The Story of Helen Davenant. By Violet Fane

Chapter I

I was little more than six years old when I was unexpectedly summoned to what proved to be my mother's death-bed. She had been indisposed for a few days only, remaining in her room for the greater part of the morning ; but I do not think there could have been any suspicion in the house that her end was approaching. I have since heard that my father, Sir Harry Davenant, a sporting country gentleman of the old VOL. I. B OP school, had started off early in the morning for the chase, having made arrangements for a reinforcement of hunters, so that he had evidently intended to be absent during the greater part of the day. Also, Mr. Collingwood, a neighbour and friend, had been invited to dine and sleep. Sir Harry was said to be devotedly attached to his wife, and he would certainly not have absented himself from her side if he had been aware that she was in any danger, nor would he have desired to receive even an intimate friend at dinner at so sad a time.

I had been playing alone in my nursery, after a somewhat pensive and desultory fashion, with none of those noisy rompings and scamperings which shake the floors and wear out the carpets of more populous nurseries. I was merely sitting quietly upon the hearth-rug, building up little temples and pyramids with wooden bricks, HELEN D&VENANT. and then knocking them down again, with out feeling much interest in my occupation. Then Ceiestine Vigon, my mother's new French maid — who, I remember, was young, dark, and foreignlooking, and wore long gold earrings — appeared at the nursery door, and, after saying a few words, in broken English, to Mrs. Mason, my nurse, led me by the hand ti my mother's bed-room, which was situated quite at the other end of the house. I have heard, since, that my mother was one of the most beautiful women of her day, and I well remember how lovely she appeared, to my childish gaze, on this last occasion on which I beheld her.

She was sitting, propped up by pillows, in the large four-post bed, dressed only in some sort of white wrapper, with her dark hair drawn back from her face, and hanging in long tresses over her shoulders. She B OF seemed to me to look wonderfully young and girlish for a mother, but she bad grown much paler and thinner, I thought, since the morning, and her eyes had an anxious and unhappy expression. " Look here, little Nelly," she said, as soon as Ceiestine had left us. " You have always been a dear, obedient little girl. . . . Pay attention to what I'm saying now, for I feel very faint, and can't talk much. Open the side door of that wardrobe there, and do exactly as I tell you." I went to the wardrobe. It was unlocked, and the door opened quite easily. At first, I could see nothing, inside it, but beautiful evening dresses of many colours, some of which I had seen my mother wearing before she was so much confined to her room.

" Lift up the skirts of those dresses," she said, " and, behind them, you will see a large box."" I did as I was bid, and perceived a square black box, quite at the back of the cupboard. I drew it forward and attempted to lift it. " Oh, don't do that ! " cried my mother from the bed ; "it's much too heavy for you ! . . . Come here and take this key." I observed that, as she spoke, she was drawing off a long chain from her neck. A gold key was attached to it, and she handed me both key and chain together. This act seemed to cost her a supreme effort. She sank back amongst her pillows as though exhausted, " Push the key into the lock quite straight," she said, by-and-bye. "Press it inwards as far as you can, and then turn it." What with the darkness of the cupboard, however, which was obscured by a large picture-screen standing to the left of the bed, and the long chain, which kept on catching in the laces and fringes of the dresses, I found it no very easy matter to do as I was bid.

" Make haste, dear ! " exclaimed my mother anxiously, " before Ceiestine comes back with my soup ! She might not like to see you meddling with my things ! " Child as I was, I perceived that she was intensely agitated, and became aware that my mission, whatever it was, must be one of importance. At last I succeeded in unlocking the box, and lifting up the lid. " The box has come open," I said, turning to my mother from where I sat on the floor. She was looking dreadfully pale, and her voice sounded quite feeble as she answered : " There are two packets just at the top — letters. One of them is tied round with black ribbon — from your poor uncle Everard, directed to me before I was married ; and the other — ah, you can't read ! " She said this in a tone of disappointment — almost of despair.

It was too true ! I hung my head in bitter humiliation. Reading, at this period of my life, seemed to be fraught with insurmountable difficulties, and the mystery of written characters appeared to me to be even more inscrutable than that of printed type. " You must throw one of those two packets into the fire," continued my mother earnestly, " before Ceiestine conies back, and see that it is quite burnt up, and then lock up the box and don't say anything about it to anybody. Bring me the letters that have got red seals on them here." I found the two packets, compared them carefully, and observed that the letters in the thickest packet — that which was not tied round with black ribbon — were all of them sealed with red wax. " There is a little horse with wings upon the seals," I said, when I had finished examining them.

