Millicent's children : a novel

Chapter I

JANUARY without a soupcon of Christmas in its bearing—January bleak, cold, and uncompromising —January with its partings and tears, its return to the bustle and din of school life. HEmptied homes —ennuied idlers after the gaieties of past weeks were over. Merry parties, happy reunions, were, alas! only remembered as a thing of the past. Winter reigned with an iron hand. Unbroken frost had lasted for several weeks, and snow covered the ground. Its pale, fleecy cloak rested everywhere with a weight too heavy to be cast off. On churches and houses and trees— earth had thrown on her purest drapery; it had grown rigid lying bare and exposed. A large house proudly reared its head as if in defiance to the cold around. Large, substantial, and old-fashioned, it stood in its own well-kept and extensive grounds, Astley Park, the residence of Frederick Duerdon, Esq. Near one of the numerous windows that fronted the stately man- VOL. I. B sion stood a young girl of some thirteen years, gazing thoughtfully on the scene outside. That the prospect was not a pleasant one might be gathered from the drawn-up features, the dissatisfied expression that passed over her face. It was a plain face, thin and long-featured. Plain, that is, measuring it by strict measure of beauty. The mouth was too large to be pretty, even in repose; yet it was well-shaped, and displayed a recular set of white teeth, regular as strings of pearls together when she smiled. An earnest, thoughtful face, as if the mystery of life even then had begun to puzzle her in the unravelling. Hyes of deepest grey, large and truthful, and filled with expression both intelligent and meditative. A forehead remarkable neither for depth nor width, but still far from narrow. But the charm of the whole features lay in the smile. It was sweet in the extreme, and when—which was not often the case—animated or in discussion, it lighted up, and altered the somewhat sad countenance. It was a winning, pretty smile, and yet Muriel Vivian’s face could not be called beautiful, nor even pretty to those strict lovers of beauty who find no charm in a varying expression. If she had been asked whether she considered herself plain or handsome, the question would probably have startled her. Such a thought had not entered Muriel’s head. She had never mooted the idea— pondered the question. 1t would not have been a thoughtless answer she would have given ; such was not her character. Truthful to a degree, outspoken to a fault, rarely wanting in conceit, was Muriel. On the other hand, had any one inquired what she thought of Norman, what was her opinion as to his style of face, the reply would have been quickly and readily given. She held him as the greatest hero ever born. Handsome, gifted, brave, and intelligent, noble beyond compare, and lovable beyond any words she could ever utter.

Truly she was right, as we hope to show you, dear reader. There are few Norman Vivians in the world. Her thoughts that afternoon were full of him as she gazed so thoughtfully on the snowcovered ground. The park before her was one white sheet. The trees, standing lke naked giants, tall and with outstretched arms, powerless to throw the fragile speck off as it fell, hiding their bareness. Its white, feathery flakes shone everywhere, glistening from rays of light in the midday sun. But daylight was fading now, and daylight goes quickly in January. Darkness coming on, and the scene outside was not encouraging.

Muriel heaved a deep sigh.

“T wish Norman was at home. What a long, cold walk he will have. If the carriage could only fetch him,” she thought to herself. “Why, oh why, did he go to-day? Mr. Duerdon even said

A, MILLICENTS CHILDREN.

he might as well wait until to-morrow to make a beginning. Itis a fortunate thing he is pretty strong. I shall ask ”—

“Come away from that window,” said a sharp voice from behind. “You quite give one the shivers standing there moonstruck, or something else unpleasant. You are always doing something that no one else ever does. Come and sit down.”

Muriel turned suddenly.

“JT did not know you were there,” she answered timidly. ‘You must have entered the room very quietly.”

“JT did nothing of the kind,” answered Mrs. Duerdon, with more asperity than politeness. “You know now atany rate. Come and sit down, I say.”

Muriel obeyed somewhat awkwardly, not that she was an awkward girl, but she was afraid of provoking Mrs. Duerdon’s wrath, which was always easily raised.

The room in which they were was a long one, lighted at one end by three large windows. At the opposite end was a massive sideboard; chairs and sofas allround. The furniture, though somewhat old, was rich and good. It was furnished throughout as a dining-room. A valuable skin rug lay before the fire, and stretched on it comfortably at ease was a small Maltese terrier enjoying the heat.

