THE FLIGHT.
In a quiet and remote street of the city was situated the house of Mr.
Carr. Robert Carr walked towards it, with a moody look upon his face,
after quitting William Arkell--a plain, dull-looking house, as seen from
the street, presenting little in aspect beyond a dead wall, for most of
the windows looked the other way, or on to the side garden--but a
perfect bijou of a house inside, all on a small scale, with stained
glass illuminating the hall, and statues and pictures ornamenting the
rooms. The fretwork in the hall, and the devices on the windows--bright
in colours when the sun shone through them, but otherwise dark and
sombre--imparted the idea of a miniature chapel, when seen by a stranger
for the first time. Old Mr. Carr had spent much time and money on his
house, and was proud of it.
Robert swung himself in at the outer door in the wall, and then in at
the hall door, which he shut with a bang; things, in fact, had arrived
at a pitch of discomfort between him and his father hardly bearable by
the temper of either. Neither would give way--neither would conciliate
the other in the smallest degree. The disputes--arising, in the first
place, from Robert's extravagance and unsteady habits--had continued for
some years now; but during the past two or three months they had
increased both in frequency and violence. Robert was idle--Robert
spent--Robert did hardly anything that he ought to do, as member of a
respectable community; these complaints made the basis of the foundation
in all the disputes. But graver sins, in old Mr. Carr's eyes, of some
special nature or other, cropped up to the surface from time to time.
Latterly, the grievance had been this acquaintance of Robert's with
Martha Ann Hughes; and it may really be questioned whether Robert, in
his obstinate spirit, did not continue it on purpose to vex his father.
On the Tuesday (this was Thursday, remember) Robert had been, to use his
father's expression, "swinging about all day"--meaning that Mr. Robert
had passed it out of doors, nobody knew where, only going in to his
meals. Their hours were early--as indeed was the general custom at
Westerbury, and elsewhere, also, in those days--dinner at one o'clock,
tea at five. About half-past four, on the Tuesday, Robert had gone in,
ordered himself some tea made at once, and something to eat with it, and
then went out again, taking a warm travelling rug, and telling the
servant to say he was gone to London. And he proceeded to the
coach-office, took his seat in the mail, then on the point of starting,
and departed.
Mr. Carr came in from the manufactory at five to _his_ tea, and received
the message--"Mr. Robert had gone to London by the mail." He was very
wroth. It was an independent, off-hand mode of action, calculated to
displease most fathers; but it was not the first time, by several, that
Robert had been guilty of it. "He's gone off to spend that money," cried
Mr. Carr, savagely; "and he won't come back until there's not a farthing
of it left." Mr. Carr alluded to a hundred pounds which Robert had
received not many days previously. A twelvemonth before, an uncle of Mr.
Carr's and of Squire Carr's had died, leaving Robert Carr a legacy of a
hundred pounds, and the same sum _between_ the two sons of Mr. John
Carr. This, of course, was productive of a great deal of heart-burning
and jealousy in the Squire's family, that Robert should have the most;
but it has nothing to do with our history just now. At the expiration of
a year from the time of the death, the legacies were paid, and Robert
had been in possession of his since the previous Saturday.
"He's gone to spend the money," Mr. Carr repeated. No very far-fetched
conclusion; and Mr. Carr got over his wrath, or bottled it up, in the
best way he could. He certainly did not expect Robert back again for a
month at least; very considerably astonished, therefore, was he, to find
Mr. Robert arrive back by the mail that took him, and walk coolly in to
breakfast on the Thursday morning, having only stayed a few hours in
London. A little light skirmishing took place then--not much. Robert
said he had been to London to see a friend, and, having seen him, came
back again; and that was all Mr. Carr could obtain. For a wonder, Robert
spent the morning in the manufactory, but not in the presence of his
father, who was shut in his private room. At dinner they met again, and
before the meal was over the quarrel was renewed. It grew to a serious
height. The old housekeeper, who had been in her place ever since the
death of Mrs. Carr, years before, grew frightened, and stole to the door
with trembling limbs and white lips. The clock struck three before it
was over; and, in one sense, it was not over then. Robert burst out of
the room in its very midst, an oath upon his lips, and strode into the
street. Where he passed the time that afternoon until five o'clock
could never be traced. Mr. Carr endeavoured afterwards to ascertain, and
could not. Mr. Carr's opinion, to his dying day, was that he passed it
at Edward Hughes's house; but Miss Hughes positively denied it, and she
was by nature truthful. She stated freely that Robert Carr had called in
that afternoon, and was for a few minutes alone with Martha Ann, she
herself being upstairs at the time; but he left again directly. At five
o'clock, as we have seen, he was with William Arkell, and then he went
straight home.
Mr. Carr had nearly finished tea when he got in. The meal was taken in a
small, snug room, at the end of the hall--a _round_ room, whose windows
opened upon the garden in summer, but were closed in now behind their
crimson-velvet curtains.
