JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.
Save her honeymoon, probably the happiest time in a woman's life is
the period of her engagement--the time when she is being adored by her
lover, congratulated by her friends, and is delightfully employed in
expecting and receiving the customary offerings of her friends and
acquaintances, and in making those varied and numerous purchases which
seem to be considered _de rigueur_ on such occasions.
For the time being she is, at all events, the supreme centre of
interest amid her own immediate circle; her life teems with pleasure
and expectation generally; a beautiful halo is around the most
commonplace of things; the present is enjoyable, the future
entrancing, and she--the luckiest of women, surely?--dances along over
her rose-strewn path, under her cloudless sky, happy in the conviction
that smiles and eternal sunshine are to be her lot.
What if, after marriage, the sky is ofttimes clouded and the path of
life grows stormy, and the smiles disappear in frowns--and we know
that such a change does sometimes come over the spirit of the most
beautiful of matrimonial dreams--what if some of the early illusions
are mercilessly murdered?--there is always that pre-nuptial period to
be looked back upon with fondness, if also with regret. She has
snatched from fate at least one hour of supreme and unalloyed
delight--there is true satisfaction in the thought. And happy is the
mortal who enjoys even that much happiness in this troublous world.
The years of the Moorish Caliph were sixty and more; his hours of
perfect bliss--five!
Olive, had she been engaged to Mallow, would have enjoyed her supreme
hour with all the zest of a naturally happy disposition. As it was,
she was wretched in the extreme. She detested her affianced husband,
and she knew how deep was her love for the man she would have had in
his place. Tossed about like a shuttlecock by these extremes of
feeling, she anticipated her wedding-day with dread--almost with
terror. The loss of the money would have been of no account with her;
it was the dying wish of her father that she felt she could not
disregard, to say nothing of the hint of unknown evil which the sealed
letter contained. Why her father should have expressed himself so
strongly, and yet so vaguely, she could not conceive. She could only
conclude that he had committed some error in his life for which she
was to pay the penalty. Jephthah vowed rashly, and circumstances
brought about the sacrifice of his daughter that he might not be
forsworn. Likewise she was to suffer for her father's sake by
contracting this loveless marriage. There were times when she was
resolved to throw all to the winds, to let Fate do her worst, rather
than suffer what was before her; but in the end her affection for her
dead father prevailed, and she bent her will to the force of
circumstance.
On the subject of such unqualified obedience, her friend Tui did not
hesitate to express herself strongly, for she was an independent young
lady with ideas the reverse of favourable to what she termed family
slavery. That any parent should command or expect to receive blind and
unquestioning obedience was not her way of thinking. She was,
therefore, exceedingly wrathful at her friend's decision.
"When a human being arrives at years of sense, he has every right to
shape his own life," said she, _ex cathedra_. "Our religion teaches us
that every one has to answer for his own sins, therefore certainly he
should choose his own wickednesses."
"You speak in the masculine sense, dear," rejoined Olive; "besides, I
do not intend to commit any sin, that I am aware of."
"I speak for woman as well as for man, Olive; and if you marry a
creature you don't care two straws about, you will be committing a
sin, and a very great one."
"Oh, Tui, darling!"
"It's no use saying, 'Oh, Tui, darling,'" replied Miss Ostergaard,
vehemently; "you know in your own heart that I am right. Do you or do
you not love Laurence Mallow?"
"I do, with all my soul."
"Then why don't you marry him?"
"He hasn't asked me yet," replied Olive, with attempted carelessness.
"I do not even know if he loves me."
"My dear, you know well enough that he does. Why, he would give his
ears to make you his wife; and it is only his scruples about this
wretched engagement that makes him hold his tongue. Believe me,
obedience can be carried too far, Olive, and it is absurd and wrong
that you should wreck your life just because your father commands you
to marry the son of an old friend of his."
"But the sealed letter, Tui!"
"Oh, that's a bogey. What evil can come to you? You have your own
money, good health, and the love of a most delightful man. I should
defy that letter."
"But you forget I shall lose fifty thousand pounds, dear."
"What of that?" reported the romantic Tui. "I am sure Mr. Mallow is
worth paying that price for. He's a darling, I think. If you don't
marry him, Olive, I'll make love to him myself--there!"
"What about Lord Aldean?"
"Lord Aldean is a donkey--a dear, sweet donkey, all the same. He is
too young to know his own mind."
"Indeed, he is two or three years your senior."
"Well, I never; as if you didn't know that a woman is always twice the
age of a man. But you are getting away from the subject. Do you really
intend marrying this horrid Mr. Carson?"
