A REVELATION.
‘Thy words have darted hope into my soul,
And comfort dawns upon me.’--_Southern_.
It was naturally a great shock to Fenella’s nervous system to hear
of her mother’s death. It is a shock to learn (thus unexpectedly) of
the death of any one whom we have lately seen in apparent health and
strength. And it seemed so impossible to picture Mrs Barrington dead,
and laid out in her coffin. Mrs Barrington, with her painted cheeks
and skin, her dyed hair, her toilettes of pink and blue and silver,
her artificial ways and words and looks. Fenella could not realise
her mother shorn of these frivolous accompaniments; she wondered how
she would get on without them, even in the other world. But when the
first shock was over, the girl’s honest heart could not pretend there
was much grief remaining for their present separation. There might have
been. Mrs Barrington, in repulsing her daughter’s affection, had thrust
from her a rich store of love that might have been her consolation and
her stay till her life’s end. But love is a plant of growth; it can
no more live without nourishment than a flower can flourish without
earth and water. And Mrs Barrington had killed the beautiful blossom
that was springing up in her child’s heart. She had trampled it under
foot and neglected it, and it had perished for lack of food. And now
that she had passed out of sight, she had not left one loving memory in
Fenella’s mind by which to mourn her. On the contrary, her daughter, in
deference to the fact that she had been her father’s wife, and she was
dead, felt herself compelled, resolutely, to put away all thoughts of
her, since remembrance brought reproach in its train.
But she could not help thinking of Bennett--dear good old Bennett, who
had been with them before her own birth, and who had been so attached
to her late mistress; she was terribly anxious to know what was to
become of Bennett. The servant was no longer young--she was at least
fifty years of age, twenty of which had been spent in their service;
and she had become so wedded to their ways, it was unlikely she would
find another place to suit her. Fenella wanted to send for her at once
to Conroy Castle. There was a baby expected there in the spring, and
her wish was to instal Eliza Bennett as head of the nursery.
‘She loves me,’ she said to her husband, with big pathetic eyes, ‘and
she will take every care of our little child for my sake.’
Sir Gilbert was good-naturedly disposed to acquiesce in anything his
wife might desire. He was going over to Paris to attend the funeral
of his mother-in-law, and, had the truth been known, in a more
contented frame of mind than he would have cared to exhibit openly. Mrs
Barrington had been his _bête noire_, but she was (fortunately) removed
to a better sphere; it was quite immaterial to him what became of the
servant.
‘Do just as you like about it, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I have no
doubt the old woman will be quite as efficient a guardian for the
heir-apparent as anyone else.’
‘Oh, Gilbert, you are so very good to me!’ murmured Fenella gratefully.
‘Then I will write Bennett a letter, dear, and you shall deliver it to
her yourself.’
In consequence of which, Bennett, having first paid a short visit to
her brother in Ines-cedwyn, arrived at Conroy Castle robed in the
deepest mourning, and clasped her young mistress in her arms again.
Had it been a meeting between a mother and child it could hardly have
been more affectionate. The servant forgot all the grandeur attendant
on Sir Gilbert and Lady Conroy, as she showered kiss after kiss on
Fenella’s face; and the girl herself was scarcely less delighted to lay
her head on that kind, homely breast once more.
There was a link between Bennett and herself which nothing on this
earth could have the power to rupture. The servant was, of course, full
of the account of Mrs Barrington’s illness and death, and for awhile
neither of them could speak of anything else.
‘And to think, dear Miss Fenella,’ cried Bennett, who could not get
out of the habit of using the old name, ‘that you shouldn’t have been
with us at the time! But it was so sudden, my dear; the doctor was as
surprised as any of us--for we had thought she was doing so nicely,
poor dear lady, and would be able to be moved at the farthest in a
week or two. But she sank (as you may say) in a few hours--nothing
would save her; and her teeth was so fixed we couldn’t even get a drop
of brandy and water down her throat.’
‘Did she speak of me, Bennett? Did she send me any message?’ demanded
Fenella timidly.
‘Oh, she spoke often of you when she was in the fever, my dear; and she
used to talk of Conroy Castle, and the time when she’d get here, and
what a fine place it was, and all that. Poor dear! Little she thought
she’d never see it. And as for me, Miss Fenella, it seems as if my
hands was empty, now she’s gone. She was just like a child to me--so
sweet and amiable--always wanting this or that. It was “Bennett, come
here!” or “Bennett, go there!” all day long. She didn’t seem to be able
to do anything without her poor Bennett--did she, now?’
‘No; I am sure she looked on you as her very best friend, Bennett, and
I shall do the same for her sake. But when she was dying--when the end
came--couldn’t poor mamma speak then? Didn’t she say one word of me, or
send me any message?’
