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

It was now several years since Mrs Barrington had had either the means or the disposition to keep up a house of her own, and so she lived in furnished rooms in South Audley Street, which fulfilled all her requirements when she was in London, which was seldom. She had been left in very comfortable circumstances by her late husband, but she had frittered away all the available portion of her income until she was really seriously encumbered. The fact is, Mrs Barrington had been a beauty and a coquette, and much admired in her younger days, and she considered she had thrown herself away when she married Captain Barrington. She had always intended to purchase a fortune at least, if not a title, with her good looks; and then he had come in her light and blinded her to her own interests, and she had married him and got neither. It had been a source of constant grievance and many quarrels between them during the captain’s lifetime, and when he died his widow began to consider whether she might not yet retrieve her youthful error, and spend the rest of her days as the beginning should have been. She was still good-looking and not old, and had many admirers. But these things do not always mean marriage, and though Mrs Barrington had not given up all hope, it was certainly dwindling, and her temper suffered terribly as the fact became more and more patent to her senses. Of course the first thing had been to get rid of Fenella,—widows, with daughters as tall as themselves, find it no use to look young,—besides, it was so much easier to talk of her ‘sweet child’ and her ‘dear little girl,’ from whom it was such a cruel trial to be parted, whilst Fenella was safe at Ansprach, and there was no chance of her intruding her long arms and legs into the midst of the conversation.

So the girl had been kept at school for five years whilst the mother tried her luck at a second throw of Fortune’s wheel. But as yet the hoped-for prizes had all turned up blanks. For Mrs Barrington had overstepped her mark. Instead of contenting herself with the good looks that Heaven had given her, she had supplemented them with so much powder and rouge and hair-dye that she had frightened the men away. They would come and lounge in her drawing-room, or take her to the theatre, or meet her at Mentone or Wiesbaden by the dozen, but they would not propose. They treated her to presents and flowers and opera boxes and everything but offers of marriage, and they talked of her amongst themselves as of rather a better sort of courtesan, and that was all. No one of them in his senses ever thought of making her his wife, and the consciousness of failure had begun to dawn upon Mrs Barrington’s mind and make her more ill-tempered and fractious than ever. And yet there was no doubt that she was a very pretty woman—much prettier, most men would have thought, than her daughter Fenella; but her face, like her life, was a lie, and nothing is more patent to the world than that. When Mrs Barrington found that she had been a widow for some years, and had no chance of changing her condition, she redoubled her energies to charm, and wasted her money in the effort. She spent a small fortune in dresses and pigments; passed half her time in foreign watering-places, and at last committed the fatal error of attempting to retrieve some of her lavish expenditure at the gaming-tables. At the moment Fenella was returned on her hands, Mrs Barrington was really more impecunious than she had been for years. So she had let her apartments in South Audley Street for a good sum for the London season, and was about to join her friend Lady Wilson in passing a few months at Mentone. There was another reason for her leaving England in this company. Lady Wilson’s husband was still alive and well, but she had a son of about five-and-twenty, a moonstruck, æsthetic youth, who raved on the subject of Mrs Barrington’s golden chevelure and ivory teeth (not knowing that she kept the one in a bottle and her dentist made the other), and the widow believed that, with a little flattery and a few têtes-à-tête, she might conquer the fledgling baronet. He might not become ‘Sir Henry,’ it was true, for years—but still it was something to look forward to, and time was waning, as Mrs Barrington had been compelled at last to acknowledge to herself.

Under these circumstances, it may be supposed that the reverend mother’s letter, announcing that she must send Fenella home at once, was the most unwelcome news she could have received. She had had Eliza Bennett up on that occasion and confided to her all her hopes and fears. She had conjured her to go to Ansprach, and by hook or by crook to induce the nuns to keep her daughter, at all events until this eventful season was past.

