OVER.
‘She had fallen in her own sight--not because he
had loved her, but because he had left her.’
_Ariadne_.
In the heart of the Wallon there lies a little village called Sainte
Pauvrette, which is a mass of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs in
summer, and a mass of snow and ice in winter. It possesses no baths,
no mineral springs, no objects of historical interest--nothing, in
fact, wherewith to tempt a visitor except its climate and its flowers.
Tourists who know something of the country, and wish to get out of the
beaten track of overdone cathedrals and exhausted picture-galleries, go
to Sainte Pauvrette in the warm weather, when the hillside is covered
with lemon-scented thyme and feathery sorrel and ruddy clover, and the
surrounding country is redolent of lilies and roses and honeysuckle;
but no one ever dreams of remaining there throughout the winter. When
the snow falls, Sainte Pauvrette is left to the few peasants who till
its fields and pray in its dirty little chapel. The wooden building
that calls itself a hotel is boarded up and left to take care of
itself; and the residents who have rooms to let, lock the doors and
retreat to the lower regions, burrowing like moles until the sunshine
shall tempt them to the upper world again.
But one day not two months after the events recorded in the last
chapter, the inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette were astonished by the
arrival of two English ladies, who, with their maid, took up their
quarters in one of the small furnished houses that had just been
vacated by the summer visitors, and appeared disposed to settle
themselves down there for the winter. The season of Sainte Pauvrette
was over; the autumn, with its usual risk of fever and malaria, was
close at hand; the rooms for hire had been cleaned and shut up for
the next six months--and the people of Sainte Pauvrette would as soon
have expected their patron saint to appear among them, and demand
lodgings for the winter, as to see any more visitors. The circumstance
was so unusual and startling that it caused endless talk amongst
the villagers, and Madame Regnier (who was the lucky person to let
her house to the new-comers) began to think she must be under the
especial care of Providence, and that a miracle had been performed in
her behalf. But the strangers--Mrs. Barrington, Fenella, and Eliza
Bennett--kept entirely to themselves, and did not appear disposed to
satisfy the curiosity of their neighbours. The tradespeople, who were
chiefly small farmers, selling their own milk, bread, vegetables,
and poultry, tried their best to extract some information from Eliza
Bennett, but she was invulnerable. Either she could not or she would
not understand what they said to her, and never did more than haggle
with them over the prices of their merchandise, and carry off her
bargains in her market basket. But the ladies were often seen about the
village, and many were the conjectures made as to the reason of their
sojourn there.
The young lady was sick. Sainte Pauvrette decided that point very
speedily. And it was supposed that her mother had brought her to the
village for the sake of her health. The peasants soon grew to recognise
and smile at the sweet, sad face of Fenella as she passed amongst them,
and to talk of the girl who sat sometimes motionless for hours on the
hillside, looking at the horizon with a weary, impassive expression
that made their hearts ache.
There were rumours, too, that the mother and daughter did not get on
very well together, and Madame Jeanne, the proprietress of the wooden
hotel (whose offers of accommodation Mrs Barrington had peremptorily
refused), had a good deal to say to her neighbours on the subject of
that lady’s treatment of Fenella.
‘_Ma foi_!’ she would exclaim, as she lounged against the outside wall
of her house, knitting stockings of coarse yarn, and surrounded by a
bevy of women, all knitting as if their lives depended on it,--‘_ma
foi_!’ but I wouldn’t be the daughter of that Englishwoman for a great
deal. She has a tongue the length of a cow’s tail; you may hear it from
one end of Sainte Pauvrette to the other. And it’s my belief that when
she gets into a rage, she beats her!’
‘You don’t mean to say that!’ cried her neighbours, as they drew closer.
Madame Jeanne nodded her head oracularly.
‘But I do! The screams that came from that house the other night were
fearful. You might have thought there was murder being committed there,
and so I told the English servant--bah! What an ogre she is! With never
a smile nor a pleasant look on her face--and she said her young lady
was subject to hysteria. But I don’t believe that. The mother beats
her! Take my word for it.’
‘The young lady certainly looks very sad,’ interposed another woman.
