How they loved him, Vol. 2 (of 3)

To describe the feelings of Fenella Barrington at this period would be almost impossible. Not because no one has ever felt so deeply as she did, but because such thoughts are not to be adequately portrayed in black and white. Arraigned before the judgment of the world, they would appear foolish, romantic, overstrained, and perhaps culpable; to each individual heart alone, according to the circumstances under which they found it, must they answer for the consequences. Fenella’s heart was in an exceptional condition when the passion of love overtook and conquered it. In the first place, she was very young; and youth, like charity, ‘believeth all things and hopeth all things.’ She was too ignorant of human nature to doubt its truth—too ignorant of life to distrust its possibilities. And in the second place, she was very lonely and unhappy. She had no watchful parent to shield her innocence; she had not even any one to call her to account for her actions. She was free as the air, unguarded as the birds that flew in it, unloved as the most friendless waif that was ever forsaken by its natural protectors.

Disappointed and alone! What girl under such circumstances could be expected not to answer with the whole strength of her nature to the call of love? Her heart was so empty of affection—it yearned so for it—that it would not have been strange had she succumbed to the appeal of any fellow-creature who desired to show her kindness—least of all to that of Geoffrey Doyne. For there was a fascination about him that was far above any physical attractions he may have possessed—a fascination which every woman felt who crossed his path, and many were left to rue. His tender eyes, and sensitive mouth, and dreamy poetical nature made him appear the most sympathetic and warm-hearted of human creatures; as indeed he was—whilst the humour lasted. But there were two formidable foes in his breast to war against his better feelings, and usually to overcome them, and these were a want of moral courage and a great love of self.

Geoffrey Doyne generally wanted to do right, and, as a rule, he generally did wrong. His head told him the proper thing to do, but his heart failed him at the very moment he called upon it for support and courage. So he was the worst possible guide that could have been found for a young and susceptible girl who loved him ardently.

Fenella would have proved far the most trustworthy of the two. Her innocence made her the better fitted to lead the way, had she not loved him so blindly as to be incapable of believing him to be in the wrong.

The reverend mother had said of her to Eliza Bennett, ‘She possesses the most dangerous attributes with which a young girl can encounter the world,—a heart so large and warm and generous, that where it loves it cannot see a fault, and a strong resolute nature that will act on its own impulses against all conventionality or advice.’ And the reverend mother was right. Fenella was that most dangerous combination—a child in experience, and a woman in feeling. In her eyes Geoffrey Doyne was simply perfection; and from the day he said he loved her, she yielded herself up to his control in everything. She looked on him rather as a god than a man. She could not understand how it was that so perfect a creature condescended to dwell amongst ordinary mortals. The air he breathed, the flower he touched, the ground he trod on became sacred to her from mere contact with him. Hers was not the frivolous, giggling, open-mouthed admiration of a school-girl; it was the silent, awe-struck adoration of a woman! She would sit for hours absorbed in the contemplation of his features. Each movement of his supple figure was a poem to her, each tone of his voice a melody, each glance from his eyes a dream of heaven. She hung upon his words as if they had been inspired; and his touch, however careless, had the power to thrill her with a pleasure that was next door to pain. A few days of intimate communion, of mutually-confessed and openly-avowed passion, made Geoffrey Doyne her ruler—her inspiration—her very life.

