"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.