"This world will not believe a man repents,
And this wise world of ours is mainly right
For seldom does a man repent, and use
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
Of blood and nature wholly out of him,
And make all clean, and plant himself afresh."
Tennyson's _Idylls_.
Beautiful Orton-on-the-Sea! Who that has been there does not long to
return there again and again, and gaze on the green and purple of its
broad bay, and its one little islet, and the golden sands that stretch
along its winding shore, and its glens clothed with fir trees and
musical with the voice of many rills?
It was there that Kennedy had lived from childhood, and it was there
that he now returned to spend at home the year of his rustication. They
arrived at home on the Monday evening, and from that time forward
Kennedy rapidly gained health and strength, and was able to move about
again, though his hand healed but slowly, and it took months to enable
him to use it without pain.
On that little islet of the bay was Kennedy's favourite haunt. It was a
place where the top of a low cliff was sheltered by a clump of trees
which formed a natural bower, from whence he would gaze untired for
hours on the rising and falling of the tide. A little orphan cousin
whom Mr Kennedy had adopted, used to row him over to this retirement,
and while the boy stayed in their little boat, and fished, or hunted for
seabirds' nests in the undisturbed creeks and inlets, Kennedy with some
volume of the poets in his hand, would rest under the waving branches,
and gaze upon the glancing waves.
And at times, when, like a great glowing globe, the sun sank, after the
fiery heat of some burning summer day, into the crimsoned waters, and
filled the earth, and the heavens, and the sea with silent splendours, a
deep feeling of solemnity, such as he had never before experienced,
would steal over Kennedy's mind. He could not but remember, that, but
for God's special grace thwarting the nearly-accomplished purpose of his
sin, the eyes which were filled with such indescribable visions of
glory, would have been closed in death, and the brow on which the
sea-wind was beating in such cool and refreshful perfume would have been
crumbling under the clammy sod. Surely it must be for some great thing
that his life had been saved: it was his own no longer; it must be
devoted to mighty purposes of love and toil. Kennedy began to long for
some work of danger and suffering as his portion upon earth: he longed
ambitiously for the wanderings of the apostle and the crown of the
martyr. The good deeds of a conventional piety, the quiet routine of a
commonplace benevolence seemed no meet or adequate employment for his
highly-wrought mind. No, he would sail to another world; there he would
join a new colony in clearing away the primeval depths of some virgin
forest, and tilling the glebes of a rich and untried soil; and, living
among them, he would make that place a centre for wide evangelisation--
the home of religious enthusiasms and equal laws; or he would go as a
missionary to the savage and the cannibal, and, sailing from reef to
reef, where the coral-islands of the Pacific mirror in the deep waters
of their calm lagoon the reed-huts of the savage, and the feathery
coronal of tropic trees, he would devote his life to reclaiming from
ignorance and barbarism the waste places of a degraded humanity.
Such were the visions and purposes that floated through his mind--partly
the fantastic fancies of dreamy hours, partly the unconscious desire to
fly from a land which reminded him too painfully of vanished hopes, and
from a scene which had been the witness of his error and disgrace.
Perhaps, most of all, he was influenced by the desire to escape from a
house which constantly recalled the image of a lost love--a lost love
that he never hoped to regain; for Kennedy thought--though but little
had been said about it--that Violet had deliberately and finally
rejected him in scorn for the courses he had followed.
But he wished, before he quite made up his mind as to his future career,
to see Violet once more, and bid her a last farewell. Not daring to
write and announce his intention lest she should refuse to meet him
again, and unwilling to trust his secret to any of her family, he
determined to see her by surprise, and enjoy for one last hour the
unspeakable happiness of sitting by her side.
"Father," he said, "I am well now, or nearly well will you let me go on
a little journey?"
"A journey?--where? We will all go together, Edward, if you want any
change of air and scene."
He shook his head. "You can guess," he said, "where I wish to go for
the last time."
"But do you think you can travel alone, Eddy, with your poor wounded
hand?" asked Eva.
"Oh yes; the splints keep it safe, and I shall only be two days or so
away."
They suffered him to fulfil his whim, although they felt that if he saw
Violet, the meeting could hardly fail to be full of pain.
It was deep in autumn when he started, and arriving at Ildown, took up
his abode in the little village inn. He kept himself as free from
observation as he could, and begged the landlady, who recognised him,
not to mention his arrival to any one. She had seen him on his former
visit, and remembered favourably his genial good-humour and affable
bearing. He told her frankly that he had come to say good-bye to Miss
Home, whom he might not see again; but he did not wish to go to the
house--could the landlady tell him anything about their movements?
"Why, yes; I do happen to know," she said, "and I suppose there can't be
no harm in telling you, for I heard Master Cyril say as how they were
all a-going a-gipseying to-morrow in the wood near the King's Oak."
