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.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III]
[CHAPTER IV]
[CHAPTER V]
[CHAPTER VI]
[CHAPTER VII]
[CHAPTER VIII]
[CHAPTER IX]
[CHAPTER X]
[CHAPTER XI]
[CHAPTER XII]
[CHAPTER XIII]
[CHAPTER XIV]
[CHAPTER XV]
[CHAPTER XVI]
[CHAPTER XVII]
[CHAPTER XVIII]
[CHAPTER XIX]
[CHAPTER XX]
[CHAPTER XXI]
[CHAPTER XXII]
[CHAPTER XXIII]
[CHAPTER XXIV]
[CHAPTER XXV]
[CHAPTER XXVI]
[CHAPTER XXVII]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII]
[CHAPTER XXIX]
[CHAPTER XXX]
[CHAPTER XXXI]
[CHAPTER XXXII]
[CHAPTER XXXIII]
[CHAPTER XXXIV]
[CHAPTER XXXV]

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.