Robert sat down in silence. He looked in the tea-pot, saw that it was
nearly empty, and rang the bell to order fresh tea to be made for him.
Whether the little assumption of authority (though it was no unusual
circumstance) was distasteful to Mr. Carr, and put him further out of
temper, cannot be told; one thing is certain, that he--he, the
father--took up again the quarrel.
It was not a seemly one. Less loud than it had been at dinner-time, the
tones on either side were graver, the anger more real and compressed.
It seemed too deep for noise. An hour or so of this unhappy state of
things, during which many, many bitter words were said by both, and then
Robert rose.
"Remember," he said to his father, in a low, firm tone, "if I am driven
from my home and my native place by this conduct of yours, I swear that
I will never come back to it."
"And do you hear me swear," retorted Mr. Carr, in the same quiet,
concentrated voice of passion, "if you marry that girl, Martha Ann
Hughes, not one penny of my money or property shall you ever inherit;
and you know that I will keep my word."
"I never said I had any thought of marrying her."
"As you please. Marry her; and I swear that I will leave all I possess
away from you and yours. Before Heaven, I will keep my oath!"
And now we must go to the following morning, to the house of Mr. Arkell.
These little details may appear trivial to the reader, but they bear
their significance, as you will find hereafter; and they are remembered
and talked of in Westerbury to this day.
The breakfast hour at Mr. Arkell's was nine o'clock. Some little time
previous to it, William was descending from his room, when in passing
his father's door he heard himself called to. Mr. Arkell appeared at his
door in the process of dressing.
"William, I heard the carriage go out a short while ago. Have you sent
it anywhere?"
Just the question that William had anticipated would be put. Being
released now from his promise, he told the truth.
"Over to Purford! Why could he not have gone by the coach?"
"I don't know I'm sure," said William; and the same thought had occurred
to himself. "I did not like to promise him without speaking to you, hut
he made such a favour of it, and--I thought you would excuse it. I fancy
he is on worse terms than ever with his father, and feared you might
tell him."
"He need not have feared that: what should I tell him for?" was the
rejoinder of Mr. Arkell as he retreated within his room.
Now it should have been mentioned that Mary Hughes was engaged to work
that day at Mr. Arkell's. It was regarded in the town as a singular
coincidence; and, perhaps, what made it more singular was the fact that
Mrs. Arkell's maid, Tring (who had lived in the house ever since William
was a baby, and was the only female servant kept besides the cook), had
arranged with Mary Hughes that she should go _before_ the usual hour,
eight o'clock, so as to give a long day. The fact was, Mary Hughes's
work this day was for the maids. It was Mrs. Arkell's custom to give
them a gown apiece for Christmas, and the two gowns were this day to be
cut out and as much done to them as the dressmaker, and Tring at odd
moments, could accomplish. Mary Hughes, naturally obliging, and anxious
to stand well with the servants in one of her best places, as Mrs.
Arkell's was, arrived at half-past seven, and was immediately set to
work in what Tring called her pantry--a comfortable little boarded room,
a sort of offshoot of the kitchen.
Mr. Arkell spoke again at breakfast of this expedition of Robert Carr's.
It wore to him a curious sound--first, that Robert could not have gone
by the coach, which left Westerbury about the same hour, and had to pass
through Purford on its way to London; and, secondly, why the matter of
borrowing the carriage need have been kept from him. William could not
enlighten him on either point, and the subject dropped.
Breakfast was over, and Mr. Arkell had gone into the manufactory, when
the carriage came back. Philip drove at once to the stables, and William
went out.
"Well," said he, "so you are back!"
"Yes, sir."
Philip began to unharness the horse as he spoke, and did not look up.
William, who knew the man and his ways well, thought there was something
behind to tell.
"You have driven the horse fast, Philip."
"Mr. Carr did, sir; it was he who drove. I never sat in front at all
after we got to the three-cornered field. He drove fast, to get on
pretty far before the coach came up."
"What coach?" asked William.
"The London coach, sir. He's gone to London in it."
"What! did he take it at Purford?"
"We didn't go to Purford at all, Mr. William. He ain't gone alone,
neither."
"Philip, what do you mean?"
"Miss Hughes--the young one--is gone with him."
"No!" exclaimed William.
"It was this way, sir," began the man, disposing himself to relate the
narrative consecutively. "I had got the carriage ready and waiting by a
few minutes after eight, as he ordered me; but it was close upon
half-past before he came, and we started. 'I'll drive, Philip,' says he;
so I got in beside him. Just after we had cleared the houses, he pulls
up before the three-cornered field, saying he was waiting for a friend,
and I saw the little Miss Hughes come scuttering across it--it's a short
cut from their house, you know, Mr. William--with a bit of a brown-paper
parcel in her hand. 'You'll sit behind, Philip,' he says; and before I'd
got over my astonishment, we was bowling along--she in front with him,
and me behind. Just on this side Purford he pulled up again, and
waited--it was in that hollow of the road near the duck-pond--and in two
minutes up came the London coach. It came gently up to us, stopping by
degrees; it was expecting him--as I could hear by the guard's talk, a
saying he hoped he'd not waited long--and they got into it, and I
suppose he's gone to London. Mr. William, I don't think the master will
like this?"
