THE TABLES TURNED.
Mildred had to go back for a time to Lady Dewsbury's. That lady's house
and effects now lapsed to Sir Edward; but Sir Edward was abroad with his
wife and children, and he begged Miss Arkell to remain in it, its
mistress, until they could return. This was convenient for Mildred's
plans. It afforded a change of scene for Lucy; and it gave the
opportunity and time for the house in Westerbury to be renovated; in
which she intended now to take up her abode. The house was Mildred's
now: it came to her on the death of her brother, their father having so
settled it; but for this settlement, poor Peter had disposed of it in
his necessities long ago.
Charlotte Arkell married, and departed with her husband, Captain
Anderson, for India, taking Sophy with her. The paying over her marriage
portion of a thousand pounds--a very poor portion beside what she once
might have expected--further crippled the resources of Mr. Arkell; and
things seemed to be coming to a crisis.
And Travice? Travice succumbed. Hardly caring what became of him, he
allowed himself to be baited--badgered--by his mother into offering
himself to one of the "great brazen milkmaids." From the hour of Lucy's
departure from the city, she let him have no peace, no rest.
One day--and it was the last feather in the scale, the little balance
necessary to weigh it down--Mr. Arkell summoned his son to a private
interview. It was only what Travice had been expecting.
"Travice, what is your objection to Miss Fauntleroy?"
"I can't bear the sight of her," returned Travice, curling his lips
contemptuously. "Can you, sir?"
Mr. Arkell smiled. "There are some who would call her a fine woman,
Travice: she is one."
"A fine _vulgar_ woman," corrected Travice, with a marked stress upon
the word. "I always had an instinctive dread of vulgar people myself. I
certainly never could have believed I should voluntarily ally myself
with one."
"Never marry for looks, my boy," said Mr. Arkell in an eager whisper.
"Some, who have done so before you, have awoke to find they had made a
cruel mistake."
"Most likely, sir, if they married for looks alone."
Mr. Arkell glanced keenly at his son. "Travice, have I your full
confidence? I wish you would give it me."
"In what way?" inquired Travice. "Why do you ask that?"
"Am I right in suspecting that you have cherished a different
attachment?"
The tell-tale blood dyed Travice Arkell's brow. Mr. Arkell little needed
other answer.
"My boy, let there be no secrets between us. You know that your welfare
and happiness--your _happiness_, Travice--lie nearest to my heart. Have
you learnt to love Lucy Arkell?"
"Yes," said Travice; and there was a whole world of pain in the simple
answer.
"I thought so. I thought I saw the signs of it a long while ago; but,
Travice, it would never do."
"You would object to her?"
"Object to her!--to Lucy!--to Peter's child! No. She is one of the
sweetest girls living; I am not sure but I love her more than I do my
own: and I wish she could be my real daughter and your wife. But it
cannot be, Travice. There are impediments in the way, on her side and on
yours; and your own sense must tell you this as well as I can."
He could not gainsay it. The impediments were all too present to Travice
every hour of his life.
"You cannot take a portionless wife. Lucy has nothing now, or in
prospect, beyond any little trifle that may come to her hereafter at
Mildred's death; but I don't suppose Mildred can have saved much. It is
said, too, that Lucy is likely to marry Tom Palmer."
"I know she is," bitterly acquiesced Travice.
"Lucy, then, for both these reasons, is out of the question. Have you
not realized to your own mind the fact that she is?"
"Oh yes."
"Then, Travice, the matter resolves itself into a very small compass. It
stands alone; it has no extraneous drawbacks; it can rest upon its own
merits or demerits. Will you, or will you not, marry Miss Fauntleroy?"
Travice remained silent.
"It will be well for me that you should, for the temporary use of money
that would then be yours would save us, as you know, from a ruinous
loss; but, Travice, I would not, for the wealth of worlds, put that
consideration against your happiness; but there is another consideration
that I cannot put away from me, and that is, that the marriage will make
you independent. For your sake, I should like to see you marry Miss
Fauntleroy."
"She----"
"Wait one moment while I tell you why I speak. I do not think you are
doing quite the right thing by Miss Fauntleroy, in thus, as it were,
trifling with her. She expects you to propose to her, and you are
keeping her in suspense unwarrantably long. You should either make her
an offer, or let it be unmistakably known that there exists no such
intention on your part. It would be a good thing in all ways, if you can
only make up your mind to it; but do as you please: _I_ do not urge you
either way."
