"He that for love hath undergone
The worst that can befall,
Is happier thousandfold than one
Who never loved at all.
"A grace within his soul hath reigned,
Which nothing else can bring;
Thank God for all that I have gained
By that high suffering."
Moncton Manes.
For many days Lord De Vayne seemed to be hovering between life and
death. The depression of his spirits weighed upon his frame, and
greatly retarded his recovery. That he, unconscious as he was of ever
having made an enemy--good and gentle to all--with no desire but to love
his neighbour as himself, and to devote such talents and such
opportunities as had been vouchsafed him to God's glory and man's
benefit;--that _he_ should have been made the subject of a disgraceful
wager, and the butt of an infamous experiment; that in endeavouring to
carry out this nefarious plan, any one should have been so wickedly
reckless, so criminally thoughtless;--this knowledge lay on his
imagination with a depression as of coming death. De Vayne had been but
little in Saint Werner's society, and had rarely seen any but his few
chosen friends; and that such a calamity should have happened in the
rooms and at the table of one of those friends,--that Kennedy, whom he
so much loved and admired, should be suspected of being privy to it;--
this fact was one which made De Vayne's heart sink within him with
anguish and horror, and a weariness of life.
And in those troubled waters of painful thought floated the broken
gleams of a golden phantasy, the rainbow-coloured memories of a secret
love. They came like a light upon the darkened waves, yet a light too
feeble to dissipate the under gloom. Like the phosphorescent flashes in
the sea at midnight, which the lonely voyager, watching with interest as
they glow in the white wake of the keel, guesses that they may be the
heralds of a storm,--so these bright reminiscences of happier days only
gave a weird beauty to the tumult of the sick boy's mind; and the
mother, as she sat by him night and day during the crisis of his
suffering, listened with a deeper anxiety for future trouble to the
delirious revelations of his love.
For Lady De Vayne had come from Other Hall to nurse her sick son. She
slept on a sofa in his sitting-room, and nursed him with such tenderness
as only a mother can. There was no immediate possibility of removing
him; deep, unbroken quiet was his only chance of life. The silence of
his sick-room was undisturbed save by the softest whispers and the
lightest footfalls, and the very undergraduates hushed their voices, and
checked their hasty steps as they passed in the echoing cloisters
underneath, and remembered that the flame of life was flickering low in
the golden vase.
De Vayne was much beloved, and nothing could exceed the delicacy of the
attention shown him. Choice conservatory flowers were left almost daily
at his door, and men procured rare and rich fruits from home or from
London, not because De Vayne needed any such luxuries, which were easily
at his command, but that they might show him their sympathy and
distress. Several ladies more or less connected with Saint Werner's
offered their services to Lady De Vayne, but she would not leave her
son, in whose welfare and recovery her whole thoughts were absorbed.
And so, gloomily for the son and mother, the Christmas holidays came on,
and Saint Werner's was deserted. Scarcely even a stray undergraduate
lingered in the courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choir or
organ came sweetly across the lawns at morning or evening; the ceaseless
melancholy plash of the great fountain was almost the only sound that
broke the stillness. Julian, Lillyston, and Owen had all gone down for
the holidays, full of grief at the thought of leaving their friend in
such a precarious state, but as yet not permitted to see or serve him.
Lady De Vayne promised to write to Julian regular accounts of Arthur's
health, and told him how often her son spoke of him, both in his
wanderings, and in his clearer moments.
It was touching to see the stately and beautiful lady walking alone at
evening about the deserted college, to gain a breath of the keen winter
air, while her son had sunk for a few moments to fitful rest. She was
pale with long watchings and deep anxiety, and in her whole countenance,
and in her deep and often uplifted eyes, was that look of prayerfulness
and holy communion with an unseen world which they acquire whose abode
has long been in the house of mourning, and removed from the follies and
frivolities of life.
Well-loved grounds of Saint Werner's by the quiet waves of the sedgy
Iscam, with smooth green grass sloping down to the edge, and trim quaint
gardens, and long avenues of chestnut and ancient limes! Though winter
had long whirled away the last red and golden leaf, there was pleasure
in the air of quiet and repose, which is always to be found in those
memory-hallowed walks; and while Lady De Vayne could pace among them in
solitude, she needed no other change, nor any rest from thinking over
her sick son.
She was surprised one evening, very soon after the men had gone down, to
see an undergraduate slowly approaching her down the long and silent
avenue. He was tall and well made, and his face would have been a
pleasant one, but for the deep look of sadness which clouded it. He
hesitated and took off his cap as she came near, and returning his
salute, she would have passed him, but he stopped her and said:
"Lady De Vayne."
Full of surprise she looked at him, and with his eyes fixed on the
ground he continued, "You do not know my name; if I tell you, I fear you
will hate me, because I fear you will have heard calumnies about me.
But may I speak to you?"
"You are not Mr Bruce?" she said with a slight shudder.
"No; my name is Edward Kennedy. Ah, madam! do not look at me so
reproachfully, I cannot endure it. Believe me, I would have died--I
would indeed--rather than that this should have happened to Lord De
Vayne."
"Nay, Mr Kennedy, I cannot believe that you were more than thoughtless.
