How they loved him, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Spring was over all the land, and the April sunshine was beaming mildly on the tender green leaves and half-blown flowers in the convent garden of Ansprach. On the broad open terrace, strewn with the golden petals of the fragile and short-lived laburnum, and scented with the delicate fragrance of lilac and apple-blossom, a pair of anxious, feathered parents were vainly endeavouring, by means of continuous twittering, to induce an awkward fledgling to return to the nest from which he had prematurely fallen; whilst up and down between the borders of primroses and polyanthuses, three or four old nuns, too feeble for work, toddled and sunned themselves, and talked together in quavering voices—Heaven alone knows of what—perhaps of the days when they were young and comely, and thought lovers and husbands were natural institutions and free gifts from God to Woman. From the pasture-lands around the convent, the lambs were calling to their mother ewes; in the farmyard the poultry softly chattered to each other as they picked up the scattered grain; from the playground was wafted a buzz of happy voices. There were no sounds to be heard, nor sights to be seen on any side, but such as breathed of purity, and contentment, and peace.

Suddenly, at the farther end of the terrace, appeared a group of children, galloping and stamping as they played at horses, and the venerable sisters stood on one side, smiling, to let them pass. A tall graceful girl led the van, but she was evidently joining in the sport only for the benefit of the little ones, who had encircled her with half-a-dozen skipping ropes, and were driving her vigorously from behind. ‘Allons—courage—plus vite!’ they shouted every time their charger showed the least symptom of declining speed. But as the tall girl reached the side of the sisters, she came to a full stop. It was not only to say ‘Bon jour, mes sœurs,’ with a deep reverence, that she did so; she had caught sight of the little fledgling on the pathway, and her heart was full in a moment. She called to the children to be careful, and knelt down on the terrace to examine the fallen bird, much to the consternation of its anxious parents.

‘What can I do for it?’ she demanded of the old nuns who watched her proceedings.

‘Do nothing, my child,’ they answered, ‘but lay it inside the flower border. It will be safe there; and the mother bird is close at hand. She will provide for it better than you can.’

‘Yes,’ shouted one of the little ones; ‘see, there they are, Fenella—both the papa and the mamma. How dreadfully afraid they are lest we should hurt their child! And now it has hopped up to them—just as I shall hop up to my darling mamma when the midsummer holidays arrive. Oh, Fenella, don’t you wish that they had come?’

Fenella did not answer; she was watching the twittering fuss that the old birds were making over their fledgling, and perhaps she did not hear what the child said. But as she rose and twisted the ropes about her arms again, and set off at a gallop down the terrace, with the little ones tearing after her, something very like a tear fell from her grey eyes upon the bosom of her convent dress.

‘Is she an orphan?’ asked one of the nuns, as the girl passed out of hearing.

‘I don’t know, but I think she must be; she has not left Ansprach for five years. She is, at any rate, very friendless.’

‘Poor little soul! Perhaps they destine her to remain here for ever,’ was the reply; and then the old women were silent for awhile, as though the idea had conjured up some tender memory. It must be sad to arrive at the close of one’s life, and feel that very soon it will be ended, and leave not a sign behind it that it has ever been. But they soon shook off the feeling, for the Convent of Saint Barbara was like a busy hive of bees upon that April morning, and it was difficult to realise that it could ever be less so. Inside the solemn grey building dozens of hands were employed in cooking and washing and ironing, for the sisters allowed no one to assist them in their household labour, and brought up the children under their charge to be as helpful as themselves. In the class-rooms a score of teachers were engaged in the education of the pupils; the hospital had no lack of tender nurses, nor the chapel of reverent worshippers; whilst, as though in strong contrast to the latter employment, the mother of the English pupils—or, as she was generally called, Mère Josephine—was seated in one of the convent parlours, talking on the most mundane of matters with a visitor who had arrived in Ansprach but an hour ago.

To look at Mère Josephine alone, was almost to be persuaded that a conventual life must be the happiest life in the world. For she was not so young as to be unaware of the weight of the duties she had undertaken, nor was she so old as to have lost interest in what might befall her in the future. And yet, though her lot was irrevocably fixed beyond the power of alteration, she not only looked happy, but was so. She was a healthy, intelligent woman, of from five-and-thirty to forty years of age, who was English on the mother’s side, and spoke that language as well as she did her native German. She had blue eyes that twinkled with humour, firm rosy cheeks, an elastic step that would have befitted twenty, and a comfortably rounded form that seemed the very embodiment of maternity, though no one would have laughed more than Mère Josephine had you told her so. She was a thoroughly practical person into the bargain, with a keen appreciation of motives and character, and she jingled the huge bunch of keys that hung at her girdle with an air that said she would not be trifled with. In fact, you would have had to get up early to take in Mère Josephine.

