THE DAWN BREAKS.
‘Let me but bear your love--I’ll bear your cares.’
_Shakespeare_.
Geoffrey Doyne’s father was a country gentleman, and a justice of the
peace for Buckinghamshire. He was a selfish old person, who seldom
consulted anything but his own inclinations, and as he professed a
strong aversion to the sea-side, he never accompanied his family
in their summer excursions. As Margaret Doyne, however, his eldest
daughter, was quite old enough to take the charge of her younger
sisters, the absence of their paternal parent was considered rather in
the light of a blessing than otherwise, especially as he was wealthy,
and never denied them the means of enjoying themselves so long as they
did not trouble him. They were not left entirely alone either. Their
elder brother, Michael Doyne, who was in the law, ran down occasionally
from town to see how they were getting on at Lynwern; and now they
had their handsome Geoffrey at home for the next month or six weeks,
to act as their chaperon in such excursions as they could not take by
themselves. But Geoffrey had not given satisfaction in this particular.
He was continually going away for five and six hours at a time, rowing
about in the boat he had hired--and what was worse, he refused to take
his sisters with him.
The first time that Michael Doyne visited them after Geoffrey had
arrived at Lynwern, he found Margaret full of complaints of the younger
brother’s selfishness and neglect.
‘It really is too bad of him, Michael,’ she said. ‘He knows how tied I
am to home, and he might take Cissy and Amy out with him occasionally.
But he goes away by himself, morning, noon, and evening. He might just
as well not be in the house at all for what we see of him.’
‘Where does he go to?’ inquired Mr Doyne.
‘I am sure I don’t know. He says he goes fishing, but he never brings
home any fish. He talks a good deal about Ines-cedwyn, a village a
few miles from here, so I suppose he goes there; but he is extremely
reticent about his doings.’
‘I hope he’s not got into any scrape,’ remarked her brother.
‘Scrape! my dear Michael, what sort of a scrape?’
‘There is but one sort of scrape for a dreamy fellow like Geoffrey,
Margaret, and that’s a feminine one!’
‘My _dear_ Michael,’ said Miss Doyne reproachfully, ‘I know there used
to be trouble enough with Geoffrey about such things in the days gone
by, but surely there’s no fear of it now that he’s engaged to Jessie
Robertson.’
‘What has his engagement to do with it? He doesn’t care for the girl.
He never did!’
‘Oh, Michael, it’s terrible to think of! What prospect of happiness can
there be for him in such a case?’
‘As much as matrimony usually brings, my dear. I really don’t think it
much signifies how it begins. It generally ends in the same way,--we
have citations served for upwards of four hundred divorce motions for
the next sessions!’
‘Pray don’t mention such horrid things to me. You had better talk to
Geoffrey, and find out what mischief he is after now. That would be
much more to the purpose.’
‘Not I! Geoff is old enough to manage his own affairs without any
assistance from me. But I’ll put him in mind of his responsibilities
with regard to Miss Robertson, in case he should have forgotten them?’
Accordingly, at the next meal they took together, Michael Doyne
broached the subject. He was the last man in the world who should have
done so. He was a hard, practical lawyer, who looked at everything
in life from a strictly business point of view, and had no sympathy
with romance of any kind. Consequently, he and his younger brother had
seldom been able to get on together.
‘By the way, Geoffrey,’ he commenced, as he pushed the decanter across
the table, ‘I dined with the Robertsons last week, and Jessie was very
anxious to ascertain how much longer we intended remaining at Lynwern,
and if you were going to stay with them in Blenheim Square on your
return.’
‘Well, yes; I suppose I shall. I’ve told her so all along,’ replied
Geoffrey indifferently; ‘but we don’t want to leave Lynwern yet,
surely, when the warm weather is just setting in.’
‘Margaret means to remain over June, but her plans need not interfere
with yours.’
‘I never supposed they would.’
‘And I really think you owe something to Jessie Robertson. She appeared
hurt that you had not seen her on your way through from Paris; and,
considering you had been absent for three months, it was rather
peculiar.’
