"And you do not care for the Tilton-Jones combination?" she asked.
Philip shook his head. "I fail to admire either of them, although I least of any one should cast a presumptuous stone. Perhaps I am unduly prejudiced. I have known several hyphenated Jones people before, and for some reason I never got on with them. You see I was always addressing the wife as plain Mrs. Jones—perpetually overlooking the lean-to addition."
Isabel's laugh rippled. How very clever her husband was. "I shall keep you from forgetting this afternoon," she promised. "I am so glad to go out in a machine. Really I do not believe I could sit the saddle to-day. And this is too nice!" she declared, as she poured the coffee. "Are you not going down?" Then she extended a steaming cup. "Take this," she begged. "They have sent plenty for two; suppose we have breakfast together."
"But there is only one cup."
"What matter, when we have a full pot of coffee. And just see the toast and rolls."
Philip sat facing his wife, amused as he always was when he had only to obey.
"You drink first," she commanded.
"Tell me when to stop; I might take all."
"You may. I never really enjoy coffee until I have finished."
She was irresistible. And all this loveliness, this unconsciousness, was now but for his own eyes. Isabel was his wife. To-day he felt that he had sinned only by once becoming a priest bound by unnatural vows.
God had created a pair in the beginning, decreed that man should not live without sympathy, without love. He was thinking of couples bound as prisoners. Everything seemed so natural for Isabel and himself, except when he did not sleep or went back too far. The white satin empire gown lay extended on the couch.
Philip pointed drolly across the room, then touched the sleeve of Isabel's dainty night robe. "I like this gown best; you seem about eighteen months, hardly old enough to be Reggie's fond mamma."
"For shame!" she cried. Still she was pleased. With mention of her boy she began to talk of the little fellow, to wonder what he was doing on this very Sunday morning.
The breakfast above proved to be a happy thought. Husband and wife "took turns" from the single cup; there was gayety and byplay.
"We have not left a crumb!" said Isabel. "I never ate such good toast. You know we are to have dinner at one—the regulation hour for the day; we shall subsist until then." She poured the last drop from the coffee pot. "This is our loving cup. Let us drink to every one that is married—in the big world!"
Philip smiled. "That wouldn't do, too many miss the whole thing," he answered.
"I suppose so," she agreed. She had almost forgotten the time when life had not been full and satisfying. "Now it is all so wonderful—so sure," she added softly.
"But of course honeymoons have got to be silly—real silly—just like this breakfast. After a while we shall both be serious enough, with your literary work and Reg growing up."
She bounded from bed to her dressing room, dropping Philip a courtesy in return for his previous jest. "I will come forth full grown," she promised. "Your friend the editor shall never suspect that I still love dolls."
She kept her word and after dinner, when she stood with Philip on the veranda of the hotel, she had exchanged the way of a child for one of womanly charm. The day was glorious, and already Gay Lewis and the Tilton-Joneses were on hand. A moment later the host of the afternoon led his party to the waiting car. The three ladies occupied the tonneau, while Tilton-Jones and Philip faced them. The New York publisher sat in front with the chauffeur. At the outset Gay Lewis announced her satisfaction. "Nothing could be as fine as this!" she declared. "A Pierce Arrow is next to flying. Of course, for some time to come I shall not be permitted to shoot upward, but if it were not for mother I should accept my first invitation."
"Could you really dare to board an airship?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones put in.
"Certainly," said Gay. "I dare say I was born only for sport; I love it better than anything else in the world. I never think of danger when I am amusing myself."
"I am sorry that we cannot enjoy the afternoon according to latest ideals," the host answered. "However, I must depend upon Miss Lewis to direct our course. Which way shall we take?" he asked.
They had already started on a trip through the little city.
"I am greatly flattered," Gay replied. "But really, I have no choice when I am in a machine. It is just go, go, go, with me. I can almost arrive at Kipling's meter as I sit! sit! sit! bobbing up and down again." Every one laughed.
"And you don't mind a rough road?" Mrs. Tilton-Jones demanded with literal surprise.
"Not as much as most people," Miss Lewis answered. "I, for one, shall not complain this afternoon. I never felt a more comfortable car."
"It moves along perfectly," said Isabel, who had thus far been quiet.
