by Ellen Wood
“She writes to me as an old friend of her father’s and mother’s, she says, to ask if I can interest myself for her with any school down here. I infer, from the wording of the letter, that since their death, the children have not been well off.”
“John Travice and his wife are dead, then?”
“So it would seem. She says— ‘We have had a great deal of anxiety since dear mamma died, the only friend we had left to us.’ She must speak of herself and her sister, for there were but those two. Will you read the letter, Betty?”
Mrs. Dan took her spectacles from between the leaves of the Bible, and read the letter, not speaking immediately.
“She signs herself C. Travice,” remarked Mrs. George; “but I really forget her name. Whether it was Catherine or Cordelia — —”
“It was Charlotte,” interposed Mrs. Dan. “We used to call her Lottie.”
“The curious thing in the affair is, why she should write to me,” continued Mrs. George Arkell. “You were so much more intimate with them, that I can only think she has made a mistake in the address, and really meant the letter for you.”
A smile flitted over Mrs. Dan’s face. “No mistake at all, as I should believe. You are Mrs. Arkell, you know; I am only Mrs. Dan. She must remember quite well that you have weight in the town, and I have none. She knows which of us is most capable of helping her.”
“But, Betty, I and George had little or no acquaintance at all with the Travices,” rejoined Mrs. Arkell, unconvinced. “We met them two or three times at your house; but I don’t think they were ever inside ours. You brought one of the little girls to tea once with Mildred, I recollect: it must have been this eldest one who now writes. You, on the contrary, were intimate with them. Why, did you not stand godmother to one of the little ones?”
“To the youngest,” assented Mrs. Dan, “and quite a fuss there was over it. Mrs. Travice wanted her to be named Betty; short, after me; but the captain wouldn’t hear of it. He said Betty was old-fashioned — gone quite out of date. If you’ll believe me it was not settled when we started for the church; but I decided it there, for when Mr. Elwin took the baby in his arms, and said, ‘Name this child,’ I spoke up and said, ‘Elizabeth.’ She grew to be a pretty little thing, too, meek and mild as a lamb; Charlotte had a temper.”
“Well, I still retain the opinion that she must have been under the impression she was addressing you. ‘I write to you as an old friend of papa and mamma’s,’ you see, she says. Now that can’t in any way apply to me. But I don’t urge this as a plea for not accepting the letter,” Mrs. George hastened to add; “I’m sure we shall be pleased to do anything we can for her. I have talked the matter over with George, and we think it would be only kind to invite her to come to us for a month or so, while we see what can be done. We shall pay her coach fare down, and any other little matter, so that it will be no expense to her.”
“It is exceedingly kind of you,” remarked Mrs. Dan Arkell. “And when you write, tell her we will all try and make her visit a pleasant one,” she added, in the honest simplicity of her heart. “Mildred will be a companion to her.’
“I shall write to-day. The letter is dated Upper Stamford-street: but I’m sure I don’t know in what part of London Upper Stamford-street lies,” observed Mrs. Arkell, who had never been so far as London in her life, and would as soon have thought of going a journey to Cape Horn. “Where’s Mildred?”
“She’s in the kitchen, helping Ann with the damson jam. I did say I’d not have any made this year, sugar is so expensive, but Mildred pleaded for it. And what she says is true, that poor Peter comes in tired to death, and relishes a bit of jam with his tea, especially damson jam.”
“I fear Peter’s heart is not in his occupation, Betty.”
Mrs. Dan shook her head. “It has never been that. From the time Peter was first taken to the Cathedral, a little fellow in petticoats, his heart has been set upon sometime being one of its clergy; but that is out of the question now: there’s no help for it, you know.”
Mildred came in, bright and radiant; she always liked the visits of her aunt George. They told her the news about Miss Travice, and showed her the letter.
“Played together when we were children, I and Charlotte Travice,” she said, laughing; “I have nearly forgotten it. I hope she is a nice girl; it will be pleasant to have her down here.”
“Mildred, I should like to take you back with me for the day. Will you come? Can you spare her, Betty?”
