"Whatever I desire," says Lady Jean, a slow, cruel smile flitting over her face. "Well, I will give you a task. Ask Keith Athelstone to Falcon's Chase for Christmas."
CHAPTER XXVII
Lady Jean is right. Keith Athelstone has not left England. His passage was taken, all his preparations made, and then the very day before he was to sail he found himself laid prostrate by brain fever.
He was taken ill in Liverpool, and his servant, being one of that rare class who can give faithful attendance, nursed him devotedly. For weeks he lay hovering between life and death, the strength and vigour of the body fighting against the ravages of mental suffering, and the long, painful strain on brain and heart against which he had so long struggled. In his delirious frenzy his whole cry was for Lauraine. It was pitiful to see that strong young manhood bowed down to a child's weakness. As dependent as an infant on the hired services which his wealth procured, but which was so different to the tender ministry of love and friendship.
The discreet valet at times felt inclined to send to Lady Vavasour, and acquaint her with his young master's danger; but prudence withheld him. He knew she was married, and he feared to draw down his master's anger by officious interference.
At last the doctors gave hope, and Keith struggled back by slow degrees into convalescence, and saw his life given back to his own keeping once more—life dull of hue and sad enough, with all its gladness and colour painted out by the ruthless hand of disappointment—life for which he was in no way glad or grateful to the mercy that had spared it; but still, life that he had to accept and take up, with all its tangled threads and broken hopes.
In the long, dreary days of convalescence he thought of Lauraine as he had never thought of her yet—for a wide gulf seemed to stretch between them now. He saw the headlong and undisciplined passion of his love for her in its true colours—saw to what lengths it would have gone, to what ruin it would have dragged her, and a sense of shame and self-reproach filled his heart.
Some such thoughts as these came to Keith now as he lay stretched on his couch during these dark winter days. He felt weak enough to have uttered any prayer just for Lauraine's presence, just to see the pity in her eyes, to hear the thrill in her voice as she would look at his changed face, and speak her gentle compassion. At times like these the slow hot tears of weakness would creep into his eyes until he was fain to turn his head away from his attendant's gaze, and make pretence of sleep in order to have freedom to indulge his grief at leisure.
"I must never see her again, never, unless I have grown dull and cold, and can greet her as a stranger," he thinks to himself. "How strange that I should love her so. I wonder will I ever be cured, or will this be the 'one passion of my life,' going down to my grave with me even as it has filled all my days and hours? Somehow, I think it will. I find it so hard to forget anything concerning her. Forget! Why there is not a look in her eyes, a word from her lips, not a dress or a flower she has worn that I can forget; not a summer day or a spring morning, not a season in the year that is not full of some memory of her. Oh, my love, my love, and to think that you can be nothing to me—nothing!