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 X^J'J'
 
 HOW THEY LOVED HIM. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE MARRYAT 
 
 (Mrs Francis Lean). 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: R V. WHITE & CO., 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1882.
 
 The Popular New Novels at all Libraries. 
 
 THREE FAIR DAUGHTERS. By Laurence Brooke, 
 Author of ' The Queen of Two Woikls/ etc. 3 vols. 
 
 SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By Lady Constance 
 Howard. 3 vols. 
 
 MY LADY CLARE. By Mrs Eiloart, Author of ' How 
 He Won Her,' etc. 3 vols. 
 
 ' " My Lady Clare" is a pleasant, readable novel.' — John Bitll. 
 
 'The interest is maintained with undeniable force and skill.' — Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
 A LOVELESS SACRIFICE. By Ina L. Cassilis. 
 Author of ' Guilty without Crime,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 John Bull says : — ' The story is a pleasant one — healthy in tone, lofty 
 in teaching, and very sympathetic in manner and style.' 
 
 COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
 <^ y 
 
 WITH THE WARMEST OF GOOD WISHES, 
 TO 
 
 MR AND MRS MICHAEL GUNN, 
 
 IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF 
 
 MANY ACTS OF KINDNESS SHOWN TO MY CHILDREN 
 
 AND MYSELF.
 
 Oh ! human Heart, which thus art strong, 
 
 To love, to dare, to suffer wrong, 
 
 I will not doubt thee, though I see 
 
 Thy wickedness continually : 
 
 Nor fail to trust thy holier part, 
 
 Darkened and fallen as thou art ; 
 
 But by thy faith — thy love — thy light, 
 
 Thy secret longings infinite, 
 
 Still trust in God that thou shalt win 
 
 Forgiveness for thy host of sin.'
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/howtheylovedhimn01marr
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ASLEEP, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 * THE SACRED AMULET,' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A mother's WELCOME, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 58 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ' FOR SELF ALONE,' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RELUCTANT FEET, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BANISHED, 
 
 86 
 
 105 
 
 • 135
 
 Vlll 
 
 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN A NEW WORLD, . 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WONDER-LAND ! . 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DAWN BREAKS, . 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AWAKENED, .... 
 
 PAOE 
 169 
 
 197 
 
 222 
 
 249 
 
 290
 
 HOW THEY LOVED HIM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ASLEEP. 
 
 * Her form was fresher than the morning rose 
 When the dew wets its leaves, — unstain'd and pure 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow.' — Tho7nson. 
 
 PRING 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 
 VOL. L A
 
 2 Asleep. 
 
 delicate fragrance of lilac and apple- 
 blossom, a pair of anxious, feathered 
 parents were vainly endeavouring, by 
 means of continuous twittering, to in- 
 duce 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 pas- 
 ture-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 scat- 
 tered 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
 
 Asleep. 3 
 
 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 evi- 
 dently 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. 
 ' Allo7is — com^age — 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 jottr, mes soeurs^ 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 ter- 
 race to examine the fallen bird, much
 
 4 Asleep. 
 
 to the consternation of its anxious 
 parents. 
 
 * What can I do for it ? ' she demanded 
 of the old nuns who watched her pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 * 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 dar- 
 linor mamma when the midsummer holi- 
 days arrive. Oh, Fenella, don't you wish 
 that they had come ?' 
 
 Fenella did not answer ; she was watch- 
 ing the twittering fuss that the old birds 
 were making over their fledgling, and per- 
 haps she did not hear what the child said. 
 But as she rose and twisted the ropes
 
 Asleep. 5 
 
 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 build- 
 ing dozens of hands were employed in
 
 6 Asleep. 
 
 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 help- 
 ful as themselves. In the class-rooms a 
 score of teachers were eneaeed 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 employ- 
 ment, the mother of the English pupils 
 — or, as she was generally called, Mere 
 Josephine — was seated in one of the con- 
 vent parlours, talking on the most mun- 
 dane of matters with a visitor who had 
 arrived in Ansprach but an hour ago. 
 
 To look at Mere 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 un- 
 aware 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
 
 Asleep, 7 
 
 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 com- 
 fortably rounded form that seemed the 
 very embodiment of maternity, though 
 no one would have laughed more than 
 Mere Josephine had you told her so. 
 She was a thoroughly practical person 
 into the bargain, with a keen apprecia- 
 tion 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 Mere Josephine. 
 
 The person with whom she was en- 
 gaged in conversation was not a bad
 
 8 Asleep. 
 
 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 oppor- 
 tunities 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 wel- 
 come that should await her return to 
 England. Mere Josephine, in her serge
 
 Asleep, 9 
 
 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 con- 
 venient 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 Mere 
 Josephine, ' and I have already written 
 Mrs Barrington the reason. The doctor 
 has decided that an immediate change is
 
 lO Asleep, 
 
 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 dis- 
 arranges my mistress's plans terribly/ 
 murmured the housekeeper. 
 
 ' Mrs Bennett/ continued Mere Jose- 
 phine, 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 
 s'xteen. 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 havine no one with whom to
 
 Asleep. 1 1 
 
 leave the young lady, It makes It awk- 
 ward, you see — ' 
 
 * And why cannot Mrs Barrlngton take 
 her daughter abroad with her, Mrs Ben- 
 nett ? ' 
 
 ' 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 vaca- 
 tion.' 
 
 * 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 Barrlngton 
 has displayed such a culpable want of 
 Interest in her daughter, that she posi- 
 tively 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 affec-
 
 1 2 Asleep. 
 
 tionate 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 our- 
 selves, 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 sen- 
 sible 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 —
 
 Asleep. 1 3 
 
 six foot two, and in the Royal Navy — 
 and worshipped the very ground she 
 trod on. If he had Hved — 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 conven- 
 tionality 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
 
 1 4 Asleep. 
 
 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 Mere 
 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,
 
 Asleep. 1 5 
 
 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 Barrlne- 
 ton to tell her as much, and Fenella 
 will be ready to start with you this 
 evening.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what will the mis- 
 tress say when she sees us!' wailed Mrs 
 Bennett. But at this moment a tap on 
 the door of the convent parlour was fol- 
 lowed 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 rever- 
 end mother, and then stood upright before 
 her, waiting her orders. 
 
 ' Don't you know who this is, Fenella.'^'
 
 1 6 Asleep. 
 
 said Mere 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 mieht have stood as a model for the 
 patroness of the convent, the virgin saint 
 Barbara, whose heathen father butchered 
 her at seventeen for adherlnor to the 
 Christian faith. She was slender as a 
 willow, but with a form that gave pro- 
 mise 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 be- 
 tokened 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
 
 Asleep. 1 7 
 
 about her ; she was nothing but a tail 
 white hly, half blown, with no conscious- 
 ness 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 know- 
 ing that it did so. In after years Fenella 
 Barrington was much more dangerous to 
 herself and others than any merely hand- 
 some woman could have been. She be- 
 came 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 capa- 
 city 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 dream- 
 less sleep, that made her think that to 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 8 Asleep. 
 
 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 re- 
 cognised 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
 
 Asleep. 19 
 
 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 ! 
 chere merey 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
 
 20 Asleep. 
 
 — in a few hours — it seems as if it could 
 not be true.' 
 
 Mere Josephine smiled at the girl's 
 enthusiasm, kindly but sadly. She felt 
 intuitively the disappointment that awaited 
 her warm loving nature — the disappoint- 
 ment that all true generous hearts ex- 
 perience 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 re- 
 turn to you after the vacation, chere mere' 
 
 ' I do not know what your mamma's 
 plans may be, Fenella. You are no 
 longer a child, remember. You are al- 
 most a woman.' 
 
 The girl laughed in a light incredulous 
 way. 
 
 ' Me a woman ! Ah ! chere 7nere, you 
 are laughing at me because you know I
 
 Asleep. 2 1 
 
 am such a hoyden, and love to be in 
 the gymnasium better than anywhere 
 else. A woman I 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 w^ork 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
 
 22 Asleep, 
 
 flowers for the altar ; never to go In the 
 Ansprach woods on fete days, nor to 
 join in the processions with my school- 
 fellows ? Oh ! chere mere, 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 
 girFs attitude of abandonment, or the fall- 
 ing of her abundant hair, strike the good 
 nun with a resemblance to the prostrate 
 Magdalen, pictured on some of the con- 
 vent 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,
 
 Asleep. 23 
 
 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 Mere 
 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.'
 
 24 Asleep, 
 
 ' Ah ! if her poor papa had only Hved,* 
 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.' 
 
 Mere 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 mis- 
 tress would wish her to mix in it, neither. 
 You see Mrs Barrington is very young- 
 looking for her age, and very much ad- 
 mired, 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 Mere 
 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
 
 Asleep. 25 
 
 be better here. However, I am sure you 
 must require some refreshment, Mrs Ben- 
 nett, 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.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 'the sacred amulet.' 
 
 ' What a power there is in innocence ! whose very 
 helplessness is its safeguard : in whose pres- 
 ence even Passion himself stands abashed, and 
 turns worshipper at the very altar he came to 
 despoil.' — Moore. 
 
 i^ERE she found Fenella await- 
 % ing her, standing composed 
 ig^ and thoughtful by the open 
 casement, and looking more like a 
 straight white lily than ever, with her 
 hair brushed smoothly behind her ears, 
 and her long eyelashes lying on her fair 
 pale cheeks. The table was spread with 
 a substantial meal of coffee and rolls and 
 cold meat, and the sister, having seen that
 
 * The Sacred Amulet' 2 7 
 
 nothing more was required, withdrew, and 
 kept the servant and her young mistress 
 together. 
 
 ' Miss Fenella,' said EHza Bennett, as 
 she sat down to table, 'aren't you going 
 to take some breakfast ? ' 
 
 Fenella opened her grey eyes. 
 
 ' Me, nurse ! Oh dear, no ! I had my 
 breakfast at six o'clock this morning, and 
 my dinner at twelve. What do you think 
 of that ? ' 
 
 ' I never heard of such hours for gentle- 
 folks, miss. They wouldn't suit London 
 ladies at all' 
 
 ' And at what time shall I have my 
 meals in London, nurse ? ' 
 
 ' Your mamma mostly has her break- 
 fast about this time, and her dinner at 
 eight in the evening. But I don't sup- 
 pose you'll go out to parties as much as 
 she does, miss.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I shouldn't wish to do so. 
 What should I do at parties, nurse ? I 
 have never been to one in my life ! I
 
 28 'The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 don't even know what they do there ; 
 but it will be so sweet to creep out of 
 my bed again when mamma comes home 
 — (I shall always lie awake till I hear her 
 step) — and come downstairs to help to 
 undress her and make her comfortable for 
 the night. My own dear mamma ! I have 
 never forgotten her face, Bennett, nor her 
 beautiful dark hair.' 
 
 Bennett, who knew all about the ' beau- 
 tiful dark hair,' which had mysteriously 
 changed by this time to golden, and had 
 experienced the sweetness of creeping out 
 of her bed to attend to Mrs Barring- 
 ton's requirements at two o'clock in the 
 morning, did not appear to join in her 
 daughter's enthusiasm on the subject, 
 and only remarked that it would not be 
 good for Miss Fenella, not being strong, 
 to have her rest disturbed after . that 
 fashion, and she didn't think her mamma 
 would allow it. 
 
 The girl looked disappointed. 
 
 * I shall soon grow strong in England,'
 
 ' The Saci'ed A untie t. ' 2 9 
 
 she said, ' and I should love to wait upon 
 mamma.* 
 
 * You will soon find other things to 
 think of, miss,' replied Bennett, with a 
 view to consolation. ' Your mamma has 
 me to wait upon her, and don't need to 
 trouble any one else. And you'll be get- 
 ting lovers before long, and making them 
 wait upon you.' 
 
 ' Lovers ! ' echoed Fenella ; ' do you 
 mean men to marry me ? Oh no ! I 
 sha'n't. I shall never be married. I 
 don't wish to. I shouldn't like it.' 
 
 Had she been less of a child and more 
 of a woman she would have blushed or 
 laughed a little at the idea, for it does not 
 take much to call up blushes in a young 
 girl's cheek at the mention of marriage, 
 even from one of her own sex ; but Fenella 
 did neither. She only looked at the ser- 
 vant, straight out of her frank grey eyes, 
 as a child of four years old might have 
 done, and shook her head and repeated 
 emphatically, ' I know all about marrying,
 
 30 'The Sacred Amulet. • 
 
 nurse, and I'm sure I shouldn't like 
 it' 
 
 Eliza Bennett, in her quiet way, was 
 infinitely amused. 
 
 ' Why,- who could have told you all 
 about it, Miss Fenella?' 
 
 ' Oh, lots of people ! I have a great 
 friend here — ^Honoree St Just. Ah ! how 
 sorry I shall be to part with her. And 
 her sister Cecile is married to a man, and 
 Honoree says it is horrid. They quarrel 
 dreadfully, and Cecile hates him, and one 
 day he boxed her ears. No man should 
 do that to me ; and if I had my choice 
 I'd rather marry a woman, only they say 
 that's nonsense.' 
 
 * I should think it was, miss — too great 
 nonsense to talk about.' 
 
 ' I won't say it again then, but I don't 
 know why it should be. Honoree and I 
 would never quarrel like Cecile and her 
 husband if we lived in the same house. 
 But if that is the case I shall never marry, 
 for I should not care to have a man for a
 
 The Sacred Amulet' 
 
 31 
 
 friend. They are rough, and they do not 
 care for the same amusements as o-irls. I 
 am sure we should not aofree together.' 
 
 ' You'll change your opinion, Miss 
 Fenella, when you have seen more of 
 gentlemen. You don't know anything 
 about them now, though bad's the best, 
 I must say. But all young ladies marry 
 sooner or later.' 
 
 ' Oh no, nurse, not all ! The nuns are 
 ladies, but they never marry, and they are 
 very happy. And I should like best of all 
 to live with them. I mean to live with 
 dear mamma, and wait on her till she 
 wants me no longer, and then when she 
 has gone to heaven I will come back to 
 dear Ansprach and be buried with the 
 sisters in the convent yard.' 
 
 ' Oh dear me, miss, that is sorrowful 
 talking,' remonstrated Eliza Bennett, with 
 her mouth full of bread and butter. 
 
 ' Why ? ' replied Fenella, with evident 
 surprise. 'We often have deaths here, 
 because some of the nuns are so very old,
 
 3-2 ^ The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 and you should see how pleased they are 
 to hear it is all over, and they are going to 
 Jesus and the Blessed Virgin for ever. 
 When one of the sisters die, the others 
 take turns to watch by her coffin till she is 
 buried, and I always coax chere mere to 
 let me have my turn, although I am not 
 a Catholic. And oh, nurse ! ' exclaimed 
 Fenella, with a sudden outburst of pro- 
 phecy from her childish soul, ' I have 
 sometimes wondered if it would not be 
 better if I died too whilst I was at An- 
 sprach, and never went home to see 
 mamma and what they call the " world 
 again." ' 
 
 But this was a line of argument with 
 which Eliza Bennett could not cope, and 
 which half frightened her, for it revealed 
 a nature deeper than any which she had 
 yet been called upon to fathom. 
 
 * Please don't talk like that, miss, nor ask 
 me such questions,' she said nervously ; ' it 
 isn't right nor natural. I don't mean to 
 say as things mayn't seem a bit strange to
 
 The Sacred Amulet' 2^'^^ 
 
 you In Audley Street after the convent, 
 but still they're your mamma's ways, you 
 know, and you must give in to them, and 
 not put her out, and then you'll be happy 
 enough.' 
 
 ' Put her out ! Do you mean vex her ? 
 Oh, no ! that I never will. How can 
 you think so for a moment. I am only 
 afraid that I may disappoint her, and that 
 she will not be able to love me as much 
 as I shall want her to do. Nurse, shall 
 I sleep in the same bed as my mamma .^ 
 Do tell me.' 
 
 ' Well, I hardly know what to say to 
 that, miss ; your mamma never cared for 
 any one sleeping alongside of her, so you 
 mustn't be vexed if you don't share her bed, 
 for, to tell truth, I don't think you will.' 
 
 ' Nurse ! ' exclaimed Fenella, as if struck 
 by a sudden fear, * wojit she love me ? ' 
 
 There was so much energy in her tone 
 that the old servant was quite taken aback. 
 
 * Bless your heart, miss, of course she will. 
 Whatever makes you ask me such a ques- 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
 ^/
 
 34 ' '^he Saci^ed Amulet.^ 
 
 tion. Why, all mothers love their children, 
 and you an only one too, and such a fine 
 grown young lady, and the very image of 
 your papa ; it would be against nature 
 entirely if your mamma weren't as proud of 
 you as proud can be.' 
 
 ' But it is so long since she sent for me,' 
 said Fenella mournfully ; ' five whole years. 
 I began to think I was never going home, 
 and the other girls would hardly believe I 
 had a mother. It made me feel almost 
 ashamed, nurse, and as if I had done some- 
 thing wrong.' 
 
 ' Well, your mamma will make up for 
 it now, miss, never fear ! She has had 
 more than enough to worry her, my dear, 
 I expect, during the last few years, and 
 perhaps she thought you was better away 
 learning your books than knocking about 
 with her.' 
 
 ' Worried ! ' cried Fenella, with a startled 
 look. ' What can she have to worry her ? ' 
 
 Eliza Bennett looked mysterious. She 
 longed to tell what was in her mind, but
 
 ' The Sacred A mulet. ' 3 5 
 
 she had been too well trained to turn 
 informer ; and the girl's eager tone of in- 
 quiry made her more cautious than she 
 might otherwise have been. 
 
 * Everybody has something to worry 
 'em,' she answered, ' and your dear mamma 
 ain't free from it, miss — no more than 
 others. There's always plenty of trouble 
 in this world.' 
 
 * Do you mean she is sorry ? I never 
 thought of that ! Oh, I am so glad she 
 has sent for me to comfort her! I am 
 the proper person to comfort her. Am I 
 not, Bennett ? And I will — indeed, I will 1 ' 
 
 Bennett, who was perfectly aware that 
 the last thing Mrs Barrington would re- 
 gard as an alleviation of her cares would 
 be the appearance of her tall womanly 
 daughter, here wiped her mouth in token 
 of having finished her breakfast, and was 
 significantly silent. She tried to appear 
 at her ease, but, in reality, she was full of 
 nervous apprehension, which amounted to 
 cowardice. She had been twenty years
 
 2,6 ^The Sacred Amulet.^ 
 
 in the service of Mrs Barrington, and 
 since her husband's death she had been 
 her housekepeer, lady's-maid, and humble 
 friend, — in fine, the recipient of all her 
 secrets. Mrs Barrington would not have 
 parted with her on any consideration — 
 she would have been afraid to do so ; 
 and Eliza Bennett knew it well ; and yet 
 she was so much under the thumb of 
 her mistress, that she had no will of her 
 own. She did not love her ; on the 
 contrary, she despised her for her heart- 
 lessness and artifice. She derived no 
 particular benefit from remaining in her 
 service ; and yet, had her life depended 
 on it, she would not have left her, — nor 
 did she do so until the strange fascina- 
 tion which Mrs Barrington exercised over 
 her was exhausted. 
 
 Fear is a much stronger motive power 
 to bind people together than love, — fear of 
 the world — fear of change — fear of them- 
 selves. How many uncongenial couples 
 does it not link fast for life, and make
 
 * The Sacred A mulet. ' 3 7 
 
 them jog on, afraid to rupture the un- 
 holy spell that unites them, until death 
 causes the parting to be inevitable. There 
 was a subtle, secret magnetism in Mrs 
 Barrington for Eliza Bennett, which the 
 servant felt but could not analyze, and 
 the mistress wielded without knowing 
 whence her power came. 
 
 The rest of that day was spent, as far 
 as Fenella was concerned, in a very tear- 
 ful and unhappy manner. Five years is 
 a long while for any one to spend in one 
 place and with one set of people, and to a 
 young girl of sixteen it appears a lifetime. 
 
 Fenella ran from the farmyard to the 
 gymnasium, and the flower garden to the 
 chapel, and wept freely as she thought 
 she might never see any of them again. 
 She visited the kitchens and laundry 
 and class-rooms, and felt intuitively, as 
 she bade farewell to the sisters who had 
 surrounded her childhood with kind- 
 ness and care, and the schoolfellows 
 who had shared her pleasures and ad-
 
 38 'The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 vantages, that the happiest and most 
 peaceful years of her Hfe were over. 
 But the great trial to her in leaving 
 Ansprach was parting with her bosom 
 friend Honoree St Just. 
 
 Fenella was not a general lover. She 
 possessed a full, impulsive nature that 
 could rejoice in the sunshine and the 
 blossoms, and the singing of the birds, 
 and sometimes, when all the world 
 smiled at her, and her spirit seemed to 
 rush forth to meet it, her heart would 
 overflow and she would weep for very- 
 gladness. But though she felt deeply, 
 she was not sentimental. She had never 
 nursed sickly fancies after the fashion 
 of school girls. She was Impulsive and 
 emotional, but what she loved she must 
 look up to. Hers was a nature that all 
 through life would feel the necessity of 
 a passionate love — the necessity of a 
 friend whom she could worship — of some 
 one to whom she would be the very first, 
 in whom she could confide every thought
 
 'The Sacred Amulet' 39 
 
 that came into and over-weighted her 
 active brain. 
 
 She was clever, but she was dependent 
 on others for sympathy. Left to her- 
 self and her own thoughts, Fenella would 
 have sunk into a miserable being. And 
 for the last few years Honoree St Just, 
 who was much older than herself, had 
 been the depository of all Fenella's 
 half - fledged thoughts, and she felt 
 the wrench of parting from her terribly. 
 It was only by oft-repeated promises of 
 a speedy reunion at Honoree's house 
 in Germany, where she protested her 
 parents should invite Fenella to visit 
 her, that the young girls could be per- 
 suaded to separate, and when at last 
 Eliza Bennett found herself with her 
 charge outside the convent walls of St 
 Barbara, she was afraid that Fenella's 
 grief would make her ill. But it sub- 
 sided sooner than she expected. These 
 impulsive natures suffer keenly, but they 
 do not suffer long, unless the wound is
 
 40 ^ The Sacred Amulet^ 
 
 incurable, and then may Heaven help 
 them, for they twist and writhe above 
 the unextracted weapon, until death 
 mercifully closes the scene. 
 
 But to a girl of sixteen who had spent 
 the greater part of the last five years 
 within a convent garden, the mere fact 
 of travelling was an excitement and dis- 
 traction ; and when the next morning 
 broke and they found themselves at 
 Calais, ready to cross over to Dover by 
 the midday boat, Fenella was able to 
 look at the scenes that passed around 
 her with dry eyes, and to comment on 
 them with all the natural liveliness of her 
 disposition. 
 
 But Eliza Bennett could not make 
 out her young lady. She was puzzled 
 to know what to answer to the extraordi- 
 nary questions she put to her. She had 
 never been brought in contact with such 
 a womanly child before. Fenella had 
 no shyness in her composition, and her 
 innocence made her afraid of nothing.
 
 ^The Sacred Amulet.^ 41 
 
 She would as soon have addressed a 
 stranger passing in the street as the 
 servant that walked beside her. They 
 had some hours to wait in Calais, and 
 they employed them in traversing the 
 town. As they came opposite a church 
 a wedding party issued from it, the bride 
 resplendent in her foreign finery — a bright 
 blue dress trimmed with velvet, and a 
 cap decorated with satin ribbons and 
 orange blossoms. 
 
 * Who are those people, nurse ? ' de- 
 manded Fenella, with interest. * What 
 have they been about ? Is it a first 
 communion ? ' 
 
 * Bless my soul, Miss Fenella, it's a 
 wedding ! Don't you see the flowers in 
 the bride's cap } ' 
 
 * Is it ?' indifferently; and then, after a 
 pause, she added, — ' Why do people go to 
 church when they're married, Bennett ? ' 
 
 * Why, to say prayers. Miss Fenella, of 
 course.' 
 
 ' Couldn't they pray at home ? '
 
 42 'The Sacred A m ulet. ' 
 
 ^ Well, I suppose so, but then there's the 
 marriage vows, you see. They go to the 
 parson, and he makes them swear they 
 will live together all their lives.' 
 
 * What ! in the same house always ? 
 Why should they swear that ? Suppose 
 after a time they got tired of each other 
 and wanted to live in different houses, 
 what would they do then ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, miss, you mustn't think of such 
 a thing. Marriage is binding for life, you 
 know, and when people have once entered 
 on it, they never dream of changing.' 
 
 * Don't they ? Then why does the 
 priest make them swear not to .^ ' 
 
 Eliza Bennett met Fenella's eyes fixed 
 upon hers, and resolute for an answer, 
 and had to think before she concocted one. 
 
 * Lor ! my dear child, whatever would 
 your mamma say if she heard you ? Why, 
 they haven't taught you nothing at that 
 convent. Why do married people swear 
 to keep to each other ? Why, because it's 
 the law of the land, miss, as they should
 
 ^The Sacred Amulet.' 43 
 
 do so ; and they'd be chopping and 
 changing all round if they hadn't some- 
 thing to hold 'em together ; but when 
 they've made a vow, of course it's all right, 
 and they never think of such a thing/ 
 
 Fenella pondered on this mystery for 
 a minute or two, then she said, — 
 
 * Do mothers take vows that they'll 
 always live with their children, nurse ? ' 
 
 * Dear me no, miss, their hearts keep them 
 to each other — it's nature, you see ; they 
 couldn't turn against their little ones any 
 more than they could against themselves.' 
 
 ' Isn't marriage nature, then, and haven't 
 the married people hearts ? Wouldn't that 
 keep them together as well as going into 
 church and swearing ? ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I can't tell you, miss ; you do 
 put such strange questions you quite flurry 
 me. But you'll be married yourself some 
 day, and then you'll understand all about 
 it. They look happy enough any way, 
 don't they ? See how the girl is smiling 
 at her friends — '
 
 44 ^ The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 At that moment the wedding party 
 passed close to them, and one of the men, 
 struck by Fenella's face, remarked to his 
 companion, — 
 
 * Mon Dieu ! qttelle est belle ! la petite 
 Anglaise ! ' 
 
 Eliza Bennett saw the look of admir- 
 ation that accompanied the words. 
 
 * I hope that fellow didn't say anything 
 rude to you, miss ? ' 
 
 She looked at her young mistress as 
 she spoke, and seemed to see, for the 
 first time, what she would become. The 
 lily was flushed with the excitement and 
 the fresh sea air ; a delicate pink glow 
 was spreading over her features, as if 
 the rising sun had touched the petals 
 of a flower — a glow that made her eyes 
 look bluer, her hair more sunny, her 
 parted lips like carmine. 
 
 The servant took in the fascination of 
 her appearance at a glance, and pulled 
 her to one side. 
 
 ' Come on, Miss Fenella, we mustn't
 
 'The Sacred Amulet' 45 
 
 loiter like this ; ladles should never stand 
 about the streets ; besides, it's nearly 
 twelve, and we go on board at one. It 
 is time we were making our way to the 
 restaurant ; you must have a good lun- 
 cheon before we start' 
 
 She led the girl away as she spoke, 
 and they entered the restaurant. But 
 Fenella was too excited to eat ; her 
 loving heart was filled now with the 
 idea of meeting her mother again, and 
 she but half finished the bason of soup 
 which Bennett ordered for her. As the 
 servant, much confused by the foreign 
 coins with which her purse was filled, 
 bustled away to the counter to pay for 
 what they had consumed, Fenella's at- 
 tention was attracted by the figure of 
 a young gentleman, who leaned against 
 the side of the open doorway, and gazed 
 at her. 
 
 He was a tall, slight youth of about 
 two - and - twenty, and there was some- 
 thing about his appearance that betokened
 
 46 'The Sacred Amulet,^ 
 
 an Irish descent. His fine silky hair 
 and moustaches were of the darkest 
 shade of brown ; his blue eyes were 
 shaded by black pencilled brows, and 
 thick lashes that lay upon his cheek as 
 though he had been a child ; his delicate 
 nose and closed nostrils showed a refined 
 and artistic disposition, and his mouth 
 (or what could be seen of it), if weak 
 and pleasure-seeking, was very tender, 
 and had a certain melancholy droop at 
 the corners, that would have led a stranger 
 to believe its owner to be the possessor 
 of very deep feelings. 
 
 But what should a child like Fenella, 
 just let loose from school, know of the 
 subtle signs of physiognomy, when even 
 the oldest and most experienced amongst 
 us refuse to be guided by them. All she 
 saw was a very handsome young man, 
 whose eyes were fixed earnestly upon 
 her face, and her first thought was, 
 whether it was the quaintness of her 
 convent garb that had excited his curi-
 
 'The Sacred Amulet! 47 
 
 osity. The idea made her colour and 
 look conscious, and she turned slightly 
 to one side. But the mesmeric Influence 
 of the eyes, that never moved for a mo- 
 ment from her face, forced her after a 
 while to meet them again, and her frank 
 childish glance was once more mingled 
 with his own. This time she noted the 
 melancholy of his expression, and won- 
 dered what had caused it. 
 
 ' Is he in any pain or trouble ? Can 
 he want to speak to me ? ' she thought. 
 
 When Eliza Bennett returned to her 
 seat, Fenella communicated this idea to 
 her. 
 
 ' Do you see that gentleman who Is 
 looking at me, nurse ? ' she whispered. 
 ' I think he must want to say something. 
 Perhaps he is sick, or sorry. Shall I go 
 and speak to him ? ' 
 
 ' Goodness me ! no. Miss Fenella! The 
 impudent rascal to go staring a young 
 lady out of countenance after that fashion. 
 I'll get one of the waiters to turn him
 
 48 'The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 out of the restaurant, if he don't mend 
 his manners.' 
 
 'Don't say that, nurse! Indeed, he 
 is not rude ; he has only looked at me. 
 Oh ! I hope he did not hear what you 
 said about him.' 
 
 For the * impudent rascal,' perceiving 
 the advent of a middle-aged chaperon 
 with a flustered manner, had concluded 
 to shift his position for a while, and 
 sauntered into the sunshine. 
 
 'A good thing if he did, Miss Fenella,' 
 replied Eliza Bennett. * However, he 
 seems to have taken the hint, so I'll go 
 and see after the luggage. If you'll wait 
 here for me, you'll be safe enough.' 
 
