CHAPTER XXIV.

DE VAYNE'S CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

"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 MILNES.

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 neighbor 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 endeavoring 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 St. 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-colored 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 Uther 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 ex

ceed 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 St. 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 St. Werner's was deserted. Scarcely even a stray undergraduate lingered in the courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choirs 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

292

THE GROUNDS OF ST. WERNER'S.

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 St. 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 will hate me, because I fear you will have heard calumnies about me. But may I speak to you?"

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.

KENNEDY AND LADY DE VAYNE.

293

Believe me, I would have died-I would, indeedrather than 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 honored 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.