A cup was at my lips: it pass'd
As passes the wild desert blast!
*****
I woke--around me was a gloom
And silence of the tomb;
But in that awful solitude
That little spirit by me stood--
But oh, how changed!
--Thoughts in Past Years
Under Richard's kind let-alone system, Leonard was slowly recovering
tone. First he took to ruling lines in the Cocksmoor account-books,
then he helped in their audit; and with occupation came the sense of
the power of voluntary exertion. He went and came freely, and began to
take long rambles in the loneliest parts of the heath and plantations,
while Richard left him scrupulously to his own devices, and rejoiced to
see them more defined and vigorous every day. The next stop was to
assist in the night-school where Richard had hitherto toiled
single-handed among very rough subjects. The technical training and
experience derived from Leonard's work under the schoolmaster at
Portland were invaluable; and though taking the lead was the last thing
he would have thought of, he no sooner entered the school than
attention and authority were there, and Richard found that what had to
him been a vain and patient struggle was becoming both effective and
agreeable. Interest in his work was making Leonard cheerful and alert,
though still grave, and shrinking from notice--avoiding the town by
daylight, and only coming to Dr. May's in the dark evenings.
On the last Sunday in Advent, Richard was engaged to preach at his
original curacy, and that the days before and after it should likewise
be spent away from home was insisted on after the manner of the friends
of hard-working clergy. He had the less dislike to going that he could
leave his school-work to Leonard, who was to be housed at his father's,
and there was soon perceived to have become a much more ordinary member
of society than on his first arrival.
One evening, there was a loud peal at the door-bell, and the maid--one
of Ethel's experiments of training--came in.
'Please, sir, a gentleman has brought a cockatoo and a letter and a
little boy from the archdeacon.'
'Archdeacon!' cried Dr. May, catching sight of the handwriting on the
letter and starting up. 'Archdeacon Norman--'
'One of Norman's stray missionaries and a Maori newly caught; oh, what
fun!' cried Daisy, in ecstasy.
At that moment, through the still open door, walking as if he had lived
there all his life, there entered the prettiest little boy that ever
was seen--a little knickerbocker boy, with floating rich dark ringlets,
like a miniature cavalier coming forth from a picture, with a white
cockatoo on his wrist. Not in the least confused, he went straight
towards Dr. May and said, 'Good-morning, grandpapa.'
'Ha! And who may you be, my elfin prince?' said the Doctor.
'I'm Dickie--Richard Rivers May--I'm not an elfin prince,' said the
boy, with a moment's hurt feeling. 'Papa sent me.' By that time the
boy was fast in his grandfather's embrace, and was only enough released
to give him space to answer the eager question, 'Papa--papa here?'
'Oh no; I came with Mr. Seaford.'
The Doctor hastily turned Dickie over to the two aunts, and hastened
forth to the stranger, whose name he well knew as a colonist's son, a
favourite and devoted clerical pupil of Norman's.
'Aunt Ethel,' said little Richard, with instant recognition; 'mamma
said you would be like her, but I don't think you will.'
'Nor I, Dickie, but we'll try. And who's that!'
'Yes, what am I to be like?' asked Gertrude.
'You're not Aunt Daisy--Aunt Daisy is a little girl.'
Gertrude made him the lowest of curtseys; for not to be taken for a
little girl was the compliment she esteemed above all others. Dickie's
next speech was, 'And is that Uncle Aubrey?'
'No, that's Leonard.'
Dickie shook hands with him very prettily; but then returning upon
Ethel, observed, 'I thought it was Uncle Aubrey, because soldiers
always cut their hair so close.'
The other guest was so thoroughly a colonist, and had so little idea of
anything but primitive hospitality, that he had had no notion of
writing beforehand to announce his coming, and accident had delayed the
letters by which Norman and Meta had announced their decision of
sending home their eldest boy under his care.
