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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Higher Court
+
+Author: Mary Stewart Daggett
+
+Release Date: June 25, 2011 [EBook #36509]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHER COURT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehan
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
+http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
+generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
+Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                            THE HIGHER COURT
+
+                         BY MARY STEWART DAGGETT
+
+Author of "Mariposilla," "The Broad Aisle," "Chinese Sketches," etc.,
+etc.
+
+
+    RICHARD G. BADGER
+    THE GORHAM PRESS
+    BOSTON
+
+    _Copyright, 1911, by Richard G. Badger_
+
+    _All Rights Reserved_
+
+    _The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._
+
+
+    To Comrades Three
+      My Daughters
+          R. D.
+         H. D. H.
+          M. D.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Father Barry's late interview with his bishop had been short, devoid of
+controversy. Too angry to deny the convenient charge of "modernism," he
+sought the street. Personal appeal seemed futile to the young priest
+cast down by the will of a superior. To escape from holy, overheated
+apartments had been his one impulse. Facing a January blizzard, his
+power to think consecutively returned, while for a moment he faltered,
+inclined to go back. The icy air struck him full in the face as he
+staggered forward. "The only way--and one practically hopeless," he
+choked. Appeal to the archbishop absorbed his mind as he pressed on,
+weighing uncertain odds of ecclesiastical favor. Suddenly he realized
+that he had strayed from main thoroughfares, was standing on a desolate
+bluff that rose significantly above colorless bottom lands and two
+frozen rivers. Wind sharpened to steel, with miles of ceaseless
+shifting, slashed his cheeks, cut into his full temples, his eyes. He
+bowed before the gust so passionately charged with his own rebellion.
+To-day he was a priest only in name. For the first time since his
+assumption of orders he faced truth and a miserable pretense to Catholic
+discipline. Desires half forgotten stood out, duly exaggerated by recent
+disappointment. An impulse sent him close to the precipitous ledge, but
+he moved backward. To give up life was not his wish. He was defeated,
+yet something held him, as in a mirage of fallen hopes he saw a woman's
+face and cried out. He had done no wrong. Until the bishop cast him down
+he was confident, able to justify esthetic joy in ritualistic service,
+which took the place of a natural human tie. Now he knew that his work,
+after all, but expressed a woman's exquisite charm. For through plans
+and absorbing efforts in behalf of a splendid cathedral he had been
+fooled into thinking that he had conquered the disappointment of his
+earlier manhood. The bishop had apparently smiled on a dazzling
+achievement, and young Father Barry plunged zealously into a great
+undertaking. To give his western city a noble structure for posterity
+became a ruling passion, and in a few months his eloquence in the
+pulpit, together with unremitting personal labor on plans and
+elevations, had made the church a certainty. Thousands of dollars, then
+hundreds of thousands, fattened a building fund. The bishop appeared to
+be pleased; later he was astounded; finally he grew jealous and eager to
+be rid of the priest who swayed with words and ruled where a venerable
+superior made slight impression. Consequently the charge of "modernism"
+fell like a bolt from a clear sky. Until to-day Father Barry had been
+absorbed in one idea. His cathedral had taken the place of all that a
+young man might naturally desire. When the woman he loved became free he
+still remained steadfast to his new ambition. It seemed as if lost
+opportunity had attuned his idealistic nature to symbolic love which
+could express in visions and latent passion an actual renunciation. That
+Isabel Doan understood and rejoiced in the mastery of his intellect gave
+him unconscious incentive. In the place of impossible earthly love he
+had awakened a consistent dream. Without doubt Mrs. Doan's pure profile
+was a motif for classic results. When he spoke to her of architectural
+plans, showing drawings for a splendid nave and superb arches, her keen
+appreciation always sent him forward with his work. Then, like true
+inspiration, visions came and went. Vista effects, altars bright with
+golden treasures stirred him to constant endeavor. He heard heavenly
+music--the best his young, rich city could procure. Day and night he
+worked and begged. Now all was over. For the second time in life the man
+faced hopeless disappointment. Deprived of work, removed from the large
+parish that for three years had hung on his every word and wish, the
+priest stood adrift in the storm. The ignominy of his downfall swept
+over him with every lash of an oncoming blizzard. He seemed to feel the
+end. The bishop's untethered brogue still clashed in his sensitive ears.
+The city he loved, now ready for the best of everything, no longer had a
+place for him. He was cast out. Below him spread bottom lands, dotted
+for miles with towering grain elevators, packing plants, and wholesale
+houses. Vitals of trade lay bare. By vivisection, as it were, he traced
+the life of commerce, felt gigantic heart beats of the lower town
+blending interests of two great states. In all directions rival
+railroads made glistening lines through priceless "bottoms." Father
+Barry groaned. Progress seemed to taunt his acknowledged failure. He
+turned his back. But again he faced promise. Higher ledges and the upper
+town retold a story of established growth. On every hand prosperity
+saluted him. Leading from bluffs, the city reached eastward for miles.
+As far as he could see domestic roof tops defined the course of streets.
+Houses crept to the edge of a retail district, then jumped beyond. On
+waiting acres of forest land splendid homes had arisen as if by magic.
+Through pangs of disappointment the priest made out the commanding site
+selected for his cathedral. A blasted dream evoked passionate prophecy,
+and the mirage of the church ordered and built by decrepit taste rose up
+before him. The bishop's unsightly work held him. Blinded by the storm,
+abnormally keen to a cruel delusion, he saw the end of his own laudable
+ambition. To his imagination, the odious brick box on the hillock seemed
+to be true. A commonplace elevation, with detached, square towers was
+real. With his brain maddened with hallucination, harsh, unmusical
+chimes began to sound above the blizzard's roar. Again and again he
+heard the refrain, "Too late! Too late!" The significance of a metallic
+summons almost stopped his breath, yet fancy led him on to the open
+church. He seemed to go within, pressing forward against the crowd.
+Below a flaming altar stood the bishop's bier. In the open casket, clad
+in robes of state, the old man slept the sleep of death. The brick
+monument to stubborn force echoed throughout with chanted requiem and
+whispered prayer. Incense clouded gorgeous vestments of officiating
+priests. Candles burned on every hand. At the Virgin's shrine flowers
+lent fragrance to an impressive scene. Then he seemed to forget the
+great occasion,--the bishop at last without power, the kneeling, praying
+throng. Longing for human love displaced all other feeling. In the image
+of one woman he beheld another, and Isabel Doan assumed the Virgin's
+niche.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+As the suspended priest went from the bluff the mirage of a few moments
+faded. The bishop still lived.
+
+Reaction and the determination to face an archbishop impelled him
+forward. Why should he submit to sentence without effort to save
+himself? He drew the collar of his coat about his ears. At last he was
+sensitive to physical discomfort. Air sharp as splintered glass cut
+through his lungs. He bowed his head, revolving in his mind the definite
+charge of "modernism." What had he really said in the pulpit? Like all
+impassioned, extemporaneous speakers he could never quite recall his
+words when the occasion for their utterance had passed. Progress was
+undoubtedly his sinful theme; yet until lately no heretical taint had
+been found in the young father's sermons. Born a dreamer, reared a
+Catholic, he attempted rigid self-examination. The task proved futile.
+In Italy he would have led Catholic democrats in a great uprising.
+Despite the "Index" he rejoiced in the books of "Forgazzar."
+"Benedetto's" appeal to the pope to heal the "four wounds of
+Catholicism" clung to his mind. The great story touched him
+irresistibly. Sinful as it was, he had committed Benedetto's bold
+accusations to memory. "Il Santo" still drew him, and he was angry and
+sore.
+
+He knew that in a moment of emotional uplift he had forgotten the danger
+of independent utterance, the bonds of a Catholic pulpit. But to-day,
+while he reverted to the sermon which had suspended him from the
+priesthood, he could not repeat one offensive sentence clearly.
+
+The wind increased each moment. A blizzard of three days' duration might
+bring him time to think. At the end of the storm every one would hear of
+his suspension. The priest hurried on. Then he thought of his mother.
+Suddenly the dear soul had prior claim to Mrs. Doan. Above bitterness
+the son recalled the date; it was his thirty-second birthday. He told
+himself that nothing should keep him from the one who could best
+understand his predicament. This dear, sincere mother had counseled him
+before; why not now? The foolishness of troubling Mrs. Doan was clear.
+As he hastened on his way, he began to wonder what his mother would
+really think of the bishop's action. Would she accept her son's
+humiliation with serene, unqualified spirit? Would her faith in a
+superior's judgment hold? The suspended priest felt the terms for the
+true Catholic. He dreaded palliation of the bishop's course. But no--his
+mother could never do that. In the case in question her boy must stand
+injured, unjustly dealt with.
+
+Father Barry went on with definite intention. His present wish was to
+spend a fatal birthday in the home of his boyhood. Fortunately, it was
+Monday. Father Corrigan had charge of weekly services. The younger
+man's absence would not be construed until after the blizzard. It
+flashed through his mind that on the coming Sunday he had hoped to make
+the address of his life. Now this last appeal in behalf of a great
+cathedral would never be uttered. On his study desk were plans and
+detail drawings which must soon cumber a waste basket. Suddenly the
+young priest, cast down, humiliated, turned from the tents of his
+people, longed to cry out to hundreds who loved him--who believed in
+him. But again his thoughts turned to his mother, who would soon hold
+him in her loving arms, cry with him, beg him to be patient, worthy of
+his bringing up. Then he knew that he was not a true Catholic. His
+binding vows all at once seemed pitiless to his thwarted ambition and
+human longing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
+Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
+within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
+a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
+"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
+priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
+table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
+wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
+pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
+seemed formed for luxury, and in accordance with their expression he had
+surrounded himself with both comfort and chaste beauty. In the large,
+low, old-fashioned room in which he sat there was no false note.
+Pictures, oriental rugs, richly carved chairs--all represented taste and
+expenditure, somewhat prejudicial to a priest's standing with his
+bishop. That the greater part of everything in the little house had
+arrived as a gift from some admiring parishioner but added to the aged
+superior's disapproval of esthetic influence. To-day Father Barry warmed
+his hands without the usual sense of comfortable home-coming. Pat Murphy
+observed that for once his master showed no interest in a row of flower
+boxes piled on the table.
+
+"Will you not be undoing your birthday presents?" the Irishman ventured.
+The priest turned his back to the fire. "I must get warm. I am frozen to
+the bone," yet he moved forward. One box held his eye like a magnet. He
+knew instinctively that Isabel Doan had remembered his anniversary.
+Unmindful of all other offerings, he broke the string and sank his face
+into a bed of ascension lilies. He seemed to inhale a message. His eyes
+felt wet. Pat Murphy brought him back to earth. The acolyte stood at his
+elbow. "May I not bring water for the posies?" he humbly begged. Father
+Barry frowned. "Untie the other flowers; I will attend to these myself."
+He surveyed the room, at last, reaching for an ample jar of dull-green
+pottery. The effect was marvelous. Like the woman who had sent them, the
+lilies stood out with rare significance. The priest glanced again into
+the empty box, searching for the friendly note which never failed to
+come on his birthday. As he supposed, the envelope had slipped beneath a
+bed of green. He broke the seal, then read:
+
+     "My dear Father Barry: How shall you like the settled-down age
+     of thirty-two? Are we not both growing old and happy? I am
+     thinking constantly of your splendid work, and have sent with
+     the lilies a little check for the new cathedral. I pray that
+     you will permit a poor heretic to share in your love for art.
+     Do as you think best with the money--yet if some personal wish
+     of yours might stand as mine--a beautiful window perhaps?--I
+     should feel the joy of our joint endeavor.
+
+     "But remember, the check is yours to burn in a furnace or to
+     pay out for stone. You will know best what to do, and in any
+     case, the poor heretic may still hope for a bit of indulgence
+     from St. Peter. Meantime, I am coming to hear you preach. When
+     I tell you that I fear to have a young Catholic on my hands,
+     you will not be surprised that Reginald teases each week to go
+     to Father Barry's pretty church. He admires your vestments with
+     all his ardent little soul. Unfortunately at present my dear
+     boy has a miserable cold and a bad throat. I am thinking of
+     taking him to Southern California for the winter. Before our
+     departure I shall hope to see you.
+
+     "With kindest wishes for a happy birthday, I am always your
+     friend.
+
+     "ISABEL CHESTER DOAN."
+
+The note was dated two days back, and the enclosed check stood for three
+thousand dollars. Father Barry bowed his head. Again his eyes were wet.
+When Pat importuned him to come to luncheon, he sat down with
+unconquerable emotion. He could not endure the ordeal, so pushed away
+his plate.
+
+"If ye don't be tasting mate, ye'll be fainting," Pat insisted. The
+priest smiled miserably. "Don't worry--I'm only tired. Besides, I'm
+going to my mother; she will see that I need coddling. Pack my case; I
+wish to start at once."
+
+The acolyte scanned the pile of boxes.
+
+"The pink carnations I shall give to mother; the other flowers you may
+carry to the hospital. Go as soon as possible," the master commanded.
+"Tell Sister Simplice to see that each patient has a posey. The fruit I
+send to old Mrs. Sharp. Explain that her confessor orders white grapes
+in place of a penance."
+
+"And the lily flowers--do I be taking them to the hospital, too?"
+
+"No," the priest answered. "In no case meddle with the lilies." He moved
+the jar to a position of honor on top of his desk. "These will remain
+fresh until I return. Do not touch them or let them freeze." He leaned
+forward with caressing impulse; then his eyes fell hard and sober on
+parchment rolls and detail drawings. Cherished plans for his cathedral,
+plans now useless, lay piled before him. He closed his secretary.
+
+"If any one calls--say that I am from home--on business. I must not be
+pursued."
+
+Murphy grinned. "I'm on to the thrick! And it's not a day for resaving
+visitors." A prolonged gust made his words plausible. Father Barry tried
+to smile.
+
+"You are a good fellow, Pat. Should I never come back--confess to Father
+Corrigan." The priest's mood was difficult. As the Irishman watched his
+adored master charge into the blizzard he frowned perplexedly. "He do
+run like Lot afeared of Soddom," he exclaimed. "But it's sick he
+is--nadin rist at his mother's. Warkin' day and night on his cathedral
+has all but laid him low." Pat poked the fire. "Mike, up at the
+bishop's, do be sayin' nasty things. And sure, 'tis nothin' but
+foolishness, surmisin' how the old bishop do be atin' out his heart on
+account of a young praste's handsome face and takin' ways. Mike be
+cursed for a Jesute, startin' scandal from a kayhole!" He picked up the
+coal hod. "I must kape his lily posies as he bid me." He pressed close
+to a frosted window. Through a clear spot in the glass he could see his
+master breasting the storm. "He's all but off his feet," he muttered.
+
+Murphy was Father Barry's own delightful discovery. Months back the
+priest had engaged the raw Irish boy for household service, then later
+promoted him to a post of honor about the altar. To faithful Pat there
+was little more to ask for outside of heaven. Reports which he sent home
+to Ireland were set down on paper by Mike, who served in the upper
+household. Pat's scribe published his friend's felicity broadcast, until
+at length even the bishop was fully informed of a popular young priest's
+affairs. Without thought of injury to one whom he adored, Pat extolled
+the plans for the great cathedral, which possibly might eclipse St.
+Peter's at Rome. Again and again the boy dwelt on Father Barry's
+popularity. To-day as the acolyte looked through the frost-glazed
+window, scratching wider range with his thumb nail, he had no doubt of
+his master's chance to become a prelate. Soon the "old one" would pass
+beyond. He crossed himself devoutly, peering hard at the tall,
+retreating form, now almost within reach of the corner. An electric line
+but half a block away was Father Barry's goal. As Pat looked, a gust
+sent the pedestrian onward with a plunge. As usual, the master carried
+his own suit case. Murphy muttered disapproval. At the crossing the
+priest stopped to regain his breath. His sole wish was to catch a car.
+Owing to the blizzard, traffic might suspend; but in the wind-charged
+air he thankfully detected a distant hum. The trolleys yet ran. How
+fortunate! And now very soon he would be with his mother--practically
+lost to a storm-bound community. How sweet the shelter waiting. Soon he
+might unburden his heart--pour out his trouble before the only woman in
+the world who would really understand it. Then again he remembered
+Isabel Doan--her check, the letter hiding against his breast. After all,
+should he not restore the generous gift at once? Now that the original
+cathedral could not be built, was it not a matter of personal honor to
+explain? Altered conditions cancelled both his own and his friend's
+obligation. Mrs. Doan must take back her check. That the bishop was
+powerless to claim the donation filled the priest with vindictive joy.
+Gradually duty to his mother ceased to govern him. Beyond everything
+else he wanted to see Isabel Doan. He told himself that he had a right
+to do so. Honeyed sophistry provided motive for his desire. He stood, as
+it were, at a point defined by opposing ways. Double tracks glistened
+before him; one leading eight blocks distant to the lintel of his
+mother's door; the other, stretching in the opposite direction, across
+the city--almost to a certain stone mansion. The priest was not in a
+mood of valiant resistance. Again he longed for Isabel Doan's sympathy.
+Yet, as he tarried at the crossing, waiting, still undecided which line
+to choose, he could not dismiss the thought of his mother, even now,
+watching for her son. He could fancy the dear lady sitting by the
+window, expectant, disappointed when no car stopped. Her sweet flushed
+face; the adorable white hair parted and waved on each side of a
+forehead gently lined by time made a picture which he could not easily
+dismiss. This mother was his ideal of age. She seemed as rare, as
+beautiful as an exquisite prayer-rug grown soft and precious with mellow
+suns and golden years. Many times he had contrasted her with
+overdressed, elderly women of his parish. He had never wished her to be
+different in any respect.
+
+He would go to her now. She would tell him what to do; and after dinner,
+when the dear lady was thinking of early bedtime, he might slip away
+with Isabel Doan's check. He must return it in person. He shifted from
+one foot to the other and beat his arms across his breast. The charge of
+the blizzard was paralyzing. Down the way a car was coming--a red one,
+he was sure of it--glad of it. His mother would be waiting for him. For
+the time he forgot a parallel track and that other destination directly
+west. Suddenly like songs of sirens, he heard the buzz of opposing
+trolleys. Two cars would meet before his eyes! But the red one still
+led. Yet how strange: it had just stopped. The yellow opponent came on.
+The priest breathed hard. Fate seemed to be thrashing his will with the
+storm. Again the red car moved and the yellow one halted. Chance was
+playing a game. He leaned expectant from the curb. Something had gone
+wrong, for once more the red line had lost the trolley, then an instant
+later a yellow car stood on the crossing. Father Barry sprang over the
+tracks, veered around to an open side, jumped aboard.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Once within the east-bound car the suspended priest found valid excuse
+for what he had done. Even now he need not disappoint his mother. As
+soon as he reached the house of Mrs. Doan he could telephone the dear
+soul, explain that urgent business detained him. By dusk he would be
+free, ready to pour out his heart to the best woman in the world. In
+case the increasing storm should interfere with the cars, there was
+always a hansom cab at a nearby stable. His forethought pleased him; and
+again he told himself that the present course of action was justified.
+
+To return Mrs. Doan's generous check--simply as he might return it to
+any friend who trusted him--was sufficient motive for either priest or
+man. He settled comfortably in an empty seat; then felt in the breast of
+his inside coat for Isabel's letter. The straightforward wording
+appealed to him even more than at first. How like this woman to put
+aside prudery. How like her to wish to bestow through art a gift denied
+by love. And she was soon going away--to far California--with the little
+son whom she fairly adored. There was no place in her pure affection for
+any man. The boy seemed to be all that she asked for. He frowned,
+putting away the note. For several moments he blankly gazed through the
+window. With the certainty of his undoing, he again blamed the bishop
+for all that was sinful to the soul of a priest. He felt that he had
+lost his religion forever. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.
+He was bitter, bitter. An hour before he had believed that he could find
+courage and intellectual ability to lay his case before an archbishop;
+but now all was changed. He no longer desired to remain a priest.
+Exalted sentiments were not to his credit when lip service made them
+detestable. He felt no terror at the thought of excommunication. As soon
+as he was man enough to tell the truth he might be free. Still, with a
+last desperate confession could he ever rise from ignominy? Where should
+he find refuge? Perhaps in his knowledge of architecture, and he might
+write books. The elastic hope of an artistic temperament lured him,
+until suddenly he once more remembered his mother. How could he slay
+this trustful, simple soul? As the car sped across the city his mind
+turned to his childhood, his boyhood, his early manhood.
+
+Ever since he could remember, he had been everything to his dear mother.
+When he was but a baby a scourge of cholera had taken away his father.
+Several years later a beautiful sister died, and finally a grown
+brother. Then Philip had become the widow's sole companion. The Irish
+lady, of gentle blood, alone in a strange land--fortunately a kind
+one--thought only of her little son. Soon the lad swung a censer before
+the church altar, while shortly his mother was termed wealthy by reason
+of wise investments and increasing values. Philip enjoyed judicious
+indulgence. The devout Catholic lived but for her son and her religion.
+Early in life she taught the boy to accept without question the
+authority of his Church. For a lad of poetic, emotional temperament, the
+duty of service fraught with certain reward seemed easy. Philip loved
+everything connected with his own little part in the chancel. The
+impressive latin chanted by priests clad in gorgeous robes fired his
+imagination, made him long to understand, to become versed in a
+mysterious tongue. High Mass had always been dramatic, something to
+enjoy, exalted above play and mere physical exercise. Voices floating
+from the choir sounded like angels. The boy adored the high soprano and
+enshrined her in his imagination with the gold-crowned Virgin. St.
+Joseph did not interest him, but he spent much time admiring the yellow
+curls of Mary. Young girls with bright hair stole his heart. He
+associated all beautiful women with the Virgin. His little sweethearts
+invariably ruled him with shining, tossing curls of gold.
+
+Then at last the lad gave up attendance at the altar, laid aside his
+lace-trimmed cotta to depart for college. During four successful years
+the watchful mother felt no change in her son's religious nature; but
+the shock came. When he returned from an extended trip abroad she saw at
+once that something had influenced him to question the authority of his
+Church. The visit to Rome had not strengthened Philip's faith. He had
+become indifferent about confession. Often he was critical of
+officiating priests. Then one day the mother understood the full
+measure of her son's backsliding. All at once he poured out his
+heart--told defiantly of his love for a girl not a Catholic. The poor
+lady knew the worst, knew that Philip had been with Isabel Chester in
+Italy. However, the mother's terror and anxiety were both of short
+duration. Miss Chester's family interfered almost at once, and soon the
+young woman who had threatened the soul of Philip Barry became the wife
+of another man.
+
+As time went by the zealous faith of the widow was rewarded, for one day
+Philip expressed the wish to retire to a monastery. The decision brought
+happy tears to the deluded mother's eyes. Her boy's emotional nature did
+not disturb her own simple faith. Philip was saved. But she asked for
+more, and more came. When her son was duly consecrated to the Catholic
+priesthood the event stood out as the greatest day in her life.
+
+The young man's later career, his brilliancy, his popularity, even his
+dream of the cathedral, were all as nothing to the real cause of his
+mother's joy. In all the woman's years she had never doubted a syllable
+of her faith. To give her son wholly to her Church was a privilege so
+sweet that to lose it at last might take away her life. Again everything
+flashed through the mind of the priest verging on apostacy. He bowed his
+head. Could he go through with his awful part--forget his mother? From
+the car window he saw tall, naked elms a block away. A corner near the
+home of Mrs. Doan was almost reached. Behind denuded trees stood the
+stone house of the woman he wished to see. Questions scarcely faced
+were left unanswered as he jumped from the car. A rushing gust almost
+knocked him down, but he righted himself and pressed forward. Piercing
+air cut into his lungs; the blizzard with all its sharp, mad frenzy had
+arrived. Above, the sky, clear, electrical, was a sounding dome for
+oncoming blasts. Wings of wind beat him onward. He fought his way with
+labored breath. Naked elms, chastised by the gale, motioned him; and
+plunging, he reached the vestibule to Mrs. Doan's tightly closed door.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+The door opened on a city official. "You can't come in; we've got a case
+of diphtheria," he exclaimed. "I'm ready to placard the house."
+
+Father Barry pushed forward. "I go in at my own risk--do not try to stop
+me. These people are my friends; they are in trouble--I must see them."
+
+He passed by the officer, into a wide hall. Maggie Murphy, Pat's cousin,
+and Reginald Doan's devoted nurse, met him with swollen, streaming eyes.
+"Good Father!" she sobbed, "will you not say prayers for our darlin'?
+He's that sick, 'tis all but sure we must give him up." In her
+excitement the girl spoke with native brogue.
+
+"Be quiet," the priest implored. "This is no time for tears. You must
+keep yourself in hand. Remember the boy's mother and do your part in a
+tranquil way."
+
+Maggie made the sign of the cross, then led her confessor to the
+library, where Mrs. Grace, a carefully preserved woman of middle age,
+greeted him with outstretched hands. Isabel Doan's aunt had been weeping
+too, but judiciously. When she perceived Father Barry a desire to appear
+her best effaced lines of grief.
+
+"Dear, dear Father!" she faltered. "How very good of you to come. How
+did you know?" She pressed an exquisite Roman crucifix to her lips; for
+unlike her niece, Mrs. Grace was a Catholic.
+
+"I heard only when I reached the door," the priest admitted.
+
+"A short time ago we thought our darling would die; but now there is the
+slightest hope that we may keep him. His mother is wild with suspense."
+The lady wiped her eyes. "We can do absolutely nothing with Isabel. She
+refuses to leave Reggie's room, even for a moment. I am sure she has not
+closed her eyes since yesterday."
+
+"The doctor must send her to bed at once," said the priest.
+
+"Both he and the nurse have tried to do so, but she will not go. I
+believe she would die if Reggie should be taken. O dear Father, will you
+not say prayers?"
+
+Mrs. Grace sank to her knees, wrapt and expectant. Maggie Murphy flopped
+audibly in the hall, while for Philip Barry the moment was fraught with
+indecision. He seemed to think in flashes. He wanted to cry out, to
+publish himself, to deny the very garb he wore. Then the next instant he
+longed to entreat for the life of Isabel Doan's boy. The sweeter side of
+his profession held him. After all, what difference did it make if he
+might give comfort to women in distress? The prayers of notorious
+sinners had been answered on the spot. Why should not he, the vilest of
+hypocrites, yet honest for the time, ask for the life of a dying boy? He
+felt for his priest's prayerbook. Fortunately he had not changed his
+coat since his rude awakening. The little book he always carried was
+still in his breast pocket, fairly touching Mrs. Doan's letter and
+enclosed check. He found the place and began. His knees trembled, but
+his voice came strong and clear. A last opportunity had nothing to do
+with what might follow; this one moment was between God and his own
+conscience. Tenderness thrilled throughout him as he went on with
+familiar prayers. In the hall Maggie Murphy's sobs made passionate
+refrain for his importunate pleading; then instinctively he felt the
+presence of Isabel, knew that she stood behind him. He rose from the
+floor and faced her. She answered his unspoken question with a smile.
+"He is better. The doctor thinks the anti-toxin has saved him." In all
+his life Philip Barry had never seen such joy on a woman's face.
+
+Mrs. Grace sprang from her knees. "Is Reggie really better? really
+better?" she repeated. Her intensity jarred.
+
+Isabel smiled. "We think so," she answered. "Of course the doctor cannot
+tell just yet. Complications might occur; but he hopes!" Again her face
+was radiant.
+
+Mrs. Grace crossed herself.
+
+"The membrane in the throat is quite broken," Mrs. Doan went on. "The
+anti-toxin worked wonderfully. Now we can only wait."
+
+"And _you_ should take needed rest," the priest put in impulsively. He
+seemed to have the right to dictate to this woman in trouble. For as he
+stood by Isabel's side he began to realize how absolutely over were the
+once serious relations of their lives. The two might be friends--nothing
+else. Mrs. Doan had no thought for a priest other than exalted
+friendship. An accepted lack in her married life made it natural for her
+to bestow exquisite love on her child. That which she had not been able
+to give her husband she now dispensed to his son. The boy filled her
+heart. "You will take needed rest?" Father Barry again entreated, when
+Mrs. Grace, frank and always tactless, bemoaned the wan appearance of
+her niece.
+
+"Do go to bed, Isabel; make up your lost sleep," the lady urged. "You
+are a ghost! I never saw you looking worse. Those dark circles below
+your eyes make you ten years older."
+
+The older woman's crudeness stood out in marked contrast with her
+careful toilet. Anxiety had not deprived Mrs. Grace of either rest or
+studied accessories.
+
+Isabel shook her head. "I could not sleep," she answered. "When the
+assistant nurse arrives I shall have less responsibility; but until then
+I must stay with Reggie. My darling's eyes are always hunting for me.
+You know I wear a masque, the doctor insists upon it; and when I cross
+the room my dear little boy cannot feel quite sure about his mother. But
+now I have braided my hair and tied the ends with blue ribbon. The nurse
+is just my height, and we both wear white." She glanced down at her
+summer frock, brought from the attic for sudden duty. "Reggie will know
+me by my colors."
+
+Her pure garb, together with ropes of golden hair falling down from a
+part, made saintly ensemble. Once before--in Rome--the priest had seen
+her as she looked to-day. Then, too, dark circles deepened the violet
+of her wonderful eyes. As now, she had felt miserable, in doubt. The man
+who denied a selfish part in an unforeseen moment was suddenly conscious
+of his deadly sin. But now he prayed, asking for strength divorced from
+pretense. And at last he believed that his main thought was a desire to
+help an afflicted household, a wish to support friends in time of need.
+He told himself that he might give Reginald Doan personal care simply as
+he had done before for other children less precious, less beautiful; for
+apart from the mother Father Barry loved her boy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+Throughout night the blizzard raged. Traffic was suspended; no one
+ventured into the streets on foot. The assistant nurse did not arrive,
+and with quickened pulse but masterful will Philip Barry assumed her
+place in the sick child's chamber. Isabel had been persuaded to retire.
+At midnight the terrific force of the storm brought her below to the
+library. She could not sleep, but sat in a chair by the fire, somewhat
+comforted. Oak logs made grateful glow for the mother scarce able to
+resist the temptation to fly to her boy. But she had promised to keep
+away. In case she was needed she would be sent for.
+
+In her restless state she could not endure to be alone, and rang for
+Maggie. The faithful girl reported at once, while together the two made
+ready a tray for Reginald's night watchers. Longing for action, Isabel
+prepared hot chocolate with her own hands. A cold bird, rolls, and jelly
+completed a tempting repast. The maid carried up the little supper, her
+mistress waiting anxiously until she came back radiant with good news.
+
+"He's better, mam--the darlin's much better!" Maggie crossed herself.
+"Father Barry beats the doctor! Nurse says Reggie minds him wonderful,
+not even fretting for you. Now do be going back to a warm bed."
+
+Isabel shook her head. "I would rather stay here," she answered. "The
+wind sounds so loud from my room. Put on a log; I shall toast, sleep in
+my chair."
+
+"If you don't mind I'll stay with you," the girl implored.
+
+"That will not be necessary. You had better go; to-morrow you may be
+needed."
+
+Maggie moved reluctantly from the room, as Mrs. Doan dropped into the
+depths of her chair. The fire sent out a soft, protecting glow, touching
+her face with hope. In flowing robe, with unbound braids, she seemed
+like a Madonna dreaming of her child. Soon she slept. Wind, plunging
+against the windows, shrieking disappointment, wasting its demon's force
+in plaintive wail, no longer disturbed her. Hours passed while she
+rested. Something she did not try to explain had happened; the burden of
+doubt, of crushing responsibility seemed to be lifted. Her aunt's
+incompetence, the excited maids praying about, were forgotten. Help had
+come from an unexpected source; and stranger than anything else she had
+been willing to accept it.
+
+And Father Barry, caring for the sick child, felt corresponding peace.
+He was once more a priest in active service. It seemed right, natural,
+that he should assume his present place. In all his life he had never
+felt so strong, so uplifted. Bitter feelings of the day were gone,
+dismissed under incessant pressure and critical conditions. To save the
+boy was his only thought. He rejoiced in service, more than ever before
+seemed to feel the worth of humility. It came over him that to accept
+his suspension, to respect the will of his superior and go into
+temporary seclusion, might after all be best. He thought of days in a
+monastery almost with longing. Once before he had sought shelter with
+good men who knew how to obey. In his first boyish sorrow quiet had
+brought him relief. In routine even in mild hardship, he had believed
+that he had discovered a world outside of self. He now hoped that a
+period of self-examination with solitude would set him right, fit him
+for the priest's part he had chosen. Then Reginald Doan held out his
+tiny hands imploring help. The man took him in his arms and held him,
+and the little one found comfort. For an hour Father Barry listened to
+the boy's breathing with renewed hope. When the nurse came the child was
+sleeping. She smiled, but ordered her patient beneath the covers of the
+bed.
+
+"If you do not mind, please see about the furnace. Williams may have
+dropped off. We must take no chance on a night like this. The slightest
+change in temperature would ruin all we have done." She bent over the
+boy in watchful silence while the priest went out. At the top of the
+staircase he took off his shoes. He held one in each hand, treading
+softly to the hall below. The house gave forth the intense quiet of
+night, but between the library curtains a stream of light lured him
+onward. It was his part to guard the house from accident, and he
+ventured into the room; then stopped, powerless to retreat. Isabel Doan
+slept in her chair. Her rare face, touched with ineffable peace, shone
+in profile against dark cushions. She seemed a modeled relief. Gentle
+breathing moved no fold of her loosely gathered robe; not even her
+unbound hair stirred ever so lightly. Oblivion claimed the mother, half
+ill from exhaustion. Close to the hearth a pair of tiny slippers rested
+motionless. The priest tarried, sinning within his heart. It was but a
+moment--yet long enough. Suddenly he knew that everything was changed.
+Isabel was no longer for him, nor he for her. Their divergent lives
+could never come together. He shrank from the room, not looking back. To
+escape without disturbing the sleeper impelled him into the very cellar;
+then he sank to the floor--to his knees. For the second time since
+entering the house he prayed as a priest. Deliverance from self was the
+burden of his cry. In his deplorable state he seemed adrift in the dark.
+He might be neither man nor priest. There was now no place for him in
+the world he had tried to forsake, nor could he longer fulfill the false
+part in his mistaken calling. An opening door restored his composure,
+for despite his emotional nature Philip Barry knew well the cooler
+demand of time and place. He spoke to the man in charge of the furnace,
+then examined the gauge. "Not a fraction of a degree must be
+overlooked," he ordered peremptorily.
+
+"And the boy?" said the man.
+
+"Better. Everything from now on depends on ourselves. I came below to
+satisfy the nurse. She cautioned me to say that the slightest change in
+temperature would be fatal to her little patient."
+
+As the priest spoke he turned about. Again he put away everything but
+the one object which detained him in Mrs. Doan's house. To nurse her
+boy through a terrible night, then to go out--forever--from temptation
+he could not meet was his only thought.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Night wore on. By morning the passion of the storm was abated. The
+blizzard had not lifted; but waves of wind burst less frequently on a
+world now white with frozen snow.
+
+Early in the day the doctor arrived with the belated nurse. The priest
+was virtually discharged from duty. He would have gone away at once but
+for Reginald, who held tightly to his hand. The sick boy was sweetly
+despotic in his little kingdom. A child's appealing trust, his angelic
+weakness, claimed all that Father Barry could give. "Reggie--won't
+have--nudder nurse," he protested. The young woman who had just arrived
+moved into the background, while the boy's mother sank to his side.
+Isabel's face shone with joy. The gladness of the moment half stopped
+her voice. But she took her darling's tiny hand. Reginald's fingers
+clung to her own; then, with a satisfied smile, he reached out eagerly
+to the priest. "Hold nudder hand," he implored. To refuse was not to be
+thought of. Father Barry knelt once more; but now, like a jewel in a
+clasp, the precious body of the boy joined him to Isabel. On opposite
+sides of the bed, both man and woman felt instant thrill of a despotic
+measure. The sick child's eyes sought eagerly for his new nurse. "You
+can go home," he announced. "Take your trunk," he coolly added. He
+sighed contentedly, looking first at his mother, then at his friend.
+The French clock on the dresser ticked moments. The boy seemed to be
+asleep. He was only planning fresh despotism. "Mudder dear and Fadder
+Barry will make Reggie well," he summed up conclusively. "Some day--I'm
+doin' to buy Fadder Barry a wotto-mobile--a nice, bu-ti-ful--great big
+one----"
+
+"Thank you," said the priest. The child spoke easily. His improvement
+seemed marvelous.
+
+"Dear Reggie must not talk. Be quiet, darling," Isabel entreated.
+"Mother dear and Father Barry will both stay with you; but you must
+close your eyes and go to sleep." Unconscious of the priest's emotion
+the mother had promised much. The boy drooped his lids, squeezing them
+hard. Below purple eyes, dark lashes swept his cheeks, then raised like
+curtains, as he peeped on either hand. Isabel was faint with joy.
+
+"Darling," she pleaded, "go to sleep."
+
+"I can't keep shut," the little fellow whimpered. His head turned on the
+pillow. "I want Fadder Barry to put on his fine cape and his nice suit,"
+he begged, suddenly recalling the priest's vestments. "And I want to
+hear the little bell," he persisted.
+
+"Yes, dear Reggie," Father Barry answered. "When you are well you may
+come to church--may hear the beautiful music--see the little boys about
+the altar. But now you must mind the doctor. Don't you remember? just a
+little time ago you told him that you would be a good boy and do
+everything Father Barry wished. If you talk your throat will get bad
+again. You don't want it to hurt?"
+
+Sympathy wrought on the boy's imaginative temperament; he enjoyed his
+own little part. "I felt so bad!" he wailed. He had naturally a broad
+accent, despite his Middle West locality. His voice, deep and full for
+so young a child, inclined to unflattened vowels.
+
+"I felt so bad!" he repeated, in view of more attention.
+
+"But now you will soon be well," his mother quieted. "Just think how
+good you should be when you are going to California!"
+
+The promise in question acted like magic.
+
+"Tell Reggie about the big ningen," he coaxed.
+
+"If you close your eyes," Isabel agreed. The boy's lashes shut down.
+"Soon mother dear and Reggie are going far away on a long train," she
+began. "Every morning the engineer will give his big engine a hot
+breakfast,--a great deal of coal, and all the water it can drink. The
+long, long train will run ever so fast, away out across the plains, over
+the high mountains, to California. At first Jack Frost may try to catch
+the train, but the engineer must run the faster. Then soon Jack Frost
+will go howling back East."
+
+"I want Fadder Barry to come too," the boy put in.
+
+"If you talk, I shall not go on," his mother cautioned. "Reggie may eat
+his breakfast and dinner and supper on the train. At night he will sleep
+in a funny little bed. Maggie must watch that her boy doesn't roll on to
+the floor. After a long time the train will stop. Mother and Reggie and
+Maggie will get out, and----"
+
+"Fadder Barry, too!" the boy persisted. He did not open his eyes, while
+tremulous lashes expressed his joy in the story.
+
+"When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry
+his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of
+comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out
+of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers.
+Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."
+
+"And Fadder Barry, too--and Maggie--and----" The sick boy was
+reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a
+satisfying story had worked a charm.
+
+"In California the trees are full of birds that sing just like Dickey;
+only poor Dickey has to live in his cage. In California the birds are
+free to fly. Sometimes they fly over the great mountains; sometimes down
+to the deep, big ocean." The boy's dark lashes had ceased to quiver.
+"All day long yellow bees and bright butterflies play hide and seek
+among the flowers; at night they all go to bed inside of roses, tucked
+between pink and white blankets, just like little boys and girls. They
+sleep--and sleep--and sleep--just like Reggie."
+
+The priest and Isabel looked into each other's eyes. For a moment they
+held the tiny fingers of the boy, then very gently each released a hand
+and moved from the bedside.
+
+The nurse came forward, smiling. "You might both better go," she
+commanded. Without comment the boy's mother led the way. In the hall
+below, Pat Murphy stood in earnest conversation with his cousin Maggie.
+The girl looked frightened. Father Barry approached without hesitation.
+"What is the matter?" he asked.
+
+The Irishman waited, confused. "I do be sint by Sister Simplice. Your
+mother--the old lady--she have just gone." He crossed himself.
+
+"Tell me again," the priest commanded. "What do you mean?"
+
+"Your mother--do be dead," Pat faltered.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+"She has been gone an hour," said Sister Simplice.
+
+Father Barry followed the nun, half dazed, to the upper hall, for as yet
+he could not grasp the force of his own miserable, late arrival. Outside
+the closed door of his mother's room he waited.
+
+"Tell me all!" he implored. "I must know the worst--before I see her.
+Tell me everything; what she said at the very last." His voice broke
+into sobs as he dropped to a couch.
+
+Sister Simplice drifted to his side. Her words were low and calm; only
+her delicate profile, with slightly quivering nostrils, expressed
+agitation. She looked straight beyond; not at the closed door. Like one
+rehearsing a part she began to speak. Father Barry's head sank forward
+into his hands. The nun's story fell gently, mercifully softened. As she
+went on the priest raised his eyes. Sister Simplice dreaded the question
+burning on his lips.
+
+"And she did not believe that I had neglected her--forgotten to come to
+her on my birthday?"
+
+"She thought no ill of her son," the nun answered. "When I came last
+night the danger of her first sudden attack seemed to be over. She had
+rallied, was perfectly conscious. 'He will come in the morning, when the
+storm is over,' she told us at midnight. 'Yes,' I said, 'he will surely
+come. Day will bring him safe from his hiding place.'"
+
+Father Barry bowed his head.
+
+"You remember that you telephoned in the early afternoon? The storm had
+already interfered with service. She could not catch your words, felt
+only that you were detained upon some errand of mercy. When Pat Murphy
+brought the flowers to the hospital he said nothing whatever of your
+movements. This morning he happened to come with your mail, just after
+the dear one passed away. I sent him out to find you." The priest wept
+softly. "We had no thought of the end when it came," the nun went on.
+"So quickly, so peacefully, she left us. She seemed to be much better
+with the dawn, for the storm that kept you from her side had abated. She
+was expecting you every moment. She had no thought of death." Sister
+Simplice crossed herself. "Faithful Nora had brought a cup of
+nourishment, we were about to offer it, when, brightening like her old
+self, she begged for a fresh shawl."
+
+"I understand," the priest faltered. "She wished to look neat and
+charming. And it was all for me!" he burst out. "She wanted me to find
+her as usual--like her pretty self."
+
+"Yes," the nun answered, "she asked for a shawl you admired--the one
+with a touch of lavender. Nora brought a white cape from the closet, but
+she motioned it away. 'I wish my fine new shawl, the one my son likes
+best,' she pleaded. We were gone from the bedside but a moment, both
+searching in the closet. Your dear mother was unconscious, almost gone,
+when we returned."
+
+Sister Simplice crossed herself again. The priest could not speak.
+Stillness followed the nun's story; only the ticking of a clock
+disturbed his pent thoughts. Suddenly the man burst forth as a boy.
+
+"I should have come to her sooner!" he confessed. "I knew that she had
+not been well the week before; but I thought her slight attack was from
+the stomach. How could I dream of this! She assured me that she felt
+like herself, and the morning of my birthday"--he hesitated--"the
+morning of my birthday I was compelled to go to the bishop."
+
+"Yes," the nun interrupted--"she understood--knew how you were working
+for the cathedral. Her pride in your success was beautiful. She asked
+for no hour which justly belonged to the service of your Church."
+
+"Thank God! she never knew--died believing in me--thought I had
+succeeded," the priest cried passionately. The nun lifted her crucifix.
+
+"The blessed saints ordained that she should think nothing but good of
+her son--her priest--her one earthly idol." Sister Simplice clasped her
+hands. "Have no fear for her soul. A soul--such as hers--must rise freed
+from transient torment. Soon she will follow from afar--follow her son's
+great earthly work." Father Barry groaned.
+
+"You do not understand; do not know that I am almost glad that my mother
+has gone--passed safely beyond. She was a good Catholic. If she had
+lived--" he rose to his feet and stood before the trembling sister--"if
+she had lived to know the truth she might have rebelled, have doubted."
+
+The sister flushed, then turned pale. Nun that she was, she had heard
+gossip. "The bishop has not put you aside?" she faltered. She raised her
+crucifix. "He hasn't interfered with your work--with the building of the
+cathedral?"
+
+The priest signified the worst. "My labor has been in vain," he
+acknowledged. "I am ordered from the parish like an incompetent. I thank
+God that she never knew!"
+
+Sister Simplice shrank as from a blow. The suspended priest saw by the
+motion of her lips that she was praying. Her slender fingers clung
+fiercely to the rosary. She seemed to dread her own words. She could not
+trust her voice, dared not lift her face. Tears were slipping from
+beneath the delicate eyelids.
+
+"Forgive me!" cried her confessor. "I dare not tamper with your faith.
+Forget that you have been listening I implore you."
+
+The nun raised the dark fringes which had seemed a rebuke; but before
+she spoke, Father Barry was gone, vanishing behind the closed door of
+his mother's death chamber.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Sister Simplice told her beads in vain. Strange new rebellion threatened
+her accepted life. Like the young priest in the room beyond, she doubted
+her right to wear the authorized habit of Roman Catholic faith. Tears
+scalded her cheeks; she could not keep them back. Yet to weep over an
+earthly tie long cut away must be counted a sin against her soul. The
+rosary slid from her grasp; then she caught it passionately to her lips.
+She had shed no tears for three whole years. Until to-day Sister
+Simplice had thought a victory won. Hospital work had seemed to bring
+relief to the woman unfitted for spiritual monotony. In the convent she
+had been misjudged. It was not until the mother superior comprehended
+the case, and removed her unhappy charge to an active field that things
+went well. Nursing the sick, the sister seemed to renounce the bridal
+veil which she had nearly worn. She regained courage, found joy in her
+patients. Actual service took unrest from her mind and heart. Gradually
+a romance interfering with devout prayers was put down. The nun went her
+way untouched by criticism. And it was doubtless intangible sympathy
+which had first made confidences easy between the sister and the priest.
+Their mutual struggle removed them from the spiritual line, when both
+tacitly owned that human longing abides in spite of prayer. But with
+the project of the cathedral absorbing the man, the gentle nun forgave
+her confessor and implored passionately for new strength for herself. In
+Father Barry the church had gained a splendid champion. Hospital work
+was a less brilliant opportunity; but at last Sister Simplice looked
+forward to passing years of peace. Until to-day she had been happy. Even
+yet she hardly understood the change which threatened her usefulness.
+She did not acknowledge that she had backslidden. Hysterical longing
+filled her woman's heart; she could not, would not analyze it. If she
+sinned she sinned! It seemed good to cry in view of impending penance.
+
+The clock ticked away a full quarter while she sat in the hall alone
+with her thoughts. Then the door to the closed chamber opened and Father
+Barry passed out. He was pale, shaken. Instantly the nun became herself.
+Again she longed for service. "Will you not come below and eat
+something?" she asked. The priest shook his head.
+
+"Not yet." He went on, but on second thought turned. "Tell Nora she must
+not offer me a hearty luncheon--I cannot eat it. She may bring toast and
+tea to my room. I must rest, be alone."
+
+The nun's dismissal was plain. The sister went softly downstairs, hurt
+that she might not carry her confessor's tray.
+
+Father Barry watched her glide beyond the landing, then walked quickly
+to his boyhood chamber. Here his mother had changed nothing. To retire
+at times to the little room was always like a snatched interview with
+himself. As a rule the dear lady had begged her son to use the more
+stately guest chamber, but to-day he shrank from the state apartment as
+one grown noted, yet now waiting for ignominy. To see his mother cold
+and lifeless had settled the half-considered step of the previous
+morning; for at last the man believed that he must give up the
+priesthood. He no longer wished to propitiate an archbishop. With his
+mother's death he was free. Had she lived, he might have gone on a
+hypocrite. Now all was changed. He need not continue a false life.
+Fortunately he was rich in his mother's right. He would not stay in the
+place which ought to despise him, and he might live in any part of the
+known world. At all events, he would emulate an honest citizen. He cast
+himself across the white counterpane of the bed and buried his face in
+the pillow. His neat, careful mother would never know that he had
+neglected to turn back the snowy spread. Outside, the dying blizzard
+moaned fitfully. Now and then a long, full gust came reinforced from
+distant plains; but the fury of the storm was over. He began to think of
+pressing matters. It was Tuesday. On Friday his precious mother must be
+buried. He sobbed aloud. Would the bishop stay official disgrace until
+after the funeral? Suddenly his only dread was public dishonor to his
+dead. As his mother's boy, he wept long and passionately. Nora's knock
+subdued outward emotion, while he took the tray from her hands. He saw
+that the faithful soul wanted to stop in the room, longed to fuss over
+her young master. But he gave no invitation and she went off grumbling.
+At the door she turned. "It's dyin you'll be yourself, ating no
+mate--only a bite of tasteless toast. And the bishop that old!" The
+parting shot brought no response. Nora closed the door with offended
+spirit. "He'll go under, with all the bother of his cathedral," she
+muttered. To live long enough to see her young priest a bishop was the
+old woman's earthly dream. She touched a crucifix in full view of the
+closed chamber where her mistress lay cold and still. Then she hastened
+below to clean and garnish. Sister Simplice had promised to stay until
+all was over, and she had also sent for Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes was
+cold and severe. The servant saw no need of two nuns. She went about the
+scrubbing and dusting, glad that she might work without regard to
+arriving cards or visitors. The good soul had prayed, then wept until
+she could hardly see. Now at last she was busy, again absorbed in
+material matters.
+
+Meantime Father Barry forced down toast and tea. Details of his mother's
+funeral thronged his mind. She must have everything beautiful, all that
+a son could give. Her last Mass should be splendid; and again he
+wondered about the bishop. Would he officiate in spite of all? The
+widow's money would doubtless be remembered at a time like the present.
+Father Barry felt for a little blank book, and drew from his breast
+pocket Mrs. Doan's note and the enclosed check. Once more accident
+controlled his movements. Everything rushed back. Even in the midst of
+plans for his mother's Mass he thought of the letter he would write to
+Isabel. She must know the truth. Why had he not told her? Was he yet
+unable to confess himself a hypocrite to this woman whom he had once
+hoped to marry? After all, he could return her check by mail, for in
+writing he might explain an altered situation without demanding
+sympathy. But if sympathy came! If Isabel understood the case as it
+really was! Then she should help him to start over again, to go on with
+his life.
+
+He worked himself into an exalted attitude. For the first time since the
+eventful interview with the bishop his self-esteem suggested a part
+removed from abject failure. As upon the ledge of the storm-beaten
+bluff, he felt once more a woman's governing presence. But the firm,
+commanding knock of Sister Agnes brought him from clouds to sinking
+sands. Again he was miserable--a false priest facing an austere nun, who
+would shrink away in horror as soon as she heard of his shame. The
+sister, supplanting gentle Simplice, held out a letter closed with the
+bishop's seal. Without waiting to read, the suspended priest knew the
+import of his superior's forced retraction; official action was
+rescinded until after his mother's funeral.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had
+both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration
+moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit
+on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first
+peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm
+bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was
+summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. "He has
+been wishing for you. A night has done even more than the doctor
+expected."
+
+"Has he been quiet?"
+
+"Most of the time; but just before you came he was a wee bit naughty.
+Now he's going to be the best boy in the world."
+
+Reginald stretched out his hands. "I wanted mother dear," he sweetly
+confessed. "I cried just one minute."
+
+"But you must not cry at all," Isabel told him. "If you cry you may not
+get well enough to start for California."
+
+The topic of travel was absorbing and soothing. Reginald lay quiet while
+his mother romanced of trains and engines and long dark tunnels. Genius
+for operating railroads had brought the boy's father to the top with
+several millions; the son would doubtless make good in the same way.
+
+To-day Reginald clasped a toy locomotive in his baby hand. Interest in
+play was returning. "My ningin's all weddy for California," he exulted.
+"To-morrow I'm doing to div you a ticket."
+
+"How kind," said his mother.
+
+"And I'm doing to div Fadder Barry a ticket, too." Isabel made no reply.
+"I want Fadder Barry to come back--I want him so bad!" the boy
+petitioned. His accent seemed unduly broadened for the occasion. Long
+_a_ fell like a wail.
+
+"Don't be naughty," Isabel pleaded. "Father Barry cannot possibly come."
+Her voice broke, but she went on. "Listen and I will tell you why you
+must not ask for him. He has gone home--to his mother dear. Last night
+Father Barry's mother dear wished him to come to her, but he did not
+understand--he stayed with Reggie. Now Reggie is getting well." She
+rested a hand against her cheek to hide falling tears. "But I want
+Fadder Barry so bad!" the child protested. His baby face took on the
+resolute charm his mother dreaded. "I do want Fadder Barry!" he
+persisted. Then with autocratic movement he called the nurse. His
+countenance shone with expedient thought. "Teletone," he whispered,
+"teletone to Fadder Barry. Tell him to come back and bring his trunk."
+The attendant left the room, while the boy lay still and confident. His
+purple eyes shone so darkly in their wonderful sockets that the mother
+doubted the wisdom of an evident ruse. She waited anxiously until the
+nurse reappeared.
+
+"Did you teletone?" the boy asked.
+
+"I tried to," the woman answered, "but you see the wind has broken the
+wires. The poor telephone has a sore throat--just like Reggie; it cannot
+speak."
+
+"Must the doctor make it well?" The child's sympathies were thoroughly
+aroused. For the first time the new nurse achieved a victory; and the
+illness of the telephone grew more alarming each moment.
+
+The boy's mother went down to her breakfast, both hungry and happy.
+Reginald was in judicious hands. On a folded napkin was a letter,
+stamped for quick delivery. Isabel tore open the envelope and saw her
+returned check with sharpened senses. She began to read. When at last
+she understood, she was crying. "How unjust! How unjust to his ambition;
+to his struggle for accomplishment!" she choked. She tossed the check
+aside and re-read Father Barry's letter. His unhappiness was her own.
+Her one thought was to help him; to brace him against disappointment.
+This brilliant man--this friend--must not be ruined. There was some
+mistake. Those above him, the people who adored their priest, would see
+that he had fair treatment. Submission to a creed had not been part of
+Isabel's bringing up. Born and reared in an unorthodox atmosphere she
+had never been able to quite understand the power of Philip's church. It
+was, in fact, this very attitude which had first made trouble between
+them. The two had parted at Rome, both miserably conscious of their
+sacrifice, yet each blaming the other. Afterward, when the man became a
+priest, successful, eloquent, exerting splendid influence; appealing to
+people of all classes with his project for a cathedral that should mark
+an architectural epoch for the Middle West, the woman whom he had wished
+to marry--now residing in the same city--rejoiced that he had found a
+larger scope in life. When she suddenly became a widow she held it a
+pleasure to follow up the desirable friendship which was now strictly
+outside of sentiment. Father Barry's vestments covered the past. The two
+met without embarrassment. The priest was full of his cathedral; the
+young mother absorbed in her little son. Then when Mrs. Grace--a
+Catholic--confirmed at mature age and consequently over-zealous, arrived
+to live with her niece, Father Barry came more frequently to the stone
+house behind the elms. Soon he was the acknowledged friend of the
+family. Realizing that Mrs. Doan's interest in his new church was almost
+pagan, he still drew strange inspiration from her clear perception and
+balanced criticism. Without fear both man and woman accepted the
+cathedral as a bond which might prove to be more suitable than love.
+Isabel's actions were never confused with a flirtation. Thus far she had
+escaped censorious tongues. For Mrs. Doan was a personage in the western
+city and universally admired. But if she had escaped criticism, her aunt
+stood for a full share of it. The niece often despaired of her
+chaperone, regretting that she had selected one devoid of the finer
+feelings. However, she tried to make the best of an uncongenial
+arrangement which had resulted from blood relationship. And Mrs.
+Grace--a widow twice, and vaguely considering a third venture--was not
+altogether responsible for a light head and superficial education. She
+was generally adjudged amusing.
+
+To-day Isabel was keenly sensible of great trouble. The priest's
+impending downfall, his heroic part in Reginald's recovery, the sudden
+death of his mother, were all sufficient reasons for her own
+straightforward determination. She would go to him--go to him at
+once--with no false shrinking. Perhaps even yet she might save
+him--induce him to appeal beyond his bishop. The weakness evinced in his
+letter, his wish to give up, to drift into obscurity--filled her with
+courage which she did not really understand. Yes, she must see him! talk
+with him, under his dead mother's roof--persuade him to hope; then she
+remembered that she was a prisoner in her own home, forbidden to leave
+it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Mrs. Grace stood dressed for the evening. She wore a rich black gown
+fitly relieved by transparent fillings. A splendid rosary of pearls and
+carnelians clung around her throat, while rare lace falling from the
+elbow drew attention to her plump arms and small white hands. Despite
+the woman's forty-seven years she was youthful in appearance. To-night
+she glanced into a full-length mirror, satisfied. As if loath to part
+from her reflection, she examined each detail of her elegant toilet.
+
+"You are stunning," said Isabel, knocking lightly on the open door. "For
+myself, I thought it unnecessary to change my linen frock." As she spoke
+she threw back a coat of sable. "I thought I might go as I am, for I
+shall not enter the house. You have not been with Reginald, so of course
+there is not the slightest reason for not going in at a time like this.
+You can give Father Barry my lilies, and ask him to see me for a few
+moments outside."
+
+"Simplicity becomes you," Mrs. Grace acknowledged. "You really look well
+without the slightest effort. I have always been improved by good
+clothes; even when I was a girl I shone in the latest styles. I do love
+up-to-date gowns." She ran a comb through her fluffy pompadour, which
+should have been silver but was counterfeit gold.
+
+"Good gracious, Isabel, how your color has come back!" she enviously
+exclaimed. "When Reginald first took sick you were ghostly; now I
+believe you are fresher than ever. I can't understand you. Being shut
+away from everything has actually done you good!"
+
+Mrs. Doan perceived the drift of her aunt's compliment. "You are
+certainly stunning in your new gown," she answered. "And you know I wish
+to get back to Reggie as soon as possible. Will you not come?"
+
+The older woman moved slowly from the mirror. "About the flowers,"
+Isabel went on; "only mine were sent--the lilies. The wreath you ordered
+will not be finished until to-morrow in time for service at the church.
+Grimes wrote me, explaining that the piece was so large that it could
+not be delivered sooner."
+
+Mrs. Grace accepted a disappointment. "To-morrow will answer. I wish the
+wreath to be perfect." She followed her niece downstairs and outside to
+the waiting carriage. It was still cold, but the blizzard was dead in a
+shroud of stars. Mrs. Grace settled expansively, while Isabel protected
+her lilies as best she could.
+
+"It is, after all, fortunate that my wreath was not sent," the aunt
+affirmed. "We never could have taken it inside, and Thomas might have
+objected to minding it on the box. When I asked you to telephone about
+it I did not realize how crammed a coupe is. The piece will be wonderful
+in the church--pink carnations, orchids, and maidenhair ferns. I am sure
+it will be the biggest thing of the kind Grimes has ever sent out. I
+preferred a cross, but so many were already ordered that I decided to
+have a wreath. I do hope Father Barry will like the color--pink suits
+his dear mother much better than white; don't you think so?"
+
+Mrs. Grace judged grief by circumference and perpendicular measurement.
+It seemed as fitting to send her priest a wreath as large as a wagon
+wheel as it had been incumbent to wear the longest crape veil procurable
+during two distinct periods of widowhood. Isabel's armful of lilies
+struck her as shockingly unconventional, not even a ribbon confined the
+long green stems; and to Mrs. Grace this falling away from custom was
+highly amusing. But Isabel was Isabel. One never dared to count upon
+what she would do. Individuality was too strenuous for Mrs. Grace.
+Besides every one paid for good form, nowadays, while it was much easier
+to adopt accepted practice than to run the risk of appearing eccentric.
+Original people were generally poor--too "hard up" to be altogether
+proper.
+
+"I should think you might have tied your flowers with white gauze and
+put them in a box," she said bluntly.
+
+"Father Barry will like them as they are," Mrs. Doan answered.
+
+The older woman sank back. A long feather on her large hat brushed
+Isabel's cheek. The niece moved away. In the corner of the carriage she
+held the lilies closer, praying that her companion might restrain frank
+opinions. Fortunately both women enjoyed independent fortunes. Affluence
+represented distinct value for each one. The aunt loved money for what
+it bought, the niece for what it brought. Mrs. Grace reveled in splendid
+things, Isabel in unusual opportunities. The one reverenced abundance,
+the other freedom and the luxury of not overdoing anything. Neither one
+was congenial with the other, yet for a time, at least, it seemed
+necessary for their conflicting tastes to remain politely sugared.
+Before the world aunt and niece appeared to be in well-bred harmony.
+To-night the irritating chatter of Mrs. Grace kept Isabel silent.
+Shrugged in her corner she scarcely heard, for suddenly she was wishing
+that she had written to her friend in trouble, instead of going to him.
+But for her aunt, she would have turned back. But Isabel had done many
+difficult things, things that other women shrank from. Her intuitions
+were fine, and she seldom regretted a first impulse. Almost at once
+Philip Barry's letter seemed rewritten for her eyes. Sentence by
+sentence she pondered the tempestuous, then broken, despondent appeal.
+Yes, he needed her; she was glad that she had ventured to come to him. A
+jar against the curb furnished Mrs. Grace with petulant opportunity, and
+while that lady settled her hat and adjusted her ermine, Isabel grew
+calm for an approaching ordeal. As her aunt alighted, hotly deploring
+the careless driving of a new coachman, a flood of light burst from
+Father Barry's temporary refuge. Two women, going forth from their dead
+friend's little home, tarried a moment with the son, who stood in the
+illuminated doorway. Suddenly the priest accompanied them forward. His
+eager eyes had clearly outlined a coupe and faultless horses. She had
+come! Isabel was before his house. He bade his neighbors a crisp good
+night and hurried to the side of Mrs. Grace. "So good of you, so good of
+you both!" he exclaimed, searching beyond for the lady's niece, still
+within the carriage. Mrs. Doan moved to the open door. "I was not
+intending to get out," she told him softly. "I came only with Aunt
+Julia, to bring these lilies for to-morrow, to let you know that I
+understand. When you have leisure to listen I want to help you to be
+brave and steadfast. You cannot--you must not give up." Her voice swept
+over him like music.
+
+"Come in!" he commanded. "There is not the slightest danger for any one.
+My only visitors are Sister Agnes and Sister Simplice, both from the
+hospital."
+
+Mrs. Grace, evidently annoyed, called from the footpath, "I am
+freezing!"
+
+Isabel accepted the priest's hand, running forward. "Father Barry
+insists that I come in," she explained, while all three entered the
+house. Nuns, alert for notable callers, stood in the hall. Mrs. Grace
+shed outer ermine and clung significantly to her splendid rosary. In a
+room beyond she dropped upon her knees. The lady, addicted to posing,
+had unusual opportunity. The very atmosphere called for a graceful
+posture and devotional calm. In the presence of her recently bereaved
+confessor, flanked by praying nuns, she took no thought of Isabel
+standing apart an accepted heretic.
+
+Mrs. Doan still wore her sable coat, the armful of blossoms resting like
+snow against the fur. She had stepped from darkness into light,
+unconscious of her dazzling appearance. Clasping the lilies, pressing
+them hard to still agitation, she might have been a saint of Catholic
+legend dispensing charity beneath flowers. "Come," said Father Barry,
+close at her side, "come across the hall." Isabel knew that he was
+leading the way to his beloved dead. She went softly, not wishing to
+disturb the kneeling aunt and devout sisters. Father Barry had spoken
+about his mother so often that at first she followed on as one entitled
+to a last privilege. At the threshold of an old-fashioned parlor she
+hesitated. "Come," the priest entreated. "She would be glad to know that
+you had placed the flowers with your own hands. Ascension lilies were
+her joy! she always chose them." Isabel moved slowly forward. The room,
+lighted with wax tapers, was long and narrow. At the extreme end stood
+the bier and improvised altar. There were beautiful flowers on all
+sides; the casket alone seemed to be waiting for the son's last
+offering.
+
+"Will you not put them here?" He touched gently the spot of honor. "I
+should like to have them with my own, for I too have chosen lilies."
+
+She thought of Reginald; of the difficult part in the boy's sick chamber
+which the priest had assumed, and thankfully complied. Father Barry
+watched her handle each lily with reverent touch. One by one she laid
+them down, then turned and smiled.
+
+"How beautiful!"
+
+"To me they are the symbolic flowers of the world," she answered.
+
+"Yes," he told her, "they express my mother's life; it was white, pure,
+true, simple--fragrant with love." He sank his face touching the bed of
+bloom. "She lived perfectly," he went on in tender revery. "I never knew
+such faith--such faith in her friends, in her Church. And now I have
+lost her, lost her at the very time when she might have helped me. But
+thank God she did not know! Thank God always that she never dreamed the
+truth about her boy--about the priest she almost worshipped. And she
+could never have understood."
+
+"I think she would have seen everything clearly, as you would have
+wished her to see it," Mrs. Doan protested. "I am sure she must have
+counseled you to be strong, begged you not to give up. She would have
+told you to wait--then to appeal your case to an authority higher than a
+very unreasonable old man. I do not understand your church government,"
+she acknowledged. "I am too ignorant to advise you--yet surely there is
+some way, otherwise there would be need of neither archbishops nor of a
+pope!" She spoke valiantly. In her heretical judgment the Vatican had no
+significance if its ruler refused to step outside, to listen to
+individual cases of injustice.
+
+"His Holiness bless your dear soul! bless you always!" the priest
+murmured huskily. His eyes glowed. "But you do not understand, do not
+see that it is not an ignominious downfall; not the bishop's power to
+keep me from going on with the cathedral, that has changed
+everything--made it impossible for me to remain a priest. All the time I
+have been nothing but a hypocrite, nothing but a coward."
+
+"Do not say such things!" she cried.
+
+"But I speak truth! Nothing shall ever silence my honest tongue again.
+You shall know at last why I went into a monastery, took false vows,
+adopted a sham profession."
+
+She raised her face appealingly. Her whole being implored him not to
+hurt her again after the lapse of years.
+
+"Forgive me!" he begged. "I am not blaming you, no one but my miserable
+self. I was not man enough to stand disappointment. The only way I could
+live! live without----" Isabel's eyes forbade him to finish. But he
+persisted. "The only way I could go on with life was to forget through
+forms, ceremonies, and flattery. When I began to work for the cathedral
+I had new hope. In reality I was less a priest than before. Yet I was
+more of a man, thank God! I intended to do my part like an honest
+architect. I wished to give my Church something worth while."
+
+"And you will do so yet," she pleaded.
+
+"Not now. I shall never act as priest again."
+
+His words fell slow and hard. "I cannot live falsely one day longer."
+
+The avowal deceived her; and now she had no fear for herself. Only the
+thought to help the man drove her on. Not being a Catholic, she was
+vaguely sure of the priest's words. For Isabel excommunication meant
+nothing but an unpleasant form which must eventually react on an
+intelligent victim. She held out her hand.
+
+"Any one has the right to change. I am glad that you have decided so
+splendidly. It is like you to know when you have been wrong. And now
+that you have really found out you can begin all over--study
+architecture--build something as great as the cathedral. Vows that have
+ceased to be real are much better broken."
+
+Her words evolved a simple plan. She had no understanding of the
+disgrace attending an apostate priest of the Catholic faith. Father
+Barry knew that she was innocent, that she had no wish to tempt him. But
+longing for all that he might still receive swept away his reason. He
+thought only as a man.
+
+"And you will help me?"
+
+"Why not?" she answered.
+
+"Because you do not understand; do not know what your asking me to begin
+life over implies." His mother's face beneath the lid of the casket was
+no whiter than his own. All that he had lived through in the last three
+days made fresh renunciation vain. Discarded vows fell away from him as
+a cast-off garment. He was simply begging life from the woman he loved.
+
+"Not here!" she pleaded. "Do not forget where we are!" Her voice broke.
+"You are still a priest; your vows hold before the world. I will not
+listen to you. Everything must be changed--absolutely changed, before I
+can see you--ever again." Her anger restored him.
+
+"I will do anything!" he promised.
+
+"Then go abroad--at once," she entreated. Voices admonished her to be
+prudent. She moved away. "I will help you! help you! But you shall wait.
+Nothing must shadow your honest life to come." She spoke in French,
+fearing her words might reach the hall. Mrs. Grace stood outside the
+parlor door. Dreading to look upon death, she yet resented her
+confessor's neglect. Nuns had ceased to hold her from an evident living
+attraction, as she swept into the room. But she was scarcely satisfied;
+for the length of the casket divided her niece from Father Barry. The
+priest, unconscious of an intruder, wept out his shame above Isabel's
+lilies.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Isabel sat beneath the trees, while Reginald turned successful
+somersaults on the lawn. The boy was well and strong, adorable in blue
+overalls.
+
+Mrs. Doan's second season in the most beautiful town in southern
+California had begun. She had forestalled the demand of tourists, and
+was already established in a furnished house, with a garden. She was
+very happy and believed that she had found the idyllic spot of a
+life-long dream. To-day a glorious perspective of purple mountains
+spread out before her, when she lifted her eyes from the bit of
+needlework which she was trying to finish for a friend's firstborn.
+Having spent the previous season in a large hotel she rejoiced in
+seclusion. Now she might face the future without indefinite dread,
+something she could not quite get rid of when thinking of the man whom
+she had undoubtedly influenced. For Philip Barry was no longer in
+orders. Almost a year lay between his life as a priest and the strained,
+difficult existence of one adrift, beginning over, feeling his way with
+a prejudiced public. But he had gone abroad, as Isabel advised; and at
+first excommunication appeared to be no harder to bear than his earlier
+Catholic punishment.
+
+During months in Paris he had wrought himself into lofty independence,
+occupying his time with feverish writing. The result was an unpublished
+book on "The Spirit of the Cathedral." Disdaining many lurid accounts
+of his apostacy, he had worked with his whole intellect, thinking
+constantly of Isabel. Yet withal he kept his promise. Through six months
+he had sent her no word of his welfare. Isabel's pure name lent no color
+to a startling sensation, exciting the entire Middle West and Catholics
+throughout the world. With Mrs. Grace, alone, suspicion rested. For
+others, Mrs. Doan had no part in the priest's unusual course.
+Fortunately, but one stormy scene had ensued between the aunt and the
+niece, then both women agreed to ignore a painful subject. It was not
+until the second season in California, when European letters began to
+come with unguarded frequency, that Mrs. Grace again grew chilly.
+Glancing askance at foreign postmarks, she declined to ask the most
+trivial question concerning the man wholly excluded from the thoughts of
+a good Catholic. The lady's bitterness brewed fresh measure. Isabel was
+deeply hurt. Still, as during the previous winter, days passed without
+rupture. To all appearances things were as usual. It was not until Mrs.
+Grace rebelled over quiet that Isabel fully realized her aunt's
+unfitness. She now barely endured her chaperone, while more than ever
+she regretted the woman's unexecuted threat to return to apartments in a
+favorite hotel. However, Mrs. Grace stayed on, unsettling an otherwise
+contented household.
+
+Isabel was obliged to keep open house without regard to chosen guests. A
+dream of freedom seemed ruthlessly dispelled. Yet to-day she was happy,
+at last free to indulge her thoughts. Early in the morning the restless
+relative had departed, and should good fortune continue, the touring car
+would not return before late afternoon. Isabel glanced down the gentle
+slope of her garden, shut in from streets beyond by hedge rows that in
+springtime were snowbanks of cherokee roses. Early rain had cleansed the
+mountains. The range was already prismatic, sharpened into fresh beauty
+below a sky as blue as June. No suggestion of winter touched the
+landscape. As usual the paradox for November was summer overhead and
+autumn on the foothills. "Old Baldy" still rose without his ermine. On
+the mesa brown and yellow vineyards lay despoiled of crops lately
+pressed into vintage or dried into raisins. What is known as "the
+season" had not begun. To Isabel the absence of the ubiquitous tourist,
+together with simple demands upon time, expressed a "psalm of life,"
+which she might well have sung.
+
+As she sat under a tree sewing, her mind went naturally to a land far
+distant--a land which held Philip Barry. For a letter had come that very
+morning. The excommunicated priest was in Paris awaiting her answer. A
+year of probation was almost over, yet he begged as a boy for shortened
+time. While Isabel worked she examined herself with judicial care. The
+unerring precision of each tiny, regular stitch seemed like testimony in
+her lover's case. She sewed exquisitely at infrequent intervals, and
+generally to compose her mind. Philip Barry's wish to come to her at
+once had upset both her plans and her judgment. Should she let him
+cross--two full months before the time agreed upon? All that her answer
+might involve pricked into soft cambric. She drew a thread, again and
+again struck back sharply into dainty space for a hemstitched tuck. It
+was hard--so hard--to refuse. Yet if he came, came within the month,
+then everything must be changed, not only for herself but for Reginald.
+
+Isabel evaded the natural conclusion of the whole matter. As she sat
+below the towering mountains--very close they seemed to-day--she had a
+sense of being in retreat from everyone. She would take ample time to
+prove herself, to feel sure that her wish for Philip Barry's love was
+not selfishness. Nothing must make her forget the boy and the possible
+consequence of his mother's marriage to an apostate Catholic priest. She
+sighed, looking up at the purple peaks. The very serenity of her
+environment developed the longing for happiness. She was too young to
+accept blighting sacrifice. And yet, because of those two months on
+which she had counted, she was undecided. But withal she smiled. "He
+might have stayed away the year!" she murmured. Her son's glad shouts
+echoed on the lawn. Impatience is unreasonable. Why has he asked me to
+cable my answer? He should have waited for my letter, she told herself,
+in flat denial to what she really wished.
+
+She sat idle. Stirring pepper boughs roused her from revery. She looked
+above at swaying branches, only to remember how admirably Reginald's
+father had waited for everything. Half stoical force, which described
+the man's power during a period of successful railroading, had always
+restrained him. When he died, his unsoiled record and splendid business
+success had both been achieved through the mastery of waiting. She
+smiled. The curve of her lips charmed. She was yet undecided. Yes, the
+man she married had not been impatient. He had waited three months for
+the one word she would not say. At last, when she became his wife, he
+still waited for something she could never give him. He did not
+complain. Again pepper branches trembled, and a shower of tiny berries
+began to fall. Commotion ensued among leaves, until a dark, slender
+mocker shot out, onto the back of Reginald's fox terrier. Suspicion,
+rage, shrieked in the bird's shrill war cry. The beleaguered dog
+retreated beneath Isabel's chair. The enemy flew off, but came back,
+finally to settle just below the cherished nest which his excitement had
+duly located. Egotism and pride made plain his secret.
+
+Isabel laughed, as she patted the dog crouching at her feet. "Poor
+fellow!" she said. "You surely had no thought to harm domestic
+prospects." Then through the garden her boy rushed headlong, a toy spade
+swung recklessly, as Maggie the nurse pursued. Jewels of moisture
+glistened on the child's warm forehead. His cheeks glowed, the violet of
+his eyes shone flowerlike. He flung himself into waiting, outstretched
+arms. "O mudder dear!" he cried. "I just love you so, it most makes me
+cry." The joy of his baby passion, the depths reserved for years to
+come, seemed the expression of another, a stronger will; and Isabel knew
+that she had made ready her answer to Philip Barry.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+Shortly before five Isabel heard the horn of the returning car. She ran
+to a mirror and gazed at her reflection with new interest, for after
+useless struggle with Fate she had decided to let Philip Barry cross the
+water. The telegram had been sent to New York and soon her message would
+vibrate over the Atlantic cable. Early in the afternoon she had
+overhauled gowns not intended to be worn until several months later. Her
+changed toilet was a matter of significance, almost a challenge to her
+aunt, who would readily construe a transformation from half mourning to
+violet crepe and amethysts. She listened to the horn, dreading an
+ordeal. Fortunately, intuitions concerning Mrs. Grace always developed
+her own mastery. And to-day Isabel ignored the aunt's startled
+expression and crude outcry, as she hastened on to meet arriving guests.
+
+"So glad to see you looking so well!" cried Gay Lewis, a school
+acquaintance of years back. "I was afraid we might be late! But luck is
+on our side, and with my mother, who so wishes to know you, are our very
+dear friends, Mrs. Hartley and her son." Miss Lewis assumed social
+responsibility with ease. While Mrs. Doan received the ladies, she
+fairly drove the man--or rather youth--of the party forward.
+
+"Let me present you, Ned. And remember! I am doing something very
+sweet. Mrs. Doan is a darling to have us for tea; do you not think so?"
+
+"You were kind to come," said Isabel, looking at young Hartley. "How did
+you manage to hit the hour exactly? Was there no trial of patience
+underneath your machine?"
+
+"Not the least," Miss Lewis volunteered, as the strangers went onward to
+an immense living-room. "You should have joined us, not stayed at home
+on a day like this!"
+
+Hartley's adoring eyes renewed a previous invitation. "You will come
+next time--to-morrow?" he implored.
+
+"Have we not had a delicious run?" said Miss Lewis, speaking to the
+older women, relaxing in chairs and ready for tea.
+
+"Yes, indeed," said her mother. "Everything has been perfect."
+
+"And Mr. Hartley is such a precious driver," the daughter went on. "He
+left his chauffeur on the road--came home alone--without a mishap! You
+may fancy his skill from the time we made--ninety-nine miles, was it
+not? Yes, of course! a regular bargain run. And we started so late; not
+until after ten, with luncheon at one. Part of our way was simply
+drenched with fresh oil."
+
+"Just like a greasy river," Mrs. Grace complained.
+
+"An outrage upon strangers who wish to enjoy the country," chimed Mrs.
+Lewis.
+
+"I should think people who live here--and many of them own most
+expensive cars--would protest. It doesn't seem fair to spoil good sport
+by such aggravating conditions," said Mrs. Hartley.
