Milly Darrell

by M. E. Braddon

married the butler. They set up inbusiness in a little public-house in Thornleigh village, and he took todrinking, till everything went to rack and ruin. My poor girl took thetrouble to heart more than her husband did, a great deal; and I believeit was the trouble that killed her. She died three weeks after that boywas born, and her husband ran away the day after the funeral, and hasnever been heard of since. Some say he drowned himself in the Clem; buthe was a precious deal too fond of himself for that. He was up to hiseyes in debt, and didn't leave a sixpence behind him; that's how Petercame to be thrown on my hands.'

  'Come here, Peter,' said Milly softly; and the boy went to herdirectly, and took the hand she offered him.

  'You've not forgotten me, have you, Peter? Miss Darrell, who used totalk to you sometimes a long time ago.'

  The boy's vacant face brightened into something like intelligence.

  'I know you, miss,' he said; 'you was always kind to Peter. It's notmany that I know; but I know you.'

  She took out her purse and gave him half-a-crown.

  'There, Peter, there's a big piece of silver for your own self, to buywhatever you like--sugar-sticks, gingerbread, marbles--anything.'

  His clumsy hand closed upon the coin, and I have no doubt he waspleased by the donation; but he never took his eyes from MillyDarrell's face. That bright lovely face seemed to exercise a kind offascination upon him.

  'Don't you think Peter would be better if you were to give him a littlemore air and sunshine, Mrs. Thatcher?' Milly asked presently; 'thatbedroom seems rather a dark close place.'

  'He needn't be there unless he likes,' Mrs. Thatcher answeredindifferently. 'He sits out of doors whenever he chooses.'

  'Then I should always sit out-of-doors on fine days, if I were you,Peter,' said Milly.

  After this she talked a little to Mrs. Thatcher, who was by no means asympathetic person, while I sat looking on, and contemplating the oldwoman with a feeling that was the reverse of admiration.

  She was of a short squat figure, with broad shoulders and no throat tospeak of, and her head seemed too big for her body. Her face was longand thin, with large features, and a frame of scanty gray hair, amongwhich a sandy tinge still lingered here and there; her eyes were of anugly reddish-brown, and had, I thought, a most sinister expression. Imust have been very ill, and sorely at a loss for a doctor, before Icould have been induced to trust my health to the care of Mrs. RebeccaThatcher.

  I told Milly as much while we were walking homewards, and she admittedthat Rebecca Thatcher was no favourite even among the country people,who believed implicitly in her skill.

  'I'm afraid she tells fortunes, and dabbles in all sorts ofsuperstitious tricks,' Milly added gravely; 'but she is so artful,there is no way of finding her out in that kind of business. Thefoolish country girls who consult her always keep her secret, and shemanages to put on a fair face before our rector and his curate, whobelieve her to be a respectable woman.'

  The days and weeks slipped by very pleasantly at Thornleigh, and theend of those bright midsummer holidays came only too soon. It seemed abitter thing to say 'good-bye' to Milly Darrell, and to go back aloneto a place which must needs be doubly dull and dreary to me withouther. She had been my only friend at Albury Lodge; loving her as I did,I had never cared to form any other friendship.

  The dreaded day came at last--dreaded I know by both of us; and I said'good-bye' to my darling so quietly, that I am sure none could haveguessed the grief I felt in this parting. Mrs. Darrell was very kindand gracious on this occasion, begging that I would come back toThornleigh at Christmas--if they should happen to spend their Christmasthere.

  Milly looked up at her wonderingly as she said this.

  'Is there any chance of our spending it elsewhere, Augusta?' she asked.

  Mrs. Darrell had persuaded her stepdaughter to use this familiarChristian name, rather than the more formal mode of address.

  'I don't know, my dear. Your papa has sometimes talked of a house intown, or we might be abroad. I can only say that if we are at homehere, we shall be very much pleased to see Miss Crofton again.'

  I thanked her, kissed Milly once more, and so departed--to be driven tothe station in state in the barouche, and to look sadly back at thenoble old house in which I had been so happy.