'Papa had no time to teach me alone,' said Dickie, who seemed to have
been taken into the family councils; 'and mamma is always busy, and I
wasn't getting any good with some of the boys that come to school to
papa.'
'Indeed, Mr. Dickie!' said the Doctor, full of suppressed laughter.
'It is quite true,' said Mr. Seaford; 'there are some boys that the
archdeacon feels bound to educate, but who are not desirable companions
for his son.'
'It is a great sacrifice,' remarked the young gentleman.
'Oh, Dickie, Dickie,' cried Gertrude, in fits, 'don't you be a prig--'
'Mamma said it,' defiantly answered Dickie.
'Only a parrot,' said Ethel, behind her handkerchief; but Dickie, who
heard whatever he was not meant to hear, answered--
'It is not a parrot, it is a white cockatoo, that the chief of
(something unutterable) brought down on his wrist like a hawk to the
mission-ship; and that mamma sent as a present to Uncle George.'
'I prefer the parrot that has fallen to my share,' observed the Doctor.
It was by this time perched beside him, looking perfectly at ease and
thoroughly at home. There was something very amusing in the aspect of
the little man; he so completely recalled his mother's humming-bird
title by the perfect look of finished porcelain perfection that even a
journey from the Antipodes with only gentleman nursemaids had not
destroyed. The ringleted rich brown hair shone like glossy silk, the
cheeks were like painting, the trim well-made legs and small hands and
feet looked dainty and fairy-like, yet not at all effeminate; hands and
face were a healthy brown, and contrasted with the little white collar,
the set of which made Ethel exclaim, 'Just look, Daisy, that's what I
always told you about Meta's doings. Only I can't understand
it.--Dickie, have the fairies kept you in repair ever since mamma
dressed you last?'
'We haven't any fairies in New Zealand,' he replied; 'and mamma never
dressed me since I was a baby!'
'And what are you now?' said the Doctor.
'I am eight years old,' said this piece of independence, perfectly well
mannered, and au fait in all the customs of the tea-table; and when the
meal was over, he confidentially said to his aunt, 'Shall I come and
help you wash up? I never break anything.'
Ethel declined this kind offer; but he hung on her hand and asked if he
might go and see the schoolroom, where papa and Uncle Harry used to
blow soap-bubbles. She lighted a candle, and the little gentleman
showed himself minutely acquainted with the whole geography of the
house, knew all the rooms and the pictures, and where everything had
happened, even to adventures that Ethel had forgotten.
'It is of no use to say there are no fairies in New Zealand,' said Dr.
May, taking him on his knee, and looking into the blue depths of
Norman's eyes. 'You have been head-waiter to Queen Mab, and
perpetually here when she made you put a girdle round the earth in
forty minutes.'
'Papa read that to the boys, and they said it was stupid and no use,'
said Dickie; 'but papa said that the electric telegraph would do it.'
The little cavalier appeared not to know what it was to be at a loss
for an answer, and the joint letter from his parents explained that his
precocious quickness was one of their causes for sending him home. He
was so deft and useful as to be important in the household, and
necessarily always living with his father and mother, he took constant
part in their conversation, and was far more learned in things than in
books. In the place where they were settled, trustworthy boy society
was unattainable, and they had felt their little son, in danger of
being spoilt and made forward from his very goodness and
brightness--wrote Meta, 'If you find him a forward imp, recollect it is
my fault for having depended so much on him.'
