by Ellen Wood
Mr. Chattaway’s small eyes opened to their utmost width. “And why not?”
“Because, knowing what I know now, I believe that I should be committing an injustice upon the boy; an injustice which nothing could repair. To condemn a youth to pass the best years of his life at an uncongenial pursuit, to make the pursuit his calling, is a cruel injustice wherever it is knowingly inflicted. I myself was a victim to it. My boy,” added Mr. Wall, laying his hand on George’s shoulder, “you have a marked distaste to the mercery business. Is it not so? Speak out fearlessly. Don’t regard me as your master — I shall never be that, you hear — but as your friend.”
“Yes, I have,” replied George.
“You think it a cruel piece of injustice to have put you to it: you will never more feel an interest in life; you’d as soon be with poor Mr. Ryle in his coffin! And when you are out of your time, you mean to start for India or some out-of-the-world place, and begin life afresh!”
George was too much confused to answer. His face turned scarlet. Undoubtedly Mr. Wall had overheard his conversation with Nora.
Mr. Chattaway was looking red and angry. When his face did turn red, it presented a charming brick-dust hue. “It is only scamps who take a dislike to what they are put to,” he exclaimed. “And their dislike is all pretence.”
“I differ from you in both propositions,” replied Mr. Wall. “At any rate, I do not think it the case with your nephew.”
Mr. Chattaway’s brick-dust grew deeper. “He is no nephew of mine. What next will you say, Wall?”
“Your step-nephew, then, to be correct,” equably rejoined Mr. Wall. “You remember when we left school together, you and I, and began to turn our thoughts to the business of life? Your father wished you to go into the bank as clerk, you know; and mine — —”
“But he did not get his wish, more’s the luck,” again interposed Mr. Chattaway, not pleased at the allusion. “A poor start in life that would have been for the future Squire of Trevlyn Hold.”
“Pooh!” rejoined Mr. Wall, in a good-tempered, matter-of-fact tone. “You did not expect then to be exalted to Trevlyn Hold. Nonsense, Chattaway! We are old friends, you know. But, let me continue. I overheard a certain conversation of this boy’s with Nora Dickson, and it seemed to bring my own early life back to me. With every word he spoke, I had a fellow-feeling. My father insisted that I should follow the business he was in; this one. He carried on a successful trade for years, in this very house, and nothing would do but I must succeed to it. In vain I urged my repugnance to it, my dislike; in vain I said I had formed other views for myself; I was not listened to. In those days it was not the fashion for sons to run counter to their fathers’ will; at least, such was my experience; and into the business I came. I have reconciled myself to it by dint of time and habit; liked it, I never have; and I have always felt that it was — as I heard this boy express it — a cruel wrong to force me into it. You cannot, therefore, be surprised that I decline so to force another. I will never do it knowingly.”
“You decline absolutely to take him?” asked Mr. Chattaway.
“Absolutely and positively. He can remain in the house a few days longer if it will suit his convenience, or he can leave to-day. I am not displeased with you,” added Mr. Wall, turning to George, and holding out his hand. “We shall part good friends.”
George seized it and grasped it, his countenance glowing, a whole world of gratitude shining from his eyes as he lifted them to Mr. Wall. “I shall always think you have been the best friend I ever had, sir, next to my father.”
“I hope it will prove so. I trust you will find some pursuit in life more congenial to you than this.”
Mr. Chattaway took up his hat and whip. “This will be fine news for your mother, sir!” cried he, severely.
“It may turn out well for her,” replied George, boldly. “My belief is the farm never would have got along with John Pinder as manager.”
“You think you would make a better?” said Mr. Chattaway, his thin lip curling.
“I can be true to her, at any rate,” said George. “And I can have my eyes about me.”
“Good morning,” resumed Mr. Chattaway to Mr. Wall, putting out unwillingly the tips of two fingers.
Mr. Wall laughed. “I do not see why you should be vexed, Mr. Chattaway. The boy is no son of yours. For myself, all I can say is, that I have been actuated by motives of regard for his interest.”
“It remains to be proved whether it will be for his interest,” coldly rejoined Mr. Chattaway. “Were I his mother, and this check were dealt out to me, I should send him off to break stones on the road. Good morning, Wall. And I beg you will not bring me here again upon a fool’s errand.”
George went into the shop, to get from it some personal trifles he had left there. He deemed it well to depart at once, and carry the news home to Mrs. Ryle himself. The cards and trimmings lay in the unfinished state he had left them. What a change, that moment and this! One or two of the employés noticed his radiant countenance.
“Has anything happened?” they asked.
“Yes,” answered George. “I have been suddenly lifted into paradise.”
He started on his way, leaving his things to be sent after him. His footsteps scarcely touched the ground. Not a rough ridge of the road felt he; not a sharp stone; not a hill. Only when he turned in at the gate did he remember there was his mother’s displeasure to be met and grappled with.
Nora gave a shriek when he entered the house. “George! What brings you here?”
“Where’s my mother?” was George’s only answer.
“In the best parlour,” said Nora. “And I can tell you she’s not in the best of humours just now, so I’d advise you not to go in.”
