'We play billiards here on Sunday, but you would think it wrong to do
so.'
'But to-day is not Sunday.'
'No; I was only speaking in a general way. Yet I often wonder how you
can feel satisfied with the protection your Church affords you against
the miseries and trials of the world. A Protestant may believe pretty
nearly as little or as much as he likes, whereas in our Church
everything is defined; we know what we must believe to be saved. There
is a sense of security in the Catholic Church which the Protestant has
not.'
'Do you think so? That is because you do not know our Church,' replied
Kitty, who was a little astonished at this sudden outburst. 'I feel
quite happy and safe. I know that our Lord Jesus Christ died on the
Cross to save us, and we have the Bible to guide us.'
'Yes, but the Bible without the interpretation of the Church is... may
lead to error. For instance....'
John stopped abruptly. Seized with a sudden scruple of conscience, he
asked himself if he, in his own house, had a right to strive to
undermine the faith of the daughter of his own friend.
'Go on,' cried Kitty, laughing. 'I know the Bible better than you, and
if I break down I will ask father.' And as if to emphasise her
intention, she hit her ball, which was close under the cushion, as
hard as she could.
John hailed the rent in the cloth as a deliverance, for in the
discussion as to how it could be repaired the religious question was
forgotten.
And this idyll was lived about the beautiful Italian house, with its
urns and pilasters; through the beautiful English park, with its elms
now with the splendour of summer upon them; in the pleasure-grounds
with their rosery, and the fountain where the rose-leaves float, and
the woodpigeons come at eventide to drink; in the greenhouse with its
live glare of geraniums, where the great yellow cat, so soft and
beautiful, springs on Kitty's shoulder, rounds its back, and, purring,
insists on caresses; in the large, clean stables where the horses
munch the corn lazily, and look round with round inquiring eyes, and
the rooks croak and flutter, and strut about Kitty's feet.
One morning he said, as they went into the garden, 'You must sometimes
feel a little lonely here... when I am away... all alone here with
mother.'
'Oh dear no! we have lots to do. I look after the pets in the morning.
I feed the cats and the rooks, and I see that the canaries have fresh
water and seed. And then the bees take up a lot of our time. We have
twenty-two hives. Mrs. Norton says she ought to make five pounds a
year on each. Sometimes we lose a swarm or two, and then Mrs. Norton
is cross. We were out for hours with the gardener the other day, but
we could do no good; we could not get them out of that elm tree. You
see that long branch leaning right over the wall; well, it was on that
branch that they settled, and no ladder was tall enough to reach them;
and when Bill climbed the tree and shook them out they flew right
away. And in the afternoon we go out for drives; we pay visits. You
never pay visits; you never go and call on your neighbours.'
'Oh, yes I do; I went the other day to see your father.'
'Ah yes, but that is only because he talks to you about Latin
authors.'
'No, I assure you it isn't. Once I have finished my book I shall never
look at them again.'
'Well, what will you do?'
'I don't know; it depends on circumstances.'
What circumstances?' said Kitty, innocently.
The words _'Whether you will or will not have me'_ rose to John's
lips, but all power to speak them seemed to desert him; he had grown
suddenly as weak as snow, and in an instant the occasion had passed.
On another occasion they were walking in the park.
'I never would have believed, John, that you would care to go out for
a walk with me.'
'And why, Kitty?'
Kitty laughed--her short, sudden laugh was strange and sweet, and
John's heart was beating.
'Well,' she said, without the faintest hesitation or shyness, 'we
always thought you hated girls. I know I used to tease you when you
came home for the first time, when you used to think of nothing but
the Latin authors.'
'What do you mean?'
Kitty laughed again.
'You promise not to tell?'
'I promise.'
This was their first confidence.
'You told your mother when I came, when you were sitting by the fire
reading, that the flutter of my skirts disturbed you.'
'No, Kitty; I'm sure you never disturbed me, or at least for a long
time. I wish my mother would not repeat conversations; it is most
unfair.'
'Mind, you promised not to repeat what I have told you. If you do, you
will get me into an awful scrape.'
'I promise.'
The conversation came to a pause. Kitty looked up; and, overtaken by a
sudden nervousness, John said--
'We had better make haste; the storm is coming on; we shall get wet
through.'
And he made no further attempt to screw his courage up to the point of
proposing, but asked himself if his powerlessness was a sign from God
that he was abandoning his true vocation for a false one? He knew that
he would not propose. If he did he would break his engagement when it
came to the point of marriage. He was as unfitted for marriage as he
was for the priesthood. He had deceived himself about the priesthood,
as he was now deceiving himself about marriage. No, not deceiving
himself, for at the bottom of his heart he could hear the truth. Then,
why did he continue this,--it was no better than a comedy, an unworthy
comedy, from which he did not seem to be able to disentangle himself;
he could not say why. He could not understand himself; his brain was
on fire, and he knelt down to pray, but when he prayed the thought of
bringing a soul home to the fold tempted him like a star, and he asked
himself if Kitty had not, in some of their conversations, shown
leanings toward Catholicism. If this were so would it be right to
desert her in a critical moment?