The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

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      The sun was just setting when Catherine's maid came into her room and told her Father Francis was below. She sent down to say she counted on his sleeping at Peyton Hall; and she would come down to him in half an hour. She then ordered a refection to be prepared for him in her boudoir; and made her toilet with all reasonable speed, not to keep him waiting. Her face beamed with quiet complacency now: for the Holy man's very presence in the house was a comfort to her.

      Father Francis was a very stout muscular man, with a ruddy countenance; he never wore gloves, and you saw at once he was not a gentleman by birth. He had a fine voice; it was deep, mellow, and when he chose, sonorous. This, and his person, ample, but not obese, gave him great weight, especially with his female pupils. If he was not quite so much reverenced by the men, yet he was both respected and liked; in fact, he had qualities that make men welcome in every situation: good humour, good sense, and tact. A good son of his Church, and early trained to let no occasion slip of advancing her interests.

      I wish my readers could have seen the meeting between Catherine Peyton and this burly ecclesiastic. She came into the drawing-room with that imperious air and carriage which had made her so unpopular with her own sex; and at the bare sight of Father Francis, drooped and bent in a moment as she walked; and her whole body indicated a submissiveness, graceful, but rather abject: it was as if a young poplar should turn to a weeping willow in half a moment. Thus metamorphosed, the Beauty of Cumberland glided up to Francis, and sank almost to her knee before him, crossed her hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely head, and awaited his benediction.

      The father made rapidly the sign of the cross over that thorough-bred head and golden hair, and blessed her business-like.

      The hand of less employment hath the daintier sense.

       Shakespeare.

      Father Francis blessed so many of these pretty creatures every week, that he had long outgrown your fine romantic way of blessing a body. (We manage these things better in the theatre.) Then he lent her his hand to rise, and asked her in what she required his direction at present.

      "In that which shall decide my whole life," said she.

      Francis responded by a look of paternal interest.

      "But first," murmured she, "let me confess to you, and obtain absolution, if I may. Ah, father, my sins have been many since last confession."

      "Be it so," said Father Francis, resignedly. "Confession is the best preface to Direction." And he seated himself with a certain change of manner, an easy assumption of authority.

      "Nay, father," suggested the lady, "we shall be more private in my room."

      "As you will, Mistress Catherine Peyton," said the priest, returning to his usual manner.

      So then the fair penitent led her spiritual judge captive up another flight of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A cheerful wood fire crackled and flamed up the chimney, and a cloth had been laid on a side table: cold turkey and chine graced the board, and a huge glass magnum of purple Burgundy glowed and shone in the rays of the cheery fire.

      Father Francis felt cosy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labour of listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he muttered: and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered the statement highly credible. He invited Kate to join him; but she declined.

      He returned more than once to the succulent meats, and washed all down with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, perfumed and purple. Meantime she of the laity sat looking into the fire with heavenly-minded eyes.

      At last, with a gentle sigh of content, the ghostly father installed himself in an arm-chair, by the fire, and invited his penitent to begin.

      She took a footstool and brought it to his side, so that in confessing her blacker vices she might be able to whisper them in his very ear. She kneeled on her little footstool, put her hands across her breast, and in this lowly attitude murmured softly after this fashion, with a contrite voice:—

      "I have to accuse myself of many vices. Alas! In one short fortnight I have accumulated the wickedness of a life. I have committed the seven deadly sins. I have been guilty of Pride, Wrath, Envy, Disobedience, Immodesty, Vanity, Luxury, Fibs——"

      "Gently, daughter," said the priest, quietly; "these terms are too general: give me instances. Let us begin with Wrath; ah! we are all prone to that."

      The fair penitent sighed, and said: "Especially me. Example: I was angry beyond reason with my maid, Ruth. (She does comb my hair so uncouthly.) So then the other night, when I was in trouble, and most needed soothing, by being combed womanly, she gets thinking of Harry that helps in the stable, and she tears away at my hair. I started up and screamed out 'Oh, you clumsy thing! go currycomb my horse, and send that oaf your head is running on to handle my hair.' And I told her my grandma would have whipped her well for it; but now-a-days mistresses were the only sufferers: we had lost the use of our hands, we are grown so squeamish; and I stamped like a fury, and said 'Get you gone out of the room; and I hated the sight of her.' And the poor girl went from me, crying, without a word—being a better Christian than her mistress; mea culpa! mea culpa!"

      "Did you slap her?"

      "Nay, hither, not so bad as that."

      "Are you quite sure you did not slap her?" asked Francis, quietly.

      "Nay. But I had a mind to. My heart slapped her if my hand forbore. Alas!"

      "Had she hurt you?"

      "That she did: but only my head. I hurt her heart; for the poor wench loves me dear; the Lord knows for what."

      "Humph!—proceed to Pride."

      "Yes, father. I do confess that I was greatly puffed up with the praises of men. I was proud of the sorriest things; of jumping a brook, when 'twas my horse jumped it, and had jumped it better with a fly on his back than the poor worm Me; of my good looks, forgetting that God gave them me; and besides I am no beauty when all is done; it is all their flattery. And at my Lady Munster's dinner I pridefully walked out before Mistress Davies, the rich cheesemonger's wife, that is as proud of her money as I of my old blood (God forgive two fools!); which I had no right to do; a maid to walk before a wife: and oh, father, I whispered the gentleman who led me out; it was Mr. Neville—" Here the penitent put one hand before her face, and hesitated.

      "Well, daughter! half confession is no confession. You said to Mr. Neville——?"

      "I said, 'Nothing comes after cheese.'"

      This revelation was made most dolefully.

      "It was pert and unbecoming," said Father Francis, gravely; though a twinkle in his eye showed that he was not so profoundly shocked as his penitent appeared to be. "But go to graver matters. Immodesty, said you: I shall be very sorry if this is so. You did not use to be immodest."

      "Well, father, I hope I have not altogether laid aside modesty; otherwise it would be time for me to die, let alone to confess; but sure it cannot be modest of me to ride after a gentleman and take him a letter. And then that was not enough: I heard of a duel, and what did I do but ride to Scutchemsee Nob, and interfere. What gentlewoman ever was so bold? I was not their wife you know; neither of them's."

      "Humph!" said the priest, "I have already heard a whisper of this; but told to your credit. Beati pacifici: blessed are the peacemakers. You had better lay that matter before me by-and-by, as your director. As your confessor, tell me why you accuse yourself of Luxury."

      "Alas!" said the young lady, "scarce a day passes that I do not offend in that respect. Example: last Friday, dining abroad, the cooks sent up a dish of collops. Oh, father, they smelt so nice; and I had been a hunting. First I smelt them: and that I couldn't help. But then I forgot custodia oculorum; and I eyed them. And the next thing was, presently—somehow—two of 'em were on my plate."

      "Very wrong," said Father Francis; "but that is a harsher term than I should have applied to this longing of a hungry woman for collops o' Friday. Pray what do you understand