“My poor child, I will leave you for the present; but I shall not cease to bear you upon my heart to the Throne of Grace, and I will come to you again in the evening.”
And then he left the cell.
Eudora clung to her little hope as the young cling to life. She had called it the only vital nerve that quivered in her bosom. Yet it would be scarcely true to say that she was the happier for it.
The days of Malcolm’s absence were passed by her in a high fever of suspense. By every mail she received letters from him assuring her of his undying devotion and zealous efforts in her behalf, and entreating her still to pray and to trust.
The chaplain also kept his word, and visited her frequently, still exhorting her, with tearful earnestness, to resign all expectations of earthly life, and to turn her thoughts towards heaven. But still Eudora clung with death-like tenacity to her hopes of deliverance.
“You think that I am sinking fast in this stormy sea of trouble that threatens to overwhelm me, and you ask me to let go the slender plank that keeps me up, and to resign myself to death—but I will not! I will cling to this plank of life! I will not let it go! I will grasp it—I will possess it—it shall save me!” was still Eudora’s answer to all the young minister’s fervent exhortations.
“Ah, well! I see it is in vain to reason with you in your present mood of mind. You still insanely hope against hope. But when Mr. Montrose returns without the respite you expect, and you feel that your fate in this world is sealed, when death stares you in the face, you will listen to my counsels, disburden your bosom of its guilty secret, and give your soul to repentance,” was ever the minister’s final reply when he concluded each visit.
Alas! these interviews were productive of little satisfaction to either party.
Eudora could derive no comfort from the conversation of even a good minister, who founded all his exhortations upon the mistaken theory of her guilt; and Mr. Goodall almost despaired of benefitting one whom he considered an obstinate sinner, wickedly refusing to confess and repent.
But as the weary days passed, Eudora felt more keenly the protracted anguish of suspense, and the increasing difficulty of holding fast the little hope that sustained her; for, although Malcolm continued to write to her by every mail, and in every letter endeavored to keep up her courage, yet he gave her no definite information. His stay was protracted from day to day, as though he were engaged in prosecuting an almost desperate enterprise which he was resolved to accomplish.