A few minutes afterwards I was tripping upstairs (love and hope work
wonderful miracles!) behind the Father's Irish housekeeper, Mrs.
Cassidy, who was telling me how well I was looking ("smart and well
extraordinary"), asking if it "was on my two feet I had walked all the
way," and denouncing the "omathauns" who had been "after telling her
there wasn't the width of a wall itself betune me and the churchyard."
I found Father Dan in his cosy study lined with books; and being so much
wrapped up in my own impetuous happiness I did not see at first that he
was confused and nervous, or remember until next day that, though (at
the sound of my voice from the landing) he cried "Come in, my child,
come in," he was standing with his back to the door as I
entered--hiding something (it must have been a newspaper) under the
loose seat of his easy-chair.
"Father," I said, "have you heard the news?"
"The news. . . ."
"I mean the news in the newspaper."
"Ah, the news in the newspaper."
"Isn't it glorious? That terrible marriage is over at last! Without my
doing anything, either! Do you remember what you said the last time I
came here?"
"The last time. . . ."
"You said that I, being a Catholic, could not break my marriage without
breaking my faith. But my husband, being a Protestant, had no
compunction. So it has come to the same thing in the end, you see. And
now I'm free."
"You're free . . . free, are you?"
"It seems they have been keeping it all away from me--making no defence,
I suppose--and it was only this morning I heard the news."
"Only this morning, was it?"
"I first saw it in a newspaper, but afterwards Martin himself came to
tell me."
"Martin came, did he?"
"He doesn't care in the least; in fact, he is glad, and says we can be
married at any time."
"Married at any time--he says that, does he?"
"Of course nothing is arranged yet, dear Father, but I couldn't help
coming to see you about it. I want everything to be simple and quiet--no
display of any kind."
"Simple and quiet, do you?"
"Early in the morning--immediately after mass, perhaps."
"Immediately after mass. . . ."
"Only a few wild flowers on the altar, and the dear homely souls who
love me gathered around."
"The dear, homely souls. . . ."
"It will be a great, great thing for me, but I don't want to force
myself upon anybody, or to triumph over any one--least of all over my
poor father, now that he is so sick and down."
"No, no . . . now that he is so sick and down."
"I shall want you to marry us, Daddy Dan--not the Bishop or anybody else
of that kind, you know."
"You'll want me to marry you--not the Bishop or anybody else of that
kind."
"But Father Dan," I cried, laughing a little uneasily (for I had begun
to realise that he was only repeating my own words), "why don't you say
something for yourself?"
And then the cheery sunshine of the cosy room began to fade away.
Father Dan fumbled the silver cross which hung over his cassock (a sure
sign of his nervousness), and said with a grave face and in a voice all
a-tremble with emotion:
"My child. . . ."
"Yes?"
"You believe that I wouldn't pain or distress or shock you if I could
avoid it?"
"Indeed I do."
"Yet I am going to pain and distress and shock you now. I . . . I cannot
marry you to Martin Conrad. I daren't. The Church thinks that you are
married already--that you are still the wife of your husband."
Though my dear priest had dealt me my death-blow, I had not yet begun to
feel it, so I smiled up into his troubled old face and said:
"But how can the Church think that, dear Father? My husband has no
rights over me now, and no duties or responsibilities with respect to
me. He can marry again if he likes. And he will, I am sure he will, and
nobody can prevent him. How, then, can the Church say that I am still
his wife?"
"Because marriage, according to the law of the Church, can only be
dissolved by death," said Father Dan. "Haven't I told you that before,
my daughter? Didn't we go over it again and again when you were here the
last time?"
"Yes, yes, but I thought if somebody else sought the divorce--somebody
who had never believed in the indissolubility of marriage and wasn't
bound by the law of the Church . . . we've heard of cases of that kind,
haven't we?"
Father Dan shook his head.
"My poor child, no. The Church thinks marriage is a sacred covenant
which no difference of belief, no sin on either side, can ever break."
"But, Father," I cried, "don't you see that the law has already broken
it?"
"Only the civil law, my daughter. Remember the words of our blessed and
holy Redeemer: '_Every one that putteth away his wife and marrieth
another committeth adultery; and he that marrieth one that is put away
committeth adultery.'_ . . . My poor child, my heart bleeds for you, but
isn't that the Divine Commandment?"
"Then you think," I said (the room was becoming dark and I could feel my
lip trembling), "you think that because I went through that marriage
ceremony two years ago . . . and though the civil law has dissolved it
. . . you think I am still bound by it, and will continue to be so . . .
to the end of my life?"
Father Dan plucked at his cassock, fumbled his print handkerchief, and
replied:
"I am sorry, my child, very, very sorry."
"Father Dan," I said sharply, for by this time my heart was beginning to
blaze, "have you thought about Martin? Aren't you afraid that if our
Church refuses to marry us he may ask some other church to do so?"
"Christ's words must be the final law for all true Christians, my
daughter. And besides. . . ."
"Well?"
"Besides that. . . ."
"Yes?"
"It blisters my tongue to say it, my child, knowing your sufferings and
great temptations, but. . . ."
"But what, dear Father?"
"You are in the position of the guilty party, and therefore no good
clergyman of any Christian Church in the world, following the
Commandment of his Master, would dare to marry you."
What happened after that I cannot exactly say. I remember that, feeling
the colour flying to my face, I flung up my hands to cover it, and that
when I came to full possession of my senses again Father Dan (himself in
a state of great agitation) was smoothing my arms and comforting me.
"Don't be angry with your old priest for telling you the truth--the
bitter truth, my daughter."
He had always seen this dark hour coming to him, and again and again he
had prayed to be delivered from it--in the long nights of his fruitless
wanderings when I was lost in London, and again since I had been found
and had come home and he had looked on, with many a pang, at our silent
hopes and expectations--Martin's and mine, we two children.
"And when you came into my little den to-day, my daughter, with a face
as bright as stars and diamonds, God knows I would have given half of
what is left of my life that mine should not be the hand to dash the cup
of your happiness away."
As soon as I was sufficiently composed, within and without, Father Dan
led me downstairs (praying God and His Holy Mother to strengthen me on
my solitary way), and then stood at the door in his cassock to watch me
while I walked up the road.
It was hardly more than half an hour since I had passed over the ground
before, yet in that short time the world seemed to have become pale and
grey--the sun gone out, the earth grown dark, the still air joyless,
nothing left but the everlasting heavens and the heavy song of the sea.
As I approached the doctor's house Martin came swinging down the road to
meet me, with his strong free step and that suggestion of the wind from
the mountain-tops which seemed to be always about him.
"Hello!" he cried. "Thought you were lost and been hunting all over the
place for you."
But as he came nearer and saw how white and wan my face was, though I
was doing my best to smile, he stopped and said:
"My poor little woman, where have you been, and what have they been
doing to you?"
And then, as well as I could, I told him.