"I must," sighed Olive, ruefully; "my father----"
"Oh dear me, your father again!" interrupted Tui, pettishly, "as if he
had anything to do with it. There is too much talk of obedient
children, and not enough of reasonable parents. Why should people be
born when they don't want to, just to be miserable slaves to those who
put them in the world against their will?"
"Would you marry against your father's will?"
"Yes, I would, if what he wanted was to make me miserable. I would
suffer for no one; and I don't see that any one--be they father or
mother--has a right to expect it."
"Tui, you have been listening to that horrid Dr. Drabble."
"I know I have. Dr. Drabble is a very sensible man."
"Does he treat his wife sensibly, dear?"
"We are not talking about his wife," said Tui, evading the point, "but
about him. I don't agree with everything he says, but I approve of a
great deal. Every one should be a free agent. Marry Mr. Carson, and
you will be miserable. Become Mrs. Mallow, and you will be happy; and,
father or no father, I know which of them I would choose."
"Oh, Tui, what nonsense you talk."
"Sense, sense, sense, I talk reason, sound reason--and you know I do."
"I know nothing of the sort."
"Then you ought to," exclaimed Tui, with heat. "Now you are going to
be nasty, dear, so I shall leave you till you recover your temper;"
and Miss Ostergaard, holding that discretion was the better part of
valour, hastily retreated.
The wretched Olive did not know whether to laugh or cry. Deserted by
Tui, who had gone over to the enemy, she was more than ever
bewildered. Miss Slarge, too, was all against Carson--Olive had long
seen that--although neither her opinion nor help was of any great
value. Olive felt desperate. The wedding-day was only a few weeks
distant, and almost immediately she would have to come to a definite
decision. Should she accept or reject Carson? should she forego the
money and ignore the letter? The more she put the question to herself
the more bewildered she became.
When they first arrived, Major Semberry and his friend had been guests
at the Manor House; but as Miss Slarge (who was nothing if not
conventional) did not approve of a lengthy visit, they had removed to
the village inn. However, they still spent a great deal of their time
at the Manor House, and it so happened that whilst Olive and Tui were
pursuing their discussion, they came in for luncheon. Olive heard
their voices on the lawn, but, feeling that she could meet neither of
them in her present state of mind, sent a message to her chaperon, and
slipped out of the house. She walked through the woods and out on to
the hills, turning over and over again in her mind her ever-present
dilemma.
Now, as though to settle the matter offhand, Fate had inspired Mallow
with a spirit of restlessness, and he, in his turn, feeling little
inclined for Aldean's chatter or company, had strolled out alone. Thus
it came about that on the breezy space of the downs the two young
people met. Having met, they could scarcely pass without greeting, and
they ended in sauntering side by side over the springy turf: Fate had
trapped them, and Fate would have to answer for the consequences.
It was a perfect day: bland and sunny, and redolent of summer
fragrance and peace. An early shower had fallen, and the raindrops
sparkled on the grass, while the sheep straggled on the hillside, and
the fitful breeze dispersed the sweetness of the land. A circling
lark, lost in the blue, rained down its music, and the grey rabbits
scuttled into their burrows at the approach of the lovers--for lovers
they were, though their love was undeclared. Side by side they walked
on--scarcely speaking, scarcely looking. They were alone on the lonely
downs under the roof of God's sky, standing on the variegated pavement
of God's temple, the strongest passion Nature knows gripping them at
their heart-strings.
At first their conversation--such as it was--turned on trivial things.
They skirted, as it were, the sole thought which filled the hearts of
both. But their joint attempt to evade it was doomed to failure.
Nature would have her own, and she seized it by force. Their idle talk
dwindled into monosyllables; even these grew rare and low, and then a
long silence ensued. Mallow felt his mouth dry and his heart beating
furiously. He turned his eyes, eloquent with unspoken passion, on the
woman by his side. With a thrill, half of joy, half of fear, she
winced and shrank back.
"Don't!" she said faintly, holding up her hand, "I beg of----"
"I must," said Mallow, hoarsely, as her voice died on her lips.
"Olive, darling, what is the use of our keeping up this pretence?
I--I--I love you."
"I must--I will!" He seized her hand and fixed his eyes on her
flushed, downcast face. "I love you; you love me--we are for each
other. You cannot deny that what I say is true. I can see the truth in
your face, in your eyes. Olive, Olive,--my Olive!"
"Laurence--Mr. Mallow; you forget my position."
