"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the little class of tots who received their First Holy Communion last Sunday. His Lordship is a charming man. I'm sure you would like to meet him. Come up and take dinner with us at noon. He leaves on the three o'clock train. Better be at the rectory at eleven thirty.Sincerely,Donald Murray."
When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the little rectory, he heard the choir singing theVeni Creator, and remembered enough of former visits to church services to know that the sermon was about to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the time listening to what the Bishop might have to say. There were no vacant seats near the door of the church, so he had to go quite close to the sanctuary before he found a place. Only two seats ahead of him was the group of twenty little girls about to be confirmed, and directly across the aisle from them were fifteen little boys.
Mark had vivid recollections of the day of his own First Communion, but he had never been confirmed. Things looked just as they did on the day he so well remembered. The girls were dressed in white, and each small head was covered by a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottom of the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbon around his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and had evidently been prepared well for the reception of the Sacrament. Mark found himself wondering how the pastor could possibly have succeeded in taming some of the lads, in whom he recognized certain mischievous youngsters he had seen about the hotel; but tamed they certainly were.
Mark had scarcely sat down before the Bishop turned to the congregation and began to speak. His words were addressed entirely to the children. He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, the meaning and importance of the ceremony, sketching the apostolic origin of Confirmation, and dwelling upon its strengthening spiritual effects.
The Bishop was young, too young, Mark thought, since he was not yet forty. His hair was still black, and his cheeks ruddy. He was quite a contrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that the pastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but only the surplice of a simple priest. There were two other priests in the sanctuary, both young, one probably the Bishop's secretary.
The Bishop allowed his gaze to wander over the congregation as he spoke with a rich, clear voice, and with growing eloquence. The children had fixed their wondering eyes on his impressive figure, as he stood before them, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he was growing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermon went on. More than that, he found himself interested in the doctrine of Confirmation, a ceremony which but a few months before he would have thought quite meaningless. He watched the Bishop and listened as closely as did the children.
In the very midst of a sentence Mark saw a startled look on the face of the preacher, a quickly suppressed look that told of great surprise. The Bishop saved himself from breaking the current of his speech, but so plainly did Mark notice the instance that his mind jumped at once to the conclusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody he had not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark's gaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct line with himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For an instant only the Bishop's glance rested on the veiled girl; then he turned again to the children. But the sermon had been spoiled for Mark. The uneasiness was coming over him again. What did the Bishop know? Mark could not help thinking that somehow the incident was a proof that the detective had told the truth.
The sermon over, the Bishop's attendant came up to him, while Father Murray went to marshal his little charges up to the foot of the altar. As the Bishop was about to sit down on the faldstool, Mark saw him whisper to the young priest beside him, the one Mark thought to be the secretary. He was a well trained secretary, for he made no sign; but Mark watched him as he calmly turned around to face the congregation. His searching glance swept the church until it rested upon the girl with the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign as he turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imagined that her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked at him as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it had been there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left the church. The girl remained behind, until there was no one but herself and Madame Neuville left. In his anxiety for the girl, Mark returned and looked at her from the rear of the church. Her face was buried in her hands. The sacristy door opened slightly and the young secretary looked out. The girl, not seeing the door open, lifted the veil for an instant to wipe away her tears. The secretary closed the door softly as soon as he had seen her.
Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at the door before he could ring.
"Come right in, Mr. Griffin," she said. "I'm going to take ye into the dining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishop in the front room, so ye'll stay here please."
Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was already set, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Mark could hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important personage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It was seldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it?
There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waited and, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop arise impatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused him no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springs of the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Then the door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard the Bishop's voice:
"Is she the woman?"
A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered:
"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is."
"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. "Father, are you perfectly sure?"
"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until all had left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw her face quite plainly. She is the woman."
"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, poor creature—and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay."
Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he paused long enough to hear the secretary say:
"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up."
"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?" asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could catch the train at his station."
"I will try."
By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage about love and war.
"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone. Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the sacristy.
