Father Barry bowed his head.
"You remember that you telephoned in the early afternoon? The storm had already interfered with service. She could not catch your words, felt only that you were detained upon some errand of mercy. When Pat Murphy brought the flowers to the hospital he said nothing whatever of your movements. This morning he happened to come with your mail, just after the dear one passed away. I sent him out to find you." The priest wept softly. "We had no thought of the end when it came," the nun went on. "So quickly, so peacefully, she left us. She seemed to be much better with the dawn, for the storm that kept you from her side had abated. She was expecting you every moment. She had no thought of death." Sister Simplice crossed herself. "Faithful Nora had brought a cup of nourishment, we were about to offer it, when, brightening like her old self, she begged for a fresh shawl."
"I understand," the priest faltered. "She wished to look neat and charming. And it was all for me!" he burst out. "She wanted me to find her as usual—like her pretty self."
"Yes," the nun answered, "she asked for a shawl you admired—the one with a touch of lavender. Nora brought a white cape from the closet, but she motioned it away. 'I wish my fine new shawl, the one my son likes best,' she pleaded. We were gone from the bedside but a moment, both searching in the closet. Your dear mother was unconscious, almost gone, when we returned."
Sister Simplice crossed herself again. The priest could not speak. Stillness followed the nun's story; only the ticking of a clock disturbed his pent thoughts. Suddenly the man burst forth as a boy.
"I should have come to her sooner!" he confessed. "I knew that she had not been well the week before; but I thought her slight attack was from the stomach. How could I dream of this! She assured me that she felt like herself, and the morning of my birthday"—he hesitated—"the morning of my birthday I was compelled to go to the bishop."
"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 God! she never knew—died believing in me—thought I had succeeded," the priest cried passionately. 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—passed 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 God 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, vanishing 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 passionately 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 passionately 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 passing 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 analyze 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 passed 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 snatched 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 passionately. 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