‘She has the face of an angel, and the air of a martyr. I was watching
her yesterday morning. She sat for two hours on the bench by the ruined
chapel without moving. And in this cold weather too! It is not natural
that a young girl should neither jump nor run. But I do not think she
could be merry if she tried. She has a face full of care and sorrow.
And she cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen years old.’
‘It is _Madame sa Mère_ that gives her that face,’ rejoined Madame
Jeanne. ‘She is a fury, a virago, a devil, that woman, and capable of
anything that is bad.’
‘She pays the rent regularly, and they are quiet and respectable
tenants,’ said Madame Regnier, who was naturally on Mrs Barrington’s
side, ‘and you only spread these tales about them, Madame Jeanne,
because they would not take rooms in your wooden hotel. And they were
quite right too! It is draughty enough in winter to kill a delicate
_demoiselle_ like Miss Barrington. But you have no right to speak
against them on that account; and if you say more, I will inform Père
Antoine of your behaviour, and have you openly rebuked for scandal.’
‘Bah, pig!’ cried Madame Jeanne, opening her black eyes at Madame
Regnier, with a _moue_ of disdain; ‘go to--! Tell the priest and whom
you will; but all your talking will not alter matters. Everybody in
Sainte Pauvrette has heard the quarrels that go on in that house! It
was only the other day that mademoiselle ran out of it bareheaded, with
a great angry red mark across her face, and would have traversed the
village so, had not the ogre servant appeared and pulled her indoors
again. They ill-treat _la petite_, I tell you! She is sick and ailing,
poor child--consumptive, most likely, like all those English; and they
make her miserable. I have seen the tears pouring down her face like
rain. It is a pity she has no father to defend her! A man is bad enough
when he takes a spite against you, and knocks you about; but, _ma foi_!
he is nothing to a woman. A bad woman is a devil, and nothing less,
and your Madame Barrington is a bad woman, and I say it!--eh, Madame
Regnier? You had better go at once and tell Père Antoine so, and I’ll
repeat it to his face. What d’ye make of that?’
‘She pays her rent regularly,’ grumbled Madame Regnier, ‘so it’s not my
place to speak against her. And as for the rest, Madame Jeanne, we must
each think what we choose about it.’
Whatever they chose to think could hardly have been worse than the
reality. The autumn and winter months which she passed in Sainte
Pauvrette were such a tumultuous mixture of anger, strife, reproaches,
and hopeless misery, that Fenella Barrington, through all the rest of
her weary life, could never look back upon them without a shudder--as a
man who has passed days and nights of suspense tossing about the cruel
ocean, living in the very shadow of death, and beaten upon by all the
storms of heaven, might look back and wonder he still lived to tell the
tale.
Her mother’s conduct to her at this period was the very refinement
of cruelty. Had she only struck the wretched girl--as she too often
did to satisfy her own feelings of rage and disappointment--it would
have been as nothing compared to the sneers and reproaches and abuse
cast at the absent, which were so much harder to bear. And Fenella
could not say a word in defence of herself or him. She was condemned
to sit and hear it all in silence, whilst she pressed her hands upon
her aching bosom where the image of Geoffrey Doyne (though shattered
into fragments) was still cherished as the holiest thing she had ever
possessed.
How often, whilst the villagers of Sainte Pauvrette watched her sitting
on the hillside, motionless for hours, she was longing to die--praying,
in a sort of half-conscious way, that God would send down His Angel of
Death to take her out of a world which had opened upon a scene of so
much perplexity and trouble for her.
But Fenella hardly knew what she really wished for. The present and
the future were alike blanks. All she knew for certain was that
Geoffrey Doyne had passed out of her life--that he belonged to another
woman--that she should never see him again, nor hear his voice; and
the mere fact of this knowledge was too wonderful a mystery for her
to fathom. For she did not even know how it had happened, or why. Not
a line, not a sound, had reached her since she had read the public
announcement of his marriage; and sometimes she would wonder, in a
vague, childish way, if it had been all a dream, and pinch her arm,
with a sad smile, to see if she were real. But then remembrance would
rush back upon her--rush back with a feeling of shame and horror that
would flood her pale cheeks with crimson, and retreat as suddenly,
leaving them white with despair.
