Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little
rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into dashing
streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo
Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming
charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry,
volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed
lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into
alarming fury.
"Are you awake?" asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not
sleeping.
"Yes," he confessed. "Shall I get up and look after the windows?"
She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She assured him that
every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two
lay still, listening to the tempest.
"Isn't it frightful?" Isabel said timidly.
"I like it," her husband answered.
The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no
tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a
rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous
crashing thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the
mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror,
forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw
the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she
had thought. He was ill--very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her
stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was
lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she
would speak!
"Tell me! oh tell me!" she implored. "I cannot bear it--I shall die if
you do not tell me." The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength.
"You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you
think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave
up--left your Church?" Everything was bursting from her like the
tempest. "I could let you go," she sobbed, "but I cannot believe that we
have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your God never
meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you
suffer--never let you forget. And--and you could not forget that I am
your wife--that you love me?"
She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her--deny what she said? "You
do love me?" she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. "We
love each other as God meant we should. We will blot out the past, live!
You shall be another man." She was pleading her own case with Philip's.
Her tears had ceased to fall. "We will do good jointly, do something to
better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma."
She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity.
Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a
yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. "Life is
beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your
book comes out----"
Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought
again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something
had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main
electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the
dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through
the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip.
What if--she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one
utterly despairing.
"Never speak of the book again," he implored. He sank on the pillow, and
she waited for him to go on. "I should have told you--forgive me," he
said at last. "The manuscript has come back."
Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her
husband's alarming condition. "No! no!" she sobbed. "You cannot mean
it,--there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot
fail!"
"But it has failed," he answered with momentary strength. "They do not
care to publish it; it stands dishonored like--the man who wrote it."
She blanched at his words. "Come back! Your manuscript returned?" she
faltered. "You cannot mean it; where is the letter? I must see it."
He smiled piteously, pointing to a closed desk at the other side of the
room, where she found the pasteboard box loosely held in brown paper.
The name of a prominent publishing house was stamped outside the wrapper
and inside was the letter.
She read, re-read, with burning cheeks--a polite, commercial decision;
then she ran to Philip. Her eyes were blazing with champion light; her
courage had returned. Great love for the stricken man gone down before a
flood of disappointment enveloped her being. The force of her wonderful
nature rose up for fresh battle.
"Darling!" she pleaded, "you are too ill to understand." She caught his
hand as she crept close to his side. "They like your book,--know that it
is fine; but they are afraid of the cost of publishing it. The pictures
have frightened them and they are too commercial to take the risk of a
sumptuous volume. One refusal is nothing! Our new friend will know the
value of your work, and the manuscript must go to him at once." The
positive current of her magnetic will, the plausibility of her
conviction, above all, her tenderness, seemed a divine anodyne for
Philip's sinking soul. Yet he dared not hope. The shaft of disgrace had
been sunk too straight. He was too ill to resist remorse; too weak to
deny the penalty for broken vows; too hopeless to defy authority which
had thrust him down and trodden upon his self-respect. On the verge of
fatal prostration, no sins were blacker than his own. Darkest of all
appeared a selfish love forced upon innocent Isabel. Dishonored man that
he was, she must share his shame. He closed his weary eyes.
His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,--to call a
nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.
"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He
protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not
stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well.
I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She
felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing
through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.
He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not
move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring
forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten
Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the
condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly
cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her
to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled,
sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own
childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical
standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed
independently.
What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That
Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken
thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a
vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed
eyes--yet wide awake--she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who
should--who must--help her.
Then suddenly Philip spoke.
"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."
"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest--just here--I will
soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes
were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.
CHAPTER XXIX
A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip
forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into
slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health
sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought
happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and
watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet
sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly
from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops,
piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by
the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry
claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of
falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call
in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible
outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those
ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to
revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but
to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and
peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with
unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his
compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her
husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist.
Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to
her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried
out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the
result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only
Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm,
had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her
faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes,
and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.