" Quick ! quick ! " gasped my mother, "or it will be too late! Bring me them here, and let me look at them." But the split-ring, upon the long gold chain, had become entangled in the black ribbon binding the smaller packet, and my hurry seemed only to make my childish fingers the more helpless and awkward. I daresay, however, that not more than two or three minutes elapsed, in reality, before I had achieved my purpose, and stood, with the packet of sealed letters in my hand, at the side of my mother's bed. I remember that I was so small, at this time, that the bed seemed to rise up before me like a great snow mountain. My eyes could only just have come above the level of the counterpane. I was an impressionable child, and my hands trembled with excitement. I felt that, for the first time in my short life, I had been entrusted with something important and mysterious, and I was swelling with consequential pride at the notion of having been unmistakeably useful to the being I loved and respected most upon earth.

But, just as I was expecting words of commendation and approval, I was disap pointed to find that my mother had, apparently, either fainted, or fallen into a deep sleep. Feeling somewhat uncertain with regard to her directions, and fearing lest Ceiestine misht return before I had fulfilled them to the letter, I called softly to her. She did not reply. I raised my voice, but still she remained silent. I now fancied that I heard the peculiar squeaking sound made by the swing-door at the end of the passage. Ceiestine must be returning, I thought, with the soup ; so, finding that it was impossible to awaken my mother, I hastily decided upon a plan of action. Until now I had not felt sure which of the two packets was to be consigned to the flames. But, after summoning all my wits to my aid, I arrived at what I thought must be the right conclusion.

My mother had requested that the letters with the pretty red seals should be brought to her in her bed. These then, without doubt, were those she desired to preserve, whilst the letters of my poor uncle Everard — her only brother, who had been killed in the Crimean War — were, for some mysterious reason, to be immediately destroyed. There was not a moment to be lost, for I could hear what I conceived to be Celes tine's footsteps approaching rapidly. A bright fire was burning in the wide, old-fashioned grate. I dived into the cup board for the second time, brought forth my uncle Everard's letters, and running to the fire-place cast them, bound together as they were, into " the burning fiery furnace." After ail, the approaching footsteps were not those of Ceiestine. They passed by the door and went on to the end of the passage.

One of the other servants, pro bably. This gave me a little more time for reflection. I had left the other packet of letters upon the outside of the bed. It now occurred to me that, by placing them inside the coverlid, close to one of my mother's hands, she would find what she had asked for immediately upon awakening. I acted upon this impulse at once, and I had scarcely re-locked the black box, when I was again aware of the squeak ing of the swing-door. This time it was really Ceiestine with the soup, for I could hear the cup rattling against the saucer as she approached the door. When she re-entered the room, the cup board presented its usual appearance, and I had just had time to slip the gold chain, with the key, inside the bed-clothes, within easy reach of my mother's hand. As Ceiestine opened the door I saw Mason, my nurse, standing just outside it, wearing her bonnet and shawl.

She beckoned to me, and, knowing that it was past the hour for my accustomed afternoon walk, I went to her at once. As soon as I had been warmly wrapped up in my new winter pelisse, wre proceeded by way of the avenue towards one of the lodge gates. Mason seemed, I thought, to be un usually preoccupied, and beyond a few con ventional phrases, such as nurses are in the habit of addressing to their youthful charges, she spoke but little. I, too, after a childish fashion, was pre occupied. I was thinking of the mysterious service I had just been called upon to render my mother, and wondering why she should have been so anxious to destroy my uncle Everard's letters before the return of Ce iestine. Since that time, many musings and con jectures have possessed me when thinking over the events of this day, and I have found myself wondering whether there would have been any very marked difference in the ordering of my destiny if, instead of burning the letters that were bound round OP with black ribbon, I had been mercifully inspired to do away with those that -were sealed with the red seals.

Upon such problems, however, it is vain to speculate. My mother's death occurred towards the middle of the month of December. The day was fine and somewhat frosty. There had been sunshine in the morning, but by the time that Mason and I set out for our afternoon walk, the best of the day was over. Upon arriving at the lodge, there fore, my nurse decided that we should go no further. As we turned to retrace our steps I saw Tom Pearse, one of Sir Harry's grooms, riding towards us at full speed. The home of my childhood was situated amongst the beechwoods of a line of down, extending for some miles along the sea-coast, and the roadway of the avenue, as well as the garden-walks, was strew7n with sifted seashingle instead of the ordinary inland gravel. A horse passing over this quickly, produced a kind of crisp, metallic, crunching sound, which I can always summon at will to my mind's ear.

