Guy Livingstone Part 32

I have never tried to fancy what pa.s.sed at the meeting of those two strong hearts, after the one had been brought suddenly, face to face, with an awful death, the other with a yet more awful sorrow.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

"Ah! Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, that never wert matched of earthly hands. Thou wert the fairest person, and the goodliest of any that rode in the press of knights; thou wert the truest to thy sworn brother of any that buckled on the spur; and thou wert the faithfullest of any that have loved _paramours_: most courteous wert thou, and gentle of all that sat in hall among dames; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever laid spear in the rest."

When Powell's self-command gave way so completely after he saw the nature of Guy's case, it was not because he knew it must end fatally, but because his skill told him what fearful agonies must precede the release. All the surgeons who were called in could do nothing but confirm these forebodings. The colossal strength and vital energy of Livingstone's frame and const.i.tution yielded but slowly to a blow which would have crushed a weaker man instantly. All the outworks were ruined and carried, but Death had still to fight hard before he won the citadel. I can not go through the details; I will only say that, sometimes, none of us could endure to look upon sufferings which never drew a complaint or a moan from him.

Almost every pleasure has been discussed and dissected, but we know comparatively nothing of the physiology of pain. There is no standard by which to measure it, even if the courage and endurance of any mortal man could enable him to a.n.a.lyze his own tortures philosophically. Was it not always supposed that the guillotine is merciful, because quick in annihilation? Look at Wiertz's pictures at Brussels. If his idea (shared too, now, by many clever surgeons) be true, you will see the amount of a long life's suffering exceeded by what seems to us a minute's agony. But it is like the Eastern king's gaining the experience of fifty years by dipping his head for a second in the magic water. For a soul in torment there is no horologe.

Of one thing be sure; the strong temperaments who enjoy greatly, suffer greatly too--those who endure in silence, most of all. I think the wolf's death-pang is sharper than the hare's.

But Guy was not only patient, he was actually more cheerful than I had seen him since Constance died. He liked to see his old friends, and to hear accounts of their sport with hound and gun. To do these justice, there was not one who would not give up, gladly, the best meet of the Pytchley, or the shooting of the best cover in the county, to sit for half a day in that sick-room. He talked, too, always pleasantly and kindly to his mother and his cousin.

Poor Isabel Forrester was quite broken down by this second blow. Next to her dead husband, I believe, she loved Guy better than any one; not unnaturally, for he had petted and protected her all her life long. She could not help giving way, though she tried hard, for the sake of others. It was piteous to see her, sitting alone for hours, gazing out on the bleak winter landscape, while the tears welled slowly from under her heavy eyelids.

Foster, who was still at Kerton, came often to visit Livingstone. No one could do him so much good. The curate was just as confident and uncompromising in the discharge of his office as he was yielding and diffident when only himself was in question. He was so honest, and straightforward, and true--so free from rant or cant--so strong in his simple theology, that Guy soon trusted him implicitly when he spoke of the past and of the future that was so near. The repentance that was begun by Constance's dying bed was completed, I am sure, on his own.

"Frank," Guy said, one morning, suddenly, "I have written to ask Cyril Brandon to come to me. He will be here to-day. It would make me very happy if I could hear him say he forgave me."

"Do you think you will succeed?" I asked, sadly; for I felt a nervous certainty that the pain the interview must cost him would be unavailing.

"I can not tell," he answered, firmly; "but Foster says, and I know, that it is my duty to try. You may be present, if you like, on one condition--you must promise, whatever he may say or do, not to interfere by a look or a word."

I did promise; but I looked forward with dread to Brandon's coming. In an hour's time he was announced.

It was the first time I had seen him; and I was much struck by the mingled expression of suffering and ferocity that sat, like a mask, on his worn dark face. I have seen its like but once--in a dangerous maniac's. He walked straight up to Guy's couch without noticing me, and stood there silent, glaring down on the sick man with his fiery black eyes.

"It is very good of you to come," Guy said; "I scarcely hoped you would. I have wronged you, more deeply than any living man--so deeply that I could never have dared to ask your forgiveness if I had not been very near my death. Can you give me your hand? Indeed, indeed, I have repented sorely."

Brandon's hoa.r.s.e tones broke in:

"I came, because, years ago, to see this sight, to see you lying there like a crushed worm, I would have sold my soul. Wronged me? Shall I tell you what you have done? There was only one creature on earth I cared for; that was my sister. All those years in India I had been fancying our meeting. I came back, and found her dying; more than that, I found her love turned away from me. You did _all_ this. I tell you, I never could get one of her old fond looks or words from her all the time she was dying. She was only afraid of me. By h.e.l.l! you stood between us to the last. Do you know that she dragged herself across the room at my knees--mine, who never refused to indulge her in a whim before--first to be allowed to see you, and then to make me swear not to attempt your life?"

He stopped, gnashing his teeth.

All Guy's features, wan and worn by pain, were lighted up with a tenderness and joy inexpressible as he heard what his dead love had borne and done for him. He would have hidden his face had he guessed how its expression would exasperate Cyril's furious temper.

"D--n you!" he howled out, like a madman, "do you dare to triumph?" and, tearing off his glove, he struck Livingstone on the cheek with it a sharp blow.

