CHAPTER V.

Paul Adds a New Petition to his Prayers.

MRS. BERNARD went no more to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. The spell that drew her thither was broken; the gorgeous Roman rites and ceremonies had lost their fascination for her. She felt that she needed that which was at once greater and simpler. She wanted to know that she was forgiven, and the sin of the past blotted out; but she could no longer believe that any earthly priest had power to pronounce her forgiveness, or to make her peace with God.

She was restless and unhappy, and her friends found her moods unaccountable. She talked of leaving Rome, but could not make up her mind where to go. All places were alike distasteful to her. Even while she listened to the most favourable descriptions of places she had not visited, her heart sickened within her. She knew that she would feel heart-sore and weary wherever she went. It is not in the power of beautiful scenery, or the most perfect climate, or the gayest spectacles, to minister to a mind diseased. She was tired of wandering to and fro; her heart craved rest and home; but these were blessings she could never hope for more.

Then she sought relief in the fulfilment of duty. It struck her that she had not sufficiently realised her responsibility as a mother. She would devote herself to teaching and training her boy. Paul was not yet five; it was early to begin regular lessons, but in two years he might be taken from her, and she would no longer be able to do anything for him. Well, her husband should see that she had done her best for their child. Hitherto Janet alone had instructed Paul. She had taken pains to teach him his alphabet, and he was even beginning to read tiny words and to form his "o's" and "pothooks" in a funny quavering hand.

Paul was delighted when his mother became his teacher. She was astonished at the quickness with which he learned. "He will be a clever man," she said to herself, with a throb of mingled pride and pain. Then followed the thought—

"How proud of him his father will be!"

At that moment Clarice Bernard realised how much her husband was missing, how much he had lost of the joy of watching the development of this beautiful child. She no longer thought of her husband as a hard-hearted tyrant. She knew him capable of loving Paul with a love as deep and strong as her own, and there came to her a new sense of the wrong she had done him when she quitted his home. She breathed a heavy sigh, as she thought of "what might have been."

"Why do you sigh, mother?" asked Paul.

"I sigh because I am unhappy, darling," she replied.

"Why are you unhappy?" he said.

"I cannot tell you, Paul; you would not understand," she said gently.

"I do not like you to be unhappy," Paul said, almost with impatience. Children naturally shrink from those who are sad and melancholy, and there was not a more sensitive little mortal in the world than Paul. His mother's sigh checked for a moment his exuberant gladness, and cast a shadow on his loving little heart.

That evening Mrs. Bernard sent Janet out to make some purchases, and she herself put her boy to bed. As Paul knelt at her knee to say his evening prayer, his upturned face and curly head, emerging from the white-frilled nightgown, had the beauty and sweetness of one of the cherub heads which the old painters loved to depict.

"'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child,—'"

he repeated. At the close of the familiar lines, he offered a few petitions of his own.

"Please God, bless my mother, and make her not to be unhappy any more. And bless Janet, and please may she not hurt me so much when she combs my hair. And bless Orlando, and the lame boy who sells matches, and Marie and M. Roget, and—" There was a pause. Paul had opened his eyes, and those large blue orbs were looking with their deep earnest gaze into his mother's.

"Mother," he asked, "may I pray for my father?"

For a moment she could not speak; then she said, with breathless haste, "Yes, yes, surely, Paul; it is right that a little boy should pray for his father."

Paul shut his eyes, and continued his prayer.

"God bless my father," he said, "and make him a good man, and please let me see him very, very soon."

Mrs. Bernard's bosom heaved with a sigh as she heard him; she could not say "Amen" to her child's prayer.

From that time Paul prayed for his father every day. It was wonderful to him that Janet made no comment on the new petition he had added to his prayers; but his nurse had the wisdom of the Scotch, and knew the things that are best passed over in silence. Janet had travelled far and wide, and it was in America that Mrs. Bernard had met with her. When she entered that lady's service, she learned that Mrs. Bernard's husband was living; but she had never allowed the other servants to gossip with her about the separation, for she considered it beneath her dignity to pry into facts which her mistress chose to conceal from her. Therefore, though she wondered greatly what had led Paul to pray thus, she refrained from questioning him, and he, on his part, maintained a reticence on the subject, which was remarkable in so young a child.

