by Ellen Wood
Betsey, more meek than ever, thanked him, and told him how ill Mrs. Daniel was; that, in point of fact, another hour or two would bring the end. It was quite impossible Miss Arkell could, under the circumstances, leave the chamber.
“Of course she can’t,” he answered; “and I’m very sorry to hear it. My father will go on at me, I dare say, saying it was my fault, as he generally does when anything goes contrary to his orders. But he’d not have seen her any the more had he come himself. You will tell me who you are?” he suddenly continued to Betsey, without any break; “I sat by you at the breakfast, but I forget your name.”
“If you please, sir, it is Betsey Travice,” was the reply, and the girl quite cowered as she stood under the blaze of those black and piercing eyes.
“Betsey Travice! and a very pretty name, too. You’ll please to say everything proper for us up there,” jerking his head in the direction of the upper floors. “Oh! and I say, I forgot to add that my grandfather, the squire, intends to ride in to-morrow, and call.”
He shook hands with her in the passage, and vaulted out at the front door, a tall, strong, fine young fellow. And those eyes, which had so unaccountably excited the disfavour of Miss Betsey, were generally considered the handsomest of the handsome.
Betsey stole upstairs again, and whispered the message into Mildred’s ear. “It was that tall, dark young man, with the black eyes, that sat by me at Charlotte’s wedding breakfast.”
They waited on, in the hushed chamber: Peter, Mildred, Mr. and Mrs. Arkell, and Betsey Travice. And at two o’clock in the afternoon the shutters were put up to the windows, through which Mrs. Daniel Arkell would never look again.
CHAPTER X.
GOING OUT AS LADY’S MAID.
A week or two given to grief, and Mildred Arkell sat down to deliberate upon her plans for the future. It was impossible to conceal from herself, dutiful, loving, grieving daughter though she was, how wonderfully her mother’s death had removed the one sole impediment to the wish that had for some little time lain uppermost in her heart. She wanted to leave Westerbury; it was misery to her to remain in it; but while her mother had lived, her place was there. All seemed easy now; and in the midst of her bitter grief for that mother, Mildred’s heart almost leaped at the thought that there was no longer any imperative tie to bind her to her home.
She would go away from Westerbury. But how? what to do? For a governess Mildred had not been educated; and accomplishments were then getting so very general, even the daughters of the petty tradespeople learning them, that Mildred felt in that capacity she should stand but little chance of obtaining a situation. But she might be a companion to an invalid lady, might nurse her, wait upon her, and be of use to her; and that sort of situation she determined to seek.
Quietly, and after much thought, she arranged her plans in her own mind; quietly she hoped and prayed for assistance to be enabled to carry them out. Nobody suspected this. Mildred seemed to others just as she had ever seemed, quiet, unobtrusive Mildred Arkell, absorbed in the domestic cares of her own home, in thought for the comfort of her not at all strong brother. Mildred went now but very little to her aunt’s. Betsey Travice had returned to London, to the enjoyments of Mrs. Dundyke’s household, which she had refused to abandon; and William Arkell and his bride were not yet come home.
“Peter,” she said, one late evening that they were sitting together — and it was the first intimation of the project that had passed her lips— “I have been thinking of the future.”
“Yes?” replied Peter, absently, for he was as usual disputing some knotty point in his mind, having a Greek root for its basis. “What about it?”
“I am thinking of leaving home; leaving it for good.”
The words awoke even Peter. He listened to her while she told her tale, listened without interrupting, he was so amazed.
“But I cannot understand why you want to go,” he said at last.
“To be independent.” Of course she was ready to assign any motive but the real one.
Peter could not understand this. She was independent at home. “I don’t know what it is you are thinking of, Mildred! Our house will go on just the same; my mother’s death makes no difference to it. I kept it before, and I shall keep it still.”
“Oh yes, Peter, I know that. That is not it. I — in point of fact, I wish for a change of scene. I think I am tired of Westerbury.”
“But what can you do if you go away from it?”
“I intend to ask Colonel and Mrs. Dewsbury: I suppose you have no objection. They have many influential friends in London and elsewhere, and perhaps they might help me to a situation.”