Eliza Bennett felt deeply for her young mistress during her illness.
Though the people of Sainte Pauvrette found her curt and harsh of
speech, she only assumed that manner to cover her emotion. She could
hardly trust herself to think of Fenella, far less to speak of her.
Had she been left to her own devices, she would have been the tenderest
of nurses and comforters to the forlorn and unhappy girl, but Mrs
Barrington would not permit it. She had her own reasons for keeping up
a sense of her ingratitude and folly in Fenella’s breast. She wanted to
force her daughter to throw off the disappointment and depression under
which she laboured, and make her thankful to rush back into the world
as soon as she was strong enough to do so.
She tried to explain her motives to Eliza Bennett, but though the
servant was afraid (in consequence) to show all the sympathy she felt
for her young mistress, she could not approve of the harshness Mrs
Barrington displayed towards her. She often attempted to stand between
the mother and daughter on the occasion of those sad quarrels, which
had made themselves patent to the ears of Sainte Pauvrette; but she
found that her interference only made matters worse, and her best plan
was to preserve neutrality.
One terrible night, however, when the frosts of December and January
had covered the country with a pall of white, and the snow lay several
feet deep in the lower parts of the village, an altercation--which
commenced (on Mrs Barrington’s part) with covert sneers and words of
contempt, and culminated in loud tones of anger and several smart
blows--had nearly proved the end of poor Fenella’s troubles.
She stood before her mother, half fainting from fear, and without a
word to say in self-defence, until the indignities offered her, and the
abuse cast upon one whom (though unnamed) she could not hear reviled
with impunity, sent all the blood in her body rushing to her brain, and
deprived her of the mastery over her senses. With a loud cry to God
for mercy, and before Mrs Barrington (being alone) could prevent the
action, Fenella had flown bareheaded from the house, and flung herself
into a sluggish stream, half ice and half water, which ran in front of
it.
Then Mrs Barrington was thoroughly alarmed, and screamed to Eliza
Bennett for assistance; and all the neighbours were roused by the
disturbance, and brought lanterns and lighted pine torches to help in
the search.
They had not to go far. The senseless figure of Fenella was soon
found--thrown violently across the mixture of ice and muddy water of
which the winter stream was composed; and being wrapped up in a blanket
by Bennett, was carried back to the house and placed in bed. But the
inhabitants of Sainte Pauvrette had plenty to say of the occurrence
afterwards, and Madame Jeanne was not backward in giving her opinion on
the matter.
‘Did I not tell you what that Englishwoman was?’ she exclaimed next
day, when it was openly announced in the village that the poor young
lady was lying dangerously ill of a brain fever. ‘A pig! a devil! For
all the fine yellow curls that she keeps in a box, and the pretty pink
colour she would have us believe to be her own! She has used that poor
_demoiselle_ shamefully ever since she came here, and now she wants to
kill her--that is my belief! Else why does not she have a doctor to see
her in this fever; and why has she sent away the ogre, Mademoiselle
Elise, just when she wants her help most? Oh, but you need not stare
at me in that manner! I only tell the truth, and Madame Regnier cannot
deny it, although she is so anxious to make out her tenant to be
everything that is good. Mademoiselle the ogre left Sainte Pauvrette
this morning by ten o’clock. I met her walking on the road to Arniers
to catch the _diligence_, with her large basket on her arm; and when
I asked her the reason of her journey, she replied she had business
to do for her mistress in Arniers. But she has not returned, _mes
dames_--she has not returned; and meanwhile _la belle petite_ lies in
bed with an attack of the brain, and no doctor is sent for to attend
her; and Collette, who has been engaged to do their housework, is not
permitted to go into the room, of which the door is kept locked by her
mother. But if she dies,’ continued Madame Jeanne, with a threatening
shake of the head,--‘if that beautiful young lady dies, without help or
assistance, and after all the cruelty she has been subjected to, _I_
shall say it is murder, for one--let who will be the other.’
