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 worshiper" 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."

"Why not?"

"Oh, well, don't you see, so many dolls would take so much room? Then Elizabeth says I've got to be her husband."

"Why not?" said his mother, laughing.

"Because--because I just want to be your husband." He cuddled closer.

Isabel wept miserably in his curls.

"Don't, oh, don't!" she pleaded. She smothered the boy with kisses until he cried out for release. Then she sat up in bed with the child in her arms. "Reginald, darling, you must listen. Mother is going to be married to Philip dear, to-day, at the church." She hurried on before the astonished boy could speak. "After mother is married to Philip dear, Reggie will have a kind father to love him, to take care of him always."

"Will he be 'Father Barry' again?" the boy inquired eagerly.

"No, no," she hastened to explain, "just father--Reggie's dear father."

"I think it will be nice," the boy acknowledged. He was still for a long time, with his cheek against his mother's. Isabel had not intended taking the child to church, but suddenly she changed her mind.

"Would Reggie like to come? Like to see mother married to Philip dear?"

The questions fell gently, but the boy sprang up, shouting.

"May I?" he cried, with true desire to remember his manners. "Oh, may I? May I? Mother darling--goody! goody! goody!"

"I think you may," she answered.

He kept repeating, "Goody! goody!" Then all at once he grew sober.

Something still troubled him. "Will Philip dear be your father, too?" he demanded.

"No darling, not my father, only my husband."

He waited a moment, evidently sifting the whole matter. His full baby lips trembled. "Will Philip dear be your husband all the time?" he asked. His mother nodded. "Then I suppose Elizabeth will make me be her husband." He heaved a little sigh which was masculine resignation personified. "Well, I don't care!" he exclaimed valiantly, "for you see, mother dear, I'm going to have a father and a pony, too. Goody! goody!

goody!"

CHAPTER XIX

Everything was at last arranged, and Carolyn dressed the boy for his mother's wedding. The little fellow looked proud and sober in his best white suit, with a tiny bunch of Isabel's forget-me-nots for a bridal favor. He sat very still and grown up all the way to the church, built after an English model and picturesquely hidden among green hills. The beautiful chapel made a complete surprise when the carriage stopped on the country road. Madame took Reginald's tiny gloved hand and led him forward, while Isabel moved slowly after them. As all three entered the church, bells began to sound, and a man came quickly forward to say that an Episcopal clergyman and Philip Barry were both waiting at the foot of the chancel. Madame guided her charge to a stall used by choir boys now absent. Here the old French woman and the boy stood, expectant. Isabel came on alone, vaguely conscious of her way; then suddenly she felt protected--loved, for Philip had reached her side. The clergyman entered the chancel. The man and woman to be joined in wedlock heard him begin the service. His words fell distinctly, and soon Isabel and Philip listened to the solemn charge administered before marriage. "That if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it," rang over their heads, into their souls, with momentary, questioning force. But the pause enjoined by the Church ended, and no voice had accused the apostate priest. The clergyman went on. Glad that the stern proviso was pa.s.sed, Isabel faintly smiled, then glanced at Philip. He was pale. Undaunted, she put her hand in his and followed his deep responses with a clear voice. It seemed natural that he should remember the bar to their earlier happiness. Isabel moved slowly to the altar. By the side of the man she trusted she felt no fear. The sunlight of human love, the influence of home, a chance for intellectual freedom,--all these should make Philip forget a miserable, restless year. And at last the two were kneeling. Prayers and the benediction had made them one. The first test was over. Soon they were signing the parish register and could now leave the sacristy. The boy and madame were waiting. Again the bells sounded.

Philip led the way to the carriage, and a moment later all were driving off together. Along the wayside early poppies lifted golden chalices to nuptial health, while a meadow lark extolled the day. All about, buzzing insects piped joy. Isabel was glad that she had selected the tiny country chapel for her marriage.

And the drive home was a pleasant one. Restraint lifted as the boy prattled and madame overflowed in French. Isabel and Philip gave out to each other without fear or confusion. Then came the gay arrival, with servants waiting, and the boy's pony and cart in readiness for a time postponed. But the mother no longer dreaded temporary parting, for now she was sure of her little son's will power. Since the confidence of early morning her heart had felt free. Throughout luncheon she planned for the boy's amus.e.m.e.nt during a month set apart for the honeymoon.

There was much to be said about letters and surprises which were to arrive each day. Then when "mother dear" came back Reginald must drive her out into the country. Later the advent of kites would afford opportunity for an indulgent new father. The child was altogether satisfied. Isabel found no difficulty in slipping above for a change she had almost feared to make. When she came down dressed for traveling her son was so happy with his pony and cart that the equipage marking a bride's departure seemed to be purely incidental to the main interest of the afternoon.

With quick embraces, a farewell hand wave, Isabel and Philip were gone.

The old slipper, flung by madame, hit the carriage and fell to the ground.

CHAPTER XX