The person with whom she was engaged in conversation was not a bad specimen of her class either, but it was a lower class. She had a mild face, which would, under any circumstances, have denoted rather a weak and easily led disposition, and it had had no opportunities of learning to attest itself—for she was a servant. Her name was Eliza Bennett, and she was the housekeeper and lady’s-maid and confidential agent of Mrs Barrington, of South Audley Street, London.

Mrs Bennett was sitting on the edge of her rush-bottomed chair, looking very ill at ease. She was tired and hungry and cold—for though the April sunshine was on the convent garden, it did not penetrate the thick walls sufficiently to give a look of warmth to the polished oak floor and the uncurtained casements of the parlour. Added to which, Mrs Bennett had failed in her mission, and already anticipated with dread the welcome that should await her return to England. Mère Josephine, in her serge dress and woollen petticoats and thick shoes, looking as if she did not know what it was to feel cold, was seated beside her, scrutinising her face keenly as she replied to her remarks, and forcing Eliza Bennett, even against her will, to speak the truth.

‘And so Mrs Barrington does not want to have her daughter home for the present, and she has sent you over here to say so,’ said the reverend mother briskly, as she rattled her keys—a habit of hers when she was annoyed by anything.

‘Well, ma’am, it would be more convenient for my mistress, certainly, ma’am,’ stammered the servant; ‘for, you see, Mrs Barrington has just let her house for the season and is going abroad, and she says if Miss Fenella could remain at Ansprach till the Christmas vacation—’

‘But she cannot,’ interrupted Mère Josephine, ‘and I have already written Mrs Barrington the reason. The doctor has decided that an immediate change is absolutely necessary for the child. She has grown unusually fast during the last twelve months, and though our Ansprach is healthy enough on the whole, it is not a bracing place, and all young people require change of air at times.’

‘Oh, surely—yes, ma’am. I wouldn’t think of contradicting you; only it disarranges my mistress’s plans terribly,’ murmured the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Bennett,’ continued Mère Josephine, sternly, ‘Miss Barrington has been at Ansprach for five years without once going home. She was only eleven when you brought her to me, and she is now sixteen. It is a most unusual thing, and with an only child too. I should have thought her mamma would have been all anxiety to see her again.’

‘Oh! yes, ma’am! And, of course, my mistress is very anxious—very anxious indeed—to see Miss Fenella; only the rooms being let, and my mistress going abroad, and having no one with whom to leave the young lady, it makes it awkward, you see—’

‘And why cannot Mrs Barrington take her daughter abroad with her, Mrs Bennett?’

‘Well, I don’t know, ma’am; I couldn’t answer for my mistress, of course; but I know she’s going with a party, and her orders to me were, whatever I did, to persuade you to be so good as to keep Miss Fenella over the midsummer vacation.’

‘I am sorry to refuse your request, Mrs Bennett, for Fenella’s sake; but she is out of health, and it is my duty to send her away. I really believe she is happy here—as happy as she can be, shut out from home; but Mrs Barrington has displayed such a culpable want of interest in her daughter, that she positively knows nothing about her. Fenella is a very clever girl—far too advanced and deep-thinking for her years; and, at the same time, she possesses a very affectionate and sensitive nature. I have, on several occasions, pointed out to Mrs Barrington the drawbacks she encountered in receiving her education at Ansprach. As she is not of the same faith as ourselves, we have been restricted from giving her any religious instruction. For five years, therefore, she has been left entirely to herself in such matters, and I doubt if she thinks on the subject at all. She will require very careful watching, Mrs Bennett, if she is to steer through the world with safety. You seem a sensible woman. Do you think her mother is likely to prove such a friend as she will require?’

At this appeal Eliza Bennett produced a pocket handkerchief, and commenced to sniffle furtively.

‘Ah! I know all the family well, ma’am, and it’s not for me to speak against them. I lived with them before Miss Fenella was born, and was with her poor papa when he died. Such a fine gentleman—six foot two, and in the Royal Navy—and worshipped the very ground she trod on. If he had lived—but there! what’s the use of talking—but if the dear child ever wants a friend, and I can serve her, the Lord knows I will.’

‘It strikes me she will live to want one, Mrs Bennett; for she possesses the most dangerous attributes with which a young girl can encounter the world,—a heart so large and warm and generous that where it loves it cannot see a fault, and a strong resolute nature that will act upon its own impulses against all conventionality or advice. But I forget how long it is since you have seen her. I will send for her at once.’

