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]