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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78111-0.txt b/78111-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f08e4ab --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5703 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78111 *** +Italic represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_. +Bold represented by equals signs surrounding the =bold text=. +Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS. + + + + + HOW THEY LOVED HIM. + + + _A NOVEL_. + + BY + + FLORENCE MARRYAT + + (MRS FRANCIS LEAN). + + _IN THREE VOLUMES_. + + VOL. II. + + + LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO., + 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. + + 1882. + + + + + THE POPULAR NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. + + + =THREE FAIR DAUGHTERS=. By LAURENCE BROOKE, Author of ‘The Queen of + Two Worlds,’ etc. 3 vols. + + =SWEETHEART AND WIFE=. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. 3 vols. + + =MY LADY CLARE=. By Mrs EILOART, Author of ‘How He Won Her,’ etc. + 3 vols. + ‘“My Lady Clare” is a pleasant, readable novel.’--_John Bull_. + ‘The interest is maintained with undeniable force and skill.’--_Daily + Telegraph_. + + =A LOVELESS SACRIFICE=. By INA L. CASSILIS, + Author of ‘Guilty without Crime,’ etc. 3 vols. + _John Bull_ says:--‘The story is a pleasant one--healthy in tone, + lofty in teaching, and very sympathetic in manner and style.’ + + COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER I. PAGE + FOR EVER, 1 + + CHAPTER II. + IN A STRAIT, 28 + + CHAPTER III. + DESERTED, 72 + + CHAPTER IV. + OVER, 123 + + CHAPTER V. + SIR GILBERT CONROY, 164 + + CHAPTER VI. + SMOOTH WATERS, 217 + + CHAPTER VII. + A REVELATION, 241 + + CHAPTER VIII. + THE INDISSOLUBLE LINK, 288 + + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + HOW THEY LOVED HIM. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + FOR EVER. + + + ‘It is the same together or apart, + From life’s commencement to its slow decline: + We are entwined; let death come slow or fast, + The tie which bound the first endures the last.’ + _Byron_. + +To describe the feelings of Fenella Barrington at this period would +be almost impossible. Not because no one has ever felt so deeply as +she did, but because such thoughts are not to be adequately portrayed +in black and white. Arraigned before the judgment of the world, they +would appear foolish, romantic, overstrained, and perhaps culpable; +to each individual heart alone, according to the circumstances under +which they found it, must they answer for the consequences. Fenella’s +heart was in an exceptional condition when the passion of love overtook +and conquered it. In the first place, she was very young; and youth, +like charity, ‘believeth all things and hopeth all things.’ She was +too ignorant of human nature to doubt its truth--too ignorant of life +to distrust its possibilities. And in the second place, she was very +lonely and unhappy. She had no watchful parent to shield her innocence; +she had not even any one to call her to account for her actions. She +was free as the air, unguarded as the birds that flew in it, unloved +as the most friendless waif that was ever forsaken by its natural +protectors. + +Disappointed and alone! What girl under such circumstances could be +expected not to answer with the whole strength of her nature to the +call of love? Her heart was so empty of affection--it yearned so for +it--that it would not have been strange had she succumbed to the appeal +of any fellow-creature who desired to show her kindness--least of +all to that of Geoffrey Doyne. For there was a fascination about him +that was far above any physical attractions he may have possessed--a +fascination which every woman felt who crossed his path, and many were +left to rue. His tender eyes, and sensitive mouth, and dreamy poetical +nature made him appear the most sympathetic and warm-hearted of human +creatures; as indeed he was--whilst the humour lasted. But there were +two formidable foes in his breast to war against his better feelings, +and usually to overcome them, and these were a want of moral courage +and a great love of self. + +Geoffrey Doyne generally wanted to do right, and, as a rule, he +generally did wrong. His head told him the proper thing to do, but his +heart failed him at the very moment he called upon it for support and +courage. So he was the worst possible guide that could have been found +for a young and susceptible girl who loved him ardently. + +Fenella would have proved far the most trustworthy of the two. Her +innocence made her the better fitted to lead the way, had she not loved +him so blindly as to be incapable of believing him to be in the wrong. + +The reverend mother had said of her to Eliza Bennett, ‘She possesses +the most dangerous attributes with which a young girl can encounter the +world,--a heart so large and warm and generous, that where it loves it +cannot see a fault, and a strong resolute nature that will act on its +own impulses against all conventionality or advice.’ And the reverend +mother was right. Fenella was that most dangerous combination--a child +in experience, and a woman in feeling. In her eyes Geoffrey Doyne was +simply perfection; and from the day he said he loved her, she yielded +herself up to his control in everything. She looked on him rather as +a god than a man. She could not understand how it was that so perfect +a creature condescended to dwell amongst ordinary mortals. The air +he breathed, the flower he touched, the ground he trod on became +sacred to her from mere contact with him. Hers was not the frivolous, +giggling, open-mouthed admiration of a school-girl; it was the silent, +awe-struck adoration of a woman! She would sit for hours absorbed in +the contemplation of his features. Each movement of his supple figure +was a poem to her, each tone of his voice a melody, each glance from +his eyes a dream of heaven. She hung upon his words as if they had been +inspired; and his touch, however careless, had the power to thrill her +with a pleasure that was next door to pain. A few days of intimate +communion, of mutually-confessed and openly-avowed passion, made +Geoffrey Doyne her ruler--her inspiration--her very life. + +And he knew it but too soon. He saw that the girl had become his +slave--morally and physically; that he had but to lift his little +finger to command her obedience; that with a glance of his eye he +could direct her actions or sway her mind. And he loved her for it in +return. Let him have justice done him at this, the fairest portion +of his life. There is no question that _he loved her_! Although he +was not sufficiently heroic, nor high-minded, nor courageous to +rank her purity and child-like trust in him above his own selfish +gratification--although his religion was not potent enough to gain the +mastery over the more natural religion of love--still _he loved her_! +Fenella was the first woman who had ever touched his heart, as he was +the first man who had ever attempted to win hers. Her face was not +more charming, perhaps, than many he had met with before; her talents +(if of a high order) were crude and undeveloped; her love for himself, +though deep and glowing, was no more than he had a right to expect from +the other sex. But she was the first whom he had ever loved; and there +is a magic charm in those words, _the first_. The first kiss, the first +woman, the first child, the first disappointment, the first death! Can +any future joy or sorrow equal these? They are events that stand alone +in our lives: they can never be repeated; once gone, they are gone for +ever! In all the rest of his life, though Geoffrey Doyne might love +a dozen other women, and swear a thousand oaths of fidelity to them, +he would never love _in the same way_ he loved Fenella Barrington. +More, he would never feel the passion of love in his breast, even +though it burned ten times as strongly as it burned for her, without +giving one short, quick sob of remembrance to the girl who gave him +her whole heart, and placed her very life in his hands, upon the sands +of Ines-cedwyn! And if he could forget--if his mortal nature proved +so weak--Heaven is still above us all, watching, noting, jotting +down on tablets of stone each crime we commit against the heart of a +fellow-creature, to hold them up before our eyes to all eternity. The +time will come when we shall be unable to forget! + +After the day on which they discovered their mutual affection, Fenella +Barrington and Geoffrey Doyne met, if possible, more frequently than +they had done before. Each morning found them on the sands together, +or if the young man pleaded an unwelcome engagement with his sisters, +it was only to impress upon Fenella the double obligation of meeting +him when the evening shadows should have fallen on the landslip. Ah! +Those dangerous moments spent beneath the soft veil of dusk--when they +sat side by side upon the golden sands, and watched the stars come out +upon the summer sky, and their fresh, young voices rose up in unison to +heaven in the thrilling notes of some love melody, or the more solemn +tones of an evening hymn; when their hands lay fast locked in one +another’s, and Fenella’s head was pillowed on her lover’s breast, till +she heard no sound but the throbbing of his heart answering to her own. +And they talked of the future--that glorious and apparently certain +future, when they should always be together, and have no need to steal +out, under cover of the evening, to meet each other on the sands. + +It was provoking that, as yet, Geoffrey had been unable to write to Mrs +Barrington and make a formal proposal for her daughter’s hand, because +but one letter had been received from that lady, dated from Genoa, and +averring the intention of her party to move about for a few weeks in +the South before they settled down in Mentone. But that was of little +consequence--so the lovers told each other--because as soon as Mrs +Barrington _was_ settled, Geoffrey would go over and see her, which +would be far better than writing--and they could not be happier than +they were. + +It was now the end of June; two months had slipped away in this sweet +courtship, and every day might bring the letter to say that Fenella’s +mother was settled at Mentone. + +Eliza Bennett was up and about again. She had even discarded the +crutches with which Dr Redfern had provided her, but her leg was still +stiff, and she had not yet ventured to walk as far as the beach. But +some rumours had reached her ears of the company in which her young +mistress so constantly indulged. Of course the boat and fishermen had +seen the courtship from the beginning. Tugwell, who had so often to put +up at the public house, would have told them of it if they had not had +eyes to see it for themselves. But it was nobody’s business to carry +the news up to Benjamin Bennett’s cottage. If the young lady liked to +amuse herself, what was the odds to Ines-cedwyn? besides, Eliza Bennett +was ailing, and there was no need to worry her with a parcel of tales +about nothing. So the men told the women to hold their tongues, and +consequently it was some time before anybody spoke of Fenella’s doings +out of their own circle. + +But when Eliza Bennett had so far recovered as to be in the garden, and +Martha had more time for gossiping with her neighbours, they let their +tongues loose, and asked her to satisfy their curiosity with regard to +the handsome stranger that came over to Ines-cedwyn in his boat every +day, and if he was going to marry the young lady from the cottage +who sat for so many hours with him in the Beach Bungalow. Of course +it was all news to Martha, and she ran open-mouthed with it to her +sister-in-law. + +‘Only to think, ’Liza,’ she exclaimed, ‘what Winny Williams has just +told me! Miss Fenella’s got a beau, and such a fine lookin’ feller too. +They’ve bin meetin’ each other at that there nasty ruined bungalow +for weeks past, and having fine times, I warrant. Tugwell says the +gentleman lives at Lynwern, but he’s not sure as he’s got his name +properly. Only to think of your young lady! Well, sooner or later they +all does it.’ + +Eliza Bennett was at first incredulous. + +‘I don’t believe it,’ she replied; ‘the Ines-cedwyn folk must talk of +something. I daresay Miss Fenella may have exchanged a word or two with +the gentleman on the sands; but as for havin’ a _beau_, why, Martha, +she’s that innercent, she don’t know what it means! She’d run away more +likely if any one were to say more than “good-day” to her. You don’t +know my young lady; she’s the biggest child of her age I ever saw.’ + +‘Is she, now?’ replied Martha meditatively. ‘Well, I should have said +the same myself when she first come here; but d’ye know, ’Liza, she’s +a deal changed lately--more fidgety like, and don’t eat hearty, and +allays a-jumpin’ up and down from her seat, with her colour comin’ and +goin’ like a flame o’ fire. Ben ain’t very far seein’ as a rule, but he +told me only last week as he thought there was somethin’ up with her.’ + +‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ exclaimed her sister-in-law, in +evident distress. + +‘Why! What would ha’ been the good o’ that--a’ worryin’ you for nothin’ +when you’re ill?’ + +‘But I’d have spoken to Miss Fenella, and found out the truth of it, +Martha. For she’s one of the best young ladies you ever see; she’s like +a lamb for obedience, and I’m sure she’d no more go to do the thing +that is wrong than she’d fly!’ + +‘Who said she had?’ cried Martha. ‘Lor’ bless my heart, ’Liza! Leave +the poor child alone. If she _is_ having a bit of fun with the young +feller, what harm? There’s little enough to amuse her down here, I’m +sure, and she’ll be all the better for it. You wouldn’t go and spoil +her game by makin’ a fuss over it, would you?’ + +‘No; not if there’s no harm, Martha; certainly not! But, you see, Miss +Fenella’s very young and easily led, and there’s no knowing what a +gentleman might get to say to her, seeing she’s so pretty, I must say I +do distrust ’em, one and all; and my mistress would never forgive me if +any harm came to the young lady.’ + +‘Lor’, ’Liza! How you do run on,’ said Martha. ‘I shall be sorry I said +anything about it next. Ain’t a pretty girl like that never to have a +sweetheart? and what harm do you think could come to her with a real +gentleman? He’ll only tell her a few lies, and she’ll be none the worse +for ’em; so don’t you go and fret over it now, or you’ll make yourself +ill again.’ + +Eliza promised she would not; but she could not dismiss the subject +from her mind, for her dread of Mrs Barrington’s possible anger made +her imagine all sorts of danger to the girl under her charge. + +‘If it hadn’t been for this stupid leg,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’d +have been everywhere with Miss Fenella, and no one couldn’t have spoken +to her without my knowledge. And now Martha comes to speak of it, there +has been a great change in her lately. She’s more excited and forgetful +like; and sometimes she’s as gay as a lark, and at others I’ve seen her +staring up at the sky with the tears on her face, and yet with a smile +on her mouth. There’s something very strange about it all. How can I +have been so stupid as not to see it before! But this leg has put +everything else clean out of my head.’ + +It was past nine o’clock when this conversation took place, and Fenella +had gone down to the beach as usual, about an hour before. Under +the new point of view from which she now regarded her young lady’s +wanderings, Eliza Bennett grew fidgety at her absence. + +‘I wonder what she’s about this evening?’ she thought presently. ‘It’s +too dark to see anything on the beach at this time o’ night, and Miss +Fenella must know that supper’s ready and waiting for her. I wonder if +I could manage to get as far as the bungalow. I’ve a good mind to try; +and I sha’n’t feel easy now if I don’t look a bit more after her.’ + +Martha had gone to assist her husband in the cowyard, and there was no +one to combat Eliza’s desire, or tell her it was foolish to attempt to +do so much. So she put on her bonnet and shawl, and taking a stick in +her hand, commenced to hobble slowly in the direction of the beach. + +Meanwhile Fenella and Geoffrey stood together in one of the rooms of +the ruined villa. They were looking serious, but scarcely sad. Hope and +trust were too strong in them for sadness. + +‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ Fenella was saying, ‘is it true? Must you really go?’ + +‘I am afraid I must, my darling. I have received a most imperative +letter from my brother Michael (that’s the lawyer, you know, Fenella), +urging me to go up to town and see him at once, on the most important +business. I can’t imagine what it is--something to do with money, I +suppose. I don’t think Michael would call anything else “important;” +but, any way, I must go, and I shall start to-morrow morning.’ + +‘And when will you be back, Geoffrey?’ + +‘As soon as ever I can, my darling; you may rest assured of that. And +meanwhile, I shall write to you every day. What will old Bennett say +when she sees the letters?’ + +‘Never mind Bennett! She may be surprised, but she will not attempt +to interfere with them. She is only my servant, Geoffrey. You do not +suppose I would allow her to come between you and me?’ + +‘Dear me! What an independent young woman you have grown! Who would +imagine this was the same little girl that blushed scarlet each time I +looked at her but two short months ago?’ + +‘You have made me a woman,’ said the girl with one of the scarlet +blushes he alluded to. ‘I feel now as if I should have courage to stand +up against the whole world if it attempted to come between me and the +love you bear me.’ + +‘You shall never be put to the test, my Fenella. Nothing shall ever +divide our love. I wish to goodness that letter would come from your +mother, and then the matter would be settled.’ + +‘And if--if she should be angry, and refuse her consent to our +marriage?’ faltered the girl. + +‘Then we are to be married without her consent--is it not so? Why, +Fenella! do you think any earthly power could divide us now?’ + +She clung to him with a force that was almost painful. + +‘Oh no, no! How could it? But, Geoffrey, I wish--oh, how I wish!--that +we could have been married before you went to London.’ + +‘My sweetheart, so do I. There is nothing I long for more than the day +when we shall go to church and do all that dreadful “swearing” you are +so afraid of. Only, I am afraid it must not be in Lynwern. It would not +be fair to you, nor your mother, nor any one, Fenella. Let me write to +her first, darling; it cannot be long now before you hear again; and +then if she raises any objection (which I think most unlikely), I shall +not hesitate a moment to carry you straight off before her eyes and +marry you in the first church we come to. So be patient, my love, and +trust to me, and all will be right by-and-by.’ + +‘And nothing--_nothing_ shall ever divide us?’ she repeated, still +clinging to him. + +‘Nothing, _so help me, God_!’ he answered. And that oath was registered +in heaven, and remains there to this day. + +They sat together on one of the window-sills for some time longer, +with their arms interlaced and their heads close together, talking +such sweet nonsense as the world laughs at because it has no heart to +understand, but which makes up the sum of happiness in this mortal life. + +‘And what am I to send my darling from London?’ demanded Geoffrey. +‘In all this time I have not given you one present, because there was +nothing worthy of you in Lynwern; but now you must have something to +remind you of your lover. What shall it be, sweetheart?--a locket or a +ring?’ + +‘I don’t want anything,’ she said bashfully, ‘but _you_.’ + +‘Oh, you’ve got me fast enough, my child,’ he answered, laughing; ‘but +come now, answer my question. Will you have a ring?’ + +She shook her head. + +‘No; not till you give me _that one_, Geoffrey.’ + +‘That won’t be long first, my darling! You’ll be wanting to get it off +again twelve months afterwards--you’ll be so sick of it and me.’ + +‘Don’t--_don’t_!’ she murmured, as if smitten by a sudden pain. + +‘May I send you a locket, then, Mrs Doyne?’ he continued playfully, for +he saw her spirits were sinking; ‘a great big gold locket to put your +husband’s hair in, and sleep with under your pillow every night until +you see him again--for I know that is what you silly girls do when +you’ve got a lover.’ + +At this proposal her face brightened. + +‘Yes; I should like to have a locket--very, _very_ much, dear Geoffrey; +and I will wear it as long as ever I live.’ + +Then he rose suddenly, and said that he must go. + +‘Past ten o’clock, I declare, my dearest, and I have to be up at eight. +God bless you, my Fenella! God keep you for me! Oh, this parting is an +awful wrench, though it is but for so short a time.’ + +The girl did not say much, but her face went suddenly as white as a +sheet, and she clung to him as though her arms would never be unlocked +again. + +‘You will come back soon?’ she whispered, trembling like a leaf. + +‘Very, very soon--in a week at latest--most likely in a couple of days. +Don’t shake so, my darling! Remember we are pledged to each other for +life. Surely, Fenella, you have not one doubt of me?’ + +‘_I trust you as I trust God_,’ she answered solemnly. They were her +last words--their farewells had been exchanged already; in another +moment he had broken from her clasp, and was gone. Fenella watched him +as he strode across the sands and pushed off in the little boat that +was waiting for him. She kissed her hand in the moonlight again and +again, but he was too far off to see the signal; then, with a sound +that was half a sob and half a sigh, she turned away. As she did so +she saw something glittering on the dusty floor--something lying in a +streak of moonlight shone like a diamond beneath her feet. It was one +of Geoffrey’s sleeve-links that had fallen from his cuff as he embraced +her--a twisted thing of enamel and gold that Fenella had often noticed +on his wrist before. With a cry of joy she pounced upon it, and hid +it in her bosom. She did not know till that moment how much she could +prize anything that had been his; she could not realise how bitter +separation between those who love, can be, till she had tasted it. As +she prepared to return to the cottage, a dark figure in the doorway of +the bungalow made her start. + +‘Bennett!’ she exclaimed, in the same moment, ‘is that you? Oh, how you +frightened me! I never supposed for a moment you could get down so far. +But how you are shaking! I am sure it has been too much for you.’ + +‘Miss Fenella,’ said the servant, as she sat down on the verandah floor +to recover herself, ‘I came to see after you, my dear! Do you know as +it’s past ten o’clock, and the supper’s been on the table this hour and +more? It’s too late for a young lady to be out by herself, and in such +a lonely place as Ines-cedwyn.’ + +‘Why, nurse, I thought its loneliness was the very thing that made it +safe. This is not the first evening I have been on the sands till ten +o’clock, and Martha never spoke to me on the subject, or told me I was +wrong.’ + +‘No, Miss Fenella; ’tisn’t Martha’s business to speak to you; and I’ve +been in bed, you see, and knew nothin’ about it; but I’m afraid as +your mamma wouldn’t think it was right. And--if I may make so bold, +miss--who was that gentleman who parted with you just as I came up to +the back of the house?’ + +Fenella was startled by the question, but she was too proud to attempt +to deny the truth. + +‘That was a friend of mine, Bennett--a gentleman who often comes over +to Ines-cedwyn. You need not worry yourself about him. It is all right, +and mamma will say so, too, as soon as she hears it.’ + +‘Is he a friend of your mamma’s, miss?’ + +‘Yes; that is, he doesn’t know her yet, but he soon will. He is the +friend of all of us, nurse--the very best friend we ever had.’ + +‘I am glad of that, my dear; but I hope he won’t come here again till +he’s seen your mamma. Because it isn’t quite the proper thing, you +know, for a gentleman to meet a young lady so often, and at all sorts +of odd times. It makes people talk, Miss Fenella, and that’s not good +for any one.’ + +What was it in the girl’s face that made the servant half afraid of +saying even as much as she did? A new light, a new dignity, something +she had never seen there before, seemed to settle on Fenella’s brow, +and relegate Eliza Bennett to her proper position. She could not speak +to her young mistress now as she had done on the journey from Calais to +Dover. + +‘Bennett,’ said the girl presently, ‘I daresay it may seem strange +to you, because you do not understand; neither can I give you any +explanation till I have seen my mother. But you may make your mind easy +on one score--the gentleman has gone away, for the present. He will +not be back again, most probably, until we have heard from Mentone; +and then everything will be right. And now, let me take you home, dear +nurse. I wish you hadn’t come down here after me; I am so afraid you +may have hurt yourself. There! Lean on my arm as hard as ever you like; +you cannot tire me; and we will go home together. And, please, don’t +speak to me again about the--I mean, about the subject you mentioned +just now, because I can say nothing until I have seen mamma, and then +you will understand that all your fears are groundless. Lean harder, +dear nurse; that is right. I am strong enough to bear your weight and +my own too.’ + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + IN A STRAIT. + + + ‘Men have many loves; their true names are--or Vice + or Vanity, or Feebleness or Folly.’--_Ariadne_. + +Geoffrey Doyne had but spoken the truth when he said that his brother’s +letter was a most imperative one. It had contained as sharp a summons +as it was possible to send a man:-- + +‘Come up to London as soon as ever you receive this,’ it ran. ‘I must +see you at once, and on business of the utmost importance.’ + +The brothers had inherited money at the death of their mother, which +was invested in stock, and under the management of Michael Doyne, and +Geoffrey naturally thought that his presence was needed on account of +some selling-out or buying-in. His brother did not seem to him to have +a soul above money. He could not imagine his troubling himself on any +other matter. + +He went up to town by an early train the following day, and the same +idea was in his mind as he entered the lawyer’s office. + +‘What’s up now?’ he said, as he encountered Michael’s portentous +countenance. ‘Have Persians fallen, or Hudson’s Bay gone up? I do wish +you could manage these matters without my interference, Michael. You +know how I detest business, and how perfectly I am satisfied that you +know a great deal more about it than I do.’ + +‘But this is unfortunately a matter which I could not settle on my own +authority,’ replied his brother gravely. ‘Come into the inner office, +Geoffrey. I cannot speak to you unless we are perfectly alone.’ + +‘This looks ominous,’ cried Geoffrey gaily, as he ensconced himself in +an arm-chair and flicked the dust off his dainty boots. + +‘It is ominous,’ replied the other, ‘and I trust you are not going to +make a jest of it. It is likely to cause trouble enough before long, +unless I can bring you to reason.’ + +‘What are you driving at?’ said Geoffrey. + +‘Simply this--that Dr Robertson called at my office yesterday morning +and gave me a piece of information that horrified me.’ + +The younger brother changed colour. + +‘Well, go on,’ he said carelessly; ‘what had the old gentleman to say +for himself?’ + +‘You know, Geoffrey, as well as I do. He came to tell me that you had +broken off your engagement with his daughter Jessie.’ + +‘It is not true; it was Jessie who broke off her engagement with me.’ + +‘I cannot believe it, Geoffrey. Dr Robertson came to me in the greatest +distress. He said that both he and his wife had observed that their +daughter was out of health and spirits for some weeks past, but that +they had not connected the circumstance with your engagement until +they noticed that all correspondence had ceased between you. Then they +questioned Jessie, and the truth came out--that you had written to her +some time back, and said you didn’t care for her.’ + +‘Not exactly that,’ replied Geoffrey; ‘but I told her I did not care +for her as I ought to do for the woman I was going to make my wife; and +that’s the truth, Michael. I _don’t_ care for her, and I never shall; +and under the circumstances, it would be perfectly absurd my marrying +her!’ + +‘You should have thought of that before you proposed to her,’ remarked +Michael drily. + +‘I did; but I was drawn into it. You know I was as thoroughly “hooked” +by the old woman as ever a man could be.’ + +‘Perhaps you were--that is your own business; but having been “hooked,” +as you call it, you must submit to be “landed.”’ + +‘Do you mean to say, then, that you consider I am bound to marry Jessie +Robertson?’ + +‘I do, most decidedly.’ + +‘What! After she has sent me back my letters and presents?’ + +‘That has nothing to do with it, Geoffrey. The poor girl sent them +back because she was ignorant how else to act. Had she consulted her +parents, they would not have permitted her to do so. Jessie would set +you free as it is; but Dr and Mrs Robertson are quite of a different +opinion. They won’t let you off so easily.’ + +‘They intend to keep me to my word?’ + +‘I am afraid there is no doubt of it. The doctor might be talked over, +but you know what his wife is. He says she is furious, and declares +that, if you refuse to keep to your engagement with Jessie, she will +sue you for a breach of promise; and that’s a sort of thing our family +could not allow, you know, Geoffrey.’ + +The younger man sat silent and sullen, with a face of the deepest +perplexity. + +‘I _must_ get out of it somehow,’ he said presently. ‘You are cleverer +than I am, Michael; can’t you help me?’ + +‘I don’t see my way to it, Geoffrey. You proposed to the girl of your +own accord, and the engagement has been made public. What earthly +excuse can you have for getting out of it?’ + +‘Why, that I don’t love her, and that I won’t marry her. No; by George! +I won’t, if I hang for it!’ + +‘There’s another woman in the case,’ remarked his brother casually. + +‘Yes, there is,’ said Geoffrey. + +‘Some girl at Ines-cedwyn?’ + +‘Who told you that?’ + +‘I heard of it when I was down at Lynwern. Well, I daresay it will be +hard lines, Geoffrey; but you must give her up. You can’t marry them +both.’ + +‘I won’t marry Jessie Robertson,’ said Geoffrey stoutly. + +‘You _must_, man--you _must_! Don’t talk nonsense; try to look at the +matter in a reasonable light. After all, it’s only a toss-up between +them, and why should one girl suffer more than the other? There are +certain social laws, you know, Geoffrey, which we cannot break with +impunity, and this is one of them. Your honour is concerned in your +keeping your engagement, and you cannot cancel it without disgracing +the whole family. For our sakes, therefore (if not for your own), you +must do the right thing by Jessie Robertson.’ + +‘My honour may be concerned elsewhere as well,’ rejoined Geoffrey, +in a somewhat lowered voice, ‘and my happiness as well as my honour. +Michael, I will pay any forfeit, or incur any penalty they may choose +to put upon me; but I cannot, and I will not, marry Jessie. I will cut +my throat first.’ + +‘No, don’t do that,’ said his brother, as if he had proposed a thing +of every-day occurrence. ‘I don’t approve of marriage myself as a +rule, but I think of the two courses it would be the preferable one to +pursue. Little Jessie isn’t half bad, you know, when you come to think +of it; and if you would only believe me, my dear fellow,’ he continued, +as he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, ‘one woman will be just +the same to you as another when you have been married for three months.’ + +‘Ah! That’s what _you_ think of it,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it shows how much +you know of the matter.’ + +‘Is this young lady at Ines-cedwyn, then, so very handsome?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Clever?’ + +‘Not particularly so.’ + +‘Rich?’ + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘Then what’s the great attraction in her, that you should wish to break +the heart of a good little girl like Jessie Robertson for her sake?’ + +‘It is one that I don’t think you’d understand, Michael,--_I love her_!’ + +The lawyer laughed. + +‘My dear boy, I’ve heard you say the same thing so often before. Excuse +me if I think you could manage that (if you tried) with any one of the +sex.’ + +‘At any rate, I don’t intend to try it with Jessie Robertson.’ + +Michael Doyne looked grave; he did not like this determined refusal on +the part of his brother. It looked so much as if (for once) Geoffrey +were in earnest. + +‘Well, look here!’ he said suddenly; ‘if you really want to get out of +this scrape, Geoffrey, you can only do it by persuading the old people +to let you off. Suppose you meet me at the Robertsons’ this evening to +talk the matter over? Will you do so?’ + +‘I shall tell them the truth,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I shall tell them I’m in +love with somebody else, and they must think what they like of it.’ + +‘Perhaps that will be the best plan, after all,’ replied his brother; +‘but, at any rate, you must see them. It was only by promising to +summon you to London that I dissuaded the old man from following you to +Lynwern.’ + +‘Was it so bad as that?’ asked Geoffrey, startled. + +‘It was, indeed! They’re in a rare state in Blenheim Square, I can tell +you, and would have written straight off to the pater if I had not +promised a lot of things in your name, which I trust you will be found +ready to fulfil. I hardly know how the pater would take this, Geoffrey. +The Robertsons are his oldest friends, as you know; and he would be +quick to resent an affront to them. I’m not sure but what it might +militate against your future prospects!’ + +‘I can’t help it if it does,’ said Geoffrey, with a sigh. ‘I am not +going to blast all my happiness for life to please anybody.’ + +‘Ah! That’s only talking,’ replied his brother carelessly, as he bid +him good-bye, and told him not to fail to keep his appointment in +Blenheim Square at nine o’clock. + +Geoffrey strolled towards his club, ill at ease. He did not waver for a +moment from his determination, but he was afraid he might have trouble +in keeping to it. He would have had little fear of being able to make +Dr Robertson see the matter in a sensible light, but the doctor was +unfortunately a cipher in his own house, where Mrs Robertson reigned +supreme; and Geoffrey (in common with the rest of mankind) stood +terribly in awe of her. + +He tried to divert his thoughts and while away the time by purchasing +the promised locket for Fenella--a gold locket with a wreath +of laurel on it in blue enamel--(was it prophetic of her future +destiny?)--surrounding the emblems of Love and Faith and Hope. Geoffrey +thought the design a pretty one, and bought the trinket on the spot. +Fenella would think of him when she saw the laurel--the laurel which +grows to adorn the head of heroes; and the cross and heart and anchor +were emblematic of her own feelings--feelings which he had called God +to witness should never be wounded through his means. + +It was something to do to buy the locket, and have a piece of his +hair put in it, and see it packed and addressed to Ines-cedwyn, and +to picture the innocent delight of the receiver when it reached her +hands the following morning. But still hours intervened before he could +set off to keep his appointment in Blenheim Square, and the men who +met him at his club, and ‘chaffed’ him on keeping out of town at the +best season of the year, could not imagine what had come to Geoffrey +Doyne--he was so _distrait_ and peevish, not to say rude, in the +irritation caused by his perplexity and doubt. When at last he reached +the house, Michael was ready to receive him in the hall. + +‘I thought it better for me to come here first, and smooth matters over +a little,’ he said as his brother entered. + +‘I almost wish now that I had written instead,’ replied Geoffrey. +‘However, I am sure that Dr Robertson is too sensible not to understand +my motives.’ + +‘I am afraid the doctor is out,’ said Michael Doyne. ‘However, you will +see Mrs Robertson, and it is all the same thing.’ + +He knew it was not the same thing, and so did his brother, but it was +too late for remonstrance. Geoffrey was already on the threshold of the +library, where Mrs Robertson sat in state to receive him. + +To say that this lady was a conglomeration of all the most ferocious +mothers-in-law that ever existed, is not to say too much. Her sharp +tongue and vixenish temper were well known in the circle of her +acquaintance, and she joined them to an obstinacy that was unequalled. +It was she alone who had insisted upon Geoffrey Doyne being brought +to book for his defalcation, and forced to fulfil his promises to her +daughter. Good old Dr Robertson might have shaken his head over his +faithlessness to his dying day, but he would never have dreamt of +insisting that he should marry the girl; and Jessie herself, although +she inherited somewhat of her mother’s spirit, was too young to have +made such good use of it. But Mrs Robertson was above such petty +scruples. Jessie was one of seven daughters, and this young man, +who had the most excellent prospects, had formally entered into an +engagement to marry her, and now wanted to back out of it, and her +mother was determined to know the reason why. So she sat, enthroned in +her husband’s arm-chair, ready to receive the culprit--her sandy hair +drawn tightly off her forehead, as though to say she would admit of no +compromise, and her hard steel-grey eyes fixed on him with the look of +an inquisitor. + +Geoffrey Doyne, though with some hesitation, advanced in the old way, +and held out his hand. + +‘No, thank you, Mr Doyne,’ she said tartly; ‘not until this most +unpleasant business is settled between us. Be good enough to seat +yourself. I am glad your brother is here to be witness to what passes +at our interview.’ + +Geoffrey flushed to the temples, but he did as she desired him. + +‘My brother is here as my friend, Mrs Robertson,’ he replied. +‘Otherwise he can have no possible concern in my private affairs.’ + +‘I don’t know that, Mr Doyne,’ said his hostess. ‘Did you come here +as _our friend_, it might be so; but under the circumstances, I should +think very few _gentlemen_ would be found willing to take your side.’ + +‘Do you mean to insinuate, madam--’ commenced Geoffrey hotly; but +Michael came between them as mediator. + +‘Mrs Robertson,’ he said, ‘I persuaded my brother to come here to-night +that we might have an explanation, not a quarrel; and I do not see how +recrimination can help the cause on either side. Will you hear what he +has to say in extenuation of his conduct, or would you prefer to be the +first to speak?’ + +‘I wish to say first what I think of him,’ replied Mrs Robertson. + +‘Let it be so, then. Geoffrey, you see the justice of this. Mrs +Robertson is not only a lady and your hostess, but she stands in the +position of the injured party. Let me ask you, therefore, to listen +patiently to whatever she may have to say, and you can justify your +own action in the matter afterwards.’ + +‘Which, I should imagine, Mr Geoffrey Doyne will find it most difficult +to do,’ interposed Mrs Robertson. + +‘No such thing, madam,’ broke in Geoffrey warmly. ‘I have the best +possible excuse--’ + +But Michael came again to the rescue. + +‘Patience, my dear fellow--patience! You will never arrive at a +satisfactory conclusion unless each consents to hear what the other has +to say.’ + +Geoffrey sank into his chair again; and Mrs Robertson turned her back +on him without ceremony. + +‘You will excuse me, Mr Doyne,’ she said to the elder brother, ‘if I +prefer, for the present at all events, to address myself to you. The +case stands simply thus. Last year Mr Geoffrey Doyne stayed for a month +in our house, and I trusted him implicitly in the company of all my +daughters, with whom he appeared on the best of terms--’ + +‘Of course I was. I romped with one as much as the other,’ interposed +Geoffrey. + +But Mrs Robertson took no notice of the remark. + +‘After a while, however, I perceived that he admired Jessie above the +rest; indeed, on several occasions I had seen familiarities take place +between them--’ + +‘She used to come and sit on my lap whether I would or no,’ grumbled +Geoffrey. + +‘So I considered it my duty as a mother,’ continued the lady, waving +her hand, as though to wave the younger brother off into infinitesimal +space, ‘to ask him his intentions with regard to her, and was greatly +astonished to find that he had no intentions whatever.’ + +‘Of course I hadn’t--never thought of such a thing,’ said Geoffrey. + +‘But you _ought_ to have thought of it; it was most reprehensible,’ +replied his brother, frowning. + +‘I am so glad you see it in _our_ light, dear Mr Doyne,’ rejoined Mrs +Robertson; ‘for it is hard, after so many years of friendly intercourse +have subsisted between the families, to think of a rupture taking place +now. The dear doctor feels it keenly. The suspense has quite aged him.’ + +‘Oh, it must not be,’ said Michael decidedly; and Geoffrey felt a chill +run through him at the words. + +‘Of course I remonstrated with your brother,’ resumed Mrs Robertson, +‘as he will do me the justice to acknowledge, and pointed out to him +the harm he had done our dear girl, and the misery he had caused her. +And then Dr Robertson and his father both spoke to him; and the issue +was, that he proposed formally to my husband for Jessie’s hand (we have +the letter now, Mr Doyne), and the engagement was ratified between +them. Of course our friends all know of it; we never dreamt for a +moment that Mr Geoffrey Doyne could be so _base_ to go back from his +written word; and the poor child has been actually making the linen +for her trousseau for the last three months. When, the other day, as I +was questioning her on her altered looks and spirits, she burst into +tears, and, to my _amazement_, told me that it was all over between +them; that Mr Geoffrey Doyne had sent for his letters and presents to +be returned to him, and that he had been cruel enough to write and tell +the dear girl that he had never cared for her, and that he refused to +marry her,--the basest, cruellest, most heartless conduct I ever heard +of in my life,’ continued Mrs Robertson, trembling with anger, ‘and +after the kindness and hospitality he had received at our hands too! +But it cannot be allowed, Mr Doyne. I will not sit by quietly and see +my poor child pine away in consequence of such treachery. Your brother +must fulfil the engagement he entered into with her, or she shall have +public compensation for his desertion. The world shall not have it in +its power to say that we boasted idly of our daughter’s expectations.’ + +‘Am I to be allowed to speak now?’ demanded Geoffrey, who had with +difficulty kept quiet during the last part of this harangue. + +‘If Mrs Robertson has quite finished,’ said his brother coldly. + +‘I have said all I wish to say,’ replied the lady, ‘and no explanations +Mr Geoffrey Doyne can offer me in return can ever excuse his conduct to +my daughter.’ + +‘Perhaps not in _your_ eyes, madam,’ said Geoffrey; ‘but you have +appealed to the judgment of the world. I am glad you have done me the +justice to acknowledge that I never had any intention of proposing +to Jessie until you forced me to do so. And therein lies my greatest +fault. I should have resisted your arguments then as I do now. I have +made the task doubly hard by delay. Ever since I yielded to your wishes +in that respect, I have seen how wrong I was to do so. Each day has +convinced me, more and more, that I am not, and I never was, in love +with your daughter, and that, if I marry her we shall only make each +other miserable for life. It was with this conviction that I wrote +to her a month ago--telling her the truth. I did not say I would not +marry her, neither did I ask her to return my letters or presents. I +said just what I have told you--that I had not considered sufficiently +before I made that proposal of marriage to her, and that I did not +care for her so much as I ought to do. And if that is being base and +dishonourable in your eyes, it is not in mine. I consider I should +have been much more to blame had I married her without telling her the +truth.’ + +‘Unfortunately, you see, Geoffrey, it is not what _you_ think, but what +the world will say about the matter,’ remarked Michael gravely; ‘and +there is no doubt that a thing of this kind militates against a girl’s +prospects in life.’ + +‘_Militates against her prospects_!’ cried Mrs Robertson shrilly; ‘I +should think it did--it ruins them! Do you suppose I am going to let my +daughter be pointed at as having been jilted--_and by you_!’ she ended, +with withering scorn. + +‘Would you prefer her, then, to marry a man who does not love her?’ +retorted Geoffrey. + +‘That is of little consequence,’ replied the lady. ‘_No_ men care for +their wives (as far as I can see) in the present day. The mere fact of +their _being_ their wives is sufficient to make them indifferent! But +my daughter is of a very different disposition from you. She is amiable +and affectionate and loving, and I will not see her heart broken and +her future prospects spoiled for any man alive.’ + +‘If you knew all, Mrs Robertson,’ resumed Geoffrey, colouring, ‘you +would see that you could not break her heart more readily than by +marrying her to me.’ + +‘You had better make a clean breast whilst you are about it,’ suggested +his brother. + +‘Perhaps you are right. Well, then, Mrs Robertson, my objection to +renewing my engagement with Jessie does not lie wholly in the fact that +I do not care sufficiently for her to make her a good husband. There is +a stronger reason than that--a more insurmountable one. I am in love +with another woman!’ + +He said the words slowly, as though they contained an argument to +quench all her maternal hopes. But they had only the effect of making +her more angry and determined. + +‘And do you call that an _excuse_?’ she exclaimed; ‘it is an +aggravation of your offence. You are in love with another woman, and +so _my_ daughter is to go to the wall! My Jessie is to be deprived +throughout life of all you had promised to give her, because you have +taken it into your head to set up some one else in her stead. But you +will find it is not quite so easy to chop and change in that manner, Mr +Doyne. You have pledged your word to my daughter, and you must redeem +it--or give her such compensation as the law may award her.’ + +‘You will surely not bring this matter into court?’ cried Geoffrey, +with horror. ‘You will never drag your daughter’s name through the +newspapers as the plaintiff in a breach of promise case?’ + +Mrs Robertson saw her advantage, and clung to it. + +‘We certainly _shall_,’ she replied, ‘unless you think better of the +insult you have offered us. The doctor and I have talked this matter +over, and he has left it entirely in my hands. He is no more disposed +to sit by quietly, and see Jessie’s heart broken without an effort to +save her, than I am.’ + +‘But how can you improve the affair by making it public? You should +consider your daughter’s feelings,’ said the young man, in evident +distress. He did not perceive that the agitation he evinced was the +weakest card he could play into her hands; nor did he guess that the +threat she used towards him had been suggested by his astute lawyer +brother. + +‘That is _our_ business,’ replied Mrs Robertson coldly, ‘and we shall +do what we consider best for our child without any reference to her +feelings. Neither do I think _you_ are the proper person to remind me +of my duty in that respect, Mr Doyne, considering the _very little_ +regard you have shown towards them yourself.’ + +‘What _am_ I to do?’ demanded Geoffrey, in a low voice, of his brother. + +‘You’ll have to stick to it, my boy. I don’t see any way out of it,’ +replied Michael, in the same tone. + +‘I _cannot_--it is impossible. I will die first,’ said the younger man, +in a voice of despair. + +‘Well, Mr Doyne,’ exclaimed Mrs Robertson after a short pause, ‘is it +of any use our prolonging this interview? Mr Geoffrey does not appear +to be disposed to do what is right and honourable in the matter, and +therefore it only remains for the doctor and myself to take the steps +that seem best to us. And the first thing, I believe, my husband +proposes to do is to go down and have an interview with your father at +Ryelands.’ + +‘Might I ask you, my dear Mrs Robertson, as a personal favour to +myself,’ said Michael Doyne, in his blandest voice, ‘to allow Geoffrey +a couple of days in which to think over what you have said to him? I +feel convinced that, if you will do so, we shall have arrived at some +satisfactory conclusion by that time. For my sake, Mrs Robertson--will +you do it for _my_ sake?’ + +‘Well, Mr Doyne, for _your_ sake I will; for I know we have your good +wishes, although we appear to have lost those of your brother. In a +couple of days, then, I shall expect to hear from you; and meanwhile I +shall say nothing to my daughter, nor take any more decided steps in +the matter. Good-night, dear Mr Doyne; whatever happens, I shall always +feel that you have proved yourself a true and faithful friend to us,’ +and shaking hands with the elder brother, Mrs Robertson swept out of +the room without vouchsafing one glance towards the spot where Geoffrey +stood, silent and dejected. + +‘Come on, Geoff,’ said Michael briskly, as soon as she had disappeared; +‘we had better be going home; it is no use our remaining longer here.’ + +The younger man followed him mechanically to the hall door. His brain +was in such a whirl he hardly knew what he was about. + +‘What _am_ I to do?’ he repeated, in a confused manner, as they walked +through the square together. + +‘Well, to tell you the plain truth, Geoffrey, I only see one thing for +you to do, and that is to renew your engagement, and marry the girl, +and take her back to India with you.’ + +‘You forget the other,’ said Geoffrey gloomily. + +‘No, I don’t, my dear boy. I see the mess you’re in as plainly as +you do. But the other is a matter of _feeling_, Geoffrey, and this +is a matter of _right_. Tell me a little about this young lady at +Ines-cedwyn. Are her parents staying there?’ + +‘No; she is with a servant.’ + +‘You haven’t said anything to them about marrying her, then?’ + +‘Not yet.’ + +‘It’s only been a little spooning affair on your own account, eh?’ + +‘Yes; I suppose you’d call it so.’ + +‘Well, then, my dear Geoffrey, there’s no question about the matter. +You must break it off.’ + +‘I _can’t_ do that, Michael.’ + +‘You can, if you choose.’ + +‘I _cannot_. There are reasons--’ + +‘Oh yes! I understand all your reasons before you tell me. You like +her much better than this one; in fact, you’re over head and ears +in love with her, and you want to marry her, and take her out to +India. That’s it now, isn’t it? Well, I allow that it is very hard, +and, as I said before, I daresay it will cut you up to have to part +from her and marry Jessie Robertson instead; but _it must be done_, +Geoffrey. There’s the long and the short of it. Your honour demands +the sacrifice, and respect for your family demands it. We can’t have +our name dragged through a breach of promise case, and connected with +that of the Robertsons. It would be too disgraceful. I don’t believe my +father would ever speak to you again. And then, there’s something to be +said for Jessie into the bargain. The girl’s awfully fond of you. The +doctor says she’s so changed by your behaviour, that you’d hardly know +her; and I don’t see why she should be made to suffer any more than +the other one. You can’t keep your word to _both_, that’s clear; and +Jessie Robertson will bear the more open disgrace of the two, if you +break with her. Now, do go home and try to think it over in that light. +_Some one_ must bear the brunt of your folly in any case; but if you +persevere in your present determination, we shall _all_ have to bear +it, which isn’t quite fair upon us.’ + +Geoffrey did go home--miserable, undecided, and almost hopeless. +Still, he trusted that something might turn up to help him out of his +difficulty--that Jessie’s parents might relent, or the girl herself +refuse to renew their engagement. Surely, he thought, if he told her to +her face he didn’t love her, she would never hold him to his word. + +Meanwhile there was no reason that his poor trusting Fenella should +suffer for his fault. Time enough for her to learn the worst when the +worst came. So he sat down and wrote her a long loving letter (such +as he knew she would carry in her bosom all the day), and told her he +was afraid his business would detain him in town longer than he had +expected; but he did not mention what that business was. And when he +had finished the letter, he laid his head down upon the paper and burst +into tears. + +‘It is impossible,’ he kept on repeating to himself. ‘I _cannot_--I +_must_ not desert her. Not _now_--O God! Not _now_.’ + +His task would have been much easier if the other girl had not cared +for him also, but he knew too well that she did care. It had been his +flattered vanity at her evident affection that had drawn him into the +noose that galled him now. Still he thought, if all other means failed, +he must make an appeal to Jessie’s generosity to set him free. He did +not know that her temperament was of so jealous a nature, that the +very plea he urged for liberty would be an incentive to her to bind +him closer. When the two days of grace were over, he was as distracted +and undecided as ever, and Michael had the greatest difficulty in +persuading him to put in an appearance in Blenheim Square. + +The meeting this time, however, was of a more friendly character. Dr +Robertson was present, and Michael Doyne had already consulted with the +parents on the most politic step to be taken. + +‘We have no wish to appear harsh or oppressive, my dear young friend,’ +commenced the doctor, who had been previously ‘coached’ by his wife +what to say; ‘but we have our child’s happiness to consult in this +matter, and I am bound to tell you that it is very seriously concerned. +Mrs Robertson and I have, therefore, after mature deliberation, come to +the conclusion that Jessie is, after all, the proper person to decide +whether the engagement shall continue or not, and we shall leave it +entirely in her hands.’ + +Geoffrey’s face flushed with hope. + +‘Do I understand you, sir, that Miss Robertson and I are to settle +this business by ourselves, and that you will abide by her decision, +whatever it may be?’ + +‘Yes; that is our wish, Mr Doyne. After all, it is _her_ happiness, and +not _ours_, that is at stake; and if she tells us she has released you +of her own free will, we shall take no further steps in the matter.’ + +‘Thank you--thank you a thousand times,’ said Geoffrey fervently. ‘Does +Jessie know I am in the house? May I see her now?’ + +‘Yes; I have prepared my daughter for the interview,’ replied Mrs +Robertson, with a grim smile, as she preceded the young man out of the +room. + +Geoffrey followed her briskly, his heart throbbing with hope. He +thought he should have no difficulty in making Jessie understand how +much better it would be for both of them to be free. + +Mrs Robertson led him to the drawing-room and opened the door. + +‘Jessie, my dear,’ she said quietly, ‘here is Mr Geoffrey Doyne, who +wishes to speak to you.’ + +Then she retreated, and left the young people together. + +Now, until that morning Jessie Robertson had been entirely ignorant +that she had any rival to dispute her possession of Geoffrey Doyne. +She had accepted his letter just as he wrote it, and had never lost +hope that he would find out he had been mistaken, and return some day +and ask her to take back those presents, and give him a place in her +affections once more. And she was quite ready to do so, for, truth to +say, he had never lost that place. His handsome face and figure had +made an irrevocable impression on her mind, and if she did not love +him with all the ardour of Fenella Barrington, she loved him to the +utmost power of her nature--and no one can do more. The rupture of +their engagement had been a great shock to her, and the disappointment +had left its traces on her features--had darkened the lines beneath her +eyes, and washed the colour from her rosy cheeks. + +Mrs Robertson had seen all this; she knew that the girl looked pathetic +and pretty, and the young man was emotional and easily impressed; and +she trusted a great deal to the effect Jessie’s altered appearance +would have upon him. Besides, she had, as she said, prepared her +daughter for this interview. She had hinted at the possibility of some +low-born rival as a means of rousing the girl’s jealousy, and then she +had implored her, for the sake of Geoffrey Doyne’s family (no less +than for his own), to be firm, and bring him back to his allegiance. +He would thank her for it afterwards (the mother said), when he knew +his own heart better, and could rate her devotion for him at its true +value. So Jessie came forward--rather timidly, it is true, but still +very affectionately, and much in the old style, and lifted her tearful +blue eyes to his face. + +‘I _knew_ you would come back,’ she murmured. ‘I knew you would +remember our old affection some day. Mamma said it was impossible that +you could quite forget me.’ + +For a moment he almost forgot his mission in looking at her pale cheeks +and attenuated figure. + +‘Why, Jessie,’ he exclaimed, ‘have you been ill?’ + +‘Yes--a little. What does it matter? I fretted, of course--I could not +help fretting; but I shall be all right again now.’ + +‘Do you mean to say my letter caused this? Oh, what a brute I am!’ +cried Geoffrey. + +‘Don’t say that,’ replied Jessie softly, as she sat down beside him. +‘You did it for the best, I am sure.’ + +‘I did indeed. I thought it would be less dishonourable to cancel our +engagement than to let you marry me without knowing the truth. For I +am not worthy of you, Jessie, and since we have been separated I have +thought so much more seriously of such things. Marriage is a very +solemn contract, is it not? And it would be unjust to let you enter +into it with any one who does not love you as you deserve. Don’t you +agree with me?’ + +‘But I always thought you loved me more than I deserved, Geoffrey,’ she +said, in a low voice; ‘for, after all, what is there in me to love?’ + +‘There is everything--everything to make a man happy, if he were not +only too great a fool to appreciate it, Jessie.’ + +‘But you made me quite happy,’ she whispered. + +‘Did I? I am afraid I should not make you happy for long. I own an +atrociously bad temper, Jessie--irritable and easily put out; and I am +a selfish, heartless sort of fellow at the best. You would have wearied +of me in no time, and then there would have been no remedy for either +of us. It was better to put a stop to it before it was too late, wasn’t +it?’ + +‘I should soon have grown used to your tempers, Geoffrey--all men have +them, mamma says--and I never thought you heartless; at least, not +until you sent me that letter.’ And then she began to cry. + +‘Jessie, did that letter hurt you so very much?’ + +‘Oh, terribly,’ she said, amidst her sobs; ‘how could it be otherwise +when I had made up my mind we were to be married so soon, and half my +things were made, too, and I had asked my cousins to be bridesmaids? +And now--now it seems as if everything in the whole world was over for +me, and I should never be happy again--never!’ + +‘Oh, don’t cry--for Heaven’s sake, don’t cry!’ said Geoffrey +despairingly, ‘and let me try and think what is best to be done.’ + +They sat silent for a few moments, whilst Jessie caught her breath, +and dabbed her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief. Then Geoffrey said +gravely,-- + +‘Jessie! I thought--and I think still--that we shall never be happy as +man and wife; but your father and mother consider that I have gone so +far in proposing to you, that I have no right even to suggest such a +thing as altering our minds, and that it must rest with _you_ to decide +whether our marriage takes place or not.’ + +‘I would much rather it took place,’ sobbed the girl. + +‘Listen to me,’ went on her companion, ‘and don’t decide in a hurry. +Remember the whole happiness of our lives depends upon your answer. I +am compelled to tell you--in justice to you and to myself--that I do +not love you as I ought to do. In fact, Jessie, I--I--(don’t be angry +with me for saying it)--but I--care for somebody else; and that fact +alone would make my marriage with you a sacrilege and a blasphemy which +I do not dare to contemplate.’ + +She did not answer him, and after a while he proceeded,-- + +‘Don’t you think it would be very wrong of us to marry under the +circumstances, Jessie? Don’t you think it may be the wrecking of both +our lives to know there is such a barrier between us? Don’t you think +it would be more honourable in the sight of God and man for us to go +our different ways in the world, than to take vows upon ourselves which +we know it is not in our power to perform?’ + +He paused, waiting for and expecting her acquiescence; and had the +girl followed the natural instincts of her womanhood, she would have +told him he was right. But the hint he had given her of his love +for another, vague and undefined though it was, had raised the worst +feelings of which Jessie Robertson was capable, and made her resolve, +at all hazards, to claim him for her own. He should never, _never_ (so +she said to herself) be free to go and marry that other woman, and +leave her to be laughed at or pitied by all their acquaintance. She +loved the man, but she loved herself better, and she was determined if +possible to keep him by her side. So all she answered was,-- + +‘_I_ could fulfil them, Geoffrey, easily enough. Nothing could be +difficult for me to do that was done for you.’ + +‘By heavens!’ he exclaimed, driven to desperation by her quiet +perseverance, ‘do you mean to say that you would stoop to marry me when +I tell you plainly that I do not care for you?’ + +‘Yes, Geoffrey, I would; because you will care for me some day. I am +sure you will.’ + +‘And with the knowledge that I love some one else?’ + +‘It is not pleasant for me to hear, of course,’ said Jessie, ‘but you +will get over it in time--and you were engaged to me first.’ + +‘Then I am to understand,’ rejoined the young man gloomily, ‘that you +desire me to hold to this engagement, of which I have told you frankly +I am weary?’ + +‘Because you fail in your promises to me, is that any reason I should +fail also?’ she replied. ‘I should consider myself bound to you, +Geoffrey, whether you deserted me or not.’ + +‘And this is your final decision?’ asked her companion, with white lips. + +‘How could I come to any other? I should only be telling a story if I +said I did?’ + +‘Jessie! I told Dr and Mrs Robertson that I would abide by what you +said. Think once more; for God’s sake, think before you answer me! +Remember it is the happiness or misery of our whole lives upon which +you are deciding. _Are we to be married to each other, or are we not_?’ + +He hung upon her reply as the criminal in the dock hangs upon the +decision of the jury, and she gave it with apparently as little +personal feeling. + +‘If you ask _me_, Geoffrey, I can only say what I have said before, +_Yes_. If I hadn’t wished to marry you, I should never have consented +to be engaged to you. I don’t change my mind every other day, as you +seem to do!’ + +‘God forgive you!’ was trembling on his lips as he regarded her, but +with an effort he altered the words. ‘Be it so, then!’ he said, between +his teeth; and then, without another look, he turned upon his heel and +quitted the house, leaving Jessie Robertson to announce to her father +and mother the determination at which she had arrived. + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + DESERTED. + + + ‘Castalio! Oh, how often has he sworn + Nature should change--the sun and stars grow dark-- + E’er he would falsify his vows to me? + Make haste, confusion, then! Sun, lose thy light! + And stars, drop dead with sorrow to the earth! + For my Castalio’s false.’ + _Otway_. + +The long-expected letter from Mentone, addressed to Eliza Bennett, +arrived but a few days after Geoffrey Doyne had quitted Ines-cedwyn. +Lady Wilson’s party had finished their wanderings for the present, and +were settled in the Villa Abracci, but the event did not seem to have +fulfilled the expectations of Mrs Barrington, who complained bitterly +of all her surroundings. The heat was intolerable; the house had not +sufficient accommodation; that odious Miss Russell had joined their +party, and was making herself most conspicuous with Mr Wilson; poor +dear Colonel Ellerman had died suddenly of bronchitis the week before; +and those brutes of agents had written from London to say that the +tenants in South Audley Street wished to give up the rooms at the end +of three months. In fact, poor Mrs Barrington’s star was decidedly in +the descendent. + +‘Only fancy!’ she wrote, ‘those wretches giving up the rooms in +July--the very month of all others when nobody wishes to remain in +London. I made sure they would renew their agreement until Michaelmas. +I think it is most inconsiderate of them, not to say dishonest--for +there is no chance of my letting the rooms again. And what are we to do +with ourselves in London at that time--you and I and Fenella? We shall +be roasted alive. I should remain here, of course, or go on to some +livelier place, only I am afraid I shall not be able to afford it. I +hope to goodness you and the girl are not running into any expense that +you can possibly avoid, for all my money has gone in railway fares, and +the people here change their dresses so many times a day, I haven’t +half enough clothes to wear. I consider that Lady Wilson ought, at +the very least, to offer to pay my expenses back to England, for she +has quite brought me here on false pretences. The weekly expenses are +much higher than she said they would be, and she has given the best +bedroom in the house to that hideous Anna Russell--after saying she +couldn’t receive Fenella, too. Such deceit! And the son is exactly +like his mother--stingy and false! I hate them both. I was dreadfully +distressed to hear about your leg. You really should be more careful. +It is selfish of you to go falling about in that way, when you know +how I depend upon your services. What would you have done if I had +required you to join me at Mentone? It’s just a chance that I did not. +Lady Wilson’s maid is a fool; she can’t dress hair a bit, and the +old woman is so selfish, she will hardly ever let her do any sewing +for me. I often wish I had Fenella here to help me with needlework. +I hope you or she will write soon and let me hear that your leg is +healed again. I couldn’t stand crutches about the house. And I’m sure +I’ve had trouble enough already. You may fancy the shock dear Colonel +Ellerman’s death was to me. So sudden and so sad! And he’s left every +halfpenny he possessed to his sister, too; it makes me so mad to think +of it. However, I suppose it’s the will of Heaven. I am glad to hear +your account of Miss Fenella’s looks. It is just as well one of the +family should enjoy good health. I feel ill and weak enough myself. I +am sure this place doesn’t agree with me, and Lady Wilson is the worst +housekeeper I ever met. The dinners are simply not fit to eat.’ + +Eliza Bennett was as distressed by the receipt of this letter as if she +took every word of it for gospel. + +‘Your poor dear mamma!’ she exclaimed; ‘what worries she has in this +life, to be sure! And to think that I am not with her, too! That is the +cruellest part of it. Not that I could hope to be of much good (being +only a servant), but still it’s hard for a lady who’s been used to have +every comfort about her, to wait on herself, and eat dinners she don’t +fancy; isn’t it, Miss Fenella?’ + +‘Mamma might have had us both with her if she had wished it; it’s her +own fault that she’s alone!’ replied Fenella, with her eyes fixed upon +the summer sky, and her heart filled to the very brim with Geoffrey +Doyne. + +‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, you seem to have grown very cold-like lately,’ +remarked the servant. ‘You fretted so at parting with your mamma, I +thought you’d be all in a flutter at the idea of meeting her again. +Wouldn’t you like to go back to London, miss?’ + +The girl’s face flushed with the sudden joy of expectation. London was +the happy place that held her lover. + +‘To _London_, nurse! Oh yes, I should; very much indeed. But is there +any chance of it?’ + +‘Well, I should say from your mamma’s letter as there was every chance, +my dear; for here we are in the middle of July, and even if she don’t +come back herself, some one must go and look after them rooms as soon +as they’re empty.’ + +‘Let me write and tell mamma that we will look after them,’ cried +Fenella impulsively, ‘and then she needn’t come home any sooner on that +account. Let us go back to London together, nurse--you and I; it will +be ever so much nicer than Ines-cedwyn.’ + +Eliza Bennett looked in the girl’s tell-tale face, and thought to +herself. ‘That there chap’s in London, I’d take my oath of it;’ but all +she said was,-- + +‘You can write what you please to your mamma, Miss Fenella; but we +couldn’t go back, at any rate, till the end of July, for the parties +don’t give up the rooms till that time.’ + +And her young mistress turned from her with a sigh, to console herself +by writing a long letter to Geoffrey Doyne, in which she informed him +of her mother’s permanent address, and begged him to lose no time in +acquainting her with the news of their engagement. + +The letters which came and went so constantly at this period, no less +than the gold locket which Fenella wore next her heart both night +and day, had not escaped the notice of Eliza Bennett, and they made +her feel very uneasy. She could not be quite sure of what was going +on beneath her eyes--whether it was a mere childish folly, not worth +a second thought, or something more serious, that would raise Mrs +Barrington’s anger. The _amourettes_ of that lady herself had been so +profuse and vicarious, that she had somewhat dulled thereby the sense +of propriety in the breast of her servant; and Bennett was really +unable to decide whether her mistress would ridicule her fears or blame +her imprudence on the score of Fenella’s sea-side flirtation. Yet +she could not help observing that the girl had grown more thoughtful +since the young man’s departure, and she had detected her on more +than one occasion crying quietly to herself. She had heard her talk +in her sleep, too--murmuring broken sentences and loving words, as +she lay flushed on her pillows, with her fair hair falling on her +shoulders, and the child-like tears still trembling on her lashes. And +yet, withal, Fenella seemed so happy and so well, it was difficult to +believe that anything grieved her. So Bennett comforted herself with +the idea that, if her young lady _had_ had a little love affair, +she’d soon forget all about it. Girls had many such, as a rule, before +they settled down in life; and, at any rate, the gentleman had left +Ines-cedwyn--that was one blessing--and it couldn’t be long now before +her mamma came back to England to look after her herself. + +Meanwhile, Fenella was what she seemed--as happy as she could be apart +from Geoffrey. For these great loves pay heavy penalties for the bliss +of being; they render separation an agony. But the tears which Bennett +saw upon her sleeping face were not those of distrust, nor of fear. +They were the natural outcome of a new-born excitement, that found its +best relief in painless weeping. The days of separation were irksome to +bear, but they were not intolerable; for Fenella had a firm belief in +their speedy termination, and each one brought her some fresh assurance +of Geoffrey’s love for her. + +For here the man’s courage had utterly failed him. He knew he had +pledged himself to do that which should kill all the new-born +blossoming hopes in Fenella’s breast, as certainly as a knife drawn +across her throat would destroy the fair young life she had given up to +him. He knew that in a few weeks at the furthest, she would hear that, +that would desecrate him in her eyes for evermore; that would make him +appear falser and more cruel than anything she had ever dreamt of; that +would destroy, not only her belief in him, but in God and Heaven, and +even a hereafter. He knew all this, as surely as he knew that he was +committing the basest action of his life in deserting her; and yet he +had not the courage to strike the fatal blow, and let her learn the +worst at once. He continued to write to her, and without a hint that he +had renewed his engagement with Jessie Robertson. He told no further +falsehoods, it is true; he ceased to allude to their own marriage, or +their future life; but he told her she was his world, and that without +her he should be miserable; and Fenella could imagine the rest. To be +Geoffrey’s world was sufficient for her happiness, and, naturally, she +continued to believe that all they had spoken of together would follow. +The only shadow on her joy was their prolonged separation, and that was +soon to be put an end to. + +Mrs Barrington’s first letter from Mentone was speedily followed by +another, equally querulous, in which she told her daughter and servant +that she had had a violent quarrel with Lady Wilson, who was, without +exception, ‘the most jealous, cross-grained, interfering old cat’ she +ever met with, and affirmed her intention of returning to England as +soon as ever the rooms in South Audley Street were ready to receive +her, ordering Bennett and Fenella at the same time to take up their +abode there before herself. + +‘The agent tells me,’ she wrote, ‘that the creatures will go out on the +thirty-first. You had better, therefore, travel up on the first, and I +will join you on the second or third. I wouldn’t sleep in my room until +you have seen it is thoroughly cleaned and set in its usual order, for +any earthly consideration.’ + +To see the colour that flew into Fenella’s face at this intelligence +was a revelation. She glowed like a carnation at the very thought. + +‘On the first, Bennett! We are to go to London on the first of August!’ +she exclaimed; ‘only five days more. What shall I do to make them pass +away?’ + +‘You seem very anxious to leave poor Ines-cedwyn, miss,’ remarked +Bennett curiously. ‘I’m afraid you’ve changed your mind about it since +you first came here.’ + +The girl turned her grey eyes, in which the tears had suddenly risen, +towards the sea. + +‘Dear, sweet Ines-cedwyn!’ she murmured, ‘with its singing waves and +golden sands. Can it ever seem less lovely to me than it does now? Oh +no, nurse! I have not changed my mind, and I am not ungrateful. I shall +always remember Ines-cedwyn as the place in which the happiest days of +my life were passed; only--only,’ she added, a little wistfully, ‘I +_do_ want to go to London now.’ + +‘Well, my dear, I hope as you won’t be disappointed in it, but it’s +very hot and dusty at this time of the year,’ grumbled Bennett, as she +turned away. + +Yet when the first of August arrived, and Fenella found herself once +more in South Audley Street, with all the rooms in that delightful +state of dirt and confusion in which lodgers are accustomed to leave +them, and Bennett out of temper at the prospect of the work before her, +she still went singing about to that unheard accompaniment of music in +her heart. + +Geoffrey was not there to meet her, it is true (how could he be?), +but he was close at hand, and she had received a letter from him, not +twelve hours before she left Ines-cedwyn, full of love and tender +allusions to the past. And she had written in reply to say that she +was there, actually _there_, in the same town with him; and it could +not be long--it was impossible it could be long--before he held her in +his arms. Mrs Barrington arrived to her time--dusty, dishevelled, and +decidedly cross. But she could not restrain her surprise at the first +view of Fenella. + +‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, ‘what have you done to the child, +Bennett? Why, she’s developed to a woman; and what a lovely colour she +has! I must say it, my dear; your complexion would put the whole of +Piver’s shop to shame. It is positively like nothing but lilies and +carnations.’ + +‘Oh, mamma! I am so glad you think I am improved,’ said Fenella, with +a bright blush, as she knelt beside Mrs Barrington’s chair. ‘I have +been so happy down at Ines-cedwyn; I think that must be the reason that +I look so well.’ + +‘It’s the mountain air and the smell of the sea, ma’am,’ put in Eliza +Bennett, rather hurriedly; ‘it _must_ be, for I am sure Miss Fenella +has had no other doctors whilst you was away.’ + +‘Well, I wish I had had the same doctors myself, for I’m worn to death +with my trip,’ replied her mistress fretfully. ‘Do get up, Fenella; +you’re dragging my dress to one side, and I’m too tired to bear the +weight of your arms upon my knees. I’m sure I wish I had never left +London. I’ve lost all the fun of the season, and now I suppose we shall +have to vegetate here whilst everybody is away at the sea-side.’ + +‘We shall manage to amuse ourselves, mamma, surely,’ said Fenella, +smiling, as she thought of the occupation which was in store for both +of them, in preparing for her wedding with Geoffrey Doyne. + +‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, child. Everybody is out of +town at this time of the year, and the place is so hot and dusty, you +can hardly stir out of the house. However, we must bear it as best we +can, for there’s no alternative. I can’t go through the trouble and +worry of letting the rooms again, and if I did so, I don’t know where +on earth we should go.’ + +‘Oh no, mamma! Don’t think of it,’ cried Fenella. ‘We shall be very +happy here--I am sure we shall--and there’s no knowing what may turn up +to amuse and occupy us.’ + +But when Mrs Barrington found herself alone with her favourite servant, +she told a very different story. + +‘Bennett,’ she said confidentially, ‘I didn’t like to say too much +before the girl (for girls are always so conceited about their personal +appearance), but I never was so startled in my life as when I saw +Fenella. I couldn’t have believed three months would make such a change +in any one. She’s positively _lovely;_ I have seen nothing to equal +her in Paris or Mentone! And so fresh too; it’s what the men run after +now-a-days, freshness! I shall let these rooms again as soon as ever I +can, Bennett, and take her abroad.’ + +‘Let the rooms again, ma’am!’ echoed Bennett. ‘I thought as you said +you had decided against it?’ + +‘So I did at first, you old goose; but don’t you see I shall have a +better chance of marrying that girl now than at any other period of her +existence. Three months ago no man would have looked at her--she was a +child, a stick, a nonentity! But now they would just rave about her. +She has unfolded like a rosebud opened this morning. She’s in the first +flush of girlhood, and yet she’s a woman! You can see it by her eyes. I +never was so astonished in the world before! What’s done it, Bennett? +Has she had a love affair at Ines-cedwyn?’ + +‘Oh, dear no, ma’am!’ gasped Bennett, trembling from head to foot under +the dread of discovery. + +‘Ah well, I suppose it’s nature; but I must say she’s lovely, though +I’m her mother. Whom does she take most after, Bennett--me, or the poor +captain? I was always the fairer of the two, you know.’ + +‘Oh yes, ma’am; and Miss Fenella favours you wonderfully, especially +about the skin. I don’t know as I ever saw such another skin as hers; +it’s like white satin.’ + +‘And her figure’s very fine too; and men think so much of figures +now-a-days. Everybody can have a pretty face who knows how to “make up” +properly; but you can’t have a good figure in an evening dress, unless +Heaven has given it to you. It would be an _immense_ thing for me if I +could marry Miss Fenella well, and without delay, Bennett--an _immense_ +thing. It would just save me from ruin, and nothing else. And she +_ought_ to go off! Dressed in white and silver, or white and gold, she +would look splendid! glorious! I believe I could turn out that girl so +that no one could come within a mile of her; and it would be worth my +while to do it, at any price! How can we manage it, Bennett? Do ransack +that good old head of yours, and find out some means by which we can +carry on the war for a few months longer, until I have introduced her +at Trouville or Baden, or some of those places where the best men go. +And she speaks French so perfectly, that she might marry a foreigner +and a title--one of those rich nobles who frequent the watering-places +through the autumn months--and I should get her off my hands and out of +my way at the same time.’ + +‘Yes, yes! My dear lady. We will manage it. Never you fear,’ replied +the servant, in a soothing tone. + +She generally treated her mistress as if she were a teething child that +required conciliation; but the only childish thing about Mrs Barrington +was her refractoriness. In all other things Eliza Bennett was as spun +silk in her hands. + +‘You’re so tired with your journey, ma’am,’ she continued. ‘You mustn’t +think of anything now but getting rested. And you’ve had nothing to eat +to-day, so to speak, and yet you turned against your dinner! Shall I +run out and get you a little lobster with a dash of salad, and a glass +of champagne, and see if that will tempt you to pick a bit?’ + +‘Yes, if you like, Bennett,’ returned the lady languidly, ‘for I really +don’t feel as if I could keep on my legs much longer.’ + +‘Lie down, my dear mistress,’ exclaimed the servant anxiously, ‘and +don’t move till I’ve brought you something to eat. There! Let me loose +your hair, and give you a fan and the eau de Cologne. And would you +like Miss Fenella to sit with you, ma’am, whilst I’m away?’ + +‘No, Bennett, thank you. I shall do very well. I feel as if I were at +home again, now I have you to cosset me and look after me. I’m a poor +creature, and cannot live without love.’ + +The servant’s plain face glowed with ardour. + +‘You will always have _mine_, my dear, _dear_ lady,’ she replied. + +‘Ah well, I hope I may, Bennett; but the world is very ungrateful, +and the best friends change sometimes. You would be surprised to see +the alteration in those horrid Wilsons. The old woman hardly spoke to +me the last week I was in Mentone; and as for her son, his behaviour +was positively disgusting. He and that odious creature Anna Russell +used to leave the house directly after breakfast, and never reappear +till dinner-time. It was most improper, as I told his mother, and then +we had a fight about it. I can’t stand that sort of people, Bennett; +they’re low-bred and presuming, and directly they find a cause for +quarrel, their bad blood comes to the front. I shall never call upon +Lady Wilson again.’ + +‘No, my dear lady; I hope you won’t. You’ve been too good and +condescendingly to her already. And you mustn’t think no more of Mr +Wilson either. He ain’t worthy of the likes of you!’ + +‘Dear me, no! Of course that’s all over. And poor Colonel Ellerman too. +It’s enough to upset a woman (isn’t it, Bennett?) losing two of them so +near together, and so unexpectedly!’ + +‘Ah! There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, ma’am; +and, please the Lord! I shall live to see you riding over the heads of +such people as the Wilsons yet.’ + +‘Well, if I can only get Miss Fenella married and out of the way, I +think I shall have as good a chance as any. By-the-bye, Bennett, as +you go for the lobster, you might as well look in at the agents, and +tell them to put the rooms on their books again. Say I’ll let them on +any reasonable terms, for I know I can’t get a high rent at this time +of the year. But I’m determined to take that girl abroad, Bennett, if +I pawn my jewellery to accomplish it. After all, it would be worth my +while, for I could get it out again as soon as ever she was married.’ + +Filled with this new idea, Mrs Barrington became so friendly and +confidential with her daughter, that Fenella (remembering her first +reception) was agreeably surprised. She did not know the little plot +that was hatching beneath her mother’s flattering notice of her beauty +or her talents. She believed it to be genuine. And so, in part, it was. +Mrs Barrington could not live without some excitement, and Fenella’s +improved appearance had suggested a new excitement to her. Having a +handsome _demoiselle à marier_ to take about and add a fresh attraction +to her own society, was a different thing altogether from being annoyed +by the presence of a half-formed school-girl, whom no man would wish to +own either by marriage or adoption. And the notion having once entered +her head, she became crazy to put it into execution. + +Fenella was pleased and startled, at first, by her mother’s cordiality +towards her; but as the days went on without bringing tidings of +Geoffrey Doyne, her spirits began to sink. She had not the slightest +doubt of her lover, but her heart was filled with every sort of fear +for him. Was it possible, she thought, that he had never received her +last letter from Ines-cedwyn? Was he still sending his to the old +address? and was Martha too stupid to forward them to London? Could +he be ill, or dying?--(the ignorant imagine no greater calamity than +death can befall those whom they love)--or had his family refused their +consent to his marriage, and was he afraid to come and break the news +to her? These, and a hundred other doubts that made her heart sick with +apprehension, surged and swayed through Fenella’s bosom, until she felt +as if she must seek Geoffrey out at all hazards, and learn the truth. +But that the truth could involve anything worse than annoyance, or +delay, never entered her mind. _How could it_--with Geoffrey? + +Her mother and she kept very close to the house during those few days +of suspense. Mrs Barrington (who was naturally lazy and untidy) never +appeared _en grande tenue_ unless there was something to be gained +by it, and considered a soiled dressing-gown the proper costume to +wear during a month when nobody was likely to call, and there was no +object in showing herself abroad. She sat indoors, therefore, all +day fanning herself, and making calculations for her proposed autumn +manœuvres; whilst Fenella read novels from the circulating library, or +the contents of the newspapers, aloud to her. + +One evening during the first week they spent in London, the girl was +sitting with a very heavy heart, trying thus to amuse her mother. +She had stolen out that afternoon, and slipped a letter in the post +herself--imploring Geoffrey to let her know at once whether he had +received the news of her arrival in town. And now she felt almost +numbed by the suspense of waiting for an answer, as if life or death +hung on the chance of her receiving it by return of post. + +‘I think that story’s abominably stupid,’ said Mrs Barrington +presently. ‘The man’s a stick, and the woman’s a goody. Don’t you think +so, Fenella?’ + +‘Eh! What, mamma? Oh yes, I do!’ exclaimed Fenella suddenly, as she +caught the meaning of her mother’s words. + +‘I don’t think you’re enjoying it much more than I am, my dear, and I +don’t wonder at it,’ resumed Mrs Barrington. ‘The last chapter has been +a perfect sermon, and I hate preaching, especially in a novel. Suppose +you read me the paper instead? I haven’t had time to look at it to-day. +You’ll find the _Standard_ on that table.’ + +Fenella put down the novel and rose to fetch the paper, with that +heart-sickening suspense (which those who have experienced the feeling +will best recognise) still uppermost in her mind. + +‘Let’s have the epitome of news,’ said Mrs Barrington, as the girl +reseated herself. ‘Or stay, Fenella; read the list of marriages and +deaths first. Not the births, my dear (nobody cares about births except +the people concerned; they’re much too common); but you see lots +of names amongst the marriages and deaths of people you have heard +of, though you may not know. Just run over the names as they stand, +Fenella; that will be quite enough. Dear me! I wish my sight were not +so weak by gas light. It makes me feel quite an old woman to be so +dependent on others.’ + +The girl began to read as she was ordered:--Adams--Messiter; +Arbuthnott--Clive; Barclay--Smith; Cadogan--Matthews; Doyne--Robertson. +And there she stopped. + +‘Go on, my dear,’ said her mother somewhat impatiently. + +But Fenella did not go on. Her eyes were staring in a blank vacuous +manner at the following words:-- + +‘August 3rd, at the Church of St Mary le Strand, by the Rev. ----, +Geoffrey Doyne, Lieut. H.M. XXX. Regiment of Hussars, second son of +Jasper Doyne, J.P., of Ryelands, in the county of Buckinghamshire; +to Jessie, fourth daughter of James Robertson, M.D., of 44 Blenheim +Square, W.C.’ + +Mrs Barrington could not stand the suspense. + +‘Do go on, Fenella,’ she repeated irritably; ‘it drives me wild when +people stop in the middle of reading in that way. Whatever have you got +there--anything interesting?’ + +But all the answer she received was conveyed by the sound of a heavy +fall. Fenella had fainted on the floor. At this sight Mrs Barrington +became terribly alarmed. She was a woman who lost all presence of mind +in an emergency. + +‘Bennett! Bennett!’ she screamed, flying to the door, ‘come down here +at once. Miss Fenella has fainted.’ + +The servant was in the room in a minute, and kneeling beside the +unconscious girl. + +‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ she exclaimed, ‘how did this happen?’ + +‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ wailed Mrs Barrington; ‘she was reading the +_Standard_ to me only a minute ago, when she suddenly fell on the +floor. Oh dear! Oh dear! I hope she’s not going to take to fainting; +it’s the most tiresome habit a girl can have; you never know when it’ll +come on. Did you see anything of this in the country, Bennett?’ + +‘Bless you, no, ma’am! And don’t go to frighten yourself; it’s only +an accident. Young ladies will faint sometimes. It’s the heat of the +weather most likely, or Miss Fenella has over-tired herself. We must +lay her down flat, that’s the best way; and please to give me the eau +de Cologne and your fan, and I’ll soon bring her to.’ + +But though Eliza Bennett made every effort to restore Fenella to +consciousness, twenty minutes elapsed, and still the girl lay, rigid as +stone and white as a broken lily, prostrate upon the ground. + +‘I don’t like this, ma’am,’ said Bennett, shaking her head as she +found her restoratives had no effect. ‘I am afraid it is more than an +ordinary swoon. Don’t you think we’d better send round for Dr Metcalfe?’ + +‘It _surely_ can’t be necessary,’ replied her mistress. ‘Oh! Don’t tell +me there’s more trouble in store for us, Bennett, and I’m to have a +doctor’s bill added to my other worries. Dash some more water in her +face. I’m sure she blinked last time you did it. Perhaps she’s only +shamming. Girls _will_ sham sickness, you know, sometimes. They think +it’s interesting!’ + +‘Miss Fenella ain’t shamming,’ said the servant indignantly; ‘and +indeed, ma’am, you _must_ please to send Mrs Watson for the doctor, for +I can’t take the responsibility of this on myself any longer.’ + +Mrs Barrington was frightened into concession, and the medical man, who +lived close at hand, was soon in the room. He raised Fenella’s head and +looked in her face. ‘Cut her dress and her laces,’ he said curtly. + +‘Oh dear, sir, they’re as loose as they can be!’ remonstrated Bennett. + +‘Be good enough to do as I tell you,’ was the reply; and when she had +obeyed him, he lifted the girl upon the couch, and laid his ear upon +her chest. + +‘That will do,’ he said presently, as he rose to his feet; ‘and now, +where is her bedroom? I will carry her up to bed.’ + +Bennett led the way, and Dr Metcalfe lifted the girl’s slight figure in +his arms, and followed her. The mother was left behind, wringing her +hands in feeble lamentation. + +‘I hope to goodness this is not the beginning of an illness,’ she +thought selfishly, ‘for it will ruin all my plans if Fenella goes and +loses her good looks just as she requires them most.’ + +Presently she heard Dr Metcalfe’s footstep descending the stairs again, +and waited near the door in expectation of his entering to give her +further information about her daughter. But he passed her landing and +walked straight out of the house. + +‘Such extraordinary behaviour,’ as Mrs Barrington said to her servant +a few minutes later; ‘just as if I had no concern in the matter, and +wasn’t even the girl’s mother! But what did he say upstairs, Bennett? +Is this fainting fit a mere accident, or is it likely to occur again? I +shall go mad if she takes to having them as a regular thing.’ + +‘Oh no, ma’am! It won’t be as bad as that; but I’m bound to say the +doctor looked grave about it, and he’ll see Miss Fenella the first +thing to-morrow morning. It was terrible to watch her come-to, ma’am. +I thought she was going out of her mind. But the doctor give her a +powerful sleeping draught, and she dropped off like a child. But I +don’t think he likes the looks of her at all.’ + +‘It is _I_ that shall go out of my mind with all this worry,’ cried Mrs +Barrington. ‘However, I don’t believe she _can_ be really ill with that +lovely colour, and I daresay Dr Metcalfe is making all the fuss he can +over it, just to run up a bill. It’s the way with those doctors--once +get into their hands, and you never get out again.’ + +‘I am afraid I must go back to Miss Fenella now, ma’am,’ said Bennett; +‘for the doctor’s orders are that she’s not to be left for a minute, +and she’s to stay in bed till after he’s seen her to-morrow.’ + +‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Barrington petulantly. ‘I knew how it would +be. I’m to lose _you_ now, and wait on myself, I suppose. Oh! These +children! These children! What a plague and a nuisance they are, to be +sure!’ + +But the affectionate mother enjoyed a good night’s rest, +notwithstanding her anxiety, although her servant sat beside her +daughter’s bed until the morning. The report she then made to her +mistress was anything but reassuring. + +‘I can’t make Miss Fenella out at all, ma’am,’ she said; ‘she opened +her eyes a good while since, but she’s never turned in her bed, nor +spoken a word to me. She looks _fixed_ like, and I do hope the doctor +will keep his promise to come and see her.’ + +The doctor did keep his promise, and at ten o’clock Bennett tapped +again on her mistress’s door. + +‘Dr Metcalfe is here, if you please, ma’am, and he’s seen Miss Fenella, +and he’d like to speak a few words with you before he leaves the house.’ + +‘Very well, Bennett; just tie a ribbon in my hair, and give me that +blue shawl. You must tell the doctor I’m _en deshabille_, you know; +but I’ve been too terribly anxious about the dear child to think of my +dress.’ + +Mrs Barrington repeated something to the same effect when the doctor +entered her room, but was unable to extract a compliment from him in +return. He took all her excuses literally. + +‘You have every cause for anxiety, madam,’ he answered gravely, ‘and +I am afraid that what I have to tell you will increase instead of +diminish it. I am sorry to say that I find Miss Barrington in a very +unsatisfactory state of health. I believe she has spent this summer +away from you?’ + +‘Yes; I sent her to Ines-cedwyn, a most charming place in Wales, under +the charge of my own maid, who was formerly her nurse. I thought +the dear girl required sea air, and so I forced myself to make the +sacrifice of parting with her. But it is one of the healthiest spots in +the world. Surely she cannot have contracted any illness there?’ + +‘Miss Barrington’s present attack, madam, is more mental than +physical,’ replied Dr Metcalfe, ‘but I can tell you the cause from +which it has sprung. You must not think I am meddling with your private +affairs in speaking plainly, but I consider it my duty to let you know +the truth.’ + +He posed himself opposite to her, with one arm leaning on the +mantelpiece, whilst he entered into a detail of Fenella’s symptoms. + +Mrs Barrington listened to him in silence--an angry and indignant +silence--feeling with each word he uttered that the fabric of her hopes +crumbled into smaller atoms. Fenella with _une affaire de cœur;_ the +girl for whom she had formed such ambitious projects, breaking her +heart for some nameless nobody in the wilds of Wales; _her_ daughter, +struck to the ground by some stupid flirtation that had made itself +patent to the eyes of the first stranger she had called in to prescribe +a soothing draught. It was too disappointing, too humiliating. At the +idea of it Mrs Barrington went pale beneath her rage, and trembled from +head to foot. + +‘I am afraid I have wounded you,’ said Dr Metcalfe kindly, as he +concluded, ‘but it was impossible to help doing so. As her mother, I +considered it only right that I should speak openly to you.’ + +‘Oh yes! Of course--of course,’ stammered Mrs Barrington; and then she +added, ‘I was just thinking of taking her abroad.’ + +The doctor caught at the idea. + +‘The very best thing you could do for her, Mrs Barrington. You must +be aware that in these cases change of air and scene, and a little +seclusion--unless, indeed, any attachment the young lady may have +formed might be brought to a happy issue instead. But I am sure I need +not hint at such alternatives to you. Your own heart and your affection +for your daughter will prove better guides in such a contingency than +any advice you could receive from strangers.’ + +But all Mrs Barrington said was,-- + +‘I conclude there will be no further need of your attendance, Dr +Metcalfe, and we shall leave town as soon as possible.’ + +‘Certainly, madam! I had no intention of calling again. May I express a +hope of seeing you and Miss Barrington at some future time, and under +pleasanter circumstances?’ + +He gave her his hand as he spoke, and she thrust a fee into it. + +‘But it will be the last,’ she thought angrily, as he disappeared; +‘never shall he cross my threshold again after what he has said to me +to-day.’ + +She sat for some time where the doctor had left her--too paralysed, +apparently, to move or speak. The first thing that roused her from her +reverie was the sound of the opening door. As it turned on its hinges, +Eliza Bennett’s face peeped wistfully into the room. + +‘Is the doctor gone, ma’am?’ she demanded. + +The question seemed to goad Mrs Barrington into action. She sprang to +her feet, and confronted the terrified servant with the face of a fury. + +‘Is the doctor gone?’ she repeated. ‘Yes, he _is_ gone; and do you know +what he came to tell me? That you have been faithless to the trust I +reposed in you, and that whilst I thought that wretched girl upstairs +was safe under your care, you let her go rushing all over the place by +herself just as she chose, and making love to every cockney tourist +that came in her way.’ + +‘_I_, ma’am--_I_?’ gasped Eliza Bennett, panic-stricken by the +accusation. ’Oh, don’t go to say that of _me_, ma’am, when you know I +was laid up in my bed, unable to lift hand or foot for five weeks at a +stretch, and knew no more of what was going on outside than the babe +unborn.’ + +‘Then you _ought_ to have known,’ thundered her mistress, ‘or set some +one else to look after her! You’ve behaved most treacherously to me, +and all the harm that comes of this will be laid at your door.’ + +‘But what has Miss Fenella done, ma’am? I’m sure if a young lady like +her is not to be trusted on a beach alone, who is?’ + +‘What has she done? It is you who should be able to answer that +question. Whom did she meet? Who did she see down there? What man has +dared to make love to her? That is what I want to know.’ + +Bennett’s thoughts flew at once to the gentleman in the Beach +Bungalow--the letters and the locket; but she considered it her duty to +Fenella to stand firm to her ground. + +‘Nobody, ma’am,’ she answered; ‘that _I’m_ sure of! How _should_ there +be, when Ines-cedwyn’s such a lonely place? We were the only visitors +there this summer.’ + +‘You’d better first hear what Dr Metcalfe has told me,’ replied her +mistress; and she repeated the statement of the medical man for the +benefit of the servant. + +Bennett’s face became as white as chalk during the narration. + +‘Will you still insist in maintaining that you know nothing of the +matter?’ demanded Mrs Barrington angrily. + +‘I don’t believe it’s true--and I know nothing about it,’ repeated the +servant stoutly. + +‘I’ll see if the girl is as obstinate as you are,’ exclaimed her +mistress, darting upstairs. + +Bennett, fearing the scene that might ensue between the mother and +daughter, followed her quickly, and reached the spot as soon as she did. + +Fenella was standing in the centre of the room, supporting herself +with one hand against the iron railing at the foot of the bed. The +dressing-gown she wore was not whiter than her complexion; her hair +was tossed in the wildest confusion over her breast and shoulders; her +grey eyes had a scared and piteous look in them, as if she had just +awakened from some hideous dream. It was evident that she had guessed, +or overheard, the substance of the communication which Dr Metcalfe had +made to her mother. + +Mrs Barrington advanced upon the trembling girl with the air of a +virago. + +‘Well!’ she exclaimed, in a shrill, coarse voice (it is astonishing how +coarse the most delicate and apparently well-bred women can be when +their tempers are raised), ‘are you not ashamed to stand there staring +at me in that brazen way, when the whole town is ringing with your +disgrace? Do you know what the doctor has told me? Oh, don’t pretend to +shrink, and be extra modest, after the bold manner in which you have +been conducting yourself. You’re a nice young lady to be trusted to go +about alone, flirting with every low fisherman you may meet upon the +beach! Tell me the name of the man who dared to make love to you at +Ines-cedwyn, you innocent piece of goods! You--’ + +But Fenella did not speak. She continued still and rigid as a figure of +marble, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy. + +‘Do you hear what I say to you?’ screamed Mrs Barrington. ‘Tell me the +name of the man who presumed to make love to my daughter (though he +never would have done so if you hadn’t given him encouragement), and I +will have him whipped through the streets like a hound. Henry Wilson +would do it for me, if he were not a cur himself--or Colonel Ellerman, +only he’s dead. Good heavens! What did your father mean by dying in +that stupid manner, and leaving us to look after such things for +ourselves? Why haven’t we a man to fight our battles for us? But you +shall tell me the name of that fellow, or I’ll shake it out of you.’ + +Still the girl’s mouth did not unclose, and Bennett, who was watching +her anxiously, saw her white teeth press upon her under lip until she +made the blood come. It was evident that she was resolved to keep her +own secret. + +‘Oh! You’re obstinate, are you?’ exclaimed Mrs Barrington, ‘and you +will try to defy me! You think you can bring all this trouble upon our +heads with impunity; that you can go tumbling about the house and +fainting, and being threatened with a brain attack, for the sake of +some disgraceful love affair that you ought to be ashamed to think of; +and I’m to pass it over, and take you to my arms again, and say you’re +a very good girl! I’ll tell you _what_ I say, and that is that you’re a +born idiot! Just as I was going to take you to Paris or Brussels, too, +and introduce you to society! And now, you may be ill for months, you +ungrateful, wicked girl! But I am not going to be fooled by you! You +shall tell the name of that man, if you die for it.’ + +She advanced threateningly upon the passive figure of Fenella as she +spoke, and Bennett laid her hand upon her arm. + +‘She’s really ill, ma’am,’ she whispered. ‘Pray be careful what you do +to her; you may bring on another attack.’ + +But her mistress was in no mood to accept advice. She shook off Eliza +Bennett’s touch as if it had been that of a scorpion. + +‘Leave me alone! How dare you interfere?’ she said angrily. ‘I shall +deal with my own daughter as I choose;’ and then she turned again +upon the girl. ‘Do as I order you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me the name +of your lover at once, or I’ll strike you!’ and, lifting her arm, she +brought it down with her utmost force against the white, sad face that +confronted her. + +Fenella did not utter a word of entreaty or remonstrance. She only +shivered violently as the blow descended, and, sitting down upon the +nearest chair, passed her own hand in a sort of wondering way across +her eyes and forehead. + +‘Oh, Lor’, ma’am! You do frighten me!’ said Bennett. ‘Let her be, my +dear lady, at least for the present. She ain’t in a fit state to listen +to you; indeed, she ain’t!’ + +‘It’s evident whose side _you’re_ on,’ replied her mistress +witheringly; ‘but you’ll do the girl no good by your partisanship, and +that I can tell you. She has behaved in a manner to disgrace us all; +and if she were dead and cold in her coffin, it would be the best thing +that could happen to her.’ + +Then, for the first time, Fenella found her voice. + +‘Oh, mother! Mother!’ she wailed, ‘pity me.’ + +But she might as well have appealed to a stone. + +‘_Pity you_!’ repeated Mrs Barrington, with a sneer. ‘_Despise_ you, +you mean. You won’t find many to pity you for having ruined all your +prospects in life. They will only laugh at and ridicule you for being +such a fool. But if this lover of yours is a gentleman, and can be +called to account for his treachery to you, he shall. If you want me to +pity you, you must tell me his name; and, as your mother, I command +you to do so.’ + +But Fenella had again relapsed into silence. Eliza Bennett tried the +effect of coaxing. + +‘Come, my dear,’ she said; ‘I daresay it’ll be hard-like, but you’d +better confide everything to your mamma. She’s your best friend, Miss +Fenella, and it’s useless trying to keep the truth back from her.’ + +The girl shook her head. + +‘It wouldn’t be any good,’ she said simply. + +‘Nonsense!’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘A child like you is no judge of +such matters, and, as Bennett tells you, I am your best friend. Come, +Fenella, tell me this man’s name, and if things can be set right +between you, they shall. I am sorry I slapped you, but you really are +too provoking. However, I’ll look over everything that has passed +between us, if you will place confidence in me now.’ + +And Mrs Barrington, who was intensely curious in the matter, lowered +her head so that her daughter might whisper in her ear. + +‘It would be useless,’ repeated Fenella, in a low voice of pain. + +‘Why useless? Your obstinacy surpasses anything I have ever seen for +a girl of your age. I tell you it is _not_ useless. What makes you +persist that it is so?’ + +‘Because--because _he is married_,’ said Fenella, with an effort that +seemed to drag at her very heart-strings. + +‘_Married_!’ screamed Mrs Barrington. ‘The disgraceful, dishonourable +creature! And _you_, you shameless girl! What did you mean by letting a +married man make love to you? I never heard of such abominable iniquity +in all my life before. Here! Have I lived to the age of thirty years, +or a little over, and travelled about the world, and seen all sorts +of people, and it is left for my own daughter, a child of sixteen, to +initiate me into the horrors of vice! Bennett, get me a glass of wine! +Get me brandy! Get me anything that may help me to drown this terrible +remembrance! Or, stay! Let me leave the room. I cannot breathe this +atmosphere any longer! _A married man_! That I should have lived to +hear such a thing! I, who have had but one aim throughout my sorrowful +life--to keep myself and my child unspotted from the world. May Heaven +forgive you, Fenella!’ + +And with this solemn adjuration, Mrs Barrington swept out of the room. + +As soon as she had quite disappeared, Eliza Bennett advanced to the +side of her young mistress. Fenella was seated where her mother had +left her--still, white, and silent, with her piteous grey eyes staring +at the opposite wall. The servant laid her rough hand on the girl’s +soft fingers. + +‘Pray to God, Miss Fenella,’ she said gently. ‘He loves you, my dear; +He will hear you. Pray to Him, and maybe prayer will bring you comfort.’ + +Fenella lifted her eyes to those of the old woman wearily. + +‘_Is_ there a God, nurse?’ she asked. ‘_I doubt it_. The reverend +mother in the convent used to tell me to pray to the good God, and He +would protect me from all harm; and I have prayed to Him regularly, +morning and evening, since. But I think He must have stayed behind in +the convent, nurse. I don’t think He came out into the world--with me.’ + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + OVER. + + + ‘She had fallen in her own sight--not because he + had loved her, but because he had left her.’ + _Ariadne_. + +In the heart of the Wallon there lies a little village called Sainte +Pauvrette, which is a mass of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs in +summer, and a mass of snow and ice in winter. It possesses no baths, +no mineral springs, no objects of historical interest--nothing, in +fact, wherewith to tempt a visitor except its climate and its flowers. +Tourists who know something of the country, and wish to get out of the +beaten track of overdone cathedrals and exhausted picture-galleries, go +to Sainte Pauvrette in the warm weather, when the hillside is covered +with lemon-scented thyme and feathery sorrel and ruddy clover, and the +surrounding country is redolent of lilies and roses and honeysuckle; +but no one ever dreams of remaining there throughout the winter. When +the snow falls, Sainte Pauvrette is left to the few peasants who till +its fields and pray in its dirty little chapel. The wooden building +that calls itself a hotel is boarded up and left to take care of +itself; and the residents who have rooms to let, lock the doors and +retreat to the lower regions, burrowing like moles until the sunshine +shall tempt them to the upper world again. + +But one day not two months after the events recorded in the last +chapter, the inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette were astonished by the +arrival of two English ladies, who, with their maid, took up their +quarters in one of the small furnished houses that had just been +vacated by the summer visitors, and appeared disposed to settle +themselves down there for the winter. The season of Sainte Pauvrette +was over; the autumn, with its usual risk of fever and malaria, was +close at hand; the rooms for hire had been cleaned and shut up for +the next six months--and the people of Sainte Pauvrette would as soon +have expected their patron saint to appear among them, and demand +lodgings for the winter, as to see any more visitors. The circumstance +was so unusual and startling that it caused endless talk amongst +the villagers, and Madame Regnier (who was the lucky person to let +her house to the new-comers) began to think she must be under the +especial care of Providence, and that a miracle had been performed in +her behalf. But the strangers--Mrs. Barrington, Fenella, and Eliza +Bennett--kept entirely to themselves, and did not appear disposed to +satisfy the curiosity of their neighbours. The tradespeople, who were +chiefly small farmers, selling their own milk, bread, vegetables, +and poultry, tried their best to extract some information from Eliza +Bennett, but she was invulnerable. Either she could not or she would +not understand what they said to her, and never did more than haggle +with them over the prices of their merchandise, and carry off her +bargains in her market basket. But the ladies were often seen about the +village, and many were the conjectures made as to the reason of their +sojourn there. + +The young lady was sick. Sainte Pauvrette decided that point very +speedily. And it was supposed that her mother had brought her to the +village for the sake of her health. The peasants soon grew to recognise +and smile at the sweet, sad face of Fenella as she passed amongst them, +and to talk of the girl who sat sometimes motionless for hours on the +hillside, looking at the horizon with a weary, impassive expression +that made their hearts ache. + +There were rumours, too, that the mother and daughter did not get on +very well together, and Madame Jeanne, the proprietress of the wooden +hotel (whose offers of accommodation Mrs Barrington had peremptorily +refused), had a good deal to say to her neighbours on the subject of +that lady’s treatment of Fenella. + +‘_Ma foi_!’ she would exclaim, as she lounged against the outside wall +of her house, knitting stockings of coarse yarn, and surrounded by a +bevy of women, all knitting as if their lives depended on it,--‘_ma +foi_!’ but I wouldn’t be the daughter of that Englishwoman for a great +deal. She has a tongue the length of a cow’s tail; you may hear it from +one end of Sainte Pauvrette to the other. And it’s my belief that when +she gets into a rage, she beats her!’ + +‘You don’t mean to say that!’ cried her neighbours, as they drew closer. + +Madame Jeanne nodded her head oracularly. + +‘But I do! The screams that came from that house the other night were +fearful. You might have thought there was murder being committed there, +and so I told the English servant--bah! What an ogre she is! With never +a smile nor a pleasant look on her face--and she said her young lady +was subject to hysteria. But I don’t believe that. The mother beats +her! Take my word for it.’ + +‘The young lady certainly looks very sad,’ interposed another woman. +‘She has the face of an angel, and the air of a martyr. I was watching +her yesterday morning. She sat for two hours on the bench by the ruined +chapel without moving. And in this cold weather too! It is not natural +that a young girl should neither jump nor run. But I do not think she +could be merry if she tried. She has a face full of care and sorrow. +And she cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen years old.’ + +‘It is _Madame sa Mère_ that gives her that face,’ rejoined Madame +Jeanne. ‘She is a fury, a virago, a devil, that woman, and capable of +anything that is bad.’ + +‘She pays the rent regularly, and they are quiet and respectable +tenants,’ said Madame Regnier, who was naturally on Mrs Barrington’s +side, ‘and you only spread these tales about them, Madame Jeanne, +because they would not take rooms in your wooden hotel. And they were +quite right too! It is draughty enough in winter to kill a delicate +_demoiselle_ like Miss Barrington. But you have no right to speak +against them on that account; and if you say more, I will inform Père +Antoine of your behaviour, and have you openly rebuked for scandal.’ + +‘Bah, pig!’ cried Madame Jeanne, opening her black eyes at Madame +Regnier, with a _moue_ of disdain; ‘go to--! Tell the priest and whom +you will; but all your talking will not alter matters. Everybody in +Sainte Pauvrette has heard the quarrels that go on in that house! It +was only the other day that mademoiselle ran out of it bareheaded, with +a great angry red mark across her face, and would have traversed the +village so, had not the ogre servant appeared and pulled her indoors +again. They ill-treat _la petite_, I tell you! She is sick and ailing, +poor child--consumptive, most likely, like all those English; and they +make her miserable. I have seen the tears pouring down her face like +rain. It is a pity she has no father to defend her! A man is bad enough +when he takes a spite against you, and knocks you about; but, _ma foi_! +he is nothing to a woman. A bad woman is a devil, and nothing less, +and your Madame Barrington is a bad woman, and I say it!--eh, Madame +Regnier? You had better go at once and tell Père Antoine so, and I’ll +repeat it to his face. What d’ye make of that?’ + +‘She pays her rent regularly,’ grumbled Madame Regnier, ‘so it’s not my +place to speak against her. And as for the rest, Madame Jeanne, we must +each think what we choose about it.’ + +Whatever they chose to think could hardly have been worse than the +reality. The autumn and winter months which she passed in Sainte +Pauvrette were such a tumultuous mixture of anger, strife, reproaches, +and hopeless misery, that Fenella Barrington, through all the rest of +her weary life, could never look back upon them without a shudder--as a +man who has passed days and nights of suspense tossing about the cruel +ocean, living in the very shadow of death, and beaten upon by all the +storms of heaven, might look back and wonder he still lived to tell the +tale. + +Her mother’s conduct to her at this period was the very refinement +of cruelty. Had she only struck the wretched girl--as she too often +did to satisfy her own feelings of rage and disappointment--it would +have been as nothing compared to the sneers and reproaches and abuse +cast at the absent, which were so much harder to bear. And Fenella +could not say a word in defence of herself or him. She was condemned +to sit and hear it all in silence, whilst she pressed her hands upon +her aching bosom where the image of Geoffrey Doyne (though shattered +into fragments) was still cherished as the holiest thing she had ever +possessed. + +How often, whilst the villagers of Sainte Pauvrette watched her sitting +on the hillside, motionless for hours, she was longing to die--praying, +in a sort of half-conscious way, that God would send down His Angel of +Death to take her out of a world which had opened upon a scene of so +much perplexity and trouble for her. + +But Fenella hardly knew what she really wished for. The present and +the future were alike blanks. All she knew for certain was that +Geoffrey Doyne had passed out of her life--that he belonged to another +woman--that she should never see him again, nor hear his voice; and +the mere fact of this knowledge was too wonderful a mystery for her +to fathom. For she did not even know how it had happened, or why. Not +a line, not a sound, had reached her since she had read the public +announcement of his marriage; and sometimes she would wonder, in a +vague, childish way, if it had been all a dream, and pinch her arm, +with a sad smile, to see if she were real. But then remembrance would +rush back upon her--rush back with a feeling of shame and horror that +would flood her pale cheeks with crimson, and retreat as suddenly, +leaving them white with despair. + +Eliza Bennett felt deeply for her young mistress during her illness. +Though the people of Sainte Pauvrette found her curt and harsh of +speech, she only assumed that manner to cover her emotion. She could +hardly trust herself to think of Fenella, far less to speak of her. +Had she been left to her own devices, she would have been the tenderest +of nurses and comforters to the forlorn and unhappy girl, but Mrs +Barrington would not permit it. She had her own reasons for keeping up +a sense of her ingratitude and folly in Fenella’s breast. She wanted to +force her daughter to throw off the disappointment and depression under +which she laboured, and make her thankful to rush back into the world +as soon as she was strong enough to do so. + +She tried to explain her motives to Eliza Bennett, but though the +servant was afraid (in consequence) to show all the sympathy she felt +for her young mistress, she could not approve of the harshness Mrs +Barrington displayed towards her. She often attempted to stand between +the mother and daughter on the occasion of those sad quarrels, which +had made themselves patent to the ears of Sainte Pauvrette; but she +found that her interference only made matters worse, and her best plan +was to preserve neutrality. + +One terrible night, however, when the frosts of December and January +had covered the country with a pall of white, and the snow lay several +feet deep in the lower parts of the village, an altercation--which +commenced (on Mrs Barrington’s part) with covert sneers and words of +contempt, and culminated in loud tones of anger and several smart +blows--had nearly proved the end of poor Fenella’s troubles. + +She stood before her mother, half fainting from fear, and without a +word to say in self-defence, until the indignities offered her, and the +abuse cast upon one whom (though unnamed) she could not hear reviled +with impunity, sent all the blood in her body rushing to her brain, and +deprived her of the mastery over her senses. With a loud cry to God +for mercy, and before Mrs Barrington (being alone) could prevent the +action, Fenella had flown bareheaded from the house, and flung herself +into a sluggish stream, half ice and half water, which ran in front of +it. + +Then Mrs Barrington was thoroughly alarmed, and screamed to Eliza +Bennett for assistance; and all the neighbours were roused by the +disturbance, and brought lanterns and lighted pine torches to help in +the search. + +They had not to go far. The senseless figure of Fenella was soon +found--thrown violently across the mixture of ice and muddy water of +which the winter stream was composed; and being wrapped up in a blanket +by Bennett, was carried back to the house and placed in bed. But the +inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette had plenty to say of the occurrence +afterwards, and Madame Jeanne was not backward in giving her opinion on +the matter. + +‘Did I not tell you what that Englishwoman was?’ she exclaimed next +day, when it was openly announced in the village that the poor young +lady was lying dangerously ill of a brain fever. ‘A pig! a devil! For +all the fine yellow curls that she keeps in a box, and the pretty pink +colour she would have us believe to be her own! She has used that poor +_demoiselle_ shamefully ever since she came here, and now she wants to +kill her--that is my belief! Else why does not she have a doctor to see +her in this fever; and why has she sent away the ogre, Mademoiselle +Elise, just when she wants her help most? Oh, but you need not stare +at me in that manner! I only tell the truth, and Madame Regnier cannot +deny it, although she is so anxious to make out her tenant to be +everything that is good. Mademoiselle the ogre left Sainte Pauvrette +this morning by ten o’clock. I met her walking on the road to Arniers +to catch the _diligence_, with her large basket on her arm; and when +I asked her the reason of her journey, she replied she had business +to do for her mistress in Arniers. But she has not returned, _mes +dames_--she has not returned; and meanwhile _la belle petite_ lies in +bed with an attack of the brain, and no doctor is sent for to attend +her; and Collette, who has been engaged to do their housework, is not +permitted to go into the room, of which the door is kept locked by her +mother. But if she dies,’ continued Madame Jeanne, with a threatening +shake of the head,--‘if that beautiful young lady dies, without help or +assistance, and after all the cruelty she has been subjected to, _I_ +shall say it is murder, for one--let who will be the other.’ + +Meanwhile what the irate hotel-keeper said was true. Eliza Bennett had +gone that morning to Arniers; more, she had crossed to England. She and +her mistress had been closeted all night with the unfortunate girl who +had been rescued from the mud and the ice, and who only returned to +consciousness to fall into a burning fever, and rave deliriously of the +troubles which had occasioned it. + +‘This is the climax,’ said Mrs Barrington, with a look of despair, +and as if the climax had not been in a great measure brought on by +herself. ‘We must lock the door of her room, Bennett, and let no one +but ourselves pass in and out. She talks in French, and I would not +have these ignorant creatures overhear what she says for any mortal +consideration.’ + +The two women consulted long and earnestly on what was best to be done +in the matter; and when the morning dawned, the key unturned in the +lock of Fenella’s door, and Eliza Bennett, creeping out of it, with a +white and troubled face, went up to her own room, and attired herself +in her walking things. + +In the space of a few minutes her mistress followed her, with a large +basket on her arm. + +‘You will travel as quickly as ever you can,’ she said, as she placed +some money in her hands, ‘and return to us as soon as possible. This +fever is sure to abate in a few hours, and I shall not keep Fenella +here one day longer than is absolutely necessary.’ + +‘Return to you, my dear mistress!’ exclaimed the servant; ‘why, what +else should I do? Am I not taking this journey entirely for your sake +and that of the dear child! Keep her as cool as possible, ma’am, and +don’t let her have anything but slops and fever drinks till I come +back. I will be with you at the end of a week again, without fail.’ + +Mrs Barrington sat down and began to cry feebly. + +‘I don’t know what I shall do without you,’ she wailed; ‘it’s horrible +to sit and listen to her ravings and reproaches; but I am sure it is +best that you should go to England at once, and then the business will +be over. But you are a dear, good, valuable creature Bennett, and I +shall count the minutes till you come back again.’ + +She kissed the servant on both cheeks as she spoke, and Eliza Bennett +went on her way rejoicing. She crossed to Dover the same day, and +was at Ines-cedwyn by the following evening. It was evident that the +business she had been entrusted to transact for her mistress was, in +some manner, concerned with her brother Benjamin, and the place where +Fenella had made that fatal acquaintance in the ruined bungalow, which +brought ill-luck to all who meddled with it. There was no necessity +for Eliza Bennett to remain in Ines-cedwyn after she had obtained the +information which she came to seek. She was anxious to rejoin her +mistress, and the associations of her birthplace had become distasteful +to her. + +She had adhered faithfully, however, to the business upon which Mrs +Barrington had sent her to England, and been careful not to say a word +about her young lady’s illness, or the cause. She was, therefore, +considerably startled the next morning, as she was preparing to leave +the cottage, to hear Martha say,-- + +‘By the way, ’Liza, do you remember the talk as there was here last +summer about Miss Fenella having got a beau? Well, I expect that young +feller’s bin hangin’ about here again in hopes of gettin’ another sight +of ’er. _I_ don’t know ’im, of course, no more than Adam, but Tugwell +the boatman says he has met ’im several times in Lynwern; and the day +before yesterday, when I came back from Freshpool (where I had gone +about some eggs), my servant girl told me as a gentleman had called to +see me, and seemed quite put out like by my being from home. He was a +fine-lookin’ feller too, the girl says--tall and ’ansome; and it may +have been ’im, and it may not, but it seems likely--now don’t it?’ + +Eliza Bennett turned white and red under this exordium, as if she had +been accused of having a ‘_beau_’ herself. + +‘It ain’t of much consequence one way or the other,’ she replied, +trying to speak indifferently; ‘my young lady looks higher than that +comes to. You don’t suppose she would think twice of a beau as she +picked up on the Ines-cedwyn sands?’ + +‘Lor’, no! In course not; only I thought I might as well mention it to +you. Well, good-bye, ’Liza, and thank you for thinking of us in this +matter, and thank your mistress, too, for the recommendation. And I +shall hear from the parties, I suppose, in a few days. I’m glad to have +’ad this peep at you, though you don’t look over and above well, to +my mind; but I ’opes you’ll get over safe to your ladies, and that it +won’t be long afore you’re all back in England again.’ + +‘Oh yes! We shall be home in the summer, never fear! Good-bye to you, +Martha,’ said Eliza Bennett, as she set off to walk to Lynwern. + +She plodded along the country road, over ruts hardened by the ice and +snow, with her head bent down upon her bosom, and her mind filled with +her sister-in-law’s communication. + +‘I’d like to catch him hangin’ about any place as _we_ was in,’ she +thought indignantly; ‘_I’d_ let ’im know what was what--the dirty, +mean, sneaking scoundrel, to go and leave a poor girl in that way, and +cause us all this misery! I only wish I had the handling of him! _I’d_ +make him pay for his whistle.’ + +She was so absorbed in her dreams of revenge that she stumbled up +against some one in the road, before her brother Benjamin’s cottage was +out of sight, and had to draw back with a demand for pardon. + +‘It is of no consequence,’ replied a sweet, grave voice; ‘but I think I +am speaking to Mrs Bennett, am I not?’ + +The woman looked up quickly. Before her stood a gentleman--young, +handsome, tall and upright--a gentleman whom she had never seen before +except by the uncertain light of the moon, but whom she recognised +at once. It was, in fact, Geoffrey Doyne; and so great in the magic +of beauty, and a superior station, and another sex, that, as Eliza +Bennett looked at him, all her deep-laid plans of revenge melted into +thin air. + +‘No, sir,’ she answered, in a voice that palpably trembled, ‘I am not +_Mrs_ Bennett; I am her sister-in-law, Eliza Bennett.’ + +‘_Eliza Bennett_!’ he repeated quickly; ‘is it possible? Are you the +person--the maid--that accompanied a young lady down to Ines-cedwyn +last summer?’ + +‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Eliza stoutly. (‘He’s very handsome, the +villin!’ she thought to herself, ‘and he’s got a winning way with his +tongue, drat it! But he sha’n’t get any information of her whereabouts +out of me--not if he was to drag me at the tail of four wild ’orses.’) + +‘Oh! Then you can tell me where she is?’ exclaimed Geoffrey Doyne +excitedly. ‘Give me her address, I beg of you, in Heaven’s name! I have +a particular--a _very_ particular reason for wishing to obtain it.’ + +The servant looked him full in the face. + +‘And I may have a particular reason, sir, for wishing to keep it from +you; for, if I’m not greatly mistaken, you are the same gentleman that +used to meet my young lady down on the sands here last summer.’ + +Geoffrey Doyne’s eyes fell before hers. + +‘Yes,’ he answered, in a low voice, ‘I am the same.’ + +‘Well, may God forgive you for it,’ said the woman, ‘for _I_ can’t. +You’ve ruined her life as surely as ever a man ruined a woman! And I +brought her up from a baby; she is like my own child to me. You might +as well have killed me at the same time; I couldn’t have felt it more,’ +and Eliza Bennett caught up her woollen shawl to wipe away two large +tears that were rolling down her cheeks. + +At her words Geoffrey Doyne became pallid with fear. + +‘Killed her! Ruined her!’ he repeated vehemently, as he caught the +servant by the arm; ‘in God’s name tell me what you mean! Is she +ill--is she dead? What have I done? If you don’t put me out of this +suspense, I shall go mad!’ + +They were just opposite the Beach Bungalow as he spoke. Eliza Bennett +glanced at it significantly. + +‘Come in here, sir,’ she said,--‘I don’t want the whole village to hear +what I’ve got to say to you--and I’ll tell you what you’ve done.’ + +She led the way into the ruined villa, and Geoffrey Doyne followed her, +sick at heart with remorse and apprehension. + +‘May I make so bold, sir,’ began Eliza Bennett, as soon as they were +sheltered from observation, ‘as to ask if--so be--you’re married?’ + +‘Yes!’ he replied; ‘I am.’ + +‘And what’s the good, then, of your hanging about Ines-cedwyn to try +and see my young lady? What could you say to her--how could you look at +her, if you did meet?’ + +‘Oh, I don’t know--I cannot tell!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘Only the +separation, the silence, the want of seeing her is more than I can +bear. If you will only tell me where she is, or take a letter to her, +that I may have one word of kindness, one word of pardon in reply, I +fancy I could bear the rest with fortitude. Mrs Bennett, I ought to +have gone back to India long ago. My leave was up in the autumn, but I +got an extension, only for this--to find out her address and see her +once before I go. Then I will leave England and trouble her no more.’ + +‘You will never get your wish through me, sir,’ said Eliza Bennett, +‘for I’ll neither tell you where she is, nor carry any notes between +you. You’ve done her enough mischief already, and you’ve put it out of +your power to do her any good. The best thing you can do now, for her +and yourself, is never to write to her nor see her any more.’ + +‘But does she ever speak of me? Does she remember me?’ he demanded +eagerly. + +‘_Remember_ you!’ echoed the servant, in a tone of contempt. ‘I should +think you’d given her enough cause to remember you, in this life and +the next too! But there are different sorts of remembrance, sir, and if +my young mistress is the lady I take her for, her best remembrance of +you will be one of hatred and of scorn!’ + +‘I deserve it,’ he answered brokenly. + +‘And so you do,’ said Bennett, with the want of delicacy that usually +characterises her class, ‘and so you’ll say twice over when you’ve +heard what I’ve got to tell you.’ + +And thereupon she gave him an account of Fenella’s mental and bodily +sufferings during the autumn and winter, sparing no detail that might +add to the colouring of the picture, and winding up with a description +of her attempt at self-destruction, and the brain fever that had +succeeded it. + +‘And now, what do you think of yourself, sir?’ she said, as she +concluded. ‘You’re a nice sort of gentleman, aren’t you, to ask me to +carry notes to that poor suffering angel, and rake up all her troubles +afresh, just as she has a chance maybe of getting over them. We’d +never have known your _name_ even, if it hadn’t been for her delirious +ravings; but we sha’n’t forget it in a hurry, you may take your oath of +that! And don’t you attempt to come nigh her again, sir--not for the +rest of your mortal life,--for I do believe her mamma would tear you +limb from limb if you did.’ + +Geoffrey Doyne during her relation had shown every symptom of the +deepest feeling. His brow had flushed darkly with shame, his nostrils +had quivered, his lips grown white, his whole frame shaken with +emotion. And now that it was concluded, all he seemed able to do was +to lean against the window-sill, whilst the words, ‘_My God! My God_!’ +seemed to be wrung from the very depths of his tortured heart. His +suffering was so self-evident that even Eliza Bennett could not help +pitying him. + +‘Don’t take on like that, sir,’ she said soothingly; ‘it won’t mend the +past, and the best thing we can all do now is to try and forget it. I +don’t know, I’m sure, as I’ve done right to tell you so much; but it’ll +be safe with you, and I thought as you ought to know what my young lady +has gone through. Maybe it will save others, for you gentlemen don’t +seem to stand at nothing when you’ve set your mind upon a thing. But I +didn’t mean to upset you like this, sir, and I beg your pardon if I’ve +gone too far.’ + +‘No, no! I should wish to have known it,’ he said huskily; and then he +pulled out several pieces of gold from his waistcoat-pocket, and tried +to thrust them in her hand. But she put them back again proudly. + +‘No, Mr Doyne. I couldn’t take _your_ money, thank you; not even if I’d +done anything to deserve it, which I haven’t. But I hope you’ll give +me your promise before you go never to try and write to Miss Fenella +again. Don’t make the harm you’ve done, worse, sir. You’ve got your own +lady to consider and to look after now, and you can’t do no good to +mine! Will you promise me this?’ + +‘Yes--I promise!’ he said, in a broken voice. + +‘And please not to walk alongside of me to Lynwern either, sir! Meeting +of you has upset me more than I care to think of, and I’d like to be +alone for the rest of the journey.’ + +‘I will respect your wishes,’ replied Geoffrey Doyne quickly; and then, +raising his hat, as if she had been his equal, he left the ruined +bungalow, and strode along the cliffs in the opposite direction to +Lynwern. + +Eliza Bennett looked after him for a few moments before she pursued her +own way. + +‘Well, he may be a villin, but he’s a fine-looking gentleman,’ she +thought as she dried her eyes, ‘and they would have made a handsome +couple. What a thousand pities it is that Miss Fenella couldn’t have +him. But there! It’s always the way in this world. Them as ought to +come together, don’t; and them as ’ates each other like poison, is tied +for life. The more I sees of marriage, the more thankful I am as I was +never tempted into it!’ + +She pursued her road to Lynwern after this, and proceeded on her +journey back to Sainte Pauvrette. And a few hours later Geoffrey Doyne +followed her to London, and walked into the presence of his wife. They +were living at an hotel, preparatory to going back to India. There was +no lack of love on the part of Mrs Geoffrey Doyne towards her husband, +and (except when dark thoughts of Fenella Barrington interposed between +them) he usually returned her ebullitions of affection with a certain +degree of interest. It is difficult for a young and ardent nature not +to evince some feeling when clasped in the arms of a pretty woman who +has every right to expect an adequate return. And Geoffrey Doyne had a +very affectionate disposition. His fault was that he loved too much, +not too little. He was passionate, moreover, and easily moved; and to +be caressed, and flattered, and made much of, was almost a necessity +to him. But on this occasion his wife found all her artifices to +attract his notice, failures. He had been absent nearly a week, on +some business of which she had not the faintest idea; and yet when he +returned home, instead of being glad to see her again, and anxious to +hear what she had been doing in his absence, he was morose, gloomy, and +dejected, complained of every dish that appeared on the dinner-table, +and scarcely spoke a dozen words to her during the evening. Had she +indulged his mood and left him to himself, she would have been rewarded +by seeing the cloud gradually pass away (at all events, to outward +view), but Jessie did not understand how to treat her husband. + +That phantom of a former love, which he had once mentioned to her, +was ever coming between them now, and she was always quick to ascribe +his varying moods to regret that he had married her. For six months +they had been husband and wife, but they were no nearer each other in +love or confidence or friendship than they had been at first. Geoffrey +accepted her attentions to him, and that was all. + +Women are very apt to imagine that the possession of the beloved object +is _everything_, and that they can bear the idea of a rival better if +they know him to be, beyond all dispute, their own. They too often +live to find out they have deceived themselves. To be married to a +person you love, but who does not love you, is very much like trying to +grasp a bubble--each time your fingers close upon it you will find them +still unsatisfied and empty. + +‘What is the matter, Geoffrey?’ demanded Jessie, as he thrust away the +wine decanters and leant back moodily in his chair. ‘I never saw any +one so disagreeable as you have made yourself to-night. If this is the +effect of having a holiday, I should say you had better remain at home +for the future. Where have you been?’ + +‘It would not interest you to know,’ Geoffrey. + +‘Oh, that is as good as saying that you don’t intend to tell me! +Just as when you receive a letter and put it into your pocket +without showing it to me, and declare it is on business that I can’t +understand.’ + +‘Perhaps it is!’ + +‘But I have a right to ask where you’ve been, and whom you’ve seen, +Geoffrey; and if you refuse to tell me, I shall think the very worst.’ + +‘That will only hurt yourself, Jessie. Aren’t you content with having +married me, with knowing that, wherever I go, you have a right to +demand to follow? And can’t you let me enjoy a few hours’ liberty +without pestering to ascertain exactly where I have spent them?’ + +‘No, I can’t! Because I always suspect you go where that other girl +lives (the girl you told me of, you remember); and I always _shall_ +suspect it when you go away alone in this mysterious manner, as long as +ever I live. I know when you are thinking of her, too--when you pucker +up your eyebrows, Geoffrey, and look gloomy, and speak in that horrible +cross way; and you make me miserable--you know you do.’ + +‘You make yourself miserable, you mean. However, if what you say is +true, don’t recall her memory by mentioning the subject. I have +already told you it is an unpleasant one to me.’ + +‘Oh yes! Because you wish you had married her instead of me; and you +get wretched when you think of it. But it is most unfair of you to go +and see her, behind my back; and everybody would say the same.’ + +‘I have not been to see her,’ replied Geoffrey, with visible annoyance. + +‘But you think of her--you cannot deny it.’ + +‘Yes, I _do_ think of her! A man has, not absolute control over his +thoughts.’ + +‘A pretty confession for a married man to make!’ pouted Jessie. ‘Why +don’t you follow it up by saying that you love her still?’ + +The young man was fairly roused by this time. + +‘I don’t deny it,’ he answered petulantly. ‘I do love her still.’ + +‘And I suppose you’ll end by running away with her, and leaving me to +go back to papa in Blenheim Square! It is shameful, scandalous! And she +must be a wicked, vile creature to encourage you to forget your duty in +this way.’ + +Geoffrey Doyne rose from his chair, and struck his hand upon the table +with a force that made the glasses ring. + +‘Don’t you dare to speak of her in such terms before me,’ he said +angrily. ‘She is no more vile nor wicked than yourself. She is as pure +and good a girl as ever walked God’s earth, and you are the only person +on whom there is any necessity to call “shame.” You chose to hold me +to my promise of marriage, when you knew that my heart was no longer +mine to give you; and, therefore, the consequences must be on your +own head. I _do_ love that girl you mention, earnestly, faithfully, +affectionately, and I _shall_ love her to my life’s end. There! You +wished for the truth, and you have it. You exacted the payment of +my bond to the last ounce of flesh. But you can’t have the blood, +Jessie--_my heart’s blood_. That belongs to another, and ever will do +so. And now, if you wish to preserve the peace, you will drop this +subject once and for ever, as it can never raise anything but strife +between us.’ + +This was all the satisfaction that she obtained from him, and a few +weeks after they were on their way together to rejoin his regiment in +India. + +About the same time Eliza Bennett led Fenella out for her first walk in +the open air. The girl, although much pulled down by her illness, was +on the high road to recovery, but she did not appear to have regained +her spirits with her strength. The little Wallon children ran out of +the cottages as she passed, with bunches of violets and primroses in +their hands, and Fenella smiled sweetly at them as she accepted their +offerings. But the smile was as sad as ever, and the grey eyes still +looked wistful and scared; and as, accompanied by her nurse, she +dragged her steps up to the little churchyard, the peasant women shook +their heads at one another, and said she would be carried there yet. + +‘You mustn’t sit down, my dear,’ said Eliza Bennett; ‘it’s too cold +for that yet. But you’ve done bravely for a first attempt, and we +shall have you stout and strong upon your legs again before many days +is past. You will try and leave off fretting now, my dear young lady, +won’t you? for your own sake, and your mamma’s, and all as love you.’ + +‘Oh yes, nurse, I will try.’ + +‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk, Miss Fenella, and you’re too young +and pretty to have your whole life wasted for a first mistake. You must +try and look at what’s past in a sensible light, my dear; and you’ll +live to laugh over these times, I warrant you.’ + +The girl shivered, but she answered in the same words as before. + +‘Yes, nurse, I will try.’ + +Then Bennett lowered her voice. + +‘Miss Fenella dear, you won’t mind what I’m going to say, but I +couldn’t help guessing his name on account of your raving after him +so in your illness, and when I was in London the other day about +some money business of your mamma’s, I made a few inquiries--secret +like--about him, and he’s gone, my dear. He’s left England for good and +all, and you won’t never see him, nor be troubled with him again; and +that ought to be as great a comfort to you as anything else--oughtn’t +it, now?’ + +The blood had ebbed and flowed in Fenella’s wasted cheeks, as Bennett +spoke to her, like waves of white and crimson, and when the servant +turned for an answer, she saw a bright hectic spot burning under +each of her eyes. But the tone in which she spoke was very calm and +deliberate. + +‘Thank you, nurse,’ she said wearily. ‘You meant it kindly, I know, +but nothing is of any consequence to me now. Only, please remember +(and I am sure you will, for my sake) that I would rather not hear you +mention his name again. He is dead to me, nurse; I am dead; everything +seems dead together. Don’t forget that, and never speak to me on the +subject more! And now take me home; I have made myself worse by coming +here; the sooner my mother takes me away from Sainte Pauvrette the +better.’ + +She cast the violets and primroses upon the grave by which she had been +standing as she spoke, and then throwing her arm about Bennett’s neck, +turned from the spot without another word. + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + SIR GILBERT CONROY. + + + ‘He that hath nature in him must be grateful, + ’Tis the Creator’s primary great law.’ + _Madan_. + +A month after this date Fenella and her mother were settled in +Paris, and mixing in all the dissipations of the French capital. Mrs +Barrington had many acquaintances there, and having hired a suite of +apartments in the very centre of the town, their lives soon became +one round of gaiety. Theatres and operas, balls and conversaziones, +followed one another in quick succession, and Fenella retired to +bed each night almost too weary to think. It was good for her, and +it would be untrue to say that she did not, in a measure, enjoy the +change. To depict either a man or a woman as brooding incessantly over +their trouble, and never for a moment losing sight of it, to raise +cheerful eyes to the light of Heaven, would be utterly unnatural. No +one ever did so in this world and preserved his senses. The strain +upon the nerves would be too great, and the mind would break down +beneath it. Fenella often returned from the gay scenes into which her +mother took her, to think how much more she would have enjoyed them had +Geoffrey Doyne not proved unfaithful, and sob herself to sleep over +the remembrance. Yet, whilst she was mixing in them, they distracted +her thoughts, and drew her out of herself. The theatre was a wondrous +revelation to her; the opera, a sublime delight; even at the balls and +assemblies she began to take pleasure in the knowledge that she was +admired, and that all men did not consider her so worthless a thing +that they could take her up, and cast her aside, as the humour seized +them. + +Mrs Barrington had shown wisdom in her generation in making her +daughter’s sojourn in Sainte Pauvrette a time which she shuddered to +recall. Anything which would expunge that terrible remembrance from her +mind would have been welcome to Fenella; it may be supposed, then, how +gladly she hailed the fresh scenes which opened before her, and how +gratefully she accepted the salve they offered to her wounded vanity. +For we are all mortal, and there is no doubt that trouble is easier +to bear when we have less time to think about it. And it is well it +is so, else the world would be full of lunatics and suicides. The man +who receives a bullet during the heat of battle in his body, which the +surgeons are unable to extract, will feel its presence to the last day +of his life, and at some times more than at others. A change in the +weather or a derangement of his system will cause the pain to be as +acute as on the day he was shot; and yet when the sun shines, and his +blood is free from acid, he may go for months without remembering he +ever encountered such an accident. So it is with our hearts. The mercy +of God and the goodness of friends may dull the sense of injury or loss +for months together, but it never totally disappears. If a lesser grief +overtakes us, a lesser love becomes estranged, the old wound opens and +bleeds afresh, the bullet stirs in the flesh, and we recognise the fact +that we are maimed for life. Let us not grudge the wounded, then, their +moments of forgetfulness, nor ridicule the trifles which may have the +power to divert their thoughts. + +To an older person, perhaps, white satin and pearls might appear an +unworthy panacea for a disappointed affection; but to a young creature +like Fenella, who had never possessed anything but serge and cotton +frocks before, they held their charm. She sighed, it is true, when she +saw the pale loveliness, which Bennett had taken such pains to adorn, +reflected in the looking-glass, and wondered, if Geoffrey could have +seen her like that, if he would ever have forsaken her. Still, she +preferred to be handsome rather than ugly, and could take a pride in +her personal appearance, though her lover was not there to praise it. +It was natural that she should do so, and it is of no use crying out +against nature. + +But there was one thing in which Fenella’s faith had been utterly +destroyed and could never be built up again, and that was her +mother’s love for her. Mrs Barrington would have had it otherwise. +When she found that her daughter’s beauty had not been destroyed +by her illness--that she was, in fact, better looking than she had +been before, and that she made no objection to going out to dances +and theatres every night, and wearing any sort of costume which was +provided for her, Mrs Barrington’s good temper began to revive, and she +would have had Fenella share her rouge and powder and her hare’s-foot, +and forget all old injuries. But the girl was unable to do so. About +the past she was as silent as the grave. She never mentioned Geoffrey +Doyne, nor Ines-cedwyn, nor Sainte Pauvrette; but to blot out the +memory of them was impossible. She could not forget her mother’s +harshness and cruelty, nor the sneers and contempt cast upon her when +her heart was bleeding for one word of affection or sympathy. She saw +Mrs Barrington in her true colours--worldly, selfish, and deceitful; +and as long as she lived, Fenella could never set her up again on the +pedestal her childish enthusiasm had raised for her. She accepted her +caresses without any exhibition of dislike; she thanked her for her +compliments, and followed her wishes; but here the link between them +ended. Mrs Barrington had brought her into the world, certainly; but +Fenella, remembering Sainte Pauvrette, could never again think of her +as her _mother_. + +The word ‘mother’ is sacred. It holds within its couple of syllables a +host of loving possibilities; and the woman who cannot sympathise with +every pulsation of the life she gave, is not worthy of the name. + +Fenella put the thought resolutely from her--it was only another +trouble added to the load she bore--and tried to believe that the sweet +dream she had once cherished was of a mother who had died when she was +born. + +Mrs Barrington was her adviser, and protector, and chaperon--everything +that was needful in the world of fashion she had entered, but +something which she never wished to encounter when alone. At such +times, a suspicious reserve and awkwardness would fall upon both mother +and daughter, which warned them to make the interview as short as +possible. + +Mrs Barrington, however, was quite in her element again. Her ambitious +views for Fenella had all revived (though she did not like to say too +much about them to the girl herself), and she spared no pains nor +expense to render her as attractive as she possibly could. + +The pale loveliness of the English girl, which owed so much to her +lofty bearing and look of serious innocence, soon began to be talked of +in the Parisian _salons_, and more than one man of fashion was said to +be a suitor for her hand. + +But Mrs Barrington was very cautious who she admitted as a visitor to +her own house. She had no intention of marrying Fenella to a penniless +_attaché_, or an officer dependent on his pay. She wanted to secure +both a title and a fortune for her daughter, and the only admirer she +had who combined these advantages was her own old acquaintance, Sir +Gilbert Conroy. + +Time had been--and not so very long ago either--when the fair widow +had hoped to get Sir Gilbert for herself, but her chances had never +had any existence except in her own brain, and she was sensible enough +to perceive that, if she snubbed his advances to Fenella, he was not +likely to ask for her mother’s hand instead. Besides, the baronet’s +suit had great advantages. He was not a hot-headed boy, determined +to have his own way at all hazards, and run the risk of a refusal by +speaking too soon. He rather preferred the dignified old fashion of +consulting the parents or guardians of the young lady he desired to +make his wife, before he mentioned the subject to herself. And Mrs +Barrington preferred this method of courtship also. + +She knew Fenella’s impulsive temperament, and her love of truth and +honour; and she was terribly afraid of what her daughter might say to +any young man who addressed her on the subject of marriage. If the +preliminary matters were kept in _her_ hands, she felt that she could +smooth down any little unpleasantnesses that may have occurred in the +past, so as to make them appear rather desirable experiences for a +young woman than otherwise. + +Sir Gilbert Conroy was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He +was a man of birth and education, of almost courtly breeding and +ultra-refinement. In age he was about five-and-thirty; in appearance +he was fair and aristocratic, with hair cropped closely to his head, +and rather bald about the temples, where he brushed it backwards; with +a handsome nose, quiet blue eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth shaded by a +small moustache. He was a man whom any woman might have been proud +to be connected with--but he was a man who would be severe in his +judgments, and unforgiving where he was offended. + +He had been struck with Fenella Barrington on the first occasion of +their meeting at an embassy ball, and had assiduously followed up +the acquaintance since. And the girl liked him--not with any idea of +marriage (she had conceived a notion that it was impossible she could +ever marry now), but as a pleasant acquaintance, who could talk more +sensibly than the generality of men, and who always seemed delighted to +meet her, and proud to be her partner for the evening! + +But when Mrs Barrington first mentioned the possibility of her marrying +Sir Gilbert Conroy, Fenella felt as if she had been struck with a +sudden blow. It was the morning after they had attended a large party +at the house of the Russian ambassador, and Eliza Bennett announced +to her young lady that coffee was waiting for her in her mamma’s +dressing-room. + +‘The mistress is too tired to go downstairs, Miss Fenella; so she says, +please will you go in and take it with her there.’ + +The girl threw on her _robe de chambre_, and obeyed the summons. Her +cheeks were flushed from sleep; her eyes were languid; her fair hair +hung in two thick plaits down her back. + +‘Really, child,’ exclaimed Mrs Barrington, as she entered, ‘you grow +handsomer every day. It’s no wonder Sir Gilbert is making such a fool +of himself about you.’ + +Fenella laughed. + +‘Poor Sir Gilbert! Why is he to be called a fool for liking me, more +than any one else?’ + +‘Because he likes you more than any one else does. Surely, Fenella, you +are not so blind as not to see that!’ + +The girl opened her eyes. + +‘Does he? I hope not!’ + +‘And why so, my dear? Most young ladies would be proud of his +preference. His title is one of the oldest baronetcies in England, and +he has five thousand a-year on which to keep it up.’ + +‘Oh, I don’t mean that, mamma; I am aware he is rich; only--you +know--it would be of no use his liking me, because I could never marry +him--nor anyone! So I hope it is all fancy on your part.’ + +‘What nonsense, Fenella. You must put such fantastical ideas out of +your head. And as for its being my fancy that Sir Gilbert likes you, he +has already asked my consent to his proposing for your hand.’ + +Fenella grew scarlet. + +‘Oh, mamma, did you tell him?’ + +‘What?’ cried Mrs Barrington sharply. + +‘About--about--what has happened, you know.’ + +‘Am I a born fool, or an idiot?’ exclaimed her mother. ‘No! _of course_ +I didn’t tell him! What are you thinking of, Fenella?’ + +‘Forgive me, mamma! I ought to have known without asking. You would not +tell him, naturally, for my sake as well as your own. But what did you +say, then?’ + +‘I told him he had my heartiest wishes for his success, and he might +propose to you whenever he liked.’ + +Fenella’s distress was genuine. + +‘Oh, mamma, why did you do that, when you know I can have but one +answer to give him? I _couldn’t_ marry him even if I liked him. How +could I? You might have saved me from the ordeal of having to tell him +so.’ + +‘But you must tell him no such thing, Fenella, and I will not allow you +to see Sir Gilbert again until I have talked you into a more sensible +frame of mind. Now, my dear, do try and look at the matter in a +reasonable light. You _must_ marry; you know that!’ + +‘No, indeed I don’t. I never intend to marry. I have given up all +thoughts of it--once and for ever.’ + +‘And how do you suppose I am to support you, then?’ exclaimed her +mother. ‘Do you think I have sufficient money to maintain a household, +and provide you with dresses, and take you about to places of +amusement, for the remainder of your life?’ + +Fenella stared. + +‘Yes, I thought so, mamma. Haven’t we money? Didn’t papa leave any +behind him?’ + +‘_Your papa_!’ repeated Mrs Barrington witheringly. ‘A fine provision +he left us! The pension for a post-captain’s widow, and a few thousands +in the bank. Why, I spent that to the last farthing ages ago, and have +nothing but my pension at the present time. I am going in debt for +every mortal thing we use, and eat, and wear. And then you sit there +and tell me calmly that you never intend to marry! Why, it’s flying in +the face of Providence; it’s condemning us both to perpetual poverty, +and your mother to losing everything she possesses; for if I can’t +pay my bills, my creditors will certainly put in a distraint upon the +furniture in South Audley Street.’ + +‘Oh, mamma! Mamma! Why didn’t you tell me of this long ago? Why have +you dressed me up in expensive clothes, and taken me to all these +fine places, when you could not afford it? I would rather have gone +in sackcloth and eaten dry bread, than run you into such terrible +difficulties!’ + +‘Why have I done it, Fenella?’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘Why, to procure +you the very chance which you declare you shall throw away--to see you +suitably married, and placed above the reach of poverty and care.’ + +‘But how _can_ I, mamma? Answer the question yourself. How _can_ I?’ +said Fenella pleadingly. + +‘I suppose I can guess what you are alluding to,’ replied her mother +coldly; ‘but if you intend to let that foolish love affair stand in +the way of your future prospects, all I can say is that you will be +intensely selfish. Most people would think you had caused me sufficient +trouble and anxiety already, without making more. If you are really +sorry for what is past, Fenella, now is your time to redeem it. You +will never have a better chance.’ + +‘Oh, I _am_ sorry,’ returned the girl, with troubled eyes and clasped +hands; ‘God knows I am! But how can I remedy it? You know my heart is +broken, mother; that my whole life is spoiled. What man would marry me +now, if he knew the truth?’ + +‘No one, of course! Very few men would marry at all if they knew the +truth about the women they make their wives. But who do you suppose +will tell Sir Gilbert Conroy anything? I sha’n’t--you may take your +oath of that; and our dear good Bennett is as secret as the grave. +There is no fear of his ever knowing the truth. You may set your mind +entirely at rest on that point.’ + +‘But I wouldn’t accept him unless he knew it,’ said Fenella. ‘Mamma, +what do you take me for? Do you think I could be so false, so +dishonourable as that?’ + +Mrs Barrington wheeled round in her chair and regarded her daughter +with the utmost astonishment. + +‘Fenella,’ she said solemnly, ‘you’re a born fool, and where you get it +from beats my comprehension. If you are going to enter into marriage +with the idea of telling your husband everything that has ever happened +to you, or that ever will happen to you, you may dismiss at once the +idea of having any peace in your life. Why, if the world were conducted +on that plan, it would be a perfect volcano! Now, I have seen a great +deal more of it than you have, and you must allow yourself to be guided +by me. Your husband will never tell you any more about his own affairs +than he chooses, you may make up your mind to that; and the less you +tell him about yourself the better.’ + +But Mrs Barrington’s worldly wisdom had no effect upon the frank and +generous mind of her daughter. + +‘Mamma,’ she said, ‘if I marry Sir Gilbert Conroy, or anybody else, you +know that I can never love him. I might learn to be grateful for his +kindness to me, but my heart is gone. I don’t think I’ve got any heart +left. I feel as if the place where it ought to be was empty.’ + +‘That’s nonsense, my dear,’ said her mother impatiently. ‘We are all +like that when we’re young. We have a first love, and we fancy we can +never love again; and after a while we find the difficulty is to keep +ourselves from loving too much. And even if it were not the case, +it’s no good carrying that enthusiastic, gushing sort of feeling into +marriage. It worries a man to death, and wears out his affection +sooner than anything else. Never refuse any attention your husband may +wish to show you, but keep your own feelings within bounds. That is +the secret of a happy marriage, and you will find a man will care all +the more for you if there is a little indifference and reserve on your +part.’ + +Fenella sighed. Her idea of a happy marriage had been so very different +from that. + +‘But if it is unnecessary to give love to the man you marry, mamma,’ +she answered, ‘is it not all the more incumbent to be perfectly open +with him? And I could not live my life with a secret always weighing at +my heart. I should fancy each time he frowned at me that he was going +to tell me he had discovered I was false to him.’ + +‘Oh, well, if you are determined to stand in your own light and mine, +and take no advice from those who know better than yourself, there is +no more to be said on the subject,’ replied Mrs Barrington, with the +air of a martyr; ‘but I must say that it is hard upon me--bitterly, +cruelly hard.’ + +‘Oh, how can I help you?’ cried the girl. ‘What can I do to remedy the +evil I have brought upon us both?’ + +‘The only thing you can do, you refuse to do,’ said her mother, +reproachfully. + +‘I cannot do a dishonourable action,’ replied Fenella, with dignity. + +And after that conclusion they passed several days in a miserable state +of coldness and silence towards each other. + +Mrs Barrington confided the whole affair to Bennett, and implored her +to argue it out with Fenella. For the sympathy she had displayed during +her illness had drawn the girl and the old woman very closely together. +Indeed, Bennett may be said to have been the only real friend Fenella +had; and many a time since those miserable days had she cried herself +to sleep upon the servant’s bosom. So it seemed nothing more than +natural when Bennett said to her,-- + +‘Why have you made your mamma so angry with you, Miss Fenella? What is +it that you don’t like in Sir Gilbert Conroy?’ + +‘I like him well enough, Bennett,’ said the girl, with a sigh. ‘In +fact, I see nothing to dislike in him. Only that has nothing to do with +marriage, you know; and mamma can’t understand that it is impossible +for me to forget.’ + +‘But it’s your _duty_ to forget, my dear,’ replied Bennett, who was +brushing Fenella’s hair at the time. ‘Here’s Sir Gilbert Conroy, a +fine, handsome gentleman, with plenty of money to keep you comfortable +and give you everything you want, and dying to make you his lady, and +yet you won’t listen to a word he says. And all because of a business +as can never come to anything. For, you see, there’s where it is, Miss +Fenella. If there was any hope or probability like of things turning +out as you would wish them, there might be some sense in waiting; but +you know as there isn’t. And when all’s said and done, my dear, the +first wasn’t a patch upon Sir Gilbert.’ + +‘_Don’t_, nurse--_don’t_,’ murmured Fenella, in a voice of pain, as her +hands went up to shade her blinded eyes. Ah! _that First_! Let a dozen +come after him--fairer, better, and more true than he--but they will +never have the power to drive his image from the heart that sheltered +it. + +The nurse laid down her brush, and kissed the crown of the fair head +that was bowed upon the dressing-table. + +‘There--there, my lamb,’ she said affectionately; ‘I wish I had bit out +my tongue afore I’d said them words. But it was for the sake of your +mamma, Miss Fenella. She’s regular put out, my dear; and no wonder, +for she quite counted on your marriage as a means of righting herself, +and I’m afraid she’ll be in a terrible fix if you continue to set your +face against it.’ + +Fenella looked up suddenly. + +‘Bennett, tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Are we so very poor? is mamma +really in want of money?’ + +‘Indeed she is, miss. Don’t you remember my telling you at the convent +a year ago, that your dear mamma was full of troubles, and it was her +debts at that time that worried her so, though, of course, it wasn’t +fit telling to a child. And they’ve gone on increasing ever since, till +I’m sure I don’t know how the mistress will go back to London, unless +she finds some way out of ’em first.’ + +‘And I must have been an extra expense to her,’ said Fenella, with a +sigh. + +‘Well, miss, you have--there’s no denying it! What with your long +illness, and your dresses, and hire of carriages, and all that. But +the mistress did it with an object. So she’s naturally disappointed at +your refusing to marry Sir Gilbert. And to be “my lady” too, miss! I +wonder how you can!’ + +‘Mamma has hardly spoken to me for three days,’ said Fenella. + +‘No, my dear! But she will, directly she sees you have changed your +mind. She’s had a many troubles in this life, poor dear lady! And it +seems hard that you should add to ’em--don’t it, now?’ + +‘If you will do up my hair, I will go and speak to her about it,’ said +Fenella wearily; and half-an-hour later she walked into her mother’s +room. + +‘Mamma, I have come to tell you that I have made up my mind to accept +Sir Gilbert’s offer,’ she said; ‘but it must be on one condition, that +you tell him my whole history. Tell it him without reserve, mamma; +don’t spare me in any way; and if, after hearing it, he should still +wish to make me his wife, I will marry him!’ + +Mrs Barrington was just about to call her by her favourite name of a +fool, and say she might as well have kept her wonderful condescension +to herself, when it suddenly struck her that she might find a way by +which to keep the game in her own hands. So she smiled sweetly instead, +and answered. + +‘Well, Fenella, if this is the only condition on which you will +listen to Sir Gilbert’s suit, of course I must comply with it, but +I have already told you my opinion of the matter. It is quixotic +and unnecessary! And if he _does_ propose to you afterwards (which +I doubt), you must be doubly grateful to him in return. He has been +waiting nearly a week for his answer, and I received a note from him +this morning on the subject. I shall therefore write and tell him to +call upon me this evening. Madame de Beaupré can chaperon you to the +Thellussons. It is better that you should be out of the way, as the +interview is likely to be a painful one.’ + +‘I have been thinking a great deal about it,’ replied Fenella, ‘and I +am sure it is the only right and honourable course to pursue. And if +it fails, mamma (as doubtless it will), then you must let me go out as +a governess or a companion, and earn my own living. It is unfair that +I should be a burden on you any longer, just because I have been so +wicked and so weak.’ + +‘A governess!’ thought Mrs Barrington as her daughter left the room. +‘As if I could allow such a scandal, and with that face too! But if my +right hand has not lost its cunning, I will contrive this marriage for +her.’ + +When Sir Gilbert Conroy walked into her little _salon_ that evening, he +found her looking the very soul of honour and the pink of propriety, +arrayed in a grey cashmere dress, with a white lace _fichu_ that gave +her almost the look of a quaker. + +‘No, no! Sir Gilbert,’ she said playfully, as she saw his glance wander +round the room, ‘you will not find my little girl hidden under any +of the sofa or chair covers. Fenella is spending the evening at the +Thellussons. I thought it best she should be out of the way whilst you +and I discuss this subject together.’ + +‘I am afraid Miss Barrington’s absence does not augur a favourable +answer to my suit,’ replied Sir Gilbert, flushing up to the roots of +his fair hair. + +‘Indeed! You are quite mistaken! My daughter is exceedingly well +disposed--shall I say _too_ well disposed?--to receive your advances, +and thinks highly of the compliment you pay her. But Fenella feels +that you are the soul of honour, Sir Gilbert (as she is herself), and, +therefore, before granting you an interview, she has set me a little +task which she thinks I can execute better than she can.’ + +‘A task!’ echoed Sir Gilbert. + +‘Yes! I am sure you will laugh at us for a couple of silly women, and I +told my daughter so; still, I could not blame her decision, as it was +founded on the very principles it has been the aim and object of my +life to instil into her.’ + +‘You alarm me, Mrs Barrington! Pray don’t keep me in suspense,’ gasped +the baronet. + +‘Indeed, I will not, for it is not worth while,’ laughed the lady +pleasantly. ‘The fact is, Sir Gilbert, about a year ago my silly +child had one of those foolish love affairs which we all know of, and +laugh at,--a boy-and-girl flirtation, which never could have come to +anything, and which she had almost forgotten, until the agitation +caused by your very flattering proposal recalled it to her mind. And +then she begged me to tell you of it before you met again. I thought +it perfectly unnecessary to worry you about such a trifle, and told +her so; but Fenella’s soul is of so pure and lofty a character that I +cannot bear to dull even its lightest aspiration. She is so truthful, +so honourable, so open, Sir Gilbert. Her mind is like a sheet of +crystal.’ + +‘Yes,’ stammered the baronet uneasily; ‘but--but--about this love +affair, Mrs Barrington? Are you quite certain she _has_ forgotten all +about it, or that it may not crop up to disturb our domestic felicity? +Is the gentleman in England still? Is she likely to meet him again?’ + +Mrs Barrington was annoyed that he took her communication so seriously. + +‘In England? Oh, dear, no! He went to the colonies, or he’s dead--or +something. I forget which. But he was such a boy, it’s really not +worth inquiring. And as for Fenella meeting him again--why, my dear +Sir Gilbert, she wouldn’t speak to him if she saw him in the streets +to-morrow!’ + +‘But these first attachments are sometimes the most enduring, you know, +Mrs Barrington; and if your daughter had quite forgotten all about +hers, I hardly think she would have considered it necessary to ask you +to break the intelligence to me.’ + +Then Mrs Barrington could have bitten out her tongue that she had told +him anything at all. It would have been just as easy to have assured +Fenella that she had. She played with her fan, and looked virtuously +reproachful. + +‘If you take it in that light, Sir Gilbert, I shall be indeed sorry +that I spoke. _Need_ I have said anything to you on the subject at all? +It was only the extreme purity of my child’s mind--the truthfulness +of her feelings--that made her think of making such a confession! She +would not go to you with even the shadow of a secret (however innocent) +upon her soul. But it is only a mind of equal candour with her own that +could appreciate the delicacy of her motives.’ + +‘But I can--I do!’ exclaimed Sir Gilbert. ‘I confess that one of the +great attractions that drew me to your daughter, Mrs Barrington, was +her youth and apparent innocence. I have grown sick and weary of the +women of the world, with their artifice and falsehood and intrigues. I +long to have an unsophisticated, guileless maiden for my wife. Indeed, +I would put none else in the place once occupied by my honoured mother. +I come of an old and unblemished family; and one of our proudest boasts +is that no one has ever been able to point the finger of scorn at a +Lady Conroy!’ + +Mrs Barrington went pale with agitation. + +‘Good heavens! Sir Gilbert, what are you thinking of? Would you link +such an expression as that with the silly little flirtation I have just +been foolish enough to tell you of?’ + +‘No--certainly not,’ he answered; ‘and if I cannot secure even your +lovely and innocent daughter for my wife without hearing that she has +already been courted by one of my own sex, it is hopeless for me to +look farther.’ + +‘Unless you go to the nursery for your Lady Conroy,’ laughed Mrs +Barrington. ‘But, unfortunately, I have no more daughters there, Sir +Gilbert, or I should certainly ask you to go and take your choice of +them. You are a son-in-law of whom any woman might be proud.’ + +‘You are very good to say so, my dear madam,’ replied the baronet. ‘Am +I to understand, then, that Miss Barrington consents to receive my +offer for her hand?’ + +‘The silly creature waits to see if you will renew it after having +heard this terrible secret of her former life--that she actually +flirted for the space of a few weeks with a lad, who ought to have been +whipped by his tutor for his precocity.’ + +‘Miss Barrington might have been sure I should not have permitted such +a trifle to stand in the way of my happiness,’ rejoined Sir Gilbert. +‘At the same time, as I confess I am rather sensitive on such matters, +will you ask her, as a personal favour, not to allude to the subject +before me? Perhaps it is as well I should have heard it; but having +heard it, I should wish to forget it again. Cannot it be buried in +oblivion? I should like to try and fancy (even if it be only a fancy) +that my wife never had a lover before myself.’ + +‘And neither has she, my dear Sir Gilbert. You surely would not dignify +the wretched boy I spoke of by the name of “lover”? However, I shall +repeat your wishes to Fenella, and I am certain they will be attended +to. When may I count on the pleasure of seeing you again?’ + +‘With your permission I will call to-morrow afternoon,’ he said, as +he rose to take his leave. ‘I shall not be quite happy until I have +learned Miss Barrington’s decision from her own lips.’ + +‘Well, of all the glaring pieces of folly I ever took part in, this is +the worst,’ thought Mrs Barrington, when the baronet had disappeared. +‘Fenella as nearly lost her chance of becoming Lady Conroy as possible, +and entirely through her own fault. The idea of rousing a man’s +suspicions unnecessarily! I wish I had followed my own judgment and +told him nothing. However, the girl is so strange, she might allude +in some way to the matter, so it is as well, perhaps, that he should +be prepared. But it must go no farther. I must impress on Fenella the +absolute necessity of holding her tongue henceforward.’ + +As soon as she returned home from the Thellussons, Fenella ran up to +her mother’s room, eager to learn her fate. + +‘Well, mamma!’ she exclaimed breathlessly, as she entered it, ‘has he +been?’ + +‘Yes, certainly; Sir Gilbert is too much of a gentleman not to keep his +appointments.’ + +‘And you told him?’ + +‘I did!’ + +‘_Everything_?’ + +‘Everything!’ + +The girl leaned back against the wall, almost speechless from +excitement. + +‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘What _did_ he say?’ + +‘He said all that was most kind and courteous. His affection for you is +great enough to surmount any obstacle. He renews his offer of marriage +to you.’ + +The faint colour died out of Fenella’s cheeks. It was evident which way +her hopes had lain. But surprise was her predominant feeling at the +news. + +‘You told Sir Gilbert _everything_, and yet he said that?’ she asked +incredulously. + +‘Haven’t I answered the question already! Do you doubt my word?’ +returned Mrs Barrington, in a sharp voice. + +‘Oh no, mamma; but it seems so wonderful to me! I thought when he +heard it he would just walk out of the house and never come back again. +What did you tell him? Does he know that I cannot pretend to love him; +that--that--I cannot forget what is past, whatever pleasures the future +may hold for me? I will be a good wife to him, mamma (as far as I can), +and I shall always feel grateful for his forbearance in this matter; +but I _hope_ you told him that he must not expect any more?’ + +‘If you will sit down and talk like a reasonable creature, instead of +a woman out of a play, I will repeat exactly what passed between us,’ +replied Mrs Barrington. + +She saw that it would be useless to try half measures with Fenella; +that if her conscience were not entirely satisfied, she would probably +speak to Sir Gilbert herself on the subject; and that, whilst she was +about it, she might as well tell a good lie as a feeble one. The girl +sat down, but impatiently, with large wondering eyes of expectation +still turned upon her mother. + +‘I told Sir Gilbert Conroy _everything_, from the beginning to the +end,’ commenced Mrs Barrington emphatically, whilst her daughter’s face +grew scarlet. ‘Of course he was very much distressed at hearing it (who +wouldn’t be?); I am not sure that he didn’t shed tears, but men are +sensitive about such things, and he turned his head the other way.’ + +‘How _good_ of him,’ murmured Fenella. + +‘He felt it _deeply_, there is no doubt--and so did I. It was anything +but a pleasant task you set me, Fenella; but when his emotion had +subsided, he told me it could make no difference in his affection for +you; on the contrary (if anything), he loved you more for what you had +suffered, and he repeated his offer to make you his wife.’ + +‘He must be a very generous man,’ said her daughter meditatively. + +‘He is more than generous,’ replied Mrs Barrington; ‘he is noble, +chivalrous, heroic! But he coupled his decision with a request which I +was obliged to accord him in your name, Fenella, and which you must be +good enough to pay particular attention to.’ + +‘What is it, mamma?’ said the girl dreamily. + +‘Sir Gilbert said to me, “I am willing to overlook and forget all that +is past, Mrs Barrington, on one condition, and that is, that a total +silence is preserved on the subject henceforward. I love your daughter +dearly, and am most desirous of making her Lady Conroy; but I am a +proud man, and do not care to think that any one ever courted my wife +before myself. I should wish to fancy (even if it be only fancy) that I +am her first lover.”’ + +‘He can never be my _lover_,’ cried Fenella quickly. + +‘Oh, don’t be so tiresome,’ said her mother, ‘catching one up in that +rude way. It is not at all likely he _will_ be your lover--husbands +never are--but the thing is, that you are not to speak of, nor allude +to the other; nor to anything, in fact, that happened before your +marriage.’ + +‘Am I likely to do so?’ sighed Fenella, with her hand pressed upon her +aching heart. + +‘Well, that’s the condition, my dear, and I hope you understand it. Sir +Gilbert is coming here to-morrow afternoon to receive his answer from +your own lips. Just give it simply and say no more about it. Let the +past be buried in oblivion, as he wishes it to be, and depend upon it +you will be as happy a woman as the world contains. It is an excellent +marriage, and I must say, after your _escapade_ of last year, that +you are a very lucky girl to secure it, and it is much more than you +deserve.’ + +‘I know that,’ said Fenella, ‘and I shall always be very grateful to +Sir Gilbert for his kindness to me; but as for being _happy_, mother, +that is impossible.’ + +‘Stuff and nonsense, child! Don’t begin to _pose_ for a martyr, and +fancy you are being dragged into a marriage against your will, like the +heroine of a novel.’ + +‘Oh no! I should never be so silly as that, because I really wish to +be married. I am sure I shall be happier with Sir Gilbert than I am at +home,’ replied the girl ingenuously. + +‘Well, I must say that’s grateful of you; and after all the trouble +you’ve given me!’ cried Mrs Barrington. + +‘Yes, I suppose I must have been the cause of a great deal of trouble +and disappointment to you, mamma, and I am sorry for it; but still, you +know, we have not been very happy together, and if Sir Gilbert really +loves me, I am sure I shall grow fond of him. My heart does _ache_ so +for love sometimes,’ cried Fenella, in a voice of pain. + +Mrs Barrington thought it just as well to keep down her rising wrath, +and be polite to the future Lady Conroy. + +‘Well, my sweet girl, I acknowledge we might have spent a pleasanter +year than the last; but there have been _causes_, you know, Fenella, +and my maternal pride has been sorely wounded. But it will be better +now, dearest, will it not? Bennett and I will do our utmost to get +together a decent trousseau for you, and once launched on the world as +Lady Conroy, you will never remember your former life except as an ugly +dream.’ + +‘Will he want it to be _soon_?’ faltered Fenella. + +‘I should think so, my dear. Sir Gilbert is not a boy, you see, and +there is no reason for delay. I shall see you presented at Court before +you are eighteen.’ + +‘Yes, I was only seventeen last birthday,’ said Fenella, with a piteous +smile, as the mention seemed to recall how much she had passed through +before that time. + +‘Most people would take you for older,’ remarked Mrs Barrington. ‘Sir +Gilbert thought you were nineteen or twenty.’ + +‘The last year has made a woman of me; I shall never be a girl again,’ +said her daughter, as she gathered up her evening wraps and retired to +bed. + +But the night did not bring much rest to her. Emphatically as Mrs +Barrington had asserted that Sir Gilbert Conroy had been made +acquainted with all the facts of her former life, Fenella was not +satisfied. She had learnt to distrust her mother’s statements--to +discredit her pretty oaths and smiles, as she did her blooming cheeks +and perfumed skin--and she lay awake, wondering how she could arrive at +the truth for herself. She did not feel any particular agitation at the +idea of seeing Sir Gilbert Conroy and telling him that she would be his +wife. Her heart was empty and sodden, and she thought she would just +as soon marry him as remain single: it was all the same to her; she +could never feel very happy or very miserable again, and she believed +that her future life would be more bearable passed with Sir Gilbert +than with her mother. So that when the baronet entered her presence the +following afternoon, he could detect nothing different from her usual +appearance, except a questioning look in her eye, as if she longed +to find out exactly what he thought of her. But she coloured when he +approached her side, and he interpreted the action according to his own +wishes. + +‘Miss Barrington,’ he commenced, as he took her hand, ‘your mother has, +of course, prepared you for this interview. Am I right in conjecturing +that you would not have granted it unless you intended to give me a +favourable answer?’ + +‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘mamma has told me all about it, and--I thank +you, Sir Gilbert.’ + +‘Does that mean that you will be my wife, Fenella?’ + +‘Since you wish it to be so--yes.’ + +At this answer Sir Gilbert naturally professed to be enraptured. He +kissed the hand he held, and, not being rebuked for forwardness, kissed +the fair face that glowed above it, and then he put his arm round her +waist, and drew Fenella to a sofa, and sat down beside her, and talked +of his mansion in town and his castle in Scotland--of the family jewels +which had not been worn since the death of his mother, Lady Valeria +Conroy, and how she had been the daughter of the Duke of Ben Nevis, +whose kinsman, David of Ben Nevis, had fought side by side on the field +of Bosworth with his own great ancestor, Gilbert de Conn, one of the +‘roys’ or ‘kings’ of Scotland. For Sir Gilbert’s favourite hobby was +the age and stainlessness of his family tree, and he looked down with +the supremest contempt on all the unfortunate ones of the earth who +could not produce a parchment roll inscribed with their pedigree. + +Fenella’s parents were not noble, but he had taken good care to +ascertain before proposing to her that the family on both sides was +irreproachable. He would not have transformed Venus Aphrodite herself +into Lady Conroy unless she had been able to prove that she had +respectable ancestors. But even the enumeration and description of the +late Lady Valeria’s diamonds and emeralds did not seem to awaken much +interest in the bosom of the girl, who kept her clear, grey eyes fixed +upon Sir Gilbert with the same questioning look in them with which she +had welcomed him. + +‘But,’ she said presently, interrupting him in the midst of a +description of the gardens at Conroy Castle, ‘are you _quite_ sure that +I shall be able to please you in all things? I am not a very loving +girl, you know (mamma will have told you that), and perhaps you might +expect more from me than I shall feel myself able to perform.’ + +‘I shall always do my utmost to meet your wishes, Fenella, and I hope +you will be as ready to meet mine. I expect no more from you than that. +Is it too much?’ + +‘Oh no! How could I give you less?’ she murmured. ‘It is very, _very_ +good of you to accept so little,’ and then, with a sudden impulse, +she laid her hand upon his arm. ‘Sir Gilbert, mamma said I was not to +mention the subject, but I must--only this once. She told you last +night everything--about--about--last year, and still you come and ask +me to be your wife! How can I ever be grateful enough to you for your +forbearance to me?’ + +He almost laughed at the varying colour which came and went in her +cheeks, and made her look so earnest and so beautiful as she said the +words. + +‘My dearest girl,’ he answered, as he drew her closer to himself, ‘I +had already forgotten all about it. I am a man of the world, you see, +Fenella, and used to hear all sorts of things; and although I confess +that, just at first, I was a little disappointed, the unworthy feeling +soon wore off again, and I am perfectly contented to take you _as +you are_! Only--will you grant me one favour?--not to make the past +a subject of constant allusion! Let it die out, my dear Fenella, and +forget it yourself, as I have.’ + +‘I will try,’ she replied, in a low voice; and Sir Gilbert recommenced +his description of the glories upon which she was about to enter, +whilst she mused to herself in silence, and thought what a generous, +noble heart he must have, and how good and grateful she should be in +return. + +Before he left in the evening, the wedding was fixed for that day +month. The baronet’s only near relation was a married sister, who +would be charmed to find an excuse to visit Paris, and so he thought +the marriage had better take place at the English Embassy, with as +little fuss as needful. + +‘Too soon! Too soon! Too terribly soon!’ cried Mrs Barrington +playfully. ‘Why, my poor child will only be seventeen years and three +months old! She oughtn’t to _think_ of marriage even for the next five +years--ought you, Fenella, darling? However, I suppose you wilful +lovers will have your own way!’ + +But a look from her daughter’s eyes stopped Mrs Barrington’s banter. +She was still very much afraid of Fenella, and would feel relieved when +those honest, serious eyes of hers were well out of the way. + +‘Will the time we have fixed upon be agreeable to you?’ said Sir +Gilbert, turning to Fenella. + +The girl started and flushed. + +‘Oh yes; it is all the same to me! That is--I mean--I would rather +please you than myself. It is the least I can do in return for all +your goodness to me.’ + +That was the keynote of her life thenceforward, and her belief in it +made her marriage seem almost a gladsome thing. She grew more and more +contented with her prospects as the days went on. She felt that, by +God’s mercy, she was going to lead an honourable and useful life for +the future, and she tried to persuade herself that she was happy. + +But there were times--sad times alone and in the dark--when the picture +was reversed, and the past came back so vividly upon her memory that +she was ready to leap out of bed, and write to Sir Gilbert and say she +had been mad, and that never--never--never could she be his wife--nor +the wife of any man. Times--when the passionate looks and tones of +Geoffrey Doyne, as she remembered them upon the sands of Ines-cedwyn, +would return to torture her with their dead sweetness--when she +fancied she could hear his voice, and see his eyes, and feel the very +clasp of his arms about her beating heart. And the present and the +future would become a black and mighty void, and she stood face to face +with the living, unforgotten past. But Fenella had strength at least to +battle with such memories, and call herself hard names for weeping over +them. She would resolutely stamp upon the vision; she would pray until +she had drowned the voice; she would tell herself that she was worse +than a fool even to bestow another thought upon the man who had been so +base as to betray her. He was a traitor, she would say to herself, with +the tears streaming down her face--a traitor and a liar! He _must_ be, +else why did he swear to keep to her alone when he knew he was going to +marry another woman? Why did he accept her vows of fidelity when he was +about to break his own? She would be brave--she would be strong--she +would tear his very image from her heart; she would not shelter there +one who could be so cowardly and so untrue to her and to himself. + +Ah, how many women have said the same before! How many tortured +wretches have cried to God to take away the memory that rose before +them like a mocking devil, gibing at their despair! And with all their +resolutions, their oaths, and their prayers, how hard it is--how +bitterly hard--to erase a true love (however unworthy) from the heart! +The man who is bound by swathes too powerful for him to rend asunder, +may be strong, and courageous, and determined. He may fight like a lion +for his release, he may strain every nerve and muscle to get free; but +if the bonds are beyond his physical capability to rupture, he will +only injure himself, and sink back again, exhausted by his efforts. +It were wiser for him to accept the inevitable, and get up and walk +through the world with as much ease as his crippled condition will +allow him. + +So Fenella waked up at the appointed time, to find that she was the +wife of Sir Gilbert Conroy; waited on with all attention and kindness +by her husband, and surrounded by every luxury that money could procure +for her. + +Yet the swathes were around her still, and she would lie bound with +them in her coffin. + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + SMOOTH WATERS. + + + ‘It is vain that we would coldly gaze + On such as smile upon us: the heart must + Leap kindly back to kindness.’--_Byron_. + +Whether from intuition, or the common-sense that characterised most of +his actions, Sir Gilbert Conroy went just the right way to win such +kindly feeling as it was in the power of his young wife to bestow upon +him. He treated her as a friend. He did not (after the usual manner of +bridegrooms) load her with caresses and compliments until she was sick +of flattery. Neither did he sit gazing at her hour after hour, as if he +could not satisfy himself with the contemplation of her beauty. Had he +done so, Fenella would probably have become shy and distant with him, +or openly expressed her dislike to his behaviour, and then quarrels +would have ensued between them. But there was nothing in Sir Gilbert’s +attentions from which the most delicate nature could have revolted; he +was chivalry itself. He waited on his wife in public with the greatest +assiduity, anticipating every wish, and never permitting her to do a +single thing for herself. Still, he would have done as much for any +lady confided to his charge. + +Even in private, although he was always polite and affectionate in his +manner towards her, he was never exacting. He allowed her to follow her +inclinations in the matter of their intercourse, rather than to press +his own upon her. So that after a few days Fenella lost her shyness, +and became quite friendly and intimate with her husband, and after a +few weeks she would have missed him very much had he been called away +from her. + +The fact is, Sir Gilbert Conroy was not in love with Fenella, and +never had been. Her chief attraction in his eyes (as he had told her +mother) was her youth and innocence. He was weary of the fickleness +and falsehood of fashionable women (as, indeed, he had just cause to +be), and he believed that Fenella would make a Lady Conroy of whom he +need never be ashamed. Of course he admired her. He was not quite such +a stoic at five-and-thirty as to have lost all faith in female beauty, +but he had seen handsomer women--as he coolly informed his sister, +Lady Marjoram, on the day of the wedding. And Lady Marjoram, who was +one of the most charming women who ever spent her life in a round of +frivolity, had shaken her head at him and said,-- + +‘You’re as bad as ever, Bertie. I believe you’d pick holes in the Venus +de Milo if she could find those lost arms of hers and wind them round +you. But mark my words--Fenella may not be as beautiful as some of your +former loves, but she is a better woman than the whole lot of them put +together. She’s the first girl that has ever taken your fancy who is +fit to fill our mother’s place.’ + +‘I believe you there,’ replied Sir Gilbert. + +‘And I hope you’ll be a good boy to her, Bertie, and put the thought of +that horrid Mrs Messiter out of your head altogether,’ continued his +sister more seriously. + +‘You may be sure of that, Janie,’ was his quick reply. ‘That portion of +my life is over for ever.’ + +And Sir Gilbert was right. That portion of his life during which he had +been held in thrall by an unprincipled woman, who cared for nothing but +using his purse and gratifying her own vanity, was over for ever. It +had extended over many years, and been the cause of much anxiety to +his family, who feared it might stand in the way of his settlement; but +it was done with, and it would never be renewed. + +Sir Gilbert was too honourable a man to deceive the girl whom he had +made his wife. He would exact the utmost propriety of conduct from +Lady Conroy, and he would render her the same in return. But an old +attachment is not to be forgotten in a day, and the remembrance of Mrs +Messiter tended to make the baronet more deferential in his manners +towards Fenella than he would otherwise have been. And she was so glad +of it. She was so thankful that he did not call her ‘darling,’ and make +her sit upon his lap, and try and force confessions of love from her, +which she would have been unable to refuse to make without offending +him. It was so much nicer as it was (she said to herself); and she +actually began to feel a sort of affection for Sir Gilbert, because he +did not exhibit it too freely towards her. The life they led together +was like a dream of fairyland to the girl, who had left a convent +school only to see Ines-cedwyn and Sainte Pauvrette. + +Sir Gilbert took her for a month to Italy, previous to their returning +to London for the season; and as the days went on, Fenella began to +ask herself if she were asleep or awake, everything was so new and +wonderful to her; she had not believed that living could be made so +easy. If she wished to dress for the evening or for walking, her robes +were laid in readiness for her, and her new maid was in obsequious +attendance, ready to put them on; if she rose to leave the room or the +house, a man-servant sprang up to open the door, to carry her shawl, +or to receive the orders she might wish to leave behind her. She was +never permitted to walk, especially through the streets; a carriage was +always at her beck and call; and her purse was liberally supplied with +money to make any purchase she might feel inclined for. Her husband +considered that it was his duty to see that Fenella preserved a certain +amount of state--not for her own sake, but for that of Lady Conroy--and +he would have done the same for the honour of the name she bore, had +his wife been the ugliest old woman in Christendom. But the girl did +not consider this. Her path was strewn with roses for her; her husband +was always kind and courteous; and her heart was a grateful one, and +responded accordingly. Even when they returned to their town house in +Portman Square, the pleasure continued. The first coming back to London +was painful to her--she could not deny that--but she shook the feeling +off bravely, and her new sister-in-law soon made her feel at home. + +It has already been said that Lady Marjoram was a very sweet woman. She +was, moreover, a very grand lady (as titles go), and her family were +proud of the connection, but no accession to rank and fortune had been +able to spoil her unaffected womanly nature. + +Her husband was Henry Frederick Charles Albert Ernest, fifth Earl of +Marjoram and tenth Baron Carberry, with an annual rent-roll of twenty +thousand, and estates in all the countries of the United Kingdom. He +was a fat, good-tempered, farmerlike-looking person of middle age, who +allowed his countess to have her own way in everything, and expected to +enjoy the same privileges himself. + +This very grand sister-in-law might, under ordinary circumstances, have +turned up her nose at her brother’s choice, and would, under _most_ +circumstances (for some of the worst-bred women in the world are to be +found sheltering their vulgarity beneath the strawberry leaves), have +mixed up so much condescension in her intercourse with the young and +portionless girl as to turn her politeness into an insult. But Lady +Marjoram was a gentlewoman, and that is a rank which, if we do not +inherit it from the goodness of our own hearts, no strawberry leaves +can give us. She had been working ‘like a nigger’ (as she herself +expressed it) to get the Portman Square house into proper order for the +Conroys’ first season in town; and as soon as Fenella was ensconced in +it, Lady Marjoram flew to her side, and offered her every assistance in +her power. + +‘Of course you must be presented at Court, dear,’ she said,--‘that must +be the first thing; and then you must give dinners and receptions, and +all kinds of horrors! Oh, how I hated them when I married Marjoram; but +they must be done, you know. And if you wish it, I’ll come and help you +through with everything that your cook and housekeeper can’t do for +you.’ + +The kind tone and feeling of her sister-in-law moved Fenella deeply. +She pressed closer to Lady Marjoram and thanked her, with the tears in +her eyes. + +‘Why, my dear child, what is this?’ cried the Countess; ‘you didn’t +suppose I was going to leave you to do it all by yourself, did you? I +am not quite such a wretch as that comes to. I remember too well what I +suffered when I married Marjoram, and the old Countess-Dowager wouldn’t +give me a single hint, and only found fault with everything I did. But +is the house as you like it, Fenella? Can you suggest any alteration?’ + +‘Nothing, dear Lady Marjoram; it is just perfect, I assure you.’ + +‘You mustn’t call me Lady Marjoram. I must be Janie to you, Fenella. +Don’t forget that we are sisters, though I suppose I am nearly old +enough to be your mother. What is your age, dear?’ + +‘I was seventeen last January,’ replied Fenella, with a little sigh. + +‘And how do you and my brother get on together? Does he treat you +kindly? Are you quite happy with him?’ + +Fenella opened her eyes. + +‘Oh, Janie! What a question. Of course he is kind to me--very, very +kind.’ + +‘No “_of course_” in the matter, my dear. The generality of men are +brutes, and marriage (as a rule) is a mistake. Not but what my Marjoram +is an awfully good old fellow; I wouldn’t change him for the world. And +my brother is a gentleman, too, which is, after all, the main thing. A +woman can generally get on with a gentleman, whether she loves him or +not; but so very few men _are_ gentlemen to their wives! It’s a lost +art, Fenella. The man who would fell another to the ground for daring +to say he was _not_ a gentleman, will behave in the rudest manner to +the unfortunate woman who is compelled to listen to whatever he may +choose to say to her.’ + +‘I am not an unfortunate woman,’ laughed Fenella softly; ‘Gilbert has +never said a rude word to me.’ + +‘I’m very glad to hear it, my dear; and I think I know my brother +well enough to say that he never will. You will find Gilbert very +particular--in fact, he’s a bit of a prude; but so long as you remain +what you are now--innocent, modest, and refined in your speech and +manners--he will make you the best of husbands. Gilbert couldn’t stand +a woman that was talked of. He is very fond of you and very proud of +you, and so he ought to be; but he is fonder and prouder of his family +name (that has been his weakness from a boy), and I believe he would +kill the woman he loved, with his own hand, sooner than she should +disgrace it.’ + +‘I will never disgrace it,’ said Fenella, in a low voice. + +‘I am sure you won’t,’ rejoined Lady Marjoram heartily, as she took the +girl in her arms and affectionately embraced her. + +Under the tuition and guidance of her sister-in-law, all those ordeals +which appear so terrible to a young wife, first launched upon the +fashionable world, were transformed into pleasures; and Fenella had +been presented at Court, and attended her first ball, and given her +first dinner-party before she had time to wonder whether she should be +a success or a failure. + +The upshot was that she proved an undoubted success. Introduced +everywhere by the Countess of Marjoram, the youthful Lady Conroy became +an object of universal attention and admiration. The extreme delicacy +of her skin, the clearness of her complexion, and the child-like hue of +her soft fair hair, all combined to make Fenella look even younger than +she was; and as it was one of Sir Gilbert’s fancies that she should +always appear dressed in white, she soon gained the name of ‘The Lily’ +in the circles she frequented. The baronet mentioned this fact to his +sister, with pride beaming in his eyes. + +‘I don’t approve,’ he said, ‘of the modern custom of giving nicknames +to ladies of rank; but since the licence has unfortunately been allowed +to creep into society, they could not have chosen one for Lady Conroy +that would have offended me less.’ + +‘That would have pleased you more, you mean,’ cried Lady Marjoram, +laughing. ‘Take care, Sir Gilbert de Conn--Roy of Scotland! If you +don’t mind your P’s and Q’s, you’ll be guilty of the plebeian crime of +falling in love with your own wife.’ + +The baronet took her jest quite seriously. + +‘No, Janie; I assure you I feel nothing of that kind for Fenella, and +neither does she for me. We are the best of friends, and nothing more. +That is as it should be. Any warmer feeling than friendship is sure to +suffer from so close a contact. By the way, she asked me yesterday if +she might take singing lessons. What shall I do about it?’ + +‘Get her the very best master you can,’ replied his sister decidedly. +‘Let her have Signor Possetrina. She has a lovely voice, and is fond of +music. Besides, she is the very best little girl in the world, and you +must give her every mortal thing she has a fancy for.’ + +‘You are quite right,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘and I will engage Signor +Possetrina for her at once.’ + +These singing lessons soon became Fenella’s greatest pleasure, and, +under the tuition of the best master in town, she made rapid progress. +Signor Possetrina was charmed both with her voice and her ability. He +found her well grounded in the art, and he was never tired of praising +the purity of her tones, the delicacy of her ear, and the earnestness +with which she pursued her studies. She would have given up her +engagements for her music, if Sir Gilbert would have permitted such a +sacrifice to art. But every spare hour she spent at her piano, and her +singing soon began to be talked of as much as her face had been. + +‘Almost too much talked of,’ as Sir Gilbert remarked, with a shrug of +his shoulders, to Lady Marjoram. ‘I hope she’s not going to turn out +a genius, Janie. Geniuses are generally erratic sort of persons, with +wills of their own, and I shouldn’t care for Lady Conroy to become too +decided and clever.’ + +‘Bertie, you’re a fool,’ rejoined his sister (it is only sisters that +can call men ‘fools’ with impunity; they won’t stand it from their +wives); ‘wouldn’t you rather your children had a clever mother than a +stupid one? Besides, do you imagine women are any the less obstinate +or deceitful for being boobies? Not a bit of it! It’s the wives that +have no intellectual qualities wherewith to amuse themselves, that try +and get their amusement out of flirting, and sometimes even out of +champagne.’ + +‘_Don’t_, Janie,’ said Sir Gilbert, with a shudder. + +‘Well, then, my dear boy, be sensible, and let Fenella sing all day, +and all night too, if she wishes it, so long as she is contented with +no more dangerous audience than old Signor Possetrina and yourself.’ + +So Fenella was allowed to follow her talent to her heart’s content, and +it did content her wonderfully. Her music sang to her--sadly enough, +and yet sweetly--of her unforgotten past. Geoffrey’s tones (although +unconsciously to herself) were wafted back from the shores of memory, +upon the wings of song; and whilst Fenella sat at the piano, she would +wander off into the realms of fancy, picturing a future perhaps in +which all the crooked paths of this world would be made straight, and +all the rough places plain, and lose herself in impossible dreams, +until she was recalled to earth again, and found her cheeks were wet +with tears. + +Yet she was happy; as happy as any one can be who has outlived the +thoughtlessness of childhood--because it is impossible to grow up and +think, without weeping for ourselves or others. There were times, +indeed, when a chance word or look--a chord of music, or the scent +of a flower--would bring back the remembrance of Geoffrey Doyne so +powerfully on Fenella’s mind, as to make her sick with longing to see +his face once more (if only for a moment). But it was the sort of +feeling with which we regard the dead--those hallowed dead whose still, +white features we sometimes feel as if we would give our lives to look +on once again. It had no more hope, and no more real desire of being +realised, than we have of unsoldering the coffins that have been closed +so long. + +There was one trait in Fenella’s character which somewhat puzzled +Lady Marjoram; she seemed to think so tenderly of little children, and +yet to be almost ashamed if detected in any kindness towards them. +The Countess had a nursery full of little ones, from big boys and +girls of twelve and fourteen, to a tiny stranger who had only made his +appearance in this wicked world about three months previously. Lady +Marjoram thought very little of babies; they were amongst the natural +nuisances of this life, she said, that must be endured. She romped +with all her children alike, from the eldest to the youngest, and was +quite offended if one of them dared to be weakly or sick. It was unlike +either herself or Marjoram, she would declare; and if the brat didn’t +get well soon, she should begin to think that he had been changed at +nurse. + +‘Take the boy! He won’t break,’ she exclaimed one day, as she threw her +infant into Fenella’s arms. + +Something--what was it?--swelled in the girl’s breast as she received +the little creature, and the tears rushed suddenly to her eyes. + +‘Please take him back again,’ she faltered to her sister-in-law; +‘I--I--am not much used to babies.’ + +‘You mean you don’t like them, my dear. Well, I don’t wonder at it. +Nobody does until they have them of their own. But you must get your +hand in, you know, Lady Conroy. Bertie won’t be satisfied till he has a +son.’ + +‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Fenella, ‘and some day I hope he may have +one.’ + +‘How quietly you said that, child! Too quietly a great deal for your +age. One would think you had had a dozen.’ + +Fenella coloured. + +‘I _am_ older than my age, Janie,’ she said, with a sigh; ‘but I was +not always so happy as I am now.’ + +‘I expect not,’ thought Lady Marjoram; and then she asked, as a natural +sequence, ‘Have you heard lately of Mrs Barrington, Fenella?’ + +‘I have not, and I feel rather anxious about it. She was to have been +in town last month, and then she caught this attack of low fever, and +Bennett seems to think it may be some time yet before she is able to +move. I am sure she must be very weak, or she never would have missed +coming to town for the season.’ + +‘Well, the season may be said to be over now, so I suppose Mrs +Barrington will not join you until you go to Conroy Castle.’ + +‘I do not see how it will be possible, Janie. Gilbert told me yesterday +that we must be there by the twelfth.’ + +‘Of course, for the grouse! Bertie would not miss the first day of the +season for anything. Sport is his great pastime, Fenella; he loves it +as enthusiastically as you do, music. You must never throw any obstacle +in the way of his pursuing it.’ + +‘Why should I?’ asked Fenella simply. + +She was quite at her ease in the presence of her husband, but she +was equally happy when he was absent. Her present content did not +arise from being married to him (though she may have deceived herself +into thinking so); it was due rather to the fact that he never urged +the circumstance of their marriage too strongly on her notice. Her +relations with her mother had caused Fenella some uneasiness since +she had become Lady Conroy. Mrs Barrington had appeared to imagine +that she ought to derive as many advantages from the marriage as her +daughter, and Sir Gilbert had not seen the matter in the same light. +Indeed, the greatest drawback in his eyes to marrying Fenella had been +the existence of her mother. He despised the widow’s character from +every point of view--he would have removed his wife entirely from her +influence had he been able, and the last thing he desired was that she +should continue to exert it. Fenella had, therefore, been placed in a +very difficult position,--forced to read and answer Mrs Barrington’s +letters of reproach, and complaints of poverty, on the one hand, and +to bear with equanimity Sir Gilbert’s animadversions on her mother’s +conduct, on the other. + +At last the difference of opinion had been settled by the baronet +giving his wife permission to invite Mrs Barrington to stay with them +for a month, either in London or Scotland, but this invitation (as +has already been shown) she was unable through illness to accept. +Fenella could not feel quite sorry about it,--not so sorry as, she told +herself, she ought to feel--because she had a premonition that Mrs +Barrington’s advent would not be productive of increased happiness in +her married life. She would rather be with Gilbert alone, she thought. +Her mother’s presence could only remind her of the darkest passages in +her young life. + +And she was spared the ordeal she had begun to dread; for she and her +husband had only been settled in Scotland for a fortnight, when the +news reached them from Paris that Mrs Barrington had succumbed to the +weakness supervening her attack of fever. + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + A REVELATION. + + + ‘Thy words have darted hope into my soul, + And comfort dawns upon me.’--_Southern_. + +It was naturally a great shock to Fenella’s nervous system to hear +of her mother’s death. It is a shock to learn (thus unexpectedly) of +the death of any one whom we have lately seen in apparent health and +strength. And it seemed so impossible to picture Mrs Barrington dead, +and laid out in her coffin. Mrs Barrington, with her painted cheeks +and skin, her dyed hair, her toilettes of pink and blue and silver, +her artificial ways and words and looks. Fenella could not realise +her mother shorn of these frivolous accompaniments; she wondered how +she would get on without them, even in the other world. But when the +first shock was over, the girl’s honest heart could not pretend there +was much grief remaining for their present separation. There might have +been. Mrs Barrington, in repulsing her daughter’s affection, had thrust +from her a rich store of love that might have been her consolation and +her stay till her life’s end. But love is a plant of growth; it can +no more live without nourishment than a flower can flourish without +earth and water. And Mrs Barrington had killed the beautiful blossom +that was springing up in her child’s heart. She had trampled it under +foot and neglected it, and it had perished for lack of food. And now +that she had passed out of sight, she had not left one loving memory in +Fenella’s mind by which to mourn her. On the contrary, her daughter, in +deference to the fact that she had been her father’s wife, and she was +dead, felt herself compelled, resolutely, to put away all thoughts of +her, since remembrance brought reproach in its train. + +But she could not help thinking of Bennett--dear good old Bennett, who +had been with them before her own birth, and who had been so attached +to her late mistress; she was terribly anxious to know what was to +become of Bennett. The servant was no longer young--she was at least +fifty years of age, twenty of which had been spent in their service; +and she had become so wedded to their ways, it was unlikely she would +find another place to suit her. Fenella wanted to send for her at once +to Conroy Castle. There was a baby expected there in the spring, and +her wish was to instal Eliza Bennett as head of the nursery. + +‘She loves me,’ she said to her husband, with big pathetic eyes, ‘and +she will take every care of our little child for my sake.’ + +Sir Gilbert was good-naturedly disposed to acquiesce in anything his +wife might desire. He was going over to Paris to attend the funeral +of his mother-in-law, and, had the truth been known, in a more +contented frame of mind than he would have cared to exhibit openly. Mrs +Barrington had been his _bête noire_, but she was (fortunately) removed +to a better sphere; it was quite immaterial to him what became of the +servant. + +‘Do just as you like about it, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I have no +doubt the old woman will be quite as efficient a guardian for the +heir-apparent as anyone else.’ + +‘Oh, Gilbert, you are so very good to me!’ murmured Fenella gratefully. +‘Then I will write Bennett a letter, dear, and you shall deliver it to +her yourself.’ + +In consequence of which, Bennett, having first paid a short visit to +her brother in Ines-cedwyn, arrived at Conroy Castle robed in the +deepest mourning, and clasped her young mistress in her arms again. +Had it been a meeting between a mother and child it could hardly have +been more affectionate. The servant forgot all the grandeur attendant +on Sir Gilbert and Lady Conroy, as she showered kiss after kiss on +Fenella’s face; and the girl herself was scarcely less delighted to lay +her head on that kind, homely breast once more. + +There was a link between Bennett and herself which nothing on this +earth could have the power to rupture. The servant was, of course, full +of the account of Mrs Barrington’s illness and death, and for awhile +neither of them could speak of anything else. + +‘And to think, dear Miss Fenella,’ cried Bennett, who could not get +out of the habit of using the old name, ‘that you shouldn’t have been +with us at the time! But it was so sudden, my dear; the doctor was as +surprised as any of us--for we had thought she was doing so nicely, +poor dear lady, and would be able to be moved at the farthest in a +week or two. But she sank (as you may say) in a few hours--nothing +would save her; and her teeth was so fixed we couldn’t even get a drop +of brandy and water down her throat.’ + +‘Did she speak of me, Bennett? Did she send me any message?’ demanded +Fenella timidly. + +‘Oh, she spoke often of you when she was in the fever, my dear; and she +used to talk of Conroy Castle, and the time when she’d get here, and +what a fine place it was, and all that. Poor dear! Little she thought +she’d never see it. And as for me, Miss Fenella, it seems as if my +hands was empty, now she’s gone. She was just like a child to me--so +sweet and amiable--always wanting this or that. It was “Bennett, come +here!” or “Bennett, go there!” all day long. She didn’t seem to be able +to do anything without her poor Bennett--did she, now?’ + +‘No; I am sure she looked on you as her very best friend, Bennett, and +I shall do the same for her sake. But when she was dying--when the end +came--couldn’t poor mamma speak then? Didn’t she say one word of me, or +send me any message?’ + +‘Well, miss, you see, I don’t think your poor dear mamma knew as +her death was so near at hand, for she only seemed a little more +fractious-like to me. I had just handed her some _limonade_, and I +suppose she wanted _tisane_, bless her! For she pushed it aside and +spilt it all over the counterpane, and said, “Take it away.” And +them was her last words, Miss Fenella; for as I was setting the bed +to rights, I see a change come over her face, and I caught her up +in my arms, and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. You might have +knocked me over with a feather.’ And Bennett buried her face in her +rough hands, and cried like a little child. ‘She was my life, Miss +Fenella--just my life and nothing else,’ she sobbed. ‘It seemed as if I +hadn’t a will of my own when she was near--as if I couldn’t move hand +nor foot unless she ordered me. You know how I used to wait on her from +morning till night. And now the world seems empty. I shall never have +any rest for thinking of her. I wouldn’t mind twice the trouble if I +could only have her back again.’ + +Fenella tried to comfort the good-hearted creature with some of those +ordinary arguments which sound like empty wind to ears on which a +beloved voice has ceased to fall. + +‘You mustn’t fret, dear Bennett. You must try and think how much better +it is for her to be free of all the trouble of this world. I don’t +think poor mamma can have been very happy here. She always seemed full +of worry and anxiety; and now--now we must hope that it is all over, +and--and--that she is in heaven,’ said Fenella hesitatingly. + +‘In _heaven_! My dear lady!’ replied Bennett, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, +I’m sure of _that_! I know for certain as my darling mistress is +walking in her robes of glory, with her ’arp in her ’and--and not a +more beautiful angel in the whole place. Oh, yes! _she’s_ happy now, +if _any one_ is, miss. It isn’t her (sweet angel!) as I’m thinking +of--it’s myself, and you, poor lamb! It’s what _we_ shall do without +her.’ + +‘We must try and comfort each other,’ said Fenella gently. ‘And now +tell me of your brother, dear Bennett, and of Martha. Were you glad to +see them again, and are they well and happy?’ + +Eliza Bennett coloured and looked ill at ease. + +‘Oh, yes! Miss Fenella--that is, my lady--Ben and Martha was looking +well enough, and of course they was glad to see me, notwithstandin’ +the sad event as took me there.’ And then she continued rather +irrelevantly, ‘I always carried out all your poor dear mamma’s wishes +to the very letter, Miss Fenella; there was never nothing she told me +to do but what I thought it right to obey her; and I hope it _has_ +been right, or if not, that the Almighty won’t lay it to my charge. But +I made a sort of idol of her, Miss Fenella; and I know that’s wrong, +and sometimes we’re punished for doing of it--still, when she _was_ my +mistress, I considered myself bound to serve her, even to the uttermost +farthing.’ + +Fenella stared at this address--it seemed so uncalled for; but she +answered warmly,-- + +‘I am sure God, who looks on our hearts, dear Bennett, will never blame +you for doing _more_ than your duty. The majority of us do so much +less. But I should like to hear something about your own affairs. Did +poor mamma pay you your wages? I know they had been due for a long +time; and has she left any debts in Paris?’ + +Bennett looked round cautiously, and lowered her voice. + +‘Well, my dear, to my thinking, your good gentleman must have cleared +’em off. I know there _was_ some, but after the funeral he called me +into the _salon_, and paid me my wages, and something very handsome +over, and told me I was to pack up my dear mistress’s bits of jewellery +for you, and to consider her wardrobe as my own, which I thought was +most generous of him. And then I ventured to ask him about the bills, +and Sir Gilbert said I wasn’t to worry my head on the matter, as he +would see to ’em himself.’ + +‘Dear Gilbert!’ said Fenella. ‘Oh! he is so good and so generous to me, +nurse. I don’t know what I have done to deserve so kind a husband.’ + +‘And such a fine-looking gentleman, too, Miss Fenella; and such a +princely home! It does my heart good to see you so comfortable and so +happy. Ah! if my poor dear mistress had only lived to enjoy it with us!’ + +‘Yes; I never thought that I _could_ be so happy,’ said Fenella gravely. + +‘I’ve heard there’s an old saying, “_All’s well as ends well_,” my +dear, and I am sure _you_ ought to be able to understand it. But I see +you wear that old locket still, Miss Fenella.’ + +Fenella coloured, and put her hand up to her bosom, in which reposed +the present that Geoffrey Doyne had given her. + +‘Oh yes! I promised I would wear this till my death, nurse. Nothing can +make any difference to that, you know.’ + +‘And don’t Sir Gilbert notice it, my dear?’ + +‘He has never mentioned it to me, and I don’t think he ever will. He is +not that sort of man. He has a soul above such trifles.’ + +‘Ah, well! You got a lucky exchange,’ replied the servant; but her +young mistress turned the conversation, and she said no more. + +As the weeks went on, however, and the influence of the dead woman was +farther and farther removed from her, Bennett became at one and the +same time more confidential and more reserved with Lady Conroy. It +seemed as though she had some revelation at the very tip of her tongue +which she longed, and yet did not dare to make. The temptation seemed +greatest when she was assisting Fenella with the usual preparations +for the expected heir; and sometimes as together they inspected and +arranged the lace and muslin and fine linen that arrived from London to +fill the nursery wardrobe, Bennett seemed almost unable (as she herself +expressed it) to keep her tongue between her teeth. + +‘Lor’ bless us!’ she exclaimed one day, as she tossed some baby-linen +almost impatiently to one side; ‘to think of the pounds and pounds as +is thrown away just to decorate one infant, as you may say, whilst +another poor little creature has hardly enough clothes to its back! If +_I_ was a fine lady, like you, my dear, with heaps of money to spend +as I chose, I should give a little thought to them as has none, if I +wanted my own child to thrive and do well.’ + +Fenella looked up at this tirade, surprised but smiling. + +‘Dear nurse,’ she said, ‘I believe we give a great deal away annually +in charity as it is, but if there are any particular cases of want that +you know of, I shall be only too glad to relieve them. I should like to +do it (as you say) in hopes it might come back in a blessing on my own +baby.’ + +The servant looked mollified. + +‘You was always good and sweet, my dear, from a little child. You take +after your blessed mamma in heaven for that. I daresay a lot of money +_does_ go from this house to the poor--and food, and blankets, and what +not beside; but if I was to ask you, Miss Fenella, for a few pounds for +a little one as has got no mother and no father (so to speak)--for such +a little one as we might both have heard of, you know, in our day--what +would you say then, my dear? Would you give it?’ + +Fenella’s trembling hands began to play at once with the fastening of +her purse, from which she managed to extract a ten-pound note; but +before she could hand it over to the servant, her fortitude gave way, +and sinking down on her knees by the bedside, she burst into a flood of +tears. + +Bennett left her place, and approaching the spot where her mistress +knelt, laid her hand gently on the bowed head. + +‘So you haven’t forgotten yet, my lamb?’ she whispered. + +‘_Forgotten_! My God! No; I shall never, _never_ forget!’ + +She knelt for a few minutes in the same position, then rising suddenly, +turned with an April smile upon the servant. + +‘Am I not silly, nurse?--as great a baby as when you brought me home +from the convent? But here’s the note for the little one you spoke +of--and may God bless it! And if there are any others that I can help +in the same way, let me hear of them. I have more money, dear nurse, +than I know how to spend; and I have less--less expenses than I might +have had.’ + +The servant took the note and put it carefully away. + +‘Dear heart!’ she thought, as Lady Conroy left the room. ‘I’m sorely +perplext to know what’s best to be done. It seems so hard she shouldn’t +know; and yet, now she’s living so happy and loving and grand, ’twould +be a pity to rake up old scores. Well, this isn’t the time, any way. +She’s got too much on her mind just now to think of anything else. And +perhaps I need never tell her; it looks likely enough.’ + +And, indeed, at that moment Fenella had what is technically termed +‘her hands full.’ The castle was filled with Christmas visitors, +amongst which were the Earl and Countess of Marjoram, who had with +them a cousin, Lord Laurence Grantham, a fine manly young fellow +of five-and-twenty, who established himself from the very first as +Fenella’s chief friend and knight-errant. Lady Marjoram had not brought +any of her children with her. She left home, she affirmed, to enjoy +herself, and had no desire to keep her domestic miseries for ever in +sight. + +‘You will be quite of my opinion in another year’s time, my dear +Fenella,’ she said to her sister-in-law, ‘and only too thankful to +leave Portman Square or Conroy Castle, or wherever the nursery may be +located, behind you. I positively begin to hate children, and believe +they are only sent into this world to plague their parents out of +it. Mine have had measles and hooping-cough already this year, and +now they’ve all broken out with ringworm; so I couldn’t stand it any +longer, but packed the whole lot off to Bournemouth for the winter. +There they are, nine of them, with a governess and two nurses, eating +their heads off, and sending us in weekly bills that make Marjoram +swear in the most awful manner. It’s no use laughing, Fenella. You’ll +laugh on the wrong side of your mouth some day, my dear. Wait till you +have nine.’ + +‘I hope I shall wait a long time,’ rejoined Lady Conroy, who was much +amused at her sister-in-law’s indignation. ‘But what is it that Lord +Marjoram is speaking to Gilbert about?’ + +‘About a vacant governorship at Sovooranooko, on the Gold Coast of +Africa, my dear, where yellow fever and smallpox reign triumphantly +from January to December, and elephants are shot for the sake of their +steaks, and alligators appear at the breakfast-table _en papillotes_ +like sardines.’ + +‘What interest can that have for Gilbert?’ demanded Fenella, rather +anxiously. ‘He would never accept an appointment in such a climate as +that?’ + +‘He says he should enjoy it above all things, Lady Conroy,’ interposed +Lord Laurence Grantham mischievously. ‘He is already consulting +Marjoram now about the proper-sized “bore” for elephant-shooting, +and they are going down to the stackyard after luncheon to practise +alligator-spearing.’ + +‘Oh, the poor cows!’ laughed the Countess. ‘Marjoram will most likely +get a spear in the calf of his leg, and be out of temper for the rest +of the day!’ + +‘Gilbert! You would never really go to a place like Sovooranooko?’ said +Fenella, as she went up to her husband’s side. + +‘My dear child, what nonsense! What are you thinking of?’ replied Sir +Gilbert. ‘I am about as likely to go to Timbuctoo!’ + +‘Oh no, you are not!’ retorted his sister. ‘There are no elephants +there.’ + +But his wife was quite satisfied with his answer, and troubled her head +no further in the matter. + +When February came round again with its pale spring flowers, a little +daughter was born at Conroy Castle. Sir Gilbert was excessively annoyed +at the fact of its being a girl--more annoyed than Fenella had ever +seen him during their married life. He had calculated so certainly upon +having a son; it did not seem to have entered his head that he might +have a daughter. + +‘Better luck next time, Bertie,’ cried Lady Marjoram, who was still a +guest at the castle; but her brother did not take the jest in good part. + +‘My dear, he’s as cross as a bear!’ she whispered afterwards to +Fenella, who could not be put out of conceit with her little girl, +although no one seemed to value her but herself; ‘but it’s always +the way with men. They think the world was made for them, and it’s a +personal insult if they don’t get their own way. Marjoram was just the +reverse. _He_ wanted a daughter, and I had five sons in succession. +I can remember his disgusted expression, when he used to exclaim, +“_Another_ boy! Too bad--too bad!” as if _I_ could help the young +wretches being boys! At last a girl came, and then, of course, he +spoilt her. She’s the most odious brat of the lot. However, I don’t +think Bertie will spoil yours--not just yet, at all events.’ + +‘I am afraid not,’ said Fenella, with a sigh. + +‘Don’t sigh over it, you muff; it’s not _your_ fault; and if Bertie +begins any more grumbling, just give him a bit of your mind. You’re too +easy with him, Fenella. He’s growing a regular bully!--No, nurse! Don’t +ask me to kiss the baby, _please_! I daresay she’s a very nice baby, +and everything she ought to be; but, you see, I have nine of my own, +and the gilt has somewhat worn off the gingerbread! In fact (not to put +too fine a point upon it) the game’s played out.’ + +And without another look at the infant, the lively Countess ran away. + +The new-comer was left entirely to the admiration of its mother and +nurses, but doubtless it fared none the worse for that. + +‘And she’s come in _February_ too,’ remarked Bennett, significantly, to +Fenella, as she cradled the little Conroy in her arms; ‘that seems as +if she was to be a special gift, my lady, doesn’t it?’ + +This idea seemed to linger in the mind of the young mother, and when +next she saw Sir Gilbert she asked him if their little girl might be +called Theodora. + +‘Theodora--Theodora!’ he repeated, wrinkling his brows. ‘Why Theodora? +It wasn’t your mother’s name, was it?’ + +‘Oh no; mamma was called Rosina! But Theodora, you know, means “the +gift of God.”’ + +‘Exactly so, though I don’t see that this baby is more especially the +gift of God than any other baby--do you?’ + +Fenella looked down at the child lying on her breast. + +‘She is such a _comfort_ to me!’ she answered, as she strained her to +her heart. + +‘I am glad of that, dear,’ said her husband, ‘and I should like to +indulge your fancy in the matter; but being the eldest daughter, I +think she ought to be called after my mother, Lady Valeria; and so does +Janie.’ + +‘Valeria is such a _fine_ name. It doesn’t seem to _fit_ her!’ said +Fenella dubiously. + +‘It is not so long as Theodora, at any rate,’ laughed Sir Gilbert; +‘however, Valeria, she must be, so I am sure you will not oppose +yourself to what I think best.’ + +She had never done so yet, and was not likely to begin now. The +baby was baptized in the name of Valeria, and Fenella soon became +reconciled to a matter of so little importance. But when the child +was about a month old, a real trial assailed her. Sir Gilbert Conroy +was offered the governorship of Sovooranooko, and decided to accept +it. The temptation was too great for him. What real sportsman could +resist the chance of bagging game in the African forests? Visions +of elephants, rhinoceri, hippopotami, gorillas, elands, and buffalo +floated rapturously through the baronet’s brain, until he was no longer +master of himself. He accepted the post without even consulting his +wife in the matter, and made immediate arrangements for going up to +town and purchasing every sort of weapon and equipment necessary for +his expected experiences. Lord Laurence Grantham (as enthusiastic a +sportsman as himself) was to accompany him as his private secretary, +and much good might Sovooranooko expect to derive from their united +services whilst a head of game remained within range of their rifles. + +On first hearing the news of her husband’s appointment, Fenella +naturally supposed she was to accompany him. + +‘But will Sovooranooko be a good place to take baby to?’ she demanded +timidly. ‘Do you think the climate will agree with her, Gilbert?’ + +‘My dear girl, what are you dreaming of? Drag a baby and suite after me +into the centre of Africa? I’d as soon think of introducing a gorilla +into your London drawing-room.’ + +‘But how can I leave her behind, so young as she is?’ she asked him. + +‘I don’t wish you to leave her behind. I should no more think of +risking your health than I should that of the child. No, my dear +Fenella, this is not an expedition for women and children. Grantham +and I shall spend half our time in the jungle, and what would you do +without society, grilling away on the burning plains of Sovooranooko? +It would kill you both.’ + +‘But if it is so dangerous a climate, why do you go there, Gilbert?’ +she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of affection. ‘Why should you +leave us for years, to hold an appointment which you do not require, +and from which you may never return?’ + +Sir Gilbert had to consider for a moment why he did do this thing, +before he could answer his wife’s question. + +‘Well, the reason, my dear, is obvious. I certainly do not actually +require the appointment, nor do I admire the climate; but still it is +a great honour conferred upon me, and my longing to have some sport in +Central Africa has always been intense. In my position as governor of +Sovooranooko, I shall not only have better opportunities of following +the pursuit, but be able to penetrate farther and with greater security +than I should otherwise be able to do. But as for my remaining away for +_years_, that is nonsense. There is no necessity for me to go at all, +and I can resign the appointment whenever I feel inclined.’ + +‘Janie says, when you once get there, it is a question whether you will +_ever_ come back again,’ said Fenella. + +‘Janie knows nothing about it. We certainly cannot commence following +up the large game until a particular season of the year; but I shall +not remain out there a minute longer than I find it pay me to do so. +Meanwhile, Fenella, there is no need for you to mope. You will be a +great deal with my sister, I hope, when you are in London; and the +autumn you will spend at the sea-side, or wherever pleases you. Perhaps +the Marjorams may ask you down to Southfield for Christmas. I am sure +they will, if you evince the slightest disposition to join them. But +since Dr M’Kenzie advises your going to some warmer place for the next +few months, I shall not leave England until I have seen you comfortably +settled at Nice, or wherever you like best.’ + +From the extreme cold of Scotland Fenella had developed a cough after +her baby’s birth. Had she been an ordinary patient it would have been +treated with syrup of squills, but in the position of Sir Gilbert +Conroy’s wife the family doctor considered it necessary to prescribe +a visit to the south coast to expedite her cure; and, after some +deliberation, Hyères in France was chosen for her temporary sojourn. + +Sir Gilbert would have had his wife travel with a courier, and a +flunky, and a couple of women, and engage the best suite of rooms in +the best hotel. He was a man who loved pomp and show, and if there was +an ungentlemanly trait in his character, it was his weakness to be +thought a very big person, and to have everything belonging to him in +equal style. Fenella pleaded hard to be excused the courier and the +flunky, for neither of whom she had the slightest use; but she took +Bennett and her lady’s-maid with her, and permitted her husband to +establish them in the hotel at Hyères, and impress the proprietor and +attendants with a sense of the importance of Miladi Conroy, and the +necessity that she should be supplied with everything that was best +and most expensive. And thus, having fulfilled the very letter of the +law as a husband and protector, Sir Gilbert gave Fenella unlimited +credit at his banker’s, and parted with her as carelessly as if he had +been running into the country for a fortnight’s fishing. + +His wife felt very lonely after he was gone--still more so when she +heard that he had left England in the Cape steamer, and was on his way +to Sovooranooko. She began to wish she had not left Conroy Castle, +or that she had asked her sister-in-law to receive her as a guest at +Southfield. But the Earl and Countess were paying a round of visits, +and she would have been almost as lonely in either of those places +as at Hyères. Then her lady’s-maid (who had never been a favourite +with Fenella) began to give her trouble. She was an independent, +free-born Britisher, and not disposed to fall in kindly with any of the +ways of ‘them nasty furriners.’ She complained of the food and the +accommodation; she couldn’t ‘abide’ to see the invalids who had come to +Hyères (perhaps only to die) being dragged about in their wheel-chairs; +and she didn’t understand ‘hupper’ servants being put to one side +by ‘nusses,’ and such like--which being interpreted, meant that the +lady’s-maid was jealous of the confidences reposed in Bennett by her +mistress. + +‘_Hif_ her la’ship required her services, would she be good enough to +say so? and _hif_ her la’ship didn’t, would she be good enough to let +her go?’ + +When it came to this pointed appeal, Fenella found she could do very +much better without her. + +‘Do send her away, my dear lady,’ whispered Bennett. ‘I can do +everything that you and the baby require; and she’s always got her ear +at the keyhole, listening to every word we say.’ + +So the lady’s-maid (much to her surprise and annoyance) was dismissed +from Lady Conroy’s service, and sent back to England; and shortly +after her departure Fenella removed from the hotel, and took a lovely +little cottage standing in its own garden, on the outskirts of the +town, where Bennett, and a _fille de quartier_ hired in Hyères, +rendered her all the assistance she required. + +These may appear to be trifling and unnecessary details, but they +exerted a strong influence upon her future conduct. Here, in this +solitude, with no society but that of Eliza Bennett and her little +infant, Fenella lapsed into very low spirits. Her life had become calm +and contented, but it was not sufficiently happy to bear the strain of +her own thoughts, without the outward distraction of cheerful company +and lively surroundings. Left to herself, she was too apt to dream; and +dreaming revealed a state of mind that half frightened her. She was +sadly disappointed, too, at Sir Gilbert leaving her for Sovooranooko, +although she would not acknowledge it, even to herself. But she had +begun to lean upon the fact that he was her husband; to misconstrue +the courtesy and deference (which he would have shown to any woman) as +marks of love for herself, and to deceive her own heart into the belief +that she loved him in return. And yet he had left her for an indefinite +period, whilst he ran all the risks attendant on an unhealthy climate +and a dangerous pursuit; and Fenella could not help recognising her +true place in his estimation. She was Lady Conroy, his wife, and the +possible mother of his heir--that was all. As for the poor little girl +in the cradle, he had not even looked at her before he went away. She +was a female, of no consequence at all in his family tree; that she +was her mother’s child gave her no individual claim upon her father’s +heart. But the little Valeria (now three months old) was daily becoming +more engaging in Fenella’s eyes, who thought that a lovelier specimen +of babyhood had never existed. And she was partly right. The infant +was unusually large and fat for her age--too much so, indeed, for +health, as the sequel proved. For one day, as the little creature was +lying, flushed and rosy in her sleep, she was seized (without the +slightest warning) with a convulsion, from which she never recovered. +Bennett (who had frequently seen infants in fits before) plunged her +at once into a warm bath, and held her there until the convulsions +had ceased. But when they were over, life was over too. The beautiful +baby had closed her blue eyes upon this world for ever, and Bennett +was forced to break the intelligence to her mistress. The _fille de +quartier_ was sent flying into Hyères for a doctor, but he only arrived +to confirm the nurse’s opinion. The spirit of the little child was gone +beyond recall--‘if he could be of any other use to Miladi he would be +but too happy, but as for _this_,’ shrugging his shoulders, ‘he was +_accomblé_ with regret to say it--but no one could help Miladi _here_.’ + +It was some time before Fenella could be made to believe that her +infant was really dead. But when the doctor had departed, and the +little body was laid out, stiff and white, upon the bed, her agony was +overwhelming. + +‘There is a curse upon me, Bennett,’ she cried, as she fell, sobbing, +on her knees beside the corpse. ‘God is still angry with me! I shall +never be the mother of a living child!’ + +‘No, no! My dear lady; don’t say that, for it isn’t the truth. Oh, if +I only dared to tell you!’ said Bennett, with the tears streaming down +her own face. + +‘You cannot tell me anything to give me comfort,’ replied Fenella, +as she rocked herself to and fro. ‘They all leave me; no one stays +with me! I believe I am doomed to live and die alone! _What_ had I, +nurse--_whom_ had I--but this little child? and God has taken even her +away! Oh! It is cruel--it is _cruel_ of Him! He might have left me +_one_ of them, just to save my heart from breaking!’ + +The servant, who was almost as upset as her mistress, sat by her side +all night long, and never left her for one moment to herself. + +On the evening of the next day (according to the custom of that part of +the country) Fenella’s child was buried, and the little house seemed as +if it had died itself--it was so empty and still and forlorn. + +Lady Conroy had wept until her sight was dull and her face sodden; +she had paced up and down the room until she had nearly fainted from +fatigue and want of nourishment; but still she could not rest. She +moved about incessantly, with dry eyes, but burning cheeks, recalling +every incident in her baby’s short life which could increase her grief +and heighten her despair. At last she made a dart at her blotting-case. + +‘I cannot write to Sir Gilbert,’ she said, ‘until I have heard of his +arrival at Sovooranooko; but I must let Lady Marjoram know the news at +once. They would never forgive me if I kept them in ignorance of such +an event. Though I don’t suppose any of them will care if she is alive +or dead. No one loved her but myself. My darling little Valeria! my +poor lost baby!’ + +She sat down with the blotting-book in her hand, and burst into a fresh +flood of tears. This was the moment Bennett had been watching for. +As the tempest of Fenella’s grief subsided, she found her faithful +dependant close at hand. + +‘Don’t write this evening, my darling child,’ she said affectionately; +‘you ain’t fit for it. Let it be till to-morrow, for there’s something +as I want to tell you.’ + +‘Tell it me afterwards, dear Bennett. Let me write my letters first,’ +pleaded Fenella. ‘It will do me good to have some occupation. Besides, +we must leave this place, nurse. I can’t stay here, now my baby’s +gone. I should fancy I heard her voice crying every minute.’ + +‘Yes, yes! My dear lady,’ replied Bennett soothingly; ‘and you know as +you can do exactly as you choose in all things. Only there’s something +as I want to tell you, my dear, and I’ve wanted to tell it you for +months and months past, only I didn’t dare; but the time’s come now, +I’m sure, and I don’t feel as if I should do right to keep it to myself +any longer. I think it will be a comfort to you, and yet how to begin +the story I don’t know.’ + +The woman’s manner was so earnest and yet full of mystery, as she +walked to the door and locked it, lest they should be interrupted, that +Fenella’s curiosity was immediately aroused. + +‘Nurse, what is it you can have to tell me that requires so much +preparation? Is it anything to do with poor mamma?’ + +‘Well, it has and it hasn’t, Miss Fenella; and I expect you’ll be so +surprised, you’ll hardly believe as I’m telling you the truth. But you +mustn’t blame me, my dear, for I can call Heaven to witness as I never +did anything in this world but what I thought was for your good.’ + +‘What on earth is it?’ cried Fenella, as the blotting-case slid to the +ground. ‘I begin to be frightened, nurse. Surely it cannot be more bad +news for me?’ + +‘No, no, my lamb. I think you’ll say as it’s good news, and I am sure +you will say I am right to tell it you. Do you remember the time, Miss +Fenella, when you was so ill at Sainte Pauvrette?’ + +Lady Conroy shuddered. + +‘Ah, Bennett, as if I could _ever_ forget it! It is the one great black +spot in my life.’ + +‘Your mamma told you then, miss, as your baby was dead, and you cried +bitterly for its loss, didn’t you?’ + +The tears streamed afresh down Fenella’s face. The old wound had +recalled the new. + +‘Oh yes, I did! My poor wee baby that never saw the light! God might +have left me _this_ one (mightn’t He, nurse?) just to help me to forget +the other.’ + +‘And what should you say, my dear,’ continued Bennett, as she softly +stroked the girl’s hand; ‘what should you say, now, if I was to tell +you as your first baby--the baby that was born at Sainte Pauvrette--was +still alive?’ + +Lady Conroy half sprung from her seat, and stared into the servant’s +face incredulously. + +‘But my mother--my _mother_,’ she panted, ‘told me it was born +dead--that it never even breathed on entering the world!’ + +‘My mistress didn’t tell the truth then, Miss Fenella--God forgive her! +That child was born alive, and is living now.’ + +‘But I never saw it, nurse! I never heard it cry!’ + +‘I daresay not, my dear, or you don’t remember it. But you were raving +with fever all the time, and the baby was safe in England long before +you came to your senses again.’ + +‘But you showed me her grave!’ continued Lady Conroy, with eyes wide +open with surprise. ‘You pointed out a little mound to me in Sainte +Pauvrette churchyard, and told me my poor baby lay beneath it, and I +left violets and primroses there for her sake.’ + +‘My dear, I did; and I’m not going to deny it. They was your poor +mamma’s orders, and I obeyed them, as I’ve obeyed many an order of hers +that’s laid on my conscience since. But it was untrue, Miss Fenella. I +took your dear baby myself to England the very day she was born, and +she’s living there to this hour. And that’s God’s truth, my lamb, if I +never utter another word on this side the grave!’ + +Fenella stood still and silent for one moment, as if to try and +grasp the truth of this unexpected revelation. Then with a cry of +indignation she bounded to her feet. + +‘And _my mother_ did this!’ she exclaimed. ‘_My mother_, who brought me +into the world, and knew all that I had suffered! She stepped into the +place of God and bereaved me of my child! How did she _dare_ to do it?’ +she went on fiercely, as she confronted Eliza Bennett. ‘How did _you_ +dare to uphold her in such a falsehood? What right had you to conspire +together to steal my child from me--_his_ child--and leave me to the +desolation and despair that followed? How did you _dare_--how did you +DARE to do it?’ + +She paced up and down the room as she spoke, alarming Bennett beyond +measure by her heightened colour and rapid utterance. + +‘Say what you like to me, Miss Fenella,’ she replied piteously; ‘I +daresay I did very wrong, though I acted under orders. But don’t go +to blame your dear mamma as is a saint in heaven. She did it for the +best, my dear; she thought to save you the shame and the distress it +might prove in after-years. We talked a deal together about it before +we decided what to do, but the little one’s been safe and well with my +sister Martha ever since, and you’ll be able to see her now whenever +you like. And oh! Do stop walking in that fashion, my dear, for if +you fall ill, I shall never forgive myself for having told you; but I +thought maybe it might be a comfort for you to hear, now that the other +dear baby’s gone.’ + +Fenella stopped short, and flung herself on her knees by the old +woman’s side. + +‘It _is_ a comfort, dear Bennett,’ she said; ‘but tell me the +truth--don’t deceive me any more--is she really alive?’ + +‘She _is_ alive, my dear. She’s a poor creature, as might be expected, +brought up by hand; but she’s alive and well.’ + +‘And what is she like, nurse? Oh, tell me what my child is like.’ + +‘She ain’t so good-looking as the angel that’s gone, Miss Fenella, but +I should think she’d take after you when she fills out a bit. She’s +very backward, poor lamb; she can’t say a word, and she’s got no use of +her legs. But Martha’s took every care of her, and couldn’t love her +better if she were her own.’ + +‘And--and--does Martha know that she belongs to _me_, nurse?’ asked +Lady Conroy hesitatingly. + +‘Bless your heart, _no_! Do you think I’d go to pull down the family in +_that_ way, Miss Fenella? In course not! I said ’twas a child belonging +to a friend of my mistress, and they didn’t ask no questions. Why +should they? They’ve been paid reg’lar ever since.’ + +‘Who has paid them, Bennett?’ + +‘Well, your dear mamma did up to her death, my lady, and since that +your ten-pound note has kept them going till such time as I could make +up my mind to tell you the truth.’ + +‘Oh, if I could see her! If I could only see her!’ cried Fenella, +clasping her hands. + +‘My dear, I don’t see why you shouldn’t, and that’s why I wanted to +tell you my story before you wrote to Lady Marjoram.’ + +‘What has that to do with it, Bennett? I couldn’t tell _her_, you know.’ + +‘I should think not! You’ll be very soft if you tell any one now. Let +the matter rest between you and me, my dear. But ain’t it next to a +moral certainty as Sir Gilbert will be out in that African place for +some years?’ + +‘I believe so. For two or three years, without doubt, unless some +accident sends him home.’ + +‘Well, then, Miss Fenella, I’d risk it!’ + +‘Risk what, Bennett?’ + +‘I’d have that baby home in place of the one that’s gone, and trust to +his never finding out the difference.’ + +‘Nurse! What are you thinking of? My first baby must be fifteen months +old by this time.’ + +‘I know she is, my dear, and of course you couldn’t manage it if you +was in England, or Sir Gilbert likely to come home soon. But she’s +a puny little thing, you must be prepared for that; and though you +couldn’t pass her off now for a baby of three months, I warrant that +when she’s three years you will be very well able to pass her off as a +child of two. And Sir Gilbert is not a gentleman to fuss over children, +you know. He’ll never put his foot in the nursery if he can help it. I +believe you might bring up half-a-dozen there without his being any the +wiser.’ + +‘Lady Marjoram?’ faltered Fenella. + +‘I’ll manage the Countess, my dear. You see, if you fall in with my +notion, you must say the baby’s delicate, and leave her with me when +you go to London for the season. Lady Marjoram will never trouble you +with any questions about her.’ + +‘Oh, if I _could_--if I only could!’ cried the mother, with a new hope +beaming in her eyes. ‘My poor neglected baby! My poor fatherless lamb! +I _must_ have her back again.’ + +‘It would do my heart good to see her in your arms,’ said Bennett, ‘for +it smites me every time I go to Ines-cedwyn and look at the poor little +thing. For ’tain’t _her_ fault, you see, Miss Fenella; _she_ ain’t +the one to blame, pretty dear; and it seems terrible hard she should +grow up without any one to love her as she has a claim to, and no more +knowledge than can be got in Ines-cedwyn.’ + +‘She never shall!’ exclaimed Lady Conroy; ‘I will claim her and look +after her, even if I am not able to bring her up by my side. Bennett! +Bennett!’ she continued, in a lower voice, as she pulled the old +woman’s face close down to her own, ‘tell me, _dear_ Bennett, is she +at all like _him_?’ + +‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, why should you go to ask me such a thing? I’m sure +I don’t know, my dear, and I hopes, for your sake, as she’s not, for +you ought to have forgotten all about him long and long ago.’ + +Lady Conroy hid her face in the servant’s bosom. + +‘Oh yes! I know I _ought_, and I think I have too (nearly, that is to +say), only this stirs it up, you see, Bennett--it stirs it up.’ + +‘But has it comforted you, my dear lady, or have I made matters worse +by my chattering?’ + +‘No, no! May God Almighty bless you, Bennett, for having told me that +my baby lives. It has comforted me as nothing else in this world could +have done. It has almost reconciled me to giving back the other one to +Heaven.’ + +[Illustration: decorative] + +[Illustration: decorative] + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + THE INDISSOLUBLE LINK. + + + ‘Child of my love! Essence of all things fair, + Sweet outcome of my happy, hopeful youth, + Sweet mem’ry of thy father’s passionate truth, + Come nearer; let me feel that thou art there. + Give me thy hand--’twas thus I held his own; + Look in my eyes--’twas thus I gaz’d in his; + Kiss me for him--one fervent, long-drawn kiss-- + And tell me that we part for earth alone.’ + +How will it be possible to adequately describe Fenella’s feelings +at this juncture, so as to make those who read of them judge her +leniently? No _man_ could do it; no man could even understand the +emotions that passed through her mind, or enter into the passion that +actuated her conduct. A man must stand on one side and be dumb. And +neither could a woman, unless she had been a mother, and received back +her child, as it were, from the dead; even a woman must have passed +through similar circumstances before she could comprehend the difficult +position in which Fenella was placed. Picture her wild surprise on +hearing that the child of her love--the child of the man whom she could +not forget--still lived, and was dependent on her; that somewhere in +this wide world it stretched tiny arms to the empty air, yearning for a +mother’s tenderness; and then think of the impossibility of her telling +the secret to any one--of the impossibility of her having the infant +with her at all unless she stooped to a deception which seemed innocent +beside the crime of disowning it. Once made aware of its existence, +Fenella could not close her eyes to her responsibility. She could not +have done it under any circumstances, for her heart was that of a true +mother, and she would have gone forth into the world, if needful, with +her baby in her arms, and supported it by the most menial of labour, +sooner than have confided it any longer to the care of strangers. + +But there was another motive working in her breast, a motive for which +the world (who embraces coroneted courtesans) will be the most ready to +condemn her,--she loved the father of her child with every fibre of her +heart. It was her greatest sin, this impossibility to be faithless and +forget. Let it be written down against her. This is not the history of +a saint. It only professes to be the record of an erring woman’s life. + +But Fenella did not intend at first to follow Bennett’s suggestion +in all its details. It is questionable, indeed, if she ever intended +to do so, for she was true by nature (as has already been pointed +out), and it was only the greater passion fighting against the lesser +that made her untrue to her nature now. It is the same with all of +us when brought face to face with the greatest difficulties of our +lives--the master-passion (whichever it may be) prevails. And Fenella’s +master-passion--whether it demonstrated itself in one phase or +another--was love. + +When the wonder and the surprise of the revelation had somewhat +subsided--when she had heard every detail that the nurse could give +her of the circumstances under which her infant had been placed in +the charge of Martha Bennett, and was thoroughly convinced that there +was a living being dependent upon her alone for care and support and +affection in the future, then all the mother’s love came welling forth, +and Fenella felt as if she could not rest until she held her child in +her arms. + +Bennett did not fail to improve the occasion. Her conscience had sorely +upbraided her for taking part in the deception even from the beginning, +but she had been a tool in the hands of Mrs Barrington, and had simply +done as her mistress commanded her. But the spell was broken now; the +magnetic chain which the frivolous woman of fashion seemed to have +woven about the will of her dependant was snapt in two, and Eliza +Bennett could once more think and speak for herself. She impressed the +truth on Lady Conroy that, if she was ever to act in the matter, it +must be then; that next year, even next month, might be too late; and +that it would give her incalculable trouble, and the child incalculable +disadvantages (not only now, but in the future), if she were not +brought up by her side. + +‘Just think what she may be, fifteen or twenty years hence, my lady. +Why, the very thought makes me shudder! Even if you was to give her +the best of homes and education, where is she to go when she’s a grown +lady?--for a lady she is, my dear, and nothing can’t unmake her that. +And for my part, it seems a moral duty to me that you should have her +home; and, if I may make so bold as to say it, God Almighty seems to +have paved the way for you Himself.’ + +‘I intend to reclaim her, Bennett; don’t have any fear of that. Do you +think I could be so cruel and cowardly as to leave my own little child, +that I brought into the world, to grow up without knowing that I am her +mother?’ exclaimed Fenella. ‘Oh no! It is only the _means_ of doing it +that perplexes me. It can never be justifiable to deceive, you know. +And if they should ever find it out--’ + +‘Well, my dear, I shouldn’t worry myself about that matter now; and you +can do as you think best with respect to Sir Gilbert afterwards. There +can never be no call for you to tell Lady Marjoram, surely.’ + +‘Oh no, no!’ + +‘Take a week or two to think over it,’ suggested the servant; ‘second +thoughts is always best. And meanwhile I can fetch the little one, +that you may have a look at her.’ + +Fenella’s eyes sparkled with a sudden joy. + +‘But when, Bennett--_when_? How soon can you go?’ + +‘You won’t have her _here_, Miss Fenella,’ said the woman dubiously. + +‘I’ll do just what you think best.’ + +‘I’d like you to move farther on, my dear--to some place where you +are not likely to meet any of your fine friends; and then when you’re +settled, I’ll go over quietly and bring the child back with me.’ + +‘We will go to St Pré,’ said Lady Conroy; ‘there is no one there at +this time of the year.’ + +She was burning with anxiety to clasp her baby in her arms. She would +have stripped herself of every earthly possession to attain her object. +She could think of nothing else until it was accomplished. + +Yet the time which Fenella passed alone in the little _auberge_ of St +Pré, during the two or three days that her servant was necessarily +absent in England, was one of great perplexity to her. A dozen plans +for telling the truth, and yet keeping her first-born by her side, +darted into her mind, and had to be as summarily rejected. Her husband +knew every particular of her former history--of _that_ she felt +certain--it had never entered her head for a moment that it could +be otherwise; but, of course, Mrs Barrington had told him the same +falsehood she did to herself, and he believed the baby to be dead. +_What_ would he say if he were told it lived? Would he not order her +never to see it again, never to speak of it--to bury the fact of its +existence in oblivion, as he had desired her to bury the remembrance of +its birth? And Fenella felt this was what she could not do. A chord had +been struck in her breast which vibrated through her whole body. Her +child lived! The life that was one with hers had not been quenched, and +whilst it existed they must exist together. Yet she could not make up +her mind what to do, and she put the question from her as something to +be settled in the future. But she did not write to announce the death +of little Valeria to Lady Marjoram, and so the first thread was woven +of the net in which her life was to become entangled. + +On the evening on which she had been led to expect Bennett back again +from Ines-cedwyn, Lady Conroy behaved like a wild creature. Her +suspense, her agitation, her anxiety were so extreme, that she was +compelled to go and lock herself into her own room, that she might be +able to pace the floor, and laugh, and cry, and talk to herself, as she +felt inclined, without the fear of making the inmates of the _auberge_ +say she had gone mad. At last, after hours of restless expectation, +Fenella heard a bustle on the stairs, accompanied by a fretful cry. She +threw open her bedroom door, and stood panting on the threshold. + +‘Give her to me!’ she cried impetuously, as Bennett approached with a +bundle in her arms. + +‘Oh, my lady, be careful! You’ll frighten the child to death.’ + +But Fenella was not in a condition to listen to any advice. She hastily +tore open the shawl that enveloped the infant, and met the gaze of two +startled blue eyes, shaded by dark lashes; a little white face, hardly +bigger than that of the child she had just lost, surrounded by rings +of silky brown hair; and a sad drooping mouth that had just puckered +itself up for another cry. She pounced upon the baby like a tigress on +its prey, and clasped her vehemently to her bosom. + +‘Take care, my dear; pray take care,’ repeated the servant fearfully. +‘Don’t forget she’s just come off a long journey, and everything is +strange to her.’ + +But the mother had got the child’s face close to her own; she saw +nothing but the child--she heard nothing but the throbbing of her own +heart beneath which God had called it into being. + +‘_Baby_,’ she murmured, in a soft, tremulous voice; ‘baby, do you know +I am your mother?’ + +The sweet pathos in her tones attracted the little one’s attention. She +had just been going to cry, but she thought better of it, and smiled +instead. + +‘She _knows_ me!’ Fenella cried triumphantly. ‘She recognises me, +nurse. She sees something in my face she has been waiting for.’ + +‘Bless her heart!’ said Eliza Bennett, with the stereotyped nursery +benediction, ‘she’s been good as gold all the way coming over, and +Martha was finely put out parting with her, I can tell you; but I +said as her mamma had come back from the Injies, and wanted to look +after her herself. And I give her the money you sent, my dear, and she +considered it most handsome, and she hopes that the child’s things +(such as they are) will be found in decent order; but, of course, it’s +little she’s been able to do for her that way, for what your dear +mamma paid her, though ample, didn’t leave much and above over for +clothes. But we’ll soon put that to rights, won’t we, my lady? It’ll be +quite a pleasure to me to dress the little dear in decent things. But +she is a rare little one--ain’t she now?’ + +Bennett might have gone on talking till doomsday, for Fenella was not +listening to a word she said. Her eyes, dim with unshed tears, were +riveted upon the child, who lay in her arms, passive and contented, as +if she knew where she had got to. Suddenly the blue eyes glistened, the +tiny fingers were stretched upward, and in another moment had firmly +grasped a gold locket which had escaped from the bosom of Fenella’s +dress. The last pledge that Geoffrey Doyne had given her, in token of +his unalterable fidelity, lay in the hands of his child. At that sight +Lady Conroy’s tears fell like rain. She turned her face aside, and hid +it in the cushion of the sofa upon which she was seated. + +‘You have been unfaithful to me,’ she murmured inwardly; ‘you left me +without a thought whether I might not be destroyed, body and soul, +by your desertion; but I will not desert your child. Whatever may +happen to me in consequence--whatever I may lose, or give up, or have +to resign, I pledge myself here to redeem as much of _my_ past as +is possible to me, by devoting the rest of my life to the life you +created. O Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Why did you not take mine before you +laid this burden on my soul?’ + +Bennett perceived that Fenella was weeping, and came at once to the +rescue. + +‘Now, my lady, please, we mustn’t have anything of this sort. I shall +be sorry I’ve brought the baby over here, if she’s to be a misery to +you instead of a comfort. Lor’! What has she got now? That there nasty +locket! I thought there was something of that kind in the wind. Now, my +little dear, you please to give that up, and come to Bennett. ’Twould +have been a deal better for your poor mamma if she’d never seen the +trumpery thing, nor the one as give it to her neither. Come, my lady, +let me take her, and you rest yourself on the sofa, whilst I feed her +and put her to bed. She’ll sleep without rocking to-night, I warrant.’ + +But Fenella would not be parted from her new-found treasure. Together +the women undressed and washed the infant, and put it to sleep in the +nurse’s bed. And late that night, when the inmates of the little hotel +had long retired, and Eliza Bennett thought that her mistress too was +wrapt in slumber, a white-robed figure stole softly to her side, and a +low voice whispered,-- + +‘Is she sleeping, nurse? Has she taken her food? Are you sure she is +quite comfortable and well?’ + +‘Bless you, yes! My lady. The dear child’s sleeping like an angel! +Just look at her little face upon the piller. Ain’t she like a little +wax doll--the pretty dear! But do go back to your bed, Miss Fenella, +for you’ll get your death of cold standing about these nasty painted +boards.’ + +‘I’ll go back directly, nurse; but couldn’t you bring her and lay her +by my side? I think I could go to sleep if I knew that she was there.’ + +‘Lor’! My dear, you’d never rest with a baby in your bed. It’s +terrible, till you’re used to them.’ + +‘I think I could--and I would like to try; do wrap a shawl round her +and bring her to me. You don’t know how my heart does ache! I think if +I had my baby next it, it would be a little comfort to me.’ + +Bennett did not attempt any further remonstrance, but lifting up the +sleeping child, carried it into the next room and laid it by its +mother’s side. And when she crept in again towards the early morning, +to see how they both fared, she found them in the same position and +fast asleep, the infant’s tiny face nestled in Fenella’s bosom. The +servant stood and gazed at them until her eyes filled with tears. + +‘Well,’ she thought to herself, ‘if to bring them two together is a +sin, may God forgive me! But I can’t see it. Poor little mite! Don’t +she look as if she’d got home at last? And my sweet young lady, too, is +dreaming a happy dream with that smile upon her lips. May God bless ’em +both! And if any harm comes of it, I’ll work to keep ’em to my life’s +end.’ + +And Fenella too, with this new legitimate love awakened in her bosom at +the very moment when it felt so empty and so cold, was ready to resign +the world itself, if necessary, sooner than give up her child again. +It seemed to her as if she had never really known what it was to be a +mother until she clasped her in her arms, and before she had regained +possession of her for a week her infant had become her idol. She could +not bear her to go out of her sight; she was always in terror lest +some ill should happen to her; and she spent her days in studying the +tiny features, and watching the development of the tardily awakening +intellect. She was scarcely ever out of her mother’s arms; day after +day Fenella’s tall, lithe figure might be seen traversing the byroads +and field paths around St Pré, with the fragile baby clasped to her +breast; and the affection of the English lady for her little child +was the observation of every one. And yet Fenella was not happy. In +her case the saying, ‘_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_,’ was +eminently true. In delaying to write and announce the death of Sir +Gilbert’s child to Lady Marjoram, she had taken that first step which +she would never be able to retrace; and as day succeeded day, and the +time drew near for her return to London, she felt that she must adopt +Bennett’s suggestion and keep her own counsel, whether she wished it +or not, for there was no possibility of disclosing the truth at that +date. + +When May arrived she parted from her child with many tears, and +leaving it at St Pré under the charge of her nurse and a French +_bonne_, travelled to England with her lady’s-maid (a new acquisition +imported from Paris) to spend the London season under the wing of her +sister-in-law. + +Lady Marjoram was delighted to receive Lady Conroy, and equally +delighted to hear that she had left the baby behind her. + +‘My dear, how sensible and nice you are! One would believe you were +eight-and-twenty instead of eighteen. I can’t tell you how I have been +dreading the advent of your nursery brigade--not, of course, that they +could make any difference to me with my terrible tribe, only I was +afraid you’d be running upstairs to see if the little animal was dead +or alive twenty times a-day, and wanting to stuff it, with its nurse, +on the back seat of the carriage whenever we drove in the park, and all +that sort of thing. So interesting you know, my dear, and so abominably +disagreeable!’ + +‘I am afraid you must have a very small idea of my common sense, +Janie,’ replied Fenella, colouring. ‘I confess I was very sorry +to leave my little girl behind me, but I thought it best for +her--particularly as we shall be out, I suppose, day and night.’ + +‘Indeed, we shall, Fenella. This promises to be the gayest season we +have had for years. My engagement list is something terrible to look +at already. By the way, the Culletons are going to have a series of +_tableaux vivants_ and private theatricals at Fotheringay House in June +and July, and I have promised faithfully that you will assist them. +They want the loan of your voice, too, for some amateur concerts. I +hope you have not neglected your singing lately?’ + +‘No; I have had a piano wherever I went, and practised assiduously, +and I intend to take another course of lessons from Signor Possetrina. +By the way, Janie, I have not yet shown you Gilbert’s last letter. He +seems quite delighted with Sovooranooko, and talks of having me out +there next year to judge of it for myself.’ + +‘Don’t you believe a word of that, my dear; it’s only a sop for +Cerberus. Bertie has no more idea of having you out to Sovooranooko +than of coming home himself. We had a letter from Lord Laurence by +last mail, and he says Bertie is mad to get into the interior, and +already organising a shooting party to start as soon as the cool +weather commences. He has got the Englishman’s mania on him to “kill +something,” Fenella, and the best thing you can do is to let him tire +himself out. He’ll get a grab from a lion or a squeeze from a bear +some day, and come crying home to you to kiss the place and make it +well; but he won’t come before. And what should you want to go out +to that horrid place for--to lose your complexion and your hair, and +perhaps get the yellow fever, or some pleasantry of that sort? Don’t +you be so silly. You had better stay at home with the baby than do +that.’ + +‘Oh yes! I don’t want to leave my baby,’ cried the mother, with a +sudden thrill. + +‘Well, you couldn’t take her with you, so let’s talk no more about it. +Besides, it is time we went to dress. We have a concert at the Duke of +Doldrum’s at two.’ + +The next three months were spent by Fenella in a round of dissipation, +during which she distinguished herself in theatricals and at concerts, +and heard her talents talked of as much as her beauty had been the year +before. + +But her heart and all her thoughts were at St Pré. She required +_bulletins_ to be sent her daily of the health and well-doing of her +child, and she bought every dainty little garment or expensive toy +she could light upon, to decorate the body, or amuse the mind, of her +absent baby. + +Lady Marjoram noticed this almost feverish anxiety and restlessness +on the part of her sister-in-law concerning her child, and laughed at +it. ‘It was very becoming,’ she said patronisingly, and just as it +ought to be, she wished she could get up the same sort of excitement +about her own brats. It gave one such a pretty flush to be anxious, and +one’s eyes looked so quick and bright about the time that the post was +expected. + +But for all that, Lady Marjoram did not quite believe in the +genuineness of Fenella’s concern, and she could no more have entered +into her real feelings respecting her child than she could sympathise +with Sir Gilbert’s exultation at bringing down an elephant. The one +sensation was as much a sealed book to her as the other. However, as +soon as the season was over, Lady Conroy flew to the side of her child +again, and shed tears of real joy, because it held out arms of welcome +as soon as it recognised her. + +The Earl and Countess of Marjoram were bound for Norway that year, and +as soon as they had left England, Fenella brought her little party +over, and established them in a lovely Devonshire village by the sea, +where she spent all her days upon the beach with the little Valeria in +her arms. For the infant who had been unbaptized when restored to its +mother, had of course to be called by the name of the one whose place +she assumed. + +And here it was, whilst yielding herself up to the softening +influence which nature generally exerts on a mind fitted to perceive +and appreciate her beauties, and whilst watching the daily growing +resemblance to her father in the face of her little child, that +Fenella began to have gentler and more generous thoughts of Geoffrey +Doyne. For since the day on which she received the shock of hearing +of his marriage, the remembrance of him had been fraught with torture +to her. He had never come into her mind but to suggest something that +was most cruel and heartless and untrue. She had tried to shut out the +memory even of the time she knew him, as of some horrible dream that to +dwell upon would madden her. But now, as little Valeria’s baby lips met +hers, as she watched her toddle feebly from one spot to another, as she +heard her faltering tongue trying to frame the syllables of ‘_mother_,’ +the child’s angel whispered to her thoughts of forgiveness and of +mercy, and from the child’s eyes there beamed a look that softened her +recollection of the past. + +In fancy, Fenella saw again the flowery landslip, strewn with fallen +petals--fallen like her hopes! She saw the golden sands, the ruined +bungalow, the stretch of placid sea, and blue unclouded sky; and then +above, beyond them all, in beauty and in pleasantness, the smile, the +look, the tones of Geoffrey Doyne. And she began to make excuses for +him--she, who had called him (and justly) by all sorts of hard and +ugly names, whose life had been ruined by his desertion--she began to +wonder if some dark mystery might not lie at the bottom of his apparent +cruelty; whether he could have been told falsehoods of her, or been +forced into that marriage that broke her heart; whether he might not +believe that she was dead, or had refused ever to see or speak to him +again. A hundred reasons, all equally vague and improbable, floated +through Fenella’s mind as she attempted, in her loving generosity, to +account for as dastardly a piece of cruelty as ever a man employed to +wreck a woman’s life. + +She could not satisfy herself. Her own nature was too true to accept +any excuse for his conduct, still less for the silence which preceded +and followed it; yet she tried so hard, ‘_for baby’s sake_,’ she would +say to herself with quivering lips, to make out the father of her child +less undeserving than he was. + +But often (after Fenella had been thinking thus for hours) she would +catch her infant in her arms and sob over it in so piteous a manner, +that the little creature would weep with terror. And then Fenella +would soothe it, and kiss it, and sing to it, until it smiled again, +and whisper in its ear that its mother would always love it for its +father’s sake, although he had trampled on her heart as if it had been +the ground beneath his feet. + +Meanwhile, the little Valeria grew strong and fat, but still remained +so tiny that Bennett’s prophecies concerning her apparent age seemed +likely to be verified, and when the second London season dawned upon +the world, Fenella ventured to send her with her nurses up to Conroy +Castle, where she remained until her mother could rejoin her. + +‘Really, Fenella,’ exclaimed Lady Marjoram, ‘you are getting too +absurdly domestic! Why should you go and bury yourself all alone in +Scotland with that child? Why cannot you spend the autumn at Southfield +with us? I shall be horribly dull without you.’ + +‘I thought, Janie, that as I had not been at the castle all last year, +and Gilbert talks of returning in the spring, he might consider it my +duty to go and look after the place a little.’ + +‘My dear girl, what rubbish! Who do you suppose looked after it all +the years before he met you? Bertie was never there, except for the +shooting. He was better employed elsewhere, I can tell you. Now, do +come down to Southfield with me! It will be a perfect charity. And send +for the child and nurses to join you there, as I know you will not +come without her.’ + +‘No, I will not come without her,’ replied Fenella, smiling; and so +Bennett was written to, and in due course appeared with her baby and +her _aide-de-camp_ at Southfield. + +‘And now, pray let us see this wonderful baby,’ exclaimed the Countess, +on the first day as they sat together after dinner. ‘Your devotion to +her is so extraordinary that it has excited my curiosity. I expect a +_rara avis_. Give your orders, Fenella, for Bennett to bring the young +lady down to dessert.’ + +Lady Conroy looked uneasy. + +‘I think you had better not see her now,’ she said; ‘you don’t like +children, and she is very shy with strangers, and will most likely cry.’ + +‘Never mind! If she cries, we’ll send her back again,’ replied Lady +Marjoram, who always liked to have her own way. ‘I think it is quite +time I made the acquaintance of my niece. Let me see! How old is she?’ + +‘Eighteen months,’ said Fenella, in a low voice. + +‘Quite grown up, I declare,’ laughed her sister-in-law. ‘Send for her +at once. The girls are so precocious now-a-days, that at this rate she +will be married before I see her.’ + +The order was given, and in a few minutes a tap was heard upon the +dining-room door, and Bennett entering, set down with much pride upon +the carpet a tiny creature, dressed in lace and ribbons, of about two +feet high, who stood the centre of attraction, looking with scared and +wistful eyes upon the strangers. + +‘Baby!’ said Fenella, in her sweet, low voice. + +The little figure fluttered like a blue-and-white butterfly, and +then with a cry of pleasure tottered to her mother’s side, and laid +her curly head against her knee. Fenella lifted her in her arms, and +pressed her glowing face in the folds of the infant’s frock. + +‘What a little fairy,’ cried the Countess. ‘She looks as if she had +just stepped, ready dressed, out of the Soho Bazaar! Marjoram! Why +don’t my children make a rush at me like that? Why do they always hang +back and stick their fingers in their mouths, and their heads in the +nurse’s apron? Look at that child! Stroking Fenella’s face like a grown +being! I should get quite fond of a baby if it showed as much sense as +that.’ + +‘She has always been with me,’ said Fenella ingenuously. + +‘That’s it,’ acquiesced the Earl. ‘Lady Conroy has nursed her child, +and you leave yours to a set of hirelings.’ + +‘Hold your tongue, Marjoram! You don’t know anything about it. How old +did you say she was, Fenella? Can she talk?’ + +‘Very little, Janie. She can only say “mother,” and “father,” and +“Bennie.”’ + +‘And whom does she resemble? Turn her face round, my dear, that I may +see it,’ continued Lady Marjoram. + +Fenella grew crimson. + +‘They say she is very like _me_,’ she answered, with a rapidly beating +heart. + +‘Not a bit of it,’ cried the Countess. ‘She’s the very image of Bertie! +The hair’s a trifle darker, perhaps, but that is the only difference I +can see. I shall tell him so in my next letter. Well, Bennett, you can +take Miss Conroy away now if you like, and I think she is a very fine +little girl for her age, and does you a great deal of credit.’ + +‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied the servant, as she disengaged the +clinging arms from about her mistress’s neck, and conveyed little +Valeria out of sight again. + +After that interview Fenella’s heart grew secure, and she took her +child about with her wherever she went. + +Since she had passed the crucible of Lady Marjoram’s scrutiny, she +considered that all risk of discovery was over; and so much does custom +become our second nature, that at times Fenella almost forgot what she +had done, and detected herself waking with a start, to remember that +Valeria was not Sir Gilbert Conroy’s child. That is, she contrived +to lull her uneasy conscience to sleep respecting the deception she +had practised, so long as it seemed to concern no one but herself. +But the day arrived when the person who had been most injured by the +transaction reappeared upon the scene, and from that moment the heart +of Fenella reasserted itself, and refused to be quieted by any specious +arguments that tried to make a wrong thing look as if it were right. + +With the return of spring came Sir Gilbert Conroy from Sovooranooko. +He had not resigned his appointment, but he required change of air +and relaxation, and had procured so many months’ leave to England in +consequence. He came back accompanied by his private secretary, and +laden with the spoils of the chase, in excellent humour with the world, +his wife, himself, and everybody belonging to him. But with the first +kiss of welcome he bestowed upon her, all Fenella’s fancied serenity +fled like a dream, and for the first time she saw what she had done in +its true light. + + + END OF VOL. II. + + COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + + p278 “it’s” changed to “cried bitterly for its loss”. + + p294 “your” changed to “and then when you’re settled”. + + p312 “ike” changed to “fallen like her hopes”. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78111 *** diff --git a/78111-h/78111-h.htm b/78111-h/78111-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1137274 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/78111-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6260 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + How They Loved Him | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp80 {width: 80%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp80 {width: 100%;} +.illowp30 {width: 30%;} + +p { text-indent: 2em; } /* Adds first paragraph indent */ + +h1 span { font-size: .5em; } /* h1 and h2 sub headings */ +h2 span { font-size: .7em; } + +.flat { text-indent: 0em; } /* removes first paragraph indent */ +.right { text-indent: 0em; } + +.front { /* Matches h2 but w/out chapter marker */ + font-size: 1.5em; + font-weight: bold; + margin-top: 20px; + margin-bottom: 10px; + display: block; + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + } + +.hang { /* adds hanging indent */ + padding-left: 2em; + text-indent: -2em; + text-align: left; + } + +.upper-case { text-transform: uppercase; } /* forces all caps, used in drop cap */ + +.tpad { padding-left: 4em; + line-height: 1.8; + vertical-align: bottom; } +.toc { font-size:50%; + padding:0; + line-height: 0.8; } + +.poetry-container { display: flex; + justify-content: center; } + +img.drop-cap { /* adds drop cap option */ + float: left; + margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; + } + +p.drop-cap:first-letter { + color: transparent; + visibility: hidden; + margin-left: -0.9em; + } + +.x-ebookmaker img.drop-cap { + display: none; + } + +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter { + color: inherit; + visibility: visible; + margin-left: 0; + } + +p.drop-cap { text-indent: 0em; } + +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter { + float: none; + margin: 0; + font-size: 100%; + } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78111 ***</div> + + +<h1> +HOW THEY LOVED HIM. +</h1> + + +<p class="center"> +<span style="font-size: large"><i>A NOVEL</i>.</span><br> +<br> +BY<br> +<span style="font-size: large">FLORENCE MARRYAT</span><br> +(<span class="smcap">Mrs Francis Lean).<br> +<br> +<i>IN THREE VOLUMES</i>.</span><br> +<br> +VOL. II.<br> +<br> +<br> +LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO.,<br> +31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.<br> +<br> +1882. +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <p class="front"> + <span class="smcap">The Popular New Novels at all Libraries</span>. + </p> +</div> + +<p class="hang">THREE FAIR DAUGHTERS. By <span class="smcap">Laurence Brooke</span>, Author of ‘The +Queen of Two Worlds,’ etc. 3 vols.</p> + +<p class="hang">SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By <span class="smcap">Lady Constance Howard</span>. 3 vols.</p> + +<p class="hang">MY LADY CLARE. By Mrs <span class="smcap">Eiloart</span>, Author of ‘How He Won Her,’ +etc. 3 vols.</p> + +<p>‘“My Lady Clare” is a pleasant, readable novel.’—<i>John Bull</i>.</p> + +<p>‘The interest is maintained with undeniable force and +skill.’—<i>Daily Telegraph</i>.</p> + +<p class="hang">A LOVELESS SACRIFICE. By <span class="smcap">Ina L. Cassilis</span>, Author of ‘Guilty +without Crime,’ etc. 3 vols.</p> + +<p><i>John Bull</i> says:—‘The story is a pleasant one—healthy in +tone, lofty in teaching, and very sympathetic in manner and style.’</p> + + +<p class="center"> +COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. +</p> + + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="001" style="max-width: 88.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/001.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS. + </h2> +</div> + +<table> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc">CHAPTER I.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdr toc">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">FOR EVER,</a></td> + <td class="tdr">1</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER II.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">IN A STRAIT,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">28</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER III.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">DESERTED,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">72</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">OVER,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">123</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER V.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">SIR GILBERT CONROY,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">164</td> + </tr> + + + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">SMOOTH WATERS,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">217</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">A REVELATION,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">241</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VIII.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">THE INDISSOLUBLE LINK,</a></td> + <td class="tdr tpad">288</td> + </tr> +</table> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="002" style="max-width: 38.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/002.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="003" style="max-width: 89.0625em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/003.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <p class="flat front" id="HOW_THEY_LOVED_HIM"> + HOW THEY LOVED HIM. + </p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I"> + CHAPTER I. + <br> + <span>FOR EVER.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘It is the same together or apart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From life’s commencement to its slow decline:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We are entwined; let death come slow or fast,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The tie which bound the first endures the last.’</div> + <div class="right"><i>Byron</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_t.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">To</span> describe the feelings of Fenella Barrington at this period would +be almost impossible. Not because no one has ever felt so deeply as +she did, but because such thoughts are not to be adequately portrayed +in black and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>white. Arraigned before the judgment of the world, they +would appear foolish, romantic, overstrained, and perhaps culpable; +to each individual heart alone, according to the circumstances under +which they found it, must they answer for the consequences. Fenella’s +heart was in an exceptional condition when the passion of love overtook +and conquered it. In the first place, she was very young; and youth, +like charity, ‘believeth all things and hopeth all things.’ She was +too ignorant of human nature to doubt its truth—too ignorant of life +to distrust its possibilities. And in the second place, she was very +lonely and unhappy. She had no watchful parent to shield her innocence; +she had not even any one to call her to account for her actions. She +was free as the air, unguarded as the birds that flew in it, unloved +as the most friendless waif that was ever forsaken by its natural +protectors.</p> + +<p>Disappointed and alone! What girl <span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>under such circumstances could be +expected not to answer with the whole strength of her nature to the +call of love? Her heart was so empty of affection—it yearned so for +it—that it would not have been strange had she succumbed to the appeal +of any fellow-creature who desired to show her kindness—least of +all to that of Geoffrey Doyne. For there was a fascination about him +that was far above any physical attractions he may have possessed—a +fascination which every woman felt who crossed his path, and many were +left to rue. His tender eyes, and sensitive mouth, and dreamy poetical +nature made him appear the most sympathetic and warm-hearted of human +creatures; as indeed he was—whilst the humour lasted. But there were +two formidable foes in his breast to war against his better feelings, +and usually to overcome them, and these were a want of moral courage +and a great love of self.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Doyne generally wanted to do <span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>right, and, as a rule, he +generally did wrong. His head told him the proper thing to do, but his +heart failed him at the very moment he called upon it for support and +courage. So he was the worst possible guide that could have been found +for a young and susceptible girl who loved him ardently.</p> + +<p>Fenella would have proved far the most trustworthy of the two. Her +innocence made her the better fitted to lead the way, had she not loved +him so blindly as to be incapable of believing him to be in the wrong.</p> + +<p>The reverend mother had said of her to Eliza Bennett, ‘She possesses +the most dangerous attributes with which a young girl can encounter the +world,—a heart so large and warm and generous, that where it loves it +cannot see a fault, and a strong resolute nature that will act on its +own impulses against all conventionality or advice.’ And the reverend +mother was right. Fenella was that most <span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>dangerous combination—a child +in experience, and a woman in feeling. In her eyes Geoffrey Doyne was +simply perfection; and from the day he said he loved her, she yielded +herself up to his control in everything. She looked on him rather as +a god than a man. She could not understand how it was that so perfect +a creature condescended to dwell amongst ordinary mortals. The air +he breathed, the flower he touched, the ground he trod on became +sacred to her from mere contact with him. Hers was not the frivolous, +giggling, open-mouthed admiration of a school-girl; it was the silent, +awe-struck adoration of a woman! She would sit for hours absorbed in +the contemplation of his features. Each movement of his supple figure +was a poem to her, each tone of his voice a melody, each glance from +his eyes a dream of heaven. She hung upon his words as if they had been +inspired; and his touch, however careless, had the power to thrill her +with <span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>a pleasure that was next door to pain. A few days of intimate +communion, of mutually-confessed and openly-avowed passion, made +Geoffrey Doyne her ruler—her inspiration—her very life.</p> + +<p>And he knew it but too soon. He saw that the girl had become his +slave—morally and physically; that he had but to lift his little +finger to command her obedience; that with a glance of his eye he +could direct her actions or sway her mind. And he loved her for it in +return. Let him have justice done him at this, the fairest portion +of his life. There is no question that <i>he loved her</i>! Although +he was not sufficiently heroic, nor high-minded, nor courageous to +rank her purity and child-like trust in him above his own selfish +gratification—although his religion was not potent enough to gain +the mastery over the more natural religion of love—still <i>he loved +her</i>! Fenella was the first woman who had ever touched his heart, +as he was the first man who had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>ever attempted to win hers. Her face +was not more charming, perhaps, than many he had met with before; her +talents (if of a high order) were crude and undeveloped; her love for +himself, though deep and glowing, was no more than he had a right to +expect from the other sex. But she was the first whom he had ever +loved; and there is a magic charm in those words, <i>the first</i>. The +first kiss, the first woman, the first child, the first disappointment, +the first death! Can any future joy or sorrow equal these? They are +events that stand alone in our lives: they can never be repeated; once +gone, they are gone for ever! In all the rest of his life, though +Geoffrey Doyne might love a dozen other women, and swear a thousand +oaths of fidelity to them, he would never love <i>in the same way</i> +he loved Fenella Barrington. More, he would never feel the passion of +love in his breast, even though it burned ten times as strongly as it +burned for her, without giving one short, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>quick sob of remembrance to +the girl who gave him her whole heart, and placed her very life in his +hands, upon the sands of Ines-cedwyn! And if he could forget—if his +mortal nature proved so weak—Heaven is still above us all, watching, +noting, jotting down on tablets of stone each crime we commit against +the heart of a fellow-creature, to hold them up before our eyes to all +eternity. The time will come when we shall be unable to forget!</p> + +<p>After the day on which they discovered their mutual affection, Fenella +Barrington and Geoffrey Doyne met, if possible, more frequently than +they had done before. Each morning found them on the sands together, +or if the young man pleaded an unwelcome engagement with his sisters, +it was only to impress upon Fenella the double obligation of meeting +him when the evening shadows should have fallen on the landslip. Ah! +Those dangerous moments spent beneath the soft <span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>veil of dusk—when they +sat side by side upon the golden sands, and watched the stars come out +upon the summer sky, and their fresh, young voices rose up in unison to +heaven in the thrilling notes of some love melody, or the more solemn +tones of an evening hymn; when their hands lay fast locked in one +another’s, and Fenella’s head was pillowed on her lover’s breast, till +she heard no sound but the throbbing of his heart answering to her own. +And they talked of the future—that glorious and apparently certain +future, when they should always be together, and have no need to steal +out, under cover of the evening, to meet each other on the sands.</p> + +<p>It was provoking that, as yet, Geoffrey had been unable to write to Mrs +Barrington and make a formal proposal for her daughter’s hand, because +but one letter had been received from that lady, dated from Genoa, and +averring the intention of her party to move about for <span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>a few weeks in +the South before they settled down in Mentone. But that was of little +consequence—so the lovers told each other—because as soon as Mrs +Barrington <i>was</i> settled, Geoffrey would go over and see her, +which would be far better than writing—and they could not be happier +than they were.</p> + +<p>It was now the end of June; two months had slipped away in this sweet +courtship, and every day might bring the letter to say that Fenella’s +mother was settled at Mentone.</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett was up and about again. She had even discarded the +crutches with which Dr Redfern had provided her, but her leg was still +stiff, and she had not yet ventured to walk as far as the beach. But +some rumours had reached her ears of the company in which her young +mistress so constantly indulged. Of course the boat and fishermen had +seen the courtship from the beginning. Tugwell, who had so often to put +up at the public <span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>house, would have told them of it if they had not had +eyes to see it for themselves. But it was nobody’s business to carry +the news up to Benjamin Bennett’s cottage. If the young lady liked to +amuse herself, what was the odds to Ines-cedwyn? besides, Eliza Bennett +was ailing, and there was no need to worry her with a parcel of tales +about nothing. So the men told the women to hold their tongues, and +consequently it was some time before anybody spoke of Fenella’s doings +out of their own circle.</p> + +<p>But when Eliza Bennett had so far recovered as to be in the garden, and +Martha had more time for gossiping with her neighbours, they let their +tongues loose, and asked her to satisfy their curiosity with regard to +the handsome stranger that came over to Ines-cedwyn in his boat every +day, and if he was going to marry the young lady from the cottage +who sat for so many hours with him in the Beach Bungalow. Of course +it was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>all news to Martha, and she ran open-mouthed with it to her +sister-in-law.</p> + +<p>‘Only to think, ’Liza,’ she exclaimed, ‘what Winny Williams has just +told me! Miss Fenella’s got a beau, and such a fine lookin’ feller too. +They’ve bin meetin’ each other at that there nasty ruined bungalow +for weeks past, and having fine times, I warrant. Tugwell says the +gentleman lives at Lynwern, but he’s not sure as he’s got his name +properly. Only to think of your young lady! Well, sooner or later they +all does it.’</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett was at first incredulous.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t believe it,’ she replied; ‘the Ines-cedwyn folk must talk of +something. I daresay Miss Fenella may have exchanged a word or two +with the gentleman on the sands; but as for havin’ a <i>beau</i>, why, +Martha, she’s that innercent, she don’t know what it means! She’d run +away more likely if any one were to say more than “good-day” to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>her. +You don’t know my young lady; she’s the biggest child of her age I ever +saw.’</p> + +<p>‘Is she, now?’ replied Martha meditatively. ‘Well, I should have said +the same myself when she first come here; but d’ye know, ’Liza, she’s +a deal changed lately—more fidgety like, and don’t eat hearty, and +allays a-jumpin’ up and down from her seat, with her colour comin’ and +goin’ like a flame o’ fire. Ben ain’t very far seein’ as a rule, but he +told me only last week as he thought there was somethin’ up with her.’</p> + +<p>‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ exclaimed her sister-in-law, in +evident distress.</p> + +<p>‘Why! What would ha’ been the good o’ that—a’ worryin’ you for nothin’ +when you’re ill?’</p> + +<p>‘But I’d have spoken to Miss Fenella, and found out the truth of it, +Martha. For she’s one of the best young ladies you ever see; she’s like +a lamb for obedience, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>and I’m sure she’d no more go to do the thing +that is wrong than she’d fly!’</p> + +<p>‘Who said she had?’ cried Martha. ‘Lor’ bless my heart, ’Liza! Leave +the poor child alone. If she <i>is</i> having a bit of fun with the +young feller, what harm? There’s little enough to amuse her down here, +I’m sure, and she’ll be all the better for it. You wouldn’t go and +spoil her game by makin’ a fuss over it, would you?’</p> + +<p>‘No; not if there’s no harm, Martha; certainly not! But, you see, Miss +Fenella’s very young and easily led, and there’s no knowing what a +gentleman might get to say to her, seeing she’s so pretty, I must say I +do distrust ’em, one and all; and my mistress would never forgive me if +any harm came to the young lady.’</p> + +<p>‘Lor’, ’Liza! How you do run on,’ said Martha. ‘I shall be sorry I said +anything about it next. Ain’t a pretty girl like that never to have a +sweetheart? and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>what harm do you think could come to her with a real +gentleman? He’ll only tell her a few lies, and she’ll be none the worse +for ’em; so don’t you go and fret over it now, or you’ll make yourself +ill again.’</p> + +<p>Eliza promised she would not; but she could not dismiss the subject +from her mind, for her dread of Mrs Barrington’s possible anger made +her imagine all sorts of danger to the girl under her charge.</p> + +<p>‘If it hadn’t been for this stupid leg,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’d +have been everywhere with Miss Fenella, and no one couldn’t have spoken +to her without my knowledge. And now Martha comes to speak of it, there +has been a great change in her lately. She’s more excited and forgetful +like; and sometimes she’s as gay as a lark, and at others I’ve seen her +staring up at the sky with the tears on her face, and yet with a smile +on her mouth. There’s something very strange about it all. How can I +have <span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>been so stupid as not to see it before! But this leg has put +everything else clean out of my head.’</p> + +<p>It was past nine o’clock when this conversation took place, and Fenella +had gone down to the beach as usual, about an hour before. Under +the new point of view from which she now regarded her young lady’s +wanderings, Eliza Bennett grew fidgety at her absence.</p> + +<p>‘I wonder what she’s about this evening?’ she thought presently. ‘It’s +too dark to see anything on the beach at this time o’ night, and Miss +Fenella must know that supper’s ready and waiting for her. I wonder if +I could manage to get as far as the bungalow. I’ve a good mind to try; +and I sha’n’t feel easy now if I don’t look a bit more after her.’</p> + +<p>Martha had gone to assist her husband in the cowyard, and there was no +one to combat Eliza’s desire, or tell her it was foolish to attempt to +do so much. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>So she put on her bonnet and shawl, and taking a stick in +her hand, commenced to hobble slowly in the direction of the beach.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Fenella and Geoffrey stood together in one of the rooms of +the ruined villa. They were looking serious, but scarcely sad. Hope and +trust were too strong in them for sadness.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ Fenella was saying, ‘is it true? Must you really go?’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid I must, my darling. I have received a most imperative +letter from my brother Michael (that’s the lawyer, you know, Fenella), +urging me to go up to town and see him at once, on the most important +business. I can’t imagine what it is—something to do with money, I +suppose. I don’t think Michael would call anything else “important;” +but, any way, I must go, and I shall start to-morrow morning.’</p> + +<p>‘And when will you be back, Geoffrey?’</p> + +<p>‘As soon as ever I can, my darling; you may rest assured of that. And +meanwhile, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>I shall write to you every day. What will old Bennett say +when she sees the letters?’</p> + +<p>‘Never mind Bennett! She may be surprised, but she will not attempt +to interfere with them. She is only my servant, Geoffrey. You do not +suppose I would allow her to come between you and me?’</p> + +<p>‘Dear me! What an independent young woman you have grown! Who would +imagine this was the same little girl that blushed scarlet each time I +looked at her but two short months ago?’</p> + +<p>‘You have made me a woman,’ said the girl with one of the scarlet +blushes he alluded to. ‘I feel now as if I should have courage to stand +up against the whole world if it attempted to come between me and the +love you bear me.’</p> + +<p>‘You shall never be put to the test, my Fenella. Nothing shall ever +divide our love. I wish to goodness that letter would come from your +mother, and then the matter would be settled.’</p> + +<p>‘And if—if she should be angry, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>refuse her consent to our +marriage?’ faltered the girl.</p> + +<p>‘Then we are to be married without her consent—is it not so? Why, +Fenella! do you think any earthly power could divide us now?’</p> + +<p>She clung to him with a force that was almost painful.</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, no! How could it? But, Geoffrey, I wish—oh, how I wish!—that +we could have been married before you went to London.’</p> + +<p>‘My sweetheart, so do I. There is nothing I long for more than the day +when we shall go to church and do all that dreadful “swearing” you are +so afraid of. Only, I am afraid it must not be in Lynwern. It would not +be fair to you, nor your mother, nor any one, Fenella. Let me write to +her first, darling; it cannot be long now before you hear again; and +then if she raises any objection (which I think most unlikely), I shall +not hesitate a moment to carry you straight off before her eyes and +marry you in the first church <span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>we come to. So be patient, my love, and +trust to me, and all will be right by-and-by.’</p> + +<p>‘And nothing—<i>nothing</i> shall ever divide us?’ she repeated, still +clinging to him.</p> + +<p>‘Nothing, <i>so help me, God</i>!’ he answered. And that oath was +registered in heaven, and remains there to this day.</p> + +<p>They sat together on one of the window-sills for some time longer, +with their arms interlaced and their heads close together, talking +such sweet nonsense as the world laughs at because it has no heart to +understand, but which makes up the sum of happiness in this mortal life.</p> + +<p>‘And what am I to send my darling from London?’ demanded Geoffrey. +‘In all this time I have not given you one present, because there was +nothing worthy of you in Lynwern; but now you must have something to +remind you of your lover. What shall it be, sweetheart?—a locket or a +ring?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t want anything,’ she said bashfully, ‘but <i>you</i>.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oh, you’ve got me fast enough, my child,’ he answered, laughing; ‘but +come now, answer my question. Will you have a ring?’</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>‘No; not till you give me <i>that one</i>, Geoffrey.’</p> + +<p>‘That won’t be long first, my darling! You’ll be wanting to get it off +again twelve months afterwards—you’ll be so sick of it and me.’</p> + +<p>‘Don’t—<i>don’t</i>!’ she murmured, as if smitten by a sudden pain.</p> + +<p>‘May I send you a locket, then, Mrs Doyne?’ he continued playfully, for +he saw her spirits were sinking; ‘a great big gold locket to put your +husband’s hair in, and sleep with under your pillow every night until +you see him again—for I know that is what you silly girls do when +you’ve got a lover.’</p> + +<p>At this proposal her face brightened.</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I should like to have a locket—very, <i>very</i> much, dear +Geoffrey; and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>I will wear it as long as ever I live.’</p> + +<p>Then he rose suddenly, and said that he must go.</p> + +<p>‘Past ten o’clock, I declare, my dearest, and I have to be up at eight. +God bless you, my Fenella! God keep you for me! Oh, this parting is an +awful wrench, though it is but for so short a time.’</p> + +<p>The girl did not say much, but her face went suddenly as white as a +sheet, and she clung to him as though her arms would never be unlocked +again.</p> + +<p>‘You will come back soon?’ she whispered, trembling like a leaf.</p> + +<p>‘Very, very soon—in a week at latest—most likely in a couple of days. +Don’t shake so, my darling! Remember we are pledged to each other for +life. Surely, Fenella, you have not one doubt of me?’</p> + +<p>‘<i>I trust you as I trust God</i>,’ she answered solemnly. They were +her last words—their farewells had been exchanged already; in another +moment he had broken <span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>from her clasp, and was gone. Fenella watched him +as he strode across the sands and pushed off in the little boat that +was waiting for him. She kissed her hand in the moonlight again and +again, but he was too far off to see the signal; then, with a sound +that was half a sob and half a sigh, she turned away. As she did so +she saw something glittering on the dusty floor—something lying in a +streak of moonlight shone like a diamond beneath her feet. It was one +of Geoffrey’s sleeve-links that had fallen from his cuff as he embraced +her—a twisted thing of enamel and gold that Fenella had often noticed +on his wrist before. With a cry of joy she pounced upon it, and hid +it in her bosom. She did not know till that moment how much she could +prize anything that had been his; she could not realise how bitter +separation between those who love, can be, till she had tasted it. As +she prepared to return to the cottage, a dark figure in the doorway of +the bungalow made her start.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> + +<p>‘Bennett!’ she exclaimed, in the same moment, ‘is that you? Oh, how you +frightened me! I never supposed for a moment you could get down so far. +But how you are shaking! I am sure it has been too much for you.’</p> + +<p>‘Miss Fenella,’ said the servant, as she sat down on the verandah floor +to recover herself, ‘I came to see after you, my dear! Do you know as +it’s past ten o’clock, and the supper’s been on the table this hour and +more? It’s too late for a young lady to be out by herself, and in such +a lonely place as Ines-cedwyn.’</p> + +<p>‘Why, nurse, I thought its loneliness was the very thing that made it +safe. This is not the first evening I have been on the sands till ten +o’clock, and Martha never spoke to me on the subject, or told me I was +wrong.’</p> + +<p>‘No, Miss Fenella; ’tisn’t Martha’s business to speak to you; and I’ve +been in bed, you see, and knew nothin’ about it; but I’m afraid as +your mamma wouldn’t <span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>think it was right. And—if I may make so bold, +miss—who was that gentleman who parted with you just as I came up to +the back of the house?’</p> + +<p>Fenella was startled by the question, but she was too proud to attempt +to deny the truth.</p> + +<p>‘That was a friend of mine, Bennett—a gentleman who often comes over +to Ines-cedwyn. You need not worry yourself about him. It is all right, +and mamma will say so, too, as soon as she hears it.’</p> + +<p>‘Is he a friend of your mamma’s, miss?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; that is, he doesn’t know her yet, but he soon will. He is the +friend of all of us, nurse—the very best friend we ever had.’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad of that, my dear; but I hope he won’t come here again till +he’s seen your mamma. Because it isn’t quite the proper thing, you +know, for a gentleman to meet a young lady so often, and at all sorts +of odd times. It makes people talk, Miss Fenella, and that’s not good +for any one.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>What was it in the girl’s face that made the servant half afraid of +saying even as much as she did? A new light, a new dignity, something +she had never seen there before, seemed to settle on Fenella’s brow, +and relegate Eliza Bennett to her proper position. She could not speak +to her young mistress now as she had done on the journey from Calais to +Dover.</p> + +<p>‘Bennett,’ said the girl presently, ‘I daresay it may seem strange +to you, because you do not understand; neither can I give you any +explanation till I have seen my mother. But you may make your mind easy +on one score—the gentleman has gone away, for the present. He will +not be back again, most probably, until we have heard from Mentone; +and then everything will be right. And now, let me take you home, dear +nurse. I wish you hadn’t come down here after me; I am so afraid you +may have hurt yourself. There! Lean on my arm as hard as ever you like; +you cannot tire me; and we will go home together. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>And, please, don’t +speak to me again about the—I mean, about the subject you mentioned +just now, because I can say nothing until I have seen mamma, and then +you will understand that all your fears are groundless. Lean harder, +dear nurse; that is right. I am strong enough to bear your weight and +my own too.’</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="004" style="max-width: 39.5em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/004.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="005" style="max-width: 90.0em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/005.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II"> + CHAPTER II. + <br> + <span>IN A STRAIT.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Men have many loves; their true names are—or Vice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">or Vanity, or Feebleness or Folly.’—<i>Ariadne</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_g.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Geoffrey Doyne</span> had but spoken the truth when he said that his brother’s +letter was a most imperative one. It had contained as sharp a summons +as it was possible to send a man:—</p> + +<p>‘Come up to London as soon as ever you receive this,’ it ran. ‘I must +see you at once, and on business of the utmost importance.’</p> + +<p>The brothers had inherited money at the death of their mother, which +was invested in stock, and under the management <span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>of Michael Doyne, and +Geoffrey naturally thought that his presence was needed on account of +some selling-out or buying-in. His brother did not seem to him to have +a soul above money. He could not imagine his troubling himself on any +other matter.</p> + +<p>He went up to town by an early train the following day, and the same +idea was in his mind as he entered the lawyer’s office.</p> + +<p>‘What’s up now?’ he said, as he encountered Michael’s portentous +countenance. ‘Have Persians fallen, or Hudson’s Bay gone up? I do wish +you could manage these matters without my interference, Michael. You +know how I detest business, and how perfectly I am satisfied that you +know a great deal more about it than I do.’</p> + +<p>‘But this is unfortunately a matter which I could not settle on my own +authority,’ replied his brother gravely. ‘Come into the inner office, +Geoffrey. I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>cannot speak to you unless we are perfectly alone.’</p> + +<p>‘This looks ominous,’ cried Geoffrey gaily, as he ensconced himself in +an arm-chair and flicked the dust off his dainty boots.</p> + +<p>‘It is ominous,’ replied the other, ‘and I trust you are not going to +make a jest of it. It is likely to cause trouble enough before long, +unless I can bring you to reason.’</p> + +<p>‘What are you driving at?’ said Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Simply this—that Dr Robertson called at my office yesterday morning +and gave me a piece of information that horrified me.’</p> + +<p>The younger brother changed colour.</p> + +<p>‘Well, go on,’ he said carelessly; ‘what had the old gentleman to say +for himself?’</p> + +<p>‘You know, Geoffrey, as well as I do. He came to tell me that you had +broken off your engagement with his daughter Jessie.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>‘It is not true; it was Jessie who broke off her engagement with me.’</p> + +<p>‘I cannot believe it, Geoffrey. Dr Robertson came to me in the greatest +distress. He said that both he and his wife had observed that their +daughter was out of health and spirits for some weeks past, but that +they had not connected the circumstance with your engagement until +they noticed that all correspondence had ceased between you. Then they +questioned Jessie, and the truth came out—that you had written to her +some time back, and said you didn’t care for her.’</p> + +<p>‘Not exactly that,’ replied Geoffrey; ‘but I told her I did not care +for her as I ought to do for the woman I was going to make my wife; and +that’s the truth, Michael. I <i>don’t</i> care for her, and I never +shall; and under the circumstances, it would be perfectly absurd my +marrying her!’</p> + +<p>‘You should have thought of that before you proposed to her,’ remarked +Michael drily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> + +<p>‘I did; but I was drawn into it. You know I was as thoroughly “hooked” +by the old woman as ever a man could be.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps you were—that is your own business; but having been “hooked,” +as you call it, you must submit to be “landed.”’</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean to say, then, that you consider I am bound to marry Jessie +Robertson?’</p> + +<p>‘I do, most decidedly.’</p> + +<p>‘What! After she has sent me back my letters and presents?’</p> + +<p>‘That has nothing to do with it, Geoffrey. The poor girl sent them +back because she was ignorant how else to act. Had she consulted her +parents, they would not have permitted her to do so. Jessie would set +you free as it is; but Dr and Mrs Robertson are quite of a different +opinion. They won’t let you off so easily.’</p> + +<p>‘They intend to keep me to my word?’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid there is no doubt of it. The doctor might be talked over, +but you know <span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>what his wife is. He says she is furious, and declares +that, if you refuse to keep to your engagement with Jessie, she will +sue you for a breach of promise; and that’s a sort of thing our family +could not allow, you know, Geoffrey.’</p> + +<p>The younger man sat silent and sullen, with a face of the deepest +perplexity.</p> + +<p>‘I <i>must</i> get out of it somehow,’ he said presently. ‘You are +cleverer than I am, Michael; can’t you help me?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t see my way to it, Geoffrey. You proposed to the girl of your +own accord, and the engagement has been made public. What earthly +excuse can you have for getting out of it?’</p> + +<p>‘Why, that I don’t love her, and that I won’t marry her. No; by George! +I won’t, if I hang for it!’</p> + +<p>‘There’s another woman in the case,’ remarked his brother casually.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, there is,’ said Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Some girl at Ines-cedwyn?’</p> + +<p>‘Who told you that?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> + +<p>‘I heard of it when I was down at Lynwern. Well, I daresay it will be +hard lines, Geoffrey; but you must give her up. You can’t marry them +both.’</p> + +<p>‘I won’t marry Jessie Robertson,’ said Geoffrey stoutly.</p> + +<p>‘You <i>must</i>, man—you <i>must</i>! Don’t talk nonsense; try to +look at the matter in a reasonable light. After all, it’s only a +toss-up between them, and why should one girl suffer more than the +other? There are certain social laws, you know, Geoffrey, which we +cannot break with impunity, and this is one of them. Your honour is +concerned in your keeping your engagement, and you cannot cancel it +without disgracing the whole family. For our sakes, therefore (if not +for your own), you must do the right thing by Jessie Robertson.’</p> + +<p>‘My honour may be concerned elsewhere as well,’ rejoined Geoffrey, +in a somewhat lowered voice, ‘and my happiness as well as my honour. +Michael, I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>will pay any forfeit, or incur any penalty they may choose +to put upon me; but I cannot, and I will not, marry Jessie. I will cut +my throat first.’</p> + +<p>‘No, don’t do that,’ said his brother, as if he had proposed a thing +of every-day occurrence. ‘I don’t approve of marriage myself as a +rule, but I think of the two courses it would be the preferable one to +pursue. Little Jessie isn’t half bad, you know, when you come to think +of it; and if you would only believe me, my dear fellow,’ he continued, +as he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, ‘one woman will be just +the same to you as another when you have been married for three months.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah! That’s what <i>you</i> think of it,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it shows how +much you know of the matter.’</p> + +<p>‘Is this young lady at Ines-cedwyn, then, so very handsome?’</p> + +<p>‘No.’</p> + +<p>‘Clever?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<p>‘Not particularly so.’</p> + +<p>‘Rich?’</p> + +<p>‘Certainly not.’</p> + +<p>‘Then what’s the great attraction in her, that you should wish to break +the heart of a good little girl like Jessie Robertson for her sake?’</p> + +<p>‘It is one that I don’t think you’d understand, Michael,—<i>I love +her</i>!’</p> + +<p>The lawyer laughed.</p> + +<p>‘My dear boy, I’ve heard you say the same thing so often before. Excuse +me if I think you could manage that (if you tried) with any one of the +sex.’</p> + +<p>‘At any rate, I don’t intend to try it with Jessie Robertson.’</p> + +<p>Michael Doyne looked grave; he did not like this determined refusal on +the part of his brother. It looked so much as if (for once) Geoffrey +were in earnest.</p> + +<p>‘Well, look here!’ he said suddenly; ‘if you really want to get out of +this scrape, Geoffrey, you can only do it by persuading the old people +to let you off. Suppose you <span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>meet me at the Robertsons’ this evening to +talk the matter over? Will you do so?’</p> + +<p>‘I shall tell them the truth,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I shall tell them I’m in +love with somebody else, and they must think what they like of it.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps that will be the best plan, after all,’ replied his brother; +‘but, at any rate, you must see them. It was only by promising to +summon you to London that I dissuaded the old man from following you to +Lynwern.’</p> + +<p>‘Was it so bad as that?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.</p> + +<p>‘It was, indeed! They’re in a rare state in Blenheim Square, I can tell +you, and would have written straight off to the pater if I had not +promised a lot of things in your name, which I trust you will be found +ready to fulfil. I hardly know how the pater would take this, Geoffrey. +The Robertsons are his oldest friends, as you know; and he would be +quick to resent an affront to them. I’m not sure but <span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>what it might +militate against your future prospects!’</p> + +<p>‘I can’t help it if it does,’ said Geoffrey, with a sigh. ‘I am not +going to blast all my happiness for life to please anybody.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah! That’s only talking,’ replied his brother carelessly, as he bid +him good-bye, and told him not to fail to keep his appointment in +Blenheim Square at nine o’clock.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey strolled towards his club, ill at ease. He did not waver for a +moment from his determination, but he was afraid he might have trouble +in keeping to it. He would have had little fear of being able to make +Dr Robertson see the matter in a sensible light, but the doctor was +unfortunately a cipher in his own house, where Mrs Robertson reigned +supreme; and Geoffrey (in common with the rest of mankind) stood +terribly in awe of her.</p> + +<p>He tried to divert his thoughts and while away the time by purchasing +the promised <span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>locket for Fenella—a gold locket with a wreath +of laurel on it in blue enamel—(was it prophetic of her future +destiny?)—surrounding the emblems of Love and Faith and Hope. Geoffrey +thought the design a pretty one, and bought the trinket on the spot. +Fenella would think of him when she saw the laurel—the laurel which +grows to adorn the head of heroes; and the cross and heart and anchor +were emblematic of her own feelings—feelings which he had called God +to witness should never be wounded through his means.</p> + +<p>It was something to do to buy the locket, and have a piece of his +hair put in it, and see it packed and addressed to Ines-cedwyn, and +to picture the innocent delight of the receiver when it reached her +hands the following morning. But still hours intervened before he could +set off to keep his appointment in Blenheim Square, and the men who +met him at his club, and ‘chaffed’ him on keeping out of town at the +best season of the year, could not imagine what <span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>had come to Geoffrey +Doyne—he was so <i>distrait</i> and peevish, not to say rude, in the +irritation caused by his perplexity and doubt. When at last he reached +the house, Michael was ready to receive him in the hall.</p> + +<p>‘I thought it better for me to come here first, and smooth matters over +a little,’ he said as his brother entered.</p> + +<p>‘I almost wish now that I had written instead,’ replied Geoffrey. +‘However, I am sure that Dr Robertson is too sensible not to understand +my motives.’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid the doctor is out,’ said Michael Doyne. ‘However, you will +see Mrs Robertson, and it is all the same thing.’</p> + +<p>He knew it was not the same thing, and so did his brother, but it was +too late for remonstrance. Geoffrey was already on the threshold of the +library, where Mrs Robertson sat in state to receive him.</p> + +<p>To say that this lady was a conglomeration <span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>of all the most ferocious +mothers-in-law that ever existed, is not to say too much. Her sharp +tongue and vixenish temper were well known in the circle of her +acquaintance, and she joined them to an obstinacy that was unequalled. +It was she alone who had insisted upon Geoffrey Doyne being brought +to book for his defalcation, and forced to fulfil his promises to her +daughter. Good old Dr Robertson might have shaken his head over his +faithlessness to his dying day, but he would never have dreamt of +insisting that he should marry the girl; and Jessie herself, although +she inherited somewhat of her mother’s spirit, was too young to have +made such good use of it. But Mrs Robertson was above such petty +scruples. Jessie was one of seven daughters, and this young man, +who had the most excellent prospects, had formally entered into an +engagement to marry her, and now wanted to back out of it, and her +mother was determined to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>know the reason why. So she sat, enthroned in +her husband’s arm-chair, ready to receive the culprit—her sandy hair +drawn tightly off her forehead, as though to say she would admit of no +compromise, and her hard steel-grey eyes fixed on him with the look of +an inquisitor.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Doyne, though with some hesitation, advanced in the old way, +and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>‘No, thank you, Mr Doyne,’ she said tartly; ‘not until this most +unpleasant business is settled between us. Be good enough to seat +yourself. I am glad your brother is here to be witness to what passes +at our interview.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey flushed to the temples, but he did as she desired him.</p> + +<p>‘My brother is here as my friend, Mrs Robertson,’ he replied. +‘Otherwise he can have no possible concern in my private affairs.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know that, Mr Doyne,’ said <span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>his hostess. ‘Did you come here +as <i>our friend</i>, it might be so; but under the circumstances, I +should think very few <i>gentlemen</i> would be found willing to take +your side.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean to insinuate, madam—’ commenced Geoffrey hotly; but +Michael came between them as mediator.</p> + +<p>‘Mrs Robertson,’ he said, ‘I persuaded my brother to come here to-night +that we might have an explanation, not a quarrel; and I do not see how +recrimination can help the cause on either side. Will you hear what he +has to say in extenuation of his conduct, or would you prefer to be the +first to speak?’</p> + +<p>‘I wish to say first what I think of him,’ replied Mrs Robertson.</p> + +<p>‘Let it be so, then. Geoffrey, you see the justice of this. Mrs +Robertson is not only a lady and your hostess, but she stands in the +position of the injured party. Let me ask you, therefore, to listen +patiently to whatever she may have <span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>to say, and you can justify your +own action in the matter afterwards.’</p> + +<p>‘Which, I should imagine, Mr Geoffrey Doyne will find it most difficult +to do,’ interposed Mrs Robertson.</p> + +<p>‘No such thing, madam,’ broke in Geoffrey warmly. ‘I have the best +possible excuse—’</p> + +<p>But Michael came again to the rescue.</p> + +<p>‘Patience, my dear fellow—patience! You will never arrive at a +satisfactory conclusion unless each consents to hear what the other has +to say.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey sank into his chair again; and Mrs Robertson turned her back +on him without ceremony.</p> + +<p>‘You will excuse me, Mr Doyne,’ she said to the elder brother, ‘if I +prefer, for the present at all events, to address myself to you. The +case stands simply thus. Last year Mr Geoffrey Doyne stayed for a month +in our house, and I trusted him implicitly in the company of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>all my +daughters, with whom he appeared on the best of terms—’</p> + +<p>‘Of course I was. I romped with one as much as the other,’ interposed +Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>But Mrs Robertson took no notice of the remark.</p> + +<p>‘After a while, however, I perceived that he admired Jessie above the +rest; indeed, on several occasions I had seen familiarities take place +between them—’</p> + +<p>‘She used to come and sit on my lap whether I would or no,’ grumbled +Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘So I considered it my duty as a mother,’ continued the lady, waving +her hand, as though to wave the younger brother off into infinitesimal +space, ‘to ask him his intentions with regard to her, and was greatly +astonished to find that he had no intentions whatever.’</p> + +<p>‘Of course I hadn’t—never thought of such a thing,’ said Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘But you <i>ought</i> to have thought of it; it <span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>was most +reprehensible,’ replied his brother, frowning.</p> + +<p>‘I am so glad you see it in <i>our</i> light, dear Mr Doyne,’ rejoined +Mrs Robertson; ‘for it is hard, after so many years of friendly +intercourse have subsisted between the families, to think of a rupture +taking place now. The dear doctor feels it keenly. The suspense has +quite aged him.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, it must not be,’ said Michael decidedly; and Geoffrey felt a chill +run through him at the words.</p> + +<p>‘Of course I remonstrated with your brother,’ resumed Mrs Robertson, +‘as he will do me the justice to acknowledge, and pointed out to him +the harm he had done our dear girl, and the misery he had caused +her. And then Dr Robertson and his father both spoke to him; and the +issue was, that he proposed formally to my husband for Jessie’s hand +(we have the letter now, Mr Doyne), and the engagement was ratified +between them. Of course <span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>our friends all know of it; we never dreamt +for a moment that Mr Geoffrey Doyne could be so <i>base</i> to go back +from his written word; and the poor child has been actually making the +linen for her trousseau for the last three months. When, the other +day, as I was questioning her on her altered looks and spirits, she +burst into tears, and, to my <i>amazement</i>, told me that it was all +over between them; that Mr Geoffrey Doyne had sent for his letters +and presents to be returned to him, and that he had been cruel enough +to write and tell the dear girl that he had never cared for her, and +that he refused to marry her,—the basest, cruellest, most heartless +conduct I ever heard of in my life,’ continued Mrs Robertson, trembling +with anger, ‘and after the kindness and hospitality he had received +at our hands too! But it cannot be allowed, Mr Doyne. I will not sit +by quietly and see my poor child pine away in consequence of such +treachery. Your brother must fulfil the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>engagement he entered into +with her, or she shall have public compensation for his desertion. The +world shall not have it in its power to say that we boasted idly of our +daughter’s expectations.’</p> + +<p>‘Am I to be allowed to speak now?’ demanded Geoffrey, who had with +difficulty kept quiet during the last part of this harangue.</p> + +<p>‘If Mrs Robertson has quite finished,’ said his brother coldly.</p> + +<p>‘I have said all I wish to say,’ replied the lady, ‘and no explanations +Mr Geoffrey Doyne can offer me in return can ever excuse his conduct to +my daughter.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps not in <i>your</i> eyes, madam,’ said Geoffrey; ‘but you have +appealed to the judgment of the world. I am glad you have done me the +justice to acknowledge that I never had any intention of proposing +to Jessie until you forced me to do so. And therein lies my greatest +fault. I should have resisted your arguments <span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>then as I do now. I have +made the task doubly hard by delay. Ever since I yielded to your wishes +in that respect, I have seen how wrong I was to do so. Each day has +convinced me, more and more, that I am not, and I never was, in love +with your daughter, and that, if I marry her we shall only make each +other miserable for life. It was with this conviction that I wrote +to her a month ago—telling her the truth. I did not say I would not +marry her, neither did I ask her to return my letters or presents. I +said just what I have told you—that I had not considered sufficiently +before I made that proposal of marriage to her, and that I did not +care for her so much as I ought to do. And if that is being base and +dishonourable in your eyes, it is not in mine. I consider I should +have been much more to blame had I married her without telling her the +truth.’</p> + +<p>‘Unfortunately, you see, Geoffrey, it is not what <i>you</i> think, but +what the world <span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>will say about the matter,’ remarked Michael gravely; +‘and there is no doubt that a thing of this kind militates against a +girl’s prospects in life.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Militates against her prospects</i>!’ cried Mrs Robertson shrilly; +‘I should think it did—it ruins them! Do you suppose I am going to let +my daughter be pointed at as having been jilted—<i>and by you</i>!’ +she ended, with withering scorn.</p> + +<p>‘Would you prefer her, then, to marry a man who does not love her?’ +retorted Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘That is of little consequence,’ replied the lady. ‘<i>No</i> men care +for their wives (as far as I can see) in the present day. The mere +fact of their <i>being</i> their wives is sufficient to make them +indifferent! But my daughter is of a very different disposition from +you. She is amiable and affectionate and loving, and I will not see her +heart broken and her future prospects spoiled for any man alive.’</p> + +<p>‘If you knew all, Mrs Robertson,’ resumed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>Geoffrey, colouring, ‘you +would see that you could not break her heart more readily than by +marrying her to me.’</p> + +<p>‘You had better make a clean breast whilst you are about it,’ suggested +his brother.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps you are right. Well, then, Mrs Robertson, my objection to +renewing my engagement with Jessie does not lie wholly in the fact that +I do not care sufficiently for her to make her a good husband. There is +a stronger reason than that—a more insurmountable one. I am in love +with another woman!’</p> + +<p>He said the words slowly, as though they contained an argument to +quench all her maternal hopes. But they had only the effect of making +her more angry and determined.</p> + +<p>‘And do you call that an <i>excuse</i>?’ she exclaimed; ‘it is an +aggravation of your offence. You are in love with another woman, and so +<i>my</i> daughter is to go to the wall! My Jessie is to be deprived +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>throughout life of all you had promised to give her, because you have +taken it into your head to set up some one else in her stead. But you +will find it is not quite so easy to chop and change in that manner, Mr +Doyne. You have pledged your word to my daughter, and you must redeem +it—or give her such compensation as the law may award her.’</p> + +<p>‘You will surely not bring this matter into court?’ cried Geoffrey, +with horror. ‘You will never drag your daughter’s name through the +newspapers as the plaintiff in a breach of promise case?’</p> + +<p>Mrs Robertson saw her advantage, and clung to it.</p> + +<p>‘We certainly <i>shall</i>,’ she replied, ‘unless you think better +of the insult you have offered us. The doctor and I have talked this +matter over, and he has left it entirely in my hands. He is no more +disposed to sit by quietly, and see Jessie’s heart broken without an +effort to save her, than I am.’</p> + +<p>‘But how can you improve the affair by <span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>making it public? You should +consider your daughter’s feelings,’ said the young man, in evident +distress. He did not perceive that the agitation he evinced was the +weakest card he could play into her hands; nor did he guess that the +threat she used towards him had been suggested by his astute lawyer +brother.</p> + +<p>‘That is <i>our</i> business,’ replied Mrs Robertson coldly, ‘and we +shall do what we consider best for our child without any reference to +her feelings. Neither do I think <i>you</i> are the proper person to +remind me of my duty in that respect, Mr Doyne, considering the <i>very +little</i> regard you have shown towards them yourself.’</p> + +<p>‘What <i>am</i> I to do?’ demanded Geoffrey, in a low voice, of his +brother.</p> + +<p>‘You’ll have to stick to it, my boy. I don’t see any way out of it,’ +replied Michael, in the same tone.</p> + +<p>‘I <i>cannot</i>—it is impossible. I will die first,’ said the younger +man, in a voice of despair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, Mr Doyne,’ exclaimed Mrs Robertson after a short pause, ‘is it +of any use our prolonging this interview? Mr Geoffrey does not appear +to be disposed to do what is right and honourable in the matter, and +therefore it only remains for the doctor and myself to take the steps +that seem best to us. And the first thing, I believe, my husband +proposes to do is to go down and have an interview with your father at +Ryelands.’</p> + +<p>‘Might I ask you, my dear Mrs Robertson, as a personal favour to +myself,’ said Michael Doyne, in his blandest voice, ‘to allow Geoffrey +a couple of days in which to think over what you have said to him? I +feel convinced that, if you will do so, we shall have arrived at some +satisfactory conclusion by that time. For my sake, Mrs Robertson—will +you do it for <i>my</i> sake?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, Mr Doyne, for <i>your</i> sake I will; for I know we have your +good wishes, although we appear to have lost those of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>your brother. In +a couple of days, then, I shall expect to hear from you; and meanwhile +I shall say nothing to my daughter, nor take any more decided steps in +the matter. Good-night, dear Mr Doyne; whatever happens, I shall always +feel that you have proved yourself a true and faithful friend to us,’ +and shaking hands with the elder brother, Mrs Robertson swept out of +the room without vouchsafing one glance towards the spot where Geoffrey +stood, silent and dejected.</p> + +<p>‘Come on, Geoff,’ said Michael briskly, as soon as she had disappeared; +‘we had better be going home; it is no use our remaining longer here.’</p> + +<p>The younger man followed him mechanically to the hall door. His brain +was in such a whirl he hardly knew what he was about.</p> + +<p>‘What <i>am</i> I to do?’ he repeated, in a confused manner, as they +walked through the square together.</p> + +<p>‘Well, to tell you the plain truth, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>Geoffrey, I only see one thing for +you to do, and that is to renew your engagement, and marry the girl, +and take her back to India with you.’</p> + +<p>‘You forget the other,’ said Geoffrey gloomily.</p> + +<p>‘No, I don’t, my dear boy. I see the mess you’re in as plainly as you +do. But the other is a matter of <i>feeling</i>, Geoffrey, and this is +a matter of <i>right</i>. Tell me a little about this young lady at +Ines-cedwyn. Are her parents staying there?’</p> + +<p>‘No; she is with a servant.’</p> + +<p>‘You haven’t said anything to them about marrying her, then?’</p> + +<p>‘Not yet.’</p> + +<p>‘It’s only been a little spooning affair on your own account, eh?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I suppose you’d call it so.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, then, my dear Geoffrey, there’s no question about the matter. +You must break it off.’</p> + +<p>‘I <i>can’t</i> do that, Michael.’</p> + +<p>‘You can, if you choose.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>‘I <i>cannot</i>. There are reasons—’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! I understand all your reasons before you tell me. You like +her much better than this one; in fact, you’re over head and ears in +love with her, and you want to marry her, and take her out to India. +That’s it now, isn’t it? Well, I allow that it is very hard, and, +as I said before, I daresay it will cut you up to have to part from +her and marry Jessie Robertson instead; but <i>it must be done</i>, +Geoffrey. There’s the long and the short of it. Your honour demands +the sacrifice, and respect for your family demands it. We can’t have +our name dragged through a breach of promise case, and connected with +that of the Robertsons. It would be too disgraceful. I don’t believe my +father would ever speak to you again. And then, there’s something to be +said for Jessie into the bargain. The girl’s awfully fond of you. The +doctor says she’s so changed by your behaviour, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>that you’d hardly know +her; and I don’t see why she should be made to suffer any more than the +other one. You can’t keep your word to <i>both</i>, that’s clear; and +Jessie Robertson will bear the more open disgrace of the two, if you +break with her. Now, do go home and try to think it over in that light. +<i>Some one</i> must bear the brunt of your folly in any case; but if +you persevere in your present determination, we shall <i>all</i> have +to bear it, which isn’t quite fair upon us.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey did go home—miserable, undecided, and almost hopeless. +Still, he trusted that something might turn up to help him out of his +difficulty—that Jessie’s parents might relent, or the girl herself +refuse to renew their engagement. Surely, he thought, if he told her to +her face he didn’t love her, she would never hold him to his word.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile there was no reason that his poor trusting Fenella should +suffer <span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>for his fault. Time enough for her to learn the worst when the +worst came. So he sat down and wrote her a long loving letter (such +as he knew she would carry in her bosom all the day), and told her he +was afraid his business would detain him in town longer than he had +expected; but he did not mention what that business was. And when he +had finished the letter, he laid his head down upon the paper and burst +into tears.</p> + +<p>‘It is impossible,’ he kept on repeating to himself. ‘I +<i>cannot</i>—I <i>must</i> not desert her. Not <i>now</i>—O God! Not +<i>now</i>.’</p> + +<p>His task would have been much easier if the other girl had not cared +for him also, but he knew too well that she did care. It had been his +flattered vanity at her evident affection that had drawn him into the +noose that galled him now. Still he thought, if all other means failed, +he must make an appeal to Jessie’s generosity to set him free. He did +not know that her temperament was of so jealous <span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>a nature, that the +very plea he urged for liberty would be an incentive to her to bind +him closer. When the two days of grace were over, he was as distracted +and undecided as ever, and Michael had the greatest difficulty in +persuading him to put in an appearance in Blenheim Square.</p> + +<p>The meeting this time, however, was of a more friendly character. Dr +Robertson was present, and Michael Doyne had already consulted with the +parents on the most politic step to be taken.</p> + +<p>‘We have no wish to appear harsh or oppressive, my dear young friend,’ +commenced the doctor, who had been previously ‘coached’ by his wife +what to say; ‘but we have our child’s happiness to consult in this +matter, and I am bound to tell you that it is very seriously concerned. +Mrs Robertson and I have, therefore, after mature deliberation, come to +the conclusion that Jessie is, after all, the proper person to decide +whether the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>engagement shall continue or not, and we shall leave it +entirely in her hands.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey’s face flushed with hope.</p> + +<p>‘Do I understand you, sir, that Miss Robertson and I are to settle +this business by ourselves, and that you will abide by her decision, +whatever it may be?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; that is our wish, Mr Doyne. After all, it is <i>her</i> +happiness, and not <i>ours</i>, that is at stake; and if she tells us +she has released you of her own free will, we shall take no further +steps in the matter.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you—thank you a thousand times,’ said Geoffrey fervently. ‘Does +Jessie know I am in the house? May I see her now?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I have prepared my daughter for the interview,’ replied Mrs +Robertson, with a grim smile, as she preceded the young man out of the +room.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey followed her briskly, his heart throbbing with hope. He +thought he should <span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>have no difficulty in making Jessie understand how +much better it would be for both of them to be free.</p> + +<p>Mrs Robertson led him to the drawing-room and opened the door.</p> + +<p>‘Jessie, my dear,’ she said quietly, ‘here is Mr Geoffrey Doyne, who +wishes to speak to you.’</p> + +<p>Then she retreated, and left the young people together.</p> + +<p>Now, until that morning Jessie Robertson had been entirely ignorant +that she had any rival to dispute her possession of Geoffrey Doyne. +She had accepted his letter just as he wrote it, and had never lost +hope that he would find out he had been mistaken, and return some day +and ask her to take back those presents, and give him a place in her +affections once more. And she was quite ready to do so, for, truth to +say, he had never lost that place. His handsome face and figure had +made an irrevocable impression on her mind, and if she did not <span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>love +him with all the ardour of Fenella Barrington, she loved him to the +utmost power of her nature—and no one can do more. The rupture of +their engagement had been a great shock to her, and the disappointment +had left its traces on her features—had darkened the lines beneath her +eyes, and washed the colour from her rosy cheeks.</p> + +<p>Mrs Robertson had seen all this; she knew that the girl looked pathetic +and pretty, and the young man was emotional and easily impressed; and +she trusted a great deal to the effect Jessie’s altered appearance +would have upon him. Besides, she had, as she said, prepared her +daughter for this interview. She had hinted at the possibility of some +low-born rival as a means of rousing the girl’s jealousy, and then she +had implored her, for the sake of Geoffrey Doyne’s family (no less +than for his own), to be firm, and bring him back to his allegiance. +He would thank her for it afterwards (the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>mother said), when he knew +his own heart better, and could rate her devotion for him at its true +value. So Jessie came forward—rather timidly, it is true, but still +very affectionately, and much in the old style, and lifted her tearful +blue eyes to his face.</p> + +<p>‘I <i>knew</i> you would come back,’ she murmured. ‘I knew you would +remember our old affection some day. Mamma said it was impossible that +you could quite forget me.’</p> + +<p>For a moment he almost forgot his mission in looking at her pale cheeks +and attenuated figure.</p> + +<p>‘Why, Jessie,’ he exclaimed, ‘have you been ill?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes—a little. What does it matter? I fretted, of course—I could not +help fretting; but I shall be all right again now.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean to say my letter caused this? Oh, what a brute I am!’ +cried Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t say that,’ replied Jessie softly, as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>she sat down beside him. +‘You did it for the best, I am sure.’</p> + +<p>‘I did indeed. I thought it would be less dishonourable to cancel our +engagement than to let you marry me without knowing the truth. For I +am not worthy of you, Jessie, and since we have been separated I have +thought so much more seriously of such things. Marriage is a very +solemn contract, is it not? And it would be unjust to let you enter +into it with any one who does not love you as you deserve. Don’t you +agree with me?’</p> + +<p>‘But I always thought you loved me more than I deserved, Geoffrey,’ she +said, in a low voice; ‘for, after all, what is there in me to love?’</p> + +<p>‘There is everything—everything to make a man happy, if he were not +only too great a fool to appreciate it, Jessie.’</p> + +<p>‘But you made me quite happy,’ she whispered.</p> + +<p>‘Did I? I am afraid I should not make you happy for long. I own an +atrociously <span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>bad temper, Jessie—irritable and easily put out; and I am +a selfish, heartless sort of fellow at the best. You would have wearied +of me in no time, and then there would have been no remedy for either +of us. It was better to put a stop to it before it was too late, wasn’t +it?’</p> + +<p>‘I should soon have grown used to your tempers, Geoffrey—all men have +them, mamma says—and I never thought you heartless; at least, not +until you sent me that letter.’ And then she began to cry.</p> + +<p>‘Jessie, did that letter hurt you so very much?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, terribly,’ she said, amidst her sobs; ‘how could it be otherwise +when I had made up my mind we were to be married so soon, and half my +things were made, too, and I had asked my cousins to be bridesmaids? +And now—now it seems as if everything in the whole world was over for +me, and I should never be happy again—never!’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, don’t cry—for Heaven’s sake, don’t <span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>cry!’ said Geoffrey +despairingly, ‘and let me try and think what is best to be done.’</p> + +<p>They sat silent for a few moments, whilst Jessie caught her breath, +and dabbed her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief. Then Geoffrey said +gravely,—</p> + +<p>‘Jessie! I thought—and I think still—that we shall never be happy as +man and wife; but your father and mother consider that I have gone so +far in proposing to you, that I have no right even to suggest such a +thing as altering our minds, and that it must rest with <i>you</i> to +decide whether our marriage takes place or not.’</p> + +<p>‘I would much rather it took place,’ sobbed the girl.</p> + +<p>‘Listen to me,’ went on her companion, ‘and don’t decide in a hurry. +Remember the whole happiness of our lives depends upon your answer. I +am compelled to tell you—in justice to you and to myself—that I do +not love you as I ought to do. In fact, Jessie, I—I—(don’t <span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>be angry +with me for saying it)—but I—care for somebody else; and that fact +alone would make my marriage with you a sacrilege and a blasphemy which +I do not dare to contemplate.’</p> + +<p>She did not answer him, and after a while he proceeded,—</p> + +<p>‘Don’t you think it would be very wrong of us to marry under the +circumstances, Jessie? Don’t you think it may be the wrecking of both +our lives to know there is such a barrier between us? Don’t you think +it would be more honourable in the sight of God and man for us to go +our different ways in the world, than to take vows upon ourselves which +we know it is not in our power to perform?’</p> + +<p>He paused, waiting for and expecting her acquiescence; and had the +girl followed the natural instincts of her womanhood, she would have +told him he was right. But the hint he had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>given her of his love +for another, vague and undefined though it was, had raised the worst +feelings of which Jessie Robertson was capable, and made her resolve, +at all hazards, to claim him for her own. He should never, <i>never</i> +(so she said to herself) be free to go and marry that other woman, and +leave her to be laughed at or pitied by all their acquaintance. She +loved the man, but she loved herself better, and she was determined if +possible to keep him by her side. So all she answered was,—</p> + +<p>‘<i>I</i> could fulfil them, Geoffrey, easily enough. Nothing could be +difficult for me to do that was done for you.’</p> + +<p>‘By heavens!’ he exclaimed, driven to desperation by her quiet +perseverance, ‘do you mean to say that you would stoop to marry me when +I tell you plainly that I do not care for you?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, Geoffrey, I would; because you will care for me some day. I am +sure you will.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> + +<p>‘And with the knowledge that I love some one else?’</p> + +<p>‘It is not pleasant for me to hear, of course,’ said Jessie, ‘but you +will get over it in time—and you were engaged to me first.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I am to understand,’ rejoined the young man gloomily, ‘that you +desire me to hold to this engagement, of which I have told you frankly +I am weary?’</p> + +<p>‘Because you fail in your promises to me, is that any reason I should +fail also?’ she replied. ‘I should consider myself bound to you, +Geoffrey, whether you deserted me or not.’</p> + +<p>‘And this is your final decision?’ asked her companion, with white lips.</p> + +<p>‘How could I come to any other? I should only be telling a story if I +said I did?’</p> + +<p>‘Jessie! I told Dr and Mrs Robertson that I would abide by what you +said. Think once more; for God’s sake, think before you answer me! +Remember it is <span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>the happiness or misery of our whole lives upon which +you are deciding. <i>Are we to be married to each other, or are we +not</i>?’</p> + +<p>He hung upon her reply as the criminal in the dock hangs upon the +decision of the jury, and she gave it with apparently as little +personal feeling.</p> + +<p>‘If you ask <i>me</i>, Geoffrey, I can only say what I have said +before, <i>Yes</i>. If I hadn’t wished to marry you, I should never +have consented to be engaged to you. I don’t change my mind every other +day, as you seem to do!’</p> + +<p>‘God forgive you!’ was trembling on his lips as he regarded her, but +with an effort he altered the words. ‘Be it so, then!’ he said, between +his teeth; and then, without another look, he turned upon his heel and +quitted the house, leaving Jessie Robertson to announce to her father +and mother the determination at which she had arrived.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="006" style="max-width: 94.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/006.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III"> + CHAPTER III. + <br> + <span>DESERTED.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Castalio! Oh, how often has he sworn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nature should change—the sun and stars grow dark—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">E’er he would falsify his vows to me?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Make haste, confusion, then! Sun, lose thy light!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And stars, drop dead with sorrow to the earth!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For my Castalio’s false.’</div> + <div class="right"><i>Otway</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_t.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> long-expected letter from Mentone, addressed to Eliza Bennett, +arrived but a few days after Geoffrey Doyne had quitted Ines-cedwyn. +Lady Wilson’s party had finished their wanderings for the present, and +were settled in the Villa Abracci, but the event did not seem to have +fulfilled the expectations of Mrs Barrington, who <span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>complained bitterly +of all her surroundings. The heat was intolerable; the house had not +sufficient accommodation; that odious Miss Russell had joined their +party, and was making herself most conspicuous with Mr Wilson; poor +dear Colonel Ellerman had died suddenly of bronchitis the week before; +and those brutes of agents had written from London to say that the +tenants in South Audley Street wished to give up the rooms at the end +of three months. In fact, poor Mrs Barrington’s star was decidedly in +the descendent.</p> + +<p>‘Only fancy!’ she wrote, ‘those wretches giving up the rooms in +July—the very month of all others when nobody wishes to remain in +London. I made sure they would renew their agreement until Michaelmas. +I think it is most inconsiderate of them, not to say dishonest—for +there is no chance of my letting the rooms again. And what are we to do +with ourselves in London at that time—you and I and Fenella? We shall +be roasted alive. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>I should remain here, of course, or go on to some +livelier place, only I am afraid I shall not be able to afford it. I +hope to goodness you and the girl are not running into any expense that +you can possibly avoid, for all my money has gone in railway fares, and +the people here change their dresses so many times a day, I haven’t +half enough clothes to wear. I consider that Lady Wilson ought, at +the very least, to offer to pay my expenses back to England, for she +has quite brought me here on false pretences. The weekly expenses are +much higher than she said they would be, and she has given the best +bedroom in the house to that hideous Anna Russell—after saying she +couldn’t receive Fenella, too. Such deceit! And the son is exactly +like his mother—stingy and false! I hate them both. I was dreadfully +distressed to hear about your leg. You really should be more careful. +It is selfish of you to go falling about in that way, when you know +how I depend <span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>upon your services. What would you have done if I had +required you to join me at Mentone? It’s just a chance that I did not. +Lady Wilson’s maid is a fool; she can’t dress hair a bit, and the +old woman is so selfish, she will hardly ever let her do any sewing +for me. I often wish I had Fenella here to help me with needlework. +I hope you or she will write soon and let me hear that your leg is +healed again. I couldn’t stand crutches about the house. And I’m sure +I’ve had trouble enough already. You may fancy the shock dear Colonel +Ellerman’s death was to me. So sudden and so sad! And he’s left every +halfpenny he possessed to his sister, too; it makes me so mad to think +of it. However, I suppose it’s the will of Heaven. I am glad to hear +your account of Miss Fenella’s looks. It is just as well one of the +family should enjoy good health. I feel ill and weak enough myself. I +am sure this place doesn’t agree with me, and Lady Wilson is the worst +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>housekeeper I ever met. The dinners are simply not fit to eat.’</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett was as distressed by the receipt of this letter as if she +took every word of it for gospel.</p> + +<p>‘Your poor dear mamma!’ she exclaimed; ‘what worries she has in this +life, to be sure! And to think that I am not with her, too! That is the +cruellest part of it. Not that I could hope to be of much good (being +only a servant), but still it’s hard for a lady who’s been used to have +every comfort about her, to wait on herself, and eat dinners she don’t +fancy; isn’t it, Miss Fenella?’</p> + +<p>‘Mamma might have had us both with her if she had wished it; it’s her +own fault that she’s alone!’ replied Fenella, with her eyes fixed upon +the summer sky, and her heart filled to the very brim with Geoffrey +Doyne.</p> + +<p>‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, you seem to have grown very cold-like lately,’ +remarked the servant. ‘You fretted so at parting with <span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>your mamma, I +thought you’d be all in a flutter at the idea of meeting her again. +Wouldn’t you like to go back to London, miss?’</p> + +<p>The girl’s face flushed with the sudden joy of expectation. London was +the happy place that held her lover.</p> + +<p>‘To <i>London</i>, nurse! Oh yes, I should; very much indeed. But is +there any chance of it?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, I should say from your mamma’s letter as there was every chance, +my dear; for here we are in the middle of July, and even if she don’t +come back herself, some one must go and look after them rooms as soon +as they’re empty.’</p> + +<p>‘Let me write and tell mamma that we will look after them,’ cried +Fenella impulsively, ‘and then she needn’t come home any sooner on that +account. Let us go back to London together, nurse—you and I; it will +be ever so much nicer than Ines-cedwyn.’</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett looked in the girl’s tell-tale <span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>face, and thought to +herself. ‘That there chap’s in London, I’d take my oath of it;’ but all +she said was,—</p> + +<p>‘You can write what you please to your mamma, Miss Fenella; but we +couldn’t go back, at any rate, till the end of July, for the parties +don’t give up the rooms till that time.’</p> + +<p>And her young mistress turned from her with a sigh, to console herself +by writing a long letter to Geoffrey Doyne, in which she informed him +of her mother’s permanent address, and begged him to lose no time in +acquainting her with the news of their engagement.</p> + +<p>The letters which came and went so constantly at this period, no less +than the gold locket which Fenella wore next her heart both night +and day, had not escaped the notice of Eliza Bennett, and they made +her feel very uneasy. She could not be quite sure of what was going +on beneath her eyes—whether it was a mere childish folly, not worth +a second <span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>thought, or something more serious, that would raise Mrs +Barrington’s anger. The <i>amourettes</i> of that lady herself had been +so profuse and vicarious, that she had somewhat dulled thereby the +sense of propriety in the breast of her servant; and Bennett was really +unable to decide whether her mistress would ridicule her fears or blame +her imprudence on the score of Fenella’s sea-side flirtation. Yet +she could not help observing that the girl had grown more thoughtful +since the young man’s departure, and she had detected her on more +than one occasion crying quietly to herself. She had heard her talk +in her sleep, too—murmuring broken sentences and loving words, as +she lay flushed on her pillows, with her fair hair falling on her +shoulders, and the child-like tears still trembling on her lashes. And +yet, withal, Fenella seemed so happy and so well, it was difficult to +believe that anything grieved her. So Bennett comforted herself with +the idea <span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>that, if her young lady <i>had</i> had a little love affair, +she’d soon forget all about it. Girls had many such, as a rule, before +they settled down in life; and, at any rate, the gentleman had left +Ines-cedwyn—that was one blessing—and it couldn’t be long now before +her mamma came back to England to look after her herself.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Fenella was what she seemed—as happy as she could be apart +from Geoffrey. For these great loves pay heavy penalties for the bliss +of being; they render separation an agony. But the tears which Bennett +saw upon her sleeping face were not those of distrust, nor of fear. +They were the natural outcome of a new-born excitement, that found its +best relief in painless weeping. The days of separation were irksome to +bear, but they were not intolerable; for Fenella had a firm belief in +their speedy termination, and each one brought her some fresh assurance +of Geoffrey’s love for her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> + +<p>For here the man’s courage had utterly failed him. He knew he had +pledged himself to do that which should kill all the new-born +blossoming hopes in Fenella’s breast, as certainly as a knife drawn +across her throat would destroy the fair young life she had given up to +him. He knew that in a few weeks at the furthest, she would hear that, +that would desecrate him in her eyes for evermore; that would make him +appear falser and more cruel than anything she had ever dreamt of; that +would destroy, not only her belief in him, but in God and Heaven, and +even a hereafter. He knew all this, as surely as he knew that he was +committing the basest action of his life in deserting her; and yet he +had not the courage to strike the fatal blow, and let her learn the +worst at once. He continued to write to her, and without a hint that he +had renewed his engagement with Jessie Robertson. He told no further +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>falsehoods, it is true; he ceased to allude to their own marriage, or +their future life; but he told her she was his world, and that without +her he should be miserable; and Fenella could imagine the rest. To be +Geoffrey’s world was sufficient for her happiness, and, naturally, she +continued to believe that all they had spoken of together would follow. +The only shadow on her joy was their prolonged separation, and that was +soon to be put an end to.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington’s first letter from Mentone was speedily followed by +another, equally querulous, in which she told her daughter and servant +that she had had a violent quarrel with Lady Wilson, who was, without +exception, ‘the most jealous, cross-grained, interfering old cat’ she +ever met with, and affirmed her intention of returning to England as +soon as ever the rooms in South Audley Street were ready to receive +her, ordering Bennett and Fenella <span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>at the same time to take up their +abode there before herself.</p> + +<p>‘The agent tells me,’ she wrote, ‘that the creatures will go out on the +thirty-first. You had better, therefore, travel up on the first, and I +will join you on the second or third. I wouldn’t sleep in my room until +you have seen it is thoroughly cleaned and set in its usual order, for +any earthly consideration.’</p> + +<p>To see the colour that flew into Fenella’s face at this intelligence +was a revelation. She glowed like a carnation at the very thought.</p> + +<p>‘On the first, Bennett! We are to go to London on the first of August!’ +she exclaimed; ‘only five days more. What shall I do to make them pass +away?’</p> + +<p>‘You seem very anxious to leave poor Ines-cedwyn, miss,’ remarked +Bennett curiously. ‘I’m afraid you’ve changed your mind about it since +you first came here.’</p> + +<p>The girl turned her grey eyes, in which the tears had suddenly risen, +towards the sea.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<p>‘Dear, sweet Ines-cedwyn!’ she murmured, ‘with its singing waves and +golden sands. Can it ever seem less lovely to me than it does now? Oh +no, nurse! I have not changed my mind, and I am not ungrateful. I shall +always remember Ines-cedwyn as the place in which the happiest days of +my life were passed; only—only,’ she added, a little wistfully, ‘I +<i>do</i> want to go to London now.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, my dear, I hope as you won’t be disappointed in it, but it’s +very hot and dusty at this time of the year,’ grumbled Bennett, as she +turned away.</p> + +<p>Yet when the first of August arrived, and Fenella found herself once +more in South Audley Street, with all the rooms in that delightful +state of dirt and confusion in which lodgers are accustomed to leave +them, and Bennett out of temper at the prospect of the work before her, +she still went singing about to that unheard accompaniment of music in +her heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + +<p>Geoffrey was not there to meet her, it is true (how could he be?), +but he was close at hand, and she had received a letter from him, not +twelve hours before she left Ines-cedwyn, full of love and tender +allusions to the past. And she had written in reply to say that she was +there, actually <i>there</i>, in the same town with him; and it could +not be long—it was impossible it could be long—before he held her in +his arms. Mrs Barrington arrived to her time—dusty, dishevelled, and +decidedly cross. But she could not restrain her surprise at the first +view of Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, ‘what have you done to the child, +Bennett? Why, she’s developed to a woman; and what a lovely colour she +has! I must say it, my dear; your complexion would put the whole of +Piver’s shop to shame. It is positively like nothing but lilies and +carnations.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, mamma! I am so glad you think <span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>I am improved,’ said Fenella, with +a bright blush, as she knelt beside Mrs Barrington’s chair. ‘I have +been so happy down at Ines-cedwyn; I think that must be the reason that +I look so well.’</p> + +<p>‘It’s the mountain air and the smell of the sea, ma’am,’ put in Eliza +Bennett, rather hurriedly; ‘it <i>must</i> be, for I am sure Miss +Fenella has had no other doctors whilst you was away.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, I wish I had had the same doctors myself, for I’m worn to death +with my trip,’ replied her mistress fretfully. ‘Do get up, Fenella; +you’re dragging my dress to one side, and I’m too tired to bear the +weight of your arms upon my knees. I’m sure I wish I had never left +London. I’ve lost all the fun of the season, and now I suppose we shall +have to vegetate here whilst everybody is away at the sea-side.’</p> + +<p>‘We shall manage to amuse ourselves, mamma, surely,’ said Fenella, +smiling, as she thought of the occupation which was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>in store for both +of them, in preparing for her wedding with Geoffrey Doyne.</p> + +<p>‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, child. Everybody is out of +town at this time of the year, and the place is so hot and dusty, you +can hardly stir out of the house. However, we must bear it as best we +can, for there’s no alternative. I can’t go through the trouble and +worry of letting the rooms again, and if I did so, I don’t know where +on earth we should go.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, mamma! Don’t think of it,’ cried Fenella. ‘We shall be very +happy here—I am sure we shall—and there’s no knowing what may turn up +to amuse and occupy us.’</p> + +<p>But when Mrs Barrington found herself alone with her favourite servant, +she told a very different story.</p> + +<p>‘Bennett,’ she said confidentially, ‘I didn’t like to say too much +before the girl (for girls are always so conceited about their personal +appearance), but I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>never was so startled in my life as when I saw +Fenella. I couldn’t have believed three months would make such a change +in any one. She’s positively <i>lovely;</i> I have seen nothing to +equal her in Paris or Mentone! And so fresh too; it’s what the men run +after now-a-days, freshness! I shall let these rooms again as soon as +ever I can, Bennett, and take her abroad.’</p> + +<p>‘Let the rooms again, ma’am!’ echoed Bennett. ‘I thought as you said +you had decided against it?’</p> + +<p>‘So I did at first, you old goose; but don’t you see I shall have a +better chance of marrying that girl now than at any other period of her +existence. Three months ago no man would have looked at her—she was a +child, a stick, a nonentity! But now they would just rave about her. +She has unfolded like a rosebud opened this morning. She’s in the first +flush of girlhood, and yet she’s a woman! You can see it by her eyes. I +never was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>so astonished in the world before! What’s done it, Bennett? +Has she had a love affair at Ines-cedwyn?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, dear no, ma’am!’ gasped Bennett, trembling from head to foot under +the dread of discovery.</p> + +<p>‘Ah well, I suppose it’s nature; but I must say she’s lovely, though +I’m her mother. Whom does she take most after, Bennett—me, or the poor +captain? I was always the fairer of the two, you know.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, ma’am; and Miss Fenella favours you wonderfully, especially +about the skin. I don’t know as I ever saw such another skin as hers; +it’s like white satin.’</p> + +<p>‘And her figure’s very fine too; and men think so much of figures +now-a-days. Everybody can have a pretty face who knows how to “make up” +properly; but you can’t have a good figure in an evening dress, unless +Heaven has given it to you. It would be an <i>immense</i> thing for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>me if I could marry Miss Fenella well, and without delay, Bennett—an +<i>immense</i> thing. It would just save me from ruin, and nothing +else. And she <i>ought</i> to go off! Dressed in white and silver, or +white and gold, she would look splendid! glorious! I believe I could +turn out that girl so that no one could come within a mile of her; and +it would be worth my while to do it, at any price! How can we manage +it, Bennett? Do ransack that good old head of yours, and find out some +means by which we can carry on the war for a few months longer, until +I have introduced her at Trouville or Baden, or some of those places +where the best men go. And she speaks French so perfectly, that she +might marry a foreigner and a title—one of those rich nobles who +frequent the watering-places through the autumn months—and I should +get her off my hands and out of my way at the same time.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, yes! My dear lady. We will <span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>manage it. Never you fear,’ replied +the servant, in a soothing tone.</p> + +<p>She generally treated her mistress as if she were a teething child that +required conciliation; but the only childish thing about Mrs Barrington +was her refractoriness. In all other things Eliza Bennett was as spun +silk in her hands.</p> + +<p>‘You’re so tired with your journey, ma’am,’ she continued. ‘You mustn’t +think of anything now but getting rested. And you’ve had nothing to eat +to-day, so to speak, and yet you turned against your dinner! Shall I +run out and get you a little lobster with a dash of salad, and a glass +of champagne, and see if that will tempt you to pick a bit?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, if you like, Bennett,’ returned the lady languidly, ‘for I really +don’t feel as if I could keep on my legs much longer.’</p> + +<p>‘Lie down, my dear mistress,’ exclaimed the servant anxiously, ‘and +don’t move till I’ve brought you something <span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>to eat. There! Let me loose +your hair, and give you a fan and the eau de Cologne. And would you +like Miss Fenella to sit with you, ma’am, whilst I’m away?’</p> + +<p>‘No, Bennett, thank you. I shall do very well. I feel as if I were at +home again, now I have you to cosset me and look after me. I’m a poor +creature, and cannot live without love.’</p> + +<p>The servant’s plain face glowed with ardour.</p> + +<p>‘You will always have <i>mine</i>, my dear, <i>dear</i> lady,’ she +replied.</p> + +<p>‘Ah well, I hope I may, Bennett; but the world is very ungrateful, +and the best friends change sometimes. You would be surprised to see +the alteration in those horrid Wilsons. The old woman hardly spoke to +me the last week I was in Mentone; and as for her son, his behaviour +was positively disgusting. He and that odious creature Anna Russell +used to leave <span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>the house directly after breakfast, and never reappear +till dinner-time. It was most improper, as I told his mother, and then +we had a fight about it. I can’t stand that sort of people, Bennett; +they’re low-bred and presuming, and directly they find a cause for +quarrel, their bad blood comes to the front. I shall never call upon +Lady Wilson again.’</p> + +<p>‘No, my dear lady; I hope you won’t. You’ve been too good and +condescendingly to her already. And you mustn’t think no more of Mr +Wilson either. He ain’t worthy of the likes of you!’</p> + +<p>‘Dear me, no! Of course that’s all over. And poor Colonel Ellerman too. +It’s enough to upset a woman (isn’t it, Bennett?) losing two of them so +near together, and so unexpectedly!’</p> + +<p>‘Ah! There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, ma’am; +and, please the Lord! I shall live to see you riding over the heads of +such people as the Wilsons yet.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, if I can only get Miss Fenella married and out of the way, I +think I shall have as good a chance as any. By-the-bye, Bennett, as +you go for the lobster, you might as well look in at the agents, and +tell them to put the rooms on their books again. Say I’ll let them on +any reasonable terms, for I know I can’t get a high rent at this time +of the year. But I’m determined to take that girl abroad, Bennett, if +I pawn my jewellery to accomplish it. After all, it would be worth my +while, for I could get it out again as soon as ever she was married.’