"No; but I'd like to."
"Perhaps I could introduce you." They were walking through the village now, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is."
The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Mark better than to meet the priest at that very time.
"Certainly," he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stop only a moment, and then go on to the hotel with you."
But this did not suit Saunders.
"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. I can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there."
"By the way," Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padre rather--well, old--to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? You know I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were in the larger parishes."
"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you came down here--not very much," said Saunders. "The Padre is here by choice--but only partially by choice."
"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by this time. "I don't quite understand."
Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice.
"It's like this," he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the city six months ago. He was what they call a vicar general--next job to the bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--"
"'Who knew not Joseph'?"
But the Scripture was lost on the agent.
"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald Murray. I read it on the book order I got."
"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds Presbyterian."
"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to the Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as vicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on the train once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laugh that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried."
"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?"
"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of the kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the like."
They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost hidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, a stretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by a hawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveled pathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda was softened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side, extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space of some six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens forming the second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while, in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maples behind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successive priests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosity of the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter the priest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village.