The Pines of Lory Part 6

IV

NORTHWARD

Not since her change of faith--never in fact--had Elinor Marshall listened to such open abuse of a sacred inst.i.tution. And the memory of it kept her wide awake during a portion of the night.

Although she had decided to ignore that argument of the printing-press and bath-tub, it wormed itself into the inner chambers of her brain; and it refused to make way for better thoughts. As the possessor of a depositic conscience she suffered the miseries of guilt. For despite all reasoning of her own, she began to feel that unless those arguments were refuted, her faith might suffer: and, with her, an untarnished faith was vital.

The motion of her berth, the rhythmic pounding of the engines, the m.u.f.fled sound, at intervals, of feet upon the deck, all were soothing; but the remembrance of that discussion, with its mortifying climax, made sleep impossible. This childish sensitiveness she fully realized,--and despised,--but nerves achieved an easy victory over reason.

She was glad when daylight came. Long before the breakfast hour she left her state-room and sought the deck for fresh air, and for Father Burke.

He, also an early riser, was discovered in the lee of the upper cabins, his little prayer-book in his hand. Sitting close beside him she gave, in detail, the story of her conversation with Mr. Boyd. It was in the nature of a confession, but delivered in the hope and in the faith of the enemy's discomfiture. She felt, of course, that the statements concerning the press and tub were false and foolish, and she knew that Father Burke could tell her why.

Her confidence was not misplaced. This was not the first time Father Burke had been called upon to stiffen the faith of wavering converts.

Considerable experience and a perfect familiarity with the subject rendered the task an easy one. The tones of Father Burke's voice were, in themselves, almost sufficient for the purpose. Deep, calm, mellow, ravishingly sympathetic, they played like celestial zephyrs upon the chords of the maiden's heart. They filled the inmost recesses of her soul with security and peace. His arguments were the old, familiar things, considerably damaged by Protestants and other heretics; but he knew his audience. And when the spell had worked, when the wings beside him ceased to flutter, he drove the final bolt.

"You know, my child, that the value of a statement depends largely upon the character of him who utters it. I have no desire to injure this young man, nor to prejudice you in any way against him. But it is clearly my duty to warn you that he is not a person with whom it would be safe for you to permit a very close acquaintance."

"You need have no anxiety on that point."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"But tell me what you know about him, Father Burke. His family never mentions his name, and I supposed there was something to conceal. Was it anything very bad?"

"Yes, bad enough. He is a wilful man, of a perverse and violent temper.

His utterances of yesterday are in perfect accord with the spirit he displayed in youth. He broke his father's heart."

"From his face one would never suspect that part of it--the violent temper. He appears to be a person of unusual cheerfulness and serenity,--most _offensively_ serene at times."

"Very possible, my child. One of the hardest things to learn, and we seldom achieve it in youth, is that outward appearances often bear no relation to the inner man,--that the most inviting face can hide a vicious nature."

"Do you really think him a bad man? I mean thoroughly unprincipled and wicked? I don't like him, but somehow it doesn't seem as if he could be utterly bad, with such a face."

"Ah, my daughter, be on your guard against those very things! Heed the voice of experience. Remember his career."

"But what especial thing did he do? What drove him away from home?"

"In a fit of temper he tried to kill his father."

"Really!"

"As an old friend of the family, I knew the circ.u.mstances."

"Awful! How did it happen?"

"They were in the garden in an arbor, engaged in a controversy. In his anger he struck the old gentleman and knocked him down, and would have killed him had not others interfered."

A silence followed, not broken by Father Burke. He desired his listener to realize the iniquity of the deed.

At last she inquired half timidly:

"And there was no provocation?"

"None whatever."

After another pause she said, reflectively:

"The father had a temper too, I fancy, from what I know of him."

Toward the face beside him the priest cast a sidelong look, which was detected.

"I am not defending the son," she said hastily. "Heaven forbid! I almost hate him. But you must admit that the father was not an especially lovable character, nor very gentle in his ways."

"He had his faults, like the rest of us; but he was a rare man,--a religious man of deep convictions, and the soul of honor."

"Yes, I suppose so, but I was always afraid of him."

Father Burke laid his hand on her arm and said, very gently but with unusual seriousness:

"I should regret exceedingly, my child, to have you listen to the flippant sacrilege of this young man, or be subjected to his influence in any way."

"There is no cause for alarm. I shall have as little to do with him as possible."

"An excellent resolve. And now, will you grant me a request?"

"Certainly."

"I have no right to exact a promise. I only suggest that while on this boat you avoid, as far as possible, his companionship."

"I promise."

They both arose. His voice and manner were always impressive, even in ordinary conversation. But now a moisture gathered in the maiden's eyes as he gazed benignly into her face, and murmured in tones tremulous with feeling:

"May Heaven bless you, my daughter, for your n.o.ble spirit, and for your unswerving devotion to a holy cause."

Then they went below to breakfast.

The girl was hungry; Father Burke was not. The undulations of the boat so tempered his appet.i.te that food had lost its charm. A cup of tea and a bite of toast were the limits of his endeavor. Even these descended under protest and threatened to return. When the heretic--the victim of the plot--appeared soon after and took his seat at the table, he noticed that the greetings he received, while friendly and all that etiquette required, were less cordial than on the day before.

And this was emphasized later, when he joined Miss Marshall on the deck.

After a moment's conversation, she spoke of letters to be written, and went below.

And once again, to make sure that this disgrace was no fancy of his own, he approached her as she sat reading, or at least, with a book in her hand. In his best and most easy manner, he inquired:

"Did you ever hear of the Magdalen Islands, Miss Marshall?"

She looked up, and nodded pleasantly.

"Well, we are pa.s.sing them now."