by Ellen Wood
George Arkell knew that his son’s veracity might be depended on, nevertheless he felt terribly annoyed at being drawn into the affair. Mrs. Arkell did not mend the matter when she inquired whither Robert had gone.
Mr. Carr answered intemperately, speaking out the truth more broadly than he need have done: his scamp of a son and the shameless Hughes girl had taken flight together.
Tring, who had stood aghast during the short colloquy, not at first understanding what was amiss, stole away to her pantry, where the dressmaking was going on. Tring sunk down in a chair at once, and regarded the poor seamstress with open mouth and eyes, in which pity and horror struggled together. Tring was of the respectable school, and really thought death would be a light calamity in comparison with such a flight.
“I have been obliged to cut your sleeves a little shorter than Hannah’s, for the stuff ran short; but I’ll put a deeper cuff, so you won’t mind,” said Miss Mary Hughes.
Surprised at receiving no answer, she looked up, and saw the expression on Tring’s face. “Oh, Mary Hughes!”
There was so genuine an amount of pity in the tone, of some unnamed dread in the look, that Mary Hughes dropped her needle in alarm. “Is anybody took ill?” she asked.
“Not that, not that,” answered Tring, subduing her voice to a whisper, and leaning forward to speak; “your sister, Martha Ann — I can’t tell it you.”
“What of her?” gasped Mary Hughes, a dreadful prevision of the truth rushing over her heart, and turning it to sickness.
“She has gone away with Mr. Robert Carr.”
Mary Hughes, not of a strong nature, became faint. Tring got some water for her, and related to her as much as she had heard.
“But how is it known that she’s gone? How did Mr. Carr learn it?” asked the poor young woman.
Tring could not tell how he learnt it. She gathered from the conversation that it was known in the town; and Mr. William seemed to know it.
“You’ll spare me while I run home for a minute, Tring,” pleaded Mary Hughes; “I can’t live till I know the rights and the wrongs of it. I can’t believe that she’d do such a thing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Go, and welcome,” cried Tring, in her sympathy; “don’t hurry back. What’s our gowns by the side of this dreadful shock? Poor Martha Ann!”
“I can’t believe she’s gone; I can’t believe it,” reiterated the dressmaker, as she hastily flung on her cloak and bonnet; “there was never a modester girl lived than Martha Ann. It’s some dreadful untruth that has got about.”
The way in which Mr. Carr had learnt it so soon was this — one of the outside passengers of the coach, a young man of the name of Hart, had been only going as far as Purford, where the coach dropped him. He hurried over his errand there, and hurried back to Westerbury, big with the importance of what he had seen, and burning to make it known. Taking his course direct to Mr. Carr’s, and only stopping to tell everybody he met on the way, he found that gentleman at home, and electrified him with the recital. From thence he ran to the house of Edward Hughes, and found Miss Hughes in a sea of tears, and her brother pacing the rooms in what Mr. Hart called a storm of passion. The young lady, it seems, had been already missed, and one of the gossips to whom Mr. Hart had first imparted his tale, had flown direct with it to the brother and sister.
“Why don’t you go after her?” asked Hart; “I’d follow her to the end of the world if she was my sister. I’d take it out of him, too.”
Ah, it was easy to say, why don’t you go after her? But there were no telegraphs in those days, and there was not yet a rail from London to Westerbury. Robert Carr and the girl were half-way to London by that time; and the earliest conveyance that could be taken was the night mail.
“It’s of no use,” said Edward Hughes, moodily; “they have got too great a start. Let her go, ungrateful chit! As she has made her bed, so must she lie on it.”
Mary Hughes got back to Mrs. Arkell’s: she had found it all too true. Martha Ann had taken her opportunity to steal out of the house, and was gone. Mary Hughes, in relating this, could not sneak for sobs.
“My sister says she could be upon her Bible oath, if necessary, that at twenty-five minutes past eight Martha Ann was still at home. She called out something to her up the stairs, and Martha Ann answered her. She must have crept down directly upon that, and got off, and run all the way along the bank, and across the three-cornered field. She — she — —” the girl could not go on for sobs.
