‘I cannot think. I can only feel a sort of awe. End as it may, it will have been a blessed thing to have had her among us like this.’
‘Yes, it ought to do us all good. And I think she is full of enjoyment.’
‘Perfect enjoyment!’ repeated Leonard. ‘Thank God for that!’
After some pause, during which he turned over his pocket-book, as if seeking for something, he came to her, and said, ‘Miss May, Averil has assented to a purpose that has long been growing up within me—and that I had rather consult you about than any one, because you first inspired it.’
‘I think I know the purpose you mean,’ said Ethel, her heart beating high.
‘The first best purpose of my boyhood,’ he said. ‘If only it may be given back to me! Will you be kind enough to look over this rough copy?’
It was the draught of a letter to the Missionary Bishop, Mr. Seaford’s diocesan, briefly setting forth Leonard’s early history, his conviction, and his pardon, referring to Archdeacon May as a witness to the truth of his narrative.
‘After this statement,’ he proceeded, ‘it appears to me little short of effrontery to offer myself for any share of the sacred labour in which your Lordship is engaged; and though it had been the wish of the best days of my youth, I should not have ventured on the thought but for the encouragement I received from Mr. Seaford, your Lordship’s chaplain. I have a small income of my own, so that I should not be a burthen on the mission, and understanding that mechanical arts are found useful, I will mention that I learnt shoemaking at Milbank, and carpentry at Portland, and I would gladly undertake any manual occupation needed in a mission. Latterly I was employed in the schoolmaster’s department; and I have some knowledge of music. My education is of course, imperfect, but I am endeavouring to improve myself. My age is twenty-one; I have good health, and I believe I can bring power of endurance and willingness to be employed in any manner that may be serviceable, whether as artisan or catechist.’
‘I don’t think they will make a shoemaker of you,’ said Ethel, with her heart full.
‘Will they have me at all? There will always be a sort of ticket-of-leave flavour about me,’ said Leonard, speaking simply, straightforwardly, but without dejection; ‘and I might be doubtful material for a mission.’
‘Your brother put that in your head.’
‘He implied that my case half known would be a discredit to him, and I am prepared for others thinking so. If so, I can get a situation at Portland, and I know I can be useful there; but when such a hope as this was opened to me again, I could not help making an attempt. Do you think I may show that letter to Dr. May?’
‘O, Leonard, this is one of the best days of one’s life!’
‘But what,’ he asked, as she looked over the letter, ‘what shall I alter?’
‘I do not know, only you are so business-like; you do not seem to care enough.’
‘If I let myself out, it would look like unbecoming pressing of myself, considering what I am; but if you think I ought, I will say more. I have become so much used to writing letters under constraint, that I know I am very dry.’
‘Let papa see it first,’ said Ethel. ‘After all, earnestness is best out of sight.’
‘Mr. Wilmot and he shall decide whether I may send it,’ he said; ‘and in the meantime I would go to St. Augustine’s, if they will have me.’
‘I see you have thought it all over.’
‘Yes. I only waited to have spoken with my sister, and she—dear, dear Ave—had separately thought of such a destination for me. It was more than acquiescence, more than I dared to hope!’
‘Her spirit will be with you, wherever she is! And,’ with a sudden smile, ‘Leonard, was not this the secret between you and Dickie?’
‘Yes,’ said Leonard, smiling too; ‘the dear little fellow is so fresh and loving, as well as so wise and discreet, that he draws out all that is in one’s heart. It has been a new life to me ever since he took to me! Do you know, I believe he has been writing a letter of recommendation of me on his own account to the Bishop; I told him he must enclose it to his father if he presumed to send it, though he claims the Bishop as his intimate friend.’
‘Ah,’ said Ethel, ‘papa is always telling him that they can’t get on in New Zealand for want of the small archdeacon, and that, I really think, abashes him more than anything else.’
‘He is not forward, he is only sensible,’ said Leonard, on whose heart Dickie had far too fast a hold for even this slight disparagement not to be rebutted. ‘I had forgotten what a child could be till I was with him; I felt like a stock or a stone among you all.’
Ethel smiled. ‘I was nearly giving you “Marmion”, in remembrance of old times, on the night of the Christmas- tree,’ she said; ‘but I did not then feel as if the “giving double” for all your care and trouble had begun.’
‘The heart to feel it so was not come,’ said Leonard; ‘now since I have grasped this hope of making known to others the way to that Grace that held me up,’—he paused with excess of feeling—’all has been joy, even in the recollection of the darkest days. Mr. Wilmot’s words come back now, that it may all have been training for my Master’s work. Even the manual labour may have been my preparation!’ His eyes brightened, and he was indeed more like the eager, hopeful youth she remembered than she had ever hoped to see him; but this brightness was the flash of steel, tried, strengthened, and refined in the fire—a brightness that might well be trusted.
‘One knew it must be so,’ was all she could say.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, eagerly. ‘You sent me words of greeting that held up my faith; and, above all, when we read those books at Coombe, you put the key of comfort in my hand, and I never quite lost it. Miss May,’ he added, as Dr. May’s latch-key was heard in the front door, ‘if ever I come to any good, I owe it to you!’
And that was the result of the boy’s romance. The first tidings of the travellers next morning were brought near the end of breakfast by Tom, who came in looking thin, worn, and anxious, saying that Averil had called herself too happy to sleep till morning, when a short doze had only rendered her feeble, exhausted, and depressed.
‘I shall go and see her,’ said Dr. May; ‘I like my patients best in that mood.’
