"She can't help saying them--thinking them--it's in her. No one will ever change her. Oh! it's all so strange----"

And Augustina began to cry, silently, piteously.

Helbeck bent over her.

"Augustina!" He spoke with emotion. "If she loved, wouldn't that change her? Don't all women live by their affections? I am not worth her loving--but----"

His face shone, and spoke the rest for him.

Augustina looked at him in bewilderment. Why, it was only yesterday that Laura disliked and despised him, and that Alan hardly ever spoke when her stepdaughter was there. It was utterly incomprehensible to her. Was it another punishment from Heaven for her own wilful and sacrilegious marriage? As she thought of the new conditions and relations that were coming upon them all--the disapproval of friends, the danger to her brother's Catholic life, the transformation of her own ties to Laura, her feeble soul lost itself in fear. Secretly, she said to herself, with the natural weariness of coming age:

"Perhaps I shall die--before it happens."

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

Augustina was sitting in the garden with Father Bowles. Their chairs were placed under a tall Scotch fir, which spread its umbrella top between them and the sun. All around, the old garden was still full and flowery.

For it was mid-September, and fine weather.

Mrs. Fountain was lying on a sort of deck-chair, and had as usual a number of little invalid appliances about her. But in truth, as Father Bowles was just reflecting, she looked remarkably well. The influences of her native air seemed so far to have brought Dr. MacBride's warnings to naught. Or was it the stimulating effect of her brother's engagement? At any rate she talked more, and with more vigour; she was more liable to opinions of her own; and in these days there was that going on at Bannisdale which provoked opinion in great plenty.

"Miss Fountain is not at home?" remarked the old priest. An afternoon gossip with Mrs. Fountain had become a very common feature of his recent life.

"Laura has gone, I believe, to meet my brother at the lodge. He has been over to Braeside on business."

"He is selling some land there?"

"I hope so!" said Augustina, with fervour.

"It is time indeed that our poor orphans were housed," said Father Bowles navely. "For the last three months some of our dear nuns have been sleeping in the pa.s.sages."

Augustina sighed.

"It seems a little hard that there is n.o.body but Alan to do anything! And how long is it to go on?"

The priest bent forward.

"You mean----?"

"How long will my stepdaughter let it go on?" said Augustina impatiently.

"She will be mistress here directly."

The eyes of her companion flinched, as though something had struck him.

But he hastened to say:

"Do not let us doubt, my dear lady, that the soul of Miss Fountain will sooner or later be granted to our prayers."

"But there is not the smallest sign of it," cried Augustina. And she in her turn bent towards her companion, unable to resist the temptation of these priestly ears so patiently inclined to her. "And yet, Father, she isn't happy!--though Alan gives way to her in everything. It's not a bit like a girl in love--you'd expect her to be thinking about her clothes, and the man, and her housekeeping at least--if she won't think about--well! those other things that we should all wish her to think about. While we were at the sea, and Alan used to come down every now and then to stay near us in lodgings, it was all right. They never argued or disputed; they were out all day; and really I thought my brother began to look ten years younger. But now--since we have come back--of course my brother has all his affairs, and all his Church business to look after, and Laura doesn't seem so contented--nearly. It would be different if she cared for any of his interests--but I often think she hates the orphans!

She is really naughty about them. And then the Sisters--oh dear!"--Augustina gave a worried sigh--"I don't think the Reverend Mother can have managed it at all well."

Father Bowles said that he understood both from the Reverend Mother and Sister Angela that they had made very great efforts to secure Miss Fountain's friendly opinion.

"Well, it didn't succeed, that's all I can say," replied Augustina fretfully. "And I don't know what they'll do after November."

November had been fixed for the marriage, which was to take place at Cambridge.

Father Bowles hung his hands between his knees and looked down upon them in gentle meditation.

"Your brother seems still very much attached----"

"Attached!"

Augustina was silent. In reality she spent half her days in secretly marvelling how such a good man as Alan could allow himself to be so much in love.

"If only someone had ever warned me that this might happen--when I was coming back to live here," she said, in her most melancholy voice; and clasping her thin hands she looked sadly down the garden paths, while her poor head shook and jerked under the influence of the thoughts--so far from agreeable!--with which it was filled.

There was a little silence. Then Father Bowles broke it.

"And our dear Squire does nothing to try and change Miss Fountain's mind towards the Church?" he asked, looking vaguely round the corner all the time.

Nothing--so Augustina declared.

"I say to him--'Alan, give her some books.' Why, they always give people books to read! 'Or get Father Leadham to talk to her.' What's the good of a man like Father Leadham--so learned, and such manners!--if he can't talk to a girl like Laura? But no, Alan won't. He says we must let her alone--and wait G.o.d's time!--And there's no altering him, as you know."

Father Bowles pondered a little, then said with a mild perplexity:

"I find, in my books, that a great many instances are recorded of holy wives--or even betrothed--who were instrumental under G.o.d in procuring the conversion of their unbelieving husbands--or--or lovers, if I may use such a word to a lady. But I cannot discover any of an opposite nature.

There was the pious Nonna, for instance, the mother of the great St.

Gregory n.a.z.ianzen, who converted her husband so effectually that he became a bishop, and died at the age of ninety."

"What became of her?" inquired Augustina hastily.

The priest hesitated.

"It is a very curious case--and, I understand, much disputed. Some people suppose that St. Gregory was born after his father became a bishop, and many infidel writers have made use of the story for their own malicious purposes. But if it was so, the Church may have allowed such a departure from her law, at a time of great emergency and in a scarcity of pastors.

But the most probable thing is that nothing of the kind happened--" he drew himself up with decision--"that the father of St. Gregory had separated from his wife before he became a bishop--and that those writers who record the birth of St. Gregory during the episcopate of his father were altogether mistaken."

"At any rate, I really don't see how it helps us!" said Augustina.

Father Bowles looked a little crestfallen.