UNANSWERED
It is singular to observe how lightly the marks of Time occasionally
pass over the human form and face. An instance of this might be seen in
Mrs. Chattaway. It was strange that it should be so in her case. Her
health was not good, and she certainly was not a happy woman. Illness
was frequently her portion; care ever seemed to follow her; and it is
upon these sufferers in mind and body that Time is fond of leaving his
traces. He had not left them on Mrs. Chattaway; her face was fair and
fresh as it had been eight years ago; her hair fell in its mass of
curls; her eyes were still blue, and clear, and bright.
And yet anxiety was her constant companion. It may be said that remorse
never left her. She would sit at the window of her room
upstairs--Madam's room--for hours, apparently contemplating the outer
world; in reality seeing nothing.
As she was sitting now. The glories of the bright day had faded into
twilight; the sun no longer lit up the many hues of the autumn foliage;
all the familiar points in the landscape had faded to indistinctness;
old Canham's lodge chimneys were becoming obscure, and the red light
from the mines and works was beginning to show out on the right in the
extreme distance. Mrs. Chattaway leaned her elbow on the old-fashioned
armchair, and rested her cheek upon her hand. Had you looked at her
eyes, gazing out so upon the fading landscape, you might have seen that
they were deep in the world of thought.
That constitutional timidity of hers had been nothing but a blight to
her throughout life. Reticence in a woman is good; but not that timid,
shrinking reticence which is the result of fear; which dare not speak up
for itself, even to oppose a wrong. Every wrong inflicted upon Rupert
Trevlyn--every unkindness shown him--every pang, whether of mind or
body, which happier circumstances might have spared him, was avenged
over and over again in the person of Mrs. Chattaway. It may be said that
she lived only in pain; her life was one never-ending sorrow--sorrow for
Rupert.
In the old days, when her husband had chosen to deceive Squire Trevlyn
as to the existence of Rupert, she had not dared to avow the truth, and
say to her father, "There is an heir born." She dared not fly in the
face of her husband, and say it; and, it may be, that she was too
willingly silent for her husband's sake. It would seem strange, but that
we know what fantastic tricks our passions play us, that pretty, gentle
Edith Trevlyn should have _loved_ that essentially disagreeable man,
James Chattaway. But so it was. And, while deploring the fact of the
wrong dealt out to Rupert--it may almost be said _expiating_ it--Mrs.
Chattaway never visited that wrong upon her husband, even in thought, as
it ought to have been visited. None could realise more intensely its
consequences than she realised them in her secret heart. Expiate it? Ay,
she expiated it again and again, if her sufferings could only have been
reckoned as atonement.
But they could not. _They_ were enjoying Trevlyn Hold and its
advantages, and Rupert was little better than an outcast on the face of
the earth. Every dinner put upon their table, every article of attire
bought for their children, every honour or comfort their position
brought them, seemed to rise up reproachfully before the face of Mrs.
Chattaway, and say, "The money to procure all this is not yours and your
husband's; it is stolen from Rupert." And she could do nothing to remedy
it; could only wage ever-constant battle with the knowledge, and the
sting it brought. No remedy existed. They had not come into the
inheritance by legal fraud; had succeeded to it fairly and openly,
according to the will of Squire Trevlyn. If the whole world ranged
itself on Rupert's side, pressing that the property should be resigned
to him, Mr. Chattaway had only to point to the will, and say, "You
cannot act against that."
It may be that this very fact brought remorse home with greater force to
Mrs. Chattaway. It may be that incessantly dwelling upon it caused a
morbid state of feeling, which increased the malady. Certain it is, that
night and day the wrongs of Rupert pressed on her mind. She loved him
with that strange intensity which brings an aching to the heart. When
the baby orphan was brought home to her from its foreign birthplace,
with its rosy cheeks and its golden curls--when it put out its little
arms to her, and gazed at her with its large blue eyes, her heart went
out to it there and then, and she caught it to her with a love more
passionate than any ever given to her own children. The irredeemable
wrong inflicted on the unconscious child, fixed itself on her conscience
in that hour, never to be lifted from it.
If ever a woman lived a dual life, that woman was Mrs. Chattaway. Her
true aspect--that in which she saw herself as she really was--was as
different from the one presented to the world as light from darkness. Do
not blame her. It was difficult to help it. The world and her own family
saw in Mrs. Chattaway a weak, gentle, apathetic woman, who did not take
upon herself even the ordinary authority of the head of a household.
