"I wish it was done," he said, sighing—and Laura could only feel that the responsibilities and anxieties weighing upon him seemed to press with unusual strength.
A rosy evening stole upon them as they walked along the Greet.—The glow caught the grey walls of the house on the further bank—lit up the reaches of the stream—and the bare branch work of a great ruined tree in front of them. Long lines of heavy wood closed the horizon on either hand, shutting in the house, the river, and their two figures.
"How solitary we are here!" he said, suddenly looking round him. "Oh!
Laura, can you be happy—with poverty—and me?"
"Well, I shan't read my prayer-book along the river!—and I shan't embroider curtains for the best bedroom—alack! Perhaps a new piano might keep me quiet—I don't know!"
He looked at her, then quickly withdrew his eyes, as though they offended. Through his mind had run the sacred thought, "Her children will fill her life—and mine!"
"When am I to teach you Latin?" he said, laughing.
She raised her shoulders.
"I wouldn't learn it if I could do without it! But you Catholics are bred upon it."
"We are the children of the Church," he said gently. "And it is her tongue."
She made no answer, and he talked of something else immediately. As they crossed the little footbridge he drew her attention to the deep pool on the further side, above which was built the wooden platform, where Laura had held her May tryst with Mason.