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
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 quiet had brought him relief. In routine 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