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MILDRED ARKELL.
A Novel.
BY MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS," "TREVLYN HOLD," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND
1865.
_All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND--A SURPRISE 1
II. A DOUBTFUL SEARCH 24
III. DETECTION 43
IV. ASSIZE SATURDAY 68
V. ASSIZE SUNDAY 86
VI. PREACHING TO THE DEAN 103
VII. CARR VERSUS CARR 122
VIII. THE SECOND DAY 144
IX. THE SHADOWS OF DEATH 168
X. THE GRAVESTONE IN THE CLOISTERS 191
XI. THOUGHTLESS WORDS 213
XII. MISCONCEPTION 236
XIII. THE TABLES TURNED 256
XIV. A RECOGNITION 273
XV. MILDRED'S RECOMPENSE 290
XVI. MISS FAUNTLEROY LOVED AT LAST 309
MILDRED ARKELL.
CHAPTER I.
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.--A SURPRISE.
It happened on that same second of December that Mr. Littelby took his
place for the first time as conductor of the business of Mynn and Mynn.
He had arrived at Eckford the previous day, as per agreement, but was
not installed formally in the office until this. Old Mynn, not in his
gout now, had come down early, and was brisk and lively; George Mynn was
also there.
He was an admitted solicitor just as much as were Mynn and Mynn; he was
to be their confidential _locum tenens_; the whole management and
conduct of affairs was, during their absence, to fall upon him; he was,
in point of fact, to be practically a principal, not a clerk, and at the
end of a year, if all went well, he was to be allowed a share in the
business, and the firm would be Mynn, Mynn, and Littelby.
It was not, then, to be wondered at, that the chief of the work this day
was the inducting him into the particulars of the various cases that
Mynn and Mynn happened to have on hand, more especially those that were
to come on for trial at the Westerbury assizes, and would require much
attention beforehand. They were shut up betimes, the three, in the small
room that would in future be Mr. Littelby's--a room which had hitherto
been nobody's in particular, for the premises were commodious, but which
Mr. Richards had been in the habit of appropriating as his own, not for
office purposes, but for private uses. Quite a cargo of articles
belonging to Mr. Richards had been there: coats, parcels, pipes,
letters, and various other items too numerous to mention. On the
previous day, Richards had received a summary mandate to "clear it out,"
as it was about to be put in order for the use of Mr. Littelby. Mr.
Richards had obeyed in much dudgeon, and his good feeling towards the
new manager--his master in future--was not improved. It had not been
friendly previously, for Mr. Richards had a vague idea that his way
would not be quite so much his own as it had been.
He sat now at his desk in the public office, into which clients plunged
down two steps from the landing on the first flight of stairs, as if
they had been going into a well. His subordinate, a steady young man
named Pope, who was browbeaten by Richards every hour of his life, sat
at a small desk apart. Mr. Richards, ostensibly occupied in the perusal
of some formidable-looking parchment, was, in reality, biting his nails
and frowning, and inwardly wishing he could bring the ceiling down on
Mr. Littelby's head, shut up in that adjoining apartment; and could he
have invented a decent excuse for sending out Pope, in the teeth of the
intimation Mr. George Mynn had just given, that Pope was to stop in, for
he should want him, Mr. Richards would have had his own ear to the
keyhole of the door.
Mr. Littelby and Mr. Mynn sat at the square table, some separate bundles
of papers before them, tied up with red string; Mr. George Mynn stood
with his back to the fire. Never was there a keener or a better man of
business than Mynn the elder, when his state of health allowed him a
respite from pain. He had been well for two or three weeks now, and the
office found the benefit of it. _He_ was the one to explain matters to
Mr. Littelby; Mr. George only put in a word here and there. In due
course they came to a small bundle of papers labelled "Carr," and Mr.
Mynn, in his rapid, clear, concise manner, gave an outline of the case.
Before he had said many words, Mr. Littelby raised his head, his face
betokening interest, and some surprise.
"But I thought the Carr case was at an end," he observed. "At least, I
supposed it would naturally be so."