‘I like to be peculiar,’ rejoined the younger brother; ‘but, joking
apart, what would have been the use of it? The London season has not
begun yet, there’s nothing stirring in town, and I shall have more than
enough of it before it’s over.’
‘Upon my word, Geoff,’ interposed Amy, ‘I must say you are cool. Fancy,
speaking in that way of the girl you are engaged to marry! Jessie ought
to feel flattered. After three months’ absence, you have not sufficient
interest in seeing her to make you halt twelve hours on your journey.’
‘My dear Amy, men don’t treat these matters in the ridiculous fashion
of your sex. Jessie and I must get used to separation, else what should
we do when I return to India next October?’
‘And is not the wedding to take place before you go?’ inquired
Margaret. ‘When Mrs Robertson spoke to me on the subject a few weeks
back, she seemed to look upon it as a settled thing.’
Geoffrey’s face flamed with excitement.
‘Most certainly not!’ he exclaimed emphatically; ‘and I made Mrs
Robertson understand that thoroughly when I consented to the
engagement. It was on the condition that we were not to be married till
I returned from India again. The old woman knows that as well as I do.’
‘And for how long are you likely to be away this time?’ demanded
Michael Doyne.
‘I don’t know--two or three years--what does it matter? Any way, I’m
not going to lose my liberty before I start.’
‘Poor Jessie,’ said Cissy, laughing. ‘I wonder how much of your heart
will be left by the time you return to her.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ replied her brother crossly, as he turned away.
‘But at any rate, Geoffrey, whenever the marriage is to take place, you
are engaged to the girl, remember that; and you can’t get out of it,’
said Michael Doyne.
‘Who wants to get out of it?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘I don’t wish even to suggest such a thing, my dear fellow; but it is
as well under the circumstances to keep the family in good-humour,
isn’t it?’
‘I am not going out of my way to do it,’ said Geoffrey; ‘and if they
begin to worry me, I shall cut the whole business.’
‘They will never let you do that,’ replied his brother quietly; ‘they
are too proud of the connection. The old lady boasts of her daughter’s
engagement wherever she goes.’
An exclamation not too complimentary to the ‘old lady’ burst from
Geoffrey’s lips.
‘Whatever you feel on the subject of your engagement, I wish it
wouldn’t make you forget yourself,’ remarked Margaret coldly.
‘I beg your pardon, Margaret, but it is enough to make any fellow swear
to hear that his private affairs are being canvassed in this way. Why
were women born with tongues?’
‘It’s a pity you have one yourself, or you couldn’t have entered into a
contract that appears so distasteful to you!’
‘There you go! that’s the way you women run on! Who ever said it was
distasteful to me? Now, I suppose you’ll have that piece of news all
over Lynwern before to-morrow morning!’ retorted her brother.
‘It’s no use quarrelling in this fashion,’ said Michael Doyne; ‘and as
for Lynwern being informed of your private affairs, Geoffrey, you must
know your sisters have no acquaintance here to tell them to. But the
danger, I fancy, lies more in reticence than in repetition. If you give
yourself out publicly as an engaged man, no harm will be done.’
He looked at the younger man so steadfastly as he pronounced the words,
that Geoffrey immediately suspected he knew something of the truth.
‘How can I give myself out as an engaged man,’ he answered, colouring,
‘when I know no one to give myself out to? Do you want me to make a
confidant of Tugwell, the boatman; or of the landlady of the lodgings?’
Michael noticed the increase of colour in his brother’s face, though he
professed not to do so.
‘Of course,’ he replied, in an indifferent tone, ‘if you know no one,
it cannot signify. But I think it would please the Robertsons if you
were to run up to town for a couple of days to see them, even before
you leave Lynwern. It would look polite and attentive, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes; I’ll think about it,’ replied Geoffrey, as he rose from table.
It was luncheon they had been sitting over, and the hour was two
o’clock.
‘What are you going to do this afternoon?’ asked Michael.
‘Fish,’ replied the other laconically.
‘You seem to do nothing but fish,’ said his brother. ‘You have been
in Lynwern nearly three weeks, and Margaret tells me that during that
while you have only taken your sisters out twice.’
