Mrs. Heritage, who had once effected so happy a result in him, again ventured a visit to him. It was twelve o’clock in the day. The remains of breakfast still stood on the table; and Thorsby, in his morning-gown and slippers, was lying on the sofa, and reading a novel. The bloated, sickly, demoralised aspect of the man struck Mrs. Heritage with painful astonishment. He did not rise to receive her, but with a scowling, savage sort of look begged to know to what he owed the honour of this visit.
“It is from a tender concern for thee, Henry Thorsby, and thy dear wife, that I have wished to come.”
“You can bestow your tender care on my wife, then,” said Thorsby: “she is in the house.”
“But, first,” said Mrs. Heritage, in her soft and gentle voice, “I would like to speak a word or two to thee. I would ask thee if thou knowest whither thou art going now? What must be the awful ultimatum of thy present unhappy course?”
“Yes, madam, I know very well where I am going—to hell, madam, to hell!”
“And canst thou reconcile thyself to such a thought—to the loss of thy precious soul—to the affliction thou must bring on thy wife, thy mother, thy child, and all that love thee?”
“Let all that alone, Mrs. Heritage,” said Thorsby. “Don’t torture me with talk of my wife, my mother, or my child. I know all that as well as you do; but if a man is born to be damned, not all the preachers or preacheresses on earth can save him.”
Mrs. Heritage sat for a moment stupified by the defiant wickedness before her; but, recovering herself, said, “No, all the powers on earth cannot save thee; but these are not all the powers—God can save thee.”
“But I know, madam,” said Thorsby, fiercely, “that He won’t save me. My day of grace is over. I know myself better than you do, with all your spirit-moving—better than that old fogie, David Qualm,—and yet he came pretty near the truth, when he said, ‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.’ Madam, even you cannot make an empty sack stand upright; and this sack you are talking to is empty, empty—empty of all grace as the Devil himself. And so, good morning!”
With that, Thorsby rose up, flung down his book, and stalked out of the room. Never in all her experience had the good Friend beheld such a case of hardened bedevilment; never had her strong, clear mind felt its power so baffled.