"Oh dear no," said old Mynn; "it's coming on for trial at the
assizes--that is, if the other side are so foolish as to go on to
action. I don't myself think they will be."
"The other side? You mean the widow of Robert Carr the clergyman?" asked
Mr. Littelby, scarcely thinking, however, that Mr. Mynn could mean it.
"The widow and the brother--yes. Fauntleroy, of Westerbury, acts for
them. But he'll never, as I believe, bring so utterly lame a case into
court."
Mr. Littelby wondered what his new chief could mean; he did not
understand at all.
"I should have supposed the case would have been brought to an end by
you," he observed. "From the moment that the marriage was discovered to
have taken place, your clients, the Carrs of Eckford, virtually lost
their cause."
"But the marriage has not been discovered to have taken place," said Mr.
Mynn.
"Yes, it has. Is it possible that you have not had intimation of it from
Mr. Fauntleroy?"
Mr. Mynn paused a moment. Mr. George, who had been looking at his boots,
raised his head to listen.
"Where was it discovered?--who discovered it?" asked Mr. Mynn, with the
air of a man who does not believe what is being said to him.
"The widow, young Mrs. Carr, found the notice of it. In searching her
late father-in-law's desk, she discovered a letter written by him to his
son. It was the week subsequent to her husband's death. The letter had
slipped between the leaves of an old blotting-book, and lain there
unsuspected. While poor Robert Carr the clergyman was wearing away his
last days of life in those fruitless searchings of the London churches,
he little thought how his own carelessness had forced it upon him. He
examined this very desk when his father died, for any papers there might
be in it, and must have examined it imperfectly, for there the letter
must have been."
"But what was in the letter?" asked George Mynn, speaking for the first
time since the topic arose.
"It stated that he had married the young lady who went away with him,
Martha Ann Hughes, on the morning they left Westerbury--married her at
her own parish church, St.--St.--I forget the name."
"Her parish church was St. James the Less," said Mr. Mynn, speaking very
fast.
"Yes, that was it; I remember now. It struck me at the time as being a
somewhat uncommon appellation. That is where the marriage took place, on
the morning they left Westerbury."
Mr. Mynn sat down; he had need of some rest to recover his
consternation. Mr. George never spoke: he said afterwards, that the
thought flashed upon him, he could not tell how or why, that the letter
was a fraud.
"How did you know of this?" was Mr. Mynn's first question.
Mr. Littelby related how: that Mrs. Carr had informed him of it at the
time of the discovery: and, it may be observed, that he was unconscious
of breaking any faith in repeating it. Mrs. Carr, attaching little
importance to Mr. Fauntleroy's request of keeping it to herself, had
either forgotten or neglected to caution Mr. Littelby, to whom it had at
once been told. Mr. Littelby, on his part, had never supposed but the
discovery had been made known to Mynn and Mynn and the Carrs of Eckford,
by Mr. Fauntleroy, and that the litigation had thus been brought to an
end.
"And you say this is known to Mr. Fauntleroy?" asked old Mynn.
"Certainly. Mrs. Carr forwarded the letter to him the very hour she
discovered it."
"Then what can possess the man not to have sent us notice of it?" he
exclaimed. "He'd never be guilty of the child's play of concealing this
knowledge until the cause was before the court, and then bringing it
forward as a settler! Fauntleroy's sharp in practice; but he'd hardly do
this."
"Is it certain that the marriage did take place there?" quietly put in
Mr. George Mynn.
They both looked at him; his quiet tone was so full of significance: and
Mr. Mynn had to turn round in his chair to do it.
"It appears to me to be a very curious story," continued the younger
man. "What sort of a woman is this Mrs. Carr?"
A pause. "You are not thinking that she is capable of--of--concocting
any fraud, are you?" cried Mr. Littelby.
"I should be sorry to say it. I only say the thing wears a curious
appearance."
"She is entirely incapable of it," returned Mr. Littelby, warmly. "She
is quite a young girl, although she has been a wife and mother. Besides,
the letter, remember, only stated where the marriage took place, and
where its record might be found. I remember she told me that the words
in the letter were, that the marriage would be found duly entered in the
register."
