CHAPTER XV.
KYRIE ELEISON.
The second Saturday afternoon following was hot and calm. The lampburning before the tabernacle in Pere Jerome's little church might havehung with as motionless a flame in the window behind. The lilies of St.Joseph's wand, shining in one of the half opened panes, were not morecompletely at rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, suspendedin the slumbering air. Almost as still, down under the organ-gallery,with a single band of light falling athwart his box from a small doorwhich stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the lattice of theconfessional, silently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow androlled down his face. At distant intervals the shadow of some oneentering softly through the door would obscure, for a moment, the bandof light, and an aged crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presencethat the listening confessor had known only by the voice for many years,would kneel a few moments beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessingand in review of those slips and errors which prove us all akin.
The day had been long and fatiguing. First, early mass; a hasty meal;then a business call upon the archbishop in the interest of someprojected charity; then back to his cottage, and so to the banking-houseof "Vignevielle," in the Rue Toulouse. There all was open, bright, andre-assured, its master virtually, though not actually, present. Thesearch was over and the seekers gone, personally wiser than they wouldtell, and officially reporting that (to the best of their knowledge andbelief, based on evidence, and especially on the assurances of anunexceptionable eye-witness, to wit, Monsieur Vignevielle, banker)Capitaine Lemaitre was dead and buried. At noon there had been a weddingin the little church. Its scenes lingered before Pere Jerome's visionnow--the kneeling pair: the bridegroom, rich in all the excellences ofman, strength and kindness slumbering interlocked in every part andfeature; the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her awesomeeyes lifted in adoration upon the image of the Saviour; the small knotsof friends behind: Madame Thompson, large, fair, self-contained; JeanThompson, with the affidavit of Madame Delphine showing through histightly buttoned coat; the physician and his wife, sharing oneexpression of amiable consent; and last--yet first--one small, shrinkingfemale figure, here at one side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. Shesat as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of apprehension, and in thesmall, restless black eyes which peered out from the pinched and wastedface, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed mind; and neither therecollection of bride, nor of groom, nor of potential friends behind,nor the occupation of the present hour, could shut out from the tiredpriest the image of that woman, or the sound of his own low words ofinvitation to her, given as the company left the church--"Come toconfession this afternoon."
By and by a long time passed without the approach of any step, or anyglancing of light or shadow, save for the occasional progress fromstation to station of some one over on the right who was noiselesslygoing the way of the cross. Yet Pere Jerome tarried.
"She will surely come," he said to himself; "she promised she wouldcome."
A moment later, his sense, quickened by the prolonged silence, caught asubtle evidence or two of approach, and the next moment a penitent kneltnoiselessly at the window of his box, and the whisper came tremblingly,in the voice he had waited to hear:
"_Benissez-moin, mo' Pere, pa'ce que mo peche._" (Bless me, father, forI have sinned.)
He gave his blessing.
"Ainsi soit-il--Amen," murmured the penitent, and then, in the softaccents of the Creole _patois_, continued:
"'I confess to Almighty God, to the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, toblessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holyApostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinnedexceedingly in thought, word, and deed, _through my fault, through myfault, through my most grievous fault._' I confessed on Saturday, threeweeks ago, and received absolution, and I have performed the penanceenjoined. Since then"--There she stopped.
There was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly down, and another as if sherose up again, and in a moment she said:
"Olive _is_ my child. The picture I showed to Jean Thompson is thehalf-sister of my daughter's father, dead before my child was born. Sheis the image of her and of him; but, O God! Thou knowest! Oh, Olive, myown daughter!"
She ceased, and was still. Pere Jerome waited, but no sound came. Helooked through the window. She was kneeling, with her forehead restingon her arms--motionless.
He repeated the words of absolution. Still she did not stir.
"My daughter," he said, "go to thy home in peace." But she did not move.
He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, andcalled her by name:
"Madame Delphine!" Her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant therewas life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed fromhis own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up toheaven and cried:
"Lord, lay not this sin to her charge!"