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MILDRED ARKELL.
A Novel.
by
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
Author of
"East Lynne," "Lord Oakburn's Daughters," "Trevlyn Hold,"
etc. etc.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. II.
London:
Tinsley Brothers, Catherine Street, Strand.
1865.
All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved.
London:
Savill and Edwards, Printers, Chandos-Street,
Covent-Garden.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE SCHOOL-BOY'S LOVE 1
II. THE TOUR OF DAVID DUNDYKE, ESQUIRE 20
III. A MEETING AT GRENOBLE 37
IV. A MYSTERY 65
V. HOME IN DESPAIR 87
VI. NEWS FOR WESTERBURY 102
VII. ROBERT CARR'S VISIT 118
VIII. GOING OVER TO SQUIRE CARR'S 137
IX. A STARTLED LUNCHEON-TABLE 153
X. A MISSIVE FOR SQUIRE CARR 175
XI. THE LAST OF ROBERT CARR 191
XII. MR. RICHARDS' MORNING CALL 214
XIII. A DISLIKE THAT WAS TO BEAR ITS FRUITS 230
XIV. THE EXAMINATION 251
XV. A NIGHT WITH THE GHOSTS 272
XVI. PERPLEXITY 294
XVII. A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE 315
MILDRED ARKELL.
CHAPTER I.
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S LOVE.
A brilliant evening in July. The sun had been blazing all day with
intense force, glittering on the white pavement of the streets,
scorching the dry and thirsty earth; and it was not until his beams
shone from the very verge of the horizon that the gay butterflies of
humanity ventured to come forth.
Groups were wending their way to the Bishop's Garden: not the private
garden of the respected prelate who reigned over the diocese of
Westerbury, but a semi-public garden-promenade called by that name. In
the years long gone by, a bishop of Westerbury caused a piece of waste
land belonging to the grounds of his palace to be laid out as an
ornamental garden. Broad sunny walks for the cold of winter, shady
winding ones for the heat of summer, shrubberies and trees, flower-beds
and grass-plots, miniature rocks and a fountain, were severally formed
there; and then the bishop threw it open to the public, and it had ever
since gone by the name of the Bishop's Garden. Not to the public
indiscriminately--only to those of superior degree; the catering for the
recreation of the public indiscriminately had not come into fashion
then. It had always lain especially under the patronage of the residents
of the grounds, and they took care--or the Cerberus of a gatekeeper did
for them--that no inferior person should dare venture within yards of
it: a tradesman might not so much as put his nose through the iron
railings to take a peep in.
The garden was getting full when a college boy--he might be known by his
trencher--passed the gate with a slow step. A party had just gone in
whose movements his eyes had eagerly followed, but he was not near
enough to speak. As he looked after them wistfully, his eye caught
something glittering on the ground, and he stooped and picked it up. It
was a small locket of gold, bearing the initials "G. B."
He knew to whom it belonged. He would have given half his remaining
life, as it seemed, to go in and restore it to its owner. But that might
not be; for the college boys, whether king's scholars or private pupils,
were rigorously excluded by custom from the Bishop's Garden. And
Williams, the gatekeeper, was stealing up then.
He was tall of his age, looking about sixteen, though he was not quite
so much; tall enough to lean over the iron railings, which he did with
intense eagerness; and never did woman's face betray more beauty,
whether of form or colouring, than did his.
It was Henry Arkell. For the years have gone on, and the lovely boy of
ten or eleven, has grown into this handsome youth. Other people and
other things have grown with him.
"Now then! What be you doing here? You just please to take yourself off,
young gentleman."
He quitted the railings in obedience; the college boys never thought of
disputing the orders of the gatekeeper. Stepping backwards with a sort
of spring, he stepped upon the foot of some one who was approaching the
gate.
"Take care, Arkell."
He turned hastily and raised his trencher. The speaker was the
good-natured Bishop of Westerbury; his widowed daughter on his arm.
"I beg your lordship's pardon."
"Too intent to see me, eh! You were gazing into the garden as if you
longed to be there."
"I was looking for Miss Beauclerc, sir; I thought she might be coming
near the gate. I have just picked up this, which she must have dropped
going in."
