeling excited on both sides by the business of the rick-yard and the subsequent examination; there was the night contest spoken of by Jim Sanders, which Mr. Chattaway did not deny; there were the scratches and bruises visible on that gentleman's face; and there was the total disappearance of Rupert. People could remember the blank look which had passed over Mr. Chattaway's countenance when Rupert ran into the circle gathered round the pit at Blackstone. "He'd ha' bin glad that he were dead," they had murmured then, one to another. "And happen he have put him out o' the way," they murmured now.
Perhaps they did not all go so far as to suspect Mr. Chattaway of the crime of premeditated murder: he might have killed him wilfully in the passion of the moment; or killed him accidentally by an unlucky blow that had done its work more effectually than he had intended. The fruitless search was no barrier to these doubts; murdered men had been hidden away before, and would be again.
I have not yet mentioned the last point of suspicion, but it was one much dwelt upon—the late return of Mr. Chattaway to his home on the night in question. The servants had not failed to talk of this, and the enemies outside took it up and discussed it eagerly. It was most unusual for Mr. Chattaway to be away from home at night. Unsociable by nature, and a man whose company was not sought by his neighbours—for they disliked him—it was a rare thing for Mr. Chattaway to spend his evenings out. He attended evening parties now and then in the company of his wife and Miss Trevlyn, but not once a year was he invited out alone. His absence therefore on this night, coupled with his late entrance, close upon midnight, was the more remarkable. Where had he been until that hour? Everyone wondered: everyone asked it. Mr. Chattaway carelessly answered his wife and Miss Diana that he had been on business at Barbrook, but condescended to give no reply whatever to any other living mortal amongst the questioners.
As the days went on without news of Rupert, Mr. Chattaway expressed a conviction that he had made his way to Mr. Daw, and was being sheltered there. A most unsatisfactory conviction, if he really and genuinely believed it. With those two hatching plots against him, he could never know a moment's peace. He was most explosive against Rupert; at home and abroad he never ceased to utter threats of prosecution for the crime of which he had been guilty. He rode every other day to the station, worrying Bowen, asking whether any traces had turned up: urged—this was in the first day or so of the disappearance—that houses and cottages should be searched. Bowen quite laughed at the suggestion. If Mr. Chattaway had reason to suspect any particular house or cottage, they might perhaps go the length of getting a search warrant; but to enter dwellings indiscriminately would be an intolerable and unjustifiable procedure.
Mr. Chattaway was unable to say that he had especial cause to suspect any house or cottage: unless, he added in his temper, it might be Trevlyn Farm. Jim Sanders had, it appeared, hidden there in an outbuilding: why not Rupert Trevlyn? But Bowen saw and knew that Mr. Chattaway had only spoken in exasperation. Trevlyn Farm was not more likely to conceal Rupert Trevlyn than any other house of its standing—in fact less; for Mrs. Ryle would not have permitted it. Her dislike to any sort of underhand dealing was so great, that she would not have concealed Rupert, or countenanced his being concealed, had it been to save him from hanging. In that she resembled Miss Diana Trevlyn. Miss Diana would have spent her last shilling nobly to defend Rupert on his trial—had it come to a trial—but ignominiously conceal him from the reach of the law, that she would never have done. Chattaway's remark travelled to George Ryle: George happened to meet Bowen the same day, not an hour after, and spoke of it. He told Bowen that the bare idea of Rupert's being concealed on their premises was absurd, and added, on his word of honour, not only that he did not know where Rupert was, but where he was likely to be: the thing was to him a complete mystery. Bowen nodded. In Bowen's opinion the idea of his being concealed in any house was all moonshine.
The days went on and on, and it did appear very mysterious where Rupert could be, or what his fate. His clothes, his effects, remained unclaimed at Trevlyn Hold. When Mrs. Chattaway came unexpectedly upon anything that had belonged to him, she turned sick with the fears that darted across her heart. A faint hope arose within her at times that Rupert had gone, as Mr. Chattaway loudly, and perhaps others more secretly, surmised, to Mr. Daw in his far-off home, but it was rejected the next moment. She knew, none better, that Rupert had no means to take him there. Oh, how often did she wish, in her heart of hearts, that they had never usurped Trevlyn Hold! It seemed they were beginning to reap all the bitter fruits, which had been so long ripening.
But this supposition was soon to be set aside. Two letters arrived from Mr. Daw: one to Mr. Freeman, the other to Rupert himself; and they completely did away with the idea that Rupert Trevlyn had found his way to the Pyrenees.
It appeared that Rupert had written an account to Mr. Daw of these unhappy circumstances; his setting the rick on fire in his passion, and his arrest. He had written it on the evening of the day he was discharged from custody. And by the contents of his letter, it was evident that he then contemplated returning to the Hold.
"These letters from Mr. Daw settle the question: Rupert has not gone there," observed Mr. Freeman. "But they only make the mystery greater."
Yes, they did. And the news went forth to the neighbourhood that Rupert Trevlyn had written a letter subsequent to the examination at Barmester, wherein he stated that he was going straight home to the Hold. Gossip never loses in the carrying, you know.
Jim Sanders, who was discharged and at work again, became quite the lion of the day. He had never been made so much of in his life. Tea here, supper there, ale everywhere. Everyone was asking Jim the particulars of that later night, and Jim, nothing loth, gave them, with the addition of his own comments.
And the days went on, and the ferment and the doubts increased.
The ferment increased. The arguments in the neighbourhood were worthy of being listened to, if only from a logical point of view. If Rupert Trevlyn had stated that he was going back to the Hold after the proceedings at Barmester; and if Rupert Trevlyn never reached the Hold, clearly Mr. Chattaway had killed and buried him. Absurd as the deduction may be from a dispassionate point of view, to those excited gentry it appeared not only a feasible but a certain conclusion. The thing could not rest; interviews were held with Mr. Peterby, who was supposed to be the only person able to take up the matter on the part of the missing and ill-used Rupert; and that gentleman bestirred himself to make secret inquiries.
One dark night, between eight and nine, the inmates of the lodge were disturbed by a loud imperative knocking at their door. Ann Canham—trying her poor eyes over some dark sewing by the light of the solitary candle—started from her chair, and remarked that her heart had leaped into her mouth.
Which may have been a reason, possibly, for standing still, face and hands uplifted in consternation, instead of answering the knock. It was repeated more imperatively.
Old Canham turned his head and looked at her, as he smoked his last evening pipe over the fire. "Thee must open it, Ann."
