Lawless gave no sign that he heard him.
“I have just quitted his sick-room,” continued the clergyman. “He is quite calm in the prospect of death, for his life has for long been one preparation for it. The last words that I heard him utter were of you;—he was recommending you to the kindness of his brother.”
Lawless convulsively clutched his pillow.
“He said,” added Mr. Ewart, “that if you were but saved for better things, his life would have been well bestowed.”
Jack suddenly half raised himself upon his bed, then dashed himself down again with frantic violence. “I can’t bear this,” he cried, in a choking voice. “I wish he would hate me, abuse me, trample upon me; anything would be better than this!”
Yes, under all the deep crust of selfishness, malice, and pride, lay a spring of feeling, in the depths of that unconverted heart. That spring had been reached, the deep buried waters gushed forth, and the clergyman left the cottage with a faint but precious hope that his loved pupil had not suffered in vain.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CLOSE OF THE PILGRIMAGE.
“The foundation upon which the city was framed was higher than the clouds; they therefore went up through the regions of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted because they safely got over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.