A sofa was drawn up to the edge of the rug, and

MILLICENT’S CHILDREN. D there Mrs. Duerdon reclined. She was a woman slightly over middle age, though from her youthful style of dress she might have passed for younger. Scarcely of middle height, very thin and nipped-looking, and wonderfully got up, with a most unpleasant expression of face. She admired her own style exceedingly: and it was worthy of admiration if the hours she spent in arranging and planning, and in afterwards decking herself out, were of any account ; moreover it was not without merit amongst a certain class of people, people who place dress and a stylish display of it very high, and think no one nice who is not so attired. Almost the only interest Mrs. Duerdon had in life was in dress; at any rate it was the only one to which she owned. She and her maid, Major, were good friends on this point. The latest fashions, the newest designs, engrossed their attention for a week. Her husband, her little boy, her ménage, or the two orphan children who made their home with the Duerdons, scarcely ever aroused her anxiety. She could—and even did, itis true—make herself obnoxious to one and all of them at times, but that was only when it suited her purpose. A more affected, selfish woman, or a more vain and jealous one, it would be difficult to find. She was not a favourite in the neighbourhood owing to the grand airs she put on, but for the sake of her husband and her wealth she was tolerated—a woman whose face could be wreathed in smiles to those whose acquaintance she wished to cultivate, but whose manner was as the sharpest biting frost to any whom she wished to set down.

“‘ Stir the fire, Muriel, and put some coalon. It isa pity toring for Parkyn whilst you stand there idle, awkwardly leaning against the table. Do make yourself useful ; it’s quite painful to see you lolling about everywhere.”

It was on the tip of Muriel’s tongue to say she had not been lolling against the window when called away from there, but she restrained herself. Mrs. Duerdon was not in the possession of the sweetest of tempers, and if, moreover, there was any one whom Muriel feared to offend, it was her benefactress ; she was so completely in her power. So, instead of speaking, Muriel walked forward to obey the mandate. Within a few steps of the fender her foot caught in the rug, and she stumbled, the coals flying everywhere. To save herself from falling she knocked accidentally against the pampered Maltese, sending it yelping and howling under the sofa. Her own head came violently in contact with a sharp corner of the mantelpiece. Stunned, dazed by the blow, for an instant she stood immovable.

‘My precious Bijou, my pet, where are you?” almost shrieked Mrs. Duerdon, in her sharp, shrill tones. “Where are you, Bijou? Oh, you bad, awkward girl, you will be the death of me some of

MILLICENTS CHILDREN. Pi these days,” and Mrs. Duerdon rose slowly from the sofa. ‘‘ Where is that unfortunate dog ?”’ she again asked.

But Muriel made no answer. Her head ached from the sharp blow she had given it, and she smarted also under a keen sense of Mrs. Duerdon’s injustice. She had hurt herself; the animal was allright. Why should greater sympathy be felt for its injuries than for hers? The dog was always getting her into scrapes, the petted, pampered thing—

“Did you hear me speak, Muriel Vivian?” repeated Mrs. Duerdon. “ Youare getting strangely rude in your manner.”

“The dog is safe under the sofa,” answered Muriel. “It’s not hurt; I almost wish it were, because ” —

“You answer me so, you dare, you impertinent child,” gasped Mrs. Duerdon with temper. “IL will teach you better.”

And she darted forward and bestowed what might be termed a loud sounding box on the ears with her white, jewelled hand.

It was the first time she had ventured thus far. She had been unjust, unkind, and over exacting many times, but never once before had she ventured to strike.

An angry light shone in Muriel’s deep grey eyes, a hasty word on her tongue. But they both died away; she checked them almost as suddenly as they rose. Young as she was, she had learnt to keep her temper almost always under control.

‘“‘T hurt my head against the mantelpiece, and it aches,” she said apologetically.

“ Hurt your head,” repeated Mrs. Duerdon with an unpleasant smile. “I should think you did hurt it. People are not in the habit of falling against marble and finding it soft. In your extreme gaucherie you often try experiments of that sort, we all know with what results. Pick poor Bijou up gently and put him on my knee. Mind you do not hurt the dear pet. If you wish to hurt yourself do so, but spare him.” She sank languidly into her chair, and putting her knees quite close, arranged her dress into a soft cushion. But Bijou was not to be decoyed from his safe retreat. He had felt his dignity wounded at being sent there so hurriedly; he backed and backed, getting farther away, and finally snapped at Muriel as she persisted in trying to reach him.

