At length there came an interruption to Hugh Fernely's love dream. The
time drew near when he must leave Seabay. The vessel he commanded was
bound for China, and was to sail in a few days. The thought that he
must leave the beautiful girl he loved so dearly and so deeply struck
him with unendurable pain; he seemed only to have lived since he had
met her, and he knew that life without her would be a burden too great
for him to bear. He asked himself a hundred times over: "Does she love
me?" He could not tell. He resolved to try. He dared not look that
future in the face which should take her from him.
The time drew near; the day was settled on which the "Seagull" was to
set sail, and yet Hugh Fernely had won no promise from Beatrice Earle.
One morning Hugh met her at the stile leading from the field into the
meadow lane--the prettiest spot in Knutsford. The ground was a
perfectly beautiful carpet of flowers--wild hyacinths, purple
foxgloves, pretty, pale strawberry blossoms all grew there. The hedges
were one mass of wild roses and woodbine; the tall elm trees that ran
along the lane met shadily overhead; the banks on either side were
radiant in different colored mosses; huge ferns surrounded the roots of
the trees.
Beatrice liked the quiet, pretty, green meadow lane. She often walked
there, and on this eventful morning Hugh saw her sitting in the midst
of the fern leaves. He was by her side in a minute, and his dark,
handsome face lighted up with joy.
"How the sun shines!" he said. "I wonder the birds begin to sing and
the flowers to bloom before you are out, Miss Earle."
"But I am not their sun," replied Beatrice with a smile.
"But you are mine," cried Hugh; and before she could reply he was
kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped in his, while he told her of
the love that was wearing his life away.
No one could listen to such words unmoved; they were true and eloquent,
full of strange pathos. He told her how dark without her the future
would be to him, how sad and weary his life; whereas if she would only
love him, and let him claim her when he returned, he would make her as
happy as a queen. He would take her to the bright sunny lands--would
show her all the beauties and wonders she longed to see--would buy her
jewels and dresses such as her beauty deserved--would be her humble,
devoted slave, if she would only love him.
It was very pleasant--the bright morning, the picturesque glade, the
warmth and brightness of summer all around. Beatrice looked at the
handsome, pale face with emotion, she felt Hugh's warm lips pressed to
her hand, she felt hot tears rain upon her fingers, and wondered at
such love. Yes, this was the love she had read of and thought about.
"Beatrice," cried Hugh, "do not undo me with one word. Say you love
me, my darling--say I may return and claim you as my own. Your whole
life shall be like one long, bright summer's day."
She was carried away by the burning torrent of passionate words. With
all her spirit and pride she felt weak and powerless before the mighty
love of this strong man. Almost unconscious of what she did, Beatrice
laid her white hands upon the dark, handsome head of her lover.
"Hush, Hugh," she said, "you frighten me. I do love you; see, you
tears wet my hand."
It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied him. He
clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did not resist; he kissed
the proud lips and the flushed cheek. Beatrice Earle said no word; he
was half frightened, half touched, and wholly subdued.
"Now you are mine," cried Hugh--"mine, my own peerless one; nothing
shall part us but death!"
"Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold fear. "That is a
word I dislike and dread so much, Hugh--do not use it."
"I will not," he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her fears. He was
so happy--he loved her so dearly--he was so proud of winning her. She
listened through the long hours of that sunny morning. It was the
fifteenth of July--he made her note the day and in two years he would
return to take her forever from the quiet house where her beauty and
grace alike were buried.
That was the view of the matter that had seized upon the girl's
imagination. It was not so much love for Hugh--she liked him. His
flattery--the excitement of meeting him--his love, had become necessary
to her; but had any other means of escape from the monotony she hated
presented itself, she would have availed herself of it quite as
eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to her as a medium of escape
from a life that daily became more and more unendurable.
She listened with bright smiles when he told her that in two years he
should return to fetch her; and she, thinking much of the romance, and
little of the dishonor of concealment, told him how her sad young
mother hated and dreaded all mention of love and lovers.
"Then you must never tell her," he said--"leave that for me until I
return. I shall have money then, and perhaps the command of a fine
vessel. She will not refuse me when she knows how dearly I love you,
and even should your father--the father you tell of--come home, you
will be true to me, Beatrice, will you not?"
"Yes, I will be true," she replied--and, to do her justice, she meant
it at the time. Her father's return seemed vague and uncertain; it
might take place in ten or twenty years--it might never be. Hugh
offered her freedom and liberty in two years.
"If others should seek your love," he said, "should praise your beauty,
and offer you rank or wealth, you will say to yourself that you will be
true to Hugh?"
"Yes," she said, firmly, "I will do so."
"Two years will soon pass away," said he. "Ah, Beatrice," he
continued, "I shall leave you next Thursday; give me all the hours you
can. Once away from you, all time will seem to me a long, dark night."
