On that August evening all had been so simple—even without a vested choir. Informality prevailed throughout the humble audience. Every one moved his chair at will to the side of some friend. Women used their fans and whispered discreetly to one another. There were few "Sunday hats." Dark, uncovered heads and black crape shawls, richly fringed, worn corner wise, as only Venetian maids can wear them, discounted tawdry finery. Young men and little children sat on the pulpit steps. Every one sang from the heart. Wonderful Italian voices rose in natural harmony; then at last the patriarchal shepherd of the gathered flock came slowly forward. The beautiful old man wore no embroidered vestments on that summer's afternoon. Sheer, spotless white, showing but a line of scarlet beneath the lace around his hands, alone defined ecclesiastical rank. Yet he was strangely grand in the evening light of the golden church. A loving hush pervaded San Marco as he leaned over the pulpit, looking down upon his children. Isabel had never forgotten either the sermon or the marvelous voice of the speaker.
To-night it came to her that to be able to guide one's fellowmen to higher ideals through spoken words, was, after all, a God-given gift. And she had ruined Philip's opportunity. She asked herself a hard question. If he came back with his heart still turning to a natural calling, could she help him? At last she felt his inborn tendency; the early religious background which influenced his temperament. Things entirely outside of her own experience had always been vital to the man she loved. If he came back to her uncertain and wavering in view of returning health and implied difficult conditions, she must give him up. At last the situation seemed plain. But she was bitter withal. Philip's God was hard; she could not understand the miserable decision forced upon her as she sat alone.
Twice she tried to go above to bed, yet something held her. Hours wore on. She felt cold and started a fire. The heat from the hearth sent her into heavy, desperate slumber. She heard no sound. Philip entered softly and alone, for Dr. Judkin had hurried away.
And as he waited—transfixed, he thought of that other night when he had stood outside the curtains, looking in at the woman he dared not touch. Then slowly Isabel opened her eyes, saw that her husband had come; felt that a miracle had restored his power to love. Renunciation of a dark hour was forgotten in a low, glad cry. Philip held her as never before. The strength of his arms made her dumb with joy. She could not speak. Her husband led her to the divan and she listened to his voice, his words. She heard him entreat her to forgive, to live anew.
She felt that nature's rending soul had tried their appealed case to enjoin his human need. Humility charged his fresh purpose as he tenderly pleaded for time to prove the revelation of terrible days back.
Later when she told him about the acceptance of his book he listened incredulously.
Suddenly he understood. "You kept it from deserved oblivion?" he said at last. A fond smile played on his lips. "What have you not done for me?" He kissed away her denial of all personal influence. "Take me back on trust," he implored. "I ask only for the stimulant of your faith; then perhaps—perhaps I may please you, do something worth while."
Isabel knew that his secularization had been sanctioned by The Higher Court. The years to come held glad significance for them both.