IN A STRAIT.
‘Men have many loves; their true names are--or Vice
or Vanity, or Feebleness or Folly.’--_Ariadne_.
Geoffrey Doyne had but spoken the truth when he said that his brother’s
letter was a most imperative one. It had contained as sharp a summons
as it was possible to send a man:--
‘Come up to London as soon as ever you receive this,’ it ran. ‘I must
see you at once, and on business of the utmost importance.’
The brothers had inherited money at the death of their mother, which
was invested in stock, and under the management of Michael Doyne, and
Geoffrey naturally thought that his presence was needed on account of
some selling-out or buying-in. His brother did not seem to him to have
a soul above money. He could not imagine his troubling himself on any
other matter.
He went up to town by an early train the following day, and the same
idea was in his mind as he entered the lawyer’s office.
‘What’s up now?’ he said, as he encountered Michael’s portentous
countenance. ‘Have Persians fallen, or Hudson’s Bay gone up? I do wish
you could manage these matters without my interference, Michael. You
know how I detest business, and how perfectly I am satisfied that you
know a great deal more about it than I do.’
‘But this is unfortunately a matter which I could not settle on my own
authority,’ replied his brother gravely. ‘Come into the inner office,
Geoffrey. I cannot speak to you unless we are perfectly alone.’
‘This looks ominous,’ cried Geoffrey gaily, as he ensconced himself in
an arm-chair and flicked the dust off his dainty boots.
‘It is ominous,’ replied the other, ‘and I trust you are not going to
make a jest of it. It is likely to cause trouble enough before long,
unless I can bring you to reason.’
‘What are you driving at?’ said Geoffrey.
‘Simply this--that Dr Robertson called at my office yesterday morning
and gave me a piece of information that horrified me.’
The younger brother changed colour.
‘Well, go on,’ he said carelessly; ‘what had the old gentleman to say
for himself?’
‘You know, Geoffrey, as well as I do. He came to tell me that you had
broken off your engagement with his daughter Jessie.’
‘It is not true; it was Jessie who broke off her engagement with me.’
‘I cannot believe it, Geoffrey. Dr Robertson came to me in the greatest
distress. He said that both he and his wife had observed that their
daughter was out of health and spirits for some weeks past, but that
they had not connected the circumstance with your engagement until
they noticed that all correspondence had ceased between you. Then they
questioned Jessie, and the truth came out--that you had written to her
some time back, and said you didn’t care for her.’
‘Not exactly that,’ replied Geoffrey; ‘but I told her I did not care
for her as I ought to do for the woman I was going to make my wife; and
that’s the truth, Michael. I _don’t_ care for her, and I never shall;
and under the circumstances, it would be perfectly absurd my marrying
her!’
‘You should have thought of that before you proposed to her,’ remarked
Michael drily.
‘I did; but I was drawn into it. You know I was as thoroughly “hooked”
by the old woman as ever a man could be.’
‘Perhaps you were--that is your own business; but having been “hooked,”
as you call it, you must submit to be “landed.”’
‘Do you mean to say, then, that you consider I am bound to marry Jessie
Robertson?’
‘I do, most decidedly.’
‘What! After she has sent me back my letters and presents?’
‘That has nothing to do with it, Geoffrey. The poor girl sent them
back because she was ignorant how else to act. Had she consulted her
parents, they would not have permitted her to do so. Jessie would set
you free as it is; but Dr and Mrs Robertson are quite of a different
opinion. They won’t let you off so easily.’
‘They intend to keep me to my word?’
‘I am afraid there is no doubt of it. The doctor might be talked over,
but you know what his wife is. He says she is furious, and declares
that, if you refuse to keep to your engagement with Jessie, she will
sue you for a breach of promise; and that’s a sort of thing our family
could not allow, you know, Geoffrey.’
The younger man sat silent and sullen, with a face of the deepest
perplexity.
‘I _must_ get out of it somehow,’ he said presently. ‘You are cleverer
than I am, Michael; can’t you help me?’
‘I don’t see my way to it, Geoffrey. You proposed to the girl of your
own accord, and the engagement has been made public. What earthly
excuse can you have for getting out of it?’
‘Why, that I don’t love her, and that I won’t marry her. No; by George!
I won’t, if I hang for it!’
‘There’s another woman in the case,’ remarked his brother casually.
