‘THE SACRED AMULET.’
‘What a power there is in innocence! whose very
helplessness is its safeguard: in whose presence
even Passion himself stands abashed, and
turns worshipper at the very altar he came to
despoil.’--_Moore_.
Here she found Fenella awaiting her, standing composed and thoughtful
by the open casement, and looking more like a straight white lily than
ever, with her hair brushed smoothly behind her ears, and her long
eyelashes lying on her fair pale cheeks. The table was spread with a
substantial meal of coffee and rolls and cold meat, and the sister,
having seen that nothing more was required, withdrew, and kept the
servant and her young mistress together.
‘Miss Fenella,’ said Eliza Bennett, as she sat down to table, ‘aren’t
you going to take some breakfast?’
Fenella opened her grey eyes.
‘_Me_, nurse! Oh dear, no! I had my breakfast at six o’clock this
morning, and my dinner at twelve. What do you think of that?’
‘I never heard of such hours for gentlefolks, miss. They wouldn’t suit
London ladies at all.’
‘And at what time shall I have my meals in London, nurse?’
‘Your mamma mostly has her breakfast about this time, and her dinner at
eight in the evening. But I don’t suppose you’ll go out to parties as
much as she does, miss.’
‘Oh, no! I shouldn’t wish to do so. What should I do at parties, nurse?
I have never been to one in my life! I don’t even know what they do
there; but it will be so sweet to creep out of my bed again when mamma
comes home--(I shall always lie awake till I hear her step)--and come
downstairs to help to undress her and make her comfortable for the
night. My own dear mamma! I have never forgotten her face, Bennett, nor
her beautiful dark hair.’
Bennett, who knew all about the ‘beautiful dark hair,’ which had
mysteriously changed by this time to golden, and had experienced the
sweetness of creeping out of her bed to attend to Mrs Barrington’s
requirements at two o’clock in the morning, did not appear to join in
her daughter’s enthusiasm on the subject, and only remarked that it
would not be good for Miss Fenella, not being strong, to have her rest
disturbed after that fashion, and she didn’t think her mamma would
allow it.
The girl looked disappointed.
‘I shall soon grow strong in England,’ she said, ‘and I should love to
wait upon mamma.’
‘You will soon find other things to think of, miss,’ replied Bennett,
with a view to consolation. ‘Your mamma has me to wait upon her, and
don’t need to trouble any one else. And you’ll be getting lovers before
long, and making them wait upon you.’
‘Lovers!’ echoed Fenella; ‘do you mean men to marry me? Oh no! I
sha’n’t. I shall never be married. I don’t wish to. I shouldn’t like
it.’
Had she been less of a child and more of a woman she would have blushed
or laughed a little at the idea, for it does not take much to call up
blushes in a young girl’s cheek at the mention of marriage, even from
one of her own sex; but Fenella did neither. She only looked at the
servant, straight out of her frank grey eyes, as a child of four years
old might have done, and shook her head and repeated emphatically, ‘I
know all about marrying, nurse, and I’m _sure_ I shouldn’t like it.’
Eliza Bennett, in her quiet way, was infinitely amused.
‘Why, who could have told you all about it, Miss Fenella?’
‘Oh, lots of people! I have a great friend here--Honorée St Just. Ah!
how sorry I shall be to part with her. And her sister Cécile is married
to a man, and Honorée says it is horrid. They quarrel dreadfully, and
Cécile hates him, and one day he boxed her ears. No man should do that
to me; and if I had my choice I’d rather marry a woman, only they say
that’s nonsense.’
‘I should think it was, miss--too great nonsense to talk about.’
‘I won’t say it again then, but I don’t know why it should be. Honorée
and I would never quarrel like Cécile and her husband if we lived in
the same house. But if that is the case I shall never marry, for I
should not care to have a man for a friend. They are rough, and they
do not care for the same amusements as girls. I am sure we should not
agree together.’
‘You’ll change your opinion, Miss Fenella, when you have seen more of
gentlemen. You don’t know anything about them now, though bad’s the
best, I must say. But all young ladies marry sooner or later.’
