She looked at him curiously. Then she turned away in seeming carelessness, and began to arrange some pink roses which stood in a big vase on a table near at hand.

"Good-by," he said. "I am sorry to have offended you."

"Must you go?" responded she with a society manner which cut him to the quick. "Let me give you a rose."

She broke one off, and handed it to him. He took it awkwardly, wholly at a loss to understand her.

"They are lovely, aren't they?" she said. "Mr. Stanford sent them to me this morning."

He looked at her until her eyes fell. Then he laid the rose on the table near the hand which had given it to him, and without further speech went out.

XXIV

FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL, AND EVER Richard II., ii. 2.

Although Ashe had said that he should not go again to the poverty-stricken dwelling of Mrs. Murphy, he found himself a few days later beside her bed. Word had been brought to him that she was dying, and that she begged to see him before her death. There was no resisting a call like this, and on a gloomy afternoon he had gone down to the dingy court, torn by memories and worn with inward struggles.

He found the old woman almost speechless with weakness. The room was more comfortable, and he knew that Maurice had been at work. The slatternly girl was in attendance, and there was also the pleasant-faced priest whom Philip and Maurice had encountered in the court. The priest had come with an acolyte to administer the last rites, and the woman had made her confession. So intent, however, was Mrs. Murphy upon the purpose for which she had summoned Ashe that she cried out to him as he entered, and apparently for the moment forgot all else.

Ashe looked at the priest in apology, but the latter said kindly:--

"Let her speak to you, and then she will be done with things of this earth."

It was the safety of her husband for which the poor creature was concerned. It was on her mind that Ashe and Mrs. Fenton could save him from punishment if they chose. She pleaded piteously with Philip to have the prisoner set free.

"He'll be all alone of me," she moaned. "That'll be more punishment than you're thinking, your riverince. He'll come out of jail sober, and he'll remember how he had me to do for him night and day these long years. He'll not be liking that, your riverince; and he'll be uneasy to think maybe he had some small thing to do with it himself. Not that I say he did," she added hastily. "His little fun wouldn't be the cause of harm to me as is used to his ways, but maybe he'll be after thinking so. It's the fever I have, from poor living, and maybe from being so long without Tim and worrying the heart out of my body for him, and he there in jail. Only if you'll promise to let him go, you and the sweet lady that very likely didn't know his pleasant ways when he had a drop too much, you'd make it easier dying without him."

She gasped out her words as if every syllable were an effort, her eyes appealing with a wildness which touched his heart. The girl went to the bed and leaned over, taking in hers the thin, withered hand.

"There, there, Mrs. Murphy," she said, "of course the gentleman'll do it. He couldn't have the heart to resist your dying prayer."

"I am ready to do all I can, Mrs. Murphy," Philip stammered, struggling with his conscience to promise as much as he could; "and I'll see Mrs.

Fenton. I'm sure she won't wish to have anything done that you would not like."

The sick woman burst into weak tears, stammering half inarticulate blessings.

"I don't know," Philip began, feeling that it was not honest to give her the impression that he could set her husband free, "how much"--

The priest crossed to him and laid a hand quickly on his shoulder.

"Whist!" he said in Philip's ear. "There's no need of troubling her with that. You'll do what you can, and the rest's with heaven that is good to the poor."

Mrs. Murphy had not heard or heeded what Ashe said, and still mumbled her thanks while the Father prepared to administer the viatic.u.m. The acolyte and the girl looked at Ashe as if expecting him to withdraw.

"May I remain?" Philip asked, looking at the priest with deep feeling.

The other regarded him benignly.

"Remain, my brother; and may the Holy Virgin bless the sacrament to your soul as well as to hers."

Ashe could not have told why he had yielded to the impulse to stay. He had for months been coming more and more to feel that the church of Rome was his true refuge, yet he hardly now dared confess this to himself. He had been deeply affected by the discovery that Maurice had been to confession at St. Eulalia, and he longed himself to follow the example of his friend. To Ashe, however, it seemed like trifling with sacred things, and he could not do it. Now as he knelt on the unclean and uneven floor of that sordid chamber he experienced a peace and a security such as he had never before known. He was moved almost to tears; yet he would not yield.

"It is not Rome," he insisted to himself. "It is the simple faith of these poor souls. That is beautiful and holy. It would be easy for me to think that I was becoming a Catholic."

He left as soon as the rite was concluded, but the memory of it remained.

He saw Mrs. Fenton on the afternoon following. He had not been alone with her since his mad declaration of love. He wished now to meet her calmly, yet the moment he entered her house his heart quickened its beating. He was no longer a priest bent on an errand of mercy; he was an ardent lover, acutely conscious that he was in the rooms through which she pa.s.sed day by day, that in a moment he should see her, hear her voice, perhaps touch her hand. He was shown into the library where she was sitting, and she rose to greet him frankly and simply.

"She was not touched by what happened in the carriage," Philip said to himself, with the woeful wisdom of love, "or she could not so completely ignore it."

"How do you do, Mr. Ashe?" she said with perfect calmness. "You are just in time for a cup of tea. I am having mine early, because I came in a little chilled."

He was too confused with the joy of her presence to decline.

"I have come on an errand which is not over pleasant," he remarked, watching her handling the cups, "and I am afraid that it is useless too."

"Does that mean that it is something you wish me to do but think I'm too hard-hearted or selfish to agree to?"

"It is not a question of willingness so much as of power. Mrs. Murphy is dying,--very likely by this time she is not living,--and she begs us to save her husband from being punished."

"But how could that be done?"

"I doubt if it could be done; but I promised her that I would speak to you. I suppose that if we did not give evidence there would not be much that could be told; but I hardly think that we have the right not to."

Mrs. Fenton thoughtfully regarded the fire a moment; then seemed to be recalled to the present by the active boiling of the little silver teakettle.

"I'm afraid women would drive justice out of the world if they had their way," she said with a smile.

He smiled in reply, full of delight in her mere presence. They talked the matter over, arriving at some sort of a compromise between their sympathy for the dying woman and their feeling that a man like Murphy should be dealt with by the law. They came for the moment to seem to be on the old footing of simple friendliness, while she made the tea and they discussed the situation.

"One lump or two?" Mrs. Fenton asked, pausing with tongs suspended over the sugar.

"Two," answered he. "I am afraid I am self-indulgent in my tea, but then I very seldom take it."

"So small an indulgence," she said, handing him his cup, "does not seem to me to indicate any great moral laxity."

"It is the principle of the thing," Philip returned, smiling because she smiled.

Mrs. Fenton shook her head.

"Come," she said, "this is a good time for me to say something that has been in my mind for a long time. You may think that it isn't my affair, but I can't help saying that it seems to me you have allowed yourself to get into a frame of mind that is rather--well, that isn't entirely healthy. I hope you don't think me too presuming."

"You could not be," was his reply; "but I do not understand what you mean."