The Higher Court Part 3

"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 G.o.d! she never knew--died believing in me--thought I had succeeded," the priest cried pa.s.sionately. 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--pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionately 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 pa.s.sionately 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sionately. 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 Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 att.i.tude. 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 pet.i.tioned. 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 att.i.tude 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 cla.s.ses 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 embarra.s.sment. 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.