“’Tis plain enough what the old Sir Antony was up to, when Henry came upon him, the scoundrel,” said Father Maloney. “And the secret kept all these years! ’Tis a miracle has brought it to light now.”
Lady Mary raised her head.
“And perhaps too late,” she said quietly, voicing the fear at her heart; a fear which, with the last hour, had been waxing stronger.
“Too late!” cried Father Maloney cheerily, “not a bit of it. If it’s two miracles is needed, God will be working them; though I’m thinking there’ll be no miracle in bringing the boy home. He’s hiding safe enough somewhere, and will be found before sun-down, I’ll be bound.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Mary very low, and unheeding his words, “I didn’t give up everything whole-heartedly. Perhaps I still held to it in my mind. If I did, it was for him, and not for myself. And now he is gone.”
“Rubbish,” said Father Maloney.
“Is it?” asked Lady Mary.
Father Maloney put his hands upon the table and looked across at her.
“Weren’t you doing your best to accept God’s will in the matter?” he demanded.
Lady Mary smiled faintly.