Tring’s eyes were full. “Is your sister much cut up?” she asked.
“Oh, Tring!” — and indeed the question seemed a bitter mockery to Mary Hughes— “I’m sure Sophia has had her death-blow. What a thing it is that I was engaged out to work to-day! If I had been at home, she might not have got away unseen.”
Tring sighed. There was no consolation that she could offer.
“I was always against the acquaintance,” Mary Hughes resumed, between her tears and sobs; “Sophia knows I was. I said more than once that even if Mr. Robert Carr married her, they’d never be equals. I’d have stopped it if I could, but I’ve no voice beside Sophia’s, and I couldn’t stop it. And now, of course, it’s all over, and Martha Ann is lost; and she’d a deal better have never been born.”
Nothing more satisfactory was heard or seen of the fugitives. They stayed a short time in London, and then went abroad, it was understood, to Holland. Those who wished well to the girl were in hopes that Robert Carr married her in London, but there appeared no ground whatever for the hope. Indeed, from certain circumstances that afterwards transpired, it was quite evident he did not. Westerbury gradually recovered its equanimity; but there are people living in it to this day who never have believed, and never will believe, but that William Arkell was privy to the flight.
CHAPTER VI.
A MISERABLE MISTAKE.
The time again went on — went on to March — and still Charlotte Travice lingered. It was some little while now that both Mr. and Mrs. Arkell had come to the conclusion within their own minds that the young lady’s visit had lasted long enough, but they were of that courteous nature that shrunk not only from hinting such a thing to her, but to each other. She was made just as welcome as ever, and she appeared in no hurry to hasten her departure.
One afternoon Mildred, who had been out on an errand, was accosted by her mother before she had well entered.
“Whatever has made you so long, child?”
“Have I been so long?” returned Mildred. “I had to go to two or three shops before I could match the ribbon. I met Mary Pembroke, and she went with me; but I walked fast.”
“It is past five.”
“Yes, it has struck. But I did not go out until four, mother.”
“Well, I suppose it is my impatience that has made me think you long,” acknowledged Mrs. Dan. “Sit down, Mildred; I wish to speak to you. Mrs. George has been here.”
“Has she?” returned Mildred, somewhat apathetically; but she took a chair, as she was told to do.
“She came to talk to me about future prospects. And I am glad you were out with that ribbon, Mildred, for our conversation was confidential.”
“About her prospects, mamma?” inquired Mildred, raising her mild dark eyes.
“Hers!” repeated Mrs. Dan. “Her prospects, like mine, will soon be drawing to a close. Not that she’s as old as I am by a good ten years. She came to speak of yours, Mildred.”
Mildred made no rejoinder this time, but a faint colour arose to her face.
“Your Aunt George is very fond of you, Mildred.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mildred, rather nervously; and Mrs. Dan paused before she resumed.
“I think you must have seen, child, for some time past, that we all wanted you and William to make a match of it.”
The announcement was, perhaps, unnecessarily abrupt. The blush on Mildred’s face deepened to a glowing crimson.
“Mrs. George never spoke out freely to me on the subject
until this afternoon, but her manner was enough to tell me that it was in their minds. I saw it coming as plainly as I could see anything.”
Mildred made no remark. She had untied her bonnet, and began to play nervously with the strings as they hung down on either side her neck.
“But though I felt sure that it was in their minds,” continued Mrs. Dan, “though I saw the bent of William’s inclinations — always bringing him here to you — I never encouraged the feeling; I never forwarded it by so much as the lifting of a finger. You must have seen, Mildred, that I did not. In one sense of the word, you are not William’s equal — —”
Mrs. Dan momentarily arrested her words, the startled look of inquiry on her daughter’s face was so painful.