“What about?” asked George, taking it for granted she had heard the news about himself, and that was the grievance. But he was agreeably undeceived.
“It’s about John Pinder. He has been having two of the meads ploughed up, and he never asked the missis first. She is angry.”
“Has Chattaway been here to see my mother, Nora?”
“He came up on horseback in a desperate hurry half-an-hour ago; but she was out on the farm, so he said he’d call again. It was through going out this morning that she discovered what they were about with the fields. She says she thinks John Pinder must be going out of his mind, to take things upon himself in the way he is doing.”
George bent his steps to the drawing-room. Mrs. Ryle was seated before her desk, writing a note. The expression of her face as she looked up at George between the white lappets of her widow’s cap was resolutely severe. It changed to astonishment.
Strange to say, she was writing to Mr. Wall to stop the signing of the indentures, or to desire that they might be cancelled if signed. She could not do without George at home, she said; and she told him why she could not.
“Mamma,” said George, “will you be angry if I tell you something that has struck me in all this?”
“Tell it,” said Mrs. Ryle.
“I feel quite certain Chattaway has been acting with a motive; he has some private reason for wishing to get me away from home. That’s what he has been working for; otherwise he would never have troubled himself about me. It is not in his nature.”
Mrs. Ryle gazed at George steadfastly, as if weighing his words, and presently knit her brow. George could read her countenance tolerably well. He felt sure she had arrived at a similar conclusion, and that it irritated her. He resumed.
“It looks bad for you, mother; but you must not think I say this selfishly. Twenty minutes I have asked myself the question, Why does he wish me away? And I can only think that he would like the farm to go to rack and ruin, so that you may be driven from it.”
“Nonsense, George.”
“Well, what else can it be?”
“If so, he is defeated,” said Mrs. Ryle. “You will take your place as master of the farm from to-day, George, under me. Deferring to me in all things, you understand; gi
ving no orders on your own responsibility, taking my pleasure upon the merest trifle.”
“I should not think of doing otherwise,” replied George. “I will do my best for you in all ways, mother. You will soon see how useful I can be.”
“Very well. But I may as well mention one thing to you. When Treve shall be old enough, it is he who will be master here, and you must resign the place to him. It is not that I wish to set the younger of your father’s sons unjustly above the head of the elder. This farm will be a living but for one of you; barely that; and I prefer that Treve should have it; he is my own son. We will endeavour to find a better farm for you before that time shall come.”
“Just as you please,” said George, cheerfully. “Now that I am emancipated from that dreadful nightmare, my prospects look very bright to me. I’ll do the best I can on the farm, remembering that I do it for Treve’s future benefit; not for mine. Something else will turn up for me, no doubt, before I’m ready for it.”
“Which will not be for some years to come,” said Mrs. Ryle, feeling pleased with the boy’s acquiescent spirit. “Treve will not be old enough for — —”
Mrs. Ryle was interrupted. The door had opened, and there appeared Mr. Chattaway, showing himself in. Nora never affected to be too courteous to that gentleman; and on his coming to the house to ask for Mrs. Ryle a second time, she had curtly answered that Mrs. Ryle was in the best parlour (the more familiar name for the drawing-room in the farmhouse), and allowed him to find his own way to it.
Mr. Chattaway looked surprised at seeing George; he had not bargained for his arriving home so soon. Extending his hand towards him, he turned to Mrs. Ryle.
“There’s a dutiful son for you! You hear what he has done? — returned on your hands as a bale of worthless goods.”
“Yes, I hear that Mr. Wall has declined to take him,” was her composed answer. “It has happened for the best. When he arrived just now, I was writing to Mr. Wall requesting that he might not be bound.”
“And why?” asked Mr. Chattaway in considerable amazement.
“I find I am unable to do without him,” said Mrs. Ryle, her tone harder and firmer than ever; her eyes, stern and steady, thrown full on Chattaway. “I have tried the experiment, and it has failed. I cannot do without one by my side devoted to my interests; and John Pinder cannot get on without a master.”
“And do you think you’ll find what you want in him! — in that inexperienced schoolboy?” burst forth Mr. Chattaway.
“I do,” replied Mrs. Ryle, her tone so significantly decided, as to be almost offensive. “He takes his standing from this day as master of Trevlyn Farm; subject only to me.”
“I wish you joy of him!” angrily returned Chattaway. “But you must understand, Mrs. Ryle, that your having a boy at the head of affairs will oblige me to look more keenly after my interests.”
“My arrangements with you are settled,” she said. “So long as I fulfil my part, that is all that concerns you, James Chattaway.”
“You’ll not fulfil it, if you put him at the head of things.”
“When I fail you can come here and tell me of it. Until then, I prefer that you should not intrude on Trevlyn Farm.”
She rang the bell sharply as she spoke, and Molly, who was passing along the passage, immediately appeared. Mrs. Ryle extended her hand imperiously, the forefinger pointed.
“The door for Mr. Chattaway.”
CHAPTER X
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, Phœbe?” 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. Phœbe, return to your work.”
Maude ran away, and Phœbe 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 Phœbe, and the girl did not like sharp tones. As Miss Tr
evlyn 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.