‘I came down here for sport,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I didn’t come for the
purpose of towing a lot of girls about! I can’t go pottering over rocks
looking for anemones and all that sort of rubbish. And when I don’t
fish, I like to ride about the country.’
‘Well, I suppose you must have your own way,’ said Michael, ‘but don’t
get into any scrapes. By the way, is there much fish at Ines-cedwyn?’
Geoffrey’s handsome face crimsoned.
‘Why--at Ines-cedwyn?’ he stammered.
‘Only that it’s the nearest point, and Margaret says you have spoken of
the place.’
‘Oh yes, yes, there are! it’s a fishing hamlet, you know; but I go for
the pleasure of the thing, you know, and don’t care so much about the
spoil.’ And with a laugh that was intended to be careless, Geoffrey
Doyne strode away. The lawyer looked after him till he was out of sight.
‘Whether you care about the spoil or not, you’ve got a fish more there
than you’ve any right to have, my boy,’ he thought; ‘however, it’s no
affair of mine. You have a wonderful faculty for getting into scrapes,
and you must learn to get out of them the best way you can.’
Meanwhile Geoffrey took his way down to the harbour, where Tugwell was
waiting for him with the little boat, in the steerage of which lay a
hamper which the boatman had been previously ordered to fetch from the
Lynwern Hotel. It was a glorious afternoon in May; not a cloud flecked
the pure blue of the sky, not a ripple showed itself on the surface of
the water, and Geoffrey had meant to be so happy, for he had at last
persuaded Fenella Barrington to picnic with him on the landslip, and
was going to meet her there. But the unpleasant conversation that had
taken place over the luncheon-table had somewhat embittered his cup of
pleasure.
He had now for more than a fortnight held almost daily intercourse with
the girl at Ines-cedwyn. With the exception of a few occasions on which
he had done duty with his sisters, he had met her every afternoon upon
the golden sands, and talked with her until the evening shadows warned
them to seek their respective homes. They had become such fast friends
that he had spoken to her of almost everything that passed through his
mind--except his engagement with Jessie Robertson.
Several times it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her, and
something had prevented him. Something in the tender light of the clear
eyes bent upon him, something in the frank confidence with which he was
treated, made him reserve his own. The words would not come; they had
died upon his very lips. He had told himself it was not necessary that
Fenella should learn the fact; that she was but an acquaintance from
whom he should soon again be parted, and perhaps for ever; there was no
need to cast a shadow on their pleasant intercourse. But something in
his brother’s way of mentioning the subject that afternoon had placed
it in a different light before him. It had opened his eyes, perhaps, to
his own feelings in the matter; any way, he had come to the conclusion
that he owed it to his girl friend and himself to tell her the truth.
But the idea made him very melancholy; it did more, it made him nervous.
Tugwell did not know what had come to the master that afternoon. His
young muscular arms seemed to have lost half their power, and his
tongue--generally so voluble and pleasant--to have relapsed into
silence. The journey to Ines-cedwyn took half again as long as usual,
and when at last they pulled up alongside of the landslip, the boatman
had had a great deal more than his fair share of labour.
Geoffrey Doyne, ever generous, seemed to acknowledge the fact, for he
was unusually liberal that afternoon.
‘Pull the boat round to the cliffs, Tugwell,’ he said, ‘and when I want
you again I’ll go up to the public house and give you a call. I don’t
think I shall be going back till this evening.’
And then he carried the basket of provisions up to a grassy knoll, and
sat down under the shade of an apple-tree, and wondered--whilst the
white and pink blossoms fell about his handsome head, and crowned him
like a young god of Spring--in what words he had best break the news of
his engagement to Fenella.
Meanwhile the girl, ardently anxious for the moment that should bring
her face to face with him again, was standing in Eliza Bennett’s
bedroom looking out through the honeysuckled casement. The servant
was now convalescent, that is to say, she could sit up in bed, but Dr
Redfern would not yet permit her to put her foot to the ground.
