"I'm afraid," Mark spoke with an effort, "I'm afraid that I don't know just what to do, Saunders. You see, I happen to love her."

"But what about the other man?"

"Well, Saunders, I find it very hard to believe that."

"Griffin," said Saunders, "I've told you a lot, because I know you are a gentleman, and because you have a right to know. I make only one request of you: please don't speak of this."

"I appreciate the confidence, Saunders. My word is given."

"Think this thing over, Griffin. You're the right stuff. I don't blame you for wanting her. You know better than I if she's right, and if you ever can have her."

Mark went back to his room. On his table lay a note. He opened it and read:

"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the little cla.s.s 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."

CHAPTER VII

BITTER BREAD

When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the little rectory, he heard the choir singing the _Veni 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sistants 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 G.o.d!" 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 circ.u.mstances; 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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.