It was not till now that to Louisa—the doctors having pronounced her entirely out of danger—the fact of the death of Captain Thistlewood was gently broken by Clemence, who then assumed her own mourning garb. Louisa was startled and shocked; the reflection, “If I had been the one summoned instead of him, where, oh, where would my soul have been now?” impressed more forcibly on her mind the solemn lesson taught to her by her own illness.
But would the impression last? Would that light and volatile mind retain the form into which circumstances had moulded it, when these circumstances themselves should be altered? Would the holy resolutions made on a sick-bed stand when brought to the trial by worldly society, vain pleasures, and evil influence? A clergyman, who had laboured for a great number of years, once recorded his melancholy experience, that, out of two thousand whom he had known to give signs of repentance when prostrated by sickness, only two individuals evidenced by their conduct after recovery that their repentance had been sincere. Let all who would postpone the solemn work till they are stretched upon a death-bed, ponder well this alarming testimony. Friends may eagerly mark the cry for mercy, wrung by fear of approaching judgment, as evidence that a broken and contrite heart has been touched by the Spirit of grace; but the Omniscient alone can know whether repentance is indeed unto salvation, or only as the dew that vanisheth, as the morning cloud that passeth away.
CHAPTER XVI
QUIET CONVERSE.
“I think that Sunday is the dullest day in the week,” exclaimed Vincent, stretching himself with a weary yawn; “and a wet Sunday is the worst of all.”
Clemence put down the book which she had been reading, and joined Vincent at the window, where he was drearily watching the raindrops plashing on the brown pavement, making circles in the muddy pools, and coursing each other slowly down the panes. She seated herself beside him, resting her arm on the back of his chair.
“Some people speak of enjoying Sunday,” pursued Vincent. “I’m certain it is nothing but talk. I know Aunt Selina said that she did so one day when our clergyman was making a call. I know that what she does on Sunday is to notice the dress of everybody at church, and find fault with the sermon, and talk over all the plans for the week. I don’t see much enjoyment in that.” Nor did Clemence; but she thought it better not to express her opinion.
“Do you enjoy Sunday?” asked Vincent, turning round, so that he could look his step-mother in the face.
“Yes; especially Sundays in the country.”