Trevlyn Hold

"You are mad to ask it," said Chattaway. "A man without a shilling—and you have just informed me you don't possess one—can't undertake the Upland Farm. That farm's only suited to a gentleman"—and he laid an offensive stress upon the word: "one whose pockets are lined with money. I have had an application for the Upland Farm, which I think I shall accept. In fact, for the matter of that, I had some thought of retaining it in my own hands, and putting in a bailiff to manage it."

"You had better let it to me," returned George, not losing his good humour. "Was the application made to you by Mr. Peterby?"

Mr. Chattaway stared in surprise at his knowing so much. "What if it was?" he returned resentfully.

"Why, then, I can tell you that it will not be repeated. Mr. Peterby's client—I am not sure that I am at liberty to mention his name—has given up the idea. Partly because I have told him I want the farm myself, and he says he won't oppose me, out of respect to my father's memory; partly because Mr. Peterby has heard of another likely to suit him as well, if not better. All the neighbours would be glad to see me take the Upland Farm."

Mr. Chattaway's breath was almost taken away with the insolence. "Had you not better constitute yourself manager of my estate, and let my farms to whom you please?" he cried sarcastically. "How dare you interfere with my tenants, or with those who would become my tenants?"

"I have not interfered with them. This client of Mr. Peterby's happened to mention to me that he had asked the firm to make inquiries about the Upland Farm. I immediately rejoined that it was the very farm I was hoping to take myself; and he determined of his own goodwill not to oppose me."

"Who was it?"

"One who would not have suited you, if you have set your mind upon a gentleman," freely answered George. "He is an honest man, and a man whose coffers are well lined through his own industry; but he could not by any stretch of imagination be called a gentleman. It is Cope, the butcher—I may as well tell you. Since he retired from his shop, he finds time hangs on his hands, and has resolved to turn farmer. Mr. Chattaway, I hope you will let me have it."

"It appears to me nothing less than audacity to ask it," was the chilling retort. "Pray, where's your money to come from to stock it?"

"It's all ready," said George.

Mr. Chattaway looked at him, thinking the assertion a joke. "If you have nothing better to do with your time than to jest it away, I have with mine," was the delicate hint he gave in reply.

"I repeat that the money is ready," continued George. "Mr. Chattaway, I do not wish to conceal anything from you: to be otherwise than quite open with you. The money to stock the Upland Farm is going to be lent to me; you will be surprised when I tell you by whom—Mr. Apperley."

Mr. Chattaway was very much surprised. It was not much in Farmer Apperley's line to lend money: he was too cautious a man.

"It's quite true," said George, laughing. "He has so good an opinion of my skill as a farmer, or of the Upland Farm's capabilities, that he has offered to lend me sufficient money to take it."

"I should have thought you had had enough of farming land upon borrowed money," ungenerously retorted Chattaway.

"So I have—from one point of view," was the composed answer. "But I have managed to clear off the debt, you see, and don't doubt I shall be able to do the same again. Apperley proposes only a fair rate of interest; considerably less than I have been paying you."

"It is strange that you, a young and single man, should raise your ambitious eyes to the Upland Farm."

"Not at all. If I don't take the Upland, I shall take some other equally large. But I should have to go a greater distance, and I don't care to do that. As to being a single man—perhaps that might be remedied if you will let me have the Upland."

He spoke with a laugh; yet Mr. Chattaway detected a serious meaning in the tone, and he gazed hard at George. It may be that his thoughts glanced at his daughter Octave.

There was a long pause. "Are you thinking of marrying?"

"As soon as circumstances will allow me to do so."

"And who is the lady?"

George shook his head; a very decisive shake, in spite of the smile on his lips. "I cannot tell you now; you will know sometime."

"I suppose I shall, if the match ever comes off," returned Chattaway, in a very cross-grained manner. "If it has to wait until you rent the Upland Farm, it may wait indefinitely."

"You will promise me the lease of it, Mr. Chattaway. You cannot think but I shall do the land justice, or be anything but a good tenant."

"I won't promise anything of the sort," was the dogged reply. "I'll promise you, if you like, that you never shall have the lease of it."

And, talk as George would, he could not get him into a more genial frame of mind. At length he rose, good-humoured and gay; as he had been throughout the interview.

"Never mind for the present, Mr. Chattaway. I shall not let you alone until you promise me the farm. There's plenty of time between now and spring."

As he was crossing the hall on his way to the door, he saw Miss Diana Trevlyn, and stopped to shake hands with her. "You have been paying your rent, I suppose," she said.

"My rent and something else," replied George, in high spirits—the removal of that incubus which had so long lain on him had sent them up to fever heat. "I have handed over the last instalment of the debt and interest, Miss Diana, and have the receipt here"—touching his breast-pocket. "I have paid it under protest, as I have always told Mr. Chattaway; for I fully believe Squire Trevlyn cancelled it."

"If I thought my father cancelled it, Mr. Chattaway should never have had my approbation in pressing it," severely spoke Miss Diana. "Is it true that you think of leaving Trevlyn Farm? Rumour says so."

"Quite true. It is time I began life on my own account. I have been asking Mr. Chattaway to let me have the Upland."

"The Upland! You!" There was nothing offensive in Miss Diana's exclamation: it was spoken in simple surprise.

"Why not? I may be thinking of getting a wife; and the Upland is the only farm in the neighbourhood I would take her to."