Meanwhile what the irate hotel-keeper said was true. Eliza Bennett had
gone that morning to Arniers; more, she had crossed to England. She and
her mistress had been closeted all night with the unfortunate girl who
had been rescued from the mud and the ice, and who only returned to
consciousness to fall into a burning fever, and rave deliriously of the
troubles which had occasioned it.
‘This is the climax,’ said Mrs Barrington, with a look of despair,
and as if the climax had not been in a great measure brought on by
herself. ‘We must lock the door of her room, Bennett, and let no one
but ourselves pass in and out. She talks in French, and I would not
have these ignorant creatures overhear what she says for any mortal
consideration.’
The two women consulted long and earnestly on what was best to be done
in the matter; and when the morning dawned, the key unturned in the
lock of Fenella’s door, and Eliza Bennett, creeping out of it, with a
white and troubled face, went up to her own room, and attired herself
in her walking things.
In the space of a few minutes her mistress followed her, with a large
basket on her arm.
‘You will travel as quickly as ever you can,’ she said, as she placed
some money in her hands, ‘and return to us as soon as possible. This
fever is sure to abate in a few hours, and I shall not keep Fenella
here one day longer than is absolutely necessary.’
‘Return to you, my dear mistress!’ exclaimed the servant; ‘why, what
else should I do? Am I not taking this journey entirely for your sake
and that of the dear child! Keep her as cool as possible, ma’am, and
don’t let her have anything but slops and fever drinks till I come
back. I will be with you at the end of a week again, without fail.’
Mrs Barrington sat down and began to cry feebly.
‘I don’t know what I shall do without you,’ she wailed; ‘it’s horrible
to sit and listen to her ravings and reproaches; but I am sure it is
best that you should go to England at once, and then the business will
be over. But you are a dear, good, valuable creature Bennett, and I
shall count the minutes till you come back again.’
She kissed the servant on both cheeks as she spoke, and Eliza Bennett
went on her way rejoicing. She crossed to Dover the same day, and
was at Ines-cedwyn by the following evening. It was evident that the
business she had been entrusted to transact for her mistress was, in
some manner, concerned with her brother Benjamin, and the place where
Fenella had made that fatal acquaintance in the ruined bungalow, which
brought ill-luck to all who meddled with it. There was no necessity
for Eliza Bennett to remain in Ines-cedwyn after she had obtained the
information which she came to seek. She was anxious to rejoin her
mistress, and the associations of her birthplace had become distasteful
to her.
She had adhered faithfully, however, to the business upon which Mrs
Barrington had sent her to England, and been careful not to say a word
about her young lady’s illness, or the cause. She was, therefore,
considerably startled the next morning, as she was preparing to leave
the cottage, to hear Martha say,--
‘By the way, ’Liza, do you remember the talk as there was here last
summer about Miss Fenella having got a beau? Well, I expect that young
feller’s bin hangin’ about here again in hopes of gettin’ another sight
of ’er. _I_ don’t know ’im, of course, no more than Adam, but Tugwell
the boatman says he has met ’im several times in Lynwern; and the day
before yesterday, when I came back from Freshpool (where I had gone
about some eggs), my servant girl told me as a gentleman had called to
see me, and seemed quite put out like by my being from home. He was a
fine-lookin’ feller too, the girl says--tall and ’ansome; and it may
have been ’im, and it may not, but it seems likely--now don’t it?’
Eliza Bennett turned white and red under this exordium, as if she had
been accused of having a ‘_beau_’ herself.
‘It ain’t of much consequence one way or the other,’ she replied,
trying to speak indifferently; ‘my young lady looks higher than that
comes to. You don’t suppose she would think twice of a beau as she
picked up on the Ines-cedwyn sands?’
‘Lor’, no! In course not; only I thought I might as well mention it to
you. Well, good-bye, ’Liza, and thank you for thinking of us in this
matter, and thank your mistress, too, for the recommendation. And I
shall hear from the parties, I suppose, in a few days. I’m glad to have
’ad this peep at you, though you don’t look over and above well, to
my mind; but I ’opes you’ll get over safe to your ladies, and that it
won’t be long afore you’re all back in England again.’
