"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?"
"That"s it, that"s it. There was no _scene_, 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 Siha.s.set 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 there _is_ an explanation, how can I forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Siha.s.set will notice and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . . My G.o.d!
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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 d.u.c.h.ess pledged to another man? A priest"s--G.o.d! 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 Siha.s.set 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.
CHAPTER X
AT THE MYSTERY TREE
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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s. 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?"