“Send him here to me,” broke in Luttrell, angrily. “I’m not going to discuss this with you.”
“Sure isn’t he giving her the blessed Sacrament!” said she, indignantly.
“Leave me, then—leave me in peace,” said he, as he turned away and leaned his head on the chimney-piece; and then, without raising it, added, “and tell the priest to come to me before he goes away.”
The woman had not gone many minutes, when a heavy step approached the door, and a strong knock was heard. “Come in!” cried Luttrell, and there entered a short, slightly-made man, middle-aged and active-looking, with bright black eyes, and a tall, straight forehead, to whom Luttrell motioned the only chair as he came forward.
“It’s all over, Sir. She’s in glory!” said he, reverently.
“Without pain?” asked Luttrell.
“A parting pang—no more. She was calm to the last. Indeed, her last words were to repeat what she had pressed so often upon me.”
“I know—I know!” broke in Luttrell, impatiently. “I never denied it.”
“True, Sir; but you never acknowledged it,” said the priest, hardily. “When you had the courage to make a peasant girl your wife, you ought to have had the courage to declare it also.”
“To have taken her to the Court, I hope—to have presented her to Royalty—to have paraded my shame and my folly before a world whose best kindness was that it forgot me! Look here, Sir; my wife was brought up a Catholic; I never interfered with her convictions. If I never spoke to her on the subject of her faith, it was no small concession from a man who felt on the matter as I did. I sent for you to administer to her the rights of her Church, but not to lecture me on my duties or my obligations. What I ought to do, and when, I have not to learn from a Roman Catholic priest.”