The reverend mother rang the bell, whilst Eliza Bennett wiped her eyes and said,—

‘Ah! she was always a bright one and a loving one was Miss Fenella! Her poor papa used often to say that her heart would lead her into more scrapes than her head would ever help her out of.’

‘I am afraid he was not far wrong, Mrs Bennett; but, at the same time, you must remember it will depend entirely on what treatment she gets now whether Fenella will turn out a good woman or a bad one. At present she is as innocent as a girl of her age could possibly be—too innocent, perhaps. When I think of her entering the world without a guide, I could almost wish she were less so.’

‘Let’s hope she’ll get a good husband, ma’am, to keep her out of all danger,’ remarked the servant.

‘We will, although I do not think the mere fact of having a husband is always a specific against danger,’ replied Mère Josephine, when she had dismissed a sister in search of her pupil. ‘And what orders did Mrs Barrington give you in case of my refusing to keep Miss Fenella at Ansprach?’

‘Well, my mistress did say, ma’am, in case of its being quite impossible, that there would be nothing else to do, of course, but for me to take the young lady back with me. But I’m sure she’ll be very angry if I do.’

‘I am sorry for that, but I cannot help it. If you had refused to take her back, I should have sent her over in charge of a sister. I will write to Mrs Barrington to tell her as much, and Fenella will be ready to start with you this evening.’

‘Oh, dear! oh, dear! what will the mistress say when she sees us!’ wailed Mrs Bennett. But at this moment a tap on the door of the convent parlour was followed by the entrance of a tall slight girl in black—the same girl who had been playing horses with the little ones in the garden—who, advancing quickly, fell on one knee, kissed the hand of the reverend mother, and then stood upright before her, waiting her orders.

‘Don’t you know who this is, Fenella?’ said Mère Josephine, as she laid her hand kindly on the girl’s shoulder.

Fenella looked round at Eliza Bennett, and even the servant was struck with her appearance. She was like a fair straight lily, fresh gathered from the garden bed; she might have stood as a model for the patroness of the convent, the virgin saint Barbara, whose heathen father butchered her at seventeen for adhering to the Christian faith. She was slender as a willow, but with a form that gave promise of unusual excellence in the years to come; her skin was like a snowdrift; her grey blue eyes looked out of an oval face set in a framework of sunny brown hair; and from that sensitive mouth, with its tremulous, half-opened lips that betokened a life of pain in this rough world, gleamed firm white teeth that spoke for the perfect purity of her constitution. She was not handsome at this period, perhaps, in the usual acceptation of the word; there was nothing flashing nor brilliant about her; she was nothing but a tall white lily, half blown, with no consciousness that life was anything but one long summer’s day. But it was a face that, once seen, was not easily forgotten; a dangerous face, that changed its expression twenty times in an hour—that could look sad or gay, or anxious, or shy, or arch, just as the humour caught it, and showed every feeling on the surface without knowing that it did so. In after years Fenella Barrington was much more dangerous to herself and others than any merely handsome woman could have been. She became fascinating! She developed that fatal power to attract and win and hold, which breaks more hearts and ruins more lives than any other power has the capacity to do. But she knew nothing of all this as she stood in the convent parlour; it had not even stirred within her. She was asleep—a white innocent lily with folded leaves, wrapt in a peaceful dreamless sleep, that made her think that to live meant to be happy. How well it would have been for her if she had never waked!

‘Oh dear! she’s the very moral of her poor papa,’ cried Mrs Bennett.

At the sound of her voice, Fenella recognised her.

‘Why, nurse, is that you?’ she said as she crossed the room rapidly to the old servant’s side. ‘Why have you come here?’ Then a sudden fear flooded her pale cheek with crimson. ‘Mamma is not ill, is she? There is nothing the matter with mamma?’ she repeated in an anxious voice.

‘No, no! Miss Fenella, your mamma is well enough; it’s you as we’ve heard is not well, my dear, and indeed you don’t look over strong. And are you glad to see me, miss?’

‘Very, very glad, nurse! You remind me of my dear father, and of the days when he lay ill in England. Oh, nurse! why don’t I go home to see mamma? It is five years since I came to Ansprach. Am I to pass the summer at school again?’

Eliza Bennett glanced at the reverend mother, who answered promptly for her.

‘No, Fenella; you will go to England with Mrs Bennett to-night. Your mamma knows you require change, and she has sent for you. If all goes well, you will be at home by this time to-morrow!’

Fenella stood upright again, her face glowing with that fatal excitement which as yet she had felt so seldom, but which was part of her nature, and she would learn to recognise but too soon.

