Chapter V · —SAVED.

Within an hour, two of the most skilful physicians that Paris could boast were with Wilfred Merton. And when they left him, their verdict was not one to give much hope. He had shot himself in the chest, and it was very doubtful whether he would recover from that fearful self-inflicted wound.

Mr Merton's anguish during those long days and nights while Wilfred lay at death's door was terrible to behold. Alienated as had been his affection for his son while absent, the feelings of parental love returned tenfold, now that he might be on the point of losing that son for ever; and as he nursed his boy with that womanly gentleness which is so touching in a man, it was evident that his whole hope of happiness was bound up in his recovery.

Mr Colherne had, as Mabel predicted, lost no time in following her to Paris, and though he could hardly feel the intense and painful interest in the invalid that his father felt, still for Mabel's sake he became a willing sharer in the nursing.

As for Mabel, hope was very strong in her, and made that time of watching much easier to bear. She could not help believing that that strong determination to cross the Channel had been put into her mind to enable her to save the one who was so dear to her; and in that belief she put her trust.

At last, after long, weary, sometimes almost despairing watching, the patient took a favourable turn. The burning fever ceased; and one day the doctor told the anxious watchers that there was great hope; that indeed, unless any unforeseen complications arose, there was nothing further to fear.

Then the pent-up feelings of Mr Merton—that grief which he had tried so unsuccessfully to conceal from his companions, could be kept in no longer; he threw his arms round Mabel's neck, buried his face on her shoulder, and burst into tears, those tears which, when shed by a man, are so inexpressibly painful to see.

'Mabel,' he said, 'I owe all this to you; if it had not been for you, I should have been my son's murderer.'

Mabel pressed her lips upon his forehead in silence; her heart was too full of thankfulness for speech.

Wilfred was very patient, and manfully bore all the trials of the time. As soon as he was well enough to be able to think of what he had done, a feeling of intense remorse had come over him, and had taken such powerful hold that at first it threatened to throw him back. But the gentle hand of Mabel was a wonderful restorer; a word or two of loving assurance changed this bitter remorse into a quiet sorrow. It happened one day, about a week after this, that while Mabel was reading at the window of the invalid's room, she heard Wilfred's voice gently calling to her. It was as if the voice of her lover had been suddenly restored to him.

'Can you forgive me, my darling?' he asked.

'Am I not a woman, Wilfred? And is it not a woman's privilege to forgive?'

'I don't think you are a woman, Mabel; I think you are an angel.' Few words, but conveying volumes.

From that moment her lover began to mend steadily, though still slowly; every day there was more and more to hope, until at length Wilfred was pronounced wholly out of danger. And then one evening in the dusk, when the lamps were being lighted in the street below them, and the increased hum and buzz of the later day were coming on, Wilfred and Mabel found themselves again alone.

'Mabel,' he said in a low voice, when they had been quite silent for a long time, 'I have been wanting an opportunity to tell you all the wrong that I have done. Shall I tell you now?'

'Yes, Wilfred, now—in this twilight light.' She slid her hand into his as she spoke, and they remained in that position while he told her his story.

There was nothing new about it; it was the old story. Led by bad companions into temptations, his naturally lively and weak nature was not able to resist; ashamed of himself for his own conduct when he found himself outrunning his allowance, and obliged to apply to his father for help. Thrown into despair by his father's harsh conduct to him, he had plunged still more wildly into the excesses and dissipations of his leaders, till at last, horrified at what he was doing, and seeing no means of escape from the snares in which he had allowed himself to be caught, he had written that letter to Mabel; had waited, vaguely hoping for he knew not what, for some days, and had ultimately sought to put an end to himself in a fit of intense depression. Weakness, that shoal which is even more fatal, because more hidden than wickedness, had wrecked him, as it has wrecked so many. In the deep remorse that he now felt, he greatly exaggerated the wickedness of his conduct, for though he had been guilty of grievous folly, he had done no positive or irremediable wrong either to himself or others. The only actual definite sin he had committed was the suicidal one, from the consequences of which Mabel's resolution had happily saved him.

When he had finished this history, he paused an instant, and then added, without looking at her: 'And now, Mabel, that you have heard all this, do you still say that you forgive me? Can you still love me?'

'A love would be very useless, Wilfred, that deserted its object just when it was most wanted; I hope my love is a truer one than that.'

'Mabel, my beloved,' said he, drawing her closer to him as he spoke, 'if it had not been for you, I should have been beyond the power of repentance now. Your affection has saved me once, and it shall keep me from harm now, for ever!'

Before very many years had gone by, Wilfred Merton's name was known as that of a successful young painter. He and his wife were settled in London, and were able to live in very comfortable style. They had no children, which was their only serious drawback to happiness; but if ever Wilfred, seeing his wife look longingly at some merry group of little ones, and guessing her thoughts, tried to console her, she would put her hand into his and say, her truthful eyes looking full at him as she spoke: 'I have you, Wilfred, beside me, and I am content.'

The foregoing narrative, which is founded upon events which actually took place, may be turned to advantage by those parents who are prone to thwart the natural inclinations of their children, or cut them adrift without a proper guide. The career of many a man has been blighted by the mistaken, though perhaps well-meant policy of a father who, desirous to see his son follow up his own profession, has tried to compel that son to work contrary to his inclination, with results more or less disastrous.