"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 s.p.a.ce. 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 a.s.sistants. 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 a 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 His _Imitation_." 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 pa.s.s. 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.

CHAPTER VIII

FATHER MURRAY OF SIHa.s.sET

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!"

"I _will_ say 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."