SURPRISE
On the hard flock bed in the upper back room at the lodge, he lay. As
George Ryle stood there bending over him, he could have touched each of
the surrounding walls. The remark of Jim Sanders that Ann Canham had
brought the note, guided George naturally to the lodge; otherwise he
would not have known where to look for him. One single question to old
Canham as he entered--"Is he here?"--and George bounded up the stairs.
Ann Canham, who was standing over the bed--her head just escaping the
low ceiling--turned to George: trouble and pain on her countenance as
she spoke.
"He is in delirium now, sir. I was afeared he would be."
George Ryle was too astonished to make any reply. Never had he cast a
shadow of suspicion to Rupert's being concealed at the lodge. "Has he
been here long?" he whispered.
"All along, sir, since the night he was missed," was the reply. "After I
had got home that night, and was telling father about Master Rupert's
having took the half-loaf in his hunger, he come knocking at the door to
be let in. Chattaway and him had met and quarrelled, and he was knocked
down, his shoulder was hurt, and he felt tired and sick; and he said
he'd stop with us till morning, and be away afore daylight, so that we
should not get into trouble for sheltering him. He got me to lend him my
pen and ink, and wrote a letter to that there foreign gentleman, Mr.
Daw. After that, with a dreadful deal of pressing, sir, I got him to
come up to bed here, and I lay on the settle downstairs for the night.
Before daylight I was up, and had the fired lighted, and the kettle on,
to make him a cup o' tea before starting, but he did not come down. I
came up here and found him ill. His shoulder was stiff and painful, he
was bruised and sore all over, and thought he couldn't get out o' bed.
Well, sir, he stopped, and have been here ever since, getting worse, and
me just frightened out of my life, for fear he should be found by Mr.
Chattaway or the police, and took off to prison. I was sick for the
whole day after, sir, that time Mr. Bowen called me into his
station-house and set on to question me."
George was looking at Rupert. There could not be a doubt that he was in
a state of partial delirium. George feared there could not be a doubt
that he was in danger. The bed was low and narrow, evidently hard; the
bolster small and thin. Rupert's head lay on it quietly enough; his
hair, which had grown long since his confinement, fell around him in
wavy masses; his cheeks wore the hectic of fever, his blue eyes were
unnaturally bright. There was no speculation in those eyes. They were
partially closed, and though at the entrance of George they were turned
to him, there was no recognition in them. His arms were flung outside
the bed, the wristbands pushed up as if from heat.
"I have put him on a shirt o' father's, sir, when his have wanted
washing," explained Ann Canham, to whom it was natural to relate minute
details.
"How long has he been without consciousness?" inquired George.
"Just for the last hour, sir. He wrote the letter I brought to you, and
when I come back he was like this. Maybe he'll come to himself again
presently; he's been as bad as this at times in the last day or two. I'm
so afeard of its going on to brain-fever or some other fever. If he
should get raving, we could never keep his being here a secret; he'd be
heard outside."
"He ought to have had a doctor before this."
"But how is one to be got here?" debated Ann Canham. "Once a doctor knew
where Mr. Rupert was, he might betray it--there's the reward, you know,
sir. And how could we get a doctor in without its being known at the
Hold? What mightn't Chattaway suspect?"
George remained silent, revolving the matter. There were difficulties
undoubtedly in the way.
"Nobody knows the trouble I've been in, sir, especially since he grew
worse. At first, he just lay here quiet, more as if glad of the rest,
and my chief care was to keep folks as far as I could out o' the lodge,
bathe his shoulder, and bring him up a share of our poor meals. But
since the fever came upon him, I've been half dazed, wondering what I
ought to do. There were two people I thought I might speak to--you, sir,
and Madam. But Mr. Rupert was against it, and father was dead against
it. They were afraid, you see, that if only one was told, it might come
to be known he was here. Father's old now, and helpless; he couldn't do
a stroke towards getting his own living. If I be out before daylight at
any of my places, it's as much as he can do to open the gate and fasten
it back: and he knows Mr. Chattaway would turn us right off the estate
if it come to be known we had sheltered Mr. Rupert. But yesterday Mr.
Rupert found he was getting worse and worse, and I said to father what
would become of us if he should die? And they both said that you should
be told to-day if he was no better. We did think him a trifle better
this morning, but later the fever came on again, and Mr. Rupert himself
said he'd write you a word, and I found a bit o' paper and brought him
the big Bible, and held it while he wrote the letter on it."
She ceased. George, as before, was looking at Rupert. It seemed to Ann
Canham that he could not gaze sufficiently, but in truth he was lost in
thought; fairly puzzled with the difficulties encompassing the case.
"Is it anything more than low fever?" he asked.
"I don't think it is, sir, yet. But it may go on to more, you know."
George did know. He knew that assistance was necessary in more ways than
one, if worse was to be avoided. Medical attendance, a more airy room,
generous nourishment; and how was even one of them to be accomplished,
let alone all? The close closet--it could scarcely be called more--had
no chimney in it; air and light could come in only through a small pane
ingeniously made to open in the roof. The narrow bed and one chair
occupied almost all the space, leaving very little for George and Ann
Canham as they stood. George, coming in from the fresh air, felt
half-stifled with the closeness of the room: and this must be dangerous
for the invalid. It is a mercy that these inconveniences are soothed to
those who have to endure them--as most inconveniences and trials are in
life. To an outsider they appear unbearable; but to the sufferers they
are tempered. George Ryle felt as if a day in that atmosphere would half
kill him; but Rupert, lying there always, was sensible of no discomfort.
