CHAPTER VII.
A REVELATION.
It was naturally a great shock to Fenella’s nervous system to hear of her mother’s death. It is a shock to learn (thus unexpectedly) of the death of any one whom we have lately seen in apparent health and strength. And it seemed so impossible to picture Mrs Barrington dead, and laid out in her coffin. Mrs Barrington, with her painted cheeks and skin, her dyed hair, her toilettes of pink and blue and silver, her artificial ways and words and looks. Fenella could not realise her mother shorn of these frivolous accompaniments; she wondered how she would get on without them, even in the other world. But when the first shock was over, the girl’s honest heart could not pretend there was much grief remaining for their present separation. There might have been. Mrs Barrington, in repulsing her daughter’s affection, had thrust from her a rich store of love that might have been her consolation and her stay till her life’s end. But love is a plant of growth; it can no more live without nourishment than a flower can flourish without earth and water. And Mrs Barrington had killed the beautiful blossom that was springing up in her child’s heart. She had trampled it under foot and neglected it, and it had perished for lack of food. And now that she had passed out of sight, she had not left one loving memory in Fenella’s mind by which to mourn her. On the contrary, her daughter, in deference to the fact that she had been her father’s wife, and she was dead, felt herself compelled, resolutely, to put away all thoughts of her, since remembrance brought reproach in its train.
But she could not help thinking of Bennett—dear good old Bennett, who had been with them before her own birth, and who had been so attached to her late mistress; she was terribly anxious to know what was to become of Bennett. The servant was no longer young—she was at least fifty years of age, twenty of which had been spent in their service; and she had become so wedded to their ways, it was unlikely she would find another place to suit her. Fenella wanted to send for her at once to Conroy Castle. There was a baby expected there in the spring, and her wish was to instal Eliza Bennett as head of the nursery.
‘She loves me,’ she said to her husband, with big pathetic eyes, ‘and she will take every care of our little child for my sake.’
Sir Gilbert was good-naturedly disposed to acquiesce in anything his wife might desire. He was going over to Paris to attend the funeral of his mother-in-law, and, had the truth been known, in a more contented frame of mind than he would have cared to exhibit openly. Mrs Barrington had been his bête noire, but she was (fortunately) removed to a better sphere; it was quite immaterial to him what became of the servant.
‘Do just as you like about it, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I have no doubt the old woman will be quite as efficient a guardian for the heir-apparent as anyone else.’
‘Oh, Gilbert, you are so very good to me!’ murmured Fenella gratefully. ‘Then I will write Bennett a letter, dear, and you shall deliver it to her yourself.’
In consequence of which, Bennett, having first paid a short visit to her brother in Ines-cedwyn, arrived at Conroy Castle robed in the deepest mourning, and clasped her young mistress in her arms again. Had it been a meeting between a mother and child it could hardly have been more affectionate. The servant forgot all the grandeur attendant on Sir Gilbert and Lady Conroy, as she showered kiss after kiss on Fenella’s face; and the girl herself was scarcely less delighted to lay her head on that kind, homely breast once more.
There was a link between Bennett and herself which nothing on this earth could have the power to rupture. The servant was, of course, full of the account of Mrs Barrington’s illness and death, and for awhile neither of them could speak of anything else.
‘And to think, dear Miss Fenella,’ cried Bennett, who could not get out of the habit of using the old name, ‘that you shouldn’t have been with us at the time! But it was so sudden, my dear; the doctor was as surprised as any of us—for we had thought she was doing so nicely, poor dear lady, and would be able to be moved at the farthest in a week or two. But she sank (as you may say) in a few hours—nothing would save her; and her teeth was so fixed we couldn’t even get a drop of brandy and water down her throat.’
‘Did she speak of me, Bennett? Did she send me any message?’ demanded Fenella timidly.
‘Oh, she spoke often of you when she was in the fever, my dear; and she used to talk of Conroy Castle, and the time when she’d get here, and what a fine place it was, and all that. Poor dear! Little she thought she’d never see it. And as for me, Miss Fenella, it seems as if my hands was empty, now she’s gone. She was just like a child to me—so sweet and amiable—always wanting this or that. It was “Bennett, come here!” or “Bennett, go there!” all day long. She didn’t seem to be able to do anything without her poor Bennett—did she, now?’
‘No; I am sure she looked on you as her very best friend, Bennett, and I shall do the same for her sake. But when she was dying—when the end came—couldn’t poor mamma speak then? Didn’t she say one word of me, or send me any message?’
