The priest shook his head.
“I believe in sometimes leaving God to warn in his own way,” he said. “It is a mistake for even the wisest man to be perpetually thrusting his clumsy fingers into the delicate workings of the human soul. We are priests, but we are not Gods; and men and women are not fools. They should be left to themselves sometimes. God has occasional messages for his children which do not need our intervention. Too much direction is degrading to an intelligent soul.”
F. Chevreuse had been involuntarily expressing the thought that started up in his own mind rather than addressing his companion; and, seeing at a glance that she had not understood a word of what he had been saying, he smilingly adapted his talk to her comprehension.
“I heard a story once,” he said, “of a careful mother who was going away from home to spend the day. Before starting, she called her children about her, and, after telling them of certain things which they were not to do, she concluded in this wise: ‘And don’t you go up into the back attic, to the dark corner behind the big chimney, and take up a loose board in the floor, and pull out a bag of dry beans there is there, and get beans in your noses.’ Then she went away, having forbidden every evil which she could imagine might happen to them. When she came home at night, every child had a bean up its nose. Don’t you see she had better not have said anything about those beans? The children didn’t know where they were. No; if you want to keep any one from evil, talk to him of what is good. The more you look at evil, even to abuse it, the less shocking it is to you. The more you talk about it, the more people will do it. Sometimes it must be spoken of; but beware of saying too much. Do you know when darkness appears darkest? When you have been looking at light. Therefore, my lady, say all that is pleasant to this young man, and try to forget that there ever was anything unpleasant.”
Mrs. Ferrier was not one to oppose the earnestly expressed wish of a clergyman, and, at this time, all F. Chevreuse’s people felt an unusual desire to show him their love and obedience. Besides, she was rather proud of having been considered so implacable that no one but a priest could influence her, and of being able to say, in defence of her change of plan: “I did it for the sake of F. Chevreuse.” She even boasted a little of this intercession, and took care it should be known that the church had begged her to be lenient, and had for a moment anxiously awaited her decision.
“Besides,” she would add, “he takes a good deal more pains to be pleasant now.”
Lawrence, indeed, took no such pains, and, perhaps, liked Annette’s mother less than ever. The only change was in herself. She had, by being civil to him, rendered it possible for him to be agreeable. When he was spoken of slightingly, she had insulted him; when he was praised to her, she conciliated. It was not necessary that there should be any change in him.
Annette, too, had taken his cause up with a high hand. The passion of love, which had sometimes made her timid in speaking of him, was unconsciously giving place to a passion of pity, which made her fearless. Woe to the servant who was dilatory in waiting on Mr. Gerald, or lacking in any sign of respect for him. He was consulted about everything. Not a curtain, nor chair, nor spoon could be bought till he had approved. A cool “I will see what Lawrence thinks of it,” was enough to postpone a decision on any subject. “He has taste, and we have nothing but money.” If the phrase is not a contradiction, it might be said that she abased herself haughtily in order to exalt him. If they had company to dinner, Lawrence must glance over the list of dishes; if a new plant arrived, he must advise where it should be set; if a stranger came to town, it was for Lawrence to decide whether the Ferriers should show him hospitality.
“I think our rehearsal may as well be also a little garden-party,” Annette said to him. “We need scarcely any practice, nothing to speak of, everything went so well the last time.”
She was tying on her bonnet before a mirror in the drawing room, and Lawrence stood by a window, hat in hand, looking out at the carriage waiting at the gate. He did not seem to have heard her.