THE TRIALS OF LADY CONWAY.
Meantime we must return to Lady Conway. Time passed on and she became
the mother of a little girl, and after another interval of a little
boy also. At this latter event Sir Philip's joy was great. The bells
rang, bonfires blazed, every festive demonstration was called into
play to welcome the heir to the estate. All the father's affection
seemed showered upon him. The misunderstanding between himself and his
lady had never been thoroughly put to rights, for Alfred still
continued to keep awake in Sir Philip's mind the suspicions he had
aroused. Had Annie been of a meek and gentle temper, she might very
soon have convinced her husband how far she was as yet removed from
religion of any kind, although conscious of secret influences creeping
over her. But Annie thought herself aggrieved, and disdained
conciliatory measures; and by degrees, under the insidious influence
to which he was exposed, Sir Philip began to assume a high tone of
marital authority which gave his wife continual provocation and
rendered her situation almost unbearable. Daily he assumed more and
more the reins of domestic government, until at last it could scarcely
be said that the ordinary jurisdiction which a woman exercises over
her household belonged to Annie. She felt this keenly at first, but
the birth of her little girl came somewhat to reconcile her. She spent
much time in the nursery, and recreated herself with books. She tried
not to notice the arbitrary manner and haughty bearing of her husband,
for, high-spirited as she was, she thought it undignified to live in a
perpetual jangle. So, gradually, the married couple learned to live in
different ideal worlds, though they continued under one roof and to
society appeared as usual. But this did not suit Alfred Brookbank. His
hatred went deeper than this, and he set himself seriously about
attempting to destroy what little was left of domestic comfort. The
birth of the young heir soon furnished him with grounds. None were
more warm than he in offering his congratulations, and in making
continual inquiries after the well-being of this young scion of an
ancient race. Indeed, the interest he seemed to take in all that
affected Sir Philip's happiness was extreme. One would have said that
he lived but for the pleasure of serving him. Sir Philip, on the other
hand, became daily more wrapt up in this specious man, and daily
congratulated himself on having secured so invaluable a servant.
{606}
"Sir Philip," said Alfred one day, after meeting the infant in its
nurse's arms during a business walk over the grounds, "that is a
splendid boy! I need not ask a man of your wisdom if you have made
provision that he should be brought up a staunch and loyal upholder of
the Protestant interest."
"Time enough yet, my worthy friend," responded the baronet, "the child
is not six months old."
"But before six months more, Sir Philip, he will begin to receive
impressions, and early impressions are of immense importance. You
remember, doubtless, that when the treaty of marriage was on foot
between the ill-fated Charles I. and Henrietta of France, the question
was mooted respecting the education of the children, and it was
finally settled that for the first seven years they should remain
under the mother's influence, and afterward be brought up Protestant.
They result was that, in the long run, the early impressions
prevailed. Charles II. certainly received the Romish sacrament on his
death-bed, and his brother James sacrificed his crown to his papistry.
I imagine that the first impressions are almost indelible, and we
never know when first impressions are made."
"But all my people are Protestants," said Sir Philip.
"And has Lady Conway renounced her predilection for the papists?"
asked Alfred. Sir Phillip's brow lowered.
"Forgive me if I go too far," continued Alfred deprecatingly. "The
inroads made by these people who came to seek English hospitality on
being driven from their own homes, are too alarming. Awhile ago it
would have been an insult to suspect a well-bred person of such folly;
but when we see such talented young men as Eugene Godfrey led away, it
puts us on our guard against future encroachments. I for one should be
sorry to see the heir apparent of Sir Philip Conway an upholder of
bigotry, or in image worshiper."
"I would see them in his grave first," thundered out the baronet. "But
there is no fear; at least I see no immediate cause of apprehension.
But the matter shall be look to. My son shall be watched over, depend
upon it".
