Part 8 (2/2)

”What is it to be a Catholic?” inquired Benny, gazing at his tutor's face with wonder.

”To be a Catholic, is to be in a safe prison; to have been a Catholic, is to be alone on a sea big and black with billows, Benny.”

”I think I'd like the prison best,” said Benny, who was very much afraid of the water.

”Ah, but if you couldn't get back to it, my boy.”

”Well, I think I'd try to get to land somewhere,” Benny answered, stoutly.

Mr. Langenau laughed, but rather gloomily, and we went on for a few moments in silence. The road was bordered with trees, and there was a beautiful shade. The horse was very glad to be permitted to go slow, not being of an ambitious nature.

All this time I had been leaning back, holding my parasol very close over my face. Mr. Langenau happened to be on the side by me: once when the carriage had leaned suddenly, he had put his hand upon it, and had touched, without intending it, my arm.

”I beg your pardon,” he had said, and that was all he had said to me; and I had felt very grateful that Benny had been so inclined to talk. I trusted that n.o.body would speak to me, for my voice would never be steady and even again, I was sure, when he was by to listen to it.

Now, however, he spoke to me: commonplace words, the same almost that every one in the house had addressed to me that morning, but how differently they sounded.

”I am sorry that you are not well to-day, Miss d'Estree.”

Mrs. Hollenbeck at this moment began to find some fault with Benny's gloves, and leaning down, talked very obligingly and earnestly with him, while she fastened the gloves upon his hands.

Mr. Langenau took the occasion, as it was intended he should take it, and said rather low, ”You will not refuse to see me a few moments this evening, that I may explain something to you?”

I think he was disappointed that I did not answer him, only turned away my head. But I don't know in truth what other answer he had any right to ask. He did not attempt to speak again, but as we turned into the village, said, ”Good-morning, I must leave you. Good-bye, Benny, since I have neither clothes nor conscience fit for church.”

Sophie laughed, and said, at least she hoped he would be home for dinner. He did not promise, but raising his hat struck off into a little path by the roadside, that led up into the woods.

”What a pity,” said Mrs. Hollenbeck musingly, ”that a man of such fine intellect should have such vague religious faith.”

Mr. Langenau was at home for dinner, but he did not see me at that meal, for my head ached so, and I felt so weary that when I came up-stairs after church, it seemed impossible to go down again. I should have been very glad to make the same excuse serve for the remainder of the day, but really the rest and a cup of tea had so restored me, that no excuse remained at six o'clock.

All families have their little Sunday habits, I have found; the Sunday rule in this house was, to have tea at half-past six, and to walk by the river till after the sun had set; then to come home and have sacred music in the parlor. After tea, accordingly, we took our shawls on our arms (it still being very warm) and walked down toward the river.

I kept beside Mrs. Hollenbeck and Benny, where only I felt safe.

The criticism I had heard had given me such a shock, I did not feel that I ever could be careful enough of what I said and did. And I vaguely felt my mother's honor would be vindicated, if I showed myself always a modest and prudent woman.

”It was so well that I heard them,” I kept saying to myself, but I felt so much older and so much graver. My silence and constraint were no doubt differently interpreted. Richard did not come up to me, except to tell me I had better put my shawl on, as I sat on the steps of the boat-house, with Benny beside me. The others had walked further on and were sitting, some of them on the rocks, and some on the boat that had been drawn up, watching the sun go down.

”Tell me a story,” said Benny, resting his arms on my lap, ”a story about when you were a little girl.”

”Oh, Benny, that wouldn't make a pretty story.”

”Oh, yes, it would: all about your mamma and the house you used to live in, and the children you used to go to see.”

”Dear Benny! I never lived in but one old, dismal house. I never went to play with any children. I could not make a story out of that.”

”But your mamma. O yes, I'm sure you could if you tried very hard.”

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