‘Yes, there is,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Some girl at Ines-cedwyn?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I heard of it when I was down at Lynwern. Well, I daresay it will be
hard lines, Geoffrey; but you must give her up. You can’t marry them
both.’
‘I won’t marry Jessie Robertson,’ said Geoffrey stoutly.
‘You _must_, man--you _must_! Don’t talk nonsense; try to look at the
matter in a reasonable light. After all, it’s only a toss-up between
them, and why should one girl suffer more than the other? There are
certain social laws, you know, Geoffrey, which we cannot break with
impunity, and this is one of them. Your honour is concerned in your
keeping your engagement, and you cannot cancel it without disgracing
the whole family. For our sakes, therefore (if not for your own), you
must do the right thing by Jessie Robertson.’
‘My honour may be concerned elsewhere as well,’ rejoined Geoffrey,
in a somewhat lowered voice, ‘and my happiness as well as my honour.
Michael, I will pay any forfeit, or incur any penalty they may choose
to put upon me; but I cannot, and I will not, marry Jessie. I will cut
my throat first.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said his brother, as if he had proposed a thing
of every-day occurrence. ‘I don’t approve of marriage myself as a
rule, but I think of the two courses it would be the preferable one to
pursue. Little Jessie isn’t half bad, you know, when you come to think
of it; and if you would only believe me, my dear fellow,’ he continued,
as he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, ‘one woman will be just
the same to you as another when you have been married for three months.’
‘Ah! That’s what _you_ think of it,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it shows how much
you know of the matter.’
‘Is this young lady at Ines-cedwyn, then, so very handsome?’
‘No.’
‘Clever?’
‘Not particularly so.’
‘Rich?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then what’s the great attraction in her, that you should wish to break
the heart of a good little girl like Jessie Robertson for her sake?’
‘It is one that I don’t think you’d understand, Michael,--_I love her_!’
The lawyer laughed.
‘My dear boy, I’ve heard you say the same thing so often before. Excuse
me if I think you could manage that (if you tried) with any one of the
sex.’
‘At any rate, I don’t intend to try it with Jessie Robertson.’
Michael Doyne looked grave; he did not like this determined refusal on
the part of his brother. It looked so much as if (for once) Geoffrey
were in earnest.
‘Well, look here!’ he said suddenly; ‘if you really want to get out of
this scrape, Geoffrey, you can only do it by persuading the old people
to let you off. Suppose you meet me at the Robertsons’ this evening to
talk the matter over? Will you do so?’
‘I shall tell them the truth,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I shall tell them I’m in
love with somebody else, and they must think what they like of it.’
‘Perhaps that will be the best plan, after all,’ replied his brother;
‘but, at any rate, you must see them. It was only by promising to
summon you to London that I dissuaded the old man from following you to
Lynwern.’
‘Was it so bad as that?’ asked Geoffrey, startled.
‘It was, indeed! They’re in a rare state in Blenheim Square, I can tell
you, and would have written straight off to the pater if I had not
promised a lot of things in your name, which I trust you will be found
ready to fulfil. I hardly know how the pater would take this, Geoffrey.
The Robertsons are his oldest friends, as you know; and he would be
quick to resent an affront to them. I’m not sure but what it might
militate against your future prospects!’
‘I can’t help it if it does,’ said Geoffrey, with a sigh. ‘I am not
going to blast all my happiness for life to please anybody.’
‘Ah! That’s only talking,’ replied his brother carelessly, as he bid
him good-bye, and told him not to fail to keep his appointment in
Blenheim Square at nine o’clock.
Geoffrey strolled towards his club, ill at ease. He did not waver for a
moment from his determination, but he was afraid he might have trouble
in keeping to it. He would have had little fear of being able to make
Dr Robertson see the matter in a sensible light, but the doctor was
unfortunately a cipher in his own house, where Mrs Robertson reigned
supreme; and Geoffrey (in common with the rest of mankind) stood
terribly in awe of her.
He tried to divert his thoughts and while away the time by purchasing
the promised locket for Fenella--a gold locket with a wreath
of laurel on it in blue enamel--(was it prophetic of her future
destiny?)--surrounding the emblems of Love and Faith and Hope. Geoffrey
thought the design a pretty one, and bought the trinket on the spot.
