VI.

'Then you've heard,' said Agnes, coming forward and taking the

priest's hand. 'How did you hear? Did you meet father?'

'No, my dear child, I've heard nothing. I did not meet your father. I

was in London to-day for the first time since I last saw you. I ought

to have called earlier, but I was detained.... I'm afraid I'm late, it

must be getting late. It must be getting near your dinner hour.'

'I see that you know nothing, and that I shall have to tell you all.'

'Yes, my dear child, tell me everything.' Agnes sat on the ottoman,

Father White took a chair near her. 'Tell me everything. I see you've

been weeping. You're not happy at home then?'

'Oh, Father; happy! if you only knew, if you only knew.... I cannot

tell you.' Then seeing in the priest's arrival a means of escape from

the danger of her position between her father and mother, she cried,

'You must take me back to the convent to-night. I cannot meet mother

when she comes home. Something dreadful might happen. Father White,

you must take me back to the convent, say that you will, say that you

will.'

'My dear child, you are agitated, calm yourself. What has happened?

Tell me.'

'It is too long a story, it is too dreadful. I cannot tell it all to

you now. Later I'll tell you. Take me back to the convent. I cannot

meet mother. I cannot.'

'But what has your mother done; has she been cruel to you--has she

struck you?'

'Struck me! if that were all! that would be nothing.' The priest's

face turned a trifle paler. He felt that something dreadful had

happened. The girl was overcome; her nerves had given way, and she

could hardly speak. It were not well to insist that she should be put

to the torture of a complete narrative.

'Where is your father?' he said. 'Major Lahens will tell me, he knows,

I suppose, all about it. Calm yourself, Agnes. Tell me where your

father is, that will be sufficient.'

'Father is walking round the Square. But don't leave me, don't. I

cannot remain in this room alone,' she said, looking round with a

frightened air.

'I'll wait till he comes in.'

'He may not come in for hours. Perhaps he'll never come back, anything

may happen.'

'If he's walking round the Square he can be sent for.'

'No, Father White. I'll be calm. I'll tell you. I must tell you, but

you'll not desert me, you'll not leave me here to meet mother.'

'Don't you think, my dear child, that it would be better that I should

see your father, that he should tell me?'

'No, I'd sooner tell you myself. Father could not explain. To-morrow,

or after in the convent I'll tell you. I'll tell you and the Mother

Abbess.'

'You must see, Agnes, that I cannot take you away from your father's

house without his permission.'

'It is not father's house.'

'Well, your mother's house.'

'That is quite different. I see that I must tell you--of course I

must.'

'Surely, Agnes, it would be better to postpone telling me till to-

morrow, you're tired, you've been crying, you'll be able to tell me

better in the morning. I'll call here early to-morrow morning.'

'No; you must take me back to the convent to-night, I cannot remain

here.... You'll agree with me that I cannot when I tell you all.'...

Agnes looked at Father White, she was no longer crying, she had

regained her self possession in the necessity of the moment, and she

began with hardly a tremble In her voice.

'Mother is not--is not--I'm afraid she is not--But how am I to accuse

my own mother.'

'I'm sure now, my dear child, that I was right when I suggested that I

should speak to Major Lahens.'

'Because you don't know the circumstances, nor do you know my father.

No, it must be I. I must tell you.'

There was a note of conviction in Agnes' voice which silenced further

protestation, and Father White listened.

'You see, this house and everything here belongs to mother. It is she

who pays for everything. Father lost all his money some years ago; he

was cheated out of it in the city. The loss of his money preyed upon

his mind; he could not stand the humiliation of asking his wife, as he

puts it, for twopence to take the omnibus. Mother did not care for

father, she cared for some one else, and that of course made father's

dependence still more humiliating. It preyed on his mind, and he lives

in the house like a servant, in a little room under the roof that the

kitchen-maid would not sleep in. He has a type-writing machine up

there, and he makes a few shillings a week by copying; he bought the

butler's old overcoat... It is very sad to see him up there at work,

and to hear him talk.... I must tell you that the people who come here

are not good people, I don't think that they can be very nice; the

conversation in this drawing-room I'm sure is not. ... There is a man

who comes here whom I don't like at all, a Mr. Moulton. He says things

that are not nice, and he tried to kiss me the other day. I was afraid

of him, and mother used to leave me alone with him. I had difficulty

in getting away from him, so I asked father to speak. I thought that

father, when he met him alone, would tell him not to talk as he did,

but father got so angry, that notwithstanding all I could do to

prevent him he went down in his old clothes to the drawing-room, and,

I suppose, insulted every one. Anyhow they all went away. I felt that

something was happening, so I listened on the stairs. Father and

mother were talking violently, and when he grasped mother's throat--I

rushed between them. That is the whole story.'

