A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM
So the magistrates declined to interfere, and Mr. Chattaway went about a
free man. But not untainted; for the neighbourhood was still free in its
comments, and openly accused him of having made away with Rupert. Mr.
Chattaway had his retaliation; he offered a reward for the recovery of
the incendiary, Rupert Trevlyn, and the walls for miles round were
placarded with handbills. Urged by him, the police recommenced their
search, and Mr. Chattaway actually talked of sending for an experienced
detective. One thing was indisputable--if Rupert were in life he must
keep from the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold. Nothing could save him from
the law, if taken the second time. Jim Sanders would not be kidnapped
again; he had already testified to it officially; and Mr. Chattaway
thirsted for vengeance.
Take it for all in all, it was breaking the heart of Mrs. Chattaway.
Looked at in any light, it was bad enough. The fear touching her
husband, not the less startling from its improbability, was over, for he
had succeeded in convincing her that so far he was innocent; but her
fears for Rupert kept her in a constant state of terror. Miss Diana
publicly condemned Rupert. This hiding from justice (if he was hiding)
she regarded as only a degree less reprehensible than the crime itself;
as did Mrs. Ryle; and had Miss Diana met Rupert returning some fine day,
she would have laid her hand upon him as effectually as Mr. Dumps
himself, and said, "You shall not escape again." Do not mistake Miss
Diana; it would not have pleased her to see Rupert standing at the bar
of justice to be judged by the laws of his country. She would have taken
Rupert home to the Hold, and said to Chattaway, "Here he is, but you
must and shall forgive him: you must forgive him, because he is a
Trevlyn; and a Trevlyn cannot be disgraced." Miss Diana had full
confidence in her own power to command this. Others wisely doubted
whether any amount of interference on any part would now avail with Mr.
Chattaway. His wife felt that it would not. She felt that were poor
Rupert to venture home, even twelve months hence, trusting that time and
mercy had effected his pardon, he would be sacrificed; between Miss
Diana's and Mr. Chattaway's opposing policies, he would inevitably be
sacrificed. Altogether, Mrs. Chattaway's life was more painful now
Rupert had gone than it had been when he was at the Hold.
Cris was against Rupert; Octave was bitterly against him; Maude went
about the house with a white face and beating heart, health and spirits
giving way under the tension. Suspense is, of all evils, the worst to
bear: and they who loved Rupert, Maude and her Aunt Edith, were hourly
victims to it. The bow was always strung. On the one hand was the latent
doubt that he had come to some violent end that night, in spite of Mr.
Chattaway's denial; on the other hand, the lively dread that he was
concealing himself, and might be discovered by the police every new day
the sun rose. They had speculated so much upon where he could be, that
the ever-recurring thought now brought only its heart-sickness; and
Maude had the additional pain of hearing petty shafts launched at her
because she was his sister. Mrs. Chattaway prayed upon her bended knees
that, hard to be borne as the suspense was, Rupert might not return
until time should have softened the heart of Mr. Chattaway, and the
grievous charge be done away with for want of a prosecutor.
Nora was in the midst of bustle at Trevlyn Farm. And Nora was also in a
temper. It was the annual custom there, when the busy time of harvest
was over, to institute a general house-renovating: summer curtains were
taken down, winter ones were put up, carpets were shaken, floors and
paint scoured; and the place, in short, to use an ordinary expression,
was turned inside out.
There was more than usual to be done this year: for mendings and
alterations had to be made in sundry curtains, and the upholstering
woman, named Brown, had been at Trevlyn Farm the last day or two,
getting forward with her work. Nora's _ruse_ in the court at Barmester,
to wile Farmer Apperley to a private conference, had really some point
in it, for negotiations were going on with that industrious member of
the upholstering society through Mrs. Apperley, who had recommended her.