“Do not misunderstand me, my dear. In point of station you and he are the same, for the families are one. But William will be wealthy, and William is accomplished; you are neither. In that point of view you may be said not to be on an equality with him; and there’s no doubt that William Arkell might go a-wooing into families of higher pretension than his own, and be successful. It may be, that these considerations have withheld me and kept me neuter; but I have not — I repeat it, as I did twice over to Mrs. George just now — I have not forwarded the matter by so much as the lifting of a finger.”
Mildred knew that.
“The gossiping town will, no doubt, cast ill-natured remarks upon me, and say that I have angled for my attractive nephew, and caught him; but my conscience stands clear upon the point before my Maker; and Mrs. George knows that it does. They have come forward of themselves, unsought by me; unsought, as I heartily believe, Mildred, by you.”
“Oh, yes,” was the eager, fervent answer.
“No child of mine would be capable, as I trust, of secret, mean, underhand dealing, whatever the prize in view. When I said this to Mrs. George just now, she laughed at what she called my earnestness, and said I had no need to defend Mildred, she knew Mildred just as well as I did.”
Mildred’s heart beat a trifle quicker as she listened. They were only giving her her due.
“But,” resumed Mrs. Dan, “quiet and undemonstrative as you have been, Mildred, your aunt has drawn the conclusion — lived in it, I may say — that the proposal she made to-day would not be unacceptable to you. I agreed with her, saying that such was my conviction. And let me tell you, Mildred, that a more attractive and a bettor young man than William Arkell does not live in Westerbury.”
Mildred silently assented to all in her heart. But she wondered what the proposal was.
“You are strangely silent, child. Should you have any objection to become William Arkell’s wife?”
“There is one objection,” returned Mildred, almost bitterly, as the thought of his intimacy with Charlotte Travice flashed painfully across her— “he has never asked me.”
“But — it is the same thing — he has asked his mother for you.”
A wild coursing on of all her pulses — a sudden rush of rapture in every sense of her being — and Mildred’s lips could hardly frame the words —
“For me?”
“He asked for you after dinner to-day — I thought I said so — that is, he broached the subject to his mother. After Mr. Arkell went back to the manufactory, he stayed behind with her in the dining-room, and spoke to her of his plans and wishes. He began by saying he was getting quite old enough to marry, and the sooner it took place now, the better.”
“Is this true?” gasped Mildred.
“True!” echoed the affronted old lady. “Do you suppose Mrs. George Arkell would come here upon such an errand only to make game of us? True! William says he loves you dearly.”
Mildred quitted the room abruptly. She could not bear that even her mother should witness the emotion that bid fair, in these first moments, to overwhelm her. Never until now did she fully realize how deeply, how passionately, she loved William Arkell — how utter a blank life would have been to her had the termination been different. She shut herself in her bed-chamber, burying her face in her hands, and asking how she could ever be sufficiently thankful to God for thus bringing to fruition the half-unconscious hopes which had entwined themselves with every fibre of her existence. The opening of the door by her mother aroused her.
“What in the world made you fly away so, Mildred? I was about to tell you that Mrs. George expects us to tea. Peter will join us there by and by.”
“I would rather not go out this evening, mamma,” observed Mildred, who was really extremely agitated.
“I promised Mrs. George, and they are waiting tea for us,” was the decisive reply. “What is the matter with you, Mildred? You need not be so struck at what I have said. Did it never occur to yourself that William Arkell was likely to choose you for his wife?”
“I have thought of late that he was more likely to choose Miss Travice,” answered Mildred, giving utterance in her emotion to the truth that lay uppermost in her mind.
“Marry that fine fly-away thing!” repeated Mrs. Dan, her astonishment taking her breath away. “Charlotte Travice may be all very well for a visitor — here to-day and gone to-morrow; but she is not suitable for the wife of a steady, gentlemanly young man, like William Arkell, the only son of the first manufacturer in Westerbury. What a pretty notion of marriage you must have!”
Mildred began to think so, too.
“I shall not be two minutes putting on my shawl; I shan’t change my gown,” continued Mrs. Dan. “You can change yours if you please, but don’t be long over it. It is past their tea-time.”
