While Bessie described some of the delicate kindnesses of this dangerous friend of hers, Aunt Nancy listened attentively, and presently resumed her seat by the bed. She really could not see that the child had done, or meant, or wished any real harm.
“But, still, you must look out for the fellow, dear,” she said. “He wouldn't hang round you so if he was what he ought to be. You never know what these city gentlemen are.”
“He isn't a bad man!” Bessie exclaimed. “I won't have him called so. I'm afraid; but, for all that, I respect him. I wish John were half as good.”
The story was ended; but with the feeling of relief which followed the disburdening of her heart came also the uneasiness and half regret we always experience when we have been led unawares to confide a secret to one whom we have not deliberately chosen as a confidant. Conscious of this new uneasiness, Bessie wished to close the conversation.
“Don't let me keep you any longer,” she said. “Go to bed now, and forget all the nonsense I have been talking. I am sorry I disturbed you.”
Aunt Nancy paid no attention to this request. She sat a few moments in deep thought, then spoke abruptly: “Bessie, did you ever go to any of your priests about this business?”
“To a priest!” repeated Bessie, astonished at such a question from a rigid Puritan like her aunt, and doubtful in what spirit it was asked. “What made you think of that?”
“I am not a Catholic,” the old woman said, “but you are. And I like to see people live up to their religion, whatever it is. A religion that won't help you in a strait like this isn't worth having.”
Bessie was silent, knowing not what to say. Her faith was sleeping. That religion would help as really as the trials of earth can hurt she had not thought. Like many others, she invoked the aid of the church on the great events, the births, the marriages, and the deaths, but let the rest of life fight its own battles.
“Now, you listen to me,” Aunt Nancy said earnestly. “I'm not very wise, but I'm going to give you the best advice that you can get anywhere. Just you write to old Father Conners, the priest that married you and John, and tell him what [pg 340] a trouble you are in. I've seen him, and I believe he's a good Christian, if he is a priest, and a sensible man, too. He comes three or four times a year up to a Mr. Blake's, over on the railroad, and says Mass in his house. There are a good many Catholics round there now. It's about time for him to come again. You write to him, and you won't be sorry for it. There's nothing else for you to do. Will you write, Bessie? I want you to promise.”