Chapter Thirty Three
Twisting the Threads of Fate
The weeks that followed Lucian’s accident had been a time of severe trial to Sylvester Riddell. All the responsibility rested on his shoulders of deciding whether they should go ashore at Kirkwall, or get on to Edinburgh in the yacht, on which latter course Sylvester, finding that the Kirkwall doctor authorised it, and could accompany them, had finally fixed. He had to telegraph to Mrs Leigh, who was still in Switzerland, to come to Edinburgh, and when he did so he had scarcely any hope that she would find her son alive. He knew nothing of illness, was not a person of ready practical resource, and was far too sensitive not to feel the sight of such suffering to be a terrible strain upon him. Imaginative and sympathetic, he felt all the horror of the sudden striking down of the strong young life, and to be calm and cheerful was almost beyond his power. Lucian was far too ill to fret about himself or his future; when he was conscious, relief from pain was all he could desire, and the first time he showed much sense of the situation was when he knew Mrs Leigh was coming.
“Oh, Syl! – the mother!” he said, looking up with wistful eyes, “try to help her.”
There was very little help or comfort to be given. Sylvester knew that the worth of life would be as much crushed out for Mrs Leigh by Lucian’s death, or hopeless illness, as for the poor young fellow himself. She was a good woman, and a brave one, but heavy trial was new to her, and her misery took the line of trying every expedient, getting every opinion, wondering constantly whether anything else could have been done at first, and perhaps, spite of herself, her state of mind became apparent to Lucian, for he tried to say something of “Syl being so clever, and always knowing what to do,” – an opinion perhaps hardly shared by the trained nurses, but which went to Syl’s heart. Mrs Leigh, however, to say nothing of Lucian, would have been so much more forlorn without him, that he could not possibly leave them alone; he remained with them in Edinburgh, and, when his old playfellow’s vigorous youth enabled him to rally up to a certain point, he arranged for the difficult journey south, and escorted them back to London. Here he was obliged to leave them, to return to his duties at Oxford, taking a few days’ much-needed rest at home by the way.
He had had no time to think of himself, though there was much in his life which required consideration; he felt how severe the strain upon him had been, when he found himself once more in the dear old home, with his father’s loving eyes scanning his face, and noting the traces on it of anxiety and fatigue.
There was Amethyst and his chance of winning her. She had never been out of his thoughts, but it went against every generous instinct to seek her the moment that he left her old lover’s side, when poor Lucian’s long heart-ache had been betrayed in every unconscious murmur of the beloved name. The unselfish good wishes which had been meant to set him free from all such scruples only intensified them. And yet he had said too much to say no more, and, without his father’s concurrence, he was hardly in a position to say anything.
He murmured an inquiry as to where she was, and if his aunt ever heard from her, and soon had told his father all there was to tell.
Mr Riddell sighed, and shook his head. He had guessed it all before, and he did not quite see his way through it.
“My dear boy,” he said, “whatever I can do to forward your happiness you may regard as done. What else can I wish for? But, if you’ll take advice, give her a little time. She isn’t thinking of you just now, Syl. She needs to be left a little to herself, to find herself out. She knows how you have been occupied, and I am sure she is ready for no sudden definite appeal from you, which is all that is at present in your power. We will not lose sight of her for you.”
Sylvester acquiesced, yet utter silence was impossible to him. He could ask nothing from her just then, but he must let her know that he continued to give her all himself. He wrote some verses, veiled under the familiar disguise of Amelot to Iris, and sent them, unsigned and undated, to the address which he soon caused his aunt to give him. But it was a little like posting them to the rainbow’s end.
If he could not woo her, he might make himself worthy of her. When he went back to Oxford, he took up his work there with the determination to make it more real. He would in no way stand aside from the struggle of life to which he had urged her. The outward changes in his life were slight, but, nevertheless, it was pervaded by a new and more earnest spirit. The lads who had come to his help in his extremity were no longer strangers to him, and men began to say that Riddell would gain influence in the place.