They little imagined that that weak woman, remarkable for nothing but
indifference, passed her days in sadness, in care, in thought. The
hopeless timidity (inherited from her mother) which had been her bane in
former days, was her bane still. She had not dared to rise up against
her husband when the wrong was inflicted upon Rupert Trevlyn; she did
not dare openly rise up now against the petty tyrannies daily dealt out
to him. There may have been a latent consciousness in her mind that if
she did interfere it would not change things for the better, and might
make them worse for Rupert. Probably it would have done so.
There were many things she could have wished for Rupert, and went so far
as to hint some of them to Mr. Chattaway. She wished he could be
altogether relieved from Blackstone; she wished greater indulgences for
him at home; she wished he might be transported to a warmer climate. A
bare suggestion she dropped, once in a way, to Mr. Chattaway, but they
fell unheeded on his ear. He replied to the hint of the warmer climate
with a prolonged stare and a demand as to what romantic absurdity she
could be thinking of. Mrs. Chattaway had never mentioned it again. In
these cases of constitutional timidity, a rebuff, be it ever so slight,
is sufficient to close the lips for ever. Poor lady! she would have
sacrificed her own comfort to give peace and comfort to the unhappy
Rupert. He was miserably put upon; treated with less consideration than
the servants; made to feel his dependent state daily and hourly by petty
annoyances; and yet she could not openly interfere!
Even now, as she sat watching the deepening shades, she was dwelling on
this; resenting it in her heart, for his sake. It was the evening of the
day when the girls had met George Ryle in the lane. She could hear
sounds of merriment downstairs from her children and their visitors, and
felt sure Rupert did not make one of them. It had long been the pleasure
of Cris and Octave to exclude Rupert from the evening gatherings of the
family, as far as they could do so; and if, through the presence of
herself or Miss Diana, they could not absolutely deny his entrance, they
treated him with studied indifference. She sat on, revolving these
bitter thoughts in the gloom, until roused by the entrance of an
intruder.
It was Rupert himself. He approached Mrs. Chattaway, and she fondly
threw her arm round him, and drew him down to a chair by her side. Only
when they were alone could she show him these marks of affection, or
prove to him that he did not stand in the world entirely isolated from
all love.
"Do you feel better to-night, Rupert?"
"Oh, I am a great deal better. I feel quite well. Why are you sitting in
the dark, Aunt Edith?"
"It is not quite dark yet. What are they doing below, Rupert? I hear
plenty of laughter."
"They are playing at some game, I think."
"At what?"
"I don't know. I was joining them, when Octave, as usual, said they were
enough without me; so I came away."
Mrs. Chattaway made no reply. She never spoke a reproachful word of her
children to Rupert, whatever she might feel; she never, by so much as a
breathing, cast a reproach on her husband to living mortal. Rupert
leaned his head on her shoulder, as though weary. Sufficient light was
left to show how delicate his features, how attractive his face. The
lovely countenance of his boyhood characterised him still--the
suspiciously bright cheeks and silken hair. Of middle height, slender
and fragile, he scarcely looked his twenty years. There was a
resemblance in his face to Mrs. Chattaway: and it was not surprising,
for Joe Trevlyn and his sister Edith had been remarkably alike when they
were young.
"Is Cris come in?" asked Mrs. Chattaway.
"Not yet."
Rupert rose as he spoke, and stretched himself. The verb _s'ennuyer_ was
one he often felt obliged to conjugate, in his evenings at the Hold.
"I think I shall go down for an hour to the farm."
Mrs. Chattaway started: shrank from the words, as it seemed. "Not
to-night, Rupert!"
"It is so dull at home, Aunt Edith."
"They are merry enough downstairs."
"Yes. But Octave takes care that I shall not be merry with them."
What could she answer?
"Then, Rupert, you will _be sure_ to be home," she said, after a while.
And the pained emphasis with which she spoke no pen could express. The
words evidently conveyed some meaning, understood by Rupert.
"Yes," was all he answered, the tones of his voice betraying his
resentment.
Mrs. Chattaway caught him to her, and hid her face upon his shoulder.
"For my sake, Rupert, darling, for my sake!"
"Yes, yes, dear Aunt Edith: I'll be sure to be in time," he reiterated.
"I won't forget it, as I did the other night."
She stood at the window, and watched him away from the house and down
the avenue, praying that he might _not_ forget. It had pleased Mr.
