"Oh! I remember!—; that was mean. I wouldn't believe I could do such a thing if I didn't know I had. I'll be hanged if I do it again. Then there's—, and—, and—. Well, confession does put a fellow out of conceit with himself. And there's—; a dishonest deed, I must own. I don't wonder the Lord gets angry with us; and how he does wait for us to come round! I'm glad I didn't drop dead to-day. I'm thankful I didn't drop dead to-day! The Lord is good. What am I lounging on a seat for? Why don't I go on my knees? Then there's ——. I'm sorry for that. I wish somebody would give me a thrashing for it. I've been sorry for the same sin dozens of times, and accused myself of it, and promised not to commit it again. My resolutions are not worth much. Suppose I can't keep myself out of sin without the Lord's help. I'll ask for it."
At the end, Verheyden, sobered and humbled, would present himself to the priest and make a clear and sincere confession.
But now religion was to be no more an incident, but the business of his life. He was fortunate in his director, for Father Vinton was not only prudent, but sympathetic. If, when he read lives of the saints, Verheyden longed for ecstasies which should thrill him as sensibly as music could, the father did not reprove his presumption, but said: "My son, such favors do not come when they are looked and asked for, they are unexpected. Strive to render yourself worthy of God's friendship, and forget the reward till he shall please to bestow it." If, kneeling before the altar, his eyes full of tears, the intensity of his gaze defeating itself, Verheyden fancied that the cross before him quivered with its burden, and that the aureoled head grew to be the head of a living, suffering man whose eyes turned pitifully on him—the father did not call his penitent crazy.
"Perhaps he grieves to find you so unreconciled," he said. "When with a loving violence he tore the idol from your grasp in order to give you a work wherein the end would not be forgotten in the means, he expected your submission. Perhaps he grieves to see that you reject all work."
Verheyden blushed painfully as he extended his mutilated arm. "What can I do?"
"Take charge of your singing-class again."
For one instant he faced the priest with a sudden fierceness, the last spark of rebellion in him. Then his face faded and drooped.
"I will, sir."
"Miss Rothsay will play for you when you need her."