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DELIVERANCE.
All that could be done for Leopold by tenderest sisterly care under
the supervision of Mr. Faber, who believed in medicine less than in
good nursing, was well supplemented by the brotherly ministrations
of Wingfold, who gave all the time he could honestly spare from his
ordinary work to soothe and enlighten the suffering youth. But it
became clearer every week that nothing would avail to entice the
torn roots of his being to clasp again the soil of the world: he was
withering away out of it. Ere long symptoms appeared which no one
could well mistake, and Lingard himself knew that he was dying.
Wingfold had dreaded that his discovery of the fact might reveal
that he had imagined some atonement in the public confession he
desired to make, and that, when he found it denied him, he would
fall into despair. But he was with him at the moment, and his
bearing left no ground for anxiety. A gleam of gladness from below
the horizon of his spirit, shot up, like the aurora of a heavenly
morning, over the sky of his countenance. He glanced at his friend,
smiled, and said,
"It has killed me too, and that is a comfort."
The curate only looked his reply.
"They say," resumed Leopold, after a while, "that God takes the will
for the deed:--do you think so?"
"Certainly, if it be a true, genuine will."
"I am sure I meant to give myself up," said Leopold. "I had not the
slightest idea they were fooling me. I know it now, but what can I
do? I am so weak, I should only die on the way."
He tried to rise, but fell back in the chair.
"Oh!" he sighed, "isn't it good of God to let me die! Who knows what
he may do for me on the other side! Who can tell what the bounty of
a God like Jesus may be!"
A vision arose before the mind's eye of the curate:--Emmeline
kneeling for Leopold's forgiveness; but he wisely held his peace.
The comforter of the sinner must come from the forgiveness of God,
not from the favourable judgment of man mitigating the harshness of
his judgment of himself. Wingfold's business was to start him well
in the world whither he was going. He must fill his scrip with the
only wealth that would not dissolve in the waters of the river--that
was, the knowledge of Jesus.
It shot a terrible pang to the heart of Helen, herself, for all her
suffering, so full of life, when she learned that her darling must
die. Yet was there no small consolation mingled with the shock. Fear
vanished, and love returned with grief in twofold strength. She flew
to him, and she who had been so self-contained, so composed, so
unsubmissive to any sway of feeling, broke into such a storm of
passionate affection that the vexilla mortis answered from his
bosom, flaunting themselves in crimson before her eyes. In vain, for
Leopold's sake, the curate had sought to quiet her: she had resented
his interference; but this result of her impetuosity speedily
brought her to her senses, and set her to subdue herself.
The same evening Leopold insisted on dictating to the curate his
confession, which done, he signed it, making him and Helen attest
the signature. This document Wingfold took charge of, promising to
make the right use of it, whatever he should on reflection conclude
that to be; after which Leopold's mind seemed at ease.
His sufferings from cough and weakness and fever now augmented with
greater rapidity, but it was plain from the kind of light in his
eye, and the far look which was not yet retrospective, that hope and
expectation were high in him. He had his times of gloom, when the
dragon of the past crept out of its cave, and tore him afresh; but
the prospect of coming deliverance strengthened him.
"Do you really think," he said once to the curate, "that I shall
ever see Emmeline again?"
"Truly I hope so," answered his friend, "and could argue upon the
point. But I think the best way, when doubt comes as to anything you
would like to be true, is just to hide yourself in God, as the child
would hide from the dark in the folds of his mother's mantle."
"But aunt would say, if she knew, that, dying as she did, Emmeline
could not be saved."
"Some people may have to be a good deal astonished as to what can
and cannot be," returned the curate. "But never mind what people
say: make your appeal to the saviour of men about whatever troubles
you. Cry to the faithful creator, his Father. To be a faithful
creator needs a might of truth and loving-kindness of which our
narrow hearts can ill conceive. Ask much of God, my boy, and be very
humble and very hoping."
After all such utterances, Leopold would look his thanks, and hold
his peace.
"I wish it was over," he said once.
"So do I," returned the curate. "But be of good courage, I think
nothing will be given you to bear that you will not be able to
bear."
"I can bear a great deal more than I have had yet. I don't think I
shall ever complain. That would be to take myself out of his hands,
and I have no hope anywhere else.--Are you any surer about him, sir,
than you used to be?"
"At least I hope in him far more," answered Wingfold.
"Is that enough?"
"No. I want more."
"I wish I could come back and tell you that I am alive and all is
true."
"I would rather have the natural way of it, and get the good of not
knowing first."
"But if I could tell you I had found God, then that would make you
sure."
Wingfold could not help a smile:--as if any assurance from such a
simple soul could reach the questions that tossed his troubled
spirit!
"I think I shall find all I want in Jesus Christ," he said.
"But you can't see him, you know."
"Perhaps I can do better. And at all events I can wait," said the
curate. "Even if he would let me, I would not see him one moment
before he thought it best. I would not be out of a doubt or
difficulty an hour sooner than he would take me."
Leopold gazed at him and said no more.
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