by Ellen Wood
Mrs. Aultane vouchsafed no reply. It was rank heresy. The college boys were making a noise and commotion at the other end of the hall, and the master called out sharply —
“Arkell, keep those boys in order.”
Travice sauntered towards them, gave his commands for silence, and returned to the place from whence he came. Henry Arkell came into the hall from the upper room, and there was a lull in the proceedings. The carriages came up but slowly.
“Don’t you think we might walk home, Mrs. James?” inquired the younger lady. “I do not care to stay here longer to be stared at. I never saw people stare so in my life.”
She said it with reason. Many were staring, and not in a lady-like manner, but with assuming manner and eye-glass to eye.
“They look just as though they thought we had no right to be here, Mrs. James.”
“Possibly, my dear. It may be the Westerbury custom to stare at strangers. But I cannot allow you to walk home; you have thin shoes on. Mrs. St. John is certain to send your carriage, or hers.”
“You did well, Harry,” cried Travice Arkell, laying his hand on the young boy’s shoulders. “Many a fair dame would give her price for your voice.”
“And for something else belonging to you,” added Mrs. James, taking the boy’s hand and holding him before her as she gazed. “It is the very face; the very same face that your mother’s was at your age.”
“Did you know mamma then? Then, you must be a friend of hers,” was Henry Arkell’s eager answer.
“No, I never was her friend — in that sense. I was a governess in a branch of the Cheveley family, and Miss Lucy Cheveley and her father the colonel used to visit there. She had a charming voice, too; just as you have. Ah, dear me! speaking to you and your sister here, her children, it serves to remind me how time has flown.”
“I am reminded of that, when I look at Captain Anderson here,” said Travice Arkell, with a laugh. “Only the other day he was a schoolboy.”
“If you want to be reminded of that, you need only look at yourself,” retorted Anderson. “You have shot up into a maypole.”
“Will you see me to the carriage, Travice, if you are not too much engaged?” cried out a voice which Travice knew well.
It was his mother’s. She had seen the approach of her carriage from the windows of the upper hall, and was going down to it. Travice turned in obedience to the summons; and Captain Anderson sprang forward to renew his former friendship.
“You might set down Lucy on your way,” said Travice, as they were stepping in. “I don’t know how she’ll get home through this pouring rain.”
“And how would our dresses get on?” returned Mrs. Arkell, in hot displeasure. “Lucy, it seems, could contrive to get to the concert, and she must contrive to get from it. You can come in, Travice; you take up no room.”
“Thank you, I’d not run the chance of damaging your dresses for all the money they cost.”
As he returned to the hall, the boys, gathered round the door, were making a great noise, and Mr. Wilberforce spoke in displeasure.
“Can’t you keep those boys in order, Mr. Arkell?”
Travice dealt out a very significant nod, one bespeaking punishment for the morrow, and the boys subsided into silence.
“Please, sir, your carriage is coming up the street,” said Cockburn, junior, a little fellow of ten, to the head master, rather gratified possibly to be enabled to say it. “Somebody else’s is coming too.”
The windows became alive with heads. But the “somebody else’s” proved to be of no interest, for it did not belong to any of the concert goers, and it went on past the Guildhall. Of course all the attention was then concentrated on the master’s. It was a sober, old fashioned, rather shabby brown chariot; and it came up the street at a sober pace. The master, full of congratulation that the imprisonment was over, looked at it complacently. What then was his surprise to see another carriage dash before it, just as it was about to draw up, and usurp the place it had been confidingly driving to. A dashing vision of grandeur; an elegant yellow equipage bright as gold; its hammer-cloth gold also; its servants displaying breeches of gold plush, with powdered hair and gold-headed canes.
“Why, whose is it?” exclaimed the discomfited master, almost forgetting in his surprise the eclipse his own chariot had received.
“Whose can it be?” repeated the gazers in puzzled wonder. The livery was that of the St. John family; the colour was theirs; and, now that they looked closely, the arms were the St. Johns’. But the St. Johns’ panels did not display a coronet! And there was not a single head throughout the hall, but turned itself in curiosity to await the announcement of the servant. He came in with his powder and his cane, and the college boys made way for him.