His escort was a specimen of the work Norman had done, not actual
mission-work, but preparation and inspiriting of those who went forth
on the actual task. He was a simple-minded, single-hearted man, one of
the first pupils in Norman's college, and the one who had most fully
imbibed his spirit. He had been for some years a clergyman, and
latterly had each winter joined the mission voyage among the Melanesian
Isles, returning to their homes the lads brought for the summer for
education to the mission college in New Zealand, and spending some time
at a station upon one or other of the islands. He had come back from
the last voyage much out of health, and had been for weeks nursed by
Meta, until a long rest having been declared necessary, he had been
sent to England as the only place where he would not be tempted to
work, and was to visit his only remaining relation, a sister, who had
married an officer and was in Ireland. He was burning to go back again,
and eagerly explained--sagely corroborated by the testimony of the tiny
archdeacon--that his illness was to be laid to the blame of his own
imprudence, not to the climate; and he dwelt upon the delights of the
yearly voyage among the lovely islands, beautiful beyond imagination,
fenced in by coral breakwaters, within which the limpid water displayed
exquisite sea-flowers, shells, and fishes of magical gorgeousness of
hue; of the brilliant white beach, fringing the glorious vegetation,
cocoa-nut, bread-fruit, banana, and banyan, growing on the sloping
sides of volcanic rocks; of mysterious red-glowing volcano lights seen
far out at sea at night, of glades opening to show high-roofed huts
covered with mats: of canoes decorated with the shining white shells
resembling a poached egg; of natives clustering round, eager and
excited, seldom otherwise than friendly; though in hitherto unvisited
places, or in those where the wanton outrages of sandal-wood traders
had excited distrust, caution was necessary, and there was peril enough
to give the voyage a full character of heroism and adventure. Bows and
poisoned arrows were sometimes brought down--and Dickie insisted that
they had been used--but in general the mission was recognized, and an
eager welcome given; presents of fish-hooks, or of braid and
handkerchiefs, established a friendly feeling; and readiness--in which
the Hand of the Maker must be recognized--was manifested to intrust
lads to the mission for the summer's training at the college in New
Zealand--wild lads, innocent of all clothing, except marvellous
adornments of their woolly locks, wigged out sometimes into huge
cauliflowers whitened with coral lime, or arranged quarterly red and
white, and their noses decorated with rings, which were their nearest
approach to a pocket, as they served for the suspension of fish-hooks,
or any small article. A radiate arrangement of skewers from the nose,
in unwitting imitation of a cat's whiskers, had even been known. A few
days taught dressing and eating in a civilized fashion; and time,
example, and the wonderful influence of the head of the mission,
trained these naturally intelligent boys into much that was hopeful.
Dickie, who had been often at the college, had much to tell of
familiarity with the light canoes that some cut out and launched; of
the teaching them English games, of their orderly ways in school and in
hall; of the prayers in their many tongues, and of the baptism of some,
after full probation, and at least one winter's return to their own
isles, as a test of their sincerity and constancy. Much as the May
family had already heard of this wonderful work, it came all the closer
and nearer now. The isle of Alan Ernescliffe's burial-place had now
many Christians in it. Harry's friend, the young chief David, was
dead; but his people were some of them already teachers and examples,
and the whole region was full to overflowing of the harvest, calling
out for labourers to gather it in.
Silent as usual, Leonard nevertheless was listening with all his heart,
and with parted lips and kindling eyes that gave back somewhat of his
former countenance. Suddenly his face struck Mr. Seaford, and turning
on him with a smile, he said, 'You should be with us yourself, you look
cut out for mission work.'
Leonard murmured something, blushed up to the ears, and subsided, but
the simple, single-hearted Mr. Seaford, his soul all on one object, his
experience only in one groove, by no means laid aside the thought, and
the moment he was out of Leonard's presence, eagerly asked who that
young man was.
'Leonard Ward? he is--he is the son of an old friend,' replied Dr. May,
a little perplexed to explain his connection.
'What is he doing? I never saw any one looking more suited for our
work.'
'Tell him so again,' said Dr. May; 'I know no one that would be fitter.'
