Now, alas! the festive aspect of the scene was abruptly changed. O’Desmond’s grief at this most untoward ending to his entertainments was painful to witness. Argyll’s generous nature plunged him into a state of deep contrition for his passionate action.
The women, one and all, were so shocked and excited by the sight of blood and the rumour, which quickly gained credence, that Wilfred Effingham was dying, that tearful lamentations and hysterical cries were heard in all directions. Nor indeed until it was authoritatively stated by the medical practitioner of the district, who was luckily present, that Mr. Effingham having been run through the body, had therefore received a dangerous but not necessarily fatal wound, was consolation possible.
This gentleman, however, later on would by no means commit himself to a definite opinion. ‘Without doubt it was a critical case. Though the cœliac axis had been missed, by a miracle, the vasa-vasorum blood-vessel had suffered lesion. The left subclavian artery had been torn through, yet, from its known power of contraction, he trusted that the interior lining would be closed, when further loss of blood would cease. Of course, unfavourable symptoms might supervene at any moment—at any moment. At present the patient was free from pain. Quiet—that is, absolute rest—was indispensable. With no exciting visits, and—yes—with the closest attention and good nursing, a distinctly favourable termination might be—ahem—hoped for.’
But an early doom, either alone or with all the aids that affection, friendship, ay or devoted love, could bring, was not written in the book of fate against Wilfred Effingham’s name. In the course of a week the popular practitioner alluded to had the pleasure of informing the anxious inhabitants of the Yass district ‘that the injury having, as he had the honour to diagnose, providentially not occurred to the trunk artery, the middle coat of the smaller blood-vessel had, from its elastic and contractile nature, after being torn by the partially blunted end of the foil, caused a closure. In point of fact, the injury had yielded to treatment. He would definitely pledge himself, in fact, that the patient was bordering upon convalescence. In a week or two he would be ready to support a removal to The Chase, where doubtless his youth, temperate habit, and excellent constitution would combine to produce a complete recovery.’
These agreeable predictions were fulfilled to the letter. Yet was there another element involved in the case, which was thought to have exercised a powerful influence, if, indeed, it was not the chief factor in his recovery. The vision of sudden death which had passed before the eyes of the guests at Badajos had surprised the secret of Vera Fane’s heart. Of timid, almost imperceptible growth, the faint budding commencement of a girl’s fancy had, all in silence and secrecy, ripened into the fragrant blossom of a woman’s love. Pure, devoted, imperishable, such a sentiment is proof against the anguish of non-requital, the attacks of rivalry, even the ruder shocks of falsehood or infidelity. Let him, then, to whom, all unworthy, such a prize is allotted by a too indulgent destiny, sacrifice to the kind deities, and be thankful. It may have been—was doubtless—urged by Miss Fane’s admirers, that ‘that fellow Effingham was not half good enough for her, more especially after his idiotic affair with Christabel Rockley’; but, pray, which of us, to whom the blindly swaying Eros has been gracious, is not manifestly overrated, nay, made to blush for shortcomings from his early ideal?
So must it ever be in the history of the race—were the secrets of all hearts known. Let us be consoled that we are not conspicuously inferior to our neighbours, and chiefly strive, in spite of that mysterious Disappointment—poor human nature—to gain some modest eminence. Let Wilfred Effingham, then, enjoy his undeserved good fortune, comme nous autres, assured that with such companionship he will be stronger to battle for the right while life lasts.
‘How could you forgive me?’ he said, at the close of one of the happy confidences which his returning strength rendered possible. ‘I should never have dared to ask you after my folly.’
‘Women love but once—that is, those who are worthy of the name,’ she said softly. ‘I had unwisely, it would seem, permitted my heart to stray. It passed into the possession of one who—well, scarce valued sufficiently the simple offering. But you do now, dearest, do you not? I will never forgive you, or rather, on second thoughts, I will forgive you, if hereafter you love any other woman but me.’
‘You are an angel. Did I say so before? Never mind. Truth will bear repetition.’