ONLY A LINK.
It may be said of the body in regard of sleep as well as in regard of
death, ‘It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.’ For me, the
next morning, I could almost have said, ‘I was sown in dishonour and
raised in glory.’ No one can deny the power of the wearied body to
paralyze the soul; but I have a correlate theory which I love, and
which I expect to find true--that, while the body wearies the mind, it
is the mind that restores vigour to the body, and then, like the man
who has built him a stately palace, rejoices to dwell in it. I believe
that, if there be a living, conscious love at the heart of the
universe, the mind, in the quiescence of its consciousness in sleep,
comes into a less disturbed contact with its origin, the heart of the
creation; whence gifted with calmness and strength for itself, it grows
able to impart comfort and restoration to the weary frame. The
cessation of labour affords but the necessary occasion; makes it
possible, as it were, for the occupant of an outlying station in the
wilderness to return to his father’s house for fresh supplies of all
that is needful for life and energy. The child-soul goes home at night,
and returns in the morning to the labours of the school. Mere physical
rest could never of its own negative self build up the frame in such
light and vigour as come through sleep.
It was from no blessed vision that I woke the next morning, but from a
deep and dreamless sleep. Yet the moment I became aware of myself and
the world, I felt strong and courageous, and I began at once to look my
affairs in the face. Concerning that which was first in consequence, I
soon satisfied myself: I could not see that I had committed any serious
fault in the whole affair. I was not at all sure that a lie in defence
of the innocent, and to prevent the knowledge of what no one had any
right to know, was wrong--seeing such involves no injustice on the one
side, and does justice on the other. I have seen reason since to change
my mind, and count my liberty restricted to silence--not extending,
that is, to the denial or assertion of what the will of God, inasmuch
as it exists or does not exist, may have declared to be or not to be
the fact. I now think that to lie is, as it were, to snatch the reins
out of God’s hand.
At all events, however, I had done the Brothertons no wrong. ‘What
matter, then,’ I said to myself, ‘of what they believe me guilty, so
long as before God and my own conscience I am clear and clean?’
Next came the practical part:--What was I to do? To right myself either
in respect of their opinion, or in respect of my lost property, was
more hopeless than important, and I hardly wasted two thoughts upon
that. But I could not remain where I was, and soon came to the
resolution to go with Charley to London at once, and taking lodgings in
some obscure recess near the Inns of Court, there to give myself to
work, and work alone, in the foolish hope that one day fame might
buttress reputation. In this resolution I was more influenced by the
desire to be near the brother of Mary Osborne than the desire to be
near my friend Charley, strong as that was. I expected thus to hear of
her oftener, and even cherished the hope of coming to hear from her--of
inducing her to honour me with a word or two of immediate
communication. For I could see no reason why her opinions should
prevent her from corresponding with one who, whatever might or might
not seem to him true, yet cared for the truth, and must treat with
respect every form in which he could descry its predominating presence.
I would have asked Charley to set out with me that very day, but for
the desire to clear up the discrepancy between the date of my
ancestor’s letters, all written within the same year, and that of the
copy I had made of the registration of their marriage--with which
object I would compare the copy and the original. I wished also to have
some talk with Mr Coningham concerning the contents of the letters
which at his urgency I had now read. I got up and wrote to him
therefore, asking him to ride with me again to Umberden Church, as soon
as he could make it convenient, and sent Styles off at once on the mare
to carry the note to Minstercombe, and bring me back an answer.
As we sat over our breakfast, Charley said suddenly, ‘Clara was
regretting yesterday that she had not seen the Moat. She said you had
asked her once, but had never spoken of it again.’
‘And now I suppose she thinks, because I’m in disgrace with her friends
at the Hall, that she mustn’t come near me,’ I said, with another
bitterness than belonged to the words.
‘Wilfrid!’ he said reproachfully; ‘she didn’t say anything of the sort.
I will write and ask her if she couldn’t contrive to come over. She
might meet us at the park gates.’
‘No,’ I returned; ‘there isn’t time. I mean to go back to
London--perhaps to-morrow evening. It is like turning you out, Charley,
but we shall be nearer each other in town than we were last time.’
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he said. ‘I had been thinking myself that
I had better go back this evening. My father is expected home in a day
or two, and it would be just like him to steal a march on my chambers.
Yes, I think I shall go to-night.’
‘Very well, old boy,’ I answered. ‘That will make it all right. It’s a
pity we couldn’t take the journey together, but it doesn’t matter much.
I shall follow you as soon as I can.’
‘Why can’t you go with me?’ he asked.
Thereupon I gave him a full report of my excursion with Mr Coningham,
and the after reading of the letters, with my reason for wishing to
examine the register again; telling him that I had asked Mr Coningham
to ride with me once more to Umberden Church.
When Styles returned, he informed me that Mr Coningham at first
proposed to ride back with him, but probably bethinking himself that
another sixteen miles would be too much for my mare, had changed his
mind and sent me the message that he would be with me early the next
day.
After Charley was gone, I spent the evening in a thorough search of the
old bureau. I found in it several quaint ornaments besides those
already mentioned, but only one thing which any relation to my story
would justify specific mention of--namely, an ivory label, discoloured
with age, on which was traceable the very number Sir Giles had read
from the scabbard of Sir Wilfrid’s sword. Clearly, then, my sword was
the one mentioned in the book, and as clearly it had not been at
Moldwarp Hall for a long time before I lost it there. If I were in any
fear as to my reader’s acceptance of my story, I should rejoice in the
possession of that label more than in the restoration of sword or book;
but amidst all my troubles, I have as yet been able to rely upon her
justice and her knowledge of myself. Yes--I must mention one thing more
I found--a long, sharp-pointed, straight-backed, snake-edged Indian
dagger, inlaid with silver--a fierce, dangerous, almost
venomous-looking weapon, in a curious case of old green morocco. It
also may have once belonged to the armoury of Moldwarp Hall. I took it
with me when I left my grannie’s room, and laid it in the portmanteau I
was going to take to London.
My only difficulty was what to do with Lilith; but I resolved for the
mean time to leave her, as before, in the care of Styles, who seemed
almost as fond of her as I was myself.