‘Oh no, nurse, not all! The nuns are ladies, but they never marry, and
they are very happy. And I should like best of all to live with them.
I mean to live with dear mamma, and wait on her till she wants me no
longer, and then when she has gone to heaven I will come back to dear
Ansprach and be buried with the sisters in the convent yard.’
‘Oh dear me, miss, that _is_ sorrowful talking,’ remonstrated Eliza
Bennett, with her mouth full of bread and butter.
‘_Why?_’ replied Fenella, with evident surprise. ‘We often have deaths
here, because some of the nuns are so very old, and you should see
how pleased they are to hear it is all over, and they are going to
Jesus and the Blessed Virgin for ever. When one of the sisters die,
the others take turns to watch by her coffin till she is buried, and I
always coax _chère mère_ to let me have my turn, although I am not a
Catholic. And oh, nurse!’ exclaimed Fenella, with a sudden outburst of
prophecy from her childish soul, ‘I have sometimes wondered if it would
not be better if I died too whilst I was at Ansprach, and never went
home to see mamma and what they call the “world again.”’
But this was a line of argument with which Eliza Bennett could not
cope, and which half frightened her, for it revealed a nature deeper
than any which she had yet been called upon to fathom.
‘Please don’t talk like that, miss, nor ask me such questions,’ she
said nervously; ‘it isn’t right nor natural. I don’t mean to say as
things mayn’t seem a bit strange to you in Audley Street after the
convent, but still they’re your mamma’s ways, you know, and you must
give in to them, and not put her out, and then you’ll be happy enough.’
‘_Put her out!_ Do you mean vex her? Oh, no! that I never will. How can
you think so for a moment. I am only afraid that I may disappoint her,
and that she will not be able to love me as much as I shall want her to
do. Nurse, shall I sleep in the same bed as my mamma? Do tell me.’
‘Well, I hardly know what to say to that, miss; your mamma never cared
for any one sleeping alongside of her, so you mustn’t be vexed if you
don’t share her bed, for, to tell truth, I don’t think you will.’
‘Nurse!’ exclaimed Fenella, as if struck by a sudden fear, ‘_won’t she
love me?_’
There was so much energy in her tone that the old servant was quite
taken aback.
‘Bless your heart, miss, of course she will. Whatever makes you ask
me such a question. Why, all mothers love their children, and you an
only one too, and such a fine grown young lady, and the very image of
your papa; it would be against nature entirely if your mamma weren’t as
proud of you as proud can be.’
‘But it is so long since she sent for me,’ said Fenella mournfully;
‘five whole years. I began to think I was never going home, and the
other girls would hardly believe I had a mother. It made me feel almost
ashamed, nurse, and as if I had done something wrong.’
‘Well, your mamma will make up for it now, miss, never fear! She has
had more than enough to worry her, my dear, I expect, during the last
few years, and perhaps she thought you was better away learning your
books than knocking about with her.’
‘Worried!’ cried Fenella, with a startled look. ‘What can she have to
worry her?’
Eliza Bennett looked mysterious. She longed to tell what was in her
mind, but she had been too well trained to turn informer; and the
girl’s eager tone of inquiry made her more cautious than she might
otherwise have been.
‘Everybody has something to worry ’em,’ she answered, ‘and your dear
mamma ain’t free from it, miss--no more than others. There’s always
plenty of trouble in this world.’
‘Do you mean she is sorry? I never thought of that! Oh, I am so glad
she has sent for me to comfort her! I am the proper person to comfort
her. Am I not, Bennett? And I will--indeed, I will!’
Bennett, who was perfectly aware that the last thing Mrs Barrington
would regard as an alleviation of her cares would be the appearance
of her tall womanly daughter, here wiped her mouth in token of having
finished her breakfast, and was significantly silent. She tried
to appear at her ease, but, in reality, she was full of nervous
apprehension, which amounted to cowardice. She had been twenty years
in the service of Mrs Barrington, and since her husband’s death she
had been her housekeeper, lady’s-maid, and humble friend,--in fine,
the recipient of all her secrets. Mrs Barrington would not have parted
with her on any consideration--she would have been afraid to do so; and
Eliza Bennett knew it well; and yet she was so much under the thumb of
her mistress, that she had no will of her own. She did not love her; on
the contrary, she despised her for her heartlessness and artifice. She
derived no particular benefit from remaining in her service; and yet,
had her life depended on it, she would not have left her,--nor did she
do so until the strange fascination which Mrs Barrington exercised over
her was exhausted.