 * Safe ! ' echoed the girl ; ' safe ! why 
 what should happen to me ? ' and then 
 the servant left her again, and she leaned 
 her head upon her hand, and tried to 
 realise what she would feel when once 
 more within the embrace of her mother. 
 Then the young man, with the earnest 
 glance and the tender droop in his mouth.
 
 * The Sacred A m ulet. ' 4 9 
 
 noting that the coast was clear, returned 
 to his former position, and fixed his gaze 
 once more upon Fenella's face. She did 
 not raise her eyes, but she knew that 
 his were on her. She felt them, as one 
 feels the heat of fire, even throuo^h her 
 shelterino- hand, and her nature stirred 
 uneasily beneath their infiuence. 
 
 ' He 7nust want to speak to me,' she 
 said to herself ; ' else why should he look 
 so earnestly at me. Perhaps he has had a 
 misfortune ; he may have been robbed 
 oi his purse, and be unable to pay his 
 passage home ; or he may be a stranger 
 who cannot speak the language and make 
 his wants known, and he sees I am 
 English and wishes me to help him. 
 How can I be so unkind as to take no 
 notice '^ He may find no one else to 
 assist him. Surely that would not be 
 doing as I would be done by.' 
 
 At this juncture Fenella, moved by an 
 irresistible impulse, rose hastily from the 
 table and walked towards the door. The 
 
 VOL, I. D
 
 50 'The Sacred Aimtlet! 
 
 young man, who had been so fascinated 
 by her appearance, thought that she was 
 offended by his admiration, and was about 
 to leave the restaurant in token of it. 
 
 He was a gentleman, and regretted 
 he had been so thoughtless, and so he 
 drew to one side respectfully as she ap- 
 proached the threshold, and slightly raised 
 his hat. But what was his astonishment 
 when the childish figure stopped directly 
 in front of him, and two kind, fearless 
 eyes were raised innocently to his face. 
 
 ' Why do you look at me ? ' demanded 
 Fenella. ' Are you in trouble ? Can I 
 assist you ? ' 
 
 The stranger blushed scarlet ; her quiet 
 question took him so completely aback 
 he had not a word to say for himself. 
 He could only stammer forth some awk- 
 ward thanks for her kindness, and a denial 
 that he needed anything. But Fenella 
 did not blush ; she only smiled. 
 
 ' I am glad it is nothing/ she said ; 
 * I thought you wanted to speak to me/
 
 * The Sacred Aiiiidet. ' 5 1 
 
 and then she returned to her seat with- 
 out any confusion, and sat down again 
 to wait for Eliza Bennett. 
 
 Meanwhile, had she felt annoyance at 
 the stranger's admiration, she could not 
 have taken a better means of preventing 
 his continuing a display of it. He could 
 not look at her again after the innocent 
 misconstruction she had put upon his 
 motives. He walked straight away from 
 the restaurant on board the steamer that 
 waited to take them to Dover. And in 
 a few minutes Fenella was claimed by 
 Bennett and hurried after him, and it was 
 not until she stepped on deck and caught 
 sight of him, again eagerly watching their 
 movements, that she had time to tell the 
 servant what had occurred. 
 
 ' Nurse,' she said, as she followed her 
 to the cabin, ' did you see that gentleman 
 that looked so hard at me in the restaur- 
 ant, leaning on the bridge as we came 
 on board ? He is going to England with 
 us. But he is not in any trouble, be-
 
 5 2 ' The Sanded A intdet. ' 
 
 cause I asked him. I think he was 
 only looking at me to please himself, for 
 he said he was very much obliged, but 
 he did not want anything/ 
 
 ' Miss Fenella, you don't mean to tell 
 me you spoke to him ? ' exclaimed Eliza 
 Bennett in dismay. 
 
 ' Yes, I did ! I thought he might wish 
 me to interpret for him or something, 
 but he didn't. Don't you think he has a 
 nice face ? ' 
 
 ' Goodness me, miss, you make my 
 blood run cold ; the idea of you speak- 
 ing to a perfect stranger, and a man too ! 
 Why, he might be one of the swell mob 
 for ought we know. Oh, Miss Fenella, 
 don't you never go and tell your mamma 
 of what you've done, or I shan't hear 
 the last of it for having left you a 
 minute by yourself.' 
 
 ' But why should mamma be angry, 
 nurse '^. It wasn't wrong.' 
 
 * It was very wrong, indeed, Miss 
 Fenella ; it isn't the custom, and every-
 
 'The Sacred Aimilet.' 53 
 
 thing's wrong that isn't the custom, and 
 young ladies can never learn that too 
 soon. However, you are but a child as 
 yet, and don't know any better, but you 
 won't do it again, my dear ; will you, 
 now ? ' 
 
 * Not if it's wrong' said Fenella quietly. 
 
 And then she allowed Eliza Bennett 
 to fuss over her and tuck her up with 
 shawls upon a sofa, where she lay for a 
 couple of hours, enduring the purgatory 
 of the ladies' cabin, and thinking what 
 a strange custom it was that forbade her 
 to speak to her fellow-creatures. Whilst 
 the servant, too nervous at the approach- 
 ing interview with her mistress to take 
 any rest, turned and tossed upon her 
 couch, and tried to invent arguments to 
 appease the threatened storm. 
 
 At last the steamer touched the Dover 
 pier ; and not in the best humour, Eliza 
 Bennett dragged her charge after her 
 up the steps of the gangway. As they 
 reached the top, they again encountered
 
 54 'The Sacred Amulet! 
 
 the subject of their discussion, who had 
 mounted before them, and was leaning 
 over the raih'ngs gazing at Fenella. 
 Had the stranger smiled whilst gazing, 
 the girl might have thought with her 
 attendant he meant to be rude, but as 
 he only fixed two grave eyes upon her, 
 she could not feel offended. But the 
 expression in that steadfast glance had 
 no such effect upon gliza Bennett. All 
 she read in it was pertinacity, which she 
 considered it her duty to crush. She 
 was a timid woman by nature, and, like 
 many timid people, when she made an 
 effort to be brave she became offensive. 
 She pulled Fenella past the young gentle- 
 man almost roughly, as she exclaimed 
 in an audible voice, — 
 
 ' Well, / never saw such impudence. 
 I hope he'll know you again to swear to.' 
 
 At these words Fenella looked up, 
 startled and annoyed, and the stranger's 
 eyes again met hers. This time they 
 made her feel uncomfortable — she hardly
 
 * The Sacred A omelet. ' 5 5 
 
 knew why, and she turned her head quickly 
 away. But not before the young man had 
 seen that she did not share the sentiments 
 of her companion. 
 
 * By Jove ! What a sweet face/ he 
 thought, * and what a world of feeling 
 lies in those eyes ! I must get into the 
 same compartment with that girl if I 
 can.' 
 
 He ran along the line of carriages as 
 the idea struck him, but he was already 
 too late. Eliza Bennett had secured the 
 only vacant seats in a compartment for 
 Fenella and herself, and the stranger was 
 obliged to content himself with a smoking 
 carriage. Here he indulged freely in his 
 favourite occupation, and tried hard to 
 shake off the absurd fascination which 
 the memory of this girl exercised over him, 
 and for which he was ready to laugh at 
 his own folly. But he found the task 
 more difficult than he anticipated. As 
 the wreaths of smoke from his cigar 
 floated from him in ghostly rings of
 
 5 6 ' The Sacred A mulet. * 
 
 cloudy blue, they kept on shaping them- 
 selves into the form of an oval face, from 
 which gleamed forth two clear innocent 
 eyes, that almost seemed to look re- 
 proachfully at him. ^ What nonsense ! ' 
 he thought. ' What is there so different 
 in her from other women, that I can't 
 knock her out of my head ? She's noth- 
 ing, after all, but a half-grown school- 
 girl. Why can't I think of something 
 else ? ' Why, not indeed ! Who can tell ? 
 Was it his good angel that raised that 
 vision to warn him against what might 
 be ; or was it his bad angel that evoked 
 it for his greater condemnation in the 
 years to come, when he should remember 
 what had been and what was, and that 
 he had heeded nothing but his own selfish 
 gratification. He leapt out of the train 
 as soon as it reached the London station, 
 but the platform was crowded with pas- 
 sengers, and in the confusion he missed 
 the two he sought to see. Luggage was 
 being examined ; porters were rushing to
 
 * The Sacred A mulet, ' 5 7 
 
 and fro ; people were hustling each other 
 in their eagerness to be- served first, and 
 whilst his eyes were still roving here 
 and there in hopes of gaining some clue 
 to the identity of the girl who had at- 
 tracted his fancy, Fenella and Eliza Ben- 
 net were in a cab jolting along the streets 
 on their way to Mrs Barrington's apart- 
 ments.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A mother's welcome. 
 
 What's this world ? Thy school, O Misery ! 
 Our only lesson is to learn to suffer, 
 And he, who knows not that, is born for nothing.' 
 
 Young. 
 
 T 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 
 Hved 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 com- 
 fortable circumstances by her late husband, 
 but she had frittered away all the available 
 portion of her income until she v/as really
 
 A Mothers Welcome. 59 
 
 seriously encumbered. The fact is, Mrs 
 Barrlngton 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 Barrlngton. She had always In- 
 tended 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 cap- 
 tain'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 
 Barrlngton had not given up all hope. It 
 was certainly dwindling, and her temper 
 suffered terribly as the fact became more
 
 6o A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 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 over- 
 stepped 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 draw- 
 ing-room, or take her to the theatre, or 
 meet her at Mentone or Wiesbaden by
 
 A Mothei^'s Welcome. 6i 
 
 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 mak- 
 ing 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
 
 62 A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 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 Barring- 
 ton 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, aesthetic youth, who raved 
 on the subject of Mrs Barrlngton'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 tetes-a-t^te, she might conquer the 
 fledgling baronet. He might not become 
 ' Sir Henry,' it was true, for years —
 
 A Mother s Welcome, 63 
 
 but still it was something to look forward 
 to, and time was waning, as Mrs Barr- 
 ington had been compelled at last to ac- 
 knowledge 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 enofagfed 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
 
 64 A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 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, Ben- 
 nett — 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, dont 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
 
 A Mother s Welcome. 65 
 
 evening — one delay and another had made 
 them longer than they ought to have 
 been, and the April twilight had deep- 
 ened into dusk. Mrs Barrington was in 
 her dressing-room, with a very ill-tem- 
 pered 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 per- 
 fect 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 re- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 A Mother's Welcome. 
 
 lief. Bennett was standing on the thres- 
 hold. 
 
 ' 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 even- 
 ing, ma'am,' she said. ' Let me help 
 you with your dress,' 
 
 She stood behind her mistress and com- 
 menced 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
 
 A Mother s Welcome. 67 
 
 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 hereT 
 
 * 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 v/ay. I knew it would
 
 68 A Mother's Welcome. 
 
 put you out terribly, ma'am, but I couldn't 
 help it — indeed, I couldn't.' 
 
 * Bennett,' cried Mrs Barrington tragi- 
 cally, 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 her- 
 self 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 ?' ex- 
 claimed 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 per- 
 plexity 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.
 
 A Mother s Welcome. 69 
 
 ' 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 con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 * 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 mur- 
 mur something about her mistress being 
 so much cleverer and better and more 
 persuasive than herself, when the open-
 
 JO A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 ing of the bedroom door made her rise 
 suddenly to her feet. There, on the 
 threshold, stood Fenella, her cheeks burn- 
 ing with excitement, her arms extended 
 in anticipation. 
 
 ' Mother ! dearest mother ! ' she cried 
 passionately. 
 
 Even Mrs Barrlngton was roused by 
 the appeal. She made several steps for- 
 ward 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 de- 
 clare. 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 por- 
 tion 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
 
 A Mother s Welcome. 7 1 
 
 with which her face was embenished, 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 down- 
 stairs 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 con- 
 venient just at present, as I am expect- 
 ing to go abroad in a day or two with 
 some friends.'
 
 72 A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 ' Oh, I will be no trouble to you, dar- 
 ling mother,' said Fenella, smiling through 
 her tears. ' I will wait on you and be 
 your maid, and I can always sit at home, 
 w^hen you go out, with my books or my 
 work. I sha'n't want any other amuse- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you would soon get tired 
 of that, dear,' said Mrs Barrington, draw- 
 ing 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 Barring- 
 ton, with a smile. ' But you must be 
 very hungry ; you haven't had your tea
 
 A Mother s Welcome. 73 
 
 yet. Bennett, take Miss Fenella down- 
 stairs 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 din- 
 ner. 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
 
 74 A Mothers Welcome, 
 
 a business one, at all events of the ut- 
 most 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 Igng creature as you are in my diminu- 
 tive couch. What is her height, should 
 you think, Bennett ? She looks a perfect 
 grenadier to me. It seems quite impos- 
 sible she should be my daughter.' 
 
 'I should say Miss Fenella was a good 
 bit over ^n^ feet,' said Eliza Bennett. 
 
 * I am five feet five inches,' interposed 
 the girl mournfully. 
 
 ' An awful height, my dear child ; just
 
 A Mothers Welcome, 75 
 
 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 
 httle, 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 in- 
 cautiously wept, before she could en-
 
 76 A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 counter 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 
 elance 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
 
 A Mother s Welcome. yj 
 
 Fenella and the servant found them- 
 selves 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 descend- 
 ing the stairs, in hopes that Mrs Barring- 
 ton would look into the dining-room to 
 give her one more kiss, but such senti-
 
 yS A Mothers Welcome. 
 
 mentalism was not in that lady's nature. 
 She had gone straight from her bed- 
 room 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 unex- 
 pectedly 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 Barring- 
 ton could not be blind to the fact that,
 
 A Mother's Welcome. 79 
 
 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.
 
 So A Mother s Welcome, 
 
 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 sup- 
 posed 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
 
 A Mothers Welco77ze. 8i 
 
 him out upon a moonlit balcony, she 
 quite believed it would have been an ac- 
 complished 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 ap- 
 pearance 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 
 Honoree 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 posses- 
 sion 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 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 A Mother s Welcome. 
 
 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 enter- 
 tained lest she should never meet 
 Honoree again, until her over-wrought 
 feellnes 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 de- 
 mur, 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 Barrlngton had been both loved
 
 A Mothers Welcome. 83 
 
 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 whis- 
 pered 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 mis- 
 tress was always a hard one to move ; but 
 when she can't alter a matter, she gener- 
 ally 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,
 
 84 A Mothers Welcome. 
 
 and she'll be very different in the morn- 
 ing.' 
 
 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 pil- 
 low, 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
 
 A Mother s We dome. 85 
 
 argument, and nodded off to sleep again, 
 at least a dozen times, before that self- 
 ish little lady's latch-key was heard to 
 turn in the hall door, and she came 
 upstairs to rouse Eliza Bennett in good 
 earnest. 
 
 c!^.m. f^ 
 
 
 f^S^%
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 'for self alone/ 
 
 * I would cut off my own head if it had nothing 
 in it than wit ; and tear out my own heart if 
 it had no better disposition than to love only 
 myself.' — Pope. 
 
 RS BARRINGTON returned 
 home as cross as she could be. 
 In the first place, the absence 
 of the warm weather and the moonlit bal- 
 cony, 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 com-
 
 For Self Alone. %*] 
 
 ing away, whilst she kept her son Henry 
 dancinof 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 tete-a-tete 
 with that child, Fenella, who was the last 
 person In the world she wished him to 
 see. Altogether, it was enough to pro- 
 voke 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 dis- 
 cussion. And as soon as Mrs Barring- 
 ton was in her dressing-gown, and the 
 servant began to brush her hair, it com- 
 menced.
 
 88 Fo7^ Self Alone. 
 
 ' 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 dow^n 
 in the middle and interrupt our conversa- 
 tion, 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,
 
 Fo7^ Self Alo7te. 89 
 
 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
 
 90 For Self Alone. 
 
 was very few things you couldn't do if 
 you choose.' 
 
 And her mistress's power over herself 
 was so absolute that Bennett really be- 
 lieved 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 Barring- 
 ton in a more confidential voice, ' I am 
 not sure how Miss Fenella and I would
 
 For Self Alone. 91 
 
 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 remem- 
 ber 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
 
 92 For Self Alone. 
 
 Fenella with me at present. She Is just 
 the sort of girl to think a Httle rouge and 
 powder an iniquit}^, 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
 
 For Self Alone. 93 
 
 afraid to tell them the girl was at a con- 
 vent ; they would have declared I wanted 
 her to be a Roman Catholic. As if I 
 cared what she was. She might turn 
 IMahommedan 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 hap- 
 pens, Fenella's aunts must not hear she 
 has returned to Enorland.' 
 
 ' 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
 
 94 For Self Alone. 
 
 wages, for instance. I think I owe you 
 for nearly a year/ 
 
 ' Oh, don't give another thought to 
 my wages, dear mistress,' cried EHza Ben- 
 nett. ' 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 hav- 
 ing Miss Fenella as a daughter, ma'am/
 
 For Self Alone. 95 
 
 interposed Bennett, ' for he is old enough 
 to be her grandfather.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that a man's aee 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
 
 96 For Self Alone, 
 
 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 browns. 
 
 ' 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 w^ould 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
 
 For Self A lone. 9 7 
 
 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 w^eeks, 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 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 For Self Alone. 
 
 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 ex- 
 pect 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 3^our own 
 time for the payment. But what I'm 
 thinking of, m.a'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 Wil- 
 son's maid will help me a little, when I
 
 Fo r Self Alone, 99 
 
 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 in- 
 credulous 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,
 
 I oo For Self A lone. 
 
 it strikes me, Bennett. The child can 
 take down her books if she hkes 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
 
 For Self Alone. loi 
 
 home and Introduce her into society. She 
 ought to marry well, by-and-by, Bennett ! 
 and so she will If I marry well my- 
 self. 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 disposi- 
 tion, 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 with- 
 out It, and I daresay you will do her a
 
 I02 For Self Alone, 
 
 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 re- 
 membered 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 false- 
 hood, you know, for the world. I only
 
 For Self Alone. 103 
 
 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 mie, Ben- 
 nett. 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 youhg 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 abso- 
 lutely obliged. And now tuck me up
 
 I04 For Self Alone, 
 
 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 cur- 
 tains round her head. Then she stooped 
 and kissed the slender fingers that lay 
 outside the bed-clothes. Mrs Barrington 
 felt the silent homage, and liftiftg her 
 hand patted Eliza Bennett's face conde- 
 scendingly. 
 
 ' 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 mis- 
 tress's spirit stronger upon her than ever.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RELUCTANT FEET. 
 
 Standing with reluctant feet, 
 
 Where womanhood and childhood meet. 
 
 S'j^^'^ EN ELLA did not see her mother 
 
 on the following morning until 
 she descended to the breakfast- 
 room, but their meeting then seemed to 
 atone for everything that had gone be- 
 fore. Mrs Barrington was looking her 
 best, for she had no intention of letting 
 her young daughter into her secrets too 
 soon. Eliza Bennett had already arranged 
 her golden-tinted hair into its many twists 
 and curls, and a pale blue cashmere dress- 
 
 m 
 
 g gown, trimmed with swan's - down,
 
 io6 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 greatly enhanced the effect of the powder 
 on her deHcate complexion, and the touch 
 of carmine she had applied to her lips. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, how beautiful you look ! ' 
 was the girl's first greeting, and the ad- 
 miration was genuine. Mrs Barrington's 
 style and attire were so totally opposed 
 to anything she had been accustomed to 
 see at the convent, that Fenella thought 
 she was the rarest, daintiest vision of 
 beauty that had ever burst upon her 
 sight. She had always considered her 
 friend Honoree pretty, because she loved 
 her ; but Honoree's looks became com- 
 monplace by comparison with those of 
 her mother. Mrs Barrington was not 
 displeased at the compliment. She was 
 so vain that all flattery was welcome to 
 her, even when it came from the lips of 
 an inexperienced child, fresh from her 
 convent school. She bridled and smiled, 
 and told Fenella she was a silly girl to 
 say such things of an old woman whom 
 no one else considered worth looking at.
 
 Reluctant Feet. 107 
 
 *An old woman, mamma! How can 
 you say so ? ' cried her daughter. ' Do 
 you know, my greatest wonder is to find 
 you still so young ? I don't know what 
 I can have been thinking about, but I 
 really expected you to be quite middle- 
 aged, and perhaps have grey hair by this 
 time.' 
 
 ' Foolish child,' murmured Mrs Bar- 
 rington, though rather consciously. 
 
 ' Yes ; am I not ? I suppose it is be- 
 cause I have been away so many years 
 that I make such a mistake. And an- 
 other thing, mamma, I always fancied 
 your hair was dark. I used to tell the 
 girls at school that my mother had dark 
 hair. I. seem quite to have forgotten it 
 was golden — and such a pretty golden 
 too — the prettiest colour, I think, that I 
 have ever seen. How could I be so silly 
 as to forget it ? ' 
 
 ' Children have usually short memories, 
 and take all sorts of fancies into their 
 heads,' replied Mrs Barrington, with a
 
 io8 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 visible Increase of colour. ' I daresay 
 you dreamt It, my dear. But let us take 
 our breakfast, for I have to go shopping 
 this morning.' 
 
 ' How delightful that will be,' chattered 
 Fenella, as she poured out the tea. 
 ' There was a girl at Ansprach who lived 
 In London, and she used to tell us so 
 much about the shops. Are you going 
 to buy me some new dresses, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, my dear,' said Mrs 
 Barrlngton. 
 
 She had come downstairs determined, 
 before breakfast was over, to tell her 
 daughter of the absolute necessity of her 
 going to the sea-side ; but somehow, look- 
 ing into those fearless grey eyes, the 
 task became more difficult than It had 
 seemed to be. 
 
 * I am not sure whether you will re- 
 quire new dresses till the summer Is 
 over,' she went on ; ' for I have several 
 that can be altered nicely for you, and 
 you will be at a quiet sea-side place where
 
 Rehtctant Feet, 109 
 
 your convent uniform will do as well as 
 anything else.' 
 
 ' Shall we ?' exclaimed Fenella eagerly ; 
 * oh, I am very glad of that ! To be at 
 some quiet place with you, where we shall 
 be always together, and there will be no 
 tiresome balls and parties to take you 
 away in the evenings, will be just like 
 heaven, won't it ? And we shall be able 
 to bathe, and to sit on the beach all day, 
 and li Bennett will cut out my frocks, I 
 will make them myself — I love work, and 
 chere mere used to say I was the quickest 
 worker in the school.' 
 
 So ran on Fenella, never doubting but 
 that wherever she went, her mother would 
 go too. For what other reason than to be 
 with her had she been sent home from 
 Ansprach. But Mrs Barrington did not 
 immediately respond. Practised deceiver 
 as she was, she required a little time, in 
 order to frame a politic reply. 
 
 ' I don't think you need trouble your- 
 self about the work, my dear,' she said
 
 1 1 o Reluctant Feet. 
 
 after a pause ; * Bennett will do all that 
 you require, and I want you to enjoy 
 yourself, and get all the strength you can 
 during your visit to the sea. You will 
 never be able to stand a London life, 
 Fenella, if you don't grow strong. I shall 
 want you to go to balls and parties with 
 me by-and-by, and that is very fatiguing 
 for anybody. And, of course, you must 
 bathe — every day — and be in the open air 
 as much as you can. You have evidently 
 been shut up too much at Ansprach.' 
 
 ' Don't you like bathing, mamma ?' 
 
 ' No, my dear ! it doesn't agree with me, 
 nor the sea-side either I I am generally 
 ill there.' 
 
 Fenella's face grew ominously grave. 
 
 ' Oh, mother, don't go then ! What 
 does my health signify in comparison with 
 yours ? Besides, I am really stronger 
 than I look — and now I am with you 
 again, I am sure I shall be quite well. 
 We mustn't go to the sea, mamma ; I 
 shall be wretched if we do.'
 
 ReliLctant Feet. 1 1 1 
 
 ' My dear, I have already . taken a 
 doctor's opinion on the subject, and he 
 says it is absolutely necessary you should 
 have the benefit of sea air. At all risks, 
 therefore, yotc must go to the sea.' 
 
 The tears started into Fenella's eyes. 
 A suspicion of the truth darted on her. 
 
 * Come, come, I must have no fret- 
 ting,' said her mother, as she rose from 
 table ; ' we have all to make sacrifices 
 sometimes in this world, dear, and you 
 will never find me backward, I hope, in 
 setting you a brave example. And now 
 I must leave you for my shopping.' 
 
 ' Mayn't I go with you, mamma ? ' 
 pleaded Fenella as she resolutely swallowed 
 an ominous feeling that had risen in her 
 throat. ' I will be ready before you are ! ' 
 
 Mrs Barrington looked the girl from 
 head to foot. 
 
 ' I would take you directly, Fenella, but 
 not this morning, my love, you see you 
 are scarcely suitably dressed to drive 
 about town. Besides, I am going out
 
 1 1 2 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 on a very uninteresting errand, and shall 
 visit none of the fine shops your school- 
 fellows spoke to you about. My business 
 lies entirely with house-agents and coach- 
 builders. But if you feel inclined for a 
 walk, Bennett shall take you into the 
 park, or down Regent Street, where you 
 will see all the prettiest things in London.' 
 
 ' No thank you, mamma,' replied the 
 girl, in a disappointed tone. ' If I can't 
 go with you, I would rather stay at home 
 till you return.' 
 
 'Just as you please, my dear. I shall 
 be home to luncheon,' said Mrs Barring- 
 ton, as smiling sweetly she tripped up to 
 her room. On the threshold she met 
 Eliza Bennett. 
 
 'Just fancy!' she exclaimed. 'Miss 
 Fenella's taken it into her head to sulk 
 because I refused to let her accompany 
 me out driving this morning. As if I 
 could be seen with a girl dressed up such 
 an object as she is ! But if she's going 
 to turn out sulky, there'll be an end of
 
 Reluctant Feet. 1 1 3 
 
 all peace between us, Bennett. I hate 
 a sullen temper. Her poor father had 
 it, you remember ; and what words it 
 made between us! It was bad enough 
 from a husband, but I never could endure 
 it from a daughter.' 
 
 * I don't think Miss Fenella is sulky, 
 ma'am,' replied Bennett ; ' but I fancy* 
 she's a little disappointed at finding things 
 different from what she expected.' 
 
 'Different! How different?' snapped 
 Mrs Barrington. 
 
 * She hasn't seen much of you since 
 she came home, ma'am.' 
 
 ' How could she expect to do so when 
 I have all these engagements ? Give me 
 the black satin cloak, Bennett, and the 
 velvet bonnet.' 
 
 * Shall you be gone long, ma'am ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I shall be back to luncheon. 
 I am going out early on purpose to be 
 at home when Mr Wilson calls. He is 
 sure to look in this afternoon. And 
 mind, Bennett, if any one comes whilst 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 I f 4 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 I am away, they are not to be admitted. 
 Say I am out, and shall not be back 
 till three o'clock. Do you understand ? ' 
 
 * Yes, ma'am — only, did you not say 
 I was to go to French's this morning 
 about the cleaning of your lace ? ' 
 
 * Of course ! and so you must go, or 
 it will not be done in time. How pro- 
 voking ! You ought to be here to answer 
 the door in case of visitors.' 
 
 ' Can't Mrs Watson do it, ma'am ?' 
 
 * She is so stupid ; she never under- 
 stands an order.' 
 
 ' I'll make her understand, ma'am ; 
 it's easy enough. No one is to be ad- 
 mitted on any account, and Miss Fenella 
 will be quite happy with her books whilst 
 I'm away. I shan't be gone more than 
 half-an-hour.' 
 
 'Very well, Bennett. I leave it to you,' 
 said Mrs Barrington, as she descended 
 to the carriage in waiting for her. 
 
 The servant saw her drive away, 
 and then returned to the breakfast-room,
 
 Reluctant Feet, 115 
 
 where she found Feiiella in a very de- 
 jected attitude, looking out at the leads 
 from the back window. 
 
 'Come, Miss Fenella ! ' she exclaimed. 
 ' I have to go out on a little business 
 for your mamma, and you must try and 
 amuse yourself whilst I am away. There 
 isn't much to see in this room, but if 
 you'll go into the drawing-room, there's 
 a nice fire, and the piano, and plenty of 
 picture-books, and as soon as I come 
 back I'll dust it and set it in order 
 against the mistress has company in the 
 afternoon.' 
 
 Fenella's sad face brightened. Ben- 
 nett's words had suggested that she might 
 be of some use. 
 
 * Is mamma going to have company ? ' 
 she exclaimed. * Let me set the drawing- 
 room in order for her, Bennett. I can 
 do it just as well as you. We always had 
 to make our beds and keep the dormitories 
 clean at St Barbara. Will you give me 
 a duster and a brush, and let me be of
 
 1 1 6 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 use to you and mamma ? ' she said, with 
 a pleading look, as she approached the 
 servant's side. 
 
 ' Of course I will, if it will give you 
 any pleasure, miss,' replied Bennett ; 
 'although it don't seem quite the right 
 thing for your papa's daughter to do. 
 Still, I don't suppose your mamma will be 
 angry, and that's the main point.' 
 
 * I will run and get my apron,' said 
 Fenella, and a few minutes after Bennett 
 left her busily engaged dusting the books 
 and ornaments in the drawing-room. 
 
 * Mind,' said the servant to the owner 
 of the apartments, as she passed her in 
 the hall on her way out, ' if anybody calls 
 whilst I'm absent, you're to say Mrs 
 Barrington won't be back till three. Do 
 you understand ? ' 
 
 * Well, it's not particularly difficult to 
 understand,' muttered the woman, who 
 didn't like being dictated to by a servant. 
 
 Meanwhile Fenella, having dusted all 
 the china and pictures, and looked through
 
 Reluctant Feet, 1 1 7 
 
 the photograph albums (where the only 
 portrait she recognised was that of her 
 father), remembered the piano, and opened 
 it to try Its tone. One of the girl's chief 
 talents lay In music. She was too young 
 to be a finished Instrumentalist, but she 
 possessed a soprano voice of unusual 
 purity and power, which had been assi- 
 duously cultivated by the Sisters of St 
 Barbara, in order that she might perform 
 in their choir. 
 
 To hear Fenella sing was like listening 
 to a thrush at early morning carolling in a 
 lilac bush ; her voice was so fresh and shrill, 
 it reminded you only of a bird that sang 
 because it could not help singing. It 
 lacked as yet the modulation that comes 
 only with culture and experience, but it 
 had that in it which every year would 
 lessen — the sound of nature and youth 
 and gladness that could not be restrained, 
 and yet moved the listener to tears in 
 remembering what he had lost. The girl 
 knew few sonofs and fewer ballads. Such
 
 1 1 8 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 compositions spoke of earth rather than 
 heaven, and had been condemned by the 
 good sisters as dangerous. But she had 
 a glorious stock of hymns and anthems — 
 the grand old Catholic hymns for which 
 the masters of their art had not considered 
 it infra dig, to compose the music, and 
 with which the most solemn acts of 
 Faith of the Church were intimately as- 
 sociated. 
 