More especially can I recall the impression caused by the sound of it upon this particular day — together with the sudden manner in which Tom reined in his horse with a heightening of the shoulders, and one or two uncomfortable bumpings upon tho saddle, when he came to the lodge and shouted out " Gate !" This Tom Pearse was rather a favourite of mine. He had charge of my new pony, and it was his custom to conduct me to its loose-box whenever I went to the stables to pat and feed my little pet. I ran back to the gate now, perceiving that he seemed in so great a hurry, and pushed it open for him, assisted by my nurse. Before proceeding upon his way, he called her to him, and leaning down, mut tered something in a low voice. I could only catch the word " doctor " from where I was standing. He put spurs to his horse as soon as he got outside upon the high road, and was quickly out of sight.

Mason appeared to be a good deal per turbed by what he had told her. She said nothing about it to me, however, and we continued our homeward way in silence. Upon entering the house, my nurse pro ceeded at once upstairs, instead of lingering with me, as she usually did, before a large cage of goldfinches and canaries which stood in the hall close to the entrance of my mother's sitting-room. I was an only child and a spoilt one, and was allowed at this time to do very much as I liked ; so, having provided myself with plantain and chickweed during my walk, I remained in the hall feeding the birds instead of following my nurse upstairs. Matthews, the old butler, looking glum and pompous as usual, came twice into the hall whilst I was standing by the birdcage. He went to the front-door, looked out, and appeared to listen.

Probably this was about the hour at which he expected my father to return. Whilst I was feeding the birds, I thought a great deal about my mother, but I did not feel the slightest anxiety as to her condi tion. I imagined, in those early days, that all deaths were of necessity violent. The stories Mason used to read to me — " Who Killed Cock Robin ?" " Toodle-cum-too and the Hungry Tom-cat," " Jack the Giant- Killer," "Blue-Beard," and others of the same sort, served to confirm me in this opinion. I fancied that people died because they were shot with arrows, devoured by VOL. i. c wild beasts, or had their heads cut off. Of the tranquil and unexpected passing away of the spirit, the falling into the eternal slumber whilst lying comfortably in a soft white bed, I had had, as yet, no experience whatsoever, and I regarded an illness as merely one of the necessary preliminaries to getting well.

Before I had left my place at the bird cage, I again detected the peculiar sound caused by the approach of horses' hoofs upon the shingle. I ran to the door, and perceived my father returning by precisely the opposite direction to that which Tom Pearse had taken about half-an-hour ago. He was accompanied by a friend, called George Collingwood — the eldest surviving son of our neighbour, Lord Silchester — the friend who had been invited to dine and sleep. They both wore red coats, and as they emerged together from under the dark evergreens, which formed an archway over the road, I was struck, young as I was, by the picturesqueness of their appearance. I was under the impression, at this period, that Mr. Collingwood was my parents' dearest and truest friend, because, ever since I could remember anything at all, he had visited us from time to time, and had always been welcomed with cordi ality.

Besides this, he was my godfather — and I had been christened " Helen Collingwood." I regarded him, in fact, like a member of our own family, and his visits — laden as he invariably was, with the most delightful presents for me — were always occasions for rejoicing. He was engaged in diplomacy, and attached, at this time, to one of our Embassies abroad. This did not prevent him, however, from frequently visiting his c2 native land. His father was an old man, and he was a dutiful and attentive son. Several times during the year, and almost invariably at Christmas, he used to return to the home of his boyhood ; and upon these occasions I think that we saw almost as much of him as Lord Silchester himself. He came frequently to luncheon and dinner. Sometimes he would remain all night, and he always passed some part of the time playing with me in the nursery.

I went to the front door now — opened it, and ran out to welcome the returning hunters. Sir Harry, when he came back from riding, used sometimes to set me up in front of him on his horse, and take me a few turns up and down, before dismounting. It was for this treat that I was hoping now. My father was talking and laughing with Mr. Collingwood, and gesticulating with his hunting-crop. " Well, little woman ! " he called out to me, in cheery tones, " how's ' mama ' ? " But, before I had time to reply, I saw Matthews, of whom I stood in great awe, coming towards us from the house. He went up to my father, and said some thing. My father uttered an exclamation, and let the reins drop upon his horse's neck. Matthews then made what was evidently the same communication to Mr. Collingwood, with very much the same result.