Mildred glanced at her mother, her lips parting with hope; dutiful and affectionate, she deferred to her mother in all things, never putting forth her own wishes. Mrs. Dan could spare her, and said so. Mildred flew to her chamber, attired herself, and set forth with her aunt through the warm and sunny streets — warm, sunny, bright as her own heart.
Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Arkell, as she turned in at the iron gates, she saw the carriage standing before the door, and the servant Philip in readiness to attend it. “Is your master going out?” she inquired of the man.
“Mr. William is, ma’am.”
“Where to, do you know?”
“I think it is only to Mr. Palmer’s,” returned Philip. “I know Mr. William said we should not be away above an hour.”
William appeared in the distance, coming from the manufactory with a fleet step, and a square flat parcel in his hand.
“I am going to Mr. Palmer’s to take this,” he said to his mother, indicating the parcel as he threw it into the carriage; “it contains some papers that my father promised to get for him as soon as possible to-day. He was going to send Philip alone, but I said I should like the drive. You have just come in time, Mildred; get up.”
The soft pink bloom mantled in her face; but she rather drew away from the carriage than approached it. She never went out upon William’s invitation alone.
“Why not, my dear?” said Mrs. Arkell, “it will do you good. You will be back in time for dinner.”
William was looking round all the while, as he waited to help her up, a half laugh upon his face. Mildred’s roses deepened, and she stepped in. Philip came round to his young master.
“Am I to go now, sir?”
“Go now? of course; why should you not go? There’s the back seat, isn’t there?”
Perhaps Philip’s doubts did not altogether refer to seats. He threw back the seat, and waited. William took his place by his cousin’s side, and drove away, utterly unconscious of her feelings or the man’s thoughts. Had he not been accustomed to this familiar intercourse with Mildred all his life?
And Mrs. Arkell went indoors and sat down to write her letter to Charlotte Travice. Westerbury had nearly forgotten these Travices; they were not natives of the place. Captain Travice — but it should be observed that he had been captain of only a militia regiment — had settled at Westerbury sometime after the conclusion of the war, and his two children were born there. His income was but a slender one, still it was sufficient; but it came into the ex-captain’s head one day, that, for the sake of his two little daughters, he ought to make a fortune if he could. Supposing that might be easier of accomplishment in the great metropolis, than in a sober, unspeculative cathedral town, he departed forthwith; but the fortune, as Mrs. Arkell shrewdly surmised, had never been made; and after various vicissitudes — ups and downs, as people phrase them — John Travice finally departed this life in their lodgings in Upper Stamford-street, and his wife did not long survive him. Of the two daughters, Charlotte had been the best educated; what money there was to spare for such purposes, had been spent upon her; the younger one was made, of necessity, a household drudge.
Charlotte responded at once to Mrs. Arkell’s invitation, and within a week of it was travelling down to Westerbury by the day-coach. It arrived in the town at seven o’clock, and rarely varied by a minute. Have you forgotten those old coach days? I have not. Mr. Arkell and his son stood outside the iron gates, Philip waiting in attendance; and as the coach with its four fine horses cam
e up the street, the guard blew his horn about ten times, a signal that it was going to stop to set down a passenger — for Mr. Arkell had himself spoken to the guard, and charged him to take good care of the young lady on her journey. The coachman drew up at the gates, and touched his hat to Mr. Arkell, and the guard leaped down and touched his.
“All right, sir. The young lady’s here.”
He opened the coach door, and she stepped out, dressed in expensive mourning; a tall, showy, handsome girl, affable in manner, ready of speech; altogether fascinating; just the one — just the one to turn the head and win the heart of a young fellow such as William Arkell. They might have foreseen it even in that first hour.
“Oh, how kind it is of you to have me!” she exclaimed, as she quite fell into Mrs. Arkell’s arms in the hall, and burst into tears. “But I thought you had no daughter?” she added, recovering herself and looking at the young lady who stood by Mrs. Arkell.
“It is my niece Mildred, my dear; but she is to me as a daughter. I asked her to come and help welcome you this evening.”
“I am sure I shall love you very much!” exclaimed Miss Travice, kissing Mildred five or six times. “What a sweet face you have!”
