Trevlyn Hold Part 89

She, Mrs. Chattaway, was puzzled more than all by these letters from Connell and Connell. Mr. Chattaway could trace their source (at least he strove to do so) to the malicious mind and pen of Rupert; but Mrs.

Chattaway knew that Rupert it could not well be. Nevertheless, she had been staggered on the arrival of the second to find it explicitly stated that Rupert Trevlyn had written to announce his speedy intention of taking possession of the Hold. "Rupert had written to them!" What was she to think? If it was not Rupert, someone else must have written in his name; but who would be likely to trouble themselves now for the lost Rupert?--regarded as dead by three parts of the world. Had Rupert written? Mrs. Chattaway determined again to ask him, and to set the question so far at rest.

But she did not do this for two days after the arrival of the letter.

She waited the answer which Mr. Flood wrote up to Connell and Connell, spoken of in the last chapter. As soon as that came, and she found that it explained nothing, then she resolved to question Rupert at her next stolen visit. That same afternoon, as she returned on foot from Barmester, she contrived to slip unseen into the lodge.

Rupert was sitting up. Mr. King had given it as his opinion that to lie constantly in bed, as he was doing, was worse than anything else; and in truth Rupert need not have been entirely confined to it had there been any other place for him. Old Canham's chamber opposite was still more stifling, inasmuch as the builder had forgotten to make the small window to open. Look at Rupert now, as Mrs. Chattaway enters! He has managed to struggle into his clothes, which hang upon him like sacks, and he sits uncomfortably on a small rush-bottomed chair. Rupert's back looks as if it were broken; he is bent nearly double with weakness; his lips are white, his cheeks hollow, and his poor, weak hands tremble with joy as they are feebly raised to greet Mrs. Chattaway. Think what it was for him! lying for long hours, for days, in that stifling room, a prey to his fears, sometimes seeing no one for two whole days--for it was not every evening that an opportunity could be found of entering the lodge.

What with the Chattaways' pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing the lodge, and Ann Canham's grumbling visitors, an entrance for those who might not be seen to enter it was not always possible. Look at poor Rupert; the lighting up of his eye, the kindling hectic of his cheek!

Mrs. Chattaway contrived to squeeze herself between Rupert and the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed as she took his hand in hers. "I am so glad to see you have made an effort to get up, Rupert!" she whispered.

"I don't think I shall make it again, Aunt Edith. You have no conception how it has tired me. I was a good half-hour getting into my coat and waistcoat."

"But you will be all the better for it."

"I don't know," said Rupert, in a spiritless tone. "I feel as if there would never be any 'better' for me again."

She began telling him of what she had been purchasing for him at Barmester--a dressed tongue, a box of sardines, potted meats, and similar things found in the provision shops. They were not precisely the dishes suited to Rupert's weakly state; but since the accident to Rebecca he had been fain to put up with what could be thus procured. And then Mrs. Chattaway opened gently upon the subject of the letters.

"It seems so strange, Rupert, quite inexplicable, but Mr. Chattaway has had another of those curious letters from Connell and Connell."

"Has he?" answered Rupert, with apathy.

Mrs. Chattaway looked at him with all the fancied penetration she possessed--in point of fact she was one of those persons who possess none--but she could not detect the faintest sign of consciousness. "Was there anything about me in it?" he asked wearily.

"It was all about you. It said you had written to Connell and Connell stating your intention of taking immediate possession of the Hold."

This a little aroused him. "Connell and Connell have written that to Mr.

Chattaway! Why, what queer people they must be!"

"Rupert! You have _not_ written to them, have you?"

He looked at Mrs. Chattaway in surprise; for she had evidently asked the question seriously. "You know I have not. I am not strong enough to play jokes, Aunt Edith. And if I were, I should not be so senseless as to play _that_ joke. What end would it answer?"

"I thought not," she murmured; "I was sure not. Setting everything else aside, Rupert, you are not well enough to write."

"No, I don't think I am. I could hardly scrawl those lines to George Ryle some time ago--when the fever was upon me. No, Aunt Edith: the only letter I have written since I became a prisoner was the one I wrote to Mr. Daw, the night I first took shelter here, just after the encounter with Mr. Chattaway, and Ann Canham posted it at Barmester the next day.

What on earth can possess Connell and Connell?"

"Diana argues that Connell and Connell must be receiving these letters, or they would not write to Mr. Chattaway in the manner they are doing.

For my part, I can't make it out."

