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.