“Tt is no good; he will not let me touch him,” said Muriel at last, getting up, her cheeks red and burning with exertion.

“* Sagacious creature ! Rare instinct,’ murmured Mrs. Duerdon sotto voce.

Muriel drew herself up proudly.

“T do not know what you mean,” she began, when at that juncture came a knock at the door. It was a welcome interruption.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Duerdon in a low tone, as if the recent events had been too fatiguing for her.

It was so low that no one outside could have heard.

Muriel repeated it.

“Why do you not go and see who is there?” asked Mrs. Duerdon, “ you are very indolent.”

Muriel went towards the door, but before she reached it it opened, and an elderly woman, staid and respectable, appeared holding a little boy by the hand.

It was Mrs. Duerdon’s only child and his nurse Spence. He was a fair child, with clear blue eyes and a pretty face, something like a doll’s. His hair hung in long ringlets nearly down to his waist, he was frequently taken for a girl, which was not wonderful, so effeminate was his appearance. He was over five years of age, but scarcely looked four. Mrs. Duerdon, like many more mothers, wished to keep him a baby as long as she could.

“T have brought Master Owen, ma’am,” said the nurse, respectfully; “he is very tired and scarcely could be prevailed on to come. Should I fetch him earlier than usual? ” and as she spoke she tried to disengage her hands from his. She succeeded with difficulty and left the room. Mrs. Duerdon having only shaken her head in answer to the nurse’s inquiries.

The little fellow looked almost wistfully after her, he was nearly always in the nursery, and he felt shy in his mother’s presence. But he was fond of Muriel, and when she went up to him, and took him by the hand, he was satisfied, and walked slowly by her side until he reached his mother. Walked mind—he did not give one glad bound forward, one hearty shout of welcome with the alacrity of childhood, or the buoyancy of early youth, but walked gravely and sedately as might a grown man. No happy smile irradiated the fair little face, as he lifted it placidly up to be kissed according to his usual custom. Neither was there any fond welcome on hers, she suffered his lips just to touch her cheek, reaching slightly forward so as not to disturb Bijou.

“Take care, Owen,” she said, “you will rough my hair. I do not like it disarranged.”

She did not speak sharply, there was simply a lack of interest in the child. No unkindness, no actual thoughtlessness (for she knew he was well looked after), merely an absence of that great love: generally felt and displayed by a mother.

Owen opened his blue eyes and looked at her. Had he done wrong, he was doubtful. One thing the little fellow felt sure, he had not meant it, he had only kissed her, a thing he was always bidden mind and be careful to perform.

“Go and read in your picture book, Owen,” said his mother, motioning him away. “ Muriel has nothing to do and will explain it to you.”

The child’s face brightened.

“Will you please tell me a pretty little story about each picture, Murry?” he asked. “ Owen will be so good and so happy—poor Owen is very tired.”

It was a peculiarity of Owen’s, as it is of many children, speaking of himself as if he were some one else.

“JT will do my best,” responded Muriel, heartily, and then she stooped down and whispered something in his ear. He nodded his head and walked off, still in the same old-fashioned way, to another table at some distance from the fireplace.

Mrs. Duerdon toyed with the silken ears of the Maltese.

Muriel stood still on the hearth rug, clasping her hands nervously together. She had a request to make, a petition to plead. Could she make it ? It was such very hard work asking any favour from Mrs. Duerdon, it required all her determination, all her self-repression. Not for herself would she have asked any favour, rather would she have gone without it for ever, but for Norman, her beloved Norman, for him she would brave much. Clearing her throat from a slight huskiness that would trouble her, and trying to hide her emotion, she began—

“Tf you please, Mrs. Duerdon, will you let Douglas drive the pony carriage into Jycliffe for Norman. It has turned out bitterly cold, and his cough was very troublesome. Two miles in the snow will be a long walk to-night. Please let Douglas go.”