+
+"Another biscuit, Ned dear; I am shamefully hungry." Gay Lewis, who had
+passed too many seasons of unavailable conquest to be accounted young by
+debutantes, leaned forward. "Dear Mrs. Hartley, take two. Such jolly
+biscuit, aren't they? Our hostess must indulge us all, we poor people
+who stop in a hotel."
+
+She turned to Isabel, assiduously occupied with a steaming samovar. "You
+do it like an old hand; and I simply envy you this house." Miss Lewis
+swept the immense, rich room with alert eyes, keen to artistic values.
+"You were lucky. I am surprised that Mrs. Grant consented to rent.
+However, I am told that her stay abroad is apt to be protracted. You
+know she is most ambitious for her daughters?"
+
+"Yes," assented Isabel, "she lives here only a few months each year."
+
+"Is there a Mr. Grant?" asked Mrs. Hartley.
+
+"Oh, dear yes; but he doesn't count. His wife has the money, and the
+taste, too," Miss Lewis volunteered.
+
+"We must examine those antique brasses before we leave." Gay again
+addressed Mrs. Hartley. "Mrs. Grant has wonderful things," she
+explained.
+
+"I always want to clean tarnished brass up a bit," the lady answered.
+
+"Of course! I quite forgot your wonderful housekeeping."
+
+Ned Hartley flushed at his mother's philistine candor.
+
+"In this particular room, with its embrasures, dull richness, almost
+medieval simplicity, I should hardly dare to shine any landlady's
+cathedral candlesticks," said Mrs. Doan. The humor in her remark was not
+too plain.
+
+"How charmingly the whole outside approaches into the very house," Miss
+Lewis put in. "There are no grounds in town quite so appealing. I love
+dear wild spots in a garden when vegetation admits of them. Where
+everything grows the year round it is a mistake to be too tidy with
+Nature."
+
+"Mrs. Grant is an artist--a genius--in her way," the hostess rejoined.
+"She certainly understands semi-tropical opportunities, whereas some of
+her neighbors seem only to think of the well-kept lawns of an Eastern
+city."
+
+"Since the town has grown so large and shockingly up to date, there is
+very little natural charm left anywhere," said Gay Lewis. "Really one
+has to have better gowns and more of them out here than in New York or
+Chicago. I never accepted so many invitations for inside affairs in my
+life before. I positively have no time for tennis, horseback, or golf. I
+just submit to the same things we do at home and spend almost every
+afternoon at bridge, under electric light."
+
+Isabel laughed. "I am threatening to abjure electricity altogether in
+this particular room--burn only candles and temple lamps. I should like
+to try the effect of softened light on nerves," she confided. "After
+sitting in a jungle of the garden, I could come indoors and disregard
+everything but day-dreams."
+
+"The test would be worth while," Gay agreed. "And really, I should like
+to have a day-dream myself."
+
+"Absurd!" cried Mrs. Grace. "The room is dark enough already. With
+nothing but candles it would be worse than a Maeterlinck play. And how
+could one see cards by a temple lamp?"
+
+"Won't you be seated?" Isabel asked of Ned Hartley, still standing. "You
+have worked so hard passing tea; do enjoy yourself." A momentous
+question went unanswered. "See! I am dropping preserved cherries into
+your cup--true Russian brewing. Delicious!" the hostess promised.
+
+Hartley moved a chair. "May I sit here?" he begged.
+
+"Of course. You deserve my fervent attention. Shall I give you orange
+marmalade with your biscuit?"
+
+"Anything--everything!" he answered, all but dead to the sustained
+prattle of the other women. "It's awfully good of you to look out for
+me," he added, with an adoring glance. "And you will let me take you out
+in the machine--to-morrow?" he pleaded.
+
+Isabel smiled. "You are very kind."
+
+Miss Lewis was standing by the table with her cup. "We shall never let
+you rest until the thing is quite empty," she declared. "Cherries,
+please, instead of lemon. As I said before, you are a lucky, lucky girl
+to drop into such a place."
+
+From a pillowed lair Mrs. Grace protested. "Don't tell her that," she
+begged. "The house and garden are well enough, to be sure; yet after
+all one comes from home to be free from care. I cannot understand
+Isabel's prejudice against hotels. There is nothing so pleasant as a
+good one, when one is a stranger in a strange land. I like life!
+something doing. Last winter we had bridge every afternoon and evening.
+The guests at the Archangel were delightful--so generous about buying
+prizes. And of mornings the Japanese auctions right down the street were
+so diverting. Of course we went every day--got such bargains, even
+marked Azon vases for almost nothing. It was so easy to buy your
+Christmas presents."
+
+"How interesting," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do the auctions take place every
+season?"
+
+"Always in the spring. And they are such an education!" Mrs. Grace
+persisted. "Then it is so exciting when you really want something. Of
+course one does not always know what to do with so many trifles, for
+often one does not expect to get caught on a bid. Still the sport is
+great and usually the things are good enough to send East to relatives,
+or else to give to maids about the hotel." Mrs. Grace laughed at her
+frank confession. "To be honest," she continued, "I am bored to death by
+our present mode of life. What Isabel finds in housekeeping I can't
+understand."
+
+"Poor Aunt Julia!" Mrs. Doan flushed at an unexpected chance. "I see
+that I have been very selfish," she owned, mischievously. "Alas! I am
+too content to give up, after working hard to find so much! Then outside
+of personal delight--there is my boy. He is the happiest little soul
+imaginable! You should see him in his overalls! How could I deprive him
+of his home for another whole year?" the mother pleaded.
+
+"He was well enough last winter," said Mrs. Grace.
+
+"Dear Aunt Julia, our friends will think that we are quarreling. I had
+no idea that you were unhappy. As soon as the Archangel reopens you must
+take rooms and enjoy yourself as usual."
+
+The woman, never prepared for a climax, rose from her pillows. "Take
+rooms at the Archangel! leave you unchaperoned!" she cried in blunt
+dismay. "Why, Isabel Doan, what are you thinking of?"
+
+"I should not be alone," the niece answered. "My old French governess,
+Madame Sabot, is begging to come to California. By this time she is
+doubtless an ogress, well able to guard me."
+
+A hot wave of suspicion swept the aunt's countenance.
+
+"For that small matter," cried Miss Lewis, "I might do as well as
+madame. Take me for your chaperone! won't you, dear? I should love to
+act in the capacity. You know, a mere infant companion is all that is
+necessary nowadays--the best of form. And I am positively old, older
+than yourself," she coolly owned. Miss Lewis rose from her chair with
+vanishing hopes of Ned Hartley's continued devotion. The boy was heeding
+Isabel's slightest word.
+
+"You must over think my application," she jested. "If Mrs. Grace decides
+to join mother at the Archangel I shall certainly hope to displace your
+French ogress. Meantime, we must be going. I have asked a man from the
+city to dinner; he will put in an appearance before I am fit. So sorry
+we cannot stop to see the boy in his nest. I understand he slumbers on a
+roof top--under the stars--like every one else out here. Isn't sleeping
+out of doors a fad? So admirable for the complexion! Really one might
+leave the country with a decent bank balance, if only one had nerve to
+rent an oak tree instead of rooms in a hotel." She chattered gaily above
+the others, to the verge of the waiting car.
+
+While the machine gathered power, Ned Hartley hung on Isabel's promise
+just gained. "To-morrow--to-morrow at three," he impressed again. Miss
+Lewis heard his invitation, then blew the horn with ironic smile.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Mrs. Grace had not accompanied the departing guests to the door. As the
+machine sped away Isabel realized her aunt's displeasure and braced
+against a scene. The time for plain words had arrived. She went slowly
+into the living-room, building up as best she could a line of defense
+for certain attack. By the glow of a wood fire, wreathing flame up the
+wide chimney, she saw her aunt's face; it was pale and tense with
+suspicion. Hate for the man, once her idolized confessor, had
+transformed the carefully preserved woman into one far from attractive.
+She seemed to gather vituperative force beyond her strength, for
+suddenly she stopped pacing the room to sink to a chair. Isabel turned,
+frightened.
+
+"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia, what is the matter?" She spoke, running
+forward.
+
+Mrs. Grace motioned her away. "Don't pretend!" she cried. "I have seen
+from the very beginning--known exactly what you were both doing." Isabel
+said nothing. It was the older woman's opportunity. "Not building the
+cathedral was only an excuse for all that is still to come. You have
+ruined a man who otherwise must have been a saint!" She buried her face
+in her hands, which suddenly became gray and drawn beneath their weight
+of glistening gems. In anger, Mrs. Grace looked old.
+
+"What kind of a life do you expect to lead with a traitor to both his
+faith and his honor? Do you suppose for a moment that he will forget!
+throw away his soul without longing to repent? I wish you joy of your
+conquest, Isabel Doan; and remember, I am telling you the truth, even
+though you have turned me from your house after all my devotion." Mrs.
+Grace sobbed hysterically. Isabel was at first stunned by her aunt's
+evil predictions; then she tried to speak. "You needn't excuse him!" the
+angry woman forbade. "I have heard your loose arguments before now.
+Don't tell me that it is better to break a sacred vow than to keep it
+with rebellion! I will not listen to you." She crossed herself against
+possible harm. "Read all the pagan books you can find; but don't forget
+my words. I must leave you as soon as possible, for, of course, after my
+treatment this afternoon I cannot intrude."
+
+"Aunt Julia!" Isabel sank at her feet. "Please let us part friends," she
+pleaded. "You have been very good to me; if only you could
+understand--let me tell you things which you do not know----"
+
+Mrs. Grace sprang up.
+
+"And you intend to really marry that man!" Isabel flamed scarlet. "You
+actually expect to go through with the farce of a religious service?
+Well, you had better remember that marriage vows are more easily broken
+than any others. Don't be a fool--a prude about mere form--if you care
+to keep a lover; for mark my words, the man who has been untrue to his
+Church will find it much easier to forget a wife." Vindictive zeal gave
+Mrs. Grace hard fluency. And the insult which Isabel had not expected
+made her own part clear. She rose from the floor straight and firm.
+
+"I feel that it is not too late for you to leave me this evening; if you
+think differently, I can take Reginald and Maggie into Los Angeles while
+you find another home. After what you have said it is impossible for us
+to sleep beneath the same roof."
+
+Her wounded womanhood stood out superbly. She walked from the room.
+Above, with her door locked against every one, she burst into tears.
+With burning face in the pillow she wept out her heart. In all her life
+she had never felt so hurt and miserable. Would the world regard her
+marriage to Philip Barry in the same wretched light as her aunt? Then
+perhaps the Catholic woman was right; after all she--a heretic--might
+not be able to hold the man who was now willing to give up everything
+for love. And she had induced him to take the fatal step. Perhaps she
+did not understand the force of Catholic vows.
+
+She sat up, gazing through the window at the full top of a eucalyptus
+tree, dark, and wonderfully etched against lingering gold of sunset. Why
+should she be miserable in a world as lovely as the one about her? She
+longed for the happiness which belonged to her youth and station. Again
+she recalled every word which she had said to Philip Barry at the side
+of his mother's casket. To her straightforward nature she had advised
+him wisely. With reason unbiased by dogmatic training; with her soul,
+honest as a child's, she felt no shame for what she had done. And it
+was now too late to hesitate. She had sent the message and she must hold
+to it with her life, her womanhood. She bathed her eyes, still going
+over the main facts of her lover's disgrace in the Catholic world. She
+came back always to the main point; he only committed a mistake when he
+had gone into the priesthood without realizing the price. He had tried
+in vain to live a life of self-denial, of enforced conformity, whereas
+both attempts were totally unsuited to his temperament and mentality. He
+had made a false step in the wrong direction; why, then, should he go
+on? It were better to stop than to stumble and fall. When a lawyer
+failed in the profession none thought worse of him when he succeeded
+with literature. And the doctor, unable to grasp physical ills of casual
+patients, carried no stain on his honor if he discovered some other
+calling. It could not be right to denounce a physician in charge of
+souls because he would not go on with a spiritual travesty. Philip's
+disappointment in regard to the cathedral, his unjust treatment by his
+bishop, his thwarted ambition,--these things she put to one side in a
+final summing up. All seemed secondary to the confession of the man who
+had stood by the side of his dead Catholic mother. He had said that he
+could no longer continue his priesthood, because he had ceased to be
+false with himself. That to Isabel made sufficient reason for all that
+had happened--for all to follow. She covered the case by direct
+standards of her own truthful nature. This evening, looking into the
+golden sunset, she could find no justifiable bar to marriage with
+Philip Barry.
+
+When Maggie tapped on the door she opened it calmly. The girl was
+vaguely conscious of sudden disturbance. "Come in," said Mrs. Doan.
+"Mrs. Grace is leaving this evening," she explained. "If possible, you
+must help with her packing. I shall not be down to dinner. I am tired
+and will lie down outside with Reginald; you need not disturb me. Should
+I need you I can ring." Isabel had partly undressed.
+
+"You won't have anything to eat?" the nursemaid questioned.
+
+"Nothing now, perhaps later." Mrs. Doan hastened to put on a padded
+robe. Her hair fell about her shoulders.
+
+She separated the shining mass, weaving it into braids, as she went,
+almost running, to her sleeping son. An upper balcony, partially
+protected by canvas, made his cozy nest. At the south and east there was
+nothing to shut out the stars, while at dawn peaks beyond the northern
+range rose dark and sharp through zones of burning rose. Isabel cast
+herself upon her own bed. Delicious air cooled her burning cheeks and
+she could hear the gentle, regular breathing of her boy. She had no
+thought of sleep. Her only wish was to escape to a place cut off from
+her aunt's temporary territory. Now she would wait. Her heart was kind,
+and in retreat she began to feel sorry for the woman with whom she had
+parted. Mrs. Grace was only half sister to Isabel's father, and far
+back the little girl had wondered why her pretty aunty so often
+quarreled with her family. Once she heard her father declare that
+Julia's nose and hands seemed to guarantee a lady, but she had caught no
+more. At the time she did not understand; since then she had grown older
+and wiser. She sank upon the pillow gratefully. Below there was a stir
+of running feet, a commotion at the telephone. Isabel tried to forget
+her own inhospitable part. Once she half rose from bed, half believed
+that she would face her hysterical aunt with overtures of peace. Then
+she felt the foolishness of going through with everything again. Mrs.
+Grace was impossible after what had taken place. Sounds about the house
+continued. The angry woman proposed to take her own time for packing;
+and it was nearly midnight before Isabel became sure that an unwelcome
+guest had gone. Above with the boy, she watched the stars grow brighter,
+listened to night calls of stirring birds, wondered about Philip Barry
+at the other side of the world. Now at last she was alone in the house
+with Reginald and the servants. She got up and went below, to find
+Maggie crying in the hall. The girl hid a crimson face and Isabel knew
+that Mrs. Grace had enlightened her in regard to a coming event. As one
+Catholic to another, she had warned the nursemaid to protect her soul
+from evil influence.
+
+"You may go to bed," Mrs. Doan commanded. Maggie turned away, then came
+back. Her voice failed and she pointed to the dining room, where a
+little supper was daintily set out. She sobbed her way to the back of
+the house, then above to her room. Isabel was alone. She had hardly
+dreamed of freedom, yet now it was here. The fire in the living-room
+still burned; and like a child, she took a bowl of milk and bread and
+sat down on a rug before glowing embers. In spite of all she felt happy.
+She was hungry, too; and after she had eaten every mouthful she sat
+on,--thinking of Philip.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+It took Isabel nearly a month to throw off the effect of her aunt's
+angry departure. At the end of that time the cheery French woman arrived
+to take the place of Mrs. Grace, who had gone from the town to St.
+Barnabas. Still later, Isabel heard with strange relief that her aunt no
+longer enjoyed California and was about to seek excitement in New York.
+She felt glad that Mrs. Grace would be at the far side of the continent
+before the coming of Philip Barry.
+
+Isabel had not kept her engagement with Ned Hartley the morning after
+the trouble; but the next day and for days following she toured in the
+machine with the elate boy and his mother. Mrs. Lewis and Gay were often
+of the party. To spin through a country growing fresher, more enchanting
+with each welcome rain was a tonic. Isabel rebounded. And at last Philip
+had started for home. She now thought of little else and her heart grew
+light as days slipped away. To restore the man whom she had unduly
+influenced; to bring him in touch with happiness; to lead him in his new
+career to honor, even to fame, grew into a passionate hope as time went
+by. Philip was already hers. She would make him forget, help him to
+consecrate his talents anew to art and letters. He must write books and
+be glad that he was no longer a priest, bound with forms and obsolescent
+vows. His brilliant mind should be free to develop, his manhood to grow
+unrestrained. Isabel's own unorthodox view was so wholly conceived out
+of intellect and evolving mercy that retribution and remorse were not
+pictured as possible punishments reserved for an apostate Catholic once
+a priest.
+
+Her one thought was to make the man who had suffered from an almost
+fatal mistake happy. When once he felt the surging joy of love,
+opportunity, his past life would cease to trouble him. Isabel was young
+and confident. She felt sure of everything. The day, wonderfully bright
+and exhilarating, called her into the garden, where she found Reginald.
+The boy had dug a flower bed with a tiny spade; then, too impatient to
+think of seeds, had broken full blooming geraniums into stubby shoots
+and planted each one with a shout of laughter.
+
+"See my garden! mother dear," he cried, as Isabel approached. "It's all
+weddy--growed beau-ti-ful!" He clapped dirt-stained hands and bounced
+about in his blue overalls.
+
+Maggie raised a tear-stained face from where she was sitting. Her only
+outlet seemed to be weeping. "To think that I must leave him!" she
+sobbed. "It breaks my heart to go, and nothing but Mike insisting that
+we get married could part me from my boy." She wound her arms about her
+little charge. Mrs. Doan saw that the girl held a letter. "It's to San
+Francisco he bids me come," she went on. In her excitement she had
+lapsed into old-country expression. "And he thinks I can get married
+with no warnin'. Married indeed! Married without a stitch but store
+clothes. I would like to send him walkin' back East, with the chance of
+a better man."
+
+"You must not do that," said Mrs. Doan, now reconciled to the girl's
+departure. Reginald was growing fast, and with Madame Sabot and an
+English nurse in readiness to fill the Irish maid's place, the boy would
+find his daily education an easy matter.
+
+"Poor Maggie's so sick, mother dear," the little fellow explained. He
+threw his arms about the neck of his weeping nurse, kissing her loudly.
+"Now poor Maggie is all well!" he exulted. "Didn't Reggie give Maggie a
+nice, big, fat kiss!" He went back satisfied to his miniature garden,
+while at the same moment Ned Hartley rushed down the terrace. "Where are
+you all?" he cried. His manner had grown free and confident since his
+first tea-drinking in Mrs. Doan's drawing-room. This morning his boyish
+face glowed with expectation. "Do hurry," he begged. "You are surely
+coming? 'The mater' is waiting in the machine and the day's bully." He
+pressed his wish at Isabel's side. She led him beyond the range of
+Maggie's ears.
+
+"I am afraid that I cannot go; Reginald's nurse is leaving at once," she
+explained.
+
+"But I have found your horses!" young Hartley tempted. "You must come
+and pass judgment on the finest span in the country. They are
+beauties--perfect beauties! I ran the owner down by mere chance; and
+we'll find him on a foothill ranch, with the pair in question, saddle
+horses, too. You simply must come if you really wish for a snap." His
+enthusiasm was contagious.
+
+"You are good," Isabel answered.
+
+"Then you should reward me with your company. Bring old madame and the
+boy."
+
+Reginald's ears had caught the invitation. "Come, mother dear!" he
+cried. "Come wight away." His glee bubbled. The uncomprehended tears of
+his nurse were forgotten as he placed his hand in Ned's.
+
+"See the mischief you have wrought," said Isabel. "It is too late for
+Reggie to go from home--almost time for his bath and nap," she announced
+decidedly.
+
+"But, mother dear," the blue eyes flashed mutiny, "But, mother dear,
+Reggie _must_ have a good time!" The ruling passion of the age possessed
+the infant's soul; to enjoy life topped every other thought.
+
+The child drew Hartley forward with all his strength. "Come right away,"
+he coaxed. "I want to get my red coat."
+
+"But darling," Isabel protested, "you cannot go in the machine this
+morning. Here comes Maggie to give you your bath; go with her at once."
+
+A struggle was on. "You must go with nurse. You may not have a good time
+this morning. Another day you shall ride in the automobile if you are
+obedient."
+
+The child surveyed his mother. She showed no sign of weakening. For an
+instant his lips trembled; a cry half escaped them, then he rushed into
+Maggie's arms.
+
+"To-morrow Reggie may go, to-morrow!" he repeated with baby confidence.
+Two sturdy, adorable legs went peaceably forward across the lawn. With
+every step the boy evoked some happy future day--a glad to-morrow.
+
+"You're the slickest mater on record!" exclaimed Hartley. "How do you do
+it? I believe you might subdue a labor strike if you tried. No man could
+resist you long. And any fellow would be bound to do things, make
+something of himself, if only he might have you to keep him level." That
+he had known Mrs. Doan but a short time escaped his mind. Suddenly he
+was pushing his cause with youthful ardor. "If you could only care for
+me!" he cried. "Only believe that I really would amount to something if
+you gave me the chance. Why can't I prove it to you? Indeed, I would do
+everything that you wished me to--be as good as Reg--upon my word!"
+Isabel raised startled eyes in mute entreaty. "Let me finish," the boy
+implored. "I know just what you think, so please do not tell me. You
+have heard about the scrape at college, all about my getting fired, my
+father's anger, everything abominable. And it is true, all true,--I was
+an ass, a perfect ass. I admit it. But you see I'm different now. I can
+be a man, even if I didn't get through college by the skin of my teeth.
+If you would only marry me father would overlook everything! set me up
+in any kind of business I liked. And besides, 'the mater' has much more
+money than dad. She's simply crazy about you--almost as crazy as I am."
+
+"My dear boy," cried Isabel, feeling very wise and old, "you must stop.
+If you say another foolish word our pleasant friendship will have to end
+right here."
+
+"But it isn't foolish to love you, to be mad with good resolutions for
+your sake," he pleaded. "Of course, if you won't listen to me now I must
+wait. And I will wait--wait just like Reg--until to-morrow!" His whole
+being reflected new resolve.
+
+"Then be reasonable. Go back to college; finish the course your position
+in life demands; please your father; be good." They moved slowly to the
+house.
+
+"And I may hope when I get my sheepskin?"
+
+"No! no!" she cried. "I meant nothing of the kind. I could never, never
+marry you. Even if----" she hesitated--"it can never be," she finished.
+
+"Then there is some one else?"
+
+"There is some one else," she answered in a voice so true that its
+cadence hurt the more.
+
+Ned looked upon the ground; then he lifted hopeless eyes. "Of course I
+am an ass; I always was one. But you will come out in the machine? I
+haven't the nerve to explain; and I'll help you find the horses--for the
+other man----" he choked out.
+
+Isabel could not refuse the humble request.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+The luxurious touring car sped away. In the tonneau Mrs. Hartley and
+madame chatted with no suspicion of Ned's unhappy state. The morning was
+glorious.
+
+"Please come," the boy had begged; then added, "if you don't, 'the
+mater' will want to know the reason why."
+
+"We must be the best of friends," Isabel whispered, as she took her
+place in front.
+
+"Is ze country not de-vine?" cried the old French woman. "So like La
+Riviera! my southern France!"
+
+Mrs. Hartley coughed. "The dust is a drawback," she complained.
+
+"But it does not rise in ze nostril--drive upon ze face; there is no
+wind to make rough ze flesh," the other argued. "At San Francisco ze
+little stone rise from ze ground, hit ze eye! And in Chicago ze wind
+blow fierce, make sore ze throat." Mrs. Hartley tightened her veil. "Ze
+south California is good--dear Madame Hartley--good beyond every land
+but France." Madame Sabot laughed like a happy child. "Am I not blessed
+to stay in ze paradise? To live wis my angel children? Since ten years I
+have no home--only trouble. Tes grande!" she cried, "ze tree; I forget
+ze name."
+
+"Eucalyptus," prompted Isabel, turning backward.
+
+"U-ca-lip-tus," madame repeated. "Not trim like ze Lombardy poplar, but
+so tall! so tall!"
+
+The giant stood by the wayside. The round, smooth trunk, expanding each
+year from beneath girders of loosening bark, lifted a weight of
+inaccessible white blossoms to the sky. Peeled to a shining mauve, the
+mighty stalk shot up to swaying, dull green branches. From lower
+irregular limbs long ribbons of sloughing fiber hung in the gentle
+breeze, until rain or a transient gust sent them rattling to the ground.
+When threatening moisture lay along the range the giant eucalyptus loved
+to plunge into inky clouds, to bend anon, a towering helmet of sable
+plumes. This every artist saw; and in her own excitable way the French
+woman felt the passion of the wayside monarch.
+
+"Tres grande!" she cried, with parting wave of her hand.
+
+"I see no beauty in a eucalyptus," said Mrs. Hartley. "If I had a place
+here I should not have one of them about--such untidy trees! It would
+drive me distracted to see loose strings swinging overhead. Then when
+the fiber drops it is even more annoying. Falling leaves are bad enough,
+but falling bark! I could never endure that. At Lakeside--our country
+place--Mr. Hartley and Ned rave over dried maple leaves; but I assure
+you I have them raked up each morning. I really could not endure the
+autumn if I permitted myself to be buried under dead leaves. I should be
+too blue. With rheumatic gout I am miserable enough."
+
+"But ze California will make ze cure. Not one bad head since I find ze
+happy land," old madame declared.
+
+The chatter at the back of the car made rare entertainment for Isabel,
+who listened by reason of Ned Hartley's unsociable mood. The boy was
+deep in sulks. He ran the machine so carelessly that his mother began to
+complain.
+
+"Don't be cross; please be nice," Mrs. Doan begged, softly.
+
+They were skirting the foothills, headed for an upland ranch.
+
+"Won't you prepare me a little for what I am to see--tell me about the
+horses?" she coaxed.
+
+"There isn't much to tell," Ned answered, out of gloom. "I just happened
+to notice the span in town; then I traced their owner through a livery
+stable groom. You may not like them," he added, with trying unconcern.
+
+"I am sure that I shall love them. And it was good of you to go to so
+much trouble." The boy's rudeness should be ignored. "Did you know that
+I have always been wild about horses?" He made no response and she went
+on. "Ever since I was a small girl I have loved to gallop over the
+country. Now I am going to indulge myself; have not only a carriage
+span, but two saddle horses--the very best ones we can find."
+
+"I presume Reginald is about to mount?" Ned was madly jealous. The
+question brought a flush to Isabel's cheeks.
+
+"I expect him to ride," she answered, "but of course on a pony."
+
+The automobile landed in a rut, then bounded upward and onward. "Why,
+Ned!" cried Mrs. Hartley. "What is the matter? If you can't run the
+machine more evenly you had better bring Adolph when next we come out."
+The rebuke was smothered in a rhapsody by madame. "Behold!" she cried,
+"behold ze landscape!" But the too evident attempt to allay the mother's
+criticism fell flat. The lady continued to suffer with every jar.
+Neither the dazzling contour of the lifting range, nor a wonderful
+valley, sweeping from foothills to the distant, glistening sea, could
+distract her mind from personal complaints.
+
+It was a relief when a sudden detour landed the machine on a cross way,
+leading through interlacing pepper trees, to a small but attractive
+bungalow. A pretty, neatly dressed young woman sat on the porch sewing.
+She rose as the car stopped.
+
+"Good morning," she said, "my husband is with the horses." She pointed
+to whitewashed paddocks at the left some distance beyond the peppers.
+"Please keep going, the road leads straight; my husband will hear the
+machine."
+
+"Thank you," said Mrs. Doan. "You are fortunate to have such a location
+for your home. You must enjoy living here?"
+
+"Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we
+are never lonely." She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement
+was charming. "I hope you will like the horses," she went on. "Now that
+we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better." She
+laughed musically, then explained. "My husband has often refused to part
+with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago.
+You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look
+forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races.
+And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!" Her blue eyes
+kindled.
+
+"I should think your husband would try again," said Ned.
+
+"Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his
+victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble."
+
+"Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them
+answered for the saddle--are not too wild," Mrs. Doan added.
+
+"Oh, no," the young wife answered. "Hawley would never consider selling
+Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go." She flushed
+with her ingenuous confidence. "Delia is named for me. A little romance
+in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our
+ranch."
+
+"Come with us in the machine," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do be good enough to
+show us 'Delia,'" said Mrs. Doan. "We are now doubly interested in your
+husband's horses."
+
+Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been
+a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful
+stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity,
+and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham apron and
+entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving
+chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of
+Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up
+against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained;
+and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created
+to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little
+woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of
+peppers to paddocks beyond.
+
+"You never lock your door?" Mrs. Hartley questioned.
+
+"No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest
+where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors."
+
+"Of course," said Isabel. "How wonderful this upland country is; I envy
+you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!" She swept the
+range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined
+by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks.
+The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. "Happy horses!" she
+exclaimed. "I am not surprised they won the chariot races."
+
+The rancher's wife looked pleased. "My husband is very proud of his
+stock," she answered; "and here he is."
+
+Cole met them, tall and sun browned.
+
+Without further pleasantry the party plunged into business. The little
+woman who had brought the strangers thither realized an impending
+sacrifice. To part from any one of a noted "four" was hardly to be
+borne. Then she remembered that Hawley needed money; that lithe, slender
+"Delia" and her running mate were not to be sold. When a purchase price
+became definite she smiled, although she felt like crying. The trade
+assumed reality; and Ned Hartley, emerging from sulks, became
+interested. But his good nature did not last, for soon he understood
+that Isabel Doan was about to buy thoroughbred horses for the enjoyment
+of another man. The boy was mad with jealousy. He was sorry that he had
+urged the trip to the foothills. Then all at once he felt superior, very
+like a martyr, in view of all that he suffered and proposed to suffer
+for years to come. Meantime Cole put his horses through telling paces.
+No points of the beautiful pair were overlooked. Mrs. Doan acknowledged
+her wish to close the bargain, but the rancher evinced no haste. Finally
+it was agreed that the span should go to town for a week. A friend of
+Cole's would take care of them, while Mrs. Doan might drive each day,
+with the privilege of returning them. In case the trade went through, a
+permanent coachman and a groom would be duly recommended. Isabel's
+appointments from her own stable had recently arrived and now she could
+hardly wait to try the thoroughbreds in different styles of vehicles.
+
+"I shall accept your kind offer," she declared, smiling. "And you will
+remember the saddle horses? I wish for two beauties, as soon as
+possible." She was radiant, thinking first of Philip, of all that she
+was making ready for his new life--a life which must be perfect.
+"Automobiles shall never make me give up the joy of owning horses!" she
+declared.
+
+Ned Hartley bit his lip and turned away. Down in the valley he saw
+emerald growth flashing in sunshine. Spreading acres of orange orchard,
+trees always dressed in green swept onward from cleansed mountains and
+reviving foothills, to a distant line of blue--the ocean. The landscape
+was glorious, but the boy felt bitter and would not regard it. He joined
+the rancher's wife with pretext of renewed interest in her favorite.
+Mrs. Cole was feeding "Delia" sugar as Hartley approached. "We call her
+our baby," she explained. "I never dare meet her without offering sugar;
+I always carry a few lumps with me." To-day the high-spirited animal
+stood eating from the hand of her mistress, so gentle that Ned could
+hardly reconcile her present range with that of the track.
+
+"Will she run in the chariot races the first of January?" he asked, not
+caring, yet wishing to appear at ease.
+
+Mrs. Cole shook her dark head. "I think not," she answered. "My husband
+hardly expects to drive this year. Next season, with two young horses
+trained for running with Delia and her mate, he will try again. Last New
+Year's there was a great deal of trouble about prize money, in spite of
+the evident dishonorable driving of a certain man who fouled my
+husband's chariot. Oh, but it was exciting!"
+
+Ned begged for the story. The rancher's wife went on.
+
+"Hawley had virtually won the race; had taken the pole from his opponent
+on the first dash, just beyond the judge's stand; he was holding his
+advantage without difficulty, when beyond the second turn his right
+wheel was deliberately knocked off. Of course the big race of the day
+was ruined. The management of the tournament has done everything to
+induce Hawley to run his four this season, but he has refused." Her
+cheeks flushed with the thought of her husband's humiliation.
+
+"Will the man who fouled the chariot be permitted to drive again?"
+Hartley asked, with interest in foothill scandal.
+
+Mrs. Cole looked proudly away to the sun-browned man approaching.
+"Please do not speak of last year's race," she pleaded. "I dare not let
+Hawley know how I distrust the neighbor who fouled his chariot. But of
+course nothing was proved. It was but the word of one man against
+another, for the trouble took place too far from the judges' stand to be
+exactly defined. With some it passed as an accident. Then you know it
+was all so quick--the thundering by of the chariots--the crash!" She
+clasped her hands as Cole came nearer, then smiled at Mrs. Doan, who
+seemed a vision of happiness.
+
+Terms had been agreed upon and the horses were to be taken to town at
+once. But Mrs. Hartley had grown impatient. Not wishing to make the lady
+late for luncheon, Isabel brought her own affair to an abrupt close. "I
+am sure to keep them! I love the beautiful creatures already," she
+declared, as the machine shot away.
+
+The little woman of the foothills did not return in the car.
+
+"If the horses must go I am glad that she is to own them!" she cried,
+when her husband named the price. "Do you suppose she will marry the
+young man?"
+
+Cole shook his head doubtfully. "Can't say for sure; but if sulks are
+any indication, should say the boy was down on his luck. I think there
+must be another one; and by George! he ought to be president, or at
+least a senator, to splice with such a woman."
+
+"I'm not a bit jealous," his wife answered. "I think just as you do. I
+think she's the most gracious being I ever met."
+
+"She's a prize package, all right," Cole said. "And she has a mind of
+her own. The way she settled on the horses in less than twenty minutes
+shows that she's used to money. Most women would have taken three weeks
+to decide, coming back to haggle at least a dozen times." He cast his
+arm around his wife's trim waist, urging her gently down the road. "I'm
+as hungry as a wolf," he confessed. "Let's get something to eat; then
+we'll drive the span to Pasadena and price pianos. We'll have a corker!
+One that plays itself."
+
+She cried out joyously. After all, she might have something, too, like
+the favored woman who could look, then choose at will. Isabel spinning
+away from the foothills was still happy with thoughts of the morning's
+transaction. Very soon her stable would be ready for use. The span,
+saddle horses, a pony for Reginald were all in her mind. And she must
+have a touring car and an electric runabout besides. The house was
+already equipped with servants, including a first-class celestial cook,
+who achieved culinary mysteries with smiles and good nature. Madame had
+arrived to stay, and when the English nurse displaced Maggie life might
+move along with the spirit of Arcady. Then he would come! Philip, her
+once forbidden lover.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+Weeks later washouts on the desert demoralized all overland trains, and
+Isabel waited impatiently for the belated "Limited." Then at seven in
+the evening she heard Philip Barry's voice over the telephone. In an
+hour he promised to be with her. During the morning she had wandered
+about the garden, trying in vain to picture the meeting with the man
+whom she had not seen for nearly a year. By afternoon she was in a fever
+of suspense. Throughout the house she had arranged flowers, with her own
+hands had cut great bunches of roses for the living-room. A few candles
+were already lighted, while blazing logs made home-like cheer. Isabel
+stood before the fire, waiting. She could not sit on a chair, with the
+clock in the hall ticking away loud seconds. To-night she wore soft
+white, with pearls. Her lover would be pleased to see her out of black.
+She wished his first moment to be full of joy.
+
+"Ma belle angele!" madame cried again and again. French ecstacy
+continued until Isabel begged for no more compliments. She kissed the
+old brown cheeks, then with sudden impulse fled above to her sleeping
+boy. Reaction had come at the end of a long, long day. The felicitous
+moment she had fancied was suddenly uncertain. Something she dared not
+define frightened her. All at once Reginald's soft breathing seemed
+reproachful.
+
+"Dear little son," she whispered, "mother loves you none the less, and
+he--will love you, too." She put her bare arm about the boy's warm body
+and kissed his cheek. Tears came into her eyes. She hardly knew whether
+she felt glad or sad. "Good night, little son; Father Barry is
+coming--'Father Barry,' who loves us both." Something told her to hope;
+and the clock in the hall was striking eight. All that had happened--all
+which was yet to happen--seemed like a dream. She had waited so
+anxiously, heard so often through the long day far-away trains whistling
+through the valley. To-night she scarce believed her summons when it
+came. But the maid had opened the outside door, and Isabel heard it
+shut. A man's voice spoke her name; Philip Barry was below. At the
+landing of the staircase she reached weakly for a card, dropped it, then
+went slowly down.
+
+Philip waiting in the bright, rich room saw her coming. He stood
+unconscious of his lately changed appearance, his evening clothes. A
+London tailor had assured him that he was now properly dressed for the
+way of the world, and at last his "priest's garb" was forgotten. His
+worshipful face, slightly thin, expressed only joy as he ran forward.
+But something was wrong with Isabel. Something seemed to be lost from
+the lover imploring at her side; and she shrank, holding him aloof for
+judgment.
+
+"What is it?" he cried. "Am I not welcome?" He scanned her face with
+passionate longing. "Do you regret--regret letting me come?"
+
+"No, no," she faltered. "Only wait! wait until I get used to you."
+
+He took her at her word and moved away. Hunger tried his soul. But he
+made a braver lover than he had been a priest.
+
+"What did you expect?" he asked at last.
+
+"Father Barry!" She was crying.
+
+He gathered her close.
+
+"Be patient," she begged. "The train was so late--so long, long
+coming--and--and you see I must get used to your vest not being fastened
+in the back."
+
+He smiled pitifully. "Will you ever forget? Ever be able to go beyond
+those mistaken years? Can you not go back to the time when we first knew
+each other?"
+
+"Yes, we will both go back. I will forget! I promise you. But tell me--"
+she was dazzling in her excitement--"tell me if you are sure! Have you
+never been sorry for what I made you do? You might have gone on, might
+have overcome things which seemed beyond your power. It was because I
+came that night in the midst of your trouble, when you were not strong
+enough to drive me from you. If I had stayed away?" She put the
+situation plainly, waiting for his answer as a soul on trial. She was
+jealous now, even of a possible, passing regret. "If I had stayed away?"
+she repeated.
+
+"I should have left the priesthood," he told her simply. "I had found
+out--knew certainly that I could not go on, even before I saw you. Your
+coming to me when my mother went but gave me hope, brought rescue.
+Before God I am now honest!"
+
+She threw her arms about his neck. All that she had withheld was
+waiting. Love blazed in her starry eyes, on her wonderful lips. Every
+doubt had gone with Philip's last words. Everything seemed
+clear--straightened out. Hours sped as moments. There was so much to
+talk about, so much to explain away. Each one went back to the beginning
+and to a time forbidden even in memory to an honorable wife, to a
+priest. Intermediate existence was soon wiped out. Then Isabel thought
+of her boy, now Philip's boy as well. They would bring the child up
+jointly. She was glad, very glad. "And you will love him always?" she
+implored. "He has not forgotten you; kisses your picture every day. You
+shall help me with his education. I am so anxious not to make mistakes.
+You know Reggie's warm, live temperament? You will advise me?"
+
+"I was not wise about my own career, but I will do my best for the boy,"
+Philip humbly promised.
+
+Isabel saw for the first time how much he had suffered. He looked older,
+haggard, despite his happiness. But his face had assumed grave
+sweetness. The old assurance of a once popular priest was gone.
+Dependence upon love would give him courage to begin over. The fullness
+of Isabel's rich nature swept outward to his need. "We shall be happy, I
+feel it, I feel it!" she whispered joyously.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+Isabel awoke, fully conscious of the day just dawning. From her bed in
+the half-open sleeping porch she peered into a roseate east. With her
+whole heart she went out to meet the sun, slowly lifting from a rampart
+of dark mountains. This was Isabel's wedding day. At high noon she was
+to be married to Philip Barry. She rested on her elbow, waiting for the
+transcendent moment. She was a "sun worshiper" for the time, and not a
+cloud subdued the oncoming spectacle. As Isabel watched, the sable range
+took on softest blue, while snow-crowned peaks rose dazzling in the
+distance. Over the world the sun poured light. And this was her wedding
+day. It was still too early for a bath, too soon to begin her simple
+bridal toilet, and she fell back on the pillow. The white broadcloth
+gown and coat with feather-trimmed hat were ready, and the night before
+Philip had brought a bouquet of dewy-eyed forget-me-nots. She had chosen
+the flowers in preference to all others. There was very little to do, no
+more than for an afternoon call. She smiled over enjoined simplicity,
+glad that neither bridesmaids nor guests should claim thoughts which
+might all belong to Philip. During the past two months in which she had
+spent a part of each day with her lover, she had grown confident; they
+were both happy. Isabel no longer feared for the man beginning his
+fresh career. For his book--at last finished--had been sent to an
+Eastern publisher. Philip had not heard definitely, but there was reason
+to believe that the house in question would be glad to bring out a
+finely illustrated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a
+cultured class of readers. Already Isabel felt elated over her lover's
+beginning. The field of letters seemed more choice, more set apart,
+since Philip had decided to compete for honors. In imagination she saw
+her future husband's prolific volumes. How proudly she would dust the
+dark green row marked "Barry." She remembered that the name was
+preëmpted by a master Scotch novelist, and decided that "Philip Barry"
+should appear in full on the backs of the new author's uniform edition.
+She had read only parts of her lover's work, but it had been exciting to
+handle a real manuscript, one which must go forth to win! Philip alone
+understood the uncertain odds against disappointment. In a fight for
+fresh life he felt no desire for anything but honest work. The book had
+started upon a journey East a month before, and now each day Isabel
+watched her lover's face for news of its unqualified acceptance. The
+collection of exquisite cathedral views--actual paintings--done in Paris
+and submitted by a noted artist, would doubtless enhance the value of
+the work, yet it was, after all, Philip's part which timed the woman's
+heart to feverish interest. And to-day was her wedding day. From now on
+the book and its author were both hers. She stirred lightly in bed,
+again looking through the open flaps of her canvas room. A wonderful
+world was at last awake. Every bird evoked gladness, and Isabel too was
+glad. Then suddenly the boy slipped from his cot to snuggle within her
+arms. Enchantment of sleep lurked around his dewy eyes, and night had
+brushed his rounded cheeks with cool, fresh bloom. He kissed his mother
+again and again. "You've got most a bushel!" he cried. "Now I is going
+to love you." He was speaking more plainly each day, gradually ceasing
+to be a baby. "I like to stay with mother dear--in this nice bed," he
+said, contentedly. His arms held tighter. The mother's heart felt chill;
+she seemed to be turning the boy away. The child's words hurt her as she
+had never dreamed they could. She began to speak of a pony about to
+arrive, which she had purposely withheld against a trying time to come.
+"To-day is the day for the pony!" she announced bravely. "Mother's boy
+is to go out in his new cart with madame, is to drive like a man all
+afternoon."
+
+"But I want mother dear to come too," the child insisted.
+
+"Mother dear will come another day; to-day she is obliged to go to
+church, and then----" her voice failed. She had given her boy no idea of
+the change actually at hand, had weakly depended on accident and his
+love for Philip. How now could she make the little fellow understand?
+She began again. "To-day mother must go to church, and----"
+
+"Will Philip dear go too?" the boy asked eagerly.
+
+"Yes," said Isabel, glad of an opening wedge.
+
+"And will the little bell ring?"
+
+Isabel despaired. Would Reginald never forget? The Catholic services
+which he had once witnessed were yet vivid, and despite effort to
+dissociate Barry with a priest's part, the child was not well pleased
+with the conventional garb of his adored friend. Recently he had
+innocently inquired for the "bu-ti-ful hat" formerly worn before the
+altar. The boy's regret was so genuine that Philip felt his pale cheeks
+deepen. The mother had tactfully explained that "Father Barry" of old no
+longer preached in a church, and that now "Philip dear" had come to
+stay. The little boy, without understanding, adopted the change, and
+"Philip dear" had soon become both his playfellow and his teacher.
+
+This morning Isabel tried in vain to pass over the hard part of a day
+that after all could not be happy until she had settled an important
+matter.
+
+"Sweetheart," she implored, then flushed. "Precious boy, listen. Don't
+ask any more questions and mother will tell you all about the pony."
+Reginald placed his small hand over his mouth.
+
+"I'm doing to keep stiller," he promised.
+
+"Very well," said Isabel, pressing him to her heart. "The pony is sure
+to come right after luncheon. Mother may be away, but madame and Carolyn
+will both be here. Reggie must be very good and drive like a man all
+afternoon in his cart. Perhaps when madame has gone for a ride Carolyn
+will take her place and stop for little Elizabeth. Would not that be
+fine?"
+
+"Great!" said Reginald; then added, "I suppose she'll have to bring
+every one of her dolls."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then
+Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."
+
+"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.
+
+"Because--because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer.
+Isabel wept miserably in his curls.
+
+"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until
+he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her
+arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married
+to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the
+astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear,
+Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."
+
+"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.
+
+"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father--Reggie's dear father."
+
+"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long
+time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended
+taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.
+
+"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?"
+The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.
+
+"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may
+I? May I? Mother darling--goody! goody! goody!"
+
+"I think you may," she answered.
+
+He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober.
+Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he
+demanded.
+
+"No darling, not my father, only my husband."
+
+He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby
+lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he
+asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her
+husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation
+personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see,
+mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody!
+goody!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+Everything was at last arranged, and Carolyn dressed the boy for his
+mother's wedding. The little fellow looked proud and sober in his best
+white suit, with a tiny bunch of Isabel's forget-me-nots for a bridal
+favor. He sat very still and grown up all the way to the church, built
+after an English model and picturesquely hidden among green hills. The
+beautiful chapel made a complete surprise when the carriage stopped on
+the country road. Madame took Reginald's tiny gloved hand and led him
+forward, while Isabel moved slowly after them. As all three entered the
+church, bells began to sound, and a man came quickly forward to say that
+an Episcopal clergyman and Philip Barry were both waiting at the foot of
+the chancel. Madame guided her charge to a stall used by choir boys now
+absent. Here the old French woman and the boy stood, expectant. Isabel
+came on alone, vaguely conscious of her way; then suddenly she felt
+protected--loved, for Philip had reached her side. The clergyman entered
+the chancel. The man and woman to be joined in wedlock heard him begin
+the service. His words fell distinctly, and soon Isabel and Philip
+listened to the solemn charge administered before marriage. "That if
+either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined
+together in matrimony, ye do now confess it," rang over their heads,
+into their souls, with momentary, questioning force. But the pause
+enjoined by the Church ended, and no voice had accused the apostate
+priest. The clergyman went on. Glad that the stern proviso was passed,
+Isabel faintly smiled, then glanced at Philip. He was pale. Undaunted,
+she put her hand in his and followed his deep responses with a clear
+voice. It seemed natural that he should remember the bar to their
+earlier happiness. Isabel moved slowly to the altar. By the side of the
+man she trusted she felt no fear. The sunlight of human love, the
+influence of home, a chance for intellectual freedom,--all these should
+make Philip forget a miserable, restless year. And at last the two were
+kneeling. Prayers and the benediction had made them one. The first test
+was over. Soon they were signing the parish register and could now leave
+the sacristy. The boy and madame were waiting. Again the bells sounded.
+Philip led the way to the carriage, and a moment later all were driving
+off together. Along the wayside early poppies lifted golden chalices to
+nuptial health, while a meadow lark extolled the day. All about, buzzing
+insects piped joy. Isabel was glad that she had selected the tiny
+country chapel for her marriage.
+
+And the drive home was a pleasant one. Restraint lifted as the boy
+prattled and madame overflowed in French. Isabel and Philip gave out to
+each other without fear or confusion. Then came the gay arrival, with
+servants waiting, and the boy's pony and cart in readiness for a time
+postponed. But the mother no longer dreaded temporary parting, for now
+she was sure of her little son's will power. Since the confidence of
+early morning her heart had felt free. Throughout luncheon she planned
+for the boy's amusement during a month set apart for the honeymoon.
+There was much to be said about letters and surprises which were to
+arrive each day. Then when "mother dear" came back Reginald must drive
+her out into the country. Later the advent of kites would afford
+opportunity for an indulgent new father. The child was altogether
+satisfied. Isabel found no difficulty in slipping above for a change she
+had almost feared to make. When she came down dressed for traveling her
+son was so happy with his pony and cart that the equipage marking a
+bride's departure seemed to be purely incidental to the main interest of
+the afternoon.
+
+With quick embraces, a farewell hand wave, Isabel and Philip were gone.
+The old slipper, flung by madame, hit the carriage and fell to the
+ground.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+
+"At last!" said Philip; and his wife responded with a happy smile. The
+afternoon trip to St. Barnabas had begun. The two were sitting in the
+Pullman, at liberty to forget everything in the world but their wedding
+journey. As yet it was too soon to regard the future; the present was
+all satisfying. Isabel began to speak of their marriage ceremony, as
+most brides are apt to do. "How simple and easy it all was," she
+declared. "I shall always love that darling chapel among the hills. Did
+you feel the spring coming through the open windows? And did you hear
+the meadow lark on our way back? Oh, I loved it all."
+
+Her husband smiled at her natural joy. Then peering into Philip's face
+Isabel saw again that his cheeks were thin. If anything he was more
+distinguished looking, yet already she feared for his health. He had
+been working too hard, and the next month must do wonders for the man
+she loved. "At St. Barnabas we shall live out of doors every moment of
+the day," she declared. "I can hardly wait to show you that wonderful
+country. It will be perfect to go about in the saddle; how glad I am
+that we sent the horses on ahead and in full time."
+
+"You are a fairy wife instead of a fairy godmother," said Philip.
+
+"Nonsense," she answered. "I am absolutely selfish. I love the saddle
+far better than my dinner, and my only fear is that I may tire you out."
+
+"No danger; I'm going to astonish you. Besides, you have given me the
+easiest horse."
+
+She denied the charge. "One is as fine a mount as the other. I shall
+never cease to be thankful to our friend Cole. And isn't it nice that he
+is to take care of the horses during our stay at the hotel?"
+
+"Pretty nice for him," said Philip.
+
+"And for us, too," she persisted. "I really did not wish to leave madame
+and Reginald without a coachman. Of course I could have let Tom come,
+but he is altogether too fond of a good time. Parker threatens to find
+another groom every week. Besides," she hesitated, then laughed,
+"besides, I wanted Cole and his little wife to have a treat. They will
+both enjoy getting away from the foothills."
+
+"I called you a good fairy, now I am sure of it," said her husband. She
+smiled.
+
+"Of what use is an income if we may not enjoy it?"
+
+"Absolutely good for nothing," he answered.
+
+"And it's almost selfishness to do little favors that in reality cost
+only the thought. Some day we must do something big--found an art
+institute, perhaps on this very coast." She was thinking of his lost
+cathedral. "Then I should love to help talented young girls with no way
+of reaching 'head waters.'" He looked at her proudly. "There are so many
+things needed--so many appeals to choose from, that we will surely find
+the right place for a little money." Philip remembered the check which
+she had sent him over a year ago.
+
+Now her desire to make the whole world glad was part of her new
+happiness. But soon they talked of other matters, or else looked out
+through the wide window at charming, changing landscape. All afternoon
+the train climbed the rugged coast range, often boring its way through a
+tunneled mountain. At five o'clock they had tea on a small table, when a
+wonderful sunset touched every hill and spur of their upland road.
+Evening came all too soon. Stars began to peep, and suddenly domestic
+lights twinkled across a populous valley. Then, near by, the great
+Pacific beat eternal measure on silver sands. It was eight o'clock when
+the train stopped in St. Barnabas, at the rear of a noted caravansary
+flaming electrical welcome. Philip had already engaged rooms. Resigning
+his checks and suit cases to a waiting porter, he led Isabel down the
+footpath through a garden of palms and flowers. The way seemed
+fairyland, while on either hand the breath of blossoms filled the night.
+
+"My wife--my precious wife," he said softly. At their feet stretches of
+shasta daisies lay as snow. Isabel pressed her husband's arm.
+
+"Could any place be more perfect for our honeymoon?" she asked.
+
+Lapping of waves reached the garden. The newly wed pair did not hasten,
+yet all too soon the flower-bordered path ended beneath lighted arches.
+The two went slowly forward, while just how to pass unconcernedly from
+the clerk's desk to the elevator, made them really seem like "bride and
+groom." For the first time each secretly acknowledged happy, bewildered
+self-consciousness. The blazing corridor filled with beautifully gowned
+women and men in evening dress, groups of older people back from an
+early dinner, strains of music calling late diners to waiting tables,
+gave instant local color to both time and place. Philip scrawling
+personal decoration on the hotel daybook grew careful and wrote the new
+appendage to his name with telltale neatness. However, it was soon over.
+Neither looking to right nor left the couple bolted past groups of
+curious women, were all but safe in the protecting elevator, when a
+familiar voice spoke Isabel's name. Gay Lewis, alert for sensation,
+faced the grating of the rising lift. "Delighted to see you!" she called
+after them. And Philip Barry's wife answered with the smile prescribed
+under all conditions for a bride.
+
+As they rose above, Philip looked questioningly at Isabel. "An old
+school friend of mine," she told him. He made a wry face.
+
+"Have you many more of them about the hotel?" She laughed softly.
+
+"I cannot say. One never knows whom one may meet in California."
+
+They were leaving the elevator, following a boy with keys to their
+rooms. "I hope we shall not be surprised on every side," the man
+persisted. Isabel caught his hand.
+
+"Never mind," she whispered, "I'll take care of you. But you must be
+nice to Gay Lewis. We are simply destined to meet the world over, and
+Gay has a way of saying things." The bell boy was beyond hearing
+distance. "Not that she has anything to say about us of slightest
+interest to strangers," she hastened to add. Philip saw the flush on her
+cheeks. Was she already beginning to dread unavoidable notoriety? The
+thought sobered him. Now he understood. But Isabel should not suffer, if
+being polite to every one in Christendom could help matters.
+
+"I shall bend to 'the higher criticism,' do my best to impress Miss
+Lewis," he declared with assumed gayety.
+
+Then Isabel exclaimed as the door to their spacious sitting-room flew
+open. The place was a bower of roses. "Did you tell them to do it?" she
+asked.
+
+Philip forgot a passing shadow and smiled an affirmative answer.
+
+"It is lovely! the loveliest room I was ever in," she declared. "How
+dear of you." Philip stopped by the window, enjoying his wife's girlish
+joy. She sank her face into every separate bunch of flowers. "Oh, these
+dear, dear pink ones!" she cried.
+
+American Beauties nodded above her head, and she stood on a footstool to
+inhale their fragrance. On a round table covered with a white cloth was
+a huge bowl of "bride roses," fitting emblem for the day. Philip's
+surprise had been perfect. The delicate forethought which had ordered
+her bower, which stipulated for the little dinner to be served in the
+sitting-room, away from curious eyes, touched her beyond words. Her
+husband was indeed a lover! She ran to him with outstretched arms. As
+never before she knew the depth of a long-denied moment. And later, when
+she laid aside her coat and hat, to sit at the first little dinner
+alone,--but for the deferential waiter coming in and going out,--she
+kept thinking of all that they had in store, of their happiness to come.
+
+Philip was never as gay, never so like the boy of years back--the boy
+who had loved the girl. Both were beginning over again and time between
+had taught them the price of joy.
+
+"On this night we toast each other," said Philip, lifting his glass.
+"There is just 'one cold bottle' for our 'little hot bird'! I drink to
+my wife!"
+
+His eyes glowed. Isabel touched his glass with her own. "To the dearest
+husband in the whole big world!" she responded, then kissed him. He held
+her away from him, feasting on her beauty. But she begged for freedom,
+and took her place at the opposite side of the table. "We must behave,"
+she cautioned. "He's coming! I hear him down the hall."
+
+"I will be circumspect," Philip promised. "But I'm losing my appetite. I
+don't feel glad of salad and the rest. Let's fire him before the coffee;
+I want to sip mine with my wife on my knee."
+
+"For shame!" she chided, as the waiter tapped the door, with a loaded
+tray. "Do seem to be hungry. If we send things back untouched we shall
+be the talk of the hotel kitchen." Laughter was a natural part of the
+little dinner. "It is just like playing party," she declared, when the
+man again disappeared.
+
+"Please pass the sugar," Philip begged. "Won't you kiss me again?"
+
+"Not now," she refused. "We must remember that Reginald is learning
+table manners; if we act too badly through our honeymoon, he may notice
+shortcomings when we get home. Besides, he's coming--the waiter's
+coming. Be dignified."
+
+"Will coffee ever begin?" Philip complained.
+
+"Very soon." They both laughed.
+
+"Which shall I use, a fork or a spoon for my frozen pudding?"
+
+"Your fork--by all means; now please talk sensibly; he's just outside."
+
+Philip thought of the king who dined without servants, and wished that
+he too had built a table for the occasion, one with a dummy lift in its
+center, to bring up food and to carry away the dishes.
+
+Isabel watched with playful eyes until the last of his pudding was gone.
+Then she dismissed the waiter. Black coffee and a first cigar for the
+benedict state were both enjoyed without interruption. The evening
+lengthened. Philip saw his wife flit about the rooms with joyous air of
+proprietorship. Reginald's picture stood on the table beside the "bride
+roses."
+
+Something told him to go below on a natural pretext, for their trunks
+were late. When he went out Isabel did not stir. Everything was so
+wonderful, so much more wonderful than she had fancied. But at last she
+began to move about, smiling. She hung her traveling coat in the closet
+and brushed her hat. Her suit case was unlocked and unstrapped, and she
+drew forth things which were needed. She loosened her hair, plaiting it
+as usual. Two golden braids hung down her back. Then she slipped into a
+soft robe of silk and lace, and stood by the window facing the sea,
+waiting for her husband.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+
+Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the
+season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant.
+Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that
+the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each
+morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew
+to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple
+mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment
+created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different.
+But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat
+on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to
+leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back,
+whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing
+his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter
+prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of
+gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all
+unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his
+word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due
+consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same
+time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose
+husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons
+were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and
+Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon;
+frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat
+apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on
+the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at
+St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous
+mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage
+and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of
+walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a
+panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more
+lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the
+upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came
+a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different
+direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale
+of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard
+the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old
+fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline,
+and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple
+strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate
+reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a
+perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts
+went out--against his will--to the cathedral he had longed to
+perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious
+mother's milk, rose unbidden;--a challenge to his love for Isabel. His
+wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened
+as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more.
+Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile,
+no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own
+keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an
+esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be
+proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St.
+Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not
+asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to
+enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so
+would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was
+already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had
+been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power;
+now the man--her husband--held her with the same irresistible
+fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and
+manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him
+the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt
+willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded
+attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded
+over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.
+
+But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay
+canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then
+suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of
+the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he
+should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to
+enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he
+was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the
+locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be
+changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic
+standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither
+embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with
+thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money.
+The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a
+priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here
+the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the
+sun.
+
+"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.
+
+The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered
+pleasantly.
+
+The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors,
+crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it
+back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing
+order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did
+not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural
+temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude
+opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in
+charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about
+the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of
+the oaken door.
+
+He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his
+fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the
+swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She
+regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at
+the same time she tried--as she always tried--to repay a debt with
+simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her
+with favor.
+
+As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to
+examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the
+conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the
+church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder
+that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been
+treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San
+Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's
+religion."
+
+The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must
+become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of
+the good fathers," he suggested.
+
+"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished
+with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to
+strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading
+above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded
+the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to
+mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the
+sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she
+refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic
+steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day
+I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went
+behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both
+were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain.
+Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the
+first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that
+Adam still had Eve.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+
+Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's
+shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged
+brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill,
+perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking
+to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around
+his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these
+same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little
+cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long
+dead and forgotten.
+
+As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might
+the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with
+tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his
+mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to
+ascend from the old garden--from the invalid brother leaning back on
+pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly
+her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back
+refusal.
+
+"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget
+that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I
+could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below
+us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away
+with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the
+cloister."
+
+He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his
+countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible,
+except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back
+to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for
+normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.
+
+"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not
+forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the
+other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink
+salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in
+sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal
+his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in
+his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of
+Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the
+realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world"
+cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes,
+Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.
+
+But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are
+you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.
+
+Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing
+recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am
+no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see
+the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen.
+Come, let us hasten."
+
+Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother,
+waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of
+generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of
+early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers
+accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on,
+with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when
+his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated
+by the brother in charge.
+
+Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel
+shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself
+attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of
+early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated
+knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of
+saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played
+no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his
+bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to
+the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years
+back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the
+flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and
+looked at Isabel. Did she know--understand? Her serene face expressed no
+undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had
+walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal
+interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the
+brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes
+from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of
+wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in
+surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two
+young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden.
+The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother
+accompanied him on the organ.
+
+"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient
+pew. "They are practicing--for service?" she asked.
+
+The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own
+rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a
+youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of
+dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic
+colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new
+wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her;
+and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions.
+Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.
+
+"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we
+may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now
+prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the
+brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too
+responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned
+once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes.
+After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission
+always open to a curious public.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+
+Philip and Isabel were in full time for luncheon. The wife noticed that
+her husband ate his toast and squab with appetite. His cheeks were
+flushed from the canter back to the hotel, while during the half hour at
+table he appeared both happy and talkative.
+
+"Shall you mind if I go off this afternoon for golf?" he asked, as they
+went from the dining-room.
+
+Isabel's face expressed satisfaction. Her husband had hardly left her
+side since their arrival. She believed in casual separation. She knew
+instinctively that Philip must feel renewed interest in his own sex, to
+be quite the man he had been before his trouble of months back.
+
+"Go, by all means," she encouraged, as they went from the elevator to
+their rooms. "Golf must be your game; it will do you a world of good to
+follow the links."
+
+"And you won't miss me?"
+
+"Not a bit," she answered. "Besides, I want to expect you back. I wish
+to feel the pang of parting, so that I may know how very, very lonely I
+used to be." She spoke lightly, but he knew that in reality she did not
+jest. "And the man--your opponent in golf?" she asked.
+
+Philip stooped and kissed her. "How do you know that I am not going to
+tread the turf with a fair lady?" he teased.
+
+"I should be awfully jealous," she confessed. He knew that she spoke the
+truth. It came over him at the time that men were few who might claim
+such love as Isabel's. In her starry eyes he read salvation, felt the
+depth of her womanly will. Inadequate power to repay his debt made him
+humble. He kissed her again, holding her close with adoring tenderness.
+Then he told her that he was about to play golf with the great publisher
+whom he had recently met. The triumph on her lips amused him.
+
+"Build no air-castles!" he begged. But she freed herself from his arms
+and danced like a child.
+
+"What a chance!" she cried. "You must make him your friend. I saw last
+evening that he was immensely interested in you, and now he may ask you
+to write for his magazine." Isabel's estimate of her husband's genius,
+of his ability to rush into print in one of the foremost monthly
+publications in the country, was fresh proof of her blind passion.
+
+"Don't think such foolish things, dear little girl," Philip commanded.
+"The road to solicited manuscripts is a long way off--as yet. I shall
+have to get my stuff back many, many times before I can count on an
+indulgent editor." He spoke humbly, yet withal the eternal spark of hope
+had kindled for his literary career.
+
+"Shall you tell him of your book--about 'The Spirit of the Cathedral'?"
+
+Philip shook his head. "That might frighten him. He would think that I
+had an ax to grind."
+
+"But you have sent your manuscript to another publishing house," she
+persisted.
+
+"That is true," he assented, "but until I hear definitely, I do not care
+to talk of my forthcoming book. Besides, the man is here for rest and
+change. If I am able to make him my friend he may possibly tell me
+things. Above all, I must not bore him with my own uncertain
+achievements." He laughed, tugging at his golf shoe. "But you shall try
+your art on the man this evening; I have promised to present him."
+
+"I will do my best," Isabel answered. "And by reason of the dance
+to-night the bride may wear white satin. She is irresistible in la robe
+empire."
+
+Philip faced her. "I see all my manuscripts accepted at once," he said
+jestingly.
+
+"Of course. Now run along; do not keep our great man waiting. I shall
+rest for an hour, then write to madame and Reginald."
+
+"And you are really able for a ball, after the high steps of the mission
+tower?"
+
+It was the first time that he had spoken of their morning's experience.
+Isabel was overjoyed at his light reference to the visit to the old
+church.
+
+"To dance will limber me, beyond doubt," she declared, with a wave of
+her hand. She watched him pass down the hall to the elevator; then she
+went back to her sitting-room.
+
+At last she felt the glad sense of partnership. Ambition for the man she
+loved threatened to become more absorbing than all else in her life.
+Suddenly her boy seemed to reproach her. On the table his lifelike
+portrait begged for notice. She caught up the silver frame.
+
+"Darling little son!" she murmured, "mother will soon be at home--more
+than ever your playmate, your companion." She put the picture down and
+sat with her head resting between her hands. Her thoughts were now all
+with Reginald. What was he doing? Was he out in his pony cart? Was
+dainty baby Elizabeth along, giving the dolls an airing? Then, above
+all, did the boy miss his "mother dear"? She drew a crumpled half sheet
+of paper from an envelope. "Bless his dear little heart," she again
+murmured. Reginald's zigzag message, together with round spots
+wonderfully colored to represent kisses, drew her lips. She responded to
+a realistic fancy, smiling above her son's confident masterpiece. Then
+she re-read a letter from madame. All were moving along, and the child
+was happy.
+
+Her old friend's idiomatic expression kept her smiling to the end, while
+she realized anew the good fortune which had brought the French woman to
+California. In future Reginald might have every chance with his French.
+The mother decided to make luncheon, with the boy at table, a time set
+apart for French conversation. Philip, too, spoke the foreign tongue;
+and again Isabel planned for Reginald's liberal education. And she meant
+to study herself, by the side of a talented husband. How full life
+promised to become. But with every consistent hope her own ambition was
+subordinate to love. To love, to be loved by Philip, by Reginald, by
+friends, constituted the little world she longed to conquer. And
+to-night, she wished to shine at the ball, not as a woman evoking
+admiration from the crowd, but as Philip's wife. If she might help to
+bring him fresh power she was satisfied. Nor did Isabel deny her own
+evident advantage. She was too familiar with standards of beauty not to
+be glad of a rich inheritance; yet in all her life she had never been
+vain. For to be vain is to be selfish, pinned upon a revolving, personal
+pivot. Isabel had always thought first of others. To-day her mind was
+full of schemes for Philip, for Reginald, and for old madame. If Philip
+agreed she wished to live permanently in California. She had already put
+her closed house in the West on the market. The city which had once been
+home no longer claimed her interest. And Philip must never go back to
+the scene of his past humiliation. She reached for a traveling portfolio
+and began to write to Reginald. Here and there she pasted bright
+pictures to illustrate a little story which would be sure to delight her
+boy. When she had finished she dashed off a letter in French to madame;
+then, fearing that Philip might be late, she laid out his dinner
+clothes. She was not in need of companionship, and a couch close to the
+wide window facing the sea lured her. She would rest. Waves splashed a
+rhythm of contentment. Out beyond the breakers a buoy creaked in vain,
+for her nerves were as sound as her boy's. She did not mind the
+incessant grind. She was happy--satisfied.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+
+The Saturday evening hop, which so often was a perfunctory recurrence,
+blossomed into an occasion, when a score of United States naval officers
+entered the hotel. The great fleet had not then made the gallant dash
+around the Horn; but for several years preceding this noted achievement
+stray battleships had touched along the Western coast. The ship in
+question bound for Manila was now anchored over night outside the
+breakers of St. Barnabas. Corridors of the hotel palpitated when
+privileged men off the man-of-war burst upon the scene. In less than a
+minute maneuvers in the ballroom eclipsed those of the outlying
+battleship, as anxious mammas steered young daughters to open port.
+Lines drew taut and merciless for all untouched by the accolade of
+station, while on every side sat groups of elderly onlookers.
+
+Officers in immaculate evening dress, ready for change, eager to dance
+with pretty women, moved easily about, and soon surcharged conditions
+were overcome by general satisfaction.
+
+By Isabel's side Gay Lewis shone with reflected prominence. Nor did the
+girl deny the evident truth when flocking ensigns marked her for second
+choice.
+
+"You are a dear!" she reiterated after each opportunity due to her
+friend. "I have not had a chaperone for a long time. Now I see my
+blunder." For Philip Barry's wife was the undoubted toast of the navy
+men.
+
+In a day when dancing has degenerated into pathetic uncertainty the
+advent of willing ensigns might well be put down as something new and
+exhilarating. Isabel forgot her strenuous climb to the mission roof. She
+had not enjoyed a ball for full five years; and she was like a girl
+surrounded by a swarm of admirers. To-night the great publisher had no
+chance, with epaulets to right and left. But the afternoon at golf had
+been successful. Philip and his new friend stood together on the
+outskirts, each duly conscious of his own inadequate worth.
+
+"It behooves us to tread modestly--we fellows who have adopted a sober
+career," the editor declared. "I never could learn. My mother kept me at
+dancing school until I had tramped the toes of every little girl in the
+class, then one day she gave me up." He laughed drolly, while his eyes
+took in the swift, unconscious movement of Mrs. Barry and her partner, a
+tall young ensign.
+
+"We are not in China, and fortunately I may speak to you of your wife,"
+he went on. "As a comparatively new acquaintance, I beg to congratulate
+you. You are too fortunate in a world where many are not."
+
+Barry stiffened. The other sensed misapprehension.
+
+"I have never been married," he explained. "I am denied the pleasure of
+admiring my own wife. Those days at dancing school took away all
+possible hope. For years I could hardly shake hands with a girl of my
+own age; then you see I got wedded to single life--spent my days
+passing upon loves of fictitious heroes and heroines."
+
+"Too bad," said Philip, deeply interested.
+
+"Sometimes I think I should have made a much better judge of literature
+if I had only asked a woman to share my criticisms and bear my remorse
+when I turn down very readable things. You see a man who has not married
+can never be quite as sure as one who knows the taste of both good and
+evil. 'The woman which thou gavest me' may do a lot of mischief, but
+when the crash comes she generally compensates. For my part I doubt if
+Adam would have gone back into the garden with any interest whatever
+after Eve found 'pastures new' outside."
+
+"And you believe that a married man is capable of better work than a
+single one?" Philip was growing curious.
+
+"Undoubtedly," the editor answered. "I have in my mind a certain writer
+of note, one who but for persistent bachelorhood might have risen to
+highest rank in fiction. As it is, he has always fallen short of the
+real emotion. A certain class reading his books fail to detect mere
+description in supposedly passionate episodes, but to those of deeper
+consciousness and experience he has counterfeit feeling. This particular
+novelist works from matrimonial patterns--traces all that he draws. I am
+older than yourself, and you will pardon me for saying it, but your wife
+should help you to achieve almost anything."
+
+Philip flushed. The pride of possession came over him afresh when Isabel
+whirled past, with a smile which he knew could never be untrue. Above
+her radiance, beauty, he felt her exquisite womanhood. To-night he
+believed that she would lead him to "pastures new--outside." Throughout
+the evening Philip stayed by the editor, gradually making his way into
+the man's confidence, while adhering to a first determination which
+withheld the fact of his own unprinted book. Then at midnight, Isabel,
+Miss Lewis, and three young officers captured the onlookers and forced
+them away to supper.
+
+It was a gay little party. The round table at which all sat became an
+excuse for a full hour's enjoyment; and as Isabel had promised, she did
+her best to make the editor, who might possibly help Philip, her own
+friend also. The undertaking was not difficult. If dancing school trials
+had left an eternal scar on the bachelor's unclaimed heart to-night he
+showed no unwillingness to devote himself to Isabel. Philip was amused.
+Then he remembered his wife's unfailing charm. He had never seen her
+unsympathetic or rude. When she really cared to please, she could not be
+soon forgotten by any one selected for her favor. And to-night, as
+usual, the elderly publisher and the young ensigns from the ship all
+went under to a woman's gracious way. Nor was Miss Lewis annoyed.
+
+"Of course," she said afterward, "no one ever attempts to eclipse
+Isabel; for don't you see she would not care in the least, and that
+being the case, no other woman would be foolish enough to try--and then
+fail." And Gay was at her best during supper. Philip had never liked her
+as well as when the party broke up. There was, after all, something fine
+and straightforward about the girl, who appeared to drift with the tide
+of hotel pastimes. Philip told himself that as a priest he had been
+narrow in many of his judgments. The evening had stimulated his
+respect for the world. His emotional nature went out again to
+things he had once given up. Isabel's beauty held him in passionate
+bonds; and he felt incentive for new work. His book, which came next to
+his wife--for no one writes seriously without the sense of humanized
+accomplishment--suddenly went up in his own estimation. The evening with
+a real publisher had stiffened his confidence; and for the first time
+since his marriage he merged love for Isabel with the success of "The
+Spirit of the Cathedral." But his personal undercurrent passed
+unnoticed. To his wife he seemed detached from all but the present. As
+she drew him away from the shining ballroom she exulted to herself.
+Unusual and lighter opportunity seemed to be what her husband most
+needed.
+
+The battleship hauled anchor at dawn. The men had already started for
+the tug and a trip across the breakers. The hotel was despoiled of
+glory. Corridors were soon dim and lonely. To Isabel the night had
+proved her husband's ease with a life comparatively new and untried. She
+felt young, contented, ready for all which might come. Not a fear for
+Philip crossed her mind as she went to her rooms. She had been
+exhilarated throughout the evening; but now she was glad to rest. Philip
+unfastened her gown, halting to kiss her bare shoulders, to tell her
+about their friend, the magazine editor. As she slipped out of her ball
+finery she was like a girl after a first night of conquest. Later he
+listened to her gentle, regular breathing as he lay by her side. It
+seemed yet a dream that she was really his wife. Events of the past
+began to fill his mind. Then reaction, which so often came with excess
+of feeling, kept him awake for hours. But at last he dropped away, only
+to rouse up at intervals. The outgoing tide seemed to carry him to the
+anchored ship, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken passion of the
+sea forbade sleep. With every tardy lap of waves he grew more restless;
+and dawn broke. All at once, a desire to witness the departure of the
+man-of-war drew him from bed. Isabel slumbered as a child, and Philip
+went softly to the window and looked out. The sea rose and fell an
+arctic green. There was no mist, and he could see the great ship
+clearly. A streamer of black smoke floated across the morning sky;
+already there were signs of departure. Philip dressed quickly and
+quietly. It occurred to him that Isabel might be shocked to awaken and
+find him gone. He smiled as he slipped into the sitting-room to indite a
+line "To the Sleeping Beauty." But his wife did not stir when he pinned
+the note to his own empty pillow. He went back to the adjoining
+apartment for his field glasses; then out of the door through quiet
+halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+
+Philip watched the maneuvers of the battleship from the shore, at the
+foot of the hotel. His glasses were strong, and he could make out
+regular disciplined movements of men on board. What a life, he thought.
+To be always waiting for war, ready for action in any part of the world,
+regardless of human personal ties. The monster breasting waves seemed as
+horrible as it was majestic. The man who was once a priest had never
+wished to be a soldier. This morning he sensed the command to draw
+anchor, felt the significance of carnage for the sea, saw the ship move.
+Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.
+The man followed with his glasses. He stood fascinated by almost
+imperceptible motion. Against morning sky a black streamer rested, then
+gradually trailed to invisible distance, as broadside perspective
+dropped away. The man-of-war was gone. But Philip still stood on the
+shore. Early day had taken possession of his will. He seemed rooted to
+the wet sand beneath his feet. Was Isabel awake? Had she yet missed him?
+He looked back at the hotel, rising above lawn and palm trees. He could
+see no signs of life, and it occurred to him that a brisk walk might
+atone for his restless night. The fresh air stimulated him as he went
+forward. Without thought of destination he left the ocean for the
+esplanade, the esplanade for the long business street of the town. As
+he went on he began to see people and to realize for the first time that
+it was Sunday. Many were going to early Mass, and he was not among them.
+At a corner he saw a modern Catholic church. The old mission now had its
+rival in the new brick building. Several maids from the hotel got off a
+car to hurry onward. A woman in front went faster as she neared the
+church, but turned half round and looked at Philip. He felt her
+insinuating survey as he strode rapidly away; then he recognized
+Reginald Doan's former nurse. It was undoubtedly Maggie; and she knew
+him for all that he had once been. He could not be mistaken. That Maggie
+had deceived Isabel and followed Mrs. Grace to St. Barnabas was plain.
+With that lady's departure for the East, the girl must have ceased to be
+her maid. Maggie's surprise seemed evident; and at best the encounter
+was disagreeable. Philip hurried on with the sense of being watched. He
+walked past gardens, not seeing flowers freshened by night's cool touch
+and morning's breath. Suddenly he was cast down, depressed by something
+impalpable.
+
+But he went on and on in absent-minded mood, taking no note of locality,
+not realizing his distance from the closely settled town. He followed
+the track of a car line, dimly conscious of the way, until, without
+warning--the mission faced him. He might have known! Still he had the
+habit of losing himself when Isabel was not his leader; and they seldom
+went out except on their horses. Miserable, angry, he stood afar,
+irresistibly called by sounding bells.
+
+He saw men and women go up the wide worn steps to early Mass; then like
+an outcast he turned away to board a car returning to the hotel. Isabel
+would be waiting, wondering what had become of him. And he would not
+tell her, would never let her know of his childish trip. The mission had
+become an obsession. He saw it in his dreams and heard about it on all
+sides. Every artist painted it; and carriage drivers on the streets
+urged him to take a seat for the inevitable trip. Children showed him
+their post cards adorned with a picture of the historic church or else
+some scene taken in the cloister garden. The mission was getting onto
+his nerves. He was almost beginning to hate it. He would never see it
+again; and with the thought, he looked back at the graceful stretch of
+the low, sun-kissed monastery, following on like a little brother to the
+close protection of the "old fathers'" abler work. It was so beautiful,
+so simple, that he could not deny. His knowledge of architecture, his
+sense of fitness, kept his thoughts with the unselfish monks of the
+past. He could not forget when from boyhood he had been trained in
+church history. He had always been best in his class. And how his dear
+mother would have loved the old church. At last the car was moving; at
+last he might get away.
