"The Father has made my duty plain, Cousin Donald," she began; "I must go back to the guardians to whom my parents left me, and go from them to my seclusion, when, by meekness and obedience, I have won their forgiveness; I must shrive myself for the holy life by conquering will and pride," and she turned and left us, without having once lifted her eyes to mine. But my first point was gained, and my heart beat more calmly as I turned to Father Gibault, still standing by the window, looking pensively upon the landscape, to exclaim vehemently:
"And you think a rash vow, made by a child, under stress of fright and suffering, obligatory, Father Gibault? You will allow this girl to feel herself doomed to self-immolation because of an irresponsible promise to her own excited conscience? Cannot you foresee that she will live a long life of regret, and unavailing struggle against natural inclinations? And can you believe a half-hearted sacrifice, an immolation of the body only, is more likely to fit Ellen for Heaven, or more sure to do God's service, than the thrice holy calling of Christian wife and mother?"
"You are vehement in your argument beyond necessity, monsieur," answered the Father, in his soft precise English, and smiling calmly at me from the chair in which he had seated himself, while I strode up and down the room excitedly.
"The matter excuses vehemence," I answered. "Have you not guessed that I love my Cousin Ellen, that I wish her for my wife? And I would have good hope of winning her but for this absurd superstition of your cold and bigoted faith, that a fair and innocent young woman does honor to God by shutting herself up and doing penance—thus perpetuating a heathen custom, originating in the need of unprotected women for a place of refuge in a lawless age, to a more civilized time, which has greater need of the example and the inspiration of holy matrons, than for useless bead-counting nuns."
"You have unsuspected fluency of the tongue, Captain McElroy," and Father Gibault's habitual expression of gentle benevolence had given place to one of droll humorousness. "Priest though I be, and with mind, I trust, fixed usually on holier things, I could not easily have blinded myself to signs of earthly love so evident as those you have shown for your cousin. I guessed many things when the maiden lay ill of fever last autumn, and you haunted my steps for news of her. I wonder not that you love Ellen O'Neil. A maiden more sweet I have not known, nor one better worth a man's heart. When I learned of her vow, I thought first of you, with much sympathy, and fearing that her convictions were but the expression of extreme sensibility natural to girlhood, I was most careful not to say aught to fix them into resolve. Later, seeing that she took a maiden's natural pleasure in her small court, and that her influence over Colonel Clark and the rest of you was good, softening and restraining you, I soothed Ellen's unquiet conscience, and showed her that the holy God had given her a present work she could not wisely abandon until the way was opened to her. Moreover, I advised her to test farther her heart, and to be sure of full, free consecration before she should take the holy vows of a nun. Neither the Supreme God nor the holy church value half-hearted service, and such vow as Ellen made is binding only so long as conscience, will, and heart are in full accord. Ellen goes with you, Captain McElroy, free in conscience, unfettered by priestly admonition."
These words of Father Gibault's lifted a weight from my heart. I seized both his hands, and shook them gratefully, saying: "You are as honest and as true hearted as I thought you, Holy Father," calling him for the first time by the reverend title the Kaskaskians gave him. "I have not words sufficient to express my appreciation of your interest in my happiness and your regard for Ellen's welfare."
"I have advised you both as my conscience dictates," he answered, resuming the expression of benevolence, blended with worldly abstraction, and the tone of fatherly authority usual to him. "In doing so I have shifted my responsibility for Ellen O'Niel's future to you, until she is safe in her uncle's home; even then you must share jointly with her other kinsmen the trust which I, as her priestly guardian, have transmitted to you. Had I not full confidence in your honor, and your manly faith, Captain McElroy, I could not give you so delicate a charge with free conscience. You are to conduct this maiden in all safety and honor to her uncle's home; you are to leave her there in unmolested peace for at least one year—longer if she desires—and then allow her to choose, with absolute freedom, between your love and a nun's life. She is to choose, I repeat, freely, as her heart dictates and her conscience approves. Meantime, while she is under your sole guardianship you are to take no slightest advantage of her unprotected state, nor even of her new-found humility, to wring from her any promise or to exact any condition; you will not so much as trouble her with protestations, nor frighten her with appeals and entreaties."
"Most solemnly, I promise all, Holy Father," and I raised my eyes and hand to Heaven; "in no way will I trouble Ellen's peace for a full year; I will conduct her in honor and safety to the care of her lawful guardians, who shall in future be accountable to me for her happiness; and if she shall adhere to her resolutions to take nun's vows, my mother shall escort her to the convent she may choose."
"You leave for Virginia at once, Captain McElroy?"
"In ten days, if my cousin can be ready so soon."