CHAPTER XX.

THE TRIALS OF LADY CONWAY.

Meantime we must return to Lady Conway. Time passed on and she became the mother of a little girl, and after another interval of a little boy also. At this latter event Sir Philip's joy was great. The bells rang, bonfires blazed, every festive demonstration was called into play to welcome the heir to the estate. All the father's affection seemed showered upon him. The misunderstanding between himself and his lady had never been thoroughly put to rights, for Alfred still continued to keep awake in Sir Philip's mind the suspicions he had aroused. Had Annie been of a meek and gentle temper, she might very soon have convinced her husband how far she was as yet removed from religion of any kind, although conscious of secret influences creeping over her. But Annie thought herself aggrieved, and disdained conciliatory measures; and by degrees, under the insidious influence to which he was exposed, Sir Philip began to assume a high tone of marital authority which gave his wife continual provocation and rendered her situation almost unbearable. Daily he assumed more and more the reins of domestic government, until at last it could scarcely be said that the ordinary jurisdiction which a woman exercises over her household belonged to Annie. She felt this keenly at first, but the birth of her little girl came somewhat to reconcile her. She spent much time in the nursery, and recreated herself with books. She tried not to notice the arbitrary manner and haughty bearing of her husband, for, high-spirited as she was, she thought it undignified to live in a perpetual jangle. So, gradually, the married couple learned to live in different ideal worlds, though they continued under one roof and to society appeared as usual. But this did not suit Alfred Brookbank. His hatred went deeper than this, and he set himself seriously about attempting to destroy what little was left of domestic comfort. The birth of the young heir soon furnished him with grounds. None were more warm than he in offering his congratulations, and in making continual inquiries after the well-being of this young scion of an ancient race. Indeed, the interest he seemed to take in all that affected Sir Philip's happiness was extreme. One would have said that he lived but for the pleasure of serving him. Sir Philip, on the other hand, became daily more wrapt up in this specious man, and daily congratulated himself on having secured so invaluable a servant.

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"Sir Philip," said Alfred one day, after meeting the infant in its nurse's arms during a business walk over the grounds, "that is a splendid boy! I need not ask a man of your wisdom if you have made provision that he should be brought up a staunch and loyal upholder of the Protestant interest."

"Time enough yet, my worthy friend," responded the baronet, "the child is not six months old."

"But before six months more, Sir Philip, he will begin to receive impressions, and early impressions are of immense importance. You remember, doubtless, that when the treaty of marriage was on foot between the ill-fated Charles I. and Henrietta of France, the question was mooted respecting the education of the children, and it was finally settled that for the first seven years they should remain under the mother's influence, and afterward be brought up Protestant. They result was that, in the long run, the early impressions prevailed. Charles II. certainly received the Romish sacrament on his death-bed, and his brother James sacrificed his crown to his papistry. I imagine that the first impressions are almost indelible, and we never know when first impressions are made."

"But all my people are Protestants," said Sir Philip.

"And has Lady Conway renounced her predilection for the papists?" asked Alfred. Sir Phillip's brow lowered.

"Forgive me if I go too far," continued Alfred deprecatingly. "The inroads made by these people who came to seek English hospitality on being driven from their own homes, are too alarming. Awhile ago it would have been an insult to suspect a well-bred person of such folly; but when we see such talented young men as Eugene Godfrey led away, it puts us on our guard against future encroachments. I for one should be sorry to see the heir apparent of Sir Philip Conway an upholder of bigotry, or in image worshiper."

"I would see them in his grave first," thundered out the baronet. "But there is no fear; at least I see no immediate cause of apprehension. But the matter shall be look to. My son shall be watched over, depend upon it".

Sir Philip's mother was still living, and with her a sister of his, and old maid, who was a little too much of the puritanical school to suit her brother's taste. But now he thought these ladies might assist his views. He paid them a visit, and in strict confidence laid his difficulty before them. He was not satisfied, he said of Lady Conway's opinions. She went to the English Church occasionally, but he did not consider her a member of it at heart. He wanted his children to be interviewed from the first with strict Protestant ideas. The little girl was now two years old, and though the little boy was but a few months old, there was no telling how soon impressions might be made, so he intended to have a nursery governess of the right sort at once. This the ladies undertook to look out for, and when found to accompany the treasure themselves to the household. Annie's annoyance was excessive. Neither the dowager Lady Conway nor her daughter was intellectual or high-minded, and now that they came to take the management of the nursery out of her hands, and place a stranger there whose office was to watch herself in her intercourse with her own children, their presence became unendurable. Mrs. Bedford, the new governess, was in herself a quiet, unobtrusive person, faithful to her duties, and of gentle manners; but she had been selected on account of her unmitigated horror of popery, and it had been whispered to her that Lady Conway was not a little tainted with its delusion, and this made her more constrained in manner and less deferential than she would otherwise have been.