Seeing no help for it, she went meekly to the door, wringing her hands. What she feared was best known to herself; but in point of fact, since Bowen, the superintendent, had pounced upon her a few days before, as she was going past the police-station, handed her inside, and put her through sundry questions as we put a boy through his catechism, she had lived in a state of tremor. She may have concluded it was Bowen now, with the fellow handcuffs to those which had adorned Jim Sanders.
It proved to be Mr. Peterby. Ann looked surprised, but lost three parts of her fear. Dropping her humble curtsey, she was about to ask his pleasure, when he brushed past her without ceremony, and stepped into the kitchen.
"Shut the door," were his first words to her. "How are you, Canham?"
Mark had risen, and stood with doubtful gaze, wondering, no doubt, what the visit could mean. "I be but middlin', sir," he answered, putting his pipe in the corner of the hearth. "We ain't none of us too well, I reckon, with this uncertainty hanging over our minds, as to poor Master Rupert."
"It is the business I have come about. Sit down, Ann," Mr. Peterby added, settling himself on the bench opposite Mark. "I want to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, sir," she meekly answered. But her hands shook, and she nearly dropped the work she had taken up.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," cried Mr. Peterby, noticing the emotion. "I am not going to accuse you of putting him out of sight, as it seems busy tongues are accusing somebody else. On the night the encounter took place between Mr. Chattaway and Rupert Trevlyn, you were passing near the spot, I believe. You must tell me all you saw. First of all, as I am told, you encountered Rupert."
Ann Canham raised her shaking hand to her brow. Mr. Peterby had begun his questioning in a hard, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were examining a witness in court, and it did not tend to reassure her. Ann was often laughed at for her timidity. She gave him the account of her interview with Rupert as correctly as she could remember it.
"He said nothing of his intention of going off anywhere?" asked Mr. Peterby, when she had finished.
"Not a word, sir. He said he had nowhere to go to; if he went to the Hold, Mr. Chattaway might be for horsewhipping him again. He thought he should lie under the trees till morning."
"Did you leave him there?"
"I left him sitting on the stile, sir, eating the bread. He had complained of hunger, and I got him to take a part of a cake Mrs. Freeman had given me for my father."
"You told Bowen, the superintendent of the police-station, that you asked him to take refuge in the lodge for the night?"
"Yes, sir," after a slight pause. "Mr. Bowen put a heap of questions to me, and what with being confused, and the fright of his calling me into the place, I didn't well know what I said to him."
"But you did ask Rupert Trevlyn?"
"I asked him if he'd be pleased to take shelter in the lodge till the morning, as he seemed to have nowhere to go to. But he spoke out quite sharp, at my asking it, and said, did I think he wanted to get me and father into trouble with Mr. Chattaway? So I went away, leaving him there."
"Well, now, just tell me whom you met afterwards."
"I hadn't got above three-parts up the field, sir, when I met Mr. Chattaway. I stood off the narrow path to let him pass, and wished him good night, but he didn't answer me: he went on. Just as I came close to the road-stile, I see Jim Sanders coming over it, so I asked him where he had been, and how he had got back again, having heard he'd not been found all day, and he answered rather impertinently that he'd been up in the moon. The moon was uncommon bright that night, sir," she simply added.
"Was that all Jim Sanders said?"
"Yes, sir, every word. He went on down the path as if he was in a hurry."
"In the direction Mr. Chattaway had taken?"
"The very same. There is but that one path, sir."
"And that was the last you saw of them?"
Ann Canham stopped to snuff the candle before she answered. "That was all, sir. I was hastening to get back to father, knowing he'd be wanting me, for I was late. Mr. Bowen kep' on telling me it was strange I heard nothing of the encounter, but I never did. I must ha' been out of the field long before Mr. Chattaway could get up to Master Rupert."
"Pity but you had waited and gone back," observed Mr. Peterby, musingly. "It might have prevented what occurred."
"Pity, perhaps, but I had, sir. It never entered my head that anything bad would come of their meeting. Since, after I came to know what did happen, I wondered I had not thought of it. But if I had, sir, I shouldn't have dared go back after Mr. Chattaway. It wouldn't have been my place."
Mr. Peterby sat looking at Ann, as she imagined. In point of fact he was so buried in thought as to see nothing. He rose from the settle. "And this is all you know about it! Well, it amounts to nothing beyond establishing the fact that all three—Rupert Trevlyn, Mr. Chattaway, and the boy—were on the spot at that time. Good night, Canham. I hope your rheumatism will get easier."
Ann Canham opened the door, and wished him good night. When he was fairly gone she slipped the bolt, and stood with her back against it, to recover her equanimity.
"Father, my heart was in my mouth all the time he was here," she repeated. "I be all of a twitter."
"More stupid you!" was the sympathising answer of old Canham.
The public ferment, I say, did not lessen, and the matter was at length carried before the magistrates; so far as that the advice of one of them was asked by Mr. Peterby. It happened that Mr. Chattaway had gone this very day to Barmester. He was standing at the entrance to the inn-yard where he generally put up, when his solicitor, Flood, approached, evidently in a state of excitement.
"What a mercy I found you!" he exclaimed, quite out of breath. "Jackson told me you were in town. Come along!"
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Chattaway.
"Matter? There's matter enough. Peterby's before the magistrates at this very moment preferring a charge against you for having murdered Rupert Trevlyn. I got word of it in the oddest manner, and——"
"Whatdo you say?" interrupted Chattaway, his face blazing, as he stood stock still, and refused to stir another step without an answer.
"Come along, I say. There's some application being made to the magistrates about you, and my advice is——Mr. Chattaway," added the lawyer, in a deeper, almost an agitated tone, as he abruptly broke off his words, "I assume that you are innocent of this. Youare?"
"Before Heaven, I am innocent!" thundered Chattaway. "What do you mean, Flood?"
"Then make haste. My advice to you is, go right into the midst of it, and confront Peterby. Don't let the magistrates hear only one side of the question. Make your explanation and set these nasty rumours at rest. It is what you ought to have done at first."
Apparently eager as himself now, Mr. Chattaway strode along. They found on reaching the courts that some trifling cause was being heard by the magistrates, nothing at all connected with Mr. Chattaway. But the explanation was forthcoming, Mr. Peterby was in a private room with one of the Bench only—a Captain Mynn. With scant ceremony the interview was broken in upon by the intruders.
There was no formal complaint being made, no accusation lodged, or warrant applied for. Mr. Peterby, who was on terms of intimacy with Captain Mynn, was laying the case before him unofficially, and asking his advice as a friend. A short explanation on either side ensued, and Mr. Peterby turned to Mr. Chattaway.
