MADAM'S ROOM
Leading out of Mrs. Chattaway's dressing-room was a comfortable
apartment, fitted up as a sitting-room, with chintz hangings and
maple-wood furniture. It was called in the household "Madam's Room," and
here Mrs. Chattaway frequently sat. Yes; the house and the neighbourhood
accorded her readily the title which usage had long given to the
mistress of Trevlyn Hold: but they would not give that of "Squire" to
her husband. I wish particularly to repeat this. Strive for it as he
would, force his personal servants to observe the title as he did, he
could not get it recognised or adopted. When a written invitation came
to the Hold--a rare event, for the old-fashioned custom of inviting
verbally was chiefly followed there--it would be worded, "Mr. and Madam
Chattaway," and Chattaway's face would turn green as he read it. No,
never! He enjoyed the substantial good of being proprietor of Trevlyn
Hold, he received its revenues, he held sway as its lord and master; but
its honours were not given to him. It was so much gall and wormwood to
Chattaway.
Mrs. Chattaway stood at this window on that dull morning in November
mentioned in the last chapter, her eyes strained on the distance. What
was she gazing at? Those lodge chimneys?--The dark, almost bare trees
that waved to and fro in the wintry wind?--The extensive landscape
stretching out in the distance, not fine to-day, but dull and
cheerless?--Or on the shifting clouds in the grey skies? Not on any of
these; her eyes, though apparently bent on all, in reality saw nothing.
They were fixed on vacancy; buried, like her thoughts.
She wore a muslin gown, with dark purple spots upon it; her collar was
fastened with a bow of black ribbon, her sleeves were confined with
black ribbons at the wrist. She was passing a finger under one of these
wrist-ribbons, round and round, as if the ribbon were tight; in point of
fact, it was only a proof of her abstraction. Her smooth hair fell in
curls on her fair face, and her blue eyes were bright as with a slight
touch of inward fever.
Some one opened the door, and peeped in. It was Maude Trevlyn. Her frock
was of the same material as Mrs. Chattaway's gown, and a sash of black
ribbon encircled her waist. Mrs. Chattaway did not turn, and Maude came
forward.
"Are you well to-day, Aunt Edith?"
"Not very, dear." Mrs. Chattaway took the pretty young head within her
arm as she answered, and fondly stroked the bright curls. "You have been
crying, Maude!"
Maude shook back her curls with a smile, as if she meant to be brave;
make light of the accusation. "Cris and Octave went on so shamefully,
Aunt Edith, ridiculing George Ryle; and when I took his part, Cris hit
me a sharp blow. It was stupid of me to cry, though."
"Cris did?" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway.
"I know I provoked him," candidly acknowledged Maude. "I'm afraid I flew
into a passion; and you know, Aunt Edith, I don't mind what I say when I
do that. I told Cris that he would be placed at something not half as
good as a linen-draper's some time, for he'd want a living when Rupert
came into Trevlyn Hold."
"Maude! Maude! hush!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway in tones of terror. "You
must not say that."
"I know I must not, Aunt Edith; I know it is wrong; wrong to think it,
and foolish to say it. It was my temper. I am very sorry."
She nestled close to Mrs. Chattaway, caressing and penitent. Mrs.
Chattaway stooped and kissed her, a strangely marked expression of
tribulation, shrinking and hopeless, upon her countenance.
"Oh, Maude! I am so ill!"
Maude felt awed; and somewhat puzzled. "Ill, Aunt Edith?"
"There is an illness of the mind worse than that of the body, Maude. I
feel as though I should sink under my weight of care. Sometimes I wonder
why I am kept on earth."
"Oh, Aunt Edith!"
A knock at the room door, followed by the entrance of a female servant.
She did not observe Mrs. Chattaway; only Maude.
"Is Miss Diana here, Miss Maude?"
"No. Only Madam."
"What is it, Phoebe?" asked Mrs. Chattaway.
"Master Cris wants to know if he can take the gig out, ma'am?"
"I cannot tell anything about it. You must ask Miss Diana. Maude, see;
that is your Aunt Diana's step on the stairs now."
Miss Trevlyn came in. "The gig?" she repeated. "No; Cris cannot take it.
Go and tell him so, Maude. Phoebe, return to your work."