A great shudder swept through every fibre of the maimed giant's frame, in which sensation lingered still; the blood surged up to his forehead and ebbed again instantly, leaving even the lips deathly white; he raised his hand quickly, but it was only to warn me back; for, mild and peaceable as I am, I leaped up then, as savage as Cain. With that hand he caught Brandon's wrist. The latter stood with his eyes cast down, sullenly--already, I am sure, horror at the act of foul cowardice into which his pa.s.sion had driven him was creeping over him--he did not try to disengage himself. Had he done so, thrice his strength would not have set him free.

"I thank G.o.d, from my heart," Guy said, very slowly and steadily, "that, if I meet your sister hereafter, I shall not shrink before her, for I believe all I promised her has been kept. Listen! you would feel shame to your life's end thinking that you had struck a helpless, dying cripple. It is not so. You don't know what you risked. You were within arm's-length, and at close quarters I could be dangerous still. Look."

He took up a small silver cup that lay near, and crushed it flat between his fingers.

There was silence then; only Brandon's breath was heard, drawn hard and irregularly, as if he was trying to throw off a weight from his chest.

Guy looked up at him, and said very gently, holding out his hand, "Once more, forgive me."

Cyril answered in a thick, smothered voice,

"I will not take your hand. I will never forgive you. But I forgive Constance; for--I understand her now."

He turned on his heel, and left the room without another word, still with his head bent down, as if in thought. I gazed after him till the door shut softly. Then I looked round at Guy. His head had fallen back, and the features looked so drawn and changed that I cried out, thinking he was dead. It was only a long, long swoon.

Just another scene, and my tale is told.

I was reading in Guy's room one evening. He had not spoken for some time, and I fancied he was asleep. Suddenly he called to me,

"Frank, come here--nearer. I have several things to say to you, and I feel I must make haste. No, don't call any one. I said farewell to my mother yesterday, and we must spare her all we can."

In the presence of that sublime self-command, I _dared_ not betray my grief by any outward sign. I knelt down by his side silently.

He went on in a voice that, though hollow and often interrupted by failing breath, was perfectly measured and steady.

"You can only be glad that the end has come at last, though it is well I have had time to prepare myself. Am I ready now? I can not tell. Foster says I ought to hope. I trust it is not wicked to say I do not _fear_. I have sinned often and deeply; but He who will judge me created me, and He knows, too, how much I have suffered. I do not mean from _this_ (he threw his hand toward his crippled limbs with the old gesture of disdain), but from bitterness and loneliness of heart. More than all, I am sure my darling has been pleading for me ever since she died. I will not believe her prayers have been wasted.

"I want to tell you what I have done. You know the direct line of my family ends with me. I am glad it does. The next in succession would be a cousin, who has taken to some trade in Edinburgh; a good man, I believe--but he would not do here. So I have left Kerton to my mother for her life, and then--to you. Hush! the time is too short for objections or thanks, and death-bed gifts show little generosity.

Besides, I would have left it to Isabel, only it would be more a trouble to her than any thing else. You will take care of every thing and every body. Say farewell for me to my old friends, especially to Mohun. Poor Ralph! he will be sorry--though he will not own it--when he comes back from Bohemia and finds me gone."

He raised himself a little, so as to rest his hand on my shoulder as I knelt, while his voice deepened in its solemn calm:

"Dear Frank, one other word for yourself, who have borne so patiently with my perverse temper since we were boys together. I have been silent, but, indeed, not ungrateful. For all your kind, unselfish thoughts, and words, and deeds--for all the good you would have counseled--for all your efforts to stand between me and wrong-doing--tried friend, true comrade! I thank you now, heartily, and I pray G.o.d to bless you always."

It was only self-control, almost superhuman, that enabled him to speak those words steadily, for the fierce death-throe was possessing him before he ended. Through the awful minutes that followed, not another sound than the hissing breath escaped through his set lips; his face was not once distorted, though the hair and beard clung round it, matted and dank with the sweat of agony. The brave heart and iron nerve ruled the body to the last imperially--supreme over the intensity of torture.

When he opened his eyes, which had been closed all through the protracted death-pang, there was a look of the ancient kindness in them, though they were glazing fast. He found my hand, and grasped it, till I felt the life ebbing back in his fingers. I saw his lips syllable "Good-by;" then, he leaned his head back gently, and, without a sigh or a shiver, the strong man's spirit went forth into The Night.

A sense of utter desolation, as it were a horror of great darkness, gathered all around me as I leaned my forehead against the corpse's cheek, sobbing like a helpless child.

You will not care to hear how we all mourned him.

Will you care to hear that, often as his mother visits his grave, there is _one_ woman who comes oftener still?

None of us have ever met her, for she comes always at late night or early morning. But finding, in the depth of winter or in the bleak spring, the ground about strewed with the choicest of exotic flowers--not carefully arranged, but showered down by a reckless, desperate hand--we know that Flora Dorrillon has been there.

Do not laugh at her too much for clinging to the one romance of her artificial existence. Remember, while he lived, there was nothing so rare and precious--ay, even to the sacrifice of her own body and soul--that she would not have laid ungrudgingly at Guy Livingstone's feet.

THE END.