Mrs Leigh had written encouraging accounts of Lucian. The London doctors had recommended the winter abroad as the best cure for the injured lungs, and had not forbidden a hope that the serious internal injuries resulting from the strain might be surmounted by Lucian’s hitherto unbroken health and strength. At least, so the mother interpreted their verdict, and it was decided that they were to go by sea to the Mediterranean, and finally to settle at Bordighera, a place Mrs Leigh knew and liked, and where she hoped Sylvester would join them at Christmas, and find his friend much nearer recovery than when they parted.
Sylvester hoped that so it might be, and made all necessary arrangements for spending part of his winter vacation abroad, all the more willingly, because he knew that the Haredales were somewhere among the towns of the Riviera. So it came to pass that one day, just after Christmas, Lucian lay on a couch under the verandah of one of the prettiest villas of Bordighera, wrapped up and propped with pillows, and listened, with a half-smile, to his mother’s assurances to the newly-arrived Sylvester, of how much good the climate was doing him, and how much better he was than he had been in London.
“Let Syl stay and talk to me, mother,” he said, “and you go and get your drive; he’ll take care of me. Perhaps we’ll go by and by for a drive in the pony carriage. Then I can show him the place.”
“Very well,” said Mrs Leigh, “that will be very nice for you. But it is good for him to walk a little too, Sylvester. He has been longing for you to come, to show you how much better he can do so.”
There were anxious lines on her smooth handsome face, which contradicted her cheerful words, as she went away after a little bustle of arrangements, and left the two young men alone together.
“Well, dear boy,” said Sylvester, turning to his friend, “and how is it? Do you like this lovely place?”
“Yes,” said Lucian, “the soft air is comfortable, and I can talk better than in the autumn, I have more breath.”
Sylvester felt as if he had never realised before what the change had been, as he listened to the gentle languid voice, and noticed how the handsome face had lost all its sturdy impassiveness, and had fined away into a sort of ethereal beauty, while nobody could accuse the clear grey eyes now of want of expression. Sylvester hardly knew how to meet their gaze, but it prepared him for the next words.
“You won’t mind my talking to you, Syl. You know I’m not really any better.”
“No?” said Sylvester, with difficulty.
“No. You see I was so strong and healthy, I took a great deal of killing. But I dare say the doctors always told you that there was fatal mischief done by the strain, and there’s not a bit inside me but what’s all wrong. I had to know the probabilities before I left England, you see, to get my affairs settled.”
“It is hard to believe,” said Sylvester.
“Yes, I suppose I should mind more: but I’m so tired out with pain that any sort of rest seems welcome.”
Lucian was as straightforward and to the point as ever, and, as his friend did not at once answer, he said —
“I thought you knew it – and it’s a comfort to speak out. You see how the mother takes it, and poor old Jackson (he’s out here with two of his sisters, you know), he thinks he ought to cheer me up.”
“Dear Lucy,” said Sylvester, “talk just as you like, and when you like; I’m too glad to help you.”
“Could you make the mother understand by degrees? It’s very bad for her. You see James Leigh is only a distant cousin, and he must have Toppings. She thought so much of my living here, I wish she’d give me up.”
“I’ll try,” said Sylvester; “but she will come to it in her own time.”
“Your father could help her. Syl, do you think he could come out here by and by? He would make it much easier for my mother, and I should like to do all that’s right, and prepare myself as much as possible.”
“I am sure he will come, if you wish it.”
“And then – Amethyst. The Jacksons know her and Una, they met them in the autumn. But I shall never see her again. Wasn’t it odd that we talked of her that last day in Orkney? Ask her to forgive me for being such a fool. Give her my love. I wish I could have taken care of her. I wish I could know she was happy.”
“I will tell her everything. Don’t talk too much now, dear boy, there’ll be plenty of chances.”