“The Lady Anne St. John’s carriage.”
She, Lady Anne, the fair girl of seventeen, looked at Travice Arkell, appearing to expect his arm as a matter of course. Travice gave it. Mrs. James tucked Lucy’s arm within her own, in an old-fashioned manner, and followed them out.
They stepped into the carriage. Lady Anne waiting in her stately courtesy for Lucy to take the precedence; she followed; Mrs. James went last. And Travice Arkell lifted his trencher as they drove away.
The head master, smoothing his ruffled plumes, came out next, and Travice returned to the hall. Mrs. Aultane, feeling fit to faint, pounced upon him.
“Did you know that it was Lady Anne St. John?”
“Not at first,” he answered, suppressing his laughter as he best could, for the whole thing had been a rich joke to him. “I guessed it: because I heard Mrs. St. John tell Mrs. Peter Arkell yesterday that Lady Anne was coming.”
“And you couldn’t open your mouth to say it! You could let us treat her as if — as if — she were a nobody!” gasped Mrs. Aultane. “If you were not so big, Travice Arkell, I could box your ears.”
The next to come down from the upper hall was a group, of whom the most notable was Marmaduke Carr. A hale, upright man still, with a healthy red upon his cheeks: a few more years, and he would count fourscore. With him, linked arm in arm, was a mean little chap, looking really nearly as old as Marmaduke: it was Squire Carr. His eldest son, Valentine, was near him, a mean-looking man also, but well-dressed, with a red nose in his button-hole. Mrs. Lewis, the squire’s daughter, came forward and joined them, putting her arm within her husband’s, a big man with a very ugly face; and the squire’s younger children, the second family, women grown now, followed. Old Marmaduke Carr — he was always open-handed — had treated every one of these younger children, six of them, and all girls, to the concert, for he knew the squire’s meanness; and he was taking the whole party home to a sumptuous dinner. All the family were there except one, Benjamin, the second son. The Reverend Mr. Prattleton and his wife were of the group; the two families were on intimate terms; and if you choose to listen to what they are saying, you may hear a word about Benjamin.
The rain was coming down fiercely as ever, so there was nothing for it but to wait until some of the flies came back again. Mr. Prattleton, the squire, and Marmaduke Carr sought the embrasure of a window, where they could talk at will, and watch the approach of any vehicle that could be seized upon. Squire Carr was a widower still; he had never married a third wife. It may be, that the persistent rejection of Mildred Arkell in the days long gone by, had put him out of conceit of asking anybody else. Certain it was, he had not done it.
“And where is he now?” asked Mr. Prattleton of the squire, pursuing a conversation which had reference to Benjamin.
“Coming home,” growled the squire; “so he writes us word. I thought how long this American fever would last.”
“I never clearly understood what it was he went to do there,” observed the clergyman.
“Nor I,” said Squire Carr, drawing down the thin lips of his discontented mouth. “All I know is, it has cost me two hundred pounds, for he took a heap of things out there on speculation, which I have since paid for. He wrote word home th
at the things were a dead loss; that he sold them to a rogue who never paid him for them. That’s six months ago.”
“Then how has he lived since?” asked Mr. Prattleton.
“Heaven knows. I don’t.”
“Perhaps he has lived as he lived at Homberg, John,” put in old Marmaduke, who had a trick of saying home truths to the squire, by no means palatable. “You know how he lived there, for two seasons.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing, and I don’t care,” repeated the squire to Mr. Prattleton, completely ignoring Marmaduke’s interruption. “I have tried to throw him off, but he won’t be thrown off. He is coming home now, in the hope that I will put him into a farm; I know he is, though he has not said so. Pity but the ship would go cruizing round the world and never come back again.”
“You did put him into a farm once.”