Mr. Mynn was leaning back in his chair; his hands in his waistcoat
pockets, his eyes half closed in thought.
"Did you see this letter, Mr. Littelby?" he inquired, rousing himself.
"No. Mrs. Carr had sent it off to Mr. Fauntleroy. She told me its
contents, I daresay nearly word for word."
"Because I really do not think the marriage could have taken place as
described. It would inevitably have been known if it had: some persons,
surely, would have seen them go into the church; and the parson and
clerk must have been cognisant of it! How was it that these people kept
the secret? Besides, the parties were away from the town by eight
o'clock, or thereabouts."
"I don't know anything about the details," said Mr. Littelby; "but I do
know that the letter, stating what I have told you, was found by Mrs.
Carr, and that she implicitly believes in it. Would the letter be likely
to assert a thing that a minute's time could disprove? If the record of
the marriage is not on the register of St. James the Less, to what end
state that it is?"
"If this letter stated what you say, Mr. Littelby, rely upon it that the
record is there. There have been such things known, mind you"--and old
Mynn lowered his voice as he spoke--"as frauds committed on registers;
false entries made. And they have passed for genuine, too, to
unsuspicious eyes. But, if this is one, it won't pass so with me," he
added, rising. "Not a man in the three kingdoms has a keener eye than
mine."
"It is impossible that a false entry can have been made in the
register!" exclaimed Mr. Littelby, speaking slowly, as if debating the
question in his own mind.
"We shall see. I assure you I consider it equally impossible for the
marriage to have taken place, as stated, without detection."
"But--assuming your suspicion to be correct--who can have been wicked
enough to insert the entry?" cried Mr. Littelby.
"That, I can't tell. The entry of the marriage would take the property
from our clients, the Carrs of Eckford, therefore they are exempt from
the suspicion. I wonder," continued Mr. Mynn in a half-secret tone,
"whether that young clergyman got access to the register when he was
down here?"
"That young clergyman was honest as the day," emphatically interrupted
Mr. Littelby. "I could answer for his truth and honour with my life. The
finding of that letter would have sent him to his grave easier than he
went to it."
"There's another brother, is there not?"
"Yes. But he is in Holland, looking after the home affairs, which are
also complicated. He has not been here at all since his father's death."
"Ah, one doesn't know," said old Mynn, glancing at his watch. "Hundreds
of miles have intervened, before now, between a committed fraud and its
plotter. Well, we will say no more at present. I'll tell you more when I
have had a look at this register. It will not deceive _me_."
"Are you going over now?" asked Mr. George.
"At once," replied old Mynn, with decision; "and I'll bring you back my
report and my opinion as soon as may be."
But Mr. Mynn was away considerably longer than there appeared any need
that he should be. When he did arrive he explained that his delay arose
from the effectual and thorough searching of the register.
"I don't know what could have been the meaning or the use of that letter
you told us of, Mr. Littelby," he said, as he took off his coat; "there
is no entry of the marriage in the church register of St. James the
Less."
"No entry of it!"
"None whatever."
Mr. Littelby did not at once speak: many thoughts were crowding upon his
mind. He and old Mynn were standing now, and George Mynn was sitting
with his elbow on the table, and his aching head leaning on his hand.
The least excitement out of common, sometimes only the sitting for a day
in the close office, would bring on these intolerable headaches.
"I have searched effectually--and I don't suppose the old clerk of the
church blessed me for keeping him there--and I am prepared to take an
affidavit, if necessary, that no such marriage is recorded in the book,"
continued the elder lawyer. "What could have been the aim or object of
that letter, I cannot fathom."
"Mr. Carr will not come into the money, then?" said Mr. Littelby.
"Of course not, so far as things look at present. I thought it was very
strange, if such a thing had been there, that Fauntleroy did not let it
be known," he emphatically added.
"You are sure you have fully searched?"
"Mr. Littelby, I have fully searched," was the reply; and the lawyer was
not pleased at being asked the question after what he had said. "There
is no such marriage entered there; and rely upon it no such marriage
ever was entered there. I might go farther and say, with safety in my
opinion, that there never was such marriage entered anywhere."
