John Fenn's Wife. A novel

Chapter I

The place was one of the Midland counties, which it may be as well not to name ex pressly, and the time was a morning in Feb ruary, in the year 186 — . A bright, sunshiny, genial morning, but full of deception ; for it began by making people dream winter had gone, and ere midday had well passed, snow was falling and a biting east wind was blow ing down the high road, along which two ladies were walking, with umbrella up and pinched finger-tips. The two ladies were of very different ages, one past girlhood and in what some people consider the prime of womanhood, just past thirty ; the other a ru John Femis Wife. 2 young girl just stepping out of childhood into blushing girlhood. They had evidently been beguiled by the deceitful sunshine into fancy ing there would be no more snow, for both heads were sheltered by one umbrella, and one side of each was covered by what a gentle pen has called the " white raiment from on high."

And the snow fell thicker and faster, and they began to look for shelter, but there was none to be found near them ; in fact, none in sight except the shelter of the high trees overarching the road. That was too scanty a shelter, and they hurried on laughing to see themselves covered with snow-flakes, till a turn in the road showed them the turnpike-woman's house, looking like a dingy-brown fungus growing out of the white earth. The door was ajar, for Betty Shackley always would have an eye to business, how ever her old husband might grumble, as he sat cowering over the fire, and the two ladies were in the house, bringing with them a crust of cold air, before either of the inmates had even heard their footsteps. " Good-morning, Jonas," began the younger of the two, by name Grace Cornwall ; " will you let us stay here till the storm is over ?"

" Eh, what !" ejaculated the old man as he turned sharply round to the voice. " Law, ma'am, I never heard ye come in. Take a seat, take a seat and warm ye ! It's winter weather this, sure," and he rose as quickly as rheumatism would allow to give his chair to the visitors. " Do not rise," said the elder of the two ladies ; " I am quite sorry to have disturbed you, but we knew we might ask you for shelter." "Sure, yes; you're welcome, though it's not a grand fire ye've come to, or a house without a draught," said Betty, who — let it be said in parenthesis — was a thin-visaged dame with an acid expression of countenance, and who was one who never blinded herself to the evils of life, but conscientiously nerved herself to bear them by meeting them half way. " Well, wife, it's none so bad," answered i — her cheery old husband ; " if it hadn't been for these rheumatics of mine I'd have mended them cracks long ago " " ' If it hadn't been,' yes, that's always the way ; and while I'm waiting for you to do it I shall be blown into my grave."

" Not so bad as that I hope, Mrs. Shack ley," laughed Grace, with a merry twinkle in her eye. " I don't know, miss ; I'm sure sometimes I think it won't be long, with the wind blow ing in a' one side of the house and the rain beating in at t'other, leastways I shouldn't mind to be out of it," and her apron went up to her eyes, though there were no tears to wipe away. " Oh dear ! oh dear !" whimpered poor Jonas, " I don't know what to do if she takes on so. I can't help the weather ; I wish I could " " Look sharp, missis !" from outside, and a brisk rap at the door from a whip-handle, recalled Betty from one woe to another. "I'll ' sharp ' ye, you screaming beggar ; I'll learn ye to speak civil to a woman," and she John Femis Wife. 5 went with a more sour face than usual to receive the toll.

It was only a baker's cart, and the baker himself a jolly fat man covered with snow whiter than his own flour, and who never heeded Betty's sour looks. " A bad day this, missis, eh ?" said he. " It don't hurt you and me, but the wedding folks behind won't like it, I fancy ! They'll be down in less than ten minutes ! Good day, Mrs. Shackley, good-day," and away he rattled. " Wedding folks, indeed, what have I to do with weddings ? Why can't they come now and not keep me bobbing backwards and forwards like this. Sorry to keep you so cold, ladies, with the door opening and open ing, but I can't help it." " Oh, never mind us !" said Grace, brightly, " it is so kind of you to take us in. What wedding people are they who are coming ? I shall stand behind you, Mrs. Shackley, and look at them when they come.

I like to see weddings !" " Can it be Mr. Fenn and his wife coming home, Grace, dear ?" asked her companion. " Your papa was saying last night they were expected soon ?" " Yes, ma'am, you're right," nodded Jonas ; " it's young John Fenn bringing home his wife, no doubt. Who be she ? d'ye know, ma'am ? I've heard nought about her, but they do say as she's fair to look on. Grant she may be a blessing to the house she goes to — ■ for it's an old one and a good one — and to the lone woman, his mother, for she's had her troubles though she's proud and hides them." " Has she ?" said Miss Kingsley. " I have heard very little about her. You k-now I am a stranger here." " Yes, ma'am ; yes, I forgot. It's a long story, but she lost first her children, then her husband, and then, when Wife !" And there stood Betty with hands out stretched, ashy face, and eyes glaring wildly.