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It was in vain that any pleaded that she was quite capable of directing her own nursery, that this new inmate was equally unnecessary as unwelcome to her. Sir Philip was immovable; and to prove how intent he was on having his own way, he dismissed the nurse, who had attended both children most skillfully, merely because she had not shown herself sufficiently respectful to the new-comer. The children cried after their old friend, and the little girl clung to her dress, to beg her not to leave her. It was useless. No one is more obstinate than a fool in power. That wife and children were unhappy was nothing to Sir Philip now. His will was law, and to his rule of iron all must submit.

Some months after this they were sitting at table when the letters were brought in. Among them came one directed to Annie. Sir Philip opened it (it was now his custom to open his wife's letters), read it, and handed it to her, with the words:

"Dear me, I am very sorry, I suppose you must go immediately." The letter was from Hester. It stated that Mrs. Godfrey (who had been for years out of health) had latterly become much worse, that she was constantly asking for any, and the physicians said she must be humored in every wish, that her reason, if not her life, depended on it. Annie was therefore requested to come without delay.

"How soon can I have the carriage," inquired any of her liege Lord.

"As soon as you can get ready, of course," answered Sir Philip.

"And the children?" faltered Annie.

"Mrs. Bedford will take care of the children, and I shall be at home; make yourself easy about them."

But Annie would have liked to take the children with her; they would interest her mother at times, and in that large mansion could not be in the way; but her heart seemed crushed, she dared not express her thought, and she departed without remonstrance.

She found her mother even more depressed then she anticipated. Mrs. Godfrey had ever been tenderly attached to her children. Their happiness had been her fondest care, and a melancholy settled upon her as she found her hopes disappointed. The haughty Adelaide seemed quite changed from the time when she was a joyous girl at home. Annie, though still affectionate to herself, seemed pining away under some secret unhappiness. But the darling of her heart--her son, whom she loved with the whole force of her character, in whom were united alike joy and pride--why was he banished from her sight? That Mrs. Godfrey was sorry for her son's Catholicity there was no doubt; certainly she was mortified at this unexpected result of her fine intellectual training; but the love she bore this her only son far overpowered both sorrow and vexation, and she bitterly felt his prolonged absence, and had often endeavored to shake Mr. Godfrey's determination in this regard. Some little passages had even occurred between herself and her husband on the subject. "She could not understand," she said, "why a person should be persecuted for his religion. When Mr. Godfrey told his children to think for themselves, did he mean that they were to think as he did, on pain of expulsion? Was not Eugene good, dutiful, noble, and generous? Why was he treated like a criminal? Had he been a _roué_, like so many young men of his standing, it would have been called 'sowing his wild oats,' and every allowance would have been made for him. Why could they not treat this vagary as intellectual wild oats, and give him time to recover?" Mr. Godfrey tried to pacify her, but in vain; illness succeeded. "She must see her son," she said.

Mr. Godfrey was a little too resolute. He did not even give her tidings of him when he summoned him to the lawyers. It was by sheer accident that she discovered they had met; and when she discovered the result of that meeting her indignation was terrible. She could not bear to {608} have Hester in her sight. She would not accompany her and Mr. Godfrey to Yorkshire. She stayed at home alone whole months. Years past; Eugene went abroad, and in the disturbed state of the continent his letters miscarried. It was long since she heard from him. A paroxym ensued. Her mind became affected. Mr. Godfrey was sent for. A gentleman experienced in diseases of the brain was invited to reside in the house. But in vain. The malady increased, and her calls for Eugene and for Annie became so frequent and so terrific that all hope of keeping the matter a secret seemed at an end, and the doctor insisted that the persons she called for should be sent for. Annie came forthwith as we have seen, but Eugene's address was not known.

On entering the room where her mother set in company with two strange nurses, Annie was struck with the wildness of her manner: her hair was disordered and hung loose over her shoulders; it was far whiter than when Annie had seen it last, and her eyes were restlessly looking round the room. She sprang up at her daughter's entrance, threw herself on her neck, and burst into tears, "O Annie, Annie! are you come at last? I have a strange illness upon me; I do not know how to bear myself; but yon will not let them hurt me, you will take care of me."

Annie was not prepared for this greeting. She could only clasp her mother's hands, caress her, make her sit down, and try to keep down the swelling in her own throat. Suddenly Mrs. Godfrey broke from her, and standing up laid her hand on Annie's shoulder, saying: "Where is Eugene?"

"I do not know, my dear mother."

"Not know! Are you all leagued against me? What share in his inheritance had you?"

Annie looked as she felt, surprised. She had heard of the transaction only when it was over, but she answered soothingly, not wishing to bring forward exciting ideas. But Mrs. Godfrey was not to be Sue; all night she raved of Eugene; when Hester approached, she sprang from the bed and attempted to strike her; Mr. Godfrey dared not trust himself within her hearing. "Thief, traitor, knave, rascal, villain", and other opprobrious epithets were bestowed on him and his fondling. The doctor was not to be shaken in his opinion that the only hope lay in finding Eugene and bringing him to her bedside. But where? They had no clue; his lawyer only knew he was gone abroad and would probably not return for months. In the hope that some one might be more successful, they at length resolve, to Mr. Godfrey's intense vexation, to have inserted in the London and local papers a notice to the effect that "We are sorry to announce the serious and dangerous illness of the Hon. Mrs. Godfrey, at Estcourt Hall. Should this meet the eye of her eldest son, now on his travels, his family request him to return without delay."

