It seemed like listening to a fairy tale to hear that Ulick was doing very well for himself; and travelling back to the convent, by those mysterious roads which conversation follows, Owen learned that it was at the end of the first year of her postulancy that Evelyn had heard of her father’s illness.  Up to that moment he had not noticed a change in her humour, not until he began to question her as to her reason for suddenly returning from Rome to the convent.  It was then that a strange look came into her face; she got up from her chair and walked about the room, gloomy and agitated, sitting down in a corner like one overcome, whelmed in some extraordinary trouble.  When he went to her she crossed the room, settling herself in another corner, tucking herself away into it.  His question had awakened some terrific memory; and perforce he did not dare to ask her what her trouble was, none that she could confide to him, that was clear, and he began to think that it would be better to leave her for a while.  He could go out and speak with the little boys, for a memory like the one which had laid hold of her must pass away suddenly, and his absence would help to pass it.  If she were not better when he returned it would be well for him to seek some excuse to sleep at the inn, for her appearance in the corner frightened him; and standing by the window, looking into the quiet evening, he railed against his folly.  Any one but himself would have guessed that there was some grave reason for her life in the convent.  Such an end as this to the evening that had begun so well!  “My God, what am I to do!” And, turning impulsively, he was about to fling himself at her feet, beseeching of her to confide her trouble, but something in her appearance prevented him, and in dismay he wondered what he had said to provoke such a change.  What had been said could not be unsaid, the essential was that the ugly thought upon her like some nightmare should be forgotten.  Now what could he say to win her out of this dreadful gloom?  If he were to play something!

A very few bars convinced him that music would prove no healer to her trouble.  To lead her thoughts out of this trouble—­was there no way?  What had they been talking about?  The bullfinches which she had taught to whistle the motives of “The Ring”; but such a laborious occupation could only have been undertaken for some definite purpose, to preserve her sanity, perhaps, and it would be natural for a woman to resent any mention of mental trouble such as she had suffered from on her return from Rome.  Something had happened to her in Rome—­what?  And he sat for a long time, or what seemed to him a long time, perplexed, fearing to speak lest he might say something to irritate her, prolonging her present humour.

“If I had only known, Evelyn, if I had only known!” he said, unable to resist the temptation of speech any longer.  As she did not answer, he added, after a moment’s pause, “I think I shall go out and talk to those boys.”  But on his way to the door he stopped.  “I wish that brig had gone down.”