‘Well, miss, you see, I don’t think your poor dear mamma knew as her death was so near at hand, for she only seemed a little more fractious-like to me. I had just handed her some limonade, and I suppose she wanted tisane, bless her! For she pushed it aside and spilt it all over the counterpane, and said, “Take it away.” And them was her last words, Miss Fenella; for as I was setting the bed to rights, I see a change come over her face, and I caught her up in my arms, and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. You might have knocked me over with a feather.’ And Bennett buried her face in her rough hands, and cried like a little child. ‘She was my life, Miss Fenella—just my life and nothing else,’ she sobbed. ‘It seemed as if I hadn’t a will of my own when she was near—as if I couldn’t move hand nor foot unless she ordered me. You know how I used to wait on her from morning till night. And now the world seems empty. I shall never have any rest for thinking of her. I wouldn’t mind twice the trouble if I could only have her back again.’
Fenella tried to comfort the good-hearted creature with some of those ordinary arguments which sound like empty wind to ears on which a beloved voice has ceased to fall.
‘You mustn’t fret, dear Bennett. You must try and think how much better it is for her to be free of all the trouble of this world. I don’t think poor mamma can have been very happy here. She always seemed full of worry and anxiety; and now—now we must hope that it is all over, and—and—that she is in heaven,’ said Fenella hesitatingly.
‘In heaven! My dear lady!’ replied Bennett, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure of that! I know for certain as my darling mistress is walking in her robes of glory, with her ’arp in her ’and—and not a more beautiful angel in the whole place. Oh, yes! she’s happy now, if any one is, miss. It isn’t her (sweet angel!) as I’m thinking of—it’s myself, and you, poor lamb! It’s what we shall do without her.’
‘We must try and comfort each other,’ said Fenella gently. ‘And now tell me of your brother, dear Bennett, and of Martha. Were you glad to see them again, and are they well and happy?’
Eliza Bennett coloured and looked ill at ease.
‘Oh, yes! Miss Fenella—that is, my lady—Ben and Martha was looking well enough, and of course they was glad to see me, notwithstandin’ the sad event as took me there.’ And then she continued rather irrelevantly, ‘I always carried out all your poor dear mamma’s wishes to the very letter, Miss Fenella; there was never nothing she told me to do but what I thought it right to obey her; and I hope it has been right, or if not, that the Almighty won’t lay it to my charge. But I made a sort of idol of her, Miss Fenella; and I know that’s wrong, and sometimes we’re punished for doing of it—still, when she was my mistress, I considered myself bound to serve her, even to the uttermost farthing.’
Fenella stared at this address—it seemed so uncalled for; but she answered warmly,—
‘I am sure God, who looks on our hearts, dear Bennett, will never blame you for doing more than your duty. The majority of us do so much less. But I should like to hear something about your own affairs. Did poor mamma pay you your wages? I know they had been due for a long time; and has she left any debts in Paris?’
Bennett looked round cautiously, and lowered her voice.
‘Well, my dear, to my thinking, your good gentleman must have cleared ’em off. I know there was some, but after the funeral he called me into the salon, and paid me my wages, and something very handsome over, and told me I was to pack up my dear mistress’s bits of jewellery for you, and to consider her wardrobe as my own, which I thought was most generous of him. And then I ventured to ask him about the bills, and Sir Gilbert said I wasn’t to worry my head on the matter, as he would see to ’em himself.’
‘Dear Gilbert!’ said Fenella. ‘Oh! he is so good and so generous to me, nurse. I don’t know what I have done to deserve so kind a husband.’
‘And such a fine-looking gentleman, too, Miss Fenella; and such a princely home! It does my heart good to see you so comfortable and so happy. Ah! if my poor dear mistress had only lived to enjoy it with us!’
‘Yes; I never thought that I could be so happy,’ said Fenella gravely.
‘I’ve heard there’s an old saying, “All’s well as ends well,” my dear, and I am sure you ought to be able to understand it. But I see you wear that old locket still, Miss Fenella.’
Fenella coloured, and put her hand up to her bosom, in which reposed the present that Geoffrey Doyne had given her.
‘Oh yes! I promised I would wear this till my death, nurse. Nothing can make any difference to that, you know.’
‘And don’t Sir Gilbert notice it, my dear?’
‘He has never mentioned it to me, and I don’t think he ever will. He is not that sort of man. He has a soul above such trifles.’
‘Ah, well! You got a lucky exchange,’ replied the servant; but her young mistress turned the conversation, and she said no more.
