The priest nodded his head sadly. How could he disbelieve a man so charitable and sweet-mannered as Leonard? How could he mistrust one who consecrated the memory of a beloved brother by donations to the little church and by constant benefactions to the poor and suffering among his flock? In the total it was not a large sum that Leonard parted with, but it was magnificent in the eyes of the poverty-stricken priest, who had never experienced such free-handed generosity. Leonard, was looked upon as a benefactor, and his false benevolence gave weight to every word that fell from his lips. He explained to the priest that the reason of his accompanying his brother Gerald and the young woman who had led him into vice was his earnest desire to break the guilty tie which bound them. "Death has done that for me," he said, covering his eyes. "A good man," thought the priest, "a good and noble man!" He inquired of Leonard how he intended to act when Emilia regained her health.
"I shall not desert her," replied Leonard; "Heaven forbid that I should do so! She has sinned, but the door of repentance shall not be closed upon her--she shall not lose the chance of leading a better life. I will insure her a small income, sufficient for any woman's wants, upon which she can live in comfort. She will be able to do so, will she not, upon two thousand francs a year?"
The priest raised his hands in astonishment. Two thousand francs! It was affluence.
"May your kind intentions be fruitful," he said. "May the erring woman lead in the future a virtuous life."
His flock were distinguished by a singular morality, and he, a simple-minded man, regarded with horror any backsliding from the straight path. On the following Sabbath he took the theme for his text, and without mentioning names, referred to two strangers in their midst, one distinguished for his noble deeds of charity, the other degraded by her vicious conduct. Every one in the chapel knew to whom he referred, and were prepared to receive Emilia with something more than coldness. The first knowledge of this state of feeling came to her on a day she was able to sit at her window to breathe the sweet air. The innkeeper's daughter had grown fond of her, and had performed many kindly offices for the hapless woman. The whole of this day the young girl had not made her appearance in Emilia's room, and yearning for female companionship she rang the bell for her. It was answered by the innkeeper.
"I wish to see your daughter," said Emilia.
"She will not come," said the innkeeper. "She shall not come."
"Why?" asked Emilia, in wonder at his rough tone.
"Answer the question yourself," replied the innkeeper. "When you are strong enough to leave my house I must request you to seek a shelter elsewhere."
He left the room without another word.