HIS VISITOR.
"The fairy woman maketh moan,
'Well-a-day, and well-a-day,
Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one,
and thou didst cast my rose away.'
Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet,
'One good ship--the good ship sailed,
One bright star, at last it set,
one, one chance, forsooth it failed.'
"'Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes,
show thy face as thee beseems,
For yet is starlight in the skies,
weird woman piteous through my dreams,
'Nay,' she mourns, 'forsooth not now,
veiled I sit for evermore,
Rose is shed, and charmèd prow
shall not touch the charmèd shore.
"There thy sons that were to be,
thy small gamesome children play;
There all loves that men foresee
straight as wands enrich the way.
Dove-eyed, fair, with me they wonn
where enthroned I reign a queen,
In the lovely realms foregone,
in the lives that might have been."
That glad to-morrow for Valentine never came. At the time when he should
have reached Wigfield, a letter summoned his brother to Melcombe.
Emily and John Mortimer had delayed their return, for Valentine, whether
from excitement at the hope of setting off, or from the progress of his
disease, had been attacked, while sitting out of doors, with such sudden
prostration of strength that he was not got back again to the house
without the greatest difficulty. They opened a wide window of the "great
parlour," laid him on a couch, and then for some hours it seemed
doubtful whether he would rally.
He was very calm and quiet about it, did not at all give up hope, but
assented when his sister said, "May I write to St. George to come to
you?" and sent a message in the letter, asking his brother to bring his
wife and child.
He seemed to be much better when they arrived, and for two or three days
made good progress towards recovery; but the doctors would not hear of
his attempting to begin his journey, or even of his rising from the bed
which had been brought down for him into the wide, old-fashioned
parlour.
And so it came to pass that Brandon found himself alone about midnight
with Valentine, after a very comfortable day of little pain or
discomposure. All the old intimacy had returned now, and more than the
old familiar affection. Giles was full of hope, which was all the
stronger because Valentine did not himself manifest that unreasonable
hopefulness which in a consumptive patient often increases as strength
declines.
His will was signed, and in his brother's keeping; all his affairs were
settled.
"I know," he had said to his brother, "that I have entirely brought this
illness on myself. I was perfectly well. I often think that if I had
never come here I should have been so still. I had my choice; I had my
way. But if I recover, as there seems still reason to think I may, I
hope it will be to lead a higher and happier life. Perhaps even some
day, though always repenting it, I may be able to look back on this
fault and its punishment of illness and despondency with a thankful
heart. It showed me myself. I foresee, I almost possess such a feeling
already. It seems to have been God's way of bringing me near to Him.
Sometimes I feel as if I could not have done without it."
Valentine said these words before he fell asleep that night, and Giles,
as he sat by him, was impressed by them, and pondered on them. So young
a man seldom escapes from the bonds of his own reticence, when speaking
of his past life, his faults, and his religious feelings. This was not
like Valentine. He was changed, but that, considering what he had
undergone, did not surprise a man who could hope and believe anything of
him, so much as did his open, uncompromising way of speaking about such
a change.
"And yet it seems strange," Valentine added, after a pause, "that we
should be allowed, for want of knowing just a little more, to throw
ourselves away."
"We Could hardly believe that it was in us, any of us, to throw
ourselves away," Brandon answered, "if we were always warned to the
point of prevention."
Valentine sighed. "I suppose we cannot have it both ways. If God,
because man is such a sinner, so overruled and overawed him that no
crime could be committed, he would be half-unconscious of the sin in his
nature, and would look up no more either for renewal or forgiveness. Men
obliged to abstain from evil could not feel that their nature was lower
than their conduct. When I have wished, Giles, as I often have done
lately, that I could have my time over again, I have felt consoled, in
knowing this could not be, to recollect how on the consciousness of the
fault is founded the conscious longing for pardon. But I will tell you
more of all this to-morrow," he added; and soon after that he fell
asleep.