As the weeks went on, however, and the influence of the dead woman was farther and farther removed from her, Bennett became at one and the same time more confidential and more reserved with Lady Conroy. It seemed as though she had some revelation at the very tip of her tongue which she longed, and yet did not dare to make. The temptation seemed greatest when she was assisting Fenella with the usual preparations for the expected heir; and sometimes as together they inspected and arranged the lace and muslin and fine linen that arrived from London to fill the nursery wardrobe, Bennett seemed almost unable (as she herself expressed it) to keep her tongue between her teeth.
‘Lor’ bless us!’ she exclaimed one day, as she tossed some baby-linen almost impatiently to one side; ‘to think of the pounds and pounds as is thrown away just to decorate one infant, as you may say, whilst another poor little creature has hardly enough clothes to its back! If I was a fine lady, like you, my dear, with heaps of money to spend as I chose, I should give a little thought to them as has none, if I wanted my own child to thrive and do well.’
Fenella looked up at this tirade, surprised but smiling.
‘Dear nurse,’ she said, ‘I believe we give a great deal away annually in charity as it is, but if there are any particular cases of want that you know of, I shall be only too glad to relieve them. I should like to do it (as you say) in hopes it might come back in a blessing on my own baby.’
The servant looked mollified.
‘You was always good and sweet, my dear, from a little child. You take after your blessed mamma in heaven for that. I daresay a lot of money does go from this house to the poor—and food, and blankets, and what not beside; but if I was to ask you, Miss Fenella, for a few pounds for a little one as has got no mother and no father (so to speak)—for such a little one as we might both have heard of, you know, in our day—what would you say then, my dear? Would you give it?’
Fenella’s trembling hands began to play at once with the fastening of her purse, from which she managed to extract a ten-pound note; but before she could hand it over to the servant, her fortitude gave way, and sinking down on her knees by the bedside, she burst into a flood of tears.
Bennett left her place, and approaching the spot where her mistress knelt, laid her hand gently on the bowed head.
‘So you haven’t forgotten yet, my lamb?’ she whispered.
‘Forgotten! My God! No; I shall never, never forget!’
She knelt for a few minutes in the same position, then rising suddenly, turned with an April smile upon the servant.
‘Am I not silly, nurse?—as great a baby as when you brought me home from the convent? But here’s the note for the little one you spoke of—and may God bless it! And if there are any others that I can help in the same way, let me hear of them. I have more money, dear nurse, than I know how to spend; and I have less—less expenses than I might have had.’
The servant took the note and put it carefully away.
‘Dear heart!’ she thought, as Lady Conroy left the room. ‘I’m sorely perplext to know what’s best to be done. It seems so hard she shouldn’t know; and yet, now she’s living so happy and loving and grand, ’twould be a pity to rake up old scores. Well, this isn’t the time, any way. She’s got too much on her mind just now to think of anything else. And perhaps I need never tell her; it looks likely enough.’
And, indeed, at that moment Fenella had what is technically termed ‘her hands full.’ The castle was filled with Christmas visitors, amongst which were the Earl and Countess of Marjoram, who had with them a cousin, Lord Laurence Grantham, a fine manly young fellow of five-and-twenty, who established himself from the very first as Fenella’s chief friend and knight-errant. Lady Marjoram had not brought any of her children with her. She left home, she affirmed, to enjoy herself, and had no desire to keep her domestic miseries for ever in sight.
‘You will be quite of my opinion in another year’s time, my dear Fenella,’ she said to her sister-in-law, ‘and only too thankful to leave Portman Square or Conroy Castle, or wherever the nursery may be located, behind you. I positively begin to hate children, and believe they are only sent into this world to plague their parents out of it. Mine have had measles and hooping-cough already this year, and now they’ve all broken out with ringworm; so I couldn’t stand it any longer, but packed the whole lot off to Bournemouth for the winter. There they are, nine of them, with a governess and two nurses, eating their heads off, and sending us in weekly bills that make Marjoram swear in the most awful manner. It’s no use laughing, Fenella. You’ll laugh on the wrong side of your mouth some day, my dear. Wait till you have nine.’
‘I hope I shall wait a long time,’ rejoined Lady Conroy, who was much amused at her sister-in-law’s indignation. ‘But what is it that Lord Marjoram is speaking to Gilbert about?’
‘About a vacant governorship at Sovooranooko, on the Gold Coast of Africa, my dear, where yellow fever and smallpox reign triumphantly from January to December, and elephants are shot for the sake of their steaks, and alligators appear at the breakfast-table en papillotes like sardines.’
‘What interest can that have for Gilbert?’ demanded Fenella, rather anxiously. ‘He would never accept an appointment in such a climate as that?’