 As Fenella opened her mother's piano, 
 the desire to sing came over her, and 
 without preface she placed her hands upon 
 the notes and brought out some such 
 chords as Rossini loved to handle, or 
 Mozart create. And then her pure, 
 young voice rose in unison, and a solemn 
 chant sounded through the rooms that 
 made the woman in the hall pause with 
 her broom in her hand to listen. It was 
 not often (if ever) that such sounds had 
 floated through these apartments. Mrs 
 Barrington was no musician ; she kept her 
 piano for the use of her friends rather than
 
 Reluctant Feet. 119 
 
 herself, and such chords as were usually- 
 struck from it were of a decidedly secular 
 — not to say unholy — nature. So the 
 woman in the hall leant on her broom 
 and said, ' Well, I never ! ' 
 
 At that moment a gentleman came up 
 the front steps and stood at the door — 
 which was open. 
 
 * Is Mrs Barrington at home?* he in- 
 quired. 
 
 * No, sir, she ain't ; and she won't be 
 home till three o'clock.' 
 
 The visitor paused. 
 
 * Surely that is Mrs Barrington's piano 
 that I hear ? ' he said. * Are you quite 
 sure she is out ? ' 
 
 'Quite sure, sir — at least so her ser- 
 vant told me just now. But I think 
 that's the young lady as is playing the 
 pianner.' 
 
 * What young lady ? ' 
 
 * Miss Barrington, sir; she came home 
 yesterday from school.' i 
 
 Mr Henry Wilson (for it was he)
 
 1 20 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 stood and deliberated with himself for a 
 moment. He had heard that the fasci- 
 nating widow, who occupied most of his 
 thoughts at the present time, had a 
 daughter, but he had always imagined 
 she was a little girl of five or six years 
 old. Everything connected with Mrs 
 Barrington was naturally interesting to 
 him, and he suddenly conceived a desire 
 to see the little girl and judge for him- 
 self. So he turned to his informant and 
 said, — 
 
 'If Miss Barrington is at home, I will 
 go upstairs and leave my message with 
 her.' 
 
 This proposal not in any way infring- 
 ing (as the woman thought) on Eliza 
 Bennett's admonition, she led the way 
 to the drawing-room, and opening the 
 door, announced Mr Wilson as ' a gentle- 
 man to see your ma, miss,' and re- 
 tired, leaving him in the presence of 
 Fenella. 
 
 The girl rose from the piano as he
 
 Reluctant Feet. 1 2 1 
 
 appeared, but was in nowise abashed by 
 his entrance. She only made him a 
 sHght reverence (after the poHte fashion 
 in which foreign children are educated), 
 and brought forward a chair for his 
 acceptance, which Mr Wilson, colouring 
 scarlet, seized from her hand with alac- 
 rity. Then he seated himself awkwardly 
 enough — the unexpected appearance of 
 this fine young woman so entirely upset 
 his mental equilibrium — whilst Fenella 
 sat opposite, calmly waiting to hear him 
 address her. 
 
 ' I think I must be mistaken,' he 
 stammered at last. * The person who 
 admitted me said Miss Barrington was 
 at home, but it is quite impossible that 
 you can be the daughter of my friend 
 Mrs Barrington.' 
 
 Fenella looked puzzled, and knit her 
 white brows. 
 
 ' Because I am not so pretty as she is, 
 do you mean ? ' she said ingenuously. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Barrington, how could you
 
 12 2 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 suppose such a thing ? No, indeed ! but 
 I imagined — I had an idea that Mrs 
 Barrington's daughter was quite a little 
 girl.' 
 
 * Had you ? How funny. Did mamma 
 never tell you, then ? I know I am tall 
 for my age, but I was sixteen last birth- 
 day, so I ought to be tall, ought I not ? ' 
 
 * Yes, indeed,' replied Mr Wilson; 'and 
 you are really, then, Fenella Barrington ? * 
 
 * Yes, I am Fenella. I came from the 
 Convent at Ansprach yesterday with our 
 maid Bennett, but mamma and I are soon 
 going away again to some place abroad 
 where I can get well, for I am not very 
 strong. Mamma has gone out on busi- 
 ness, but she will be back to lunch. Do 
 you want to see her 't ' 
 
 * I did call for that purpose, but I am 
 very well pleased to see you instead.' 
 
 * Ah, now ! you are laughing, I am 
 sure. I know I cannot be a bit like 
 mamma to any one. She is so beautiful 
 and so good.'
 
 Reluctant Feet. 123 
 
 * I quite agree with you ; but there 
 are different sorts of beauty in the world 
 Was it your voice that I heard singing 
 when I entered the house ? ' 
 
 At this question Fenella did blush, 
 but she answered frankly, — 
 
 * Yes, it was I — ' 
 
 * Would it be too much to ask you to 
 sing again ? I love music dearly.' 
 
 * Do you ? But I don't think you 
 would care for mine. I don't know 
 any songs — only hymns and chants.' 
 
 ' But sacred music is the most glorious 
 music in the world,' said Mr Wilson. 
 
 * If you think so, I will sing again,' 
 replied Fenella quietly, and she sat 
 down to the piano, and her fresh young 
 voice runof out the notes of an air 
 from Mendelssohn's Hymn of Praise. 
 
 'It is charming! — delicious! How I 
 should like my mother to hear you ! ' 
 exclaimed her visitor, when she had 
 concluded. 
 
 * I don't think mamma would like me
 
 124 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 to sing before company,' said the girl. 
 ' She says I am too young for parties 
 yet. And who is your mother ? ' she 
 added naively. 
 
 ' She is called Lady Wilson, and is 
 a great friend of Mrs Barrington's.' 
 
 ' Then, perhaps, I may be allowed to 
 sing to her ; I cannot say. Are those 
 flowers for my mother ? ' she continued, 
 looking at a hothouse bouquet that Mr 
 Wilson carried in his hand. He had 
 intended them for an offering to the 
 fair widow, but somehow his fealty 
 wavered, and he thought he should like 
 to give them to her daughter instead. 
 He was a man of the world, and to 
 utter a white lie was no difficulty to him. 
 
 'No!' he answered boldly, as he held 
 them towards her. ' I brought them 
 for you.' 
 
 Her look of childish delight repaid 
 him for the onus he had taken on 
 himself. The improbability of the cir- 
 cumstance, when he had confessed him-
 
 Reluctant Feet. \ 2 5 
 
 self unaware of her being in London, 
 never seemed to strike her. 
 
 * Did you really ? ' she exclaimed, as 
 she buried her face in the roses and 
 hyacinths and stephanotis of which the 
 bouquet was composed. * How kind of 
 you to think of me — and when I love 
 flowers so dearly. But I shall give 
 them to my mother. You won't mind 
 that, will you ? — because I have nothing 
 to give her that is really my own, and 
 it seems so hard not to be able to give 
 to those we love. If I had thousands 
 and thousands of pounds, I would spend 
 them all upon my mother.' 
 
 * You are very fond of your mother, 
 Miss Barrineton.' 
 
 * Of course I am ; and I have no father, 
 you know. My papa died when I was 
 only ten years old. Have you seen his 
 likeness ?' 
 
 * I don't think I have,' said Mr Wilson, 
 rather uneasily, the virtues of the late 
 Captain Barrington not having formed
 
 126 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 the usual topic of conversation between 
 the widow and himself. 
 
 Fenella dropped her bouquet, and flew 
 for the photograph book. 
 
 * Here he is ! ' she exclaimed, as she 
 presented it open to her visitor. ' Hasn't 
 he a nice, good face ? Some people think 
 I am very like papa, and I am always so 
 proud to hear them say so. And he was 
 clever too, as well as good. And my poor 
 mother has had to live without him all 
 this time — isn't it sad for her ? ' 
 
 ' Very sad,' replied Henry Wilson, not 
 knowing what else to say. 
 
 ' Bennett thinks that is the reason 
 mamma has kept me so long at An- 
 sprach,' resumed Fenella, in a mysterious 
 voice, * because I remind her too painfully 
 of papa ; but I hope she won't love me 
 the less for that, now that I have come 
 home again.' 
 
 * And are you not going back to school, 
 Miss Barrington ?' 
 
 * No ! — never, I think ; for as soon as I
 
 Reluctant Feet, 1 2 7 
 
 have grown strong and well, I am to go 
 out to balls and parties with mamma. I 
 don't know whether I shall care much for 
 them, but I shall love to go with mamma 
 everywhere, and look at her when I am 
 not speaking to her. It is so very, very 
 long, you see, since we have been to- 
 gether.* 
 
 * I can quite understand your pleasure 
 at the reunion,' replied Mr Wilson, rising ; 
 * and now, I think, I have intruded on 
 your time long enough, Miss Barrington, 
 and had better take my leave.' 
 
 * Won't you wait to see mamma ? ' de- 
 manded Fenella. * She will be back to 
 lunch.' 
 
 * Not this morning, thank you. Will 
 you give Mrs Barrington my kindest re- 
 gards, and say that, if quite convenient 
 to her, I will look in to-morrow after- 
 noon to let her know the final arrange- 
 ments for our starting on Friday.'^' 
 
 ' Are we all going together, then ? ' ex- 
 claimed Fenella brightly. * Oh, that will
 
 128 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 be very nice ! and I shall be able to sing 
 to you whenever you wish me to do so.' 
 
 * I shall claim your promise until, I am 
 afraid, you will regret having given it,' he 
 answered, and then he bowed himself out 
 of the room, and left Fenella smiling and 
 nodding above her bunch of roses and 
 hyacinths. 
 
 * What a nice, kind man 1 ' she thought 
 as the door closed behind him. * If all 
 mamma's friends are like him, I sha'n't 
 be frightened of meeting them. But I 
 must put my lovely flowers in water, lest 
 they should fade before she returns.' 
 
 Meanwhile Henry Wilson went back 
 to his mother's house with somewhat of 
 a cloud upon his brow, which she was 
 not slow to detect. For Lady Wilson, 
 though a hard woman, was a good mother, 
 and this was her only child. 
 
 * Henry,' she asked, * what is the matter 
 with you '^. ' and he answered, — 
 
 * Nothing ! don't bother me,' after the 
 manner of men.
 
 Reluctant Feet. 129 
 
 But Lady Wilson was not to be put off 
 in that way. 
 
 ' Mrs Barrington is at the bottom of 
 this,' she said; 'it's no use your trying 
 to deceive me. There is always some 
 worry about that woman now-a-days, and 
 I wish she had been at the bottom of the 
 sea before I had consented to her making 
 one of our party to Mentone.' 
 
 ' I've not even seen Mrs Barrington this 
 morning,' replied her son. 
 
 ' But you have been to her house ! 
 Whom did you see ? ' 
 
 ' I saw her daughter, ' 
 
 ' Her daughter ! What ! has she got 
 that child home ? What does she intend 
 to do with her ? She can't bring her to 
 Mentone. I hate children in the house. 
 They upset everything.' 
 
 ' But she isn't a child,' interposed Mr 
 Wilson, who was only too glad to have 
 an opportunity of retailing his news. 
 ■' She is quite a young woman, and twice 
 the size of her mother ! I never was so 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 30 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 astonished in my life. She sings charm- 
 ing-ly, and told me she was sixteen on 
 her last birthday.' 
 
 ' Sixteen last birthday,' repeated Lady 
 Wilson, as she made rapid mental calcu- 
 lations. And then she turned round and 
 pounced upon her son. 
 
 * Henry ! haven't I told you again and 
 again that Mrs Barrington is much older, 
 than she looks ? ' 
 
 * I daresay she Is. What does it matter 
 to me ? ' he answered consciously. 
 
 * Well, I hope it doesn't matter, but it's 
 the truth. She's nearer forty than thirty 
 — in fact, I shouldn't be surprised if she's 
 more than forty ; those niminy-piminy 
 women with dolly features always manage 
 to keep their looks to the last. And so 
 the girl's a young woman, is she ? Why, 
 her mother has always spoken of her as 
 if she were still in frilled trousers and 
 frocks.' 
 
 * Yes ; she looks very young, of course, 
 and her hair hangs down her back ; but
 
 Reluctant Feet, 1 3 1 
 
 she's nearly as tall as I am, and she talks 
 as composedly as if she'd been **out" all 
 her life. She's deucedly pretty too, mother, 
 though not at all like Mrs Barrington.' 
 
 ' She's none the worse for that/ snapped 
 Lady Wilson ; ' however, pretty or not, I 
 can't have her at Mentone, and I shall 
 write and tell her mother so. Our party's 
 made up — it was with the greatest incon- 
 venience I could squeeze Mrs Barrington 
 in, and a fifth person will upset everything. 
 Five people can't go in a carriage, nor an 
 opera box, nor a coup6 ; it would split 
 us into two parties at once, and I won't 
 have it. If Mrs Barrington has decided 
 to take her daughter abroad, they must 
 go by themselves. Give me my blotting- 
 book and inkstand, Henry, and let me 
 write and settle this matter at once.' 
 
 * You won't say anything to make Mrs 
 Barrington think we don't want herl re- 
 marked the young man, as he complied 
 with his mother's request. 
 
 * I shall say just what I told you — that
 
 132 Reluctant Feet. 
 
 we can't make room for the girl ; that is 
 all. I know you are very partial to the 
 widow's society, Henry,' she continued 
 pointedly, ' though I sincerely trust there 
 will never be anything but friendship be- 
 tween you ; but you must see that, if she 
 takes her daughter abroad, you will not 
 enjoy even that unmolested. Did Miss 
 Barrington appear to know anything of 
 her mother's plans ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; she spoke of it as a settled thing 
 that she was to accompany her abroad for 
 the sake of her health.' 
 
 ' What impertinence ! and without con- 
 sulting me ! ' replied Lady Wilson, as she 
 commenced to write her letter. * How- 
 ever, Mrs Barrington shall soon know 
 my mind on the matter.' 
 
 * Let me see what you have said,' 
 pleaded her son, as he leant over her 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Certainly. I wish to have no secrets 
 from you, Henry.' 
 
 He read the note through, and sighed.
 
 Reluctant Feet, 133 
 
 ' Is it not right?' demanded his mother. 
 
 ' Yes ; I don't see what else you could 
 have said. Miss Barrington's presence 
 would certainly prove a great kill-joy to 
 the party.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my son,' said Lady Wilson, as 
 she looked up affectionately in his face, 
 ' perhaps, did I consult my own interests, 
 I might put myself out of the way to 
 receive this young lady, for her mother 
 is not a favourite companion of mine. 
 But I want you to see this woman as 
 she is in her own home, Henry — selfish, 
 vain, and worldly — and when you have 
 done that, I will leave the issue of it to 
 your own good sense.' 
 
 ' Hush, mother,' he said gently ; ' don't 
 discuss her faults — it gives me pain ! ' 
 
 ' I know it does ; so does the surgeon's 
 probe when it touches a secret wound. 
 But I cannot believe, Henry, but that 
 you would rather know the worst before 
 marriage than after, and this note will 
 help to show it you. Mrs Barrington has
 
 134 Reluctant Feet, 
 
 been separated for five years from her 
 only child, who returns home — (how it is 
 that she has returned is a mystery to me) — 
 just in time to interfere with her mother's 
 plans of pleasure ! Let us see which the 
 widow prefers — her daughter or herself! 
 There is little doubt which she should 
 prefer, and, I think, even you will ac- 
 knowledge that a bad mother is scarcely 
 likely to make a good wife. Oh, Henry, 
 Henry ! twenty-five and forty — ' 
 
 * No, no, mother ; she carUt be forty ! ' 
 
 ' My boy, I tell you she is. Why, that 
 would only make her twenty-four years 
 old when this girl was born, and — ' 
 
 * Give me your note and I will see 
 it is sent at once,' cried her son, as he 
 seized the letter and left the room, to 
 avoid further discussion of a subject which 
 was beginning to make him feel ashamed 
 as well as miserable.
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 BANISHED. 
 
 * What sudden anger^s this ? How have 
 I reap'd it ? ' 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 LIZA BENNETT'S errand 
 occupied more time than she 
 had calculated upon, and she 
 returned home but a few minutes before 
 her mistress. She was still in her room, 
 taking off her walking things, when Mrs 
 Barrington entered the house. Fenella 
 was on the landing, ready to greet her 
 mother, the bouquet of flowers which 
 Henry Wilson had given her held tightly 
 in both hands behind her back.
 
 136 Banished. 
 
 ' Guess,' she cried gleefully — ' guess, 
 mamma, what I have for you ? ' 
 
 Mrs Barrlngton was even more amiable 
 than she had been in the morning. The 
 agent who had let her apartments had 
 spoken in the highest terms of the probity 
 of the incoming tenants, and had even 
 handed her something on account ; and 
 she had met an old admirer, Sir Gilbert 
 Conroy, who had expressed himself de- 
 lighted at the encounter, and promised to 
 call on her before she left town. So she 
 was quite in the humour to enter into her 
 young daughter s gaiety. 
 
 * How can I guess, you silly girl V she 
 replied, smiling. ' Besides, it's only some 
 trick or other. I know what you children 
 think fun. But if it's a mouse, Fenella, 
 I warn you not to show it to me, or I shall 
 go into convulsions. I never could endure 
 mice, nor black-beetles ; and I remember 
 once when your father (who was always 
 doing something stupid) put a cockchafer 
 on my arm, I nearly had a fit.'
 
 Banished. 1 3 7 
 
 ' Oh, mamma dear ! do you think I 
 would be so silly as to frighten you, or 
 give you anything nasty ? Look at my 
 present. That won't make you go Into a 
 fit, will It ? ' And as Fenella spoke, she 
 thrust the bouquet of roses and stephanotis 
 under her mother's nose. 
 
 At first Mrs Barrlngton was simply sur- 
 prised. She could not Imagine whence 
 the girl had procured such flowers. 
 
 ' I hope you haven't been spending your 
 money on me, Fenella,' she said ; ' for I 
 know how expensive hothouse bouquets 
 are at this time of the year. And your 
 purse cannot be too full, my dear ; I am 
 quite aware of that — ' 
 
 Fenella laughed. 
 
 * Mamma dear, I haven't got a sou ; 
 though, if I had thousands and thousands 
 of pounds, I could not find a greater hap- 
 piness than spending them on you. No, 
 I didn't buy the flowers ; and you must 
 guess where they came from, though I 
 suppose you never will.'
 
 138 Banished. 
 
 * I am sure I shall not, my dear ; so you 
 had better tell me at once.' 
 
 ' But try, mamma — try^ repeated the 
 girl, as she followed Mrs Barrington and 
 the bouquet to the drawing-room. ' Think 
 of where they would be most likely to 
 come from.' 
 
 * Were they left at the door for me ? ' 
 demanded her mother quickly. 
 
 Fenella shook her head, smiling, all un- 
 mindful of the storm which would gather 
 and burst in a moment, and scatter all her 
 gaiety to the winds. 
 
 ' No, no — nobody left them ; but I see I 
 must tell you, mamma. It was a gentle- 
 man who called to see you who gave me 
 the flowers, and he said he had brought 
 them expressly for me. Wasn't it kind of 
 him ? But I told him I should give 
 them to you ; for I would much rather you 
 had them than myself. And, indeed, I 
 would.' 
 
 Mrs Barrington turned pale. 
 
 ' What gentleman ? ' she gasped.
 
 Banished, 1 39 
 
 ' Mr Wilson. He said his mother's 
 name was Lady Wilson, and he made 
 me sing to him, and he wants me to 
 go and sing to her ; but I said I must 
 ask your leave first, as I was not sure 
 if you considered me old enough yet to 
 sing before company.' 
 
 Mrs Barrington dropped the bouquet 
 on the table, and rang the bell violently. 
 
 ' Where is Bennett .-^ ' she demanded, in 
 a harsh voice. 'What was she about to 
 allow such a thing '^. ' and then, without 
 waiting for an answer, she ran to the 
 door and called, ' Bennett ! Bennett ! 
 where are you ? come here at once,' at 
 the top of her voice. 
 
 Fenella stood a little apart, frightened 
 and amazed. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? Have I done 
 wrong ? ' she said, in a timid voice. But 
 her mother took no heed of her quiet 
 supplication. 
 
 ' Where is Bennett } ' she demanded 
 again, with a stamp of the foot, whilst
 
 1 40 Banished. 
 
 the angry colour mounted to the very 
 partings of her hair. 
 
 EHza Bennett had heard the voice, 
 and interpreted its meaning. She ran 
 downstairs without her cap, and stood 
 before her mistress. 
 
 ' Is anything wrong, ma'am ? ' was her 
 first interrogation. 
 
 ' What were my orders to you on 
 leaving this house ? ' exclaimed Mrs Bar- 
 rlngton fiercely. ' Didn't I say that no 
 one was to be admitted during my ab- 
 sence 1 What is the use of my giving 
 orders if they are not obeyed — if there 
 is no more attention paid to my wishes 
 than if I was a cipher in my own 
 house ! ' 
 
 ' But, indeed, ma'am, I don't under- 
 stand,' replied Bennett, trembling. ' I 
 gave your orders most particular to 
 Mrs Watson, the very last thing be- 
 fore I left home, and she promised to 
 attend to them ; and I left Miss Fenella 
 busy dusting the drawing-room ; and I've
 
 Banished. 1 4 1 
 
 heard nothing of any one having been 
 here whilst I was away ! ' 
 
 ' You never hear anything, nor see 
 anything — you're no use to me at all,' 
 cried her mistress angrily, and then she 
 turned on Fenella. ' And what did you 
 mean by asking the gentleman upstairs ! 
 Do you suppose a child like you is a 
 proper person to receive my guests ? 
 It's a piece of insufferable impertinence 
 on your part, which may lead to all 
 kinds of mischief.' 
 
 ' Indeed — indeed, mamma,' said Fenella, 
 in a faltering voice, ' I did not ask him 
 up. I was singing at the piano, when 
 a woman opened the door and showed 
 the gentleman in. I couldn't turn him 
 out, could I ? — and when he had brought 
 me those beautiful flowers.' 
 
 ' Don't be rude to me, miss/ returned 
 her mother sharply, 'for I won't stand 
 it. And I don't believe Mr Wilson 
 brought the flowers for you at all. He 
 didn't know you were in existence, and
 
 142 Banished. 
 
 never should have except for this blun- 
 dering piece of folly.* 
 
 As these v^ords revealed one of the 
 traits in her mother's character, Fenella 
 turned white, and shrunk farther from 
 her. She was a child in her ignorance 
 of the world and its ways, but she had 
 been reared in a school that taught 
 her to distinguish truth from falsehood, 
 and a righteous anger from intemper- 
 ance. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say, ma'am,' mur- 
 mured Bennett confidentially, 'as Mr 
 Wilson have been here ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I do ! What's the good of your 
 whispering in that absurd manner ? All 
 the town will know it before long. He 
 has been in this room sitting with that 
 child, and making her sing to him — and 
 receiving all her confidences, I suppose, 
 in exchange. I'd bet anything she told 
 him her age. Didn't you, now ? ' turn- 
 ing to Fenella. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the girl, in a low, sad
 
 Banished. 143 
 
 voice; *he asked me. How could I help 
 telling him ? ' 
 
 ' You hear what she says, Bennett ? 
 The very thing I wished to avoid has 
 come to pass, and all through your idiotcy, 
 or that of Watson, Send for that woman 
 to come to me at once. If I'm not to 
 have my orders obeyed, I shall give up 
 her rooms as soon as the season's oven' 
 
 ' Don't you think it's best to keep this 
 to ourselves, ma'am ? ' suggested Bennett, 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Obey my orders, and don't attempt to 
 dictate to me ! ' exclaimed her mistress, 
 who, once in a rage, refused all counsel, 
 and completely lost sight of policy. 
 
 In another minute Mrs Watson stood 
 in the doorway. 
 
 ' Mrs Watson ! didn't you understand 
 Bennett to say that no visitors were to 
 be admitted during my absence this morn- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' No, I didn't,' replied the woman sul- 
 lenly.
 
 144 Banished. 
 
 * Don't presume to answer me in that 
 tone. Bennett says she gave you the 
 order distinctly.' 
 
 ' She did nothing of the sort,' repHed 
 Mrs Watson ; ' because, in the first place, 
 I don't take orders from servants, and in 
 the second, what she said was that if any- 
 body called I was to tell 'em you wouldn't 
 be home till three. And so I did.' 
 
 ' So it was your fault,' said Mrs Bar- 
 rington, turning upon Eliza Bennett. 
 
 * Oh no, ma'am. I'm sure Mrs Wat- 
 son must have mistaken my words, or 
 forgot them, for I remember I told her 
 most particularly.' 
 
 ' Look here, Mrs Bennett ! ' interrupted 
 the woman of the house. ' I didn't mis- 
 take your words nor your meaning ; but 
 if I had, it would have made no differ- 
 ance, and for this reason — that I refuses 
 to be a party to any underhand dealings, 
 and if a gentleman or lady asks civilly to 
 walk upstairs and leave a message, why, 
 I shall let 'em do it so long as this house
 
 Banished. 145 
 
 belongs to me. And I take this oppor- 
 tunity to tell you, ma'am,' she continued, 
 turning to Mrs Barrington, * that I don't 
 care for your ways of going on, and you 
 must tell your own lies in future, for 
 I won't tell no more for you — and so 
 there I ' 
 
 With which emphatic ending Mrs Wat- 
 son unceremoniously left the room, and 
 slammed the door after her. 
 
 'Did you ever hear such insolence?' 
 cried Mrs Barrington, relapsing into tears 
 of rage. ' And this is what yozt, have 
 brought upon me, Fenella, with your 
 abominable forwardness and stupidity.' 
 
 The girl left the corner where she had 
 been listening with horror to the quarrel 
 between the landlady and her mother, 
 and coming forward, threw herself on her 
 knees beside Mrs Barrineton's chair. 
 
 ' Oh, mother, mother ! ' she said, with 
 
 a ring of despair in her youthful voice, 
 
 'tell me if I've been wrong, but don't 
 
 say I was forward or impertinent, for 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 Bmtzshed. 
 
 indeed I only acted as I thought you 
 would wish me to do.' 
 
 ' Be good enough to get up,' replied 
 Mrs Barrington, in a cold, selfish tone. 
 ' I am not used to melodramatics, and 
 do not understand them. If you think 
 that, because you have come home, one 
 of your duties will be to receive my 
 visitors and worry them to death with 
 your nonsensical talk, you are very much 
 mistaken. However, it will not occur 
 again ; I shall take good care of that ! 
 Bennett, go and see if luncheon is on 
 the table. This business has perfectly 
 upset me.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! won't you say a kind 
 word to me ? I feel as if my heart was 
 breaking,' sobbed Fenella, as she rose 
 from the position she had assumed. 
 
 ' I really don't know what I have to 
 say,' replied Mrs Barrington, in the same 
 hard tone. 'If, as you declare, you com- 
 mitted this folly ignorantly, you have no 
 need of my forgiveness ; but your con-
 
 Banished. 147 
 
 duct has put me to the greatest Incon- 
 venience, and done yourself no good, as 
 you will find out by-and-by.' 
 
 The selfish woman perceived already 
 that the incident would pave the way to 
 her eettine rid of her dauofhter, with a 
 more plausible excuse than she had yet 
 been able to devise. At the same time, 
 she did not know what harm mio^ht not 
 have been done to her cause with Mr 
 Henry Wilson, and was proportionately 
 anxious and harassed. 
 
 Bennett, who felt herself to be In dis- 
 grace, and was about as low-spirited as 
 Fenella, here announced, In a subdued 
 voice, that the luncheon was on the 
 table, and the mother and daughter walked 
 Into the dininor-room. 
 
 It was a miserable meal. Fenella, 
 who hardly knew now wherein she had 
 offended, ate nothing ; and Mrs Barring- 
 ton, although her temper had not de- 
 stroyed her appetite, consumed her cutlets 
 and sherry In distressing silence. Before
 
 148 Banished. 
 
 the luncheon-table was cleared, a letter 
 was handed to her by Eliza Bennett, 
 who had recognised the writing in fear 
 and trembling. 
 
 ' From Lady Wilson ! ' exclaimed Mrs 
 Barrington, with an ominous frown. * I 
 thought as much. Be good enough to 
 remain and hear what she says, Bennett. 
 I wish both you and Fenella to know 
 what you have brought upon me by your 
 disobedience and ingratitude.' 
 
 She broke the seal as she spoke, and 
 having first perused the note to herself, 
 commenced to read it aloud, with inter- 
 polations of her own rendering. 
 
 '''My dear Mrs Barrington, — My 
 son tells me that he has just seen your 
 daughter, who informed him that she 
 was about to accompany our party to 
 Mentone — " 
 
 * There now ! Didn't I say, Bennett, 
 that that child's coming home would be 
 my ruin ? Going to Mentone indeed !
 
 Banished. 149 
 
 Who ever told you such a thing, and 
 how dare you invent falsehoods on your 
 own account [ Is that the training you've 
 received at the convent — to tell lies ? ' 
 cried Mrs Harrington coarsely, as she 
 turned upon her shrinking daughter. 
 
 ' I never mentioned Mentone, mamma. 
 I said I was going somewhere abroad 
 with you for the sake of my health, as 
 you told me this morning.' 
 
 ' I never told you any such thing, miss ; 
 don't attempt to foist your inventions 
 upon me. Now, what does the woman 
 say more ? 
 