"How do you know it is Miss Beauclerc's?" cried the bishop, glancing at
the gold locket.
"I know it's hers, sir; and her initials are on it." But Henry turned
his face out of sight, as he spoke. And lest any critic should set up a
cavil at the bishop being addressed as "sir," it may be as well to
mention that it was the custom with the college boys. Very few of them
could bring their shy lips to utter any other title.
"Go in and give it to Miss Beauclerc, if it is hers," cried the bishop.
"The gatekeeper will not let me," said Henry, with a smile. "He tells us
all that it is as much as his place is worth to admit a college boy."
"They ain't fit for such a place as this, nohow, my lord," spoke up the
keeper. "Once let 'em in, and they'd be for playing at hare and hounds
over the flower-beds."
"Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I don't see what harm there would be in
admitting the seniors. You need not be so over-strict, Williams. Come in
with me, Arkell, if you wish to find Miss Beauclerc; and come in
whenever you like. Do you hear, Williams, I give this young gentleman
the _entree_ of the garden."
The bishop laid his hand on Henry's shoulder, and they walked in
together, all three, his daughter on his other side. Many a surprised
eye-glass was lifted; many an indignant eye regarded them.
Never yet had a college boy--St. John always excepted--ventured within
the pale of that guarded place. And if the bishop and his daughter had
appeared accompanied by a fiery serpent, it could not have caused more
inward commotion. But nobody dared betray it: the bishop was the bishop,
and not to be interfered with.
"There's Miss Beauclerc, my lad."
And in a few minutes--Henry could not tell how, in his mind's tumultuous
confusion--Georgina Beauclerc had turned into a side walk with him, and
they were alone. Georgina was the same Georgina as ever--impulsive,
wilful, and daringly independent. Everybody paid court to the dean's
daughter.
"Did you drop this in coming in, Miss Beauclerc?"
"My locket! Of course I must have dropped it. Harry, I would not have
lost it for the world."
His sensitive cheek wore a crimson flush at the words. _He_ had given it
to her on her last birthday, when she was eighteen. As she took it from
him, their fingers touched. That touch thrilled through his veins, while
hers were unconscious, or at best heedless of the contact.
It was the not uncommon tale; the tale that has been enacted many times
in life, and which Lord Byron has made familiar to us as being his own
heart's history--
"The maid was on the eve of womanhood:
The boy had fewer summers; but his heart had far outgrown his years:
And to his sight there was but one fair face on earth,
And that was shining on him."
It has been intimated that Georgina Beauclerc had inherited the dean's
innate taste for what is called beauty, both human and statuesque. In
the dean it was very marked. This, it may have been, that first drew
forth her regard for Henry Arkell. Certain it was, she saw him
frequently, and took no pains to disguise her admiration. He was a great
favourite of the dean's--was often invited to the deanery. That he was
no common boy, in nature, mind, or form, was apparent to the dean, as it
was to many others, and Dr. Beauclerc evinced his regard openly.
Georgina did the same. At first she had merely liked to patronize the
young college boy; rather to domineer over him, looking upon him as a
child in comparison with herself. But as they grew older, the difference
in their years became less marked, and now they appeared nearly of the
same age, for he looked older than he was, and Georgina younger. She was
very pretty, with her large, rich blue eyes, and her small, fair
features.
He had grown to love her; to love her with that impassioned love, which,
pure and refined though it is, can only bring unhappiness. What did he
think could be the ending? Did he reflect that it was utter madness in
_him_ to love the dean's daughter? It was nothing less than madness; and
there were odd moments when the truth, that it was so, rose up in his
mind, turning his whole soul to faintness.
And she, Georgina Beauclerc? She liked Henry Arkell very much indeed;
she took pleasure in being with him, in talking with him, in _flirting_
with him; she was conscious of a degree of pride when the handsome boy
walked, as now, by her side; she encouraged his too-evident admiration
for her; _but she did not love him_. She loved another too deeply to
have any love left for him.