“Why do you want to go to London?” rejoined Peter, catching at the word. “It’s full of traps and pitfalls, as people say. I don’t know; I never was there.”
“I don’t want to go to London, in particular; I don’t care where I go.” Anywhere — anywhere that would take her out of Westerbury, she had nearly added; but she controlled the words, and resumed calmly. “I would as soon go to London as to any other place, Peter, and to any other place as to London. I don’t mind where it is, so that I find a — a — sphere of usefulness.”
“I don’t like it at all,” said Peter, after a pause of deliberation. “There are only two of us left now, Mildred, and I think we ought to continue together.”
“I will come and see you sometimes.”
“But, Mildred — —”
“Listen, Peter,” she imperatively interrupted, “it may save trouble. I have made up my mind to do this, and you must forgive me for saying that I am my own mistress, free to go, free to come. I wished to go out in this way some time before my mother died; but it was not right for me to leave her, and I said nothing. I shall certainly go now. I heard somebody once speak of the ‘fever of change,’” she added, with a poor attempt at jesting; “I suppose I have caught it.”
“Well, I am sorry, Mildred: it’s all I can say. I did not think you would have been so eager to leave me.”
The ready tears filled her eyes. “I am not eager to leave you, Peter; it will be my greatest grief. And you know if the thing does not work well, and I get too much buffeted by the world, I can but come back to you.”
It never occurred to Peter Arkell to interpose any sort of veto, to say you shall not go. He had not had a will of his own in all his life; his mother and Mildred had arranged everything for him, and had Mildred announced her intention of becoming an opera dancer, he would never have presumed to gainsay it.
The following morning Mildred called at Mrs. Dewsbury’s. They lived in a fine house at the opposite side of the river; but only about ten minutes’ walk distance, if you took the near way, and crossed the ferry.
One of the loveliest girls Mildred had ever in her life seen was in the drawing-room to which she was shown, to wait for Mrs. Dewsbury. It was Miss Cheveley, an orphan relative of Mrs. Dewsbury’s, who had recently come to reside with her. She rose from her chair in courteous welcome to Mildred; and Mildred could not for a few moments take her eyes from her face — from the delicate, transparent features, the rich, loving brown eyes, and the damask cheeks. The announcement, “Miss Arkell,” and the deep mourning, had no doubt led the young lady to conclude that it was the tutor’s sister. Mrs. Dewsbury came in immediately.
“Lucy, will you go into the schoolroom,” she said, as she shook hands with Mildred, whom she knew, though very slightly. “The governess is giving Maria her music lesson, and the others are alone.”
As Miss Cheveley crossed the room in acquiescence, Mildred’s eyes followed her — followed her to the last moment; and she observed that Mrs. Dewsbury noticed that they did.
“I never saw anyone so beautiful in my life,” she said to Mrs. Dewsbury by way of apology.
“Do you think so? A lovely face, certainly; but you know face is not everything. It cannot compensate for figure. Poor Miss Cheveley!”
“Is Miss Cheveley’s not a good figure?”
“
Miss Cheveley’s! Did you not notice? She is deformed.”
Mildred had not noticed it. She had been too absorbed in the lovely face. She turned to Mrs. Dewsbury, apologized for calling upon her, told her errand, that she wished to go out in the world, and craved the assistance of herself and Colonel Dewsbury in endeavouring to place her.
“I know, madam, that you have influential friends in many parts of England,” she said, “and it is this — —”
“But in what capacity do you wish to go out?” interrupted Mrs. Dewsbury. “As governess?”
“I would go as English governess,” answered Mildred, with a stress upon the word. “But I do not understand French, and I know nothing of music or drawing: therefore I fear there is little chance for me in that capacity. I thought perhaps I might find a situation as companion; as humble companion, that is to say, to make myself useful.”
Mrs. Dewsbury shook her head. “Such situations are rare, Miss Arkell.”
“I suppose they are; too rare, perhaps, for me to find. Rather than not find anything, I would go out as lady’s maid.”
“As lady’s maid!” repeated Mrs. Dewsbury.
