"Do you think," she went on, "that it is right to try to avoid what life seems to be bringing to one, to seek shelter from--from the storm? Don't monks do that? Please forgive me if--"
"Sincerity will not hurt me," he interrupted quietly. "If it did I should indeed be unworthy of my calling. Perhaps it is not right for all. Perhaps that is why I am here instead of--"
"Ah, but I remember, you wanted to be one of the /freres armes/."
"That was my first hope. But you"--very simply he turned from his troubles to hers--"you are hesitating, are you not, between two courses?"
"I scarcely know. But I want you to tell me. Ought we not always to think of others more than of ourselves?"
"So long as we take care not to put ourselves in too great danger. The soul should be brave, but not foolhardy."
His voice had changed, had become stronger, even a little stern.
"There are risks that no good Christian ought to run: it is not cowardice, it is wisdom that avoids the Evil One. I have known people who seemed almost to think it was their mission to convert the fallen angels. They confused their powers with the powers that belong to God only."
"Yes, but--it is so difficult to--if a human being were possessed by the devil, would not you try--would you not go near to that person?"
"If I had prayed, and been told that any power was given me to do what Christ did."
"To cast out--yes, I know. But sometimes that power is given--even to women."
"Perhaps especially to them. I think the devil has more fear of a good mother than of many saints."
Domini realised almost with agony in that moment how her own soul had been stripped of a precious armour. A feeling of bitter helplessness took possession of her, and of contempt for what she now suddenly looked upon as foolish pride. The priest saw that his words had hurt her, yet he did not just then try to pour balm upon the wound.
"You came to me to-day as to a spiritual director, did you not?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"Yet you do not wish to be frank with me. Isn't that true?"
There was a piercing look in the eyes he fixed upon her.
"Yes," she answered bravely.
"Why? Cannot you--at least will not you tell me?"
A similar reason to that which had caused her to refuse to hear what the Diviner had seen in the sand caused her now to answer:
"There is something I cannot say. I am sure I am right not to say it."
"Do you wish me to speak frankly to you, my child?"
"Yes, you may."
"You have told me enough of your past life to make me feel sure that for some time to come you ought to be very careful in regard to your faith. By the mercy of God you have been preserved from the greatest of all dangers--the danger of losing your belief in the teachings of the only true Church. You have come here to renew your faith which, not killed, has been stricken, reduced, may I not say? to a sort of invalidism. Are you sure you are in a condition yet to help"--he hesitated obviously, then slowly--"others? There are periods in which one cannot do what one may be able to do in the far future. The convalescent who is just tottering in the new attempt to walk is not wise enough to lend an arm to another. To do so may seem nobly unselfish, but is it not folly? And then, my child, we ought to be scrupulously aware what is our real motive for wishing to assist another. Is it of God, or is it of ourselves? Is it a personal desire to increase a perhaps unworthy, a worldly happiness? Egoism is a parent of many children, and often they do not recognise their father."
Just for a moment Domini felt a heat of anger rise within her. She did not express it, and did not know that she had shown a sign of it till she heard Father Roubier say:
"If you knew how often I have found that what for a moment I believed to be my noblest aspirations had sprung from a tiny, hidden seed of egoism!"
At once her anger died away.
"That is terribly true," she said. "Of us all, I mean."
She got up.
"You are going?"
"Yes. I want to think something out. You have made me want to. I must do it. Perhaps I'll come again."
"Do. I want to help you if I can."
There was such a heartfelt sound in his voice that impulsively she held out her hand.
"I know you do. Perhaps you will be able to."
But even as she said the last words doubt crept into her mind, even into her voice.
The priest came to his gate to see Domini off, and directly she had left him she noticed that Androvsky was under the arcade and had been a witness of their parting. As she went past him and into the hotel she saw that he looked greatly disturbed and excited. His face was lit up by the now fiery glare of the sun, and when, in passing, she nodded to him, and he took off his hat, he cast at her a glance that was like an accusation. As soon as she gained the verandah she heard his heavy step upon the stair. For a moment she hesitated. Should she go into her room and so avoid him, or remain and let him speak to her? She knew that he was following her with that purpose. Her mind was almost instantly made up. She crossed the verandah and sat down in the low chair that was always placed outside her French window. Androvsky followed her and stood beside her. He did not say anything for a moment, nor did she. Then he spoke with a sort of passionate attempt to sound careless and indifferent.
"Monsieur Anteoni has gone, I suppose, Madame?"
"Yes, he has gone. I reached the garden safely, you see."
"Batouch came later. He was much ashamed when he found you had gone. I believe he is afraid, and is hiding himself till your anger shall have passed away."
She laughed.
"Batouch could not easily make me angry. I am not like you, Monsieur Androvsky."
Her sudden challenge startled him, as she had meant it should. He moved quickly, as at an unexpected touch.
"I, Madame?"
"Yes; I think you are very often angry. I think you are angry now."
His face was flooded with red.
"Why should I be angry?" he stammered, like a man completely taken aback.
"How can I tell? But, as I came in just now, you looked at me as if you wanted to punish me."
"I--I am afraid--it seems that my face says a great deal that--that--"