  Once more I returned to the dryasdust routine of Albury Lodge, and rangthe changes upon history and geography, chronology and English grammar,physical science and the elements of botany, until my weary head achedand my heart grew sick. And when I came to be a governess, it would ofcourse be the same thing over and over again, on a smaller scale. Andthis was to be my future, without hope of change or respite, until Igrew an old woman worn-out with the drudgery of tuition!

  CHAPTER V.

  MILLY'S LETTER.

  The half-year wore itself slowly away. There were no incidents to markthe time, no change except the slow changes of the seasons; and my onlypleasures were letters from home or from Emily Darrell.

  Of the home letters I will not speak--they could have no interestexcept for myself; but Milly's are links in the story of a life. Shewrote to me as freely as she had talked to me, pouring out all herthoughts and fancies with that confiding frankness which was one of themost charming attributes of her mind. For some time the letterscontained nothing that could be called news; but late in Septemberthere came one which seemed to me to convey intelligence of someimportance.

  'You will be grieved to hear, my darling Mary,' she wrote, after alittle playful discussion of my own affairs, 'that my stepmother and Iare no nearer anything like a real friendship than we were when youleft us. What it is that makes the gulf between us, I cannot tell; butthere is something, some hidden feeling in both our minds, I think,which prevents our growing fond of each other. She is very kind to me,so far as perfect non-interference with my doings, and a graciousmanner when we are together, can go; but I am sure she does not likeme. I have surprised her more than once looking at me with thestrangest expression--a calculating, intensely thoughtful look, thatmade her face ten years older than it is at other times. Of coursethere are times when we are thrown together alone--though this does notoccur often, for she and my father are a most devoted couple, and spendthe greater part of every day together--and I have noticed at thosetimes that she never speaks of her girlhood, or of any part of her lifebefore her marriage. All that came before seems a blank page, or asealed volume that she does not care to open. I asked some triflingquestion about her father once, and she turned upon me almost angrily.

  "I do not care to speak about him, Milly," she said; "he was not a goodfather, and he is best forgotten. I never had a real friend till I metmy husband."

  'There is one part of her character which I am bound to appreciate. Ibelieve that she is really grateful and devoted to papa, and hecertainly seems thoroughly happy in her society. The marriage had theeffect which I felt sure it must have--it has divided us two mostcompletely; but if it has made him happy, I have no reason to complain.What could I wish for beyond his happiness?

  'And now, Milly, for my news. Julian Stormont has been here, and hasasked me to be his wife.

  'He came over last Saturday afternoon, intending to stop with us tillMonday morning. It was a bright warm day here, and in the afternoon hepersuaded me to walk to Cumber Church with him. You remember the way wedrove through the wood the day we went to the Priory, I daresay; butthere is a nearer way than that for foot passengers, and I think aprettier one--a kind of cross-cut through the same wood. I consentedwillingly enough, having nothing better to do with myself, and we had apleasant walk to church, talking of all kinds of things. As we returnedJulian grew very serious, and when we were about half way upon ourjourney, he asked me if I could guess what had brought him over toThornleigh. Of course I told him that I concluded he had come as heusually did--for rest and change after the cares of business, and totalk about business affairs with papa.

  'He told me he had come for something more than that. He came to tellme that he had loved me all his
life; that there was nothing my fatherwould like better than our union if it could secure my happiness, as hehoped and believed it might.

  'I think you know, Mary, that no idea of this kind had ever entered mymind. I told Julian this, and told him that, however I might esteem himas my cousin, he could never be nearer or dearer to me than that. Thechange in his face when he heard this almost frightened me. He grewdeadly pale, but I am certain it was anger rather than disappointmentthat was uppermost in his mind. I never knew until then what a hardcruel face it could be.

  "Is this irrevocable, Emily?" he asked, in a cold firm voice; "is thereno hope that you will change your mind by and by?"

  "No, Julian; I am never likely to do that."

  "There is some one else, then, I suppose," he said.

