“Not a bit good!” said the priest. “The club is for girls, isn’t it? And you are a girl, aren’t you? I turn off here. Good night. Good night, Mr. Moore.”
He held out his hand and Rodney unwillingly took it.
“God bless you, my poor lad,” said the priest gently. “Help and bless you.”
He turned to Cis with great kindness, a sweet gravity, a steady look that told her that he fully understood her situation and recalled her to her duty with something of the infinite pity of God and His love for souls which grope. She knew that the priest saw that she loved Rodney, and that his prophecy of the outcome of that love would not accord with Rodney’s own forecast of her perfect bliss.
Father Morley held out his hand and Cis put hers into it, lifting her eyes to the deep-set ones above her, which rested upon her as if they would draw her up through their light into the Highest Light.
“Good-bye, my child. Remember that we hear confessions at St. Francis’ regularly on Fridays and Saturdays, afternoon and evening, and at any other time when we are called out, and that a mortal sin should not rest an hour upon the soul. Come to see me in the house; I should like to know you,” he said, ignoring Rodney, whose anger flamed into crimson in his cheeks and flashed in his eyes.
“Thank you, Father Morley,” replied Cis, ill-at-ease, conscious of Rodney’s annoyance, devoutly wishing that “Father Morley wouldn’t,” yet responding to his summons with a half perception of its value to her. “I shouldn’t know how to call on you; I never knew a priest, not that way. And I don’t get time, really.”
“And you are not lonely now, and would rather not have an old Religious bother you, my dear? Very well; but remember that when you need him, Father Morley is waiting, and, when things get too hard to bear, or the strain is too strong for your young hands to hold back on the ropes, come to him and he will help your feebleness. Don’t forget, Cicely Adair, that I shall be watching for you.”
So saying, the Jesuit raised his hat with a courtesy that included both the young people, and went off down the side street with a long, striding gait, his hands thrust into his coat-sleeves, his shoulders bent forward like a man so accustomed to meditation that the instant that he was released from talk, from attention to the needs of others, he was off and away to other realms than this.
“The old meddler!” exclaimed Rodney. “Don’t you go near him, Cis! They’ll make you into one of their idiot women, crazy for novenas and church work, always lighting candles and trotting around to ask a priest whether roast pork really is indigestible, or whether all-wool flannels are better than half-wool, or whether it is a sin to use a mud worm for bait, because it looks like flesh, and the fish eats it, and we eat the fish on Friday! Idiots! I’d beat a woman, if she belonged to me, and got feeble-minded in that particular way!”