Maude ran away, and Phoebe went off grumbling, not aloud, but to
herself; no one dared grumble in the hearing of Miss Trevlyn. She had
spoken in sharp tones to Phoebe, and the girl did not like sharp
tones. As Miss Trevlyn sat down opposite Mrs. Chattaway, the feverish
state of that lady's countenance arrested her attention.
"What is the matter, Edith?"
Mrs. Chattaway buried her elbow on the sofa-cushion, and pressed her
hand to her face, half covering it, before she spoke. "I cannot get over
this business," she answered in low tones. "To-day--perhaps naturally--I
am feeling it more than is good for me. It makes me ill, Diana."
"What business?" asked Miss Trevlyn.
"This apprenticing of George Ryle."
"Nonsense," said Miss Diana.
"It is not the proper thing for him, Diana; you admitted so yesterday.
The boy says it is the blighting of his whole future life; and I feel
that it is nothing less. I could not sleep last night for thinking about
it. Once I dozed off, and fell into an ugly dream," she shivered. "I
thought Mr. Ryle came to me, and asked whether it was not enough that we
had heaped care upon him in life, and then sent him to his death, but
must also pursue his son."
"You always were weak, you know, Edith," was the composed rejoinder of
Miss Trevlyn. "Why Chattaway should be interfering with George Ryle, I
cannot understand; but it surely need not give concern to you. The
proper person to put a veto on his being placed at Barmester, as he is
being placed, was Mrs. Ryle. If she did not think fit to do it, it is no
business of ours."
"It seems to me as if he had no one to stand up for him. It seems,"
added Mrs. Chattaway, with more passion in her tone, "as if his father
must be looking down at us, and condemning us."
"If you will worry yourself over it, you must," was the rejoinder of
Miss Trevlyn. "It is very foolish, Edith, and it can do no earthly good.
He is bound by this time, and the thing is irrevocable."
"Perhaps that is the reason--because it is irrevocable--that it presses
upon me to-day with greater weight. It has made me think of the past,
Diana," she added in a whisper. "Of that other wrong, which I cheat
myself sometimes into forgetting; a wrong----"
"Be silent!" imperatively interrupted Miss Trevlyn, and the next moment
Cris Chattaway bounded into the room.
"What's the reason I can't have the gig?" he began. "Who says I can't
have it?"
"I do," said Miss Trevlyn.
Cris insolently turned from her, and walked up to Mrs. Chattaway. "May I
not take the gig, mother?"
If there was one thing irritated the sweet temper of Mrs. Chattaway, it
was being appealed to against any decision of Diana's. She knew that she
possessed no power; was a nonentity in the house; and though she bowed
to her dependency, and had no resource but to bow to it, she did not
like it brought palpably before her.
"Don't apply to me, Cris. I know nothing about things downstairs; I
cannot say one way or the other. The horses and vehicles are specially
the things that your father will not have meddled with. Do you remember
taking out the dog-cart without leave, and the result?"
Cris looked angry; perhaps the reminiscence was not agreeable. Miss
Diana interfered.
"You will _not_ take out the gig, Cris. I have said it."
"Then see if I don't walk! And if I am not home to dinner, Aunt Diana,
you can just tell the Squire the thanks are due to you."
"Where do you wish to go?" asked Mrs. Chattaway.
"I am going to Barmester. I want to wish that fellow joy of his
indentures," added Cris, a glow of triumph lighting up his face. "He is
bound by this time. I wonder the Squire is not back again!"
The Squire was back again. As Cris spoke, his tread was heard on the
stairs, and he came into the room. Cris was too full of his own concerns
to note the expression of his face.
"Father, may I take out the gig? I want to go to Barmester, to pay a
visit of congratulation to George Ryle."
"No, you will not take out the gig," said Mr. Chattaway, the allusion
exciting his anger almost beyond bearing.
Cris thought he might have been misunderstood. Cris deemed that his
proclaimed intention would find favour with Mr. Chattaway.
"I suppose you have been binding that fellow, father. I want to go and
ask him how he likes it."
"No, sir, I have not been binding him," thundered Mr. Chattaway. "What's
more, he is not going to be bound. He has left it, and is at home
again."
Cris gave a blank stare of amazement, and Mrs. Chattaway let her hands
fall silently upon her lap and heaved a gentle sigh, as though some
great good had come to her.