Fenella would think of him when she saw the laurel--the laurel which
grows to adorn the head of heroes; and the cross and heart and anchor
were emblematic of her own feelings--feelings which he had called God
to witness should never be wounded through his means.
It was something to do to buy the locket, and have a piece of his
hair put in it, and see it packed and addressed to Ines-cedwyn, and
to picture the innocent delight of the receiver when it reached her
hands the following morning. But still hours intervened before he could
set off to keep his appointment in Blenheim Square, and the men who
met him at his club, and ‘chaffed’ him on keeping out of town at the
best season of the year, could not imagine what had come to Geoffrey
Doyne--he was so _distrait_ and peevish, not to say rude, in the
irritation caused by his perplexity and doubt. When at last he reached
the house, Michael was ready to receive him in the hall.
‘I thought it better for me to come here first, and smooth matters over
a little,’ he said as his brother entered.
‘I almost wish now that I had written instead,’ replied Geoffrey.
‘However, I am sure that Dr Robertson is too sensible not to understand
my motives.’
‘I am afraid the doctor is out,’ said Michael Doyne. ‘However, you will
see Mrs Robertson, and it is all the same thing.’
He knew it was not the same thing, and so did his brother, but it was
too late for remonstrance. Geoffrey was already on the threshold of the
library, where Mrs Robertson sat in state to receive him.
To say that this lady was a conglomeration of all the most ferocious
mothers-in-law that ever existed, is not to say too much. Her sharp
tongue and vixenish temper were well known in the circle of her
acquaintance, and she joined them to an obstinacy that was unequalled.
It was she alone who had insisted upon Geoffrey Doyne being brought
to book for his defalcation, and forced to fulfil his promises to her
daughter. Good old Dr Robertson might have shaken his head over his
faithlessness to his dying day, but he would never have dreamt of
insisting that he should marry the girl; and Jessie herself, although
she inherited somewhat of her mother’s spirit, was too young to have
made such good use of it. But Mrs Robertson was above such petty
scruples. Jessie was one of seven daughters, and this young man,
who had the most excellent prospects, had formally entered into an
engagement to marry her, and now wanted to back out of it, and her
mother was determined to know the reason why. So she sat, enthroned in
her husband’s arm-chair, ready to receive the culprit--her sandy hair
drawn tightly off her forehead, as though to say she would admit of no
compromise, and her hard steel-grey eyes fixed on him with the look of
an inquisitor.
Geoffrey Doyne, though with some hesitation, advanced in the old way,
and held out his hand.
‘No, thank you, Mr Doyne,’ she said tartly; ‘not until this most
unpleasant business is settled between us. Be good enough to seat
yourself. I am glad your brother is here to be witness to what passes
at our interview.’
Geoffrey flushed to the temples, but he did as she desired him.
‘My brother is here as my friend, Mrs Robertson,’ he replied.
‘Otherwise he can have no possible concern in my private affairs.’
‘I don’t know that, Mr Doyne,’ said his hostess. ‘Did you come here
as _our friend_, it might be so; but under the circumstances, I should
think very few _gentlemen_ would be found willing to take your side.’
‘Do you mean to insinuate, madam--’ commenced Geoffrey hotly; but
Michael came between them as mediator.
‘Mrs Robertson,’ he said, ‘I persuaded my brother to come here to-night
that we might have an explanation, not a quarrel; and I do not see how
recrimination can help the cause on either side. Will you hear what he
has to say in extenuation of his conduct, or would you prefer to be the
first to speak?’
‘I wish to say first what I think of him,’ replied Mrs Robertson.
‘Let it be so, then. Geoffrey, you see the justice of this. Mrs
Robertson is not only a lady and your hostess, but she stands in the
position of the injured party. Let me ask you, therefore, to listen
patiently to whatever she may have to say, and you can justify your
own action in the matter afterwards.’
‘Which, I should imagine, Mr Geoffrey Doyne will find it most difficult
to do,’ interposed Mrs Robertson.
‘No such thing, madam,’ broke in Geoffrey warmly. ‘I have the best
possible excuse--’
But Michael came again to the rescue.
‘Patience, my dear fellow--patience! You will never arrive at a
satisfactory conclusion unless each consents to hear what the other has
to say.’
Geoffrey sank into his chair again; and Mrs Robertson turned her back
on him without ceremony.