"This has been forced upon me," he said. "For days and days past I have been urged to apply for a warrant against you, and have declined. But public opinion is becoming so urgent, that if I don't act it will be taken out of my hands, and given to those who have less scruple than I. Therefore I resolved to adopt a medium course; and came here asking Captain Mynn's opinion as a friend—not as a magistrate—whether I should have sufficient grounds for acting. For myself, I honestly confess I think them very slight; and assure you, Mr. Chattaway, that I am no enemy of yours, although it may look like it at this moment."
"By whom have you been urged to this?" coldly asked Mr. Chattaway.
"By more than I should care to name: the public, to give them a collective term. But how you obtained cognisance of my being here, I can't make out," he added, turning to Mr. Flood. "Not a soul knew I was coming."
"As we have met here, we had better have it out," was Mr. Flood's indirect answer. "It is my advice to Mr. Chattaway, and he wishes it. If Captain Mynn hears your side unofficially he must, in justice, hear ours. That's fair, all the world over."
It was, doubtless, a very unusual, perhaps unorthodox, mode of proceeding; but things far more unorthodox than that are done in local courts every day. Captain Mynn knew all the doubts and rumours just as well as Mr. Peterby could state them, but he listened attentively, as in duty bound. Mr. Chattaway did not deny the encounter with Rupert: never had denied it. He acknowledged they were neither of them very cool; Rupert was the first to strike, and Rupert fell or was knocked down. Immediately upon that, he, Chattaway, heard a sound, went to see what it was, and found they had had an eavesdropper, who was then making off across the field, on the other side of the grove. Chattaway, angry at the fact, gave pursuit, in the hope of identifying the intruder (whom he had since discovered to be Jim Sanders), but was unable to catch him. When he got back to the spot, Rupert was gone.
"How long were you absent?" inquired Captain Mynn of Mr. Chattaway.
"About six or seven minutes, I think. I ran to the other end of the field, and looked into the lane, but the boy had escaped out of sight, and I walked back again. It would take about seven minutes; the field is large."
"And after that?"
"Finding, as I tell you, that Rupert had disappeared, I re-traversed the ground over the lower field, and went on to Barbrook, where I had business. I never saw Rupert Trevlyn after I left him on the ground. The inference, therefore—nay, the absolute certainty—is, that he got up and escaped."
A pause. "You did not reach home, I believe, until midnight, or thereabouts," remarked Captain Mynn. "Some doubts have been raised as to where you could have spent your time."
And this question led to the very core of the suspicion. Mr. Chattaway appeared to feel that it did, and hesitated. So far he had spoken freely and openly enough, not with the ungracious, sullen manner that generally characterised him, but he hesitated now.
"Strange to say," he resumed, "I could not account for the whole of my time that evening. That is, if I were asked for proof, I am not sure that it could be furnished. I was anxious to see Hurnall, the agent for the Boorfield mines, and that's where I went. My son had brought home news from Blackstone, that they were going to force me to make certain improvements in my pit, and I wanted to consult Hurnall about it. He is up to every trick and turn, and knows what they can compel an owner to do and what they can't. When I reached Hurnall's house, he was out; might return immediately, the servant said, or might not be home till late. She asked me if I would go in and wait; but I had no fancy for a close room, after being boxed up all day in the courthere, and said I would walk about. I walked about for two mortal hours before Hurnall came; and then went indoors with him. That's the whole truth, I'll swear."
"Then I would have avowed it before, had I been you," cried Mr. Peterby. "It's your silence has done half the mischief, and given colouring to the rumours."
"Silence!" cried Mr. Chattaway, angrily. "When a man's accused of murder by a set of brainless idiots it is punishment he'd like to give them, not self-defence."
"Ah!" said the lawyer, "but we can't always do as we like; if we could, the world might be better worth living in."
Mr. Chattaway turned to the magistrate. "I have told you the whole truth, so far as I know it; and you may judge whether these unneighbourly reports have not merited all my contempt. You can question Hurnall, who will tell you where he met me, and how long I stayed with him. As to Rupert Trevlyn, I have no more idea where he is than Mr. Peterby himself has. He will turn up some time, there's not the least doubt about it; and I solemnly declare that I'll then bring him to justice, should it be ten years hence."
There was nothing more for Mr. Chattaway to wait for, and he went out with his solicitor. Mr. Peterby turned to Captain Mynn with a questioning glance.
The magistrate shook his head. "My opinion is that you cannot proceed with this, Mr. Peterby. Were you to bring the matter officially before the Bench, I for one would not entertain it; neither, I am sure, would my brother-magistrates. Mr. Chattaway is no favourite of ours, but he must receive justice. That there are suspicious points connected with the case, I can't deny; but every one may be explained away. If what he says be true, they are explained now."
"All but the two hours, when he says he was walking about, waiting for Hurnall."
"It may have been so. No; upon these very slight grounds, it is of no use to press for a warrant against Mr. Chattaway. The very enormity of the crime would almost be its answer. A man of position and property, a county magistrate, guilty of the crime of murder in these enlightened days! Nonsense, Peterby!"
And Mr. Peterby mentally echoed the words; and went forth prepared to echo them to those who had urged him to make the charge.
So the magistrates declined to interfere, and Mr. Chattaway went about a free man. But not untainted; for the neighbourhood was still free in its comments, and openly accused him of having made away with Rupert. Mr. Chattaway had his retaliation; he offered a reward for the recovery of the incendiary, Rupert Trevlyn, and the walls for miles round were placarded with handbills. Urged by him, the police recommenced their search, and Mr. Chattaway actually talked of sending for an experienced detective. One thing was indisputable—if Rupert were in life he must keep from the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold. Nothing could save him from the law, if taken the second time. Jim Sanders would not be kidnapped again; he had already testified to it officially; and Mr. Chattaway thirsted for vengeance.
Take it for all in all, it was breaking the heart of Mrs. Chattaway. Looked at in any light, it was bad enough. The fear touching her husband, not the less startling from its improbability, was over, for he had succeeded in convincing her that so far he was innocent; but her fears for Rupert kept her in a constant state of terror. Miss Diana publicly condemned Rupert. This hiding from justice (if he was hiding) she regarded as only a degree less reprehensible than the crime itself; as did Mrs. Ryle; and had Miss Diana met Rupert returning some fine day, she would have laid her hand upon him as effectually as Mr. Dumps himself, and said, "You shall not escape again." Do not mistake Miss Diana; it would not have pleased her to see Rupert standing at the bar of justice to be judged by the laws of his country. She would have taken Rupert home to the Hold, and said to Chattaway, "Here he is, but you must and shall forgive him: you must forgive him, because he is a Trevlyn; and a Trevlyn cannot be disgraced." Miss Diana had full confidence in her own power to command this. Others wisely doubted whether any amount of interference on any part would now avail with Mr. Chattaway. His wife felt that it would not. She felt that were poor Rupert to venture home, even twelve months hence, trusting that time and mercy had effected his pardon, he would be sacrificed; between Miss Diana's and Mr. Chattaway's opposing policies, he would inevitably be sacrificed. Altogether, Mrs. Chattaway's life was more painful now Rupert had gone than it had been when he was at the Hold.
