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.