Yes, I loved Olivia with all my heart and soul.
I had not known it myself till that moment; and now I acknowledged it
boldly, almost defiantly, with a strange mingling of delight and pain in
the confession.
Yet the words startled me as I uttered them. They had involved in them
so many unpleasant consequences, so much chagrin and bitterness as their
practical result, that I stood aghast--even while my pulses throbbed,
and my heart beat high, with the novel rapture of loving any woman as I
loved Olivia. If I followed out my avowal to its just issue, I should be
a traitor to Julia; and all my life up to the present moment would be
lost to me. I had scarcely spoken it before I dropped my head on my
hands with a groan.
"Come, come, my poor fellow!" said Captain Carey, who could never see a
dog with his tail between his legs without whistling to him and patting
him, "we must see what can be done."
It was neither a time nor a place for the indulgence of emotion of any
kind. It was impossible for me to remain on the cliffs, bemoaning my
unhappy fate. I strode on doggedly down the path, kicking the loose
stones into the water as they came in my way. Captain Carey followed,
whistling softly to himself, and, of all the tunes in the world, he
chose the one to the "Three Fishers," which I had sung to Olivia. He
continued doing so after we were aboard the yacht, and I saw the boatmen
exchange apprehensive glances.
"We shall have wind enough, without whistling for it, before we reach
Guernsey," said one of them, after a while; and Captain Carey relapsed
into silence. We scarcely spoke again, except about the shifting of the
sails, in our passage across. A pretty stiff breeze was blowing, and we
found plenty of occupation.
"I cannot leave you like this, Martin, my boy," said Captain Carey, when
we went ashore at St. Sampson's; and he put his arm through mine
affectionately.
"You will keep my secret?" I said--my voice a key or two lower than
usual.
"Martin," answered the good-hearted, clear-sighted old bachelor, "you
must not do Julia the wrong of keeping this secret from her."
"I must," I urged. "Olivia knows nothing of it; nobody guesses it but
you. I must conquer it. Things have gone too far with poor Julia, for me
to back out of our marriage now. You know that as well as I do. Think of
it, Captain Carey!"
"But shall you conquer it?" asked Captain Carey, seriously.
I could not answer yes frankly and freely. It seemed a sheer
impossibility for me to root out this new love, which I found in my
heart below all the old loves and friendships of my whole life. Mad as I
was with myself at the thought of my folly, the folly was so sweet to
me, that I would as soon have parted with life itself. Nothing in the
least resembling this feeling had been a matter of experience with me
before. I had read of it in poetry and novels, and laughed a little at
it; but now it had come upon me like a strong man armed. I quailed and
flinched before the painful conflict necessary to cast out the precious
guest.
"Martin," urged Captain Carey, "come up to Johanna, and tell her all
about it."
Johanna Carey was one of the powers in the island. Everybody knew her;
and everybody went to her for comfort and counsel. She was, of course,
related to us all; and knew the exact degree of relationship among us,
having the genealogy of each family at her fingers' ends. But, besides
these family histories, which were common property, she was also
intrusted with the inmost secrets of every household--those secrets
which were the most carefully and jealously guarded. I had always been a
favorite with her, and nothing could be more natural than this proposal
of her brother's, that I should go and tell her all my dilemma.
The house stood on the border of L'Ancresse Common, with no view of the
sea, but with the soft, undulating brows and hollows of the common lying
before it, and a broken battlement of rocks rising beyond them.
There was always a low, solemn murmur of the invisible sea, singing like
a lullaby about the peaceful dwelling, and hushing it into a more
profound quiet than even utter silence; for utter silence is irksome and
fretting to the ear, which needs some slight reverberation to keep the
brain behind it still. A perfume of violets, and the more dainty scent
of primroses, pervaded the garden. It seemed incredible that any man
should be allowed to live in such a spot; but then Captain Carey was
almost as gentle and fastidious as a woman.
Johanna was not unlike her home. There was a repose about her similar to
the calm of a judge, which gave additional weight to her counsels. The
moment we entered through the gates, a certainty of comfort and help
appeared to be wafted upon the pure breeze, floating across the common
from the sea.
Johanna was standing at one of the windows in a Quakerish dress of some
gray stuff, and with a plain white cap over her white hair. She came
down to the door as soon as she saw me, and received me with a motherly
kiss, which I returned with more than usual warmth, as one does in any
new kind of trouble. I think she was instantly aware that something was
amiss with me.