‘Well, miss, you see, I don’t think your poor dear mamma knew as
her death was so near at hand, for she only seemed a little more
fractious-like to me. I had just handed her some _limonade_, and I
suppose she wanted _tisane_, bless her! For she pushed it aside and
spilt it all over the counterpane, and said, “Take it away.” And
them was her last words, Miss Fenella; for as I was setting the bed
to rights, I see a change come over her face, and I caught her up
in my arms, and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. You might have
knocked me over with a feather.’ And Bennett buried her face in her
rough hands, and cried like a little child. ‘She was my life, Miss
Fenella--just my life and nothing else,’ she sobbed. ‘It seemed as if I
hadn’t a will of my own when she was near--as if I couldn’t move hand
nor foot unless she ordered me. You know how I used to wait on her from
morning till night. And now the world seems empty. I shall never have
any rest for thinking of her. I wouldn’t mind twice the trouble if I
could only have her back again.’
Fenella tried to comfort the good-hearted creature with some of those
ordinary arguments which sound like empty wind to ears on which a
beloved voice has ceased to fall.
‘You mustn’t fret, dear Bennett. You must try and think how much better
it is for her to be free of all the trouble of this world. I don’t
think poor mamma can have been very happy here. She always seemed full
of worry and anxiety; and now--now we must hope that it is all over,
and--and--that she is in heaven,’ said Fenella hesitatingly.
‘In _heaven_! My dear lady!’ replied Bennett, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes,
I’m sure of _that_! I know for certain as my darling mistress is
walking in her robes of glory, with her ’arp in her ’and--and not a
more beautiful angel in the whole place. Oh, yes! _she’s_ happy now,
if _any one_ is, miss. It isn’t her (sweet angel!) as I’m thinking
of--it’s myself, and you, poor lamb! It’s what _we_ shall do without
her.’
‘We must try and comfort each other,’ said Fenella gently. ‘And now
tell me of your brother, dear Bennett, and of Martha. Were you glad to
see them again, and are they well and happy?’
Eliza Bennett coloured and looked ill at ease.
‘Oh, yes! Miss Fenella--that is, my lady--Ben and Martha was looking
well enough, and of course they was glad to see me, notwithstandin’
the sad event as took me there.’ And then she continued rather
irrelevantly, ‘I always carried out all your poor dear mamma’s wishes
to the very letter, Miss Fenella; there was never nothing she told me
to do but what I thought it right to obey her; and I hope it _has_
been right, or if not, that the Almighty won’t lay it to my charge. But
I made a sort of idol of her, Miss Fenella; and I know that’s wrong,
and sometimes we’re punished for doing of it--still, when she _was_ my
mistress, I considered myself bound to serve her, even to the uttermost
farthing.’
Fenella stared at this address--it seemed so uncalled for; but she
answered warmly,--
‘I am sure God, who looks on our hearts, dear Bennett, will never blame
you for doing _more_ than your duty. The majority of us do so much
less. But I should like to hear something about your own affairs. Did
poor mamma pay you your wages? I know they had been due for a long
time; and has she left any debts in Paris?’
Bennett looked round cautiously, and lowered her voice.
‘Well, my dear, to my thinking, your good gentleman must have cleared
’em off. I know there _was_ some, but after the funeral he called me
into the _salon_, and paid me my wages, and something very handsome
over, and told me I was to pack up my dear mistress’s bits of jewellery
for you, and to consider her wardrobe as my own, which I thought was
most generous of him. And then I ventured to ask him about the bills,
and Sir Gilbert said I wasn’t to worry my head on the matter, as he
would see to ’em himself.’
‘Dear Gilbert!’ said Fenella. ‘Oh! he is so good and so generous to me,
nurse. I don’t know what I have done to deserve so kind a husband.’
‘And such a fine-looking gentleman, too, Miss Fenella; and such a
princely home! It does my heart good to see you so comfortable and so
happy. Ah! if my poor dear mistress had only lived to enjoy it with us!’
‘Yes; I never thought that I _could_ be so happy,’ said Fenella gravely.
‘I’ve heard there’s an old saying, “_All’s well as ends well_,” my
dear, and I am sure _you_ ought to be able to understand it. But I see
you wear that old locket still, Miss Fenella.’
Fenella coloured, and put her hand up to her bosom, in which reposed
the present that Geoffrey Doyne had given her.
‘Oh yes! I promised I would wear this till my death, nurse. Nothing can
make any difference to that, you know.’
‘And don’t Sir Gilbert notice it, my dear?’
‘He has never mentioned it to me, and I don’t think he ever will. He is
not that sort of man. He has a soul above such trifles.’
‘Ah, well! You got a lucky exchange,’ replied the servant; but her
young mistress turned the conversation, and she said no more.