+
+His back was to the mission and the run to town would not take long.
+After all he might not be very late. And as he had hoped, he found the
+hotel still quiet. Only a few early risers were down for breakfast when
+he went to the dining-room to order Isabel's tray sent up to her room.
+Then he took the elevator. He entered by the same door through which he
+had departed, walking softly to his wife's bedside. She seemed not to
+have stirred during his absence; but the note was gone from the pillow.
+He leaned down and kissed her, and at the same instant half bare arms
+tightened around his neck. Then she laughed.
+
+"'Sleeping Beauties' never wake up unless they are kissed," she told
+him. He doubled his charm as she raised on her elbow.
+
+"Did you think I was never coming back?" he asked. "I took a long walk,
+after the ship got away, went farther than I intended."
+
+"I thought so," she said. "Men never remember the return trip. But I
+have hardly missed you. I read my love letter, then went right to sleep.
+I did not wake until I heard the telephone. Of course I answered it, and
+whom do you suppose was speaking?"
+
+"Doubtless one of your numerous admirers," her husband gallantly
+answered.
+
+"No. This time it was your admirer. But I came in for honorable mention.
+I am so flattered, almost glad that you were not here to respond to our
+friend the editor."
+
+Now she was wide awake. The soft disarrangement of night still hung
+about her hair. Her eyes sparkled as the morning. She sat up, leaning
+forward.
+
+"He has invited us to go out with him this afternoon in his touring
+car. I said we would come. You are willing?"
+
+"Of course," Philip answered, smiling at her eagerness.
+
+"Mr. and Mrs. Tilton-Jones and Gay Lewis are asked; we are to start
+about three."
+
+Philip puckered his brow. "Why the Tilton-Joneses--I wonder?" Isabel saw
+that he did not care for the couple.
+
+"They are relatives of our host," she explained. "One cannot turn down
+cousins in California, or for that matter, acquaintances. You must be
+nice to them, for last night both expressed the wish to know you." She
+was anxious for her husband's popularity with strangers. That he should
+hold his new place without criticism was always in her mind.
+
+Isabel knew the world, and when she married an apostate priest she had
+considered its way, all outside of love. She had even prepared herself
+for first, almost inevitable rebuff. Time would show where she and
+Philip both stood. A desirable few, who obstinately disapproved, should
+not annoy her; and at last they too might forget. To her surprise she
+had felt no condemnation. A mere marriage notice passed from paper to
+paper, with miraculous decency. Isabel read no highly colored version of
+either her own beauty or of Philip's sensational conduct. If anything
+unpleasant appeared she did not see it. This morning as she sat up in
+bed, enjoying the breakfast which her husband had thoughtfully ordered,
+she was more than thankful, more than happy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+
+"And you do not care for the Tilton-Jones combination?" she asked.
+
+Philip shook his head. "I fail to admire either of them, although I
+least of any one should cast a presumptuous stone. Perhaps I am unduly
+prejudiced. I have known several hyphenated Jones people before, and for
+some reason I never got on with them. You see I was always addressing
+the wife as plain Mrs. Jones--perpetually overlooking the lean-to
+addition."
+
+Isabel's laugh rippled. How very clever her husband was. "I shall keep
+you from forgetting this afternoon," she promised. "I am so glad to go
+out in a machine. Really I do not believe I could sit the saddle to-day.
+And this is too nice!" she declared, as she poured the coffee. "Are you
+not going down?" Then she extended a steaming cup. "Take this," she
+begged. "They have sent plenty for two; suppose we have breakfast
+together."
+
+"But there is only one cup."
+
+"What matter, when we have a full pot of coffee. And just see the toast
+and rolls."
+
+Philip sat facing his wife, amused as he always was when he had only to
+obey.
+
+"You drink first," she commanded.
+
+"Tell me when to stop; I might take all."
+
+"You may. I never really enjoy coffee until I have finished."
+
+She was irresistible. And all this loveliness, this unconsciousness, was
+now but for his own eyes. Isabel was his wife. To-day he felt that he
+had sinned only by once becoming a priest bound by unnatural vows.
+
+God had created a pair in the beginning, decreed that man should not
+live without sympathy, without love. He was thinking of couples bound as
+prisoners. Everything seemed so natural for Isabel and himself, except
+when he did not sleep or went back too far. The white satin empire gown
+lay extended on the couch.
+
+Philip pointed drolly across the room, then touched the sleeve of
+Isabel's dainty night robe. "I like this gown best; you seem about
+eighteen months, hardly old enough to be Reggie's fond mamma."
+
+"For shame!" she cried. Still she was pleased. With mention of her boy
+she began to talk of the little fellow, to wonder what he was doing on
+this very Sunday morning.
+
+The breakfast above proved to be a happy thought. Husband and wife "took
+turns" from the single cup; there was gayety and byplay.
+
+"We have not left a crumb!" said Isabel. "I never ate such good toast.
+You know we are to have dinner at one--the regulation hour for the day;
+we shall subsist until then." She poured the last drop from the coffee
+pot. "This is our loving cup. Let us drink to every one that is
+married--in the big world!"
+
+Philip smiled. "That wouldn't do, too many miss the whole thing," he
+answered.
+
+"I suppose so," she agreed. She had almost forgotten the time when life
+had not been full and satisfying. "Now it is all so wonderful--so sure,"
+she added softly.
+
+"But of course honeymoons have got to be silly--real silly--just like
+this breakfast. After a while we shall both be serious enough, with your
+literary work and Reg growing up."
+
+She bounded from bed to her dressing room, dropping Philip a courtesy in
+return for his previous jest. "I will come forth full grown," she
+promised. "Your friend the editor shall never suspect that I still love
+dolls."
+
+She kept her word and after dinner, when she stood with Philip on the
+veranda of the hotel, she had exchanged the way of a child for one of
+womanly charm. The day was glorious, and already Gay Lewis and the
+Tilton-Joneses were on hand. A moment later the host of the afternoon
+led his party to the waiting car. The three ladies occupied the tonneau,
+while Tilton-Jones and Philip faced them. The New York publisher sat in
+front with the chauffeur. At the outset Gay Lewis announced her
+satisfaction. "Nothing could be as fine as this!" she declared. "A
+Pierce Arrow is next to flying. Of course, for some time to come I shall
+not be permitted to shoot upward, but if it were not for mother I should
+accept my first invitation."
+
+"Could you really dare to board an airship?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones put in.
+
+"Certainly," said Gay. "I dare say I was born only for sport; I love it
+better than anything else in the world. I never think of danger when I
+am amusing myself."
+
+"I am sorry that we cannot enjoy the afternoon according to latest
+ideals," the host answered. "However, I must depend upon Miss Lewis to
+direct our course. Which way shall we take?" he asked.
+
+They had already started on a trip through the little city.
+
+"I am greatly flattered," Gay replied. "But really, I have no choice
+when I am in a machine. It is just go, go, go, with me. I can almost
+arrive at Kipling's meter as I sit! sit! sit! bobbing up and down
+again." Every one laughed.
+
+"And you don't mind a rough road?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones demanded with
+literal surprise.
+
+"Not as much as most people," Miss Lewis answered. "I, for one, shall
+not complain this afternoon. I never felt a more comfortable car."
+
+"It moves along perfectly," said Isabel, who had thus far been quiet.
+
+"And will no one dictate our way?" the host again inquired. As he spoke,
+the chauffeur shot onward in the direction of the mission. Philip alone
+felt the significance of the driver's plan. But he made up his mind,
+once and for all, that nothing imaginary should disturb his peace of
+mind, or ever again come as a phantom between himself and Isabel. He no
+longer seemed to shrink from a farewell view of the old church. This
+would be the last one. Nor was he perturbed when later the machine
+stopped on the verge of the broad pavement leading to steps beyond. Not
+until Mrs. Tilton-Jones cried out, begging to peep within the mission
+now resounding with voices of singing monks, did he fully understand.
+Then he knew, knew that to refuse to go inside on account of afternoon
+service was to virtually acknowledge himself a disgraced man. In an
+instant he decided. His wife hesitated, but he insisted that she should
+get out of the car. Everything happened quickly. With all pressing
+forward, Philip began to climb the stone flight to the church. There was
+no escape, he must act as a man. Isabel felt his arm beneath her own.
+She did not speak. Gay Lewis walked on the other side, and Mrs.
+Tilton-Jones now joined the row.
+
+"What terrible steps," the lady complained. "I'm not a Catholic, so
+don't appreciate a penance. But I am delighted to have a look inside.
+The monks sing wonderfully! just hear them." She chattered on, to the
+very door. Evidently she had not heard of Philip's former career. Isabel
+was relieved and entered the church with a sense of unexpected pleasure.
+She thought she detected the baritone of the brother whom she had once
+heard; then the voice stilled. A priest was intoning.
+
+Now all Catholics were devoutly kneeling, murmuring evening prayers.
+Philip Barry stood beside Isabel, with his head slightly bowed. Others
+of the party used casual time for glancing about the mission. To the
+man who had once been a priest the voice of the officiating father, the
+supplicating swell of confessions born of human transgression, the
+impalpable impression of detached souls coming back to worship, were
+realities all too startling. Philip had overestimated his strength. He
+lifted his eyes and saw beyond--far down the long aisle--tall, lighted
+candles on the holy altar. In brass vases he discerned stalks of flaming
+poinsettias. Like blood, splashed against the dorsal, the scarlet
+flowers flanked the golden treasury of the hidden Host. The man had been
+too long a Catholic to forget. But prayers were over. The choir of
+brown-hooded monks had burst into praise and ushers peered here and
+there for vacant sittings. Then, with dismay, the excommunicated priest
+followed his friends and Isabel the entire length of the old church, to
+a pew directly in front of the chancel.
+
+He had not counted on the conspicuous placing of a noticeable party. He
+leaned forward with his head in his hands. Instinctively the usual
+petition moved his lips. But he sat up and gazed before him with
+blinding realization of his own false attitude. Why had he entered?
+Again he recalled honest worshippers of the morning, going up worn
+stones to early service, at length coming forth into sunlight, with rapt
+or tranquil faces. And about him were the same reverential men and
+women. Philip Barry's religious feeling had always been emotional rather
+than spiritual; still he had been born a Catholic. The beauty of
+impressive ritualism, the mysticism of the "Elevated Cup," moved his
+esthetic nature. Dreamer that he was, he knew again the power of his
+inculcated early training. He thought of his mother. Until to-day every
+tense effort to recall her sympathetic soul had been vain. Now an
+impalpable presence reproached him--separated him, as it were, from
+Isabel. In a momentary vision he saw the dear face and form of his lost
+one. To his imaginative mind, beautiful old hands stretched out to save
+him from impending disaster; then everything before his eyes became
+clear, and he sat still, at the foot of the chancel, a condemned man.
+Something whispered that to be an outcast from his Church would
+gradually starve his soul. Perhaps he should turn to stone, forget the
+worth of Isabel's priceless love and devotion--what then? He shuddered
+at the thought of possible suffering for his wife. Again the
+congregation knelt. Again he was glad to bow his head. For the first
+time since his marriage the dread of disappointing Isabel gripped him.
+That he should have an insatiate longing for something outside of their
+close relation filled him with terror. No, she must never know. He stood
+up at the end of familiar prayers, responding silently to the rich
+voices above in the choir. At the back of the church the monks had begun
+a Gloria. After all he would be able to control himself. Then suddenly
+there was mysterious agitation, moving to and fro of priests and
+officiating brothers. To visiting Protestants the commotion in the
+chancel was not appalling. Monks passing hither and thither, priests
+turning splendid vestments to front and back, seemed but part of an
+impressive service.
+
+For Philip Barry, duly educated to Catholic power, aware of a ruling
+order's justified opportunity, there was a plain conclusion. He stood as
+one summoned, unable to move, waiting for sentence enjoined by his own
+unpardonable presumption. And above floated the Gloria. Intent on the
+music Isabel did not turn, did not see Philip's livid face as he stood
+on, powerless to leave the church, yet knowing the full penalty of
+remaining. Voices of singing monks withheld judgment. Then finally with
+the deep Amen a solemn file of officiating brothers marched from the
+sanctuary. The time had come. Still Philip Barry could not move. Priests
+turned from the holy altar with plain intent, beginning to disrobe. In
+stately shame each placed his golden vestment upon a bench. Clad in
+their cassocks, all went out, save the avenger of the awful hour, now in
+authority. Philip saw him signal as he came slowly forward to the verge
+of the chancel. Behind the communion rail he stopped and raised a
+restraining hand. Above in the choir loft the organ was dumb, not a
+murmur broke a frightful stillness. The lone priest waited. Every ear
+strained with his first deliberate utterance. He was looking straight at
+Philip Barry. At last, he spoke:
+
+"Owing to the presence in this sacred mission of an excommunicated
+priest, the service is at an end, the congregation is dismissed. Let it
+go out at once, with downcast eyes and prayers upon the lips of all
+true Catholics." He walked to the altar and extinguished the last
+candle, scarcely turning as he drifted from sight of the awe-stricken
+crowd. The dazed man, singled out for disgrace, stooped to the floor for
+his hat, rose again to his full imperious height, smiling piteously at
+Isabel--then he fell backward, caught in the arms of his friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+
+Philip and Isabel were now at home. But the wife had not been able to
+turn her husband's mind from his late public humiliation. She was
+frightened, miserable. Would Philip always be as now--crushed, silent
+with the one he loved best? She buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks
+burned, while her eyes remained dry. She dared not weep, dared not break
+down before the changed, listless man whom she would save at any cost to
+her own anguish. As first days of home-coming dragged away she began to
+see that she had been presumptuous. After all, her marriage was not to
+be a happy one. She knew that Philip adored her even more than before
+the fatal afternoon at the mission, when he had fallen unconscious at
+her side; yet something obstinate and heart-rending had come between
+them. Tragic doubt seemed to be freezing her husband's tenderness. With
+passionate dread of misjudging him she withheld from day to day the
+question she could not ask. She felt that above all she must wait until
+the shock of his cruel punishment had ceased to be vivid. During
+sleepless nights, when she knew for the first time the price of a
+Catholic priest's apostasy, there came also the realization of personal,
+unjust punishment. Nor did she acknowledge wrong for either Philip or
+herself; they had done no wrong. They were created for each other, and
+their only mistake had been the last imprudent visit to a forbidden
+place. She grieved over her own ignorance which had permitted Philip to
+incur the risk which had turned against him. She was bitter, and because
+of a defensive attitude she could not understand her husband's crushed
+condition. The joy of those first two weeks at St. Barnabas had
+departed. Isabel knew that she was a constant reproach to the stricken
+man, utterly changed and gently silent. Through days when she tried to
+distract his mind from a forbidden subject, driving him, herself, about
+the country growing more lovely with each hour of spring, she felt the
+mutual strain to be almost intolerable. Lurid newspaper accounts of
+Philip's disgrace had helped to convert their once happy drives into
+perfunctory, humble attempts to escape notice. Now they went alone in a
+runabout, avoiding every evidence of ostentation. Country roads lured
+them from town and led them on to unfrequented foothill slopes, where
+blue buckthorn adorned sweet-smelling upland acres. Below the purple
+range deepened with March shadows, swept by fickle sunlight playing over
+crags and into canyons, the couple passed long intervals when neither
+one of them spoke. Heart-breaking reticence tied their tongues. Each
+guessed the thoughts of the other.
+
+All about was the bewildering call of fresh life, yet they could not
+respond to Nature's glad outburst. Deciduous orchards, flushing buds,
+early almond blossoms pure as snow, wild flowers, buckthorn, edging
+miles of stony wash with tender blue, seemed only to evoke prolonged
+silence. The beauty of everything hurt them, for they were both unhappy
+and afraid to speak plainly. Then at night, when each lay wide awake,
+blessing darkness which at last hid their faces, relaxing after false
+smiles and feigned composure, everything had to be thought out once
+more. What would come of it all? Philip Barry's wife dared not press the
+question. She was young and she could not give up easily her dream of
+love. A passionate undercurrent of hope still helped her to endure the
+tense situation. Trivialities of everyday life assisted her in deceiving
+her household. She was gentle with her boy and thoughtful for old
+madame. Servants saw no change in their mistress. A battle had begun,
+and, believing in the odds of destiny, Isabel marshalled reserve force
+and smiled before her little world. But at heart she was frightened.
+Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed
+her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld
+tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been
+before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing
+from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had
+come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air--out of
+the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow,
+giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone
+platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an
+instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the assurance of Philip's
+beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one
+had been kind--very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited--waited!
+And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that
+followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days passed she found
+it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St.
+Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.
+
+Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise
+his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance.
+To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had
+missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event
+of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer
+her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious
+spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days
+Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive
+Philip over the country time must appear to pass naturally, while in
+temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already
+what is known in California as a "weather breeder" seemed to overcharge
+the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward
+down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming
+above the mountains; next day the sun refused to shine, and by night it
+rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a
+storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had
+loved rain as well as sunshine, but now she listened to the incessant
+downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come.
+She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of
+lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect.
+He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt
+powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their
+home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the
+matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden
+fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor
+might have broken a blood vessel of his brain--a vessel so tiny that
+consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the
+storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then
+bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain
+alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of
+her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First
+of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment.
+Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark
+paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed
+Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made
+compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to
+divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French,
+or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these
+things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine
+mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By
+early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones
+with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to
+believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to
+rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII
+
+
+Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little
+rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into dashing
+streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo
+Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming
+charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry,
+volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed
+lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into
+alarming fury.
+
+"Are you awake?" asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not
+sleeping.
+
+"Yes," he confessed. "Shall I get up and look after the windows?"
+
+She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She assured him that
+every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two
+lay still, listening to the tempest.
+
+"Isn't it frightful?" Isabel said timidly.
+
+"I like it," her husband answered.
+
+The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no
+tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a
+rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous
+crashing thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the
+mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror,
+forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw
+the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she
+had thought. He was ill--very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her
+stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was
+lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she
+would speak!
+
+"Tell me! oh tell me!" she implored. "I cannot bear it--I shall die if
+you do not tell me." The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength.
+"You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you
+think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave
+up--left your Church?" Everything was bursting from her like the
+tempest. "I could let you go," she sobbed, "but I cannot believe that we
+have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your God never
+meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you
+suffer--never let you forget. And--and you could not forget that I am
+your wife--that you love me?"
+
+She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her--deny what she said? "You
+do love me?" she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. "We
+love each other as God meant we should. We will blot out the past, live!
+You shall be another man." She was pleading her own case with Philip's.
+Her tears had ceased to fall. "We will do good jointly, do something to
+better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma."
+She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity.
+Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a
+yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. "Life is
+beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your
+book comes out----"
+
+Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought
+again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something
+had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main
+electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the
+dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through
+the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip.
+What if--she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one
+utterly despairing.
+
+"Never speak of the book again," he implored. He sank on the pillow, and
+she waited for him to go on. "I should have told you--forgive me," he
+said at last. "The manuscript has come back."
+
+Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her
+husband's alarming condition. "No! no!" she sobbed. "You cannot mean
+it,--there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot
+fail!"
+
+"But it has failed," he answered with momentary strength. "They do not
+care to publish it; it stands dishonored like--the man who wrote it."
+
+She blanched at his words. "Come back! Your manuscript returned?" she
+faltered. "You cannot mean it; where is the letter? I must see it."
+
+He smiled piteously, pointing to a closed desk at the other side of the
+room, where she found the pasteboard box loosely held in brown paper.
+The name of a prominent publishing house was stamped outside the wrapper
+and inside was the letter.
+
+She read, re-read, with burning cheeks--a polite, commercial decision;
+then she ran to Philip. Her eyes were blazing with champion light; her
+courage had returned. Great love for the stricken man gone down before a
+flood of disappointment enveloped her being. The force of her wonderful
+nature rose up for fresh battle.
+
+"Darling!" she pleaded, "you are too ill to understand." She caught his
+hand as she crept close to his side. "They like your book,--know that it
+is fine; but they are afraid of the cost of publishing it. The pictures
+have frightened them and they are too commercial to take the risk of a
+sumptuous volume. One refusal is nothing! Our new friend will know the
+value of your work, and the manuscript must go to him at once." The
+positive current of her magnetic will, the plausibility of her
+conviction, above all, her tenderness, seemed a divine anodyne for
+Philip's sinking soul. Yet he dared not hope. The shaft of disgrace had
+been sunk too straight. He was too ill to resist remorse; too weak to
+deny the penalty for broken vows; too hopeless to defy authority which
+had thrust him down and trodden upon his self-respect. On the verge of
+fatal prostration, no sins were blacker than his own. Darkest of all
+appeared a selfish love forced upon innocent Isabel. Dishonored man that
+he was, she must share his shame. He closed his weary eyes.
+
+His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,--to call a
+nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.
+
+"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He
+protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not
+stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well.
+I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She
+felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing
+through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.
+
+He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not
+move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring
+forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten
+Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the
+condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly
+cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her
+to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled,
+sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own
+childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical
+standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed
+independently.
+
+What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That
+Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken
+thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a
+vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed
+eyes--yet wide awake--she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who
+should--who must--help her.
+
+Then suddenly Philip spoke.
+
+"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."
+
+"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest--just here--I will
+soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes
+were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX
+
+
+A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip
+forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into
+slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health
+sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought
+happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and
+watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet
+sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly
+from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops,
+piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by
+the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry
+claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of
+falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call
+in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible
+outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those
+ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to
+revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but
+to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and
+peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with
+unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his
+compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her
+husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist.
+Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to
+her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried
+out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the
+result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only
+Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm,
+had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her
+faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes,
+and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.
+
+Wing turned in evident dismay. "Why you up so early?" he asked with the
+childlike freedom of the Oriental. "Those girls heap lazy! not come down
+yet--house all dark." He spread his slender brown hands in feigned
+disgust. "I gless you not know that big tree fall over las night? Most
+hit my klitchen. You come see." He threw open the screen, pointing
+beyond. Isabel saw a Monterey pine low and done for by the storm. Heavy,
+drenched branches, crushed and aromatic, rose from the ground to the top
+of a nearby porch, which had just escaped them. Years of growth and
+vigor were down with a blast from the surcharged sky. She seemed to feel
+the human significance of the fallen pine.
+
+"Poor thing!" she exclaimed, peering into upturned limbs of the
+vanquished tree. "Poor thing!"
+
+Wing beamed. His white teeth flashed credulous interest. "You think that
+tree get hurt--all same me?" he demanded. Isabel saw that she was
+planting fresh superstition on celestial soil.
+
+"I am not quite sure," she answered. "Still, a great tree could hardly
+tear away from earth without feeling it. It must have suffered," she
+maintained. Unconsciously she was thinking of her husband. That Philip
+had been uprooted, cast down like the pine filled her with dread as she
+went quickly from the kitchen. But the storm, which left the house in
+total darkness during the night had also interfered with telephone
+service. After vain attempts to communicate with the central office, she
+dashed off a note to a well-known nerve specialist. She begged him to
+come at once, explaining that her husband was too ill to leave his bed.
+From the terrace she watched the gardener depart with her note. She felt
+at last like one who stakes all on a final venture. Would the doctor
+come soon? Would Philip resent the visit? Above all, how should she
+break the news to the invalid, who begged to be left alone? "Don't call
+a doctor," he had pleaded; and again she wondered if she had been wise
+in a grave emergency. The house was now astir. Belated maids were at
+work. Soon shrill exclamations arose from the wet garden. Madame had
+discovered the fallen pine, to fly below with the boy. Reginald was
+proudly equipped with rubber boots. His red coat flashed as he outran
+his excited companion. Isabel translated the French woman's lament for
+the lost tree; then the boy cried out in distress. His mother reached
+his side to find him in tears, holding a dead oriole. The once gay,
+golden little creature lay limp in the child's hand.
+
+"Poor birdy! See, he's all, all broken!" he bemoaned. "Can't you mend
+him, mother dear? Can't you make him stand up?"
+
+"He has been hurt by the storm," Isabel explained, stroking the feathers
+of the little victim. "Perhaps he lived in the pine tree. We may find
+his nest."
+
+Reginald began to search along the path, while Isabel found a sharpened
+stick. When she came to a clump of ferns she bent and quickly dug a tiny
+bed in the wet earth. Her son, running back, saw that the oriole was
+gone.
+
+"There wasn't any nest!" he shouted, gazing incredulously at his
+mother's empty hand, "And I suppose the poor birdy's all mended. Why
+didn't you wait? I wanted--I wanted to see him fly away." Fresh tears
+betokened the boy's disappointment. Isabel felt justified in the
+deception, as she led the child indoors. He would understand soon
+enough.
+
+Wing had just brought back a dainty tray, with everything on it declined
+by the master. The good fellow was greatly distressed. "Boss not eat--he
+die! Sure!" he muttered.
+
+Isabel went above. She felt again that she had done right in calling a
+physician, and strove for courage to announce the approaching visit.
+When she entered her husband's room he seemed to be dozing. She did not
+rouse him. Perhaps, after all, sleep would prove to be Philip's best
+medicine, and something whispered that her apparent anxiety was not good
+for the broken man she loved. She went out, acknowledging a mistake.
+When Philip awoke she would tell him about the doctor, with incidental
+lightness. Then sooner than she expected she heard an automobile and
+knew that her note had been timely. The specialist was at hand--in the
+hall below. She could not prepare Philip for an unwelcome call. But she
+was eager to unburden her heart, willing to rest her fear with one who
+ought to assume it. And at once she told of her husband's early
+education, of the first success of his priesthood, of his ambition for a
+great Middle West cathedral, of the bishop's unjust course, of Philip's
+natural struggle, followed with excommunication from the Church; then
+all too soon--before he could readjust his life--of the public
+humiliation in the old mission. She kept nothing back but her own hard
+part as the wife of an apostate priest. The dread that she had been the
+sole cause of a brilliant man's undoing she bravely acknowledged. Philip
+could not forget, could not supplement his relinquished work with
+domestic happiness.
+
+"Yet he adores me," she confessed. "It is not just that he should
+suffer--as he does. His heart is breaking. He feels it a sin to love
+me--to go on with happiness."
+
+"And you?" said Dr. Judkin.
+
+She tried to smile. "Women can bear more than men." Her voice broke.
+
+The man by her side felt her charm, knew that she was valiant in love.
+Still he saw disappointment in her tense resistance. "I am afraid that
+you, too, will soon need attention," he abruptly told her. "Sometimes a
+wife spoils her husband without realizing it. Men who think a great deal
+about themselves are not considerate."
+
+She was offended and replied coldly, "You do not know him. It is unjust
+to judge of a patient before you have seen him."
+
+"I stand reproved," the doctor admitted.
+
+Isabel forgave him. His very bluntness brought her hope. Suddenly she
+felt faith in the man whom she had summoned. She believed that he was
+masterful, and she must turn to some one.
+
+"Please come," she invited, "you shall see my husband."
+
+Dr. Judkin stood aside for her to pass, and she went above, choosing
+words which should explain his early call. Then at the top of the
+staircase she stopped.
+
+"Be good enough to wait," she begged. "I must prepare him--go in first."
+Then she flew forward, for the smell of burning paper had caught her
+nostrils. The door to Philip's apartment was fastened. She had been
+locked out! She rushed to a balcony running before the windows of her
+husband's room. In an instant she stood within. And she had not come a
+moment too soon. A fresh tragedy faced her. She hardly breathed. Philip,
+on his knees in front of the fireplace, did not hear her enter. The
+ecstasy of delirium possessed him. His whole body trembled as he
+showered an igniting pile with his rejected manuscript. "The Spirit of
+the Cathedral" was smoking. Isabel saw rising flame desert a blackened
+sketch of a famous duomo but to lick a painting of great St. Peter's.
+Once more dominant Romish power appeared to threaten. The curse of the
+Church seemed about to blaze anew for Philip.
+
+Her heart thumped as she flew to his side. "How can you?" she pleaded.
+"You have forgotten your friend--who trusted you. You must not spoil his
+beautiful pictures." Her hand reached out and coolly rescued scorching
+sheets of the unpublished book. "But you did not mean to hurt an
+artist's work," she gently added. She held a ruined sketch before the
+sick man's staring eyes. "You did not remember. You did not mean to be
+unfair to your friend." The tenderness of her frightened, loving soul
+broke over the shattered man, as she led him away to bed. He went like
+an obedient child; then she unlocked the door and summoned the doctor.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX
+
+
+Two trained nurses had been installed. Isabel no longer held her place
+at Philip's bedside. She was virtually banished from her husband's room.
+The courage which she had evinced during previous weeks seemed to be
+going fast. Now she hardly dared to hope. A silent house already took on
+the atmosphere of disaster. Even Reginald was not permitted to shout in
+the garden. And withal spring was at hand, seemingly to brighten the
+whole world, outside of Philip's closed apartments. The sap of fresh
+life ran in the veins of every living thing in the valley, on the
+foothills, above in the mountains. The season had advanced without a
+check, while throughout the Southwest blooming fruit trees and millions
+of roses prepared the land for Easter.
+
+To Isabel sensuous beauty on every side seemed cruel. Her heart felt
+desolate. She went through each day wishing for night, while with
+darkness she longed for sunlight. Suspense was beginning to drain her
+vitality. She did not complain, but the doctor saw her brace herself
+against each discouraging outcome of days that dragged. For Philip's
+last collapse had turned her from his side. She was barely a memory to
+the man she loved. At first she had rebelled, then accepted conditions
+enjoined by Dr. Judkin and consulting specialists. Only one thing
+helped her to endure the strain of a cruel separation.
+
+Philip's book--now speaking to her heart as she knew it would
+speak--brought strange, proud comfort. She felt exalted that she--his
+wife--had saved the manuscript from the flames. During a week she fairly
+lived in the scorched pages of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." And
+gradually she began to see why the work had been refused. Personal
+feeling and blind enthusiasm were at last tempered. She could read with
+a cool intellect. The Laodicean attitude of a shrewd publisher hurt her
+less than at first. For the fact still remained that Philip had produced
+something fine. Although he occasionally dropped his impassioned theme
+to give vent to slight discord, nothing had really been lost from his
+original motif. Reading between the lines, Isabel detected the natural
+temptation under which he had worked. Certain paragraphs, all unaided by
+a magnetic voice and delivery, read too much like his former sermons.
+Sometimes overcharged, almost vindictive handling of Romish background
+was evident. In those first weeks in Paris, after he had deserted the
+priesthood and been cast out of the Church, he had written without
+restraint. He had said things best left unsaid. Yet, as Isabel read on,
+she marvelled at Philip's virile touch, at the masterful, dramatic power
+of his pen. His word pictures drawn from vivid, exceptional opportunity
+required no literal illustration. Still she studied the sketches of the
+associate artist, finally selecting one fourth of the cathedrals
+submitted. Then she read over again the stronger chapters of the singed
+manuscript. It was late into night before she weighed the possible
+chances of her husband's book. He had labored so intelligently that her
+hand seemed to be guided by his own as she omitted paragraphs which
+undoubtedly influenced the publishers to refuse a somewhat prejudiced
+work.
+
+Isabel felt free to decide for Philip. His extremity excused her
+arbitrary action. She was sure that in his normal condition he would
+agree to all that she had done. When scorched pages had been replaced by
+fresh ones she would send the revised manuscript to the publisher she
+had met at St. Barnabas, the one who had witnessed the withstayed
+tragedy in the mission. She believed that her new friend could
+appreciate the significance of a book written by one who not only
+criticised expertly, but knew as well the human side of a great
+cathedral. Her thoughts went back to a time when Philip--a priest--had
+outlined plans for the noble church he hoped to build. Then nothing
+seemed too big for his young city. Isabel smiled, and began to read once
+more.
+
+Suddenly tears came to her eyes. She put aside the manuscript. After
+all, what right had she to tamper with her husband's work? From Philip's
+higher standpoint, painted or stone saints and angels, looking down from
+Gothic heights, meant nothing to her, outside of their mere artistic
+value. She saw with fresh dread that Philip was still a Catholic. Early
+education and his lost mother's devout influence kept him apart from
+natural happiness. He should have remained a priest, a power in his
+Church. She remembered how once she had stood with him in St.
+Peter's--in front of the "Pieta." He had then almost forgotten her
+presence. The wrapt significance of his expression ought to have warned
+her. She felt once more that she would never be able to share her
+husband's feeling for an old master's sacred ideal. And later, when the
+two were passing the noted bronze of St. Peter, she recalled that she
+had failed to hide her repulsion for the throng straining to kiss the
+statue's jutting, shining toe. Philip divined her thoughts and flushed.
+"It comforts them," he had whispered. "Over here the poor have so little
+in their lives. What seems absurd to you is for them salvation."
+
+To-night Isabel remembered everything now bearing on her husband's
+tragic state. Her heart grew heavy with fear, with vague foreboding.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI
+
+
+Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful
+nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes;
+then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank
+into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.
+
+"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses
+have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his
+burned-down condition. We shall save him."
+
+She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help--do some
+little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see
+other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a
+glass of water."
+
+Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not
+let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."
+
+Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced
+herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of
+the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already
+done what few women can do--submitted magnificently to a passive part.
+And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new
+demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power.
+I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your
+husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now
+ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with
+continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past
+events."
+
+"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to
+any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy.
+Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me--so patient with
+my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me
+that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my
+friend."
+
+The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks
+he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure.
+Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a
+pattern in the rug.
+
+"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of
+which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of--of--tempting
+association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to
+the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck
+of a quiet ship."
+
+"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked.
+"I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire
+at once?"
+
+Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements
+had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the
+tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked
+his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear.
+"But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You
+might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery
+doubtful."
+
+His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.
+
+"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor
+deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now
+seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel
+that we are about to conquer. Tahiti--the isle of rest--will restore him
+wholly."
+
+Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her
+agitation. The doctor went on:
+
+"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a
+nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later,
+when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks
+on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a
+miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my
+troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and
+brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then
+blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out
+the stars--the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different
+person."
+
+An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must
+speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.
+
+"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A
+boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our
+patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half
+a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at
+noon,--on the seventeenth."
+
+He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance.
+Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last
+she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her
+gently sobbing.
+
+"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised.
+You shall have your husband back--well! He will put all behind him!
+forget everything but his wife."
+
+She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes.
+Then she began to speak with fresh determination.
+
+"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he
+needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a
+sign,--unless--he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that
+another woman should have my place--my absolute right to be near him. He
+is my husband! I cannot bear it."
+
+Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing
+with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given
+satisfaction was an enemy--a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife.
+Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly
+to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.
+
+"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my
+assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be
+time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip
+Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a
+splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will
+engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done
+for your husband's comfort."
+
+Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided.
+She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been
+very weak--very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything
+that you think best,--make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I
+am going to be good,--good like Reg."
+
+"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind--you are
+not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are
+really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip
+comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to
+go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle,
+cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's
+country--in springtime."
+
+To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more
+than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put
+out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave
+heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."
+
+But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved
+the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the
+outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to
+a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own
+life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient
+before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently
+answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after
+all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for
+years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of
+theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's,
+tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way
+depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute
+exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable
+station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be
+measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII
+
+
+Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los
+Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears
+were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost
+like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had
+staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard
+separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present
+conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to
+come.
+
+And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters.
+Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly
+strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone,
+was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back
+well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them
+waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed
+carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New
+acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to
+tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride
+of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And
+after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more
+cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's
+unrestrained shouts echoed at will.
+
+"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How
+pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon?
+Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.
+
+"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in
+her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him
+about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed
+with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand
+held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured
+"Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native
+boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying
+fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With
+Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for
+sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and
+son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was
+finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no
+heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy
+to disregard hitherto accepted authority.
+
+"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the
+little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another
+story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped
+away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming
+back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door
+closed.
+
+Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy
+had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise.
+Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his
+good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing.
+And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next
+day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind
+employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage,
+and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good
+night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high
+spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.
+
+As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A
+half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of
+interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms
+rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy
+locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed
+beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's
+sleeping child--the one lying across the Madonna's lap--in the Academy
+at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was
+unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night
+her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside
+a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the
+moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment
+could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his
+side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room.
+Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She
+thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would
+come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the
+flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript;
+almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The
+publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work,
+yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had
+waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a
+new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that
+must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing
+possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all,
+she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would
+ride to-morrow--throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who
+had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then
+perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit--stay until after Philip's boat
+had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+
+Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the
+two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode
+her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs.
+Barry's more spirited animal.
+
+"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty
+creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the
+foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of
+action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure.
+Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward
+with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering
+eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the
+valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions
+of flowers--roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to
+spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time
+being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was
+about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San
+Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her
+mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for
+an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape.
+All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the
+horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with
+golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her
+horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with
+loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The
+spell of spring was upon them both.
+
+"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.
+
+"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow
+passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.
+
+Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a
+boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She
+stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A
+black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose
+the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black
+opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life."
+She laughed and dashed onward.
+
+"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are
+happy. I cannot wait,--do tell me."
+
+The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking,
+over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?"
+she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that
+I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her
+friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't
+any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live
+the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being
+prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow,
+a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my
+new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern
+California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on!
+Come on!" she called.
+
+They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel
+had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith
+when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two
+hungry women.
+
+Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left
+the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in
+her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening
+in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over
+the wire--her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl--to-night--join me
+to-morrow--at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly,
+attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the
+operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was
+hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could
+endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved
+still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her
+to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be
+repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No
+power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again
+caught the receiver.
+
+"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed
+while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and
+Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient--he
+cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the
+attendant answered.
+
+"He must come--at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that
+Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a
+moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with
+decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her
+cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb
+blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why,
+after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once?
+There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught
+the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped
+like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued
+to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and
+repeated her previous statement.
+
+"I'm going North to-night--on the Owl--to Philip. He wants me. He has
+just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow--at
+the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she
+implored. "You surely understand?"
+
+"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we
+have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your
+husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms
+crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was
+beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in
+the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same
+hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total
+destruction of San Francisco.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV
+
+
+Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North,
+she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had
+been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning
+above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still
+no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request,
+asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might
+lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr.
+Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her
+fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of
+value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and
+hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr.
+Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the
+warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband
+was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly
+maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the
+night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his
+patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared
+the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be
+lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard
+to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are
+then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets,
+with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for
+reliable information. But one thing is certain--Dr. Ward is going to
+take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are
+simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial
+law and prevailing conditions."
+
+"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I
+would have been there--when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from
+going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his
+patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either
+advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the
+long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He
+realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available
+means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer
+resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he
+seemed to see that she had suffered enough.
+
+"I will go myself--find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He
+stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for
+newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll
+try my best to make you happy--as I promised to do," he humbly added.
+There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with
+gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone
+with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.
+
+The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual,
+thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening
+petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then
+gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at
+last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city,
+still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now
+reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher,
+undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone
+out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with
+frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be
+helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered
+generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in
+giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire
+occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she
+helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household.
+Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her
+own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad
+condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked
+incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which
+involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning
+he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the
+North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with
+other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth
+with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone
+encouraged him to speak.
+
+"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business--he so poor. What you
+think? Plaps I take him lectic car--go that Venice--all same dleam."
+Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.
+
+Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him
+kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."
+
+Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go--take my poor cousin--so he
+not be sad."
+
+"An excellent plan," said Isabel.
+
+He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I
+not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now
+my cousin begin all over--not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that
+earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same
+ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San
+Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."
+
+Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of
+Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed
+in a wrecked hotel?
+
+Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say
+not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make
+trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good."
+A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth
+parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell
+me,--all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say
+people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len
+go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody
+wake up--hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag!
+Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall
+down. People no can stand up--no can see, all dark! Big noise come out
+sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children
+cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House--no good. Everybody lun that
+bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside
+he heart; cannot forget."
+
+"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched
+the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the
+catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control
+herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr.
+Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She
+tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved
+herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also
+for book form." Philip's friend--the editor--had signed the golden
+message.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV
+
+
+Isabel held the telegram to her lips. She seemed to be kissing Philip.
+"Dear, dear husband, I knew, I knew," she softly murmured. The rest of
+the day she wandered about the garden, almost in an ecstacy of
+expectation. Something seemed to tell her that Philip was safe, that she
+would hear from him. But evening shadows fell without a personal word
+from the North. She was obliged to content herself by reading the
+evening papers, which were beginning to contradict certain overwhelming
+statements of days back. The hotel that had totally collapsed was now
+known to have been poorly built and was not the St. Francis, as formerly
+stated. Iron frames of many buildings had withstood the earthquake to go
+down at last before dynamite. Still, the list of dead and wounded would
+be a long one. Nothing could be definitely settled until after flames
+had ceased to lick through deserted streets. Suffering was intense on
+every side. Children had first seen the world under its open sky. Women,
+without beds to lie upon, had given birth in the open. Yet it seemed to
+be a time when the best part of human nature revealed a noble side.
+Already hope was beginning to stir in camps where ruined families clung
+lovingly together. Isabel's eyes grew moist as she read a thrilling
+story of heroism and courage.
+
+Miss Lewis had gone back to the hotel, and when madame, complaining of a
+headache, kept her room, Isabel found herself alone. But one thought now
+absorbed her mind. Every moment she hoped for a telegram from Dr.
+Judkin. Then suddenly Wing again stood before her. He had returned from
+his day's outing and his countenance shone elate. Evidently he had
+fulfilled a purpose and brought new strength to the fainting heart of
+his unfortunate friend. As in the morning, Isabel encouraged him to
+talk.
+
+"I come tell you--clause you so solly," he began. "Plitty soon I sure
+you hear you husbland--all safe! People say not so many kill, after all.
+Boss all light, I sure."
+
+He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. "And you
+took your cousin to Venice?" Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.
+
+Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off
+his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray "Fedora" hat in one hand.
+"Jus this way," he explained. "I decide--not take my cousin that
+Venice--all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool
+money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half--go that
+seashore. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent
+cloe, jus old thing--all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all.
+I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles--get cheap dinner, len go church. I
+say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow,
+I say. No time go that Venice--all same dleam. Better hear 'bout
+heaven."
+
+Mrs. Barry listened gravely. Wing gradually prepared his denouement.
+
+"Plitty good time--all same business," he continued. "You see? My cousin
+have ole shoe--cannot las velly long. I jus take him that shoe
+store--see lindow--all so full."
+
+"I understand," said Isabel. "You bought your friend a pair of shoes
+instead of taking him to Venice?"
+
+Wing smiled. "All same yes," he qualified. "I find that shoe store--tell
+all 'bout my cousin. I say my poor cousin velly poor; have no
+shoe--claus he all bloke up that earthquake. That shoeman velly kind,
+give my flend fine Mellican shoe, light away--not take money. Len we go
+down street--tly get new hat. Big lindow so full! many nice hat--heap
+style. We stan long time, look in. Plitty soon man come out--smile, ask
+what we want. I say, 'My poor flend bloke up that earthquake; have no
+good hat.' Len man say, 'Come in get fit.' I say, 'No money.' Man say,
+'All light; earthquake not come velly often.' My cousin so happy. After
+while he all fix up. New coat, new shirt,--everything all clean. Len we
+go down Chinatown, get dinner; go mission. Pleacher say heaven more
+better; not any earthquake--not any big fire. Pleacher say no old black
+cow kick up; so solly China people tell that story. Jus be good, he say.
+Be kind, help that sorrow up San Flancisco."
+
+Isabel had listened throughout with keenest interest. At another time
+she might have found it difficult to control her countenance. To-night
+she could not laugh. Almost for the first time she realized the meaning
+of "the brotherhood of man." She found her purse and sent a liberal
+donation to celestials lately en route in the cattle car. "Relieve your
+friends as much as possible," she commanded. "You may take to-morrow off
+and spend the money as you see best. Those of us who can must help."
+
+The simple kindness of her words fell clearly. Wing went out from her
+presence as one entrusted with a grave commission. She sat on with her
+thoughts.
+
+Suddenly she was depressed beyond all control. Joined to her longing for
+Philip was the dread that he would never be able to forget that he had
+once been a Catholic and a priest of the Church. And she had made him
+forsake his calling. Again and again she repeated the publisher's
+telegram aloud. She tried to tell herself that when Philip came back he
+must see his way at once to go on with life. He would find his work
+appreciated, his book accepted. Then he would surely continue to
+write--become noted. Yet, perhaps authorship might not satisfy him. The
+man who formerly moved large audiences with his impassioned sermons
+might not after all make a success in literature. She recalled the first
+time that she had heard Philip address a congregation. His clear,
+eloquent handling of a great ethical subject had delighted her. Sitting
+in a pew with devout Catholics, she had been glad to forget the High
+Mass, which she did not understand, and follow the speaker in the
+pulpit. She had felt that her former lover, still her friend, had found
+his natural profession, for even before ordination, Philip--too young
+for a priest--was permitted to preach.
+
+To-night Isabel's thoughts wandered back to an earlier Sunday in
+Venice--in St. Mark's--when they had gone together to vespers. Philip
+had then jestingly declared that but for her he would go into the
+Church. "I would like to preach at least one sermon as compelling as the
+one we have just heard," he told her, as they floated away in their
+gondola. Now his old words passed through her mind. A strange humility
+possessed her. Again she lived over those happy, youthful days in
+Venice. Still of all the churches abroad, of all the services she had
+witnessed, San Marco with the afternoon in question stood out, apart
+from other Romish background. At the time, Isabel caught a new view of
+the Catholic Church in Europe. For at midsummer vespers there had hardly
+been a suggestion of the pomp and ceremony which on stated occasions is
+supposed to make St. Mark turn over in his coffin, when clouds of
+incense pour through open doors into the piazza.
+
+On that August evening all had been so simple--even without a vested
+choir. Informality prevailed throughout the humble audience. Every one
+moved his chair at will to the side of some friend. Women used their
+fans and whispered discreetly to one another. There were few "Sunday
+hats." Dark, uncovered heads and black crape shawls, richly fringed,
+worn corner wise, as only Venetian maids can wear them, discounted
+tawdry finery. Young men and little children sat on the pulpit steps.
+Every one sang from the heart. Wonderful Italian voices rose in natural
+harmony; then at last the patriarchal shepherd of the gathered flock
+came slowly forward. The beautiful old man wore no embroidered vestments
+on that summer's afternoon. Sheer, spotless white, showing but a line of
+scarlet beneath the lace around his hands, alone defined ecclesiastical
+rank. Yet he was strangely grand in the evening light of the golden
+church. A loving hush pervaded San Marco as he leaned over the pulpit,
+looking down upon his children. Isabel had never forgotten either the
+sermon or the marvelous voice of the speaker.
+
+To-night it came to her that to be able to guide one's fellowmen to
+higher ideals through spoken words, was, after all, a God-given gift.
+And she had ruined Philip's opportunity. She asked herself a hard
+question. If he came back with his heart still turning to a natural
+calling, could she help him? At last she felt his inborn tendency; the
+early religious background which influenced his temperament. Things
+entirely outside of her own experience had always been vital to the man
+she loved. If he came back to her uncertain and wavering in view of
+returning health and implied difficult conditions, she must give him up.
+At last the situation seemed plain. But she was bitter withal. Philip's
+God was hard; she could not understand the miserable decision forced
+upon her as she sat alone.
+
+Twice she tried to go above to bed, yet something held her. Hours wore
+on. She felt cold and started a fire. The heat from the hearth sent her
+into heavy, desperate slumber. She heard no sound. Philip entered softly
+and alone, for Dr. Judkin had hurried away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And as he waited--transfixed, he thought of that other night when he had
+stood outside the curtains, looking in at the woman he dared not touch.
+Then slowly Isabel opened her eyes, saw that her husband had come; felt
+that a miracle had restored his power to love. Renunciation of a dark
+hour was forgotten in a low, glad cry. Philip held her as never before.
+The strength of his arms made her dumb with joy. She could not speak.
+Her husband led her to the divan and she listened to his voice, his
+words. She heard him entreat her to forgive, to live anew.
+
+She felt that nature's rending soul had tried their appealed case to
+enjoin his human need. Humility charged his fresh purpose as he tenderly
+pleaded for time to prove the revelation of terrible days back.
+
+Later when she told him about the acceptance of his book he listened
+incredulously.
+
+Suddenly he understood. "You kept it from deserved oblivion?" he said at
+last. A fond smile played on his lips. "What have you not done for me?"
+He kissed away her denial of all personal influence. "Take me back on
+trust," he implored. "I ask only for the stimulant of your faith; then
+perhaps--perhaps I may please you, do something worth while."
+
+Isabel knew that his secularization had been sanctioned by The Higher
+Court. The years to come held glad significance for them both.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
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+Title: The Higher Court
+
+Author: Mary Stewart Daggett
+
+Release Date: June 25, 2011 [EBook #36509]
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+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHER COURT ***
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+
+
+<h1>THE HIGHER COURT</h1>
+
+<h2>BY MARY STEWART DAGGETT</h2>
+
+<h3>Author of "Mariposilla," "The Broad Aisle," "Chinese Sketches," etc.,
+etc.</h3>
+
+
+<h3>RICHARD G. BADGER<br />
+<span class="smcap">The Gorham Press</span><br />
+BOSTON</h3>
+
+<h3><i>Copyright, 1911, by Richard G. Badger</i></h3>
+
+<h3><i>All Rights Reserved</i></h3>
+
+<h3><i>The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.</i></h3>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<h3>To Comrades Three<br />
+My Daughters<br />
+R. D.<br />
+H. D. H.<br />
+M. D.</h3>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
+<p>
+<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV</a><br />
+<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV</a><br />
+</p>
+<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2>
+
+
+<p>Father Barry's late interview with his bishop had been short, devoid of
+controversy. Too angry to deny the convenient charge of "modernism," he
+sought the street. Personal appeal seemed futile to the young priest
+cast down by the will of a superior. To escape from holy, overheated
+apartments had been his one impulse. Facing a January blizzard, his
+power to think consecutively returned, while for a moment he faltered,
+inclined to go back. The icy air struck him full in the face as he
+staggered forward. "The only way&mdash;and one practically hopeless," he
+choked. Appeal to the archbishop absorbed his mind as he pressed on,
+weighing uncertain odds of ecclesiastical favor. Suddenly he realized
+that he had strayed from main thoroughfares, was standing on a desolate
+bluff that rose significantly above colorless bottom lands and two
+frozen rivers. Wind sharpened to steel, with miles of ceaseless
+shifting, slashed his cheeks, cut into his full temples, his eyes. He
+bowed before the gust so passionately charged with his own rebellion.
+To-day he was a priest only in name. For the first time since his
+assumption of orders he faced truth and a miserable pretense to Catholic
+discipline. Desires half forgotten stood out, duly exaggerated by recent
+disappointment. An impulse sent him close to the precipitous ledge, but
+he moved backward. To give up life was not his wish. He was defeated,
+yet something held him, as in a mirage of fallen hopes he saw a woman's
+face and cried out. He had done no wrong. Until the bishop cast him down
+he was confident, able to justify esthetic joy in ritualistic service,
+which took the place of a natural human tie. Now he knew that his work,
+after all, but expressed a woman's exquisite charm. For through plans
+and absorbing efforts in behalf of a splendid cathedral he had been
+fooled into thinking that he had conquered the disappointment of his
+earlier manhood. The bishop had apparently smiled on a dazzling
+achievement, and young Father Barry plunged zealously into a great
+undertaking. To give his western city a noble structure for posterity
+became a ruling passion, and in a few months his eloquence in the
+pulpit, together with unremitting personal labor on plans and
+elevations, had made the church a certainty. Thousands of dollars, then
+hundreds of thousands, fattened a building fund. The bishop appeared to
+be pleased; later he was astounded; finally he grew jealous and eager to
+be rid of the priest who swayed with words and ruled where a venerable
+superior made slight impression. Consequently the charge of "modernism"
+fell like a bolt from a clear sky. Until to-day Father Barry had been
+absorbed in one idea. His cathedral had taken the place of all that a
+young man might naturally desire. When the woman he loved became free he
+still remained steadfast to his new ambition. It seemed as if lost
+opportunity had attuned his idealistic nature to symbolic love which
+could express in visions and latent passion an actual renunciation. That
+Isabel Doan understood and rejoiced in the mastery of his intellect gave
+him unconscious incentive. In the place of impossible earthly love he
+had awakened a consistent dream. Without doubt Mrs. Doan's pure profile
+was a motif for classic results. When he spoke to her of architectural
+plans, showing drawings for a splendid nave and superb arches, her keen
+appreciation always sent him forward with his work. Then, like true
+inspiration, visions came and went. Vista effects, altars bright with
+golden treasures stirred him to constant endeavor. He heard heavenly
+music&mdash;the best his young, rich city could procure. Day and night he
+worked and begged. Now all was over. For the second time in life the man
+faced hopeless disappointment. Deprived of work, removed from the large
+parish that for three years had hung on his every word and wish, the
+priest stood adrift in the storm. The ignominy of his downfall swept
+over him with every lash of an oncoming blizzard. He seemed to feel the
+end. The bishop's untethered brogue still clashed in his sensitive ears.
+The city he loved, now ready for the best of everything, no longer had a
+place for him. He was cast out. Below him spread bottom lands, dotted
+for miles with towering grain elevators, packing plants, and wholesale
+houses. Vitals of trade lay bare. By vivisection, as it were, he traced
+the life of commerce, felt gigantic heart beats of the lower town
+blending interests of two great states. In all directions rival
+railroads made glistening lines through priceless "bottoms." Father
+Barry groaned. Progress seemed to taunt his acknowledged failure. He
+turned his back. But again he faced promise. Higher ledges and the upper
+town retold a story of established growth. On every hand prosperity
+saluted him. Leading from bluffs, the city reached eastward for miles.
+As far as he could see domestic roof tops defined the course of streets.
+Houses crept to the edge of a retail district, then jumped beyond. On
+waiting acres of forest land splendid homes had arisen as if by magic.
+Through pangs of disappointment the priest made out the commanding site
+selected for his cathedral. A blasted dream evoked passionate prophecy,
+and the mirage of the church ordered and built by decrepit taste rose up
+before him. The bishop's unsightly work held him. Blinded by the storm,
+abnormally keen to a cruel delusion, he saw the end of his own laudable
+ambition. To his imagination, the odious brick box on the hillock seemed
+to be true. A commonplace elevation, with detached, square towers was
+real. With his brain maddened with hallucination, harsh, unmusical
+chimes began to sound above the blizzard's roar. Again and again he
+heard the refrain, "Too late! Too late!" The significance of a metallic
+summons almost stopped his breath, yet fancy led him on to the open
+church. He seemed to go within, pressing forward against the crowd.
+Below a flaming altar stood the bishop's bier. In the open casket, clad
+in robes of state, the old man slept the sleep of death. The brick
+monument to stubborn force echoed throughout with chanted requiem and
+whispered prayer. Incense clouded gorgeous vestments of officiating
+priests. Candles burned on every hand. At the Virgin's shrine flowers
+lent fragrance to an impressive scene. Then he seemed to forget the
+great occasion,&mdash;the bishop at last without power, the kneeling, praying
+throng. Longing for human love displaced all other feeling. In the image
+of one woman he beheld another, and Isabel Doan assumed the Virgin's
+niche.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2>
+
+
+<p>As the suspended priest went from the bluff the mirage of a few moments
+faded. The bishop still lived.</p>
+
+<p>Reaction and the determination to face an archbishop impelled him
+forward. Why should he submit to sentence without effort to save
+himself? He drew the collar of his coat about his ears. At last he was
+sensitive to physical discomfort. Air sharp as splintered glass cut
+through his lungs. He bowed his head, revolving in his mind the definite
+charge of "modernism." What had he really said in the pulpit? Like all
+impassioned, extemporaneous speakers he could never quite recall his
+words when the occasion for their utterance had passed. Progress was
+undoubtedly his sinful theme; yet until lately no heretical taint had
+been found in the young father's sermons. Born a dreamer, reared a
+Catholic, he attempted rigid self-examination. The task proved futile.
+In Italy he would have led Catholic democrats in a great uprising.
+Despite the "Index" he rejoiced in the books of "Forgazzar."
+"Benedetto's" appeal to the pope to heal the "four wounds of
+Catholicism" clung to his mind. The great story touched him
+irresistibly. Sinful as it was, he had committed Benedetto's bold
+accusations to memory. "Il Santo" still drew him, and he was angry and
+sore.</p>
+
+<p>He knew that in a moment of emotional uplift he had forgotten the danger
+of independent utterance, the bonds of a Catholic pulpit. But to-day,
+while he reverted to the sermon which had suspended him from the
+priesthood, he could not repeat one offensive sentence clearly.</p>
+
+<p>The wind increased each moment. A blizzard of three days' duration might
+bring him time to think. At the end of the storm every one would hear of
+his suspension. The priest hurried on. Then he thought of his mother.
+Suddenly the dear soul had prior claim to Mrs. Doan. Above bitterness
+the son recalled the date; it was his thirty-second birthday. He told
+himself that nothing should keep him from the one who could best
+understand his predicament. This dear, sincere mother had counseled him
+before; why not now? The foolishness of troubling Mrs. Doan was clear.
+As he hastened on his way, he began to wonder what his mother would
+really think of the bishop's action. Would she accept her son's
+humiliation with serene, unqualified spirit? Would her faith in a
+superior's judgment hold? The suspended priest felt the terms for the
+true Catholic. He dreaded palliation of the bishop's course. But no&mdash;his
+mother could never do that. In the case in question her boy must stand
+injured, unjustly dealt with.</p>
+
+<p>Father Barry went on with definite intention. His present wish was to
+spend a fatal birthday in the home of his boyhood. Fortunately, it was
+Monday. Father Corrigan had charge of weekly services. The younger
+man's absence would not be construed until after the blizzard. It
+flashed through his mind that on the coming Sunday he had hoped to make
+the address of his life. Now this last appeal in behalf of a great
+cathedral would never be uttered. On his study desk were plans and
+detail drawings which must soon cumber a waste basket. Suddenly the
+young priest, cast down, humiliated, turned from the tents of his
+people, longed to cry out to hundreds who loved him&mdash;who believed in
+him. But again his thoughts turned to his mother, who would soon hold
+him in her loving arms, cry with him, beg him to be patient, worthy of
+his bringing up. Then he knew that he was not a true Catholic. His
+binding vows all at once seemed pitiless to his thwarted ambition and
+human longing.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2>
+
+
+<p>When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
+Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
+within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
+a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
+"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
+priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
+table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
+wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
+pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
+seemed formed for luxury, and in accordance with their expression he had
+surrounded himself with both comfort and chaste beauty. In the large,
+low, old-fashioned room in which he sat there was no false note.
+Pictures, oriental rugs, richly carved chairs&mdash;all represented taste and
+expenditure, somewhat prejudicial to a priest's standing with his
+bishop. That the greater part of everything in the little house had
+arrived as a gift from some admiring parishioner but added to the aged
+superior's disapproval of esthetic influence. To-day Father Barry warmed
+his hands without the usual sense of comfortable home-coming. Pat Murphy
+observed that for once his master showed no interest in a row of flower
+boxes piled on the table.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you not be undoing your birthday presents?" the Irishman ventured.
+The priest turned his back to the fire. "I must get warm. I am frozen to
+the bone," yet he moved forward. One box held his eye like a magnet. He
+knew instinctively that Isabel Doan had remembered his anniversary.
+Unmindful of all other offerings, he broke the string and sank his face
+into a bed of ascension lilies. He seemed to inhale a message. His eyes
+felt wet. Pat Murphy brought him back to earth. The acolyte stood at his
+elbow. "May I not bring water for the posies?" he humbly begged. Father
+Barry frowned. "Untie the other flowers; I will attend to these myself."
+He surveyed the room, at last, reaching for an ample jar of dull-green
+pottery. The effect was marvelous. Like the woman who had sent them, the
+lilies stood out with rare significance. The priest glanced again into
+the empty box, searching for the friendly note which never failed to
+come on his birthday. As he supposed, the envelope had slipped beneath a
+bed of green. He broke the seal, then read:</p>
+
+<blockquote><p>"My dear Father Barry: How shall you like the settled-down age
+of thirty-two? Are we not both growing old and happy? I am
+thinking constantly of your splendid work, and have sent with
+the lilies a little check for the new cathedral. I pray that
+you will permit a poor heretic to share in your love for art.
+Do as you think best with the money&mdash;yet if some personal wish
+of yours might stand as mine&mdash;a beautiful window perhaps?&mdash;I
+should feel the joy of our joint endeavor.</p>
+
+<p>"But remember, the check is yours to burn in a furnace or to
+pay out for stone. You will know best what to do, and in any
+case, the poor heretic may still hope for a bit of indulgence
+from St. Peter. Meantime, I am coming to hear you preach. When
+I tell you that I fear to have a young Catholic on my hands,
+you will not be surprised that Reginald teases each week to go
+to Father Barry's pretty church. He admires your vestments with
+all his ardent little soul. Unfortunately at present my dear
+boy has a miserable cold and a bad throat. I am thinking of
+taking him to Southern California for the winter. Before our
+departure I shall hope to see you.</p>
+
+<p>"With kindest wishes for a happy birthday, I am always your
+friend.</p>
+
+<p>"<span class="smcap">Isabel Chester Doan.</span>"</p></blockquote>
+
+<p>The note was dated two days back, and the enclosed check stood for three
+thousand dollars. Father Barry bowed his head. Again his eyes were wet.
+When Pat importuned him to come to luncheon, he sat down with
+unconquerable emotion. He could not endure the ordeal, so pushed away
+his plate.</p>
+
+<p>"If ye don't be tasting mate, ye'll be fainting," Pat insisted. The
+priest smiled miserably. "Don't worry&mdash;I'm only tired. Besides, I'm
+going to my mother; she will see that I need coddling. Pack my case; I
+wish to start at once."</p>
+
+<p>The acolyte scanned the pile of boxes.</p>
+
+<p>"The pink carnations I shall give to mother; the other flowers you may
+carry to the hospital. Go as soon as possible," the master commanded.
+"Tell Sister Simplice to see that each patient has a posey. The fruit I
+send to old Mrs. Sharp. Explain that her confessor orders white grapes
+in place of a penance."</p>
+
+<p>"And the lily flowers&mdash;do I be taking them to the hospital, too?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," the priest answered. "In no case meddle with the lilies." He moved
+the jar to a position of honor on top of his desk. "These will remain
+fresh until I return. Do not touch them or let them freeze." He leaned
+forward with caressing impulse; then his eyes fell hard and sober on
+parchment rolls and detail drawings. Cherished plans for his cathedral,
+plans now useless, lay piled before him. He closed his secretary.</p>
+
+<p>"If any one calls&mdash;say that I am from home&mdash;on business. I must not be
+pursued."</p>
+
+<p>Murphy grinned. "I'm on to the thrick! And it's not a day for resaving
+visitors." A prolonged gust made his words plausible. Father Barry tried
+to smile.</p>
+
+<p>"You are a good fellow, Pat. Should I never come back&mdash;confess to Father
+Corrigan." The priest's mood was difficult. As the Irishman watched his
+adored master charge into the blizzard he frowned perplexedly. "He do
+run like Lot afeared of Soddom," he exclaimed. "But it's sick he
+is&mdash;nadin rist at his mother's. Warkin' day and night on his cathedral
+has all but laid him low." Pat poked the fire. "Mike, up at the
+bishop's, do be sayin' nasty things. And sure, 'tis nothin' but
+foolishness, surmisin' how the old bishop do be atin' out his heart on
+account of a young praste's handsome face and takin' ways. Mike be
+cursed for a Jesute, startin' scandal from a kayhole!" He picked up the
+coal hod. "I must kape his lily posies as he bid me." He pressed close
+to a frosted window. Through a clear spot in the glass he could see his
+master breasting the storm. "He's all but off his feet," he muttered.</p>
+
+<p>Murphy was Father Barry's own delightful discovery. Months back the
+priest had engaged the raw Irish boy for household service, then later
+promoted him to a post of honor about the altar. To faithful Pat there
+was little more to ask for outside of heaven. Reports which he sent home
+to Ireland were set down on paper by Mike, who served in the upper
+household. Pat's scribe published his friend's felicity broadcast, until
+at length even the bishop was fully informed of a popular young priest's
+affairs. Without thought of injury to one whom he adored, Pat extolled
+the plans for the great cathedral, which possibly might eclipse St.
+Peter's at Rome. Again and again the boy dwelt on Father Barry's
+popularity. To-day as the acolyte looked through the frost-glazed
+window, scratching wider range with his thumb nail, he had no doubt of
+his master's chance to become a prelate. Soon the "old one" would pass
+beyond. He crossed himself devoutly, peering hard at the tall,
+retreating form, now almost within reach of the corner. An electric line
+but half a block away was Father Barry's goal. As Pat looked, a gust
+sent the pedestrian onward with a plunge. As usual, the master carried
+his own suit case. Murphy muttered disapproval. At the crossing the
+priest stopped to regain his breath. His sole wish was to catch a car.
+Owing to the blizzard, traffic might suspend; but in the wind-charged
+air he thankfully detected a distant hum. The trolleys yet ran. How
+fortunate! And now very soon he would be with his mother&mdash;practically
+lost to a storm-bound community. How sweet the shelter waiting. Soon he
+might unburden his heart&mdash;pour out his trouble before the only woman in
+the world who would really understand it. Then again he remembered
+Isabel Doan&mdash;her check, the letter hiding against his breast. After all,
+should he not restore the generous gift at once? Now that the original
+cathedral could not be built, was it not a matter of personal honor to
+explain? Altered conditions cancelled both his own and his friend's
+obligation. Mrs. Doan must take back her check. That the bishop was
+powerless to claim the donation filled the priest with vindictive joy.
+Gradually duty to his mother ceased to govern him. Beyond everything
+else he wanted to see Isabel Doan. He told himself that he had a right
+to do so. Honeyed sophistry provided motive for his desire. He stood, as
+it were, at a point defined by opposing ways. Double tracks glistened
+before him; one leading eight blocks distant to the lintel of his
+mother's door; the other, stretching in the opposite direction, across
+the city&mdash;almost to a certain stone mansion. The priest was not in a
+mood of valiant resistance. Again he longed for Isabel Doan's sympathy.
+Yet, as he tarried at the crossing, waiting, still undecided which line
+to choose, he could not dismiss the thought of his mother, even now,
+watching for her son. He could fancy the dear lady sitting by the
+window, expectant, disappointed when no car stopped. Her sweet flushed
+face; the adorable white hair parted and waved on each side of a
+forehead gently lined by time made a picture which he could not easily
+dismiss. This mother was his ideal of age. She seemed as rare, as
+beautiful as an exquisite prayer-rug grown soft and precious with mellow
+suns and golden years. Many times he had contrasted her with
+overdressed, elderly women of his parish. He had never wished her to be
+different in any respect.</p>
+
+<p>He would go to her now. She would tell him what to do; and after dinner,
+when the dear lady was thinking of early bedtime, he might slip away
+with Isabel Doan's check. He must return it in person. He shifted from
+one foot to the other and beat his arms across his breast. The charge of
+the blizzard was paralyzing. Down the way a car was coming&mdash;a red one,
+he was sure of it&mdash;glad of it. His mother would be waiting for him. For
+the time he forgot a parallel track and that other destination directly
+west. Suddenly like songs of sirens, he heard the buzz of opposing
+trolleys. Two cars would meet before his eyes! But the red one still
+led. Yet how strange: it had just stopped. The yellow opponent came on.
+The priest breathed hard. Fate seemed to be thrashing his will with the
+storm. Again the red car moved and the yellow one halted. Chance was
+playing a game. He leaned expectant from the curb. Something had gone
+wrong, for once more the red line had lost the trolley, then an instant
+later a yellow car stood on the crossing. Father Barry sprang over the
+tracks, veered around to an open side, jumped aboard.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+
+
+<p>Once within the east-bound car the suspended priest found valid excuse
+for what he had done. Even now he need not disappoint his mother. As
+soon as he reached the house of Mrs. Doan he could telephone the dear
+soul, explain that urgent business detained him. By dusk he would be
+free, ready to pour out his heart to the best woman in the world. In
+case the increasing storm should interfere with the cars, there was
+always a hansom cab at a nearby stable. His forethought pleased him; and
+again he told himself that the present course of action was justified.</p>
+
+<p>To return Mrs. Doan's generous check&mdash;simply as he might return it to
+any friend who trusted him&mdash;was sufficient motive for either priest or
+man. He settled comfortably in an empty seat; then felt in the breast of
+his inside coat for Isabel's letter. The straightforward wording
+appealed to him even more than at first. How like this woman to put
+aside prudery. How like her to wish to bestow through art a gift denied
+by love. And she was soon going away&mdash;to far California&mdash;with the little
+son whom she fairly adored. There was no place in her pure affection for
+any man. The boy seemed to be all that she asked for. He frowned,
+putting away the note. For several moments he blankly gazed through the
+window. With the certainty of his undoing, he again blamed the bishop
+for all that was sinful to the soul of a priest. He felt that he had
+lost his religion forever. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.
+He was bitter, bitter. An hour before he had believed that he could find
+courage and intellectual ability to lay his case before an archbishop;
+but now all was changed. He no longer desired to remain a priest.
+Exalted sentiments were not to his credit when lip service made them
+detestable. He felt no terror at the thought of excommunication. As soon
+as he was man enough to tell the truth he might be free. Still, with a
+last desperate confession could he ever rise from ignominy? Where should
+he find refuge? Perhaps in his knowledge of architecture, and he might
+write books. The elastic hope of an artistic temperament lured him,
+until suddenly he once more remembered his mother. How could he slay
+this trustful, simple soul? As the car sped across the city his mind
+turned to his childhood, his boyhood, his early manhood.</p>
+
+<p>Ever since he could remember, he had been everything to his dear mother.
+When he was but a baby a scourge of cholera had taken away his father.
+Several years later a beautiful sister died, and finally a grown
+brother. Then Philip had become the widow's sole companion. The Irish
+lady, of gentle blood, alone in a strange land&mdash;fortunately a kind
+one&mdash;thought only of her little son. Soon the lad swung a censer before
+the church altar, while shortly his mother was termed wealthy by reason
+of wise investments and increasing values. Philip enjoyed judicious
+indulgence. The devout Catholic lived but for her son and her religion.
+Early in life she taught the boy to accept without question the
+authority of his Church. For a lad of poetic, emotional temperament, the
+duty of service fraught with certain reward seemed easy. Philip loved
+everything connected with his own little part in the chancel. The
+impressive latin chanted by priests clad in gorgeous robes fired his
+imagination, made him long to understand, to become versed in a
+mysterious tongue. High Mass had always been dramatic, something to
+enjoy, exalted above play and mere physical exercise. Voices floating
+from the choir sounded like angels. The boy adored the high soprano and
+enshrined her in his imagination with the gold-crowned Virgin. St.
+Joseph did not interest him, but he spent much time admiring the yellow
+curls of Mary. Young girls with bright hair stole his heart. He
+associated all beautiful women with the Virgin. His little sweethearts
+invariably ruled him with shining, tossing curls of gold.</p>
+
+<p>Then at last the lad gave up attendance at the altar, laid aside his
+lace-trimmed cotta to depart for college. During four successful years
+the watchful mother felt no change in her son's religious nature; but
+the shock came. When he returned from an extended trip abroad she saw at
+once that something had influenced him to question the authority of his
+Church. The visit to Rome had not strengthened Philip's faith. He had
+become indifferent about confession. Often he was critical of
+officiating priests. Then one day the mother understood the full
+measure of her son's backsliding. All at once he poured out his
+heart&mdash;told defiantly of his love for a girl not a Catholic. The poor
+lady knew the worst, knew that Philip had been with Isabel Chester in
+Italy. However, the mother's terror and anxiety were both of short
+duration. Miss Chester's family interfered almost at once, and soon the
+young woman who had threatened the soul of Philip Barry became the wife
+of another man.</p>
+
+<p>As time went by the zealous faith of the widow was rewarded, for one day
+Philip expressed the wish to retire to a monastery. The decision brought
+happy tears to the deluded mother's eyes. Her boy's emotional nature did
+not disturb her own simple faith. Philip was saved. But she asked for
+more, and more came. When her son was duly consecrated to the Catholic
+priesthood the event stood out as the greatest day in her life.</p>
+
+<p>The young man's later career, his brilliancy, his popularity, even his
+dream of the cathedral, were all as nothing to the real cause of his
+mother's joy. In all the woman's years she had never doubted a syllable
+of her faith. To give her son wholly to her Church was a privilege so
+sweet that to lose it at last might take away her life. Again everything
+flashed through the mind of the priest verging on apostacy. He bowed his
+head. Could he go through with his awful part&mdash;forget his mother? From
+the car window he saw tall, naked elms a block away. A corner near the
+home of Mrs. Doan was almost reached. Behind denuded trees stood the
+stone house of the woman he wished to see. Questions scarcely faced
+were left unanswered as he jumped from the car. A rushing gust almost
+knocked him down, but he righted himself and pressed forward. Piercing
+air cut into his lungs; the blizzard with all its sharp, mad frenzy had
+arrived. Above, the sky, clear, electrical, was a sounding dome for
+oncoming blasts. Wings of wind beat him onward. He fought his way with
+labored breath. Naked elms, chastised by the gale, motioned him; and
+plunging, he reached the vestibule to Mrs. Doan's tightly closed door.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2>
+
+
+<p>The door opened on a city official. "You can't come in; we've got a case
+of diphtheria," he exclaimed. "I'm ready to placard the house."</p>
+
+<p>Father Barry pushed forward. "I go in at my own risk&mdash;do not try to stop
+me. These people are my friends; they are in trouble&mdash;I must see them."</p>
+
+<p>He passed by the officer, into a wide hall. Maggie Murphy, Pat's cousin,
+and Reginald Doan's devoted nurse, met him with swollen, streaming eyes.
+"Good Father!" she sobbed, "will you not say prayers for our darlin'?
+He's that sick, 'tis all but sure we must give him up." In her
+excitement the girl spoke with native brogue.</p>
+
+<p>"Be quiet," the priest implored. "This is no time for tears. You must
+keep yourself in hand. Remember the boy's mother and do your part in a
+tranquil way."</p>
+
+<p>Maggie made the sign of the cross, then led her confessor to the
+library, where Mrs. Grace, a carefully preserved woman of middle age,
+greeted him with outstretched hands. Isabel Doan's aunt had been weeping
+too, but judiciously. When she perceived Father Barry a desire to appear
+her best effaced lines of grief.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear, dear Father!" she faltered. "How very good of you to come. How
+did you know?" She pressed an exquisite Roman crucifix to her lips; for
+unlike her niece, Mrs. Grace was a Catholic.</p>
+
+<p>"I heard only when I reached the door," the priest admitted.</p>
+
+<p>"A short time ago we thought our darling would die; but now there is the
+slightest hope that we may keep him. His mother is wild with suspense."
+The lady wiped her eyes. "We can do absolutely nothing with Isabel. She
+refuses to leave Reggie's room, even for a moment. I am sure she has not
+closed her eyes since yesterday."</p>
+
+<p>"The doctor must send her to bed at once," said the priest.</p>
+
+<p>"Both he and the nurse have tried to do so, but she will not go. I
+believe she would die if Reggie should be taken. O dear Father, will you
+not say prayers?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace sank to her knees, wrapt and expectant. Maggie Murphy flopped
+audibly in the hall, while for Philip Barry the moment was fraught with
+indecision. He seemed to think in flashes. He wanted to cry out, to
+publish himself, to deny the very garb he wore. Then the next instant he
+longed to entreat for the life of Isabel Doan's boy. The sweeter side of
+his profession held him. After all, what difference did it make if he
+might give comfort to women in distress? The prayers of notorious
+sinners had been answered on the spot. Why should not he, the vilest of
+hypocrites, yet honest for the time, ask for the life of a dying boy? He
+felt for his priest's prayerbook. Fortunately he had not changed his
+coat since his rude awakening. The little book he always carried was
+still in his breast pocket, fairly touching Mrs. Doan's letter and
+enclosed check. He found the place and began. His knees trembled, but
+his voice came strong and clear. A last opportunity had nothing to do
+with what might follow; this one moment was between God and his own
+conscience. Tenderness thrilled throughout him as he went on with
+familiar prayers. In the hall Maggie Murphy's sobs made passionate
+refrain for his importunate pleading; then instinctively he felt the
+presence of Isabel, knew that she stood behind him. He rose from the
+floor and faced her. She answered his unspoken question with a smile.
+"He is better. The doctor thinks the anti-toxin has saved him." In all
+his life Philip Barry had never seen such joy on a woman's face.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace sprang from her knees. "Is Reggie really better? really
+better?" she repeated. Her intensity jarred.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel smiled. "We think so," she answered. "Of course the doctor cannot
+tell just yet. Complications might occur; but he hopes!" Again her face
+was radiant.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace crossed herself.</p>
+
+<p>"The membrane in the throat is quite broken," Mrs. Doan went on. "The
+anti-toxin worked wonderfully. Now we can only wait."</p>
+
+<p>"And <i>you</i> should take needed rest," the priest put in impulsively. He
+seemed to have the right to dictate to this woman in trouble. For as he
+stood by Isabel's side he began to realize how absolutely over were the
+once serious relations of their lives. The two might be friends&mdash;nothing
+else. Mrs. Doan had no thought for a priest other than exalted
+friendship. An accepted lack in her married life made it natural for her
+to bestow exquisite love on her child. That which she had not been able
+to give her husband she now dispensed to his son. The boy filled her
+heart. "You will take needed rest?" Father Barry again entreated, when
+Mrs. Grace, frank and always tactless, bemoaned the wan appearance of
+her niece.</p>
+
+<p>"Do go to bed, Isabel; make up your lost sleep," the lady urged. "You
+are a ghost! I never saw you looking worse. Those dark circles below
+your eyes make you ten years older."</p>
+
+<p>The older woman's crudeness stood out in marked contrast with her
+careful toilet. Anxiety had not deprived Mrs. Grace of either rest or
+studied accessories.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel shook her head. "I could not sleep," she answered. "When the
+assistant nurse arrives I shall have less responsibility; but until then
+I must stay with Reggie. My darling's eyes are always hunting for me.
