"My dear child, you should let him know. In justice to him."
His words irritated Althea vaguely, as a little professional mannerism might irritate us in the surgeon fighting for our lives.
"Oh, have patience! I am going to tell you everything. It is the man whose book I sent you to read. Mr. Prentice, a friend of mine, a journalist, brought him to me last summer. He was quite unknown in London and was finding a difficulty in even getting it considered. He is not quite a stranger to us; at least, we know who he is. My father is a friend of some of the rich branch of his family in Connecticut. My publishers made difficulties, of course, but the thing was in a fair way of being settled—"
"But surely, my child, his opinions shocked you?"
"Not at all, Father!" Noticing his surprise: "You must take my word for that. It is so hard when one is leading two lives—the artist's and the other. There seems no contact between them—no common ground. I have had no temptation myself to such things, and so the question had never arisen for me personally. No, I was conscious of nothing but the joy, the privilege of helping a fellow-worker toward his reward."
"When did you first find it a matter of conscience?"
"Once when I went to confession to Father Mephan at the Priory. I mentioned it almost casually. To my surprise, he took the matter most seriously—said I was incurring a tremendous responsibility, and that if one soul was led by it to love God less, the sin would be at my door. I had to get the manuscript back from the publishers. Oh! it was weary work."
"Mephan pronounced against the book, of course."
"Yes. I told him that to my knowledge the writer was a good man—in his way almost saintly. I knew him well enough by then to say that. But he said it didn't matter—that Antichrist had his own prophets and confessors, and even martyrs. Is that so?"
"I fear it is."