And she was so utterly careless of consequences. Had it been suggested
to Miss Beauclerc that she was doing a wrong thing, bordering upon a
wicked one, in thus trifling with that school-boy's heart, she would
have laughed in very glee, and thought it fun. Though she must have
known, if she ever took the trouble to glance forward, that in the years
to come, did things continue as they were now, and Henry Arkell told his
love to the ear, as well as to the eye and heart, the explosion must
have place, and he would know how he had been deceived. What would her
excuse be? that she liked him; that she liked his companionship; that
she could not afford to reject his admiration? The gratification of the
present moment was paramount with Georgina.
But what was Mrs. Beauclerc about, to suffer this? Mrs. Beauclerc! Had
her daughter flirted with the whole forty king's scholars on a string,
and the head master's private pupils to boot, she would never have seen
it; no, nor understood it if pointed out to her. Her daughter was Miss
Beauclerc, a young lady of high degree, and the college boys were
inferior young animals with whom it was utterly impossible Georgina
could possess anything in common.
"But how did you get in here, Harry?" began Miss Beauclerc, slipping the
locket on her chain. "Has crusty old Williams gone to sleep this
evening?"
"The bishop brought me in. He has given Williams orders that I am to be
admitted here."
"Has he? What a glorious fellow! I'll give him ten kisses for that, as I
used to do when I was a little girl. And now, pray, what became of you
this afternoon? You said you should be in the cloisters."
"I know. I could not get out. I was doing Greek with my father."
"Doing Greek! It's always that. 'Doing Greek,' or 'doing Latin,' it's
nothing else with you everlastingly. What a wretched pedant you'll be,
Harry Arkell!"
"Never, I hope. But you know I _must_ study; I have only my talents to
depend upon for advancement in life; and my father, his heart is set on
seeing me a bril--a good scholar."
"You are a brilliant scholar already," grumbled Georgina, bringing out
the word which his modesty had left unspoken. "There's no reason why you
should be at your books morning, noon, and night. I always said Mr.
Peter Arkell was a martinet from the first hour he came to drill
literature into me. Which he couldn't accomplish."
"The school meets in a week or two, you know, and----"
"Tiresome young reptiles!" interjected Miss Beauclerc. "We are quieter
without them."
"And I must make the best use of my holidays for study," continued
Henry. "They wish me to get to Oxford early."
"Goodness me! you might go now, if that's what you mean; you know
enough. Harry, I do hope when you are ordained you'll get some high
preferment."
"Such luck is not for me, Miss Beauclerc. I may never get beyond a
curacy; or at most a minor canonry."
"Nonsense, and double nonsense! With the influential friends you may
count even now! You know that everybody makes much of you. I should like
to see you dean of this cathedral."
"And you----" Henry stopped in time. A tempting vision had mentally
arisen, and for the moment led him out of himself. Did Georgina scent
the treason, all but uttered? She resumed volubly, hastily--
"I have a great mind to tell you something; I think I will. But don't
you let it go farther, Henry, for it is a secret as yet. There's going
to be a school examination."
"No!" exclaimed Henry, some consternation in his tone.
"Why! are you afraid of it?"
"I am not. But I was thinking how very unfit the school is to stand it.
What will Mr. Wilberforce say?"
"There's the fun," cried Georgina in glee. "When I heard papa talking of
this, I said it would drive the head master's senses upside down. The
dean and chapter are going to introduce all sorts of improvements into
the school."
"What can have set them on to it!" exclaimed Henry, unable to recover
his surprise and concern.
"The spelling, I think," said Georgina, pursing up her pretty mouth.
"Jocelyn--and he'll be the senior boy this next half, you know--wrote a
letter to his aunt; she rents her house and land under old Meddler, and
knows the Meddlers--visits them, in fact. What should she do but take
the letter to old Meddler, and asked him whether it was not a disgrace
to any civilized community. Old Meddler kept the letter and brought it
here, when he came into residence last week, and showed it to papa.
There were not ten words spelt right in it. Altogether, there's going to
be something or other done. But I'm sure you need not look so concerned
over it, Henry Arkell; you are safe."
"I am safe. Yes, thanks to my father, I have enjoyed great advantages.
But I am thinking of the others."
