The Awakening of Mary Fenwick. A novel

Chapter I

' Is thy name Mary, maiden fair ? Such should, methinks, its music be ; The sweetest name that mortals bear, Were best befitting thee. And she to whom it once was given Was half of earth and half of heaven. ' Steering her rapid course westward, on sped the down expre-s. Crisply she cut her way through the heavy yellow fog, which hung low upon the surface of the land on a gloomy November afternoon. Panting she tore over the vibrating ground, her great palpitating heart beating tumultuously against her iron ribs. "With careless unconcern, idle spectators stood and watched the dashing career of the monster as, terrific in her mighty strength and clamour, she rushed before them, and, a moment later, was lost to sight — their educated eyes being inured to a sight and sound which would have struck terror to the hearts of their forefathers.

Borne in the vast bosom of the train, sheltered by its wooden walls, in the cosy isolation of a first-class carriage, sat a lady and gentleman, silent and alone. The travelling bags, dressing-cases, rugs, and other impedimenta of modern travellers, were new. Some flakes of rice fell from the folds of the lady's gown and lay conspicuously on the ground — grains pregnant with meaning, betraying the travellers to be, what in truth they were, a bride and bridegroom, their mar riage having taken place in London that very noon. No sunshine had blessed the bride, for the yellow fog had hung u densely around until it even penetrated the church. There it gathered about the lighted gas-jets like a halo, and so obscured the light that the curate, who was performing the ceremony, stumbled hesitatingly through the reading of the service.

There had been no bridesmaids, no choir, no music, no bells, no spectators. There were no admiring eyes which could appreciate the beauty of the bride's dress, or the delicacy of her Brussels' lace, or the artistic sweep of her abnormally long train, or the structure of her lovely bouquet, or the bright glitter of the diamonds which sparkled about her throat and in her hair. The elderly lady, who acted in lieu of a father, and gave the bride away, had evidently been relieved when her part in the ceremony was over, for she at once retired to a pew where her maid sat awaiting her with smelling salts and sal-volatile as antidotes to the exertion and anxiety that she had undergone. The best man, a tall, good-looking soldier, did his duty bravely and with some zest and spirit ; indeed, he was the only one of the party who showed any pleasure or excitement in the event.

The bridegroom wore a provoking air of sullen endurance, — such an air being the cloak which John Bull loves to assume as cover to awkward shyness. He muttered his vows inaudibly, fumbled desperately, and for some seconds unsuccessfully, for the ring, thereby confusing the young curate and provoking a broad smile on the part of the best man. The bride drooped her small head, and cast her eyes upon the ground. Shrouded as she was in the folds of her lace veil, it had been impossible to judge, by her expression, how she was affected by the solemn service ; but her voice fol lowed the clergyman's with distinctness in the repetition of her vows. As soon as the service was concluded, and the register signed, the bridal-party drove to the Hotel Metropole. The bride donned her travelling-dress immediately, and, after partaking of a hurried luncheon, the happy pair drove off (amidst a vigorous shower of rice hurled by the best man) to Waterloo, in time to catch the down express.

The bridegroom, as in duty bound, had secured a private carriage, had also seen to the luggage, bought a paper or two, satisfied himself that the hot-water tin beneath the feet of the bride was posi tively hot, wrapped a fur rug about her knees, and asked her a dozen times if she was cold or tired. Then, with a proud consciousness that he had earned a rest from his labours, he had settled himself deliberately and comfortably among the cushions in the corner opposite to his wife, and gazing, wrapped in impenetrable thought, towards the window, maintained a long, unbroken silence. The bride stealthily lifted her dark eyes, looking, with wistful curiosity, at the handsome profile turned towards her. It was evident that her husband could see nothing of the surrounding country ; the windows were blurred with smoke and fog, but still he looked steadily and earnestly before him.

