How they loved him, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Yet although these young people had arrived at such a satisfactory conclusion with regard to the attitude they were to maintain towards each other through life, they did not seem any the happier for the arrangement. They grew less joyous, less confidential, less friendly after that revelation on the landslip than before. They continued to meet upon the sands of Ines-cedwyn. Not a day passed that Fenella Barrington did not find Geoffrey Doyne waiting for her by the Beach Bungalow; but though they greeted each other kindly, and talked with alacrity of everything that was most indifferent to them on earth, there was something between them which had not been there before—unrecognised but felt—and it marred all their enjoyment.

Fenella would sit in the verandah of the ruined villa for half the morning, stitching away as if her life depended on the rapidity of her work; whilst Geoffrey would lie upon the sand, face downward, pitching the pebbles about, and whistling to himself in a sort of discontented undertone; and their mutual attempts at conversation drifted again and again into silence.

On several occasions the girl introduced the subject of his engagement to Jessie Robertson, and tried to make him talk of her personal appearance, and surroundings, and the circumstances by which they had been drawn together. But she found the subject a very unpalatable one. Geoffrey growled, and grumbled, and bewailed his fate, and sometimes even launched into imprecations which frightened his companion. Everything seemed out of gear with him. He never alluded to his own marriage but with the greatest distaste; and he teased Fenella on the subject of hers until he nearly betrayed her into tears.

‘I shall never marry, Geoffrey,’ she kept on repeating. ‘I have always said so, and I mean to keep to my word.’

‘Oh no, you won’t, child; everybody marries sooner or later, and you are too pretty to remain an old maid. When I return from India, I shall find my adopted sister a big lady—wife to a lord, perhaps, or some swell in Parliament, and too grand to remember the brother she picked up on the Ines-cedwyn sands.’

‘Oh, Geoffrey, as if I could ever forget you!’ Fenella faltered. ‘But indeed you are mistaken. I mean to live with my mother and Bennett all my life, and then some day perhaps—perhaps—’

‘Perhaps what! dear?’

‘I was going to say,’ continued the girl, as she resolutely swallowed something in her throat, ‘that some day perhaps, Geoffrey, when you have—you have little children, they may learn to love me as if I really were their aunt.’

Geoffrey Doyne gave vent to an oath that rung out discordantly upon the still summer air.

‘Forgive me, Fenella,’ he pleaded. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,—but I wish you wouldn’t talk in that way! It will never come to pass, you know; it can’t—it must not—it is impossible!—Good Heavens!’ exclaimed the young man suddenly, as he leapt to his feet and paced up and down the sand, ‘I believe that I shall go out of my mind.’

But one morning towards the close of the week he met her, with a face from which all the perplexity and doubt had disappeared as if by magic.

‘Congratulate me, my dear girl!’ he exclaimed, as he ran up to meet her. ‘I am so happy; such a load has been taken off my mind. I am the most fortunate man in the world.’

‘What has happened, Geoffrey?’ she demanded in surprise.

There was no mistaking the joyousness of his demeanour, the glad light flashing from his eyes, the new life that seemed to pervade his whole being. But whence had it come—what had occasioned it? No idea of the truth entered her mind.

‘Come inside the bungalow,’ he continued; ‘I have grand news to tell you, and we must be alone.’

He dragged her into one of the empty rooms as he spoke, and perched her on a window-sill, whilst he stood in front of her.

‘Fenella, dear, I am a free man!—say that you are as glad as I am!’

‘A free man! Geoffrey, what do you mean?’

‘I could not bear my position with regard to Jessie Robertson any longer, Fenella. It was growing more irksome, more distasteful to me each day. I felt that I was living and acting a lie, and so at last I made up my mind to write and tell her so; and she has released me—released me from my engagement of her own free will—and I am a happy man once more.’

‘What did you say to her?’ asked Fenella, trembling. Even in the delight of hearing that Geoffrey Doyne was free again, even in the whirl of the wild thoughts that swept through her mind at the announcement, she could still feel for her rival; she could stop to consider how much the renunciation would hurt her, and if she was to be a sufferer by the arrangement.

‘What did you say to her?’ she repeated.

