MY promise to meet Greta two days later at the door of the Roman Catholic church weighed some- what heavily upon me. A long ramble in the woods with my friend would indeed be delightful, and yet there were difficulties in the way. If I told mother where Greta wished me to meet her she would not, I felt sure, approve, and might perhaps forbid my going altogether; or if she said, "Take Casper with you, a long walk will do him good," that would spoil all, for he was a frank, truthful little fellow, and from him my parents were sure to learn what I was so anxious to conceal. So I made up my mind to say nothing about it till the day following, and as a kind of set-off for what I knew was so wrong, to be more than usually obedient and dutiful at home.
My work-box was much admired; Casper had not been allowed to leave empty-handed, a bag of French bon-bons, which he insisted upon sharing with us, and a money-box in the shape of a frog, that appeared to swallow a coin if placed in its open mouth, having been given him; but I saw, even though mother said, "Madame Johns is very kind to my little girl and boy," the anxious, troubled look I had before noticed was on her face. Father saw it too, and said, "As our neighbors only came to ‘Verney' in the hope of Madame receiving benefit from the pure air and simple country life she could enjoy here, I expect they will soon return to Prague. I have, as you know, seen her more than once as her medical attendant, and consider her health greatly improved by her stay in our village." “Perhaps Christine can tell us when ‘Verney' is to be again empty?” mother said in a low, wistful tone; and I felt that it was no mere curiosity that prompted the question.
I had not heard, and said so; but I had been so happy in having Greta for my friend that I had quite forgotten what we had at first heard, that the family would only, it was expected, occupy "Verney" during the summer months, and the thought of losing her made me more anxious than before to be with her as much as possible. The day that followed was a very busy one. Mother was not well, and as she did not rise till much later than her usual hour, I had, as far as possible, to take her place in the house. I did my very best, and in the evening she seemed much better, and said, "You have been a real comfort to us to-day, Christine; I cannot tell you how thankful your father and I are that we can trust our little daughter.”
I colored painfully, for I knew I was not worthy of their confidence, but in the deepening twilight mother did not notice my confusion. It seemed a good opportunity, so I said, "Greta has asked me to go into the woods again with her to-morrow morning, and if you are better, and I can be spared, I should very much like to go." Mother gave her consent readily, saying that as Casper was getting useful, he should remain with her, and render any small services she might require.
The sun shone brightly on the following morning. I rose early, lighted the fire, and did several household duties, all of which would, I knew, save mother's time and strength; still I was restless and unhappy. I almost wished that Greta had not asked me to walk with her, or at least that she had chosen some other meeting-place; but then perhaps in a few weeks she would be going away, and I might never see her again. Yes, I must go, just this once.
I have learned since that a lie acted is as much a lie in the sight of God as a lie spoken, but at the time I thought far more of pleasing Greta than of obeying God. The Roman Catholic Church was at the other end of the village, quite in an opposite direction to "Verney." I could not, as I had hoped, leave the house unobserved, for mother followed me to the gate, so I climbed the low wall that parted the gardens—we seldom if ever went round by the gate. At the door I met Julie, and asked her if my friend was at home, though I knew very well that she was not. Mother had gone in, and in a few minutes I was standing in the porch of the church. Greta was nowhere to be seen, but the organ was playing, and as I listened to the grand but solemn music I almost envied Greta, who could hear it very often.
The door opened at last, and quite a number of people came out. I could not help noticing on the faces of several a look of surprise at seeing me there. I did not see Greta, and began to wonder if she was really there; the music ceased, and I had grown almost tired of waiting, when she appeared. Father Jacques was walking by her side and talking to her in low, earnest tones. I could not hear what he was saying, but from his manner I thought he was giving her directions or commands about something in which he was greatly interested. He stopped on seeing me, and said, "Good morning. Christine; I expect you are going to carry off my pupil;" but though his manner was kind, there was something in his face, though I could not tell exactly what, that made me feel afraid of him.
Greta had, I felt sure, been crying; traces of tears were on her face, but she gave me a cordial greeting, and I soon forgot everything except the beauty of the scene, and the pleasure of being with my friend.
During our walk Greta told me that as her father wished Lucilla, who was coming home for the holidays, to pay one visit to "Verney," it had been decided that they should remain there until her return to the convent school at the end of January; the Christmas following she would wear the white veil of a novice; on the day of her profession, when she would really be a nun, their father had promised that her marriage portion of a thousand silver ducats should be paid to the convent.
“We are to have a grand Christmas festival in the church," she went on to say, "when Lucilla comes; Father Jacques has given me leave to help to dress the Virgin, her image, you know, I mean. I have seen her robe, it is lovely! pale blue satin trimmed with lace, and embroidered in silver thread by the nuns of a convent near Berlin; it is a great favor, but a still greater honor is in store for my sister. There will be a procession, she is to lift the holy infant from the manger and carry him round the church; she is to represent the virgin mother of our Lord, but she will wear the dress of a nun. Oh, it will be a grand sight! the music will be lovely, and there will be flowers, and sweet-smelling incense, and holy water. You must be there that day; Father Jacques and I have planned it all; you really must come; you are my friend, and if you love me, you love to please me, don't you, Christine?”
“You forget I am not a Catholic," I replied, "and please, dear Greta, do not be angry with me, but I have been taught that to pay such honor to images, the work of men's hands, is little better than the worship of idols.”
“Who told you that?" she asked, her dark eyes flashing, and her face crimson with anger. "Father Jacques has had a long conversation with your father, who is, he says, the most stubborn and dangerous heretic in the village; I expect it is some of his teaching.”
I was frightened, I had never before seen Greta so really angry. I knew my father was of the same mind as our beloved and aged pastor, but at that moment I remembered my mother had charged me not to give the names of any who shared our faith, and resolved that in this I would not disobey her commands. I remained silent.
Greta saw her advantage, and said, "You have come more than half way already, you gathered flowers to help decorate the church, and this morning you came so near that some who saw you there might think you had been inside; you have done these things without even asking leave of your parents, why should you miss hearing grand music, and seeing a beautiful sight? Coming inside the church need not make you a Catholic, if you do not wish to be one. And," she added playfully, "in a few months we shall be going back to Prague; I am beginning to find ‘Verney' rather dull, and then you can be as good a little heretic as you please, quite a pattern to all the girls in the village. I told Father Jacques it was very hard to persuade you to do anything your parents might not like, and he says you are not disobeying them by doing what you have never been forbidden to do. And as he is a priest of course he knows a great deal more than we do.”
I dared not promise, and yet I wanted very much to please Greta, so I said, "But it wants a long time to Christmas, nearly three months, and if I were to promise, something might happen that would prevent me from keeping my word." "Well, I will not ask you to promise anything now; I have said enough to make you want to see and hear for yourself, and my father says it is a good rule for anglers to let a fish have a little play after it has swallowed the bait. But come, we must hurry now, or I shall be late for tea; don't tell any one what I have been saying," was Greta's reply.