“The justice of God is severe,” said the priest, “but He can never make mistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we commit in judging others—perhaps in judging ourselves.”
“The carriage is at the door,” whispered Pensée, touching Brigit's arm. “Shall we go?”
Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden. Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost in thought, stared out of the window. At last the horses stopped.
“This is the place,” said Father Foster.
A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two Swiss waiters, with forced solemnity, ushered the party through the hall and up the staircase. They tapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for an answer which never came, and then turned the handle. Parflete's bed had been moved to the centre of the room. There was a table covered with a white cloth, on which four candles burnt. By the window there was a chair littered with illustrated newspapers.
“The nurse has just gone down to his supper,” explained one of the waiters, “but le mort est bien convenable.”
The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt embroidered with forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In place of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The face was yellow: the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hardship, terror, remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon his countenance.
Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping on Pensée's shoulder.
“Thank God!” she whispered, “he has no more to fear from men.”
When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that she would watch there that night.