As the weeks went on, however, and the influence of the dead woman was
farther and farther removed from her, Bennett became at one and the
same time more confidential and more reserved with Lady Conroy. It
seemed as though she had some revelation at the very tip of her tongue
which she longed, and yet did not dare to make. The temptation seemed
greatest when she was assisting Fenella with the usual preparations
for the expected heir; and sometimes as together they inspected and
arranged the lace and muslin and fine linen that arrived from London to
fill the nursery wardrobe, Bennett seemed almost unable (as she herself
expressed it) to keep her tongue between her teeth.
‘Lor’ bless us!’ she exclaimed one day, as she tossed some baby-linen
almost impatiently to one side; ‘to think of the pounds and pounds as
is thrown away just to decorate one infant, as you may say, whilst
another poor little creature has hardly enough clothes to its back! If
_I_ was a fine lady, like you, my dear, with heaps of money to spend
as I chose, I should give a little thought to them as has none, if I
wanted my own child to thrive and do well.’
Fenella looked up at this tirade, surprised but smiling.
‘Dear nurse,’ she said, ‘I believe we give a great deal away annually
in charity as it is, but if there are any particular cases of want that
you know of, I shall be only too glad to relieve them. I should like to
do it (as you say) in hopes it might come back in a blessing on my own
baby.’
The servant looked mollified.
‘You was always good and sweet, my dear, from a little child. You take
after your blessed mamma in heaven for that. I daresay a lot of money
_does_ go from this house to the poor--and food, and blankets, and what
not beside; but if I was to ask you, Miss Fenella, for a few pounds for
a little one as has got no mother and no father (so to speak)--for such
a little one as we might both have heard of, you know, in our day--what
would you say then, my dear? Would you give it?’
Fenella’s trembling hands began to play at once with the fastening of
her purse, from which she managed to extract a ten-pound note; but
before she could hand it over to the servant, her fortitude gave way,
and sinking down on her knees by the bedside, she burst into a flood of
tears.
Bennett left her place, and approaching the spot where her mistress
knelt, laid her hand gently on the bowed head.
‘So you haven’t forgotten yet, my lamb?’ she whispered.
‘_Forgotten_! My God! No; I shall never, _never_ forget!’
She knelt for a few minutes in the same position, then rising suddenly,
turned with an April smile upon the servant.
‘Am I not silly, nurse?--as great a baby as when you brought me home
from the convent? But here’s the note for the little one you spoke
of--and may God bless it! And if there are any others that I can help
in the same way, let me hear of them. I have more money, dear nurse,
than I know how to spend; and I have less--less expenses than I might
have had.’
The servant took the note and put it carefully away.
‘Dear heart!’ she thought, as Lady Conroy left the room. ‘I’m sorely
perplext to know what’s best to be done. It seems so hard she shouldn’t
know; and yet, now she’s living so happy and loving and grand, ’twould
be a pity to rake up old scores. Well, this isn’t the time, any way.
She’s got too much on her mind just now to think of anything else. And
perhaps I need never tell her; it looks likely enough.’
And, indeed, at that moment Fenella had what is technically termed
‘her hands full.’ The castle was filled with Christmas visitors,
amongst which were the Earl and Countess of Marjoram, who had with
them a cousin, Lord Laurence Grantham, a fine manly young fellow
of five-and-twenty, who established himself from the very first as
Fenella’s chief friend and knight-errant. Lady Marjoram had not brought
any of her children with her. She left home, she affirmed, to enjoy
herself, and had no desire to keep her domestic miseries for ever in
sight.
‘You will be quite of my opinion in another year’s time, my dear
Fenella,’ she said to her sister-in-law, ‘and only too thankful to
leave Portman Square or Conroy Castle, or wherever the nursery may be
located, behind you. I positively begin to hate children, and believe
they are only sent into this world to plague their parents out of
it. Mine have had measles and hooping-cough already this year, and
now they’ve all broken out with ringworm; so I couldn’t stand it any
longer, but packed the whole lot off to Bournemouth for the winter.
There they are, nine of them, with a governess and two nurses, eating
their heads off, and sending us in weekly bills that make Marjoram
swear in the most awful manner. It’s no use laughing, Fenella. You’ll
laugh on the wrong side of your mouth some day, my dear. Wait till you
have nine.’
‘I hope I shall wait a long time,’ rejoined Lady Conroy, who was much
amused at her sister-in-law’s indignation. ‘But what is it that Lord
Marjoram is speaking to Gilbert about?’
‘About a vacant governorship at Sovooranooko, on the Gold Coast of
Africa, my dear, where yellow fever and smallpox reign triumphantly
from January to December, and elephants are shot for the sake of their
steaks, and alligators appear at the breakfast-table _en papillotes_
like sardines.’