Sir Philip's mother was still living, and with her a sister of his,
and old maid, who was a little too much of the puritanical school to
suit her brother's taste. But now he thought these ladies might assist
his views. He paid them a visit, and in strict confidence laid his
difficulty before them. He was not satisfied, he said of Lady Conway's
opinions. She went to the English Church occasionally, but he did not
consider her a member of it at heart. He wanted his children to be
interviewed from the first with strict Protestant ideas. The little
girl was now two years old, and though the little boy was but a few
months old, there was no telling how soon impressions might be made,
so he intended to have a nursery governess of the right sort at once.
This the ladies undertook to look out for, and when found to accompany
the treasure themselves to the household. Annie's annoyance was
excessive. Neither the dowager Lady Conway nor her daughter was
intellectual or high-minded, and now that they came to take the
management of the nursery out of her hands, and place a stranger there
whose office was to watch herself in her intercourse with her own
children, their presence became unendurable. Mrs. Bedford, the new
governess, was in herself a quiet, unobtrusive person, faithful to her
duties, and of gentle manners; but she had been selected on account of
her unmitigated horror of popery, and it had been whispered to her
that Lady Conway was not a little tainted with its delusion, and this
made her more constrained in manner and less deferential than she
would otherwise have been.
{607}
It was in vain that any pleaded that she was quite capable of
directing her own nursery, that this new inmate was equally
unnecessary as unwelcome to her. Sir Philip was immovable; and to
prove how intent he was on having his own way, he dismissed the nurse,
who had attended both children most skillfully, merely because she had
not shown herself sufficiently respectful to the new-comer. The
children cried after their old friend, and the little girl clung to
her dress, to beg her not to leave her. It was useless. No one is more
obstinate than a fool in power. That wife and children were unhappy
was nothing to Sir Philip now. His will was law, and to his rule of
iron all must submit.
Some months after this they were sitting at table when the letters
were brought in. Among them came one directed to Annie. Sir Philip
opened it (it was now his custom to open his wife's letters), read it,
and handed it to her, with the words:
"Dear me, I am very sorry, I suppose you must go immediately." The
letter was from Hester. It stated that Mrs. Godfrey (who had been for
years out of health) had latterly become much worse, that she was
constantly asking for any, and the physicians said she must be humored
in every wish, that her reason, if not her life, depended on it. Annie
was therefore requested to come without delay.
"How soon can I have the carriage," inquired any of her liege Lord.
"As soon as you can get ready, of course," answered Sir Philip.
"And the children?" faltered Annie.
"Mrs. Bedford will take care of the children, and I shall be at home;
make yourself easy about them."
But Annie would have liked to take the children with her; they would
interest her mother at times, and in that large mansion could not be
in the way; but her heart seemed crushed, she dared not express her
thought, and she departed without remonstrance.
She found her mother even more depressed then she anticipated. Mrs.
Godfrey had ever been tenderly attached to her children. Their
happiness had been her fondest care, and a melancholy settled upon her
as she found her hopes disappointed. The haughty Adelaide seemed quite
changed from the time when she was a joyous girl at home. Annie,
though still affectionate to herself, seemed pining away under some
secret unhappiness. But the darling of her heart--her son, whom she
loved with the whole force of her character, in whom were united alike
joy and pride--why was he banished from her sight? That Mrs. Godfrey
was sorry for her son's Catholicity there was no doubt; certainly she
was mortified at this unexpected result of her fine intellectual
training; but the love she bore this her only son far overpowered both
sorrow and vexation, and she bitterly felt his prolonged absence, and
had often endeavored to shake Mr. Godfrey's determination in this
regard. Some little passages had even occurred between herself and her
husband on the subject. "She could not understand," she said, "why a
person should be persecuted for his religion. When Mr. Godfrey told
his children to think for themselves, did he mean that they were to
think as he did, on pain of expulsion? Was not Eugene good, dutiful,
noble, and generous? Why was he treated like a criminal? Had he been a
_roué_, like so many young men of his standing, it would have been
called 'sowing his wild oats,' and every allowance would have been
made for him. Why could they not treat this vagary as intellectual
wild oats, and give him time to recover?" Mr. Godfrey tried to pacify
her, but in vain; illness succeeded. "She must see her son," she said.
