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."
"Oh, aunt, you and my uncle are both very kind," she sobbed. "I should
have liked much to come here and contribute to your comforts; but,
indeed----"
"Indeed--what?" persisted Mrs. Arkell, pressing the point at which
Mildred stopped.
"I cannot--I cannot come," she murmured, in her distress.
"But why?--what is your reason?"
"Aunt! aunt! do not ask me. Indeed I cannot stop in Westerbury."
They were interrupted by the entrance of William, and Mildred literally
started from her seat, her poor heart beating wildly. She did not know
of their return--had been in hopes, indeed, that she should have left
the town before it; but, as she now learnt, they came home the previous
night.
"I can make nothing of Mildred," cried Mrs. Arkell to her son; and in
her anger and vexation, she gave him an outline of the case. "It is the
most senseless scheme I ever heard of."
Mildred had touched the hand held out to her in greeting, and dried her
tears as she best could, and altogether strove to be unconcerned and
calm. _He_ looked well--tall, noble, good, as usual, and very happy.
"See if you can do anything to shake her resolution, William. I have
tried in vain."
Mrs. Arkell quitted the room abruptly, as she spoke. Mildred passed her
handkerchief over her pale face, and rose from her seat.
Knowing what he did know, it was not a pleasant task for William Arkell.
But for the extreme sensitiveness of his nature, he might have given
some common-place refusal, and run away. As it was, he advanced to her
with marked hesitation, and a flush of emotion rose to his face.
"Is there _anything_ I can urge, Mildred, that will induce you to
abandon this plan of yours, and remain in Westerbury?"
"Nothing," she replied.
"Why should you persist in leaving your native place?--why have you
formed this strange dislike to remain in it?" he proceeded.
She would have answered him; she tried to answer him--any idle excuse
that rose to her lips; but as he stood there, asking WHY she had taken a
dislike to remain in the home of her childhood--he, the husband of
another--the full sense of her bitter sorrow and desolation came rushing
on, and overwhelmed her forced self-control. She hid her face in her
hands, and sobbed in anguish.
William Arkell, almost as much agitated as herself, drew close to her.
He took her hand--he bent down to her with a whisper of strange
tenderness. "If _I_ have had a share in causing you any grief,
or--or--disappointment, let me implore your forgiveness, Mildred. It was
not intentionally done. You cannot think so."
She motioned him away, her sobs seeming as if they would choke her.
"Mildred, I must speak; it has been in my heart to do it since--you know
when," he whispered hoarsely, in his emotion, and he gathered both her
hands in his, and kept them there. "I have begun to think lately, since
my marriage, that it might have been well for both of us had we
understood each other better. You talk of going into the world, a
solitary wanderer; and my path, I fear, will not be one of roses,
although it was of my own choosing. But what is done cannot be
recalled."
"I must go home," she faintly interrupted; "you are trying me too
greatly." But he went on as though he heard her not.
"Can we not both make the best of what is left to us? Stay in
Westerbury, Mildred! Come home here to my father and mother; they are
lonely now. Be to them a daughter, and to me as a dear sister."
"I shall never more have my home in Westerbury," she answered; "never
more--never more. We can bid each other adieu now."
A moment's miserable pause. "Is there no appeal from this, Mildred?"
"None."
"Will you always remember, then, that you are very dear to me? Should
you ever want a friend, Mildred--ever want any assistance in any
way--do not forget where I am to be found. I am a married man now, and
yet I tell you openly that Westerbury will have lost one of its greatest
charms for me, when you have left it."
"Let me go!" was all she murmured; "I cannot bear the pain."
He clasped her for a moment to his heart, and kissed her fervently.
"Forgive me, Mildred--we are cousins still," he said, as he released
her; "forgive me for all. May God bless and be with you, now and
always!"
With her crape veil drawn before her face, with the cruel pain of
desolation mocking at her heart, Mildred went forth; and in the
court-yard she encountered Mrs. William Arkell, in a whole array of
bridal feathers and furbelows, arriving to pay her first morning visit
to her husband's former home. She held out her hand to Mildred, and
threw back her white veil from her radiant face.
A confused greeting--she knew not of what--a murmured plea of being in
haste--a light word of careless gossip, and Mildred passed on.
So there was to be no hindrance, and poor Mildred was to leave her home,
and go forth to find one with strangers! But from that day she seemed to
change--to grow cold and passionless; and people reproached her for it,
and wondered what had come to her.
How many of these isolated women do we meet in the world, to whom the
same reproach seems due! _I_ never see one of them but I mentally wonder
whether her once warm, kindly feelings may not have been crushed;
trampled on; just as was the case with those of Mildred Arkell.