‘What interest can that have for Gilbert?’ demanded Fenella, rather
anxiously. ‘He would never accept an appointment in such a climate as
that?’
‘He says he should enjoy it above all things, Lady Conroy,’ interposed
Lord Laurence Grantham mischievously. ‘He is already consulting
Marjoram now about the proper-sized “bore” for elephant-shooting,
and they are going down to the stackyard after luncheon to practise
alligator-spearing.’
‘Oh, the poor cows!’ laughed the Countess. ‘Marjoram will most likely
get a spear in the calf of his leg, and be out of temper for the rest
of the day!’
‘Gilbert! You would never really go to a place like Sovooranooko?’ said
Fenella, as she went up to her husband’s side.
‘My dear child, what nonsense! What are you thinking of?’ replied Sir
Gilbert. ‘I am about as likely to go to Timbuctoo!’
‘Oh no, you are not!’ retorted his sister. ‘There are no elephants
there.’
But his wife was quite satisfied with his answer, and troubled her head
no further in the matter.
When February came round again with its pale spring flowers, a little
daughter was born at Conroy Castle. Sir Gilbert was excessively annoyed
at the fact of its being a girl--more annoyed than Fenella had ever
seen him during their married life. He had calculated so certainly upon
having a son; it did not seem to have entered his head that he might
have a daughter.
‘Better luck next time, Bertie,’ cried Lady Marjoram, who was still a
guest at the castle; but her brother did not take the jest in good part.
‘My dear, he’s as cross as a bear!’ she whispered afterwards to
Fenella, who could not be put out of conceit with her little girl,
although no one seemed to value her but herself; ‘but it’s always
the way with men. They think the world was made for them, and it’s a
personal insult if they don’t get their own way. Marjoram was just the
reverse. _He_ wanted a daughter, and I had five sons in succession.
I can remember his disgusted expression, when he used to exclaim,
“_Another_ boy! Too bad--too bad!” as if _I_ could help the young
wretches being boys! At last a girl came, and then, of course, he
spoilt her. She’s the most odious brat of the lot. However, I don’t
think Bertie will spoil yours--not just yet, at all events.’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Fenella, with a sigh.
‘Don’t sigh over it, you muff; it’s not _your_ fault; and if Bertie
begins any more grumbling, just give him a bit of your mind. You’re too
easy with him, Fenella. He’s growing a regular bully!--No, nurse! Don’t
ask me to kiss the baby, _please_! I daresay she’s a very nice baby,
and everything she ought to be; but, you see, I have nine of my own,
and the gilt has somewhat worn off the gingerbread! In fact (not to put
too fine a point upon it) the game’s played out.’
And without another look at the infant, the lively Countess ran away.
The new-comer was left entirely to the admiration of its mother and
nurses, but doubtless it fared none the worse for that.
‘And she’s come in _February_ too,’ remarked Bennett, significantly, to
Fenella, as she cradled the little Conroy in her arms; ‘that seems as
if she was to be a special gift, my lady, doesn’t it?’
This idea seemed to linger in the mind of the young mother, and when
next she saw Sir Gilbert she asked him if their little girl might be
called Theodora.
‘Theodora--Theodora!’ he repeated, wrinkling his brows. ‘Why Theodora?
It wasn’t your mother’s name, was it?’
‘Oh no; mamma was called Rosina! But Theodora, you know, means “the
gift of God.”’
‘Exactly so, though I don’t see that this baby is more especially the
gift of God than any other baby--do you?’
Fenella looked down at the child lying on her breast.
‘She is such a _comfort_ to me!’ she answered, as she strained her to
her heart.
‘I am glad of that, dear,’ said her husband, ‘and I should like to
indulge your fancy in the matter; but being the eldest daughter, I
think she ought to be called after my mother, Lady Valeria; and so does
Janie.’
‘Valeria is such a _fine_ name. It doesn’t seem to _fit_ her!’ said
Fenella dubiously.
‘It is not so long as Theodora, at any rate,’ laughed Sir Gilbert;
‘however, Valeria, she must be, so I am sure you will not oppose
yourself to what I think best.’
She had never done so yet, and was not likely to begin now. The
baby was baptized in the name of Valeria, and Fenella soon became
reconciled to a matter of so little importance. But when the child
was about a month old, a real trial assailed her. Sir Gilbert Conroy
was offered the governorship of Sovooranooko, and decided to accept
it. The temptation was too great for him. What real sportsman could
resist the chance of bagging game in the African forests? Visions
of elephants, rhinoceri, hippopotami, gorillas, elands, and buffalo
floated rapturously through the baronet’s brain, until he was no longer
master of himself. He accepted the post without even consulting his
wife in the matter, and made immediate arrangements for going up to
town and purchasing every sort of weapon and equipment necessary for
his expected experiences. Lord Laurence Grantham (as enthusiastic a
sportsman as himself) was to accompany him as his private secretary,
and much good might Sovooranooko expect to derive from their united
services whilst a head of game remained within range of their rifles.