+You know I wear a masque, the doctor insists upon it; and when I cross
+the room my dear little boy cannot feel quite sure about his mother. But
+now I have braided my hair and tied the ends with blue ribbon. The nurse
+is just my height, and we both wear white." She glanced down at her
+summer frock, brought from the attic for sudden duty. "Reggie will know
+me by my colors."</p>
+
+<p>Her pure garb, together with ropes of golden hair falling down from a
+part, made saintly ensemble. Once before&mdash;in Rome&mdash;the priest had seen
+her as she looked to-day. Then, too, dark circles deepened the violet
+of her wonderful eyes. As now, she had felt miserable, in doubt. The man
+who denied a selfish part in an unforeseen moment was suddenly conscious
+of his deadly sin. But now he prayed, asking for strength divorced from
+pretense. And at last he believed that his main thought was a desire to
+help an afflicted household, a wish to support friends in time of need.
+He told himself that he might give Reginald Doan personal care simply as
+he had done before for other children less precious, less beautiful; for
+apart from the mother Father Barry loved her boy.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+
+
+<p>Throughout night the blizzard raged. Traffic was suspended; no one
+ventured into the streets on foot. The assistant nurse did not arrive,
+and with quickened pulse but masterful will Philip Barry assumed her
+place in the sick child's chamber. Isabel had been persuaded to retire.
+At midnight the terrific force of the storm brought her below to the
+library. She could not sleep, but sat in a chair by the fire, somewhat
+comforted. Oak logs made grateful glow for the mother scarce able to
+resist the temptation to fly to her boy. But she had promised to keep
+away. In case she was needed she would be sent for.</p>
+
+<p>In her restless state she could not endure to be alone, and rang for
+Maggie. The faithful girl reported at once, while together the two made
+ready a tray for Reginald's night watchers. Longing for action, Isabel
+prepared hot chocolate with her own hands. A cold bird, rolls, and jelly
+completed a tempting repast. The maid carried up the little supper, her
+mistress waiting anxiously until she came back radiant with good news.</p>
+
+<p>"He's better, mam&mdash;the darlin's much better!" Maggie crossed herself.
+"Father Barry beats the doctor! Nurse says Reggie minds him wonderful,
+not even fretting for you. Now do be going back to a warm bed."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel shook her head. "I would rather stay here," she answered. "The
+wind sounds so loud from my room. Put on a log; I shall toast, sleep in
+my chair."</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't mind I'll stay with you," the girl implored.</p>
+
+<p>"That will not be necessary. You had better go; to-morrow you may be
+needed."</p>
+
+<p>Maggie moved reluctantly from the room, as Mrs. Doan dropped into the
+depths of her chair. The fire sent out a soft, protecting glow, touching
+her face with hope. In flowing robe, with unbound braids, she seemed
+like a Madonna dreaming of her child. Soon she slept. Wind, plunging
+against the windows, shrieking disappointment, wasting its demon's force
+in plaintive wail, no longer disturbed her. Hours passed while she
+rested. Something she did not try to explain had happened; the burden of
+doubt, of crushing responsibility seemed to be lifted. Her aunt's
+incompetence, the excited maids praying about, were forgotten. Help had
+come from an unexpected source; and stranger than anything else she had
+been willing to accept it.</p>
+
+<p>And Father Barry, caring for the sick child, felt corresponding peace.
+He was once more a priest in active service. It seemed right, natural,
+that he should assume his present place. In all his life he had never
+felt so strong, so uplifted. Bitter feelings of the day were gone,
+dismissed under incessant pressure and critical conditions. To save the
+boy was his only thought. He rejoiced in service, more than ever before
+seemed to feel the worth of humility. It came over him that to accept
+his suspension, to respect the will of his superior and go into
+temporary seclusion, might after all be best. He thought of days in a
+monastery almost with longing. Once before he had sought shelter with
+good men who knew how to obey. In his first boyish sorrow quiet had
+brought him relief. In routine even in mild hardship, he had believed
+that he had discovered a world outside of self. He now hoped that a
+period of self-examination with solitude would set him right, fit him
+for the priest's part he had chosen. Then Reginald Doan held out his
+tiny hands imploring help. The man took him in his arms and held him,
+and the little one found comfort. For an hour Father Barry listened to
+the boy's breathing with renewed hope. When the nurse came the child was
+sleeping. She smiled, but ordered her patient beneath the covers of the
+bed.</p>
+
+<p>"If you do not mind, please see about the furnace. Williams may have
+dropped off. We must take no chance on a night like this. The slightest
+change in temperature would ruin all we have done." She bent over the
+boy in watchful silence while the priest went out. At the top of the
+staircase he took off his shoes. He held one in each hand, treading
+softly to the hall below. The house gave forth the intense quiet of
+night, but between the library curtains a stream of light lured him
+onward. It was his part to guard the house from accident, and he
+ventured into the room; then stopped, powerless to retreat. Isabel Doan
+slept in her chair. Her rare face, touched with ineffable peace, shone
+in profile against dark cushions. She seemed a modeled relief. Gentle
+breathing moved no fold of her loosely gathered robe; not even her
+unbound hair stirred ever so lightly. Oblivion claimed the mother, half
+ill from exhaustion. Close to the hearth a pair of tiny slippers rested
+motionless. The priest tarried, sinning within his heart. It was but a
+moment&mdash;yet long enough. Suddenly he knew that everything was changed.
+Isabel was no longer for him, nor he for her. Their divergent lives
+could never come together. He shrank from the room, not looking back. To
+escape without disturbing the sleeper impelled him into the very cellar;
+then he sank to the floor&mdash;to his knees. For the second time since
+entering the house he prayed as a priest. Deliverance from self was the
+burden of his cry. In his deplorable state he seemed adrift in the dark.
+He might be neither man nor priest. There was now no place for him in
+the world he had tried to forsake, nor could he longer fulfill the false
+part in his mistaken calling. An opening door restored his composure,
+for despite his emotional nature Philip Barry knew well the cooler
+demand of time and place. He spoke to the man in charge of the furnace,
+then examined the gauge. "Not a fraction of a degree must be
+overlooked," he ordered peremptorily.</p>
+
+<p>"And the boy?" said the man.</p>
+
+<p>"Better. Everything from now on depends on ourselves. I came below to
+satisfy the nurse. She cautioned me to say that the slightest change in
+temperature would be fatal to her little patient."</p>
+
+<p>As the priest spoke he turned about. Again he put away everything but
+the one object which detained him in Mrs. Doan's house. To nurse her
+boy through a terrible night, then to go out&mdash;forever&mdash;from temptation
+he could not meet was his only thought.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Night wore on. By morning the passion of the storm was abated. The
+blizzard had not lifted; but waves of wind burst less frequently on a
+world now white with frozen snow.</p>
+
+<p>Early in the day the doctor arrived with the belated nurse. The priest
+was virtually discharged from duty. He would have gone away at once but
+for Reginald, who held tightly to his hand. The sick boy was sweetly
+despotic in his little kingdom. A child's appealing trust, his angelic
+weakness, claimed all that Father Barry could give. "Reggie&mdash;won't
+have&mdash;nudder nurse," he protested. The young woman who had just arrived
+moved into the background, while the boy's mother sank to his side.
+Isabel's face shone with joy. The gladness of the moment half stopped
+her voice. But she took her darling's tiny hand. Reginald's fingers
+clung to her own; then, with a satisfied smile, he reached out eagerly
+to the priest. "Hold nudder hand," he implored. To refuse was not to be
+thought of. Father Barry knelt once more; but now, like a jewel in a
+clasp, the precious body of the boy joined him to Isabel. On opposite
+sides of the bed, both man and woman felt instant thrill of a despotic
+measure. The sick child's eyes sought eagerly for his new nurse. "You
+can go home," he announced. "Take your trunk," he coolly added. He
+sighed contentedly, looking first at his mother, then at his friend.
+The French clock on the dresser ticked moments. The boy seemed to be
+asleep. He was only planning fresh despotism. "Mudder dear and Fadder
+Barry will make Reggie well," he summed up conclusively. "Some day&mdash;I'm
+doin' to buy Fadder Barry a wotto-mobile&mdash;a nice, bu-ti-ful&mdash;great big
+one&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," said the priest. The child spoke easily. His improvement
+seemed marvelous.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear Reggie must not talk. Be quiet, darling," Isabel entreated.
+"Mother dear and Father Barry will both stay with you; but you must
+close your eyes and go to sleep." Unconscious of the priest's emotion
+the mother had promised much. The boy drooped his lids, squeezing them
+hard. Below purple eyes, dark lashes swept his cheeks, then raised like
+curtains, as he peeped on either hand. Isabel was faint with joy.</p>
+
+<p>"Darling," she pleaded, "go to sleep."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't keep shut," the little fellow whimpered. His head turned on the
+pillow. "I want Fadder Barry to put on his fine cape and his nice suit,"
+he begged, suddenly recalling the priest's vestments. "And I want to
+hear the little bell," he persisted.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, dear Reggie," Father Barry answered. "When you are well you may
+come to church&mdash;may hear the beautiful music&mdash;see the little boys about
+the altar. But now you must mind the doctor. Don't you remember? just a
+little time ago you told him that you would be a good boy and do
+everything Father Barry wished. If you talk your throat will get bad
+again. You don't want it to hurt?"</p>
+
+<p>Sympathy wrought on the boy's imaginative temperament; he enjoyed his
+own little part. "I felt so bad!" he wailed. He had naturally a broad
+accent, despite his Middle West locality. His voice, deep and full for
+so young a child, inclined to unflattened vowels.</p>
+
+<p>"I felt so bad!" he repeated, in view of more attention.</p>
+
+<p>"But now you will soon be well," his mother quieted. "Just think how
+good you should be when you are going to California!"</p>
+
+<p>The promise in question acted like magic.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell Reggie about the big ningen," he coaxed.</p>
+
+<p>"If you close your eyes," Isabel agreed. The boy's lashes shut down.
+"Soon mother dear and Reggie are going far away on a long train," she
+began. "Every morning the engineer will give his big engine a hot
+breakfast,&mdash;a great deal of coal, and all the water it can drink. The
+long, long train will run ever so fast, away out across the plains, over
+the high mountains, to California. At first Jack Frost may try to catch
+the train, but the engineer must run the faster. Then soon Jack Frost
+will go howling back East."</p>
+
+<p>"I want Fadder Barry to come too," the boy put in.</p>
+
+<p>"If you talk, I shall not go on," his mother cautioned. "Reggie may eat
+his breakfast and dinner and supper on the train. At night he will sleep
+in a funny little bed. Maggie must watch that her boy doesn't roll on to
+the floor. After a long time the train will stop. Mother and Reggie and
+Maggie will get out, and&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Fadder Barry, too!" the boy persisted. He did not open his eyes, while
+tremulous lashes expressed his joy in the story.</p>
+
+<p>"When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry
+his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of
+comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out
+of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers.
+Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."</p>
+
+<p>"And Fadder Barry, too&mdash;and Maggie&mdash;and&mdash;&mdash;" The sick boy was
+reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a
+satisfying story had worked a charm.</p>
+
+<p>"In California the trees are full of birds that sing just like Dickey;
+only poor Dickey has to live in his cage. In California the birds are
+free to fly. Sometimes they fly over the great mountains; sometimes down
+to the deep, big ocean." The boy's dark lashes had ceased to quiver.
+"All day long yellow bees and bright butterflies play hide and seek
+among the flowers; at night they all go to bed inside of roses, tucked
+between pink and white blankets, just like little boys and girls. They
+sleep&mdash;and sleep&mdash;and sleep&mdash;just like Reggie."</p>
+
+<p>The priest and Isabel looked into each other's eyes. For a moment they
+held the tiny fingers of the boy, then very gently each released a hand
+and moved from the bedside.</p>
+
+<p>The nurse came forward, smiling. "You might both better go," she
+commanded. Without comment the boy's mother led the way. In the hall
+below, Pat Murphy stood in earnest conversation with his cousin Maggie.
+The girl looked frightened. Father Barry approached without hesitation.
+"What is the matter?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>The Irishman waited, confused. "I do be sint by Sister Simplice. Your
+mother&mdash;the old lady&mdash;she have just gone." He crossed himself.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me again," the priest commanded. "What do you mean?"</p>
+
+<p>"Your mother&mdash;do be dead," Pat faltered.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>"She has been gone an hour," said Sister Simplice.</p>
+
+<p>Father Barry followed the nun, half dazed, to the upper hall, for as yet
+he could not grasp the force of his own miserable, late arrival. Outside
+the closed door of his mother's room he waited.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me all!" he implored. "I must know the worst&mdash;before I see her.
+Tell me everything; what she said at the very last." His voice broke
+into sobs as he dropped to a couch.</p>
+
+<p>Sister Simplice drifted to his side. Her words were low and calm; only
+her delicate profile, with slightly quivering nostrils, expressed
+agitation. She looked straight beyond; not at the closed door. Like one
+rehearsing a part she began to speak. Father Barry's head sank forward
+into his hands. The nun's story fell gently, mercifully softened. As she
+went on the priest raised his eyes. Sister Simplice dreaded the question
+burning on his lips.</p>
+
+<p>"And she did not believe that I had neglected her&mdash;forgotten to come to
+her on my birthday?"</p>
+
+<p>"She thought no ill of her son," the nun answered. "When I came last
+night the danger of her first sudden attack seemed to be over. She had
+rallied, was perfectly conscious. 'He will come in the morning, when the
+storm is over,' she told us at midnight. 'Yes,' I said, 'he will surely
+come. Day will bring him safe from his hiding place.'"</p>
+
+<p>Father Barry bowed his head.</p>
+
+<p>"You remember that you telephoned in the early afternoon? The storm had
+already interfered with service. She could not catch your words, felt
+only that you were detained upon some errand of mercy. When Pat Murphy
+brought the flowers to the hospital he said nothing whatever of your
+movements. This morning he happened to come with your mail, just after
+the dear one passed away. I sent him out to find you." The priest wept
+softly. "We had no thought of the end when it came," the nun went on.
+"So quickly, so peacefully, she left us. She seemed to be much better
+with the dawn, for the storm that kept you from her side had abated. She
+was expecting you every moment. She had no thought of death." Sister
+Simplice crossed herself. "Faithful Nora had brought a cup of
+nourishment, we were about to offer it, when, brightening like her old
+self, she begged for a fresh shawl."</p>
+
+<p>"I understand," the priest faltered. "She wished to look neat and
+charming. And it was all for me!" he burst out. "She wanted me to find
+her as usual&mdash;like her pretty self."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," the nun answered, "she asked for a shawl you admired&mdash;the one
+with a touch of lavender. Nora brought a white cape from the closet, but
+she motioned it away. 'I wish my fine new shawl, the one my son likes
+best,' she pleaded. We were gone from the bedside but a moment, both
+searching in the closet. Your dear mother was unconscious, almost gone,
+when we returned."</p>
+
+<p>Sister Simplice crossed herself again. The priest could not speak.
+Stillness followed the nun's story; only the ticking of a clock
+disturbed his pent thoughts. Suddenly the man burst forth as a boy.</p>
+
+<p>"I should have come to her sooner!" he confessed. "I knew that she had
+not been well the week before; but I thought her slight attack was from
+the stomach. How could I dream of this! She assured me that she felt
+like herself, and the morning of my birthday"&mdash;he hesitated&mdash;"the
+morning of my birthday I was compelled to go to the bishop."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," the nun interrupted&mdash;"she understood&mdash;knew how you were working
+for the cathedral. Her pride in your success was beautiful. She asked
+for no hour which justly belonged to the service of your Church."</p>
+
+<p>"Thank God! she never knew&mdash;died believing in me&mdash;thought I had
+succeeded," the priest cried passionately. The nun lifted her crucifix.</p>
+
+<p>"The blessed saints ordained that she should think nothing but good of
+her son&mdash;her priest&mdash;her one earthly idol." Sister Simplice clasped her
+hands. "Have no fear for her soul. A soul&mdash;such as hers&mdash;must rise freed
+from transient torment. Soon she will follow from afar&mdash;follow her son's
+great earthly work." Father Barry groaned.</p>
+
+<p>"You do not understand; do not know that I am almost glad that my mother
+has gone&mdash;passed safely beyond. She was a good Catholic. If she had
+lived&mdash;" he rose to his feet and stood before the trembling sister&mdash;"if
+she had lived to know the truth she might have rebelled, have doubted."</p>
+
+<p>The sister flushed, then turned pale. Nun that she was, she had heard
+gossip. "The bishop has not put you aside?" she faltered. She raised her
+crucifix. "He hasn't interfered with your work&mdash;with the building of the
+cathedral?"</p>
+
+<p>The priest signified the worst. "My labor has been in vain," he
+acknowledged. "I am ordered from the parish like an incompetent. I thank
+God that she never knew!"</p>
+
+<p>Sister Simplice shrank as from a blow. The suspended priest saw by the
+motion of her lips that she was praying. Her slender fingers clung
+fiercely to the rosary. She seemed to dread her own words. She could not
+trust her voice, dared not lift her face. Tears were slipping from
+beneath the delicate eyelids.</p>
+
+<p>"Forgive me!" cried her confessor. "I dare not tamper with your faith.
+Forget that you have been listening I implore you."</p>
+
+<p>The nun raised the dark fringes which had seemed a rebuke; but before
+she spoke, Father Barry was gone, vanishing behind the closed door of
+his mother's death chamber.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2>
+
+
+<p>Sister Simplice told her beads in vain. Strange new rebellion threatened
+her accepted life. Like the young priest in the room beyond, she doubted
+her right to wear the authorized habit of Roman Catholic faith. Tears
+scalded her cheeks; she could not keep them back. Yet to weep over an
+earthly tie long cut away must be counted a sin against her soul. The
+rosary slid from her grasp; then she caught it passionately to her lips.
+She had shed no tears for three whole years. Until to-day Sister
+Simplice had thought a victory won. Hospital work had seemed to bring
+relief to the woman unfitted for spiritual monotony. In the convent she
+had been misjudged. It was not until the mother superior comprehended
+the case, and removed her unhappy charge to an active field that things
+went well. Nursing the sick, the sister seemed to renounce the bridal
+veil which she had nearly worn. She regained courage, found joy in her
+patients. Actual service took unrest from her mind and heart. Gradually
+a romance interfering with devout prayers was put down. The nun went her
+way untouched by criticism. And it was doubtless intangible sympathy
+which had first made confidences easy between the sister and the priest.
+Their mutual struggle removed them from the spiritual line, when both
+tacitly owned that human longing abides in spite of prayer. But with
+the project of the cathedral absorbing the man, the gentle nun forgave
+her confessor and implored passionately for new strength for herself. In
+Father Barry the church had gained a splendid champion. Hospital work
+was a less brilliant opportunity; but at last Sister Simplice looked
+forward to passing years of peace. Until to-day she had been happy. Even
+yet she hardly understood the change which threatened her usefulness.
+She did not acknowledge that she had backslidden. Hysterical longing
+filled her woman's heart; she could not, would not analyze it. If she
+sinned she sinned! It seemed good to cry in view of impending penance.</p>
+
+<p>The clock ticked away a full quarter while she sat in the hall alone
+with her thoughts. Then the door to the closed chamber opened and Father
+Barry passed out. He was pale, shaken. Instantly the nun became herself.
+Again she longed for service. "Will you not come below and eat
+something?" she asked. The priest shook his head.</p>
+
+<p>"Not yet." He went on, but on second thought turned. "Tell Nora she must
+not offer me a hearty luncheon&mdash;I cannot eat it. She may bring toast and
+tea to my room. I must rest, be alone."</p>
+
+<p>The nun's dismissal was plain. The sister went softly downstairs, hurt
+that she might not carry her confessor's tray.</p>
+
+<p>Father Barry watched her glide beyond the landing, then walked quickly
+to his boyhood chamber. Here his mother had changed nothing. To retire
+at times to the little room was always like a snatched interview with
+himself. As a rule the dear lady had begged her son to use the more
+stately guest chamber, but to-day he shrank from the state apartment as
+one grown noted, yet now waiting for ignominy. To see his mother cold
+and lifeless had settled the half-considered step of the previous
+morning; for at last the man believed that he must give up the
+priesthood. He no longer wished to propitiate an archbishop. With his
+mother's death he was free. Had she lived, he might have gone on a
+hypocrite. Now all was changed. He need not continue a false life.
+Fortunately he was rich in his mother's right. He would not stay in the
+place which ought to despise him, and he might live in any part of the
+known world. At all events, he would emulate an honest citizen. He cast
+himself across the white counterpane of the bed and buried his face in
+the pillow. His neat, careful mother would never know that he had
+neglected to turn back the snowy spread. Outside, the dying blizzard
+moaned fitfully. Now and then a long, full gust came reinforced from
+distant plains; but the fury of the storm was over. He began to think of
+pressing matters. It was Tuesday. On Friday his precious mother must be
+buried. He sobbed aloud. Would the bishop stay official disgrace until
+after the funeral? Suddenly his only dread was public dishonor to his
+dead. As his mother's boy, he wept long and passionately. Nora's knock
+subdued outward emotion, while he took the tray from her hands. He saw
+that the faithful soul wanted to stop in the room, longed to fuss over
+her young master. But he gave no invitation and she went off grumbling.
+At the door she turned. "It's dyin you'll be yourself, ating no
+mate&mdash;only a bite of tasteless toast. And the bishop that old!" The
+parting shot brought no response. Nora closed the door with offended
+spirit. "He'll go under, with all the bother of his cathedral," she
+muttered. To live long enough to see her young priest a bishop was the
+old woman's earthly dream. She touched a crucifix in full view of the
+closed chamber where her mistress lay cold and still. Then she hastened
+below to clean and garnish. Sister Simplice had promised to stay until
+all was over, and she had also sent for Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes was
+cold and severe. The servant saw no need of two nuns. She went about the
+scrubbing and dusting, glad that she might work without regard to
+arriving cards or visitors. The good soul had prayed, then wept until
+she could hardly see. Now at last she was busy, again absorbed in
+material matters.</p>
+
+<p>Meantime Father Barry forced down toast and tea. Details of his mother's
+funeral thronged his mind. She must have everything beautiful, all that
+a son could give. Her last Mass should be splendid; and again he
+wondered about the bishop. Would he officiate in spite of all? The
+widow's money would doubtless be remembered at a time like the present.
+Father Barry felt for a little blank book, and drew from his breast
+pocket Mrs. Doan's note and the enclosed check. Once more accident
+controlled his movements. Everything rushed back. Even in the midst of
+plans for his mother's Mass he thought of the letter he would write to
+Isabel. She must know the truth. Why had he not told her? Was he yet
+unable to confess himself a hypocrite to this woman whom he had once
+hoped to marry? After all, he could return her check by mail, for in
+writing he might explain an altered situation without demanding
+sympathy. But if sympathy came! If Isabel understood the case as it
+really was! Then she should help him to start over again, to go on with
+his life.</p>
+
+<p>He worked himself into an exalted attitude. For the first time since the
+eventful interview with the bishop his self-esteem suggested a part
+removed from abject failure. As upon the ledge of the storm-beaten
+bluff, he felt once more a woman's governing presence. But the firm,
+commanding knock of Sister Agnes brought him from clouds to sinking
+sands. Again he was miserable&mdash;a false priest facing an austere nun, who
+would shrink away in horror as soon as she heard of his shame. The
+sister, supplanting gentle Simplice, held out a letter closed with the
+bishop's seal. Without waiting to read, the suspended priest knew the
+import of his superior's forced retraction; official action was
+rescinded until after his mother's funeral.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2>
+
+
+<p>Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had
+both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration
+moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit
+on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first
+peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm
+bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was
+summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. "He has
+been wishing for you. A night has done even more than the doctor
+expected."</p>
+
+<p>"Has he been quiet?"</p>
+
+<p>"Most of the time; but just before you came he was a wee bit naughty.
+Now he's going to be the best boy in the world."</p>
+
+<p>Reginald stretched out his hands. "I wanted mother dear," he sweetly
+confessed. "I cried just one minute."</p>
+
+<p>"But you must not cry at all," Isabel told him. "If you cry you may not
+get well enough to start for California."</p>
+
+<p>The topic of travel was absorbing and soothing. Reginald lay quiet while
+his mother romanced of trains and engines and long dark tunnels. Genius
+for operating railroads had brought the boy's father to the top with
+several millions; the son would doubtless make good in the same way.</p>
+
+<p>To-day Reginald clasped a toy locomotive in his baby hand. Interest in
+play was returning. "My ningin's all weddy for California," he exulted.
+"To-morrow I'm doing to div you a ticket."</p>
+
+<p>"How kind," said his mother.</p>
+
+<p>"And I'm doing to div Fadder Barry a ticket, too." Isabel made no reply.
+"I want Fadder Barry to come back&mdash;I want him so bad!" the boy
+petitioned. His accent seemed unduly broadened for the occasion. Long
+<i>a</i> fell like a wail.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't be naughty," Isabel pleaded. "Father Barry cannot possibly come."
+Her voice broke, but she went on. "Listen and I will tell you why you
+must not ask for him. He has gone home&mdash;to his mother dear. Last night
+Father Barry's mother dear wished him to come to her, but he did not
+understand&mdash;he stayed with Reggie. Now Reggie is getting well." She
+rested a hand against her cheek to hide falling tears. "But I want
+Fadder Barry so bad!" the child protested. His baby face took on the
+resolute charm his mother dreaded. "I do want Fadder Barry!" he
+persisted. Then with autocratic movement he called the nurse. His
+countenance shone with expedient thought. "Teletone," he whispered,
+"teletone to Fadder Barry. Tell him to come back and bring his trunk."
+The attendant left the room, while the boy lay still and confident. His
+purple eyes shone so darkly in their wonderful sockets that the mother
+doubted the wisdom of an evident ruse. She waited anxiously until the
+nurse reappeared.</p>
+
+<p>"Did you teletone?" the boy asked.</p>
+
+<p>"I tried to," the woman answered, "but you see the wind has broken the
+wires. The poor telephone has a sore throat&mdash;just like Reggie; it cannot
+speak."</p>
+
+<p>"Must the doctor make it well?" The child's sympathies were thoroughly
+aroused. For the first time the new nurse achieved a victory; and the
+illness of the telephone grew more alarming each moment.</p>
+
+<p>The boy's mother went down to her breakfast, both hungry and happy.
+Reginald was in judicious hands. On a folded napkin was a letter,
+stamped for quick delivery. Isabel tore open the envelope and saw her
+returned check with sharpened senses. She began to read. When at last
+she understood, she was crying. "How unjust! How unjust to his ambition;
+to his struggle for accomplishment!" she choked. She tossed the check
+aside and re-read Father Barry's letter. His unhappiness was her own.
+Her one thought was to help him; to brace him against disappointment.
+This brilliant man&mdash;this friend&mdash;must not be ruined. There was some
+mistake. Those above him, the people who adored their priest, would see
+that he had fair treatment. Submission to a creed had not been part of
+Isabel's bringing up. Born and reared in an unorthodox atmosphere she
+had never been able to quite understand the power of Philip's church. It
+was, in fact, this very attitude which had first made trouble between
+them. The two had parted at Rome, both miserably conscious of their
+sacrifice, yet each blaming the other. Afterward, when the man became a
+priest, successful, eloquent, exerting splendid influence; appealing to
+people of all classes with his project for a cathedral that should mark
+an architectural epoch for the Middle West, the woman whom he had wished
+to marry&mdash;now residing in the same city&mdash;rejoiced that he had found a
+larger scope in life. When she suddenly became a widow she held it a
+pleasure to follow up the desirable friendship which was now strictly
+outside of sentiment. Father Barry's vestments covered the past. The two
+met without embarrassment. The priest was full of his cathedral; the
+young mother absorbed in her little son. Then when Mrs. Grace&mdash;a
+Catholic&mdash;confirmed at mature age and consequently over-zealous, arrived
+to live with her niece, Father Barry came more frequently to the stone
+house behind the elms. Soon he was the acknowledged friend of the
+family. Realizing that Mrs. Doan's interest in his new church was almost
+pagan, he still drew strange inspiration from her clear perception and
+balanced criticism. Without fear both man and woman accepted the
+cathedral as a bond which might prove to be more suitable than love.
+Isabel's actions were never confused with a flirtation. Thus far she had
+escaped censorious tongues. For Mrs. Doan was a personage in the western
+city and universally admired. But if she had escaped criticism, her aunt
+stood for a full share of it. The niece often despaired of her
+chaperone, regretting that she had selected one devoid of the finer
+feelings. However, she tried to make the best of an uncongenial
+arrangement which had resulted from blood relationship. And Mrs.
+Grace&mdash;a widow twice, and vaguely considering a third venture&mdash;was not
+altogether responsible for a light head and superficial education. She
+was generally adjudged amusing.</p>
+
+<p>To-day Isabel was keenly sensible of great trouble. The priest's
+impending downfall, his heroic part in Reginald's recovery, the sudden
+death of his mother, were all sufficient reasons for her own
+straightforward determination. She would go to him&mdash;go to him at
+once&mdash;with no false shrinking. Perhaps even yet she might save
+him&mdash;induce him to appeal beyond his bishop. The weakness evinced in his
+letter, his wish to give up, to drift into obscurity&mdash;filled her with
+courage which she did not really understand. Yes, she must see him! talk
+with him, under his dead mother's roof&mdash;persuade him to hope; then she
+remembered that she was a prisoner in her own home, forbidden to leave
+it.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2>
+
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace stood dressed for the evening. She wore a rich black gown
+fitly relieved by transparent fillings. A splendid rosary of pearls and
+carnelians clung around her throat, while rare lace falling from the
+elbow drew attention to her plump arms and small white hands. Despite
+the woman's forty-seven years she was youthful in appearance. To-night
+she glanced into a full-length mirror, satisfied. As if loath to part
+from her reflection, she examined each detail of her elegant toilet.</p>
+
+<p>"You are stunning," said Isabel, knocking lightly on the open door. "For
+myself, I thought it unnecessary to change my linen frock." As she spoke
+she threw back a coat of sable. "I thought I might go as I am, for I
+shall not enter the house. You have not been with Reginald, so of course
+there is not the slightest reason for not going in at a time like this.
+You can give Father Barry my lilies, and ask him to see me for a few
+moments outside."</p>
+
+<p>"Simplicity becomes you," Mrs. Grace acknowledged. "You really look well
+without the slightest effort. I have always been improved by good
+clothes; even when I was a girl I shone in the latest styles. I do love
+up-to-date gowns." She ran a comb through her fluffy pompadour, which
+should have been silver but was counterfeit gold.</p>
+
+<p>"Good gracious, Isabel, how your color has come back!" she enviously
+exclaimed. "When Reginald first took sick you were ghostly; now I
+believe you are fresher than ever. I can't understand you. Being shut
+away from everything has actually done you good!"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Doan perceived the drift of her aunt's compliment. "You are
+certainly stunning in your new gown," she answered. "And you know I wish
+to get back to Reggie as soon as possible. Will you not come?"</p>
+
+<p>The older woman moved slowly from the mirror. "About the flowers,"
+Isabel went on; "only mine were sent&mdash;the lilies. The wreath you ordered
+will not be finished until to-morrow in time for service at the church.
+Grimes wrote me, explaining that the piece was so large that it could
+not be delivered sooner."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace accepted a disappointment. "To-morrow will answer. I wish the
+wreath to be perfect." She followed her niece downstairs and outside to
+the waiting carriage. It was still cold, but the blizzard was dead in a
+shroud of stars. Mrs. Grace settled expansively, while Isabel protected
+her lilies as best she could.</p>
+
+<p>"It is, after all, fortunate that my wreath was not sent," the aunt
+affirmed. "We never could have taken it inside, and Thomas might have
+objected to minding it on the box. When I asked you to telephone about
+it I did not realize how crammed a coupe is. The piece will be wonderful
+in the church&mdash;pink carnations, orchids, and maidenhair ferns. I am sure
+it will be the biggest thing of the kind Grimes has ever sent out. I
+preferred a cross, but so many were already ordered that I decided to
+have a wreath. I do hope Father Barry will like the color&mdash;pink suits
+his dear mother much better than white; don't you think so?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace judged grief by circumference and perpendicular measurement.
+It seemed as fitting to send her priest a wreath as large as a wagon
+wheel as it had been incumbent to wear the longest crape veil procurable
+during two distinct periods of widowhood. Isabel's armful of lilies
+struck her as shockingly unconventional, not even a ribbon confined the
+long green stems; and to Mrs. Grace this falling away from custom was
+highly amusing. But Isabel was Isabel. One never dared to count upon
+what she would do. Individuality was too strenuous for Mrs. Grace.
+Besides every one paid for good form, nowadays, while it was much easier
+to adopt accepted practice than to run the risk of appearing eccentric.
+Original people were generally poor&mdash;too "hard up" to be altogether
+proper.</p>
+
+<p>"I should think you might have tied your flowers with white gauze and
+put them in a box," she said bluntly.</p>
+
+<p>"Father Barry will like them as they are," Mrs. Doan answered.</p>
+
+<p>The older woman sank back. A long feather on her large hat brushed
+Isabel's cheek. The niece moved away. In the corner of the carriage she
+held the lilies closer, praying that her companion might restrain frank
+opinions. Fortunately both women enjoyed independent fortunes. Affluence
+represented distinct value for each one. The aunt loved money for what
+it bought, the niece for what it brought. Mrs. Grace reveled in splendid
+things, Isabel in unusual opportunities. The one reverenced abundance,
+the other freedom and the luxury of not overdoing anything. Neither one
+was congenial with the other, yet for a time, at least, it seemed
+necessary for their conflicting tastes to remain politely sugared.
+Before the world aunt and niece appeared to be in well-bred harmony.
+To-night the irritating chatter of Mrs. Grace kept Isabel silent.
+Shrugged in her corner she scarcely heard, for suddenly she was wishing
+that she had written to her friend in trouble, instead of going to him.
+But for her aunt, she would have turned back. But Isabel had done many
+difficult things, things that other women shrank from. Her intuitions
+were fine, and she seldom regretted a first impulse. Almost at once
+Philip Barry's letter seemed rewritten for her eyes. Sentence by
+sentence she pondered the tempestuous, then broken, despondent appeal.
+Yes, he needed her; she was glad that she had ventured to come to him. A
+jar against the curb furnished Mrs. Grace with petulant opportunity, and
+while that lady settled her hat and adjusted her ermine, Isabel grew
+calm for an approaching ordeal. As her aunt alighted, hotly deploring
+the careless driving of a new coachman, a flood of light burst from
+Father Barry's temporary refuge. Two women, going forth from their dead
+friend's little home, tarried a moment with the son, who stood in the
+illuminated doorway. Suddenly the priest accompanied them forward. His
+eager eyes had clearly outlined a coupe and faultless horses. She had
+come! Isabel was before his house. He bade his neighbors a crisp good
+night and hurried to the side of Mrs. Grace. "So good of you, so good of
+you both!" he exclaimed, searching beyond for the lady's niece, still
+within the carriage. Mrs. Doan moved to the open door. "I was not
+intending to get out," she told him softly. "I came only with Aunt
+Julia, to bring these lilies for to-morrow, to let you know that I
+understand. When you have leisure to listen I want to help you to be
+brave and steadfast. You cannot&mdash;you must not give up." Her voice swept
+over him like music.</p>
+
+<p>"Come in!" he commanded. "There is not the slightest danger for any one.
+My only visitors are Sister Agnes and Sister Simplice, both from the
+hospital."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace, evidently annoyed, called from the footpath, "I am
+freezing!"</p>
+
+<p>Isabel accepted the priest's hand, running forward. "Father Barry
+insists that I come in," she explained, while all three entered the
+house. Nuns, alert for notable callers, stood in the hall. Mrs. Grace
+shed outer ermine and clung significantly to her splendid rosary. In a
+room beyond she dropped upon her knees. The lady, addicted to posing,
+had unusual opportunity. The very atmosphere called for a graceful
+posture and devotional calm. In the presence of her recently bereaved
+confessor, flanked by praying nuns, she took no thought of Isabel
+standing apart an accepted heretic.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Doan still wore her sable coat, the armful of blossoms resting like
+snow against the fur. She had stepped from darkness into light,
+unconscious of her dazzling appearance. Clasping the lilies, pressing
+them hard to still agitation, she might have been a saint of Catholic
+legend dispensing charity beneath flowers. "Come," said Father Barry,
+close at her side, "come across the hall." Isabel knew that he was
+leading the way to his beloved dead. She went softly, not wishing to
+disturb the kneeling aunt and devout sisters. Father Barry had spoken
+about his mother so often that at first she followed on as one entitled
+to a last privilege. At the threshold of an old-fashioned parlor she
+hesitated. "Come," the priest entreated. "She would be glad to know that
+you had placed the flowers with your own hands. Ascension lilies were
+her joy! she always chose them." Isabel moved slowly forward. The room,
+lighted with wax tapers, was long and narrow. At the extreme end stood
+the bier and improvised altar. There were beautiful flowers on all
+sides; the casket alone seemed to be waiting for the son's last
+offering.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you not put them here?" He touched gently the spot of honor. "I
+should like to have them with my own, for I too have chosen lilies."</p>
+
+<p>She thought of Reginald; of the difficult part in the boy's sick chamber
+which the priest had assumed, and thankfully complied. Father Barry
+watched her handle each lily with reverent touch. One by one she laid
+them down, then turned and smiled.</p>
+
+<p>"How beautiful!"</p>
+
+<p>"To me they are the symbolic flowers of the world," she answered.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," he told her, "they express my mother's life; it was white, pure,
+true, simple&mdash;fragrant with love." He sank his face touching the bed of
+bloom. "She lived perfectly," he went on in tender revery. "I never knew
+such faith&mdash;such faith in her friends, in her Church. And now I have
+lost her, lost her at the very time when she might have helped me. But
+thank God she did not know! Thank God always that she never dreamed the
+truth about her boy&mdash;about the priest she almost worshipped. And she
+could never have understood."</p>
+
+<p>"I think she would have seen everything clearly, as you would have
+wished her to see it," Mrs. Doan protested. "I am sure she must have
+counseled you to be strong, begged you not to give up. She would have
+told you to wait&mdash;then to appeal your case to an authority higher than a
+very unreasonable old man. I do not understand your church government,"
+she acknowledged. "I am too ignorant to advise you&mdash;yet surely there is
+some way, otherwise there would be need of neither archbishops nor of a
+pope!" She spoke valiantly. In her heretical judgment the Vatican had no
+significance if its ruler refused to step outside, to listen to
+individual cases of injustice.</p>
+
+<p>"His Holiness bless your dear soul! bless you always!" the priest
+murmured huskily. His eyes glowed. "But you do not understand, do not
+see that it is not an ignominious downfall; not the bishop's power to
+keep me from going on with the cathedral, that has changed
+everything&mdash;made it impossible for me to remain a priest. All the time I
+have been nothing but a hypocrite, nothing but a coward."</p>
+
+<p>"Do not say such things!" she cried.</p>
+
+<p>"But I speak truth! Nothing shall ever silence my honest tongue again.
+You shall know at last why I went into a monastery, took false vows,
+adopted a sham profession."</p>
+
+<p>She raised her face appealingly. Her whole being implored him not to
+hurt her again after the lapse of years.</p>
+
+<p>"Forgive me!" he begged. "I am not blaming you, no one but my miserable
+self. I was not man enough to stand disappointment. The only way I could
+live! live without&mdash;&mdash;" Isabel's eyes forbade him to finish. But he
+persisted. "The only way I could go on with life was to forget through
+forms, ceremonies, and flattery. When I began to work for the cathedral
+I had new hope. In reality I was less a priest than before. Yet I was
+more of a man, thank God! I intended to do my part like an honest
+architect. I wished to give my Church something worth while."</p>
+
+<p>"And you will do so yet," she pleaded.</p>
+
+<p>"Not now. I shall never act as priest again."</p>
+
+<p>His words fell slow and hard. "I cannot live falsely one day longer."</p>
+
+<p>The avowal deceived her; and now she had no fear for herself. Only the
+thought to help the man drove her on. Not being a Catholic, she was
+vaguely sure of the priest's words. For Isabel excommunication meant
+nothing but an unpleasant form which must eventually react on an
+intelligent victim. She held out her hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Any one has the right to change. I am glad that you have decided so
+splendidly. It is like you to know when you have been wrong. And now
+that you have really found out you can begin all over&mdash;study
+architecture&mdash;build something as great as the cathedral. Vows that have
+ceased to be real are much better broken."</p>
+
+<p>Her words evolved a simple plan. She had no understanding of the
+disgrace attending an apostate priest of the Catholic faith. Father
+Barry knew that she was innocent, that she had no wish to tempt him. But
+longing for all that he might still receive swept away his reason. He
+thought only as a man.</p>
+
+<p>"And you will help me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?" she answered.</p>
+
+<p>"Because you do not understand; do not know what your asking me to begin
+life over implies." His mother's face beneath the lid of the casket was
+no whiter than his own. All that he had lived through in the last three
+days made fresh renunciation vain. Discarded vows fell away from him as
+a cast-off garment. He was simply begging life from the woman he loved.</p>
+
+<p>"Not here!" she pleaded. "Do not forget where we are!" Her voice broke.
+"You are still a priest; your vows hold before the world. I will not
+listen to you. Everything must be changed&mdash;absolutely changed, before I
+can see you&mdash;ever again." Her anger restored him.</p>
+
+<p>"I will do anything!" he promised.</p>
+
+<p>"Then go abroad&mdash;at once," she entreated. Voices admonished her to be
+prudent. She moved away. "I will help you! help you! But you shall wait.
+Nothing must shadow your honest life to come." She spoke in French,
+fearing her words might reach the hall. Mrs. Grace stood outside the
+parlor door. Dreading to look upon death, she yet resented her
+confessor's neglect. Nuns had ceased to hold her from an evident living
+attraction, as she swept into the room. But she was scarcely satisfied;
+for the length of the casket divided her niece from Father Barry. The
+priest, unconscious of an intruder, wept out his shame above Isabel's
+lilies.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Isabel sat beneath the trees, while Reginald turned successful
+somersaults on the lawn. The boy was well and strong, adorable in blue
+overalls.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Doan's second season in the most beautiful town in southern
+California had begun. She had forestalled the demand of tourists, and
+was already established in a furnished house, with a garden. She was
+very happy and believed that she had found the idyllic spot of a
+life-long dream. To-day a glorious perspective of purple mountains
+spread out before her, when she lifted her eyes from the bit of
+needlework which she was trying to finish for a friend's firstborn.
+Having spent the previous season in a large hotel she rejoiced in
+seclusion. Now she might face the future without indefinite dread,
+something she could not quite get rid of when thinking of the man whom
+she had undoubtedly influenced. For Philip Barry was no longer in
+orders. Almost a year lay between his life as a priest and the strained,
+difficult existence of one adrift, beginning over, feeling his way with
+a prejudiced public. But he had gone abroad, as Isabel advised; and at
+first excommunication appeared to be no harder to bear than his earlier
+Catholic punishment.</p>
+
+<p>During months in Paris he had wrought himself into lofty independence,
+occupying his time with feverish writing. The result was an unpublished
+book on "The Spirit of the Cathedral." Disdaining many lurid accounts
+of his apostacy, he had worked with his whole intellect, thinking
+constantly of Isabel. Yet withal he kept his promise. Through six months
+he had sent her no word of his welfare. Isabel's pure name lent no color
+to a startling sensation, exciting the entire Middle West and Catholics
+throughout the world. With Mrs. Grace, alone, suspicion rested. For
+others, Mrs. Doan had no part in the priest's unusual course.
+Fortunately, but one stormy scene had ensued between the aunt and the
+niece, then both women agreed to ignore a painful subject. It was not
+until the second season in California, when European letters began to
+come with unguarded frequency, that Mrs. Grace again grew chilly.
+Glancing askance at foreign postmarks, she declined to ask the most
+trivial question concerning the man wholly excluded from the thoughts of
+a good Catholic. The lady's bitterness brewed fresh measure. Isabel was
+deeply hurt. Still, as during the previous winter, days passed without
+rupture. To all appearances things were as usual. It was not until Mrs.
+Grace rebelled over quiet that Isabel fully realized her aunt's
+unfitness. She now barely endured her chaperone, while more than ever
+she regretted the woman's unexecuted threat to return to apartments in a
+favorite hotel. However, Mrs. Grace stayed on, unsettling an otherwise
+contented household.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel was obliged to keep open house without regard to chosen guests. A
+dream of freedom seemed ruthlessly dispelled. Yet to-day she was happy,
+at last free to indulge her thoughts. Early in the morning the restless
+relative had departed, and should good fortune continue, the touring car
+would not return before late afternoon. Isabel glanced down the gentle
+slope of her garden, shut in from streets beyond by hedge rows that in
+springtime were snowbanks of cherokee roses. Early rain had cleansed the
+mountains. The range was already prismatic, sharpened into fresh beauty
+below a sky as blue as June. No suggestion of winter touched the
+landscape. As usual the paradox for November was summer overhead and
+autumn on the foothills. "Old Baldy" still rose without his ermine. On
+the mesa brown and yellow vineyards lay despoiled of crops lately
+pressed into vintage or dried into raisins. What is known as "the
+season" had not begun. To Isabel the absence of the ubiquitous tourist,
+together with simple demands upon time, expressed a "psalm of life,"
+which she might well have sung.</p>
+
+<p>As she sat under a tree sewing, her mind went naturally to a land far
+distant&mdash;a land which held Philip Barry. For a letter had come that very
+morning. The excommunicated priest was in Paris awaiting her answer. A
+year of probation was almost over, yet he begged as a boy for shortened
+time. While Isabel worked she examined herself with judicial care. The
+unerring precision of each tiny, regular stitch seemed like testimony in
+her lover's case. She sewed exquisitely at infrequent intervals, and
+generally to compose her mind. Philip Barry's wish to come to her at
+once had upset both her plans and her judgment. Should she let him
+cross&mdash;two full months before the time agreed upon? All that her answer
+might involve pricked into soft cambric. She drew a thread, again and
+again struck back sharply into dainty space for a hemstitched tuck. It
+was hard&mdash;so hard&mdash;to refuse. Yet if he came, came within the month,
+then everything must be changed, not only for herself but for Reginald.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel evaded the natural conclusion of the whole matter. As she sat
+below the towering mountains&mdash;very close they seemed to-day&mdash;she had a
+sense of being in retreat from everyone. She would take ample time to
+prove herself, to feel sure that her wish for Philip Barry's love was
+not selfishness. Nothing must make her forget the boy and the possible
+consequence of his mother's marriage to an apostate Catholic priest. She
+sighed, looking up at the purple peaks. The very serenity of her
+environment developed the longing for happiness. She was too young to
+accept blighting sacrifice. And yet, because of those two months on
+which she had counted, she was undecided. But withal she smiled. "He
+might have stayed away the year!" she murmured. Her son's glad shouts
+echoed on the lawn. Impatience is unreasonable. Why has he asked me to
+cable my answer? He should have waited for my letter, she told herself,
+in flat denial to what she really wished.</p>
+
+<p>She sat idle. Stirring pepper boughs roused her from revery. She looked
+above at swaying branches, only to remember how admirably Reginald's
+father had waited for everything. Half stoical force, which described
+the man's power during a period of successful railroading, had always
+restrained him. When he died, his unsoiled record and splendid business
+success had both been achieved through the mastery of waiting. She
+smiled. The curve of her lips charmed. She was yet undecided. Yes, the
+man she married had not been impatient. He had waited three months for
+the one word she would not say. At last, when she became his wife, he
+still waited for something she could never give him. He did not
+complain. Again pepper branches trembled, and a shower of tiny berries
+began to fall. Commotion ensued among leaves, until a dark, slender
+mocker shot out, onto the back of Reginald's fox terrier. Suspicion,
+rage, shrieked in the bird's shrill war cry. The beleaguered dog
+retreated beneath Isabel's chair. The enemy flew off, but came back,
+finally to settle just below the cherished nest which his excitement had
+duly located. Egotism and pride made plain his secret.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel laughed, as she patted the dog crouching at her feet. "Poor
+fellow!" she said. "You surely had no thought to harm domestic
+prospects." Then through the garden her boy rushed headlong, a toy spade
+swung recklessly, as Maggie the nurse pursued. Jewels of moisture
+glistened on the child's warm forehead. His cheeks glowed, the violet of
+his eyes shone flowerlike. He flung himself into waiting, outstretched
+arms. "O mudder dear!" he cried. "I just love you so, it most makes me
+cry." The joy of his baby passion, the depths reserved for years to
+come, seemed the expression of another, a stronger will; and Isabel knew
+that she had made ready her answer to Philip Barry.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Shortly before five Isabel heard the horn of the returning car. She ran
+to a mirror and gazed at her reflection with new interest, for after
+useless struggle with Fate she had decided to let Philip Barry cross the
+water. The telegram had been sent to New York and soon her message would
+vibrate over the Atlantic cable. Early in the afternoon she had
+overhauled gowns not intended to be worn until several months later. Her
+changed toilet was a matter of significance, almost a challenge to her
+aunt, who would readily construe a transformation from half mourning to
+violet crepe and amethysts. She listened to the horn, dreading an
+ordeal. Fortunately, intuitions concerning Mrs. Grace always developed
+her own mastery. And to-day Isabel ignored the aunt's startled
+expression and crude outcry, as she hastened on to meet arriving guests.</p>
+
+<p>"So glad to see you looking so well!" cried Gay Lewis, a school
+acquaintance of years back. "I was afraid we might be late! But luck is
+on our side, and with my mother, who so wishes to know you, are our very
+dear friends, Mrs. Hartley and her son." Miss Lewis assumed social
+responsibility with ease. While Mrs. Doan received the ladies, she
+fairly drove the man&mdash;or rather youth&mdash;of the party forward.</p>
+
+<p>"Let me present you, Ned. And remember! I am doing something very
+sweet. Mrs. Doan is a darling to have us for tea; do you not think so?"</p>
+
+<p>"You were kind to come," said Isabel, looking at young Hartley. "How did
+you manage to hit the hour exactly? Was there no trial of patience
+underneath your machine?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not the least," Miss Lewis volunteered, as the strangers went onward to
+an immense living-room. "You should have joined us, not stayed at home
+on a day like this!"</p>
+
+<p>Hartley's adoring eyes renewed a previous invitation. "You will come
+next time&mdash;to-morrow?" he implored.</p>
+
+<p>"Have we not had a delicious run?" said Miss Lewis, speaking to the
+older women, relaxing in chairs and ready for tea.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, indeed," said her mother. "Everything has been perfect."</p>
+
+<p>"And Mr. Hartley is such a precious driver," the daughter went on. "He
+left his chauffeur on the road&mdash;came home alone&mdash;without a mishap! You
+may fancy his skill from the time we made&mdash;ninety-nine miles, was it
+not? Yes, of course! a regular bargain run. And we started so late; not
+until after ten, with luncheon at one. Part of our way was simply
+drenched with fresh oil."</p>
+
+<p>"Just like a greasy river," Mrs. Grace complained.</p>
+
+<p>"An outrage upon strangers who wish to enjoy the country," chimed Mrs.
+Lewis.</p>
+
+<p>"I should think people who live here&mdash;and many of them own most
+expensive cars&mdash;would protest. It doesn't seem fair to spoil good sport
+by such aggravating conditions," said Mrs. Hartley.</p>
+
+<p>"Another biscuit, Ned dear; I am shamefully hungry." Gay Lewis, who had
+passed too many seasons of unavailable conquest to be accounted young by
+debutantes, leaned forward. "Dear Mrs. Hartley, take two. Such jolly
+biscuit, aren't they? Our hostess must indulge us all, we poor people
+who stop in a hotel."</p>
+
+<p>She turned to Isabel, assiduously occupied with a steaming samovar. "You
+do it like an old hand; and I simply envy you this house." Miss Lewis
+swept the immense, rich room with alert eyes, keen to artistic values.
+"You were lucky. I am surprised that Mrs. Grant consented to rent.
+However, I am told that her stay abroad is apt to be protracted. You
+know she is most ambitious for her daughters?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," assented Isabel, "she lives here only a few months each year."</p>
+
+<p>"Is there a Mr. Grant?" asked Mrs. Hartley.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, dear yes; but he doesn't count. His wife has the money, and the
+taste, too," Miss Lewis volunteered.</p>
+
+<p>"We must examine those antique brasses before we leave." Gay again
+addressed Mrs. Hartley. "Mrs. Grant has wonderful things," she
+explained.</p>
+
+<p>"I always want to clean tarnished brass up a bit," the lady answered.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course! I quite forgot your wonderful housekeeping."</p>
+
+<p>Ned Hartley flushed at his mother's philistine candor.</p>
+
+<p>"In this particular room, with its embrasures, dull richness, almost
+medieval simplicity, I should hardly dare to shine any landlady's
+cathedral candlesticks," said Mrs. Doan. The humor in her remark was not
+too plain.</p>
+
+<p>"How charmingly the whole outside approaches into the very house," Miss
+Lewis put in. "There are no grounds in town quite so appealing. I love
+dear wild spots in a garden when vegetation admits of them. Where
+everything grows the year round it is a mistake to be too tidy with
+Nature."</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Grant is an artist&mdash;a genius&mdash;in her way," the hostess rejoined.
+"She certainly understands semi-tropical opportunities, whereas some of
+her neighbors seem only to think of the well-kept lawns of an Eastern
+city."</p>
+
+<p>"Since the town has grown so large and shockingly up to date, there is
+very little natural charm left anywhere," said Gay Lewis. "Really one
+has to have better gowns and more of them out here than in New York or
+Chicago. I never accepted so many invitations for inside affairs in my
+life before. I positively have no time for tennis, horseback, or golf. I
+just submit to the same things we do at home and spend almost every
+afternoon at bridge, under electric light."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel laughed. "I am threatening to abjure electricity altogether in
+this particular room&mdash;burn only candles and temple lamps. I should like
+to try the effect of softened light on nerves," she confided. "After
+sitting in a jungle of the garden, I could come indoors and disregard
+everything but day-dreams."</p>
+
+<p>"The test would be worth while," Gay agreed. "And really, I should like
+to have a day-dream myself."</p>
+
+<p>"Absurd!" cried Mrs. Grace. "The room is dark enough already. With
+nothing but candles it would be worse than a Maeterlinck play. And how
+could one see cards by a temple lamp?"</p>
+
+<p>"Won't you be seated?" Isabel asked of Ned Hartley, still standing. "You
+have worked so hard passing tea; do enjoy yourself." A momentous
+question went unanswered. "See! I am dropping preserved cherries into
+your cup&mdash;true Russian brewing. Delicious!" the hostess promised.</p>
+
+<p>Hartley moved a chair. "May I sit here?" he begged.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course. You deserve my fervent attention. Shall I give you orange
+marmalade with your biscuit?"</p>
+
+<p>"Anything&mdash;everything!" he answered, all but dead to the sustained
+prattle of the other women. "It's awfully good of you to look out for
+me," he added, with an adoring glance. "And you will let me take you out
+in the machine&mdash;to-morrow?" he pleaded.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel smiled. "You are very kind."</p>
+
+<p>Miss Lewis was standing by the table with her cup. "We shall never let
+you rest until the thing is quite empty," she declared. "Cherries,
+please, instead of lemon. As I said before, you are a lucky, lucky girl
+to drop into such a place."</p>
+
+<p>From a pillowed lair Mrs. Grace protested. "Don't tell her that," she
+begged. "The house and garden are well enough, to be sure; yet after
+all one comes from home to be free from care. I cannot understand
+Isabel's prejudice against hotels. There is nothing so pleasant as a
+good one, when one is a stranger in a strange land. I like life!
+something doing. Last winter we had bridge every afternoon and evening.
+The guests at the Archangel were delightful&mdash;so generous about buying
+prizes. And of mornings the Japanese auctions right down the street were
+so diverting. Of course we went every day&mdash;got such bargains, even
+marked Azon vases for almost nothing. It was so easy to buy your
+Christmas presents."</p>
+
+<p>"How interesting," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do the auctions take place every
+season?"</p>
+
+<p>"Always in the spring. And they are such an education!" Mrs. Grace
+persisted. "Then it is so exciting when you really want something. Of
+course one does not always know what to do with so many trifles, for
+often one does not expect to get caught on a bid. Still the sport is
+great and usually the things are good enough to send East to relatives,
+or else to give to maids about the hotel." Mrs. Grace laughed at her
+frank confession. "To be honest," she continued, "I am bored to death by
+our present mode of life. What Isabel finds in housekeeping I can't
+understand."</p>
+
+<p>"Poor Aunt Julia!" Mrs. Doan flushed at an unexpected chance. "I see
+that I have been very selfish," she owned, mischievously. "Alas! I am
+too content to give up, after working hard to find so much! Then outside
+of personal delight&mdash;there is my boy. He is the happiest little soul
+imaginable! You should see him in his overalls! How could I deprive him
+of his home for another whole year?" the mother pleaded.</p>
+
+<p>"He was well enough last winter," said Mrs. Grace.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear Aunt Julia, our friends will think that we are quarreling. I had
+no idea that you were unhappy. As soon as the Archangel reopens you must
+take rooms and enjoy yourself as usual."</p>
+
+<p>The woman, never prepared for a climax, rose from her pillows. "Take
+rooms at the Archangel! leave you unchaperoned!" she cried in blunt
+dismay. "Why, Isabel Doan, what are you thinking of?"</p>
+
+<p>"I should not be alone," the niece answered. "My old French governess,
+Madame Sabot, is begging to come to California. By this time she is
+doubtless an ogress, well able to guard me."</p>
+
+<p>A hot wave of suspicion swept the aunt's countenance.</p>
+
+<p>"For that small matter," cried Miss Lewis, "I might do as well as
+madame. Take me for your chaperone! won't you, dear? I should love to
+act in the capacity. You know, a mere infant companion is all that is
+necessary nowadays&mdash;the best of form. And I am positively old, older
+than yourself," she coolly owned. Miss Lewis rose from her chair with
+vanishing hopes of Ned Hartley's continued devotion. The boy was heeding
+Isabel's slightest word.</p>
+
+<p>"You must over think my application," she jested. "If Mrs. Grace decides
+to join mother at the Archangel I shall certainly hope to displace your
+French ogress. Meantime, we must be going. I have asked a man from the
+city to dinner; he will put in an appearance before I am fit. So sorry
+we cannot stop to see the boy in his nest. I understand he slumbers on a
+roof top&mdash;under the stars&mdash;like every one else out here. Isn't sleeping
+out of doors a fad? So admirable for the complexion! Really one might
+leave the country with a decent bank balance, if only one had nerve to
+rent an oak tree instead of rooms in a hotel." She chattered gaily above
+the others, to the verge of the waiting car.</p>
+
+<p>While the machine gathered power, Ned Hartley hung on Isabel's promise
+just gained. "To-morrow&mdash;to-morrow at three," he impressed again. Miss
+Lewis heard his invitation, then blew the horn with ironic smile.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
+
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace had not accompanied the departing guests to the door. As the
+machine sped away Isabel realized her aunt's displeasure and braced
+against a scene. The time for plain words had arrived. She went slowly
+into the living-room, building up as best she could a line of defense
+for certain attack. By the glow of a wood fire, wreathing flame up the
+wide chimney, she saw her aunt's face; it was pale and tense with
+suspicion. Hate for the man, once her idolized confessor, had
+transformed the carefully preserved woman into one far from attractive.
+She seemed to gather vituperative force beyond her strength, for
+suddenly she stopped pacing the room to sink to a chair. Isabel turned,
+frightened.</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia, what is the matter?" She spoke, running
+forward.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace motioned her away. "Don't pretend!" she cried. "I have seen
+from the very beginning&mdash;known exactly what you were both doing." Isabel
+said nothing. It was the older woman's opportunity. "Not building the
+cathedral was only an excuse for all that is still to come. You have
+ruined a man who otherwise must have been a saint!" She buried her face
+in her hands, which suddenly became gray and drawn beneath their weight
+of glistening gems. In anger, Mrs. Grace looked old.</p>
+
+<p>"What kind of a life do you expect to lead with a traitor to both his
+faith and his honor? Do you suppose for a moment that he will forget!
+throw away his soul without longing to repent? I wish you joy of your
+conquest, Isabel Doan; and remember, I am telling you the truth, even
+though you have turned me from your house after all my devotion." Mrs.
+Grace sobbed hysterically. Isabel was at first stunned by her aunt's
+evil predictions; then she tried to speak. "You needn't excuse him!" the
+angry woman forbade. "I have heard your loose arguments before now.
+Don't tell me that it is better to break a sacred vow than to keep it
+with rebellion! I will not listen to you." She crossed herself against
+possible harm. "Read all the pagan books you can find; but don't forget
+my words. I must leave you as soon as possible, for, of course, after my
+treatment this afternoon I cannot intrude."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Julia!" Isabel sank at her feet. "Please let us part friends," she
+pleaded. "You have been very good to me; if only you could
+understand&mdash;let me tell you things which you do not know&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Grace sprang up.</p>
+
+<p>"And you intend to really marry that man!" Isabel flamed scarlet. "You
+actually expect to go through with the farce of a religious service?
+Well, you had better remember that marriage vows are more easily broken
+than any others. Don't be a fool&mdash;a prude about mere form&mdash;if you care
+to keep a lover; for mark my words, the man who has been untrue to his
+Church will find it much easier to forget a wife." Vindictive zeal gave
+Mrs. Grace hard fluency. And the insult which Isabel had not expected
+made her own part clear. She rose from the floor straight and firm.</p>
+
+<p>"I feel that it is not too late for you to leave me this evening; if you
+think differently, I can take Reginald and Maggie into Los Angeles while
+you find another home. After what you have said it is impossible for us
+to sleep beneath the same roof."</p>
+
+<p>Her wounded womanhood stood out superbly. She walked from the room.
+Above, with her door locked against every one, she burst into tears.
+With burning face in the pillow she wept out her heart. In all her life
+she had never felt so hurt and miserable. Would the world regard her
+marriage to Philip Barry in the same wretched light as her aunt? Then
+perhaps the Catholic woman was right; after all she&mdash;a heretic&mdash;might
+not be able to hold the man who was now willing to give up everything
+for love. And she had induced him to take the fatal step. Perhaps she
+did not understand the force of Catholic vows.</p>
+
+<p>She sat up, gazing through the window at the full top of a eucalyptus
+tree, dark, and wonderfully etched against lingering gold of sunset. Why
+should she be miserable in a world as lovely as the one about her? She
+longed for the happiness which belonged to her youth and station. Again
+she recalled every word which she had said to Philip Barry at the side
+of his mother's casket. To her straightforward nature she had advised
+him wisely. With reason unbiased by dogmatic training; with her soul,
+honest as a child's, she felt no shame for what she had done. And it
+was now too late to hesitate. She had sent the message and she must hold
+to it with her life, her womanhood. She bathed her eyes, still going
+over the main facts of her lover's disgrace in the Catholic world. She
+came back always to the main point; he only committed a mistake when he
+had gone into the priesthood without realizing the price. He had tried
+in vain to live a life of self-denial, of enforced conformity, whereas
+both attempts were totally unsuited to his temperament and mentality. He
+had made a false step in the wrong direction; why, then, should he go
+on? It were better to stop than to stumble and fall. When a lawyer
+failed in the profession none thought worse of him when he succeeded
+with literature. And the doctor, unable to grasp physical ills of casual
+patients, carried no stain on his honor if he discovered some other
+calling. It could not be right to denounce a physician in charge of
+souls because he would not go on with a spiritual travesty. Philip's
+disappointment in regard to the cathedral, his unjust treatment by his
+bishop, his thwarted ambition,&mdash;these things she put to one side in a
+final summing up. All seemed secondary to the confession of the man who
+had stood by the side of his dead Catholic mother. He had said that he
+could no longer continue his priesthood, because he had ceased to be
+false with himself. That to Isabel made sufficient reason for all that
+had happened&mdash;for all to follow. She covered the case by direct
+standards of her own truthful nature. This evening, looking into the
+golden sunset, she could find no justifiable bar to marriage with
+Philip Barry.</p>
+
+<p>When Maggie tapped on the door she opened it calmly. The girl was
+vaguely conscious of sudden disturbance. "Come in," said Mrs. Doan.
+"Mrs. Grace is leaving this evening," she explained. "If possible, you
+must help with her packing. I shall not be down to dinner. I am tired
+and will lie down outside with Reginald; you need not disturb me. Should
+I need you I can ring." Isabel had partly undressed.</p>
+
+<p>"You won't have anything to eat?" the nursemaid questioned.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing now, perhaps later." Mrs. Doan hastened to put on a padded
+robe. Her hair fell about her shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>She separated the shining mass, weaving it into braids, as she went,
+almost running, to her sleeping son. An upper balcony, partially
+protected by canvas, made his cozy nest. At the south and east there was
+nothing to shut out the stars, while at dawn peaks beyond the northern
+range rose dark and sharp through zones of burning rose. Isabel cast
+herself upon her own bed. Delicious air cooled her burning cheeks and
+she could hear the gentle, regular breathing of her boy. She had no
+thought of sleep. Her only wish was to escape to a place cut off from
+her aunt's temporary territory. Now she would wait. Her heart was kind,
+and in retreat she began to feel sorry for the woman with whom she had
+parted. Mrs. Grace was only half sister to Isabel's father, and far
+back the little girl had wondered why her pretty aunty so often
+quarreled with her family. Once she heard her father declare that
+Julia's nose and hands seemed to guarantee a lady, but she had caught no
+more. At the time she did not understand; since then she had grown older
+and wiser. She sank upon the pillow gratefully. Below there was a stir
+of running feet, a commotion at the telephone. Isabel tried to forget
+her own inhospitable part. Once she half rose from bed, half believed
+that she would face her hysterical aunt with overtures of peace. Then
+she felt the foolishness of going through with everything again. Mrs.
+Grace was impossible after what had taken place. Sounds about the house
+continued. The angry woman proposed to take her own time for packing;
+and it was nearly midnight before Isabel became sure that an unwelcome
+guest had gone. Above with the boy, she watched the stars grow brighter,
+listened to night calls of stirring birds, wondered about Philip Barry
+at the other side of the world. Now at last she was alone in the house
+with Reginald and the servants. She got up and went below, to find
+Maggie crying in the hall. The girl hid a crimson face and Isabel knew
+that Mrs. Grace had enlightened her in regard to a coming event. As one
+Catholic to another, she had warned the nursemaid to protect her soul
+from evil influence.</p>
+
+<p>"You may go to bed," Mrs. Doan commanded. Maggie turned away, then came
+back. Her voice failed and she pointed to the dining room, where a
+little supper was daintily set out. She sobbed her way to the back of
+the house, then above to her room. Isabel was alone. She had hardly
+dreamed of freedom, yet now it was here. The fire in the living-room
+still burned; and like a child, she took a bowl of milk and bread and
+sat down on a rug before glowing embers. In spite of all she felt happy.
+She was hungry, too; and after she had eaten every mouthful she sat
+on,&mdash;thinking of Philip.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2>
+
+
+<p>It took Isabel nearly a month to throw off the effect of her aunt's
+angry departure. At the end of that time the cheery French woman arrived
+to take the place of Mrs. Grace, who had gone from the town to St.
+Barnabas. Still later, Isabel heard with strange relief that her aunt no
+longer enjoyed California and was about to seek excitement in New York.
+She felt glad that Mrs. Grace would be at the far side of the continent
+before the coming of Philip Barry.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel had not kept her engagement with Ned Hartley the morning after
+the trouble; but the next day and for days following she toured in the
+machine with the elate boy and his mother. Mrs. Lewis and Gay were often
+of the party. To spin through a country growing fresher, more enchanting
+with each welcome rain was a tonic. Isabel rebounded. And at last Philip
+had started for home. She now thought of little else and her heart grew
+light as days slipped away. To restore the man whom she had unduly
+influenced; to bring him in touch with happiness; to lead him in his new
+career to honor, even to fame, grew into a passionate hope as time went
+by. Philip was already hers. She would make him forget, help him to
+consecrate his talents anew to art and letters. He must write books and
+be glad that he was no longer a priest, bound with forms and obsolescent
+vows. His brilliant mind should be free to develop, his manhood to grow
+unrestrained. Isabel's own unorthodox view was so wholly conceived out
+of intellect and evolving mercy that retribution and remorse were not
+pictured as possible punishments reserved for an apostate Catholic once
+a priest.</p>
+
+<p>Her one thought was to make the man who had suffered from an almost
+fatal mistake happy. When once he felt the surging joy of love,
+opportunity, his past life would cease to trouble him. Isabel was young
+and confident. She felt sure of everything. The day, wonderfully bright
+and exhilarating, called her into the garden, where she found Reginald.
+The boy had dug a flower bed with a tiny spade; then, too impatient to
+think of seeds, had broken full blooming geraniums into stubby shoots
+and planted each one with a shout of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"See my garden! mother dear," he cried, as Isabel approached. "It's all
+weddy&mdash;growed beau-ti-ful!" He clapped dirt-stained hands and bounced
+about in his blue overalls.</p>
+
+<p>Maggie raised a tear-stained face from where she was sitting. Her only
+outlet seemed to be weeping. "To think that I must leave him!" she
+sobbed. "It breaks my heart to go, and nothing but Mike insisting that
+we get married could part me from my boy." She wound her arms about her
+little charge. Mrs. Doan saw that the girl held a letter. "It's to San
+Francisco he bids me come," she went on. In her excitement she had
+lapsed into old-country expression. "And he thinks I can get married
+with no warnin'. Married indeed! Married without a stitch but store
+clothes. I would like to send him walkin' back East, with the chance of
+a better man."</p>
+
+<p>"You must not do that," said Mrs. Doan, now reconciled to the girl's
+departure. Reginald was growing fast, and with Madame Sabot and an
+English nurse in readiness to fill the Irish maid's place, the boy would
+find his daily education an easy matter.</p>
+
+<p>"Poor Maggie's so sick, mother dear," the little fellow explained. He
+threw his arms about the neck of his weeping nurse, kissing her loudly.
+"Now poor Maggie is all well!" he exulted. "Didn't Reggie give Maggie a
+nice, big, fat kiss!" He went back satisfied to his miniature garden,
+while at the same moment Ned Hartley rushed down the terrace. "Where are
+you all?" he cried. His manner had grown free and confident since his
+first tea-drinking in Mrs. Doan's drawing-room. This morning his boyish
+face glowed with expectation. "Do hurry," he begged. "You are surely
+coming? 'The mater' is waiting in the machine and the day's bully." He
+pressed his wish at Isabel's side. She led him beyond the range of
+Maggie's ears.</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid that I cannot go; Reginald's nurse is leaving at once," she
+explained.</p>
+
+<p>"But I have found your horses!" young Hartley tempted. "You must come
+and pass judgment on the finest span in the country. They are
+beauties&mdash;perfect beauties! I ran the owner down by mere chance; and
+we'll find him on a foothill ranch, with the pair in question, saddle
+horses, too. You simply must come if you really wish for a snap." His
+enthusiasm was contagious.</p>
+
+<p>"You are good," Isabel answered.</p>
+
+<p>"Then you should reward me with your company. Bring old madame and the
+boy."</p>
+
+<p>Reginald's ears had caught the invitation. "Come, mother dear!" he
+cried. "Come wight away." His glee bubbled. The uncomprehended tears of
+his nurse were forgotten as he placed his hand in Ned's.</p>
+
+<p>"See the mischief you have wrought," said Isabel. "It is too late for
+Reggie to go from home&mdash;almost time for his bath and nap," she announced
+decidedly.</p>
+
+<p>"But, mother dear," the blue eyes flashed mutiny, "But, mother dear,
+Reggie <i>must</i> have a good time!" The ruling passion of the age possessed
+the infant's soul; to enjoy life topped every other thought.</p>
+
+<p>The child drew Hartley forward with all his strength. "Come right away,"
+he coaxed. "I want to get my red coat."</p>
+
+<p>"But darling," Isabel protested, "you cannot go in the machine this
+morning. Here comes Maggie to give you your bath; go with her at once."</p>
+
+<p>A struggle was on. "You must go with nurse. You may not have a good time
+this morning. Another day you shall ride in the automobile if you are
+obedient."</p>
+
+<p>The child surveyed his mother. She showed no sign of weakening. For an
+instant his lips trembled; a cry half escaped them, then he rushed into
+Maggie's arms.</p>
+
+<p>"To-morrow Reggie may go, to-morrow!" he repeated with baby confidence.
+Two sturdy, adorable legs went peaceably forward across the lawn. With
+every step the boy evoked some happy future day&mdash;a glad to-morrow.</p>
+
+<p>"You're the slickest mater on record!" exclaimed Hartley. "How do you do
+it? I believe you might subdue a labor strike if you tried. No man could
+resist you long. And any fellow would be bound to do things, make
+something of himself, if only he might have you to keep him level." That
+he had known Mrs. Doan but a short time escaped his mind. Suddenly he
+was pushing his cause with youthful ardor. "If you could only care for
+me!" he cried. "Only believe that I really would amount to something if
+you gave me the chance. Why can't I prove it to you? Indeed, I would do
+everything that you wished me to&mdash;be as good as Reg&mdash;upon my word!"
+Isabel raised startled eyes in mute entreaty. "Let me finish," the boy
+implored. "I know just what you think, so please do not tell me. You
+have heard about the scrape at college, all about my getting fired, my
+father's anger, everything abominable. And it is true, all true,&mdash;I was
+an ass, a perfect ass. I admit it. But you see I'm different now. I can
+be a man, even if I didn't get through college by the skin of my teeth.
+If you would only marry me father would overlook everything! set me up
+in any kind of business I liked. And besides, 'the mater' has much more
+money than dad. She's simply crazy about you&mdash;almost as crazy as I am."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear boy," cried Isabel, feeling very wise and old, "you must stop.
+If you say another foolish word our pleasant friendship will have to end
+right here."</p>
+
+<p>"But it isn't foolish to love you, to be mad with good resolutions for
+your sake," he pleaded. "Of course, if you won't listen to me now I must
+wait. And I will wait&mdash;wait just like Reg&mdash;until to-morrow!" His whole
+being reflected new resolve.</p>
+
+<p>"Then be reasonable. Go back to college; finish the course your position
+in life demands; please your father; be good." They moved slowly to the
+house.</p>
+
+<p>"And I may hope when I get my sheepskin?"</p>
+
+<p>"No! no!" she cried. "I meant nothing of the kind. I could never, never
+marry you. Even if&mdash;&mdash;" she hesitated&mdash;"it can never be," she finished.</p>
+
+<p>"Then there is some one else?"</p>
+
+<p>"There is some one else," she answered in a voice so true that its
+cadence hurt the more.</p>
+
+<p>Ned looked upon the ground; then he lifted hopeless eyes. "Of course I
+am an ass; I always was one. But you will come out in the machine? I
+haven't the nerve to explain; and I'll help you find the horses&mdash;for the
+other man&mdash;&mdash;" he choked out.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel could not refuse the humble request.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
+
+
+<p>The luxurious touring car sped away. In the tonneau Mrs. Hartley and
+madame chatted with no suspicion of Ned's unhappy state. The morning was
+glorious.</p>
+
+<p>"Please come," the boy had begged; then added, "if you don't, 'the
+mater' will want to know the reason why."</p>
+
+<p>"We must be the best of friends," Isabel whispered, as she took her
+place in front.</p>
+
+<p>"Is ze country not de-vine?" cried the old French woman. "So like La
+Riviera! my southern France!"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Hartley coughed. "The dust is a drawback," she complained.</p>
+
+<p>"But it does not rise in ze nostril&mdash;drive upon ze face; there is no
+wind to make rough ze flesh," the other argued. "At San Francisco ze
+little stone rise from ze ground, hit ze eye! And in Chicago ze wind
+blow fierce, make sore ze throat." Mrs. Hartley tightened her veil. "Ze
+south California is good&mdash;dear Madame Hartley&mdash;good beyond every land
+but France." Madame Sabot laughed like a happy child. "Am I not blessed
+to stay in ze paradise? To live wis my angel children? Since ten years I
+have no home&mdash;only trouble. Tes grande!" she cried, "ze tree; I forget
+ze name."</p>
+
+<p>"Eucalyptus," prompted Isabel, turning backward.</p>
+
+<p>"U-ca-lip-tus," madame repeated. "Not trim like ze Lombardy poplar, but
+so tall! so tall!"</p>
+
+<p>The giant stood by the wayside. The round, smooth trunk, expanding each
+year from beneath girders of loosening bark, lifted a weight of
+inaccessible white blossoms to the sky. Peeled to a shining mauve, the
+mighty stalk shot up to swaying, dull green branches. From lower
+irregular limbs long ribbons of sloughing fiber hung in the gentle
+breeze, until rain or a transient gust sent them rattling to the ground.
