Honeymoons are not always the blissful periods anticipated by those who
enter on them, but Frederick’s and Jenny’s promised to be an exception
to the rule. The girl was so lively and merry, so easily pleased with
all that surrounded her, and disposed to make so light of any little
_désagremens_, that she formed a delightful companion. And then, she
was so desperately in love with her husband, and he with her, that
they both thought, and perhaps rightly, that they had never known what
happiness was till then. Frederick especially, who had frittered away
his time and his affections on more girls than he could remember the
names of, could not understand how he could have been such a fool as
to waste his life in so frivolous a manner, when so much pleasure had
been within his grasp. The day after his marriage, when he was ready to
consider himself quite a Benedict of experience, he decided that there
was but one source of happiness, worth calling by the name, in this
world, and that was the whole and undivided love of a wife, whose heart
you felt to be entirely your own.
It was a lovely day, and the two young people were sitting in a room
that looked upon the sea, watching the bright waves that were dashing
up against the harbour bar, and filling the air with their sweet, salt
flavour. Jenny, looking the very quintessence of youth and beauty,
attired in a flowing gown of white muslin and lace, with a knot of blue
ribbon in her sunny hair, was seated on her husband’s knee, playing
with his dark locks, and ever and anon pressing her ripe lips upon his
forehead.
‘My darling, my darling!’ he said, in a fervour of admiration, ‘how
happy we are! Did you ever think we should be so exquisitely happy,
Jenny?’
‘No, Fred, I have never dreamed there could be such bliss in my life
before. It is like heaven to be here, all alone with you, and to feel
that we shall never, never part again, that we are all in all to one
another, and that no one can ever come between us, or separate us. I
have only one little regret, Fred, darling, and that is a very little
one.’
‘What is it, sweetheart?’
‘That father and mother are angry with me! If they had been kind about
you, I should be the very happiest girl alive. I think _I am_ that,
now, but if everything were right with the old people, I should be the
happiest in heaven or earth.’
‘My dear little wife, I don’t think you need trouble your sweet self
about that, they are sure to come round before long. Why you know they
couldn’t live without you. Naturally they are angry at present. We
have been very naughty, but we mean to be ever so good for the future,
so that they shall be quite proud of us. By the way, Jenny, did you
write that letter to your father?’
‘Certainly, and posted it yesterday. Oh! what a time it seems since we
were married. I can hardly believe it is only a day. It seems like a
year.’
‘That’s very complimentary to me, my darling; but you might have had an
answer to your letter by telegram this morning.’
‘So I might, but I daresay dear old papa is awfully enraged with me,
and is keeping me in suspense on purpose; but mamma is sure to write in
a day or two; I shall be glad to hear from them, Fred. I’d rather know
the worst at once.’
‘Why, what do you suppose the worst will be, you little silly? Who can
do you any real harm, now that you have me to protect you? Who could
wound you through the circle of my arms,’ exclaimed Frederick, as he
cast them around her. ‘I defy the world to take my angel from my
clasp; and so long as she has me and I have her, we shall be happy!’
The girl was silent for a few moments, whilst her husband was devouring
her with kisses, but when he released her, she said thoughtfully,--
‘Do you know who I doubt, Fred, though he has been our friend for
years, and papa thinks there is no one like him--Mr Hindes! He has
always been awfully good to me, and his wife is one of my dearest
friends, but still, somehow, he always seems to come between me and
anything I like. He is always advising papa about me, as if I belonged
to him as well. He made him exchange my dog-cart for a Ralli, because
he declared it was too dangerous for me to drive about in, and he
makes mamma take me home from parties before twelve o’clock, for fear
I should be overtired. I suppose he means it kindly, but I think it
is very officious of him, and I have told him so. And now, I fancy,
he will be advising my parents not to give in and forgive me too
soon--perhaps tell them not to forgive me at all,’ added Jenny, with
drooping head.
‘Officious, indeed! I should call it d--d impertinence on his part,’
acquiesced her husband, ‘and he wouldn’t try that game on twice with
me! To tell you the truth, little woman, I don’t like your Mr Hindes
any more than you do; he interfered in my affairs sufficiently by
informing me I was to make myself scarce, but I expect by this time
that he has found out his mistake. There is certainly something curious
about the fellow. One cannot find fault with his manner, which is most
courteous, and he seems well-informed into the bargain, and yet he has
a knack of saying the most unpleasant things in a pleasant way that I
ever came across. However, he will never worry you again, my Jenny, nor
cross your path, if you don’t wish him to do so.’
