“He––he went to confession, you mean. Yes, I think so.”
But the girl was not to be evaded in that way.
“I know that,” she persisted. “I heard M’sieur the Bishop. But did he confess––about Rogers?”
“Why, Cynthe, you must be crazy. You know I didn’t hear anything. I couldn’t––”
“He didn’t say nothing, except in confession?” the girl questioned swiftly.
“Nothing at all,” Ruth answered, relieved.
“And you heard?” the girl returned shrewdly.
“Why, Cynthe, I heard nothing. You know that.”
“I know you are lying,” Cynthe said slowly. “That is right. But I do not know. Will you always be able to lie? I do not know. You are Catholic, yes. But you are new. You are not like one of us. Sometime you will forget. It is not bred in the bone of you as it is bred in us. Sometime when you are not thinking some one will ask you a question and you will start and your tongue will slip, or you will be silent––and that will be just as bad.”
Ruth stood looking down at the ground. She dared not speak, did not even raise her eyes, for any assurance of silence or even a reassuring look to the girl would be an admission that she must not make.