</p> + +<p>Filled with this new idea, Mrs Barrington became so friendly and +confidential with her daughter, that Fenella (remembering her first +reception) was agreeably surprised. She did not know the little plot +that was hatching beneath her mother’s flattering notice of her beauty +or her talents. She believed it to be genuine. And so, in part, it was. +Mrs Barrington <span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>could not live without some excitement, and Fenella’s +improved appearance had suggested a new excitement to her. Having a +handsome <i>demoiselle à marier</i> to take about and add a fresh +attraction to her own society, was a different thing altogether from +being annoyed by the presence of a half-formed school-girl, whom no man +would wish to own either by marriage or adoption. And the notion having +once entered her head, she became crazy to put it into execution.</p> + +<p>Fenella was pleased and startled, at first, by her mother’s cordiality +towards her; but as the days went on without bringing tidings of +Geoffrey Doyne, her spirits began to sink. She had not the slightest +doubt of her lover, but her heart was filled with every sort of fear +for him. Was it possible, she thought, that he had never received her +last letter from Ines-cedwyn? Was he still sending his to the old +address? and was Martha too stupid to forward them to London? Could +he <span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>be ill, or dying?—(the ignorant imagine no greater calamity than +death can befall those whom they love)—or had his family refused their +consent to his marriage, and was he afraid to come and break the news +to her? These, and a hundred other doubts that made her heart sick with +apprehension, surged and swayed through Fenella’s bosom, until she felt +as if she must seek Geoffrey out at all hazards, and learn the truth. +But that the truth could involve anything worse than annoyance, or +delay, never entered her mind. <i>How could it</i>—with Geoffrey?</p> + +<p>Her mother and she kept very close to the house during those few days +of suspense. Mrs Barrington (who was naturally lazy and untidy) never +appeared <i>en grande tenue</i> unless there was something to be gained +by it, and considered a soiled dressing-gown the proper costume to +wear during a month when nobody was likely to call, and there was no +object in showing herself abroad. She sat indoors, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>therefore, all +day fanning herself, and making calculations for her proposed autumn +manœuvres; whilst Fenella read novels from the circulating library, or +the contents of the newspapers, aloud to her.</p> + +<p>One evening during the first week they spent in London, the girl was +sitting with a very heavy heart, trying thus to amuse her mother. +She had stolen out that afternoon, and slipped a letter in the post +herself—imploring Geoffrey to let her know at once whether he had +received the news of her arrival in town. And now she felt almost +numbed by the suspense of waiting for an answer, as if life or death +hung on the chance of her receiving it by return of post.</p> + +<p>‘I think that story’s abominably stupid,’ said Mrs Barrington +presently. ‘The man’s a stick, and the woman’s a goody. Don’t you think +so, Fenella?’</p> + +<p>‘Eh! What, mamma? Oh yes, I do!’ exclaimed Fenella suddenly, as she +caught the meaning of her mother’s words.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> + +<p>‘I don’t think you’re enjoying it much more than I am, my dear, and I +don’t wonder at it,’ resumed Mrs Barrington. ‘The last chapter has been +a perfect sermon, and I hate preaching, especially in a novel. Suppose +you read me the paper instead? I haven’t had time to look at it to-day. +You’ll find the <i>Standard</i> on that table.’</p> + +<p>Fenella put down the novel and rose to fetch the paper, with that +heart-sickening suspense (which those who have experienced the feeling +will best recognise) still uppermost in her mind.</p> + +<p>‘Let’s have the epitome of news,’ said Mrs Barrington, as the girl +reseated herself. ‘Or stay, Fenella; read the list of marriages and +deaths first. Not the births, my dear (nobody cares about births except +the people concerned; they’re much too common); but you see lots +of names amongst the marriages and deaths of people you have heard +of, though you may not know. Just run over the names as they stand, +Fenella; that will be quite <span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>enough. Dear me! I wish my sight were not +so weak by gas light. It makes me feel quite an old woman to be so +dependent on others.’</p> + +<p>The girl began to read as she was ordered:—Adams—Messiter; +Arbuthnott—Clive; Barclay—Smith; Cadogan—Matthews; Doyne—Robertson. +And there she stopped.</p> + +<p>‘Go on, my dear,’ said her mother somewhat impatiently.</p> + +<p>But Fenella did not go on. Her eyes were staring in a blank vacuous +manner at the following words:—</p> + +<p>‘August 3rd, at the Church of St Mary le Strand, by the Rev. ——, +Geoffrey Doyne, Lieut. H.M. XXX. Regiment of Hussars, second son of +Jasper Doyne, J.P., of Ryelands, in the county of Buckinghamshire; +to Jessie, fourth daughter of James Robertson, M.D., of 44 Blenheim +Square, W.C.’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington could not stand the suspense.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + +<p>‘Do go on, Fenella,’ she repeated irritably; ‘it drives me wild when +people stop in the middle of reading in that way. Whatever have you got +there—anything interesting?’</p> + +<p>But all the answer she received was conveyed by the sound of a heavy +fall. Fenella had fainted on the floor. At this sight Mrs Barrington +became terribly alarmed. She was a woman who lost all presence of mind +in an emergency.</p> + +<p>‘Bennett! Bennett!’ she screamed, flying to the door, ‘come down here +at once. Miss Fenella has fainted.’</p> + +<p>The servant was in the room in a minute, and kneeling beside the +unconscious girl.</p> + +<p>‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ she exclaimed, ‘how did this happen?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ wailed Mrs Barrington; ‘she was reading the +<i>Standard</i> to me only a minute ago, when she suddenly fell on the +floor. Oh dear! Oh dear! I hope she’s not going to take to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>fainting; +it’s the most tiresome habit a girl can have; you never know when it’ll +come on. Did you see anything of this in the country, Bennett?’</p> + +<p>‘Bless you, no, ma’am! And don’t go to frighten yourself; it’s only +an accident. Young ladies will faint sometimes. It’s the heat of the +weather most likely, or Miss Fenella has over-tired herself. We must +lay her down flat, that’s the best way; and please to give me the eau +de Cologne and your fan, and I’ll soon bring her to.’</p> + +<p>But though Eliza Bennett made every effort to restore Fenella to +consciousness, twenty minutes elapsed, and still the girl lay, rigid as +stone and white as a broken lily, prostrate upon the ground.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t like this, ma’am,’ said Bennett, shaking her head as she +found her restoratives had no effect. ‘I am afraid it is more than an +ordinary swoon. Don’t you think we’d better send round for Dr Metcalfe?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> + +<p>‘It <i>surely</i> can’t be necessary,’ replied her mistress. ‘Oh! Don’t +tell me there’s more trouble in store for us, Bennett, and I’m to have +a doctor’s bill added to my other worries. Dash some more water in her +face. I’m sure she blinked last time you did it. Perhaps she’s only +shamming. Girls <i>will</i> sham sickness, you know, sometimes. They +think it’s interesting!’</p> + +<p>‘Miss Fenella ain’t shamming,’ said the servant indignantly; ‘and +indeed, ma’am, you <i>must</i> please to send Mrs Watson for the +doctor, for I can’t take the responsibility of this on myself any +longer.’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington was frightened into concession, and the medical man, who +lived close at hand, was soon in the room. He raised Fenella’s head and +looked in her face. ‘Cut her dress and her laces,’ he said curtly.</p> + +<p>‘Oh dear, sir, they’re as loose as they can be!’ remonstrated Bennett.</p> + +<p>‘Be good enough to do as I tell you,’ was the reply; and when she had +obeyed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>him, he lifted the girl upon the couch, and laid his ear upon +her chest.</p> + +<p>‘That will do,’ he said presently, as he rose to his feet; ‘and now, +where is her bedroom? I will carry her up to bed.’</p> + +<p>Bennett led the way, and Dr Metcalfe lifted the girl’s slight figure in +his arms, and followed her. The mother was left behind, wringing her +hands in feeble lamentation.</p> + +<p>‘I hope to goodness this is not the beginning of an illness,’ she +thought selfishly, ‘for it will ruin all my plans if Fenella goes and +loses her good looks just as she requires them most.’</p> + +<p>Presently she heard Dr Metcalfe’s footstep descending the stairs again, +and waited near the door in expectation of his entering to give her +further information about her daughter. But he passed her landing and +walked straight out of the house.</p> + +<p>‘Such extraordinary behaviour,’ as Mrs Barrington said to her servant +a few <span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>minutes later; ‘just as if I had no concern in the matter, and +wasn’t even the girl’s mother! But what did he say upstairs, Bennett? +Is this fainting fit a mere accident, or is it likely to occur again? I +shall go mad if she takes to having them as a regular thing.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, ma’am! It won’t be as bad as that; but I’m bound to say the +doctor looked grave about it, and he’ll see Miss Fenella the first +thing to-morrow morning. It was terrible to watch her come-to, ma’am. +I thought she was going out of her mind. But the doctor give her a +powerful sleeping draught, and she dropped off like a child. But I +don’t think he likes the looks of her at all.’</p> + +<p>‘It is <i>I</i> that shall go out of my mind with all this worry,’ +cried Mrs Barrington. ‘However, I don’t believe she <i>can</i> be +really ill with that lovely colour, and I daresay Dr Metcalfe is making +all the fuss he can over it, just to run up a bill. It’s the way with +those doctors—once get <span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>into their hands, and you never get out again.’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid I must go back to Miss Fenella now, ma’am,’ said Bennett; +‘for the doctor’s orders are that she’s not to be left for a minute, +and she’s to stay in bed till after he’s seen her to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Barrington petulantly. ‘I knew how it would +be. I’m to lose <i>you</i> now, and wait on myself, I suppose. Oh! +These children! These children! What a plague and a nuisance they are, +to be sure!’</p> + +<p>But the affectionate mother enjoyed a good night’s rest, +notwithstanding her anxiety, although her servant sat beside her +daughter’s bed until the morning. The report she then made to her +mistress was anything but reassuring.</p> + +<p>‘I can’t make Miss Fenella out at all, ma’am,’ she said; ‘she opened +her eyes a good while since, but she’s never turned in her bed, nor +spoken a word to me. She looks <i>fixed</i> like, and I do hope the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>doctor will keep his promise to come and see her.’</p> + +<p>The doctor did keep his promise, and at ten o’clock Bennett tapped +again on her mistress’s door.</p> + +<p>‘Dr Metcalfe is here, if you please, ma’am, and he’s seen Miss Fenella, +and he’d like to speak a few words with you before he leaves the house.’</p> + +<p>‘Very well, Bennett; just tie a ribbon in my hair, and give me that +blue shawl. You must tell the doctor I’m <i>en deshabille</i>, you +know; but I’ve been too terribly anxious about the dear child to think +of my dress.’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington repeated something to the same effect when the doctor +entered her room, but was unable to extract a compliment from him in +return. He took all her excuses literally.</p> + +<p>‘You have every cause for anxiety, madam,’ he answered gravely, ‘and +I am afraid that what I have to tell you will increase instead of +diminish it. I am <span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>sorry to say that I find Miss Barrington in a very +unsatisfactory state of health. I believe she has spent this summer +away from you?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I sent her to Ines-cedwyn, a most charming place in Wales, under +the charge of my own maid, who was formerly her nurse. I thought +the dear girl required sea air, and so I forced myself to make the +sacrifice of parting with her. But it is one of the healthiest spots in +the world. Surely she cannot have contracted any illness there?’</p> + +<p>‘Miss Barrington’s present attack, madam, is more mental than +physical,’ replied Dr Metcalfe, ‘but I can tell you the cause from +which it has sprung. You must not think I am meddling with your private +affairs in speaking plainly, but I consider it my duty to let you know +the truth.’</p> + +<p>He posed himself opposite to her, with one arm leaning on the +mantelpiece, whilst he entered into a detail of Fenella’s symptoms.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span></p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington listened to him in silence—an angry and indignant +silence—feeling with each word he uttered that the fabric of her hopes +crumbled into smaller atoms. Fenella with <i>une affaire de cœur;</i> +the girl for whom she had formed such ambitious projects, breaking +her heart for some nameless nobody in the wilds of Wales; <i>her</i> +daughter, struck to the ground by some stupid flirtation that had +made itself patent to the eyes of the first stranger she had called +in to prescribe a soothing draught. It was too disappointing, too +humiliating. At the idea of it Mrs Barrington went pale beneath her +rage, and trembled from head to foot.</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid I have wounded you,’ said Dr Metcalfe kindly, as he +concluded, ‘but it was impossible to help doing so. As her mother, I +considered it only right that I should speak openly to you.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! Of course—of course,’ stammered Mrs Barrington; and then she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>added, ‘I was just thinking of taking her abroad.’</p> + +<p>The doctor caught at the idea.</p> + +<p>‘The very best thing you could do for her, Mrs Barrington. You must +be aware that in these cases change of air and scene, and a little +seclusion—unless, indeed, any attachment the young lady may have +formed might be brought to a happy issue instead. But I am sure I need +not hint at such alternatives to you. Your own heart and your affection +for your daughter will prove better guides in such a contingency than +any advice you could receive from strangers.’</p> + +<p>But all Mrs Barrington said was,—</p> + +<p>‘I conclude there will be no further need of your attendance, Dr +Metcalfe, and we shall leave town as soon as possible.’</p> + +<p>‘Certainly, madam! I had no intention of calling again. May I express a +hope of seeing you and Miss Barrington at some future time, and under +pleasanter circumstances?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + +<p>He gave her his hand as he spoke, and she thrust a fee into it.</p> + +<p>‘But it will be the last,’ she thought angrily, as he disappeared; +‘never shall he cross my threshold again after what he has said to me +to-day.’</p> + +<p>She sat for some time where the doctor had left her—too paralysed, +apparently, to move or speak. The first thing that roused her from her +reverie was the sound of the opening door. As it turned on its hinges, +Eliza Bennett’s face peeped wistfully into the room.</p> + +<p>‘Is the doctor gone, ma’am?’ she demanded.</p> + +<p>The question seemed to goad Mrs Barrington into action. She sprang to +her feet, and confronted the terrified servant with the face of a fury.</p> + +<p>‘Is the doctor gone?’ she repeated. ‘Yes, he <i>is</i> gone; and do +you know what he came to tell me? That you have been faithless to the +trust I reposed in you, and that whilst I thought that <span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>wretched girl +upstairs was safe under your care, you let her go rushing all over the +place by herself just as she chose, and making love to every cockney +tourist that came in her way.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>I</i>, ma’am—<i>I</i>?’ gasped Eliza Bennett, panic-stricken by +the accusation. ’Oh, don’t go to say that of <i>me</i>, ma’am, when +you know I was laid up in my bed, unable to lift hand or foot for five +weeks at a stretch, and knew no more of what was going on outside than +the babe unborn.’</p> + +<p>‘Then you <i>ought</i> to have known,’ thundered her mistress, ‘or set +some one else to look after her! You’ve behaved most treacherously to +me, and all the harm that comes of this will be laid at your door.’</p> + +<p>‘But what has Miss Fenella done, ma’am? I’m sure if a young lady like +her is not to be trusted on a beach alone, who is?’</p> + +<p>‘What has she done? It is you who <span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>should be able to answer that +question. Whom did she meet? Who did she see down there? What man has +dared to make love to her? That is what I want to know.’</p> + +<p>Bennett’s thoughts flew at once to the gentleman in the Beach +Bungalow—the letters and the locket; but she considered it her duty to +Fenella to stand firm to her ground.</p> + +<p>‘Nobody, ma’am,’ she answered; ‘that <i>I’m</i> sure of! How +<i>should</i> there be, when Ines-cedwyn’s such a lonely place? We were +the only visitors there this summer.’</p> + +<p>‘You’d better first hear what Dr Metcalfe has told me,’ replied her +mistress; and she repeated the statement of the medical man for the +benefit of the servant.</p> + +<p>Bennett’s face became as white as chalk during the narration.</p> + +<p>‘Will you still insist in maintaining that you know nothing of the +matter?’ demanded Mrs Barrington angrily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p> + +<p>‘I don’t believe it’s true—and I know nothing about it,’ repeated the +servant stoutly.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll see if the girl is as obstinate as you are,’ exclaimed her +mistress, darting upstairs.</p> + +<p>Bennett, fearing the scene that might ensue between the mother and +daughter, followed her quickly, and reached the spot as soon as she did.</p> + +<p>Fenella was standing in the centre of the room, supporting herself +with one hand against the iron railing at the foot of the bed. The +dressing-gown she wore was not whiter than her complexion; her hair +was tossed in the wildest confusion over her breast and shoulders; her +grey eyes had a scared and piteous look in them, as if she had just +awakened from some hideous dream. It was evident that she had guessed, +or overheard, the substance of the communication which Dr Metcalfe had +made to her mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington advanced upon the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>trembling girl with the air of a +virago.</p> + +<p>‘Well!’ she exclaimed, in a shrill, coarse voice (it is astonishing how +coarse the most delicate and apparently well-bred women can be when +their tempers are raised), ‘are you not ashamed to stand there staring +at me in that brazen way, when the whole town is ringing with your +disgrace? Do you know what the doctor has told me? Oh, don’t pretend to +shrink, and be extra modest, after the bold manner in which you have +been conducting yourself. You’re a nice young lady to be trusted to go +about alone, flirting with every low fisherman you may meet upon the +beach! Tell me the name of the man who dared to make love to you at +Ines-cedwyn, you innocent piece of goods! You—’</p> + +<p>But Fenella did not speak. She continued still and rigid as a figure of +marble, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy.</p> + +<p>‘Do you hear what I say to you?’ screamed Mrs Barrington. ‘Tell me the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>name of the man who presumed to make love to my daughter (though he +never would have done so if you hadn’t given him encouragement), and I +will have him whipped through the streets like a hound. Henry Wilson +would do it for me, if he were not a cur himself—or Colonel Ellerman, +only he’s dead. Good heavens! What did your father mean by dying in +that stupid manner, and leaving us to look after such things for +ourselves? Why haven’t we a man to fight our battles for us? But you +shall tell me the name of that fellow, or I’ll shake it out of you.’</p> + +<p>Still the girl’s mouth did not unclose, and Bennett, who was watching +her anxiously, saw her white teeth press upon her under lip until she +made the blood come. It was evident that she was resolved to keep her +own secret.</p> + +<p>‘Oh! You’re obstinate, are you?’ exclaimed Mrs Barrington, ‘and you +will try to defy me! You think you can bring all this trouble upon +our heads with impunity; <span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>that you can go tumbling about the house +and fainting, and being threatened with a brain attack, for the sake +of some disgraceful love affair that you ought to be ashamed to think +of; and I’m to pass it over, and take you to my arms again, and say +you’re a very good girl! I’ll tell you <i>what</i> I say, and that is +that you’re a born idiot! Just as I was going to take you to Paris +or Brussels, too, and introduce you to society! And now, you may be +ill for months, you ungrateful, wicked girl! But I am not going to be +fooled by you! You shall tell the name of that man, if you die for it.’</p> + +<p>She advanced threateningly upon the passive figure of Fenella as she +spoke, and Bennett laid her hand upon her arm.</p> + +<p>‘She’s really ill, ma’am,’ she whispered. ‘Pray be careful what you do +to her; you may bring on another attack.’</p> + +<p>But her mistress was in no mood to accept advice. She shook off Eliza +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>Bennett’s touch as if it had been that of a scorpion.</p> + +<p>‘Leave me alone! How dare you interfere?’ she said angrily. ‘I shall +deal with my own daughter as I choose;’ and then she turned again +upon the girl. ‘Do as I order you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me the name +of your lover at once, or I’ll strike you!’ and, lifting her arm, she +brought it down with her utmost force against the white, sad face that +confronted her.</p> + +<p>Fenella did not utter a word of entreaty or remonstrance. She only +shivered violently as the blow descended, and, sitting down upon the +nearest chair, passed her own hand in a sort of wondering way across +her eyes and forehead.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Lor’, ma’am! You do frighten me!’ said Bennett. ‘Let her be, my +dear lady, at least for the present. She ain’t in a fit state to listen +to you; indeed, she ain’t!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p> + +<p>‘It’s evident whose side <i>you’re</i> on,’ replied her mistress +witheringly; ‘but you’ll do the girl no good by your partisanship, and +that I can tell you. She has behaved in a manner to disgrace us all; +and if she were dead and cold in her coffin, it would be the best thing +that could happen to her.’</p> + +<p>Then, for the first time, Fenella found her voice.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, mother! Mother!’ she wailed, ‘pity me.’</p> + +<p>But she might as well have appealed to a stone.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Pity you</i>!’ repeated Mrs Barrington, with a sneer. +‘<i>Despise</i> you, you mean. You won’t find many to pity you for +having ruined all your prospects in life. They will only laugh at and +ridicule you for being such a fool. But if this lover of yours is a +gentleman, and can be called to account for his treachery to you, he +shall. If you want me to pity <span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>you, you must tell me his name; and, as +your mother, I command you to do so.’</p> + +<p>But Fenella had again relapsed into silence. Eliza Bennett tried the +effect of coaxing.</p> + +<p>‘Come, my dear,’ she said; ‘I daresay it’ll be hard-like, but you’d +better confide everything to your mamma. She’s your best friend, Miss +Fenella, and it’s useless trying to keep the truth back from her.’</p> + +<p>The girl shook her head.</p> + +<p>‘It wouldn’t be any good,’ she said simply.</p> + +<p>‘Nonsense!’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘A child like you is no judge of +such matters, and, as Bennett tells you, I am your best friend. Come, +Fenella, tell me this man’s name, and if things can be set right +between you, they shall. I am sorry I slapped you, but you really are +too provoking. However, I’ll look over everything that has <span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>passed +between us, if you will place confidence in me now.’</p> + +<p>And Mrs Barrington, who was intensely curious in the matter, lowered +her head so that her daughter might whisper in her ear.</p> + +<p>‘It would be useless,’ repeated Fenella, in a low voice of pain.</p> + +<p>‘Why useless? Your obstinacy surpasses anything I have ever seen for a +girl of your age. I tell you it is <i>not</i> useless. What makes you +persist that it is so?’</p> + +<p>‘Because—because <i>he is married</i>,’ said Fenella, with an effort +that seemed to drag at her very heart-strings.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Married</i>!’ screamed Mrs Barrington. ‘The disgraceful, +dishonourable creature! And <i>you</i>, you shameless girl! What did +you mean by letting a married man make love to you? I never heard of +such abominable iniquity in all my life before. Here! Have I lived +to the age of thirty years, or a little over, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>travelled about +the world, and seen all sorts of people, and it is left for my own +daughter, a child of sixteen, to initiate me into the horrors of vice! +Bennett, get me a glass of wine! Get me brandy! Get me anything that +may help me to drown this terrible remembrance! Or, stay! Let me leave +the room. I cannot breathe this atmosphere any longer! <i>A married +man</i>! That I should have lived to hear such a thing! I, who have had +but one aim throughout my sorrowful life—to keep myself and my child +unspotted from the world. May Heaven forgive you, Fenella!’</p> + +<p>And with this solemn adjuration, Mrs Barrington swept out of the room.</p> + +<p>As soon as she had quite disappeared, Eliza Bennett advanced to the +side of her young mistress. Fenella was seated where her mother had +left her—still, white, and silent, with her piteous grey eyes staring +at the opposite wall. The <span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>servant laid her rough hand on the girl’s +soft fingers.</p> + +<p>‘Pray to God, Miss Fenella,’ she said gently. ‘He loves you, my dear; +He will hear you. Pray to Him, and maybe prayer will bring you comfort.’</p> + +<p>Fenella lifted her eyes to those of the old woman wearily.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Is</i> there a God, nurse?’ she asked. ‘<i>I doubt it</i>. The +reverend mother in the convent used to tell me to pray to the good +God, and He would protect me from all harm; and I have prayed to Him +regularly, morning and evening, since. But I think He must have stayed +behind in the convent, nurse. I don’t think He came out into the +world—with me.’</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="007" style="max-width: 39.5625em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/007.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="008" style="max-width: 87.9375em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/008.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV"> + CHAPTER IV. + <br> + <span>OVER.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘She had fallen in her own sight—not because he</div> + <div class="verse indent0">had loved her, but because he had left her.’</div> + <div class="right"><i>Ariadne</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_i.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">In</span> the heart of the Wallon there lies a little village called Sainte +Pauvrette, which is a mass of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs in +summer, and a mass of snow and ice in winter. It possesses no baths, +no mineral springs, no objects of historical interest—nothing, in +fact, wherewith to tempt a visitor except its climate and its flowers. +Tourists who know something of the country, and wish to get out of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>the +beaten track of overdone cathedrals and exhausted picture-galleries, go +to Sainte Pauvrette in the warm weather, when the hillside is covered +with lemon-scented thyme and feathery sorrel and ruddy clover, and the +surrounding country is redolent of lilies and roses and honeysuckle; +but no one ever dreams of remaining there throughout the winter. When +the snow falls, Sainte Pauvrette is left to the few peasants who till +its fields and pray in its dirty little chapel. The wooden building +that calls itself a hotel is boarded up and left to take care of +itself; and the residents who have rooms to let, lock the doors and +retreat to the lower regions, burrowing like moles until the sunshine +shall tempt them to the upper world again.</p> + +<p>But one day not two months after the events recorded in the last +chapter, the inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette were astonished by the +arrival of two English ladies, who, with their maid, took up their +quarters <span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>in one of the small furnished houses that had just been +vacated by the summer visitors, and appeared disposed to settle +themselves down there for the winter. The season of Sainte Pauvrette +was over; the autumn, with its usual risk of fever and malaria, was +close at hand; the rooms for hire had been cleaned and shut up for +the next six months—and the people of Sainte Pauvrette would as soon +have expected their patron saint to appear among them, and demand +lodgings for the winter, as to see any more visitors. The circumstance +was so unusual and startling that it caused endless talk amongst +the villagers, and Madame Regnier (who was the lucky person to let +her house to the new-comers) began to think she must be under the +especial care of Providence, and that a miracle had been performed in +her behalf. But the strangers—Mrs. Barrington, Fenella, and Eliza +Bennett—kept entirely to themselves, and did not appear disposed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>to +satisfy the curiosity of their neighbours. The tradespeople, who were +chiefly small farmers, selling their own milk, bread, vegetables, +and poultry, tried their best to extract some information from Eliza +Bennett, but she was invulnerable. Either she could not or she would +not understand what they said to her, and never did more than haggle +with them over the prices of their merchandise, and carry off her +bargains in her market basket. But the ladies were often seen about the +village, and many were the conjectures made as to the reason of their +sojourn there.</p> + +<p>The young lady was sick. Sainte Pauvrette decided that point very +speedily. And it was supposed that her mother had brought her to the +village for the sake of her health. The peasants soon grew to recognise +and smile at the sweet, sad face of Fenella as she passed amongst them, +and to talk of the girl who sat sometimes motionless for hours <span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>on the +hillside, looking at the horizon with a weary, impassive expression +that made their hearts ache.</p> + +<p>There were rumours, too, that the mother and daughter did not get on +very well together, and Madame Jeanne, the proprietress of the wooden +hotel (whose offers of accommodation Mrs Barrington had peremptorily +refused), had a good deal to say to her neighbours on the subject of +that lady’s treatment of Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Ma foi</i>!’ she would exclaim, as she lounged against the outside +wall of her house, knitting stockings of coarse yarn, and surrounded by +a bevy of women, all knitting as if their lives depended on it,—‘<i>ma +foi</i>!’ but I wouldn’t be the daughter of that Englishwoman for a +great deal. She has a tongue the length of a cow’s tail; you may hear +it from one end of Sainte Pauvrette to the other. And it’s my belief +that when she gets into a rage, she beats her!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> + +<p>‘You don’t mean to say that!’ cried her neighbours, as they drew closer.</p> + +<p>Madame Jeanne nodded her head oracularly.</p> + +<p>‘But I do! The screams that came from that house the other night were +fearful. You might have thought there was murder being committed there, +and so I told the English servant—bah! What an ogre she is! With never +a smile nor a pleasant look on her face—and she said her young lady +was subject to hysteria. But I don’t believe that. The mother beats +her! Take my word for it.’</p> + +<p>‘The young lady certainly looks very sad,’ interposed another woman. +‘She has the face of an angel, and the air of a martyr. I was watching +her yesterday morning. She sat for two hours on the bench by the ruined +chapel without moving. And in this cold weather too! It is not natural +that a young girl should neither jump nor run. But I do not think she +could be merry if she tried. She has a face full of care and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>sorrow. +And she cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen years old.’</p> + +<p>‘It is <i>Madame sa Mère</i> that gives her that face,’ rejoined Madame +Jeanne. ‘She is a fury, a virago, a devil, that woman, and capable of +anything that is bad.’</p> + +<p>‘She pays the rent regularly, and they are quiet and respectable +tenants,’ said Madame Regnier, who was naturally on Mrs Barrington’s +side, ‘and you only spread these tales about them, Madame Jeanne, +because they would not take rooms in your wooden hotel. And they were +quite right too! It is draughty enough in winter to kill a delicate +<i>demoiselle</i> like Miss Barrington. But you have no right to speak +against them on that account; and if you say more, I will inform Père +Antoine of your behaviour, and have you openly rebuked for scandal.’</p> + +<p>‘Bah, pig!’ cried Madame Jeanne, opening her black eyes at Madame +Regnier, with a <i>moue</i> of disdain; ‘go to—! Tell the priest and +whom you will; but all <span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>your talking will not alter matters. Everybody +in Sainte Pauvrette has heard the quarrels that go on in that house! It +was only the other day that mademoiselle ran out of it bareheaded, with +a great angry red mark across her face, and would have traversed the +village so, had not the ogre servant appeared and pulled her indoors +again. They ill-treat <i>la petite</i>, I tell you! She is sick and +ailing, poor child—consumptive, most likely, like all those English; +and they make her miserable. I have seen the tears pouring down her +face like rain. It is a pity she has no father to defend her! A man is +bad enough when he takes a spite against you, and knocks you about; +but, <i>ma foi</i>! he is nothing to a woman. A bad woman is a devil, +and nothing less, and your Madame Barrington is a bad woman, and I +say it!—eh, Madame Regnier? You had better go at once and tell Père +Antoine so, and I’ll repeat it to his face. What d’ye make of that?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + +<p>‘She pays her rent regularly,’ grumbled Madame Regnier, ‘so it’s not my +place to speak against her. And as for the rest, Madame Jeanne, we must +each think what we choose about it.’</p> + +<p>Whatever they chose to think could hardly have been worse than the +reality. The autumn and winter months which she passed in Sainte +Pauvrette were such a tumultuous mixture of anger, strife, reproaches, +and hopeless misery, that Fenella Barrington, through all the rest of +her weary life, could never look back upon them without a shudder—as a +man who has passed days and nights of suspense tossing about the cruel +ocean, living in the very shadow of death, and beaten upon by all the +storms of heaven, might look back and wonder he still lived to tell the +tale.</p> + +<p>Her mother’s conduct to her at this period was the very refinement +of cruelty. Had she only struck the wretched girl—as she too often +did to satisfy her own <span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>feelings of rage and disappointment—it would +have been as nothing compared to the sneers and reproaches and abuse +cast at the absent, which were so much harder to bear. And Fenella +could not say a word in defence of herself or him. She was condemned +to sit and hear it all in silence, whilst she pressed her hands upon +her aching bosom where the image of Geoffrey Doyne (though shattered +into fragments) was still cherished as the holiest thing she had ever +possessed.</p> + +<p>How often, whilst the villagers of Sainte Pauvrette watched her sitting +on the hillside, motionless for hours, she was longing to die—praying, +in a sort of half-conscious way, that God would send down His Angel of +Death to take her out of a world which had opened upon a scene of so +much perplexity and trouble for her.</p> + +<p>But Fenella hardly knew what she really wished for. The present and +the future were alike blanks. All she knew for certain was that +Geoffrey Doyne had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>passed out of her life—that he belonged to another +woman—that she should never see him again, nor hear his voice; and +the mere fact of this knowledge was too wonderful a mystery for her +to fathom. For she did not even know how it had happened, or why. Not +a line, not a sound, had reached her since she had read the public +announcement of his marriage; and sometimes she would wonder, in a +vague, childish way, if it had been all a dream, and pinch her arm, +with a sad smile, to see if she were real. But then remembrance would +rush back upon her—rush back with a feeling of shame and horror that +would flood her pale cheeks with crimson, and retreat as suddenly, +leaving them white with despair.</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett felt deeply for her young mistress during her illness. +Though the people of Sainte Pauvrette found her curt and harsh of +speech, she only assumed that manner to cover her emotion. She could +hardly trust herself to think <span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>of Fenella, far less to speak of her. +Had she been left to her own devices, she would have been the tenderest +of nurses and comforters to the forlorn and unhappy girl, but Mrs +Barrington would not permit it. She had her own reasons for keeping up +a sense of her ingratitude and folly in Fenella’s breast. She wanted to +force her daughter to throw off the disappointment and depression under +which she laboured, and make her thankful to rush back into the world +as soon as she was strong enough to do so.</p> + +<p>She tried to explain her motives to Eliza Bennett, but though the +servant was afraid (in consequence) to show all the sympathy she felt +for her young mistress, she could not approve of the harshness Mrs +Barrington displayed towards her. She often attempted to stand between +the mother and daughter on the occasion of those sad quarrels, which +had made themselves patent to the ears of Sainte Pauvrette; but she +found that her interference <span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>only made matters worse, and her best plan +was to preserve neutrality.</p> + +<p>One terrible night, however, when the frosts of December and January +had covered the country with a pall of white, and the snow lay several +feet deep in the lower parts of the village, an altercation—which +commenced (on Mrs Barrington’s part) with covert sneers and words of +contempt, and culminated in loud tones of anger and several smart +blows—had nearly proved the end of poor Fenella’s troubles.</p> + +<p>She stood before her mother, half fainting from fear, and without a +word to say in self-defence, until the indignities offered her, and the +abuse cast upon one whom (though unnamed) she could not hear reviled +with impunity, sent all the blood in her body rushing to her brain, and +deprived her of the mastery over her senses. With a loud cry to God +for mercy, and before Mrs Barrington (being alone) could prevent <span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>the +action, Fenella had flown bareheaded from the house, and flung herself +into a sluggish stream, half ice and half water, which ran in front of +it.</p> + +<p>Then Mrs Barrington was thoroughly alarmed, and screamed to Eliza +Bennett for assistance; and all the neighbours were roused by the +disturbance, and brought lanterns and lighted pine torches to help in +the search.</p> + +<p>They had not to go far. The senseless figure of Fenella was soon +found—thrown violently across the mixture of ice and muddy water of +which the winter stream was composed; and being wrapped up in a blanket +by Bennett, was carried back to the house and placed in bed. But the +inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette had plenty to say of the occurrence +afterwards, and Madame Jeanne was not backward in giving her opinion on +the matter.</p> + +<p>‘Did I not tell you what that Englishwoman was?’ she exclaimed next +day, when it was openly announced in the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>village that the poor young +lady was lying dangerously ill of a brain fever. ‘A pig! a devil! For +all the fine yellow curls that she keeps in a box, and the pretty +pink colour she would have us believe to be her own! She has used +that poor <i>demoiselle</i> shamefully ever since she came here, and +now she wants to kill her—that is my belief! Else why does not she +have a doctor to see her in this fever; and why has she sent away the +ogre, Mademoiselle Elise, just when she wants her help most? Oh, but +you need not stare at me in that manner! I only tell the truth, and +Madame Regnier cannot deny it, although she is so anxious to make out +her tenant to be everything that is good. Mademoiselle the ogre left +Sainte Pauvrette this morning by ten o’clock. I met her walking on the +road to Arniers to catch the <i>diligence</i>, with her large basket on +her arm; and when I asked her the reason of her journey, she replied +she had business to do for her mistress in Arniers. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>But she has not +returned, <i>mes dames</i>—she has not returned; and meanwhile <i>la +belle petite</i> lies in bed with an attack of the brain, and no doctor +is sent for to attend her; and Collette, who has been engaged to do +their housework, is not permitted to go into the room, of which the +door is kept locked by her mother. But if she dies,’ continued Madame +Jeanne, with a threatening shake of the head,—‘if that beautiful young +lady dies, without help or assistance, and after all the cruelty she +has been subjected to, <i>I</i> shall say it is murder, for one—let +who will be the other.’</p> + +<p>Meanwhile what the irate hotel-keeper said was true. Eliza Bennett had +gone that morning to Arniers; more, she had crossed to England. She and +her mistress had been closeted all night with the unfortunate girl who +had been rescued from the mud and the ice, and who only returned to +consciousness to fall into a burning fever, and rave deliriously of the +troubles which had occasioned it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> + +<p>‘This is the climax,’ said Mrs Barrington, with a look of despair, +and as if the climax had not been in a great measure brought on by +herself. ‘We must lock the door of her room, Bennett, and let no one +but ourselves pass in and out. She talks in French, and I would not +have these ignorant creatures overhear what she says for any mortal +consideration.’</p> + +<p>The two women consulted long and earnestly on what was best to be done +in the matter; and when the morning dawned, the key unturned in the +lock of Fenella’s door, and Eliza Bennett, creeping out of it, with a +white and troubled face, went up to her own room, and attired herself +in her walking things.</p> + +<p>In the space of a few minutes her mistress followed her, with a large +basket on her arm.</p> + +<p>‘You will travel as quickly as ever you can,’ she said, as she placed +some money in her hands, ‘and return to us as soon as possible. This +fever is sure to abate <span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>in a few hours, and I shall not keep Fenella +here one day longer than is absolutely necessary.’</p> + +<p>‘Return to you, my dear mistress!’ exclaimed the servant; ‘why, what +else should I do? Am I not taking this journey entirely for your sake +and that of the dear child! Keep her as cool as possible, ma’am, and +don’t let her have anything but slops and fever drinks till I come +back. I will be with you at the end of a week again, without fail.’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington sat down and began to cry feebly.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know what I shall do without you,’ she wailed; ‘it’s horrible +to sit and listen to her ravings and reproaches; but I am sure it is +best that you should go to England at once, and then the business will +be over. But you are a dear, good, valuable creature Bennett, and I +shall count the minutes till you come back again.’</p> + +<p>She kissed the servant on both cheeks as she spoke, and Eliza Bennett +went on <span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>her way rejoicing. She crossed to Dover the same day, and +was at Ines-cedwyn by the following evening. It was evident that the +business she had been entrusted to transact for her mistress was, in +some manner, concerned with her brother Benjamin, and the place where +Fenella had made that fatal acquaintance in the ruined bungalow, which +brought ill-luck to all who meddled with it. There was no necessity +for Eliza Bennett to remain in Ines-cedwyn after she had obtained the +information which she came to seek. She was anxious to rejoin her +mistress, and the associations of her birthplace had become distasteful +to her.</p> + +<p>She had adhered faithfully, however, to the business upon which Mrs +Barrington had sent her to England, and been careful not to say a word +about her young lady’s illness, or the cause. She was, therefore, +considerably startled the next morning, as she was preparing to leave +the cottage, to hear Martha say,—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> + +<p>‘By the way, ’Liza, do you remember the talk as there was here last +summer about Miss Fenella having got a beau? Well, I expect that young +feller’s bin hangin’ about here again in hopes of gettin’ another +sight of ’er. <i>I</i> don’t know ’im, of course, no more than Adam, +but Tugwell the boatman says he has met ’im several times in Lynwern; +and the day before yesterday, when I came back from Freshpool (where I +had gone about some eggs), my servant girl told me as a gentleman had +called to see me, and seemed quite put out like by my being from home. +He was a fine-lookin’ feller too, the girl says—tall and ’ansome; and +it may have been ’im, and it may not, but it seems likely—now don’t +it?’</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett turned white and red under this exordium, as if she had +been accused of having a ‘<i>beau</i>’ herself.</p> + +<p>‘It ain’t of much consequence one way or the other,’ she replied, +trying to speak indifferently; ‘my young lady looks higher <span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>than that +comes to. You don’t suppose she would think twice of a beau as she +picked up on the Ines-cedwyn sands?’</p> + +<p>‘Lor’, no! In course not; only I thought I might as well mention it to +you. Well, good-bye, ’Liza, and thank you for thinking of us in this +matter, and thank your mistress, too, for the recommendation. And I +shall hear from the parties, I suppose, in a few days. I’m glad to have +’ad this peep at you, though you don’t look over and above well, to +my mind; but I ’opes you’ll get over safe to your ladies, and that it +won’t be long afore you’re all back in England again.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! We shall be home in the summer, never fear! Good-bye to you, +Martha,’ said Eliza Bennett, as she set off to walk to Lynwern.</p> + +<p>She plodded along the country road, over ruts hardened by the ice and +snow, with her head bent down upon her bosom, and her mind filled with +her sister-in-law’s communication.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> + +<p>‘I’d like to catch him hangin’ about any place as <i>we</i> was in,’ +she thought indignantly; ‘<i>I’d</i> let ’im know what was what—the +dirty, mean, sneaking scoundrel, to go and leave a poor girl in that +way, and cause us all this misery! I only wish I had the handling of +him! <i>I’d</i> make him pay for his whistle.’</p> + +<p>She was so absorbed in her dreams of revenge that she stumbled up +against some one in the road, before her brother Benjamin’s cottage was +out of sight, and had to draw back with a demand for pardon.</p> + +<p>‘It is of no consequence,’ replied a sweet, grave voice; ‘but I think I +am speaking to Mrs Bennett, am I not?’</p> + +<p>The woman looked up quickly. Before her stood a gentleman—young, +handsome, tall and upright—a gentleman whom she had never seen before +except by the uncertain light of the moon, but whom she recognised +at once. It was, in fact, Geoffrey Doyne; and so great in the magic +of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>beauty, and a superior station, and another sex, that, as Eliza +Bennett looked at him, all her deep-laid plans of revenge melted into +thin air.</p> + +<p>‘No, sir,’ she answered, in a voice that palpably trembled, ‘I am not +<i>Mrs</i> Bennett; I am her sister-in-law, Eliza Bennett.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Eliza Bennett</i>!’ he repeated quickly; ‘is it possible? Are you +the person—the maid—that accompanied a young lady down to Ines-cedwyn +last summer?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Eliza stoutly. (‘He’s very handsome, the +villin!’ she thought to herself, ‘and he’s got a winning way with his +tongue, drat it! But he sha’n’t get any information of her whereabouts +out of me—not if he was to drag me at the tail of four wild ’orses.’)</p> + +<p>‘Oh! Then you can tell me where she is?’ exclaimed Geoffrey Doyne +excitedly. ‘Give me her address, I beg of you, in Heaven’s name! I have +a particular—a <i>very</i> particular reason for wishing to obtain it.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<p>The servant looked him full in the face.</p> + +<p>‘And I may have a particular reason, sir, for wishing to keep it from +you; for, if I’m not greatly mistaken, you are the same gentleman that +used to meet my young lady down on the sands here last summer.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Doyne’s eyes fell before hers.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ he answered, in a low voice, ‘I am the same.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, may God forgive you for it,’ said the woman, ‘for <i>I</i> +can’t. You’ve ruined her life as surely as ever a man ruined a woman! +And I brought her up from a baby; she is like my own child to me. You +might as well have killed me at the same time; I couldn’t have felt it +more,’ and Eliza Bennett caught up her woollen shawl to wipe away two +large tears that were rolling down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>At her words Geoffrey Doyne became pallid with fear.</p> + +<p>‘Killed her! Ruined her!’ he repeated vehemently, as he caught the +servant by <span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>the arm; ‘in God’s name tell me what you mean! Is she +ill—is she dead? What have I done? If you don’t put me out of this +suspense, I shall go mad!’</p> + +<p>They were just opposite the Beach Bungalow as he spoke. Eliza Bennett +glanced at it significantly.</p> + +<p>‘Come in here, sir,’ she said,—‘I don’t want the whole village to hear +what I’ve got to say to you—and I’ll tell you what you’ve done.’</p> + +<p>She led the way into the ruined villa, and Geoffrey Doyne followed her, +sick at heart with remorse and apprehension.</p> + +<p>‘May I make so bold, sir,’ began Eliza Bennett, as soon as they were +sheltered from observation, ‘as to ask if—so be—you’re married?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes!’ he replied; ‘I am.’</p> + +<p>‘And what’s the good, then, of your hanging about Ines-cedwyn to try +and see my young lady? What could you say to her—how could you look at +her, if you did meet?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oh, I don’t know—I cannot tell!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘Only the +separation, the silence, the want of seeing her is more than I can +bear. If you will only tell me where she is, or take a letter to her, +that I may have one word of kindness, one word of pardon in reply, I +fancy I could bear the rest with fortitude. Mrs Bennett, I ought to +have gone back to India long ago. My leave was up in the autumn, but I +got an extension, only for this—to find out her address and see her +once before I go. Then I will leave England and trouble her no more.’</p> + +<p>‘You will never get your wish through me, sir,’ said Eliza Bennett, +‘for I’ll neither tell you where she is, nor carry any notes between +you. You’ve done her enough mischief already, and you’ve put it out of +your power to do her any good. The best thing you can do now, for her +and yourself, is never to write to her nor see her any more.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> + +<p>‘But does she ever speak of me? Does she remember me?’ he demanded +eagerly.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Remember</i> you!’ echoed the servant, in a tone of contempt. ‘I +should think you’d given her enough cause to remember you, in this +life and the next too! But there are different sorts of remembrance, +sir, and if my young mistress is the lady I take her for, her best +remembrance of you will be one of hatred and of scorn!’</p> + +<p>‘I deserve it,’ he answered brokenly.</p> + +<p>‘And so you do,’ said Bennett, with the want of delicacy that usually +characterises her class, ‘and so you’ll say twice over when you’ve +heard what I’ve got to tell you.’</p> + +<p>And thereupon she gave him an account of Fenella’s mental and bodily +sufferings during the autumn and winter, sparing no detail that might +add to the colouring of the picture, and winding up with a description +of her attempt at <span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>self-destruction, and the brain fever that had +succeeded it.</p> + +<p>‘And now, what do you think of yourself, sir?’ she said, as she +concluded. ‘You’re a nice sort of gentleman, aren’t you, to ask me to +carry notes to that poor suffering angel, and rake up all her troubles +afresh, just as she has a chance maybe of getting over them. We’d never +have known your <i>name</i> even, if it hadn’t been for her delirious +ravings; but we sha’n’t forget it in a hurry, you may take your oath of +that! And don’t you attempt to come nigh her again, sir—not for the +rest of your mortal life,—for I do believe her mamma would tear you +limb from limb if you did.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Doyne during her relation had shown every symptom of the +deepest feeling. His brow had flushed darkly with shame, his nostrils +had quivered, his lips grown white, his whole frame shaken with +emotion. And now that it was concluded, all he seemed able to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>do +was to lean against the window-sill, whilst the words, ‘<i>My God! +My God</i>!’ seemed to be wrung from the very depths of his tortured +heart. His suffering was so self-evident that even Eliza Bennett could +not help pitying him.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t take on like that, sir,’ she said soothingly; ‘it won’t mend the +past, and the best thing we can all do now is to try and forget it. I +don’t know, I’m sure, as I’ve done right to tell you so much; but it’ll +be safe with you, and I thought as you ought to know what my young lady +has gone through. Maybe it will save others, for you gentlemen don’t +seem to stand at nothing when you’ve set your mind upon a thing. But I +didn’t mean to upset you like this, sir, and I beg your pardon if I’ve +gone too far.’</p> + +<p>‘No, no! I should wish to have known it,’ he said huskily; and then he +pulled out several pieces of gold from his waistcoat-pocket, and tried +to thrust <span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>them in her hand. But she put them back again proudly.</p> + +<p>‘No, Mr Doyne. I couldn’t take <i>your</i> money, thank you; not even +if I’d done anything to deserve it, which I haven’t. But I hope you’ll +give me your promise before you go never to try and write to Miss +Fenella again. Don’t make the harm you’ve done, worse, sir. You’ve got +your own lady to consider and to look after now, and you can’t do no +good to mine! Will you promise me this?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes—I promise!’ he said, in a broken voice.</p> + +<p>‘And please not to walk alongside of me to Lynwern either, sir! Meeting +of you has upset me more than I care to think of, and I’d like to be +alone for the rest of the journey.’</p> + +<p>‘I will respect your wishes,’ replied Geoffrey Doyne quickly; and then, +raising his hat, as if she had been his equal, he left the ruined +bungalow, and strode along <span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>the cliffs in the opposite direction to +Lynwern.</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett looked after him for a few moments before she pursued her +own way.</p> + +<p>‘Well, he may be a villin, but he’s a fine-looking gentleman,’ she +thought as she dried her eyes, ‘and they would have made a handsome +couple. What a thousand pities it is that Miss Fenella couldn’t have +him. But there! It’s always the way in this world. Them as ought to +come together, don’t; and them as ’ates each other like poison, is tied +for life. The more I sees of marriage, the more thankful I am as I was +never tempted into it!’</p> + +<p>She pursued her road to Lynwern after this, and proceeded on her +journey back to Sainte Pauvrette. And a few hours later Geoffrey Doyne +followed her to London, and walked into the presence of his wife. They +were living at an hotel, preparatory to going back to India. There was +no lack of love on the part of Mrs Geoffrey <span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>Doyne towards her husband, +and (except when dark thoughts of Fenella Barrington interposed between +them) he usually returned her ebullitions of affection with a certain +degree of interest. It is difficult for a young and ardent nature not +to evince some feeling when clasped in the arms of a pretty woman who +has every right to expect an adequate return. And Geoffrey Doyne had a +very affectionate disposition. His fault was that he loved too much, +not too little. He was passionate, moreover, and easily moved; and to +be caressed, and flattered, and made much of, was almost a necessity +to him. But on this occasion his wife found all her artifices to +attract his notice, failures. He had been absent nearly a week, on +some business of which she had not the faintest idea; and yet when he +returned home, instead of being glad to see her again, and anxious to +hear what she had been doing in his absence, he was morose, gloomy, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>dejected, complained of every dish that appeared on the dinner-table, +and scarcely spoke a dozen words to her during the evening. Had she +indulged his mood and left him to himself, she would have been rewarded +by seeing the cloud gradually pass away (at all events, to outward +view), but Jessie did not understand how to treat her husband.</p> + +<p>That phantom of a former love, which he had once mentioned to her, +was ever coming between them now, and she was always quick to ascribe +his varying moods to regret that he had married her. For six months +they had been husband and wife, but they were no nearer each other in +love or confidence or friendship than they had been at first. Geoffrey +accepted her attentions to him, and that was all.</p> + +<p>Women are very apt to imagine that the possession of the beloved object +is <i>everything</i>, and that they can bear the idea of a rival better +if they know him to be, beyond all dispute, their own. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>They too often +live to find out they have deceived themselves. To be married to a +person you love, but who does not love you, is very much like trying to +grasp a bubble—each time your fingers close upon it you will find them +still unsatisfied and empty.</p> + +<p>‘What is the matter, Geoffrey?’ demanded Jessie, as he thrust away the +wine decanters and leant back moodily in his chair. ‘I never saw any +one so disagreeable as you have made yourself to-night. If this is the +effect of having a holiday, I should say you had better remain at home +for the future. Where have you been?’</p> + +<p>‘It would not interest you to know,’ Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, that is as good as saying that you don’t intend to tell me! +Just as when you receive a letter and put it into your pocket +without showing it to me, and declare it is on business that I can’t +understand.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps it is!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> + +<p>‘But I have a right to ask where you’ve been, and whom you’ve seen, +Geoffrey; and if you refuse to tell me, I shall think the very worst.’</p> + +<p>‘That will only hurt yourself, Jessie. Aren’t you content with having +married me, with knowing that, wherever I go, you have a right to +demand to follow? And can’t you let me enjoy a few hours’ liberty +without pestering to ascertain exactly where I have spent them?’</p> + +<p>‘No, I can’t! Because I always suspect you go where that other +girl lives (the girl you told me of, you remember); and I always +<i>shall</i> suspect it when you go away alone in this mysterious +manner, as long as ever I live. I know when you are thinking of her, +too—when you pucker up your eyebrows, Geoffrey, and look gloomy, and +speak in that horrible cross way; and you make me miserable—you know +you do.’</p> + +<p>‘You make yourself miserable, you mean. However, if what you say is +true, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>don’t recall her memory by mentioning the subject. I have +already told you it is an unpleasant one to me.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! Because you wish you had married her instead of me; and you +get wretched when you think of it. But it is most unfair of you to go +and see her, behind my back; and everybody would say the same.’</p> + +<p>‘I have not been to see her,’ replied Geoffrey, with visible annoyance.</p> + +<p>‘But you think of her—you cannot deny it.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I <i>do</i> think of her! A man has, not absolute control over +his thoughts.’</p> + +<p>‘A pretty confession for a married man to make!’ pouted Jessie. ‘Why +don’t you follow it up by saying that you love her still?’</p> + +<p>The young man was fairly roused by this time.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t deny it,’ he answered petulantly. ‘I do love her still.’</p> + +<p>‘And I suppose you’ll end by running <span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>away with her, and leaving me to +go back to papa in Blenheim Square! It is shameful, scandalous! And she +must be a wicked, vile creature to encourage you to forget your duty in +this way.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Doyne rose from his chair, and struck his hand upon the table +with a force that made the glasses ring.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t you dare to speak of her in such terms before me,’ he said +angrily. ‘She is no more vile nor wicked than yourself. She is as pure +and good a girl as ever walked God’s earth, and you are the only person +on whom there is any necessity to call “shame.” You chose to hold me +to my promise of marriage, when you knew that my heart was no longer +mine to give you; and, therefore, the consequences must be on your own +head. I <i>do</i> love that girl you mention, earnestly, faithfully, +affectionately, and I <i>shall</i> love her to my life’s end. There! +You wished for the truth, and you have it. You exacted the payment of +my bond to the last ounce of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>flesh. But you can’t have the blood, +Jessie—<i>my heart’s blood</i>. That belongs to another, and ever will +do so. And now, if you wish to preserve the peace, you will drop this +subject once and for ever, as it can never raise anything but strife +between us.’</p> + +<p>This was all the satisfaction that she obtained from him, and a few +weeks after they were on their way together to rejoin his regiment in +India.</p> + +<p>About the same time Eliza Bennett led Fenella out for her first walk in +the open air. The girl, although much pulled down by her illness, was +on the high road to recovery, but she did not appear to have regained +her spirits with her strength. The little Wallon children ran out of +the cottages as she passed, with bunches of violets and primroses in +their hands, and Fenella smiled sweetly at them as she accepted their +offerings. But the smile was as sad as ever, and the grey eyes still +looked wistful and scared; and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>as, accompanied by her nurse, she +dragged her steps up to the little churchyard, the peasant women shook +their heads at one another, and said she would be carried there yet.</p> + +<p>‘You mustn’t sit down, my dear,’ said Eliza Bennett; ‘it’s too cold +for that yet. But you’ve done bravely for a first attempt, and we +shall have you stout and strong upon your legs again before many days +is past. You will try and leave off fretting now, my dear young lady, +won’t you? for your own sake, and your mamma’s, and all as love you.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, nurse, I will try.’</p> + +<p>‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk, Miss Fenella, and you’re too young +and pretty to have your whole life wasted for a first mistake. You must +try and look at what’s past in a sensible light, my dear; and you’ll +live to laugh over these times, I warrant you.’</p> + +<p>The girl shivered, but she answered in the same words as before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, nurse, I will try.’</p> + +<p>Then Bennett lowered her voice.</p> + +<p>‘Miss Fenella dear, you won’t mind what I’m going to say, but I +couldn’t help guessing his name on account of your raving after him +so in your illness, and when I was in London the other day about +some money business of your mamma’s, I made a few inquiries—secret +like—about him, and he’s gone, my dear. He’s left England for good and +all, and you won’t never see him, nor be troubled with him again; and +that ought to be as great a comfort to you as anything else—oughtn’t +it, now?’</p> + +<p>The blood had ebbed and flowed in Fenella’s wasted cheeks, as Bennett +spoke to her, like waves of white and crimson, and when the servant +turned for an answer, she saw a bright hectic spot burning under +each of her eyes. But the tone in which she spoke was very calm and +deliberate.</p> + +<p>‘Thank you, nurse,’ she said wearily. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>‘You meant it kindly, I know, +but nothing is of any consequence to me now. Only, please remember +(and I am sure you will, for my sake) that I would rather not hear you +mention his name again. He is dead to me, nurse; I am dead; everything +seems dead together. Don’t forget that, and never speak to me on the +subject more! And now take me home; I have made myself worse by coming +here; the sooner my mother takes me away from Sainte Pauvrette the +better.’</p> + +<p>She cast the violets and primroses upon the grave by which she had been +standing as she spoke, and then throwing her arm about Bennett’s neck, +turned from the spot without another word.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="009" style="max-width: 39.8125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/009.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="010" style="max-width: 94.9375em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/010.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V"> + CHAPTER V. + <br> + <span>SIR GILBERT CONROY.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘He that hath nature in him must be grateful,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis the Creator’s primary great law.’</div> + <div class="right"><i>Madan</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_a.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">A month</span> after this date Fenella and her mother were settled in +Paris, and mixing in all the dissipations of the French capital. Mrs +Barrington had many acquaintances there, and having hired a suite of +apartments in the very centre of the town, their lives soon became +one round of gaiety. Theatres and operas, balls and conversaziones, +followed one another in quick succession, and Fenella retired to +bed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>each night almost too weary to think. It was good for her, and +it would be untrue to say that she did not, in a measure, enjoy the +change. To depict either a man or a woman as brooding incessantly over +their trouble, and never for a moment losing sight of it, to raise +cheerful eyes to the light of Heaven, would be utterly unnatural. No +one ever did so in this world and preserved his senses. The strain +upon the nerves would be too great, and the mind would break down +beneath it. Fenella often returned from the gay scenes into which her +mother took her, to think how much more she would have enjoyed them had +Geoffrey Doyne not proved unfaithful, and sob herself to sleep over +the remembrance. Yet, whilst she was mixing in them, they distracted +her thoughts, and drew her out of herself. The theatre was a wondrous +revelation to her; the opera, a sublime delight; even at the balls and +assemblies she began to take pleasure in the knowledge <span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>that she was +admired, and that all men did not consider her so worthless a thing +that they could take her up, and cast her aside, as the humour seized +them.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington had shown wisdom in her generation in making her +daughter’s sojourn in Sainte Pauvrette a time which she shuddered to +recall. Anything which would expunge that terrible remembrance from her +mind would have been welcome to Fenella; it may be supposed, then, how +gladly she hailed the fresh scenes which opened before her, and how +gratefully she accepted the salve they offered to her wounded vanity. +For we are all mortal, and there is no doubt that trouble is easier +to bear when we have less time to think about it. And it is well it +is so, else the world would be full of lunatics and suicides. The man +who receives a bullet during the heat of battle in his body, which the +surgeons are unable to extract, will feel its presence to the last <span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>day +of his life, and at some times more than at others. A change in the +weather or a derangement of his system will cause the pain to be as +acute as on the day he was shot; and yet when the sun shines, and his +blood is free from acid, he may go for months without remembering he +ever encountered such an accident. So it is with our hearts. The mercy +of God and the goodness of friends may dull the sense of injury or loss +for months together, but it never totally disappears. If a lesser grief +overtakes us, a lesser love becomes estranged, the old wound opens and +bleeds afresh, the bullet stirs in the flesh, and we recognise the fact +that we are maimed for life. Let us not grudge the wounded, then, their +moments of forgetfulness, nor ridicule the trifles which may have the +power to divert their thoughts.</p> + +<p>To an older person, perhaps, white satin and pearls might appear an +unworthy panacea for a disappointed affection; but to a young creature +like <span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>Fenella, who had never possessed anything but serge and cotton +frocks before, they held their charm. She sighed, it is true, when she +saw the pale loveliness, which Bennett had taken such pains to adorn, +reflected in the looking-glass, and wondered, if Geoffrey could have +seen her like that, if he would ever have forsaken her. Still, she +preferred to be handsome rather than ugly, and could take a pride in +her personal appearance, though her lover was not there to praise it. +It was natural that she should do so, and it is of no use crying out +against nature.</p> + +<p>But there was one thing in which Fenella’s faith had been utterly +destroyed and could never be built up again, and that was her +mother’s love for her. Mrs Barrington would have had it otherwise. +When she found that her daughter’s beauty had not been destroyed +by her illness—that she was, in fact, better looking than she had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>been before, and that she made no objection to going out to dances +and theatres every night, and wearing any sort of costume which was +provided for her, Mrs Barrington’s good temper began to revive, and she +would have had Fenella share her rouge and powder and her hare’s-foot, +and forget all old injuries. But the girl was unable to do so. About +the past she was as silent as the grave. She never mentioned Geoffrey +Doyne, nor Ines-cedwyn, nor Sainte Pauvrette; but to blot out the +memory of them was impossible. She could not forget her mother’s +harshness and cruelty, nor the sneers and contempt cast upon her when +her heart was bleeding for one word of affection or sympathy. She saw +Mrs Barrington in her true colours—worldly, selfish, and deceitful; +and as long as she lived, Fenella could never set her up again on the +pedestal her childish enthusiasm had raised for her. She <span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>accepted her +caresses without any exhibition of dislike; she thanked her for her +compliments, and followed her wishes; but here the link between them +ended. Mrs Barrington had brought her into the world, certainly; but +Fenella, remembering Sainte Pauvrette, could never again think of her +as her <i>mother</i>.</p> + +<p>The word ‘mother’ is sacred. It holds within its couple of syllables a +host of loving possibilities; and the woman who cannot sympathise with +every pulsation of the life she gave, is not worthy of the name.</p> + +<p>Fenella put the thought resolutely from her—it was only another +trouble added to the load she bore—and tried to believe that the sweet +dream she had once cherished was of a mother who had died when she was +born.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington was her adviser, and protector, and chaperon—everything +that was needful in the world of fashion she <span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>had entered, but +something which she never wished to encounter when alone. At such +times, a suspicious reserve and awkwardness would fall upon both mother +and daughter, which warned them to make the interview as short as +possible.