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]