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                            THE HIGHER COURT

                         BY MARY STEWART DAGGETT

Author of "Mariposilla," "The Broad Aisle," "Chinese Sketches," etc.,
etc.


    RICHARD G. BADGER
    THE GORHAM PRESS
    BOSTON

    _Copyright, 1911, by Richard G. Badger_

    _All Rights Reserved_

    _The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._


    To Comrades Three
      My Daughters
          R. D.
         H. D. H.
          M. D.




CHAPTER I


Father Barry's late interview with his bishop had been short, devoid of
controversy. Too angry to deny the convenient charge of "modernism," he
sought the street. Personal appeal seemed futile to the young priest
cast down by the will of a superior. To escape from holy, overheated
apartments had been his one impulse. Facing a January blizzard, his
power to think consecutively returned, while for a moment he faltered,
inclined to go back. The icy air struck him full in the face as he
staggered forward. "The only way--and one practically hopeless," he
choked. Appeal to the archbishop absorbed his mind as he pressed on,
weighing uncertain odds of ecclesiastical favor. Suddenly he realized
that he had strayed from main thoroughfares, was standing on a desolate
bluff that rose significantly above colorless bottom lands and two
frozen rivers. Wind sharpened to steel, with miles of ceaseless
shifting, slashed his cheeks, cut into his full temples, his eyes. He
bowed before the gust so passionately charged with his own rebellion.
To-day he was a priest only in name. For the first time since his
assumption of orders he faced truth and a miserable pretense to Catholic
discipline. Desires half forgotten stood out, duly exaggerated by recent
disappointment. An impulse sent him close to the precipitous ledge, but
he moved backward. To give up life was not his wish. He was defeated,
yet something held him, as in a mirage of fallen hopes he saw a woman's
face and cried out. He had done no wrong. Until the bishop cast him down
he was confident, able to justify esthetic joy in ritualistic service,
which took the place of a natural human tie. Now he knew that his work,
after all, but expressed a woman's exquisite charm. For through plans
and absorbing efforts in behalf of a splendid cathedral he had been
fooled into thinking that he had conquered the disappointment of his
earlier manhood. The bishop had apparently smiled on a dazzling
achievement, and young Father Barry plunged zealously into a great
undertaking. To give his western city a noble structure for posterity
became a ruling passion, and in a few months his eloquence in the
pulpit, together with unremitting personal labor on plans and
elevations, had made the church a certainty. Thousands of dollars, then
hundreds of thousands, fattened a building fund. The bishop appeared to
be pleased; later he was astounded; finally he grew jealous and eager to
be rid of the priest who swayed with words and ruled where a venerable
superior made slight impression. Consequently the charge of "modernism"
fell like a bolt from a clear sky. Until to-day Father Barry had been
absorbed in one idea. His cathedral had taken the place of all that a
young man might naturally desire. When the woman he loved became free he
still remained steadfast to his new ambition. It seemed as if lost
opportunity had attuned his idealistic nature to symbolic love which
could express in visions and latent passion an actual renunciation. That
Isabel Doan understood and rejoiced in the mastery of his intellect gave
him unconscious incentive. In the place of impossible earthly love he
had awakened a consistent dream. Without doubt Mrs. Doan's pure profile
was a motif for classic results. When he spoke to her of architectural
plans, showing drawings for a splendid nave and superb arches, her keen
appreciation always sent him forward with his work. Then, like true
inspiration, visions came and went. Vista effects, altars bright with
golden treasures stirred him to constant endeavor. He heard heavenly
music--the best his young, rich city could procure. Day and night he
worked and begged. Now all was over. For the second time in life the man
faced hopeless disappointment. Deprived of work, removed from the large
parish that for three years had hung on his every word and wish, the
priest stood adrift in the storm. The ignominy of his downfall swept
over him with every lash of an oncoming blizzard. He seemed to feel the
end. The bishop's untethered brogue still clashed in his sensitive ears.
The city he loved, now ready for the best of everything, no longer had a
place for him. He was cast out. Below him spread bottom lands, dotted
for miles with towering grain elevators, packing plants, and wholesale
houses. Vitals of trade lay bare. By vivisection, as it were, he traced
the life of commerce, felt gigantic heart beats of the lower town
blending interests of two great states. In all directions rival
railroads made glistening lines through priceless "bottoms." Father
Barry groaned. Progress seemed to taunt his acknowledged failure. He
turned his back. But again he faced promise. Higher ledges and the upper
town retold a story of established growth. On every hand prosperity
saluted him. Leading from bluffs, the city reached eastward for miles.
As far as he could see domestic roof tops defined the course of streets.
Houses crept to the edge of a retail district, then jumped beyond. On
waiting acres of forest land splendid homes had arisen as if by magic.
Through pangs of disappointment the priest made out the commanding site
selected for his cathedral. A blasted dream evoked passionate prophecy,
and the mirage of the church ordered and built by decrepit taste rose up
before him. The bishop's unsightly work held him. Blinded by the storm,
abnormally keen to a cruel delusion, he saw the end of his own laudable
ambition. To his imagination, the odious brick box on the hillock seemed
to be true. A commonplace elevation, with detached, square towers was
real. With his brain maddened with hallucination, harsh, unmusical
chimes began to sound above the blizzard's roar. Again and again he
heard the refrain, "Too late! Too late!" The significance of a metallic
summons almost stopped his breath, yet fancy led him on to the open
church. He seemed to go within, pressing forward against the crowd.
Below a flaming altar stood the bishop's bier. In the open casket, clad
in robes of state, the old man slept the sleep of death. The brick
monument to stubborn force echoed throughout with chanted requiem and
whispered prayer. Incense clouded gorgeous vestments of officiating
priests. Candles burned on every hand. At the Virgin's shrine flowers
lent fragrance to an impressive scene. Then he seemed to forget the
great occasion,--the bishop at last without power, the kneeling, praying
throng. Longing for human love displaced all other feeling. In the image
of one woman he beheld another, and Isabel Doan assumed the Virgin's
niche.