Fear is a much stronger motive power to bind people together than
love,--fear of the world--fear of change--fear of themselves. How many
uncongenial couples does it not link fast for life, and make them
jog on, afraid to rupture the unholy spell that unites them, until
death causes the parting to be inevitable. There was a subtle, secret
magnetism in Mrs Barrington for Eliza Bennett, which the servant felt
but could not analyze, and the mistress wielded without knowing whence
her power came.
The rest of that day was spent, as far as Fenella was concerned, in a
very tearful and unhappy manner. Five years is a long while for any one
to spend in one place and with one set of people, and to a young girl
of sixteen it appears a lifetime.
Fenella ran from the farmyard to the gymnasium, and the flower garden
to the chapel, and wept freely as she thought she might never see any
of them again. She visited the kitchens and laundry and class-rooms,
and felt intuitively, as she bade farewell to the sisters who had
surrounded her childhood with kindness and care, and the schoolfellows
who had shared her pleasures and advantages, that the happiest and
most peaceful years of her life were over. But the great trial to her
in leaving Ansprach was parting with her bosom friend Honorée St Just.
Fenella was not a general lover. She possessed a full, impulsive nature
that could rejoice in the sunshine and the blossoms, and the singing
of the birds, and sometimes, when all the world smiled at her, and her
spirit seemed to rush forth to meet it, her heart would overflow and
she would weep for very gladness. But though she felt deeply, she was
not sentimental. She had never nursed sickly fancies after the fashion
of school girls. She was impulsive and emotional, but what she loved
she must look up to. Hers was a nature that all through life would feel
the necessity of a passionate love--the necessity of a friend whom she
could worship--of some one to whom she would be the very first, in whom
she could confide every thought that came into and over-weighted her
active brain.
She was clever, but she was dependent on others for sympathy. Left to
herself and her own thoughts, Fenella would have sunk into a miserable
being. And for the last few years Honorée St Just, who was much older
than herself, had been the depository of all Fenella’s half-fledged
thoughts, and she felt the wrench of parting from her terribly. It was
only by oft-repeated promises of a speedy reunion at Honorée’s house
in Germany, where she protested her parents should invite Fenella to
visit her, that the young girls could be persuaded to separate, and
when at last Eliza Bennett found herself with her charge outside the
convent walls of St Barbara, she was afraid that Fenella’s grief would
make her ill. But it subsided sooner than she expected. These impulsive
natures suffer keenly, but they do not suffer long, unless the wound is
incurable, and then may Heaven help them, for they twist and writhe
above the unextracted weapon, until death mercifully closes the scene.
But to a girl of sixteen who had spent the greater part of the last
five years within a convent garden, the mere fact of travelling was an
excitement and distraction; and when the next morning broke and they
found themselves at Calais, ready to cross over to Dover by the midday
boat, Fenella was able to look at the scenes that passed around her
with dry eyes, and to comment on them with all the natural liveliness
of her disposition.
But Eliza Bennett could not make out her young lady. She was puzzled
to know what to answer to the extraordinary questions she put to her.
She had never been brought in contact with such a womanly child before.
Fenella had no shyness in her composition, and her innocence made her
afraid of nothing. She would as soon have addressed a stranger passing
in the street as the servant that walked beside her. They had some
hours to wait in Calais, and they employed them in traversing the town.
As they came opposite a church a wedding party issued from it, the
bride resplendent in her foreign finery--a bright blue dress trimmed
with velvet, and a cap decorated with satin ribbons and orange blossoms.
‘Who are those people, nurse?’ demanded Fenella, with interest. ‘What
have they been about? Is it a first communion?’
‘Bless my soul, Miss Fenella, it’s a wedding! Don’t you see the flowers
in the bride’s cap?’