‘You will excuse me, Mr Doyne,’ she said to the elder brother, ‘if I
prefer, for the present at all events, to address myself to you. The
case stands simply thus. Last year Mr Geoffrey Doyne stayed for a month
in our house, and I trusted him implicitly in the company of all my
daughters, with whom he appeared on the best of terms--’
‘Of course I was. I romped with one as much as the other,’ interposed
Geoffrey.
But Mrs Robertson took no notice of the remark.
‘After a while, however, I perceived that he admired Jessie above the
rest; indeed, on several occasions I had seen familiarities take place
between them--’
‘She used to come and sit on my lap whether I would or no,’ grumbled
Geoffrey.
‘So I considered it my duty as a mother,’ continued the lady, waving
her hand, as though to wave the younger brother off into infinitesimal
space, ‘to ask him his intentions with regard to her, and was greatly
astonished to find that he had no intentions whatever.’
‘Of course I hadn’t--never thought of such a thing,’ said Geoffrey.
‘But you _ought_ to have thought of it; it was most reprehensible,’
replied his brother, frowning.
‘I am so glad you see it in _our_ light, dear Mr Doyne,’ rejoined Mrs
Robertson; ‘for it is hard, after so many years of friendly intercourse
have subsisted between the families, to think of a rupture taking place
now. The dear doctor feels it keenly. The suspense has quite aged him.’
‘Oh, it must not be,’ said Michael decidedly; and Geoffrey felt a chill
run through him at the words.
‘Of course I remonstrated with your brother,’ resumed Mrs Robertson,
‘as he will do me the justice to acknowledge, and pointed out to him
the harm he had done our dear girl, and the misery he had caused her.
And then Dr Robertson and his father both spoke to him; and the issue
was, that he proposed formally to my husband for Jessie’s hand (we have
the letter now, Mr Doyne), and the engagement was ratified between
them. Of course our friends all know of it; we never dreamt for a
moment that Mr Geoffrey Doyne could be so _base_ to go back from his
written word; and the poor child has been actually making the linen
for her trousseau for the last three months. When, the other day, as I
was questioning her on her altered looks and spirits, she burst into
tears, and, to my _amazement_, told me that it was all over between
them; that Mr Geoffrey Doyne had sent for his letters and presents to
be returned to him, and that he had been cruel enough to write and tell
the dear girl that he had never cared for her, and that he refused to
marry her,--the basest, cruellest, most heartless conduct I ever heard
of in my life,’ continued Mrs Robertson, trembling with anger, ‘and
after the kindness and hospitality he had received at our hands too!
But it cannot be allowed, Mr Doyne. I will not sit by quietly and see
my poor child pine away in consequence of such treachery. Your brother
must fulfil the engagement he entered into with her, or she shall have
public compensation for his desertion. The world shall not have it in
its power to say that we boasted idly of our daughter’s expectations.’
‘Am I to be allowed to speak now?’ demanded Geoffrey, who had with
difficulty kept quiet during the last part of this harangue.
‘If Mrs Robertson has quite finished,’ said his brother coldly.
‘I have said all I wish to say,’ replied the lady, ‘and no explanations
Mr Geoffrey Doyne can offer me in return can ever excuse his conduct to
my daughter.’
‘Perhaps not in _your_ eyes, madam,’ said Geoffrey; ‘but you have
appealed to the judgment of the world. I am glad you have done me the
justice to acknowledge that I never had any intention of proposing
to Jessie until you forced me to do so. And therein lies my greatest
fault. I should have resisted your arguments then as I do now. I have
made the task doubly hard by delay. Ever since I yielded to your wishes
in that respect, I have seen how wrong I was to do so. Each day has
convinced me, more and more, that I am not, and I never was, in love
with your daughter, and that, if I marry her we shall only make each
other miserable for life. It was with this conviction that I wrote
to her a month ago--telling her the truth. I did not say I would not
marry her, neither did I ask her to return my letters or presents. I
said just what I have told you--that I had not considered sufficiently
before I made that proposal of marriage to her, and that I did not
care for her so much as I ought to do. And if that is being base and
dishonourable in your eyes, it is not in mine. I consider I should
have been much more to blame had I married her without telling her the
truth.’
‘Unfortunately, you see, Geoffrey, it is not what _you_ think, but what
the world will say about the matter,’ remarked Michael gravely; ‘and
there is no doubt that a thing of this kind militates against a girl’s
prospects in life.’
