A wild laugh was the response. “To speak with me, me that am already in torment! Well, let him come,” he said, sinking back with a half-idiotic smile, “let him come”—— and he muttered the conclusion of the sentence to himself.
“Will you come forward, sir?” said the nurse, respectfully addressing Halbert. “He is composed now.”
Trembling with agitation, Halbert drew nearer the bedside, but when those burning eyes, wandering hither and thither about the room, rested on him, a maniac scream rang through the narrow walls, and the gaunt form sat erect again for a moment, with its long arms lifted above its head, and then fell back in a faint, and Halbert Melville hung over his ancient deceiver as anxiously as though he had been, or deserved in all respects to be, his best beloved; and when the miserable man awoke to consciousness again, the first object his eye fell upon, was Halbert kneeling by his bedside, chafing in his own the cold damp hand of Forsyth, with kindest pity pictured on his face. Had Halbert disdained him, had he shunned or reproached him, poor Forsyth, in the delirious strength of his disease, would have given him back scorn for scorn, reproach for reproach. But, lo! the face of this man, whom he had wounded so bitterly, was beaming on him now in compassion’s gentlest guise; and the fierce despairing spirit melted like a child’s, and the dying sinner wept.
“Keep back, Charles!” whispered Halbert, as he rose from the bedside; “the sight of you might awaken darker feelings, and he seems subdued and softened now. There may yet be hope.”
Hope!—the echo of that blessed word has surely reached the quick ear of the sufferer; and it draws from him a painful moan and bitter repetition as he turns his weary form on his couch again: “Hope! who speaks of hope to me?”
“I do,” said Halbert Melville, mildly looking upon the ghastly face whose eyes of supernatural brightness were again fixed upon him. “I do, Forsyth; I, who have sinned as deeply, and in some degree after the same fashion as you. I am commissioned to speak of hope to all—of hope, even on the brink of the grave—of hope to the chief of sinners. Yes, I am sent to speak of hope,” he continued, growing more and more fervent, while the sick man’s fascinated attention and glowing eyes followed each word he uttered and each motion of his lifted hand. “Yes, of hope a thousand times higher in its faintest aspirations than the loftiest ambition of the world.”
“Ay, Melville,” he murmured, feebly overcome by his weakness and emotion. “Ay, but not for me, not for one like me. Why do you come here to mock me?” he added fiercely, after a momentary pause; “why do you come here to insult me with your offers of hope? I am beyond its reach. Let me alone; there is no hope, no help for me!” and again his voice sunk into feebleness, as he murmured over and over these despairing words, like, Charles Hamilton said afterwards, the prolonged wail of a lost soul.
“Listen to me, Forsyth,” said Halbert, seating himself by the bedside, and bending over the sufferer. “Listen to me! You remember how I denied my God and glorified in the denial when last I saw you. You remember how I renounced my faith and hope,” and Halbert, pale with sudden recollection, wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. “You know, likewise, how I left my home in despair—such despair as you experience now. Listen to me, Forsyth, while I tell you how I regained hope.”
Forsyth groaned and hid his face in his hands, for Halbert had touched a chord in his heart, and a flood of memories rushed back to daunt and confound him, if that were possible, still more and more; and then, for there seemed something in Halbert’s face that fascinated his burning eyes, he turned round again to listen, while Halbert began the fearful story of his own despair—terrible to hear of—terrible to tell; but, oh! how much more terrible to remember, as what oneself has passed through. With increasing earnestness as he went on, the poor sufferer gazed and listened, and at every pause a low moan, wrung from his very soul, attested the fearful faithfulness of the portraiture, true in its minutest points. It was a sore task for Halbert Melville to live over again, even in remembrance, those awful years, and exhibit the bygone fever of his life for the healing of that wounded soul; but bravely did he do it, sparing not the pain of his own shrinking recollection, but unfolding bit by bit the agonies of his then hopelessness, so fearfully reproduced before him now in this trembling spirit, till Charles, sitting unseen in a corner of the small apartment, felt a thrill of awe creep over him, as he listened and trembled in very sympathy; but when Halbert’s voice, full of saddest solemnity, began to soften as he spoke of hope, of that hope that came upon his seared heart like the sweet drops of April rain, reviving what was desolate, of hope whose every smile was full of truthfulness, and certainty, firmer than the foundations of the earth, more enduring than the blue sky or the starry worlds above, built upon the divine righteousness of Him who died for sinners;—the heart of the despairing man grew sick within him, as though the momentary gleam which irradiated his hollow eye was too precious, too joyful, to abide with him in his misery—and, lo! the hardened, obdurate, and unbelieving spirit was struck with the rod of One mightier than Moses, and hiding his pale face on his tear-wet pillow, the penitent man was ready to sob with the Prophet, “Oh! that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears!”
A solemn stillness fell upon that sick-room when Halbert’s eloquent tale was told; a stillness that thrilled them as though it betokened the presence of a visitor more powerful than they. The solitary light by the bedside fell upon the recumbent figure, with its thin arms stretched upon the pillow, and its white and ghastly face hidden thereon—full upon the clasped hands of God’s generous servant, wrestling in silent supplication for that poor helpless one. It was a solemn moment, and who may prophesy the issue, the end of all this? A little period passed away, and the fever of the sick man’s despair was assuaged, and weariness stole over his weak frame, with which his fiery rage of mind had hitherto done battle; and gentle sleep, such as had never refreshed his feeble body since he lay down on this bed, closed those poor eyelids now. Pleasant to look upon was that wasted face, in comparison with what it was when Halbert Melville saw its haggard features first of all this night. God grant a blessed awakening.