WINGFOLD AND HELEN.
When Helen lay down, she tried to sleep, but she could not even lie
still. For all her preference of George and his counsel, and her
hope in the view he took of Leopold's case, the mere knowledge that
in the next room her cousin sat by her brother, made her anxious and
restless.
At first it was the bare feeling that they were together--the thing
she had for so long taken such pains to prevent. Next came the fear
lest Leopold should succeed in persuading George that he was really
guilty--in which case, what would George, the righteous man,
counsel? And last and chief of all, what hope of peace to Leopold
could he in any of his counsel--except indeed he led him up to the
door of death, and urged him into the nothingness behind it? Then
what if George should be wrong, and there WAS something behind it?
Whatever sort of a something it might be, could the teaching of
George be in the smallest measure a preparation for it? Were it not
better, so far as the POSSIBILITY which remained untouched by any of
George's arguments was concerned, that Leopold should die believing
after Mr. Wingfold's fashion, and not disbelieving after George's?
If then there were nothing behind, he would be nothing the worse; if
there were, the curate might have in some sort prepared him for it.
And now first she began to feel that she was a little afraid of her
cousin--that she had yielded to his influence, or rather allowed him
to assume upon the possession of influence, until she was aware of
something that somewhere galled. He was a very good fellow, but was
he one fit to rule her life? Would her nature consent to look up to
his always, if she were to marry him? But the thought only flitted
like a cloud across the surface of her mind, for all her care was
Leopold, and alas! with him she was now almost angry, and it grieved
her sorely.
All these feelings together had combined to form her mood, when her
maid came to the door with the message that Mr. Wingfold was in the
library. She resolved at once to see him.
The curate's heart trembled a little as he waited for her. He was
not quite sure that it was his business to tell her her duty--yet
something seemed to drive him to it: he could not bear the idea of
her going on in the path of crookedness. It is no easy matter for
one man to tell another his duty in the simplest relations of life;
and here was a man, naturally shy and self-distrustful, daring to
rebuke and instruct a woman, whose presence was mighty upon him, and
whose influence was tenfold heightened by the suffering that
softened her beauty!
She entered, troubled yet stately, doubtful, yet with a kind of
half-trust in her demeanour, white, and blue-eyed, with pained
mouth, and a droop of weariness and suffering in eyelids and neck--a
creature to be worshipped if only for compassion of dignified
distress.
Thomas Wingfold's nature was one more than usually bent towards
helpfulness, but his early history, his lack of friends, of
confidence, of convictions, of stand or aim in life, had hitherto
prevented the outcome of that tendency. But now, like issuing water,
which, having found way, gathers force momently, the pent-up
ministration of his soul was asserting itself. Now that he
understood more of the human heart, and recognised in this and that
human countenance the bars of a cage through which peeped an
imprisoned life, his own heart burned in him with the love of the
helpless; and if there was mingled therein anything of the ambition
of benefaction, anything of the love of power, anything of
self-recommendation, pride of influence, or desire to be a centre of
good, and rule in a small kingdom of the aided and aiding, these
marshy growths had the fairest chance of dying an obscure death; for
the one sun, potent on the wheat for life, and on the tares for
death, is the face of Christ Jesus, and in that presence Wingfold
lived more and more from day to day.
And now came Helen, who, more than anyone whose history he had yet
learned--more perhaps than even her brother, needed such help as he
confidently hoped he knew now where she might find! But when he saw
her stand before him wounded and tearful and proud, regarding his
behaviour in respect of her brother as cruel and heartless; when he
felt in his very soul that she was jealous of his influence, that
she disliked and even despised him; it was only with a strong effort
he avoided assuming a manner correspondent to the idea of himself he
saw reflected in her mind, and submitting himself, as it were, to be
what she judged him.
When, however, by a pure effort of will, he rose above this weakness
and looked her full and clear in the face, a new jealousy of himself
arose: she stood there so lovely, so attractive, so tenfold womanly
in her misery, that he found he must keep a stern watch upon
himself, lest interest in her as a woman should trespass on the
sphere of simple humanity, wherein with favouring distinction is
recognized neither Jew nor Greek, prince nor peasant--not even man
or woman, only the one human heart that can love and suffer. It
aided him in this respect however, that his inherent modesty caused
him to look up to Helen as to a suffering goddess, noble, grand,
lovely, only ignorant of the one secret, of which he, haunting the
steps of the Unbound Prometheus, had learned a few syllables, broken
yet potent, which he would fain, could he find how, communicate in
their potency to her. And besides, to help her now looking upon him
from the distant height of conscious superiority, he must persuade
her to what she regarded as an unendurable degradation! The
circumstances assuredly protected him from any danger of offering
her such expression of sympathy as might not have been welcome to
her.