"And when do you think they will start?"
"Oh, they'll start at ten, sir, in the morning, for I'm a-going to lend
'em my little trap to carry the perwisions in, and that."
This would suit Kennedy capitally, and musing on the meeting of the
morrow, he sank into a doze in the armchair. A whispering awoke him,
and he was far from reassured by overhearing the following colloquy:--
"Who be that in the parlour?" asked a rustic.
"Oh, that's the young gentleman as wer' Miss Violet's sweetheart," said
the barmaid confidentially; "nobody don't know of it, but I heard the
Missus a-saying so."
"Why bean't he at the house then?"
"Oh, ye know, he ain't her sweetheart no longer; there's been a muddle
somehow, and they do say as how he shot hisself, but he don't seem to be
shot much now, to look at 'im. He's as likely and proper a young
gentleman as I've seen for a long time."
Taking his candle wearily, Kennedy listened to no more of the
conversation, and went to bed. His bedroom window looked towards the
pleasant house and garden of Mrs Home, and he did not lie down till he
had seen the light extinguished in the embowered window of Violet's
room. Next morning he got up betimes, and after dressing himself with
the utmost pain and difficulty, for he did not like to ask for the
assistance which he always had at home since his illness, he went down
to breakfast. Hardly touching the dainties which the hospitable old
landlady had provided, he strolled off to the wood, almost before Ildown
was a-stir, and sat down in a place, not far from the King's Oak, in a
green hollow, where he was sheltered from sight by the broad tree
trunks, and the tall and graceful ferns.
He had not long to wait, and the time so spent would have been happy if
agitation had not prevented him from enjoying the glories of the scene.
Nowhere was "the gorgeous and melancholy beauty of the sunlit autumnal
landscape more bounteously displayed." The grand old trees all round
him were burning themselves away in many-coloured flames, and the green
leaves that still lingered amid the rich hues of beautiful decay,
suggested, in their contrasting harmony with their withered brethren,
many a deep moral to the thoughtful mind: and everything that the
thoughts could shape received a deeper emphasis from the unbroken
silence of the wood.
The occupation of his mind made the time pass quickly, and it seemed but
a few minutes when he saw the Homes approaching the King's Oak. The
boys laid on the greensward the materials for the picnic, and then,
while Violet and Mrs Home seated themselves on a fallen trunk and took
out their work, Julian read to them, and Cyril and Frank walked through
the wood in search of exercise and amusement.
As they passed near the spot where Kennedy was seated, they caught sight
of a squirrel's nest, and Frank was instantly on the alert to reach the
spoil. While he was scrambling with difficulty up the tall fir, Cyril
stayed at the foot, and Kennedy determined to call him. Cyril had grown
into a tall handsome boy of seventeen, and Kennedy knew that he could be
trusted to help him, for he had won the boy's affection thoroughly when
they were together in Switzerland.
"Cyril!"
The sound of a voice in that quiet place, out of earshot of his friends,
startled Cyril, and he turned hastily round.
"Who's there?"
"Edward Kennedy. Come here, Cyril, and let me speak to you; Frank does
not notice us."
"Edward--you here?" said Cyril. "Why don't you come and see mother?"--
he was going to say Violet, but he checked himself.
"I want to see, not Mrs Home, but Violet," said Kennedy; "you know our
engagement is broken off, Cyril; I have only come to say farewell,
before I leave England, perhaps for ever. Call Violet here alone."
Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy's wild ways at college, and of the
dreadful story that had raised against him the suspicion of intended
suicide, hesitated a moment, as though he were half-afraid or unwilling
to fulfil the commission. But Kennedy said to him sorrowfully--"You
need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing wrong. Tell Frank first,
and then you can stay near, while I speak for a few minutes to your
sister."
Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and told him that Kennedy
was there. "Stay here, Frankie, while I fetch Violet; Edward wants to
bid her good-bye."
He ran off, and said--"Come here, Vi; Frank and I have something to show
you."
"Is it anything very particular?" said Violet, "for I shall disturb
Julian's reading if I go away."
"Yes, something very particular."
"Won't you tell me what?"
"Why, a squirrel's nest for one thing, which Frank has found. Do come."
"You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!" she said, smiling;
"Punch hasn't half cured you of your tyranny to us poor sisters." She
rose to follow him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said--
"Vi, Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there, behind the trees; he
has come, he says, to bid you good-bye."
The sudden announcement startled her, but she only leaned on Cyril's
shoulder, and walked on, while he almost heard the beating of her heart.
