Hasn't my wickedness given them both to him?
Writing all this to you has done me good, Padre. I see more clearly
ahead. I shall decide before morning what to do. I feel I _shall_ this
time! And I think it a good idea to speak to Brian. He will agree,
though he doesn't know my secret need to escape, that it's right for me
to take up hospital work again. But, Padre, I can't go--I _won't_
go--until I've helped Mother Beckett arrange Jim's treasures in the room
to be called his "den." She has been living for that, striving to grow
strong enough for that. And I--oh, Padre!--I want to be the one to
unpack his things and to touch each one with my hands. I want to leave
something of myself in that room where, if he's dead, his spirit will
surely come: where, if he lives, his body will come. If I leave behind
me thoughts of love, won't they linger between those walls like the
scent of roses in a vase? Mayn't those thoughts influence Jim Beckett
not to detest me as I deserve?
CHAPTER XXXI
Five days later.
I did talk to Brian, Padre, and he said, better wait and give the letter
from Switzerland a fair chance to arrive, before telling Father Beckett
about Doctor Paul's messenger at Amiens.
Now I have had a letter, but not from Switzerland. I shall fold it up
between the pages of this book of my confessions. I believe you will
read it, Padre.
It came to-day. It explains itself. The envelope, postmarked Paris, was
addressed to me in typewriting.
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