A nurse was to have watched with him that night, but Brandon could not
sleep, and he desired that she should rest in an adjacent room till he
called her. In the meantime, never more hopeful since he had first seen
Valentine on reaching Melcombe, he continued to sit by his bed,
frequently repeating that he would go up-stairs shortly, but not able to
do it.
At one o'clock Valentine woke, and Brandon, half excusing himself for
being still there, said he could not sleep, and liked better to wake in
that room than anywhere else.
Valentine was very wakeful now, and restless; he took some nourishment,
and then wanted to talk. All sorts of reminiscences of his childhood and
early youth seemed to be present with him. He could not be still, and at
length Brandon proposed to read to him, and brought the lamp near,
hoping to read him to sleep.
There was but one book to be read to a sick man in the dead of the
night, when all the world was asleep, and great gulfs of darkness lurked
in the corners of the room.
Giles read, and felt that Valentine was gradually growing calmer. He
almost thought he might be asleep, when he said--"St. George, there's no
air in this room."
"You must not have the windows open," answered Brandon.
"Read me those last words again, then," said Valentine, "and let me look
out; it's so dark here."
Brandon read, "The fulness of Him that filleth all in all."
Valentine asked to have the curtain drawn back, and for more than an
hour continued gazing out at the great full moon now rapidly southing,
and at the lofty pear-trees, so ghostly white, showering down their
blossom in the night. Brandon also sat looking now at the scene, now at
him, till the welcome rest of another sleep came to him; and the moon
went down, leaving their shaded lamp to lighten the space near it, and
gleam on the gilding of quaint old cabinets and mirrors, and frames
containing portraits of dead Melcombes, not one of whom either of these
brothers had ever seen.
Brandon sat deep in thought, and glad to hear Valentine breathing so
quietly, when the first solemn approaches of dawn appeared in the east;
and as he turned to notice the change, Valentine woke, and gazed out
also among the ghostly trees.
"There he is," said Valentine, in his usual tone of voice.
"Who is?" asked Brandon.
"My father--don't you see him walking among the trees? He came to see my
uncle--I told you so!"
Brandon was inexpressibly startled. He leaned neared, and looked into
Valentine's wide-open eyes, in which was no sign of fear or wonder.
"Why, you are half asleep, you have been dreaming," he presently said,
in a reassuring tone. "Wake up, now; see how fast the morning dawns."
Valentine made him no answer, but he looked as usual. There was nothing
to bespeak increased illness till he spoke again, faintly and
fast--"Dorothea--did he bring Dorothea?"
Giles then perceived with alarm that he was not conscious of his
presence--took no notice of his answer. He leaned down with sudden and
eager affright, and heard Valentine murmur--"I thought he would have let
me kiss her once before I went away."
Brandon started from his knees by Valentine's bed as this last faint
utterance reached him, and rushed up-stairs to his wife's room with all
the speed he could command.
Oh, so fast asleep! her long hair loose on the pillow. How fair she
looked, and how serene, in her dimpled, child-like beauty!
"Love, love!--wake up, love! I want you, Dorothea."
She opened her startled eyes, and turned with a mother's instinct to
glance at her little child, who was asleep beside her, looking scarcely
more innocent than herself.
"Love, make haste! Valentine is very ill. I want you to come to him.
Where's your dressing-gown?--why here. Are you awake now? What is it, do
you ask? Oh, I cannot tell--but I fear, I fear."
He rushed down-stairs again, and was supporting Valentine's head with
his arm when Dorothea appeared, and stopped for one instant in the
doorway, arrested by some solemn words. Could it be Valentine that
spoke? There was a change in his voice that startled her, and as she
came on her face was full of tender and awe-struck wonder.
"The fulness of Him," he said, "that filleth all in all."
Brandon looked up, and in the solemn dawn beheld her advancing in her
long white drapery, and with her fair hair falling about her face. She
looked like one of those angels that men behold in their dreams.
Valentine's eyes were slowly closing.
"Kiss him, my life!" said Brandon, and she came on, and kneeling beside
him put her sweet mouth to his.
Valentine did not have that kiss!