"I may as well do it," muttered Travice to himself. "_She_ has chosen
another, and it little matters what becomes of me: look which way I
will, there's nothing but darkness. As well go through life with Bab
Fauntleroy at my side, like an incubus, as go through it without her."
And Travice Arkell--as if he feared his resolution might desert
him--went out forthwith and offered himself to Miss Fauntleroy. Never,
surely, did any similar proposal betray so much _hauteur_, so much
indifference, so little courtesy in the offering. Barbara happened to be
alone; she was sitting in a white muslin dress, looking as big as a
house, and waiting in state for any visitors who might call. He spoke
out immediately. She probably knew, he said, that he was a sort of
bankrupt in self, purse, and heart; little worth the acceptance of any
one; but if she would like to take him, such as he was, he would try and
do his duty by her.
The offer was really couched in those terms; and he did not take shame
to himself as he spoke them. Travice Arkell _could_ not be a hypocrite:
he knew that the girl was aware of the state of things and of his
indifference; he believed she saw through his love for Lucy; and he
hated her with a sort of resentful hatred for having fixed her liking
and her hopes upon him. He had been an indulged son all his life--a sort
of fortune's pet--and the turn that things had taken was an awful blow.
"Will she say she'll have me?" he thought as he concluded. "I don't
believe any other woman would." But Barbara Fauntleroy did say she would
have him; and she put out her hand to him in her hearty good-natured
way, and told him she thought they should get on very well together when
once they had "shaken down." Travice touched the hand; he shook it in a
gingerly manner, and then dropped it; but he never kissed her--he never
said a warmer word than "thank you." Perhaps Miss Fauntleroy did not
look for it: sentiment is little understood by these matter-of-fact,
unrefined natures, with their loud voices, and their demonstrative
temperaments. Travice would have to kiss her some time, he supposed; but
he was content to put off the evil until that time came.
"How odd that you should have come and made me an offer this morning,
Mr. Travice," she said, with a laugh. "Lizzie has just had one."
"Has she?" languidly returned Travice. His mind was so absorbed in the
thought just mentioned, that he had no idea whether the lady meant an
offer or a kiss that her sister had received, and he did not trouble
himself to ask. It was quite the same to Travice Arkell.
"It's from Ben Carr," proceeded Miss Fauntleroy. "He came over here this
morning, bringing a great big nosegay from their hot-house, and he made
Liz an offer. Liz was taken all of a heap; and I think, but for me,
she'd have said yes then."
"I dare say she would," returned Travice, and then wished the words
recalled. They and their haughty tone had certainly been prompted by the
remembrance of the "yes," just said to him by another.
"Liz came flying into the next room to me, asking what she should do; he
was very pressing, she said, and wanted her answer then. I'm certain
she'd have given it, Mr. Travice, if I had not been there to stop her. I
went into the room with her to Ben Carr, and I said, 'Mr. Ben, Liz won't
say anything decided now, but she'll think of it for a few days; if
you'll look in on Saturday, she'll give you her answer, yes or no.' Ben
Carr stared at me angry enough; but Liz backed up what I had said, and
he had to take it."
"Does she mean to accept him?" asked Travice.
"Well, she's on the waver. She does not dislike him, and she does not
particularly like him. He's too old for her; he's twenty years older
than Liz; but it's her first offer, and young women are apt to think
when they get _that_, they had better accept it, lest they may never get
another."
"Your sister need not fear that. Her money will get her offers, if
nothing else does."
He spoke in the impulse of the moment; but it occurred to him instantly
that it was not generous to say it.
"Perhaps so," said Miss Fauntleroy. "But Lizzie and I have always
dreaded that. We would like to be married for ourselves, not for our
money. Sometimes we say in joke to one another we wish we could bury it,
or could have passed ourselves off to the world as being poor until the
day after we were married, and then surprised our husbands by the news,
and made them a present of the money."
She spoke the truth; Travice knew she did. Whatever were the failings of
the Miss Fauntleroys, genuine good nature was with both a pre-eminent
virtue.
"Ben Carr is not the choice I should make," remarked Travice. "Of
course, it's no business of mine."