"Serve them right! They are a lazy set. Papa said, 'I should think Henry
Arkell does not write like this!' _I_ could have answered that, you
know, had I chosen to bring out some of your letters."
There was a pause of silence. The tone had been significant, and his
poor heart was beating wildly. "What a lovely rose!" he exclaimed, when
the silence had become painful. "I wish I dare pluck it!"
"Dare! Nonsense! Pluck it if you wish."
"I thought it was forbidden to touch the flowers here!"
"So it is," said Georgina, snapping off the rose, one of the variegated
species, and a great beauty. "But I do as I please. I would pluck all
the flowers in the garden for two pins, just to see the old gardener's
dismay."
"What would the visitors say to you?"
"Bow to me, and wish they dare perform such feats. Pshaw! I am the
dean's daughter. Here, Harry, I will make you a present of it."
She threw the rose into his hand as she spoke, and she saw what the gift
was to him.
"What shall you do with it, Harry?"
"Had I plucked the rose myself, I should have given it to my mother. I
shall keep it now--keep it for ever. I may not," he added, lowering his
tone, and speaking, as it were, to himself, "part with your gifts."
Georgina laughed lightly, an _encouraging_ laugh.
Oh! it was wrong; wrong of her to act so. They reached the end of the
shady walk and turned again.
"How long are you going to remain in that precious choir?" resumed
Georgina, "wasting your time for the public benefit."
"Mr. St. John put the very same question to me this morning. He----"
"Mr. St. John!" she interrupted, in startling, nay, wild impulse, and
her face became one glow of excitement. "But what do you mean?" she
added, subsiding into calmness as recollection returned to her. "He is
not in Westerbury."
The words, the emotion, told their own tale; and their true meaning
flashed upon his brain. It was an era in the unhappy boy's life. How was
it that he had been blind all these years?
"You take a strange interest in him, Miss Beauclerc," and there seemed
to be no life left in his pale face, as he turned to her with the
question.
"For another's sake," she evasively answered. "I told you some time ago
Frederick St. John was in love with _her_."
He knew to whom she alluded. "Do you think it _likely_ that he is, Miss
Beauclerc?"
"If he's not in love with herself, he is in love with her beauty," said
Georgina, with a laugh. "But you know what the popular belief is--that
the heir of the St. Johns, whatever he may do with his love, may only
give his hand to his cousin, Lady Anne."
"I hope it is so. She is the nicest girl, and he deserves a good wife. I
used to sing duets with her when she was last at the Palmery."
"Oh!" said Georgina, turning her pretty nose into the air, "and so you
fell in love with her."
"No," replied Henry; "my love was not mine to give."
Another pause. Georgina snatched a second flower--a carnation this
time--and began pulling it to pieces.
"I suppose you heard from him this morning?"
"Yes."
"And where is he now?"
"In Spain. But he talks of coming home."
He stole a glance at her; at the loving light that shone in her bright
blue eyes; at the soft glow, red as the carnation she was despoiling, on
her conscious cheek. _Why_ did he not read the signs in all their full
meaning? Why did hope struggle with the conviction that would have
arisen in his heart?
"Have you his letter?"
"Yes; you can read it if you like. There are no secrets. I have told him
that Miss Beauclerc was fond of looking at his letters. He is
enthusiastic, as usual, on the subject of pictures."
She closed her hand upon the foreign-looking letter which he took from
his jacket pocket to give to her. "I will take it home with me, and
return it to you to-morrow; I can't read it now. And, Harry, I am going
back to my party, or perhaps they'll be setting the crier to work. Mind
you don't breathe a word of that school examination: it would not do.
But I tell things to you that I'd not tell to anybody else in the
world."
She ran away up a side path, and Henry made his way to the more
frequented part of the garden. It happened that he found himself again
with the bishop; and the prelate laid his hand, as before, on the
shoulder of the handsome boy, and kept him at his side.
