Part 15 (1/2)

Her banter failed to provoke the always ready apology--usually so charmingly proffered.

He could only mutter something about an awful headache; luckily Violet's attention was drawn for the moment to an acquaintance who caught her eye, and there was a speedy change of subject. Did he ever see such execrable taste as that girl's dress? It was positively hideous! The colors did not suit either the wearer or each other, etc., etc.

It was a relief when the curtain rose once more. The music and the action of the piece engrossed the attention of Violet; to Bernard they were G.o.d-sent helps. His mind could range back over the past without restraint, while outwardly he appeared absorbed in the play.

What torrents of self-reproach swept over him as he retraced the wanderings of his misspent years--misspent as regarded the service of his Creator, however prosperous in the eyes of the world! The past came back like a dream. His innocent childhood, spent under the vigilant care of a saintly mother; his boyhood, with its keener joys--all tempered by religion; his school-days, his college career--both dominated by faith; in minute detail the pictures pa.s.sed before his mental vision as he sat there, silent and solitary--heedless of the throng of pleasure-seekers all around him. The sorrow with which such recollections filled his heart was caused by the contrast which after years presented. He could recall his first falling-away from grace, when the successful attainment of a coveted appointment had brought with it the necessity of concealing his Catholic upbringing and convictions. How rapidly had he descended after that turning point had been pa.s.sed! Conscience had been stifled until its voice no longer troubled him. Ambition became his goal, worldly success his G.o.d. Far away in Ireland his mother had died blessing him for his generous provision for her, ignorant of her darling's downfall. None were now left for whose opinion he had cared one straw, even should they learn of his apostasy.

Shrouded as they were in the gloom of the auditorium, his face, kept resolutely toward the stage, could not be seen by his companion, much less his eyes, which were wells of misery. In his overwhelming grief he almost forgot the girl beside him until a whispered remark upon some beautiful pa.s.sage in the music recalled her presence. It did but add fresh stings to his remorse. Could it be possible that he--a son of a sainted mother, child of a faithful Catholic race--could have contemplated marriage with a professed atheist? Had he indeed been planning to take to wife, to make the mother of his possible children, one who openly flouted the idea of a personal G.o.d--he, who had drunk in at his mother's breast the burning love of the Faith which is the birthright of every true son of Ireland?

The pain and the shame which filled his heart were well-nigh unendurable! Oh, if he could but manage to keep his self-control for an hour or two! If he could but hold out until he was alone; for at times it seemed as though he must betray himself--there, in that public a.s.sembly--by crying aloud in his anguish, or even by breaking out into unmanly weeping.

How he got through that miserable evening he never could recall. He realized by her coldness on the return journey, and by the demonstrative encouragement shown to Aston, that he had woefully offended Violet.

Bernard never played his allotted part in the opera; for to every one's astonishment he threw up his appointment and left the town, bound no one knew whither. So the course was clear for Cuthbert Aston, and he lost no time in making good his opportunity. His engagement to Violet took no one by surprise, when his only possible rival was out of the way.

It does not need a very vivid imagination to voice the sentiments of Aston and his _fiancee_ on the subject of Bernard's extraordinary conduct--as it would appear to them.

”I was always afraid,” the successful suitor would doubtless exclaim, ”that Murray would be the fortunate chap; he was so jolly clever--and good looking, too!”

”Of course,” we may imagine the lady responding, ”he was all right in that way--handsome, and well-bred, and all that sort of thing. But surely affection is the only thing one really values, dear, and you were always so faithful,” etc., etc., etc.

Meanwhile, in the great Trappist monastery beyond the Irish Sea a Brother Patrick labored and prayed--if so be he might make some reparation, at least for past unfaithfulness to so bountiful a Lord.

”You must have been working hard at your prayers, Ted,” was Val's morning salutation to me when I went in to breakfast one day.

”What, am I late?” I asked, glancing at my watch.

”Oh, that's nothing unusual,” was the unkind response, ”But I was not thinking of this morning in particular. Don't you remember what I asked you to pray for?”

”To be sure I do. For a particularly good mistress for the school.”

(For we had just had the misfortune to lose one who was next door to perfection, and wanted to increase in perfection by entering a convent, and Val had been worrying himself to replace her before the holidays were over.)

”So you've heard of one? That's good!” I continued.

”Well, not exactly,” said Val. ”I've heard of a person who is on the lookout for a place of this kind, and reference seem quite correct, but----”

”But what? If she is all right, why hesitate? Write at once, my dear fellow, and snap her up before some one else does!”

Val's eyes twinkled.

”It's not a _she_ at all. That's the difficulty. It's a master who is applying.”

I whistled my astonishment, then shook my head in distrust.

”If he's not a fraud he must be fooling you!” I rejoined irreverently.

”No capable master would come up here.”