I have very often heard Julian Home speak of you, and I cannot believe
that his chosen friend could be so vile as some reports would make you."
"They are false as calumny itself," he said passionately. "Oh, Lady De
Vayne, none could have honoured and loved your son more than I did; I
cannot explain to you the long story of my exculpation, but I implore
you to believe my innocence."
"I forgive you, Mr Kennedy," she said, touched with pity, "if there be
anything to forgive; and so will Arthur. A more forgiving spirit than
his never filled any one I think. Excuse me, it is time for me to
return to him."
"But will you not let me see him, and help you in nursing him? It was
for this purpose alone that I stayed here when all the others went. Let
me at least be near him, that I may feel myself to be making such poor
reparation as my heedlessness requires."
She could hardly resist his earnest entreaty, and besides, she was won
by compassion for his evident distress.
"You may come, Mr Kennedy, as often as you like; whenever Arthur is
capable of seeing you, you shall visit his sick-room."
"Thank you," he said, and she perceived the tremble of deep emotion in
his voice.
He came the next morning, and she allowed him to see De Vayne. He
entered noiselessly, and gazed for a moment as he stood at the door on
the pale wasted face, looking still paler in contrast with the long dark
hair that flowed over the pillow. He was awake, but there was no
consciousness in his dark dreamy eyes.
As De Vayne murmured to himself in low sentences, Kennedy heard
repeatedly the name of Violet, and once of Violet Home. He sat still as
death, and soon gathered from the young lord's broken words, his love,
his deep love for Julian's sister.
And when Kennedy first recognised this fact, which had hitherto been
quite unknown to him, for a moment a flood of jealousy and bitter envy
filled his heart. What if Violet should give up her troth in favour of
a wealthier, perhaps worthier lover? What if her family should think
his own poor claims no barrier to the hope that Violet should one day
wear a coronet? The image of Julian and Violet rose in his fancy, and
with one more pang of self-reproach, he grew ashamed of his unworthy
suspicions.
Yet the thought that De Vayne, too, had fixed his affections on Violet
filled him with uneasiness and foreboding, and he determined, on some
future occasion, to save pain to all parties, by getting Julian to break
to De Vayne the secret of his sister's betrothal.
For several days he came to the sick-room, and a woman could hardly have
been more thoughtful and tender than he was to his friend. It was on
about the fourth evening that De Vayne awoke to complete consciousness.
He became aware that some one besides his mother was seated in the room,
and without asking he seemed slowly to recognise that it was Kennedy.
"Is that Kennedy?" he asked, in a weak voice.
"It is I," said Kennedy, but the patient did not answer, and seemed
restless and uneasy and complained of cold.
When Kennedy went, De Vayne whispered to his mother, "Mother, I am very
weak and foolish, but it troubles me somehow to see Kennedy sitting
there; it shocks my nerves, and fills me with images of something
dreadful happening. I had rather not see him, mother, till I am well."
"Very well, Arthur. Don't talk so much, love; I alone will nurse you.
Soon I hope you will be able to return to Other."
"And leave this dreadful place," he said, "for ever."
"Hush, my boy; try to sleep again."
He soon slept, and then Lady De Vayne wrote to Kennedy a short note, in
which she explained as kindly and considerately as she could, that
Arthur was not yet strong enough to allow of any more visits to his
sick-room.
"He shuns me," thought Kennedy, with a sigh, and packing up some books
and clothes, he prepared to go home.
Of course he was to spend part of the vacation at Ildown. Violet
wondered that he did not come at once; she was not exactly jealous of
him, but she thought that he might have been more eager for her company
than he seemed to be, and she would have liked it better had he come
earlier. Poor Kennedy! his very self-denials turned against him for the
sole reason why he kept away from Ildown was, that he feared to disturb
the freedom of Frank and Cyril by the presence of a stranger all the
time of their holidays, and he hesitated to intrude on the united
happiness which always characterised the Ildown circle.
Eva, too, was invited, and the brother and sister arrived at Ildown by a
late train, and drove to the house. What a glowing welcome they
received! Julian introduced them to Mrs Home, and Kennedy kissed
affectionately the hand of his future mother. Frank and Cyril had gone
to bed, but Frank was so determined to see Violet's lover that night,
that he made Julian bring him into their bedroom, and he was more than
satisfied with the first glimpse.
"And where is Violet?" asked Kennedy, in a matter-of-fact tone, for he
well knew that she would not choose to meet him in the presence of
others.
"In her own little room," said Julian, smiling; "I will show you the
way." He led Kennedy up-stairs, and left him at the door; he well knew
that her heart would be fluttering as much as his.
A light knock at the door, and a moment after they saw each other again.
She sat on the sofa, and the firelight flickered on the amethyst--his
gift--which she wore on her white neck; and her bright eyes danced with
tears and laughter, and her bosom heaved and fell as he clasped her to
his breast and printed a long, long kiss upon her cheek.
In silence, more exquisite than speech, they gazed on each other; and as
though her beauty were reflected on his own face, all trace of sorrow
and shame fled like a cloud from his forehead; and who would not have
said, looking upon the pair, that he was worthy of her, as she of him?