+When threatening moisture lay along the range the giant eucalyptus loved
+to plunge into inky clouds, to bend anon, a towering helmet of sable
+plumes. This every artist saw; and in her own excitable way the French
+woman felt the passion of the wayside monarch.</p>
+
+<p>"Tres grande!" she cried, with parting wave of her hand.</p>
+
+<p>"I see no beauty in a eucalyptus," said Mrs. Hartley. "If I had a place
+here I should not have one of them about&mdash;such untidy trees! It would
+drive me distracted to see loose strings swinging overhead. Then when
+the fiber drops it is even more annoying. Falling leaves are bad enough,
+but falling bark! I could never endure that. At Lakeside&mdash;our country
+place&mdash;Mr. Hartley and Ned rave over dried maple leaves; but I assure
+you I have them raked up each morning. I really could not endure the
+autumn if I permitted myself to be buried under dead leaves. I should be
+too blue. With rheumatic gout I am miserable enough."</p>
+
+<p>"But ze California will make ze cure. Not one bad head since I find ze
+happy land," old madame declared.</p>
+
+<p>The chatter at the back of the car made rare entertainment for Isabel,
+who listened by reason of Ned Hartley's unsociable mood. The boy was
+deep in sulks. He ran the machine so carelessly that his mother began to
+complain.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't be cross; please be nice," Mrs. Doan begged, softly.</p>
+
+<p>They were skirting the foothills, headed for an upland ranch.</p>
+
+<p>"Won't you prepare me a little for what I am to see&mdash;tell me about the
+horses?" she coaxed.</p>
+
+<p>"There isn't much to tell," Ned answered, out of gloom. "I just happened
+to notice the span in town; then I traced their owner through a livery
+stable groom. You may not like them," he added, with trying unconcern.</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure that I shall love them. And it was good of you to go to so
+much trouble." The boy's rudeness should be ignored. "Did you know that
+I have always been wild about horses?" He made no response and she went
+on. "Ever since I was a small girl I have loved to gallop over the
+country. Now I am going to indulge myself; have not only a carriage
+span, but two saddle horses&mdash;the very best ones we can find."</p>
+
+<p>"I presume Reginald is about to mount?" Ned was madly jealous. The
+question brought a flush to Isabel's cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>"I expect him to ride," she answered, "but of course on a pony."</p>
+
+<p>The automobile landed in a rut, then bounded upward and onward. "Why,
+Ned!" cried Mrs. Hartley. "What is the matter? If you can't run the
+machine more evenly you had better bring Adolph when next we come out."
+The rebuke was smothered in a rhapsody by madame. "Behold!" she cried,
+"behold ze landscape!" But the too evident attempt to allay the mother's
+criticism fell flat. The lady continued to suffer with every jar.
+Neither the dazzling contour of the lifting range, nor a wonderful
+valley, sweeping from foothills to the distant, glistening sea, could
+distract her mind from personal complaints.</p>
+
+<p>It was a relief when a sudden detour landed the machine on a cross way,
+leading through interlacing pepper trees, to a small but attractive
+bungalow. A pretty, neatly dressed young woman sat on the porch sewing.
+She rose as the car stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning," she said, "my husband is with the horses." She pointed
+to whitewashed paddocks at the left some distance beyond the peppers.
+"Please keep going, the road leads straight; my husband will hear the
+machine."</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," said Mrs. Doan. "You are fortunate to have such a location
+for your home. You must enjoy living here?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we
+are never lonely." She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement
+was charming. "I hope you will like the horses," she went on. "Now that
+we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better." She
+laughed musically, then explained. "My husband has often refused to part
+with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago.
+You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look
+forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races.
+And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!" Her blue eyes
+kindled.</p>
+
+<p>"I should think your husband would try again," said Ned.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his
+victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble."</p>
+
+<p>"Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them
+answered for the saddle&mdash;are not too wild," Mrs. Doan added.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no," the young wife answered. "Hawley would never consider selling
+Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go." She flushed
+with her ingenuous confidence. "Delia is named for me. A little romance
+in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our
+ranch."</p>
+
+<p>"Come with us in the machine," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do be good enough to
+show us 'Delia,'" said Mrs. Doan. "We are now doubly interested in your
+husband's horses."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been
+a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful
+stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity,
+and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham apron and
+entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving
+chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of
+Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up
+against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained;
+and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created
+to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little
+woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of
+peppers to paddocks beyond.</p>
+
+<p>"You never lock your door?" Mrs. Hartley questioned.</p>
+
+<p>"No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest
+where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," said Isabel. "How wonderful this upland country is; I envy
+you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!" She swept the
+range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined
+by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks.
+The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. "Happy horses!" she
+exclaimed. "I am not surprised they won the chariot races."</p>
+
+<p>The rancher's wife looked pleased. "My husband is very proud of his
+stock," she answered; "and here he is."</p>
+
+<p>Cole met them, tall and sun browned.</p>
+
+<p>Without further pleasantry the party plunged into business. The little
+woman who had brought the strangers thither realized an impending
+sacrifice. To part from any one of a noted "four" was hardly to be
+borne. Then she remembered that Hawley needed money; that lithe, slender
+"Delia" and her running mate were not to be sold. When a purchase price
+became definite she smiled, although she felt like crying. The trade
+assumed reality; and Ned Hartley, emerging from sulks, became
+interested. But his good nature did not last, for soon he understood
+that Isabel Doan was about to buy thoroughbred horses for the enjoyment
+of another man. The boy was mad with jealousy. He was sorry that he had
+urged the trip to the foothills. Then all at once he felt superior, very
+like a martyr, in view of all that he suffered and proposed to suffer
+for years to come. Meantime Cole put his horses through telling paces.
+No points of the beautiful pair were overlooked. Mrs. Doan acknowledged
+her wish to close the bargain, but the rancher evinced no haste. Finally
+it was agreed that the span should go to town for a week. A friend of
+Cole's would take care of them, while Mrs. Doan might drive each day,
+with the privilege of returning them. In case the trade went through, a
+permanent coachman and a groom would be duly recommended. Isabel's
+appointments from her own stable had recently arrived and now she could
+hardly wait to try the thoroughbreds in different styles of vehicles.</p>
+
+<p>"I shall accept your kind offer," she declared, smiling. "And you will
+remember the saddle horses? I wish for two beauties, as soon as
+possible." She was radiant, thinking first of Philip, of all that she
+was making ready for his new life&mdash;a life which must be perfect.
+"Automobiles shall never make me give up the joy of owning horses!" she
+declared.</p>
+
+<p>Ned Hartley bit his lip and turned away. Down in the valley he saw
+emerald growth flashing in sunshine. Spreading acres of orange orchard,
+trees always dressed in green swept onward from cleansed mountains and
+reviving foothills, to a distant line of blue&mdash;the ocean. The landscape
+was glorious, but the boy felt bitter and would not regard it. He joined
+the rancher's wife with pretext of renewed interest in her favorite.
+Mrs. Cole was feeding "Delia" sugar as Hartley approached. "We call her
+our baby," she explained. "I never dare meet her without offering sugar;
+I always carry a few lumps with me." To-day the high-spirited animal
+stood eating from the hand of her mistress, so gentle that Ned could
+hardly reconcile her present range with that of the track.</p>
+
+<p>"Will she run in the chariot races the first of January?" he asked, not
+caring, yet wishing to appear at ease.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Cole shook her dark head. "I think not," she answered. "My husband
+hardly expects to drive this year. Next season, with two young horses
+trained for running with Delia and her mate, he will try again. Last New
+Year's there was a great deal of trouble about prize money, in spite of
+the evident dishonorable driving of a certain man who fouled my
+husband's chariot. Oh, but it was exciting!"</p>
+
+<p>Ned begged for the story. The rancher's wife went on.</p>
+
+<p>"Hawley had virtually won the race; had taken the pole from his opponent
+on the first dash, just beyond the judge's stand; he was holding his
+advantage without difficulty, when beyond the second turn his right
+wheel was deliberately knocked off. Of course the big race of the day
+was ruined. The management of the tournament has done everything to
+induce Hawley to run his four this season, but he has refused." Her
+cheeks flushed with the thought of her husband's humiliation.</p>
+
+<p>"Will the man who fouled the chariot be permitted to drive again?"
+Hartley asked, with interest in foothill scandal.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Cole looked proudly away to the sun-browned man approaching.
+"Please do not speak of last year's race," she pleaded. "I dare not let
+Hawley know how I distrust the neighbor who fouled his chariot. But of
+course nothing was proved. It was but the word of one man against
+another, for the trouble took place too far from the judges' stand to be
+exactly defined. With some it passed as an accident. Then you know it
+was all so quick&mdash;the thundering by of the chariots&mdash;the crash!" She
+clasped her hands as Cole came nearer, then smiled at Mrs. Doan, who
+seemed a vision of happiness.</p>
+
+<p>Terms had been agreed upon and the horses were to be taken to town at
+once. But Mrs. Hartley had grown impatient. Not wishing to make the lady
+late for luncheon, Isabel brought her own affair to an abrupt close. "I
+am sure to keep them! I love the beautiful creatures already," she
+declared, as the machine shot away.</p>
+
+<p>The little woman of the foothills did not return in the car.</p>
+
+<p>"If the horses must go I am glad that she is to own them!" she cried,
+when her husband named the price. "Do you suppose she will marry the
+young man?"</p>
+
+<p>Cole shook his head doubtfully. "Can't say for sure; but if sulks are
+any indication, should say the boy was down on his luck. I think there
+must be another one; and by George! he ought to be president, or at
+least a senator, to splice with such a woman."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm not a bit jealous," his wife answered. "I think just as you do. I
+think she's the most gracious being I ever met."</p>
+
+<p>"She's a prize package, all right," Cole said. "And she has a mind of
+her own. The way she settled on the horses in less than twenty minutes
+shows that she's used to money. Most women would have taken three weeks
+to decide, coming back to haggle at least a dozen times." He cast his
+arm around his wife's trim waist, urging her gently down the road. "I'm
+as hungry as a wolf," he confessed. "Let's get something to eat; then
+we'll drive the span to Pasadena and price pianos. We'll have a corker!
+One that plays itself."</p>
+
+<p>She cried out joyously. After all, she might have something, too, like
+the favored woman who could look, then choose at will. Isabel spinning
+away from the foothills was still happy with thoughts of the morning's
+transaction. Very soon her stable would be ready for use. The span,
+saddle horses, a pony for Reginald were all in her mind. And she must
+have a touring car and an electric runabout besides. The house was
+already equipped with servants, including a first-class celestial cook,
+who achieved culinary mysteries with smiles and good nature. Madame had
+arrived to stay, and when the English nurse displaced Maggie life might
+move along with the spirit of Arcady. Then he would come! Philip, her
+once forbidden lover.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Weeks later washouts on the desert demoralized all overland trains, and
+Isabel waited impatiently for the belated "Limited." Then at seven in
+the evening she heard Philip Barry's voice over the telephone. In an
+hour he promised to be with her. During the morning she had wandered
+about the garden, trying in vain to picture the meeting with the man
+whom she had not seen for nearly a year. By afternoon she was in a fever
+of suspense. Throughout the house she had arranged flowers, with her own
+hands had cut great bunches of roses for the living-room. A few candles
+were already lighted, while blazing logs made home-like cheer. Isabel
+stood before the fire, waiting. She could not sit on a chair, with the
+clock in the hall ticking away loud seconds. To-night she wore soft
+white, with pearls. Her lover would be pleased to see her out of black.
+She wished his first moment to be full of joy.</p>
+
+<p>"Ma belle angele!" madame cried again and again. French ecstacy
+continued until Isabel begged for no more compliments. She kissed the
+old brown cheeks, then with sudden impulse fled above to her sleeping
+boy. Reaction had come at the end of a long, long day. The felicitous
+moment she had fancied was suddenly uncertain. Something she dared not
+define frightened her. All at once Reginald's soft breathing seemed
+reproachful.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear little son," she whispered, "mother loves you none the less, and
+he&mdash;will love you, too." She put her bare arm about the boy's warm body
+and kissed his cheek. Tears came into her eyes. She hardly knew whether
+she felt glad or sad. "Good night, little son; Father Barry is
+coming&mdash;'Father Barry,' who loves us both." Something told her to hope;
+and the clock in the hall was striking eight. All that had happened&mdash;all
+which was yet to happen&mdash;seemed like a dream. She had waited so
+anxiously, heard so often through the long day far-away trains whistling
+through the valley. To-night she scarce believed her summons when it
+came. But the maid had opened the outside door, and Isabel heard it
+shut. A man's voice spoke her name; Philip Barry was below. At the
+landing of the staircase she reached weakly for a card, dropped it, then
+went slowly down.</p>
+
+<p>Philip waiting in the bright, rich room saw her coming. He stood
+unconscious of his lately changed appearance, his evening clothes. A
+London tailor had assured him that he was now properly dressed for the
+way of the world, and at last his "priest's garb" was forgotten. His
+worshipful face, slightly thin, expressed only joy as he ran forward.
+But something was wrong with Isabel. Something seemed to be lost from
+the lover imploring at her side; and she shrank, holding him aloof for
+judgment.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it?" he cried. "Am I not welcome?" He scanned her face with
+passionate longing. "Do you regret&mdash;regret letting me come?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, no," she faltered. "Only wait! wait until I get used to you."</p>
+
+<p>He took her at her word and moved away. Hunger tried his soul. But he
+made a braver lover than he had been a priest.</p>
+
+<p>"What did you expect?" he asked at last.</p>
+
+<p>"Father Barry!" She was crying.</p>
+
+<p>He gathered her close.</p>
+
+<p>"Be patient," she begged. "The train was so late&mdash;so long, long
+coming&mdash;and&mdash;and you see I must get used to your vest not being fastened
+in the back."</p>
+
+<p>He smiled pitifully. "Will you ever forget? Ever be able to go beyond
+those mistaken years? Can you not go back to the time when we first knew
+each other?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, we will both go back. I will forget! I promise you. But tell me&mdash;"
+she was dazzling in her excitement&mdash;"tell me if you are sure! Have you
+never been sorry for what I made you do? You might have gone on, might
+have overcome things which seemed beyond your power. It was because I
+came that night in the midst of your trouble, when you were not strong
+enough to drive me from you. If I had stayed away?" She put the
+situation plainly, waiting for his answer as a soul on trial. She was
+jealous now, even of a possible, passing regret. "If I had stayed away?"
+she repeated.</p>
+
+<p>"I should have left the priesthood," he told her simply. "I had found
+out&mdash;knew certainly that I could not go on, even before I saw you. Your
+coming to me when my mother went but gave me hope, brought rescue.
+Before God I am now honest!"</p>
+
+<p>She threw her arms about his neck. All that she had withheld was
+waiting. Love blazed in her starry eyes, on her wonderful lips. Every
+doubt had gone with Philip's last words. Everything seemed
+clear&mdash;straightened out. Hours sped as moments. There was so much to
+talk about, so much to explain away. Each one went back to the beginning
+and to a time forbidden even in memory to an honorable wife, to a
+priest. Intermediate existence was soon wiped out. Then Isabel thought
+of her boy, now Philip's boy as well. They would bring the child up
+jointly. She was glad, very glad. "And you will love him always?" she
+implored. "He has not forgotten you; kisses your picture every day. You
+shall help me with his education. I am so anxious not to make mistakes.
+You know Reggie's warm, live temperament? You will advise me?"</p>
+
+<p>"I was not wise about my own career, but I will do my best for the boy,"
+Philip humbly promised.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel saw for the first time how much he had suffered. He looked older,
+haggard, despite his happiness. But his face had assumed grave
+sweetness. The old assurance of a once popular priest was gone.
+Dependence upon love would give him courage to begin over. The fullness
+of Isabel's rich nature swept outward to his need. "We shall be happy, I
+feel it, I feel it!" she whispered joyously.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Isabel awoke, fully conscious of the day just dawning. From her bed in
+the half-open sleeping porch she peered into a roseate east. With her
+whole heart she went out to meet the sun, slowly lifting from a rampart
+of dark mountains. This was Isabel's wedding day. At high noon she was
+to be married to Philip Barry. She rested on her elbow, waiting for the
+transcendent moment. She was a "sun worshiper" for the time, and not a
+cloud subdued the oncoming spectacle. As Isabel watched, the sable range
+took on softest blue, while snow-crowned peaks rose dazzling in the
+distance. Over the world the sun poured light. And this was her wedding
+day. It was still too early for a bath, too soon to begin her simple
+bridal toilet, and she fell back on the pillow. The white broadcloth
+gown and coat with feather-trimmed hat were ready, and the night before
+Philip had brought a bouquet of dewy-eyed forget-me-nots. She had chosen
+the flowers in preference to all others. There was very little to do, no
+more than for an afternoon call. She smiled over enjoined simplicity,
+glad that neither bridesmaids nor guests should claim thoughts which
+might all belong to Philip. During the past two months in which she had
+spent a part of each day with her lover, she had grown confident; they
+were both happy. Isabel no longer feared for the man beginning his
+fresh career. For his book&mdash;at last finished&mdash;had been sent to an
+Eastern publisher. Philip had not heard definitely, but there was reason
+to believe that the house in question would be glad to bring out a
+finely illustrated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a
+cultured class of readers. Already Isabel felt elated over her lover's
+beginning. The field of letters seemed more choice, more set apart,
+since Philip had decided to compete for honors. In imagination she saw
+her future husband's prolific volumes. How proudly she would dust the
+dark green row marked "Barry." She remembered that the name was
+preëmpted by a master Scotch novelist, and decided that "Philip Barry"
+should appear in full on the backs of the new author's uniform edition.
+She had read only parts of her lover's work, but it had been exciting to
+handle a real manuscript, one which must go forth to win! Philip alone
+understood the uncertain odds against disappointment. In a fight for
+fresh life he felt no desire for anything but honest work. The book had
+started upon a journey East a month before, and now each day Isabel
+watched her lover's face for news of its unqualified acceptance. The
+collection of exquisite cathedral views&mdash;actual paintings&mdash;done in Paris
+and submitted by a noted artist, would doubtless enhance the value of
+the work, yet it was, after all, Philip's part which timed the woman's
+heart to feverish interest. And to-day was her wedding day. From now on
+the book and its author were both hers. She stirred lightly in bed,
+again looking through the open flaps of her canvas room. A wonderful
+world was at last awake. Every bird evoked gladness, and Isabel too was
+glad. Then suddenly the boy slipped from his cot to snuggle within her
+arms. Enchantment of sleep lurked around his dewy eyes, and night had
+brushed his rounded cheeks with cool, fresh bloom. He kissed his mother
+again and again. "You've got most a bushel!" he cried. "Now I is going
+to love you." He was speaking more plainly each day, gradually ceasing
+to be a baby. "I like to stay with mother dear&mdash;in this nice bed," he
+said, contentedly. His arms held tighter. The mother's heart felt chill;
+she seemed to be turning the boy away. The child's words hurt her as she
+had never dreamed they could. She began to speak of a pony about to
+arrive, which she had purposely withheld against a trying time to come.
+"To-day is the day for the pony!" she announced bravely. "Mother's boy
+is to go out in his new cart with madame, is to drive like a man all
+afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>"But I want mother dear to come too," the child insisted.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother dear will come another day; to-day she is obliged to go to
+church, and then&mdash;&mdash;" her voice failed. She had given her boy no idea of
+the change actually at hand, had weakly depended on accident and his
+love for Philip. How now could she make the little fellow understand?
+She began again. "To-day mother must go to church, and&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Will Philip dear go too?" the boy asked eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said Isabel, glad of an opening wedge.</p>
+
+<p>"And will the little bell ring?"</p>
+
+<p>Isabel despaired. Would Reginald never forget? The Catholic services
+which he had once witnessed were yet vivid, and despite effort to
+dissociate Barry with a priest's part, the child was not well pleased
+with the conventional garb of his adored friend. Recently he had
+innocently inquired for the "bu-ti-ful hat" formerly worn before the
+altar. The boy's regret was so genuine that Philip felt his pale cheeks
+deepen. The mother had tactfully explained that "Father Barry" of old no
+longer preached in a church, and that now "Philip dear" had come to
+stay. The little boy, without understanding, adopted the change, and
+"Philip dear" had soon become both his playfellow and his teacher.</p>
+
+<p>This morning Isabel tried in vain to pass over the hard part of a day
+that after all could not be happy until she had settled an important
+matter.</p>
+
+<p>"Sweetheart," she implored, then flushed. "Precious boy, listen. Don't
+ask any more questions and mother will tell you all about the pony."
+Reginald placed his small hand over his mouth.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm doing to keep stiller," he promised.</p>
+
+<p>"Very well," said Isabel, pressing him to her heart. "The pony is sure
+to come right after luncheon. Mother may be away, but madame and Carolyn
+will both be here. Reggie must be very good and drive like a man all
+afternoon in his cart. Perhaps when madame has gone for a ride Carolyn
+will take her place and stop for little Elizabeth. Would not that be
+fine?"</p>
+
+<p>"Great!" said Reginald; then added, "I suppose she'll have to bring
+every one of her dolls."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then
+Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.</p>
+
+<p>"Because&mdash;because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer.
+Isabel wept miserably in his curls.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until
+he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her
+arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married
+to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the
+astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear,
+Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."</p>
+
+<p>"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father&mdash;Reggie's dear father."</p>
+
+<p>"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long
+time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended
+taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.</p>
+
+<p>"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?"
+The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.</p>
+
+<p>"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may
+I? May I? Mother darling&mdash;goody! goody! goody!"</p>
+
+<p>"I think you may," she answered.</p>
+
+<p>He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober.
+Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he
+demanded.</p>
+
+<p>"No darling, not my father, only my husband."</p>
+
+<p>He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby
+lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he
+asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her
+husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation
+personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see,
+mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody!
+goody!"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
+
+
+<p>Everything was at last arranged, and Carolyn dressed the boy for his
+mother's wedding. The little fellow looked proud and sober in his best
+white suit, with a tiny bunch of Isabel's forget-me-nots for a bridal
+favor. He sat very still and grown up all the way to the church, built
+after an English model and picturesquely hidden among green hills. The
+beautiful chapel made a complete surprise when the carriage stopped on
+the country road. Madame took Reginald's tiny gloved hand and led him
+forward, while Isabel moved slowly after them. As all three entered the
+church, bells began to sound, and a man came quickly forward to say that
+an Episcopal clergyman and Philip Barry were both waiting at the foot of
+the chancel. Madame guided her charge to a stall used by choir boys now
+absent. Here the old French woman and the boy stood, expectant. Isabel
+came on alone, vaguely conscious of her way; then suddenly she felt
+protected&mdash;loved, for Philip had reached her side. The clergyman entered
+the chancel. The man and woman to be joined in wedlock heard him begin
+the service. His words fell distinctly, and soon Isabel and Philip
+listened to the solemn charge administered before marriage. "That if
+either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined
+together in matrimony, ye do now confess it," rang over their heads,
+into their souls, with momentary, questioning force. But the pause
+enjoined by the Church ended, and no voice had accused the apostate
+priest. The clergyman went on. Glad that the stern proviso was passed,
+Isabel faintly smiled, then glanced at Philip. He was pale. Undaunted,
+she put her hand in his and followed his deep responses with a clear
+voice. It seemed natural that he should remember the bar to their
+earlier happiness. Isabel moved slowly to the altar. By the side of the
+man she trusted she felt no fear. The sunlight of human love, the
+influence of home, a chance for intellectual freedom,&mdash;all these should
+make Philip forget a miserable, restless year. And at last the two were
+kneeling. Prayers and the benediction had made them one. The first test
+was over. Soon they were signing the parish register and could now leave
+the sacristy. The boy and madame were waiting. Again the bells sounded.
+Philip led the way to the carriage, and a moment later all were driving
+off together. Along the wayside early poppies lifted golden chalices to
+nuptial health, while a meadow lark extolled the day. All about, buzzing
+insects piped joy. Isabel was glad that she had selected the tiny
+country chapel for her marriage.</p>
+
+<p>And the drive home was a pleasant one. Restraint lifted as the boy
+prattled and madame overflowed in French. Isabel and Philip gave out to
+each other without fear or confusion. Then came the gay arrival, with
+servants waiting, and the boy's pony and cart in readiness for a time
+postponed. But the mother no longer dreaded temporary parting, for now
+she was sure of her little son's will power. Since the confidence of
+early morning her heart had felt free. Throughout luncheon she planned
+for the boy's amusement during a month set apart for the honeymoon.
+There was much to be said about letters and surprises which were to
+arrive each day. Then when "mother dear" came back Reginald must drive
+her out into the country. Later the advent of kites would afford
+opportunity for an indulgent new father. The child was altogether
+satisfied. Isabel found no difficulty in slipping above for a change she
+had almost feared to make. When she came down dressed for traveling her
+son was so happy with his pony and cart that the equipage marking a
+bride's departure seemed to be purely incidental to the main interest of
+the afternoon.</p>
+
+<p>With quick embraces, a farewell hand wave, Isabel and Philip were gone.
+The old slipper, flung by madame, hit the carriage and fell to the
+ground.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2>
+
+
+<p>"At last!" said Philip; and his wife responded with a happy smile. The
+afternoon trip to St. Barnabas had begun. The two were sitting in the
+Pullman, at liberty to forget everything in the world but their wedding
+journey. As yet it was too soon to regard the future; the present was
+all satisfying. Isabel began to speak of their marriage ceremony, as
+most brides are apt to do. "How simple and easy it all was," she
+declared. "I shall always love that darling chapel among the hills. Did
+you feel the spring coming through the open windows? And did you hear
+the meadow lark on our way back? Oh, I loved it all."</p>
+
+<p>Her husband smiled at her natural joy. Then peering into Philip's face
+Isabel saw again that his cheeks were thin. If anything he was more
+distinguished looking, yet already she feared for his health. He had
+been working too hard, and the next month must do wonders for the man
+she loved. "At St. Barnabas we shall live out of doors every moment of
+the day," she declared. "I can hardly wait to show you that wonderful
+country. It will be perfect to go about in the saddle; how glad I am
+that we sent the horses on ahead and in full time."</p>
+
+<p>"You are a fairy wife instead of a fairy godmother," said Philip.</p>
+
+<p>"Nonsense," she answered. "I am absolutely selfish. I love the saddle
+far better than my dinner, and my only fear is that I may tire you out."</p>
+
+<p>"No danger; I'm going to astonish you. Besides, you have given me the
+easiest horse."</p>
+
+<p>She denied the charge. "One is as fine a mount as the other. I shall
+never cease to be thankful to our friend Cole. And isn't it nice that he
+is to take care of the horses during our stay at the hotel?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pretty nice for him," said Philip.</p>
+
+<p>"And for us, too," she persisted. "I really did not wish to leave madame
+and Reginald without a coachman. Of course I could have let Tom come,
+but he is altogether too fond of a good time. Parker threatens to find
+another groom every week. Besides," she hesitated, then laughed,
+"besides, I wanted Cole and his little wife to have a treat. They will
+both enjoy getting away from the foothills."</p>
+
+<p>"I called you a good fairy, now I am sure of it," said her husband. She
+smiled.</p>
+
+<p>"Of what use is an income if we may not enjoy it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Absolutely good for nothing," he answered.</p>
+
+<p>"And it's almost selfishness to do little favors that in reality cost
+only the thought. Some day we must do something big&mdash;found an art
+institute, perhaps on this very coast." She was thinking of his lost
+cathedral. "Then I should love to help talented young girls with no way
+of reaching 'head waters.'" He looked at her proudly. "There are so many
+things needed&mdash;so many appeals to choose from, that we will surely find
+the right place for a little money." Philip remembered the check which
+she had sent him over a year ago.</p>
+
+<p>Now her desire to make the whole world glad was part of her new
+happiness. But soon they talked of other matters, or else looked out
+through the wide window at charming, changing landscape. All afternoon
+the train climbed the rugged coast range, often boring its way through a
+tunneled mountain. At five o'clock they had tea on a small table, when a
+wonderful sunset touched every hill and spur of their upland road.
+Evening came all too soon. Stars began to peep, and suddenly domestic
+lights twinkled across a populous valley. Then, near by, the great
+Pacific beat eternal measure on silver sands. It was eight o'clock when
+the train stopped in St. Barnabas, at the rear of a noted caravansary
+flaming electrical welcome. Philip had already engaged rooms. Resigning
+his checks and suit cases to a waiting porter, he led Isabel down the
+footpath through a garden of palms and flowers. The way seemed
+fairyland, while on either hand the breath of blossoms filled the night.</p>
+
+<p>"My wife&mdash;my precious wife," he said softly. At their feet stretches of
+shasta daisies lay as snow. Isabel pressed her husband's arm.</p>
+
+<p>"Could any place be more perfect for our honeymoon?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>Lapping of waves reached the garden. The newly wed pair did not hasten,
+yet all too soon the flower-bordered path ended beneath lighted arches.
+The two went slowly forward, while just how to pass unconcernedly from
+the clerk's desk to the elevator, made them really seem like "bride and
+groom." For the first time each secretly acknowledged happy, bewildered
+self-consciousness. The blazing corridor filled with beautifully gowned
+women and men in evening dress, groups of older people back from an
+early dinner, strains of music calling late diners to waiting tables,
+gave instant local color to both time and place. Philip scrawling
+personal decoration on the hotel daybook grew careful and wrote the new
+appendage to his name with telltale neatness. However, it was soon over.
+Neither looking to right nor left the couple bolted past groups of
+curious women, were all but safe in the protecting elevator, when a
+familiar voice spoke Isabel's name. Gay Lewis, alert for sensation,
+faced the grating of the rising lift. "Delighted to see you!" she called
+after them. And Philip Barry's wife answered with the smile prescribed
+under all conditions for a bride.</p>
+
+<p>As they rose above, Philip looked questioningly at Isabel. "An old
+school friend of mine," she told him. He made a wry face.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you many more of them about the hotel?" She laughed softly.</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot say. One never knows whom one may meet in California."</p>
+
+<p>They were leaving the elevator, following a boy with keys to their
+rooms. "I hope we shall not be surprised on every side," the man
+persisted. Isabel caught his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind," she whispered, "I'll take care of you. But you must be
+nice to Gay Lewis. We are simply destined to meet the world over, and
+Gay has a way of saying things." The bell boy was beyond hearing
+distance. "Not that she has anything to say about us of slightest
+interest to strangers," she hastened to add. Philip saw the flush on her
+cheeks. Was she already beginning to dread unavoidable notoriety? The
+thought sobered him. Now he understood. But Isabel should not suffer, if
+being polite to every one in Christendom could help matters.</p>
+
+<p>"I shall bend to 'the higher criticism,' do my best to impress Miss
+Lewis," he declared with assumed gayety.</p>
+
+<p>Then Isabel exclaimed as the door to their spacious sitting-room flew
+open. The place was a bower of roses. "Did you tell them to do it?" she
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>Philip forgot a passing shadow and smiled an affirmative answer.</p>
+
+<p>"It is lovely! the loveliest room I was ever in," she declared. "How
+dear of you." Philip stopped by the window, enjoying his wife's girlish
+joy. She sank her face into every separate bunch of flowers. "Oh, these
+dear, dear pink ones!" she cried.</p>
+
+<p>American Beauties nodded above her head, and she stood on a footstool to
+inhale their fragrance. On a round table covered with a white cloth was
+a huge bowl of "bride roses," fitting emblem for the day. Philip's
+surprise had been perfect. The delicate forethought which had ordered
+her bower, which stipulated for the little dinner to be served in the
+sitting-room, away from curious eyes, touched her beyond words. Her
+husband was indeed a lover! She ran to him with outstretched arms. As
+never before she knew the depth of a long-denied moment. And later, when
+she laid aside her coat and hat, to sit at the first little dinner
+alone,&mdash;but for the deferential waiter coming in and going out,&mdash;she
+kept thinking of all that they had in store, of their happiness to come.</p>
+
+<p>Philip was never as gay, never so like the boy of years back&mdash;the boy
+who had loved the girl. Both were beginning over again and time between
+had taught them the price of joy.</p>
+
+<p>"On this night we toast each other," said Philip, lifting his glass.
+"There is just 'one cold bottle' for our 'little hot bird'! I drink to
+my wife!"</p>
+
+<p>His eyes glowed. Isabel touched his glass with her own. "To the dearest
+husband in the whole big world!" she responded, then kissed him. He held
+her away from him, feasting on her beauty. But she begged for freedom,
+and took her place at the opposite side of the table. "We must behave,"
+she cautioned. "He's coming! I hear him down the hall."</p>
+
+<p>"I will be circumspect," Philip promised. "But I'm losing my appetite. I
+don't feel glad of salad and the rest. Let's fire him before the coffee;
+I want to sip mine with my wife on my knee."</p>
+
+<p>"For shame!" she chided, as the waiter tapped the door, with a loaded
+tray. "Do seem to be hungry. If we send things back untouched we shall
+be the talk of the hotel kitchen." Laughter was a natural part of the
+little dinner. "It is just like playing party," she declared, when the
+man again disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>"Please pass the sugar," Philip begged. "Won't you kiss me again?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not now," she refused. "We must remember that Reginald is learning
+table manners; if we act too badly through our honeymoon, he may notice
+shortcomings when we get home. Besides, he's coming&mdash;the waiter's
+coming. Be dignified."</p>
+
+<p>"Will coffee ever begin?" Philip complained.</p>
+
+<p>"Very soon." They both laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"Which shall I use, a fork or a spoon for my frozen pudding?"</p>
+
+<p>"Your fork&mdash;by all means; now please talk sensibly; he's just outside."</p>
+
+<p>Philip thought of the king who dined without servants, and wished that
+he too had built a table for the occasion, one with a dummy lift in its
+center, to bring up food and to carry away the dishes.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel watched with playful eyes until the last of his pudding was gone.
+Then she dismissed the waiter. Black coffee and a first cigar for the
+benedict state were both enjoyed without interruption. The evening
+lengthened. Philip saw his wife flit about the rooms with joyous air of
+proprietorship. Reginald's picture stood on the table beside the "bride
+roses."</p>
+
+<p>Something told him to go below on a natural pretext, for their trunks
+were late. When he went out Isabel did not stir. Everything was so
+wonderful, so much more wonderful than she had fancied. But at last she
+began to move about, smiling. She hung her traveling coat in the closet
+and brushed her hat. Her suit case was unlocked and unstrapped, and she
+drew forth things which were needed. She loosened her hair, plaiting it
+as usual. Two golden braids hung down her back. Then she slipped into a
+soft robe of silk and lace, and stood by the window facing the sea,
+waiting for her husband.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the
+season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant.
+Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that
+the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each
+morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew
+to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple
+mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment
+created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different.
+But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat
+on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to
+leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back,
+whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing
+his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter
+prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of
+gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all
+unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his
+word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due
+consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same
+time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose
+husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons
+were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and
+Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon;
+frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat
+apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on
+the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at
+St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous
+mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage
+and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of
+walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a
+panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more
+lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the
+upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came
+a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different
+direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale
+of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard
+the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old
+fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline,
+and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple
+strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate
+reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a
+perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts
+went out&mdash;against his will&mdash;to the cathedral he had longed to
+perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious
+mother's milk, rose unbidden;&mdash;a challenge to his love for Isabel. His
+wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened
+as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more.
+Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile,
+no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own
+keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an
+esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be
+proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St.
+Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not
+asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to
+enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so
+would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was
+already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had
+been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power;
+now the man&mdash;her husband&mdash;held her with the same irresistible
+fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and
+manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him
+the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt
+willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded
+attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded
+over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.</p>
+
+<p>But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay
+canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then
+suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of
+the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he
+should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to
+enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he
+was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the
+locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be
+changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic
+standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither
+embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with
+thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money.
+The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a
+priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here
+the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the
+sun.</p>
+
+<p>"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.</p>
+
+<p>The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered
+pleasantly.</p>
+
+<p>The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors,
+crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it
+back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing
+order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did
+not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural
+temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude
+opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in
+charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about
+the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of
+the oaken door.</p>
+
+<p>He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his
+fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the
+swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She
+regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at
+the same time she tried&mdash;as she always tried&mdash;to repay a debt with
+simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her
+with favor.</p>
+
+<p>As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to
+examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the
+conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the
+church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder
+that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been
+treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San
+Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's
+religion."</p>
+
+<p>The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must
+become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of
+the good fathers," he suggested.</p>
+
+<p>"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished
+with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to
+strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading
+above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded
+the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to
+mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the
+sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she
+refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic
+steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day
+I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went
+behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both
+were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain.
+Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the
+first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that
+Adam still had Eve.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's
+shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged
+brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill,
+perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking
+to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around
+his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these
+same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little
+cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long
+dead and forgotten.</p>
+
+<p>As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might
+the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with
+tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his
+mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to
+ascend from the old garden&mdash;from the invalid brother leaning back on
+pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly
+her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back
+refusal.</p>
+
+<p>"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget
+that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I
+could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below
+us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away
+with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the
+cloister."</p>
+
+<p>He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his
+countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible,
+except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back
+to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for
+normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.</p>
+
+<p>"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not
+forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the
+other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink
+salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in
+sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal
+his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in
+his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of
+Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the
+realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world"
+cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes,
+Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.</p>
+
+<p>But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are
+you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing
+recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am
+no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see
+the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen.
+Come, let us hasten."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother,
+waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of
+generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of
+early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers
+accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on,
+with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when
+his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated
+by the brother in charge.</p>
+
+<p>Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel
+shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself
+attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of
+early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated
+knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of
+saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played
+no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his
+bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to
+the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years
+back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the
+flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and
+looked at Isabel. Did she know&mdash;understand? Her serene face expressed no
+undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had
+walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal
+interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the
+brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes
+from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of
+wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in
+surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two
+young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden.
+The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother
+accompanied him on the organ.</p>
+
+<p>"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient
+pew. "They are practicing&mdash;for service?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own
+rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a
+youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of
+dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic
+colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new
+wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her;
+and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions.
+Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.</p>
+
+<p>"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we
+may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now
+prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the
+brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too
+responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned
+once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes.
+After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission
+always open to a curious public.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip and Isabel were in full time for luncheon. The wife noticed that
+her husband ate his toast and squab with appetite. His cheeks were
+flushed from the canter back to the hotel, while during the half hour at
+table he appeared both happy and talkative.</p>
+
+<p>"Shall you mind if I go off this afternoon for golf?" he asked, as they
+went from the dining-room.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel's face expressed satisfaction. Her husband had hardly left her
+side since their arrival. She believed in casual separation. She knew
+instinctively that Philip must feel renewed interest in his own sex, to
+be quite the man he had been before his trouble of months back.</p>
+
+<p>"Go, by all means," she encouraged, as they went from the elevator to
+their rooms. "Golf must be your game; it will do you a world of good to
+follow the links."</p>
+
+<p>"And you won't miss me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not a bit," she answered. "Besides, I want to expect you back. I wish
+to feel the pang of parting, so that I may know how very, very lonely I
+used to be." She spoke lightly, but he knew that in reality she did not
+jest. "And the man&mdash;your opponent in golf?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>Philip stooped and kissed her. "How do you know that I am not going to
+tread the turf with a fair lady?" he teased.</p>
+
+<p>"I should be awfully jealous," she confessed. He knew that she spoke the
+truth. It came over him at the time that men were few who might claim
+such love as Isabel's. In her starry eyes he read salvation, felt the
+depth of her womanly will. Inadequate power to repay his debt made him
+humble. He kissed her again, holding her close with adoring tenderness.
+Then he told her that he was about to play golf with the great publisher
+whom he had recently met. The triumph on her lips amused him.</p>
+
+<p>"Build no air-castles!" he begged. But she freed herself from his arms
+and danced like a child.</p>
+
+<p>"What a chance!" she cried. "You must make him your friend. I saw last
+evening that he was immensely interested in you, and now he may ask you
+to write for his magazine." Isabel's estimate of her husband's genius,
+of his ability to rush into print in one of the foremost monthly
+publications in the country, was fresh proof of her blind passion.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't think such foolish things, dear little girl," Philip commanded.
+"The road to solicited manuscripts is a long way off&mdash;as yet. I shall
+have to get my stuff back many, many times before I can count on an
+indulgent editor." He spoke humbly, yet withal the eternal spark of hope
+had kindled for his literary career.</p>
+
+<p>"Shall you tell him of your book&mdash;about 'The Spirit of the Cathedral'?"</p>
+
+<p>Philip shook his head. "That might frighten him. He would think that I
+had an ax to grind."</p>
+
+<p>"But you have sent your manuscript to another publishing house," she
+persisted.</p>
+
+<p>"That is true," he assented, "but until I hear definitely, I do not care
+to talk of my forthcoming book. Besides, the man is here for rest and
+change. If I am able to make him my friend he may possibly tell me
+things. Above all, I must not bore him with my own uncertain
+achievements." He laughed, tugging at his golf shoe. "But you shall try
+your art on the man this evening; I have promised to present him."</p>
+
+<p>"I will do my best," Isabel answered. "And by reason of the dance
+to-night the bride may wear white satin. She is irresistible in la robe
+empire."</p>
+
+<p>Philip faced her. "I see all my manuscripts accepted at once," he said
+jestingly.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course. Now run along; do not keep our great man waiting. I shall
+rest for an hour, then write to madame and Reginald."</p>
+
+<p>"And you are really able for a ball, after the high steps of the mission
+tower?"</p>
+
+<p>It was the first time that he had spoken of their morning's experience.
+Isabel was overjoyed at his light reference to the visit to the old
+church.</p>
+
+<p>"To dance will limber me, beyond doubt," she declared, with a wave of
+her hand. She watched him pass down the hall to the elevator; then she
+went back to her sitting-room.</p>
+
+<p>At last she felt the glad sense of partnership. Ambition for the man she
+loved threatened to become more absorbing than all else in her life.
+Suddenly her boy seemed to reproach her. On the table his lifelike
+portrait begged for notice. She caught up the silver frame.</p>
+
+<p>"Darling little son!" she murmured, "mother will soon be at home&mdash;more
+than ever your playmate, your companion." She put the picture down and
+sat with her head resting between her hands. Her thoughts were now all
+with Reginald. What was he doing? Was he out in his pony cart? Was
+dainty baby Elizabeth along, giving the dolls an airing? Then, above
+all, did the boy miss his "mother dear"? She drew a crumpled half sheet
+of paper from an envelope. "Bless his dear little heart," she again
+murmured. Reginald's zigzag message, together with round spots
+wonderfully colored to represent kisses, drew her lips. She responded to
+a realistic fancy, smiling above her son's confident masterpiece. Then
+she re-read a letter from madame. All were moving along, and the child
+was happy.</p>
+
+<p>Her old friend's idiomatic expression kept her smiling to the end, while
+she realized anew the good fortune which had brought the French woman to
+California. In future Reginald might have every chance with his French.
+The mother decided to make luncheon, with the boy at table, a time set
+apart for French conversation. Philip, too, spoke the foreign tongue;
+and again Isabel planned for Reginald's liberal education. And she meant
+to study herself, by the side of a talented husband. How full life
+promised to become. But with every consistent hope her own ambition was
+subordinate to love. To love, to be loved by Philip, by Reginald, by
+friends, constituted the little world she longed to conquer. And
+to-night, she wished to shine at the ball, not as a woman evoking
+admiration from the crowd, but as Philip's wife. If she might help to
+bring him fresh power she was satisfied. Nor did Isabel deny her own
+evident advantage. She was too familiar with standards of beauty not to
+be glad of a rich inheritance; yet in all her life she had never been
+vain. For to be vain is to be selfish, pinned upon a revolving, personal
+pivot. Isabel had always thought first of others. To-day her mind was
+full of schemes for Philip, for Reginald, and for old madame. If Philip
+agreed she wished to live permanently in California. She had already put
+her closed house in the West on the market. The city which had once been
+home no longer claimed her interest. And Philip must never go back to
+the scene of his past humiliation. She reached for a traveling portfolio
+and began to write to Reginald. Here and there she pasted bright
+pictures to illustrate a little story which would be sure to delight her
+boy. When she had finished she dashed off a letter in French to madame;
+then, fearing that Philip might be late, she laid out his dinner
+clothes. She was not in need of companionship, and a couch close to the
+wide window facing the sea lured her. She would rest. Waves splashed a
+rhythm of contentment. Out beyond the breakers a buoy creaked in vain,
+for her nerves were as sound as her boy's. She did not mind the
+incessant grind. She was happy&mdash;satisfied.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2>
+
+
+<p>The Saturday evening hop, which so often was a perfunctory recurrence,
+blossomed into an occasion, when a score of United States naval officers
+entered the hotel. The great fleet had not then made the gallant dash
+around the Horn; but for several years preceding this noted achievement
+stray battleships had touched along the Western coast. The ship in
+question bound for Manila was now anchored over night outside the
+breakers of St. Barnabas. Corridors of the hotel palpitated when
+privileged men off the man-of-war burst upon the scene. In less than a
+minute maneuvers in the ballroom eclipsed those of the outlying
+battleship, as anxious mammas steered young daughters to open port.
+Lines drew taut and merciless for all untouched by the accolade of
+station, while on every side sat groups of elderly onlookers.</p>
+
+<p>Officers in immaculate evening dress, ready for change, eager to dance
+with pretty women, moved easily about, and soon surcharged conditions
+were overcome by general satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>By Isabel's side Gay Lewis shone with reflected prominence. Nor did the
+girl deny the evident truth when flocking ensigns marked her for second
+choice.</p>
+
+<p>"You are a dear!" she reiterated after each opportunity due to her
+friend. "I have not had a chaperone for a long time. Now I see my
+blunder." For Philip Barry's wife was the undoubted toast of the navy
+men.</p>
+
+<p>In a day when dancing has degenerated into pathetic uncertainty the
+advent of willing ensigns might well be put down as something new and
+exhilarating. Isabel forgot her strenuous climb to the mission roof. She
+had not enjoyed a ball for full five years; and she was like a girl
+surrounded by a swarm of admirers. To-night the great publisher had no
+chance, with epaulets to right and left. But the afternoon at golf had
+been successful. Philip and his new friend stood together on the
+outskirts, each duly conscious of his own inadequate worth.</p>
+
+<p>"It behooves us to tread modestly&mdash;we fellows who have adopted a sober
+career," the editor declared. "I never could learn. My mother kept me at
+dancing school until I had tramped the toes of every little girl in the
+class, then one day she gave me up." He laughed drolly, while his eyes
+took in the swift, unconscious movement of Mrs. Barry and her partner, a
+tall young ensign.</p>
+
+<p>"We are not in China, and fortunately I may speak to you of your wife,"
+he went on. "As a comparatively new acquaintance, I beg to congratulate
+you. You are too fortunate in a world where many are not."</p>
+
+<p>Barry stiffened. The other sensed misapprehension.</p>
+
+<p>"I have never been married," he explained. "I am denied the pleasure of
+admiring my own wife. Those days at dancing school took away all
+possible hope. For years I could hardly shake hands with a girl of my
+own age; then you see I got wedded to single life&mdash;spent my days
+passing upon loves of fictitious heroes and heroines."</p>
+
+<p>"Too bad," said Philip, deeply interested.</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes I think I should have made a much better judge of literature
+if I had only asked a woman to share my criticisms and bear my remorse
+when I turn down very readable things. You see a man who has not married
+can never be quite as sure as one who knows the taste of both good and
+evil. 'The woman which thou gavest me' may do a lot of mischief, but
+when the crash comes she generally compensates. For my part I doubt if
+Adam would have gone back into the garden with any interest whatever
+after Eve found 'pastures new' outside."</p>
+
+<p>"And you believe that a married man is capable of better work than a
+single one?" Philip was growing curious.</p>
+
+<p>"Undoubtedly," the editor answered. "I have in my mind a certain writer
+of note, one who but for persistent bachelorhood might have risen to
+highest rank in fiction. As it is, he has always fallen short of the
+real emotion. A certain class reading his books fail to detect mere
+description in supposedly passionate episodes, but to those of deeper
+consciousness and experience he has counterfeit feeling. This particular
+novelist works from matrimonial patterns&mdash;traces all that he draws. I am
+older than yourself, and you will pardon me for saying it, but your wife
+should help you to achieve almost anything."</p>
+
+<p>Philip flushed. The pride of possession came over him afresh when Isabel
+whirled past, with a smile which he knew could never be untrue. Above
+her radiance, beauty, he felt her exquisite womanhood. To-night he
+believed that she would lead him to "pastures new&mdash;outside." Throughout
+the evening Philip stayed by the editor, gradually making his way into
+the man's confidence, while adhering to a first determination which
+withheld the fact of his own unprinted book. Then at midnight, Isabel,
+Miss Lewis, and three young officers captured the onlookers and forced
+them away to supper.</p>
+
+<p>It was a gay little party. The round table at which all sat became an
+excuse for a full hour's enjoyment; and as Isabel had promised, she did
+her best to make the editor, who might possibly help Philip, her own
+friend also. The undertaking was not difficult. If dancing school trials
+had left an eternal scar on the bachelor's unclaimed heart to-night he
+showed no unwillingness to devote himself to Isabel. Philip was amused.
+Then he remembered his wife's unfailing charm. He had never seen her
+unsympathetic or rude. When she really cared to please, she could not be
+soon forgotten by any one selected for her favor. And to-night, as
+usual, the elderly publisher and the young ensigns from the ship all
+went under to a woman's gracious way. Nor was Miss Lewis annoyed.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," she said afterward, "no one ever attempts to eclipse
+Isabel; for don't you see she would not care in the least, and that
+being the case, no other woman would be foolish enough to try&mdash;and then
+fail." And Gay was at her best during supper. Philip had never liked her
+as well as when the party broke up. There was, after all, something fine
+and straightforward about the girl, who appeared to drift with the tide
+of hotel pastimes. Philip told himself that as a priest he had been
+narrow in many of his judgments. The evening had stimulated his
+respect for the world. His emotional nature went out again to
+things he had once given up. Isabel's beauty held him in passionate
+bonds; and he felt incentive for new work. His book, which came next to
+his wife&mdash;for no one writes seriously without the sense of humanized
+accomplishment&mdash;suddenly went up in his own estimation. The evening with
+a real publisher had stiffened his confidence; and for the first time
+since his marriage he merged love for Isabel with the success of "The
+Spirit of the Cathedral." But his personal undercurrent passed
+unnoticed. To his wife he seemed detached from all but the present. As
+she drew him away from the shining ballroom she exulted to herself.
+Unusual and lighter opportunity seemed to be what her husband most
+needed.</p>
+
+<p>The battleship hauled anchor at dawn. The men had already started for
+the tug and a trip across the breakers. The hotel was despoiled of
+glory. Corridors were soon dim and lonely. To Isabel the night had
+proved her husband's ease with a life comparatively new and untried. She
+felt young, contented, ready for all which might come. Not a fear for
+Philip crossed her mind as she went to her rooms. She had been
+exhilarated throughout the evening; but now she was glad to rest. Philip
+unfastened her gown, halting to kiss her bare shoulders, to tell her
+about their friend, the magazine editor. As she slipped out of her ball
+finery she was like a girl after a first night of conquest. Later he
+listened to her gentle, regular breathing as he lay by her side. It
+seemed yet a dream that she was really his wife. Events of the past
+began to fill his mind. Then reaction, which so often came with excess
+of feeling, kept him awake for hours. But at last he dropped away, only
+to rouse up at intervals. The outgoing tide seemed to carry him to the
+anchored ship, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken passion of the
+sea forbade sleep. With every tardy lap of waves he grew more restless;
+and dawn broke. All at once, a desire to witness the departure of the
+man-of-war drew him from bed. Isabel slumbered as a child, and Philip
+went softly to the window and looked out. The sea rose and fell an
+arctic green. There was no mist, and he could see the great ship
+clearly. A streamer of black smoke floated across the morning sky;
+already there were signs of departure. Philip dressed quickly and
+quietly. It occurred to him that Isabel might be shocked to awaken and
+find him gone. He smiled as he slipped into the sitting-room to indite a
+line "To the Sleeping Beauty." But his wife did not stir when he pinned
+the note to his own empty pillow. He went back to the adjoining
+apartment for his field glasses; then out of the door through quiet
+halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip watched the maneuvers of the battleship from the shore, at the
+foot of the hotel. His glasses were strong, and he could make out
+regular disciplined movements of men on board. What a life, he thought.
+To be always waiting for war, ready for action in any part of the world,
+regardless of human personal ties. The monster breasting waves seemed as
+horrible as it was majestic. The man who was once a priest had never
+wished to be a soldier. This morning he sensed the command to draw
+anchor, felt the significance of carnage for the sea, saw the ship move.
+Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.
+The man followed with his glasses. He stood fascinated by almost
+imperceptible motion. Against morning sky a black streamer rested, then
+gradually trailed to invisible distance, as broadside perspective
+dropped away. The man-of-war was gone. But Philip still stood on the
+shore. Early day had taken possession of his will. He seemed rooted to
+the wet sand beneath his feet. Was Isabel awake? Had she yet missed him?
+He looked back at the hotel, rising above lawn and palm trees. He could
+see no signs of life, and it occurred to him that a brisk walk might
+atone for his restless night. The fresh air stimulated him as he went
+forward. Without thought of destination he left the ocean for the
+esplanade, the esplanade for the long business street of the town. As
+he went on he began to see people and to realize for the first time that
+it was Sunday. Many were going to early Mass, and he was not among them.
+At a corner he saw a modern Catholic church. The old mission now had its
+rival in the new brick building. Several maids from the hotel got off a
+car to hurry onward. A woman in front went faster as she neared the
+church, but turned half round and looked at Philip. He felt her
+insinuating survey as he strode rapidly away; then he recognized
+Reginald Doan's former nurse. It was undoubtedly Maggie; and she knew
+him for all that he had once been. He could not be mistaken. That Maggie
+had deceived Isabel and followed Mrs. Grace to St. Barnabas was plain.
+With that lady's departure for the East, the girl must have ceased to be
+her maid. Maggie's surprise seemed evident; and at best the encounter
+was disagreeable. Philip hurried on with the sense of being watched. He
+walked past gardens, not seeing flowers freshened by night's cool touch
+and morning's breath. Suddenly he was cast down, depressed by something
+impalpable.</p>
+
+<p>But he went on and on in absent-minded mood, taking no note of locality,
+not realizing his distance from the closely settled town. He followed
+the track of a car line, dimly conscious of the way, until, without
+warning&mdash;the mission faced him. He might have known! Still he had the
+habit of losing himself when Isabel was not his leader; and they seldom
+went out except on their horses. Miserable, angry, he stood afar,
+irresistibly called by sounding bells.</p>
+
+<p>He saw men and women go up the wide worn steps to early Mass; then like
+an outcast he turned away to board a car returning to the hotel. Isabel
+would be waiting, wondering what had become of him. And he would not
+tell her, would never let her know of his childish trip. The mission had
+become an obsession. He saw it in his dreams and heard about it on all
+sides. Every artist painted it; and carriage drivers on the streets
+urged him to take a seat for the inevitable trip. Children showed him
+their post cards adorned with a picture of the historic church or else
+some scene taken in the cloister garden. The mission was getting onto
+his nerves. He was almost beginning to hate it. He would never see it
+again; and with the thought, he looked back at the graceful stretch of
+the low, sun-kissed monastery, following on like a little brother to the
+close protection of the "old fathers'" abler work. It was so beautiful,
+so simple, that he could not deny. His knowledge of architecture, his
+sense of fitness, kept his thoughts with the unselfish monks of the
+past. He could not forget when from boyhood he had been trained in
+church history. He had always been best in his class. And how his dear
+mother would have loved the old church. At last the car was moving; at
+last he might get away.</p>
+
+<p>His back was to the mission and the run to town would not take long.
+After all he might not be very late. And as he had hoped, he found the
+hotel still quiet. Only a few early risers were down for breakfast when
+he went to the dining-room to order Isabel's tray sent up to her room.
+Then he took the elevator. He entered by the same door through which he
+had departed, walking softly to his wife's bedside. She seemed not to
+have stirred during his absence; but the note was gone from the pillow.
+He leaned down and kissed her, and at the same instant half bare arms
+tightened around his neck. Then she laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"'Sleeping Beauties' never wake up unless they are kissed," she told
+him. He doubled his charm as she raised on her elbow.</p>
+
+<p>"Did you think I was never coming back?" he asked. "I took a long walk,
+after the ship got away, went farther than I intended."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought so," she said. "Men never remember the return trip. But I
+have hardly missed you. I read my love letter, then went right to sleep.
+I did not wake until I heard the telephone. Of course I answered it, and
+whom do you suppose was speaking?"</p>
+
+<p>"Doubtless one of your numerous admirers," her husband gallantly
+answered.</p>
+
+<p>"No. This time it was your admirer. But I came in for honorable mention.
+I am so flattered, almost glad that you were not here to respond to our
+friend the editor."</p>
+
+<p>Now she was wide awake. The soft disarrangement of night still hung
+about her hair. Her eyes sparkled as the morning. She sat up, leaning
+forward.</p>
+
+<p>"He has invited us to go out with him this afternoon in his touring
+car. I said we would come. You are willing?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," Philip answered, smiling at her eagerness.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. and Mrs. Tilton-Jones and Gay Lewis are asked; we are to start
+about three."</p>
+
+<p>Philip puckered his brow. "Why the Tilton-Joneses&mdash;I wonder?" Isabel saw
+that he did not care for the couple.</p>
+
+<p>"They are relatives of our host," she explained. "One cannot turn down
+cousins in California, or for that matter, acquaintances. You must be
+nice to them, for last night both expressed the wish to know you." She
+was anxious for her husband's popularity with strangers. That he should
+hold his new place without criticism was always in her mind.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel knew the world, and when she married an apostate priest she had
+considered its way, all outside of love. She had even prepared herself
+for first, almost inevitable rebuff. Time would show where she and
+Philip both stood. A desirable few, who obstinately disapproved, should
+not annoy her; and at last they too might forget. To her surprise she
+had felt no condemnation. A mere marriage notice passed from paper to
+paper, with miraculous decency. Isabel read no highly colored version of
+either her own beauty or of Philip's sensational conduct. If anything
+unpleasant appeared she did not see it. This morning as she sat up in
+bed, enjoying the breakfast which her husband had thoughtfully ordered,
+she was more than thankful, more than happy.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
+
+
+<p>"And you do not care for the Tilton-Jones combination?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>Philip shook his head. "I fail to admire either of them, although I
+least of any one should cast a presumptuous stone. Perhaps I am unduly
+prejudiced. I have known several hyphenated Jones people before, and for
+some reason I never got on with them. You see I was always addressing
+the wife as plain Mrs. Jones&mdash;perpetually overlooking the lean-to
+addition."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel's laugh rippled. How very clever her husband was. "I shall keep
+you from forgetting this afternoon," she promised. "I am so glad to go
+out in a machine. Really I do not believe I could sit the saddle to-day.
+And this is too nice!" she declared, as she poured the coffee. "Are you
+not going down?" Then she extended a steaming cup. "Take this," she
+begged. "They have sent plenty for two; suppose we have breakfast
+together."</p>
+
+<p>"But there is only one cup."</p>
+
+<p>"What matter, when we have a full pot of coffee. And just see the toast
+and rolls."</p>
+
+<p>Philip sat facing his wife, amused as he always was when he had only to
+obey.</p>
+
+<p>"You drink first," she commanded.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me when to stop; I might take all."</p>
+
+<p>"You may. I never really enjoy coffee until I have finished."</p>
+
+<p>She was irresistible. And all this loveliness, this unconsciousness, was
+now but for his own eyes. Isabel was his wife. To-day he felt that he
+had sinned only by once becoming a priest bound by unnatural vows.</p>
+
+<p>God had created a pair in the beginning, decreed that man should not
+live without sympathy, without love. He was thinking of couples bound as
+prisoners. Everything seemed so natural for Isabel and himself, except
+when he did not sleep or went back too far. The white satin empire gown
+lay extended on the couch.</p>
+
+<p>Philip pointed drolly across the room, then touched the sleeve of
+Isabel's dainty night robe. "I like this gown best; you seem about
+eighteen months, hardly old enough to be Reggie's fond mamma."</p>
+
+<p>"For shame!" she cried. Still she was pleased. With mention of her boy
+she began to talk of the little fellow, to wonder what he was doing on
+this very Sunday morning.</p>
+
+<p>The breakfast above proved to be a happy thought. Husband and wife "took
+turns" from the single cup; there was gayety and byplay.</p>
+
+<p>"We have not left a crumb!" said Isabel. "I never ate such good toast.
+You know we are to have dinner at one&mdash;the regulation hour for the day;
+we shall subsist until then." She poured the last drop from the coffee
+pot. "This is our loving cup. Let us drink to every one that is
+married&mdash;in the big world!"</p>
+
+<p>Philip smiled. "That wouldn't do, too many miss the whole thing," he
+answered.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose so," she agreed. She had almost forgotten the time when life
+had not been full and satisfying. "Now it is all so wonderful&mdash;so sure,"
+she added softly.</p>
+
+<p>"But of course honeymoons have got to be silly&mdash;real silly&mdash;just like
+this breakfast. After a while we shall both be serious enough, with your
+literary work and Reg growing up."</p>
+
+<p>She bounded from bed to her dressing room, dropping Philip a courtesy in
+return for his previous jest. "I will come forth full grown," she
+promised. "Your friend the editor shall never suspect that I still love
+dolls."</p>
+
+<p>She kept her word and after dinner, when she stood with Philip on the
+veranda of the hotel, she had exchanged the way of a child for one of
+womanly charm. The day was glorious, and already Gay Lewis and the
+Tilton-Joneses were on hand. A moment later the host of the afternoon
+led his party to the waiting car. The three ladies occupied the tonneau,
+while Tilton-Jones and Philip faced them. The New York publisher sat in
+front with the chauffeur. At the outset Gay Lewis announced her
+satisfaction. "Nothing could be as fine as this!" she declared. "A
+Pierce Arrow is next to flying. Of course, for some time to come I shall
+not be permitted to shoot upward, but if it were not for mother I should
+accept my first invitation."</p>
+
+<p>"Could you really dare to board an airship?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones put in.</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly," said Gay. "I dare say I was born only for sport; I love it
+better than anything else in the world. I never think of danger when I
+am amusing myself."</p>
+
+<p>"I am sorry that we cannot enjoy the afternoon according to latest
+ideals," the host answered. "However, I must depend upon Miss Lewis to
+direct our course. Which way shall we take?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>They had already started on a trip through the little city.</p>
+
+<p>"I am greatly flattered," Gay replied. "But really, I have no choice
+when I am in a machine. It is just go, go, go, with me. I can almost
+arrive at Kipling's meter as I sit! sit! sit! bobbing up and down
+again." Every one laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"And you don't mind a rough road?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones demanded with
+literal surprise.</p>
+
+<p>"Not as much as most people," Miss Lewis answered. "I, for one, shall
+not complain this afternoon. I never felt a more comfortable car."</p>
+
+<p>"It moves along perfectly," said Isabel, who had thus far been quiet.</p>
+
+<p>"And will no one dictate our way?" the host again inquired. As he spoke,
+the chauffeur shot onward in the direction of the mission. Philip alone
+felt the significance of the driver's plan. But he made up his mind,
+once and for all, that nothing imaginary should disturb his peace of
+mind, or ever again come as a phantom between himself and Isabel. He no
+longer seemed to shrink from a farewell view of the old church. This
+would be the last one. Nor was he perturbed when later the machine
+stopped on the verge of the broad pavement leading to steps beyond. Not
+until Mrs. Tilton-Jones cried out, begging to peep within the mission
+now resounding with voices of singing monks, did he fully understand.
+Then he knew, knew that to refuse to go inside on account of afternoon
+service was to virtually acknowledge himself a disgraced man. In an
+instant he decided. His wife hesitated, but he insisted that she should
+get out of the car. Everything happened quickly. With all pressing
+forward, Philip began to climb the stone flight to the church. There was
+no escape, he must act as a man. Isabel felt his arm beneath her own.
+She did not speak. Gay Lewis walked on the other side, and Mrs.
+Tilton-Jones now joined the row.</p>
+
+<p>"What terrible steps," the lady complained. "I'm not a Catholic, so
+don't appreciate a penance. But I am delighted to have a look inside.
+The monks sing wonderfully! just hear them." She chattered on, to the
+very door. Evidently she had not heard of Philip's former career. Isabel
+was relieved and entered the church with a sense of unexpected pleasure.
+She thought she detected the baritone of the brother whom she had once
+heard; then the voice stilled. A priest was intoning.</p>
+
+<p>Now all Catholics were devoutly kneeling, murmuring evening prayers.
+Philip Barry stood beside Isabel, with his head slightly bowed. Others
+of the party used casual time for glancing about the mission. To the
+man who had once been a priest the voice of the officiating father, the
+supplicating swell of confessions born of human transgression, the
+impalpable impression of detached souls coming back to worship, were
+realities all too startling. Philip had overestimated his strength. He
+lifted his eyes and saw beyond&mdash;far down the long aisle&mdash;tall, lighted
+candles on the holy altar. In brass vases he discerned stalks of flaming
+poinsettias. Like blood, splashed against the dorsal, the scarlet
+flowers flanked the golden treasury of the hidden Host. The man had been
+too long a Catholic to forget. But prayers were over. The choir of
+brown-hooded monks had burst into praise and ushers peered here and
+there for vacant sittings. Then, with dismay, the excommunicated priest
+followed his friends and Isabel the entire length of the old church, to
+a pew directly in front of the chancel.</p>
+
+<p>He had not counted on the conspicuous placing of a noticeable party. He
+leaned forward with his head in his hands. Instinctively the usual
+petition moved his lips. But he sat up and gazed before him with
+blinding realization of his own false attitude. Why had he entered?
+Again he recalled honest worshippers of the morning, going up worn
+stones to early service, at length coming forth into sunlight, with rapt
+or tranquil faces. And about him were the same reverential men and
+women. Philip Barry's religious feeling had always been emotional rather
+than spiritual; still he had been born a Catholic. The beauty of
+impressive ritualism, the mysticism of the "Elevated Cup," moved his
+esthetic nature. Dreamer that he was, he knew again the power of his
+inculcated early training. He thought of his mother. Until to-day every
+tense effort to recall her sympathetic soul had been vain. Now an
+impalpable presence reproached him&mdash;separated him, as it were, from
+Isabel. In a momentary vision he saw the dear face and form of his lost
+one. To his imaginative mind, beautiful old hands stretched out to save
+him from impending disaster; then everything before his eyes became
+clear, and he sat still, at the foot of the chancel, a condemned man.
+Something whispered that to be an outcast from his Church would
+gradually starve his soul. Perhaps he should turn to stone, forget the
+worth of Isabel's priceless love and devotion&mdash;what then? He shuddered
+at the thought of possible suffering for his wife. Again the
+congregation knelt. Again he was glad to bow his head. For the first
+time since his marriage the dread of disappointing Isabel gripped him.
+That he should have an insatiate longing for something outside of their
+close relation filled him with terror. No, she must never know. He stood
+up at the end of familiar prayers, responding silently to the rich
+voices above in the choir. At the back of the church the monks had begun
+a Gloria. After all he would be able to control himself. Then suddenly
+there was mysterious agitation, moving to and fro of priests and
+officiating brothers. To visiting Protestants the commotion in the
+chancel was not appalling. Monks passing hither and thither, priests
+turning splendid vestments to front and back, seemed but part of an
+impressive service.</p>
+
+<p>For Philip Barry, duly educated to Catholic power, aware of a ruling
+order's justified opportunity, there was a plain conclusion. He stood as
+one summoned, unable to move, waiting for sentence enjoined by his own
+unpardonable presumption. And above floated the Gloria. Intent on the
+music Isabel did not turn, did not see Philip's livid face as he stood
+on, powerless to leave the church, yet knowing the full penalty of
+remaining. Voices of singing monks withheld judgment. Then finally with
+the deep Amen a solemn file of officiating brothers marched from the
+sanctuary. The time had come. Still Philip Barry could not move. Priests
+turned from the holy altar with plain intent, beginning to disrobe. In
+stately shame each placed his golden vestment upon a bench. Clad in
+their cassocks, all went out, save the avenger of the awful hour, now in
+authority. Philip saw him signal as he came slowly forward to the verge
+of the chancel. Behind the communion rail he stopped and raised a
+restraining hand. Above in the choir loft the organ was dumb, not a
+murmur broke a frightful stillness. The lone priest waited. Every ear
+strained with his first deliberate utterance. He was looking straight at
+Philip Barry. At last, he spoke:</p>
+
+<p>"Owing to the presence in this sacred mission of an excommunicated
+priest, the service is at an end, the congregation is dismissed. Let it
+go out at once, with downcast eyes and prayers upon the lips of all
+true Catholics." He walked to the altar and extinguished the last
+candle, scarcely turning as he drifted from sight of the awe-stricken
+crowd. The dazed man, singled out for disgrace, stooped to the floor for
+his hat, rose again to his full imperious height, smiling piteously at
+Isabel&mdash;then he fell backward, caught in the arms of his friend.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip and Isabel were now at home. But the wife had not been able to
+turn her husband's mind from his late public humiliation. She was
+frightened, miserable. Would Philip always be as now&mdash;crushed, silent
+with the one he loved best? She buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks
+burned, while her eyes remained dry. She dared not weep, dared not break
+down before the changed, listless man whom she would save at any cost to
+her own anguish. As first days of home-coming dragged away she began to
+see that she had been presumptuous. After all, her marriage was not to
+be a happy one. She knew that Philip adored her even more than before
+the fatal afternoon at the mission, when he had fallen unconscious at
+her side; yet something obstinate and heart-rending had come between
+them. Tragic doubt seemed to be freezing her husband's tenderness. With
+passionate dread of misjudging him she withheld from day to day the
+question she could not ask. She felt that above all she must wait until
+the shock of his cruel punishment had ceased to be vivid. During
+sleepless nights, when she knew for the first time the price of a
+Catholic priest's apostasy, there came also the realization of personal,
+unjust punishment. Nor did she acknowledge wrong for either Philip or
+herself; they had done no wrong. They were created for each other, and
+their only mistake had been the last imprudent visit to a forbidden
+place. She grieved over her own ignorance which had permitted Philip to
+incur the risk which had turned against him. She was bitter, and because
+of a defensive attitude she could not understand her husband's crushed
+condition. The joy of those first two weeks at St. Barnabas had
+departed. Isabel knew that she was a constant reproach to the stricken
+man, utterly changed and gently silent. Through days when she tried to
+distract his mind from a forbidden subject, driving him, herself, about
+the country growing more lovely with each hour of spring, she felt the
+mutual strain to be almost intolerable. Lurid newspaper accounts of
+Philip's disgrace had helped to convert their once happy drives into
+perfunctory, humble attempts to escape notice. Now they went alone in a
+runabout, avoiding every evidence of ostentation. Country roads lured
+them from town and led them on to unfrequented foothill slopes, where
+blue buckthorn adorned sweet-smelling upland acres. Below the purple
+range deepened with March shadows, swept by fickle sunlight playing over
+crags and into canyons, the couple passed long intervals when neither
+one of them spoke. Heart-breaking reticence tied their tongues. Each
+guessed the thoughts of the other.</p>
+
+<p>All about was the bewildering call of fresh life, yet they could not
+respond to Nature's glad outburst. Deciduous orchards, flushing buds,
+early almond blossoms pure as snow, wild flowers, buckthorn, edging
+miles of stony wash with tender blue, seemed only to evoke prolonged
+silence. The beauty of everything hurt them, for they were both unhappy
+and afraid to speak plainly. Then at night, when each lay wide awake,
+blessing darkness which at last hid their faces, relaxing after false
+smiles and feigned composure, everything had to be thought out once
+more. What would come of it all? Philip Barry's wife dared not press the
+question. She was young and she could not give up easily her dream of
+love. A passionate undercurrent of hope still helped her to endure the
+tense situation. Trivialities of everyday life assisted her in deceiving
+her household. She was gentle with her boy and thoughtful for old
+madame. Servants saw no change in their mistress. A battle had begun,
+and, believing in the odds of destiny, Isabel marshalled reserve force
+and smiled before her little world. But at heart she was frightened.
+Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed
+her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld
+tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been
+before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing
+from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had
+come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air&mdash;out of
+the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow,
+giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone
+platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an
+instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the assurance of Philip's
+beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one
+had been kind&mdash;very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited&mdash;waited!
+And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that
+followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days passed she found
+it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St.
+Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.</p>
+
+<p>Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise
+his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance.
+To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had
+missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event
+of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer
+her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious
+spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days
+Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive
+Philip over the country time must appear to pass naturally, while in
+temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already
+what is known in California as a "weather breeder" seemed to overcharge
+the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward
+down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming
+above the mountains; next day the sun refused to shine, and by night it
+rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a
+storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had
+loved rain as well as sunshine, but now she listened to the incessant
+downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come.
+She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of
+lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect.
+He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt
+powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their
+home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the
+matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden
+fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor
+might have broken a blood vessel of his brain&mdash;a vessel so tiny that
+consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the
+storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then
+bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain
+alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of
+her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First
+of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment.
+Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark
+paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed
+Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made
+compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to
+divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French,
+or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these
+things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine
+mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By
+early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones
+with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to
+believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to
+rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little
+rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into dashing
+streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo
+Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming
+charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry,
+volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed
+lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into
+alarming fury.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you awake?" asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not
+sleeping.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," he confessed. "Shall I get up and look after the windows?"</p>
+
+<p>She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She assured him that
+every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two
+lay still, listening to the tempest.</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't it frightful?" Isabel said timidly.</p>
+
+<p>"I like it," her husband answered.</p>
+
+<p>The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no
+tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a
+rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous
+crashing thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the
+mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror,
+forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw
+the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she
+had thought. He was ill&mdash;very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her
+stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was
+lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she
+would speak!</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me! oh tell me!" she implored. "I cannot bear it&mdash;I shall die if
+you do not tell me." The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength.
+"You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you
+think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave
+up&mdash;left your Church?" Everything was bursting from her like the
+tempest. "I could let you go," she sobbed, "but I cannot believe that we
+have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your God never
+meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you
+suffer&mdash;never let you forget. And&mdash;and you could not forget that I am
+your wife&mdash;that you love me?"</p>
+
+<p>She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her&mdash;deny what she said? "You
+do love me?" she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. "We
+love each other as God meant we should. We will blot out the past, live!
+You shall be another man." She was pleading her own case with Philip's.
+Her tears had ceased to fall. "We will do good jointly, do something to
+better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma."
+She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity.
+Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a
+yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. "Life is
+beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your
+book comes out&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought
+again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something
+had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main
+electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the
+dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through
+the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip.
+What if&mdash;she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one
+utterly despairing.</p>
+
+<p>"Never speak of the book again," he implored. He sank on the pillow, and
+she waited for him to go on. "I should have told you&mdash;forgive me," he
+said at last. "The manuscript has come back."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her
+husband's alarming condition. "No! no!" she sobbed. "You cannot mean
+it,&mdash;there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot
+fail!"</p>
+
+<p>"But it has failed," he answered with momentary strength. "They do not
+care to publish it; it stands dishonored like&mdash;the man who wrote it."</p>
+
+<p>She blanched at his words. "Come back! Your manuscript returned?" she
+faltered. "You cannot mean it; where is the letter? I must see it."</p>
+
+<p>He smiled piteously, pointing to a closed desk at the other side of the
+room, where she found the pasteboard box loosely held in brown paper.
+The name of a prominent publishing house was stamped outside the wrapper
+and inside was the letter.</p>
+
+<p>She read, re-read, with burning cheeks&mdash;a polite, commercial decision;
+then she ran to Philip. Her eyes were blazing with champion light; her
+courage had returned. Great love for the stricken man gone down before a
+flood of disappointment enveloped her being. The force of her wonderful
+nature rose up for fresh battle.</p>
+
+<p>"Darling!" she pleaded, "you are too ill to understand." She caught his
+hand as she crept close to his side. "They like your book,&mdash;know that it
+is fine; but they are afraid of the cost of publishing it. The pictures
+have frightened them and they are too commercial to take the risk of a
+sumptuous volume. One refusal is nothing! Our new friend will know the
+value of your work, and the manuscript must go to him at once." The
+positive current of her magnetic will, the plausibility of her
+conviction, above all, her tenderness, seemed a divine anodyne for
+Philip's sinking soul. Yet he dared not hope. The shaft of disgrace had
+been sunk too straight. He was too ill to resist remorse; too weak to
+deny the penalty for broken vows; too hopeless to defy authority which
+had thrust him down and trodden upon his self-respect. On the verge of
+fatal prostration, no sins were blacker than his own. Darkest of all
+appeared a selfish love forced upon innocent Isabel. Dishonored man that
+he was, she must share his shame. He closed his weary eyes.</p>
+
+<p>His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,&mdash;to call a
+nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.</p>
+
+<p>"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He
+protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not
+stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well.
+I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She
+felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing
+through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.</p>
+
+<p>He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not
+move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring
+forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten
+Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the
+condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly
+cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her
+to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled,
+sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own
+childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical
+standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed
+independently.</p>
+
+<p>What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That
+Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken
+thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a
+vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed
+eyes&mdash;yet wide awake&mdash;she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who
+should&mdash;who must&mdash;help her.</p>
+
+<p>Then suddenly Philip spoke.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest&mdash;just here&mdash;I will
+soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes
+were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2>
+
+
+<p>A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip
+forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into
+slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health
+sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought
+happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and
+watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet
+sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly
+from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops,
+piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by
+the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry
+claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of
+falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call
+in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible
+outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those
+ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to
+revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but
+to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and
+peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with
+unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his
+compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her
+husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist.
+Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to
+her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried
+out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the
+result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only
+Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm,
+had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her
+faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes,
+and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.</p>
+
+<p>Wing turned in evident dismay. "Why you up so early?" he asked with the
+childlike freedom of the Oriental. "Those girls heap lazy! not come down
+yet&mdash;house all dark." He spread his slender brown hands in feigned
+disgust. "I gless you not know that big tree fall over las night? Most
+hit my klitchen. You come see." He threw open the screen, pointing
+beyond. Isabel saw a Monterey pine low and done for by the storm. Heavy,
+drenched branches, crushed and aromatic, rose from the ground to the top
+of a nearby porch, which had just escaped them. Years of growth and
+vigor were down with a blast from the surcharged sky. She seemed to feel
+the human significance of the fallen pine.</p>
+
+<p>"Poor thing!" she exclaimed, peering into upturned limbs of the
+vanquished tree. "Poor thing!"</p>
+
+<p>Wing beamed. His white teeth flashed credulous interest. "You think that
+tree get hurt&mdash;all same me?" he demanded. Isabel saw that she was
+planting fresh superstition on celestial soil.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not quite sure," she answered. "Still, a great tree could hardly
+tear away from earth without feeling it. It must have suffered," she
+maintained. Unconsciously she was thinking of her husband. That Philip
+had been uprooted, cast down like the pine filled her with dread as she
+went quickly from the kitchen. But the storm, which left the house in
+total darkness during the night had also interfered with telephone
+service. After vain attempts to communicate with the central office, she
+dashed off a note to a well-known nerve specialist. She begged him to
+come at once, explaining that her husband was too ill to leave his bed.
+From the terrace she watched the gardener depart with her note. She felt
+at last like one who stakes all on a final venture. Would the doctor
+come soon? Would Philip resent the visit? Above all, how should she
+break the news to the invalid, who begged to be left alone? "Don't call
+a doctor," he had pleaded; and again she wondered if she had been wise
+in a grave emergency. The house was now astir. Belated maids were at
+work. Soon shrill exclamations arose from the wet garden. Madame had
+discovered the fallen pine, to fly below with the boy. Reginald was
+proudly equipped with rubber boots. His red coat flashed as he outran
+his excited companion. Isabel translated the French woman's lament for
+the lost tree; then the boy cried out in distress. His mother reached
+his side to find him in tears, holding a dead oriole. The once gay,
+golden little creature lay limp in the child's hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Poor birdy! See, he's all, all broken!" he bemoaned. "Can't you mend
+him, mother dear? Can't you make him stand up?"</p>
+
+<p>"He has been hurt by the storm," Isabel explained, stroking the feathers
+of the little victim. "Perhaps he lived in the pine tree. We may find
+his nest."</p>
+
+<p>Reginald began to search along the path, while Isabel found a sharpened
+stick. When she came to a clump of ferns she bent and quickly dug a tiny
+bed in the wet earth. Her son, running back, saw that the oriole was
+gone.</p>
+
+<p>"There wasn't any nest!" he shouted, gazing incredulously at his
+mother's empty hand, "And I suppose the poor birdy's all mended. Why
+didn't you wait? I wanted&mdash;I wanted to see him fly away." Fresh tears
+betokened the boy's disappointment. Isabel felt justified in the
+deception, as she led the child indoors. He would understand soon
+enough.</p>
+
+<p>Wing had just brought back a dainty tray, with everything on it declined
+by the master. The good fellow was greatly distressed. "Boss not eat&mdash;he
+die! Sure!" he muttered.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel went above. She felt again that she had done right in calling a
+physician, and strove for courage to announce the approaching visit.
+When she entered her husband's room he seemed to be dozing. She did not
+rouse him. Perhaps, after all, sleep would prove to be Philip's best
+medicine, and something whispered that her apparent anxiety was not good
+for the broken man she loved. She went out, acknowledging a mistake.
+When Philip awoke she would tell him about the doctor, with incidental
+lightness. Then sooner than she expected she heard an automobile and
+knew that her note had been timely. The specialist was at hand&mdash;in the
+hall below. She could not prepare Philip for an unwelcome call. But she
+was eager to unburden her heart, willing to rest her fear with one who
+ought to assume it. And at once she told of her husband's early
+education, of the first success of his priesthood, of his ambition for a
+great Middle West cathedral, of the bishop's unjust course, of Philip's
+natural struggle, followed with excommunication from the Church; then
+all too soon&mdash;before he could readjust his life&mdash;of the public
+humiliation in the old mission. She kept nothing back but her own hard
+part as the wife of an apostate priest. The dread that she had been the
+sole cause of a brilliant man's undoing she bravely acknowledged. Philip
+could not forget, could not supplement his relinquished work with
+domestic happiness.</p>
+
+<p>"Yet he adores me," she confessed. "It is not just that he should
+suffer&mdash;as he does. His heart is breaking. He feels it a sin to love
+me&mdash;to go on with happiness."</p>
+
+<p>"And you?" said Dr. Judkin.</p>
+
+<p>She tried to smile. "Women can bear more than men." Her voice broke.</p>
+
+<p>The man by her side felt her charm, knew that she was valiant in love.
+Still he saw disappointment in her tense resistance. "I am afraid that
+you, too, will soon need attention," he abruptly told her. "Sometimes a
+wife spoils her husband without realizing it. Men who think a great deal
+about themselves are not considerate."</p>
+
+<p>She was offended and replied coldly, "You do not know him. It is unjust
+to judge of a patient before you have seen him."</p>
+
+<p>"I stand reproved," the doctor admitted.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel forgave him. His very bluntness brought her hope. Suddenly she
+felt faith in the man whom she had summoned. She believed that he was
+masterful, and she must turn to some one.</p>
+
+<p>"Please come," she invited, "you shall see my husband."</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Judkin stood aside for her to pass, and she went above, choosing
+words which should explain his early call. Then at the top of the
+staircase she stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"Be good enough to wait," she begged. "I must prepare him&mdash;go in first."
+Then she flew forward, for the smell of burning paper had caught her
+nostrils. The door to Philip's apartment was fastened. She had been
+locked out! She rushed to a balcony running before the windows of her
+husband's room. In an instant she stood within. And she had not come a
+moment too soon. A fresh tragedy faced her. She hardly breathed. Philip,
+on his knees in front of the fireplace, did not hear her enter. The
+ecstasy of delirium possessed him. His whole body trembled as he
+showered an igniting pile with his rejected manuscript. "The Spirit of
+the Cathedral" was smoking. Isabel saw rising flame desert a blackened
+sketch of a famous duomo but to lick a painting of great St. Peter's.
+Once more dominant Romish power appeared to threaten. The curse of the
+Church seemed about to blaze anew for Philip.</p>
+
+<p>Her heart thumped as she flew to his side. "How can you?" she pleaded.
+"You have forgotten your friend&mdash;who trusted you. You must not spoil his
+beautiful pictures." Her hand reached out and coolly rescued scorching
+sheets of the unpublished book. "But you did not mean to hurt an
+artist's work," she gently added. She held a ruined sketch before the
+sick man's staring eyes. "You did not remember. You did not mean to be
+unfair to your friend." The tenderness of her frightened, loving soul
+broke over the shattered man, as she led him away to bed. He went like
+an obedient child; then she unlocked the door and summoned the doctor.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2>
+
+
+<p>Two trained nurses had been installed. Isabel no longer held her place
+at Philip's bedside. She was virtually banished from her husband's room.
+The courage which she had evinced during previous weeks seemed to be
+going fast. Now she hardly dared to hope. A silent house already took on
+the atmosphere of disaster. Even Reginald was not permitted to shout in
+the garden. And withal spring was at hand, seemingly to brighten the
+whole world, outside of Philip's closed apartments. The sap of fresh
+life ran in the veins of every living thing in the valley, on the
+foothills, above in the mountains. The season had advanced without a
+check, while throughout the Southwest blooming fruit trees and millions
+of roses prepared the land for Easter.</p>
+
+<p>To Isabel sensuous beauty on every side seemed cruel. Her heart felt
+desolate. She went through each day wishing for night, while with
+darkness she longed for sunlight. Suspense was beginning to drain her
+vitality. She did not complain, but the doctor saw her brace herself
+against each discouraging outcome of days that dragged. For Philip's
+last collapse had turned her from his side. She was barely a memory to
+the man she loved. At first she had rebelled, then accepted conditions
+enjoined by Dr. Judkin and consulting specialists. Only one thing
+helped her to endure the strain of a cruel separation.</p>
+
+<p>Philip's book&mdash;now speaking to her heart as she knew it would
+speak&mdash;brought strange, proud comfort. She felt exalted that she&mdash;his
+wife&mdash;had saved the manuscript from the flames. During a week she fairly
+lived in the scorched pages of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." And
+gradually she began to see why the work had been refused. Personal
+feeling and blind enthusiasm were at last tempered. She could read with
+a cool intellect. The Laodicean attitude of a shrewd publisher hurt her
+less than at first. For the fact still remained that Philip had produced
+something fine. Although he occasionally dropped his impassioned theme
+to give vent to slight discord, nothing had really been lost from his
+original motif. Reading between the lines, Isabel detected the natural
+temptation under which he had worked. Certain paragraphs, all unaided by
+a magnetic voice and delivery, read too much like his former sermons.
+Sometimes overcharged, almost vindictive handling of Romish background
+was evident. In those first weeks in Paris, after he had deserted the
+priesthood and been cast out of the Church, he had written without
+restraint. He had said things best left unsaid. Yet, as Isabel read on,
+she marvelled at Philip's virile touch, at the masterful, dramatic power
+of his pen. His word pictures drawn from vivid, exceptional opportunity
+required no literal illustration. Still she studied the sketches of the
+associate artist, finally selecting one fourth of the cathedrals
+submitted. Then she read over again the stronger chapters of the singed
+manuscript. It was late into night before she weighed the possible
+chances of her husband's book. He had labored so intelligently that her
+hand seemed to be guided by his own as she omitted paragraphs which
+undoubtedly influenced the publishers to refuse a somewhat prejudiced
+work.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel felt free to decide for Philip. His extremity excused her
+arbitrary action. She was sure that in his normal condition he would
+agree to all that she had done. When scorched pages had been replaced by
+fresh ones she would send the revised manuscript to the publisher she
+had met at St. Barnabas, the one who had witnessed the withstayed
+tragedy in the mission. She believed that her new friend could
+appreciate the significance of a book written by one who not only
+criticised expertly, but knew as well the human side of a great
+cathedral. Her thoughts went back to a time when Philip&mdash;a priest&mdash;had
+outlined plans for the noble church he hoped to build. Then nothing
+seemed too big for his young city. Isabel smiled, and began to read once
+more.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly tears came to her eyes. She put aside the manuscript. After
+all, what right had she to tamper with her husband's work? From Philip's
+higher standpoint, painted or stone saints and angels, looking down from
+Gothic heights, meant nothing to her, outside of their mere artistic
+value. She saw with fresh dread that Philip was still a Catholic. Early
+education and his lost mother's devout influence kept him apart from
+natural happiness. He should have remained a priest, a power in his
+Church. She remembered how once she had stood with him in St.
+Peter's&mdash;in front of the "Pieta." He had then almost forgotten her
+presence. The wrapt significance of his expression ought to have warned
+her. She felt once more that she would never be able to share her
+husband's feeling for an old master's sacred ideal. And later, when the
+two were passing the noted bronze of St. Peter, she recalled that she
+had failed to hide her repulsion for the throng straining to kiss the
+statue's jutting, shining toe. Philip divined her thoughts and flushed.
+"It comforts them," he had whispered. "Over here the poor have so little
+in their lives. What seems absurd to you is for them salvation."</p>
+
+<p>To-night Isabel remembered everything now bearing on her husband's
+tragic state. Her heart grew heavy with fear, with vague foreboding.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2>
+
+
+<p>Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful
+nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes;
+then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank
+into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.</p>
+
+<p>"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses
+have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his
+burned-down condition. We shall save him."</p>
+
+<p>She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help&mdash;do some
+little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see
+other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a
+glass of water."</p>
+
+<p>Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not
+let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced
+herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of
+the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already
+done what few women can do&mdash;submitted magnificently to a passive part.
+And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new
+demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power.
+I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your
+husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now
+ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with
+continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past
+events."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to
+any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy.
+Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me&mdash;so patient with
+my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me
+that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my
+friend."</p>
+
+<p>The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks
+he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure.
+Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a
+pattern in the rug.</p>
+
+<p>"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of
+which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of&mdash;of&mdash;tempting
+association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to
+the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck
+of a quiet ship."</p>
+
+<p>"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked.
+"I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire
+at once?"</p>
+
+<p>Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements
+had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the
+tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked
+his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear.
+"But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You
+might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery
+doubtful."</p>
+
+<p>His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.</p>
+
+<p>"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor
+deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now
+seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel
+that we are about to conquer. Tahiti&mdash;the isle of rest&mdash;will restore him
+wholly."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her
+agitation. The doctor went on:</p>
+
+<p>"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a
+nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later,
+when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks
+on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a
+miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my
+troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and
+brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then
+blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out
+the stars&mdash;the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different
+person."</p>
+
+<p>An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must
+speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.</p>
+
+<p>"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A
+boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our
+patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half
+a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at
+noon,&mdash;on the seventeenth."</p>
+
+<p>He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance.
+Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last
+she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her
+gently sobbing.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised.
+You shall have your husband back&mdash;well! He will put all behind him!
+forget everything but his wife."</p>
+
+<p>She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes.
+Then she began to speak with fresh determination.</p>
+
+<p>"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he
+needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a
+sign,&mdash;unless&mdash;he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that
+another woman should have my place&mdash;my absolute right to be near him. He
+is my husband! I cannot bear it."</p>
+
+<p>Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing
+with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given
+satisfaction was an enemy&mdash;a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife.
+Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly
+to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.</p>
+
+<p>"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my
+assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be
+time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip
+Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a
+splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will
+engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done
+for your husband's comfort."</p>
+
+<p>Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided.
+She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been
+very weak&mdash;very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything
+that you think best,&mdash;make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I
+am going to be good,&mdash;good like Reg."</p>
+
+<p>"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind&mdash;you are
+not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are
+really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip
+comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to
+go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle,
+cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's
+country&mdash;in springtime."</p>
+
+<p>To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more
+than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put
+out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave
+heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."</p>
+
+<p>But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved
+the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the
+outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to
+a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own
+life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient
+before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently
+answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after
+all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for
+years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of
+theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's,
+tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way
+depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute
+exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable
+station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be
+measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los
+Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears
+were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost
+like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had
+staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard
+separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present
+conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to
+come.</p>
+
+<p>And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters.
+Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly
+strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone,
+was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back
+well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them
+waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed
+carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New
+acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to
+tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride
+of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And
+after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more
+cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's
+unrestrained shouts echoed at will.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How
+pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon?
+Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.</p>
+
+<p>"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in
+her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him
+about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed
+with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand
+held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured
+"Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native
+boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying
+fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With
+Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for
+sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and
+son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was
+finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no
+heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy
+to disregard hitherto accepted authority.</p>
+
+<p>"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the
+little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another
+story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped
+away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming
+back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door
+closed.</p>
+
+<p>Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy
+had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise.
+Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his
+good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing.
+And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next
+day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind
+employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage,
+and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good
+night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high
+spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.</p>
+
+<p>As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A
+half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of
+interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms
+rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy
+locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed
+beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's
+sleeping child&mdash;the one lying across the Madonna's lap&mdash;in the Academy
+at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was
+unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night
+her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside
+a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the
+moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment
+could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his
+side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room.
+Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She
+thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would
+come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the
+flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript;
+almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The
+publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work,
+yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had
+waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a
+new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that
+must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing
+possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all,
+she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would
+ride to-morrow&mdash;throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who
+had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then
+perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit&mdash;stay until after Philip's boat
+had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2>
+
+
+<p>Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the
+two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode
+her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs.
+Barry's more spirited animal.</p>
+
+<p>"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty
+creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the
+foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of
+action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure.
+Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward
+with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering
+eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the
+valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions
+of flowers&mdash;roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to
+spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time
+being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was
+about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San
+Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her
+mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for
+an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape.
+All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the
+horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with
+golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her
+horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with
+loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The
+spell of spring was upon them both.</p>
+
+<p>"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.</p>
+
+<p>"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow
+passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a
+boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She
+stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A
+black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose
+the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black
+opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life."
+She laughed and dashed onward.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are
+happy. I cannot wait,&mdash;do tell me."</p>
+
+<p>The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking,
+over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?"
+she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that
+I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her
+friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't
+any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live
+the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being
+prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow,
+a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my
+new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern
+California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on!
+Come on!" she called.</p>
+
+<p>They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel
+had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith
+when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two
+hungry women.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left
+the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in
+her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening
+in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over
+the wire&mdash;her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl&mdash;to-night&mdash;join me
+to-morrow&mdash;at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly,
+attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the
+operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was
+hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could
+endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved
+still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her
+to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be
+repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No
+power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again
+caught the receiver.</p>
+
+<p>"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed
+while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and
+Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient&mdash;he
+cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the
+attendant answered.</p>
+
+<p>"He must come&mdash;at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that
+Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a
+moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with
+decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her
+cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb
+blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why,
+after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once?
+There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught
+the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped
+like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued
+to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and
+repeated her previous statement.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm going North to-night&mdash;on the Owl&mdash;to Philip. He wants me. He has
+just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow&mdash;at
+the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she
+implored. "You surely understand?"</p>
+
+<p>"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we
+have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your
+husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms
+crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was
+beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in
+the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same
+hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total
+destruction of San Francisco.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2>
+
+
+<p>Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North,
+she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had
+been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning
+above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still
+no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request,
+asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might
+lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr.
+Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her
+fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of
+value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and
+hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr.
+Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the
+warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband
+was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly
+maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the
+night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his
+patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared
+the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be
+lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard
+to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are
+then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets,
+with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for
+reliable information. But one thing is certain&mdash;Dr. Ward is going to
+take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are
+simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial
+law and prevailing conditions."</p>
+
+<p>"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I
+would have been there&mdash;when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from
+going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his
+patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either
+advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the
+long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He
+realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available
+means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer
+resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he
+seemed to see that she had suffered enough.</p>
+
+<p>"I will go myself&mdash;find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He
+stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for
+newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll
+try my best to make you happy&mdash;as I promised to do," he humbly added.
+There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with
+gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone
+with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.</p>
+
+<p>The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual,
+thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening
+petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then
+gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at
+last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city,
+still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now
+reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher,
+undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone
+out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with
+frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be
+helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered
+generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in
+giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire
+occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she
+helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household.
+Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her
+own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad
+condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked
+incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which
+involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning
+he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the
+North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with
+other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth
+with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone
+encouraged him to speak.</p>
+
+<p>"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business&mdash;he so poor. What you
+think? Plaps I take him lectic car&mdash;go that Venice&mdash;all same dleam."
+Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him
+kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."</p>
+
+<p>Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go&mdash;take my poor cousin&mdash;so he
+not be sad."</p>
+
+<p>"An excellent plan," said Isabel.</p>
+
+<p>He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I
+not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now
+my cousin begin all over&mdash;not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that
+earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same
+ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San
+Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of
+Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed
+in a wrecked hotel?</p>
+
+<p>Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say
+not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make
+trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good."
+A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth
+parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell
+me,&mdash;all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say
+people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len
+go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody
+wake up&mdash;hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag!
+Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall
+down. People no can stand up&mdash;no can see, all dark! Big noise come out
+sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children
+cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House&mdash;no good. Everybody lun that
+bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside
+he heart; cannot forget."</p>
+
+<p>"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched
+the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the
+catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control
+herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr.
+Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She
+tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved
+herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also
+for book form." Philip's friend&mdash;the editor&mdash;had signed the golden
+message.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV</h2>
+
+
+<p>Isabel held the telegram to her lips. She seemed to be kissing Philip.
+"Dear, dear husband, I knew, I knew," she softly murmured. The rest of
+the day she wandered about the garden, almost in an ecstacy of
+expectation. Something seemed to tell her that Philip was safe, that she
+would hear from him. But evening shadows fell without a personal word
+from the North. She was obliged to content herself by reading the
+evening papers, which were beginning to contradict certain overwhelming
+statements of days back. The hotel that had totally collapsed was now
+known to have been poorly built and was not the St. Francis, as formerly
+stated. Iron frames of many buildings had withstood the earthquake to go
+down at last before dynamite. Still, the list of dead and wounded would
+be a long one. Nothing could be definitely settled until after flames
+had ceased to lick through deserted streets. Suffering was intense on
+every side. Children had first seen the world under its open sky. Women,
+without beds to lie upon, had given birth in the open. Yet it seemed to
+be a time when the best part of human nature revealed a noble side.
+Already hope was beginning to stir in camps where ruined families clung
+lovingly together. Isabel's eyes grew moist as she read a thrilling
+story of heroism and courage.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Lewis had gone back to the hotel, and when madame, complaining of a
+headache, kept her room, Isabel found herself alone. But one thought now
+absorbed her mind. Every moment she hoped for a telegram from Dr.
+Judkin. Then suddenly Wing again stood before her. He had returned from
+his day's outing and his countenance shone elate. Evidently he had
+fulfilled a purpose and brought new strength to the fainting heart of
+his unfortunate friend. As in the morning, Isabel encouraged him to
+talk.</p>
+
+<p>"I come tell you&mdash;clause you so solly," he began. "Plitty soon I sure
+you hear you husbland&mdash;all safe! People say not so many kill, after all.
+Boss all light, I sure."</p>
+
+<p>He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. "And you
+took your cousin to Venice?" Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.</p>
+
+<p>Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off
+his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray "Fedora" hat in one hand.
+"Jus this way," he explained. "I decide&mdash;not take my cousin that
+Venice&mdash;all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool
+money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half&mdash;go that
+seashore. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent
+cloe, jus old thing&mdash;all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all.
+I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles&mdash;get cheap dinner, len go church. I
+say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow,
+I say. No time go that Venice&mdash;all same dleam. Better hear 'bout
+heaven."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Barry listened gravely. Wing gradually prepared his denouement.</p>
+
+<p>"Plitty good time&mdash;all same business," he continued. "You see? My cousin
+have ole shoe&mdash;cannot las velly long. I jus take him that shoe
+store&mdash;see lindow&mdash;all so full."</p>
+
+<p>"I understand," said Isabel. "You bought your friend a pair of shoes
+instead of taking him to Venice?"</p>
+
+<p>Wing smiled. "All same yes," he qualified. "I find that shoe store&mdash;tell
+all 'bout my cousin. I say my poor cousin velly poor; have no
+shoe&mdash;claus he all bloke up that earthquake. That shoeman velly kind,
+give my flend fine Mellican shoe, light away&mdash;not take money. Len we go
+down street&mdash;tly get new hat. Big lindow so full! many nice hat&mdash;heap
+style. We stan long time, look in. Plitty soon man come out&mdash;smile, ask
+what we want. I say, 'My poor flend bloke up that earthquake; have no
+good hat.' Len man say, 'Come in get fit.' I say, 'No money.' Man say,
+'All light; earthquake not come velly often.' My cousin so happy. After
+while he all fix up. New coat, new shirt,&mdash;everything all clean. Len we
+go down Chinatown, get dinner; go mission. Pleacher say heaven more
+better; not any earthquake&mdash;not any big fire. Pleacher say no old black
+cow kick up; so solly China people tell that story. Jus be good, he say.
+Be kind, help that sorrow up San Flancisco."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel had listened throughout with keenest interest. At another time
+she might have found it difficult to control her countenance. To-night
+she could not laugh. Almost for the first time she realized the meaning
+of "the brotherhood of man." She found her purse and sent a liberal
+donation to celestials lately en route in the cattle car. "Relieve your
+friends as much as possible," she commanded. "You may take to-morrow off
+and spend the money as you see best. Those of us who can must help."</p>
+
+<p>The simple kindness of her words fell clearly. Wing went out from her
+presence as one entrusted with a grave commission. She sat on with her
+thoughts.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly she was depressed beyond all control. Joined to her longing for
+Philip was the dread that he would never be able to forget that he had
+once been a Catholic and a priest of the Church. And she had made him
+forsake his calling. Again and again she repeated the publisher's
+telegram aloud. She tried to tell herself that when Philip came back he
+must see his way at once to go on with life. He would find his work
+appreciated, his book accepted. Then he would surely continue to
+write&mdash;become noted. Yet, perhaps authorship might not satisfy him. The
+man who formerly moved large audiences with his impassioned sermons
+might not after all make a success in literature. She recalled the first
+time that she had heard Philip address a congregation. His clear,
+eloquent handling of a great ethical subject had delighted her. Sitting
+in a pew with devout Catholics, she had been glad to forget the High
+Mass, which she did not understand, and follow the speaker in the
+pulpit. She had felt that her former lover, still her friend, had found
+his natural profession, for even before ordination, Philip&mdash;too young
+for a priest&mdash;was permitted to preach.</p>
+
+<p>To-night Isabel's thoughts wandered back to an earlier Sunday in
+Venice&mdash;in St. Mark's&mdash;when they had gone together to vespers. Philip
+had then jestingly declared that but for her he would go into the
+Church. "I would like to preach at least one sermon as compelling as the
+one we have just heard," he told her, as they floated away in their
+gondola. Now his old words passed through her mind. A strange humility
+possessed her. Again she lived over those happy, youthful days in
+Venice. Still of all the churches abroad, of all the services she had
+witnessed, San Marco with the afternoon in question stood out, apart
+from other Romish background. At the time, Isabel caught a new view of
+the Catholic Church in Europe. For at midsummer vespers there had hardly
+been a suggestion of the pomp and ceremony which on stated occasions is
+supposed to make St. Mark turn over in his coffin, when clouds of
+incense pour through open doors into the piazza.</p>
+
+<p>On that August evening all had been so simple&mdash;even without a vested
+choir. Informality prevailed throughout the humble audience. Every one
+moved his chair at will to the side of some friend. Women used their
+fans and whispered discreetly to one another. There were few "Sunday
+hats." Dark, uncovered heads and black crape shawls, richly fringed,
+worn corner wise, as only Venetian maids can wear them, discounted
+tawdry finery. Young men and little children sat on the pulpit steps.
+Every one sang from the heart. Wonderful Italian voices rose in natural
+harmony; then at last the patriarchal shepherd of the gathered flock
+came slowly forward. The beautiful old man wore no embroidered vestments
+on that summer's afternoon. Sheer, spotless white, showing but a line of
+scarlet beneath the lace around his hands, alone defined ecclesiastical
+rank. Yet he was strangely grand in the evening light of the golden
+church. A loving hush pervaded San Marco as he leaned over the pulpit,
+looking down upon his children. Isabel had never forgotten either the
+sermon or the marvelous voice of the speaker.</p>
+
+<p>To-night it came to her that to be able to guide one's fellowmen to
+higher ideals through spoken words, was, after all, a God-given gift.
+And she had ruined Philip's opportunity. She asked herself a hard
+question. If he came back with his heart still turning to a natural
+calling, could she help him? At last she felt his inborn tendency; the
+early religious background which influenced his temperament. Things
+entirely outside of her own experience had always been vital to the man
+she loved. If he came back to her uncertain and wavering in view of
+returning health and implied difficult conditions, she must give him up.
+At last the situation seemed plain. But she was bitter withal. Philip's
+God was hard; she could not understand the miserable decision forced
+upon her as she sat alone.</p>
+
+<p>Twice she tried to go above to bed, yet something held her. Hours wore
+on. She felt cold and started a fire. The heat from the hearth sent her
+into heavy, desperate slumber. She heard no sound. Philip entered softly
+and alone, for Dr. Judkin had hurried away.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+<p>And as he waited&mdash;transfixed, he thought of that other night when he had
+stood outside the curtains, looking in at the woman he dared not touch.
+Then slowly Isabel opened her eyes, saw that her husband had come; felt
+that a miracle had restored his power to love. Renunciation of a dark
+hour was forgotten in a low, glad cry. Philip held her as never before.
+The strength of his arms made her dumb with joy. She could not speak.
+Her husband led her to the divan and she listened to his voice, his
+words. She heard him entreat her to forgive, to live anew.</p>
+
+<p>She felt that nature's rending soul had tried their appealed case to
+enjoin his human need. Humility charged his fresh purpose as he tenderly
+pleaded for time to prove the revelation of terrible days back.</p>
+
+<p>Later when she told him about the acceptance of his book he listened
+incredulously.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly he understood. "You kept it from deserved oblivion?" he said at
+last. A fond smile played on his lips. "What have you not done for me?"
+He kissed away her denial of all personal influence. "Take me back on
+trust," he implored. "I ask only for the stimulant of your faith; then
+perhaps&mdash;perhaps I may please you, do something worth while."</p>
+
+<p>Isabel knew that his secularization had been sanctioned by The Higher
+Court. The years to come held glad significance for them both.</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Higher Court
+
+Author: Mary Stewart Daggett
+
+Release Date: June 25, 2011 [EBook #36509]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHER COURT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehan
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
+http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
+generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
+Libraries.)
+
+
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+
+
+
+
+
+
+                            THE HIGHER COURT
+
+                         BY MARY STEWART DAGGETT
+
+Author of "Mariposilla," "The Broad Aisle," "Chinese Sketches," etc.,
+etc.
+
+
+    RICHARD G. BADGER
+    THE GORHAM PRESS
+    BOSTON
+
+    _Copyright, 1911, by Richard G. Badger_
+
+    _All Rights Reserved_
+
+    _The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._
+
+
+    To Comrades Three
+      My Daughters
+          R. D.
+         H. D. H.
+          M. D.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Father Barry's late interview with his bishop had been short, devoid of
+controversy. Too angry to deny the convenient charge of "modernism," he
+sought the street. Personal appeal seemed futile to the young priest
+cast down by the will of a superior. To escape from holy, overheated
+apartments had been his one impulse. Facing a January blizzard, his
+power to think consecutively returned, while for a moment he faltered,
+inclined to go back. The icy air struck him full in the face as he
+staggered forward. "The only way--and one practically hopeless," he
+choked. Appeal to the archbishop absorbed his mind as he pressed on,
+weighing uncertain odds of ecclesiastical favor. Suddenly he realized
+that he had strayed from main thoroughfares, was standing on a desolate
+bluff that rose significantly above colorless bottom lands and two
+frozen rivers. Wind sharpened to steel, with miles of ceaseless
+shifting, slashed his cheeks, cut into his full temples, his eyes. He
+bowed before the gust so passionately charged with his own rebellion.
+To-day he was a priest only in name. For the first time since his
+assumption of orders he faced truth and a miserable pretense to Catholic
+discipline. Desires half forgotten stood out, duly exaggerated by recent
+disappointment. An impulse sent him close to the precipitous ledge, but
+he moved backward. To give up life was not his wish. He was defeated,
+yet something held him, as in a mirage of fallen hopes he saw a woman's
+face and cried out. He had done no wrong. Until the bishop cast him down
+he was confident, able to justify esthetic joy in ritualistic service,
+which took the place of a natural human tie. Now he knew that his work,
+after all, but expressed a woman's exquisite charm. For through plans
+and absorbing efforts in behalf of a splendid cathedral he had been
+fooled into thinking that he had conquered the disappointment of his
+earlier manhood. The bishop had apparently smiled on a dazzling
+achievement, and young Father Barry plunged zealously into a great
+undertaking. To give his western city a noble structure for posterity
+became a ruling passion, and in a few months his eloquence in the
+pulpit, together with unremitting personal labor on plans and
+elevations, had made the church a certainty. Thousands of dollars, then
+hundreds of thousands, fattened a building fund. The bishop appeared to
+be pleased; later he was astounded; finally he grew jealous and eager to
+be rid of the priest who swayed with words and ruled where a venerable
+superior made slight impression. Consequently the charge of "modernism"
+fell like a bolt from a clear sky. Until to-day Father Barry had been
+absorbed in one idea. His cathedral had taken the place of all that a
+young man might naturally desire. When the woman he loved became free he
+still remained steadfast to his new ambition. It seemed as if lost
+opportunity had attuned his idealistic nature to symbolic love which
+could express in visions and latent passion an actual renunciation. That
+Isabel Doan understood and rejoiced in the mastery of his intellect gave
+him unconscious incentive. In the place of impossible earthly love he
+had awakened a consistent dream. Without doubt Mrs. Doan's pure profile
+was a motif for classic results. When he spoke to her of architectural
+plans, showing drawings for a splendid nave and superb arches, her keen
+appreciation always sent him forward with his work. Then, like true
+inspiration, visions came and went. Vista effects, altars bright with
+golden treasures stirred him to constant endeavor. He heard heavenly
+music--the best his young, rich city could procure. Day and night he
+worked and begged. Now all was over. For the second time in life the man
+faced hopeless disappointment. Deprived of work, removed from the large
+parish that for three years had hung on his every word and wish, the
+priest stood adrift in the storm. The ignominy of his downfall swept
+over him with every lash of an oncoming blizzard. He seemed to feel the
+end. The bishop's untethered brogue still clashed in his sensitive ears.
+The city he loved, now ready for the best of everything, no longer had a
+place for him. He was cast out. Below him spread bottom lands, dotted
+for miles with towering grain elevators, packing plants, and wholesale
+houses. Vitals of trade lay bare. By vivisection, as it were, he traced
+the life of commerce, felt gigantic heart beats of the lower town
+blending interests of two great states. In all directions rival
+railroads made glistening lines through priceless "bottoms." Father
+Barry groaned. Progress seemed to taunt his acknowledged failure. He
+turned his back. But again he faced promise. Higher ledges and the upper
+town retold a story of established growth. On every hand prosperity
+saluted him. Leading from bluffs, the city reached eastward for miles.
+As far as he could see domestic roof tops defined the course of streets.
+Houses crept to the edge of a retail district, then jumped beyond. On
+waiting acres of forest land splendid homes had arisen as if by magic.
+Through pangs of disappointment the priest made out the commanding site
+selected for his cathedral. A blasted dream evoked passionate prophecy,
+and the mirage of the church ordered and built by decrepit taste rose up
+before him. The bishop's unsightly work held him. Blinded by the storm,
+abnormally keen to a cruel delusion, he saw the end of his own laudable
+ambition. To his imagination, the odious brick box on the hillock seemed
+to be true. A commonplace elevation, with detached, square towers was
+real. With his brain maddened with hallucination, harsh, unmusical
+chimes began to sound above the blizzard's roar. Again and again he
+heard the refrain, "Too late! Too late!" The significance of a metallic
+summons almost stopped his breath, yet fancy led him on to the open
+church. He seemed to go within, pressing forward against the crowd.
+Below a flaming altar stood the bishop's bier. In the open casket, clad
+in robes of state, the old man slept the sleep of death. The brick
+monument to stubborn force echoed throughout with chanted requiem and
+whispered prayer. Incense clouded gorgeous vestments of officiating
+priests. Candles burned on every hand. At the Virgin's shrine flowers
+lent fragrance to an impressive scene. Then he seemed to forget the
+great occasion,--the bishop at last without power, the kneeling, praying
+throng. Longing for human love displaced all other feeling. In the image
+of one woman he beheld another, and Isabel Doan assumed the Virgin's
+niche.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+As the suspended priest went from the bluff the mirage of a few moments
+faded. The bishop still lived.
+
+Reaction and the determination to face an archbishop impelled him
+forward. Why should he submit to sentence without effort to save
+himself? He drew the collar of his coat about his ears. At last he was
+sensitive to physical discomfort. Air sharp as splintered glass cut
+through his lungs. He bowed his head, revolving in his mind the definite
+charge of "modernism." What had he really said in the pulpit? Like all
+impassioned, extemporaneous speakers he could never quite recall his
+words when the occasion for their utterance had passed. Progress was
+undoubtedly his sinful theme; yet until lately no heretical taint had
+been found in the young father's sermons. Born a dreamer, reared a
+Catholic, he attempted rigid self-examination. The task proved futile.
+In Italy he would have led Catholic democrats in a great uprising.
+Despite the "Index" he rejoiced in the books of "Forgazzar."
+"Benedetto's" appeal to the pope to heal the "four wounds of
+Catholicism" clung to his mind. The great story touched him
+irresistibly. Sinful as it was, he had committed Benedetto's bold
+accusations to memory. "Il Santo" still drew him, and he was angry and
+sore.
+
+He knew that in a moment of emotional uplift he had forgotten the danger
+of independent utterance, the bonds of a Catholic pulpit. But to-day,
+while he reverted to the sermon which had suspended him from the
+priesthood, he could not repeat one offensive sentence clearly.
+
+The wind increased each moment. A blizzard of three days' duration might
+bring him time to think. At the end of the storm every one would hear of
+his suspension. The priest hurried on. Then he thought of his mother.
+Suddenly the dear soul had prior claim to Mrs. Doan. Above bitterness
+the son recalled the date; it was his thirty-second birthday. He told
+himself that nothing should keep him from the one who could best
+understand his predicament. This dear, sincere mother had counseled him
+before; why not now? The foolishness of troubling Mrs. Doan was clear.
+As he hastened on his way, he began to wonder what his mother would
+really think of the bishop's action. Would she accept her son's
+humiliation with serene, unqualified spirit? Would her faith in a
+superior's judgment hold? The suspended priest felt the terms for the
+true Catholic. He dreaded palliation of the bishop's course. But no--his
+mother could never do that. In the case in question her boy must stand
+injured, unjustly dealt with.
+
+Father Barry went on with definite intention. His present wish was to
+spend a fatal birthday in the home of his boyhood. Fortunately, it was
+Monday. Father Corrigan had charge of weekly services. The younger
+man's absence would not be construed until after the blizzard. It
+flashed through his mind that on the coming Sunday he had hoped to make
+the address of his life. Now this last appeal in behalf of a great
+cathedral would never be uttered. On his study desk were plans and
+detail drawings which must soon cumber a waste basket. Suddenly the
+young priest, cast down, humiliated, turned from the tents of his
+people, longed to cry out to hundreds who loved him--who believed in
+him. But again his thoughts turned to his mother, who would soon hold
+him in her loving arms, cry with him, beg him to be patient, worthy of
+his bringing up. Then he knew that he was not a true Catholic. His
+binding vows all at once seemed pitiless to his thwarted ambition and
+human longing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
+Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
+within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
+a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
+"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
+priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
+table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
+wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
+pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
+seemed formed for luxury, and in accordance with their expression he had
+surrounded himself with both comfort and chaste beauty. In the large,
+low, old-fashioned room in which he sat there was no false note.
+Pictures, oriental rugs, richly carved chairs--all represented taste and
+expenditure, somewhat prejudicial to a priest's standing with his
+bishop. That the greater part of everything in the little house had
+arrived as a gift from some admiring parishioner but added to the aged
+superior's disapproval of esthetic influence. To-day Father Barry warmed
+his hands without the usual sense of comfortable home-coming. Pat Murphy
+observed that for once his master showed no interest in a row of flower
+boxes piled on the table.
+
+"Will you not be undoing your birthday presents?" the Irishman ventured.
+The priest turned his back to the fire. "I must get warm. I am frozen to
+the bone," yet he moved forward. One box held his eye like a magnet. He
+knew instinctively that Isabel Doan had remembered his anniversary.
+Unmindful of all other offerings, he broke the string and sank his face
+into a bed of ascension lilies. He seemed to inhale a message. His eyes
+felt wet. Pat Murphy brought him back to earth. The acolyte stood at his
+elbow. "May I not bring water for the posies?" he humbly begged. Father
+Barry frowned. "Untie the other flowers; I will attend to these myself."
+He surveyed the room, at last, reaching for an ample jar of dull-green
+pottery. The effect was marvelous. Like the woman who had sent them, the
+lilies stood out with rare significance. The priest glanced again into
+the empty box, searching for the friendly note which never failed to
+come on his birthday. As he supposed, the envelope had slipped beneath a
+bed of green. He broke the seal, then read:
+
+     "My dear Father Barry: How shall you like the settled-down age
+     of thirty-two? Are we not both growing old and happy? I am
+     thinking constantly of your splendid work, and have sent with
+     the lilies a little check for the new cathedral. I pray that
+     you will permit a poor heretic to share in your love for art.
+     Do as you think best with the money--yet if some personal wish
+     of yours might stand as mine--a beautiful window perhaps?--I
+     should feel the joy of our joint endeavor.
+
+     "But remember, the check is yours to burn in a furnace or to
+     pay out for stone. You will know best what to do, and in any
+     case, the poor heretic may still hope for a bit of indulgence
+     from St. Peter. Meantime, I am coming to hear you preach. When
+     I tell you that I fear to have a young Catholic on my hands,
+     you will not be surprised that Reginald teases each week to go
+     to Father Barry's pretty church. He admires your vestments with
+     all his ardent little soul. Unfortunately at present my dear
+     boy has a miserable cold and a bad throat. I am thinking of
+     taking him to Southern California for the winter. Before our
+     departure I shall hope to see you.
+
+     "With kindest wishes for a happy birthday, I am always your
+     friend.
+
+     "ISABEL CHESTER DOAN."
+
+The note was dated two days back, and the enclosed check stood for three
+thousand dollars. Father Barry bowed his head. Again his eyes were wet.
+When Pat importuned him to come to luncheon, he sat down with
+unconquerable emotion. He could not endure the ordeal, so pushed away
+his plate.
+
+"If ye don't be tasting mate, ye'll be fainting," Pat insisted. The
+priest smiled miserably. "Don't worry--I'm only tired. Besides, I'm
+going to my mother; she will see that I need coddling. Pack my case; I
+wish to start at once."
+
+The acolyte scanned the pile of boxes.
+
+"The pink carnations I shall give to mother; the other flowers you may
+carry to the hospital. Go as soon as possible," the master commanded.
+"Tell Sister Simplice to see that each patient has a posey. The fruit I
+send to old Mrs. Sharp. Explain that her confessor orders white grapes
+in place of a penance."
+
+"And the lily flowers--do I be taking them to the hospital, too?"
+
+"No," the priest answered. "In no case meddle with the lilies." He moved
+the jar to a position of honor on top of his desk. "These will remain
+fresh until I return. Do not touch them or let them freeze." He leaned
+forward with caressing impulse; then his eyes fell hard and sober on
+parchment rolls and detail drawings. Cherished plans for his cathedral,
+plans now useless, lay piled before him. He closed his secretary.
+
+"If any one calls--say that I am from home--on business. I must not be
+pursued."
+
+Murphy grinned. "I'm on to the thrick! And it's not a day for resaving
+visitors." A prolonged gust made his words plausible. Father Barry tried
+to smile.
+
+"You are a good fellow, Pat. Should I never come back--confess to Father
+Corrigan." The priest's mood was difficult. As the Irishman watched his
+adored master charge into the blizzard he frowned perplexedly. "He do
+run like Lot afeared of Soddom," he exclaimed. "But it's sick he
+is--nadin rist at his mother's. Warkin' day and night on his cathedral
+has all but laid him low." Pat poked the fire. "Mike, up at the
+bishop's, do be sayin' nasty things. And sure, 'tis nothin' but
+foolishness, surmisin' how the old bishop do be atin' out his heart on
+account of a young praste's handsome face and takin' ways. Mike be
+cursed for a Jesute, startin' scandal from a kayhole!" He picked up the
+coal hod. "I must kape his lily posies as he bid me." He pressed close
+to a frosted window. Through a clear spot in the glass he could see his
+master breasting the storm. "He's all but off his feet," he muttered.
+
+Murphy was Father Barry's own delightful discovery. Months back the
+priest had engaged the raw Irish boy for household service, then later
+promoted him to a post of honor about the altar. To faithful Pat there
+was little more to ask for outside of heaven. Reports which he sent home
+to Ireland were set down on paper by Mike, who served in the upper
+household. Pat's scribe published his friend's felicity broadcast, until
+at length even the bishop was fully informed of a popular young priest's
+affairs. Without thought of injury to one whom he adored, Pat extolled
+the plans for the great cathedral, which possibly might eclipse St.
+Peter's at Rome. Again and again the boy dwelt on Father Barry's
+popularity. To-day as the acolyte looked through the frost-glazed
+window, scratching wider range with his thumb nail, he had no doubt of
+his master's chance to become a prelate. Soon the "old one" would pass
+beyond. He crossed himself devoutly, peering hard at the tall,
+retreating form, now almost within reach of the corner. An electric line
+but half a block away was Father Barry's goal. As Pat looked, a gust
+sent the pedestrian onward with a plunge. As usual, the master carried
+his own suit case. Murphy muttered disapproval. At the crossing the
+priest stopped to regain his breath. His sole wish was to catch a car.
+Owing to the blizzard, traffic might suspend; but in the wind-charged
+air he thankfully detected a distant hum. The trolleys yet ran. How
+fortunate! And now very soon he would be with his mother--practically
+lost to a storm-bound community. How sweet the shelter waiting. Soon he
+might unburden his heart--pour out his trouble before the only woman in
+the world who would really understand it. Then again he remembered
+Isabel Doan--her check, the letter hiding against his breast. After all,
+should he not restore the generous gift at once? Now that the original
+cathedral could not be built, was it not a matter of personal honor to
+explain? Altered conditions cancelled both his own and his friend's
+obligation. Mrs. Doan must take back her check. That the bishop was
+powerless to claim the donation filled the priest with vindictive joy.
+Gradually duty to his mother ceased to govern him. Beyond everything
+else he wanted to see Isabel Doan. He told himself that he had a right
+to do so. Honeyed sophistry provided motive for his desire. He stood, as
+it were, at a point defined by opposing ways. Double tracks glistened
+before him; one leading eight blocks distant to the lintel of his
+mother's door; the other, stretching in the opposite direction, across
+the city--almost to a certain stone mansion. The priest was not in a
+mood of valiant resistance. Again he longed for Isabel Doan's sympathy.
+Yet, as he tarried at the crossing, waiting, still undecided which line
+to choose, he could not dismiss the thought of his mother, even now,
+watching for her son. He could fancy the dear lady sitting by the
+window, expectant, disappointed when no car stopped. Her sweet flushed
+face; the adorable white hair parted and waved on each side of a
+forehead gently lined by time made a picture which he could not easily
+dismiss. This mother was his ideal of age. She seemed as rare, as
+beautiful as an exquisite prayer-rug grown soft and precious with mellow
+suns and golden years. Many times he had contrasted her with
+overdressed, elderly women of his parish. He had never wished her to be
+different in any respect.
+
+He would go to her now. She would tell him what to do; and after dinner,
+when the dear lady was thinking of early bedtime, he might slip away
+with Isabel Doan's check. He must return it in person. He shifted from
+one foot to the other and beat his arms across his breast. The charge of
+the blizzard was paralyzing. Down the way a car was coming--a red one,
+he was sure of it--glad of it. His mother would be waiting for him. For
+the time he forgot a parallel track and that other destination directly
+west. Suddenly like songs of sirens, he heard the buzz of opposing
+trolleys. Two cars would meet before his eyes! But the red one still
+led. Yet how strange: it had just stopped. The yellow opponent came on.
+The priest breathed hard. Fate seemed to be thrashing his will with the
+storm. Again the red car moved and the yellow one halted. Chance was
+playing a game. He leaned expectant from the curb. Something had gone
+wrong, for once more the red line had lost the trolley, then an instant
+later a yellow car stood on the crossing. Father Barry sprang over the
+tracks, veered around to an open side, jumped aboard.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Once within the east-bound car the suspended priest found valid excuse
+for what he had done. Even now he need not disappoint his mother. As
+soon as he reached the house of Mrs. Doan he could telephone the dear
+soul, explain that urgent business detained him. By dusk he would be
+free, ready to pour out his heart to the best woman in the world. In
+case the increasing storm should interfere with the cars, there was
+always a hansom cab at a nearby stable. His forethought pleased him; and
+again he told himself that the present course of action was justified.
+
+To return Mrs. Doan's generous check--simply as he might return it to
+any friend who trusted him--was sufficient motive for either priest or
+man. He settled comfortably in an empty seat; then felt in the breast of
+his inside coat for Isabel's letter. The straightforward wording
+appealed to him even more than at first. How like this woman to put
+aside prudery. How like her to wish to bestow through art a gift denied
+by love. And she was soon going away--to far California--with the little
+son whom she fairly adored. There was no place in her pure affection for
+any man. The boy seemed to be all that she asked for. He frowned,
+putting away the note. For several moments he blankly gazed through the
+window. With the certainty of his undoing, he again blamed the bishop
+for all that was sinful to the soul of a priest. He felt that he had
+lost his religion forever. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.
+He was bitter, bitter. An hour before he had believed that he could find
+courage and intellectual ability to lay his case before an archbishop;
+but now all was changed. He no longer desired to remain a priest.
+Exalted sentiments were not to his credit when lip service made them
+detestable. He felt no terror at the thought of excommunication. As soon
+as he was man enough to tell the truth he might be free. Still, with a
+last desperate confession could he ever rise from ignominy? Where should
+he find refuge? Perhaps in his knowledge of architecture, and he might
+write books. The elastic hope of an artistic temperament lured him,
+until suddenly he once more remembered his mother. How could he slay
+this trustful, simple soul? As the car sped across the city his mind
+turned to his childhood, his boyhood, his early manhood.
+
+Ever since he could remember, he had been everything to his dear mother.
+When he was but a baby a scourge of cholera had taken away his father.
+Several years later a beautiful sister died, and finally a grown
+brother. Then Philip had become the widow's sole companion. The Irish
+lady, of gentle blood, alone in a strange land--fortunately a kind
+one--thought only of her little son. Soon the lad swung a censer before
+the church altar, while shortly his mother was termed wealthy by reason
+of wise investments and increasing values. Philip enjoyed judicious
+indulgence. The devout Catholic lived but for her son and her religion.
+Early in life she taught the boy to accept without question the
+authority of his Church. For a lad of poetic, emotional temperament, the
+duty of service fraught with certain reward seemed easy. Philip loved
+everything connected with his own little part in the chancel. The
+impressive latin chanted by priests clad in gorgeous robes fired his
+imagination, made him long to understand, to become versed in a
+mysterious tongue. High Mass had always been dramatic, something to
+enjoy, exalted above play and mere physical exercise. Voices floating
+from the choir sounded like angels. The boy adored the high soprano and
+enshrined her in his imagination with the gold-crowned Virgin. St.
+Joseph did not interest him, but he spent much time admiring the yellow
+curls of Mary. Young girls with bright hair stole his heart. He
+associated all beautiful women with the Virgin. His little sweethearts
+invariably ruled him with shining, tossing curls of gold.
+
+Then at last the lad gave up attendance at the altar, laid aside his
+lace-trimmed cotta to depart for college. During four successful years
+the watchful mother felt no change in her son's religious nature; but
+the shock came. When he returned from an extended trip abroad she saw at
+once that something had influenced him to question the authority of his
+Church. The visit to Rome had not strengthened Philip's faith. He had
+become indifferent about confession. Often he was critical of
+officiating priests. Then one day the mother understood the full
+measure of her son's backsliding. All at once he poured out his
+heart--told defiantly of his love for a girl not a Catholic. The poor
+lady knew the worst, knew that Philip had been with Isabel Chester in
+Italy. However, the mother's terror and anxiety were both of short
+duration. Miss Chester's family interfered almost at once, and soon the
+young woman who had threatened the soul of Philip Barry became the wife
+of another man.
+
+As time went by the zealous faith of the widow was rewarded, for one day
+Philip expressed the wish to retire to a monastery. The decision brought
+happy tears to the deluded mother's eyes. Her boy's emotional nature did
+not disturb her own simple faith. Philip was saved. But she asked for
+more, and more came. When her son was duly consecrated to the Catholic
+priesthood the event stood out as the greatest day in her life.
+
+The young man's later career, his brilliancy, his popularity, even his
+dream of the cathedral, were all as nothing to the real cause of his
+mother's joy. In all the woman's years she had never doubted a syllable
+of her faith. To give her son wholly to her Church was a privilege so
+sweet that to lose it at last might take away her life. Again everything
+flashed through the mind of the priest verging on apostacy. He bowed his
+head. Could he go through with his awful part--forget his mother? From
+the car window he saw tall, naked elms a block away. A corner near the
+home of Mrs. Doan was almost reached. Behind denuded trees stood the
+stone house of the woman he wished to see. Questions scarcely faced
+were left unanswered as he jumped from the car. A rushing gust almost
+knocked him down, but he righted himself and pressed forward. Piercing
+air cut into his lungs; the blizzard with all its sharp, mad frenzy had
+arrived. Above, the sky, clear, electrical, was a sounding dome for
+oncoming blasts. Wings of wind beat him onward. He fought his way with
+labored breath. Naked elms, chastised by the gale, motioned him; and
+plunging, he reached the vestibule to Mrs. Doan's tightly closed door.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+The door opened on a city official. "You can't come in; we've got a case
+of diphtheria," he exclaimed. "I'm ready to placard the house."
+
+Father Barry pushed forward. "I go in at my own risk--do not try to stop
+me. These people are my friends; they are in trouble--I must see them."
+
+He passed by the officer, into a wide hall. Maggie Murphy, Pat's cousin,
+and Reginald Doan's devoted nurse, met him with swollen, streaming eyes.
+"Good Father!" she sobbed, "will you not say prayers for our darlin'?
+He's that sick, 'tis all but sure we must give him up." In her
+excitement the girl spoke with native brogue.
+
+"Be quiet," the priest implored. "This is no time for tears. You must
+keep yourself in hand. Remember the boy's mother and do your part in a
+tranquil way."
+
+Maggie made the sign of the cross, then led her confessor to the
+library, where Mrs. Grace, a carefully preserved woman of middle age,
+greeted him with outstretched hands. Isabel Doan's aunt had been weeping
+too, but judiciously. When she perceived Father Barry a desire to appear
+her best effaced lines of grief.
+
+"Dear, dear Father!" she faltered. "How very good of you to come. How
+did you know?" She pressed an exquisite Roman crucifix to her lips; for
+unlike her niece, Mrs. Grace was a Catholic.
+
+"I heard only when I reached the door," the priest admitted.
+
+"A short time ago we thought our darling would die; but now there is the
+slightest hope that we may keep him. His mother is wild with suspense."
+The lady wiped her eyes. "We can do absolutely nothing with Isabel. She
+refuses to leave Reggie's room, even for a moment. I am sure she has not
+closed her eyes since yesterday."
+
+"The doctor must send her to bed at once," said the priest.
+
+"Both he and the nurse have tried to do so, but she will not go. I
+believe she would die if Reggie should be taken. O dear Father, will you
+not say prayers?"
+
+Mrs. Grace sank to her knees, wrapt and expectant. Maggie Murphy flopped
+audibly in the hall, while for Philip Barry the moment was fraught with
+indecision. He seemed to think in flashes. He wanted to cry out, to
+publish himself, to deny the very garb he wore. Then the next instant he
+longed to entreat for the life of Isabel Doan's boy. The sweeter side of
+his profession held him. After all, what difference did it make if he
+might give comfort to women in distress? The prayers of notorious
+sinners had been answered on the spot. Why should not he, the vilest of
+hypocrites, yet honest for the time, ask for the life of a dying boy? He
+felt for his priest's prayerbook. Fortunately he had not changed his
+coat since his rude awakening. The little book he always carried was
+still in his breast pocket, fairly touching Mrs. Doan's letter and
+enclosed check. He found the place and began. His knees trembled, but
+his voice came strong and clear. A last opportunity had nothing to do
+with what might follow; this one moment was between God and his own
+conscience. Tenderness thrilled throughout him as he went on with
+familiar prayers. In the hall Maggie Murphy's sobs made passionate
+refrain for his importunate pleading; then instinctively he felt the
+presence of Isabel, knew that she stood behind him. He rose from the
+floor and faced her. She answered his unspoken question with a smile.
+"He is better. The doctor thinks the anti-toxin has saved him." In all
+his life Philip Barry had never seen such joy on a woman's face.
+
+Mrs. Grace sprang from her knees. "Is Reggie really better? really
+better?" she repeated. Her intensity jarred.
+
+Isabel smiled. "We think so," she answered. "Of course the doctor cannot
+tell just yet. Complications might occur; but he hopes!" Again her face
+was radiant.
+
+Mrs. Grace crossed herself.
+
+"The membrane in the throat is quite broken," Mrs. Doan went on. "The
+anti-toxin worked wonderfully. Now we can only wait."
+
+"And _you_ should take needed rest," the priest put in impulsively. He
+seemed to have the right to dictate to this woman in trouble. For as he
+stood by Isabel's side he began to realize how absolutely over were the
+once serious relations of their lives. The two might be friends--nothing
+else. Mrs. Doan had no thought for a priest other than exalted
+friendship. An accepted lack in her married life made it natural for her
+to bestow exquisite love on her child. That which she had not been able
+to give her husband she now dispensed to his son. The boy filled her
+heart. "You will take needed rest?" Father Barry again entreated, when
+Mrs. Grace, frank and always tactless, bemoaned the wan appearance of
+her niece.
+
+"Do go to bed, Isabel; make up your lost sleep," the lady urged. "You
+are a ghost! I never saw you looking worse. Those dark circles below
+your eyes make you ten years older."
+
+The older woman's crudeness stood out in marked contrast with her
+careful toilet. Anxiety had not deprived Mrs. Grace of either rest or
+studied accessories.
+
+Isabel shook her head. "I could not sleep," she answered. "When the
+assistant nurse arrives I shall have less responsibility; but until then
+I must stay with Reggie. My darling's eyes are always hunting for me.
+You know I wear a masque, the doctor insists upon it; and when I cross
+the room my dear little boy cannot feel quite sure about his mother. But
+now I have braided my hair and tied the ends with blue ribbon. The nurse
+is just my height, and we both wear white." She glanced down at her
+summer frock, brought from the attic for sudden duty. "Reggie will know
+me by my colors."
+
+Her pure garb, together with ropes of golden hair falling down from a
+part, made saintly ensemble. Once before--in Rome--the priest had seen
+her as she looked to-day. Then, too, dark circles deepened the violet
+of her wonderful eyes. As now, she had felt miserable, in doubt. The man
+who denied a selfish part in an unforeseen moment was suddenly conscious
+of his deadly sin. But now he prayed, asking for strength divorced from
+pretense. And at last he believed that his main thought was a desire to
+help an afflicted household, a wish to support friends in time of need.
+He told himself that he might give Reginald Doan personal care simply as
+he had done before for other children less precious, less beautiful; for
+apart from the mother Father Barry loved her boy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+Throughout night the blizzard raged. Traffic was suspended; no one
+ventured into the streets on foot. The assistant nurse did not arrive,
+and with quickened pulse but masterful will Philip Barry assumed her
+place in the sick child's chamber. Isabel had been persuaded to retire.
+At midnight the terrific force of the storm brought her below to the
+library. She could not sleep, but sat in a chair by the fire, somewhat
+comforted. Oak logs made grateful glow for the mother scarce able to
+resist the temptation to fly to her boy. But she had promised to keep
+away. In case she was needed she would be sent for.
+
+In her restless state she could not endure to be alone, and rang for
+Maggie. The faithful girl reported at once, while together the two made
+ready a tray for Reginald's night watchers. Longing for action, Isabel
+prepared hot chocolate with her own hands. A cold bird, rolls, and jelly
+completed a tempting repast. The maid carried up the little supper, her
+mistress waiting anxiously until she came back radiant with good news.
+
+"He's better, mam--the darlin's much better!" Maggie crossed herself.
+"Father Barry beats the doctor! Nurse says Reggie minds him wonderful,
+not even fretting for you. Now do be going back to a warm bed."
+
+Isabel shook her head. "I would rather stay here," she answered. "The
+wind sounds so loud from my room. Put on a log; I shall toast, sleep in
+my chair."
+
+"If you don't mind I'll stay with you," the girl implored.
+
+"That will not be necessary. You had better go; to-morrow you may be
+needed."
+
+Maggie moved reluctantly from the room, as Mrs. Doan dropped into the
+depths of her chair. The fire sent out a soft, protecting glow, touching
+her face with hope. In flowing robe, with unbound braids, she seemed
+like a Madonna dreaming of her child. Soon she slept. Wind, plunging
+against the windows, shrieking disappointment, wasting its demon's force
+in plaintive wail, no longer disturbed her. Hours passed while she
+rested. Something she did not try to explain had happened; the burden of
+doubt, of crushing responsibility seemed to be lifted. Her aunt's
+incompetence, the excited maids praying about, were forgotten. Help had
+come from an unexpected source; and stranger than anything else she had
+been willing to accept it.
+
+And Father Barry, caring for the sick child, felt corresponding peace.
+He was once more a priest in active service. It seemed right, natural,
+that he should assume his present place. In all his life he had never
+felt so strong, so uplifted. Bitter feelings of the day were gone,
+dismissed under incessant pressure and critical conditions. To save the
+boy was his only thought. He rejoiced in service, more than ever before
+seemed to feel the worth of humility. It came over him that to accept
+his suspension, to respect the will of his superior and go into
+temporary seclusion, might after all be best. He thought of days in a
+monastery almost with longing. Once before he had sought shelter with
+good men who knew how to obey. In his first boyish sorrow quiet had
+brought him relief. In routine even in mild hardship, he had believed
+that he had discovered a world outside of self. He now hoped that a
+period of self-examination with solitude would set him right, fit him
+for the priest's part he had chosen. Then Reginald Doan held out his
+tiny hands imploring help. The man took him in his arms and held him,
+and the little one found comfort. For an hour Father Barry listened to
+the boy's breathing with renewed hope. When the nurse came the child was
+sleeping. She smiled, but ordered her patient beneath the covers of the
+bed.
+
+"If you do not mind, please see about the furnace. Williams may have
+dropped off. We must take no chance on a night like this. The slightest
+change in temperature would ruin all we have done." She bent over the
+boy in watchful silence while the priest went out. At the top of the
+staircase he took off his shoes. He held one in each hand, treading
+softly to the hall below. The house gave forth the intense quiet of
+night, but between the library curtains a stream of light lured him
+onward. It was his part to guard the house from accident, and he
+ventured into the room; then stopped, powerless to retreat. Isabel Doan
+slept in her chair. Her rare face, touched with ineffable peace, shone
+in profile against dark cushions. She seemed a modeled relief. Gentle
+breathing moved no fold of her loosely gathered robe; not even her
+unbound hair stirred ever so lightly. Oblivion claimed the mother, half
+ill from exhaustion. Close to the hearth a pair of tiny slippers rested
+motionless. The priest tarried, sinning within his heart. It was but a
+moment--yet long enough. Suddenly he knew that everything was changed.
+Isabel was no longer for him, nor he for her. Their divergent lives
+could never come together. He shrank from the room, not looking back. To
+escape without disturbing the sleeper impelled him into the very cellar;
+then he sank to the floor--to his knees. For the second time since
+entering the house he prayed as a priest. Deliverance from self was the
+burden of his cry. In his deplorable state he seemed adrift in the dark.
+He might be neither man nor priest. There was now no place for him in
+the world he had tried to forsake, nor could he longer fulfill the false
+part in his mistaken calling. An opening door restored his composure,
+for despite his emotional nature Philip Barry knew well the cooler
+demand of time and place. He spoke to the man in charge of the furnace,
+then examined the gauge. "Not a fraction of a degree must be
+overlooked," he ordered peremptorily.
+
+"And the boy?" said the man.
+
+"Better. Everything from now on depends on ourselves. I came below to
+satisfy the nurse. She cautioned me to say that the slightest change in
+temperature would be fatal to her little patient."
+
+As the priest spoke he turned about. Again he put away everything but
+the one object which detained him in Mrs. Doan's house. To nurse her
+boy through a terrible night, then to go out--forever--from temptation
+he could not meet was his only thought.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Night wore on. By morning the passion of the storm was abated. The
+blizzard had not lifted; but waves of wind burst less frequently on a
+world now white with frozen snow.
+
+Early in the day the doctor arrived with the belated nurse. The priest
+was virtually discharged from duty. He would have gone away at once but
+for Reginald, who held tightly to his hand. The sick boy was sweetly
+despotic in his little kingdom. A child's appealing trust, his angelic
+weakness, claimed all that Father Barry could give. "Reggie--won't
+have--nudder nurse," he protested. The young woman who had just arrived
+moved into the background, while the boy's mother sank to his side.
+Isabel's face shone with joy. The gladness of the moment half stopped
+her voice. But she took her darling's tiny hand. Reginald's fingers
+clung to her own; then, with a satisfied smile, he reached out eagerly
+to the priest. "Hold nudder hand," he implored. To refuse was not to be
+thought of. Father Barry knelt once more; but now, like a jewel in a
+clasp, the precious body of the boy joined him to Isabel. On opposite
+sides of the bed, both man and woman felt instant thrill of a despotic
+measure. The sick child's eyes sought eagerly for his new nurse. "You
+can go home," he announced. "Take your trunk," he coolly added. He
+sighed contentedly, looking first at his mother, then at his friend.
+The French clock on the dresser ticked moments. The boy seemed to be
+asleep. He was only planning fresh despotism. "Mudder dear and Fadder
+Barry will make Reggie well," he summed up conclusively. "Some day--I'm
+doin' to buy Fadder Barry a wotto-mobile--a nice, bu-ti-ful--great big
+one----"
+
+"Thank you," said the priest. The child spoke easily. His improvement
+seemed marvelous.
+
+"Dear Reggie must not talk. Be quiet, darling," Isabel entreated.
+"Mother dear and Father Barry will both stay with you; but you must
+close your eyes and go to sleep." Unconscious of the priest's emotion
+the mother had promised much. The boy drooped his lids, squeezing them
+hard. Below purple eyes, dark lashes swept his cheeks, then raised like
+curtains, as he peeped on either hand. Isabel was faint with joy.
+
+"Darling," she pleaded, "go to sleep."
+
+"I can't keep shut," the little fellow whimpered. His head turned on the
+pillow. "I want Fadder Barry to put on his fine cape and his nice suit,"
+he begged, suddenly recalling the priest's vestments. "And I want to
+hear the little bell," he persisted.
+
+"Yes, dear Reggie," Father Barry answered. "When you are well you may
+come to church--may hear the beautiful music--see the little boys about
+the altar. But now you must mind the doctor. Don't you remember? just a
+little time ago you told him that you would be a good boy and do
+everything Father Barry wished. If you talk your throat will get bad
+again. You don't want it to hurt?"
+
+Sympathy wrought on the boy's imaginative temperament; he enjoyed his
+own little part. "I felt so bad!" he wailed. He had naturally a broad
+accent, despite his Middle West locality. His voice, deep and full for
+so young a child, inclined to unflattened vowels.
+
+"I felt so bad!" he repeated, in view of more attention.
+
+"But now you will soon be well," his mother quieted. "Just think how
+good you should be when you are going to California!"
+
+The promise in question acted like magic.
+
+"Tell Reggie about the big ningen," he coaxed.
+
+"If you close your eyes," Isabel agreed. The boy's lashes shut down.
+"Soon mother dear and Reggie are going far away on a long train," she
+began. "Every morning the engineer will give his big engine a hot
+breakfast,--a great deal of coal, and all the water it can drink. The
+long, long train will run ever so fast, away out across the plains, over
+the high mountains, to California. At first Jack Frost may try to catch
+the train, but the engineer must run the faster. Then soon Jack Frost
+will go howling back East."
+
+"I want Fadder Barry to come too," the boy put in.
+
+"If you talk, I shall not go on," his mother cautioned. "Reggie may eat
+his breakfast and dinner and supper on the train. At night he will sleep
+in a funny little bed. Maggie must watch that her boy doesn't roll on to
+the floor. After a long time the train will stop. Mother and Reggie and
+Maggie will get out, and----"
+
+"Fadder Barry, too!" the boy persisted. He did not open his eyes, while
+tremulous lashes expressed his joy in the story.
+
+"When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry
+his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of
+comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out
+of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers.
+Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."
+
+"And Fadder Barry, too--and Maggie--and----" The sick boy was
+reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a
+satisfying story had worked a charm.
+
+"In California the trees are full of birds that sing just like Dickey;
+only poor Dickey has to live in his cage. In California the birds are
+free to fly. Sometimes they fly over the great mountains; sometimes down
+to the deep, big ocean." The boy's dark lashes had ceased to quiver.
+"All day long yellow bees and bright butterflies play hide and seek
+among the flowers; at night they all go to bed inside of roses, tucked
+between pink and white blankets, just like little boys and girls. They
+sleep--and sleep--and sleep--just like Reggie."
+
+The priest and Isabel looked into each other's eyes. For a moment they
+held the tiny fingers of the boy, then very gently each released a hand
+and moved from the bedside.
+
+The nurse came forward, smiling. "You might both better go," she
+commanded. Without comment the boy's mother led the way. In the hall
+below, Pat Murphy stood in earnest conversation with his cousin Maggie.
+The girl looked frightened. Father Barry approached without hesitation.
+"What is the matter?" he asked.
+
+The Irishman waited, confused. "I do be sint by Sister Simplice. Your
+mother--the old lady--she have just gone." He crossed himself.
+
+"Tell me again," the priest commanded. "What do you mean?"
+
+"Your mother--do be dead," Pat faltered.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+"She has been gone an hour," said Sister Simplice.
+
+Father Barry followed the nun, half dazed, to the upper hall, for as yet
+he could not grasp the force of his own miserable, late arrival. Outside
+the closed door of his mother's room he waited.
+
+"Tell me all!" he implored. "I must know the worst--before I see her.
+Tell me everything; what she said at the very last." His voice broke
+into sobs as he dropped to a couch.
+
+Sister Simplice drifted to his side. Her words were low and calm; only
+her delicate profile, with slightly quivering nostrils, expressed
+agitation. She looked straight beyond; not at the closed door. Like one
+rehearsing a part she began to speak. Father Barry's head sank forward
+into his hands. The nun's story fell gently, mercifully softened. As she
+went on the priest raised his eyes. Sister Simplice dreaded the question
+burning on his lips.
+
+"And she did not believe that I had neglected her--forgotten to come to
+her on my birthday?"
+
+"She thought no ill of her son," the nun answered. "When I came last
+night the danger of her first sudden attack seemed to be over. She had
+rallied, was perfectly conscious. 'He will come in the morning, when the
+storm is over,' she told us at midnight. 'Yes,' I said, 'he will surely
+come. Day will bring him safe from his hiding place.'"
+
+Father Barry bowed his head.
+
+"You remember that you telephoned in the early afternoon? The storm had
+already interfered with service. She could not catch your words, felt
+only that you were detained upon some errand of mercy. When Pat Murphy
+brought the flowers to the hospital he said nothing whatever of your
+movements. This morning he happened to come with your mail, just after
+the dear one passed away. I sent him out to find you." The priest wept
+softly. "We had no thought of the end when it came," the nun went on.
+"So quickly, so peacefully, she left us. She seemed to be much better
+with the dawn, for the storm that kept you from her side had abated. She
+was expecting you every moment. She had no thought of death." Sister
+Simplice crossed herself. "Faithful Nora had brought a cup of
+nourishment, we were about to offer it, when, brightening like her old
+self, she begged for a fresh shawl."
+
+"I understand," the priest faltered. "She wished to look neat and
+charming. And it was all for me!" he burst out. "She wanted me to find
+her as usual--like her pretty self."
+
+"Yes," the nun answered, "she asked for a shawl you admired--the one
+with a touch of lavender. Nora brought a white cape from the closet, but
+she motioned it away. 'I wish my fine new shawl, the one my son likes
+best,' she pleaded. We were gone from the bedside but a moment, both
+searching in the closet. Your dear mother was unconscious, almost gone,
+when we returned."
+
+Sister Simplice crossed herself again. The priest could not speak.
+Stillness followed the nun's story; only the ticking of a clock
+disturbed his pent thoughts. Suddenly the man burst forth as a boy.
+
+"I should have come to her sooner!" he confessed. "I knew that she had
+not been well the week before; but I thought her slight attack was from
+the stomach. How could I dream of this! She assured me that she felt
+like herself, and the morning of my birthday"--he hesitated--"the
+morning of my birthday I was compelled to go to the bishop."
+
+"Yes," the nun interrupted--"she understood--knew how you were working
+for the cathedral. Her pride in your success was beautiful. She asked
+for no hour which justly belonged to the service of your Church."
+
+"Thank God! she never knew--died believing in me--thought I had
+succeeded," the priest cried passionately. The nun lifted her crucifix.
+
+"The blessed saints ordained that she should think nothing but good of
+her son--her priest--her one earthly idol." Sister Simplice clasped her
+hands. "Have no fear for her soul. A soul--such as hers--must rise freed
+from transient torment. Soon she will follow from afar--follow her son's
+great earthly work." Father Barry groaned.
+
+"You do not understand; do not know that I am almost glad that my mother
+has gone--passed safely beyond. She was a good Catholic. If she had
+lived--" he rose to his feet and stood before the trembling sister--"if
+she had lived to know the truth she might have rebelled, have doubted."
+
+The sister flushed, then turned pale. Nun that she was, she had heard
+gossip. "The bishop has not put you aside?" she faltered. She raised her
+crucifix. "He hasn't interfered with your work--with the building of the
+cathedral?"
+
+The priest signified the worst. "My labor has been in vain," he
+acknowledged. "I am ordered from the parish like an incompetent. I thank
+God that she never knew!"
+
+Sister Simplice shrank as from a blow. The suspended priest saw by the
+motion of her lips that she was praying. Her slender fingers clung
+fiercely to the rosary. She seemed to dread her own words. She could not
+trust her voice, dared not lift her face. Tears were slipping from
+beneath the delicate eyelids.
+
+"Forgive me!" cried her confessor. "I dare not tamper with your faith.
+Forget that you have been listening I implore you."
+
+The nun raised the dark fringes which had seemed a rebuke; but before
+she spoke, Father Barry was gone, vanishing behind the closed door of
+his mother's death chamber.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Sister Simplice told her beads in vain. Strange new rebellion threatened
+her accepted life. Like the young priest in the room beyond, she doubted
+her right to wear the authorized habit of Roman Catholic faith. Tears
+scalded her cheeks; she could not keep them back. Yet to weep over an
+earthly tie long cut away must be counted a sin against her soul. The
+rosary slid from her grasp; then she caught it passionately to her lips.
+She had shed no tears for three whole years. Until to-day Sister
+Simplice had thought a victory won. Hospital work had seemed to bring
+relief to the woman unfitted for spiritual monotony. In the convent she
+had been misjudged. It was not until the mother superior comprehended
+the case, and removed her unhappy charge to an active field that things
+went well. Nursing the sick, the sister seemed to renounce the bridal
+veil which she had nearly worn. She regained courage, found joy in her
+patients. Actual service took unrest from her mind and heart. Gradually
+a romance interfering with devout prayers was put down. The nun went her
+way untouched by criticism. And it was doubtless intangible sympathy
+which had first made confidences easy between the sister and the priest.
+Their mutual struggle removed them from the spiritual line, when both
+tacitly owned that human longing abides in spite of prayer. But with
+the project of the cathedral absorbing the man, the gentle nun forgave
+her confessor and implored passionately for new strength for herself. In
+Father Barry the church had gained a splendid champion. Hospital work
+was a less brilliant opportunity; but at last Sister Simplice looked
+forward to passing years of peace. Until to-day she had been happy. Even
+yet she hardly understood the change which threatened her usefulness.
+She did not acknowledge that she had backslidden. Hysterical longing
+filled her woman's heart; she could not, would not analyze it. If she
+sinned she sinned! It seemed good to cry in view of impending penance.
+
+The clock ticked away a full quarter while she sat in the hall alone
+with her thoughts. Then the door to the closed chamber opened and Father
+Barry passed out. He was pale, shaken. Instantly the nun became herself.
+Again she longed for service. "Will you not come below and eat
+something?" she asked. The priest shook his head.
+
+"Not yet." He went on, but on second thought turned. "Tell Nora she must
+not offer me a hearty luncheon--I cannot eat it. She may bring toast and
+tea to my room. I must rest, be alone."
+
+The nun's dismissal was plain. The sister went softly downstairs, hurt
+that she might not carry her confessor's tray.
+
+Father Barry watched her glide beyond the landing, then walked quickly
+to his boyhood chamber. Here his mother had changed nothing. To retire
+at times to the little room was always like a snatched interview with
+himself. As a rule the dear lady had begged her son to use the more
+stately guest chamber, but to-day he shrank from the state apartment as
+one grown noted, yet now waiting for ignominy. To see his mother cold
+and lifeless had settled the half-considered step of the previous
+morning; for at last the man believed that he must give up the
+priesthood. He no longer wished to propitiate an archbishop. With his
+mother's death he was free. Had she lived, he might have gone on a
+hypocrite. Now all was changed. He need not continue a false life.
+Fortunately he was rich in his mother's right. He would not stay in the
+place which ought to despise him, and he might live in any part of the
+known world. At all events, he would emulate an honest citizen. He cast
+himself across the white counterpane of the bed and buried his face in
+the pillow. His neat, careful mother would never know that he had
+neglected to turn back the snowy spread. Outside, the dying blizzard
+moaned fitfully. Now and then a long, full gust came reinforced from
+distant plains; but the fury of the storm was over. He began to think of
+pressing matters. It was Tuesday. On Friday his precious mother must be
+buried. He sobbed aloud. Would the bishop stay official disgrace until
+after the funeral? Suddenly his only dread was public dishonor to his
+dead. As his mother's boy, he wept long and passionately. Nora's knock
+subdued outward emotion, while he took the tray from her hands. He saw
+that the faithful soul wanted to stop in the room, longed to fuss over
+her young master. But he gave no invitation and she went off grumbling.
+At the door she turned. "It's dyin you'll be yourself, ating no
+mate--only a bite of tasteless toast. And the bishop that old!" The
+parting shot brought no response. Nora closed the door with offended
+spirit. "He'll go under, with all the bother of his cathedral," she
+muttered. To live long enough to see her young priest a bishop was the
+old woman's earthly dream. She touched a crucifix in full view of the
+closed chamber where her mistress lay cold and still. Then she hastened
+below to clean and garnish. Sister Simplice had promised to stay until
+all was over, and she had also sent for Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes was
+cold and severe. The servant saw no need of two nuns. She went about the
+scrubbing and dusting, glad that she might work without regard to
+arriving cards or visitors. The good soul had prayed, then wept until
+she could hardly see. Now at last she was busy, again absorbed in
+material matters.
