The red glow of sunset had ceased to light up the latticed windows of the vicarage, or bathe its smooth lawn and thick shrubbery in a crimson glow. The rosy tint of the sky had faded into grey, and the evening mist had begun to rise, but still the vicar prolonged his walk on the gravel path in front of his dwelling. Up and down he slowly paced, with his hands behind him, his eyes bent on the ground, and an expression of thought—painful thought—upon his benevolent face. Ida passed him on her return from a class, but, contrary to his usual habit, he took no notice of his daughter. Mabel tripped through the open window,—a mode of exit which she usually preferred to the door,—and, running lightly up to her father, locked her arm within his, with a playful remark on his solitary mood. The remark did not call up an answering smile; Mr. Aumerle did not appear even to have heard it, so Mabel, concluding from his manner that he must be composing a funeral sermon, quietly left him to his grave meditations.

At length, with a little sigh, as if he had just arrived at the conclusion of some painful line of reflection, the clergyman turned towards the house, and entering at the door, made his way towards his own little study.

As he had expected, the room was not empty. His brother sat reading at the table by the light of a lamp, which threw into strong relief the classic outline of his handsome features. Aumerle saw not—no mortal could see—the dim, dark form beside him, or mark the gigantic shadow cast over the reader by the bat-like wing extended over him by Pride.

Mr. Aumerle sat down near Augustine in silence. He surveyed his brother some moments with a look of anxious tenderness, then gave a little cough, as if to arouse his attention.

Augustine glanced up from the volume of German philosophy which he had been perusing. He had perhaps an idea that something unpleasant was coming, for he did not choose to commence the conversation.

“My dear Augustine,” began Lawrence Aumerle, after another uneasy little cough, “I have been for some time wishing to speak to you on a subject of great interest to us both. You must be aware,—you cannot but feel that the light observation which escaped you to-day at dinner, was of a nature to give me considerable pain.”

“What I said about the Bible?” replied his brother. “Well, it was a thoughtless observation, I own; but I certainly never intended to pain you. Your good lady came down upon me so sharp, and gave me such an oratorical cudgelling, that even Ida herself must have confessed that the punishment exceeded the offence.”

“Augustine, this is no jesting matter,” said his brother.

“I own that I was indiscreet and wrong in talking after that fashion in presence of the girls. Are you not satisfied with that frank confession?”

“I am not satisfied; I cannot be satisfied while I remain in doubt as to whether those careless words did not really express the opinion of my brother. Ever since you have been here on this visit, Augustine, it has seemed to me as if a change had passed over you; you are no longer what you once were. There is not the frank interchange of thought between us that there used to be in former years.”

“I am no longer a boy,” replied Augustine, leaning carelessly back in his chair.

“When you were a boy,” continued Mr. Aumerle, “you used often to express to me your desire to enter the ministry.”

“Oh, that’s all over,” replied Augustine quickly; “my views on many points have changed. I have discovered that there are many paths open to speculative thought besides the dry beaten one which you and all the pious world have been content for generations to tread.”

“There is nothing,” murmured Pride, “so hateful to an exalted spirit as travelling in a crowd.”

“Is it well,” said Aumerle, “to wander from the narrow path, in which so many have found happiness in life, and peace in death?”

“There are stumbling-blocks in that path,” replied Augustine; “difficulties which it would puzzle even a theologian like yourself to remove, and over which the learned and the zealous have wrangled from time immemorial. How can you explain to me this?” and the young man ran over, with rapid eloquence, one after another of the difficult questions which have for ages put human wisdom to fault. “How can you explain all this?” he repeated, at the close of his argument.

“These things are beyond the grasp of the human mind,” replied the clergyman; “they are not contrary to reason, but above it.”

“Reason is the guide allotted to intellectual man,” said Augustine; “I go as far as she leads me, and no further.”

“Reason is the guide that leads to the temple of revelation. There is an overwhelming mass of evidence, external and internal, to convince any unprejudiced mind that the Bible is the word of God. Prophecies accomplished, types fulfilled, the divine Spirit breathed through the pages, the unearthly perfection of One character there portrayed, with superhuman knowledge of the frailties and requirements of man; the devotion of the early witnesses to its truth, who sealed their testimony with their blood; the standing miracles foretold in the Scriptures, of the Jewish people scattered amongst all nations, and yet separate, and of a Church which, rising in an obscure land from the tomb of its Founder, has spread against the opposition of earth and hell, has swept away the barriers raised against it by temporal power and spiritual idolatry, and the natural opposition of every unregenerate heart, and which still goes on conquering and to conquer;—is not all this sufficient to bring reason to the position of the handmaid of religion, and make her, as I said at the first, the guide to the temple of revelation?”