 ' " I shall be sorry to upset any plans you 
 may have made for yourself and Miss Bar- 
 rington, but I am afraid I cannot pos- 
 sibly make room for any further addition 
 to our household. You know how limited 
 the accommodation of the Villa Abracci is. 
 Of course, we can hardly expect you to 
 separate from your daughter, especially as 
 you have not seen her for so many years. 
 Therefore, if you wish to give up your
 
 1 50 Banished, 
 
 engagement with me, do not hesitate to do 
 so, as Miss Russell will be only too happy 
 to take your place. Had Miss Barrington 
 been a child, we might have managed 
 to squeeze her in ; but my son tells me 
 she Is quite a grown-up young lady, so 
 that I feel compelled to let you know my 
 dilemma at once. I will call to-morrow 
 morning and receive your answer. — Yours 
 sincerely, Margaret Wilson." ' 
 
 ' You see ! ' exclaimed Mrs Barrington 
 emphatically, as she finished her friend's 
 note, and brought down her closed fist 
 upon the luncheon-table, — ' You see, per- 
 haps now, both of you, what you have 
 done. Lady Wilson tries at once to get 
 rid of me — wants to put that red-haired 
 Miss Russell in my place — just because 
 the girl's got two thousand a-year, and 
 on the score of Miss Barrinorton beine 
 ''quite a grown-ztp yotmg lady'' — (the 
 one thing on earth I wanted to keep from 
 the woman !) — she thinks I shall wish to
 
 Banished. 1 5 1 
 
 resign my engagement with her ! But 
 Lady Wilson will find that I am rather 
 too sharp for that. And she is comJng 
 here to-morrow morning to receive my 
 answer — which means that she is coming 
 to look at that gawky girl, and then 
 run round to tell everybody she knows 
 that Miss Barrington is twenty if she is 
 a day. But I will circumvent her good 
 intentions. She shall have her answer 
 from me at once ! ' 
 
 Mrs Barrington rose from the table as 
 she spoke, and going to her desk, hastily 
 scribbled the following words, — 
 
 ' Dear Lady Wilson, — Your son must 
 have entirely mistaken what my little girl 
 said to him this morning. How do you 
 suppose that anything would make me 
 wish to break through my engagement 
 with you ? Besides, I couldn't take F'en- 
 ella abroad with me if I wished it, as 
 Dr Melville says it is imperative she 
 should go to the sea-side this summer, and
 
 152 BanisJied. 
 
 she starts for Wales under the charge of 
 her old nurse to-morrow afternoon. She 
 has grown too fast for her age, poor child, 
 and requires a more bracing air than Men- 
 tone. With my kindest regards to your 
 circle, — believe me, dear Lady Wilson, 
 yours very truly, 
 
 * RosiNA Barrington.' 
 
 When Mrs Barrlngton had finished this 
 note, she read It aloud for the benefit 
 of her daughter and servant, and then 
 ordered Bennett to despatch It by a 
 messenger at once. 
 
 ' And bring me the railway guide from 
 the drawing-room table,' she added. ' If 
 there Is a train to Ines-cedvvyn this after- 
 noon, you will have to start by It.' 
 
 Fenella had listened to her mother's 
 note In silent amazement. That she was 
 to be separated again from her, and sent 
 away In charge of Eliza Bennett, had never 
 entered her head before. As the railway 
 guide made its appearance, and Mrs Bar-
 
 Banished. 153 
 
 rington began to search through Its pages, 
 she watched her proceedings through a 
 mist of tears, but she said nothing. 
 
 ' Ines-cedwyn — Ines-cedwyn — let me 
 see,' mused Mrs Barrington, as though 
 the matter were one of no concern to 
 her Hsteners. ' Yes, there is a train 
 starts from Paddington at four o'clock, 
 and reaches Lynwern (that's the nearest 
 town, isn't it, Bennett ?) at ten. You 
 must bundle your things and Fenella's 
 into your boxes as quick as you can, 
 and be off to Paddington in time to 
 catch it.' 
 
 * But — two hours — ma'am ; it's no time 
 to get ready in,' stammered the servant. 
 ' Besides, Martha won't be prepared for 
 our coming. I only wrote to her this 
 morning ; and Lynwern is a good three 
 miles from our part of the country. 
 Hadn't we better wait till to-morrow .^ ' 
 
 'Certainly not! If I had thought 
 you had better wait till to-morrow, I 
 shouldn't have told you to go to-day.
 
 154 Banished. 
 
 Do you take me for a fool, Bennett ? 
 I think both you and Fenella must, 
 from the way in which you treated me 
 this morning ; but it will be the last time, 
 you may depend upon that/ 
 
 ' Oh, mother ! ' cried Fenella, finding 
 her voice in her extremity, ' pray don't 
 send me away all alone with Bennett. 
 Let me go back to Ansprach instead. 
 I am no trouble to them there. The nuns 
 love me, and Honoree was very unhappy 
 when I had to leave her ; and if I had 
 thought it was for any one but you, I 
 don't think I could have borne it. Please 
 send me back to the convent. I shall 
 never get strong away from everybody 
 who cares for me — ' and here Fenella's 
 courage broke down, and she wept pite- 
 ously. 
 
 Bennett came round to her side of the 
 table, and patted the girl's hand, whilst her 
 mother looked on in cool indifference. 
 
 ' Don't talk of impossibilities,' she said 
 presently ; * and pray don't make such a
 
 Banished, \ 5 5 
 
 horrid noise, Fenella. You positively 
 deafen me. As for Ansprach, you are 
 not likely to see that again. I consider 
 that the reverend mother has behaved 
 most impertinently In sending you home 
 when I said I v^Ished you to remain 
 there ; and I shall certainly not trouble 
 her any more in the matter. And there 
 is nothlnof to make a fuss about. You 
 are going to a beautiful place by the sea- 
 side, under the charge of Bennett, who 
 will take every care of you ; and as the 
 medical opinion is that you must have sea 
 air, you ought to be very grateful to have 
 so much trouble taken on your account. 
 But I must say I don't think gratitude 
 is one of your prominent qualities. You 
 must take after your poor papa in that 
 respect. Instead of remembering the 
 sacrifice / am obliged to make in giving 
 up Bennett's services to you, and having 
 to wait on myself, and the expense I 
 shall be put to in paying for you at 
 Ines-cedwyn, you cry and howl as if
 
 156 Banished. 
 
 I were doing myself a benefit In send- 
 ing you there. But I am used to In- 
 gratitude in this world/ concluded Mrs 
 Barrlngton, with the air of a martyr, ' and 
 am no longer surprised at It.' 
 
 ' Come, my dear,' whispered Bennett, 
 soothingly, to Fenella ; * If you wish to 
 please your mamma, you'll just take 
 things quietly, for no crying will alter 
 them. And If we are to start by four 
 o'clock, why, I shall want every bit of 
 your help to get the things Into the 
 boxes In time.' 
 
 At these words the girl rose, and 
 brushing her hand across her eyes, fol- 
 lowed Bennett silently from the room. She 
 did not give another glance to the place 
 where her mother sat. Her last selfish 
 speech had revealed more to her daughter 
 than she had ever wished to know ; and 
 some great hope In her life which she 
 had cherished for years past, seemed 
 suddenly to have been overthrown and 
 crumbled into dust.
 
 Banished. 157 
 
 As Bennett and Fenella disappeared, 
 Mrs Barrinorton felt rather mean and 
 small. It was an ignoble way by which 
 to have gained a victory, and she ex- 
 perienced more of the feelings of the 
 conquered than the conqueror. But she 
 consoled herself with the idea that it was 
 absolutely necessary that she should take 
 some stringent measures in order to secure 
 her own success in life. 
 
 ' Of course the poor child thinks I am 
 hard,' she pondered, ' for it is impossible 
 I can explain my motives to her ; but 
 it is for her sake as well as my own, 
 and she will thank me for it by- 
 and-by.' 
 
 Yet though she argued thus, Mrs Bar- 
 rington did not follow her daughter up- 
 stairs to offer any consolation in the shape 
 of soothing words or caresses. Truth to 
 say, she was afraid of Fenella. The girl 
 looked her so steadily in the face, she 
 could not tell falsehoods easily in her 
 presence, and was continually on thorns
 
 158 Banished. 
 
 lest her remarks should evoke so straight- 
 forward a question that she should find 
 great difficulty In replying to it. But 
 had Mrs Barrlngton known It, she need 
 not have been afraid of Fenella's frank- 
 ness now. The girl was too unhappy and 
 too subdued to have questioned anything 
 her mother mieht have said to her. She 
 helped Eliza Bennett to pack their boxes 
 and arrayed herself In her travelling 
 costume In complete silence , and Mrs 
 Barrlneton did not see her ag^aln until 
 she stood before her, ready for departure, 
 and uttered In a low voice, — 
 
 ' Good-bye, mamma.' 
 
 Her mother started from her seat. 
 
 * Dear me ! Is It really time for 
 you to go ? Has Bennett sent for a 
 cab?' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' replied the servant ; ' and 
 the boxes are on, and we have only 
 half-an-hour to catch the train, so the 
 sooner we are off the better.' 
 
 With the cab waiting at the door, and
 
 Banished. 159 
 
 the luggage actually on the top of it, 
 Mrs Barrlnorton could afford to become 
 sentimental. 
 
 ' Good-bye, my sweet child,' she said, 
 as she kissed Fenella's face. 'It is sad 
 to have to part again so soon ; but it is 
 for your health, you know, and we must 
 submit for that reason. And I am sorry 
 that anything disagreeable should have 
 occurred in the short time we have been 
 together, but it was all the fault of that 
 stupid Mrs Watson, and I shall take good 
 care to let her know it. Good-bye, dear 
 Bennett,' she continued, as she shook the 
 servant by the hand ; ' mind you look well 
 after my child, and bring her back to 
 me quite strong again. I shall write to 
 you as soon as I have any settled address, 
 but we are likely to be moving about 
 for the first few weeks. You have suffi- 
 cient money, have you not, to last you 
 a month ? — and I will send you a re- 
 mittance as scon as the tenants pay their 
 first instalment.'
 
 i6o Banished. 
 
 Eliza Bennett was visibly affected at 
 parting from her mistress. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear lady ! ' she exclaimed, as 
 she kissed the hand extended to her ; ' it 
 is sorrowful work to think I shall not see 
 you again for so long a time. But you 
 will write to me, madam, will you not, 
 and let me know how you are, and how 
 you manage without me ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I shall, you silly creature,' 
 rejoined Mrs Barrington, with real tears in 
 her eyes. ' Come, give me a kiss. That 
 is right ; and don't set my little girl a bad 
 example. One more good-bye, F^enella. 
 And now run away, both of you, for I 
 cannot bear the strain much longer.' 
 
 She sank into a chair as they obeyed 
 her orders, and put her cambric handker- 
 chief to her eyes, whilst Eliza Bennett 
 was compelled to lift the corner of her 
 shawl to wipe away the tears that were 
 running down her cheeks. As the cab 
 set off, she considered it necessary to 
 apologise to Fenella for her emotion.
 
 Banished. i6i 
 
 * I can't help it, miss,' she said, * though 
 I daresay you will think I am very foolish, 
 but I've waited on your dear mamma, as 
 I may say, day and night for the last 
 twenty years, and she's so used to turn 
 to me for dressing and everything that I 
 don't know what she'll do now I'm gone, 
 — and I'm sure I sha'n't rest at night for 
 worrying myself about her. But I'm 
 afraid you must think I'm a poor crea- 
 ture to give way after this fashion, but I 
 shall be all right again in a minute or 
 two.' 
 
 For Fenella was sitting by Bennett's 
 side, with the same dry eyes with which 
 she had witnessed her mother's affected 
 farewell. Her heart had received a shock 
 from which it would not easily recover ; 
 and her short sojourn in South Audley 
 Street already began to assume the ap- 
 pearance of some ugly dream. She said 
 nothing in answer to the servant's appeal, 
 but the tightened grasp she laid upon her 
 hand proved she was not without feeling 
 VOL. r. L
 
 1 62 Banished. 
 
 Bennett felt for her young mistress's dis- 
 appointment, and thought it only natural 
 at first that she should be unable to speak 
 of it. But when they were in the train 
 for Ines-cedwyn, and had performed half 
 the journey, and Fenella had neither made 
 a remark upon what had happened in 
 London nor asked a question concerning 
 their destination, the servant began to think 
 her reticence was unnatural and alarming. 
 
 ' Miss Fenella,' she said suddenly, 
 * aren't you going to speak a word to 
 me all day } Do you know where we are 
 going, miss ? — to my brother Benjamin's 
 farm in Ines-cedwyn. It will look a poor 
 place to you, I'm afraid, after that big 
 convent ; but we'll manage to make you 
 comfortable, and you'll get plenty of fresh 
 sea air, which is what your mamma says 
 you want most. Do try and cheer up a 
 bit, my dear, and take an interest in 
 what's going on around you. It's sad work 
 for both of us, I know, but we must try 
 and make the best of it'
 
 Banished. 163 
 
 * Bennett,' said Fenella, raising her 
 solemn eyes to the servant's face, ' you 
 must explain one thing to me. Why 
 has mamma sent me away ? I want to 
 know the real truth about It.' 
 
 They were the only occupants of the 
 carriage they travelled In, so Bennett had 
 no hesitation In answering, — 
 
 * Well, miss, I think you ought to know, 
 for you are not a child any longer, what- 
 ever the mistress may choose to say, and 
 I am sure I can trust you not to tell your 
 mamma that I said anything about It.' 
 
 ' I am not likely to have the oppor- 
 tunity of repeating It,' replied Fenella In 
 a sad voice. 
 
 ' Well, miss, the long and the short of 
 It Is, you are too much In your mamma's 
 way.' 
 
 ' In mamma s zvay ? ' echoed the girl, 
 with open eyes. 
 
 'Yes, Miss Fenella. You see your 
 mamma Is quite young looking still, and 
 has her own pleasures and occupations.
 
 1 64 Banished. 
 
 and a grown - up young lady like you 
 would be apt to Interfere with them. I 
 saw that from the beginning — indeed, 
 you would have spoiled all her plans 
 if she had kept you by her. So I 
 really don't blame her for sending you 
 away, though I wish she had shown a 
 little more heart in the matter.' 
 
 ' But how could I spoil her plans — 
 my own mother's plans? Does she think 
 I would have been so wicked or mis- 
 chievous as that ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, you're so innocent I hardly 
 know how to talk to you. But has It 
 never struck you that the mistress might 
 marry again ? ' 
 
 Fenella looked aghast. 
 
 ' What ! Have another husband, nurse ? 
 But my father was her husband.' 
 
 * Of course he was — whilst he lived ; 
 but now he's dead, the mistress is at 
 liberty to do as she pleases, and most 
 people's surprise is that she hasn't 
 married again long before this.'
 
 Banished. 165 
 
 * Does mamma want to be married 
 again ? ' cried Fenella in horror. 
 
 ' I don't suppose she'd marry if she 
 didn't wish it, miss ; and of course it's 
 uncertain even now. But perhaps it 
 will help you to understand why she 
 felt you to be in her way. Few gentle- 
 men would care to marry a lady with 
 such a tall daughter as you are.' 
 
 * But she must tell them ; they must 
 know some day,' said Fenella. 
 
 ' Ah ! so they will, perhaps, when it's 
 too late to mend matters,' quoth Bennett 
 oracularly. ' But then it won't signify 
 what they think. I shouldn't wonder if 
 you had another papa, miss, before ever 
 you see your mamma again.' 
 
 * Another papa ! ' echoed Fenella. ' Oh 
 no, nurse, that is impossible ! Mamma 
 may have another husband, but I can 
 never have another father, and — and — if 
 she has, we shall be further apart than 
 ever,' she added in a choking voice. 
 
 * No, miss, you mustn't think that. Fm
 
 i66 Banished. 
 
 sure the mistress would have been very 
 fond and proud of you, if there hadn't 
 been none of these bothering gentlemen 
 to come between you. It's a great pity, 
 but it was just the very awkwardest time 
 of any that you could have been sent 
 home. I told the reverend mother so, 
 over and over again, but she was deter- 
 mined to have her own way, and you 
 see what trouble she's given us.' 
 
 * It wasn't her fault,' said Fenella, ' if 
 chere mere had thought — I am sure if 
 she had known how my presence would 
 worry mamma, she would have kept me 
 at Ansprach sooner than let me come 
 home only to be sent away again. I feel 
 like an orphan, Bennett — as if there was 
 no one in all the world who ever cared 
 for me, except my father, and he is 
 gone. Oh, how I wish that I could go 
 to him!' 
 
 * Don't speak like that, my dear,' said 
 Bennett soothingly. ' I shouldn't like even 
 your papa to hear you ; I feel as if it
 
 Banished, 167 
 
 would vex him so. And Tin sure, after a 
 bit, that you'll be very happy at Ines- 
 cedwyn. There is no beach there, not 
 to speak of, Miss Fenella, but such a beau- 
 tiful strip of sand — fine yellow sand, that 
 shines In the sun like gold. And the 
 trees, they grow almost down to the 
 water's edge. It's very quiet. Is Ines- 
 cedwyn, but a fine place for fish. I sup- 
 pose there's as much fish taken there as 
 ever goes to the London market from one 
 place ; and it's so plentiful, they manure 
 the land with It. And the people there 
 all ride donkeys. Do you like riding 
 donkey-back, Miss Fenella ? I shall get 
 my brother to borrow a side-saddle for 
 you ; and then you will be able to go long 
 jaunts by yourself, for Ines-cedwyn's such 
 a lovely place. You can do as you please 
 there ; and, as you may fancy, I'm a bit 
 past donkey - riding. Oh, don't look so 
 scared and white, my dear ! You'll make 
 yourself ill — Indeed you will ; and if you 
 take to fretting for what can't be helped,
 
 1 68 Banished, 
 
 all the sea air in the world won't do you 
 a bit of good.' 
 
 But the only answer Eliza Bennett's 
 eloquence produced was the stifled cry, — 
 
 * Oh, nurse ! if she had only loved me a 
 little — the least little bit — I would have 
 died for her ; indeed, indeed, I would ! '
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN A NEW WORLD. 
 
 ' The bridegroom sea 
 Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride ; 
 And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, 
 He decorates her tawny brow with shells, 
 Retires a pace to see how fair she looks, 
 Then, proud, runs up to kiss her.' 
 
 Alexander Smith. 
 
 WONDER if any one who 
 reads these pages will recog- 
 nise Ines-cedwyn — not under 
 that name assuredly, nor perhaps in the 
 same hemisphere, but as a place existing 
 somewhere in this wide world, where men 
 and women have met and loved and suf- 
 fered. In the disguise under which it is 
 here represented, it was a fishing hamlet
 
 1 70 In a New World. 
 
 only, the scanty population of which lived 
 by the labour of their own hands. There 
 was no almighty squire of Ines-cedwyn to 
 rule the people by his frown, and hunt 
 over the springing wheat to the ruin of 
 the farmer ; no noble landlord to keep a 
 bullying agent to represent him, and 
 force the tenants to make Improvements 
 they could not afford, at the risk of having 
 their leases cancelled. Ines-cedwyn was 
 too humble a place to enjoy such privi- 
 leges, which some said was so much the 
 better for Ines-cedwyn. Its land was too 
 near the sea to be worthy the attention of 
 any but the smallest farmers ; and the 
 majority of the cluster of humble dwell- 
 ings that called themselves by Its name 
 were inhabited by fishermen. 
 
 Lynwern, which was three miles off, 
 was becoming quite a fashionable water- 
 ing - place ; and occasionally its visitors 
 found their way over to Ines-cedwyn, but 
 they never stayed there. One person, 
 indeed, a city merchant, had once thought
 
 In a New World. 171 
 
 he would like to build himself a retreat In 
 Ines-cedwyn, where he might fly when 
 sick of the world and its society, and 
 enjoy the pleasures of solitude and medi- 
 tation. So he purchased part of the rights 
 of the beach, and erected a villa on the 
 very sands, not a stone's-throw from the 
 water, and In memory of some old associa- 
 tions with a sojourn in the East, had 
 named it ' The Beach Bungalow.' 
 
 This had happened years and years 
 before ; the merchant had soon grown 
 tired of his plaything, and the ' bunga- 
 low ' was In ruins. Agents had tried 
 to let it for him, but no one had been 
 found willing to take it. For in the first 
 place, those who desired to live comfort- 
 ably in Ines-cedwyn were obliged to have 
 all their provisions sent over from Lyn- 
 wern ; and In the second, the merchant 
 had had the ' bungalow ' built after his 
 recollection of Its Indian counterpart, 
 which made It an Inconvenient residence 
 for the changeable climate of Wales. It
 
 172 In a New World. 
 
 consisted of three rooms only, all facing 
 the sea ; but with a wide bricked ver- 
 andah, which was of the same length 
 and breadth of the rest of the villa, shad- 
 ing them In front. A small kitchen and 
 wash-house had been built out, at some 
 little distance behind, but were now 
 reduced to nothing better than sheds. 
 Indeed, the whole of the ' bungalow ' 
 presented a most forlorn appearance. 
 The windows were broken or gone, the 
 doors were off their hinges, the roof leaked 
 like a cullender, and the birds of the 
 air made It their habitation. Added to 
 all this, it had the reputation of being 
 haunted, which was supposed to give 
 It the only interest it possessed In the 
 eyes of the visitors of Lynwern, who 
 sometimes made picnic parties to Ines- 
 cedwyn. In order to lunch on the floor 
 of the ruined bungalow. 
 
 It stood all alone on a long strip of 
 golden sand, which stretched on either 
 side as far as eye could reach. This
 
 In a New World. i ']'^^ 
 
 stretch of sand was the glory of Ines- 
 cedwyn, and the villagers often grumbled 
 at the superior popularity of Lynwern, 
 and wondered how ladies and gentlemen 
 could perfer a shingly beach that cut 
 their shoes and boots to ribbons, to a 
 place where they might walk for miles 
 when the tide was out, with as much 
 ease as in their own drawine-rooms. 
 And when the tide came in, what a stcave 
 and gentlemanly tide it was. It never 
 made much racket even in the wildest 
 weather, for the waves soon found they 
 had nothing to buffet against, and were 
 compelled to run up the sands, a little 
 more hastily than usual, perhaps, but still 
 not in a manner to frighten the most 
 timid looker on, though they had been 
 known on one or two occasions to wash 
 right through the ' Beach Bungalow,' and 
 out on the other side. 
 
 But it was spring now, and a remark- 
 ably warm spring, and the Ines-cedwyn 
 tide had never been seen to greater
 
 1 74 hi a New World. 
 
 advantage. The waves were mere ripples 
 on the water, and they broke Hke music 
 and ran in upon the yellow sands like 
 cream, leaving behind them upon every 
 visit unbroken pink - lipped shells, and 
 perfect branches of green and yellow 
 sea-weed, which they had carried on 
 their quiet breasts from foreign shores. 
 The fishermen said there never had 
 been finer weather nor calmer seas in 
 the memory of all Ines-cedwyn, and day 
 after day the fishing smacks put out from 
 shore and returned laden with their 
 shining spoils. 
 
 Benjamin Bennett, Eliza Bennett's 
 brother, took no part in such proceed- 
 ings. He was a farmer on a very 
 small scale, or at least they called him 
 so in that part of the country. He was 
 the owner of a small patch of arable 
 land, from which he procured a toler- 
 able crop of hay ; and he had a large 
 market garden, the produce of which he 
 carried daily into Lynwern. In fact in
 
 Ill a New World, 175 
 
 England he would have been termed a 
 market gardener. He had a horse and 
 cart and a cow in the shed, which did 
 duty for a stable ; five or six pigs fatting 
 in the stye ; a considerable number of 
 cocks and hens, and a pretty little flower 
 garden. His cottage consisted of some 
 half-dozen rooms, furnished poorly but 
 decently, for his wife Martha was a not- 
 able woman, and they kept a girl to help 
 in the house and farm work. They had 
 no family, and so they had managed to 
 save a small sum of money, and Mr 
 and Mrs Bennett were considered to be 
 amongst the most thriving and respect- 
 able inhabitants of Ines-cedwyn. Their 
 cottage was situated about half-a-mile 
 from the sea, in the centre of the village, 
 and a broad piece of marshy land lay 
 between it and the beach. 
 
 Here all was green and leafy enough, 
 and one might have thought a hundred 
 miles separated the flowery little hamlet 
 from the briny ocean, though a suspicious
 
 1 76 In a New World. 
 
 smell of tar and rope pervaded most of 
 the fishermen's dwellings. 
 
 On the evening on which Eliza Bennett 
 and Fenella travelled down from London 
 to Lynwern, Martha and Benjamin, all 
 unmindful of the proximity of their nearest 
 relation, had retired to rest even earlier 
 than usual, for their cow had presented 
 them with a calf that morning, and they 
 had sat up all night with her in anticipa- 
 tion of the event. But they would have 
 sat up a second night with alacrity, had 
 they Imagined Eliza was so close at 
 hand. 
 
 They were very proud of Eliza and 
 her doings, and each time a letter reached 
 them in her writing, they were not satis- 
 fied till they had read It out to all the 
 village. She represented the 'genteel' 
 portion of the family to their ignorant 
 minds. They were never weary of hear- 
 ing of the grand doings of her mistress 
 (and none of Mrs Barrlngton's doings 
 suffered in importance by passing through
 
 In a New World. 177 
 
 Eliza's hands), nor of the foreign places 
 to which her maid accompanied her. 
 
 ' Think of our Eliza being at Paris, and 
 seeing the Hemperor and Hempress!' 
 Martha would exclaim ; * why, she'll be too 
 much of a lady to speak to us when she 
 comes this way again ; ' and Benjamin 
 would answer, — 
 
 * Nonsense ! nothing of the sort, Marthy ! 
 'Liza's my sister, born and bred, and 
 she'll never forget It ! Why, haven't she 
 been to H Italy and the Pope o' Rome, 
 and up the mountains, and I don't know 
 where not, and writes just as haffable 
 after it as if she'd never stirred from Ines- 
 cedwyn ! ' 
 
 * Well, let's hope she'll come back to 
 the hold place some day,' the hospitable 
 wife replied, * and give us a treat of her 
 face. Why, it must be a dozen years and 
 more, Ben, since she and you met' 
 
 ' That it is, wife, and she's my only 
 relation, as you may say, so it seems a bit 
 hard ; but never mind, it's a long lane as 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 In a New World. 
 
 has no turning, and 'Liza '11 be with us 
 agen afore we goes 'ome. Mark my 
 words.' 
 
 The good couple often talked after this 
 fashion, and they had been speaking of 
 her the very evening that she arrived 
 there. Martha told Benjamin, as they 
 were retiring to rest, that she had had a 
 dream about his sister the night before. 
 ' And I'm sure we're agoing to hear some- 
 thing of her, for our family is remarkable 
 for dreams, and mine allers come true.' 
 * What did ye dream then, Marthy ?' 
 ' Why, Ben, it was just when our poor 
 Cowslip seemed a bit easier, and I was so 
 tired I nodded off — and what should I dream 
 but that I was stumbling over that piece 
 of waste land in the dark, and I knocked 
 up against some one, and I calls out, 
 *' Who is it ? " and, to my surprise, it was 
 the voice of your sister 'Liza, and she says 
 to me, "Take this," she says, and puts 
 somethink into my arms, and I could feel 
 that it was a baby ! And I should have
 
 In a New World. 1 79 
 
 dreamed a deal more, — only you shook 
 me by the shoulder, and I woke up, and 
 haven't had time to think of it again till 
 just now.' 
 
 Benjamin Bennett was much amused at 
 his wife's vision. 
 
 ''Liza with a baby!' he said; 'that 
 would be a rum start — I fancy she's past 
 that sort of thing, old woman ! for she 
 never did seem to take the men's fancy for 
 marriage, even when she was young.' 
 
 * It shows your ignorance of dreams, if 
 you think to take them just as they're 
 presented,' retorted his wife somewhat 
 offended. ' I never supposed as Eliza 
 would be married, but she's comin' to some 
 misfortune nevertheless. A child is as 
 bad a thing to dream of as you can well 
 have.' 
 
 ' Well, I 'ope poor 'Liza ain't in any fix,' 
 said Benjamin, as he settled himself In bed, 
 ' 'cos she's my only sister, and I couldn't 
 see 'er sufferin' without sufferin' myself.' 
 
 ' In course not,' responded Martha, and
 
 i8o In a New World. 
 
 in a few moments the worthy couple were 
 fast asleep. 
 
 It was past midnight when they were 
 roused by a violent knocking on the front 
 door with a stick. 
 
 * Benjamin Bennett,' cried a voice several 
 times in succession, ' get up, will ye — there's 
 some one as wants your assistance.' 
 
 * Hark to that, Ben ! ' exclaimed Martha 
 as she started up in bed. * What must be 
 done now ? Cowslip must have been 
 taken bad again.' 
 
 * Throw up the casement and ask 'im 
 his business,' said her husband. 
 
 The woman obeyed. 
 
 * Who's there ? What is it ye want 
 with Benjamin Bennett at this time o' 
 night ? Why ! Tom Asher, is it you ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Mrs Bennett, it's me, sure enough, 
 and I've got bad news for you. There's 
 Bennett's sister as was coming on here 
 has fell down and hurt herself, and I want 
 'im to get out the horse and cart to fetch 
 'er home.'
 
 In a New World, 18 1 
 
 ' What ! ' screamed Martha. * Bennett's 
 sister ? Are you mad, man ? Why, EHza's 
 in London with 'er mistress.' 
 
 ' Well ! I don't know her, not likely ; 
 but she says as 'ow she's Bennett's sister, 
 and she asked me to fetch 'im to her : 
 and she's got a young lady there too, and 
 they're both in sad trouble to be sure.' 
 
 ' Where are they .^ ' cried Martha breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 * In the Beach Bungalow. I passed 
 'em on the road, and carried 'er in there, 
 for she can't move another step, that's 
 certain. She's broke her foot or sum- 
 mat, to my mind.' 
 
 By this time both husband and wife were 
 fairly roused and hurrying on their clothes. 
 
 ' You get out the horse and cart, Ben,' 
 said Martha, ' whilst I run down to the 
 bungalow as hard as I can, and if you 
 overtake me you can pick me up. But 
 you can never drive fast over them ruts. 
 Only to think of our 'Liza being in such 
 a plight, and broke her foot too. Bless
 
 1 82 In a New World. 
 
 my heart! Now, didn't I tell you as m's- 
 fortune was comin' ? But why has she 
 got a young lady with her, and at this 
 time o' night? It's all a muddle to me. 
 However, I'm ready, and I shall go 
 straight across the common as fast as 
 my legs will carry me.' 
 
