CHAPTER IV.

A Burdened Heart.

"MADEMOISELLE GRAND has gone away," said Janet the next morning, as she was brushing Paul's hair.

"Has she? Gone already!" exclaimed Paul. "And Fritz too! Oh, I am sorry! I did want to say good-bye to them before they went."

"She left the hotel at seven o'clock," said his nurse. "Did you know she was going away?"

"Yes, I knew," said Paul, with a nod. "She has gone home to her father."

"Oh, really!" said nurse.

"Yes, and I'm glad she has gone, though I wish I had said good-bye to her," said Paul. "Nurse, how is it that I haven't got a father? All other children have."

"You are mistaken, Master Paul. There are many poor little children whose fathers are dead."

"Is my father dead?" asked Paul.

Janet made no reply, but pursed up her lips as if she never meant to open them again. When Paul persisted in putting his question she told him to be quiet, and not to worry her. But Paul's desire to obtain information was not to be quenched by a single rebuff. When Janet refused to answer him, he said to himself that she did not know. He waited till later in the day, when he was alone with his mother in her room, and then put the question to her.

"Is my father dead?" he asked, looking up into his mother's face with his open, appealing gaze.

She started nervously as he spoke. "What do you mean, Paul? What makes you ask me that?"

"People are always asking me," he said. "That lady in the green frock asked me yesterday, and when I said that I had never had a father, she laughed, and said I 'must' have had one; but if I did not know anything about him, she supposed he was dead. Is he dead, mother?"

Mrs. Bernard opened her lips to speak hastily, but as she met her boy's earnest, innocent eyes, she paused. She could not speak falsely to Paul.

"No, he is not dead, Paul," she said slowly; "but dead to me—dead to me."

"Not dead!" said Paul eagerly. "Then shall I see him some day, mother?"

"Perhaps," she said faintly. He little knew how he pierced her heart by the question. "But I cannot talk about it, Paul, nor must you."

"Why not?" he protested. "I want to hear about my father. I am so glad that I have one. Marie's father gives her chocolates and carries her on his shoulder. When shall I see him, mother?"

"I cannot tell, Paul. Now, you are not to talk any more; you make my head ache. Run away to Janet; I am going out."

Mrs. Bernard's hands trembled as she arranged before her mirror the large velvet picture hat which set off her beauty so admirably. It seemed to her that her face had suddenly grown white and haggard. Paul saw no change in it, however.

"You do look so pretty in that hat, mother," he said. "Where are you going? Do take me with you."

She responded by taking him into her arms and kissing him passionately. There was a tear glistening on Paul's cheek when she released him from her embrace. She was going where the presence of a child might prove inconvenient, but she could not refuse to take him, and it would be a gratification to her motherly pride to show Sister Célestine her lovely boy.

So Paul went with his mother to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. He was greatly impressed by Sister Célestine in her flowing white veil and long robe of turquoise blue. He felt the charm, too, of her sweet, gentle voice and kindly eyes. She understood children, and Paul was perfectly good and happy in her company. When she wished to talk quietly with his mother, she called one of the novices, and bade her take Paul to see the pretty black and white kitten, a true Dominican, which had been sent to the convent from the monastery of St. Sabina. Paul thoroughly enjoyed playing with the kitten, and did not like leaving her, when the summons came for him to rejoin his mother.

Mrs. Bernard had a grave and harassed look as she quitted the convent. She stood in doubt as Paul sprang into the carriage which awaited them at the door of the church.

"Shall we go back to the hotel, Paul?" she asked.

"No, no," cried Paul emphatically, "let us go for a drive, mother!"

"Very well," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "we will go to the Villa Mattei; it is open this afternoon."

Paul chattered eagerly as they went along; but she only half heard what he was saying. She was thinking of the strong, earnest words of the nun. Would she be happier if she joined the Roman Church? Would she find relief in the office of the Confessional? Would the weight of bitter remorse that lay upon her heart be lifted off it? One thing was clear to her. If she became a Roman Catholic, she would raise a last barrier between herself and her husband. He was an Englishman and a Protestant. She knew the light in which he regarded the Roman Catholic Church. If she should join it, her doing so would appear to him a fresh act of defiance. As this thought struck her, Mrs. Bernard looked at her boy and shivered.

"He would certainly take Paul from me if I became a Roman Catholic," she said to herself.

It was a strange destiny which had bound the life of a man like John Bernard, of Huguenot ancestry, serious, earnest, with strong principles, inflexible pride, and a will of iron, to a self-willed, spoiled, frivolous girl, such as Clarice had been when she married him. She had fascinated him so completely in the days of their courtship that she, not unnaturally, expected to dominate him as a wife. She was astounded when, gently but firmly, he made known his intention of having his own way in certain matters pertaining to their mutual life.

She refused to surrender her will, and their life became one of perpetual discord. Clarice had so little understood her husband that it had seemed to her that if she persisted in her defiance, she must conquer in the end. Finally, in passionate resentment of a wish he had thwarted, she had fled from his home, taking with her their infant son, and settled herself with friends at a distance. She had never doubted that John would seek her in haste, and implore her to return to him.