One afternoon Paul was in the drawing-room of the hotel, when his mother and Mrs. Dunton and Father O'Connell were taking tea. Paul, seated on a rug amusing himself with a large piece of cake, and a book full of pictures which he had found on one of the tables, for a while paid no heed to the talk which was going on; but when he had exhausted alike the cake and the pictures, he turned to the ladies for amusement.

Mrs. Dunton was speaking with the utmost seriousness. "I have a black lace mantilla, which will be just the thing," she said; "it is beautiful Spanish lace, and will look well with my black silk gown."

"And will be most becoming," said Father O'Connell; "I love to see ladies with their heads draped in black lace."

"Your new black silk is really too good to wear in such a crowd as there will be," said Mrs. Bernard.

"Oh no!" said Mrs. Dunton, decidedly. "Nothing is too good to wear when one goes to see the Holy Father."

Paul's blue eyes opened wide in astonishment as he looked at her. Was it really true that she was going to see the "Holy Father"?—"Our Father which art in heaven!"

He could not believe that he had heard aright. He crawled to the lady's feet, and asked eagerly, "Who are you going to see, Mrs. Dunton?"

She was so interested in discussing the details of her dress on the occasion that she paid no heed to the child's question. He had to repeat it more than once, and even to tug at her gown, ere he could attract her attention.

"What is it, dear?" she said at last.

"Who are you going to see when you wear your black silk and that lace thing on your head?" he demanded.

"Whom am I going to see?" she said. "The Holy Father, my dear."

She uttered the words as if she expected Paul to be impressed by them, and so indeed he was. "The Holy Father!" he said in an awe-struck tone. "Why, I did not think that anyone 'could' see him."

"It is not easy to do so, my dear boy; it is only possible now and then," said Mrs. Dunton earnestly. "It has been my desire for years to see him, and now I hope to do so on Sunday. Oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am!"

"I should think so," said Paul. "Are you going to see him too, mother?"

"I believe so, Paul," said his mother. But she spoke almost with indifference.

"Oh, do take me with you!" Paul cried eagerly. "I do want to see the Holy Father so much."

"My dear boy, I could not possibly take you into such a crowd," said his mother. "There will be no room for little boys, I assure you."

Paul looked sorely disappointed.

"You will speak to him, mother, when you see him, won't you?" he said.

"Oh no, I shall not speak to him," replied his mother, with a laugh, which struck curiously on Paul's ear. "It will be honour and glory enough to look upon him."

"I should want to speak to the Holy Father if I saw him," said Paul.

At this both the ladies laughed.

"But I can speak to him without seeing him," the child added, "so I would not so much mind if I did not speak to him when I saw him."

"What does he mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Dunton.

Mrs. Bernard only smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

"Where are you going to see him?" Paul asked, a moment later.

"To St. Peter's," said his mother. "The Holy Father lives close by there—in the Vatican, you know."

"Does he?" exclaimed Paul. "I have been in St. Peter's. Janet took me one day."

And as he recalled his childish vision of the vast basilica, with its shining marbles and huge statues, the gold embossed ceilings so far above his little head, the wonder of the dome, and the glittering lights about the high altar, it was not difficult for him to believe that the Great Father might be seen there.

"Is the 'Watican' beautiful, too?" he asked.

"Beautiful!" cried Father O'Connell. "I should rather say it was. Some of the most beautiful things in the world are to be seen there. You should take him to see the sculptures," he added, with a glance at Mrs. Bernard.

"It's the Holy Father I want to see," said Paul. "Oh, do take me, mother, do take me!"

"My dear Paul, you are asking for what is quite impossible, so it is of no use for you to say another word about it," said his mother.

"I tell you what, Paul," said Mrs. Dunton, touched by the child's strong desire to see the Pope, "I am going to the Vatican directly to see Monsignore Nero, and, if you like, I will take you with me."

"Shall I see the Holy Father?" asked Paul eagerly.

"Well, no, I am afraid I cannot promise you that," said Mrs. Dunton, with a smile; "but at least you will see something of the palace where he lives."

So within half an hour, Paul, looking highly delighted, drove away with Mrs. Dunton to the Vatican.