Wing turned in evident dismay. "Why you up so early?" he asked with the
childlike freedom of the Oriental. "Those girls heap lazy! not come down
yet--house all dark." He spread his slender brown hands in feigned
disgust. "I gless you not know that big tree fall over las night? Most
hit my klitchen. You come see." He threw open the screen, pointing
beyond. Isabel saw a Monterey pine low and done for by the storm. Heavy,
drenched branches, crushed and aromatic, rose from the ground to the top
of a nearby porch, which had just escaped them. Years of growth and
vigor were down with a blast from the surcharged sky. She seemed to feel
the human significance of the fallen pine.
"Poor thing!" she exclaimed, peering into upturned limbs of the
vanquished tree. "Poor thing!"
Wing beamed. His white teeth flashed credulous interest. "You think that
tree get hurt--all same me?" he demanded. Isabel saw that she was
planting fresh superstition on celestial soil.
"I am not quite sure," she answered. "Still, a great tree could hardly
tear away from earth without feeling it. It must have suffered," she
maintained. Unconsciously she was thinking of her husband. That Philip
had been uprooted, cast down like the pine filled her with dread as she
went quickly from the kitchen. But the storm, which left the house in
total darkness during the night had also interfered with telephone
service. After vain attempts to communicate with the central office, she
dashed off a note to a well-known nerve specialist. She begged him to
come at once, explaining that her husband was too ill to leave his bed.
From the terrace she watched the gardener depart with her note. She felt
at last like one who stakes all on a final venture. Would the doctor
come soon? Would Philip resent the visit? Above all, how should she
break the news to the invalid, who begged to be left alone? "Don't call
a doctor," he had pleaded; and again she wondered if she had been wise
in a grave emergency. The house was now astir. Belated maids were at
work. Soon shrill exclamations arose from the wet garden. Madame had
discovered the fallen pine, to fly below with the boy. Reginald was
proudly equipped with rubber boots. His red coat flashed as he outran
his excited companion. Isabel translated the French woman's lament for
the lost tree; then the boy cried out in distress. His mother reached
his side to find him in tears, holding a dead oriole. The once gay,
golden little creature lay limp in the child's hand.
"Poor birdy! See, he's all, all broken!" he bemoaned. "Can't you mend
him, mother dear? Can't you make him stand up?"
"He has been hurt by the storm," Isabel explained, stroking the feathers
of the little victim. "Perhaps he lived in the pine tree. We may find
his nest."
Reginald began to search along the path, while Isabel found a sharpened
stick. When she came to a clump of ferns she bent and quickly dug a tiny
bed in the wet earth. Her son, running back, saw that the oriole was
gone.
"There wasn't any nest!" he shouted, gazing incredulously at his
mother's empty hand, "And I suppose the poor birdy's all mended. Why
didn't you wait? I wanted--I wanted to see him fly away." Fresh tears
betokened the boy's disappointment. Isabel felt justified in the
deception, as she led the child indoors. He would understand soon
enough.
Wing had just brought back a dainty tray, with everything on it declined
by the master. The good fellow was greatly distressed. "Boss not eat--he
die! Sure!" he muttered.
Isabel went above. She felt again that she had done right in calling a
physician, and strove for courage to announce the approaching visit.
When she entered her husband's room he seemed to be dozing. She did not
rouse him. Perhaps, after all, sleep would prove to be Philip's best
medicine, and something whispered that her apparent anxiety was not good
for the broken man she loved. She went out, acknowledging a mistake.
When Philip awoke she would tell him about the doctor, with incidental
lightness. Then sooner than she expected she heard an automobile and
knew that her note had been timely. The specialist was at hand--in the
hall below. She could not prepare Philip for an unwelcome call. But she
was eager to unburden her heart, willing to rest her fear with one who
ought to assume it. And at once she told of her husband's early
education, of the first success of his priesthood, of his ambition for a
great Middle West cathedral, of the bishop's unjust course, of Philip's
natural struggle, followed with excommunication from the Church; then
all too soon--before he could readjust his life--of the public
humiliation in the old mission. She kept nothing back but her own hard
part as the wife of an apostate priest. The dread that she had been the
sole cause of a brilliant man's undoing she bravely acknowledged. Philip
could not forget, could not supplement his relinquished work with
domestic happiness.
"Yet he adores me," she confessed. "It is not just that he should
suffer--as he does. His heart is breaking. He feels it a sin to love
me--to go on with happiness."
"And you?" said Dr. Judkin.
She tried to smile. "Women can bear more than men." Her voice broke.
