“How would they live? By their own power? Then were they gods!—But they did not make themselves, and could not live of themselves. If not, then they must live by God’s power. How then should they be beyond his reach?
“If the demons can never be brought back, then the life of God, the all-pure, goes out to keep alive, in and for evil, that which is essentially bad; for that which is irredeemable is essentially bad.”
Thus reasoned Donal with himself, and his reasoning, instead of troubling his faith, caused him to cling the more to the only One, the sole hope and saviour of the hearts of his men and women, without whom the whole universe were but a charnel house in which the ghosts of the dead went about crying, not over the life that was gone from them, but its sorrows.
He stood and gazed out over the cold sea. And as he gazed, a shivering surge of doubt, a chill wave of negation, came rolling over him. He knew that in a moment he would strike out with the energy of a strong swimmer, and rise to the top of it; but now it was tumbling him about at its evil will. He stood and gazed—with a dull sense that he was waiting for his will. Suddenly came the consciousness that he and his will were one; that he had not to wait for his will, but had to wake—to will, that is, and do, and so be. And therewith he said to himself:—
“It is neither time, nor eternity, nor human consolation, nor everlasting sleep, nor the satisfied judgment, nor attained ambition, even in love itself, that is the cure for things; it is the heart, the will, the being of the Father. While that remains, the irremediable, the irredeemable cannot be. If there arose a grief in the heart of one of his creatures not otherwise to be destroyed, he would take it into himself, there consume it in his own creative fire—himself bearing the grief, carrying the sorrow. Christ died—and would die again rather than leave one heart-ache in the realms of his love—that is, of his creation. ‘Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed!’”
Over his head the sky was full of shining worlds—mansions in the Father’s house, built or building.
“We are not at the end of things,” he thought, “but in the beginnings and on the threshold of creation! The Father is as young as when first the stars of the morning sang—the Ancient of Days who can never grow old! He who has ever filled the dull unbelieving nations with food and gladness, has a splendour of delight for the souls that believe, ever as by their obedience they become capable of receiving it.”
CHAPTER LXII.
THE CRYPT.
“When are you going down again to the chapel, Mr. Grant?” said lady Arctura: she was better now, and able to work.
“I was down last night, and want to go again this evening by myself—if you don’t mind, my lady,” he answered. “I am sure it will be better for you not to go down till you are ready to give your orders to have everything cleared away for the light and air to enter. The damp and closeness of the place are too much for you.”