‘Oh! I have no wish to cut him, only I fancy he will influence papa
to hold out against us as long as possible. For the funny part about
him is, that although he has always been so kind to me, personally,
whenever he advises papa on my account, it is always something to give
me annoyance instead of pleasure. I really quite hated him at one time,
for so constantly opposing my wishes. I was always doing something
unladylike, or dangerous, or foolish, according to Mr Hindes’ account.’
‘Well, that’s over, at all events,’ replied Frederick, ‘neither Mr
Hindes, nor Mr Anybody else, shall ever interfere with my wife’s
pursuits. If I think she is endangering her precious safety, I shall
kiss her till she promises me to leave it off and be a good girl, but
nothing else shall come between us.’
‘I shall go on being bad, so that you may go on kissing me,’ said
Jenny, as she nestled closer to him.
‘But what are we going to decide about to-morrow, little wife?’ asked
the young man, after an eloquent pause. ‘Is it to be Paris or not?’
‘Do the boats run to-morrow?’ asked Jenny, dubiously.
‘I fancy so, but that is soon ascertained. They are sure to know
all about it in the hotel. The question is, do you prefer to cross
to-morrow or Monday?’
‘We are very happy here,’ said the girl, thoughtfully.
‘Happy! my sweet! happy is not the word for it. We are in Paradise, at
least I know I am. But what made you make that remark?’
‘Because, if it is all the same to you, Fred, I would rather stay here
till Monday; then, if my father writes to me, or wishes to see me, I
shall have time to receive his letter or to receive him before we leave
England.’
‘Very well, dear, have your own way in everything. You will never find
me oppose your wishes. I am not so sanguine as you are about the old
people coming round so quickly--I fancy your dear papa has a will of
his own--still, it will be as well, perhaps, to stay a day or two in
England, to give them a chance of behaving like Christians. But what do
you feel like now doing now, eh?’
‘Kissing you,’ replied Jenny, suiting the action to the word.
‘But we’ve been at that game for twenty-four mortal hours, my darling,’
he cried, laughing, ‘and before long there will be nothing of us left.
Will you come for a walk?’
‘Dearest, I’m too tired.’
‘Well, if your ladyship will give me a little leave of absence, I will
go for a swim. It is just the day for it. I sha’n’t be long. Back for
luncheon, at all events.’
‘Oh! love, be careful,’ exclaimed Jenny, with startled eyes; ‘don’t do
anything rash. Think how precious you are to me!’
‘You dear goose,’ replied her husband, ‘why, swimming is one of the
things I do best. However, I will be careful, I promise you, now, and
always, that I have such a dear wife to care if I live or die.’
‘I suppose you will not want luncheon till three,’ said Jenny, for the
remains of breakfast were still on the table.
‘No, three will do nicely, and then we will have a carriage and go for
a jolly drive over the cliffs.’
‘I wish I had my dear cobs here, and could drive you myself,’ said
Jenny, with a slight sigh. ‘I wonder if father will let me have my
cobs. They are my very own, for he gave them to me on my birthday.’
‘If he doesn’t, your husband will give you a pair that you will like
just as well.’
He came back as he spoke and embraced her fondly.
‘Don’t regret anything you may have left behind you, my sweet,’ he
murmured, ‘remember, you cannot have them and me as well.’
‘I regret nothing and nobody,’ she answered, clinging to him, ‘you are
my world, dearest. In having you I have everything.’
The young man’s face glowed with delight, as he tore himself away from
his enchantress, and left the hotel to have his swim.