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington, however, was quite in her element again. Her ambitious +views for Fenella had all revived (though she did not like to say too +much about them to the girl herself), and she spared no pains nor +expense to render her as attractive as she possibly could.</p> + +<p>The pale loveliness of the English girl, which owed so much to her +lofty bearing and look of serious innocence, soon began to be talked +of in the Parisian <i>salons</i>, and more than one man of fashion was +said to be a suitor for her hand.</p> + +<p>But Mrs Barrington was very cautious who she admitted as a visitor +to her own house. She had no intention of marrying Fenella to a +penniless <i>attaché</i>, or an officer <span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>dependent on his pay. She +wanted to secure both a title and a fortune for her daughter, and the +only admirer she had who combined these advantages was her own old +acquaintance, Sir Gilbert Conroy.</p> + +<p>Time had been—and not so very long ago either—when the fair widow +had hoped to get Sir Gilbert for herself, but her chances had never +had any existence except in her own brain, and she was sensible enough +to perceive that, if she snubbed his advances to Fenella, he was not +likely to ask for her mother’s hand instead. Besides, the baronet’s +suit had great advantages. He was not a hot-headed boy, determined +to have his own way at all hazards, and run the risk of a refusal by +speaking too soon. He rather preferred the dignified old fashion of +consulting the parents or guardians of the young lady he desired to +make his wife, before he mentioned the subject to herself. And Mrs +Barrington preferred this method of courtship also.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p> + +<p>She knew Fenella’s impulsive temperament, and her love of truth and +honour; and she was terribly afraid of what her daughter might say to +any young man who addressed her on the subject of marriage. If the +preliminary matters were kept in <i>her</i> hands, she felt that she +could smooth down any little unpleasantnesses that may have occurred in +the past, so as to make them appear rather desirable experiences for a +young woman than otherwise.</p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert Conroy was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He +was a man of birth and education, of almost courtly breeding and +ultra-refinement. In age he was about five-and-thirty; in appearance +he was fair and aristocratic, with hair cropped closely to his head, +and rather bald about the temples, where he brushed it backwards; with +a handsome nose, quiet blue eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth shaded by a +small moustache. He was a man whom any woman might have <span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>been proud +to be connected with—but he was a man who would be severe in his +judgments, and unforgiving where he was offended.</p> + +<p>He had been struck with Fenella Barrington on the first occasion of +their meeting at an embassy ball, and had assiduously followed up +the acquaintance since. And the girl liked him—not with any idea of +marriage (she had conceived a notion that it was impossible she could +ever marry now), but as a pleasant acquaintance, who could talk more +sensibly than the generality of men, and who always seemed delighted to +meet her, and proud to be her partner for the evening!</p> + +<p>But when Mrs Barrington first mentioned the possibility of her marrying +Sir Gilbert Conroy, Fenella felt as if she had been struck with a +sudden blow. It was the morning after they had attended a large party +at the house of the Russian ambassador, and Eliza Bennett <span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>announced +to her young lady that coffee was waiting for her in her mamma’s +dressing-room.</p> + +<p>‘The mistress is too tired to go downstairs, Miss Fenella; so she says, +please will you go in and take it with her there.’</p> + +<p>The girl threw on her <i>robe de chambre</i>, and obeyed the summons. +Her cheeks were flushed from sleep; her eyes were languid; her fair +hair hung in two thick plaits down her back.</p> + +<p>‘Really, child,’ exclaimed Mrs Barrington, as she entered, ‘you grow +handsomer every day. It’s no wonder Sir Gilbert is making such a fool +of himself about you.’</p> + +<p>Fenella laughed.</p> + +<p>‘Poor Sir Gilbert! Why is he to be called a fool for liking me, more +than any one else?’</p> + +<p>‘Because he likes you more than any one else does. Surely, Fenella, you +are not so blind as not to see that!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> + +<p>The girl opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>‘Does he? I hope not!’</p> + +<p>‘And why so, my dear? Most young ladies would be proud of his +preference. His title is one of the oldest baronetcies in England, and +he has five thousand a-year on which to keep it up.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, I don’t mean that, mamma; I am aware he is rich; only—you +know—it would be of no use his liking me, because I could never marry +him—nor anyone! So I hope it is all fancy on your part.’</p> + +<p>‘What nonsense, Fenella. You must put such fantastical ideas out of +your head. And as for its being my fancy that Sir Gilbert likes you, he +has already asked my consent to his proposing for your hand.’</p> + +<p>Fenella grew scarlet.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, mamma, did you tell him?’</p> + +<p>‘What?’ cried Mrs Barrington sharply.</p> + +<p>‘About—about—what has happened, you know.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> + +<p>‘Am I a born fool, or an idiot?’ exclaimed her mother. ‘No! <i>of +course</i> I didn’t tell him! What are you thinking of, Fenella?’</p> + +<p>‘Forgive me, mamma! I ought to have known without asking. You would not +tell him, naturally, for my sake as well as your own. But what did you +say, then?’</p> + +<p>‘I told him he had my heartiest wishes for his success, and he might +propose to you whenever he liked.’</p> + +<p>Fenella’s distress was genuine.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, mamma, why did you do that, when you know I can have but one +answer to give him? I <i>couldn’t</i> marry him even if I liked him. +How could I? You might have saved me from the ordeal of having to tell +him so.’</p> + +<p>‘But you must tell him no such thing, Fenella, and I will not allow you +to see Sir Gilbert again until I have talked you into a more sensible +frame of mind. Now, my dear, do try and look at the matter in <span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>a +reasonable light. You <i>must</i> marry; you know that!’</p> + +<p>‘No, indeed I don’t. I never intend to marry. I have given up all +thoughts of it—once and for ever.’</p> + +<p>‘And how do you suppose I am to support you, then?’ exclaimed her +mother. ‘Do you think I have sufficient money to maintain a household, +and provide you with dresses, and take you about to places of +amusement, for the remainder of your life?’</p> + +<p>Fenella stared.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I thought so, mamma. Haven’t we money? Didn’t papa leave any +behind him?’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Your papa</i>!’ repeated Mrs Barrington witheringly. ‘A fine +provision he left us! The pension for a post-captain’s widow, and a +few thousands in the bank. Why, I spent that to the last farthing ages +ago, and have nothing but my pension at the present time. I am going +in debt for every mortal thing we use, and eat, and wear. And then you +sit there and tell me <span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>calmly that you never intend to marry! Why, it’s +flying in the face of Providence; it’s condemning us both to perpetual +poverty, and your mother to losing everything she possesses; for if I +can’t pay my bills, my creditors will certainly put in a distraint upon +the furniture in South Audley Street.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, mamma! Mamma! Why didn’t you tell me of this long ago? Why have +you dressed me up in expensive clothes, and taken me to all these +fine places, when you could not afford it? I would rather have gone +in sackcloth and eaten dry bread, than run you into such terrible +difficulties!’</p> + +<p>‘Why have I done it, Fenella?’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘Why, to procure +you the very chance which you declare you shall throw away—to see you +suitably married, and placed above the reach of poverty and care.’</p> + +<p>‘But how <i>can</i> I, mamma? Answer the question yourself. How +<i>can</i> I?’ said Fenella pleadingly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> + +<p>‘I suppose I can guess what you are alluding to,’ replied her mother +coldly; ‘but if you intend to let that foolish love affair stand in +the way of your future prospects, all I can say is that you will be +intensely selfish. Most people would think you had caused me sufficient +trouble and anxiety already, without making more. If you are really +sorry for what is past, Fenella, now is your time to redeem it. You +will never have a better chance.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, I <i>am</i> sorry,’ returned the girl, with troubled eyes and +clasped hands; ‘God knows I am! But how can I remedy it? You know my +heart is broken, mother; that my whole life is spoiled. What man would +marry me now, if he knew the truth?’</p> + +<p>‘No one, of course! Very few men would marry at all if they knew the +truth about the women they make their wives. But who do you suppose +will tell Sir Gilbert Conroy anything? I sha’n’t—you may take your +oath of that; and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>our dear good Bennett is as secret as the grave. +There is no fear of his ever knowing the truth. You may set your mind +entirely at rest on that point.’</p> + +<p>‘But I wouldn’t accept him unless he knew it,’ said Fenella. ‘Mamma, +what do you take me for? Do you think I could be so false, so +dishonourable as that?’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington wheeled round in her chair and regarded her daughter +with the utmost astonishment.</p> + +<p>‘Fenella,’ she said solemnly, ‘you’re a born fool, and where you get it +from beats my comprehension. If you are going to enter into marriage +with the idea of telling your husband everything that has ever happened +to you, or that ever will happen to you, you may dismiss at once the +idea of having any peace in your life. Why, if the world were conducted +on that plan, it would be a perfect volcano! Now, I have seen a great +deal more of it than you have, and you must allow yourself to be guided +by me. Your husband will never tell you <span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>any more about his own affairs +than he chooses, you may make up your mind to that; and the less you +tell him about yourself the better.’</p> + +<p>But Mrs Barrington’s worldly wisdom had no effect upon the frank and +generous mind of her daughter.</p> + +<p>‘Mamma,’ she said, ‘if I marry Sir Gilbert Conroy, or anybody else, you +know that I can never love him. I might learn to be grateful for his +kindness to me, but my heart is gone. I don’t think I’ve got any heart +left. I feel as if the place where it ought to be was empty.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s nonsense, my dear,’ said her mother impatiently. ‘We are all +like that when we’re young. We have a first love, and we fancy we can +never love again; and after a while we find the difficulty is to keep +ourselves from loving too much. And even if it were not the case, +it’s no good carrying that enthusiastic, gushing sort of feeling into +marriage. It <span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>worries a man to death, and wears out his affection +sooner than anything else. Never refuse any attention your husband may +wish to show you, but keep your own feelings within bounds. That is +the secret of a happy marriage, and you will find a man will care all +the more for you if there is a little indifference and reserve on your +part.’</p> + +<p>Fenella sighed. Her idea of a happy marriage had been so very different +from that.</p> + +<p>‘But if it is unnecessary to give love to the man you marry, mamma,’ +she answered, ‘is it not all the more incumbent to be perfectly open +with him? And I could not live my life with a secret always weighing at +my heart. I should fancy each time he frowned at me that he was going +to tell me he had discovered I was false to him.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, well, if you are determined to stand in your own light and mine, +and take no advice from those who know <span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>better than yourself, there is +no more to be said on the subject,’ replied Mrs Barrington, with the +air of a martyr; ‘but I must say that it is hard upon me—bitterly, +cruelly hard.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, how can I help you?’ cried the girl. ‘What can I do to remedy the +evil I have brought upon us both?’</p> + +<p>‘The only thing you can do, you refuse to do,’ said her mother, +reproachfully.</p> + +<p>‘I cannot do a dishonourable action,’ replied Fenella, with dignity.</p> + +<p>And after that conclusion they passed several days in a miserable state +of coldness and silence towards each other.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington confided the whole affair to Bennett, and implored her +to argue it out with Fenella. For the sympathy she had displayed during +her illness had drawn the girl and the old woman very closely together. +Indeed, Bennett may be said to have been the only real friend Fenella +had; and many <span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>a time since those miserable days had she cried herself +to sleep upon the servant’s bosom. So it seemed nothing more than +natural when Bennett said to her,—</p> + +<p>‘Why have you made your mamma so angry with you, Miss Fenella? What is +it that you don’t like in Sir Gilbert Conroy?’</p> + +<p>‘I like him well enough, Bennett,’ said the girl, with a sigh. ‘In +fact, I see nothing to dislike in him. Only that has nothing to do with +marriage, you know; and mamma can’t understand that it is impossible +for me to forget.’</p> + +<p>‘But it’s your <i>duty</i> to forget, my dear,’ replied Bennett, who +was brushing Fenella’s hair at the time. ‘Here’s Sir Gilbert Conroy, a +fine, handsome gentleman, with plenty of money to keep you comfortable +and give you everything you want, and dying to make you his lady, and +yet you won’t listen to a word he says. And all because of a business +as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>can never come to anything. For, you see, there’s where it is, Miss +Fenella. If there was any hope or probability like of things turning +out as you would wish them, there might be some sense in waiting; but +you know as there isn’t. And when all’s said and done, my dear, the +first wasn’t a patch upon Sir Gilbert.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Don’t</i>, nurse—<i>don’t</i>,’ murmured Fenella, in a voice of +pain, as her hands went up to shade her blinded eyes. Ah! <i>that +First</i>! Let a dozen come after him—fairer, better, and more true +than he—but they will never have the power to drive his image from the +heart that sheltered it.</p> + +<p>The nurse laid down her brush, and kissed the crown of the fair head +that was bowed upon the dressing-table.</p> + +<p>‘There—there, my lamb,’ she said affectionately; ‘I wish I had bit out +my tongue afore I’d said them words. But it was for the sake of your +mamma, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>Miss Fenella. She’s regular put out, my dear; and no wonder, +for she quite counted on your marriage as a means of righting herself, +and I’m afraid she’ll be in a terrible fix if you continue to set your +face against it.’</p> + +<p>Fenella looked up suddenly.</p> + +<p>‘Bennett, tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Are we so very poor? is mamma +really in want of money?’</p> + +<p>‘Indeed she is, miss. Don’t you remember my telling you at the convent +a year ago, that your dear mamma was full of troubles, and it was her +debts at that time that worried her so, though, of course, it wasn’t +fit telling to a child. And they’ve gone on increasing ever since, till +I’m sure I don’t know how the mistress will go back to London, unless +she finds some way out of ’em first.’</p> + +<p>‘And I must have been an extra expense to her,’ said Fenella, with a +sigh.</p> + +<p>‘Well, miss, you have—there’s no denying it! What with your long +illness, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>and your dresses, and hire of carriages, and all that. But +the mistress did it with an object. So she’s naturally disappointed at +your refusing to marry Sir Gilbert. And to be “my lady” too, miss! I +wonder how you can!’</p> + +<p>‘Mamma has hardly spoken to me for three days,’ said Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘No, my dear! But she will, directly she sees you have changed your +mind. She’s had a many troubles in this life, poor dear lady! And it +seems hard that you should add to ’em—don’t it, now?’</p> + +<p>‘If you will do up my hair, I will go and speak to her about it,’ said +Fenella wearily; and half-an-hour later she walked into her mother’s +room.</p> + +<p>‘Mamma, I have come to tell you that I have made up my mind to accept +Sir Gilbert’s offer,’ she said; ‘but it must be on one condition, that +you tell him my whole history. Tell it him without reserve, mamma; +don’t spare me in any way; and if, after hearing it, he should <span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>still +wish to make me his wife, I will marry him!’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington was just about to call her by her favourite name of a +fool, and say she might as well have kept her wonderful condescension +to herself, when it suddenly struck her that she might find a way by +which to keep the game in her own hands. So she smiled sweetly instead, +and answered.</p> + +<p>‘Well, Fenella, if this is the only condition on which you will +listen to Sir Gilbert’s suit, of course I must comply with it, but I +have already told you my opinion of the matter. It is quixotic and +unnecessary! And if he <i>does</i> propose to you afterwards (which +I doubt), you must be doubly grateful to him in return. He has been +waiting nearly a week for his answer, and I received a note from him +this morning on the subject. I shall therefore write and tell him to +call upon me this evening. Madame de Beaupré can chaperon you to the +Thellussons. It is <span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>better that you should be out of the way, as the +interview is likely to be a painful one.’</p> + +<p>‘I have been thinking a great deal about it,’ replied Fenella, ‘and I +am sure it is the only right and honourable course to pursue. And if +it fails, mamma (as doubtless it will), then you must let me go out as +a governess or a companion, and earn my own living. It is unfair that +I should be a burden on you any longer, just because I have been so +wicked and so weak.’</p> + +<p>‘A governess!’ thought Mrs Barrington as her daughter left the room. +‘As if I could allow such a scandal, and with that face too! But if my +right hand has not lost its cunning, I will contrive this marriage for +her.’</p> + +<p>When Sir Gilbert Conroy walked into her little <i>salon</i> that +evening, he found her looking the very soul of honour and the pink +of propriety, arrayed in a grey cashmere dress, with a white lace +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span><i>fichu</i> that gave her almost the look of a quaker.</p> + +<p>‘No, no! Sir Gilbert,’ she said playfully, as she saw his glance wander +round the room, ‘you will not find my little girl hidden under any +of the sofa or chair covers. Fenella is spending the evening at the +Thellussons. I thought it best she should be out of the way whilst you +and I discuss this subject together.’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid Miss Barrington’s absence does not augur a favourable +answer to my suit,’ replied Sir Gilbert, flushing up to the roots of +his fair hair.</p> + +<p>‘Indeed! You are quite mistaken! My daughter is exceedingly well +disposed—shall I say <i>too</i> well disposed?—to receive your +advances, and thinks highly of the compliment you pay her. But Fenella +feels that you are the soul of honour, Sir Gilbert (as she is herself), +and, therefore, before granting you an interview, she has set me a +little task which she thinks I can execute better than she can.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> + +<p>‘A task!’ echoed Sir Gilbert.</p> + +<p>‘Yes! I am sure you will laugh at us for a couple of silly women, and I +told my daughter so; still, I could not blame her decision, as it was +founded on the very principles it has been the aim and object of my +life to instil into her.’</p> + +<p>‘You alarm me, Mrs Barrington! Pray don’t keep me in suspense,’ gasped +the baronet.</p> + +<p>‘Indeed, I will not, for it is not worth while,’ laughed the lady +pleasantly. ‘The fact is, Sir Gilbert, about a year ago my silly +child had one of those foolish love affairs which we all know of, and +laugh at,—a boy-and-girl flirtation, which never could have come to +anything, and which she had almost forgotten, until the agitation +caused by your very flattering proposal recalled it to her mind. And +then she begged me to tell you of it before you met again. I thought +it perfectly unnecessary to worry you about such a trifle, and told +her so; but Fenella’s soul is of so <span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>pure and lofty a character that I +cannot bear to dull even its lightest aspiration. She is so truthful, +so honourable, so open, Sir Gilbert. Her mind is like a sheet of +crystal.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ stammered the baronet uneasily; ‘but—but—about this love +affair, Mrs Barrington? Are you quite certain she <i>has</i> forgotten +all about it, or that it may not crop up to disturb our domestic +felicity? Is the gentleman in England still? Is she likely to meet him +again?’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington was annoyed that he took her communication so seriously.</p> + +<p>‘In England? Oh, dear, no! He went to the colonies, or he’s dead—or +something. I forget which. But he was such a boy, it’s really not +worth inquiring. And as for Fenella meeting him again—why, my dear +Sir Gilbert, she wouldn’t speak to him if she saw him in the streets +to-morrow!’</p> + +<p>‘But these first attachments are sometimes the most enduring, you know, +Mrs <span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>Barrington; and if your daughter had quite forgotten all about +hers, I hardly think she would have considered it necessary to ask you +to break the intelligence to me.’</p> + +<p>Then Mrs Barrington could have bitten out her tongue that she had told +him anything at all. It would have been just as easy to have assured +Fenella that she had. She played with her fan, and looked virtuously +reproachful.</p> + +<p>‘If you take it in that light, Sir Gilbert, I shall be indeed sorry +that I spoke. <i>Need</i> I have said anything to you on the subject +at all? It was only the extreme purity of my child’s mind—the +truthfulness of her feelings—that made her think of making such a +confession! She would not go to you with even the shadow of a secret +(however innocent) upon her soul. But it is only a mind of equal +candour with her own that could appreciate the delicacy of her motives.’</p> + +<p>‘But I can—I do!’ exclaimed Sir <span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>Gilbert. ‘I confess that one of the +great attractions that drew me to your daughter, Mrs Barrington, was +her youth and apparent innocence. I have grown sick and weary of the +women of the world, with their artifice and falsehood and intrigues. I +long to have an unsophisticated, guileless maiden for my wife. Indeed, +I would put none else in the place once occupied by my honoured mother. +I come of an old and unblemished family; and one of our proudest boasts +is that no one has ever been able to point the finger of scorn at a +Lady Conroy!’</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington went pale with agitation.</p> + +<p>‘Good heavens! Sir Gilbert, what are you thinking of? Would you link +such an expression as that with the silly little flirtation I have just +been foolish enough to tell you of?’</p> + +<p>‘No—certainly not,’ he answered; ‘and if I cannot secure even your +lovely and innocent daughter for my wife without <span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>hearing that she has +already been courted by one of my own sex, it is hopeless for me to +look farther.’</p> + +<p>‘Unless you go to the nursery for your Lady Conroy,’ laughed Mrs +Barrington. ‘But, unfortunately, I have no more daughters there, Sir +Gilbert, or I should certainly ask you to go and take your choice of +them. You are a son-in-law of whom any woman might be proud.’</p> + +<p>‘You are very good to say so, my dear madam,’ replied the baronet. ‘Am +I to understand, then, that Miss Barrington consents to receive my +offer for her hand?’</p> + +<p>‘The silly creature waits to see if you will renew it after having +heard this terrible secret of her former life—that she actually +flirted for the space of a few weeks with a lad, who ought to have been +whipped by his tutor for his precocity.’</p> + +<p>‘Miss Barrington might have been sure I should not have permitted such +a trifle <span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>to stand in the way of my happiness,’ rejoined Sir Gilbert. +‘At the same time, as I confess I am rather sensitive on such matters, +will you ask her, as a personal favour, not to allude to the subject +before me? Perhaps it is as well I should have heard it; but having +heard it, I should wish to forget it again. Cannot it be buried in +oblivion? I should like to try and fancy (even if it be only a fancy) +that my wife never had a lover before myself.’</p> + +<p>‘And neither has she, my dear Sir Gilbert. You surely would not dignify +the wretched boy I spoke of by the name of “lover”? However, I shall +repeat your wishes to Fenella, and I am certain they will be attended +to. When may I count on the pleasure of seeing you again?’</p> + +<p>‘With your permission I will call to-morrow afternoon,’ he said, as +he rose to take his leave. ‘I shall not be quite happy until I have +learned Miss Barrington’s decision from her own lips.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, of all the glaring pieces of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>folly I ever took part in, this is +the worst,’ thought Mrs Barrington, when the baronet had disappeared. +‘Fenella as nearly lost her chance of becoming Lady Conroy as possible, +and entirely through her own fault. The idea of rousing a man’s +suspicions unnecessarily! I wish I had followed my own judgment and +told him nothing. However, the girl is so strange, she might allude +in some way to the matter, so it is as well, perhaps, that he should +be prepared. But it must go no farther. I must impress on Fenella the +absolute necessity of holding her tongue henceforward.’</p> + +<p>As soon as she returned home from the Thellussons, Fenella ran up to +her mother’s room, eager to learn her fate.</p> + +<p>‘Well, mamma!’ she exclaimed breathlessly, as she entered it, ‘has he +been?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, certainly; Sir Gilbert is too much of a gentleman not to keep his +appointments.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span></p> + +<p>‘And you told him?’</p> + +<p>‘I did!’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Everything</i>?’</p> + +<p>‘Everything!’</p> + +<p>The girl leaned back against the wall, almost speechless from +excitement.</p> + +<p>‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘What <i>did</i> he say?’</p> + +<p>‘He said all that was most kind and courteous. His affection for you is +great enough to surmount any obstacle. He renews his offer of marriage +to you.’</p> + +<p>The faint colour died out of Fenella’s cheeks. It was evident which way +her hopes had lain. But surprise was her predominant feeling at the +news.</p> + +<p>‘You told Sir Gilbert <i>everything</i>, and yet he said that?’ she +asked incredulously.</p> + +<p>‘Haven’t I answered the question already! Do you doubt my word?’ +returned Mrs Barrington, in a sharp voice.</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, mamma; but it seems so wonderful <span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>to me! I thought when he +heard it he would just walk out of the house and never come back again. +What did you tell him? Does he know that I cannot pretend to love him; +that—that—I cannot forget what is past, whatever pleasures the future +may hold for me? I will be a good wife to him, mamma (as far as I can), +and I shall always feel grateful for his forbearance in this matter; +but I <i>hope</i> you told him that he must not expect any more?’</p> + +<p>‘If you will sit down and talk like a reasonable creature, instead of +a woman out of a play, I will repeat exactly what passed between us,’ +replied Mrs Barrington.</p> + +<p>She saw that it would be useless to try half measures with Fenella; +that if her conscience were not entirely satisfied, she would probably +speak to Sir Gilbert herself on the subject; and that, whilst she was +about it, she might as well tell a good lie as a feeble one. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>The girl +sat down, but impatiently, with large wondering eyes of expectation +still turned upon her mother.</p> + +<p>‘I told Sir Gilbert Conroy <i>everything</i>, from the beginning to the +end,’ commenced Mrs Barrington emphatically, whilst her daughter’s face +grew scarlet. ‘Of course he was very much distressed at hearing it (who +wouldn’t be?); I am not sure that he didn’t shed tears, but men are +sensitive about such things, and he turned his head the other way.’</p> + +<p>‘How <i>good</i> of him,’ murmured Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘He felt it <i>deeply</i>, there is no doubt—and so did I. It was +anything but a pleasant task you set me, Fenella; but when his emotion +had subsided, he told me it could make no difference in his affection +for you; on the contrary (if anything), he loved you more for what you +had suffered, and he repeated his offer to make you his wife.’</p> + +<p>‘He must be a very generous man,’ said her daughter meditatively.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span></p> + +<p>‘He is more than generous,’ replied Mrs Barrington; ‘he is noble, +chivalrous, heroic! But he coupled his decision with a request which I +was obliged to accord him in your name, Fenella, and which you must be +good enough to pay particular attention to.’</p> + +<p>‘What is it, mamma?’ said the girl dreamily.</p> + +<p>‘Sir Gilbert said to me, “I am willing to overlook and forget all that +is past, Mrs Barrington, on one condition, and that is, that a total +silence is preserved on the subject henceforward. I love your daughter +dearly, and am most desirous of making her Lady Conroy; but I am a +proud man, and do not care to think that any one ever courted my wife +before myself. I should wish to fancy (even if it be only fancy) that I +am her first lover.”’</p> + +<p>‘He can never be my <i>lover</i>,’ cried Fenella quickly.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, don’t be so tiresome,’ said her <span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>mother, ‘catching one up +in that rude way. It is not at all likely he <i>will</i> be your +lover—husbands never are—but the thing is, that you are not to speak +of, nor allude to the other; nor to anything, in fact, that happened +before your marriage.’</p> + +<p>‘Am I likely to do so?’ sighed Fenella, with her hand pressed upon her +aching heart.</p> + +<p>‘Well, that’s the condition, my dear, and I hope you understand it. Sir +Gilbert is coming here to-morrow afternoon to receive his answer from +your own lips. Just give it simply and say no more about it. Let the +past be buried in oblivion, as he wishes it to be, and depend upon it +you will be as happy a woman as the world contains. It is an excellent +marriage, and I must say, after your <i>escapade</i> of last year, that +you are a very lucky girl to secure it, and it is much more than you +deserve.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p>‘I know that,’ said Fenella, ‘and I shall always be very grateful to +Sir Gilbert for his kindness to me; but as for being <i>happy</i>, +mother, that is impossible.’</p> + +<p>‘Stuff and nonsense, child! Don’t begin to <i>pose</i> for a martyr, +and fancy you are being dragged into a marriage against your will, like +the heroine of a novel.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no! I should never be so silly as that, because I really wish to +be married. I am sure I shall be happier with Sir Gilbert than I am at +home,’ replied the girl ingenuously.</p> + +<p>‘Well, I must say that’s grateful of you; and after all the trouble +you’ve given me!’ cried Mrs Barrington.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I suppose I must have been the cause of a great deal of trouble +and disappointment to you, mamma, and I am sorry for it; but still, you +know, we have not been very happy together, and if Sir Gilbert really +loves me, I am sure I shall grow fond of him. My heart does <i>ache</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>so for love sometimes,’ cried Fenella, in a voice of pain.</p> + +<p>Mrs Barrington thought it just as well to keep down her rising wrath, +and be polite to the future Lady Conroy.</p> + +<p>‘Well, my sweet girl, I acknowledge we might have spent a pleasanter +year than the last; but there have been <i>causes</i>, you know, +Fenella, and my maternal pride has been sorely wounded. But it will be +better now, dearest, will it not? Bennett and I will do our utmost to +get together a decent trousseau for you, and once launched on the world +as Lady Conroy, you will never remember your former life except as an +ugly dream.’</p> + +<p>‘Will he want it to be <i>soon</i>?’ faltered Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘I should think so, my dear. Sir Gilbert is not a boy, you see, and +there is no reason for delay. I shall see you presented at Court before +you are eighteen.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I was only seventeen last birthday,’ said Fenella, with a piteous +smile, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>as the mention seemed to recall how much she had passed through +before that time.</p> + +<p>‘Most people would take you for older,’ remarked Mrs Barrington. ‘Sir +Gilbert thought you were nineteen or twenty.’</p> + +<p>‘The last year has made a woman of me; I shall never be a girl again,’ +said her daughter, as she gathered up her evening wraps and retired to +bed.</p> + +<p>But the night did not bring much rest to her. Emphatically as Mrs +Barrington had asserted that Sir Gilbert Conroy had been made +acquainted with all the facts of her former life, Fenella was not +satisfied. She had learnt to distrust her mother’s statements—to +discredit her pretty oaths and smiles, as she did her blooming cheeks +and perfumed skin—and she lay awake, wondering how she could arrive at +the truth for herself. She did not feel any particular agitation at the +idea of seeing Sir Gilbert Conroy and telling him that she would be his +wife. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>Her heart was empty and sodden, and she thought she would just +as soon marry him as remain single: it was all the same to her; she +could never feel very happy or very miserable again, and she believed +that her future life would be more bearable passed with Sir Gilbert +than with her mother. So that when the baronet entered her presence the +following afternoon, he could detect nothing different from her usual +appearance, except a questioning look in her eye, as if she longed +to find out exactly what he thought of her. But she coloured when he +approached her side, and he interpreted the action according to his own +wishes.</p> + +<p>‘Miss Barrington,’ he commenced, as he took her hand, ‘your mother has, +of course, prepared you for this interview. Am I right in conjecturing +that you would not have granted it unless you intended to give me a +favourable answer?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘mamma has <span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>told me all about it, and—I thank +you, Sir Gilbert.’</p> + +<p>‘Does that mean that you will be my wife, Fenella?’</p> + +<p>‘Since you wish it to be so—yes.’</p> + +<p>At this answer Sir Gilbert naturally professed to be enraptured. He +kissed the hand he held, and, not being rebuked for forwardness, kissed +the fair face that glowed above it, and then he put his arm round her +waist, and drew Fenella to a sofa, and sat down beside her, and talked +of his mansion in town and his castle in Scotland—of the family jewels +which had not been worn since the death of his mother, Lady Valeria +Conroy, and how she had been the daughter of the Duke of Ben Nevis, +whose kinsman, David of Ben Nevis, had fought side by side on the field +of Bosworth with his own great ancestor, Gilbert de Conn, one of the +‘roys’ or ‘kings’ of Scotland. For Sir Gilbert’s favourite hobby was +the age and stainlessness of his family tree, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>he looked down with +the supremest contempt on all the unfortunate ones of the earth who +could not produce a parchment roll inscribed with their pedigree.</p> + +<p>Fenella’s parents were not noble, but he had taken good care to +ascertain before proposing to her that the family on both sides was +irreproachable. He would not have transformed Venus Aphrodite herself +into Lady Conroy unless she had been able to prove that she had +respectable ancestors. But even the enumeration and description of the +late Lady Valeria’s diamonds and emeralds did not seem to awaken much +interest in the bosom of the girl, who kept her clear, grey eyes fixed +upon Sir Gilbert with the same questioning look in them with which she +had welcomed him.</p> + +<p>‘But,’ she said presently, interrupting him in the midst of a +description of the gardens at Conroy Castle, ‘are you <i>quite</i> +sure that I shall be able to please you in all things? I am not a very +loving girl, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>you know (mamma will have told you that), and perhaps you +might expect more from me than I shall feel myself able to perform.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall always do my utmost to meet your wishes, Fenella, and I hope +you will be as ready to meet mine. I expect no more from you than that. +Is it too much?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no! How could I give you less?’ she murmured. ‘It is very, +<i>very</i> good of you to accept so little,’ and then, with a sudden +impulse, she laid her hand upon his arm. ‘Sir Gilbert, mamma said I was +not to mention the subject, but I must—only this once. She told you +last night everything—about—about—last year, and still you come and +ask me to be your wife! How can I ever be grateful enough to you for +your forbearance to me?’</p> + +<p>He almost laughed at the varying colour which came and went in her +cheeks, and made her look so earnest and so beautiful as she said the +words.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> + +<p>‘My dearest girl,’ he answered, as he drew her closer to himself, ‘I +had already forgotten all about it. I am a man of the world, you see, +Fenella, and used to hear all sorts of things; and although I confess +that, just at first, I was a little disappointed, the unworthy feeling +soon wore off again, and I am perfectly contented to take you <i>as +you are</i>! Only—will you grant me one favour?—not to make the past +a subject of constant allusion! Let it die out, my dear Fenella, and +forget it yourself, as I have.’</p> + +<p>‘I will try,’ she replied, in a low voice; and Sir Gilbert recommenced +his description of the glories upon which she was about to enter, +whilst she mused to herself in silence, and thought what a generous, +noble heart he must have, and how good and grateful she should be in +return.</p> + +<p>Before he left in the evening, the wedding was fixed for that day +month. The baronet’s only near relation was a married <span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>sister, who +would be charmed to find an excuse to visit Paris, and so he thought +the marriage had better take place at the English Embassy, with as +little fuss as needful.</p> + +<p>‘Too soon! Too soon! Too terribly soon!’ cried Mrs Barrington +playfully. ‘Why, my poor child will only be seventeen years and three +months old! She oughtn’t to <i>think</i> of marriage even for the next +five years—ought you, Fenella, darling? However, I suppose you wilful +lovers will have your own way!’</p> + +<p>But a look from her daughter’s eyes stopped Mrs Barrington’s banter. +She was still very much afraid of Fenella, and would feel relieved when +those honest, serious eyes of hers were well out of the way.</p> + +<p>‘Will the time we have fixed upon be agreeable to you?’ said Sir +Gilbert, turning to Fenella.</p> + +<p>The girl started and flushed.</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes; it is all the same to me! That is—I mean—I would rather +please <span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>you than myself. It is the least I can do in return for all +your goodness to me.’</p> + +<p>That was the keynote of her life thenceforward, and her belief in it +made her marriage seem almost a gladsome thing. She grew more and more +contented with her prospects as the days went on. She felt that, by +God’s mercy, she was going to lead an honourable and useful life for +the future, and she tried to persuade herself that she was happy.</p> + +<p>But there were times—sad times alone and in the dark—when the picture +was reversed, and the past came back so vividly upon her memory that +she was ready to leap out of bed, and write to Sir Gilbert and say she +had been mad, and that never—never—never could she be his wife—nor +the wife of any man. Times—when the passionate looks and tones of +Geoffrey Doyne, as she remembered them upon the sands of Ines-cedwyn, +would return to torture her with their dead sweetness—when <span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>she +fancied she could hear his voice, and see his eyes, and feel the very +clasp of his arms about her beating heart. And the present and the +future would become a black and mighty void, and she stood face to face +with the living, unforgotten past. But Fenella had strength at least to +battle with such memories, and call herself hard names for weeping over +them. She would resolutely stamp upon the vision; she would pray until +she had drowned the voice; she would tell herself that she was worse +than a fool even to bestow another thought upon the man who had been so +base as to betray her. He was a traitor, she would say to herself, with +the tears streaming down her face—a traitor and a liar! He <i>must</i> +be, else why did he swear to keep to her alone when he knew he was +going to marry another woman? Why did he accept her vows of fidelity +when he was about to break his own? She would be brave—she would be +strong—she would <span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>tear his very image from her heart; she would not +shelter there one who could be so cowardly and so untrue to her and to +himself.</p> + +<p>Ah, how many women have said the same before! How many tortured +wretches have cried to God to take away the memory that rose before +them like a mocking devil, gibing at their despair! And with all their +resolutions, their oaths, and their prayers, how hard it is—how +bitterly hard—to erase a true love (however unworthy) from the heart! +The man who is bound by swathes too powerful for him to rend asunder, +may be strong, and courageous, and determined. He may fight like a lion +for his release, he may strain every nerve and muscle to get free; but +if the bonds are beyond his physical capability to rupture, he will +only injure himself, and sink back again, exhausted by his efforts. +It were wiser for him to accept the inevitable, and get up and walk +through the world with as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>much ease as his crippled condition will +allow him.</p> + +<p>So Fenella waked up at the appointed time, to find that she was the +wife of Sir Gilbert Conroy; waited on with all attention and kindness +by her husband, and surrounded by every luxury that money could procure +for her.</p> + +<p>Yet the swathes were around her still, and she would lie bound with +them in her coffin.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="011" style="max-width: 38.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/011.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="012" style="max-width: 87.9375em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/012.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI"> + CHAPTER VI. + <br> + <span>SMOOTH WATERS.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘It is vain that we would coldly gaze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On such as smile upon us: the heart must</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leap kindly back to kindness.’—<i>Byron</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_w.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Whether</span> from intuition, or the common-sense that characterised most of +his actions, Sir Gilbert Conroy went just the right way to win such +kindly feeling as it was in the power of his young wife to bestow upon +him. He treated her as a friend. He did not (after the usual manner of +bridegrooms) load her with caresses and compliments until she was sick +of flattery. Neither did he sit gazing at her hour after hour, as if he +could not satisfy himself with <span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>the contemplation of her beauty. Had he +done so, Fenella would probably have become shy and distant with him, +or openly expressed her dislike to his behaviour, and then quarrels +would have ensued between them. But there was nothing in Sir Gilbert’s +attentions from which the most delicate nature could have revolted; he +was chivalry itself. He waited on his wife in public with the greatest +assiduity, anticipating every wish, and never permitting her to do a +single thing for herself. Still, he would have done as much for any +lady confided to his charge.</p> + +<p>Even in private, although he was always polite and affectionate in his +manner towards her, he was never exacting. He allowed her to follow her +inclinations in the matter of their intercourse, rather than to press +his own upon her. So that after a few days Fenella lost her shyness, +and became quite friendly and intimate with her husband, and after a +few weeks she <span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>would have missed him very much had he been called away +from her.</p> + +<p>The fact is, Sir Gilbert Conroy was not in love with Fenella, and +never had been. Her chief attraction in his eyes (as he had told her +mother) was her youth and innocence. He was weary of the fickleness +and falsehood of fashionable women (as, indeed, he had just cause to +be), and he believed that Fenella would make a Lady Conroy of whom he +need never be ashamed. Of course he admired her. He was not quite such +a stoic at five-and-thirty as to have lost all faith in female beauty, +but he had seen handsomer women—as he coolly informed his sister, +Lady Marjoram, on the day of the wedding. And Lady Marjoram, who was +one of the most charming women who ever spent her life in a round of +frivolity, had shaken her head at him and said,—</p> + +<p>‘You’re as bad as ever, Bertie. I believe you’d pick holes in the Venus +de <span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>Milo if she could find those lost arms of hers and wind them round +you. But mark my words—Fenella may not be as beautiful as some of your +former loves, but she is a better woman than the whole lot of them put +together. She’s the first girl that has ever taken your fancy who is +fit to fill our mother’s place.’</p> + +<p>‘I believe you there,’ replied Sir Gilbert.</p> + +<p>‘And I hope you’ll be a good boy to her, Bertie, and put the thought of +that horrid Mrs Messiter out of your head altogether,’ continued his +sister more seriously.</p> + +<p>‘You may be sure of that, Janie,’ was his quick reply. ‘That portion of +my life is over for ever.’</p> + +<p>And Sir Gilbert was right. That portion of his life during which he had +been held in thrall by an unprincipled woman, who cared for nothing but +using his purse and gratifying her own vanity, was over for ever. It +had extended over many <span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>years, and been the cause of much anxiety to +his family, who feared it might stand in the way of his settlement; but +it was done with, and it would never be renewed.</p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert was too honourable a man to deceive the girl whom he had +made his wife. He would exact the utmost propriety of conduct from +Lady Conroy, and he would render her the same in return. But an old +attachment is not to be forgotten in a day, and the remembrance of Mrs +Messiter tended to make the baronet more deferential in his manners +towards Fenella than he would otherwise have been. And she was so glad +of it. She was so thankful that he did not call her ‘darling,’ and make +her sit upon his lap, and try and force confessions of love from her, +which she would have been unable to refuse to make without offending +him. It was so much nicer as it was (she said to herself); and she +actually began to feel a sort of affection for Sir Gilbert, because he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>did not exhibit it too freely towards her. The life they led together +was like a dream of fairyland to the girl, who had left a convent +school only to see Ines-cedwyn and Sainte Pauvrette.</p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert took her for a month to Italy, previous to their returning +to London for the season; and as the days went on, Fenella began to +ask herself if she were asleep or awake, everything was so new and +wonderful to her; she had not believed that living could be made so +easy. If she wished to dress for the evening or for walking, her robes +were laid in readiness for her, and her new maid was in obsequious +attendance, ready to put them on; if she rose to leave the room or the +house, a man-servant sprang up to open the door, to carry her shawl, +or to receive the orders she might wish to leave behind her. She was +never permitted to walk, especially through the streets; a carriage was +always at her beck and call; and her purse was liberally supplied with +money to make any <span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>purchase she might feel inclined for. Her husband +considered that it was his duty to see that Fenella preserved a certain +amount of state—not for her own sake, but for that of Lady Conroy—and +he would have done the same for the honour of the name she bore, had +his wife been the ugliest old woman in Christendom. But the girl did +not consider this. Her path was strewn with roses for her; her husband +was always kind and courteous; and her heart was a grateful one, and +responded accordingly. Even when they returned to their town house in +Portman Square, the pleasure continued. The first coming back to London +was painful to her—she could not deny that—but she shook the feeling +off bravely, and her new sister-in-law soon made her feel at home.</p> + +<p>It has already been said that Lady Marjoram was a very sweet woman. She +was, moreover, a very grand lady (as titles go), and her family were +proud of the connection, but no accession to rank and fortune <span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>had been +able to spoil her unaffected womanly nature.</p> + +<p>Her husband was Henry Frederick Charles Albert Ernest, fifth Earl of +Marjoram and tenth Baron Carberry, with an annual rent-roll of twenty +thousand, and estates in all the countries of the United Kingdom. He +was a fat, good-tempered, farmerlike-looking person of middle age, who +allowed his countess to have her own way in everything, and expected to +enjoy the same privileges himself.</p> + +<p>This very grand sister-in-law might, under ordinary circumstances, +have turned up her nose at her brother’s choice, and would, under +<i>most</i> circumstances (for some of the worst-bred women in the +world are to be found sheltering their vulgarity beneath the strawberry +leaves), have mixed up so much condescension in her intercourse +with the young and portionless girl as to turn her politeness into +an insult. But Lady Marjoram was a gentlewoman, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>and that is a rank +which, if we do not inherit it from the goodness of our own hearts, no +strawberry leaves can give us. She had been working ‘like a nigger’ (as +she herself expressed it) to get the Portman Square house into proper +order for the Conroys’ first season in town; and as soon as Fenella was +ensconced in it, Lady Marjoram flew to her side, and offered her every +assistance in her power.</p> + +<p>‘Of course you must be presented at Court, dear,’ she said,—‘that must +be the first thing; and then you must give dinners and receptions, and +all kinds of horrors! Oh, how I hated them when I married Marjoram; but +they must be done, you know. And if you wish it, I’ll come and help you +through with everything that your cook and housekeeper can’t do for +you.’</p> + +<p>The kind tone and feeling of her sister-in-law moved Fenella deeply. +She pressed closer to Lady Marjoram and thanked her, with the tears in +her eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span></p> + +<p>‘Why, my dear child, what is this?’ cried the Countess; ‘you didn’t +suppose I was going to leave you to do it all by yourself, did you? I +am not quite such a wretch as that comes to. I remember too well what I +suffered when I married Marjoram, and the old Countess-Dowager wouldn’t +give me a single hint, and only found fault with everything I did. But +is the house as you like it, Fenella? Can you suggest any alteration?’</p> + +<p>‘Nothing, dear Lady Marjoram; it is just perfect, I assure you.’</p> + +<p>‘You mustn’t call me Lady Marjoram. I must be Janie to you, Fenella. +Don’t forget that we are sisters, though I suppose I am nearly old +enough to be your mother. What is your age, dear?’</p> + +<p>‘I was seventeen last January,’ replied Fenella, with a little sigh.</p> + +<p>‘And how do you and my brother get on together? Does he treat you +kindly? Are you quite happy with him?’</p> + +<p>Fenella opened her eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oh, Janie! What a question. Of course he is kind to me—very, very +kind.’</p> + +<p>‘No “<i>of course</i>” in the matter, my dear. The generality of men +are brutes, and marriage (as a rule) is a mistake. Not but what my +Marjoram is an awfully good old fellow; I wouldn’t change him for the +world. And my brother is a gentleman, too, which is, after all, the +main thing. A woman can generally get on with a gentleman, whether she +loves him or not; but so very few men <i>are</i> gentlemen to their +wives! It’s a lost art, Fenella. The man who would fell another to the +ground for daring to say he was <i>not</i> a gentleman, will behave in +the rudest manner to the unfortunate woman who is compelled to listen +to whatever he may choose to say to her.’</p> + +<p>‘I am not an unfortunate woman,’ laughed Fenella softly; ‘Gilbert has +never said a rude word to me.’</p> + +<p>‘I’m very glad to hear it, my dear; and I think I know my brother +well <span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>enough to say that he never will. You will find Gilbert very +particular—in fact, he’s a bit of a prude; but so long as you remain +what you are now—innocent, modest, and refined in your speech and +manners—he will make you the best of husbands. Gilbert couldn’t stand +a woman that was talked of. He is very fond of you and very proud of +you, and so he ought to be; but he is fonder and prouder of his family +name (that has been his weakness from a boy), and I believe he would +kill the woman he loved, with his own hand, sooner than she should +disgrace it.’</p> + +<p>‘I will never disgrace it,’ said Fenella, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>‘I am sure you won’t,’ rejoined Lady Marjoram heartily, as she took the +girl in her arms and affectionately embraced her.</p> + +<p>Under the tuition and guidance of her sister-in-law, all those ordeals +which appear so terrible to a young wife, first <span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>launched upon the +fashionable world, were transformed into pleasures; and Fenella had +been presented at Court, and attended her first ball, and given her +first dinner-party before she had time to wonder whether she should be +a success or a failure.</p> + +<p>The upshot was that she proved an undoubted success. Introduced +everywhere by the Countess of Marjoram, the youthful Lady Conroy became +an object of universal attention and admiration. The extreme delicacy +of her skin, the clearness of her complexion, and the child-like hue of +her soft fair hair, all combined to make Fenella look even younger than +she was; and as it was one of Sir Gilbert’s fancies that she should +always appear dressed in white, she soon gained the name of ‘The Lily’ +in the circles she frequented. The baronet mentioned this fact to his +sister, with pride beaming in his eyes.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t approve,’ he said, ‘of the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>modern custom of giving nicknames +to ladies of rank; but since the licence has unfortunately been allowed +to creep into society, they could not have chosen one for Lady Conroy +that would have offended me less.’</p> + +<p>‘That would have pleased you more, you mean,’ cried Lady Marjoram, +laughing. ‘Take care, Sir Gilbert de Conn—Roy of Scotland! If you +don’t mind your P’s and Q’s, you’ll be guilty of the plebeian crime of +falling in love with your own wife.’</p> + +<p>The baronet took her jest quite seriously.</p> + +<p>‘No, Janie; I assure you I feel nothing of that kind for Fenella, and +neither does she for me. We are the best of friends, and nothing more. +That is as it should be. Any warmer feeling than friendship is sure to +suffer from so close a contact. By the way, she asked me yesterday if +she might take singing lessons. What shall I do about it?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> + +<p>‘Get her the very best master you can,’ replied his sister decidedly. +‘Let her have Signor Possetrina. She has a lovely voice, and is fond of +music. Besides, she is the very best little girl in the world, and you +must give her every mortal thing she has a fancy for.’</p> + +<p>‘You are quite right,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘and I will engage Signor +Possetrina for her at once.’</p> + +<p>These singing lessons soon became Fenella’s greatest pleasure, and, +under the tuition of the best master in town, she made rapid progress. +Signor Possetrina was charmed both with her voice and her ability. He +found her well grounded in the art, and he was never tired of praising +the purity of her tones, the delicacy of her ear, and the earnestness +with which she pursued her studies. She would have given up her +engagements for her music, if Sir Gilbert would have permitted such a +sacrifice <span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>to art. But every spare hour she spent at her piano, and her +singing soon began to be talked of as much as her face had been.</p> + +<p>‘Almost too much talked of,’ as Sir Gilbert remarked, with a shrug of +his shoulders, to Lady Marjoram. ‘I hope she’s not going to turn out +a genius, Janie. Geniuses are generally erratic sort of persons, with +wills of their own, and I shouldn’t care for Lady Conroy to become too +decided and clever.’</p> + +<p>‘Bertie, you’re a fool,’ rejoined his sister (it is only sisters that +can call men ‘fools’ with impunity; they won’t stand it from their +wives); ‘wouldn’t you rather your children had a clever mother than a +stupid one? Besides, do you imagine women are any the less obstinate +or deceitful for being boobies? Not a bit of it! It’s the wives that +have no intellectual qualities wherewith to amuse themselves, that try +and get <span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>their amusement out of flirting, and sometimes even out of +champagne.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Don’t</i>, Janie,’ said Sir Gilbert, with a shudder.</p> + +<p>‘Well, then, my dear boy, be sensible, and let Fenella sing all day, +and all night too, if she wishes it, so long as she is contented with +no more dangerous audience than old Signor Possetrina and yourself.’</p> + +<p>So Fenella was allowed to follow her talent to her heart’s content, and +it did content her wonderfully. Her music sang to her—sadly enough, +and yet sweetly—of her unforgotten past. Geoffrey’s tones (although +unconsciously to herself) were wafted back from the shores of memory, +upon the wings of song; and whilst Fenella sat at the piano, she would +wander off into the realms of fancy, picturing a future perhaps in +which all the crooked paths of this world would be made straight, and +all the rough places plain, and lose herself in impossible <span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>dreams, +until she was recalled to earth again, and found her cheeks were wet +with tears.</p> + +<p>Yet she was happy; as happy as any one can be who has outlived the +thoughtlessness of childhood—because it is impossible to grow up and +think, without weeping for ourselves or others. There were times, +indeed, when a chance word or look—a chord of music, or the scent +of a flower—would bring back the remembrance of Geoffrey Doyne so +powerfully on Fenella’s mind, as to make her sick with longing to see +his face once more (if only for a moment). But it was the sort of +feeling with which we regard the dead—those hallowed dead whose still, +white features we sometimes feel as if we would give our lives to look +on once again. It had no more hope, and no more real desire of being +realised, than we have of unsoldering the coffins that have been closed +so long.</p> + +<p>There was one trait in Fenella’s character <span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>which somewhat puzzled +Lady Marjoram; she seemed to think so tenderly of little children, and +yet to be almost ashamed if detected in any kindness towards them. +The Countess had a nursery full of little ones, from big boys and +girls of twelve and fourteen, to a tiny stranger who had only made his +appearance in this wicked world about three months previously. Lady +Marjoram thought very little of babies; they were amongst the natural +nuisances of this life, she said, that must be endured. She romped +with all her children alike, from the eldest to the youngest, and was +quite offended if one of them dared to be weakly or sick. It was unlike +either herself or Marjoram, she would declare; and if the brat didn’t +get well soon, she should begin to think that he had been changed at +nurse.</p> + +<p>‘Take the boy! He won’t break,’ she exclaimed one day, as she threw her +infant into Fenella’s arms.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> + +<p>Something—what was it?—swelled in the girl’s breast as she received +the little creature, and the tears rushed suddenly to her eyes.</p> + +<p>‘Please take him back again,’ she faltered to her sister-in-law; +‘I—I—am not much used to babies.’</p> + +<p>‘You mean you don’t like them, my dear. Well, I don’t wonder at it. +Nobody does until they have them of their own. But you must get your +hand in, you know, Lady Conroy. Bertie won’t be satisfied till he has a +son.’</p> + +<p>‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Fenella, ‘and some day I hope he may have +one.’</p> + +<p>‘How quietly you said that, child! Too quietly a great deal for your +age. One would think you had had a dozen.’</p> + +<p>Fenella coloured.</p> + +<p>‘I <i>am</i> older than my age, Janie,’ she said, with a sigh; ‘but I +was not always so happy as I am now.’</p> + +<p>‘I expect not,’ thought Lady Marjoram; and then she asked, as a natural +sequence, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>‘Have you heard lately of Mrs Barrington, Fenella?’</p> + +<p>‘I have not, and I feel rather anxious about it. She was to have been +in town last month, and then she caught this attack of low fever, and +Bennett seems to think it may be some time yet before she is able to +move. I am sure she must be very weak, or she never would have missed +coming to town for the season.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, the season may be said to be over now, so I suppose Mrs +Barrington will not join you until you go to Conroy Castle.’</p> + +<p>‘I do not see how it will be possible, Janie. Gilbert told me yesterday +that we must be there by the twelfth.’</p> + +<p>‘Of course, for the grouse! Bertie would not miss the first day of the +season for anything. Sport is his great pastime, Fenella; he loves it +as enthusiastically as you do, music. You must never throw any obstacle +in the way of his pursuing it.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>‘Why should I?’ asked Fenella simply.</p> + +<p>She was quite at her ease in the presence of her husband, but she +was equally happy when he was absent. Her present content did not +arise from being married to him (though she may have deceived herself +into thinking so); it was due rather to the fact that he never urged +the circumstance of their marriage too strongly on her notice. Her +relations with her mother had caused Fenella some uneasiness since +she had become Lady Conroy. Mrs Barrington had appeared to imagine +that she ought to derive as many advantages from the marriage as her +daughter, and Sir Gilbert had not seen the matter in the same light. +Indeed, the greatest drawback in his eyes to marrying Fenella had been +the existence of her mother. He despised the widow’s character from +every point of view—he would have removed his wife entirely from her +influence had he been able, and the last thing he desired was that she +should continue to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>exert it. Fenella had, therefore, been placed in a +very difficult position,—forced to read and answer Mrs Barrington’s +letters of reproach, and complaints of poverty, on the one hand, and +to bear with equanimity Sir Gilbert’s animadversions on her mother’s +conduct, on the other.</p> + +<p>At last the difference of opinion had been settled by the baronet +giving his wife permission to invite Mrs Barrington to stay with them +for a month, either in London or Scotland, but this invitation (as +has already been shown) she was unable through illness to accept. +Fenella could not feel quite sorry about it,—not so sorry as, she told +herself, she ought to feel—because she had a premonition that Mrs +Barrington’s advent would not be productive of increased happiness in +her married life. She would rather be with Gilbert alone, she thought. +Her mother’s presence could only remind her of the darkest passages in +her young life.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p> + +<p>And she was spared the ordeal she had begun to dread; for she and her +husband had only been settled in Scotland for a fortnight, when the +news reached them from Paris that Mrs Barrington had succumbed to the +weakness supervening her attack of fever.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="013" style="max-width: 39.5em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/013.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="014" style="max-width: 89.0625em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/014.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII"> + CHAPTER VII. + <br> + <span>A REVELATION.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Thy words have darted hope into my soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And comfort dawns upon me.’—<i>Southern</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_i.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was naturally a great shock to Fenella’s nervous system to hear +of her mother’s death. It is a shock to learn (thus unexpectedly) of +the death of any one whom we have lately seen in apparent health and +strength. And it seemed so impossible to picture Mrs Barrington dead, +and laid out in her coffin. Mrs Barrington, with her painted cheeks +and skin, her dyed hair, her toilettes of pink and blue and silver, +her artificial ways and words and looks. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>Fenella could not realise +her mother shorn of these frivolous accompaniments; she wondered how +she would get on without them, even in the other world. But when the +first shock was over, the girl’s honest heart could not pretend there +was much grief remaining for their present separation. There might have +been. Mrs Barrington, in repulsing her daughter’s affection, had thrust +from her a rich store of love that might have been her consolation and +her stay till her life’s end. But love is a plant of growth; it can +no more live without nourishment than a flower can flourish without +earth and water. And Mrs Barrington had killed the beautiful blossom +that was springing up in her child’s heart. She had trampled it under +foot and neglected it, and it had perished for lack of food. And now +that she had passed out of sight, she had not left one loving memory in +Fenella’s mind by which to mourn her. On the contrary, her daughter, in +deference to the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>fact that she had been her father’s wife, and she was +dead, felt herself compelled, resolutely, to put away all thoughts of +her, since remembrance brought reproach in its train.</p> + +<p>But she could not help thinking of Bennett—dear good old Bennett, who +had been with them before her own birth, and who had been so attached +to her late mistress; she was terribly anxious to know what was to +become of Bennett. The servant was no longer young—she was at least +fifty years of age, twenty of which had been spent in their service; +and she had become so wedded to their ways, it was unlikely she would +find another place to suit her. Fenella wanted to send for her at once +to Conroy Castle. There was a baby expected there in the spring, and +her wish was to instal Eliza Bennett as head of the nursery.</p> + +<p>‘She loves me,’ she said to her husband, with big pathetic eyes, ‘and +she will take every care of our little child for my sake.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert was good-naturedly disposed to acquiesce in anything his +wife might desire. He was going over to Paris to attend the funeral +of his mother-in-law, and, had the truth been known, in a more +contented frame of mind than he would have cared to exhibit openly. Mrs +Barrington had been his <i>bête noire</i>, but she was (fortunately) +removed to a better sphere; it was quite immaterial to him what became +of the servant.</p> + +<p>‘Do just as you like about it, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I have no +doubt the old woman will be quite as efficient a guardian for the +heir-apparent as anyone else.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Gilbert, you are so very good to me!’ murmured Fenella gratefully. +‘Then I will write Bennett a letter, dear, and you shall deliver it to +her yourself.’</p> + +<p>In consequence of which, Bennett, having first paid a short visit to +her brother in Ines-cedwyn, arrived at Conroy Castle robed in the +deepest mourning, and clasped <span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>her young mistress in her arms again. +Had it been a meeting between a mother and child it could hardly have +been more affectionate. The servant forgot all the grandeur attendant +on Sir Gilbert and Lady Conroy, as she showered kiss after kiss on +Fenella’s face; and the girl herself was scarcely less delighted to lay +her head on that kind, homely breast once more.</p> + +<p>There was a link between Bennett and herself which nothing on this +earth could have the power to rupture. The servant was, of course, full +of the account of Mrs Barrington’s illness and death, and for awhile +neither of them could speak of anything else.</p> + +<p>‘And to think, dear Miss Fenella,’ cried Bennett, who could not get +out of the habit of using the old name, ‘that you shouldn’t have been +with us at the time! But it was so sudden, my dear; the doctor was as +surprised as any of us—for we had thought she was doing so nicely, +poor dear <span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>lady, and would be able to be moved at the farthest in a +week or two. But she sank (as you may say) in a few hours—nothing +would save her; and her teeth was so fixed we couldn’t even get a drop +of brandy and water down her throat.’</p> + +<p>‘Did she speak of me, Bennett? Did she send me any message?’ demanded +Fenella timidly.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, she spoke often of you when she was in the fever, my dear; and she +used to talk of Conroy Castle, and the time when she’d get here, and +what a fine place it was, and all that. Poor dear! Little she thought +she’d never see it. And as for me, Miss Fenella, it seems as if my +hands was empty, now she’s gone. She was just like a child to me—so +sweet and amiable—always wanting this or that. It was “Bennett, come +here!” or “Bennett, go there!” all day long. She didn’t seem to be able +to do anything without her poor Bennett—did she, now?’</p> + +<p>‘No; I am sure she looked on you as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>her very best friend, Bennett, and +I shall do the same for her sake. But when she was dying—when the end +came—couldn’t poor mamma speak then? Didn’t she say one word of me, or +send me any message?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, miss, you see, I don’t think your poor dear mamma knew as +her death was so near at hand, for she only seemed a little more +fractious-like to me. I had just handed her some <i>limonade</i>, and +I suppose she wanted <i>tisane</i>, bless her! For she pushed it aside +and spilt it all over the counterpane, and said, “Take it away.” And +them was her last words, Miss Fenella; for as I was setting the bed +to rights, I see a change come over her face, and I caught her up +in my arms, and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. You might have +knocked me over with a feather.’ And Bennett buried her face in her +rough hands, and cried like a little child. ‘She was my life, Miss +Fenella—just my life and nothing else,’ she sobbed. ‘It seemed as if I +hadn’t a will of my own when she was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span>near—as if I couldn’t move hand +nor foot unless she ordered me. You know how I used to wait on her from +morning till night. And now the world seems empty. I shall never have +any rest for thinking of her. I wouldn’t mind twice the trouble if I +could only have her back again.’</p> + +<p>Fenella tried to comfort the good-hearted creature with some of those +ordinary arguments which sound like empty wind to ears on which a +beloved voice has ceased to fall.</p> + +<p>‘You mustn’t fret, dear Bennett. You must try and think how much better +it is for her to be free of all the trouble of this world. I don’t +think poor mamma can have been very happy here. She always seemed full +of worry and anxiety; and now—now we must hope that it is all over, +and—and—that she is in heaven,’ said Fenella hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>‘In <i>heaven</i>! My dear lady!’ replied Bennett, wiping her eyes. +‘Yes, I’m sure of <i>that</i>! I know for certain as my <span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>darling +mistress is walking in her robes of glory, with her ’arp in her +’and—and not a more beautiful angel in the whole place. Oh, yes! +<i>she’s</i> happy now, if <i>any one</i> is, miss. It isn’t her (sweet +angel!) as I’m thinking of—it’s myself, and you, poor lamb! It’s what +<i>we</i> shall do without her.’</p> + +<p>‘We must try and comfort each other,’ said Fenella gently. ‘And now +tell me of your brother, dear Bennett, and of Martha. Were you glad to +see them again, and are they well and happy?’