‘Is it?’ indifferently; and then, after a pause, she added,--‘Why do
people go to church when they’re married, Bennett?’
‘Why, to say prayers, Miss Fenella, of course.’
‘Couldn’t they pray at home?’
‘Well, I suppose so, but then there’s the marriage vows, you see. They
go to the parson, and he makes them swear they will live together all
their lives.’
‘What! in the same house always? Why should they swear that? Suppose
after a time they got tired of each other and wanted to live in
different houses, what would they do then?’
‘Oh, miss, you mustn’t think of such a thing. Marriage is binding for
life, you know, and when people have once entered on it, they never
dream of changing.’
‘Don’t they? Then why does the priest make them swear not to?’
Eliza Bennett met Fenella’s eyes fixed upon hers, and resolute for an
answer, and had to think before she concocted one.
‘Lor! my dear child, whatever would your mamma say if she heard you?
Why, they haven’t taught you nothing at that convent. Why do married
people swear to keep to each other? Why, because it’s the law of the
land, miss, as they should do so; and they’d be chopping and changing
all round if they hadn’t something to hold ’em together; but when
they’ve made a vow, of course it’s all right, and they never think of
such a thing.’
Fenella pondered on this mystery for a minute or two, then she said,--
‘Do mothers take vows that they’ll always live with their children,
nurse?’
‘Dear me no, miss, their hearts keep them to each other--it’s nature,
you see; they couldn’t turn against their little ones any more than
they could against themselves.’
‘Isn’t marriage nature, then, and haven’t the married people hearts?
Wouldn’t that keep them together as well as going into church and
swearing?’
‘I’m sure I can’t tell you, miss; you do put such strange questions
you quite flurry me. But you’ll be married yourself some day, and then
you’ll understand all about it. They look happy enough any way, don’t
they? See how the girl is smiling at her friends--’
At that moment the wedding party passed close to them, and one of the
men, struck by Fenella’s face, remarked to his companion,--
‘_Mon Dieu! qu’elle est belle! la petite Anglaise!_’
Eliza Bennett saw the look of admiration that accompanied the words.
‘I hope that fellow didn’t say anything rude to you, miss?’
She looked at her young mistress as she spoke, and seemed to see, for
the first time, what she would become. The lily was flushed with the
excitement and the fresh sea air; a delicate pink glow was spreading
over her features, as if the rising sun had touched the petals of a
flower--a glow that made her eyes look bluer, her hair more sunny, her
parted lips like carmine.
The servant took in the fascination of her appearance at a glance, and
pulled her to one side.
‘Come on, Miss Fenella, we mustn’t loiter like this; ladies should
never stand about the streets; besides, it’s nearly twelve, and we go
on board at one. It is time we were making our way to the restaurant;
you must have a good luncheon before we start.’
She led the girl away as she spoke, and they entered the restaurant.
But Fenella was too excited to eat; her loving heart was filled now
with the idea of meeting her mother again, and she but half finished
the bason of soup which Bennett ordered for her. As the servant, much
confused by the foreign coins with which her purse was filled, bustled
away to the counter to pay for what they had consumed, Fenella’s
attention was attracted by the figure of a young gentleman, who leaned
against the side of the open doorway, and gazed at her.
He was a tall, slight youth of about two-and-twenty, and there was
something about his appearance that betokened an Irish descent. His
fine silky hair and moustaches were of the darkest shade of brown; his
blue eyes were shaded by black pencilled brows, and thick lashes that
lay upon his cheek as though he had been a child; his delicate nose
and closed nostrils showed a refined and artistic disposition, and his
mouth (or what could be seen of it), if weak and pleasure-seeking, was
very tender, and had a certain melancholy droop at the corners, that
would have led a stranger to believe its owner to be the possessor of
very deep feelings.
But what should a child like Fenella, just let loose from school, know
of the subtle signs of physiognomy, when even the oldest and most
experienced amongst us refuse to be guided by them. All she saw was a
very handsome young man, whose eyes were fixed earnestly upon her face,
and her first thought was, whether it was the quaintness of her convent
garb that had excited his curiosity. The idea made her colour and
look conscious, and she turned slightly to one side. But the mesmeric
influence of the eyes, that never moved for a moment from her face,
forced her after a while to meet them again, and her frank childish
glance was once more mingled with his own. This time she noted the
melancholy of his expression, and wondered what had caused it.