They were all taken up with the small grandson the next day. He was
ready in his fairy-page trimness to go to the early service at the
Minster; but he was full of the colonial nil admirari principle, and
was quite above being struck by the grand old building, or allowing its
superiority--either to papa's own church or Auckland Cathedral. They
took him to present to Mary on their way back from church, when he was
the occasion of a great commotion by carrying the precious Master
Charlie all across the hall to his mamma, and quietly observing in
resentment at the outcry, that of course he always carried little Ethel
about when mamma and nurse were busy. After breakfast, when he had
finished his investigations of all Dr. May's domains, and much
entertained Gertrude by his knowledge of them, Ethel set him down to
write a letter to his father, and her own to Meta being engrossing, she
did not look much more after him till Dr. May came in, and said, 'I
want you to sketch off a portrait of her dicky-bird for Meta;' and he
put before her a natural history with a figure of that tiny
humming-bird which is endowed with swansdown knickerbockers.
'By the bye, where is the sprite?'
He was not to be found; and when dinner-time, and much calling and
searching, failed to produce him, his grandfather declared that he was
gone back to Elf-land; but Leonard recollected certain particular
inquiries about the situation of the Grange and of Cocksmoor, and it
was concluded that he had anticipated the Doctor's intentions of taking
him and Mr. Seaford there in the afternoon. The notion was confirmed
by the cockatoo having likewise disappeared; but there was no great
anxiety, since the little New Zealander appeared as capable of taking
care of himself as any gentleman in Her Majesty's dominions; and a note
had already been sent to his aunt informing her of his arrival. Still,
a summons to the Doctor in an opposite direction was inopportune, the
more so as the guest was to remain at Stoneborough only this one day,
and had letters and messages for Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, while it was also
desirable to see whether the boy had gone to Cocksmoor.
Leonard proposed to become Mr. Seaford's guide to the Grange, learn
whether Dickie were there, and meet the two ladies at Cocksmoor with
the tidings, leaving Mr. Seaford and the boy to be picked up by the
Doctor on his return. It was his first voluntary offer to go anywhere,
though he had more than once been vainly invited to the Grange with
Richard.
Much conversation on the mission took place during the walk, and
resulted in Mr. Seaford's asking Leonard if his profession were
settled. 'No,' he said; and not at all aware that his companion did
not know what every other person round him knew, he added, 'I have been
thrown out of everything--I am waiting to hear from my brother.'
'Then you are not at a University?'
'Oh no, I was a clerk.'
'Then if nothing is decided, is it impossible that you should turn your
eyes to our work?'
'Stay,' said Leonard, standing still; 'I must ask whether you know all
about me. Would it be possible to admit to such work as yours one who,
by a terrible mistake, has been under sentence of death and in
confinement for three years?'
'I must think! Let us talk of this another time. Is that the Grange?'
hastily exclaimed the missionary, rather breathlessly. Leonard with
perfect composure replied that it was, pointed out the different
matters of interest, and, though a little more silent, showed no other
change of manner. He was asking the servant at the door if Master May
were there, when Mr. Rivers came out and conducted both into the
drawing room, where little Dickie was, sure enough. It appeared that,
cockatoo on wrist, he had put his pretty face up to the glass of Mrs
Rivers's morning-room, and had asked her, 'Is this mamma's room, Aunt
Flora? Where's Margaret?'
Uncle, aunt, and cousin had all been captivated by him, and he was at
present looking at the display of all Margaret's treasures, keenly
appreciating the useful and ingenious, but condemning the merely
ornamental as only fit for his baby sister. Margaret was wonderfully
gracious and child-like; but perhaps she rather oppressed him; for when
Leonard explained that he must go on to meet Miss May at Cocksmoor, the
little fellow sprang up, declaring that he wanted to go thither; and
though told that his grandfather was coming for him, and that the walk
was long, he insisted that he was not tired; and Mr. Seaford, finding
him not to be dissuaded, broke off his conversation in the midst, and
insisted on accompanying him, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Rivers rather amazed
at colonial breeding.
The first time Mr. Seaford could accomplish being alone with Dr. May,
he mysteriously shut the door, and began, 'I am afraid Mrs. Rivers
thought me very rude; but though no doubt he is quite harmless, I could
not let the child or the ladies be alone with him.'
'With whom?'
'With your patient.'
