THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE, page 48
“I love you too much to be able to forgive you:” that was the word in the curate’s heart, but a different found its way to his lips.
“My heart is open to you, Miss Lingard,” he said: “take what forgiveness you think you need. For what I can tell, it may be my part to ask forgiveness, not to grant it. If I have been harder to you than there was need, I pray you to forgive me. Perhaps I did not enter enough into your difficulties.”
“You never said one word more than was right, or harder than I deserved. Alas! I can no more — in this world at least — ask Leopold to forgive me, but I can ask you and Mr. Polwarth, who were as the angels of God to him, to pardon me for him and for yourselves too. I was obstinate and proud and selfish. — Oh, Mr. Wingfold, can you, do you really believe that Leopold is somewhere? Is he alive this moment? Shall I ever — ever — I don’t mind if it’s a thousand years first — but shall I EVER see him again?”
“I do think so. I think the story must be true that tells us Jesus took to himself again the body he left on the cross, and brought it with him out of its grave.”
“Will you take me for a pupil — a disciple — and teach me to believe — or hope, if you like that word better — as you do?” said Helen humbly.
How the heart of the curate beat — like the drum of a praising orchestra!
“Dear Miss Lingard,” he answered, very solemnly, “I can teach you nothing; I can but show you where I found what has changed my life from a bleak November to a sunny June — with its thunder-storms no doubt — but still June beside November. Perhaps I could help you a little if you were really set out to find Jesus, but you must yourself set out. It is you who must find him. Words of mine, as the voice of one crying in the wilderness, may let you know that one is near who thinks he sees him, but it is you who must search, and you who must find. If you do search, you will find, with or without help of mine. — But it is getting dark. — You have the key of the north door, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Then will you lock the door, and take the key to Mrs. Jenkins. I will stay here a while, and then follow you home, if you will allow we, where we can have a little talk together. Ah, what an anthem the silent organ will play for me!”
Helen turned and went down into the church, and thence home.
The curate remained with the organ. It was silent, and so were his lips, but his heart — the music was not latent there, for his praise and thanksgiving ascended, without voice or instrument, essential harmony, to the ear that hears thought, and the heart that vibrates to every chord of feeling in the hearts it has created. Ah! what is it we send up thither, where our thoughts are either a dissonance or a sweetness and a grace? Alone in the dusky church, the curate’s ascended like a song of the angels, for his heart was all a thanksgiving — not for any perfected gift, but for many a lovely hope. He knelt down by the organ and worshipped the God and Father of the Lord Jesus Christ — that God and no other was the God of his expectation. When he rose from his knees, the church was dark, but through the windows of the clerestory many stars were shining.
THE END
George MacDonald, THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE
