Part 41 (2/2)
”Remain, my brother; and may the Holy Virgin bless the sacrament to your soul as well as to hers.”
Ashe could not have told why he had yielded to the impulse to stay. He had for months been coming more and more to feel that the church of Rome was his true refuge, yet he hardly now dared confess this to himself. He had been deeply affected by the discovery that Maurice had been to confession at St. Eulalia, and he longed himself to follow the example of his friend. To Ashe, however, it seemed like trifling with sacred things, and he could not do it. Now as he knelt on the unclean and uneven floor of that sordid chamber he experienced a peace and a security such as he had never before known. He was moved almost to tears; yet he would not yield.
”It is not Rome,” he insisted to himself. ”It is the simple faith of these poor souls. That is beautiful and holy. It would be easy for me to think that I was becoming a Catholic.”
He left as soon as the rite was concluded, but the memory of it remained.
He saw Mrs. Fenton on the afternoon following. He had not been alone with her since his mad declaration of love. He wished now to meet her calmly, yet the moment he entered her house his heart quickened its beating. He was no longer a priest bent on an errand of mercy; he was an ardent lover, acutely conscious that he was in the rooms through which she pa.s.sed day by day, that in a moment he should see her, hear her voice, perhaps touch her hand. He was shown into the library where she was sitting, and she rose to greet him frankly and simply.
”She was not touched by what happened in the carriage,” Philip said to himself, with the woeful wisdom of love, ”or she could not so completely ignore it.”
”How do you do, Mr. Ashe?” she said with perfect calmness. ”You are just in time for a cup of tea. I am having mine early, because I came in a little chilled.”
He was too confused with the joy of her presence to decline.
”I have come on an errand which is not over pleasant,” he remarked, watching her handling the cups, ”and I am afraid that it is useless too.”
”Does that mean that it is something you wish me to do but think I'm too hard-hearted or selfish to agree to?”
”It is not a question of willingness so much as of power. Mrs. Murphy is dying,--very likely by this time she is not living,--and she begs us to save her husband from being punished.”
”But how could that be done?”
”I doubt if it could be done; but I promised her that I would speak to you. I suppose that if we did not give evidence there would not be much that could be told; but I hardly think that we have the right not to.”
Mrs. Fenton thoughtfully regarded the fire a moment; then seemed to be recalled to the present by the active boiling of the little silver teakettle.
”I'm afraid women would drive justice out of the world if they had their way,” she said with a smile.
He smiled in reply, full of delight in her mere presence. They talked the matter over, arriving at some sort of a compromise between their sympathy for the dying woman and their feeling that a man like Murphy should be dealt with by the law. They came for the moment to seem to be on the old footing of simple friendliness, while she made the tea and they discussed the situation.
”One lump or two?” Mrs. Fenton asked, pausing with tongs suspended over the sugar.
”Two,” answered he. ”I am afraid I am self-indulgent in my tea, but then I very seldom take it.”
”So small an indulgence,” she said, handing him his cup, ”does not seem to me to indicate any great moral laxity.”
”It is the principle of the thing,” Philip returned, smiling because she smiled.
Mrs. Fenton shook her head.
”Come,” she said, ”this is a good time for me to say something that has been in my mind for a long time. You may think that it isn't my affair, but I can't help saying that it seems to me you have allowed yourself to get into a frame of mind that is rather--well, that isn't entirely healthy. I hope you don't think me too presuming.”
”You could not be,” was his reply; ”but I do not understand what you mean.”
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