"Is dinner ready, Johanna?" asked her brother; "we are as hungry as
hunters."
That was not true as far as I was concerned. For the first time within
my recollection my appetite quite failed me, and I merely played with my
knife and fork.
Captain Carey regarded me pitifully, and said, "Come, come, Martin, my
boy!" several times.
Johanna made no remark; but her quiet, searching eyes looked me through
and through, till I almost longed for the time when she would begin to
question and cross-question me. After she was gone, Captain Carey gave
me two or three glasses of his choicest wine, to cheer me up, as he
said; but we were not long before we followed his sister.
"Johanna," said Captain Carey, "we have something to tell you."
"Come and sit here by me," she said, making room for me beside her on
her sofa; for long experience had taught her how much more difficult it
is to make a confession face to face with one's confessor, under the
fire of his eyes, as it were, than when one is partially concealed from
him.
"Well," she said, in her calm, inviting voice.
"Johanna," I replied, "I am in a terrible fix!"
"Awful!" cried Captain Carey, sympathetically; but a glance from his
sister put him to silence.
"What is it, my dear Martin?" asked her inviting voice again.
"I will tell you frankly," I said, feeling I must have it out at once,
like an aching tooth. "I love, with all my heart and soul, that girl in
Sark; the one who has been my patient there."
"Martin!" she cried, in a tone full of surprise and agitation--"Martin!"
"Yes; I know all you would urge--my honor; my affection for Julia; the
claims she has upon me, the strongest claims possible; how good and
worthy she is; what an impossibility it is even to look back now. I know
it all, and feel how miserably binding it is upon me. Yet I love Olivia;
and I shall never love Julia."
"Martin!" she cried again.
"Listen to me, Johanna," I said, for now the ice was broken, my frozen
words were flowing as rapidly as a runnel of water; "I used to dream of
a feeling something like this years ago, but no girl I saw could kindle
it into reality. I have always esteemed Julia, and when my youth was
over, and I had never felt any devouring passion, I began to think love
was more of a word than a fact, or to believe that it had become only a
word in these cold late times. At any rate, I concluded I was past the
age for falling in love. There was my cousin Julia certainly dearer to
me than any other woman, except my mother. I knew all her little ways;
and they were not annoying to me, or were so in a very small degree.
Besides, my father had had a grand passion for my mother, and what had
that come to? There would be no such white ashes of a spent fire for
Julia to shiver over. That was how I argued the matter out with myself.
At eight-and-twenty I had never lost a quarter of an hour's sleep, or
missed a meal, for the sake of any girl. Surely I was safe. It was quite
fair for me to propose to Julia, and she would be satisfied with the
affection I could offer her. Then there was my mother; it was the
greatest happiness I could give her, and her life has not been a happy
one, God knows. So I proposed to Julia, and she accepted me last
Christmas."
"And you are to be married next month?" said Johanna, in an exceedingly
troubled tone.
"Yes," I answered, "and now every word Julia speaks, and every thing she
does, grates upon me. I love her as much as ever as my cousin, but as my
wife! Good Heavens! Johanna, I cannot tell you how I dread it."
"What can be done?" she exclaimed, looking from me to Captain Carey,
whose face was as full of dismay as her own. But he only shook his head
despondingly.
"Done!" I repeated, "nothing, absolutely nothing. It is utterly
impossible to draw back. Our house is nearly ready for us, and even
Julia's wedding-dress and veil are bought."
"There is not a house you enter," said Johanna, solemnly, "where they
are not preparing a wedding-present for Julia and you. There has not
been a marriage in your district, among ourselves, for nine years. It is
as public as a royal marriage."
"It must go on," I answered, with the calmness of despair. "I am the
most good-for-nothing scoundrel in Guernsey to fall in love with my
patient. You need not tell me so, Johanna. And yet, if I could think
that Olivia loved me, I would not change with the happiest man alive."
"What is her name?" asked Johanna.
"One of the Olliviers," answered Captain Carey; "but what Olliviers she
belongs to, I don't know. She is one of the prettiest creatures I ever
saw."
"An Ollivier!" exclaimed Johanna, in her severest accents. "Martin, what
_are_ you thinking of?"
"Her Christian name is Olivia," I said, hastily; "she does not belong to
the Olliviers at all. It was Tardif's mistake, and very natural. She was
born in Australia, I believe."
"Of a good family, I hope?" asked Johanna. "There are some persons it
would be a disgrace to you to love. What is her other name?"