“I don’t know. You see, sometimes, speaking hurts me so badly; but I’ve thought it all over, in and out. You know, Syl, if I’d been in the army, and got killed out in Egypt or anywhere, you would have thought nothing of it, though I am young. And we’re bound to believe that it’s all right, and God’s will, as it is.”
“Lucy,” said Sylvester, “there’s one thing you must let me say. I know you gave your life for mine, quite as much as if we’d been under fire, and you had waited to help me out.”
“Oh no, I didn’t,” said Lucian. “I let go because I thought there was no good in killing two people instead of one. I was done for before that. What! the pony carriage come round? Let me rest for five minutes, Syl, and then we’ll go.” Lucian was helped into the pony carriage, and Sylvester sat beside him, and drove along a lovely sunny road with a wide view of the blue sparkling sea. They did not talk much more, only Lucian made his companion notice each point of interest, and very observant eyes he had for bird or flower, picturesque costume, or strangely-shaped boat dancing on the water – the traveller’s keen eyes for the characteristics of a new country.
Suddenly the keen eyes fixed themselves, and he started half upright, and laid a detaining hand on the reins.
“There she is!” he said, breathlessly.
Sylvester saw a tall young lady, in a grey dress, coming along the road towards them; but his sight was shorter than Lucian’s, and only a lover’s instant insight made him say – “Amethyst? Impossible!”
“No – they are somewhere in these parts. Stop, Syl! She is coming.”
Sylvester pulled up short, sprang out, and went to meet her.
“Miss Haredale,” he said, desperately, “Lucian is here. He has seen you; will you come and speak to him?”
“Here!” ejaculated Amethyst. “Oh yes – if he wishes it. I hope he is better?”
She came up to the side of the carriage, and Lucian raised himself, and looked up in her face.
Alas, she needed no answer to her question; her colour fled, her eyes brimmed with tears, nothing that she had heard had prepared her for the truth.
“We have been enjoying our drive,” said Sylvester nervously, “but I must not let him stay out till it gets chilly. Have you been here long, Miss Haredale?”
“Only since yesterday. We are at Hôtel – ”
She faltered; and Lucian said, with something of his old abruptness, —
“Never mind me. I am sorry I look so bad, it frightens you. But people soon get used to it.”
“I was taken by surprise,” said Amethyst, with a great struggle for composure. “I hope you will soon look better.”
“My mother will call on Lady Haredale,” said Lucian punctiliously, but with wistful eyes.
Amethyst gave him her hand, as Sylvester made a decided movement, but, as he held it close for a moment, the contrast with the well-remembered grasp of his strong brown fingers broke her down completely, and she hurried away, half-blinded with tears. Lucian did not speak another word till the drive was over and he was back again on his couch. Then he whispered —
“Syl!”
“Yes – what is it?”
“Won’t she come sometimes and let me see her? Tell her how it is with me. I should like it, so much. Just to look at her!”
“I will tell her, and I am sure she will come. Rest now, and I will go and find her,” said Sylvester, gently.
“Yes, that’s what I want. Tell her how the Jackson girls come to tea, and many people. And the mother will call. But you tell her the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Just a few times more,” said Lucian, as he watched his messenger go.
Sylvester went with hurried steps, urged as much by his own feelings as by Lucian’s words. He made his way down into the sunny road where he had left Amethyst, and soon overtook her walking fast along it, with little heed to the beauty of sea or sky.
“I am grieved to have given you such a shock,” he said, “but I was obliged to think first of him.”
“Oh, I knew he was ill, but he looks as if he was dying!” broke out Amethyst, with a husky voice.
“Yes,” said Sylvester, “that is the sad truth. Life is all over for him, he cannot recover. He wishes you to know it. But, if you will, come sometimes to Casa Remi, as others do, and let him see you. It will give him pleasure. Mrs Leigh thinks society good for him. If he could see the old friendliness restored, he would not fret so much over his past want of insight.”
“I thought that he believed himself to have been perfectly right.”
