THE DEPARTURE.
As Leopold slowly departed, he seemed to his sister to draw along
with him all that was precious in her life. She felt herself grow
dull and indifferent. It was to no purpose that she upbraided
herself with heartlessness; seemingly heartless her bosom remained.
It was not that her mind was occupied with anything else than her
brother, or drew comfort from another source; her feelings appeared
to be dying with him who had drawn them forth more than any other.
The battle was ending without even the poor pomp and circumstance of
torn banners and wailful music.
Leopold said very little during the last few days. His fits, of
coughing were more frequent, and in the pauses he had neither
strength nor desire to speak. When Helen came to his bedside, he
would put out his hand to her, and she would sit down by him and
hold it warm in hers. The hand of his sister was the point of the
planet from which, like his mount of ascension, the spirit of the
youth took its departure;--when he let that go, he was gone. But he
died asleep, as so many do; and fancied, I presume, that he was
waking into his old life, when he woke into his new one.
Wingfold stood on the other side of the bed, with Polwarth by him,
for so had the departing wished it, and although he made no sign, I
cannot but think he reaped some content therefrom. While yet he
lingered, one of Helen's listless, straying glances was arrested by
the countenance of the gate-keeper. It was so still and so rapt that
she thought he must be seeing within the veil, and regarding what
things were awaiting her brother on the reverse of the two-sided
wonder. But it was not so. Polwarth saw no more than she did: he was
ONLY standing in the presence of him who is not the God of the
dead but of the living. Whatever lay in that Will was the life of
whatever came of that Will, that is, of every creature, and no to
that Will, to the face of the Father, he lifted, in his prayerful
thought, the heart and mind and body of the youth now passing
through the birth of death. "I know not," he would have said, had he
been questioned concerning his spiritual attitude, "how my prayer
should for another work anything with the perfect Giver, but at
least I will not leave my friend behind when I go into the presence
of his Father and my Father. And I believe there is something in it
I cannot yet see."
Wingfold's anxiety was all for Helen. He could do no more for
Leopold, nor did he need more from man. As to many of the things
that puzzled them most, he was on his way to know more; he would
soon be in the heart of what seemed likely to remain a long secret
to him. But there was his sister, about to be left behind him
without his hopes; for her were dreary days at hand; and the curate
prayed the God of comfort and consolation to visit her.
Mrs. Ramshorn would now and then look in at the noiseless door of
the chamber of death, but she rightly felt her presence was not
desired, and though ready to help, did not enter. Neither did
George--not from heartlessness, but that he judged it better to
leave the priests of falsehood undisturbed in the exercise of their
miserable office. What did it matter how many comforting lies were
told to a dying man? What COULD it matter? There was small danger of
their foolish prayers and superstitious ceremonies evoking a deity
from the well-ordered, self-evolved sphericity of interacting law,
where not a pin-hole of failure afforded space out of which he might
creep. No more could they deprive the poor lad of the bliss of
returning into the absolute nothingness whence he had crept--to
commit a horrible crime against immortal society, and creep back
again, with a heart full of love and remorse and self-abhorrence,
into the black abyss. Therefore, why should he not let them tell
their lies and utter their silly incantations? Aloof and unharmed he
stood, safe on the shore, all ready to reach the rescuing hand to
Helen, the moment she should turn her eyes to him, for the help she
knew he had to give her. Certainly, for her sake, he would rather
she were not left unprotected to such subtle and insinuating
influences; but with the power of his mind upon her good sense, he
had no fear of the result. Not that he expected her to submit at
once to the wholesome regimen and plain diet he must prescribe her:
the soft hand of Time must first draw together the edges of her
heart's wound.
But the deadness of Helen's feelings, the heartlessness because of
which she cried out against herself, seemed, in a vague way, by
herself unacknowledged yet felt, if not caused by, yet associated
with some subtle radiation from the being of George Bascombe. That
very morning when he came into the breakfast-room so quietly that
she had not heard him, and, looking up, saw him unexpectedly, he
seemed for a moment, she could not tell why, the dull fountain of
all the miserable feeling--not of loss, but of no loss, which
pressed her heart flat in her bosom. The next moment she accused
herself of the grossest injustice, attributing it to the sickness of
soul which the shadow of death had wrought in her; for was not
George the only true friend she had ever had? If she lost him she
must be lonely indeed!--The feeling lingered notwithstanding, and
when she thought it dispelled, began to gather again immediately.
At the same time she shrunk from Wingfold as hard and unsympathetic.
True he had been most kind, even tender, to her brother, but to him
he had taken a fancy, having found in him one whom he could work
upon and fashion to his own liking: poor Poldie had never been one
of the strongest of men. But to her, whom he could not model after
his own ideas, who required a reason for the thing anyone would have
her believe--to her he had shown the rough side of his nature, going
farther than any gentleman ought, even if he was a clergyman, in
criticizing her conduct. He might well take example of her cousin
George! What a different sort of artillery HE had brought to bear
upon the outstanding fortress of her convictions!
So would she say within herself, again and again, in different
forms, not knowing how little of conviction there was in the
conclusions she seemed to come to--how much of old habit and
gratitude on the one hand, and pride and resentment upon the
other.-And there still was that feeling! she could not drive it
away. It was like trying to disperse a fog with a fan.
The outside weather, although she was far past heeding that, was in
harmony with her soul's weather. A dull dark-grey fog hung from the
sky, and without much obscuring the earth altogether hid the sun.
The air was very cold. There was neither joy nor hope anywhere. The
bushes were leafless and budless, the summer gone, the spring not
worth hoping for, because it also would go: spring after spring
came--for nothing but to go again! Things were so empty and wretched
that pain and grief, almost fear itself, would have been welcome.
The world around her, yes, all her life, all herself, was but the
cold dead body of a summer-world. And Leopold was going to be buried
with the summer. His smiles had all gone with the flowers. The weeds
of his troubles were going also, for they would die with him. But he
would not know it and be glad, any more than she, who was left
caring for neither summer nor winter, joy nor sorrow, love nor hate,
the past nor the future.
Many such thoughts wandered hazily through her mind as she now sat
holding the hand of him who was fast sleeping away from her into
death. Her eyes were fixed on the window through which he had
entered that terrible night, but she saw nothing beyond it.
"He is gone" said Polwarth in a voice that sounded unknown to the
ears of Helen, and as he spoke he kneeled.
She started up with a cry, and looked in her brother's face. She had
never seen anyone die, and yet she saw that he was dead.