Rebecca the servant was true and crafty in her faithfulness to her mistress, and contrived to get various dainties prepared and conveyed unsuspiciously under her apron, watching her opportunity, to the sitting-room of Madam, where they were hidden away in a closet, and the key turned upon them. So far, so good. But that was not all: the greatest difficulty lay in transporting them to Rupert.

The little tricks and ruses that the lodge and those in its secret learnt to be expert in at this time were worthy of a private inquiry office. Ann Canham, at a given hour, would be standing at the open door of the lodge; and Mrs. Chattaway, with timid steps, and eyes that wandered everywhere lest witnesses were about, would come down the avenue: opposite the lodge door, by some sleight of hand, a parcel, or basket, or bottle would be transferred from under her shawl to Ann Canham's hands. The latter would close the door and slip the bolt, whilst the lady would walk swiftly on through the gate, for the purpose of taking exercise in the road. Or perhaps it would be Maude that went through this little rehearsal, instead of Madam. But at the best it was all difficult to accomplish for many reasons, and might at any time be stopped. If only the extra cooking came to the knowledge of Miss Diana Trevlyn, it would be quite impossible to venture to continue it, and next to impossible any longer to conceal Rupert's hiding place.

One day a disastrous contretemps occurred. It happened that Miss Diana Trevlyn had arranged to take the Miss Chattaways to a morning concert at Barmester. Maude might have gone, but excused herself: whilst Rupert's fate hung in the balance, it was scarcely seemly, she thought, that she should be seen at public festivals. Cris had gone out shooting that day; Mr. Chattaway, as was supposed, was at Barmester; and when dinner was served, only Mrs. Chattaway and Maude sat down to it. It was a plain sirloin; and during a momentary absence of James, who was waiting at table, Maude exclaimed in a low tone:

"Aunt Edith, if we could only get some of this to Rupert!"

"I was thinking so," said Mrs. Chattaway.

The servant returned to the room, and the conversation ceased. But his mistress, under some plea, dismissed him, saying she would ring. And then the thought was carried out. A sauce-tureen which happened to be on the table was made the receptacle for some of the hot meat, and Maude put on her bonnet and stole away with it.

An unlucky venture. In her haste to reach the lodge unmolested, she spilt some of the gravy on her dress, and was stopping to wipe it with her handkerchief, when she was interrupted by Mr. Chattaway. It was close to the lodge. Maude's heart, as the saying runs, came into her mouth.

"What's that? Where are you taking it to?" he demanded, for his eyes had caught the tureen before she could slip it under her mantle.

He peremptorily took it from her unresisting hand, raised the cover, and saw some tempting slices of hot roast beef, and part of a cauliflower. Had Maude witnessed the actual discovery of Rupert, she could not have felt more utterly terrified.

"I ask you, to whom were you taking this?"

His resolute tones, coupled with her own terror, were more than poor Maude could brave. "To Mark Canham," she faltered. There was no one she could mention with the least plausibility: and she could not pretend to be merely taking a walk with a tureen of meat in her hand.

"Was it Madam's doings to send this?"

Again she could only answer in the affirmative. Chattaway stalked off to the Hold, carrying the tureen.

His wife sat at the dinner-table, and James was removing some pastry as he entered. Regardless of the man's presence, he gave vent to his anger, reproaching her in no measured terms for what she had done. Meat and vegetables from his own table to be supplied to that profitless, good-for-nothing man, Canham, who already enjoyed a house and half-a-crown a week for doing nothing! How dared she be guilty of extravagance so great, of wilful waste?

The scene was prolonged but came to an end at last; all such scenes do, it is to be hoped; and the afternoon went on. Mr. Chattaway went out again, Cris had not come in, Miss Diana and the girls did not return, and Mrs. Chattaway and Maude were still alone. "I shall go down to see him, Maude," the former said in low tones, breaking an unhappy silence. "And I shall take him something to eat; I will risk it. He has had nothing from us to-day."

