She drew her hand across her eyes.
'I must treat it as a confession, or I cannot speak. I shall not ask you to absolve me. That—that would do me no good,' she said, with a little wild laugh, 'What I want is direction—from some one accustomed to look at people as they are—and—and to speak the truth to them. Say "yes," Padre. You—you may have the fate of three lives in your hands.'
Her entreating eyes hung upon him. His consideration took a few moments longer. Then he dropped his own look upon the ground, and clasped his hands.
'Say, my daughter, all that you wish to say.'
The priestly phrase gave her courage.
She drew a long breath, and paused a little to collect her thoughts. When she began, it was in a low, dragging voice full of effort.
'What I want to know, Father, is—how far one may fight—how far one should fight—for oneself. The facts are these. I will not mention any names. Last winter, Father, I had reason to think that life had changed for me—after many years of unhappiness. I gave my whole, whole heart away.' The words came out in a gasp, as though a large part of the physical power of the speaker escaped with them. 'I thought that—in return—I was held in high value, in true affection—that—that my friend cared for me more than for anyone else—that in time he would be mine altogether. It was a great hope, you understand—I don't put it at more. But I had done much to deserve his kindness—he owed me a great deal. Not, I mean, for the miserable work I had done for him; but for all the love, the thought by day and night that I had given him.'
She bowed her head on her hands for a moment. The priest sat motionless and she resumed, torn and excited by her strange task.
'I was not alone in thinking and hoping—as I did. Other people thought it. It was not merely presumptuous or foolish on my part. But—ah! it is an old story, Padre. I don't know why I inflict it on you!'
She stopped, wringing her hands.