Mary was silent and thoughtful; she knew not how to interpret the mingled praise and censure she had just listened to.
“But tell me rather of yourself,” said Mary, as though willing to turn the topic of conversation. “I should like to hear your story.”
“At thirteen years of age—I believe even a year later—I was the playfellow of the young gentleman you see yonder,” said Kate Henderson, “but who, to-night, seems incapable of remembering anything or anybody.”
“Of Mr. Nelligan?” repeated Mary. And Joseph started as he heard his name, looked up, and again relapsed into revery.
“I 'm not sure that we were not in love. I almost confess that I was, when my father sent me away to France to be educated. I was very sad—very, very sad—at being taken away from home and thrown amongst strangers, with none of whom I could even interchange a word; and I used to sit and cry for hours by myself, and write sorrowful love-letters to 'dearest Joseph,' and then imagine the answers to them; sometimes I actually wrote them, and would suffer agonies of anguish before I dared to break the seal and learn the contents. Meanwhile I was acquiring a knowledge of French, and knew a little of music, and used to sing in our choir at chapel, and learned to believe the world was somewhat larger than I had hitherto thought it, and that St. Gudule was finer than the mean little church at Oughterard; and worse still—for it was worse—that the sous-lieutenants and cadets of the Military College had a much more dashing, daring look about them than 'poor Joseph;' for so I now called him to myself, and gave up the correspondence soon after.
“Remember, Miss Martin, that I was but a child at this time—at least, I was little more than fourteen—but in another year I was a woman, in all the consciousness of certain attractions, clever enough to know that I could read and detect the weak points in others, and weak enough to fancy that I could always take advantage of them. This incessant spirit of casuistry, this passion for investigating the temper of those about you, and making a study of their natures for purposes of your own, is the essence of a convent life; you have really little else to do, and your whole bent is to ascertain why Sister Agnes blushes, or why Beatrice fainted twice at the Angelus. The minute anatomy of emotions is a very dangerous topic. At this very moment I cannot free myself from the old habit; and as I see young Mr. Nelligan there sitting with his head in his hand, so deep in thought as not to notice us, I begin to examine why is it he is thus, and on what is he now brooding?”
“And can you guess?” asked Mary, half eagerly.
“I could be certain, if I were but to ask him a question or two.”
“Pray do then, if only to convince me of your skill.”
“But I must be alone, and that is scarcely possible,—scarcely becoming.”