On first hearing the news of her husband’s appointment, Fenella
naturally supposed she was to accompany him.
‘But will Sovooranooko be a good place to take baby to?’ she demanded
timidly. ‘Do you think the climate will agree with her, Gilbert?’
‘My dear girl, what are you dreaming of? Drag a baby and suite after me
into the centre of Africa? I’d as soon think of introducing a gorilla
into your London drawing-room.’
‘But how can I leave her behind, so young as she is?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t wish you to leave her behind. I should no more think of
risking your health than I should that of the child. No, my dear
Fenella, this is not an expedition for women and children. Grantham
and I shall spend half our time in the jungle, and what would you do
without society, grilling away on the burning plains of Sovooranooko?
It would kill you both.’
‘But if it is so dangerous a climate, why do you go there, Gilbert?’
she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of affection. ‘Why should you
leave us for years, to hold an appointment which you do not require,
and from which you may never return?’
Sir Gilbert had to consider for a moment why he did do this thing,
before he could answer his wife’s question.
‘Well, the reason, my dear, is obvious. I certainly do not actually
require the appointment, nor do I admire the climate; but still it is
a great honour conferred upon me, and my longing to have some sport in
Central Africa has always been intense. In my position as governor of
Sovooranooko, I shall not only have better opportunities of following
the pursuit, but be able to penetrate farther and with greater security
than I should otherwise be able to do. But as for my remaining away for
_years_, that is nonsense. There is no necessity for me to go at all,
and I can resign the appointment whenever I feel inclined.’
‘Janie says, when you once get there, it is a question whether you will
_ever_ come back again,’ said Fenella.
‘Janie knows nothing about it. We certainly cannot commence following
up the large game until a particular season of the year; but I shall
not remain out there a minute longer than I find it pay me to do so.
Meanwhile, Fenella, there is no need for you to mope. You will be a
great deal with my sister, I hope, when you are in London; and the
autumn you will spend at the sea-side, or wherever pleases you. Perhaps
the Marjorams may ask you down to Southfield for Christmas. I am sure
they will, if you evince the slightest disposition to join them. But
since Dr M’Kenzie advises your going to some warmer place for the next
few months, I shall not leave England until I have seen you comfortably
settled at Nice, or wherever you like best.’
From the extreme cold of Scotland Fenella had developed a cough after
her baby’s birth. Had she been an ordinary patient it would have been
treated with syrup of squills, but in the position of Sir Gilbert
Conroy’s wife the family doctor considered it necessary to prescribe
a visit to the south coast to expedite her cure; and, after some
deliberation, Hyères in France was chosen for her temporary sojourn.
Sir Gilbert would have had his wife travel with a courier, and a
flunky, and a couple of women, and engage the best suite of rooms in
the best hotel. He was a man who loved pomp and show, and if there was
an ungentlemanly trait in his character, it was his weakness to be
thought a very big person, and to have everything belonging to him in
equal style. Fenella pleaded hard to be excused the courier and the
flunky, for neither of whom she had the slightest use; but she took
Bennett and her lady’s-maid with her, and permitted her husband to
establish them in the hotel at Hyères, and impress the proprietor and
attendants with a sense of the importance of Miladi Conroy, and the
necessity that she should be supplied with everything that was best
and most expensive. And thus, having fulfilled the very letter of the
law as a husband and protector, Sir Gilbert gave Fenella unlimited
credit at his banker’s, and parted with her as carelessly as if he had
been running into the country for a fortnight’s fishing.
His wife felt very lonely after he was gone--still more so when she
heard that he had left England in the Cape steamer, and was on his way
to Sovooranooko. She began to wish she had not left Conroy Castle,
or that she had asked her sister-in-law to receive her as a guest at
Southfield. But the Earl and Countess were paying a round of visits,
and she would have been almost as lonely in either of those places
as at Hyères. Then her lady’s-maid (who had never been a favourite
with Fenella) began to give her trouble. She was an independent,
free-born Britisher, and not disposed to fall in kindly with any of the
ways of ‘them nasty furriners.’ She complained of the food and the
accommodation; she couldn’t ‘abide’ to see the invalids who had come to
Hyères (perhaps only to die) being dragged about in their wheel-chairs;
and she didn’t understand ‘hupper’ servants being put to one side
by ‘nusses,’ and such like--which being interpreted, meant that the
lady’s-maid was jealous of the confidences reposed in Bennett by her
mistress.
‘_Hif_ her la’ship required her services, would she be good enough to
say so? and _hif_ her la’ship didn’t, would she be good enough to let
her go?’
