It was as if a
band gripped her there, relaxed, and gripped again. She put up her own
hand desperately to tear at her collar.
"Why, but--" began the priest.
She could bear it no more. His resolute cheerfulness, his frank
astonishment, were like knives to her. She gave one cry.
"Topcliffe is come ... Topcliffe!..." she cried. Then she flung her arm
across the table and dropped her face on it. No tears came from her
eyes, but tearing sobs shook and tormented her.
It was quite quiet after she had spoken. Even in her anguish she knew
that. The priest did not stir from where he sat a couple of feet away;
only the swinging of his feet ceased. She drove down her convulsions;
they rose again; she drove them down once more. Then the tears surged
up, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Marjorie," said the grave voice, as steady as it had ever been,
"Marjorie. This is what we looked for, is it not?... Topcliffe is come,
is he? Well, let him come. He or another. It is for this that we have
all looked since the beginning. Christ His Grace is strong enough, is it
not? It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and He will not
surely take it from me who need it so much...." (He spoke in pauses, but
his voice never faltered.) "I have prayed for that grace ever since I
have been here.... He hath given me great peace in this place.... I
think He will give it me to the end.... You must pray, my .
Pages:
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477