“Annette, then.”
“He won't allow Annette near him,” the mother sighed.
“John,” said the priest, “will you go up and tell Mr. Gerald that I am here to see him?”
“I wouldn't venture to, sir,” John answered. “I don't believe it's of any use; and if you'd take my advice, sir....”
Even Mrs. Ferrier was scandalized by the man's presumption, and faltered out an “O John!”
“I will go myself,” F. Chevreuse interrupted. “Stay down here, all you people, and say the rosary for my success. Say it with all your hearts. And don't come up-stairs till you are called.”
As he went up, a door near the landing softly opened, and in it stood the young wife with a face so woful and deathlike that tears would have seemed joyful in comparison. She said not a word, but stood and looked at the priest in a kind of terror.
“My poor child!” he said pityingly, “why do you stay here alone, killing yourself with grief? Go and stay with your mother and Honora till I come down.”
She made that painful effort to speak which shows that the mouth and throat are dry, and, when words came, they were but a whisper. “O father!” she said, “don't go in there if you have any human weakness left in you! You have to be an angel and not a man to hear my husband's confession. Find some one else for him. He will not speak to you.”
“Never fear, child!” he answered firmly. “I may have human weakness, but I have the strength of God to help me resist it.”