The Puritans

 By

 Arlo Bates

 The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. _All's Well That Ends Well_, iv. 3. 

"Abandoning my heart, and rapt in ecstasy, I ran after her till I cameto a place in which religion and reason forsook me. " _Persian Religious Hymn. 

 CONTENTS

 I. AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT II. THERE BEGINS CONFUSION III. AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND IV. SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE V. VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE VI. HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY VII. THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT VIII. LIKE COVERED FIRE IX. HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH X. A SYMPATHY OF WOE XI. IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING XII. THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVE XIII. A NECESSARY EVIL XIV. HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY XV. HEARTSICK WITH THOUGHT XVI. THE GREAT ASSAY OF ART XVII. A BOND OF AIR XVIII. CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH XIX. 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL XX. IN WAY OF TASTE XXI. THIS "WOULD" CHANGES XXII. THE BITTER PAST XXIII. THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME XXIV. FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL, AND EVER XXV. WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED XXVI. O WICKED WIT AND GIFT XXVII. UPON A CHURCH BENCH XXVIII. BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE XXIX. WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE XXX. PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP XXXI. HOW CHANCES MOCK XXXII. NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS XXXIII. A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN XXXIV. WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED XXXV. THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED XXXVI. THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT XXXVII. THIS IS NOT A BOON

 THE PURITANS

 I

 AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT Henry VIII. , i. 3. 

"We are all the children of the Puritans, " Mrs. Herman said smiling. "Of course there is an ethical strain in all of us. "

Her cousin, Philip Ashe, who wore the dress of a novice from the ClergyHouse of St. Mark, regarded her with a serious and doubtful glance. 

"But there is so much difference between you and me, " he began. Then hehesitated as if not knowing exactly how to finish his sentence. 

"The difference, " she responded, "is chiefly a matter of the differencebetween action and reaction. You and I come of much the same stockethically. My childhood was oppressed by the weight of the Puritancreed, and the reaction from it has made me what you feel obliged tocall heretic; while you, with a saint for a mother, found evenPuritanism hardly strict enough for you, and have taken to semi-monasticism. We are both pushed on by the same original impulse: thestress of Puritanism. "

She had been putting on her gloves as she spoke, and now rose and stoodready to go out. Philip looked at her with a troubled glance, risingalso. 

"I hardly know, " said he slowly, "if it's right for me to go with you. It would have been more in keeping if I adhered to the rules of theClergy House while I am away from it. "

Mrs. Herman smiled with what seemed to him something of the toleranceone has for the whim of a child. 

"And what would you be doing at the Clergy House at this time of day?"she asked. "Wouldn't it be recreation hour or something of the sort?"

He looked down. He never found himself able to be entirely at ease inanswering her questions about the routine of the Clergy House. 

"No, " he answered. "The half hour of recreation which follows Noneswould just be ended. "

His cousin laughed confusingly. 

"Well, then, " she rejoined, "begin it over again. Tell your confessorthat the woman tempted you, and you did sin. You are not in the ClergyHouse just now; and as I have taken the trouble to ask leave to carryyou to Mrs. Gore's this afternoon, more because you wanted to see thisPersian than because I cared about it, it is rather late forobjections. "

Philip raised his eyes to her face only to meet a glance so quizzicalthat he hastened to avoid it by going to the hall to don his cloak; anda few moments later they were walking up Beacon Hill. 

It was one of those gloriously brilliant winter days by which Bostonweather atones in an hour for a week of sullenness. Snow lay in a thinsheet over the Common, and here and there a bit of ice among the tree-branches caught the light like a glittering jewel. The streets weredotted with briskly gliding sleighs, the jingle of whose bells rang outjoyously. The air was full of a vigor which made the blood stir brisklyin the veins. 

Philip had not for years found himself in the street with a woman. Seldom, indeed, was he abroad with a companion, except as he took thewalk prescribed in the monastic regime with his friend, Maurice Wynne. For the most part he went his way alone, occupied in piouscontemplation, shutting himself stubbornly in from outward sights andsounds. Now he was confused and unsettled. Since a fire had a weekearlier scattered the dwellers in the Clergy House, and sent him to thehome of his cousin, he had gone about like one bewildered. The worldinto which he was now cast was as unknown to him as if he had passedthe two years spent at St. Mark's in some far island of the sea. To bein the street with a lady; to be on his way to hear he knew not whatfrom the lips of a Persian mystic; to have in his mind memory of lighttalk and pleasant story; all these things made him feel as if he weredrifting into a strange unknown sea of worldliness. 

Yet his feeling was not entirely one of fear or of reluctance. Sensitive to the tips of his fingers, he felt the influences of theday, the sweetness of his cousin's laughter, the beauty of her face. Hewas exhilarated by a strange intoxication. He was conscious that morethan one passer looked curiously at them as, he in his cassock and shein her furs, they walked up Beacon Street. He felt as in boyhood he hadfelt when about to embark in some adventure to childhood strange anddaring. 

"It is a beautiful day, " he said involuntarily. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Herman answered. "It is almost a pity to spend it indoors. But here we are. "

They had come into Mt. Vernon Street, and now turned in at a fine oldhouse of gray stone. 

"Is there any discussion at these meetings?" he asked, as they waitedfor the door to be opened. 

"Oh, yes; often there is a good deal. You'll have ample opportunity toprotest against the heresies of the heathen. "

"I do not come here to speak, " he replied, rather stiffly. "I only cometo get some idea of how the oriental mind works. "

He felt her smile to be that of one amused at him, but he could not seewhy she should be. 

"I must give you one caution, " she went on, as they entered the house. "It's the same that the magicians give to those who are present attheir incantations. Be careful not to pronounce sacred words. "

"But don't they use them?"

"Oh, abundantly; but they know how to use them in a fashion understoodonly by the initiated, so that they are harmless. "

They passed up the wide staircase of Mrs. Gore's handsome, if over-furnished house. They were shown into the drawing-room, where they weremet by the hostess, a tall, superb woman of commanding presence, herhead crowned with masses of snow-white hair. Coming in from thebrilliant winter sunlight, Philip could not at first distinguishanything clearly. He went mechanically through his presentation to thehostess and to the Persian who was to address the meeting, and thensank into a seat. He looked curiously at the Persian, struck by thepicturesque appearance of the long snow-white beard, fine as silk, which flowed down over the rich robe of the seer. The face was toPhilip an enigma. To understand a foreign face it is necessary to havelearned the physiognomy of the people to which it belongs, as tocomprehend their speech it is necessary to have mastered theirlanguage. As he knew not whether the countenance of the old manattracted or repelled him more, and could only decide that at least ithad a strange fascination. 

Suddenly Ashe felt his glance called up by a familiar presence, and tohis surprise saw his friend, Maurice Wynne, come into the room, accompanied by a stately, bright-eyed woman who was warmly greeted byMrs. Gore. He wondered at the chance which had brought Maurice here aswell as himself; but the calling of the meeting to order attracted histhoughts back to the business of the moment. 

The Persian was the latest ethical caprice of Boston. He had come bythe invitation of Mrs. Gore to bring across the ocean the knowledge ofthe mystic truths contained in the sacred writings of his country; andhis ministrations were being received with that beautiful seriousnesswhich is so characteristic of the town. In Boston there are manypersons whose chief object in life seems to be the discovery of novelforms of spiritual dissipation. The cycle of mystic hymns which thePersian was expounding to the select circle of devotees assembled atMrs. Gore's was full of the most sensual images, under which theinspired Persian psalmists had concealed the highest truth. Indeed, Ashe had been told that on one occasion the hostess had been obliged tostop the reading on the ground that an occidental audience notaccustomed to anything more outspoken than the Song of Solomon, andunused to the amazing grossness of oriental symbolism, could not listento the hymn which he was pouring forth. Fortunately Philip had chancedupon a day when the text was harmless, and he could hear withoutblushing, whether he were spiritually edified or not. 

The Persian had a voice of exquisite softness and flexibility. Hisevery word was like a caress. There are voices which so move and stirthe hearer that they arouse an emotion which for the moment mayoverride reason; voices which appeal to the senses like beguilingmusic, and which conquer by a persuasive sweetness as irresistible asit is intangible. The tones of the Persian swayed Ashe so deeply thatthe young man felt as if swimming on a billow of melody. Philipregarded as if fascinated the slender, dusky fingers of the reader asthey handled the splendidly illuminated parchment on which glowedstrange characters of gold, marvelously intertwined with leaf andflower, and cunning devices in gleaming hues. He looked into the deep, liquid eyes of the old man, and saw the light in them kindle as thereading proceeded. He felt the dignity of the presence of the seer, andthe richness of his flowing garment; but all these things were only thefitting accompaniments to that beautiful voice, flowing on like a topazbrook in a meadow of daffodils. 

The Persian spoke admirable English, only now and then by a slightaccent betraying his nationality. He made a short address upon theantiquity of the hymn which he was that day to expound, its authorship, and its evident inspiration. Then in his wonderful voice he read:--

 THE HYMN OF ISMAT. 

Yesterday, half inebriated, I passed by the quarters where the vintnersdwell, to seek the daughter of an infidel who sells wine. 

At the end of the street, there advanced before me a damsel, with afairy's cheeks, who in the manner of a pagan wore her tressesdishevelled over her shoulders like a sacerdotal thread. I said: "Othou, to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave, whatquarter is this, and where is thy mansion?"

She answered: "Cast thy rosary to the ground; bind on thy shoulder thethread of paganism; throw stones at the glass of piety; and quaff froma full goblet. "

"After that come before me that I may whisper a word in thine ear;--thou wilt accomplish thy journey if thou listen to my discourse. "

Abandoning my heart, and rapt in ecstasy, I ran after her until I cameto a place in which religion and reason forsook me. 

At a distance I beheld a company all insane and inebriated, who cameboiling and roaring with ardor from the wine of love. 

Without cymbals or lutes or viols, yet all filled with mirth andmelody; without wine or goblet or flagon, yet all incessantly drinking. 

When the cord of restraint slipped from my hand, I desired to ask herone question, but she said: "Silence!"

"This is no square temple to the gate of which thou canst arriveprecipitately; this is no mosque to which thou canst come with tumult, but without knowledge. This is the banquet-house of infidels, andwithin it all are intoxicated; all from the dawn of eternity to the dayof resurrection lost in astonishment. "

"Depart thou from the cloister and take thy way to the tavern; cast offthe cloak of a dervish, and wear the robe of a libertine. "

I obeyed; and if thou desirest the same strain and color as Ismat, imitate him, and sell this world and the next for one drop of purewine!

The company sat in absorbed silence while the reading went on. Nothingcould be more perfect than the listening of a well-bred Bostonaudience, whether it is interested or not. The exquisitely modulatedvoice of the Persian flowed on like the tones of a magic flute, and thewomen sat as if fascinated by its spell. 

When the reading was finished, and the Persian began to comment uponthe spiritual doctrine embodied in it, Ashe sat so completely absorbedin reverie that he gave no heed to what was being said. In his asceticlife at the Clergy House he had been so far removed from the sensuous, save for that to which the services of the church appealed, that thisenervating and luxurious atmosphere, this gathering to which its quasi-religious character seemed to lend an excuse, bred in him a species ofintoxication. He sat like a lotus-eater, hearing not so much the wordsof the speaker as his musical voice, and half-drowned in the pleasureof the perfumed air, the rich colors of the room, the Persian's dress, the illuminated scroll, in the subtile delight of the presence ofwomen, and all those seductive charms of the sense from which thechurch defended him. 

The Persian, Mirza Gholân Rezâh, repeated in his flute-like voice: "'Othou, to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave;'" and, hearing the words as in a dream, Philip Ashe looked across the littlecircle to see a woman whose beauty smote him so strongly that he drew aquick breath. To his excited mood it seemed as if the phrase wereintended to describe that beautifully curved brow, brown against thefair skin, and in his heart he said over the words with a thrill: "'Othou, to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave!'" Halfunconsciously, and as if he were taken possession of by a will strongerthan his own, he found himself noting the soft curve and flush of awoman's cheek, the shell-texture of her ear, and the snowy whiteness ofher throat. She sat in the full light of the window behind him, leaningas she listened against a pedestal of ebony which upheld the bronzebust of a satyr peering down at her with wrinkled eyes; her throat wasdisplayed by the backward bend of her head, and showed the whiter bycontrast with the black gown she wore. Philip's breath came morequickly, and his head seemed to swim. Sensitive to beauty, and starvedby asceticism, he was in a moment completely overcome. 

Suddenly he felt the regard of his friend Maurice resting upon him witha questioning glance, and it was as if the thought of his heart werelaid bare. Philip made a strong effort, and fixed his look and hisattention upon the speaker, who was deep in oriental mysticism. 

"It is written in the Desâtir, " Mirza Gholân Rezâh was saying, "thatpurity is of two kinds, the real and the formal. 'The real consists innot binding the heart to evil: the formal in cleansing away whatappears evil to the view. ' The ultimate spirit, that inner flame fromthe treasure-house of flames, is not affected by the outward, by theapparent. What though the outer man fall into sin? What though he throwstones at the glass of piety and quaff the wine of sensuality from afull goblet? The flame within the tabernacle is still pure andundefined because it is undefilable. "

Ashe looked around the circle in astonishment, wondering if it werepossible that in a Christian civilization these doctrines could beproclaimed without rebuke. His neighbors sat in attitudes of closeattention; they were evidently listening, but their faces showed noindignation. On the lips of Wynne Philip fancied he detected a faintcurl of derisive amusement, but nowhere else could he perceive anydisplay of emotion, unless--He had avoided looking at the lady inblack, feeling that to do so were to play with temptation; but theattraction was too strong for him, and he glanced at her with a look ofwhich the swiftness showed how strongly she affected him. It seemed tohim that there was a faint flush of indignation upon her face; and hecast down his eyes, smitten by the conviction that there was anintimate sympathy between his feeling and hers. 

"This is the word of enlightenment which the damsel, thepersonification of wisdom, whispered into the ear of the seeker, "continued the persuasive voice of the Persian. "It is the heart-truthof all religion. It is the word which initiates man into the divinemysteries. 'Thou wilt accomplish thy journey if thou listen to mydiscourse. ' Life is affected by many accidents; but none of themreaches the godhead within. The divine inebriation of spiritual truthcomes with the realization of this fact. The flame within man, which isabove his consciousness, is not to be touched by the acts of the body. These things which men call sin are not of the slightest feather-weightto the soul in the innermost tabernacle. It is of no real consequence, "the speaker went on, warming with his theme until his velvety eyesshone, "what the outer man may do. We waste our efforts in thischildish care about apparent righteousness. The real purity is aboveour acts. Let the man do what he pleases; the soul is not therebytouched or altered. "

Ashe sat upright in his chair, hardly conscious where he was. It seemedto him monstrous to remain acquiescent and to hear without protest thisjuggling with the souls of men. The instinct to save his fellows whichunderlies all genuine impulse toward the priesthood was too strong inhim not to respond to the challenge which every word of the Persianoffered. Almost without knowing it, he found himself interrupting thespeaker. 

"If that is the teaching of the Persian scriptures, " he said, "it isimpious and wicked. Even were it true that there were a flame from theSupreme dwelling within us, unmanifested and undeniable, it isevidently not with this that we have to do in our earthly life. It iswith the soul of which we are conscious, the being which we do know. This may be lost by defilement. To this the sin of the body is death. I, I myself, I, the being that is aware of itself, am no less the onethat is morally responsible for what is done in the world by me. "

Led away by his strong feeling, Philip began vehemently; but theconsciousness of the attention of all the company, and of the searchinglook of Mirza, made the ardent young man falter. He was a stranger, unaccustomed to the ways of these folk who had come together to playwith the highest truths as they might play with tennis-balls. He felt asudden chill, as if upon his hot enthusiasm had blown an icy blast. 

Yet when he cast a glance around as if in appeal, he saw nothing ofdisapproval or of scorn. He had evidently offended nobody by hisoutburst. He ventured to look at the unknown in black, and she rewardedhim with a glance so full of sympathy that for an instant he lost thethread of what the Persian, in tones as soft and unruffled as ever, wassaying in reply to his words. He gathered himself up to hear and toanswer, and there followed a discussion in which a number of thosepresent joined; a discussion full of cleverness and the adroit handlingof words, yet which left Philip in the confusion of being made torealize that what to him were vital truths were to those about himmerely so many hypotheses upon which to found argument. There were morewomen than men present, and Ashe was amazed at their cleverness andtheir shallow reasoning; at the ease and naturalness with which theyplayed this game of intellectual gymnastics, and at the apparentfailure to pierce to anything like depth. It was evident that whileeverything was uttered with an air of the most profound seriousness, itwould not do to be really in earnest. He began to understand what Helenhad meant when she warned him not to pronounce sacred words in thisstrange assembly. 

When the meeting broke up, the ladies rose to exchange greetings, tochat together of engagements in society and such trifles of life. Ashe, still full of the excitement of what he had done, followed his cousinout of the drawing-room in silence. As they were descending the widestaircase, some one behind said:--

"Are you going away without speaking to me, Helen?"

Ashe and Mrs. Herman both turned, and found themselves face to facewith the lady in black, who stood on the broad landing. 

"My dear Edith, " Mrs. Herman answered, "I am so little used to thissort of thing that I didn't know whether it was proper to stop to speakwith one's friends. I thought that we might be expected to go out as ifwe'd been in church. I came only to bring my cousin. May I present Mr. Ashe; Mrs. Fenton. "

"I was so glad that you said what you did this afternoon, Mr. Ashe, "Mrs. Fenton said, extending her hand. "I felt just as you did, and Iwas rejoiced that somebody had the courage to protest against thatdreadful paganism. "

Philip was too shy and too enraptured to be able to reply intelligibly, but as they were borne forward by the tide of departing guests he wasspared the need of answer. At the foot of the stairway he was stoppedagain by Maurice Wynne, and presented to Mrs. Staggchase, his friend'scousin and hostess for the time being; but his whole mind was taken upby the image of Mrs. Fenton, and in his ears like a refrain rang thewords of the Persian hymn: "O thou, to the arch of whose eyebrow thenew moon is a slave!"

 II

 THERE BEGINS CONFUSION Henry VI. , iv. 1. 

That afternoon at Mrs. Gore's had been no less significant to MauriceWynne than to Philip Ashe. His was a less spiritual, less highlywrought nature, but in the effect which the change from the atmosphereof the Clergy House to the Persian's lecture had upon him, theexperience of Maurice was much the same. He too was attracted by awoman. He gave his thoughts up to the woman much more frankly thanwould have been possible for his friend. She was young, perhaps twenty, and exquisite with clear skin and soft, warm coloring. Her wide-openeyes were as dark and velvety as the broad petals of a pansy with thedew still on them; her cheeks were tinged with a hue like that whichspreads in a glass of pure water into which has fallen a drop of redwine; her forehead was low and white, and from it her hair sprang up intwo little arches before it fell waving away over her temples; her lipswere pouting and provokingly suggestive of kisses. The whole face wasof the type which comes so near to the ideal that the leastsentimentality of expression would have spoiled it. Happily the bigeyes and the ripe, red mouth were both suggestive of demure humor. There was a mirthful air about the dimple which came and went in theleft cheek like Cupid peeping mischievously from the folds of hismother's robe. A boa of long-haired black fur lay carelessly about herneck, pushed back so that a touch of red and gold brocade showed whereshe had loosened her coat. Maurice noted that she seemed to care aslittle for the lecture as he did, and he gave himself up to the delightof watching her. 

When the company broke up Mrs. Staggchase spoke almost immediately tothe beautiful creature who so charmed him. 

"How do you do, Miss Morison, " Mrs. Staggchase said; "I must say that Iam surprised that cousin Anna brought you to a place where the doctrineis so far removed from mind-cure. My dear Anna, " she continued, turningto a lady whom Wynne knew by name as Mrs. Frostwinch and as anattendant at the Church of the Nativity, "you are a living miracle. Youknow you are dead, and you have no business consorting with the livingin this way. "

"It is those whom you call dead that are really living, " Mrs. Frostwinch retorted smiling. "I brought Berenice so that she might seethe vanity of it all. "

Mrs. Staggchase presented Maurice to the ladies, and after they hadspoken on the stairs with one and another acquaintance, and Maurice hadexchanged a word with his friend Ashe, it chanced that the four leftthe house together. Wynne found himself behind with Miss Morison, whilehis cousin and Mrs. Frostwinch walked on in advance. He was seized witha delightful sense of elation at his position, yet so little was heaccustomed to society that he knew not what to say to her. He waskeenly aware that she was glancing askance at his garb, and after amoment of silence he broke out abruptly in the most naively unconsciousfashion:--

"I am a novice at the Clergy House of St. Mark. "

A beautiful color flushed up in Miss Morison's dark cheek; and Wynnerealized how unconventional he had been in replying to a question whichhad not been spoken. 

"Is it a Catholic order?" she asked, with an evident effort not to lookconfused. 

"It is not Roman, " he responded. "We believe that it is catholic. "

"Oh, " said she vaguely; and the conversation lapsed. 

They walked a moment in silence, and then Maurice made another effort. 

"Has Mrs. Frostwinch been ill?" he asked. "Mrs. Staggchase spoke of heras a miracle. "

"Ill!" echoed Miss Morison; "she has been wholly given up by thephysicians. She has some horrible internal trouble; and a consultationof the best doctors in town decided that she could not live a week. That was two months ago. "

"But I don't understand, " he said in surprise. "What happened?"

"A miracle, " the other replied smiling. "You believe in miracles, ofcourse. "

"But what sort of a miracle?"

"Faith-cure. "

"Faith-cure!" repeated he in astonishment. "Do you mean that Mrs. Frostwinch has been raised from a death-bed by that sort of jugglery?"

His companion shrugged her shoulders. 

"I don't think it would raise you in her estimation if she heard you. The facts are as I tell you. She dismissed her doctors when they saidthey could do nothing for her, and took into her house a mind-curewoman, a Mrs. Crapps. Some power has put her on her feet. Wouldn't youdo the same thing in her place?"

Wynne looked bewildered at Mrs. Frostwinch walking before him in ashimmer of Boston respectability. He had an uneasy feeling that he waspassing from one pitfall to another. He was keenly conscious of therichness of the voice of the girl by his side, so that he felt that itwas not easy for him to disagree with anything which she said. He lether remark pass without reply. 

"For my part, " she went on frankly, "I don't in the least believe inthe thing as a matter of theory; but practically I have a superstitionabout it, because I've seen Cousin Anna. She was helpless, in agony, dying; and now she is as well as I am. If I were ill"--

She broke off with a pretty little gesture as they came within hearingof the others, who had halted at Mrs. Frostwinch's gate. Wynne saidgood-by absently, and went on his way down the hill like a man in adream. 

"Well, " Mrs. Staggchase said, "you have seen one of Boston's ethicaldebauches; what do you think of it?"

"It was confusing, " he returned. "I couldn't make out what it was for. "

"For? To amuse us. We are the children of the Puritans, you know, andhave inherited a twist toward the ethical and the supernatural sostrong that we have to have these things served up even in ouramusements. "

"Then I think that it is wicked, " Maurice said. 

"Oh, no; we must not be narrow. It isn't wrong to amuse one's self;and if we play with the religion of the Persians, why is it worse thanto play with the mythologies of the Greeks or Romans? You wouldn'tthink it any harm to jest about classical theology. "

Wynne turned toward her with a smile on his strong, handsome face. 

"Why do you try to tangle me up in words?" he asked. 

Mrs. Staggchase did not turn toward him, but looked before with faceentirely unchanged as she replied:--

"I am not trying to entangle you in words, but if I were it would beall part of the play. You are undergoing your period of temptation. Iam the tempter in default of a better. In the old fashion oftemptations it wouldn't do to have the tempter old and plain. Then youwere expected to fall in love; now we deal in snares more subtle. "

Maurice laughed, but somewhat unmirthfully. There was to him somethingbewildering and worldly about his cousin; and he had come to feel thathe could never be at all sure where in the end the most harmlessbeginning of talk might lead him. 

"What then is the modern way of temptation?" he inquired. 

"It shows how much faith we have in its power, " she replied, as theywaited on the corner of Charles Street for a carriage to pass, "that Idon't in the least mind giving you full warning. Did you know the ladyin that carriage, by the way?"

"It was Mrs. Wilson, wasn't it?"

"Yes; Mrs. Chauncy Wilson. You have seen her at the Church of theNativity, I suppose. She is one phase of the temptation. "

"I don't in the least understand. "

"I didn't in the least suppose that you would. You will in time. Mypart of the temptation is to show you all sorts of ethical jugglery, the spiritual and intellectual gymnastics such as the Bostonians love;to persuade you that all religion is only a sort of pastime, and thatthe particular high-church sort which you especially affect is but oneof a great many entertaining ways of killing time. "

"Cousin Diana!" he exclaimed, genuinely shocked. 

"I hope that you understand, " she continued unmoved. "I shall exhibit avery pretty collection of fads to you if we see them all. "

"But suppose, " he said slowly, "that I refused to go with you?"

"But you won't, " returned she, with that curious smile which alwaysteased him with its suggestion of irony. "In the first place youcouldn't be so impolite as to refuse me. A woman may always lead a maninto questionable paths if she puts it to his sense of chivalry not todesert her. In the second, the spirit of the age is a good dealstronger in you than you realize, and the truth is that you wouldn't beleft behind for anything. In the third, you could hardly be so cowardlyas to run away from the temptation that is to prove whether you werereally born to be a priest. "

"That was decided when I entered the Clergy House. "

"Nonsense; nothing of the sort, my dear boy. The only thing that wasdecided then was that you thought you were. Wait and see our ethicaland religious raree-shows. We had the Persian to-day; to-morrow I'm totake you to a spiritualist sitting at Mrs. Rangely's. She hates tohave me come, so I mustn't miss that. Then there are the mind-cure, Theosophy, and a dozen other things; not to mention the semi-irreligions, like Nationalism. You will be as the gods, knowing goodand evil, by the time we are half way round the circle, --though it isperhaps somewhat doubtful if you know them apart. "

She spoke in her light, railing way, as if the matter were one of thesmallest possible consequence, and yet Wynne grew every moment more andmore uncomfortable. He had never seen his cousin in just this mood, andcould not tell whether she were mocking him or warning him. He seizedupon the first pretext which presented itself to his mind, andendeavored to change the subject. 

"Who is Mrs. Rangely?" he asked. "A medium?"

"Oh, bless you, no. She is not so bad as a medium; she is only a NewYorker. Do you think we'd go to real mediums? Although, " she added, "there are plenty who do go. I think that it is shocking bad form. "

"But you speak as if"--

"As if spiritualism were one of the recognized ethical games, that'sall. It is played pretty well at Mrs. Rangely's, I'm told. They saythat the little Mrs. Singleton she's got hold of is very clever. "

"Mrs. Singleton, " Maurice repeated, "why, it can't be Alice, brotherJohn's widow, can it? She married a Singleton for a second husband, andshe claimed to be a medium. "

"Did she really? It will be amusing if you find your relatives in thebusiness. "

"She wasn't a very close relative. John was only my half-brother, youknow, and he lived but six months after he married her. She is cleverenough and tricky enough to be capable of anything. "

"Well, " Mrs. Staggchase said, as they turned in at her door, "if it isshe it will give you an excellent chance to do missionary work. "

They entered the wide, handsome hall, and with an abrupt movement thehostess turned toward her cousin. 

"I assure you, " she said, "that I am in earnest about your temptation. I want to see what sort of stuff you are made of, and I give you fairwarning. Now go and read your breviary, or whatever it is that you shammonks read, while I have tea and then rest before I dress. "

Maurice had no reply to offer. He watched in silence as she passed upthe broad stairway, smiling to herself as she went. He followed slowlya moment later, and seeking his room remained plunged in a reverie atwhich the severe walls of the Clergy House might have been startled; areverie disquieted, changing, half-fearful; and yet through which withstrange fascination came a longing to see more of the surprising worldinto which chance had introduced him, and above all to meet again thedark, glowing girl with whom he had that afternoon walked. 

 III

 AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND Merchant of Venice, v. 2. 

It was cold and gray next morning when Maurice took his way toward aCatholic church in the North End. He had been there before forconfession, and had been not a little elated in his secret heart thathe had been able to go through the act of confession and to receiveabsolution without betraying the fact that he was not a Romanist. Hehad studied the forms of confession, the acts of contrition, andwhatever was necessary to the part, and for some months had gone on inthis singular course. To his Superior at the Clergy House he confessedthe same sins, but Maurice had a feeling that the absolution of theRoman priest was more effective than that of his own church. He was notconscious of any intention of becoming a Catholic, but there was afascination in playing at being one; and Wynne, who could notunderstand how the folk of Boston could play with ethical truths, wasyet able thus to juggle with religion with no misgiving. 

This morning he enjoyed the spiritual intoxication of the confessionalas never before. He half consciously allowed himself to dwell upon theimage of the beautiful Miss Morison to the end that he might the moreeffectively pour out his contrition for that sin. He was so eloquent inthe confessional that he admired himself both for his penitence and forthe words in which he set it forth. He floated as it were in a sea ofmingled sensuousness and repentance, and he hoped that the penanceimposed would be heavy enough to show that the priest had beenimpressed with the magnitude of the sin of which he had been guilty inallowing his thoughts, consecrated to the holy life of the priesthood, to dwell upon a woman. 

It was one of those absurd anomalies of which life is full that whileMaurice sometimes slighted a little the penances imposed by his ownSuperior, he had never in the least abated the rigor of any laid uponhim by the Catholic priest. It was perhaps that he felt his honorconcerned in the latter case. This morning the penance wassatisfactorily heavy, and he came out of the church with a buoyantstep, full of a certain boyish elation. He had a fresh and delightfulsense of the reality of religion now that he had actually sinned andbeen forgiven. 

Next to being forgiven for a sin there is perhaps nothing moresatisfactory than to repeat the transgression, and if Maurice had notformulated this fact in theory he was to be acquainted with it inpractice. As he walked along in the now bright forenoon, filled withthe enjoyment of moral cleanness, he suddenly started with the thrillof delicious temptation. Just before him a lady had come around acorner, and was walking quietly along, in whom at a glance herecognized Miss Morison. There came into his cheek, which even hisdouble penances had not made thin, a flush of pleasure. He quickenedhis steps, and in a moment had overtaken her. 

"Good morning, " he said, raising his ecclesiastical hat with an airwhich savored somewhat of worldliness. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

She started at his salutation, but instantly recognized him. 

"Good morning, " she responded. "I didn't expect to find anybody I knewin this part of the town. "

"It isn't one where young ladies as a rule walk for pleasure, Isuppose, " Maurice said, falling into step, and walking beside her. 

"I am very sure that I don't, " Miss Morison replied with a toss of herhead. "I do it because I was bullied into being a visitor for theAssociated Charities, and I go once a week to tell some poor folk downhere that I am no better than they are. They know that I don't believeit, and I have my doubts if they even believe it themselves, only theywouldn't be foolish enough to prevaricate about it. Oh, it's a greatand noble work that I'm engaged in!"

There was something exhilarating about her as she tossed her prettyhead. Wynne laughed without knowing just why, except that sheintoxicated him with delight. 

"You don't speak of your work with much enthusiasm, " said he. 

"Enthusiasm!" she retorted. "Why should I? It's abominable. I hate it, the people I visit hate it, and there's nobody pleased but themanagers, who can set down so many more visits paid to the worthy poor, and make a better showing in their annual report. For my part I amtired of the worthy poor; and if I must keep on slumming, I'd like totry the unworthy poor a while. I'm sure they'd be more interesting. "

She spoke with a pretty air of recklessness, as if she were consciousthat this was not the strain in which to address one of his cloth. There was not a little vexation under her lightness of manner, however, and Wynne was not so dull as not to perceive that something had goneamiss. 

"But philanthropy, " he began, "is surely"--

"Your cousin, " she interrupted, "declares that only the eye ofOmniscience can possibly distinguish between what passes forphilanthropy and what is sheer egotism. "

He laughed in spite of himself, feeling that he ought to be shocked. 

"But what, " he asked, "has impressed this view of things upon you thismorning in particular?"

His companion made a droll little gesture with both her hands. 

"Of course I show it, " she said; "though you needn't have reminded methat I have lost my temper. "

"I beg your pardon, " began Maurice in confusion, "I"--

"Oh, you haven't done anything wrong, " she interrupted, "the trouble isentirely with me. I've been making a fool of myself at the instigationof the powers that rule over my charitable career, and I don't like thefeeling. "

They walked on a moment without further speech. Maurice said to himselfwith a thrill of contrition that he would double the penance laid uponhim, and he endeavored not to be conscious of the thought whichfollowed that the delight of this companionship was worth the pricewhich he should thus pay for it. 

"This is what happened, " Miss Morison said at length. "I don't quiteknow whether to laugh or to cry with vexation. There's a poor widowwho has had all sorts of trials and tribulations. Indeed, she's been amiracle of ill luck ever since I began to have the honor to assure herweekly that I'm no better than she is. It may be that the fib isn'tlucky. "

She turned to flash a bright glance into the face of her companion asshe spoke, and he tried to clear away the look of gravity so quicklythat she might not perceive it. 

"Oh, " she cried; "now I have shocked you! I'm sorry, but I couldn'thelp it. "

"No, " he replied, "you didn't really shock me. It only seemed to me apity that you should be working with so little heart and underdirection that doesn't seem entirely wise. "

"Wise!" she echoed scornfully. "There's a benevolent gentleman whoinsisted upon giving this old woman five dollars. It was all againstthe rules of the Associated Charities, for which he said he didn't carea fig. That's the advantage of being a man! And what do you think theold thing did? She took the whole of it to buy a bonnet with a redfeather in it! The committee heard of it, though I can't for my lifesee how. There are a lot of them that seem to think that benevolenceconsists chiefly in prying into the affairs of the poor wretches theyhelp! And they posted me off to scold her. "

"But why did you go?"

"They said they would send Miss Spare if I didn't, and in commonhumanity I couldn't leave that old creature to the tender mercies ofMiss Spare. "

"What did you say?"

The face of Miss Morison lighted with mocking amusement. 

"That's the beauty of it, " she cried, bursting into a low laugh whichwas full of the keenest fun. "I began with the things I'd been told tosay; but the old woman said that all her life long she had wanted abonnet with red feathers, but that she had never expected to have one. When she got this money, she went out to buy clothing, and in a windowshe saw this bonnet marked five dollars. She piously remarked that itseemed providential. She's like the rest of the world in finding whatshe likes to be providential. "

"Yes, " murmured Maurice, half under his breath; "like my meeting you. "

Miss Morison looked surprised, but she ignored the words, and went onwith her story. 

"She said she concluded she'd rather go without the clothes, and havethe bonnet; and by the time we were through I had weakly gone back onall the instructions I'd received, and told her she was right. She knewwhat she wanted, and I don't blame her for getting it when she could. I'm sick of seeing the poor treated as if they were semi-idiots thatcouldn't think without leave from the Associated Charities. "

The whole tone of the conversation was so much more frank than anythingto which Wynne was accustomed that he felt bewildered. This freedom ofcriticism of the powers, this want of reverence for conventionalities, gave him a strange feeling of lawlessness. He felt as if he had himselfbeen wonderfully and almost culpably daring in listening. He wonderedthat he was not more shocked, being sure that it was his duty to be. There was about the young man's mental condition a sort of infantileunsophistication. The New England mind often seems to inherit frombygone Puritanism a certain repellent quality through which it takeslong for anything savoring of worldliness or worldly wisdom topenetrate. When once this covering is broken, it may be added, theresult is much the same as in the case of the cracking of other glazes. 

After he had parted from Miss Morison, Maurice walked on in a blissfulstate of conscious sinfulness. He understood himself well enough toknow that before him lay repentance, but this did not dampen hispresent enjoyment. He had not so far outgrown his New Englandconscience as to escape remorse for sin, but he had become soaccustomed to the belief that absolution removed guilt that there wasin his cup of self-reproach little abiding bitterness. 

That afternoon he accompanied Mrs. Staggchase to the house of Mrs. Rangely with a confused feeling as if he were some one else. His cousinwore the same delicately satirical air which marked all her intercoursewith him. She carried her head with her accustomed good-humoredhaughtiness, and her straight lips were curled into the ghost of asmile. 

"This is the most stupid humbug of them all, " she remarked, as theyneared Mrs. Rangely's house on Marlborough Street. "You'll think thedeception too transparent to be even amusing, --if you don't become aconvert, that is. "

"A convert to spiritualism?" Wynne returned with youthful indignation. "I'm not likely to fall so low as that. That is one of the things whichare too ridiculous. "

She laughed, with that air of superiority which always nettled him alittle. 

"Don't allow yourself to be one of those narrow persons to whom a thingis always ridiculous if they don't happen to believe it. You believein so many impossible things yourself that you can't afford to take onairs. "

The tantalizing good nature with which she spoke humiliated Wynne. Sheseemed to be playing with him, and he resented her reflection upon hiscreed. He was, however, too much under the spell of his cousin to bereally angry, and he was silenced rather than offended. They enteredthe house to find several of the persons whom he had seen at Mrs. Gore's on the day previous; and Wynne was at once charmed anddisquieted by the entrance a moment later of Miss Morison, who came inlooking more beautiful than ever. It gave him a feeling of exultationto be sharing her life, even in this chance way. 

The preliminaries of the sitting were not elaborate. Mrs. Rangely, thehostess, impressed it upon her guests that Mrs. Singleton, the medium, was not a professional, but that she was with them only in the capacityof one who wished to use her peculiar gifts in the search for truth. 

"She does not understand her powers herself, " Mrs. Rangely said; "butshe feels that it is not right to conceal her light. "

Maurice was too unsophisticated to understand why Mrs. Rangely's talkstruck him as not entirely genuine, but he was to some extentenlightened when his cousin said to him afterward: "Frances Rangely hasthe imitation Boston patter at her tongue's end now, but she is toothoroughly a New Yorker ever to get the spirit of it. She rattles offthe words in a way that is intensely amusing. "

The shutters of the small parlor in which the company was assembled hadbeen closed and the gas lighted. There were about a dozen guests, andall had the air of being of some position. While the hostess went tosummon the medium, Maurice asked in a whisper if the master of thehouse was present, and was answered that Fred Rangely was too clever tobe mixed up in this sort of thing. Wynne caught a satirical glancebetween his cousin and Miss Morison, and more than ever he felt thatthe meeting was a farce in which he, vowed to a nobler life, shouldhave had no part. 

His musings were cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Rangely with themedium. He recognized Mrs. Singleton at a glance, and was struck as hehad been before by the appealing look of innocence. She was a slender, almost beautiful woman, with exquisite shell-like complexion, anddelicate features. An entire lack of moral sense frequently gives to awoman an air of complete candor and purity, and Alice Singleton stoodbefore the company as the incarnation of sincerity and truth. Her facewas of the rounded, full-lipped, wistful type; the sensuous, selfishface moulded into the likeness of childlike guilelessness which of allthe multitudinous varieties of the "ever womanly" is the one mostlikely to be destructive. 

Had it not been that Maurice was acquainted with her history, he couldhardly have resisted the fascination of this creature, as tender and asinnocent in appearance as a dewy rose; but he was thoroughly aware ofher moral worthlessness. Yet as she stood shrinking on the threshold asif she were too timid to advance, he could not but feel herattractiveness and the sweetness of her presence. He watched curiouslyas in response to a word from Mrs. Rangely she came hesitatinglyforward, bowed in acknowledgment to a general introduction, and sankinto the chair placed for her in the centre of the circle. She was cladin black, but a little of her creamy neck was visible between the foldsof lace which set off its fairness. Her arms were bare half way to theelbows, and her hands were ungloved. Maurice wondered if she wouldrecognize him; then he reflected that he sat in the shadow, out of thedirect line of her vision, and that it was years since she had seenhim. 

"We will have the gas turned down, " Mrs. Rangely said; and at onceturned it, not down, but completely out, leaving the room in absolutedarkness. 

There followed an interval of silence, and Maurice, whose wits weresharpened by his knowledge of the medium, and who was on the lookoutfor trickery, reflected how inevitable it was that this breathlesssilence, coupled with the darkness and the expectation of somethingmysterious, should bring about the frame of mind which the medium woulddesire. The silence lasted so long that he, not wrapt in expectation, began to grow impatient. He put out his hand timidly in the darknessand touched the chair in which Miss Morison was sitting, gettingfoolish comfort from even such remote communion. He fell into a reveriein which he felt dimly what life might have been with her always at hisside, had he not been vowed to the stern refusal of all earthlycompanionship. 

His reflections were broken by a loud, quivering sigh seeming to comefrom the medium, and echoed in different parts of the room. There wasanother brief interval of silence, and then the medium began to speak. Her tone was strained and unnatural, and at first she murmured toherself. Then her words came more clearly and distinctly. 

"Oh, how beautiful!" she whispered. Then in a voice growing clearer shewent on: "Bright forms! There are three, --no, there are five; oh, theroom is full of them. Oh, how bright they are growing! They shine sothat they almost blind me. Don't you see them?"

The room rustled like a field of wheat under a breeze. 

"There is one that is clearer than the others, " went on the voice ofthe medium in the electrical darkness. "She is all shining, but I cansee that her hair is white as snow. She must have been old before shewent into the spirit world. She smiles and leans over the lady in thearmchair. Oh, she is touching you! Don't you feel her dear hands onyour head?"

Maurice felt the chair against which his fingers rested shaken by amovement of awe or of impatience. He flushed with indignation. It wasMiss Morison to whom the medium was directing this childishimpertinence. He longed to interfere, and even made so brusque amovement that Mrs. Staggchase leaned over and whispered to him toremain quiet. 

"There are many spirits here, " the medium went on with increasingfervor, "but none of them are so clear. She is speaking to you, but youcannot hear her. She is grieved that you do not understand her. Oh, tryto listen so that you may hear her message with the spiritual ear. Sheis so anxious. "

The audience seemed to quiver with excitement. Simply because a womanwhom Maurice knew to be capable of any falsehood sat here in thedarkness and pretended to see visions, these men and women wereapparently carried out of themselves. It seemed to him at oncemonstrous and pitifully ridiculous. 

"It must be your grandmother, " spoke again the voice of Mrs. Singleton, now thick with emotion. "Yes, she nods her head. She is so anxious toreach through your unconsciousness. Wait! she is going to do something. I think she is going to give you some token. Let me rest a moment, sothat I can help her. She wants to materialize something. "

Heavy silence, but a silence which seemed alive with excitement, oncemore prevailed. Maurice began himself to feel something of theinfluence pervading the gathering, and was angry with himself for it. Suddenly a cry from the medium, earnest and full of feeling, broke outshrilly. 

"Oh, she has something in her hand. Try to assist her. She will succeedin materializing it fully if we can help her with our wills. I can seeit becoming clearer--clearer--clearer! Now she is smiling. She ishappy. She knows she will succeed. Yes; it is--Oh, what beautifulroses! They are changing from white to red in her hands. She holds themup for me to see; she is lifting them up over your head. Now, now sheis going to drop them! Quick! The light!"

The voice of Mrs. Singleton had risen almost to a scream, and bit thenerves of the hearers. As she ended Maurice heard the soft sound ofsomething falling, and felt Miss Morison start violently. The gas wasat once lighted, and there in the lap and at the feet of Berenice, whoregarded them with an expression of mingled disgust and annoyance, layscattered a handful of crimson roses. 

The company broke into expressions of admiration, of belief, of awe. Mrs. Singleton had played to her audience with evident success. MissMorison gathered up the flowers without a word, and held them out tothe medium, who lay back wearied in her chair. 

"Don't give them to me, " Mrs. Singleton said in a faint voice. "Theywere brought for you. "

"How can you bear to give them up?" a woman said. "It must be yourgrandmother that brought them. "

"My grandmother was in very good health in Brookfield yesterday, "Berenice responded. "I hardly think that they come from her. "

The tone was so cold that Mrs. Singleton was visibly disconcerted. 

"Of course I don't know the spirit, " she said. "But are both yourgrandmothers living?"

"She nodded her head, you know, " put in another. 

To this Miss Morison did not even reply; but the awkwardness of thesituation was relieved by Mrs. Rangely, who broke into conventionalphrases of admiration and wonder. 

"Yes, Frances, " Mrs. Staggchase observed dryly, "as you say, itcouldn't be believed if one hadn't seen it. "

Her manner was unheeded in the flood of praise and congratulation withwhich Mrs. Singleton was being overwhelmed. 

"It is what I've longed for all my life, " one lady declared, wiping hereyes. "I never could have confidence in professional mediums, but thisis so perfectly satisfactory. Oh, I _do_ feel that I owe you so much, Mrs. Singleton!"

"Yes, this we have seen with our own eyes, " another added. "It isimpossible for the most skeptical to doubt this. "

To this and more Maurice listened in amazement, until he ratherthought aloud than consciously spoke:--

"But it all depends upon the unsupported testimony of the medium. "

Mrs. Rangely drew herself up with much dignity. 

"That, " she said, "I will be responsible for. "

"It isn't unsupported, " chimed in one of the ladies. "Here are theroses. "

At the sound of Maurice's voice Mrs. Singleton had turned toward him, and he saw that she recognized him. She looked around with a glancehalf terrified, half appealing. 

"It is so kind in you to believe in me, " she murmured pathetically. "Idon't ask you to. I only tell you what I see, and"--

Maurice rose abruptly and strode forward. 

"Alice, " he exclaimed, "what do you mean by this humbug? Don't you seethat they take it seriously? Tell them it's a joke. "

Again Mrs. Singleton looked around as if to see whether she hadsupport. 

"It is manly of you to attack me, " she answered, evidently satisfiedwith the result of her survey. "I cannot defend myself. "

"Do you mean to insist?" he demanded, with growing anger. 

"If the roses do not justify what I said, " responded she, sinking backas if exhausted, "it may be that I saw only imaginary shapes. "

A sharp murmur ran around the room. The believers were evidentlyrallying indignantly to the support of their sibyl, and cast upon Wynneglances of bitter reproach. He looked at Mrs. Staggchase, but it wasimpossible to judge from her expression whether she approved ordisapproved of what he had done. He was suddenly abashed, and stoodspeechless before the rising tide of outraged remonstrance. Thenunexpectedly came from behind him the clear voice of Miss Morison. 

"It is unfortunate that the roses should have been given to me, " shesaid, "for by an odd chance I saw them bought a couple of hours ago onTremont Street. "

There was an instant of hushed amazement, and then the medium fled fromthe parlor in hysterics. 

 IV

 SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE Measure for Measure, v. 1. 

"O thou to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave!"

Philip Ashe colored with self-consciousness as the words came into hismind. He felt that he had no right to think them, and yet as he lookedacross the table at his hostess it seemed almost as if the phrase hadbeen spoken in his ear by the seductive voice of Mirza Gholân Rezâh. Hesighed with contrition, and looked resolutely away, letting his glancewander about the room in which he was sitting at dinner. He noted thepanels of antique stamped leather, and although he had had littleartistic training, he was pleased by the exquisite combination of richcolors and dull gold. Some Spanish palace had once known the glorieswhich now adorned the walls of Mrs. Fenton's dining-room, and even hisuneducated eye could see that care and taste had gone to the decorationof the apartment. Jars of Moorish pottery, few but choice, and piecesof fine Algerian armor inlaid with gold were placed skillfully, eachdisplayed in its full worth and yet all harmonizing and combining inthe general effect. Ashe knew that the husband of Mrs. Fenton had beenan artist of some note, and so strongly was the skill of a master-handvisible here that suddenly the painter seemed to the sensitive youngdeacon alive and real. It was as if for the first time he realizedthat the beautiful woman before him might belong to another. By aquick, unreasonable jealousy of the dead he became conscious of howkeenly dear to him had become the living. 

Ashe had met Mrs. Fenton a number of times during the week which hadintervened since the Persian's lecture at Mrs. Gore's. He had seen heronce or twice at the house of his cousin, with whom Mrs. Fenton wasintimate, and chance had brought about one or two encounters elsewhere. He had until this moment tried to persuade himself that his admirationfor her was that which he might have for any beautiful woman; butlooking about this room and realizing so completely the husband deadhalf a dozen years, he felt his self-deception shrivel and fall toashes. With a desperate effort he put the thought from him, and gavehis whole attention to the talk of his companions. 

"Yes, Mr. Herman is in New York, " Mrs. Herman was saying. "He has goneon to see about a commission. They want him to go there to execute it, but I don't think he will. "

"Doesn't he like New York?" asked Mr. Candish, the rector of the Churchof the Nativity, who was the fourth member of the little company. 

Mrs. Herman and Mrs. Fenton both laughed. 

"You know how Grant feels about New York, Edith, " the former said. "Ifanything could spoil his temper, it is a day in what he calls themetropolis of Philistinism. "

"I never heard Mr. Herman say anything so harsh as that aboutanything, " Candish responded. "Do you feel in that way about it?"

"The thing which I dislike about the place is its provincialism, " sheanswered. "It is the most provincial city in America, in the sense thatnothing really exists for it outside of itself. If I think of New Yorkfor ten minutes I have no longer any faith in America. "

"Then I shouldn't think of it, Helen, " put in Mrs. Fenton. 

"Then you wouldn't go with your husband if he went there to do thiswork, I suppose, " Mr. Candish observed. 

"I should go with him anywhere that, he thought it best to go. I fearthat you haven't an exalted idea of the devotion of the modern wife, Mr. Candish. "

Ashe watched with interest the rector, who flushed a little. He knew ofhim well, having more than once heard the awkwardness and socialinadaptability of the man urged as reasons of his unfitness to beplaced at the head of the most fashionable church in the city. Philipsaw him glance at the hostess and then cast down his eyes; and wonderedif this were simple diffidence. 

"That is hardly fair, " Mr. Candish said, somewhat awkwardly. "Theclergy, not having wives, are poor judges in such a matter. "

"That might be taken as an argument for the marriage of the clergy, "she responded with a smile. 

"How so?"

"If they had wives they would be better able to sympathize with thetrials and joys of their parishioners. "

"I never thought of that, " murmured Mrs. Fenton. 

Mr. Candish flushed all over his homely, freckled face. 

"By the same reasoning you might hold that a clergyman should havecommitted all the sins in the decalogue, so that he should have readysympathy with all sorts of sinners. "

"I'm not sure that he wouldn't be more useful if he had, " Mrs. Hermananswered with a smile; "at least a man who hasn't wanted to commit asin must find it hard to sympathize with the wretch that hasn't beenstrong enough to resist temptation. Still, I hope that sin and marriageare not put into the same category. "

"Oh, of course not, " Mrs. Fenton interpolated. "Marriage is asacrament. "

"It has always seemed to me inconsistent, " Mrs. Herman went on, "thatthe church should exclude her priests from one of the sacraments. "

Ashe saw a faint cloud pass over the face of the hostess. He washimself a little shocked; and Candish frowned slightly. 

"The church admits her priests to this sacrament in a higher sense, " hesaid with some stiffness. 

Helen smiled. 

"Now I have shocked you, " was her comment. "I beg your pardon. "

"I can never accustom myself to a familiar way of handling sacredthings, " he returned. "It is to me too vital a matter. "

"I am afraid that that is because you are still so young, " sheretorted. "It is, if you'll pardon me, the prerogative of youth to findall views but its own intolerable. "

The manner in which this was said deprived the words of their sting, but Mrs. Fenton evidently felt that they were getting upon dangerousground, and she interposed. 

"We shall ask you to define youth next, Helen, " she threw in. 

"Oh, that is easy. Young people are always those of our own age. "

In the laugh that followed this the question of the marriage of theclergy was allowed to drop; but to all that had been said Philip hadlistened with a beating heart. He felt the air about him to be chargedwith meanings which he could not divine. He had somehow a suspicionthat the hostess was more interested in this talk than she was willingto show; and with what in a moment he recognized as consummate andfatuous egotism, he felt in his heart the shadow of a hope that theremight be some connection between this and her interest in him. Then afear followed lest there might be things here hidden which would makehim miserable did he understand. 

"Mrs. Herman insists that she is a Puritan, " Mrs. Fenton said a momentlater. "You see how she proves it by the position she takes on allthese questions. "

"Of course I am a Puritan, " was the answer. "I was born so. There isnothing which I believe that wouldn't have seemed to my forefathersgood ground for having me whipped at the cart's tail, but I am Puritanto the bone. "

"I don't see what you mean, " Candish said. 

"I mean that I inherit, like all of us children of the Puritans, theway of looking at things without regard to consequences, of feelingdevoutly about whatever seems to us true, and of realizing thatindividual preferences do not alter the laws of the universe; isn'tthat the essence of Puritanism?"

"Perhaps, " he answered; "but are the unbelievers of to-day devout?"

Ashe looked at his cousin as she paused before answering. He felt thatthe question must baffle her. He did not comprehend what was behind herfaint smile. 

"Certainly not all of them, " was her reply. "The age isn't greatlygiven to reverence. I am a Puritan, however, and I must say what Ithink. I believe that there is a hundredfold more devoutness in theinfidelity of New England to-day than in its belief. "

Ashe leaned forward in amazement, half overturning his glass in hiseagerness. 

"Why, that is a contradiction of terms, " he exclaimed. 

Mrs. Herman's smile deepened. 

"Not necessarily, Cousin Philip, " returned she. 

"It is possible for belief to degenerate into mere conventionality, while sincere doubters at least must have a realization of the mysteryand the awe which overshadow life. "

Mrs. Fenton put up her hand in a pretty gesture of deprecation. 

"Come, " she said, "I don't wish to be despotic, but I can't let Mrs. Herman lead you into a discussion of that sort. We'll talk of somethingelse. "

"Am I to bear the blame of it all?" demanded Helen. "That I callgenuinely theological. "

"Worse and worse, " the hostess responded. "Now you attack the cloth. "

"It seems to me, " observed Mr. Candish, coming out of a brief study inwhich he had apparently not heard Mrs. Fenton's last words, "that youleave out of account the matter of desire. The believer at least longsto believe, and surely deserves well for that. "

"I don't see why. Certainly he hasn't learned the first word of thephilosophy of life who still confounds what he desires and what hedeserves. "

"Come, Helen, " put in Mrs. Fenton; "I wouldn't have suspected you oftrying to pose as a belated remnant of the Concord School. "

Ashe easily perceived that the hostess was becoming more and moreuneasy at the course of the discussion. He could see too that Mr. Candish was growing graver, and his sallow face beginning to flushthrough its thin skin. It was evident that Mrs. Fenton saw andappreciated these signs, and wished to change the subject ofconversation. Philip wondered that she took the matter so gravely, butcast about in his own mind for the means of helping her. Before hecould think of anything to say his cousin had started a fresh topic. 

"By the way, " she asked, "who is to be bishop?"

Candish shook his head with a grave smile. 

"We should be relieved if we knew, " was his answer. 

"There's a great deal being done to defeat Father Frontford, " Asheadded; "but the lay delegates haven't been chosen. "

"The friends of Mr. Strathmore are working very hard, " observed Mrs. Fenton. "It would be a great misfortune if they were to succeed. "

"But I suppose the friends of Father Frontford are at work too?"returned Helen. 

Ashe thought that he detected a faint trace of satire in her voice, andhe turned toward her with earnest gravity. 

"It is not to be supposed, " he answered, "that the friends of thechurch are idle at a time of so much importance. Mr. Strathmore isreally little better than a Unitarian; or at least he is so lax thathe gives the world that opinion. "

He felt that this was a reply which must end all inclination toraillery on her part. He began to feel fresh sympathy with thedisturbance of Mr. Candish earlier in the dinner. The matter now was tohim so vital that he could not talk of it except with the greatestgravity. He watched Helen closely to discover if she were disposed tosmile at his reply. He could detect no ridicule in her expression, although she did not seem much impressed with the weight of the chargehe had brought against Mr. Strathmore, the popular candidate for thebishopric of the diocese, then vacant. 

