A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY
Although an insignificant place, Barbrook and its environs received
their letters early. The bags were dropped by the London mail train at
Barmester in the middle of the night; and as the post-office
arrangements were well conducted--which cannot be said for all towns--by
eight o'clock Barbrook had its letters.
Rather before that hour than after it, they were delivered at Trevlyn
Hold. Being the chief residence in the neighbourhood, the postman was in
the habit of beginning his round there; it had been so in imperious old
Squire Trevlyn's time, and was so still. Thus it generally happened that
breakfast would be commencing at the Hold when the post came in.
It was a morning of which we must take some notice--a morning which, as
Mr. Chattaway was destined afterwards to find, he would have cause to
remember to his dying day. If Miss Diana Trevlyn happened to see the
postman approaching the house, she would most likely walk to the
hall-door and receive the letters into her own hands. And it was so on
this morning.
"Only two, ma'am," the postman said, as he delivered them to her.
She looked at the addresses. The one was a foreign letter, bearing her
own name, and she recognised the handwriting of Mr. Daw; the other bore
the London postmark, and was addressed "James Chattaway, Esquire,
Trevlyn Hold, Barmester."
With an eager movement, somewhat foreign to the cold and stately motions
of Miss Diana Trevlyn, she broke the seal of the former; there, at the
hall-door as she stood. A thought flashed into her mind that Rupert
might have found his way at length to Mr. Daw, and that gentleman was
intimating the same--as Miss Diana by letter had requested him to do. It
was just the contrary, however. Mr. Daw wrote to beg a line from Miss
Diana, as to whether tidings had been heard of Rupert. He had visited
his father and mother's grave the previous day, he observed, and did not
know whether that had caused him to think more than usual of Rupert;
but, all the past night and again to-day, he had been unable to get him
out of his head; a feeling was upon him (no doubt a foolish one, he
added in a parenthesis) that the boy was taken, or that some other
misfortune had befallen him, or was about to befall him, and he presumed
to request a line from Miss Diana Trevlyn to end his suspense.
She folded the letter when read; put it into the pocket of her black
silk apron, and returned to the breakfast-room, with the one for Mr.
Chattaway. As she did so, her eyes happened to fall upon the reverse
side of the letter, and she saw it was stamped with the name of a
firm--Connell, Connell, and Ray.
She knew the firm by name; they were solicitors of great respectability
in London. Indeed, she remembered to have entertained Mr. Charles
Connell at the Hold for a few days in her father's lifetime, that
gentleman being at the time engaged in some legal business for Squire
Trevlyn. They must be old men now, she knew, those brothers Connell; and
Mr. Ray, she believed to have heard, was son-in-law to one of them.
"What can they have to write to Chattaway about?" marvelled Miss Diana;
but the next moment she remembered they were the agents of Peterby and
Jones, of Barmester, and concluded it was some matter connected with the
estate.
Miss Diana swept to her place at the head of the breakfast-table. It was
filled, with the exception of two seats: the armchair opposite to her
own, Mr. Chattaway's; and Cris's seat at the side. Cris was not down,
but Mr. Chattaway had gone out to the men. Mrs. Chattaway was in her
place next Miss Diana. She used rarely to be down in time to begin
breakfast with the rest, but that was altered now. Since these fears had
arisen concerning Rupert, it seemed that she could not rest in her bed,
and would quit it almost with the dawn.
Mr. Chattaway came in as Miss Diana was pouring out the tea, and she
passed the letter down to him. Glancing casually at it as it lay beside
his plate, he began helping himself to some cold partridge. Cris was a
capital shot, and the Hold was generally well supplied with game.
"It is from Connell and Connell," remarked Miss Diana.
"From Connell and Connell!" repeated Mr. Chattaway, in a tone of
bewilderment, as if he did not recognise the name. "What should they be
writing to me about?" But he was too busy with the partridge just then
to ascertain.
"Some local business, I conclude," observed Miss Diana. "They are
Peterby's agents, you know."
"And what if they are?" retorted Mr. Chattaway. "Peterby's have nothing
to do with me."
That was so like Chattaway! To cavil as to what might be the contents of
the letter, rather than put the question at rest by opening it. However,
when he looked up from his plate to stir his tea, he tore open the
envelope.
He tore it open and cast his eyes over the letter. Miss Diana happened
to be looking at him. She saw him gaze at it with an air of
bewilderment; she saw him go over it again--there were apparently but
some half-dozen lines--and then she saw him turn green. You may cavil at
the expression, but it is a correct one. The leaden complexion with
which nature had favoured Mr. Chattaway did assume a green tinge in
moments of especial annoyance.
