Coldstream assented by a slight movement of the head.
“You must have met on board a passenger of the name of John Mace?”
“May I ask what you thought of him?” inquired the chaplain.
“I thought him intelligent and gentlemanly,” replied Oscar, “but he had imbibed some very erroneous views.”
“I know it――I know it,” said Mark Lawrence. “Mr. Mace made no secret of them here. Did you ever enter into conversation with him on religious subjects?”
Mark felt that he was drawing near to his point. “May I ask what impression Mr. Mace made on your mind?” said the chaplain.
“At first a painful impression; but Mace was candid, and open to conviction. He came on board the _Argus_ an infidel; he left it, I have good reason to hope, a truly converted man.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed the clergyman joyfully. “And you――_you_ were the happy instrument of his conversion?”
Oscar’s face did not reflect the look of pleasure on that of his friend. “God sometimes uses strange instruments,” was his only reply.
“But this is a thing to be a joy to you all your life!” exclaimed Mark. “You have then never had doubts yourself?”
“Any difficulties which suggested themselves to my mind in my younger days were but as thin vapours which rather clothe a rock than hide it. They only led me to examine more closely, and so believe more firmly. I could always see the rock behind the vapour, and I long since planted my feet firmly upon it.”
“Thank God! thank God!” was Mark’s inward ejaculation. “But if it be no doubt on speculative religion that oppresses my poor friend, what cause can there be for his deep-rooted sadness? Coldstream is happily married; he has good social position, competence, and high reputation; why should he be as one oppressed by a secret grief?”
Again came the painful suspicion, “Can this be melancholy madness?”
“Where have you been, Thud?” inquired Io, as, a few hours after her return from church, her brother sauntered into the drawing-room, smelling of tobacco, and with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.
“I’ve had a good chat and smoke with Pogson,” replied Thud, throwing himself on the sofa; “and as talking and tobacco make one dry, we had something to wet our whistles. He’s no water-drinker, like Oscar.”