What are the thoughts, she wonders, so absorbing and powerful as to engross him completely? Happily for the Englishman, there remains one castle of which no man can rob him — the castle of his mind, within which he may, if he choose, ever remain secure, content, amused, with windows barred and shutters closed. What are Godfray's thoughts upon his wedding-day? Of her, all of her, she answers the question for herself ; these monopolizing thoughts are all of her; and with this pleasing consciousness she satisfies herself and sits on still watching him. The expression of his careless blue eyes she knows by heart, but she had not before remarked the firmness of his mouth or the heavy moulding of his chin. He had tipped his hat forward so as to allow his head to rest against the cushions, his great-coat was buttoned up close to his throat, he too had a fur rug across his knees.

He really looked very warm and con tented, she decided, with another flash of surprise at his silence. After all, why should words be wanted between them ? The fact was there, she was not dreaming, he had chosen her out of all the world, he had married her because he loved her : surely that should be enough to satisfy a woman ! He had sought her, wooed and won her with a gentle courtesy which, though it had not been sufficiently passionate to stir the deepest emotions that still lay dormant in her inexperienced heart, had at any rate so excited her admiration and approval as to win an acceptance — a faltering, hesitating acceptance — of his proposals. She told him the truth — that which she deemed to be the exact truth — when she said she did not love him. Love, as she knew it from the poems and books which had supplied all the romance and pleasure lacking hitherto in her actual life, was a different sentiment, far removed from the calm approval with which she regarded this her first lover.

She approved him, for he loved her, she was grateful to him because he had B manly ring through it which, at distant intervals, had been known to grow into positive vigour. ' I am afraid you must be.' And he drew the rug further up about her knees. ' We arrive somewhere about five-fifteen. It can't be far off that now. Dan says that he has impressed on every one at Wood cote to look after you, but it is only a bachelor's hut, you know. I thought you would like it better than wandering about in hotels at this time of the year, with nothing on earth to do. It's such beastly weather that, if there was a decent view, you couldn't see it. Now, down here it's a snug little place enough, and there are any amount of birds.' 'Birds?' she questioned, puzzled, 'birds? They are not much use at this time of year.

They don't sing, not even robins.' ' Sing ! ' he exclaimed ; and then he laughed. ' I don't mean songsters, Mary, I mean pheasants. They are no end of use. Food and amusement, don't you know.' 'Oh ! you mean shooting them,' she finished, rather blankly. She had married one of the keenest sportsmen imaginable. Hitherto she had shuddered at the sight of a fly in a spider's web, cried over a mouse in a cat's cruel clutches, and utterly refused to take the smallest, meanest life that crept about her feet. ' How did you like Dan ? ' he pursued, ignoring her tone, while he decided in his own mind that he would not forego an early day's sport. ' He did his part the best of us all this morning. I am glad you settled on having it quiet. It is an awful business, even with half-a-dozen in the church.' She touched her black dress, saying, ' I could not have had a gay wedding, it all seems dreadfully soon ; but I wish Cicely had been there.

Yes, Major Ogilvie was very nice ; he seemed to understand about everything so well. But how many mistakes you made, Godfray ! He had to put you right several times.' ' Proof positive that it was my first shot at the event. But, about Dan. I am glad you like him, for he's a first-rate chap, and the oldest friend I have got. We were at school together, at Sandhurst together, and joined the regiment the same week.' ' Wasn't it a pity that you left the Army ? Why did you doit?' J ' I had to go down to Combe, when my brother Alf died you see. He had lived a bit fast, poor chap, and the whole place was going to wrack and ruin. I was obliged to leave the service, and be busy settling-up things ; all the business had been awfully muddled. At one time I seriously thought of getting rid of every acre, but the place has belonged to our people for such ages that I could not make up my mind to it, though what they say of old families is true enough, that, like potatoes, the best part of them is underground.