+
+Meantime Father Barry forced down toast and tea. Details of his mother's
+funeral thronged his mind. She must have everything beautiful, all that
+a son could give. Her last Mass should be splendid; and again he
+wondered about the bishop. Would he officiate in spite of all? The
+widow's money would doubtless be remembered at a time like the present.
+Father Barry felt for a little blank book, and drew from his breast
+pocket Mrs. Doan's note and the enclosed check. Once more accident
+controlled his movements. Everything rushed back. Even in the midst of
+plans for his mother's Mass he thought of the letter he would write to
+Isabel. She must know the truth. Why had he not told her? Was he yet
+unable to confess himself a hypocrite to this woman whom he had once
+hoped to marry? After all, he could return her check by mail, for in
+writing he might explain an altered situation without demanding
+sympathy. But if sympathy came! If Isabel understood the case as it
+really was! Then she should help him to start over again, to go on with
+his life.
+
+He worked himself into an exalted attitude. For the first time since the
+eventful interview with the bishop his self-esteem suggested a part
+removed from abject failure. As upon the ledge of the storm-beaten
+bluff, he felt once more a woman's governing presence. But the firm,
+commanding knock of Sister Agnes brought him from clouds to sinking
+sands. Again he was miserable--a false priest facing an austere nun, who
+would shrink away in horror as soon as she heard of his shame. The
+sister, supplanting gentle Simplice, held out a letter closed with the
+bishop's seal. Without waiting to read, the suspended priest knew the
+import of his superior's forced retraction; official action was
+rescinded until after his mother's funeral.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had
+both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration
+moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit
+on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first
+peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm
+bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was
+summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. "He has
+been wishing for you. A night has done even more than the doctor
+expected."
+
+"Has he been quiet?"
+
+"Most of the time; but just before you came he was a wee bit naughty.
+Now he's going to be the best boy in the world."
+
+Reginald stretched out his hands. "I wanted mother dear," he sweetly
+confessed. "I cried just one minute."
+
+"But you must not cry at all," Isabel told him. "If you cry you may not
+get well enough to start for California."
+
+The topic of travel was absorbing and soothing. Reginald lay quiet while
+his mother romanced of trains and engines and long dark tunnels. Genius
+for operating railroads had brought the boy's father to the top with
+several millions; the son would doubtless make good in the same way.
+
+To-day Reginald clasped a toy locomotive in his baby hand. Interest in
+play was returning. "My ningin's all weddy for California," he exulted.
+"To-morrow I'm doing to div you a ticket."
+
+"How kind," said his mother.
+
+"And I'm doing to div Fadder Barry a ticket, too." Isabel made no reply.
+"I want Fadder Barry to come back--I want him so bad!" the boy
+petitioned. His accent seemed unduly broadened for the occasion. Long
+_a_ fell like a wail.
+
+"Don't be naughty," Isabel pleaded. "Father Barry cannot possibly come."
+Her voice broke, but she went on. "Listen and I will tell you why you
+must not ask for him. He has gone home--to his mother dear. Last night
+Father Barry's mother dear wished him to come to her, but he did not
+understand--he stayed with Reggie. Now Reggie is getting well." She
+rested a hand against her cheek to hide falling tears. "But I want
+Fadder Barry so bad!" the child protested. His baby face took on the
+resolute charm his mother dreaded. "I do want Fadder Barry!" he
+persisted. Then with autocratic movement he called the nurse. His
+countenance shone with expedient thought. "Teletone," he whispered,
+"teletone to Fadder Barry. Tell him to come back and bring his trunk."
+The attendant left the room, while the boy lay still and confident. His
+purple eyes shone so darkly in their wonderful sockets that the mother
+doubted the wisdom of an evident ruse. She waited anxiously until the
+nurse reappeared.
+
+"Did you teletone?" the boy asked.
+
+"I tried to," the woman answered, "but you see the wind has broken the
+wires. The poor telephone has a sore throat--just like Reggie; it cannot
+speak."
+
+"Must the doctor make it well?" The child's sympathies were thoroughly
+aroused. For the first time the new nurse achieved a victory; and the
+illness of the telephone grew more alarming each moment.
+
+The boy's mother went down to her breakfast, both hungry and happy.
+Reginald was in judicious hands. On a folded napkin was a letter,
+stamped for quick delivery. Isabel tore open the envelope and saw her
+returned check with sharpened senses. She began to read. When at last
+she understood, she was crying. "How unjust! How unjust to his ambition;
+to his struggle for accomplishment!" she choked. She tossed the check
+aside and re-read Father Barry's letter. His unhappiness was her own.
+Her one thought was to help him; to brace him against disappointment.
+This brilliant man--this friend--must not be ruined. There was some
+mistake. Those above him, the people who adored their priest, would see
+that he had fair treatment. Submission to a creed had not been part of
+Isabel's bringing up. Born and reared in an unorthodox atmosphere she
+had never been able to quite understand the power of Philip's church. It
+was, in fact, this very attitude which had first made trouble between
+them. The two had parted at Rome, both miserably conscious of their
+sacrifice, yet each blaming the other. Afterward, when the man became a
+priest, successful, eloquent, exerting splendid influence; appealing to
+people of all classes with his project for a cathedral that should mark
+an architectural epoch for the Middle West, the woman whom he had wished
+to marry--now residing in the same city--rejoiced that he had found a
+larger scope in life. When she suddenly became a widow she held it a
+pleasure to follow up the desirable friendship which was now strictly
+outside of sentiment. Father Barry's vestments covered the past. The two
+met without embarrassment. The priest was full of his cathedral; the
+young mother absorbed in her little son. Then when Mrs. Grace--a
+Catholic--confirmed at mature age and consequently over-zealous, arrived
+to live with her niece, Father Barry came more frequently to the stone
+house behind the elms. Soon he was the acknowledged friend of the
+family. Realizing that Mrs. Doan's interest in his new church was almost
+pagan, he still drew strange inspiration from her clear perception and
+balanced criticism. Without fear both man and woman accepted the
+cathedral as a bond which might prove to be more suitable than love.
+Isabel's actions were never confused with a flirtation. Thus far she had
+escaped censorious tongues. For Mrs. Doan was a personage in the western
+city and universally admired. But if she had escaped criticism, her aunt
+stood for a full share of it. The niece often despaired of her
+chaperone, regretting that she had selected one devoid of the finer
+feelings. However, she tried to make the best of an uncongenial
+arrangement which had resulted from blood relationship. And Mrs.
+Grace--a widow twice, and vaguely considering a third venture--was not
+altogether responsible for a light head and superficial education. She
+was generally adjudged amusing.
+
+To-day Isabel was keenly sensible of great trouble. The priest's
+impending downfall, his heroic part in Reginald's recovery, the sudden
+death of his mother, were all sufficient reasons for her own
+straightforward determination. She would go to him--go to him at
+once--with no false shrinking. Perhaps even yet she might save
+him--induce him to appeal beyond his bishop. The weakness evinced in his
+letter, his wish to give up, to drift into obscurity--filled her with
+courage which she did not really understand. Yes, she must see him! talk
+with him, under his dead mother's roof--persuade him to hope; then she
+remembered that she was a prisoner in her own home, forbidden to leave
+it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Mrs. Grace stood dressed for the evening. She wore a rich black gown
+fitly relieved by transparent fillings. A splendid rosary of pearls and
+carnelians clung around her throat, while rare lace falling from the
+elbow drew attention to her plump arms and small white hands. Despite
+the woman's forty-seven years she was youthful in appearance. To-night
+she glanced into a full-length mirror, satisfied. As if loath to part
+from her reflection, she examined each detail of her elegant toilet.
+
+"You are stunning," said Isabel, knocking lightly on the open door. "For
+myself, I thought it unnecessary to change my linen frock." As she spoke
+she threw back a coat of sable. "I thought I might go as I am, for I
+shall not enter the house. You have not been with Reginald, so of course
+there is not the slightest reason for not going in at a time like this.
+You can give Father Barry my lilies, and ask him to see me for a few
+moments outside."
+
+"Simplicity becomes you," Mrs. Grace acknowledged. "You really look well
+without the slightest effort. I have always been improved by good
+clothes; even when I was a girl I shone in the latest styles. I do love
+up-to-date gowns." She ran a comb through her fluffy pompadour, which
+should have been silver but was counterfeit gold.
+
+"Good gracious, Isabel, how your color has come back!" she enviously
+exclaimed. "When Reginald first took sick you were ghostly; now I
+believe you are fresher than ever. I can't understand you. Being shut
+away from everything has actually done you good!"
+
+Mrs. Doan perceived the drift of her aunt's compliment. "You are
+certainly stunning in your new gown," she answered. "And you know I wish
+to get back to Reggie as soon as possible. Will you not come?"
+
+The older woman moved slowly from the mirror. "About the flowers,"
+Isabel went on; "only mine were sent--the lilies. The wreath you ordered
+will not be finished until to-morrow in time for service at the church.
+Grimes wrote me, explaining that the piece was so large that it could
+not be delivered sooner."
+
+Mrs. Grace accepted a disappointment. "To-morrow will answer. I wish the
+wreath to be perfect." She followed her niece downstairs and outside to
+the waiting carriage. It was still cold, but the blizzard was dead in a
+shroud of stars. Mrs. Grace settled expansively, while Isabel protected
+her lilies as best she could.
+
+"It is, after all, fortunate that my wreath was not sent," the aunt
+affirmed. "We never could have taken it inside, and Thomas might have
+objected to minding it on the box. When I asked you to telephone about
+it I did not realize how crammed a coupe is. The piece will be wonderful
+in the church--pink carnations, orchids, and maidenhair ferns. I am sure
+it will be the biggest thing of the kind Grimes has ever sent out. I
+preferred a cross, but so many were already ordered that I decided to
+have a wreath. I do hope Father Barry will like the color--pink suits
+his dear mother much better than white; don't you think so?"
+
+Mrs. Grace judged grief by circumference and perpendicular measurement.
+It seemed as fitting to send her priest a wreath as large as a wagon
+wheel as it had been incumbent to wear the longest crape veil procurable
+during two distinct periods of widowhood. Isabel's armful of lilies
+struck her as shockingly unconventional, not even a ribbon confined the
+long green stems; and to Mrs. Grace this falling away from custom was
+highly amusing. But Isabel was Isabel. One never dared to count upon
+what she would do. Individuality was too strenuous for Mrs. Grace.
+Besides every one paid for good form, nowadays, while it was much easier
+to adopt accepted practice than to run the risk of appearing eccentric.
+Original people were generally poor--too "hard up" to be altogether
+proper.
+
+"I should think you might have tied your flowers with white gauze and
+put them in a box," she said bluntly.
+
+"Father Barry will like them as they are," Mrs. Doan answered.
+
+The older woman sank back. A long feather on her large hat brushed
+Isabel's cheek. The niece moved away. In the corner of the carriage she
+held the lilies closer, praying that her companion might restrain frank
+opinions. Fortunately both women enjoyed independent fortunes. Affluence
+represented distinct value for each one. The aunt loved money for what
+it bought, the niece for what it brought. Mrs. Grace reveled in splendid
+things, Isabel in unusual opportunities. The one reverenced abundance,
+the other freedom and the luxury of not overdoing anything. Neither one
+was congenial with the other, yet for a time, at least, it seemed
+necessary for their conflicting tastes to remain politely sugared.
+Before the world aunt and niece appeared to be in well-bred harmony.
+To-night the irritating chatter of Mrs. Grace kept Isabel silent.
+Shrugged in her corner she scarcely heard, for suddenly she was wishing
+that she had written to her friend in trouble, instead of going to him.
+But for her aunt, she would have turned back. But Isabel had done many
+difficult things, things that other women shrank from. Her intuitions
+were fine, and she seldom regretted a first impulse. Almost at once
+Philip Barry's letter seemed rewritten for her eyes. Sentence by
+sentence she pondered the tempestuous, then broken, despondent appeal.
+Yes, he needed her; she was glad that she had ventured to come to him. A
+jar against the curb furnished Mrs. Grace with petulant opportunity, and
+while that lady settled her hat and adjusted her ermine, Isabel grew
+calm for an approaching ordeal. As her aunt alighted, hotly deploring
+the careless driving of a new coachman, a flood of light burst from
+Father Barry's temporary refuge. Two women, going forth from their dead
+friend's little home, tarried a moment with the son, who stood in the
+illuminated doorway. Suddenly the priest accompanied them forward. His
+eager eyes had clearly outlined a coupe and faultless horses. She had
+come! Isabel was before his house. He bade his neighbors a crisp good
+night and hurried to the side of Mrs. Grace. "So good of you, so good of
+you both!" he exclaimed, searching beyond for the lady's niece, still
+within the carriage. Mrs. Doan moved to the open door. "I was not
+intending to get out," she told him softly. "I came only with Aunt
+Julia, to bring these lilies for to-morrow, to let you know that I
+understand. When you have leisure to listen I want to help you to be
+brave and steadfast. You cannot--you must not give up." Her voice swept
+over him like music.
+
+"Come in!" he commanded. "There is not the slightest danger for any one.
+My only visitors are Sister Agnes and Sister Simplice, both from the
+hospital."
+
+Mrs. Grace, evidently annoyed, called from the footpath, "I am
+freezing!"
+
+Isabel accepted the priest's hand, running forward. "Father Barry
+insists that I come in," she explained, while all three entered the
+house. Nuns, alert for notable callers, stood in the hall. Mrs. Grace
+shed outer ermine and clung significantly to her splendid rosary. In a
+room beyond she dropped upon her knees. The lady, addicted to posing,
+had unusual opportunity. The very atmosphere called for a graceful
+posture and devotional calm. In the presence of her recently bereaved
+confessor, flanked by praying nuns, she took no thought of Isabel
+standing apart an accepted heretic.
+
+Mrs. Doan still wore her sable coat, the armful of blossoms resting like
+snow against the fur. She had stepped from darkness into light,
+unconscious of her dazzling appearance. Clasping the lilies, pressing
+them hard to still agitation, she might have been a saint of Catholic
+legend dispensing charity beneath flowers. "Come," said Father Barry,
+close at her side, "come across the hall." Isabel knew that he was
+leading the way to his beloved dead. She went softly, not wishing to
+disturb the kneeling aunt and devout sisters. Father Barry had spoken
+about his mother so often that at first she followed on as one entitled
+to a last privilege. At the threshold of an old-fashioned parlor she
+hesitated. "Come," the priest entreated. "She would be glad to know that
+you had placed the flowers with your own hands. Ascension lilies were
+her joy! she always chose them." Isabel moved slowly forward. The room,
+lighted with wax tapers, was long and narrow. At the extreme end stood
+the bier and improvised altar. There were beautiful flowers on all
+sides; the casket alone seemed to be waiting for the son's last
+offering.
+
+"Will you not put them here?" He touched gently the spot of honor. "I
+should like to have them with my own, for I too have chosen lilies."
+
+She thought of Reginald; of the difficult part in the boy's sick chamber
+which the priest had assumed, and thankfully complied. Father Barry
+watched her handle each lily with reverent touch. One by one she laid
+them down, then turned and smiled.
+
+"How beautiful!"
+
+"To me they are the symbolic flowers of the world," she answered.
+
+"Yes," he told her, "they express my mother's life; it was white, pure,
+true, simple--fragrant with love." He sank his face touching the bed of
+bloom. "She lived perfectly," he went on in tender revery. "I never knew
+such faith--such faith in her friends, in her Church. And now I have
+lost her, lost her at the very time when she might have helped me. But
+thank God she did not know! Thank God always that she never dreamed the
+truth about her boy--about the priest she almost worshipped. And she
+could never have understood."
+
+"I think she would have seen everything clearly, as you would have
+wished her to see it," Mrs. Doan protested. "I am sure she must have
+counseled you to be strong, begged you not to give up. She would have
+told you to wait--then to appeal your case to an authority higher than a
+very unreasonable old man. I do not understand your church government,"
+she acknowledged. "I am too ignorant to advise you--yet surely there is
+some way, otherwise there would be need of neither archbishops nor of a
+pope!" She spoke valiantly. In her heretical judgment the Vatican had no
+significance if its ruler refused to step outside, to listen to
+individual cases of injustice.
+
+"His Holiness bless your dear soul! bless you always!" the priest
+murmured huskily. His eyes glowed. "But you do not understand, do not
+see that it is not an ignominious downfall; not the bishop's power to
+keep me from going on with the cathedral, that has changed
+everything--made it impossible for me to remain a priest. All the time I
+have been nothing but a hypocrite, nothing but a coward."
+
+"Do not say such things!" she cried.
+
+"But I speak truth! Nothing shall ever silence my honest tongue again.
+You shall know at last why I went into a monastery, took false vows,
+adopted a sham profession."
+
+She raised her face appealingly. Her whole being implored him not to
+hurt her again after the lapse of years.
+
+"Forgive me!" he begged. "I am not blaming you, no one but my miserable
+self. I was not man enough to stand disappointment. The only way I could
+live! live without----" Isabel's eyes forbade him to finish. But he
+persisted. "The only way I could go on with life was to forget through
+forms, ceremonies, and flattery. When I began to work for the cathedral
+I had new hope. In reality I was less a priest than before. Yet I was
+more of a man, thank God! I intended to do my part like an honest
+architect. I wished to give my Church something worth while."
+
+"And you will do so yet," she pleaded.
+
+"Not now. I shall never act as priest again."
+
+His words fell slow and hard. "I cannot live falsely one day longer."
+
+The avowal deceived her; and now she had no fear for herself. Only the
+thought to help the man drove her on. Not being a Catholic, she was
+vaguely sure of the priest's words. For Isabel excommunication meant
+nothing but an unpleasant form which must eventually react on an
+intelligent victim. She held out her hand.
+
+"Any one has the right to change. I am glad that you have decided so
+splendidly. It is like you to know when you have been wrong. And now
+that you have really found out you can begin all over--study
+architecture--build something as great as the cathedral. Vows that have
+ceased to be real are much better broken."
+
+Her words evolved a simple plan. She had no understanding of the
+disgrace attending an apostate priest of the Catholic faith. Father
+Barry knew that she was innocent, that she had no wish to tempt him. But
+longing for all that he might still receive swept away his reason. He
+thought only as a man.
+
+"And you will help me?"
+
+"Why not?" she answered.
+
+"Because you do not understand; do not know what your asking me to begin
+life over implies." His mother's face beneath the lid of the casket was
+no whiter than his own. All that he had lived through in the last three
+days made fresh renunciation vain. Discarded vows fell away from him as
+a cast-off garment. He was simply begging life from the woman he loved.
+
+"Not here!" she pleaded. "Do not forget where we are!" Her voice broke.
+"You are still a priest; your vows hold before the world. I will not
+listen to you. Everything must be changed--absolutely changed, before I
+can see you--ever again." Her anger restored him.
+
+"I will do anything!" he promised.
+
+"Then go abroad--at once," she entreated. Voices admonished her to be
+prudent. She moved away. "I will help you! help you! But you shall wait.
+Nothing must shadow your honest life to come." She spoke in French,
+fearing her words might reach the hall. Mrs. Grace stood outside the
+parlor door. Dreading to look upon death, she yet resented her
+confessor's neglect. Nuns had ceased to hold her from an evident living
+attraction, as she swept into the room. But she was scarcely satisfied;
+for the length of the casket divided her niece from Father Barry. The
+priest, unconscious of an intruder, wept out his shame above Isabel's
+lilies.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Isabel sat beneath the trees, while Reginald turned successful
+somersaults on the lawn. The boy was well and strong, adorable in blue
+overalls.
+
+Mrs. Doan's second season in the most beautiful town in southern
+California had begun. She had forestalled the demand of tourists, and
+was already established in a furnished house, with a garden. She was
+very happy and believed that she had found the idyllic spot of a
+life-long dream. To-day a glorious perspective of purple mountains
+spread out before her, when she lifted her eyes from the bit of
+needlework which she was trying to finish for a friend's firstborn.
+Having spent the previous season in a large hotel she rejoiced in
+seclusion. Now she might face the future without indefinite dread,
+something she could not quite get rid of when thinking of the man whom
+she had undoubtedly influenced. For Philip Barry was no longer in
+orders. Almost a year lay between his life as a priest and the strained,
+difficult existence of one adrift, beginning over, feeling his way with
+a prejudiced public. But he had gone abroad, as Isabel advised; and at
+first excommunication appeared to be no harder to bear than his earlier
+Catholic punishment.
+
+During months in Paris he had wrought himself into lofty independence,
+occupying his time with feverish writing. The result was an unpublished
+book on "The Spirit of the Cathedral." Disdaining many lurid accounts
+of his apostacy, he had worked with his whole intellect, thinking
+constantly of Isabel. Yet withal he kept his promise. Through six months
+he had sent her no word of his welfare. Isabel's pure name lent no color
+to a startling sensation, exciting the entire Middle West and Catholics
+throughout the world. With Mrs. Grace, alone, suspicion rested. For
+others, Mrs. Doan had no part in the priest's unusual course.
+Fortunately, but one stormy scene had ensued between the aunt and the
+niece, then both women agreed to ignore a painful subject. It was not
+until the second season in California, when European letters began to
+come with unguarded frequency, that Mrs. Grace again grew chilly.
+Glancing askance at foreign postmarks, she declined to ask the most
+trivial question concerning the man wholly excluded from the thoughts of
+a good Catholic. The lady's bitterness brewed fresh measure. Isabel was
+deeply hurt. Still, as during the previous winter, days passed without
+rupture. To all appearances things were as usual. It was not until Mrs.
+Grace rebelled over quiet that Isabel fully realized her aunt's
+unfitness. She now barely endured her chaperone, while more than ever
+she regretted the woman's unexecuted threat to return to apartments in a
+favorite hotel. However, Mrs. Grace stayed on, unsettling an otherwise
+contented household.
+
+Isabel was obliged to keep open house without regard to chosen guests. A
+dream of freedom seemed ruthlessly dispelled. Yet to-day she was happy,
+at last free to indulge her thoughts. Early in the morning the restless
+relative had departed, and should good fortune continue, the touring car
+would not return before late afternoon. Isabel glanced down the gentle
+slope of her garden, shut in from streets beyond by hedge rows that in
+springtime were snowbanks of cherokee roses. Early rain had cleansed the
+mountains. The range was already prismatic, sharpened into fresh beauty
+below a sky as blue as June. No suggestion of winter touched the
+landscape. As usual the paradox for November was summer overhead and
+autumn on the foothills. "Old Baldy" still rose without his ermine. On
+the mesa brown and yellow vineyards lay despoiled of crops lately
+pressed into vintage or dried into raisins. What is known as "the
+season" had not begun. To Isabel the absence of the ubiquitous tourist,
+together with simple demands upon time, expressed a "psalm of life,"
+which she might well have sung.
+
+As she sat under a tree sewing, her mind went naturally to a land far
+distant--a land which held Philip Barry. For a letter had come that very
+morning. The excommunicated priest was in Paris awaiting her answer. A
+year of probation was almost over, yet he begged as a boy for shortened
+time. While Isabel worked she examined herself with judicial care. The
+unerring precision of each tiny, regular stitch seemed like testimony in
+her lover's case. She sewed exquisitely at infrequent intervals, and
+generally to compose her mind. Philip Barry's wish to come to her at
+once had upset both her plans and her judgment. Should she let him
+cross--two full months before the time agreed upon? All that her answer
+might involve pricked into soft cambric. She drew a thread, again and
+again struck back sharply into dainty space for a hemstitched tuck. It
+was hard--so hard--to refuse. Yet if he came, came within the month,
+then everything must be changed, not only for herself but for Reginald.
+
+Isabel evaded the natural conclusion of the whole matter. As she sat
+below the towering mountains--very close they seemed to-day--she had a
+sense of being in retreat from everyone. She would take ample time to
+prove herself, to feel sure that her wish for Philip Barry's love was
+not selfishness. Nothing must make her forget the boy and the possible
+consequence of his mother's marriage to an apostate Catholic priest. She
+sighed, looking up at the purple peaks. The very serenity of her
+environment developed the longing for happiness. She was too young to
+accept blighting sacrifice. And yet, because of those two months on
+which she had counted, she was undecided. But withal she smiled. "He
+might have stayed away the year!" she murmured. Her son's glad shouts
+echoed on the lawn. Impatience is unreasonable. Why has he asked me to
+cable my answer? He should have waited for my letter, she told herself,
+in flat denial to what she really wished.
+
+She sat idle. Stirring pepper boughs roused her from revery. She looked
+above at swaying branches, only to remember how admirably Reginald's
+father had waited for everything. Half stoical force, which described
+the man's power during a period of successful railroading, had always
+restrained him. When he died, his unsoiled record and splendid business
+success had both been achieved through the mastery of waiting. She
+smiled. The curve of her lips charmed. She was yet undecided. Yes, the
+man she married had not been impatient. He had waited three months for
+the one word she would not say. At last, when she became his wife, he
+still waited for something she could never give him. He did not
+complain. Again pepper branches trembled, and a shower of tiny berries
+began to fall. Commotion ensued among leaves, until a dark, slender
+mocker shot out, onto the back of Reginald's fox terrier. Suspicion,
+rage, shrieked in the bird's shrill war cry. The beleaguered dog
+retreated beneath Isabel's chair. The enemy flew off, but came back,
+finally to settle just below the cherished nest which his excitement had
+duly located. Egotism and pride made plain his secret.
+
+Isabel laughed, as she patted the dog crouching at her feet. "Poor
+fellow!" she said. "You surely had no thought to harm domestic
+prospects." Then through the garden her boy rushed headlong, a toy spade
+swung recklessly, as Maggie the nurse pursued. Jewels of moisture
+glistened on the child's warm forehead. His cheeks glowed, the violet of
+his eyes shone flowerlike. He flung himself into waiting, outstretched
+arms. "O mudder dear!" he cried. "I just love you so, it most makes me
+cry." The joy of his baby passion, the depths reserved for years to
+come, seemed the expression of another, a stronger will; and Isabel knew
+that she had made ready her answer to Philip Barry.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+Shortly before five Isabel heard the horn of the returning car. She ran
+to a mirror and gazed at her reflection with new interest, for after
+useless struggle with Fate she had decided to let Philip Barry cross the
+water. The telegram had been sent to New York and soon her message would
+vibrate over the Atlantic cable. Early in the afternoon she had
+overhauled gowns not intended to be worn until several months later. Her
+changed toilet was a matter of significance, almost a challenge to her
+aunt, who would readily construe a transformation from half mourning to
+violet crepe and amethysts. She listened to the horn, dreading an
+ordeal. Fortunately, intuitions concerning Mrs. Grace always developed
+her own mastery. And to-day Isabel ignored the aunt's startled
+expression and crude outcry, as she hastened on to meet arriving guests.
+
+"So glad to see you looking so well!" cried Gay Lewis, a school
+acquaintance of years back. "I was afraid we might be late! But luck is
+on our side, and with my mother, who so wishes to know you, are our very
+dear friends, Mrs. Hartley and her son." Miss Lewis assumed social
+responsibility with ease. While Mrs. Doan received the ladies, she
+fairly drove the man--or rather youth--of the party forward.
+
+"Let me present you, Ned. And remember! I am doing something very
+sweet. Mrs. Doan is a darling to have us for tea; do you not think so?"
+
+"You were kind to come," said Isabel, looking at young Hartley. "How did
+you manage to hit the hour exactly? Was there no trial of patience
+underneath your machine?"
+
+"Not the least," Miss Lewis volunteered, as the strangers went onward to
+an immense living-room. "You should have joined us, not stayed at home
+on a day like this!"
+
+Hartley's adoring eyes renewed a previous invitation. "You will come
+next time--to-morrow?" he implored.
+
+"Have we not had a delicious run?" said Miss Lewis, speaking to the
+older women, relaxing in chairs and ready for tea.
+
+"Yes, indeed," said her mother. "Everything has been perfect."
+
+"And Mr. Hartley is such a precious driver," the daughter went on. "He
+left his chauffeur on the road--came home alone--without a mishap! You
+may fancy his skill from the time we made--ninety-nine miles, was it
+not? Yes, of course! a regular bargain run. And we started so late; not
+until after ten, with luncheon at one. Part of our way was simply
+drenched with fresh oil."
+
+"Just like a greasy river," Mrs. Grace complained.
+
+"An outrage upon strangers who wish to enjoy the country," chimed Mrs.
+Lewis.
+
+"I should think people who live here--and many of them own most
+expensive cars--would protest. It doesn't seem fair to spoil good sport
+by such aggravating conditions," said Mrs. Hartley.
+
+"Another biscuit, Ned dear; I am shamefully hungry." Gay Lewis, who had
+passed too many seasons of unavailable conquest to be accounted young by
+debutantes, leaned forward. "Dear Mrs. Hartley, take two. Such jolly
+biscuit, aren't they? Our hostess must indulge us all, we poor people
+who stop in a hotel."
+
+She turned to Isabel, assiduously occupied with a steaming samovar. "You
+do it like an old hand; and I simply envy you this house." Miss Lewis
+swept the immense, rich room with alert eyes, keen to artistic values.
+"You were lucky. I am surprised that Mrs. Grant consented to rent.
+However, I am told that her stay abroad is apt to be protracted. You
+know she is most ambitious for her daughters?"
+
+"Yes," assented Isabel, "she lives here only a few months each year."
+
+"Is there a Mr. Grant?" asked Mrs. Hartley.
+
+"Oh, dear yes; but he doesn't count. His wife has the money, and the
+taste, too," Miss Lewis volunteered.
+
+"We must examine those antique brasses before we leave." Gay again
+addressed Mrs. Hartley. "Mrs. Grant has wonderful things," she
+explained.
+
+"I always want to clean tarnished brass up a bit," the lady answered.
+
+"Of course! I quite forgot your wonderful housekeeping."
+
+Ned Hartley flushed at his mother's philistine candor.
+
+"In this particular room, with its embrasures, dull richness, almost
+medieval simplicity, I should hardly dare to shine any landlady's
+cathedral candlesticks," said Mrs. Doan. The humor in her remark was not
+too plain.
+
+"How charmingly the whole outside approaches into the very house," Miss
+Lewis put in. "There are no grounds in town quite so appealing. I love
+dear wild spots in a garden when vegetation admits of them. Where
+everything grows the year round it is a mistake to be too tidy with
+Nature."
+
+"Mrs. Grant is an artist--a genius--in her way," the hostess rejoined.
+"She certainly understands semi-tropical opportunities, whereas some of
+her neighbors seem only to think of the well-kept lawns of an Eastern
+city."
+
+"Since the town has grown so large and shockingly up to date, there is
+very little natural charm left anywhere," said Gay Lewis. "Really one
+has to have better gowns and more of them out here than in New York or
+Chicago. I never accepted so many invitations for inside affairs in my
+life before. I positively have no time for tennis, horseback, or golf. I
+just submit to the same things we do at home and spend almost every
+afternoon at bridge, under electric light."
+
+Isabel laughed. "I am threatening to abjure electricity altogether in
+this particular room--burn only candles and temple lamps. I should like
+to try the effect of softened light on nerves," she confided. "After
+sitting in a jungle of the garden, I could come indoors and disregard
+everything but day-dreams."
+
+"The test would be worth while," Gay agreed. "And really, I should like
+to have a day-dream myself."
+
+"Absurd!" cried Mrs. Grace. "The room is dark enough already. With
+nothing but candles it would be worse than a Maeterlinck play. And how
+could one see cards by a temple lamp?"
+
+"Won't you be seated?" Isabel asked of Ned Hartley, still standing. "You
+have worked so hard passing tea; do enjoy yourself." A momentous
+question went unanswered. "See! I am dropping preserved cherries into
+your cup--true Russian brewing. Delicious!" the hostess promised.
+
+Hartley moved a chair. "May I sit here?" he begged.
+
+"Of course. You deserve my fervent attention. Shall I give you orange
+marmalade with your biscuit?"
+
+"Anything--everything!" he answered, all but dead to the sustained
+prattle of the other women. "It's awfully good of you to look out for
+me," he added, with an adoring glance. "And you will let me take you out
+in the machine--to-morrow?" he pleaded.
+
+Isabel smiled. "You are very kind."
+
+Miss Lewis was standing by the table with her cup. "We shall never let
+you rest until the thing is quite empty," she declared. "Cherries,
+please, instead of lemon. As I said before, you are a lucky, lucky girl
+to drop into such a place."
+
+From a pillowed lair Mrs. Grace protested. "Don't tell her that," she
+begged. "The house and garden are well enough, to be sure; yet after
+all one comes from home to be free from care. I cannot understand
+Isabel's prejudice against hotels. There is nothing so pleasant as a
+good one, when one is a stranger in a strange land. I like life!
+something doing. Last winter we had bridge every afternoon and evening.
+The guests at the Archangel were delightful--so generous about buying
+prizes. And of mornings the Japanese auctions right down the street were
+so diverting. Of course we went every day--got such bargains, even
+marked Azon vases for almost nothing. It was so easy to buy your
+Christmas presents."
+
+"How interesting," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do the auctions take place every
+season?"
+
+"Always in the spring. And they are such an education!" Mrs. Grace
+persisted. "Then it is so exciting when you really want something. Of
+course one does not always know what to do with so many trifles, for
+often one does not expect to get caught on a bid. Still the sport is
+great and usually the things are good enough to send East to relatives,
+or else to give to maids about the hotel." Mrs. Grace laughed at her
+frank confession. "To be honest," she continued, "I am bored to death by
+our present mode of life. What Isabel finds in housekeeping I can't
+understand."
+
+"Poor Aunt Julia!" Mrs. Doan flushed at an unexpected chance. "I see
+that I have been very selfish," she owned, mischievously. "Alas! I am
+too content to give up, after working hard to find so much! Then outside
+of personal delight--there is my boy. He is the happiest little soul
+imaginable! You should see him in his overalls! How could I deprive him
+of his home for another whole year?" the mother pleaded.
+
+"He was well enough last winter," said Mrs. Grace.
+
+"Dear Aunt Julia, our friends will think that we are quarreling. I had
+no idea that you were unhappy. As soon as the Archangel reopens you must
+take rooms and enjoy yourself as usual."
+
+The woman, never prepared for a climax, rose from her pillows. "Take
+rooms at the Archangel! leave you unchaperoned!" she cried in blunt
+dismay. "Why, Isabel Doan, what are you thinking of?"
+
+"I should not be alone," the niece answered. "My old French governess,
+Madame Sabot, is begging to come to California. By this time she is
+doubtless an ogress, well able to guard me."
+
+A hot wave of suspicion swept the aunt's countenance.
+
+"For that small matter," cried Miss Lewis, "I might do as well as
+madame. Take me for your chaperone! won't you, dear? I should love to
+act in the capacity. You know, a mere infant companion is all that is
+necessary nowadays--the best of form. And I am positively old, older
+than yourself," she coolly owned. Miss Lewis rose from her chair with
+vanishing hopes of Ned Hartley's continued devotion. The boy was heeding
+Isabel's slightest word.
+
+"You must over think my application," she jested. "If Mrs. Grace decides
+to join mother at the Archangel I shall certainly hope to displace your
+French ogress. Meantime, we must be going. I have asked a man from the
+city to dinner; he will put in an appearance before I am fit. So sorry
+we cannot stop to see the boy in his nest. I understand he slumbers on a
+roof top--under the stars--like every one else out here. Isn't sleeping
+out of doors a fad? So admirable for the complexion! Really one might
+leave the country with a decent bank balance, if only one had nerve to
+rent an oak tree instead of rooms in a hotel." She chattered gaily above
+the others, to the verge of the waiting car.
+
+While the machine gathered power, Ned Hartley hung on Isabel's promise
+just gained. "To-morrow--to-morrow at three," he impressed again. Miss
+Lewis heard his invitation, then blew the horn with ironic smile.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Mrs. Grace had not accompanied the departing guests to the door. As the
+machine sped away Isabel realized her aunt's displeasure and braced
+against a scene. The time for plain words had arrived. She went slowly
+into the living-room, building up as best she could a line of defense
+for certain attack. By the glow of a wood fire, wreathing flame up the
+wide chimney, she saw her aunt's face; it was pale and tense with
+suspicion. Hate for the man, once her idolized confessor, had
+transformed the carefully preserved woman into one far from attractive.
+She seemed to gather vituperative force beyond her strength, for
+suddenly she stopped pacing the room to sink to a chair. Isabel turned,
+frightened.
+
+"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia, what is the matter?" She spoke, running
+forward.
+
+Mrs. Grace motioned her away. "Don't pretend!" she cried. "I have seen
+from the very beginning--known exactly what you were both doing." Isabel
+said nothing. It was the older woman's opportunity. "Not building the
+cathedral was only an excuse for all that is still to come. You have
+ruined a man who otherwise must have been a saint!" She buried her face
+in her hands, which suddenly became gray and drawn beneath their weight
+of glistening gems. In anger, Mrs. Grace looked old.
+
+"What kind of a life do you expect to lead with a traitor to both his
+faith and his honor? Do you suppose for a moment that he will forget!
+throw away his soul without longing to repent? I wish you joy of your
+conquest, Isabel Doan; and remember, I am telling you the truth, even
+though you have turned me from your house after all my devotion." Mrs.
+Grace sobbed hysterically. Isabel was at first stunned by her aunt's
+evil predictions; then she tried to speak. "You needn't excuse him!" the
+angry woman forbade. "I have heard your loose arguments before now.
+Don't tell me that it is better to break a sacred vow than to keep it
+with rebellion! I will not listen to you." She crossed herself against
+possible harm. "Read all the pagan books you can find; but don't forget
+my words. I must leave you as soon as possible, for, of course, after my
+treatment this afternoon I cannot intrude."
+
+"Aunt Julia!" Isabel sank at her feet. "Please let us part friends," she
+pleaded. "You have been very good to me; if only you could
+understand--let me tell you things which you do not know----"
+
+Mrs. Grace sprang up.
+
+"And you intend to really marry that man!" Isabel flamed scarlet. "You
+actually expect to go through with the farce of a religious service?
+Well, you had better remember that marriage vows are more easily broken
+than any others. Don't be a fool--a prude about mere form--if you care
+to keep a lover; for mark my words, the man who has been untrue to his
+Church will find it much easier to forget a wife." Vindictive zeal gave
+Mrs. Grace hard fluency. And the insult which Isabel had not expected
+made her own part clear. She rose from the floor straight and firm.
+
+"I feel that it is not too late for you to leave me this evening; if you
+think differently, I can take Reginald and Maggie into Los Angeles while
+you find another home. After what you have said it is impossible for us
+to sleep beneath the same roof."
+
+Her wounded womanhood stood out superbly. She walked from the room.
+Above, with her door locked against every one, she burst into tears.
+With burning face in the pillow she wept out her heart. In all her life
+she had never felt so hurt and miserable. Would the world regard her
+marriage to Philip Barry in the same wretched light as her aunt? Then
+perhaps the Catholic woman was right; after all she--a heretic--might
+not be able to hold the man who was now willing to give up everything
+for love. And she had induced him to take the fatal step. Perhaps she
+did not understand the force of Catholic vows.
+
+She sat up, gazing through the window at the full top of a eucalyptus
+tree, dark, and wonderfully etched against lingering gold of sunset. Why
+should she be miserable in a world as lovely as the one about her? She
+longed for the happiness which belonged to her youth and station. Again
+she recalled every word which she had said to Philip Barry at the side
+of his mother's casket. To her straightforward nature she had advised
+him wisely. With reason unbiased by dogmatic training; with her soul,
+honest as a child's, she felt no shame for what she had done. And it
+was now too late to hesitate. She had sent the message and she must hold
+to it with her life, her womanhood. She bathed her eyes, still going
+over the main facts of her lover's disgrace in the Catholic world. She
+came back always to the main point; he only committed a mistake when he
+had gone into the priesthood without realizing the price. He had tried
+in vain to live a life of self-denial, of enforced conformity, whereas
+both attempts were totally unsuited to his temperament and mentality. He
+had made a false step in the wrong direction; why, then, should he go
+on? It were better to stop than to stumble and fall. When a lawyer
+failed in the profession none thought worse of him when he succeeded
+with literature. And the doctor, unable to grasp physical ills of casual
+patients, carried no stain on his honor if he discovered some other
+calling. It could not be right to denounce a physician in charge of
+souls because he would not go on with a spiritual travesty. Philip's
+disappointment in regard to the cathedral, his unjust treatment by his
+bishop, his thwarted ambition,--these things she put to one side in a
+final summing up. All seemed secondary to the confession of the man who
+had stood by the side of his dead Catholic mother. He had said that he
+could no longer continue his priesthood, because he had ceased to be
+false with himself. That to Isabel made sufficient reason for all that
+had happened--for all to follow. She covered the case by direct
+standards of her own truthful nature. This evening, looking into the
+golden sunset, she could find no justifiable bar to marriage with
+Philip Barry.
+
+When Maggie tapped on the door she opened it calmly. The girl was
+vaguely conscious of sudden disturbance. "Come in," said Mrs. Doan.
+"Mrs. Grace is leaving this evening," she explained. "If possible, you
+must help with her packing. I shall not be down to dinner. I am tired
+and will lie down outside with Reginald; you need not disturb me. Should
+I need you I can ring." Isabel had partly undressed.
+
+"You won't have anything to eat?" the nursemaid questioned.
+
+"Nothing now, perhaps later." Mrs. Doan hastened to put on a padded
+robe. Her hair fell about her shoulders.
+
+She separated the shining mass, weaving it into braids, as she went,
+almost running, to her sleeping son. An upper balcony, partially
+protected by canvas, made his cozy nest. At the south and east there was
+nothing to shut out the stars, while at dawn peaks beyond the northern
+range rose dark and sharp through zones of burning rose. Isabel cast
+herself upon her own bed. Delicious air cooled her burning cheeks and
+she could hear the gentle, regular breathing of her boy. She had no
+thought of sleep. Her only wish was to escape to a place cut off from
+her aunt's temporary territory. Now she would wait. Her heart was kind,
+and in retreat she began to feel sorry for the woman with whom she had
+parted. Mrs. Grace was only half sister to Isabel's father, and far
+back the little girl had wondered why her pretty aunty so often
+quarreled with her family. Once she heard her father declare that
+Julia's nose and hands seemed to guarantee a lady, but she had caught no
+more. At the time she did not understand; since then she had grown older
+and wiser. She sank upon the pillow gratefully. Below there was a stir
+of running feet, a commotion at the telephone. Isabel tried to forget
+her own inhospitable part. Once she half rose from bed, half believed
+that she would face her hysterical aunt with overtures of peace. Then
+she felt the foolishness of going through with everything again. Mrs.
+Grace was impossible after what had taken place. Sounds about the house
+continued. The angry woman proposed to take her own time for packing;
+and it was nearly midnight before Isabel became sure that an unwelcome
+guest had gone. Above with the boy, she watched the stars grow brighter,
+listened to night calls of stirring birds, wondered about Philip Barry
+at the other side of the world. Now at last she was alone in the house
+with Reginald and the servants. She got up and went below, to find
+Maggie crying in the hall. The girl hid a crimson face and Isabel knew
+that Mrs. Grace had enlightened her in regard to a coming event. As one
+Catholic to another, she had warned the nursemaid to protect her soul
+from evil influence.
+
+"You may go to bed," Mrs. Doan commanded. Maggie turned away, then came
+back. Her voice failed and she pointed to the dining room, where a
+little supper was daintily set out. She sobbed her way to the back of
+the house, then above to her room. Isabel was alone. She had hardly
+dreamed of freedom, yet now it was here. The fire in the living-room
+still burned; and like a child, she took a bowl of milk and bread and
+sat down on a rug before glowing embers. In spite of all she felt happy.
+She was hungry, too; and after she had eaten every mouthful she sat
+on,--thinking of Philip.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+It took Isabel nearly a month to throw off the effect of her aunt's
+angry departure. At the end of that time the cheery French woman arrived
+to take the place of Mrs. Grace, who had gone from the town to St.
+Barnabas. Still later, Isabel heard with strange relief that her aunt no
+longer enjoyed California and was about to seek excitement in New York.
+She felt glad that Mrs. Grace would be at the far side of the continent
+before the coming of Philip Barry.
+
+Isabel had not kept her engagement with Ned Hartley the morning after
+the trouble; but the next day and for days following she toured in the
+machine with the elate boy and his mother. Mrs. Lewis and Gay were often
+of the party. To spin through a country growing fresher, more enchanting
+with each welcome rain was a tonic. Isabel rebounded. And at last Philip
+had started for home. She now thought of little else and her heart grew
+light as days slipped away. To restore the man whom she had unduly
+influenced; to bring him in touch with happiness; to lead him in his new
+career to honor, even to fame, grew into a passionate hope as time went
+by. Philip was already hers. She would make him forget, help him to
+consecrate his talents anew to art and letters. He must write books and
+be glad that he was no longer a priest, bound with forms and obsolescent
+vows. His brilliant mind should be free to develop, his manhood to grow
+unrestrained. Isabel's own unorthodox view was so wholly conceived out
+of intellect and evolving mercy that retribution and remorse were not
+pictured as possible punishments reserved for an apostate Catholic once
+a priest.
+
+Her one thought was to make the man who had suffered from an almost
+fatal mistake happy. When once he felt the surging joy of love,
+opportunity, his past life would cease to trouble him. Isabel was young
+and confident. She felt sure of everything. The day, wonderfully bright
+and exhilarating, called her into the garden, where she found Reginald.
+The boy had dug a flower bed with a tiny spade; then, too impatient to
+think of seeds, had broken full blooming geraniums into stubby shoots
+and planted each one with a shout of laughter.
+
+"See my garden! mother dear," he cried, as Isabel approached. "It's all
+weddy--growed beau-ti-ful!" He clapped dirt-stained hands and bounced
+about in his blue overalls.
+
+Maggie raised a tear-stained face from where she was sitting. Her only
+outlet seemed to be weeping. "To think that I must leave him!" she
+sobbed. "It breaks my heart to go, and nothing but Mike insisting that
+we get married could part me from my boy." She wound her arms about her
+little charge. Mrs. Doan saw that the girl held a letter. "It's to San
+Francisco he bids me come," she went on. In her excitement she had
+lapsed into old-country expression. "And he thinks I can get married
+with no warnin'. Married indeed! Married without a stitch but store
+clothes. I would like to send him walkin' back East, with the chance of
+a better man."
+
+"You must not do that," said Mrs. Doan, now reconciled to the girl's
+departure. Reginald was growing fast, and with Madame Sabot and an
+English nurse in readiness to fill the Irish maid's place, the boy would
+find his daily education an easy matter.
+
+"Poor Maggie's so sick, mother dear," the little fellow explained. He
+threw his arms about the neck of his weeping nurse, kissing her loudly.
+"Now poor Maggie is all well!" he exulted. "Didn't Reggie give Maggie a
+nice, big, fat kiss!" He went back satisfied to his miniature garden,
+while at the same moment Ned Hartley rushed down the terrace. "Where are
+you all?" he cried. His manner had grown free and confident since his
+first tea-drinking in Mrs. Doan's drawing-room. This morning his boyish
+face glowed with expectation. "Do hurry," he begged. "You are surely
+coming? 'The mater' is waiting in the machine and the day's bully." He
+pressed his wish at Isabel's side. She led him beyond the range of
+Maggie's ears.
+
+"I am afraid that I cannot go; Reginald's nurse is leaving at once," she
+explained.
+
+"But I have found your horses!" young Hartley tempted. "You must come
+and pass judgment on the finest span in the country. They are
+beauties--perfect beauties! I ran the owner down by mere chance; and
+we'll find him on a foothill ranch, with the pair in question, saddle
+horses, too. You simply must come if you really wish for a snap." His
+enthusiasm was contagious.
+
+"You are good," Isabel answered.
+
+"Then you should reward me with your company. Bring old madame and the
+boy."
+
+Reginald's ears had caught the invitation. "Come, mother dear!" he
+cried. "Come wight away." His glee bubbled. The uncomprehended tears of
+his nurse were forgotten as he placed his hand in Ned's.
+
+"See the mischief you have wrought," said Isabel. "It is too late for
+Reggie to go from home--almost time for his bath and nap," she announced
+decidedly.
+
+"But, mother dear," the blue eyes flashed mutiny, "But, mother dear,
+Reggie _must_ have a good time!" The ruling passion of the age possessed
+the infant's soul; to enjoy life topped every other thought.
+
+The child drew Hartley forward with all his strength. "Come right away,"
+he coaxed. "I want to get my red coat."
+
+"But darling," Isabel protested, "you cannot go in the machine this
+morning. Here comes Maggie to give you your bath; go with her at once."
+
+A struggle was on. "You must go with nurse. You may not have a good time
+this morning. Another day you shall ride in the automobile if you are
+obedient."
+
+The child surveyed his mother. She showed no sign of weakening. For an
+instant his lips trembled; a cry half escaped them, then he rushed into
+Maggie's arms.
+
+"To-morrow Reggie may go, to-morrow!" he repeated with baby confidence.
+Two sturdy, adorable legs went peaceably forward across the lawn. With
+every step the boy evoked some happy future day--a glad to-morrow.
+
+"You're the slickest mater on record!" exclaimed Hartley. "How do you do
+it? I believe you might subdue a labor strike if you tried. No man could
+resist you long. And any fellow would be bound to do things, make
+something of himself, if only he might have you to keep him level." That
+he had known Mrs. Doan but a short time escaped his mind. Suddenly he
+was pushing his cause with youthful ardor. "If you could only care for
+me!" he cried. "Only believe that I really would amount to something if
+you gave me the chance. Why can't I prove it to you? Indeed, I would do
+everything that you wished me to--be as good as Reg--upon my word!"
+Isabel raised startled eyes in mute entreaty. "Let me finish," the boy
+implored. "I know just what you think, so please do not tell me. You
+have heard about the scrape at college, all about my getting fired, my
+father's anger, everything abominable. And it is true, all true,--I was
+an ass, a perfect ass. I admit it. But you see I'm different now. I can
+be a man, even if I didn't get through college by the skin of my teeth.
+If you would only marry me father would overlook everything! set me up
+in any kind of business I liked. And besides, 'the mater' has much more
+money than dad. She's simply crazy about you--almost as crazy as I am."
+
+"My dear boy," cried Isabel, feeling very wise and old, "you must stop.
+If you say another foolish word our pleasant friendship will have to end
+right here."
+
+"But it isn't foolish to love you, to be mad with good resolutions for
+your sake," he pleaded. "Of course, if you won't listen to me now I must
+wait. And I will wait--wait just like Reg--until to-morrow!" His whole
+being reflected new resolve.
+
+"Then be reasonable. Go back to college; finish the course your position
+in life demands; please your father; be good." They moved slowly to the
+house.
+
+"And I may hope when I get my sheepskin?"
+
+"No! no!" she cried. "I meant nothing of the kind. I could never, never
+marry you. Even if----" she hesitated--"it can never be," she finished.
+
+"Then there is some one else?"
+
+"There is some one else," she answered in a voice so true that its
+cadence hurt the more.
+
+Ned looked upon the ground; then he lifted hopeless eyes. "Of course I
+am an ass; I always was one. But you will come out in the machine? I
+haven't the nerve to explain; and I'll help you find the horses--for the
+other man----" he choked out.
+
+Isabel could not refuse the humble request.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+The luxurious touring car sped away. In the tonneau Mrs. Hartley and
+madame chatted with no suspicion of Ned's unhappy state. The morning was
+glorious.
+
+"Please come," the boy had begged; then added, "if you don't, 'the
+mater' will want to know the reason why."
+
+"We must be the best of friends," Isabel whispered, as she took her
+place in front.
+
+"Is ze country not de-vine?" cried the old French woman. "So like La
+Riviera! my southern France!"
+
+Mrs. Hartley coughed. "The dust is a drawback," she complained.
+
+"But it does not rise in ze nostril--drive upon ze face; there is no
+wind to make rough ze flesh," the other argued. "At San Francisco ze
+little stone rise from ze ground, hit ze eye! And in Chicago ze wind
+blow fierce, make sore ze throat." Mrs. Hartley tightened her veil. "Ze
+south California is good--dear Madame Hartley--good beyond every land
+but France." Madame Sabot laughed like a happy child. "Am I not blessed
+to stay in ze paradise? To live wis my angel children? Since ten years I
+have no home--only trouble. Tes grande!" she cried, "ze tree; I forget
+ze name."
+
+"Eucalyptus," prompted Isabel, turning backward.
+
+"U-ca-lip-tus," madame repeated. "Not trim like ze Lombardy poplar, but
+so tall! so tall!"
+
+The giant stood by the wayside. The round, smooth trunk, expanding each
+year from beneath girders of loosening bark, lifted a weight of
+inaccessible white blossoms to the sky. Peeled to a shining mauve, the
+mighty stalk shot up to swaying, dull green branches. From lower
+irregular limbs long ribbons of sloughing fiber hung in the gentle
+breeze, until rain or a transient gust sent them rattling to the ground.
+When threatening moisture lay along the range the giant eucalyptus loved
+to plunge into inky clouds, to bend anon, a towering helmet of sable
+plumes. This every artist saw; and in her own excitable way the French
+woman felt the passion of the wayside monarch.
+
+"Tres grande!" she cried, with parting wave of her hand.
+
+"I see no beauty in a eucalyptus," said Mrs. Hartley. "If I had a place
+here I should not have one of them about--such untidy trees! It would
+drive me distracted to see loose strings swinging overhead. Then when
+the fiber drops it is even more annoying. Falling leaves are bad enough,
+but falling bark! I could never endure that. At Lakeside--our country
+place--Mr. Hartley and Ned rave over dried maple leaves; but I assure
+you I have them raked up each morning. I really could not endure the
+autumn if I permitted myself to be buried under dead leaves. I should be
+too blue. With rheumatic gout I am miserable enough."
+
+"But ze California will make ze cure. Not one bad head since I find ze
+happy land," old madame declared.
+
+The chatter at the back of the car made rare entertainment for Isabel,
+who listened by reason of Ned Hartley's unsociable mood. The boy was
+deep in sulks. He ran the machine so carelessly that his mother began to
+complain.
+
+"Don't be cross; please be nice," Mrs. Doan begged, softly.
+
+They were skirting the foothills, headed for an upland ranch.
+
+"Won't you prepare me a little for what I am to see--tell me about the
+horses?" she coaxed.
+
+"There isn't much to tell," Ned answered, out of gloom. "I just happened
+to notice the span in town; then I traced their owner through a livery
+stable groom. You may not like them," he added, with trying unconcern.
+
+"I am sure that I shall love them. And it was good of you to go to so
+much trouble." The boy's rudeness should be ignored. "Did you know that
+I have always been wild about horses?" He made no response and she went
+on. "Ever since I was a small girl I have loved to gallop over the
+country. Now I am going to indulge myself; have not only a carriage
+span, but two saddle horses--the very best ones we can find."
+
+"I presume Reginald is about to mount?" Ned was madly jealous. The
+question brought a flush to Isabel's cheeks.
+
+"I expect him to ride," she answered, "but of course on a pony."
+
+The automobile landed in a rut, then bounded upward and onward. "Why,
+Ned!" cried Mrs. Hartley. "What is the matter? If you can't run the
+machine more evenly you had better bring Adolph when next we come out."
+The rebuke was smothered in a rhapsody by madame. "Behold!" she cried,
+"behold ze landscape!" But the too evident attempt to allay the mother's
+criticism fell flat. The lady continued to suffer with every jar.
+Neither the dazzling contour of the lifting range, nor a wonderful
+valley, sweeping from foothills to the distant, glistening sea, could
+distract her mind from personal complaints.
+
+It was a relief when a sudden detour landed the machine on a cross way,
+leading through interlacing pepper trees, to a small but attractive
+bungalow. A pretty, neatly dressed young woman sat on the porch sewing.
+She rose as the car stopped.
+
+"Good morning," she said, "my husband is with the horses." She pointed
+to whitewashed paddocks at the left some distance beyond the peppers.
+"Please keep going, the road leads straight; my husband will hear the
+machine."
+
+"Thank you," said Mrs. Doan. "You are fortunate to have such a location
+for your home. You must enjoy living here?"
+
+"Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we
+are never lonely." She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement
+was charming. "I hope you will like the horses," she went on. "Now that
+we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better." She
+laughed musically, then explained. "My husband has often refused to part
+with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago.
+You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look
+forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races.
+And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!" Her blue eyes
+kindled.
+
+"I should think your husband would try again," said Ned.
+
+"Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his
+victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble."
+
+"Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them
+answered for the saddle--are not too wild," Mrs. Doan added.
+
+"Oh, no," the young wife answered. "Hawley would never consider selling
+Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go." She flushed
+with her ingenuous confidence. "Delia is named for me. A little romance
+in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our
+ranch."
+
+"Come with us in the machine," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do be good enough to
+show us 'Delia,'" said Mrs. Doan. "We are now doubly interested in your
+husband's horses."
+
+Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been
+a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful
+stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity,
+and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham apron and
+entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving
+chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of
+Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up
+against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained;
+and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created
+to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little
+woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of
+peppers to paddocks beyond.
+
+"You never lock your door?" Mrs. Hartley questioned.
+
+"No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest
+where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors."
+
+"Of course," said Isabel. "How wonderful this upland country is; I envy
+you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!" She swept the
+range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined
+by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks.
+The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. "Happy horses!" she
+exclaimed. "I am not surprised they won the chariot races."
+
+The rancher's wife looked pleased. "My husband is very proud of his
+stock," she answered; "and here he is."
+
+Cole met them, tall and sun browned.
+
+Without further pleasantry the party plunged into business. The little
+woman who had brought the strangers thither realized an impending
+sacrifice. To part from any one of a noted "four" was hardly to be
+borne. Then she remembered that Hawley needed money; that lithe, slender
+"Delia" and her running mate were not to be sold. When a purchase price
+became definite she smiled, although she felt like crying. The trade
+assumed reality; and Ned Hartley, emerging from sulks, became
+interested. But his good nature did not last, for soon he understood
+that Isabel Doan was about to buy thoroughbred horses for the enjoyment
+of another man. The boy was mad with jealousy. He was sorry that he had
+urged the trip to the foothills. Then all at once he felt superior, very
+like a martyr, in view of all that he suffered and proposed to suffer
+for years to come. Meantime Cole put his horses through telling paces.
+No points of the beautiful pair were overlooked. Mrs. Doan acknowledged
+her wish to close the bargain, but the rancher evinced no haste. Finally
+it was agreed that the span should go to town for a week. A friend of
+Cole's would take care of them, while Mrs. Doan might drive each day,
+with the privilege of returning them. In case the trade went through, a
+permanent coachman and a groom would be duly recommended. Isabel's
+appointments from her own stable had recently arrived and now she could
+hardly wait to try the thoroughbreds in different styles of vehicles.
+
+"I shall accept your kind offer," she declared, smiling. "And you will
+remember the saddle horses? I wish for two beauties, as soon as
+possible." She was radiant, thinking first of Philip, of all that she
+was making ready for his new life--a life which must be perfect.
+"Automobiles shall never make me give up the joy of owning horses!" she
+declared.
+
+Ned Hartley bit his lip and turned away. Down in the valley he saw
+emerald growth flashing in sunshine. Spreading acres of orange orchard,
+trees always dressed in green swept onward from cleansed mountains and
+reviving foothills, to a distant line of blue--the ocean. The landscape
+was glorious, but the boy felt bitter and would not regard it. He joined
+the rancher's wife with pretext of renewed interest in her favorite.
+Mrs. Cole was feeding "Delia" sugar as Hartley approached. "We call her
+our baby," she explained. "I never dare meet her without offering sugar;
+I always carry a few lumps with me." To-day the high-spirited animal
+stood eating from the hand of her mistress, so gentle that Ned could
+hardly reconcile her present range with that of the track.
+
+"Will she run in the chariot races the first of January?" he asked, not
+caring, yet wishing to appear at ease.
+
+Mrs. Cole shook her dark head. "I think not," she answered. "My husband
+hardly expects to drive this year. Next season, with two young horses
+trained for running with Delia and her mate, he will try again. Last New
+Year's there was a great deal of trouble about prize money, in spite of
+the evident dishonorable driving of a certain man who fouled my
+husband's chariot. Oh, but it was exciting!"
+
+Ned begged for the story. The rancher's wife went on.
+
+"Hawley had virtually won the race; had taken the pole from his opponent
+on the first dash, just beyond the judge's stand; he was holding his
+advantage without difficulty, when beyond the second turn his right
+wheel was deliberately knocked off. Of course the big race of the day
+was ruined. The management of the tournament has done everything to
+induce Hawley to run his four this season, but he has refused." Her
+cheeks flushed with the thought of her husband's humiliation.
+
+"Will the man who fouled the chariot be permitted to drive again?"
+Hartley asked, with interest in foothill scandal.
+
+Mrs. Cole looked proudly away to the sun-browned man approaching.
+"Please do not speak of last year's race," she pleaded. "I dare not let
+Hawley know how I distrust the neighbor who fouled his chariot. But of
+course nothing was proved. It was but the word of one man against
+another, for the trouble took place too far from the judges' stand to be
+exactly defined. With some it passed as an accident. Then you know it
+was all so quick--the thundering by of the chariots--the crash!" She
+clasped her hands as Cole came nearer, then smiled at Mrs. Doan, who
+seemed a vision of happiness.
+
+Terms had been agreed upon and the horses were to be taken to town at
+once. But Mrs. Hartley had grown impatient. Not wishing to make the lady
+late for luncheon, Isabel brought her own affair to an abrupt close. "I
+am sure to keep them! I love the beautiful creatures already," she
+declared, as the machine shot away.
+
+The little woman of the foothills did not return in the car.
+
+"If the horses must go I am glad that she is to own them!" she cried,
+when her husband named the price. "Do you suppose she will marry the
+young man?"
+
+Cole shook his head doubtfully. "Can't say for sure; but if sulks are
+any indication, should say the boy was down on his luck. I think there
+must be another one; and by George! he ought to be president, or at
+least a senator, to splice with such a woman."
+
+"I'm not a bit jealous," his wife answered. "I think just as you do. I
+think she's the most gracious being I ever met."
+
+"She's a prize package, all right," Cole said. "And she has a mind of
+her own. The way she settled on the horses in less than twenty minutes
+shows that she's used to money. Most women would have taken three weeks
+to decide, coming back to haggle at least a dozen times." He cast his
+arm around his wife's trim waist, urging her gently down the road. "I'm
+as hungry as a wolf," he confessed. "Let's get something to eat; then
+we'll drive the span to Pasadena and price pianos. We'll have a corker!
+One that plays itself."
+
+She cried out joyously. After all, she might have something, too, like
+the favored woman who could look, then choose at will. Isabel spinning
+away from the foothills was still happy with thoughts of the morning's
+transaction. Very soon her stable would be ready for use. The span,
+saddle horses, a pony for Reginald were all in her mind. And she must
+have a touring car and an electric runabout besides. The house was
+already equipped with servants, including a first-class celestial cook,
+who achieved culinary mysteries with smiles and good nature. Madame had
+arrived to stay, and when the English nurse displaced Maggie life might
+move along with the spirit of Arcady. Then he would come! Philip, her
+once forbidden lover.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+Weeks later washouts on the desert demoralized all overland trains, and
+Isabel waited impatiently for the belated "Limited." Then at seven in
+the evening she heard Philip Barry's voice over the telephone. In an
+hour he promised to be with her. During the morning she had wandered
+about the garden, trying in vain to picture the meeting with the man
+whom she had not seen for nearly a year. By afternoon she was in a fever
+of suspense. Throughout the house she had arranged flowers, with her own
+hands had cut great bunches of roses for the living-room. A few candles
+were already lighted, while blazing logs made home-like cheer. Isabel
+stood before the fire, waiting. She could not sit on a chair, with the
+clock in the hall ticking away loud seconds. To-night she wore soft
+white, with pearls. Her lover would be pleased to see her out of black.
+She wished his first moment to be full of joy.
+
+"Ma belle angele!" madame cried again and again. French ecstacy
+continued until Isabel begged for no more compliments. She kissed the
+old brown cheeks, then with sudden impulse fled above to her sleeping
+boy. Reaction had come at the end of a long, long day. The felicitous
+moment she had fancied was suddenly uncertain. Something she dared not
+define frightened her. All at once Reginald's soft breathing seemed
+reproachful.
+
+"Dear little son," she whispered, "mother loves you none the less, and
+he--will love you, too." She put her bare arm about the boy's warm body
+and kissed his cheek. Tears came into her eyes. She hardly knew whether
+she felt glad or sad. "Good night, little son; Father Barry is
+coming--'Father Barry,' who loves us both." Something told her to hope;
+and the clock in the hall was striking eight. All that had happened--all
+which was yet to happen--seemed like a dream. She had waited so
+anxiously, heard so often through the long day far-away trains whistling
+through the valley. To-night she scarce believed her summons when it
+came. But the maid had opened the outside door, and Isabel heard it
+shut. A man's voice spoke her name; Philip Barry was below. At the
+landing of the staircase she reached weakly for a card, dropped it, then
+went slowly down.
+
+Philip waiting in the bright, rich room saw her coming. He stood
+unconscious of his lately changed appearance, his evening clothes. A
+London tailor had assured him that he was now properly dressed for the
+way of the world, and at last his "priest's garb" was forgotten. His
+worshipful face, slightly thin, expressed only joy as he ran forward.
+But something was wrong with Isabel. Something seemed to be lost from
+the lover imploring at her side; and she shrank, holding him aloof for
+judgment.
+
+"What is it?" he cried. "Am I not welcome?" He scanned her face with
+passionate longing. "Do you regret--regret letting me come?"
+
+"No, no," she faltered. "Only wait! wait until I get used to you."
+
+He took her at her word and moved away. Hunger tried his soul. But he
+made a braver lover than he had been a priest.
+
+"What did you expect?" he asked at last.
+
+"Father Barry!" She was crying.
+
+He gathered her close.
+
+"Be patient," she begged. "The train was so late--so long, long
+coming--and--and you see I must get used to your vest not being fastened
+in the back."
+
+He smiled pitifully. "Will you ever forget? Ever be able to go beyond
+those mistaken years? Can you not go back to the time when we first knew
+each other?"
+
+"Yes, we will both go back. I will forget! I promise you. But tell me--"
+she was dazzling in her excitement--"tell me if you are sure! Have you
+never been sorry for what I made you do? You might have gone on, might
+have overcome things which seemed beyond your power. It was because I
+came that night in the midst of your trouble, when you were not strong
+enough to drive me from you. If I had stayed away?" She put the
+situation plainly, waiting for his answer as a soul on trial. She was
+jealous now, even of a possible, passing regret. "If I had stayed away?"
+she repeated.
+
+"I should have left the priesthood," he told her simply. "I had found
+out--knew certainly that I could not go on, even before I saw you. Your
+coming to me when my mother went but gave me hope, brought rescue.
+Before God I am now honest!"
+
+She threw her arms about his neck. All that she had withheld was
+waiting. Love blazed in her starry eyes, on her wonderful lips. Every
+doubt had gone with Philip's last words. Everything seemed
+clear--straightened out. Hours sped as moments. There was so much to
+talk about, so much to explain away. Each one went back to the beginning
+and to a time forbidden even in memory to an honorable wife, to a
+priest. Intermediate existence was soon wiped out. Then Isabel thought
+of her boy, now Philip's boy as well. They would bring the child up
+jointly. She was glad, very glad. "And you will love him always?" she
+implored. "He has not forgotten you; kisses your picture every day. You
+shall help me with his education. I am so anxious not to make mistakes.
+You know Reggie's warm, live temperament? You will advise me?"
+
+"I was not wise about my own career, but I will do my best for the boy,"
+Philip humbly promised.
+
+Isabel saw for the first time how much he had suffered. He looked older,
+haggard, despite his happiness. But his face had assumed grave
+sweetness. The old assurance of a once popular priest was gone.
+Dependence upon love would give him courage to begin over. The fullness
+of Isabel's rich nature swept outward to his need. "We shall be happy, I
+feel it, I feel it!" she whispered joyously.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+Isabel awoke, fully conscious of the day just dawning. From her bed in
+the half-open sleeping porch she peered into a roseate east. With her
+whole heart she went out to meet the sun, slowly lifting from a rampart
+of dark mountains. This was Isabel's wedding day. At high noon she was
+to be married to Philip Barry. She rested on her elbow, waiting for the
+transcendent moment. She was a "sun worshiper" for the time, and not a
+cloud subdued the oncoming spectacle. As Isabel watched, the sable range
+took on softest blue, while snow-crowned peaks rose dazzling in the
+distance. Over the world the sun poured light. And this was her wedding
+day. It was still too early for a bath, too soon to begin her simple
+bridal toilet, and she fell back on the pillow. The white broadcloth
+gown and coat with feather-trimmed hat were ready, and the night before
+Philip had brought a bouquet of dewy-eyed forget-me-nots. She had chosen
+the flowers in preference to all others. There was very little to do, no
+more than for an afternoon call. She smiled over enjoined simplicity,
+glad that neither bridesmaids nor guests should claim thoughts which
+might all belong to Philip. During the past two months in which she had
+spent a part of each day with her lover, she had grown confident; they
+were both happy. Isabel no longer feared for the man beginning his
+fresh career. For his book--at last finished--had been sent to an
+Eastern publisher. Philip had not heard definitely, but there was reason
+to believe that the house in question would be glad to bring out a
+finely illustrated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a
+cultured class of readers. Already Isabel felt elated over her lover's
+beginning. The field of letters seemed more choice, more set apart,
+since Philip had decided to compete for honors. In imagination she saw
+her future husband's prolific volumes. How proudly she would dust the
+dark green row marked "Barry." She remembered that the name was
+preempted by a master Scotch novelist, and decided that "Philip Barry"
+should appear in full on the backs of the new author's uniform edition.
+She had read only parts of her lover's work, but it had been exciting to
+handle a real manuscript, one which must go forth to win! Philip alone
+understood the uncertain odds against disappointment. In a fight for
+fresh life he felt no desire for anything but honest work. The book had
+started upon a journey East a month before, and now each day Isabel
+watched her lover's face for news of its unqualified acceptance. The
+collection of exquisite cathedral views--actual paintings--done in Paris
+and submitted by a noted artist, would doubtless enhance the value of
+the work, yet it was, after all, Philip's part which timed the woman's
+heart to feverish interest. And to-day was her wedding day. From now on
+the book and its author were both hers. She stirred lightly in bed,
+again looking through the open flaps of her canvas room. A wonderful
+world was at last awake. Every bird evoked gladness, and Isabel too was
+glad. Then suddenly the boy slipped from his cot to snuggle within her
+arms. Enchantment of sleep lurked around his dewy eyes, and night had
+brushed his rounded cheeks with cool, fresh bloom. He kissed his mother
+again and again. "You've got most a bushel!" he cried. "Now I is going
+to love you." He was speaking more plainly each day, gradually ceasing
+to be a baby. "I like to stay with mother dear--in this nice bed," he
+said, contentedly. His arms held tighter. The mother's heart felt chill;
+she seemed to be turning the boy away. The child's words hurt her as she
+had never dreamed they could. She began to speak of a pony about to
+arrive, which she had purposely withheld against a trying time to come.
+"To-day is the day for the pony!" she announced bravely. "Mother's boy
+is to go out in his new cart with madame, is to drive like a man all
+afternoon."
+
+"But I want mother dear to come too," the child insisted.
+
+"Mother dear will come another day; to-day she is obliged to go to
+church, and then----" her voice failed. She had given her boy no idea of
+the change actually at hand, had weakly depended on accident and his
+love for Philip. How now could she make the little fellow understand?
+She began again. "To-day mother must go to church, and----"
+
+"Will Philip dear go too?" the boy asked eagerly.
+
+"Yes," said Isabel, glad of an opening wedge.
+
+"And will the little bell ring?"
+
+Isabel despaired. Would Reginald never forget? The Catholic services
+which he had once witnessed were yet vivid, and despite effort to
+dissociate Barry with a priest's part, the child was not well pleased
+with the conventional garb of his adored friend. Recently he had
+innocently inquired for the "bu-ti-ful hat" formerly worn before the
+altar. The boy's regret was so genuine that Philip felt his pale cheeks
+deepen. The mother had tactfully explained that "Father Barry" of old no
+longer preached in a church, and that now "Philip dear" had come to
+stay. The little boy, without understanding, adopted the change, and
+"Philip dear" had soon become both his playfellow and his teacher.
+
+This morning Isabel tried in vain to pass over the hard part of a day
+that after all could not be happy until she had settled an important
+matter.
+
+"Sweetheart," she implored, then flushed. "Precious boy, listen. Don't
+ask any more questions and mother will tell you all about the pony."
+Reginald placed his small hand over his mouth.
+
+"I'm doing to keep stiller," he promised.
+
+"Very well," said Isabel, pressing him to her heart. "The pony is sure
+to come right after luncheon. Mother may be away, but madame and Carolyn
+will both be here. Reggie must be very good and drive like a man all
+afternoon in his cart. Perhaps when madame has gone for a ride Carolyn
+will take her place and stop for little Elizabeth. Would not that be
+fine?"
+
+"Great!" said Reginald; then added, "I suppose she'll have to bring
+every one of her dolls."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then
+Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."
+
+"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.
+
+"Because--because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer.
+Isabel wept miserably in his curls.
+
+"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until
+he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her
+arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married
+to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the
+astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear,
+Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."
+
+"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.
+
+"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father--Reggie's dear father."
+
+"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long
+time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended
+taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.
+
+"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?"
+The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.
+
+"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may
+I? May I? Mother darling--goody! goody! goody!"
+
+"I think you may," she answered.
+
+He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober.
+Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he
+demanded.
+
+"No darling, not my father, only my husband."
+
+He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby
+lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he
+asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her
+husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation
+personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see,
+mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody!
+goody!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+Everything was at last arranged, and Carolyn dressed the boy for his
+mother's wedding. The little fellow looked proud and sober in his best
+white suit, with a tiny bunch of Isabel's forget-me-nots for a bridal
+favor. He sat very still and grown up all the way to the church, built
+after an English model and picturesquely hidden among green hills. The
+beautiful chapel made a complete surprise when the carriage stopped on
+the country road. Madame took Reginald's tiny gloved hand and led him
+forward, while Isabel moved slowly after them. As all three entered the
+church, bells began to sound, and a man came quickly forward to say that
+an Episcopal clergyman and Philip Barry were both waiting at the foot of
+the chancel. Madame guided her charge to a stall used by choir boys now
+absent. Here the old French woman and the boy stood, expectant. Isabel
+came on alone, vaguely conscious of her way; then suddenly she felt
+protected--loved, for Philip had reached her side. The clergyman entered
+the chancel. The man and woman to be joined in wedlock heard him begin
+the service. His words fell distinctly, and soon Isabel and Philip
+listened to the solemn charge administered before marriage. "That if
+either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined
+together in matrimony, ye do now confess it," rang over their heads,
+into their souls, with momentary, questioning force. But the pause
+enjoined by the Church ended, and no voice had accused the apostate
+priest. The clergyman went on. Glad that the stern proviso was passed,
+Isabel faintly smiled, then glanced at Philip. He was pale. Undaunted,
+she put her hand in his and followed his deep responses with a clear
+voice. It seemed natural that he should remember the bar to their
+earlier happiness. Isabel moved slowly to the altar. By the side of the
+man she trusted she felt no fear. The sunlight of human love, the
+influence of home, a chance for intellectual freedom,--all these should
+make Philip forget a miserable, restless year. And at last the two were
+kneeling. Prayers and the benediction had made them one. The first test
+was over. Soon they were signing the parish register and could now leave
+the sacristy. The boy and madame were waiting. Again the bells sounded.
+Philip led the way to the carriage, and a moment later all were driving
+off together. Along the wayside early poppies lifted golden chalices to
+nuptial health, while a meadow lark extolled the day. All about, buzzing
+insects piped joy. Isabel was glad that she had selected the tiny
+country chapel for her marriage.
+
+And the drive home was a pleasant one. Restraint lifted as the boy
+prattled and madame overflowed in French. Isabel and Philip gave out to
+each other without fear or confusion. Then came the gay arrival, with
+servants waiting, and the boy's pony and cart in readiness for a time
+postponed. But the mother no longer dreaded temporary parting, for now
+she was sure of her little son's will power. Since the confidence of
+early morning her heart had felt free. Throughout luncheon she planned
+for the boy's amusement during a month set apart for the honeymoon.
+There was much to be said about letters and surprises which were to
+arrive each day. Then when "mother dear" came back Reginald must drive
+her out into the country. Later the advent of kites would afford
+opportunity for an indulgent new father. The child was altogether
+satisfied. Isabel found no difficulty in slipping above for a change she
+had almost feared to make. When she came down dressed for traveling her
+son was so happy with his pony and cart that the equipage marking a
+bride's departure seemed to be purely incidental to the main interest of
+the afternoon.
+
+With quick embraces, a farewell hand wave, Isabel and Philip were gone.
+The old slipper, flung by madame, hit the carriage and fell to the
+ground.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+
+"At last!" said Philip; and his wife responded with a happy smile. The
+afternoon trip to St. Barnabas had begun. The two were sitting in the
+Pullman, at liberty to forget everything in the world but their wedding
+journey. As yet it was too soon to regard the future; the present was
+all satisfying. Isabel began to speak of their marriage ceremony, as
+most brides are apt to do. "How simple and easy it all was," she
+declared. "I shall always love that darling chapel among the hills. Did
+you feel the spring coming through the open windows? And did you hear
+the meadow lark on our way back? Oh, I loved it all."