‘I just told her the truth—that I thought we had been in too great a hurry in the matter; that marriage was a very solemn business, and once done there was no undoing it; and I was sure we should never be happy together. Of course I couldn’t say I wouldn’t marry her,—no man of honour could do that,—but I put things before her in a proper light, and left her to take the initiative, which she has done.’

‘And is she glad too?’ asked Fenella.

‘I think she sees the sense of it—in fact, she must. Any way, she sent me back my letters this morning, with one or two presents I had been fool enough to give her—which, of course, is as good as telling me the engagement is cancelled. And so I am free, child, quite free, and you have not yet congratulated me.’

‘She did not write a single word to you?’ said Fenella wistfully; ‘not to say she was glad or sorry? Isn’t that very strange, Geoffrey?’

‘I don’t think it is. She could hardly have said she was sorry (that would have been infra dig. for a young lady), and, on the other hand, it would have been very rude to say she was glad. No! in my opinion she’s done just the right thing, and I didn’t credit little Jessie with so much sense. She simply returned my letters and presents—that was dignified and decisive; and when I saw them, I was the happiest fellow in Christendom.’

He took both her hands in his own as he spoke, and squeezed them, and tried to look into the eyes which she kept fixed upon the ground.

‘Fenella,’ he whispered presently, ‘don’t you know why I am so happy at getting my release?’

‘Because you didn’t love her,’ replied the girl in a low voice.

‘There is another reason than that, my darling—an insurmountable obstacle to my ever learning to love her—because all my heart and soul are devoted to another woman. Oh, Fenella, you know who that is! Say with me that you are glad.’

She raised her eyes to his. He was looking at her with ineffable tenderness, and his arms were extended towards her. With a cry that was half joy and half astonishment she flung herself into them.

‘Oh, Geoffrey!’ she exclaimed, ‘how could I be anything but glad when it half killed me?’

His strong arms closed about her light form and twisted it round, so that her face lay uppermost upon his breast.

‘My darling,’ he murmured, in a voice full of passion—‘my own, own darling! I have never loved anything in this world as I love you!’

His eyes gazed straight into her eyes, and his handsome head drooped lower and lower, until his burning lips baptized her lips with the first kiss of love. Between fear and excitement, Fenella burst into a rain of tears, and hid her face upon his breast, whilst he continued to kiss the crown of her head, and the fair hair that fell like a veil of gold about her, and tried to soothe her agitation.

‘I believe I loved you from the moment we met,’ he said. ‘Do you remember how I gazed at you both at Calais and Dover, and made old Bennett angry? I could not take my eyes off you; I felt somehow as if it were my fate to look at and remember you. And when we met upon these sands, I knew I was not mistaken. From that day, my darling, I have been miserable—miserable to think that I was fettered by that wretched engagement, and bound in honour not to tell you all I felt. I tried to console myself a little by pledging eternal friendship to you; but it was a sham, Fenella, and we both knew it was. I cannot be your brother; you cannot be my sister. We must be much more to each other—or we must be nothing at all.’

Fenella shuddered.

‘Oh, Geoffrey! what is this that has come over me? I feel if you were to leave me that I should die.’

‘I shall never leave you, my dearest. We know each other’s hearts now, and we must not be separated again. You will not refuse to share my lot, Fenella. You will come with me to that horrid hot India we have so often talked about together, and be my companion, and my friend, and my wife to our lives’ end—will you not?’

A beautiful hot flush spread itself all over the girl’s fair face.

‘Your wife!’ she repeated, with a sort of gasp,—‘your wife, Geoffrey! Oh, I am not worthy!’

She had no need now to ask why one man and one woman should promise to keep to each other for evermore. Love had taught her all that. The jealousy of love had seized upon her heart, and made her feel that if she could not have this wonderful new-found treasure to herself, she would not have it at all. But to be worthy of so much happiness—that was another question.

‘Not worthy!’ echoed her lover, as he strained her again to his bosom; ‘then who is? Fenella, you are the one only woman in the world for me! I love you, my darling, with all the strength and fervour of a man’s first real love, and were Heaven to snatch you from my arms to-morrow, the void you would leave in my heart could never be filled by any other being! It is I, my love, who am not worthy to possess your purity and innocence; but I will hold it, nevertheless, until my life’s end.’

The girl looked up at him through eyes that swam in tears, like dew-washed violets.