 Martha was as good as her word, and 
 arrived breathless at the ruined bunga- 
 low before her husband's horse and cart 
 had traversed the uncertain road. Here 
 she found Eliza Bennett stretched on the 
 floor of the verandah in evident pain, 
 whilst Fenella, white as a sheet with 
 alarm, sat patiently beside her waiting 
 for help. 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! what's this ? ' cried 
 Martha, as she bustled up to them. ' Why, 
 'Liza, my dear, who'd ever have thought 
 of seein' you, and what have you done to 
 yourself.^ Fell down and hurt your leg. 
 Well, your brother '11 be along with the 
 cart in no time to take you home, and 
 right glad we are to see you, though you
 
 In a New World, 183 
 
 have given us such a start. And the 
 young lady too — this isn't the time of 
 night for her to be sittin' on these cold 
 stones. However came you both to get 
 in such a plight '^. ' 
 
 ' Oh, Martha ! ' said Bennett, between 
 her groans ; ' I do feel putting upon you 
 like this more than I can tell, but the 
 mistress is going abroad, and wanted me 
 and Miss Fenella here to spend the time 
 with you and Ben, which I knew you'd be 
 agreeable to ; and I wrote you a letter 
 this morning to say as we were coming 
 on Friday. But my mistress altered her 
 plans, and so we had to start sooner, and 
 came off from London by the four o'clock 
 train.' 
 
 * Yes,' continued Fenella in a sad voice, 
 ' and we didn't reach Lynwern till ten, 
 and I am afraid it is all my fault, for Ben- 
 nett thought we had better sleep there ; 
 but it seemed such a beautiful night, and 
 I said I should like a walk, so we left our 
 boxes at Lynwern, and set out to walk
 
 184 In a New World. 
 
 to Ines-cedwyn. And just as we had got 
 opposite here, Bennett's foot slipped on a 
 stone in the road, and she has hurt it so 
 she can't stand. But a man met us, and 
 he carried her in here, and said he would 
 go on and tell you about it.' 
 
 * Ay ! that was Tom Asher ; and so he 
 did, miss. Ben and I couldn't think what 
 had happened when we heard him a- 
 knockin' at the door. We had been asleep 
 for a good three hours. And where is it 
 you've hurt yourself, 'Liza — is it here ?' 
 
 As Martha administered a kindly, but 
 not over-gentle touch to the injured mem- 
 ber, Bennett could hardly keep herself 
 from screaming. 
 
 * Oh ! don't handle it please, Martha ! 
 I've given it such a wrench I feel as if 
 'twas all alive. Just to think of my doing 
 such a stupid thing, and the very minute 
 I've come back to the old place too.' 
 
 * But you couldn't help it, Bennett,' 
 expostulated Fenella ; ' it was all my fault 
 for teasing you to walk.'
 
 hi a New World. 185 
 
 * 'Twasn't no fault of yours, Miss Fen- 
 ella, my dear, so don't think it. 'Twas 
 just an accident, and the Lord's doing, 
 and such things is not to be prevented by 
 any thought nor care.' 
 
 ' You're right there, 'Liza, and I dare- 
 say it won't turn out to be much. You've 
 sprained your ankle — that's what it is, and 
 I don't know anything as is more pain- 
 ful-like than a sprained ankle ; but a day 
 or two's rest '11 put it all right again. 
 And I hope you've come for a long spell, 
 now you have come, my dear, and will 
 give yourself time to get fat and 'earty 
 in the mountain air.' 
 
 At this juncture Benjamin and Tom 
 Asher arrived, and after the first greet- 
 ings had passed between the brother and 
 sister, they prepared to lift Bennett into 
 the cart. Whether the injury she had 
 sustained was dangerous or not, it was 
 exceedingly painful, and she fainted as 
 they carried her away. Martha took 
 Fenella under her charge, and prepared
 
 1 86 In a New World. 
 
 to follow them as quickly as she could 
 across the marshy common. 
 
 ' This is a sad beginning to a holiday 
 for you, miss/ she said, when she found 
 that the girl walked by her side in utter 
 silence ; ' but you mustn't take it too much 
 to heart. 'Liza must lay up for a day or 
 two, and I daresay it won't turn out as 
 bad as it seems. I'll put cold bandages 
 round her foot as soon as she is com- 
 fortably settled. Them sprained ankles 
 are nasty things to bear, but they always 
 yield to rest and cold water.' 
 
 ^ Do you think it is nothing worse than 
 a sprained ankle ? ' asked Fenella timidly. 
 ' As soon as- it was done she fell right 
 down, and couldn't get up again.' 
 
 ^ I daresay she did, miss. That's gen- 
 erally the way with 'em, for the agony's 
 fearful. However, we shall be able to 
 tell better when we've got 'Liza into bed.' 
 
 The carrying of poor Bennett up the 
 narrow cottage stairs ; and the undress- 
 ing of her was a terrible business, and
 
 In a New World. 187 
 
 she fainted more than once during the 
 proceeding, but when laid in Martha's bed, 
 and revived by a Httle brandy and water, 
 she declared she was, comparatively speak- 
 ing, comfortable, and became all anxiety 
 for the welfare of her young mistress. 
 
 ' Do you go and lie down, dear Miss 
 Fenella,' she urged ; ' you look like a ghost, 
 and I know you are as tired as you can 
 be — and well you may, at past one o'clock 
 in the morning. I shall have no rest till 
 I know you are in bed.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, Bennett, you must let me 
 watch by you to-night. What does it 
 signify if I am tired when you are in 
 such pain ?' 
 
 ' Now, my dear young lady,' interposed 
 Martha, ' Ben and me is used to this sort 
 of thing, and you must let us do it. 
 Why, only last night we was up for 
 seven hours giving warm mashes to 
 our red cow, Cowslip. And I couldn't 
 go to sleep again now, not if you was 
 to pay me ever so — could I, Ben ? He
 
 1 88 In a New Woj'ld, 
 
 knows the wakeful habit I am, miss. 
 And so now, if you please, you must 
 let me take you to your bed, though 
 it's a poor sort of a room for a real 
 lady like yourself to lie down in.' 
 
 Fenella followed her homely hostess to 
 another room, on the same floor, where 
 a small truckle bedstead and a painted 
 chest of drawers formed all the furniture. 
 
 ' 'Tisn't fit for the likes of you,' remarked 
 Martha, as she ushered her into it ; ' but 
 'tis the best w^e have, miss, and the 
 Queen couldn't give you more.' 
 
 ' And I shall be much more comfort- 
 able in it than if I were w^Ith the Queen,' 
 replied Fenella, with the true courtesy 
 that sets our inferiors at their ease, as 
 she prepared to take possession of the 
 humble-lookinof couch. 
 
 She slept on it nevertheless, for she 
 had not yet reached the age when trouble 
 keeps us waking ; but with the earliest 
 signs of dawn she was in Bennett's room, 
 to inquire how she had passed the night.
 
 In a New World. 189 
 
 She heard that she had been in great 
 pain and very feverish, but both Martha 
 and herself declared that the cold water 
 bandages and rest would do all that was 
 required for the injured limb. 
 
 ' I am so sorry I can't get up and see 
 after you to-day, Miss Fenella/ said Ben- 
 nett with anxious eyes ; ' but Benjamin is 
 going to Lynwern with his vegetables, 
 and has promised to call for our boxes 
 and brine them back with him. So if 
 you can amuse yourself on the beach, 
 my dear, till they arrive, perhaps you 
 will, and to-morrow, I hope to be able 
 to hobble about a bit and see after 
 you.' 
 
 ' Bennett, you mustn't talk like that,' 
 said Fenella ; ' I shall do very well by 
 myself, and you must lie still until you are 
 quite recovered. But I wish I could get 
 some paper and ink, that I might write 
 and tell mamma about you.' 
 
 ' Miss Fenella ! I couldn't hear of such 
 a thing. What! go to worry your dear
 
 IQO In a New World. 
 
 mamma just as she's setting off on her 
 journey. What's to-day ? Thursday ! 
 Why, she couldn't get your letter till she 
 was on the very point of starting, and 
 what eood would it do, miss ? It would 
 only upset and fidget her. You wouldn't 
 expect her to come here and see after 
 me — would you ? ' 
 
 ' / would, Bennett, if you had left me 
 and met with such an accident.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you, miss ! well, you're different 
 from your mamma in many ways, and 
 you're but a child you see. No one would 
 expect a lady to give up her plans for a 
 servant. So I wouldn't have her worried 
 for the world, and 'tisn't worth it either, 
 for I shall be all right again in a few days.' 
 
 ' But you will send for a doctor, won't 
 you, Bennett ? ' urged Fenella. 
 
 Both Bennett and her sister-in-law, 
 sitting by the bed, began to laugh. 
 
 ' A doctor, miss ! and for a sprained 
 ankle ! bless your heart — no,' said Martha ; 
 * that's not the way we manage in these
 
 /;/ a New World. 191 
 
 parts ; why, if we was to send off to 
 Lynwern for the doctor everytime we 
 felt a bit ill, there'd be no end to his 
 coming and going. I can't call to mind 
 as there's been a doctor in Ines-cedwyn 
 since Mary Wills died of the typhus fever, 
 and then her husband said as 'twas sfood 
 money throw'd away, and he'd much better 
 have kept it to help bury her. Oh no, 
 miss, we don't want no doctors here, 
 and we'll do well enough without him, 
 never you fear ! ' 
 
 Fenella did not feel quite easy under this 
 decision, but she was too young to oppose 
 it. She spent the morning in wandering 
 about the premises in a listless manner, 
 making acquaintance with the poultry and 
 the pigs and the new-born calf, but direct- 
 ing many an anxious glance, nevertheless, 
 at the latticed window of the room where 
 Eliza Bennett lay. 
 
 Martha, sitting behind the flapping 
 blind, watched the girl's proceedings, and 
 remarked on them to her sister-in-law.
 
 192 In a New World. 
 
 ' Lor', what a pretty creeture, and such 
 a feelin' 'art, too ! I'm sure, if you was 
 her equal, 'Liza, she couldn't be more 
 careful over you. How proud her ma 
 must be of her. Ain't she, now ? ' ' 
 
 * Well, Martha,' replied Bennett, whose 
 loyalty was sorely tried In answering the 
 question, * you see the mistress is very 
 'ansome herself — particular 'ansome ; so 
 p'raps she don't think so much of beauty 
 as we do. And Miss Fenella and she 
 have been apart a good bit of late years. 
 Young ladies must be educated, you see ; 
 and It can't be done as well at home, so 
 they don't know so much of each other as 
 they might.' 
 
 * That seems strange ; don't it, now ? ' 
 returned Martha. * I never had a child, 
 as you know ; but if I had, I don't think 
 Ben nor me would have known how to 
 make enough of it. We often says so 
 'mongst our two selves.' 
 
 * But you mustn't fancy but what the 
 mistress thinks a deal of Miss Fenella/
 
 In a New World. 193 
 
 interposed Bennett eagerly. * That's why 
 she sent us down here, though it was a 
 great inconvenience to herself, because my 
 young lady looks so pale, and has grown 
 • so fast/ 
 
 * She do look very peaky,' said Martha 
 sympathisingly ; * my master was sayin' so 
 this morning.' 
 
 * And her mamma wants her to be out 
 in the sea air as much as possible, Martha 
 — all day long if she can — so do show her 
 the way to the beach after dinner, and 
 let her go and sit on the sands.' 
 
 'That I will, 'Liza; and I think it will 
 be best for your sake to keep the house 
 as quiet as possible, for you look a bit 
 feverish to me. Close your eyes and try 
 to sleep, my dear, and I'll go and see 
 after the young lady's dinner, and send 
 her out for a walk.' 
 
 Accordingly, when the early meal was 
 concluded, Martha broached the subject 
 to Fenella. 
 
 ' If you take my advice, miss,' she said, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 I g4 ^^ ^ New World. 
 
 ' you'll put on your hat and take a stroll 
 down to the sea. It will be beautiful 
 there this afternoon, for the tide '11 be 
 up at five o'clock. And 'Liza she wants 
 to go to sleep, so I wouldn't disturb her 
 if 1 was you, but just set off and enjoy 
 yourself, and come back when you feel 
 disposed for it.' 
 
 * Oh, I should like to go if I may,' 
 replied Fenella, with a pink flush on her 
 cheeks, * and if you are sure Bennett 
 won't want me ; but which way is it, 
 Martha ? ' 
 
 ' Why, straight across the common, 
 miss, to where you see that streak of 
 blue — that's the water. And it'll bring 
 you out close to the place where poor 
 'Liza fell last night — "The Beach Bun- 
 galow." ' 
 
 'The Beach Bungalow^!' repeated Fen- 
 ella ; ' what a strange name ! Why is it 
 called so ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, I'm sure, miss, unless 
 it is as the person who built it felt
 
 In a N'ew World. 195 
 
 he had made a bungle ; but any way 
 that's how it's known amongst us. It's 
 an unlucky place, to my thinking, and I 
 always fancy as every misfortune as 'ap- 
 pens to our folk, seems to have that 
 bungalow mixed up with it — and, you see, 
 'Liza missed 'er footing just opposite. 
 I often tells Ben as I wish somebody 
 would take and pull it down. And 
 they do say,' continued Martha mysteri- 
 ously, ' as it's haunted into the bargain. 
 But p'raps that's a matter I oughtn't to 
 speak to you on, or maybe you have 
 no fear of ghosts.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' replied the girl indifferently ; 
 * if there are such things, they wouldn't 
 hurt me — why should they?' 
 
 * 'Twould be a good job if every one 
 had your sense, miss ; but, you see, they 
 haven't, and so the place has got a 
 reg'lar bad name in Ines-cedwyn, and none 
 of our people would go past it after 
 midnight unless they was obliged. But 
 whether you believe in spirits or not.
 
 196 
 
 In a N'ew World. 
 
 don't you have too much to do with the 
 Beach Bungalow, for it'll bring you bad 
 luck as sure as my name's Martha Ben- 
 nett.' 
 
 ' I will only go and sit in the verandah ; 
 that won't hurt me,' said Fenella, with 
 a smile as she walked away.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 ' As I trembled, look'd, and sigh'd, 
 His eyes met mine — he fix'd their glories on me ; 
 Confusion thrilFd me then, and secret joy, 
 Fast throbbing, stole its treasures from my heart, 
 And, mantling upward, turn'd my face to crimson.' 
 
 HERE was none of the mis- 
 chievous joy of a girl set at 
 liberty to follow her own de- 
 vices in her demeanour, as she traversed 
 the distance that lay between the cottage 
 and the sands, with her head bent and 
 her eyes fixed on the ground. For, 
 perhaps, in all her short life, Fenella had 
 never felt so lonely and uncared-for as
 
 198 , A Voice ui the Night. 
 
 she did that afternoon. She had often 
 grieved during her school days because 
 she did not go home to see her mother ; 
 but the separation between them at that 
 time was as nothing compared to the 
 gulf that divided them now — a gulf 
 which, some instinct told the girl, would 
 never be bridged over but by the con- 
 ventionalities of society. 
 
 She soon reached the ruined villa, and 
 sitting on the floor of the open verandah, 
 with her feet upon the sand, she leaned 
 her cheek against a stucco pillar, green 
 with the damp of time, and gave herself 
 up to thought. Had she been less sad, 
 the scene around would have excited all 
 her interest, even in its solitude ; it was 
 so unlike anything to which she had been 
 accustomed. Before her lay the broad, 
 still ocean, and there were few moving 
 things about to break the sense of isola- 
 tion it engendered. Two or three boats 
 were drawn up upon the sand ; in the 
 distance several more might be seen float-
 
 A Voice in the Night. 199 
 
 ing on the quiet waters ; and to the right 
 a faint trail of blue smoke, curling along 
 the horizon, showed that the little steamer 
 had started with its daily freight from the 
 pier at Lynwern. 
 
 Fenella had seated herself with her 
 back to Ines-cedwyn ; had she turned 
 her head she would have seen that the 
 green slope down which she had wandered 
 was the foreground of a range of chalk 
 hills that sheltered the little village from 
 the winter gales. She would have seen 
 that the vegetation, such as it was, grew 
 almost to the water's edge ; that sheep 
 and donkeys and cattle browsed peace- 
 fully upon the common ; that to the 
 right of her, though hidden by a cliff, 
 lay Lynwern, the town from which she 
 had walked the night before, and to 
 the left was a great landslip that had 
 rolled almost into the sea, and was still 
 crowned with the wild apple orchard it 
 had carried with it. 
 
 But her heart was too full just then to
 
 200 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 see the wild beauties of the place to 
 which she had come. The tears were 
 too near her eyes for her to see any- 
 thing distinctly. She kept them fixed 
 upon the blue water, which broke with 
 monotonous fidelity upon the golden sand, 
 and ran back again with a subdued mur- 
 mur, leaving a trail of froth and scum 
 to mark its way. 
 
 Fenella believed, in her loneliness, that 
 she had arrived at the very climax of 
 all suffering — that there could never be 
 anything worse for her to bear than she 
 was bearing then. All her friends seemed 
 to have retreated from her as the sea re- 
 treated from the sands, but with no hope 
 of return. She had been parted from 
 Honoree St Just and all her convent 
 friends, and she had received nothing in 
 return with which to fill up the vacancy 
 their loss had made in her heart, and 
 life seemed cruelly hard to the girl. Her 
 love for her mother and her mother's love 
 for her had been the dream of her youth.
 
 A Voice in the Night. 201 
 
 She had believed in it as in the mercy 
 of God. She had returned home ready 
 to lean her whole weight upon it as on 
 the staff of her existence, and it had 
 snapped like a reed in her hand. And 
 even Bennett had failed her ; even poor 
 Bennett, though it was not her fault, 
 was absent at this crisis, and preferred 
 Martha's attendance to that of her young 
 mistress. 
 
 No one wanted her — that was Fenella's 
 prevailing thought that afternoon. Every 
 one would get on better without the 
 trouble of her presence ; she might as 
 well be out of the world altogether. It 
 was a dangerous thought to indulge in — 
 a dangerous moment in which to present 
 any new interest to fill up the void in 
 the girl's aching heart. She felt so for- 
 lorn that she would have been thankful 
 to a dog for showing her any sympathy. 
 And a dog was the first to do it. 
 
 Fenella had been so absorbed in her 
 own melancholy thoughts that she had
 
 202 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 not observed that a little boat had come 
 in at a short distance from where she sat 
 — that is, the boat had come in as near 
 as it could through the shallow water, 
 and its occupants had jumped out, and 
 waded through the ankle - deep tide to 
 shore. And one of the occupants, being 
 very short and bandy-legged and impe- 
 tuous, had wetted himself from head to 
 foot, and now came bounding forward — 
 some doggish instinct telling him he 
 would be welcome — and, with pricked 
 ears and shining eyes, ensconced his 
 dripping little body behind the shelter 
 of Fenella's black skirt, and from that 
 ambush barked vociferously at his ap- 
 proaching master. 
 
 The girl started from her reverie ; then 
 perceiving the friendly disposition of the 
 intruder, she put out her hand and patted 
 the wet coat of the little terrier. 
 
 ' Trap ! Trap ! come back, sir ; come 
 back ! Do you hear what I say to 
 you 1 ' was shouted in an authoritative
 
 A Voice in the Night. 203 
 
 masculine voice ; but Trap only wriggled 
 his small red body about, and declined 
 to have another sea-bath, as he imagined 
 his owner was desirous of making him. 
 Then a young man in boating gear strode 
 up to Fenella's side, and seizing the little 
 terrier by the nape of the neck, flung him 
 to some distance on the sand. 
 
 * Oh ! don't hurt him ! ' cried the girl ; 
 ' poor little fellow, he didn't mean to do 
 any harm.' 
 
 The gentleman's soft felt hat was 
 crushed in one hand in a moment. 
 
 ' You are very good to say so,' he 
 replied, * but the brute has wetted your 
 dress.' 
 
 Fenella blushed. 
 
 'It is only an old frock,' she said 
 ingenuously ; ' he cannot hurt it. May I 
 take him on my lap ? ' for Trap had 
 ventured by that time to crawl back to 
 his master's feet. 
 
 ' Trap will be but too much honoured,' 
 replied the young man, as he lifted the
 
 204 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 little animal and deposited him in Fen- 
 ella's open arms. Then he said, ' I hardly 
 hoped we should have met again so soon, 
 and least of all should I have thought 
 to meet you here.' 
 
 At these words, and at the sound of his 
 voice, the girl started. 
 
 ' You don't remember me,' he continued, 
 as he met her look of frank amazement, 
 ' neither had I any right to hope you 
 should do so ; but I have a better memory, 
 you see. ** / know you again to swear, 
 tor ' 
 
 As he repeated Bennett's indignant 
 remark, Fenella recognised him as the 
 young man whom she had accosted at the 
 Calais restaurant, and who had crossed 
 with them to Dover. The colour rushed 
 to her pale cheeks in a flood of crimson, 
 but all she said was, — 
 
 ' How funny ! ' 
 
 * What is funny ? ' 
 
 * That you should be here, in this 
 very place,' said Fenella shyly.
 
 A Voice in the Night. 205 
 
 * But I think it is funnier that you 
 should be here, or at least that you 
 should have walked over here so soon, 
 for I suppose you are staying at Lyn- 
 wern.' 
 
 * No ; I am living at Ines-cedwyn with 
 my nurse, but she has hurt her foot and 
 cannot come out with me.' 
 
 The stranger put on a look of proper 
 concern. 
 
 ' I'm very sorry to hear it ; I hope 
 she will soon be better. When did you 
 arrive ? ' 
 
 ' Only yesterday ; we were in London 
 first with my mother.' 
 
 ' Well, I came straight through from 
 Dover, for my people are staying at Lyn- 
 wern, and they wished me to join them. 
 I have been all the winter in Paris.' 
 
 'Have you? for your holidays.'*' de- 
 manded Fenella, as she caressed the little 
 terrier, who had now setded himself for 
 a comfortable nap in her arms. 
 The gentleman laughed.
 
 2o6 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 ' Not exactly — though it is something 
 like it. I belong to the army, and I 
 am home on leave.' 
 
 ' The army ! ' repeated the girl wonder- 
 ingly. ' Oh, then you are quite grown 
 up!' 
 
 ' Nearly,' he replied, still laughing. ' I 
 am twenty-two.' 
 
 His laugh was so pleasant and boyish, 
 and his whole demeanour so friendly as 
 he stood with one foot upon the floor of 
 the verandah and looked down upon her, 
 that after a while Fenella ventured to 
 look up at him. He was an exception- 
 ally handsome man, and to her unsophis- 
 ticated eyes he appeared to be the hand- 
 somest she had ever seen. She thought so 
 from the first moment she met him — she 
 thought so to the very last. His power 
 over her would have been, eventually per- 
 haps, as great had his features been plain, 
 but it would not have asserted its sway 
 so rapidly. There is a magic in beauty 
 which few minds are strong enough to
 
 A Voice in the Night. 207 
 
 resist. As the girl's eyes met his, her 
 lids were lowered, and he felt that his in- 
 fluence had commenced. 
 
 * May I tell you,' he said, bending down 
 to her, ' how pleased I am to have met 
 you again, because I want to thank you 
 for your kindness ? ' 
 
 ' What kindness ?' 
 
 ' Why, in speaking to me at the res- 
 taurant, and asking if you could help me. 
 Do you think I did not appreciate it, or 
 that I am such a bear as to be ungrateful .'^' 
 
 ' I thought perhaps you couldn't speak 
 French,' stammered the girl. ' Some 
 people who go abroad can't ; and I had 
 just come from the convent, so I wanted 
 to help you. But Bennett scolded me 
 dreadfully about it. She said I had done 
 very wrong indeed, and I am afraid she 
 would say I was wrong in speaking to you 
 now,' continued Fenella, as she looked 
 around her rather fearfully. 
 
 * Who is Bennett ?' 
 
 • The woman who was with me. She
 
 2o8 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 was my nurse once, but she is mamma's 
 maid now, and I am under her care 
 here.' 
 
 ' And do you always beHeve what Ben- 
 nett says to you, then ? ' 
 
 ^ Not always, perhaps ; but wasn't she 
 right ? Do you think I ought to have 
 spoken to you ? ' 
 
 ' I think, if you had not, I should have 
 missed knowing one of the most admirable 
 traits of your character. It is not always 
 wise, certainly, for a young lady to address 
 a stranger, but I should think you might 
 be safely left to follow your own instincts. 
 Besides, I hope you saw I was a gentle- 
 man,' he added, rather proudly. 
 
 ' No ; I never thought about that,' re- 
 plied the girl. ' I was afraid you were in 
 trouble — that is all ! But I am glad I was 
 mistaken.' 
 
 * I daresay your nurse is a very good 
 sort of old woman,' continued the young 
 man, ' but she can't know much of the 
 rules of society, can she ?'
 
 A Voice in the Night, 209 
 
 'I suppose not; but no more do I. I 
 have never been In society yet.' 
 
 ' All the better for you. Keep out of It 
 as long as ever you can. Society Is a 
 huge sham — a community whose religion 
 Is to tell lies ; and when a girl wants to 
 be honest and follow the Inclinations of 
 her own kind heart, as you do, they tell 
 her It Is not proper, and society will never 
 allow It.' 
 
 ' If that Is true,' sighed the girl, ' I hope 
 I shall never go Into society ; and any 
 way It will be a long time, for I am only 
 sixteen. But my mother likes It very 
 much, I think.' 
 
 ' Will you forgive me If I ask you some- 
 thing very strange } ' said her new friend 
 presently. ' I want to know who your 
 mother Is, and what your name Is ? ' 
 
 Fenella laughed softly. 
 
 ' Oh, how funny ! we have been talking 
 
 together all this time, and we don't even 
 
 know who we are. If you had gone away 
 
 and forgotten to ask me that question, I 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 2 T o A Voice in the Nis^ht. 
 
 should never have known. It would have 
 been all like a dream, wouldn't it ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think so. I don't think I 
 could have been contented to remember 
 it only as a dream. I should have come 
 back again to ask you that question.' 
 
 The look he threw at her as he pro- 
 nounced the words made Fenella's eyes 
 droop again. 
 
 ' My name is Fenella Barrington,' she 
 said, in a low voice, ' and my mother is 
 Mrs Barrington.' 
 
 ' And have you no father } ' 
 
 ' No ; he died a long time ago.' 
 
 There was silence between them for a 
 minute, and then the stranger said, — 
 
 'You don't ask w^ho I am, — perhaps 
 you don't care to hear.' 
 
 ' Won't you tell me ? ' rejoined Fenella 
 simply. 
 
 ' Certainly I will. I am Geoffrey 
 Doyne, and I belong to the 30th Hussars. 
 Don't I look like a hussar ? ' 
 
 * No ; I think you look more like a
 
 A Voice in the Night. 2 1 1 
 
 boatman/ said the girl, smiling. * When I 
 saw you first to-day, I was in hopes you 
 were a sailor.' 
 
 * Why — in hopes ? ' 
 
 ' Because my father was a captain in 
 the Royal Navy, and I love sailors for 
 his sake.' 
 
 ' Then I wish I were one.' 
 
 ' But weren't you allowed to choose 
 which you would be?' 
 
 ' Certainly I was.' 
 
 ' And you preferred to be a soldier ? ' 
 
 ' I did.' 
 
 * Then why should you wish to change ? ' 
 said Fenella, with open eyes. ' I daresay 
 it is nicer to be a soldier, after all — it 
 must be so hard to go away to sea from 
 all whom you love ! ' 
 
 ' Soldiers have to do that sometimes, 
 too!' 
 
 ' Yes ; there seems nothing but parting 
 and sadness in this world.' 
 
 * But you are too young to say that. 
 Miss Barrington.'
 
 212 A Voice in the Night, 
 
 ' Am I ? I am not too young to think 
 it/ 
 
 * Are you going to make a long stay in 
 Ines-cedwyn ?' was the next question he 
 asked her. 
 
 * I think so, but I am not sure. My 
 mother has gone to Mentone, and she 
 sent me here because I am not very 
 strong, and the doctor said I required 
 sea air. But it is very lonely, isn't it ? 
 I would rather have gone with my 
 mother,' said Fenella, with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 How Geoffrey Doyne would have liked 
 to have the privilege of consoling her ! 
 
 ' It is dull,' he answered, * even at Lyn- 
 wern. I can't imagine why my people 
 chose to come here, but I have an invalid 
 sister who cannot stand a noisy watering- 
 place, and as my leave will soon be up, 
 they wanted to see something of me be- 
 fore I go back again.' 
 
 ' Back again ! ' reiterated his companion. 
 
 'Yes, to India; the 30th is at Keram-
 
 A Voice in the Night. 2 1 3 
 
 pore at present. A horrid hole ; I couldn't 
 stand it, and so I got eighteen months' 
 leave to England.' 
 
 ' And is this better than Kerampore ? ' 
 
 * I hope it will be. I shall pass most 
 of my time fishing. I have hired that 
 little boat for the season. I have been 
 out since eight o'clock this morning.' 
 
 'And why did you land at Ines- 
 cedwyn ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you ; a happy intuition 
 guided me, I suppose ; but the sands 
 looked inviting, and our arms ached with 
 pulling. However, I promised to get back 
 to dinner. Do you live far from here ? ' 
 
 ' Bennett and I are staying at her 
 brother Benjamin's cottage in the village, 
 half-a-mile from this. It is such a strange 
 little place, you would laugh to see it, 
 and there is sand on the floor instead of 
 a carpet.' 
 
 ' That must be rather pleasant this 
 warm weather ; and I suppose you will 
 be as little as possible in the house.'
 
 2 14 ^ Voice in the Night, 
 
 ' Yes ; my mother's orders were that I 
 was to be on the beach all day long, so 
 Bennett says I am to bring my work 
 and books down here every day.' 
 
 * That will be charming. I envy you. 
 And this old tumble-down house makes 
 a convenient retreat from the sun. I 
 wonder to whom it belongs .^ ' 
 
 'To nobody, Martha says,' replied 
 Fenella ; 'and the people of Ines-cedwyn 
 won't come near it at night because they 
 declare that it's haunted.' 
 
 'What fools!' laughed Mr Geoffrey 
 Doyne ; ' they will mistake you for a 
 ghost if they see you here. Miss Bar- 
 rington.' 
 
 Fenella laughed too. 
 
 ' I should like to frighten them and keep 
 them all away,' she said ; ' and then I 
 would sweep out one of the rooms, and 
 bring down a table and some chairs, and 
 make a little house where I could come 
 and sit and have tea whenever I liked.' 
 
 'And wouldn't you ask me in to tea
 
 A Voice ill the Night. 2 1 5 
 
 sometimes, Miss Barrington, If I came 
 this way?' pleaded Mr Doyne. 
 
 ' Yes, if you came this way,' she an- 
 swered gravely; 'and little Trap too. He 
 should have a saucer of milk all to him- 
 self, for I think he is a dear little fellow.' 
 