‘And just to fancy, Miss Fenella,’ she was saying, ‘that it is a
fortnight and more since we came to Ines-cedwyn, and here I am still in
bed like a log, and of no use to any one. It’s enough to make a woman
lose all patience--it really is!’
‘But, Bennett, you are so much better; you will soon be able to get
about again now,’ replied Fenella. ‘The doctor said this morning that
another week or two would see you in the garden.’
‘It is not of myself I’m thinking, my dear; it’s of you! I shouldn’t
fret if I’d to lie here another month, for Martha’s as good as she can
be to me; but it’s so lonely for you, poor lamb, and that’s what puts
me out. Whatever you do with yourself all day long in this solitary
place, I can’t think.’
Fenella turned scarlet.
‘Oh! I am quite happy Bennett--indeed I am; and I think it is the
nicest place I ever was in.’
‘Do you, now? Well, you haven’t seen much as yet, that’s true; but
though Ines-cedwyn’s my native village, I never heard anybody speak of
it like that. And do you find anything to amuse yourself with here,
Miss Fenella? any shells, or sea-weed, or such like? I am afraid you
must be so terribly dull.’
‘No, Bennett, I am not dull; I assure you I am not.’
‘Martha tells me you’re so good, you give next to no trouble; but you
mustn’t keep out of the house for our sakes, you know, miss, though the
beach is pleasanter than the cottage this weather, I daresay. What do
you do there? Do you take your books and work on the sands?’
Fenella looked more and more uneasy as the catechising proceeded, but
she answered,--
‘Yes, Bennett, always--I work there every day.’
‘And do you ever get any one to speak to, miss? I know there’s only
boatmen and children about here, but do you ever have a talk with them
about the weather and the fishing?’
‘Yes, often.’
‘That’s right. I’m glad you’re not too proud for that, Miss Fenella,
for it’s dull work never to hear the sound of one’s own tongue. And you
can talk with whom you will in Ines-cedwyn. You can’t come to any harm
here. But there’s another thing I want to say to you, miss. Don’t you
think it’s strange we’ve never had a line from your dear mamma?’
At these words Fenella’s face lowered. She had ceased to think of her
mother with the softness with which she had regarded her all her life
hitherto. She recognised the utter want of maternal feeling which had
condemned her to her present position, and it had hardened her heart
against her. Others loved her--strangers offered her sympathy and
kindness. Why did her mother alone withhold them from her?
‘I did think we should have heard from her before now,’ resumed Eliza
Bennett, ‘though I know the mistress hates letter-writing above
everything. But she promised to write from Mentone, and she must be
there by this time.’
‘I daresay she has forgotten all about us,’ said Fenella, shrugging
her shoulders. Perhaps she means to leave us here for the rest of our
lives.’
‘Oh! don’t say such things, miss, please, of your dear mamma--as if
she’d ever go to do such a thing!’
‘I shouldn’t much mind if she did,’ rejoined Fenella blithely. ‘I am so
happy in Ines-cedwyn, I never wish to go away again.’
Eliza Bennett regarded the girl with astonishment.
‘Lor’, Miss Fenella!’ she exclaimed, ‘who’d have thought to hear you
talk like that? But I’m glad you’re happy here, my dear, for I’m sure
the place agrees with you. You’re not the same young lady that came
here. I don’t believe your mamma would know you again. You’re getting
quite stout, and blooming like a rose.’
‘That’s because Martha takes such good care of me,’ replied Fenella,
blushing; ‘and what do you think she has done to-day, Bennett?--made me
a lovely little pie and a plum-cake, and I am going to have a picnic
up at the landslip as soon as she has packed them up for me.’
‘Then you’d better go at once, miss, for it’s past your dinner-hour
already.’
‘I know it is, but I don’t feel hungry,--the air, and the sky, and the
sea are all so beautiful. I am too happy to be hungry. Kiss me, dear
old Bennett! I think you love me, don’t you? Ah! how I wish--’
‘What do you wish, my dear?’ demanded the servant wistfully. She could
not understand the new mood that had come over her young mistress.