"What's the matter?" questioned Miss Diana.
Mr. Chattaway replied by a half-muttered word, and dashed the letter
down. "I thought we had had enough of that folly," he presently said.
"What folly?"
He did not answer, although the query was put by Miss Diana Trevlyn. She
pressed it, and Mr. Chattaway flung the letter across the table to her.
"You can read it, if you choose." With some curiosity Miss Diana took it
up, and read as follows:--
"SIR,
"We beg to inform you that the true heir of Trevlyn Hold,
Rupert Trevlyn, is about to put in his claim to the estate, and
will shortly require to take possession of it. We have been
requested to write this intimation to you, and we do so in a
friendly spirit, that you may be prepared to quit the house,
and not be taken unawares, when Mr. Trevlyn--henceforth Squire
Trevlyn--shall arrive at it.
"We are, sir, your obedient servants,
"CONNELL, CONNELL, AND RAY.
"James Chattaway, Esquire."
"Then Rupert's not dead!" were the first words that broke from Miss
Diana's lips. And the exclamation, and its marked tone of satisfaction,
proved of what nature her fears for Rupert had been.
Mrs. Chattaway started up with white lips. "What of Rupert?" she gasped;
believing nothing else than that discovery had come.
Miss Diana, without in the least thinking it necessary to consult Mr.
Chattaway's pleasure first, handed her the letter. She read it rapidly,
and her fears calmed down.
"What an absurdity!" she exclaimed. Knowing as she did the helpless
position of Rupert, the contents sounded not only absurd, but
impossible. "Some one must have written it to frighten you, James."
"Yes," said Mr. Chattaway, compressing his thin lips; "it comes from the
Peterby quarter. A felon threatening to take possession of Trevlyn
Hold!"
But in spite of the scorn he strove to throw into his manner; in spite
of his indomitable resolution to bring Rupert to punishment when he
appeared; in spite of even his wife, Rupert's best friend, acknowledging
the absurdity of this letter, it disturbed him in no measured degree. He
stretched out his hand for it, and read it again, pondering over every
word; he pushed his plate from him, as he gazed on it. He had had
sufficient breakfast for one day; and gulping down his tea, declined to
take more. Yes, it was shaking his equanimity to its centre; and the
Miss Chattaways and Maude, only imperfectly understanding what was
amiss, looked at each other, and at him.
Mrs. Chattaway began to feel indignant that poor Rupert's name should be
thus made use of; only, so far as she could see, for the purpose of
exciting Mr. Chattaway further against him. "But Connells' is a most
respectable firm," she said aloud, following out her thoughts; "I cannot
comprehend it."
"I say it comes from Peterby," roared Mr. Chattaway. "He and Rupert are
in league. I dare say Peterby knows where he's concealed."
"Oh no, no; you are mistaken," broke incautiously from the lips of Mrs.
Chattaway.
"No! Do you know where he is, pray, that you speak so confidently?"
The taunt recalled her to a sense of the danger. "James, what I meant
was this: it is scarcely likely Rupert would be in league with any one
against you," she said in low tones. "I think he would rather try to
conciliate you."
"If you think this letter emanates from Peterbys' why don't you go down
and demand what they mean by writing it?" interposed Miss Diana Trevlyn,
in her straightforward, matter-of-fact tone.
He nodded his head significantly. "I shall not let the grass grow under
my feet before I am there."
"I cannot think it's Peterby and Jones," resumed Miss Diana. "They are
quite as respectable as the Connells, and I don't believe they would
ally themselves with Rupert, after what he has done. I don't believe
they would work mischief secretly against any one. Anything they may
have to do, they'd do openly."
Had Mr. Chattaway prevailed with himself so far as to put his temper and
prejudices aside, this might not have been far from his own opinion. He
had always, in a resentful sort of way, considered Mr. Peterby an
honourable man. But if Peterby was not at the bottom of this, who was?
Connell, Connell, and Ray were his town agents.
The very uncertainty only made him the more eager to get to them and set
the matter at rest. He knew it was of no use attempting to see Mr.
Peterby before ten o'clock, but he would see him then. He ordered his
horse to be ready, and rode into Barmester attended by his groom. As ten
o'clock struck, he was at their office-door.
A quarter-of-an-hour's detention, and then he was admitted to Mr.
Peterby's room. That gentleman was sweeping a pile of open letters into
a corner of the table at which he sat, and the master of Trevlyn Hold
shrewdly suspected that his waiting had been caused by Mr. Peterby's
opening and reading them. He proceeded at once to the business that
brought him there, and taking his own letter out of his pocket, handed
it to Mr. Peterby.