"Welcome, Mr. Griffin," he said cordially. "Come, you must meet His Lordship. He's in here," and he threw open the folding-doors. The Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The Bishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He was like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him.
"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your Lordship—or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stay to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him."
"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin," said the Bishop. "I saw you in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not—"
But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation.
"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile is even now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessary for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to the city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before taking the train at the next station."
Father Murray almost gasped.
"But, My Lord," he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been looking forward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be able to—" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear Bishop, you will surely stay?"
Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones.
"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it were expedient, but unfortunately it is not."
"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed in the hall, as they had come from the church.
The Bishop put out his hand to Mark.
"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time."
He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved.
Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark.
"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, and rushed over to the inert priest.
"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?"
But Father Murray did not answer.
"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark.
"Gone."
"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he wouldn't eat here—again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The dirty—but God forgive me—he's the Bishop—I can't judge him—"
Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more.
"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come outside, Mark."
The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though he needed him and knew he could count upon him.
"My friend, have you ever read Thomas à Kempis?"
"No, Father, I have not."
"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when we need it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'If thou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtest never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject of joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee.' It is Christ speaking, and the quotation is from HisImitation." Then Father Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it all off.
"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishop has never broken bread with me since—but let that pass. Come in and eat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I must eat it."
And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered the rectory.
Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of approaching a subject too abruptly.
"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence."
"Yes? What was it this time?"
"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's drinkin' ag'in."
"And she wants me to—"
"Give him the pledge."
"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?"
"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin years."
Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, but not quite enough yet.
"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the priest, looking down longingly at his work.
But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted."
Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?"
"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted."
"Who insulted her?"
"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation."
"But I did."
"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy."
"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson anything. I'll see her to-day."
"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped all the time, the painted thing!"
"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard feelings."
"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the Bishop—"
"Ann!"
"Iwillsay it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this—"
"Please, Ann."
"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could tell him things if I had me tongue on him—"
But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her tongue.
"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word."
The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and faithfully."
"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me."
"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence."
"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled."
"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral."
"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?"
"McCarthy's sick ag'in."
"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning."
Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy.
"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."
The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice.
"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's."
Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information.
"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"
"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there are plenty of servants at Killimaga."
He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke forgotten.
"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer the Bishop, bad scran to him, is."
There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, without knowing why—and loves and protects too—still without knowing, or asking, a reason.
In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He often dropped in for a chat.
"Where's the Father?" he asked.
"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the parish's chronic hypochondriac.
But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he had just heard a wonderful story.
Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?"
"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs theWeekly Herald. Ye know him?"
"I know no good av him."
"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear."
"The omadhan!"
"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he."
Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected.
"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin shoot a human dog, too.'"
"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!"
"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake."
"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it."
Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed.
"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled.
"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for he was a well-to-do business man.
"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read it aloud:
JOHN JONATHAN STURGISJustice of the Peace
The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate.
Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and eloquently.
Fees Moderate.Osculation extra.
Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, noconnection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill.
P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injurethe most delicate complexion.
"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see it on your face."
"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?"
"I know him only slightly."
"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him."
Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty."
"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the joke himself in to-day'sHerald."
When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed story was safely in his pocket.
"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and so soon after our first meeting."
Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, and Mark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peaceful country through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turned sharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned the young Bishop, hand outstretched.
Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You are still traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of the dignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised to realize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter.
"I am still traveling—Confirmation tours all this season. Are you going far, Mr. Griffin?"
"I am merely walking, without goal."
"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten miles farther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to 'prepare the way,' as it were. I will send the car back with you. Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnest desire that the invitation be accepted.
Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly go with you on such pleasant terms." He entered the car and, sinking into its soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had tramped far, and was tired.
The Bishop took up the conversation.
"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said 'Your Lordship.' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, are they not?"
"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray—"
"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and rather inclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In America the best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop.' One of your own kind of Bishops—an Episcopalian—I knew him well and a charming man he was—told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped' everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. But when he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates took all the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and the greeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'"
"It was very American, that," said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it."