‘Is he in any pain or trouble? Can he want to speak to me?’ she thought.
When Eliza Bennett returned to her seat, Fenella communicated this idea
to her.
‘Do you see that gentleman who is looking at me, nurse?’ she whispered.
‘I think he must want to say something. Perhaps he is sick, or sorry.
Shall I go and speak to him?’
‘Goodness me! no, Miss Fenella! The impudent rascal to go staring a
young lady out of countenance after that fashion. I’ll get one of
the waiters to turn him out of the restaurant, if he don’t mend his
manners.’
‘Don’t say that, nurse! Indeed, he is not rude; he has only looked at
me. Oh! I hope he did not hear what you said about him.’
For the ‘impudent rascal,’ perceiving the advent of a middle-aged
chaperon with a flustered manner, had concluded to shift his position
for a while, and sauntered into the sunshine.
‘A good thing if he did, Miss Fenella,’ replied Eliza Bennett.
‘However, he seems to have taken the hint, so I’ll go and see after the
luggage. If you’ll wait here for me, you’ll be safe enough.’
‘_Safe!_’ echoed the girl; ‘safe! why what should happen to me?’ and
then the servant left her again, and she leaned her head upon her
hand, and tried to realise what she would feel when once more within
the embrace of her mother. Then the young man, with the earnest glance
and the tender droop in his mouth, noting that the coast was clear,
returned to his former position, and fixed his gaze once more upon
Fenella’s face. She did not raise her eyes, but she knew that his were
on her. She _felt_ them, as one feels the heat of fire, even through
her sheltering hand, and her nature stirred uneasily beneath their
influence.
‘He _must_ want to speak to me,’ she said to herself; ‘else why should
he look so earnestly at me. Perhaps he has had a misfortune; he may
have been robbed of his purse, and be unable to pay his passage home;
or he may be a stranger who cannot speak the language and make his
wants known, and he sees I am English and wishes me to help him. How
can I be so unkind as to take no notice? He may find no one else to
assist him. Surely that would not be doing as I would be done by.’
At this juncture Fenella, moved by an irresistible impulse, rose
hastily from the table and walked towards the door. The young man, who
had been so fascinated by her appearance, thought that she was offended
by his admiration, and was about to leave the restaurant in token of it.
He was a gentleman, and regretted he had been so thoughtless, and so
he drew to one side respectfully as she approached the threshold,
and slightly raised his hat. But what was his astonishment when the
childish figure stopped directly in front of him, and two kind,
fearless eyes were raised innocently to his face.
‘Why do you look at me?’ demanded Fenella. ‘Are you in trouble? Can I
assist you?’
The stranger blushed scarlet; her quiet question took him so completely
aback he had not a word to say for himself. He could only stammer forth
some awkward thanks for her kindness, and a denial that he needed
anything. But Fenella did not blush; she only smiled.
‘I am glad it is nothing,’ she said; ‘I thought you wanted to speak to
me,’ and then she returned to her seat without any confusion, and sat
down again to wait for Eliza Bennett.
Meanwhile, had she felt annoyance at the stranger’s admiration, she
could not have taken a better means of preventing his continuing a
display of it. He could not look at her again after the innocent
misconstruction she had put upon his motives. He walked straight away
from the restaurant on board the steamer that waited to take them to
Dover. And in a few minutes Fenella was claimed by Bennett and hurried
after him, and it was not until she stepped on deck and caught sight of
him, again eagerly watching their movements, that she had time to tell
the servant what had occurred.
‘Nurse,’ she said, as she followed her to the cabin, ‘did you see that
gentleman that looked so hard at me in the restaurant, leaning on the
bridge as we came on board? He is going to England with us. But he is
not in any trouble, because I asked him. I think he was only looking
at me to please himself, for he said he was very much obliged, but he
did not want anything.’
‘Miss Fenella, you don’t mean to tell me you _spoke_ to him?’ exclaimed
Eliza Bennett in dismay.