+
+Her husband smiled at her natural joy. Then peering into Philip's face
+Isabel saw again that his cheeks were thin. If anything he was more
+distinguished looking, yet already she feared for his health. He had
+been working too hard, and the next month must do wonders for the man
+she loved. "At St. Barnabas we shall live out of doors every moment of
+the day," she declared. "I can hardly wait to show you that wonderful
+country. It will be perfect to go about in the saddle; how glad I am
+that we sent the horses on ahead and in full time."
+
+"You are a fairy wife instead of a fairy godmother," said Philip.
+
+"Nonsense," she answered. "I am absolutely selfish. I love the saddle
+far better than my dinner, and my only fear is that I may tire you out."
+
+"No danger; I'm going to astonish you. Besides, you have given me the
+easiest horse."
+
+She denied the charge. "One is as fine a mount as the other. I shall
+never cease to be thankful to our friend Cole. And isn't it nice that he
+is to take care of the horses during our stay at the hotel?"
+
+"Pretty nice for him," said Philip.
+
+"And for us, too," she persisted. "I really did not wish to leave madame
+and Reginald without a coachman. Of course I could have let Tom come,
+but he is altogether too fond of a good time. Parker threatens to find
+another groom every week. Besides," she hesitated, then laughed,
+"besides, I wanted Cole and his little wife to have a treat. They will
+both enjoy getting away from the foothills."
+
+"I called you a good fairy, now I am sure of it," said her husband. She
+smiled.
+
+"Of what use is an income if we may not enjoy it?"
+
+"Absolutely good for nothing," he answered.
+
+"And it's almost selfishness to do little favors that in reality cost
+only the thought. Some day we must do something big--found an art
+institute, perhaps on this very coast." She was thinking of his lost
+cathedral. "Then I should love to help talented young girls with no way
+of reaching 'head waters.'" He looked at her proudly. "There are so many
+things needed--so many appeals to choose from, that we will surely find
+the right place for a little money." Philip remembered the check which
+she had sent him over a year ago.
+
+Now her desire to make the whole world glad was part of her new
+happiness. But soon they talked of other matters, or else looked out
+through the wide window at charming, changing landscape. All afternoon
+the train climbed the rugged coast range, often boring its way through a
+tunneled mountain. At five o'clock they had tea on a small table, when a
+wonderful sunset touched every hill and spur of their upland road.
+Evening came all too soon. Stars began to peep, and suddenly domestic
+lights twinkled across a populous valley. Then, near by, the great
+Pacific beat eternal measure on silver sands. It was eight o'clock when
+the train stopped in St. Barnabas, at the rear of a noted caravansary
+flaming electrical welcome. Philip had already engaged rooms. Resigning
+his checks and suit cases to a waiting porter, he led Isabel down the
+footpath through a garden of palms and flowers. The way seemed
+fairyland, while on either hand the breath of blossoms filled the night.
+
+"My wife--my precious wife," he said softly. At their feet stretches of
+shasta daisies lay as snow. Isabel pressed her husband's arm.
+
+"Could any place be more perfect for our honeymoon?" she asked.
+
+Lapping of waves reached the garden. The newly wed pair did not hasten,
+yet all too soon the flower-bordered path ended beneath lighted arches.
+The two went slowly forward, while just how to pass unconcernedly from
+the clerk's desk to the elevator, made them really seem like "bride and
+groom." For the first time each secretly acknowledged happy, bewildered
+self-consciousness. The blazing corridor filled with beautifully gowned
+women and men in evening dress, groups of older people back from an
+early dinner, strains of music calling late diners to waiting tables,
+gave instant local color to both time and place. Philip scrawling
+personal decoration on the hotel daybook grew careful and wrote the new
+appendage to his name with telltale neatness. However, it was soon over.
+Neither looking to right nor left the couple bolted past groups of
+curious women, were all but safe in the protecting elevator, when a
+familiar voice spoke Isabel's name. Gay Lewis, alert for sensation,
+faced the grating of the rising lift. "Delighted to see you!" she called
+after them. And Philip Barry's wife answered with the smile prescribed
+under all conditions for a bride.
+
+As they rose above, Philip looked questioningly at Isabel. "An old
+school friend of mine," she told him. He made a wry face.
+
+"Have you many more of them about the hotel?" She laughed softly.
+
+"I cannot say. One never knows whom one may meet in California."
+
+They were leaving the elevator, following a boy with keys to their
+rooms. "I hope we shall not be surprised on every side," the man
+persisted. Isabel caught his hand.
+
+"Never mind," she whispered, "I'll take care of you. But you must be
+nice to Gay Lewis. We are simply destined to meet the world over, and
+Gay has a way of saying things." The bell boy was beyond hearing
+distance. "Not that she has anything to say about us of slightest
+interest to strangers," she hastened to add. Philip saw the flush on her
+cheeks. Was she already beginning to dread unavoidable notoriety? The
+thought sobered him. Now he understood. But Isabel should not suffer, if
+being polite to every one in Christendom could help matters.
+
+"I shall bend to 'the higher criticism,' do my best to impress Miss
+Lewis," he declared with assumed gayety.
+
+Then Isabel exclaimed as the door to their spacious sitting-room flew
+open. The place was a bower of roses. "Did you tell them to do it?" she
+asked.
+
+Philip forgot a passing shadow and smiled an affirmative answer.
+
+"It is lovely! the loveliest room I was ever in," she declared. "How
+dear of you." Philip stopped by the window, enjoying his wife's girlish
+joy. She sank her face into every separate bunch of flowers. "Oh, these
+dear, dear pink ones!" she cried.
+
+American Beauties nodded above her head, and she stood on a footstool to
+inhale their fragrance. On a round table covered with a white cloth was
+a huge bowl of "bride roses," fitting emblem for the day. Philip's
+surprise had been perfect. The delicate forethought which had ordered
+her bower, which stipulated for the little dinner to be served in the
+sitting-room, away from curious eyes, touched her beyond words. Her
+husband was indeed a lover! She ran to him with outstretched arms. As
+never before she knew the depth of a long-denied moment. And later, when
+she laid aside her coat and hat, to sit at the first little dinner
+alone,--but for the deferential waiter coming in and going out,--she
+kept thinking of all that they had in store, of their happiness to come.
+
+Philip was never as gay, never so like the boy of years back--the boy
+who had loved the girl. Both were beginning over again and time between
+had taught them the price of joy.
+
+"On this night we toast each other," said Philip, lifting his glass.
+"There is just 'one cold bottle' for our 'little hot bird'! I drink to
+my wife!"
+
+His eyes glowed. Isabel touched his glass with her own. "To the dearest
+husband in the whole big world!" she responded, then kissed him. He held
+her away from him, feasting on her beauty. But she begged for freedom,
+and took her place at the opposite side of the table. "We must behave,"
+she cautioned. "He's coming! I hear him down the hall."
+
+"I will be circumspect," Philip promised. "But I'm losing my appetite. I
+don't feel glad of salad and the rest. Let's fire him before the coffee;
+I want to sip mine with my wife on my knee."
+
+"For shame!" she chided, as the waiter tapped the door, with a loaded
+tray. "Do seem to be hungry. If we send things back untouched we shall
+be the talk of the hotel kitchen." Laughter was a natural part of the
+little dinner. "It is just like playing party," she declared, when the
+man again disappeared.
+
+"Please pass the sugar," Philip begged. "Won't you kiss me again?"
+
+"Not now," she refused. "We must remember that Reginald is learning
+table manners; if we act too badly through our honeymoon, he may notice
+shortcomings when we get home. Besides, he's coming--the waiter's
+coming. Be dignified."
+
+"Will coffee ever begin?" Philip complained.
+
+"Very soon." They both laughed.
+
+"Which shall I use, a fork or a spoon for my frozen pudding?"
+
+"Your fork--by all means; now please talk sensibly; he's just outside."
+
+Philip thought of the king who dined without servants, and wished that
+he too had built a table for the occasion, one with a dummy lift in its
+center, to bring up food and to carry away the dishes.
+
+Isabel watched with playful eyes until the last of his pudding was gone.
+Then she dismissed the waiter. Black coffee and a first cigar for the
+benedict state were both enjoyed without interruption. The evening
+lengthened. Philip saw his wife flit about the rooms with joyous air of
+proprietorship. Reginald's picture stood on the table beside the "bride
+roses."
+
+Something told him to go below on a natural pretext, for their trunks
+were late. When he went out Isabel did not stir. Everything was so
+wonderful, so much more wonderful than she had fancied. But at last she
+began to move about, smiling. She hung her traveling coat in the closet
+and brushed her hat. Her suit case was unlocked and unstrapped, and she
+drew forth things which were needed. She loosened her hair, plaiting it
+as usual. Two golden braids hung down her back. Then she slipped into a
+soft robe of silk and lace, and stood by the window facing the sea,
+waiting for her husband.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+
+Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the
+season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant.
+Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that
+the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each
+morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew
+to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple
+mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment
+created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different.
+But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat
+on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to
+leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back,
+whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing
+his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter
+prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of
+gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all
+unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his
+word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due
+consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same
+time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose
+husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons
+were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and
+Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon;
+frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat
+apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on
+the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at
+St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous
+mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage
+and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of
+walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a
+panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more
+lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the
+upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came
+a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different
+direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale
+of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard
+the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old
+fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline,
+and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple
+strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate
+reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a
+perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts
+went out--against his will--to the cathedral he had longed to
+perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious
+mother's milk, rose unbidden;--a challenge to his love for Isabel. His
+wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened
+as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more.
+Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile,
+no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own
+keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an
+esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be
+proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St.
+Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not
+asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to
+enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so
+would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was
+already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had
+been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power;
+now the man--her husband--held her with the same irresistible
+fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and
+manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him
+the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt
+willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded
+attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded
+over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.
+
+But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay
+canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then
+suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of
+the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he
+should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to
+enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he
+was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the
+locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be
+changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic
+standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither
+embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with
+thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money.
+The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a
+priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here
+the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the
+sun.
+
+"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.
+
+The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered
+pleasantly.
+
+The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors,
+crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it
+back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing
+order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did
+not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural
+temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude
+opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in
+charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about
+the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of
+the oaken door.
+
+He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his
+fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the
+swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She
+regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at
+the same time she tried--as she always tried--to repay a debt with
+simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her
+with favor.
+
+As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to
+examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the
+conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the
+church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder
+that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been
+treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San
+Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's
+religion."
+
+The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must
+become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of
+the good fathers," he suggested.
+
+"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished
+with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to
+strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading
+above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded
+the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to
+mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the
+sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she
+refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic
+steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day
+I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went
+behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both
+were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain.
+Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the
+first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that
+Adam still had Eve.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+
+Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's
+shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged
+brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill,
+perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking
+to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around
+his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these
+same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little
+cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long
+dead and forgotten.
+
+As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might
+the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with
+tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his
+mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to
+ascend from the old garden--from the invalid brother leaning back on
+pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly
+her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back
+refusal.
+
+"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget
+that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I
+could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below
+us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away
+with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the
+cloister."
+
+He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his
+countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible,
+except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back
+to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for
+normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.
+
+"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not
+forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the
+other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink
+salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in
+sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal
+his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in
+his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of
+Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the
+realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world"
+cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes,
+Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.
+
+But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are
+you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.
+
+Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing
+recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am
+no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see
+the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen.
+Come, let us hasten."
+
+Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother,
+waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of
+generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of
+early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers
+accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on,
+with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when
+his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated
+by the brother in charge.
+
+Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel
+shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself
+attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of
+early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated
+knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of
+saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played
+no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his
+bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to
+the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years
+back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the
+flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and
+looked at Isabel. Did she know--understand? Her serene face expressed no
+undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had
+walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal
+interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the
+brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes
+from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of
+wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in
+surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two
+young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden.
+The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother
+accompanied him on the organ.
+
+"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient
+pew. "They are practicing--for service?" she asked.
+
+The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own
+rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a
+youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of
+dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic
+colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new
+wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her;
+and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions.
+Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.
+
+"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we
+may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now
+prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the
+brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too
+responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned
+once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes.
+After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission
+always open to a curious public.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+
+Philip and Isabel were in full time for luncheon. The wife noticed that
+her husband ate his toast and squab with appetite. His cheeks were
+flushed from the canter back to the hotel, while during the half hour at
+table he appeared both happy and talkative.
+
+"Shall you mind if I go off this afternoon for golf?" he asked, as they
+went from the dining-room.
+
+Isabel's face expressed satisfaction. Her husband had hardly left her
+side since their arrival. She believed in casual separation. She knew
+instinctively that Philip must feel renewed interest in his own sex, to
+be quite the man he had been before his trouble of months back.
+
+"Go, by all means," she encouraged, as they went from the elevator to
+their rooms. "Golf must be your game; it will do you a world of good to
+follow the links."
+
+"And you won't miss me?"
+
+"Not a bit," she answered. "Besides, I want to expect you back. I wish
+to feel the pang of parting, so that I may know how very, very lonely I
+used to be." She spoke lightly, but he knew that in reality she did not
+jest. "And the man--your opponent in golf?" she asked.
+
+Philip stooped and kissed her. "How do you know that I am not going to
+tread the turf with a fair lady?" he teased.
+
+"I should be awfully jealous," she confessed. He knew that she spoke the
+truth. It came over him at the time that men were few who might claim
+such love as Isabel's. In her starry eyes he read salvation, felt the
+depth of her womanly will. Inadequate power to repay his debt made him
+humble. He kissed her again, holding her close with adoring tenderness.
+Then he told her that he was about to play golf with the great publisher
+whom he had recently met. The triumph on her lips amused him.
+
+"Build no air-castles!" he begged. But she freed herself from his arms
+and danced like a child.
+
+"What a chance!" she cried. "You must make him your friend. I saw last
+evening that he was immensely interested in you, and now he may ask you
+to write for his magazine." Isabel's estimate of her husband's genius,
+of his ability to rush into print in one of the foremost monthly
+publications in the country, was fresh proof of her blind passion.
+
+"Don't think such foolish things, dear little girl," Philip commanded.
+"The road to solicited manuscripts is a long way off--as yet. I shall
+have to get my stuff back many, many times before I can count on an
+indulgent editor." He spoke humbly, yet withal the eternal spark of hope
+had kindled for his literary career.
+
+"Shall you tell him of your book--about 'The Spirit of the Cathedral'?"
+
+Philip shook his head. "That might frighten him. He would think that I
+had an ax to grind."
+
+"But you have sent your manuscript to another publishing house," she
+persisted.
+
+"That is true," he assented, "but until I hear definitely, I do not care
+to talk of my forthcoming book. Besides, the man is here for rest and
+change. If I am able to make him my friend he may possibly tell me
+things. Above all, I must not bore him with my own uncertain
+achievements." He laughed, tugging at his golf shoe. "But you shall try
+your art on the man this evening; I have promised to present him."
+
+"I will do my best," Isabel answered. "And by reason of the dance
+to-night the bride may wear white satin. She is irresistible in la robe
+empire."
+
+Philip faced her. "I see all my manuscripts accepted at once," he said
+jestingly.
+
+"Of course. Now run along; do not keep our great man waiting. I shall
+rest for an hour, then write to madame and Reginald."
+
+"And you are really able for a ball, after the high steps of the mission
+tower?"
+
+It was the first time that he had spoken of their morning's experience.
+Isabel was overjoyed at his light reference to the visit to the old
+church.
+
+"To dance will limber me, beyond doubt," she declared, with a wave of
+her hand. She watched him pass down the hall to the elevator; then she
+went back to her sitting-room.
+
+At last she felt the glad sense of partnership. Ambition for the man she
+loved threatened to become more absorbing than all else in her life.
+Suddenly her boy seemed to reproach her. On the table his lifelike
+portrait begged for notice. She caught up the silver frame.
+
+"Darling little son!" she murmured, "mother will soon be at home--more
+than ever your playmate, your companion." She put the picture down and
+sat with her head resting between her hands. Her thoughts were now all
+with Reginald. What was he doing? Was he out in his pony cart? Was
+dainty baby Elizabeth along, giving the dolls an airing? Then, above
+all, did the boy miss his "mother dear"? She drew a crumpled half sheet
+of paper from an envelope. "Bless his dear little heart," she again
+murmured. Reginald's zigzag message, together with round spots
+wonderfully colored to represent kisses, drew her lips. She responded to
+a realistic fancy, smiling above her son's confident masterpiece. Then
+she re-read a letter from madame. All were moving along, and the child
+was happy.
+
+Her old friend's idiomatic expression kept her smiling to the end, while
+she realized anew the good fortune which had brought the French woman to
+California. In future Reginald might have every chance with his French.
+The mother decided to make luncheon, with the boy at table, a time set
+apart for French conversation. Philip, too, spoke the foreign tongue;
+and again Isabel planned for Reginald's liberal education. And she meant
+to study herself, by the side of a talented husband. How full life
+promised to become. But with every consistent hope her own ambition was
+subordinate to love. To love, to be loved by Philip, by Reginald, by
+friends, constituted the little world she longed to conquer. And
+to-night, she wished to shine at the ball, not as a woman evoking
+admiration from the crowd, but as Philip's wife. If she might help to
+bring him fresh power she was satisfied. Nor did Isabel deny her own
+evident advantage. She was too familiar with standards of beauty not to
+be glad of a rich inheritance; yet in all her life she had never been
+vain. For to be vain is to be selfish, pinned upon a revolving, personal
+pivot. Isabel had always thought first of others. To-day her mind was
+full of schemes for Philip, for Reginald, and for old madame. If Philip
+agreed she wished to live permanently in California. She had already put
+her closed house in the West on the market. The city which had once been
+home no longer claimed her interest. And Philip must never go back to
+the scene of his past humiliation. She reached for a traveling portfolio
+and began to write to Reginald. Here and there she pasted bright
+pictures to illustrate a little story which would be sure to delight her
+boy. When she had finished she dashed off a letter in French to madame;
+then, fearing that Philip might be late, she laid out his dinner
+clothes. She was not in need of companionship, and a couch close to the
+wide window facing the sea lured her. She would rest. Waves splashed a
+rhythm of contentment. Out beyond the breakers a buoy creaked in vain,
+for her nerves were as sound as her boy's. She did not mind the
+incessant grind. She was happy--satisfied.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+
+The Saturday evening hop, which so often was a perfunctory recurrence,
+blossomed into an occasion, when a score of United States naval officers
+entered the hotel. The great fleet had not then made the gallant dash
+around the Horn; but for several years preceding this noted achievement
+stray battleships had touched along the Western coast. The ship in
+question bound for Manila was now anchored over night outside the
+breakers of St. Barnabas. Corridors of the hotel palpitated when
+privileged men off the man-of-war burst upon the scene. In less than a
+minute maneuvers in the ballroom eclipsed those of the outlying
+battleship, as anxious mammas steered young daughters to open port.
+Lines drew taut and merciless for all untouched by the accolade of
+station, while on every side sat groups of elderly onlookers.
+
+Officers in immaculate evening dress, ready for change, eager to dance
+with pretty women, moved easily about, and soon surcharged conditions
+were overcome by general satisfaction.
+
+By Isabel's side Gay Lewis shone with reflected prominence. Nor did the
+girl deny the evident truth when flocking ensigns marked her for second
+choice.
+
+"You are a dear!" she reiterated after each opportunity due to her
+friend. "I have not had a chaperone for a long time. Now I see my
+blunder." For Philip Barry's wife was the undoubted toast of the navy
+men.
+
+In a day when dancing has degenerated into pathetic uncertainty the
+advent of willing ensigns might well be put down as something new and
+exhilarating. Isabel forgot her strenuous climb to the mission roof. She
+had not enjoyed a ball for full five years; and she was like a girl
+surrounded by a swarm of admirers. To-night the great publisher had no
+chance, with epaulets to right and left. But the afternoon at golf had
+been successful. Philip and his new friend stood together on the
+outskirts, each duly conscious of his own inadequate worth.
+
+"It behooves us to tread modestly--we fellows who have adopted a sober
+career," the editor declared. "I never could learn. My mother kept me at
+dancing school until I had tramped the toes of every little girl in the
+class, then one day she gave me up." He laughed drolly, while his eyes
+took in the swift, unconscious movement of Mrs. Barry and her partner, a
+tall young ensign.
+
+"We are not in China, and fortunately I may speak to you of your wife,"
+he went on. "As a comparatively new acquaintance, I beg to congratulate
+you. You are too fortunate in a world where many are not."
+
+Barry stiffened. The other sensed misapprehension.
+
+"I have never been married," he explained. "I am denied the pleasure of
+admiring my own wife. Those days at dancing school took away all
+possible hope. For years I could hardly shake hands with a girl of my
+own age; then you see I got wedded to single life--spent my days
+passing upon loves of fictitious heroes and heroines."
+
+"Too bad," said Philip, deeply interested.
+
+"Sometimes I think I should have made a much better judge of literature
+if I had only asked a woman to share my criticisms and bear my remorse
+when I turn down very readable things. You see a man who has not married
+can never be quite as sure as one who knows the taste of both good and
+evil. 'The woman which thou gavest me' may do a lot of mischief, but
+when the crash comes she generally compensates. For my part I doubt if
+Adam would have gone back into the garden with any interest whatever
+after Eve found 'pastures new' outside."
+
+"And you believe that a married man is capable of better work than a
+single one?" Philip was growing curious.
+
+"Undoubtedly," the editor answered. "I have in my mind a certain writer
+of note, one who but for persistent bachelorhood might have risen to
+highest rank in fiction. As it is, he has always fallen short of the
+real emotion. A certain class reading his books fail to detect mere
+description in supposedly passionate episodes, but to those of deeper
+consciousness and experience he has counterfeit feeling. This particular
+novelist works from matrimonial patterns--traces all that he draws. I am
+older than yourself, and you will pardon me for saying it, but your wife
+should help you to achieve almost anything."
+
+Philip flushed. The pride of possession came over him afresh when Isabel
+whirled past, with a smile which he knew could never be untrue. Above
+her radiance, beauty, he felt her exquisite womanhood. To-night he
+believed that she would lead him to "pastures new--outside." Throughout
+the evening Philip stayed by the editor, gradually making his way into
+the man's confidence, while adhering to a first determination which
+withheld the fact of his own unprinted book. Then at midnight, Isabel,
+Miss Lewis, and three young officers captured the onlookers and forced
+them away to supper.
+
+It was a gay little party. The round table at which all sat became an
+excuse for a full hour's enjoyment; and as Isabel had promised, she did
+her best to make the editor, who might possibly help Philip, her own
+friend also. The undertaking was not difficult. If dancing school trials
+had left an eternal scar on the bachelor's unclaimed heart to-night he
+showed no unwillingness to devote himself to Isabel. Philip was amused.
+Then he remembered his wife's unfailing charm. He had never seen her
+unsympathetic or rude. When she really cared to please, she could not be
+soon forgotten by any one selected for her favor. And to-night, as
+usual, the elderly publisher and the young ensigns from the ship all
+went under to a woman's gracious way. Nor was Miss Lewis annoyed.
+
+"Of course," she said afterward, "no one ever attempts to eclipse
+Isabel; for don't you see she would not care in the least, and that
+being the case, no other woman would be foolish enough to try--and then
+fail." And Gay was at her best during supper. Philip had never liked her
+as well as when the party broke up. There was, after all, something fine
+and straightforward about the girl, who appeared to drift with the tide
+of hotel pastimes. Philip told himself that as a priest he had been
+narrow in many of his judgments. The evening had stimulated his
+respect for the world. His emotional nature went out again to
+things he had once given up. Isabel's beauty held him in passionate
+bonds; and he felt incentive for new work. His book, which came next to
+his wife--for no one writes seriously without the sense of humanized
+accomplishment--suddenly went up in his own estimation. The evening with
+a real publisher had stiffened his confidence; and for the first time
+since his marriage he merged love for Isabel with the success of "The
+Spirit of the Cathedral." But his personal undercurrent passed
+unnoticed. To his wife he seemed detached from all but the present. As
+she drew him away from the shining ballroom she exulted to herself.
+Unusual and lighter opportunity seemed to be what her husband most
+needed.
+
+The battleship hauled anchor at dawn. The men had already started for
+the tug and a trip across the breakers. The hotel was despoiled of
+glory. Corridors were soon dim and lonely. To Isabel the night had
+proved her husband's ease with a life comparatively new and untried. She
+felt young, contented, ready for all which might come. Not a fear for
+Philip crossed her mind as she went to her rooms. She had been
+exhilarated throughout the evening; but now she was glad to rest. Philip
+unfastened her gown, halting to kiss her bare shoulders, to tell her
+about their friend, the magazine editor. As she slipped out of her ball
+finery she was like a girl after a first night of conquest. Later he
+listened to her gentle, regular breathing as he lay by her side. It
+seemed yet a dream that she was really his wife. Events of the past
+began to fill his mind. Then reaction, which so often came with excess
+of feeling, kept him awake for hours. But at last he dropped away, only
+to rouse up at intervals. The outgoing tide seemed to carry him to the
+anchored ship, gleaming beyond. The incessant, yet broken passion of the
+sea forbade sleep. With every tardy lap of waves he grew more restless;
+and dawn broke. All at once, a desire to witness the departure of the
+man-of-war drew him from bed. Isabel slumbered as a child, and Philip
+went softly to the window and looked out. The sea rose and fell an
+arctic green. There was no mist, and he could see the great ship
+clearly. A streamer of black smoke floated across the morning sky;
+already there were signs of departure. Philip dressed quickly and
+quietly. It occurred to him that Isabel might be shocked to awaken and
+find him gone. He smiled as he slipped into the sitting-room to indite a
+line "To the Sleeping Beauty." But his wife did not stir when he pinned
+the note to his own empty pillow. He went back to the adjoining
+apartment for his field glasses; then out of the door through quiet
+halls, to a side entrance below, where he found an open way.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+
+Philip watched the maneuvers of the battleship from the shore, at the
+foot of the hotel. His glasses were strong, and he could make out
+regular disciplined movements of men on board. What a life, he thought.
+To be always waiting for war, ready for action in any part of the world,
+regardless of human personal ties. The monster breasting waves seemed as
+horrible as it was majestic. The man who was once a priest had never
+wished to be a soldier. This morning he sensed the command to draw
+anchor, felt the significance of carnage for the sea, saw the ship move.
+Against a skyline, clear with oncoming day, it took unchallenged sway.
+The man followed with his glasses. He stood fascinated by almost
+imperceptible motion. Against morning sky a black streamer rested, then
+gradually trailed to invisible distance, as broadside perspective
+dropped away. The man-of-war was gone. But Philip still stood on the
+shore. Early day had taken possession of his will. He seemed rooted to
+the wet sand beneath his feet. Was Isabel awake? Had she yet missed him?
+He looked back at the hotel, rising above lawn and palm trees. He could
+see no signs of life, and it occurred to him that a brisk walk might
+atone for his restless night. The fresh air stimulated him as he went
+forward. Without thought of destination he left the ocean for the
+esplanade, the esplanade for the long business street of the town. As
+he went on he began to see people and to realize for the first time that
+it was Sunday. Many were going to early Mass, and he was not among them.
+At a corner he saw a modern Catholic church. The old mission now had its
+rival in the new brick building. Several maids from the hotel got off a
+car to hurry onward. A woman in front went faster as she neared the
+church, but turned half round and looked at Philip. He felt her
+insinuating survey as he strode rapidly away; then he recognized
+Reginald Doan's former nurse. It was undoubtedly Maggie; and she knew
+him for all that he had once been. He could not be mistaken. That Maggie
+had deceived Isabel and followed Mrs. Grace to St. Barnabas was plain.
+With that lady's departure for the East, the girl must have ceased to be
+her maid. Maggie's surprise seemed evident; and at best the encounter
+was disagreeable. Philip hurried on with the sense of being watched. He
+walked past gardens, not seeing flowers freshened by night's cool touch
+and morning's breath. Suddenly he was cast down, depressed by something
+impalpable.
+
+But he went on and on in absent-minded mood, taking no note of locality,
+not realizing his distance from the closely settled town. He followed
+the track of a car line, dimly conscious of the way, until, without
+warning--the mission faced him. He might have known! Still he had the
+habit of losing himself when Isabel was not his leader; and they seldom
+went out except on their horses. Miserable, angry, he stood afar,
+irresistibly called by sounding bells.
+
+He saw men and women go up the wide worn steps to early Mass; then like
+an outcast he turned away to board a car returning to the hotel. Isabel
+would be waiting, wondering what had become of him. And he would not
+tell her, would never let her know of his childish trip. The mission had
+become an obsession. He saw it in his dreams and heard about it on all
+sides. Every artist painted it; and carriage drivers on the streets
+urged him to take a seat for the inevitable trip. Children showed him
+their post cards adorned with a picture of the historic church or else
+some scene taken in the cloister garden. The mission was getting onto
+his nerves. He was almost beginning to hate it. He would never see it
+again; and with the thought, he looked back at the graceful stretch of
+the low, sun-kissed monastery, following on like a little brother to the
+close protection of the "old fathers'" abler work. It was so beautiful,
+so simple, that he could not deny. His knowledge of architecture, his
+sense of fitness, kept his thoughts with the unselfish monks of the
+past. He could not forget when from boyhood he had been trained in
+church history. He had always been best in his class. And how his dear
+mother would have loved the old church. At last the car was moving; at
+last he might get away.
+
+His back was to the mission and the run to town would not take long.
+After all he might not be very late. And as he had hoped, he found the
+hotel still quiet. Only a few early risers were down for breakfast when
+he went to the dining-room to order Isabel's tray sent up to her room.
+Then he took the elevator. He entered by the same door through which he
+had departed, walking softly to his wife's bedside. She seemed not to
+have stirred during his absence; but the note was gone from the pillow.
+He leaned down and kissed her, and at the same instant half bare arms
+tightened around his neck. Then she laughed.
+
+"'Sleeping Beauties' never wake up unless they are kissed," she told
+him. He doubled his charm as she raised on her elbow.
+
+"Did you think I was never coming back?" he asked. "I took a long walk,
+after the ship got away, went farther than I intended."
+
+"I thought so," she said. "Men never remember the return trip. But I
+have hardly missed you. I read my love letter, then went right to sleep.
+I did not wake until I heard the telephone. Of course I answered it, and
+whom do you suppose was speaking?"
+
+"Doubtless one of your numerous admirers," her husband gallantly
+answered.
+
+"No. This time it was your admirer. But I came in for honorable mention.
+I am so flattered, almost glad that you were not here to respond to our
+friend the editor."
+
+Now she was wide awake. The soft disarrangement of night still hung
+about her hair. Her eyes sparkled as the morning. She sat up, leaning
+forward.
+
+"He has invited us to go out with him this afternoon in his touring
+car. I said we would come. You are willing?"
+
+"Of course," Philip answered, smiling at her eagerness.
+
+"Mr. and Mrs. Tilton-Jones and Gay Lewis are asked; we are to start
+about three."
+
+Philip puckered his brow. "Why the Tilton-Joneses--I wonder?" Isabel saw
+that he did not care for the couple.
+
+"They are relatives of our host," she explained. "One cannot turn down
+cousins in California, or for that matter, acquaintances. You must be
+nice to them, for last night both expressed the wish to know you." She
+was anxious for her husband's popularity with strangers. That he should
+hold his new place without criticism was always in her mind.
+
+Isabel knew the world, and when she married an apostate priest she had
+considered its way, all outside of love. She had even prepared herself
+for first, almost inevitable rebuff. Time would show where she and
+Philip both stood. A desirable few, who obstinately disapproved, should
+not annoy her; and at last they too might forget. To her surprise she
+had felt no condemnation. A mere marriage notice passed from paper to
+paper, with miraculous decency. Isabel read no highly colored version of
+either her own beauty or of Philip's sensational conduct. If anything
+unpleasant appeared she did not see it. This morning as she sat up in
+bed, enjoying the breakfast which her husband had thoughtfully ordered,
+she was more than thankful, more than happy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+
+"And you do not care for the Tilton-Jones combination?" she asked.
+
+Philip shook his head. "I fail to admire either of them, although I
+least of any one should cast a presumptuous stone. Perhaps I am unduly
+prejudiced. I have known several hyphenated Jones people before, and for
+some reason I never got on with them. You see I was always addressing
+the wife as plain Mrs. Jones--perpetually overlooking the lean-to
+addition."
+
+Isabel's laugh rippled. How very clever her husband was. "I shall keep
+you from forgetting this afternoon," she promised. "I am so glad to go
+out in a machine. Really I do not believe I could sit the saddle to-day.
+And this is too nice!" she declared, as she poured the coffee. "Are you
+not going down?" Then she extended a steaming cup. "Take this," she
+begged. "They have sent plenty for two; suppose we have breakfast
+together."
+
+"But there is only one cup."
+
+"What matter, when we have a full pot of coffee. And just see the toast
+and rolls."
+
+Philip sat facing his wife, amused as he always was when he had only to
+obey.
+
+"You drink first," she commanded.
+
+"Tell me when to stop; I might take all."
+
+"You may. I never really enjoy coffee until I have finished."
+
+She was irresistible. And all this loveliness, this unconsciousness, was
+now but for his own eyes. Isabel was his wife. To-day he felt that he
+had sinned only by once becoming a priest bound by unnatural vows.
+
+God had created a pair in the beginning, decreed that man should not
+live without sympathy, without love. He was thinking of couples bound as
+prisoners. Everything seemed so natural for Isabel and himself, except
+when he did not sleep or went back too far. The white satin empire gown
+lay extended on the couch.
+
+Philip pointed drolly across the room, then touched the sleeve of
+Isabel's dainty night robe. "I like this gown best; you seem about
+eighteen months, hardly old enough to be Reggie's fond mamma."
+
+"For shame!" she cried. Still she was pleased. With mention of her boy
+she began to talk of the little fellow, to wonder what he was doing on
+this very Sunday morning.
+
+The breakfast above proved to be a happy thought. Husband and wife "took
+turns" from the single cup; there was gayety and byplay.
+
+"We have not left a crumb!" said Isabel. "I never ate such good toast.
+You know we are to have dinner at one--the regulation hour for the day;
+we shall subsist until then." She poured the last drop from the coffee
+pot. "This is our loving cup. Let us drink to every one that is
+married--in the big world!"
+
+Philip smiled. "That wouldn't do, too many miss the whole thing," he
+answered.
+
+"I suppose so," she agreed. She had almost forgotten the time when life
+had not been full and satisfying. "Now it is all so wonderful--so sure,"
+she added softly.
+
+"But of course honeymoons have got to be silly--real silly--just like
+this breakfast. After a while we shall both be serious enough, with your
+literary work and Reg growing up."
+
+She bounded from bed to her dressing room, dropping Philip a courtesy in
+return for his previous jest. "I will come forth full grown," she
+promised. "Your friend the editor shall never suspect that I still love
+dolls."
+
+She kept her word and after dinner, when she stood with Philip on the
+veranda of the hotel, she had exchanged the way of a child for one of
+womanly charm. The day was glorious, and already Gay Lewis and the
+Tilton-Joneses were on hand. A moment later the host of the afternoon
+led his party to the waiting car. The three ladies occupied the tonneau,
+while Tilton-Jones and Philip faced them. The New York publisher sat in
+front with the chauffeur. At the outset Gay Lewis announced her
+satisfaction. "Nothing could be as fine as this!" she declared. "A
+Pierce Arrow is next to flying. Of course, for some time to come I shall
+not be permitted to shoot upward, but if it were not for mother I should
+accept my first invitation."
+
+"Could you really dare to board an airship?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones put in.
+
+"Certainly," said Gay. "I dare say I was born only for sport; I love it
+better than anything else in the world. I never think of danger when I
+am amusing myself."
+
+"I am sorry that we cannot enjoy the afternoon according to latest
+ideals," the host answered. "However, I must depend upon Miss Lewis to
+direct our course. Which way shall we take?" he asked.
+
+They had already started on a trip through the little city.
+
+"I am greatly flattered," Gay replied. "But really, I have no choice
+when I am in a machine. It is just go, go, go, with me. I can almost
+arrive at Kipling's meter as I sit! sit! sit! bobbing up and down
+again." Every one laughed.
+
+"And you don't mind a rough road?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones demanded with
+literal surprise.
+
+"Not as much as most people," Miss Lewis answered. "I, for one, shall
+not complain this afternoon. I never felt a more comfortable car."
+
+"It moves along perfectly," said Isabel, who had thus far been quiet.
+
+"And will no one dictate our way?" the host again inquired. As he spoke,
+the chauffeur shot onward in the direction of the mission. Philip alone
+felt the significance of the driver's plan. But he made up his mind,
+once and for all, that nothing imaginary should disturb his peace of
+mind, or ever again come as a phantom between himself and Isabel. He no
+longer seemed to shrink from a farewell view of the old church. This
+would be the last one. Nor was he perturbed when later the machine
+stopped on the verge of the broad pavement leading to steps beyond. Not
+until Mrs. Tilton-Jones cried out, begging to peep within the mission
+now resounding with voices of singing monks, did he fully understand.
+Then he knew, knew that to refuse to go inside on account of afternoon
+service was to virtually acknowledge himself a disgraced man. In an
+instant he decided. His wife hesitated, but he insisted that she should
+get out of the car. Everything happened quickly. With all pressing
+forward, Philip began to climb the stone flight to the church. There was
+no escape, he must act as a man. Isabel felt his arm beneath her own.
+She did not speak. Gay Lewis walked on the other side, and Mrs.
+Tilton-Jones now joined the row.
+
+"What terrible steps," the lady complained. "I'm not a Catholic, so
+don't appreciate a penance. But I am delighted to have a look inside.
+The monks sing wonderfully! just hear them." She chattered on, to the
+very door. Evidently she had not heard of Philip's former career. Isabel
+was relieved and entered the church with a sense of unexpected pleasure.
+She thought she detected the baritone of the brother whom she had once
+heard; then the voice stilled. A priest was intoning.
+
+Now all Catholics were devoutly kneeling, murmuring evening prayers.
+Philip Barry stood beside Isabel, with his head slightly bowed. Others
+of the party used casual time for glancing about the mission. To the
+man who had once been a priest the voice of the officiating father, the
+supplicating swell of confessions born of human transgression, the
+impalpable impression of detached souls coming back to worship, were
+realities all too startling. Philip had overestimated his strength. He
+lifted his eyes and saw beyond--far down the long aisle--tall, lighted
+candles on the holy altar. In brass vases he discerned stalks of flaming
+poinsettias. Like blood, splashed against the dorsal, the scarlet
+flowers flanked the golden treasury of the hidden Host. The man had been
+too long a Catholic to forget. But prayers were over. The choir of
+brown-hooded monks had burst into praise and ushers peered here and
+there for vacant sittings. Then, with dismay, the excommunicated priest
+followed his friends and Isabel the entire length of the old church, to
+a pew directly in front of the chancel.
+
+He had not counted on the conspicuous placing of a noticeable party. He
+leaned forward with his head in his hands. Instinctively the usual
+petition moved his lips. But he sat up and gazed before him with
+blinding realization of his own false attitude. Why had he entered?
+Again he recalled honest worshippers of the morning, going up worn
+stones to early service, at length coming forth into sunlight, with rapt
+or tranquil faces. And about him were the same reverential men and
+women. Philip Barry's religious feeling had always been emotional rather
+than spiritual; still he had been born a Catholic. The beauty of
+impressive ritualism, the mysticism of the "Elevated Cup," moved his
+esthetic nature. Dreamer that he was, he knew again the power of his
+inculcated early training. He thought of his mother. Until to-day every
+tense effort to recall her sympathetic soul had been vain. Now an
+impalpable presence reproached him--separated him, as it were, from
+Isabel. In a momentary vision he saw the dear face and form of his lost
+one. To his imaginative mind, beautiful old hands stretched out to save
+him from impending disaster; then everything before his eyes became
+clear, and he sat still, at the foot of the chancel, a condemned man.
+Something whispered that to be an outcast from his Church would
+gradually starve his soul. Perhaps he should turn to stone, forget the
+worth of Isabel's priceless love and devotion--what then? He shuddered
+at the thought of possible suffering for his wife. Again the
+congregation knelt. Again he was glad to bow his head. For the first
+time since his marriage the dread of disappointing Isabel gripped him.
+That he should have an insatiate longing for something outside of their
+close relation filled him with terror. No, she must never know. He stood
+up at the end of familiar prayers, responding silently to the rich
+voices above in the choir. At the back of the church the monks had begun
+a Gloria. After all he would be able to control himself. Then suddenly
+there was mysterious agitation, moving to and fro of priests and
+officiating brothers. To visiting Protestants the commotion in the
+chancel was not appalling. Monks passing hither and thither, priests
+turning splendid vestments to front and back, seemed but part of an
+impressive service.
+
+For Philip Barry, duly educated to Catholic power, aware of a ruling
+order's justified opportunity, there was a plain conclusion. He stood as
+one summoned, unable to move, waiting for sentence enjoined by his own
+unpardonable presumption. And above floated the Gloria. Intent on the
+music Isabel did not turn, did not see Philip's livid face as he stood
+on, powerless to leave the church, yet knowing the full penalty of
+remaining. Voices of singing monks withheld judgment. Then finally with
+the deep Amen a solemn file of officiating brothers marched from the
+sanctuary. The time had come. Still Philip Barry could not move. Priests
+turned from the holy altar with plain intent, beginning to disrobe. In
+stately shame each placed his golden vestment upon a bench. Clad in
+their cassocks, all went out, save the avenger of the awful hour, now in
+authority. Philip saw him signal as he came slowly forward to the verge
+of the chancel. Behind the communion rail he stopped and raised a
+restraining hand. Above in the choir loft the organ was dumb, not a
+murmur broke a frightful stillness. The lone priest waited. Every ear
+strained with his first deliberate utterance. He was looking straight at
+Philip Barry. At last, he spoke:
+
+"Owing to the presence in this sacred mission of an excommunicated
+priest, the service is at an end, the congregation is dismissed. Let it
+go out at once, with downcast eyes and prayers upon the lips of all
+true Catholics." He walked to the altar and extinguished the last
+candle, scarcely turning as he drifted from sight of the awe-stricken
+crowd. The dazed man, singled out for disgrace, stooped to the floor for
+his hat, rose again to his full imperious height, smiling piteously at
+Isabel--then he fell backward, caught in the arms of his friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+
+Philip and Isabel were now at home. But the wife had not been able to
+turn her husband's mind from his late public humiliation. She was
+frightened, miserable. Would Philip always be as now--crushed, silent
+with the one he loved best? She buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks
+burned, while her eyes remained dry. She dared not weep, dared not break
+down before the changed, listless man whom she would save at any cost to
+her own anguish. As first days of home-coming dragged away she began to
+see that she had been presumptuous. After all, her marriage was not to
+be a happy one. She knew that Philip adored her even more than before
+the fatal afternoon at the mission, when he had fallen unconscious at
+her side; yet something obstinate and heart-rending had come between
+them. Tragic doubt seemed to be freezing her husband's tenderness. With
+passionate dread of misjudging him she withheld from day to day the
+question she could not ask. She felt that above all she must wait until
+the shock of his cruel punishment had ceased to be vivid. During
+sleepless nights, when she knew for the first time the price of a
+Catholic priest's apostasy, there came also the realization of personal,
+unjust punishment. Nor did she acknowledge wrong for either Philip or
+herself; they had done no wrong. They were created for each other, and
+their only mistake had been the last imprudent visit to a forbidden
+place. She grieved over her own ignorance which had permitted Philip to
+incur the risk which had turned against him. She was bitter, and because
+of a defensive attitude she could not understand her husband's crushed
+condition. The joy of those first two weeks at St. Barnabas had
+departed. Isabel knew that she was a constant reproach to the stricken
+man, utterly changed and gently silent. Through days when she tried to
+distract his mind from a forbidden subject, driving him, herself, about
+the country growing more lovely with each hour of spring, she felt the
+mutual strain to be almost intolerable. Lurid newspaper accounts of
+Philip's disgrace had helped to convert their once happy drives into
+perfunctory, humble attempts to escape notice. Now they went alone in a
+runabout, avoiding every evidence of ostentation. Country roads lured
+them from town and led them on to unfrequented foothill slopes, where
+blue buckthorn adorned sweet-smelling upland acres. Below the purple
+range deepened with March shadows, swept by fickle sunlight playing over
+crags and into canyons, the couple passed long intervals when neither
+one of them spoke. Heart-breaking reticence tied their tongues. Each
+guessed the thoughts of the other.
+
+All about was the bewildering call of fresh life, yet they could not
+respond to Nature's glad outburst. Deciduous orchards, flushing buds,
+early almond blossoms pure as snow, wild flowers, buckthorn, edging
+miles of stony wash with tender blue, seemed only to evoke prolonged
+silence. The beauty of everything hurt them, for they were both unhappy
+and afraid to speak plainly. Then at night, when each lay wide awake,
+blessing darkness which at last hid their faces, relaxing after false
+smiles and feigned composure, everything had to be thought out once
+more. What would come of it all? Philip Barry's wife dared not press the
+question. She was young and she could not give up easily her dream of
+love. A passionate undercurrent of hope still helped her to endure the
+tense situation. Trivialities of everyday life assisted her in deceiving
+her household. She was gentle with her boy and thoughtful for old
+madame. Servants saw no change in their mistress. A battle had begun,
+and, believing in the odds of destiny, Isabel marshalled reserve force
+and smiled before her little world. But at heart she was frightened.
+Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed
+her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld
+tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been
+before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing
+from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had
+come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air--out of
+the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow,
+giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone
+platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an
+instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the assurance of Philip's
+beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one
+had been kind--very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited--waited!
+And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that
+followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days passed she found
+it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St.
+Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.
+
+Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise
+his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance.
+To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had
+missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event
+of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer
+her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious
+spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days
+Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive
+Philip over the country time must appear to pass naturally, while in
+temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already
+what is known in California as a "weather breeder" seemed to overcharge
+the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward
+down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming
+above the mountains; next day the sun refused to shine, and by night it
+rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a
+storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had
+loved rain as well as sunshine, but now she listened to the incessant
+downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come.
+She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of
+lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect.
+He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt
+powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their
+home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the
+matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden
+fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor
+might have broken a blood vessel of his brain--a vessel so tiny that
+consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the
+storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then
+bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain
+alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of
+her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First
+of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment.
+Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark
+paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed
+Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made
+compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to
+divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French,
+or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these
+things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine
+mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By
+early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones
+with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to
+believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to
+rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII
+
+
+Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little
+rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into dashing
+streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo
+Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming
+charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry,
+volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed
+lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into
+alarming fury.
+
+"Are you awake?" asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not
+sleeping.
+
+"Yes," he confessed. "Shall I get up and look after the windows?"
+
+She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She assured him that
+every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two
+lay still, listening to the tempest.
+
+"Isn't it frightful?" Isabel said timidly.
+
+"I like it," her husband answered.
+
+The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no
+tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a
+rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous
+crashing thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the
+mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror,
+forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw
+the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she
+had thought. He was ill--very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her
+stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was
+lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she
+would speak!
+
+"Tell me! oh tell me!" she implored. "I cannot bear it--I shall die if
+you do not tell me." The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength.
+"You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you
+think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave
+up--left your Church?" Everything was bursting from her like the
+tempest. "I could let you go," she sobbed, "but I cannot believe that we
+have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your God never
+meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you
+suffer--never let you forget. And--and you could not forget that I am
+your wife--that you love me?"
+
+She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her--deny what she said? "You
+do love me?" she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. "We
+love each other as God meant we should. We will blot out the past, live!
+You shall be another man." She was pleading her own case with Philip's.
+Her tears had ceased to fall. "We will do good jointly, do something to
+better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma."
+She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity.
+Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a
+yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. "Life is
+beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your
+book comes out----"
+
+Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought
+again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something
+had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main
+electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the
+dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through
+the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip.
+What if--she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one
+utterly despairing.
+
+"Never speak of the book again," he implored. He sank on the pillow, and
+she waited for him to go on. "I should have told you--forgive me," he
+said at last. "The manuscript has come back."
+
+Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her
+husband's alarming condition. "No! no!" she sobbed. "You cannot mean
+it,--there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot
+fail!"
+
+"But it has failed," he answered with momentary strength. "They do not
+care to publish it; it stands dishonored like--the man who wrote it."
+
+She blanched at his words. "Come back! Your manuscript returned?" she
+faltered. "You cannot mean it; where is the letter? I must see it."
+
+He smiled piteously, pointing to a closed desk at the other side of the
+room, where she found the pasteboard box loosely held in brown paper.
+The name of a prominent publishing house was stamped outside the wrapper
+and inside was the letter.
+
+She read, re-read, with burning cheeks--a polite, commercial decision;
+then she ran to Philip. Her eyes were blazing with champion light; her
+courage had returned. Great love for the stricken man gone down before a
+flood of disappointment enveloped her being. The force of her wonderful
+nature rose up for fresh battle.
+
+"Darling!" she pleaded, "you are too ill to understand." She caught his
+hand as she crept close to his side. "They like your book,--know that it
+is fine; but they are afraid of the cost of publishing it. The pictures
+have frightened them and they are too commercial to take the risk of a
+sumptuous volume. One refusal is nothing! Our new friend will know the
+value of your work, and the manuscript must go to him at once." The
+positive current of her magnetic will, the plausibility of her
+conviction, above all, her tenderness, seemed a divine anodyne for
+Philip's sinking soul. Yet he dared not hope. The shaft of disgrace had
+been sunk too straight. He was too ill to resist remorse; too weak to
+deny the penalty for broken vows; too hopeless to defy authority which
+had thrust him down and trodden upon his self-respect. On the verge of
+fatal prostration, no sins were blacker than his own. Darkest of all
+appeared a selfish love forced upon innocent Isabel. Dishonored man that
+he was, she must share his shame. He closed his weary eyes.
+
+His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,--to call a
+nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.
+
+"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He
+protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not
+stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well.
+I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She
+felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing
+through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.
+
+He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not
+move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring
+forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten
+Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the
+condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly
+cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her
+to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled,
+sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own
+childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical
+standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed
+independently.
+
+What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That
+Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken
+thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a
+vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed
+eyes--yet wide awake--she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who
+should--who must--help her.
+
+Then suddenly Philip spoke.
+
+"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."
+
+"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest--just here--I will
+soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes
+were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX
+
+
+A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip
+forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into
+slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health
+sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought
+happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and
+watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet
+sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly
+from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops,
+piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by
+the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry
+claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of
+falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call
+in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible
+outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those
+ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to
+revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but
+to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and
+peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with
+unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his
+compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her
+husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist.
+Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to
+her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried
+out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the
+result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only
+Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm,
+had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her
+faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes,
+and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.
+
+Wing turned in evident dismay. "Why you up so early?" he asked with the
+childlike freedom of the Oriental. "Those girls heap lazy! not come down
+yet--house all dark." He spread his slender brown hands in feigned
+disgust. "I gless you not know that big tree fall over las night? Most
+hit my klitchen. You come see." He threw open the screen, pointing
+beyond. Isabel saw a Monterey pine low and done for by the storm. Heavy,
+drenched branches, crushed and aromatic, rose from the ground to the top
+of a nearby porch, which had just escaped them. Years of growth and
+vigor were down with a blast from the surcharged sky. She seemed to feel
+the human significance of the fallen pine.
+
+"Poor thing!" she exclaimed, peering into upturned limbs of the
+vanquished tree. "Poor thing!"
+
+Wing beamed. His white teeth flashed credulous interest. "You think that
+tree get hurt--all same me?" he demanded. Isabel saw that she was
+planting fresh superstition on celestial soil.
+
+"I am not quite sure," she answered. "Still, a great tree could hardly
+tear away from earth without feeling it. It must have suffered," she
+maintained. Unconsciously she was thinking of her husband. That Philip
+had been uprooted, cast down like the pine filled her with dread as she
+went quickly from the kitchen. But the storm, which left the house in
+total darkness during the night had also interfered with telephone
+service. After vain attempts to communicate with the central office, she
+dashed off a note to a well-known nerve specialist. She begged him to
+come at once, explaining that her husband was too ill to leave his bed.
+From the terrace she watched the gardener depart with her note. She felt
+at last like one who stakes all on a final venture. Would the doctor
+come soon? Would Philip resent the visit? Above all, how should she
+break the news to the invalid, who begged to be left alone? "Don't call
+a doctor," he had pleaded; and again she wondered if she had been wise
+in a grave emergency. The house was now astir. Belated maids were at
+work. Soon shrill exclamations arose from the wet garden. Madame had
+discovered the fallen pine, to fly below with the boy. Reginald was
+proudly equipped with rubber boots. His red coat flashed as he outran
+his excited companion. Isabel translated the French woman's lament for
+the lost tree; then the boy cried out in distress. His mother reached
+his side to find him in tears, holding a dead oriole. The once gay,
+golden little creature lay limp in the child's hand.
+
+"Poor birdy! See, he's all, all broken!" he bemoaned. "Can't you mend
+him, mother dear? Can't you make him stand up?"
+
+"He has been hurt by the storm," Isabel explained, stroking the feathers
+of the little victim. "Perhaps he lived in the pine tree. We may find
+his nest."
+
+Reginald began to search along the path, while Isabel found a sharpened
+stick. When she came to a clump of ferns she bent and quickly dug a tiny
+bed in the wet earth. Her son, running back, saw that the oriole was
+gone.
+
+"There wasn't any nest!" he shouted, gazing incredulously at his
+mother's empty hand, "And I suppose the poor birdy's all mended. Why
+didn't you wait? I wanted--I wanted to see him fly away." Fresh tears
+betokened the boy's disappointment. Isabel felt justified in the
+deception, as she led the child indoors. He would understand soon
+enough.
+
+Wing had just brought back a dainty tray, with everything on it declined
+by the master. The good fellow was greatly distressed. "Boss not eat--he
+die! Sure!" he muttered.
+
+Isabel went above. She felt again that she had done right in calling a
+physician, and strove for courage to announce the approaching visit.
+When she entered her husband's room he seemed to be dozing. She did not
+rouse him. Perhaps, after all, sleep would prove to be Philip's best
+medicine, and something whispered that her apparent anxiety was not good
+for the broken man she loved. She went out, acknowledging a mistake.
+When Philip awoke she would tell him about the doctor, with incidental
+lightness. Then sooner than she expected she heard an automobile and
+knew that her note had been timely. The specialist was at hand--in the
+hall below. She could not prepare Philip for an unwelcome call. But she
+was eager to unburden her heart, willing to rest her fear with one who
+ought to assume it. And at once she told of her husband's early
+education, of the first success of his priesthood, of his ambition for a
+great Middle West cathedral, of the bishop's unjust course, of Philip's
+natural struggle, followed with excommunication from the Church; then
+all too soon--before he could readjust his life--of the public
+humiliation in the old mission. She kept nothing back but her own hard
+part as the wife of an apostate priest. The dread that she had been the
+sole cause of a brilliant man's undoing she bravely acknowledged. Philip
+could not forget, could not supplement his relinquished work with
+domestic happiness.
+
+"Yet he adores me," she confessed. "It is not just that he should
+suffer--as he does. His heart is breaking. He feels it a sin to love
+me--to go on with happiness."
+
+"And you?" said Dr. Judkin.
+
+She tried to smile. "Women can bear more than men." Her voice broke.
+
+The man by her side felt her charm, knew that she was valiant in love.
+Still he saw disappointment in her tense resistance. "I am afraid that
+you, too, will soon need attention," he abruptly told her. "Sometimes a
+wife spoils her husband without realizing it. Men who think a great deal
+about themselves are not considerate."
+
+She was offended and replied coldly, "You do not know him. It is unjust
+to judge of a patient before you have seen him."
+
+"I stand reproved," the doctor admitted.
+
+Isabel forgave him. His very bluntness brought her hope. Suddenly she
+felt faith in the man whom she had summoned. She believed that he was
+masterful, and she must turn to some one.
+
+"Please come," she invited, "you shall see my husband."
+
+Dr. Judkin stood aside for her to pass, and she went above, choosing
+words which should explain his early call. Then at the top of the
+staircase she stopped.
+
+"Be good enough to wait," she begged. "I must prepare him--go in first."
+Then she flew forward, for the smell of burning paper had caught her
+nostrils. The door to Philip's apartment was fastened. She had been
+locked out! She rushed to a balcony running before the windows of her
+husband's room. In an instant she stood within. And she had not come a
+moment too soon. A fresh tragedy faced her. She hardly breathed. Philip,
+on his knees in front of the fireplace, did not hear her enter. The
+ecstasy of delirium possessed him. His whole body trembled as he
+showered an igniting pile with his rejected manuscript. "The Spirit of
+the Cathedral" was smoking. Isabel saw rising flame desert a blackened
+sketch of a famous duomo but to lick a painting of great St. Peter's.
+Once more dominant Romish power appeared to threaten. The curse of the
+Church seemed about to blaze anew for Philip.
+
+Her heart thumped as she flew to his side. "How can you?" she pleaded.
+"You have forgotten your friend--who trusted you. You must not spoil his
+beautiful pictures." Her hand reached out and coolly rescued scorching
+sheets of the unpublished book. "But you did not mean to hurt an
+artist's work," she gently added. She held a ruined sketch before the
+sick man's staring eyes. "You did not remember. You did not mean to be
+unfair to your friend." The tenderness of her frightened, loving soul
+broke over the shattered man, as she led him away to bed. He went like
+an obedient child; then she unlocked the door and summoned the doctor.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX
+
+
+Two trained nurses had been installed. Isabel no longer held her place
+at Philip's bedside. She was virtually banished from her husband's room.
+The courage which she had evinced during previous weeks seemed to be
+going fast. Now she hardly dared to hope. A silent house already took on
+the atmosphere of disaster. Even Reginald was not permitted to shout in
+the garden. And withal spring was at hand, seemingly to brighten the
+whole world, outside of Philip's closed apartments. The sap of fresh
+life ran in the veins of every living thing in the valley, on the
+foothills, above in the mountains. The season had advanced without a
+check, while throughout the Southwest blooming fruit trees and millions
+of roses prepared the land for Easter.
+
+To Isabel sensuous beauty on every side seemed cruel. Her heart felt
+desolate. She went through each day wishing for night, while with
+darkness she longed for sunlight. Suspense was beginning to drain her
+vitality. She did not complain, but the doctor saw her brace herself
+against each discouraging outcome of days that dragged. For Philip's
+last collapse had turned her from his side. She was barely a memory to
+the man she loved. At first she had rebelled, then accepted conditions
+enjoined by Dr. Judkin and consulting specialists. Only one thing
+helped her to endure the strain of a cruel separation.
+
+Philip's book--now speaking to her heart as she knew it would
+speak--brought strange, proud comfort. She felt exalted that she--his
+wife--had saved the manuscript from the flames. During a week she fairly
+lived in the scorched pages of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." And
+gradually she began to see why the work had been refused. Personal
+feeling and blind enthusiasm were at last tempered. She could read with
+a cool intellect. The Laodicean attitude of a shrewd publisher hurt her
+less than at first. For the fact still remained that Philip had produced
+something fine. Although he occasionally dropped his impassioned theme
+to give vent to slight discord, nothing had really been lost from his
+original motif. Reading between the lines, Isabel detected the natural
+temptation under which he had worked. Certain paragraphs, all unaided by
+a magnetic voice and delivery, read too much like his former sermons.
+Sometimes overcharged, almost vindictive handling of Romish background
+was evident. In those first weeks in Paris, after he had deserted the
+priesthood and been cast out of the Church, he had written without
+restraint. He had said things best left unsaid. Yet, as Isabel read on,
+she marvelled at Philip's virile touch, at the masterful, dramatic power
+of his pen. His word pictures drawn from vivid, exceptional opportunity
+required no literal illustration. Still she studied the sketches of the
+associate artist, finally selecting one fourth of the cathedrals
+submitted. Then she read over again the stronger chapters of the singed
+manuscript. It was late into night before she weighed the possible
+chances of her husband's book. He had labored so intelligently that her
+hand seemed to be guided by his own as she omitted paragraphs which
+undoubtedly influenced the publishers to refuse a somewhat prejudiced
+work.
+
+Isabel felt free to decide for Philip. His extremity excused her
+arbitrary action. She was sure that in his normal condition he would
+agree to all that she had done. When scorched pages had been replaced by
+fresh ones she would send the revised manuscript to the publisher she
+had met at St. Barnabas, the one who had witnessed the withstayed
+tragedy in the mission. She believed that her new friend could
+appreciate the significance of a book written by one who not only
+criticised expertly, but knew as well the human side of a great
+cathedral. Her thoughts went back to a time when Philip--a priest--had
+outlined plans for the noble church he hoped to build. Then nothing
+seemed too big for his young city. Isabel smiled, and began to read once
+more.
+
+Suddenly tears came to her eyes. She put aside the manuscript. After
+all, what right had she to tamper with her husband's work? From Philip's
+higher standpoint, painted or stone saints and angels, looking down from
+Gothic heights, meant nothing to her, outside of their mere artistic
+value. She saw with fresh dread that Philip was still a Catholic. Early
+education and his lost mother's devout influence kept him apart from
+natural happiness. He should have remained a priest, a power in his
+Church. She remembered how once she had stood with him in St.
+Peter's--in front of the "Pieta." He had then almost forgotten her
+presence. The wrapt significance of his expression ought to have warned
+her. She felt once more that she would never be able to share her
+husband's feeling for an old master's sacred ideal. And later, when the
+two were passing the noted bronze of St. Peter, she recalled that she
+had failed to hide her repulsion for the throng straining to kiss the
+statue's jutting, shining toe. Philip divined her thoughts and flushed.
+"It comforts them," he had whispered. "Over here the poor have so little
+in their lives. What seems absurd to you is for them salvation."
+
+To-night Isabel remembered everything now bearing on her husband's
+tragic state. Her heart grew heavy with fear, with vague foreboding.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI
+
+
+Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful
+nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes;
+then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank
+into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.
+
+"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses
+have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his
+burned-down condition. We shall save him."
+
+She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help--do some
+little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see
+other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a
+glass of water."
+
+Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not
+let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."
+
+Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced
+herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of
+the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already
+done what few women can do--submitted magnificently to a passive part.
+And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new
+demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power.
+I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your
+husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now
+ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with
+continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past
+events."
+
+"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to
+any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy.
+Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me--so patient with
+my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me
+that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my
+friend."
+
+The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks
+he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure.
+Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a
+pattern in the rug.
+
+"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of
+which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of--of--tempting
+association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to
+the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck
+of a quiet ship."
+
+"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked.
+"I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire
+at once?"
+
+Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements
+had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the
+tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked
+his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear.
+"But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You
+might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery
+doubtful."
+
+His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.
+
+"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor
+deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now
+seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel
+that we are about to conquer. Tahiti--the isle of rest--will restore him
+wholly."
+
+Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her
+agitation. The doctor went on:
+
+"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a
+nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later,
+when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks
+on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a
+miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my
+troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and
+brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then
+blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out
+the stars--the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different
+person."
+
+An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must
+speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.
+
+"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A
+boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our
+patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half
+a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at
+noon,--on the seventeenth."
+
+He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance.
+Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last
+she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her
+gently sobbing.
+
+"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised.
+You shall have your husband back--well! He will put all behind him!
+forget everything but his wife."
+
+She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes.
+Then she began to speak with fresh determination.
+
+"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he
+needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a
+sign,--unless--he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that
+another woman should have my place--my absolute right to be near him. He
+is my husband! I cannot bear it."
+
+Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing
+with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given
+satisfaction was an enemy--a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife.
+Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly
+to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.
+
+"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my
+assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be
+time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip
+Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a
+splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will
+engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done
+for your husband's comfort."
+
+Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided.
+She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been
+very weak--very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything
+that you think best,--make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I
+am going to be good,--good like Reg."
+
+"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind--you are
+not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are
+really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip
+comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to
+go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle,
+cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's
+country--in springtime."
+
+To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more
+than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put
+out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave
+heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."
+
+But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved
+the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the
+outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to
+a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own
+life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient
+before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently
+answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after
+all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for
+years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of
+theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's,
+tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way
+depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute
+exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable
+station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be
+measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII
+
+
+Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los
+Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears
+were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost
+like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had
+staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard
+separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present
+conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to
+come.
+
+And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters.
+Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly
+strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone,
+was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back
+well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them
+waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed
+carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New
+acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to
+tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride
+of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And
+after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more
+cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's
+unrestrained shouts echoed at will.
+
+"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How
+pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon?
+Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.
+
+"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in
+her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him
+about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed
+with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand
+held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured
+"Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native
+boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying
+fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With
+Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for
+sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and
+son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was
+finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no
+heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy
+to disregard hitherto accepted authority.
+
+"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the
+little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another
+story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped
+away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming
+back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door
+closed.
+
+Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy
+had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise.
+Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his
+good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing.
+And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next
+day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind
+employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage,
+and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good
+night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high
+spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.
+
+As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A
+half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of
+interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms
+rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy
+locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed
+beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's
+sleeping child--the one lying across the Madonna's lap--in the Academy
+at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was
+unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night
+her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside
+a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the
+moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment
+could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his
+side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room.
+Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She
+thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would
+come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the
+flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript;
+almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The
+publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work,
+yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had
+waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a
+new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that
+must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing
+possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all,
+she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would
+ride to-morrow--throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who
+had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then
+perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit--stay until after Philip's boat
+had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+
+Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the
+two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode
+her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs.
+Barry's more spirited animal.
+
+"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty
+creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the
+foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of
+action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure.
+Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward
+with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering
+eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the
+valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions
+of flowers--roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to
+spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time
+being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was
+about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San
+Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her
+mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for
+an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape.
+All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the
+horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with
+golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her
+horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with
+loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The
+spell of spring was upon them both.
+
+"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.
+
+"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow
+passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.
+
+Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a
+boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She
+stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A
+black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose
+the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black
+opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life."
+She laughed and dashed onward.
+
+"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are
+happy. I cannot wait,--do tell me."
+
+The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking,
+over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?"
+she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that
+I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her
+friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't
+any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live
+the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being
+prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow,
+a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my
+new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern
+California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on!
+Come on!" she called.
+
+They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel
+had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith
+when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two
+hungry women.
+
+Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left
+the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in
+her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening
+in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over
+the wire--her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl--to-night--join me
+to-morrow--at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly,
+attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the
+operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was
+hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could
+endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved
+still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her
+to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be
+repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No
+power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again
+caught the receiver.
+
+"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed
+while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and
+Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient--he
+cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the
+attendant answered.
+
+"He must come--at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that
+Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a
+moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with
+decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her
+cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb
+blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why,
+after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once?
+There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught
+the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped
+like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued
+to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and
+repeated her previous statement.
+
+"I'm going North to-night--on the Owl--to Philip. He wants me. He has
+just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow--at
+the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she
+implored. "You surely understand?"
+
+"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we
+have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your
+husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms
+crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was
+beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in
+the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same
+hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total
+destruction of San Francisco.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV
+
+
+Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North,
+she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had
+been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning
+above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still
+no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request,
+asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might
+lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr.
+Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her
+fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of
+value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and
+hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr.
+Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the
+warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband
+was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly
+maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the
+night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his
+patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared
+the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be
+lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard
+to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are
+then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets,
+with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for
+reliable information. But one thing is certain--Dr. Ward is going to
+take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are
+simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial
+law and prevailing conditions."
+
+"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I
+would have been there--when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from
+going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his
+patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either
+advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the
+long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He
+realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available
+means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer
+resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he
+seemed to see that she had suffered enough.
+
+"I will go myself--find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He
+stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for
+newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll
+try my best to make you happy--as I promised to do," he humbly added.
+There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with
+gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone
+with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.
+
+The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual,
+thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening
+petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then
+gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at
+last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city,
+still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now
+reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher,
+undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone
+out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with
+frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be
+helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered
+generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in
+giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire
+occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she
+helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household.
+Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her
+own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad
+condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked
+incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which
+involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning
+he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the
+North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with
+other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth
+with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone
+encouraged him to speak.
+
+"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business--he so poor. What you
+think? Plaps I take him lectic car--go that Venice--all same dleam."
+Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.
+
+Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him
+kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."
+
+Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go--take my poor cousin--so he
+not be sad."
+
+"An excellent plan," said Isabel.
+
+He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I
+not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now
+my cousin begin all over--not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that
+earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same
+ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San
+Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."
+
+Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of
+Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed
+in a wrecked hotel?
+
+Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say
+not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make
+trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good."
+A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth
+parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell
+me,--all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say
+people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len
+go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody
+wake up--hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag!
+Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall
+down. People no can stand up--no can see, all dark! Big noise come out
+sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children
+cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House--no good. Everybody lun that
+bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside
+he heart; cannot forget."
+
+"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched
+the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the
+catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control
+herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr.
+Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She
+tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved
+herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also
+for book form." Philip's friend--the editor--had signed the golden
+message.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV
+
+
+Isabel held the telegram to her lips. She seemed to be kissing Philip.
+"Dear, dear husband, I knew, I knew," she softly murmured. The rest of
+the day she wandered about the garden, almost in an ecstacy of
+expectation. Something seemed to tell her that Philip was safe, that she
+would hear from him. But evening shadows fell without a personal word
+from the North. She was obliged to content herself by reading the
+evening papers, which were beginning to contradict certain overwhelming
+statements of days back. The hotel that had totally collapsed was now
+known to have been poorly built and was not the St. Francis, as formerly
+stated. Iron frames of many buildings had withstood the earthquake to go
+down at last before dynamite. Still, the list of dead and wounded would
+be a long one. Nothing could be definitely settled until after flames
+had ceased to lick through deserted streets. Suffering was intense on
+every side. Children had first seen the world under its open sky. Women,
+without beds to lie upon, had given birth in the open. Yet it seemed to
+be a time when the best part of human nature revealed a noble side.
+Already hope was beginning to stir in camps where ruined families clung
+lovingly together. Isabel's eyes grew moist as she read a thrilling
+story of heroism and courage.
+
+Miss Lewis had gone back to the hotel, and when madame, complaining of a
+headache, kept her room, Isabel found herself alone. But one thought now
+absorbed her mind. Every moment she hoped for a telegram from Dr.
+Judkin. Then suddenly Wing again stood before her. He had returned from
+his day's outing and his countenance shone elate. Evidently he had
+fulfilled a purpose and brought new strength to the fainting heart of
+his unfortunate friend. As in the morning, Isabel encouraged him to
+talk.
+
+"I come tell you--clause you so solly," he began. "Plitty soon I sure
+you hear you husbland--all safe! People say not so many kill, after all.
+Boss all light, I sure."
+
+He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. "And you
+took your cousin to Venice?" Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.
+
+Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off
+his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray "Fedora" hat in one hand.
+"Jus this way," he explained. "I decide--not take my cousin that
+Venice--all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool
+money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half--go that
+seashore. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent
+cloe, jus old thing--all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all.
+I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles--get cheap dinner, len go church. I
+say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow,
+I say. No time go that Venice--all same dleam. Better hear 'bout
+heaven."
+
+Mrs. Barry listened gravely. Wing gradually prepared his denouement.
+
+"Plitty good time--all same business," he continued. "You see? My cousin
+have ole shoe--cannot las velly long. I jus take him that shoe
+store--see lindow--all so full."
+
+"I understand," said Isabel. "You bought your friend a pair of shoes
+instead of taking him to Venice?"
+
+Wing smiled. "All same yes," he qualified. "I find that shoe store--tell
+all 'bout my cousin. I say my poor cousin velly poor; have no
+shoe--claus he all bloke up that earthquake. That shoeman velly kind,
+give my flend fine Mellican shoe, light away--not take money. Len we go
+down street--tly get new hat. Big lindow so full! many nice hat--heap
+style. We stan long time, look in. Plitty soon man come out--smile, ask
+what we want. I say, 'My poor flend bloke up that earthquake; have no
+good hat.' Len man say, 'Come in get fit.' I say, 'No money.' Man say,
+'All light; earthquake not come velly often.' My cousin so happy. After
+while he all fix up. New coat, new shirt,--everything all clean. Len we
+go down Chinatown, get dinner; go mission. Pleacher say heaven more
+better; not any earthquake--not any big fire. Pleacher say no old black
+cow kick up; so solly China people tell that story. Jus be good, he say.
+Be kind, help that sorrow up San Flancisco."
+
+Isabel had listened throughout with keenest interest. At another time
+she might have found it difficult to control her countenance. To-night
+she could not laugh. Almost for the first time she realized the meaning
+of "the brotherhood of man." She found her purse and sent a liberal
+donation to celestials lately en route in the cattle car. "Relieve your
+friends as much as possible," she commanded. "You may take to-morrow off
+and spend the money as you see best. Those of us who can must help."
+
+The simple kindness of her words fell clearly. Wing went out from her
+presence as one entrusted with a grave commission. She sat on with her
+thoughts.
+
+Suddenly she was depressed beyond all control. Joined to her longing for
+Philip was the dread that he would never be able to forget that he had
+once been a Catholic and a priest of the Church. And she had made him
+forsake his calling. Again and again she repeated the publisher's
+telegram aloud. She tried to tell herself that when Philip came back he
+must see his way at once to go on with life. He would find his work
+appreciated, his book accepted. Then he would surely continue to
+write--become noted. Yet, perhaps authorship might not satisfy him. The
+man who formerly moved large audiences with his impassioned sermons
+might not after all make a success in literature. She recalled the first
+time that she had heard Philip address a congregation. His clear,
+eloquent handling of a great ethical subject had delighted her. Sitting
+in a pew with devout Catholics, she had been glad to forget the High
+Mass, which she did not understand, and follow the speaker in the
+pulpit. She had felt that her former lover, still her friend, had found
+his natural profession, for even before ordination, Philip--too young
+for a priest--was permitted to preach.
+
+To-night Isabel's thoughts wandered back to an earlier Sunday in
+Venice--in St. Mark's--when they had gone together to vespers. Philip
+had then jestingly declared that but for her he would go into the
+Church. "I would like to preach at least one sermon as compelling as the
+one we have just heard," he told her, as they floated away in their
+gondola. Now his old words passed through her mind. A strange humility
+possessed her. Again she lived over those happy, youthful days in
+Venice. Still of all the churches abroad, of all the services she had
+witnessed, San Marco with the afternoon in question stood out, apart
+from other Romish background. At the time, Isabel caught a new view of
+the Catholic Church in Europe. For at midsummer vespers there had hardly
+been a suggestion of the pomp and ceremony which on stated occasions is
+supposed to make St. Mark turn over in his coffin, when clouds of
+incense pour through open doors into the piazza.
+
+On that August evening all had been so simple--even without a vested
+choir. Informality prevailed throughout the humble audience. Every one
+moved his chair at will to the side of some friend. Women used their
+fans and whispered discreetly to one another. There were few "Sunday
+hats." Dark, uncovered heads and black crape shawls, richly fringed,
+worn corner wise, as only Venetian maids can wear them, discounted
+tawdry finery. Young men and little children sat on the pulpit steps.
+Every one sang from the heart. Wonderful Italian voices rose in natural
+harmony; then at last the patriarchal shepherd of the gathered flock
+came slowly forward. The beautiful old man wore no embroidered vestments
+on that summer's afternoon. Sheer, spotless white, showing but a line of
+scarlet beneath the lace around his hands, alone defined ecclesiastical
+rank. Yet he was strangely grand in the evening light of the golden
+church. A loving hush pervaded San Marco as he leaned over the pulpit,
+looking down upon his children. Isabel had never forgotten either the
+sermon or the marvelous voice of the speaker.
+
+To-night it came to her that to be able to guide one's fellowmen to
+higher ideals through spoken words, was, after all, a God-given gift.
+And she had ruined Philip's opportunity. She asked herself a hard
+question. If he came back with his heart still turning to a natural
+calling, could she help him? At last she felt his inborn tendency; the
+early religious background which influenced his temperament. Things
+entirely outside of her own experience had always been vital to the man
+she loved. If he came back to her uncertain and wavering in view of
+returning health and implied difficult conditions, she must give him up.
+At last the situation seemed plain. But she was bitter withal. Philip's
+God was hard; she could not understand the miserable decision forced
+upon her as she sat alone.
+
+Twice she tried to go above to bed, yet something held her. Hours wore
+on. She felt cold and started a fire. The heat from the hearth sent her
+into heavy, desperate slumber. She heard no sound. Philip entered softly
+and alone, for Dr. Judkin had hurried away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And as he waited--transfixed, he thought of that other night when he had
+stood outside the curtains, looking in at the woman he dared not touch.
+Then slowly Isabel opened her eyes, saw that her husband had come; felt
+that a miracle had restored his power to love. Renunciation of a dark
+hour was forgotten in a low, glad cry. Philip held her as never before.
+The strength of his arms made her dumb with joy. She could not speak.
+Her husband led her to the divan and she listened to his voice, his
+words. She heard him entreat her to forgive, to live anew.
+
+She felt that nature's rending soul had tried their appealed case to
+enjoin his human need. Humility charged his fresh purpose as he tenderly
+pleaded for time to prove the revelation of terrible days back.
+
+Later when she told him about the acceptance of his book he listened
+incredulously.
+
+Suddenly he understood. "You kept it from deserved oblivion?" he said at
+last. A fond smile played on his lips. "What have you not done for me?"
+He kissed away her denial of all personal influence. "Take me back on
+trust," he implored. "I ask only for the stimulant of your faith; then
+perhaps--perhaps I may please you, do something worth while."
+
+Isabel knew that his secularization had been sanctioned by The Higher
+Court. The years to come held glad significance for them both.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett
+
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