She would have liked to have added, “ and me with him,” but she dare not do that. As she proceeded she spoke less timidly, though her voice slightly trembled, and she still clasped her hands nervously together.

Mrs. Duerdon looked at her in astonishment, the coolness of the request, the audacity and presumption of the girl amazed her.

“‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Muriel Vivian?” she inquired at last, “have all your wits forsaken you? What does this last new freak mean? Of all the bold presumptuous girls that ever breathed I verily believe you are the worst. Is it not enough that Mr. Duerdon, with unparalleled generosity, clothes, supports, feeds and educates you and your pauper brother. Is it not enough, I say, but that you in all the insolence of—of, let us hope ignorance, must ask now for the pony carriage, to be dragged out and driven to Jycliffe, for one of you whois too idle, or as you put it, too delicate to walk. Is your brother’s cough so bad that he will freeze ? ”

A dusky light shone all over Muriel’s face, an angry indignant look.

“The carriage goes out for Major whenever she requires it, surely it was no great request to make for Norman,” said she. “But I am sorry I

MILLICENT’S CHILDREN. ils< asked, not because it was not fully wanted, or merely because you choose to think me rude, simply because it gives you the opportunity of hurting me.”

“That will do, Muriel, this is the second time you have tried me to-day. You had better go no. farther.”

“As for our being paupers,’’ went on Muriel, unheeding Mrs. Duerdon’s remark, so greatly was she upset, “it was untrue totally, and utterly untrue, and you know it. Moreover, if Mr. Duerdon were here he would tell you so.”

Mrs. Duerdon waved her hand theatrically.

““Spare me a scene,” she said. ‘* Your sentiments weary me, your presence is distasteful. The pony carriage cannot and shall not go. Perhaps as you say, if Major required it, or any of the servants in fact, I might let it go; they would be going on my errands. But you and Norman cannot have it, let that be sufficient. If you talked to me until Doomsday it would not alter matters. You are a highly selfish, unamiable girl, Muriel, as Tam continually telling you. Go and amuse Owen, see if for once you cannot make yourself useful.”

Without another word Muriel walked away to the child, showing nothing in her outward demeanour of the hot war that was raging within. There was a sharp rebellious battle being fought there.

“Perhaps after all Norman would as soon walk home,” she said to herself, as if trying to find comfort in the thought. “I had much better have asked Mr. Duerdon; or Douglas even, he — could have gone on his own responsibility. If I had only ia ora for certain what answer she would have given me, I would sooner have die than given her the opportunity of wounding my inmost feelings. Paupers too! how cruel of her.”

She found Owen’s little head patiently resting against a cushion, the picture book lying on the eround at his feet unopened. She knelt down by him, and putting her head against his hand sobbed quietly for a minute. If Mrs. Duerdon’s eyes had been upon her she might not thus have given free vent to her sorrow, but luckily they were sitting behind that lady.

“Don’t cry, Murry, please don’t,” pleaded Owen, pathetically.

He had all a child’s objection to tears plainly shown in his little puckered-up face.

“JT will not dear,” she replied, wiping her eyes. “Tam a silly girl, whatever am I crying for? surely not for my disappointment. It could scarcely be called a disappointment, for I hardly dared to hope that she would be kind enough to accede to my request. Norman will see my eyes are red and swollen, and it will make him unhappy. That will never do, I must rouse and not be so childish.”

Owen twined his two arms round her neck, and though he did not mean much by it, it was his unspoken way of showing pity, and it comforted

Me ery

_ Shortly after a manservant entered the room to w the heavy moreen curtains and light the gas. He made everything secure, even to placing bells on the shutters, then he brought in tea on a silver waiter, and handed it and a small piece of bread-and-butter, cut as thin as a wafer, to Mrs. Duerdon—but to no one else. She always took it before dinner. She was delicate and needed support. Generally it was taken in the drawing-room unless on a Thursday, then for some household whim it was as seen taken in the dining-room. In the midst of the little stir, Mr. Duerden entered.

“Taking your tea, Clara,” he remarked, kindly. “T almost think I will join you. A cup will be refreshing this bitter night.”

Parkyns disappeared to attend to his master’s orders.