‘He says he should enjoy it above all things, Lady Conroy,’ interposed Lord Laurence Grantham mischievously. ‘He is already consulting Marjoram now about the proper-sized “bore” for elephant-shooting, and they are going down to the stackyard after luncheon to practise alligator-spearing.’
‘Oh, the poor cows!’ laughed the Countess. ‘Marjoram will most likely get a spear in the calf of his leg, and be out of temper for the rest of the day!’
‘Gilbert! You would never really go to a place like Sovooranooko?’ said Fenella, as she went up to her husband’s side.
‘My dear child, what nonsense! What are you thinking of?’ replied Sir Gilbert. ‘I am about as likely to go to Timbuctoo!’
‘Oh no, you are not!’ retorted his sister. ‘There are no elephants there.’
But his wife was quite satisfied with his answer, and troubled her head no further in the matter.
When February came round again with its pale spring flowers, a little daughter was born at Conroy Castle. Sir Gilbert was excessively annoyed at the fact of its being a girl—more annoyed than Fenella had ever seen him during their married life. He had calculated so certainly upon having a son; it did not seem to have entered his head that he might have a daughter.
‘Better luck next time, Bertie,’ cried Lady Marjoram, who was still a guest at the castle; but her brother did not take the jest in good part.
‘My dear, he’s as cross as a bear!’ she whispered afterwards to Fenella, who could not be put out of conceit with her little girl, although no one seemed to value her but herself; ‘but it’s always the way with men. They think the world was made for them, and it’s a personal insult if they don’t get their own way. Marjoram was just the reverse. He wanted a daughter, and I had five sons in succession. I can remember his disgusted expression, when he used to exclaim, “Another boy! Too bad—too bad!” as if I could help the young wretches being boys! At last a girl came, and then, of course, he spoilt her. She’s the most odious brat of the lot. However, I don’t think Bertie will spoil yours—not just yet, at all events.’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Fenella, with a sigh.
‘Don’t sigh over it, you muff; it’s not your fault; and if Bertie begins any more grumbling, just give him a bit of your mind. You’re too easy with him, Fenella. He’s growing a regular bully!—No, nurse! Don’t ask me to kiss the baby, please! I daresay she’s a very nice baby, and everything she ought to be; but, you see, I have nine of my own, and the gilt has somewhat worn off the gingerbread! In fact (not to put too fine a point upon it) the game’s played out.’
And without another look at the infant, the lively Countess ran away.
The new-comer was left entirely to the admiration of its mother and nurses, but doubtless it fared none the worse for that.
‘And she’s come in February too,’ remarked Bennett, significantly, to Fenella, as she cradled the little Conroy in her arms; ‘that seems as if she was to be a special gift, my lady, doesn’t it?’
This idea seemed to linger in the mind of the young mother, and when next she saw Sir Gilbert she asked him if their little girl might be called Theodora.
‘Theodora—Theodora!’ he repeated, wrinkling his brows. ‘Why Theodora? It wasn’t your mother’s name, was it?’
‘Oh no; mamma was called Rosina! But Theodora, you know, means “the gift of God.”’
‘Exactly so, though I don’t see that this baby is more especially the gift of God than any other baby—do you?’
Fenella looked down at the child lying on her breast.
‘She is such a comfort to me!’ she answered, as she strained her to her heart.
‘I am glad of that, dear,’ said her husband, ‘and I should like to indulge your fancy in the matter; but being the eldest daughter, I think she ought to be called after my mother, Lady Valeria; and so does Janie.’
‘Valeria is such a fine name. It doesn’t seem to fit her!’ said Fenella dubiously.
‘It is not so long as Theodora, at any rate,’ laughed Sir Gilbert; ‘however, Valeria, she must be, so I am sure you will not oppose yourself to what I think best.’
She had never done so yet, and was not likely to begin now. The baby was baptized in the name of Valeria, and Fenella soon became reconciled to a matter of so little importance. But when the child was about a month old, a real trial assailed her. Sir Gilbert Conroy was offered the governorship of Sovooranooko, and decided to accept it. The temptation was too great for him. What real sportsman could resist the chance of bagging game in the African forests? Visions of elephants, rhinoceri, hippopotami, gorillas, elands, and buffalo floated rapturously through the baronet’s brain, until he was no longer master of himself. He accepted the post without even consulting his wife in the matter, and made immediate arrangements for going up to town and purchasing every sort of weapon and equipment necessary for his expected experiences. Lord Laurence Grantham (as enthusiastic a sportsman as himself) was to accompany him as his private secretary, and much good might Sovooranooko expect to derive from their united services whilst a head of game remained within range of their rifles.