Fenella seemed to have altered in some way, and yet she could not say
how. ‘What is it you want, miss? is it anything I can do for you?’ she
repeated.
‘No, no, Bennett; it is nothing--it was only a thought. I have
everything I want in this world--I wish for nothing more. Good-bye! I
must run now and get my basket,’ and in another moment the servant
heard her go singing gaily down the pathway to the sea.
‘Bless her heart!’ she said to herself; ‘what a little it takes to make
us happy when we’re young. But I never thought the dear child would
have got over it so soon.’
But though Fenella sang as she went to meet Geoffrey Doyne at the
landslip, and her face was crimsoned with expectation and her grey
eyes beamed with excitement, she was not entirely at her ease. Her
interviews with him had become the greatest joy of her life, but they
were overshadowed by the fact of their being kept secret. Fenella’s
nature was open as the day--to conceal anything was a real pain to her;
but circumstances had made her refrain from mentioning Geoffrey Doyne’s
name at the cottage until it had become impossible to do so--until the
very thought of him was sacred, and had the power to cover her with
confusion. Yet still the girl was unconscious why it should be so;
still she spoke of him to her own heart as only the dearest friend she
had ever met.
Three weeks of constant and unbroken intercourse--what can they not
effect in the mind of a young and susceptible woman! For they had
actually been potent enough to do this: without her knowing it,
they had transformed Fenella Barrington from a child to a woman,
and accident had but to tear the veil from her eyes to make her see
herself as she really was. During these three weeks Geoffrey Doyne had
unbosomed himself of his deepest thoughts to her, had shown her the
richest treasures of his freshly educated mind. They had conversed
together of poetry and nature and art and religion--the misty,
emotional religion which he affected, made up of heaven and angels,
and everlasting love--that species of ecstatic impossible paradise
to which lovers who are parted by fate in this world, are so fond of
looking forward, and the half child, half woman had listened as to
the utterances of a god, and gradually warmed to life and awakened
to the call of nature beneath the influence of his sweet words and
sweeter voice. He had never spoken to her of love--natural, earthly
love--or her suspicions with regard to her own state of mind might have
been aroused. He only spoke of friendship--an immutable, indivisible
friendship, which was to last for time and eternity and prove the
salvation of them both. He had prayed her to stand in the place of his
lost sister Edith to him; to be his consoler and counsellor and second
self; to become, in fact, that which it is impossible for a woman to be
without being more--the bosom friend of a man!
But Fenella was too unworldly to doubt the reason of his proposal; she
saw nothing absurd in the idea; it appeared both holy and feasible to
her, and had become the gladness of her life. She never stopped to
ask herself how long it would last, and what she and Geoffrey Doyne
would do when he left Lynwern, and she went back to her mother in South
Audley Street. She only knew that the present was in her grasp, and it
was beautiful; and she went to meet him at the landslip without a doubt
but that the horizon of her life would always be as blue and smiling as
it was now. There was only one little cloud to mar her pleasure--she
wished that Geoffrey would come up to the cottage and tell Bennett that
they knew each other. Perhaps the gloom in his own mind that day made
him more readily recognise that all was not quite smooth with her, for
after the first hot flush that rose to Fenella’s face on greeting him
had subsided, he asked her if anything was the matter.
‘Nothing! what should be the matter,’ she answered, ‘when the sun is
shining so splendidly, and the birds are singing all round us, and
we are going to eat our dinner together under these beautiful trees?
There is only one thing that could make me happier.’
‘There now; I knew there was one thing. You see you can’t deceive me,
Fenella,’ he said, as he gazed into her speaking face. ‘Come, now; what
is it?’
‘You will call me silly, Mr Doyne, because we have spoken of it so
often before; but I _do_ wish that Bennett knew that we met each other.’
‘Why don’t you tell her, then?’
‘But perhaps she might be angry, and never let me see you again!’ said
Fenella, with a drooping lip.
‘Ah! that’s it, you see; it’s Bennett _versus_ Geoffrey Doyne, and the
weaker must go to the wall.’
