Mrs. Grace had not accompanied the departing guests to the door. As the
machine sped away Isabel realized her aunt's displeasure and braced
against a scene. The time for plain words had arrived. She went slowly
into the living-room, building up as best she could a line of defense
for certain attack. By the glow of a wood fire, wreathing flame up the
wide chimney, she saw her aunt's face; it was pale and tense with
suspicion. Hate for the man, once her idolized confessor, had
transformed the carefully preserved woman into one far from attractive.
She seemed to gather vituperative force beyond her strength, for
suddenly she stopped pacing the room to sink to a chair. Isabel turned,
frightened.
"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia, what is the matter?" She spoke, running
forward.
Mrs. Grace motioned her away. "Don't pretend!" she cried. "I have seen
from the very beginning--known exactly what you were both doing." Isabel
said nothing. It was the older woman's opportunity. "Not building the
cathedral was only an excuse for all that is still to come. You have
ruined a man who otherwise must have been a saint!" She buried her face
in her hands, which suddenly became gray and drawn beneath their weight
of glistening gems. In anger, Mrs. Grace looked old.
"What kind of a life do you expect to lead with a traitor to both his
faith and his honor? Do you suppose for a moment that he will forget!
throw away his soul without longing to repent? I wish you joy of your
conquest, Isabel Doan; and remember, I am telling you the truth, even
though you have turned me from your house after all my devotion." Mrs.
Grace sobbed hysterically. Isabel was at first stunned by her aunt's
evil predictions; then she tried to speak. "You needn't excuse him!" the
angry woman forbade. "I have heard your loose arguments before now.
Don't tell me that it is better to break a sacred vow than to keep it
with rebellion! I will not listen to you." She crossed herself against
possible harm. "Read all the pagan books you can find; but don't forget
my words. I must leave you as soon as possible, for, of course, after my
treatment this afternoon I cannot intrude."
"Aunt Julia!" Isabel sank at her feet. "Please let us part friends," she
pleaded. "You have been very good to me; if only you could
understand--let me tell you things which you do not know----"
Mrs. Grace sprang up.
"And you intend to really marry that man!" Isabel flamed scarlet. "You
actually expect to go through with the farce of a religious service?
Well, you had better remember that marriage vows are more easily broken
than any others. Don't be a fool--a prude about mere form--if you care
to keep a lover; for mark my words, the man who has been untrue to his
Church will find it much easier to forget a wife." Vindictive zeal gave
Mrs. Grace hard fluency. And the insult which Isabel had not expected
made her own part clear. She rose from the floor straight and firm.
"I feel that it is not too late for you to leave me this evening; if you
think differently, I can take Reginald and Maggie into Los Angeles while
you find another home. After what you have said it is impossible for us
to sleep beneath the same roof."
Her wounded womanhood stood out superbly. She walked from the room.
Above, with her door locked against every one, she burst into tears.
With burning face in the pillow she wept out her heart. In all her life
she had never felt so hurt and miserable. Would the world regard her
marriage to Philip Barry in the same wretched light as her aunt? Then
perhaps the Catholic woman was right; after all she--a heretic--might
not be able to hold the man who was now willing to give up everything
for love. And she had induced him to take the fatal step. Perhaps she
did not understand the force of Catholic vows.