He had acted quite otherwise. He took her flight to signify that she thought it better they should live apart for the future. To her sore mortification, he never even asked her to return to him, but sent his solicitor, to explain to her the terms on which he proposed they should for the future lead separate lives. They were terms to which she could take no exception. Her husband left her free to spend as she would the whole of the handsome fortune she had inherited from her parents, and she was permitted to have the guardianship of her child until he was seven years of age.

Clarke was not the woman to humble herself and ask forgiveness. In her way she was as proud as her husband, and she accepted his terms without a demur. She bade the solicitor tell him that she meant to quit England, where she had known no happiness, and return to America. There she had many friends, and might yet find life worth living.

But in her heart Clarice knew that there was for her no joy in life from henceforth. In spite of her perversity, she loved her husband, and she mourned bitterly over the wreck of the happiness which had seemed so sure on their wedding day. At first she resented passionately what she chose to regard as her husband's harshness; but there came to her the conviction that she had been most to blame.

"Every wise woman buildeth her house," said Solomon; "but the foolish plucketh it down with her own hands." Clarice had committed that supreme act of folly, and now she suffered the anguish of a hopeless remorse. Her very love for her boy became a torture to her. She could not rejoice in his beauty and growth, for sickening dread of the hour when he should be taken from her. "Oh! For power to undo the past!" was the daily cry of her heart.

Mrs. Bernard returned to Boston, her native place, and lived there a life which was outwardly pleasant enough; but the ache of regret, the sore craving for the love she had forsaken, never ceased. Only in constant diversion and change could she find relief. It was this necessity which, after four years passed in America, had brought her again to Europe. In all that time no word or sign from her husband had reached her. He had not even sought to see his child. He might be dead, for aught she knew.

Paul and his mother alighted from the carriage at the entrance to the Villa Mattei. The gardens were delightful on that April afternoon. Beneath the warm sunshine the tall box hedges gave forth their subtle perfume. It was pleasant to walk beneath the shade of the old, gnarled ilexes, and Paul was charmed with the quaint and somewhat mutilated statues and antique bits of carving which lined the way.

Presently they found a seat which commanded a lovely view of the Campagna. Orange and lemon trees, laden with golden fruit, grew near, and bees were buzzing to and fro and rifling the flowers of their honey.

"I like this willa," said Paul. "It is much nicer than the Pincio."

"What will Janet do without you this afternoon, I wonder?" said Mrs. Bernard, as she patted his curly head.

"Oh, she will be all right," said Paul indifferently. "She will be able to talk to that old woman on the Pincio as much as she likes."

"I do not suppose she will go on the Pincio alone," said his mother; "she is most likely sitting in her room sewing for you. I don't know what you would do without Janet."

"No," said Paul gravely. "She is very good; but, mother, I like best to be with you. I should like to be with you always. I would never wun away from you; never!"

"I should hope not, my darling," said his mother, rather tremulously. "Why should you run away from me?"

"Some people do," said Paul, with the old man air of wisdom he sometimes wore. "I have heard of people running away from their fathers and mothers; but I never will, mother, not when I am grown-up ever so tall."

"I am sure you would not," said his mother; "but suppose, Paul—suppose some one should try to take you away from me?"

"I would not let them!" cried Paul. "I would fight them!" And doubling up his tiny fists, he began to strike out at an imaginary foe.

"But if they should tell you, Paul, that your mother was a naughty woman," said Mrs. Bernard slowly; "if they should tell you, you would be better away from her?"

"I should tell them it was a wicked story," said Paul stoutly. "You are not a naughty woman, mother."

"I am afraid I am, Paul," said his mother sadly. "Yes, it is true; I have been very, very naughty."

"Have you, mother?" exclaimed Paul, his blue eyes opening wide in astonishment. "But you are sorry now, aren't you?"

"Sorry!" cried his mother, her voice breaking with a sob. "I am more sorry than I can tell you, Paul!"

"When I have been naughty," said Paul, "I tell Janet that I am sorry, and she forgives me. And when I say my prayers, I tell God that I am sorry, and He forgives me. You will tell God that you are sorry, won't you, mother?"

"Do you think He would forgive me?" she asked.

"Why, yes," said Paul, in a tone of absolute certainty. "God always forgives."

He was silent for a few moments, while his little face wore a look of serious reflection.

"I don't know," he said presently, "whether there is anyone else to whom you ought to say that you are sorry."

His mother thought that she knew; but she said nothing. She bent over Paul and kissed him again and again. "You love me, Paul?" she said; "promise me that you will always love me."

"Of course," he said calmly. Once more his little face was grave with thought for a few seconds ere he said: "I've been thinking, mother, what a good thing it is that God sent me into the world, for I shall always be able to take care of you. When I am a big man, and you are a little, old woman—you will be old then, you know—I shall give you my arm and lead you along, as M. Roget leads his old mother."

Mrs. Bernard laughed at the strange vision of the future presented by her son; but there were tears in her eyes. A lizard darted across the path, and Paul ran off in pursuit of it. She was left to her own thoughts. Was it all as simple as her child had said, she asked herself? Had she but to seek forgiveness and to receive it? Was there no need of the intervention of a priest, no virtue in the priestly absolution of which she had heard so much? Was God indeed so ready to forgive?

Like a swift response to the question, a voice within her mind seemed to utter words, familiar once, yet never heeded before:

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."