The man by her side felt her charm, knew that she was valiant in love.
Still he saw disappointment in her tense resistance. "I am afraid that
you, too, will soon need attention," he abruptly told her. "Sometimes a
wife spoils her husband without realizing it. Men who think a great deal
about themselves are not considerate."
She was offended and replied coldly, "You do not know him. It is unjust
to judge of a patient before you have seen him."
"I stand reproved," the doctor admitted.
Isabel forgave him. His very bluntness brought her hope. Suddenly she
felt faith in the man whom she had summoned. She believed that he was
masterful, and she must turn to some one.
"Please come," she invited, "you shall see my husband."
Dr. Judkin stood aside for her to pass, and she went above, choosing
words which should explain his early call. Then at the top of the
staircase she stopped.
"Be good enough to wait," she begged. "I must prepare him--go in first."
Then she flew forward, for the smell of burning paper had caught her
nostrils. The door to Philip's apartment was fastened. She had been
locked out! She rushed to a balcony running before the windows of her
husband's room. In an instant she stood within. And she had not come a
moment too soon. A fresh tragedy faced her. She hardly breathed. Philip,
on his knees in front of the fireplace, did not hear her enter. The
ecstasy of delirium possessed him. His whole body trembled as he
showered an igniting pile with his rejected manuscript. "The Spirit of
the Cathedral" was smoking. Isabel saw rising flame desert a blackened
sketch of a famous duomo but to lick a painting of great St. Peter's.
Once more dominant Romish power appeared to threaten. The curse of the
Church seemed about to blaze anew for Philip.
Her heart thumped as she flew to his side. "How can you?" she pleaded.
"You have forgotten your friend--who trusted you. You must not spoil his
beautiful pictures." Her hand reached out and coolly rescued scorching
sheets of the unpublished book. "But you did not mean to hurt an
artist's work," she gently added. She held a ruined sketch before the
sick man's staring eyes. "You did not remember. You did not mean to be
unfair to your friend." The tenderness of her frightened, loving soul
broke over the shattered man, as she led him away to bed. He went like
an obedient child; then she unlocked the door and summoned the doctor.
CHAPTER XXX
Two trained nurses had been installed. Isabel no longer held her place
at Philip's bedside. She was virtually banished from her husband's room.
The courage which she had evinced during previous weeks seemed to be
going fast. Now she hardly dared to hope. A silent house already took on
the atmosphere of disaster. Even Reginald was not permitted to shout in
the garden. And withal spring was at hand, seemingly to brighten the
whole world, outside of Philip's closed apartments. The sap of fresh
life ran in the veins of every living thing in the valley, on the
foothills, above in the mountains. The season had advanced without a
check, while throughout the Southwest blooming fruit trees and millions
of roses prepared the land for Easter.
To Isabel sensuous beauty on every side seemed cruel. Her heart felt
desolate. She went through each day wishing for night, while with
darkness she longed for sunlight. Suspense was beginning to drain her
vitality. She did not complain, but the doctor saw her brace herself
against each discouraging outcome of days that dragged. For Philip's
last collapse had turned her from his side. She was barely a memory to
the man she loved. At first she had rebelled, then accepted conditions
enjoined by Dr. Judkin and consulting specialists. Only one thing
helped her to endure the strain of a cruel separation.
Philip's book--now speaking to her heart as she knew it would
speak--brought strange, proud comfort. She felt exalted that she--his
wife--had saved the manuscript from the flames. During a week she fairly
lived in the scorched pages of "The Spirit of the Cathedral." And
gradually she began to see why the work had been refused. Personal
feeling and blind enthusiasm were at last tempered. She could read with
a cool intellect. The Laodicean attitude of a shrewd publisher hurt her
less than at first. For the fact still remained that Philip had produced
something fine. Although he occasionally dropped his impassioned theme
to give vent to slight discord, nothing had really been lost from his
original motif. Reading between the lines, Isabel detected the natural
temptation under which he had worked. Certain paragraphs, all unaided by
a magnetic voice and delivery, read too much like his former sermons.