"Then why should Robert Carr, the elder, have written the letter?"
"_Did_ he write it? It may be a question."
"No, he never wrote it," interposed George Mynn, looking up. "There was
some wicked plot concocted--I don't say by whom, and I can't say it--of
which this letter was the prologue. Perhaps the epilogue--the insertion
of the marriage in the register--was frustrated; possibly this letter
was found before its time, and the despatching it to Mr. Fauntleroy
marred the whole. How can we say?"
"We can't say," returned old Mynn. "One thing I can say and affirm--that
there's no record; and had the letter been a genuine one, the entry
would be there now."
"I wonder if Mr. Fauntleroy believes the entry to be there?" cried Mr.
Littelby. "I am nearly sure that he has not given notice of the contrary
to Mrs. Carr. She would have told me if he had."
"If Fauntleroy has been so foolish as to take the information in the
letter for granted, without sending to see the register, he must put up
with the consequences," said old Mynn; "I shall not enlighten him."
He spoke as he felt--cross. Mr. Mynn was not pleased at having spent the
best part of the day over what he had found to be a fool's errand;
neither did he like to have been startled unnecessarily. He sat down and
drew the papers before him, saying something to the effect that perhaps
they could attend to their legitimate business, now that the other was
disposed of. Mr. Littelby caught the cue, and resolved to say no more in
that office of Carr _versus_ Carr.
And so, it was a sort of diamond cut diamond. Mr. Fauntleroy had said
nothing to Mynn and Mynn of his private information; and Mynn and Mynn
would say nothing to Mr. Fauntleroy of theirs.
Christmas drew on. Mrs. Dundyke, alone now, for Mr. Carr had gone back
to Holland, was seated one afternoon by her drawing-room fire, in the
twilight, musing very sadly on the past. The servants were at tea in the
kitchen, and one of them had just been up to ask her mistress if she
would take a cup, as she sometimes did before her late dinner, and had
gone down again, leaving unintentionally the room door unlatched.
As the girl entered the kitchen, the sound of laughter and merriment
came forth to the ears of Mrs. Dundyke. It quite jarred upon her heart.
How often has it occurred to us, bending under the weight of some secret
trouble that goes well-nigh to break us, to envy our unconscious
servants, who seem to have no care!
The kitchen door closed again, and silence supervened--a silence that
soon began to make itself felt, as it will in these moments of gloom.
Mrs. Dundyke was aroused from it in a remarkable manner; not violently
or loudly, but still in so strange a way, that her mouth opened in
consternation as she listened, and she rose noiselessly from her chair
in a sort of horror.
_She had distinctly heard the latch-key put into the street-door lock_;
just as she had heard it many a time when her husband used to come home
from business in the year last gone by. She heard it turned in the lock,
the peculiar click it used to give, and she heard the door quietly open
and then close again, as if some one had entered. Not since they went
abroad the previous July had she heard those sounds, or had the door
thus been opened. There had been but that one latch-key to the door, and
Mr. Dundyke, either by chance or intention, had carried it away with him
in his pocket. It had been in his pocket during the whole period of
their travels, and been lost with him.
What could it mean? Who had come in? Footsteps, slow, hesitating
footsteps were crossing the hall; they seemed to halt at the
dining-room, and were now ascending the stairs. Mrs. Dundyke was by far
too practical a woman to believe in ghosts, but that anything but the
ghost of her husband could open the door with that latch-key and be
stealing up, was hard to believe.
"Betsey!"
If ever she felt a wish to sink into the wall, or through the floor, she
felt it then. The voice which had called out the familiar home name, was
her husband's voice; his, and yet not his. His, in a manner; but
querulous, worn, weakened. She stood in horror, utterly bewildered, not
daring to move, her arms clasping a chair for protection, she knew not
from what, her eyes strained on the unlatched door. That it could be her
husband returned in life, her thoughts never so much as glanced at.