‘Oh, don’t talk so; _you_ won’t go to the wall!’ said Fenella, as she
unpacked the baskets and spread out their contents upon the grass. Her
childish delight at the liberal provision her friend had made for their
comfort--at the delicate raised pie, and the cold chicken and salad,
and the bottle of champagne--for awhile lulled the whispers of her
uneasy conscience.
‘Oh, how kind of you, Mr Doyne! What a beautiful dinner--and tarts too!
Who told you I liked raspberry puffs? And here is a box of chocolate
creams! You _are_ a good boy! I shall never, never forget our picnic
under the landslip trees.’
She spread the cloth which he had brought with him, and laid out the
meal, with all the delight of a child at play.
‘And now, where will you sit?’ she said, when her preparations were
concluded. ‘Will you stay where you are, and I will sit opposite to
you? That is right; now aren’t we cosy sitting here, one at each end of
the table, just like Martha and Benjamin at dinner--eh, Mr Doyne?’
She threw a gleeful glance at him as she spoke, and caught the troubled
expression in his eyes. In a moment her own face became overcast.
‘Now it is my turn to ask what is the matter!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have I
said anything wrong? Is it I who have made you sad?’
‘No, indeed, Fenella; it is not in your power to do that; but let us
have our dinner first, child, and talk afterwards.’
He exerted himself to be cheerful during the meal that followed, but it
was the girl that chattered and laughed the most of the two. She was so
happy to think that Bennett was better, and the sun shone, and Geoffrey
was there. To her innocence it appeared as if life could never give her
anything better than she possessed at that moment. When the dinner was
concluded, he asked her permission to light a cigar. He felt somehow as
if he could speak to her better if he were not obliged to look in her
face; and Fenella took out a strip of work which she was embroidering,
and sat down by his side.
‘Why do you think that Bennett would be angry at your meeting me upon
the sands?’ he asked abruptly, when there had been the silence of a
couple of minutes between them.
‘Oh, I don’t know--perhaps she might not be; but she was angry because
I spoke to you at Calais, you remember? She said it wasn’t proper, and
that no young lady would do such a thing.’
‘I know she did! She was speaking from a conventional point of view,
and in the main she was right. But with respect to our particular case:
I suppose you know _why_ she would be afraid to give her sanction to
our meeting each other, and _what_ she would be afraid of.’
‘No, I don’t,’ replied Fenella frankly.
‘Well, it’s very foolish, of course, but it’s the general idea, and
Bennett is only a servant. Her objection to your meeting me in this way
would be simply because she would imagine I should make love to you.’
‘But you don’t,’ said the girl, with her eyes fixed on her work.
‘No, I don’t; and I want to tell you for what reason. I want to explain
to you, my dear little friend, why her fears would be perfectly
groundless, why--in fact, _I could not_ make love to you even if
I wished to do so; and that is because I am already engaged to be
married. And so I’m as harmless a fellow, you see, as you could meet in
a day’s march!’
Fenella did not answer him. She never stirred, nor looked up, and her
face was shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, so that he could not see her
eyes. But after a pause, she said, in a low voice,--
‘I don’t quite understand!’
‘Don’t you? I thought I spoke plainly enough. I said (what I wish I had
not to say) that I have entered into an engagement from which I see no
means of extricating myself. I told you once, dear, that I was not a
happy man. This is the chief cause of my unhappiness: I am engaged to
a girl whom I don’t love, and can’t love, and never shall love, and all
my life is spoiled in consequence.’
A look of divine pity beamed from Fenella’s eyes.
‘Oh, I understand--I comprehend,’ she cried. ‘You were betrothed to her
as a child, and now you find you cannot love her! I have heard of such
things before, and I am very, very sorry.’
She dropped her work as she spoke, and came to his side, and placed one
of her hands upon his own.
‘Is there no way out of such a trouble?’ she asked softly.
The young man’s hand closed upon hers like a vice.
‘None, dear child,’ he answered; ‘there is no remedy for it. But you do
not quite understand me, Fenella. This betrothal was my own doing. I
was drawn into it, it is true, against my better judgment, but I sealed
it of my free will. I am the only one to blame in the matter, and that
is what makes it so hard to bear!’
