Fooled by a Woman. A novel

Front matter

a novel. BY MRS. EDWARD KENNARD, Author of "THE CATCH OF THE COUNTY," •■THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT." "WEDDED TO SPORT," Etc., Etc. IN ONE VOLUME. LONDON : F. V. WHITE & CO., 14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1895- PRINTED BT KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183 & 184, HIGH HOLBOUN, LC«DI>N, W.C., AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAf;E I. — Father and Daughter i II. —Diversity of Opinion ... 13 III. — A True Daughter of Eve . . 21 IV. — A Strange Adventure ... 30 V. — The New Tenant ... .39 VI. — An Interchange of -Letters . 45 VII. — Leads to Confessions 55 VIII. — The Growth of Love ... 63 IX. — Difficulties 74 X. — Trust Me a Little ... 80 XI. — Folly and Infatuation . . • 91 XII. — In the Toils of the Charmer . 100 XIII. — A Beautiful Fiend .... 108 XIV. — A Murderous Kiss . . . 118 XV. — War in the Enemy's Camp . . 130 XVI. — The Cunning of the Serpent . 136 XVII. — The Coroner's Inquest . . . 151 XVIII. — God versus Man .... 156 XIX. — A Woman's Choice . . . .166 XX. — What Some Think Right, Others Think Wrong . . . .

CONTENTS. VI CHAP. PAGE XXI. — Struck Down 190 XXII. — The Charity of Man . . . 201 XXIII. — Scruples of Conscience. . .211 XXIV. — Doubts and Fears . . . 217 XXV. — A Rash Undertaking . . .228 XXVI. — Beyond Expectation . . . 237 XXVII. — Nursing the Sick .... 248 XXVIII. — Confronting the Enemy . . 260 XXIX. — Pleading in Vain . . . .266 XXX. — Rather too Attentive . . 273 XXXI. — Bertie's Request . . . .282 XXXII. — Good-bye, my own Mamma . . 289 XXXIIL— "To Die, to Sleep" . . .295 XXXIV. — All Things Come to Him who Waits 300 XXXV. — From an Old Country to a New . 30S

Chapter I

father and daughter. It was a dull, grey afternoon, and over the moorland the mist lay heavy. The faded heather bells were laden with moisture, that filled to overflowing their tiny cups. Every here and there, patches had been burnt, and the gaunt black stalks stood up shiny and wet, whilst now and again a big water drop trickled slowly down their twisted stems, only to be sucked up by the soft, spongy soil. The distant sea was completely lost in fog. The meeting point of earth and sky was invisible ; and the whole vast stretch of undulating hill, constituting an outlying portion of the forest of Exmoor, was shrouded in such dense, white vapour, that its outlines were un distinguishable to the naked eye. Solitary and still loomed the uplands, their gloomy majesty being if pos sible but intensified, when ever and anon, the mist lifted a little in places, and partially revealed the stony sum mit of some steep hill, or the cool green slopes of a shady, tree-clad combe, beloved by the wild red deer that frequented the neighbourhood in great numbers.

No song of bird, no hum of insects, no bleating of sheep, nor deep, monotonous lowing of cattle, broke the surrounding silence. But many hundred feet below the desolate and almost uninhabited region lay a small village, consisting of a church, and a few scattered houses. It was prettily situated, for the blue waters of the Bristol Channel danced in its front, whilst its rear was protected by a background of green foliage, climb ing high up to the moor. Little bays of yellow sand ran into the land, breaking the straight coast line, and giving charming variety of form and colour. Proceeding from the main street of this village — if in deed it were worthy of such a name — a keen listener on the afternoon in question might have heard the dull sound of a blacksmith's heavy strokes, as with slow and measured precision they descended upon the iron anvil.

Going down the long, narrow path — little better than a mountain sheep track — which led from the hillside to the hamlet, we will ask the reader to take a peep inside John Cornish's workshop. The furnace gleams with ruddy light, fitful yet bright, sending a shower of sparks in every direction, which, as they shoot upwards, illumine John's strong, upright figure, with its broad shoulders and thick muscular neck, and cast a changeful glare on the young girl, who stands with her back to the wall, within a foot or so of her companion. It is winter, and the days are short. Four o'clock has only just struck by the village clock, but for all that twilight has already set in, and is softly covering the sodden earth with her dim, grey mantle. John Cornish appeared intent upon his work, and to resent the growing darkness as an unwelcome visitor, whose presence, however, could no longer be ignored.