‘_Militates against her prospects_!’ cried Mrs Robertson shrilly; ‘I
should think it did--it ruins them! Do you suppose I am going to let my
daughter be pointed at as having been jilted--_and by you_!’ she ended,
with withering scorn.
‘Would you prefer her, then, to marry a man who does not love her?’
retorted Geoffrey.
‘That is of little consequence,’ replied the lady. ‘_No_ men care for
their wives (as far as I can see) in the present day. The mere fact of
their _being_ their wives is sufficient to make them indifferent! But
my daughter is of a very different disposition from you. She is amiable
and affectionate and loving, and I will not see her heart broken and
her future prospects spoiled for any man alive.’
‘If you knew all, Mrs Robertson,’ resumed Geoffrey, colouring, ‘you
would see that you could not break her heart more readily than by
marrying her to me.’
‘You had better make a clean breast whilst you are about it,’ suggested
his brother.
‘Perhaps you are right. Well, then, Mrs Robertson, my objection to
renewing my engagement with Jessie does not lie wholly in the fact that
I do not care sufficiently for her to make her a good husband. There is
a stronger reason than that--a more insurmountable one. I am in love
with another woman!’
He said the words slowly, as though they contained an argument to
quench all her maternal hopes. But they had only the effect of making
her more angry and determined.
‘And do you call that an _excuse_?’ she exclaimed; ‘it is an
aggravation of your offence. You are in love with another woman, and
so _my_ daughter is to go to the wall! My Jessie is to be deprived
throughout life of all you had promised to give her, because you have
taken it into your head to set up some one else in her stead. But you
will find it is not quite so easy to chop and change in that manner, Mr
Doyne. You have pledged your word to my daughter, and you must redeem
it--or give her such compensation as the law may award her.’
‘You will surely not bring this matter into court?’ cried Geoffrey,
with horror. ‘You will never drag your daughter’s name through the
newspapers as the plaintiff in a breach of promise case?’
Mrs Robertson saw her advantage, and clung to it.
‘We certainly _shall_,’ she replied, ‘unless you think better of the
insult you have offered us. The doctor and I have talked this matter
over, and he has left it entirely in my hands. He is no more disposed
to sit by quietly, and see Jessie’s heart broken without an effort to
save her, than I am.’
‘But how can you improve the affair by making it public? You should
consider your daughter’s feelings,’ said the young man, in evident
distress. He did not perceive that the agitation he evinced was the
weakest card he could play into her hands; nor did he guess that the
threat she used towards him had been suggested by his astute lawyer
brother.
‘That is _our_ business,’ replied Mrs Robertson coldly, ‘and we shall
do what we consider best for our child without any reference to her
feelings. Neither do I think _you_ are the proper person to remind me
of my duty in that respect, Mr Doyne, considering the _very little_
regard you have shown towards them yourself.’
‘What _am_ I to do?’ demanded Geoffrey, in a low voice, of his brother.
‘You’ll have to stick to it, my boy. I don’t see any way out of it,’
replied Michael, in the same tone.
‘I _cannot_--it is impossible. I will die first,’ said the younger man,
in a voice of despair.
‘Well, Mr Doyne,’ exclaimed Mrs Robertson after a short pause, ‘is it
of any use our prolonging this interview? Mr Geoffrey does not appear
to be disposed to do what is right and honourable in the matter, and
therefore it only remains for the doctor and myself to take the steps
that seem best to us. And the first thing, I believe, my husband
proposes to do is to go down and have an interview with your father at
Ryelands.’
‘Might I ask you, my dear Mrs Robertson, as a personal favour to
myself,’ said Michael Doyne, in his blandest voice, ‘to allow Geoffrey
a couple of days in which to think over what you have said to him? I
feel convinced that, if you will do so, we shall have arrived at some
satisfactory conclusion by that time. For my sake, Mrs Robertson--will
you do it for _my_ sake?’
‘Well, Mr Doyne, for _your_ sake I will; for I know we have your good
wishes, although we appear to have lost those of your brother. In a
couple of days, then, I shall expect to hear from you; and meanwhile I
shall say nothing to my daughter, nor take any more decided steps in
the matter. Good-night, dear Mr Doyne; whatever happens, I shall always
feel that you have proved yourself a true and faithful friend to us,’
and shaking hands with the elder brother, Mrs Robertson swept out of
the room without vouchsafing one glance towards the spot where Geoffrey
stood, silent and dejected.
