Chapter VII

To soothe and calm the bed of death,
And wing to Thee the parting breath,
To bid the hearts that faint and grieve
Look on Thine angel face, and live,
And love, and succour all I see,
Father to them, and child to Thee;
Oh! more than bliss! is this my lot,
My God, and shall I thank Thee not?
SEWELL’S SACRED THOUGHTS.

Reginald St. Maur had returned to Clare Abbey a day or two before the expiration of the fortnight allowed for Camilla’s absence. Arrangements in which Lord Vere was much interested, and which had awaited only his coming of age to be concluded, had called him to London; and during his stay in London, business had occupied much of his time. But during that fortnight also, other arrangements had been made which led to the fulfilment of one of his many dreams, and the gratification of his highest ambition. A seat in Parliament was about to become vacant, Reginald had been invited to offer himself as a candidate, and there was little uncertainty in the prospect of success held out by his own sanguine heart. He returned to his home full of hope and animation and vigour. Life, even in a fuller sense than may commonly be said, was opening upon him; for it was a life in which the best feelings of a noble nature, and the energies of a lofty intellect were to be employed. His mother received him with a smile sweeter than usual, and for him her smile was always sweet. The absence of both her children had caused a sense of vacancy for the first time in her mind, and there was even animation in her welcome. His father said little, but looked at him much; day by day love was striking deeper roots in his heart, day by day ambition was pushing forth higher shoots--the fire of youth was kindling anew in his soul, caught from the brightness of Reginald’s beaming eye.

Early on the morning after his return, Reginald walked down to visit Ernest de Grey, and together they proceeded to inspect the progress of the works, now for some weeks in operation, at the church. From the moment in which he had first undertaken it, his interest in the plan had never flagged. Ernest’s patience had given way again and again before the objections of the architect, the many difficulties, the wearisome delays; but Reginald, with unfailing interest and unfailing patience, had persisted till all were overcome. He was this morning full of excitement, full of ideas, full of schemes for various ornaments and decorations.

The workmen were engaged in clearing away a quantity of stone and plaister, with which a window, discovered only in the progress of the works, had long been concealed.

“How beautiful,” Reginald exclaimed, as the form of the window began to appear,--“but how slowly they work--I feel as if one touch of my hands would clear it all away.”

Ernest shook his head, with a smile and a glance at the not effeminate, yet not very workman-like, fingers of his companion.

“Don’t you feel anxious to be at work, Ernest?” he began again, with unusual animation in his tone, “I have hardly patience to stand idle.”

Ernest coloured, and turned away to avoid answering. Always truth itself, he would not profess an interest which he was conscious he did not feel. Though in some slight degree aroused by Reginald’s return, too conscious he was that day after day was passing in listless languor, and that he had regarded the fulfilment of this once cherished hope with indifference.

For Ernest was miserable and repining still--most miserable, because repining. He could not resign the treasure which yet eluded his grasp--he could not submit to the lot against which it yet was in vain to struggle;--the sense of failure, the weight of humiliation, fretted his spirit, but did not lead him to reformation and repentance,--and therefore no tranquil fruits of repentance came. His heart was in a state of warfare; and being at war with himself, he was at war with others also. Trifling annoyances, which once he would have passed over with a smile, worried him beyond endurance. His temper was becoming impatient and irritable--he so tender and considerate of the feelings of others, was allowing himself to return hasty answers--to resent the inquisitiveness of his curate, the officiousness of his housekeeper, the mistakes of all about him. At war with himself, his whole life was becoming hateful; the present fretted, the past shamed, the future--a long course of preaching and teaching--a cheerless home--a loveless heart--appalled him; once again he shrank from his existence, as on the dreary November night in his wayward youth.

Reginald looked at him with some curiosity. His attachment to Ernest made him quicksighted, where otherwise his attention would not have been caught. Long and long he had read Ernest’s feeling for his sister, and though Camilla had feared to make a confession, he had not been without suspicion of the effects of that evening walk. Hearing nothing, it had passed from his mind, but something in Ernest’s manner this morning renewed it again. His attention was, however, for the moment withdrawn by a fall of whitewashed stones, which brought to light almost the whole graceful and fragile framework of the window.