“I put him into one twice, and had to take them on my own hands again, to save the land from being ruined,” returned Squire Carr, wrathfully. “He — —”
“But you know, John, Ben always said that the fault was partly yours,” again put in old Marmaduke; “you would not allow proper money to be spent upon the land.”
“It’s not true. Ben said it, you say? — tush! it’s not much that Ben sticks at. When he ought to have been over the farm in the early morning, he was in bed, tired out with his doings of the night. He was never home before daylight; gambling, drinking; evil knows what his nights would be spent in. The fact is, Ben Carr was born with an antipathy to work, and so long as he can beg or borrow a living without it, he won’t do any.”
“It is a pity but he had been put to some regular profession,” said the minor canon.
“I put him to fifty things, and he came back from all,” said the squire, tartly.
“He was never put regularly to anything, John,” dissented Marmaduke. “You sent him to one thing— ‘Go and try whether you like it, Ben,’ said you; Ben tried it for a week or two, and came back and said he didn’t like it. Then you put him to another— ‘Try that, Ben,’ said you; and Ben came back as before. The fact is, he ought to have been fixed at some one thing off hand, and my brother, the old squire, used to say it; not have had the choice of leaving it given him over and over again. ‘You keep to that, Mr. Ben, or you starve,’ would have been my dealings with him.”
John Carr cast his thoughts back, and there was a sneer upon his thin lips; old Marmaduke had not dealt so successfully with his own son that he need boast. But John did not say it; for many years the name of Robert Carr had dropped out of their intercourse. Had he been dead — and, indeed, for all they heard of Robert, he might be dead — his name could not have been more completely sunk in silence. Marmaduke Carr never spoke of him, and the squire did not choose to speak: he had his reasons.
“It was the premium you stuck at, John. We can’t put young men out without one, when they get to the age Ben was. There was another folly! — keeping the boy at home till he was twenty years of age, doing nothing except just idling about the land. But it’s your affair, not mine; and Ben has certainly gone on a wrong tack this many a year now. I should have discarded him long ago, had he been my son.”
“I should have felt tempted to do the same,” observed the clergyman. “Benjamin has entailed so much trouble on you.”
“And he’ll entail more yet,” was the consolatory prediction of old Marmaduke.
The squire made no reply. He had his arm on the window-frame supporting his chin, and looking dreamily out. His thoughts were with Benjamin. Why had he not yet discarded this scapegrace son — he, the hard man? Simply because there was a remote corner in his heart where Benjamin was cherished — cherished beyond all his other children. Petty, mean, hard as John Carr was, he had passionately loved his first wife; and Benjamin, in features, was her very image. His eldest son, Valentine, resembled him, the squire; Mrs. Lewis was like nobody but herself; his other children were by a different mother. He only cared for Benjamin. He did not care for Valentine, he did not care for the daughters, but he loved Benjamin; and the result was, that though Ben Carr brought home grief continually, and had done things for which Valentine, had he done them, would never have been pardoned, the squire, after a little holding out, was certain to take him into favour again, and give him another chance.
“When does George go out?” asked the squire of Mr. Prattleton, alluding to that gentleman’s half-brother, who was nearly twenty years younger than himself.
“Immediately. And very fortunate we have been in getting him so good a thing. I hope the climate will agree with him.”
“Grandpapa,” said young Lewis, running up to the squire, “here are two flies coming down the street now. Shall I rush out and secure them first?”
“Ask Mr. Carr, my boy. He may like to stay longer, and give a chance to the rain to abate.”
Mr. Carr, old Marmaduke, laughed. He knew John Carr of old, and his stingy nature. He would not order the flies to be retained lest the payment of them should fall to him.
“Go and secure them both, boy,” said old Marmaduke; “and there’s a shilling for your own trouble.”
Young Lewis galloped out, spinning the shilling in his hand. “Don’t I hope old Marmaduke will leave all his money to me!” quoth he, mentally. To say the truth, the whole family of the Carrs indulged golden dreams of this money more frequently than they need have done — apart from the squire, who was the most sanguine dreamer of all.