He gave half a dozen vigorous, finishing blows. Blows whose power and strength indicated that they were not likely to have any successors ; for a man cannot expend his whole stock of energy long at a time. A few moments afterwards he drew a large, red cotton handkerchief from the recesses of his corduroy breeches pocket, and throwing his hammer aside with an impatient gesture, proceeded to wipe the sweat of labour from his rugged brow. "There, Susan," he exclaimed, turning and addressing the girl, who from a certain refined and softened likeness to himself, was evidently his daughter. " I have stuck to my work well, although I say it who shouldn't, but that's enough for to-day. I'm pretty near tired out." And he felt the muscles of his strong right arm with an air of pride in his own strength.

" I don't wonder at it," answered Susan. " You've been at work ever so many hours, and it's quite dark. I came to fetch you away." " Did you now ? That was kind." " Yes, father, I knew you would not be able to see much longer." " And what did you think of my delicacy? " " Your delicacy ? " she repeated, with a mystified air. " I imagined you would sooner be without the old man's company on this particular afternoon. Eh, lass, was I not right ? " giving a meaning chuckle. " You would have done much better to have taken your rest as usual," said the girl, gravely, pretending not to heed her father's interrogation, though the blood flamed into her cheeks. Then in a tone of remonstrance she added : " Besides, why toil so hard, when you have long since saved enough to live in comfort ? I don't see the good of it."

" Because a man like me, Susan, takes the habit of work, and it sticks to him till he goes to his grave. I hate idleness." "So do I, father, and I should not say a word, were it not that I see you daily overtaxing your strength. Our tastes are simple, and our wants few. Why then wear yourself out, in trying to grow rich ? " " Shall I tell you, lass ? Because John Norris is not the man to allow his only daughter to go portionless to her husband." " What a reason, father ! " " A very good one, Susan. Has it never struck you that when you marry you ought to have something to marry on ? " And looking his daughter straight in the face, he gave a significant smile, that seemed to disturb her not a little. She blushed crimson, and turned her head aside. The subject was evidently distressing, and one that she would much rather not discuss.

" I do not require any dowry," she said in a low voice full of discomposure. i* " Hoity toity ! girl. Do you think you are so good looking as to be able to make your way in the world without a sixpence to your back ? " " Oh ! no, father. I don't think anything of the sort." " Then why do you turn up your nose at the idea of a marriage portion ? " "Because," and she hesitated, as if conscious her words would prove displeasing, "I have no intention ol taking a husband for a long time to come. Perhaps," summoning up courage as she wont on, " I may never take one." A frown disfigured John Cornish's bushy brows. It was easy to see that he was sorely displeased. "What!" he cried sternly. "Do you mean to tell me, after I took such pains to leave you and Walter Fane alone together this afternoon, so as to give the young man a chance of speaking out all that was in his mind, that you have refused him once more ?

" And he glared at the offender with indignant incre dulity. She cast down her eyes and began to tremble. John Cornish in his angry moods inspired her with a considerable amount of terror. " What else could I do, father ? " she faltered in reply. " I am sorry to vex you. I — I would not do so if I could help it." " Help it, indeed ! Of course you can help it." " I— I do not love Walter." " Love him ! " thundered out John Cornish in his deep chest-notes. " What has that got to do with the matter ? " " It seems to me it has a good deal to do with it. Everything, in fact." " Not a bit, Susan ; especially when a man is young, and good-looking, and owns a comfortable home to which to take his wife. No sensible girl could wish for a better opportunity of settling in life than the one offered you."

"Perhaps not," said Susan, awed but not convinced by her father's arguments. " Only unfortunately " and she stopped short, without finishing the sentence. " Unfortunately what ? " asked the old man, curtly. " Walter Fane is not to my mind. I don't care for him, and never shall." "And why not, pray? Have you anything against him?" "No, nothing." " He is a very excellent, good, well-conducted young man." "Too good. If he had a few faults, and were not quite so perfect, I should like him better." " Nonsense, Susan. You talk like a simpleton. I insist upon knowing the reason of your refusal of Walter Fane." She sighed. "Ah ! father, do not ask me for a reason. A woman has seldom one to give. She cannot account for her likes and dislikes." " No," he interrupted, contemptuously. " Because women are all born fools."

" Possibly, but they have instincts nevertheless. My instinct tells me that in spite of his money, and his worldly possessions, I would not marry Walter Fane, if he were the last man left on the face of this earth." She spoke with so much decision that it was impossible for her father to doubt the very decided objection she entertained to the match he desired to force upon her. John Cornish took several angry strides up and down the smithy. Her opposition provoked him beyond measure, but he had not the least intention of yielding to such folly, for in that light he regarded Susan's resistance to his wishes. Stopping short in his perambula tions, he came to a standstill before the rebellious young woman, and looking fixedly at her with his flash ing, brown eyes, said in severe tones, " And did you tell Walter Fane all this to his face, Susan ?