Now, of course, I'm really glad I kept everything, shabby old rat's castle as it is ! ' For a moment she wondered why he was glad, then blushed at her own obtuseness. ' Now, of course,' when he had his heart's desire, a rat's castle would be paiadise, with an adored bride to enliven the lonely hours. ' By the way, Mary, I had a letter from Mrs. Ogilvie, Dan's mother, this morning. Old Ogilvie is dead, so she lives in Venice with her daughter, who married an Italian, very good-looking, but he don't wash, Dan tells me. However, that's nothing ; none of them do ! Mrs. Ogilvie and I are great pals. She writes an uncommonly nice letter. Lots of pretty things about you, and some fairly kind ones about me. Perhaps you would like to read it for yourself, because you have to take me on hearsay. Really, you know precious little about me.' She smiled, and said, gravely, ' I know quite as much about you as you know about me.

It is not a great deal, is it ? But I am not afraid, and I shoidd like to see the " pretty " things, if you please.' Captain Fenwick, drawing out several letters from his pocket-book, searched carefully through them, and, selecting one, handed it to his bride. In doing so their hands met, he pressed hers gently before relinquishing it, and watched, with a faint admiration, the delicate blush which rose for a moment to her cheek. This was the letter which he had given her : ' Poona, October 12th. ' Dearest Goff, ' The mail was in to-day, and goes out to-morrow ; and, though I'm only just back from a ball — haven't even taken off my gown — and I'm as lame as a tree, and as limp as a rag, and it is (I don't dare to tell you) what disgraceful o'clock in the morning, I must scribble this to wish you joy.

" Chuck her up," as we used to say in the dear old days when I played cricket. To think of your being so awfully clever as to secure an heiress ! I know you often said you would do it, but I never believed you, never thought you sufficiently practical to go through with it. Jack always declared you would make a fool of yourself again about Mary Deane. By the way, this young person's name is Mary too ; so perhaps that influence helped to bring you to the scratch. Dan writes that she has over seventy thousand, and it's so un commonly well invested that it brings in four thousand a year. Good gracious me ! How nice ! I can see Jack is abominably jealous ; he has been cross ever since your letter came ; he thinks he might have done better than me ! How ever, at this moment, here he comes with a message for you — he thinks it is funny and so has recovered his temper.

He tells me to say that " You are the first one of your name who has caught the ever-flying oof-bird." This, with his warmest congratulations ; no use wishing you happiness, that's sure to come with such a lining for the nest ! I hope, now, that you will smarten up dear old Combe a bit, for, by this time, the paper must be hanging from the walls, and the whole thing more poverty-stricken even than it used to be before I got married. Get her to put down new flooring in the hall, oak parquet would be the making of it ; do think of the house, there's a good boy, before the stables ! Dan says that she has no relations but an aunt who lives in Paris, and a young sister at school. What a blessing for you ; doubtful connections must be such a trial ! What a lucky man you really are ! I'm glad, too, that she isn't Pickles, or Soap, or Eno, or Beer, or Mustard, or anything plebeian.

A Brazilian merchant sounds vague and respectable, and anything to do with diamonds, delightful ! No one says a word about her ap>pearance. I hope she is decent-looking, but one can't expect everything, and, remember, beauty at the best is but a fading flower (alas ! particularly so in India). November is a bad time of the year to be married ; you will miss a lot of the hunting, it's generally an open month, but you are wise to hurry it on — heiresses are proverbially slippery. Well, best congratulations, my prudent brother ■ what a comfort a little ready money in the family will be to be sure. I wish I had waited and had another look round myself. Jack is a dear, but poor. ' Your loving sister, ' Mab. ' P-S. — I wish you could see Baby, she really is pretty ; I'm. sure you would love her.