This advertisement luckily was pointed out to M. Bertolot very soon after it appeared at Cambridge, and he hastened to forward it by a courier to Eugene, who, traveling by post (those were not days of railways), arrived at Estcourt Hall within three weeks after Annie had taken up her residence there. The old butler who answered the ring at the gate bowed a solemn but speechless welcome, and with a significant gesture conducted him, not through the usual entrance-hall, but by a side door, up-stairs, till he came to Annie's apartment, which communicated with the sick-chamber. Here he wrapped, and on Annie's appearance left the two together without a word.

Eugene entered and sat down. "What is the matter?" He said. But Annie answered not; her looks were those of one too wretched to weep.

Eugene repeated his inquiry, and then she softly whispered: "O! Eugene, she has gone out of her mind!" Eugene covered his face with his hands. {609} It was a long time ere either could speak again. At length Annie rose on tiptoe and opened the door communicating with the invalid's apartments. His mother was lying quietly on the sofa, muttering at intervals. Eugene approached and listened. He thought he caught the sound of his own name. He went nearer and knelt beside her. The sick woman knew it not, but her arm laid itself restlessly around his neck, and as his hot tears fell on her cheek she kept repeating in her sleep the words, "Eugene, my dear Eugene!" Singularly enough, when she waked she evinced no surprise at finding him there. It was as though she knew it intuitively, or had expected it. Perhaps it was the prolongation of her dream. She did not greet him as a stranger, or speak as if long months had passed since she saw him, for question him as to his occupation or place of abode. She waked, but was as if still dreaming of him. She found him there, where she had so long wished him to be, quietly asked him to hand her a glass of water, took it from him contentedly, returned the glass, kissed him as he bent over her, and sank into along, tranquil sleep, from which she tranquilly and apparently refreshed, but still taking Eugene's appearance as a matter of course which called for no expression of surprise.

The physician now insisted on this state of contentment being left undisturbed. He had long wished Mr. Godfrey and Hester out of the house on account of the excitement they produced in his patient; he now insisted that they should not be seen, heard, board named in the sick-room; "in fact," he said to them, "if it were convenient, it would be better you should retire from the house until Mrs. Godfrey can herself be moved. A paroxysm now might kill her. Spare her that, and I hope she will recover. This illness appears to have been occasioned by mental anguish and evidently her son only has the power to soothe her." Hester was deeply moved; Mr. Godfrey was angry, but he hid his vexation. "He would wait a day or two," he said; "if Mrs. Godfrey continued to improve, he would take Hester to Yorkshire, where their presence was greatly needed."

He was, however, so much irritated that he would not see Eugene, in spite of his entreaties conveyed by Annie. Meals were served up to him and Hester in a separate room, and he now appeared only anxious to get away. Hester was, however, almost heart-broken. She had not been allowed to speak to Eugene; but the night before their departure, after Mr. Godfrey had retired for the night, she sent a note to him containing these words only:

"Come to my room, I am very unhappy. Let me see you ere I go. "Your own sister, "HESTER."

"I thought you would not deny me, Eugene," she said, as the latter entered her apartment; "you were ever kind and forgiving. Tell me, first, have you any hopes of mother?"

"Indeed I have, dear sister, the greatest hopes."

"Do you call me 'dear sister'? You are not angry with me, then, Eugene?"

"Not much more angry than I was the day you took my horse away when I wanted to go hunting; do you remember it, Hester?"

"I do, but you would not speak to me then till mother reconciled us. Dear mother! our childish quarrels always worried her. She was never easy till she had set them right. Would we were children again, Eugene, and our quarrels as easily adjusted." Hester was weeping as she spoke.

"We may be, Hester, as soon as we so will it. Why should we lose the simplicity, love, and truth that make childhood sweet?"

"Do you love me still, Eugene?"

"I do; nay, I admire you too, though I think you are mistaken."

"You are very good to say so. Now then, dear Eugene, I may tell you to set our dear mother's mind at rest as soon at she can understand reason. {610} You will tell her that, at least as for as I am concerned, there shall be no injustice committed eventually. My father gives me the control of his property now, which he has a right to do if he so pleases; you have your allowance such as he promised you, that is all right too; but tell my dear mother that, as far as it depends on me, matters shall be made right at my father's death. It would serve nothing, as you know, to moot the matter now, but I will never rob you or any one. Tell my mother this, Eugene, and tell her to restore to me her love."

"I will, my darling Hester. Now make yourself easy. Be sure my mother loves you still, that I love you, that we all love you. Be easy, my sister, my sweet sister." But Hester was weeping bitterly; the thought of not being allowed to see her mother, to help nurse her, was almost more than she could bear, and she very sorrowfully acquiesced in the arrangement.