Chapter Thirty.

Repentance.

“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.”