On first hearing the news of her husband’s appointment, Fenella naturally supposed she was to accompany him.
‘But will Sovooranooko be a good place to take baby to?’ she demanded timidly. ‘Do you think the climate will agree with her, Gilbert?’
‘My dear girl, what are you dreaming of? Drag a baby and suite after me into the centre of Africa? I’d as soon think of introducing a gorilla into your London drawing-room.’
‘But how can I leave her behind, so young as she is?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t wish you to leave her behind. I should no more think of risking your health than I should that of the child. No, my dear Fenella, this is not an expedition for women and children. Grantham and I shall spend half our time in the jungle, and what would you do without society, grilling away on the burning plains of Sovooranooko? It would kill you both.’
‘But if it is so dangerous a climate, why do you go there, Gilbert?’ she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of affection. ‘Why should you leave us for years, to hold an appointment which you do not require, and from which you may never return?’
Sir Gilbert had to consider for a moment why he did do this thing, before he could answer his wife’s question.
‘Well, the reason, my dear, is obvious. I certainly do not actually require the appointment, nor do I admire the climate; but still it is a great honour conferred upon me, and my longing to have some sport in Central Africa has always been intense. In my position as governor of Sovooranooko, I shall not only have better opportunities of following the pursuit, but be able to penetrate farther and with greater security than I should otherwise be able to do. But as for my remaining away for years, that is nonsense. There is no necessity for me to go at all, and I can resign the appointment whenever I feel inclined.’
‘Janie says, when you once get there, it is a question whether you will ever come back again,’ said Fenella.
‘Janie knows nothing about it. We certainly cannot commence following up the large game until a particular season of the year; but I shall not remain out there a minute longer than I find it pay me to do so. Meanwhile, Fenella, there is no need for you to mope. You will be a great deal with my sister, I hope, when you are in London; and the autumn you will spend at the sea-side, or wherever pleases you. Perhaps the Marjorams may ask you down to Southfield for Christmas. I am sure they will, if you evince the slightest disposition to join them. But since Dr M’Kenzie advises your going to some warmer place for the next few months, I shall not leave England until I have seen you comfortably settled at Nice, or wherever you like best.’
From the extreme cold of Scotland Fenella had developed a cough after her baby’s birth. Had she been an ordinary patient it would have been treated with syrup of squills, but in the position of Sir Gilbert Conroy’s wife the family doctor considered it necessary to prescribe a visit to the south coast to expedite her cure; and, after some deliberation, Hyères in France was chosen for her temporary sojourn.
Sir Gilbert would have had his wife travel with a courier, and a flunky, and a couple of women, and engage the best suite of rooms in the best hotel. He was a man who loved pomp and show, and if there was an ungentlemanly trait in his character, it was his weakness to be thought a very big person, and to have everything belonging to him in equal style. Fenella pleaded hard to be excused the courier and the flunky, for neither of whom she had the slightest use; but she took Bennett and her lady’s-maid with her, and permitted her husband to establish them in the hotel at Hyères, and impress the proprietor and attendants with a sense of the importance of Miladi Conroy, and the necessity that she should be supplied with everything that was best and most expensive. And thus, having fulfilled the very letter of the law as a husband and protector, Sir Gilbert gave Fenella unlimited credit at his banker’s, and parted with her as carelessly as if he had been running into the country for a fortnight’s fishing.
His wife felt very lonely after he was gone—still more so when she heard that he had left England in the Cape steamer, and was on his way to Sovooranooko. She began to wish she had not left Conroy Castle, or that she had asked her sister-in-law to receive her as a guest at Southfield. But the Earl and Countess were paying a round of visits, and she would have been almost as lonely in either of those places as at Hyères. Then her lady’s-maid (who had never been a favourite with Fenella) began to give her trouble. She was an independent, free-born Britisher, and not disposed to fall in kindly with any of the ways of ‘them nasty furriners.’ She complained of the food and the accommodation; she couldn’t ‘abide’ to see the invalids who had come to Hyères (perhaps only to die) being dragged about in their wheel-chairs; and she didn’t understand ‘hupper’ servants being put to one side by ‘nusses,’ and such like—which being interpreted, meant that the lady’s-maid was jealous of the confidences reposed in Bennett by her mistress.
‘Hif her la’ship required her services, would she be good enough to say so? and hif her la’ship didn’t, would she be good enough to let her go?’