"My own Violet," he said, "you are beautiful as a vision to-night."
"Hush, flatterer!" and she placed her little hand upon his mouth:--no
wonder that he seized and kissed it.
"And what a thrice-charming dress."
"Ah, I _meant_ you to admire it," she said, laughing.
"`And thinking, _this_ will please him best,
She takes a ribbon or a rose,'"
he whispered to her.
"Come," she replied, "no ill-omened words, Edward. You know the sad
context of those lines."
"No! no sadness to-night, my own Violet, my beautiful, beautiful Violet;
you quite dazzle me, my child. I really can't sit by your side; come,
let me sit on your foot-stool here, and look up in your face."
"Silly boy," she said, "come along, we shall keep them all waiting for
supper."
While poor De Vayne languished on the bed of sickness, his sufferings
were almost the only shadow which chequered the brightness of those
weeks at Ildown. In the morning, Julian and Kennedy worked steadily;
the afternoon and evening they devoted to amusement and social life.
The Kennedys soon became great favourites among the Ildown people, and
went out to many cheery Christmas parties; but they enjoyed more the
quiet evenings at home when they all sat and talked after dinner round
the dining-room fire, and while the two boys played at chess, and Violet
and Eva worked or sketched, Julian and Kennedy would read aloud to them
in turns. How often those evenings recurred to all their memories in
future days.
Soon after the Kennedys had come, Julian received from Camford the
Christmas college-list. He had again won a first class, but Kennedy's
name, much to his vexation, appeared only in the third.
"How is it that Edward is only in the third class?" asked Violet of
Julian--for, of course, she had seen the list. "He is very clever--is
he not?"
"Very; one of the cleverest fellows in Saint Werner's."
"Then is he idle?"
"I'm afraid so, Vi. You must get him to work more."
So when he was seated by her on the sofa in her little boudoir, she
said, "You must work more, Edward, at Camford, to please me."
"Ah, do not talk to me of Camford," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Let me
enjoy unbroken happiness for a time, and leave the bitter future to
itself."
"Bitter, Edward? but why bitter? Julian always seems to me so happy at
Camford."
"Yes, _Julian_ is, and so are all who deserve to be."
"Then you must be happy too, Edward."
His only answer was a sigh. "Ah, Violet, pray talk to me of anything
but Camford."
The visit came to an end, as all things, whether happy or unhappy, must;
and Julian rejoiced that confidence seemed restored between him and
Kennedy once more. Of course, he told Violet none of the follies which
had cost poor Kennedy the loss both of popularity and self-respect.
Soon afterwards Lord De Vayne was brought back to Other Hall, and Violet
and Julian were invited, with their mother, to stay there till the
Camford term commenced. The boys had returned to school, so that they
all acceded to Lady De Vayne's earnest request that they would come.
It was astonishing how rapidly the young viscount recovered when once
Violet had come to Other Hall. Her presence seemed to fill him with
fresh life, and he soon began to get down-stairs, and even to venture on
a short walk in the park. His constitution had suffered a serious and
permanent injury, but he was pronounced convalescent before the Homes
finished their visit.
The last evening before their departure, he was seated with Violet on a
rustic seat on the terrace, looking at the sun as it set behind the
distant elms of the park, and at the deer as they grazed in lovely
groups on the rich undulating slopes that swept down from the slight
eminence on which his house was built. He felt that the time had come
to speak his love.
"Violet," he said, as he looked earnestly at her, and took her hand,
"you have, doubtless, seen that I love you. Can you ever return my
love? I am ready to live and die for you, and to give you my whole
affection." His voice was still low and weak through illness, and he
could hardly speak the sentences which were to win for him a decision of
his fate.
Violet was taken by surprise; she had known Lord De Vayne so long and so
intimately, and their stations were so different, that the thought of
his loving her had never entered her head. She regarded him familiarly
as her brother's friend.
"Dear De Vayne," she said, "I shall always love you as a friend, as a
brother. But did you not know that I have been for some months
engaged?"
"Engaged?" he said, turning very pale.
"I am betrothed," she answered, "to Edward Kennedy. Nay, Arthur, dear
Arthur," she continued, as he nearly fainted at her feet, "you must not
suffer this disappointment to overcome you. Love me still as a sister;
regard me as though I were married already, and let us enjoy a happy
friendship for many years."
He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only the tears coursed
each other fast down his cheeks as he murmured, "Oh, forgive me, forgive
me, Violet."
"Forgive you," she said kindly; "nay, you honour me too much. Marry one
of your own high rank, and not the orphan of a poor clergyman. I am
sure you will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you ill.
Bear up, Arthur, for your mother's sake--for _my_ sake; and let us be as
if these words had never passed between us."
She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his room, and as he turned
round and stooped to kiss her hand, she felt it wet with many tears.
They went home next day, and soon after received a note from Lady De
Vayne, informing them that Arthur was worse, and that they intended
removing for some time to a seat of his in Scotland; after which they
meant to travel on the Continent for another year, if his health
permitted it. "But," she said, "I fear he has had a relapse, and his
state is very precarious. Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let
us hope to meet again in happier days."