"Connell, Connell, and Ray are your agents in London, I believe? They
used to be."
"And are still," said Mr. Peterby. "What is this?"
"Be so good as to read it," replied Mr. Chattaway.
The lawyer ran his eyes over it carelessly, as it seemed to those eyes
watching him. Then he looked up. "Well?"
"In writing this letter to me--I received it, you perceive, by post this
morning, if you'll look at the date--were Connell and Connell instructed
by you?"
"By me!" echoed Mr. Peterby. "Not they. I know nothing at all about it.
I can't make it out."
"You are a friend of Rupert Trevlyn's, and they are your agents,"
remarked Mr. Chattaway, after a pause.
"My good sir, I tell you I know nothing whatever of this. Connells are
our agents; but I never sent any communication to them with regard to
Rupert Trevlyn in my life; never had cause to send one. If you ask me my
opinion, I should say that if the lad--should he be still
living--entertains hopes of coming into Trevlyn Hold after this last
escapade of his, he must be a great simpleton. I expect you'd prosecute
him, instead of giving him up the Hold."
"I should," quietly answered Mr. Chattaway. "But what do Connell and
Connell mean by sending me such a letter as this?"
"It is more than I can tell you, Mr. Chattaway. We have received a
communication from them ourselves this morning upon the subject. I was
opening it when you were announced to me as being here."
He bent over the letters previously spoken of, selected one, and held it
out to Mr. Chattaway. Instead of being written by the firm, it was a
private letter from Mr. Ray to Mr. Peterby. It merely stated that the
true heir of Squire Trevlyn, Rupert, was about shortly to take
possession of his property, the Hold, and they (Connell, Connell, and
Ray) should require Mr. Peterby to act as local solicitor in the
proceedings, should a solicitor be necessary.
Mr. Chattaway began to feel cruelly uneasy. Rupert had committed that
great fault, and was in danger of punishment--_would_ be punished by his
country's laws; but in this new uneasiness that important fact seemed to
lose half its significance. "And you have not instructed them?" he
repeated.
"Nonsense, Mr. Chattaway! it is not likely. I cannot make out what they
mean, any more than you can. The nearest conclusion I can come to is,
that they must be acting from instructions received from that
semi-parson who was over here, Mr. Daw."
"No," said Mr. Chattaway, "I think not. Miss Trevlyn heard from that man
this morning, and he appears to know nothing about Rupert. He asks for
news of him."
"Well, it is a curious thing altogether. I shall write by to-night's
post to Ray, and inquire what he means."
Mr. Chattaway, suspicious Mr. Chattaway, pressed one more question.
"Have you any idea at all where Rupert is likely to be? That he is in
hiding, and accessible to some people, is evident from these letters.
"I have already informed you that I know nothing whatever of Rupert
Trevlyn," was the lawyer's answer. "Whether he is alive or whether he is
dead, I know not. You cannot know less of him yourself than I do."
Mr. Chattaway was obliged to be contented with the answer. He went out
and proceeded direct to Mr. Flood's, and laid the letter--his
letter--before him. "What sort of thing do you call that?" he
intemperately uttered, when it was read. "Connell and Connell must be
infamous men to write it."
"Stop a bit," said Mr. Flood, who had his eyes strained on the letter.
"There's more in this than meets the eye."
"You don't think it's a joke--done to annoy me?"
"A joke! Connell and Connell would not lend themselves to a joke. No, I
don't think it's that."
"Then what do you think?"
Mr. Flood was several minutes before he replied, and his silence drove
Mr. Chattaway to the verge of exasperation. "It is difficult to know
what to think," said the lawyer presently. "I should be inclined to say
they have been brought into personal communication with Rupert Trevlyn,
or with somebody acting for him: perhaps the latter is the more
probable. And I should also say they must have been convinced, by
documentary or other evidence, that a good foundation exists for
Rupert's claims to the Hold. Mr. Chattaway--if I may speak the truth to
you--I should dread this letter."
Mr. Chattaway felt as if a bucket of cold water had been suddenly flung
over him, and was running down his back. "Why is it that you turn
against me?"
"_Turn_ against you! I don't know what you mean. I don't turn against
you; quite the opposite. I am willing to act for you; to do anything I
legally can to meet the fear."
"Why _do_ you fear?"
"Because Connell, Connell, and Ray are keen and cautious practitioners
as well as honourable men, and I do not think they would write so
decided a letter as this, unless they knew they were fully justified in
doing so, and were prepared to follow it out."
"You are a pretty Job's comforter," gasped Mr. Chattaway.