" " Yes. On two former occasions I told him that I could not be his wife, but I told him so again to-day, and this time took care there should be no misunder standing. These things are best put an end to at once." " Stuff and nonsense, girl ! Do you suppose I have FOOLED Bis A WOMAN. reared you, and educated you, and striven in every way to fit you for a good position, only to see the dearest wish of my heart set at naught by your stupidity and obstinacy ? " " I wish it were but stupidity and obstinacy," sighed poor Susan. " Why ! " continued John Cornish, raising his voice as he became more and more excited. " When Walter Fane was but a lad of ten, and you a little toddling brown-eyed thing of four, I said to myself even then, ' Those two are made for each other ; they are just cut out to be man and wife.'" "The cutting-out part is easy enough," said Susan. '* Anybody can do that according to their own ideas, but when it comes to the fitting it's a different story altogether.

The pieces won't always match, however hard you try." " Of course not, if you go out of your way to make difficulties. Fortunately, in this case there are none — that is to say, if you will only be a good, sensible girl. Walter is perfectly willing to take you for his wife. As a proof of his devotion, he has already proposed three times " " Well ! " interrupted Susan. " Why can't he take his answer like a man and give over bothering me at every opportunity? " " Because he is not such a donkey, child. When you say no, he thinks you mean yes, and so do I." " Then let me tell you, father, that both you and he are making a very big mistake, and one that shows how little you understand me." " Pshaw ! Do you think I do not know female nature better than you ? A woman likes to be pressed, and to be made to feel that she is of value.

She considers it takes away from her dignity to give in too soon." " I don't care the least about my dignity, I'm sure," said Susan, ruefully. "You don't know what you care about, you don't," answered John Cornish, much as if he were talking to a naughty child. " Girls at your age never do." " So their parents say," retorted Susan, with a toss of her pretty head. She, too, was getting heated, and could not refrain from rejoinder. It had, however, an unfortunate effect upon the peppery old blacksmith. " Now look here, Susan," he said, raising his right arm as he spoke, and bringing it down with a dull thud on the anvil. " I intend to stand no more of this nonsense. If you have really said no to Walter Fane for the third time, and mean what you say, then — then " beginning to stutter in his wrath, " I wash my hands of you, and refuse to recognise you any longer as my daughter."

A shiver passed through Susan's frame. She knew the obstinacy of his nature, and how difficult it was, when once he had taken a thing into his head, to drive that thing out. She recalled several occasions on which arguments, entreaties, and persuasions had proved of no avail ; and she began to entertain a very strong fear that this was one of them. He had, she knew, been vexed with her for refusing Walter's former proposals, but he had never expressed his opinions so forcibly as to-day. A presentiment of impending trouble sent a chill through her veins. Except two or three times in her life her father had treated her kindly and well. But there was a certain austerity about his manner which engendered fear rather than love. His temper was naturally violent, and seeing his mood she was afraid to continue the discussion, knowing that opposition invariably rendered him more irritable.

So she bit her lip till the blood almost started through its tender skin, and with a powerful effort at self-control refrained from making any answer to this last speech of John Cornish. But her silence apparently angered him as much, if not more, than her words. He gazed at her dissatissiedly, and as he did so a sudden suspicion darted through his mind, filling it with vague alarm. Seizing Susan by the wrist, he gripped it hard in his powerful hand, and looked into her face meanwhile with eyes that seemed as if they would read her very inner most thoughts. She resented this close scrutiny, but dared not give any sign that she did so. " Maybe you love somebody else unknown to me," he said slowly, speaking like a man who whilst entertaining a displeasing idea refuses to place much credence in it.

"Tell me, child, have I guessed rightly ? Is that what makes you so difficult to deal with?" And all unconsciously he gripped her slender wrist still harder, till she could have called out from the pain. But the girl's clear eyes never wavered nor drooped under the piercing stare of those encountering her own. The sweet pink colour on her round young cheeks neither deepened nor yet faded away as she listened to the above question. Clearly it stirred no depths which it was advisable to keep concealed. Only as the glances of father and daughter met, a slightly scornful expression curled the corners of her delicate mouth. She might resemble him to a certain degree in appear ance, but there the similarity ended. Under her slender, feminine exterior, there breathed the more tenacious and truly courageous spirit of the two.