‘Come on, Geoff,’ said Michael briskly, as soon as she had disappeared;
‘we had better be going home; it is no use our remaining longer here.’
The younger man followed him mechanically to the hall door. His brain
was in such a whirl he hardly knew what he was about.
‘What _am_ I to do?’ he repeated, in a confused manner, as they walked
through the square together.
‘Well, to tell you the plain truth, Geoffrey, I only see one thing for
you to do, and that is to renew your engagement, and marry the girl,
and take her back to India with you.’
‘You forget the other,’ said Geoffrey gloomily.
‘No, I don’t, my dear boy. I see the mess you’re in as plainly as
you do. But the other is a matter of _feeling_, Geoffrey, and this
is a matter of _right_. Tell me a little about this young lady at
Ines-cedwyn. Are her parents staying there?’
‘No; she is with a servant.’
‘You haven’t said anything to them about marrying her, then?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s only been a little spooning affair on your own account, eh?’
‘Yes; I suppose you’d call it so.’
‘Well, then, my dear Geoffrey, there’s no question about the matter.
You must break it off.’
‘I _can’t_ do that, Michael.’
‘You can, if you choose.’
‘I _cannot_. There are reasons--’
‘Oh yes! I understand all your reasons before you tell me. You like
her much better than this one; in fact, you’re over head and ears
in love with her, and you want to marry her, and take her out to
India. That’s it now, isn’t it? Well, I allow that it is very hard,
and, as I said before, I daresay it will cut you up to have to part
from her and marry Jessie Robertson instead; but _it must be done_,
Geoffrey. There’s the long and the short of it. Your honour demands
the sacrifice, and respect for your family demands it. We can’t have
our name dragged through a breach of promise case, and connected with
that of the Robertsons. It would be too disgraceful. I don’t believe my
father would ever speak to you again. And then, there’s something to be
said for Jessie into the bargain. The girl’s awfully fond of you. The
doctor says she’s so changed by your behaviour, that you’d hardly know
her; and I don’t see why she should be made to suffer any more than
the other one. You can’t keep your word to _both_, that’s clear; and
Jessie Robertson will bear the more open disgrace of the two, if you
break with her. Now, do go home and try to think it over in that light.
_Some one_ must bear the brunt of your folly in any case; but if you
persevere in your present determination, we shall _all_ have to bear
it, which isn’t quite fair upon us.’
Geoffrey did go home--miserable, undecided, and almost hopeless.
Still, he trusted that something might turn up to help him out of his
difficulty--that Jessie’s parents might relent, or the girl herself
refuse to renew their engagement. Surely, he thought, if he told her to
her face he didn’t love her, she would never hold him to his word.
Meanwhile there was no reason that his poor trusting Fenella should
suffer for his fault. Time enough for her to learn the worst when the
worst came. So he sat down and wrote her a long loving letter (such
as he knew she would carry in her bosom all the day), and told her he
was afraid his business would detain him in town longer than he had
expected; but he did not mention what that business was. And when he
had finished the letter, he laid his head down upon the paper and burst
into tears.
‘It is impossible,’ he kept on repeating to himself. ‘I _cannot_--I
_must_ not desert her. Not _now_--O God! Not _now_.’
His task would have been much easier if the other girl had not cared
for him also, but he knew too well that she did care. It had been his
flattered vanity at her evident affection that had drawn him into the
noose that galled him now. Still he thought, if all other means failed,
he must make an appeal to Jessie’s generosity to set him free. He did
not know that her temperament was of so jealous a nature, that the
very plea he urged for liberty would be an incentive to her to bind
him closer. When the two days of grace were over, he was as distracted
and undecided as ever, and Michael had the greatest difficulty in
persuading him to put in an appearance in Blenheim Square.
The meeting this time, however, was of a more friendly character. Dr
Robertson was present, and Michael Doyne had already consulted with the
parents on the most politic step to be taken.
‘We have no wish to appear harsh or oppressive, my dear young friend,’
commenced the doctor, who had been previously ‘coached’ by his wife
what to say; ‘but we have our child’s happiness to consult in this
matter, and I am bound to tell you that it is very seriously concerned.