“Look Ernest,” he exclaimed excitedly, “where can the inhuman monster have been born who was guilty of this sacrilege? One can hardly conceive the feelings of those who failed to perceive beauty such as this! See how even the workmen pause to admire!” He stopped, then turning to Ernest continued more thoughtfully, “I am half afraid, Ernest, that this church will be a temptation to me--I do really think, that when once it has been simply and judiciously restored, I might make a better use of my time and money, than to lavish ornament upon it; but my _inclination_ is the other way. I should like to have it perfect within and without, and some of the decorations and ornaments that are now used are in themselves so beautiful and full of meaning. I was strongly tempted in London the other day.”

“I think,” Ernest replied, after a moment’s thought, “that it would be a temptation, and should be resisted. I do not say so because my own taste is in favour of simplicity, for in great towns, where luxury of every description is lavished on private houses, I can allow that something of the same kind may be suitable and even demanded for churches; but in country places it is otherwise--anything of gaudy or rich decoration, seems to me to be out of keeping with the simplicity of country life, and would, I think, be more likely to dissipate than awe the minds of ignorant villagers. I may, however, be prejudiced, and speak too much from my own feelings. To me there is very little solemnity in a richly ornamented church.”

“No, Ernest, I think you are right;” nevertheless, a moment afterwards, Reginald was expatiating with much zest on some of those same ornaments which had attracted his attention.

He paused, attracted again by his companion’s abstraction. Having given his opinion, Ernest’s mind was wandering--it was always wandering, and always in one direction; much occupation now had his thoughts in speculating on his approaching meeting with Camilla, in tormenting himself with fancied coldness, in imagining contempt and scorn. He was far away, bowed before her glance, while Reginald spoke.

“Are you ill, Ernest?” Reginald suddenly inquired, laying his hand on his shoulder--a movement that with him denoted peculiar affection.

Ernest started and coloured, but laughed, “No, not ill; I am never ill.”

“Ill in mind then, Ernest,--you are not happy.”

Ernest hesitated. “If I am not,” he said, at last, “it is no matter; it is not a subject worth your attention or your interest.”

“All things that interest you, interest me,” Reginald exclaimed warmly; “and Ernest,” he continued after a moment’s thought, colouring slightly, and speaking with some difficulty, “is it quite true that this subject does not interest me?--if you allowed it, might I not guess what cause it is that troubles you?”

“You might, but do not guess,” Ernest said hurriedly, wincing at the bare idea of Reginald’s approaching his griefs. Recovering himself, he went on with seriousness, and something of sadness too. “All men have their peculiar trials and temptations, and they are best borne with and overcome alone. Some are of a kind that will not bear the light of day--mine cannot. Do not think me ungracious,” he added again, struck and touched by the affectionate expression of Reginald’s countenance; “if I thought of your kindness less, I should say more, and thank you more.”

Reginald refrained; though fearful of his sister’s present indifference, he longed, as he had longed a thousand times before, to say; “Go, and prosper”--but his nature required invitation, to offer even words of sympathy and encouragement.

Roused by Reginald’s scrutiny, and anxious to escape from it, Ernest exerted himself to speak, and recurred again to the subject of the church. In the course of conversation, a discussion arose, which made an inspection of the original plan advisable, and Ernest left Reginald in the churchyard, while he returned to the parsonage to hunt out the plan in question.

The search occupied him for a few minutes, for somewhat listlessly he was turning over his papers, when suddenly, and without leave, his door opened, and Mrs. Cook presented herself.

She looked bewildered and alarmed. “There’s been a haccident, sir,--a sad haccident!”

“Has there,” Ernest exclaimed, hastily dropping his papers, “where?--can I be of any use?”

She came close to him, and laid her finger on his arm. “It’s my belief, your honour, that the young Lord is dead.”

How the distance between his own house and the churchyard was passed Ernest could not tell--it seemed as if one step, one single moment, placed him kneeling beside the senseless, bleeding, mangled form, which he had left in the pride of life a few short minutes before.

As much as ever was known of the cause of the accident and its circumstances, was related by one of the rough, honest workmen, as he stood sorrowfully over Ernest and his friend.

“How it comes about, your honour, was this;--he stood for a while after you went away, then he comed up nigh to us, and after a bit he climbed up a ladder, as I’ll venture to say he never a done afore; and then he gived a shove to them there stones with his delicate fingers, and the ladder went this way and that way, and afore any could see it was back’ards on the ground, and them there pile of stones followed arter him; and it was no fault of nobody’s,” he added reverently, “but only the hand of God that struck him down.”

