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

Mrs Barrington returned home as cross as she could be. In the first place, the absence of the warm weather and the moonlit balcony, which would certainly have brought Mr Wilson to the point, had considerably put her out; and then, as if to add fuel to the flame, Lady Wilson had insisted upon sending her husband, Sir Thomas, to see her down to her carriage on coming away, whilst she kept her son Henry dancing attendance on some old women upstairs. And thus Mrs Barrington had missed saying the last few tender words to him, which would have kept the flame alight in his youthful breast until they met again. And, instead of having made an appointment, he would probably come blundering in to-morrow, just at the wrong moment, and catch her tête-à-tête with that child, Fenella, who was the last person in the world she wished him to see. Altogether, it was enough to provoke a saint, and Mrs Barrington, not having reached that climax of perfection, was very much provoked indeed. As she commenced to undress, and scattered her jewellery and her false curls and her flowers to every side of her, Eliza Bennett saw that she was in for a very hot discussion. And as soon as Mrs Barrington was in her dressing-gown, and the servant began to brush her hair, it commenced.

‘Bennett!’ she ejaculated, without further preface, ‘I never thought you could be such a fool.’

‘Indeed—indeed, ma’am, as I told you before, it is not my fault.’

‘Where is that child? What have you done with her?’

‘She is asleep, ma’am—in the little bed in my room.’

‘You are sure that she is asleep, that she won’t hear us talking and come down in the middle and interrupt our conversation, or overhear it?’

‘Quite sure, ma’am—she’s been fast asleep ever since nine o’clock. I’ve been up several times, but she never stirred. She’s just worn out, and no mistake.’

‘I daresay she is, and the sounder she sleeps the better. Look here, Bennett, we’ve never had any secrets from each other, and I must speak plainly to you. Fenella’s coming home just now will be my ruin.’

‘I was afraid you might think so, ma’am, but I hope it won’t turn out as bad as that.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish! What should you know about it? I tell you it will. I have always spoken of her to the Wilsons as a very little girl—naturally—and I believe if Lady Wilson were to see her looking such a woman, she would use her as an argument against her son marrying me. And she isn’t too well disposed towards the idea as it is.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I always thought her ladyship such a friend of yours.’

‘Oh, a friend—yes! like most women are to each other—the jealous cats! A friend so long as I can be of use to her, or make myself agreeable, but just the reverse directly I interfere with her views for her idiot of a son. But I mean to marry him, Bennett, for all that, unless something much better comes in the way.’

‘If you mean to do it, ma’am, you will,’ replied the servant. ‘I should think there was very few things you couldn’t do if you choose.’

And her mistress’s power over herself was so absolute that Bennett really believed what she said.

‘Well, I’m not so sure of that,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘but at any rate I mean to try. But I shall never succeed if Fenella’s in the way. Her presence would spoil everything. Very few men would care to find themselves fathers—ready-made—to a girl like that.

‘And yet she’s a very handsome young lady,’ mused the servant.

‘Oh, it isn’t a question of her looks,’ rejoined her mistress, fretfully, ‘she’ll be well enough by-and-by, I daresay. I don’t see (considering she’s my daughter) how she can fail to be, but she’s so tall and womanly for her age. No one would believe she was only sixteen. Besides which, Bennett,’ continued Mrs Barrington in a more confidential voice, ‘I am not sure how Miss Fenella and I would get on together. Those old nuns do put such queer ideas in girls’ heads; she’s most likely full of fads about churches and prayers, and the wickedness of pleasure, and so forth, and I couldn’t stand a walking sermon about the house. She’d be as bad as a death’s-head and cross-bones to me.’

‘But the reverend mother said that Miss Fenella had no particular religion, ma’am; that she was neither a Protestant nor a Roman Catholic, so I don’t suppose she troubles herself much on such matters.’

‘All the better, Bennett; I am sure it never does one any good. You remember how the poor captain used to fuss and fidget me about religion, and I’m sure he didn’t die any the happier for it himself.’

Eliza Bennett had her own opinion on this subject, but she did not dare to express it before Mrs Barrington.

‘But, putting religion on one side,’ continued the lady, ‘I could not have Fenella with me at present. She is just the sort of girl to think a little rouge and powder an iniquity, and to tell the first person who came into the house that I dyed my hair. And there are some things in this world, you know, Bennett, that we cannot speak about.’

‘Oh, certainly, ma’am—without doubt, and Miss Fenella is, as you say, very childlike in such matters. She asked me this morning why people went into a church to get married.’

‘Now just fancy a girl of sixteen being such a fool. And that’s the sort of person people would expect me to drag over the world with me. But I can’t do it, Bennett, and I won’t. My mind is made up on that score. I must get rid of her, at all events till I return to London, and the question is “How?”’

