And the germ of that ruin was planted by the hand of the clever, and gay, and handsome Vyvyan Bruce.
Chapter Twenty Two.
De Vayne’s Temptation.
“And felt how awful goodness is, and virtue
In her own shape how lovely.”
Milton’s Paradise Lost.
Shall I confess it? Pitiable and melancholy as was Hazlet’s course, I liked him so little as to feel for him far less than I otherwise should have done. His worst error never caused me half the pain of Kennedy’s most venial fault. Must I then tell a sad tale of Kennedy too—my brave, bright, beautiful, light-hearted Kennedy, whom I always loved so well? May I not throw over the story of his college days the rosy colourings of romance and fancy, the warm sunshine of prosperity and hope? I wish I might. But I am writing of Camford—not of a divine Utopia or a sunken Atalantis.
Bruce, so far from being troubled by his own evil deeds, was proud of a success which supported a pet theory of his infidel opinions. He made no sort of secret of it, and laughed openly at the fool whom he had selected for his victim.
“But after all,” said Brogten, who had plenty of common sense, “your triumph was very slight.”
“How do you mean? I chose the most obtrusively religious man in Saint Werner’s, and, in the course of a very short time, I had him, of his own will, roaring drunk.”