Mr. Godfrey was a little too resolute. He did not even give her
tidings of him when he summoned him to the lawyers. It was by sheer
accident that she discovered they had met; and when she discovered the
result of that meeting her indignation was terrible. She could not
bear to {608} have Hester in her sight. She would not accompany her
and Mr. Godfrey to Yorkshire. She stayed at home alone whole months.
Years past; Eugene went abroad, and in the disturbed state of the
continent his letters miscarried. It was long since she heard from
him. A paroxym ensued. Her mind became affected. Mr. Godfrey was sent
for. A gentleman experienced in diseases of the brain was invited to
reside in the house. But in vain. The malady increased, and her calls
for Eugene and for Annie became so frequent and so terrific that all
hope of keeping the matter a secret seemed at an end, and the doctor
insisted that the persons she called for should be sent for. Annie
came forthwith as we have seen, but Eugene's address was not known.
On entering the room where her mother set in company with two strange
nurses, Annie was struck with the wildness of her manner: her hair was
disordered and hung loose over her shoulders; it was far whiter than
when Annie had seen it last, and her eyes were restlessly looking
round the room. She sprang up at her daughter's entrance, threw
herself on her neck, and burst into tears, "O Annie, Annie! are you
come at last? I have a strange illness upon me; I do not know how to
bear myself; but yon will not let them hurt me, you will take care of
me."
Annie was not prepared for this greeting. She could only clasp her
mother's hands, caress her, make her sit down, and try to keep down
the swelling in her own throat. Suddenly Mrs. Godfrey broke from her,
and standing up laid her hand on Annie's shoulder, saying: "Where is
Eugene?"
"I do not know, my dear mother."
"Not know! Are you all leagued against me? What share in his
inheritance had you?"
Annie looked as she felt, surprised. She had heard of the transaction
only when it was over, but she answered soothingly, not wishing to
bring forward exciting ideas. But Mrs. Godfrey was not to be Sue; all
night she raved of Eugene; when Hester approached, she sprang from the
bed and attempted to strike her; Mr. Godfrey dared not trust himself
within her hearing. "Thief, traitor, knave, rascal, villain", and
other opprobrious epithets were bestowed on him and his fondling. The
doctor was not to be shaken in his opinion that the only hope lay in
finding Eugene and bringing him to her bedside. But where? They had no
clue; his lawyer only knew he was gone abroad and would probably not
return for months. In the hope that some one might be more successful,
they at length resolve, to Mr. Godfrey's intense vexation, to have
inserted in the London and local papers a notice to the effect that
"We are sorry to announce the serious and dangerous illness of the
Hon. Mrs. Godfrey, at Estcourt Hall. Should this meet the eye of her
eldest son, now on his travels, his family request him to return
without delay."
This advertisement luckily was pointed out to M. Bertolot very soon
after it appeared at Cambridge, and he hastened to forward it by a
courier to Eugene, who, traveling by post (those were not days of
railways), arrived at Estcourt Hall within three weeks after Annie had
taken up her residence there. The old butler who answered the ring at
the gate bowed a solemn but speechless welcome, and with a significant
gesture conducted him, not through the usual entrance-hall, but by a
side door, up-stairs, till he came to Annie's apartment, which
communicated with the sick-chamber. Here he wrapped, and on Annie's
appearance left the two together without a word.
Eugene entered and sat down. "What is the matter?" He said. But Annie
answered not; her looks were those of one too wretched to weep.
Eugene repeated his inquiry, and then she softly whispered: "O!
Eugene, she has gone out of her mind!" Eugene covered his face with
his hands. {609} It was a long time ere either could speak again. At
length Annie rose on tiptoe and opened the door communicating with the
invalid's apartments. His mother was lying quietly on the sofa,
muttering at intervals. Eugene approached and listened. He thought he
caught the sound of his own name. He went nearer and knelt beside her.