Sometimes overcharged, almost vindictive handling of Romish background
was evident. In those first weeks in Paris, after he had deserted the
priesthood and been cast out of the Church, he had written without
restraint. He had said things best left unsaid. Yet, as Isabel read on,
she marvelled at Philip's virile touch, at the masterful, dramatic power
of his pen. His word pictures drawn from vivid, exceptional opportunity
required no literal illustration. Still she studied the sketches of the
associate artist, finally selecting one fourth of the cathedrals
submitted. Then she read over again the stronger chapters of the singed
manuscript. It was late into night before she weighed the possible
chances of her husband's book. He had labored so intelligently that her
hand seemed to be guided by his own as she omitted paragraphs which
undoubtedly influenced the publishers to refuse a somewhat prejudiced
work.
Isabel felt free to decide for Philip. His extremity excused her
arbitrary action. She was sure that in his normal condition he would
agree to all that she had done. When scorched pages had been replaced by
fresh ones she would send the revised manuscript to the publisher she
had met at St. Barnabas, the one who had witnessed the withstayed
tragedy in the mission. She believed that her new friend could
appreciate the significance of a book written by one who not only
criticised expertly, but knew as well the human side of a great
cathedral. Her thoughts went back to a time when Philip--a priest--had
outlined plans for the noble church he hoped to build. Then nothing
seemed too big for his young city. Isabel smiled, and began to read once
more.
Suddenly tears came to her eyes. She put aside the manuscript. After
all, what right had she to tamper with her husband's work? From Philip's
higher standpoint, painted or stone saints and angels, looking down from
Gothic heights, meant nothing to her, outside of their mere artistic
value. She saw with fresh dread that Philip was still a Catholic. Early
education and his lost mother's devout influence kept him apart from
natural happiness. He should have remained a priest, a power in his
Church. She remembered how once she had stood with him in St.
Peter's--in front of the "Pieta." He had then almost forgotten her
presence. The wrapt significance of his expression ought to have warned
her. She felt once more that she would never be able to share her
husband's feeling for an old master's sacred ideal. And later, when the
two were passing the noted bronze of St. Peter, she recalled that she
had failed to hide her repulsion for the throng straining to kiss the
statue's jutting, shining toe. Philip divined her thoughts and flushed.
"It comforts them," he had whispered. "Over here the poor have so little
in their lives. What seems absurd to you is for them salvation."
To-night Isabel remembered everything now bearing on her husband's
tragic state. Her heart grew heavy with fear, with vague foreboding.
CHAPTER XXXI
Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful
nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes;
then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank
into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.
"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses
have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his
burned-down condition. We shall save him."
She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help--do some
little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see
other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a
glass of water."
Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not
let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."
Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced
herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of
the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already
done what few women can do--submitted magnificently to a passive part.
And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new
demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power.
I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your
husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now
ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with
continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past
events."
"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to
any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy.
Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me--so patient with
my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me
that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my
friend."
The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks
he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure.
Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a
pattern in the rug.
"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of
which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of--of--tempting
association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to
the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck
of a quiet ship."
"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked.
"I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire
at once?"
Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements
had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the
tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked
his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear.
"But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You
might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery
doubtful."
His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.
"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor
deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now
seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel
that we are about to conquer. Tahiti--the isle of rest--will restore him
wholly."
Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her
agitation. The doctor went on:
"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a
nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later,
when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks
on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a
miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my
troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and
brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then
blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out
the stars--the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different
person."
An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must
speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.
"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A
boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our
patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half
a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at
noon,--on the seventeenth."
He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance.
Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last
she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her
gently sobbing.
"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised.
You shall have your husband back--well! He will put all behind him!
forget everything but his wife."
She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes.
Then she began to speak with fresh determination.
"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he
needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a
sign,--unless--he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that
another woman should have my place--my absolute right to be near him. He
is my husband! I cannot bear it."
Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing
with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given
satisfaction was an enemy--a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife.
Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly
to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.
"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my
assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be
time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip
Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a
splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will
engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done
for your husband's comfort."
Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided.
She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been
very weak--very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything
that you think best,--make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I
am going to be good,--good like Reg."
"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind--you are
not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are
really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip
comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to
go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle,
cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's
country--in springtime."
To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more
than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put
out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave
heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."
But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved
the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the
outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to
a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own
life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient
before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently
answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after
all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for
years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of
theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's,
tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way
depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute
exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable
station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be
measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.