Jack never liked them before, but he adores her, and she knows him quite well ; she turns her head to look after him when he goes away. She is a very forward child, wonderfully forward, so every one says.' Captain Fenwick had made an unfortunate mistake that morning. He had placed his sister's letter in the envelope from Venice which had come by the same post. Then, with a disastrous carelessness, a carelessness simple but fatal, he handed the Venetian envelope, with its misplaced contents, to his smiling bride. She read the letter slowly through — once, twice, she read it ; stopping now and then to scan some line again, the mean ing of which did not seem clear to her stunned comprehension. It was long before the frankness of the words and thoughts came thoroughly home to her mind. She felt as if a heavy cloud hung upon her brain, obscuring her vision so that the writing on the paper danced and flickered before her ; a cloud too that, for the time, dulled the sharp pain that rose spasmodically at her heart.

The slang, with which the letter abounded, confused her ; it was like a strange language, hard to decipher. She shivered with physical cold, and the blood ran chill through her veins. She shrank back as if she had been struck ; her face twitched and quivered as the light words imprinted themselves upon her understanding, roughly awaking her from her sweet dream. And he — he whose touch a moment before had brought a blush to her cheek — he it was who, with cruel hand, had given her this deadly cup of humiliation to drink. Anger with him, scorn of him, over whelmed, for the time, every other feeling. Her colour came and went, her lips curved proudly, her delicate nostrils dilated, strong passions lioted unchecked upon her tell-tale face. She held up the letter before her so that her husband could not see her face ; it had the advantage, too, of screening him from her indignant eyes.

She felt almost afraid of the tumult raging within her ; hitherto, in her calm life, she had flattered herself on possessing an even temper and well-controlled emotions. Now something stronger than her will, something mighty for evil, reigned stormily within her breast. Every remembrance that floated through her brain served to increase the violence of her scorn and anger. Was it possible that five minutes before he had smiled, with a look that she had dreamed was love, into her eyes ? He, who had treacherously and basely deceived her? She thought she could have borne anything — the bitter ending to her bright hopes, the galling wound to her vanity — any thing better, anything rather than that he should have boasted of his false vows and despicable mercenary motives. She held money in such contempt as only a young girl who has never experienced the want of it is capable of doing.

Meanwhile, Captain Fenwick's eyes fell on the soft white hand that lay idle upon the fur rug before him. It was a slim, well-bred hand, with long tapering fingers and polished filbert nails— quite a hand to admire, and the plain band of gold, his wedding-ring, became it well. He looked at it with careless approval. It was doubtless his duty (and his pleasure, perhaps) to hold it in his own. And, so deciding, he languidly bent forward, appropriating it with a gesture at once con descending and possessive. Then Mary, dropping the letter with which her face had been screened, looked up, disdain in her cold eyes, her lip curled by an ugly sneer, and said, in a voice ringing with anger and disgust such as had never been addressed to him before in all his easy life, ' No, no, you need not play this farce any longer.' And she drew away her hand with a movement of dislike. ' Pray consider it at an end.

If your duty compels you to offer me such attentions, my duty does not compel me to accept them.' Captain Fenwick was thoroughly awake now ; cook, claret, foxes, pheasants were driven effectually from his roving mind. He sat erect, and looked keenly at his wife. She was holding the letter fast in both her hands. He saw angry gleams of light shining in her eyes, but the illumination of the carriage, from the flickering lamp above them, was of so meagre a description that, by it, he could not clearly see the expression of her face. Was she acting? He supposed so. Women, he knew, were fond of a drama off the stage on their own account. However, he was not amused at the turn things had taken, and he answered, coldly enough, ' Do not be afraid, I will not offend again.' And he picked up a newspaper, and was soon engrossed in its perusal.

Once or twice he stole a quick look at the face of his vis-d-vis, but her expression, as far as he could judge, was not encouraging, and he returned, with a perplexed frown, to his paper. At length a shrill whistle from the engine and a perceptible slackening of speed announced thnt their destination, Crewcurt Junction was at hand. Captain Fenwick put down his paper, remarking, ' Here we are at last, the gods be praised ! You had better get ready to be off, for they don't give us overmuch time. I am afraid you are very tired, Mary ; ' in a soothing tone which maddened her. ' However, our journey is all but over. Half an hour's drive, and we shall be at Woodcote.' She did not answer. She was revolving a thousand schemes in her busy brain. She must go away, far away, out of his sight, far away .where she would never see his face nor hear his voice again ; where, as years passed, the memory of her wedding would seem to be nothing but an unhappy dream.

