FURTHER DECISION.
The day after his confession to Mr. Hooker, a considerable re-action
took place in Lingard. He did not propose to leave his bed, and lay
exhausted. He said he had caught cold. He coughed a little; wondered
why Mr. Wingfold did not come to see him, dozed a good deal, and
often woke with a start. Mrs. Ramshorn thought Helen ought to make
him get up: nothing, she said, could be worse for him than lying in
bed; but Helen thought, even if her aunt were right, he must be
humoured. The following day Mr. Hooker called, inquired after him,
and went up to his room to see him. There he said all he could think
of to make him comfortable; repeated that certain preliminaries had
to be gone through before the commencement of the prosecution; said
that while these went on, it was better he should be in his sister's
care than in prison, where, if he went at once, he most probably
would die before the trial came on; that in the meantime he was
responsible for him; that, although he had done quite right in
giving himself up, he must not let what was done and could no more
be helped, prey too much upon his mind, lest it should render him
unable to give his evidence with proper clearness, and he should be
judged insane and sent to Broadmoor, which would be frightful. He
ended by saying that he had had great provocation, and that he was
certain the judge would consider it in passing sentence, only he
must satisfy the jury there had been no premeditation.
"I will not utter a word to excuse myself, Mr. Hooker," replied
Leopold.
The worthy magistrate smiled sadly, and went away, if possible, more
convinced of the poor lad's insanity.
The visit helped Leopold over that day, but when the next also
passed, and neither did Wingfold appear, nor any explanation of his
absence reach him, he made up his mind to act again for himself.
The cause of the curate's apparent neglect, though ill to find, was
not far to seek.
On the Monday, he had, upon some pretext or other, been turned away;
on the Tuesday, he had been told that Mr. Lingard had gone for a
drive; on the Wednesday, that he was much too tired to be seen; and
thereupon had at length judged it better to leave things to right
themselves. If Leopold did not want to see him, it would be of no
use by persistence to force his way to him; while on the other hand,
if he did want to see him, he felt convinced the poor fellow would
manage to have his own way somehow.
The next morning after he had thus resolved, Leopold declared
himself better, and got up and dressed. He then lay on the sofa and
waited as quietly as he could until Helen went out--Mr, Faber
insisting she should do so every day. It was no madness, but a
burning desire for life, coupled with an utter carelessness of that
which is commonly called life, that now ruled his behaviour. He tied
his slippers on his feet, put on his smoking-cap, crept unseen from
the house, and took the direction, of the Abbey. The influence of
the air--by his weakness rendered intoxicating, the strange look of
everything around him, the nervous excitement of every human
approach, kept him up until he reached the churchyard, across which
he was crawling, to find the curate's lodging, when suddenly his
brain seemed to go swimming away into regions beyond the senses. He
attempted to seat himself on a grave-stone, but lost consciousness,
and fell at full length between that and the next one.
When Helen returned, she was horrified to find that he had
gone--when, or whither nobody knew: no one had missed him. Her first
fear was the river, but her conscience enlightened her, and her
shame could not prevent her from seeking him at the curate's. In her
haste she passed him where he lay.
Shown into the curate's study, she gave a hurried glance around, and
her anxiety became terror again.
"Oh! Mr. Wingfold," she cried, "where is Leopold?"
"I have not seen him," replied the curate, turning pale.
"Then he has thrown himself in the river!" cried Helen, and sank on
a chair.
The curate caught up his hat.
"You wait here," he said. "I will go and look for him."
But Helen rose, and, without another word, they set off together,
and again entered the churchyard. As they hurried across it, the
curate caught sight of something on the ground, and, springing
forward, found Leopold.
"He is dead!" cried Helen, in an agony, when she saw him stop and
stoop.
He looked dead indeed; but what appalled her the most reassured
Wingfold a little: blood had flowed freely from a cut on his
eyebrow.
The curate lifted him, no hard task, out of the damp shadow, and
laid him on the stone, which was warm in the sun, with his head on
Helen's lap, then ran to order the carriage, and hastened back with
brandy. They got a little into his mouth, but he could not swallow
it. Still it seemed to do him good, for presently he gave a deep
sigh; and just then they heard the carriage stop at the gate.
Wingfold took him up, carried him to it, got in with him in his
arms, and held him on his knees until he reached the manor house,
when he carried him upstairs and laid him on the sofa. When they had
brought him round a little, he undressed him and put him to bed.
"Do not leave me," murmured Leopold, just as Helen entered the room,
and she heard it.
Wingfold looked to her for the answer he was to make. Her bearing
was much altered: she was both ashamed and humbled.
"Yes, Leopold," she said, "Mr. Wingfold will, I am sure, stay with
you as long as he can."
"Indeed I will," assented the curate. "But I must run for Mr. Faber
first."
"How did I come here?" asked Leopold, opening his eyes large upon
Helen after swallowing a spoonful of the broth she held to his lips.
But, before she could answer him, he turned sick, and by the time
the doctor came was very feverish. Faber gave the necessary
directions, and Wingfold walked back with him to get his
prescription made up.