"Mrs. Chauncy Wilson is doing a good deal, " Mrs. Fenton remarked, glancing smilingly at Helen. 

"Oh, yes, " responded the other. "I remember now that she declined to beon a committee for the picture-show because, as she said, she had torun the campaign for the bishop. "

"The expression, " Candish began, rather stiffly, "is somewhat"--

"It is hers, not mine, " Helen replied. "I should not have chosen thephrase myself. "

"It is singular, " Mrs. Fenton said thoughtfully, "how little generalinterest there is in this matter of the choice of a bishop. "

"And what there is, " Mrs. Herman put in with a faint suspicion ofraillery in her tone, "comes from the fact that Mr. Strathmore ispopular as a radical. "

"It is natural enough that the general public should look at it in thatway, " Mr. Candish commented. "Mr. Strathmore has all the elements ofpopularity. He is emotional and sympathetic; and religious laxitypresented by such a man is always attractive. "

"The infidelity of the age finds such a man a living excuse, " Ashesaid, feeling to the full all that the words implied. 

Mrs. Fenton smiled upon him, but shook her head. 

"That is a somewhat extreme view to take of it, Mr. Ashe. I think it israther the personal attraction of the man than anything else. "

The talk drifted away into more secular channels, and Ashe in timeforgot for the moment that he was already almost a priest. Youth wasstrong in his blood, and even when a man has vowed to serve heaven bycelibacy the must of desire may ferment still in his veins. A youthfulascetic has in him equally the making of a saint and a monster; anduntil it is decided which he is to be there will be turmoil in hissoul. His newly realized love for Mrs. Fenton threw Ashe into a tumultof mingled bliss and anguish. The heart of the most simple mortal soarsand exults in the sense that it loves. It may be timid, sad, despairing, but even the smart of love's denial cannot destroy the joyof love's existence. Philip felt the sting of his conscience; he lookedupon his passion as no less hopeless than it was opposed to his vows;he was overshadowed by a half-conscious foresight of the pain whichmust arise from it; yet he swam on waves of delight such as even in hismoments of religious ecstasy he had never before known. He felt hischeeks flush, and when his cousin glanced at him he dropped his eyes inthe fear that they would betray his secret. He dared not look openly atMrs. Fenton, yet from time to time he stole glances so slyly that heseemed almost to deceive himself and to conceal from his conscience thetransgression. 

Yet, too, he struggled. He realized at moments what he was doing, andhis cheek grew pale at the idea that he was juggling with hisconscience and his soul. He tried to attend to the talk, and could onlysucceed in listening for the sound of her voice. He kept no more holdon the conversation than was sufficient to allow him to put in a wordnow and then to cover his preoccupation. The instinct of simulationasserted itself as it springs in a bird which flies away to decoy thehunter from its nest. He feigned to be interested, to be as usual, butall his blood was trembling and tumbling with this new delirium; andall struggles to forget his passion only increased its intensity. 

At moments he was astonished at himself. He could not understand whathad taken possession of him. He even whispered a desperate question tohimself whether it might not be that he had been singled out for aspecial temptation of the devil, --a distinction too flattering to bewholly disagreeable. Then he glanced again at his hostess, fair, sweet, and to his mind sacred before him, and felt that he had wronged her bysupposing that the arch fiend could make of her a temptation. He hadfor a moment a humiliating fear that he might have eaten something thatafter the spare diet of the Clergy House had exhilarated him unduly. Hefelt that at best he was a poor thing; and he seemed to stand outsideof his bare, empty life, pitying and scorning the futility of anexistence unblessed by the love of this peerless woman. 

The evening went on, and Ashe struggled to conceal the wild commotionof his mind, feeling it almost a relief to get away, so fearful had hebeen of losing control of his tumultuous emotions. It would be bliss tobe alone with his dream. 

As he and Mrs. Herman were going home, Helen said:--

"I do wonder"--

"What do you wonder?" he asked. 

"Did I say that out loud?" she responded. "I didn't mean to. I wasthinking that I couldn't help wondering whether Edith Fenton will evermarry Mr. Candish. "

The first thought of Ashe was terror lest his secret had beendiscovered; his second was a memory of the way in which he had seenMrs. Fenton look at the rector at dinner. He was overwhelmed by a rushof hot anger against his rival. 

"Mr. Candish!" he echoed. "Why, he is an ordained priest!"

His own words cut him like a sword. He had himself pronounced the deathsentence of his own hope. It was with difficulty that he suppressed agroan, and what reply or comment Mrs. Herman made was lost in thetumult of an inner voice crying in his heart: "O thou, to the arch ofwhose eyebrow the new moon is a slave!"

 V

 VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE Comedy of Errors, ii. 1. 

On the morning after the dinner at Mrs. Fenton's, Philip Ashe andMaurice Wynne met on the steps of Mrs. Chauncy Wilson's. The house wason the proper side of the Avenue, with a regal front of marble and withbalconies of wrought iron before the wide windows above, one ofespecially elaborate workmanship, having once adorned the front of thepalace of the Tuileries. Pillars of verd antique stood on either sideof the doorway, as if it were the portal of a temple. 

"Good morning, Phil, " Maurice called out as they met. "Are you boundfor Mrs. Wilson's too?"

"Yes, " was the answer. "I had a note last night. "

"Well, " Wynne said gayly, as they mounted the steps, "if the inside ofthe house is as splendid as the outside, we two poor duffers will beout of place enough in it. "

Ashe smiled. 

"You may be a duffer if you like, " he retorted, "but I'm not. "

"Here comes somebody, " was the reply. "For my part I'm half afraid ofMrs. Wilson. They say"--

But the door began to move on its hinges, and cut short his words. 

Wynne might have concluded his remark in almost any fashion, for therewere few things which had not been said about Mrs. Wilson. Although shehad been born and bred in Boston, one of the most common comments uponher was that she was "so un-Bostonian. " Exactly what the epithet"Bostonian" might mean would probably have been hard to explain, but itis seldom difficult to defend a negation; it was at least easy to showthat the lady did not regard the traditions in which she had beennourished, and that she had a boldness which was as far as possiblefrom the decorous conventionality to be expected of one in whose veinsran the blood of the most correctly exclusive old Puritan families. 

There was a general feeling that Mrs. Wilson's marriage was to be heldaccountable for many of her eccentricities; although, as Mrs. Staggchase remarked, if Elsie Dimmont had not been what she was shewould not have chosen Chauncy Wilson. Well-born, wealthy, pretty, andnot without a certain cleverness, Miss Dimmont had had choice ofsuitors enough who were all that the most exacting of her relativescould desire; yet she had disregarded the conviction of the family thatit was her duty to marry to please them, and had chosen to pleaseherself by selecting a handsome young doctor whom she met at the houseof a cousin in the country. He was of some local eminence in hisprofession, it is true, although as time went on he gave less attentionto it; he was handsome, and astute, and amusing; but he was a manwithout ancestors or traditions. He seemed born to justify the sayingthat nothing subdues the feminine imagination like force; and althoughthe stormy times which were liberally predicted at the marriage of twocreatures so strong-willed had undoubtedly marked their marital career, it was in the end impossible not to see that Dr. Wilson had secured andheld command of his household. 

It is impossible for two to live together, however, without mutualreaction, and Elsie had unquestionably lost something of the finenessof the breeding which was hers by right of birth. For a time after hermarriage she had been excessively given up to gayety. She had figuredas a leader in the fastest of the "smart set, " as society journalscalled it. She rode well, owned a stud which could not be matched intown, and raced for stakes which startled the conservative old city. Itwas even affirmed by the more credulous or more scandalous of thegossips that it was only the stand taken by the managers of the CountyClub which prevented her on one occasion from riding as her own jockey;and short of this there was little she did not do. 

All this, however, was in the early days of the marriage, before Dr. Wilson had become accustomed to his position as husband of the richestwoman in town and a member of what was to him the sacred aristocracy. When the time came that he had found his place and entered his vetoupon these wild doings, there was an instant and determined revolt onthe part of his wife. Elsie fought desperately to maintain her positionas head of the family. By way of humiliating her husband she flirtedwith an openness which won for her a reputation by no means to beenvied, and she wantonly trampled on his wishes. Given a husband, however, with an iron will and a fibre not too fine, with a good temperand yet with a certain ruthlessness in asserting his sway, and thereis little doubt that in the end he will triumph. If a clever, handsome, good-humored man does not subdue a wild, headstrong wife, it is almostsurely owing to over-delicacy; and Chauncy Wilson was never hampered bythis. Elsie plunged and reared when she felt the curb, --to use a figurewhich in those days might have been her own, --but she was by ajudicious application of whip and spur taught that she had found hermaster. The result was that she became not only manageable, butdevotedly fond of her husband. No woman was ever mastered and treatedwith kindness who did not thereupon love. Dr. Wilson was too good-natured to be unkind, and for the most part he allowed his wife to haveher way, fully aware that he had but to speak to restrain her; and thusit came about that the household was on a most peaceful andsatisfactory basis. 

Mrs. Wilson, however, craved excitement, and ethical amusements shelaughed to scorn. She did, it is true, take up high-church piety, whichshe treated, as Mrs. Staggchase did not hesitate to say, as aplaything; but her interest in church matters was chiefly in the lineof politics. She took charge of the affairs of the Church of theNativity with a high hand which abashed and disquieted the devoutrector. She liked Mr. Candish, although she did not hesitate to jest athis unpolished manners and rather unprepossessing person, and it wasinevitable that she should be unable to appreciate his self-denyingdevotion. On one or two occasions she had found him to have a will notinferior to her own; and although she resented whatever balked herpleasure, she was yet a woman and respected power in a man. 

Mr. Candish was of all men the one least resembling the traditionalpastor of a fashionable church, and had nothing of the caressing mannerdear to the souls of self-pampered penitents. Fashionable women foundlittle to admire in this man with the air of a bourgeois and thesimplicity of a babe. He had, however, a strong will, and a sure faithwhich was not without its effect upon his parishioners. Ladies whosereligion was largely an affair of nerves found comfort in relying uponhis simple and untroubled devotion. They were piqued by being treatedas souls rather than bodies, but this was perhaps one of the secrets ofhis influence. Every woman of his flock had unconsciously some secretconviction that to her was reserved the triumph of subduing thisintractable nature, hitherto unconquered by the fascinations of thesex. An ugly man may generally be successful with women if he remainssufficiently indifferent to them. His unattractiveness, suggesting, asit must, the idea of his having cause to be especially solicitous andhumble, imparts to his attitude in such a case an all-subduing flavorof mystery. The instinctive belief of the other sex is that he is butprotecting his sensitiveness, and each longs to tear aside the veil ofdissimulation. The rector, it may be added, was an eloquent preacher, and he intoned the service wonderfully. His voice in speaking wassomewhat harsh, but when he intoned, it melted into a beautifulbaritone, rich, full, and sweet, which, informed by his deep andearnest feeling, thrilled his hearers with profound emotion. Mrs. Wilson was proud of the effect which the service at the Nativity alwayshad, and she took in it the double pleasure of one who claimed a sharein religious enthusiasms and who had something of the glory of amanager whose tenor succeeds in opera. 

Into the contest over the election of a bishop to fill the placerecently left vacant Mrs. Wilson had thrown herself with characteristicvigor. There were but two candidates now seriously considered, the Rev. Rutherford Strathmore and Father Frontford. The former, a popularpreacher of liberal views, was regarded as the more likely to receivethe appointment, but the High Church party contested the point warmly, supporting the claims of the Father Superior of the Clergy House whichwas the home of Maurice Wynne and Philip Ashe. The political side ofthe matter was exactly to Mrs. Wilson's taste. A woman has but to berich enough and determined enough to be allowed to amuse herself withthe highest concerns of both church and state; and Mrs. Wilson lackedneither money nor determination. Her vigor at first disconcerted and inthe end outwardly subdued the clergy. If she actually had lessinfluence than she supposed, she was at least thoroughly entertained, and that after all was her object. She interviewed influential persons, she wrote letters, some of them sufficiently ill-judged, she soughtinformation in regard to the character and circumstances of the clergyin the diocese, and did everything with the zeal and dash whichcharacterized whatever she undertook. 

"Have you any idea what Mrs. Wilson wants of us?" Wynne asked ofPhilip, as they waited in the luxurious reception-room. 

"I only know that Father Frontford said that we were to put ourselvesunder her orders, " was the reply. "Of course it is something about theelection. "

Maurice looked at him keenly. 

"Old fellow, " he said, "you look pale. What's the matter with you?"

"I didn't sleep well, " Ashe answered with a flush. "I went to Mrs. Fenton's to dine, and the indulgence wasn't good for me. It's reallynothing. "

Maurice did not reply, but sank into an easy-chair and looked abouthim. The room was a charming fancy of the decorator, who claimed tohave taken his inspiration from the American mullein. The ceiling wasof a pale, almost transparent blue, a tint just strong enough tosuggest a sky and yet leave it half doubtful if such a meaning wereintended; the walls were hung with a rough paper matching in hue thevelvety leaves of the plant, here and there touched withconventionalized figures of the yellow blossoms. This contrast of greenand yellow was softened and united by a clever use of the clear red ofthe mullein stamens sparingly used in the figures on the walls, in thecords of the draperies, and in the trimmings of the velvet furniture. The decorator had used the same simple tone for walls, furniture, andcurtains; and the effect was delightfully soothing and distinguished. 

Wynne felt somehow out of place in this room which bore the stamp ofwealth and taste so markedly. He smiled to himself a little bitterly, recalling how alien he was to these things. Descended from a family forgenerations established in a New England town, he had in his veins toogood blood to feel abashed at the sight of splendors; but he had in hislife seen little of the world outside of lecture-rooms or the ClergyHouse. Born with the appreciation of sensuous delight, with theinstinctive desire for the beautiful and refined, he felt awake withinhim at contact with the richness and luxury of the life which he wasnow leading tastes which he had before hardly been aware of possessing. He was being influenced by the joy of worldly life, so subtlypresented that he did not even appreciate the need of guarding againstthe danger. 

His reflections were cut short by the entrance of a servant whoconducted the young men to a private sitting-room up-stairs. The hallsthrough which they passed were hung with superb old tapestry, interspersed with magnificent pictures. On the broad landing it wasalmost as if the visitors came into the presence of a beautiful woman, lying naked amid bright cushions in an oriental interior. As he droppedhis eyes from the alluring vision, Maurice saw in the corner the nameof the artist. 

"Fenton, " he said aloud. "Did he paint that?"

His companion started, regarding the picture with widening eyes. TheEnglish footman, whom Wynne addressed, turned back to say over hisshoulder:--

"Yes, sir; they say it's his best picture, and some says he painted hisbest friend's wife that way, with nothing on, sir. "

"It is a wicked picture!" Ashe said with what seemed to Mauriceunnecessary emphasis. 

The footman regarded the speaker over his shoulder with a smile. 

"Oh, that's owin' to your bein' of the cloth, sir, " was his comment. "They don't generally feel to own to likin' it; but they mostly noticesit. "

A superb screen of carved and gilded wood stood before an open doorabove. When this was reached, the footman slipped noiselessly behindit, and they heard their names announced. 

"Show them in, " Mrs. Wilson's voice said. 

The lady met them in a wonderful morning gown which seemed to bechiefly cascades of lace, with bows of carmine ribbon here and therewhich brought out the color of the dark eyes and hair of the wearer. Maurice could hardly have told why he flushed, yet he was conscious ofthe feeling that there was something intimate in the costume. To be metby this beautiful woman, her hand outstretched in greeting, her eyesshining, her white neck rising out of the foam of laces; to breathe theair, soft and perfumed, of this room; to be surrounded by this luxury, these tokens of a life which stinted nothing in the pursuit ofenjoyment; more than all to appreciate by some subtle inner sense theappealing charm of femininity, the suggestions of domestic intimacies;all this was to the young deacon to be exposed to influences far moreformidable to the ascetic life than those grosser temptations withwhich a stupid fiend assailed St. Anthony. Wynne drew a deep breath, wondering why he felt so strangely moved and confused; yetunconsciously steeling himself against owning to his conscience whatwas the truth. 

"It is so good of you to come early, " Mrs. Wilson said brightly. "Ihope you don't mind coming upstairs. I wanted to talk to youconfidentially, and we might be interrupted. Besides, you see, I am notdressed to go down. "

The young men murmured something to the effect that they did not in theleast mind coming up. 

"Didn't mind coming up!" she echoed. "Is that the way you answer a ladywho gives you the privilege of her private sitting-room? Come, you mustdo better than that. If you can't compliment me on my frock, you mightat least say that you are proud to be here. "

The two deacons stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, abashed ather raillery. Maurice saw the lips of Ashe harden, and he hastened tospeak lest his companion should say something stern. 

"You should remember, Mrs. Wilson, " he said a little timidly, yet notwithout a gleam of humor, "that our curriculum at the Clergy House doesnot include a course in compliment. "

"It should then, " she responded gayly. "How in the world is a clergymanto get on with the women of his congregation if he can't compliment?Why, the salvation or the damnation of most women is determined bycompliments. "

The visitors stood speechless. Mrs. Wilson broke into a gleeful laugh. 

"Come, " cried she; "now I have shocked you! Pardon me; I should haveremembered--_virginibus puerisque!_ Sit down, and we will come tobusiness. "

Both the young men flushed at her half-contemptuous, half-jestingphrase, but they sat down as directed. Mrs. Wilson took her seatdirectly in front of them, and proceeded to inspect them with cooldeliberation. 

"I am looking you over, " she observed calmly. "I must decide what workyou are fitted for before I can assign anything to you. "

Two young men do not live together so intimately, and care for eachother so tenderly as did the two deacons without coming to know eachother well; and Maurice was so fully aware of the extreme sensitivenessof Ashe that he involuntarily glanced at his friend to see how he borethis inspection. He resented the impertinence of the scrutiny far moreon Philip's account than his own. Ashe's pale face had on it thefaintest possible flush, and his always grave manner had become reallysolemn; but otherwise he made no sign. Wynne had a certain sense ofhumor which helped him through the ordeal, and there was a faint gleamof a smile in his eye as he confronted the brilliant woman before him;but he was ill-pleased that his friend should be made uncomfortable. 

"Do you judge by outward appearances, " he asked, "or have you power toread the heart?"

"Men so seldom have hearts, " she retorted, "that it is not worth whileto bother with that branch. " Then she added, as if thinking aloud, andlooking Ashe in the face: "You are an enthusiast, and take things withfrightful seriousness. You must see Mrs. Frostwinch. You'll just suither. "

Maurice could see his companion shrink under this cool directness, andhe hastened to interpose. 

"But Mrs. Frostwinch, " he said, "is absorbed in Christian Science orsomething, isn't she?"

"Oh, dear, yes, " Mrs. Wilson answered, toying with the broad crimsonribbon which served her as a girdle. "There is a horrid woman namedTrapps, or Grapps, or Crapps, or something, that has fastened herselfupon cousin Anna, and is mind-curing her, or Christian-sciencing her, or fooling her in some way; but Mrs. Frostwinch is too well-bred reallyto have any sympathy with anything so vulgar. She takes to it indesperation; but she really detests the whole thing. "

"But, " Ashe began hesitatingly, "does her conscience"--

Mrs. Wilson laughed, making a gesture as if sweeping all that sort ofthing aside. 

"I dare say her conscience pricks her, if that's what you mean; butit's so much easier to endure the sting of conscience than of cancerthat I'm not surprised at her choice. "

"Besides, " Maurice put in, "this is all done nowadays under the name ofreligion. It isn't as if it were called by the old names of mesmerismor Indian doctoring. "

"That's true enough, " assented she. "At any rate Anna is mixed up withthis woman, who gets a lot of money out of her, and earns it by makingher think that she's better. However, Cousin Anna must be made to seethat it's her duty in this case to use her influence to prevent theelection of a man who would subvert the church if he could. "

"But if you are her cousin, " Ashe began, "would it not"--

"Be better if I went to see her myself? Not in the least. She entirelydisapproves of my having anything to do with the election. Besides, nobody can successfully talk religion to a woman but a man. "

Maurice smiled in spite of himself at the air with which this was said, but he none the less felt that Mrs. Wilson was flippant. 

"What influence has Mrs. Frostwinch?" he asked. 

"Well, " Mrs. Wilson answered, leaning back to consider, "I don't knowwhether to say that she controls three votes in the upper house of theConvention, or four. "

The two young men regarded her in puzzled silence. 

"There are at least three clergymen in the diocese that are dependentupon her, " Mrs. Wilson explained. "There is Mr. Bobbins: he married hercousin, --not a near cousin, but near enough so that Anna has halfsupported the family, and the family is always increasing. I tell Annathat they have babies just to work on her compassion. I think it'swrong to encourage it, myself. Then there is Mr. Maloon; he depends onMrs. Frostwinch to support his mission. Then there's Brother Pewtap, --did you ever know such a lovely name for a country parson?--he justlives on her with a family bigger than Mr. Robbins's. He's really aStrathmore man, but he wouldn't dare to vote against her wishes. Shemight manage all those votes. Besides, there's a Mr. Jewett somewherenear Lenox that she's helped a good deal; but I haven't found out abouthim yet. "

She rose as she spoke, and went to a writing-table fitted out with allthe inventions known to man for the decoration of the desk and theencumbrance of the writer. 

"I have here a list of all the clergy of the diocese, " she said, takingup a book bound in red morocco and silver. "I've marked them down asfar as I've found out about them. It's necessary to be systematic. I'vedone just as they do in canvassing a city ward. "

Maurice regarded Mrs. Wilson with ever-increasing amazement, but, too, not without increasing amusement. He was somewhat shocked by thebusiness way in which she treated the subject, but his heart was set onthe election of Father Frontford; he was honest in feeling that thechurch would be injured by the election of Mr. Strathmore, and he wastoo completely a man not to be half-unconsciously willing that for theaccomplishment of an end he desired a woman should do many things whichhe would not do himself. The three went over the list together, theyoung men giving such information as they possessed, Maurice all thetime strangely divided in his mind between disapprobation of Mrs. Wilson and admiration. Her breath was on his cheek as she bent overthe book, the perfume of her laces filled faintly the air, now and thenher hand touched his. He was not conscious of the potency of thisfeminine atmosphere which enveloped him; he did not so much thinkpersonally of Mrs. Wilson, beautiful and near though she was, as hefelt her presence as a sort of impersonation of woman. He thought ofMiss Morison, and warmed with a nameless thrill, of longing. Then herecalled the remark of Mrs. Staggchase that he was undergoing histemptation, and his heart sank. 

"You see, " Mrs. Wilson was saying, when he forced his wanderingattention to heed her words, "men are really elected before theconvention. The work must be done now. You two can, of course, do a lotof things that it wouldn't be good form for a regular clergyman to do. Of course you wouldn't be able to manage the directing, but there is agood deal of work that is in your line. "

"Of course we are glad to do what we can, " Maurice responded, smiling. 

He glanced at Ashe and saw that his friend's face was stern. 

"I knew you would be, " the lady went on. "Mr. Ashe is to see Mrs. Frostwinch. You can't be too eloquent in telling her the consequencesof Mr. Strathmore's election. If you can get her to write to the menI've named, she can secure them. It won't be amiss to flatter her alittle; and above all don't abuse the faith-cure business. "

"But if she speaks of it, " Ashe returned hesitatingly, "what am I todo?"

"Oh, she'll be sure to speak of it; but you must manage to evade. Lether say, and don't you contradict. She'll say enough, I've no doubt. Very likely she'll abuse it herself; but don't for goodness' sake makethe mistake of falling in with her. If you do, it'll be fatal. "

"But I know Mrs. Frostwinch so slightly, " Philip objected, "that I donot see"--

"Come!" she interrupted; "there is to be none of this. You are under myorders. I'll give you a letter to Cousin Anna now. "

"But"--

"But! But what?" she cried, laughing. "Do you mean that you distrustyour leader so soon? Do I look like a woman to fail?"

She spread out her arms in a gesture half imploring, half jocose, herlaces fluttering, her ribbons waving, the ringlets about her facedancing. Her eyes were brimming with mocking light, and however poorlyshe might seem to represent ideas theological she certainly did notpersonify failure. 

Maurice laughed lightly and glanced at his friend. Ashe did not smile, but he bowed as if in resignation to the command of a leader. 

"You are to go to Mrs. Frostwinch's this very afternoon, " Mrs. Wilsondeclared. "It won't do to lose any time. If once her votes get pledgedto the other party, there's an end to that. That's your work. Now you, "she continued, turning to Wynne, "are to go to Springfield and thewestern part of the State. "

"The western part of the State?" Maurice ejaculated in astonishment. "Do you work there too?"

"Of course we have to cover the whole diocese, " she returnedvivaciously. "Did you suppose we left everything but Boston to theenemy?"

He could only reply by a stare. He had never in his life encounteredanything like this woman, and he was bewildered by her audacity, heralertness, her beauty, and the dash with which she carried everythingoff. 

"You will go to-morrow, " she went on, "and I will send you the list ofthe men you have to see. I'm sorry not to go over it with you, but Ihave an engagement this morning, and I shall be late now. You arestaying with Mrs. Staggchase, aren't you?"

"Yes; she is my cousin. "

"So much the better for you. It's a liberal education to have a cousinas clever as that. Good-by. Thank you both for coming. "

She rang as she spoke, and handed the young men over to the maid whoappeared; the maid in turn handed them over to the footman, and by himthey were seen safely out of the house. As they turned away from thedoor, Ashe sighed deeply, while Wynne was smiling to himself. 

"What a--a--what a woman!" Philip said fervently. "She's amazing!"

"Oh, yes, " his friend laughed; "but what do you or I know about womenanyway?"

 VI

 HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY Love's Labour's Lost, i. 1. 

As Philip Ashe, his eyes cast down in earnest thought, approached Mrs. Frostwinch's gate that afternoon, he looked up suddenly to find himselfface to face with Mrs. Fenton. She was dressed in dark, heavy cloth, set down the waist with small antique buckles of dark silver; andseemed to him the perfection of elegance and beauty. 

"Good morning, Mr. Ashe, " she greeted him, smiling. "I did not expectto find you coming to hear Mrs. Crapps. "

"To hear Mrs. Crapps?" he echoed. "Who is Mrs. Crapps?"

Mrs. Fenton turned back as she was entering the iron gate which betweenstately stone posts shut off the domain of the Frostwinches from theworld, and marked with dignity the line between the dwellers on Mt. Vernon Street and the rest of the world. 

"Do you mean, " asked she, "that you didn't know that Mrs. Crapps, themind-cure woman, is to lecture here this afternoon?"

Ashe drew back. 

"I certainly did not know it, " he answered. "I was coming to speak toMrs. Frostwinch about the election. "

"It's the last of three lectures, " Mrs. Fenton explained. "Mrs. Crapps, you know, is the woman that has been curing Mrs. Frostwinch. "

Ashe stood hesitatingly silent in the gateway a moment. 

"I should like to see her, " he said thoughtfully. "Not from merecuriosity, but because I cannot understand what gives these persons ahold over intelligent men and women. "

"The thing that gives her a hold over Mrs. Frostwinch is that she hasraised her up from a bed of sickness. Come in with me, and see her. Ishould like to see how she strikes you. You can speak to Mrs. Frostwinch after the lecture. "

He hesitated a moment, and then followed her, saying to himself withsuspicious emphasis that the fact that the invitation came from her hadnothing to do with his acceptance. He soon found himself seated in thegreat dusky drawing-room of the Frostwinch house, an apartment whosevery walls were incrusted with conservative traditions. It wasfurnished with richness, but both with much greater simplicity andgreater stiffness than he had seen in any of the houses he had thus farbeen in. The chief decoration, one felt, was the air of the place'shaving been inhabited by generations of socially immaculate Bostonancestors. There was a savor of lineage amounting almost to godlinessin the dark, self-contained parlors; and if pedigree were not in thisdwelling imputed for righteousness, it was evidently held in becomingreverence as the first of virtues. There are certain houses where theatmosphere is so completely impregnated with the idea of the departedas to give a certain effect as a spiritual morgue; and in the drawing-room of Mrs. Frostwinch there was a good deal of this flavor ofdefunct, but by no means departed, merit. Grim portraits stared coldlyfrom the walls, Copleys that would have looked upon a Stuart asparvenu; the Frostwinch and Canton arms hung over the ends of themantel; while the very furniture seemed to condescend to visitors. Ashecould not have told why the place affected him as overpowering, but henone the less was conscious of the feeling. The company was apparentlynearly all assembled when he came in, and he sank down into a chair ina corner, glad to escape observation. 

The speaker of the afternoon was already in her place when he entered, and he examined her with curiosity. She was a woman who might have beenforty years of age, with a hard, eager, alert face; her forehead wasnarrow, her lips thin and straight, her nostrils cut too high. Her eyeswere bold and sharp, dominating her face, and fixing upon the hearersthe look of a bird of prey. Mrs. Crapps's hair was tinged with gray, and in her whole appearance there was a sharpness which seemed to speakof one who had battled with the world. Ashe was struck by thepersonality of the woman, yet strongly repelled. She was evidently acreature of abundant vitality, and exultantly dominant of will. Thebold, black eyes sparkled with determination, and he could at onceunderstand that Mrs. Crapps was one to establish easily an influenceover any nature naturally weak or debilitated by disease. 

Ashe listened with curiosity to the opening of the address. The voiceof the speaker had much of the vivacity of her glance. She spoke withan air of candor and frankness, and yet Philip found himselfdistrusting her from the outset. He said to himself that it was becausehe was prejudiced, that he doubted; but he yet felt that her mannerwould in any case have begotten repulsion. She had that air ofinsistence, of determination to be believed, which belongs to thespeaker who is absorbed rather in the desire to prevail than in thewish to be true. He felt that her air of conviction was no proof of herconception of the truth of what she was saying; she protested too much. He was at first so absorbed in watching the woman that he paid littleheed to her theories; but he soon began to flush with indignation. Thiswoman, with her bold air and masculine dominance, sat there talking ofherself as a present incarnation of Christ; of Christ as theincarnation of the human will; of disease as a sin; and of death as amere figment of the imagination. The paganism of the Persian as he hadheard it at Mrs. Gore's seemed to him less offensive than this. Hemoved uneasily in his seat, his cheeks flushing, and his lips pressedtogether. Presently he felt the glance of Mrs. Fenton, who sat nearhim, and looking up he encountered her eyes. She seemed to him to showsympathy with his feeling, but to remind him that this was not the timeor place for protest. He regained instantly his self-control, andperhaps from that time on thought less of Mrs. Crapps than of hisneighbor. 

The talk of Mrs. Crapps was commonplace enough, and hackneyed enough, could Ashe but have known it. There was the usual patter aboutspiritual and physical freedom, about faith and perfection, "the Deificprinciple as a rule of health, " a jumble of things medical and thingsphysical, things profane and things holy mingled in a strange andunintelligible jargon. By the time that the eager-eyed speaker hadtalked for an hour Ashe felt his mind to be in confusion, and he couldnot but feel that not a few of the hearers must be in a state of uttermental bewilderment if the address had impressed at all. 

"The end of the whole matter is, " Mrs. Crapps said in closing, "thatmankind has for ages submitted to this cruel superstition of death. Wehave bowed ourselves beneath the wheels of this Juggernaut; we havesent to the dark tomb our best loved friends; we crouch and cower inawful fear of the time when we shall follow. We hear ever thrilling inour ears the quivering minor chord of human woe, voice of the burningheart-pain of the race, launched rudderless upon a troubled sea of woe, and undrowned even by the throbbing march-beats of the progression ofman down the vista of the ages. And yet there is no death. This fear isonly the terror of children frightened by ghosts of their owninvention. What we dread has no existence save in the fevered andfancy-fed fear of blinded men. O my hearers, why can we not seize uponthe hem of this truth which the Messiah came to teach! Death is butsin; and sin has been removed by atonement; the holiness of the soul isimmortal. There is, there can be no death! Receive the glad tidings, and cry it aloud! There is no death! Let all the earth hear, untilthere is none so base, so low, so poor, so ignorant, so sinful that heshall not be immortal. It is his birthright, for we are all born toeternal life. "

The voice of Mrs. Crapps took on a more persuasive inflection as shedelivered this peroration; and it was easy to see that she had affectedthe nerves if not the minds of her audience. There was a deep hush asshe concluded. She lifted for a moment her sharp black eyes towardheaven, and then dropped her glance to earth, as if overcome byfeeling, or as if with awe she had caught sight of sacred mysterieswhich it was not lawful to look upon. In a moment more she raised hereyes, and invited any of her hearers to question her about anythingconnected with the subject which troubled them. For a breathing timethere was silence, and then a lady asked with a puzzled air:--

"But do you Christian Scientists deny"--

"I beg your pardon, " Mrs. Crapps interrupted, leaning forward with adeprecatory smile, "but I am not a Christian Scientist. "

"I mean do you Faith Healers"--

"That is not our title, " Mrs. Crapps said with gentle insistence. 

"Are you called Mind Curers, then?"

"No, " the priestess responded, with an air lofty yet condescending;"with those forms of error we have no dealing or sympathy. It is truethat those who teach faith-healing, mind-cure, or any sort of religiousrejuvenance, have in part taken our high tenets; but they have in eachcase obscured them by errors and follies of their own. We are theChristian Faith Healed, --not healers, you will observe, because webelieve that all mankind are really healed, and that all that is neededis that they recognize and acknowledge this precious truth. "

The ladies present looked at one another in some confusion, and Ashecaught in the eyes of Mrs. Staggchase, who sat half facing him, a gleamof amusement. This emboldened him to repeat the question which had beenabandoned by its first asker, who had evidently been overwhelmed by thedelicacy of the distinction of sects made by Mrs. Crapps. 

"Do you then, " he asked, "deny the existence of death?"

"Utterly, " the seeress returned, bending upon him a bold look as if tochallenge him to differ from what she asserted. "It is as amazing as itis melancholy that mankind should have submitted to the indignity ofdeath so long. "

"How can they submit to that which does not exist?"

"It exists in seeming, but not in reality. "

A murmur ran through the company, and Philip met the eyes of Mrs. Fenton, who shook her head slightly, as who would say that discussionwas futile. 

"But--but how"--one hearer began falteringly, and then stopped, evidently too overwhelmed by the astounding nature of the propositionlaid down to be able even to frame a question. 

"Indeed, " Mrs. Crapps said, taking up the word, "we may well ask how. It transcends the incredible that the monstrous delusion of deathshould ever have been entertained for an instant. The explanation liesin sin. Death is but the projection of a sin-burdened conscience uponthe mists of the unknown. Thank God that it has been given to ourgeneration to tear away the veil from this falsehood, and to recognizethe absolute unreality of the phantom which the ignorance andsuperstition of guilty humanity have conjured up. " The smooth, deliberate voice of Mrs. Staggchase broke the silence which thisdeclaration produced. 

"It is then your idea that death comes entirely from the belief ofmankind?"

"What we call death undoubtedly has that origin, " Mrs. Crapps answered. 

"How then could so extraordinary a delusion have had a beginning?"

A faint shade crossed the face of the seeress, but it merged instantlyinto a smile of patient superiority. 

"That is the question unbelief always asks, " she said. "It seems sodifficult to answer, and yet it is really so simple. The idea of deathof course arose from a distorted projection of the condition of sleepupon the diseased imagination. With sin came the bewilderment of humanreason, and the delusion followed as an inevitable morbid growth. "

"Then the earlier generations of mankind were immortal?"

"Undoubtedly. We have traces of the fact in all the old mythologies. "

"But what became of them?"

"Once the idea of death had entered the world, " Mrs. Crapps saidimpressively, "it spread like the plague until it had infected allmankind. Even those who had lived for ages to prove it false were notable to resist the prevalence of the thing they knew to be untrue, --anymore, " she added, dropping her eyes, and speaking in a tone sad andpatient, "than we who to-day understand that there is no such thing asdeath can resist the overwhelming power of the belief of the masses ofthe race. The might of the will of the majority, directed by anappalling delusion, compels us to submit to that which we yet know tobe an unreality. "

Again there was a hush. The woman was appealing to the most fundamentalfacts of human experience and the most poignant emotions of human life, and boldly denying or confounding both. It seemed to Ashe that the onlypossible answer to such talk was an accusation either of madness orblasphemy. The silence was once more broken by Mrs. Staggchase. 

"But if there is no such thing as death, " she observed, with thefaintest touch of irony perceptible in her well-bred voice, "of courseyou do not really die; and since you do not share the general delusionin thinking yourselves to be dead, it would seem to follow thatalthough you may be dead for the world in general, you are stillimmortal for yourselves and each other. "

The black eyes of Mrs. Crapps sparkled, but she controlled herself, andshook her head with an air of gentle remonstrance. 

"It proves how strong is the hold upon mankind of this delusion, " shesaid, "that what I tell you appears incredible. The truth is alwaysincredible, because the blind eyes of humanity can see only half-truthsexcept by great effort. I have tried to enlighten you, and I can do nomore. It is for you and not for myself that I speak. "

She rose from her chair, which seemed to be the signal for the breakingup of the assembly, and that her cleverness in securing the last wordwas not without its effect was apparent by the murmurs of the company. In another moment, however, Ashe heard as at Mrs. Gore's the exchangeof greetings and bits of news, the making of appointments for shoppingor theatre-going, and all the trivial chat of daily life. He stoodaside until the crowd should thin, and in the mean time had thefelicity of being near Mrs. Fenton. He began to feel himself almostovercome by the delight of being so near her, of meeting her clearglance, frank and sympathetic, of hearing her voice, of noting theripples of her hair, the curve of nostril and neck. He was like a boyin the first budding of passion before reason has softened theextravagance of his feeling. The talk of the afternoon, hisindignation at the words of Mrs. Crapps, his feeling that he had beenassisting at a sacrament of impiety, were all forgotten as he stoodtalking to his neighbor. 

"Come, " she said at length, "I must speak to Mrs. Frostwinch before Igo. "

He bent forward to remove a chair which was in her way, and her glovedhand brushed against his. He covered the spot with his other hand as ifhe would preserve the precious touch. 

"I found Mr. Ashe at the door, " Mrs. Fenton said to the hostess, "and Iwould not let him turn back. I was too much interested in his errand. "

"I am sorry if he needed urging to come in, " Mrs. Frostwinch respondedwith graceful courtesy; "but what was the errand?"

"Mrs. Wilson asked me to see you in relation to the election, " Asheanswered. 

"Elsie is having a beautiful time managing this election, " commentedMrs. Frostwinch. "She hasn't been so amused for a long time. She thinksFather Frontford is a puppet in her hands, while he knows that she isone in his. "

"I hope, " Mrs. Fenton put in, "that you may be able to help Mr. Ashe. Ican answer for it that he is not making the matter one of amusement. "

Ashe could not help flushing. He thanked her with a glance, and turnedagain to Mrs. Frostwinch. 

"I do not know or like the electioneering of such affairs, " he saidgravely; "but since there is a strong effort being made on the otherside it certainly seems necessary to do whatever can be done fairly. "

A few last visitors who had been chatting among themselves now cameforward to say good-by. Mrs. Fenton also took leave, and Ashe foundhimself alone with his hostess and Mrs. Crapps. 

"Mrs. Crapps, Mr. Ashe, " Mrs. Frostwinch said. 

It seemed to him that there was in the manner of Mrs. Frostwinchsomething of condescension, as if the Faith Healed was a sort of upperservant. He had himself not outlived the ingenuous period wherein ayouth feels that the preservation of truth in the world depends uponhis not covering his impressions, and he was accordingly extremely coldin his manner. 

"Ah, a new disciple to our faith, I trust, " Mrs. Crapps said, fixingupon him her keen, bold eyes. 

"I have never even heard of your doctrine until to-day, " he answered. 

"But surely it must strike you at once, " she responded, with a mannerevidently meant to be insinuating. 

He hesitated. He remembered that he had been expressly warned not tosay anything against the vagaries with which Mrs. Frostwinch wasconcerned; but his conscience would not allow him to evade this directchallenge. 

"It struck me as being blasphemous, " he responded with unnecessaryfervor. 

Mrs. Crapps raised her eyes to the ceiling, and uttered a theatricalsigh. 

"Oh, sacred truth!" she exclaimed. 

"Come, Mrs. Crapps, " Mrs. Frostwinch interposed almost sharply, "youknow that Mr. Ashe is right. It is blasphemous, and I feel as if I'dallowed my house to be used for a sacrifice to false gods. If you willexcuse us, I wish to speak with Mr. Ashe on business. Will you kindlycome to the library, Mr. Ashe. "

As he followed, Philip caught sight in a mirror of the face of Mrs. Crapps. It wore a singular smile, but whether of anger or contempt hecould not tell. 

"I dare say, Mr. Ashe, " Mrs. Frostwinch remarked, as soon as they wereseated in the library, "that it seems strange to you that I have thatwoman speak in my parlors. Of course I don't mean to apologize, but Iam sorry that you should hear things that shocked you. "

"Dear madam, " he answered, leaning forward in his eagerness, "what Iheard does not matter; but it does seem to me a pity that such thingsshould be said, and said under your protection. "

He was too much in earnest to be self-conscious, even when she regardedhim in silence a moment before replying. 

"You are perhaps right, " she said at length, "although you exaggeratethe influence of such things. "

"I do not pretend to know whether they are influential or not, " hereturned simply. "It is only that they do not seem to me to be right. If they are wrong, they are wrong. "

She smiled and sighed. 

"Life is not so simple as that, " was her reply. "The woman has saved mylife. I should have been in my grave months ago but for her. Myphysician insists now that I haven't any real right to be out of it. Icannot refuse to allow her to say the thing that she believes, sincethat thing has a certain proof in my very life. "

Philip shook his head. 

"It is not for me to judge, " said he, "but the way in which all sortsof heresies and strange doctrines are taught and played with in Bostonseems to me monstrous. The persons of influence who lend their namesand aid"--

He broke off suddenly, recalled by the half-smile in her eyes to thefact that he was condemning her. 

"There is much in what you say, " Mrs. Frostwinch assented. "I supposethat the difficulty is that we have ceased to recognize any authorityin matters of belief. "

"But the church!"

"Yes, there is the church, " she said doubtfully, "but to many it hasceased to be an authority, and modern thought allows so much individualfreedom. Our church has never claimed to be infallible like theCatholic; and individual freedom of conscience has come prettygenerally to mean freedom from conscience. "

"Then it is a pity that the authority which is exercised in the Romanchurch is not exercised in ours. "

"Ah, Mr. Ashe, you reckon without the spirit of the age in which welive. But tell me what I can do for you in the matter of the election. "

Mrs. Frostwinch was a devout churchwoman in her way, although she wasnow in appearance following after strange gods. She readily promisedher aid in favor of Father Frontford. 

"I agree with you, Mr. Ashe, " she said, "that everything possibleshould be done to stem the tide of laxness which seems advancingeverywhere. The mental reservations of Mr. Strathmore are certainly sobroad that they may cover anything. I know women who go to his churchand simply say the beginning of the creed: 'I believe in God;' and whodo not hesitate in private to explain that by the name God they meanwhatever force it is that moves the universe, whether it is intelligentor not. "

"How dreadful!" Philip exclaimed. "How can the church endure if thisgoes on?"

They talked for some time longer, and Mrs. Frostwinch assured him thatshe would do her best to secure the votes of the clergymen who were herpensioners. Ashe left her with a pleasant feeling in his heart that hehad accomplished his mission without sacrificing his convictions. Yetperhaps more potent still in warming his heart was the remembrance ofthe pleasant words which Mrs. Fenton had spoken in his behalf. Thememory colored all his thoughts of elections, of bishops, and ofcreeds, as a gleam of rosy light tinges all upon which it falls. 

 VII

 THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT Othello, iv. 1. 

"I knew that she was to send me tickets, " Maurice Wynne said, standingwith an open note in his hand. "She insisted upon that; but why shouldshe send parlor-car checks too?"

"It is all part of your temptation, " Mrs. Staggchase responded, smiling. "Of course if you go as the representative of Mrs. Wilson itis fitting that you go in state. If you were to represent the churchnow"--

"If I don't go as a representative of the church, " he responded, as shepaused with a significant smile, "I go as nothing. "

"Oh, I thought that it was Elsie that was sending you. However, it's nomatter. The point is that you are becoming acquainted with the luxuriesof life. You are being tried by the insidious softness of the world. "

He regarded her with some inward irritation. He had a half-definedconviction that she was mocking him, and that her words were more thanmere badinage. He was not without a suspicion that his cousin wassometimes histrionic, and that many things which she said were to beregarded as stage talk. He did not know how far to take her seriously, and this gave him a feeling at once confused and uncomfortable. To beplayed with as if he were not of discernment ripe enough to perceiveher raillery or as if he were not of consequence sufficient to be takenseriously, offended his vanity; and the man whom the devil cannotconquer through his vanity is invulnerable. Wynne had no answer now forthe words of Mrs. Staggchase. He contented himself with a glance notentirely free from resentment, at which she laughed. 

"I wonder, Cousin Maurice, " she said, "if you realize how completelyyou have changed in the ten days you have been here. It is likebringing into light a plant that has been sprouting in the dark. "

He did not answer for a moment, trying to find it possible to deny thecharge. 

"The fact that you know me better makes me seem different, " he answeredevasively. 

"How much has the fact that you don't know yourself so well to do withit?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, anything you like. I merely suspect that you are not so sure ofyour vocation as you were in the Clergy House. Even a deacon is human, I suppose; and if life is alluring, he can't help feeling it. Are youstill sure that the clergy should be celibate, for instance?"

He felt her eyes piercing him as if his secret thoughts were open toher, and he knew that he was flushing to his very hair. He hastened toanswer, not only that he might not think, but that she might notperceive that he had admitted any doubt to his heart. 

"More than ever, " he responded. "It is impossible not to see that aclergyman who is married must have his thoughts distracted from hissacred calling. "

Mrs. Staggchase leaned back in her chair and regarded him with thesmile which he found always so puzzling and so disconcerting. 

"You did that very well, " she said, "only you shouldn't have put in theword 'sacred. ' That made it all sound conventional. However, youprobably meant it. She is distracting. "

The hot blood leaped into his face so that he knew that it was utterlyimpossible to conceal his confusion. 

"I don't know what you mean, " he stammered. 

Instantly his conscience reproached him with not speaking the truth. Heresponded to his conscience that it was impossible in circumstanceslike these to say the whole, and that what he had said was not untrue. He could not know what his cousin meant by her pronoun, and if thethought of Miss Morison had come instantly into his mind, it by nomeans followed that it was she of whom Mrs. Staggchase was thinking. Life seemed suddenly more complex than he had ever dreamed it possible;and before this remark the unsophisticated deacon became so completelyconfused that for the instant it was his instinctive wish to be oncemore safely within the sheltering walls of the Clergy House, protectedfrom the temptations and vexations of the world. He was after all of anature which did not yield readily, however, and the next thought wasone of defiance. He would not yield up his secret, and he defied theworld to drag it from him. His companion smiled upon him with thebaffling look which her husband called her Mona Lisa expression, andthen she laughed outright. 

"My dear boy, " she said, "you are no more a priest than I am; and youare as transparent as a piece of crystal. Well, I am fond of you, andI'm glad to have a hand in proving to you that you are not meant forthe priesthood before it's too late. "

"But it hasn't been proved to me, " he cried, not without somesternness. 

"Oh, bless you, it's in train, and that's the same thing. 'Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the east' could put you tosleep again in the dream you had in the Clergy House. It will take youa little longer to find yourself out, but the thing is donenevertheless. "

As she spoke, a servant came to the door to announce the carriage. Mrs. Staggchase held out her hand. 

"Good-by, " she said, as Maurice rose, and came forward to take it. "Ihope that we shall see you again in a couple of days. I have still agood deal to show you. "

He had recovered his self-possession a little, and answered her with asmile:--

"You make it so delightful for me here that I am not sure you are notright in saying that you are my temptation. "

"Oh, I've already given up the office of tempter, " she respondedquickly. "I found a rival, and that I never could endure. You'll haveyour temptation with you. "

It seemed to Maurice when he came to take his seat in the parlor carthat his cousin was little short of a witch. In the chair next to hisown sat Berenice Morison. She greeted him with a friendly nod andsmile. 

"Mrs. Wilson told me that you were going on this train, " she said, "and she got a chair for you next to mine so that you should take careof me. "

He bowed rather confusedly, but with his heart full of delight. 

"I shall be glad to do anything I can for you, " he answered, vexed thathe had not a better reply at command. 

He saw the dapper young man across the aisle regard him curiously, anda feeling of dissatisfaction came over him as he reflected upon thesingularity of his garb, and the incongruity between the clerical dressand the squiring of dames. Religious fervor is nourished by martyrdom, but it is seldom proof against ridicule. It is not impossible that thefaint shade of amusement which Maurice fancied he detected in the eyesof the stranger opposite was a more effective cause for discontent withhis calling than any of the influences to which he had been exposedunder the auspices of Mrs. Staggchase. 

He could not help feeling, moreover, that there was a gleam of fun inthe clear dark eyes of Miss Morison. She was so completely at ease, soentirely mistress of the situation, that Wynne, little accustomed tothe society of women, and secretly a little disconcerted by thesurprise, felt himself at a disadvantage. It touched his vanity that heshould be smiled at by the trimly appointed dandy opposite, and that heshould be in experience and self-possession inferior to the girl besidehim. He began vaguely to wonder what he had been doing all his life; hereflected that he had not in his old college days been so ill at ease, and it annoyed him to think that two years in the Clergy House shouldhave put him so out of touch with the simplest matters of life. He saidto himself scornfully that he was a monk already; and the thought, which would once have given him satisfaction, was now fraught withnothing but vexation and self-contempt. He had a subtile inclination togive himself up to the impulse of the moment. He felt the intoxicationof the presence of Miss Morison, and he yielded to it with frankunscrupulousness. He resolved that he would repent afterward; yetinstantly demanded of himself if this were really a sin. He was afterall a man, if he had chosen the ecclesiastic calling. If indeed he weretransgressing he told himself half contemptuously that as he didpenance doubly, once that imposed by his own spiritual director andagain that set by the Catholic at the North End, he might be held toexpiate amply the pleasure of this hour. He at least was determined toforget for the once that he was a priest, and to remember only that hewas a man, and that he loved this beautiful creature beside him. Henoted the curve of her clear cheek and shell-like ear; the sweep of hereyelashes and the liquid deeps of her dark eyes. He let his glancefollow the line of her neck below the rounded chin, and became suddenlyconscious that he was fascinated by the soft swell of her bosom. Theblood came into his cheeks, and he looked hastily out of the window. 

The train was already clear of the city, and was speeding through thesuburbs, rattling gayly and noisily past the ostentatious stations andthe scattered houses. Maurice felt that his companion was secretlyobserving him, although she was apparently looking at the landscapewhich slid precipitately past. He wished to say something, and desiredthat it should not be clerical in tone. He would fain have spoken, notas a deacon, but as a man of the world. 

"Are you going to New York?" he asked. 

"I shall not have the pleasure of your company so far, " she returnedwith a smile. 

"No, " he responded naively. "I am going only to Springfield. "

"Ah, " she said, smiling again; and too late he realized that she hadmeant that she was not going through. 

He was the more vexed with himself because he was sure that hisconfusion was so plain that she could not but see it, and that it waswith a kind intention of relieving his embarrassment that she spokeagain. 

"I am going to visit my grandmother in Brookfield. "

He replied by some sort of an unintelligible murmur, and was doublyangry with himself for being so shy and awkward. He glanced furtivelyat the trim young man opposite, and was relieved to find that thatindividual was reading and giving no heed. He wondered why he should beso completely thrown out of his usual self-possession by this girl, sothat when he talked to her, and was most anxious to appear at his best, he was most surely at his worst. There came whimsically into his head athought of the wisdom of training the clergy to the social gifts andgraces, and he remembered the flippant speech of Mrs. Wilson about theneed of their being able to pay compliments. 

"I seem to be specially stupid when I try to talk to you, " he said withboyish frankness. 

Miss Morison looked at him curiously. 

"Am I to take that as a compliment or the reverse?" she asked. 

"It must be a compliment, I suppose, for it shows how much power youhave over me. "

He was reassured by her smile, and felt that this was not so badlysaid. 

"The power to make you stupid, I think you intimated. "

"Oh, no, " he responded, with more eagerness than the occasion calledfor; "I didn't mean that. "

She smiled again, a smile which seemed to him nothing less thanadorable, and yet which teased him a little, although he could not tellwhy. She took up the novel which lay in her lap. 

"Have you read this?" she inquired. 

He shook his head. 

"You forget, " he answered, "that I am a deacon. At the Clergy House wedo not read novels. "

"How little you must know of life, " returned she. 

There was a silence of some moments. The train rushed on, past fieldsdesolate under patches of snow, and stark, leafless trees; over riversdotted with cakes of grimy ice; between banks of frost-gnawed rock. Thelandscape in the dim January afternoon was gray and gloomy; and as daydeclined everything became more lorn and forbidding. Maurice turnedaway from the window, and sighed. 

"How disconsolate the country looks!" said he. "I am country bred, andI don't know that I ever thought of the sadness of it; but now if I seethe country in winter it makes me sigh for the people who have to livethere all the year round. "

"But they don't notice it any more than you did when you lived in it. "

"Perhaps not; but it seems to me as if they must. At any rate they mustfeel the effects of it, whether they are conscious of it or not. "

Miss Morison looked out at the dull, sodden fields and stark trees. 

"I am afraid that you were never a true lover of the country, " said shethoughtfully. "You should know my grandmother. She is almost ninety, but she is as young as a girl in her teens. She has lived in the finestcities in the world, --London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and of course ourAmerican cities. Now she is happiest in the country, and can hardly bepersuaded to stay in town. She says that she loves the sound of thewind and the rain better than the noise of the street-cars. "

"That I can understand, " he answered; "but I am interested in men. Idon't like to be away from them. There is something intoxicating in thepresence of masses of human beings, in the mere sense that so manypeople are alive about you. "

She looked at him with more interest than he had ever seen in her eyes. 

"But I don't understand, " she began hesitatingly, "why"--

"Why what?" he asked as she paused. 

"I don't know that I ought to say it, but having begun I may as wellfinish. I was going to say that I could not understand how one sointerested in men and so sensitive to humanity could be content tochoose a profession which cuts him off from so much of active life. "

"It was from interest in men, I suppose, that I chose it. I wanted toreach them, to do something for them. Although, " Maurice concluded, flushing, "I don't think that I realized at that time the feeling ofbeing carried away by the mere presence of crowds of living beings. "

There was another interval of silence, during which they both lookedout at the cold landscape, blotted and marred by patches of snow tawnyfrom a recent thaw. 

"I doubt if you have got the whole of it, " Miss Morison saidthoughtfully, turning toward him. "Dear old grandmother is as deeplyinterested in the human as anybody can be. She always makes me feelthat my life in the midst of folk is very thin and poor as compared tohers. She has known almost everybody worth knowing. Grandfather wasminister to England and Russia, and she of course was with him. Yetshe's content and happy off here in Brookfield. "

"Perhaps, " Wynne returned hesitatingly, "there's something the matterwith the age. I don't suppose that at her time of life she has anythingof this generation's restless"--

He broke off abruptly. 

"Well?" his companion said curiously. 

He smiled and sighed. 

"I don't know why I am talking to you so frankly, " replied he. "As amatter of fact I find that I'm more frank with you than I am withmyself. I've always refused to own to myself that there was anythingrestless in my feeling toward life; yet here I am saying it to you. "

"One often thinks things out in that way. Hasn't that been yourexperience?"