'A very terrible story.'

'So you see that it is impossible for me to remain here. I cannot meet

mother after what has happened. You must take me to the convent to-

night. Say that you will, Father White.'

'Have you not thought, my child, that it may be your duty to remain

here as mediator, as peace-maker?'

'Father has promised me that he will never raise his hand to mother

again. I made him understand that it was by gentleness and patience

she must be won back.'

'All the more reason that you should remain here to watch and

encourage the good work you have begun.'

'But, Father White, I feel that I have done all that I can do.... My

prayers must do the rest.'

'But your presence in this house would be an influence for good, and

would check again, as it did to-day, these unhappy outbursts of

violence.'

'Father has promised me never to resort to violence again; my presence

is the temptation to do so, things might happen--things would be sure

to happen that would force him to forget his promise. He might kill

mother--that is the way these things end. He has borne with a great

deal; he has said nothing; people think that he feels nothing; he may

think so himself, but something is all the while growing within him,

and the day comes when he will stand it no longer, when he will kill

mother. Very little suffices, I very nearly sufficed.... I must go,

Father, you must take me away.'

Agnes spoke out of the fulness of her instinct, and Father White

wondered, for such knowledge of life seemed very strange in one of

Agnes' age and ignorance.

'I understand, my child. As you say, it is difficult for you to remain

here. But I cannot take you away without consulting your father.'

'Father will not oppose my returning to the convent, I have spoken to

him. He knows how unhappy I am.'

'But I cannot take you away without his authority.'

'I did not intend to leave without bidding father good-bye. We can

stop the cab as we go round the Square.'

'But your clothes are not packed.'

'They will lend me all I want at the convent, my clothes can be sent

after me. Father, you must take me away, I cannot remain here and meet

mother after what happened. My mission here is ended; prayer will do

the rest. I want to go to the convent so that I shall be free to pray

for mother.'

Unable to resist the intensity of the girl's will, Father White

answered that he would wait for her while she went upstairs to get her

hat and jacket. As he paced the room he tried to think, but he could

not catch a single thread of thought. He was merely aware of the

horrible position that this dear, good and innocent girl had so

unexpectedly found herself thrust into, and of the good sense and

resource she had displayed in her time of trial. 'No doubt she is

right,' he thought, 'she cannot remain here.... She must go back to

the convent, at least for the present. But once she goes back she will

never again be persuaded to leave it. So much the better, another soul

for God and joy everlasting.'

The door opened. Agnes wore the same dress as she had arrived in, the

same little black fur jacket, and her hands were in the same little

muff. They went downstairs without speaking, and Father White called a

four-wheeled cab. As they got in he said:

'You know that I cannot possibly take you away without first obtaining

your father's authority.'

'We shall meet him as we go round the Square. Tell the cabman to drive

slowly, I'll keep watch this side, you keep watch that side, we can't

miss him.'

'I'm to drive round the Square till you see a gentleman walking?'

'Yes, and then we'll stop you,' said Father White.

Suddenly Agnes cried 'There is father, there.' Father White poked his

umbrella through the window, and Agnes screamed, and she had to scream

her loudest, so absorbed was the Major.

'Father White called to see me. I've asked him to take me back to the

convent. You'll let me go, father? I shall be happier there than at

home.'

The Major did not answer and the priest said:

'If you'll allow me, Major Lahens, I'd like to have a few minutes'

conversation with you.'

He got out of the cab and Agnes waited anxiously. She could hear them

talking, and she prayed that she might sleep at the convent that

night. At last the Major came to the cab door and said:

'If you wish, Agnes, to go back to the convent with Father White you

can. I'll work hard and make some money and then you'll come and live

with me.'

'Yes, father.... Remember you'll always be in my thoughts... It is

good of you to let me go, indeed it is. You must try not to miss me

too much and you'll often come and see me.'

'Yes, dear.'

'And, father, dear, you'll remember your promise.'

'Yes, dear... Good-bye.'

She kissed her father on the forehead and burst into tears. The cab

jangled on, the priest did not speak and gradually through the girl's

grief there grew remembrance of the road leading to the convent. And,

though they were still five miles away or more, she saw the gate at

the corner of the lane, the porteress too. She saw the quiet sedate

nuns hastening down the narrow passages towards their chapel. She saw

them playing with their doves like innocent children, she saw them

chase the ball down the gravel walks and across the swards. She saw

her life from end to end, from the moment when the porteress would

open the door to the time when she would be laid in the little

cemetery at the end of the garden where the nuns go to rest.