He paused after a time for want of breath and Aileen stared, her face tense and white.
Her father could be so ridiculous.
He was, contrasted with Cowperwood and his views, so old-fashioned.
To think he could be talking of some one coming into their home and stealing her away from him, when she had been so willing to go.
What silliness!
And yet, why argue?
What good could be accomplished, arguing with him here in this way?
And so for the moment, she said nothing more—merely looked.
But Butler was by no means done.
His mood was too stormy even though he was doing his best now to subdue himself.
"It's too bad, daughter," he resumed quietly, once he was satisfied that she was going to have little, if anything, to say.
"I'm lettin' my anger get the best of me.
It wasn't that I intended talkin' to ye about when I ast ye to come in.
It's somethin' else I have on me mind.
I was thinkin', perhaps, ye'd like to go to Europe for the time bein' to study music.
Ye're not quite yourself just at present.
Ye're needin' a rest.
It would be good for ye to go away for a while.
Ye could have a nice time over there.
Norah could go along with ye, if you would, and Sister Constantia that taught you.
Ye wouldn't object to havin' her, I suppose?"
At the mention of this idea of a trip of Europe again, with Sister Constantia and music thrown in to give it a slightly new form, Aileen bridled, and yet half-smiled to herself now.
It was so ridiculous—so tactless, really, for her father to bring up this now, and especially after denouncing Cowperwood and her, and threatening all the things he had.
Had he no diplomacy at all where she was concerned?
It was really too funny!
But she restrained herself here again, because she felt as well as saw, that argument of this kind was all futile now.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about that, father," she began, having softened under his explanation.
"I don't want to go to Europe now.
I don't want to leave Philadelphia.
I know you want me to go; but I don't want to think of going now. I can't."
Butler's brow darkened again.
What was the use of all this opposition on her part?
Did she really imagine that she was going to master him—her father, and in connection with such an issue as this? How impossible!
But tempering his voice as much as possible, he went on, quite softly, in fact.
"But it would be so fine for ye, Aileen.
Ye surely can't expect to stay here after—" He paused, for he was going to say "what has happened."
He knew she was very sensitive on that point.
His own conduct in hunting her down had been such a breach of fatherly courtesy that he knew she felt resentful, and in a way properly so.
Still, what could be greater than her own crime?
"After," he concluded, "ye have made such a mistake ye surely wouldn't want to stay here.
Ye won't be wantin' to keep up that—committin' a mortal sin.
It's against the laws of God and man."
He did so hope the thought of sin would come to Aileen—the enormity of her crime from a spiritual point of view—but Aileen did not see it at all.
"You don't understand me, father," she exclaimed, hopelessly toward the end. "You can't.
I have one idea, and you have another.
But I don't seem to be able to make you understand now.
The fact is, if you want to know it, I don't believe in the Catholic Church any more, so there."
The moment Aileen had said this she wished she had not.
It was a slip of the tongue.
Butler's face took on an inexpressibly sad, despairing look.