“Ah, he has learned many lessons – in a hard school, poor boy! But you will give him this great pleasure – for a little while?”
“If Mrs Leigh wishes – it is for her to decide,” said Amethyst, still a little stiffly; then with a sudden break down – “Oh, how he is altered!”
“Yes, indeed.”
Sylvester was pale, he turned his troubled eyes upon her.
“It is impossible, just now,” he said, “to think of ourselves – of oneself I mean, of anything but of him.”
“I will do just what you think is best for him,” said Amethyst. “Tell him I will come. You understand?” She put her hand into Sylvester’s, and he held it in his own.
“I understand,” he said.
Their eyes met as they parted. She looked very unhappy; but Sylvester’s heart bounded as he felt that once again she yielded to his influence, and she forgot that she had ever dreaded meeting him again, and had been half angry when his verses reached her.
Chapter Thirty Four
All these things have ceased to be with my Desire of Life
Mrs Leigh obeyed her son’s wish, and made the amende with all the gracious tact that could possibly be shown in dealing with so difficult a situation. It suited Lady Haredale much better to ignore the past than to keep up any kind of coldness. The Jacksons were a connecting link, with their eager seeking of Amethyst and Una; Lucian’s two young sisters were glad to resume friendly relations with Kattern and Tory, who had but newly joined their mother, with Miss Haredale and Carrie Carisbrooke.
It was a fortunate moment. Lord Haredale was away at Monte Carlo, and his wife, who, with what Una called “my lady’s dreadful capacity for enjoying herself,” had found friends of every sort on their travels, lost in some marvellous way the nameless look, shabby, “shady” (only some slang word could quite describe it), which had just a little tarnished her graceful ladyhood, when there were only shabby, shady people with whom to associate, and fitted at once into her old circle. Other residents and visitors called upon her, so that a time of cheerfulness and gaiety set in for all the young people, who met every day, and made expeditions together, which often began and ended in Mrs Leigh’s garden at Casa Remi. Amethyst came with the rest. If she had been deaf to Sylvester’s appeal, she could hardly have resisted the half-acknowledged misery in Mrs Leigh’s face. She was kind and gentle to Lucian, and her manner never betrayed under-currents of feeling; but the dreary months of dissatisfaction with herself and with her lot in life had stolen away her bloom, and she looked unhappy and weary.
Lucian could not talk to her much. As he had said, he lay and looked at her; but how life and death seemed to him, when she was in his sight, it was hard to tell. Sylvester sometimes feared that the pleasure, which he had so much desired, had been dearly bought. Surely that restraint must be hard for Lucian, which was so great a strain upon himself, but the wonder how it was with her, the fear that all was not well with her, the pity for the dying lover, and the passion that beat in his own heart, were almost more than he could bear.
“Syl,” said Lucian one day, after one of these gatherings, about three weeks after Amethyst’s first visit, “Syl, Amethyst isn’t happy.”
“No,” said Sylvester, a little startled, “I fear not; her life has many hardships.”
“I want to speak to her alone,” said Lucian, “our parting has always stung her. It’s bad for her to look back on; I think I can make it better. You’ll manage it, won’t you?”
“If it’s not too much for you, I will try.”
“I’ve got it to do,” said Lucian. “Get her to come by herself; I know what I want to say.”
“Well,” said Sylvester, “I’ll try – when you are feeling strong enough.”
“To-morrow then.” He paused a moment and looked at Sylvester, and then said distinctly – “She is not the least bit in love with me now, you know, Syl.”
“Oh, my dear boy,” said Sylvester, hurriedly, “all this is very bad for you. Even for her sake, I can’t bear to have you distress yourself. It is so hard for you.”
“Why, Syl, I don’t feel enough like living, to mind as much as you suppose. Of course sometimes,” – he paused again, then smiled a little – “I know better than she does now, about a good many things. – Oh, I’m bad to-day! Lift me, Syl. A change makes it easier.”