Surely, in the fog and darkness at the station, it would be easy to find some means of escape, and then she would slip back again into the kindly express and be out of his reach before he even missed her. She had plenty of money in her purse, enough to take her a thousand miles away, and, as for the rest of her hateful fortune, he might keep it all — all, so that she never saw his face again. Refusing his proffered aid, sh3 alighted on the platform, and hurried off in pretended search for her maid ; but she had not gone more than a few steps, when a footman, meeting her, touched his hat with the inquiry, ' For Woodcote, ma'am ? ' She stopped to answer in the affirmative, and, looking round, found that Becket, her maid, was beside her, and be sieging her ear with questions as to the luggage, delaying her while the precious moments flew past. ' Take your seats,' shouted the guard.

Travellers bustled by, jostling her with true British un concern. Doors were slammed ; the hissing of the engine ceased. Mary grew desperate. ' Go to Captain Fenwick, Becket ; he saw to my things. I expect he has the jewel-case. Ask him.' Becket had lived for many years with her young mistress, and, as a rule, preferred to direct her own course for herself ; this order, however, was practical and to her mind, so she obeyed it, walking away at once in the direction indicated. Mary found herself opposite to an empty carriage, the door of which, however, was closed. She attempted to turn the handle ; it was stiff, and would not yield — indeed, her hands trembled so much that they were almost powerless. ' Porter,' she called, faintly, as a step approached, ' I want this door opened.' Her husband's voice answered her. ' What on earth do you want in there ?

That wasn't our carriage, you know; and I had your jewel case. Nothing is lost.' ' Oh ! nothing,' she answered, dreamily ; and as she stood in the lamplight he saw a look on her face that startled him. ' My dear Mary, is there anything wrong ? ' he asked, with some concern. ' Are you ill ? ' 111 ? No, I don't think I am ill,' she said, a little wildly. ' But I have lost something. It would be no use to look for it, because I can never find it again as long as I live.' As she spoke, the train moved out of the station, and he, drawing her hand through his arm, led her away, and helped her into the carriage which was awaiting them.

Chapter III

' There all is marr'd ; there lies a cooling card. King Henry VI. As she sat erect on an uncompromising straight-backed bedroom chair Mrs. Fenwick's attitude did not express the repose for which purpose she had ostensibly withdrawn to her own room two hours previously. She held the Indian letter open in her hand, but her eyes were fixed, moodily preoccu pied, upon the ground before her. The room bore traces of her recent arrival, for her trunks, open and half-unpacked, were pushed against the wall ; her travelling-bag lay at her feet ; her jewel-case and umbrella upon the dressing-table beside her ; her unrolled rugs were strewn upon the bed. An empty arm-chair was drawn close before the fire-place, where what had lately been a glorious fire lay slowly dying. Oblivious alike of time and place, travel-stained and weary, she sat motionless in the midst of this disorder and discomfort, until a quick knock at the door roused her, and she started guiltily to her feet as Becket, carrying a long spray of white flowers in her hand, bustled into the room. ' My dear Miss Mary, what have you been doing all this time ?

When you dismissed me, you said you were goinoto rest ; you sent me away in such a hurry, and you have never so much as taken off your bonnet. Dear ! the fire's all but out!' it She moved about the disordered room, and, with a few judicious touches, reduced the general chaos to something approaching comfort. Then she grasped the poker, and, violently raking the few dying embers, quelled the little life remaining in them — she could not scold her young lady on her wedding-day as heartily as she desired. This relieved her feelings, and she returned to Mary more composed. ' You are looking dead-tired, ma'am, quite worn-out. I wish I had taken no notice of your orders and come up here before this. Why, you are shivering ; the fog seems to have got into your very bones, you are so starving cold.' She looked curiously into her mistress's face ; she was sharp enough to see that this pale, melancholy-eyed bride was neither looking nor behaving as an orthodox bride should look and behave. ' I never was married myself ma'am,' she remarked, with an air of superiority ; ' it is, we know, an honourable estate, but it seems to take different people different ways.

