When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
seemed formed for luxury, and in accordance with their expression he had
surrounded himself with both comfort and chaste beauty. In the large,
low, old-fashioned room in which he sat there was no false note.
Pictures, oriental rugs, richly carved chairs--all represented taste and
expenditure, somewhat prejudicial to a priest's standing with his
bishop. That the greater part of everything in the little house had
arrived as a gift from some admiring parishioner but added to the aged
superior's disapproval of esthetic influence. To-day Father Barry warmed
his hands without the usual sense of comfortable home-coming. Pat Murphy
observed that for once his master showed no interest in a row of flower
boxes piled on the table.
"Will you not be undoing your birthday presents?" the Irishman ventured.
The priest turned his back to the fire. "I must get warm. I am frozen to
the bone," yet he moved forward. One box held his eye like a magnet. He
knew instinctively that Isabel Doan had remembered his anniversary.
Unmindful of all other offerings, he broke the string and sank his face
into a bed of ascension lilies. He seemed to inhale a message. His eyes
felt wet. Pat Murphy brought him back to earth. The acolyte stood at his
elbow. "May I not bring water for the posies?" he humbly begged. Father
Barry frowned. "Untie the other flowers; I will attend to these myself."
He surveyed the room, at last, reaching for an ample jar of dull-green
pottery. The effect was marvelous. Like the woman who had sent them, the
lilies stood out with rare significance. The priest glanced again into
the empty box, searching for the friendly note which never failed to
come on his birthday. As he supposed, the envelope had slipped beneath a
bed of green. He broke the seal, then read:
"My dear Father Barry: How shall you like the settled-down age
of thirty-two? Are we not both growing old and happy? I am
thinking constantly of your splendid work, and have sent with
the lilies a little check for the new cathedral. I pray that
you will permit a poor heretic to share in your love for art.
Do as you think best with the money--yet if some personal wish
of yours might stand as mine--a beautiful window perhaps?--I
should feel the joy of our joint endeavor.
"But remember, the check is yours to burn in a furnace or to
pay out for stone. You will know best what to do, and in any
case, the poor heretic may still hope for a bit of indulgence
from St. Peter. Meantime, I am coming to hear you preach. When
I tell you that I fear to have a young Catholic on my hands,
you will not be surprised that Reginald teases each week to go
to Father Barry's pretty church. He admires your vestments with
all his ardent little soul. Unfortunately at present my dear
boy has a miserable cold and a bad throat. I am thinking of
taking him to Southern California for the winter. Before our
departure I shall hope to see you.
"With kindest wishes for a happy birthday, I am always your
friend.
"ISABEL CHESTER DOAN."
The note was dated two days back, and the enclosed check stood for three
thousand dollars. Father Barry bowed his head. Again his eyes were wet.
When Pat importuned him to come to luncheon, he sat down with
unconquerable emotion. He could not endure the ordeal, so pushed away
his plate.
"If ye don't be tasting mate, ye'll be fainting," Pat insisted. The
priest smiled miserably. "Don't worry--I'm only tired. Besides, I'm
going to my mother; she will see that I need coddling. Pack my case; I
wish to start at once."
The acolyte scanned the pile of boxes.
"The pink carnations I shall give to mother; the other flowers you may
carry to the hospital. Go as soon as possible," the master commanded.
"Tell Sister Simplice to see that each patient has a posey. The fruit I
send to old Mrs. Sharp. Explain that her confessor orders white grapes
in place of a penance."
"And the lily flowers--do I be taking them to the hospital, too?"
"No," the priest answered. "In no case meddle with the lilies." He moved
the jar to a position of honor on top of his desk. "These will remain
fresh until I return. Do not touch them or let them freeze." He leaned
forward with caressing impulse; then his eyes fell hard and sober on
parchment rolls and detail drawings. Cherished plans for his cathedral,
plans now useless, lay piled before him. He closed his secretary.
"If any one calls--say that I am from home--on business. I must not be
pursued."
Murphy grinned. "I'm on to the thrick! And it's not a day for resaving
visitors." A prolonged gust made his words plausible. Father Barry tried
to smile.
