It seemed an unlucky day. Mrs. Chattaway, her heart beating, came out of her hiding-place as the last echoes of his steps died away and almost met the carriage as it turned into the avenue, bringing her daughters and Miss Diana from Barmester. When she did reach the lodge, Ann Canham had the door open an inch or two. "Take it," she cried, giving the basket to Ann as she advanced to the stairs. "I have not a minute to stop. How is he to-night?"
"Madam," whispered Ann Canham, in her meek voice, but meek though it was, there was that in its tones to-night which arrested Mrs. Chattaway, "if he continues to get worse and weaker, if he cannot be got away from here and from these frights, I fear me he'll die. He has never been as bad as he is to-night."
She untied her bonnet, and stole upstairs to Rupert's room. By the rushlight she could see the ravages of illness on his wasting features; features that seemed to have changed for the worse even since she had seen him that time last night. He turned his blue eyes, bright and wild with disease, on her as she entered.
"Oh, Aunt Edith! Is he gone? I thought I should have died with fright, here as I lay."
"He is gone, darling," she answered, bending over him, and speaking with reassuring tenderness. "You look worse to-night, Rupert."
"It is this stifling room, aunt; it is killing me. At least, it gives me no chance to get better. If I only had a large, airy room at the Hold—where I could lie without fear, and be waited on—I might get better. Aunt Edith, I wish the past few weeks could be blotted out. I wish I had not been overtaken by that fit of madness?"
Ah! he could not wish it as she did. Her tears silently fell, and she began in the desperate need to debate in her own heart whether the impossible might not be accomplished—disarming the anger of Mr. Chattaway, and getting him to pardon Rupert. In that case only could he be removed. Perhaps Diana might effect it? If she could not, no one else could. As she thought of its utter hopelessness, there came to her recollection that recent letter from Connell and Connell, which had so upset the equanimity of Mr. Chattaway. She had not yet mentioned it to Rupert, but must do so now. Her private opinion was, that Rupert had written to the London lawyers for the purpose of vexing Mr. Chattaway.
"It is not right, Rupert, dear," she whispered. "It can only do harm. If it does no other harm, it will by increasing Mr. Chattaway's anger. Indeed, dear, it was wrong."
He looked up in surprise from his pillow.
"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Edith. Connell and Connell? What should I do, writing to Connell and Connell?"