The horses seemed to pull up of their own accord at the front door, and Matthews assisted my father to dismount. Mr. Collingwood dismounted likewise, and gave the reins to the coachman, who was in waiting. My father held out his hand towards him with a gesture like that of a despairing man who craves for a friend's sympathy. Mr. Collingwood wrung it in silence. Both he and Sir Harry were looking as pale as death, and they went up the steps together, hand in hand, staggering like drunken men. I know now — for I have mingled with my own childish reminiscences much that is the result of after-knowledge — that although my mother had, by this time, breathed her last, Matthews had not ven tured to tell my father that she was really dead, dreading the effect which might have been produced upon him by the suddenness of the news, and preferring to leave this responsibility to the doctor, who was mo mentarily expected.

He had, however, informed Sir Harry and Mr. Collingwood that she had become rapidly worse during the afternoon — that she appeared to be gradually sinking, and was now uncon scious. Notwithstanding this caution on the butler's part, the effect produced upon my father by the intelligence he had just received was distressing in the extreme. Matthews and Mr. Collingwood — who seemed also terribly affected — had to almost carry him upstairs. He walked as if his limbs had suddenly been turned into lead. I followed close behind them, frightened and wondering, and saw them all three go down the passage to the door of my mother's bed-room. Matthews opened the door a little way, and seemed to be gently thrusting my father into the apartment. He appeared to shrink, however, from going into the room alone.

Twice I saw him reel back wards from the door. Then, as if summoning all his courage, he clutched Mr. Col lingwood by the shoulder, as though for support, and the two went together into the chamber of death. Matthews came down the passage soon afterwards. I looked at him appealingly, hoping that he would tell me what had happened. He took no notice of me, how ever, but marched solemnly on. His face looked vacant and inscrutable, and I felt too awed and frightened to question him. As soon as he was out of sight I went down the passage, and hovered outside my mother's room, longing, and yet not daring, to enter. In a few minutes the door opened. " Leave me alone with her, George," I could hear my father saying, in a broken voice — " I feel that I can bear it now," and Mr. Collingwood came out into the pas sage.

He seemed to be breathing very hard, but it was nearly dark now, so that I could not see the expression of his face. He perceived me when he came to where I was standing — caught me up in his arms, and kissed me passionately. When he set me down again, I felt that my cheeks were quite wet, as if with tears.

Chapter II

My mother, I have heard, had been united to Sir Harry Davenant when she was barely twenty, he being her senior by precisely this number of years. She apparently married him chiefly on account of his importunity. He had proposed to her several times and had been refused ; but it seems that his ardour would brook no denial. The marriage, however, was said to have been a happy one. At the time of my mother's death they had been married about ten years, my birth having taken place some three years after their union. In common with most of the owners of entailed property, Sir Harry had hoped for a son to inherit his name and estates. Up to this time, however, there seemed to be no reason why this hope should not be gratified, and, in the meanwhile, I do not think he could have petted and indulged me more than he did, even if I had been a boy.

Failing a son, the house and estate of Northover Park were settled upon my first cousin, Courtenay Davenant, at this time a schoolboy in his teens. I had a dim recol lection of a boy who came to us once, a long time ago, to spend his holidays, but could remember no more about him than that he had arrived upon a wet day, wearing a short jacket, no overcoat, a high hat and black kid gloves, and that having had, I suppose, reason to rub his nose, the damp gloves had made a black mark upon it, of which he was totally unaware, and so bore himself with great dignity notwithstanding. He must have been in mourning for his father at this time, and hence, probably, the black kid gloves. I have no doubt that he may have visited Northover both before and after this, but I could only recall this one occasion amongst the very earliest of my recollections.

It was only natural that so sudden a calamity as that which had befallen my father, should have affected him painfully. But its consequences were totally different from what might have been expected. From the day of his young wife's death, Sir Harry Davenant become altogether a changed man. Grief, which, with most sensitive natures, is prone to soften the heart and enlarge the sympathies, seemed, in his case, to have produced a directly contrary effect. It was as though his whole being had suddenly become hardened and demoralized, and the transitionwas made to appear the more surprising and, unaccountable, from the fact of his having quitted England immediately after my mother's funeral, whither he did not return for the space of nearly two years, transformed, as I have just remarked, into an utterly new creature.