When it came to this pointed appeal, Fenella found she could do very much better without her.
‘Do send her away, my dear lady,’ whispered Bennett. ‘I can do everything that you and the baby require; and she’s always got her ear at the keyhole, listening to every word we say.’
So the lady’s-maid (much to her surprise and annoyance) was dismissed from Lady Conroy’s service, and sent back to England; and shortly after her departure Fenella removed from the hotel, and took a lovely little cottage standing in its own garden, on the outskirts of the town, where Bennett, and a fille de quartier hired in Hyères, rendered her all the assistance she required.
These may appear to be trifling and unnecessary details, but they exerted a strong influence upon her future conduct. Here, in this solitude, with no society but that of Eliza Bennett and her little infant, Fenella lapsed into very low spirits. Her life had become calm and contented, but it was not sufficiently happy to bear the strain of her own thoughts, without the outward distraction of cheerful company and lively surroundings. Left to herself, she was too apt to dream; and dreaming revealed a state of mind that half frightened her. She was sadly disappointed, too, at Sir Gilbert leaving her for Sovooranooko, although she would not acknowledge it, even to herself. But she had begun to lean upon the fact that he was her husband; to misconstrue the courtesy and deference (which he would have shown to any woman) as marks of love for herself, and to deceive her own heart into the belief that she loved him in return. And yet he had left her for an indefinite period, whilst he ran all the risks attendant on an unhealthy climate and a dangerous pursuit; and Fenella could not help recognising her true place in his estimation. She was Lady Conroy, his wife, and the possible mother of his heir—that was all. As for the poor little girl in the cradle, he had not even looked at her before he went away. She was a female, of no consequence at all in his family tree; that she was her mother’s child gave her no individual claim upon her father’s heart. But the little Valeria (now three months old) was daily becoming more engaging in Fenella’s eyes, who thought that a lovelier specimen of babyhood had never existed. And she was partly right. The infant was unusually large and fat for her age—too much so, indeed, for health, as the sequel proved. For one day, as the little creature was lying, flushed and rosy in her sleep, she was seized (without the slightest warning) with a convulsion, from which she never recovered. Bennett (who had frequently seen infants in fits before) plunged her at once into a warm bath, and held her there until the convulsions had ceased. But when they were over, life was over too. The beautiful baby had closed her blue eyes upon this world for ever, and Bennett was forced to break the intelligence to her mistress. The fille de quartier was sent flying into Hyères for a doctor, but he only arrived to confirm the nurse’s opinion. The spirit of the little child was gone beyond recall—‘if he could be of any other use to Miladi he would be but too happy, but as for this,’ shrugging his shoulders, ‘he was accomblé with regret to say it—but no one could help Miladi here.’
It was some time before Fenella could be made to believe that her infant was really dead. But when the doctor had departed, and the little body was laid out, stiff and white, upon the bed, her agony was overwhelming.
‘There is a curse upon me, Bennett,’ she cried, as she fell, sobbing, on her knees beside the corpse. ‘God is still angry with me! I shall never be the mother of a living child!’
‘No, no! My dear lady; don’t say that, for it isn’t the truth. Oh, if I only dared to tell you!’ said Bennett, with the tears streaming down her own face.
‘You cannot tell me anything to give me comfort,’ replied Fenella, as she rocked herself to and fro. ‘They all leave me; no one stays with me! I believe I am doomed to live and die alone! What had I, nurse—whom had I—but this little child? and God has taken even her away! Oh! It is cruel—it is cruel of Him! He might have left me one of them, just to save my heart from breaking!’
The servant, who was almost as upset as her mistress, sat by her side all night long, and never left her for one moment to herself.
On the evening of the next day (according to the custom of that part of the country) Fenella’s child was buried, and the little house seemed as if it had died itself—it was so empty and still and forlorn.
Lady Conroy had wept until her sight was dull and her face sodden; she had paced up and down the room until she had nearly fainted from fatigue and want of nourishment; but still she could not rest. She moved about incessantly, with dry eyes, but burning cheeks, recalling every incident in her baby’s short life which could increase her grief and heighten her despair. At last she made a dart at her blotting-case.
‘I cannot write to Sir Gilbert,’ she said, ‘until I have heard of his arrival at Sovooranooko; but I must let Lady Marjoram know the news at once. They would never forgive me if I kept them in ignorance of such an event. Though I don’t suppose any of them will care if she is alive or dead. No one loved her but myself. My darling little Valeria! my poor lost baby!’
She sat down with the blotting-book in her hand, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. This was the moment Bennett had been watching for. As the tempest of Fenella’s grief subsided, she found her faithful dependant close at hand.
