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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
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