When, upon the day of my mother's death, Sir Harry had ridden home from hunting wdth Mr. Collingwood, a more genial, pleasant-looking country gentleman it wrould have been scarcely possible to behold. He must have been hard upon fifty at this time, but he appeared to be a good deal younger. He was tall and somewhat heavily built ; his features were, perhaps, rather too massive and undefined to be positively handsome, but he had a frank, rosy, clean - shaved, English face, merry grey eyes, and a set of magnificent teeth. In a word, his whole aspect was jovial, hearty, and prepossessing. How am I to describe the changed being who returned, two years afterwards, from abroad, without seeming to exaggerate ? This new man was tall and large-framed it is true, but yet not seeming nearly so tall as my father, several inches of his height being sacrificed to a decided stoop, and he was so thin that his clothes appeared to have all become too big for him.

He had grown a coarse straggling beard, which entirely altered the character and propor tion of his face, and his curly dark hair was now thin and grizzled. His eyes were hollow and bloodshot, and had a restless, suspicious expression, entirely at variance with their frank, fearless, gaze, in the past. One might have imagined that he was either suffering from the remorse consequent upon some hidden crime, or that he was conscious of being undermined by some fatal disease. So much for the change which had taken place in his appearance. Alas, in disposition he had altered even more than in face ! He had become surly, morose, and uncom municative ; went out usually at twilight, or else so early in the morning as to run no chance of falling in with any of his former neighbours and friends, for he seemed to have grown suspicious and mistrustful of everybody.

He would ride sometimes — after a reckless, purposeless fashion — tiring out several horses in the course of the same day ; at others, he would not stir out of doors once during the week. He went to bed at odd times ; sitting up, generally, for more than half the night in a subterranean portion of the house where he had now established himself, and which was as far as possible from the cheerful apartments he had inhabited with my poor mother. In fact, it w7as as though every thing that could remind him of his dead wife, instead of inspiring him with senti ments of tender regret, had grown positively hateful to him. Towards myself, for instance, he no longer manifested the slightest affection. When, thinking to rouse him from his fits of solitary musing, the faithful Mason would take me to pay him a visit in his gloomy retreat, he used, generally, to order me up again to my nursery, in tones that filled me with terror, or else, upon occasions when he suffered me to stay with him, he w7ould take no notice of me whatsoever, but remain moodily writing at his table, or sitting with his head buried in his hands.

It soon became painfully evident to his household that there existed another cause for Sir Harry's altered manner and appearance besides the grief which was presumably gnawing at his heart. In order, no doubt, to escape from the melancholy regrets which crowded upon him in his desolation my father had taken to drinking. In the past, it seems, he had had some tendency this way, which my mother's refining in fluence had been enabled to restrain within the limits of convivial joviality. Bad habits, however, like ill-weeds, " grow apace," and now that this restraint was removed, he seemed to have entirely lost all power of self-control. In the evening, in fact, he was scarcely ever sober, and his temper, when he was under this baneful and degrading influence, became violent and irritable in the extreme.

This painful state of things increased as I grew in stature, until, by the time that I was ten years old, my father was generally spoken of in the neighbourhood as "poor VOL. I. D Sir Harry," whilst his former friends would tap their foreheads significantly when ever they had occasion to mention his name.

Chapter III

I will pass over the uneventful days of my childhood, and resume my narrative at the period when I was between sixteen and seventeen years of age. Ever since I was about thirteen I had had a governess— Miss Warden by name ; my existence, consequently, from this time, had been much less desolate. I do not know who could first have sug gested to Sir Harry that a governess would be essential to my welfare — my welfare appeared now to concern him so very little. He held no kind of communication with d2 OF any of our neighbours, at the same time he seemed to be hardly rational enough to have evolved the notion from his own brain. Perhaps he may have received an applica tion or recommendation upon the subject from some one who pitied my forlorn con dition, and as he was now frequently absent from home, it may have occurred to him, in a lucid interval, that if he secured the services of some lady who could serve as my chaperon and instructress, he would save himself both trouble and responsibility in the future.

Miss Warden, at this time, was a lady of what is termed "an uncertain age," between thirty-five and forty-five, that is to say, as far as I could judge by her appearance. She was plain, both in figure and feature, but with a plainness which was not in the least displeasing. She had large, kind, brown eyes, an irregular nose, a swarthy complexion, and a wide mouth, which, how ever, seemed to be always smiling. What a gushing, enthusiastic, tender hearted creature she was ! Many people, I daresay, might have called her a foolish woman. Her very womanliness, however, stood her in good stead sometimes, enabling her, through a sort of intuitive feminine instinct (given us, as she was wont to inform me, in order to protect us from man — though I hardly think that she could have had much need of any such protection), to arrive at tolerably correct conclusions without the aid of reason.