GOING ON FOR LORD MAYOR.
The years rolled on, bringing their changes. Indeed, the first portions
of this history are more like a panorama, where you see a scene here,
and then go on to another scene there; for we cannot afford to relate
these earlier events consecutively.
That good and respected man, Mr. George Arkell, had passed away with the
course of time to the place which is waiting to receive us all. His wife
followed him within the year. A handsome fortune, independently of the
flourishing business at the manufactory, was left to our old friend
William; and there was a small legacy to Mildred of a hundred pounds.
William Arkell had taken possession of all: of his father's place, his
father's position, and his father's house. No son ever walked more
entirely in his father's steps than did he. He was honoured throughout
Westerbury, just as Mr. Arkell had been. His benevolence, his probity,
his high character, were universally known and appreciated. And Mrs.
William Arkell, now of course, Mrs. Arkell, was a very fine lady, but
liked on the whole.
They had three children, Travice, Charlotte, and Sophia Mary. Travice
bore a remarkable resemblance to his father, both in looks and
disposition; the two girls were more like their mother. They were young
yet; but no expense, even now, was spared upon them. Indeed, expense,
had Mrs. Arkell had her way, would not have been spared in anything.
Show and cost were not to William's taste; they were to hers: but he
restrained it with a firm hand where it was absolutely essential.
Peter had not got to college yet, and Peter had not on the whole
prospered. The great blow to him was the having to pay the four hundred
pounds for which he had become security for Mr. Fauntleroy the younger.
Mr. Fauntleroy the younger's affairs had come to a crisis; he went away
for a time from Westerbury, and Peter was called upon to pay. There's no
doubt that it was the one great blight upon Peter Arkell's life. He
never recovered it. It is true that the money was afterwards refunded to
him by degrees; but it seemed to do him no good; the blight had fallen.
He became ill. Whether it was the blow of this, that suddenly shattered
his health, or whether illness was inherent in his constitution,
Westerbury never fully decided; certain it was, that Peter Arkell
became a confirmed invalid, and had to resign his appointment at the
bank. But he had excellent teaching, and was paid well; and he brought
out a learned book now and then, so that he earned a good living. He had
two children, Lucy, and a boy some years younger.
Never since she quitted the place some ten or twelve years before, had
Mildred Arkell paid a visit to Westerbury. She was going to do so now.
Lady Dewsbury, whose health was better than usual, had gone to stay with
her married sister, and Mildred thought she would take the opportunity
of going to see her brother Peter, and to make acquaintance with his
wife. It is probable that, without that tie, she would never have
re-entered her native place. The pain of going now would be great; the
pain of meeting William Arkell and his wife little less than it was when
she first left it. But she made her mind up, and wrote to Peter to say
she was coming.
It was on a windy day that Mildred Arkell--had anybody known her--might
have been seen picking her way-through the mud of the streets of London.
She went to a private house in the neighbourhood of Hatton Garden, rang
one of its bells, and walked upstairs without waiting for it to be
answered. Before she reached the third floor, a young woman, with a
coarse apron on, and a quantity of soft flaxen hair twisted round her
head, which looked like a lady's head in spite of the accompaniment of
the apron, came running down it.
"Oh, Miss Arkell! if you had but sent me word you were coming!"
The tone was a joyous one, mixed somewhat with vexation; and Mildred
smiled.
"Why should I send you word, Betsey? If you are busy, you need not mind
me."
On the third floor of this house, in two rooms, Mr. and Mrs. David
Dundyke had lived ever since their marriage. David himself had chosen it
from the one motive that regulated most actions of his life--economy.
The two lower floors of the house were occupied by the offices of a
solicitor; the underground kitchen and attic by a woman who kept the
house clean; and David had taken these two rooms, and got them very
cheap, on condition that he should always sleep at home as a protection
to the house. Not having any inducement to sleep out, David acceded
readily; and here they had been for several years. It was, in one sense,
a convenient arrangement for Betsey, for they kept no servant, and the
woman occasionally did cleaning and other rough work for her, receiving
a small payment weekly.
Will you believe me when I say that David Dundyke was ambitious? Never a
more firmly ambitious man lived than he. There have been men with higher
aims in life, but not with more pushing, persevering purpose. He wanted
to become a rich man; he wanted to become one of importance in this
great commercial city; but the highest ambition of all, the one that
filled his thoughts, sleeping and waking, was a higher ambition
still--and I hope you will hold your breath with proper deference while
you read it--he aspired to become, in time, the LORD MAYOR!
He was going on for it. He truly and honestly believed that he was going
on for it; slowly, it is true, but not less sure. Rome, as we all know
was not built in a day; and even such men as the Duke of Wellington must
have had a beginning--a first start in life.