"Yes, " he responded thoughtfully; "although I don't know that I everrealized it before. I see now that I've often reasoned out things thatbothered me simply by trying to tell them to my friend, Mr. Ashe. "

"Is he your bosom friend and confidant? It is usually supposed to be awoman in such a case. "

"Oh, no, " was his somewhat too eager rejoinder; "I never talked likethis to a woman. I never wanted to before. "

A look which passed over her face seemed to tell him that the talk wastaking a tone more confidential than she liked. He was keyed up to apitch of excitement and of sensitiveness; and a thrill ofdisappointment pierced him. He became at once silent; and then hefancied that she glanced at him as if in question why his mood hadchanged so suddenly. The train rolled into the station at Worcester, and he went out to walk a moment on the platform, and to try to collecthis thoughts. He had forgotten now to question his right to be enjoyingthe companionship of Miss Morison; he gloated over her friendly looksand words, thinking of how he might have said this and that, and thushave appeared to better advantage, and resolving to be more self-controlled for the remainder of the ride. The open air was refreshing;and a great sense of joyousness filled him to overflowing. When againhe took his seat in the car he could have laughed from simple pleasure. 

The chat of the latter part of the journey was more easy andunconstrained than at the beginning. It was not clear to Wynne what thechange was, but he was aware that he was somehow talking less self-consciously than before. They spoke of one thing and another, and itteased the young man somewhat that when now and then his companionmentioned a book he had seldom seen it. The things which he had read oflate years he knew without asking that she would not have seen. Eventhe names of current writers of fiction were hardly known to him, andan allusion to what they had written was beyond him. In spite of a wordwhich now and again brought out the difference between his world andhers, however, Maurice thoroughly enjoyed the talk. Now and then hewould reflect in a sort of sub-consciousness that the delight of thishour was to be dearly paid for with penance and repentance, but thisprovoked in him rather the determination at least to enjoy it to thefull while it lasted, than any inclination to deny himself the presentgratification. 

It has been remarked that the ecclesiastical temper is histrionic; andWynne was not without a share of this spirit. He would have gone to thestake for a conviction, and made a beautifully effective death-scenefor the edification of men and angels, not for a moment aware thatthere was anything artificial in what he was doing. Now he was notwithout a consciousness that he was playing the role of a lover and aprodigal, sincere in his love and devotion; yet none the less subtlyaware how much more interesting is repentance when there is genuinehuman passion to repent, is renunciation when there is real love tosacrifice; of how much more effective is saintliness set off against abackground of transgression. It was a real if somewhat childish joy tobe able to sin actually yet without going beyond hope; of beingdramatically false to his vows without crossing the line of possiblepardon. 

"We shall be in Brookfield in ten minutes, " Miss Morison said, beginning to look about for her belongings. "We pass the New Yorkexpress just here. "

Hardly had she spoken when suddenly and without warning there was anoutburst of shrieks from the whistle of the engine, answered andblended with that of another. Before Maurice could realize what theoutburst meant, there followed a horrible shock which seemed todislocate every joint in his body. Berenice was thrown violently intohis arms, flung as a dead weight, and shrieking as she fell against hisbreast. Instinctively he clasped her, and in the terror of the momentit was for a brief instant no more to him that his embrace enfolded herthan if she had been the veriest stranger. A hideous din of yells, ofcrashing wood and rending iron, of shivering glass, of escaping steam, of indescribable sounds which had no resemblance to anything which hehad ever heard or dreamed of, and which seemed to beat upon his earsand his brain like blows of bludgeons wielded by the hands of infuriategiants. The end of the car before him was beaten in; splinters of woodand fragments of glass flew about him like hail; it was like beingwithout warning exposed to the fiercest fire of batteries of animplacable enemy. A woman was dashed at his very feet torn andbleeding, her face mangled so that he grew sick and faint at the sight;pinned against the seat opposite, transfixed by a long splinter as witha javelin, was the dapper young man, horribly writhing and mowing, andthen stark dead in an instant, staring with wide open eyes anddistorted face like a ghastly mask. Moans and shrieks, grindings androarings, howlings and babbling cries that were human yet werepiercingly inarticulate filled the air with an inhuman din which drovehim to a frenzy. It seemed as if the world had been torn intofragments. 

Yet all this was within the space of a second. Indeed, although allthese things happened and he saw and heard them clearly, there was nopause between the first alarming whistle and the overturning of thecar which now came. He was lifted up; he saw the whole car sway with adizzying, sickening motion, and then plunge violently over. Fortunatelyit so turned that he and Miss Morison were on the upper side. He fellacross the aisle, striking the chair opposite, but somehowinstinctively managing to protect Berenice from the force of theconcussion. She no longer cried out, but she clung convulsively abouthis neck, and as they swayed for the fall he saw in her eyes a look ofwild and desperate appeal. He forgot then everything but her. Thedesire to protect and save her, the feeling that he belonged absolutelyto her and that even to the death he would serve her, swallowed upevery other feeling. As they went over a vise-like grip caught his arm, and amid all the infernal confusion he somehow connected thatdespairing clutch with a succession of shrill and piercing shriekswhich rang in his ear, seeming to be close to him. He remembered thatin the chair behind his had been a young girl, and he felt a pity forher that choked him like a hand at his throat. Then as they went downhe instinctively but vainly tried to shake off the hold, which was asthat of a trap. It was like being in the actual grip of death. 

All sorts of loose articles fell with them from the upturned side ofthe car to the other; they were part of a cataract of falling bodies, involved as in a crushing avalanche. Wynne found himself in thisfalling shower crumpled up between two chairs, one of his feetevidently thrust through a broken window and the other still held bythat convulsive clasp. Miss Morison was half above him, partlysupported by a chair which still held by its fastenings to the floor. He could not see her face, and his body was so twisted that he couldnot move his head with freedom. Berenice was evidently insensible, butwhether stunned from the shock or more seriously hurt he could nottell. He struggled fiercely to free himself, straining her to hisbreast. There were still movements in the car after it had overturned. It rocked and settled; for some time small articles continued to fall. He drew the face of the unconscious girl more closely into his bosom toprotect it. As he did so he was aware that his arm was hurt. A burning, biting pain singled itself out from all the aches of blows andcontusions. He seemed to remember that a long time ago, some hoursnearer the beginning of this catastrophe which had lasted but a moment, he had felt something rip and tear the flesh; but he had been soabsorbed in the attempt to shield Berenice that he had not heeded. Nowthe anguish was so great that it seemed impossible to endure it. He sethis teeth together, determined not to cry out lest she should hear himand think that he lacked courage. Then it seemed to him that he wasswooning. He struggled against the feeling; and for what seemed to himan interminable time he wavered between consciousness andinsensibility. It was either growing darker or he was losing the powerto see. He could not distinguish clearly any longer that human hand, smeared with blood, sticking ludicrously in the air from amid a pile ofbags, coats, and all sorts of things thrown together just where theposition of his head constrained him to look. He had been seeing thathand for a long time, it seemed to him, and only now that the darknesshad so increased as to cut it off from his sight did he realize what itwas and what it must mean. 

He still retained a consciousness of the face of Berenice, warm againsthis bosom, and with each wave of faintness he struggled to keep hissenses that he might protect her. The din of noises seemed far away, the cries somewhere at a distance ever increasing. The moans that hadseemed to him those of the girl who clutched his arm grew fainter, until they were lost in the buzz and whirr of a hundred other sounds. Then the clasp which held him relaxed as suddenly as if a rope had beencut away. It came into his mind with a wave of horror that the girl whohad held him was dead. The thought that Berenice might be dead alsofollowed like a flash, and aroused his benumbed senses. He spoke toher; he tried to move; to release her from her position. He seemedburied under a mound of debris, and she gave no sign of life. Heexhausted himself in frantic attempts to escape; to get his arms free;to turn his head far enough to see her face; to thrust back the rubbishwhich had fallen against them. The anguish to his arm was so great thathe could not continue; he could do nothing but suffer whatever fate hadin store for him. He tried to pray; but his prayers were broken andconfused ejaculations. 

All at once he distinguished amid the chaos of noises roaring andsinging in his ears something which made his heart stand still; whichpierced to his dulled consciousness like a stab. It was the cry of"Fire!" He had once seen a servant with her hair in flames, andinstantly arose before him the picture of her shriveling locks and theterror of her face. He seemed to see the dear head on his bosom--Thethought was more than he could bear, and for the first time he criedout, shouting for help in a transport of frenzied fear. He was soabsorbed in his thought of Berenice that he had forgotten himself; butthe realization of his own peril revived as a waft of smoke came overhim, choking and bewildering. He was then to die here, stifled orwrapped in the torture of flame. Then the wild and desperate thoughtsprang up that at least if he must die he should die with her on hisbosom, clasped in his arms. He might give himself up to the delirium ofthat joy, since there was no more of earth to contaminate it. But thehorror of it! The anguish for her as well as for him! Not by fire! Histhoughts whirled in his brain like sparks caught in a hurricane. Hescarcely knew where he was or what had happened to him. Only he wasacutely aware of the acrid smoke, of how it increased, constantly moredense and stifling. 

However the mind may for a moment be turned aside from its usual way bycircumstances, habit is quick to reassert itself. The habitualconstrains men even in the midst of events the most startling. The mindof Wynne had been too long bred in priestly forms not to turn to thereligious view here in the face of death. His conscience cried out thathe might be responsible for the peril and disaster which had come uponthem. With the unconscious egotism of the devotee, he felt that heavenhad been avenging the impiousness of his sin. He had dared to triflewith his sacred calling, to look back to the loves of the world and ofthe flesh, and swift destruction had overtaken him. And Berenice hadbeen crushed by the divine vengeance which had so deservedly fallen onhim. He groaned in anguish, seeming to see how she had perished throughthe blight of his passion. Not by fire, O God! Not by fire! How longwould it be possible to breathe in this stifling reek, heavy withunspeakable odors? It was his crime that had brought her to this death. He, a man set apart and consecrated to the work of God, had turned fromheaven to earth, and heaven had smitten with one blow him and the womanwho had been unwittingly his temptation. And she so innocent, so pure, so sacred! Through his distraught mind rushed a pang of hatred againstthe power that could do this. He was willing to suffer for his sin, butwhere was the justice of involving her in his ruin? It was because thiswas what would hurt him most! It was the work of a devil! Then thisthought seemed to him a new transgression which might lessen thechances of his being able to save her, and he tried to forget it inprayer, to atone by penitence. He offered his own life amid whatevertortures would propitiate the offended deity, but he prayed that shemight be spared. 

All this time--and whether the time were long or short he could nottell--he had heard continued cries and groans. He had now and then beendully aware of a change in the noises. Now it would seem as if all elsewas swallowed up in the sound of tremendous blows, as if the car werebeing struck again and again by a mighty battering-ram. Then a chorusof shouting went roaring up, as if an army cried. Noise and physicalsensation were too intimately blended to be separated; his brainstruggled in confusion, emerging now and then for a moment ofconsecutive thought and sinking back into semi-unconsciousness as aspent swimmer goes down, fighting wildly for life. He knew that a lighthad come into the car. He saw it amid the smoke, and his first thoughtwas that it was flame. Dulled and half asphyxiated, he said to himselfnow almost with indifference that the end had come. Then with a thrillwhich for a moment aroused all his energies he recognized that it wasthe glow of a lantern. He was aware that rescuers were close above him, climbing down through the windows over his very head. He cried to themin a paroxysm of appeal:--

"Save her! Save her!"

Whether he was heeded amid the babble of cries and all the noises whichseemed to swell to drown his voice, he could not tell, but in anotherinstant he felt that friendly hands had seized Miss Morison, and wereendeavoring to lift her insensible form. He strove to loosen his hold, but the effort gave him agony so intolerable that he could do nothing. A thousand points seemed to rend and tear him as he tried to move, andwhen a voice somewhere above him shouted: "We'll have to try to liftthem together!" he experienced a strange sort of double consciousnessas if he stood outside of himself and heard others talking of him. Hefelt himself grasped under the arms, and the pain of being moved wastoo horrible to be endured. He shrieked in mortal agony, and then in awhirl of dizzying circles seemed to go down in a tide of blacknesssparkling with millions of sharp scintillations. 

 VIII

 LIKE COVERED FIRE Much Ado about Nothing, iii. 1. 

Philip Ashe found himself less and less able either to understand or tosympathize with the politics of Mrs. Wilson. He believed in therighteousness of her cause, and was keenly alive to the peril of theappointment of Mr. Strathmore to the vacant bishopric. It is aninevitable and necessary condition of enthusiasm that it shall benarrow; and religious fervor would be impossible to a mind open toconviction. To accept the possibility of any opposed truth is to besecretly doubtful of the creed which one holds; and tolerance is ofnecessity the child of indifference. Had Ashe been able to perceivethat the church would go on much the same no matter which of the rivalcandidates was chosen, it would have been impossible for him to be sodeeply concerned for the success of Father Frontford. As it was he wasas much in earnest as Mrs. Wilson, and thus he felt forced to acquiescein the strangeness of her methods of work. He said to himself that hesupposed this electioneering to be a necessity, no matter howunpleasant; and he added the reflection that in any case it was not inhis power to prevent it. 

Other feelings were, moreover, completely absorbing his mind. Althoughhe was not yet conscious that anything had come between him and thechurch, priesthood in which had been his highest earthly ideal, thetruth was that his passion for Mrs. Fenton waxed steadily. Chance threwthem together. Mrs. Fenton had been appointed to a committee oncharities, and it happened that Ashe was a visitor in the North End ina region which the committee were making an especial field of labor. Hewas called into consultation with her, and sometimes they even wenttogether to visit some of the poverty-stricken families which evidentlyexisted chiefly to be subjects for philanthropic manipulation. Day byday Ashe felt her speak to him more easily and familiarly; and althoughtheir talk was strictly impersonal and unemotional, none the less didit feed his growing love. 

The nature which does not sometimes try to deceive itself is anabnormal one; and Ashe was not behind his fellows in devising excusesfor the joy which he found in Mrs. Fenton's presence. He dwelt in hismusings upon her devotion to the church, her good works, her visitingsof the poor and sick. He assured himself with a vehemence too feverishnot to be fallacious that he was instigated only by entirelydisinterested feelings; by the desire to assist in deeds of Christianhelpfulness, and by pleasure in the society of one whose devotion togodliness was so marked. He argued with himself as eagerly as if hewere struggling to convince another, protesting to his own secret heartas earnestly as he would have protested to a friend. 

A man seldom really deceives himself, however, save in thinking that hecan deceive himself. There were moments in which his inner self rose upand laughed him to scorn; moments in which his sin glowed before him incolors blood-red. He saw himself apostate, false to his vows, drawnaway by his earthly lusts and beguiled. There were nights when he casthimself upon the ground in an agony of self-abasement, beating hisbreast and praying in a passion of remorse; times when by the crueltyof his self-accusings he involuntarily sought to do penance for thesweet sin which festered in his bosom. 

Worse than all was the color which was imparted to his passion by theself-imposed prohibitions which he was violating. The insistence uponthe earthly side of love which is an inevitable accompaniment to theidea that woman is a temptation, cannot but degrade the relation of thesexes in the mind of the professed celibate. To keep before thethoughts the theory that passion is a snare and a pollution is torender it impossible to love with purity and self-abandonment. PoorPhilip, endowed at birth with a nature of instinctive delicacy, couldnot free himself from the taint of his training; yet he shrank as fromhot iron from the blasphemy of connecting any shadow of earthlinesswith the woman who had become his ideal. His only resource was to takerefuge in repeating to himself that he did not love Mrs. Fenton; buteven in denying it he felt that he was defending himself from a chargewhich was a degradation to her as well as to himself. He fell into thatmorbid state of mind where whatever he tried as a remedy made hisdisease but the worse; where the idea of love was the more horrible tohim the more it possessed and pervaded his whole being. 

Mrs. Herman was not unobservant of his condition, although she was farfrom understanding his state of mind. She felt that there was littleuse in forcing his confidence, but she gave him now and then anopportunity to confide in her, feeling sure that he would be the betterfor freeing his heart in speech. 

She was sitting one afternoon alone in the library when Ashe came homefrom a missionary expedition. The day was gray and gloomy, and theearly twilight was shutting down already, so that the fire began toshine with a redder hue. Mrs. Herman was taking her tea alone, and asit chanced, she was thinking of her cousin. 

"You are just in time for tea, " she greeted him. "It is hot still. "

"But I seldom take tea, " he answered, seating himself by the fire withan air of weariness which did not escape her. 

"That is so much more reason that you should take it now. It will havemore effect. I can see that you are tired out. One lump or two?"

He yielded with a wan smile, and, resuming his seat, sat sipping histea in silence for some moments. At length he sighed so heavily thatshe asked with a smile:--

"Is it so bad as that?"

"Is what so bad?" he returned, looking at her in surprise. 

"You sighed as if all life had fallen in ruins about your feet, and Icouldn't help wondering if there were really no joy left to you. "

He smiled rather soberly, and did not at once reply. The fire burnedcheerily on the hearth, noiseless for the most part, but now and thenpurring like a cat full of happy content; the shadows showed themselvesmore and more boldly in the corners, daring the firelight to chase themto discover their secrets. The colors of the room were softened into adull richness; the dim gilding on the old books which had belonged toHelen's father, dead since her infancy, caught now and then a gleamfrom a tongue of flame which sprang up to peer into the gathering dusk;the copper tea equipage reflected a red glow, and gave to the picture acertain suggestion of comfort and cheer. 

"I was thinking how comfortable it is here, " Philip said at length. 

"And that made you sigh?"

"Yes; I'm ashamed to say that it came over me how far away from me allthis is. "

"If it is, " she returned slowly, "it is simply because you choose thatit shall be. "

He turned his face toward her as if about to protest; then lookedagain into the fire. The conversation seemed ended, until Mrs. Hermanspoke again as if nothing had been said. 

"You have been slumming this afternoon?"

"I do not like the name, but I suppose I have. "

"It isn't a cheerful day to go poking about alone among the tenementhouses. "

"I was not alone, " Ashe answered with a hesitation which she could nothelp noting and with a significant softening of voice. "Mrs. Fenton waswith me. "

"Ah!"

The exclamation was involuntary. In an instant there had flashed uponHelen's mind a suspicion of the true state of things. The despondencyof her cousin, the reflection upon the comfort of domesticity, connected themselves in her thought with trifling incidents which hadbefore come under her observation; and his manner of speaking broughtinstantly to her mind the conviction that Ashe was thinking of Mrs. Fenton with more than the friendliness of acquaintanceship. When Philiplooked up with a question in his eyes, however, she was already on herguard. 

"The weather is so doleful, " she hastened to add, "that I should thinkthat even philanthropy might lose its power of amusing. "

"Cousin Helen, " returned he, with some hesitation, "I do not like tohear you speak in that way of what is part of my life work. "

She smiled; then sighed and shook her head. 

"My dear Philip, " replied she, "I had certainly no intention ofwounding you; and if you'll let me say so, I think you are going out ofyour way to find cause of offense. Philanthropy isn't a thing so sacredthat it is not to be spoken of with a smile. "

"No; but"--

"But what?"

He did not answer at once. He put down his empty cup absently, and thensat staring into the fire as if he were trying there to read thesolution of the riddle of existence. 

"Come, " Helen observed, after waiting for a little, "you have somethingon your mind. What is it? It will do you good to tell it, even if I'mnot clever enough to help you. "

"I am sure that you could help me, " he began eagerly; and then in achanged voice he added, "if anybody could. "

She left her place behind the tea-table and came nearer to him, sittingdirectly before the fire. The light fell on her convincing face and onher wavy hair. She folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him. 

"Well?" she said. 

"I do not know how to say it, " Philip responded slowly. "I am afraidthat you have not much sympathy with my views of life. "

"I probably have more than you realize. It's true that I do not believeas you do, but we are both Puritans at heart, so that in the end ourtheories come to much the same thing. "

He looked up with evident inability to follow her meaning. 

"I don't understand, " he said. 

"Very likely I couldn't make myself clear if I tried to explain. Suppose we give up abstractions and come to the concrete. What is theespecial thing in which you think that my theories are different fromyours?"

"I do not think, " he answered, hesitating more than ever, "that youhave much sympathy with asceticism. "

"None whatever, " she declared uncompromisingly. "Nobody could have morehonor for a sacrifice to principle than I have; but I believe that asacrifice to an idea is apt to be the outcome of nothing but vanity orpolicy. "

"But what is the difference?"

"Why, an idea is a thing that we believe with the head; don't you knowthe way in which we think things out while we secretly feel altogetherdifferent?"

"I do not think I follow you; but surely self-denial is a sacrifice toprinciple. "

"Not necessarily. I'm afraid I may seem to you profane, Philip, but Imust say that it seems to me that asceticism is one of the worstplague-spots which ever afflicted humanity. The root of it is the paganidea of propitiating a cruel deity by self-torture. "

"How can you say so!" he cried. "It is the pure devotion of a man tothe good of his higher nature and to the good of the race. "

"As far as the race goes, vicarious suffering can't be anything, so faras I see, except an effort to placate an unforgiving deity. As for thedevotion of a man to his higher nature, you will never convince me thatto go against nature and to indulge in morbidness is improving toanything. But here we are, swamped in a bog of great moral propositionsagain. We can't agree about these things, and the thing which we reallywant to say will be lost sight of entirely. "

He turned his face away from her again, either troubled by what she hadbeen saying or unable to find words and confidence to go on with theconfession of his trouble. 

"Is it, " Helen inquired, "that you have found that you have yourself adoubt of the value of asceticism?"

"No, not that, " he answered, dropping his voice; "but--but I begin todoubt myself. "

She leaned forward in her chair. Some power outside of her own willseemed to constrain her. 

"Philip, " she said, bending over and touching his hand, "has love madeyou doubt?"

The question evidently took him entirely by surprise. She wondered whatimpulse had made her speak and how her question would affect him. Heflushed to his forehead, and cast at her a look so full of patheticappeal that she felt the tears come into her eyes. It was the look of ahunted creature which sees no way of escape, yet which has not the furyof resistance, which pleads its own weakness. She knew that Philipcould not equivocate and that the secret of his heart lay bare beforeher. She shrank from what she had done, and a flood of pity andsympathy filled her mind. 

He gave her no more than a single look, and then buried his face in hishands. 

"I have betrayed my high calling, " he exclaimed in a voice of bittersuffering. "I have put my hand to the plough and looked back. I am tooweak to be worthy to"--

"Stop, " she interposed brusquely, although she was deeply touched. "Ican't listen to that sort of talk. It isn't wholesome and it isn'tmanly. If you have fallen short of your ideal, your experience is thatof the rest of the race. I suppose the secret of our making anyprogress is the power of conceiving things higher than we can reach. Itkeeps us trying. "

"But I devoted myself to"--

"My dear boy, " she interrupted him again, "you are like the rest of us. You told yourself that you would be above all the passions and emotionsof common humanity, and you are discouraged to find that you're humanafter all. That's really the whole of it. "

"But to allow yourself to love"--

It was not necessary for her to interrupt him now. He stopped of hisown will, casting down his eyes and blushing like a school-boy. Itseemed to her that it might be better to try raillery. 

"To allow yourself, O wise cousin!" she cried. "Men do not allow ordisallow themselves to love. It's deeper business than that. "

"But I should have had strength not to yield. "

"Is there anything discreditable in loving?" she demanded. 

"There is for a priest. "

"If there were, you are not a priest. "

"In intention I am; and that is the same in the sight of Heaven. "

She could not repress a gesture of impatience. She felt at once aninward annoyance and a secret admiration. The temper of his mind wasexasperatingly like her own in its tenacity of conviction. He would notexcuse himself by any shifts, no matter how convincing they might seemto others. The matter must be met fairly and frankly, and she mustreach his deepest feelings if she would move him. She reflected howbest to deal with him, and with her thoughts mingled the questionwhether Edith Fenton could return Philip's love. The young man was wellmade and sufficiently good-looking, although paled by study andausterities. He was of good birth and property, and from a worldlypoint of view not entirely an unsuitable match for the widow, shouldshe think of a second husband. He was somewhat younger than Mrs. Fenton; and Helen was not without the thought that this passion mightbe on his part no more than the inevitable result of his coming incontact with a beautiful woman after having been immured in themonastic seclusion of the Clergy House; a passion which would pass witha wider acquaintance with the world. The whole matter perplexed andtroubled her, and yet she earnestly longed to help her cousin. 

"Dear Philip, " she said, "I can't tell you how I enter into yourfeeling. I don't agree with you, but we are not so far apart intemperament, if we are in doctrine. I'm afraid that you'll think thatI'm merely tempting you when I say that it seems to me that yourconscientiousness is entirely right, and that your conviction is allwrong. "

"Of course I know that you do not hold the same faith that I do. "

"But one of your own faith might remind you that your own churchupholds the marriage of the clergy. "

"Yes, " he assented with apparent unwillingness, "but my conscience doesnot. "

"Do you mean that you find your conscience a better guide than thechurch? That seems to put you on my ground, after all. "

"Oh, no, no! Certainly I do not put myself above the authority of thechurch. "

"The eagerness with which you disclaim any common ground with me isn'tpolite, " she retorted, glad of a chance to speak more lightly andsmilingly; "but it's sincere, and that is better. "

"I wasn't trying to disclaim thinking as you do; but to insist that Ido not set myself above the church. "

"Then I repeat that the church sanctions the marriage of the clergy. Ifyou don't agree, I don't see why you do not really belong in the RomanCatholic Church. "

There was a long pause, during which she watched her cousin narrowly. He seemed to be thinking deeply, with eyes intent on the fire. She wasso little prepared for the direction which his thought took that shewas startled when he said at last with a sigh:--

"I do sometimes find myself envying the absolute authority with whichthe Roman Catholic Church speaks. "

"Authority!" she repeated indignantly. "Do you mean that you wish togive up your individuality?"

"No; not that; but it must be of unspeakable comfort in times of mentaldoubt to repose on unquestioned and unquestionable authority. "

Helen rose from her place by the fire and walked to the window. Shefelt that she was on very delicate ground, and she would gladly haveescaped from the discussion could she have done so without the feelingof having evaded. She stood a moment looking out into the darkeningstreet, dusky in the growing January twilight, bleak and dreary. Thenwith a sudden movement she went to her husband's desk and took up apicture of her boy, a beautiful, manly little fellow of three years, ofwhom Philip was especially fond. Crossing to her cousin, she put thepicture in his hand, at the same time turning up the electric lightbehind him. 

"See, " she said, with feminine adroitness. "I don't think I've shownyou this picture of Greyson. "

He looked at it earnestly, and sighed. 

"It is beautiful, " said he. "Greyson is a son to be proud of and tolove. "

"Well?" she asked significantly. 

"What do you mean?" returned he. "What has Greyson's picture to do withwhat we were talking about?"

She took the photograph from his hand, extinguished the light, andwalked back toward the desk. The room seemed darker than before nowthat the firelight only was left. Suddenly she turned, with an outburstalmost passionate:--

"O Philip!" she exclaimed. "Can't you see? My son! Surely if there isanything in this world that is holy, that is entirely pure and noble, it is parentage. Do you suppose that all the churches in the world, with authority or without it, could make Grant and me feel that thereis anything higher for us than to take our little son in our arms andthank God for him!"

He did not answer, and she controlled her emotion, smiling at her ownextravagance, while she wiped away a tear. She kissed the picture, andput it in its place; then she returned to her chair by the fire. 

"I don't expect you to understand my feeling, " she said. "You never canuntil you have a son of your own. If a little cherub like Grey puts hisbaby hands into your eyes and pulls your hair, you'll suddenly discoverthat a good many of your old theories have evaporated. "

"But, Cousin Helen, " he began hesitatingly, "certainly there is oftensin"--

She interrupted him indignantly. 

"There is no sin in faithful, loving, self-respecting marriage, " sheinsisted. "That is what I am talking about. It is the holiest thing onearth. Anything may be degraded. I've even heard of a burlesque of thesacrament. I don't see why I shouldn't speak frankly, Philip. You arein a state of mind that is morbid and self-tormenting. If you love awoman, tell her so honestly and clearly; and if she is a good woman andcan love you, go down on your knees, and thank God. "

He leaned his forehead on his hands, as if he were struggling withhimself. The firelight shone on his rich hair, auburn like her own. Helen watched him anxiously, wondering if she had said too much, andwhether she were taking too great a responsibility in the advice shegave. Certainly anything must be good that took him out of hisunhealthy mood. 

"Come, " she said, rising, and turning on the electric light again. "Itis time for Grant to be at home, and for me to be dressing. We are todine at the Bodewin Rangers to-night. "

He put up his hand to arrest her, and said in a tone that wrung herheart:--

"But, Cousin Helen, I cannot speak of love to a woman until I am readyto give up for her my priestly calling. "

"Until you are willing to give up your unwholesome idea of celibacy andasceticism, you mean. "

"It would be sacrificing a principle to a passion. "

Helen sighed. 

"I could reason with you, " she returned, half-humorously, "but howshall I get on with all the Puritan ancestors who prevail in you andme! The thing that I say isn't that you are to give up your notionsabout the celibacy of the priesthood in order to marry, but becausethey are unwholesome and abnormal. The thing that most closely linksyou to humanity is the thing that best fits you to be of use in theworld. "

He regarded her with a glance of painful intensity. 

"But suppose, " he suggested, "that the woman I loved could not love me?Then I should come back to the church, and lay on the altar only adiscarded and worthless sacrifice. "

"Come back to the church!" she echoed. "You don't leave it. If marriagetakes you out of the church, then the sooner such a church is left thebetter! Do you realize what you are doing, Philip? Do you remember thatyou insult the good name of your mother by the view you take ofmarriage? I am sick of all this infamous condemnation of what to me isholy! If the church cannot rise to a noble and pure conception of it, the sooner the church is done away with, the better for mankind!"

"But you wrong the church, " he interrupted eagerly. "The church makesmarriage a sacrament; it recognizes its purity; it"--

"Then what are you doing, " she burst in, "with your exceptions to thetheory of the church? It is you who degrade it--Pardon me, cousin, " sheadded in a calmer voice, coming to him and laying her fingers lightlyon his shoulder. "I am speaking out of my heart. I have the shame ofknowing that I once failed to realize how high and how noble a thingmarriage is. I am older than you, and I have suffered as I hope you maynever have to suffer; the end of it all is that I have learned thatthere is nothing else on earth so blessed as the real love of husbandand wife. Of course, " she concluded, as he would have interrupted, "Italk as a woman, and I cannot decide what you are to do. Only I wouldlike you to believe that I would help you if I could, and that what Isay of marriage is the thing which seems to me the truest thing onearth. "

Then without waiting for reply, she went away and left him to histhoughts. 

 IX

 HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH Two Gentlemen of Verona, iv. 2. 

"Who is Mr. Rangely?" Ashe inquired one morning at breakfast. 

Mrs. Herman looked at her husband as if she expected him to reply, although the question had been addressed to her. 

"Fred Rangely, " Grant Herman answered, "is a writer. He writes for themagazines and is a newspaper man. He's written one or two novels, andthe first one was pretty successful. He's written plays too. "

Helen smiled. 

"Grant is too good-natured to tell you what you really want to know, "she commented. "Mr. Rangely was once in some sort a friend of his, inthe old days when there was still something like an artisticbrotherhood in Boston, and he can't bear to say things that are not tohis credit. Now I should have answered your question by saying thatFred Rangely is a warning. "

"A what?" Ashe asked, while Herman sighed. 

"A warning. A dozen years ago he was one of the most promising menabout. He had made a good beginning, he was clever and popular, andboth as a novelist and as a playwright we hoped for great things fromhim. "

"And now?"

"Now he is a failure. "

Herman looked up almost reprovingly. 

"I don't think he would recognize that, " he observed. 

"No, he wouldn't; and that's the worst of it. Ten years ago if anybodyhad said of Fred Rangely: 'Here's a fellow that has started out to dogood work, but has found that there's more money in sensationalism;who despises the popular taste and caters to it; who writes things hedoesn't believe for the newspapers and spends the money in runningafter society, ' he would have pronounced such a fellow a cad. Now hewould say: 'Well, a man must live, you know; and the public will onlypay for what it wants. ' It's lamentable. "

"You put it rather worse than it is, " her husband responded. "We areall in the habit of judging men as if their degradation was deliberate, which as a matter of fact I suppose it never is. Rangely hasn't coollyaccepted the choice between honesty and Philistinism. It's all comegradually. "

"Like learning to pick pockets, " she interpolated. 

"Besides, " Herman continued, "we over-estimated in the beginning bothhis character and his talent. He found he couldn't do what was expectedof him, and he was weak enough to do then what was most comfortableinstead of what seemed to him highest. It is what nine men out of tendo. "

"Of course, " Helen assented, "but after all it has come about by hisgiving in on one thing after another. There was always a good deal thatis attractive about him, but he never showed much moral stamina. Hecould never have married as he did if he had possessed fine instincts. "

"And his wife?" Ashe inquired. 

"Oh, he married a New York girl, who"--

"There, there, " broke in Herman good-naturedly. "It is just as well notto go into a characterization of Mrs. Rangely. I own that there isn'tmuch good to be said of her; so it is as well to let her pass. "

"Well, so be it, " his wife assented, smiling. "I have only to say, " sheadded, turning to her cousin, "that when Grant declines to have a womandiscussed it is equivalent to a condemnation more severe"--

"Nonsense, " protested Herman. "Don't believe her, Ashe. As for Mrs. Rangely, it's enough to say that she is merely an imitation in mostthings, and that she has called out the worst of her husband's natureinstead of the best. I'm sorry to say it, but I'm afraid it's true. "

Mrs. Herman looked at him with a smile which seemed to tease him forhaving been betrayed into saying a thing so much more severe than werehis usual judgments. Then with true feminine instinct she brought thetalk back to its most significant point. 

"Why did you ask about his wife?" she inquired of Philip. 

"I--I did not know, " he returned, so evidently disconcerted that shedid not press the matter. 

Had Helen been a gossip she might have added that Rangely had acquiredthe reputation of being always philandering with some woman or other. Before his marriage he had been the slave of Mrs. Staggchase, and now, after devotion to all sorts of society women, he had come to be countedas one of the train of admirers who offered their devotion at theshrine of Mrs. Wilson. Where a Frenchwoman prides herself on theintensity of the devotion of some man not her husband, an American ofthe same type glories in the number of slaves that her charms ensnare. In either case the root of the matter is vanity rather than passion. The American fashion is at once the more demoralizing and the lessdangerous. Mrs. Wilson in the early days of her married life had triedto make her husband jealous by allowing the desperate attentions of asingle lover. She never repeated the experiment. The lover went abroadto recover from the sting of having been made hopelessly ridiculous, and Mrs. Wilson learned that in marrying she had found a master. Fortunately she had married for love, and no woman loves a man less forfinding him able to control her. In these days Mrs. Wilson amusedhimself by having a troop of admirers, and perhaps prided herself uponbeing able to outdo the wiles of the other women of her set in securingand holding her captives; but she discussed them with her husband withthe utmost frankness, mocking them to their faces if they made a stepacross the line which she drew for them. They were kept in a state ofmarked but respectful admiration. It was expected of them that theyshould pretend to be consumed by a passion as violent as they mightplease, but always a passion which was hopeless, which asked for noreward but to be allowed to continue; which found in mere admission toher presence joy enough at least to keep it alive. 

It may be that Rangely had more vanity than the rest of Mrs. Wilson'sfollowers, or it may be that he was more resolute. Certain it is thathe was more presuming than the rest, and that his devotion had notfailed to produce a good deal of talk. Little as Mrs. Herman wasaccustomed to pay attention to social gossip, she had not failed tohear tattle about Elsie Wilson; and while she probably did not muchheed it, she was at heart too conscientious not to feel shame andirritation. That a woman in the position of Mrs. Wilson should allowherself to give rise to vulgar gossip moved her to deep disapproval;while she could not but feel contempt for the man who neglected his ownwife to wait upon the caprices of one whom Helen looked upon as aheartless and vain creature. 

Behind the question which Ashe had asked about Rangely lay an incidentwhich had occurred the day previous. He was now called upon to see Mrs. Wilson frequently in relation to matters connected with the election, and with that instinct which was inborn she had carelessly exercisedupon him her arts of fascination. There is a certain sort of woman inwhom the mere presence of anything masculine awakens the rage forconquest. It is as impossible for such women not to exert theirfascinations as it is for a magnet to cease to attract. It is thedestiny of woman to love, and dangerous is she who is inspired onlywith the desire to be loved, the woman who instead of loving man loveslove. Elsie was saved from being such a monster by the fact that shehad a husband strong enough to subdue and control her nature; butnothing could prevent her from trying her wiles on every man she met. 

Philip was too completely unsophisticated to understand, and too muchabsorbed by his passion for another woman to respond to the cunningattractions of Mrs. Wilson; yet it is not impossible that she so farinfluenced him as to render him unconsciously jealous of another man. He had surprised Rangely kissing the hand of that lady with an air ofdevotion so warm that the blood of the young deacon rose in resentmentwhich he supposed to be entirely disapproval. He was in a state of mindwhich made him especially sensitive to any suggestion of love; and thesight of any man caressing the hand of a beautiful woman could not butset his heart throbbing with disconcerting rapidity. In his world eventhe touch of a woman's fingers was almost a forbidden thing, and tokiss them an act not to be so much as imagined. Philip dared not think, or to define to himself what significance he attached to this incident. An unsophisticated man is often suspicious from the simple fact that heis forced to distrust his judgment. He is unable to estimate the valueof appearances, and in the end often falls the victim of errors whichmight seem to arise from malevolence or low-mindedness, when in realitythey are the inevitable fruit of ignorance. 

As Philip stood confronted with Mrs. Wilson after Rangely had left theroom it seemed to him that he read unspeakable things in her glance. His clerical bias with its unholy blight of asceticism, his ignoranceof the world, made him a victim of a misapprehension which brought theblood to his cheeks. His hostess looked at him curiously, and thenburst into a laugh. 

"Upon my word, " she cried, "I believe you are shocked! You are reallytoo delicious!"

He flushed hotter yet, and there came over him a helpless sense ofbeing alike unable to understand this brilliant creature or to copewith her. 

"But--but, " he stammered, "I--I"--

"Well?" she demanded, her eyes dancing. "You what? You saw Mr. Rangelykiss my hand. You may kiss it too, if you like; though I doubt if youcan do it half so devotedly. He's had a lot of practice with a lot ofhands. "

Ashe stared at her with wide open eyes. 

"But has he a wife?" he asked gravely. 

"Meaning to remind me that I have a husband?" she gayly returned. "Yes;we are both of us married. To think, " she continued, spreading out herhands and appealing to the universe at large, "that such simplicityexists! Where have you been all your life? Did you never kiss a lady'shand--or a lady's lips, for that matter?"

"I think you forget, Mrs. Wilson, " Ashe said with real dignity, "that Iam a priest. "

She regarded him with lifted brows for a moment. Then she moved to aseat. 

"Come, " said she; "sit down and talk to me. Where have you passed yourlife? You cannot have been brought up in a monastery, for we don't havethem in our church. "

"It is a great pity, " responded Philip, obeying her command, andseating himself in a large arm-chair near her. 

"Do you really mean it?" was her reply. "Yes, I believe you do! Youwere evidently born to be a monk. Oh, how _triste_ it must be to bemade without an appreciation of us!"

He remained silent, his face more grave than ever. 

"Well, " she went on, settling herself comfortably in the corner of hersofa amid a pile of sumptuous cushions, "tell me something about yourlife. It may be that you were designed by fate to introduce a neworder of monks. "

"There is not much to tell, " he responded stiffly and almostmechanically. "I was brought up in the country by a widowed mother. Iwent through Harvard and the Divinity School, and since then I havelived at the Clergy House. "

She regarded him closely. Her glance seemed half mocking, and yet tosearch into the very secrets of his heart, as if she were asking himquestions which he would not have dared to ask himself. Her eyessuggested impossible things; they demanded if he had not known offorbidden cups which held wine deliriously enticing. He cast down hisglance, no longer able to endure hers, yet not knowing why he was thusabashed. 

"But don't you know anything of life?" she questioned. "How could yougo through Harvard without seeing something of it? What were youramusements?"

"I rowed some, and I walked. The only thing that was a real pleasureoutside of my work was to be with Maurice Wynne. I do not remember thatI ever thought about needing to be amused. Of course I knew a fewfellows. I never knew a great many of the men. "

"And no women?"

"None except the boarding-house keeper. "

She looked at him rather incredulously. Then she once more threw outher hands in a gesture of amusement and amazement. 

"Good heavens!" declared she; "there are just two things which might bedone with you. You should be put in a glass case as a unique specimenof otherwise extinct virtue; or you should be sent to Paris to learnto be a real man. However, it's not my place to take charge of you, sothat may pass. "

There burned in the cheek of Ashe a spot of crimson which was perhapstoo deep not to betoken something of the nature of earthly indignation. 

"Mrs. Wilson, " he said, "I came here to discuss church interests, andnot to be myself the subject of remarks which you certainly would notthink of making to other gentlemen who call on you. "

She clapped her hands. 

"Bravo!" she cried. "There's the making of a man in him. It's athousand pities you can't go to Paris and learn the fun of life. "

He rose indignantly. 

"If you wish only to talk lightly of evil things, " said he, "I do notsee that it is necessary for me to take up more of your time. "

"Well, " she responded, smilingly unmoved, "I'll confess that if thereis one thing for which I am especially grateful to Providence it is forits having spared me the ennui of having to live in a virtuous world!But sit down, and I'll talk as if that blessing had not been granted tous. As for the salutation of Mr. Rangely which so shocked yourreverence, that was part of the campaign. He had just promised to writean article for the 'Churchman' advocating Father Frontford from thepoint of view of a layman; and of course until that is in print it isnecessary to be gracious to him. The trouble with you is that you'veseen so little of life that you exaggerate the most innocent things. You really are rather insulting to me, if you think of it; but I pardonit because you don't know what you were doing. I suppose you neverwanted to kiss a woman's hand or to write a sonnet to her eyebrow?"

Ashe felt the blood rush into his face in so hot a tide that heinvoluntarily turned away from his tormentor and walked toward thedoor. The question would in any case have been disconcerting, but itwas made doubly so by the word which recalled the phrase from thePersian hymn which was in his mind so closely associated with Mrs. Fenton: "O thou, to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave!"He had taken but a step, however, before Mrs. Wilson sprang from herseat, clapping her hands again. She interposed between him and thedoor, her face radiant with fun and mischief. 

"Oh, what a blush!" she cried. "Upon my word, there's a woman; there isa woman even in that icebox you keep for a heart!"

She burst into a peal of laughter, while he stood confounded andspeechless, trying to look unconscious, and vexatiously aware of howcompletely he failed. Mrs. Wilson laid the tips of her slender fingerson his arm, and peered up into his eyes. 

"I wouldn't have believed it, St. Anthony! Come, make me your motherconfessor, and I'll give you good advice. It's part of my mission totake charge of the love affairs of the clergy. Only yesterday I spenthalf the afternoon trying to find out how deeply Mr. Candish is smittenwith a pretty widow. "

Ashe started in amazement and alarm. The words of Mrs. Hermanconnecting the name of Mrs. Fenton with that of Candish flashed intohis mind, and seemed to supply what Mrs. Wilson left unspoken. Thejealous pang which he felt at this confirmation of the interest ofCandish in the woman he loved was doubled by the resentment he feltthat this mocking torment before him should dare even to think ofEdith. Almost without knowing it he broke out excitedly into protest. 

"How dare you meddle with her affairs?" he cried. 

Mrs. Wilson stared at him an instant in amazement, evidently takencompletely aback. Then a light of cunning comprehension flashed intoher sparkling eyes. 

"Ah!" exclaimed she. "You too! Is Mrs. Fenton so irresistible to theecclesiastical heart?"

He confronted her in silence. A wave of misery, of helplessness, ofweakness, swept over him. He had no right even to be Mrs. Fenton'sdefender. He was, as Mrs. Wilson intimated, not a real man, but apriest. The very tone of the whole conversation this morning showed howfar she was from regarding him as one having any part in her world. Hehad only injured Mrs. Fenton by his ill-judged outburst, and given thiscreature who so delighted in baiting him one more opportunity. Worsethan all else was the fact that he had given her a chance to jest aboutthe woman whom he loved. The tears rushed to his eyes in the intensityof his feelings, and the beautiful face before him, with its teasingbrightness and dancing fun, swam in his vision. He hated its laughter, and he expected fresh mockery for the emotion which he could not helpbetraying. To his surprise, however, Mrs. Wilson again laid her hand onhis arm, and her face lost its gayety. 

"You poor boy, " she said, with genuine feeling in her tone, "is it soreal as that? I wouldn't have hurt you for the world, if I had known. What business had you to be meddling with vows and renunciation untilyou knew what they meant?"

She moved back to her seat as she spoke, motioning Ashe to resume hisplace. He was too deeply moved to obey her. 

"If you will excuse me, " he said, "I will see you to-morrow in regardto those delegates. I--I am not quite myself. "

"But you shall not go without saying that you forgive me for myteasing. Really, I am sorry and ashamed. I never intend to hurt you, but I see that my teasing may be taken more seriously than it ismeant. "

There was real gentleness and pity in her smile, and as she rose tostand looking into his face with a winning smile of apology he forgotall his bitterness. 

"The trouble is with me, " he said. "I do not understand the world, andI should keep out of it. "

"Oh, not at all, " she retorted briskly. "You should learn how to livein it. "

A spark of mischief kindled in her glance as she spoke, and sheextended to him the back of her hand. Her smile challenged him, and hehad been won and moved by the sympathy of her voice. The hand, too, wasso beautiful, so slender, so feminine; he had so keen a longing to becomforted, to be soothed by womanly softness, and to assuage hisloneliness by woman's sympathy, that it seemed impossible to resist theinvitation of those delicate fingers. He took her hand, and raised ithalf way to his lips. Then he dropped it abruptly, letting his own armswing lifelessly to his side. 

"No, " he said bitterly. "I am a priest!"

 X

 A SYMPATHY OF WOE Titus Andronicus, iii. 1. 

The first sensation which returning consciousness brought to BereniceMorison, after the shock of the collision and the feeling that thewhole train had been hurled confusedly into space, was that of cominginto fresher air as if she were emerging from the depths of the sea. Opening her eyes without comprehending where she was or what hadhappened, she found herself on the side of an overturned car. Aroundher were dreadful noises, yells, groans, cries, shouts; her nostrilswere filled with the reek of burning stuffs; the light of lanterns andof torches blinded her eyes; a sense of horror oppressed her; appallingcalamity which she could not understand seemed to have overtaken her;and she shuddered with terror unspeakable. Her first impulse was toshriek and to attempt to flee from the fearful things which surroundedher; but instantly the self-control of returning reason made itselffelt. 

Berenice found herself supported by a couple of men, and it becameclear to her in an instant that she had just been lifted from that pitbelow where she could see the glint of flame and the blinding smotherof smoke, and from which came such heartrending cries that sheinstinctively tried to cover her ears. In the movement she realizedthat beside the hold which her rescuers had of her, she was grasped byother arms; that she was in the embrace of a man apparently dead. Inthe dim light her dazed sense did not recognize him, and she struggledto release herself from the hold of this corpse. 

"Take him away from me!" she shrieked hysterically in mingled terrorand repulsion. 

"Gently, gently, " said one of the men who held her. "He's got killedtryin' to save yer. "

"If this cut in his arm was in your back, " remarked the other, who wasunlocking the hands so strongly clasped behind her, "it'd 'a' been afinisher. "

Her head reeled, and she nearly swooned again; but somehow she foundherself released, and passed down from the car into the arms of moremen. 

"For God's sake, hurry, " one of them said. "It's getting too hot tostand here. "

A blistering puff of smoke enwrapped her as she went down. She saw aface blackened and ghastly advance in the flaring light of a lantern. Hands that seemed to come out of a cloud and a great darkness helpedand sustained her, until she was out of the instant press beside theburning car. When once she was free and stood upon her feet, sheregained something like self-possession. Her head swam, but sherealized the situation and felt that she was able to help herself. 

"I am not hurt, " she said to those who would have assisted her. "Don'tmind me. "

As she spoke, the body of a man was passed out of the smoke close toher, and she saw that it was Wynne. Instantly she remembered beingflung into his arms, although what followed she could not recall. Shelooked at him now with a piercing conviction that he was dead. Hiscassock hung about him in rags, his face was smeared with blood andgrime, his arm hung limp and bleeding. The words of the rescuer on thecar-roof came to her, and she saw in the disfigured form of the youngdeacon the body of the man who had given his life for hers. Instantlyall her powers rallied to help and if possible to save him. 

"Bring him this way, " she said, stepping forward eagerly, her weaknessforgotten. "I'll take care of him. "

She moved out of the smoke without any clear idea where she was goingor what she could do. The hurt man was brought after her, one of themany that were being carried as dead weights among the confused andagonized crowd. At a short distance from the track there were hastilyarranged car-cushions, coats, and loose coverings thrown down on a bankhalf covered with snow. Here the bearers laid Wynne, hurrying back totheir work with a precipitancy which seemed to Berenice heartless. 

The scene which Berenice took in at a glance was so wild and terriblethat it stamped itself on her brain in a flash. Lanterns were burningall about, dancing and flitting to and fro like fireflies in a mist. The eye caught everywhere glimpses by their light of disordered groups, dim and dreadful as a nightmare. Close about her were the victimsheaped as if from a battlefield, the wounded moaning in pain, the womenwailing over the dying or the dead, each with cruel egotism intent uponher own, and seizing upon any helper with terrible eagerness ofdespair. A hundred feet away, lighted by the flames which werebeginning to thrust quick tongues through the smoke and the darkness, was a long heap of shapeless wreck, about which dark figures wereswarming like midges about a bonfire. She could distinguish in themiddle of the line the two locomotives silhouetted against thedarkness, standing half on end like two grotesque monsters rearing indeadly conflict. Every moment the flames became fiercer, and thehurrying lanterns moved more wildly. 

It was Wynne, however, that claimed her attention. One swift glancetook in the awful picture, and then she sank down on her knees besidehim as he lay, bleeding and insensible, perhaps dead. For a moment shewas ready to cast herself down on the snow in helplessness and interror at the horrors of the situation; but the grit of stout Puritanancestors was in her fibres, the moral endurance which finds in thesense of a duty to be done an inspiration that lifts above alldifficulties. Her work was before her; to abandon it impossible. 

The flames of the burning car brightened with appalling rapidity. Shrieks arose so piercing that they wrung her heart as if with aphysical agony. It was the car from which she and Wynne had been takenwhich was now that hell of fire. Its glare lit up the pale and bleedingface beside her, and she realized that at that minute they might havebeen in that awful agony. She began to sob wildly, but she began, too, to try to bring Wynne back to consciousness. She took snow in her handsand put it to his forehead; she twisted her handkerchief about his armto stop its bleeding. She tried to recall what she had heard atEmergency Lectures, with a strong determination forcing herself toremember. Kneeling in the snow, in the light of the burning car, herheart torn by the cries of the suffering, trembling with excitement, fear, and the shock she had undergone, sobbing almost hysterically, she yet constrained herself to do her best, binding up his arm withstrips of her clothing, and trying to bring back his senses. 

A physician came to her without her knowing until he was at her side. He bent to examine Wynne, and Berenice tried to repress her sobs thatshe might talk to him, and take his directions. The life of Wynne mightdepend upon her calmness. She caught up more snow, and pressed it toher own temples. 

"Is he much hurt?" she asked feverishly. 

"It is not dangerous as far as I can judge, " the doctor answeredhurriedly. "Get him away from here as soon as you can. "

She looked after him as he hurried on to other patients, and her firstfeeling was one of indignation. Then it occurred to her that his goingso soon must mean that her patient was less hurt than she had feared. But why was Wynne so long insensible? She knelt beside him again, andas she did so he opened his eyes. 

"Where am I?" he cried feebly. 

He tried to start up, but fell back with a groan. 

"There has been an accident, " she said hurriedly. "It's all right now. You are safe. Are you in much pain?"

"Are you hurt?" he demanded almost fiercely. 

"No, no; never mind me. "

He struggled again to rise, but fell back with a groan. She put herhand on his shoulder. 

"Lie still, " she commanded authoritatively. "I'll see what can be done. Lie still while I look about. "

A second car was burning, and the whole place was aglare with yellowlight. The wild groups stood out black against the trodden and dingysnow, while overhead rolled clouds of sooty smoke. It occurred toBerenice that the accident had taken place so near Brookfield that manypersons must have come from the town. She seized a respectable-lookingman by the arm, and asked him if he knew of any way in which she couldget an injured friend to Brookfield. He stared at her a moment as if itwas impossible at such a time to receive words in their ordinarymeaning, but when the question had been repeated he answered that therewere some hackmen from town in the crowd. He helped her to find one, and as Mrs. Morison was well known, Berenice had little furtherdifficulty. Wynne submitted to being half led, half carried through thecrowd, and when at last with the assistance of the hackman Berenice gothim into the carriage he fainted again. 

Singular and frightful to Berenice was that ride. The terrors throughwhich she had passed, the shock, mental and physical, which she hadundergone, had almost prostrated her. As soon as she was in thecarriage she broke out into hysterical tears. The fainting of hercompanion, however, called her attention from herself, forcing her tothink of him. She supported his head on her shoulder, lifting hiswounded arm on to her lap; and into her heart came that thrill ofinterest and compassion which is the instinctive response of a woman tothe appeal of masculine helplessness. A woman's love is apt to be halfmaternal, and she who nurses a man is for the time being in place ofhis mother. Berenice's thoughts were in a whirl, but pity for the hurtman at her side was her most conscious feeling. She remembered thewords of her rescuer, and endowed Wynne with the nobility whichbelongs to him who risks his life for another. What had happened shecould not tell. She remembered the awful terror of the collision, andmistily of being hurled into his arms; but after that came a blankuntil the moment of her rescue. It was evident that Wynne had in someway been hurt in protecting her, and the very vagueness of the servicehe had rendered made the deed loom larger in her imagination. She felthis breath warm on her cheek, and suddenly into her dispassionatemusings there came a fresh sense, which made her face grow hot. She wasangry at the absurdity of flushing there in the dark, and asked herselfwhy the mere breath on her cheek of an insensible and wounded manshould set her to blushing like a self-conscious fool! Then sheremembered how he had held her in his arms, and she grew more self-conscious still. A jolt made her companion moan, and in a twinkling allelse was forgotten in the anxiety of getting to shelter and aid. 

When the carriage stopped before the house of Mrs. Morison, the oldlady and a servant appeared instantly, rushing out to see what thearrival meant. Almost before the carriage had come to a stand-still, Berenice put her head out of the window and called as cheerily as shecould:--

"All right, grandmamma. "

She could not keep her voice steady, and she could only try to carryoff her emotion by a laugh which was rather shaky and hysterical. Shecould not rise, for Wynne's head was on her shoulder. The carriage doorwas torn open, and she felt her grandmother's arms about her in thedarkness. 

"My darling! My darling!" she heard murmured in a sobbing voice. 

"Look out, grandmother, " she said, embracing Mrs. Morison with her onefree arm; "I've brought a man with me, and he's hurt. I think he'sfainted. "

There is nothing so efficacious in restraining the outpouring ofemotion as the necessity of attending to practical details. The need ofgetting Wynne out of the hack and into the house as speedily and assafely as possible restored Mrs. Morison to calmness, and although forthe rest of the evening and for many days after she and hergranddaughter had a fashion of rushing into each other's arms in themost unexpected manner, they now devoted themselves to the unconsciousyoung deacon. 

Wynne revived again when he was lifted out of the carriage, and when hehad been, with the friendly aid of the driver, got into the house andgiven a little brandy, he came once more to his complete if somewhatshaken senses. He was too weak from the shock and the loss of blood toresist anything that his friends chose to do to him, and although hefeebly protested against being quartered upon Mrs. Morison, his protestwas not in the least heeded. 

