'But now?'
'I don't know—I suspect,' she said miserably. 'But, Father, if it were so she is young; she has all her powers and chances before her. What would kill me would only—anticipate—for her—a day that must come. She is born to be loved.'
Again she let him see her face, convulsed by the effort for composure, the eyes shining with large tears. It was like the pleading of a wilful child.
A veil descended also on the pure intense gaze of the priest, yet he bent it steadily upon her.
'Madame—God has done you a great honour.'
The words were just breathed, but they did not falter. Mutely, with parted lips, she seemed to search for his meaning.
'There are very few of whom God condescends to ask, as plainly, as generously, as He now asks of you. What does it matter, Madame, whether God speaks to us amid the thorns or the flowers? But I do not remember that He ever spoke among the flowers, but often—often, amongst deserts and wildernesses. And when He speaks—Madame! the condescension, the gift is that He should speak at all; that He, our Maker and Lord, should plead with, should as it were humble Himself to, our souls. Oh! how we should hasten to answer, how we should hurry to throw ourselves and all that we have into His hands!'
Eleanor turned away. Unconsciously she began to strip the moss from a tree beside her. The tears dropped upon her lap.
But the appeal was to religious emotion, not to the moral judgment, and she rallied her forces.
'You speak, Father, as a priest—as a Christian. I understand of course that that is the Christian language, the Christian point of view.'