There were but two ways out: she must marry one of them, and petition the other not to shoot him; or else she must take the veil, and so escape them both.
She preferred the latter alternative. She was more enthusiastic in religion than in any earthly thing: and now the angry passions of men thrust her the same road that her own devout mind had always drawn her.
As soon as she got home she sent a message to Father Francis, who drove her conscience, and begged him to come and advise her.
After that, she did the wisest thing, perhaps, she had done all day. Went to bed.
[CHAPTER VII]
The sun was just setting when Catherine's maid came into her room and told her Father Francis was below. She sent down to say she counted on his sleeping at Peyton Hall; and she would come down to him in half an hour. She then ordered a refection to be prepared for him in her boudoir; and made her toilet with all reasonable speed, not to keep him waiting. Her face beamed with quiet complacency now: for the Holy man's very presence in the house was a comfort to her.
Father Francis was a very stout muscular man, with a ruddy countenance; he never wore gloves, and you saw at once he was not a gentleman by birth. He had a fine voice; it was deep, mellow, and when he chose, sonorous. This, and his person, ample, but not obese, gave him great weight, especially with his female pupils. If he was not quite so much reverenced by the men, yet he was both respected and liked; in fact, he had qualities that make men welcome in every situation: good humour, good sense, and tact. A good son of his Church, and early trained to let no occasion slip of advancing her interests.
I wish my readers could have seen the meeting between Catherine Peyton and this burly ecclesiastic. She came into the drawing-room with that imperious air and carriage which had made her so unpopular with her own sex; and at the bare sight of Father Francis, drooped and bent in a moment as she walked; and her whole body indicated a submissiveness, graceful, but rather abject: it was as if a young poplar should turn to a weeping willow in half a moment. Thus metamorphosed, the Beauty of Cumberland glided up to Francis, and sank almost to her knee before him, crossed her hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely head, and awaited his benediction.
The father made rapidly the sign of the cross over that thorough-bred head and golden hair, and blessed her business-like.