Here you sit, ma'am, as absent as a man in church and as grave as a funeral, while Captain Fenwick keeps tramping about down-stairs as if matrimony was the treadmill.' In the bitterness of her heart, Mary accepted these as apt similes. A funeral? Yes, of freedom and hope buried in a common grave. A treadmill ? Yes, the uphill, weary road of loveless days. Burying the sigh which rose to her lips, she tried to change this unwelcome subject by a question. ' What time do we dine, Becket ? ' ' That's just the question Captain Fenwick sent to ask you, ma'am, but I did not come up to disturb you ; I told him a quarter to eight, as that is your usual time. It's not a common thing, Miss Mary, for bride and bridegroom to be worrying themselves about their dinner.' While Becket talked, she was kneeling before an open trunk unpacking its contents with swift dexterity.

Idly watching, Mary stood beside her, while her thoughts strayed to the previous evening when, with feminine pleasure in the duty, she had superintended the stowing of her smart gowns in their places, as, with happy laughter, she parried Madame Roselle's small fire of banter. ' You will wear the white, ma'am, of course,' Becket said, as she rose from her knees, and, with arms full of dainty spoil, awaited a reply. 'The white with Valenciennes lace, and a spray of diamonds in your hair. Gentlemen always admire white, and the diamonds become you well.' ' No, no,' Mary answered , hastily. ' Not white, I hate it. Get me out a black dress ; anything. There, that tea-gown will do ! ' ' Not that hideous thing, ma'am, I never could a-bear it,' cried Becket, in indignant dismay. ' You will frighten Cap tain Fenwick in that ; not a white bit of ribbon, not an inch of trimming about it; it looks the depth of mourning, it really does.

It would be bad luck, ma'am, and a very poor compliment to a gentleman if you wear such a dress as that on your wedding-day ! ' ' Nevertheless,' said her young mistress, ' I shall wear it, and no diamonds. You need not trouble to unlock the jewel case.' Becket stood aghast, for she knew that when Mary spoke in that tone no argument would prevail to make her change her resolution ; so, sulkily obeying, she laid a black plush gown upon the bed, staring at it with a savage resentment which would have provoked Mary to laughter if, in her present mood, she had been capable of amusement. ' Do you care to have your hair dressed to-night, ma'am ? ' Becket questioned, severely sarcastic, as Mary, sitting down before the glass, looked to see what havoc the day's work had wrought in her smooth tresses. ' Just as you think, Becket,' she replied, indifferently, ' there is plenty of time, I suppose.' As she spoke her eyes fell on the spray of flowers which Becket, on entering, had placed upon a writing-table and forgotten.

She was a genuine flower lover, and, stretching out her hand towards them, an exclamation of pleasure escaped her. ' What lovely lilies and stephanotis, Becket. Where did they come from 1 ' ' The gardener sent them up to you, ma'am, with his respect ful good wishes,' she explained, as she placed the bouquet in Mary's hands. ' There is orange-blossom in it, and the butler tells me he has been keeping the best of everything in the conservatory for the bride to wear to-night.' ' I will not wear them,' said the ungrateful bride, throwing the unoffending flowers impatiently down. 'I will not wear them ; you can take them away. I do not want them ; their scent sickens me.' Becket was deadly silent. Was this her sweet youn<* mistress, whose even temper it had been hard to ruffle ; who had tenderness for the feelings of every one about her, even to the humblest newspaper-boy in the streets ; who had a gentle word for a beggar, and a caress for a mongrel dog ?