She had cherished the secret without hope or wish that he should share it, for she knew that so sweet a thing could live in no heart but her own; and she had not been ashamed, but had been proud of this holy acquisition hidden in her heart of hearts. Her eyes grew limpid and her cheeks flushed red as she recalled how the shrine of her treasure had been profaned by the hand of one that might have known, but had disdained its worth. In the Church of St. Roch the three who had been present when love was born were again alone together. Berthe was now her maid, and Mark, his university days past, was a daily visitor at her father's house.
The scene was clear before her as he pointed to the maid, out of earshot, and gazing carelessly at the worshippers. "Has she forgotten—so soon?" he said. "Are women so?"
She had not answered. Forgotten! Who could forget?
"I have not forgotten. I often come here, Natalie."
She had had no words. What was it that had so joyously welled up within her and overflowed her eyes and closed her lips?
"I was to be your teacher, Natalie."
She looked into his eyes, and from her own went out the secret of her soul into his keeping; and she had been glad, and the gloomy church had been aglow, and as they passed out the sun shone and the heavens smiled upon a new world; for she had never seen it thus before.
That was the short chapter of the history of her love. There had been no other. He had ravished her secret that he might disdain it, and next day had said a stern good-bye, spoken as though forever.
Yet she had dared to come here, though now the impulse was strong upon her to turn and flee from a region where he might be met. It was but an impulse; for either she must come among these her relatives or return to throw herself into the arms of the vacuous hussar who loved her dowry, or failing that, into the strife and importunity from which she had escaped. Resentful pride, too, came to her aid, bidding her not flee from him who had disdained her love, though even so she knew that that which had been born within her had been so fondly cherished, had grown so mighty, that in the heart it filled there was no room for pride to grow with equal strength.
She turned again to the letter in her hand. Her unbelief had never stilled the longing to believe, and now, in the hunger of her soul, the yearning was strong. But, she asked herself, What was belief? There was much glib talk of faith, but what was faith? Could one have faith by saying that one had it? Was conviction mere assertion? The letter advised her to seek enlightenment at the Throne of God. What meaning could the words have except that she was to crave that which she had ever craved? Her soul had always cried aloud for knowledge of God. Could it be that formal words, repeated kneeling, would compel heaven to give ear? Was it thus that people experienced what they called religion? Was it so that Miss Claghorn had found it?