CHAPTER XXXII
Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los
Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears
were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost
like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had
staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard
separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present
conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to
come.
And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters.
Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly
strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone,
was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back
well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them
waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed
carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New
acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to
tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride
of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And
after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more
cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's
unrestrained shouts echoed at will.
"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How
pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon?
Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.
"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in
her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him
about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed
with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand
held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured
"Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native
boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying
fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With
Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for
sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and
son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was
finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no
heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy
to disregard hitherto accepted authority.
"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the
little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another
story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped
away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming
back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door
closed.
Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy
had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise.
Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his
good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing.
And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next
day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind
employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage,
and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good
night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high
spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.
As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A
half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of
interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms
rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy
locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed
beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's
sleeping child--the one lying across the Madonna's lap--in the Academy
at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was
unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night
her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside
a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the
moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment
could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his
side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room.
Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She
thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would
come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the
flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript;
almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The
publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work,
yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had
waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a
new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that
must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing
possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all,
she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would
ride to-morrow--throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who
had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then
perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit--stay until after Philip's boat
had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the
two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode
her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs.
Barry's more spirited animal.
"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty
creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the
foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of
action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure.
Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward
with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering
eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the
valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions
of flowers--roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to
spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time
being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was
about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San
Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her
mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for
an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape.
All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the
horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with
golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her
horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with
loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The
spell of spring was upon them both.
"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.
"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow
passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.
Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a
boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She
stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A
black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose
the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black
opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life."
She laughed and dashed onward.
"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are
happy. I cannot wait,--do tell me."
The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking,
over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?"
she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that
I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her
friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't
any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live
the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being
prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow,
a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my
new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern
California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on!
Come on!" she called.
They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel
had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith
when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two
hungry women.
Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left
the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in
her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening
in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over
the wire--her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl--to-night--join me
to-morrow--at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly,
attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the
operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was
hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could
endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved
still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her
to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be
repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No
power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again
caught the receiver.
"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed
while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and
Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient--he
cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the
attendant answered.
"He must come--at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that
Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a
moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with
decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her
cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb
blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why,
after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once?
There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught
the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped
like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued
to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and
repeated her previous statement.
"I'm going North to-night--on the Owl--to Philip. He wants me. He has
just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow--at
the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she
implored. "You surely understand?"
"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we
have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your
husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms
crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was
beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in
the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same
hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total
destruction of San Francisco.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North,
she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had
been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning
above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still
no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request,
asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might
lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr.
Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her
fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of
value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and
hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr.
Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the
warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband
was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly
maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the
night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his
patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared
the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be
lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard
to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are
then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets,
with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for
reliable information. But one thing is certain--Dr. Ward is going to
take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are
simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial
law and prevailing conditions."
"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I
would have been there--when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from
going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his
patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either
advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the
long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He
realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available
means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer
resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he
seemed to see that she had suffered enough.
"I will go myself--find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He
stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for
newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll
try my best to make you happy--as I promised to do," he humbly added.
There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with
gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone
with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.
The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual,
thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening
petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then
gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at
last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city,
still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now
reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher,
undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone
out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with
frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be
helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered
generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in
giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire
occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she
helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household.
Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her
own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad
condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked
incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which
involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning
he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the
North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with
other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth
with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone
encouraged him to speak.
"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business--he so poor. What you
think? Plaps I take him lectic car--go that Venice--all same dleam."
Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.
Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him
kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."
Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go--take my poor cousin--so he
not be sad."
"An excellent plan," said Isabel.
He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I
not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now
my cousin begin all over--not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that
earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same
ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San
Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."
Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of
Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed
in a wrecked hotel?
Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say
not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make
trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good."
A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth
parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell
me,--all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say
people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len
go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody
wake up--hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag!
Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall
down. People no can stand up--no can see, all dark! Big noise come out
sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children
cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House--no good. Everybody lun that
bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside
he heart; cannot forget."
"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched
the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the
catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control
herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr.
Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She
tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved
herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also
for book form." Philip's friend--the editor--had signed the golden
message.
CHAPTER XXXV
Isabel held the telegram to her lips. She seemed to be kissing Philip.