Mildred’s cheek burnt, and she suddenly thought of what the town would say. “Yes, as lady’s maid, rather than not go,” she repeated, firm in her resolution. “I think I have not much pride; what I have, I must subdue.”
“But, Miss Arkell, allow me to ask — and I have a motive in it — whether you would be capable of a lady’s-maid’s duties?”
“I think so,” replied Mildred. “I would endeavour to render myself so. I have made my own dresses and bonnets, and I used to make my mother’s caps until she became a widow; and I am fond of dressing hair.”
Mrs. Dewsbury mused. “I think I have heard that you are well read, Miss Arkell?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Mildred. “I am a thoroughly good English scholar; and my father, whose taste in literature was excellent, formed mine. I could teach Latin to boys until they were ten or eleven,” she added, with a half smile.
“Do you read aloud well?”
“I believe I do. I have been in the habit of reading a great deal to my mother.”
“Well now I will tell you the purport of my putting these questions, which I hope you have not thought impertinent,” said Mrs. Dewsbury. “The last time Lady Dewsbury wrote to us — you may have heard of her, perhaps, Miss Arkell, the widow of Sir John?”
Mildred did not remember to have done so.
“Sir John Dewsbury was my husband’s brother. But that is of no consequence. Lady Dewsbury, the widow, is an invalid; and the last time she wrote to us she mentioned in her letter that she was wishing to find some one who would act both as companion and maid. It was merely spoken of incidentally, and I do not know whether she is suited. Shall I write and inquire?”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Mildred, her heart eagerly grasping at this faint prospect. “I shall not care what I do, if Lady Dewsbury will but take me.”
Mrs. Dewsbury smiled at the eagerness. She concluded that Mrs. Dan’s death had made a difference in their income, hence the wish to go out. Mildred returned home, said nothing to anybody of what she had done, and waited, full of hope.
A short while of suspense, and then Mrs. Dewsbury sent for her. Lady Dewsbury’s answer was favourable. She was willing to make the engagement, provided Miss Arkell could undertake what was required.
“First of all,” said Mrs. Dewsbury to her, “Lady Dewsbury asks whether you can bear confinement?”
“I can indeed,” replied Mildred. “And the better, perhaps, that I have no wish for aught else.”
“Are you a good nurse in sickness?”
“I nursed my mother in her last illness,” said Mildred, with tears in her eyes. “It was a very short one, it is true; but she had been ailing for years, and I attended on her. She used to say I must have been born a nurse.”
“Lady Dewsbury is a great invalid,” continued the colonel’s wife, “and what she requires is a patient attendant; a maid, if you like to call it such; but who will at the same time be to her a companion and friend. ‘A thoroughly-well-brought-up person,’ she writes, ‘lady-like in her manners and habits; but not a fine lady who would object to make herself useful.’ I really think you would suit, Miss Arkell.”
Mildred thought so too. “I will serve her to the very best of my power, Mrs. Dewsbury, if she will but try me;” and Mrs. Dewsbury noted the same eagerness that had been in her tone before, and smiled at it.
“She is willing to try you. Lady Dewsbury has, in fact, left the decision to the judgment of myself and the colonel. She has described exactly what she requires, and has empowered us to engage you, if we think you will be suitable.”
“And will you engage me, Mrs. Dewsbury?”
“I will engage you now. The next question is about salary. Lady Dewsbury proposes to give at the rate of thirty pounds per annum for the first six months; after that at the rate of forty pounds; and should you remain with her beyond two years, it would be raised to fifty.”
“Fifty!” echoed Mildred, in her astonishment. “Fifty pounds a year! For me!”
“Is it less than you expected?”
“It is a great deal more,” was the candid answer. “I had not thought much about salary. I fancied I might be offered perhaps ten or twenty pounds.”
Mrs. Dewsbury smiled. “Lady Dewsbury is liberal in all she does, Miss Arkell. I should not be surprised, were you to remain with her any considerable length of time, several years for instance, but she would double it.”