A sudden shyness came over Mildred. The warm greeting and the words were both new to her. She returned a courteous word of welcome, drew a little apart, and glanced at William. He seemed to have enough to do gazing at the visitor.
Philip was coming in with the luggage. Mrs. Arkell took her hand.
“I will show you your room, Miss Travice; and if — —”
“Oh, pray don’t call me ‘Miss Travice,’ or anything so formal,” was the young lady’s interruption. “Begin with ‘Charlotte’ at once, or I shall fear you are not glad to see me.”
Mrs. Arkell smiled; her young visitor was winning upon her greatly. She led her to a very nice room on the first floor.
“This will be your chamber, my dear; it is over our usual sitting-room. My room and Mr. Arkell’s is on the opposite side the corridor, over the drawing-room. You face the street, you see; and across there to the right are the cathedral towers.”
“What a charming house you have, Mrs. Arkell! So large and nice.”
“It is larger than we require. Let me look at you, my dear, and see what resemblance I can trace. I remember your father and mother.”
She held the young lady before her. A very pretty face, certainly — especially now, for Charlotte laughed and blushed.
“Oh, Mrs. Arkell, I am not fit to be seen; I feel as dusty as can be. You cannot think how dusty the roads were; I shall look better to-morrow.”
“You have the bright dark eyes and the clear complexion of your father; but I don’t see that you are like him in features — yours are prettier. But now, my dear, tell me — in writing to me, did you not think you were writing to Mrs. Daniel Arkell?”
“Mrs. Daniel Arkell! No, I did not. Who is she? I don’t remember anything about her.”
“But Mrs. Daniel was your mother’s friend — far more intimate with her than I was. I am delighted at the mistake, if it was one; for Mrs. Dan might otherwise have gained the pleasure of your visit, instead of me.”
“I don’t think I made a mistake,” said Charlotte, more dubiously than she had just spoken; “I used to hear poor mamma speak of the Arkells of Westerbury; and one day lately, in looking over some of her old letters and papers, I found your address. The thought came into my mind at once to write to you, and ask if you could help me to a situation. I believe papa was respected in Westerbury; and it struck me that somebody here might want a teacher, or governess, and engage me for his sake. You know we are of gentle blood, Mrs. Arkell, though we have been so poor of late years.”
“I will do anything to help you that I can,” was the kind answer. “Have you lost both father and mother?”
“Why yes,” returned Charlotte, with a surprised air, as if she had thought all the world knew that. “Papa has been dead several months — twelve, I think, nearly; mamma has been dead five or six.”
“And — I suppose — your poor papa did not leave much money?”
“Not a penny,” freely answered Charlotte. “He had a few shares in some mining company at the time of his death; they were worth nothing then, but they afterwards went up to what is called a premium, and the brokers sold them for us. They did not realize much, but it was sufficient to keep mamma as long as she lived.”
“And what have you done since?”
“Not much,” sighed Charlotte; “I had a situation as daily governess; but, oh! it was so uncomfortable. There were five girls, and no discipline, no regularity; it was at a clergyman’s, too. They live near to us, in Upper Stamford-street. I am so glad I wrote to you! Betsey did not want me to write; she thought it looked intrusive.”
“Betsey!” echoed Mrs. Arkell.
“My sister Elizabeth — we call her Betsey. She is younger than I am.”
“Oh yes, to be sure. I wondered you did not speak of her in your letter; Mrs. Daniel Arkell is her godmother. Where is she?”
“At Mrs. Dundyke’s.”
“Who is Mrs. Dundyke?”
“She keeps the house where we live, in Stamford-street. She is not a lady, you know; a worthy sort of person, and all that, but quite an inferior woman. Not but that she was always kind to us; she was very kind and attentive to mamma in her last illness. I can’t bear her,” candidly continued the young lady, “and she can’t bear me; but she likes Betsey, and has asked her to stop there, free of cost, for a little while. Her daughter died and left two little children, and Betsey is to make herself useful with them.”
“But why did you not mention Betsey? why did you not bring her?” cried Mrs. Arkell, feeling vexed at the omission. “She would have been as welcome to us as you are, my dear.”
