The Higher Court. Mary Stewart Daggett

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СКАЧАТЬ crucifix to her lips; for unlike her niece, Mrs. Grace was a Catholic.

      "I heard only when I reached the door," the priest admitted.

      "A short time ago we thought our darling would die; but now there is the slightest hope that we may keep him. His mother is wild with suspense." The lady wiped her eyes. "We can do absolutely nothing with Isabel. She refuses to leave Reggie's room, even for a moment. I am sure she has not closed her eyes since yesterday."

      "The doctor must send her to bed at once," said the priest.

      "Both he and the nurse have tried to do so, but she will not go. I believe she would die if Reggie should be taken. O dear Father, will you not say prayers?"

      Mrs. Grace sank to her knees, wrapt and expectant. Maggie Murphy flopped audibly in the hall, while for Philip Barry the moment was fraught with indecision. He seemed to think in flashes. He wanted to cry out, to publish himself, to deny the very garb he wore. Then the next instant he longed to entreat for the life of Isabel Doan's boy. The sweeter side of his profession held him. After all, what difference did it make if he might give comfort to women in distress? The prayers of notorious sinners had been answered on the spot. Why should not he, the vilest of hypocrites, yet honest for the time, ask for the life of a dying boy? He felt for his priest's prayerbook. Fortunately he had not changed his coat since his rude awakening. The little book he always carried was still in his breast pocket, fairly touching Mrs. Doan's letter and enclosed check. He found the place and began. His knees trembled, but his voice came strong and clear. A last opportunity had nothing to do with what might follow; this one moment was between God and his own conscience. Tenderness thrilled throughout him as he went on with familiar prayers. In the hall Maggie Murphy's sobs made passionate refrain for his importunate pleading; then instinctively he felt the presence of Isabel, knew that she stood behind him. He rose from the floor and faced her. She answered his unspoken question with a smile. "He is better. The doctor thinks the anti-toxin has saved him." In all his life Philip Barry had never seen such joy on a woman's face.

      Mrs. Grace sprang from her knees. "Is Reggie really better? really better?" she repeated. Her intensity jarred.

      Isabel smiled. "We think so," she answered. "Of course the doctor cannot tell just yet. Complications might occur; but he hopes!" Again her face was radiant.

      Mrs. Grace crossed herself.

      "The membrane in the throat is quite broken," Mrs. Doan went on. "The anti-toxin worked wonderfully. Now we can only wait."

      "And you should take needed rest," the priest put in impulsively. He seemed to have the right to dictate to this woman in trouble. For as he stood by Isabel's side he began to realize how absolutely over were the once serious relations of their lives. The two might be friends—nothing else. Mrs. Doan had no thought for a priest other than exalted friendship. An accepted lack in her married life made it natural for her to bestow exquisite love on her child. That which she had not been able to give her husband she now dispensed to his son. The boy filled her heart. "You will take needed rest?" Father Barry again entreated, when Mrs. Grace, frank and always tactless, bemoaned the wan appearance of her niece.

      "Do go to bed, Isabel; make up your lost sleep," the lady urged. "You are a ghost! I never saw you looking worse. Those dark circles below your eyes make you ten years older."

      The older woman's crudeness stood out in marked contrast with her careful toilet. Anxiety had not deprived Mrs. Grace of either rest or studied accessories.

      Isabel shook her head. "I could not sleep," she answered. "When the assistant nurse arrives I shall have less responsibility; but until then I must stay with Reggie. My darling's eyes are always hunting for me. You know I wear a masque, the doctor insists upon it; and when I cross the room my dear little boy cannot feel quite sure about his mother. But now I have braided my hair and tied the ends with blue ribbon. The nurse is just my height, and we both wear white." She glanced down at her summer frock, brought from the attic for sudden duty. "Reggie will know me by my colors."

      Her pure garb, together with ropes of golden hair falling down from a part, made saintly ensemble. Once before—in Rome—the priest had seen her as she looked to-day. Then, too, dark circles deepened the violet of her wonderful eyes. As now, she had felt miserable, in doubt. The man who denied a selfish part in an unforeseen moment was suddenly conscious of his deadly sin. But now he prayed, asking for strength divorced from pretense. And at last he believed that his main thought was a desire to help an afflicted household, a wish to support friends in time of need. He told himself that he might give Reginald Doan personal care simply as he had done before for other children less precious, less beautiful; for apart from the mother Father Barry loved her boy.

CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      Throughout night the blizzard raged. Traffic was suspended; no one ventured into the streets on foot. The assistant nurse did not arrive, and with quickened pulse but masterful will Philip Barry assumed her place in the sick child's chamber. Isabel had been persuaded to retire. At midnight the terrific force of the storm brought her below to the library. She could not sleep, but sat in a chair by the fire, somewhat comforted. Oak logs made grateful glow for the mother scarce able to resist the temptation to fly to her boy. But she had promised to keep away. In case she was needed she would be sent for.

      In her restless state she could not endure to be alone, and rang for Maggie. The faithful girl reported at once, while together the two made ready a tray for Reginald's night watchers. Longing for action, Isabel prepared hot chocolate with her own hands. A cold bird, rolls, and jelly completed a tempting repast. The maid carried up the little supper, her mistress waiting anxiously until she came back radiant with good news.

      "He's better, mam—the darlin's much better!" Maggie crossed herself. "Father Barry beats the doctor! Nurse says Reggie minds him wonderful, not even fretting for you. Now do be going back to a warm bed."

      Isabel shook her head. "I would rather stay here," she answered. "The wind sounds so loud from my room. Put on a log; I shall toast, sleep in my chair."

      "If you don't mind I'll stay with you," the girl implored.

      "That will not be necessary. You had better go; to-morrow you may be needed."

      Maggie moved reluctantly from the room, as Mrs. Doan dropped into the depths of her chair. The fire sent out a soft, protecting glow, touching her face with hope. In flowing robe, with unbound braids, she seemed like a Madonna dreaming of her child. Soon she slept. Wind, plunging against the windows, shrieking disappointment, wasting its demon's force in plaintive wail, no longer disturbed her. Hours passed while she rested. Something she did not try to explain had happened; the burden of doubt, of crushing responsibility seemed to be lifted. Her aunt's incompetence, the excited maids praying about, were forgotten. Help had come from an unexpected source; and stranger than anything else she had been willing to accept it.

      And Father Barry, caring for the sick child, felt corresponding peace. He was once more a priest in active service. It seemed right, natural, that he should assume his present place. In all his life he had never felt so strong, so uplifted. Bitter feelings of the day were gone, dismissed under incessant pressure and critical conditions. To save the boy was his only thought. He rejoiced in service, more than ever before seemed to feel the worth of humility. It came over him that to accept his suspension, to respect the will of his superior and go into temporary seclusion, might after all be best. He thought of days in a monastery almost with longing. Once before he had sought shelter with good men who knew how to obey. In his first boyish sorrow СКАЧАТЬ