The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Higher CourtThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Higher CourtAuthor: Mary Stewart DaggettRelease date: June 25, 2011 [eBook #36509]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehanand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHER COURT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Higher CourtAuthor: Mary Stewart DaggettRelease date: June 25, 2011 [eBook #36509]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehanand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)
Title: The Higher Court
Author: Mary Stewart Daggett
Author: Mary Stewart Daggett
Release date: June 25, 2011 [eBook #36509]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehanand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHER COURT ***
CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVICHAPTER XXVIICHAPTER XXXVIIICHAPTER XXIXCHAPTER XXXCHAPTER XXXICHAPTER XXXIICHAPTER XXXIIICHAPTER XXXIVCHAPTER XXXV
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.
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.
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."
"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.
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.
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."
"Andyoushould 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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.