Chapter 18: Abner’s Patient

EUSTACE went back to London about ten days after the election at Pentreath. Parliament was to meet in June, and there was much of importance to be discussed beforehand. He and Sir Roland travelled in company, and the Duke’s farewell was warmer and more cordial by many degrees than it had been on the occasion of his last departure. As for Bride, there had been something so sweet and subtly tender in their relations during the past few days, that the parting with her was wonderfully hard. Eustace lay awake the whole of his last night at the castle, thinking of her, and wondering how he could bear to say adieu; and when they met in the morning, her eyes were heavy and her face was sorrowful, as though she too had kept vigil and dreaded the coming day. In point of fact, Bride had kept vigil in a very literal fashion, for she had been kneeling in prayer for Eustace very many hours of that summer’s night—praying that he might be delivered from any and all of those perils which might happen to the body whilst travelling through an excited country; but above all, praying that he might be kept safe in those assaults of evil that might assail and hurt the soul—that he might be strong to resist temptation, that he might be the champion always for good, yet discriminate and discern the moment when evil crept in, and where party spirit took the place of the true desire after the best welfare of the nation. She understood far better than she had done a year ago the difficulties of that strife, and where once she would have stood aloof with a sense of pained disappointment and disapproval, she would now, as it were, stretch forward a helping hand, and strive to show the firm path amid all the quagmires of strife and emulation. As she clasped hands with Eustace for the last time, and their eyes met, some strange electric current seemed to pass between them, and, as though in answer to spoken words, he said, in a low moved tone—

“I will be true—I will be faithful—I will strive to fight the good fight, and you will be my best helper.”

She did not answer with her lips, but her eyes made amends for that. Suddenly Eustace came one step nearer, put both his hands upon her shoulders, and bent his head and kissed her on the lips. For a single second she started, as though the touch of his hands had alarmed her, but the next moment she looked straight into his eyes, and yielded her lips to his for that last salute.

“God be with you, Eustace,” she whispered; and as the young man rode away he felt he understood for the first time in his life the true meaning and application of the simple and oft-used phrase, “Good-bye.”

Bride stood where he had left her, in the middle of that anteroom where their parting had been exchanged. Her face was slightly flushed; there was a strange gleam of vivid light in her eyes; the sweet mouth was tremulous with emotions strongly stirred. The Duke, who had witnessed the parting between them, looked at her with a veiled inquiry in his eyes. Bride, coming back to everyday life, saw that look and answered it.

“It is not what you think, papa,” she said very softly, “yet I think Eustace and I belong to one another now. I do not know how else to say it. It seems as though there was something linking us together stronger than ourselves.”

A slight smile lighted the old man’s face.

“I am glad to hear that, my child,” he said gently. “I am far better pleased with Eustace this time than I was before. He has greatly grown in wisdom and moderation—greatly improved. I believe he will turn out one of those men whom the world needs. He is after all a Marchmont, and the Marchmonts have generally the gift of government in some form or another. A young and ardent temperament may be led astray at the outset; but the experience of life gives ballast; and there seem to have been many influences at work upon Eustace, moderating his impetuosity, and showing him the reverse side of the shield.”

“I think he is learning a great deal,” answered Bride softly; “I am glad you feel the same about him.”

She could not settle to her ordinary avocations that day. There was a subtle sense of exhilaration and happiness in her pulses which made active exercise needful to her. She had her pony saddled, and started to ride along the cliffs to St. Erme. She wanted to be alone for awhile to think and muse upon the sudden sense of new happiness that had come into her life. She had visits to pay at St. Erme’s which had been waiting for a day of leisure. Eustace had filled much of her time of late, but now she must learn to do without him. She rode quietly onward, with the sunshine about her, and the soft breeze fanning her cheek and lighting her eyes. There came over her, almost for the first time in her life, a sense of the beauty and joyousness of it, even in this fallen world of sorrow and sin. Before she had thought, almost exclusively at such times as these, when alone with nature and at peace with herself and all the world, of the brightness and glory of the Kingdom. Her heart had had little here to feed itself upon, and she had dwelt in the thought of the glory which shall be revealed. But to-day she felt as though she was experiencing a strange foretaste of that glory and happiness in this inexpressible sense of sweetness and love. An atmosphere of joy seemed to enwrap and envelop her. She scarcely understood herself or her heart; but she was happy with a happiness that was almost startling, and in her head some words seemed to set themselves to the joyous hymn that nature was singing all the while.

“I will be faithful—I will be true!”... “God be with you!”

Her absorption of mind did not hinder her from paying her visits and entering with full sympathy and tenderness into the trials and troubles of those she had come to see. The sight of her was always very welcome to the simple people who had known her from childhood, and who regarded her something as an angel visitor, as they had regarded her mother before her.

Her visits paid, she was about to turn homewards, when, as she was passing the gate of the rectory, she encountered Mr. St. Aubyn riding forth on his sturdy cob. They exchanged greetings gladly.

“I am on my way to St. Bride,” he said, smiling. “Shall we go in company? or are you coming to pay a visit to my wife?”

“I think I will ride back with you,” said Bride, “and see Mrs. St. Aubyn another day. It will be too hot to be out with comfort if I linger longer. Are you coming to the castle?”

“My errand is to your gardener’s cottage. My good friend Mr. Tremodart has asked me to visit young Tresithny in his terrible affliction. He seems to close his heart and his lips against all the world. My kind friend at the parsonage thought I might have more success in dealing with him; but I fear me the time has not yet come when the words of man will avail aught.”