THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION
"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."
"But _we_ do. 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 a _different_ sort 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 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 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 there _is_ an 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.