Mildred Arkell Volume Iii Part 40

"It is a life's sacrifice," said Mrs. Dund.y.k.e. "It is sacrificing both him and Lucy."

"Had I possessed but the faintest idea of the sacrifice it really was, even for him, it should never have been contemplated, no matter what the cost," was Mr. Arkell's answer.

"And there was no need of it. If you had but known that! My fortune is a large one now, and the greater portion of it I intended for Travice."

"Betsey!"

"I intended it for no one else. Perhaps I ought to have been more open in expressing my intentions; but you know how I have been held aloof by Charlotte. And I did not suppose that Travice was in necessity of any sort. If he marries Miss Fauntleroy, the half of what I die possessed of will be his; the other half will go to Lucy Arkell. Were it possible that he could marry Lucy, they'd not wait for my death to be placed above the frowns of the world."

"Oh Betsey, how generous you are! But there is no escape for him," added Mr. Arkell, with a groan at the bitter fact. "He cannot desert Miss Fauntleroy."

It was indisputably true. And that buxom bride-elect herself seemed to have no idea that anybody wanted to be off the bargain, for her visits to the house were frequent, and her spirits were unusually high.

You all know the old rhyme about a certain gentleman's penitence when he was sick; though it may not be deemed the perfection of good manners to quote it here. It was a very apt ill.u.s.tration of the feelings of Mrs.

Arkell. While her son lay sick unto death, she would have married him to Lucy Arkell; but no sooner was the danger of death removed, and he advancing towards convalescence, than the old pride--avarice--love of rule--call it what you will--resumed sway within her; and she had almost been ready to say again that a mouldy grave would be preferable for him, rather than desertion of Miss Fauntleroy. In fine, the old state of things was obtaining sway, both as to Mrs. Arkell's opinions and to the course of events.

"When can I see him?" asked Miss Fauntleroy one day.

Not the first time, this, that she had put the question, and it a little puzzled Mrs. Arkell to answer it. It was only natural and proper, considering the relation in which each stood to the other, that Miss Fauntleroy should see him; but Mrs. Arkell had positively not dared to hint at such a visit to her son.

"Travice sits up now, does he not?" continued the young lady.

"Yes, he has sat up a little in the afternoon these two days past. We call it sitting up, Barbara, but, in point of fact, he lies the whole time on the sofa. He is not strong enough to sit up."

"Then I'm sure I may see him. It might not have been proper, I suppose, to pay him a visit in bed," she added, laughing loudly; "but there can't be any impropriety now. I want to see him, Mrs. Arkell; I want it very particularly."

"Of course, Barbara; I can understand that you do. I should, in your place. The only consideration is, whether it may not agitate him too much."

"Not it," said Barbara. "I wish you'd go and ask him when I may come. I suppose he is up now?"

Mrs. Arkell had no ready plea for refusal, and she went upstairs there and then. Travice was lying on the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of getting to it.

"My dear, I think you look better," Mrs. Arkell began, not altogether relishing her task; and she gently pushed the bits of brown hair, now beginning to grow again, from the damp, white forehead. "Do you feel so?"

He drew her fingers for a moment into his, and held them there. He was always ready to respond to his mother's little tokens of affection. She had opposed him in the matter of Lucy Arkell, but he was ever generous, ever just, and he blamed circ.u.mstances more than he blamed her.

"I feel a great deal better than I did a week ago. I shall get on now."

Mrs. Arkell paused. "Some one wants to see you, Travice."

The hectic came into his white face as she spoke--a wild rush of crimson. Was it possible that he thought she spoke of Lucy? The idea occurred, to Mrs. Arkell.

"My dear, it is Barbara. She has asked to see you a great many times.

She is downstairs now."

Travice raised his thin hand, and laid it for a moment over his face, over his closed eyes. Was he praying for help in his pain?--for strength to go through what must be gone through--his duty in the future; and to do it bravely?

"Travice, my dear, but for this illness she would now have been your wife. It is only natural that she should wish to come and see you."

"Yes, of course," he said, removing his hand, and speaking very calmly; "I have been expecting that she would."

"When shall she come up? Now?"

He did not speak for a moment.

"Not now; not to-day; the getting up seemed to tire me more than it has done yet. Tell her so from me. Perhaps she will take the trouble to call again to-morrow, and come up then."

The message was carried to Miss Fauntleroy, and she did not fail in the appointment. Mrs. Arkell took her upstairs without notice to her son; possibly she feared some excuse again. The sofa was drawn near the fire as before, and Travice lay on it; had he been apprised of the visit, he might have tried to sit up to receive her.

She was very big as usual, and very grand. A rich watered lilac silk dress, looped up above a scarlet petticoat; a velvet something on her arms and shoulders, of which I really don't know the name, covered with glittering jet tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs; and a spangled bonnet with fancy feathers. As she sailed into the room, her petticoats, that might have covered the dome of St. Paul's, knocked over a little bra.s.s stand and kettle, some careless attendant having left them on the carpet, near the wall. There was no damage, except noise, for the kettle was empty.

"That's my crinoline!" cried the hearty, good-humoured girl. "Never mind; there's worse misfortunes at sea."

"No, Travice, you had better not rise," interposed Mrs. Arkell, for he was struggling into a sitting position. "Barbara will excuse it; she knows how weak you are."

"And I'll not allow you to rise, that's more," said Barbara, laying her hand upon him. "I am not come to make you worse, but to make you better--if I can."

Mrs. Arkell, not altogether easy yet upon the feelings of Travice as to the visit, anxious, as we all are with anything on our consciences, to get away, invited Barbara to a chair, and hastened from the room.

Travice tried to receive her as he ought, and put out his hand with a wan smile.

"How are you, Barbara?"

There was no reply, except that the thin hand was taken between both of hers. He looked up, and saw that her eyes were swimming in tears. A moment's struggle, and they came forth, with a burst.

"There! it's of no good. What a fool I am!"

Just a minute or two's indulgence to the burst, and it was over. Miss Fauntleroy rubbed away the traces, and her broad face wore its smiles again. She drew a chair close, and sat down in front of him.

"I was not prepared to see you look like this, Travice. How dreadfully it has pulled you down!"

She was gazing at his face as she spoke. Her entrance had not called up anything of colour or emotion to illumine it. The transparent skin was drawn over the delicate features, and the refinement, always characterizing it, was more conspicuous than it had ever been. No two faces, perhaps, could present a greater contrast than his did, with the broad, vulgar, hearty, and in a sense, handsome one of hers.

"Yes, it has pulled me down. At one period there was little chance of my life, I believe. But they no doubt told you all at the time. I daresay you knew more of the different stages of the danger than I did."

"And what was it that brought it on?" asked Miss Fauntleroy, untying her bonnet, and throwing back the strings. "Brain fever is not a common disorder; it does not go about in the air!"

There was a slight trace of colour now on the thin cheeks, and she noticed it. Travice faintly shook his head to disclaim any knowledge on his own part.

"It is not very often that we know how these illnesses are brought on.

My chief concern now"--and he looked up at her with a smile--"must be to find out how I can best throw it off."

"I have been very anxious for some days to see you," she resumed, after a pause. "Do you know what I have come to say?"

"No," he said, rather languidly.

"But I'll tell you first what I heard. When you were lying in that awful state between life and death--and it _is_ an awful state, Travice, the danger of pa.s.sing, without warning, to the presence of one's Maker--I heard that it was _I_ who had brought on the fever."

His whole face was flushed now--a consciousness of the past had risen up so vividly within him. "_You!_" he uttered. "What do you mean?"