Cris was against Rupert; Octave was bitterly against him; Maude went about the house with a white face and beating heart, health and spirits giving way under the tension. Suspense is, of all evils, the worst to bear: and they who loved Rupert, Maude and her Aunt Edith, were hourly victims to it. The bow was always strung. On the one hand was the latent doubt that he had come to some violent end that night, in spite of Mr. Chattaway's denial; on the other hand, the lively dread that he was concealing himself, and might be discovered by the police every new day the sun rose. They had speculated so much upon where he could be, that the ever-recurring thought now brought only its heart-sickness; and Maude had the additional pain of hearing petty shafts launched at her because she was his sister. Mrs. Chattaway prayed upon her bended knees that, hard to be borne as the suspense was, Rupert might not return until time should have softened the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and the grievous charge be done away with for want of a prosecutor.
Nora was in the midst of bustle at Trevlyn Farm. And Nora was also in a temper. It was the annual custom there, when the busy time of harvest was over, to institute a general house-renovating: summer curtains were taken down, winter ones were put up, carpets were shaken, floors and paint scoured; and the place, in short, to use an ordinary expression, was turned inside out.
There was more than usual to be done this year: for mendings and alterations had to be made in sundry curtains, and the upholstering woman, named Brown, had been at Trevlyn Farm the last day or two, getting forward with her work. Nora'srusein the court at Barmester, to wile Farmer Apperley to a private conference, had really some point in it, for negotiations were going on with that industrious member of the upholstering society through Mrs. Apperley, who had recommended her.
Mrs. Brown sat in the centre of a pile of curtains, steadily plying her needle: the finishing stitches were being put to the work; at least, they would be before night closed in. Mrs. Brown, a sallow woman with a chronic cold in her head, preferred to work in outdoor costume; a black poke bonnet and faded woollen shawl crossed over her shoulders. Nora stood by her in a very angry mood, her arms folded, just as though she had nothing to do: a circumstance to be recorded in these cleaning times.
For Nora never let the grass grow under her feet, or under any one else's feet, when there was work in hand. By dint of beginning hours before daylight, and keeping at it hours after nightfall, she succeeded in getting it all over in one day. Herself, Nanny, and Ann Canham put their best energies into it, one or two of the men were set to rub up the mahogany furniture, and Mrs. Ryle had almost entirely to dispense with being waited upon. And Nora's present anger arose from the fact that Ann Canham, by some extraordinary mischance, had not made her appearance.
It was bringing things almost to a standstill, as Nora complained to Mrs. Brown. The two cleaners were Nanny and Ann Canham. Nanny was doing her part, but what was to become of the other part? And where was Ann Canham? Nora kept her eyes turned to the window, as she talked and grumbled, watching for the return of Jim Sanders, whom she had despatched to see after Ann.
Presently she saw him approaching, went to the door and threw it open long before the lad reached it. "She can't come," he called out at length.
"Not come!" echoed Nora, in wrathful consternation, looking as if she felt inclined to beat Jim for bringing the message. "What on earth does she mean by that?"
"She said her father was ill, and she couldn't leave him," returned Jim.
Nora could scarcely speak from indignation. Old Canham, as was known to the neighbourhood, had been ailing for years, and it had never kept Ann at home before. "I don't believe it," said she, in her perplexity.
"I don't think I do, neither," returned Jim. "I'm a'most sure old Canham was right afore the fire, smoking his pipe as usual. She put the door to behind her, all in a hurry, while she talked to me, but not afore I see old Canham there. I be next to certain of it."
Nora could not understand the state of affairs. Ann Canham, humble, industrious, grateful for any day's work offered to her, had never failed to come, when engaged, in all Barbrook's experience. What was to be done? The morrow was Saturday, and to have the cleaning extended to that day would have upset the farm's regularity and Nora's temper for a month.
Nora took a sudden resolution. She put on her bonnet and shawl and set off for the lodge, determined to bring Ann Canham back willing or unwilling, or know the reason why. Thiscontretempswould be quite a life-long memory for Nora.
Without any superfluous knocking, Nora turned the handle of the door when she reached the lodge. But the door was locked. "What can that be for?" ejaculated Nora—for she had never known the lodge locked in the day-time. "She expects I shall come after her, and thinks she'll keep me out!"
Without an instant's delay, Nora's face was at the window, to reconnoitre the interior. She saw the smock-frock of old Mark disappearing through the opposite door as quickly as was consistent with his rheumatism. Nora rattled the handle of the door with one hand, and knocked sharply on its panel with the other. Ann opened it.
"Now, Ann Canham, what's the meaning of this?" she began, pushing past Ann, who stood in the way, almost as if she would have kept her out.
"I beg a humble pardon, ma'am, a hundred times," was the low, deprecating answer. "I'd do anything rather than disappoint you—such a thing has never happened to me yet—but I'm obliged. Father's too poorly for me to leave him."
Nora surveyed her critically. The woman was evidently in a state of discomfort, if not terror. She trembled visibly, and her lips were white.
"I got a boy to run down to Mrs. Sanders's this morning at daylight, and ask her to take my place," resumed Ann Canham. "Until Jim came up here a short while ago, I never thought but she had went."
"What's the reasonyoucan't come?" demanded Nora, uncompromisingly stern.
"I'd come but for father."
"You needn't peril your soul with deliberate untruths," interrupted angry Nora. "There's nothing the matter with your father; nothing that need hinder your coming out. If he's well enough to be in the house-place, smoking his pipe, he's well enough to be left. Hewassmoking. And what's that?"—pointing to the pipe her eyes had detected in the corner of the hearth.
Ann Canham stood the picture of helplessness under the reproach. She stammered out that she "daredn't leave him: he wasn't himself to-day."
"He was sufficiently himself to make off on seeing me," said angry Nora. "What's to become of my cleaning? Who's to do it if you don't? I insist upon your coming, Ann Canham."
It appeared almost beyond Ann Canham's courage to bring out a second refusal, and she burst into tears. She had never failed before, and hoped, if forgiven this time, never to fail again: but to leave her father that day was impossible.