 ' Since you admire him, I wish I could 
 leave him with you, for he is not a par- 
 ticular favourite of mine,' said Geoffrey 
 Doyne ; ' he belongs to one of my sisters, 
 and I think him a great nuisance, espe- 
 cially in the boat when I am fishing. But 
 as you are good enough to approve of 
 him, I will bring him over to see you 
 again some day, if I may ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Fenella, as she patted 
 the dog's rough coat. At this juncture the 
 boatman approached them, touching his 
 hat. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir, but if we're to 
 get back to Lynwern by six o'clock, we'd 
 better be going,' he said to young Doyne. 
 
 ' All right, Tugwell, I am ready. Good 
 bye,' he continued, turning to Fenella, who
 
 2 1 6 A Voice i7i the Night. 
 
 had risen to her feet. ' I am so glad we 
 have met again ; I hope it won't be for the 
 last time.' 
 
 She did not echo his wish, but she put 
 her hand in his as confidingly as a child, 
 and then she stooped down again and 
 patted the little dog. 
 
 Geoffrey Doyne waited with his hat in 
 his hand until her farewells were con- 
 cluded ; then, with a bow and a smile, he 
 whistled to Trap and turned away. 
 
 Fenella watched him and the boatman 
 as they strode over the wet, glistening 
 sand to the boat, which they pushed into 
 the water. Then the man got on board 
 with the dog under his arm, and with one 
 bound Geoffrey Doyne went over the gun- 
 wale after him. Fenella saw his lithe, 
 graceful figure standing in the boat as the 
 man pushed off from shore ; his face was 
 turned towards her, and he waved his 
 hat once again in the air before he took 
 the oar and settled down to his work. 
 She watched the long powerful strokes
 
 A Voice in the Night, 2 1 7 
 
 that bore the Httle bark away from Ines- 
 cedwyn, and when it had rounded the cHffs 
 that hid Lynwern from her sight, she felt 
 somehow as if the sun had suddenly set, 
 and the evening air was chilly. And yet 
 there was a glow about her girlish heart 
 that it had never experienced before — the 
 first consciousness that comes to a woman 
 of being appreciated by the other sex. 
 Fenella's life had not been worse than 
 wasted (as so many school-girls' lives are 
 in the present day) by dreaming and talk- 
 ing of possible lovers. Her ideas on all 
 such subjects were very crude and child- 
 like ; still the womanly instinct was strong 
 within her — the yearning to love and to 
 be loved — and only needed the touch of 
 Nature to make its presence known. 
 That first meeting with Geoffrey Doyne 
 caused it to stir in its sleep — stir as a 
 heavy sleeper might, when some unex- 
 pected sound makes him move and mur- 
 mur for a moment uneasily, and then sink 
 off to rest again.
 
 2 1 8 A Voice in the Night. 
 
 For some time after the young man had 
 left her she sat in the same place, gazing 
 at the sea, over which the setting- sun was 
 now shedding rays of ineffable glory ; sat 
 there, reviewing each glance of his eyes, 
 each tone of his voice, and thinking how 
 nice and pleasant it was to have a friend 
 to talk to, and how much she wished that 
 Mr Doyne lived in Ines-cedwyn, in Ben- 
 jamin Bennett's cottage, and she could 
 see and talk with him every hour of the 
 day — it would make the place so much 
 less dull for her and Bennett. With this 
 remembrance came the wonder what her 
 nurse would say when she heard that 
 Fenella had again spoken to a gentleman 
 who was a stranger to her. But then he 
 wasn't a stranger now (so the girl argued) ; 
 he knew her name, and she knew his — 
 Geoffrey Doyne ! It was a pretty name, 
 Fenella thought ; and she said it over 
 several times softly to herself, — ' Geoff^^ey 
 Doyne ! Geoffjxy Doyne ! Geoffrey Doyne ! ' 
 She was afraid Bennett might be angry
 
 A Voice in the Night. 219 
 
 and scold a little, but she quite made 
 up her mind that she must tell her 
 of the meeting. There was no deceit In 
 Fenella's nature ; If ever she concealed a 
 thing during her lifetime, it was In defer- 
 ence to an opinion which she considered 
 superior to her own. She did not relish 
 the idea of confessing this second piece of 
 imprudence on her part to her old nurse 
 (because it was the second, Bennett would 
 consider it all the more culpable) ; still 
 Fenella never dreamt of not confessing It. 
 It was nearly seven o'clock when at last 
 she could persuade herself to give over 
 dreaming and take her way homewards. 
 As she rose and left the ruined bungalow, 
 she turned and cast a fond look back 
 to it — a look that seemed to say, ' I 
 will return — and he will return ! I love 
 you for the happiness you have given 
 me.' 
 
 Ah ! the blindness of her Ignorant heart, 
 —she had better have cursed each stone 
 of which it was composed. But had an
 
 2 20 A Voice in the Night, 
 
 angel barred her path that evening ; had 
 Michael himself, the Head of all the 
 Heavenly Hosts, stood In her way with 
 his shining sword, and told her It would 
 be better for her had she laid down and 
 died upon those stones before she left 
 them, with the joyous hope of return 
 filling her eyes with a light that had never 
 beamed In them before — that It would be 
 better for her If the boat that bore Geoffrey 
 Doyne to Lynwern never reached Its 
 destination, but sunk with him and her 
 faint remembrance of him beneath the 
 waves, — would Fenella have believed 
 even the Archangel of God Himself? 
 No ; she would have called him hard, 
 and cruel, and unsympathetic ; would have 
 accused him of envy and malice, and all 
 uncharltableness — and clung to her Ideal, 
 although there was but the merest outline 
 of a fancied god to cling to. But, pour 
 the poison once Into the opened veins, 
 and all your efforts to extract It after- 
 wards will prove unavailing. So is It
 
 A Voice in the Night, 
 
 221 
 
 with a fatal passion. Let it once — only 
 once — mix with the current of the heart's 
 blood, and it will never again be dis- 
 severed until that current is stopped by 
 the chill hand of Death.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WONDER-LAND ! 
 
 'Women are poor things : they are like swallows 
 numbed in the winter ; the hand that warms 
 them and lifts them up, puts them in the breast 
 without trouble.' — Ariadne. 
 
 ^"^^ENELLA reached the cottage 
 with her head filled with the 
 
 unexpected encounter that had 
 taken place, and ready to rush into Ben- 
 nett's presence and tell her all about it, 
 but Martha met her at the door with a 
 portentous countenance that made her 
 at once ask what was wrong. 
 
 'Well, miss, I'm sorry to say as poor 
 'Liza's been took worse this afternoon,
 
 In Wonder- Land I 223 
 
 and I've been obliged to send into Lynwern 
 for the doctor, and I was just looking up the 
 road to see if there was any signs of 'im.' 
 
 ' What is the matter with her ?' exclaimed 
 Fenella. ' How is she worse ? Why didn't 
 you send for me ? ' 
 
 ' Well, miss, what would have been the 
 good of that — spoiling your pleasure and 
 all for nothing, as the less people about in 
 sickness the better. 'Liza wasn't so well 
 this mornin' — I see that plain enough ; but 
 this afternoon she went right off her head 
 with pain, and her leg swelled dreadful, so 
 I thought the sooner Dr Redfern saw 'er 
 the better. And when Benjamin came 
 home with the cart, I sent him straight 
 back to Lynwern again to tell the doctor, 
 and I expect it won't be long now afore 
 we see 'im.' 
 
 ' Will he come in the cart ? ' demanded 
 Fenella. 
 
 ' Bless you, no, miss. He'll drive over 
 in his own gig — he's quite the gentleman, 
 is Dr Redfern.'
 
 2 24 In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 * Let me go up and see poor Bennett 
 — she would like to see me ! ' said the 
 girl, as she attempted to pass into the 
 cottage. 
 
 ' Better not, miss, please, If It's all the 
 same to you. I give 'er some tea just now, 
 and she seemed a bit easier, and dropt off 
 to sleep, and I wouldn't have 'er roused 
 before the doctor come, for anything.' 
 
 So Fenella sat down on one of the 
 wooden chairs in the sanded parlour, with 
 a heart full of apprehension. But it was 
 all for the sick woman upstairs ; she never 
 thought twice of herself, nor what would 
 become of her if Bennett were going to 
 be really ill, and she were left stranded in 
 a place like Ines-cedwyn, far from every- 
 body that belonged to her. She kept on 
 thinking how the accident could have been 
 avoided, and blaming herself that it had 
 ever occurred, until the rattle of wheels 
 outside the cottage door announced the 
 doctor's arrival from Lynwern, and Martha 
 obsequiously ushered a portly and authori-
 
 In Wo7tder-Land ! 225 
 
 tatlve looking individual through the little 
 parlour and up the narrow stairs. 
 
 The doctor threw a glance towards Fen- 
 ella as he passed her, and started as he did 
 so. He could not imagine what such a 
 fair, delicate girl could be doing in Benja- 
 min Bennett's cottage. But he had no 
 time for questions before he found him- 
 self in the presence of his patient. 
 
 'Hullo! what's this!' he exclaimed, as 
 he examined the injured limb. * Why, the 
 woman's broken her leg — what were you 
 thinking of not to have sent for me before ?' 
 
 ' Broke her leg, sir ! ' cried Martha, 
 who was trembling with fright at the 
 news. * You don't never mean to go to 
 tell us that ! Dear, dear me ! Why, we 
 thought it was nothing worse than a 
 sprained ankle ! ' 
 
 ' Sprained ankle ! Rubbish ! There's 
 no more the matter with her ankle than 
 there is with yours. She's broken her 
 leg, I tell you. It's a simple fracture, and 
 would have been a trifle if you'd sent for 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2 26 In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 me at first, but I can do nothing with it 
 now/ 
 
 * Lor' bless me, sir ! you don't mean to 
 say as it's to be broken all my life ? ' said 
 poor Bennett, with eyes of horror. 
 
 ' No, no ! Nonsense ! But I mean I 
 can't set it till this swelling has subsided. 
 Why, your leg's like a bolster ! You 
 must have suffered a great deal of 
 pain.' 
 
 ' Oh, I have, sir — dreadful ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and you have a bit of fever into 
 the bargain. Now, look here, Mrs Ben- 
 nett. You must keep your sister-in-law 
 perfectly quiet and perfectly still till I've 
 got that leg down to its proper size. 
 Don't let her be worried about anything, 
 and don't you talk too much, but feed 
 her on slops, and leave her alone I'll 
 give her a fever-draught now to make her 
 sleep, and I'll look in again to-morrow 
 morning. Good evening to you,' and Dr 
 Redfern turned on his heel and walked 
 downstairs again. As he entered the
 
 I 71 Wonder- Land ! 227 
 
 parlour, Fenella was standing by the table, 
 with a face full of anxiety. 
 
 * Is she better?' she inquired. 'Will 
 she soon be well ? ' 
 
 The old doctor looked at her with in- 
 terest. 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! ' he said soothingly. ' Don't 
 alarm yourself, my dear. She'll soon be 
 all right again, and I'm coming to see her 
 to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am so o-lad ! I am so thankful ! ' 
 replied Fenella fervently. 
 
 Dr Redfern regarded her with curiosity. 
 He did not like to ask her what possible 
 connection there could be between herself 
 and the woman he had been summoned to 
 see, but when he had climbed into his gig 
 again, he stooped down and addressed 
 Martha Bennett, who had accompanied 
 him to the door. 
 
 'Who's that young lady in the par- 
 lour ? ' he whispered. 
 
 ' That's Miss Barrington, sir, 'Liza's 
 young mistress. She had just brought
 
 22 8 In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 her down here for the sea air when she 
 broke her leg in this terrible manner.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I see — I understand,' replied the 
 doctor, as he gathered up the reins. ' Well, 
 keep her out of the sick-room. I must 
 have no talking there.' 
 
 ' No, doctor ; certainly not. And you'll 
 be over in the morning, sir?' 
 
 ' Yes ; about ten o'clock. Good-night.' 
 And away drove the doctor to Lynvvern. 
 
 ' Here's a sad business, miss,' said 
 Martha, as she returned to Fenella's side. 
 
 * Poor 'Liza's been and broke her leg, 
 and it can't even be splintered till all that 
 nasty swellin s gone down.' 
 
 Fenella's distress was genuine. 
 
 * Oh, poor Bennett ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 * What pain she must have suffered ! And 
 she wouldn't let me write to m^y mother, 
 and now it is too late ! ' 
 
 * How's that, miss ?' 
 
 * Because mamma leaves London to- 
 morrow morning, and we don't know 
 where she is going. She said she would
 
 In Wondei^-Land ! 229 
 
 write to us when she was settled, but 
 that may not be for a long time.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind, miss. Your ma 
 wouldn't have been no manner of use here, 
 and we'll take good care of 'Liza, never 
 fear. It's done, and it can't be helped. 
 So, as soon as I've made 'er comfortable, 
 I'll come down and lay the supper, and 
 then we'll all go to bed and have a good 
 nieht's rest.' 
 
 ' Mayn't I go and bid Bennett good 
 night ? ' pleaded the girl. 
 
 ' Well, it must be good-night then, 
 miss, and nothing more, for Dr Red- 
 fern gave particular orders there was to 
 be no talkin' of any sort, so you must 
 please to remember that.' 
 
 Fenella did remember it. She crept 
 into her nurse's room on tip-toe, and 
 gave her one kiss upon the forehead. 
 
 Bennett's eyes sought those of her 
 young lady gratefully, but she was in 
 too much pain to speak. So there was 
 no opportunity — no possibility, indeed —
 
 230 I 71 Wonder- Land ! 
 
 of Fenella Informing her of the encounter 
 she had had with Mr Geoffrey Doyne upon 
 the sands. 
 
 Dr Redfern was punctual to his ap- 
 pointment the following morning, and, 
 finding his patient still in a high fever, 
 he stayed and applied leeches to the in- 
 flamed leg ; but it was still quite impos- 
 sible to do anything towards re-setting the 
 broken bone. He was employed for nearly 
 an hour in Bennett's room before he de- 
 scended again to the parlour, where Fenella 
 sat by the open casement with her work. 
 
 ' And why are you not down on the 
 sands this beautiful morning, young lady?' 
 he demanded facetiously, as she rose to 
 greet him. 
 
 ' I was waiting, sir, to hear your report 
 of Bennett,' she answered. 
 
 * Ah ! your nurse, is she not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; she was my nurse, and some- 
 times I call her so still' 
 
 'Well, I'm afraid it will be a long job 
 you know — a very long job. She's at an
 
 In Wonder- Land ! 231 
 
 awkward age to go tumbling about In this 
 fashion — bones don't set so readily after 
 forty as before — and she is rather of an 
 inflammatory disposition. She'll have to 
 be kept very quiet, and for some time 
 too ; and I should advise you, Miss Bar- 
 rington, to write and let your friends know 
 my opinion at once.' 
 
 ' But — but — ' said Fenella, with her 
 eyes downcast, ' I can't do that, because 
 I don't know where my mother is ! ' 
 
 ' You don't know where she is ! ' re- 
 peated the doctor, with surprise. 
 
 * No, sir; for she starts to-day with a 
 party of friends for the Continent, and 
 will be moving about for some time. 
 She does not even know herself where 
 she will be, and she told us not to write 
 until we heard from her.' 
 
 'Just so; but Mrs Barrington could 
 not have anticipated your servant meet- 
 ing with such an accident. It makes it 
 very awkward for you, young lady. What 
 will you do in this outlandish place alone ?
 
 232 In Wonder-Land ! 
 
 If you had only been at Lynwern now, 
 you might have found some amusement ; 
 but this village is dulness itself. Have 
 you no other friends except your mother ? ' 
 
 Fenella blushed. 
 
 ' Oh yes, of course I have ; only I 
 don't know them, and I would rather 
 not write to them. What could any one 
 do for me ? — unless it were to take me 
 away from Ines-cedwyn ; and I would 
 not leave Bennett on any account. I 
 must nurse her until she is well again.' 
 
 ' Very good ; if that's your decision, you 
 must abide by it. You'll be quite safe 
 here ; there is no doubt of that. Only 
 you must understand one thing, Miss Bar- 
 rington. If you wish to see your nurse 
 recover quickly, you must leave her alone. 
 Don't go into her room ; don't remain in 
 the cottage more than you can help — the 
 quieter the house is the better. Take 
 your work and books down to the beach, 
 and stop there all day. It'll do you good 
 as well as her, for you are not over- strong.
 
 In Wonder- Land / 233 
 
 Now, I can see you are a sensible girl, 
 and I'm sure you understand me.' 
 
 * Yes, I understand you perfectly, and 
 I will do all I can to aid her recovery. 
 When will you be able to set her leg and 
 stop that dreadful pain } ' 
 
 * I hope to do It this evening or to- 
 morrow morning, if the leeches do their 
 dut}^ And now I must run away, and 
 don't let me catch you in the house when 
 I come back again.' 
 
 He drove off laughing, and Fenella 
 felt comforted by the circumstance. If a 
 doctor laughed, she thought there couldn't 
 be anything very serious the matter with 
 his patient. So she took a book from one 
 of the boxes that Benjamin Bennett had 
 brought over from Lynwern the day be- 
 fore ; and as soon as Martha had given 
 her the midday meal, which she dignified 
 by the name of dinner, she put on her 
 little black hat and cape, and strolled 
 down to the sands. 
 
 As she went along, did Fenella think of
 
 234 ^^^ Wo7ider-Land ! 
 
 the stranger whom she had met there the 
 day before ? Possibly ! but she certainly 
 never expected to see him again so soon. 
 When she had passed the ruined bungalow, 
 and came within full sight of the open sea, 
 she was almost as much surprised to per- 
 ceive his figure stretched full length on the 
 sands, with his felt hat over his face to 
 shelter It from the midday sun, as she had 
 been on the first occasion of their meeting. 
 For why had he come back so soon, she 
 asked herself — so very soon — to such a 
 stupid place as Ines-cedwyn ! Mr Doyne 
 evidently did not hear her approach- — her 
 footsteps left no sound behind them on the 
 yielding sand — but Trap did. Trap, with 
 the unerring canine instinct that puts 
 our human perceptlveness to shame, had 
 pricked his ears for full half-a-mlnute 
 before the girl appeared ; and as he 
 caught sight of her, he stirred and 
 whined with eagerness to salute his new 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ' What's that, old boy ? ' said Geoffrey
 
 hi Wonder- Land ! 235 
 
 Doyne, as he tilted his hat from off the 
 corner of one eye. 
 
 In another moment he was on his feet 
 — bareheaded, and besprinkled with sand ; 
 and Trap, given the cue, was barking 
 vociferously, and wheeling round in airy 
 circles of delight. Fenella's cheeks had 
 suddenly bloomed like the rose. 
 
 ' Oh, how funny you look ! ' she ex- 
 claimed childishly — 'just as if you were 
 covered with brown sugar ! ^ 
 
 ' This is very hard upon me,' said Mr 
 Doyne ; ' we have met but twice, and each 
 time your first remark has been, '' How 
 funny ! " ' 
 
 Fenella laughed, and sat down on the 
 sand. 
 
 ' But so you are, you know ; and so is 
 Trap — the funniest little dog I ever saw. 
 Just look at him now, all covered with 
 sea-weed.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I ventured to bring him over 
 again to see you. Miss Barrington, since 
 you were kind enough to give me leave ;
 
 236 In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 and we have been waiting for you such a 
 time, more than two hours. Haven't we, 
 Trap ? ' 
 
 ' But how did you know I should be 
 here at all ? ' demanded Fenella, with open 
 eyes. * I didn't say so, Mr Doyne.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not ; but I hoped so, and you 
 see my hope has come true. " All things 
 come to him who knows how to wait." ' 
 
 * But where is your dear little boat ? ' 
 said Fenella. * I don't see it anywhere.' 
 
 ' The dear little boat, as you call it, is 
 in harbour at Lynwern. I rode over to 
 Ines-cedwyn this morning.' 
 
 ' You rode ! ' exclaimed Fenella — * on a 
 horse ? ' 
 
 The young man laughed. 
 
 ' The Hussars are not in the habit, gen- 
 erally speaking, of riding anything but 
 horses, Miss Barrington.' 
 
 ^ No, no ; of course ! How stupid you 
 must think me,' said the girl, colouring ; 
 * but I have been so long shut up at An- 
 sprach, that I seem to know nothing.'
 
 In Wonder-Land f 237 
 
 ' What do they ride at Ansprach ? ' he 
 asked — ' cows, or donkeys ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! now you are laughing at me, Mr 
 Doyne ; but I suppose I deserve it. Why, 
 we never rode anything at Ansprach, of 
 course. There was nothing but the con- 
 vent there. You never saw nuns riding 
 on donkeys, did you ? How funny they 
 would look ! ' 
 
 ' Or a fat old lady abbess on a cow ; 
 that would be funnier still,' suggested 
 Geoffrey Doyne. 
 
 Fenella took all he said au pied de la 
 lettre. 
 
 ' We did not call them '' lady abbesses " 
 at Ansprach,' she answered ; ' they were 
 called ''reverend mother," or '' chere 
 mere ; " and they were very good to me — 
 oh ! very, very good. I shall never forget 
 all their kindness as long as I live.' 
 
 Her loyal heart would not permit even 
 a shadow of ridicule to be cast upon its 
 absent friends, and Geoffrey Doyne saw 
 and appreciated the feeling.
 
 238 In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 'You were happy at the convent,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes, I was, in a way/ replied Fenella, 
 with some hesitation ; ' but school can 
 never be quite like home, you know ; and 
 five years was a long time to be away from 
 my mother.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you never 
 came home for five years } ' demanded the 
 young man, in surprise. 
 
 Fenella was afraid she had gone too 
 far ; she had no wish to betray her 
 mother. 
 
 ' It was inconvenient,' she stammered ; 
 * I mean, it was impossible for mamma to 
 have me home. She was busy, you see, 
 and moving about, and I had my educa- 
 tion to finish.' 
 
 * And now you have only been with her 
 for two days,' said Geoffrey Doyne. 
 
 The girl bit her lip to prevent the tears 
 starting to her eyes, and looked nervously 
 away from her companion. 
 
 ' How warm the sun is,' she said irre-
 
 In Wonder- Land ! 239 
 
 levantly, ' and how lazy It makes one feel. 
 I meant to be very studious to-day and 
 read Moliere, but I don't seem inclined to 
 do anything.' 
 
 Geoffrey Doyne knew too much of the 
 world to be taken in by her apparent 
 indifference. As she tried to divert his 
 attention from the subject under discussion, 
 he was summing up the absent mother's 
 character. ' Selfish and worldly,' he 
 thought, 'and jealous of her daughter's 
 budding attractions. And so she may well 
 be, by Jove ! ' But all he said was, — 
 
 ' Were you going to read. Miss Barring- 
 ton ? I was going to draw. What two 
 busy people we are. Happy thought ! 
 suppose you read to me whilst I sketch 
 that fishing smack.' 
 
 ' But my book is in French,' said Fen- 
 ella. ' Le Malade hnaginaire, by Moliere.' 
 
 ' All the better ! I love plays, and 
 French plays above all others.' 
 
 ' Do you speak French, then .^ ' 
 
 * I do. Not quite so well, perhaps, as
 
 240 In Wonder-Land / 
 
 a young lady fresh from a convent school ; 
 but still I speak It.' 
 
 ' And will you speak it with me ? ' cried 
 Fenella, clasping her hands. ' That will 
 be delightful. I cannot bear English, it 
 is so rough on the tongue.' 
 
 ' I will speak anything with you that 
 you will allow me,' said Geoffrey Doyne ; 
 and from that moment most of their con- 
 versation was carried on in French. 
 
 Fenella commenced chattering it at once; 
 all her hesitation vanished as she indulged 
 in the language most familiar to her, and 
 a new vivacity appeared to add a charm 
 to her conversation. Her speaking looks, 
 her little foreign gestures, her volubility, 
 delighted her companion. He seemed to 
 have suddenly called a statue to life by 
 his ' happy thought.' 
 
 ' Let me see your drawing,' commenced 
 Fenella rapidly. ' Ah ! how beautiful it 
 must be to draw like that! It is quite 
 perfect — it is ravissante. Now I, for my 
 part, cannot draw at all — is it not stupid ?
 
 In Wonder- Land ! 241 
 
 I only sing and play. Do you sing, Mr 
 Doyne ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! I am fonder of singing than 
 drawing ; but I cannot get much practice 
 out in India.' 
 
 ' How is that ? ' 
 
 * We move about so often, and just as 
 some lady has got into the way of ac- 
 companying my songs, she is whisked off 
 to another station.' 
 
 * How provoking! I have been taught 
 to accompany from sight, and can do it 
 easily. If we lived near each other, I 
 could always accompany you, and sing 
 with you too. Would it not be pleasant } ' 
 
 * It would be too delightful. How I 
 should like to hear your voice. Couldn't 
 you sing me a song whilst I draw ? ' 
 
 Fenella drew backward. 
 'Oh no! not here; every one would 
 hear me.' 
 
 * Where is every one ? ' said Mr Doyne, 
 smiling, as he looked from right to left at 
 the solitude that surrounded them. * But 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 In Wonder-Land ! 
 
 never mind, we will go to the landslip 
 tog-ether some day, and there, perhaps, I 
 may persuade you to sing me a song. 
 Have you walked over there yet ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but Martha Bennett says it is 
 very pretty just now — all covered with 
 apple blossoms.' 
 
 * Yes ; it was an orchard of wild apple 
 trees, and one night the whole concern 
 tumbled into the sea. Half of the 
 trees are uprooted, but they blossom still. 
 Shall we go and picnic there some 
 day?' 
 
 ^ * What is a picnic ? ' 
 
 'A dinner in the open air, under the 
 trees. I will bring it over in my boat 
 from Lynwern, if you'll be there to eat 
 it with me.' 
 
 * Oh, how lovely it would be — a dinner in 
 the woods ! ' cried Fenella. ' And Martha 
 gives me such nasty dinners too,' she 
 added confidentially, ' bacon and beans — 
 only fancy! — and Irish stew — oh, not at 
 all nice ! I don't like them. But I am
 
 In Woitde7^-Land ! 243 
 
 not sure if Bennett will let me dine at 
 the landslip with you.' 
 
 ' Never mind Bennett ; she's not to be 
 w^orried, you know ' (for Fenella had given 
 him the account of her servant's increased 
 illness), 'and I will take the very greatest 
 care of you, Miss Barrington.' 
 
 * I know you'll do that', she said, with 
 bright, confident eyes. 
 
 The young man gazed at her admir- 
 ingly ; at that moment there was no more 
 guile in his soul than hers. 
 
 * How much you looked like poor Edith 
 when you said that,' he ejaculated, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 * Who was Edith, Mr Doyne ? ' 
 
 * She was my sister — my favourite sister 
 — and she died two years ago, whilst I was 
 in India.' 
 
 ' Oh, that was very sad ! Cannot you 
 bear to talk of her ? Shall I say no more ? ' 
 
 ' Say what you like. I don't think you 
 could wound me. But the subject is a very 
 tender one.'
 
 244 ^^^ Wonder- Land ! 
 
 * You loved each other ? ' said Fenella 
 softly. 
 
 * We did — most truly ; as much as a 
 brother and sister ever did. She was my 
 world, and since she has left me I have 
 had none.' 
 
 ' But you will meet her again ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I feel that — I know it — but these 
 life partings are very bitter, and heaven 
 seems such a long way off.' 
 
 ' You have other sisters ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I have three ; but none like 
 Edith. She was my confidante^ my coun- 
 sellor, my true friend. I went to her in 
 all my difficulties. She saved me from so 
 much folly and weakness. No one cares 
 for me as she did, and she has left me. 
 Sometimes I feel as if it were too hard 
 to bear.' 
 
 He bent his head over his sketching- 
 block as she spoke, that she might not see 
 the moisture that bedewed his eyes ; for 
 Geoffrey Doyne's nature was a very senti- 
 mental one — weak, emotional, and easily
 
 In Wonder-Land ! 245 
 
 impressed for either right or wrong. His 
 soul was filled with a sort of poetical, 
 dreamy religion, that on occasions could 
 raise him to the heights of enthusiasm, but 
 was seldom strong enough to shield him in 
 the hour of temptation. 
 
 Fenella longed to comfort him, but she 
 was too inexperienced to know how. She 
 could only suggest gently, — 
 
 'But your mother, Mr Doyne — you 
 have still your mother to go to in your 
 trouble ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 * My mother died before I can remem- 
 ber her. Had she lived she might have 
 been to me what my sister was. But 
 I am not happy enough to have a 
 mother ! ' 
 
 Fenella was shocked that she had 
 touched on such a theme, but she could 
 not retrieve the error. At the idea of his 
 unhappiness and loneliness, so akin to 
 her own, her soft eyes beamed with the 
 tenderest sympathy. Geoffrey Doyne,
 
 246 In Wo7ider-Land ! 
 
 sitting beside her on the sand, with his 
 handsome profile clearly defined against 
 the sky, looked such an embodiment of 
 melancholy that her heart yearned to tell 
 him that she too knew what it was to lose 
 a mother. He seemed to discern her 
 feelings, for in another moment he had 
 turned to address her. 
 
 ' I know that you pity me,' he said. ' I 
 am sure that you can understand what 
 it is to look for love and not to find it 
 for — (forgive me if I am too bold) — you 
 too are motherless ! ' 
 
 The girl did not reply, but her hand 
 dropped at her side. He laid his own 
 upon it. 
 
 * Will you come down here to-morrow ? ' 
 he asked. ' Will you let me hear your 
 voice again and see your face ? Will you 
 let me feel if my troubles are too hard to 
 bear — that some one will be here for me to 
 tell them to ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Fenella simply. ' I will be 
 here.'
 
 In Wonder-Land ! 247 
 
 Had Geoffrey Doyne entertained a deep 
 design against her heart, he could not 
 have thought of a better plan by which to 
 effect its subjugation. 
 
 ' Come and tell me everything,' she said 
 softly, ' if it comforts you in the least 
 degree to talk ; for I too am lonely and 
 — very sad ! ' 
 
 He raised the hand he held lightly 
 to his lips, and laid it by her side 
 again. 
 
 ' That is a compact,' he replied. ' We 
 both need consolation. We will try and 
 console each other.' 
 
 He looked at her. There was no 
 thought of coquetry in her heart. All was 
 clear there as the light of heaven. Yet 
 with that innocent invitation she had 
 sealed her fate. 
 