"And will no one dictate our way?" the host again inquired. As he spoke, the chauffeur shot onward in the direction of the mission. Philip alone felt the significance of the driver's plan. But he made up his mind, once and for all, that nothing imaginary should disturb his peace of mind, or ever again come as a phantom between himself and Isabel. He no longer seemed to shrink from a farewell view of the old church. This would be the last one. Nor was he perturbed when later the machine stopped on the verge of the broad pavement leading to steps beyond. Not until Mrs. Tilton-Jones cried out, begging to peep within the mission now resounding with voices of singing monks, did he fully understand. Then he knew, knew that to refuse to go inside on account of afternoon service was to virtually acknowledge himself a disgraced man. In an instant he decided. His wife hesitated, but he insisted that she should get out of the car. Everything happened quickly. With all pressing forward, Philip began to climb the stone flight to the church. There was no escape, he must act as a man. Isabel felt his arm beneath her own. She did not speak. Gay Lewis walked on the other side, and Mrs. Tilton-Jones now joined the row.
"What terrible steps," the lady complained. "I'm not a Catholic, so don't appreciate a penance. But I am delighted to have a look inside. The monks sing wonderfully! just hear them." She chattered on, to the very door. Evidently she had not heard of Philip's former career. Isabel was relieved and entered the church with a sense of unexpected pleasure. She thought she detected the baritone of the brother whom she had once heard; then the voice stilled. A priest was intoning.
Now all Catholics were devoutly kneeling, murmuring evening prayers. Philip Barry stood beside Isabel, with his head slightly bowed. Others of the party used casual time for glancing about the mission. To the man who had once been a priest the voice of the officiating father, the supplicating swell of confessions born of human transgression, the impalpable impression of detached souls coming back to worship, were realities all too startling. Philip had overestimated his strength. He lifted his eyes and saw beyond—far down the long aisle—tall, lighted candles on the holy altar. In brass vases he discerned stalks of flaming poinsettias. Like blood, splashed against the dorsal, the scarlet flowers flanked the golden treasury of the hidden Host. The man had been too long a Catholic to forget. But prayers were over. The choir of brown-hooded monks had burst into praise and ushers peered here and there for vacant sittings. Then, with dismay, the excommunicated priest followed his friends and Isabel the entire length of the old church, to a pew directly in front of the chancel.
He had not counted on the conspicuous placing of a noticeable party. He leaned forward with his head in his hands. Instinctively the usual petition moved his lips. But he sat up and gazed before him with blinding realization of his own false attitude. Why had he entered? Again he recalled honest worshippers of the morning, going up worn stones to early service, at length coming forth into sunlight, with rapt or tranquil faces. And about him were the same reverential men and women. Philip Barry's religious feeling had always been emotional rather than spiritual; still he had been born a Catholic. The beauty of impressive ritualism, the mysticism of the "Elevated Cup," moved his esthetic nature. Dreamer that he was, he knew again the power of his inculcated early training. He thought of his mother. Until to-day every tense effort to recall her sympathetic soul had been vain. Now an impalpable presence reproached him—separated him, as it were, from Isabel. In a momentary vision he saw the dear face and form of his lost one. To his imaginative mind, beautiful old hands stretched out to save him from impending disaster; then everything before his eyes became clear, and he sat still, at the foot of the chancel, a condemned man. Something whispered that to be an outcast from his Church would gradually starve his soul. Perhaps he should turn to stone, forget the worth of Isabel's priceless love and devotion—what then? He shuddered at the thought of possible suffering for his wife. Again the congregation knelt. Again he was glad to bow his head. For the first time since his marriage the dread of disappointing Isabel gripped him. That he should have an insatiate longing for something outside of their close relation filled him with terror. No, she must never know. He stood up at the end of familiar prayers, responding silently to the rich voices above in the choir. At the back of the church the monks had begun a Gloria. After all he would be able to control himself. Then suddenly there was mysterious agitation, moving to and fro of priests and officiating brothers. To visiting Protestants the commotion in the chancel was not appalling. Monks passing hither and thither, priests turning splendid vestments to front and back, seemed but part of an impressive service.