"We will stay here, Violet; you see him there." Cyril pointed to a
tree, against whose trunk Kennedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon
the ground, looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves, and the
golden buds embroidered on "elf-needled mat of moss." Hearing the sound
of footsteps he raised his head, and a moment after he was by Violet's
side.
Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom shook with deep sobs as
she saw his pale face and maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and
serpentine roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat
lowly at her feet upon the red ground, "With beddings of the pining
umbrage tinged."
How was it that she did not shrink from him? How was it that she seemed
content to rest close beside him, and suffered her hand to rest upon his
shoulder as he stooped? Did she love him still after all? Had Julian
deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in the termination
of their engagement? A strange rush of new hope filled his heart. He
would test the true state of her affections.
"I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which was so dear to her
remembrance--"I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell for ever. Since
you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall leave
England as soon as I may go."
The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. "Oh, Edward," she said,
"why do you bid me farewell? Do you not think that I love you still?"
"Still, Violet? You love _me_, the ruined, dishonourable, disgraced--
the--" She would not hear the dreadful word, but laid her finger on his
lip.
"Oh, hush, Edward! Those words are not for you. You may have sinned;
they tell me you _have_ sinned. But have you not repented too, Edward?
Have the lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing? I am sure
they have. I could not wed one who was living an evil life, but now I
see your true self once more."
"Then you love me still?" The words were uttered in astonishment, and
the emotions of unexpected joy almost overpowered him.
"I never ceased to love you, Edward. Do you think that I am one to
trifle with your heart, or to use it as a plaything for me to triumph
by? Never, never. Had you died, or worse still, had you continued in
sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you, though we
might have been separated until death. But now I read other things in
your face, Edward, and I will be yours--your betrothed--again. Come,
let us join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome you with
joy."
"Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment," he cried, as she rose up;
"let me realise the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let
me sit here, Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch of
your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may recover strength
again."
They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both recurred to that
other scene where they had sat on the great boulder under the shadow of
the Alps, and watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on
the golden summer eve. It was the same love that still filled their
souls--the same love, but more sober, more quiet, more like the love of
maturer years, less like the passionate love of boy and girl. It was
more of an autumnal love than of old; and if the departing summer had
flung new hues over the forest and the glen, they were the duller hues
that recalled to mind the greater glory of the past. It was round a
dying year that Autumn was "folding his jewelled arms." Yet they were
happy--very happy, and they felt that, come what might, nothing on earth
could part them now.
When Kennedy had grown more calm, Violet called for Cyril, and bade him
break the fact of Edward's presence to her mother and Julian. The boy
bounded off to do her bidding, and in a few moments Kennedy was seated
among the Homes as one of them. They received him with no simulated
affection; Frank and Cyril helped to take away all awkwardness from the
meeting by their high spirits, and when they all sat down on the velvet
mosses to their rural meal, every one of them had banished the painful
hauntings of the past. Of course Kennedy accompanied them home; they
drove back in the quiet evening, and Kennedy sat by Violet's side.
He stayed at Ildown till Julian returned to Saint Werner's, and, as was
natural, he revolved in his mind continually his future course. At last
he determined to talk it over with Violet, and told her of all his
heroic longings for a life of toil and endeavour, if need were, even of
banishment and death--all the high thoughts that had filled his heart as
he sat alone in the island by Orton-on-the-Sea.
"Let us wait," she said, "Edward. God will decide all this for us in
time, and if duty seems to call you to the hard life of missionary or
colonist, I am ready to go with you."
"But don't you feel yourself, Violet, a kind of commonplace-ness about
English life; a silver-slippered religion, a pettiness that does not
satisfy, a sense of comfort incompatible with the strong desire to do
the work which others will not do in the neglected corners of the
vineyard?"
"No," she answered, smiling, "I am content:--
"`The trivial round, the common task
Should furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves--a road
To bring us daily nearer God.'"
"True," he said; "well, I must try not to carry ambition into my
religion."
"Of course you return to Saint Werner's next autumn?"
He mused long. "Ah, Violet, you cannot conceive how awful to my
imagination that place has grown. And to return after rustication, and
live among men who will regard me with galling curiosity, and dons who
will look at me sideways with suspicion--can I ever bear it?"
"Why not, Edward? They cannot affect _you_ by their opinion. I heard
you say the other day that your heart was becoming an island, and the
waters round it broadening every day. If the island itself be beautiful
and happy, it need not reck of the outer world."
"You are right, Violet. I will return if need be, and bear all meekly
which I have deserved to bear. The one sorrow will be gone," he said,
as he drew her nearer to his side, "that drove me into--Yes, you are
right. I will go away home to-morrow, when Julian starts, and begin
from the very first day to read with all my might. Hitherto I have had
only the bitter lessons of Camford; let us see if I cannot gain some of
her honours too."