‘Then I shall either be engaged or married to Mr Wilson, Bennett,’ she had said. ‘It’s a dreadful come-down, I know, still, he will be the baronet some day if he lives, and meanwhile, his mother will never let him or his wife want for anything. And you know, Bennett dear, that I’m dreadfully hard up. How I am ever to pay Madame Carrafine if I don’t marry, beats me altogether, and Masters has threatened me with a suit for the carriage hire if the account is not settled next quarter. You must do this for me, Bennett—it’s a matter of life or death. Go to Ansprach and persuade the reverend mother to keep the girl there till Christmas. I promise to have her home then, but whatever you do, don’t bring her back with you, or you’ll ruin all my plans.’

After which harangue, and fearing her mistress’s anger as she did, it is not wonderful that Eliza Bennett positively trembled as the cab approached South Audley Street. Fenella, on the other hand, was trembling also, not with fear, but anticipation. ‘My mother, my own mother,’ she kept on repeating with clasped hands. ‘Oh, Bennett, how long we are getting to Audley Street! Tell the man to drive faster. I feel as if I must get out and run until I reach her arms.’

It was now nearly seven o’clock in the evening—one delay and another had made them longer than they ought to have been, and the April twilight had deepened into dusk. Mrs Barrington was in her dressing-room, with a very ill-tempered expression on her countenance, attiring herself for a dinner-party. She wondered why Eliza Bennett could not have managed to return home before, and she was put out by the fact of having to wait upon herself; and so she was venting her ill-humour by tearing laces and wrenching off buttons, and using lady-like expletives under her breath in revenge for her own carelessness. At last she heard a cab stop at the door.

‘There she is!’ she exclaimed; ‘thank goodness! What I should do without that woman I don’t know. I am a perfect baby when she leaves me to myself.’

A heavy step came up the stairs, and without any notice the door of her room was thrown open. Mrs Barrington turned at the sound with an expression of relief. Bennett was standing on the threshold.

‘So you’ve arrived at last,’ she said. ‘I thought you were never coming home. I suppose you’ve made it all right with that old fool of a reverend mother—’

Bennett did not answer at once, but advancing to the bed, threw her bonnet and shawl upon it. She was trembling violently, but Mrs Barrington was too selfish to notice her distress.

‘You are going out again this evening, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Let me help you with your dress.’

She stood behind her mistress and commenced to lace up her dress, as though she had only made a journey from the kitchen to the bedroom.

‘You have arrived in the very nick of time,’ laughed Mrs Barrington. ‘I was just wondering what had become of you, and if I should send for Ann to help me to dress; but I shall be in plenty of time now. I am engaged to Lady Wilson, but we don’t dine till eight. And so you’ve settled it all with the convent people, I suppose, and they’ll keep the child till Christmas? What a relief! I should have gone out of my mind if they had insisted upon sending her back.’

‘But, if you please, ma’am,’ stammered Bennett, as she stood pulling the lace together, ‘I am sorry to say the reverend mother wouldn’t hear any reason, and I was obliged to bring Miss Fenella back with me, whether I would or no.’

‘What!’ cried the affectionate mother, who had not seen her only child for five years, ‘do you mean to say that she has returned with you now—that she is here?’

‘She is, indeed, ma’am. I couldn’t help it. I had no alternative. The reverend mother declared Miss Fenella required change, and that if I didn’t bring her to England she would send her over in charge of a sister. So I thought it would be cheaper for me to comply; and we came third class all the way. I knew it would put you out terribly, ma’am, but I couldn’t help it—indeed, I couldn’t.’

‘Bennett,’ cried Mrs Barrington tragically, as she sank into a chair, ‘you have ruined all my prospects.’

‘Oh no, ma’am, don’t say that! pray don’t—for I’d lay down my life to serve you at any time—as you know well; but this wasn’t my fault, as Miss Fenella herself will tell you, and when they insisted on it, what could I do but bring her along with me!’

‘But what am I to do with her?’ exclaimed her mistress. ‘Lady Wilson wants to start on Friday, and the Foulkes are coming into these rooms on Monday. It’s enough to drive me out of my senses. I believe I’m the most unfortunate woman that was ever born.’

And real tears of vexation and perplexity began to roll down Mrs Barrington’s painted cheeks. The sight seemed to move Eliza Bennett powerfully, and she flung herself on her knees beside the lady’s chair.

