“This,” he said, “has not been learnt in two days. You must have known it before. If you knew it, why are you what you are? You never have been a real Jesuit, and you never will be.”
“I swore to the Mother of God—I am bound....”
“By an oath forced upon you!”
“No! By an oath I myself begged to take!”
This was the bitterest drop in the priest's cup. Everything had been done of his own free will—at his own desire. During eleven years a network of perfidy had been cunningly woven around him, mesh after mesh, day after day. As he grew older, so grew in strength the warp of the net. Thus, in the fulness of time, everything culminated to the one great end in view. Nothing was demanded (for that is an essential rule), everything must be offered freely, to be met by an apparently hesitating acceptance. Constant dropping wears the hardest stone in time.
“But,” said Vellacott, “you can surely represent to your Provincial that you are not fitted for the work put before you.”
“My friend,” interrupted the priest, “we can represent nothing. We are supposed to have no natural inclinations. All work should be welcome, none too difficult, no task irksome.”
“You can volunteer for certain services,” said Vellacott.
The priest shrugged his shoulders.
“What services?” he asked.