"Nor I. I don't much like Ben Carr. Liz thinks him handsome. Well, she
has got till Saturday to make up her mind--thanks to me."
Travice rose, and gingerly touched the hand again. The thought struck
him again that he ought to kiss her; that he ought to put an
engagement-ring on one of those fair and substantial fingers; ought to
do many other things. But he went out, and did none of them.
"I'll not deceive her," he said to himself, as he walked down the
street, more intensely wretched than he had ever in his life felt. "I'll
not play the hypocrite; I couldn't do it if it were to save myself from
hanging. She shall see my feeling for her exactly as it is, and then
she'll not reproach me afterwards with coldness. It is impossible that I
can ever like her; it seems to me now impossible that I can ever
_endure_ her; but if she does marry me in the face of such evident
feelings, I'll do my best for her. Duty she shall have, but there'll be
no love."
A very satisfactory state in prospective! Others, however, besides
Travice Arkell, have married to enter on the same.
Some few months insensibly passed away in London for Miss Arkell and
Lucy, and when they returned to Westerbury the earth was glowing with
the tints of autumn. They did not return alone. Mrs. Dundyke, a real
widow now beyond dispute, came with them. Poor David Dundyke, never
quite himself after his return, never again indulging in the yearning
for the civic chair, which had made the day-dream of his industrious
life, had died calmly and peacefully, attended to the last by those
loving hands that would fain have kept him, shattered though he was. He
was lying now in Nunhead Cemetery, from whence he would certainly never
be resuscitated as he had been from his supposed grave in Switzerland.
Mrs. Dundyke grieved after him still, and Mildred pressed her to go back
with them to Westerbury, for a little change. She consented gladly.
But Mrs. Dundyke did not go down in the humble fashion that she had once
gone as Betsey Travice. She sent on her carriage and her two men
servants. That there was a little natural feeling of retaliation in
this, cannot be denied. Charlotte had despised her all her life; but she
should at least no longer despise her on the score of poverty. "I shall
do it," she said to Mildred, "and the carriage will be useful to us. It
can be kept at an inn, with the horses and coachman; and John will be
useful in helping your two maids."
It was late when they arrived at Westerbury; Miss Arkell did not number
herself amid those who like to start upon a journey at daybreak; and
Lucy looked twice to see whether the old house was really her home: it
was so entirely renovated inside and out, as to create the doubt. Miss
Arkell had given her private orders, saying nothing to Lucy, and the
change was great. Various embellishments had been added; every part of
it put into ornamental repair; a great deal of the furniture had been
replaced by new; and, for its size, it was now one of the most charming
residences in Westerbury.
"Do you like the change, Lucy?" asked Miss Arkell, when they had gone
through the house together, with Mrs. Dundyke.
"Of course I do, Aunt Mildred;" but the answer was given in a somewhat
apathetic tone, as Lucy mostly spoke now. "It must have cost a great
deal."
"Well, is it not the better for it? I may not remain in Westerbury for
good, and I could let my house to greater advantage now than I could
have done before."
"That's true," listlessly answered Lucy.
"Lucy," suddenly exclaimed Miss Arkell, "what is it that makes you
appear so dispirited? I could account for it after your father's death;
it was only reasonable then; but it seems to me quite unreasonable that
it should continue. I begin to think it must be your natural manner."
Lucy's heart gave a bound of something like terror at the question. "I
was always quiet, aunt," she said.
None had looked on with more wonder at the expense being lavished on the
house than Mrs. Arkell. "So absurd!" she exclaimed, loftily. "But
Mildred Arkell was always pretentious, for a lady's maid."
William Arkell called to see Mildred the morning after her arrival. Very
much surprised indeed, was he, to see also Mrs. Dundyke. He carried the
news home to his wife.
"_Betsey_ down here!" she answered. "Why, what has brought her?"
"She told me she had accompanied Mildred for a little change. She is
coming in to see you by-and-by, Charlotte."
"I hope she's not coming begging!" tartly responded Mrs. Arkell.
"Begging?"
"Yes; begging. It's a question whether she's left with enough to live
upon. I'm sure we have none to spare, for her or for anybody else; and
so I shall plainly tell her if she attempts to ask."
