Aunt Mildred went to Mass with them one Sabbath, just out of curiosity, and declared there wasn’t a decent bonnet in the whole congregation outside of Cousin Mary’s pew; and father, who looked in at the chapel on Christmas Day, told us he didn’t see a single carriage at the entrance—nothing but a lot of farmers’ and workingmen’s wagons.
Nevertheless, the Gastons were charming people. Our affection for them went to the full extent of our cousinly relationship, and I in particular—by the way, I forgot to introduce myself—George Willoughby, at your service, just twenty-one—nice age, isn’t it? Graduated at—but I won’t mention what college in New England, lest you might expect too much of me. Well, as I was saying—and I in particular had conceived quite an attachment for my Cousin Richard Gaston. He was three years my senior, had received his education in some out-of-the-way Catholic college situated on the top or at the foot—I really forget which—of some mountain among the Alleghenies. We had frequently met and exchanged visits during our vacations, and the only objection I had to Cousin Dick was that on these occasions he made no end of fun of my Protestant Latin pronunciation, asking me to read a page of Virgil, and then rolling over in his chair, splitting his sides with laughter. What he found so comical in my recitation I could not imagine. I saw nothing in it to laugh at. This was several years ago. I now know the cause of his mirth.
But even if Dick did make fun of my Latin, and call it barbarous, he was a good fellow, although I must say that at times he presumed a little upon his seniority so as to be a trifle mentorish. Indeed, I loved him as a friend, independently of my affection for him as a relative. He was considerate, too, and never troubled me with any of his Romanish notions, except when I sometimes asked him a question about the church, or touching some point in Catholic history, and then I generally received more information than I either expected or desired. One of these occasions I well remember, for the conversation eventually led to serious results for me. I had gone down to spend a week with the Gastons. One rainy afternoon—too wet to drive over to the village, as we had intended—I had just waded through the strange, eventful story of that gay and festive American citizen, Mr. St. Elmo, and, as usual when at a loss for something to do, I began to look around for Dick.
I soon found him in the library, but so entirely engrossed with a book that he did not notice my entrance.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Oh!” said he, “nothing that would interest you.”
“Let me see?” I took the book, and read the title-page: Introduction to a Devout Life. From the French of S. Francis of Sales. “Why, Dick,” said I, “this is Thursday, not Sunday.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why,” said I, “on Sunday you get out the Bible, or some pious book, and read a spell—needn’t read very long, you know, about enough to keep your face straight for the rest of the day. It’s the thing to do—good young man, and all that sort of thing, you know—Cela vous pose, as the French say; but as to pious reading, except for that or to fight a rainy Sabbath with—never heard of such a thing. But what’s your book about? Who is your Sales man? Some old ‘stick-in-the-mud’ of a stupid hermit, eh?”
“Your phrase is not of the politest,” replied Dick, “but I will answer your question. S. Francis of Sales was not what you describe, but an elegant, accomplished gentleman, a graduate of the Sorbonne at Paris, and of the University of Padua, where, after a brilliant examination, he took the degree of doctor of laws with great distinction.”