“But even if the civil law could and would divorce you,” said the Bishop, “think of the injury you would be inflicting on the Church.  Yours was what is called a mixed marriage, and the Church does not favour such marriages, but it consented in this case, and why?  Because it hoped to bring back an erring family in a second generation to the fold of the faith.  Yet what would you be doing?  Without waiting for a second generation you would he defeating its purpose.”

A cold chill seemed to creep to my heart at these words.  Was it the lost opportunity the Bishop was thinking of, instead of the suffering woman with her bruised and bleeding soul?

I rose to go.  The Bishop rose with me, and began to counsel forgiveness.

“Even if you have suffered injury, dear lady,” he said—­“I don’t say you haven’t—­isn’t it possible to forgive?  Remember, forgiveness is a divine virtue, enjoined on us all, and especially on a woman towards the man she has married.  Only think!  How many women have to practise it—­every day, all the world over!”

“Ah, well!” I said, and walked to the door.

The Bishop walked with me, urging me, as a good daughter of the Church, to live at peace with my husband, whatever his faults, and when my children came (as please God they would) to “instil into them the true faith with all a mother’s art, a mother’s tenderness,” so that the object of my marriage might be fulfilled, and a good Catholic become the heir to Castle Raa.

“So the Church can do nothing for me?” I said.

“Nothing but pray, dear lady,” said the Bishop.

When I left him my heart was in fierce rebellion; and, since the Church could do nothing, I determined to see if the law could do anything, so I ordered my chauffeur to drive to the house of my father’s advocate at Holmtown.

The trial in the trees was over by this time, and a dead crow tumbled from one of the tall elms as we passed out of the grounds.

Holmtown is a little city on the face of our bleak west coast, dominated by a broad stretch of sea, and having the sound of the waves always rumbling over it.  Mr. Curphy’s house faced the shore and his office was an upper room plainly furnished with a writing desk, a deal table, laden with law books and foolscap papers, a stiff arm-chair, covered with American leather, three or four coloured engravings of judges in red and ermine, a photograph of the lawyer himself in wig and gown, an illuminated certificate of his membership of a legal society, and a number of lacquered tin boxes, each inscribed with the name of a client—­the largest box bearing the name of “Daniel O’Neill.”

My father’s advocate received me with his usual bland smile, gave me his clammy fat hand, put me to sit in the arm-chair, hoped my unexpected visit did not presage worse news from the Big house, and finally asked me what he could do.

I told my story over again, omitting my sentimental grievances and coming quickly, and with less delicacy, to the grosser facts of my husband’s infidelity.