When it came to this pointed appeal, Fenella found she could do very
much better without her.
‘Do send her away, my dear lady,’ whispered Bennett. ‘I can do
everything that you and the baby require; and she’s always got her ear
at the keyhole, listening to every word we say.’
So the lady’s-maid (much to her surprise and annoyance) was dismissed
from Lady Conroy’s service, and sent back to England; and shortly
after her departure Fenella removed from the hotel, and took a lovely
little cottage standing in its own garden, on the outskirts of the
town, where Bennett, and a _fille de quartier_ hired in Hyères,
rendered her all the assistance she required.
These may appear to be trifling and unnecessary details, but they
exerted a strong influence upon her future conduct. Here, in this
solitude, with no society but that of Eliza Bennett and her little
infant, Fenella lapsed into very low spirits. Her life had become calm
and contented, but it was not sufficiently happy to bear the strain of
her own thoughts, without the outward distraction of cheerful company
and lively surroundings. Left to herself, she was too apt to dream; and
dreaming revealed a state of mind that half frightened her. She was
sadly disappointed, too, at Sir Gilbert leaving her for Sovooranooko,
although she would not acknowledge it, even to herself. But she had
begun to lean upon the fact that he was her husband; to misconstrue
the courtesy and deference (which he would have shown to any woman) as
marks of love for herself, and to deceive her own heart into the belief
that she loved him in return. And yet he had left her for an indefinite
period, whilst he ran all the risks attendant on an unhealthy climate
and a dangerous pursuit; and Fenella could not help recognising her
true place in his estimation. She was Lady Conroy, his wife, and the
possible mother of his heir--that was all. As for the poor little girl
in the cradle, he had not even looked at her before he went away. She
was a female, of no consequence at all in his family tree; that she
was her mother’s child gave her no individual claim upon her father’s
heart. But the little Valeria (now three months old) was daily becoming
more engaging in Fenella’s eyes, who thought that a lovelier specimen
of babyhood had never existed. And she was partly right. The infant
was unusually large and fat for her age--too much so, indeed, for
health, as the sequel proved. For one day, as the little creature was
lying, flushed and rosy in her sleep, she was seized (without the
slightest warning) with a convulsion, from which she never recovered.
Bennett (who had frequently seen infants in fits before) plunged her
at once into a warm bath, and held her there until the convulsions
had ceased. But when they were over, life was over too. The beautiful
baby had closed her blue eyes upon this world for ever, and Bennett
was forced to break the intelligence to her mistress. The _fille de
quartier_ was sent flying into Hyères for a doctor, but he only arrived
to confirm the nurse’s opinion. The spirit of the little child was gone
beyond recall--‘if he could be of any other use to Miladi he would be
but too happy, but as for _this_,’ shrugging his shoulders, ‘he was
_accomblé_ with regret to say it--but no one could help Miladi _here_.’
It was some time before Fenella could be made to believe that her
infant was really dead. But when the doctor had departed, and the
little body was laid out, stiff and white, upon the bed, her agony was
overwhelming.
‘There is a curse upon me, Bennett,’ she cried, as she fell, sobbing,
on her knees beside the corpse. ‘God is still angry with me! I shall
never be the mother of a living child!’
‘No, no! My dear lady; don’t say that, for it isn’t the truth. Oh, if
I only dared to tell you!’ said Bennett, with the tears streaming down
her own face.
‘You cannot tell me anything to give me comfort,’ replied Fenella,
as she rocked herself to and fro. ‘They all leave me; no one stays
with me! I believe I am doomed to live and die alone! _What_ had I,
nurse--_whom_ had I--but this little child? and God has taken even her
away! Oh! It is cruel--it is _cruel_ of Him! He might have left me
_one_ of them, just to save my heart from breaking!’
The servant, who was almost as upset as her mistress, sat by her side
all night long, and never left her for one moment to herself.
On the evening of the next day (according to the custom of that part of
the country) Fenella’s child was buried, and the little house seemed as
if it had died itself--it was so empty and still and forlorn.
Lady Conroy had wept until her sight was dull and her face sodden;
she had paced up and down the room until she had nearly fainted from
fatigue and want of nourishment; but still she could not rest. She
moved about incessantly, with dry eyes, but burning cheeks, recalling
every incident in her baby’s short life which could increase her grief
and heighten her despair. At last she made a dart at her blotting-case.
‘I cannot write to Sir Gilbert,’ she said, ‘until I have heard of his
arrival at Sovooranooko; but I must let Lady Marjoram know the news at
once. They would never forgive me if I kept them in ignorance of such
an event. Though I don’t suppose any of them will care if she is alive
or dead. No one loved her but myself. My darling little Valeria! my
poor lost baby!’
She sat down with the blotting-book in her hand, and burst into a fresh
flood of tears. This was the moment Bennett had been watching for.
