Her eyes ran through the lines, and her heart said, "How he loves me."
But the temptation to see him quenched instantly in remembrance of her
Communion, and she tore the letter hastily into two pieces, as if by
destroying it she destroyed the difficulty it had created for her. She
must not see him. But how was she to avoid meeting him? To-morrow be
would be waiting in the street for her, and she walked about the room
too agitated to think clearly. He seemed like the devil trying to come
between her and God. She must not see him, of that she was quite sure.
She would lock herself in her room. But then she would miss Holy
Communion, and her heart was set on the Sacrament; the Sacrament alone
could give her strength to persevere. To see him and to hear him would
ruin her peace of mind, and peace of mind was essential to the reverent
reception of the Sacrament. It was lost already, or very nearly. She
stopped in her walk, she looked into her soul, she asked herself if any
thought had crossed her mind which would render her unfit for Communion
... and on the spot she resolved to go straight to Monsignor and consult
him. He would advise her, he would find some way out of the difficulty.
But it was now six; she could not get to St. Joseph's before seven. It
was late, but she did not think he would refuse to see her; he would
know that it was only a matter of the greatest moment that would bring
her to inquire for him at that hour.
It was as she expected. Monsignor did not receive anyone so late in the
evening.
"Yes, I know, but I think Monsignor Mostyn will see me. Tell him--tell
him that my business does not admit delay."
She was shown into the same waiting-room. This seemed to her a
favourable presage, and she offered up a prayer that Monsignor would not
refuse to see her; everything depended on that. She listened for his
step; twice she was mistaken; at last the door opened. It was he, and he
guessed, before she had time to speak, what had happened.
"One of those men," he said, "has come again into your life?"
She nodded, and, still unable to speak, she searched in her pocket for
their letters.
"I received these letters to-day--one this morning, the other, Sir
Owen's, just now. That was why I came. I felt that I had to see you."
"Pray sit down, my child, you are agitated." He handed her a chair.
"You remember you said I might go to Communion on Sunday, and if I were
to meet him to-morrow it would--there is no temptation, I don't mean
that--but I do not wish to be reminded of things which you told me I was
to try to forget."
The priest stood reading the letters, and Evelyn sat looking into space,
absorbed in the desire to escape from Owen. All her faith was in
Monsignor, and she believed he would be able to save her from Owen's
intrusion.
"I don't think you need fear anything from Mr. Dean."
"No, not from him."
Monsignor continued to read Ulick's letter. Evelyn wished he would read
Owen's; Ulick's interested her not in the least.
"Mr. Dean seems a very extraordinary person. Does he believed in
astrology, the casting of horoscopes, or is it mere affectation?"
"I don't know; he always talks like that. He believes, or says he
believes, in Lir and the great Mother Dana, in the old Irish Gods. But,
Monsignor, please read Sir Owen's letter. I want to know what I am to
do."
He walked once across the room, and when he returned to the table he
said half to himself, as if his thoughts had long out-stripped his
words--
"I am glad I advised you to leave Park Lane, for of course he will go
there first."
"He will easily find out I'm at Dulwich, he need not even ask--he will
guess it at once."
"Yes, to be sure."
"If I am not to meet him I must go away--but where? All my friends and
acquaintances are his friends. You would approve of none of them
Monsignor," she said, smiling a little.
He did not seem to hear her. Suddenly he said, "I think you had better
go and spend a few days at the Passionist Convent. The Reverend Mother
sent you an invitation through me, you remember, so we need have no
hesitation in proposing it. Indeed, I feel confident that they will
receive you with the greatest pleasure. It will do you a great deal of
good. You will have peace and quiet, my child; you will find yourself in
an atmosphere of faith and purity which cannot but be helpful to you in
your present unsettled state."
It seemed to Evelyn that that was what she had wanted all the time, only
she had not been able to say so. Yes; to spend a week with those dear
nuns, to sit in the convent garden, to kneel before the Blessed
Sacrament in the convent church, it would be a real spiritual luxury.
"Yes, I should love to go," she said. "I feel it is just what I need. I
have so much to think out, so much to learn, and at home there are a
hundred things to distract me."
"Very well, then, that is settled. I will send the Reverend Mother word
to-morrow; but there is no necessity, you can write yourself, and say
you are coming in the afternoon; she will only have to get your room
ready."
"But, Monsignor, my Communion? I had forgotten it was from you I was to
receive Holy Communion. Of course I know it doesn't really make any
difference, but still, you heard my confession, and I would far rather
receive Communion this first time from you than from anyone else. I
don't think it could be quite the same thing--if it weren't from you."
"And I should be sorry too, my child, as by God's grace I have been the
means of bringing you thus far, not to complete your reconciliation to
him. But I think we can manage that too without much difficulty. I say
Mass to-morrow at nine o'clock, and will give you Communion then, and
you can go to the convent for your retreat early in the afternoon. Will
that suit you?"
And Evelyn could not find words to express her gratitude.
That evening she sat with her father. He was busy stringing a lute, and
they had not spoken for some time; they often spent quite long whiles
without speaking, and only occasionally they raised their eyes to see
each other. The sensation of the other's presence was sufficient for
their happiness.