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.