‘Revenge! Ah, that is sinful, I fear,’ said the priest. ‘“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Hear David, “O Lord, to whom vengeance belongeth, show Thyself.” Ah, it may be sweet for a time,’ said the priest, as he shook his head.
‘Holy father,’ replied the lady, ‘you are right, as you always are. We women have not men’s heads, we have only hearts, and those hearts often fill us with bad passions.’
‘I fear that is too true,’ said the priest. ‘But pray proceed with your narrative.’
‘Well, her plans were artfully laid. The servants were her creatures. The medical man was her dupe. She had sole command of the mansion. The poor dying wife had begged her to take the trouble off her hands. Milor fancied she was his slave; he in reality was her dupe. She made him believe that his child was dead. She did more, she paid some women to take care of a child which she pretended, with strict injunctions to secrecy, was the heir. Gold did it all. At that time the lady had plenty of gold.’
‘Which might have been better spent in the service of the Holy Catholic Church, which needs the treasures of the faithful, and gives them interest for the money, which will yield rich fruit through the countless ages of eternity.’
‘Ah, my friend did not think of such things. She was in the world and of it. There, in that island of heretics, she had given up her religious observances, and had almost lost her religious faith. Oh, how much better it is for the woman to stop in the land where the poetry of youth ripens and matures, till in her old age she has all the ardour and the blessedness of a devotee.’
‘You speak truly and well,’ said the priest, with an approving smile; and though he did not often smile, his smile, when it did appear on his marble face, was encouraging.
‘My father,’ said the penitent, weeping, ‘I can keep up the deception no longer—I speak of myself!’
‘I thought as much,’ he replied. ‘I am afraid you have done a great wrong. But what has become of the child?’
‘I know not; and the father is dead.’