For a moment, the subtle magnetism which un doubtedly exists between human beings, who often possess the most opposite natures, kept them spellbound ; then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, Susan said in a clear, flute-like voice, " No, father, you are wrong for once. I do not love anybody else. I do not love any man except you, and," she went on with shy sweetness, " my only wish is to stay at home, and look after you in your old age." So saying, she timidly pressed her father's hand, trying to appeal to his better and more kindly feelings. John Cornish was rough and rugged; of a nature tyrannical and imperious. He loved to domineer over those weaker than himself, and in domineering account them fools. He had done so all his life, and probably would continue to do so, until the end of his days.

But Susan was his only daughter, born of the one woman who once had had it in her power to exercise a charm over his granite spirit, and subdue it to her wishes. In his crabbed old heart there still lurked a few tender spots, only the misfortune was they were by no means easy to find. The girl had, however, just succeeded in laying one bare. When she spoke of her reluctance to leave him, and insinuated that her affection was too strong to admit of her doing so, his anger grew less fierce, and gradually gave place to softer emotions. The frown disappeared from his wide, wrinkled forehead, the angry light faded from his keen brown eye, and his whole face assumed a more placable and benignant expression. " There ! there ! " he exclaimed, gathering up his tools as he spoke, and throwing them into a coarse, brown bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

" That's enough for to-day. We can talk the matter over some other time." " Very well, father," she said, with cheerful alacrity. But though John Cornish appeared to have arrived at this wise decision, he could not act up to it. " I can't believe," he said, after a slight pause, " that you are really in earnest, Susan." " Never mind just now. Let's get home," she re plied, terrified lest the whole question should be re opened on the slightest provocation. "So long as a girl's affections are disengaged, a man can always carry his point, that is to say if he is any thing of a chap," went on John Cornish, as if he were thinking aloud, " and that's what I shall tell Walter Fane when I meet him." Susan, had she been wise, would have let well alone, but she felt hypocritical in listening to such a speech as this, without entering a protest.

John Cornish evidently still cherished illusions, which it was imperative she should remove. Thoughtlessly, on the spur of the moment, she cried out : " Oh, no, father. You must not do that. It would be very wrong to give Walter false hopes." " I shall do as I choose," he answered sullenly. " It will be cruel to tell Walter a falsehood. If we both live a hundred years, I should never, never, never change my mind." Alas, even in defence of what we ourselves feel right and just, it almost seems at times as if it were foolish to make known our true sentiments. The old man's anger was just beginning to subside, when Susan's de claration, once more called down upon her devoted head the full vials of his wrath. She was young and inexperienced, and had not yet learnt that honesty, with all its power and beauty, must yield on certain occasions, to its opponent — tact.

" Hold your tongue, girl," shouted her father, whilst his face suddenly turned purple with passion. " I will have no more of this discussion. I'm sick to death of it. Hand me my coat from the peg there," pointing imperiously with his forefinger to where it hung. " I am going home." " I'm glad of that, father. It's high time you were there." " Yes, but before I go," he continued, in warning tones, that gradually waxed louder and louder, " I wish you to clearly understand my mind is made up." " I do understand," said Susan submissively. "And I wish we could think alike." " Very well, I give you six months' notice in which to consider the matter. If at the end of that time you are not willing to become Walter Fane's wife, you shall be bundled out of my house neck and crop. I'll not put up with a wilful disobedient girl, who won't do as she is told.

So there, miss ! Now you know what you have to expect, and can please yourself accordingly. Say yes, and ten to one but what you will become a happy wife and mother. No " — and he glared ferociously at the trembling girl — " and it is almost a certainty you will be a pauper to the end of your days, for you shan't have one single halfpenny of my money, that I swear." Susan turned deathly pale, and pressed her hands to her bosom. " Oh, father," she moaned. " How can you be so cruel and speak to me in this way ? " " Cruel ! " he retoited. " I am not cruel, except out of kindness. It is you who are cruel, both to yourself and to me. I only seek your happiness, and consider I am taking the most effective means to ensure it." " Indeed, indeed you are not. You are making me miserable." " Only for a time.

Your misery won't last. Walter Fane is a good, steady, respectable young man, with money in the Funds." " Money is not everything," protested Susan. " Perhaps not ; but it is a great deal. The world can't get on without it, anyway. Walter has enough to keep a wife comfortably. As for being desperately in love with him, what does it signify ? A couple of years hence, it will be all one ; for no sooner is a woman fairly married to a man, than she sets to work and picks him to pieces. Therefore, if she finds fault before matrimony or after makes very little difference. For my part I think it's just as well to get the fault-finding over in good time." And enunciating these remarkable sentiments, John Cornish shut the door of his forge with a bang, and walked across the road at a brisk pace. Susan followed, feeling depressed and sorrowful.