‘Going home!’ she said, when she could articulate. ‘Home to mamma!—to see mamma again!—and to-night? Oh! chère mère, it is too delightful, I hardly know how I shall bear it. Don’t think me ungrateful for all your kindness,’ she continued, with a rapid change of feeling; ‘indeed—indeed, I shall never forget all I owe to you; but to be going home to my own mother—to see her to-morrow—in a few hours—it seems as if it could not be true.’

Mère Josephine smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm, kindly but sadly. She felt intuitively the disappointment that awaited her warm loving nature—the disappointment that all true generous hearts experience when they first come in contact with the selfish world.

‘I do not grudge you your happiness, dear child,’ she answered, ‘for I am sure you will not forget Ansprach, nor the lessons you have learned here.’

‘Forget Ansprach!’ echoed Fenella; ‘but how will that be possible? I shall return to you after the vacation, chère mère!’

‘I do not know what your mamma’s plans may be, Fenella. You are no longer a child, remember. You are almost a woman.’

The girl laughed in a light incredulous way.

‘Me a woman! Ah! chère mère, you are laughing at me because you know I am such a hoyden, and love to be in the gymnasium better than anywhere else. A woman! why, it seems only the other day that you began to teach me French and German.’

‘You have learned a great deal since then, my child. Your education may almost be said to be finished, and I wish, now that you are going to leave us so suddenly for the great world, that I had taught you a little more of its ways and temptations. But you must let your own sense of right be your guide. Should I never see you again, Fenella’—at these words the girl’s features began to work nervously—‘should it be Heaven’s will that this parting is the last—’ But the good mother was not allowed to finish her injunction. Fenella’s feelings could not bear the strain. Remembrance overpowered her, and she burst into tears.

‘What! never to see you nor the dear sisters again,’ she cried; ‘never to help you plant seeds in the garden, nor gather flowers for the altar; never to go in the Ansprach woods on fête days, nor to join in the processions with my schoolfellows? Oh! chère mère, I cannot, cannot bear it. Don’t send me away! Let me come back again; I have loved you all so dearly.’

She flung herself on her knees as she spoke, and buried her face in the folds of the reverend mother’s dress, and her fair hair fell about her shoulders in beautiful confusion. Why did something in the girl’s attitude of abandonment, or the falling of her abundant hair, strike the good nun with a resemblance to the prostrate Magdalen, pictured on some of the convent walls. The thought chilled her, and she raised Fenella hastily.

‘Come, my child,’ she said tenderly, ‘you must not give way like this. Surely you forget that you are going home to see your mamma; and after so long an absence. What would she think if she saw these tears? And here is poor Mrs Bennett, who has had nothing to eat since arriving at Ansprach this morning! Go to Sister Ursula and tell her to come to me at once. And then arrange your hair tidily, and wait for Mrs Bennett in No. 16. She will join you there in a few minutes.’

Fenella kissed the reverend mother’s hand, and curtseying left the room; but her face had lost the look of joyful anticipation that had irradiated it but a minute before.

‘You see what she is,’ remarked Mère Josephine, as the door closed behind her, ‘warm-hearted, impulsive, and excitable! These qualities have been kept down with us. We know their danger, and check them as much as possible, but in the world they will have full play, and if Fenella does not find a good friend in her mother to guide them aright, I fear they will cause her much unhappiness. She will expect too much from the world, Mrs Bennett. She will think every one she meets is as generous and frank as herself, and she will be terribly deceived.’

‘Ah! if her poor papa had only lived,’ sighed Mrs Bennett, with an emphatic shake of the head.

‘Mrs Barrington sees, I suppose, a great deal of society.’

‘Well, it is not for me to talk of my mistress’s doings, ma’am; but she just lives in it and nothing else.’

Mère Josephine looked grave.

‘That will not be good for so young a girl as Fenella,’ she said.

‘No, ma’am; and I don’t think my mistress would wish her to mix in it, neither. You see Mrs Barrington is very young-looking for her age, and very much admired, and Miss Fenella here is so tall and so much of a woman that—’

‘That her mother will be ashamed to own her! I understand,’ rejoined Mère Josephine promptly—so promptly as to make Eliza Bennett fear she had said too much.

‘Well, if it were not that her health requires change, I should say Fenella would be better here. However, I am sure you must require some refreshment, Mrs Bennett, so if you will follow Sister Ursula, she will show you where you can get it.’

Sister Ursula, who had been waiting, smiling at the door for some minutes, now indicated that she was ready to play pilot, and Eliza Bennett, who was but too pleased to escape further questioning from the reverend mother, followed her to No. 16.