“Yet if you could get him to give up some of his wild notions for love of you, it would be a step in the right direction,” said the Duke thoughtfully; but Bride shook her head.
“No, not in the right direction—it would be doing evil that good might come—teaching Eustace to act against his conscience and better judgment, just to please me. It would be like what he is doing himself when he stirs up the evil passions of men to try and overthrow a great abuse. He admits the present evil, but says the end will justify the means, and that the evil is an incidental detail, whilst the good will remain permanent. That is where we cannot agree. And we are not likely to agree when Eustace really admits no outward standard of right and wrong, but abides by his own judgment and the prompting of his individual conscience. And even what he cannot defend he excuses—his conscience condemns, but his judgment palliates the wrong—and there is nothing stronger and more perfect and holy to which to appeal. That is the most terrible thing of all to me, and, oh! how terrible it must be in the sight of God.”
Bride had Eustace very much on her mind and heart just now. She had promised to pray for him, and she did this with increasing earnestness as the days went by. She prayed too for the unhappy Saul, wearing out his weary term of imprisonment, visited from time to time by Abner, who looked years older ever since the trouble of that August night. He brought back disquieting accounts of the prisoner to his young mistress, who never failed to ask after him. Saul was utterly impenitent and hardened. He had thrown off all semblance of outward faith, and was an open advocate of the very darkest and baldest forms of atheism. He had learnt this fearful creed from the cobbler, by this time lying under sentence of death; but Bride recognised with a shudder now and again, as she talked with Abner and heard his sorrowful accounts of Saul’s words, the influence upon him of Eustace’s more subtle scepticism. Here and there a word or phrase came in where she recognised her cousin’s mind. Doubtless Saul had opened his heart on this point too with his master, and Eustace had probably only confirmed him in his unbelief by his assertions of the impossibility of knowing the truth where all thinking men were at variance.
The thought of these two men haunted her with a persistence that was wearying. She was haunted too by thoughts of that condemned criminal in his lonely cell, dying perhaps in utter blackness and infidelity, and passing out into the presence of his Maker without one thought of repentance or submission. Suppose Saul had been called upon to die, would he too have gone forth in that frame of mind? If illness or accident were to smite down Eustace, what would be his method of meeting death? Would they all reject the love of the Saviour? Would they all remain impenitent to the last? And what, ah! what was the fate of those who passed away without one cry for mercy, without one glance towards that Cross whereon the sins of the whole world had been expiated?
This thought became such a terror to her, that she took it at last to her one friend and confidante, Mrs. St. Aubyn, and she had hardly got out her trouble before the Rector himself, unknowing of her visit, entered his wife’s room; and Bride hardly knew whether she were glad or sorry that the question should be referred to him.
It was Mrs. St. Aubyn who told her husband the nature of their talk, and added, as she did so—
“I was going to say that I myself almost doubted whether any human soul could die absolutely and entirely impenitent. We know that the outward aspect of some remains unchanged to the last; but how can any man dare to deny that some strange and mysterious intercourse may not go on in spirit between man and his Maker, unknown and unseen by any human eye? Thought cannot be measured by our time. A few brief seconds may be enough to establish some sort of spiritual communication. Where we are told so little, perhaps it is not wise to speculate too curiously; but I cannot help thinking that where blind ignorance and the doctrine of false teachers has kept a soul away from God, He may yet in His infinite mercy deal with that erring soul at the last in such a way as to break in upon the darkness, and kindle one ray of the Divine love, even with the dying breath. For we know that it is not the will of the Father that one should perish, and that He gave His Son to die for all—only they must approach Him through the living Saviour.”
She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he smiled in response as he said—
“There are mysteries in God’s dealings with man into which we may not too closely look, and especially is this the case in reference to those departed or departing this life; but there is so much that we do know to cheer and encourage us to hope all things and believe all things, that we may well let our minds dwell upon these things, and argue from them that God’s ways are wider and more merciful than the heart of man can fathom.”
“Bride is unhappy about several persons who seem to be wandering so far away from the fold,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, in her gentle tones. “She is suffering, as we all suffer at some time or another, when those we love seem rather against than with us. Can you say something to comfort her? I think she has come here for a little bit of comfort. Have you not, my child?”