‘And only a month ago,’ she murmured, ‘I was so ungrateful and so silly, I thought that no one would ever care for me again. I felt as if my life was already over, and I should be lonely and miserable to my death! And then you came, Geoffrey, and everything seemed to change! The sun shone, and the birds sang, and the roses blew, and I became a different girl altogether. Was I asleep before, or was I dead? I feel as if the old earth had gone away from me and I was in another world! Has it gone away, Geoffrey, and is this heaven that we are living in now?’

‘Yes, my darling, it is! It is the heaven of love—the best heaven God has bestowed on man; and whilst we have it, we need no other. Fenella, I have given you my heart and soul! What will you give me in exchange?’

‘My life,’ said the girl faintly. ‘You gave it to me, Geoffrey. I did not live until I saw you. Take it back again and do what you will with it.’

And in those words Fenella betrayed the fact that her childhood had passed away from her for ever. Love had forced the blossom of her womanhood into premature fruition, beneath the heat of Geoffrey Doyne’s words and glances. The man who first makes a woman realise the fact of her sex, who makes her feel she is the weaker and the subjugated one, who asserts himself (by right of love alone) her master—that man will rule that woman’s life, let who may come after him. The feminine nature, like the masculine, may love many times, but it succumbs but once.

But when the first rapturous feeling at the discovery of their mutual affection had somewhat subsided, Fenella’s thoughts flew back again to her absent unknown rival.

‘Are you sure,’ she said to Geoffrey, ‘that Miss Robertson will not be very unhappy about this? Is it possible she can give you up without pain?’

The young man laughed.

‘I don’t believe she will care two straws about it,’ he replied. ‘You mustn’t think she loves me as you do, Fenella. She could not understand such love as ours, so don’t trouble your dear little head about her! I daresay she will be disappointed at first, but it will soon blow over, and she will forget all about it and look out for somebody else.’

‘Then she could never have been worthy of you,’ said Fenella indignantly, ‘and I will not be sorry for her any more! Oh, Geoffrey! it seems very wonderful that this has come to pass! Do you know what I have prayed for, every day since that miserable afternoon on the landslip when you told me you were engaged to her?’

‘No, dearest; how should I?’

‘That you might not marry her!—I hope it was not wrong,’ she continued timidly; ‘but it seemed so dreadful to me that you should take her into a church and swear to love her all your life, when you knew that you didn’t love her at all. It wasn’t for myself, you know, Geoffrey. I knew you loved me, but I never thought you would want to marry me; but I felt so ashamed and so sorry that you should have to tell a lie, and to God too! For it would have been a lie—wouldn’t it?’

‘It would indeed, my darling. I should have perjured myself (as thousands do) for fear of what the world would say of me.’

‘That swearing in church is dreadful,’ resumed Fenella thoughtfully; ‘it is positively wicked. It ought not to be allowed.’

‘But you’ll have to swear in church for me, you know,’ said Geoffrey, laughing.

She grew scarlet.

‘Oh yes! but that will be quite another thing.’

‘How so?’

‘Because I have sworn already—in my heart. The church can’t make any difference to me. I shall always be true to you, Geoffrey, as long as I live.’

‘My darling girl, how sweet of you to say so! Yes; that is just what I feel myself, Fenella. Love is the true marriage. You are mine already—my own wife—and no one shall ever take you from me.’

Then they began to discuss ways and means, and what the higher authorities would be likely to say to their intentions.

‘I must see your mother on the first opportunity,’ said Geoffrey Doyne. ‘When is she likely to return home?’

‘We don’t know at all; we have not even heard from her yet.’

‘Well, if she remains much longer abroad, I must go over and find her. We have no time to lose, my darling. I must leave England in October.’

‘Suppose mamma were to say “No”?’ said the girl, trembling.

‘I don’t think she’s likely to do that,’ replied Geoffrey Doyne; ‘for without wishing to seem conceited, Fenella, I am not a bad match, and that is the reason the Robertsons were so anxious to secure me for Jessie. I have a very fair income of my own, inherited from my mother, and my prospects are excellent. Added to which, my father is a wealthy man and a liberal one, and would make me an allowance during his lifetime if I needed it. So there is no fear of my not being able to keep you in a proper position. And your mother, you say, is not rich; and she is not very fond of you?’

‘No,’ said Fenella, shaking her head, ‘she is not at all fond of me. I think she will be very glad to get rid of me.’

