Walter's spirits were as depressed as hers were elevated. He passed a second sleepless night, and on the Monday morning was absent from the morning lecture at the college.
As he sat at his solitary breakfast, a letter was brought in which bore English post-marks. It had arrived by the same mail as that from the secretary of the mission, but a mistake in the address had for two days delayed its transmission. The student expected no letter from England, as his uncle, his only correspondent there, had written to him but twice in the course of nine years. But Walter recognised the handwriting of Augustus Gurney. His epistle, as usual, was brief:—
"Dear Walter,—You have probably seen in the papers that I have had the misfortune to lose my last remaining son, killed by a fall from his horse. You are now my nearest relative, and in declining years, with broken health, I should like to have one beside me. If you accept the position of a son, I propose receiving you as my heir. Come to England at once; I enclose a cheque for travelling expenses."
Walter felt dizzy,—almost as if he had received a stroke of the sun. Will he sink very low in the reader's estimation when it is owned that the latter gave him a wild thrill of delight? It was not that he coveted a fortune,—it was not merely the prospect of wealth that made his pulse beat so high. As a penniless adventurer he could hardly have aspired to the hand of Flora Dashley; but the heir of the wealthy Augustus Gurney might, without any presumption, ask her to be his bride. Walter sprang from his seat, and with rapid steps paced up and down the apartment. Satan tempted him—as he is so ready to tempt God's people—with arguments drawn from religion itself. Was not this letter, coming at so critical a time, an indication of the leading of Providence? What a talent to be used for God would be wealth devoted to the noblest objects! What visions of schools opened and alms-houses built, a happy peasantry, a delightful home, rose before the mental vision of Walter! He was almost persuaded for a few moments that his own will was the will of God. His was nearly being a case of spiritual sun-stroke indeed.
Walter's intoxicating day-dream was interrupted by the entrance of Will Green, a gay young college companion.
"Walter, you played truant from the lecture this morning. I'm glad that you kept me in countenance for once. No" (as Walter motioned for him to take a chair), "I've really no time to sit down. I've brought you a present, a dirty old picture from the bazaar, put up for two annas, and hardly worth them. But I saw your good father's name and Santgunge written in the corner, so I thought that it might be some family relic of yours that I had lighted on by chance. There it is," he added, throwing down his purchase on the table; "I can't stop now, I have an appointment," and the student went off as suddenly as he had entered.
A family relic, yes! In that stained, fly-spotted, insect-eaten piece of paper, Walter recognised the picture which had hung in his earliest home; it was the print of the Israelites crossing the desert, the story of which, Walter as a child, had first heard from the lips of his mother. As he gazed on it the young man seemed to hear again the voice of his venerated father uttering these words, which had been Walter's comfort in one of the most critical points of his life—"God may lead us into a desert, my boy, but it is a blessed way if His presence go with us."
A straw may turn a balance; a single sentence change the course of a life. Walter was again on his knees, in a wrestling agony of prayer. He arose comparatively calm, but pale as a corpse. Walter sat down, opened his desk, and took out the letter which he had written to the bishop, but which he had not yet had resolution to send. He then, with unsteady hand, wrote another. It was a grateful one to Sir Cæsar, thanking him for kindness which could never be either repaid or forgotten, but bidding him a long farewell. Walter could give no reason for not seeking a personal interview; he thought that a father might guess the cause. Young Gurney could not trust himself to say good-by to Flora. He but added a postscript, with a hand that trembled with agitation, in which he requested Sir Cæsar to remember him gratefully to his daughter.
It was almost as painful a task to write to his uncle; Walter was as one undergoing an operation, who would, while writhing under the knife, have all over as quickly as might be. The terrible work was over—the letters completed, enveloped, and sealed. Walter summoned the servant who waited in the verandah, gave him the three epistles, bade him take two to their respective destinations, and the third to the post. When he had done this, the unhappy young man seemed to have reached the utmost point of endurance. As the servant departed, Walter sank back on his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"Oh, pillar of cloud!—dark, terrible pillar!" he groaned; "thou art leading me into a waste and howling wilderness, indeed!"