Part 3 (1/2)

”Yes,” the nun interrupted--”she understood--knew how you were working for the cathedral. Her pride in your success was beautiful. She asked for no hour which justly belonged to the service of your Church.”

”Thank G.o.d! she never knew--died believing in me--thought I had succeeded,” the priest cried pa.s.sionately. The nun lifted her crucifix.

”The blessed saints ordained that she should think nothing but good of her son--her priest--her one earthly idol.” Sister Simplice clasped her hands. ”Have no fear for her soul. A soul--such as hers--must rise freed from transient torment. Soon she will follow from afar--follow her son's great earthly work.” Father Barry groaned.

”You do not understand; do not know that I am almost glad that my mother has gone--pa.s.sed safely beyond. She was a good Catholic. If she had lived--” he rose to his feet and stood before the trembling sister--”if she had lived to know the truth she might have rebelled, have doubted.”

The sister flushed, then turned pale. Nun that she was, she had heard gossip. ”The bishop has not put you aside?” she faltered. She raised her crucifix. ”He hasn't interfered with your work--with the building of the cathedral?”

The priest signified the worst. ”My labor has been in vain,” he acknowledged. ”I am ordered from the parish like an incompetent. I thank G.o.d that she never knew!”

Sister Simplice shrank as from a blow. The suspended priest saw by the motion of her lips that she was praying. Her slender fingers clung fiercely to the rosary. She seemed to dread her own words. She could not trust her voice, dared not lift her face. Tears were slipping from beneath the delicate eyelids.

”Forgive me!” cried her confessor. ”I dare not tamper with your faith.

Forget that you have been listening I implore you.”

The nun raised the dark fringes which had seemed a rebuke; but before she spoke, Father Barry was gone, vanis.h.i.+ng behind the closed door of his mother's death chamber.

CHAPTER IX

Sister Simplice told her beads in vain. Strange new rebellion threatened her accepted life. Like the young priest in the room beyond, she doubted her right to wear the authorized habit of Roman Catholic faith. Tears scalded her cheeks; she could not keep them back. Yet to weep over an earthly tie long cut away must be counted a sin against her soul. The rosary slid from her grasp; then she caught it pa.s.sionately to her lips.

She had shed no tears for three whole years. Until to-day Sister Simplice had thought a victory won. Hospital work had seemed to bring relief to the woman unfitted for spiritual monotony. In the convent she had been misjudged. It was not until the mother superior comprehended the case, and removed her unhappy charge to an active field that things went well. Nursing the sick, the sister seemed to renounce the bridal veil which she had nearly worn. She regained courage, found joy in her patients. Actual service took unrest from her mind and heart. Gradually a romance interfering with devout prayers was put down. The nun went her way untouched by criticism. And it was doubtless intangible sympathy which had first made confidences easy between the sister and the priest.

Their mutual struggle removed them from the spiritual line, when both tacitly owned that human longing abides in spite of prayer. But with the project of the cathedral absorbing the man, the gentle nun forgave her confessor and implored pa.s.sionately for new strength for herself. In Father Barry the church had gained a splendid champion. Hospital work was a less brilliant opportunity; but at last Sister Simplice looked forward to pa.s.sing years of peace. Until to-day she had been happy. Even yet she hardly understood the change which threatened her usefulness.

She did not acknowledge that she had backslidden. Hysterical longing filled her woman's heart; she could not, would not a.n.a.lyze it. If she sinned she sinned! It seemed good to cry in view of impending penance.

The clock ticked away a full quarter while she sat in the hall alone with her thoughts. Then the door to the closed chamber opened and Father Barry pa.s.sed out. He was pale, shaken. Instantly the nun became herself.

Again she longed for service. ”Will you not come below and eat something?” she asked. The priest shook his head.

”Not yet.” He went on, but on second thought turned. ”Tell Nora she must not offer me a hearty luncheon--I cannot eat it. She may bring toast and tea to my room. I must rest, be alone.”