For a little time after he had quitted her, Jenny tried to interest
herself with the newspapers and magazines which they had purchased
the day before. But she was naturally restless, and could not chain
her thoughts to anything. She read one or two short stories without
knowing what they were about, for her mind would keep wandering back
to Hampstead and all that was happening there. Every time a footfall
sounded near her room, she fancied it was the waiter bringing a
telegram from her father, or a message, perhaps, that he waited below
to speak to her. At last her nervous dread, lest he should arrive and
interview her without the protection of her husband, grew to such a
height that she felt as if she could not remain in the hotel without
Frederick, and put on her walking attire with the idea of going to
the beach and waiting for him there. But Dover was a strange place to
Jenny, and she had no idea which direction Frederick might have taken,
nor where the gentlemen bathed, nor if it would be proper for her to
go there if she did. Besides, did she not remember her husband saying
something about bathing from a boat, in which case he might be miles
away from the land. The green downs stretched out invitingly before
her; looking so much cooler and less glaring than the sandy beach
sprinkled over with nursemaids and children, so she turned her steps
in that direction. She carried a magazine in her hand, and she would
go and sit on the cliffs she thought, till three o’clock had struck
and Frederick had returned home again. A little chill feeling ran over
Jenny, as she took her seat on the sward close to the edge of the
cliffs whence she could see and hear the sparkling waves as they dashed
over the shingly beach, and she moved further inland with a shudder.
‘What an awful thing it would be,’ she inwardly said, ‘if I were to
fall over those cliffs now--_now_, in the very hey-day of my youth and
happiness. To leave my Frederick just as I know what it is to love him;
just as I have taken the bold step to unite myself with him forever!
Yet others have done it; others, I suppose, with hopes as high as mine,
and with feelings as strong. Oh, it must have been terrible! terrible!
The very idea makes my flesh creep! I must be over-excited and nervous
to-day to think of such a silly thing!’ and she drew herself further
and further away from the edge of the cliff and tried to interest
herself in her book.
It was about this time that Henry Hindes, pale and anxious as to the
issue of his errand, walked into the vestibule of the Castle Warden
Hotel and asked if Mrs Walcheren were at home. The porter having
referred to half-a-dozen waiters in turn, at first said ‘yes,’ but on
Mr Hindes sending up his name for admittance, the man returned to say
he had been mistaken, and neither Mr nor Mrs Walcheren were indoors.
‘Is it only an excuse, or is the lady really not in?’ demanded Mr
Hindes.
‘She is really not at home, sir,’ was the reply, ‘but I did not see her
go out; I suppose she went through the garden. Mr Walcheren went out
better than an hour ago, for I saw him pass through the hall myself.’
‘Do you know when they are likely to be in?’ next asked the visitor.
‘I can’t say for certain, sir, but their lunch is ordered for three
o’clock.’
‘Very well; I will return at three.’
‘What name shall I say, sir?’
‘You need say no name. I will send it up on my return,’ said Henry
Hindes as he walked away.
He was disappointed that he had not found Jenny at home and alone, yet
it was hardly natural that a young husband and wife should separate
on the very morning after their wedding-day. But we are all apt to be
unreasonable when our wishes are thwarted. However, he made up his
mind to call again at three o’clock. Whether alone or together, he
could not return to Hampstead without seeing Jenny, and delivering to
her the message with which her father had entrusted him. So he must
wile away the intervening hours as best he could. He stopped at the
bar to have a brandy-and-soda, not the first by several, that he had
taken that morning to build up his courage for the coming interview,
and sustain him under the shock which the news of her marriage had been
to him. And then he wandered forth into the town and took his way idly
up the very path to the cliffs that Jenny had trodden before him. He
had not walked, slowly and clumsily, for more than half an hour when
he came upon her, seated on the close-cropped herbage, with her eyes
fixed thoughtfully upon the water, and her book lying unheeded in her
lap. Henry Hindes’ heart gave a great leap and throb as he recognised
the lovely features, shaded by a broad chip hat, trimmed with field
flowers, and the graceful figure of the beauty of Hampstead. Here was
an opportunity, for which he had never hoped--to find her thus alone
and unoccupied, amidst the glories of Nature, with her attention free
to listen to his pleadings on her parents’ behalf. His involuntary
exclamation as he encountered her, caused Jenny to look round, and the
hot blush of shame that flooded her face at seeing him proved that she
was not dead to the knowledge that she had done something to blush for.
‘Mr Hindes!’ she said, with a little gasp as if of fear, ‘what has
induced you to follow me?’
‘Nothing but the heartiest interest in your welfare, Jenny, you may
be sure of that! Did you think that we could hear the news of your
marriage at Hampstead without emotion? It paralysed us, Jenny! We could
not believe it without further proof--without your assurance that it
was undertaken of your own free will.’