‘Tell me all about it,’ said the girl, with trembling lips.
‘When I came home from India a year ago, I paid a visit to the house of
Dr Robertson, an old friend of my father’s. He has seven daughters, and
I had known them all from children, and thought no more of romping with
them than with my own sisters. But one day, to my astonishment, the
mother, Mrs Robertson, informed me that her daughter Jessie had grown
to care so much for me, that if I didn’t mean to marry her, she would
break her heart. I was very angry at the idea at first, but they talked
me over, and as I didn’t want to make a quarrel between the families,
and they all seemed to think I ought to propose to the girl, I did so,
and it was settled. But I have been very wretched about it ever since.’
‘Is she pretty?’ asked Fenella, in a low voice.
‘Yes, rather!’ replied Geoffrey, in the depreciating tone in which a
man of the world invariably speaks of one woman’s charms to another.
‘And fond of you?’ went on the girl.
‘Oh yes! there is no question of that. She is very much attached to
me,’ he said, somewhat conceitedly.
‘And yet you don’t love her!’
‘I do not, Fenella. I never did love her--in the way you mean--and now
I seem less able to do it than before. We are utterly unsuited to each
other. We can never be happy together, and I feel that I would rather
die than marry her.’
‘It is very sad for both of you,’ said Fenella quickly, and she said no
more.
Geoffrey Doyne was annoyed at her reticence. Had she reproached or
blamed him; had her voice but faltered, or a few tears fallen on her
embroidery, she would have afforded him an opening to tell her what
a dangerous charm her society possessed for him, and how (since he
had known her) the thought of his engagement to Jessie Robertson had
become more objectionable every day. But Fenella had no such ordinary
female artifices at hand by which to force a confession of love. She
was afraid of betraying what she felt to him; and her only refuge was
in silence. But as she sat there, apparently absorbed in her work,
the music of the birds, and the waves, and the summer breeze sighing
through the branches, seemed to have floated far away, and her head was
filled with a whirring, birring sound instead, and her heart felt cold
and heavy, and sick to death with a longing that was akin to despair.
At last the silence that reigned between them became insupportable.
Geoffrey Doyne had twisted and turned about upon the grass, and
whistled, and done everything he could think of to attract her
attention, without success.
‘Are we never going to talk to each other again?’ he exclaimed
impatiently. ‘I shall wish I had bitten out my tongue before I
mentioned this abominable business to you, if it is to make any
difference to our pleasant intercourse.’
At the sound of his voice Fenella roused herself.
‘What nonsense you are talking,’ she said, with affected gaiety, as she
threw her work to one side. ‘You make no allowance for people wanting
to rest their tongues a little after dinner. Now, I suppose, the next
thing we must do is to pack up this hamper again. Well, Mr Lazy, am
I to do all by myself? Give me those plates, please; they must go at
the bottom, or the eatables will be spoiled; and I will put Martha’s
little pie and cake in with them, lest she should ask me what I had for
dinner. You must give them to Tugwell, Mr Doyne. They will do for his
supper, or he will keep them for his little children. That is done. Oh,
how heavy it is! I don’t think I could carry it if I tried.’
‘No, no; of course you could not,’ said Geoffrey Doyne. ‘We will leave
it here, and Tugwell will fetch it down to the boat himself. But what
is the matter with you, Fenella? are you cold?’ For the girl had sat
suddenly down on the grass again, and was shivering.
‘I don’t know; I think I am. It seems a little chilly,’ she answered
vaguely.
‘We have been sitting still too long, that is the fact,’ said the young
man. ‘We must not forget that, though it is so warm, it is not summer.
Let us walk along the shore, Fenella; a little exercise will do us
good.’
He stretched out his hand to her as he spoke, and she suffered him
to lead her away. The road they chose was not the one that led to
Ines-cedwyn, but lay along a barren shore on the left side of the
landslip. Here, after the space of a few minutes, they found themselves
utterly alone. They were not even within sight of the village, and the
sea-gulls, wheeling every now and then across their path, were the sole
living creatures they encountered. They walked for a little while,
side by side, with their eyes fixed upon the ground, and their tongues
apparently fettered; but presently Geoffrey Doyne approached nearer his
companion, until his arm stole round her slender waist.