‘Oh yes! We shall be home in the summer, never fear! Good-bye to you,
Martha,’ said Eliza Bennett, as she set off to walk to Lynwern.
She plodded along the country road, over ruts hardened by the ice and
snow, with her head bent down upon her bosom, and her mind filled with
her sister-in-law’s communication.
‘I’d like to catch him hangin’ about any place as _we_ was in,’ she
thought indignantly; ‘_I’d_ let ’im know what was what--the dirty,
mean, sneaking scoundrel, to go and leave a poor girl in that way, and
cause us all this misery! I only wish I had the handling of him! _I’d_
make him pay for his whistle.’
She was so absorbed in her dreams of revenge that she stumbled up
against some one in the road, before her brother Benjamin’s cottage was
out of sight, and had to draw back with a demand for pardon.
‘It is of no consequence,’ replied a sweet, grave voice; ‘but I think I
am speaking to Mrs Bennett, am I not?’
The woman looked up quickly. Before her stood a gentleman--young,
handsome, tall and upright--a gentleman whom she had never seen before
except by the uncertain light of the moon, but whom she recognised
at once. It was, in fact, Geoffrey Doyne; and so great in the magic
of beauty, and a superior station, and another sex, that, as Eliza
Bennett looked at him, all her deep-laid plans of revenge melted into
thin air.
‘No, sir,’ she answered, in a voice that palpably trembled, ‘I am not
_Mrs_ Bennett; I am her sister-in-law, Eliza Bennett.’
‘_Eliza Bennett_!’ he repeated quickly; ‘is it possible? Are you the
person--the maid--that accompanied a young lady down to Ines-cedwyn
last summer?’
‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Eliza stoutly. (‘He’s very handsome, the
villin!’ she thought to herself, ‘and he’s got a winning way with his
tongue, drat it! But he sha’n’t get any information of her whereabouts
out of me--not if he was to drag me at the tail of four wild ’orses.’)
‘Oh! Then you can tell me where she is?’ exclaimed Geoffrey Doyne
excitedly. ‘Give me her address, I beg of you, in Heaven’s name! I have
a particular--a _very_ particular reason for wishing to obtain it.’
The servant looked him full in the face.
‘And I may have a particular reason, sir, for wishing to keep it from
you; for, if I’m not greatly mistaken, you are the same gentleman that
used to meet my young lady down on the sands here last summer.’
Geoffrey Doyne’s eyes fell before hers.
‘Yes,’ he answered, in a low voice, ‘I am the same.’
‘Well, may God forgive you for it,’ said the woman, ‘for _I_ can’t.
You’ve ruined her life as surely as ever a man ruined a woman! And I
brought her up from a baby; she is like my own child to me. You might
as well have killed me at the same time; I couldn’t have felt it more,’
and Eliza Bennett caught up her woollen shawl to wipe away two large
tears that were rolling down her cheeks.
At her words Geoffrey Doyne became pallid with fear.
‘Killed her! Ruined her!’ he repeated vehemently, as he caught the
servant by the arm; ‘in God’s name tell me what you mean! Is she
ill--is she dead? What have I done? If you don’t put me out of this
suspense, I shall go mad!’
They were just opposite the Beach Bungalow as he spoke. Eliza Bennett
glanced at it significantly.
‘Come in here, sir,’ she said,--‘I don’t want the whole village to hear
what I’ve got to say to you--and I’ll tell you what you’ve done.’
She led the way into the ruined villa, and Geoffrey Doyne followed her,
sick at heart with remorse and apprehension.
‘May I make so bold, sir,’ began Eliza Bennett, as soon as they were
sheltered from observation, ‘as to ask if--so be--you’re married?’
‘Yes!’ he replied; ‘I am.’
‘And what’s the good, then, of your hanging about Ines-cedwyn to try
and see my young lady? What could you say to her--how could you look at
her, if you did meet?’