  "No, indeed, there is no one else."

  "Highly complimentary to me!" he cried, with a harsh laugh.

  'I was very sorry for him, in spite of that angry look.

  "Pray don't imagine that I do not appreciate your many high qualities,Julian," I said, "or that I do not feel honoured by your preference forme. No doubt there are many women in the world better deserving yourregard than I am, who would be able to return it."

  "Thank you for that little conventional speech," he cried with a sneer."A man builds all his hopes of happiness on one woman, and she coollyshatters the fabric of his life, and then tells him to go and buildelsewhere. I daresay there are women in the world who would condescendto marry me if I asked them, but it is my misfortune to care only forone woman. I can't transfer my affection, as a man transfers hiscapital from one form of investment to another."

  'We walked on for some time in silence. I was determined not to beangry with him, however ungraciously he might speak to me; and when wewere drawing near home, I begged that we might remain friends still,and that this unfortunate conversation might make no difference betweenus. I told him I knew how much my father valued him, and that it woulddistress me deeply if he deserted Thornleigh on my account.

  "Friends!" he replied, in an absent tone; "yes, we are still friends ofcourse, and I shall not desert Thornleigh."

  'He seemed gayer than usual that evening after dinner. Whether thegaiety was assumed in order to hide his depression, or whether he wasreally able to take the matter lightly, I cannot tell. Of course Icannot shut out of my mind the consideration that a marriage with mewould be a matter of great worldly advantage to Julian, who has nothingbut the salary he receives from my father, and who by such a marriagewould most likely secure immediate possession of the business, in whichhe is already a kind of deputy principal.

  'I noticed that my stepmother was especially kind to Julian thisevening, and that she and he sat apart in one of the windows for sometime talking to each other in a low confidential tone, while my fathertook his after-dinner nap. I wonder whether he told her of ourinterview that afternoon?

  'He went back to Shields early next morning, and bade me good-bye quitein his usual manner; so I hoped he had forgiven me; but the affair hasleft an unpleasant feeling in my mind, a sort of vague dread of sometrouble to arise out of it in the future. I cannot forget that hardcruel look in my cousin's face.

  'When he was gone, Mrs. Darrell began to praise him very warmly, and myfather spoke of him in the same tone. They talked of him a good deal aswe lingered over our breakfast, and I fancied there was some intentionwith regard to me in the minds of both--they seem indeed to think alikeupon every subject. Dearly as I love my father, this is a point uponwhich even his influence could not affect me. I might be weak andyielding upon every other question, never upon this.

  'And now let me tell you about my friend Peter, Rebecca Thatcher'shalf-witted grandson. You know how painfully we were both struck by thepoor fellow's listless hopeless manner when we were at the cottage onthe moor. I thought of it a great deal afterwards, and it occurred tome that our head-gardener might find work for him in the way ofweeding, and rolling the gravel paths, and such humble matters. Brookis a good kind old man, and always ready to do anything to please me;so I asked him the question one day in August, and he promised thatwhen he next wanted extra hands Peter Thatcher should be employed,"Though I don't suppose I shall ever make much of him, miss," he said;"but there's naught I wouldn't do to please you."

  'Well, my dear Mary, the boy came, and has done so well as quite tosurprise Brook and the other two gardeners. He has an extraordinaryattachment to me, and nothing delights him so much as to wait upon mewhen I am attending to my ferns, a task I always perform myself, as youknow. To see this poor boy, standing by with a watering-pot in onehand, and a little basket of dead leaves in the other, watching me asbreathlessly as if I were some great surgeon operating upon a patient,would make you smile; but I think you could scarcely fail to be touchedby his devotion. He tells me that he is so happy at Thornleigh, and hebegins to look a great deal brighter already. The men say he isindefatigable in his work, and worth two ordinary boys. He ispassionately fond of flowers, and I have begun to teach him theelements of botany. It is rather slow work impressing the names of theplants upon his poor feeble brain; but he is so anxious to learn, andso proud of being taught, that I am well repaid for my trouble.'