Sylvester did what he could to mitigate the attack of pain which followed, glad that Lucian did not try to hide it from him, as he too often did from his mother.
He did not see how to manage the interview without Mrs Leigh’s co-operation, and decided to tell her of Lucian’s wish. She gave him a look which went to his heart; for in it was the acknowledgment of all which she could not bring her tongue to utter.
“I leave it to you,” she said, “he must have his own way now.”
Sylvester went straight to Amethyst and asked her to come at a given time, and to let Lucian say to her whatever he would. She looked at him for a moment, and he could see that she shrank from such a meeting, but she only said —
“I will come.”
“Thank you,” said Sylvester; “he has set his heart on it.”
She looked, as she stood silent, as if with another word her self-control would break down into passionate grief, but the moment passed, and she recovered her usual manner, as she repeated her promise to come to-morrow morning. Her troubled look dwelt in Sylvester’s mind. Had the old love woke again in tender pity, and were they breaking her heart once more with this recall of the past? But this time Sylvester did not understand her, and tormented himself in vain.
She came on the next day, punctual to the moment, very grave and quiet, and perfectly calm.
Lucian had been resting all the morning, and now lay on his couch under the verandah, while Mrs Leigh greeted Amethyst, and set a chair for her close by, within easy reach of his eyes and voice, then with hardly a word she left them.
“Amethyst,” said Lucian, “you know I’m going to die, and you, I suppose, will have a long life. I want to take the pain out of your thoughts of me, so that when you think of those days when we were engaged to each other, it may be pleasant to you, as if we’d had a good time when we were children.”
Amethyst looked at him, but she could not speak.
“I never ought to have lost patience with a girl like you, and I ought to have known you better. But I was too young and stupid, it was a dreadful thing to me when I knew I had wronged you – had been so wrong – and couldn’t make up for it. And when I saw you again, I knew I had never thought enough of you, though I loved you so much.”
“Oh, Lucian – no – ”
“If we’d married, I suppose I should have learned in time. But I should have made mistakes and vexed you, I wasn’t fit to guide you. I should always have thought I knew best Well, then, you see it has all been for the best, and I want to tell you, that if I hadn’t had the loving, and the getting to understand you, and the trying to get on without you, it would have been much worse for me now. And so, as that poor little old time has helped me to die better, it seemed to me that perhaps the thought of it might make your life better for you – at least to know what you have done for me.”
“Oh, Lucian, that’s not quite it. Why was I such a wicked girl as to forget you? It wasn’t because I was angry. If I had been faithful too – you might – we might – ”
“No, dear,” said Lucian. “That’s what I want to show you. You couldn’t – you wanted more than I had got to give you. That’s what I found out. You’ll have it some day, and then you won’t feel I did you nothing but harm.”
“Oh,” said Amethyst, with streaming tears, “I shall always – I shall always feel —glorified by your having loved me —so.”
He got hold of her hand, and held it gently in both his own, and when she was a little calmer, he said —
“Tell me about your troubles.”
“They’re not worth it,” she said, “hard, sordid money troubles – things that are hateful. And the wrong things I do – and feel – and think.”
“I think there’ll be better times for you,” said Lucian; then he smiled, and said, “As there will be soon for me.”
“If – if you could but get better – ”
Lucian gave her the strangest look.
“Oh, no,” he said, quietly, and then, with a little more of his usual manner —
“I’m sorry to have made you cry. But I think you’ll like by and by to know I quite understood. Now there’s just one thing more.”
He took hold of a gold locket that hung from his watch chain, and opened it slowly, then took out of it the broad gipsy ring, set with a big amethyst and two diamonds – the very ring that his boyish taste had thought both handsome and symbolical enough to give his betrothed.
“Let me give it you back,” he said. “Perhaps you won’t like to wear it now; but, when you put another ring on your finger, let this be a guard to it. That’s my fancy.”