'What patient of mine have you been seeing to-day?' asked Dr. May, much
puzzled.
'Oh, then you consider him as convalescent, and certainly he does seem
rational on every other point; but is this one altogether an
hallucination?'
'I have not made out either the hallucination or the convalescent. I
beg your pardon,' said the courteous Doctor; 'but I cannot understand
whom you have seen.'
'Then is not that young Ward a patient of yours? He gave me to
understand to-day that he has been under confinement for three years--'
'My poor Leonard!' exclaimed the Doctor; 'I wish his hair would grow!
This is the second time! And did you really never hear of the Blewer
murder, and of Leonard Ward?'
Mr. Seaford had some compound edifice of various murders in his mind,
and required full enlightenment. Having heard the whole, he was ardent
to repair his mistake, both for Leonard's own sake, and that of his
cause. The young man was indeed looking ill and haggard; but there was
something in the steady eyes, hollow though they still were, and in the
determined cast of features, that strangely impressed the missionary
with a sense of his being moulded for the work; and on the first
opportunity a simple straightforward explanation of the error was laid
before Leonard, with an entreaty that if he had no duties to bind him
at home, he would consider the need of labourers in the great harvest
of the Southern Seas.
Leonard made no answer save 'Thank you' and that he would think. The
grave set features did not light up as they had done unconsciously when
listening without personal thought; he only looked considering, and
accepted Mr. Seaford's address in Ireland, promising to write after
hearing from his brother.
Next morning, Dr. May gave notice that an old patient was coming to see
him, and must be asked to luncheon. Leonard soon after told Ethel that
he should not be at home till the evening, and she thought he was going
to Cocksmoor, by way of avoiding the stranger. In the twilight,
however, Dr. May, going up to the station to see his patient off, was
astonished to see Leonard emerge from a second-class carriage.
'You here! the last person I expected.'
'I have only been to W---- about my teeth.'
'What, have you been having tooth-ache?'
'At times, but I have had two out, so I hope there is an end of it.'
'And you never mentioned it, you Stoic!'
'It was only at night.'
'And how long has this been?'
'Since I had that cold; but it was no matter.'
'No matter, except that it kept you looking like Count Ugolino, and me
always wondering what was the matter with you. And'--detaining him for
a moment under the lights of the station--'this extraction must have
been a pretty business, to judge by your looks! What did the dentist
do to you?'
'It is not so much that' said Leonard, low and sadly; 'but I began to
have a hope, and I see it won't do.'
'What do you mean, my dear boy? what have you been doing?'
'I have been into my old cell again,' said he, under his breath; and
Dr. May, leaning on his arm, felt his nervous tremor.
'Prisoner of the Bastille, eh, Leonard!'
'I had long been thinking that I ought to go and call on Mr. Reeve and
thank him.'
'But he does not receive calls there.'
'No,' said Leonard, as if the old impulse to confidence had returned;
'but I have never been so happy since, as I was in that cell, and I
wanted to see it again. Not only for that reason,' he added, 'but
something that Mr. Seaford said brought back a remembrance of what Mr.
Wilmot told me when my life was granted--something about the whole
being preparation for future work--something that made me feel ready
for anything. It had all gone from me--all but the remembrance of the
sense of a blessed Presence and support in that condemned cell, and I
thought perhaps ten minutes in the same place would bring it back to
me.'
'And did they?'
'No, indeed. As soon as the door was locked, it all went back to July
1860, and worse. Things that were mercifully kept from me then, mere
abject terror of death, and of that kind of death--the disgrace--the
crowds--all came on me, and with them, the misery all in one of those
nine months; the loathing of those eternal narrow waved white walls,
the sense of their closing in, the sickening of their sameness, the
longing for a voice, the other horror of thinking myself guilty. The
warder said it was ten minutes--I thought it hours! I was quite done
for, and could hardly get down-stairs. I knew the spirit was being
crushed out of me by the solitary period, and it is plain that I must
think of nothing that needs nerve or presence of mind!' he added, in a
tone of quiet dejection.