Mrs. Brown sat in the centre of a pile of curtains, steadily plying her
needle: the finishing stitches were being put to the work; at least,
they would be before night closed in. Mrs. Brown, a sallow woman with a
chronic cold in her head, preferred to work in outdoor costume; a black
poke bonnet and faded woollen shawl crossed over her shoulders. Nora
stood by her in a very angry mood, her arms folded, just as though she
had nothing to do: a circumstance to be recorded in these cleaning
times.
For Nora never let the grass grow under her feet, or under any one
else's feet, when there was work in hand. By dint of beginning hours
before daylight, and keeping at it hours after nightfall, she succeeded
in getting it all over in one day. Herself, Nanny, and Ann Canham put
their best energies into it, one or two of the men were set to rub up
the mahogany furniture, and Mrs. Ryle had almost entirely to dispense
with being waited upon. And Nora's present anger arose from the fact
that Ann Canham, by some extraordinary mischance, had not made her
appearance.
It was bringing things almost to a standstill, as Nora complained to
Mrs. Brown. The two cleaners were Nanny and Ann Canham. Nanny was doing
her part, but what was to become of the other part? And where was Ann
Canham? Nora kept her eyes turned to the window, as she talked and
grumbled, watching for the return of Jim Sanders, whom she had
despatched to see after Ann.
Presently she saw him approaching, went to the door and threw it open
long before the lad reached it. "She can't come," he called out at
length.
"Not come!" echoed Nora, in wrathful consternation, looking as if she
felt inclined to beat Jim for bringing the message. "What on earth does
she mean by that?"
"She said her father was ill, and she couldn't leave him," returned Jim.
Nora could scarcely speak from indignation. Old Canham, as was known to
the neighbourhood, had been ailing for years, and it had never kept Ann
at home before. "I don't believe it," said she, in her perplexity.
"I don't think I do, neither," returned Jim. "I'm a'most sure old Canham
was right afore the fire, smoking his pipe as usual. She put the door to
behind her, all in a hurry, while she talked to me, but not afore I see
old Canham there. I be next to certain of it."
Nora could not understand the state of affairs. Ann Canham, humble,
industrious, grateful for any day's work offered to her, had never
failed to come, when engaged, in all Barbrook's experience. What was to
be done? The morrow was Saturday, and to have the cleaning extended to
that day would have upset the farm's regularity and Nora's temper for a
month.
Nora took a sudden resolution. She put on her bonnet and shawl and set
off for the lodge, determined to bring Ann Canham back willing or
unwilling, or know the reason why. This _contretemps_ would be quite a
life-long memory for Nora.
Without any superfluous knocking, Nora turned the handle of the door
when she reached the lodge. But the door was locked. "What can that be
for?" ejaculated Nora--for she had never known the lodge locked in the
day-time. "She expects I shall come after her, and thinks she'll keep me
out!"
Without an instant's delay, Nora's face was at the window, to
reconnoitre the interior. She saw the smock-frock of old Mark
disappearing through the opposite door as quickly as was consistent with
his rheumatism. Nora rattled the handle of the door with one hand, and
knocked sharply on its panel with the other. Ann opened it.
"Now, Ann Canham, what's the meaning of this?" she began, pushing past
Ann, who stood in the way, almost as if she would have kept her out.
"I beg a humble pardon, ma'am, a hundred times," was the low,
deprecating answer. "I'd do anything rather than disappoint you--such a
thing has never happened to me yet--but I'm obliged. Father's too poorly
for me to leave him."
Nora surveyed her critically. The woman was evidently in a state of
discomfort, if not terror. She trembled visibly, and her lips were
white.
"I got a boy to run down to Mrs. Sanders's this morning at daylight, and
ask her to take my place," resumed Ann Canham. "Until Jim came up here a
short while ago, I never thought but she had went."
"What's the reason _you_ can't come?" demanded Nora, uncompromisingly
stern.
"I'd come but for father."
