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                           MILDRED ARKELL.

                              A Novel.

                         BY MRS. HENRY WOOD,

    AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS," "TREVLYN HOLD," ETC.


    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    VOL. I.

    LONDON:
    TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND
    1865.

    _All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._




CONTENTS.


     CHAP.                                                   PAGE

        I. WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION                 1

       II. THE MISS HUGHES'S HOME                              21

      III. THE ADVENT OF CHARLOTTE TRAVICE                     34

       IV. ROBERT CARR'S REQUEST                               50

        V. THE FLIGHT                                          68

       VI. A MISERABLE MISTAKE                                 87

      VII. A HEART SEARED                                     107

     VIII. BETSEY TRAVICE                                     124

       IX. DISPLEASING EYES                                   147

        X. GOING OUT AS LADY'S MAID                           160

       XI. MR. CARR'S OFFER                                   179

      XII. MARRIAGES IN UNFASHIONABLE LIFE                    194

     XIII. GOING ON FOR LORD MAYOR                            213

      XIV. OLD YEARS BACK AGAIN                               228

       XV. THE DEAN'S DAUGHTER                                249

      XVI. A CITY'S DESOLATION                                269

     XVII. A DIFFICULTY ABOUT TICKETS                         288

    XVIII. THE CONCERT                                        303




MILDRED ARKELL.




CHAPTER I.

WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION.


I am going to tell you a story of real life--one of those histories that
in point of fact are common enough; but, hidden within themselves as
they generally are, are thought to be so rare, and, if proclaimed to the
world in all their strange details, are looked upon as a romance, not
reality. Some of the actors in this one are living now, but I have the
right to tell it, if I please.

A fair city is Westerbury; perhaps the fairest of the chief towns in all
the midland counties. Its beautiful cathedral rises in the midst, the
red walls of its surrounding prebendal houses looking down upon the
famed river that flows gently past; a cathedral that shrouds itself in
its unapproachable exclusiveness, as if it did not belong to the busy
town outside. For that town is a manufacturing one, and the aristocracy
of the clergy, with that of the few well-born families time had gathered
round them, and the democracy of trade, be it ever so irreproachable, do
not, as you know, assimilate. In the days gone by--and it is to them we
must first turn--this feeling of exclusiveness, this line of
demarcation, if you will, was far more conspicuous than it is now: it
was indeed carried to a pitch that would now scarcely be believed in.
There were those of the proud old prebendaries, who would never have
acknowledged to knowing a manufacturer by sight; who would not have
spoken to one in the street, had it been to save their stalls. You don't
believe me? I said you would not. Nevertheless, I am telling you the
simple truth. And yet, some of those manufacturers, in their intrinsic
worth, in their attainments, ay, and in their ancestors, if you come to
that, were not to be despised.

In those old days no town was more flourishing than Westerbury. Masters
and workmen were alike enjoying the fruits of their skill and industry:
the masters in amassing a rich competency; the workmen, or operatives,
as it has become the fashion to call them of late years, in earning an
ample living, and in bringing up their children without a struggle. But
those times changed. The opening of our ports to foreign goods brought
upon Westerbury, if not destruction, something very like it; and it was
only the more wealthy of the manufacturers who could weather the storm.
They lost, as others did, a very great deal; but they had (at least,
some few of them