She gasped for breath and then pressed her hands convulsively to her heart, as if to stop some mad throbbing, but she did not utter a sound, though now and again her lips moved as though she would speak. By-and-by the wild look died out of her eyes, and a momentary spasm, as if of anger, crossed her face, then a second after that had gone and an almost mocking smile came on it instead. What was it all about, mental or physical pain ? Her old husband, in his simple mind, never dreamt of aught but physical pain, and, in the few moments that passed while she so stood, had managed to procure water and to dash some of it in her face. " Betty, woman, what ails thee ? Hast got a seizure ? Speak a word, lass, to one, or I " " Hist ! man, hist ! will ye ? or are ye a fool, standing gaping at a woman like that ?"

Then to the ladies : " I'm took like this sometimes, ladies. I suppose it's the cold or summat, since a fright I got once. That was a fright, sure enough !" added she with an hysterical laugh, and then with a very gra cious smile, much too unlike her every-day self to look at all natural, she went on rapidly, as if she must talk of something : " And there, I never saw the bride's face ! but it was her, sure enough ; and they say she's beautiful. Very like, very like — but I never saw her ; never saw a face like hers anywhere. The snow blinded me, I suppose, but I didn't see ! You believe me, ladies, don't you ? How could I see when I had the money to take, and the wind blowing and all. It's queer though ; I can't make it out," rubbingthe back of her hand across her eyes ; "there, there, I'm half mad sometimes, I think.

Never mind me, ladies, never mind me. Take a seat, please, and warm yourselves ; it's bitter cold !" And then she seemed to fall into a dull silence, and sat with vacant eyes looking out of the little window, while her body swayed backwards and forwards. The two ladies felt themselves in the way, and tried to let the poor woman recover her self in peace, while they talked now and again to old Jonas ; but he, good soul, had his thoughts all bent on his wife, and heeded very little they said. So at last they ven tured out into the snow under the shelter of a gigantic green cotton umbrella of Betty's, and left the pair to comfort or scold each other in their own way. And by the time they reached the little town of Great Burlash — which, by-the-way, had not at this time any claim to the dis tinctive adjective of " Great," whatever it may have had in bygone ages — the sun was shining, the snow gone, and Grace found herself compelled to pass one or two town dignitaries, and last of all, the carriage of the bride and bridegroom, with old Betty Shackley's monster umbrella, which would not get itself hidden anyhow.

The carriage was standing at Johnson's, the linendraper's shop, and Mr. Johnson him self stood by the door all smiles and com placency, as he received an order from Mrs. Fenn, and looked sideways at odd moments to scan the lovely face amongst the fur. He had no time to notice Grace and her com panion as they passed, a sure sign his mind was deeply occupied, he being a man of many bows and courtesies. But they forgot him as he them, and looked with womanly curiosity at the new comer. And well they might, for it was, as old Jonas Shackley had said, a fair face to look on. No classical beauty, whose features could be analyzed by severe judges and declared perfect, but a soft, round, dimpled, child's face, with a pair of loving, truthful brown eyes, and, above all, rippling brown hair, shining in the sunlight as it escaped from under her hat.

She was neither dark nor fair, her complexion was clear, but pale, and with the slightest possible tinge of pink on the nicely rounded cheek, and though that might be claimed as fair, yet the warm rich colour of hair and eyes belonged more to what is usually called a dark beauty. So in no way could she be called a beauty according to rule — she was just simply lovely and pleasant to look on, as children and flowers are lovely. Grace was charmed, so was Margaret Kingsley, and hoped all sorts of pleasant things from the arrival of the new-comer to the small society of Great Burlash. These two were daughter and sister-in-law of Dr. Cornwall, principal, but not only, medical practitioner in that town, and leader of the most important party in the town. By this we would not have it understood that there were party feuds and dissensions in so well ordered a place ; but in minor affairs and political opinions there must be antagonism, or else stagnation. And in that way and no other Dr. Cornwall and Mr. Beddeley, the lawyer, were antagonists.

