"I ... I think ... I am afraid I do, Father."
Her voice was touchingly humble, like a child's voice confessing what it deems a terrible crime with courageous obstinacy.
"No, my child. Think. Could you now—here—by sending forth a sharp thought like a dagger—kill your husband—would you send forth that thought?"
Her brow knitted painfully. She went white as death. Then the blood surged over her face.
"No, Father," she whispered.
"You see, my child? What you craved when you sought me was for another voice, the voice of a human being like yourself, to echo the small, still voice down in the centre of your own spirit. The voice that says we must have the courage to live life as we have made it for ourselves—honestly, righteously, unflinchingly. You must not be too severe with yourself, my child. To deny the hidden good in ourselves is the subtlest form of spiritual pride. It gives death, not life. There was a great Pagan who once uttered a profoundly Christian truth. Wolfgang von Goethe said: 'Life teaches us to be less hard with others and—ourselves.' Do you see what I mean, my child?"
"Yes," said Sophy, in that smothered voice.
"Then what you must do is very simple. First, you must forgive your husband—then you must forgive yourself. After what you have told me, I can see no salvation for him from this sad vice but in your affection and your strong will to help him. Consult with this wise doctor—follow his instructions as best you may. Take your life, your heart, in both hands and lift them up unto the Lord."
"You don't know, Father ... you can't know...." She shuddered violently. Her grey eyes were fixed on his in desperate appeal.
"Yes, my child— I do know," he said tenderly. "I led the life of an ordinary man before I became a priest. I know well what you are suffering—what lies before you—for you have courage—you will not—desert." He said it firmly, but his kind eyes held her, full of the comprehending compassion that does not wound.