"If he were to go away and I were left here again, I don't know what
would become of me. It isn't my fault, father; I can't help it."
"I did not know that you were like this. Your mother--"
"Ah I mother and I are quite different. I am more like you, father. You
can't blame me; you have been in love with women--with mother, at
least--and ought to understand."
"Evelyn ... these are subjects that cannot be discussed between us."
The eyes of the mother watched them, and there was something in her
cold, distant glance which went to their hearts, but they could not
interpret its meaning.
"I either had to go away, father, telling you nothing, or I had to tell
you everything."
"I will go to Sir Owen."
"No, father, you mustn't. Promise me you won't. I have trusted you, and
you mustn't make me regret my trust. This is my secret." He was
frightened by the strange light that appeared in her eyes, and he felt
that an appeal to Owen would be like throwing oil on a flame. "You
mustn't go to Sir Owen; you have promised you won't. I don't know what
would happen if you did."
His daughter's confession had frightened him, and he knew not what
answer to make to her. When the depths find voice we stand aghast,
knowing neither ourselves nor those whom we have lived with always. He
was caught in the very den of his being, and seemed at every moment to
be turning over a leaf of his past life.
"If you had only patience, Evelyn--ah! you have heard what I am going to
say so often, but I don't blame your incredulity. That was why I did not
tell you before."
"What has happened?" she asked eagerly; for she, too, wished for a lull
in this stress of emotion.
"Well," he said, "Monsignor Mostyn, the great Roman prelate, who has
just arrived from Rome, and is staying with the Jesuits, shares all my
views regarding the necessity of a musical reformation. He believes that
a revival of Palestrina and Vittoria would be of great use to the
Catholic cause in England. He says that he can secure the special
intervention of the Pope, and, what is much more important, he will
subscribe largely, and has no doubt that sufficient money can be
collected."
Evelyn listened, smiling through her sorrow, like a bird when the rain
has ceased for a moment, and she asked questions, anxious to delay the
inevitable return to her own unhappy condition. She was interested in
the luck that had come to her father, and was sorry that her conduct had
clouded or spoilt it. At last a feeling of shame came upon them that at
such a time they should be engaged in speaking of such singularly
irrelevant topics. She could see that the same thought had come upon
him, and she noticed his trim, square figure, and the old blue jacket
which she had known so many years, as he walked up and down the room. He
was getting very grey lately, and when she returned he might be quite
white.
"Oh, father, father," she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands,
"how unhappy I am."
"I shall send a telegram to Monsignor saying I can't see him this
morning."
"Ah! you have to see him this morning;" and she did not know whether she
was glad or sorry. Perhaps she was more frightened than either, for the
appointment left her quite free to go to London by the three o'clock
train.
"I can't leave you alone."
"Darling, if I had wanted to deceive you, I should have told you
nothing; and, however you were to watch me, I could always get away if I
chose."
She was right, he could not keep her by force, he could do nothing;
shame prevented him from appealing to her affection for him, for it was
in his interest she should stay. After all, Sir Owen will make a great
singer of her. The thought had come and gone before he was aware, and to
atone for this involuntary thought he spoke to her about her religion.
"I used to be religious," she said, "but I am religious no longer. I can
hardly say my prayers now. I said them last night, but this morning I
couldn't."