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HOW THEY LOVED HIM.
_A NOVEL_.
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT
(MRS FRANCIS LEAN).
_IN THREE VOLUMES_.
VOL. II.
LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1882.
THE POPULAR NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES.
=THREE FAIR DAUGHTERS=. By LAURENCE BROOKE, Author of ‘The Queen of
Two Worlds,’ etc. 3 vols.
=SWEETHEART AND WIFE=. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. 3 vols.
=MY LADY CLARE=. By Mrs EILOART, Author of ‘How He Won Her,’ etc.
3 vols.
‘“My Lady Clare” is a pleasant, readable novel.’--_John Bull_.
‘The interest is maintained with undeniable force and skill.’--_Daily
Telegraph_.
=A LOVELESS SACRIFICE=. By INA L. CASSILIS,
Author of ‘Guilty without Crime,’ etc. 3 vols.
_John Bull_ says:--‘The story is a pleasant one--healthy in tone,
lofty in teaching, and very sympathetic in manner and style.’
COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
FOR EVER, 1
CHAPTER II.
IN A STRAIT, 28
CHAPTER III.
DESERTED, 72
CHAPTER IV.
OVER, 123
CHAPTER V.
SIR GILBERT CONROY, 164
CHAPTER VI.
SMOOTH WATERS, 217
CHAPTER VII.
A REVELATION, 241
CHAPTER VIII.
THE INDISSOLUBLE LINK, 288
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HOW THEY LOVED HIM.
CHAPTER I.
FOR EVER.
‘It is the same together or apart,
From life’s commencement to its slow decline:
We are entwined; let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last.’
_Byron_.
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.’
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