And he knew it but too soon. He saw that the girl had become his slave—morally and physically; that he had but to lift his little finger to command her obedience; that with a glance of his eye he could direct her actions or sway her mind. And he loved her for it in return. Let him have justice done him at this, the fairest portion of his life. There is no question that he loved her! Although he was not sufficiently heroic, nor high-minded, nor courageous to rank her purity and child-like trust in him above his own selfish gratification—although his religion was not potent enough to gain the mastery over the more natural religion of love—still he loved her! Fenella was the first woman who had ever touched his heart, as he was the first man who had ever attempted to win hers. Her face was not more charming, perhaps, than many he had met with before; her talents (if of a high order) were crude and undeveloped; her love for himself, though deep and glowing, was no more than he had a right to expect from the other sex. But she was the first whom he had ever loved; and there is a magic charm in those words, the first. The first kiss, the first woman, the first child, the first disappointment, the first death! Can any future joy or sorrow equal these? They are events that stand alone in our lives: they can never be repeated; once gone, they are gone for ever! In all the rest of his life, though Geoffrey Doyne might love a dozen other women, and swear a thousand oaths of fidelity to them, he would never love in the same way he loved Fenella Barrington. More, he would never feel the passion of love in his breast, even though it burned ten times as strongly as it burned for her, without giving one short, quick sob of remembrance to the girl who gave him her whole heart, and placed her very life in his hands, upon the sands of Ines-cedwyn! And if he could forget—if his mortal nature proved so weak—Heaven is still above us all, watching, noting, jotting down on tablets of stone each crime we commit against the heart of a fellow-creature, to hold them up before our eyes to all eternity. The time will come when we shall be unable to forget!

After the day on which they discovered their mutual affection, Fenella Barrington and Geoffrey Doyne met, if possible, more frequently than they had done before. Each morning found them on the sands together, or if the young man pleaded an unwelcome engagement with his sisters, it was only to impress upon Fenella the double obligation of meeting him when the evening shadows should have fallen on the landslip. Ah! Those dangerous moments spent beneath the soft veil of dusk—when they sat side by side upon the golden sands, and watched the stars come out upon the summer sky, and their fresh, young voices rose up in unison to heaven in the thrilling notes of some love melody, or the more solemn tones of an evening hymn; when their hands lay fast locked in one another’s, and Fenella’s head was pillowed on her lover’s breast, till she heard no sound but the throbbing of his heart answering to her own. And they talked of the future—that glorious and apparently certain future, when they should always be together, and have no need to steal out, under cover of the evening, to meet each other on the sands.

It was provoking that, as yet, Geoffrey had been unable to write to Mrs Barrington and make a formal proposal for her daughter’s hand, because but one letter had been received from that lady, dated from Genoa, and averring the intention of her party to move about for a few weeks in the South before they settled down in Mentone. But that was of little consequence—so the lovers told each other—because as soon as Mrs Barrington was settled, Geoffrey would go over and see her, which would be far better than writing—and they could not be happier than they were.

It was now the end of June; two months had slipped away in this sweet courtship, and every day might bring the letter to say that Fenella’s mother was settled at Mentone.

Eliza Bennett was up and about again. She had even discarded the crutches with which Dr Redfern had provided her, but her leg was still stiff, and she had not yet ventured to walk as far as the beach. But some rumours had reached her ears of the company in which her young mistress so constantly indulged. Of course the boat and fishermen had seen the courtship from the beginning. Tugwell, who had so often to put up at the public house, would have told them of it if they had not had eyes to see it for themselves. But it was nobody’s business to carry the news up to Benjamin Bennett’s cottage. If the young lady liked to amuse herself, what was the odds to Ines-cedwyn? besides, Eliza Bennett was ailing, and there was no need to worry her with a parcel of tales about nothing. So the men told the women to hold their tongues, and consequently it was some time before anybody spoke of Fenella’s doings out of their own circle.

But when Eliza Bennett had so far recovered as to be in the garden, and Martha had more time for gossiping with her neighbours, they let their tongues loose, and asked her to satisfy their curiosity with regard to the handsome stranger that came over to Ines-cedwyn in his boat every day, and if he was going to marry the young lady from the cottage who sat for so many hours with him in the Beach Bungalow. Of course it was all news to Martha, and she ran open-mouthed with it to her sister-in-law.

‘Only to think, ’Liza,’ she exclaimed, ‘what Winny Williams has just told me! Miss Fenella’s got a beau, and such a fine lookin’ feller too. They’ve bin meetin’ each other at that there nasty ruined bungalow for weeks past, and having fine times, I warrant. Tugwell says the gentleman lives at Lynwern, but he’s not sure as he’s got his name properly. Only to think of your young lady! Well, sooner or later they all does it.’