Whatever David Dundyke's shortcomings might be, in--if you will excuse
the word--gentility, he made up for it by a talent for business. Few men
have possessed a better one; and his value in the Fenchurch-street
tea-house, was fully known and appreciated. This wholesale
establishment, which had tea for its basis, was of undoubted
respectability. It took a high standing amidst its fellows, and was
second in its large dealings to none. It was not one of your
advertising, poetry-puffing, here-to-day and gone-to-morrow houses, but
a genuine, sound firm, having real dealings with Chaney, as the
respected white-haired head of the house was in the habit of designating
the Celestial Empire. Mr. Dundyke sometimes presumed to correct the
"Chaney," and hint to his indulgent master and head, that that
pronunciation was a little antediluvian, and that nobody now called it
anything but "Chinar."
David Dundyke had gone into this house an errand boy; he had risen to be
a junior clerk. He was now not a junior one, but took rank with the
first. Steady, taciturn, persevering, and industrious to an extent not
often seen, thoroughly trustworthy, and in business dealings of strict
honour, perhaps David Dundyke was one who could not fail to prosper,
wherever he might have been placed. These qualities, combined with rare
business foresight, had brought him into notice, and thence into favour.
The faintest possible hint had been dropped to him by the white-haired
old man, that perseverance, such as his, had been known to meet its
reward in an association with the firm; a share in the business. Whether
he meant anything, or whether it was but a casual remark, spoken without
intention, David did not know; but he saw from thenceforth that one
great ambition, of his, coming nearer and nearer. From that moment it
was sure; it fevered his veins, and coloured his dreams; the massive
gold chain of the Lord Mayor was ever dancing before his eyes and his
brain; to be called "my lord" by the multitude, and to sit in that
arm-chair, dispensing justice in the Mansion House, seemed to him a very
heaven upon earth. Every movement of his mind had reference to it; every
nerve was strained on the hope for it! For that he saved; for that he
pinched; for that he turned sixpences into shillings, and shillings into
pounds: for he knew that to be elected a Lord Mayor he must first of all
be a rich man, and attain to the honour through minor gradations of
wealth. He was judged to be a hard griping man by the few acquaintances
he possessed, possessing neither sympathy for friends, nor pity for
enemies; but he was not hard or griping at heart; it was all done to
further this dream of ambition. For money in the abstract he really did
not very much care; but as a stepping-stone to civic importance, it was
of incalculable value.
He had four hundred pounds a year now, and they lived upon fifty.
Betsey, the most generous heart in the world, saw but with his eyes, and
was as saving and careful as might be, because it pleased him. Many and
many a time he had taken home a red herring and made his dinner of it,
giving his wife the head and the tail to pick for hers. Not less meek
than of yore was Mrs. Dundyke, and felt duly thankful for the head and
the tail.
Mrs. Dundyke had been at some household work when Mildred entered, but
she soon put it aside and sat down with Mildred in the sitting-room, a
cheerful apartment with a large window. Betsey was considerably over
thirty years of age now, but she looked nearly as young as ever, as she
sat bending her face a little down over her sewing while she talked, the
stitching of a wristband; for she was one who thought it a sin to lose
time. Mildred told her the news she had come to tell--that she was going
on the morrow to Westerbury.
"Going to Westerbury!" echoed Mrs. Dundyke in great surprise; for it had
seemed to her that Miss Arkell never meant to go to her native place
again.
Mildred explained. She had a holiday for the first time since going to
Lady Dewsbury's, and should use it to see her brother and his wife. "I
came to tell you, Betsey," she added, "thinking you might have some
message you would like me to carry to your sister."
A faint change, like a shadow, passed over Betsey Dundyke's face. "She
would not thank you for it, Miss Arkell. But you may give my best love
to her. She never came to see me, you know, when they were in London."
"When were they in London?" asked Mildred, quickly.
"Last year. Did you not know of it? Perhaps not, for you were in Paris
with Lady Dewsbury at the time, and the reminiscence to me is not so
pleasing as to make me mention it gratuitously. She came up with Mr.
Arkell and their boy; they were in London about a week: he had business,
I believe. The first thing _he_ did was to come and see us, and he
brought Travice; and he said he hoped I and my husband would make it
convenient to be with them a good deal while they were in town, and
would dine with them often at their hotel. Well, David, as you know, has
no time to spare in the day, for business is first and foremost with
him, but I went the next day to see Charlotte. She was very cool, and
she let me unmistakably know in so many words that she could not make an
associate of Mr. Dundyke. It was not nice of her, Miss Arkell."
"No, it was not. Did you see much of her?"
"I only saw her that once. William Arkell was terribly vexed, I could
see that; and as if to atone for her behaviour, he came here often and
brought Travice. Indeed, Travice spent nearly the whole of the time with
us, and David would have let me keep him after they went home, but I
knew it was of no use to ask Charlotte. He is the nicest boy! I--I know
it is wrong to break the tenth commandment," she said, looking up and
laughing through her tears, "but I envy Charlotte that boy."
It was an indirect allusion to the one great disappointment of Betsey
Dundyke's life: she had no children. She was getting over the grief
tolerably now; we get reconciled to the worst evil in time; but in the
first years of her marriage she had felt it keenly. It may be questioned
if Mr. Dundyke did. Children must have brought expense with them, so he
philosophically pitted the gain against the loss.
"Why should Mrs. Arkell dislike to be on sisterly terms with you?" asked
Mildred. "I have never been able to understand it."