“Oh, Lucian! Put it on – I never – never shall – ”
“I think you will,” he said. “I hope you will.” He took her warm young hand, and, with his weak fingers, put on the ring, and back upon them both came the joyous moment when he had first put it on, and “all the world was young.”
“And then,” continued Lucian, “when Mr Riddell is here, and gives me my last Communion, will you come too? I remember the Sunday we were engaged – ”
“Oh,” said Amethyst, “all the love went away together. But now, I will – I will – ”
“There is Syl, across the garden,” said Lucian, after a moment – “He thinks – I shall be tired. He takes such care of me, he is so good to me – now he must come and take you home. Good-bye, my dear love. God bless you! I am quite happy now.”
He looked up at her, and with a sudden impulse she stooped down and kissed him, and then turning her head away, and waving Sylvester back, she fled across the garden and out of sight.
Lucian had covered his face with his hands, it was flushed and burning, as all that was left of life in him surged up and rebelled against the approaching hand of death.
“In much pain, dear boy?” said Sylvester anxiously, after a minute.
“More – more than I knew,” said Lucian, with panting breath, then, with a look which Sylvester never forgot, he whispered – “But it’s quite right, – Syl.”
By and by, when he was able to leave Lucian, Sylvester went out on to the hill-side under silvery olive woods, and over broken ground covered with rosemary and thyme. The sun was bright, and the sea pure, clear blue beneath it. He thought that he had come to seek solitude and silence; but, when he saw Amethyst coming towards him, he knew that he had been really in search of her.
She came up to him, and stood by his side, and they looked into each other’s faces.
“It did not hurt him?” she said presently in a trembling voice.
“Oh, no, he will be more at rest now.”
“Oh,” said Amethyst, with a fresh burst of tears, “oh – I am so sorry – so sorry for him! Oh – I think I’d die, if he could get well and be happy.”
They were passionate words; but her tone and look lifted the dread from Sylvester’s heart. It was for Lucian, not for herself, that she was weeping.
“One cannot dare to wish, for such as he,” he said.
“But I was so cruel to him, when he came back, in London. I hurt him more than I need. Oh, I have been a wicked girl, always trying to get something for myself, to make up for having been ill-treated! I despised every one. I despised him. Oh, I’ve had a lump of ice instead of a heart, I hate myself for it!”
“But now the ice has melted?”
“Yes,” said Amethyst, with childish directness, “I am sorry now.”
They walked on slowly, side by side. Words were difficult; but a great peace came over them both.
“Do you think,” said Amethyst, presently, “is he worse? It will not be very soon, will it?”
“I don’t know,” said Sylvester. “He is much weaker than he was. I am glad my father is coming next week. Poor Lucy was meant for living! But he does suffer frightfully, night and day. I shall not leave him – I have arranged for that – and I couldn’t possibly go away now.”
“He likes to have you.”
“Yes, the dear boy! He always has clung to me, though, heaven knows, I often manage badly enough for him. But whatever he likes – There’s one thing I must tell you. You know I tried to hold him up when he fell. My strength was going – in another minute he must have pulled me over. And he knew it – and let my hand go!”
Sylvester could hardly speak of that most awful moment, and Amethyst grew paler with sympathy. “Oh – that was splendid of him!” she said.
Then her heart gave a great throb and bound, and she knew which life was the dearest to her. The blood rushed back to her temples, she could see nothing, but she felt that Sylvester held her hand close in his own, and presently she heard his voice whispering —
“You know what makes my life worth living?” She turned, and at once giving him her hands, and putting him away from her, she said —
“Oh, we will do everything for him, we will not think of anything but him – while he wants us.”
She fled away as she spoke; but her words seemed to Sylvester the most beautiful answer that she could have given him, the perfect expression of their according hearts.
In his pocket-book was still preserved the young primrose springing from dead leaves, with which, long ago, Amethyst had illustrated her saying that “beginnings come out of endings.”
It was no inapt type of the sweet hopes springing up in these days of mourning – hopes all the sweeter for the generous reverence with which they waited for fulfilment.