'Perplexed?' repeated Ethel.
'It is not so now,' he replied. 'God forbid! But where better men have been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.'
'You knew it!' said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.
'I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.'
Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, 'It is past.'
'Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know it.'
'When was this?' she asked timidly.
'The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue, chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.'
Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of self-contemplation.
'I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have seen into the secrets beneath.'
Ethel took hold of his hand. 'You seemed bright,' she said.
'It melted like a bad dream before--before the humming-bird, and with my father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.'
'How could you? Was it safe?'
'I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or--or--things at the Grange, would bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.'
'I suppose examination was right,' said Ethel, 'for a man, and defender of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought away. But I can't tell how it feels.'
'Worse than you have power to imagine,' said Norman, shuddering. 'It is over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on our side.'
'And prayed--' said Ethel.
'Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever. It had never gone for a whole day.'
Ethel breathed freely. 'It was life or death,' she said, 'and we never knew it!'
'Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me. And far more than argument, was the thought of my father's heart- whole Christian love and strength.'
'Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a bewilderment of your intellect.'
'I think you are right,' said Norman. 'To me the doubt was cruel agony--not the amusement it seems to some.'
'Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,' said Ethel. 'And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?' she still asked anxiously.
He stood still. 'For ever, I trust,' he said. 'I hold the faith of my childhood in all its fullness as surely as--as ever I loved my mother and Harry.'
'I know you do,' said Ethel. 'It was only a bad dream.'
'I hope I may be forgiven for it,' said Norman. 'I do not know how far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this compensation--that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.'
'You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,' said Ethel.
'I do not dread the like shocks,' said her brother, 'but I long to leave this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.'
'I thought 'praise was your penance here.''
'I would fain render it so, but--in short, I must be away from it all, and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and forgetting subtle arguments.'
'Forgetting yourself,' said Ethel.
'Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,' said Norman. 'I am never so happy as at such times.'
'And you want to find work so far away?'
'I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?'
Ethel thought and thought. 'I know he would not hinder you,' she repeated.
'But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him.'
'Tom will not stand in your place,' said Ethel.
'He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,' said Norman. 'None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession.'
'I am more than ever amazed!' cried Ethel. 'I thought you detested it. I thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve.'
'He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,' said Norman. 'With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his duty.'
'How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would be so glorious!'
'Glory is not for me,' said Norman. 'Understand, Ethel, the choice is New Zealand, or going at once--at once, mind--to study at Edinburgh or Paris.'
'New Zealand at once?' said Ethel.
'I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must be avowed,' said Norman hastily. 'And now, will you sound my father? I cannot.'
'I can't sound,' said Ethel. 'I can only do things point-blank.'
'Do then,' said Norman, 'any way you can! Only let me know which is best for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready one,' he added kindly. 'I believe you are the one who would be shoved in front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk.'
The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how much she was to repeat of their conversation.
'Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not think it fine in me.'
Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from doing that.
It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the drawing- room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once into the matter, she said, 'Papa, there is something that Norman cannot bear to say to you himself.'
'Humming-birds to wit?' said Dr. May.
'No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you think of--of--there are two things; one is--going out as a missionary--'
'Humming-birds in another shape,' said the doctor, startled, but smiling, so as to pique her.
'You mean to treat it as a boy's fancy!' said she.
'It is rather suspicious,' he said. 'Well, what is the other of his two things?'
'The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you.'