For Philip Barry, duly educated to Catholic power, aware of a ruling order's justified opportunity, there was a plain conclusion. He stood as one summoned, unable to move, waiting for sentence enjoined by his own unpardonable presumption. And above floated the Gloria. Intent on the music Isabel did not turn, did not see Philip's livid face as he stood on, powerless to leave the church, yet knowing the full penalty of remaining. Voices of singing monks withheld judgment. Then finally with the deep Amen a solemn file of officiating brothers marched from the sanctuary. The time had come. Still Philip Barry could not move. Priests turned from the holy altar with plain intent, beginning to disrobe. In stately shame each placed his golden vestment upon a bench. Clad in their cassocks, all went out, save the avenger of the awful hour, now in authority. Philip saw him signal as he came slowly forward to the verge of the chancel. Behind the communion rail he stopped and raised a restraining hand. Above in the choir loft the organ was dumb, not a murmur broke a frightful stillness. The lone priest waited. Every ear strained with his first deliberate utterance. He was looking straight at Philip Barry. At last, he spoke:
"Owing to the presence in this sacred mission of an excommunicated priest, the service is at an end, the congregation is dismissed. Let it go out at once, with downcast eyes and prayers upon the lips of all true Catholics." He walked to the altar and extinguished the last candle, scarcely turning as he drifted from sight of the awe-stricken crowd. The dazed man, singled out for disgrace, stooped to the floor for his hat, rose again to his full imperious height, smiling piteously at Isabel—then he fell backward, caught in the arms of his friend.
Philip and Isabel were now at home. But the wife had not been able to turn her husband's mind from his late public humiliation. She was frightened, miserable. Would Philip always be as now—crushed, silent with the one he loved best? She buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks burned, while her eyes remained dry. She dared not weep, dared not break down before the changed, listless man whom she would save at any cost to her own anguish. As first days of home-coming dragged away she began to see that she had been presumptuous. After all, her marriage was not to be a happy one. She knew that Philip adored her even more than before the fatal afternoon at the mission, when he had fallen unconscious at her side; yet something obstinate and heart-rending had come between them. Tragic doubt seemed to be freezing her husband's tenderness. With passionate dread of misjudging him she withheld from day to day the question she could not ask. She felt that above all she must wait until the shock of his cruel punishment had ceased to be vivid. During sleepless nights, when she knew for the first time the price of a Catholic priest's apostasy, there came also the realization of personal, unjust punishment. Nor did she acknowledge wrong for either Philip or herself; they had done no wrong. They were created for each other, and their only mistake had been the last imprudent visit to a forbidden place. She grieved over her own ignorance which had permitted Philip to incur the risk which had turned against him. She was bitter, and because of a defensive attitude she could not understand her husband's crushed condition. The joy of those first two weeks at St. Barnabas had departed. Isabel knew that she was a constant reproach to the stricken man, utterly changed and gently silent. Through days when she tried to distract his mind from a forbidden subject, driving him, herself, about the country growing more lovely with each hour of spring, she felt the mutual strain to be almost intolerable. Lurid newspaper accounts of Philip's disgrace had helped to convert their once happy drives into perfunctory, humble attempts to escape notice. Now they went alone in a runabout, avoiding every evidence of ostentation. Country roads lured them from town and led them on to unfrequented foothill slopes, where blue buckthorn adorned sweet-smelling upland acres. Below the purple range deepened with March shadows, swept by fickle sunlight playing over crags and into canyons, the couple passed long intervals when neither one of them spoke. Heart-breaking reticence tied their tongues. Each guessed the thoughts of the other.
All about was the bewildering call of fresh life, yet they could not respond to Nature's glad outburst. Deciduous orchards, flushing buds, early almond blossoms pure as snow, wild flowers, buckthorn, edging miles of stony wash with tender blue, seemed only to evoke prolonged silence. The beauty of everything hurt them, for they were both unhappy and afraid to speak plainly. Then at night, when each lay wide awake, blessing darkness which at last hid their faces, relaxing after false smiles and feigned composure, everything had to be thought out once more. What would come of it all? Philip Barry's wife dared not press the question. She was young and she could not give up easily her dream of love. A passionate undercurrent of hope still helped her to endure the tense situation. Trivialities of everyday life assisted her in deceiving her household. She was gentle with her boy and thoughtful for old madame. Servants saw no change in their mistress. A battle had begun, and, believing in the odds of destiny, Isabel marshalled reserve force and smiled before her little world. But at heart she was frightened. Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air—out of the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow, giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the assurance of Philip's beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one had been kind—very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited—waited! And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days passed she found it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St. Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.
Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance. To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive Philip over the country time must appear to pass naturally, while in temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already what is known in California as a "weather breeder" seemed to overcharge the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming above the mountains; next day the sun refused to shine, and by night it rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had loved rain as well as sunshine, but now she listened to the incessant downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come. She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect. He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor might have broken a blood vessel of his brain—a vessel so tiny that consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment. Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French, or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.
Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into dashing streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry, volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into alarming fury.
"Are you awake?" asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not sleeping.
"Yes," he confessed. "Shall I get up and look after the windows?"
She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She assured him that every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two lay still, listening to the tempest.
"Isn't it frightful?" Isabel said timidly.
"I like it," her husband answered.
The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous crashing thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror, forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she had thought. He was ill—very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she would speak!
"Tell me! oh tell me!" she implored. "I cannot bear it—I shall die if you do not tell me." The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength. "You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave up—left your Church?" Everything was bursting from her like the tempest. "I could let you go," she sobbed, "but I cannot believe that we have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your God never meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you suffer—never let you forget. And—and you could not forget that I am your wife—that you love me?"
She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her—deny what she said? "You do love me?" she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. "We love each other as God meant we should. We will blot out the past, live! You shall be another man." She was pleading her own case with Philip's. Her tears had ceased to fall. "We will do good jointly, do something to better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma." She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity. Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. "Life is beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your book comes out——"
Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip. What if—she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one utterly despairing.
"Never speak of the book again," he implored. He sank on the pillow, and she waited for him to go on. "I should have told you—forgive me," he said at last. "The manuscript has come back."
Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her husband's alarming condition. "No! no!" she sobbed. "You cannot mean it,—there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot fail!"
"But it has failed," he answered with momentary strength. "They do not care to publish it; it stands dishonored like—the man who wrote it."
She blanched at his words. "Come back! Your manuscript returned?" she faltered. "You cannot mean it; where is the letter? I must see it."
He smiled piteously, pointing to a closed desk at the other side of the room, where she found the pasteboard box loosely held in brown paper. The name of a prominent publishing house was stamped outside the wrapper and inside was the letter.
She read, re-read, with burning cheeks—a polite, commercial decision; then she ran to Philip. Her eyes were blazing with champion light; her courage had returned. Great love for the stricken man gone down before a flood of disappointment enveloped her being. The force of her wonderful nature rose up for fresh battle.
"Darling!" she pleaded, "you are too ill to understand." She caught his hand as she crept close to his side. "They like your book,—know that it is fine; but they are afraid of the cost of publishing it. The pictures have frightened them and they are too commercial to take the risk of a sumptuous volume. One refusal is nothing! Our new friend will know the value of your work, and the manuscript must go to him at once." The positive current of her magnetic will, the plausibility of her conviction, above all, her tenderness, seemed a divine anodyne for Philip's sinking soul. Yet he dared not hope. The shaft of disgrace had been sunk too straight. He was too ill to resist remorse; too weak to deny the penalty for broken vows; too hopeless to defy authority which had thrust him down and trodden upon his self-respect. On the verge of fatal prostration, no sins were blacker than his own. Darkest of all appeared a selfish love forced upon innocent Isabel. Dishonored man that he was, she must share his shame. He closed his weary eyes.
His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,—to call a nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.
"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well. I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.
He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled, sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed independently.
What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed eyes—yet wide awake—she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who should—who must—help her.
Then suddenly Philip spoke.
"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."
"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest—just here—I will soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.
A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops, piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist. Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm, had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes, and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.
Wing turned in evident dismay. "Why you up so early?" he asked with the childlike freedom of the Oriental. "Those girls heap lazy! not come down yet—house all dark." He spread his slender brown hands in feigned disgust. "I gless you not know that big tree fall over las night? Most hit my klitchen. You come see." He threw open the screen, pointing beyond. Isabel saw a Monterey pine low and done for by the storm. Heavy, drenched branches, crushed and aromatic, rose from the ground to the top of a nearby porch, which had just escaped them. Years of growth and vigor were down with a blast from the surcharged sky. She seemed to feel the human significance of the fallen pine.
"Poor thing!" she exclaimed, peering into upturned limbs of the vanquished tree. "Poor thing!"
Wing beamed. His white teeth flashed credulous interest. "You think that tree get hurt—all same me?" he demanded. Isabel saw that she was planting fresh superstition on celestial soil.