‘I suppose her aunts, the captain’s sisters, wouldn’t have her on a visit for a bit, ma’am,’ suggested Bennett.

‘Good gracious me, no! I’ve been afraid to tell them the girl was at a convent; they would have declared I wanted her to be a Roman Catholic. As if I cared what she was. She might turn Mahommedan to-morrow, if it pleased her and she didn’t interfere with my plans. But the Miss Barringtons would be more troublesome than herself. They are a couple of fussy old maids, who would have the whole story from her in an hour, and then proclaim it to the world. Oh no, Bennett, whatever happens, Fenella’s aunts must not hear she has returned to England.’

‘Could you put her in another school, ma’am, for a spell? Perhaps we might find one by the sea-side, where Miss Fenella’s health would be looked after, for I’m afraid she’s not over strong.’

‘There again, Bennett! the provoking part of it is, I am so terribly hard up. I haven’t more than enough money to take me to Mentone, and there are a dozen things I ought to pay first—your wages, for instance. I think I owe you for nearly a year.’

‘Oh, don’t give another thought to my wages, dear mistress,’ cried Eliza Bennett. ‘I can do without them very well, even if I never see them at all. Think only of yourself, ma’am, and what’s the best thing to be done with poor Miss Fenella.’

‘You’re a good creature, Eliza,’ replied Mrs Barrington; ‘really you are; and I don’t know what I should do without you. However, you sha’n’t lose by it, and of that you may rest assured, only do your best to help me out of this dilemma. You know I’ve more than one string to my bow, and if Mr Wilson proves to be no good, I shall turn my thoughts to Colonel Ellerton. He is not so rich as Mr Wilson will be, but what he has is his own, and he is not dependent on the caprices of his mother.’

‘And he need not be ashamed of having Miss Fenella as a daughter, ma’am,’ interposed Bennett, ‘for he is old enough to be her grandfather.’

‘I am not sure that a man’s age makes him less particular on such points,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘and at any rate I should prefer even Colonel Ellerton not seeing her whilst matters are unsettled between us. But there is no chance of that, as he is abroad. See how conveniently things had arranged themselves for me, Bennett. Colonel Ellerton has been passing the winter in Mentone, the very place to which I am going with the Wilsons, so that if one man fails me, I have only to take up with the other, for the colonel has been my most devoted admirer for years.’

‘I know that, ma’am, but then who isn’t?’ murmured Eliza Bennett.

‘And then this stupid girl is thrown back upon my hands to spoil it all. But I cannot allow it. Her interests, as well as my own, demand that I make some sacrifice in the matter, and however much I might wish to keep her with me, she must stay behind. I have neither the money nor the power to take her abroad.’

‘What can we do with her?’ questioned the servant with knitted brows.

‘I have thought of a plan, Bennett! It will entail enormous inconvenience on me, but some one must suffer in the matter. I must part with you for awhile, and you must take Fenella to your own home in the country, until I can have you both back again.’

The first thought that struck Eliza Bennett on this announcement, was horror at the idea of separating from her mistress.

‘Oh, don’t send me from you, ma’am!’ she exclaimed, as she stood behind Mrs Barrington’s back with the uplifted brush in her hand; ‘what on earth would you do without me? Who is to brush your hair and keep it a nice colour, and to alter your dresses and mend your linen? Who will wait on you and see you have all your little comforts around you? You’ll never get on without me, ma’am, who have served you for so many years, and as for myself,’ continued Bennett, in a faltering voice, ‘why, the last two days have been bad enough, and what I should do missing you for weeks, I’m sure I can’t tell.’

‘Well, I know it will be hard, Eliza, awfully hard, you don’t suppose I don’t feel it,’ returned Mrs Barrington; ‘but what on earth are we to do? They won’t keep the girl at school, and I can’t take her with me, and I can’t leave her here, and I don’t know a soul to send her to. Now, with you and your people she will be safe, and I think I have heard you say you come from some place by the sea.’

‘Yes, ma’am, from Ines-cedwyn in Wales, and my brother’s farm isn’t a stone’s-throw from the water; but it isn’t a place for a lady to lodge in, ma’am. They’re only poor folk when all’s said and done, and I doubt if they have a bedroom that’s fit to put Miss Fenella in.’

‘Nonsense, Bennett! any place will do that contains a bed to lie on. Do you suppose she has been accustomed to luxury at the convent? Why, they bring them all up as hardy as can be. The only question is, what your brother would expect for keeping the child and you, and whether he would want to have the money down, or consent to wait for it?’

‘Oh, don’t think twice about the money, ma’am! My brother Benjamin is my only living relation, and he’ll be but too glad to see me in the old house again for a few weeks. And Miss Fenella’s bit and sup won’t make them nor break them, and they’ll be willing enough to bide your own time for the payment. But what I’m thinking of, ma’am, is yourself. What will you do without me?’