“Granted,” said Augustine, after a pause; “but, when we enter that temple, when we scrutinize the mysteries which it contains—”

“Reason is no longer capable of guiding the soul; the appointed guardian of these mysteries is faith.”

“Who would lead us blindfold!” said Augustine impatiently. “Here it is that I would make my stand, for I maintain that no man—”

Pride.—“Gifted, intellectual man—”

Augustine.—“Is bound to believe what he cannot understand!”

Aumerle.—“Augustine, Augustine, all nature refutes you! What do we understand of the physical wonders that have environed man for thousands of years? We note facts, but in what innumerable instances are we baffled when we attempt to trace back effects to their causes! We hear the power of electricity in the thunder-clap, see it in the flash of lightning, nay, make it the servant of our will to unite distant continents together; but who can say that he understands it? We give it a name, we calculate its force, but reason grasps not its nature. Who can say how the soul is united to the body? Who can say what the faculty of memory may be, where it hoards up its life-accumulated treasures, and produces on the moment from the mass the very idea which it requires? These are not foreign subjects, they are subjects brought daily to the attention of myriads of reasoning beings, and during sixty centuries what has reason made of them? She is content to give up her place to faith; we believe, but we cannot understand. And can we expect that aught else should be the case when a weak, helpless worm like man fixes his thoughts upon the solemn mysteries of the invisible world,—when the finite attempts to comprehend the infinite! Reason, your boasted reason, at once shows the folly of such an expectation. On this earth we are in the infancy of our existence. As little could the young child of a monarch, while scarcely yet able to read, expect to grasp the difficult science of administration, and make himself master of the details of the business of an empire, as man, with his limited faculties, fathom the deep things of God!”

“In this your favourite simile,” said Augustine, “you must admit that some children are more advanced than the rest.”

“I believe that he is most advanced in spiritual knowledge,” replied Aumerle, “who can adopt the language of the gifted warrior-king of Israel.” He opened the Bible which lay on the table, and read aloud from the 131st Psalm:—

“Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.”

“One would almost think,” observed Augustine, “that you consider intellect as rather a disqualification than a help in penetrating the mysteries of religion.”

“These mysteries are beyond the province allotted to human intellect,” replied his brother. “The Bible assures us that the natural man receiveth not the things of God, for they are spiritually discerned. Our Lord thanked his Father that these things, being hidden from the wise and prudent (wise in the world’s wisdom, prudent in their own eyes), were yet revealed unto babes. Depend upon it, my dear brother,” continued the clergyman earnestly, “the true stumbling-block in our path is our pride! Is it not written in the word, The meek will he guide in judgment, and the meek will he teach his way?”

“Do you mean to assert,” said Augustine, “that none of the meek and devout have ever been troubled with difficulties and doubts?”

“Not so; I believe that many of God’s best servants have been much exercised with such spiritual trials. But it has been beautifully written, ‘A sign is granted to the doubt of love which is not given to the doubt of indifference.’ The meek are not left in darkness,—such are not given up to the adversary. But it is because they oppose him, not in the intellectual armour of subtle reasoning and metaphysical argument, but armed with the sling of prayer, humble and persevering prayer. To such the promise of the Comforter is given, whose office is to guide unto all truth.’”

Augustine.—“You, doubtless, are amongst those spiritually enlightened, though I suspect that you regard me as still in darkness. I should like to know how far, with faith your infallible guide, you have penetrated into such a mystery, for instance, as that of the origin of sin.”

Pride.—“Nail him with that difficulty; wrest his one weapon out of his hand, and see how he comes off in the contest when your intellect fairly grapples with his!”

Aumerle.—“I find it more profitable, my brother, to trace the effects of sin in my own heart, than to dive into such a mystery. The existence of sin within us concerns us more nearly than its origin.”

Augustine.—“Now own to me frankly, Lawrence, whether there be not something conventional and strained in this perpetual talk—I had almost said cant—about sin, which we hear from the best people in the world? I look upon it as the affectation of humility, because without that crowning virtue the most saintly character is not considered to be absolutely perfect.”

