But while Gertrude’s spirit resumed its healthful tone, her frame rapidly declined, and a few days now could do the ravage of months a little while before.
One evening, amidst the desolate ruins of Heidelberg, Trevylyan, who had gone forth alone to indulge the thoughts which he strove to stifle in Gertrude’s presence, suddenly encountered Vane. That calm and almost callous pupil of the adversities of the world was standing alone, and gazing upon the shattered casements and riven tower, through which the sun now cast its slant and parting ray.
Trevylyan, who had never loved this cold and unsusceptible man, save for the sake of Gertrude, felt now almost a hatred creep over him, as he thought in such a time, and with death fastening upon the flower of his house, he could yet be calm, and smile, and muse, and moralize, and play the common part of the world. He strode slowly up to him, and standing full before him, said with a hollow voice and writhing smile, “You amuse yourself pleasantly, sir: this is a fine scene; and to meditate over griefs a thousand years hushed to rest is better than watching over a sick girl and eating away your heart with fear!”
Vane looked at him quietly, but intently, and made no reply.
“Vane!” continued Trevylyan, with the same preternatural attempt at calm, “Vane, in a few days all will be over, and you and I, the things, the plotters, the false men of the world, will be left alone,—left by the sole being that graces our dull life, that makes by her love either of us worthy of a thought!”
Vane started, and turned away his face. “You are cruel,” said he, with a faltering voice.
“What, man!” shouted Trevylyan, seizing him abruptly by the arm, “can you feel? Is your cold heart touched? Come then,” added he, with a wild laugh, “come, let us be friends!”
Vane drew himself aside, with a certain dignity, that impressed Trevylyan even at that hour. “Some years hence,” said he, “you will be called cold as I am; sorrow will teach you the wisdom of indifference—it is a bitter school, sir,—a bitter school! But think you that I do indeed see unmoved my last hope shivered,—the last tie that binds me to my kind? No, no! I feel it as a man may feel; I cloak it as a man grown gray in misfortune should do! My child is more to me than your betrothed to you; for you are young and wealthy, and life smiles before you; but I—no more—sir, no more!”
“Forgive me,” said Trevylyan, humbly, “I have wronged you; but Gertrude is an excuse for any crime of love; and now listen to my last prayer,—give her to me, even on the verge of the grave. Death cannot seize her in the arms, in the vigils of a love like mine.”
Vane shuddered. “It were to wed the dead,” said he. “No!”