‘Yes, I did! I thought he might wish me to interpret for him or
something, but he didn’t. Don’t you think he has a nice face?’
‘Goodness me, miss, you make my blood run cold; the idea of you
speaking to a perfect stranger, and a man too! Why, he might be one of
the swell mob for ought we know. Oh, Miss Fenella, don’t you _never_ go
and tell your mamma of what you’ve done, or I sha’n’t hear the last of
it for having left you a minute by yourself.’
‘But why should mamma be angry, nurse? It wasn’t wrong.’
‘It was very wrong, indeed, Miss Fenella; it isn’t the custom, and
every-thing’s wrong that isn’t the custom, and young ladies can never
learn that too soon. However, you are but a child as yet, and don’t
know any better, but you won’t do it again, my dear; will you, now?’
‘Not if it’s _wrong_,’ said Fenella quietly.
And then she allowed Eliza Bennett to fuss over her and tuck her up
with shawls upon a sofa, where she lay for a couple of hours, enduring
the purgatory of the ladies’ cabin, and thinking what a strange custom
it was that forbade her to speak to her fellow-creatures. Whilst the
servant, too nervous at the approaching interview with her mistress to
take any rest, turned and tossed upon her couch, and tried to invent
arguments to appease the threatened storm.
At last the steamer touched the Dover pier; and not in the best humour,
Eliza Bennett dragged her charge after her up the steps of the gangway.
As they reached the top, they again encountered the subject of their
discussion, who had mounted before them, and was leaning over the
railings gazing at Fenella. Had the stranger smiled whilst gazing, the
girl might have thought with her attendant he meant to be rude, but as
he only fixed two grave eyes upon her, she could not feel offended.
But the expression in that steadfast glance had no such effect upon
Eliza Bennett. All she read in it was pertinacity, which she considered
it her duty to crush. She was a timid woman by nature, and, like many
timid people, when she made an effort to be brave she became offensive.
She pulled Fenella past the young gentleman almost roughly, as she
exclaimed in an audible voice,--
‘Well, _I_ never saw such impudence. I hope he’ll know you again to
swear to.’
At these words Fenella looked up, startled and annoyed, and the
stranger’s eyes again met hers. This time they made her feel
uncomfortable--she hardly knew why, and she turned her head quickly
away. But not before the young man had seen that she did not share the
sentiments of her companion.
‘By Jove! What a sweet face,’ he thought, ‘and what a world of feeling
lies in those eyes! I must get into the same compartment with that girl
if I can.’
He ran along the line of carriages as the idea struck him, but he was
already too late. Eliza Bennett had secured the only vacant seats in
a compartment for Fenella and herself, and the stranger was obliged
to content himself with a smoking carriage. Here he indulged freely
in his favourite occupation, and tried hard to shake off the absurd
fascination which the memory of this girl exercised over him, and for
which he was ready to laugh at his own folly. But he found the task
more difficult than he anticipated. As the wreaths of smoke from his
cigar floated from him in ghostly rings of cloudy blue, they kept on
shaping themselves into the form of an oval face, from which gleamed
forth two clear innocent eyes, that almost seemed to look reproachfully
at him. ‘What nonsense!’ he thought. ‘What is there so different in
her from other women, that I can’t knock her out of my head? She’s
nothing, after all, but a half-grown school-girl. Why can’t I think of
something else?’ Why, not indeed! Who can tell? Was it his good angel
that raised that vision to warn him against what might be; or was it
his bad angel that evoked it for his greater condemnation in the years
to come, when he should remember what had been and what was, and that
he had heeded nothing but his own selfish gratification. He leapt out
of the train as soon as it reached the London station, but the platform
was crowded with passengers, and in the confusion he missed the two he
sought to see. Luggage was being examined; porters were rushing to and
fro; people were hustling each other in their eagerness to be served
first, and whilst his eyes were still roving here and there in hopes
of gaining some clue to the identity of the girl who had attracted
his fancy, Fenella and Eliza Bennett were in a cab jolting along the
streets on their way to Mrs Barrington’s apartments.
[Illustration: Decorative]
[Illustration: Decorative]