The three looked intently, then drew back, and the detective carefully folded the paper again, and placed it in his pocket-book.
An hour later, F. Chevreuse arrived. We will not enter the house with him. The two guests that there await him, death and an unspeakable grief, demand that homage of us, that we do not intrude.
As Lawrence Gerald was driving away from the door after having brought the priest, Jane called out to him, and, when he stopped, leaned over the wheel into the carriage.
“Don’t let a soul on earth know what I told you we found in her hand, nor what I saw,” she whispered.
He muttered some half-stifled word about not being a tattler.
“Promise me you won’t,” she persisted, laying her hand on his arm.
He gave the promise impatiently—women’s ways are so annoying when one is excited and in haste—shook her hand off, and drove away.
Let us pass over the first days that followed. The gossip, the wonderment, the show of grief that is merely excitement, and, still more, the grief that is real, and shrinks from showing itself—who would not wish to escape sight and sound of them? We may well believe that one so beloved and honored was followed to her last home by the tears and blessings of a crowd, and that one so bereaved was the object of an immense sympathy and affection. We may also be sure that those to whom the law gives in charge the search for such offenders did not neglect their task. We will not fraternize with the detectives nor with the gossips. Let them do their work, each after his kind.
When weeks had passed away, Mrs. Gerald had not yet dared to mention his loss to F. Chevreuse; but he spoke of it to her; and, having once spoken, she felt sure that he wished the subject to be avoided thereafter.
“It seems to me that I never was a real priest till now,” he said. “I was not conscious of making any sacrifice. I had a pleasant home, and one there to whom I was all in all. Now I have no earthly tie, nothing to come between me and my Master’s work. I don’t mean to say that she was an obstacle; on the contrary, she was a great help; but she was also an immense comfort, more a comfort than I deserve, perhaps. I do not deny that it is sad, but I know also that it is well. There are no accidents in God’s providence. The only thought almost too hard for me to bear is that I took her affection so carelessly. She gave her all, and I did not remember to tell her that it was precious to me. She was a tender, loving creature, and, when I was a child, she gave me that fondness that children need. I forgot that she might need fondness as much when she grew old. I forgot that, while I had a thousand duties, and interests, and friends, she had nothing but me.