"What does Mr. Chattaway say?" asked Rupert, when a fit of coughing was over. "Is he angry?"

"He is worse than angry," she seriously answered; "he is troubled. He thinks you are writing them."

"No! Why, he might know that I shouldn't dare do it: he might know that I am not well enough to write them."

"Nay, Rupert, you forget that Mr. Chattaway does not know you are ill."

"To be sure; I forgot that. But I can't believe Mr. Chattaway is _troubled_. How could a poor, weak, friendless chap, such as I, contend for the possession of Trevlyn Hold? Aunt Edith, I'll tell you what it must be. If Connells are not playing this joke themselves, to annoy Mr.

Chattaway, somebody must be playing it on them."

Mrs. Chattaway acquiesced: it was the only conclusion she could come to.

"Oh, Aunt Edith, if he would only forgive me!" sighed Rupert. "When I get well--and I should get well, if I could go back to the Hold and get this fear out of me--I would work night and day to repay him the cost of the ricks. If he would only forgive me!"

Ah! none knew better than Mrs. Chattaway how vain was the wish; how worse than vain any hope of forgiveness. She could have told him, had she chosen, of an unhappy scene of the past night, when she, Edith Chattaway, urged by the miserable state of existing things and her tribulation for Rupert, had so far forgotten prudence as to all but kneel to her husband and beg him to forgive that poor culprit; and Mr.

Chattaway, excited to the very depths of anger, had demanded of his wife whether she were mad or sane, that she should dare ask it.

"Yes, Rupert," she meekly said, "I wish it also, for your sake. But, my dear, it is just an impossibility."

"If I could be got safely out of the country, I might go to Mr. Daw for a time, and get up my strength there."

"Yes, _if_ you could. But in your weak state discovery would be the result before you were clear from these walls. You cannot take flight in the night. Everyone knows you: and the police, we have heard, are keeping their eyes open."

"I'd bribe Dumps, if I had money----"

Rupert's voice dropped. A commotion had suddenly arisen downstairs, and, his fears ever on the alert touching the police and Mr. Chattaway, he put up his hand to enjoin caution, and bent his head to listen. But no strange voice could be distinguished: only those of old Canham and his daughter. A short time, and Ann came up the stairs, looking strange.

"What's the matter?" panted Rupert, who was the first to catch sight of her face.

"I can't think what's come to father, sir," she returned. "I was in the back place, was.h.i.+ng up, and heard a sort o' cry, as one may say, so I ran in. There he was standing with his hair all on end, and afore I could speak he began saying he'd seen a ghost go past. He's staring out o' window still. I hope his senses are not leaving him!"

To hear this a.s.sertion from sober-minded, matter-of-fact old Canham, certainly did impart a suspicion that his senses were departing. Mrs.

Chattaway rose to descend, for she had already lingered longer than was prudent. She found old Canham as Ann had described him, with that peculiarly scared look on the face some people deem equivalent to "the hair standing on end." He was gazing with a fixed expression towards the Hold.

"Has anything happened to alarm you, Mark?"

Mrs. Chattaway's gentle question recalled him to himself. He turned towards her, leaning heavily on his stick, his eyes full of vague terror.

"It happened, Madam, as I had got out o' my seat, and was standing to look out o' window, thinking how fine the a'ternoon was, when he come in at the gate with a fine silver-headed stick in his hand, turning his head about from side to side as if he was taking note of the old place to see what changes there might be in it. I was struck all of a heap when I saw his figure; 'twas just the figure it used to be, only maybe a bit younger; but when he moved his head and looked full at me, I felt turned to stone. It was his face, ma'am, if I ever saw it."

"But whose?" asked Mrs. Chattaway, smiling at his incoherence.

Old Canham glanced round before he spoke; glanced at Mrs. Chattaway, with a half-compa.s.sionate, half-inquiring look, as if not liking to speak. "Madam, it was the old Squire, my late master."

"It was--who?" demanded Mrs. Chattaway, less gentle than usual in her great surprise.

"It was Squire Trevlyn; Madam's father."

Mrs. Chattaway could do nothing but stare. She thought old Canham's senses were decidedly gone.

"There never was a face like his. Miss Maude--that is, Mrs. Ryle now--have his features exact; but she's not as tall and portly, being a woman. Ah, Madam, you may smile at me, but it was Squire Trevlyn."

"But, Mark, you know it is impossible."

"Madam, 'twas him. He must ha' come out of his grave for some purpose, and is visiting his own again. I never was a believer in them things afore, or thought as the dead come back to life."