"I am not quite sure," she answered. "Still, a great tree could hardly tear away from earth without feeling it. It must have suffered," she maintained. Unconsciously she was thinking of her husband. That Philip had been uprooted, cast down like the pine filled her with dread as she went quickly from the kitchen. But the storm, which left the house in total darkness during the night had also interfered with telephone service. After vain attempts to communicate with the central office, she dashed off a note to a well-known nerve specialist. She begged him to come at once, explaining that her husband was too ill to leave his bed. From the terrace she watched the gardener depart with her note. She felt at last like one who stakes all on a final venture. Would the doctor come soon? Would Philip resent the visit? Above all, how should she break the news to the invalid, who begged to be left alone? "Don't call a doctor," he had pleaded; and again she wondered if she had been wise in a grave emergency. The house was now astir. Belated maids were at work. Soon shrill exclamations arose from the wet garden. Madame had discovered the fallen pine, to fly below with the boy. Reginald was proudly equipped with rubber boots. His red coat flashed as he outran his excited companion. Isabel translated the French woman's lament for the lost tree; then the boy cried out in distress. His mother reached his side to find him in tears, holding a dead oriole. The once gay, golden little creature lay limp in the child's hand.
"Poor birdy! See, he's all, all broken!" he bemoaned. "Can't you mend him, mother dear? Can't you make him stand up?"
"He has been hurt by the storm," Isabel explained, stroking the feathers of the little victim. "Perhaps he lived in the pine tree. We may find his nest."
Reginald began to search along the path, while Isabel found a sharpened stick. When she came to a clump of ferns she bent and quickly dug a tiny bed in the wet earth. Her son, running back, saw that the oriole was gone.
"There wasn't any nest!" he shouted, gazing incredulously at his mother's empty hand, "And I suppose the poor birdy's all mended. Why didn't you wait? I wanted—I wanted to see him fly away." Fresh tears betokened the boy's disappointment. Isabel felt justified in the deception, as she led the child indoors. He would understand soon enough.
Wing had just brought back a dainty tray, with everything on it declined by the master. The good fellow was greatly distressed. "Boss not eat—he die! Sure!" he muttered.
Isabel went above. She felt again that she had done right in calling a physician, and strove for courage to announce the approaching visit. When she entered her husband's room he seemed to be dozing. She did not rouse him. Perhaps, after all, sleep would prove to be Philip's best medicine, and something whispered that her apparent anxiety was not good for the broken man she loved. She went out, acknowledging a mistake. When Philip awoke she would tell him about the doctor, with incidental lightness. Then sooner than she expected she heard an automobile and knew that her note had been timely. The specialist was at hand—in the hall below. She could not prepare Philip for an unwelcome call. But she was eager to unburden her heart, willing to rest her fear with one who ought to assume it. And at once she told of her husband's early education, of the first success of his priesthood, of his ambition for a great Middle West cathedral, of the bishop's unjust course, of Philip's natural struggle, followed with excommunication from the Church; then all too soon—before he could readjust his life—of the public humiliation in the old mission. She kept nothing back but her own hard part as the wife of an apostate priest. The dread that she had been the sole cause of a brilliant man's undoing she bravely acknowledged. Philip could not forget, could not supplement his relinquished work with domestic happiness.
"Yet he adores me," she confessed. "It is not just that he should suffer—as he does. His heart is breaking. He feels it a sin to love me—to go on with happiness."
"And you?" said Dr. Judkin.
She tried to smile. "Women can bear more than men." Her voice broke.
The man by her side felt her charm, knew that she was valiant in love. Still he saw disappointment in her tense resistance. "I am afraid that you, too, will soon need attention," he abruptly told her. "Sometimes a wife spoils her husband without realizing it. Men who think a great deal about themselves are not considerate."
She was offended and replied coldly, "You do not know him. It is unjust to judge of a patient before you have seen him."
"I stand reproved," the doctor admitted.
Isabel forgave him. His very bluntness brought her hope. Suddenly she felt faith in the man whom she had summoned. She believed that he was masterful, and she must turn to some one.
"Please come," she invited, "you shall see my husband."
Dr. Judkin stood aside for her to pass, and she went above, choosing words which should explain his early call. Then at the top of the staircase she stopped.