She sat up, gazing through the window at the full top of a eucalyptus
tree, dark, and wonderfully etched against lingering gold of sunset. Why
should she be miserable in a world as lovely as the one about her? She
longed for the happiness which belonged to her youth and station. Again
she recalled every word which she had said to Philip Barry at the side
of his mother's casket. To her straightforward nature she had advised
him wisely. With reason unbiased by dogmatic training; with her soul,
honest as a child's, she felt no shame for what she had done. And it
was now too late to hesitate. She had sent the message and she must hold
to it with her life, her womanhood. She bathed her eyes, still going
over the main facts of her lover's disgrace in the Catholic world. She
came back always to the main point; he only committed a mistake when he
had gone into the priesthood without realizing the price. He had tried
in vain to live a life of self-denial, of enforced conformity, whereas
both attempts were totally unsuited to his temperament and mentality. He
had made a false step in the wrong direction; why, then, should he go
on? It were better to stop than to stumble and fall. When a lawyer
failed in the profession none thought worse of him when he succeeded
with literature. And the doctor, unable to grasp physical ills of casual
patients, carried no stain on his honor if he discovered some other
calling. It could not be right to denounce a physician in charge of
souls because he would not go on with a spiritual travesty. Philip's
disappointment in regard to the cathedral, his unjust treatment by his
bishop, his thwarted ambition,--these things she put to one side in a
final summing up. All seemed secondary to the confession of the man who
had stood by the side of his dead Catholic mother. He had said that he
could no longer continue his priesthood, because he had ceased to be
false with himself. That to Isabel made sufficient reason for all that
had happened--for all to follow. She covered the case by direct
standards of her own truthful nature. This evening, looking into the
golden sunset, she could find no justifiable bar to marriage with
Philip Barry.
When Maggie tapped on the door she opened it calmly. The girl was
vaguely conscious of sudden disturbance. "Come in," said Mrs. Doan.
"Mrs. Grace is leaving this evening," she explained. "If possible, you
must help with her packing. I shall not be down to dinner. I am tired
and will lie down outside with Reginald; you need not disturb me. Should
I need you I can ring." Isabel had partly undressed.
"You won't have anything to eat?" the nursemaid questioned.
"Nothing now, perhaps later." Mrs. Doan hastened to put on a padded
robe. Her hair fell about her shoulders.
She separated the shining mass, weaving it into braids, as she went,
almost running, to her sleeping son. An upper balcony, partially
protected by canvas, made his cozy nest. At the south and east there was
nothing to shut out the stars, while at dawn peaks beyond the northern
range rose dark and sharp through zones of burning rose. Isabel cast
herself upon her own bed. Delicious air cooled her burning cheeks and
she could hear the gentle, regular breathing of her boy. She had no
thought of sleep. Her only wish was to escape to a place cut off from
her aunt's temporary territory. Now she would wait. Her heart was kind,
and in retreat she began to feel sorry for the woman with whom she had
parted. Mrs. Grace was only half sister to Isabel's father, and far
back the little girl had wondered why her pretty aunty so often
quarreled with her family. Once she heard her father declare that
Julia's nose and hands seemed to guarantee a lady, but she had caught no
more. At the time she did not understand; since then she had grown older
and wiser. She sank upon the pillow gratefully. Below there was a stir
of running feet, a commotion at the telephone. Isabel tried to forget
her own inhospitable part. Once she half rose from bed, half believed
that she would face her hysterical aunt with overtures of peace. Then
she felt the foolishness of going through with everything again. Mrs.
Grace was impossible after what had taken place. Sounds about the house
continued. The angry woman proposed to take her own time for packing;
and it was nearly midnight before Isabel became sure that an unwelcome
guest had gone. Above with the boy, she watched the stars grow brighter,
listened to night calls of stirring birds, wondered about Philip Barry
at the other side of the world. Now at last she was alone in the house
with Reginald and the servants. She got up and went below, to find
Maggie crying in the hall. The girl hid a crimson face and Isabel knew
that Mrs. Grace had enlightened her in regard to a coming event. As one
Catholic to another, she had warned the nursemaid to protect her soul
from evil influence.
"You may go to bed," Mrs. Doan commanded. Maggie turned away, then came
back. Her voice failed and she pointed to the dining room, where a
little supper was daintily set out. She sobbed her way to the back of
the house, then above to her room. Isabel was alone. She had hardly
dreamed of freedom, yet now it was here. The fire in the living-room
still burned; and like a child, she took a bowl of milk and bread and
sat down on a rug before glowing embers. In spite of all she felt happy.
She was hungry, too; and after she had eaten every mouthful she sat
on,--thinking of Philip.