"Say no more about it, " Mrs. Morison said, with a quiet smile. "You arehere, and you are to stay here. There is nowhere else for you to go, even if you don't like our hospitality. "

"That isn't it, " he began feebly; "only I've no claim"--

"There, that will do, " Berenice interposed with decision. "Do yousuppose, grandmother, that it's possible to get anybody to come and seehis arm?"

"I'm afraid not, dear, " was the answer. "Everybody's at the wreck. I've been cowering down in the corner of the fire for what seemed to meyears since Mehitabel came rushing in with the news; and all the timeI've heard people driving past the house on their way out of town. "

"There ain't a man left, " put in Mehitabel, a severe elderly servant, who had the air of being personally responsible for her mistress, andof being bound to fulfill her duties faithfully, even if the effortkilled her. "I see Dr. Strong go gallopin' past first, and the otherdoctors was all after him; even to that little squinchy electricalimage that's round the corner on Front Street. "

"Electrical image?" repeated Berenice. 

"She means the eclectic physician, " explained Mrs. Morison. "I'm surethat there's no use in sending for the doctors now. Later we will see. We must manage the best we can. If I hurt you, Mr. Wynne, you must tellme. "

Berenice looked on, sick with the sight of the blood, while hergrandmother examined the wounded arm. Wynne shrank a little, butBerenice noted that he bore the pain pluckily. The sleeve was cut tothe shoulder, and his arm laid bare. A jagged cut was revealed reachingfrom the wrist to the elbow; a cut so ugly in appearance that the girlwent faint again. 

"There, there, Miss Bee, " old Mehitabel said, taking her by theshoulder. "You've had enough of this sort of thing for one night. You'll dream gray hairs all over your head if you don't get out. "

But Berenice refused to give up her place. She stood beside Wynne whileher grandmother examined the arm, handing the things that were wanted;fighting with the faintness that came over her in waves. 

"No, Mehitabel, " said she. "I'm made of better stuff than you think. "

In her heart she had a half unconscious feeling that she had beeninclined to hold this man in contempt because of his priestly garb; andthat she owed him this reparation. She did not know what had occurredin that overturned car; but she looked back to it as to a horror ofgreat darkness in which Wynne had risked his life for hers. She feltthat she could not do less than to stand by while the wound he hadreceived in her service was being attended to. It was Wynne himself whoput her away. 

"You are too kind, Miss Morison, " he said; "but you are not fit to dothis. I beg that you'll not stay. Your face shows how hard it is foryou. "

The first thought that shot through her mind was one of relief that shenow might properly leave her self-inflicted task; the second was a pangof self-reproach that she should wish to leave it; the third andlasting was a sense of pleasure that even in his pain he had not failedto note her face and divine her feelings. 

"Mr. Wynne is right, " Mrs. Morison added decisively. "Mehitabel canhelp me, my dear. Go into the other room and let Rosa get you a cup oftea. "

"It won't be much of a cup of tea, " Mehitabel commented grimly. "Thatfool of a girl's got it into her head that it's a good time to cry forher doxy, because he's a brakeman on some other train. "

Berenice smiled at the characteristic crispness and the absurd speechof the old servant. She remembered Mehitabel from the days when inpinafores she used to visit here, and when she looked upon the tall, gaunt woman with an awe which was saved from being terror only by thefact that she had learned to associate with that abrupt speech anafter gift of crisp cakes. Mehitabel was to her as much a part of theestablishment as were the tall chairs, the lion-headed fire-dogs, orthe silver which had belonged to her grandmother's grandmother. 

Passing into the dining-room Berenice summoned the afflicted Rosa, whocame with face all be-blubbered with tears, and who sniffed audibly assoon as she caught sight of the visitor. 

"How do you do, Rosa? I wouldn't cry, if I were you, " Berenice said. "Mehitabel says that this wasn't his train. "

"Oh, I know it, Miss, " responded Rosa, with more tears; "but I can'thelp thinking how dreadful it would be if it was; and me not to knowwhether he was dead or alive. It don't seem to me I could ever marryhim, not to be able to tell whether he'd come home any day dead oralive. I'll have to give him up, Miss; and he's real kind and free-handed. "

Her tears flowed so freely at the thought of giving up her lover thatthey splashed on Berenice's hand as Rosa leaned over to reach forsomething on the table. 

"Well, Rosa, " Miss Morison remarked, smiling at the absurdity of themaid, and wiping her hand, "I'm sorry that you feel so bad; but I don'tlike to be deluged with tears. "

"Indeed, Miss, " Rosa returned penitently, "I didn't mean to cry on you;but tears come so easy in this world. We're all born crying. "

Berenice laughed in spite of herself. 

"If we are born crying, " she said, "that's reason enough for oursmiling when we've outgrown being babies. "

"That's all well enough for you, " Rosa retorted with fresh tears. "You've got your man here all safe if he is hurt a little; and I don'tknow"--

Berenice broke in with indignant amazement, feeling her face burn. 

"My man!" she exclaimed. "How dare you speak to me like that! Mr. Wynneis nothing to me. He's only a clergyman that was hurt saving my life. "

She broke off with a laugh somewhat hysterical. Her nerves were notunder control yet. 

"I'm sure I didn't mean, " wailed the girl, "to say anything wrong. "

"There, there, Rosa, " the other interrupted. "We are both upset. Youshouldn't take so much for granted, or talk to me about 'men. '"

But in her mind the phrase repeated itself vexatiously: "your man. "

 XI

 IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING 1 Henry IV. , v. 1. 

The power of self-torture which the human heart possesses is well-nighinfinite. When one considers how futile are self-reproaches, self-examinations, remorses for faults and weaknesses; how vanity putsitself upon the rack and conscience inflicts envenomed wounds; how selftortures self until the whole man writhes in anguish, and in the endnothing is altered by all this pain, one might almost thank the godsfor moral insensibility. Yet New England was founded upon the principlethat this temper of mind develops manlihood; that inward struggles arethe only discipline which can fit a human being for the outwardconquest of life. The Puritans had power to subdue the wilderness, toovercome whatever obstacles interposed to the founding of a state andthe establishing of the truth as they conceived it, because all thesedifficulties were accidents, outward and of comparative insignificancewhen set against the real life, which was within. If a heritage ofself-consciousness has come down with the noble gifts which theforefathers have left to their children, it is at least part of theprice paid for great things. 

To Maurice that night only the pain and misery of his Puritaninheritance made themselves felt. Through the long hours he laceratedhis heart and soul with repentance, with remorseful self-reproaches, enduring agony intense enough to be the reward meet for a crime. Fevered with the loss of blood, racked with the smart of bodily wounds, bruised and sore from the injuries of the accident, unable to movewithout torture in every joint, he yet forgot physical in mentalsuffering. 

The weakness and disorder of his body confused and distorted histhoughts, but it was in any case inevitable that with his training heshould be wrung with bitter self-condemnation. He flushed and thrilledat the remembrance of the pressure of Berenice against his breast; thewarmth of her breath, the odor of her hair, seemed to come back to himeven out of the tumult and reek of the burning car. He remembered howit had seemed to him--to him, a priest--sweet to die if he might dieclasping unrebuked this woman in his arms. The blood throbbed in histemples as he recalled the wild thoughts that had swirled in a madthrong through his brain in those moments which had seemed like hours;the blood throbbed, too, in his wounded arm, so that a groan forceditself through his parched lips. He was constantly throwing himself toand fro as if to escape from some teasing thought, always to be by thesharp pang in his wound brought to a sense of his condition. The wholenight passed in an agony of mind and body. 

There were moments, too, when he seemed to stand outside of himself andjudge dispassionately this human creature, wounded, broken, rent inbody and in soul; moments in which he sometimes seemed to smile insupreme contempt of the wretch so weak, so wavering, so utterly to bedespised; sometimes to protest in angry pity against the unmeritedanguish which had been heaped upon the sufferer. He had instants ofdelirious clearness and exaltation in which he felt himself liftedabove the ordinary weaknesses of humanity; to see more clearly, and totake a view broader than any to which he had ever before attained. Itshocked and startled him to realize that in these intervals whichseemed like inspiration, --intervals in which he felt himselfilluminated with inner light, --he cast from him the ideals which he hadhitherto cherished. As if for the first time seeing clearly, he feltthat men should not be hampered by dogmas which cramp and restrain. Aline he had seen somewhere, and which he had put aside as irreverentand irreligious, kept repeating itself over and over in his head--

 "He had crippled his youth with a creed. "

Life stretched out before him futile and meaningless unless love shouldlight it, unless he could win Berenice; and he protested feverishlyagainst any vow that would thwart or restrain him. He had crippled hisyouth with a creed unnatural and deforming; it was time for themanhood within him to shake off its fetters and assert its strength. Hetold himself wildly that now for the first time he saw life as it was;that now first he understood the meaning of existence, and that lifemeant nothing without freedom and love. 

The beliefs of years, however, or even those habits which so often passfor beliefs, are not to be done away with in a night. Even love cannotcompletely alter the course of life in a moment. At the last, worn outwith the conflict, but with a supreme effort to regain spiritual calm, Maurice flung his whole soul into an agony of supplication, as he mighthave flung his body at the foot of a cross, and prayed to be deliveredfrom this too great temptation. He would renounce; he would pluck up bythe roots this passion which had sprung and grown in his heart; atwhatever cost he would tear it up, and be faithful to his high calling. As a child casts itself upon the bosom of its mother, he cast himselfupon the Divine, and with an ecstatic sense of pardon, of peace, ofperfect joy, he fell asleep at last. 

Maurice awoke in broad daylight, with a confused sense that the worldwas falling in fragments about his ears, and that his name was beingshouted by the angel of the last trump. He found that the physician whocould not be had on the previous night had now been brought to hischamber by Mehitabel. 

"Here's the saw-bones at last, " was the characteristicallyuncompromising introduction of the woman. 

"Dr. Murray's come to tell you that all Mis' Morison did last night waswrong, and that probably you'll have to have your arm cut off 'cause ofit. "

Wynne sat up in bed dazed and uncomprehending, but the smile of thedoctor brought him to a sense of where he was. The latter was not inthe least surprised by Mehitabel's manner of speech. 

"If you'd had anything to do with it, Mehitabel, " was Dr. Murray'scomment, "I've no doubt the arm would have had to go; but when Mrs. Morison does a thing, it's another story. "

"Humph!" sniffed she. "You've got some small amount of sense, if itain't much. Now, young man, set your teeth together and put out yourtongue--your arm, I mean. "

Maurice smiled, not so much at the humor of the error as at the factthat it was so evidently intentional on the part of the elderly virgin, who cunningly glanced at him and at the doctor to discover if the rarestroke of wit were properly appreciated. 

"Jocose as ever, Mehitabel, " observed the doctor, going to work at oncewith swift and delicate precision. "You've a nasty cut here, Mr. Wynne;but you're lucky to get off with nothing worse. It's a good deal tocome through such an accident without a permanent injury. "

"That's true, " Maurice responded cheerfully. "I dreamed in the nightthat I was all in bits. "

"Plenty of poor fellows were. It was the most terrible smash-up foryears. "

"How is Miss Morison?" Wynne asked, wondering if his voice betrayed theinward agitation without which he could not pronounce her name. 

"Oh, she's all right. Nervous and shaky, of course; but she's a sound, wholesome creature, and it won't take her long to recover her tone. "

"Yes; I brought her up, " interposed Mehitabel, with grim self-complacency. "Don't pull that bandage so tight, doctor. You want tohave me running over after you in an hour to come and loosen it. "

"That's it, Mehitabel; teach your grandmother to suck eggs. I comehere, Mr. Wynne, chiefly to learn my profession from her. "

"She seems willing to teach you, " Wynne replied, and then, with aboyish doubt if she might not take offense, he added, "which of courseis very kind of her. "

Mehitabel chuckled in high good-humor. 

"Kind it is and unappreciated it is; and little is the credit he doesto his training. Men are all alike; if they owned half they owe towomen they'd be too ashamed to show their heads in daylight. "

The droll airs of the old woman entertained Wynne so greatly that hebore with exemplary fortitude the painful attentions of the physician, the harder to bear because the wound had had time to inflame. The armwas dressed at last, and the doctor took himself away with a partingpassage of arms with Mehitabel. 

"The thing for you to do, young man, " she said, when Dr. Murray haddeparted, "is to stay in bed where you are, and that's reason enoughfor a man to want to get up. "

"I'm not fond of staying in bed, " Maurice responded with a smile; "andbesides that I must get back to Boston. "

She regarded him with an expression of marked disfavor. 

"Humph, " said she. "Quarters ain't good enough for you, I suppose. "

"On the contrary, it is I who am not good enough for the quarters. "

Mehitabel went on with her work of arranging the curtains and puttingthe room to rights as she answered:--

"Well, I dare say you ain't; but what special thing've you done?"

"Special thing?" Maurice repeated, somewhat confused. "Oh, I see. Thefact is, I don't think I've any right to impose on the hospitality ofMrs. Morison. "

"Well, " assented she again, "I dare say you ain't; but if she'swilling, you ain't no occasion to grumble, 's I see. She ain't a-goingto hear of your starting out hot-foot, 's if she wouldn't keep you. It'd look bad for the reputation of the family. "

"But, " began he, "I"--

"Besides, " the old woman continued, ignoring his attempt to speak, "youain't got much to wear. Them petticoats you come in, which ain'tsuitable for any man to wear, without it's the bearded lady in thecircus if she's a man, which I never rightly knew, is so torn to piecesby the grace of heaven that you can't go in them, and all the rest ofyour clothes are all holes and blood. "

"I suppose my clothes were pretty well used up, " he replied, dividedbetween a desire to laugh and a feeling that he should resent theaffront to his clerical garb; "and of course my baggage is nowhere. CanI get clothing here, or shall I have to send to Boston?"

"You can't get men's petticoats, " Mehitabel retorted uncompromisingly, "nor none of them Popish things. If it's good, plain God-fearing pantsand such, there ain't no trouble, and the price is reasonable. "

"Plain God-fearing trousers and coat will do, " Maurice answered, bursting into a laugh. "Do you think that you could send for some if Igive you the size?"

She was evidently pleased at the success of her attempts to be funny, for her face relaxed, but she set her mouth primly. 

"I'd go myself, " was her reply. "I'd trust myself to pick out things, and it might give the girls ideas to go traipsing round buying pantsand men's fixings. "

When she was gone Maurice lay in a pleasant half-doze, smiling at theabsurd old servant with her labored determination to be thought witty, and wondering at the caprices of existence. He was interrupted by thearrival of his breakfast, and after that had been disposed of hereceived a visit from Mrs. Morison. She was a fine old lady with snowyhair, her sweet face wrinkled into a relief-map of the journey of life, her eyes as bright and sparkling as those of her granddaughter. Wynnecould see the family likeness at a glance, and said to himself thatsome day when time had wrinkled her smooth cheeks and whitened her hairBerenice would be such another beautiful dame. Mrs. Morison broughtwith her an air of brisk yet serene individuality, as of the fire whichon a winter evening burns cheerily on the hearth, warming, invigorating, suggesting wholesome and happy thoughts. She was sokindly and yet so thoroughly alive to the very tips of her fingers thather age almost seemed rather a merry disguise like the powdered hair ofa young girl. 

"Good-morning, " she greeted him cheerily. "The doctor says that you aredoing well. I hope that you feel so. "

"Thank you, " he answered. "I don't seem to have as many joints as Iused to have, but I'm doing famously, thanks to the skillful treatmentI had last night. "

"It was not too skillful, I'm afraid; but Dr. Murray says I did noharm, and that's really a good deal of a compliment from him. "

"I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, " Maurice said. "It is sostrange to be taken care of"--

He broke off suddenly, awkward from shyness and genuine feeling. Helooked up, however, to meet a glance so reassuring that he felt at onceat ease. 

"It is time that it ceased to be strange, " she returned. "We must trybefore you go to make you more accustomed to being looked after alittle. "

He returned her kind look with a grateful smile. 

"You are too generous, " he said. "I must not trespass on your good-nature. I think that I could manage to get back to Boston to-day if thetrains are running. "

"The trains are running, but that is no reason why you should think ofrunning too. We mean to mend you before we let you go. "

"But"--

"There is no 'but' about it, " Mrs. Morison declared, speaking moreseriously. "Berenice and I have settled it, and we are accustomed tohaving our own way. You are selfish to wish that we should be left withall the obligation on our shoulders. "

"Obligation?" repeated he. "How on earth is there any obligation butmine?"

"Do you think that there is no obligation in owing to you Bee's life?"

He stared at her in complete confusion. He made a vain effort to recallclearly what had happened in the car. He remembered the crash, the din, the pain, the horrible clutch on his arm, the choking reek of thesmoke, his frantic fear for Berenice, but all these things seemedblurred in his mind like a landscape obscured by a night-fog. Only onememory stood out clear and sharp; that was the joy of holding Bereniceclasped in his arms, and of thinking that they would die together. Hefelt the blood mount in his cheek at the thought, and he hastened tospeak, lest his hostess should divine what was in his mind. 

"Why do you say that?" he asked. "It was not I that saved her. I wasnot even conscious when she was taken out. "

Mrs. Morison smiled, and touched lightly with the tip of her fingerthe bandaged arm which lay on the outside of the coverlid. 

"We won't dispute about it, " said she. "The proof is here. Let it go, if you like; but we shall remember. "

"But, " protested Maurice, "it wouldn't be honest for me to let youthink that I did anything for Miss Morison. I should have been only tooglad to help her, but I couldn't. I wish what you think could have beentrue; but since it isn't, I can't let you think it is. "

Mrs. Morison let the matter drop, but her kind old eyes were brighterthan ever. She contented herself with saying that at least he was toremain with them, and need not try to escape; then she led the talk tomore indifferent matters. Her hand, worn and thin, the blue veinsrelieved under the delicate skin, lay on the white coverlid like abeautiful carving of ivory. As Maurice looked at it, it brought intohis mind the hand of his mother, as in her last days, when he sat byher bedside, it had rested in the same fashion. The tears sprang in hiseyes at the memory, half-blinding him. As he tried to brush them awayunseen he caught the sympathetic look of his hostess, and its sweetnessoverpowered him still more. Meeting his glance, she leaned forwardtenderly, taking his fingers in her own. 

"What is it?" asked she softly. 

"Your hand, " he answered simply. "It looked so like my mother's. "

"Poor boy, " she murmured. 

He returned the pressure of her clasp, and then the masculine dislikefor effusiveness asserted itself. 

"I'm afraid I'm weaker than I thought, " he said shamefacedly. "I'malmost hysterical. "

She glanced at him shrewdly, and smiling, rose. 

"For all that, " she returned, "you are to get up. Dr. Murray says thatit will be better, and you would get hopelessly tired of bed before to-morrow morning. I'll send you something in the way of clothing, andwe'll let you play invalid in a dressing-gown to-day. If Mehitabel canhelp you, you've only to ring. I dare say that you can do somethingwith one hand. "

"One never knows until he tries, " Wynne answered. 

Maurice wished to ask for a barber, but could not pluck up courage. When he was alone he gazed ruefully into the mirror at his stoutlysprouting black beard, which so little understood the exigencies of thesituation that it persisted in growing as vigorously as ever. 

"If I stay here a couple of days without shaving, " he mused, "I shallsimply be hideous. Well, my vanity very likely needs a lesson. What didMrs. Morison mean by my saving Miss Morison's life? I certainly couldnot have said so when I was unconscious. It must be from something sheherself has said. If I could only remember what did happen after thecar went over!"

His bath and toilet were difficult and unsatisfactory enough. The linenwith which he was provided, however, smelled sweetly of lavender, andthe odor seemed to bear him away into a pleasant reverie, in which hewas chiefly conscious of the pleasure of being near--of being near, heassured himself, so delightful and sympathetic an old lady as Mrs. Morison. A feeling of well-being, of content, saturated him. Behind histhought of his hostess and his denial to himself that the presenceunder the same roof of Berenice was the true source of his happiness, lay the consciousness that the latter regarded him as her preserver. Heresolutely thrust the thought down deep into his heart, but he couldnot forget it. 

Before he was ready to leave his chamber Mehitabel brought him atelegram from Mrs. Staggchase, to whom he had sent a line announcinghis safety. It was merely a friendly word with an offer to come to himif he needed her; but it changed the whole current of his thoughts. Heseemed to see the mocking smile of his cousin as she read that he wasstaying with the Morisons, and to hear again her words about his periodof temptation. He resolved, however, to put the whole question of thefuture out of his mind. Somehow there must be a way to steer safelybetween his duty and his inclination. He failed to reflect that he whodecides to compromise between duty and desire has already sacrificedthe former. 

Berenice greeted him on his appearance in the library, whither hedescended rather shakily. She held in her hand a telegram when heentered under the escort of Mehitabel, and her cheeks were flushed. Instantly into his mind came the feeling that her color was connectedwith the message which the yellow paper brought, and he became jealousin a flash. There was no possible reason why he should scent a rival inthe mere presence in his lady's hand of a telegram, unless there werean intangible shade of self-consciousness in her manner. He had comedownstairs eager to see her and to assure himself that she was reallyno worse for the accident, but the sight of the paper instantly changedhis mood. In crossing the half-dozen steps from the door to the fireMaurice shifted from frank eagerness to aggrieved distrust. He saidgood-morning as he entered in the tone of a lover; he spoke as hereached the hearth with the formality of an acquaintance. 

He was too keenly alive to the change in his feelings not to know thathe showed it. He endeavored to hide his perturbation under anappearance of simple politeness, but he was sure that she watched himand that she was puzzled. 

"Well, " she said, as she arranged a cushion in the big easy-chairbeside the crackling wood fire, "you have the genuine scarred veteranair. "

"Please don't bother to wait on me, Miss Morison, " he answered, tryingto speak naturally, and painfully aware that he did not succeed. "I'mall right, except for the scratch on my arm. "

"Scratch, indeed, " she returned with a smile which almost disarmed him. "How many stitches did the doctor have to put in?"

"'Bout enough for a week's mending, " interpolated Mehitabel, puttinghim into the chair with an air of authority, and preparing to retire. "There, now stay there till you want to go upstairs again, and thensend for me. "

"Indeed, " he protested, laughing, "I am not helpless. You can't make ababy of me just for a disabled arm. "

"I suppose, " Berenice said, "that I ought to be willing to say that Ihad rather the wound were in my back, where it would have been but foryou; only as a matter of fact I shouldn't be telling the truth. I amsorry for you, Mr. Wynne; but I can't help being glad for myself. "

She seemed to be setting herself to win him from his ill-humor, and hehad to look into the fire away from her lips and eyes to preventhimself from yielding. He fortified his resistance, which he felt to beweakening, by the reflection that it was his duty not to be carriedaway by her charm. He called upon his religious scruples to aid him inholding to his passion-born jealousy. 

"There, " Miss Morison said, when he had been properly ensconced andMehitabel had departed, "now it is my duty to entertain you. What shallI do? My accomplishments are at your service. I can read, withoutstopping to spell out any except the very longest words. I can play twotunes on the mandolin, only that I've forgotten the middle of one andthe other has a run in it that I always have to skip. The piano is toofar off across the hall to be available; so that the little I can do inthat way doesn't count. I can--let me see, I can teach you threesolitaires, or play cribbage, or--I beg your pardon, I forgot. "

"You forgot what?" he asked, so intent upon watching the sunlightfiltering through her hair that he had hardly noticed what she said. 

She looked at him questioningly. 

"You don't play cards, perhaps?" she said tentatively. 

"No, " he answered. "In the country in my boyhood they weren't held inhigh repute, to say the least; and naturally we don't play at theClergy House. "

There was a brief interval of silence, during which he watched her, while she in her turn looked into the fire. When she spoke again it wasin a different tone. 

"I know, " said she, "that you must think me frivolous, and that I can'tbe anything else; but"--

"Oh, no, " he interrupted, "I never thought you frivolous. "

She made an impulsive little gesture with one of her hands. 

"Oh, you wouldn't put it in that way, I dare say. You'd call it beingworldly, I suppose; but it comes to much the same thing. "

Wynne could not understand what was the direction of her thoughts, andhe was taken entirely by surprise when she leaned forward impulsivelyand took in hers his free hand. 

"At least, " she said, quickly and eagerly, "I can't forget that yousaved my life, and I thank you from my heart if I don't know just howto do it in words. "

He returned the pressure of her fingers, longing to cover them withkisses. 

"I'm afraid, " responded he, "that I've very little claim to glory onaccount of anything I did for you. I certainly don't deserve the creditof having saved you. I only wish I did. "

She laughed gayly, springing up from her seat, and he realized that hisvoice had lost all trace of unfriendliness. He told himself recklesslythat he did not care; that if he were a thousand times a priest hecould not but be kindly to Berenice. 

"Come, " she laughed, "we have been through a real adventure; and that'smore than happens to most people if they live to be a hundred. "Suddenly she became grave. "I can't bear to think of it, though, " sheadded. Then she turned toward him, and spoke with seriousness. "Atleast, Mr. Wynne, I am not so flighty that I do not thank God for myescape yesterday. "

"Amen, " he responded. 

She walked over to the window, and stood looking out at the sunny day. The fire burned cheerfully on the wide, red hearth, and Maurice lookedinto its glowing heart thinking gratefully of his preservation and ofthe friendly refuge into which he had been brought. No reverent man cancome face to face with death and escape without some feeling of awe andof gratitude to the power which has preserved him; and Maurice wasfilled with a sense of how great had been the hand which could bringhim through such peril, how kind the protection which had preservedBerenice unscathed. Humility and tenderness overflowed his heart, andthe inward thanksgiving which his spirit breathed was as sweet and asunselfish as if a personal passion had never invaded his breast. 

"It seems to me, " Berenice remarked from her place by the window, "thatthe woods on the hills over there are already beginning to show signsof spring. There is a sort of delicate change of color in them thatmeans buds beginning to grow. "

Before he could reply, the door opened, and Mehitabel presented herselfwith a card. 

"Oh, " said Berenice, as she received it, "already!"

There seemed to Maurice something of impatience or dismay in her tone. She excused herself and went out, leaving the old servant with Wynne. As soon as the door closed, Mehitabel turned upon him at once. 

"Do you know him?" she demanded. 

"Know whom?"

"This sprig that's come from Boston to see Miss Bee?"

Maurice looked at her with a sharp sense that he ought not to allow herto go on, yet with a desire to know more so burning that he could notrefrain. 

"I didn't even know that anybody had come from Boston to see MissMorison, " he replied; "so that it isn't easy to say whether I know himor not. "

"His name is Parker Stanford, and he's all the signs of being better'nhis grandfathers and knowing it through and through. He's too fond ofhis looks to suit me. "

"I don't know him, " Maurice answered, "except that I've heard mycousin, Mrs. Staggchase, mention his name. He's very rich, I believe, and a good deal of a leader in society. "

"Humph, " sniffed Mehitabel. "He may be a leader in society, but he's asselfish as a sucking calf!"

"You seem to know him pretty well, " commented Maurice. "I supposeyou've seen him often. "

"Never saw him in my life till this minute. Young man, I'll tell youthis, though. Every woman with any brains knows what a man is theminute she claps eyes on him; only if he's good-looking, or awfulwicked, or makes love to her, or forty thousand other things, she'lldeny to herself that she knows any bad about him. "

"Then it seems to be much the same thing as if your sex weren't giftedwith such extraordinary insight, " Maurice responded, laughing. 

"If women didn't cheat themselves there wouldn't be no marriages, "Mehitabel retorted, grinning, and retired in evident delight over hersuccess in repartee. 

As for Maurice, he became wonderfully grave the moment he was leftalone. 

 XII

 THE ONLY TOUCH OF LOVE Two Gentlemen of Verona, ii. 7. 

_To be_ is an irregular verb in all languages, but always regular isthe verb _to love_. There are many sides to the existence of mortals;but to love is the same for high and low. Any mortal knows littleenough about himself; but a mortal in love knows nothing. Love is abewildering and a bedazzling fire, wherewith the eyes of youth are soblinded that they are able to see clearly neither within nor without. Often it happens, indeed, that the first intimation the heart has ofthe presence of the divine flame is the bewilderment which fills themind. 

Berenice had long been contentedly and unenthusiastically convincedthat, she was to marry Parker Stanford. She approved of him; he waswealthy, well-born, agreeable enough, and apparently very fond of her. She had not, it is true, become formally engaged to him. When he hadasked her to become his wife she had teasingly asked for time fordeliberation; but this was not because she felt any especial doubtabout ultimately accepting him. She was pleased, maiden-like, to dally, and shrank from being formally bound. Her pulses had not yet stirredwith the unrest which love awakens. Her vanity had been pleasantlyaroused, and for the rest she was in all the ignorance of those whompassion has not yet made wise. She regarded marriage rather as anabstract thing; she was familiar with the idea that it was a matter ofsocial arrangement and necessity, to be looked upon as a part of life. She had, it is true, some vaguely sentimental notion that love was anecessity, and being persuaded that the match before her was adesirable one, was persuaded also that she was in love with Stanford. At least she was sure that he was in love with her, and as she likedhim, that answered. To find a man amusing, agreeable, handsome, andfulfilling the social requirements of a desirable husband seemed to herunsophisticated mind to love him. She was pleased with her lover; shewas not insensible of the triumph of having won the attentions of oneof the most sought-after men in her set; to pass her life in the well-ordered establishment which he would provide seemed to her a decorousand desirable method of fulfilling the destiny of a woman. She waswilling that the event should be postponed indefinitely, it is true;and the man himself in her considerations of the future was somethingof a shadow; a shadow pleasant enough, yet so remote as to count fornothing intimately important. She was somewhat less sophisticated thanmost modern girls, inheriting that New England nature which is slow tounderstand emotion and endowed with the power rather of tenacity thanof spontaneity of passion. 

When on the day previous Stanford had come to the train to see Bereniceoff, she had been especially gracious. She had been in particularlygood spirits, full of amusement that Mr. Wynne was to be her neighboron the train, and that he did not know it. She had chanced to send fortickets with Mrs. Wilson, the pair had laughingly planned thearrangement, and Berenice had promised herself some entertainment inteasing the young cleric on the journey. It pleased her, too, thatStanford should take the trouble to come to the station, especially asKate West, who had tried so hard to secure him despite the fact thatshe was ten years his senior, chanced to be meeting a friend and to bethere to see. She allowed herself to smile on her lover with morewarmth than usual, and was a little vexed as well as a little amused byit afterward. On the train she reflected that if she were to be sogracious Stanford would press his suit more warmly than she wished; yeton the other hand it occurred to her that if she were to be engaged tohim, she might as well get it over. Why not marry in the spring and goabroad? She wished much to go to Bayreuth for the Wagner operas in thesummer, and the aunt with whom she had hoped to travel was not willingto go. Besides, she really could not afford the trip, and at leastStanford had plenty of money. The idea of marrying with a thought tohis wealth was distasteful, and she at once said to herself that shecould not do that; but if she were to marry him--As the train rolled onshe had filled in the talk with Wynne with speculations whether itmight not be as well to let Stanford propose once more, and havematters settled. 

These cogitations, however, she interspersed with reflections that hertraveling companion had a beautiful eye and a finely cut nostril; thathe was on the whole a fine-looking man, handsome and well made, if hewere not disguised in that detestable clerical garb; and that his handswere distinctly those of a gentleman. She liked the tones of his voiceand the carriage of his head, smiling to herself at the thought that inthe latter there was hardly so much meekness as was to be expected inone of his profession. She laughed at him almost openly, for to theyoung woman of to-day there is apt to be something bordering on theludicrous and unmanly in a youth who is preparing to take orders, nomatter how great her respect for the completed clergyman. Berenice feltsomething not entirely free from a trace of good-natured contempt fordeacons in the abstract, not dreaming that she might be led to make anexception in favor of this especial deacon in the concrete. She becamemore and more alive to the attractions of Wynne, although up to thetime of the accident she hardly realized the fact. 

From the moment, however, that the rescuer said to her that Maurice hadsaved her life, her feeling was changed. She felt that she had failedto do Wynne justice; that she had allowed his cassock to be the sign ofa lack of manhood; she accused herself of having wronged him. She begannow to exalt him in her thoughts, and to regard him as a hero. She hadlong been aware of the effect that she had on him. From the morningwhen she had encountered him at the North End, and had met the quick, troubled glance of his eye, full of doubt and of fire, she had beenconscious that he was not indifferent to her presence. She had notreasoned about it; but it gave her pleasure. It was a passing breath ofhomage, pleasing like a breath from some rose-bed passed in a walk. Upto the moment, however, when she said to herself that he had risked hislife for her, Berenice had never consciously thought of Maurice as alover. When she saw him lying insensible, depending upon her, a newfeeling kindled in her breast. She would not think of it; she shrankfrom it, and refused to acknowledge it to herself. Yet for her theworld was altered, and however she might try to hide the fact from herheart, secretly she felt it fluttering and throbbing deep within herbreast. 

When the telegram came in the morning announcing the visit of Stanford, her first thought was one of gratification. The act was friendly, andit gave her a pleasant sense of importance. The reaction cameinstantly. The purport of the visit flashed upon her. She rememberedhow she had smiled on Stanford yesterday, --Yesterday that now seemedso far away that she looked back to it over distances of emotion whichmade it strangely remote. She felt that she must receive him; but shefound herself seeking for the means of making him understand that whathe hoped was forever impossible. She certainly could never marry him. She was sure that the thought could never have been seriously in hermind. The idea of belonging to him, of having no right to think ofanother man with tenderness, became all at once too repugnant to beendured. She would not consider why her attitude was so different fromthat of yesterday; she only insisted vehemently in her thought that nowfirst she really knew her own mind. Her cheek burned at the reflectionthat Stanford was probably sure of her consent to be his. It seemed togive him a claim upon her; to shut the door upon all otherpossibilities; to smutch the whiteness of her soul and render herunworthy of any man whom she might some day come to love. To rememberthat in her secret thought she had actually contemplated beingStanford's wife made her cringe. 

She stood by the window with the telegram in her hands, twisting it toand fro, wondering what it was possible for her to do. She thought ofexcusing herself from her visitor when he should come, but the evasionseemed to her unworthy, and she was eager to free herself from even thesuspicion of belonging to him. She felt that she could not breathefreely until she were clear of the faintest shadow of any claim, evenin Stanford's secret thought. She must belong once more to herself. 

It was at this point in her musings that Wynne came into the library. He was pale and sunken-eyed, and the tinge of his sprouting beard gaveto his face a certain virility which startled her. It imparted a traceof something perhaps remotely animal and brutal, subtly altering hiswhole expression. He became in appearance at once more vigorous andmore human. For the first time Berenice saw a suggestion of thepossibility that this man might be a master; and the strength in manthat makes a woman tremble also makes her thrill. Some inward voicecried in her ear: "Here is the reason why Parker Stanford isrepugnant!" But she denied the accusation indignantly in her mind, putting the thought by, and refusing to see in Wynne anything more thanthe man to whom she had cause to be grateful. Yet in that part of hermind where a woman keeps so many things which she declines to confessto herself that she knows, Berenice from that moment kept the fact thatthis man before her had touched her heart. 

She made a strong effort to greet Wynne frankly, and to conceal fromhim the feeling which his coming excited. She would have died ratherthan show him how glad she was that he had come. She saw the eagernessof his glance when he entered, and she felt the warmth of his greeting. She noted the change in his manner, and fancied it arose from his fearlest he betray himself. She set herself to overcome his reserve; andwhen she had succeeded she sprang up with a gay laugh, light-heartedand full of a delicious, incomprehensible pleasure. She wanted to breakout into singing, so sweet is the delight of new love unrecognized saveas simple joy in living. 

The entrance of Mehitabel with the card of Mr. Stanford brought herback to earth. 

"Already?" she said, feeling as if she were defrauded that thus hermoment of enjoyment was cut short. 

She could not trust herself for more than a word of excuse to Wynne, but hurried to her chamber to collect her thoughts and to examine hertoilet before she descended to her visitor. Some inward personalityseemed to be trying properly to frame the speech by which she shouldmake Stanford understand that it was idle for him to hope longer; whileall the time she was thinking of the man whom she had just left. 

Stanford was holding out his hands to the blaze in the fireplace whenshe entered the parlor, for the morning was a sharp one. Berenice sawwith appreciation how satisfactory he was in all his appointments andin his bearing; how well kept and how well bred. She felt, however, forthe first time that he was perhaps a little too faultlessly attired fora man, and she glanced at his cleanly shaven cheek with an acute memoryof the stout black stubble on the face she had left behind her, yetcarried still in the eye of her mind. 

"Good-morning, " she said, giving the visitor her hand, and making hermanner at once as cordial and as unemotional as possible. "It was toogood of you to come all the way up here in this cold weather, just tosee me. "

He pressed her hand with eagerness, and so meaningly that the colorflushed into her cheeks. His air seemed to her to have in it asuggestion of intimacy which was irritating beyond endurance. 

"There was nothing good about it, " he answered. "I had to assure myselfby actual sight that you were safe; and, besides, it gave me an excusefor coming, and I was only too glad of that. "

"Sit down, " Berenice said, ignoring the compliment. "It really wasfrightful; but I came through safe. Grandmother wouldn't let me see thepaper this morning; but I know the details must have been horrible. "

She grew grave as she spoke. She seemed again to see the whole terriblesight. The wreck, thrusting out tongues of fire, the dead and the dyingstrewn about on the snow; Wynne, at her feet, insensible and ghastly inthe uncertain light. She shuddered and drew in her breath. 

"Oh, don't let's talk about it!" she exclaimed. "I can't bear to thinkof it, and I feel as if I should never get it out of my head!"

Stanford was silent a moment, pulling his mustache as if trying to findthe right word. 

"It must have been awful, " he said hesitatingly; "and I'll never speakof it again if you don't wish. Only I must say that it was dreadful tome too. The thought of how near I came to losing you is more than I canstand. "

She leaned back in her chair, suddenly chilled, yet moved by thefeeling in his voice. Her conscience reproached her that she hadallowed a false hope to grow up in his mind. She felt as if he wereestablishing a claim upon her, and that at any cost she must make himsee things as they were. 

"You are very kind, " she responded, trying to keep her tones from beingtoo cold; "but of course we always feel a shock when any friend hasbeen through a great danger. "

Her eyes were cast down, but she could divine his regard of disquietand surprise. 

"And especially those we love, " he added, leaning forward, andendeavoring to take her hand. 

"Oh, of course, Mr. Stanford, " she said hastily. "That is of coursetrue. Were people in Boston much excited about the accident?"

She felt herself a hypocrite, yet she could not help this one moreeffort to avoid the explanation she dreaded. 

"I suppose so. I don't know. I was so taken up with thinking about you, that I paid very little attention to anything else. "

"I'm afraid I didn't deserve it. I wasn't thinking of anybody butmyself. It was very good of you. "

"Of course you weren't thinking of anybody, " Stanford responded, pulling his mustache more furiously than ever; "but I was at the clubinstead of being in a burning car. I was half crazy at the thought thatmy future wife"--

"Stop!" Berenice broke in. "You mustn't say such things. I'm not yourfuture wife!"

"Forgive me. I know I haven't any right to say that when you haven'tpromised; but I can't help thinking of you so, and"--

"Oh, please don't!" she cried. 

A wave of humiliation, of repulsion, of terror, swept over her. Thatthis man had thought of her as his wife seemed almost like aninexorable bond. She shrank away from him with an impulse too strongto be controlled. 

"But, Berenice, I"--

She sprang up and faced him. 

"I have never promised you!" she declared with hurried vehemence. "Inever will promise you! I can't marry you. If I've made you think so, Ididn't mean to. I didn't know my own mind. I thought--O Mr. Stanford, if I have deceived you, I beg your pardon. I"--

The tears choked and blinded her. She broke off, and put herhandkerchief to her eyes; but when she heard him rise and hurry towardher, she went on hastily. 

"I've let you go on thinking I'd marry you; I know I have. I thought somyself; but I've found out that it's all a mistake. I didn't realizewhat I was doing. I'm so sorry. I do hope you'll forgive me. "

He regarded her in amazement not unmingled with indignation. 

"You have let me think so, " he said. "Now I suppose there's somebodyelse. "

"Oh, I shall never marry anybody, " she answered quickly. 

"When a girl tells one man she never'll marry, " retorted he bitterly, "there's sure to be another man in her mind. "

She felt herself burn with blushes to her brow; and then in very shameand anger to grow pale again. Her first impulse was to leave him; butshe controlled herself. He was her guest, he had come all the way fromBoston to assure himself that she was safe, and more than all she wassorely aware that she had not treated him well. To have injured a manis to a woman apt to be an excuse for continuing to treat him ill; butwhen the opposite occurs she can be very forbearing. 

"There is no other man, " she said with dignity. Then she added, moremildly: "Badly as I may have treated you, I don't think you've quitethe right to say such a thing as that to me. "

"I haven't, " he acknowledged contritely. "I beg your pardon; but Isurely have a right to ask what I've done to change you so. You werenot like this yesterday. "

Berenice forced herself to meet his eyes, but she ignored his question. She sank back into the chair from which she had risen to face him. 

"Come, " said she, trying to speak lightly, "I don't see why we needstand. We are not rehearsing private theatricals. It was very kind ofyou to take the trouble to come all the way up here, but you must seethat my nerves are all on edge. The shock has completely upset me. "

"Poor girl!" he said. 

There was a genuine ring in his voice which irritated while it touchedher. She hated to feel that he was really hurt. It made her seem themore deeply guilty, and she unconsciously desired to discover in himsome excuse for her own shortcomings. 

"Oh, it's over now, " she responded. "Let's talk of something else. "

"I'd be glad to, " Stanford replied, "but I can't seem to. I want toknow how you escaped. I won't ask you to tell me now, but I keepthinking about it. "

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much. I remember a tremendous crash, andbeing thrown against Mr. Wynne"--

"Mr. Wynne?"

The tone showed Berenice that Stanford did not attach especialimportance to the question, but asked only from a natural curiosity. Nevertheless she could not keep her voice from, hurrying a little asshe answered:--

"Mr. Wynne is a young clergyman who was in the seat next to mine. He'sa cousin of Mrs. Staggchase. "

"Oh, a clergyman, " Stanford echoed. 

The tone seemed to her excited mood to be full of intolerablesuperiority. 

"He may be a clergyman, " she retorted with unnecessary warmth, "but heis a gentleman and a hero. He saved my life!"

"Oh, he did!"

The exclamation stung her beyond endurance. She sprang up with flashingeyes. 

"Mr. Stanford, " she exclaimed, "I don't know what you mean toinsinuate, but you will please to remember that you are speaking of theman that saved me, and of my grandmother's guest. "

"Your grandmother's guest? Do you mean that he is staying here?"

"Certainly he is. Why shouldn't he be?"

The young man rose, and stood looking at her a moment; then he began topace up and down, his gaze fixed on the floor. Berenice felt herselfbeing swept away by tumultuous feelings which she could neither compelnor understand. Her mind was in confusion, out of which rose mostdefinitely the desire that Stanford would go and leave her in peace. 

"There is no reason why I should question the right of Mrs. Morison tochoose her own guests, " said Stanford at length, pausing, and speakingwith an evident effort to be entirely calm; "and as I know nothing ofthis Mr. Wynne, I shouldn't in any case have a right to say anythingabout him. You can't wonder, though, that I'm jealous of him for havinghad the luck to save your life, or that when I come here and find youso suddenly different and this man staying in the house and a hero inyour eyes"--

"I wish that you wouldn't keep calling Mr. Wynne 'this, '" sheinterrupted hastily. "It sounds dreadfully superior. Come, " she added, softening her tone, and pleased at having prevented him from going on, "there is no need that we should quarrel about him. He is a priest, orgoing to be, and he's to take the vows of celibacy, so that it isabsurd for anybody to think of being jealous of him. If I seemdifferent to-day, it isn't any wonder after what I've been through. "

"I beg your pardon, " he said, coming quickly forward and extending hishand. "I'm awfully selfish. Of course I understand that what you'vebeen saying isn't to be taken seriously. We stand as we did before. Only, " he added, his voice deepening, "you are to remember that thedanger of losing you has shown me how fond I am of you. Good-by. "

He stooped and kissed her hand, and before she could speak, he wasgone. She stood where he had left her, hearing him leave the house, andthe tears came into her eyes. 

"Oh, " she moaned to herself, "I've made it worse than it was before. Iwanted to be honest, and he wouldn't let me!"

She stood a moment disconsolately, then she shrugged her shoulders asif to throw off all care. 

"Well, " she told herself, "I've given him fair warning. Now it is timeto go and entertain grandmother's guest. "

 XIII

 A NECESSARY EVIL Julius Caesar, ii. 2. 

While the advocates of Father Frontford were laboring, the friends ofother candidates were not idle. By the middle of January, however, thecontest had practically narrowed itself down to a struggle between thesupporters of the Father and those of the Rev. Rutherford Strathmore. Other names had been suggested, but in the end it was felt that therewas no doubt that one or the other of these men would succeed to thevacant bishopric. Even church politicians are human, and most divisionsare sure sooner or later to arouse the vanity of contestants. Thestruggle, which begins without consciously personal motives, is apt tobe strongly tempered by the determination not to be beaten. Forthousands who can accomplish the difficult feat of triumphing humbly, there is hardly one who can submit to defeat generously; and againstthe humiliation of failure the human being instinctively strives withevery power. Those who upheld the rival candidates were undoubtedlyconvinced that they had the best interests of the church at heart; butthat meant the election--even at some cost!--of their favorite. 

There could be no question that Mr. Strathmore was the more generallypopular candidate. He was a man who appealed strongly to the commonheart, both by his sympathy and by flexibility of character andtemperament which made it impossible for him to be repellantly stern oraustere. He preached the high ideals which are dear to the best thoughtof the children of the Puritans; he demanded high purpose and highlife, noble aims and unfailing charity; while he laid little stress ondogmas, and allowed an elasticity of individual interpretation ofdoctrine which made the creed easy of adoption by all who believedanything. His enemies--for he was by no means so insignificant as to bewithout enemies--declared that he carried the doctrine of "mentalreservations" to the extent of rendering the articles of faith mereempty forms of words; his defenders protested that he was but wiselyconforming in non-essentials to the progressive spirit of the age. Bitterly attacked by the more conservative members of his owndenomination, he was looked up to by the general public as a greatspiritual leader, and loved with an affection exceedingly rare in thisunpriestly age. Those who urged his elevation had the support of thebody of the laity, and also of the public outside of the church, whichfor once was interested in church politics on account of affection andreverence for the candidate. 

Mr. Strathmore himself had the discretion not to express himself freelyin relation to his own feelings in the matter. The enthusiasticassertions of his friends that no one save him could fill the vacantoffice he had answered by observing with a smile that the church wasindeed fallen upon evil times if there was in it but one man fit to bemade a bishop. He had added, it is true, that if it were the will ofProvidence that he be the one chosen he should accept the office as aduty given him by Heaven, and should devote himself to it with all hisability. It was by no means the least of Mr. Strathmore's gifts thathe had the grace of speaking always without any suggestion of cant. There was an impression of candor and enthusiasm in everything he said, so that words which might on the lips of another sound conventional ormeaningless became on his spontaneous and vital. "He is too modest andself-forgetful to wish for the honor, " his friends commented now; "buthe is too conscientious not to put aside his personal preferences forthe good of the church. He may shrink from the high places, but he isthe ideal man for them. " As much of this sort of thing was said in thepublic print, it is not impossible that the Rev. Rutherford Strathmorewas aware of it; but he had the good taste to ignore it, even inconversation with his nearest friends, and the tact to carry himselfwithout self-consciousness or the appearance of humility with which asmaller man would have shown that he knew that he was being praised. 

Of friends he had a host well-nigh innumerable. He had an especialliking for young men, and a great influence over them. He had the artof arousing in them an emotional enthusiasm toward a higher life, sothat he had never lack of efficient helpers among the laymen inwhatever projects he undertook. He had also that invaluable attributeof the priest, the gift of inspiring confidence and opening the heart. He did not seem to seek confidences, yet they always came to him. Youngmen in trouble, young women in woe, lads in the impressionable periodwhen sentimental experiences assume importance prodigious, youth ofboth sexes bewildered between physical and religious sensations, thesick and the poor, the ignorant and the cultivated, all found in himthat sympathy which opens the heart, and which, most of humanqualities, endears a man to his fellows. 

Mr. Strathmore and Father Frontford might not unfairly be said torepresent the two extremes of modern theology: on the one hand therelaxing of creeds, the liberalizing of thought, the breaking down ofbarriers which have divided the church from the world, and, above all, acquiescence in individual liberty of thought; on the other hand, theconservative element taking the position that individual liberty ofinterpretation means nothing less than a practical destruction of allstandards, and that what is called the liberalizing of thought canresult in nothing less than the utter overthrow of the church. Undoubtedly either would have declared that he held the other to be adevout and godly man; but he must inwardly have added, a mistaken andconscientiously mischievous one. If Mr. Strathmore was right, FatherFrontford was little less than a mediaeval bigot, unhappily belated; ifthe Father was correct, then Strathmore, despite all his influence, hispopularity, his power of attracting great congregations, was littlebetter than a dangerous and pestilent heretic. 

One morning Mr. Strathmore sat in his study talking to a visitor inclerical dress. The room was luxuriously appointed, for Mr. Strathmore's belongings were always of a sort to minister pleasantly tothe sense. The walls were lined with books in sumptuous bindings, thewindows hung with heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the floor coveredwith rich rugs. A bronze statuette of Savonarola stood on an ebonypedestal between two windows, consorting somewhat oddly with the velvetdraperies which swept down on either side. Indeed, there might bethought to be something in the thin, spiritually impassioned face ofthe monk, in the eagerly imperative gesture with which he pointed withone hand to the open Bible he held in the other, not entirelyconsistent with the somewhat worldly air of the room. The handsomecarved chairs, cushioned with fine leather, the beautiful landscape byRousseau above the mantel, the bronze and silver of the writing-table, had been given to the popular pastor by enthusiastic admirers, however, and perhaps the Savonarola better expressed his own inner feelings. Mr. Strathmore's face, it is true, was in itself somewhat unspiritual. Theclergyman was of commanding presence, and while neither unusually tallnor exceptionally large, he somehow gave, from the air with which hecarried himself, the impression of size and importance. His eyes werekeen and piercing, neither study nor the advance of years having dimmedtheir clear sight or reduced him to the necessity of wearing glasses. He was still handsome, although his face was too full, and he was toogenerously provided with chins. As he talked, his face would haveseemed almost blank and expressionless had it not been for his keeneyes, full of alert intelligence and abundant vitality. His glance wasacute and searching, and yet nothing could exceed its kindliness andsympathy. 

The visitor who sat talking with Mr. Strathmore was almost ludicrouslyhis opposite. Mr. Pewtap was a small, ineffectual creature, withinefficiency oozing out of his every pore. He was conspicuously theincarnation of well-meaning and exasperating incompetence; one ofthose men who might be forgiven everything but the fact that theirstupidities are invariably the result of the best intentions. It wasevident at a glance that this man had used the church as a genteelpauper asylum, wherein his ineptitude might be devoted to the serviceof Heaven since nothing gifted with the common sense of earth wouldtolerate it. His very attitude was an excuse, and the way in which hehandled his hat might have provoked profanity in any saint at alladdicted to nerves. Mr. Pewtap was more than usually crushed in hisappearance, and toed in more than was his custom, because he had comeon an awkward errand, and had been telling his host that he could notvote for him in the coming election. 

Mr. Strathmore had received this declaration with good-humor, and evenwith no appearance of disapproval. 

"Of course, Mr. Pewtap, " he said, "I am human, and it would bedisingenuous for me to pretend that I am not pleased by the fact thatmy name has been mentioned in connection with the bishopric. I canconscientiously affirm, however, that the good of the church is moredear to me than ambition. Even were it not, I hardly think that I amcapable of being offended with any man who felt it his duty to voteagainst me. "

He smiled with winning warmth. The other moved in his seat uneasily, becoming momentarily more apologetic until he seemed to beg pardon forexisting at all. 

"I have always felt, " he said confusedly, "that you ought to be chosen. That is, I mean that when Bishop Challoner was taken from us I said toMrs. Pewtap that you were sure to succeed him. "

Mr. Strathmore smiled, but he did not offer to help his visitor out ofthe tangle in which he was evidently involving himself. 

"It isn't the good of the church, exactly, " Mr. Pewtap stumbled on, turning his seedy hat about like a slow wheel which had some connectionwith grinding out his speech, "that I--Yes, of course I mean that thegood of the church must be considered first, as you say. "

Speechlessness seemed to overcome him, and he looked upon his host witha piteous appeal in his face. 

"I understand that it is not an easy thing for you to tell me that itseems best to you not to vote for me, " Mr. Strathmore said kindly. "Iappreciate your coming to me on an errand so hard for you. "

Mr. Pewtap sighed eloquently. 

"If circumstances, " he interpolated eagerly, "if circumstances weredifferent"--

"Of course, " the other responded with a genial laugh. "As they are, however, it seems to you best to vote for Father Frontford, and youhave a kindness for me that makes you come and tell me your reason. I'mglad you do me the justice to believe that I won't misunderstand. "

"Oh, I was sure you wouldn't misunderstand. You see, Mrs. Frostwinchhas been so good to my family. I have seven children, Mr. Strathmore, all under ten. "

The eye of the host twinkled, but he was otherwise of admirablegravity. 

"And my chance might be better if you hadn't so many?" he suggested. 

"Oh, we never could have had so many if it hadn't been for Mrs. Frostwinch, " Mr. Pewtap responded eagerly. "I mean, of course, that wecouldn't have taken care of them all. She has for years given Mrs. Pewtap a little annual income, --little to her, I mean, of course; butit doesn't take much to be a great deal to us. "

Mr. Strathmore picked up a paper-knife of cut silver and played with ita moment in silence, as if waiting for the other to go on. 

"Do I understand, " he said at length, "that Mrs. Frostwinch hassomething to do with your decision in regard to the election?"

"Yes; she wrote to me that she was sure that I'd vote for FatherFrontford, and that she was greatly interested in his being bishop. It's the only thing she ever asked of me, and she has been so generousthat I don't see how I can refuse when Father Frontford is so good aman, and so earnest for the upbuilding of the church. "

"You must certainly follow your conscience, " Strathmore commentedblandly. 

"Oh, I shouldn't have any conscience against voting for you, Mr. Strathmore; I couldn't possibly have. Besides, it would be myinclination if circumstances were different. I wanted to explain to youthat it is not because I fail to appreciate how kind you have been tome that I vote for him. When I was told yesterday that the vote waslikely to be close, and that my vote might make a difference, I assureyou I was quite distressed. I told Mrs. Pewtap last night in the nightthat I couldn't feel comfortable till I'd seen you and explained. "

"It is most kind of you, " Strathmore put in, his face inscrutable, buthis eyes still kindly. 

"I wanted to explain that under the circumstances I had no choice. "

"I understand. It is not necessary to say any more about it. Of coursein a case of this sort a man has only to follow his conscience, and letthe consequences take care of themselves. "

"That is what I said to Mrs. Pewtap, " was the enthusiastic reply. "Isaid to her that you would understand that this is a matter to bedecided by conscience and not by individual preferences. Otherwise Ishould have been very glad to vote for you. I am sure you understandthat I personally wish you all success. "

He rose as he spoke, his face lighted with an expression of relief. 

"I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure, " he ran on. "I knew youwouldn't blame me, but these things are always so hard to stateproperly so that there sha'n't be any misunderstanding. You have takena great weight off of my mind. Of course, as you say, in such a casethere is nothing to do but to act according to one's conscience, andlet the consequences be cared for by a higher power. Only personally, you know, personally I shall be delighted if you are successful. "

When Mr. Pewtap was gone Mr. Strathmore stood a moment in thought, hisforehead wrinkled as if with doubt. Then his face melted into a smile, as if he were amused at the peculiarities of his visitor. He shruggedhis shoulders, and sat down to write a note. At that moment there was atap at the door, and his colleague came into the room. 