She could scarcely trust herself to speak for indignation ; but although temporarily silenced, her brain continued to work busily, harbouring many resentful and defiant thoughts. As she brought up the rear, it occurred to her some what forcibly, that if all men in their dealings with women, resembled her father, it was not very wonderful their wives experienced a certain amount of discontent, and began soon after matrimony to discover a few ugly flaws in their legal possession. She was convinced that if he were her husband in stead of her father, she would feel exactly the same. All her sympathies were enlisted on behalf of the weaker vessel, whose iniquities appeared only natural under given conditions, which she could realise without much difficulty. For if all men were so imperious and domineering, how could their female belongings like them ?

It was an awful problem to propound ; but how could they ? Was it their duty to love, simply because they were told to do so, and have neither will nor heart of their own ? She asked herself that question very often, but did not succeed in answering it to her satisfaction. Her mind was only just beginning to awake to the grave difficulties presented by life, and the relations of man and woman were puzzling in the extreme. No wonder that where so many have failed to arrive at any solution of their respective duties, and positions, she shrank back in alarm, and wondered vaguely whether it could really be true, that a child owed such implicit obedience to a parent's will, that however tyrannical he might be, she ought to do violence to the most sacred instincts of her being. Was she bound knowingly to destroy all her chances of earthly happiness ?

Susan, like many other girls at her age, was romantic, and believed firmly in love, even although she had not as yet experienced that tormenting passion. Therefore she did not approve of the prosaic contract, which found such favour in the eyes of John Cornish. She did not want so solemn a thing as marriage settled for her. She desired to settle it for herself, at her own good time and pleasure. To be tied for your life to a man, whether you cared for him or not, seemed to her a very serious action ; and one which she resented being driven into committing. Certain mule-like characteristics, possessed by the female sex, were fully aroused at the mere idea of having to take a husband against her will, simply to gratify plans made by another person, who had never even consulted her, or taken the trouble to ascertain if she approved of them or not.

The whole thing seemed to Susan utterly preposterous. She had no wish to be disobedient to her father. Any reasonable request she was quite prepared to accede to ; but surely on this occasion, he sought to carry his authority too far. She had never been nearer to downright disliking him than during the few moments when, with every appearance of outward submission, she followed him down the street.

Chapter II. Diversity

of opinion. John Cornish was not a Devonshire man by birth. He had been born in London, and up to his fortieth year had never travelled far from the metropolis. Hence, a certain activity of mind, and superiority of diction not commonly met with in one of his class, inhabiting a remote seaside village, miles away from any real centre of civilisation. Chance had taken him to Beachmouth ; and there, captivated by the wild, free, moorland scenery, and still more so by the rustic charms of her who was destined to become Susan's mother, he pitched his tent. But his married Use proved short, though sweet. It lasted little over a year. At the end of that time Mrs. Cornish died, having previously given birth to an infant daughter. John had been a bachelor for so long, that perhaps it was only natural he should quickly revert to the somewhat selfish habits of a single man, accustomed to think of himself, and himself alone.

He looked upon the baby as an unwelcome addition to his bereaved home, and found great difficulty in realising that this curious creature, with its puckered little face, big eyes, wandering hands, and capacious lungs, was his own peculiar property. Somehow it em barrassed him. He was not used to children, and did not understand their ways. For the first few months of her existence he watched Susan critically, but with a shy curiosity He maintained an impassive aspect in her presence, and gave vent to no transports of parental delight. The sight of this small, helpless, motherless thing did not cause his heart to swell with tenderness. He had loved his wife well ; as well as it was in his nature to love one, who belonged to what he ever deemed the inferior sex. When he lost her, he looked upon the innocent child as the cause of her death, and all unconsciously harboured a grudge against it in his mind.

He did not want the one, and he did want the other — or at least he fancied so, and in consequence considered himself a hardly treated man. But in process of time, as little Susan grew and displayed many infantile graces, she began to assert her presence, and gradually made it recognised as a power in the household. John could no longer ignore her existence, when all day long the sound of her sweet childish voice filled the small rooms, and her faltering footsteps made the wooden staircase creak, as they trotted up and down with the restless activity of extreme youth. John was forced to reply to her artless queries, to take interest in the things in which she was interested, and by degrees his paternal feelings — so long dormant — woke into slow and wondering life. He did not give them much outward expression, but he was conscious of their existence, and felt half proud, half ashamed of his softness.