‘Don’t write this evening, my darling child,’ she said affectionately; ‘you ain’t fit for it. Let it be till to-morrow, for there’s something as I want to tell you.’
‘Tell it me afterwards, dear Bennett. Let me write my letters first,’ pleaded Fenella. ‘It will do me good to have some occupation. Besides, we must leave this place, nurse. I can’t stay here, now my baby’s gone. I should fancy I heard her voice crying every minute.’
‘Yes, yes! My dear lady,’ replied Bennett soothingly; ‘and you know as you can do exactly as you choose in all things. Only there’s something as I want to tell you, my dear, and I’ve wanted to tell it you for months and months past, only I didn’t dare; but the time’s come now, I’m sure, and I don’t feel as if I should do right to keep it to myself any longer. I think it will be a comfort to you, and yet how to begin the story I don’t know.’
The woman’s manner was so earnest and yet full of mystery, as she walked to the door and locked it, lest they should be interrupted, that Fenella’s curiosity was immediately aroused.
‘Nurse, what is it you can have to tell me that requires so much preparation? Is it anything to do with poor mamma?’
‘Well, it has and it hasn’t, Miss Fenella; and I expect you’ll be so surprised, you’ll hardly believe as I’m telling you the truth. But you mustn’t blame me, my dear, for I can call Heaven to witness as I never did anything in this world but what I thought was for your good.’
‘What on earth is it?’ cried Fenella, as the blotting-case slid to the ground. ‘I begin to be frightened, nurse. Surely it cannot be more bad news for me?’
‘No, no, my lamb. I think you’ll say as it’s good news, and I am sure you will say I am right to tell it you. Do you remember the time, Miss Fenella, when you was so ill at Sainte Pauvrette?’
Lady Conroy shuddered.
‘Ah, Bennett, as if I could ever forget it! It is the one great black spot in my life.’
‘Your mamma told you then, miss, as your baby was dead, and you cried bitterly for its loss, didn’t you?’
The tears streamed afresh down Fenella’s face. The old wound had recalled the new.
‘Oh yes, I did! My poor wee baby that never saw the light! God might have left me this one (mightn’t He, nurse?) just to help me to forget the other.’
‘And what should you say, my dear,’ continued Bennett, as she softly stroked the girl’s hand; ‘what should you say, now, if I was to tell you as your first baby—the baby that was born at Sainte Pauvrette—was still alive?’
Lady Conroy half sprung from her seat, and stared into the servant’s face incredulously.
‘But my mother—my mother,’ she panted, ‘told me it was born dead—that it never even breathed on entering the world!’
‘My mistress didn’t tell the truth then, Miss Fenella—God forgive her! That child was born alive, and is living now.’
‘But I never saw it, nurse! I never heard it cry!’
‘I daresay not, my dear, or you don’t remember it. But you were raving with fever all the time, and the baby was safe in England long before you came to your senses again.’
‘But you showed me her grave!’ continued Lady Conroy, with eyes wide open with surprise. ‘You pointed out a little mound to me in Sainte Pauvrette churchyard, and told me my poor baby lay beneath it, and I left violets and primroses there for her sake.’
‘My dear, I did; and I’m not going to deny it. They was your poor mamma’s orders, and I obeyed them, as I’ve obeyed many an order of hers that’s laid on my conscience since. But it was untrue, Miss Fenella. I took your dear baby myself to England the very day she was born, and she’s living there to this hour. And that’s God’s truth, my lamb, if I never utter another word on this side the grave!’
Fenella stood still and silent for one moment, as if to try and grasp the truth of this unexpected revelation. Then with a cry of indignation she bounded to her feet.
‘And my mother did this!’ she exclaimed. ‘My mother, who brought me into the world, and knew all that I had suffered! She stepped into the place of God and bereaved me of my child! How did she dare to do it?’ she went on fiercely, as she confronted Eliza Bennett. ‘How did you dare to uphold her in such a falsehood? What right had you to conspire together to steal my child from me—his child—and leave me to the desolation and despair that followed? How did you dare—how did you DARE to do it?’
She paced up and down the room as she spoke, alarming Bennett beyond measure by her heightened colour and rapid utterance.
‘Say what you like to me, Miss Fenella,’ she replied piteously; ‘I daresay I did very wrong, though I acted under orders. But don’t go to blame your dear mamma as is a saint in heaven. She did it for the best, my dear; she thought to save you the shame and the distress it might prove in after-years. We talked a deal together about it before we decided what to do, but the little one’s been safe and well with my sister Martha ever since, and you’ll be able to see her now whenever you like. And oh! Do stop walking in that fashion, my dear, for if you fall ill, I shall never forgive myself for having told you; but I thought maybe it might be a comfort for you to hear, now that the other dear baby’s gone.’
