as he admonished her with, “Now, my dear child.”
A particularly old priest, a French father, who came
to hear their confessions at school, interested her
as being kind and sweet. His forgiveness and
blessing seemed sincere—better than her
prayers, which she went through perfunctorily.
And then there was a young priest at St. Timothy’s,
Father David, hale and rosy, with a curl of black
hair over his forehead, and an almost jaunty way of
wearing his priestly hat, who came down the aisle
Sundays sprinkling holy water with a definite, distinguished
sweep of the hand, who took her fancy. He heard
confessions and now and then she liked to whisper her
strange thoughts to him while she actually speculated
on what he might privately be thinking. She could
not, if she tried, associate him with any divine authority.
He was too young, too human. There was something
a little malicious, teasing, in the way she delighted
to tell him about herself, and then walk demurely,
repentantly out. At St. Agatha’s she had
been rather a difficult person to deal with.
She was, as the good sisters of the school had readily
perceived, too full of life, too active, to be easily
controlled. “That Miss Butler,” once
observed Sister Constantia, the Mother Superior, to
Sister Sempronia, Aileen’s immediate mentor,
“is a very spirited girl, you may have a great
deal of trouble with her unless you use a good deal
of tact. You may have to coax her with little
gifts. You will get on better.” So
Sister Sempronia had sought to find what Aileen was
most interested in, and bribe her therewith. Being
intensely conscious of her father’s competence,
and vain of her personal superiority, it was not so
easy to do. She had wanted to go home occasionally,
though; she had wanted to be allowed to wear the sister’s
rosary of large beads with its pendent cross of ebony
and its silver Christ, and this was held up as a great
privilege. For keeping quiet in class, walking
softly, and speaking softly—as much as it
was in her to do—for not stealing into
other girl’s rooms after lights were out, and
for abandoning crushes on this and that sympathetic
sister, these awards and others, such as walking out
in the grounds on Saturday afternoons, being allowed
to have all the flowers she wanted, some extra dresses,
jewels, etc., were offered. She liked music
and the idea of painting, though she had no talent
in that direction; and books, novels, interested her,
but she could not get them. The rest—grammar,
spelling, sewing, church and general history—she
loathed. Deportment—well, there was
something in that. She had liked the rather exaggerated
curtsies they taught her, and she had often reflected
on how she would use them when she reached home.
When she came out into life the little social distinctions which have been indicated began to impress themselves on her, and she wished sincerely that her father would build a better home—a mansion—such as those she saw elsewhere, and launch her properly in society. Failing in that, she could think of nothing save clothes, jewels, riding-horses, carriages, and the appropriate changes of costume which were allowed her for these. Her family could not entertain in any distinguished way where they were, and so already, at eighteen, she was beginning to feel the sting of a blighted ambition. She was eager for life. How was she to get it?