"Good morning, Thurston, " Mr. Strathmore greeted him. "I shall be readyto go with you in a moment. I am writing a note to Mrs. Gore. "

The Rev. Philander Thurston was a short, brisk, worldly-looking divine, with shrewd glance. Nature had evidently been somewhat too hasty orcareless in the making of his face, for she had cut his nostrilsunpleasantly high and set his eyes much too near together. 

"I saw Mrs. Gore yesterday, " Thurston responded. "She thinks that shecan answer for those votes of which we were speaking. She says that thevote of Mr. Pewtap will depend upon Mrs. Frostwinch. "

"He has just been here, " Strathmore said smiling. "He told me in somany words that he is to vote for Frontford. His conscience will notallow him to run the risk of depriving his children of the annuity Mrs. Frostwinch gives his wife. I'm sure I'm not inclined to blame him. "

"It is outrageous that he should fail you after all you've done forhim, " Thurston declared with some heat. "I never had any confidence inhim. "

"Oh, he acts according to his nature, " was the good-humored response, "and I'm afraid there isn't substance enough to him for grace to get avery strong hold to change him. If Mrs. Frostwinch is taking an activepart in this matter there are others she can influence. "

"Yes, " the colleague said. "I thought that she was too much taken upwith that mind-healing business; but she evidently wants to help bringthe church back to the formalities of the Middle Ages. Frontford wouldhave the whole diocese going to confession if he had his way. "

"He could do nothing of the kind if he did wish to do it, " Mr. Strathmore answered quietly. "The worst that he could bring about wouldbe to give the impression to the world that the church was retrogradinginstead of progressing. He would be entirely opposed to individualliberty of conscience everywhere, and that seems to me to be inopposition to the spirit of the age. "

"It undoubtedly is, " assented the young man eagerly. 

"The gravest harm that he could do in the church, " pursued the other, "would be to encourage the substitution of form for spirit. The morereligious faith is shaken, the greater is the temptation to supply itsplace by a ritual, and this temptation seems to me the most imminentand deadly peril of the church to-day. "

"It certainly is, " confirmed the colleague. 

"Besides, " Strathmore added emphatically, rising as he spoke, "thedeepest need of any time can be met only by a church which is insympathy with the tendencies of the time. "

"You put it admirably, " the other murmured. 

Strathmore regarded him keenly, almost as if he suspected some hiddenthought behind the words. 

"It is time for us to go, " he said in his usual genial tone. 

The two clergymen left the house and went down the street together, talking of parish business, until they came to the street-corner wherethey were to take a car. As they stood waiting for this conveyance, alady came quickly forward and spoke to Mr. Strathmore, who greeted hercordially, expressing much pleasure in seeing her. 

"You were so kind to me, " she said. "I have been thinking of all yousaid to me last week, and it seems to me that I can bear my burdenbetter. I want to thank you with all my heart. "

"There is nothing to thank me for, " he answered with grave tenderness. "The blessing is mine if I have been able to help you. "

"But there was no one else, " she said, tears springing in her eyes, "that I could have talked to so freely. You understood and sympathized. It was like talking to a brother. "

He took her hand with an air perfectly unaffected and unobtrusive, yetwhich was almost paternal in its benignity. Her look was one almost ofreverence as she hurried on her way with bowed head. 

"Thurston, " Mr. Strathmore asked, as they took the car together, "doyou know the name of that lady who spoke to me on the corner?"

"I didn't notice, sir. I was watching for the car. "

"She seemed to know me perfectly, " Strathmore said rather absently, "and yet I can't place her. By the way, did you bring that letter fromthe church committee in New York? There is a passage in it that I maywant to read at the meeting. "

"I brought it, sir. There is likely to be a good deal of difference ofopinion at the committee meeting to-day, " Mr. Thurston said with an airof craftiness which was like an explanatory foot-note to his character, "so I judged that it was well to be provided with documents. "

The other made no reply, but fell into deep thought, making no furtherremark until they left the car near the place where they were to attenda meeting of the Charity Board. 

"I think, " he observed dispassionately, "that there are four clergymenwhose votes Mrs. Frostwinch may be able to control. "

 XIV

 HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY Love's Labor's Lost, i. 1. 

Ashe had in these days been dallying with temptation. He contrived notto confess it to himself, but by a variety of ingenious devices tocheat his conscience into the belief that he was serving the church byhis consultations with Mrs. Fenton, his services to her charity work, and his continual thought of her views in regard to the election. It isamazing how clever even a dull man may be when it comes to inventingexcuses for his own beguiling; and Philip struggled with suchdesperation to convince himself that he was acting disinterestedly thathe all but succeeded. He could not, however, achieve what isimpossible; and there was a pain in the heart of the young man whichtestified that his sense of right was sore despite all his cunning. 

At the meeting of the Charity Board to which Mr. Strathmore had beengoing, Ashe sat beside Mrs. Fenton. His obvious excuse was that she wasto make a report, and that he, as a visitor in her district, was ableto support her in case there were any discussion. The session had beenlooked forward to with much interest, from the general feeling thatthere would probably be something like a conflict between the Frontfordand Strathmore factions. There had for a long time been a growingdivision on the subject of the method of conducting church charities;and it was expected that at this meeting the feeling would break outopenly. It would not be easy to say how it was known that anything ofthe sort was to occur. There was no announcement of business whichdiffered materially from that of the ordinary sessions of the board. The time did not seem propitious for a discussion, and there wereevident reasons why the followers of either candidate might be supposedto wish to avoid arousing antagonism; yet it was certain that themeeting would not close without some sort of a demonstration. There aretimes when public feeling seems to demand and force declarations ofprinciple or of purpose which policy would gladly suppress; and such atime had arrived in the Charity Board. Ashe was so strongly moved bythe possibilities of the situation that even the proximity of Mrs. Fenton did not absorb his attention; although he was not for a momentunconscious of being beside her. 

The business routine was gone through, and after that half an hourpassed in the ordinary fashion. At the end of that time Mr. Thurston, with apparent unconsciousness, threw a spark into the combustibles. 

"The fact seems to be, " he said, "that there has been too much the airof proselyting in our charity work, and that has brought it intodiscredit with the class which we most wish to reach. "

He sat down with a face admirably controlled. Mr. Strathmore showed inhis benignant countenance nothing save charity for all and generalapproval of the remarks of his subordinate. The audience stirrednervously, realizing that the critical moment had come. FatherFrontford, pale, ascetic, austere, rose with grave deliberation. 

"What has just been said, " he began, "brings up a subject which hasbeen in the minds of many for some months, --the question whether thereis or should be any difference between the charity work of the church, and that of the city or the world in general. As far as I understandthe position of the last speaker, I take it to be his opinion thatthere is, or at least that there should be, no such difference. Hebelieves in alleviating misery, and he would have religion kept in thebackground, lest the poor should feel that they are being fed for thesake of being led to a better life. I do not myself see the objectionto their thinking so. I am by no means sure that they do; but I amconvinced that they look for a motive, and it seems to me better thatthey should believe the object of missionary work to be proselyting--Ithink that that was the word--than that they should embrace the tooprevalent and most dangerous idea that charity is a bribe from the richto keep the poor quiet. There is not a little feeling nowadays thatphilanthropy is encouraging socialism. The poor echo incendiary oratorsin saying that the rich dole out a little of what they know to belongto the poor so that they may be allowed to keep the rest unmolested. Ibelieve that this feeling is a menace to the State, and thatphilanthropy which nourishes such a belief is working hand in hand withtreason. "

He paused a moment, and there arose a faint murmur. Ashe looked at hiscompanion, and encountered a glance which seemed to express somethingof his own surprise at the boldness of Father Frontford's words. Thatthe speaker should be uncompromising was to be supposed, but this wasan attitude unexpected and astonishing. One or two men started up asif to reply, but the Father went on again. His voice was thin andincisive, with a vibrating quality when it was raised which affectedthe nerves. It was easy to dislike his tones, but it was not easy toresist their influence. He passed to another point, and his words had akeener emphasis. 

"Neither have we escaped the accusation that we use the poor simply asa means of self-improvement. An old Irish woman in a tumble-downtenement house once said to me: 'Ye'll have no chance to work out yoursalvation doing for me. ' I believe that there are many of the poor whomore or less consciously have the same idea. They think that we makevisiting them a sort of penance, and they resent it. I am not sure thatI can find it in my heart to blame them. "

"He is either sacrificing himself completely, or making one of thosebold strokes that are irresistible, " Ashe whispered to Mrs. Fenton; andshe nodded assent. 

"What should be, " the speaker proceeded, amid a deep hush which showedthe keen interest which his words had aroused, "is that we should dareto be consistent. As individuals and as churchmen we should exercisethe virtue of charity, but both as individuals and as churchmen we arebound to see to it that we make our charity effective for the glory ofGod and the salvation of men. There is no stronger instrument in ourhands than philanthropy, and not to utilize it for the good of thechurch is to be culpably negligent. I believe that charity should bethe instrument of evangelization. The poor will have a reason for ourinterest in them. Let them have this. Let them believe, if they will, that we purchase their spiritual acquiescence by ministering to theirbodily needs. Certainly I believe that we should limit our work tothose who can be spiritually influenced. There are more of these thanwe can at present attend to, and I am in favor of boldly andconsistently taking the position that as administrators of the bountiesof the church we feel bound to use them for the advancement of thechurch. To aid the corrupt, the evil, the hardened without any attemptto draw them into the fold and without any pledge that they will beinfluenced, is simply to aid the avowed enemies of religion and tostrengthen their hands against righteousness. "

The air of the room was becoming electric. Philip could see theexchange of glances all around him, some of surprise, some ofconsternation, some--or he was deceived--of triumph and scornfulsatisfaction. He fancied that he saw Mr. Thurston shoot toward Mr. Strathmore a flash of gratification, but the face of the latterremained unmoved and inscrutable. Ashe, full of uneasiness as to theresult of the speech, was greatly excited, but at the same time movedto profound admiration for its boldness and its consistency. He was insympathy with the views expressed, and he was more than ever convincedthat Father Frontford was the only man for the sacred office of bishop. 

"Even our Lord, " Father Frontford went on, his thin cheeks burning andhis slender frame swayed by the strength of his emotion, "did not manyworks in places where he found unbelief. There was no limit to hispower; there was no limit to his mercy. It was out of love for thewhole of mankind that He refused to benefit individuals who would havehindered the work He came to do. The example is one which we shall dowell to follow. We have more work than we can do in aiding the faithfuland in building up the church. Let us accept the name of proselyterswhich has been contemptuously flung at us, and wear it as our glory. Weare proselyters. We must be proselyters. It is the highest joy andhonor of our lives that we are allowed of heaven to take this work uponus. God will require it at our hands if we fail in our privatecharities, and still more if we fail in the administration of therevenues of the church to be always ardent, consistent, unweariedproselyters!"

There was a good deal of applause when the speaker sat down. Theprofound earnestness of the man carried the hearers away, at least forthe moment. Ashe saw Thurston look inquiringly at Strathmore, as if toask if the latter was not intending to reply, but Strathmore satsilent. 

"Don't you suppose Mr. Strathmore means to speak?" Mrs. Fentonwhispered. "He almost always does speak after Father Frontford, and hehas expressed very strong views about the charities. "

"I cannot understand why he doesn't speak, " Ashe responded. "It may behe feels that the meeting is not with him, and does not wish to takethe unpopular side. "

Several men did speak, however, among them Mr. Candish. Their remarkswere in accord with the views expressed by the Father, yet they somehowlessened the effect of his words. Put into their plain and sometimeseven awkward language his position seemed unpractical and hopelesslyfar from daily life; so that even Ashe, warm partisan as he was, couldnot but feel his enthusiasm somewhat chilled. Again he intercepted aglance between Thurston and his superior. Philip sat with the two mendirectly in his range of vision, and could not keep his eyes fromwatching them. He recognized that there was danger in the keen, craftyface of the colleague, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed; he wondered introubled fashion how far it was possible that Mr. Strathmore was of thesame nature as his assistant. Ashe was confident that Thurston was aborn intriguer, and he instinctively watched for signs of understandingbetween Mr. Strathmore and the other. He could detect nothing of thesort. The Rev. Rutherford Strathmore bore a countenance as beneficent, as kindly, as guileless as ever; responding to the challenge of hiscolleague's eyes by no evidence of understanding or connivance. It wasnot until the talkers ceased and there fell a silence which indicatedthat the first force of admiration and enthusiasm had spent itself, that Strathmore rose. 

"No one can possibly disagree with the sentiments which have just beenexpressed, " he began in his cordial, frank manner. "There is no truthwhich we need in these days to keep more constantly before us than theduty of being always eager for the advancement of the church, and ofemploying all means to this end. The question which is of vitalinterest is how best to do this. When the caution was given that to theharmlessness of doves be added the guile of serpents, it might almostseem as if it was especially intended for our own day and case. Therehas certainly never been a time when wisdom was more needed than it isto-day. The growth of doubt, the overthrow of old traditions, oldbeliefs, old forms, in short of all that has been sanctioned by customand by time, have gone on in every department of human knowledge andendeavor. The spirit of the time is restless, progressive, liberal, even irreverent. The beautiful serenity of the church, its reverentconservatism, its hallowed enthusiasm, for old ideals, are at variancewith the temper of the century. Since the church is the shrine of truthit is impossible that it should alter with every shifting of scientificthought, every alteration in the fashions of human opinion; and westand face to face with the trying fact that the age is not in sympathywith the church. "

He paused, looking down as if in thought. Ashe regarded him closely, much impressed by the apparent spontaneity and candor with which thiswas said. The hearers were closely attentive. "The only thing uponwhich we seem to have some possible disagreement, " continued Mr. Strathmore, "is in regard to the best method of meeting this want ofsympathy, this feeling which often seems to amount almost to generalindifference. Is it to arouse all the suspicion and oppositionpossible? Is it to seem to justify the charges brought against us ofnarrowness, of formalism, of repression, and of obstructing theprogress of the race? It does not seem to me that this is the wisestcourse. I agree that it is our duty to forward the interests of thechurch, and to make our administration of charity a means to this end. It is certainly a question whether open and avowed proselyting is thebest means. Religion is no more to be bought with a price than is love. The person who conforms for a soup-ticket or a blanket has simply addedhypocrisy to his other failings, and has moreover gained for the churchthat contempt which men always feel for those they have overreached. The child that goes to Sunday-school for the Christmas tree and thesummer week has learned a lesson in deception which can never beblotted out. It is of course proper that these means should be used;but unless it is understood fully and frankly that they are employednot as a bribe but as a persuasion, not as a price but as a kindness, the evil that they do is more than any good that it is possible tobring about through their means. I do not believe that our charitiesshould be conducted on the basis of bargain and sale; nor do I believethat they should be put on a sectarian basis at all. "

He sat down quietly, with an unimpassioned air which seemed to rebukethe emotional close of the remarks of Father Frontford. Strathmorecould be emotional and impassioned upon occasion, and this deliberate, matter-of-fact mien affected Ashe as a calculated stroke of policy. Philip felt that his leader had suffered a defeat; and he wasprofoundly moved by the thought. Other speakers took up the question, but he paid little heed. He was occupied in speculating how the meetingwould affect the chances of the election. When he was walking home withMrs. Fenton after the session was over, he was so absorbed that sherallied him on his absent-mindedness. 

"I was thinking of the discussion, " he said. "I am afraid that FatherFrontford injured himself this morning. "

"But how noble it was of him to say what he believed in spite of thechances, " she responded. "I was delighted with Mr. Candish forseconding him as he did. "

"Yes, " Ashe said, a pang of jealousy piercing him at the mention of Mr. Candish. "It was fine. What I cannot make out, " he added, "is whetherMr. Strathmore is as simple and candid as he looks. He always seems tospeak sincerely and freely, and yet he somehow contrives never to sayanything that might not have been thought out with the most cleverpolicy. "

"I cannot make out either, " returned she. "Mr. Fenton used ratherparadoxically to say that Mr. Strathmore was too frank by half to behonest. "

She sighed as she spoke, and instantly all thought of bishops andchurch matters vanished from the mind of Ashe. He became entirelyabsorbed in wondering how warm was Mrs. Fenton's affection for her deadhusband and in hating himself for the thought. 

 XV

 HEARTSICK WITH THOUGHT Two Gentlemen of Verona, i. I

Instead of returning to Boston next morning, Maurice remained atBrookfield for ten days. Mrs. Morison decided the matter, and it is notto be supposed that he was entirely unwilling to be constrained. 

He naturally saw much of Berenice, and he passed hours in brooding overthoughts of her. He was convinced that she was not engaged. She hadspoken of Stanford's visit, and it had seemed to Wynne that she hadconveyed the impression that her relations to the visitor were lessintimate than might at first sight appear. If she were free--thethought made his heart beat, and he wondered if, had the circumstancesbeen different, he might himself have won her. He tormented himselfwith all her ways and words; the smiles she gave him, the triflingattentions which were addressed to the guest, but which seemed to havea touch of something deeper, that might be due to her thinking of himas her preserver, but which might even go beyond that. There was adelicious torture in all this reverie, in these continual self-reproaches which involved the thought of her, the remembrance of howshe had looked, how she had spoken, how she had moved. He became everyday more hopelessly her slave, yet every day insisting more strongly tohimself that he felt nothing more than warm friend. Once for a momenthe tried to believe that his feeling was merely a desire for herspiritual good, that his attitude was that which it was proper for apriest to feel toward a beautiful and frivolous worldling; but thepretense was too ghastly, and he abandoned it with a shudder ofdisgust. He had moments, too, when he said to himself frankly, indefiance or in sorrow as the mood might be, that he loved her; but forthe most part he tried to keep the assumption of simple friendshipbetween him and bitter thought. 

He found great pleasure in Mrs. Morison. She was to him a revelation ofpossibilities of which he had never dreamed. It was a continualsurprise to him to find himself so impressed by the wit, the wisdom, and the sanity of this fine old lady. He not only felt himself anignorant and inexperienced boy beside her, but found himself shrinkingfrom comparing with her the men whom he had followed as leaders. Theease of her manner, the completeness of her self-poise, her franksimplicity, high-bred and winning, delighted him, while the extent ofher mental resources filled him with amazement. 

Mrs. Morison opened to Wynne a new world in her conversation. At firstshe gave herself up chiefly to entertaining him, telling him delightfulstories of famous folk she had known, of her life abroad and inWashington. She was full of charming little tales which she had the artof relating as if she were not thinking of how she was telling them, but as if they came to her mind and bubbled into talk spontaneously. She had a way, too, of putting in unobtrusive observations on characterand events which impressed Maurice. The art of saying thingstrenchantly he had found in Mrs. Staggchase, but his cousin had the airof being aware of her cleverness, while Mrs. Morison said these thingsas if they were of the natural and habitual current of her thoughts. Mrs. Morison said clever things as if she thought them; Mrs. Staggchaseas if she thought of them. 

It did not take the young man long to discover that Mrs. Morison wasnot in sympathy with his creed. She was too well-bred to bring thematter forward, but he could not resist the temptation now and then totouch upon it. She was of principles at once so broad and so deep thathe found himself as often surprised by her devoutness as he felt it hisduty to be shocked by her liberality. One day when Maurice had madesome allusion to a discussion over the doctrine of predestination whichwas agitating the English church, Mrs. Morison said:--

"It always seems to me a pity that those who believe in that dreadfuldoctrine do not remember that if one were not one of the elect, hecould at least carry through eternity the realization that he was lostthrough no fault of his own. God could not take from him thatconsolation. "

He was silent in mingled amazement and disapproval; yet he found hismind following out with obstinate persistence the train of thoughtwhich her words suggested. In this or in many another remark it couldhardly be said that her words convinced him, but they awoke a swarm ofdoubts in his mind. He found himself following speculations that werelawless, wild, dangerous, and intoxicating. However convinced he mightbe that the reasoning of Mrs. Morison was fallacious, he did not findit easy to tell just wherein the fallacy lay. He felt that as a priesthe should be able to refute her, and he was filled with dismay todiscover that he was rather himself falling into the attitude of adoubter. 

One subject which was constantly in his mind he did not touch uponuntil the day before he left Brookfield. He longed to sound Mrs. Morison on the subject of a celibate priesthood. He was well enoughaware that she would not approve of it, and he was irritated by theknowledge that he secretly felt that her decision would be founded onstrong common sense. He tried to assure himself that it was herdangerous laxity of principle that blinded her to the nobility andsanctity of asceticism; but it was impossible to feel that such was thecase. He was teased by a wish which he would not acknowledge that shemight advance arguments which he could not controvert; though tohimself he said that she would be his temptation in tangible form, andthat he would struggle against it with his whole soul. 

His opportunity came while they were discussing the election of thebishop. Mrs. Morison was not immediately concerned in the matter, notbeing a churchwoman, but she had an intelligent interest in allquestions of the day. 

"I find it hard to understand, " Mrs. Morison observed, "how anychurchman can be so blind to the importance of conciliating publicthought and the general feeling as for a moment to think of any othercandidate than Mr. Strathmore. He is so completely in sympathy with thebroadening tendencies of the time. "

"But that means ultimately the destruction of creeds, " Mauriceobjected, answering rather the implication than her words. 

"I think that perhaps the highest courage men are called upon to show, "she answered, "is that of giving up a theory which has served its use. The race forces us to do it sooner or later, but the men who arereally great are those who are able to say frankly that their creedshave done their work, and that the new day must have new ones. Youmight almost say that the extent to which a man prefers truth tohimself is to be judged by his willingness to give up a dogma that isoutworn. "

"But you leave no stability to truth. "

"The truth is stable without effort or will of mine, " she returned, smiling; "but surely you would have human appreciation of it advance. "

He felt that there must be an answer to this, but he was not able tosee just what it was, and he shifted the question. 

"But Mr. Strathmore, " he said hesitatingly, "is married. "

"Yes, " she assented. "'The husband of one wife. '"

"If you begin to quote Scripture against me, " Maurice retorted, laughing in spite of himself, "I might easily reply to St. Paul by St. Paul. But letting that pass, it is certainly true that the church hasalways held that marriage absorbs a man in earthly things so that hecannot give the best of his thoughts to his work. "

"When the church sets itself against marriage, " Mrs. Morison respondedquietly, "it seems to me to be setting up to know more than the Creatorof the race. "

Maurice colored, although he might not have been able to tell whetherhis strongest feeling was horror at this bold language or joy at theemphasis with which she spoke. 

"Perhaps I should beg your pardon for saying so frankly what I think, "Mrs. Morison continued. "It isn't the way in which one generally talksto a clergyman; but the subject is one for which I haven't muchpatience, and of course I couldn't help seeing that you are in doubtyourself. "

Maurice started. 

"What do you mean?" he stammered. "I--I in doubt?"

"I hadn't any intention of forcing your confidence, " returned she. "Iam an old woman, and sometimes I find that I don't make allowanceenough for the slowness of you young people in arriving at a knowledgeof self. "

He cast down his eyes. 

"Until this moment, " he said, "I have never acknowledged to myself thatI was in doubt. I see what you mean, and it shows that I have beenplaying with fire. "

She looked at him questioningly, then turned the subject. 

"Which is perhaps a hint that our fire is going down. Sit still, please. Every woman likes to tend her own fire. "

"I should have learned that by this time, " was his answer. "I lost aninheritance once by insisting upon fixing a fire. "

"That sounds interesting. Is it proper to ask for the story?"

"Oh, there isn't much of a story. I had a great-aunt who was worth alot of money, and who was eccentric. She was in a way fond of me when Iwas a child, and used to have me at the house a good deal. I confess Ididn't like it much. Things went by rule, and the rules were oftenpretty queer. One of them was that nobody should presume to touch thefire if she was in the room. I liked to play with the fire as well asshe did, and when I was a boy just in my teens I used to do it. Aftershe'd corrected me half a dozen times I got into my foolish pate thatit was my duty to cure her of her whim. So I set to poking the fireostentatiously until she lost her temper and ordered me out of thehouse. Then she burned up the will in my favor and made a new one, giving all her money to the church. "

"How unjust, " commented Mrs. Morison, "and how human. Did you nevermake peace with her?"

"Yes, but of course I was careful that she should understand that Ididn't do it for the sake of her money. She told my mother that she hadmade a new will in my favor, but it never turned up. My aunt's deathwas very singular. She was found dead in her bed, and the woman wholived with her, an old nurse of mine, had disappeared. Of course therewas at once suspicion of foul play, but the doctors pronounced thedeath natural, and there was no evidence of theft. "

"Did you never discover the nurse?"

"Never. We tried, for we thought she might give a clue to the missingwill. She'd been in the family so long that she was a sort ofconfidential servant, and knew all Aunt Morse's affairs. She wasdevoted to me. "

"The romance may not be ended yet, " Mrs. Morison suggested smilingly. "Who knows but the missing nurse will some day turn up with the missingwill. "

"I'm afraid that after a dozen years there's little enough chance ofit. "

His mind was so racked upon this wretched question of the right of apriest to marry, that he could not rest until he had drawn fromBerenice also an expression of opinion on the subject. He made Mr. Strathmore again the excuse for the introduction of the topic. 

"I don't see, " he said to her, "how you can think that it's well tohave a married bishop. His wife is sure to be meddling in the affairsof the diocese. "

She looked at him with a mocking glance. 

"Do you wish to drag me into a discussion of the wisdom of allowing theclergy to have wives?" she asked cruelly. 

He flushed with confusion, but tried to carry a bold front. 

"Very likely it does come down to the general principle of the thing, "he answered. 

"Well then, the question of the marriage of the clergy doesn't interestme in the least. "

She looked so pretty and mischievous that he began to lose his head. 

"But it is of the greatest possible interest to me, " he returned, witha manner which gave the words a personal application. 

She flushed in her turn, and tossed her head. 

"That is by no means the same thing, " she retorted. 

"But what interests me you might try to consider; just out of charity, of course. "

"Oh, well, then, since you ask me, this celibacy of the clergy of ourchurch isn't at all a thing that anybody can take seriously. Everybodyknows that a clergyman may have his vows absolved by the bishop, sothat after all he can marry if he wants to; so that the whole thingseems"--

"Well?" he demanded, as she broke off. "Seems how?"

"Pardon me. I didn't realize what I was saying. "

"Seems how?" he repeated insistently. 

He challenged her with his eyes, and he could see the spark whichkindled defiantly in hers. She threw back her head saucily. 

"Well, since you insist! I was going to say that it made the wholething seem a little like amateur theatricals. "

He became grave instantly. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "You do not seem to understand that whatyou are speaking of may mean the bitter sacrifice of a man's wholelife. Even a clergyman is human, and may love as strongly, ascompletely"--

He choked with the emotion he could not control. He realized that hewas telling his passion, and there came to him an overwhelming sensethat he must never tell it save in this indirect manner. He hastened onlest she should interrupt him. 

"Don't you suppose that a priest may know what it is to worship thevery ground a woman walks on? Don't you suppose he has had his heartbeat till it suffocated him just because her fingers touched his or hergown brushed him? A man is a man after all, and the dreams that come toone are much the same as come to another. The difference is that thepriest has to tear his very heart out, and turn his back on all thatother men may find delight in. "

Berenice looked at him with shining eyes, not undimmed, he thought, bytears. 

"If you really care for her so much, " she said softly, "you can giveonly a divided heart to your work. It is better to own that toyourself, isn't it?"

"For her?" he echoed. 

"Oh, there must be somebody, " she returned hastily, her color coming. "No matter about that. "

"But think of giving up!" he cried, leaning toward her. "Even those whobelieve nothing despise a renegade priest. "

"That's of less consequence than that he should ruin his life anddespise himself. "

He held out his uninjured hand impulsively. 

"Berenice!" he whispered. 

She flushed celestial red, and for an instant her eyes responded to thelove in his. Then she sprang to her feet, with a laugh. 

"There!" she cried. "See what dunces we are to get to discussingtheology. I'll never forgive you if you try to inveigle me into anothertalk about such subjects. Here is Mehitabel to say that she's ready tohelp you with your packing. "

 XVI

 THE GREAT ASSAY OF ART Macbeth, iv. 3. 

"I am sorry if I kept you waiting, " Mrs. Wilson said to her husband, coming into the library one afternoon, "but the fact is that I wasdressing for a comedy. " "Gad! you dress for a comedy every day, asfar as that goes. "

She made a mocking courtesy. 

"Well, what is life without comedy?"

"Oh, nothing but a bore, of course. Is this comedy with some of yourministerial hangers-on?"

She sat down by the fire and stretched out her feet upon a hassock. Shewas radiant with beauty and mischief, and dressed to perfection. 

"That isn't a respectful way to speak of the clergy. "

"It's as respectful as I feel, " he responded, lighting a pipe. "You dohave a nice gang of them round. There's Candish, for instance. He lookslike an advertisement for a misfit tailor, and he's fairly putrid withphilanthropy. "

Elsie gave a quick burst of laughter. Then she pretended to frown. 

"Chauncy, " she said, "you have the most abominable way of puttingthings that I ever heard. What would you say to the youngsters from theClergy House that I have in train? They're perfect lambs, and theylove each other like twins. Have you seen them?"

"Oh, yes; I've seen them. They seem to have been brought up onsterilized milk of the gospel, and to have Jordan water for blood. "

"Oh, don't be too sure. You can't tell from a man's looks how red hisblood is, especially if he's a priest. I suppose it's the men that haveto hold themselves in hardest that make the best ministers. "

"I dare say, " he answered indifferently. "Priest-craft has always beenclever enough to see that unless the things it called sins were naturaland inevitable its occupation would be gone. However, as long as folkswill follow after them they'd be foolish to give up their trade. "

"Of course, " his wife assented laughingly. "You won't get a rise out ofme, my dear boy. "

Dr. Wilson chuckled. 

"You're a devilish humbug, " he remarked admiringly; "but you do manageto get a lot of fun out of it. "

She smoothed her gown a moment, half smiling and half grave. 

"Of course it's of no use to tell you that in spite of all my fun I'mserious at bottom, " she said slowly; "but it's a fact all the same. Idon't take things with doleful solemnity like the old tabbies; butthat's no sign that I'm not just as sincere. It's no matter, though;you won't believe it. What did you want to see me about?"

"Oh, it was about those mortgages. I saw Lincoln this morning, and hehas heard from Mrs. Frostwinch. She insists upon paying them off. "

"Then there isn't any truth in the story that that Sampson woman iscirculating that Anna is going to build a spiritual temple orsomething. I never believed that Anna could be such an idiot as to giveher money for anything so vulgar. "

"The whole thing is nonsensical on the face of it, " was his response. "Mrs. Frostwinch can't build churches, let alone temples, if there'sany difference. "

"Oh, in these days, " Elsie interpolated, "a temple is only a church_déclassé_. "

"She has only a life interest in the property, " Wilson went on. "Berenice Morison is residuary legatee of almost everything, unlessMrs. Frostwinch has saved up her income. "

The talk ran on business for a few moments, Wilson advising withshrewdness, and practically deciding the matter for his wife. 

"I suppose, " he said, when this was disposed of, "that Mrs. Frostwinchis too much wrapped up in faith-cure nonsense to take much interest inyour holy war against Strathmore. "

"She isn't so much wrapped up in that stuff as you think. Dear Annahasn't any sense of humor, but she's a model of propriety, and she'sconstantly shocked at herself for being alive by a treatment soirregular. She was mortified beyond words when that Crapps woman gave atreatment to Mrs. Bodewin Ranger's dog. "

"That snarling little black devil that's always under foot at theRangers'? Gad! I'd like to give it a treatment!"

"It got its ear hurt somehow, and Mrs. Crapps pretended to cure it. Mrs. Ranger was all but in tears over it, she was so grateful. Anna wasentirely disgusted. She told Mrs. Crapps that she hadn't known beforethat she was in the hands of a veterinary. "

Dr. Wilson smoked in silence for a moment. The fire of soft coal purredin the grate, the smoke from his pipe ascended in the warm air. Thethin sunshine of the winter afternoon filtered in through the windows, and made bright patches on the rugs. 

"By the way, " Wilson asked lazily, "how is the campaign going? Ihaven't heard anything interesting about it for some time. "

"Oh, things are moving on. The man I sent up to canvass the westernpart of the state--one of your sterilized milk-of-the-word babies, youknow, --got smashed up in the accident; but he'll be back in a few days. Cousin Anna has brought her pensioners into line beautifully. There'sno doubt that we'll carry the convention. "

"What happens after that?"

"The election has to be ratified by a majority of bishops; but ofcourse they'll hardly dare to go against the convention, even if theywant to. "

"It would make things much more interesting if they'd do it, and get upa scandal, " commented the doctor. "You'll get bored to death with thewhole thing if something exciting doesn't turn up. "

"I had half a mind to get up a scandal myself with Mr. Strathmore, "Elsie said with a laugh; "but I confess I should be afraid of that she-dragon of a wife of his. "

"It's devilish interesting to know that you are afraid of anybody. "

"At least, " she went on, "I could go to New York and see BishopCandace. I can wind him round my finger. I'd tell him what Mrs. Strathmore said about his Easter sermon last year. With a littlejudicious comment that would do a good deal. I never yet saw a man thatcouldn't be managed through his vanity. "

"I suppose that explains why I'm as clay in your hands. "

"Oh, you're not a man; you're a monster, " she retorted, rising. "Well, I must go and prepare for my comedy. "

He regarded her with a look of evident admiration; a look not without asavor of the sense of ownership, and, too, not entirely devoid of good-natured insolence. 

"You are devilishly well dressed for it, " he observed. 

"Thank you, " returned Elsie, sweeping him a courtesy again. "The wifethat can win compliments from her own husband has indeed scored atriumph. "

Dr. Wilson puffed out a cloud of smoke with a characteristic chuckle. 

"I have to admire you to justify my own taste. But you haven't told meabout the comedy. "

She thrust forward one of her pretty slippers. 

"Do you see that?" she demanded. 

"I suppose you expect me to say that I see the prettiest foot inBoston. "

"Thank you again, but I'm not yet reduced to trying to drag complimentsout of you, Chauncy. I sha'n't do that till the other men fail me. It'sthe slipper I wanted you to notice, and these ravishing stockings. "

"If the comedy has stockings in it, " he began; but she stopped him. 

"There, no impudence, " she said. "Did you ever see anything soentirely heavenly as those stockings and slippers? I declare I'vewanted ever since I put them on to keep my feet on the table to lookat. "

"You might do worse. "

"Oh, I'm going to. "

"Indeed! It's apparently getting time for me to interfere. What's yourgame?"

"I'm going to squelch that detestable Fred Rangely. "

"How?"

"My slippers, " Elsie said vivaciously, again thrusting one of themforward, "are ravishing. "

"Gad, " her husband returned, regarding her with a look of the utmostamusement in his topaz-brown eyes, "you have a good deal to say aboutthem. "

"Do you notice anything particular about my hair?" she asked. 

"It looks as if it might come down. "

"It will come down, " she corrected, nodding. Then she glanced at theclock. "It will come down in about twenty minutes; all tumbling over myshoulders. I shall be so mortified and surprised!"

Her husband stretched himself luxuriously back in his chair, regardingher with laughing eyes. There was an air of perfect understandingbetween the two which might have been an effectual enlightenment forany man who thought of making love to the wife. Elsie went on, tellingoff on her slender fingers the points as she made them. 

"In fifteen minutes I shall be standing on the piano in the drawing-room, straightening a picture. I never can bear a picture crooked, andI had Jane tip it a little this morning, just to vex me. Fred Rangelywill come in unannounced. Of course I shall be dreadfully confused, and have to get down. In my maidenly confusion I am almost sure I can'thelp showing my slippers, and just a trifle--a very discreet trifle, ofcourse, --of these beautiful, beautiful stockings. Nothing vulgar, youknow, but"--

"But just enough, " interpolated Wilson with huge enjoyment. "Youneedn't apologize. I don't begrudge the poor devil whateversatisfaction he can get out of that. "

"And then as he is helping me down, with his heart in a flutter, --itwill flutter, I assure you. "

"You mean his vanity; but it's of no consequence. He'd call it a heartif he were putting the scene in a novel. "

"With his whichever it is in a flutter, by some provoking accident downcomes my hair and tumbles over his shoulders. "

Wilson regarded her with amused admiration. 

"Five years ago, " he observed placidly, "I should have thought you weretelling me half the truth to cover the other half, and were reallyhaving a devilish flirtation with that cad. "

Elsie flushed, and into her gay voice came a strain of seriousness. 

"Five years are five years, " she answered. "Don't go to dragging allthat up again, Chauncy. "

His laugh was not untinged with malicious delight, but he put his handon hers and patted her fingers. 

"All right, old girl. Bygones are bygones. But what in the world is allthis fooling with Rangely for?"

"Why, don't you see? The fool is sure to say something so silly that Ican snub him within an inch of his life. I've only been holding offuntil he had that thing written for the Churchman. Now I've got that, I'll settle him. "

"Oh, the gratitude of women!"

"Why, it isn't that. He needn't be smirking at me the way he does. Isimply won't stand it. Besides, he makes eyes at me wherever I go, justto advertise the fact that he's silly about me. He's a cad, through andthrough. Would you come here as he does if I refused to invite yourwife?"

Chauncy Wilson laughed again, leaning forward to knock the ashes out ofhis pipe. 

"He's a fool, fast enough; and I dare say you're tired of his beastlyspooning; but all the same, the real reason for this circus is that youwant to amuse yourself. "

She drew up her head in mock dignity. 

"Of course, " she returned, "if my own husband does not appreciate how Iresent"--She broke off in a burst of laughter. "Nobody ever understoodme but you, Chauncy, " she cried. "Good-by. It's time I took the stage. "

She threw him a kiss, and went to the drawing-room. Looking at herwatch, she placed herself behind the curtains of a window whichcommanded the avenue. Presently she espied her victim, and with a lastglance around to assure herself that everything was as she wished it tobe, she mounted to the top of the piano. There she hastily tucked thehem of her skirt between the piano and the wall. The reflection in agreat blue-black Chinese jar showed her when Rangely appeared betweenthe portières, so that she was able to step back as if to view theeffect of her work just as he reached the middle of the room. 

"Be careful!" exclaimed he, hurrying forward. "You almost stepped offbackward!"

She wheeled about quickly. 

"O Mr. Rangely!" she cried. "How did you get into the room without myknowing? How horrid of you to surprise me like that!"

"But think how charming it is for me, " he responded with an elaborateair of gallantry. "It is so delightful to see you on a pedestal. "

"Meaning that I am no better than a graven image?" she demanded with asmile. "If that is the best you can do, I may as well come down. "

She held out her hand for his, and then sat down, displaying one of thefascinating slippers, and the openwork instep of her silk stocking, through the meshes of which the pearly skin gleamed evasively. 

"My dress is caught, " she said, turning to conceal her face, andpretending to pull at her skirt. "I hope my slippers haven't damagedthe piano. "

"The piano is harder than my heart if they haven't!"

She gave a sly twitch at a hairpin. 

"That is very pretty, " observed she, giving her head a shake thatbrought her hair down in a rolling billow. "Oh, dear! Now my hair has"--

Before she could finish he had dropped her fingers, and gathered herhair in both hands, kissing it again and again. 

"Mr. Rangely!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean?"

For reply he stooped to her foot, and kissed the mesh-clad instepfervidly. 

"How dare you!" she cried, scrambling down hastily without hisassistance. 

But, alas, even trickery is not always successful in this uncertainworld! The hold of the piano upon the hem of her gown was strongerthan she realized. She tripped and stumbled, half-hung for a second, and then dropped in an inglorious heap at the feet of the man shewished to humiliate. 

Elsie was on her feet in a minute. She did not take the hand whichRangely extended, but drew back, her eyes sparkling with rage. 

"Oh, you find it laughable, do you?" she cried. "A gentleman would atleast have concealed his amusement!"

He grew suddenly grave, and seemed not a little surprised. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I hope you were not hurt. "

She looked at him scornfully without replying, and then walked to themantel, where there was a small antique mirror of silver. 

"Thank you, not in the least. "

Her tone was no warmer than an arctic night. She gathered her hair, andbegan to twist it up. He followed and stood behind her with an air atonce deprecatory and insinuating. 

"I shouldn't think you could see in that thing, " he observed. 

She took no notice of his words. 

"If I laughed, " continued he, "it was only from nervousness. I wascarried away"--

"I observed that you were, " she interrupted icily. 

He stood awkwardly a moment, while she finished putting up her hair. Then, as she turned toward him, he smiled again, holding out his hand. 

"Surely you are not angry with me, " he pleaded. "I care more for yourfeeling toward me than for anything else in the world. "

"It would amuse Mrs. Rangely to hear you say so, not to mention myhusband. "

He stared at her with the air of a man not sure whether he is awake ordreaming. 

"What are they to us?" he asked, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. 

"Mrs. Rangely may be nothing to you, but Dr. Wilson is still a gooddeal to me, thank you. "

He looked at her again with perplexity in his glance, but with his facehardening. 

"You surely cannot mean that you have ceased to care for me just for asecond of meaningless laughter?"

She swept him a scornful courtesy. 

"You do these things better in your novels, Mr. Rangely, which showswhat an advantage it is to have time to think speeches over. I wouldn'thave my hero say a thing like that, if I were you. It would make himseem like a conceited cad. "

The insolence of her manner was such as no man could bear. Rangelycrimsoned to the temples. He paced across the room, while she coollyseated herself in a great Venetian chair, and began to play with alittle jade image. He came back to her, and stood a moment as if hecould not find words. 

"Why don't you go?" she asked, looking up at him as if he were aservant sent upon an errand. 

"Because, " he broke out angrily, "when I go I shall not come back; andI should like to understand this thing. "

She shrugged her shoulders, and leaned back in her chair, looking himover from head to foot. 

"Why you quarrel with me is more than I know, " he went on. "You've gottired of me, I suppose, and want to amuse yourself with another man. "

The red flushed in her cheek. 

"If my husband, who you say is nothing to us, were here, " she said, "hewould horsewhip you. "

The other laughed savagely. 

"He is not here, however, so you may digest my remark at your leisure. "

Mrs. Wilson rose from her seat with an air of dignity which was reallyimposing. 

"Mr. Rangely, " she said, "it is not my custom to bandy words, even withmy equals. I have allowed you the freedom of my house because I waswilling to help you in your desire to be useful to Father Frontford. You have taken advantage of my kindness to insult me. This seems to mesufficiently to explain the situation. "

He stared at her a moment in evident amazement. Then he burst intohoarse laughter. 

"My desire to be useful to Father Frontford!" he echoed. "That is thebest yet! You know I cared nothing about your pottering old churchpolitics except to please you. "

"I see that I was deceived completely, " she responded coldly. 

She crossed the room and pressed an ivory button. 

"Deceived!" he sneered. "It would take a clever man to deceive you. "

She looked not at him, but beyond him. He turned, and saw a footman inthe doorway. 

"The gentleman wishes to be shown out, Forrester, " said she. 

She held the tips of her fingers to Rangely. 

"Thank you so much for coming, " she murmured in her most conventionalmanner. 

"The pleasure has been mine, " he responded. 

They both bowed, and Rangely followed the footman. 

 XVII

 A BOND OF AIR Troilus and Cressida, i. 3. 

"You have made a new man of me, " Maurice Wynne had said to Mrs. Morisonin bidding her good-by; and the words repeated themselves in his mindas he came back to Boston, and as he once more took up for a few dayshis home with Mrs. Staggchase. 

There is nothing more inflammable than the punk left by the decay of areligion, and any theology may be said to be doomed from the momentwhen men begin to ask themselves whether they believe it. Maurice hadbeen so strenuously questioning his belief that it is small wonder thathe found his heart full of fire. In the days of his stay at Brookfield, moreover, he had been rapidly journeying on the road toward a new viewof life; and the idea of returning to the Clergy House became to himwell-nigh intolerable. It seemed like taking upon himself once more theswaddling-clothes of infancy. 

On the afternoon of his return, he hurried to see Ashe, and foundhimself obliged to wait some time for his friend's return from acommittee meeting. Mr. Herman chanced to be at home alone, and Mauricesat with him in the library. Wynne had come to know the sculptor fairlywell, and had been warmly drawn toward him. He was to-day struck morethan ever by the strength and self-poise which Herman showed. Theyoung man was seized with a desire to appeal to the sanity and thekindliness of one who seemed to possess both so aboundingly. 

"Have you ever found yourself all at sea, Mr. Herman?" he askedabruptly. 

"Of course. I fancy every man has had that experience. "

"But, " Maurice hurried on, more impulsively yet, "you can never havefelt that you were a renegade and a hypocrite. That's where I am now. "

The sculptor regarded him with evident surprise, yet with a look sokeen that Maurice felt his cheeks grow warm. 

"Does that mean, " Herman asked with kindly deliberation, "that you aretired and out of sorts, or is it something deeper?"

Wynne was silent a moment. Now that he had broken the ice, he feared togo on. It was something of a shock to find himself on the brink of aconfidence when he had not intended to make one. 

"I'm afraid it goes deep, " he answered. "The truth is, Mr. Herman, thatI've come back with my whole mind in a turmoil. "

Herman seemed to hesitate in his turn. 

"I'm afraid I'm a poor one to help you, Mr. Wynne. Mrs. Herman does themental straightening-out for this family. Besides, we look at things sodifferently, you and I, that I shouldn't know how to put things to youif I tried. "

"I've no right to bother anybody with my troubles, " Maurice said. 

"That anybody could help you would give you a claim upon him, " Hermanresponded cheerily. "I noticed, Mr. Wynne, that things were not goingright with you before you went away. May I give you a piece ofadvice?"

"I shall be glad if you will. "

"Then if I were you, I'd go and talk with Mr. Strathmore. "

"With Mr. Strathmore!" Maurice echoed in surprise. 

"Oh, I know he isn't exactly of your way of thinking in churchmatters, " Herman proceeded. "He's still farther from my position, buthe's the man I should go to. He is so human, and so sympathetic, thatthere isn't such another man in Boston for comfort and advice. "

"But I've always been opposed, " Maurice protested, "to all"--

"That's no matter. He's too big a man for that to make any difference. Go to him as a fellow that's in a hobble, and the only thing he'llconsider is how to help you. He's had experience, and he has the giftof understanding. "

No more was said on the subject, but the words stuck in Wynne's mind. Since all things seemed to him to be turning round, why should he nottake this one more departure from the old ways? Yet it was in some sortalmost like treason to Father Frontford to seek aid and comfort fromStrathmore. Although the thing had never been so stated in words, itwas understood at the Clergy House that Strathmore was to be lookedupon in the light of an enemy to the faith, and Wynne felt as if he hadbeen enrolled to fight the popular preacher under the banner of FatherFrontford. It seemed the more treasonable to desert the Father Superiornow that he was in the midst of a desperate struggle. Maurice knew, however, that it was useless to carry to his old confessor doubtswhich for the heart of the stern priest could not exist. He wouldsimply be told that doubt was of the devil and was to be crushed; andthe young man felt that this would leave him where he was now. If hewere to seek aid, it must at least be from one who would understand hisstate of mind. 

Wynne resumed his clerical garb on the morning after his return toBoston. His conscience reproached him for the strong distaste which hefelt for the dress, and his spirits were of the lowest. About themiddle of the forenoon, he started out to try the effects of a walk. Itwas a clear, brisk morning, with a white frost still on the pavementswhere the sun had not fallen. The air was invigorating, and Mauricebegan to feel its exhilaration. He walked more briskly, holding hishead more erect, even forgetting to be irritated by the swish of hiscassock about his legs. Without consciously determining whither hewould go, he followed the streets toward the house of Mr. Strathmore, in that strange yet not uncommon state of mind in which a man knowsfully what he is doing, yet assures himself that he has no purpose. When at last he found himself ringing the bell, Wynne carried hisprivate histrionics so far that he told himself that he was surprisedto be there. 

The visitor was shown at once to the study of Mr. Strathmore, whosereadiness to receive those who sought him was one of the traits whichendeared him to the general public. Maurice felt the keen and inquiringlook which the clergyman bestowed upon him, and found himself somewhatat a loss how to begin. 

"I am from the Clergy House of St. Mark, " he said, rather awkwardly. 

"So I judged from your dress, " Strathmore responded cordially. "Sitdown, please. That is a comfortable chair by the fire. "

The professed ascetic smiled, but he took the chair indicated. 

"It is a beautiful, brisk morning, " the host went on. "The tingle inthe air makes a man feel that he can do impossible things. "

Wynne looked up at him with a smile. He was won by the heartiness ofthe tone, by the bright glance of the eye, by some intangible personalcharm which put him at once at his ease and made him feel thatunderstanding and sympathy were here. 

"And I have done the impossible, " he said. "I have ventured to come totalk with you about the celibacy of the clergy. "

He saw the face of the other change with a curious expression, and thenmelt into a smile. 

"And what am I, a married clergyman, expected to say on such a topic?"

Maurice smiled at the absurdity of his own words, and then with suddengravity broke out earnestly:--

"I am completely at sea. All things I have believed seem to be failingme. I don't even know what I believe. "

"Will you pardon me, " Strathmore asked, "if I ask why you consult merather than your Superior?"

Maurice flushed and hesitated: yet he felt that nothing would do butabsolute frankness. 

"I will tell you!" he returned. "I was to be a priest. I went into theClergy House supposing that that was settled. I see now that I reallyfollowed a friend. If he went, I couldn't be shut out. Now I have beenamong men, and"--

He hesitated, but the friendly smile of the other reassured him. 

"And among women, " he went on bravely; "and--and"--

"And you have discovered the meaning of a certain text in Genesis whichdeclares that 'male and female created He them, '" concluded Strathmore. 

Wynne felt the tone like a caress. He seemed to be understood withoutneed of more speech. His condition, which had seemed to him sointricate and so unique, began to appear possible and human. He was notso completely cut off from human sympathy as he had felt. 

"Yes, " he assented; "I will be frank about it. I did not think thatFather Frontford would understand what it meant to feel that life isgiven to us to be glorified by the love of a woman. "

"If this is all that is troubling you, " Strathmore remarked, "it seemsto me that your position, though it may not be pleasant, is not verytragical. Our bishops are generally willing to absolve from vows ofcelibacy. "

"I doubt if Father Frontford would be, " Maurice commentedinvoluntarily. 

"That is perhaps one of his virtues in the eyes of his supporters, "Strathmore suggested with a twinkle. 

"I have not taken the vows, however, " Maurice responded hastily, flushing, and ignoring the thrust. 

"Then what is your trouble?"

"When I meant to take them, it was the same thing. "

"Do I understand you that to intend to do a thing and then to changethe mind is the same as to do it?"

"Oh, no; not that; but I am not clear that it isn't my duty to takethem. I'm not sure that it is right for a priest to marry--if you willpardon my saying so. "

"And you come to me to convince you? It seems to me that Providence hasalready done that through the agency of some young woman. If you reallyknow what it is to love a good woman there is no real doubt in yourmind as to the sacredness of marriage, --for the clergy or for anybodyelse. Isn't your trouble perhaps an obstinate dislike to seem toabandon a position once taken?"

The words might have sounded severe but for the tone in which they werespoken. 

"But that is not the whole of the matter, " Maurice continued, feelingas if he were being carried forward by an irresistible current. "If Ihave been mistaken on this point about which I have felt so sure and sostrongly, what confidence can I have in my other beliefs?"

"Ah, it goes deep, " Strathmore said with emphasis. "It is of no use toput old wine into new bottles. The effect of trying to make you youngmen accept mediævalism, like clerical celibacy, is in the end to makeyou doubt everything. Haven't you any respect for the authority of thechurch?"

"Oh, implicit!" Maurice responded. 

"But, " his host remarked with a smile, "because you begin to havedoubts about a thing which the church doesn't inculcate, you show aninclination to throw overboard all that she does teach. "

Maurice was silent a moment, playing with a rosary which he wore at hisbelt. He was surprised that he had never thought of this; and he wasstartled by the doubt which had arisen in his mind as soon as he haddeclared his implicit faith in the church. He realized in a flash thatwhile he had spoken honestly, he had not told the truth. 

"I am afraid that I'm not quite honest, " he said, "though I meant tobe. I'm afraid that after all I don't feel sure of all the churchteaches. "

"My dear young man, " the other replied kindly, "you are fightingagainst the age. You have been taught to believe, --if you will pardonme, --that the thing for a true man to do is to resist the light ofreason. There are, for instance, a great many things which used to bereceived literally which we now find it necessary to interpretfiguratively. It would be refusing to use the reason heaven gives us ifwe refused to recognize this. The teachings of the church are true andinfallible, but every man must interpret them according to the light ofhis own conscience and reason. "

"But if this is once allowed I don't see where you are to draw theline. The heathen are very likely honest enough. "

"I said the teaching of the church, Mr. Wynne. If a man earnestlysearches his heart and follows this guide as he understands it, therecan be no danger. "

"Mr. Strathmore, " Maurice said, "perhaps it seems like forcing myselfupon you, and then taking the liberty of fighting your views; but thisis too vital to me to allow of my stopping for conventionalities. Youseem to me to be inconsistent. You refer to the church as the supremeauthority, but you give into the hand of every man a power over thatauthority. "

The other smiled with that warm, sympathetic glance which was sowinning. 

"Does it seem possible to you, " asked he, "that two human beings evermean quite the same thing by the same words? Isn't there always somelittle variation, at least, in the impression that a given phraseconveys to you and to me?"

"Theoretically I suppose that this is true, " assented Maurice; "butpractically it doesn't amount to much, does it?"

"It at least amounts to this, " was the reply, "that what one man meansby a set form of words cannot be exactly the same that another wouldmean by it. The creed is one thing to the simple-minded, ignorant man, and something infinitely higher and richer to a Father in the church. You would allow that, of course. "

"Yes, " Maurice hesitatingly assented, "but I shouldn't have thought ofit as an excuse for laxity of doctrine. "

"I am not recommending laxity of doctrine. I am only saying that sinceabsolute unity of conception is impossible, it is idle to insist uponit. I am not excusing anything. A fact cannot need an excuse in thesearch for truth. "

The young deacon felt himself sliding into deeper and deeper waters, though the mien of Strathmore seemed to inspire confidence. He was moreand more uncertain what he believed or ought to believe. 

"But is this the belief of the church?" he persisted. 

"What is the belief of the church if not the belief of its members?"

"I do not know, " Maurice answered. "I came to you to be told. "

He tried to grasp definitely the belief which was being presented tohim, but it appeared as elusive as a shadow in the mist. Mr. Strathmore's look was as frank and clear as ever. There was in his eyesno sign of wavering or of evasion; his smile was full of warmth andsympathy. 

"My dear young friend, " the elder said, "I don't pretend to speak withthe authority of the church; but to me it seems like this. We live inan age when we must recognize the use of reason. We are only doingfrankly what men have in all ages been doing in their hearts. Menalways have their private interpretations whether they recognize it ornot. Nothing more is ever needed to create a schism than for some clearthinker to define clearly what he believes. There are always those whoare ready to follow him because this seems so near to what many arethinking. "

"But that is because so few persons are ever able to define forthemselves what they do believe, " Maurice threw in. 

"Then do they ever really appreciate what the doctrines of the churchare?" Strathmore asked significantly. 

Maurice shook his head. He seemed to himself to be entangled in a netof words. He could not tell whether the man before him was entirelysincere or not. There seemed something hopelessly incongruous betweenthe position of Mr. Strathmore as a religious leader and these opinionswhich seemed to strike at the very foundations of all creeds; yet themanner and look with which all was said were evidently honest andunaffected. 

"Don't suppose that I think it would be wise to proclaim such adoctrine from the housetops, " continued Strathmore, answering, Mauricefelt, the doubt in the face of the latter. "I speak to you as one whois face to face with these facts, and must have the whole of it. "

Maurice rose with a feeling that he must get away by himself and think. 