The sick woman knew it not, but her arm laid itself restlessly around
his neck, and as his hot tears fell on her cheek she kept repeating in
her sleep the words, "Eugene, my dear Eugene!" Singularly enough, when
she waked she evinced no surprise at finding him there. It was as
though she knew it intuitively, or had expected it. Perhaps it was the
prolongation of her dream. She did not greet him as a stranger, or
speak as if long months had passed since she saw him, for question him
as to his occupation or place of abode. She waked, but was as if still
dreaming of him. She found him there, where she had so long wished him
to be, quietly asked him to hand her a glass of water, took it from
him contentedly, returned the glass, kissed him as he bent over her,
and sank into along, tranquil sleep, from which she tranquilly and
apparently refreshed, but still taking Eugene's appearance as a matter
of course which called for no expression of surprise.
The physician now insisted on this state of contentment being left
undisturbed. He had long wished Mr. Godfrey and Hester out of the
house on account of the excitement they produced in his patient; he
now insisted that they should not be seen, heard, board named in the
sick-room; "in fact," he said to them, "if it were convenient, it
would be better you should retire from the house until Mrs. Godfrey
can herself be moved. A paroxysm now might kill her. Spare her that,
and I hope she will recover. This illness appears to have been
occasioned by mental anguish and evidently her son only has the power
to soothe her." Hester was deeply moved; Mr. Godfrey was angry, but he
hid his vexation. "He would wait a day or two," he said; "if Mrs.
Godfrey continued to improve, he would take Hester to Yorkshire, where
their presence was greatly needed."
He was, however, so much irritated that he would not see Eugene, in
spite of his entreaties conveyed by Annie. Meals were served up to him
and Hester in a separate room, and he now appeared only anxious to get
away. Hester was, however, almost heart-broken. She had not been
allowed to speak to Eugene; but the night before their departure,
after Mr. Godfrey had retired for the night, she sent a note to him
containing these words only:
"Come to my room, I am very unhappy.
Let me see you ere I go.
"Your own sister,
"HESTER."
"I thought you would not deny me, Eugene," she said, as the latter
entered her apartment; "you were ever kind and forgiving. Tell me,
first, have you any hopes of mother?"
"Indeed I have, dear sister, the greatest hopes."
"Do you call me 'dear sister'? You are not angry with me, then,
Eugene?"
"Not much more angry than I was the day you took my horse away when I
wanted to go hunting; do you remember it, Hester?"
"I do, but you would not speak to me then till mother reconciled us.
Dear mother! our childish quarrels always worried her. She was never
easy till she had set them right. Would we were children again,
Eugene, and our quarrels as easily adjusted." Hester was weeping as
she spoke.
"We may be, Hester, as soon as we so will it. Why should we lose the
simplicity, love, and truth that make childhood sweet?"
"Do you love me still, Eugene?"
"I do; nay, I admire you too, though I think you are mistaken."
"You are very good to say so. Now then, dear Eugene, I may tell you to
set our dear mother's mind at rest as soon at she can understand
reason. {610} You will tell her that, at least as for as I am
concerned, there shall be no injustice committed eventually. My father
gives me the control of his property now, which he has a right to do
if he so pleases; you have your allowance such as he promised you,
that is all right too; but tell my dear mother that, as far as it
depends on me, matters shall be made right at my father's death. It
would serve nothing, as you know, to moot the matter now, but I will
never rob you or any one. Tell my mother this, Eugene, and tell her to
restore to me her love."
"I will, my darling Hester. Now make yourself easy. Be sure my mother
loves you still, that I love you, that we all love you. Be easy, my
sister, my sweet sister." But Hester was weeping bitterly; the thought
of not being allowed to see her mother, to help nurse her, was almost
more than she could bear, and she very sorrowfully acquiesced in the
arrangement.