"Charlotte has two faults--pride and selfishness," was Mrs. Dundyke's
answer: "though I cannot bear to speak against her, and never do to
David. When she first married, she feared, I believe, that I might
become a burden upon her; and she did not like that I should be in the
position I was at Mrs. Dundyke's; she thought it reflected in a degree
upon her position as a lady. _Now_ she shuns us, because she thinks we
are altogether beneath her. Were we living in style, well established
and all that, she would be glad to come to us; but we are in these two
quiet rooms, living humbly, and Charlotte would cut off her legs before
she'd come near us. Don't think me unkind, Miss Arkell; it is Charlotte
who has forced this feeling upon me. I worshipped her in the old days,
but I cannot be blind to her faults now."
David Dundyke came in. He shook hands cordially with Mildred, whom he
was always glad to see. He had begun to dress like a city magnate now:
in glossy clothes, and a white neckcloth; and a fine gold cable chain
crossed on his waistcoat, in place of the modest silver one he used to
wear. He had become more personable as he gained years, was growing
portly, and altogether was a fine, gentlemanly-looking man. But his mode
of speech! _That_ had very little changed from the earlier style:
perhaps David Dundyke was one who did not care to change it; or had no
ear to catch the accents of others. If he had but never opened his
mouth!
"I'm a little late, Betsey. Shouldn't ha' been, though, if I'd known who
was here. Get us some tea, girl; and here's something to eat with it."
He pulled a paper parcel of shrimps out of his pocket as he spoke: a
delicacy he was fond of. Some of them fell on the carpet in the process,
and Betsey stooped to pick them up. David did not trouble himself to
help her. He sat down and talked to Mildred.
"The last time you were here, I remember, something kept me out: extra
work at the office, I think that was. I have been round now to
Leifchild's. He is my stock-broker."
Mildred laughed. She supposed he was saying it for jest. But the keen
look came over Mr. Dundyke's face that was usual to it when he spoke of
money.
"Leifchild is a steady-going man; he's no fool, he isn't: There's not a
steadier nor a keener on the stock exchange. I've knowed him since he
was that high, for we was boys together; and, like me, he began from
nothing. There was one thing kept him down--want of capital; if he had
had that, he'd ha' been a rich man now, for many good things fell in his
way, and he had to let 'em slip by him. I turned the risk over in my
mind, Miss Arkell; for, and against; and I came to the conclusion to put
a thousand pound in his hands, on condition----"
"A thousand pounds," involuntarily interrupted Mildred. "Had you so
much--to spare?"
"Yes, I had that," said David Dundyke, with a little cough that seemed
to say he might have found more, if he had cared to do so. "On condition
that I went shares in whatsoever profit my thousand pound should be the
means of realizing," he resumed where he had broken off. "And my
thousand pound has not done badly yet."
Mildred could not help noting the significant satisfaction of the tone.
"I should have fancied you too cautious to risk your money in
speculating, Mr. Dundyke."
"And you fancied right. 'Tain't speculating: leastways not now. There
might be some risk at first, but I knew Leifchild. In three months after
that there thousand pound was in his hand, he had made two of it for me,
and I took the one back from him, leaving him the other to go on with
again. _That_ hasn't done badly neither, Miss Arkell; it's paying itself
over and over again. And I'm safe; for if he lost it all, I'm only where
I was afore I began, and my first risked thousand is safe."
"And if failure should come, is there no risk to you?"
"Not a penny risk. Trust me for that. But failure won't come. My head's
a pretty long one for seeing my way clear, and Leifchild lays every
thing before me afore he ventures. It's better, this is, than your five
per cent. investments."
"I think it must be," assented Mildred. "I wish I could employ a trifle
in the same manner."
She spoke without any ulterior motive, but David Dundyke took the words
literally. He had no objection to do a good turn where it involved no
outlay to himself, and he really liked Mildred. He drew his chair an
inch nearer, and talked to her long and earnestly.
"Let's say it's a hundred pound," he said. "Risk it. And when Leifchild
has doubled that for you, take the first hundred back. If you lose the
rest, it won't hurt; and if it multiplies its ones into tens, you'll be
so much the better off."
It cannot be denied that Mildred was struck with the proposition. "But
does Mr. Leifchild do all this for nothing?" she asked.
"In course he don't. Leifchild ain't a fool. He gets his percentage--and
a good fat percentage too. The thing can afford it. Do as you like, you
know, Miss Arkell; but if you take my advice, you mayn't find cause to
be sorry for it in the end."
"Thank you," said Mildred, "I will think of it."
"Give Aunt Betsey's dear love to Travice," whispered Mrs. Dundyke, when
Mildred was leaving, "and my best and truest regards to Mr. Arkell. And
oh, Miss Mildred, if you could prevail upon them to let Travice come
back with you to visit me, I should not know how to be happy enough! I
have always so loved children; and David would like it, too."
"Is there any chance, think you?" returned Mildred.
"No, no, there is none; his mother would be indignant at the presumption
of the request," concluded Betsey in her bitter conviction.
And she was not mistaken.