‘Oh, I don’t know--I cannot tell!’ he exclaimed wildly. ‘Only the
separation, the silence, the want of seeing her is more than I can
bear. If you will only tell me where she is, or take a letter to her,
that I may have one word of kindness, one word of pardon in reply, I
fancy I could bear the rest with fortitude. Mrs Bennett, I ought to
have gone back to India long ago. My leave was up in the autumn, but I
got an extension, only for this--to find out her address and see her
once before I go. Then I will leave England and trouble her no more.’
‘You will never get your wish through me, sir,’ said Eliza Bennett,
‘for I’ll neither tell you where she is, nor carry any notes between
you. You’ve done her enough mischief already, and you’ve put it out of
your power to do her any good. The best thing you can do now, for her
and yourself, is never to write to her nor see her any more.’
‘But does she ever speak of me? Does she remember me?’ he demanded
eagerly.
‘_Remember_ you!’ echoed the servant, in a tone of contempt. ‘I should
think you’d given her enough cause to remember you, in this life and
the next too! But there are different sorts of remembrance, sir, and if
my young mistress is the lady I take her for, her best remembrance of
you will be one of hatred and of scorn!’
‘I deserve it,’ he answered brokenly.
‘And so you do,’ said Bennett, with the want of delicacy that usually
characterises her class, ‘and so you’ll say twice over when you’ve
heard what I’ve got to tell you.’
And thereupon she gave him an account of Fenella’s mental and bodily
sufferings during the autumn and winter, sparing no detail that might
add to the colouring of the picture, and winding up with a description
of her attempt at self-destruction, and the brain fever that had
succeeded it.
‘And now, what do you think of yourself, sir?’ she said, as she
concluded. ‘You’re a nice sort of gentleman, aren’t you, to ask me to
carry notes to that poor suffering angel, and rake up all her troubles
afresh, just as she has a chance maybe of getting over them. We’d
never have known your _name_ even, if it hadn’t been for her delirious
ravings; but we sha’n’t forget it in a hurry, you may take your oath of
that! And don’t you attempt to come nigh her again, sir--not for the
rest of your mortal life,--for I do believe her mamma would tear you
limb from limb if you did.’
Geoffrey Doyne during her relation had shown every symptom of the
deepest feeling. His brow had flushed darkly with shame, his nostrils
had quivered, his lips grown white, his whole frame shaken with
emotion. And now that it was concluded, all he seemed able to do was
to lean against the window-sill, whilst the words, ‘_My God! My God_!’
seemed to be wrung from the very depths of his tortured heart. His
suffering was so self-evident that even Eliza Bennett could not help
pitying him.
‘Don’t take on like that, sir,’ she said soothingly; ‘it won’t mend the
past, and the best thing we can all do now is to try and forget it. I
don’t know, I’m sure, as I’ve done right to tell you so much; but it’ll
be safe with you, and I thought as you ought to know what my young lady
has gone through. Maybe it will save others, for you gentlemen don’t
seem to stand at nothing when you’ve set your mind upon a thing. But I
didn’t mean to upset you like this, sir, and I beg your pardon if I’ve
gone too far.’
‘No, no! I should wish to have known it,’ he said huskily; and then he
pulled out several pieces of gold from his waistcoat-pocket, and tried
to thrust them in her hand. But she put them back again proudly.
‘No, Mr Doyne. I couldn’t take _your_ money, thank you; not even if I’d
done anything to deserve it, which I haven’t. But I hope you’ll give
me your promise before you go never to try and write to Miss Fenella
again. Don’t make the harm you’ve done, worse, sir. You’ve got your own
lady to consider and to look after now, and you can’t do no good to
mine! Will you promise me this?’
‘Yes--I promise!’ he said, in a broken voice.
‘And please not to walk alongside of me to Lynwern either, sir! Meeting
of you has upset me more than I care to think of, and I’d like to be
alone for the rest of the journey.’
‘I will respect your wishes,’ replied Geoffrey Doyne quickly; and then,
raising his hat, as if she had been his equal, he left the ruined
bungalow, and strode along the cliffs in the opposite direction to
Lynwern.
Eliza Bennett looked after him for a few moments before she pursued her
own way.
