think it is."
"Do not say silly things! Mother sends me to bed when I do."
"Is it not silly to fear the dark?"
"Mayhap, but I lie still all of a tremble, and then I seem to hear a growl at the door, and then blood and flesh cannot stand it and I scream for Mother. Three or two timeth I scream, and she comes running."
"Wouldst have the bear eat thy mother?"
"Nay, but sure 'nuff he would not. The Dark Bear eateth only little boys."
"Oh, only little boys?"
"Ay, and he beginneth with their toes. Therefore I dare not kneel alone to say my Hail Maries. The Dark Bear is not like God, for God careth only for the heart. Thir Chrithtopher, why doth God care more for the heart than for the head and legs?"
"Come, Cecil," said Elinor's warning voice, "thou art chattering as loud as a tree-toad, and the ten minutes are more than passed. Run up and hide those cold toes of thine under the counterpane!"
"If I go, wilt thou come up after supper to see me?"
"If I can be spared."
"Nay, no ifs– ay or no?"
Father Mohl smiled, and his smile was not good to see.
"Is this the flower of that confidence through love which you so much admire, Sir Christopher?"
"No," answered Neville, "only the thorns on its stem; the blossoms are not yet out."
"Ay or no?" repeated the child, oblivious of the discussion going on around him.
"Oh, ay, and get thee gone!" cried his mother, thoroughly out of patience with the child and herself and every one else.
Cecil ran round to her seat, hugged her in a stifling embrace, and then pattered out of the room and up the stair, reassuring his timid little heart by saying aloud as he went, "Bearth come not into houtheth! Bearth come not into houtheth!"
Father Mohl sat with bent head, the enigmatic smile still playing round his lips. At length, making the sign of the cross, he spoke aside to Father White, —
"Have I leave to depart?"
"Go – and pax tibi!"
The company rose.
"Father, must thou be gone so soon?" Mary Brent asked, with hospitable entreaty in her tones.
"I must, my daughter."
"This very night?"
"This very night."
"But the road to St. Mary's is dark and rough."
"Ay, but our feet are used to treading rough roads, and the moon will show the blazed path as clearly as the sun itself."
"Farewell," said Father White. "Bear my greetings to my brothers at St. Inigo's, and charge them that they cease not from their labors till I come."
When Father Mohl passed Neville, Sir Christopher, moved by a sudden compunction, held out his hand. "Hey for St. Mary's!" he exclaimed, with a note of cordiality which if a trifle forced was at least civil.
Father Mohl ignored the outstretched hand, and with his own grasped the crucifix at his breast. The sneer in his smile deepened, and one heard the breath of scorn in his nostrils as he answered, with a meaning glance at Elinor, "The latter part of the Marylanders' battle-cry were perchance honester. Why not make it 'Wives for us all'?"
This passed the bounds of patience, and Neville cast overboard that self-control which is the ballast of the soul. His outstretched hand clenched itself into a fist.
"Sir!" he cried, very white about the lips, "if you wore a sword instead of a scapular, we might easily settle our affairs. But since your garb cries 'Sanctuary!' while your tongue doth cut and thrust rapier-like, I'll e'en grant you the victory in the war of words. Good-night, Sir Priest!"
For answer the father only folded his cloak about him and slipped out of the door as quietly as though he were to re-enter in an hour.
Father White followed Mistress Brent to the hall, from the window of which she strove to watch the retreating figure of Father Mohl. Neville thus found himself alone with Elinor Calvert once more. He regarded her with some anxiety, an anxiety justified by her bearing. The full round chin was held an inch higher than its wont, the nostrils were dilated and the eyelids half closed. A wise man would have been careful how he offered a vent for her scorn; but to her lover it seemed that any utterance would be better than this contemptuous silence.
"You are very angry – " ventured Neville, timidly.
"I have cause."
" – and ashamed of me."
"I have a right to be."
"Thank Heaven for that!"
"If you thank Heaven for the shame you cause you are like enough to spend your life on your knees."
"I deprecate your scorn, madam. Yet I cannot take back the saying."
"Make it good, then!"
"Why, so I will. None feel shame save when they feel responsibility. None feel responsibility for those who are neither kith nor kin save where they – "
"Where they what?" flashed Elinor, turning her great angry eyes full upon him.
"Save where they love, Mistress Calvert."
It was out now and Neville felt better. Elinor clenched her hands and began an angry retort, and then all of a sudden broke down, and bending her head over the back of the high oak chair, stood sobbing silently.
"I pray you be angry," pleaded Neville; "your wrath was hard to bear; but 'twas naught to this."
"Oh, yes," answered Elinor between her sobs, "it is much you care either for my anger or your grief, that the first proof you give of your boasted love is to offend those whom I hold in affection and reverence."
"'Twas he provoked me to it," answered Neville, sullenly, "with his tales of my friend yonder, as honest a fellow as walks the earth. Is a man to sit still and listen in silence to a pack of lies told about his friend?"
"Say no more!" commanded Elinor. "I see a man is bound to bear all things for the man to whom he has professed friendship – nothing for the woman to whom he has professed love."
There was little logic in the argument, but it made its mark, for it was addressed not to the mind but to the heart.
"Forgive me!" cried Neville – which was by far the best thing he could have said.
If a woman has anything to forgive, the granting of pardon is a necessity. If she has nothing to forgive, it is a luxury.
"I do," she murmured.
"Perhaps I was rougher of manner than need was."
"Yet 'twas but nature."
"Yes, but nature must be held in check."
Thus did these inconsistent beings oppose each other, each taking the ground occupied a few minutes since by the other, and as hot for the defence as they had been but now for the attack.
Neville seized Elinor's hand and kissed it passionately; then snatching up his hat and cloak he exclaimed, "I will go after Mohl and make my peace. Henceforth I swear what is dear to you shall be held at least beyond reproach by me."
Elinor turned upon him such a glance that he scarcely dared look upon her lest he be struck blind by the ecstasy of his own soul.
"At last!" he whispered as he passed out into the night.
Was it luck or fate that guided him? Who shall say? Luck is the pebble on which the traveller trips and slides into quicksands or sands of gold. Fate is the cliff against which he leans, or dashes himself to death. Yet the pebble was once part of the cliff.
CHAPTER III
BLESSING AND BANNING
"Mother! Moth-er!"
It was Cecil's voice on the landing, and Cecil's white nightgowned