‘If—if you think Miss May—would let me send it to her? Thank you, it will be very kind of her. And please tell her, if it had not been for that time at Coombe, I don’t know how I could ever have felt the ground under my feet. If I have one wish that never can be—’
‘What wish, my dear, dear boy? Don’t be afraid to say. Is it to see her?’
‘It was,’ said Leonard, ‘but I did not mean to say it. I know it cannot be.’
‘But, Leonard, she has said that if you wished it, she would come as if you were lying on your bed at home, and with more reverence.’
Large tears of gratitude were swelling in Leonard’s eyes, and he pressed the Doctor’s hand, but still said, almost inarticulately, ‘Ought she?’
‘I will bring her, my boy. It will do her good to see how—how her pupil, as they have always called you in joke, Leonard, can be willing to bear the Cross after his Master. She has never let go for a moment the trust that it was well with you.’
‘Oh! Dr. May, it was the one thing—and when I had gone against all her wishes. It is so good of her! It is the one thing—’ and there was no doubt from his face that he was indeed happy.
And Dr. May went home that day softened and almost cheered, well-nigh as though he had had a promise of Leonard’s life, and convinced that in the region to which the spirits of Ethel and her pupil could mount, resignation would silence the wailings of grief and sorrow; the things invisible were more than a remedy for the things visible.
That Ethel should see Leonard before the last, he was quite resolved; and Ethel, finding that so it was, left the when in his hands, knowing the concession to be so great, that it must be met by grateful patience on her own side, treasuring the drawing meanwhile with feelings beyond speech. Dr. May did not wish the meeting to take place till he was really sure that all hope was at an end; he knew it would be a strong measure, and though he did not greatly care for the world in general, he did not want to offend Flora unnecessarily; in matters of propriety she was a little bit of a conscience to him, and though he would brave her or any one else when a thing was right, especially if it were to give one last moment of joy to Leonard, she was not to be set at naught till the utmost extremity.
And for one day, the sight of Averil would be enough. She had struggled into something sufficiently like recovery to be able to maintain her fitness for the exertion; and Henry had recognized that the unsatisfied pining was so preying on her as to hurt her more than the meeting and parting could do, since, little as he could understand how it was, he perceived that Leonard could be depended on for support and comfort. With him, indeed, Leonard had ever shown himself cheerful and resolute, speaking of anything rather than of himself and never grieving him with the sight of those failings of flesh and heart that would break forth where there was more congenial sympathy, yet where they were not a reproach.
So Averil, with many a promise to be ‘good,’ and strongly impressed with warnings that the chance of another meeting depended on the effects of this one, was laid back in the carriage, leaving poor little Minna to Mary’s consolation. Minna was longing to go too, but Henry had forbidden it, and not even an appeal to Dr. May had prevailed; so she was taken home by Mary, and with a child’s touching patience, was helped through the weary hours, giving wandering though gentle attention to Ella’s eager display of the curiosities of the place, and explanations of the curious games and puzzles taught by ‘Mr. Tom.’ Ethel, watching the sweet wistful face, and hearing the subdued voice, felt a reverence towards the child, as though somewhat of the shadow of her brother’s cross had fallen on her.
The elder brother and sister meanwhile arrived at the building now only too familiar to one of them, and, under her thick veil, unconscious of the pitying looks of the officials, Averil was led, leaning on Henry’s arm, along the whitewashed passages, with their slate floors, and up the iron stairs, the clear, hard, light coldness chilling her heart with a sense of the stern, relentless, inevitable grasp in which the victim was held. The narrow iron door flew open at the touch of the turnkey; a hand was on her arm, but all swam round with her, and she only knew it was the well-known voice; she did not follow the words between her brothers and the turnkey about the time she was to be left there, but she gave a start and shudder when the door sprung fast again behind her, and at the same instant she felt herself upheld by an arm round her waist.
‘Take off your bonnet, Ave; let me see you,’ he said, himself undoing the strings, and removing it, then bending his face to hers for a long, almost insatiable kiss, as they stood strained in one intense embrace, all in perfect silence on the sister’s part.
‘I have been making ready for you,’ he said at length, partly releasing her; ‘you are to sit here;’ and he deposited her, still perfectly passive in his hands, upon his bed, her back against the wall. ‘Put up your feet! There!’ And having settled her to his satisfaction, he knelt down on the floor, one arm round her waist, one hand in hers, looking earnestly up into her face, with his soul in his eyes, her other hand resting on his shoulder.
‘How are the little ones, Ave?’
‘Very well. Minna so longed to come.’
‘Better not,’ said Leonard; ‘she is so little, and these white walls might distress her fancy. They will remember our singing on the last Sunday evening instead. Do you remember, Ave, how they begged to stay on and on till it grew so dark that we could not see a word or a note, and went on from memory?’ and he very softly hummed the restful cadence, dying away into
‘Till in the ocean of Thy love We lose ourselves in Heaven above.’
‘How can you bear to think of those dear happy days!’
‘Because you will be glad of them by and by, said Leonard; ‘and I am very glad of them now, though they might have been so much better, if only we had known.’
‘They were the only happy days of all my life!’
‘I hope not—I trust not, dearest. You may and ought to have much better and happier days to come.’
She shook her head, with a look of inexpressible anguish, almost of reproach.
‘Indeed I mean it, Ave,’ he said; ‘I have thought it over many times, and I see that the discomfort and evil of our home was in the spirit of pride and rebellion that I helped you to nurse. It was like a wedge, driving us farther and farther apart; and now that it is gone, and you will close up again, when you are kind and yielding to Henry—what a happy peaceful home you may make out in the prairie land!’
‘As if we could ever—’
‘Nay, Averil, could not you recover it if I were dying now of sickness? I know you would, though you might not think so at the time. Believe me, then, when I say that I am quite willing to have it as it is—to be my own man to the last—to meet with such precious inestimable kindness from so many. Of course I should like to live longer, and do something worth doing; but if I am to die young, there is so much blessing even in this way, that nothing really grieves me but the thought of you and Henry; and if it makes you one together, even that is made up.’
Awe-struck, and as if dreaming, she did not answer, only smoothing caressingly the long waves of bright brown hair on his forehead. She was surprised by his next question.
‘Ave! how has Mrs. Pugh behaved?’
‘Oh! the woman! I have hardly thought of her! She has been very active about the petition, somebody said; but I don’t believe Henry can bear to hear of her any more than I can. What made you think of her?’
‘Because I wanted to know how it was with Henry, and I could not ask him. Poor fellow! Well, Ave, you see he will depend on you entirely for comfort, and you must promise me that shall be your great business and care.’
‘How you do think of Henry!’ she said, half jealously.