'You are hardly in a state to judge of your nerve, after sleepless
nights and the loss of your teeth. Besides, there is a difference
between the real and imaginary, as you have found; you who, in the
terrible time of real anticipation, were a marvel in that very point of
physical resolution.'
'I could keep thoughts out _then_,' he said; 'I was master of myself.'
'You mean that the solitude unhinged you? Yet I always found you brave
and cheerful.'
'The sight of you made me so. Nay, the very sight or sound of any
human being made a difference! And now you all treat me as if I had
borne it well, but I did not. It was all that was left me to do, but
indeed I did not.'
'What do you mean by bearing it well?' said the Doctor, in the tone in
which he would have questioned a patient.
'Living--as--as I thought I should when I made up my mind to life
instead of death,' said Leonard; 'but all that went away. I let it
slip, and instead came everything possible of cowardice, and hatred,
and bitterness. I lost my hold of certainty what I had done or what I
had not, and the horror, the malice, the rebellion that used to come on
me in that frightful light white silent place, were unutterable! I
wish you would not have me among you all, when I know there can hardly
be a wicked thought that did not surge over me.'
'To be conquered.'
'To conquer me,' he said, in utter lassitude.
'Stay. Did they ever make you offend wilfully?'
'There was nothing I could offend in.'
'Your tasks of work, for instance.'
'I often had a savage frantic abhorrence of it, but I always brought
myself to do it, and it did me good; it would have done more if it had
been less mechanical. But it often was only the instinct of not
degrading myself like the lowest prisoners.'
'Well, there was your conduct to the officials.'
'Oh! one could not help being amenable to them, they were so kind.
Besides, these demons never came over me except when I was alone.'
'And one thing more, Leonard; did these demons, as you well call them,
invade your devotions?'
'Never,' he answered readily; then recalling himself--'not at the set
times I mean, though they often made me think the comfort I had there
mere hypocrisy and delusion, and be nearly ready to give over what
depended on myself. Chapel was always joy; it brought change and the
presence of others, if nothing else; and that would in itself have been
enough to banish the hauntings.'
'And they did not interfere with your own readings?' said the Doctor,
preferring this to the word that he meant.
'I could not let them,' said Leonard. 'There was always refreshment;
it was only before and after that all would seem mockery, profanation,
or worse still, delusion and superstition--as if my very condition
proved that there was none to hear.'
'The hobgoblin had all but struck the book out of Christian's hand,'
said Dr. May, pressing his grasp on Leonard's shuddering arm. 'You are
only telling me that you have been in the valley of the shadow of
death; you have not told me that you lost the rod and staff.'
'No, I must have been helped, or I should not have my senses now.'
And perhaps it was the repressed tremor of voice and frame rather than
the actual words that induced the Doctor to reply--'That is the very
point, Leonard. It is the temptation to us doctors to ascribe too much
to the physical and too little to the moral; and perhaps you would be
more convinced by Mr. Wilmot than by me; but I do verily believe that
all the anguish you describe could and would have been insanity if
grace had not been given you to conquer it. It was a tottering of the
mind upon its balance; and, humanly speaking, it was the self-control
that enabled you to force yourself to your duties, and find relief in
them, which saved you. I should just as soon call David conquered
because the "deep waters had come in over his soul."'
'You can never know how true those verses are,' said Leonard, with
another shiver.
'At least I know to what kind of verses they all lead,' said the
Doctor; 'and I am sure they led you, and that you had more and brighter
hours than you now remember.'
'Yes, it was not all darkness. I believe there were more spaces than I
can think of now, when I was very fairly happy, even at Pentonville;
and at Portland all did well with me, till last spring, and then the
news from Massissauga brought back all the sense of blood-guiltiness,
and it was worse than ever.'
'And that sense was just as morbid as your other horrible doubt, about
which you asked me when we were coming home.'
