She relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. Six shillings thrown away—spilled upon the floor—and all for him! Where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper?
“You’ve been to the Ferry, then?”
“You see,” she says, holding up the bottle.
“I weesh I’d known that. I could a met ye on the road, and we’d had more time to be thegither. It’s too bad, you havin’ to go straight back.”
“It is. But there’s no help for it. Father Rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient.”
Were in light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest’s name. She does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. In his heart he curses the Jesuit—often has with his tongue, but not now. He is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. Still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both.
“Mary dear!” he rejoins in grave, serious tone, “I don’t want to say a word against Father Rogier, seein’ how much he be your mother’s friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for I don’t believe he’s the friend o’ anybody. Sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and I’ve got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us.”
“How can he, Jack?”
“Ah, how! A many ways. One, his sayin’ ugly things about me to your mother—tellin’ her tales that ain’t true.”
“Let him—as many as he likes; you don’t suppose I’ll believe them?”