That they had none to spare, was an indisputable fact. Mrs. Arkell had
done all in her power to hurry the marriage on with Miss Fauntleroy, but
Travice held back unpardonably. His cheek grew bright with hectic, his
whole time was spent in what his mother called "moping;" and he entered
but upon rare occasions the house of his bride elect. Mr. Arkell would
not urge him by a single word; but, in the delay, he had had to
sacrifice another remnant of his property.
The first use that Mrs. Dundyke put her carriage to in Westerbury, was
that of going in it to William Arkell's. Mildred declined to accompany
her, and Lucy was obliged to go with her; Lucy, who would have given the
whole world _not_ to go. But she could not say so.
Mrs. Arkell was in the dining-room, when the carriage drove in at the
court-yard gates. She wondered whose it was. A nice close carriage, the
servants attending it in mourning. She did not recognise it as one she
knew.
She heard the visitors shown into the drawing-room, and waited for the
cards with some curiosity. But no cards came in. Mrs. Dundyke, the
servant brought word, and she was with Miss Lucy Arkell.
Mrs. Dundyke! Wondering what on earth brought Betsey in that carriage,
and where she had picked it up, Mrs. Arkell took a closer view of it
through the window. It was too good a carriage to be anything but a
private one, and those horses were never hired; and there were the
servants. She looked at the crest. But it was not a crest. Only an
enclosed cipher, D.D.
It did not lessen her curiosity, and she went to the drawing-room,
wondering still; but she never once glanced at the possibility that it
could be Mrs. Dundyke's; the thought occurred to her that it must belong
to some member of the Dewsbury family, and had been lent to Mildred.
It was a stiff meeting. Mrs. Arkell, fully imbued with the persuasion
that her sister was left badly off, that she was the same poor sister of
other days, was less cordial than she might have been. She shook hands
with her sister; she shook hands with Lucy; but in her manner there was
a restraint that told. They spoke of general subjects, of Mr. Dundyke's
strange adventure in Switzerland, and his subsequent real death; of
Lucy's sojourn in London; of Charlotte's recent marriage; of the
departure of Sophy with her for India--just, in fact, as might have been
the case with ordinary guests.
"Travice is soon to be married, I hear," said Mrs. Dundyke.
"Yes; but he holds back unpardonably."
Had Mrs. Arkell not been thinking of something else, she had never given
that tart, but true answer. She happened just then to be calculating the
cost of Mrs. Dundyke's handsome mourning, and wondering how she got it.
"Why does he hold back?" quickly asked Mrs. Dundyke.
"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Arkell, with a gay, slighting laugh. "I
suppose young men like to retain their bachelor liberty as long as they
can. Does your aunt purpose to settle down in Westerbury, Lucy?"
"For the present."
"Does she think of going out again?"
"Oh no."
"Perhaps she has saved enough to keep herself without? She could not
expect to find another such place as Lady Dewsbury's."
It was not a pleasant visit, and Mrs. Dundyke did not prolong it. As
they were going out they met Travice.
"Oh, Aunt Betsey! How glad I am to see you!"
But he turned coldly enough to shake hands with Lucy. He cherished
resentment against her in his heart. She saw he did not look well; but
she was cold as he was. As he walked across the hall with his aunt, Mrs.
Arkell drew Lucy back into the drawing-room. Her curiosity had been on
the rack all the time.
"Whose carriage is that, Lucy? One belonging to the Dewsburys'?"
"It is Mrs. Dundyke's."
"Mrs.----what did you say? I asked whose carriage that is that you came
in," added Mrs. Arkell, believing that Lucy had not heard aright.
"Yes, I understood. It is Mrs. Dundyke's. She sent it on, the day before
yesterday, with her servants and horses."
"But--does--she--keep a carnage and servants?" reiterated Mrs. Arkell,
hardly able to bring out the words in her perplexed amazement.
"Oh, yes."
"Then she must be left well off?"
"Very well. She is very rich. I believe her income is close upon two
thousand a year."
"Two thou----" Mrs. Arkell wound up with a shriek of astonishment. Lucy
had to leave her to recover it in the best way she could, for Mrs.
Dundyke had got into the carriage and was waiting for her.
The poor, humble Betsey, whom she had so despised and slighted through
life! Come to _this_ fortune! While hers and her husband's was going
down. How the tables were turned!
Yes, Mrs. Arkell. Tables always are on the turn in this life.