And Nora had to make the best of the refusal. She went away searching the woman's motive, and came to the conclusion that she must have some sewing in hand she was compelled to finish: that Mark's illness was detaining her, she did not believe. Still, she could not comprehend it. Ann had always been so eager to oblige, so simple and straightforward. Had sewing really detained her, she would have brought it out to Nora; would have told the truth, not making her father's health the excuse. Nora was puzzled, and that was a thing she hated. Ruminating upon all this as she walked along, she met Mrs. Chattaway. Nora, who, when suffering under a grievance, must dilate upon it to everyone, favoured Mrs. Chattaway with an account of Ann Canham's extraordinary conduct and ingratitude.
"Rely upon it, her father is ill," answered Mrs. Chattaway. "I will tell you why I think so, Nora. Yesterday I was at Barmester with my sister, and as we pulled up at the chemist's where I had business, Ann Canham came out with a bottle of medicine in her hand. I asked her who was ill, and she said it was her father. I remarked to the chemist afterwards that I supposed Mark Canham had a fresh attack of rheumatism, but he replied that it was fever."
"Fever!" echoed Nora.
"I exclaimed as you do: but the chemist persisted that Mark must be suffering from a species of low fever. As we returned, my sister stopped the pony carriage at the lodge, and Ann came out to us. She explained it differently from the chemist. What she had meant to imply when she went for the medicine was, that her father was feverish—but he was better then, she said. Altogether, I suppose he is worse than usual, and she is afraid to leave him to-day."
"Well," said Nora, "all I can say is that I saw old Canham stealing out of the room when I knocked at it, just as though he did not want to be seen. He was smoking, too. I can't make it out."
Mrs. Chattaway was neither so speculative nor so curious as Nora; perhaps not so keen: she viewed it as nothing extraordinary that Mark Canham should be rather worse than usual, or that his daughter should decline to leave him.
Much later in the day—in fact, when the afternoon was passing—Ann Canham, with a wild look in her face, turned out of the lodge and took the road towards Trevlyn Farm. Not openly, as people do who have nothing to fear, but in a timorous, uncertain, hesitating manner. Plunging into the fields when she was nearing the farm, she stole along under cover of the hedge, until she reached the one which skirted the fold-yard. Cautiously raising her head to see what might be on the other side, it almost came into contact with another head, raised to see anything that might be on this—the face of Policeman Dumps.
Ann Canham uttered a shrill scream, and flew away as fast as her legs could carry her. Perhaps of all living beings, Mr. Dumps was about the last she would wish to encounter just then. That gentleman made his way to a side-gate, and called after her.
"What be you afeard of, Ann Canham? Did you think I was a mad bull looking over at you?"
It occurred to Ann Canham that to start away in that extraordinary fashion could only be regarded as consistent with a guilty conscience, and the policeman might set himself to discover her motive—as it lay in the nature of a policeman to do. That or some other thought made her turn slowly back again, and confront Mr. Dumps.
"What was you afeard of?" he repeated.
"Of nothing in particular, please, sir," she answered. "It was the suddenness like of seeing a face that startled me."
Mr. Dumps thought she looked curiously startled still. But that complacent official, accustomed to strike terror to the hearts of boys and other scapegraces, did not give it a second thought. "Were you looking for anyone?" he asked, simply as an idle question.
"No, sir. I just put my head over the hedge without meaning. I didn't want nothing."
Mr. Dumps loftily turned on his heel without condescending so much as a "good afternoon." Ann Canham pursued her way along the hedge which skirted the fold-yard. Any one observing her closely might have detected indications of fear about her still. In a cautious and timid manner, she at length turned her head, to obtain a glimpse of Mr. Dumps's movements.
Dumps had turned into the road, and was pursuing his way slowly down it. Every step carried him farther from her; and when he was fairly out of sight, her sigh of relief was long and deep.
But of course there was no certainty that he would not return. Possibly that insecurity caused Ann to take stolen looks into the fold-yard, and then dive under the hedge, as if she had been at some forbidden play. But Dumps did not return; and yet she continued her game.
A full hour had she been at it: and by her countenance, and the occasional almost despairing movement of her hands, it might be inferred that she was growing sadly anxious and weary: when Jim Sanders emerged from one of the out-buildings at the upper end of the fold-yard, and began to make for the other end. To do this he had to pass within a few yards of the hedge where the by-play was going on; and somewhat to his surprise he heard himself called to in hushed tones. Casting his eyes to the spot whence the voice proceeded, he saw the care-worn brow and weak eyes of Ann Canham above the hedge. She beckoned to him mysteriously, and then all signs of her disappeared.
"If ever I see the like o' that!" soliloquised Jim. "What's up with Ann Canham?" He approached the hedge, and bawled out to know what she wanted.
"Hush—sh—sh—sh!" came the warning from the other side. "Come here, Jim."
Considerably astonished, thinking perhaps Ann Canham had a litter of puppies to show him—for, if Jim had a weakness for anything on earth, it was for those charming specimens of the animal world—he made his way through the gate. Ann had no puppies; nothing but a small note in her hand wafered and pressed with a thimble.
"Is the master anywhere about, Jim?"
"He's just gone into the barn now. The men be thrashing."
Ann paused a moment. Jim stared at her.
"Could you just do me a service, Jim?"
Jim, good-natured at all times, replied that he supposed he could if he tried. But he stared, still puzzled by this extraordinary behaviour on the part of quiet Ann Canham.
"I want this bit of a letter given to him," she said, pointing to what she held. "I want it given to him when he's by himself, so that it don't get seen. Could you manage it, Jim?"
"I dare say I could," replied Jim. "What is the letter? What's inside it?"
"It concerns Mr. Ryle," said Ann, after a perceptible hesitation. "Jim, if you'll do this faithful, I won't forget it. Watch your opportunity; and keep the letter inside your smock-frock, for fear anybody should see it."
"I'll do it," said Jim. He took the note from her, put it in his trousers pocket, and went back towards the barn whistling. Ann turned homewards, flying over the ground as if she were running a race.
Jim had not to wait for an opportunity. He met his master coming out of the barn. The doorway was dark; the thrashing men were at the upper end of the barn, and no eyes were near. Jim could not help some of the mystery which had appeared in Ann Canham's manner extending to his own.
"What's this?" asked George.
"Ann Canham brought it, sir. She was hiding t'other side the hedge and called to me, and telled me to be sure give it when nobody was by."
George took the missive to the door and looked at it. A piece of white paper, which had apparently served to wrap up tea or something of that sort, awkwardly folded and wafered. No direction.