‘I must do without you,’ replied Mrs Barrington, with the air of a martyr. ‘A mother is constantly called on to give up something or other for her child, and I must give up you. Perhaps Lady Wilson’s maid will help me a little, when I tell her the necessity of the case. I shall say the doctors forbid my taking Fenella abroad, and ordered her into Wales for change, so I was compelled to leave you to take charge of her. That will be a plausible story, which no one can find fault with.’

‘Miss Fenella at my brother Benjamin’s at Ines-cedwyn,’ said Bennett, in an incredulous voice; ‘I can hardly believe it will come true. You mustn’t deceive yourself, ma’am. We call it a farm, but it’s a poor place—no better than many a labourer’s cottage—and from what I hear, my brother hasn’t been doing very well of late years. His wife Martha is a thrifty body enough, and will do all she can to oblige; but it will be coarse food and living I’m afraid for the young lady, and she won’t have a soul to speak to but myself.’

‘Who else should she want?’ demanded her mistress rather snappishly; ‘you’re making a ridiculous fuss over the matter, it strikes me, Bennett. The child can take down her books if she likes and go on with her lessons, but I think she had much better spend all her time in the open air. Don’t forget she goes there for her health, Bennett, and let her be on the beach all day long. As she wants change, let her have it. It would add to all my other troubles to have a long doctor’s bill for her attendance.’

‘If Miss Fenella goes with me to Ines-cedwyn, ma’am, I’ll do all I can to make her strong; you may depend on that,’ replied Bennett. ‘It’s a fine bracing place, and so lonely that you can bathe off the beach without a machine, and the young lady will be able to roam about just as she pleases. No harm will come to her there.’

‘That’s just what I want for her,’ said Mrs Barrington, with a sigh of relief. ‘Take her where she’ll grow strong, and no one will see her. And then when I’ve settled my own matters, I’ll have her home and introduce her into society. She ought to marry well, by-and-by, Bennett! and so she will if I marry well myself. But, under present circumstances, I have no inclination to take her about with me.’

‘And I don’t think she’d care for it if you did, ma’am. Miss Fenella don’t seem to me like a young lady as would care much for balls and parties.’

‘Ah! dreamy and romantic, I suppose, like her poor father. The worst disposition, Bennett, with which a woman can enter the world. It blinds her to her own interests, and makes her go gaping like a fool, after some impossibility which she never attains. I thought her voice sounded rather sentimental, and I hate girls who are always ready to cry. You must try and knock that out of her when you are down at Ines-cedwyn. Talk to her sensibly about money, and the impossibility of living in this world without it, and I daresay you will do her a deal of good. She ought to have some sense on the subject, since she is my daughter.’

‘I am afraid those nuns have learned her very little that is useful,’ replied Bennett, shaking her head as she remembered the episode of the morning. ‘Miss Fenella is as much of a child for her age as ever I see!’

‘Well, we mustn’t be too hard upon her,’ said the mother sweetly—having gained her point she felt uncommonly sweet again; ‘perhaps she inherits that from me too. Poor Captain Barrington always said I was the greatest child he knew, and Lady Wilson really said this evening—and you know how cruel women generally are about each other—that she could not believe I was more than thirty.’

‘You didn’t undeceive her, I hope, ma’am?’

‘Oh no! I didn’t say anything one way or another. I wouldn’t tell a falsehood, you know, for the world. I only remarked I hoped it would be a long time before I looked as much—but trouble was a terrible thing to age women. I really think Lady Wilson likes me, Bennett. She kissed me twice this evening.’

‘I am sure she does, ma’am—in fact, she must. Who can help it? But with respect to Miss Fenella. I suppose you’ll break the news of her going to Ines-cedwyn to her?’

‘I don’t suppose there’ll be anything to break, Bennett. She ought to be very pleased to go. It’s just the place to suit a young girl. I shall tell her the doctor has ordered it, and there is no gainsaying his opinion. And now I think we had better go to bed. It is past three, I declare; and all the packing must be done to-morrow.’

‘Will Miss Fenella and I start before yourself, ma’am?’

‘I think not. There is no need for me to part with you before I am absolutely obliged. And now tuck me up like a good woman and leave me to sleep. I’m as tired as I can be.’

The woman arranged her mistress in bed as carefully as though she had been an infant; covering her lightly with the laced counterpane, and drawing the curtains round her head. Then she stooped and kissed the slender fingers that lay outside the bed-clothes. Mrs Barrington felt the silent homage, and lifting her hand patted Eliza Bennett’s face condescendingly.

‘You’re a good creature,’ she murmured sleepily; ‘a very good creature. I don’t know what I should do without you,’ and the servant’s heart thrilled as she felt the touch and heard the words, and she crept away with the glamour of her mistress’s spirit stronger upon her than ever.