"Mr. Strathmore, " he said, "I am more grateful than I can say for yourkindness. I'm afraid that I've seemed stupid and ungracious, but Ihaven't meant to be either. I see that every man must work out his ownsalvation. "

"But with fear and trembling, Mr. Wynne. "

The smile of the rector was so warm and so winning that it cheeredMaurice more than any words could have cheered him; Mr. Strathmoregrasped the young man warmly by the hand and added:--

"Don't think me a heretic because I have spoken with great frankness. Remember that the good of the church is to me more dear than anythingelse on earth except the good of men for whom the church exists. Godhelp you in your search for light. "

 XVIII

 CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH As You Like It, i. 2. 

The afternoon was already darkening into dusk one day late in Januarywhen Philip Ashe stood in the hallway of a squalid tenement house, looking out into a dingy court. The place was surrounded by tallbuildings which cut off the light and made day shorter than nature hadintended, an effect which was not lessened by the clothes dryingsmokily on lines above. In one corner of the court yawned like theentrance to a cave the mouth of the passageway by which it was entered. In another stood a dilapidated handcart in which some dweller there wasaccustomed to carry abroad his rubbishy wares. The windows were for themost part curtainless, rising row above row with an aspect ofwretchedness which gave Ashe a sense of discomfort so strong as almostto be physical. Here and there rags and old hats did duty instead ofglass; some windows were open, framing slatternly women. 

These women were stupidly quiet. Ashe wondered if they would havetalked to each other across the court if he had not been in sight, orif the gathering dusk silenced them. One of them was smoking a shortblack pipe, and once let fall a spark upon the head of another idler acouple of floors below. The injured woman poured forth a volley ofoaths, and Ashe expected a war of words. Nothing of the sort occurred. The figure above was so indifferent as hardly to glance down where theoffended harridan was steaming with a fume of curses. 

Philip began to be uneasy. He looked up at the darkening sky, andbackward to the gloom of the stairway behind him. No gas had beenlighted in the building, and he wondered if any ever were. It wascertainly too late for Mrs. Fenton to be poking about in thesedangerous places. They had been doing charity visiting together, andshe had insisted on coming to this one house more before going home. Hehad remonstrated, but she had laughed at his fears. 

"I don't believe any of these places are really dangerous, " she haddeclared. "I've been coming here for years, and nobody ever troubledme. "

"By daylight it is all very well, " he had answered, "but it's adifferent thing after dark. I have been here once or twice to see somesick person in the evening, and it is a rough place. "

"But it isn't after dark, " she had persisted, "and it won't be for anhour. "

She had had her way, but Ashe reflected uneasily that if harm came toher it would be his fault. He should have insisted upon her going home. The light was fading fast, and the locality was one of the worst intown. He wondered why the mere absence of daylight gave wickedness somuch boldness. Men who by day were the veriest cowards seemed to springinto appalling fearlessness as soon as darkness gave its uncertainpromise of concealment. The thought made him turn, and begin slowly towalk up the stairs. 

He was not sure what floor she meant to visit. She was going, he knew, to see a woman whose husband got drunk and beat her. She had told himabout the poor creature as they came along. She was sure Mrs. Murphymust have known a decent life. She set her down as having been ahousekeeper or upper servant who had foolishly married a rascal. Thewoman, Mrs. Fenton had added, was evidently ashamed of her presentcondition, and afraid that those who had known her in her better daysshould discover her. 

"It is pitiful, " Mrs. Fenton had said musingly, "to see how she clingsto her husband. She pulls down her sleeves to cover the bruises, andtells how good he was to her when they were first married. She says hedoesn't mean to hurt her, but that he's the strongest man in the court, and doesn't realize what he is doing. She's even proud of hisstrength. "

"Strength is apt to impress women, " Ashe had answered, not without asecret sense of humiliation to lack this quality. 

As he walked gropingly up the dark stairway, a man came clumsily after, and presently stumbled past him. A strong smell of liquor enveloped thenewcomer, and he lurched heavily against Ashe without apology. Philipheard his uneven steps mounting in the gloom, and followed almostmechanically. He paused in one of the hallways to listen to a babble ofwords in one of the rooms. It was chiefly profanity, but it hardlyseemed to be ill-natured. It was simply a family cursing each otherwith well-accustomed vehemence. He grew every instant more and moreuneasy, and thought of knocking at every door until he found hisfriend. What right had philanthropy to demand that a beautiful, noblewoman should be exposed to the chances of a nest of ruffianism andvice? He was indignant at the committee for not delegating such work tomen. Then he remembered that Mrs. Fenton was herself on the committee, and that it was by her own insistence that she was here. 

"She is capable of any sacrifice to what she believes to be right, " hesaid to himself; "but she is too good for such work; she is toodelicate, too"--

Suddenly a noise arose on the floor above him. A man's voice, thickwith anger or drink, was pouring out a stream of words, half oaths; awoman was shrilly entreating. Ashe sprang quickly upstairs, and as hedid so he heard Mrs. Fenton scream. The sound was behind a door, andwithout stopping to deliberate he tried to open it. The latch yielded, but he could not open. 

"Let me in!" he cried fiercely. "What is the matter?"

The voice of a man who was evidently against the door answered him withblasphemies. A woman within cried to the man to stop, while Mrs. Fentoncalled to Ashe for help. Philip set his shoulder against the door andstrained with all his might to force it. He remembered then what Mrs. Fenton had said about the strength of the husband of her pensioner. 

"Go to the window, and call the police, " he shouted. 

"He's holding me!" Mrs. Fenton cried back pantingly. 

Philip strained more desperately, and as he did so he heard the windowwithin flung open, and the voice of a woman yelling for the police. Theman inside sprang forward with an oath, the door yielded, and Philipplunged headlong into the room. 

As Philip fell upon his knees, he saw a man seize the woman who fromthe window was calling for help, and fling her to the floor. The soundof her fall, with her wild shriek beaten into a choking gasp by theforce with which she struck, turned his heart sick; but his fear forMrs. Fenton kept him up. He scrambled to his feet, and as he did so sheran toward him. 

"Your cassock is all dust!" she cried hysterically. "Oh, come away!"

The absurdity of the words made him burst into nervous laughter; yet hesaw that the drunken man was coming, and he instinctively put herbehind him and took some sort of a posture of defense. 

"Save yourself, " he cried hastily. "He's killed the woman. "

All this passed with the quickness of thought. There seemed to Philiphardly the time of a breath between the opening of the door and theblow which now fell upon the side of his face. Fortunately he partlyevaded it, but he reeled and staggered, feeling the earth shake and theair full of stinging points of fire. He saw the figure of his assailanttowering between him and the light; he had a glimpse of Mrs. Fentonrushing to the window to call again for help; he realized with ahorrible shrinking that that hammer-like fist was again striking outfor his face; he was conscious of a sickening impulse to run, ahumiliating and overwhelming sense of his inability to cope with thisbrute and of even his ignorance how to try; yet most of all he felt thedetermination to defend Edith or to die in the attempt. In a wild andfutile fashion he dashed against his assailant, striking blindly andfuriously, crying with rage and weakness, but throwing all his forceinto the fight. He felt crushing blows on his head and chest. Once hewas struck on the side of the throat so that he gasped for breath withthe sensation that he was drowning. Now and then he felt his own fiststrike flesh, and the sensation was to him horrible. He fought blindly, doggedly, inwardly weeping for the shame and the pity of it, wonderingif there would never be any end, and what would happen to Mrs. Fentonif he were beaten helpless. Surely if aid were coming it must havearrived long ago. He had been fighting for hours. He kept striking on, but he felt his strength failing, and he could have laughed wildly atthe pitiful feebleness of his blows. He was knocked down, and scrambledup again, amazed that he was not killed or disabled. His one hope layin the fact that the man was evidently much the worse for drink, andoften struck as blindly as himself. If he could but occupy the brute'sattention until help came, Mrs. Fenton would be saved. 

Suddenly he was aware that the roaring in his ears was not all from theringing in his head, but that heavy steps were sounding from thestairway. In a moment more screaming women were swarming in, and thedin become intolerable as they scuttled about him, calling out to hisopponent to stop and not to do murder. Men followed, and a couple ofpolicemen came in their wake. Ashe saw through heavy eyelids the shineof brass buttons, and felt that the wearers of the uniforms to whichthese belonged had seized upon his assailant. He staggered against thewall, sick, faint, and dizzy. The two policemen were having a severestruggle to subdue their prisoner, and it seemed to Philip that all theinhabitants of the neighborhood were crowding in at the narrow door. The wife lay where she had been dashed to the floor, and Mrs. Fentonbent over her. 

"Oh, Mr. Ashe, " the latter said, coming to him, "you must be terriblyhurt! I think Mrs. Murphy's killed. "

He tried to smile, but his face was swollen and unmanageable. 

"It's no matter about me, " he managed with difficulty to say, "if youare not hurt. "

The realities of life came back. The whirling rush of the swift momentsof the fight seemed already far off. The crowd examined him with frankcuriosity, commenting on him as "the dude that's been scrappin' withMike Murphy. " He saw some of the women busy over the prostrate form ofMrs. Murphy, lifting her from the floor to the bed. 

"Well, Mike, " one of the policemen said, "I guess this job'll be yourlast. You've done it this time. "

The prisoner seemed to have become sober all at once, now that he wasin the hands of the law. He went over to the bed, between his captors, and examined the injured woman with the air of one accustomed to suchoccurrences. 

"Oh, the old woman'll pull round all right, " he growled. "She ain't noflannel-mouth charity chump. "

Without a word Ashe put his hand upon the arm of Mrs. Fenton, and ledher toward the door. The insult cut him more than all that had gonebefore. What had passed belonged to a drunken and irrational mood. Thistaunt came evidently from deliberate contempt and ingratitude. Philiphad a bewildered sense of being outside of all conditions which hecould understand. This shameless effrontery and brutality seemed to himrather the distorted fantasy of an evil dream than anything which couldbe real. His one thought now was to get his companion away before shewas exposed to fresh insult. 

They were detained a little by the police; but after giving theiraddresses were allowed to go. Ashe felt shaky and exhausted, but thehand of Mrs. Fenton was on his arm, and the need of sustaining her gavehim strength. They got with some difficulty through the crowd and outof the court, and after walking a block or two were fortunate enough tofind a carriage. 

"Mr. Ashe, " Mrs. Fenton said, as they drove up Hanover Street, "I'mafraid you're terribly hurt; and it is all my fault. "

"No, no, " he replied with swollen lips. "The fault was mine. Ishouldn't have let you go into that place. "

"But you did try to stop me; only I was obstinate. Oh, I don't know howto thank you for coming as you did. "

"But what happened before I came?"

Mrs. Fenton shuddered. 

"Oh, I don't think I know very clearly. That great drunken man came in, and asked me for money. Of course I didn't give it to him; and his wifetried to get him to let me go. Then he struck her on the mouth!"

"The brute!" Ashe involuntarily cried, clenching his bruised fists. 

"Then he caught me by the waist, and I screamed; and in another minuteI heard you at the door. "

"But it was the woman that called the police. "

"Yes; and when she did that I was fearfully frightened. I knew that ifshe called the police against her own husband she must think that he'dreally hurt me. "

Philip leaned back in the carriage, dizzy with the overwhelming senseof the peril that had beset her, --her! Then, mastered by anoverpowering impulse, he threw himself forward and caught her hands, covering them with kisses. 

"Oh, my darling!" he gasped. "Oh, thank God you are safe!"

She dragged her hands away from him, and shrank back. 

"Mr. Ashe!" she cried. "What is the matter with you? What are youdoing?"

He did not attempt to retain his hold, but drew himself back into thedarkness of his corner of the carriage. A strange calmness followed hisoutbreak; a sort of joyous uplifting which made him master of himselfcompletely. 

"I am sinning, " he answered with a riotous sense of delight. "I amlaying up remorse for all my future. I am telling you I love you; thatI love you: I love you! I love you and I have saved you; and I shallbrood over that, and do penance, and brood over it again, and dopenance again, all my life long!"

"Oh, you are confused, excited, hurt, " she cried. "You don't know whatyou are saying!"

"I know only too well what I am saying. I am saying that I"--

"Oh, for pity's sake, don't!" she moaned, putting out her hand. 

He caught her wrist, and again kissed her hand passionately. 

"Yes, I know that I ought not to say this now when you have had to bearso much already; that I ought never to say it; but it is said! It issaid! You'll forget it, but I shall remember it all my life. I shallremember that you heard me say that I love you!"

He threw himself back into his corner, and she shrank into hers, whilethe carriage went rattling over the pavement. Aching and sore, Philipyet knew a wild exhilaration, a certain divine madness which was sointense a delight that it almost made him weep. It was like a religiousecstasy, recalling to his mind moments in which he had seemed to belifted almost to trance-like communion with holy spirits. 

"I ought to ask you to forgive me, Mrs. Fenton, " he said as they drewnear her house, "but I cannot. I did not mean to do this; but I can'tregret it. I am sorry for you; I am sorry--I shall be sorry, that is--for the sin of it; but the sin is sweet. "

He wondered at his own voice, so even yet so high in pitch. 

"Oh, what shall I do?" Mrs. Fenton cried sobbingly. "Is it my faultthat this happened?"

"Oh, nothing can be your fault. It is all mine! But you must love me, Ilove you so!"

"No, no, " she exclaimed vehemently. "I don't love you! I cannot loveyou! For pity's sake don't say such things!"

She buried her face in her hands and burst into sobs. Philip set hislips together, smiling bitterly at the pain it gave him. He controlledhis voice as well as he was able. 

"I beg you will forgive me, " said he. "I have been out of my head. Forget my impertinence, and"--

He could not finish, but the stopping of the carriage at her door savedhim the need of farther effort. 

He assisted her to alight, rang the bell, and said goodnight in a voicewhich he was sure did not betray him to the coachman. 

 XIX

 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL Othello, i. 3. 

Poor Ashe got home more dead than alive. His passion had shaken himlike a delirium. He had been swept away by his emotion, and had thrownto the winds past and future. He felt as the carriage drove away fromMrs. Fenton's as if he had been swung up and down on some monstrouswave and dashed, broken and bleeding, on a rough shore. He could notthink; and fortunately for him he was even too benumbed to feelgreatly. 

He reached the Hermans' in a sort of half-stupor, in whichindifference, keen joy, and bitter contrition were strangely mingled. The contrition, however, seemed somehow to belong to the future; it waswhat he must endure when the time should come for repentance; the joywas a present blessing, tingling in his every fibre. 

He met Mrs. Herman in the hall. She exclaimed when she saw him, and hestood smiling at her, swaying as if he were intoxicated. 

"What has happened?" she cried. "What have you done to your face?"

The room and his cousin swam before him in a golden mist. He felt thathe was grinning idiotically, yet he could not stop. He tried to speak, but his lips seemed too swollen to form words. He put out his hand tograsp a chair, and perceived that he could not reach it. 

"I--fall!" he managed to ejaculate. 

Mrs. Herman caught him, and supported him to a chair. He felt her armaround him, and he wondered how he came to be thus embraced. He triedto grope back into the dusk of his mind to tell what had happened, andthe fiery glow of the moment in which he had kissed the hand of Mrs. Fenton came back to him. He sat suddenly erect. 

"Cousin Helen, " he said, with husky fervor, "I have been a wretch, andI rejoice in it! I have found out how sweet it is to sin! I am lost, lost, lost!"

He buried his face in his hands, almost hysterical. He felt hiscousin's hand on his shoulder. 

"Philip, " she said decisively, "you must stop this, and tell me whathas happened. "

"I beg your pardon, " he answered, dropping his hands. "Mrs. Fenton wasattacked by a drunken man in the North End, and I fought him. I amafraid that I am pretty disreputable looking. "

"Yes, you are. I hope that is the worst of it. "

She took him by the arm and led him into the library, where sheestablished him in an easy-chair by the fire. 

"I'll send for a doctor to look you over, " she said, "and meanwhile youare to take what I give you. "

She left him, and Philip sat looking into the coals. 

"Ah, if the glove had been off!" he murmured half aloud. 

He flushed hotly, and struck his clenched hand against his breast, rubbing it back and forth until the haircloth within stung and smarted. 

"No, no, " he said to himself fiercely. "I will not think about it!"

Helen came back with a tumbler of something hot and fragrant, whichmade his eyes water as he drank. It sent a strange sensation of warmththrough him, and seemed to restore his energy. The doctor, who came insoon after, found nothing serious the matter. Ashe was temporarilydisfigured, but had luckily escaped without worse injury. He was sentto bed, and despite his expectation of passing the night in an agony ofremorse, he sank almost immediately into a dreamless sleep. 

When Philip awoke his first sensation was that of stiffness andsoreness, --soreness such as he had felt once when he had slept on thefloor with his arms extended in the form of a cross. The thought ofpenance performed gave him a thrill of happiness, but to this instantlysucceeded the remembrance of the events of yesterday, and his briefsatisfaction vanished. 

His face was discolored, and as he set out after breakfast to seek hisspiritual adviser he felt a grim satisfaction in going abroad thusmarked. It was in the nature of a mortification and a penance. Herepeated prayers as he walked, his eyes cast down, his bosom pricked byhaircloth. He felt that he had already begun the expiation of the sinof yesterday. 

He found Father Frontford at home, but so occupied as to be unable tolisten to him. It would have been impossible for Philip to do asMaurice had done, and go to a man like Strathmore; and indeed, he hadcome to his Father Superior partly because of the sharpness with whichhe felt that his offending would be judged. Where Maurice wouldquestion, Philip would submit blindly and with ardent faith. 

"Good-morning, " the Father greeted Ashe kindly, holding out his lefthand, while the right held suspended the pen which had already produceda heap of letters. "I am very glad to see you; but you find meextremely busy. There are so many things to be thought of just now, andso many letters to be written. "

"Yes?" Philip responded absently. 

"The election is so near at hand now, " the other continued, "that wecannot leave any stone unturned. I am writing to some of the countryclergy this morning. By the way, I wanted to speak to you aboutMontfield. "

Philip wondered at himself for the remoteness which the affairs of thechurch had for him, so absorbed had he been in his own experiences. 

"It seems to me, " Father Frontford went on with fresh animation, "thatperhaps you can do something there. Can't you go down and talk with Mr. Wentworth? He's inclined to support Mr. Strathmore. You should be ableto influence him; you are his spiritual son. "

Mr. Wentworth was the rector in Philip's native town, and under himboth Ashe and Wynne had come from Congregationalism into the Church. 

"It is possible, " Philip said doubtfully. "Mr. Wentworth is, however, rather inclined to disagree with me nowadays. He is completely carriedaway by Mr. Strathmore. "

A strange look came into the face of the old priest. He laid down hispen, and pressed together the tips of his white fingers, thin withfasting and self-denial. 

"Did you not once tell me, " he asked, "that Mr. Wentworth has hoped foryears that he might bring your mother also into the fold?"

"Yes. "

"And you are her only child?"

"Yes. "

Father Frontford cast down his eyes; then raised them to flash a glanceof vivid intelligence upon Ashe. Then again he looked down. 

"I think that you had better run down and see your mother, " he said. "It is possible that she may be even now leaning toward the truth; andin any case you might arouse Mr. Wentworth to fresh activity. It is ofmuch importance that the country clergy should be pledged not tosupport Mr. Strathmore in the convention. "

Philip went away confused and baffled. He said to himself that hisfeeling was caused solely by his disappointment that he had found noopportunity to talk with the Father Superior about his own affairs; butit was impossible for him to put out of his mind the way in which hismission to Montfield had been spoken of. He was willing to go down anddo what he could to arouse Mr. Wentworth to the gravity of thesituation, but he could neither forget nor endure the hint that heshould make of the hope of his mother's conversion to the church abribe. He could not think of this without being moved to blame FatherFrontford; and he set himself to argue his mind into the belief thatthere was no harm in the suggestion. He walked along in a reverie asdeep as it was painful, trying to see that the occasion called for theuse of all lawful means, and that it was natural for the Father tosuppose that Mrs. Ashe might be influenced more readily if the rectoryielded to the wishes of her son in voting for Frontford. 

"My dear Ashe, what have you been doing to yourself?" a strong voiceasked him. 

He came with a start to the consciousness of where he was, and that hehad almost run into the Rev. De Lancy Candish. The thought flashedthrough his mind that Father Frontford had been too deeply absorbed inhis plans to notice the bruised face of his deacon. 

"How do you do?" he exclaimed impulsively. "Providence has sent you tome. Can you spare me a little of your time?"

"Certainly, " the other answered, with some appearance of surprise. "I'mon my way home now. "

They walked in silence toward the home of Mr. Candish, Ashe trying toframe some form of words by which he could confess the sin of his heartwithout betraying Mrs. Fenton. He wondered if Maurice Wynne could havehelped him, and reflected how they had been in the habit of confidingeverything to one another. Now he shrank from opening his heart to hisfriend, and was almost seeking out a confidant in the highways andhedges. 

"You have not told me what sort of an accident you have had, " Candishobserved, as he fitted the latch-key into the lock of his door. 

"I was attacked by a man in the North End, " Philip answered, obeyingthe wave of the hand which invited him to enter. "He had insulted Mrs. Fenton, and"--

"Mrs. Fenton!" echoed Candish. 

The tone made Ashe turn quickly. Into his mind flashed the words ofHelen and of Mrs. Wilson connecting the name of Candish with that ofMrs. Fenton. In his longing for comfort and advice he had seized uponthe rector of the Nativity without remembering that he was the lastperson to whom he should come. 

"Ah, " he said, "it was true!"

Candish did not answer, and they went into the study in silence. Thehost sat down in the well-worn chair by his writing-table, while Philiptook a seat facing him. 

"What a foolish thing for me to say, " Ashe broke out; then surprised atthe querulousness of his tone he stopped abruptly. 

"Mr. Ashe, " Candish said gravely, "if there is anything I can do foryou will you tell me what it is?"

Philip rose quickly, and took a step towards him, leaning down over thethin, homely face. 

"I have found you out!" he cried with exultation. "I came to confess mysin to you, and I find that you love her too!"

"Don't be hysterical and melodramatic, " was the cool response. "Sitdown, and let us talk rationally if we are to talk at all. "

The manner of Candish recalled Philip to himself. He sat down heavily. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "Since that fight I have been half besidemyself. I am like a hysterical girl. "

The other regarded him compassionately. 

"Mr. Ashe, " responded he, "there is no good in my pretending that Ididn't understand what you meant just now. You and I are both given tothe priesthood. If we both love a woman"--

"I love her, " burst in Philip, half defiantly, half remorsefully, "andI have told her so! I have condemned myself"--

"Stop, " Candish interrupted. "First you have to think of her. "

Philip stared in silence. It came over him how entirely he had beenthinking of himself, and how little he had considered Mrs. Fenton inhis reflections upon the events of the previous evening. Here was a manwho could love her so well as to think of her first and himself last. 

"But I have given her up, " Philip stammered. 

"Was she yours to give up?"

There was nothing bitter or sneering in the words; they were saidsimply and dispassionately. 

"No, " Philip answered, dropping his voice; "she was not mine. "

The older man rose and walked to the fire, where he stood looking downat the flaming coals. 

"After all, " he said, "we are pretty much in the same plight. I knewher when her husband brought her here a bride, the loveliest creaturealive. Arthur Fenton was a clever, selfish, wholly irreligious man; andI could not help seeing how completely he failed to understand orappreciate his wife. She was kind to me, and when her trouble came sheturned to me for comfort and sympathy. It is my weakness that I loveher; but she will never know it. "

"And does she love nobody?" demanded Ashe jealously. 

Candish turned upon him a look of rebuke. 

"What right have you or I to ask that question?" he retorted sternly. "I do penance for loving her, and God is my witness how carefully Ihave hidden it. It is not for me to question her right to love if sheplease. "

Philip rose, and went to the other, holding out his hand. 

"Mr. Candish, " said he earnestly, "you have taught me my lesson. Ihave been a weak fool, and worse. I will pray for strength to lay mypassion on the altar and forget it. "

The rector took the extended hand, looking into Philip's eyes with aglance so wistful, so humble, and so tender that the remembrance wentwith Ashe long. 

"And forget it?" he repeated. "I do not know that I could do that!"

He dropped the hand of Ashe, and shook himself as if he would shake offthe mood which had taken possession of him. 

"Come, " he declared resolutely, "this will not do. This is not the sortof mood that makes men. Let me give you a single piece of advice, --I amolder, you know; don't pity yourself, whatever else you do. In thefirst place, that would be equivalent to saying that Providence doesn'tknow what is best for you; and in the second, it spoils all one's senseof values. "

As Ashe that afternoon journeyed down to Montfield, he recalled all thedetails of this interview. The more he considered the more he respectedCandish and the less satisfaction he found in his own conduct. Yetperhaps the human mind cannot cease self-justification at any pointshort of annihilation, and Philip still had in his secret thought adeep feeling that the church should more absolutely settle the questionof the celibacy of its clergy, so that there might be no more doubts. He honored the attitude of Candish, and he resolved to imitate it. Hewho has never shaken hands with the devil, however, can have littleidea how hard it is to loose his grasp; and Philip groaned at thethought of how far he was even from wishing to put his love out of itshigh place in his heart. 

His mind was calmer as he sat that evening talking with his mother. Mrs. Ashe was a plain, sweet-faced woman, with gray hair brushedsmoothly under her cap of black lace. There was in her pale, faded facelittle beauty of feature or coloring; yet the light of her kindly anddelicate spirit shone through. Maurice Wynne had once said that she waslike a sweet-pea, --born with wings, but tethered so that she might notfly away. Philip, with his exquisite sensitiveness, found anunspeakable comfort in her presence; a soothing sense of rest and peaceso blissful that it seemed almost wrong. There are even in this worldlyage many women who hide under the covering of uneventful, commonplacelives existences full of spiritual richness, --women who find inreligion not the mechanical acceptance of form, not a mere superstitionwhich encrusts an outworn creed, but a vital, uplifting force; a powerwhich fills their souls with imaginative warmth and fervor. The worthof an experience is to be estimated by the emotional fire which itkindles; and to the lives of such women the dull, colorless round oftheir daily existence gives no real clue. Theirs is the life of thespirit, and for them the inner is the only true life. It is when thesunken eye shines with a glow from deep within; when the thin cheeksfaintly warm with the ghost of a flush and the blue veins swell fromthe throbbing of a heart stirred by a spiritual vision, that theobserver gets a hint of the realities of such a life. 

Mrs. Ashe was a type of the saintly woman that the spirit of Puritanismbred in rural New England. Such women are the living embodiment of thepower which has inspired whatever is best in the nation; the powerwhich has been a living force amid the worldliness, the materialism, the crudity that have threatened to overwhelm the people of this yetyoung land, so prematurely old. In her face was a look of highunworldliness that marks the mystic, the inheritance from ancestorsbred in a faith impossible without mysticism in the very fibres of therace. The heroic self-denial, the persistent belief, the noble fidelityto the ideal which is the salvation of a nation, shine in such acountenance, and make real the high deeds of a past generation thenarrowness of whose creeds too often blinds us to-day to the greatnessof their character. 

She smiled a little on hearing the object of her son's visit. 

"I am glad to see you on any terms, " she observed, "but I cannot saythat I think your coming very wise. "

"But, mother, " he urged, "don't you see that it is a matter of so muchimportance that we ought not to neglect any chance?"

"My dear boy, " questioned she, "do you really think that it is of somuch importance who is bishop?"

"It is of the greatest possible importance, " he returned earnestly. "Ofcourse you don't agree with me as to the importance of forms ofworship, but suppose that it were your own church, and the questionwere of having a man put into a place so influential. Wouldn't you betroubled if one were likely to be chosen who taught what you regardedas heresy?"

She smiled on him still, but he saw the seriousness in her eyes. 

"Yes, " she said, "I suppose I should; but doesn't it ever occur to you, Philip, that we are all too much inclined to feel that everything isgoing wrong if Providence doesn't work in our way? We can't help, Isuppose, the habit of regarding our plans as somehow essential to theproper management of the universe. "

He laughed and shook his head. 

"You always had a most effective way of taking down my conceit, " heresponded. "I don't mean that it is necessary that Father Frontfordshall be bishop because I want him, but"--

"But because you believe in him, " his mother interrupted with a littletwinkle in her eye. "Well, we cannot do better than to follow ourconvictions, I suppose. "

She ended with a sigh, and Philip knew that it was because into hermind came the sadness she felt at his defection from the faith of hisfathers. 

"Yes, you trained me from the cradle to do what I thought right withoutconsidering the consequences. "

They fell into more general talk after that; and after the news of thefamily and the neighborhood had been pretty well exhausted, Mrs. Ashesaid:--

"I have asked Alice Singleton to make me a visit. "

"Alice Singleton! Why, mother, I cannot think of a person I should havesupposed it less likely you would want to stay with you. "

"I'm afraid that I don't want her very much; but she wrote me that shewas very lonely, that she hadn't any plans, and that Boston seemed toher a very homesick place. Her mother was my nearest friend, you know;and if Alice needs friendship it's very little for me to do for her. "

"I didn't know she'd been in Boston, " Philip commented thoughtfully. "She never seemed to me honest, mother. I never could be charitable toher at all. "

The sweet face of his mother took on a curious expression of mingledamusement and contrition. 

"If I must confess it, Phil, " she said, "neither could I; and I'mafraid that there was more notion of doing penance in my asking herthan of real hospitality. She is after all not to blame for her manner, and no doubt we do her wrong. "

"If you have come to doing penance, mother, there's no knowing how soonyou will be with me. "

"No, Phil, " she answered softly, "do you remember what Monica told herson? 'Not where he is, shalt thou be, but where thou art he shall be. '"

He shook his head, sighing. 

"I ought not to have touched on that matter, mother. You know that I amtrying to follow my conscience. "

"Yes, I cling to that. I should be miserable if I did not believe thatyour way and my way will come together somewhere, on this side or theother; and I bid you Godspeed on whatever way you go with prayerfulconviction. "

A sudden impulse leaped up within him, and it was almost as if somevoice not his own spoke through his lips, so little was he conscious ofmeaning to ask such a question. 

"Even if the way led to Home?"

Mrs. Ashe grew paler, but her eyes steadfastly met those of her son. 

"I trust you in the hands of God, " she said. 

Late that night Philip woke from a heavy sleep into which fatigue hadplunged him. He reached out his arm, and drew aside the curtain nearhis bed, so that he might see the window of his mother's chamber. Afaint light was shining there; and he knew that the beams of the candlefell on his mother on her knees. 

 XX

 IN WAY OF TASTE Troilus and Cressida, iii. 3. 

The two deacons were together again in the Clergy House. Mauricefrankly confessed to himself that he did not like it, and he wonderedif Philip were also dissatisfied. It was a question too delicate toask, however; and he contented himself with watching his friend todiscover, if possible, whether the stay outside had affected Ashe as ithad him. They returned late in the afternoon, and their greeting was ofthe warmest. 

"Dear old boy, " Maurice cried, "you don't know how glad I am to get atyou again. Where in the world have you kept yourself?"

"Just at the last, " Philip responded, "I've been down to Montfield. "

"Down home? Have you really? How is everybody? I hope your mother iswell. "

"She is very well, and I do not remember anybody that we know whoisn't. I went down to see Mr. Wentworth, and found that he is alreadypledged to Mr. Strathmore. "

"Is he really? How did that happen?"

"It seems that he is a cousin of that Mrs. Gore where we heard thatheathen, and she is greatly interested in Mr. Strathmore's election. Mr. Wentworth promised her his vote. How people are carried away bythat man. Mr. Wentworth told me that he looked upon him as the greatestman in the church to-day. "

"It is strange, " Maurice assented absently; "but he is a man of greatpersonal fascination. "

"To me, " Philip retorted, "he is a whited sepulchre. His doctrine ofmental reservation amounts to nothing less than that a priest is atliberty to believe anything he pleases if he will only conformoutwardly. "

Maurice was secretly much of the same opinion, but they came now to thedinner table, where silence was the rule. Wynne had a feeling ofdishonesty from the fact that he concealed from his friend that he hadsought an interview with Strathmore, yet he felt that he could notconfess the visit. While they sat at table a brother read aloud, andthe reading chanced to be to-night from the book of Job. The words ofthe splendid poem mingled in the mind of Maurice with the mostincongruous and unpriestly thoughts. He chafed at the routine intowhich he had fallen as into a pit from which he had once escaped; themeagre repast seemed to him pitifully poor; and most of all he wasangry with himself that he could not feel joy at his return to thehouse which was the symbol of the consecrated work to which he hadgiven his life. After dinner came an hour and a half of recreation, andin this he was called to the study of the Father Superior. 

"You returned so late in the day, " the Father said with a smile, "thatyou will not mind giving up recreation to-night. I wish to speak withyou on a matter of importance. "

Maurice took the seat toward which the other waved his hand. He feltalien and strange. He recalled the attitude of submission and reverencewith which he had once been accustomed to enter this room, the respectwith which he had heard every word of the Father; and he blamedhimself bitterly that he now took rather a defensive mood, and felt aninstinctive desire to escape. He reflected that he had been poisoned bythe world; yet he could not wholly shut out the consciousness that hehad no genuine desire to be freed from the sweet madness which hadseized him. He tried to put all thought of these matters by, however, and to give his whole attention to what the priest might say to him. 

"I think that you have met Mrs. Frostwinch, " the Father said. 

"I went to her house once, " Maurice answered, surprised at the remark, and feeling his pulse quicken at the remembrance of his first sight ofBerenice. 

"I remember that you mentioned it in confession, " was the grave reply. "Satan sets his snares in the most unlikely places. "

The words seemed almost a reply to Wynne's secret thought. His firstimpulse was to resent this open allusion to a sacred confidencewhispered in the confessional. It was like a stab in the back, or atrick to take unfair advantage; and the matter was made worse by thisallusion to a snare of Satan, which could mean nothing else butBerenice herself. Maurice flushed hotly, but habit was strong in him, and he cast down his eyes without reply. 

"Have you heard that Mrs. Frostwinch is on her way home?" FatherFrontford went on. 

"No. "

"It is said that her faith-healing superstition has failed her, and sheis coming home to die. "

"To die?" echoed Maurice. 

He recalled Mrs. Frostwinch as he had seen her, gracious, high-bred, apparently brilliantly well; and it appeared monstrously impossiblethat death should be near her. She had seemed a woman who would defydeath, and live on simply by her own splendid will. 

"So it is said, " the Father assured him. "Do you know how important itis to us to have her influence in the election?"

"I know that there are certain votes that she may influence, and thatshe is in"--he almost said "your, " but he caught himself in time--"ourinterests. "

"There are three and perhaps four votes which depend upon her. Threeare sure to go over to the other side if she is not able to standbehind them. They are all dependent upon her for support in one way oranother. "

"But surely, " Maurice suggested, "they would not voteunconscientiously? They wouldn't sell their convictions for hersupport?"

"They would not vote unconscientiously, " was the dry response, "butthey believe that the support which she gives to them and to theirmissions is of more importance than that the man they really prefershould be chosen. "

"But what can be done?"

Father Frontford sat leaning back in his chair, his face in shadow, andthe tips of his thin fingers pressed together in his habitual gesture. 

"Perhaps nothing, " he answered. 

His voice had dropped into a soft, silky half-tone, insinuating andpersuasive. Maurice began to have an uneasy feeling as if he were beinghypnotized; yet the words of the other came to him with a qualitystrangely soothing and attractive. 

"Perhaps, " the priest went on after a pause of a second, "perhapseverything that is necessary. "

It seemed to Maurice that there was something significant in the tonewhich the words did not reveal. He looked keenly at the shadowed face, but without being able clearly to make out its expression. He could seelittle but the bright eyes holding and dominating his own. 

"It is for you to do this work, " Father Frontford continued; "and it iswonderful how Providence brings good out of all things. Here is anopportunity for you not only to expiate your fault, but to serve thecause of the church. "

Without understanding, Maurice began to tremble with inner dread lestthe name of Berenice should again be brought up between himself andthis pitiless priest. 

"I do not see that there is anything that I can do, " he said coldly. 

"On the contrary. Do you chance to know anything about the Cantonestate? I suppose you are not likely to. "

"Nothing whatever. What is the Canton estate?"

"Mrs. Frostwinch was a Canton. Her father was a brother of old Mrs. Morison. "

Maurice could not see how all this involved him, but he became more andmore uneasy. 

"The estate of old Mr. Canton, " the Father went on in the same smoothvoice, "was, as I have just learned from Mrs. Wilson, left to hisdaughter for life and to her children after her. If she died childlessit was to go to Miss Morison. "

"And she is childless?"

"She is childless. If she is taken away now, the property will all bein the hands of Miss Morison. "

There was a moment of stillness in which the thought most insistent inthe mind of Maurice was that in this fortune fate had raised anotherwall between himself and Berenice. He spoke to escape the reflection. 

"But all this is surely not my concern. "

"It is your concern if it shows you a way in which the votes of thoseclergymen may be assured, although Mrs. Frostwinch should not recover. "

"It shows me no way. "

Maurice tried to speak naturally and without evidence of feeling, buthis throat was parched and his heart hot. He hated this inquisition. The long reverence and admiration which had bound him to the Fathermelted to nothing in the twinkling of an eye. Who was this Jesuit thatsat here making of Berenice and her fortune pawns in his game;involving her in a web of intrigue unworthy of his sacred office; andforcing his disciple to listen through a knowledge of factsstammeringly poured out in the confessional? Absence from the ClergyHouse and from town, and after that a growing reluctance, had preventedMaurice from confessing anything beyond his first attraction to MissMorison, but he had written to the Father Superior of the accident, andhad mentioned that he was thought to have been of assistance in savingher. It came to him now that he was being repaid for the accursedvanity which had led him to make this boast; and he became the moreanimated against his director from his anger against himself. 

"Whatever Mrs. Frostwinch has done with the property, " Father Frontfordsaid, "of course Miss Morison may do if she pleases. "

"I should suppose so; but I know nothing about it. "

"Then if Miss Morison will promise to continue the donations of Mrs. Frostwinch, the position of the beneficiaries will be the same towardher as toward Mrs. Frostwinch. "

Maurice bent forward quickly, unable longer to maintain an appearanceof calm. 

"Father Frontford, " he exclaimed, "you certainly cannot ask this ofMiss Morison! It would be sheer impertinence! I beg your pardon, but Icannot help saying it. Besides, there is something horribly cold-blooded in talking about what shall be done with the property of Mrs. Frostwinch when she is dead. Miss Morison would not listen to anythingof the sort. "

"The circumstances justify what otherwise would be inadmissible. It isnecessary, Mrs. Wilson thinks, to be able to tell those men that theirsituation is not changed by the death of Mrs. Frostwinch, which isalmost sure to take place before the convention. You must explain thatto Miss Morison. "

"I!"

"The obligation which she is under to you, " the Father said, ignoringthe exclamation, "will naturally incline her to listen. "

"But I cannot"--

"I had thought that it was mine to decide what you could and shoulddo. "

"But, Father, this is so extraordinary, so impossible, so"--

"Miss Morison is to be in Boston in a couple of days. Mrs. Wilson willlet us know when she arrives. I know how strange this looks to you, andhow repugnant it must be. Do you think that it is any less hateful tome? Do you think that it is easy for me to be working for what is to bemy own personal exaltation if we succeed? I give you my word, Wynne, that the severest sacrifice that any one can be called on to make inthis matter is that which I make when I take these steps toward puttingmyself in office. I am not naturally humble, and it humiliates me tothe very soul; but I do what seems to me to be for the good of thechurch, and try to put my personal feeling entirely out of the matter. It is for you to do the same. "

It was impossible for Maurice to doubt the sincerity with which thiswas said. He had no answer to give. 

"Go now, my son, " the Father concluded, "and do not forget to thank Godthat the weakness of your heart may be turned into a means by which thechurch may be served. "

Maurice retired to his room in a whirl of conflicting thoughts. He wassummoned almost immediately to vespers and complines. The familiarritual soothed him, and he was able to join in the chants in much theold way. His feeling was that he would gladly have had the service lastinto the night. He would have liked to go on with this half emotional, half mechanical devotion, which kept him from thinking, and which putoff the dreaded hour when he must face the proposition which had beenmade to him. 

It was the rule of the house that all the inmates should preserveunbroken silence among themselves from complines until after nones thenext day. Maurice knew therefore that he was free from intrusion ofhuman companionship, which it seemed to him he could not have borne. Even the talk of dear old Phil, to a chat with whom he had lookedforward as the one pleasure in coming back to the Clergy House, wouldhave been intolerable while this nightmarish trouble lay upon him. Hewent at once to his chamber, a cell-like room, and sat down to think. Could he do it? How would Berenice regard this impertinent interferencewith her private affairs? How could he go to her and say: "It isnecessary for church politics that you assume to dispose of theproperty which now your cousin holds, and over which you have no rightsuntil she is in her grave. " He could see her eyes sparkle withindignation and contempt, and he grew hot in anticipation. He could notdo it, he thought over and over. It was impossible that in this age ofthe world anybody should dream of having such a thing done. If he werealmost a priest, he told himself fiercely, he had not yet ceased to bea gentleman!

The stricture which this thought seemed to cast upon the priesthoodmade him pause. He had not yet shaken off the dominion of old ideas andold habits. He apologized to an unseen censor for the apparentirreverence of his thought. It was not the priesthood, it was--He cameagain to a standstill. He was not prepared to own to himself that hedisapproved of the Father Superior. He had vowed obedience, and here hesat raging against a decree because it sacrificed his personal feelingsto the good of the church. The blame should be upon himself. There wasnothing in all this revolt except his own selfishness and woundedvanity. He had transgressed by allowing his thoughts to be entangled inearthly affection, and this misery and wickedness followed inevitably. The fault was in him entirely; it was his own grievous fault. Thefamiliar words of the office of confession made him beat his breast, and fall in prayer before the crucifix which seemed to waver in theflickering candlelight. He repeated petition after petition. He wouldnot allow himself to think. It was his to obey, not to question. Hewould regain his old tranquillity, his old docility. He would submitpassively. It was his own fault, his most grievous fault. 

The ten o'clock bell rang, calling for the extinguishing of lights. Hesprang from his knees, blew out the candle, threw off his clothes inthe dark, and hurried into his hard and narrow bed. He was resolved notto think. He said the offices of the day; he repeated psalms; and atlast, in desperate attempt to control his mind and to induce sleep, hebegan to multiply large numbers. All the time he was resolutely sayingto himself: "It is my fault; my most grievous fault!" And all the timesome inner self, unsubdued, was persistently replying: "It is not! Itis not! I am right!"

 XXI

 THIS "WOULD" CHANGES Hamlet, iv. 7. 

Maurice woke next morning to a deep sadness, as if some bitter calamityhad befallen. In a moment the conversation of the previous eveningrushed to his mind, and his gloom rather deepened than grew less. Therising-bell had rung, and he rose languidly in the cold, gray twilight. So long had he tossed restlessly in the night unsleeping that he feltworn out and miserable, and after the hours which he had necessarilykept at the house of his cousin half past five seemed hardly to be day. He shivered with a discouraged disgust as he made his toilet, endeavoring to forget. 

The routine of the morning followed: meditation, lauds and prayers;mass; breakfast; prime; then the study hours before luncheon; and so onto nones. All this time the rule of the house protected him fromspeech, but now that the hour for recreation came he was in the midstof questioning fellow-deacons. They had all so much to tell, however, of the manner in which they had passed their time during their absencefrom the Clergy House that Maurice was able for the most part to listeninstead of speaking. He watched with curiosity to see that theyappeared glad to return to seclusion. They had been troubled by thesensation of finding themselves out of their accustomed groove, and hadfound the world confusing. Most often they seemed to him to have beenoppressed by the need of deciding what they should do, and how theyshould meet trifling unforeseen emergencies. 

"It is impossible to be spiritually calm except in seclusion, " one ofthem said. 

Involuntarily Maurice looked at the speaker, feeling that this must bemere cant. It struck him as nonsense, yet one glance at the serene, honest face of the deacon who spoke, with its tender, candid eyes, likethose of a pure girl, was enough to convince him of the entiresincerity of the words. He sighed, and turned away; as he did so hecaught the eye of Philip, who was watching him with solicitousattention. Maurice put his hand on the arm of his friend, and led himaway. 

"Why did you look at me that way, Phil?" he asked. "Does it seem to youthat spiritual calm is the best thing in life?"

Ashe was silent a moment. Maurice noted that he looked thinner than ofold, and reproached himself that he had seen so little of his friendduring their absence from the Clergy House. 

"I was thinking, " Philip replied at length, hesitating and dropping hisvoice, "that I feared both you and I had discovered that something morethan seclusion is needed to give it, however good it may be. "

Maurice laid his hand on the back of Philip's, grasping it tightly. 

"You too?" was his response. 

They stood in silence for some moments, looking out of a window overthe dingy back yards which formed the prospect from the rear of thehouse. Wynne was wondering how it was that for the first time in hislife it was impossible to be frankly confidential with Philip, and howfar it was probable that his friend would be in sympathy with him inhis trouble. He longed for counsel, and the force of old habit pressedhim to tell everything. 

"Phil, " he said, "will you go out with me for a walk this afternoon?"

"Of course, " Ashe answered. "Don't we always go together?"

Wynne laughed, turning to look at his companion as if from afar. 

"I doubt, " he observed, "if anything I could tell you directly wouldgive you so good an idea of how upset I am, and how completely out ofthe routine of our life, as the fact that I seem to have forgotten thatthere ever were any walks before. "

"I am afraid that I am a good deal out of touch with the life here, "Ashe responded seriously. "I have been troubled, and tempted, and--Oh, Maurice, " he broke off suddenly, "Maynard is right: no spiritual calmis possible in the world outside!"

"Even if that were true, " returned Maurice, "I don't know that I amprepared to agree that calm is the best thing in life. "

"It is the highest thing. "

"I don't believe it. It isn't growth. "

The bell for study sounded, and ended their talk. Maurice went to hiswork uneasy, perhaps a little irritated. He was disquieted that Philipshould be so monastically out of sympathy, and he was annoyed withhimself for being out of key with his friend. He felt as if he hadreturned to his old place in the body without being here at all in thespirit. He had while at Mrs. Staggchase's looked into many books whichin the Clergy House would never have come in his way; he had more thanonce been startled to encounter thoughts which had been in his ownmind, but which he had felt it wrong to entertain. Here they werestated coolly, dispassionately, with no consciousness, apparently, thatthey should not be considered with frankness. He had heard opinions andideas which from the standpoint of the religious ascetic were not onlyheretical but little short of blasphemous, yet they were evidently theordinary current thought of the time. It was impossible that thesethings should not affect him; and to-day as he sat in lecture he foundhimself trying all that was said by a new standard and involuntarilytaking the position of an objector. He was able to see nothing butflaws in the logic, faults in the deduction, breaks in the argument. 

"I am come to that state of mind when I should see a seam in theseamless robe, " he groaned in spirit. 

Father Frontford lectured that afternoon on church history. Sometimesin the long hour Maurice studied the priest, wondering at him, tryingto comprehend the working of his mind. Sometimes he would ask himselfwhether it were possible that this man were wholly sincere, whether itwere possible that an intellect so acute could really believe thethings which were the foundation of the teaching of the day; but hecame back always to faith in the complete conviction of the Father. Maurice, indeed, said to himself that Frontford was quite capable oftaking his spiritual self by the throat and compelling it to believe;and then the young doubter asked himself if this were the secret of thefaith which showed in every word and look of the speaker. He toldhimself that Father Frontford was his Superior, and as such to befollowed, not criticised; he resolved not to think, but endeavored togive his whole attention to the lecture. Here however he did littlebetter. The glories of the church upon which the speaker dwelt seemedto Wynne in his present mood poor and paltry triumphs of dogmatism, --oreven, why not of superstition indeed? He was startled by the sin of hisquestioning, yet it seemed impossible to silence the mocking innervoice. 

"This is one of the incidents, " he at last became aware that the Fatherwas saying to close, "which strikingly illustrate the need of implicitobedience. If the church were a simple organization of man, if it werefor the accomplishment of worldly ends, if its object were theaggrandizement of individuals, nothing could be more dangerous than theestablishment in it of what seems like arbitrary power. As it isdirected from above; as its aim is nothing less than the spiritualuplifting of the race; as, indeed, upon it rests the salvation, underGod, of mankind, the case is different. It is necessary that no energybe lost; that all the power of the church be used to the bestadvantage; that the hand assist the head and the head have completecontrol of the hand. Obedience is of all the lessons which you have tolearn perhaps the hardest. It is no less one of the most essential. Inan age which is lacking not only in obedience but even in thatreverence upon which obedience must rest, it is for the true priest tobe an example of reverence and obedience alike. Revere and obey, andyou have done noble service. "

The deacons buzzed together as they left the lecture-room. They werebut boys after all, and some of them light-hearted enough. Mauriceheard one or two of them commenting upon the lecture or uponindifferent things. A curly-haired young deacon, a Southerner with theface of a cherub, was laughing lightly to himself. He was the youngestof them all, and Maurice had for him that liking which one might havefor a pretty kitten. 

"I say, Wynne, " he remarked, looking up into the face of the other witha twinkling eye, "the Dominie gave us a good preachment to-day insupport of his authority. It almost made me resolve to rebel the nexttime I was told to do anything. "

"Then I suppose that you don't agree with him, " Maurice respondedrather absently. 

"Oh, it isn't that. I do agree with him. I mean to be a bishop myselfsome day, and then the doctrine will come in all right. I'll work it. Down South we understand that sort of thing better than you do uphere. "

"Then what did you object to in the lecture?"

"I didn't object to anything; only when anybody proves that you oughtnot to do a thing isn't it human nature to want to do it, just for thefun of it?"

Maurice felt how far from serious was the temper of the boy, and thatit would be utterly unreasonable to expect from him anything likereverence. "Then how do you expect anybody to hold to the doctrine ofimplicit obedience?" he questioned, smiling. 

"Oh, everybody expects to wield the authority sometime, " was the lightanswer. "Nobody'd hold to it otherwise. "

Maurice instinctively glanced at Ashe. In Philip's pale, enrapt facewas an expression of self-surrender which made Wynne feel howcompletely the teaching to which they had just listened must appeal tothe temperament of his friend. 

"To obey for the sake of obeying is precisely what Phil would delightin, " he thought. "How entirely different we are! Yet if it hadn't beenfor him I should never have come here. Haven't I strength enough tofollow my own convictions?"

The hour for walking was four, and a few minutes after the clocks hadstruck, Maurice and Philip started out. It was a dull and loweringafternoon, and the narrow, street was already gloomy with shadows. Halfunconsciously Wynne found himself casting about in his mind for topicsof conversation which should be free from the personal element. Nowthat the time for confidences had come, he shrank from words. Hereproached himself, and then half peevishly thought: "I seem nowadaysto do nothing but to find fault with myself for things that I can'thelp feeling!"

"I am glad Father Frontford said what he did today, " Ashe remarkedafter they had walked in silence for a little. "It was just what Ineeded. I've got so in the habit of following my own will since we havebeen out in the world that I needed to be reminded that there issomething better. "

Maurice felt a faint irritation that the talk was begun in preciselythe key he would most gladly have avoided, but honesty would not lethim be silent. 

"I am afraid, Phil, " he said, "that I'm not entirely in sympathy withyou. I didn't like the lecture. Since we are given will and reason, Ibelieve that it was intended that we should use them. "

"Of course. If I had no reason, how could I bring myself to give up myown will to one that I know to be higher?"

Maurice smiled unhappily. 

"Well, " was his answer, "when you begin with a paradox like that it isevident that I couldn't go on without getting into a discussion darkerthan the darkness of Egypt. I'd rather just talk about common everydaythings. Where shall we go?"

"I want to go to the North End. There is an old woman there that Ithought of visiting. I had trouble with her husband the other day; hethrew her down and hurt her. "

"What sort of trouble?"

"He struck me, and we had a sort of struggle. He wasn't sober. "

"Were you on the street?"

"No; in his room. I--I broke in. "

"Broke in?"

"Yes. " Ashe hesitated, and then added: "Mrs. Fenton was there, and hetried to rob her. "

"Mrs. Fenton? Why didn't you tell me about it? When was it?"

"The day before I went down home. You weren't here, you know. There wasnot much to tell. "

Maurice questioned eagerly, and his friend related briefly what hadhappened. 

"Why, Phil, you're a hero!" Wynne exclaimed. "You've quite taken thewind out of my sails. I counted for something of an adventurer simplyby having been in a smash-up; but you rushed in and had a realadventure. I never thought of you as a defender of dames. "

The other turned toward him a face contracted with a look of pain. 

"Don't, Maurice, " he protested. "I can't joke about it. It was notanything to be proud of; and nobody knows better than I how far I amfrom being a hero. "

"Oh, you're modest, of course. That's like you; but I call it stunning. Mrs. Fenton must have admired you tremendously. "

"Do you suppose she did?" Philip demanded impetuously. Then his voicealtered. "Oh, she knows me too well!" he added. 

The intense bitterness of his tone gave Maurice a shock. 

"Phil!" cried he. 

His companion apparently understood the thought which lay behind theexclamation. He dropped his head, and for a little distance they walkedin silence. 

"I may as well tell you, " Ashe said in a moment. "It is true, what youguess. I--I have been thinking of her more than was right. That is onereason why I am glad to get back to the Clergy House. "

"To give her up?"

"She was not mine to give up. "

"But do you mean not to try to--Oh, Phil, doesn't it ever come to youthat all this monkish business is a mistake? We were a couple offoolish boys that didn't know what we were about when we went into it;and"--

Ashe turned and looked at him with eyes full of reproach, and of almostdespairing determination. 

"Is that the way you help me?" he asked. 

Maurice drew a long, deep breath, and set his strong jaw with a resolvenot to abandon so easily the endeavor to bring his friend out of histrouble. It hardly occurred to him for the moment that it was his owncause that he was defending. 

"Phil, " he persisted, "isn't it possible that after all we may be wrongin making ourselves wiser than the church by taking vows that are notrequired?"

"Do you suppose that the devil has forgotten to say that to me over andover again?" was the response. 

"Meaning that I am the old gentleman?" Maurice retorted, trying to belightsome. 

"Oh, don't joke. I can't stand it. I've been through so much, and thisis so terrible a thing to bear anyway. "

Wynne seized his rosary with one hand, and struck it across the otherso hard that the corner of the crucifix wounded his finger. 

"Phil, old fellow, " he said gravely, "I never felt less like joking. Itcuts me to the quick to see you suffer; and I know how hard you willtake this. I know what it is, for I'm going through the same thingmyself, and I've about made up my mind that we are wrong. I begin tothink that celibacy is only a device that the early church somehow gotinto when it was necessary to hold complete authority over the priest, or when men thought that it was. It belongs to the Middle Ages; not tothe nineteenth century. "

"Then you don't see how marriage would be sure to interfere with aman's zeal for his work?"

"But it would certainly bring him into closer sympathy with humanity. "

Ashe shook his head. 

"You don't seem to realize, " he said with a certain doggedness whichWynne had seldom seen in him, "how it must absorb a man, and takepossession of his very reason. Why, see me. I know it is a sin to thinkof her, and yet"--He broke off and choked. "Besides, " he resumedpresently, "you say yourself that you feel as I do, and that means thatyou are not looking at the thing fairly. You are trying to make yourconscience come round to the side of your desires. "

They walked on up the dingy street into which they had come, and forsome time nothing more was said. Maurice recognized that it was idle toattempt to reply to the charge of his companion. He had made it tohimself and succumbed to it; but now that another stated it, heinstinctively found himself refusing to yield. He repeated to himselfthat he was not trying to befool his conscience, but merely acting withhuman sanity. 

Presently they came into a dusky court, and crossing it, foundthemselves at the door of an ill-smelling tenement house. Here Asheturned suddenly, and faced his friend, his face full of strangeexcitement. 