Aumerle.—“Can you doubt the all-pervading influence of sin? The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags. There is none that doeth good, no not one; this is the scriptural estimate of human nature.”

Augustine.—“Lay aside the Scriptures for a moment, and come to actual facts as we see them around us. Look now at such a character as that of Ida—pure, unworldly, self-denying, devoted; such a description of evil cannot for a moment be applied to her.”

Aumerle.—“You see her, God be praised, as she is by grace, and not by nature.”

Augustine.—“But she continues to regard herself as a sinner,—for aught that I know as the chief of sinners, she is ever repenting of errors which no one but herself can perceive.”

Aumerle.—“With faculties as limited as ours, our not perceiving errors is no proof of their non-existence. What to the naked eye is so pure as a crystal stream, or so glorious as the orb of day? yet the microscope reveals to us impurities in the water, and the telescope—blots in the sun.”

Augustine (smiling).—“Leave to me the unassisted vision. I do not wish to think ill of human nature. I believe that a man may walk serenely through life, and find himself in heaven at the end of it, without this incessant judging and condemning either himself or his fellow-creatures.”

Pride.—“Yes; one who is like yourself possesses an unblemished character, and a high moral standard, and who seeks to benefit his kind, without professions of superior sanctity.”

Aumerle.—“Augustine, I see but too clearly why your mind delights to seek out only the difficulties and doubts in religion! You can sit tranquilly as a judge, because you have never recognised your position as a criminal. You are, with all your brilliant intellect, ignorant of the very alphabet of spiritual knowledge. You do not know your own weakness and sin.”

Pride.—“He imagines himself addressing one of the ignorant rustics of his parish. His mind is narrowed by professional bigotry. It requires at least the virtue of patience to listen to such illiberal cant.”

Augustine (smiling).—“It seems, Lawrence, that you would have me acknowledge myself not only a child, but a very naughty child.”

Aumerle.—“Augustine, this is no subject for trifling. The difference between our ages long made me regard you rather as a beloved son than a brother. In some points our relative positions may be reversed. You have shown yourself to be possessed of talents to which I can lay no claim; I cheerfully cede to you the palm in all that regards intellectual power. But in one thing riper years still give me the advantage. Experience is the natural growth of time; spiritual experience of self-examination and prayer. I am persuaded that every step of the Christian’s life opens to him a wider prospect of the evil of his sinful nature. He learns it not only from the Bible, but by painful remembrance of broken resolutions, neglected duties, and secret backslidings, even if the Almighty preserve him from falls visible to others. Spiritual pride, nay, all pride, can be but the offspring of ignorance, ignorance of the requirements of God’s law, and of our failure in fulfilling that law,—ignorance of the infinite holiness of the Creator, and of the infirmity and guilt of the creature!”

Pride started at the words of Aumerle, and fiercely shook his sable wing. The earnestness and tenderness of the clergyman’s manner might have made some impression on his brother, but Pride threw himself between them, and laid an iron grasp on his slave. Oh, how difficult is it to speak rebuke, without arousing the demon of Pride, and arming his giant strength against us!

Augustine rose from his seat, and said coldly, “Lawrence, we have had enough of this, and more than enough. Thanks for your well-meant sermon, though it savours more of the musty volumes of old divinity, than the enlightened systems of an age of progress. You and I will never look upon these matters in the same light; let the subject be dropped henceforth between us!” And so saying, and taking with him his philosophical book, Augustine Aumerle quitted the study.

The vicar remained behind, sad, disappointed, almost disheartened. His words appeared to have had no effect but that of irritating his brother, and weakening the bond between them. But Aumerle had another resource, and he failed not to avail himself of it. While Augustine in the drawing-room was amusing himself and delighting his nieces by a playful critique upon Tennyson’s poetry (theology he had determined carefully to avoid entering upon again at the vicarage), Lawrence was upon his knees in his study, fervently imploring his heavenly Father to open the eyes of one who appeared to be gifted with all knowledge except that which could alone make him wise unto salvation!

Perhaps the minister’s present failure was to himself a blessing. It was sent to humble and prove him, to make him feel how powerless he was to influence a single soul without the aid of God’s Holy Spirit. It made him more earnest in prayer, more fervent in supplication. How many in a better world may find that they have reason to thank God, not only for their successes, but their failures, and see that the blessings which they had invoked upon others, had been returned a hundred-fold into their own bosoms!