Works of Ellen Wood, page 598
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 to him?”
“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.
“Yes, Squire. I’ve had a deal o’ fever lately, on and off. Perhaps Doctor King could give me some’at better for’t than them druggists gives.”
“Perhaps I can,” said Mr. King. “I’ll have a talk with you presently. How is Madam to-day, Mr. Chattaway?”
“As well as usual, except in the matter of grumbling,” was the ungracious answer. And the master of the Hold, perhaps not finding it particularly lively there, went out as he delivered it, giving a short adieu to Mr. King.
Meanwhile, George Ryle reached the Hold. Maude saw his approach from the drawing-room window, and came to the hall-door. “I want to speak to you,” she whispered.
He followed her into the room; there was no one in it. Maude closed the door, and spoke in a gentle whisper.
“May I tell Aunt Edith?”
George looked dubious. “That is a serious question, Maude.”
“It would give her renewed life,” returned Maude, her tone intensely earnest. “George, if this suspense is to continue, she will sink under it. It was very, very bad for me to bear, and I am young and strong. I fear, too, that my aunt gets the dreadful doubt upon her now and then whether — whether — what was said of Mr. Chattaway is not true; and Rupert was killed that night. Oh, let me tell her!”
“Maude, I should be glad for her to know it. My only doubt is, whether she would dare keep the secret from her husband, Rupert being actually within the precincts of the Hold.”
“She can be braver in Rupert’s cause than you imagine. I am sure that she will be as safe as you or I.”
“Then let us tell her.”
Maude’s eyes grew bright with gladness. Taking all circumstances into view, there was not much cause for congratulation; but, compared with what had been, it seemed as joy to Maude, and her heart grew light.
“I shall never repay you, George,” she cried, with enthusiasm, lifting her eyes gratefully to his.
George laughed, and made a prisoner of her. “I can repay myself, Maude.”
And Mrs. Chattaway was told.
In the twilight of that same evening, when the skies were grey, and the trees in the lonely avenue were gloomy, there glided one beneath them with timid and cautious step. It was Mrs. Chattaway. A soft black shawl was thrown over her head and shoulders, and her gown was black; precautions rendering her less easy to be observed; and curious eyes might be about. She kept close to the trees as she stole along, ready to conceal herself amidst them if necessary.
And it was necessary. Surely there was a fatality clinging to the spot this evening, or Mr. Chattaway was haunting it in suspicion. One moment more, and he would have met his wife; but she heard the footsteps in time.
Her heart beating, her hands pressed upon her bosom, she waited in her hiding-place until he had gone past: waited until she believed him safe at home, and then she went on.
The shutters were closed at the lodge, and Mrs. Chattaway knocked softly at them. Alas! alas! I tell you there was some untoward fate in the ascendant. In the very act of doing so she was surprised by Cris running in at the gate.
“Goodness, mother! who was to know you in that guise? Why, what on earth are you trembling at?”
“You have startled me, Cris. I did not know you; I thought it some strange man running in upon me.”
“What are you doing down here?”
Ah! what was she doing? What was she to say? what excuse to make?
“Poor old Canham has been so ailing, Cris. I must just step in to see him.”
Cris tossed his head in scorn. To make friendly visits to sick old men was not in his line. “I’m sure I should not trouble myself about old Canham if I were you, mother,” cried he.
He ran on as he spoke, but had not gone many steps when he found his mother’s arm gently laid on his.
“Cris, dear, oblige me by not saying anything of this at home. Your father has prejudices, you know; he thinks as you do; and perhaps would be angry with me for coming. But I like to visit those who are ill, to say a kind word to them; perhaps because I am so often ill myself.”
“I sha’n’t bother myself to say anything about it,” was Cris’s ungracious response. “I’m sure you are welcome to go, mother, if it affords you any pleasure. Fine fun it must be to sit with that rheumatic old Canham! But as to his being ill, he is not that — if you mean worse than usual: I have seen him about to-day.”
Cris finally went off, and Mrs. Chattaway returned to the door, which was opened about an inch by Ann Canham. “Let me in, Ann! let me in!”
She pushed her way in; and Ann Canham shut and bolted the door. Ann’s course was uncertain: she was not aware whether or not it was known to Mrs. Chattaway. That lady’s first words enlightened her, spoken as they were in the lowest whisper.
“Is he better to-night? What does Mr. King say?”
Ann lifted her hands in trouble. “He’s no better, Madam, but seems worse. Mr. King said it would be necessary that he should visit him once or twice a day: and how can he dare venture? It passed off very well his saying this afternoon that he just called in to see old father; but he couldn’t make that excuse to Mr. Chattaway a second time.”
“To Mr. Chattaway!” she quickly repeated. “Did Mr. Chattaway see Mr. King here?”