‘Don’t, my dear mistress,’ she said pleadingly; ‘pray don’t give way like that; you might make yourself ill. I will think of some plan for Miss Fenella, by which she sha’n’t interfere with any of yours; only don’t blame me, dear mistress, for what has happened, for I was as helpless in it as the babe unborn.’

She grasped Mrs Barrington’s hand and kissed it as she spoke, but the selfish creature pushed her away almost contemptuously.

‘There, there, Bennett, don’t mess me, for Heaven’s sake! You know how I hate it. I suppose you couldn’t help it, as you say you couldn’t, but it doesn’t show much wit on your part. All the reverend mothers in the world wouldn’t have made me bring that child home against my will, and you may take your oath of that.’

Eliza Bennett was beginning to murmur something about her mistress being so much cleverer and better and more persuasive than herself, when the opening of the bedroom door made her rise suddenly to her feet. There, on the threshold, stood Fenella, her cheeks burning with excitement, her arms extended in anticipation.

‘Mother! dearest mother!’ she cried passionately.

Even Mrs Barrington was roused by the appeal. She made several steps forward and folded the girl in her arms.

‘My dearest child,’ she said, ‘is this really you? I was just about to send Bennett for you. Why, what a woman you’ve grown; inches above me, I declare. I don’t think I should have known you had we met in the street.’

She kissed Fenella as she spoke, but not warmly—Mrs Barrington never kissed warmly. She did not know how to kiss. She always presented her nose or a portion of her jaw to the dearest friends she possessed. Possibly the habit had grown on her from a fear of spoiling the dainty arrangement of rouge and powder with which her face was embellished, but it had become a custom from which she never deviated. Fenella felt the coldness of her mother’s embrace, even whilst it fell upon her cheek, and, worn out with fatigue and excitement and disappointment, she burst into tears.

‘Dearest mother!’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t be angry with me for coming up before you sent for me; but I could not wait downstairs any longer. I felt as if my heart would burst with longing. Oh, mamma, what a time it is since we met! I thought I was never going to see you again.’

‘That was a very silly thing to think,’ replied Mrs Barrington sweetly, as she disengaged herself from the girl’s clinging clasp, which she feared would prove rather detrimental to her dinner dress. ‘Of course I should have had you home soon, dear Fenella, only it was not very convenient just at present, as I am expecting to go abroad in a day or two with some friends.’

‘Oh, I will be no trouble to you, darling mother,’ said Fenella, smiling through her tears. ‘I will wait on you and be your maid, and I can always sit at home, when you go out, with my books or my work. I sha’n’t want any other amusement.’

‘I am afraid you would soon get tired of that, dear,’ said Mrs Barrington, drawing down her lip complacently. ‘And I am not what I was, Fenella. I have had much trouble and sorrow in this life beside the loss of your poor papa, and they have robbed me of the little spirits I was possessed.’

‘Oh no, they haven’t! You look as young as ever, mamma. Isn’t it strange that you shouldn’t have a grey hair in your head yet—but I am glad of it. I shouldn’t like my beautiful mother to turn grey like other women.’

‘Silly child,’ remonstrated Mrs Barrington, with a smile. ‘But you must be very hungry; you haven’t had your tea yet. Bennett, take Miss Fenella downstairs again, and see what they may have to give you. I think there were some cutlets left from luncheon. And let the child have a glass of wine—she looks very thin and pale; it will be better for her than tea. And we will discuss the subject we were speaking of just now when I return home to-night.’

‘Don’t send me from you, mamma,’ said Fenella entreatingly. ‘Let me wait here till you are ready to come down too.’

‘But, my dear, I am going out to dinner. I shall have to leave the house in ten minutes.’

The girl’s face fell.

‘Going out! and on our first evening too. Oh, I am sorry. Couldn’t you put it off and stay at home with me? I have so much to say to you, mamma. It is so hard to part with you again so soon.’

‘I feel it too, my dear Fenella, I can assure you; but my engagement is almost a business one, at all events of the utmost importance, and I cannot possibly postpone it. It is provoking, isn’t it? but then I hardly expected you to-night, and we can have a long talk together to-morrow. Besides, you must be very tired after such a journey, and should go to bed early.’