"You are a good fellow, Pat. Should I never come back--confess to Father
Corrigan." The priest's mood was difficult. As the Irishman watched his
adored master charge into the blizzard he frowned perplexedly. "He do
run like Lot afeared of Soddom," he exclaimed. "But it's sick he
is--nadin rist at his mother's. Warkin' day and night on his cathedral
has all but laid him low." Pat poked the fire. "Mike, up at the
bishop's, do be sayin' nasty things. And sure, 'tis nothin' but
foolishness, surmisin' how the old bishop do be atin' out his heart on
account of a young praste's handsome face and takin' ways. Mike be
cursed for a Jesute, startin' scandal from a kayhole!" He picked up the
coal hod. "I must kape his lily posies as he bid me." He pressed close
to a frosted window. Through a clear spot in the glass he could see his
master breasting the storm. "He's all but off his feet," he muttered.
Murphy was Father Barry's own delightful discovery. Months back the
priest had engaged the raw Irish boy for household service, then later
promoted him to a post of honor about the altar. To faithful Pat there
was little more to ask for outside of heaven. Reports which he sent home
to Ireland were set down on paper by Mike, who served in the upper
household. Pat's scribe published his friend's felicity broadcast, until
at length even the bishop was fully informed of a popular young priest's
affairs. Without thought of injury to one whom he adored, Pat extolled
the plans for the great cathedral, which possibly might eclipse St.
Peter's at Rome. Again and again the boy dwelt on Father Barry's
popularity. To-day as the acolyte looked through the frost-glazed
window, scratching wider range with his thumb nail, he had no doubt of
his master's chance to become a prelate. Soon the "old one" would pass
beyond. He crossed himself devoutly, peering hard at the tall,
retreating form, now almost within reach of the corner. An electric line
but half a block away was Father Barry's goal. As Pat looked, a gust
sent the pedestrian onward with a plunge. As usual, the master carried
his own suit case. Murphy muttered disapproval. At the crossing the
priest stopped to regain his breath. His sole wish was to catch a car.
Owing to the blizzard, traffic might suspend; but in the wind-charged
air he thankfully detected a distant hum. The trolleys yet ran. How
fortunate! And now very soon he would be with his mother--practically
lost to a storm-bound community. How sweet the shelter waiting. Soon he
might unburden his heart--pour out his trouble before the only woman in
the world who would really understand it. Then again he remembered
Isabel Doan--her check, the letter hiding against his breast. After all,
should he not restore the generous gift at once? Now that the original
cathedral could not be built, was it not a matter of personal honor to
explain? Altered conditions cancelled both his own and his friend's
obligation. Mrs. Doan must take back her check. That the bishop was
powerless to claim the donation filled the priest with vindictive joy.
Gradually duty to his mother ceased to govern him. Beyond everything
else he wanted to see Isabel Doan. He told himself that he had a right
to do so. Honeyed sophistry provided motive for his desire. He stood, as
it were, at a point defined by opposing ways. Double tracks glistened
before him; one leading eight blocks distant to the lintel of his
mother's door; the other, stretching in the opposite direction, across
the city--almost to a certain stone mansion. The priest was not in a
mood of valiant resistance. Again he longed for Isabel Doan's sympathy.
Yet, as he tarried at the crossing, waiting, still undecided which line
to choose, he could not dismiss the thought of his mother, even now,
watching for her son. He could fancy the dear lady sitting by the
window, expectant, disappointed when no car stopped. Her sweet flushed
face; the adorable white hair parted and waved on each side of a
forehead gently lined by time made a picture which he could not easily
dismiss. This mother was his ideal of age. She seemed as rare, as
beautiful as an exquisite prayer-rug grown soft and precious with mellow
suns and golden years. Many times he had contrasted her with
overdressed, elderly women of his parish. He had never wished her to be
different in any respect.
He would go to her now. She would tell him what to do; and after dinner,
when the dear lady was thinking of early bedtime, he might slip away
with Isabel Doan's check. He must return it in person. He shifted from
one foot to the other and beat his arms across his breast. The charge of
the blizzard was paralyzing. Down the way a car was coming--a red one,
he was sure of it--glad of it. His mother would be waiting for him. For
the time he forgot a parallel track and that other destination directly
west. Suddenly like songs of sirens, he heard the buzz of opposing
trolleys. Two cars would meet before his eyes! But the red one still
led. Yet how strange: it had just stopped. The yellow opponent came on.
The priest breathed hard. Fate seemed to be thrashing his will with the
storm. Again the red car moved and the yellow one halted. Chance was
playing a game. He leaned expectant from the curb. Something had gone
wrong, for once more the red line had lost the trolley, then an instant
later a yellow car stood on the crossing. Father Barry sprang over the
tracks, veered around to an open side, jumped aboard.