  Milly was very anxious that I should spend Christmas at Thornleigh; butit was by that time nearly a year since I had seen the dear ones athome, and ill as my dear father could afford any addition to hisexpenses, he wished me to spend my holidays with him; and so it wasarranged that I should return to Warwickshire, much to my dear girl'sregret.

  The holiday was a very happy one; and, before it was over, I received aletter from Milly, telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Darrell were goingabroad for some months, and asking me to cut short my term at AlburyLodge, and come to Thornleigh as her companion, at a salary which Ithought a very handsome one.

  The idea of exchanging the dull monotony of Miss Bagshot'sestablishment for such a home as Thornleigh, with the friend I loved asdearly as a sister, was more than delightful to me, to say nothing of asalary which would enable me to buy my own clothes and leave a marginfor an annual remittance to my father. I talked the subject over withhim, and he wrote immediately to Miss Bagshot, requesting her to waivethe half-year's notice of the withdrawal of my services, to which shewas fairly entitled. This she consented very kindly to do; and insteadof going back to Albury Lodge, I went to Thornleigh.

  Mr. and Mrs. Darrell had started for Paris when I arrived, and thehouse seemed very empty and quiet. My dear girl came into the hall toreceive me, and led me off to her pretty sitting-room, where there wasa bright fire, and where, she told me, she spent almost the whole ofher time now.

  'And are you really pleased to come to me, Mary?' she asked, when ourfirst greetings were over.

  'More than pleased, my darling. It seems almost too bright a life forme. I can hardly believe in it yet.'

  'But perhaps you will seen get as tired of Thornleigh as ever you didof Albury Lodge. It will be rather a dull kind of life, you know; onlyyou and I and the old servants.'

  'I shall never feel dull with you, Milly. But tell me how all this cameabout. How was it you didn't go abroad with Mr. and Mrs. Darrell?'

  'Ah, that is rather strange, isn't it? The truth of the matter is, thatAugusta did not want me to go with them. She does not like me, Mary,that is the real truth, through she affects to be very fond of me, andhas contrived to make my father think she is so. What is there that shecannot make him think? She does not like me; and she is never quitehappy or at her ease when I am with her. She had been growing tired ofThornleigh for some time when the winter began; and she looked so paleand ill, that my father got anxious about her. The doctor here treatedher in the usual stereotyped way, and made very light of her ailments,but recommended change of air and scene. Papa proposed going toScarborough; but somehow or other Augusta contrived to changeScarborough into Paris, and they are to spend the winter and springthere, and perhaps go on to Germany in the summer. At first papa wasvery anxious to take me with them; but Augusta dropped some
littlehints--it would interrupt my studies, and unsettle me, and so on. Youknow I am rather proud, Mary, so you can imagine I was not slow tounderstand her. I said I would much prefer to stay at Thornleigh, andproposed immediately that you should come to me and be my companion,and help me on with my studies.'

  'My dearest, how good of you to wish that!'

  'It was not at all good. I think you are the only person in the worldwho really cares for me, now that I have lost papa--for I have losthim, you see, Mary; that becomes more obvious every day. Well, dear, Ihad a hard battle to fight. Mrs. Darrell said you were absurdly youngfor such a position, and that I required a matronly person, able todirect and protect me, and take the management of the house in herabsence, and so on; but I said that I wanted neither direction norprotection; that the house wanted no other management than that of Mrs.Bunce the housekeeper, who has managed it ever since I was a baby; andthat if I could not have Mary Crofton, I would have no one at all. Itold papa what an indefatigable darling you were, and howconscientiously you would perform anything you promised to do. So,after a good deal of discussion, the matter was settled; and here weare, with the house all to ourselves, and the prospect of being alonetogether for six months to come.'

  I asked her if she had seen much of Mr. Stormont since that memorableSunday afternoon.

  'He has been here twice,' she said, 'for his usual short visit fromSaturday afternoon till Monday morning, and he has treated me just asif that uncomfortable interview had never taken place.'

  We were very happy together in the