 Sympathy — pity — a kindred grief ! 
 Could three ties more powerful be found 
 to knit two young hearts in a bond that 
 should never more be broken ? Many 
 meet and are attracted to each other in the
 
 248 . In Wonder- Land ! 
 
 midst of merriment, to the sounds of music 
 and laughter, midst the braying of trum- 
 pets and the proud revelry of success. 
 But such may part as easily. Those only 
 who are drawn together by a mutual 
 sorrow find it impossible to free them- 
 selves.
 
 ^^^s 
 
 ^y^ (^^^^^^ 
 
 S 
 
 X -^j 
 
 
 m, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DAWN BREAKS. 
 
 ' Let me but bear your love — I'll bear your cares.' 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 ^oi^^^iT^gOFFREY DOYNE'S father 
 was a country gentleman, and 
 a justice of the peace for Buck- 
 inghamshire. He was a selfish old person, 
 who seldom consulted anything but his 
 own Inclinations, and as he professed a 
 strong aversion to the sea-side, he never 
 accompanied his family in their summer 
 excursions. As Margaret Doyne, however, 
 his eldest daughter, was quite old enough 
 to take the charge of her younger sisters, 
 the absence of their paternal parent was
 
 250 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 considered rather In the light of a bless- 
 ing than otherwise, especially as he was 
 wealthy, and never denied them the means 
 of enjoying themselves so long as they 
 did not trouble him. They were not left 
 entirely alone either. Their elder brother, 
 Michael Doyne, who was in the law, ran 
 down occasionally from town to see how 
 they were getting on at Lynwern; and 
 now they had their handsome Geoffrey at 
 home for the next month or six weeks, to 
 act as their chaperon in such excursions as 
 they could not take by themselves. But 
 Geoffrey had not given satisfaction in this 
 particular. He was continually going 
 away for five and six hours at a time, row- 
 ing about in the boat he had hired — and 
 what was worse, he refused to take his 
 sisters with him. 
 
 The first time that Michael Doyne 
 visited them after Geoffrey had arrived at 
 Lynwern, he found Margaret full of com- 
 plaints of the younger brother's selfishness 
 and neglect.
 
 The Dawn breaks. 2 5 r 
 
 ' It really is too bad of him, Michael, 
 she said. ' He knows how tied I am to 
 home, and he might take Cissy and Amy 
 out with him occasionally. But he goes 
 away by himself, morning, noon, and even- 
 ing. He might just as well not be in the 
 house at all for what we see of him.' 
 
 'Where does he go to?' inquired Mr 
 Doyne. 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know\ He says he 
 goes fishing, but he never brings home 
 any fish. He talks a good deal about 
 Ines-cedwyn, a village a few miles from 
 here, so I suppose he goes there ; but he 
 is extremely reticent about his doings.' 
 
 * I hope he's not got into any scrape,* 
 remarked her brother. 
 
 ' Scrape ! my dear Michael, what sort 
 of a scrape ? ' 
 
 ' There Is but one sort of scrape for a 
 dreamy fellow like Geoffrey, Margaret, and 
 that's a feminine one ! ' 
 
 ' My dear Michael, said Miss Doyne 
 reproachfully, ' I know there used to be
 
 252 The Dawn b^^eaks. 
 
 trouble enough with Geoffrey about such 
 things in the days gone by, but surely 
 there's no fear of it now that he's en- 
 gaged to Jessie Robertson.' 
 
 * What has his engagement to do with 
 it ? He doesn't care for the girl. He 
 never did ! ' 
 
 'Oh, Michael, it's terrible to think of! 
 What prospect of happiness can there be 
 for him in such a case .'^ ' 
 
 ' As much as matrimony usually brings, 
 my dear. I really don't think it much 
 signifies how it begins. It generally ends 
 in the same way, — we have citations 
 served for upwards of four hundred di- 
 vorce motions for the next sessions ! ' 
 
 ' Pray don't mention such horrid things 
 to me. You had better talk to Geoffrey, 
 and find out what mischief he is after 
 now. That would be much more " to 
 the purpose.' 
 
 * Not I ! Geoff is old enough to man- 
 age his own affairs without any assist- 
 ance from me. But I'll put him in mind
 
 The Dawn breaks. 253 
 
 of his responsibilities with regard to Miss 
 Robertson, in case he should have for- 
 gotten them.' 
 
 Accordingly, at the next meal they took 
 together, Michael Doyne broached the sub- 
 ject. He was the last man in the world 
 who should have done so. He was a hard, 
 practical lawyer, who looked at everything 
 in life from a strictly business point of 
 view, and had no sympathy with romance 
 of any kind. Consequently, he and his 
 younger brother had seldom been able to 
 get on together. 
 
 * By the way, Geoffrey,' he commenced, 
 as he pushed the decanter across the table, 
 ' I dined with the Robertsons last week, 
 and Jessie was very anxious to ascertain 
 how much longer we intended remaining 
 at Lynwern, and if you were going to 
 stay with them in Blenheim Square on 
 your return.' 
 
 'Well, yes; I suppose I shall. I've 
 told her so all along,' replied Geoffrey 
 indifferently ; * but we don't want to leave
 
 2 54 Th^ Dawn breaks. 
 
 Lynwern yet, surely, when the warm 
 weather is just setting in.' 
 
 ' Margaret means to remain over June, 
 but her plans need not interfere with 
 yours.' 
 
 ' I never supposed they would.' 
 
 * And I really think you owe something 
 to Jessie Robertson. She appeared hurt 
 that you had not seen her on your way 
 through from Paris ; and, considering you 
 had been absent for three months, it 
 was rather peculiar.' 
 
 * I like to be peculiar,' rejoined the 
 younger brother ; ' but, joking apart, what 
 would have been the use of it '^. The 
 London season has not begun yet, there's 
 nothing stirring in town, and I shall have 
 more than enough of it before it's over.' 
 
 * Upon my word, Geoff,' interposed 
 Amy, ' I must say you are cool. Fancy, 
 speaking in that way of the girl you are 
 engaged to marry ! Jessie ought to feel 
 flattered. After three months' absence, 
 you have not sufficient interest in seeing
 
 The Dawn breaks. 255 
 
 her to make you halt twelve hours on your 
 journey/ 
 
 * My dear Amy, men don't treat these 
 matters in the ridiculous fashion of your 
 sex. Jessie and I must get used to separ- 
 ation, else what should we do when I 
 return to India next October ?' 
 
 * And is not the wedding to take place 
 before you go ? ' inquired Margaret. 
 ' When Mrs Robertson spoke to me on 
 the subject a few weeks back, she seemed 
 to look upon it as a settled thing.' 
 
 Geoffrey's face flamed with excitement. 
 
 * Most certainly not!' he exclaimed em- 
 phatically ; 'and I made Mrs Robertson 
 understand that thoroughly when I con- 
 sented to the encrao^ement. It was on the 
 condition that we were not to be married 
 till I returned from India again. The old 
 woman knows that as well as I do.' 
 
 ' And for how long are you lik ;ly to 
 be away this time ? ' demanded Michael 
 Doyne.' 
 
 ' I don't know — two or three years —
 
 256 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 what does It matter ? Any way, I'm not 
 going to lose my liberty before I start.' 
 
 * Poor Jessie,' said Cissy, laughing. ' I 
 wonder how much of your heart will be 
 left by the time you return to her.' 
 
 ' Don't talk nonsense,' replied her 
 brother crossly, as he turned away. 
 
 ' But at any rate, Geoffrey, whenever the 
 marriage is to take place, you are engaged 
 to the girl, remember that ; and you can't 
 get out of it,' said Michael Doyne. 
 
 ' Who wants to get out of it ? ' asked 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 * I don't wish even to suggest such a 
 thing, my dear fellow ; but it is as well 
 under the circumstances to keep the 
 family in good-humour, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' I am not going out of my way to do it,' 
 said Geoffrey ; ' and if they begin to worry 
 me, I shall cut the whole business.' 
 
 * They will never let you do that,' replied 
 his brother quietly ; ' they are too proud of 
 the connection. The old lady boasts of her 
 daughter's engagement wherever she goes.'
 
 The Dawn breaks, 257 
 
 An exclamation not too complimentary 
 to the ' old lady ' burst from Geoffrey's 
 lips. 
 
 * Whatever you feel on the subject of 
 your engagement, I wish It wouldn't make 
 you forget yourself,' remarked Margaret 
 coldly. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, Margaret, but It Is 
 enough to make any fellow swear to hear 
 that his private affairs are being canvassed 
 In this way. Why were women born with 
 tongues V 
 
 * It's a pity you have one yourself, or 
 you couldn't have entered into a contract 
 that appears so distasteful to you ! ' 
 
 ' There you go ! that's the way you 
 women run on ! W^ho ever said it was 
 distasteful to me '^. Now, I suppose you'll 
 have that piece of news all over Lyn- 
 wern before to-morrow morning ! ' retorted 
 her brother. 
 
 * It's no use quarrelling in this fashion,' 
 said Michael Doyne ; ' and as for Lynwern 
 being informed of your private affairs, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 258 The Dawn breaks, 
 
 Geoffrey, you must know your sisters have 
 no acquaintance here to tell them to. But 
 the danger, I fancy, lies more in reticence 
 than in repetition. If you give yourself 
 out publicly as an engaged man, no harm 
 will be done.' 
 
 He looked at the younger man so stead- 
 fastly as he pronounced the words, that 
 Geoffrey immediately suspected he knew 
 something of the truth. 
 
 * How can I give myself out as an 
 engaged man,' he answered, colouring, 
 ' when I know no one to give myself 
 out to ? Do you want me to make a 
 confidant of Tugwell, the boatman ; or 
 of the landlady of the lodgings ? ' 
 
 Michael noticed the increase of colour 
 in his brother's face, though he professed 
 not to do so. 
 
 ' Of course,' he replied, in an indifferent 
 tone, ' if you know no one, it cannot 
 signify. But I think it would please 
 the Robertsons if you were to run up 
 to town for a couple of days to see
 
 The Dawn breaks. 259 
 
 them, even before you leave Lynwern. 
 It would look polite and attentive, 
 wouldn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I'll think about it,* replied 
 Geoffrey, as he rose from table. 
 
 It was luncheon they had been sitting 
 over, and the hour was two o'clock. 
 
 ' What are you going to do this after- 
 noon ?' asked Michael. 
 
 * Fish,' replied the other laconically. 
 
 * You seem to do nothing but fish,' 
 said his brother. ' You have been in 
 Lynwern nearly three weeks, and Mar- 
 garet tells me that during that while 
 you have only taken your sisters out 
 twice.' 
 
 ' I came down here for sport,' replied 
 Geoffrey. * I didn't come for the purpose 
 of towing a lot of girls about ! I can't 
 go pottering over rocks looking for ane- 
 mones and all that sort of rubbish. And 
 when I don't fish, I like to ride about the 
 country.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose you must have your
 
 26o The Dawn breaks, 
 
 own way,' said Michael, 'but don't get 
 into any scrapes. By the way, is there 
 much fish at Ines-cedwyn ? ' 
 
 Geoffrey's handsome face crimsoned. 
 
 *Why — at Ines-cedwyn V he stammered. 
 
 * Only that it's the nearest point, and 
 Margaret says you have spoken of the 
 place.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, yes, there are ! it's a fishing- 
 hamlet, you know ; but I go for the plea- 
 sure of the thing, you know, and don't 
 care so much about the spoil.' And with 
 a laugh that was intended to be care- 
 less, Geoffrey Doyne strode away. The 
 lawyer looked after him till he was out 
 of sight. 
 
 * Whether you care about the spoil or 
 not, you've got a fish more there than 
 you've any right to have, my boy,' he 
 thought ; * however, it's no affair of mine. 
 You have a wonderful faculty for getting 
 into scrapes, and you must learn to get 
 out of them the best way you can.' 
 
 Meanwhile Geoffrey took his way down
 
 The Dawn breaks. 261 
 
 to the harbour, where Tugwell was wait- 
 ing for him with the Httle boat, in the 
 steerage of which lay a hamper which 
 the boatman had been previously or- 
 dered to fetch from the Lynwern Hotel. 
 It was a glorious afternoon in May ; not 
 a cloud flecked the pure blue of the sky, 
 not a ripple showed itself on the surface 
 of the water, and Geoffrey had meant to 
 be so happy, for he had at last persuaded 
 Fenella Barrington to picnic with him on 
 the landslip, and was going to meet her 
 there. But the unpleasant conversation 
 that had taken place over the luncheon- 
 table had somewhat embittered his cup 
 of pleasure. 
 
 He had now for more than a fortnight 
 held almost daily intercourse with the 
 girl at Ines-cedwyn. With the exception 
 of a few occasions on which he had done 
 duty with his sisters, he had met her every 
 afternoon upon the golden sands, and 
 talked with her until the evening shadows 
 warned them to seek their respective
 
 262 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 homes. They had become such fast 
 friends that he had spoken to her of 
 almost everything that passed through 
 his mind — except his engagement with 
 Jessie Robertson. 
 
 Several times it had been on the tip of 
 his tongue to tell her, and something had 
 prevented him. Something in the tender 
 light of the clear eyes bent upon him, 
 something in the frank confidence with 
 which he was treated, made him reserve 
 his own. The words would not come ; 
 they had died upon his very lips. He 
 had told himself it was not necessary that 
 Fenella should learn the fact ; that she 
 was but an acquaintance from whom he 
 should soon again be parted, and perhaps 
 for ever ; there was no need to cast a 
 shadow on their pleasant intercourse. 
 But something in his brother's way of 
 mentioning the subject that afternoon had 
 placed it in a different light before him. 
 It had opened his eyes, perhaps, to his 
 own feelings in the matter ; any way, he
 
 The Dawn breaks. 263 
 
 had come to the conclusion that he owed 
 it to his girl friend and himself to tell her 
 the truth. But the idea made him very 
 melancholy ; it did more, it made him 
 nervous. 
 
 Tugwell did not know what had come 
 to the master that afternoon. His young 
 muscular arms seemed to have lost half 
 their power, and his tongue — generally so 
 voluble and pleasant — to have relapsed 
 into silence. The journey to Ines-cedwyn 
 took half again as long as usual, and 
 when at last they pulled up alongside 
 of the landslip, the boatman had had a 
 great deal more than his fair share of 
 labour. 
 
 Geoffrey Doyne, ever generous, seemed 
 to acknowledge the fact, for he was un- 
 usually liberal that afternoon. 
 
 ' Pull the boat round to the cliffs, Tug- 
 well,' he said, * and when I want you 
 again I'll go up to the public house and 
 give you a call. I don't think I shall be 
 going back till this evening.'
 
 264 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 And then he carried the basket of pro- 
 visions up to a grassy knoll, and sat down 
 under the shade of an apple-tree, and 
 wondered — whilst the white and pink blos- 
 soms fell about his handsome head, and 
 crowned him like a young god of Spring 
 — in what words he had best break the 
 news of his engagement to Fenella. 
 
 Meanwhile the girl, ardently anxious 
 for the moment that should bring her 
 face to face with him again, was standing 
 in Eliza Bennett's bedroom looking out 
 through the honeysuckled casement. The 
 servant was now convalescent, that is to 
 say, she could sit up in bed, but Dr Red- 
 fern would not yet permit her to put her 
 foot to the ground. 
 
 ' And just to fancy. Miss Fenella,' she 
 was saying, *that it is a fortnight and 
 more since we came to Ines-cedwyn, and 
 here I am still in bed like a log, and of 
 no use to any one. It's enough to make 
 a woman lose all patience — it really is ! ' 
 
 ' But, Bennett, you are so much better ;
 
 The Dawn breaks, 265 
 
 you will soon be able to get about again 
 now,' replied Fenella. ' The doctor said 
 this morning that another week or two 
 would see you in the garden.' 
 
 ' It is not of myself I'm thinking, my 
 dear ; it's of you ! I shouldn't fret if I'd 
 to lie here another month, for Martha's 
 as good as she can be to me ; but it's so 
 lonely for you, poor lamb, and that's what 
 puts me out. Whatever you do with your- 
 self all day long in this solitary place, I 
 can't think.' 
 
 Fenella turned scarlet. 
 
 * Oh ! I am quite happy Bennett — • 
 Indeed I am ; and I think it is the nicest 
 place I ever was in.' 
 
 * Do you, now ? Well, you haven't seen 
 much as yet, that's true ; but though Ines- 
 cedwyn's my native village, I never heard 
 anybody speak of it like that. And do 
 you find anything to amuse yourself with 
 here, Miss Fenella? any shells, or sea- 
 weed, or such like ? I am afraid you must 
 be so terribly dull.'
 
 2 66 The Dawn bi^eaks, 
 
 * No, Bennett, I am not dull ; I assure 
 you I am not.' 
 
 ' Martha tells me you're so good, you 
 give next to no trouble ; but you mustn't 
 keep out of the house for our sakes, you 
 know, miss, though the beach Is pleasanter 
 than the cottage this weather, I daresay. 
 What do you do there ? Do you take 
 your books and work on the sands ? ' 
 
 Fenella looked more and more uneasy 
 as the catechising proceeded, but she 
 answered, — 
 
 * Yes, Bennett, always — I work there 
 every day.' 
 
 * And do you ever get any one to speak 
 to, miss } I know there's only boatmen 
 and children about here, but do you ever 
 have a talk with them about the weather 
 and the fishing ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, often.' 
 
 'That's right. I'm glad you're not too 
 proud for that, Miss Fenella, for it's dull 
 work never to hear the sound of one's 
 own tongue. And you can talk with whom
 
 The Dawn breaks. 267 
 
 you will In Ines-cedwyn. You can't come 
 to any harm here. But there's another 
 thing I want to say to you, miss. Don't 
 you think it's strange we've never had 
 a line from your dear mamma ? ' 
 
 At these words Fenella's face lowered. 
 She had ceased to think of her mother 
 with the softness with which she had 
 regarded her all her life hitherto. She 
 recognised the utter want of maternal 
 feeling which had condemned her to her 
 present position, and it had hardened her 
 heart against her. Others loved her — 
 strangers offered her sympathy and kind- 
 ness. Why did her mother alone with- 
 hold them from her ? 
 
 ' I did think we should have heard from 
 her before now,' resumed Eliza Bennett, 
 * though I know the mistress hates letter- 
 writing above everything. But she pro- 
 mised to write from Mentone, and she 
 must be there by this time.' 
 
 ' I daresay she has forgotten all about 
 us,' said Fenella, shrugging her shoulders.
 
 268 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 Perhaps she means to leave us here for 
 the rest of our lives.' 
 
 * Oh ! don't say such things, miss, please, 
 of your dear mamma — as if she'd ever go 
 to do such a thing ! ' 
 
 ' I shouldn't much mind if she did,' 
 rejoined Fenella blithely. 'I am so 
 happy in Ines-cedwyn, I never wish to 
 go away again.' 
 
 Eliza Bennett regarded the girl with 
 astonishment. 
 
 * Lor, Miss Fenella!' she exclaimed, 
 * who'd have thought to hear you talk like 
 that? But I'm glad you're happy here, 
 my dear, for I'm sure the place agrees 
 with you. You're not the same young 
 lady that came here. I don't believe 
 your mamma would know you again. 
 You're getting quite stout, and blooming 
 like a rose.' 
 
 ' That's because Martha takes such 
 good care of me,' replied Fenella, blush- 
 ing ; ' and what do you think she has 
 done to-day, Bennett 1 — made me a lovely
 
 The Dawn breaks. 269 
 
 little pie and a plum-cake, and I am going 
 to have a picnic up at the landslip as 
 soon as she has packed them up for me/ 
 ' Then you'd better go at once, miss, 
 for It's past your dinner-hour already.' 
 
 * I know It Is, but I don't feel hungry, 
 — the air, and the sky, and the sea are 
 all so beautiful. I am too happy to be 
 hungry. Kiss me, dear old Bennett ! I 
 think you love me, don't you ? Ah ! how 
 I wish — ' 
 
 * What do you wish, my dear ? ' de- 
 manded the servant wistfully. She could 
 not understand the new mood that had 
 come over her young mistress. Fenella 
 seemed to have altered in some way, and 
 yet she could not say how. * What is 
 it you want, miss ? Is it anything I can 
 do for you ? ' she repeated. 
 
 * No, no, Bennett ; It Is nothing — it 
 was only a thought. I have everything 
 I want In this world — I wish for nothing 
 more. Good-bye ! I must run now and 
 get my basket,' and In another moment
 
 270 The Dawn b7xaks. 
 
 the servant heard her go singing gaily 
 down the pathway to the sea. 
 
 * Bless her heart ! ' she said to herself ; 
 * what a little It takes to make us happy 
 when we're young. But I never thought 
 the dear child would have got over it 
 so soon.' 
 
 But though Fenella sang as she went 
 to meet Geoffrey Doyne at the landslip, 
 and her face was crimsoned with expec- 
 tation and her grey eyes beamed with 
 excitement, she was not entirely at her 
 ease. Her interviews with him had be- 
 come the greatest joy of her life, but they 
 were overshadowed by the fact of their 
 being kept secret. Fenella's nature was 
 open as the day — to conceal anything was 
 a real pain to her ; but circumstances had 
 made her refrain from mentioning Geoffrey 
 Doyne's name at the cottage until it had 
 become impossible to do so — until the 
 very thought of him was sacred, and 
 had the power to cover her with con- 
 fusion. Yet still the girl was unconscious
 
 The Dawn breaks. 271 
 
 why it should be so ; still she spoke of 
 him to her own heart as only the dearest 
 friend she had ever met. 
 
 Three weeks of constant and unbroken 
 intercourse — what can they not effect in 
 the mind of a young and susceptible 
 woman ! For they had actually been 
 potent enough to do this : without her 
 knowing it, they had transformed Fenella 
 Barrineton from a child to a woman, and 
 accident had but to tear the veil from 
 her eyes to make her see herself as she 
 really was. During these three weeks 
 Geoffrey Doyne had unbosomed himself 
 of his deepest thoughts to her, had shown 
 her the richest treasures of his freshly edu- 
 cated mind. They had conversed together 
 of poetry and nature and art and religion 
 — the misty, emotional religion which he 
 affected, made up of heaven and angels, and 
 everlasting love — that species of ecstatic 
 impossible paradise to which lovers who 
 are parted by fate in this world, are so fond 
 of looking forward, and the half child, half
 
 272 The Dawn breaks, 
 
 woman had listened as to the utterances 
 of a god, and gradually warmed to life 
 and awakened to the call of nature 
 beneath the influence of his sweet words 
 and sweeter voice. He had never spoken 
 to her of love — natural, earthly love — or 
 her suspicions with regard to her own 
 state of mind might have been aroused. 
 He only spoke of friendship — an immut- 
 able, indivisible friendship, which was to 
 last for time and eternity and prove the 
 salvation of them both. He had prayed 
 her to stand in the place of his lost 
 sister Edith to him ; to be his consoler 
 and counsellor and second self; to become, 
 in fact, that which it is impossible for a 
 woman to be without being more — the 
 bosom friend of a man ! 
 
 But Fenella was too unworldly to doubt 
 the reason of his proposal ; she saw no- 
 thing absurd in the idea ; it appeared 
 both holy and feasible to her, and had be- 
 come the gladness of her life. She never 
 stopped to ask herself how long it would
 
 The Dawn breaks, 273 
 
 last, and what she and Geoffrey Doyne 
 would do when he left Lynwern, and she 
 went back to her mother in South Audley 
 Street. She only knew that the present 
 was in her grasp, and it was beautiful ; 
 and she went to meet him at the land- 
 slip without a doubt but that the 
 horizon of her life would always be as 
 blue and smilino^ as it was now. There 
 was only one little cloud to mar her 
 pleasure — she wished that Geoffrey would 
 come up to the cottage and tell Bennett 
 that they knew each other. Perhaps the 
 gloom in his own mind that day made him 
 more readily recognise that all was not 
 quite smooth with her, for after the first 
 hot flush that rose to Fenella's face on 
 greeting him had subsided, he asked her 
 if anything was the matter. 
 
 * Nothing! what should be the matter/ 
 she answered, 'when the sun is shining 
 so splendidly, and the birds are singing 
 all round us, and we are going to eat our 
 dinner together under these beautiful trees '^ 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 2 74 ^^^ Dawn breaks. 
 
 There is only one thing that could make 
 me happier.' 
 
 * There now ; I knew there was one 
 thing. You see you can't deceive me, 
 Fenella,' he said, as he gazed into her 
 speaking face. ' Come, now ; what is it ? ' 
 
 ' You will call me silly, Mr Doyne, 
 because we have spoken of it so often 
 before ; but I do wish that Bennett knew 
 that we met each other.' 
 
 * Why don't you tell her, then ? ' 
 
 * But perhaps she might be angry, and 
 never let me see you again ! ' said Fenella, 
 with a drooping lip. 
 
 * Ah ! that's it, you see ; it's Bennett 
 versus Geoffrey Doyne, and the weaker 
 must go to the wall.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't talk so ; you won't go to the 
 wall ! ' said Fenella, as she unpacked the 
 baskets and spread out their contents upon 
 the grass. Her childish delight at the 
 liberal provision her friend had made 
 for their comfort — at the delicate raised 
 pie, and the cold chicken and salad, and
 
 The Dawn breaks. 275 
 
 the bottle of champagne — for awhile lulled 
 the whispers of her uneasy conscience. 
 
 ' Oh, how kind of you, Mr Doyne ! 
 What a beautiful dinner — and tarts too ! 
 Who told you I liked raspberry puffs ? 
 And here is a box of chocolate creams ! 
 You are a good boy ! I shall never, 
 never forget our picnic under the land- 
 slip trees.' 
 
 She spread the cloth which he had 
 brought with him, and laid out the meal, 
 with all the delight of a child at play. 
 
 * And now, where will you sit ? ' she 
 said, when her preparations were con- 
 cluded. ' Will you stay where you are, 
 and I will sit opposite to you ? That is 
 right ; now aren't we cosy sitting here, 
 one at each end of the table, just like 
 Martha and Benjamin at dinner — eh, Mr 
 Doyne ? ' 
 
 She threw a gleeful glance at him as 
 she spoke, and caught the troubled ex- 
 pression in his eyes. In a moment her 
 own face became overcast.
 
 276 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 ' Now it is my turn to ask what is the 
 matter!' she exclaimed. 'Have I said 
 anything wrong ? Is it I who have made 
 you sad ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed, Fenella ; it is not in your 
 power to do that ; but let us have our 
 dinner first, child, and talk afterwards.' 
 
 He exerted himself to be cheerful during 
 the meal that followed, but it was the 
 girl that chattered and laughed the most 
 of the two. She was so happy to think 
 that Bennett was better, and the sun 
 shone, and Geoffrey was there. To her 
 innocence it appeared as if life could 
 never give her anything better than she 
 possessed at that moment. When the 
 dinner was concluded, he asked her 
 permission to light a cigar. He felt 
 somehow as if he could speak to her 
 better if he were not obliged to look 
 in her face ; and Fenella took out a 
 strip of work which she was embroider- 
 ing, and sat down by his side. 
 
 * Why do you think that Bennett would
 
 The Dawn breaks. 277 
 
 be angry at your meeting me upon the 
 sands ? ' he asked abruptly, when there 
 had been the silence of a couple of 
 minutes between them. 
 
 * Oh, I don't know — perhaps she might 
 not be ; but she was angry because I 
 spoke to you at Calais, you remember ? 
 She said it wasn't proper, and that no 
 young lady would do such a thing.' 
 
 ' I know she did ! She was speaking 
 from a conventional point of view, and 
 in the main she was right. But with 
 respect to our particular case : I suppose 
 you know why she would be afraid to 
 give her sanction to our meeting each 
 other, and what she would be afraid 
 of.' 
 
 ' No, I don't,' replied Fenella frankly. 
 
 ' Well, it's very foolish, of course, but it's 
 the general idea, and Bennett is only a 
 servant. Her objection to your meeting 
 me in this way would be simply because 
 she would imagine I should make love to 
 you.'
 
 278 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 * But you don't,' said the girl, with her 
 eyes fixed on her work. 
 
 * No, I don't ; and I want to tell you for 
 what reason. I want to explain to you, 
 my dear little friend, why her fears would 
 be perfectly groundless, why — In fact, / 
 could not make love to you even if I wished 
 to do so ; and that is because I am already 
 engaged to be married. And so I'm as 
 harmless a fellow, you see, as you could 
 meet In a day's march !' 
 
 Fenella did not answer him. She never 
 stirred, nor looked up, and her face was 
 shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, so that 
 he could not see her eyes. But after a 
 pause, she said, In a low voice, — 
 
 * I don't quite understand !' 
 
 ' Don't you ? I thought I spoke plainly 
 enough. I said (what I wish I had not to 
 say) that I have entered into an engage- 
 ment from which I see no means of extri- 
 cating myself I told you once, dear, that 
 I was not a happy man. This is the chief 
 cause of my unhappiness : I am engaged
 
 The Dawn breaks. 279 
 
 to a girl whom I don't love, and can't 
 love, and never shall love, and all my 
 life is spoiled in consequence.' 
 
 A look of divine pity beamed from 
 Fenella's eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, I understand — I comprehend,' she 
 cried. ' You were betrothed to her as a 
 child, and now you find you cannot love 
 her ! I have heard of such things before, 
 and I am very, very sorry.' 
 
 She dropped her work as she spoke, and 
 came to his side, and placed one of her 
 hands upon his own. 
 
 * Is there no way out of such a trouble T 
 she asked softly. 
 
 The young man's hand closed upon hers 
 like a vice, 
 
 ' None, dear child,' he answered ; * there 
 is no remedy for it. But you do not 
 quite understand me, Fenella. This be- 
 trothal was my own doing. I was drawn 
 into it, it is true, against my better judg- 
 ment, but I sealed it of my free will. I 
 am the only one to blame in the matter,
 
 2 8o The Dawn breaks, 
 
 and that is what makes it so hard to 
 bear ! ' 
 
 ' Tell me all about it,' said the girl, with 
 trembling lips. 
 
 * When I came home from India a year 
 ago, I paid a visit to the house of Dr 
 Robertson, an old friend of my father's. 
 He has seven daughters, and I had known 
 them all from children, and thought no 
 more of romping with them than with my 
 own sisters. But one day, to my astonish- 
 ment, the mother, Mrs Robertson, informed 
 me that her daughter Jessie had grown to 
 care so much for me, that if I didn't mean 
 to marry her, she would break her heart. 
 I was very angry at the idea at first, but 
 they talked me over, and as I didn't want 
 to make a quarrel between the families, and 
 they all seemed to think I ought to pro- 
 pose to the girl, I did so, and it was 
 settled. But I have been very wretched 
 about it ever since.' 
 