He pushed open the door, and came in without any surprise in his face or
greeting on his tongue; came in and went straight to the fire, and sat
down in a chair before it, just as though he had not been gone away an
hour--he who had once been David Dundyke. Was it David Dundyke
still--_was_ it? He looked thin and shabby, and his hair was cut close
to his head, and he was altogether altered. Mrs. Dundyke was gazing at
him with a fixed, unnatural stare, like one who has been seized with
catalepsy.
He saw her standing there, and turned his head, looking at her for a
full minute.
"Betsey!"
She went forward then; it _was_ her husband, and in life. What the
mystery could have been she did not know yet--did not glance at in that
wild moment--but she fell down at his knees and clasped him to her, and
wept delirious tears of joy and agony.
It seemed--when the meeting was over, and the marvelling servants had
shaken hands with him, and he had been refreshed with dinner, and the
time came for questions--that he could not explain much of the mystery
either. He had evidently undergone some great change, physically and
mentally, and it had left him the wreck of what he was, with his
faculties impaired, and a hesitating speech.
More especially impaired in memory. He could recollect so little of the
past; indeed, their sojourn at the hotel at Geneva seemed to have gone
from his mind altogether. Mrs. Dundyke saw that he must have had some
sort of brain attack; but, what, she could not tell.
"David, where have you been all this while?" she said, soothingly, as he
lay on the sofa she had drawn to the fire, and she sat on a stool
beneath and clasped his hand.
"All this while? I came back directly."
She paused. "Came back from where?"
"From the bed."
"The bed!" she repeated; and her heart beat with a sick faintness as she
felt, for the twentieth time, that henceforth he could only be
questioned as a child. "From the bed you lay in when you were ill?"
"Yes."
"Were you ill long?"
"No. I lay in it after I got well: my head and my legs were not strong.
They turned. It was the bed in the kitchen with the large white pillows.
They slept in the back room."
"Who did?"
"Paul and Marie. She's his wife."
"Did they take care of you?"
"Yes, they took care of me. Little Paul used to fetch the water. He's
seven."
"Do you remember----" (she spoke the words with trembling, lest the name
should excite him) "Mr. Hardcastle?"
It did in some degree. He lay looking at his wife, his face and thoughts
working. "Hardcastle! It was him that--that--was with me when I fell
down."
"Where did you fall?" she asked, as quietly as she could.
"In the sun. We walked a long, long way, and he gave me something to
drink out of a bottle, and I was giddy, and he told me to go to sleep."
"Did he stay with you?"
Mr. Dundyke stared as though he did not understand the question.
"I went giddy. He took my pocket-book; he took out the letters, and put
it back to me again. Paul found it. I went to sleep in the sun."
"When did Paul find it?"
David Dundyke appeared unable to comprehend the "when." "In his cart,"
he said; "he found me too."
"David, dear, try and recollect; did Paul take you to his cottage?"
David looked puzzled, and then nodded his head several times, as if
wishing to convince himself of the fact.
"And I suppose you were ill there?"
"I suppose I was ill there; they said so. Marie spoke English; she had
been at--at--at sea."
This was not very perspicuous, but Mrs. Dundyke did not care for minor
details.
"How did you come home?" she asked. And she glanced suddenly down at his
boots; an idea presenting itself to her, that she might see them worn
and travel-stained. But they were not. They were the same boots that he
had on that last morning in Geneva, and they appeared to have been
little worn.
"How did I come home?" he repeated. "I came. Marie said I was well
enough. Paul changed the note."
"What note?" she asked.
"The note from England. He didn't see that when he took the others."
"He" evidently meant Mr. Hardcastle. She began to comprehend a little,
and put her questions accordingly.
"Mr. Hardcastle must have robbed you, David."
"Mr. Hardcastle robbed me."
She found he had a habit of repeating her words. She had noticed the
same peculiarity before, in cases of decaying intellect.
"The bank note that he did not find was the one you had written for over
and above what you wanted. Why did you write for it, David?"
This was a back question, and it took a great many others before David
could answer. "He might have wanted to borrow more," he said at length;
"I'd have lent him all then."
Poor man! That he should have had such blind faith in Mr. Hardcastle as
to send for money in case he should "want to borrow more!" Mrs. Dundyke
had taken this view of the case from the first.