</p> + +<p>Eliza Bennett coloured and looked ill at ease.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, yes! Miss Fenella—that is, my lady—Ben and Martha was looking +well enough, and of course they was glad to see me, notwithstandin’ +the sad event as took me there.’ And then she continued rather +irrelevantly, ‘I always carried out all your poor dear mamma’s wishes +to the very letter, Miss Fenella; there was never nothing she told +me to do but what I thought it right to obey her; and I hope <span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>it +<i>has</i> been right, or if not, that the Almighty won’t lay it to +my charge. But I made a sort of idol of her, Miss Fenella; and I know +that’s wrong, and sometimes we’re punished for doing of it—still, when +she <i>was</i> my mistress, I considered myself bound to serve her, +even to the uttermost farthing.’</p> + +<p>Fenella stared at this address—it seemed so uncalled for; but she +answered warmly,—</p> + +<p>‘I am sure God, who looks on our hearts, dear Bennett, will never blame +you for doing <i>more</i> than your duty. The majority of us do so +much less. But I should like to hear something about your own affairs. +Did poor mamma pay you your wages? I know they had been due for a long +time; and has she left any debts in Paris?’</p> + +<p>Bennett looked round cautiously, and lowered her voice.</p> + +<p>‘Well, my dear, to my thinking, your good gentleman must have cleared +’em off. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>I know there <i>was</i> some, but after the funeral he called +me into the <i>salon</i>, and paid me my wages, and something very +handsome over, and told me I was to pack up my dear mistress’s bits +of jewellery for you, and to consider her wardrobe as my own, which +I thought was most generous of him. And then I ventured to ask him +about the bills, and Sir Gilbert said I wasn’t to worry my head on the +matter, as he would see to ’em himself.’</p> + +<p>‘Dear Gilbert!’ said Fenella. ‘Oh! he is so good and so generous to me, +nurse. I don’t know what I have done to deserve so kind a husband.’</p> + +<p>‘And such a fine-looking gentleman, too, Miss Fenella; and such a +princely home! It does my heart good to see you so comfortable and so +happy. Ah! if my poor dear mistress had only lived to enjoy it with us!’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I never thought that I <i>could</i> be so happy,’ said Fenella +gravely.</p> + +<p>‘I’ve heard there’s an old saying, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>“<i>All’s well as ends well</i>,” +my dear, and I am sure <i>you</i> ought to be able to understand it. +But I see you wear that old locket still, Miss Fenella.’</p> + +<p>Fenella coloured, and put her hand up to her bosom, in which reposed +the present that Geoffrey Doyne had given her.</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! I promised I would wear this till my death, nurse. Nothing can +make any difference to that, you know.’</p> + +<p>‘And don’t Sir Gilbert notice it, my dear?’</p> + +<p>‘He has never mentioned it to me, and I don’t think he ever will. He is +not that sort of man. He has a soul above such trifles.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah, well! You got a lucky exchange,’ replied the servant; but her +young mistress turned the conversation, and she said no more.</p> + +<p>As the weeks went on, however, and the influence of the dead woman was +farther and farther removed from her, Bennett became at one and the +same time <span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span>more confidential and more reserved with Lady Conroy. It +seemed as though she had some revelation at the very tip of her tongue +which she longed, and yet did not dare to make. The temptation seemed +greatest when she was assisting Fenella with the usual preparations +for the expected heir; and sometimes as together they inspected and +arranged the lace and muslin and fine linen that arrived from London to +fill the nursery wardrobe, Bennett seemed almost unable (as she herself +expressed it) to keep her tongue between her teeth.</p> + +<p>‘Lor’ bless us!’ she exclaimed one day, as she tossed some baby-linen +almost impatiently to one side; ‘to think of the pounds and pounds as +is thrown away just to decorate one infant, as you may say, whilst +another poor little creature has hardly enough clothes to its back! If +<i>I</i> was a fine lady, like you, my dear, with heaps of money to +spend as I chose, I should give a little thought to them as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>has none, +if I wanted my own child to thrive and do well.’</p> + +<p>Fenella looked up at this tirade, surprised but smiling.</p> + +<p>‘Dear nurse,’ she said, ‘I believe we give a great deal away annually +in charity as it is, but if there are any particular cases of want that +you know of, I shall be only too glad to relieve them. I should like to +do it (as you say) in hopes it might come back in a blessing on my own +baby.’</p> + +<p>The servant looked mollified.</p> + +<p>‘You was always good and sweet, my dear, from a little child. You take +after your blessed mamma in heaven for that. I daresay a lot of money +<i>does</i> go from this house to the poor—and food, and blankets, +and what not beside; but if I was to ask you, Miss Fenella, for a few +pounds for a little one as has got no mother and no father (so to +speak)—for such a little one as we might both have heard of, you know, +in our day—what <span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>would you say then, my dear? Would you give it?’</p> + +<p>Fenella’s trembling hands began to play at once with the fastening of +her purse, from which she managed to extract a ten-pound note; but +before she could hand it over to the servant, her fortitude gave way, +and sinking down on her knees by the bedside, she burst into a flood of +tears.</p> + +<p>Bennett left her place, and approaching the spot where her mistress +knelt, laid her hand gently on the bowed head.</p> + +<p>‘So you haven’t forgotten yet, my lamb?’ she whispered.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Forgotten</i>! My God! No; I shall never, <i>never</i> forget!’</p> + +<p>She knelt for a few minutes in the same position, then rising suddenly, +turned with an April smile upon the servant.</p> + +<p>‘Am I not silly, nurse?—as great a baby as when you brought me home +from the convent? But here’s the note for the little one you spoke +of—and may <span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>God bless it! And if there are any others that I can help +in the same way, let me hear of them. I have more money, dear nurse, +than I know how to spend; and I have less—less expenses than I might +have had.’</p> + +<p>The servant took the note and put it carefully away.</p> + +<p>‘Dear heart!’ she thought, as Lady Conroy left the room. ‘I’m sorely +perplext to know what’s best to be done. It seems so hard she shouldn’t +know; and yet, now she’s living so happy and loving and grand, ’twould +be a pity to rake up old scores. Well, this isn’t the time, any way. +She’s got too much on her mind just now to think of anything else. And +perhaps I need never tell her; it looks likely enough.’</p> + +<p>And, indeed, at that moment Fenella had what is technically termed +‘her hands full.’ The castle was filled with Christmas visitors, +amongst which were the Earl and Countess of Marjoram, who <span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>had with +them a cousin, Lord Laurence Grantham, a fine manly young fellow +of five-and-twenty, who established himself from the very first as +Fenella’s chief friend and knight-errant. Lady Marjoram had not brought +any of her children with her. She left home, she affirmed, to enjoy +herself, and had no desire to keep her domestic miseries for ever in +sight.</p> + +<p>‘You will be quite of my opinion in another year’s time, my dear +Fenella,’ she said to her sister-in-law, ‘and only too thankful to +leave Portman Square or Conroy Castle, or wherever the nursery may be +located, behind you. I positively begin to hate children, and believe +they are only sent into this world to plague their parents out of +it. Mine have had measles and hooping-cough already this year, and +now they’ve all broken out with ringworm; so I couldn’t stand it any +longer, but packed the whole lot off to Bournemouth for the winter. +There <span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>they are, nine of them, with a governess and two nurses, eating +their heads off, and sending us in weekly bills that make Marjoram +swear in the most awful manner. It’s no use laughing, Fenella. You’ll +laugh on the wrong side of your mouth some day, my dear. Wait till you +have nine.’</p> + +<p>‘I hope I shall wait a long time,’ rejoined Lady Conroy, who was much +amused at her sister-in-law’s indignation. ‘But what is it that Lord +Marjoram is speaking to Gilbert about?’</p> + +<p>‘About a vacant governorship at Sovooranooko, on the Gold Coast of +Africa, my dear, where yellow fever and smallpox reign triumphantly +from January to December, and elephants are shot for the sake of +their steaks, and alligators appear at the breakfast-table <i>en +papillotes</i> like sardines.’</p> + +<p>‘What interest can that have for Gilbert?’ demanded Fenella, rather +anxiously. ‘He would never accept an appointment in such a climate as +that?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> + +<p>‘He says he should enjoy it above all things, Lady Conroy,’ interposed +Lord Laurence Grantham mischievously. ‘He is already consulting +Marjoram now about the proper-sized “bore” for elephant-shooting, +and they are going down to the stackyard after luncheon to practise +alligator-spearing.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, the poor cows!’ laughed the Countess. ‘Marjoram will most likely +get a spear in the calf of his leg, and be out of temper for the rest +of the day!’</p> + +<p>‘Gilbert! You would never really go to a place like Sovooranooko?’ said +Fenella, as she went up to her husband’s side.</p> + +<p>‘My dear child, what nonsense! What are you thinking of?’ replied Sir +Gilbert. ‘I am about as likely to go to Timbuctoo!’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, you are not!’ retorted his sister. ‘There are no elephants +there.’</p> + +<p>But his wife was quite satisfied with his answer, and troubled her head +no further in the matter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span></p> + +<p>When February came round again with its pale spring flowers, a little +daughter was born at Conroy Castle. Sir Gilbert was excessively annoyed +at the fact of its being a girl—more annoyed than Fenella had ever +seen him during their married life. He had calculated so certainly upon +having a son; it did not seem to have entered his head that he might +have a daughter.</p> + +<p>‘Better luck next time, Bertie,’ cried Lady Marjoram, who was still a +guest at the castle; but her brother did not take the jest in good part.</p> + +<p>‘My dear, he’s as cross as a bear!’ she whispered afterwards to +Fenella, who could not be put out of conceit with her little girl, +although no one seemed to value her but herself; ‘but it’s always +the way with men. They think the world was made for them, and it’s a +personal insult if they don’t get their own way. Marjoram was just +the reverse. <i>He</i> wanted a daughter, and I had five sons <span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>in +succession. I can remember his disgusted expression, when he used to +exclaim, “<i>Another</i> boy! Too bad—too bad!” as if <i>I</i> could +help the young wretches being boys! At last a girl came, and then, of +course, he spoilt her. She’s the most odious brat of the lot. However, +I don’t think Bertie will spoil yours—not just yet, at all events.’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid not,’ said Fenella, with a sigh.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t sigh over it, you muff; it’s not <i>your</i> fault; and if +Bertie begins any more grumbling, just give him a bit of your mind. +You’re too easy with him, Fenella. He’s growing a regular bully!—No, +nurse! Don’t ask me to kiss the baby, <i>please</i>! I daresay she’s a +very nice baby, and everything she ought to be; but, you see, I have +nine of my own, and the gilt has somewhat worn off the gingerbread! In +fact (not to put too fine a point upon it) the game’s played out.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span></p> + +<p>And without another look at the infant, the lively Countess ran away.</p> + +<p>The new-comer was left entirely to the admiration of its mother and +nurses, but doubtless it fared none the worse for that.</p> + +<p>‘And she’s come in <i>February</i> too,’ remarked Bennett, +significantly, to Fenella, as she cradled the little Conroy in her +arms; ‘that seems as if she was to be a special gift, my lady, doesn’t +it?’</p> + +<p>This idea seemed to linger in the mind of the young mother, and when +next she saw Sir Gilbert she asked him if their little girl might be +called Theodora.</p> + +<p>‘Theodora—Theodora!’ he repeated, wrinkling his brows. ‘Why Theodora? +It wasn’t your mother’s name, was it?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no; mamma was called Rosina! But Theodora, you know, means “the +gift of God.”’</p> + +<p>‘Exactly so, though I don’t see that this baby is more especially the +gift of God than any other baby—do you?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p> + +<p>Fenella looked down at the child lying on her breast.</p> + +<p>‘She is such a <i>comfort</i> to me!’ she answered, as she strained her +to her heart.</p> + +<p>‘I am glad of that, dear,’ said her husband, ‘and I should like to +indulge your fancy in the matter; but being the eldest daughter, I +think she ought to be called after my mother, Lady Valeria; and so does +Janie.’</p> + +<p>‘Valeria is such a <i>fine</i> name. It doesn’t seem to <i>fit</i> +her!’ said Fenella dubiously.</p> + +<p>‘It is not so long as Theodora, at any rate,’ laughed Sir Gilbert; +‘however, Valeria, she must be, so I am sure you will not oppose +yourself to what I think best.’</p> + +<p>She had never done so yet, and was not likely to begin now. The +baby was baptized in the name of Valeria, and Fenella soon became +reconciled to a matter of so little importance. But when the child +was about a month old, a real trial assailed her. Sir Gilbert Conroy +was offered the governorship of Sovooranooko, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>and decided to accept +it. The temptation was too great for him. What real sportsman could +resist the chance of bagging game in the African forests? Visions +of elephants, rhinoceri, hippopotami, gorillas, elands, and buffalo +floated rapturously through the baronet’s brain, until he was no longer +master of himself. He accepted the post without even consulting his +wife in the matter, and made immediate arrangements for going up to +town and purchasing every sort of weapon and equipment necessary for +his expected experiences. Lord Laurence Grantham (as enthusiastic a +sportsman as himself) was to accompany him as his private secretary, +and much good might Sovooranooko expect to derive from their united +services whilst a head of game remained within range of their rifles.</p> + +<p>On first hearing the news of her husband’s appointment, Fenella +naturally supposed she was to accompany him.</p> + +<p>‘But will Sovooranooko be a good place <span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>to take baby to?’ she demanded +timidly. ‘Do you think the climate will agree with her, Gilbert?’</p> + +<p>‘My dear girl, what are you dreaming of? Drag a baby and suite after me +into the centre of Africa? I’d as soon think of introducing a gorilla +into your London drawing-room.’</p> + +<p>‘But how can I leave her behind, so young as she is?’ she asked him.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t wish you to leave her behind. I should no more think of +risking your health than I should that of the child. No, my dear +Fenella, this is not an expedition for women and children. Grantham +and I shall spend half our time in the jungle, and what would you do +without society, grilling away on the burning plains of Sovooranooko? +It would kill you both.’</p> + +<p>‘But if it is so dangerous a climate, why do you go there, Gilbert?’ +she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of affection. ‘Why should you +leave us for years, to hold an appointment which you do not <span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>require, +and from which you may never return?’</p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert had to consider for a moment why he did do this thing, +before he could answer his wife’s question.</p> + +<p>‘Well, the reason, my dear, is obvious. I certainly do not actually +require the appointment, nor do I admire the climate; but still it is +a great honour conferred upon me, and my longing to have some sport in +Central Africa has always been intense. In my position as governor of +Sovooranooko, I shall not only have better opportunities of following +the pursuit, but be able to penetrate farther and with greater security +than I should otherwise be able to do. But as for my remaining away for +<i>years</i>, that is nonsense. There is no necessity for me to go at +all, and I can resign the appointment whenever I feel inclined.’</p> + +<p>‘Janie says, when you once get there, it is a question whether you will +<i>ever</i> come back again,’ said Fenella.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span></p> + +<p>‘Janie knows nothing about it. We certainly cannot commence following +up the large game until a particular season of the year; but I shall +not remain out there a minute longer than I find it pay me to do so. +Meanwhile, Fenella, there is no need for you to mope. You will be a +great deal with my sister, I hope, when you are in London; and the +autumn you will spend at the sea-side, or wherever pleases you. Perhaps +the Marjorams may ask you down to Southfield for Christmas. I am sure +they will, if you evince the slightest disposition to join them. But +since Dr M’Kenzie advises your going to some warmer place for the next +few months, I shall not leave England until I have seen you comfortably +settled at Nice, or wherever you like best.’</p> + +<p>From the extreme cold of Scotland Fenella had developed a cough after +her baby’s birth. Had she been an ordinary patient it would have been +treated with syrup of squills, but in the position of Sir <span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>Gilbert +Conroy’s wife the family doctor considered it necessary to prescribe +a visit to the south coast to expedite her cure; and, after some +deliberation, Hyères in France was chosen for her temporary sojourn.</p> + +<p>Sir Gilbert would have had his wife travel with a courier, and a +flunky, and a couple of women, and engage the best suite of rooms in +the best hotel. He was a man who loved pomp and show, and if there was +an ungentlemanly trait in his character, it was his weakness to be +thought a very big person, and to have everything belonging to him in +equal style. Fenella pleaded hard to be excused the courier and the +flunky, for neither of whom she had the slightest use; but she took +Bennett and her lady’s-maid with her, and permitted her husband to +establish them in the hotel at Hyères, and impress the proprietor and +attendants with a sense of the importance of Miladi Conroy, and the +necessity that she should be supplied <span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>with everything that was best +and most expensive. And thus, having fulfilled the very letter of the +law as a husband and protector, Sir Gilbert gave Fenella unlimited +credit at his banker’s, and parted with her as carelessly as if he had +been running into the country for a fortnight’s fishing.</p> + +<p>His wife felt very lonely after he was gone—still more so when she +heard that he had left England in the Cape steamer, and was on his way +to Sovooranooko. She began to wish she had not left Conroy Castle, +or that she had asked her sister-in-law to receive her as a guest at +Southfield. But the Earl and Countess were paying a round of visits, +and she would have been almost as lonely in either of those places +as at Hyères. Then her lady’s-maid (who had never been a favourite +with Fenella) began to give her trouble. She was an independent, +free-born Britisher, and not disposed to fall in kindly with any of the +ways of ‘them <span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>nasty furriners.’ She complained of the food and the +accommodation; she couldn’t ‘abide’ to see the invalids who had come to +Hyères (perhaps only to die) being dragged about in their wheel-chairs; +and she didn’t understand ‘hupper’ servants being put to one side +by ‘nusses,’ and such like—which being interpreted, meant that the +lady’s-maid was jealous of the confidences reposed in Bennett by her +mistress.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Hif</i> her la’ship required her services, would she be good enough +to say so? and <i>hif</i> her la’ship didn’t, would she be good enough +to let her go?’</p> + +<p>When it came to this pointed appeal, Fenella found she could do very +much better without her.</p> + +<p>‘Do send her away, my dear lady,’ whispered Bennett. ‘I can do +everything that you and the baby require; and she’s always got her ear +at the keyhole, listening to every word we say.’</p> + +<p>So the lady’s-maid (much to her surprise and annoyance) was dismissed +from <span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>Lady Conroy’s service, and sent back to England; and shortly +after her departure Fenella removed from the hotel, and took a lovely +little cottage standing in its own garden, on the outskirts of the +town, where Bennett, and a <i>fille de quartier</i> hired in Hyères, +rendered her all the assistance she required.</p> + +<p>These may appear to be trifling and unnecessary details, but they +exerted a strong influence upon her future conduct. Here, in this +solitude, with no society but that of Eliza Bennett and her little +infant, Fenella lapsed into very low spirits. Her life had become calm +and contented, but it was not sufficiently happy to bear the strain of +her own thoughts, without the outward distraction of cheerful company +and lively surroundings. Left to herself, she was too apt to dream; and +dreaming revealed a state of mind that half frightened her. She was +sadly disappointed, too, at Sir Gilbert leaving her for Sovooranooko, +although she would not acknowledge it, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>even to herself. But she had +begun to lean upon the fact that he was her husband; to misconstrue +the courtesy and deference (which he would have shown to any woman) as +marks of love for herself, and to deceive her own heart into the belief +that she loved him in return. And yet he had left her for an indefinite +period, whilst he ran all the risks attendant on an unhealthy climate +and a dangerous pursuit; and Fenella could not help recognising her +true place in his estimation. She was Lady Conroy, his wife, and the +possible mother of his heir—that was all. As for the poor little girl +in the cradle, he had not even looked at her before he went away. She +was a female, of no consequence at all in his family tree; that she +was her mother’s child gave her no individual claim upon her father’s +heart. But the little Valeria (now three months old) was daily becoming +more engaging in Fenella’s eyes, who thought that a lovelier specimen +of babyhood had never existed. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>And she was partly right. The infant +was unusually large and fat for her age—too much so, indeed, for +health, as the sequel proved. For one day, as the little creature was +lying, flushed and rosy in her sleep, she was seized (without the +slightest warning) with a convulsion, from which she never recovered. +Bennett (who had frequently seen infants in fits before) plunged her +at once into a warm bath, and held her there until the convulsions +had ceased. But when they were over, life was over too. The beautiful +baby had closed her blue eyes upon this world for ever, and Bennett +was forced to break the intelligence to her mistress. The <i>fille de +quartier</i> was sent flying into Hyères for a doctor, but he only +arrived to confirm the nurse’s opinion. The spirit of the little child +was gone beyond recall—‘if he could be of any other use to Miladi +he would be but too happy, but as for <i>this</i>,’ shrugging his +shoulders, ‘he was <i>accomblé</i> with regret to say it—but no one +could help Miladi <i>here</i>.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p> + +<p>It was some time before Fenella could be made to believe that her +infant was really dead. But when the doctor had departed, and the +little body was laid out, stiff and white, upon the bed, her agony was +overwhelming.</p> + +<p>‘There is a curse upon me, Bennett,’ she cried, as she fell, sobbing, +on her knees beside the corpse. ‘God is still angry with me! I shall +never be the mother of a living child!’</p> + +<p>‘No, no! My dear lady; don’t say that, for it isn’t the truth. Oh, if +I only dared to tell you!’ said Bennett, with the tears streaming down +her own face.</p> + +<p>‘You cannot tell me anything to give me comfort,’ replied Fenella, as +she rocked herself to and fro. ‘They all leave me; no one stays with +me! I believe I am doomed to live and die alone! <i>What</i> had I, +nurse—<i>whom</i> had I—but this little child? and God has taken even +her away! Oh! It is cruel—it is <i>cruel</i> of Him! He might have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>left me <i>one</i> of them, just to save my heart from breaking!’</p> + +<p>The servant, who was almost as upset as her mistress, sat by her side +all night long, and never left her for one moment to herself.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the next day (according to the custom of that part of +the country) Fenella’s child was buried, and the little house seemed as +if it had died itself—it was so empty and still and forlorn.</p> + +<p>Lady Conroy had wept until her sight was dull and her face sodden; +she had paced up and down the room until she had nearly fainted from +fatigue and want of nourishment; but still she could not rest. She +moved about incessantly, with dry eyes, but burning cheeks, recalling +every incident in her baby’s short life which could increase her grief +and heighten her despair. At last she made a dart at her blotting-case.</p> + +<p>‘I cannot write to Sir Gilbert,’ she <span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>said, ‘until I have heard of his +arrival at Sovooranooko; but I must let Lady Marjoram know the news at +once. They would never forgive me if I kept them in ignorance of such +an event. Though I don’t suppose any of them will care if she is alive +or dead. No one loved her but myself. My darling little Valeria! my +poor lost baby!’</p> + +<p>She sat down with the blotting-book in her hand, and burst into a fresh +flood of tears. This was the moment Bennett had been watching for. +As the tempest of Fenella’s grief subsided, she found her faithful +dependant close at hand.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t write this evening, my darling child,’ she said affectionately; +‘you ain’t fit for it. Let it be till to-morrow, for there’s something +as I want to tell you.’</p> + +<p>‘Tell it me afterwards, dear Bennett. Let me write my letters first,’ +pleaded Fenella. ‘It will do me good to have some occupation. Besides, +we must leave this place, nurse. I can’t stay here, now <span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span>my baby’s +gone. I should fancy I heard her voice crying every minute.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, yes! My dear lady,’ replied Bennett soothingly; ‘and you know as +you can do exactly as you choose in all things. Only there’s something +as I want to tell you, my dear, and I’ve wanted to tell it you for +months and months past, only I didn’t dare; but the time’s come now, +I’m sure, and I don’t feel as if I should do right to keep it to myself +any longer. I think it will be a comfort to you, and yet how to begin +the story I don’t know.’</p> + +<p>The woman’s manner was so earnest and yet full of mystery, as she +walked to the door and locked it, lest they should be interrupted, that +Fenella’s curiosity was immediately aroused.</p> + +<p>‘Nurse, what is it you can have to tell me that requires so much +preparation? Is it anything to do with poor mamma?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, it has and it hasn’t, Miss Fenella; and I expect you’ll be so +surprised, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span>you’ll hardly believe as I’m telling you the truth. But you +mustn’t blame me, my dear, for I can call Heaven to witness as I never +did anything in this world but what I thought was for your good.’</p> + +<p>‘What on earth is it?’ cried Fenella, as the blotting-case slid to the +ground. ‘I begin to be frightened, nurse. Surely it cannot be more bad +news for me?’</p> + +<p>‘No, no, my lamb. I think you’ll say as it’s good news, and I am sure +you will say I am right to tell it you. Do you remember the time, Miss +Fenella, when you was so ill at Sainte Pauvrette?’</p> + +<p>Lady Conroy shuddered.</p> + +<p>‘Ah, Bennett, as if I could <i>ever</i> forget it! It is the one great +black spot in my life.’</p> + +<p>‘Your mamma told you then, miss, as your baby was dead, and you cried +bitterly for its loss, didn’t you?’</p> + +<p>The tears streamed afresh down Fenella’s face. The old wound had +recalled the new.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, I did! My poor wee baby that never saw the light! God might +have left me <i>this</i> one (mightn’t He, nurse?) just to help me to +forget the other.’</p> + +<p>‘And what should you say, my dear,’ continued Bennett, as she softly +stroked the girl’s hand; ‘what should you say, now, if I was to tell +you as your first baby—the baby that was born at Sainte Pauvrette—was +still alive?’</p> + +<p>Lady Conroy half sprung from her seat, and stared into the servant’s +face incredulously.</p> + +<p>‘But my mother—my <i>mother</i>,’ she panted, ‘told me it was born +dead—that it never even breathed on entering the world!’</p> + +<p>‘My mistress didn’t tell the truth then, Miss Fenella—God forgive her! +That child was born alive, and is living now.’</p> + +<p>‘But I never saw it, nurse! I never heard it cry!’</p> + +<p>‘I daresay not, my dear, or you don’t <span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>remember it. But you were raving +with fever all the time, and the baby was safe in England long before +you came to your senses again.’</p> + +<p>‘But you showed me her grave!’ continued Lady Conroy, with eyes wide +open with surprise. ‘You pointed out a little mound to me in Sainte +Pauvrette churchyard, and told me my poor baby lay beneath it, and I +left violets and primroses there for her sake.’</p> + +<p>‘My dear, I did; and I’m not going to deny it. They was your poor +mamma’s orders, and I obeyed them, as I’ve obeyed many an order of hers +that’s laid on my conscience since. But it was untrue, Miss Fenella. I +took your dear baby myself to England the very day she was born, and +she’s living there to this hour. And that’s God’s truth, my lamb, if I +never utter another word on this side the grave!’</p> + +<p>Fenella stood still and silent for one moment, as if to try and +grasp the truth <span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>of this unexpected revelation. Then with a cry of +indignation she bounded to her feet.</p> + +<p>‘And <i>my mother</i> did this!’ she exclaimed. ‘<i>My mother</i>, +who brought me into the world, and knew all that I had suffered! She +stepped into the place of God and bereaved me of my child! How did she +<i>dare</i> to do it?’ she went on fiercely, as she confronted Eliza +Bennett. ‘How did <i>you</i> dare to uphold her in such a falsehood? +What right had you to conspire together to steal my child from +me—<i>his</i> child—and leave me to the desolation and despair that +followed? How did you <i>dare</i>—how did you <span class="allsmcap">DARE</span> to do it?’</p> + +<p>She paced up and down the room as she spoke, alarming Bennett beyond +measure by her heightened colour and rapid utterance.</p> + +<p>‘Say what you like to me, Miss Fenella,’ she replied piteously; ‘I +daresay I did very wrong, though I acted under <span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>orders. But don’t go +to blame your dear mamma as is a saint in heaven. She did it for the +best, my dear; she thought to save you the shame and the distress it +might prove in after-years. We talked a deal together about it before +we decided what to do, but the little one’s been safe and well with my +sister Martha ever since, and you’ll be able to see her now whenever +you like. And oh! Do stop walking in that fashion, my dear, for if +you fall ill, I shall never forgive myself for having told you; but I +thought maybe it might be a comfort for you to hear, now that the other +dear baby’s gone.’</p> + +<p>Fenella stopped short, and flung herself on her knees by the old +woman’s side.</p> + +<p>‘It <i>is</i> a comfort, dear Bennett,’ she said; ‘but tell me the +truth—don’t deceive me any more—is she really alive?’</p> + +<p>‘She <i>is</i> alive, my dear. She’s a poor creature, as might be +expected, brought up by hand; but she’s alive and well.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span></p> + +<p>‘And what is she like, nurse? Oh, tell me what my child is like.’</p> + +<p>‘She ain’t so good-looking as the angel that’s gone, Miss Fenella, but +I should think she’d take after you when she fills out a bit. She’s +very backward, poor lamb; she can’t say a word, and she’s got no use of +her legs. But Martha’s took every care of her, and couldn’t love her +better if she were her own.’</p> + +<p>‘And—and—does Martha know that she belongs to <i>me</i>, nurse?’ +asked Lady Conroy hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>‘Bless your heart, <i>no</i>! Do you think I’d go to pull down the +family in <i>that</i> way, Miss Fenella? In course not! I said ’twas +a child belonging to a friend of my mistress, and they didn’t ask no +questions. Why should they? They’ve been paid reg’lar ever since.’</p> + +<p>‘Who has paid them, Bennett?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, your dear mamma did up to her death, my lady, and since that +your ten-pound note has kept them going till such <span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span>time as I could make +up my mind to tell you the truth.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, if I could see her! If I could only see her!’ cried Fenella, +clasping her hands.</p> + +<p>‘My dear, I don’t see why you shouldn’t, and that’s why I wanted to +tell you my story before you wrote to Lady Marjoram.’</p> + +<p>‘What has that to do with it, Bennett? I couldn’t tell <i>her</i>, you +know.’</p> + +<p>‘I should think not! You’ll be very soft if you tell any one now. Let +the matter rest between you and me, my dear. But ain’t it next to a +moral certainty as Sir Gilbert will be out in that African place for +some years?’</p> + +<p>‘I believe so. For two or three years, without doubt, unless some +accident sends him home.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, then, Miss Fenella, I’d risk it!’</p> + +<p>‘Risk what, Bennett?’</p> + +<p>‘I’d have that baby home in place of the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>one that’s gone, and trust to +his never finding out the difference.’</p> + +<p>‘Nurse! What are you thinking of? My first baby must be fifteen months +old by this time.’</p> + +<p>‘I know she is, my dear, and of course you couldn’t manage it if you +was in England, or Sir Gilbert likely to come home soon. But she’s +a puny little thing, you must be prepared for that; and though you +couldn’t pass her off now for a baby of three months, I warrant that +when she’s three years you will be very well able to pass her off as a +child of two. And Sir Gilbert is not a gentleman to fuss over children, +you know. He’ll never put his foot in the nursery if he can help it. I +believe you might bring up half-a-dozen there without his being any the +wiser.’</p> + +<p>‘Lady Marjoram?’ faltered Fenella.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll manage the Countess, my dear. You see, if you fall in with my +notion, you must say the baby’s delicate, and leave her with me when +you go to London <span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>for the season. Lady Marjoram will never trouble you +with any questions about her.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, if I <i>could</i>—if I only could!’ cried the mother, with a new +hope beaming in her eyes. ‘My poor neglected baby! My poor fatherless +lamb! I <i>must</i> have her back again.’</p> + +<p>‘It would do my heart good to see her in your arms,’ said Bennett, ‘for +it smites me every time I go to Ines-cedwyn and look at the poor little +thing. For ’tain’t <i>her</i> fault, you see, Miss Fenella; <i>she</i> +ain’t the one to blame, pretty dear; and it seems terrible hard she +should grow up without any one to love her as she has a claim to, and +no more knowledge than can be got in Ines-cedwyn.’</p> + +<p>‘She never shall!’ exclaimed Lady Conroy; ‘I will claim her and look +after her, even if I am not able to bring her up by my side. Bennett! +Bennett!’ she continued, in a lower voice, as she pulled the old +woman’s face close down to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>her own, ‘tell me, <i>dear</i> Bennett, is +she at all like <i>him</i>?’</p> + +<p>‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, why should you go to ask me such a thing? I’m sure +I don’t know, my dear, and I hopes, for your sake, as she’s not, for +you ought to have forgotten all about him long and long ago.’</p> + +<p>Lady Conroy hid her face in the servant’s bosom.</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! I know I <i>ought</i>, and I think I have too (nearly, that is +to say), only this stirs it up, you see, Bennett—it stirs it up.’</p> + +<p>‘But has it comforted you, my dear lady, or have I made matters worse +by my chattering?’</p> + +<p>‘No, no! May God Almighty bless you, Bennett, for having told me that +my baby lives. It has comforted me as nothing else in this world could +have done. It has almost reconciled me to giving back the other one to +Heaven.’</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp30" id="015" style="max-width: 23.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/015.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="016" style="max-width: 94.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/016.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> + CHAPTER VIII. + <br> + <span>THE INDISSOLUBLE LINK.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Child of my love! Essence of all things fair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet outcome of my happy, hopeful youth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet mem’ry of thy father’s passionate truth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come nearer; let me feel that thou art there.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give me thy hand—’twas thus I held his own;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Look in my eyes—’twas thus I gaz’d in his;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Kiss me for him—one fervent, long-drawn kiss—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tell me that we part for earth alone.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_h.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">How</span> will it be possible to adequately describe Fenella’s feelings +at this juncture, so as to make those who read of them judge her +leniently? No <i>man</i> could do it; no man could even understand the +emotions that passed through her mind, or enter into the passion that +actuated her conduct. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>A man must stand on one side and be dumb. And +neither could a woman, unless she had been a mother, and received back +her child, as it were, from the dead; even a woman must have passed +through similar circumstances before she could comprehend the difficult +position in which Fenella was placed. Picture her wild surprise on +hearing that the child of her love—the child of the man whom she could +not forget—still lived, and was dependent on her; that somewhere in +this wide world it stretched tiny arms to the empty air, yearning for a +mother’s tenderness; and then think of the impossibility of her telling +the secret to any one—of the impossibility of her having the infant +with her at all unless she stooped to a deception which seemed innocent +beside the crime of disowning it. Once made aware of its existence, +Fenella could not close her eyes to her responsibility. She could not +have done it under any circumstances, for her heart was that of a true +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>mother, and she would have gone forth into the world, if needful, with +her baby in her arms, and supported it by the most menial of labour, +sooner than have confided it any longer to the care of strangers.</p> + +<p>But there was another motive working in her breast, a motive for which +the world (who embraces coroneted courtesans) will be the most ready to +condemn her,—she loved the father of her child with every fibre of her +heart. It was her greatest sin, this impossibility to be faithless and +forget. Let it be written down against her. This is not the history of +a saint. It only professes to be the record of an erring woman’s life.</p> + +<p>But Fenella did not intend at first to follow Bennett’s suggestion +in all its details. It is questionable, indeed, if she ever intended +to do so, for she was true by nature (as has already been pointed +out), and it was only the greater passion fighting against the lesser +that <span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>made her untrue to her nature now. It is the same with all of +us when brought face to face with the greatest difficulties of our +lives—the master-passion (whichever it may be) prevails. And Fenella’s +master-passion—whether it demonstrated itself in one phase or +another—was love.</p> + +<p>When the wonder and the surprise of the revelation had somewhat +subsided—when she had heard every detail that the nurse could give +her of the circumstances under which her infant had been placed in +the charge of Martha Bennett, and was thoroughly convinced that there +was a living being dependent upon her alone for care and support and +affection in the future, then all the mother’s love came welling forth, +and Fenella felt as if she could not rest until she held her child in +her arms.</p> + +<p>Bennett did not fail to improve the occasion. Her conscience had sorely +upbraided her for taking part in the deception even from the beginning, +but she had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>been a tool in the hands of Mrs Barrington, and had simply +done as her mistress commanded her. But the spell was broken now; the +magnetic chain which the frivolous woman of fashion seemed to have +woven about the will of her dependant was snapt in two, and Eliza +Bennett could once more think and speak for herself. She impressed the +truth on Lady Conroy that, if she was ever to act in the matter, it +must be then; that next year, even next month, might be too late; and +that it would give her incalculable trouble, and the child incalculable +disadvantages (not only now, but in the future), if she were not +brought up by her side.</p> + +<p>‘Just think what she may be, fifteen or twenty years hence, my lady. +Why, the very thought makes me shudder! Even if you was to give her +the best of homes and education, where is she to go when she’s a grown +lady?—for a lady she is, my dear, and nothing can’t unmake her that. +And for my part, it seems a moral duty to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>me that you should have her +home; and, if I may make so bold as to say it, God Almighty seems to +have paved the way for you Himself.’</p> + +<p>‘I intend to reclaim her, Bennett; don’t have any fear of that. Do you +think I could be so cruel and cowardly as to leave my own little child, +that I brought into the world, to grow up without knowing that I am +her mother?’ exclaimed Fenella. ‘Oh no! It is only the <i>means</i> of +doing it that perplexes me. It can never be justifiable to deceive, you +know. And if they should ever find it out—’</p> + +<p>‘Well, my dear, I shouldn’t worry myself about that matter now; and you +can do as you think best with respect to Sir Gilbert afterwards. There +can never be no call for you to tell Lady Marjoram, surely.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, no!’</p> + +<p>‘Take a week or two to think over it,’ suggested the servant; ‘second +thoughts is always best. And meanwhile I can <span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>fetch the little one, +that you may have a look at her.’</p> + +<p>Fenella’s eyes sparkled with a sudden joy.</p> + +<p>‘But when, Bennett—<i>when</i>? How soon can you go?’</p> + +<p>‘You won’t have her <i>here</i>, Miss Fenella,’ said the woman +dubiously.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll do just what you think best.’</p> + +<p>‘I’d like you to move farther on, my dear—to some place where you +are not likely to meet any of your fine friends; and then when you’re +settled, I’ll go over quietly and bring the child back with me.’</p> + +<p>‘We will go to St Pré,’ said Lady Conroy; ‘there is no one there at +this time of the year.’</p> + +<p>She was burning with anxiety to clasp her baby in her arms. She would +have stripped herself of every earthly possession to attain her object. +She could think of nothing else until it was accomplished.</p> + +<p>Yet the time which Fenella passed alone in the little <i>auberge</i> of +St Pré, during the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>two or three days that her servant was necessarily +absent in England, was one of great perplexity to her. A dozen plans +for telling the truth, and yet keeping her first-born by her side, +darted into her mind, and had to be as summarily rejected. Her husband +knew every particular of her former history—of <i>that</i> she felt +certain—it had never entered her head for a moment that it could +be otherwise; but, of course, Mrs Barrington had told him the same +falsehood she did to herself, and he believed the baby to be dead. +<i>What</i> would he say if he were told it lived? Would he not +order her never to see it again, never to speak of it—to bury the +fact of its existence in oblivion, as he had desired her to bury the +remembrance of its birth? And Fenella felt this was what she could not +do. A chord had been struck in her breast which vibrated through her +whole body. Her child lived! The life that was one with hers had not +been quenched, and whilst it existed they must exist together. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>Yet she +could not make up her mind what to do, and she put the question from +her as something to be settled in the future. But she did not write to +announce the death of little Valeria to Lady Marjoram, and so the first +thread was woven of the net in which her life was to become entangled.</p> + +<p>On the evening on which she had been led to expect Bennett back again +from Ines-cedwyn, Lady Conroy behaved like a wild creature. Her +suspense, her agitation, her anxiety were so extreme, that she was +compelled to go and lock herself into her own room, that she might +be able to pace the floor, and laugh, and cry, and talk to herself, +as she felt inclined, without the fear of making the inmates of the +<i>auberge</i> say she had gone mad. At last, after hours of restless +expectation, Fenella heard a bustle on the stairs, accompanied by a +fretful cry. She threw open her bedroom door, and stood panting on the +threshold.</p> + +<p>‘Give her to me!’ she cried impetuously, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>as Bennett approached with a +bundle in her arms.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, my lady, be careful! You’ll frighten the child to death.’</p> + +<p>But Fenella was not in a condition to listen to any advice. She hastily +tore open the shawl that enveloped the infant, and met the gaze of two +startled blue eyes, shaded by dark lashes; a little white face, hardly +bigger than that of the child she had just lost, surrounded by rings +of silky brown hair; and a sad drooping mouth that had just puckered +itself up for another cry. She pounced upon the baby like a tigress on +its prey, and clasped her vehemently to her bosom.</p> + +<p>‘Take care, my dear; pray take care,’ repeated the servant fearfully. +‘Don’t forget she’s just come off a long journey, and everything is +strange to her.’</p> + +<p>But the mother had got the child’s face close to her own; she saw +nothing but the child—she heard nothing but the throbbing of her own +heart beneath which God had called it into being.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> + +<p>‘<i>Baby</i>,’ she murmured, in a soft, tremulous voice; ‘baby, do you +know I am your mother?’</p> + +<p>The sweet pathos in her tones attracted the little one’s attention. She +had just been going to cry, but she thought better of it, and smiled +instead.</p> + +<p>‘She <i>knows</i> me!’ Fenella cried triumphantly. ‘She recognises me, +nurse. She sees something in my face she has been waiting for.’</p> + +<p>‘Bless her heart!’ said Eliza Bennett, with the stereotyped nursery +benediction, ‘she’s been good as gold all the way coming over, and +Martha was finely put out parting with her, I can tell you; but I +said as her mamma had come back from the Injies, and wanted to look +after her herself. And I give her the money you sent, my dear, and she +considered it most handsome, and she hopes that the child’s things +(such as they are) will be found in decent order; but, of course, it’s +little she’s been able to do for her <span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>that way, for what your dear +mamma paid her, though ample, didn’t leave much and above over for +clothes. But we’ll soon put that to rights, won’t we, my lady? It’ll be +quite a pleasure to me to dress the little dear in decent things. But +she is a rare little one—ain’t she now?’</p> + +<p>Bennett might have gone on talking till doomsday, for Fenella was not +listening to a word she said. Her eyes, dim with unshed tears, were +riveted upon the child, who lay in her arms, passive and contented, as +if she knew where she had got to. Suddenly the blue eyes glistened, the +tiny fingers were stretched upward, and in another moment had firmly +grasped a gold locket which had escaped from the bosom of Fenella’s +dress. The last pledge that Geoffrey Doyne had given her, in token of +his unalterable fidelity, lay in the hands of his child. At that sight +Lady Conroy’s tears fell like rain. She turned her face aside, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>and hid +it in the cushion of the sofa upon which she was seated.</p> + +<p>‘You have been unfaithful to me,’ she murmured inwardly; ‘you left me +without a thought whether I might not be destroyed, body and soul, by +your desertion; but I will not desert your child. Whatever may happen +to me in consequence—whatever I may lose, or give up, or have to +resign, I pledge myself here to redeem as much of <i>my</i> past as +is possible to me, by devoting the rest of my life to the life you +created. O Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Why did you not take mine before you +laid this burden on my soul?’</p> + +<p>Bennett perceived that Fenella was weeping, and came at once to the +rescue.</p> + +<p>‘Now, my lady, please, we mustn’t have anything of this sort. I shall +be sorry I’ve brought the baby over here, if she’s to be a misery to +you instead of a comfort. Lor’! What has she got now? <span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>That there nasty +locket! I thought there was something of that kind in the wind. Now, my +little dear, you please to give that up, and come to Bennett. ’Twould +have been a deal better for your poor mamma if she’d never seen the +trumpery thing, nor the one as give it to her neither. Come, my lady, +let me take her, and you rest yourself on the sofa, whilst I feed her +and put her to bed. She’ll sleep without rocking to-night, I warrant.’</p> + +<p>But Fenella would not be parted from her new-found treasure. Together +the women undressed and washed the infant, and put it to sleep in the +nurse’s bed. And late that night, when the inmates of the little hotel +had long retired, and Eliza Bennett thought that her mistress too was +wrapt in slumber, a white-robed figure stole softly to her side, and a +low voice whispered,—</p> + +<p>‘Is she sleeping, nurse? Has she taken her food? Are you sure she is +quite comfortable and well?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span></p> + +<p>‘Bless you, yes! My lady. The dear child’s sleeping like an angel! +Just look at her little face upon the piller. Ain’t she like a little +wax doll—the pretty dear! But do go back to your bed, Miss Fenella, +for you’ll get your death of cold standing about these nasty painted +boards.’</p> + +<p>‘I’ll go back directly, nurse; but couldn’t you bring her and lay her +by my side? I think I could go to sleep if I knew that she was there.’</p> + +<p>‘Lor’! My dear, you’d never rest with a baby in your bed. It’s +terrible, till you’re used to them.’</p> + +<p>‘I think I could—and I would like to try; do wrap a shawl round her +and bring her to me. You don’t know how my heart does ache! I think if +I had my baby next it, it would be a little comfort to me.’</p> + +<p>Bennett did not attempt any further remonstrance, but lifting up the +sleeping child, carried it into the next room and laid it by its +mother’s side. And when she crept in again towards the early morning, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>to see how they both fared, she found them in the same position and +fast asleep, the infant’s tiny face nestled in Fenella’s bosom. The +servant stood and gazed at them until her eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>‘Well,’ she thought to herself, ‘if to bring them two together is a +sin, may God forgive me! But I can’t see it. Poor little mite! Don’t +she look as if she’d got home at last? And my sweet young lady, too, is +dreaming a happy dream with that smile upon her lips. May God bless ’em +both! And if any harm comes of it, I’ll work to keep ’em to my life’s +end.’</p> + +<p>And Fenella too, with this new legitimate love awakened in her bosom at +the very moment when it felt so empty and so cold, was ready to resign +the world itself, if necessary, sooner than give up her child again. +It seemed to her as if she had never really known what it was to be a +mother until she clasped her in her arms, and before she had regained +possession of her for a week her infant <span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>had become her idol. She could +not bear her to go out of her sight; she was always in terror lest +some ill should happen to her; and she spent her days in studying the +tiny features, and watching the development of the tardily awakening +intellect. She was scarcely ever out of her mother’s arms; day after +day Fenella’s tall, lithe figure might be seen traversing the byroads +and field paths around St Pré, with the fragile baby clasped to her +breast; and the affection of the English lady for her little child was +the observation of every one. And yet Fenella was not happy. In her +case the saying, ‘<i>Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute</i>,’ was +eminently true. In delaying to write and announce the death of Sir +Gilbert’s child to Lady Marjoram, she had taken that first step which +she would never be able to retrace; and as day succeeded day, and the +time drew near for her return to London, she felt that she must adopt +Bennett’s suggestion and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>keep her own counsel, whether she wished it +or not, for there was no possibility of disclosing the truth at that +date.</p> + +<p>When May arrived she parted from her child with many tears, and leaving +it at St Pré under the charge of her nurse and a French <i>bonne</i>, +travelled to England with her lady’s-maid (a new acquisition imported +from Paris) to spend the London season under the wing of her +sister-in-law.</p> + +<p>Lady Marjoram was delighted to receive Lady Conroy, and equally +delighted to hear that she had left the baby behind her.</p> + +<p>‘My dear, how sensible and nice you are! One would believe you were +eight-and-twenty instead of eighteen. I can’t tell you how I have been +dreading the advent of your nursery brigade—not, of course, that they +could make any difference to me with my terrible tribe, only I was +afraid you’d be running upstairs to see if the little animal was dead +or alive <span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>twenty times a-day, and wanting to stuff it, with its nurse, +on the back seat of the carriage whenever we drove in the park, and all +that sort of thing. So interesting you know, my dear, and so abominably +disagreeable!’</p> + +<p>‘I am afraid you must have a very small idea of my common sense, +Janie,’ replied Fenella, colouring. ‘I confess I was very sorry +to leave my little girl behind me, but I thought it best for +her—particularly as we shall be out, I suppose, day and night.’</p> + +<p>‘Indeed, we shall, Fenella. This promises to be the gayest season we +have had for years. My engagement list is something terrible to look +at already. By the way, the Culletons are going to have a series of +<i>tableaux vivants</i> and private theatricals at Fotheringay House +in June and July, and I have promised faithfully that you will assist +them. They want the loan of your voice, too, for some amateur concerts. +I hope <span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>you have not neglected your singing lately?’</p> + +<p>‘No; I have had a piano wherever I went, and practised assiduously, +and I intend to take another course of lessons from Signor Possetrina. +By the way, Janie, I have not yet shown you Gilbert’s last letter. He +seems quite delighted with Sovooranooko, and talks of having me out +there next year to judge of it for myself.’</p> + +<p>‘Don’t you believe a word of that, my dear; it’s only a sop for +Cerberus. Bertie has no more idea of having you out to Sovooranooko +than of coming home himself. We had a letter from Lord Laurence by +last mail, and he says Bertie is mad to get into the interior, and +already organising a shooting party to start as soon as the cool +weather commences. He has got the Englishman’s mania on him to “kill +something,” Fenella, and the best thing you can do is to let him tire +himself out. He’ll get a grab from <span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>a lion or a squeeze from a bear +some day, and come crying home to you to kiss the place and make it +well; but he won’t come before. And what should you want to go out +to that horrid place for—to lose your complexion and your hair, and +perhaps get the yellow fever, or some pleasantry of that sort? Don’t +you be so silly. You had better stay at home with the baby than do +that.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes! I don’t want to leave my baby,’ cried the mother, with a +sudden thrill.</p> + +<p>‘Well, you couldn’t take her with you, so let’s talk no more about it. +Besides, it is time we went to dress. We have a concert at the Duke of +Doldrum’s at two.’</p> + +<p>The next three months were spent by Fenella in a round of dissipation, +during which she distinguished herself in theatricals and at concerts, +and heard her talents talked of as much as her beauty had been the year +before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p> + +<p>But her heart and all her thoughts were at St Pré. She required +<i>bulletins</i> to be sent her daily of the health and well-doing of +her child, and she bought every dainty little garment or expensive toy +she could light upon, to decorate the body, or amuse the mind, of her +absent baby.</p> + +<p>Lady Marjoram noticed this almost feverish anxiety and restlessness +on the part of her sister-in-law concerning her child, and laughed at +it. ‘It was very becoming,’ she said patronisingly, and just as it +ought to be, she wished she could get up the same sort of excitement +about her own brats. It gave one such a pretty flush to be anxious, and +one’s eyes looked so quick and bright about the time that the post was +expected.</p> + +<p>But for all that, Lady Marjoram did not quite believe in the +genuineness of Fenella’s concern, and she could no more have entered +into her real feelings respecting her child than she could sympathise +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>with Sir Gilbert’s exultation at bringing down an elephant. The one +sensation was as much a sealed book to her as the other. However, as +soon as the season was over, Lady Conroy flew to the side of her child +again, and shed tears of real joy, because it held out arms of welcome +as soon as it recognised her.</p> + +<p>The Earl and Countess of Marjoram were bound for Norway that year, and +as soon as they had left England, Fenella brought her little party +over, and established them in a lovely Devonshire village by the sea, +where she spent all her days upon the beach with the little Valeria in +her arms. For the infant who had been unbaptized when restored to its +mother, had of course to be called by the name of the one whose place +she assumed.</p> + +<p>And here it was, whilst yielding herself up to the softening +influence which nature generally exerts on a mind fitted to perceive +and appreciate her beauties, and whilst watching the daily growing +resemblance <span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span>to her father in the face of her little child, that +Fenella began to have gentler and more generous thoughts of Geoffrey +Doyne. For since the day on which she received the shock of hearing +of his marriage, the remembrance of him had been fraught with torture +to her. He had never come into her mind but to suggest something that +was most cruel and heartless and untrue. She had tried to shut out the +memory even of the time she knew him, as of some horrible dream that +to dwell upon would madden her. But now, as little Valeria’s baby lips +met hers, as she watched her toddle feebly from one spot to another, +as she heard her faltering tongue trying to frame the syllables of +‘<i>mother</i>,’ the child’s angel whispered to her thoughts of +forgiveness and of mercy, and from the child’s eyes there beamed a look +that softened her recollection of the past.</p> + +<p>In fancy, Fenella saw again the flowery landslip, strewn with fallen +petals—fallen <span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>like her hopes! She saw the golden sands, the ruined +bungalow, the stretch of placid sea, and blue unclouded sky; and then +above, beyond them all, in beauty and in pleasantness, the smile, the +look, the tones of Geoffrey Doyne. And she began to make excuses for +him—she, who had called him (and justly) by all sorts of hard and +ugly names, whose life had been ruined by his desertion—she began to +wonder if some dark mystery might not lie at the bottom of his apparent +cruelty; whether he could have been told falsehoods of her, or been +forced into that marriage that broke her heart; whether he might not +believe that she was dead, or had refused ever to see or speak to him +again. A hundred reasons, all equally vague and improbable, floated +through Fenella’s mind as she attempted, in her loving generosity, to +account for as dastardly a piece of cruelty as ever a man employed to +wreck a woman’s life.</p> + +<p>She could not satisfy herself. Her own <span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span>nature was too true to accept +any excuse for his conduct, still less for the silence which preceded +and followed it; yet she tried so hard, ‘<i>for baby’s sake</i>,’ she +would say to herself with quivering lips, to make out the father of her +child less undeserving than he was.</p> + +<p>But often (after Fenella had been thinking thus for hours) she would +catch her infant in her arms and sob over it in so piteous a manner, +that the little creature would weep with terror. And then Fenella +would soothe it, and kiss it, and sing to it, until it smiled again, +and whisper in its ear that its mother would always love it for its +father’s sake, although he had trampled on her heart as if it had been +the ground beneath his feet.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the little Valeria grew strong and fat, but still remained +so tiny that Bennett’s prophecies concerning her apparent age seemed +likely to be verified, and when the second London season dawned upon +the world, Fenella ventured <span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span>to send her with her nurses up to Conroy +Castle, where she remained until her mother could rejoin her.</p> + +<p>‘Really, Fenella,’ exclaimed Lady Marjoram, ‘you are getting too +absurdly domestic! Why should you go and bury yourself all alone in +Scotland with that child? Why cannot you spend the autumn at Southfield +with us? I shall be horribly dull without you.’</p> + +<p>‘I thought, Janie, that as I had not been at the castle all last year, +and Gilbert talks of returning in the spring, he might consider it my +duty to go and look after the place a little.’</p> + +<p>‘My dear girl, what rubbish! Who do you suppose looked after it all +the years before he met you? Bertie was never there, except for the +shooting. He was better employed elsewhere, I can tell you. Now, do +come down to Southfield with me! It will be a perfect charity. And send +for the child and nurses to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span>join you there, as I know you will not +come without her.’</p> + +<p>‘No, I will not come without her,’ replied Fenella, smiling; and so +Bennett was written to, and in due course appeared with her baby and +her <i>aide-de-camp</i> at Southfield.</p> + +<p>‘And now, pray let us see this wonderful baby,’ exclaimed the Countess, +on the first day as they sat together after dinner. ‘Your devotion to +her is so extraordinary that it has excited my curiosity. I expect a +<i>rara avis</i>. Give your orders, Fenella, for Bennett to bring the +young lady down to dessert.’</p> + +<p>Lady Conroy looked uneasy.</p> + +<p>‘I think you had better not see her now,’ she said; ‘you don’t like +children, and she is very shy with strangers, and will most likely cry.’</p> + +<p>‘Never mind! If she cries, we’ll send her back again,’ replied Lady +Marjoram, who always liked to have her own way. ‘I think it is quite +time I made the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span>acquaintance of my niece. Let me see! How old is she?’</p> + +<p>‘Eighteen months,’ said Fenella, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>‘Quite grown up, I declare,’ laughed her sister-in-law. ‘Send for her +at once. The girls are so precocious now-a-days, that at this rate she +will be married before I see her.’</p> + +<p>The order was given, and in a few minutes a tap was heard upon the +dining-room door, and Bennett entering, set down with much pride upon +the carpet a tiny creature, dressed in lace and ribbons, of about two +feet high, who stood the centre of attraction, looking with scared and +wistful eyes upon the strangers.</p> + +<p>‘Baby!’ said Fenella, in her sweet, low voice.</p> + +<p>The little figure fluttered like a blue-and-white butterfly, and +then with a cry of pleasure tottered to her mother’s side, and laid +her curly head against her knee. Fenella lifted her in her arms, and +pressed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span>her glowing face in the folds of the infant’s frock.</p> + +<p>‘What a little fairy,’ cried the Countess. ‘She looks as if she had +just stepped, ready dressed, out of the Soho Bazaar! Marjoram! Why +don’t my children make a rush at me like that? Why do they always hang +back and stick their fingers in their mouths, and their heads in the +nurse’s apron? Look at that child! Stroking Fenella’s face like a grown +being! I should get quite fond of a baby if it showed as much sense as +that.’</p> + +<p>‘She has always been with me,’ said Fenella ingenuously.</p> + +<p>‘That’s it,’ acquiesced the Earl. ‘Lady Conroy has nursed her child, +and you leave yours to a set of hirelings.’</p> + +<p>‘Hold your tongue, Marjoram! You don’t know anything about it. How old +did you say she was, Fenella? Can she talk?’</p> + +<p>‘Very little, Janie. She can only say “mother,” and “father,” and +“Bennie.”’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span></p> + +<p>‘And whom does she resemble? Turn her face round, my dear, that I may +see it,’ continued Lady Marjoram.</p> + +<p>Fenella grew crimson.</p> + +<p>‘They say she is very like <i>me</i>,’ she answered, with a rapidly +beating heart.</p> + +<p>‘Not a bit of it,’ cried the Countess. ‘She’s the very image of Bertie! +The hair’s a trifle darker, perhaps, but that is the only difference I +can see. I shall tell him so in my next letter. Well, Bennett, you can +take Miss Conroy away now if you like, and I think she is a very fine +little girl for her age, and does you a great deal of credit.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied the servant, as she disengaged the +clinging arms from about her mistress’s neck, and conveyed little +Valeria out of sight again.</p> + +<p>After that interview Fenella’s heart grew secure, and she took her +child about with her wherever she went.</p> + +<p>Since she had passed the crucible of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span>Lady Marjoram’s scrutiny, she +considered that all risk of discovery was over; and so much does custom +become our second nature, that at times Fenella almost forgot what she +had done, and detected herself waking with a start, to remember that +Valeria was not Sir Gilbert Conroy’s child. That is, she contrived +to lull her uneasy conscience to sleep respecting the deception she +had practised, so long as it seemed to concern no one but herself. +But the day arrived when the person who had been most injured by the +transaction reappeared upon the scene, and from that moment the heart +of Fenella reasserted itself, and refused to be quieted by any specious +arguments that tried to make a wrong thing look as if it were right.</p> + +<p>With the return of spring came Sir Gilbert Conroy from Sovooranooko. +He had not resigned his appointment, but he required change of air +and relaxation, and had procured so many months’ leave to England in +consequence. He came back <span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span>accompanied by his private secretary, and +laden with the spoils of the chase, in excellent humour with the world, +his wife, himself, and everybody belonging to him. But with the first +kiss of welcome he bestowed upon her, all Fenella’s fancied serenity +fled like a dream, and for the first time she saw what she had done in +its true light.</p> + + +<p class="center"> +END OF VOL. II.<br> +<br> +COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. +</p> + + + + +<div class="chapter transnote"> + + <p class="front"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </p> + +<a href="#Page_278">p278 “it’s” changed to “cried bitterly for its loss”.</a><br> +<a href="#Page_294">p294 “your” changed to “and then when you’re settled”.</a><br> +<a href="#Page_312">p312 “ike” changed to “fallen like her hopes”.</a><br> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78111 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78111-h/images/001.jpg b/78111-h/images/001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d3cf33 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/001.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/002.jpg b/78111-h/images/002.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d25d00 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/002.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/003.jpg b/78111-h/images/003.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..61ac810 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/003.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/004.jpg b/78111-h/images/004.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9972c5e --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/004.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/005.jpg b/78111-h/images/005.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..439812f --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/005.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/006.jpg b/78111-h/images/006.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..10e9fb6 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/006.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/007.jpg b/78111-h/images/007.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..25df7a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/007.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/008.jpg b/78111-h/images/008.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..be6498d --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/008.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/009.jpg b/78111-h/images/009.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d148d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/009.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/010.jpg b/78111-h/images/010.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fe64a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/010.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/011.jpg b/78111-h/images/011.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d25d00 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/011.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/012.jpg b/78111-h/images/012.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..be6498d --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/012.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/013.jpg b/78111-h/images/013.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9972c5e --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/013.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/014.jpg b/78111-h/images/014.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..61ac810 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/014.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/015.jpg b/78111-h/images/015.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b5bff2 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/015.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/016.jpg b/78111-h/images/016.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..10e9fb6 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/016.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/cover.jpg b/78111-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8157c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_a.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..36114e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_a.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_g.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_g.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2384104 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_g.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_h.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_h.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3d6f3c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_h.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_i.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_i.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5b4045 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_i.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_t.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_t.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ac1d74 --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_t.jpg diff --git a/78111-h/images/dc_w.jpg b/78111-h/images/dc_w.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..163d2ad --- /dev/null +++ b/78111-h/images/dc_w.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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