‘My father is the proper person to put such questions to me,’ replied
Jenny, proudly. ‘If he wished them answered, why did he not come to
Dover himself, instead of sending you?’
‘Your father could not come if he wished it. Your letter has made him
so ill that he is not fit to leave home. I dread what the effects
of the shock may be on him. Remember, he is no longer a young man,
sixty-two on his last birthday, and you have robbed him of all he had
in life.’
‘I don’t see that,’ replied Jenny, with her old pertness, ‘I must have
married some day; I don’t suppose my father meant to keep me single all
my life, and in such a matter, people are generally left to choose for
themselves.’
‘Not when their choice is in direct opposition to their parents’
wishes! However, you have elected to fly in their faces, and what’s
done can’t be undone. I visited the Earl’s Court Registrar’s Office
this morning, and found the ill news was, indeed, too true. It,
therefore, now only remains to be seen what remedy there is for so sad
a state of affairs, and if you are prepared to hear the proposal your
father has sent you by me.’
He had made as though he were about to throw himself on the grass
beside her, and, in order to avoid his doing so, Jenny rose and moved a
few paces forward. Henry Hindes had, therefore, no alternative but to
walk slowly by her side, and as she had turned her face from the town,
each step took them further from it.
‘If you have anything unpleasant to tell me,’ she said, with a slight
laugh, ‘for goodness’ sake don’t make it public property. Let us go
further up the cliffs, where our voices will not reach any loiterers on
the beach below.’
‘You can hardly expect my message to be a very pleasant one, Jenny,’
commenced Henry Hindes, as composedly as he knew how, ‘but it is
soon told. Mr Crampton refuses either to write to or see you, unless
you agree to his conditions. When he received your terrible news
this morning, I was afraid he would have a fit, it affected him so
dreadfully. As for your poor mother and aunt, they are, I hear, in
utter despair. You have changed a happy home, Jenny, into a house of
mourning.’
‘Well, they should have been more considerate of my feelings,’ said the
girl, in a low voice, but Mr Hindes could detect signs of softening in
it.
‘They were considerate of them, they intended to be considerate of
them,’ exclaimed Henry Hindes, ‘they only told you the truth when they
said that Walcheren was not a fit man for you to marry, that he was a
gambler and an evil liver--that--’
‘Mr Hindes, you forget yourself,’ cried the girl with newly acquired
dignity, ‘when you said those things the other day, you were speaking
of an acquaintance, to-day you are maligning _my husband_!’
‘I cannot help it! Were he twenty times your husband, I must say what
is in my mind concerning him. You have had your own way too long,
Jenny, and now you have taken it to your ruin. But your father is
willing to receive you back as his daughter, on one condition, and that
is, that you leave this man who has led you into so grievous an error,
and return to the protection of your parents.’
Jenny gazed at him as if he had been a lunatic.
‘Do I hear you rightly,’ she said, ‘or are you mad? Leave my husband,
whom I have just married, leave the man whom I love above all the
world, father and mother included, leave him all alone and go back to
Hampstead to live a widowed life with my people! Why, papa must have
been tipsy to propose such a thing. What had you been giving the old
gentleman to make him talk such nonsense? Surely you are dreaming and
have fancied it all.’
‘Dreaming!’ echoed Hindes, indignantly; ‘is it dreaming to see your
father’s agony, to hear of your mother’s tears? No, these things may be
play to you, Jenny, but they are death to them. I have repeated your
father’s words just as he told them to me. “I will never see her, nor
speak, nor write to her so long as life lasts,” he said, “and I will
never, under any circumstances, receive that man into my house; but,
if Jenny will give him up and come back to our protection, I will try
and forgive the past.” Jenny! think of what you are resigning before
you finally decide. Mr Crampton is much richer than you imagine. You
will inherit nothing short of fifteen to twenty thousand a year at his
death. And you were married illegally. Mr Walcheren took a false oath
about your age, and this may be set aside if you will only give your
consent to it. Why, Jenny, you have not been half clever enough! With
your beauty and prospective wealth, you should have married into the
aristocracy. Think twice about it. Give up this man who is not worthy
of you, and you will make twice as brilliant a marriage by-and-by.’