'I see it was now, but that was the worst time of all--the monotony of
school, and the sense of hypocrisy and delusion in teaching--the
craving to confess, if only for the sake of the excitement, and the
absolute inability to certify myself whether there was any crime to
confess--I can't talk about it. And even chapel was not the same
refreshment, when one was always teaching a class in it, as coming in
fresh only for the service. Even that was failing me, or I thought it
was! No, I do not know how I could have borne it much longer.'
'No, Leonard, you could not; Tom and I both saw that in your looks, and
quite expected to hear of your being ill; but, you see, we are never
tried above what we can bear!'
'No,' said Leonard, very low, as if he had been much struck; and then
he added, after an interval, 'It is over now, and there's no need to
recollect it except in the way of thanks. The question is what it has
left me fit for. You know, Dr. May,' and his voice trembled, 'my first
and best design in the happy time of Coombe, the very crown of my life,
was this very thing--to be a missionary. But for myself, I might be in
training now. If I had only conquered my temper, and accepted that
kind offer of Mr. Cheviot's, all this would never have been, and I
should have had my youth, my strength, and spirit, my best, to devote.
I turned aside because of my obstinacy, against warning, and now how
can I offer?--one who has stood at the bar, lived among felons, thought
such thoughts--the released convict with a disgraced name! It would
just be an insult to the ministry! No, I know how prisoners feel. I
can deal with them. Let me go back to what I am trained for. My nerve
and spirit have been crushed out; I am fit for nothing else. The worst
thing that has remained with me is this nervousness--cowardice is its
right name--starting at the sound of a door, or at a fresh face--a
pretty notion that I should land among savages!'
Dr. May had begun an answer about the remains of the terrible ordeal
that might in itself have been part of Leonard's training, when they
reached the house door.
These nerves, or whatever they were, did indeed seem disposed to have
no mercy on their owner; for no sooner had he sat down in the warm
drawing-room, than such severe pain attacked his face as surpassed even
his powers of concealment. Dr. May declared it was all retribution for
his unfriendliness in never seeking sympathy or advice, which might
have proved the evil to be neuralgia and saved the teeth, instead of
aggravating the evil by their extraction.
'I suspect he has been living on nothing,' said Dr. May, when, in a
lull of the pain, Leonard had gone to bed.
'Papa!' exclaimed Gertrude, 'don't you know what Richard's housekeeping
is? Don't you recollect his taking that widow for a cook because she
was such a good woman?'
'I don't think it was greatly Richard's fault,' said Ethel. 'I can
hardly get Leonard to make a sparrow's meal here, and most likely his
mouth has been too uncomfortable.'
'Ay, that never seeking sympathy is to me one of the saddest parts of
all. He has been so long shut within himself, that he can hardly feel
that any one cares for him.'
'He does so more than at first,' said Ethel.
'Much more. I have heard things from him to-night that are a
revelation to me. Well, he has come through, and I believe he is
recovering it; but the three threads of our being have all had a
terrible wrench, and if body and mind come out unscathed, it is the
soundness of the spirit that has brought them through.'
A sleepless night and morning of violent pain ensued; but, at least
thus much had been gained--that there was no refusal of sympathy, but a
grateful acceptance of kindness, so that it almost seemed a recurrence
to the Coombe days; and as the pain lessened, the enjoyment of Ethel's
attendance seemed to grow upon Leonard in the gentle languor of relief;
and when, as she was going out for the afternoon, she came back to see
if he was comfortable in his easy-chair by the drawing-room fire, and
put a screen before his face, he looked up and thanked her with a
smile--the first she had seen.
When she returned, the winter twilight had closed in, and he was
leaning back in the same attitude, but started up, so that she asked if
he had been asleep.
'I don't know--I have seen her again.'
'Seen whom?'
'Minna, my dear little Minna!'
'Dreamt of her?'
'I cannot tell,' he said; 'I only know she was there; and then rising
and standing beside Ethel, he continued--'Miss May, you remember the
night of her death?'
