Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the
season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant.
Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that
the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each
morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew
to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple
mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment
created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different.
But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat
on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to
leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back,
whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing
his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter
prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of
gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all
unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his
word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due
consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same
time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose
husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons
were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and
Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon;
frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat
apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on
the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at
St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous
mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage
and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of
walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a
panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more
lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the
upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came
a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different
direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale
of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard
the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old
fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline,
and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple
strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate
reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a
perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts
went out--against his will--to the cathedral he had longed to
perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious
mother's milk, rose unbidden;--a challenge to his love for Isabel. His
wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened
as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more.
Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile,
no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own
keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an
esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be
proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St.
Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not
asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to
enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so
would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was
already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had
been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power;
now the man--her husband--held her with the same irresistible
fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and
manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him
the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt
willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded
attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded
over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.
But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay
canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then
suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of
the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he
should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to
enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he
was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the
locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be
changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic
standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither
embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with
thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money.
The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a
priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here
the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the
sun.
"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.
The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered
pleasantly.
The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors,
crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it
back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing
order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did
not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural
temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude
opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in
charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about
the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of
the oaken door.
He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his
fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the
swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She
regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at
the same time she tried--as she always tried--to repay a debt with
simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her
with favor.
As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to
examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the
conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the
church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder
that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been
treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San
Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's
religion."
The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must
become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of
the good fathers," he suggested.
"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished
with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to
strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading
above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded
the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to
mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the
sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she
refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic
steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day
I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went
behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both
were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain.
Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the
first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that
Adam still had Eve.