It was not, however, the less injurious; and it appeared that there was
no remedy; could be no removal.
"What have you given him?" inquired George.
"I have made him some herb tea, sir, but it didn't seem to do him good,
and then I went over to Barmester and got a bottle o' physic. I had to
say it was for father, and the druggist told me I ought to call in a
doctor, when I described the illness. Coming out of the shop there was
Miss Diana's pony-carriage at the door, and Madam met me and asked who
the physic was for: I never was so took aback. But the physic didn't
seem to do him good neither."
"I meant as to food," returned George.
"Ah! sir--what could I give him but our poor fare? milk porridge and
such like. I went up to the Hold one day and begged a basin o'
curds-and-whey, and he eat it all and drank up the whey quite greedy;
but I didn't dare go again, for fear of their suspecting something. It's
meat and wine he ought to have had from the first, sir, but we can't get
such things as that. Why, sir, I shouldn't dare be seen cooking a bit o'
meat: it would set Mr. Chattaway wondering at once. What's to be done?"
What, indeed? There was the question. Idea after idea shot through
George Ryle's brain; wild fancies, because impossible to be acted upon.
It might be dangerous to call in a doctor. Allowing that the man of
medicine proved true and kept the secret, the very fact of his
attendance would cause a stir at the Hold. Miss Diana would come down,
questioning old Canham; and would inevitably find that he was _not_ ill
enough to need a doctor. A doctor might venture there once: but
regularly? George did not see the way by any means clear.
But Rupert must not be left to die. George took up his delicate
hand--Rupert's hands had always been delicate--and held it as he spoke
to him. It was hot; fevered; the dry lips were parched; the hectic
cheeks, the white brow, all burning with fever. "Don't you know me,
Rupert?" he bent lower to ask.
The words were so far heard that Rupert moved his head on the bolster;
perhaps the familiar name struck some chord in his memory; but there was
no recognition, and he began to twitch at the bed-clothes with one of
his hands.
George turned away. He went down the ladder of a staircase, feeling that
little time was to be lost. Old Canham stood in his tottering fashion,
leaning upon his crutch, watching the descent.
"What do you think of him, Mr. George?"
"I hardly know what to think, Mark. Or rather, I know what to think, but
I don't know what to do. A doctor must be got here; and without loss of
time."
Old Canham lifted his hands with a gesture of despair. "Once the secret
is give over to a doctor, sir, there's no telling where it'll travel, or
what'll be the consequence to us all."
"I think King would be true," said George. "Nay, I feel sure he would
be. The worst is, he's simple-minded, and might betray it through sheer
inadvertency. I would a great deal rather bring Mr. Benage to him; I
_know_ we might rely on Benage, and he is more skilful than King; but it
is not practicable. To see the renowned Barmester doctor in attendance
on you might create greater commotion at the Hold than would be
desirable. No, it must be King."
"Sir, couldn't you go to one o' the gentlemen yourself and describe
what's the matter with Master Rupert. You needn't say who's ill."
George shook his head. "It would not do, Mark; the responsibility is too
great. Were anything to happen to Rupert--and I believe he is in
danger--you and I should blame ourselves for not having called in advice
at all risks. I shall get King here somehow."
He went out as he spoke, partly perhaps to avoid further opposition to
what he felt _must_ be done. Yet he did not see the surrounding
difficulties the less, and halted in thought outside the lodge door.
At that moment, Maude Trevlyn came into view, walking slowly down the
avenue. George advanced to meet her, and could not help noticing her
listless step, her pale, weary face.
"Maude, what is the trouble now?"
That she had been grieving, and recently, her eyes betrayed. Struggling
for a brief moment with her feelings, she gave way to a burst of tears.
George drew her into the trees. "Maude, Maude, if you go on like this
you will be ill. What is it?"
"This suspense!--this agony!" she breathed. "Every day, almost every
hour, something or other occurs to renew the trouble. If it could only
end! I cannot bear it much longer. I feel as if I must go off to the
ends of the earth in search of him. If I only knew he was living, it
would be something."
George took rapid counsel with himself. Surely Maude would be safe;
surely it would be a charity, nay, a duty, to tell her! He drew her hand
in his, and bent his face near to hers.
"Maude! what will you give me for news I have heard? I can give you
tidings of Rupert. He is not dead; not even very far away!"
For an instant her heart stood still. But George glanced round as with
fear, and his tones were sad.
"He is taken!" she exclaimed, her pulses bounding on.
"No. But care must be observed if we would prevent it. In that sense, he
is at liberty. But it is not all sunshine, Maude; he is very ill."
"Where is he?" she gasped.
"Will you compose yourself if I take you to him? But we have need of
great caution; we must make sure no prying eyes are spying at us."
Her very agitation proved how great had been the strain upon her nervous
system; for a few minutes he thought she would faint, as she stood
leaning against the tree. "Only take me to him, George," she murmured.
"I will bless you forever."
Into the lodge and up old Canham's narrow staircase he led her. She
entered the room timidly, not with the eager bound of hope, but with
slow and hesitating steps, almost as she had once entered into the
presence of the dead, that long past night at Trevlyn Farm.
He lay as he had lain when George went out: the eyes fixed, the head
beginning to turn restlessly, one hand picking at the coarse brown
sheet. "Come in, Maude; there is nothing to fear; but he will not know
you."
She went in and stood for a moment gazing at him who lay there, as
though it required time to take in the scene; then she fell on her knees
in a strange burst, half joy, half grief, and kissed his hands and
fevered lips.
"Oh, Rupert, Rupert! My brother Rupert!"