"Can nothing be done to alleviate your sufferings?" he inquired in a kindly tone.
"Nothing. The sooner death comes to release me from them, the better."
He lingered yet, hesitating. Then he bent closer to her, and spoke in a whisper.
"Have you thought much of that other life? Of the necessity of repentance—of seeking earnestly the pardon of God?"
"That is your Protestant fashion," she answered with equanimity. "I have made my confession to a priest and he has given me absolution. A good fat old man; he was very kind to me; he saw how I had been tossed and turned about in life. He will bring the bon dieu to me the last thing, and cause a mass to be said for my soul."
"I thought I had heard that you were a Protestant."
"I was either. I said I was a Protestant to Madame Dare. But the Roman Catholic religion is the most convenient to take up when you are passing. Your priests say they cannot pardon sins."
The interview took longer in acting than it has in telling, and William returned to the hotel to find Mary tired, wondering at his absence, and a letter to Mrs. Ashley—with which you have been favoured—lying on the table, awaiting its conclusion.
"You are weary, my darling. You should not have remained up."
"I thought you were never coming, William. I thought you must have gone off by the London steamer, and left me here! The hotel omnibus took some passengers to it at ten o'clock."