Maude scarcely knew what to answer: her own fright was not yet over. Mrs. Chattaway dressed herself, took the little provision-basket and went out. It was all but dark; the evening was gloomy. Meeting no one, she gained the lodge, opened its door with a quick hand, and——stole away again silently and swiftly, with perhaps greater terror than she had ever felt rushing over her heart.

For the first figure she saw there was that of her husband, and the first voice she heard was his. She made her way amidst the trunks of the almost leafless trees, and concealed herself as she best could.

In returning that evening, it had struck Mr. Chattaway as he passed the lodge that he could not do better than favour old Canham with a piece of his mind, and forbid him, under pain of instant dismissal, to rob the Hold (as he phrased it) of so much as a scrap of bread. Old Canham, knowing what was at stake, took it patiently, never denying that the food (which Mr. Chattaway enlarged upon) might have been meant for him. Ann Canham stood against Rupert's door, shivering and shaking; and poor Rupert himself, who had not failed to recognise that loud voice, lay as one in agony.

Mr. Chattaway was in the midst of his last sentence, when the front-door was suddenly opened, and as suddenly shut again. He had his back to it, but turned just in time to catch a glimpse of somebody's petticoats before the door closed.

It was a somewhat singular proceeding, and Mr. Chattaway, always curious and suspicious, opened the door after a minute's pause, and looked out. He could see no one. He looked up the avenue, he looked down; he stepped out to the gate, and gazed up and down the road. Whoever it was had disappeared.

"Did you see who it was opened the door in that manner?" he demanded of old Canham.

Old Canham had stood deferentially during the lecture, leaning on his stick. He had not seen who it was, and therefore could answer readily, but he strongly suspected it to be Mrs. Chattaway. "Maybe 'twas some woman bringing sewing up for Ann, Squire. They mostly comes at dusk, not to hinder their own work."

"Then why couldn't they come in?" retorted Mr. Chattaway. "Why need they run away as if caught at some mischief?"

Old Canham wisely declined an answer: and Mr. Chattaway, after a parting admonition, finally quitted the lodge, and took his way towards the Hold. But for her dark attire, and the darker shades of evening, he might have detected his wife there, watching for him to pass.

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?"

She explained about the letter, reciting its contents as accurately as she remembered them. Rupert only stared.

"Acting for me!—I to take possession of the Hold! Well, I don't know anything about it," he wearily answered. "Why does not Mr. Chattaway go up and ask them what they mean? Connell and Connell don't know me, and I don't know them. Am I in a fit state to write letters, Aunt Edith?"

"It seemed to me the most unlikely thing in the world, Rupert, but what else was I to think?"

"They'd better have written to say I was going to take possession of the grave," he resumed; "there'd be more sense in that. Perhaps I am, Aunt Edith."

More sense in it? Ay, there would be. Every pulse in Mrs. Chattaway's heart echoed the words. She did not answer, and a pause ensued only broken by his somewhat painful breathing.

"Do you think I shall die, Aunt Edith?"

"Oh, my boy, I hope not; I hope not! But it is all in God's will. Rupert, darling, it seems a sad thing, especially to the young, to leave this world; but do you know what I often think as I lie and sigh through my sleepless nights: that it would be a blessed change both for you and for me if God were to take us from it, and give us a place in heaven."

Another pause. "You can tell Mr. Chattaway you feel sure I had nothing to do with the letter, Aunt Edith."

She shook her head. "No, Rupert; the less I say the better. It would not do; I should fear some chance word on my part might betray you: and all I could say would not make any impression on Mr. Chattaway."

"You are not going!" he exclaimed, as she rose from her seat on the bed.

"I must. I wish I could stay, but I dare not; indeed it was not safe to-night to come in at all."

"Aunt Edith, if you could only stay! It is so lonely. Four-and-twenty hours before I shall see you or Maude again! It is like being left alone to die."

"Not to die, I trust," she said, her tears falling fast. "We shall be together some time for ever, but I pray we may have a little happiness on earth first!"