William did not like it, either; it was an advantage that Robert Carr
had no right to take. Had the girl forgotten herself at last, and gone
off with him? Too surely he felt that such must be the case. He saw how
it was. They had not chosen to get into the coach at Westerbury, fearing
the scandal--fearing, perhaps, prevention; and Robert Carr had made use
of this _ruse_ to get her away. That there would be enough scandal in
Westerbury, as it was, he knew--that Mr. Arkell would be indignant, he
also knew; and he himself would come in for a large portion of the
blame.
"Philip," he said, awaking from his reverie, "did the girl appear to go
willingly?"
"Willingly enough, sir, for the matter of that, for she came up of her
own accord--but she was crying sadly."
"Crying, was she?"
"Crying dreadfully all the way across the field as she came up, and
along in this carriage, and when she got into the coach. He tried to
persuade and soothe her; but it wasn't of any good. She hid her face
with her veil as well as she could, that the outside passengers mightn't
see her state as she got in; and there was none o' the inside."
William Arkell bit his lip. "Carr had no business to play me such a
turn," he said aloud, in his vexation.
"Mr. William, if I had known what he was up to last night, I should just
have told the master, in spite of the half-sovereign he gave me."
"Oh, he gave you one, did he?"
"He gave me one last evening, and he gave me another this morning; but,
for all that, I should have told, if I'd thought she was to be along of
him. I know what the master is, and I know what he'll feel about the
business. And the two other Miss Hughes's are industrious, respectable
young women, and it's a shabby thing for Mr. Carr to go and do. A fine
way they'll be in when they find the young one gone!"
"They can't have known of it, I suppose," observed William, slowly, for
a doubt had crossed his mind whether Robert could be taking the young
girl away to marry her.
"No, that they don't, sir," impulsively cried the man. "I heard him ask
her whether she had got away without being seen; and she said she had,
as well as she could speak for her tears."
William Arkell, feeling more annoyed than he had ever felt in his life,
not only on his own score, but on that of the girl herself, turned
towards the manufactory with a slow step. The most obvious course
now--indeed, the only honourable one--was to tell his father what he had
just heard. He winced at having it to do, and a feeling of relief came
over him, when he found that Mr. Arkell was engaged in his private room
with some gentlemen, and he could not go in. There was to be also a
further respite: for when they left Mr. Arkell went out with them.
William did not see him again until they met at dinner, for Mr. Arkell
only returned just in time for it. Charlotte Travice was rallying
William for being "absent," "silent," asking him where his thoughts had
gone; but he did not enlighten her.
Barely had they sat down to dinner when Marmaduke Carr arrived--pale,
fierce, and deeply agitated. Ignoring ceremony, he pushed past Tring
into the dining-room, and stood before them, his lips apart, his words
coming from them in jerks. Mr. Arkell rose from his seat in
consternation.
"George Arkell, you and I have been friends since we were boys together.
I had thought if there was one man in the whole town whom I could have
depended on, it was you. Is this well done?"
"Why, what has happened?" exclaimed Mr. Arkell, rather in doubt whether
Marmaduke Carr had suddenly gone deranged. "Is what well done?"
"So! it is you who have helped off my son."
"Helped him where? What is the matter, Carr?"
"Helped him _where_?" roared Mr. Carr, "why, on his road to London. He
is gone off there with that--that----" Mr. Carr caught timely sight of
the alarmed faces of Mrs. Arkell and Miss Travice, and moderated his
tone--"that Hughes girl. You pretend to ask me where he's gone, when it
was you sent him!--conveyed him half-way on his road."
"I protest I do not know what you mean," cried Mr. Arkell.
"Not know! Did your chaise and your servant take him and that girl to
Purford, or did they not?"
For reply, Mr. Arkell cast a look on his son--a look of stern inquiry.
William could only speak the truth now, and Mr. Arkell's brow darkened
as he listened.
"And you knew of this--this elopement?"
"No, on my word of honour. If I had known of it, I should not have lent
him the carriage. Robert"--he raised his eyes to Mr. Carr's--"was not
justified in playing me this trick."
"I don't believe a word of your denial," roughly spoke Mr. Carr, in his
anger; "you and he planned this escape together; you were in league with
him."
It is useless to contend with an angry man, and William calmly turned to
his father: "All I know of the matter, sir, I told you this morning. I
never suspected anything amiss until Philip came back with the carriage
and related what had occurred."
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.