"I condemn no one. If despair be thy portion, thou must needs drink the cup as I am draining mine. Farewell!" "Farewell, then, Elinor Calvert! And on thy head be my soul's ruin, and all that may befall me or thee hereafter!" So absorbed in her own grief was Elinor that her ear scarcely caught his words, nor did her mind take note of his wild look and manner as he flung away into the forest. She quickened her pace and saw with relief the walls of the manor-house rising between the trees. A few more paces and she would reach the house, then if Fate were kind, her room, and then she could at least be alone with her despair; but no, she thought bitterly, even this poor comfort was to be denied her, for, as she drew near the house, she saw Father White standing in the doorway. She would have swerved from the path and sought entrance through the side room, but it was too late; she had been seen. Father White moved toward her like some strong merciful angel, holding healing and benediction in his outstretched hands. "My daughter, thou art ill." "Ay, Father, so ill that I must needs with all speed seek rest in my chamber." "Is it indeed illness, or grief?" "They are much alike." "Ay, but they may need differing treatment." "Rest and solitude are best for both." "Nay, for bodily sickness thou hast need of a physician of the body, and for soul sickness of a physician of the soul." "Father," said Elinor, sinking on her knees before him, "I am past all help of medicine for body or soul--_He is dead!_" The old priest raised his eyes to heaven, murmuring to himself, "_Digitus Dei est hic._--Yes," he added slowly, "surely it is the finger of God himself, and it is the Lord who has spoken." Aloud he said: "I know how troubles such as thine shake the soul till there is no power left to seek aid. Then the Lord sends the help the sufferer is too weak to reach out a hand for. If thou shouldst probe this wound of thine, thou wouldst find that its deepest hurt lay not in what hath befallen without, but from that which hath gone wrong within." "'Tis God's truth thou speakest." "There lies no help in man." "None! None!" "Then look above! Oh, my daughter, hast thou not before found comfort at the confessional, at the foot of the altar? Listen: I am a priest of God and charged with power to absolve sin and declare His pardon to weary, struggling souls like thine." With a wild cry Elinor threw up her arms above her head. "Talk not to me of God's pardon! Will that bring Christopher Neville to life? Will that save his poor heart one of the pangs my distrust dealt, or his faithful soul one hour of the weary years my cold disdain cost him? Nay, Father, save pardon and penance for those who can still use them! I tell you, it is _I_ who cannot forgive _myself_,--_I_!" CHAPTER XVI LIFE OR DEATH "Hold her, Philpotts! Dead or alive, I must find _him_."