The Higher Court

The Higher Court

CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV CHAPTER XXV CHAPTER XXVI CHAPTER XXVII CHAPTER XXXVIII CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXX CHAPTER XXXI CHAPTER XXXII CHAPTER XXXIII CHAPTER XXXIV CHAPTER XXXV 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 wayand 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 musicthe 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. ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 36509
Author: Daggett, Mary Stewart
Release Date: Jun 25, 2011
Format: eBook
Language: English