"Be good enough to wait," she begged. "I must prepare him—go in first." Then she flew forward, for the smell of burning paper had caught her nostrils. The door to Philip's apartment was fastened. She had been locked out! She rushed to a balcony running before the windows of her husband's room. In an instant she stood within. And she had not come a moment too soon. A fresh tragedy faced her. She hardly breathed. Philip, on his knees in front of the fireplace, did not hear her enter. The ecstasy of delirium possessed him. His whole body trembled as he showered an igniting pile with his rejected manuscript. "The Spirit of the Cathedral" was smoking. Isabel saw rising flame desert a blackened sketch of a famous duomo but to lick a painting of great St. Peter's. Once more dominant Romish power appeared to threaten. The curse of the Church seemed about to blaze anew for Philip.
Her heart thumped as she flew to his side. "How can you?" she pleaded. "You have forgotten your friend—who trusted you. You must not spoil his beautiful pictures." Her hand reached out and coolly rescued scorching sheets of the unpublished book. "But you did not mean to hurt an artist's work," she gently added. She held a ruined sketch before the sick man's staring eyes. "You did not remember. You did not mean to be unfair to your friend." The tenderness of her frightened, loving soul broke over the shattered man, as she led him away to bed. He went like an obedient child; then she unlocked the door and summoned the doctor.
Two trained nurses had been installed. Isabel no longer held her place at Philip's bedside. She was virtually banished from her husband's room. The courage which she had evinced during previous weeks seemed to be going fast. Now she hardly dared to hope. A silent house already took on the atmosphere of disaster. Even Reginald was not permitted to shout in the garden. And withal spring was at hand, seemingly to brighten the whole world, outside of Philip's closed apartments. The sap of fresh life ran in the veins of every living thing in the valley, on the foothills, above in the mountains. The season had advanced without a check, while throughout the Southwest blooming fruit trees and millions of roses prepared the land for Easter.
To Isabel sensuous beauty on every side seemed cruel. Her heart felt desolate. She went through each day wishing for night, while with darkness she longed for sunlight. Suspense was beginning to drain her vitality. She did not complain, but the doctor saw her brace herself against each discouraging outcome of days that dragged. For Philip's last collapse had turned her from his side. She was barely a memory to the man she loved. At first she had rebelled, then accepted conditions enjoined by Dr. Judkin and consulting specialists. Only one thing helped her to endure the strain of a cruel separation.
Philip's book—now speaking to her heart as she knew it would speak—brought strange, proud comfort. She felt exalted that she—his wife—had saved the manuscript from the flames. During a week she fairly lived in the scorched pages of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." And gradually she began to see why the work had been refused. Personal feeling and blind enthusiasm were at last tempered. She could read with a cool intellect. The Laodicean attitude of a shrewd publisher hurt her less than at first. For the fact still remained that Philip had produced something fine. Although he occasionally dropped his impassioned theme to give vent to slight discord, nothing had really been lost from his original motif. Reading between the lines, Isabel detected the natural temptation under which he had worked. Certain paragraphs, all unaided by a magnetic voice and delivery, read too much like his former sermons. Sometimes overcharged, almost vindictive handling of Romish background was evident. In those first weeks in Paris, after he had deserted the priesthood and been cast out of the Church, he had written without restraint. He had said things best left unsaid. Yet, as Isabel read on, she marvelled at Philip's virile touch, at the masterful, dramatic power of his pen. His word pictures drawn from vivid, exceptional opportunity required no literal illustration. Still she studied the sketches of the associate artist, finally selecting one fourth of the cathedrals submitted. Then she read over again the stronger chapters of the singed manuscript. It was late into night before she weighed the possible chances of her husband's book. He had labored so intelligently that her hand seemed to be guided by his own as she omitted paragraphs which undoubtedly influenced the publishers to refuse a somewhat prejudiced work.
Isabel felt free to decide for Philip. His extremity excused her arbitrary action. She was sure that in his normal condition he would agree to all that she had done. When scorched pages had been replaced by fresh ones she would send the revised manuscript to the publisher she had met at St. Barnabas, the one who had witnessed the withstayed tragedy in the mission. She believed that her new friend could appreciate the significance of a book written by one who not only criticised expertly, but knew as well the human side of a great cathedral. Her thoughts went back to a time when Philip—a priest—had outlined plans for the noble church he hoped to build. Then nothing seemed too big for his young city. Isabel smiled, and began to read once more.