Eliza Bennett was at first incredulous.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she replied; ‘the Ines-cedwyn folk must talk of something. I daresay Miss Fenella may have exchanged a word or two with the gentleman on the sands; but as for havin’ a beau, why, Martha, she’s that innercent, she don’t know what it means! She’d run away more likely if any one were to say more than “good-day” to her. You don’t know my young lady; she’s the biggest child of her age I ever saw.’

‘Is she, now?’ replied Martha meditatively. ‘Well, I should have said the same myself when she first come here; but d’ye know, ’Liza, she’s a deal changed lately—more fidgety like, and don’t eat hearty, and allays a-jumpin’ up and down from her seat, with her colour comin’ and goin’ like a flame o’ fire. Ben ain’t very far seein’ as a rule, but he told me only last week as he thought there was somethin’ up with her.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ exclaimed her sister-in-law, in evident distress.

‘Why! What would ha’ been the good o’ that—a’ worryin’ you for nothin’ when you’re ill?’

‘But I’d have spoken to Miss Fenella, and found out the truth of it, Martha. For she’s one of the best young ladies you ever see; she’s like a lamb for obedience, and I’m sure she’d no more go to do the thing that is wrong than she’d fly!’

‘Who said she had?’ cried Martha. ‘Lor’ bless my heart, ’Liza! Leave the poor child alone. If she is having a bit of fun with the young feller, what harm? There’s little enough to amuse her down here, I’m sure, and she’ll be all the better for it. You wouldn’t go and spoil her game by makin’ a fuss over it, would you?’

‘No; not if there’s no harm, Martha; certainly not! But, you see, Miss Fenella’s very young and easily led, and there’s no knowing what a gentleman might get to say to her, seeing she’s so pretty, I must say I do distrust ’em, one and all; and my mistress would never forgive me if any harm came to the young lady.’

‘Lor’, ’Liza! How you do run on,’ said Martha. ‘I shall be sorry I said anything about it next. Ain’t a pretty girl like that never to have a sweetheart? and what harm do you think could come to her with a real gentleman? He’ll only tell her a few lies, and she’ll be none the worse for ’em; so don’t you go and fret over it now, or you’ll make yourself ill again.’

Eliza promised she would not; but she could not dismiss the subject from her mind, for her dread of Mrs Barrington’s possible anger made her imagine all sorts of danger to the girl under her charge.

‘If it hadn’t been for this stupid leg,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’d have been everywhere with Miss Fenella, and no one couldn’t have spoken to her without my knowledge. And now Martha comes to speak of it, there has been a great change in her lately. She’s more excited and forgetful like; and sometimes she’s as gay as a lark, and at others I’ve seen her staring up at the sky with the tears on her face, and yet with a smile on her mouth. There’s something very strange about it all. How can I have been so stupid as not to see it before! But this leg has put everything else clean out of my head.’

It was past nine o’clock when this conversation took place, and Fenella had gone down to the beach as usual, about an hour before. Under the new point of view from which she now regarded her young lady’s wanderings, Eliza Bennett grew fidgety at her absence.

‘I wonder what she’s about this evening?’ she thought presently. ‘It’s too dark to see anything on the beach at this time o’ night, and Miss Fenella must know that supper’s ready and waiting for her. I wonder if I could manage to get as far as the bungalow. I’ve a good mind to try; and I sha’n’t feel easy now if I don’t look a bit more after her.’

Martha had gone to assist her husband in the cowyard, and there was no one to combat Eliza’s desire, or tell her it was foolish to attempt to do so much. So she put on her bonnet and shawl, and taking a stick in her hand, commenced to hobble slowly in the direction of the beach.

Meanwhile Fenella and Geoffrey stood together in one of the rooms of the ruined villa. They were looking serious, but scarcely sad. Hope and trust were too strong in them for sadness.

‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ Fenella was saying, ‘is it true? Must you really go?’

‘I am afraid I must, my darling. I have received a most imperative letter from my brother Michael (that’s the lawyer, you know, Fenella), urging me to go up to town and see him at once, on the most important business. I can’t imagine what it is—something to do with money, I suppose. I don’t think Michael would call anything else “important;” but, any way, I must go, and I shall start to-morrow morning.’

‘And when will you be back, Geoffrey?’

‘As soon as ever I can, my darling; you may rest assured of that. And meanwhile, I shall write to you every day. What will old Bennett say when she sees the letters?’

‘Never mind Bennett! She may be surprised, but she will not attempt to interfere with them. She is only my servant, Geoffrey. You do not suppose I would allow her to come between you and me?’

‘Dear me! What an independent young woman you have grown! Who would imagine this was the same little girl that blushed scarlet each time I looked at her but two short months ago?’

‘You have made me a woman,’ said the girl with one of the scarlet blushes he alluded to. ‘I feel now as if I should have courage to stand up against the whole world if it attempted to come between me and the love you bear me.’

‘You shall never be put to the test, my Fenella. Nothing shall ever divide our love. I wish to goodness that letter would come from your mother, and then the matter would be settled.’

‘And if—if she should be angry, and refuse her consent to our marriage?’ faltered the girl.

‘Then we are to be married without her consent—is it not so? Why, Fenella! do you think any earthly power could divide us now?’

She clung to him with a force that was almost painful.

‘Oh no, no! How could it? But, Geoffrey, I wish—oh, how I wish!—that we could have been married before you went to London.’

‘My sweetheart, so do I. There is nothing I long for more than the day when we shall go to church and do all that dreadful “swearing” you are so afraid of. Only, I am afraid it must not be in Lynwern. It would not be fair to you, nor your mother, nor any one, Fenella. Let me write to her first, darling; it cannot be long now before you hear again; and then if she raises any objection (which I think most unlikely), I shall not hesitate a moment to carry you straight off before her eyes and marry you in the first church we come to. So be patient, my love, and trust to me, and all will be right by-and-by.’

‘And nothing—nothing shall ever divide us?’ she repeated, still clinging to him.

‘Nothing, so help me, God!’ he answered. And that oath was registered in heaven, and remains there to this day.

They sat together on one of the window-sills for some time longer, with their arms interlaced and their heads close together, talking such sweet nonsense as the world laughs at because it has no heart to understand, but which makes up the sum of happiness in this mortal life.

‘And what am I to send my darling from London?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘In all this time I have not given you one present, because there was nothing worthy of you in Lynwern; but now you must have something to remind you of your lover. What shall it be, sweetheart?—a locket or a ring?’

‘I don’t want anything,’ she said bashfully, ‘but you.’

‘Oh, you’ve got me fast enough, my child,’ he answered, laughing; ‘but come now, answer my question. Will you have a ring?’

She shook her head.

‘No; not till you give me that one, Geoffrey.’

‘That won’t be long first, my darling! You’ll be wanting to get it off again twelve months afterwards—you’ll be so sick of it and me.’

‘Don’t—don’t!’ she murmured, as if smitten by a sudden pain.

‘May I send you a locket, then, Mrs Doyne?’ he continued playfully, for he saw her spirits were sinking; ‘a great big gold locket to put your husband’s hair in, and sleep with under your pillow every night until you see him again—for I know that is what you silly girls do when you’ve got a lover.’

At this proposal her face brightened.

‘Yes; I should like to have a locket—very, very much, dear Geoffrey; and I will wear it as long as ever I live.’

Then he rose suddenly, and said that he must go.

‘Past ten o’clock, I declare, my dearest, and I have to be up at eight. God bless you, my Fenella! God keep you for me! Oh, this parting is an awful wrench, though it is but for so short a time.’