"You don't believe in him now, David?"
"I don't believe in him now. He has got my bank notes; and he left me in
the sun. Paul, put me in the cart when it came by."
"David, why did you not write to me?"
David stared. "I came," he said. And she found afterwards, that he could
not write; she was to find that he never attempted to write again.
"Did you send to Geneva?--to me?"
"To Geneva?--to me?"
"To me--me, David; not to you. Did you send to Geneva?"
He shook his head, evidently not knowing what she meant, and seemed to
think. Mrs. Dundyke felt nearly sure that he must have lain long
insensible, for weeks, perhaps months; that is, not sufficiently
conscious to understand or remember; and that when he grew better,
Geneva and its doings had faded from his remembrance.
"How did you come home, David?" she asked again. "Did you come alone?"
"Did you come alone--yes, in the diligences, and rail, and sea. I told
them all to take me to England; Paul got the money for me; he took the
note and brought it back."
Paul had changed it into French money; that must be the meaning of it.
Mr. Dundyke put his hand in his pocket and pulled out sundry five-franc
pieces.
"Marie's got some. I gave her half."
Mrs. Dundyke hoped it was so. She could hardly understand yet, how he
could have found his way home alone; even with the help of "I told them
all to take me to England."
"David!" she whispered, "David! I don't know how I shall ever be
thankful enough to God!"
"I'd like some porter."
It was a contrast that grated on her ear; the animal want following
without break on the spiritual aspiration. She was soon to find that any
finer feeling he might ever have possessed, had gone with his mind. He
could eat and drink still, and understand that; but there was something
wrong with the brain.
"How did you come down here to-night, David?"
"How did I come down here to-night? There was the omnibus."
The questions began to pain her. "He is fatigued," she thought; "perhaps
he will answer better to-morrow." The porter was brought to him, and he
fell asleep immediately after drinking it. She rose from her low seat,
and sat down in a chair opposite to him.
It was like a dream; and Mrs. Dundyke all but pinched herself to see
whether she was awake or asleep. She believed that she could tell pretty
accurately what the past had been. Mr. Hardcastle had followed her
husband to the side of the lake that morning, had in some way induced
him to go away from it; had taken him a long, long way into the cross
country--and it must have been at that time that the Swiss peasant, who
gave his testimony at Geneva, had seen them. At the proper opportunity,
Mr. Hardcastle must have, perhaps, given him some stupefying drink, and
then robbed him and left him; but Mrs. Dundyke inclined to the opinion
that the man must have believed Mr. Dundyke insensible, or he surely
would never have allowed him to see him take the notes. He must then
have lain, it was hard to say how long, before Paul found him; and the
lying thus in the sun probably induced the fit, or sun-stroke, or brain
fever, whatever it was, that attacked him. He spoke of a cart: and she
concluded that Paul must have been many miles out of the route of his
home, or else the search instituted would surely have found him, had he
been within a few miles of Geneva. Why these people had kept him, had
not declared him to the nearest authorities, it was hard to say. They
might have kept him from benevolent motives; or might have seen the bank
note in his pocket-book, and kept him from motives of worldly interest.
However it might be, they had shown themselves worthy Christian people,
and she should ever be deeply grateful. _He_ had evidently no idea of
the flight of time since; perhaps--
"What do you wear that for?"
He was lying with his eyes open, and pointing to the widow's cap. She
rose and bent over him, as she answered--
"David! David, dear! we have been mourning you as dead."
"Mourning me as dead! I am not dead."
No, he was not dead, and she was shedding happy tears for it, as she
threw the cap off from the braids of her still luxuriant hair.
As well, perhaps, almost that he had been dead! for the best part of his
life, the mind's life, was over. No more intellect; no more business for
him in Fenchurch-street; no more ambitious aspirations after the civic
chair!--it was all over for ever for poor David Dundyke.
But he had come home. He who was supposed to be lying
dead--murdered--had come home. It was a strange fact to go forth to the
world: one amidst the extraordinary tales that now and then arise to
startle it almost into disbelief.