His wife clung to his hand. But one thought possessed her,—to call a nerve specialist. Time had passed for deliberation, now she would act.
"Darling," she whispered, "I am going to send for a doctor." He protested, and she went on softly, pleading her right. "You will not stop me this time, as you did when first we came home? You are not well. I cannot bear to see you growing worse when I might bring relief." She felt him bending to her stronger nature, and with streaks of day showing through an atmosphere of mist, her will power seemed to be restored.
He was so quiet that she believed him to be sleeping. She dared not move, still holding his hand, thinking of all which morning might bring forth. That unreasonable dread of life was beginning to threaten Philip's reason, she did not know; nor could she understand the condition of a person trained to religious conformity, then suddenly cast adrift, without spiritual sounding line. It had not occurred to her to doubt her husband's power to live on contentedly without settled, sectarian belief. A religious education had not entered into her own childhood, and as she grew older she formulated views and ethical standards which could not be called orthodox. Her mind had developed independently.
What an apostate priest might suffer she could not readily divine. That Philip had been born with power to move his fellowmen through spoken thoughts she did not seriously consider; nor did she understand that a vital preacher is distinct in his calling. As she lay with closed eyes—yet wide awake—she built only on the wisdom of a specialist who should—who must—help her.
Then suddenly Philip spoke.
"Yes, dear," she answered. "I thought you were sleeping."
"Don't send for a doctor," he pleaded. "Let me rest—just here—I will soon be better." His face touched her own and she felt that his eyes were moist. A tear rolled down between their cheeks.
CHAPTER XXIX
A lull following the tempest seemed an anodyne for broken rest. Philip forgot his anguish through exhaustion, while Isabel dropped into slumber, which always restored her power to hope. Perfect health sustained her. She clung to the determination to hold her dearly bought happiness despite discouraging odds. At broad daylight she lay awake and watchful by the side of her husband. Through open casements the wet sweetness of the morning recharged her nerves. Birds twittered excitedly from drenched trees. The nearby arroyo sent outward a song of drops, piling over stones. Isabel recalled a time when she had been awakened by the musical splash of Roman fountains. Then, as now, Philip Barry claimed her thoughts, set them bounding to the irresistible measure of falling water. During those days she had listened to the rhythmic call in the old palace garden, only to wonder about Philip and the possible outcome of their fresh young love. It seemed a long way back since those ideal weeks. This morning as she lay still and anxious her mind began to revert to incidental happenings which had parted a boy and a girl, but to join them later under tense conditions. She turned with caution and peered into Philip's face. His secret had touched his countenance with unconscious despair. His cheeks were growing hollow. Around his compressed mouth Isabel saw deepening lines. She felt again that her husband could be saved only with the help of a discerning specialist. Time seemed precious and she slipped softly from the sleeper's side to her own room. It was early for a bath, but her firm young flesh cried out for refreshment as she plunged into cool water. Strength came as the result of a regular habit and she dressed quickly, then went below. Only Wing, the Chinese cook, was at his post. Maids, kept awake by the storm, had overslept. Isabel wandered through a closed house to find her faithful celestial already at work. His white garments, noiseless shoes, and optimistic smile always gave her pleasure. "Good morning," she said.