When she came down half an hour later she found Mistress Margaret waiting for her outside Lady Maxwell’s room.
“He is in there,” she said. “I will tell Mary”; and she slipped in. Isabel outside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment more was beckoned in by the nun.
James Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking exhausted and white. His mother, with something of the same look of supreme suffering and triumph, was standing behind his chair. She smiled gravely and sweetly at Isabel, as if to encourage her; and went out at the further door, followed by her sister.
“Mistress Isabel,” said the priest, without any introductory words, in his broken voice, and motioning her to a seat, “I cannot tell you what joy it was to see you at mass. Is it too much to hope that you will seek admission presently to the Catholic Church?”
Isabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling to her. It was as courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was just the faintest ring in it, in spite of its weakness, as of one who spoke with authority.
“I—I thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “I wish to hear more at any rate.”
“Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes will be the proper person. My mother will let him know; and I have no doubt that he will receive you by Easter, and that you can make your First Communion on that day.”
She bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance.
“You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous,” went on the priest, “but I trust you understand the terms on which you come. You come as a little child, to learn; is it not so? Simply that?”
She bowed her head again.