Chattaway lately to forbid Rupert the house, unless he returned to it by
half-past ten. That this motive was entirely that of ill-naturedly
crossing Rupert, there could be little doubt about. Driven by unkindness
from the Hold, Rupert had taken to spending his evenings with George
Ryle; sometimes at the houses of other friends; now and then he would
invade old Canham's. Rupert's hour for coming in from these visits was
about eleven; he had generally managed to be in by the time the clock
struck; but the master of Trevlyn Hold suddenly issued a mandate that he
must be in by half-past ten; failing strict obedience as to time, he was
not to be let in at all. Rupert resented it, and one or two unpleasant
scenes had ensued. A similar rule was not applied to Cris, who might
come in at any hour he pleased.
Mrs. Chattaway went down to the drawing-room. Two girls, the daughters
of neighbours, were spending the evening there, and they were playing at
proverbs with great animation: Maude Trevlyn, the guests, and the Miss
Chattaways. Octave alone joined in it listlessly, as if her thoughts
were far away. Her restless glances towards the door seemed to say she
was watching for the entrance of one who did not come.
By-and-by Mr. Chattaway came home, and they sat down to supper.
Afterwards, the guests departed, and the younger children went to bed.
Ten o'clock struck, and the time went on again.
"Where's Rupert?" Mr. Chattaway suddenly asked his wife.
"He went down to Trevlyn Farm," she said, unable, had it been to save
her life, to speak without deprecation.
He made no reply, but rang the bell, and ordered the household to bed.
Miss Diana Trevlyn was out upon a visit.
"Cris and Rupert are not in," observed Octave, as she lighted her
mother's candle and her own.
Mr. Chattaway took out his watch. "Twenty-five minutes past ten," he
said, in his hard, impassive manner--a manner which imparted the idea
that he was utterly destitute of sympathy for the whole human race. "Mr.
Rupert must be quick if he intends to be admitted to-night; Give your
mother her bed-candle."
It may appear almost incredible that Mrs. Chattaway should meekly take
her candle and follow her daughter upstairs without remonstrance, when
she would have given the world to sit up longer. She was becoming quite
feverish on Rupert's account, and would have wished to wait in that room
until his ring was heard. But to oppose her own will to her husband's
was a thing she had never yet done; in small things, as in great, she
had bowed to his wishes without making the faintest shadow of
resistance.
Octave wished her mother good-night, went into her room, and closed the
door. Mrs. Chattaway was turning into hers when she saw Maude creeping
down the upper stairs. She came noiselessly along the corridor, her face
pale with agitation, and her heart beating.
"Oh, Aunt Edith, what will be done?" she murmured. "It is half-past ten,
and he is not home."
"Maude, my poor child, you can do nothing," was the whispered answer,
the tone as full of pain as Maude's. "Go back to your room, dear; your
uncle may come up."
The great clock in the hall struck the half-hour, its sound falling as a
knell. Hot tears were falling from the eyes of Maude.
"What will become of him, Aunt Edith? Where will he sleep?"
"Hush, Maude! Run back."
It was time to run; and Mrs. Chattaway spoke the words in startled
tones. The master's heavy footstep was heard crossing the hall. Maude
stole back, and Mrs. Chattaway passed into her dressing-room.
She sat down on a chair, and pressed her hands upon her bosom to still
its beating. Her suspense and agitation were terrible. A sensitive
nature, such as Mrs. Chattaway's, feels emotion in a most painful
degree. Every sense was strung to its utmost tension. She listened for
Rupert's footfall outside; waited with a sort of horror for the ringing
of the house-bell announcing his arrival, her whole frame sick and
faint.
At last one came running up the avenue at a fleet pace, and the echoes
of the bell were heard resounding through the house.
Not daring to defy her husband by going down to let him in she knocked
at his door and entered.
"Shall I go down and open the door, James?"
"No."
"It is only five minutes past the half-hour."
"Five minutes are the same in effect as five hours," answered Mr.
Chattaway. "Unless he can be in before the half-hour, _he does not come
in at all_."
"It may be Cris," she resumed.
"Nonsense! You know it is not Cris. Cris has his latch-key."
Another alarming peal.
"He can see the light in my dressing-room," she urged, with parched
lips. "Oh, James, let me go down."
"I tell you--No."
There was no appeal against it. She knew there might be none. But she
clasped her hands in agony, and gave utterance to the distress at her
heart.
"Where will he sleep? Where can he go, if we deny him entrance?"
"Where he chooses. He does not enter here."
And Mrs. Chattaway went back to her dressing-room, and listened in
despair to further appeals from the bell. Appeals which she might not
answer.