Mr. Duerdon was rather undersized, thin and spare, dark and gentlemanly in appearance, dark at least as far as hair and whiskers were concerned. His eyes were light and had but little expression. The worst feature of his face was the mouth, weak and irresolute. A kind leok however pervaded the whole face. If Mr. Duerdon through weakness of character never did any brave act, he certainly would never work the humblest harm. So at least a physiognomist would declare.

Owen jumped to greet his papa with some little: show of alacrity. Mr. Duerdon kissed the child, patting Muriel on the cheek at the same time,. kindly.

“Something like cold weather this, Clara; it freezes harder than ever to-night,” he observed,. taking a seat and lifting Owen on his knee.

“ Dreadfully cold is it,’ was the indifferent reply, “I should scarcely have thought so. That reminds me, Muriel, go and tell Major to attend to my dressing-room fire herself—not to leave it to Susan again—it smoked fearfully last night.”

Muriel hesitated.

Mr. Duerdon noticed it.

“Better ring, Clara, and send one of the servants,” he whispered, sotto voce, patting Owen’s head gently. “They will very likely not attend to Muriel. They are often inclined, I fear, to be rude to both of the Vivians.”

‘Allow me to manage my own affairs, Frederick,” replied Mrs. Duerdon, in anything but a pleasant voice. ‘‘Occupation is good for Muriel. She gets very idle; she should be useful.”’

“True, true,’ replied Mr. Duerdon good-naturedly. ‘ We all should.”

A frown contracted Mrs. Duerdon’s face—a frown dark and repellant. She rarely brooked opposition ; in its mildest form it was a nauseous dose. She would none of it, and it was very rarely offered. She wished to rid the room of Muriel’s presence now, as she always did when Mr. Duerdon was present. One great fear was ever with her, that he should study and consult the wishes of these two interlopers. So not only by false misrepresentations, and placing all their misdeeds before him in the most unfavourable light, but also by keeping them from his companionship, she sought to wean his affection away. Was she to be thwarted by her husband? Decidedly not. She gave way to no one’s opinion, least of all to his. He was always too considerate for her to mind offending him.

“Have you heard if Norman has got home?” inquired Mr. Duerdon after a pause. ‘ He ought to be here; it is after five.”

Mrs. Duerdon yawned; it was a subject of so little importance to her.

* He cannot be back yet, Fred.”

“ Not walking. I sent Douglas into Jycliffe this afternoon”’—for him he was going to add, but corrected himself in time—“ for some cough lozenges from Foden’s. You expressed a wish for them this morning if you recollect, and I told Douglas as he was there to call at the Grammar School.”

This was not altogether a correct version, but it sounded well enough to be believed, and there

VOL. I. C was one great merit about it, which was that it averted a storm.

Mr. Duerdon had displayed such an unusual amount of tact and diplomacy in the framing of this sentence, evenif it had not stuck quite closely to the text, that he could not help congratulating himself by rubbing his hands together. Owen looked up at his papa, wondering what he was so pleased about.

“Very thoughtful of you, Fred,” declared Mrs. Duerdon graciously. ‘My cough has been very troublesome ; you have doubtless observed it. But cold as it is out of doors, I am glad, exceedingly glad, that you did not send the carriage for Norman. Murielasked my permission to do so, but I declined on principle. It would be very wrong of us to bring up those two children with mistaken notions of their position.”

“We can scarcely do that,” dissented her husband.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Duerdon, shaking her head; “it’s easily done. They will, of course, have to work for their living.”

“Searcely that, my dear,” mildly expostulated Mr. Duerdon, “scarcely that; they have their mother’s money. Norman, I believe, intends entering the Church; Muriel will, of course, make her home with usas long as she chooses.”

‘“‘Umph,” sniffed Mrs. Duerdon ; “ that means, I presume, until she marries, which, put in plain

English, means for her life. No one would surely be so utterly imbecile as to choose her for a wife.”

This was such a well-worn grievance that Mr. Duerdon with great wisdom declined to enter on it. He wisely ignored the subject.

“Why, Owen,” he remarked, looking at the timepiece, “it will soon be dinner time. We shall lose our game if we don’t look sharp. And you are beginning to look sleepy too. Off we go.”

Owen jumpedup. Round and round the room they went quietly racing after each other. It was not very lively, but it served to amuse Owen. Mrs. Duerdon, going to dress, went out and left them playing together.