 'Is she pretty .^^ ' asked Fenella, in a 
 low voice.
 
 The Dawn breaks. 281 
 
 * Yes, rather ! ' replied Geoffrey, in the 
 depreciating tone in which a man of the 
 world invariably speaks of one woman's 
 charms to another. 
 
 ' And fond of you ?' went on the girl. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! there is no question of that. 
 She is very much attached to me,' he said, 
 somewhat conceitedly. 
 
 ' And yet you don't love her ! ' 
 
 * I do not, Fenella. I never did love her 
 — in the way you mean — and now I seem 
 less able to do it than before. We are 
 utterly unsulted to each other. We can 
 never be happy together, and I feel that 
 I would rather die than marry her.' 
 
 Mt is very sad for both of you,' said 
 Fenella quickly, and she said no more. 
 
 Geoffrey Doyne was annoyed at her 
 reticence. Had she reproached or blamed 
 him ; had her voice but faltered, or a few 
 tears fallen on her embroidery, she would 
 have afforded him an opening to tell her 
 what a dangerous charm her society posses- 
 sed for him, and how (since he had known
 
 282 The Dawn breaks, 
 
 her) the thought of his engagement to Jessie 
 Robertson had become more objectionable 
 every day. But Fenella had no such 
 ordinary female artifices at hand by which 
 to force a confession of love. She was 
 afraid of betraying what she felt to him ; 
 and her only refuge was in silence. But 
 as she sat there, apparently absorbed in her 
 work, the music of the birds, and the waves, 
 and the summer breeze sighing through 
 the branches, seemed to have floated 
 far away, and her head was filled with a 
 whirring, birring sound instead, and her 
 heart felt cold and heavy, and sick to death 
 with a longing that was akin to despair. 
 
 At last the silence that reigned between 
 them became Insupportable. Geoffrey 
 Doyne had twisted and turned about upon 
 the grass, and whistled, and done every- 
 thing he could think of to attract her 
 attention, without success. 
 
 ' Are we never going to talk to each 
 other again ? ' ne exclaimed impatiently. 
 * I shall wish I had bitten out my tongue
 
 The Dazvn breaks. 283 
 
 before I mentioned this abominable busi- 
 ness to you, if it is to make any difference 
 to our pleasant intercourse.' 
 
 At the sound of his voice Fenella roused 
 herself. 
 
 * What nonsense you are talking,' she 
 said, with affected gaiety, as she threw 
 her work to one side. ' You make no 
 allowance for people wanting to rest their 
 tongues a little after dinner. Now, I 
 suppose, the next thing we must do is 
 to pack up this hamper again. Well, Mr 
 Lazy, am I to do all by myself? Give me 
 those plates, please ; they must go at the 
 bottom, or the eatables will be spoiled; and I 
 will put Martha's little pie and cake in with 
 them, lest she should ask me what I had for 
 dinner. You must give them to Tugwell, 
 Mr Doyne. They will do for his supper, 
 or he will keep themi for his little children. 
 That is done. Oh, how heavy it is! I 
 don't think I could carry it if I tried.' 
 
 ' No, no ; of course you could not,' said 
 Geoffrey Doyne. ' We will leave it here,
 
 284 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 and Tugwell will fetch it down to the boat 
 himself. But what is the matter with you, 
 Fenella ? are you cold ? ' For the girl had 
 sat suddenly down on the grass again, and 
 was shivering. 
 
 ' I don't know ; I think I am. It seems 
 a little chilly,' she answered vaguely. 
 
 * We have been sitting still too long, 
 that is the fact,' said the young man. 
 * We must not forget that, though it is so 
 warm, it is not summer. Let us walk 
 along the shore, Fenella ; a little exercise 
 will do us good.' 
 
 He stretched out his hand to her as he 
 spoke, and she suffered him to lead her 
 away. The road they chose was not the 
 one that led to Ines-cedwyn, but lay along a 
 barren shore on the left side of the land- 
 slip. Here, after the space of a few 
 minutes, they found themselves utterly 
 alone. They were not even within sight 
 of the village, and the sea-gulls, wheeling 
 every now and then across their path, were 
 the sole living creatures they encountered.
 
 The Dawn breaks, 285 
 
 They walked for a little while, side by side, 
 with their eyes fixed upon the ground, and 
 their tongues apparently fettered ; but pre- 
 sently Geoffrey Doyne approached nearer 
 his companion, until his arm stole round 
 her slender waist. 
 
 ' Fenella,' he whispered, in a voice in 
 which an older woman would have detected 
 the underlying passion — * Fenella, will you 
 ever be less my friend than you are now ? ' 
 
 * Never, Geoffrey, never.' 
 
 * Thanks, dear. You won't let what I 
 told you this afternoon, then, make any 
 difference in our affection ? ' 
 
 ^ Oh no ! Why should it ? ' 
 
 ' For I need your friendship all the more 
 for that,' he continued. ' I shall turn to 
 you for comfort in all my troubles. I shall 
 come to you when everything goes wrong, 
 that you may tell me what is best to do.' 
 
 * Yes, if I can — if I am able,' she an- 
 swered. ' But you are so much older and 
 wiser than I am, Geoffrey ; you can never 
 need me to tell you what is right'
 
 2 86 The Dawn breaks, 
 
 * I shall need you always, Fenella — all 
 through my life. You have promised, 
 you know, to stand to me in the place of 
 Edith — to be my sister and counsellor 
 and friend, and to fill up the gap in my 
 lonely heart.' 
 
 'And indeed I will,' replied the girl. 
 *You must always think of me as your 
 sister Fenella.' 
 
 But her voice trembled a little, despite 
 all her caution, as she pronounced the 
 words. Even a sister does not always 
 care to have her affection divided with 
 another. 
 
 ' There is no love so beautiful and 
 holy in this world as the love between a 
 brother and sister,' continued the young 
 man, with a view to mutual consolation. 
 'It is the purest, closest friendship of 
 which our mortal natures are capable. It 
 is devoid of jealousy ; it is totally un- 
 selfish, and it desires nothing so much as 
 the good of the person whom it loves. 
 There can be no higher feeling upon
 
 The Dawn breaks, 287 
 
 earth, Fenella. It is next door to the 
 loves of the angels/ 
 
 * Yes ; I never had a brother, as you 
 know, but I have always felt so.' 
 
 * But you have a brother now, darling. 
 You will never cease to think of me as a 
 brother, will you ? ' asked Geoffrey Doyne. 
 
 * Oh no ; I hope not ; but — but — ' 
 ' But what, Fenella ? ' 
 
 * You will be going to India very soon,' 
 she faltered. 
 
 The young man looked grave. 
 
 ' That is true ; and it will be a terrible 
 trial for both of us. But life, Fenella, is 
 made up of trials, and love like ours 
 was given to help us bear them with 
 the greater patience.' 
 
 ' I know that ; but it is so far away, 
 and you might die there, Geoffrey, and 
 then I should never see you again.' 
 
 ' You mustn't say that. If you love me 
 as much as I love you, nothing can ever 
 really part us in this world or the next. 
 I heard once, Fenella, a most charming
 
 288 The Dawn breaks. 
 
 theory from the Hps of a man of science, 
 and I have never forgotten it. His beHef 
 was, that since the angels are perfect 
 beings, and no mortal, even in a purified 
 condition, can be so, our future state will 
 consist of a dual existence — that is, it will 
 take a man and woman to make one angel ; 
 and thus, from our stronger nerves and 
 qualities, joined to your softer, sweeter 
 natures, will spring a perfected being.' 
 
 * How beautiful ! I wonder if it is 
 true ! ' exclaimed Fenella. 
 
 ' I love to think it is so,' continued 
 Geoffrey Doyne ; ' and should it be, will 
 you not hope, dear, that you and I may be 
 the two true friends to be thus incor- 
 porated into one .'^' 
 
 * Oh, Geoffrey ! yes,' she whispered. 
 
 It was now evening, and the stars had 
 commenced to enamel the dark blue sky. 
 The young man pointed them out to her. 
 
 ' Look at the Pleiades, and Orion, and 
 Charles's Wain, Fenella,' he said. ' What 
 lovely homes there must be, ready waiting
 
 The Dawn breaks, 289 
 
 for us, beyond those stars ; and what a 
 Httle while it will seem, after all, before we 
 get there. And what rest, what peace we 
 shall enjoy, after having passed through 
 the waves of this troublesome world. 
 Fenella, my darling sister, will it not be 
 better to preserve our love, unstained by 
 any thought of earth, until that moment, 
 than to soil it by contact with human 
 jealousies and passions here below ? ' 
 
 She did not half understand the mean- 
 ing of his words, but she knew intuitively 
 that he wished her to sayjy^i", and so she 
 said it. 
 
 ' In that world,' he continued, with his 
 arm encircling her girlish figure, and his 
 eyes, filled with passion, fixed upon her 
 face, — ' in that world, my dearest, where 
 all is peace and purity, we will belong 
 to each other for ever and ever, and no 
 living soul shall have the power to come 
 between us.' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AWAKENED. 
 
 * What is it that love does to a woman ? — without it 
 she only sleeps ; with it alone, she lives.' 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 ET although these young people 
 had arrived at such a satisfac- 
 tory conclusion with regard to 
 the attitude they were to maintain to- 
 wards each other through life, they did 
 not seem any the happier for the arrange- 
 ment. They grew less joyous, less con- 
 fidential, less friendly after that revela- 
 tion on the landslip than before. They 
 continued to meet upon the sands of 
 Ines-cedwyn. Not a day passed that
 
 Awakened. 291 
 
 Fenella Barrington did not find Geoffrey 
 Doyne waiting for her by the Beach 
 Bungalow ; but though they greeted each 
 other kindly, and talked with alacrity of 
 everything that was most indifferent to 
 them on earth, there was something be- 
 tween them which had not been there be- 
 fore — unrecognised but felt — and it marred 
 all their enjoyment. 
 
 Fenella would sit in the verandah of 
 the ruined villa for half the morning, 
 stitching away as if her life depended 
 on the rapidity of her work; whilst 
 Geoffrey would lie upon the sand, face 
 downward, pitching the pebbles about, 
 and whisding to himself in a sort of 
 discontented undertone; and their mutual 
 attempts at conversation drifted again 
 and again into silence. 
 
 On several occasions the girl intro- 
 duced the subject of his engagement to 
 Jessie Robertson, and tried to make him 
 talk of her personal appearance, and 
 surroundings, and the circumstances by
 
 292 Awakened. 
 
 which they had been drawn together. 
 But she found the subject a very un- 
 palatable one. Geoffrey growled, and 
 grumbled, and bewailed his fate, and 
 sometimes even launched into impre- 
 cations which frightened his companion. 
 Everything seemed out of gear with 
 him. He never alluded to his own 
 marriage but with the greatest distaste ; 
 and he teased Fenella on the subject of 
 hers until he nearly betrayed her into 
 tears. 
 
 ' I shall never marry, Geoffrey/ she 
 kept on repeating. ' I have always said 
 so, and I mean to keep to my word.' 
 
 * Oh no, you won't, child ; everybody 
 marries sooner or later, and you are too 
 pretty to remain an old maid. When 
 I return from India, I shall find my 
 adopted sister a big lady — wife to a 
 lord, perhaps, or some swell in Parlia- 
 ment, and too grand to remember the 
 brother she picked up on the Ines- 
 cedwyn sands.'
 
 Awakened. 293 
 
 ' Oh, Geoffrey, as if I could ever for- 
 get you ! ' Fenella faltered. ' But indeed 
 you are mistaken. I mean to live with 
 my mother and Bennett all my life, and 
 then some day perhaps — perhaps — ' 
 
 ' Perhaps what ! dear ? ' 
 
 ' I was going to say,' continued the 
 girl, as she resolutely swallowed something 
 in her throat, ' that some day perhaps, 
 Geoffrey, when you have — you have little 
 children, they may learn to love me as if 
 I really were their aunt.' 
 
 Geoffrey Doyne gave vent to an oath 
 that rung out discordantly upon the still 
 summer air. 
 
 ' Forgive me, Fenella,' he pleaded. ' I 
 shouldn't have said that, — but I wish you 
 wouldn't talk in that way ! It will never 
 come to pass, you know ; it can't — it must 
 not — it is impossible! — Good Heavens!' ex- 
 claimed the young man suddenly, as he leapt 
 to his feet and paced up and down the sand, 
 * I believe that I shall go out of my mind.' 
 
 But one morning towards the close of
 
 294 Awakened, 
 
 the week he met her, with a face from 
 which all the perplexity and doubt had dis- 
 appeared as if by magic. 
 
 ' Congratulate me, my dear girl ! ' he 
 exclaimed, as he ran up to meet her. 
 ' I am so happy ; such a load has been 
 taken off my mind. I am the most for- 
 tunate man in the world.' 
 
 * What has happened, Geoffrey ? ' she 
 demanded in surprise. 
 
 There was no mistaking the joyousness 
 of his demeanour, the glad light flashing 
 from his eyes, the new life that seemed to 
 pervade his whole being. But whence 
 had it come — what had occasioned it ? 
 No idea of the truth entered her mind. 
 
 ' Come inside the bungalow,' he con- 
 tinued ; ' I have grand news to tell you, 
 and we must be alone.' 
 
 He dragged her into one of the empty 
 rooms as he spoke, and perched her on a 
 window-sill, whilst he stood in front of her. 
 
 ' Fenella, dear, I am a free man ! — say 
 that you are as glad as I am ! '
 
 Awakened, 295 
 
 * A free man ! Geoffrey, what do you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' I could not bear my position with 
 regard to Jessie Robertson any longer, 
 Fenella. It was growing more irksome, 
 more distasteful to me each day. I felt 
 that I was living and acting a lie, and so 
 at last I made up my mind to write and 
 tell her so ; and she has released me — 
 released me from my engagement of her 
 own free will — and I am a happy man 
 once more.' 
 
 * What did you say to her ? ' asked 
 Fenella, trembling. Even in the delight 
 of hearing that Geoffrey Doyne was free 
 again, even in the whirl of the wild 
 thoughts that swept through her mind at 
 the announcement, she could still feel for 
 her rival ; she could stop to consider how 
 much the renunciation would hurt her, 
 and if she was to be a sufferer by the 
 arrangement. 
 
 ' What did you say to her } ' she 
 repeated.
 
 296 • Awakened. 
 
 ' I just told her the truth — that I 
 thought we had been in too great a hurry 
 in the matter ; that marriage was a very 
 solemn business, and once done there was 
 no undoing it ; and I was sure we should 
 never be happy together. Of course I 
 couldn't say I wouldn't marry her, — no 
 man of honour could do that, — but I put 
 things before her in a proper light, and 
 left her to take the initiative, which she 
 has done.' 
 
 ' And is she glad too ? ' asked Fenella. 
 
 ' I think she sees the sense of it — in 
 fact, she must. Any way, she sent me back 
 my letters this morning, with one or two 
 presents I had been fool enough to give 
 her — which, of course, is as good as telling 
 me the engagement is cancelled. And 
 so I am free, child, quite free, and you 
 have not yet congratulated me.' 
 
 * She did not write a single word to 
 you ^. ' said Fenella wistfully; ' not to say 
 she was glad or sorry ? Isn't that very 
 strange, Geoffrey } '
 
 Awakened. 297 
 
 ' I don't think it is. She could hardly 
 have said she was sorry (that would have 
 been infra dig. for a young lady), and, on 
 the other hand, it would have been very 
 rude to say she was glad. No ! in my 
 opinion she's done just the right thing, 
 and I didn't credit little Jessie with so 
 much sense. She simply returned my 
 letters and presents — that was dignified 
 and decisive ; and when I saw them, I was 
 the happiest fellow in Christendom.' 
 
 He took both her hands in his own as 
 he spoke, and squeezed them, and tried 
 to look into the eyes which she kept fixed 
 upon the ground. 
 
 * Fenella,' he whispered presently, ' don't 
 you know zuhy I am so happy at getting 
 my release ? ' 
 
 * Because you didn't love her,' replied 
 ^e girl in a low voice. 
 
 * There is another reason than that, my 
 darling — an insurmountable obstacle to 
 my ever learning to love her — because all 
 my heart and soul are devoted to another
 
 298 Awakened. 
 
 woman. Oh, Fenella, you know who that 
 is ! Say with me that you are glad.' 
 
 She raised her eyes to his. He was 
 looking at her with ineffable tenderness, 
 and his arms were extended towards her. 
 With a cry that was half joy and half 
 astonishment she flung herself into them. 
 
 ' Oh, Geoffrey ! ' she exclaimed, ' how 
 could I be anything but glad when it 
 half killed me ? ' 
 
 His strong arms closed about her light 
 form and twisted it round, so that her face 
 lay uppermost upon his breast. 
 
 ' My darling,' he murmured, in a voice 
 full of passion — ' my own, own darling ! 
 I have never loved anything in this world 
 as I love you ! ' 
 
 His eyes gazed straight into her eyes, 
 and his handsome head drooped lower and 
 lower, until his burning lips baptized her 
 lips with the first kiss of love. Between 
 fear and excitement, Fenella burst into a 
 rain of tears, and hid her face upon his 
 breast, whilst he continued to kiss the
 
 Awakened. 299 
 
 crown of her head, and the fair hair that 
 fell like a veil of gold about her, and tried 
 to soothe her agitation. 
 
 * I believe I loved you from the moment 
 we met/ he said. ' Do you remember 
 how I gazed at you both at Calais and 
 Dover, and made old Bennett angry ? I 
 could not take my eyes off you ; I felt 
 somehow as if it were my fate to 
 look at and remember you. And when 
 we met upon these sands, I knew I was 
 not mistaken. From that day, my dar- 
 ling, I have been miserable — miserable to 
 think that I was fettered by that wretched 
 engagement, and bound in honour not to 
 tell you all I felt. I tried to console my- 
 self a little by pledging eternal friendship 
 to you ; but it was a sham, Fenella, and 
 we both knew it was. I cannot be your 
 brother ; you cannot be my sister. We 
 must be much more to each other — or 
 we must be nothing at all.' 
 
 Fenella shuddered. 
 
 ' Oh, Geoffrey ! what Is this that has
 
 300 Awakened. 
 
 come over me ? I feel if you were to 
 leave me that I should die.' 
 
 * I shall never leave you, my dearest. 
 We know each other's hearts now, and we 
 must not be separated again. You will 
 not refuse to share my lot, Fenella. You 
 will come with me to that horrid hot India 
 we have so often talked about together, 
 and be my companion, and my friend, 
 and my wife to our lives' end — will you 
 not?' 
 
 A beautiful hot flush spread itself all 
 over the girl's fair face. 
 
 ' Your wife ! ' she repeated, with a sort 
 of gasp, — ' your wife, Geoffrey ! Oh, I 
 am not worthy ! ' 
 
 She had no need now to ask why one 
 man and one woman should promise to 
 keep to each other for evermore. Love 
 had taught her all that. The jealousy 
 of love had seized upon her heart, and 
 made her* feel that if she could not have 
 this wonderful new-found treasure to her- 
 self, she would not have it at all. But to
 
 Awakened. 301 
 
 be worthy of so much happiness — that was 
 another question. 
 
 ' Not worthy ! ' echoed her lover, as he 
 strained her again to his bosom ; * then 
 who is ? Fenella, you are the one only 
 woman in the world for me ! I love you, 
 my darling, with all the strength and 
 fervour of a man's first real love, and 
 were Heaven to snatch you from my 
 arms to-morrow, the void you would leave 
 in my heart could never be filled by any 
 other being ! It is /, my love, who am 
 not worthy to possess your purity and 
 innocence ; but I will hold it, nevertheless, 
 until my life's end/ 
 
 The girl looked up at him through eyes 
 that swam in tears, like dew- washed violets. 
 
 * And only a month ago,' she murmured, 
 * I was so ungrateful and so silly, I thought 
 that no one would ever care for me again. 
 I felt as if my life was already over, 
 and I should be lonely and miserable to my 
 death ! And then you came, Geoffrey, 
 and everything seemed to change ! The
 
 302 Awakened. 
 
 sun shone, and the birds sang, and the 
 roses blew, and I became a different girl 
 altogether. Was I asleep before, or was 
 I dead ? I feel as if the old earth had 
 gone away from me and I was in 
 another world ! Has it gone away, 
 Geoffrey, and is this heaven that we are 
 living in now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my darling, it is ! It is the 
 heaven of love — the best heaven God has 
 bestowed on man ; and whilst we have it, 
 we need no other. Fenella, I have given 
 you my heart and soul ! What will you 
 give me In exchange ? ' 
 
 ' My life', said the girl faintly. * You 
 gave it to me, Geoffrey. I did not live 
 until I saw you. Take It back again 
 and do what you will with it' 
 
 And in those words Fenella betrayed 
 the fact that her childhood had passed 
 away from her for ever. Love had forced 
 the blossom of her womanhood into pre- 
 mature fruition, beneath the heat of Geof- 
 frey Doyne's words and glances. The
 
 Awakened. 303 
 
 man who first makes a woman realise the 
 fact of her sex, who makes her feel she is 
 the weaker and the subjugated one, who 
 asserts himself (by right of love alone) her 
 master — that man will rule that woman's 
 life, let who may come after him. The 
 feminine nature, like the masculine, may 
 love many times, but it succumbs but once. 
 
 But when the first rapturous feeling at 
 the discovery of their mutual affection had 
 somewhat subsided, Fenella's thoughts 
 flew back again to her absent unknown 
 rival. 
 
 ' Are you smi'c' she said to Geoffrey, 
 *that Miss Robertson will not be very 
 unhappy about this? Is it possible she 
 can give you up without pain ?' 
 
 The young man laughed. 
 
 ' I don't believe she will care two straws 
 about it,' he replied. ' You mustn't think 
 she loves me as you do, Fenella. She 
 could not understand such love as ours, 
 so don't trouble your dear little head about 
 her! I daresay she will be disappointed
 
 304 Awakened. 
 
 at first, but It will soon blow over, and 
 she will forget all about it and look out 
 for somebody else.' 
 
 * Then she could never have been worthy 
 of you/ said Fenella indignantly, ' and I 
 will not be sorry for her any more ! Oh, 
 Geoffrey ! it seems very wonderful that this 
 has come to pass ! Do you know what 
 I have prayed for, every day since that 
 miserable afternoon on the landslip when 
 you told me you were engaged to her ? ' 
 
 * No, dearest ; how should I ? ' 
 
 * That you might not marry her ! — I hope 
 it was not wrong,' she continued timidly ; 
 ' but it seemed so dreadful to me that you 
 should take her into a church and swear 
 to love her all your life, when you knew 
 that you didn't love her at all. It wasn't 
 for my self y you know, Geoffrey. I knew 
 you loved me, but I never thought you 
 would want to marry me ; but I felt so 
 ashamed and so sorry that you should 
 have to tell a lie, and to God too ! For 
 it would have been a lie — wouldn't it ? '
 
 Awakened. 305 
 
 ' It would Indeed, my darling. I should 
 have perjured myself (as thousands do) 
 for fear of what the world would say of 
 me.' 
 
 ' That swearing In church Is dread- 
 ful,' resumed Fenella thoughtfully ; ' it Is 
 positively wicked. It ought not to be 
 allowed.' 
 
 ' But you'll have to swear In church 
 for me, you knov/,' said Geoffrey, laughing. 
 
 She grew scarlet. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! but that will be quite another 
 thing.' 
 
 'How so?' 
 
 ' Because I have sworn already — In 
 my heart. The church can't make any 
 difference to me. I shall always be 
 true to you, Geoffrey, as long as I live.' 
 
 * My darling girl, how sweet of you to 
 say so ! Yes ; that Is just what I feel 
 myself, Fenella. Love is the true mar- 
 riage. You are mine already — my own 
 wife — and no one shall ever take you 
 from me.' 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 3o6 Awakened. 
 
 Then they began to discuss ways and 
 means, and what the higher authorities 
 would be Hkely to say to their intentions. 
 
 * I must see your mother on the first 
 opportunity,' said Geoffrey Doyne. * When 
 is she Hkely to return home ? ' 
 
 ' We don't know at all ; we have not 
 even heard from her yet.' 
 
 ' Well, if she remains much longer 
 abroad, I must go over and find her. 
 We have no time to lose, my darling. 
 I must leave England in October.' 
 
 ' Suppose mamma were to say *' No " .'^ ' 
 said the girl, trembling. 
 
 ' I don't think she's likely to do that,' re- 
 plied Geofirey Doyne ; * for without wish- 
 ing to seem conceited, Fenella, I am not 
 a bad match, and that Is the reason the 
 Robertsons were so anxious to secure me 
 for Jessie. I have a very fair income 
 of my own, inherited from my mother, 
 and my prospects are excellent. Added 
 to which, my father is a wealthy man and 
 a liberal one, and would make me an
 
 Awakened, 307 
 
 allowance during his lifetime if I needed 
 it. So there is no fear of my not being 
 able to keep you in a proper position. 
 And your mother, you say, is not rich ; 
 and she is not very fond of you ? ' 
 
 * No,' said Fenella, shaking her head, 
 * she is not at all food of me. I think 
 she will be very glad to get rid of me.' 
 
 * And I shall be very glad to take you 
 off her hands ! ' exclaimed Geoffrey play- 
 fully. ' But come, my darling, we must 
 have no tears ; never mind who doesnt 
 love you now, so long as I do' 
 
 ' Oh, Geoffrey !' she cried, sobbing, * pro- 
 mise — -promise that you'll always love me, 
 for I have no one in the world but you.' 
 
 And he called God to witness that he 
 would be true to her so long as they both 
 had life. 
 
 'And now we are really married,' said 
 Fenella, smiling through her tears. ' That 
 is the same as you will say in church — 
 isn't it, Geoffrey ? And you asked God 
 to hear you too.'
 
 3o8 Awakened, 
 
 ' Yes ; I can never say any more than 
 that/ he answered ; * and I can never feel 
 any more, Fenella ; and may God deal 
 with me as I keep my word to Him! 
 And now, my dear girl, may I ask you 
 a favour ? ' 
 
 * No, don't ask me a favour, Geoffrey. 
 Ordei^ me to do somethine, so that I 
 may feel that I am really going to be 
 your wife/ 
 
 ' Very well, if you will have it so,' he 
 said, smiling. ' I order you, then, my 
 darling, not to make a confidante of your 
 servant in this matter, until I have com- 
 municated with Mrs Barrineton.' 
 
 * I am not to tell Bennett anything 
 about our engagement ? ' 
 
 ' I think it will be better not. She is 
 only a servant, you see, and servants will 
 talk. And then she will probably come 
 prying down here after us, and spoiling 
 all our enjoyment. She is up again — did 
 you not tell me so ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but I am afraid she will not be able
 
 Awakened, 309 
 
 to walk for some time yet. Dr Redfern is 
 going to bring her a pair of crutches to- 
 morrow, so that she may get about the 
 garden ; but she is dreadfully weak, poor 
 thino- ! She has been in bed now for five 
 weeks.' 
 
 Geoffrey looked properly concerned. 
 
 ' Yes, it has been a bad accident for her, 
 but a lucky one for us ! If she had always 
 accompanied you to the sands, who knows 
 if we should ever have been allowed to 
 pursue our acquaintance — eh, Fenella ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Geoffrey, is it not wicked to be glad 
 for what makes other people unhappy ? ' 
 
 * Well, we didn't break the old woman's 
 leg, dear, so I don't think we need trouble 
 ourselves about that. And I think, since it 
 has gone so far without her knowledge, that 
 it would be a pity to tell her now. In fact, 
 your mother has undoubtedly a right to the 
 first intelligence. And I think, my darling, 
 our love is too beautiful and too sacred a 
 thing to be told to everybody we meet — 
 don't you ?'
 
 3 TO Awakened. 
 
 The look she gave him in return was 
 sufficient answer. Geoffrey Doyne might 
 rest assured that from that moment he 
 would sway every action of her life. 
 Hearts such as Fenella's are not given 
 by halves. He left her shortly after this, 
 having made an appointment to take his 
 sisters out walking. 
 
 ' I think it will be as well for me to 
 do duty with them occasionally now, as I 
 don't want to arouse their suspicions before 
 this matter is properly settled,' he said; 
 ' and I know they think I have some 
 attraction over at Ines-cedwyn as it is. 
 But I cannot part with you like this, my 
 darling. I must see you again before I 
 sleep! If I ride over this evening after 
 dinner — say at eight o'clock — could you 
 manage to run down and meet me at the 
 landslip ? It will be beautifully cool by 
 that time, and we have not been there 
 since that miserable afternoon. Ah ! how 
 different it will look to us now.' 
 
 ' Of course I will come,' said Fenella
 
 Awakened. 3 r r 
 
 confidently. * Why should I not ? Bennett 
 never asks me where I am eoine. Yes, 
 I shall love to sit there with you — in that 
 very same place, Geoffrey, under the stars, 
 and — thank God ! ' 
 
 So they parted, full of youth, love, and 
 trust in each other and themselves, pledged 
 to meet again when the veil of evening 
 was being drawn as a shroud across the 
 land and sea. 
 
 There was no one to control Fenella's 
 actions ; no one to question her com- 
 ings and goings ; no one even cog- 
 nisant of the burning secret that filled 
 her heart. Bennett, worn out with the 
 unusual exertion of leavinof her bed, had 
 gladly retired again, and Martha and 
 Benjamin were busy with their poultry 
 and flowers. So the girl — who had 
 but this one great love to consider, who 
 had found her world in Geoffrey Doyne — 
 went down alone, under cover of the dusk, 
 to meet her lover. 
 
 And as she reached the spot where
 
 312 Awakened. 
 
 they had picnic-ed together, and he 
 had crushed her heart with the in- 
 telligence of his engagement to Jessie 
 Robertson, she saw the lithe, grace- 
 ful figure she had grown to love so 
 well — the figure that should haunt her 
 restless dreams for many weary years to 
 come — waiting to receive her, and sprang 
 forward with a cry of joy to greet him. 
 Geoffrey Doyne strained her to his heart 
 for a few moments ; then, with his arms 
 still round her girlish form, he led her 
 through the leafy bower. So might Paul 
 and Virginia have wandered beneath the 
 banyan leaves of the West Indian isles ; 
 or, rather, so might Adam and Eve have 
 explored their new-found paradise, with- 
 out a thought of the serpent that tracked 
 their footsteps. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
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