Chapter II

Two miles out of Great Burlash there stood the dwelling of the Fenns. Just in the vicinity of the house, or rather outside the park walls, were scattered a few cottages, and then around the church and vicarage, a quarter of a mile from the gates, was another cluster : these two clusters together formed the village of Casterton, and Casterton Hall, or, par excellence, " The Hall," was the name by which the house was called. From the gates, where stood a lodge, with John Fends Wife. 12 ancient porter and wife, up to the house was a drive of about half a mile, some said more, but we do not wish to magnify things beyond their just deserts, and on each side of this drive trees of magnificent growth sometimes near, sometimes far distant, but all the re mains of one of our old English forests, famed since the days when Saxon and Nor man feuds were at their highest.

What tales they could tell, those old trees, if they had but a language we mortals could understand ! But long ago there had been a clearing, and in that clearing, after no doubt divers other erections, the present house of the Fenns had been built. Over the doorway was an old stone inserted, with a half-effaced date engraved upon it, 1593, so its builders had doubtless known the glories of one age before they had to mourn the deep degradation of court and manners that came after. Of tales of that time and later there were plenty in the old family records, but with them we have nothing to do. Royalist Fenns there had been, who had lost their lands, and Puritan Fenns who had gained them ; but, after all, this one estate of Casterton, with, its farms and acres, was all that remained to them, and for the last two generations they had passed from public life, and were only known as country gentlemen, living amongst their own people.

Whether young John Fenn would continue as his father had been, or whether he would restore the family to its old glories, was not known ; up to the present time he had done nothing to augur much brilliancy of action. As to the external appearance of the man sion, not being learned in the mysteries of architecture, we will attempt no technical terms, even supposing it could, as a whole, be claimed by any one especial style. Suffice it to say it was of red brick, grown mellow with age, and had mullioned windows, whereof the stone was in some places sadly chipped. On the whole it presented to the eye rather an incongruous assemblage of parts projecting and parts receding, but it was large and com modious, and decidedly pleasant to look upon. Picturesque, too, when we first look upon it in the slanting light of the February afternoon, when the sun touches gently with its life-giving spring touch crimson walls and moss-grown, ivy-mantled roof.

The lands about looked then as if there were a welcome to the new-comer, not only from the human hearts within, but from the great heart of Nature herself as well, lending her hand to brighten the dull earth with green turf and many-coloured spring flowers. Besides the Hall at Casterton, there was but one other large house, the Vicarage, and though that was a modern erection in com parison with its time-worn neighbour, yet with its changing owner, it had known several generatious of Fenns come and go. And the fortunes of the two houses had been linked to one another, though, through the fact of new families coming to the Vicarage, such unions had after the lapse of years passed from the memories of the people about. Just at the time we write of, the vicar was a seem ingly old man, failing beyond his years, and a reserved, solitary man.

He might have been seventy, but was in truth barely sixty years of age, and had held the living for more than thirty years. Then he had come to it on the demise of his father and predecessor, a friend of the then reigning John Fenn. The friendship was, however, scarcely kept up by the son, and when another Fenn came to the Hall, it had passed into the smallest interchange of social civilities. Always peculiar, the vicar became more and more morose, gradually shutting himself up more, until at last he knew very little of his parishioners, and they knew little and cared less about him. About ten years before the time when we first had anything to do with him, he as tonished his people by bringing home a wife. Society obliged him to mix a little more with his neighbours on the occasion of his marriage, but it gradually found out that its efforts were unavailing, for if the husband were an ascetic, the Avife was dreary, and so the two drifted away into their solitude.

Whether there was love between the two, no one knew, neither did they know if there were hate, but only on Sunday when they were seen at church, the husband's face with its cold classic outline, was still and passionless, and the wife's meek and pale, with an unsatisfied drooping about the corners of the mouth. Nothing was ever known of their home life ; if an unhappy one, the wife had now at least escaped from it, for she died a few weeks before our story com mences, and the vicar was again alone in his lonely house. Just beyond the Vicarage stood the old church, a tiny place, but with its interior re stored by the late John Fenn, who, while he lavished the work of skilful artists on the internal beauty of the sanctuary of his fathers, left Nature's handiwork of ivy and moss and gray lichen-covered stones untouched.

