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THE CONFESSION.
All that and the following day Leopold was in spirits for him
wonderful. On Monday night there came a considerable reaction; he
was dejected, worn, and weary. Twelve o'clock the next day was the
hour appointed for their visit to Mr. Hooker, and at eleven he was
dressed and ready--restless, agitated, and very pale, but not a whit
less determined than at first. A drive was the pretext for borrowing
Mrs. Ramshorn's carriage.
"Why is Mr. Wingfold not coming?" asked Lingard, anxiously, when it
began to move.
"I fancy we shall be quite as comfortable without him, Poldie," said
Helen. "Did you expect him?"
"He promised to go with me. But he hasn't called since the time was
fixed."--Here Helen looked out of the window.--"I can't think why it
is. I can do my duty without him though," continued Leopold, "and
perhaps it is just as well.--Do you know, George, since I made up my
mind, I have seen her but once, and that was last night, and only in
a dream."
"A state of irresolution is one peculiarly open to unhealthy
impressions," said George, good-naturedly disposing of his long legs
so that they should be out of the way.
Leopold turned from him to his sister.
"The strange thing, Helen," he said, "was that I did not feel the
least afraid of her, or even abashed before her. 'I see you,' I
said. 'Be at peace. I am coming; and you shall do to me what you
will.' And then--what do you think?--O my God! she smiled one of her
own old smiles, only sad too, very sad, and vanished. I woke, and
she seemed only to have just left the room, for there was a stir in
the darkness.--Do you believe in ghosts, George?"
Leopold was not one of George's initiated, I need hardly say.
"No," answered Bascombe.
"I don't wonder. I can't blame you, for neither did I once. But just
wait till you have made one, George!"
"God forbid!" exclaimed Bascombe, a second time forgetting himself.
"Amen!" said Leopold: "for after that there's no help but be one
yourself, you know."
"If he would only talk like that to old Hooker!" thought George. "It
would go a long way to forestall any possible misconception of the
case."
"I can't think why Mr. Wingfold did not come yesterday," resumed
Leopold. "I made sure he would."
"Now, Poldie, you mustn't talk," said Helen, "or you'll be exhausted
before we get to Mr. Hooker's."
"She did not wish the non-appearance of the curate on Monday to be
closely inquired into. His company at the magistrate's was by all
possible means to be avoided. George had easily persuaded Helen,
more easily than he expected, to wait their return in the carriage,
and the two men were shown into the library, where the magistrate
presently joined them. He would have shaken hands with Leopold as
well as George, but the conscious felon drew back.
"No, sir; excuse me," he said. "Hear what I have to tell you first;
and if after that you will shake hands with me, it will be a
kindness indeed. But you will not! you will not!"
Worthy Mr. Hooker was overwhelmed with pity at sight of the worn
sallow face with the great eyes, in which he found every appearance
confirmatory of the tale wherewith Bascombe had filled and
prejudiced every fibre of his judgment. He listened in the kindest
way while the poor boy forced the words of his confession from his
throat. But Leopold never dreamed of attributing his emotion to any
other cause than compassion for one who had been betrayed into such
a crime. It was against his will, for he seemed now bent, even to
unreason, on fighting every weakness, that he was prevailed upon to
take a little wine. Having ended, he sat silent, in the posture of
one whose wrists are already clasped by the double bracelet of
steel.
Now Mr. Hooker had thought the thing out in church on the Sunday;
and after a hard run at the tail of a strong fox over a rough
country on the Monday, and a good sleep well into the morning of the
Tuesday, could see no better way. His device was simple enough.
"My dear young gentleman," he said, "I am very sorry for you, but I
must do my duty."
"That, sir, is what I came to you for," answered Leopold, humbly.
"Then you must consider yourself my prisoner. The moment you, are
gone, I shall make notes of your deposition, and proceed to arrange
for the necessary formalities. As a mere matter of form, I shall
take your own bail in a thousand pounds to surrender when called
upon."
"But I am not of age, and haven't got a thousand pounds," said
Leopold.
"Perhaps Mr. Hooker will accept my recognizance in the amount?" said
Bascombe.
"Certainly," answered Mr. Hooker, and wrote something, which
Bascombe signed.
"You are very good, George," said Leopold. "But you know I can't run
away if I would," he added with a pitiful attempt at a smile.
"I hope you will soon be better," said the magistrate kindly.
"Why such a wish, sir?" returned Leopold, almost reproachfully, and
the good man stood abashed before him.
He thought of it afterwards, and was puzzled to know how it was.
"You must hold yourself in readiness," he said, recovering himself
with an effort, "to give yourself up at any moment. And, rememher, I
shall call upon you when I please, every week, perhaps, or oftener,
to see that you are safe. Your aunt is an old friend of mine, and
there will be no need of explanations. This turns out to be no
common case, and after hearing the whole, I do not hesitate to offer
you my hand."
Leopold was overcome by his kindness, and withdrew speechless, but
greatly relieved.
Several times during the course of his narrative, its apparent
truthfulness and its circumstantiality went nigh to stagger Mr.
Hooker; but a glance at Bascombe's face, with its half-amused smile,
instantly set him right again, and he thought with dismay how near
he had been to letting himself be fooled by a madman.
Again in the carriage, Leopold laid his head on Helen's shoulder,
and looked up in her face with such a smile as she had never seen on
his before. Certainly there was something in confession--if only
enthusiasts like Mr. Wingfold would not spoil all by pushing things
to extremes and turning good into bad!
Leopold was yet such a child, had so little occupied himself with
things about him, and had been so entirely taken up with his
passion, and the poetry of existence unlawfully forced, that if his
knowledge of the circumstances of Emmeline's murder had depended on
the newspapers, he would have remained in utter ignorance concerning
them. From the same causes he was so entirely unacquainted with the
modes of criminal procedure, that the conduct of the magistrate
never struck him as strange, not to say illegal. And so strongly did
he feel the good man's kindness and sympathy, that his comfort from
making a clean breast of it was even greater than he expected.
Before they reached home he was fast asleep. When laid on his couch,
he almost fell asleep again, and Helen saw him smile as he slept.
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