They were going out, to stow themselves in the two flies as they best could, when Marmaduke’s eye fell on Travice Arkell. The old man caught his hand.
“Will you come home and dine with us, Travice? Five o’clock, sharp!”
“Thank you, sir — I shall be very glad,” replied Travice, who liked good dinners as well as most schoolboys, and Mr. Carr’s style of dinner, when he did entertain, was renowned.
“If you don’t want these flies to be taken by somebody else, you had better come!” cried out young Lewis, putting his wet head in at the entrance door. “Mamma, I am stopping another for you.”
Travice Arkell for once imitated the junior college boys, and splashed recklessly through the puddles of the streets, as fast as his legs would carry him, on his way to the Palmery, for he wanted to see Frederick St. John: he had just time. His nearest road led him past Peter Arkell’s, and he spared a minute to look in.
“So you have got home safely, Lucy?”
“As if I could get home anything but safely, coming as I did!” returned Lucy, in merriment. “Such a commotion it caused when the carriage dashed up! The elm-trees became alive with rooks’-heads, not to speak of the windows. You should have seen the footman and his cane marshalling me to the door! But oh, Travice! when I got inside, the gilt was taken off the gingerbread!”
“How so?”
“You know how badly papa sees now without his spectacles. He did not happen to have them on, and he took it to be the old beadle of St. James the Less, with his laced hat and staff. He said he could not think what he wanted.”
Travice laughed, laughed merrily, with Lucy. He stayed a minute, and then splashed on to the Palmery.
Frederick St. John was sitting up, but he had been really ill in the morning. Mrs. James and Lady Anne were giving him and Mrs. St. John the details of the concert. It was not surprising that no one had known Lady Anne. She had paid a long visit to Westerbury several years before, when she was a little girl; but growing girls alter, and her face was not recognised again. She had come for a long visit now, bringing, as before, her carriage and three or four servants — for she was an orphan, and had her own establishment.
“I say, Arkell, I’m glad you are come. Anne is trying to enlighten us about the grand doings this morning, and she can’t do it at all. She protests that Mr. Wilberforce sang the comic song.”
Lady Anne eagerly turned to Travice. “That little gentleman in silver spectacles, who was looking so impatiently for his carriage — who told you once or twice to pay attention to the coll
ege boys — was it not Mr. Wilberforce?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Well, did he not sing the comic song? I’m sure, if not, it was some one very like him.”
Travice enjoyed the mistake. “It was little Poyns, the lay-clerk, who sang the comic song,” he said, looking at Mrs. St. John and Frederick. “When Poyns gets himself up in black, as he did to-day, he looks exactly like a clergyman; and his size and spectacles do bear a resemblance to Mr. Wilberforce. But it was not Mr. Wilberforce, Lady Anne.”
“Arkell,” cried St. John, from his place on the sofa by the fire, Mrs. St. John being opposite to him, and the others dispersed as they chose about the small square room, glittering with costly furniture, “who was it came in unexpectedly and surprised you? Anne thinks it was one of the old college fellows.”
“It was Anderson. Don’t you remember him? He has got his company now.”
“Anderson! I should like to see him. I hope he’ll come and see me. Where’s he stopping? I shall go out to-morrow.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Frederick,” interposed Mrs. St. John.
“What a charming girl is Miss Lucy Arkell!” exclaimed Mrs. James to Travice. “She puts me greatly in mind of her mother, and yet she is not like her in the face. There is the same expression though, and she has the same gentle, sweet, modest manners. I like Lucy Arkell.”
“So do I,” cried Mr. St. John. “If my heart were not bespoken, I’m sure I should give it to her.”
The words were uttered jestingly; nevertheless, Mrs. St. John glanced up uneasily. Frederick saw it. He knew in what direction his heart was expected to be given, and he stole a glance involuntarily at Lady Anne; but it passed from her immediately to rest upon his mother — a glance in which there was incipient rebellion to the wishes of his family; and Mrs. St. John had feared that it might be so, since the day when he had said, in his off-hand way, that Anne St. John was not the wife for his money.