CHAPTER II


As the suspended priest went from the bluff the mirage of a few moments
faded. The bishop still lived.

Reaction and the determination to face an archbishop impelled him
forward. Why should he submit to sentence without effort to save
himself? He drew the collar of his coat about his ears. At last he was
sensitive to physical discomfort. Air sharp as splintered glass cut
through his lungs. He bowed his head, revolving in his mind the definite
charge of "modernism." What had he really said in the pulpit? Like all
impassioned, extemporaneous speakers he could never quite recall his
words when the occasion for their utterance had passed. Progress was
undoubtedly his sinful theme; yet until lately no heretical taint had
been found in the young father's sermons. Born a dreamer, reared a
Catholic, he attempted rigid self-examination. The task proved futile.
In Italy he would have led Catholic democrats in a great uprising.
Despite the "Index" he rejoiced in the books of "Forgazzar."
"Benedetto's" appeal to the pope to heal the "four wounds of
Catholicism" clung to his mind. The great story touched him
irresistibly. Sinful as it was, he had committed Benedetto's bold
accusations to memory. "Il Santo" still drew him, and he was angry and
sore.

He knew that in a moment of emotional uplift he had forgotten the danger
of independent utterance, the bonds of a Catholic pulpit. But to-day,
while he reverted to the sermon which had suspended him from the
priesthood, he could not repeat one offensive sentence clearly.

The wind increased each moment. A blizzard of three days' duration might
bring him time to think. At the end of the storm every one would hear of
his suspension. The priest hurried on. Then he thought of his mother.
Suddenly the dear soul had prior claim to Mrs. Doan. Above bitterness
the son recalled the date; it was his thirty-second birthday. He told
himself that nothing should keep him from the one who could best
understand his predicament. This dear, sincere mother had counseled him
before; why not now? The foolishness of troubling Mrs. Doan was clear.
As he hastened on his way, he began to wonder what his mother would
really think of the bishop's action. Would she accept her son's
humiliation with serene, unqualified spirit? Would her faith in a
superior's judgment hold? The suspended priest felt the terms for the
true Catholic. He dreaded palliation of the bishop's course. But no--his
mother could never do that. In the case in question her boy must stand
injured, unjustly dealt with.

Father Barry went on with definite intention. His present wish was to
spend a fatal birthday in the home of his boyhood. Fortunately, it was
Monday. Father Corrigan had charge of weekly services. The younger
man's absence would not be construed until after the blizzard. It
flashed through his mind that on the coming Sunday he had hoped to make
the address of his life. Now this last appeal in behalf of a great
cathedral would never be uttered. On his study desk were plans and
detail drawings which must soon cumber a waste basket. Suddenly the
young priest, cast down, humiliated, turned from the tents of his
people, longed to cry out to hundreds who loved him--who believed in
him. But again his thoughts turned to his mother, who would soon hold
him in her loving arms, cry with him, beg him to be patient, worthy of
his bringing up. Then he knew that he was not a true Catholic. His
binding vows all at once seemed pitiless to his thwarted ambition and
human longing.




CHAPTER III


When Father Barry reached the parsonage he found no use for a pass key.
Pat Murphy, his faithful servant and acolyte, was watching for him just
within the door. He drew the half-frozen priest across a small entry, to
a large warmed apartment answering to-day as both study and dining-room.
"The rist of the house do be perishing," the Irishman explained. The
priest sank in front of a blazing coal fire, tossing his gloves to the
table. He held his hands before the glow without comment. They were
wonderful hands, denoting artistic temperament, but with fingers too
pliant, too delicately slender for ascetic life. Philip Barry's hands
seemed formed for luxury, and in