THE ADVENT OF CHARLOTTE TRAVICE.
Mrs. George Arkell sat near her breakfast-table, deeply intent on a
letter recently delivered. The apartment was a rather spacious one,
handsomely fitted up. It was the general sitting-room of the family; the
fine drawing-room on the other side of the hall being very much kept, as
must be confessed, for state occasions. A comfortable room, this; its
walls hung with paintings in water-colours, many of them William's
doings, and its pleasant window looking across the wide yard, to the
iron railings and the street beyond it. The room was as yet in the
shade, for it faced due south; but the street yonder lay basking in the
bright sun of the September morning; and Mrs. Arkell looked through the
open window, and felt almost glad at the excuse the letter afforded her
for going abroad in it.
Letters were not then hourly matters, as they are now; no, nor daily
ones. Perhaps a quiet country lady did not receive a dozen in a year:
certainly Mrs. Arkell did not, and she lingered on, looking at the one
in her hand, long after her husband and son had quitted the
breakfast-table for the manufactory.
"It is curious the child should write to me," was her final comment, and
the words were spoken aloud. "I must carry it to Mrs. Dan, and talk it
over with her."
She rang the bell for the breakfast things to be removed, and presently
proceeded to the kitchen to consult with the cook about dinner--for
consulting with the cook, in those staid, old-fashioned households, was
far more the custom than the present "orders." That over, Mrs. Arkell
attired herself, and went out to Mrs. Daniel Arkell's. Mrs. Dan was
surprised to see her so early, and laid her spectacles inside the Bible
she was reading, to mark the place.
"Betty," began Mrs. Arkell, addressing her sister-in-law by the
abbreviation bestowed on her at her baptism, "you remember the Travices,
who left here some years ago to make their fortune, as they said, in
London?"
"To be sure," replied Mrs. Dan.
"Well, I fear they can't have made much. Here's a letter comes this
morning from their eldest girl. It's very odd that she should write to
me. A pretty little thing she was, of about eight or ten, I remember,
when they left Westerbury."
"What does she write about?" interrupted Mrs. Dan. "I'm sure they have
been silent enough hitherto. Nobody, so far as I know, has ever heard a
word from any of them since they left."
"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 came 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 now, 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_."