Very full was her heart that night, and but for the fear that her red eyes would betray her, she could have wept all the way home. Stealing in at a side door, she gained her room, and found that Mr. Chattaway, fortunately, had not discovered her absence.

A few minutes after she entered, the house was in a commotion. Sounds were heard proceeding from the kitchen, and Mrs. Chattaway and others hastened towards it. One of the servants was badly scalded. Most unfortunately, it happened to be the cook, Rebecca. In taking some calve's-foot jelly from the fire, she had inadvertently overturned the boiling liquid.

Miss Diana, who was worth a thousand of Mrs. Chattaway in an emergency, had the woman placed in a recumbent position, and sent one of the grooms on horseback for Mr. King. But Miss Diana, while sparing nothing that could relieve the sufferer, did not conceal her displeasure at the awkwardness.

"Was it jelly you were making, Rebecca?" she sternly demanded.

Rebecca was lying back in a large chair, her feet raised. Everyone was crowding round: even Mr. Chattaway had come to ascertain the cause of the commotion. She made no answer.

Bridget did; rejoicing, no doubt, in her superior knowledge. "Yes, ma'am, it was jelly: she had just boiled it up."

Miss Diana wheeled round to Rebecca. "Why were you making jelly? It was not ordered."

Rebecca, not knowing what to say, glanced at Mrs. Chattaway. "Yes, it was ordered," murmured the latter. "I ordered it."

"You!" returned Miss Diana. "What for?" But Miss Diana spoke in surprise only; not objecting: it was so very unusual for Mrs. Chattaway to interfere in the domestic arrangements. It surprised them all, and her daughters looked at her. Poor Mrs. Chattaway could not put forth the plea that it was being made for herself, for calve's-foot jelly was a thing she never touched. The confusion on his wife's face attracted the notice of Mr. Chattaway.

"Possibly you intended to regale old Canham?" he scornfully said, alluding to what had passed that day. Not that he believed anything so improbable.

"Madam knows the young ladies like it, and she told me to make some," good-naturedly spoke up Rebecca in the midst of her pain.

The excuse served, and the matter passed. Miss Diana privately thought what a poor housekeeper her sister would make, ordering things when they were not required, and Mr. Chattaway quitted the scene. When the doctor arrived and had attended to the patient, Mrs. Chattaway, who was then in her room, sent to request him to come to her before he left, adding to the message that she did not feel well.

He came up immediately. She put a question or two about the injury to the girl, which was trifling, he answered, and would not keep her a prisoner long; and then Mrs. Chattaway lowered her voice, and spoke in the softest whisper.

"Mr. King, you must tell me. Is Rupert worse?"

"He is very ill," was the answer. "He certainly grows worse instead of better."

"Will he die?"

"I do believe he will die unless he can be got out of that unwholesome place. The question is, how is it to be done?"

"It cannot be done; it cannot be done unless Mr. Chattaway can be propitiated. That is the only chance."

"Mr. Chattaway never will be," thought Mr. King. "Everything is against him where he is," he said aloud: "the air of the room, the constant fear upon him, the want of proper food. The provisions conveyed to him at chance times are a poor substitute for the meals he requires."

"And they will be stopped now," said Mrs. Chattaway. "Rebecca has prepared them privately, but she cannot do so now. Mr. King, what can be done!"

"I don't know, indeed. It will not be safe to attempt to move him. In fact, I question if he would consent to it, his dread of being discovered is so great."

"Will you do all you can?" she urged.

"To be sure," he replied. "I am doing all I can. I got him another bottle of port in to-day. If you only saw me trying to dodge into the lodge unperceived, and taking observations before I whisk out again, you would say that I am as anxious as you can be, my dear lady. Still—I don't hesitate to avow it—I believe it will be life or death, according as we can manage to get him away from that hole and set his mind at rest."

He wished her good night, and went out.

"Life or death!" Mrs. Chattaway stood at the window, and gazed into the dusky night, recalling over and over again the ominous words. "Life or death!" There was no earthly chance, except the remote one of appeasing Mr. Chattaway.