Fenella stopped short, and flung herself on her knees by the old woman’s side.
‘It is a comfort, dear Bennett,’ she said; ‘but tell me the truth—don’t deceive me any more—is she really alive?’
‘She is alive, my dear. She’s a poor creature, as might be expected, brought up by hand; but she’s alive and well.’
‘And what is she like, nurse? Oh, tell me what my child is like.’
‘She ain’t so good-looking as the angel that’s gone, Miss Fenella, but I should think she’d take after you when she fills out a bit. She’s very backward, poor lamb; she can’t say a word, and she’s got no use of her legs. But Martha’s took every care of her, and couldn’t love her better if she were her own.’
‘And—and—does Martha know that she belongs to me, nurse?’ asked Lady Conroy hesitatingly.
‘Bless your heart, no! Do you think I’d go to pull down the family in that way, Miss Fenella? In course not! I said ’twas a child belonging to a friend of my mistress, and they didn’t ask no questions. Why should they? They’ve been paid reg’lar ever since.’
‘Who has paid them, Bennett?’
‘Well, your dear mamma did up to her death, my lady, and since that your ten-pound note has kept them going till such time as I could make up my mind to tell you the truth.’
‘Oh, if I could see her! If I could only see her!’ cried Fenella, clasping her hands.
‘My dear, I don’t see why you shouldn’t, and that’s why I wanted to tell you my story before you wrote to Lady Marjoram.’
‘What has that to do with it, Bennett? I couldn’t tell her, you know.’
‘I should think not! You’ll be very soft if you tell any one now. Let the matter rest between you and me, my dear. But ain’t it next to a moral certainty as Sir Gilbert will be out in that African place for some years?’
‘I believe so. For two or three years, without doubt, unless some accident sends him home.’
‘Well, then, Miss Fenella, I’d risk it!’
‘Risk what, Bennett?’
‘I’d have that baby home in place of the one that’s gone, and trust to his never finding out the difference.’
‘Nurse! What are you thinking of? My first baby must be fifteen months old by this time.’
‘I know she is, my dear, and of course you couldn’t manage it if you was in England, or Sir Gilbert likely to come home soon. But she’s a puny little thing, you must be prepared for that; and though you couldn’t pass her off now for a baby of three months, I warrant that when she’s three years you will be very well able to pass her off as a child of two. And Sir Gilbert is not a gentleman to fuss over children, you know. He’ll never put his foot in the nursery if he can help it. I believe you might bring up half-a-dozen there without his being any the wiser.’
‘Lady Marjoram?’ faltered Fenella.
‘I’ll manage the Countess, my dear. You see, if you fall in with my notion, you must say the baby’s delicate, and leave her with me when you go to London for the season. Lady Marjoram will never trouble you with any questions about her.’
‘Oh, if I could—if I only could!’ cried the mother, with a new hope beaming in her eyes. ‘My poor neglected baby! My poor fatherless lamb! I must have her back again.’
‘It would do my heart good to see her in your arms,’ said Bennett, ‘for it smites me every time I go to Ines-cedwyn and look at the poor little thing. For ’tain’t her fault, you see, Miss Fenella; she ain’t the one to blame, pretty dear; and it seems terrible hard she should grow up without any one to love her as she has a claim to, and no more knowledge than can be got in Ines-cedwyn.’
‘She never shall!’ exclaimed Lady Conroy; ‘I will claim her and look after her, even if I am not able to bring her up by my side. Bennett! Bennett!’ she continued, in a lower voice, as she pulled the old woman’s face close down to her own, ‘tell me, dear Bennett, is she at all like him?’
‘Lor’! Miss Fenella, why should you go to ask me such a thing? I’m sure I don’t know, my dear, and I hopes, for your sake, as she’s not, for you ought to have forgotten all about him long and long ago.’
Lady Conroy hid her face in the servant’s bosom.
‘Oh yes! I know I ought, and I think I have too (nearly, that is to say), only this stirs it up, you see, Bennett—it stirs it up.’
‘But has it comforted you, my dear lady, or have I made matters worse by my chattering?’
‘No, no! May God Almighty bless you, Bennett, for having told me that my baby lives. It has comforted me as nothing else in this world could have done. It has almost reconciled me to giving back the other one to Heaven.’