Chapter XIII

... Even the weariest river
Winds, somewhere, safe to sea.

SWINBURNE’S _Garden of Proserpine_.

As the weeks succeeded each other, one thought was ever present in the mind of Tim. ‘Shall I see him again before I die? It can do him no harm now. I shall so soon be out of the way; I cannot come between him and his love any more.’

As his poor hands, whose hold on this world was loosening day by day, grew thinner and more transparent, his face paler, his step slower upon the gravel, his heart yearned ever with a patient longing for just one more sight of the friend to whom his whole life had been true. But he had given the crowning proof of his devotion--renunciation. The arms that should have been upholding him in his last sore struggle, he had himself unclasped; the dear lips and eyes that should even now be smiling on his sick-bed, his own free act had sent far away from him.

‘He will never know that I was true to him. I shall never see him again.’ Through all the long empty hours this one cry repeats itself in his soul. All the little life that is left to him seems concentrated in this one intense longing for Carol. To see his face, to hear his loved voice again, if only for a moment; to tell him the truth at last; only once, just once, before he died. And yet even now he could not put his thought into words,--could not bring himself to make this last request to his father.

As for Mr. Ebbesley, he too was troubled by one thought which he could not find the courage to speak. He was always with Tim now. It was his arm which supported the boy into the garden where he loved to sit, and back to the house; no tending could have been more loving, more sympathetic. But, as I have said, no one changes his whole nature at a leap, even in the great crises of life; and there was yet one struggle to be made with his pride before perfect ease and confidence could exist between them.

Hour after hour would Tim lie silent and uncomplaining, yearning for Carol, but dreading to endanger the new-found treasure of his father’s love; dreading to see the old cloud settle on the face that he was watching, the hard look grow round the mouth, as it was wont to do when in the old days he had been obliged to mention his friend’s name. And William Ebbesley would sit beside him all the while, divining his thoughts, knowing there was one supreme proof of his affection to be given to his son, one sacrifice that he could make for him, one happiness that he could give him, and longing to make the effort, yet ever just kept from it by some strange inexplicable shyness and reserve. For a long time he hoped that Tim would break the silence, would be the first to approach the subject; but at last he saw that that was not to be hoped, and he was half angry with himself for the cowardice that made him wish to shift this burthen to those poor weak shoulders. No. It was clearly for him to take the first step; had he not ardently desired some way of showing his devotion to his son, and when he had it, was it possible that he should hesitate?

So one evening when they had been watching the sunset, which had left a sham glow on Tim’s white cheeks, William Ebbesley, holding his son’s hand, and with face half-turned away, said suddenly, ‘Tim, dear, you have not everything you want; there is one thing I have not done for you.’

There was a real glow in Tim’s cheeks now; the sunset light had faded, but in its place an inward radiance, brighter but almost as transient, had spread over the delicate face. Feeling his grasp tighten, his father stole a look at him, and even then a pang shot through him at the thought of the love that had called forth this happy flush at the bare chance of a meeting, the love that was not for him, that might perhaps have been his.

‘Oh, father! you mean----’ Tim began tremulously, and paused; he dared hardly complete the sentence even in his own mind.

William Ebbesley choked down the last touch of the old jealousy. ‘I will write to-night,’ he said quietly, answering the other’s unspoken thought.

But a new trouble had fallen on Tim. ‘Will he come?’ he said half to himself; and then, ‘Oh yes. If I know him for the kind, generous Carol I think him, he will surely come.’

Then he asked, ‘Father, may _I_ write?’

‘You know, dear boy, the doctor has forbidden you to write a word.’

‘Yes, I know; but this will do me good. I shall not be easy unless I may.’

‘Won’t it do if you dictate to me?’

‘No. I must write myself; nothing else will do.’

‘Well, if you are sure it will not tire you.’ And he went and brought the writing things.

Tim took them eagerly, and was beginning to write, when he stopped suddenly and looked up. ‘Father, forgive me; I am selfish. You are sorry at this.’

It was so unexpected, the little impulse of unselfish consideration, that at its contact the last drop of bitterness fell from the father’s heart, and in his eyes for the first time for more years than he could remember shone the blessed healing tears to which he had so long been a stranger.

‘No, no, my darling,’ he faltered hastily; ‘whatever makes you happy--I----’ then his voice broke, and he could not finish.

‘God bless you, dear dear father. I am quite happy now.’

And this was Tim’s letter: ‘I am very ill, Carol--dying, I think. Dear Carol, if I have seemed ungrateful, can you and will you forgive me? I could explain to you if I had you here, but I can’t write. Come to me, Carol dear.--Your loving TIM.’

‘Father.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Do you want to see what I have written?’

‘No, my boy, no.’

Mr. Ebbesley took the letter and sealed it; then he sent it to the address that he had already got from the servants at the Court.