The stones had been removed from Reginald’s limbs before Ernest’s return, and a single glance told him that even if life was spared, the use of life was gone. One leg was completely shattered by the fall.

Ernest was gifted with the invaluable quality of presence of mind. A very few minutes sufficed to make every needful arrangement,--to despatch messengers on horseback in different directions in search of medical advice, to send Mr. Hervey to Clare Abbey, and to prepare a litter for Reginald’s removal thither.

His first idea had been to remove him only to the parsonage, but there was so much of death in the pale face before him, that after one moment’s consideration, he decided on taking him, while yet removal was possible, to die in his own home.

Insensible, yet quivering with agony, they placed him on the litter, and so the hopeful heir of a noble house re-entered the home of his father.

That home was a scene of confusion and dismay. The servants idolized Reginald, and stood paralyzed with sorrow. Lady Vere, to whom, with much feeling and judgment, Mr. Hervey had broken the news, unable to be withheld, rushed out to meet her son, and swooned at the sight. Lord Vere, pale, stern, and immovable, contemplated the fallen flower of his hope, then turned away to master or be mastered by his agony alone. On Ernest the burden of responsibility fell; to Ernest every eye looked, and every tongue appealed; and, heart-broken as he was, he was equal to his task.

* * * * *

Two of the messengers had been successful in their search, and within two hours’ time Reginald’s fate had been heard from the lips of two physicians.

He returned to consciousness shortly before their arrival, his mind clear and sound amid the destruction of the body; but, though he smiled more than once, he did not speak.

The examination was short, and immediately on its conclusion the physicians left the room.

“Follow them, Ernest,” Reginald then said, in a faint but calm voice, “and learn my fate. I will hear it from your lips.”

He followed them. They were standing in a recess of the long corridor, in deep consultation. A strange flash of childish recollection, coming as such things will at most unwonted times, passed across Ernest’s mind as he joined them. That recess had been his own, the receptacle of his most cherished toys, and with the vividness of reality he saw it once again filled with tokens of those vanished days. He passed his hand dreamily before his eyes, to dispel a vision which even at that moment came redolent of joy,--and then in a few words told his errand.

One of the physicians, a stranger, a kind man, but short and decided in his manner, answered him.

“Of Mr. St. Maur’s ultimate fate we cannot at this moment speak decidedly. Immediate amputation of the right leg is necessary, to prevent immediate death. When this pressing danger is over, we shall be able to consider more attentively the other injuries he has received. My opinion is, however, that if he survive the present operation,--and, from his evidently strong constitution, I see little doubt of this,--he may linger for years. At the same time I am compelled to add, that it will be little short of a miracle if he ever leaves a couch again.”

Ernest had expected nothing less than this. There was that in Reginald’s countenance which said clearer than words, never would he rise to life and action more; yet when the words came, they came, as certainty must ever come, even to the wildest anxiety.

“Forgive me for speaking thus abruptly,” the physician apologized kindly, shocked to perceive the sudden paleness of Ernest’s cheek; “I was not aware....”

“Thank you,” replied Ernest, recovering himself, “thank you for speaking plainly: it was the truth I wished to hear.”

“You will be kind enough,” continued the physician, “to communicate the result of our examination to Lord Vere. We shall be prepared for the operation in half an hour.”

Ernest turned away. Time for thought, time to ponder upon the terms in which to prepare Reginald for his fate he dared not allow. With a sinking heart, but a resolved composure, he re-entered the room.

The unfortunate young man was lying as he had left him, calm in his agony. Ernest seated himself in silence by his bedside.

“Is it death, Ernest?” he inquired, turning his eyes upon him.

“No,” Ernest replied, in a tremulous voice, “not death.”

Reginald looked at him fixedly. “Then _living_ death?” he said.

Ernest’s only answer was to stoop, and press his lips on his cold damp forehead.

Reginald’s cheek became livid in its paleness. The endurance which the expectation of death and the racking of bodily suffering could not shake, was shaken now. A convulsive shudder passed through his whole frame, and tears,--not tears of sorrow, but large cold tears, wrung as blood from his heart, fell from his distended eyes.

Ernest bent over him, and almost unconsciously murmured,

“_Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done._”

If Ernest’s voice was the voice of the angel appointed to strengthen him in his agony, it did not fail in its mission. The shuddering ceased, the eyes closed, then gently unclosed again, as they turned on Ernest.

