"Oh, I wish I could be a nun ... a nun!"

Very tenderly Father Raphael sat smiling down at her bowed head. Often had he listened to this cry--the cry of those who in a moment of extremity long for a cool refuge from the hot brawls of life. Then he said softly:

"You would make a most unhappy nun, my child."

In a small, ashamed voice she asked:

"Why do you say so, Father?"

"For many reasons. You have heard the expression, 'vocation,' have you not?"

"Yes, Father."

"You have been given brilliant gifts, great beauty, a little child---- There lies your 'vocation.' To live in the world yet not of it, that is the life to which G.o.d has called you."

"Oh, Father! You do not know me. Christ said: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit.' I am very proud, Father--horribly, wrongly proud."

The priest did not answer her directly. He said in a musing tone:

"I have often thought how that saying of Our Lord's has been misinterpreted. By 'poor in spirit' surely He did not mean poverty of spirit, but that to be truly poor--that is, detached from the things of this world--a man must not only give up those things themselves, but give up even the desire for them. That is how I understand the saying, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit.'"

"But, Father--to go back--to be his wife--after---- Oh, it is not only that--but in one of his furies he might kill me--he might kill my little son! You don't know--you can't imagine what he is like then----"

"G.o.d does not ask impossibilities from His children," said Father Raphael firmly. "'He is faithful that promised. With the temptation He will also make a way of escape.' Should you fail to save your husband from this fatal habit--should your life, or your son's life, be in danger, then your duty would be to save yourself. The commandment is not 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor better than thyself'--but 'as thyself.'"

"And are people ever really saved from opium or morphine, Father?"

"Yes, my child. One of the best men that I know--a fellow worker with me here--was a morphinomaniac."

"How was he saved, Father?"

"By G.o.d's mercy and his own desire to be saved."

"Ah, Father--that is just it! Will he--will my husband desire to be saved? Will he let me help him?"

"The effort must be yours--the result is with G.o.d. If, after you have honestly tried by every means in your power--and failed--then--I, a Roman Catholic priest, to whom marriage is a sacrament, say to you: 'Go home to your own land and your own kinsfolk.'"

He spoke solemnly. His face looked stern for the first time.

Sophy rose. Her spirit was stilled, but her body felt as though it had been beaten with staves. Every bone and nerve ached dully. The priest rose too. She looked at him timidly:

"Can you give me your blessing, Father?"

His lovely smile melted the stern look. Instinctively she knelt, and he stretched out his hands, making the sign of the cross in the air above her bent head.

"_Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus._ Amen."

The grave Latin words of benediction rolled solemnly over her. Her spirit felt folded in a soothing peace. She rose, trembling a little.

"I wish I could thank you ... as I want to, Father," she whispered.

"Thank G.o.d, my child. He sent you to me."

"Yes. I believe that."

"Would it help you to come here sometimes, to this simple house dedicated to the Mother of Compa.s.sion?"

"Yes, Father; but...."

"Would your husband be displeased if he knew that you came?"

"Yes, Father. He hates the Catholic religion."

"Then do not come, my child. But remember that I am here if you need me.

My prayers will follow you. I will have a _Novena_ for you. Be of good courage."

Sophy gazed at him. The tears gathered again. She could not speak. Going out silently, she got into the musty cab.

She remembered nothing of the drive home. Her eyes were turned inward.

XV

Dr. Carfew came at one o'clock. He was a tall, sinewy man, with light blue, prominent eyes very piercing, and thick yellow-grey curls that stuck out below the brim of his hat as though supporting it. He put a few brief yet searching questions to Sophy, then asked to see the patient. He did not wish Sophy to be present at the examination. Gaynor remained with him at his request. After half an hour he came downstairs.

Sophy sat waiting for him, her hands wrung together again. She had put back her rings.

She paled when she saw him enter, and her eyes darkened. He drew up a chair without ceremony, and sat down facing her.

"This is a grave case, Mrs. Chesney," he said, in his abrupt "no-nonsense-now" voice. "I gathered from your husband's valet that you have not a clear idea of how matters stand."

"No. I have not," she said.

"There is no doubt about it. Your husband is the victim of a most fatal habit."

She continued looking at him in silence.

"Have you never even suspected the cause of his ailment?" he asked brusquely.

"Yes--but I did not know enough to be certain."

"It is a clear case--a very clear case, and an aggravated one," said Carfew. "Mr. Chesney is a morphinomaniac. He is so addicted to the drug that he varies the effect with cocaine--takes them alternately--both drugs hypodermically."

Sophy sat as before, gazing at him without a word. It was as if it paralysed her to hear these long-surmised horrors put into plain words.

Carfew glanced at her with some irritation.