He opened it; and saw a few words in a sprawling hand:
"Don't betray me, George. Come to me in secret as soon as you can. I think I am dying."
And in spite of its being without signature; in spite of the scrawled characters, and blotted words, George Ryle recognised the handwriting of Rupert Trevlyn.
On the hard flock bed in the upper back room at the lodge, he lay. As George Ryle stood there bending over him, he could have touched each of the surrounding walls. The remark of Jim Sanders that Ann Canham had brought the note, guided George naturally to the lodge; otherwise he would not have known where to look for him. One single question to old Canham as he entered—"Is he here?"—and George bounded up the stairs.
Ann Canham, who was standing over the bed—her head just escaping the low ceiling—turned to George: trouble and pain on her countenance as she spoke.
"He is in delirium now, sir. I was afeared he would be."
George Ryle was too astonished to make any reply. Never had he cast a shadow of suspicion to Rupert's being concealed at the lodge. "Has he been here long?" he whispered.
"All along, sir, since the night he was missed," was the reply. "After I had got home that night, and was telling father about Master Rupert's having took the half-loaf in his hunger, he come knocking at the door to be let in. Chattaway and him had met and quarrelled, and he was knocked down, his shoulder was hurt, and he felt tired and sick; and he said he'd stop with us till morning, and be away afore daylight, so that we should not get into trouble for sheltering him. He got me to lend him my pen and ink, and wrote a letter to that there foreign gentleman, Mr. Daw. After that, with a dreadful deal of pressing, sir, I got him to come up to bed here, and I lay on the settle downstairs for the night. Before daylight I was up, and had the fired lighted, and the kettle on, to make him a cup o' tea before starting, but he did not come down. I came up here and found him ill. His shoulder was stiff and painful, he was bruised and sore all over, and thought he couldn't get out o' bed. Well, sir, he stopped, and have been here ever since, getting worse, and me just frightened out of my life, for fear he should be found by Mr. Chattaway or the police, and took off to prison. I was sick for the whole day after, sir, that time Mr. Bowen called me into his station-house and set on to question me."
George was looking at Rupert. There could not be a doubt that he was in a state of partial delirium. George feared there could not be a doubt that he was in danger. The bed was low and narrow, evidently hard; the bolster small and thin. Rupert's head lay on it quietly enough; his hair, which had grown long since his confinement, fell around him in wavy masses; his cheeks wore the hectic of fever, his blue eyes were unnaturally bright. There was no speculation in those eyes. They were partially closed, and though at the entrance of George they were turned to him, there was no recognition in them. His arms were flung outside the bed, the wristbands pushed up as if from heat.
"I have put him on a shirt o' father's, sir, when his have wanted washing," explained Ann Canham, to whom it was natural to relate minute details.
"How long has he been without consciousness?" inquired George.
"Just for the last hour, sir. He wrote the letter I brought to you, and when I come back he was like this. Maybe he'll come to himself again presently; he's been as bad as this at times in the last day or two. I'm so afeard of its going on to brain-fever or some other fever. If he should get raving, we could never keep his being here a secret; he'd be heard outside."
"He ought to have had a doctor before this."
"But how is one to be got here?" debated Ann Canham. "Once a doctor knew where Mr. Rupert was, he might betray it—there's the reward, you know, sir. And how could we get a doctor in without its being known at the Hold? What mightn't Chattaway suspect?"
George remained silent, revolving the matter. There were difficulties undoubtedly in the way.
"Nobody knows the trouble I've been in, sir, especially since he grew worse. At first, he just lay here quiet, more as if glad of the rest, and my chief care was to keep folks as far as I could out o' the lodge, bathe his shoulder, and bring him up a share of our poor meals. But since the fever came upon him, I've been half dazed, wondering what I ought to do. There were two people I thought I might speak to—you, sir, and Madam. But Mr. Rupert was against it, and father was dead against it. They were afraid, you see, that if only one was told, it might come to be known he was here. Father's old now, and helpless; he couldn't do a stroke towards getting his own living. If I be out before daylight at any of my places, it's as much as he can do to open the gate and fasten it back: and he knows Mr. Chattaway would turn us right off the estate if it come to be known we had sheltered Mr. Rupert. But yesterday Mr. Rupert found he was getting worse and worse, and I said to father what would become of us if he should die? And they both said that you should be told to-day if he was no better. We did think him a trifle better this morning, but later the fever came on again, and Mr. Rupert himself said he'd write you a word, and I found a bit o' paper and brought him the big Bible, and held it while he wrote the letter on it."
She ceased. George, as before, was looking at Rupert. It seemed to Ann Canham that he could not gaze sufficiently, but in truth he was lost in thought; fairly puzzled with the difficulties encompassing the case.
"Is it anything more than low fever?" he asked.
"I don't think it is, sir, yet. But it may go on to more, you know."
George did know. He knew that assistance was necessary in more ways than one, if worse was to be avoided. Medical attendance, a more airy room, generous nourishment; and how was even one of them to be accomplished, let alone all? The close closet—it could scarcely be called more—had no chimney in it; air and light could come in only through a small pane ingeniously made to open in the roof. The narrow bed and one chair occupied almost all the space, leaving very little for George and Ann Canham as they stood. George, coming in from the fresh air, felt half-stifled with the closeness of the room: and this must be dangerous for the invalid. It is a mercy that these inconveniences are soothed to those who have to endure them—as most inconveniences and trials are in life. To an outsider they appear unbearable; but to the sufferers they are tempered. George Ryle felt as if a day in that atmosphere would half kill him; but Rupert, lying there always, was sensible of no discomfort. It was not, however, the less injurious; and it appeared that there was no remedy; could be no removal.
"What have you given him?" inquired George.
"I have made him some herb tea, sir, but it didn't seem to do him good, and then I went over to Barmester and got a bottle o' physic. I had to say it was for father, and the druggist told me I ought to call in a doctor, when I described the illness. Coming out of the shop there was Miss Diana's pony-carriage at the door, and Madam met me and asked who the physic was for: I never was so took aback. But the physic didn't seem to do him good neither."
"I meant as to food," returned George.
"Ah! sir—what could I give him but our poor fare? milk porridge and such like. I went up to the Hold one day and begged a basin o' curds-and-whey, and he eat it all and drank up the whey quite greedy; but I didn't dare go again, for fear of their suspecting something. It's meat and wine he ought to have had from the first, sir, but we can't get such things as that. Why, sir, I shouldn't dare be seen cooking a bit o' meat: it would set Mr. Chattaway wondering at once. What's to be done?"