"Dear, dear husband, I knew, I knew," she softly murmured. The rest of
the day she wandered about the garden, almost in an ecstacy of
expectation. Something seemed to tell her that Philip was safe, that she
would hear from him. But evening shadows fell without a personal word
from the North. She was obliged to content herself by reading the
evening papers, which were beginning to contradict certain overwhelming
statements of days back. The hotel that had totally collapsed was now
known to have been poorly built and was not the St. Francis, as formerly
stated. Iron frames of many buildings had withstood the earthquake to go
down at last before dynamite. Still, the list of dead and wounded would
be a long one. Nothing could be definitely settled until after flames
had ceased to lick through deserted streets. Suffering was intense on
every side. Children had first seen the world under its open sky. Women,
without beds to lie upon, had given birth in the open. Yet it seemed to
be a time when the best part of human nature revealed a noble side.
Already hope was beginning to stir in camps where ruined families clung
lovingly together. Isabel's eyes grew moist as she read a thrilling
story of heroism and courage.
Miss Lewis had gone back to the hotel, and when madame, complaining of a
headache, kept her room, Isabel found herself alone. But one thought now
absorbed her mind. Every moment she hoped for a telegram from Dr.
Judkin. Then suddenly Wing again stood before her. He had returned from
his day's outing and his countenance shone elate. Evidently he had
fulfilled a purpose and brought new strength to the fainting heart of
his unfortunate friend. As in the morning, Isabel encouraged him to
talk.
"I come tell you--clause you so solly," he began. "Plitty soon I sure
you hear you husbland--all safe! People say not so many kill, after all.
Boss all light, I sure."
He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. "And you
took your cousin to Venice?" Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.
Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off
his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray "Fedora" hat in one hand.
"Jus this way," he explained. "I decide--not take my cousin that
Venice--all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool
money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half--go that
seashore. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent
cloe, jus old thing--all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all.
I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles--get cheap dinner, len go church. I
say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow,
I say. No time go that Venice--all same dleam. Better hear 'bout
heaven."
Mrs. Barry listened gravely. Wing gradually prepared his denouement.
"Plitty good time--all same business," he continued. "You see? My cousin
have ole shoe--cannot las velly long. I jus take him that shoe
store--see lindow--all so full."
"I understand," said Isabel. "You bought your friend a pair of shoes
instead of taking him to Venice?"
Wing smiled. "All same yes," he qualified. "I find that shoe store--tell
all 'bout my cousin. I say my poor cousin velly poor; have no
shoe--claus he all bloke up that earthquake. That shoeman velly kind,
give my flend fine Mellican shoe, light away--not take money. Len we go
down street--tly get new hat. Big lindow so full! many nice hat--heap
style. We stan long time, look in. Plitty soon man come out--smile, ask
what we want. I say, 'My poor flend bloke up that earthquake; have no
good hat.' Len man say, 'Come in get fit.' I say, 'No money.' Man say,
'All light; earthquake not come velly often.' My cousin so happy. After
while he all fix up. New coat, new shirt,--everything all clean. Len we
go down Chinatown, get dinner; go mission. Pleacher say heaven more
better; not any earthquake--not any big fire. Pleacher say no old black
cow kick up; so solly China people tell that story. Jus be good, he say.
Be kind, help that sorrow up San Flancisco."
Isabel had listened throughout with keenest interest. At another time
she might have found it difficult to control her countenance. To-night
she could not laugh. Almost for the first time she realized the meaning
of "the brotherhood of man." She found her purse and sent a liberal
donation to celestials lately en route in the cattle car. "Relieve your
friends as much as possible," she commanded. "You may take to-morrow off
and spend the money as you see best. Those of us who can must help."
The simple kindness of her words fell clearly. Wing went out from her
presence as one entrusted with a grave commission. She sat on with her
thoughts.
