The Trial [216]
know to what kind of verses they all lead,' said the Doctor; 'and I am sure they led you, and that you had more and brighter hours than you now remember.' 'Yes, it was not all darkness. I believe there were more spaces than I can think of now, when I was very fairly happy, even at Pentonville; and at Portland all did well with me, till last spring, and then the news from Massissauga brought back all the sense of blood-guiltiness, and it was worse than ever.' 'And that sense was just as morbid as your other horrible doubt, about which you asked me when we were coming home.' 'I see it was now, but that was the worst time of all--the monotony of school, and the sense of hypocrisy and delusion in teaching--the craving to confess, if only for the sake of the excitement, and the absolute inability to certify myself whether there was any crime to confess--I can't talk about it. And even chapel was not the same refreshment, when one was always teaching a class in it, as coming in fresh only for the service. Even that was failing me, or I thought it was! No, I do not know how I could have borne it much longer.' 'No, Leonard, you could not; Tom and I both saw that in your looks, and quite expected to hear of your being ill; but, you see, we are never tried above what we can bear!' 'No,' said Leonard, very low, as if he had been much struck; and then he added, after an interval, 'It is over now, and there's no need to recollect it except in the way of thanks. The question is what it has left me fit for. You know, Dr. May,' and his voice trembled, 'my first and best design in the happy time of Coombe, the very crown of my life, was this very thing--to be a missionary. But for myself, I might be in training now. If I had only conquered my temper, and accepted that kind offer of Mr. Cheviot's, all this would never have been, and I should have had my youth, my strength, and spirit, my best, to devote. I turned aside because of my obstinacy, against warning, and now how can I offer?--one who has stood at the bar, lived among felons, thought such thoughts--the released convict with a disgraced name! It would just be an insult to the ministry! No, I know how prisoners feel. I can deal with them. Let me go back to what I am trained for. My nerve and spirit have been crushed out; I am fit for nothing else. The worst thing that has remained with me is this nervousness--cowardice is its right name--starting at the sound of a door, or at a fresh face--a pretty notion that I should land among savages!' Dr. May had begun an answer about the remains of the terrible ordeal that might in itself have been part of Leonard's training, when they reached the house door. These nerves, or whatever they were, did indeed seem disposed to have no mercy on their owner; for no sooner had he sat down in the warm drawing-room, than such severe pain attacked his face as surpassed even his powers of concealment. Dr. May declared it was all retribution for his unfriendliness in never seeking sympathy or advice, which might have proved the evil to be neuralgia and saved the teeth, instead of aggravating the evil by their extraction. 'I suspect he has been living on nothing,' said Dr. May, when, in a lull of the pain, Leonard had gone to bed. 'Papa!' exclaimed Gertrude, 'don't you know what Richard's housekeeping is? Don't you recollect his taking that widow for a cook because she was such a good woman?' 'I don't think it was greatly Richard's fault,' said Ethel. 'I can hardly get Leonard to make a sparrow's meal here, and most likely his mouth has been too uncomfortable.' 'Ay, that never seeking sympathy is to me one of the saddest parts of all. He has been so long shut within himself, that be can hardly feel that any one cares for him.' 'He does so more than at first,' said Ethel. 'Much more. I have heard things from him to-night that are a revelation to me. Well, he has come through, and I believe he is recovering it; but the three threads of our being have all had a terrible wrench, and if body and mind come out unscathed, it is the soundness