But for the skeleton preying on Mildred Arkell’s heart — the bitter agony that never left it by night or by day — she would have walked home, not knowing whether she trod on her head or her heels. The prospect of fifty pounds a-year to an inexperienced girl, who, perhaps, had never owned more than a few shillings at a time in her life, was enough to turn her head.
But it was not all to be quite plain sailing. Mildred had not disclosed the project to her aunt yet. Truth was, she shrunk from the task, foreseeing the opposition that would inevitably ensue. But it must no longer be delayed, for she was to depart for London that day week, and she went straight to Mrs. Arkells. As she had expected, Mrs. Arkell met the news with extreme astonishment and anger.
“Do you know what you are doing, child! Don’t talk to me about being a burden upon Peter! You — —”
“Aunt, hear me!” she implored: and be it observed, that to Mrs. Arkell, Mildred put not forth one word of that convenient plea of “seeing the world,” that she had filled Peter with. To Mrs. Arkell she urged another phase of the reasoning, and one, in truth, which had no slight weight with herself — Peter’s interests. “I ought not to be a burden upon Peter, aunt, and I will not. You know how his heart is set upon going to the university; but he cannot get there if he does not save for it? If I remain at home, the house must be kept up the same as now; the housekeeping expenses must go on; and it will take every shilling of Peter’s earnings to do all this. Aunt, I could not live upon him, for very shame. While my mother was here it was a different thing.”
“But — to go to Peter’s own affairs for a moment,” cried Mrs. Arkell, irascibly— “what great difference will your going away make to his expenses? Twenty pounds a year at most. Where’s the use of your putting a false colouring on things to me?”
“I have not done so, aunt. Peter and I have talked these matters over since I resolved to go out, and I believe he intends to let his house.”
“To let his house!”
“It is large for him now; large and lonely. He means to let it, if he can, furnished; just as it is.”
“And take up his abode in the street?”
“He will easily find apartments for himself,” said Mildred, feeling for and excusing Mrs. Arkell’s unusual irritability. “And, aunt, don’t you see what a great advantage this would be to him in his plans? Saving a great part of what he earns, receiving money for his house besides, he will soon get
together enough to take him to college.”
“I don’t see anything, except that this notion of going away, which you have taken up, is a very wrong one. It cannot be permitted, Mildred.”
“Oh! aunt, don’t say so,” she entreated. “Peter must put by.”
“Let him put by; it is what he ought to do. And you, Mildred, must come to us. Be a daughter to me and to your uncle in our old age. Since William left it, the house is not the same, and we are lonely. We once thought — you will not mind my saying it now — that you would indeed have been a daughter to us, and in that case William’s home and yours would have been here. He should never have left us.”
“Aunt — —”
“Be still, and hear me, Mildred. I do not ask you this on the spur of the moment, because you are threatening to go out to service; and it is nothing less. Child! did you think we were going to neglect you? To leave you alone with Peter, uncared for? Your uncle and I had already planned to bring you home to us, but we were willing to let you stay a short while with Peter, so as not to take everybody from him just at once. Why, Mildred, are you aware that your mother knew you were to come to us?”
Mildred was not aware of it. She sat smoothing the black crape tucks of her dress with her forefinger, making no reply. Her heart was full.
“A few days after I made that foolish mistake — but indeed the fault was William’s, and so I have always told him — I went and had it all out with Mrs. Dan. I told her how bitterly disappointed I and George both were; but I said, in one sense it need make no difference to us, for you should be our daughter still, and come home to us as soon as ever — I mean, when the time came that you would no longer be wanted at home. And I can tell you, Mildred, that your mother was gratified at the plan, though you are not.”
Mildred’s eyes were swimming. She felt that if she spoke, it would be to break into sobs.
“Your poor mother said it took a weight from her mind. The house is Peter’s, as you know, and he can’t dispose of it, but the furniture was hers, left absolutely to her by your papa at his death. She had been undecided whether she ought not to leave the furniture to you, as Peter had the house; and yet she did not like to take it from him. This plan of ours provided for you; so her course was clear, not to divide the furniture from the house. As it turned out, she made no will, through delaying it from time to time; and in law, I suppose, the furniture belongs as much to you as to Peter. You must come home to us, Mildred.”