WAIFE EXACTS FROM GEORGE MORLEY THE FULFILMENT OF ONE OF THOSE
PROMISES WHICH MEAN NOTHING OR EVERYTHING.
The next day George Morley visited Waife's room earlier than usual.
Waife had sent for him. Sophy was seated by her grandfather--his hand in
hers. She had been exerting herself to the utmost to talk cheerfully--to
shake from her aspect every cloud of sorrow. But still THAT CHANGE was
there--more marked than even on the previous day. A few hours of intense
struggle, a single night wholly without sleep, will tell on the face of
early youth. Not till we, hard veterans, have gone through such
struggles as life permits not to the slight responsibilities of new
recruits--not till sleepless nights have grown to us familiar will
Thought seem to take, as it were, strength, not exhaustion, from
unrelaxing exercise--nourish the brain, sustain the form by its own
untiring, fleshless, spiritual immortality; not till many a winter has
stripped the leaves; not till deep, and far out of sight, spread the
roots that support the stem--will the beat of the east wind leave no sign
on the rind.
George has not, indeed, so noticed, the day before, the kind of withering
blight that has passed over the girl's countenance; but he did now--when
she met his eye more steadfastly, and had resumed something of the open
genial infantine grace of manner which constituted her peculiar charm,
and which it was difficult to associate with deeper griefs than those of
childhood.
"You must scold my grandfather," she said. "He chooses to fancy that
he is not well enough yet to leave; and I am sure that he is, and will
recover more quickly at home than here."
"Pooh!" said Waife; "you young things suppose we old folks can be as
brisk as yourselves; but if I am to be scolded, leave Mr. George unawed
by your presence, and go out, my dear, while the sun lasts: I know by the
ways of that blackbird that the day will be overcast by noon."
As soon as they were alone, George said abruptly: "Your Sophy is looking
very ill, and if you are well enough to leave, it might be better for her
to move from this gloomy house. Movement itself is a great restorative,"
added George, with emphasis.
"You see, then, that she looks ill--very ill," said Waife deliberately;
"and there is that in your manner which tells me you guess the cause."
"I do guess it from the glimpse which I caught of Lionel's face after he
had been closeted a short time with Mr. Darrell at my uncle's house two
days ago. I guess it also from a letter I have received from my uncle."
"You guess right--very right," said Waife, still with the same serious,
tranquil manner. "I showed her this letter from young Haughton. Read
it." George hurried his eye over the letter, and returned it silently.
Waife proceeded:
"I was frightened yesterday by the strange composure she showed. In her
face alone could be read what she suffered. We talked last night. I
spoke of myself--of my old sorrows--in order to give her strength to
support hers; and the girl has a heroic nature, Mr. George--and she is
resolved to conquer or to die. But she will not conquer." George began
the usual strain of a consoles in such trials. Waife stopped him. "All
that you can say, Mr. George, I know beforehand; and she will need no
exhortation to prayer and to fortitude. I stole from my room when it
was almost dawn. I saw a light under the door of her chamber. I just
looked in--softly--unperceived. She had not gone to bed. She was by the
open window--stars dying out of the sky--kneeling on the floor, her face
buried in her hands. She has prayed. In her soul, at this moment, be
sure that she is praying now. She will devote herself to me--she will be
cheerful--you will hear her laugh, Mr. George; but she will not conquer
in this world; long before the new year is out, she will be looking down
upon our grief with her bright smile; but we shall not see her, Mr.
George. Do not think this is an old man's foolish terror; I know sorrow
as physicians know disease; it has its mortal symptoms. Hush! hear me
out. I have one hope--it is in you."
"In me?"
"Yes. Do you remember that you said, if I could succeed in opening to
your intellect its fair career, you would be the best friend to me man
ever had? and I said, 'Agreed, but change the party in the contract;
befriend my Sophy instead of me, and if ever I ask you, help me in aught
for her welfare and happiness;' and you said, 'With heart and soul.'
That was the bargain, Mr. George. Now you have all that you then
despaired of; you have the dignity of your sacred calling--you have the
eloquence of the preacher. I cannot cope with Mr. Darrell--you can. He
has a heart--it can be softened; he has a soul--it can be freed from the
wither that tether it down; he has the virtues you can appeal to; and he
has the pride which you, as a Christian minister, have the right to prove
to be a sin. I cannot argue with him; I cannot reprove the man to whom I
owe so much. All ranks of men and of mind should be equal to you, the
pastor, the divine. You ministers of the gospel address yourselves
unabashed to the poor, the humble, the uninstructed. Did Heaven give you
power and commandment over these alone? Go, Preacher! go! Speak with
the same authority to the great, to the haughty, to the wise!" The old
man's look and gesture were sublime.
The Preacher felt a thrill vibrate from his ear to his heart; but his
reason was less affected than his heart. He shook his head mournfully.
The task thus assigned to him was beyond the limits which custom
prescribes to the priest of the English Church;--dictation to a man not
even of his own flock, upon the closest affairs of that man's private
hearth and home! Our society allows no such privilege; and our society
is right.
Waife, watching his countenance, saw at once what was passing in his
mind, and resumed, as if answering George's own thought:
"Ay, if you were but the commonplace priest! But, you are something
more; you are the priest specially endowed for all special purposes of
good. You have the mind to reason--the tongue to persuade--the majestic
earnestness of impassioned zeal. Nor are you here the priest alone; you
are here the friend, the confidant, of all for whom you may exert your
powers. Oh, George Morley, I am a poor ignorant blunderer when presuming
to exhort you as Christian minister; but in your own words--I address you
as man and gentleman, you declared that 'thought and zeal should not
stammer whenever I said, Keep your promise.' I say it now--Keep faith to
the child you swore to me to befriend!"
"I will go-and at once," said George, rising. "But be not sanguine.
I see not a chance of success. A man so superior to myself in years,
station, abilities, repute!"
"Where would be Christianity," said Waife, "if the earliest preachers had
raised such questions? There is a soldier's courage--is there not a
priest's?"
George made no answer, but, with abstracted eye, gathered brow, and slow,
meditative step, quitted the room, and sought Guy Darrell.