He frowned, and bit his trembling lip.
“No, no,” she said, “I know the sensitiveness of your beautiful art. Only, O, Noel! I cannot rest where we ended just now. Believe me, it was so far from my wish to offend or alarm you. But time goes on, and the pledge this finished picture was to redeem is withheld, until I am at a loss how to explain.”
“To whom?” he muttered sullenly, “to that priest? O, I know. What right has he, a grudging Churchman, and you a saint?”
“O, indeed, I am but a weak woman!” she said, with a faint smile, “and he an anointed Father. He does right—dear, he does—to be jealous for his daughter. It is only that he would ask you, that I would ask you, what period”—
“Art is not to be forced,” he interrupted her peevishly. “I made the finishing of this picture, as it was begun—as it was begun, mind—the condition of my being received into your Church. Didn’t I, now?”
“Yes,” she sighed; “but there are some vows better broken.”
“A bad recommendation to what you call the truth,” he sneered.
“But, Noel, it is the truth,” she cried. “O, say you are convinced that it is!”
“Well, I don’t know,” he answered, “since you bid me to a lie.”
“I will take the burden,” she cried, her eyes streaming, “to save the soul I love.”