‘Well, he may be a villin, but he’s a fine-looking gentleman,’ she
thought as she dried her eyes, ‘and they would have made a handsome
couple. What a thousand pities it is that Miss Fenella couldn’t have
him. But there! It’s always the way in this world. Them as ought to
come together, don’t; and them as ’ates each other like poison, is tied
for life. The more I sees of marriage, the more thankful I am as I was
never tempted into it!’
She pursued her road to Lynwern after this, and proceeded on her
journey back to Sainte Pauvrette. And a few hours later Geoffrey Doyne
followed her to London, and walked into the presence of his wife. They
were living at an hotel, preparatory to going back to India. There was
no lack of love on the part of Mrs Geoffrey Doyne towards her husband,
and (except when dark thoughts of Fenella Barrington interposed between
them) he usually returned her ebullitions of affection with a certain
degree of interest. It is difficult for a young and ardent nature not
to evince some feeling when clasped in the arms of a pretty woman who
has every right to expect an adequate return. And Geoffrey Doyne had a
very affectionate disposition. His fault was that he loved too much,
not too little. He was passionate, moreover, and easily moved; and to
be caressed, and flattered, and made much of, was almost a necessity
to him. But on this occasion his wife found all her artifices to
attract his notice, failures. He had been absent nearly a week, on
some business of which she had not the faintest idea; and yet when he
returned home, instead of being glad to see her again, and anxious to
hear what she had been doing in his absence, he was morose, gloomy, and
dejected, complained of every dish that appeared on the dinner-table,
and scarcely spoke a dozen words to her during the evening. Had she
indulged his mood and left him to himself, she would have been rewarded
by seeing the cloud gradually pass away (at all events, to outward
view), but Jessie did not understand how to treat her husband.
That phantom of a former love, which he had once mentioned to her,
was ever coming between them now, and she was always quick to ascribe
his varying moods to regret that he had married her. For six months
they had been husband and wife, but they were no nearer each other in
love or confidence or friendship than they had been at first. Geoffrey
accepted her attentions to him, and that was all.
Women are very apt to imagine that the possession of the beloved object
is _everything_, and that they can bear the idea of a rival better if
they know him to be, beyond all dispute, their own. They too often
live to find out they have deceived themselves. To be married to a
person you love, but who does not love you, is very much like trying to
grasp a bubble--each time your fingers close upon it you will find them
still unsatisfied and empty.
‘What is the matter, Geoffrey?’ demanded Jessie, as he thrust away the
wine decanters and leant back moodily in his chair. ‘I never saw any
one so disagreeable as you have made yourself to-night. If this is the
effect of having a holiday, I should say you had better remain at home
for the future. Where have you been?’
‘It would not interest you to know,’ Geoffrey.
‘Oh, that is as good as saying that you don’t intend to tell me!
Just as when you receive a letter and put it into your pocket
without showing it to me, and declare it is on business that I can’t
understand.’
‘Perhaps it is!’
‘But I have a right to ask where you’ve been, and whom you’ve seen,
Geoffrey; and if you refuse to tell me, I shall think the very worst.’
‘That will only hurt yourself, Jessie. Aren’t you content with having
married me, with knowing that, wherever I go, you have a right to
demand to follow? And can’t you let me enjoy a few hours’ liberty
without pestering to ascertain exactly where I have spent them?’
‘No, I can’t! Because I always suspect you go where that other girl
lives (the girl you told me of, you remember); and I always _shall_
suspect it when you go away alone in this mysterious manner, as long as
ever I live. I know when you are thinking of her, too--when you pucker
up your eyebrows, Geoffrey, and look gloomy, and speak in that horrible
cross way; and you make me miserable--you know you do.’
‘You make yourself miserable, you mean. However, if what you say is
true, don’t recall her memory by mentioning the subject. I have
already told you it is an unpleasant one to me.’
‘Oh yes! Because you wish you had married her instead of me; and you
get wretched when you think of it. But it is most unfair of you to go
and see her, behind my back; and everybody would say the same.’
‘I have not been to see her,’ replied Geoffrey, with visible annoyance.
‘But you think of her--you cannot deny it.’
‘Yes, I _do_ think of her! A man has, not absolute control over his
thoughts.’