"I do not. You are engaged to a man for whom you do not care, whom you
shall not marry. I forbid you to marry this Carson."
"You have no right----"
"I have every right--the right of love. Deny it if you can. If you go
to the altar with Carson you go with a lie on your lips. You are mine,
mine only; and I swear to God that I will not give you up. Dearest,
tell me what is in your heart. Do not deny me one little word. You
love me--you love me; say that you love me."
The overwhelming force of his passion swept her away. She could no
longer struggle against him--against herself. "I do love you," she
faltered; then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she tore herself
away from him, and shrank back, covering her face with her hands.
"I knew it!" he cried in triumph. "You love me, you are mine, you will
not marry this man."
"I must, I must," she murmured, terrified by the way in which she felt
he was breaking down the barriers of her will.
"You must not. I tell you, Olive, you shall not. I am you lover, your
master, your husband--not that feeble foolish Jack-o'-dandy, with his
silly smile and feeble will. Give him up, give him up; I command you,
give him up."
"Laurence, you are brutal."
"Darling forgive me, pardon me, I am beside myself. I am your slave,
your worshipper. Oh, my heart, my love, my dearer self, be kind to one
whose life is yours."
Olive dried her eyes and became more composed as Mallow changed his
tone. She turned towards him with face as white as marble.
"Laurence," she said quietly--"for I dare call you Laurence--I love, I
have always loved you, and I always shall love you; but I am not my
own mistress. I would to Heaven that I were; but I am helpless. I must
marry this man, not for the money--ah, no; the money can go, but
because my dear father left a letter for me in which he urged me to
obey his dying wish and marry Angus Carson. . . . If I do not, evil
will come of my refusal."
"Evil, Olive! what evil?"
"I do not know. My father's letter gave no explanation. It simply said
that terrible evil would come if I did not obey his wish. I dare not
refuse. I dare not ignore that solemn command. Much as I love you, I
must sacrifice it--yes, and you--to the memory of my father."
"You will marry Carson?" asked Laurence, his face growing pale.
Olive bowed her head. "What else would you have me do?" she asked
pitifully.
"Do?" With a burst of passion, he seized her again in his arms.
"Do?--I would have you become my wife."
"My father----"
"Your father had no right to condemn you to lifelong misery. It shall
not be. You are mine. I will not give you up."
"Cruel, cruel, when you know how I suffer," she sobbed. "If you love
me, you would let me go; you would urge me to fulfil the wish of the
dead."
Almost rudely he flung her from him. "Go then," he said bitterly. "I
want no love so feeble that it bends to another's will. Obey your
father if you think fit; marry Carson, and leave me to go----"
"How dare you to speak to me like that?" cried Olive, passing from
tears to fury. "If you suffer, do not I suffer? I loathe to marry this
man. I would kill myself if I dared. I----"
"You talk like a child," he said roughly.
"I feel like a woman," she retorted heartily.
"You think only of your own misery. What is it to mine? You are not
forced into the arms of a woman you detest."
"If you go, you go to Carson of your own free will."
"Oh, Laurence, how can you say that I go to another man of my own free
will when you know how I love you? It is unjust; cruel. If my father
were alive, I might have the courage to refuse. As it is, how can I
disobey? If I refuse Angus Carson some evil will surely follow, and if
I marry you I involve you in it too. Would that be right?"
"Olive, I would go to hell for you and with you."
"Laurence, you do not love me--you cannot love me--or you would not
make it harder for me; your feeling for me is not love, it is
selfishness. I must bow to your will, I must flout my father in his
grave, I must cast all to the winds that you may gain your wish."
"Olive!" His voice was husky and broken. "I would do all that and more
for you. But since you hold my love so low, let us forget that I have
told it; let us part here now, and for always."
"Laurence, Laurence, my heart will break."
"And for a shadow, Olive."
"No, no!" she cried, "no shadow, no folly this. It is only too real.
You are right; let us--let us say good-bye."
"You tell me to go?"
"I--tell--you--to--go."
"Then listen to me. I love you, and I intend that you shall be my
wife. I don't care for Carson, or the money, or the threatened evil,
or anything else. I sweep all these away. I say good-bye now, and I go
to London--to Athelstane Place."
Olive looked bewildered. "In God's name why?" she faltered.
"To learn if the man who was murdered there was the man you should
have married."
"I--I--why, I am to marry Mr. Carson!"
"It is yet to be proved that this man is Mr. Carson."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you what I mean when I come back;" and without a
handshake or a glance at her white face, Mallow walked abruptly away.