"May the Lord forgive me for listening to such words!" exclaimed Fanny, with that look of nervous terror which her beautiful face now so often expressed. "But he can't! he can't!—I know it, I know it! It is my doom to sin, and you are only an agent of that enemy who is for ever seeking my soul to destroy it.—Leave me! leave me!"
"Fanny, this is dreadful! Can you really believe that the God of love and mercy will hold you guilty for listening to the voice of your brother? What have I ever done, my Fanny, to deserve to be thus driven from your presence?"
The unhappy girl look bewildered. "Done!" she exclaimed. "What have you done?—Is not that works?—is not that of works you speak, Charles?—Oh! he knew, he foretold, he prophesied unto me that I should be spoken to of works, and that I should listen thereunto, to my everlasting destruction, if I confessed not my soul to him upon the instant. I must seek him out: he said IF,—oh, that dear blessed IF! Let go my arm, brother Charles!—let me seek my salvation!"
"Fanny, this is madness!"
She looked at him, poor girl, as he said this, with an expression that brought tears to his eyes. That look seemed to speak a dreadful doubt whether the words he had spoken were not true. She pressed her hand against her forehead for a moment, and then said in a voice of the most touching sadness, "Heaven help me!"
"Oh, Fanny!—darling Fanny!" cried the terrified brother, throwing his arms round her: "save us from the anguish of seeing you destroyed body and mind by this frightful, this impious doctrine! Listen to me, my own sweet girl! Think that from me you hear the voice of your father—of the good and pious Wallace—of your excellent and exemplary governess, and drive this maddening terror from you. Did you live without God in the world, Fanny, when you lived under their virtuous rule? How often have you heard your dear father say, when he came forth and looked upon the beauty of the groves and lawns, bright in the morning sunshine, 'Praise the Lord, my children, for his goodness, for his mercy endureth for ever!' Did not these words raise your young heart to heaven more than all the frightful denunciations which have almost shaken your reason?"
"Works! works!—Oh, Charles, let me go from you! Your voice is like the voice of a serpent: It creeps dreadfully near my heart, and I shall perish, everlastingly perish, if I listen to you. IF:—is there yet an IF for me now? Let me go, Charles: let me seek him;—if you love me, let me seek my salvation."
"Do you mean that you would seek Mr. Cartwright, Fanny? You do not mean to go to his house, do you?"
"His house? How little you know him, Charles! Think you that he would leave me and my poor mother to perish! Poor, poor Charles, you do not even know that this shepherd and guardian of our souls prays with us daily?"
"Prays with you? Where does he pray with you?"