There amongst the brass and sculptured stone monu ments of the Fenns of bygone times, was a simple marble tablet whereon his wife had inscribed his name, leaving only room for her own beneath it. Now that we have as in duty bound looked at the first and last home of the Fenns of Casterton, we will leave what perhaps looks a little dreary, and turn to the fortunes and doings of those now living. There were then two Mrs. Fenns, one the widow of the late John Fenn, and mother of the present, also until then sole mistress of the Hall. That February afternoon she had sat in a little room at the front of the house, overlooking the many-coloured flower-beds, thinking and wondering what her new daughter would be like, whether she would be indeed a daughter to her, who had scarcely known any child but this one son, or whether it would be henceforth a divided home, children apart from their mother.

She was not a gloomy woman, or one apt to judge ill of others, but she had only her son, and her very love made her fearful and suspicious. She was proud, in truth that was her one fault, for she was of an ancient and noble house, and gloried in her pure race more than perhaps was altogether seemly in so sensible a person. "Sensible" is a very common-place word to apply to a high and noble lady, but it seems the most just word to use, for it exactly applies to her ; sensible she always was, except on one or two rare occasions, when pride had come in the way, and made her act very foolishly. In person she was tall, and had rather a commanding manner, not overbearing in any way, but a slight indefinable something which conveyed at once to strangers that it would be quite impossible to take any liberties with her.

She was dark in complexion, but had silvery white hair, still luxuriant, and folded neatly beneath a cap. And one peculiarity there was in her appearance, though her hair was so perfectly white, her eyebrows had never lost one tinge of their raven black, and made her large dark eyes shine forth more lustrously than even they would have done under a gray or white penthouse. These eyes were by no means severe in their expression, but had a certain look of intellectual power and decision which inspired awe. Her figure was slim, and unlike most women of her acre she moved with a lightness and grace envied by many a younger one, still over all there was the one idea of dignity and self-possession. As to her dress, she had long ago discarded the marked trappings of widowhood, but wore always black of rich texture, and the only colour was either soft gray or violet in her cap ribbons.

Such then was the outward appearance of Mrs. Fenn as we looked in at her on the sunshiny February afternoon. She had work in her hand, but as we said, had been ab sorbed in thought ; after a while she rose, folded away the work, and went out of the room. First upstairs to her new daughter's room, which, though everything was complete and smiling, as befitted a bride, she yet scanned with a mother's eye to see if there were not something to be done which might make it more complete, then downstairs again and into a small room, the counterpart of her own sanctum in ' size, but while hers was filled with old furniture and ornaments, the relics and friends of old days, here in this other room all was new. Art and nature had been pressed into the service by her loving heart to make it a perfect bower of loveliness ; soft lace draperies, elegant furni ture, statuettes, and flowers, made it a fairy like abode for the new-comer.

It seemed as if enchantment must have been at work to raise such a creation beside the sombre hues and old-world realities of her own room next 2 — to it. From this she passed on into the spa cious dining-room with its many long win dows at the side, overlooking a broad expanse of lawn, extending far away until it lost itself, first, in underwood and shrubbery, and dien in a dense wood. Here she stood a little time, warming her hands over the huge log fire, and then walked slowly round the room, looking at the old portraits of cavalier and courtly dame which hung on the walls. At last she came to two, one a gentleman in comparatively modern costume, and with a grave earnest countenance, seeming to look with an air of protection on a lovely girl next to him. This girl's head was unlike any other portrait in the room ; they were either full or half-length figures, while hers was only a head and a rough outline of shoulder, but though some of the other faces were lovely, this one surpassed all.

It seemed to gather up and absorb all the loveliness into its own. She seemed to know the face, and yet its youthful beauty seemed more like a vision than a reality. Before these two Mrs. Fenn stopped, for they were the likenesses of herself and her husband, taken soon after their marriage, and a pleased satisfied look came over her fine old face as she looked at what they two had been years ago. And then her eyes wandered away to a blank space beyond, thinking doubtless that now her son and his wife would help to fill it up, for it was an old custom among the Fenns that there should in this room be none but portraits of the heads of the family, and their wives ; all offshoots were bestowed in other rooms about the house. As she looked she sighed, and moved away back to the fire, and stood there thinking.

Her countenance changed once or twice, as if something per plexed or distressed her, and at last these words escaped her : " Where does she come from ? I wish John — " There she stopped, the sound of her own voice startled her, for she had not meant to utter her thoughts aloud. At the same moment she heard sounds of wheels approaching, and hastened to the hall to receive her unknown daughter. And then followed welcomings and kind words of love and trust on both sides. And these are better imagined than written. In as few words as possible we will give a reason for Mrs. Fenn's strange half-expressed thought. About two months before this time, her son being away in London, as he frequently was, his mother received a letter from him, telling her of his proposed marriage, and saying that from circumstances he could not explain, this marriage would be immediate, and quite private ; he could not either ask her to be present, or introduce her to her future daugh ter-in-law, until he brought her home as his wife.

