Christian fiction; Wingfold, Thomas (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
It was as if a second soul had been given her to supplement the first,
and enable her to meet what would otherwise have been the exorbitant
demands now made upon her. With an effort of the will such as she could
never before have even imagined, she controlled the anguish of her own
spirit, and, softly stroking the head of the poor lad, which had again
sought her lap, compelled herself to sing him for lullaby a song of
which in his childhood he had been very fond, and with which, in all the
importance of imagined motherhood, she had often sung him to sleep. And
the old influence was potent yet. In a few minutes the fingers which
clutched her hand relaxed, and she knew by his breathing that he slept.
She sat still as a stone, not daring to move, hardly daring breathe
enough to keep her alive, lest she should rouse him from his few blessed
moments of self-nothingness, during which the tide of the all-infolding
ocean of peace was free to flow into the fire-torn cave of his bosom.
She sat motionless thus, until it seemed as if for very weariness she
must drop in a heap on the floor, but that the aches and pains which
went through her in all directions held her body together like ties and
rivets. She had never before known what weariness was, and now she knew
it for all her life. But like an irritant, her worn body clung about her
soul and dulled it to its own grief, thus helping it to a pitiful kind
of repose. How long she sat thus she could not tell--she had no means of
knowing, but it seemed hours on hours, and yet, though the nights were
now short, the darkness had not begun to thin. But when she thought how
little access the light had to that room, she began to grow uneasy lest
she should be missed from her own, or seen on her way back to it. At
length some involuntary movement woke him. He started to his feet with
a look of wild gladness. But there was scarcely time to recognise it
before it vanished.
“My God, it is true then!” he shrieked. “O Helen, I dreamed that I
was innocent--that I had but dreamed I had done it. Tell me that I’m
dreaming now. Tell me! tell me!--Tell me that I am no murderer!”
As he spoke, he seized her shoulder with a fierce grasp, and shook her
as if trying to wake her from the silence of a lethargy.
“I hope you are innocent, my darling. But in any case I will do all I
can to protect you,” said Helen. “Only I shall never be able unless you
control yourself sufficiently to let me go home.”
“No, Helen!” he cried; “you must not leave me. If you do, I shall go
mad. SHE will come instead.”
Helen shuddered inwardly, but kept her outward composure.
“If I stay with you, just think, dearest, what will happen,” she said.
“I shall be missed, and all the country will be raised to look for me.
They will think I have been--“--She checked herself.
“And so you might be--so might anyone,” he cried, “so long as I am
loose--like the Rajah’s man-eating horse. O God! It has come to this!”
And he hid his face in his hands.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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