Trevlyn Hold: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

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.