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.
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