Whether it was the reaction from the tense longing in which he had been living, or merely that as his strength decreased the change in him grew more apparent, Tim seemed to get worse much more quickly after his letter had gone.

The doctor came and went, shaking his head sadly, and saying, ‘It is quicker than I thought,’ and despair settled down upon the two watchers by the sick boy.

But still Tim waited day by day for the answer that was to bring peace to his soul. Life was slipping away too fast. ‘Oh! come, Carol,’ he would whisper, ‘or it may be too late; she will surely spare you just for a little.’

Tim had been at home nearly a month now; the blazing July weather had ended in a rather wet August. All around, the harvest lay beaten down by the rain; not the only grain stricken ere it had come to maturity. One evening, after a more than usually dreary day, the clouds had broken, giving place to a gorgeous sunset. Tim had been placed on a sofa in the open window, from which he could watch the purple and crimson and gold, and the delicate green and lilac tints of the western sky; the same sofa on which he had lain eight years before, pondering on his ‘angel,’ and had seen Carol come in with his offering of grapes.

‘Father.’

‘Yes, my boy.’ He knew too well what question was coming.

‘Has the postman been?’

‘Yes, dear.’

Alas! no letter. Tim did not even ask, knowing that if there were one, it would be given to him at once. He closed his eyes and lay quite still. His father looked wearily out of the window; he knew what was passing in the lad’s mind, and had come to desire the letter almost as much as the sick boy himself.

The air was cool and fresh. The garden was yielding a thousand scents to the soft touch of the summer rain. The setting sun lit little coloured lamps in the large drops that hung from every leaf of the grateful trees and shrubs; the birds kept up a drowsy twittering. A few knowing old blackbirds and thrushes, well aware that the moisture brings out the fine fat worms, were hopping about on the grass-plot in search of their supper. All sounds were strangely distinct that evening.

Hark! what was that? surely a step on the wet gravel; not old Richard the gardener’s step. No, it was a young foot that struck the ground lightly, and scrunched stoutly along the little approach to the house. Tim’s ears had caught the sound, and he started up from his pillows, his cheeks aflame, his eyes bright and eager, while his heart beat loud and fast. He would know that dear step among a thousand.

He had come--at last, at last!

Mr. Ebbesley stole noiselessly away, with a heavy dull ache in his heart, and I am afraid neither of the friends noticed his absence. In the same room, in the same place, in the same attitudes in which they had met as children, they had come together again.

‘Oh, Carol! are you come to me?’

‘Oh, my poor dear Tim!’

Carol could say no more. He was shocked at the havoc these few short weeks had wrought. A sacred silence rested between them for a few minutes. Enough for Tim that he was there; no need of words. Carol was the first to speak; his voice was hushed and full of awe.

‘I was not with my family when your letter came, dear Tim, and they did not know where to forward it to me, as I was moving about; so I never got it for nearly ten days, or I should have been here long ago.’

‘Oh, Carol! how good of you to come. I half thought sometimes--forgive me for doubting you--but I thought you might not come at all--after--after the way I treated you.’

‘Don’t let’s talk of that now, Tim; it’s past and gone. I don’t want you to explain; I am content not to understand. I remember only the dear good friend of the old days, who is come back to me.’

‘But I _must_ talk of it, please, Carol; I must tell you how it was. It can do no harm now, and I can’t leave you thinking hardly of me, for you know I have not very long to live; something tells me you are come only just in time.’

‘Oh! dear dear boy, for God’s sake, don’t talk like that,’ said Carol, with a great lump rising in his throat. ‘You are not going to--to----’ He felt all the repugnance of the young and strong to face the thought, or say the word.

‘To die.’ Tim finished the sentence for him quite simply. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘No, no; you will get well and strong. You must, for all our sakes.’

Tim smiled and shook his head; it did not seem to him worth while to argue the point; that was not what he wanted to say.

‘Never mind,’ he said gently, in a way that put the subject aside as unimportant. ‘If I had lived I could not have had you with me now. I could never have told you what I am going to tell you. Carol, will you believe me when I say that I never wavered for an instant in my love for you; never loved you better than when I seemed to give you up?’ Tim was getting excited, and Carol, fearing it would be bad for him, tried in vain to stop him. ‘Oh, Carol! it was for your sake I did it; will you believe me when I tell you all this?’

‘For my sake, dear old boy? I don’t understand you.’ He thought his friend’s mind was wandering, but he was very patient and tender with him, humouring him, as one would a sick child.

‘She said--I heard her say--that I came between you. You know, Carol, it was when you were so unhappy; and then I saw that I was the cause of it all; and so I determined not to come between you any more; and, indeed, indeed, dear Carol, I would have held my tongue for ever, only there is no more need now. I could not die and leave you thinking ill of me. I suppose I ought to have, but I couldn’t do it.’

