Part 58 (2/2)

Ellerslie opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. His shyness had overcome him.

For a time they were silent, and then Father Algarcife looked up.

”John,” he said.

”Yes?”

”If--if things should ever occur to--to shake your faith in me, you will always remember that I tried to do my best by the parish--that I tried to serve it as faithfully as Father Speares would have done?”

Ellerslie started.

”Of course,” he answered--”of course. But why do you say this? Could anything shake my faith in you? I would take your word against--against the bishop's.”

Father Algarcife smiled.

”And against myself?” he asked, but added, ”I am grateful, John.”

When Ellerslie had gone, a man from the Bowery came in to recount a story of suffering. He had just served a year in jail, and did not want to go back. He preferred to live straight. But it took money to do that.

His wife, who made s.h.i.+rts, and belonged to Father Algarcife's mission, had sent him to the priest. As he told his story he squirmed uneasily on the edge of Mariana's chair, twirling his shapeless hat in the hands hanging between his knees. The dog crouched against his master's feet, growling suspiciously.

Father Algarcife rested his head against the cus.h.i.+oned back, and regarded the man absently. He believed the man's tale, and he sympathized with his philosophy. It was preferable to live straight, but it took money to do so. Indeed, the wisest of preachers had once remarked that ”money answereth all things.” He wondered how nearly the preacher spoke the truth, and if he would have recognized a demonstration of his text in the man before him with the shapeless hat.

Then he asked his caller a few questions, promised to look into his case on Monday, and dismissed him.

Next came Sister Agatha, to bring to his notice the name of a child on East Twentieth Street, whom they wished to receive into the orphanage.

He promised to consider this also, and she rose to go, her grave lashes falling reverently before his glance. After she had gone he pushed his chair impatiently aside and went to his desk.

On the lid lay the completed sermon, and he realized suddenly that it must be delivered to-morrow--that he must play his part for a while longer. At the same instant he determined that on Monday he would deed over his property to the church. He would face his future with clean hands. He would start again as penniless as when he received the vestments of religion. Save for the farm in the South and a small sum of rental, he would have nothing. He would be free!

There was no hesitancy, and yet, mixed with the elation, there was pain.

Beyond Mariana's eyes, beyond the desire for honest speech, he saw the girlish face of young Ellerslie, and the grave, reverential droop of Sister Agatha's lashes. He saw, following him through all his after-years, the reproach of the people who had believed in him and been betrayed. He saw it, and he accepted it in silence.

Raising his head, he encountered the eyes of the ancestor of Father Speares. For an instant he s.h.i.+vered from a sudden chill, and then met them fearlessly.

CHAPTER XIV

Through the long night Mariana lay with her hands clasped upon her breast and her eyes upon the ceiling. The electric light, sifting through the filmy curtains at the windows, cast spectral shadows over the pale-green surface. Sometimes the shadows, tracing the designs on the curtains, wreathed themselves into outlines of large poplar leaves and draped the chandeliers, and again they melted to indistinguishable dusk, leaving a vivid band of light around the cornice.

She did not stir, but she slept little.

In the morning, when Miss Ramsey came to her bedside, there was a flush in her face and she appeared stronger than she had done since her illness.

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