“With prayer and chastening of the spirit, my daughter,” he said.
“But suppose that at the altar I remembered another man?”
“A sin, my child, for which should be due sorrow.” The girl smiled sadly. She felt poignantly how little he could help her.
“And if the man were a Catholic and a Frenchman?” she said.
“A papist and a Frenchman!” he cried, lifting up his hands. “My daughter, you ever were too playful. You speak of things impossible. I pray you listen.” Jessica raised her hand as if to stop him and to speak herself, but she let him go on. With the least encouragement she might have told him all. She had had her moment of weakness, but now it was past. There are times when every woman feels she must have a confidant, or her heart will burst—have counsel or she will die. Such a time had come to Jessica. But she now learned, as we all must learn, that we live our dark hour alone.
She listened as in a dream to the kindly bigot. When he had finished, she knelt and received his blessing. All the time she wore that strange, quiet smile. Soon afterwards he left her.
She went again to the window. “A papist and a Frenchman—unpardonable sin!” she said into the distance. “Jessica, what a sinner art thou!”
Presently there was a tap, the door opened, and George Gering entered. She turned to receive him, but there was no great lighting of the face. He came quickly to her, and ran his arm round her waist. A great kindness looked out of her eyes. Somehow she felt herself superior to him—her love was less and her nature deeper. He pressed her fingers to his lips. “Of what were you thinking, Jessica?” he asked.
“Of what a sinner I am,” she answered, with a sad kind of humour.
“What a villain must I be, then!” he responded. “Well, yes,” she said musingly; “I think you are something of a villain, George.”