"Do you suppose, " he said, in a voice which, though low, was full offeeling, "that I do not know how absorbing a thing it is to give uplife to a woman? Here I am, when she is nothing to me, when I do notmean ever to see her again, going into this place simply because hereshe was half a minute in my arms, because here for two minutes shelooked at me as her preserver. It is sin, and I know it; but it is toostrong for me. "

"But, Phil, " Maurice exclaimed in astonishment, "there is surely noharm in going to see a sick woman. "

The other laughed bitterly. 

"So I told myself, and so I kept saying over and over till the talkwe've had forced me to stop lying to myself. I'm not going to see asick woman. I'm going to stand where she stood that day. "

"If you feel that way about it, " Maurice said, putting his hand on theother's arm, "you ought not to go in. "

"I will go in. "

"But obedience, Phil. Think what you were saying about the lecture. "

"Nobody has forbidden me, " Ashe responded defiantly. "I will go in. Ihad made up my mind before I came. Oh, I shall do penance enough forit; you need not be afraid of that. I shall suffer enough for it. "

He started up the stairs, and Maurice followed blindly, full ofsympathy and dismay. 

 XXII

 THE BITTER PAST All's Well that Ends Well, v. 3. 

They found the old woman in bed, attended by a slatternly half-growngirl, who was reading by the dying light a torn and dirty illustratedpaper. There was little furniture in the chamber; merely the frowsybed, a bare table, a single broken chair besides the one in which thegirl was sitting. The floor was bare and dirty; one of the window-paneswas broken and stuffed with a bundle of paper. There were a rustystove, a few dishes on the shelf, a kettle and a tin tea-pot. On thewindow-sill by the bed were a medicine bottle and a cup. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Murphy?" Ashe asked. "Are you any better to-day?"

"No better, thank yer riverince. I'll never be better again. My back isbroke, and the pain in me is like purgatory already. "

The slatternly girl laid her paper on her knees, but she neither rosenor spoke. To Maurice she seemed to have an air of contempt. 

"I am sorry to hear it, Mrs. Murphy, " said Ashe. "I thought that Iwould drop in and ask after you. "

Maurice involuntarily glanced at him, surprised by the indifference ofthe tone. Enlightened by the passionate words which had been spokenbelow, he could see that Philip was preoccupied, and gave to the sickwoman no more than the barest semblance of attention. Ashemechanically inquired about Mrs. Murphy's wants, his thin cheeksglowing and his eyes wandering about the room. He was apparentlyreacting the scene of the fight, and presently he made a step or twobackward, so that he stood near the middle of the chamber. Here he tookhis stand, and seemed to become lost in reverie. 

"Might as well set, " remarked the girl, looking toward the unoccupiedchair. 

Maurice made a slight gesture inviting Philip to the seat; but Philipremained where he was. Wynne realized that his companion must bestanding where he had supported Mrs. Fenton in his arms; and sotouching was the expression of Ashe's face that he felt his throatcontract. He turned away and looked out of the dim window over thechimney-pots and the irregular roofs. 

"I'm used to falls, " the sick woman said. "I've had plenty of 'em. Ileft a good home and them as was good to me, to be beat and starved, and murdered in the end. Women are all like that. If a man asks 'em, they're always ready to cut their own throats. Sorry was the day for meI ever left old Miss Hannah. "

Maurice turned toward the bed, his attention suddenly arrested. Thename was that by which his aunt had usually been called, and he seemedto perceive in the talk of the woman something familiar. Thepossibility that this battered old creature might be his nurse came tohim with a shock, so broken, so altered, so degraded was she; and as helooked at her he rejected the idea as preposterous. 

"But your husband will be punished for his brutality, " Ashe remarkedabsently. 

He spoke like a man in a dream, as if his whole intent were fixed uponsomething so widely apart from the present that he hardly knew what waspassing about him. 

"Who wants him punished?" cried out the sick woman with sudden shrillvehemence. "That's what you rich folks are always after. Who asked thelady to come here with her purse in her hand to tempt him when hewasn't himself to know what he was doing? First you get him into ascrape, and then you punish him for it! What for do I want Tim shut upand me left to starve in me bed? If Tim's a little pleasant when he'shad a drop more'n would be handy for a priest, whose business is it butmine? It's little comfort he gets, poor man; and he only takes what hecan get to keep up his spirits in these poor times, and me sick andcan't do for him. "

"That's what I say too, Mrs. Murphy, " the slatternly girl arousedherself to interpose. "Them as never had no hard times in their livesis always ready to jump on a poor man when he's down. "

Maurice began to feel as if he were entangled in a strange and uncannydream. Philip seemed more and more to retire within himself, and Wynnefelt that he must do something to attract attention from his friend'sconduct. 

"We haven't anything to do with punishment, Mrs. Murphy, " he saidsoothingly, coming forward as he spoke. "We came only to see if thereis anything we can do to make you more comfortable. "

The old woman answered nothing, but she stared at him with wild eyes. 

"We may be able to make you more easy, " he went on cheerfully, "if wecan't fix things for you just as they were at Aunt Hannah's. "

He used the name half unconsciously as the result of the suggestion ofold association and half with an impulse to prove the faint possibilitythat this might be Norah Dolen. As he spoke Mrs. Murphy raised herselfon one elbow, stretching out a lean hand convulsively toward him. 

"Master Maurice!" she cried. "Holy Mother of Heaven, is it yourself?"

He went to her quickly, and took the outstretched hand. 

"Yes, Norah. It is I. "

She gazed at him a moment with haggard eyes, and then a look of deeptenderness came into the worn old face. 

"Blessed be the saints!" she murmured. "It's me own boy!"

She drew her hand out of his grasp to stroke his arm and the folds ofhis cassock. He sat down by her on the bed, and she fell back upon thedingy pillow, breaking into hysterical tears. She caught one of hishands and carried it to her lips, kissing it in a sort of rapture. 

"My own baby, " she chuckled. "My Master Maurice so big and fine! Ialways said you'd be taller than Master John. "

The allusion to his half-brother, dead nearly a dozen years, seemed tocarry him back into a past so remote that he could hardly remember it. He smiled at Norah's enthusiasm, more moved by it than he cared toshow. 

"I've had time to grow big since you deserted us, Norah. "

A look of terror came into her face. 

"It wasn't my fault, " she gasped, sobbing between her words. "Don'tbelieve it against me, me darling. I never went to hurt old Miss Hannahin me life, and the saints knows how she died. "

"I never laid any blame on you, " he answered. "I knew you wouldn't hurta fly. "

She broke into painful, hysterical laughter. 

"No more I wouldn't. To think it's me own baby boy that I've carried inme arms, and him a priest!"

The attendant, who had been watching in stupid and undisguisedcuriosity, gave an audible sniff. 

"Oh, he ain't a real priest, " she interrupted with brutal candor. "They're just fakes. They ain't even Catholics. "

A pang of irritation shot through Maurice at the girl's words, but hissense of humor asserted itself, and helped him to smile at his ownweakness. 

"But, Norah, " he said, ignoring the taunt, "I want to know aboutyourself. We've often tried to find you, " he added, a sudden perceptionof the possible importance of this recognition coming into his mind. "You know we depended on you to tell us a lot of things at the time ofAunt Hannah's death. "

"He told me you'd be after me, " Norah exclaimed with rising excitement. "He said you'd be laying it to me; but, Master Maurice, by the Motherof Mercy, I never"--

"I know that, " he interrupted, to check her excitement; "but why didyou go off in that way?"

"She told me to go. She ordered me out of the house like a dog, justbecause I wouldn't give up Tim when she'd accidentally seen him whenhe'd had one drop more than the full of him, --and any poor body mighttake a wee drop more'n he meant to take beforehand. She was that hotin her way when her temper was up, rest her soul, --and that nobodyknows better than yourself, --that the devil himself couldn't hold herwith a pair of red-hot tongs, --saving the presence of your riverincesfor mentioning the Old Gentleman. "

Her momentary discomposure at having mentioned the arch fiend in thepresence of those who were his professional enemies gave Wynne a chanceto interpolate a question. He could easily understand that the violentexcitement of a quarrel with her old servant might account for thesudden death of his aunt. He perceived in a flash how Norah, terrifiedby the newspaper reports which had openly accused her of making waywith her mistress, would without difficulty be induced by her husbandto conceal herself. The matter to him most important, however, had notyet been touched upon. 

"But what became of her will?" he asked. "You told me she made a newone. "

"She did that, Master Maurice. Wasn't I night and day telling her she'dtreated you scandalous, and upside down of all reason; and didn't shesend for old Burnham, with the squinchy eyes and the wife that had awart on her nose, and have it all writ over. "

"So he said. But what became of it?"

"Ain't you ever had it?"

"No; we could never find it. "

"Why didn't you look under the bottom of her little desk?" Mrs. Murphydemanded in much excitement. 

"Under the bottom of her desk?" he repeated. 

"The double bottom. The little traveling-desk with the little pictureson the corners. She was that contrary that she wasn't willing youshould find it all fair and open. She wanted to tease you a whilebefore you found out she'd changed her mind and give in. "

"Maurice, " Ashe broke in, "we have overstayed our time. "

Wynne rose at once, the habit of obedience being strong. Mrs. Murphyclung to his hand, mumbling over it with tears of delight, and couldhardly be persuaded to let them go. It was only when he had promised toreturn on the next day, and the slatternly girl had peremptorilyordered her patient to lie down and stop acting like a buzz-headedfool, that he escaped. He hurried down the dark stairway and out of thehouse with a step to which excitement lent speed, while Philip followedin silence. 

As they were leaving the court they encountered a middle-aged priest, evidently an Irishman, with a kindly face and a bright eye. 

"Can you tell me, " he asked in a rich brogue, greeting them in friendlyfashion, "where Mrs. Tim Murphy lives?"

"In the house we came out of, " Maurice answered. "She's on the fifthfloor, at the front. "

The priest regarded him with some surprise in his look, and something, too, of uncertainty. 

"You haven't been there, have you?" he asked. 

"Yes; we've just come from her place. "

"Then perhaps she won't want me, " the priest remarked. "It'll save me agood bit of a climb. "

"But we went only as friends, " Maurice explained. "She might wish theconsolations of religion. "

"Then you did not"--

"We are not of your church, " Maurice interrupted, flushing. 

The priest looked at them with a puzzled air. 

"But surely, " he said, "you are Catholic. Haven't you been to me at theconfession?"

Maurice had not at first recognized the priest to whom he had been inthe habit of confessing at St. Eulalia, but he had known him beforethis announcement made Philip stare at him with a face of astonishment. 

"Yes, " he responded steadily. "I have confessed to you at St. Eulalia, but I am not of your communion. "

He turned, and walked away quickly, not looking at Phil. He resolvednot to bother his head about this unchancy encounter. It was awkward, and the fact that he had never confided in Ashe seemed to give to thesevisits to St. Eulalia an air almost of under-handedness; but there wasnothing wrong, he told himself, and he would not be vexed at thismoment when he was full of delight at the probability of discoveringthe missing will. He was certainly in no danger of becoming a Catholic. He smiled to think how little likely he was to exchange the too strictrule of the Clergy House for one which might be more rigid still. Thekeen thought now was the remembrance of the wealth which he hoped soonto possess. 

"Phil, old man, " he said joyously, "I believe I shall get Aunt Hannah'smoney after all. I always felt that it belonged to me. "

"Yes, " Ashe replied, so dully that Maurice turned to him quickly. 

"Come, Phil, don't answer me like that. What are you moping about?"

There was no answer for a moment. Maurice, full of a fresh vigor bornof the discovery of the afternoon, was yet rebuked by the silence ofhis friend. 

"Of course, Phil, " he went on, "you know I don't mean anything unkind. I am no end obliged to you for taking me there this afternoon. When wego tomorrow"--

"I shall never go there again, " Ashe interrupted. 

"Nonsense! Why not?"

"I went to-day to say good-by to my sinful folly. I shall not goagain. "

A prickling irritation began to make itself felt in the mind ofMaurice. Even so slight a contact with the material realities of lifeas this interest in the will had put him completely out of tune withthe monkish mood. 

"Oh, stuff, Phil!" he exclaimed. "For heaven's sake don't be so morbid. You talk like a mediæval anchorite. "

Ashe regarded him with a look of pain. 

"It doesn't seem possible that this is you, Maurice. "

"It is I, " was the sturdy answer; "and it is I in a sane frame of mind, old fellow. Come, it's no sin to be human; and as far as I can seethat's the only fault you've committed. "

"Maurice, " Ashe retorted in a voice of intense feeling, "have youthrown away everything that we believe? Aren't you with us any more?"

The pronoun which seemed to separate him from the company to which hisfriend belonged struck harshly on Maurice's ear. He felt himself beingforced to define for Philip thoughts which he had thus far declined todefine for himself. 

"Phil, " he said determinedly, "I insist that your way of looking atthis whole matter is morbid; and I won't get into a discussion withyou. I'm in too good spirits to let you upset them. To think I shallget my property after all. "

"But our lives are devoted to poverty. "

Maurice turned upon his friend, more exasperated than he had ever beenwith him before in the whole course of their lives. 

"Look here, Phil, " he declared, "if you want to be as mopish as amildewed owl yourself, that is no reason why you should try to make meso too. "

There was no response to this, and in silence they went toward theClergy House. Just as they reached the door, Maurice turned quickly andheld out his hand to his friend. Ashe grasped it so hard that it ached;and Maurice went to his room with a sigh on his lips, while in hisheart he said to himself, "Poor Philip!"

Maurice went next day to see Mrs. Murphy, and for a number of daysthereafter. Norah was sinking, and clung to him with pathetictenderness. He learned not much more about the will. She was sure thatit had been concealed under the false bottom of a little traveling-deskwhich he remembered, but beyond that she knew nothing. Maurice wrote toMr. Burnham, the family lawyer, and the question now was, what hadbecome of the desk? The effects of the testator had been sold atauction, but as they had been largely bought by relatives, Mauricebelieved that it would not be difficult to trace the missing document. 

The interest and excitement of this new business so occupied thethoughts of Maurice that he almost ceased to think of religiousmatters. Perhaps there was more danger to his monastic profession inthis indifference than in the most poignant doubt. He went through hisduties at the Clergy House cheerfully because he thought little aboutthem. They were part of the routine of life, and when the hour forrecreation came he laid all that aside. He even on one occasion wrote ahurried note to Mr. Burnham in the hour for meditation, and it amazedhim when he thought of it that his conscience did not protest. Hereflected with a certain naive pleasure that it was possible after allto modify the strict rules of the house without suffering unduecontrition afterward. The discovery might have seemed to FatherFrontford a dangerous one. 

 XXIII

 THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME Measure for Measure, iv. 4. 

So much was Maurice absorbed in his thought of the will and hisinquiries after it that he gave little consideration to the disquietingplan of Father Frontford for the securing of Miss Morison's cooperationin the election schemes. Several days having gone by without fartherallusion to the matter, he decided that his remonstrances had beeneffective, and was greatly relieved to be freed from a task sorepugnant under any circumstances and made intolerable by his feelingfor Berenice. It was with a most painful shock, therefore, that he oneday received from the Father the information that Miss Morison hadreturned to Boston. He met the Father Superior in the hall one morningafter matins, and although it was a silent hour the latter spoke. 

"It is better to see her at once, " he added. "Mrs. Frostwinch is verylow, and the sooner the thing is settled the better. "

"But, " stammered Maurice, "I"--

"I think, " the other went on, ignoring the interruption, "that it willbe best for you to call on her this afternoon at exercise hour. She islikely to be at home then, and it will be rather early for othervisitors. "

Maurice struggled with himself, endeavoring to shake off the influencewhich this man always exercised over him. He determined to speak, andto decline the hateful errand. 

"Father Frontford, " he said with an effort, "I cannot undertake this. "

"My son, " the other responded with gentle severity, "you forget thatthis is a silent hour. Although I may speak to you on affairsconcerning the church, that does not give you the right to answerirrelevantly. "

"It is not irrelevantly, " Maurice protested, feeling his growingirritation strengthen his resolve. "I"--

The voice of the old priest was more stern as he interrupted. 

"You seem to forget entirely your vow of obedience. There is littlemerit, " he added, his tone softening persuasively, "in service which iseasy and pleasant. It is in the sacrifice of self and our owninclinations that we gain the conquest of self. Go, my son, and pray tobe forgiven for pride and insubordination. Do you think that you wouldbe objecting if it were not for the wound to your vanity which thiswork inflicts? You may repeat ten _paters_ for having violated the ruleof silence. "

Maurice moved away, feeling that he dared not trust himself to speakagain. To be thus treated like a willful child galled his pride andquickened all the obstinacy of his nature. 

"The rule of silence!" he said to himself angrily as he went. "Are wein the Middle Ages?"

It came to him as a sort of jeer from an outside intelligence thatafter all they were trying to ape mediaeval discipline. He had been forweeks coming to the point where the whole monastic life seemed to himfantastic and theatrical; and now that his personal liberty was sosharply assailed, his self-respect so threatened, he was prepared tosee everything in the most unfavorable light. He laughed bitterly inhis mind at the tangle he was in, and contempt for himself and for thecommunity took hold of his very soul. 

Yet he was not ready to throw off allegiance. The bonds of habit arestrong; the power of old belief is stronger; and strongest of all isthat vanity which holds a man back from the avowal that he has beenmistaken in his most ardent professions. It is one thing to change aconviction; it is quite another to acknowledge that a belief formerlyupheld with ardor is now outgrown. It is not simply the ignoble shameof fearing the opinion of others that is involved in such a case, butthat of losing confidence in one's own judgment, of standing convictedof error in that inner court of consciousness where all disguises arestripped away and all excuses vain. To see that even the mostpassionate conviction may have been mistaken is to feel profound anddisquieting doubt of all that human faith may compass; it is to seem tobe helpless in the midst of baffling and sphinx-like perplexities. Maurice was already at the point where he could hardly be regarded asholding his old opinions, but he had not reached that of being ready toconfess that he had been wrong in a matter so vital that error in itwould involve the whole reordering of his life and leave him with nostandards of faith. 

He was, moreover, noble in his impulses, and he had too long been bredin introspection not to perceive now that he was greatly influenced byhis inclinations. He was too honest not to be aware that there was asmuch passion as reason in his revulsion from the monastic life, andthat Berenice Morison's perfections weighed as heavily in the scale asany shortcomings of theology. He reproached himself stoutly, inthoroughly monkish fashion, and ended by resolving that obedience was aduty; that the errand on which he was sent was one which would abasehis sinful pride and must be executed for the benefiting of hisspiritual condition. 

He said this to himself sincerely, yet he was human, and behind all wasthe consciousness that in this bad business there was at least theconsolation that he should be face to face with Berenice. Ifhumiliation was doubly bitter by being wrought through his love, atleast his love might find some scanty comfort in the very means of hishumiliation. 

When the hour for exercise, four in the afternoon, came, Maurice setout on his mission. He had blushed at himself in the mirror for thesolicitude with which he regarded his image, but he had tried tobelieve that this arose only from a disinterested anxiety to appear athis best in behalf of the object which he was sent to accomplish. 

Miss Morison was living with Mrs. Frostwinch, and as Maurice walkedbuoyantly along, forgetting his errand and only remembering that he wasto see her, he recalled how on the day when they had first met he hadwalked home with her from Mrs. Gore's. He recalled the pretty, willfulturn of her head and the saucy side-glance of her eyes, the proud curveof her neck, the color on her cheeks delicate as the first peach-blossom in spring. That he had no right thus to be thinking of a womanperhaps added a certain piquancy to his thought; but he quieted hisconscience with the reflection that he was in the path of duty, and ofa duty, moreover, which was likely to prove sufficiently hard andhumiliating. 

Miss Morison was at home, and would see Mr. Wynne. 

The high reception room in which he waited for her had a gloomyformality, a sort of petrified respectability, most discouraging. Onthe wall was a large painting, evidently a copy from some famousoriginal, although Maurice did not know what. The picture represented apainter with a model in the dress of a nun. The artist was evidentlyengaged in painting a saint for some convent, a beautiful sister hadbeen chosen as his model, and he was improving the opportunity to makelove to her. Her reluctant and remorseful yielding was evident in everyline of her figure as she allowed the painter to steal his arm aroundher waist and bend his lips toward hers. Wynne looked at the picturewith vague disquiet. Here was the struggle of the natural human impulseagainst the constraint of ascetic vows; the irresistible yielding tonature and to the call of a passion interwoven with the very fibres ofhumanity. The sombre Boston parlor vanished, and he seemed to be insome old-world nunnery with the unknown lovers. He felt all theirguilty bliss and their scalding remorse. He sighed so deeply that thesoft laugh behind him seemed almost an echo. Turning quickly, he foundBerenice watching him with a teasing smile on her lips. 

"I beg your pardon for startling you, " she said, holding out her hand, "but you were so absorbed in Filippo and his Lucretia that you paid noattention to me. "

"I beg your pardon, " he responded, taking her hand cordially. "I waslooking at the picture and wondering what it represented. "

"It is that reprobate Filippo Lippi and Lucretia Buti, the nun that heran away with. Why it pleased the fancy of my grandfather, I'm sure Ican't imagine. Sit down, please. It is a long time since I have seenyou, and now that Lent is coming, I suppose that you will be lost tothe world altogether. "

He sat down facing her, but he did not answer. His voice had desertedhim, and his ideas had vexatiously scattered like frightened wildgeese. He looked at her, beautiful, witching, full of smiles; thenwithout knowing exactly why he did so, he turned and looked again atthe Lucretia. Berenice laughed frankly. 

"Are you comparing us?" she asked gayly. "Or are you trying to decidewhat I would have done in her case? I can tell you that. "

"What would you have done?"

"Done? I would have run away from him and the convent both! Do youthink I was made to be cooped up in a nunnery if I could escape?"

"No, " he answered with fervor, "you were certainly not made for that. "

"That is an unclerical answer from a monk. "

"I am not a monk. "

She put her head a little on one side with delicious coquetry. 

"Would it be rude to ask what you are, then?"

He regarded her a moment, and then with explosive vehemence he brokeout:--

"I am a deacon who has not taken the vows, and I am a man who loves youwith his whole soul!"

She paled, and then flushed to her temples. She cast her eyes down, andseemed to be struggling for self-control. He did not offer to touchher, although his throat contracted with the intensity of his effort tomaintain his outward calm. Then she looked up with a smile light andcold. 

"We are not called upon to play Filippo and Lucretia in reversedparts, " she said. "I am not trying to tempt you away from your calling. Wouldn't it be better to talk about the weather?"

He was unable to answer her, but sat staring with hot eyes into herface, feeling its beauty like a pain. 

"It has been very cold for the season during the past week, " she wenton. 

"Miss Morison, " he retorted hotly, "I had no right to say that, but youneedn't insult me. It is cruel enough as it is. "

Her face softened a little, but she ignored his words. 

"Tell me, " she remarked, as if more personal subjects had not come intothe conversation, "what are the chances of the election? I hear so manythings said that I have ceased to have any clear ideas on the subjectat all. "

Maurice sat upright, throwing back his shoulders. This girl should notget the better of him. He lifted his head, his nostrils distending. 

"It is too soon to speak with certainty, " he responded; "but it is inregard to that that I came--that I was sent to see you this afternoon. We are under vows of obedience at the Clergy House. "

He said this defiantly, fancying he saw in her face a smile at the ideaof his servitude. 

"You will regard what I say as the words of a messenger. "

"All?" she interrupted. 

He flushed with confusion, but he was determined that he would notagain lose control of himself. 

"All that I _shall_ say, " he responded. "What I have said is to beforgotten. "

"By me or by you?" she asked, dimpling into a smile so provoking thathe had to look away from her or he should have given in. 

"By you, " was his reply; but he could not help adding under his breath:"If you wish to forget it. "

She laughed outright. 

"I will consider the matter. But this errand from the powers that be atthe Clergy House; I am curious about that. "

"You will remember, " he urged, his face falling, "that it is only amessage for which I have no responsibility. "

"Certainly; although you would of course bring no message of which youdidn't approve. "

"I am not asked whether I approve or disapprove. It is the decision ofthe Father Superior that it should be said; and that is the whole ofit. "

"Well, " she inquired, as he paused, unable to go on, "after thistremendous preamble, what is it?"

It seemed to Maurice that he could not say it; but he cleared histhroat, and forced himself to look her in the face. 

"It has to do with your inheritance of the--your inheritance throughMrs. Frostwinch. "

"My inheritance? What do you mean?" she demanded, suddenly becominggrave. 

As briefly as possible he explained to her the errand which had beengiven to him. He could see indignation gathering in her look. 

"But who has told Father Frontford that Mrs. Frostwinch is so ill?" shebroke out at last. "Cousin Anna is not so well since she came from theSouth, but that is all. It is shameful to be speculating on her deathand disposing of her property as if she were buried already! I wonderat you!"

Wynne smiled bitterly. 

"I have already said that I had nothing whatever to do with thematter, " he answered. 

"You had no right to come to me with such a message. It puts me in theposition of waiting for her death! Oh, it's an insult! It's an insultto me and to Cousin Anna! What will she think?"

"She will think nothing, " he said, roused by a sense of her injustice, "because she will never know. "

"Why will she not?"

"Because if it is cruel for me to say a thing which harms nobody exceptme for bringing the message, it would be a thousand times more cruelfor you to tell your cousin that her death was counted on. "

He rose as he spoke, and stood looking down on her with the fullpurpose of constraining her to his will. She sprang up in her turn. 

"Very well; I will not tell her. You may say to Father Frontford fromme that it will be time enough for him to undertake the disposal of myproperty when it is mine. I thank him for his officiousness!"

"You are unjust to Father Frontford. I have made his wish seemoffensive by the way I have put it, I suppose. At any rate, he issimply seeking the good of the church. "

"And to have himself made bishop. "

"He would vote to-morrow for any man that he thought would do betterthan he can do. He would support Mr. Strathmore himself if he believedit well for the church. I do not find myself in sympathy witheverything that he does, but I know him, and of one thing I am sure: hewould be burned alive in slow fires to advance the good of the church. "

She looked at him curiously. Then she turned away in seemingcarelessness, and began to arrange some pink roses which stood in a bigvase on a table near at hand. 

"Good-by, " he said. "I am sorry to have offended you. "

"Must you go?" responded she with a society manner which cut him to thequick. "Let me give you a rose. "

She broke one off, and handed it to him. He took it awkwardly, whollyat a loss to understand her. 

"They are lovely, aren't they?" she said. "Mr. Stanford sent them to methis morning. "

He looked at her until her eyes fell. Then he laid the rose on thetable near the hand which had given it to him, and without furtherspeech went out. 

 XXIV

 FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL, AND EVER Richard II. , ii. 2. 

Although Ashe had said that he should not go again to the poverty-stricken dwelling of Mrs. Murphy, he found himself a few days laterbeside her bed. Word had been brought to him that she was dying, andthat she begged to see him before her death. There was no resisting acall like this, and on a gloomy afternoon he had gone down to the dingycourt, torn by memories and worn with inward struggles. 

He found the old woman almost speechless with weakness. The room wasmore comfortable, and he knew that Maurice had been at work. Theslatternly girl was in attendance, and there was also the pleasant-faced priest whom Philip and Maurice had encountered in the court. Thepriest had come with an acolyte to administer the last rites, and thewoman had made her confession. So intent, however, was Mrs. Murphy uponthe purpose for which she had summoned Ashe that she cried out to himas he entered, and apparently for the moment forgot all else. 

Ashe looked at the priest in apology, but the latter said kindly:--

"Let her speak to you, and then she will be done with things of thisearth. "

It was the safety of her husband for which the poor creature wasconcerned. It was on her mind that Ashe and Mrs. Fenton could save himfrom punishment if they chose. She pleaded piteously with Philip tohave the prisoner set free. 

"He'll be all alone of me, " she moaned. "That'll be more punishmentthan you're thinking, your riverince. He'll come out of jail sober, andhe'll remember how he had me to do for him night and day these longyears. He'll not be liking that, your riverince; and he'll be uneasy tothink maybe he had some small thing to do with it himself. Not that Isay he did, " she added hastily. "His little fun wouldn't be the causeof harm to me as is used to his ways, but maybe he'll be after thinkingso. It's the fever I have, from poor living, and maybe from being solong without Tim and worrying the heart out of my body for him, and hethere in jail. Only if you'll promise to let him go, you and the sweetlady that very likely didn't know his pleasant ways when he had a droptoo much, you'd make it easier dying without him. "

She gasped out her words as if every syllable were an effort, her eyesappealing with a wildness which touched his heart. The girl went to thebed and leaned over, taking in hers the thin, withered hand. 

"There, there, Mrs. Murphy, " she said, "of course the gentleman'll doit. He couldn't have the heart to resist your dying prayer. "

"I am ready to do all I can, Mrs. Murphy, " Philip stammered, strugglingwith his conscience to promise as much as he could; "and I'll see Mrs. Fenton. I'm sure she won't wish to have anything done that you wouldnot like. "

The sick woman burst into weak tears, stammering half inarticulateblessings. 

"I don't know, " Philip began, feeling that it was not honest to giveher the impression that he could set her husband free, "how much"--

The priest crossed to him and laid a hand quickly on his shoulder. 

"Whist!" he said in Philip's ear. "There's no need of troubling herwith that. You'll do what you can, and the rest's with heaven that isgood to the poor. "

Mrs. Murphy had not heard or heeded what Ashe said, and still mumbledher thanks while the Father prepared to administer the viaticum. Theacolyte and the girl looked at Ashe as if expecting him to withdraw. 

"May I remain?" Philip asked, looking at the priest with deep feeling. 

The other regarded him benignly. 

"Remain, my brother; and may the Holy Virgin bless the sacrament toyour soul as well as to hers. "

Ashe could not have told why he had yielded to the impulse to stay. Hehad for months been coming more and more to feel that the church ofRome was his true refuge, yet he hardly now dared confess this tohimself. He had been deeply affected by the discovery that Maurice hadbeen to confession at St. Eulalia, and he longed himself to follow theexample of his friend. To Ashe, however, it seemed like trifling withsacred things, and he could not do it. Now as he knelt on the uncleanand uneven floor of that sordid chamber he experienced a peace and asecurity such as he had never before known. He was moved almost totears; yet he would not yield. 

"It is not Rome, " he insisted to himself. "It is the simple faith ofthese poor souls. That is beautiful and holy. It would be easy for meto think that I was becoming a Catholic. "

He left as soon as the rite was concluded, but the memory of itremained. 

He saw Mrs. Fenton on the afternoon following. He had not been alonewith her since his mad declaration of love. He wished now to meet hercalmly, yet the moment he entered her house his heart quickened itsbeating. He was no longer a priest bent on an errand of mercy; he wasan ardent lover, acutely conscious that he was in the rooms throughwhich she passed day by day, that in a moment he should see her, hearher voice, perhaps touch her hand. He was shown into the library whereshe was sitting, and she rose to greet him frankly and simply. 

"She was not touched by what happened in the carriage, " Philip said tohimself, with the woeful wisdom of love, "or she could not socompletely ignore it. "

"How do you do, Mr. Ashe?" she said with perfect calmness. "You arejust in time for a cup of tea. I am having mine early, because I camein a little chilled. "

He was too confused with the joy of her presence to decline. 

"I have come on an errand which is not over pleasant, " he remarked, watching her handling the cups, "and I am afraid that it is uselesstoo. "

"Does that mean that it is something you wish me to do but think I'mtoo hard-hearted or selfish to agree to?"

"It is not a question of willingness so much as of power. Mrs. Murphyis dying, --very likely by this time she is not living, --and she begs usto save her husband from being punished. "

"But how could that be done?"

"I doubt if it could be done; but I promised her that I would speak toyou. I suppose that if we did not give evidence there would not be muchthat could be told; but I hardly think that we have the right not to. "

Mrs. Fenton thoughtfully regarded the fire a moment; then seemed to berecalled to the present by the active boiling of the little silverteakettle. 

"I'm afraid women would drive justice out of the world if they hadtheir way, " she said with a smile. 

He smiled in reply, full of delight in her mere presence. They talkedthe matter over, arriving at some sort of a compromise between theirsympathy for the dying woman and their feeling that a man like Murphyshould be dealt with by the law. They came for the moment to seem to beon the old footing of simple friendliness, while she made the tea andthey discussed the situation. 

"One lump or two?" Mrs. Fenton asked, pausing with tongs suspended overthe sugar. 

"Two, " answered he. "I am afraid I am self-indulgent in my tea, butthen I very seldom take it. "

"So small an indulgence, " she said, handing him his cup, "does not seemto me to indicate any great moral laxity. "

"It is the principle of the thing, " Philip returned, smiling becauseshe smiled. 

Mrs. Fenton shook her head. 

"Come, " she said, "this is a good time for me to say something that hasbeen in my mind for a long time. You may think that it isn't my affair, but I can't help saying that it seems to me you have allowed yourselfto get into a frame of mind that is rather--well, that isn't entirelyhealthy. I hope you don't think me too presuming. "

"You could not be, " was his reply; "but I do not understand what youmean. "

She had grown graver, and leaned back in her chair with downcast eyes. 

"I hardly know how to say it, " she began slowly, "but you seem to me tobe feeling rather morbidly about the virtue of personal discomfort. Ifyou will pardon me, I can't think that you really believe it to be anymerit in the sight of heaven that a man should make himself needlesslyuncomfortable. "

"But if the mortification of the flesh helps us to"--

She put up her hand and interrupted him. 

"I am a good churchwoman, but I am not able to believe in scoring offthe sins of the soul by abusing the body. The old monks scourgingthemselves and the Hindus swinging by hooks in their backs seem to meboth pathetically mistaken, and both to be moved by the same feelings. "

"Then you do not believe in asceticism at all?"

"Mr. Fenton used to say that asceticism was the most insolent insult toHeaven that human vanity ever invented. "

"But if we are to follow the devices and desires of our own hearts, "Ashe broke out, his inner excitement bursting forth through hiscalmness, "if we are to give way to the joys of this life, if--Do younot see, Mrs. Fenton, that this covers so much? It goes down into thedepths of a man's heart. It comes almost at once, for instance, to thequestion of the marriage of priests. "

She flushed, and her manner grew perceptibly colder. 

"That is naturally not a subject that I care to go into, " she said;"but I have no scruple against saying that I do not believe in acelibate priesthood. In our church and our time, it is out of place. "

"But it is the supreme test whether a man is willing to give up all hisearthly joy for the service of Heaven. "

She frowned slightly, and he realized how significant his manner musthave been. 

"The marriage of the clergy is not a subject that it seems to menecessary for us to discuss, " she said. 

"Mrs. Fenton, " Philip said, "I have given you too good a right to beoffended with me once, but I must say something that I fear may offendyou again. It is not about myself. It is about a better man. "

She looked at him in evident surprise and disquiet. 

"I asked what you think of the marriage of the clergy, " he went on, "because it seems to me right to tell you that Mr. Candish loves you. "

She flushed to her temples, starting impulsively in her seat. 

"Mr. Ashe, " she said vehemently, "what right have you to talk to me ofsuch subjects at all?"

"None, " he answered, "none at all, --unless--None that you wouldrecognize; but I wish to atone for the wrong I did in speaking to you, and to say what he would never say. If it were possible that you caredfor him, I should perhaps help you both. "

"You forget, I think, that I have been married. "

"I do not forget anything, " Philip returned desperately. "It is onlythat he is a good man, a noble man, a man that would never have fallenunder his weakness as I did, and if you cared for him, he is too fineto be allowed to suffer. He loved you long before I ever saw you. "

"He has never given me any sign of it. "

Her flushed cheeks and something in the way in which she said thisseemed to him to indicate that she did love Candish. He had been movedby the most sincere desire to sacrifice his own will and happiness tothe well-being of the woman he loved, and if it were that she loved hisrival he had been ready to forget everything but that. Now by a quickrevulsion it seemed to him that he could not endure the success of thisman whose cause he had been pleading. 

"Ah!" he cried, bending toward her, "you love him!"

She rose indignantly to her feet. 

"Your impertinence is amazing!" she exclaimed. "It is time thatsomebody told you the truth. It is hard for me to say unkind things toone who has saved my life, but you ought to know how you appear. Youhave got yourself into a thoroughly unwholesome state of mind and body;and unless you get out of it you will ruin your whole career. Does itseem to you that a man who has so little control over himself is a fitleader for others? Can't you see that you have brooded over thisquestion of celibacy until you are completely morbid? Find somewholesome, right-minded woman, Mr. Ashe; love her and marry her, and bedone with all this wretched, unwholesome mawkishness. As for me, when Imarried once, I married for life. My son will never be given a secondfather. "

He had risen also, and his self-possession had returned to him. 

"I have annoyed you, " he said with a new dignity. "You are perhapsright in saying that I am morbid, but in what I said to-day I wastrying to put self entirely out of the question. There is only onething more that I want to say; and that is that it is not fair to judgeour order by me. I know only too well how natural it is that youshould think all the men at the Clergy House weak and despicable likeme; but that is not so. They are sincere, self-forgetful fellows. Youhave seen my friend Wynne. He, for instance, is as manly and fine andhonest as any man alive. "

"I do not misjudge them or you, Mr. Ashe. I only feel that in thesepast weeks you have not been yourself. We will forget it all, and Ihope that you will forgive me if I have hurt you. "

"I have nothing to forgive. It is you who must do that. Good-by. "

He went away with the remembrance of her beautiful eyes looking in pityinto his, and once more the phrase of the Persian came into his mindlike a refrain: "O thou, to the arch of whose eyebrow the new moon is aslave!"

 XXV

 WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED Comedy of Errors, i. I

Maurice soon heard from his lawyer that the missing desk had passedinto the hands of his sister-in-law, Mrs. Singleton, and that that ladywas staying at Montfield as the guest of Mrs. Ashe. He determined to godown himself, feeling unwilling to trust business so important to anyother. In order to leave the Clergy House, it was necessary to havepermission from the Father Superior, and on Monday of Shrove week Wynnerequested what the deacons jestingly called among themselves adispensation. He did not think it honest to conceal the reason for hiswishing leave of absence, and briefly related the story of his findinghis old nurse and of her revelation. 

"Poor old Norah is dead, " he concluded, "but I had her affidavit taken, and if the will can be found there should be no difficulty inestablishing it. The other witnesses are alive. " They were sitting inthe Father's study, a room severely plain in its furnishings, like allthe apartments in the Clergy House. The table by which the Superior satwas covered with papers and letters, the signs of the largecorrespondence which Wynne knew Frontford to keep up with members ofhis order in England and this country. The furniture was stiff anduncompromising, the windows covered only by plain shades, while thebookshelves took an austere air from the dull leather of the bindingsof their tall, formal volumes. Father Frontford leaned back in hisuncushioned chair and pressed together his thin finger-tips in thegesture which was habitual with him, regarding the young man with keeneyes. 

"This property, if I understand you rightly, is now in the possessionof the church?"

"It was given by the will that was found to the church and to missions. Some of it went to the founding of a home for invalid priests. My auntwas the one of my relatives who was a churchwoman. "

"And if you succeed in finding and establishing this new will, you meanto divert the money to your own use?"

"If the will is valid, is not the money mine?"

The Father looked at him a moment before he answered. Then he sighed. 

"My son, " he asked, "would you have put that question six months ago?"

Maurice flushed, but he did not wish to show that he understood. 

"Why not?" he demanded. 

"There was not then in your heart a wish to wrest property from thechurch that you might enjoy it yourself. "

"I haven't any wish now to take from the church anything which is notmine already. "

"By divine right or by human?" the Father inquired with coldinflexibility. 

Maurice began to be irritated. He felt that he was being treated withtoo high a hand. 

"Have I no rights as a man?" demanded he warmly. 

The other sighed once more, and a look of genuine pain came into hisface. 

"My son, " he said with a gentleness which touched Maurice in spite ofhimself, "when you gave yourself to the church, did you keep back partof the price? Was not your gift all you were and all you mightpossess?"

Maurice was silent. He could not for shame answer, that he did not thenknow that he had so much to give, and he realized too that this wouldthen have made no difference. He felt as if he were now being held to apledge which he had never meant to make, yet he could not see whatreply there was to the words of the Superior. He cast down his eyes, but he said in his heart that he would not yield his claim; that thedemand was unjust. 

"I have for some time, " Father Frontford went on, "in fact ever sinceyour return, seen with pain that your heart is no longer single to thegood of the church. An earthly passion has eaten into your soul. Yourconfessions are evidently attempts to satisfy your own conscience bytelling as little as possible of the doubts which you have beenharboring in your heart. Now there is given you an opportunity to seefor yourself, without the possibility of disguise, what your truefeeling is. The question now is whether you are seeking your own willor the good of religion. Will you fail us and yourself?"

Maurice was touched by the tone in which this was said. While he hadbeen growing to be less and less in sympathy with Father Frontford andwith the ideals which the brotherhood represented, he had never for aninstant ceased to believe in the sincerity of the Superior. He mightthink him narrow, mistaken, even at times so blinded by desire for thesuccess of the brotherhood as to become almost Jesuitical in method;but he felt that the Father lived faithful to his belief, ready, if thecause required, to sacrifice himself utterly. He could not but be movedby the appeal which the priest made, and by the genuine feeling whichrang through every word. 

"Father, " he said, raising his eyes to the face of the other, "I cannotdeny that I am less satisfied about our faith than I used to be. I cansee now that I perhaps have not been entirely frank in confession, though I hadn't recognized it before. I cannot go into a discussion ofmy doubts now. I am not in a mood to talk with you when we must look atso many things from different points of view. I haven't hidden from youanything that has happened, and you could not be persuaded that all thechange in me has not come from the fact that I--has not come from myfeeling toward--my feeling about marriage. This is not true. Everythinghas changed; and while I may be wrong, I have been trying to actconscientiously. I feel that it is right for me to follow up thismatter of my aunt's will; and if I cannot make you share my feeling, Ican only say that I don't wish to do anything that seems to me wrong. "

The other smiled sadly. 

"What does that mean in plainer words?" asked he. "It means that you donot wish to do wrong because whatever you desire will seem to youright. "

"You are unjust!" Maurice retorted, flushing. 

The face of the Father grew stern. "Since when did the rule of theorder allow you to use such language to your superiors? If you are notthinking of evading your vows, you do evade them daily; and thethrowing them off can be nothing but an affair of time. "

Maurice felt that he could not endure this longer without breaking outinto words which he should afterward repent. He rose at once. 

"Will you permit me to retire?" he said. "I shall be glad of youranswer to my request for leave of absence, but I cannot go on with thisconversation. "

The other stretched out his hand with a gesture infinitely tender. 

"My son!" he entreated. "Do not stray into the wilderness!"

Maurice looked at the outstretched hand. His eyes moistened, but hecould not yield. He felt tenderness for Father Frontford, but he wasmore and more at war with the Father Superior. For an instant theyremained thus, and then the thin hand dropped. 

"You are then still resolute in asking leave?" the Father said, in hiscoldest voice. 

"It seems to me my duty to see that if possible the last wishes of myaunt be carried out. "

"Is that your only motive?"

Maurice flushed hotly, but he looked the other boldly in the face. 

"I must allow you to impute to me any motive you please. The point iswhether I am to have your permission. "

"Under the circumstances I do not feel justified in granting it. Wewill speak of the matter again, when you have examined your heart morecarefully. "

Maurice bowed and left the room in silence, his spirit hot within him. That he should be denied had not entered his mind. He was now confusedby the conflict in his thoughts. To disobey would be equivalent tonothing less than a defiance of the authority of the Father Superior. To assert his right to decide this matter could only mean a resolve tobreak away from the brotherhood altogether. He was hardly prepared fora step so extreme; yet he could not but ask himself whether he werewilling to accept the conditions involved in remaining. He realized forthe first time what the vow of obedience meant. He had received theslight sacrifices involved thus far in his novitiate as right andproper; simple things which had marked his willingness to yield to theauthority which by his own choice was above him. Now he said to himselfthat to continue this life was to become a mere puppet; to give upindependence and manhood itself. 

On the other hand, he had not been bred in theological subtiltieswithout having come to see that the act cannot be judged without themotive, and he had been more nearly touched by the words of FatherFrontford than he would have been willing to confess. He knew that hehad been hiding from his confessor the extent to which a longing forthe world had taken possession of him; that there was in this wish tosecure the will and through it the property an eagerness to beindependent of control and to take his place in the world as a manamong men. The thought that the money was now in the hands of thechurch to which he had pledged himself tormented him. There came intohis mind the question what he would do with the wealth if he obtainedit. He had vowed himself to poverty, at least in his intention. If hehad this fortune and became a priest, he would be pledged to endow thechurch with all his worldly goods. 

He faced his inner self with sudden defiance, as if he had thrown off adisguise cunningly but weakly worn. He confessed with frankness that hehad secretly desired this money that he might be in a position to gainBerenice. He pleaded with himself that he did not mean to abandon thepriesthood; that he had simply discovered that he had not a vocationfor the existence he had contemplated. He tried to see some way inwhich he might gain the end he desired without giving up the faith heprofessed; and in the end he succeeded only in getting his mind into aconfusion so great that it seemed impossible to think of anythingclearly. 

He had an errand at Mrs. Wilson's on Shrove Tuesday, and she invitedhim to accompany her to midnight service at the Church of the Nativity. When he repeated the request to Father Frontford, he was givenpermission to go. 

"It is an unusual, and even an extraordinary request, " the Superiorsaid; "but Mrs. Wilson is so deeply interested in the welfare of thebrotherhood that it is better to make a concession. What time are youto meet her?"

"She is to send her carriage for me at half past eleven. She was sosure that you would not object that she told me not to send any word. "

"It is not well to have her treat so great a departure from rules as amatter of course, " the Father answered gravely. "I will send her a notewhich will show her this. You have permission not to retire at theusual hour. "

The carnival season was celebrated at the Clergy House with a mealbetter than usual, and with some gayety on the part of the youngdeacons. The light-hearted Southerner improved to the full thepermission to talk at dinner, and chatted away with a volubility whichseemed to Maurice to indicate a nature too buoyant or too shallow to bedeeply stirred. Father Frontford was absent, and there was nothing tothrow a shadow of restraint over the feast, the other priests beingalmost as boyish as the deacons. 

"Here's Wynne, " the Southerner said laughing, "is as glum as if he wereLent incarnate, come six hours too soon. You must have a good deal onyour conscience to be so solemn. "

Maurice smiled, trying to shake off his depression. 

"It isn't always what is on one's conscience, " he retorted, "so much ashow tender the conscience is. "

"Good! He has you there, Ballentyne, " one of the deacons cried. 

"Oh, not at all. If a conscience is tender, it must be because it isharrowed up. Now Wynne has probably vexed his so that it is habituallysore. "

Maurice was out of the mood of the company, but he tried to answer witha light word. The jesting seemed to him trifling; and his companions, compared to the men he had seen during his stay with Mrs. Staggchase, appeared like boys chattering at boarding-school. He wondered wherethey had been for their absence; then he remembered that they had alltold him, and that he had forgotten. He had had no real interest inthem after all, he reflected; and at the thought he reproached himselfwith egotism and a lack of brotherliness. He glanced at Ashe, and wasstruck by the paleness of his friend. His look was perhaps followed byBallentyne, for the latter commented on the downcast aspect of Philip. 

"Ashe, " the young man said, "looks ten times more doleful than Wynne. What have you fellows been doing? One would think that you had beeneating the bitterest of all the apples of Sodom. "

"They have been in the gay world, " another rejoined. 

"Then they might be set up as a warning against it, " was the retort. 

Laughter that one cannot share is more nauseous than sweets to thesick; and this harmless trifling was intolerable to Maurice. He gotaway from it as soon as it was possible, and passed the heavy hours inhis chamber, waiting for the coming of the carriage. He tried at firstto read and then to pray; but in the end he abandoned himself to bitterreverie. 

He did not attempt to reason, he merely gave way to gloomy retrospect, without sequence or order. Seen in the light of his experiences duringthe past weeks, his life looked poor, and dull, and misdirected. It waslittle comfort to assert that he had at least been true to ideals high, no matter how mistaken. 

"It is not what one does, " he thought, "but the intention with which hedoes it. Only that does not excuse one for being stupid, and raw, andignorant. When a man is a weakling and a fool, he always takes refugein the excuse that he is at least fine in his intentions. Bah! Nowonder she laughed at me! I have shut myself up with ideas as mouldy asa mediaeval skeleton, and when I come to daylight all that I can say isthat I meant well. I suppose an idiot means well from his point ofview!"

He looked about for something which should divert him from thoughts sotormenting. His eye fell upon his Bible, and he took it up halfmechanically. On the title page was written the name of his aunt, towhom it had once belonged. The name brought back the interview withFather Frontford, and the refusal of his request for leave of absence. 

"Nothing belongs to me, " he said to himself. "I am a thing, a sort ofthing like a numbered prisoner. How could she care for a chattel, acreature without even identity! I will go down to Montfield. I am notyet so completely out of the world that I can't have a word in thedisposition of my own property. "

He threw himself on the bed and tried to sleep, but sleep wasimpossible. He only thought the more hotly and wildly. The hoursstretched on and on interminably before he heard the bell ring, andknew that the carriage had come. Rising hastily, he adjusted hiscassock and his tumbled hair, and went down. 

"Perhaps I may find peace at the mass, " he sighed with a greatwistfulness. 

The fresh, cool air of night was grateful, and as he was driven alongthe quiet streets, a new hopefulness came to him. He had supposed thathe was to be taken to Mrs. Wilson's, and when the carriage stopped wassurprised to find himself before a large building which he did notrecognize. 

"But I was to meet Mrs. Wilson, " he said doubtfully to the footman whoopened the carriage door. 

"Mrs. Wilson is here, sir, " was the answer. "She said to carry youhere. James is inside to tell you what to do. "

A footman was indeed within, waiting for him. 

"Mrs. Wilson says will you please come to her, sir, " the man said, andled the way upstairs. 

The sound of gay music, growing louder as he advanced, filled Wynne'sears. He began to feel disquieted, and once half halted. 

"Are you sure there is no mistake?" he asked. 

"Oh, no mistake at all, sir, " his guide answered. "Mrs. Wilson hasarranged everything. Leave your hat and cloak here, sir, if youplease. "

Maurice mechanically did as requested, but as he threw off his outergarment the opening of a door let in a burst of music which seemed soclose at hand that he was startled. He was in what was evidently acoat-room, the attendant of which regarded him with open curiosity; andhe realized suddenly that he must be near a ball-room. 

"Where am I?" he demanded. 

"It's the ball, sir, that they has to end the season before Lent. It'sLent to-morrow, sir, as I thought you'd know. "

Maurice stared at him in amazement and anger. 

"There is a mistake, " he said. "Give me my cloak. "

"Indeed, sir, " the man said, holding back the garment he had taken, "Mrs. Wilson said, sir, that I was to say that she particular wantedyou to come fetch her in the ball-room, sir; and I was to bring youwithout fail. "

"You may send her word that I am here. "

"Please, sir, " the man returned, in a voice which struck Maurice asabsurdly pleading, "she was very particular, and it's no hurt to go in, sir. She'll blame me, sir. "

Maurice looked at him, and laughed at the solemnity of the man's homelyface. A spirit of recklessness leaped up within him. He said to himselfthat at least Mrs. Wilson should not think that he dared not come. 

"Very well, " he said. "Show me the way. "

"Thank you, sir, " the servant said, as if he had received a greatfavor. "It's not easy to bear blame that don't belong to you. "

He opened a door into an anteroom thronged with people laughing andchatting. The sound of the music was clear and loud, with the voicesstriking through its cadences. Across this he led Wynne, to the widedoor of a ball-room flooded with light and full of moving figures. 

 XXVI

 O WICKED WIT AND GIFT Hamlet, i. 5. 

The brilliant glare of lights, the strident sound of dance-music, theenlivening sense of a living, vivaciously stirring company of gaylydressed merrymakers, assailed Maurice as he followed his guide acrossthe anteroom. At the door of the ball-room he was for a moment hinderedby a group of men who were lounging and chatting there. All his senseswere keenly alert, and he perhaps unconsciously listened to hear ifthere were any comment on his appearance in such a place. He had notrealized what he was coming into, and now that it was too late for himto withdraw without sacrificing his pride, he saw how incongruous hispresence really was. Almost instantly he caught a name. 

"By Jove!" one of the men said. "Isn't the Wilson in great form to-night! That diamond on her toe must be worth a fortune. "

"She saves the price in the materials of her gowns, " another respondedlightly. "I never saw her with quite so little on. "

"No material is allowed to go to waist there, " put in a third. 

"She has two straps and a rosebud, " yet another voice laughed; "andnothing else above the belt but diamonds. "

"Her very smile is décolleté" some one commented. "This is one of hernights. When I see Mrs. Wilson with that expression, I am prepared foranything. "

Maurice felt his cheeks burn at this light talk. It seemed to himribald, and he was outraged that the name of a woman should be bandiedabout so carelessly. He raised his head and set his square jawdefiantly; then began to push his way through the group, keenlyconscious of the stare which greeted him. 

"Hallo! What the devil's that?" he heard behind him. 

"The skeleton at the feast, " responded one voice. 

"Oh, it's some devilish trick of Mrs. Wilson's, of course, " put inanother. 

All this Maurice heard with an outraged sense that there was no attemptto prevent him from hearing. He might have been a servant or a piece offurniture for any restraint these men put upon their speech. He wastroubled with the fear of what absurdity Mrs. Wilson might intend. Nowthat he was here, however, he would go on. The natural obstinacy of histemper asserted itself, and if there was little pious meekness in hisspirit at that moment, there was plenty of grit. 

The ball-room was garlanded with wreaths of laurel stuck thickly withred roses; women in white and in bright-hued gowns, with fair shouldersand arms, were floating about in the embraces of men; the music seteverything to a rhythmic pulse, and gaily quickened the blood in theveins of the young deacon as he looked. The throbbing of the violinsmade him quiver with an excitement joyous and bewildering. He wasdazzled by the bright, moving figures, the shining colors, thesparkling of gems, the lovely faces, the alluring creamy necks andarms; a sweet intoxication began to creep over him, despite thedefiance of his feelings toward the men he had passed in the doorway. Half blinded by the glare, dazed and fascinated by the sights, thesounds, the perfumes, he followed the footman down the hall. 

He was obliged to skirt the room, even then hardly evading the dancers. His progress was necessarily slow. The footman so continually paused toapologize for having brushed against some lady in his anxiety to avoida whirling pair of dancers, that it began to seem to Maurice that theyshould never reach Mrs. Wilson. He cast his eyes to the floor, resolved not to look at the worldly sights around him. Country bred andtrained in the asceticism of the Clergy House, he could not see thesewomen without blushing; and more than ever he wondered that he had beenso blindly obedient as to allow himself to be brought to such a place. 

He heard a man clap his hands. He looked up to see a flock of dancershurrying to the upper end of the room. Among them, with a shock soviolent that his heart seemed to stand still, he recognized BereniceMorison. He saw her go to a table and pick up something; then she andher companions turned and came glancing and gleaming down the hall likea flock of pigeons which fly and shine in the sun. Fair, flushedsoftly, more beautiful than all the rest in his eyes, Berenice came on, her hair curling about her forehead, her eyes shining with laughter andpleasure. She was dressed in white, and at one shoulder, crushedagainst her bare, creamy neck, was a bunch of crimson roses. Mauricetrembled at the sight of her beauty; he reddened at the consciousnessof her dress; over him came some inexplicable sense of fear. 

Suddenly he perceived that she had caught sight of him. He could seethe look of amazement rise in her face, give place to one of amusement, then change instantly into sparkling mischievousness. He moved ontoward her, abashed, bewildered, feeling as if he were running agauntlet. He could not withdraw his gaze from her, as she came quicklyonward, dimpling, smiling, her face overflowing with saucy fun, herglance holding his. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Wynne, " she said lightly, coming up to him. "This isan unexpected pleasure. "

"Good-evening, " Maurice responded, hardly able to drag the words out ofhis parched throat. 

