“That’s just it,” he sputtered. “If he wasn’t so handsome, manly, honest and lovable, I wouldn’t care; but to think of all those virtues being shut up in a monastery, makes me wish I were a profane man, so I could ease my mind by swearing.”
Mrs. Malloy had become very white, and she made no answer. Her brother glanced at her, and added softly, dropping into a chair by her side: “It’s all because he was brought up in that Faith. I don’t see how you could do it, Stella.”
“You forget,” she answered sadly; “it was John’s religion, and it was understood that he should do that if he were so inclined.”
“But John never meant for you to be left alone in the world. He wouldn’t have wanted the boy to leave you, if he had known.”
“Perhaps not,” she said with white lips, “but I would not lay one straw in the way, or stand between my boy and what he considers his duty.”
“Duty be—,” vociferated Mr. Spencer. “I beg your pardon, Stella,—it almost slipped out. But can’t the young whelp see where his duty is? Now, don’t be angry, Stella. Do you think I wouldn’t whale any other man within an inch of his life if he called the boy that?”
“Nothing is gained by discussing it,” Mrs. Malloy wearily replied, “and I insist that you say nothing to Robert on the subject. His mind is quite made up, quite. He believes it to be his father’s wish. He does not know but that it is mine, though it is, as you say, not my faith.”
“‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow,’” quoted Mr. Spencer, softly.
“To say anything to him would make him very unhappy, but would not alter his decision.”
“Perhaps some way may yet be found,” he ventured.