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Updated: May 6, 2025
Drew, the draper?" "Yes. He is one of Mr. Wingfold's best pupils. He brought him to my uncle, and he has come often ever since." "I never heard that Mr. Wingfold took pupils. I am afraid I do not quite understand you. "I would have said DISCIPLES," returned Rachel smiling; "but that has grown to feel such a sacred word as if it belonged only to the Master, that I didn't like to use it.
By this time, through Simon Armour, they knew something about Richard, but none of them all felt at liberty to talk about him. Barbara had now a better guide in her reading than Richard. True reader as he had been, Wingfold's acquaintance both with literature and its history, that is, its relation to the development of the people, was as much beyond the younger man's as it ought to be.
They consulted whether Wingfold should act on the baronet's careless invitation, and concluded it better he should not stay to dinner. Then, as there was yet time, and it was partly on Wingfold's way, they set out for the smithy. When the first delight of their meeting was abated, Simon sent to let Arthur Manson know that his brother was there.
"Your vision," he said, "reminds me of some verses of Mr. Wingfold's, of which Mrs. Wingfold very kindly let me take a copy. I have them here in my pocket-book; may I read them to you?" The minister gave rather a listless consent, but that was enough for Mr. Drew's object, and he read the following poem.
With a smile of intelligence he yielded and led the way. But ere they had climbed to the top, Rachel heard Mr. Wingfold's step, and went down again to receive him. Invited to ascend, Wingfold followed Rachel to her uncle's room, and there, whether guided by her or not, the conversation presently took such a turn that at length, of his own motion, Polwarth offered to read his verses.
Thomas Wingfold's nature was one more than usually bent towards helpfulness, but his early history, his lack of friends, of confidence, of convictions, of stand or aim in life, had hitherto prevented the outcome of that tendency. But now, like issuing water, which, having found way, gathers force momently, the pent-up ministration of his soul was asserting itself.
"Not in this world," said the draper. "To doubt that it COULD be," said the gatekeeper, "would be to doubt whether the kingdom of heaven is a chimera or a divine idea." The morning after Wingfold's second visit, Lingard, much to his sister's surprise, partly to her pleasure, and somewhat to her consternation, asked for his clothes: he wanted to get up.
She turned the handle softly and peeped in: could it be that Wingfold's bearing had communicated to her mind a shadow of the awe with which he had left the place where perhaps a soul was being born again? Leopold did not move. Terror laid hold of her heart. She stepped quickly in, and round the screen to the side of the bed.
He was so well prepared, however, that no expression of surprise, no reflex of its ghastfulness met Leopold's gaze, and he went on to the end without a pause even. When he had finished, both sat silent, looking in each other's eyes, Wingfold's beaming with compassion, and Lingard's glimmering with doubtful, anxious inquiry and appeal.
Her nerve gave way; she turned her back, left the pew, and fled from the church by the squire's door, into the grounds of Wylder Hall. Happily Barbara was not in the church that morning. The next Sunday the squire's pew was empty. The red volume lay open on its face upon the floor of it. Wingfold's dear plot had palled. He had rough-hewed his end, but the divinity had shaped it.
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