Mildred Arkell Volume I Part 9

"What of her?" gasped Mary Hughes, a dreadful prevision of the truth rushing over her heart, and turning it to sickness.

"She has gone away with Mr. Robert Carr."

Mary Hughes, not of a strong nature, became faint. Tring got some water for her, and related to her as much as she had heard.

"But how is it known that she's gone? How did Mr. Carr learn it?" asked the poor young woman.

Tring could not tell how he learnt it. She gathered from the conversation that it was known in the town; and Mr. William seemed to know it.

"You'll spare me while I run home for a minute, Tring," pleaded Mary Hughes; "I can't live till I know the rights and the wrongs of it. I can't believe that she'd do such a thing. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Go, and welcome," cried Tring, in her sympathy; "don't hurry back.

What's our gowns by the side of this dreadful shock? Poor Martha Ann!"

"I can't believe she's gone; I can't believe it," reiterated the dressmaker, as she hastily flung on her cloak and bonnet; "there was never a modester girl lived than Martha Ann. It's some dreadful untruth that has got about."

The way in which Mr. Carr had learnt it so soon was this--one of the outside pa.s.sengers of the coach, a young man of the name of Hart, had been only going as far as Purford, where the coach dropped him. He hurried over his errand there, and hurried back to Westerbury, big with the importance of what he had seen, and burning to make it known. Taking his course direct to Mr. Carr's, and only stopping to tell everybody he met on the way, he found that gentleman at home, and electrified him with the recital. From thence he ran to the house of Edward Hughes, and found Miss Hughes in a sea of tears, and her brother pacing the rooms in what Mr. Hart called a storm of pa.s.sion. The young lady, it seems, had been already missed, and one of the gossips to whom Mr. Hart had first imparted his tale, had flown direct with it to the brother and sister.

"Why don't you go after her?" asked Hart; "I'd follow her to the end of the world if she was my sister. I'd take it out of him, too."

Ah, it was easy to say, why don't you go after her? But there were no telegraphs in those days, and there was not yet a rail from London to Westerbury. Robert Carr and the girl were half-way to London by that time; and the earliest conveyance that could be taken was the night mail.

"It's of no use," said Edward Hughes, moodily; "they have got too great a start. Let her go, ungrateful chit! As she has made her bed, so must she lie on it."

Mary Hughes got back to Mrs. Arkell's: she had found it all too true.

Martha Ann had taken her opportunity to steal out of the house, and was gone. Mary Hughes, in relating this, could not sneak for sobs.

"My sister says she could be upon her Bible oath, if necessary, that at twenty-five minutes past eight Martha Ann was still at home. She called out something to her up the stairs, and Martha Ann answered her. She must have crept down directly upon that, and got off, and run all the way along the bank, and across the three-cornered field. She--she----"

the girl could not go on for sobs.

Tring's eyes were full. "Is your sister much cut up?" she asked.

"Oh, Tring!"--and indeed the question seemed a bitter mockery to Mary Hughes--"I'm sure Sophia has had her death-blow. What a thing it is that I was engaged out to work to-day! If I had been at home, she might not have got away unseen."

Tring sighed. There was no consolation that she could offer.

"I was always against the acquaintance," Mary Hughes resumed, between her tears and sobs; "Sophia knows I was. I said more than once that even if Mr. Robert Carr married her, they'd never be equals. I'd have stopped it if I could, but I've no voice beside Sophia's, and I couldn't stop it. And now, of course, it's all over, and Martha Ann is lost; and she'd a deal better have never been born."

Nothing more satisfactory was heard or seen of the fugitives. They stayed a short time in London, and then went abroad, it was understood, to Holland. Those who wished well to the girl were in hopes that Robert Carr married her in London, but there appeared no ground whatever for the hope. Indeed, from certain circ.u.mstances that afterwards transpired, it was quite evident he did not. Westerbury gradually recovered its equanimity; but there are people living in it to this day who never have believed, and never will believe, but that William Arkell was privy to the flight.

CHAPTER VI.

A MISERABLE MISTAKE.

The time again went on--went on to March--and still Charlotte Travice lingered. It was some little while now that both Mr. and Mrs. Arkell had come to the conclusion within their own minds that the young lady's visit had lasted long enough, but they were of that courteous nature that shrunk not only from hinting such a thing to her, but to each other. She was made just as welcome as ever, and she appeared in no hurry to hasten her departure.

One afternoon Mildred, who had been out on an errand, was accosted by her mother before she had well entered.

"Whatever has made you so long, child?"

"Have I been so long?" returned Mildred. "I had to go to two or three shops before I could match the ribbon. I met Mary Pembroke, and she went with me; but I walked fast."

"It is past five."

"Yes, it has struck. But I did not go out until four, mother."

"Well, I suppose it is my impatience that has made me think you long,"

acknowledged Mrs. Dan. "Sit down, Mildred; I wish to speak to you. Mrs.

George has been here."

"Has she?" returned Mildred, somewhat apathetically; but she took a chair, as she was told to do.

"She came to talk to me about future prospects. And I am glad you were out with that ribbon, Mildred, for our conversation was confidential."

"About her prospects, mamma?" inquired Mildred, raising her mild dark eyes.

"Hers!" repeated Mrs. Dan. "Her prospects, like mine, will soon be drawing to a close. Not that she's as old as I am by a good ten years.

She came to speak of yours, Mildred."

Mildred made no rejoinder this time, but a faint colour arose to her face.

"Your Aunt George is very fond of you, Mildred."

"Oh, yes," said Mildred, rather nervously; and Mrs. Dan paused before she resumed.

"I think you must have seen, child, for some time past, that we all wanted you and William to make a match of it."

The announcement was, perhaps, unnecessarily abrupt. The blush on Mildred's face deepened to a glowing crimson.

"Mrs. George never spoke out freely to me on the subject until this afternoon, but her manner was enough to tell me that it was in their minds. I saw it coming as plainly as I could see anything."

Mildred made no remark. She had untied her bonnet, and began to play nervously with the strings as they hung down on either side her neck.

"But though I felt sure that it was in their minds," continued Mrs. Dan, "though I saw the bent of William's inclinations--always bringing him here to you--I never encouraged the feeling; I never forwarded it by so much as the lifting of a finger. You must have seen, Mildred, that I did not. In one sense of the word, you are not William's equal----"

Mrs. Dan momentarily arrested her words, the startled look of inquiry on her daughter's face was so painful.

"Do not misunderstand me, my dear. In point of station you and he are the same, for the families are one. But William will be wealthy, and William is accomplished; you are neither. In that point of view you may be said not to be on an equality with him; and there's no doubt that William Arkell might go a-wooing into families of higher pretension than his own, and be successful. It may be, that these considerations have withheld me and kept me neuter; but I have not--I repeat it, as I did twice over to Mrs. George just now--I have not forwarded the matter by so much as the lifting of a finger."

Mildred knew that.

"The gossiping town will, no doubt, cast ill-natured remarks upon me, and say that I have angled for my attractive nephew, and caught him; but my conscience stands clear upon the point before my Maker; and Mrs.

George knows that it does. They have come forward of themselves, unsought by me; unsought, as I heartily believe, Mildred, by you."