‘May I sleep with you, mamma?’ asked Fenella eagerly.

Mrs Barrington shrugged her shoulders and glanced at her French bedstead.

‘My dear girl,’ she replied, ‘I am afraid there would be no room for such a long creature as you are in my diminutive couch. What is her height, should you think, Bennett? She looks a perfect grenadier to me. It seems quite impossible she should be my daughter.’

‘I should say Miss Fenella was a good bit over five feet,’ said Eliza Bennett.

‘I am five feet five inches,’ interposed the girl mournfully.

‘An awful height, my dear child; just three inches too tall for a woman. We shall have to look out for a guardsman for you. However, you won’t look so tall, perhaps, when you’ve filled out a little, and get into decent frocks. How those old nuns can let you go about such an object I can’t think.’

‘All the convent pupils wear the same dress, mamma.’

‘Well, I suppose so; and it does well enough for a hole like Ansprach. And now you had better go with Bennett and get your tea. You positively look as white as a sheet.’

‘Mayn’t I stay and help you to dress, mamma?’ demanded Fenella more timidly. ‘I am not at all in a hurry for my tea, and I want to be with you to the very last.’

But this would not have suited Mrs Barrington, who had to put some fresh layers of white and pink upon the cheeks over which Fenella had incautiously wept, before she could encounter the lights of Lady Wilson’s drawing-room.

‘No, my dear, I couldn’t think of it, and there is positively nothing more to do, for, as you see, Bennett has fastened my dress, and I have only my cloak to put on. Take Miss Fenella down with you, Eliza,’ she said, with a meaning glance at the servant, ‘and see that she is made comfortable. And put her to bed early—she must need rest.’

‘And am I to sit up for you, ma’am?’ demanded Bennett, whose eyes were red for want of sleep.

‘Yes; I think so; I must speak to you about this matter of going abroad, and all the rest of it. I sha’n’t be late; but if I am you can lie down on the couch till I return. Good-night, my dear child,’ continued Mrs Barrington as she presented her chin to Fenella; ‘mind you sleep well, and we will see what we can do about getting you some other dresses to-morrow,’ and in another minute Fenella and the servant found themselves on the landing with the bedroom door closed behind them. They followed each other to the dining-room in silence.

The girl’s heart was so full she could not trust herself to speak, and Bennett did not know what to say to console her. The comfortable meal was soon upon the table, for Mrs Barrington was an epicure in her feminine way, and loved good eating and good service—but Fenella scarcely tasted anything. Eliza Bennett, after the belief of her class, pressed her young mistress to eat and drink, as the best cure for the disappointment under which she saw she was labouring; but Fenella was sick at heart, and after having swallowed a cup of tea, sat with folded hands over the fire, thinking to herself. She had listened eagerly at first for the sound of her mother’s footstep descending the stairs, in hopes that Mrs Barrington would look into the dining-room, to give her one more kiss, but such sentimentalism was not in that lady’s nature. She had gone straight from her bedroom to the carriage that was waiting for her, and driven off to her friend Lady Wilson, with but one thought disturbing her mind—how she was to get rid of the encumbrance that had been unexpectedly thrust upon her. She was not blind to the advantages of her daughter’s appearance. She had seen at a glance, notwithstanding the unsightly convent uniform, that Fenella would shortly be, not only a woman, but a very handsome woman. She had dreaded having some awkward school-girl—all arms and legs, red elbows and splay feet—thrust upon her, but the reality was worse than the anticipation. The lanky school-girl would have been only a nuisance; but this fair, straight lily with her lovely, speaking eyes and earnest manner threatened to become a formidable rival. With all her conceit and self-appreciation, Mrs Barrington could not be blind to the fact that, were her daughter seen by her side, she would throw her charms considerably in the shade: might even make young Wilson, who was more in love with women than with any particular woman, waver in his half-formed allegiance to herself. There was no doubt about it—if the widow was to succeed in making a second marriage, it would not be with Fenella standing and looking on—and the puzzle was, how to get rid of her.