“Dear Ernest,” he said, “I thank you. Yes, this is left to me still; life and health may pass away, but still I can submit.”

His voice was perfectly composed when next he spoke. “Part of your meaning, Ernest, I can well understand: is it to be immediate?”

“Immediate,” he replied, faintly.

“Then you must go to my father; or does he already know?”

“Not yet,” Ernest said, rising from his seat; for he had forgotten the physician’s request. “I am going to him--I promised.”

Reginald stretched out his hand to detain him.

“Ernest,” he said, with some agitation, “tell him gently. You may doubt it, but,” and a flush passed over his face, “my father loves me.”

Ernest did not doubt. He had plainly read the signs of the last few months, had marked the unconscious sparkle of pride at Reginald’s name; or if these had failed to speak, he had seen the vain attempt of the present hour, the vain attempt to mask in outward calm the inward agony.

He went in search of him. Contrary to his expectation, he found he had left his own library, and, with some surprise, heard from one of the servants that he was with Lady Vere in her dressing-room.

Ernest knocked, and was admitted.

Lady Vere, still insensible, was lying on a couch drawn to the window, and by her side her husband sat. It seemed as if the shadow of sorrow had already brought together those who in sunny weather had stood apart; for in the position at least there was something of the union and tenderness of a former time. Lord Vere still bore an air of determined composure; but the struggle to retain it was even at a first glance evident. Those whose feelings have long been subdued and overcome shrink with a kind of terror from their dominion again; and he seemed battling as with an enemy.

He rose to meet Ernest.

“You are come, Mr. De Grey,” he said, in a deep stern voice.

“Yes,” Ernest replied, and paused. The very harshness of the tone betrayed such intensity of anxiety, that he was at a loss how to speak.

Lord Vere fixed his searching eyes upon him.

“Is my son to die?” he exclaimed.

“No,” Ernest said, in a low voice, “he will not die. He may live, but....”

“Speak, Mr. De Grey,” said the same harsh tone.

Ernest’s lips quivered with emotion, notwithstanding his utmost efforts to be calm.

“He may live,” he replied, “he may, it is possible, rise again from his couch to bless you; but if he does, it must be the hand of God that lifts him up, for man cannot.”

“I understand you,” cried the wretched father; “my son”--he paused, he struggled to control himself, but words burst forth as with a cry of despair--“my pride, the joy of my life, the child of my hope will be a cripple!”

He dashed away, and concealed himself in a deep window at a distance from where they stood, and there Ernest heard the deep-drawn breathing with which the fight with his emotion was prolonged.

He stood irresolute. Lord Vere was one to inspire awe, not to invite sympathy, and his manner asked rather for solitude than for comfort now; yet an impulse urged Ernest to seize this moment of comparative softness, and he obeyed it.

“Why do you struggle against your sorrow?” he said, approaching him, speaking in those tender soothing tones which “the heart heard.” “What greater comfort could there be to your suffering son, than to know that you love him and grieve for him?”

Once again the proud man struggled with his misery, but this time in vain. Tears from the long-dried fountain within burst from his eyes, and, leaning his head against the wall, he wept.

Ernest retreated from the window, but, after a moment’s thought, decided on remaining near him. It is painful, most painful, to stand and watch the outward expression of agony, more especially that of the proud and shrinking, who find in the expression of their sorrow itself an added pain; yet it seemed to him that, however displeasing his presence might then be, it was possible that afterwards it might bring relief to the proud man to know, that vain was his sternness,--_one_ had seen his emotion,--_one_ had learnt that he could feel.

He stood near Lady Vere, and put back the curtains that the air might blow more freely upon her, and fell into a kind of musing speculation, inquiring how it was that she, whose inanimate nature seemed scarcely susceptible of the commonest impressions, was _thus_ affected, while those who could think and feel were in full possession of every faculty of mind and body.

He was thus bending dreamily over her when Lord Vere rejoined him. He was calm again, but not as he had been; tears dimmed his eyes, and feeling spoke in every movement and muscle of his countenance.

He made a few inquiries, then said, “Return to Reginald, Mr. De Grey. You must be with him, for I cannot. But tell him that I love him,”--his lip quivered,--“and tell him that my heart is broken.”

He waved his hand impatiently, and Ernest left him.