‘And I shall be very glad to take you off her hands!’ exclaimed Geoffrey playfully. ‘But come, my darling, we must have no tears; never mind who doesn’t love you now, so long as I do.’

‘Oh, Geoffrey!’ she cried, sobbing, ‘promise—promise that you’ll always love me, for I have no one in the world but you.’

And he called God to witness that he would be true to her so long as they both had life.

‘And now we are really married,’ said Fenella, smiling through her tears. ‘That is the same as you will say in church—isn’t it, Geoffrey? And you asked God to hear you too.’

‘Yes; I can never say any more than that,’ he answered; ‘and I can never feel any more, Fenella; and may God deal with me as I keep my word to Him! And now, my dear girl, may I ask you a favour?’

‘No, don’t ask me a favour, Geoffrey. Order me to do something, so that I may feel that I am really going to be your wife.’

‘Very well, if you will have it so,’ he said, smiling. ‘I order you, then, my darling, not to make a confidante of your servant in this matter, until I have communicated with Mrs Barrington.’

‘I am not to tell Bennett anything about our engagement?’

‘I think it will be better not. She is only a servant, you see, and servants will talk. And then she will probably come prying down here after us, and spoiling all our enjoyment. She is up again—did you not tell me so?’

‘Yes, but I am afraid she will not be able to walk for some time yet. Dr Redfern is going to bring her a pair of crutches to-morrow, so that she may get about the garden; but she is dreadfully weak, poor thing! She has been in bed now for five weeks.’

Geoffrey looked properly concerned.

‘Yes, it has been a bad accident for her, but a lucky one for us! If she had always accompanied you to the sands, who knows if we should ever have been allowed to pursue our acquaintance—eh, Fenella?’

‘Oh, Geoffrey, is it not wicked to be glad for what makes other people unhappy?’

‘Well, we didn’t break the old woman’s leg, dear, so I don’t think we need trouble ourselves about that. And I think, since it has gone so far without her knowledge, that it would be a pity to tell her now. In fact, your mother has undoubtedly a right to the first intelligence. And I think, my darling, our love is too beautiful and too sacred a thing to be told to everybody we meet—don’t you?’

The look she gave him in return was sufficient answer. Geoffrey Doyne might rest assured that from that moment he would sway every action of her life. Hearts such as Fenella’s are not given by halves. He left her shortly after this, having made an appointment to take his sisters out walking.

‘I think it will be as well for me to do duty with them occasionally now, as I don’t want to arouse their suspicions before this matter is properly settled,’ he said; ‘and I know they think I have some attraction over at Ines-cedwyn as it is. But I cannot part with you like this, my darling. I must see you again before I sleep! If I ride over this evening after dinner—say at eight o’clock—could you manage to run down and meet me at the landslip? It will be beautifully cool by that time, and we have not been there since that miserable afternoon. Ah! how different it will look to us now.’

‘Of course I will come,’ said Fenella confidently. ‘Why should I not? Bennett never asks me where I am going. Yes, I shall love to sit there with you—in that very same place, Geoffrey, under the stars, and—thank God!’

So they parted, full of youth, love, and trust in each other and themselves, pledged to meet again when the veil of evening was being drawn as a shroud across the land and sea.

There was no one to control Fenella’s actions; no one to question her comings and goings; no one even cognisant of the burning secret that filled her heart. Bennett, worn out with the unusual exertion of leaving her bed, had gladly retired again, and Martha and Benjamin were busy with their poultry and flowers. So the girl—who had but this one great love to consider, who had found her world in Geoffrey Doyne—went down alone, under cover of the dusk, to meet her lover.

And as she reached the spot where they had picniced together, and he had crushed her heart with the intelligence of his engagement to Jessie Robertson, she saw the lithe, graceful figure she had grown to love so well—the figure that should haunt her restless dreams for many weary years to come—waiting to receive her, and sprang forward with a cry of joy to greet him. Geoffrey Doyne strained her to his heart for a few moments; then, with his arms still round her girlish form, he led her through the leafy bower. So might Paul and Virginia have wandered beneath the banyan leaves of the West Indian isles; or, rather, so might Adam and Eve have explored their new-found paradise, without a thought of the serpent that tracked their footsteps.

END OF VOL. I.

COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.