“And true?”
“Why not? I will go with you thus far. I believe that, if there is a God, He is just, and that we shall certainly live again, if it is for our good.”
The emphasis with which he spoke the last words attracted her attention.
“For our good?” she queried.
“I am quoting the saddest words ever written, by the saddest and best man I ever knew. * He, too, believed that a God might spare us, and give us eternal life, if—mark the proviso—eternal life were indeed for our good. But suppose the contrary—suppose God knew better, and that it would be an evil and unhappy gift? Alas! who knows?”
* J. S. Mill.
He rose from his chair, still encircling his wife’s waist, and moved towards the door.
“Come to the drawing-room,” he cried gaily. “After so much offhand theology, a little music will be delightful. Ah, Nell, one breath of Beethoven is worth all the prosings of your parsons. Play to me, and, while the music lasts, I will believe what you will.”