The nun's dismissal was plain. The sister went softly downstairs, hurt that she might not carry her confessor's tray.

Father Barry watched her glide beyond the landing, then walked quickly to his boyhood chamber. Here his mother had changed nothing. To retire at times to the little room was always like a s.n.a.t.c.hed interview with himself. As a rule the dear lady had begged her son to use the more stately guest chamber, but to-day he shrank from the state apartment as one grown noted, yet now waiting for ignominy. To see his mother cold and lifeless had settled the half-considered step of the previous morning; for at last the man believed that he must give up the priesthood. He no longer wished to propitiate an archbishop. With his mother's death he was free. Had she lived, he might have gone on a hypocrite. Now all was changed. He need not continue a false life.

Fortunately he was rich in his mother's right. He would not stay in the place which ought to despise him, and he might live in any part of the known world. At all events, he would emulate an honest citizen. He cast himself across the white counterpane of the bed and buried his face in the pillow. His neat, careful mother would never know that he had neglected to turn back the snowy spread. Outside, the dying blizzard moaned fitfully. Now and then a long, full gust came reinforced from distant plains; but the fury of the storm was over. He began to think of pressing matters. It was Tuesday. On Friday his precious mother must be buried. He sobbed aloud. Would the bishop stay official disgrace until after the funeral? Suddenly his only dread was public dishonor to his dead. As his mother's boy, he wept long and pa.s.sionately. Nora's knock subdued outward emotion, while he took the tray from her hands. He saw that the faithful soul wanted to stop in the room, longed to fuss over her young master. But he gave no invitation and she went off grumbling.

At the door she turned. ”It's dyin you'll be yourself, ating no mate--only a bite of tasteless toast. And the bishop that old!” The parting shot brought no response. Nora closed the door with offended spirit. ”He'll go under, with all the bother of his cathedral,” she muttered. To live long enough to see her young priest a bishop was the old woman's earthly dream. She touched a crucifix in full view of the closed chamber where her mistress lay cold and still. Then she hastened below to clean and garnish. Sister Simplice had promised to stay until all was over, and she had also sent for Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes was cold and severe. The servant saw no need of two nuns. She went about the scrubbing and dusting, glad that she might work without regard to arriving cards or visitors. The good soul had prayed, then wept until she could hardly see. Now at last she was busy, again absorbed in material matters.

Meantime Father Barry forced down toast and tea. Details of his mother's funeral thronged his mind. She must have everything beautiful, all that a son could give. Her last Ma.s.s should be splendid; and again he wondered about the bishop. Would he officiate in spite of all? The widow's money would doubtless be remembered at a time like the present.

Father Barry felt for a little blank book, and drew from his breast pocket Mrs. Doan's note and the enclosed check. Once more accident controlled his movements. Everything rushed back. Even in the midst of plans for his mother's Ma.s.s he thought of the letter he would write to Isabel. She must know the truth. Why had he not told her? Was he yet unable to confess himself a hypocrite to this woman whom he had once hoped to marry? After all, he could return her check by mail, for in writing he might explain an altered situation without demanding sympathy. But if sympathy came! If Isabel understood the case as it really was! Then she should help him to start over again, to go on with his life.

He worked himself into an exalted att.i.tude. For the first time since the eventful interview with the bishop his self-esteem suggested a part removed from abject failure. As upon the ledge of the storm-beaten bluff, he felt once more a woman's governing presence. But the firm, commanding knock of Sister Agnes brought him from clouds to sinking sands. Again he was miserable--a false priest facing an austere nun, who would shrink away in horror as soon as she heard of his shame. The sister, supplanting gentle Simplice, held out a letter closed with the bishop's seal. Without waiting to read, the suspended priest knew the import of his superior's forced retraction; official action was rescinded until after his mother's funeral.

CHAPTER X

Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. ”He has been wis.h.i.+ng for you. A night has done even more than the doctor expected.”