Part 9 (1/2)

she repeated.

”I should have left the priesthood,” he told her simply. ”I had found out--knew certainly that I could not go on, even before I saw you. Your coming to me when my mother went but gave me hope, brought rescue.

Before G.o.d I am now honest!”

She threw her arms about his neck. All that she had withheld was waiting. Love blazed in her starry eyes, on her wonderful lips. Every doubt had gone with Philip's last words. Everything seemed clear--straightened out. Hours sped as moments. There was so much to talk about, so much to explain away. Each one went back to the beginning and to a time forbidden even in memory to an honorable wife, to a priest. Intermediate existence was soon wiped out. Then Isabel thought of her boy, now Philip's boy as well. They would bring the child up jointly. She was glad, very glad. ”And you will love him always?” she implored. ”He has not forgotten you; kisses your picture every day. You shall help me with his education. I am so anxious not to make mistakes.

You know Reggie's warm, live temperament? You will advise me?”

”I was not wise about my own career, but I will do my best for the boy,”

Philip humbly promised.

Isabel saw for the first time how much he had suffered. He looked older, haggard, despite his happiness. But his face had a.s.sumed grave sweetness. The old a.s.surance of a once popular priest was gone.

Dependence upon love would give him courage to begin over. The fullness of Isabel's rich nature swept outward to his need. ”We shall be happy, I feel it, I feel it!” she whispered joyously.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 wors.h.i.+per” 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 ill.u.s.trated work on cathedrals which might readily appeal to a cultured cla.s.s 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 pa.s.s 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.”