As the tempest of Fenella’s grief subsided, she found her faithful
dependant close at hand.
‘Don’t write this evening, my darling child,’ she said affectionately;
‘you ain’t fit for it. Let it be till to-morrow, for there’s something
as I want to tell you.’
‘Tell it me afterwards, dear Bennett. Let me write my letters first,’
pleaded Fenella. ‘It will do me good to have some occupation. Besides,
we must leave this place, nurse. I can’t stay here, now my baby’s
gone. I should fancy I heard her voice crying every minute.’
‘Yes, yes! My dear lady,’ replied Bennett soothingly; ‘and you know as
you can do exactly as you choose in all things. Only there’s something
as I want to tell you, my dear, and I’ve wanted to tell it you for
months and months past, only I didn’t dare; but the time’s come now,
I’m sure, and I don’t feel as if I should do right to keep it to myself
any longer. I think it will be a comfort to you, and yet how to begin
the story I don’t know.’
The woman’s manner was so earnest and yet full of mystery, as she
walked to the door and locked it, lest they should be interrupted, that
Fenella’s curiosity was immediately aroused.
‘Nurse, what is it you can have to tell me that requires so much
preparation? Is it anything to do with poor mamma?’
‘Well, it has and it hasn’t, Miss Fenella; and I expect you’ll be so
surprised, you’ll hardly believe as I’m telling you the truth. But you
mustn’t blame me, my dear, for I can call Heaven to witness as I never
did anything in this world but what I thought was for your good.’
‘What on earth is it?’ cried Fenella, as the blotting-case slid to the
ground. ‘I begin to be frightened, nurse. Surely it cannot be more bad
news for me?’
‘No, no, my lamb. I think you’ll say as it’s good news, and I am sure
you will say I am right to tell it you. Do you remember the time, Miss
Fenella, when you was so ill at Sainte Pauvrette?’
Lady Conroy shuddered.
‘Ah, Bennett, as if I could _ever_ forget it! It is the one great black
spot in my life.’
‘Your mamma told you then, miss, as your baby was dead, and you cried
bitterly for its loss, didn’t you?’
The tears streamed afresh down Fenella’s face. The old wound had
recalled the new.
‘Oh yes, I did! My poor wee baby that never saw the light! God might
have left me _this_ one (mightn’t He, nurse?) just to help me to forget
the other.’
‘And what should you say, my dear,’ continued Bennett, as she softly
stroked the girl’s hand; ‘what should you say, now, if I was to tell
you as your first baby--the baby that was born at Sainte Pauvrette--was
still alive?’
Lady Conroy half sprung from her seat, and stared into the servant’s
face incredulously.
‘But my mother--my _mother_,’ she panted, ‘told me it was born
dead--that it never even breathed on entering the world!’
‘My mistress didn’t tell the truth then, Miss Fenella--God forgive her!
That child was born alive, and is living now.’
‘But I never saw it, nurse! I never heard it cry!’
‘I daresay not, my dear, or you don’t remember it. But you were raving
with fever all the time, and the baby was safe in England long before
you came to your senses again.’
‘But you showed me her grave!’ continued Lady Conroy, with eyes wide
open with surprise. ‘You pointed out a little mound to me in Sainte
Pauvrette churchyard, and told me my poor baby lay beneath it, and I
left violets and primroses there for her sake.’
‘My dear, I did; and I’m not going to deny it. They was your poor
mamma’s orders, and I obeyed them, as I’ve obeyed many an order of hers
that’s laid on my conscience since. But it was untrue, Miss Fenella. I
took your dear baby myself to England the very day she was born, and
she’s living there to this hour. And that’s God’s truth, my lamb, if I
never utter another word on this side the grave!’
Fenella stood still and silent for one moment, as if to try and
grasp the truth of this unexpected revelation. Then with a cry of
indignation she bounded to her feet.
‘And _my mother_ did this!’ she exclaimed. ‘_My mother_, who brought me
into the world, and knew all that I had suffered! She stepped into the
place of God and bereaved me of my child! How did she _dare_ to do it?’
she went on fiercely, as she confronted Eliza Bennett. ‘How did _you_
dare to uphold her in such a falsehood? What right had you to conspire
together to steal my child from me--_his_ child--and leave me to the
desolation and despair that followed? How did you _dare_--how did you
DARE to do it?’
She paced up and down the room as she spoke, alarming Bennett beyond
measure by her heightened colour and rapid utterance.
