Gerald Eversley's Friendship: A Study in Real Life

by J. E. C. Welldon

My dear Lady Venniker,—Thank you very much for your kind invitation. It seems strange and almost wicked in me to hesitate about accepting it, for to stay at Helmsbury has been for the last six years the joy of my life. I have had no pleasure so pure or constant as that. You know, too, apart from the pleasure of seeing Lord Venniker and yourself, how much I should like to keep Harry’s birthday with you and your family party. For ever since I went to St. Anselm’s—from the very first day—he has been my best friend; he has been more to me than any brother could have been, and I cannot now think what my life would have been if I had not made his acquaintance at the beginning of my school life.

But there is a reason which makes me doubtful whether I ought to come to Helmsbury any more. You have no idea what it is, you will never guess it, and I hardly dare tell it you. I know you will feel for me; for when my secret is told, it will, I am afraid, shut the doors of Helmsbury against me—perhaps it ought to shut them—and the happy beautiful days that I have known for so many years I shall know no more. Yet better—far better—that I should lose the joy of my life (if I must lose it) than that I should repay you for all that you have been to me by deceiving you. I would have told you before, only I did not know for certain what my feeling was, and when I found it out I thought I could conquer it and get over it, but it is too strong for me, and now it fills my whole life. Can you now guess what it is?

Dear Lady Venniker, you cannot have suspected that I should venture to look upon Miss Venniker in any other light than as your daughter and Harry’s sister. A year ago I could not myself have entertained such a suspicion. But now I cannot be near her, and indeed I cannot be away from her, without feeling that she has become more to me and dearer than any living soul has ever been or can ever be. In a word, I love her with a love so true and passionate that I hardly dare trust myself to think what it is.

Many, many times have I been on the point of telling you, but I could not. I was so afraid of giving you pain. I was afraid, too, of losing the delights of Helmsbury. But it would not, I think, be honourable for me to see more of Miss Venniker without informing Lord Venniker and yourself of my feeling, and I cannot now trust myself to meet her again and not let her know what I feel.

Forgive me, dear Lady Venniker—you have been my best friend on earth—for my presumption, if it is wrong. I can only say I have fought against it, and I cannot help it. It has saved me from the loss of all that makes life sacred. Perhaps it will cost me now the loss of all that makes life dear. I do not forget the difference between her and myself. I have nothing to offer her—nothing that is worthy of her acceptance. If you were not so good you would be angry with me. Perhaps now you will not be angry, you will pity me. If you blame me for my presumption, yet believe that I blame myself more. Even if you should permit me to seek Miss Venniker’s hand, can I think she would grant it?

I fear—I am almost sure—that you will say No. If it be so, do not take the trouble of writing the answer. I shall know what silence means. I shall pray for her (if my faith survives) every day of my life. Do not let her know what would make her think ill of me. I shall never see her again. But oh! if the answer could be Yes, if it were permitted me to hope for a joy so great, so blessed, then indeed would my life, that has once been dark and desolate, be irradiated with a glow of heavenly light.

I have told you my secret. I cannot say more. You cannot think what it has cost me to tell you. Whatever happens, may God bless you for your goodness to me! Let me sign myself once more, if it be for the last time, dear Lady Venniker,

Affectionately yours,
Gerald S. Eversley.

Four days elapsed—days that seemed to Gerald like years. He began to think that Lady Venniker had acted upon his suggestion of silence as a means of indicating refusal. On the fifth day there was a letter bearing the Helmsbury postmark, written (not without difficulty) in Lady Venniker’s own delicate handwriting. It was in these words:

Helmsbury Hall.