Implicit obedience had been one of the virtues ever practised by Mildred, so she said no more. The thought kept floating in her mind as she made herself ready, that it had been more appropriate for William to visit her that evening than for her to visit him; and she could not help wishing that he had spoken to her himself, though it had been but a single loving hint, before the proposal could reach her through another. But these were but minor trifles, little worth noting in the midst of her intense happiness. As she walked down the street by her mother’s side, the golden light of the setting sun, shining full upon her, was not more radiantly lovely than the light shining in Mildred Arkell’s heart.
“I can’t think what you can have been dreaming of, Mildred, to imagine that that Charlotte Travice was a fit wife for William Arkell,” observed Mrs. Dan, who could not get the preposterous notion out of her head. “You might have given William credit for better sense than that. I don’t like her. I liked her very much at first, but, somehow, she is one who does not gain upon you on prolonged acquaintance; and it strikes me Mr. and Mrs. George are of the same opinion. Mrs. George just mentioned her this afternoon — something about her being your bridesmaid.”
“She my bridesmaid!” exclaimed Mildred, the very idea of it unpalatable.
“Mrs. George said she supposed she must ask Charlotte Travice to stay and be bridesmaid; that it would be but a mark of politeness, as she had been so intimate with you and William. It would not be a very great extension of the visit,” she added, “for William seemed impatient for the wedding to take place shortly, now that he had made up his mind about it. It does not matter what bridesmaid you have, Mildred.”
Ah! no; it did not matter! Mildred’s happiness seemed too great to be affected by that, or any other earthly thing. Mrs. George Arkell kissed her fondly three or four times as she entered, and pressed her hand, as Mildred thought, significantly. Another moment, and she found her hand taken by William.
He was shaking it just as usual, and his greeting was a careless one —
“How d’ye do, Mildred? You are late.”
Neither by word, or tone, or look, did he impart a consciousness of what had passed. In the first moment Mildred felt thankful for the outward indifference, but the next she caught herself thinking that he seemed to take her consent as a matter of course — as if it were not worth the asking.
When tea was over, and the lights were brought, Mr. and Mrs. Arkell and Mrs. Dan sat down t
o cribbage, the only game any of the three ever played at.
“Who will come and be fourth?” asked Mr. Arkell, looking over his spectacles at the rest. “You, Mildred?”
It had fallen to Mildred’s lot lately to be the fourth at these meetings, for Miss Travice always held aloof, and William never played if he could help it; but on this evening Mildred hesitated, and before she could assent — as she would finally have done — Miss Travice sprang forward.
“I will, dear Mr. Arkell — I will play with you to-night.”
“She knows of it, and is leaving us alone,” thought Mildred. “How kind of her it is! I fear I have misjudged her.”
“I say, Mildred,” began William, as they sat apart, his tone dropped to confidence, his voice to a whisper, “did my mother call at your house this afternoon?”
Mildred looked down, and began to play with her pretty gold neckchain. It was one William had given her on her last birthday, nearly a year ago.
“My aunt called, I believe. I was out.”
William’s face fell.
“Then I suppose you have not heard anything — anything particular? I’m sure I thought she had been to tell you. She was out ever so long.”
“Mamma said that Aunt George had been — had been — speaking to her,” returned Mildred, not very well knowing how to make the admission.
William saw the confusion, and read it aright.
“Ah, Mildred! you sly girl, you know all, and won’t tell!” he cried, taking her hand half-fondly, half-playfully, and retaining it in his.
She could not answer; but the blush on her cheek was so bright, the downcast look so tender, that William Arkell gazed at her lovingly, and thought he had never seen his cousin’s face so near akin to perfect beauty. Mildred glanced up to see his gaze of fond admiration.
“Your cheek tells tales, cousin mine,” he whispered; “I see you have heard all. Don’t you think it is time I married?”
A home question. Mildred’s lips broke into a smile by way of answer.