‘Say what you like to me, Miss Fenella,’ she replied piteously; ‘I
daresay I did very wrong, though I acted under orders. But don’t go
to blame your dear mamma as is a saint in heaven. She did it for the
best, my dear; she thought to save you the shame and the distress it
might prove in after-years. We talked a deal together about it before
we decided what to do, but the little one’s been safe and well with my
sister Martha ever since, and you’ll be able to see her now whenever
you like. And oh! Do stop walking in that fashion, my dear, for if
you fall ill, I shall never forgive myself for having told you; but I
thought maybe it might be a comfort for you to hear, now that the other
dear baby’s gone.’
Fenella stopped short, and flung herself on her knees by the old
woman’s side.
‘It _is_ a comfort, dear Bennett,’ she said; ‘but tell me the
truth--don’t deceive me any more--is she really alive?’
‘She _is_ alive, my dear. She’s a poor creature, as might be expected,
brought up by hand; but she’s alive and well.’
‘And what is she like, nurse? Oh, tell me what my child is like.’
‘She ain’t so good-looking as the angel that’s gone, Miss Fenella, but
I should think she’d take after you when she fills out a bit. She’s
very backward, poor lamb; she can’t say a word, and she’s got no use of
her legs. But Martha’s took every care of her, and couldn’t love her
better if she were her own.’
‘And--and--does Martha know that she belongs to _me_, nurse?’ asked
Lady Conroy hesitatingly.
‘Bless your heart, _no_! Do you think I’d go to pull down the family in
_that_ way, Miss Fenella? In course not! I said ’twas a child belonging
to a friend of my mistress, and they didn’t ask no questions. Why
should they? They’ve been paid reg’lar ever since.’
‘Who has paid them, Bennett?’
‘Well, your dear mamma did up to her death, my lady, and since that
your ten-pound note has kept them going till such time as I could make
up my mind to tell you the truth.’
‘Oh, if I could see her! If I could only see her!’ cried Fenella,
clasping her hands.
‘My dear, I don’t see why you shouldn’t, and that’s why I wanted to
tell you my story before you wrote to Lady Marjoram.’
‘What has that to do with it, Bennett? I couldn’t tell _her_, you know.’
‘I should think not! You’ll be very soft if you tell any one now. Let
the matter rest between you and me, my dear. But ain’t it next to a
moral certainty as Sir Gilbert will be out in that African place for
some years?’
‘I believe so. For two or three years, without doubt, unless some
accident sends him home.’
‘Well, then, Miss Fenella, I’d risk it!’
‘Risk what, Bennett?’
‘I’d have that baby home in place of the one that’s gone, and trust to
his never finding out the difference.’
‘Nurse! What are you thinking of? My first baby must be fifteen months
old by this time.’
‘I know she is, my dear, and of course you couldn’t manage it if you
was in England, or Sir Gilbert likely to come home soon. But she’s
a puny little thing, you must be prepared for that; and though you
couldn’t pass her off now for a baby of three months, I warrant that
when she’s three years you will be very well able to pass her off as a
child of two. And Sir Gilbert is not a gentleman to fuss over children,
you know. He’ll never put his foot in the nursery if he can help it. I
believe you might bring up half-a-dozen there without his being any the
wiser.’
‘Lady Marjoram?’ faltered Fenella.
‘I’ll manage the Countess, my dear. You see, if you fall in with my
notion, you must say the baby’s delicate, and leave her with me when
you go to London for the season. Lady Marjoram will never trouble you
with any questions about her.’
‘Oh, if I _could_--if I only could!’ cried the mother, with a new hope
beaming in her eyes. ‘My poor neglected baby! My poor fatherless lamb!
I _must_ have her back again.’
‘It would do my heart good to see her in your arms,’ said Bennett, ‘for
it smites me every time I go to Ines-cedwyn and look at the poor little
thing. For ’tain’t _her_ fault, you see, Miss Fenella; _she_ ain’t
the one to blame, pretty dear; and it seems terrible hard she should
grow up without any one to love her as she has a claim to, and no more
knowledge than can be got in Ines-cedwyn.’
‘She never shall!’ exclaimed Lady Conroy; ‘I will claim her and look
after her, even if I am not able to bring her up by my side. Bennett!
Bennett!’ she continued, in a lower voice, as she pulled the old
woman’s face close down to her own, ‘tell me, _dear_ Bennett, is she
at all like _him_?’
‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, why should you go to ask me such a thing? I’m sure
I don’t know, my dear, and I hopes, for your sake, as she’s not, for
you ought to have forgotten all about him long and long ago.’
Lady Conroy hid her face in the servant’s bosom.
‘Oh yes! I know I _ought_, and I think I have too (nearly, that is to
say), only this stirs it up, you see, Bennett--it stirs it up.’
‘But has it comforted you, my dear lady, or have I made matters worse
by my chattering?’
‘No, no! May God Almighty bless you, Bennett, for having told me that
my baby lives. It has comforted me as nothing else in this world could
have done. It has almost reconciled me to giving back the other one to
Heaven.’
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