_Contrition._
At noontime Guly told Wilkins that if he would bring him a trifle of
fruit from the Restaurant, or something of that kind, he would spend the
time allowed him for dinner with his brother, and would much prefer it.
Wilkins very cordially assented, and Guly mounted the winding stairs
slowly and thoughtfully, pushed open the old door at the head of the
staircase, which was covered with the big-lettered advertisements, and
stood before his sleeping brother.
The bar was drawn back; and, fully dressed, Arthur lay upon the humble
bed. Perhaps the first plunge into dissipation leaves a deeper
impression on youthful beauty, than the continued practice begun in
older years.
Guly was startled at the change in his brother's features, which one
night of excitement had wrought. He could see it now, as he lay there
sleeping, more perfectly than when he had been with him in the morning,
with his face full of ever-varying expression. There was a wasting upon
the skin; deep black marks beneath the eyes; the lips were pale, and the
nose seemed pinched; and his whole appearance was that of one
convalescing after a severe fit of sickness.
Guly approached, and taking a low seat by the bedside, laid his face
softly down beside his brother's on the pillow, and reaching over,
clasped his fingers gently round one burning hand. He lay quite still,
with his eyes fixed upon the sleeper's face. Who could tell, save He who
knoweth all things, what thoughts were rushing through that throbbing
heart, as it nestled there closer and closer, to all it held dear in
that distant land?
The blue eyes filled suddenly full of tears, bright and pure, even as
that boy's path of life had ever been, and dropped down, one by one,
upon the pillow. There was no visible cause for them, but they kept
falling, those pure bright tears, till the fair cheeks over which they
fell were bathed, and the pillow damped.
Was there a shadow-like presentiment creeping over that young spirit
then, telling him to nestle close, close, for the time was coming when
those two hearts would throb no more beside each other, and that the
waves of life's ocean would some day cast one upon the shore, and bear
the other far out to sea? Even so! It was dim, ghost-like, and
undefined; but still the shadow flitted there darkly!
The sleeper turned restlessly, and uttered a plaintive moan. It was not
a moan of pain, but one of sympathy; as if the grief in the heart beside
him had crept into his own. He lifted one arm wearily, and it fell back
upon the pillow, and the unconscious fingers lifted the rings of jetty
hair from the fevered brow.
That bright brow! that pale, proud brow! how it gleamed out in contrast
with those glossy curls. Guly gazed upon it, then lifted his head and
kissed it; and the tears, still quivering on his lashes, fell upon
it--that brother's brow!
Arthur opened his eyes, and gazed up steadily at the face bent over him.
There was something in the expression of that face which went over his
heart like a strain of touching music. He could not bear that it should
be turned away from him, or that he should lose it, and he raised both
hands, and, laying them among the silken curls, held it there.
"Oh, Guly! Guly! do you know all?"
"Dear Arthur! don't speak of this."
"Yet you have sorrowed for me; you have grieved, and been silent, and
unreproachful. Oh, Guly! what a wretch I am!"
"Hush, Arthur! oh, don't, don't!"
The tears fell down again, unrestrainedly, upon that pale brow, gleaming
up from the jetty locks, and for a moment neither spoke.
"I feel, Guly, as though I had taken a long leap into sin--such a long
one, that I shall never get back; and everything seems at work to keep
me in it. What shall I ever, ever do--I am so weak--so--so--"
"Oh, Arthur, look up--look ever up. God's finger points out the way to
you from the sky; trust yourself to its holy guidance, and be strong."
"Guly, I can't. It seems a long while since I prayed at all--since
yesterday I seem to have lived an age, and it is black, all black!"
"Nay, Arthur, you have wandered a few hours from the fold, and your
sight is darkened; but the Great Shepherd calls to you with His gentle
voice to return. Listen, and obey."
"I should only fall again."
"Trust, and you shall be strengthened."
"Oh, Guly, I have not your mind nor heart. I cannot be patient, and
meek, and charitable, through all things, as you can; I have so much
pride that I _cannot_ calmly bear reproof, and here I am fretted, and
crushed, and ridiculed into sin all the time, and am too weak to make
resistance."
"Try, and remember in your heart _how_ we are here. Bear in your mind
that we no longer have the wealth or influence that we once had; and
that if we ever are to have them again, depends upon the way we acquit
ourselves here. Learn to bear and forbear; and in the end, Arthur, you
will come out so brightly, with your pride perhaps subdued, but not
conquered, and we shall once more be happy."
Arthur sighed.
"And oh, Arthur! oh, my brother! think, we two are all to each other
here. We have nought to lean upon save each other's love and _Him_. Dear
Arthur, if you should--if one of us should be led into temptation, and
should fall, and should go down into the pit of sin, what a blank would
be the existence of the other! Oh! let us pray that our hearts may be
bound together, and that no shadow may be allowed to fall upon or divide
us."
"Oh, Guly, Guly!"
Arthur started up, and throwing his arms about his brother's form, as he
crept up closer to his side, drew the bright head down upon his bosom,
and held it there, rocking backwards and forwards where he sat.
"Pray God, indeed!" he murmured, earnestly, lifting his swimming eyes to
Heaven, "that I may sin no more. That I may ever keep bright the links
of this dear love, which is to us as the thread of life; and oh! may He
whose ways are the ways of righteousness, take us by the hand, like
little children, and guide our steps aright."
"Amen! Amen!"