Mrs. Peter Arkell had not grown better with years; on the contrary, the
weakness in the back was greater, and her health in other ways began to
fail. A residence of some weeks at the sea-side was deemed essential for
her; absolutely necessary, said her medical attendant, Mr. Lane: and
indeed it was not much less necessary for Peter Arkell himself, who was
always ill now. His state of health told heavily upon them. He had been
obliged to give up a great portion of his teaching; and but for his
ever-ready friend and relative, Mr. Arkell, whose hand was always open,
and for certain five-pound notes that came sometimes in Mildred's
letters, Peter had not the remotest idea how he should have got along.
This going to the sea-side would have been quite out of the question,
but that they had met with a fortunate chance of letting their house for
two months, to a family desirous of coming to Westerbury. Lucy, of
course, would go with them; but the question was--what was to be done
with Henry? Travice Arkell, in his impulsive good nature, said he must
stop with them, and Mr. Arkell confirmed it. Henry supposed he must, but
he felt sure it would not be palatable to Mrs. Arkell.
Travice Arkell was in partnership with his father now. At the time of
his leaving school there had been a visible improvement in the prospects
of the manufacturers, and Mr. Arkell yielded to his son's wish to join
him, and hoped that the good times were coming back again. But the
improvement had not lasted long; and Mr. Arkell was wont to say that
Travice had cast in his lot with a sinking ship. The designation of the
firm had never been altered; it was still "George Arkell and Son." Times
fluctuated very much. Just now again there was a slight improvement; and
altogether Mr. Arkell was still upon the balance, to give up business or
not to give it up, as he had been for so many years.
Henry walked home from the Bishop's Garden, with the strange emotion
displayed by Georgina Beauclerc, at the mention of Mr. St. John, telling
upon his memory and his heart. Lucy met him at the door, her sweet face
radiant.
"Oh, Henry! such news! News in two ways. I don't know which to tell you
first. One part concerns you."
"Tell me that first, then," said he, laughing.
"You are not to be at Mr. Arkell's while we are away. You are to be
at----guess where."
"I can't guess at all. I don't know anybody who'd have me."
"At the master's."
His eye lightened as he looked up.
"Am I? I am so glad! Is it true, Lucy?"
"It is quite true. Mr. Wilberforce saw mamma at the window, and came in
to ask her how she was, and when she went, and all that. Mamma said how
puzzled she had been what to do with you, but it was decided now you
were to go to Mr. Arkell's. So then the master said he thought you had
better go to him, and he should be most happy to invite you there for
the time, no matter how long we remained away; and when mamma attempted
to say something about the great kindness, he interrupted her, saying
you had always been so good a pupil, and given him so little trouble,
and did him altogether so much credit, that he should consider the
obligation was on his side. So it is quite decided, Harry, and you are
to go there."
"That's good news, then. And what's the other, Lucy?"
"Ah! the other concerns me. It is good, too."
"Are you going to be married?"
The question was but spoken in jest, and Henry wondered to see his
sister's face change; but she only shook her head and laughed.
"Eva Prattleton is to accompany us to the sea-side."
"Eva Prattleton!"
"Mr. Prattleton came in just after the master left," resumed Lucy. "He
said he had come with a petition: would mamma take charge of Eva to the
sea-side, and let her go with us? He had intended--you know we heard of
it, Harry--to take his two daughters to Switzerland this summer for a
treat; but he begins to fear that Eva will not be equal to the
travelling, for she's not strong, and a little thing fatigues her; and
he thinks a month or two of quiet at the sea-side would do her more
good. So _that's_ arranged as well as the other."
"And what will Mary do?"
"Oh, she goes to Switzerland with her papa. He has not given up his
journey. The two boys are to stay at home, and George Prattleton's to
take care of them."
Henry laughed. The idea of Mr. George Prattleton's taking care of the
boys struck him as being something ludicrous.
"But what do you think mamma says?" added Lucy, dropping her voice. "The
terms hinted at by Mr. Prattleton for Eva were so liberal, that mamma
feels sure he is doing this as much to make our sojourn there more easy
to us, as for Eva's benefit; though she is not well, of course, and
never has been since her mother's death; the grief then seemed to take
such a hold upon her. How kind to us the Prattletons have always been!"
Henry mentally echoed the words--for they were true ones--all
unconscious that a time was quickly approaching when he should have to
repay this kindness with something very like ingratitude.