Miss Diana smiled in answer to his joke, as she thought it. "The house on the Upland Farm is quite a mansion," she returned, keeping up the jest. "Will no lesser one suffice her?"

"No. She is a gentlewoman born and bred, and must live as one."

"George, you speak as if you were in earnest. Are you really thinking of being married?"

"If I can get the Upland Farm. But–"

George was startled from the conclusion of his sentence. Over Miss Diana's shoulder, gazing at him with a strangely wild expression, was the face of Octave Chattaway, her lips parted, her face crimson.

CHAPTER L

DILEMMAS

About ten days elapsed, and Rupert Trevlyn, lying in concealment at the lodge, was both better and worse. The prompt remedies applied by Mr. King had effected their object in abating the fever; it had not developed into brain-fever or typhus, and the tendency to delirium was arrested; so far he was better. But these symptoms had been replaced by others that might prove not less dangerous in the end: great prostration, alarming weakness, and what appeared to be a settled cough. The old tendency to consumption was showing itself more plainly than it had ever shown itself before.

He had had a cough often enough, which had come and gone again, as coughs come to a great many of us; but the experienced ear of Mr. King detected a difference in this one. "It has a nasty sound in it," the doctor privately remarked to George Ryle. Poor Ann Canham, faint at heart lest this cough should betray his presence, pasted up all the chinks, and kept the door hermetically closed when any one was downstairs. Things usually go by contrary, you know; and it seemed that the lodge had never been so inundated with callers.

Two great cares were upon those in the secret: to keep Rupert's presence in the lodge from the knowledge of the outside world, and to supply him with proper food. Upon none did the first press so painfully as upon Rupert himself. His dread lest his place of concealment should be discovered by Mr. Chattaway was never ceasing. When he lay awake, his ears were on the strain for what might be happening downstairs, who might be coming in; if he dozed—as he did several times in the course of the day—his dreams were haunted by pursuers, and he would start up wildly in bed, fancying he saw Mr. Chattaway entering with the police at his heels. For twenty minutes afterwards he would lie bathed in perspiration, unable to get the fright or the vision out of his mind.

There was no doubt that this contributed to increase his weakness and keep him back. Let Rupert Trevlyn's future be what it might; let the result be the very worst; one thing was certain—any actual punishment in store for him could not be worse than this anticipation. Imagination is more vivid than reality. He would lie and go through the whole ordeal of his future trial: would see himself in the dock, not before the magistrates of Barmester, but before a scarlet-robed judge; would listen to the evidence of Mr. Chattaway and Jim Sanders, bringing home the crime to him; would hear the irrevocable sentence from those grave lips—that of penal servitude. Nothing could be worse for him than these visions. And there was no help for them. Had Rupert been in strong health, he might have shaken off some of these haunting fears; lying as he did in his weakness, they took the form of morbid disease, adding greatly to his bodily sickness.

His ear strained, he would start up whenever a footstep was heard to enter the downstairs room, breathing softly to Ann Canham, or whoever might be sitting with him, the question: "Is it Chattaway?" And Ann would cautiously peep down the staircase, or bend her ear to listen, and tell him who it really was. But sometimes several minutes would elapse before she could find out; sometimes she would be obliged to go down upon some plausible errand, and then come back and tell him. The state that Rupert would fall into during these moments of suspense no pen could describe. It was little wonder that Rupert grew weaker.

And the fears of discovery were not misplaced. Every hour brought its own danger. It was absolutely necessary that Mr. King should visit him at least once a day, and each time he ran the risk of being seen by Chattaway, or by some one equally dangerous. Old Canham could not feign to be on the sick list for ever; especially, sufficiently sick to require daily medical attendance. George Ryle ran the risk of being seen entering the lodge; as well as Mrs. Chattaway and Maude, who could not abandon their stolen interviews with the poor sufferer. "It is my only happy hour in the four-and-twenty; you must not fail me!" he would say to them, imploringly holding out his fevered hands. Some evenings Mrs. Chattaway would steal there, sometimes Maude, now and then both together.

Underlying it all in Rupert's mind was the sense of guilt for having committed so desperate a crime. Apart from those moments of madness, which the neighbourhood had been content for years to designate as the Trevlyn temper, few living men were so little likely to commit the act as Rupert. Rupert was of a mild, kindly temperament, a very sweet disposition; one of those inoffensive people of whom we are apt to say they would not hurt a fly. Of Rupert it was literally true. Only in these rare fits was he transformed; and never had the fit been upon him as on that unhappy night. It was not so much repentance for the actual crime that overwhelmed him, as surprise that he had perpetrated it. "I was not conscious of the act," he would groan aloud; "I was mad when I did it." Perhaps so; but the consequences remained. Poor Rupert! Remorse was his portion, and he was in truth repenting in sackcloth and ashes.

The other care upon him—supplying Rupert with appropriate nourishment—brought almost as much danger and difficulty in its train as concealing him. A worse cook than Ann Canham could not be found. It was her misfortune, rather than her fault. Living in extreme poverty all her life, no opportunity for learning or improving herself in cooking had ever been afforded her. The greatest luxury that ever entered old Canham's lodge was a bit of toasted or boiled bacon.

It was not invalid dishes that Rupert wanted now. As soon as the fever began to leave him, his appetite returned. Certain cases of incipient consumption are accompanied by a craving for food difficult to satisfy, and this unfortunately became the case with Rupert. Had he been at the Hold, or in a plentiful home, he would have played his full part at the daily meals, and assisted their digestion with interludes besides.

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 Chattaway! 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."