“It is too late to talk of it now; but if I could have been permitted one minute to go on my knees to her, and bless and thank her for all her love, I could bear this better. For that man, whoever he may be, I have no feeling but pity. Unless the safety of others should require it, I hope he may not be taken. I haven’t a doubt the unfortunate wretch wanted the money, but didn’t mean to hurt any one, except in self-defence. I do not wish to know who he is.”
Mrs. Gerald was too much affected to utter a word in reply. It did not seem to be F. Chevreuse who was speaking to her in that sad voice, from which the ringing tone had quite gone, and that pale face was not like his. It seemed, too, that in those few weeks his hair had grown white.
He resumed after a moment: “There are some things at the house I would like to have you see to. Whatever is valuable in money, the silver and a few other things, I mean shall go toward a new altar-service. She wished it. But there are some trinkets and things that she used, and clothing and books, that I would like to have you take away. I don’t want to see them about. Let Honora choose whatever she likes for herself. My mother was fond of her. Keep what you wish, and give some little souvenirs to those who would value them for her sake. And now let us set our faces forward, and waste no time in vain lamentations.”
“O Mrs. Gerald!” Jane cried, when the lady went there in compliance with the priest’s request, “my heart is broke! All the light is gone out of the house.”
“Don’t speak of that,” Mrs. Gerald said. “Tell me of F. Chevreuse. Is he quiet? Does he eat anything?”
“He eats about as much as would keep a fly,” the housekeeper sighed. “But he sits at the table, and tries the best he can. If you’d seen him the first night after it was all over! I came up and poured the tea out for him, and, indeed, my eyes were so full I came near scalding myself with it. He took something on his plate, and made believe taste of it, and talked in a cheerful sort of way about the weather and about something he wanted to have done. But when he saw my hand holding the cup out to him, he stopped short in what he was saying, and choked up, and then he leaned back in his chair and burst out a-crying. It was the same little cup and spoon she always gave him, but it wasn’t the same woman that held it across the table for him to take. And I set the cup down and cried too: what else? And, ‘Jane,’ says he, ‘where’s the little hand that for years has been stretched out to me every evening?’ What could the like of me say, ma’am, to comfort a priest in his sorrow? I couldn’t help speaking, though, and says I, ‘May be there isn’t the length of the table between you,’ says I, ‘and the little hand is holding out the first bitter cup it ever offered you to drink. But, oh! drink it, father dear,’ says I, ‘and may be you’ll find a blessing at the bottom.’ And then I was so ashamed of myself for preaching to the priest that I ran out of the room. After a little while his bell rang, and I wiped my eyes, and went in. And there he sat with a trembling kind of a smile on his face, and says he, ‘Jane, how am I to get my tea at all?’ So I gave him the cup, and went and stood by the fireplace. And he talked about things in the house, and asked me if I didn’t want my mother to come and live with me. The Lord knows I didn’t, ma’am, through my mother not being overneat, besides taking a drop now and then. But it’s decenter, and so I said yes. And when I was cheered up a little, he sent me out. But when I was going through the door, he spoke to me, and says he, ‘Jane!’ And when I looked back, and said ‘Sir!’ says he, ‘Jane, you’re right. There is a blessing at the bottom of it.’ And he smiled in a way that was sadder than tears. Since that he has the tray set at his elbow, and pours the tea for himself. And now, ma’am, I’m going to tell you something that you mustn’t let anybody know, for may be I oughtn’t to speak of it. That first night following the funeral I heard him walking about his room after I went to bed, and I knew he couldn’t sleep; though, indeed, it was little that any of us slept that night. Well, by-and-by, when I’d been drowsy like, I heard him go out into the entry, and I thought that perhaps some one had rung the bell. I was frightened for fear of who it might be; so I got up, and threw something on, and crept up the stairs, and peeped through the rail, all ready to scream for help. I watched him open the door, with the street-lamp shining not far off; and, O Mrs. Gerald! if he didn’t kneel down there and kiss the threshold where she stood that night watching him drive away; and he cried that pitiful that it was all I could do not to cry out loud myself, and let him know I was there.”
The first sharpness of the impression made by this event wore away, and people began to talk of other things. Some wealthy Protestants of Crichton made up for F. Chevreuse the money he had lost, and thus soothed their regret for the loss which they could not repair to him. Even those who were most grieved felt their lives closing over the wound. Duties and plans that had been interrupted were resumed, among them that for a concert in aid of the new convent. Miss Ferrier’s rehearsal had been a last preparation for this concert, which had been postponed on account of the death of Mother Chevreuse, and it was necessary to have another.
Annette threw herself into these preparations with spirit. Her affairs were prospering as well as she could expect. F. Chevreuse had talked with Mrs. Ferrier, and brought her to reason, and Lawrence had been induced to yield a little. It was settled that the marriage should take place on the first of September, and the young couple spend one year with the mother. After that they were to be free to go where they liked, Annette with an ample allowance assured her, and a promise that the property should be equally divided in case of her mother’s death.
“The young man is behaving very well,” F. Chevreuse said, “and he ought to be trusted and encouraged. He goes regularly to Mass, and attends closely to his business. I shall not soon forget how much he did for me when—when I was away that night. The shock seems to have awakened him. He sees what indolence and unfixed principles may lead to, and that a man who rocks like a boat on the tide of his own passions may drift anywhere. We must be good to him.”
“If you would only give him a plain talking to, father,” Mrs. Ferrier said. She had an immense faith in the power of talk. “If you would tell him what he ought to do, and what he ought not to do. Just warn him.”