‘A pretty confession for a married man to make!’ pouted Jessie. ‘Why
don’t you follow it up by saying that you love her still?’
The young man was fairly roused by this time.
‘I don’t deny it,’ he answered petulantly. ‘I do love her still.’
‘And I suppose you’ll end by running away with her, and leaving me to
go back to papa in Blenheim Square! It is shameful, scandalous! And she
must be a wicked, vile creature to encourage you to forget your duty in
this way.’
Geoffrey Doyne rose from his chair, and struck his hand upon the table
with a force that made the glasses ring.
‘Don’t you dare to speak of her in such terms before me,’ he said
angrily. ‘She is no more vile nor wicked than yourself. She is as pure
and good a girl as ever walked God’s earth, and you are the only person
on whom there is any necessity to call “shame.” You chose to hold me
to my promise of marriage, when you knew that my heart was no longer
mine to give you; and, therefore, the consequences must be on your
own head. I _do_ love that girl you mention, earnestly, faithfully,
affectionately, and I _shall_ love her to my life’s end. There! You
wished for the truth, and you have it. You exacted the payment of
my bond to the last ounce of flesh. But you can’t have the blood,
Jessie--_my heart’s blood_. That belongs to another, and ever will do
so. And now, if you wish to preserve the peace, you will drop this
subject once and for ever, as it can never raise anything but strife
between us.’
This was all the satisfaction that she obtained from him, and a few
weeks after they were on their way together to rejoin his regiment in
India.
About the same time Eliza Bennett led Fenella out for her first walk in
the open air. The girl, although much pulled down by her illness, was
on the high road to recovery, but she did not appear to have regained
her spirits with her strength. The little Wallon children ran out of
the cottages as she passed, with bunches of violets and primroses in
their hands, and Fenella smiled sweetly at them as she accepted their
offerings. But the smile was as sad as ever, and the grey eyes still
looked wistful and scared; and as, accompanied by her nurse, she
dragged her steps up to the little churchyard, the peasant women shook
their heads at one another, and said she would be carried there yet.
‘You mustn’t sit down, my dear,’ said Eliza Bennett; ‘it’s too cold
for that yet. But you’ve done bravely for a first attempt, and we
shall have you stout and strong upon your legs again before many days
is past. You will try and leave off fretting now, my dear young lady,
won’t you? for your own sake, and your mamma’s, and all as love you.’
‘Oh yes, nurse, I will try.’
‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk, Miss Fenella, and you’re too young
and pretty to have your whole life wasted for a first mistake. You must
try and look at what’s past in a sensible light, my dear; and you’ll
live to laugh over these times, I warrant you.’
The girl shivered, but she answered in the same words as before.
‘Yes, nurse, I will try.’
Then Bennett lowered her voice.
‘Miss Fenella dear, you won’t mind what I’m going to say, but I
couldn’t help guessing his name on account of your raving after him
so in your illness, and when I was in London the other day about
some money business of your mamma’s, I made a few inquiries--secret
like--about him, and he’s gone, my dear. He’s left England for good and
all, and you won’t never see him, nor be troubled with him again; and
that ought to be as great a comfort to you as anything else--oughtn’t
it, now?’
The blood had ebbed and flowed in Fenella’s wasted cheeks, as Bennett
spoke to her, like waves of white and crimson, and when the servant
turned for an answer, she saw a bright hectic spot burning under
each of her eyes. But the tone in which she spoke was very calm and
deliberate.
‘Thank you, nurse,’ she said wearily. ‘You meant it kindly, I know,
but nothing is of any consequence to me now. Only, please remember
(and I am sure you will, for my sake) that I would rather not hear you
mention his name again. He is dead to me, nurse; I am dead; everything
seems dead together. Don’t forget that, and never speak to me on the
subject more! And now take me home; I have made myself worse by coming
here; the sooner my mother takes me away from Sainte Pauvrette the
better.’
She cast the violets and primroses upon the grave by which she had been
standing as she spoke, and then throwing her arm about Bennett’s neck,
turned from the spot without another word.
[Illustration: decorative]
[Illustration: decorative]