The Higher Court. Mary Stewart Daggett

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СКАЧАТЬ even in mild hardship, he had believed that he had discovered a world outside of self. He now hoped that a period of self-examination with solitude would set him right, fit him for the priest's part he had chosen. Then Reginald Doan held out his tiny hands imploring help. The man took him in his arms and held him, and the little one found comfort. For an hour Father Barry listened to the boy's breathing with renewed hope. When the nurse came the child was sleeping. She smiled, but ordered her patient beneath the covers of the bed.

      "If you do not mind, please see about the furnace. Williams may have dropped off. We must take no chance on a night like this. The slightest change in temperature would ruin all we have done." She bent over the boy in watchful silence while the priest went out. At the top of the staircase he took off his shoes. He held one in each hand, treading softly to the hall below. The house gave forth the intense quiet of night, but between the library curtains a stream of light lured him onward. It was his part to guard the house from accident, and he ventured into the room; then stopped, powerless to retreat. Isabel Doan slept in her chair. Her rare face, touched with ineffable peace, shone in profile against dark cushions. She seemed a modeled relief. Gentle breathing moved no fold of her loosely gathered robe; not even her unbound hair stirred ever so lightly. Oblivion claimed the mother, half ill from exhaustion. Close to the hearth a pair of tiny slippers rested motionless. The priest tarried, sinning within his heart. It was but a moment—yet long enough. Suddenly he knew that everything was changed. Isabel was no longer for him, nor he for her. Their divergent lives could never come together. He shrank from the room, not looking back. To escape without disturbing the sleeper impelled him into the very cellar; then he sank to the floor—to his knees. For the second time since entering the house he prayed as a priest. Deliverance from self was the burden of his cry. In his deplorable state he seemed adrift in the dark. He might be neither man nor priest. There was now no place for him in the world he had tried to forsake, nor could he longer fulfill the false part in his mistaken calling. An opening door restored his composure, for despite his emotional nature Philip Barry knew well the cooler demand of time and place. He spoke to the man in charge of the furnace, then examined the gauge. "Not a fraction of a degree must be overlooked," he ordered peremptorily.

      "And the boy?" said the man.

      "Better. Everything from now on depends on ourselves. I came below to satisfy the nurse. She cautioned me to say that the slightest change in temperature would be fatal to her little patient."

      As the priest spoke he turned about. Again he put away everything but the one object which detained him in Mrs. Doan's house. To nurse her boy through a terrible night, then to go out—forever—from temptation he could not meet was his only thought.

CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

      Night wore on. By morning the passion of the storm was abated. The blizzard had not lifted; but waves of wind burst less frequently on a world now white with frozen snow.

      Early in the day the doctor arrived with the belated nurse. The priest was virtually discharged from duty. He would have gone away at once but for Reginald, who held tightly to his hand. The sick boy was sweetly despotic in his little kingdom. A child's appealing trust, his angelic weakness, claimed all that Father Barry could give. "Reggie—won't have—nudder nurse," he protested. The young woman who had just arrived moved into the background, while the boy's mother sank to his side. Isabel's face shone with joy. The gladness of the moment half stopped her voice. But she took her darling's tiny hand. Reginald's fingers clung to her own; then, with a satisfied smile, he reached out eagerly to the priest. "Hold nudder hand," he implored. To refuse was not to be thought of. Father Barry knelt once more; but now, like a jewel in a clasp, the precious body of the boy joined him to Isabel. On opposite sides of the bed, both man and woman felt instant thrill of a despotic measure. The sick child's eyes sought eagerly for his new nurse. "You can go home," he announced. "Take your trunk," he coolly added. He sighed contentedly, looking first at his mother, then at his friend. The French clock on the dresser ticked moments. The boy seemed to be asleep. He was only planning fresh despotism. "Mudder dear and Fadder Barry will make Reggie well," he summed up conclusively. "Some day—I'm doin' to buy Fadder Barry a wotto-mobile—a nice, bu-ti-ful—great big one——"

      "Thank you," said the priest. The child spoke easily. His improvement seemed marvelous.

      "Dear Reggie must not talk. Be quiet, darling," Isabel entreated. "Mother dear and Father Barry will both stay with you; but you must close your eyes and go to sleep." Unconscious of the priest's emotion the mother had promised much. The boy drooped his lids, squeezing them hard. Below purple eyes, dark lashes swept his cheeks, then raised like curtains, as he peeped on either hand. Isabel was faint with joy.

      "Darling," she pleaded, "go to sleep."

      "I can't keep shut," the little fellow whimpered. His head turned on the pillow. "I want Fadder Barry to put on his fine cape and his nice suit," he begged, suddenly recalling the priest's vestments. "And I want to hear the little bell," he persisted.

      "Yes, dear Reggie," Father Barry answered. "When you are well you may come to church—may hear the beautiful music—see the little boys about the altar. But now you must mind the doctor. Don't you remember? just a little time ago you told him that you would be a good boy and do everything Father Barry wished. If you talk your throat will get bad again. You don't want it to hurt?"

      Sympathy wrought on the boy's imaginative temperament; he enjoyed his own little part. "I felt so bad!" he wailed. He had naturally a broad accent, despite his Middle West locality. His voice, deep and full for so young a child, inclined to unflattened vowels.

      "I felt so bad!" he repeated, in view of more attention.

      "But now you will soon be well," his mother quieted. "Just think how good you should be when you are going to California!"

      The promise in question acted like magic.

      "Tell Reggie about the big ningen," he coaxed.

      "If you close your eyes," Isabel agreed. The boy's lashes shut down. "Soon mother dear and Reggie are going far away on a long train," she began. "Every morning the engineer will give his big engine a hot breakfast—a great deal of coal, and all the water it can drink. The long, long train will run ever so fast, away out across the plains, over the high mountains, to California. At first Jack Frost may try to catch the train, but the engineer must run the faster. Then soon Jack Frost will go howling back East."

      "I want Fadder Barry to come too," the boy put in.

      "If you talk, I shall not go on," his mother cautioned. "Reggie may eat his breakfast and dinner and supper on the train. At night he will sleep in a funny little bed. Maggie must watch that her boy doesn't roll on to the floor. After a long time the train will stop. Mother and Reggie and Maggie will get out, and——"

      "Fadder Barry, too!" the boy persisted. He did not open his eyes, while tremulous lashes expressed his joy in the story.

      "When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers. Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."

      "And Fadder Barry, too—and Maggie—and——" The sick boy was reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a satisfying story had worked a charm.

      "In California the trees are full of birds that СКАЧАТЬ