* * * * *

Half an hour afterwards Reginald was carried back to bed--the operation, (one even more than commonly painful from the manifold injuries he had received)--over. The alleviations for lulling the sense of pain, which have lately been discovered he had rejected, not “sullenly and with scorn,” but resolutely.

“Do not urge me, Ernest,” he said; “if ever I could hope to go forth into life again, I would not perhaps refuse--but now what is left to me on earth but to _bear_?”

And he did bear. Once only during the painful operation, a groan of unutterable anguish burst from his lips, and that was wrung from mental, not from bodily agony. Once Ernest, who stood by his side and held his hand, feeling the hand tremble in his, and observing his closed eyes pressed together with convulsive energy--stooped over him, and faint and gasping, from his lips he heard these murmured words proceed, “Oh! Lucifer, son of the morning, how art thou fallen!”

Much has been said and written on the subject of sudden conversions. I suppose, that taken in the full sense of the word, they are rare, though not perhaps so rare, as some are disposed to imagine: but taking the word in a lower sense, considering it as a change, not from darkness, but from a kind of twilight into light, they are so far from being uncommon, that few have not felt in themselves or observed in others some instance of the kind. As in the physical nature of man, after long illness, and lingering recovery, there comes a day when suddenly he feels that the invalid is left behind, and he is himself again,--as in the intellectual nature, there comes a time when after long and seemingly unmeaning study, a light flashes on the brain and knowledge is won,--so in the moral and spiritual part of man, it is often on a sudden, a certain moment, or hour, or day, that the truths learned in childhood begin to have a conscious being--that the virtues and holy practices of years begin to have a meaning--that the invisible begins to be visible--that Heaven becomes a reality instead of an empty name.

Such a change--such a conversion--such a _regeneration_ as it might be called of Ernest’s nature, was effected in the course of the suffering hours of that day.

“Il y a une espèce de honte,” says La Bruyère, “d’être heureux à la vue de certaines misères.” From the sight of the blighted life before him, from the bed of suffering over which he bent, a voice arose which rang like a trumpet in Ernest’s soul, bowing him in shame and repentance to the dust,--such shame and such repentance from which fair and fruitful blossoms spring.

From childhood he had been taught, that the world was a place of trial and discipline to the soul; in childhood he had been taught, in manhood he had preached it; but the words were unmeaning in his ears and on his lips,--still he was thirsting to make it a place of rest. For years he had heard, and his lips had preached, that man does not live by bread--the bread of this world’s pleasure, this world’s comfort--alone; but by every word, whether of joy or of sorrow, that proceedeth from the mouth of God: but for him, the daily bread for which he asked, was the cup of this world’s joy. He _knew_, but understood not.

But the breath of the Spirit’s influence bloweth where it listeth, and by that suffering couch, in sight of that excess of anguish and superhuman patience, knowledge and understanding came to his soul:

“Awed and dazzled, bending, I confess
Life may have nobler ends than happiness.”

It is not in minds of Ernest’s class that such knowledge is barren knowledge. Many, in moments of excitement, feel dormant powers aroused, and duties that almost madden the soul brought before their eyes; few deal so truly with themselves as to own their responsibility for the inspirations of such a time. But Ernest, even from childhood, had followed the light that led him, and so was prepared for the enlightening of this hour. His progress had been slow, for opposing tendencies kept him back; but though failing, he had never been forgetful; in discomfiture had never been at rest. Often he stumbled, sometimes altogether he fell; but still when the time of temptation past, with clear eyes and resolute will, he had ever risen again and struggled on.

The thick-coming fancies, the stirring energies of that moment, might fade and fall into rest; but he had passed a boundary and entered into a new existence, and he would not return again. It might be but a step; but it was that step which leads from the life of calm and simple sincerity, asking, “What _must_ I do, and I will strive to do it?” to the glowing life, which beholding the flood of evil on the earth, exclaims, “What _can_ I do for the glory of God and the love of man? What wanderers can I call back to rest? what holy ones can I bless? what sorrowing eyes can I comfort? what frail errors of the flesh restore with my gentle compassion?” It was but a step, but it was such a step as the earth makes, when from the shadows of night and the glimmerings of twilight, it leaps forth into the radiance of the dawning sun. Many an hour might pass before it attained its noontide glory; but the night _was_ spent, and the dawn _was_ come.