It so happened that the farmer and his men were at work in a field
quite on the other side of Knutsford. Dora and Lillian were intent,
the one upon a box of books newly arrived, the other upon a picture; so
Beatrice had every day many hours at her disposal. She spent them all
with Hugh, whose love seemed to increase with every moment.
Hugh was to leave Seabay on Thursday, and on Wednesday evening he
lingered by her side as though he could not part with her. To do Hugh
Fernely justice, he loved Beatrice for herself. Had she been a
penniless beggar he would have loved her just the same. The only dark
cloud in his sky was the knowledge that she was far above him. Still,
he argued to himself, the story she told of her father was an
impossible one. He did not believe that Ronald Earle would ever take
his daughters home--he did not quite know what to think, but he had no
fear on that score.
On the Wednesday evening they wandered down the cliff and sat upon the
shore, watching the sun set over the waters. Hugh took from his pocket
a little morocco case and placed it in Beatrice's hands. She opened
it, and cried out with admiration; there lay the most exquisite ring
she had ever seen, of pure pale gold, delicately and elaborately
chased, and set with three gleaming opals of rare beauty.
"Look at the motto inside," said Hugh.
She held the ring in her dainty white fingers, and read: "Until death
parts us."
"Oh, Hugh," she cried, "that word again? I dread it; why is it always
coming before me?"
He smiled at her fears, and asked her to let him place the ring upon
her finger.
"In two years," he said, "I shall place a plain gold ring on this
beautiful hand. Until then wear this, Beatrice, for my sake; it is our
betrothal ring."
"It shall not leave my finger," she said. "Mamma will not notice it,
and every one else will think she has given it to me herself."
"And now," said Hugh, "promise me once more, Beatrice, you will be true
to me--you will wait for me--that when I return you will let me claim
you as my own?"
"I do promise," she said, looking at the sun shining on the opals.
Beatrice never forgot the hour that followed. Proud, impetuous, and
imperial as she was, the young man's love and sorrow touched her as
nothing had ever done. The sunbeams died away in the west, the
glorious mass of tinted clouds fell like a veil over the evening sky,
the waves came in rapidly, breaking into sheets of white, creamy foam
in the gathering darkness, but still he could not leave her.
"I must go, Hugh," said Beatrice, at length; "mamma will miss me."
She never forgot the wistful eyes lingering upon her face.
"Once more, only once more," he said. "Beatrice, my love, when I
return you will be my wife?"
"Yes," she replied, startled alike by his grief and his love.
"Never be false to me," he continued. "If you were--"
"What then?" she asked, with a smile, as he paused.
"I should either kill myself or you," he replied, "perhaps both. Do not
make me say such terrible things. It could not be. The sun may fall
from the heavens, the sea rolling there may become dry land.
Nature--everything may prove false, but not you, the noblest, the
truest of women. Say 'I love you, Hugh,' and let those be your last
words to me. They will go with me over the wide ocean, and be my rest
and stay."
"I love you, Hugh," she said, as he wished her.
Something like a deep, bitter sob came from his white lips. Death
itself would have been far easier than leaving her. He raised her
beautiful face to his--his tears and kisses seemed to burn it--and then
he was gone.
Gone! The romance of the past few weeks, the engrossing interest, all
suddenly collapsed. Tomorrow the old monotonous life must begin again,
without flattery, praise, or love. He had gone; the whole romance was
ended; nothing of it remained save the memory of his love and the ring
upon her finger.
At first there fell upon Beatrice a dreadful blank. The monotony, the
quiet, the simple occupations, were more unendurable than ever; but in
a few days that feeling wore off, and then she began to wonder at what
she had done. The glamour fell from before her eyes; the novelty and
excitement, the romance of the stolen meetings, the pleasant homage of
love and worship no longer blinded her. Ah, and before Hugh Fernely
had been many days and nights upon the wide ocean, she ended by growing
rather ashamed of the matter, and trying to think of it as little as
she could! Once she half tried to tell Lillian; but the look of horror
on the sweet, pure face startled her, and she turned the subject by
some merry jest.
Then there came a letter from Mrs. Vyvian announcing her return. The
girls were warmly attached to the lady, who had certainly devoted the
ten best years of her life to them. She brought with her many
novelties, new books, new music, amusing intelligence from the outer
world. For some days there was no lack of excitement and amusement;
then all fell again into the old routine.
Mrs. Vyvian saw a great change in Beatrice. Some of the old
impetuosity had died away; she was as brilliant as ever, full of life
and gayety, but in some way there was an indescribable change. At
times a strange calm would come over the beautiful face, a far-off,
dreamy expression steal into the dark, bright eyes. She had lost her
old frankness. Time was when Mrs. Vyvian could read all her thoughts,
and very rebellious thoughts they often were. But now there seemed to
be a sealed chamber in the girl's heart. She never spoke of the
future, and for the first time her watchful friend saw in her a nervous
fear that distressed her. Carefully and cautiously the governess tried
to ascertain the cause; she felt sure at last that, young as she was,
carefully as she had been watched, Beatrice Earle had a secret in her
life that she shared with no one else.