She was a lady, he said, and well nurtured. Her name was Margaret, and she was eighteen years of age. For the rest he hoped she would trust him, and would ask nothing, and would also make no unjust judgment before she saw her. Imagine the effect of such a communication to a woman like Mrs. Fenn, in whose eyes a pedigree was a second Bible. The letter John Femis Wife. 23 itself was unlike her son in its wording. He was warm, frank, and impetuous, sending letters full of confidences, sometimes trivial, perhaps, but always welcome and cheering, and this was cramped, full of short dry facts, no expressions of warmth or tenderness. Her mother's heart was hurt; she blamed him, vowed — to herself, of course, for she never spoke to living soul on the subject — she would receive no stranger whose very name she did not know, and never answered his letter.

Then after a week of anger her pride went away, and she blamed herself for that very pride which had thought a Fenn too good to take a wife from amongst their own neighbours, but had sent her son to the refined wickedness of London, and now she was punished. That day she wrote to her son a letter, cold but not harsh, accepting his wife. The next week she wrote another to him, also one to her daughter Margaret, as she forced herself to call her, more genial and mother-like, and to these had come answers. All were so far good friends, and Mrs. Fenn had made her preparations heartily, as she must do from her nature, or else not at all. Until the present time son and daughter had been travelling abroad. So much for the explanation, which after all is no explanation at all.

Chapter III

For the first week mother and daughter seemed a little afraid of each other ; the mother, because there was a half-hidden, half acknowledged seeling that she had been un just ; and the daughter, simply because Mrs. Fenn's rather cold, repellant manner, some what awed her. But by degrees that wore off, and the new home-life was happy and peaceful, and to all appearance the model of a united, loving family. John Fenn was a shade altered in himself, the boyishness which in most men passes away long before, but which had not until then quite left him, was gone altogether, and now at twenty-five he was if anything more staid and grave in manner than most men. His mother rejoiced in what she thought his greater manliness, though perhaps it shut her more from his thoughts and feelings ; but what woman would not rather see her own son stronger than herself?

And reserve implies strength. As to the one forbidden topic, it was never touched. A day or two after he had brought his wife home, Mrs. Fenn asked him some slight question, hoping for a fuller confidence, but he immediately stopped her, and with an earnest but determined expression, said : " Mother, you should have spared me this. I had hoped my letter would have shown you how seriously I felt on the subject. You must never ask me more, for I can never tell you. There is no fault in Margaret, and her name is ' Fenn ' now, which is enough for me, and must be for all the world." With these words, and an angry sparkle in his eyes, so like hers, his mother saw him leave her side, and knew at once she must be silent for ever about the one thing that she had grown most to care about hearing. So to outside observers there was no sign of a secret in the household.

Margaret was a sunny, cheery thing, who soon grew into the old woman's heart, and her merry laugh and songs about the house seemed to awaken it into new life. Alto gether there was a change, the usual monotonous social meetings of the neighbouring families were stirred up by the advent of a bride into something quite brilliant. Sober, grave dinners became sparkling, and old men grown to be called " fogies" burst through their shell and made themselves centres of wit and brilliant talk, all through the inspiring glance of a pair of bright child's eyes. Margaret was such a child amongst them all. Even Grace Cornwall, just " come out," was a woman to her in manner, with her funny little touch of old-maidish primness. And when the long June days had come, and all the formal introduction parties over, and the garden parties come instead, so much more to Margaret's taste, she danced amongst the flower-beds of the old place, like another flower with a gift of movement.

These garden parties were her delight ; in fact, any sort of out-door existence seemed a treasure of inexhaustible pleasure to her, and her little, innocent ignorances of the com monest facts of out-door nature made the country habitues laugh and think her more charming than ever. She said she liked these parties so much better than the others, because one was so delightfully free, and she scarcely let a week pass without one at the Hall. Of course, the young neighbours thought them charming, but the older ones were not excluded, every one in their turn was made to go to them and become, for a certain time, a victim to the intricacies of croquet. Sometimes there would be the oddest groups to be met in some turn in the grounds ; happy, or would-be happy couples, might be found straying away amongst the shrubberies and hidden nooks, while the devotees of croquet would be on the open lawn.