Suddenly she was depressed beyond all control. Joined to her longing for
Philip was the dread that he would never be able to forget that he had
once been a Catholic and a priest of the Church. And she had made him
forsake his calling. Again and again she repeated the publisher's
telegram aloud. She tried to tell herself that when Philip came back he
must see his way at once to go on with life. He would find his work
appreciated, his book accepted. Then he would surely continue to
write--become noted. Yet, perhaps authorship might not satisfy him. The
man who formerly moved large audiences with his impassioned sermons
might not after all make a success in literature. She recalled the first
time that she had heard Philip address a congregation. His clear,
eloquent handling of a great ethical subject had delighted her. Sitting
in a pew with devout Catholics, she had been glad to forget the High
Mass, which she did not understand, and follow the speaker in the
pulpit. She had felt that her former lover, still her friend, had found
his natural profession, for even before ordination, Philip--too young
for a priest--was permitted to preach.
To-night Isabel's thoughts wandered back to an earlier Sunday in
Venice--in St. Mark's--when they had gone together to vespers. Philip
had then jestingly declared that but for her he would go into the
Church. "I would like to preach at least one sermon as compelling as the
one we have just heard," he told her, as they floated away in their
gondola. Now his old words passed through her mind. A strange humility
possessed her. Again she lived over those happy, youthful days in
Venice. Still of all the churches abroad, of all the services she had
witnessed, San Marco with the afternoon in question stood out, apart
from other Romish background. At the time, Isabel caught a new view of
the Catholic Church in Europe. For at midsummer vespers there had hardly
been a suggestion of the pomp and ceremony which on stated occasions is
supposed to make St. Mark turn over in his coffin, when clouds of
incense pour through open doors into the piazza.
On that August evening all had been so simple--even without a vested
choir. Informality prevailed throughout the humble audience. Every one
moved his chair at will to the side of some friend. Women used their
fans and whispered discreetly to one another. There were few "Sunday
hats." Dark, uncovered heads and black crape shawls, richly fringed,
worn corner wise, as only Venetian maids can wear them, discounted
tawdry finery. Young men and little children sat on the pulpit steps.
Every one sang from the heart. Wonderful Italian voices rose in natural
harmony; then at last the patriarchal shepherd of the gathered flock
came slowly forward. The beautiful old man wore no embroidered vestments
on that summer's afternoon. Sheer, spotless white, showing but a line of
scarlet beneath the lace around his hands, alone defined ecclesiastical
rank. Yet he was strangely grand in the evening light of the golden
church. A loving hush pervaded San Marco as he leaned over the pulpit,
looking down upon his children. Isabel had never forgotten either the
sermon or the marvelous voice of the speaker.
To-night it came to her that to be able to guide one's fellowmen to
higher ideals through spoken words, was, after all, a God-given gift.
And she had ruined Philip's opportunity. She asked herself a hard
question. If he came back with his heart still turning to a natural
calling, could she help him? At last she felt his inborn tendency; the
early religious background which influenced his temperament. Things
entirely outside of her own experience had always been vital to the man
she loved. If he came back to her uncertain and wavering in view of
returning health and implied difficult conditions, she must give him up.
At last the situation seemed plain. But she was bitter withal. Philip's
God was hard; she could not understand the miserable decision forced
upon her as she sat alone.
Twice she tried to go above to bed, yet something held her. Hours wore
on. She felt cold and started a fire. The heat from the hearth sent her
into heavy, desperate slumber. She heard no sound. Philip entered softly
and alone, for Dr. Judkin had hurried away.
* * * * *
And as he waited--transfixed, he thought of that other night when he had
stood outside the curtains, looking in at the woman he dared not touch.
Then slowly Isabel opened her eyes, saw that her husband had come; felt
that a miracle had restored his power to love. Renunciation of a dark
hour was forgotten in a low, glad cry. Philip held her as never before.
The strength of his arms made her dumb with joy. She could not speak.
Her husband led her to the divan and she listened to his voice, his
words. She heard him entreat her to forgive, to live anew.
She felt that nature's rending soul had tried their appealed case to
enjoin his human need. Humility charged his fresh purpose as he tenderly
pleaded for time to prove the revelation of terrible days back.
Later when she told him about the acceptance of his book he listened
incredulously.
Suddenly he understood. "You kept it from deserved oblivion?" he said at
last. A fond smile played on his lips. "What have you not done for me?"
He kissed away her denial of all personal influence. "Take me back on
trust," he implored. "I ask only for the stimulant of your faith; then
perhaps--perhaps I may please you, do something worth while."
Isabel knew that his secularization had been sanctioned by The Higher
Court. The years to come held glad significance for them both.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Higher Court, by Mary Stewart Daggett