It is true that the best help a woman can get is from a right
man--equally true with its converse; but let the man who ventures
take heed. Unless he is able to counsel a woman to the hardest thing
that bears the name of duty, let him not dare give advice even to
her asking.
Helen however had not come to ask advice of Wingfold. She was in no
such mood. She was indeed weary of a losing strife, and only for a
glimmer of possible help from her cousin, saw ruin inevitable before
her. But this revival of hope in George had roused afresh her
indignation at the intrusion of Wingfold with what she chose to lay
to his charge as unsought counsel. At the same time, through all the
indignation, terror, and dismay, something within her murmured
audibly enough that the curate and not her cousin was the guide who
could lead her brother where grew the herb of what peace might yet
be had. It was therefore with a sense of bewilderment, discord, and
uncertainty, that she now entered the library.
Wingfold rose, made his obeisance, and advanced a step or two. He
would not offer a hand that might be unwelcome, and Helen did not
offer hers. She bent her neck graciously, and motioned him to be
seated.
"I hope Mr. Lingard is not worse," he said.
Helen started. Had anything happened while she had been away from
him?
"No. Why should he be worse?" she answered. "Have they told you
anything?"
"I have heard nothing; only as I was not allowed to see him,--"
"I left him with Mr. Bascombe half an hour ago," she said, willing
to escape the imputation of having refused him admittance.
Wingfold gave an involuntary sigh.
"You do not think that gentleman's company desirable for my brother,
I presume," she said with a smile so lustreless that it seemed
bitter.
"He won't do him any harm--at least I do not think you need fear
it."
"Why not? No one in your profession can think his opinions harmless,
and certainly he will not suppress them."
"A man with such a weight on his soul as your brother carries, will
not be ready to fancy it lightened by having lumps of lead thrown
upon it. An easy mind may take a shroud on its shoulders for wings,
but when trouble comes and it wants to fly, then it knows the
difference. Leopold will not be misled by Mr. Bascombe."
Helen grew paler. She would have him misled--so far as not to betray
himself.
"I am far more afraid of your influence than of his," added the
curate.
"What bad influence do you suppose me likely to exercise?" asked
Helen, with a cold smile.
"The bad influence of wishing him to act upon your conscience
instead of his own."
"Is my conscience then a worse one than Leopold's?" she asked, but
as if she felt no interest in the answer.
"It is not his, and that is enough. His own and no other can tell
him what he ought to do."
"Why not leave him to it, then?" she said bitterly.
"That is what I want of you, Miss Lingard. I would have you fear to
touch the life of the poor youth."
"Touch his life! I would give him mine to save it. YOU counsel him
to throw it away."
"Alas, what different meanings we put on the word! You call the few
years he may have to live in this world his life; while I--"
"While you count it the millions of which yon know
nothing,--somewhere whence no one has ever returned to bring any
news!--a wretched life at best if it be such as you represent it."
"Pardon me, that is merely what you suppose I mean by the word. I do
not mean that; I mean something altogether different. When I spoke
of his life, I thought nothing about here or there, now or then. You
will see what I mean if you think how the light came back to his eye
and the colour to his cheek the moment he had made up his mind to do
what had long seemed his duty. When I saw him again that light was
still in his eyes, and a feeble hope looked out of every feature.
Existence, from a demon-haunted vapor, had begun to change to a
morning of spring; life, the life of conscious well-being, of law
and order and peace, had begun to dawn in obedience and
self-renunciation; his resurrection was at hand. But you then, and
now you and Mr. Bascombe, would stop this resurrection; you would
seat yourselves upon his gravestone to keep him down!--And
why?--Lest he, lest you, lest your family should be disgraced by
letting him out of his grave to tell the truth."
"Sir!" cried Helen, indignantly drawing herself to her full height
and something more.
Wingfold took one step nearer to her.
"My calling is to speak the truth," he said: "and I am bound to warn
you that you will never be at peace in your own soul until you love
your brother aright."
"Love my brother!" Helen almost screamed. "I would die for him."
"Then at least let your pride die for him," said Wingfold, not
without indignation.
Helen left the room, and Wingfold the house.
She had hardly shut the door, and fallen again upon the bed, when
she began to know in her heart that the curate was right. But the
more she knew it, the less would she confess it even to herself: it
was unendurable.