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DIDST NOT LEAVE HIS SOUL IN HELL. Up still the curate crept softly.
All at once a rich full contralto voice--surely he had heard it
before--came floating out on the torrent, every tone bearing a word
of sorrowful triumph in its bosom.
He reached the door. Very gently he opened it, and peeped in. But
the back of the organ was towards him, and he could see nothing. He
stepped upon the tiles of the little apse. One stride cleared the
end of the organ, and he saw the face of the singer: it WAS Helen
Lingard!
She started. The music folded its wings and dropped--like a lark
into its nest. But Helen recovered herself at once, rose from her
ministration at the music-altar, and approached the curate.
"Have I taken too great a liberty?" she said, in a gentle, steady
voice.
"No, surely," he answered. "I am sorry I startled you. I wish you
would wake such sounds oftener."
"He didn't leave my brother's soul in hell, did he, Mr. Wingfold?"
she said abruptly, and her eyes shone through the dusk.
"If ever a soul was taken out of hell, it was Leopold's," returned
the curate. "And it lifts mine out of it too," he added, "to hear
you say so."
"I behaved very badly to you. I confess my fault. Will you forgive
me?" she said.
"I love you too much to be able to forgive you:" that was the word
in the curate's heart, but a different found its way to his lips.
"My heart is open to you, Miss Lingard," he said: "take what
forgiveness you think you need. For what I can tell, it may be my
part to ask forgiveness, not to grant it. If I have been harder to
you than there was need, I pray you to forgive me. Perhaps I did not
enter enough into your difficulties."
"You never said one word more than was right, or harder than I
deserved. Alas! I can no more--in this world at least--ask Leopold
to forgive me, but I can ask you and Mr. Polwarth, who were as the
angels of God to him, to pardon me for him and for yourselves too. I
was obstinate and proud and selfish.--Oh, Mr. Wingfold, can you, do
you really believe that Leopold is somewhere? Is he alive this
moment? Shall I ever--ever--I don't mind if it's a thousand years
first--but shall I EVER see him again?"
"I do think so. I think the story must be true that tells us Jesus
took to himself again the body he left on the cross, and brought it
with him out of its grave."
"Will you take me for a pupil--a disciple--and teach me to
believe--or hope, if you like that word better--as you do?" said
Helen humbly.
How the heart of the curate beat--like the drum of a praising
orchestra!
"Dear Miss Lingard," he answered, very solemnly, "I can teach you
nothing; I can but show you where I found what has changed my life
from a bleak November to a sunny June--with its thunder-storms no
doubt--but still June beside November. Perhaps I could help you a
little if you were really set out to find Jesus, but you must
yourself set out. It is you who must find him. Words of mine, as the
voice of one crying in the wilderness, may let you know that one is
near who thinks he sees him, but it is you who must search, and you
who must find. If you do search, you will find, with or without help
of mine.--But it is getting dark.--You have the key of the north
door, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Then will you lock the door, and take the key to Mrs. Jenkins. I
will stay here a while, and then follow you home, if you will allow
we, where we can have a little talk together. Ah, what an anthem the
silent organ will play for me!"
Helen turned and went down into the church, and thence home.
The curate remained with the organ. It was silent, and so were his
lips, but his heart--the music was not latent there, for his praise
and thanksgiving ascended, without voice or instrument, essential
harmony, to the ear that hears thought, and the heart that vibrates
to every chord of feeling in the hearts it has created. Ah! what is
it we send up thither, where our thoughts are either a dissonance or
a sweetness and a grace? Alone in the dusky church, the curate's
ascended like a song of the angels, for his heart was all a
thanksgiving--not for any perfected gift, but for many a lovely
hope. He knelt down by the organ and worshipped the God and Father
of the Lord Jesus Christ--that God and no other was the God of his
expectation. When he rose from his knees, the church was dark, but
through the windows of the clerestory many stars were shining.
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