A new light was breaking in upon Carol. ‘And did you do all this for me?’ he asked wonderingly. ‘Why, Tim, I knew you liked me absurdly, much more than I deserved, but I never dreamt you cared as much for me as that.’

‘And you understand now, Carol, don’t you, why I didn’t answer your dear letter? See, I have it here; it never leaves me.’

‘I was a beast and a fool to doubt you, Tim. How could I ever have done it? but it _did_ seem as though you must be bored with me and my affairs. And all the time you were doing this for me!’

‘Carol, did she mind your coming to me? Tell me I have not made fresh mischief between you?’

‘She was very unhappy when I told her how ill you were, and she said, “Oh! go at once to him; I can guess what it would be to be ill and wanting you; and he has been waiting so long already.” And then she cried, and said a great deal I did not understand at the time about having been jealous of my friendship for you, and having had hard thoughts of you sometimes, and that she was so ashamed of herself now that you were so ill. I was to be sure and tell you, and to ask if you would ever forgive her.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Tim answered indifferently.

‘But how did you guess,’ Carol continued, ‘how could you imagine that she felt anything of the sort?’

Then Tim told him all that he had overheard Violet say, only softening it off, and generalising a little with fine tact. And then, the floodgates once open, he went on with sudden eloquence, the more touching from its sheer simplicity, and told all the long story of his constant love, but with as little mention as possible of his father throughout, and of the part he had played in it. And this short hour, which some may think was a sad one, was just the happiest of Tim’s whole life.

Carol listened in wonder and awe, not unmingled with compunction, as the description of the feeling he had so unconsciously excited unrolled itself before him. He forgot himself, Violet, his love for her, everything for the moment in contemplation of this devotion, so single-hearted, so lofty, so pure and so unselfish, which had been his, all his, and at which he had been so far from guessing.

‘I had no idea of anything of the kind,’ he said, more to himself than to Tim. ‘I knew the old people were awfully fond of me, God bless them; and I understand what I feel for Violet. But this beats me; I’ve always been what’s called popular, I suppose. I never thought much about it, but fellows have always been jolly to me, and seemed to like me. Oh! my dear friend, what have I ever done that you should care about me like this?’

Tim’s face lit up exultingly. ‘“Passing the love of women,”’ he said; ‘that was it, Carol, wasn’t it? “Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.” Do you remember the day when they read it in the lesson in chapel at Eton?’

Carol had forgotten, but Tim’s words brought back the scene with strange distinctness: the big chapel in its stillness, the silence of a great crowd, and of a crowd unused to be still, the little flecks of light from the air-holes in the roof, the ugly picture of the finding of Moses in the window opposite his seat, the droning voice of the reader, and the flash of the little face that turned up to his, with the expression that had puzzled him at the time.

‘Yes, I remember,’ he answered.

‘I have thought of it so often since. It would be grand for one’s friend to be able to say that of one, after one was dead. Put your strong arms round me, Carol, and raise me a little; I can talk better so.’

Carol lifted the poor thin body as easily as a baby, and propped it up on the cushions.

‘Thank you, that is better. Ah! don’t take your arms away; let me feel them round me for a little. Carol, when I am buried, I want those words to be put on the stone. My father will let it be so, I know, if I wish it; I shall ask him the last thing. But you must remind him.’

‘Oh! Tim, I can’t bear to hear you talk so. You mustn’t die; we all want you so much.’

‘Don’t cry, Carol; you will do as I wish, won’t you? And, Carol, tell her how I tried to make things happy for her and you; I want her to think kindly of me too.’

He laid his head on his friend’s breast and closed his eyes; the effort of talking so much had tired him. Carol thought he was asleep, and dared not move for fear of waking him; but by and by he said, ‘Do you remember, Carol? I lay on this sofa when you first came to see me after the accident. I had been dreaming of you without knowing it; I thought you were an angel. And then I turned and saw you standing there in the doorway. You kissed me that day, Carol. Will you kiss me now?’

Carol bowed his head without a word and kissed him. And thus their friendship was sealed at either end.

‘Father,’ said Tim, after a little, ‘are you there?’

‘Yes, my boy.’ He had come in, and was standing a little apart in the deepening twilight, humbly watching the friends. How unlike the proud man who had so bitterly resented his little son’s preferring another to himself!

‘Will you come here, father? I cannot see you there.’ He came round the sofa, and Tim held out his hand to him. ‘You and Carol must love one another,’ he said, looking from one to the other, ‘for my sake.’ Silently the two men clasped hands over the couch.

‘You must leave us now, Carol dear,’ Tim went on; ‘I must be alone with my father.’

Carol longed to say something, but could not; he went out without a word. Tim watched him walk away with eyes that knew they were taking their last look. Then a satisfied smile lit up his face as he turned it to his father.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.