He tried to render sympathy and his attempt was not repulsed. "And you took your cousin to Venice?" Mrs. Barry kindly questioned.
Wing shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had lately cut off his cue, and now stood politely, with a gray "Fedora" hat in one hand. "Jus this way," he explained. "I decide—not take my cousin that Venice—all same dleam. Too much expense, I say. More better, not fool money, these hard time. I count up. Must spend two-dollar-half—go that seashore. Too much, I say. My poor cousin have no good shoe, no decent cloe, jus old thing—all tear. I say we not go foolish place after all. I tell my flend we stay Los Angeles—get cheap dinner, len go church. I say Plesbyterian Mission more better, not much expense. Too much sorrow, I say. No time go that Venice—all same dleam. Better hear 'bout heaven."
Mrs. Barry listened gravely. Wing gradually prepared his denouement.
"Plitty good time—all same business," he continued. "You see? My cousin have ole shoe—cannot las velly long. I jus take him that shoe store—see lindow—all so full."
"I understand," said Isabel. "You bought your friend a pair of shoes instead of taking him to Venice?"
Wing smiled. "All same yes," he qualified. "I find that shoe store—tell all 'bout my cousin. I say my poor cousin velly poor; have no shoe—claus he all bloke up that earthquake. That shoeman velly kind, give my flend fine Mellican shoe, light away—not take money. Len we go down street—tly get new hat. Big lindow so full! many nice hat—heap style. We stan long time, look in. Plitty soon man come out—smile, ask what we want. I say, 'My poor flend bloke up that earthquake; have no good hat.' Len man say, 'Come in get fit.' I say, 'No money.' Man say, 'All light; earthquake not come velly often.' My cousin so happy. After while he all fix up. New coat, new shirt,—everything all clean. Len we go down Chinatown, get dinner; go mission. Pleacher say heaven more better; not any earthquake—not any big fire. Pleacher say no old black cow kick up; so solly China people tell that story. Jus be good, he say. Be kind, help that sorrow up San Flancisco."
Isabel had listened throughout with keenest interest. At another time she might have found it difficult to control her countenance. To-night she could not laugh. Almost for the first time she realized the meaning of "the brotherhood of man." She found her purse and sent a liberal donation to celestials lately en route in the cattle car. "Relieve your friends as much as possible," she commanded. "You may take to-morrow off and spend the money as you see best. Those of us who can must help."
The simple kindness of her words fell clearly. Wing went out from her presence as one entrusted with a grave commission. She sat on with her thoughts.
Suddenly she was depressed beyond all control. Joined to her longing for Philip was the dread that he would never be able to forget that he had once been a Catholic and a priest of the Church. And she had made him forsake his calling. Again and again she repeated the publisher's telegram aloud. She tried to tell herself that when Philip came back he must see his way at once to go on with life. He would find his work appreciated, his book accepted. Then he would surely continue to write—become noted. Yet, perhaps authorship might not satisfy him. The man who formerly moved large audiences with his impassioned sermons might not after all make a success in literature. She recalled the first time that she had heard Philip address a congregation. His clear, eloquent handling of a great ethical subject had delighted her. Sitting in a pew with devout Catholics, she had been glad to forget the High Mass, which she did not understand, and follow the speaker in the pulpit. She had felt that her former lover, still her friend, had found his natural profession, for even before ordination, Philip—too young for a priest—was permitted to preach.
To-night Isabel's thoughts wandered back to an earlier Sunday in Venice—in St. Mark's—when they had gone together to vespers. Philip had then jestingly declared that but for her he would go into the Church. "I would like to preach at least one sermon as compelling as the one we have just heard," he told her, as they floated away in their gondola. Now his old words passed through her mind. A strange humility possessed her. Again she lived over those happy, youthful days in Venice. Still of all the churches abroad, of all the services she had witnessed, San Marco with the afternoon in question stood out, apart from other Romish background. At the time, Isabel caught a new view of the Catholic Church in Europe. For at midsummer vespers there had hardly been a suggestion of the pomp and ceremony which on stated occasions is supposed to make St. Mark turn over in his coffin, when clouds of incense pour through open doors into the piazza.