“And yet, Sir, it is a Catholic priest will force you to do it. There was no stain on your wife’s fame, and there shall be none upon her memory.”
“What is the amount of my debt to you, Father Lowrie?” asked Luttrell, calmly and even courteously.
“Nothing, Sir; not a farthing. Her father was a good friend to me and mine before ruin overtook him. It wasn’t for money I came here to-night.”
“Then you leave me your debtor, Sir, and against my will.”
“But you needn’t be, Mr. Luttrell,” said the priest, with eagerness. “She that has just gone, begged and prayed me with her last breath to look after her little boy, and to see and watch that he was not brought up in darkness.”
“I understand you. You were to bring him into your own fold. If you hope for success for such a scheme, take a likelier moment, father; this is not your time. Leave me now, I pray you. I have much to attend to.”
“May I hope to have an early opportunity to see and talk with you, Mr. Luttrell?”
“You shall hear from me, Sir, on the matter, and early,” said Luttrell. “Your own good feeling will show this is not the moment to press me.”
Abashed by the manner in which these last words were spoken, the father bowed low and withdrew.
“Well?” cried the servant-woman, as he passed out, “will he do it, your reverence?”