What, indeed? There was the question. Idea after idea shot through George Ryle's brain; wild fancies, because impossible to be acted upon. It might be dangerous to call in a doctor. Allowing that the man of medicine proved true and kept the secret, the very fact of his attendance would cause a stir at the Hold. Miss Diana would come down, questioning old Canham; and would inevitably find that he wasnotill enough to need a doctor. A doctor might venture there once: but regularly? George did not see the way by any means clear.
But Rupert must not be left to die. George took up his delicate hand—Rupert's hands had always been delicate—and held it as he spoke to him. It was hot; fevered; the dry lips were parched; the hectic cheeks, the white brow, all burning with fever. "Don't you know me, Rupert?" he bent lower to ask.
The words were so far heard that Rupert moved his head on the bolster; perhaps the familiar name struck some chord in his memory; but there was no recognition, and he began to twitch at the bed-clothes with one of his hands.
George turned away. He went down the ladder of a staircase, feeling that little time was to be lost. Old Canham stood in his tottering fashion, leaning upon his crutch, watching the descent.
"What do you think of him, Mr. George?"
"I hardly know what to think, Mark. Or rather, I know what to think, but I don't know what to do. A doctor must be got here; and without loss of time."
Old Canham lifted his hands with a gesture of despair. "Once the secret is give over to a doctor, sir, there's no telling where it'll travel, or what'll be the consequence to us all."
"I think King would be true," said George. "Nay, I feel sure he would be. The worst is, he's simple-minded, and might betray it through sheer inadvertency. I would a great deal rather bring Mr. Benage to him; Iknowwe might rely on Benage, and he is more skilful than King; but it is not practicable. To see the renowned Barmester doctor in attendance on you might create greater commotion at the Hold than would be desirable. No, it must be King."
"Sir, couldn't you go to one o' the gentlemen yourself and describe what's the matter with Master Rupert. You needn't say who's ill."
George shook his head. "It would not do, Mark; the responsibility is too great. Were anything to happen to Rupert—and I believe he is in danger—you and I should blame ourselves for not having called in advice at all risks. I shall get King here somehow."
He went out as he spoke, partly perhaps to avoid further opposition to what he feltmustbe done. Yet he did not see the surrounding difficulties the less, and halted in thought outside the lodge door.
At that moment, Maude Trevlyn came into view, walking slowly down the avenue. George advanced to meet her, and could not help noticing her listless step, her pale, weary face.
"Maude, what is the trouble now?"
That she had been grieving, and recently, her eyes betrayed. Struggling for a brief moment with her feelings, she gave way to a burst of tears.
George drew her into the trees. "Maude, Maude, if you go on like this you will be ill. What is it?"
"This suspense!—this agony!" she breathed. "Every day, almost every hour, something or other occurs to renew the trouble. If it could only end! I cannot bear it much longer. I feel as if I must go off to the ends of the earth in search of him. If I only knew he was living, it would be something."
George took rapid counsel with himself. Surely Maude would be safe; surely it would be a charity, nay, a duty, to tell her! He drew her hand in his, and bent his face near to hers.
"Maude! what will you give me for news I have heard? I can give you tidings of Rupert. He is not dead; not even very far away!"
For an instant her heart stood still. But George glanced round as with fear, and his tones were sad.
"He is taken!" she exclaimed, her pulses bounding on.
"No. But care must be observed if we would prevent it. In that sense, he is at liberty. But it is not all sunshine, Maude; he is very ill."
"Where is he?" she gasped.
"Will you compose yourself if I take you to him? But we have need of great caution; we must make sure no prying eyes are spying at us."
Her very agitation proved how great had been the strain upon her nervous system; for a few minutes he thought she would faint, as she stood leaning against the tree. "Only take me to him, George," she murmured. "I will bless you forever."
Into the lodge and up old Canham's narrow staircase he led her. She entered the room timidly, not with the eager bound of hope, but with slow and hesitating steps, almost as she had once entered into the presence of the dead, that long past night at Trevlyn Farm.
He lay as he had lain when George went out: the eyes fixed, the head beginning to turn restlessly, one hand picking at the coarse brown sheet. "Come in, Maude; there is nothing to fear; but he will not know you."
She went in and stood for a moment gazing at him who lay there, as though it required time to take in the scene; then she fell on her knees in a strange burst, half joy, half grief, and kissed his hands and fevered lips.
"Oh, Rupert, Rupert! My brother Rupert!"
The residence of Mr. King, the surgeon, was situated on the road to Barbrook, not far from the parsonage: a small, square, red-brick house, two storeys high, with a great bronze knocker on the particularly narrow and modest door. If you wanted to enter, you could either raise this knocker, which would most likely bring forth Mr. King himself; or, ignoring ceremony, turn the handle and walk in of your own accord, as George Ryle did, and admitted himself into the narrow passage. On the right was the parlour, quite a fashionable room, with a tiger-skin stretched out by way of hearth-rug; on the left a small apartment fitted up with bottles and pill-boxes, where Mr. King saw his patients. One sat there as George Ryle entered, and the surgeon turned round, as he poured some liquid from what looked like a jelly-glass, into a green bottle.
Now, of all the disagreeablecontretempsthat could have occurred, to meet that particular patient was about the worst. Ann Canham had not been more confounded at the sight of Policeman Dumps's head over the hedge, than George was at Policeman Dumps himself—for it was no other than that troublesome officer who sat in the patient's chair, the late afternoon's sun streaming on his head. George's active mind hit on a ready excuse for his own visit.
"Is my mother's medicine ready, Mr. King?"
"The medicine ready! Why, I sent it three good hours ago!"
"Did you? I understood them to say——But there's no harm done; I was coming down this way. A nice warm afternoon!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into a chair as if he would take a little rest. "Are you having a tooth drawn, Dumps?"
"No, sir, but I've got the face-ache awful," was Dumps's reply, who was holding a handkerchief to his right cheek. "It's what they call tic-douloureux, I fancy, for it comes on by fits and starts. I'm out of sorts altogether, and thought I'd ask Doctor King to make me up a bottle of physic."
So the physic was for Dumps. Mr. King seemed a long time over it, measuring this liquid, measuring that, shaking it all up together, and gossiping the while. George, in his impatience, thought it would never come to an end. Dumps seemed to be in no hurry to depart, Mr. King in no hurry to dismiss him. They talked over half the news of the parish. They spoke of Rupert Trevlyn and his prolonged absence, and Mr. Dumps gave it as his opinion that "if he wasn't in hiding somewhere, he was gone for good." Whether Mr. Dumps meant gone to some foreign terrestrial country, or into a celestial, he did not explain.