‘Fenella,’ he whispered, in a voice in which an older woman would have
detected the underlying passion--‘Fenella, will you ever be less my
friend than you are now?’
‘Never, Geoffrey, never.’
‘Thanks, dear. You won’t let what I told you this afternoon, then, make
any difference in our affection?’
‘Oh no! Why should it?’
‘For I need your friendship all the more for that,’ he continued. ‘I
shall turn to you for comfort in all my troubles. I shall come to you
when everything goes wrong, that you may tell me what is best to do.’
‘Yes, if I can--if I am able,’ she answered. ‘But you are so much older
and wiser than I am, Geoffrey; you can never need me to tell you what
is right.’
‘I shall need you always, Fenella--all through my life. You have
promised, you know, to stand to me in the place of Edith--to be my
sister and counsellor and friend, and to fill up the gap in my lonely
heart.’
‘And indeed I will,’ replied the girl. ‘You must always think of me as
your sister Fenella.’
But her voice trembled a little, despite all her caution, as she
pronounced the words. Even a sister does not always care to have her
affection divided with another.
‘There is no love so beautiful and holy in this world as the love
between a brother and sister,’ continued the young man, with a view to
mutual consolation. ‘It is the purest, closest friendship of which our
mortal natures are capable. It is devoid of jealousy; it is totally
unselfish, and it desires nothing so much as the good of the person
whom it loves. There can be no higher feeling upon earth, Fenella. It
is next door to the loves of the angels.’
‘Yes; I never had a brother, as you know, but I have always felt so.’
‘But you have a brother now, darling. You will never cease to think of
me as a brother, will you?’ asked Geoffrey Doyne.
‘Oh no; I hope not; but--but--’
‘But _what_, Fenella?’
‘You will be going to India very soon,’ she faltered.
The young man looked grave.
‘That is true; and it will be a terrible trial for both of us. But
life, Fenella, is made up of trials, and love like ours was given to
help us bear them with the greater patience.’
‘I know that; but it is so far away, and you might die there, Geoffrey,
and then I should never see you again.’
‘You mustn’t say that. If you love me as much as I love you, nothing
can ever really part us in this world or the next. I heard once,
Fenella, a most charming theory from the lips of a man of science, and
I have never forgotten it. His belief was, that since the angels are
perfect beings, and no mortal, even in a purified condition, can be so,
our future state will consist of a dual existence--that is, it will
take a man and woman to make one angel; and thus, from our stronger
nerves and qualities, joined to your softer, sweeter natures, will
spring a perfected being.’
‘How beautiful! I wonder if it is true!’ exclaimed Fenella.
‘I love to think it is so,’ continued Geoffrey Doyne; ‘and should it
be, will you not hope, dear, that you and I may be the two true friends
to be thus incorporated into one?’
‘Oh, Geoffrey! yes,’ she whispered.
It was now evening, and the stars had commenced to enamel the dark blue
sky. The young man pointed them out to her.
‘Look at the Pleiades, and Orion, and Charles’s Wain, Fenella,’ he
said. ‘What lovely homes there must be, ready waiting for us, beyond
those stars; and what a little while it will seem, after all, before
we get there. And what rest, what peace we shall enjoy, after having
passed through the waves of this troublesome world. Fenella, my darling
sister, will it not be better to preserve our love, unstained by any
thought of earth, until that moment, than to soil it by contact with
human jealousies and passions here below?’
She did not half understand the meaning of his words, but she knew
intuitively that he wished her to say _yes_, and so she said it.
‘In that world,’ he continued, with his arm encircling her girlish
figure, and his eyes, filled with passion, fixed upon her face,--‘in
that world, my dearest, where all is peace and purity, we will belong
to each other for ever and ever, and no living soul shall have the
power to come between us.’
[Illustration: Decorative]
[Illustration: Decorative]