“Worse luck, he did, Madam. He came in with him.”
A fear arose to the heart of Mrs. Chattaway. “If we could only get him away to a safe distance!” she exclaimed. “There would be less danger then.”
But it could not be; Rupert was too ill to be moved. Mrs. Chattaway was turning to the stairs, when a gentle knocking was heard at the outer door.
It was only Mr. King. Mrs. Chattaway eagerly accosted him with the one anxious question — was Rupert in danger?
“Well I hope not: not in actual danger,” was the surgeon’s answer. “But — you see — circumstances are against him.”
“Yes,” she said, hesitatingly, not precisely understanding to what circumstances he alluded. Mr. King resumed.
“Nothing is more essential in these cases of low fever than plenty of fresh air and generous nourishment. The one he cannot get, lying where he does; to obtain the other may be almost as difficult. If these low fevers cannot be checked, they go on very often to — to — —”
“To what?” a terrible dread upon her that he meant to say, “to death.”
“To typhus,” quietly remarked the surgeon.
“Oh, but that is dangerous!” she cried, clasping her hands. “That sometimes goes on to death.”
“Yes,” said Mr. King; and it struck her that his tone was significant.
“You must try and prevent it, doctor — you must save him,” she cried; and her imploring accents, her trembling hands, proved to the surgeon how great was her emotion.
He shook his head: the issues of life and death were not in his power. “My dear lady, I will do what I am enabled to do; more, I cannot. We poor human doctors can only work under the hand of God.”
CHAPTER XLIX
A RED-LETTER DAY
There are some happy days in the most monotonous, the least favoured life; periods on which we can look back always, even to the life’s end, and say, “That was a red-letter day!”
Such a day had arisen for Trevlyn Farm. Perhaps never, since the unhappy accident which had carried away its master, had so joyful a day dawned for Mrs. Ryle and George — certainly never one that brought half the satisfaction; for George Ryle was going up to the Hold to clear off the last instalment of Mr. Chattaway’s debt.
It was the lifting of a heavy tax; the removal of a cruel nightmare — a nightmare that had borne them down, had all but crushed them with its weight. How they had toiled, striven, persevered, saved, George and Nora alone knew. They knew it far better than Mrs. Ryle; she had joined in the saving, but little in the work. To Mrs. Ryle the debt seemed to have been cleared off quickly — far more quickly than had appeared likely at the time of Mr. Ryle’s death. And so it had been. George Ryle was one of those happy people who believe in the special interposition and favour of God; and he believed that God had shown favour to him, and helped him with prosperity. It could not be denied that Trevlyn Farm had been blessed with remarkable prosperity since George’s reign there. Season after season, when other people complained of short returns, those of Trevlyn Farm had flourished. Harvests had been abundant; cattle, sheep, poultry — all had richly prospered. It is true George brought keen intelligence, ever-watchful care to bear upon it; but returns, even with these, are not always satisfactory. They had been so with him. His bargains in buying and selling stock had been always good, yielding a profit — for he had entered into them somewhat largely — never dreamt of by his father. The farmers around, seeing how all he put his hand to seemed to flourish, set it down to his superior skill, and talked one to another, at their fairs and markets, of “young Ryle’s cuteness.” Perhaps the success might be owing to a very different cause, as George believed — and nothing could have shaken that belief — the special blessing of Heaven!
Yes, in spite of Mr. Chattaway’s oppression, they had flourished. It had seemed like magic to that gentleman how they had kept up and increased the payments to him, in addition to their other expenses. That the debt should be ready to be finally cancelled he scarcely believed, although he had received intimation to that effect.
It did not please him. Dear as money was to the master of Trevlyn Hold, he had been better pleased to keep George Ryle still under his thumb. He had not been favoured with the same success: his corn had, some seasons, been thin in the ear; his live stock unhealthy; his bargains had turned out losses instead of gains; he had made bad debts; his coal-mine had exploded; his ricks had been burnt. Certainly no extraordinary luck had followed Mr. Chattaway — rather the contrary; and he regarded George Ryle with anger and envy; a great deal more than would have pleased George, had he known it. Not that George cared, in the abstract, whether he had Mr. Chattaway’s anger or good will; but George wanted to stand so far well with him as to obtain the lease of his best farm. A difficult task!
Mr. Chattaway sat in what was called the steward’s room that fine autumn morning — but autumn was merging into winter now. When rents were paid to him, it was here he sat to receive them. It was where the steward, in the old days of Squire Trevlyn, sat to receive them; see the tenants and work-people upon other matters; transact business generally — for it was not until the advent of Mr. Chattaway that Trevlyn Hold had been without its steward or bailiff. In the estimation of Miss Diana, it ought not to be without one now.