Suddenly tears came to her eyes. She put aside the manuscript. After all, what right had she to tamper with her husband's work? From Philip's higher standpoint, painted or stone saints and angels, looking down from Gothic heights, meant nothing to her, outside of their mere artistic value. She saw with fresh dread that Philip was still a Catholic. Early education and his lost mother's devout influence kept him apart from natural happiness. He should have remained a priest, a power in his Church. She remembered how once she had stood with him in St. Peter's—in front of the "Pieta." He had then almost forgotten her presence. The wrapt significance of his expression ought to have warned her. She felt once more that she would never be able to share her husband's feeling for an old master's sacred ideal. And later, when the two were passing the noted bronze of St. Peter, she recalled that she had failed to hide her repulsion for the throng straining to kiss the statue's jutting, shining toe. Philip divined her thoughts and flushed. "It comforts them," he had whispered. "Over here the poor have so little in their lives. What seems absurd to you is for them salvation."
To-night Isabel remembered everything now bearing on her husband's tragic state. Her heart grew heavy with fear, with vague foreboding.
Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes; then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.
"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his burned-down condition. We shall save him."
She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help—do some little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a glass of water."
Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."
Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already done what few women can do—submitted magnificently to a passive part. And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power. I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past events."
"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy. Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me—so patient with my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my friend."
The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure. Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a pattern in the rug.
"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of—of—tempting association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck of a quiet ship."
"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked. "I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire at once?"
Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear. "But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery doubtful."
His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.
"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel that we are about to conquer. Tahiti—the isle of rest—will restore him wholly."
Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her agitation. The doctor went on:
"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later, when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out the stars—the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different person."
An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.
"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at noon,—on the seventeenth."
He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance. Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her gently sobbing.
"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised. You shall have your husband back—well! He will put all behind him! forget everything but his wife."
She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes. Then she began to speak with fresh determination.
"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a sign,—unless—he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that another woman should have my place—my absolute right to be near him. He is my husband! I cannot bear it."
Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given satisfaction was an enemy—a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife. Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.
"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done for your husband's comfort."
Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided. She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been very weak—very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything that you think best,—make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I am going to be good,—good like Reg."
"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind—you are not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle, cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's country—in springtime."
To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."
But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's, tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.
Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to come.
And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters. Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone, was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's unrestrained shouts echoed at will.
"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon? Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.
"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured "Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy to disregard hitherto accepted authority.
"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door closed.
Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise. Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing. And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage, and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.
As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's sleeping child—the one lying across the Madonna's lap—in the Academy at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room. Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript; almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work, yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all, she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would ride to-morrow—throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit—stay until after Philip's boat had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.
Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs. Barry's more spirited animal.
"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure. Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions of flowers—roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape. All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The spell of spring was upon them both.
"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.
"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.
Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life." She laughed and dashed onward.
"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are happy. I cannot wait,—do tell me."
The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking, over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?" she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow, a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on! Come on!" she called.
They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two hungry women.
Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over the wire—her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl—to-night—join me to-morrow—at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly, attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again caught the receiver.
"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient—he cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the attendant answered.
"He must come—at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why, after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once? There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and repeated her previous statement.
"I'm going North to-night—on the Owl—to Philip. He wants me. He has just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow—at the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she implored. "You surely understand?"
"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total destruction of San Francisco.
Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North, she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request, asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr. Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr. Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets, with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for reliable information. But one thing is certain—Dr. Ward is going to take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial law and prevailing conditions."
"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I would have been there—when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he seemed to see that she had suffered enough.
"I will go myself—find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll try my best to make you happy—as I promised to do," he humbly added. There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.
The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual, thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city, still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher, undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household. Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone encouraged him to speak.
"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business—he so poor. What you think? Plaps I take him lectic car—go that Venice—all same dleam." Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.
Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."
Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go—take my poor cousin—so he not be sad."
"An excellent plan," said Isabel.
He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now my cousin begin all over—not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."
Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed in a wrecked hotel?
Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good." A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell me,—all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody wake up—hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag! Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall down. People no can stand up—no can see, all dark! Big noise come out sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House—no good. Everybody lun that bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside he heart; cannot forget."
"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr. Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also for book form." Philip's friend—the editor—had signed the golden message.