Chapter II

WE must now take a glance at the Vivians’ connection with Astley Park, and see how it was they came to be there. It is necessary to look back some years. The present Mr. Duerdon’s father was married twice, the first time to a Mrs. Temple, a widow with an only child, Millicent. This lady died suddenly and unexpectedly, after having been at Astley Park only twelve months, leaving her husband burdened witha portionless orphan. Mr. Duerdon was not a bad man, neither was he a hard one, but it did strike him as somewhat an awkward position in which to be left. He had no love for children, no knowledge of their ways, and he looked upon poor Millicent as a decided incumbrance. Yet for the love he had borne her mother, and with a small amount of pity for the desolation and unprovided condition of the lovely girl, he would not put her away. Is there a fate in these things—that, at least, which people term fate ? It seems like it at times. He advertised for a governess, and out of a great number of answers selected one who in every way answered, even beyond his expectations.

Annie Jackson—as she was called—proved to be a most amiable, highly educated, and good-prin.

MILLICENT’S CHILDREN. oT cipled woman. It was quite impossible to live with her and not learn to both honour and love her. Mr. Duerdon was no exception to the general rule, and before another year had run its course he had proposed and been accepted. One quiet morning in early October they were married—an event which neither of them had ever cause to reegret.

For a time things were very little altered to Millicent ; lessons went on as before; the second Mrs. Duerdon continued her instructress until the birth of her first baby. After that, becoming somewhat delicate, and her hands being more tied than formerly, she was obliged to engage a governess. Several children were born, but with the exception of Frederick, the eldest—our Mr. Duerdon—they all died. One little fellow, Edwin, lived to be nearly a year old, when he was accidentally drowned by the upsetting of a boat. His nurse had ventured on the water in direct opposition to all orders she received from her mistress, who had a strong objection to either sailing or boating. Unfortunately the nurse took a friend with her, a nervous, excitable person, who was afraid of the least movement, and on the boat giving a slight lurch, she got frightened and jumped suddenly to the other side. The unequal weight overbalanced them, and at once they were all precipitated in the water. Not one was saved, and thus ended the only visit to the seaside that the oF MILLICENT’S CHILDREN.

elder Mr. Duerdon ever took. Yet it could not truly be said to have ended there, for the shock killed Mrs. Duerdon, not at once, but gradually. The horror of losing a fine little boy, whom she had thought to have reared as a companion for the elder son Fred, and who was in sound good health at the time of the fatal accident, preyed on her mind. She never could forgive herself for trusting the nurse’s obedience implicitly, for like most servants, she required looking after, and this supervision Mrs. Duerdon had omitted. The consequence was she never could forgive herself. Every one tried to rouse her, but in vain. Some ten months after Hdwin’s death she joined him.

Now came the time when Mr. Duerdon was rewarded for his kindness to Millicent, and I believe, firmly believe, that no one ever does perform a great act of self-denial, or of charity, but that in some way or other we receive the reward for it, even in this life. Millicent was over fourteen then, and able to repay in a great measure the love that her stepmother had so freely showered on her by the care of her little pet Fred. The father was very anxious that his son should be kindly and fondly brought up. He had no relatives whom he could expect to help him, neither had he the least tact or notion himself, but felt ail his difficulties melt away as he noted Millicent’s tender care. She loved the child dearly, though he was not a precocious child, either in intellect or appearance, an she was all patience and goodness to him. They grew up together as brother ,and sister, and were in every way treated as such in the house, as it had been Mrs. Duerdon’s especial desire they should be. She had ever wished that Millicent should take a fair portion, even as one of his own daughters would have done, and if she had lived it doubtless would have been properly attended to. Mr. Duerdon considered he had done enough, if not more than enough, already, and did not carry out his wife’s intentions. He decreed that all should go to Fred, and there was no one to oppose him—no one to suggest that a small sum even should be settled on Millicent. If Fred himself had been older, it is probable the desirability of such a proceeding might have struck him, but he was too young; and had not a maiden aunt of Millicent’s—the only relation she possessed—died,, leaving her over a hundred a year, the young girl of eighteen would have been entirely penniless as well as friendless at her stepfather’s sudden death.