"Butwedo. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it—so long as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhood side as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look at it."
A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out in words before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, he could have bitten his tongue with chagrin.
"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with your clergy?"
To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain reference to the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset.
"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such an excellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. If you hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding the opening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to my seemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" It seemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?" He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin.
"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. The affair is simply none of my business."
"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger—perhaps not even a Catholic—to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishop is cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularly with his under-shepherds."
Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishop understand his own feelings.
"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord—or rather my dear Bishop."
It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say 'Bish.'"
"The Lord forbid."
"For my back's sake," the Bishop was looking at Mark's strong shoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But to your question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. Father Murray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of my dearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soul of generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and—I believed then—a saint."
"Then?"
"Then. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. You like him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and his people at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would be in the place I occupy to-day." The Bishop broke off to look fixedly at Mark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend a service?"
"Yes, Bishop, you may."
"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do it through another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of the younger ones who might make matters worse. You can help Monsignore Murray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversation between my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You were in the next room, I know."
"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape."
"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?"
"All."
"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that you heard. A woman's name was mentioned?"
"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who was meant."
"Exactly." The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I am going to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reason than to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings with his priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for Monsignore Murray's sake. He is adifferentsort of man from the ordinary type. He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seem to be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You like him in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do not know when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but he has seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knows where she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'Miss Atheson.'"
"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind—Ruth Atheson."
"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to the situation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that Monsignore Murray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at the rectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and had every confidence in him until—well, until one day a member of the Cathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw Miss Atheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head close to his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from a letter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visit was never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?"
Mark was too much surprised to answer.
"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have an explanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable of course. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was avoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his fullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. Still I was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset."
Mark found his voice.
"That was the reason? And he never knew?"
"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I would then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scene when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through with it again."
"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?"
"That's it, that's it. There was noscene, and yet there was. I told you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In years the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father and friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have felt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was a son condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him."
"And you did not?"
"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had—until I went to Sihasset and saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him."
"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he—"
"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shall have to tell him and then— If thereisan explanation, how can I forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will notice and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then.… My God! I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you know what it means to be an unfrocked priest?"
"Yes." Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mind was working fast, however.
"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him—point out the danger of his position—without hurting him? He is very sensitive. Don't tell him all you know—only intimate gently that there may be some misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. You may save him if you can do this and—if you will do it."
It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the Bishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus to take a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel that you alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing has cost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I must save him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, but she is forgiving—too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give my life to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he is the man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go to him—and hurt him?"
If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of the Bishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a man who in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, in spite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened that heart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at every chance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting pain himself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him.
But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess pledged to another man? A priest's—God! that was too much. Mark clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him.
"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help.
"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I will try."
So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone.
The Bishop prayed longer—much longer—than usual before he left the little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after the ceremony.
All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a dull pain in both head and heart.
All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop.
To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment.
With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her; rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be.
Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him.
It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past.
The gray ocean seemed trying—-and the thought consoled him a little—to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided.
How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to know. A step aroused him from his stupor.
He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the doorway in the tree was flung open.
Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back into her life. She spoke in French and—was it because of the language used or of the unusual excitement?—her voice took on a strange elusive quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of escape, so he steeled his heart to listen.
"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say.
"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did not delay one minute."
"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you."
"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?"
"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have called you. But I wanted you so much."
"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I live?"
"You love me, then, so much?"
"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not looked?"
"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you."
They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an honorable man, to do.
Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows; but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her? He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would be done while she was there.
The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye.
"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously.
"I will come when you call, my beloved."
"But if they find you?"
"They will not find me."
"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. We could be just alone together."
"But would you be happy, Carlotta?"
"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for being a duchess, to lose all I want in life."
"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it."
"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to give. I will tell you when to come."
With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and closed the door.
The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, and jumped for the other side—but too late. There was no sound, but powder burned Mark's hand—powder from the muffled gun barrel which he had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric glow lamp from his pocket.
"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly at the man's face, then snapped off the light.
"He's the man," he announced.