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But, O Father Eustace, my own best friend, why do you weep
so bitterly ? I am happy, very, very happy. If I had died a
year ago, it might have been different but now oh ! now ; ; :
oh ! why do you weep ? Am I not going to my God, and was
it not yourself, my own dear father, who first told me of His
goodness and His love ? and now you weep to trust me to Him.
Dear Father Eustace," he added, fondly looking into the face
of the poor old priest, who was sobbing like a child; "dear
Father Eustace, I love you very much, but not half as much
as you deserve for all your kindness to me. I shall be very
sorry to leave you, but I can leave you all for God. I am
very, very happy ; but," he added, drawing the old priest quite
close to him, and whispering in his ear, "take me home, dear
Father Eustace, take me home, if you please, for I should like
to see my sister once again ;" and lowering his voice still more,
"I should like to die near him. Oh ! don't cry so much I ;
his native air would be of seryice to him. They tried to get
him away as quietly as possible, but it had gone abroad, and
his fellow-students, to whom his gentle manners and ardent
piety, together with his sad nistory, had greatly endeared him,
crowded around the carriage as it was about to drive away.
He shook hands with all of them, but could not speak. As
they drove away, he took a long lingering look at the happy
home where he had spent so many pleasant months, and where
heart nearer to its
his example had drawn many a thoughtless
God. "I can bear the rest now," he whispered, as he sank
back in the carriage ; "I can bear the rest, for the hardest
trial is over. "
They travelled by easy stages, and he bore the journey pretty
well. As they drew near London, although Father Eustace
was most urgent with him to go home with him, he, in his
thoughtful consideration, persisted hi refusing to do so.
"
No," he answered very quietly, but firmly, "perhaps papa
may soften towards me now, when he hears how ill I am ;
and you know dear Father Eustace, that he would, perhaps,
feel awkward in coming to see me at your house. I will go
back to poor old Mrs. Martin, who will nurse me very tenderly.
Besides I am quite rich, for I have a great part of the 100
left which papa so thoughtfully sent me after we parted.
It will be better for us all ," and as he seemed anxious about it,
Father Eustace consented to the arrangement, more especially
as they would be close together. He had only been a few hours
in his own lodgings, when Maria, who had been apprized of
his arrival by Father Eustace, came, attended by old Johnson,
to see him. Once before, during the course of this simple tale,
we had to beg our readers to allow us to draw a veil over a
certain scene, and we must beg the same indiilgence now.
Others, perhaps, might be able to do it, but, for our part, we
THE TWO VICTORIES. 21
fragile, as the pure white flowers which affection's hand is
wont to strew around it.
At one glance Father Eustace took in all that was and all
that was to be. He knew it ; he had watched its progress
often before, and he felt that though care and loving watchfulness
might keep him to them for a time, it would be only
for a time, and that ere long poor Edwin would most surely
sleep the sleep that knows no waking. He tried hard to restrain
himself for the sake of the sick boy, but as he held him in his
arms, and all these thoughts rushed in an instant through his
brain, it was too much, and he could only clasp him closer and
closer to his breast, and try to whisper something about his
soon being better.
"No, dear Father Eustace," answered Edwin, who had
caught the words, " I shall never be better. I have long felt
must confess that our mind can neither conceive, nor our JK-U
describe,
this coming on, and I know very well that I shall soon die.
the holy mid sacred scene when the brother ami
looked into each other's eyes once again, and when without
uttering a single word, heart spoke to licart, witli.au eloq
in its language which our feeble pen shrinks from endeavoring
to portray.
Meanwhile, poor old Johnson, who had left the sick chamber
after the first sad greeting, was sitting, with his eyes very red,
in Mrs. Martin's little back room. They had both been crying,
and they commenced afresh, as old Johnson
"
said You see,
Mrs. Martin, I hope I know my place, and it doesn't become
me to speak too freely about my betters. Mr. Stanho).
been a very good master to me, and of course he knows what
is best and when I see him so ; pale and sad, and with such a
worn, weary look about him, I feel very sorry for him but
;
then, when I see poor Master Edwin, and think that in a short
time he will surely be an angel in heaven, and when I think of
him, as I have known him all these eighteen years. I can't help
it, but I must give way. God help me, I can't help it ; and,"
he added more emphatically than ever, "I don't want to
help
it !"
"God help him" answered Mrs. Martin, rather sharply,
"who has caused all this, and soften his proud hard heart."
"Mrs. Martin," responded Johnson, "I hope I know my
place, ma'am. It doesn't become me ; but, " breaking out again,
"I can't help it; God help me, I can't help it."
CHAPTEB XVIIL
THE END APPROACHES. THE FATHEB'S VICTOBY COMPLETE
cannot bear to see you. There, lay me down, for I am very
weary. God bless you, dear Father Eustace, God bless you ;"
and with a pleasant smile upon his face, he fell asleep in the arms
of the weeping old man and as he ;
slept so peacfully and calmly,
he surely dreamt of angels and "the better land," if the
gentle happiness that smiled upon his fair young face were a
faithful index of his visions.
As he had a fancy to return to London, they thought it best
to humor him, especially as the AT LAST.
FOB the first two or three weeks after his return to London,
the sick boy
physician was of opinion that
was able to go out for an hour or two hi a carriage
during the heat of the day, but he soon became too weak even
for this. He sank very rapidly, and towards the end of October
was unable to leave his bed. The faithful hearts that
watched around him, began to see but too plainly that hope
was gone, and that he must very soon close his eyes upon
the world. He had wasted away under the influence, of
his disease until it was most painful to look upon his poor
shrunken form and be obliged to think that his brave
young heart must so soon succumb to the insidious foe
that had seized upon him, and that no power of man, no force
of love, no ardor of devotion could save him. But upon his
face, even when his sufferings were the greatest and his pain
the most intense, there ever rested the same gentle smile, sad-
der, perhaps, and more chastened in expression, but loving,
patient, sweet as ever. There was the same quick appreciation
of every little service rendered to him, and, when he was too
weak to speak his thanks, there was something so grateful, so
loving, and, above all, so heavenly in the look of his large,
dark eye , rendered doubly brilliant by his disease, which went
at once with so much force to the hearts of those around him,
that there was not one of them who would not willingly have
died to save the gentle, patient boy, who never uttered a hasty
word in all his pain. From the first moment of his conversion,
he had labored most earnestly, and with unflagging diligence,
to correct the natural defects which he found within his o.wn
heart, and now, when his disease had so purified, and, as it
were, so spiritualized his mere animal part by its wasting in-
fluence, he was so angel-like, so immaterial, that they i
about his bed with something very near akin to awe, as if they
felt that he had already put on some part of that immortality
which was so soon to enshroud him hi its eternal brightness.
He was too weak to speak much, but whenever he saw his sis-
ter (who was with him every day) or Father Eustace turn away
to hide the tears they could not restrain, he would beckon them
to his side, and, as they stooped down to kiss him, would whis-
per to them,
for me."
"I am very, very happy ; oh ! pray don't weep
One day he saw poor old Johnson sitting weeping at the foot