"You needn't peril your soul with deliberate untruths," interrupted
angry Nora. "There's nothing the matter with your father; nothing that
need hinder your coming out. If he's well enough to be in the
house-place, smoking his pipe, he's well enough to be left. He _was_
smoking. And what's that?"--pointing to the pipe her eyes had detected
in the corner of the hearth.
Ann Canham stood the picture of helplessness under the reproach. She
stammered out that she "daredn't leave him: he wasn't himself to-day."
"He was sufficiently himself to make off on seeing me," said angry Nora.
"What's to become of my cleaning? Who's to do it if you don't? I insist
upon your coming, Ann Canham."
It appeared almost beyond Ann Canham's courage to bring out a second
refusal, and she burst into tears. She had never failed before, and
hoped, if forgiven this time, never to fail again: but to leave her
father that day was impossible.
And Nora had to make the best of the refusal. She went away searching
the woman's motive, and came to the conclusion that she must have some
sewing in hand she was compelled to finish: that Mark's illness was
detaining her, she did not believe. Still, she could not comprehend it.
Ann had always been so eager to oblige, so simple and straightforward.
Had sewing really detained her, she would have brought it out to Nora;
would have told the truth, not making her father's health the excuse.
Nora was puzzled, and that was a thing she hated. Ruminating upon all
this as she walked along, she met Mrs. Chattaway. Nora, who, when
suffering under a grievance, must dilate upon it to everyone, favoured
Mrs. Chattaway with an account of Ann Canham's extraordinary conduct and
ingratitude.
"Rely upon it, her father is ill," answered Mrs. Chattaway. "I will tell
you why I think so, Nora. Yesterday I was at Barmester with my sister,
and as we pulled up at the chemist's where I had business, Ann Canham
came out with a bottle of medicine in her hand. I asked her who was ill,
and she said it was her father. I remarked to the chemist afterwards
that I supposed Mark Canham had a fresh attack of rheumatism, but he
replied that it was fever."
"Fever!" echoed Nora.
"I exclaimed as you do: but the chemist persisted that Mark must be
suffering from a species of low fever. As we returned, my sister stopped
the pony carriage at the lodge, and Ann came out to us. She explained it
differently from the chemist. What she had meant to imply when she went
for the medicine was, that her father was feverish--but he was better
then, she said. Altogether, I suppose he is worse than usual, and she is
afraid to leave him to-day."
"Well," said Nora, "all I can say is that I saw old Canham stealing out
of the room when I knocked at it, just as though he did not want to be
seen. He was smoking, too. I can't make it out."
Mrs. Chattaway was neither so speculative nor so curious as Nora;
perhaps not so keen: she viewed it as nothing extraordinary that Mark
Canham should be rather worse than usual, or that his daughter should
decline to leave him.
Much later in the day--in fact, when the afternoon was passing--Ann
Canham, with a wild look in her face, turned out of the lodge and took
the road towards Trevlyn Farm. Not openly, as people do who have nothing
to fear, but in a timorous, uncertain, hesitating manner. Plunging into
the fields when she was nearing the farm, she stole along under cover of
the hedge, until she reached the one which skirted the fold-yard.
Cautiously raising her head to see what might be on the other side, it
almost came into contact with another head, raised to see anything that
might be on this--the face of Policeman Dumps.
Ann Canham uttered a shrill scream, and flew away as fast as her legs
could carry her. Perhaps of all living beings, Mr. Dumps was about the
last she would wish to encounter just then. That gentleman made his way
to a side-gate, and called after her.
"What be you afeard of, Ann Canham? Did you think I was a mad bull
looking over at you?"
It occurred to Ann Canham that to start away in that extraordinary
fashion could only be regarded as consistent with a guilty conscience,
and the policeman might set himself to discover her motive--as it lay in
the nature of a policeman to do. That or some other thought made her
turn slowly back again, and confront Mr. Dumps.
"What was you afeard of?" he repeated.
"Of nothing in particular, please, sir," she answered. "It was the
suddenness like of seeing a face that startled me."
Mr. Dumps thought she looked curiously startled still. But that
complacent official, accustomed to strike terror to the hearts of boys
and other scapegraces, did not give it a second thought. "Were you
looking for anyone?" he asked, simply as an idle question.
"No, sir. I just put my head over the hedge without meaning. I didn't
want nothing."
Mr. Dumps loftily turned on his heel without condescending so much as a
"good afternoon." Ann Canham pursued her way along the hedge which
skirted the fold-yard. Any one observing her closely might have detected
indications of fear about her still. In a cautious and timid manner, she
at length turned her head, to obtain a glimpse of Mr. Dumps's movements.
Dumps had turned into the road, and was pursuing his way slowly down it.
Every step carried him farther from her; and when he was fairly out of
sight, her sigh of relief was long and deep.
But of course there was no certainty that he would not return. Possibly
that insecurity caused Ann to take stolen looks into the fold-yard, and
then dive under the hedge, as if she had been at some forbidden play.
But Dumps did not return; and yet she continued her game.
A full hour had she been at it: and by her countenance, and the
occasional almost despairing movement of her hands, it might be inferred
that she was growing sadly anxious and weary: when Jim Sanders emerged
from one of the out-buildings at the upper end of the fold-yard, and
began to make for the other end. To do this he had to pass within a few
yards of the hedge where the by-play was going on; and somewhat to his
surprise he heard himself called to in hushed tones. Casting his eyes to
the spot whence the voice proceeded, he saw the care-worn brow and weak
eyes of Ann Canham above the hedge. She beckoned to him mysteriously,
and then all signs of her disappeared.
"If ever I see the like o' that!" soliloquised Jim. "What's up with Ann
Canham?" He approached the hedge, and bawled out to know what she
wanted.
"Hush--sh--sh--sh!" came the warning from the other side. "Come here,
Jim."
Considerably astonished, thinking perhaps Ann Canham had a litter of
puppies to show him--for, if Jim had a weakness for anything on earth,
it was for those charming specimens of the animal world--he made his way
through the gate. Ann had no puppies; nothing but a small note in her
hand wafered and pressed with a thimble.
"Is the master anywhere about, Jim?"
"He's just gone into the barn now. The men be thrashing."
Ann paused a moment. Jim stared at her.
"Could you just do me a service, Jim?"
Jim, good-natured at all times, replied that he supposed he could if he
tried. But he stared, still puzzled by this extraordinary behaviour on
the part of quiet Ann Canham.
"I want this bit of a letter given to him," she said, pointing to what
she held. "I want it given to him when he's by himself, so that it don't
get seen. Could you manage it, Jim?"
"I dare say I could," replied Jim. "What is the letter? What's inside
it?"
"It concerns Mr. Ryle," said Ann, after a perceptible hesitation. "Jim,
if you'll do this faithful, I won't forget it. Watch your opportunity;
and keep the letter inside your smock-frock, for fear anybody should see
it."
"I'll do it," said Jim. He took the note from her, put it in his
trousers pocket, and went back towards the barn whistling. Ann turned
homewards, flying over the ground as if she were running a race.
Jim had not to wait for an opportunity. He met his master coming out of
the barn. The doorway was dark; the thrashing men were at the upper end
of the barn, and no eyes were near. Jim could not help some of the
mystery which had appeared in Ann Canham's manner extending to his own.
"What's this?" asked George.
"Ann Canham brought it, sir. She was hiding t'other side the hedge and
called to me, and telled me to be sure give it when nobody was by."
George took the missive to the door and looked at it. A piece of white
paper, which had apparently served to wrap up tea or something of that
sort, awkwardly folded and wafered. No direction.
He opened it; and saw a few words in a sprawling hand:
"Don't betray me, George. Come to me in secret as soon as you can. I
think I am dying."
And in spite of its being without signature; in spite of the scrawled
characters, and blotted words, George Ryle recognised the handwriting of
Rupert Trevlyn.