Good heavens! he had
been asleep. "Eliza, what time is it?"
"Half-past eight, Sir Owen. Miss Innes will be soon home from Mass to
give the little boys their breakfast."
"Home from Mass!" he muttered. And he learned from Eliza that Miss
Innes got up every morning at seven, for a Catholic gentleman lived
in the neighbourhood who had a private chaplain. "And she goes to
Mass," Owen muttered, "every morning, and comes back to give the
little boys their breakfast!"
There was no Catholic gentleman within a mile of Riversdale, he was
thankful to say, and his thankfulness on the point was proof to him
of how years and circumstances had estranged him from Evelyn; for,
though he would not obstruct or forbid, it would be impossible for
him to keep a sneer out of his face when she told him she had been to
the sacraments or refrained from meat on Friday. "What a strange
notion it is to think that a priest can help one," he said, thinking
then that his presence would be a sneer, however he might control his
tongue or his face; she would feel that he held her little
observances in contempt, and her, too, just a little. How could it be
otherwise? How could he admire one who slipped her neck into a
spiritual halter and allowed herself to be led? Yet he loved her--or
was it the memory of their love that he loved? Which? He loved her
when he saw her among the crippled children distributing porridge and
milk, or maybe it was not love, but admiration.
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