It was arranged that Gerald should acquaint his father and Mrs. Eversley privately with the change that had come over his prospects in life. He did not write to Mrs. Eversley, but he wrote to his father a long letter full of Ethel’s virtues and graces, and of all that she had said and done, and all that Lady Venniker had said and done, and so on; he asked him to let Mrs. Eversley know the contents of the letter.
Two days later he received answers from them both. They were very different.
Mr. Eversley wrote that the news had come as an overwhelming surprise, it was beyond what he could have dreamt of, but Gerald had made his way into a society of which his father and mother had had no experience; he could have no other desire or prayer than the welfare of his dear son—the son for whom his affection had been always so intense—he rejoiced to learn that the noble lady whom he had chosen for his wife was a humble follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, he would give her a welcome ‘as to my own daughter, if she will permit me,’ to his home and his heart, and he knew that there was no blessing on earth like a marriage cemented in the fear of heaven.
Mrs. Eversley wrote more briefly, congratulating him upon forming an alliance that must elevate his social position and exercise a refining influence upon his manners, hoping he would not forget that the first would sometimes be last in the kingdom of Heaven, but wishing him and the Honourable Miss Venniker every happiness in this life and in the next.
Gerald read his father’s letter to Ethel Venniker—only leaving out the part relating to social conditions. ‘What a dear man he must be!’ she said; ‘I long to make his acquaintance.’ He did not read her Mrs. Eversley’s letter.
CHAPTER XII
ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER
Oh! that this story could end where it is now! But it must be told, if told at all, to the end. There seems to be a tacit assumption among story-tellers that every story that is told should issue in happiness. That is the way of stories; it is not the way of life. Life is full of tragedies, often known, oftener unknown, that find no satisfaction in this world. It is not permitted to man to see the ending of them; the fierce light beyond the veil will discover it.
Gerald Eversley’s engagement took place in September. He spent the remainder of his vacation at Helmsbury. How bright, how beautiful the days were! For the first time in his life since childhood—and ah! for the last—Gerald Eversley seemed to himself to live as the Blessed live. Whatever restraint had lain upon his association with Ethel Venniker was now done away. His place was at her side. He was no more open to the fear that, in allowing himself the luxury of accompanying her, he might be doing her a wrong. Day followed day in bliss unalloyed. The mornings were spent in reading and discussing the masterpieces of literature, Gerald exposing to her view literary treasures of which she had no idea; the afternoons in long walks over the downs, often with the object of paying a visit and ministering relief to some one who was in sickness or distress; then before dinner and in the evening they would have music, which was always a strong bond between them, or they would sit in Lady Venniker’s room, and she would give them her experience of life, and would watch with tender interest how each of them seemed more and more to find a complement in the other. It pleased her to fancy that, when they were man and wife, each would be the better and the nobler for the other. Now and again, too, she would speak of marriage, sometimes religiously, saying that it was the symbol of the Saviour’s spiritual union with His church, and, as it was so, wife and husband must be infinitely faithful and tender each to the other, nor must any word or thought come between them to desecrate the sanctity of that relation.
‘Try to think, dear children,’ she added, ‘of some work that you may do in common for His sake. My cottage hospital has been a great delight to me. Your father, Ethel, built it for me in the first year of our married life, and I think he has cared for it so much because I cared for it, and he has been so good in helping the poor children when they were convalescent, and many of them who have been nursed there write to me now. I seem to have a little family scattered all over England and even beyond it, and I know it will be a happiness to you both to do some such work as this from the very first.’
One question that arose in those happy days at Helmsbury, and was discussed afterwards several times, was the question of Gerald’s profession. No one suggested that he should take Holy Orders. But he was now within sight of a fellowship, the crowning ornament of an academical career. When that had been gained (if it should be gained) it would be necessary for him to decide upon his profession.