Utterly out of patience he rose and left the room, standing outside against the door-post, as if he would watch the passers-by. Perhaps the movement imparted an impetus to Mr. Dumps, for he also rose and took his bottle of medicine from the hands of the surgeon. But he lingered yet: and George thought he never would come forth.
That desirable consummation arrived at last. The man departed, and paced away on his beat with his official tread. George returned indoors.
"I fancied you were waiting to see me," observed Mr. King. "Is anything the matter?"
"Not with me. I want to put you upon your honour, doctor," continued George, a momentary smile crossing his lips.
"To put me upon my honour!" echoed the surgeon, staring at George.
"I wish to let you into a secret: but you must give me your word of honour that you will be a true man, and not betray it. In short, I want to enlist your sympathies, your kindly nature, heartily in the cause."
"I suppose some of the poor have got into trouble?" cried Mr. King, not very well knowing what to make of the words.
"No," said George. "Let me put a case to you. One under the ban of the law and his fellow-men, whom a word could betray to years of punishment—lies in sore need of medical skill; if he cannot obtain it he may soon die. Will you be a good Samaritan, and give it; and faithfully keep the secret?"
Mr. King regarded George attentively, slowly rubbing his bald head: he was a man of six-and-sixty now. "Are you speaking of Rupert Trevlyn?" he asked.
George paused, perhaps rather taken back; but the surgeon's face was kindly, its expression benevolent. "What if I were? Would you be true tohim?"
"Yes, I would: and I am surprised that you thought it necessary to ask. Were the greatest criminal on earth lying in secret, and wanting my aid, I would give it and be silent. I go as a healing man; not in the name of the law. Were a doctor taken to a patient under such circumstances, to betray trust, he would violate his duty. Medical men are not informers."
"I felt we might trust you," said George. "It is Rupert Trevlyn. He took refuge that night at old Canham's, it seems, and has been ill ever since, growing worse and worse. But they fear danger now, and thought fit this afternoon to send for me. Rupert scrawled a few lines himself, but before I could get there he was delirious."
"Is it fever?"
"Low fever, Ann Canham says. It may go on to worse, you know, doctor."
Mr. King nodded his head. "Where can they have concealed him at Canham's?"
"Upstairs in a bed-closet. The most stifling hole you can imagine! I felt ill as I stood there. It is a perplexing affair altogether. The place itself is enough to kill any one in a fever, and there's no chance of removing him from it; hardly a chance of getting you in to see him: it must be accomplished in the most cautious manner. Were Chattaway to see you entering, who knows what it might lead to? If he should, by ill luck, see you," added George, after a pause, "your visit is to old Canham, remember."
Mr. King gave a short, emphatic nod; his frequent substitute for an answer. "Rupert Trevlyn at Canham's!" he exclaimed. "Well, you have surprised me!"
"I cannot tell you how surprised I was," returned George. "But we had better be going; I fear he is in danger."
"Ay. Delirious, you say?"
"I think so. He was quiet, but evidently did not know me. He did not know Maude. I met her as I was leaving the lodge, and thought it only kind to tell her of the discovery. It has been an anxious time for her."
"There's another it's an anxious time for; and that's Madam Chattaway," remarked the surgeon. "I was called in to her a few days ago. But I can do nothing; the malady is on the mind. Now I am ready."
He had been putting one or two papers into his pocket, probably containing some cooling powder or other remedy for Rupert. George walked with him; he wished to go in with him if it could be managed, anxious to hear his opinion. They pursued their way unmolested, meeting no one of more consequence than Mr. Dumps, who appeared to be occupied in nursing his cheek.
"So far so good," cried George, as they came in sight of the lodge. "But now for the tug of war; my walking with you is nothing; but to be seen entering the lodge with you might be a great deal. There seems no one about."
Ah! unlucky chance! By some untoward fatality the master of Trevlyn Hold emerged in sight, coming quickly down the avenue, at the moment Mr. King had his feet on the lodge steps to enter. George suppressed a groan of irritation.
"There's no help for it; you must have your wits about you," he whispered. "I shall go straight on as if I had come to pay a visit to the Hold."
Mr. King was not perhaps the best of men to "have his wits about him" on a sudden emergency, and almost as the last word left George's lips, Mr. Chattaway was upon them.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Chattaway," said George. "Is Cris at home?"
George continued his way as he spoke, brushing past Mr. Chattaway. You know what a very coward is self-consciousness. The presence of Chattaway at that ill-omened moment set them all inwardly quaking. George, the surgeon, old Canham sitting inside, and Ann peeping from the window, felt one and all as if Chattaway must divine some part of the great secret locked within their breasts.
"Cris? I don't think Cris is at home," called out Chattaway. "He went out after dinner."
"I am going to see," replied George, looking back.
The little delay had given the doctor time to collect himself, and he strove to look and speak as much at ease as possible. He stood on the lodge step, waiting to greet Mr. Chattaway. It would never do to make believe he was not going into the lodge, as George did, for Mr. Chattaway had seen him step up to it.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Chattaway? Fine weather this!"
"We shall have a change before long; the glass is shifting. Anyone ill here?" continued Chattaway.
"Not they, I hope!" returned the surgeon with a laugh. "I give old Canham a look in now and then, when I am passing and can spare the time, just for a dish of gossip and to ask after his rheumatism. I suppose you thought I had quite forgotten you," he added, turning to the old man, who had risen and stood leaning on his crutch, looking, if Mr. Chattaway could but have understood it, half frightened to death. "It's a long time since I was here, Mark."
He sat down on the settle as he spoke, as if to intimate that he intended to take a dish of gossip then. Chattaway—ah! can he suspect? thought old Mark as he entered the lodge; a thing he did not do once in a year. Conscience does make cowards of us all—and it need not be altogether a guilty conscience to do this—and it was rendering Ann Canham as one paralysed. She would have given the whole world to leave the room, go up to Rupert, and guard as far as possible against noise; but she feared to excite suspicion. Foolish fears! Had Rupert not been there, Ann Canham would have passed in and out of the room twenty times without thinking of Mr. Chattaway.
"Madam Chattaway said you were ill, I remember," said he to Mark Canham. "Fever, I understood. She said something about seeing your fever mixture at the chemist's at Barmester."
Ann Canham turned hot and cold. She did not dare to even glance at her father, still less prompt him; but it so happened that, willing to spare him unnecessary worry, she had not mentioned the little episode of meeting Mrs. Chattaway at Barmester. Old Mark was cautious, however.