Charred Wood | Page 8

funeral herself--brave, wasn't it?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whose specialty is one in which the Irish excel--sympathy. Ann keeps it in stock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock never diminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less."
"Sympathy and loyalty," said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish I knew at home."
"Ann has both," said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But the latter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if she could, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been a priest's housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled with hundreds; she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have a chronic sick man here who is her particular bête noir. And, as for organists, she would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary is safe with Ann."
"Poor woman!" said Mark.
"That reminds me," said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here a little while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breaking in' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met the priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like myself--I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. 'Charming people,' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs. O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them,' I said, 'as if they were society ladies.' 'Better--better still,' he answered. 'They're the real thing--fewer faults, more faith, more devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as these."
"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the visitor.
"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. She wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine. It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's something bigger. It's real religion."
"She needs it!"
"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest sighed as he hunted for his pipe.
The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and gloves.
"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore."
Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please."
"Well, Father, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor man is dead. Can I do anything?"
"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"
"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice faltered for an instant as she addressed him.
"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service."
Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a certain old park of boyhood's days.
"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more astonished.
"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let us say, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to thank him."
Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to stay; but he knew that it was proper to go.
Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn.
"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson referred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He was plainly anxious.
"Not at all," answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. I gave him a chance to stare at me--and at the water. That is all."
Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Come often. The latch-string is where you can reach it."
In the street