Had there been plenty of money at hand, the thing would have been easy enough. Mrs Barrington would have sent her off to some sanatorium or sea-side boarding school, and said the dear child’s health required it. All difficulties vanish when the purse is full. But she had barely enough coin to accomplish her plan of sharing Lady Wilson’s housekeeping for a few months at Mentone, and certainly none to spare for the requirements of a daughter, to keep whom it would take as much as to keep herself.

At the Convent of Saint Barbara it was all such smooth sailing. The nuns had taken the girl in for the whole year, and boarded and educated her for twenty pounds, and had become so used to Mrs Barrington’s pleadings, for a little indulgence in the matter of payment, that they had ceased to press even for that. But now they refused to keep Fenella there any longer, and she supposed they would be sending in their horrid bill, and she would be compelled to pay it, added to those of Masters and Carrafine, and all the rest.

It was too provoking—enough to make any woman curse the day when she had become a mother! And so fidgeting and perplexed, Mrs Barrington went to her friend’s house, and looked so pensive and mournfully sweet all through dinner, that she very nearly brought young Wilson to book the same evening, and had it only been a little later in the season, and she had been able to draw him out upon a moonlit balcony, she quite believed it would have been an accomplished thing. Meanwhile, by means of languishing glances and well-directed sighs, she did her best to excite his warmest interests; whilst her disappointed young daughter sat at home with the servant, and tried to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, until it was time for her to go to bed. But the attempt could hardly be termed a success.

Fenella talked of her convent life, and the occupations she had pursued there, and her voice faltered as she mentioned Honorée St Just, and the probabilities of seeing her again. The girl’s grief at parting with her friend was genuine; but there would have been no room for it that night had she been in the possession of her mother’s new-found love to comfort her. And, although she did not yet acknowledge it to herself, the cold disappointment and regret that were weighing down her heart, were not for her friends at Ansprach, but for the void that had taken their place, the empty home to which she had come, the sorry welcome that had awaited her. She chattered on of the kindness of the nuns, and the love the little children had borne her, and the fear she entertained lest she should never meet Honorée again, until her over-wrought feelings reached their climax, and found vent in an hysterical burst of tears. Of course the servant declared she was over-tired, and must go to rest at once, and Fenella obeyed without demur, and lay down in the room prepared for her, with a weary sense of loneliness and pain.

Eliza Bennett attended on her as her mother ought to have done, and sat in the room whilst the girl knelt down and addressed her simple prayers to Heaven.

Captain Barrington had been both loved and pitied by his servants, and this one, although she was so strangely devoted to his frivolous widow, had not forgotten Fenella’s father, and felt all the more drawn to the girl because of her likeness to him. She waited till the last word of the prayer had been uttered, and Fenella had risen to her feet, and then she took her in her arms, as if she had been her own child, and laid her gently down in her bed.

‘Don’t you fret, my dear,’ she whispered compassionately, ‘your mamma’s a bit flurried and put out to-night by our coming in so suddenly, but she will be better to-morrow. She’ll come to see things in a different light, and that what must be must be; and then you’ll feel more at home-like with her. The mistress was always a hard one to move; but when she can’t alter a matter, she generally makes the best of it. So don’t you think nothing of her manner nor her words, but go to sleep like a good child, and she’ll be very different in the morning.’

But all the effect of Eliza Bennett’s speech was to make Fenella cling to her tighter and weep more convulsively. She did not utter a complaint against her mother or her reception. She only cried till she could cry no longer, and her eyes closed from sheer exhaustion. And then Bennett kissed the fair, sweet face very tenderly, and laid it down upon the pillow, and watched by Fenella till there was no chance of her waking again. Her sympathies were roused on behalf of her dead master’s child, and, though she didn’t know how she should do it, and the mere thought of such a thing made her tremble, she was determined to plead her cause with Mrs Barrington as soon as ever she came home.

She took up her station in her mistress’s room for that purpose, but she had argued the point with herself and nodded off to sleep, and started up to recommence her argument, and nodded off to sleep again, at least a dozen times, before that selfish little lady’s latch-key was heard to turn in the hall door, and she came upstairs to rouse Eliza Bennett in good earnest.