Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's
shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged
brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill,
perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking
to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around
his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these
same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little
cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long
dead and forgotten.
As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might
the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with
tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his
mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to
ascend from the old garden--from the invalid brother leaning back on
pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly
her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back
refusal.
"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget
that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I
could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below
us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away
with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the
cloister."
He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his
countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible,
except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back
to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for
normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.
"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not
forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the
other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink
salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in
sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal
his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in
his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of
Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the
realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world"
cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes,
Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.
But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are
you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.
Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing
recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am
no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see
the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen.
Come, let us hasten."
Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother,
waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of
generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of
early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers
accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on,
with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when
his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated
by the brother in charge.
Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel
shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself
attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of
early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated
knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of
saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played
no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his
bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to
the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years
back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the
flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and
looked at Isabel. Did she know--understand? Her serene face expressed no
undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had
walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal
interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the
brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes
from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of
wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in
surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two
young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden.
The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother
accompanied him on the organ.
"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient
pew. "They are practicing--for service?" she asked.
The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own
rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a
youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of
dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic
colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new
wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her;
and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions.
Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.
"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we
may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now
prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the
brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too
responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned
once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes.
After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission
always open to a curious public.