"I don't know," I answered, reluctantly but distinctly.
Johanna turned her face full upon me now--a face more agitated than I
had ever seen it. There was no use in trying to keep back any part of my
serious delinquency, so I resolved to make a clean breast of it.
"I know very little about her," I said--"that is, about her history; as
for herself, she is the sweetest, dearest, loveliest girl in the whole
world to me. If I were free, and she loved me, I should not know what
else to wish for. All I know is, that she has run away from her people;
why, I have no more idea than you have, or who they are, or where they
live; and she has been living in Tardif's cottage since last October. It
is an infatuation, do you say? So it is, I dare say. It is an
infatuation; and I don't know that I shall ever shake it off."
"What is she like?" asked Johanna. "Is she very merry and bright?"
"I never saw her laugh," I said.
"Very melancholy and sad, then?"
"I never saw her weep," I said.
"What is it then, Martin?" she asked, earnestly.
"I cannot tell what it is," I answered. "Everything she does and says
has a charm for me that I could never describe. With her for my wife I
should be more happy than I ever was; with any one else I shall be
wretched. That is all I know."
I had left my seat by Johanna, and was pacing to and fro in the room,
too restless and miserable to keep still. The low moan of the sea sighed
all about the house. I could have cast myself on the floor had I been
alone, and wept and sobbed like a woman. I could see no loop-hole of
escape from the mesh of circumstances which caught me in their net.
A long, dreary, colorless, wretched life stretched before me, with Julia
my inseparable companion, and Olivia altogether lost to me. Captain
Carey and Johanna, neither of whom had tasted the sweets and bitters of
marriage, looked sorrowfully at me and shook their heads.
"You must tell Julia," said Johanna, after a long pause.
"Tell Julia!" I echoed. "I would not tell her for worlds!"
"You must tell her," she repeated; "it is your clear duty. I know it
will be most painful to you both, but you have no right to marry her
with this secret on your mind."
"I should be true to her," I interrupted, somewhat angrily.
"What do you call being true, Martin Dobrée?" she asked, more calmly
than she had spoken before. "Is it being true to a woman to let her
believe you choose and love her above all other women when that is
absolutely false? No; you are too honorable for that. I tell you it is
your plain duty to let Julia know this, and know it at once."
"It will break her heart," I said, with a sharp twinge of conscience and
a cowardly shrinking from the unpleasant duty urged upon me.
"It will not break Julia's heart," said Johanna, very sadly; "it may
break your mother's."
I reeled as if a sharp blow had struck me. I had been thinking far less
of my mother than of Julia; but I saw, as with a flash of lightning,
what a complete uprooting of all her old habits and long-cherished hopes
this would prove to my mother, whose heart was so set upon this
marriage. Would Julia marry me if she once heard of my unfortunate love
for Olivia? And, if not, what would become of our home? My mother would
have to give up one of us, for it was not to be supposed she would
consent to live under the same roof with me, now the happy tie of
cousinship was broken, and none dearer to be formed.
Which could my mother part with best? Julia was almost as much her
daughter as I was her son; yet me she pined after if ever I was absent
long. No; I could not resolve to run the risk of breaking that gentle,
faithful heart, which loved me so fully. I went back to Johanna, and
took her hand in both of mine.
"Keep my secret," I said, earnestly, "you two. I will make Julia and my
mother happy. Do not mistrust me. This infatuation overpowered me
unawares. I will conquer it; at the worst I can conceal it. I promise
you Julia shall never regret being my wife."
"Martin," answered Johanna, determinedly, "if you do not tell Julia I
must tell her myself. You say you love this other girl with all your
heart and soul."
"Yes, and that is true," I said.
"Then Julia must know before she marries you."
Nothing could move Johanna from that position, and in my heart I
recognized its righteousness. She argued with me that it was Julia's due
to hear it from myself. I knew afterward that she believed the sight of
her distress and firm love for myself would dissipate the infatuation of
my love for Olivia. But she did not read Julia's character as well as my
mother did.
Before she let me leave her I had promised to have my confession and
subsequent explanation with Julia all over the following day; and to
make this the more inevitable, she told me she should drive into St.
Peter-Port the next afternoon about five o'clock, when she should expect
to find this troublesome matter settled, either by a renewal of my
affection for my betrothed, or the suspension of the betrothal. In the
latter case she promised to carry Julia home with her until the first
bitterness was over.