"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."