“I fear you do not precisely understand me, brother. I refer particularly to the case of Peter Embden’s niece, who, I hear, has returned here, and has not only had all her sins forgiven, but forgotten, as it were. And I recognize the girl yonder flaunting her shame in the face of honest women.”
Father Benart silently pointed out of the coach window to Lisa in the distance, her thin form outlined against the bright sky of a May morning. She was a picture of patience and penitence. The bishop, however, although he was not a cruel man, loved to scold, and proceeded to harangue Father Benart, who listened patiently and replied:
“The unfortunate girl is a shining example of God’s grace. She tells me—and I have ever found her truthful, having known her from her infancy—that finding herself deserted by that villain of villains, Jacques Haret, she had but one thought—to drown herself—and, as she walked along the brink of a river with this thought in her heart, God’s light came to her; she saw it would be but to heap sin on sin, and a voice within her bade her return to her uncle, who had suffered so much for her sin. And so, struggling against the Spirit of 322 Evil, which made her dread this place worse than any in the world, she came back; came back half starved, half clothed, and arriving at nightfall, went to Peter Embden’s door, and offered to go or to stay, as he should wish. And he, a gentle and forgiving man, bade her, as did our Lord and Saviour, to sin no more, and took her again under his roof. Then, coming early next morning to ask of me what he should do, being greatly troubled in his mind, I said to him to treat this poor sinner as he himself would wish to be treated at the Last Day. So he has given her bread and shelter since.”
“Very reprehensible,” cried the bishop. “Such lapses should be punished, punished with severity, and Madame Cheverny, wilful and impractical woman that she is, disdaining advice from all, abetted you in this, for the girl could not have remained in Peter’s house without Madame Cheverny’s consent.”
“True,” said Father Benart. “Of course Peter was obliged to ask Madame Cheverny’s consent. I did not even think it necessary to remind him of that. And as to Madame Cheverny’s asking advice, I know of no one who has managed affairs so successfully as Madame Cheverny. We might all of us ask advice of her in many things.”
The air of humility with which the little priest said this convinced me that he was a wit disguised in his rusty cassock. The bishop did not relish the implication in his brother’s speech, and resumed with some choler.
“I presume that headstrong woman, Peggy Kirkpatrick, who wishes to be thought Jove in petticoats, 323 went about the parish counseling all the young women to follow Lisa Embden’s example.”
“I can not inform you on that point, brother,” replied Father Benart, “I have not cognizance of all Madame Riano says and does.”
“She is a great trial of my patience,” said the bishop. “She is the thorn in my flesh like unto the one that St. Paul prayed seven times that he might be delivered from. I should come oftener to the château of Capello, but for the unpleasant chance of meeting Peggy Kirkpatrick.”
“You will not meet her this time, brother. She is in Luxembourg.”