But on the conclusion of the meal she dropped into a pensive mood, and sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her pointed chin resting in her cupped hand, gazing into space with great dreamy eyes.
And then all at once she roused herself and looked across at Father O’Sullivan.
“Father,” she said seriously, “I want you to say a Mass for me.”
“You do, do you?” said Father O’Sullivan, stroking his chin. “And with what intention?”
“Well,” said Muriel, reflective, “it’s not quite easy to explain. I think I’d better tell you the story.” And she launched forth, omitting names at the moment, though at a future date she happened inadvertently to mention Peter’s.
“Well, now,” said Father O’Sullivan as she ended, and his eyes were twinkling, “is it just a little small story like that you’d have me be repeating at Mass, for I’m thinking it will take just no time at all.”
“Oh, don’t laugh at me!” begged Muriel. [Pg 223]“Don’t you see how difficult it is to put into words what I want!” She dropped her hands in her lap and gazed at him tragically.
“Well, but have a try,” urged Father O’Sullivan. “Perhaps I can be helping you out.”
“First, then,” said Muriel, “I want her to be happy again, and I don’t see how that can be unless she hears from him, and even that alone would be no good, because I’m sure to be really happy she’d have to marry him, and you see he has committed forgery. If only that could be untrue—but it’s impossible, and I don’t see how anything can come right,” she ended despairingly.
Father O’Sullivan rubbed his hair up the wrong way. “And it’s a Mass with the intention of things coming right you want me to say, when all the time you’re feeling sure they can’t,” he remarked severely. “And if I’m going to say it that way myself, what kind of faith do you think I’m going to have in it?”