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."
"And _you_ should 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.