The girl did not say much, but her face went suddenly as white as a sheet, and she clung to him as though her arms would never be unlocked again.

‘You will come back soon?’ she whispered, trembling like a leaf.

‘Very, very soon—in a week at latest—most likely in a couple of days. Don’t shake so, my darling! Remember we are pledged to each other for life. Surely, Fenella, you have not one doubt of me?’

‘I trust you as I trust God,’ she answered solemnly. They were her last words—their farewells had been exchanged already; in another moment he had broken from her clasp, and was gone. Fenella watched him as he strode across the sands and pushed off in the little boat that was waiting for him. She kissed her hand in the moonlight again and again, but he was too far off to see the signal; then, with a sound that was half a sob and half a sigh, she turned away. As she did so she saw something glittering on the dusty floor—something lying in a streak of moonlight shone like a diamond beneath her feet. It was one of Geoffrey’s sleeve-links that had fallen from his cuff as he embraced her—a twisted thing of enamel and gold that Fenella had often noticed on his wrist before. With a cry of joy she pounced upon it, and hid it in her bosom. She did not know till that moment how much she could prize anything that had been his; she could not realise how bitter separation between those who love, can be, till she had tasted it. As she prepared to return to the cottage, a dark figure in the doorway of the bungalow made her start.

‘Bennett!’ she exclaimed, in the same moment, ‘is that you? Oh, how you frightened me! I never supposed for a moment you could get down so far. But how you are shaking! I am sure it has been too much for you.’

‘Miss Fenella,’ said the servant, as she sat down on the verandah floor to recover herself, ‘I came to see after you, my dear! Do you know as it’s past ten o’clock, and the supper’s been on the table this hour and more? It’s too late for a young lady to be out by herself, and in such a lonely place as Ines-cedwyn.’

‘Why, nurse, I thought its loneliness was the very thing that made it safe. This is not the first evening I have been on the sands till ten o’clock, and Martha never spoke to me on the subject, or told me I was wrong.’

‘No, Miss Fenella; ’tisn’t Martha’s business to speak to you; and I’ve been in bed, you see, and knew nothin’ about it; but I’m afraid as your mamma wouldn’t think it was right. And—if I may make so bold, miss—who was that gentleman who parted with you just as I came up to the back of the house?’

Fenella was startled by the question, but she was too proud to attempt to deny the truth.

‘That was a friend of mine, Bennett—a gentleman who often comes over to Ines-cedwyn. You need not worry yourself about him. It is all right, and mamma will say so, too, as soon as she hears it.’

‘Is he a friend of your mamma’s, miss?’

‘Yes; that is, he doesn’t know her yet, but he soon will. He is the friend of all of us, nurse—the very best friend we ever had.’

‘I am glad of that, my dear; but I hope he won’t come here again till he’s seen your mamma. Because it isn’t quite the proper thing, you know, for a gentleman to meet a young lady so often, and at all sorts of odd times. It makes people talk, Miss Fenella, and that’s not good for any one.’

What was it in the girl’s face that made the servant half afraid of saying even as much as she did? A new light, a new dignity, something she had never seen there before, seemed to settle on Fenella’s brow, and relegate Eliza Bennett to her proper position. She could not speak to her young mistress now as she had done on the journey from Calais to Dover.

‘Bennett,’ said the girl presently, ‘I daresay it may seem strange to you, because you do not understand; neither can I give you any explanation till I have seen my mother. But you may make your mind easy on one score—the gentleman has gone away, for the present. He will not be back again, most probably, until we have heard from Mentone; and then everything will be right. And now, let me take you home, dear nurse. I wish you hadn’t come down here after me; I am so afraid you may have hurt yourself. There! Lean on my arm as hard as ever you like; you cannot tire me; and we will go home together. And, please, don’t speak to me again about the—I mean, about the subject you mentioned just now, because I can say nothing until I have seen mamma, and then you will understand that all your fears are groundless. Lean harder, dear nurse; that is right. I am strong enough to bear your weight and my own too.’