Isabel awoke, fully conscious of the day just dawning. From her bed in
the half-open sleeping porch she peered into a roseate east. With her
whole heart she went out to meet the sun, slowly lifting from a rampart
of dark mountains. This was Isabel's wedding day. At high noon she was
to be married to Philip Barry. She rested on her elbow, waiting for the
transcendent moment. She was a "sun worshiper" for the time, and not a
cloud subdued the oncoming spectacle. As Isabel watched, the sable range
took on softest blue, while snow-crowned peaks rose dazzling in the
distance. Over the world the sun poured light. And this was her wedding
day. It was still too early for a bath, too soon to begin her simple
bridal toilet, and she fell back on the pillow. The white broadcloth
gown and coat with feather-trimmed hat were ready, and the night before
Philip had brought a bouquet of dewy-eyed forget-me-nots. She had chosen
the flowers in preference to all others. There was very little to do, no
more than for an afternoon call. She smiled over enjoined simplicity,
glad that neither bridesmaids nor guests should claim thoughts which
might all belong to Philip. During the past two months in which she had
spent a part of each day with her lover, she had grown confident; they
were both happy. Isabel no longer feared for the man beginning his
fresh career. For his book--at last finished--had been sent to an
Eastern publisher. Philip had not heard definitely, but there was reason
to believe that the house in question would be glad to bring out a
finely illustrated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a
cultured class of readers. Already Isabel felt elated over her lover's
beginning. The field of letters seemed more choice, more set apart,
since Philip had decided to compete for honors. In imagination she saw
her future husband's prolific volumes. How proudly she would dust the
dark green row marked "Barry." She remembered that the name was
preempted by a master Scotch novelist, and decided that "Philip Barry"
should appear in full on the backs of the new author's uniform edition.
She had read only parts of her lover's work, but it had been exciting to
handle a real manuscript, one which must go forth to win! Philip alone
understood the uncertain odds against disappointment. In a fight for
fresh life he felt no desire for anything but honest work. The book had
started upon a journey East a month before, and now each day Isabel
watched her lover's face for news of its unqualified acceptance. The
collection of exquisite cathedral views--actual paintings--done in Paris
and submitted by a noted artist, would doubtless enhance the value of
the work, yet it was, after all, Philip's part which timed the woman's
heart to feverish interest. And to-day was her wedding day. From now on
the book and its author were both hers. She stirred lightly in bed,
again looking through the open flaps of her canvas room. A wonderful
world was at last awake. Every bird evoked gladness, and Isabel too was
glad. Then suddenly the boy slipped from his cot to snuggle within her
arms. Enchantment of sleep lurked around his dewy eyes, and night had
brushed his rounded cheeks with cool, fresh bloom. He kissed his mother
again and again. "You've got most a bushel!" he cried. "Now I is going
to love you." He was speaking more plainly each day, gradually ceasing
to be a baby. "I like to stay with mother dear--in this nice bed," he
said, contentedly. His arms held tighter. The mother's heart felt chill;
she seemed to be turning the boy away. The child's words hurt her as she
had never dreamed they could. She began to speak of a pony about to
arrive, which she had purposely withheld against a trying time to come.
"To-day is the day for the pony!" she announced bravely. "Mother's boy
is to go out in his new cart with madame, is to drive like a man all
afternoon."
"But I want mother dear to come too," the child insisted.
"Mother dear will come another day; to-day she is obliged to go to
church, and then----" her voice failed. She had given her boy no idea of
the change actually at hand, had weakly depended on accident and his
love for Philip. How now could she make the little fellow understand?
She began again. "To-day mother must go to church, and----"
"Will Philip dear go too?" the boy asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Isabel, glad of an opening wedge.
"And will the little bell ring?"
Isabel despaired. Would Reginald never forget? The Catholic services
which he had once witnessed were yet vivid, and despite effort to
dissociate Barry with a priest's part, the child was not well pleased
with the conventional garb of his adored friend. Recently he had
innocently inquired for the "bu-ti-ful hat" formerly worn before the
altar. The boy's regret was so genuine that Philip felt his pale cheeks
deepen. The mother had tactfully explained that "Father Barry" of old no
longer preached in a church, and that now "Philip dear" had come to
stay. The little boy, without understanding, adopted the change, and
"Philip dear" had soon become both his playfellow and his teacher.
This morning Isabel tried in vain to pass over the hard part of a day
that after all could not be happy until she had settled an important
matter.
"Sweetheart," she implored, then flushed. "Precious boy, listen. Don't
ask any more questions and mother will tell you all about the pony."
Reginald placed his small hand over his mouth.
"I'm doing to keep stiller," he promised.
"Very well," said Isabel, pressing him to her heart. "The pony is sure
to come right after luncheon. Mother may be away, but madame and Carolyn
will both be here. Reggie must be very good and drive like a man all
afternoon in his cart. Perhaps when madame has gone for a ride Carolyn
will take her place and stop for little Elizabeth. Would not that be
fine?"
"Great!" said Reginald; then added, "I suppose she'll have to bring
every one of her dolls."
"Why not?"
"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then
Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."
"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.
"Because--because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer.
Isabel wept miserably in his curls.
"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until
he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her
arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married
to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the
astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear,
Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."
"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.
"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father--Reggie's dear father."
"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long
time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended
taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.
"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?"
The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.
"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may
I? May I? Mother darling--goody! goody! goody!"
"I think you may," she answered.
He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober.
Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he
demanded.
"No darling, not my father, only my husband."
He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby
lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he
asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her
husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation
personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see,
mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody!
goody!"