Miss Charlotte Travice shook back her flowing hair, and there was a little curl of contempt on her pretty nose. “You are very kind, Mrs. Arkell, but Betsey is better where she is. I could not think of taking her out with me.”
“Why so?” asked Mrs. Arkell, rather surprised.
“Oh, you’d not say, why so, if you saw her. She is quite a plain, homely sort of young person; she has not been educated for anything else. Nobody would believe we were sisters; and Betsey knows that, and is humble accordingly. Of course some one had to wait upon mamma and me, for lodging-house servants are the most unpleasant things upon earth, and there was only Betsey.”
Mrs. Arkell went downstairs, leaving her young guest to follow when she was ready. Mrs. Arkell did not understand the logic of the last admissions, and certainly did not admire the spirit in which they appeared to be spoken.
The hours for meals were early at Mr. Arkell’s; dinner at one, tea at five; but the tea had this evening been put off, in politeness to Miss Travice. She came down, a fashionable-looking young lady, in a thin black dress of some sort of gauze, with innumerable rucheings and quillings of crape upon it. Certainly her attire — as they found when the days went on — betrayed little symptom of a straitened purse.
She took her place at the tea-table, all smiles and sweetness; she glanced shyly at William; she captivated Mr. Arkell’s heart; she caused Mrs. Arkell completely to forget the few words concerning Betsey which had so jarred upon her ear; and before that tea-drinking was over, they were all ready to fall in love with her. All, save one.
Then she went round the room, a candle in her hand, and looked at the pictures; she freely said which of them she liked best; she sat down to the piano, unasked, and played a short, striking piece from memory. They asked her if she could sing; she answered by breaking into the charming old song “Robin Adair;” it was one of William Arkell’s favourites, and he stood by enraptured, half bewildered with this pleasant inroad on their quiet routine of existence.
“You play, I am sure,” she suddenly said to him.
He had no wish to deny it, and took his flute from its case. He was a finished player. It is an instrument very nearly forgotten n
ow, but it never would have been forgotten had its players managed it as did William Arkell. They began trying duets together, and the evening passed insensibly. William loved music passionately, and could hardly tear himself away from it to run with Mildred home.
“Well, Mildred, and how do you like her?” was Mrs. Dan’s first question.
“I — I can hardly tell,” was the hesitating answer.
“Not tell!” repeated Mrs. Dan; “you have surely found out whether she is pleasant or disagreeable?”
“She is very pretty, and her manners are perfectly charming. But — still — —”
“Still, what?” said Mrs. Dan, wondering.
“Well, mother — but you know I never like to speak ill of anyone — there is something in her that strikes me as not being true.”
CHAPTER IV.
ROBERT CARR’S REQUEST.
The time went on. The month for which Charlotte Travice had been invited had lengthened itself into nearly three, and December had come in.
Mrs. Dan Arkell (wholly despising Mildred’s acknowledged impression of the new visitor, and treating her to a sharp lecture for entertaining it) had made a call on Miss Travice the following morning, and offered Mildred’s services as a companion to her. But in a very short time Mildred found she was not wanted. William was preferred. He was the young lady’s companion, and nothing loth so to be; and his visits to Mildred’s house, formerly so frequent, became rare almost as those of angels. It was Charlotte Travice now. She went out with him in the carriage; she was his partner in the dance; and the breathings on the flute grew into strains of love. Worse than all to Mildred — more hard to bear — William would laugh at the satire the London lady was pleased to tilt at her. It is true Mildred had no great pretension to beauty; not half as much as Charlotte; but William had found it enough before. In figure and manners Mildred was essentially a lady; and her face, with its soft brown eyes and its sweet expression, was not an unattractive one. It cannot be denied that a sore feeling arose in Mildred’s heart, though not yet did she guess at the full calamity looming for that heart in the distance. She saw at present only the temporary annoyance; that this gaudy, handsome, off-hand stranger had come to ridicule, rival, and for the time supplant her. But she thought, then, it was but for the time; and she somewhat ungraciously longed for the day when the young lady should wing her flight back to London.