"My dear friend, I see how it is. You have lost that excellent mother. I did hope I should see her again, and administer to her the glorious symbols of Christ's undying love, before she sank to rest. God has ordered it otherwise. Did she suffer much in that last conflict, which all foolishly dread and shrink from?"
"She was spared all its terrors, Mr. Fitzmorris; she died in sleep. To judge from the beautiful serenity of her face, her waking was in heaven."
"I too have looked on death since last we met. In death itself there is nothing terrible; it is but the returning wave of life flowing back to Him, and may be regarded as the birth of spirit to its higher destiny. But oh, Dorothy, the death that I lament, that I would have given my own life to avert, was one of such a painful nature, so sudden, so unlooked for, by the dear thoughtless being, who cared not for his soul, scarcely knew that he possessed one, that I can feel little hope in his case. Struck down in a moment in the vigour of manhood; of all the wasted years of a misspent life, he could not redeem one hour from time, to prepare for eternity. It is terrible, heart-crushing, but it is God's will, and what am I that I should dare to murmur at a just decree!"
"But did you ever warn him of his danger?" asked Dorothy.
"I have nothing to reproach myself with on that head. After my own conversion, I besought him with tears and prayers, with all the eloquence which conviction can give, to turn from the errors of his ways. He laughed at my enthusiasm, and called me a madman and a fool, refused to listen to my earnest appeals, and finally shunned my company. I loved him too dearly to be baffled thus. I wrote constantly to him, and laid my own heart bare, in the hope of winning his, but he refused to answer my letters, and at length returned them to me unopened. I had no other resource left, but to pray for him. But my prayers have returned into my own bosom, and my brother went down to his grave, and gave no sign. He lived two days after his accident, but was never conscious for a moment."
"It may be better with him than you suppose," suggested Dorothy. "Though unconscious to you, his soul may have been vividly awake to its spiritual danger; and petitions for mercy which he could not utter in the hearing of man may have been heard and answered in heaven."
"Thank you for that thought, dear girl, it is suggestive of some comfort. The thief on the cross might have been as regardless of his duty to God and his fellow men, as my poor brother; yet, his petition received a gracious hearing and a blessed promise. We cannot judge others as the great Searcher of hearts judges them. Many a criminal in our estimation may shine hereafter a gem in His crown."
There was a pause for some minutes, and Gerard Fitzmorris continued pacing the study with rapid steps, so wrapt up in his own thoughts, that he had almost forgotten the figure in black that sat so pale and still in his easy chair.
"Come and take a turn with me in the open air," he said, suddenly returning to her side. "The atmosphere of this place is close and stifling, the evening excessively warm. I can always think and speak more freely beneath the canopy of heaven."
Dorothy had not removed her bonnet and shawl, and they strolled out upon the heath. During their ramble, he made her recount all that had happened since Gilbert's return, and was shocked at the manner in which she had been treated.