'Easter Eve?'
'Well,' continued he, 'that night I saw her.'
'I remember,' said Ethel, 'that Mr. Wilmot told us you knew at once
what he was come to tell you.'
'It was soon after I was in bed, the lights were out, and I do not
think I was asleep, when she was by me--not the plump rosy thing she
used to be, but tall and white, her hair short and waving back, her
eyes--oh! so sad and wistful, but glad too--and her hands held out--and
she said, "Turn you to the stronghold, ye prisoners of hope. O
Leonard, dear, it does not hurt."'
'It was the last thing she did say.'
'Yes, so Ave's letter said. And observe, one o'clock in Indiana is
half-past nine with us. Then her hair--I wrote to ask, for you know it
used to be in long curls, but it had been cut short, like what I saw.
Surely, surely, it was the dear loving spirit allowed to show itself to
me before going quite away to her home!'
'And you have seen her again?'
'Just now'--his voice was even lower than before--'since it grew dark,
as I sat there. I had left off reading, and had been thinking, when
there she was, all white but not wistful now; "Leonard, dear," she
said, "it has not hurt;" and then, "He brought me forth, He brought me
forth even to a place of liberty, because He had a favour unto me."'
'O, Leonard, it must have made you very happy.'
'I am very thankful for it,' he said. Then after a pause, 'You will
not speak of it--you will not tell me to think it the action of my own
mind upon itself.'
'I can only believe it a great blessing come to comfort you and cheer
you,' said Ethel: 'cheer you as with the robin-note, as papa called it,
that sung all through the worst of times! Leonard, I am afraid you
will think it unkind of me to have withheld it so long, but papa told
me you could not yet bear to hear of Minna. I have her last present
for you in charge--the slippers she was working for that eighteenth
birthday of yours. She would go on, and we never knew whether she
fully understood your danger; it was always "they could not hurt you,"
and at last, when they were finished, and I had to make her understand
that you could not have them, she only looked up to me and said,
"Please keep them, and give them to him when he comes home." She never
doubted, first or last.'
Ethel, who had daily been watching for the moment, took out the parcel
from the drawer, with the address in the childish writing, the date in
her own.
Large tears came dropping from Leonard's eyes, as he undid the paper,
and looked at the work, then said, 'Last time I saw that pattern, my
mother was working it! Dear child! Yes, Miss May, I am glad you did
not give them to me before. I always felt as if my blow had glanced
aside and fallen on Minna; but somehow I feel more fully how happy she
is!'
'She was the messenger of comfort throughout to Ave and to Ella,' said
Ethel, 'and well she may be to you still.'
'I have dreaded to ask,' said Leonard; 'but there was a line in one
letter I was shown that made me believe that climate was not the whole
cause.'
'No,' said Ethel; 'at least the force to resist it had been lost, as
far as we can see. It was a grievous error of your brother's to think
her a child who could forget. She pined to hear of you, and that one
constant effort of faith and love was too much, and wasted away the
little tender body. But oh, Leonard, how truly she can say that her
captivity is over, and that it has not hurt!'
'It has not hurt,' musingly repeated Leonard. 'No, she is beyond the
reach of distracting temptations and sorrows; it has only made her
brighter to have suffered what it breaks one's heart to think of. It
has not hurt.'
'Nothing from without does hurt!' said Ethel, 'unless one lets it.'
'Hurt what?' he asked.
'The soul,' returned Ethel. 'Mind and body may be hurt, and it is not
possible to know one's mind from one's soul while one is alive, but as
long as the will and faith are right, to think the soul can be hurt
seems to me like doubting our Protector.'
'But if the will have been astray?'
'Then while we repent, we must not doubt our Redeemer.'
Dickie ran in at the moment, calling for Aunt Ethel. She had dropped
her muff. Leonard picked it up, and as she took it, he wrung her hand
with an earnestness that showed his gratitude.