Mrs Robertson and I have, therefore, after mature deliberation, come to
the conclusion that Jessie is, after all, the proper person to decide
whether the engagement shall continue or not, and we shall leave it
entirely in her hands.’
Geoffrey’s face flushed with hope.
‘Do I understand you, sir, that Miss Robertson and I are to settle
this business by ourselves, and that you will abide by her decision,
whatever it may be?’
‘Yes; that is our wish, Mr Doyne. After all, it is _her_ happiness, and
not _ours_, that is at stake; and if she tells us she has released you
of her own free will, we shall take no further steps in the matter.’
‘Thank you--thank you a thousand times,’ said Geoffrey fervently. ‘Does
Jessie know I am in the house? May I see her now?’
‘Yes; I have prepared my daughter for the interview,’ replied Mrs
Robertson, with a grim smile, as she preceded the young man out of the
room.
Geoffrey followed her briskly, his heart throbbing with hope. He
thought he should have no difficulty in making Jessie understand how
much better it would be for both of them to be free.
Mrs Robertson led him to the drawing-room and opened the door.
‘Jessie, my dear,’ she said quietly, ‘here is Mr Geoffrey Doyne, who
wishes to speak to you.’
Then she retreated, and left the young people together.
Now, until that morning Jessie Robertson had been entirely ignorant
that she had any rival to dispute her possession of Geoffrey Doyne.
She had accepted his letter just as he wrote it, and had never lost
hope that he would find out he had been mistaken, and return some day
and ask her to take back those presents, and give him a place in her
affections once more. And she was quite ready to do so, for, truth to
say, he had never lost that place. His handsome face and figure had
made an irrevocable impression on her mind, and if she did not love
him with all the ardour of Fenella Barrington, she loved him to the
utmost power of her nature--and no one can do more. The rupture of
their engagement had been a great shock to her, and the disappointment
had left its traces on her features--had darkened the lines beneath her
eyes, and washed the colour from her rosy cheeks.
Mrs Robertson had seen all this; she knew that the girl looked pathetic
and pretty, and the young man was emotional and easily impressed; and
she trusted a great deal to the effect Jessie’s altered appearance
would have upon him. Besides, she had, as she said, prepared her
daughter for this interview. She had hinted at the possibility of some
low-born rival as a means of rousing the girl’s jealousy, and then she
had implored her, for the sake of Geoffrey Doyne’s family (no less
than for his own), to be firm, and bring him back to his allegiance.
He would thank her for it afterwards (the mother said), when he knew
his own heart better, and could rate her devotion for him at its true
value. So Jessie came forward--rather timidly, it is true, but still
very affectionately, and much in the old style, and lifted her tearful
blue eyes to his face.
‘I _knew_ you would come back,’ she murmured. ‘I knew you would
remember our old affection some day. Mamma said it was impossible that
you could quite forget me.’
For a moment he almost forgot his mission in looking at her pale cheeks
and attenuated figure.
‘Why, Jessie,’ he exclaimed, ‘have you been ill?’
‘Yes--a little. What does it matter? I fretted, of course--I could not
help fretting; but I shall be all right again now.’
‘Do you mean to say my letter caused this? Oh, what a brute I am!’
cried Geoffrey.
‘Don’t say that,’ replied Jessie softly, as she sat down beside him.
‘You did it for the best, I am sure.’
‘I did indeed. I thought it would be less dishonourable to cancel our
engagement than to let you marry me without knowing the truth. For I
am not worthy of you, Jessie, and since we have been separated I have
thought so much more seriously of such things. Marriage is a very
solemn contract, is it not? And it would be unjust to let you enter
into it with any one who does not love you as you deserve. Don’t you
agree with me?’
‘But I always thought you loved me more than I deserved, Geoffrey,’ she
said, in a low voice; ‘for, after all, what is there in me to love?’
‘There is everything--everything to make a man happy, if he were not
only too great a fool to appreciate it, Jessie.’
‘But you made me quite happy,’ she whispered.
‘Did I? I am afraid I should not make you happy for long. I own an
atrociously bad temper, Jessie--irritable and easily put out; and I am
a selfish, heartless sort of fellow at the best. You would have wearied
of me in no time, and then there would have been no remedy for either
of us. It was better to put a stop to it before it was too late, wasn’t
it?’
‘I should soon have grown used to your tempers, Geoffrey--all men have
them, mamma says--and I never thought you heartless; at least, not
until you sent me that letter.’ And then she began to cry.
‘Jessie, did that letter hurt you so very much?’
‘Oh, terribly,’ she said, amidst her sobs; ‘how could it be otherwise
when I had made up my mind we were to be married so soon, and half my
things were made, too, and I had asked my cousins to be bridesmaids?
And now--now it seems as if everything in the whole world was over for
me, and I should never be happy again--never!’
‘Oh, don’t cry--for Heaven’s sake, don’t cry!’ said Geoffrey
despairingly, ‘and let me try and think what is best to be done.’
They sat silent for a few moments, whilst Jessie caught her breath,
and dabbed her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief. Then Geoffrey said
gravely,--
‘Jessie! I thought--and I think still--that we shall never be happy as
man and wife; but your father and mother consider that I have gone so
far in proposing to you, that I have no right even to suggest such a
thing as altering our minds, and that it must rest with _you_ to decide
whether our marriage takes place or not.’
‘I would much rather it took place,’ sobbed the girl.
‘Listen to me,’ went on her companion, ‘and don’t decide in a hurry.
Remember the whole happiness of our lives depends upon your answer. I
am compelled to tell you--in justice to you and to myself--that I do
not love you as I ought to do. In fact, Jessie, I--I--(don’t be angry
with me for saying it)--but I--care for somebody else; and that fact
alone would make my marriage with you a sacrilege and a blasphemy which
I do not dare to contemplate.’
She did not answer him, and after a while he proceeded,--
‘Don’t you think it would be very wrong of us to marry under the
circumstances, Jessie? Don’t you think it may be the wrecking of both
our lives to know there is such a barrier between us? Don’t you think
it would be more honourable in the sight of God and man for us to go
our different ways in the world, than to take vows upon ourselves which
we know it is not in our power to perform?’
He paused, waiting for and expecting her acquiescence; and had the
girl followed the natural instincts of her womanhood, she would have
told him he was right. But the hint he had given her of his love
for another, vague and undefined though it was, had raised the worst
feelings of which Jessie Robertson was capable, and made her resolve,
at all hazards, to claim him for her own. He should never, _never_ (so
she said to herself) be free to go and marry that other woman, and
leave her to be laughed at or pitied by all their acquaintance. She
loved the man, but she loved herself better, and she was determined if
possible to keep him by her side. So all she answered was,--
‘_I_ could fulfil them, Geoffrey, easily enough. Nothing could be
difficult for me to do that was done for you.’
‘By heavens!’ he exclaimed, driven to desperation by her quiet
perseverance, ‘do you mean to say that you would stoop to marry me when
I tell you plainly that I do not care for you?’
‘Yes, Geoffrey, I would; because you will care for me some day. I am
sure you will.’
‘And with the knowledge that I love some one else?’
‘It is not pleasant for me to hear, of course,’ said Jessie, ‘but you
will get over it in time--and you were engaged to me first.’
‘Then I am to understand,’ rejoined the young man gloomily, ‘that you
desire me to hold to this engagement, of which I have told you frankly
I am weary?’
‘Because you fail in your promises to me, is that any reason I should
fail also?’ she replied. ‘I should consider myself bound to you,
Geoffrey, whether you deserted me or not.’
‘And this is your final decision?’ asked her companion, with white lips.
‘How could I come to any other? I should only be telling a story if I
said I did?’
‘Jessie! I told Dr and Mrs Robertson that I would abide by what you
said. Think once more; for God’s sake, think before you answer me!
Remember it is the happiness or misery of our whole lives upon which
you are deciding. _Are we to be married to each other, or are we not_?’
He hung upon her reply as the criminal in the dock hangs upon the
decision of the jury, and she gave it with apparently as little
personal feeling.
‘If you ask _me_, Geoffrey, I can only say what I have said before,
_Yes_. If I hadn’t wished to marry you, I should never have consented
to be engaged to you. I don’t change my mind every other day, as you
seem to do!’
‘God forgive you!’ was trembling on his lips as he regarded her, but
with an effort he altered the words. ‘Be it so, then!’ he said, between
his teeth; and then, without another look, he turned upon his heel and
quitted the house, leaving Jessie Robertson to announce to her father
and mother the determination at which she had arrived.
[Illustration: decorative]