"Of course you came for the german, " Miss Morison went on, moremockingly than before. "I am so glad that I happen to have a favor foryou. "

She leaned forward, swaying toward him her white shoulders, dazzlinghim with the hint of the swell of her bosom, bewildering him with theperfume of her dark hair, the alluring feminine presence which broughtthe hot blood to his face. Before he guessed her intention, she hadpinned to his cassock a grotesque little dangling mask which swung froma bright ribbon. 

"There, " she commented, drawing back as if critically to observe. "Theeffect is novel, but striking. "

A burst of amusement, light and blinding as the spray from a whirlpool, went up from the women around. The music, the voices, the laughter, seemed to Maurice so many insults flung at him in idle contempt. Helooked around him with a bitter anger which could almost have smittenthese laughing women on their red mouths. Then he turned back toBerenice. He saw that she shrank before the wrath of his look; he feltwith a thrill that he had at least power to make her fear him. He benttoward her full of rage made the wilder by the impulse to catch her inhis arms and cover her beautiful neck with kisses. 

"Shameless!" he hissed into her ear. 

He saw her turn pale and then flush burning red; but he hastened onafter the footman without waiting for more. Presently he reached thehead of the hall, where Mrs. Wilson stood laughing and talking withseveral men. Her dress was of alternate stripes of crimson silk andtissue of gold, and since it had excited comment from the loungers atthe door, it is small wonder that to the unsophisticated deacon, almostconvent bred, it appeared no less than horribly indecent. He cast downhis eyes; but his glance fell upon the foot which just then she thrustlaughingly forward, evidently in answer to some remark from Stanford, who stood at her right hand. Upon the toe of her exquisite little shoesparkled a great diamond like a fountain of flame. 

"It gives light to my steps, " she laughed. 

"The service is worthy of it, " Stanford returned with a half-mockingbow. 

"Thank you, " Mrs. Wilson retorted, sweeping him a satirical courtesy. "If you say such nice things to me, what must you say to Berenice!"

It seemed to Maurice that the devil was exerting all his infernalingenuity that night to have him tormented at every turn. He cameforward hastily, eager to stop the talk. 

"Ah, " cried Mrs. Wilson, "have you come, ghostly father?"

The men stared at him in careless surprise and open amusement. Mauricecould not trust himself to speak, but only bowed in silence. 

"I am called, you see, " Mrs. Wilson said gayly. "Now I must go topenance and confession. "

"Surely you will need so little time for confession, " one of the mensaid, "that there's no necessity of going so early. "

"You must have been more wicked this winter than I ever suspected, Elsie, " put in the even voice of Mrs. Staggchase. "Or is it that youonly mean to be?"

Maurice turned quickly, and found that his cousin was sitting behindthe table near which he stood. In front of her were heaps of trinketsof all sorts of fantastic devices. 

"Good evening, Cousin Maurice, " she greeted him. "Are you dancing? Whatsort of a favor ought I to give you?"

"Mrs. Wilson's wickedness, " Stanford answered Mrs. Staggchase, "is ofthe sort so original that I'm sure the recording angel must always betoo surprised to put it down. "

"What a premium you put on originality!" responded Mrs. Staggchase. "That is all very well for her, but how is it for her victims?"

"Oh, the honor of being her victim is compensation enough for them. "

Mrs. Wilson laughed, and shook her head, twinkling with diamonds whichdazzled the eyes of the young deacon. 

"You are all worldly, " she retorted. "Brother Martin and I are toounsophisticated to understand you. "

Maurice winced at the name. He felt that he must be a picture ofconfusion. To stand here among these sumptuously dressed women, toendure the glances which he knew were watching him from all parts ofthe room, to be pricked with this monkish title by a woman who wasmaking of him and of the whole incident a sport and a spectacle, stunghim to the quick. He thought of Berenice, and he cast at Mrs. Staggchase a look of defiance, lifting his head proudly in assertion ofhis hurt dignity. 

"I am at your service, Mrs. Wilson, " he said with cold sternness. 

"Well, we will go then. Unless, that is, you are dancing, Mr. Wynne. Isee that you have a favor. "

He glanced down at the grotesque little mask, dangling by its redribbon. With unbroken gravity he detached and laid it upon the table insilence. He would have given much to hide it in his pocket, since itcame from Berenice; but even as he put it down a bevy of girls swept upfor favors, and one of them bore it away. 

"He has abandoned his opportunity, " Mrs. Staggchase observed. "Thefavor goes to Mr. Stanford. "

The girl who had taken up the mask was indeed pinning it to the coat ofthat gentleman, with whom she quickly danced away. Maurice felt hisheart grow hot, but he looked at his cousin with face hard anddetermined. 

"It was never mine, " he said, "except by the chance of amisunderstanding. "

A maid now came forward with a black domino, which Mrs. Wilson slippedinto gracefully, drawing up her glittering draperies. The big diamondon the toe of her slipper glowed fantastically, peeping from beneaththe penitential robe. 

"Hallo, " Dr. Wilson exclaimed, coming up at this moment, "what's in thewind now? Is this turning into a masquerade?"

"Your wife is about to retire from the world, " Mrs. Hubbard answered, laughing. 

"With a man, " Mrs. Staggchase added, her eyes shining on her cousin. 

Wynne stabbed her with a glance of indignation. 

"No, with a priest, " corrected Mrs. Wilson, adjusting her domino abouther face. 

"Elsie, how devilishly fond you are of making a fool of yourself, " Dr. Wilson observed jovially. "Well, good-night. "

Mrs. Wilson swept him a profound courtesy, with her hands crossed onher bosom. 

"My lord and master, good-night. Ladies, remember that it will be Lentin ten minutes. "

She took Wynne's arm, and together the black-robed figures went downthe length of the room. The music had for the moment stopped, and itseemed to Maurice as if his presence had brought a chill to the wholegay scene. He was inwardly raging, angry to have been used by Mrs. Wilson as an actor in her outrageous comedy, furious with Berenice forher part in the play, full of rage against the men who stood aroundgrinning and laughing at the whole performance. Most of all, he assuredhimself, he was righteously indignant at the trifling with sacredthings. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, but with Mrs. Wilson sweeping along by his side he strode toward the door. 

"He looks as if he belonged to the church militant, " he heard one ofthe men say as he passed out. 

"Even the church militant is nothing against a woman, " anotherreplied, catching the eye of Mrs. Wilson, and laughing. 

In the vestibule stood a footman bearing Maurice's cloak, and a maidwith fur over-shoes and an ermine-lined wrap for Mrs. Wilson. Mauricesaid not a word except to reply in monosyllables to the questions ofhis companion, and almost in silence they drove to the Church of theNativity. 

 XXVII

 UPON A CHURCH BENCH Much Ado about Nothing, iii. 3. 

The music of the Church of the Nativity was most elaborate, the veryFrench millinery of sacred music. The selection of a new singer wasdebated with a zeal which spoke volumes for the interest in the serviceof the sanctuary, and the money expended in this part of the worshipwould have supported two or three poorer congregations. The church, moreover, was appointed with a richness beautiful to see. The vestmentsmight have moved the envy of high Roman prelates, and the altar plateshone in gold and precious stones. 

It was no wonder, then, that a midnight service at the Nativityattracted a crowd. Mrs. Wilson and Wynne had to force a path betweenranks of curious sight-seers in order to make their way to the guardedpew of the former, which was well up the main aisle. It came to Mauricesuddenly that in his angry mood he was pushing against these worshipersrudely, and that he was venting upon them a fury which had ratherincreased than diminished in his ride to the church. He was seethingwith anger; anger against Mrs. Wilson for having put him in a ludicrousposition, at Berenice for her mockery, at Mrs. Staggchase for hersatire, and at all the frivolous fools who had stood around, grinningto see him made ridiculous. His hurt vanity throbbed with an acheintolerable, and as he forced his way between the crowding spectatorshe felt a certain ugly joy in thrusting them aside. 

He was recalled to self-control by the expression in the face of a girlwhom he pressed back to give Mrs. Wilson passage. She turned to himwith a look of surprise and pain, and to his excited fancy her hair inthe half shadow was like that of Berenice. 

"You hurt me!" she exclaimed. 

"I beg your pardon, " he answered with instant compunction. "I did notmean to. Come with me. "

He yielded to the sudden impulse, and then reflected as they passeddown the aisle that he had no right to bring a stranger into Mrs. Wilson's pew. Having invited her, however, it was impossible toretract, and he showed her into the slip after Mrs. Wilson. As thelatter turned to sit down, she became aware of the stranger. Shepaused, and looked at her with haughty surprise. 

"I beg pardon, " she said, "this is a private pew. "

The girl flushed, looking inquiringly at Maurice. His masculine natureresented the insolence of the glance with which Mrs. Wilson had sweptthe stranger, and he came instantly to the rescue. 

"I invited her, " he said, leaning forward, speaking with adetermination at which his hostess raised her eyebrows. 

"Oh, very well then, " Mrs. Wilson murmured. 

She sank into her seat, and inclined her head on the rail before her. As Maurice did the same there shot through his mind a wonder at thechange there must be in the mental attitude of the woman who spoke withhaughtiness almost insulting to the stranger, and the penitent who bentto ask pity and forgiveness from heaven. He tried to fix his thoughtson his own prayer, but the words ran on as mechanically as might waterflow over a stone. The serious danger of a ritualistic religion mustalways be that the mere repetition of words shall come to answer for anact of worship; and to-night Maurice might have exclaimed with KingClaudius:--

 "My words fly up; my thoughts remain below. "

The service went on with its deep, appealing prayers for pardon, forhelp, for uplifting, and Maurice followed it only half consciously. Itwas as if he were drugged, so that only now and then a phrasepenetrated to his real consciousness, --words which in their instant andparticular application were so poignant that he could not avoid theirforce. 

"'From all inordinate and sinful affections, '" repeated the rich voiceof Mr. Candish, thrilling the church from floor to vaulted, roof, "'andfrom the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil. '"

"'Good Lord, deliver us!'" swelled the response of the congregation;and on the lips of the deacon the words were almost a groan. 

He lost himself then in a flood of bitter repentance and prayer, hardlyrealizing where he was or what was passing around him. The musicswelled and eddied; there was a genuine "Kyrie, " wherein a singlevoice, a rich contralto, wailed and implored in a passion ofsupplication until the whole congregation quivered with the fervor ofthe music. Maurice felt himself swayed and lifted upon the rising tideof emotion. He lost his anger, he swam in billows of celestial delight;a blessed peace soothed his troubled soul; he knew again some of theold-time ecstasy. Yet in all this religious fervor there was somesubtle consciousness that it was unreal. He was not able so completelyto give himself up to it as to fail to watch its growth, its progress, its intensity; he was vexed that he should trap himself, as it were, glorying in the susceptibility to religious influences which suchexcitement showed. He had even a whimsical, momentary irritation thatthe part of his mind which was acting the devotee could not do it sowell that his other consciousness could not detect the unreality of itall. Then he struggled to forget everything in the service; to steephimself in the spiritual intoxication of the hour. 

The girl whom he had introduced into the pew dropped her prayer-book. He turned, startled by the sound, and saw her sway toward him. Herealized that the crowd, the heat, the excitement, the odor of incensewith which the air was heavy, had overcome her, and that she wasfainting. He rose instantly, and, lifting her, assisted her into theaisle. She was half in his arms as he led her down the nave, and herhair, the hair which had seemed to him like that of Berenice, brushednow and again against his shoulder. He recalled the wreck, whenBerenice had been in his arms, and his religious mood vanished as if ithad never been. His cheek flushed; he thrilled with anger at himself. He had been playing a part here in the church. He had never for aninstant wished to be set free from his bondage to Berenice, --Berenicewho had to-night mocked him and his profession in the eyes of all theworld. 

The way to the door seemed interminable. He was eager to get rid ofthis stranger and escape. Fortunately the party to which the faintinggirl belonged were at hand to take charge of her; and presentlyMaurice had made his way out of the church. He hardly gave a thought toMrs. Wilson. She was abundantly able to take care of herself, hereflected with angry amusement; or, if not, the very pavement wouldspring up with troops of men to assist her. She was the sort of womanwhose mere presence creates cavaliers, even in the most unlikelyplaces. 

The cool outer air seemed to wake him from a bad dream. He walkedhastily through the quiet streets toward the Clergy House, full ofdisordered thoughts, wondering whether the ball were yet over, or ifBerenice were still dancing in the arms of other men. The blood flushedinto his cheeks at the thought. He hated furiously the partner againstwhose shoulder her white, bare arm might be resting. He looked backwith ever growing anger to the scene at the dance, tingling with shameat the humiliation, at the thought of standing before the women who hadlaughed when Berenice had fastened upon his breast the tawdry trinketwhich seemed chosen purposely to mock him. He wished that he had keptthe toy, that he might now throw it down into the mire and tread on it. Yet grotesque and insulting as the thing had been, he was consciousthat if the little mask were still in his possession he should not havebeen able to trample on it, but should have taken it to his lipsinstead. He remembered that now Stanford wore it. He looked up to theshining stars and felt the overwhelming presence of night like a child;his helplessness, his misery, his hopelessness swept over him in bitterwaves. 

Late as it was when he reached his room he did not at once undress. Hesat down heavily, staring with hot eyes at the crucifix opposite. Fromblack and unknown depths of his heart welled up rage against life andits perplexities. He threw upon his faith the blame of his suffering. What was this religion which made of all human joys, of all humaninstincts only devilish devices for the torture of the very soul? Whyshould the world be filled only with temptations, with humiliations, with desires which burned into the very heart yet which must be denied?Was any future bliss worth the struggle? He realized with a shudderthat he might be arraigning the Maker of the world; then he assuredhimself that he was but raging against those who misunderstood andmisinterpreted the purposes of life. 

He flung himself down on his knees before the crucifix in a quickreaction of mood, extending his hands and trying to pray; but he foundhimself repeating over and over: "For Thine is the kingdom and thepower and the glory. " He felt with the whole strength of his soul theforce of the words. This deity to whom he knelt might in a breathchange all his agony; might out of overflowing power and dominion andsplendor spill but one unnoted drop, yet flood all his tortured beingwith richest happiness. The contrast between his weakness, hishelplessness, his insignificance, and the superabundant resources ofthe Infinite crushed him. He was transported with aching pity forhimself and for all poor mortals. He repeated, no longer in entreatybut with passionate reproach: "For _Thine_ is the kingdom and the powerand the glory. " It seemed an insult to the clemency of Heaven to callso piteously when it were a thing lighter than the puffing away of aflake of swan's down for One with all power to help and to comfort. Ifhe were in the hands of a God to whom belonged the universe, why thisagony of doubt? Then he cried out to himself that this was thetemptation of the devil. He cast himself upon the ground, beating hisbreast and moaning wildly: "Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" With quickhistrionic perception he was affected by the intensity and theeffectiveness of his penitence, and redoubled his fervor. 

Then in a flash came over him the sickening realization that thisdevotion was a sham; that it was hysteria, simple pretense. He ceasedto writhe on the floor. It was like coming to consciousness in ahumiliating situation. He blushed at his folly, and rose hastily frombefore the crucifix. 

"I have been acting private theatricals, " he muttered scornfully; "andfor what audience?"

He threw himself again into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He plunged into a reverie so deep and so self-searching that it couldhave been fathomed by no plummet. 

"I do not believe, " he said at last aloud, raising his face as if toaddress the crucifix. "I have never believed. I have simply bejuggledmyself. I have been a contemptible lie in the sight of men, not evenknowing enough to be honest to myself. "

He was silent a moment, a smile of bitter contempt curling his lip. 

"I have not even been a man, " he added. 

Then he rose with a spring to his feet, and looked about him, stretching out his arms as if to embrace all the world. 

"But now, " he exclaimed with gladness bursting through every syllable, "at last I am free!"

 XXVIII

 BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE Love's Labor's Lost, ii. 1. 

When Maurice Wynne's bitter word stung her, Berenice Morison stood fora second too overwhelmed to speak or move. She felt the blood mount toher temples, and she could see reflected in the eyes of acquaintancesaround a mingled curiosity and amusement. Wynne passed on, and sheshrank into her seat, which fortunately was near. 

"Who in the world is that, and what did he say to you when you gave himthat favor?" exclaimed her neighbor. "I don't see how you dared to doit!"

A gentleman took the speaker away, so that Berenice was spared thenecessity of answering. She watched Wynne advance to the group of whichMrs. Wilson was the centre, and she understood well enough that hisbeing here was some contrivance of the latter's. She was angry withWynne and humiliated by the insult that he had flung at her, yet shehad room in her heart for rage against the woman who had brought himthere. She looked at Mrs. Wilson laughing and jesting, she watched thecomedy proceed as the black domino covered the white shoulders and thegown of gold and crimson, yet most of all was she conscious of howstraight and strong Maurice stood among the gay group which surroundedhim. The sternness of his mouth, the gravity and indignation of hislook, seemed to her most manly and noble. She felt that he had by hisbearing mastered the absurd circumstances in which he was placed; shesmiled bitterly to think how poor and flippant had been her ownthoughtless jest. When Maurice threw the favor on the table, Berenicesaw Clara Carstair take it up and give it to Parker Stanford. Shewatched Wynne and Mrs. Wilson leave the hall, two solemn, black-robedfigures passing like shadows among the dancers. When they haddisappeared she sat with eyes cast down, her thoughts in a whirl ofregret, anger, and confusion. 

"Well, did you ever know Mrs. Wilson to get up a circus equal to thatbefore?" queried her partner, coming back to his place beside her. "Shegets more amazing every day. "

"She certainly gets to be worse form every day. It's outrageous thateverybody lets Mrs. Wilson do anything she chooses, no matter how badtaste it is. "

"Oh, she amuses folks, " Mr. Van Sandt said. "Nobody takes herseriously. "

"It is time that they did, " answered Berenice rather sharply. "Such aperformance as this to-night makes us all seem vulgar, --as if we wereher accomplices. "

"Oh, you take it too seriously; besides, I thought that you helped iton a bit. "

Berenice was silenced, but she was none the happier for that. She wasvexed with herself for having any feeling about the incident; but theword of Wynne came afresh into her mind, and brought the blood anew toher cheek. She said to herself that she hoped that she should meet himsoon again, that she might wither him with a glance of burningcontempt, ever after to ignore him. 

"You think I wouldn't do it, " she sneered to some inner doubt; "but Iwould!"

She was interrupted by a partner, and went whirling down the brighthall to the tingling measures of a new waltz; yet all the while she wasthinking of the moment she had stood face to face with Maurice. Shescoffed at herself for giving so much weight to a thing so trifling;she made a strong effort to appear gay, only the more keenly to realizethat at heart she was miserable. 

Mrs. Staggchase, on her way out of the hall a little later, stopped andspoke to her. 

"Come, Bee, it is time for you to go home. You don't seem to profit bythe godly example of Elsie Wilson at all. "

"Heaven forbid that I should take her as my exemplar!" Berenice flungback with unnecessary fervor. 

"Well, " Mrs. Staggchase observed good-humoredly, "there are things inwhich it is conceivable that you might find a better model. By the way, what did Cousin Maurice say to you when you gave him that german favor?Of course I haven't any right to ask, but you see I am interested inbringing the boy up properly. "

Berenice flushed with confusion and vexation. 

"It was something no gentleman would have said!"

"Ah, " the other returned with perfect calmness, "that is the danger ofdoing an unladylike thing. It is so apt to provoke an ungentlemanlyreturn. Men, you know, my dear, haven't the fine instincts that wehave. However, I'm sorry that Maurice didn't behave better than youdid. Good-night, dear. "

Mrs. Staggchase had hardly gone when Parker Stanford came up with afavor. 

"I am tired, Mr. Stanford, " Berenice said. "Thank you, but you hadbetter ask some one else. "

"I'd rather sit it out with you, " he answered. 

"Nonsense; one doesn't sit out turns in the german. "

"They do if they wish. "

"Well, instead of sitting it out, " she said, rising, "let us go and geta cup of bouillon. I feel the need of something to hold me up. "

"Here is your favor, " remarked Stanford, as they passed down the hall. 

It was an absurd Japanese monster, with eyes goggling out of its head. 

"How horrible!" cried Berenice. "It looks exactly like old ChristopherPlant when he is talking about his last invention in sauces. Don't youknow the way in which he sticks out his eyes, and says: 'It is thegreatest misfortune in nature that the nerves of taste do not extendall the way down to the stomach!'"

Stanford laughed gleefully. 

"Jove, I don't know but he's right. Think of tasting a cocktail all theway down to the stomach!"

"Or a quinine pill!" returned she with a grimace. "Thank you, no. Things are bad enough as they are. "

At the door of the supper-room they encountered Dr. Wilson, with a budon his arm. 

"Well, Miss Morison, " he exclaimed, with his usual jovial brusqueness, "I thought that my wife was the cheekiest woman in Boston, but you ranher hard to-night. "

"Oh, even if I surpassed her, " Berenice retorted in sudden anger, yetforcing herself to speak laughingly, "she is entirely safe to leave thereputation of the family in the hands of her husband. "

Dr. Wilson chuckled with perfect good-nature. 

"Oh, we men are not in it with the women, " laughed he. 

He passed on with his companion, and Berenice, with feminineperversity, avenged herself upon the girl he was escorting. 

"How stout Miss Harding is, " she commented. "It is such a pity for abud. "

"But she is pretty, " Stanford returned. 

"Oh, yes, in a way. She has the face of an overripe cherub. "

He laughed and led her to a seat. 

"Take your picture of Mr. Plant, " said he, "and I will get you thebouillon. "

"No, I can't have anything so hideous. Give me one of yours instead. I'll have that little fat monk. "

"All that I have is at your service, " he responded with seriousnesssounding through the mock gravity, as he unpinned the little mask andput it into her hand. 

"Thank you, but I don't ask your all. I hope that you didn't value thisespecially. "

"Not that I remember. I haven't an idea who gave it to me. "

"You don't seem to value a gift on account of the giver. "

"That depends, " returned he. "Now there are some givers whose favors Icherish most carefully. "

He took from his breast-pocket a little Greek flag of silk, neatlyfolded. Berenice flushed, recognizing a favor which she had given himearly in the evening. 

"Now this, " he said, "I put away next to my heart, you observe. "

"The giver would be flattered, " Berenice observed. "Was it ClareTophaven?"

He looked at her, laughing; then seemed to reflect. 

"I don't know that it is right to tell you, " he returned; "but if youwon't mention it, I'll confide to you that it must have been MissTophaven. Sweet girl. "

"Very. Are congratulations in order?" Berenice inquired. 

She was pleased that the talk had taken this bantering tone, andsecretly determined to keep it away from dangerous seriousness. 

"Somewhat premature, I should say, " Stanford replied. "You see she hasno suspicion of my devotion, and her engagement to Fred Springer is tocome out next week. "

The bit of gossip served Berenice well. She had heard it already, butit was easy to feign surprise, and to chat lightly about the match, asif she had not a thought beyond it in her mind. To her amazement anddisconcerting Stanford cut through the light talk to demand with suddengravity:--

"And when may our engagement be announced, Berenice?"

She regarded him with startled eyes, but she held herself well in hand, managing to use the same jesting tone in which she had been speaking. 

"Certainly not before it exists, " was her answer. 

He leaned toward her eagerly. The room was almost deserted, and theysat in the shelter of a great palm, so that she felt herself to bealone with him. 

"Don't try to put me off, " he pleaded. "I am in earnest. "

She rose quickly, setting her cup down in the tub of the palm. 

"Come, " she said, "you forget that I am dancing the german with Mr. VanSandt. He will have no idea what has become of me. "

Stanford stood before her, barring her way. 

"Hang Van Sandt! You should be dancing with me, only I had to do thepolite to this everlasting English girl. I wish she was in Australia. Iwonder why in the world an English girl is never able to learn todance. "

"That I cannot answer. Perhaps their feet are too big; but you must goback to her all the same, whether she can dance or not. "

"Not until you answer me. You know you are keeping me on hot coals, Berenice. You know I love you. "

She flushed, drew back, grew pale. 

"I have answered you already, " she replied, hurriedly but firmly. "Whymust you make me say it again? I don't love you, and that is reasonenough why you shouldn't care for me. "

"It isn't any reason at all. I should be fond of you anyway. Why, evenif you made a guy of me before everybody as you did to-night of thatclerical thing"--

"Stop!" Berenice interrupted, her color rising and her eyes shining. "Iwill not have you speak of Mr. Wynne in that way. What I did was badenough. "

"Berenice, " demanded Stanford, regarding her keenly, "do you mean tomarry _him_?"

"You have no right to ask me whom I mean to marry! I am not going tomarry you, at least!"

"A clergyman. A man in petticoats! Well, I must say"--

She drew herself up to her full height, looking at him with anger andexcitement in her heart so great that they seemed to choke her. 

"Do you see this?" she asked, holding up the little mask dangling fromher finger. "I fastened this to his cassock to-night. I insulted him inthe sight of everybody. Does that look as if"--

"Is that the same mask?" broke in Stanford. "You begged it of meafterward!"

She could not command her voice to reply. Shame, grief, indignation, struggled in her heart; yet her strongest conscious feeling was adetermination that the tears in her eyes should not fall. She slippedpast him, and moved toward the ball-room. With a quick step he gainedher side. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you. You used to be nice to me, but lately"--

She mastered herself by a strong effort. She was fully aware that therewere too many curious eyes about her to make any demonstration safe. 

"Let me take your arm, " she answered. "Folks are watching. We need notmake a spectacle of ourselves. I haven't meant to treat you badly. Agirl never knows how a man is going to take things, and I only meant tobe pleasant. As soon as you began to show that you were in earnest"--

She was so conscious that her words were not entirely frank that sheinstinctively hesitated. 

"I have always been in earnest, " interpolated he. 

"But you will get over it, " murmured she, desperately. 

They had come to a group of palms, where they paused to let a bevy ofdancers pass. 

"Do you really mean, " Stanford asked, in a hard voice, "that there isreally no hope for me?"

"There is no hope that I shall ever feel differently about this. "

"Then I shall certainly get over it, " returned he with a touch of angerin his voice. "I don't propose to go through life wearing the willowfor anybody. "

She raised to his her eyes shining with shy but irresistible light. 

"Ah, " she half whispered, "that is the difference. I know he wouldn'tget over it. "

"He!"

The monosyllable brought to her an overwhelming sense of the confessionwhich her words had carried. She pressed the arm upon which her finger-tips rested. 

"I have trusted you, " she whispered hurriedly. "Be generous. Ah, Mr. Van Sandt, " she went on aloud, "I hope you didn't think I had desertedyou. Mr. Stanford found me incapable of dancing, and had to revive mewith bouillon. "

 XXIX

 WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE Hamlet, i. 2. 

Strangely enough the thought which most strongly impressed MauriceWynne on the morning following the Mardi Gras ball was the simplicityof life. He had heard in the early dawn the bell for rising; he hadstarted up, then upon his elbow realized that he had freed himself fromits tyranny. He had slidden back into his warm place, smiling tohimself, and fallen into a sleep as quiet as that of a child. Abouteight he was roused by a brother sent to see if he was ill, his absencefrom early mass having been noted. Maurice sent the messenger away withthe explanation that having been out to the midnight service he hadslept late; then, being left alone, he made his toilet withdeliberation. He seemed to himself a new man. There appeared to be nolonger any difficulty in life. He reflected that one had but to followcommon sense, to live sincerely up to what commended itself to hisreason, and existence became wonderfully simplified. He no longerexperienced any of the confusing doubts and perplexities which had oflate made him so thoroughly miserable. 

He hesitated to don again the dress of a deacon, but he reflected thatto do otherwise would be to expose himself to the curiosity and commentof his fellows. With a smile and a sigh he put on for the last time thecassock, recalling the contemptuous terms in which at the time of theaccident Mehitabel Durgin had referred to the garment. He wondered athimself for ever finding it possible to appear before the eyes of menin such a dress, and blushed to think how incongruous the clericallivery must have looked in the ballroom. 

Breakfast was already half over when he appeared, and the reading ofLamentations was accompanying the frugal meal. He sank into his seat insilence, casting his eyes down upon his plate lest they should betraythe joy he felt. He knew that he could have no talk with Philip untilafter nones, and he was not willing to leave the house without biddinghis friend good-by. While he went on with his breakfast he was busyplanning what he would do when he had left the routine of the ClergyHouse behind him. He determined to go to Mrs. Staggchase for advice, and to ask her to direct him to some quiet boarding-place where hemight reorganize his scheme of life. 

In the study hour which followed breakfast Wynne went boldly to theroom of Father Frontford, and knocked at the door. When he heard thevoice of the Father Superior bidding him enter he was for the firsttime seized with an unpleasant doubt. The long habit of obedience halfasserted itself, so that for an instant he was almost minded to turnback. With a smile of self-scorn he shook off the feeling, and openedthe door. 

The Father looked up in evident surprise at sight of the deacon whocame unsummoned at such an hour. He was alone, a fact which Mauricenoted with satisfaction. 

 "Good morning, Wynne, " he said. "Did you wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir, " Maurice answered, closing the door, and standing before it. "I came to tell you that I have decided to leave the Clergy House. "

The abruptness of the communication evidently startled the Superior. Wynne watched him as he laid down his pen, the lines about his thinlips growing tense. 

"Sit down, " he said gravely. 

Maurice obeyed unwillingly. He would have been glad to retreat at once, his errand being done; but he knew this to be of course impossible. Hesat down facing the other, meeting with steadfast eyes the searchinglook fastened upon him. 

"Since when, " Father Frontford asked, "have you held thisdetermination?"

"Since last night. "

"Is it founded upon any especial circumstance connected with your goingwith Mrs. Wilson to midnight service?"

Maurice looked down for a moment in thought, then he met the eyes ofthe other frankly. 

"Father, " he said, "I don't think that I could tell you all that hasled to this decision if I would; and I do not see that it would be wisefor us to go into the matter in any case. It seems to me that the factthat I have decided, and decided absolutely, is enough. "

The face before him grew a shade sterner. 

"You seem to forget that you are speaking to your Superior. "

"Perhaps, " the young man returned with calmness, "it is you who forgetthat I have ended that relation. "

Father Frontford's face darkened. 

"I do not recognize that you have authority to end it. "

Maurice tried to repress the irritation which he could not but feel;and forced himself to speak as civilly as before. 

"Will you pardon me, " he said; "I do not wish that our last talk shouldbe bitter. I owe you much, and I shall never cease to respect theunselfishness with which you have tried to help me. That I cannotfollow your path does not blind me to the fact that you have worked sountiringly to make the way plain and attractive to me. "

He was not without a secret feeling that he was speaking with somemagnanimity, yet he was entirely sincere. He realized with thoroughrespect, even at the moment of breaking away, how complete was thedevotion of the Father. There was in his mind, too, some satisfactionat the tone he had unconsciously adopted. It flattered him to find thathe should be almost patronizing his Superior. 

Father Frontford regarded Maurice with a look in which were mingledsurprise, disapprobation, and regret. As the two sat holding eachother's eyes, the face of the older man changed and softened. Into itcame a smile of high and spiritual beauty, of nobility andunworldliness, of tenderness most touching. All that was most winningin the character of the man was embodied in the look which he fixedupon his recreant disciple, a look pleading and wistful, yet full ofdignity and strength. He leaned forward, laying the tips of his thinfingers almost caressingly on the arm of the other. 

"My son, " he said, "it is not what I have done that you remember; it iswhat I represent. The truth and sweetness of religion is what hastouched you. I am only the representative; and no one knows better howunworthy I am to be so looked on. If the grace of divine love seems toyou good shining through me, think what it is in itself. Oh, my son, "he went on, the tears coming into his eyes, "I have loved you, and Ilove you more now that I see you tempted and bewildered. Turn back tothe bosom of the church before it is too late. "

Maurice sat silent with look downcast. His firmness was not shaken; hehad no inclination to reconsider his decision, but he was deeply movedby the emotion of the other. He could not bear to meet pleading soaffectionate with a cold negative. 

"It is for yourself that I appeal to you, " the priest went on. "It isfor the good of your own soul, and for your happiness in this world andthe world to come. Think of your mission. Think how men need you; ofthe sin and the error that cry out to Heaven, and of how few there areto do the Lord's work. You have been confused by the temptations of theworld, and in all of us there is a selfish spirit that may lead us todo in a moment of madness what we shall repent with tears of blood allour lives. "

Still Maurice could not answer; and the Father, bending still nearer, taking one of the young man's hands in both his own, still pleaded. 

"You have said that you felt my interest in you. Do not give me thebitterness of feeling that I am a careless shepherd who has lost a lambto the wolves. If you have gone astray it must be in part my fault; itmust be my negligence. Oh, my son, don't force me to stand guiltybefore God to answer for your lost soul. "

It seemed to Maurice that he was being swept away by the simple powerof the emotion of Frontford. He felt the tears in his eyes, and almostwithout his volition his hand responded to the pressure of the handthat clasped it. He made a strong effort to call back his will. 

"Father, " he responded, "we must each stand or fall alone. It is notyour fault that I can't see things as you do, or that I can't anylonger remain here. I am changed. If I stayed, it would be against myconvictions. "

"Ah, " was the eager reply, "but you could submit your convictions tothe church. "

Maurice drew back. 

"I am a man, to think for myself. I must be honest with my reason. Thechurch cannot take for me the place of honesty and conviction. "

The Father Superior dropped the hand he held. 

"Then you insist on putting your own will and your own wisdom abovethat of the church?"

"I must do the thing that seems to me right. "

The priest's face hardened. It was as if over the surface of a pool afilm of ice formed. He sank back in his chair, and when he spoke againit was in a voice so hard and cold that the young man started. 

"When do you leave?" the Father Superior asked. 

"I meant to wait until after nones so as to say good-by to Philip. "

"I prefer that you should go at once. "

"You mean that you prefer that I should not see him?" Maurice demandedquickly. 

"I merely said that I prefer that you should go at once, " was the coldreply. 

Maurice rose briskly. His impulse was to retort sharply, but he heldhimself in check. 

"Very well, " he answered. "I shall take it as a favor if you will letPhilip know that I did not willingly leave him without a word. It wouldhurt him to think that. "

"The wounds of earth, " the Father Superior said gravely, "are the joysof heaven. "

Maurice stood an instant with a keen desire to reply, to break downthis icy statue of religion; then he drew back. 

"I will not trouble you longer, " he said. "Good-by. "

"Good-by, Mr. Wynne, " the other responded with the manner of oneaddressing a stranger. 

Maurice went to his chamber thoroughly aroused and excited. Therestraint which he had put on himself during the talk with FatherFrontford brought now its reaction. He rehearsed in his mind thetelling and caustic things which he might have said, then laughed athimself for his unnecessary fervor. He packed his belongings, and, leaving them to be called for, set out for the house of his cousin. Togo out from the Clergy House seemed to him like the ending of a life. 

Mrs. Staggchase was fortunately at home. It seemed to Maurice that herkeen eyes took in the whole story from his secular dress. He blushed asshe gave him her hand. 

"Well, my dear boy, " she observed, "you have come to luncheon, Isuppose, because the fare at the Clergy House is so poor in Lent. Sitdown, and give me an account of your doings last night. I trust thatyou saw Mrs. Wilson safe home. "

"I left her in the church. "

"Ah! And what did you do then?"

"I went home and fought it out with myself. You were right in sayingthat things were not concluded when I became a deacon. I have given upthe whole thing. "

"What do you mean by the whole thing?"

"I mean, " he returned earnestly, "that I found out that I was acting apart. That I didn't believe even the first principles of the religion Iwas getting ready to teach. I have broken down in the temptation, Cousin Diana. "

She looked at him closely. The buoyancy of his morning mood was gone, and it was hard for him to endure her searching look. It came over himthat he was an apostate; one who had abandoned all that he had vowed touphold; his vanity smarted at the thought that she must think him weakand unstable as water. 

"I am only what I was, " he went on. "The difference is that I havediscovered what you probably saw all the time, that I don't believe thethings I have been taught. I am as free from the old creeds as you are. I don't even pretend to know that there is a God. "

"My dear boy, " she responded, shrugging her shoulders, "you run intoextremes like a schoolgirl. I beg you won't talk as if I could be sovulgar as not to believe in a deity. Don't rank me with the crowd ofcommon folk that try to increase their own importance by insisting thatthere's nothing above them. Really, an atheist seems to me as bad as aman who eats with his knife. "

He changed countenance, but her words left him speechless. He could nothear her speak in this way without being shocked. He might be withoutcreed, but his temper was still devout. 

"If you've thrown overboard all your old dogmas, " she went on withunruffled face, "you'd better go to work to get a new set. I've justheard of some sort of a society got up by women out in Cambridge, wherethey deduce the ethnic sources of prophetic inspiration--whatever thatmeans!--from the 'Arabian Nights' and 'Mother Goose. ' You might findsomething there to suit you. "

He could not answer her; he could only wonder whether she disapprovedof what he had done, or if she were vexed with him for coming to her. 

"It's possible, " she went on mercilessly, a fresh note of mockery inher voice, "that Berenice might help you. Very often a woman winsconverts where a priest fails. After last night"--

He came to his feet with a spring. 

"Don't!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand any more. Do you think that it'sbeen easy for me to find out the truth about myself; to have to ownthat I've been a cheating fool, without honesty enough to know my ownmind? As for Miss Morison"--

His voice failed him. He was unnerved; the reaction from his longvigil, from his interview with Father Frontford, overcame him. Thesimple mention of the name of Berenice made him choke, and he stoodthere speechless. His cousin rose and came to him softly. Before heknew what she was doing, she bent forward and kissed his forehead. 

"You poor boy, " she said in a voice half laughing, yet so gentle thathe hardly recognized it, "don't take my teasing so much to heart. Youare only finding out like the rest of us that it is impossible not tobe human. "

He could answer only by grasping her hand, ashamed of the weaknesswhich had betrayed him, and touched deeply by her kindness. 

"Come, " Mrs. Staggchase said, moving to the bell, and speaking in hernatural tone. "I have helped you to break your life into bits; I musttry to help you to put the pieces together into something better. Youmust stay here for a while, and we'll consider what is to be done next. Will you tell Patrick how to get your things from the Clergy House?Take your old room. I'll see you at luncheon. "

And as the servant appeared at one door she withdrew by another. 

 XXX

 PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP Othello, ii. 1. 

Berenice had abundant leisure to reflect upon her attitude toward herlovers, for Mrs. Frostwinch was soon so seriously ill that it wasevident to all that the end was at hand. Berenice devoted herself tothe invalid, although there was little that she could do. The sickwoman did not suffer; she seemed merely to be fading out of life; tohave lost her hold upon something which was slipping from her loosenedgrasp. 

"The fact is, Bee, " Mrs. Frostwinch said one day, "that the doctors sayI'm dead. I'm beginning to believe it myself, and when I'm fullyconvinced, I suppose that that'll be the end. "

"Oh, don't joke about it, Cousin Anna, " cried Bee. "It is toodreadful. "

"It won't make it any less dreadful to be solemn over it, " the otheranswered. "However, death should be spoken of with respect; even one'sown. "

Berenice longed to know what had taken place between her cousin andMrs. Crapps, but she hardly liked to ask. That there had been adisagreement of some kind, and that Mrs. Frostwinch had lost faith inthe woman, she knew; but beyond this she was in the dark. Oneafternoon, however, her cousin explained matters. 

"It is so humiliating, Bee, that I can hardly bear to think of it, theway things turned out. My conscience will be easier, though, if I tellyou the whole of it. It is so vulgar that it makes me creep. We were atJekyll's Island, and she had an ulcerated tooth. "

"I thought she couldn't have such things?"

"She thought or pretended that she couldn't. I must say that she foughtagainst it with tremendous pluck; but the face kept swelling, and thepain got to be more than she could bear. When she gave out she went topieces completely. She literally rolled on the floor and howled. Icouldn't go on believing in her after that. She'd actually made herselfridiculous. "

"But, " began Berenice, "I should think"--

"If it had been something dangerous, so that I had had to think of herlife, " went on her cousin, not heeding, "I could have borne it; butthat common thing! Why, her face looked like a drunken cook's! I can'ttell you the humiliation of it!"

"But if she could help you, why not herself?"

Mrs. Frostwinch smiled wanly. 

"I've tried to think that out, " answered she. "It was always said ofthe old witches, you know, that they couldn't help themselves. It isfaith in somebody else that is behind the wonders they do. I've grownvery wise in the last few weeks, Bee. I don't pretend that I understandall the facts, but I do know pretty well what the facts are. I believedin Mrs. Crapps, and that belief kept me up. When I couldn't believe inher, that was the end of it. "

There seemed to Berenice something uncanny and monstrous in this calmacquiescence. She could not comprehend how her cousin could give up thestruggle for life in this fashion, after having succeeded so long inholding death at bay. 

"But surely, " she protested, "you can't be willing to let everythingdepend upon her. You've proved the possibility"--

"I've proved the possibility of depending upon somebody else; that'sall. "

"Then find another woman that you can believe in. "

"It is too late. I can't have the faith over again. I should always beexpecting another humiliating downfall of my prophetess. "

She was silent a moment, and then continued:--

"Do you know, Bee, it seems to me after all that my experience is likealmost all religion. There are a few men and women who believe inthemselves in that self-poised way that makes it possible for them toget on with just ethics; and there are those who can take hold ofunseen things; but for the rest of us it's necessary to have some humanbeing to lean on. I hope I don't shock you. I lie awake in the night agood deal, and my mind seems clearer than it used to be. All thereligions seem to have a real, tangible human centre, a personalitythat human beings can appreciate and believe in. Mrs. Crapps was soreal and so near at hand that I could have faith in her; now that thatis gone there isn't anything left for me. I can't believe in her, andshe has destroyed the Possibility of my believing in anybody else. "

Berenice put out her hand in the growing dusk, caressing the thinfingers of the sick woman. 

"But--but, " she hesitated, "she hasn't destroyed your faith in--ineverything, has she?"

"No, dear; she hasn't touched my belief in God; but it makes meashamed to see how different a thing it is to believe in what we seeand touch, from having a genuine faith in what we do not see. I have afaith in my soul still; the other was only a faith of the body. Perhapsit had only to do with the body, and it is not so bad to have lost it. "

"Oh, Cousin Anna, " Berenice murmured, tears choking her voice, "I can'tbear to see you getting farther and farther off every day, and to feelso helpless. "

"There, there, Bee, " responded the other with tender cheerfulness, "youare not to agitate yourself or to excite me. I've lived half a yearmore now than the doctors allowed me, and I've enjoyed it too. Besides, think of the blessedness of not having any pain. Do you know, the nightafter Mrs. Crapps had that scene in the hotel, I was in a panic ofterror lest my old agony should come back; but it didn't. Then I saidto myself: 'Of course I couldn't suffer; I'm really dead!' You can'tthink what a comfort it was. "

"Oh, don't, don't!" cried Bee. "I can't bear to have you talk likethat. "

"Well, then, we won't. There's something else I want to speak to youabout while I am strong enough. Do you realize that when I am goneyou'll be a rich woman?"

"I haven't thought about it. I've hated to think. "

"Yes, dear, I understand; but when you are older you'll come to realizethat half of the duty of life is to think of things which one wouldrather forget. "

"But it could do no good to think of this. "

"Perhaps not; but I want to ask you something. I know you'll forgiveme. It's about Parker Stanford. "

"You may ask me anything you like, of course, Cousin Anna. As forParker Stanford, he's nothing more than the rest of the men I know, only he's been more polite. We are very good friends. "

"No more?"

"No more; and we never shall be. "

"But he surely wished to be?" The day had darkened until the room waslighted only by the flames of the soft coal fire which sputtered in thegrate. The cousins could hardly see each other's faces; but in the dimlight Berenice turned frankly toward Mrs. Frostwinch. 

"That is all over now, " responded she. "Of course to anybody else Ishouldn't own that there ever was anything; but whatever there may havebeen is ended. He understands that perfectly. "

For some minutes Berenice sat smoothing the invalid's hand, thefirelight glancing on her face and hair. 

"How pretty you are, Bee, " Mrs. Frostwinch said at length. Then withoutpause she added: "Is there anybody else?"

Bee sank backward into the shadow with a quick, instinctive movement, dropping the hand she held. 

"Who should there be?" she returned. 

Her cousin laughed softly. 

"You are as transparent as glass, " she said. "Come, who is it?"

Berenice hesitated an instant, then threw herself forward, bending overthe hand of her companion until her face was hidden. 

"There isn't really anybody; and besides I've insulted him so that henever could help hating me. No, there isn't anybody, Cousin Anna; andthere never will be. I know I should despise him if he wasn't angry;and besides, " she added with the air of suddenly recollecting herself, "I hate him for what he said. "

"That is evident, " the other assented smilingly. "I could see at oncethat you hated him. But who is it?"

"Why, there isn't anybody, I tell you. Of course I thought about himafter he saved my life, but"--

"Oh, " interrupted Mrs. Frostwinch. "Then it is Mr. Wynne. But Ithought"--

"He isn't a priest any more, " Berenice struck in, replying to theunspoken doubt as if it had been in her own mind. "I heard yesterdaythat he has left the Clergy House for good, and is staying with Mrs. Staggchase. "

"Have you seen him lately?"

"He overtook me on the street yesterday. "

Mrs. Frostwinch put out her hand with a loving gesture. 

"Bee, " said she tenderly, "I want you to be happy. You've been like adaughter to me ever since your mother died, and I've thought of youalmost as if you were my own child. If this is the man to make youhappy"--

But Bee stooped forward and stopped the words with kisses. 

"I can't talk of him, " she said, "and he will never be anything to me. He is angry, and he has a right to be. He"--

The entrance of the nurse interrupted them, and Berenice made haste toget away before there was opportunity for further question. In heranxiety to know something more of Mr. Wynne, Mrs. Frostwinch sent forMrs. Staggchase, who came in the next day. 

Mrs. Staggchase found her friend weak and frightfully changed. Thehigh-bred face was haggard, the nostrils thin, while beneath the eyeswere heavy purple shadows. A ghost of the old smile lighted her face, making it more ghastly yet, like the gleaming of a candle through adeath-mask. The hand extended to the visitor was so transparent that itmight almost have belonged to a spirit. 

"My dear Anna, " Mrs. Staggchase exclaimed, "I hadn't an idea"--

"That I was so near dying, my dear, " interrupted the other. "I am worsethan that, I am dead, really; but it doesn't matter. I want to talk toyou about Bee. "

"About Bee?" echoed the other, seating herself beside the bed. "Whatabout her?"

"I should have said that I want to ask you about Mr. Wynne. Do you knowanything about his relations to her?"

"The only relation that he has is that of a perfectly desperate adorer. He worships the ground she walks on, but he doesn't cherish anythingthat could be decently called hope. "

"Then he does care for her?"

"My dear Anna, it almost makes me weep for my lost youth to see him. Hehas so wrought upon my glands of sentiment that this morning I actuallyexamined my husband's wardrobe to see if the maid darns his stockingsproperly. Fred would be perfectly amazed if he knew how sentimental Ifeel. I even thought of sitting up last night to welcome him home fromthe club, but about half past one I came to the end of my novel andfelt sleepy, so I gave that up. "

Mrs. Frostwinch smiled with the air of one who understands that thevisitor is endeavoring to furnish a diversion from the dull sadness ofthe sick chamber. 

"But Bee said he was angry with her. "

"The anger of lovers, my dear, is legitimate fuel for the flame. That'snothing. She's been amusing herself with him, and if she thinks heresents it, so much the better for him. "

"But is he"--

She hesitated as if not knowing how best to frame her question. 

"He is a handsome creature, as you know if you remember him, " thevisitor said, taking up the word. "He is well born, he is well bred, ifa little countrified. He's been shut up with monks and other mouldythings, and needs a little knocking about in the world; but I am veryfond of him. "

"Then you think"--

"I think that whoever gets Bee will get a treasure; but I am not surethat she is any too good for my cousin. He hasn't much money, unless hegets a little fortune that ought to have been his, and which he hassome hope of. I mean to give him something myself one of these days, ifhe behaves himself; but of course he hasn't any idea of that. "

"Bee will have all the Canton money, and can do as she likes. "

Mrs. Staggchase looked down at the carpet as if studying the pattern. 

"Perhaps, " she returned. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"If I know Maurice Wynne, the fact that she has money will make himvery slow to speak. Besides, he has a silly crotchet in his head now. He thinks that if he tried to marry her it would look as if he hadgiven up his religion for her. "

"Did he?"

"Bless you, no. He was simply led into the Clergy House by being fondof a friend; one of those men that young men and old women fall in lovewith. Maurice never belonged there at all. I saw that the first day hecame to stay with me at the beginning of the winter. I was abroad whilehe was in college, so I never knew him except most casually before. "

"But if he really cares for her he'll get over those obstacles. "

"If she cares for him, he must be made to. "

"I am convinced that she does, " Mrs. Frostwinch said. "I am so glad youspeak well of him. I do so want Bee to be happy. "

There was a long silence in the chamber. The two friends sat wrapped inthought. They had seen so much of life, they had had so many blessingsof fortune, culture, position, wealth, that there was a grim irony intheir sitting here helpless in the face of coming death. To theirreverie, moreover, the mention of love could not but give color. Nowoman has ever come to speak of love entirely unmoved, though her heartmay have been deadened or crushed beyond the power of thrilling orquickening at any other thought. These two, who had led lives so happy, so protected, so rich, sat there silent before the possibilities whichlay in the love of a girl; until at last both sighed, whether withregret or tenderness perhaps they could not themselves have told. Perhaps both remembered their youthful days; remembered how one hadlost her first love by death and the other parted from hers in anger, making a marriage which seemed more a matter of affronting the mandiscarded than of affection for the man she chose. They knew eachother's history so completely that there could be no disguise betweenthem. Their eyes met, and for an instant there was a suspicion ofwistfulness in the glance. Then Mrs. Frostwinch shook her head, andsmiled sadly. 

"At least, " she said, "I shall be spared the pain of growing old. "

"After all, " the other responded, "the bitterness of growing old is tofeel that one has never completely been young. "

The sick woman regarded her with burning eyes. 

"But we have been young, Di, " she said eagerly. "Surely we had all thatthere was. "

"Anna, " Mrs. Staggchase murmured, leaning toward her, "we know eachother too well not to say things that most women are afraid to say. Weboth married well, and we have cared for our husbands and been happy. But we both know that there was deep down a memory"--

"No, no, Di, " her friend interrupted excitedly, "you shall not make methink of that! I have forgotten all that; and I am dying comfortably. You shall not make me think of him! Only, dear Di, I want you to helpBee to marry the man she loves with her whole heart; that she loves aswe might have loved if"--

Mrs. Staggchase kissed her solemnly. 

"I promise, Anna. "

Then she rose, her whole manner changing. 

"Do you know, my dear, " she observed, in a tone gayly satirical, "thatI believe that Elsie Wilson is going to be beaten in her bishopsteeplechase?"

"Do you mean that Father Frontford won't be elected?"

"I mean just that. However, things are still uncertain. It will beamusing to see what Elsie will do if she is defeated. She is capable ofsetting up a church of her own. "

"There are two or three men with whom I have some influence that willgo over to Mr. Strathmore if I am not here to look after them. I mustwrite to them to-morrow and get them to promise to hold by our side. "

But that night Mrs. Frostwinch died quietly in her sleep, and theletters were not written. 

 XXXI

 HOW CHANCES MOCK 2 Henry IV. , iii. 1. 

Maurice had seen Berenice only once since his encounter at the ball. Hehad hoped and dreaded to meet her, but for more than a week after hisleaving the Clergy House he had failed. One morning he saw her walkingbefore him on Beacon Street; and while he instantly said to himselfthat he trusted that she would not discover him, he hurried forward toovertake her. His feet carried him forward even while he told himselfthat he did not wish to go. He was beside her in a moment, and as hespoke she raised those rich, dark eyes with a glance which made himthrill. 

"Good-morning, " he said with his heart beating as absurdly as if theencounter were of the highest consequence. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Wynne, " she responded, with a manner entirelyabstract. 

She had started and blushed, he was sure, on perceiving him; but if soshe had instantly recovered her self-possession. He was disconcerted bythe coldness of her manner, and began to wish in complete earnest thathe had not overtaken her. 

"I beg your pardon for intruding, " he said, his voice hardening, "but"--

"The public street is free to anybody, I suppose, " she returned, withan air of studied politeness. "I don't claim any exclusive right toit. "

"I didn't apologize for being on the street, but for speaking to you. "

"Oh, that, " answered Berenice carelessly, although he thought that hedetected a spark of mischief in her eye, "is a thing of so littleconsequence that it isn't worth mentioning. "

"I venture to speak to you, " he said, ignoring the thrust, "because Ihave wanted to beg your pardon for my rudeness when I saw you last. "

She turned upon him quickly, her cheeks aflame. 

"Your rudeness?" she exclaimed. "Your brutality, I think you mean!"

It was his turn to grow red. 

"My brutality, if you choose. I beg your pardon for whatever offended. "

"It was unpardonable! It was a thing no woman could ever forgive!"

Maurice turned pale. He stopped where he stood. 

"In that case, " he said, bowing with formality, "I have no business tobe speaking to you now. "

He turned and was gone before she could add a word. 

This interview probably made neither of the young persons happy; andMaurice it left entirely miserable. He was not without a proper pride, however, and in his present frame of mind was ready to call it to hisaid. He bore a brave outward front. He resolved not to think of hislove; yet he was not without the hardly confessed hope that if he couldfind the lost will he might be taking a step in the direction of therealization of his desires. He tried to forget Berenice in the verymeans he was taking to bring himself nearer to her. 

He set out for Montfield one bright February day, amused at himselffor the difference in his attitude toward the world from the mere factthat he had discarded the ecclesiastical garb. It gave him a fresh anddelightful sensation to be traveling on business in clothing like thatof other men. He had no longer any wish to be separated by his dress, and thought with contemptuous amusement of the lurking self-consciousness which had always attached itself in his mind to the factthat he was in a costume apart. He realized now that he had from thisderived a certain satisfaction, half simple vanity and half thegratification of his histrionic instinct. He felt as if he had beenlike a child pleased to attract attention by a feather stuck in hiscap, or a toy sword girt at his side. Now that the whole experience waspast he could smile at it, but he had small patience with those whostill retained the clerical garb. Men have usually little tolerance forthe fault which they have but newly outgrown; and Maurice thought witha sort of amazement of his late fellows at the Clergy House, and oftheir manifest satisfaction in the dress they wore. It was almost witha sensation of self-righteousness that he enjoyed the habiliments ofordinary civilized man. 

As the train sped on, and the scenery became more familiar as heapproached nearer to Montfield, Maurice naturally fell to thinking, inan irregular, detached fashion, of his youth. Both Wynne's parents haddied in his childhood, and there had been little to keep firm the bondsof family. Alice Singleton he had known, however, both as a girl and asthe wife of his half brother, but he had known only to dislike andavoid her. He began now to wonder how she would receive him, andwhether she would allude to the scene at Mrs. Rangely's when he hadbroken up her spiritualistic deception. 

The train of thought into which reminiscence had plunged him carriedhim over his whole life. He realized for the first time that hisreligious experiences had been little more than a reflection of thoseof Philip. It was Ashe who had interested him in spiritual things, whohad led him into the church, who had practically determined for himthat he should become a priest. For the first time, and with profoundamazement, Maurice realized how completely his theological life hadbeen the growth of the mind of Ashe rather than of his own. The thoughtbrought with it a sense of weakness and self-contempt. 

"Haven't I any strength of character?" he asked himself. "In everythingpractical Phil has always relied on me. It was always Phil I cared for, not the church. "

Imperfectly as he was able to phrase it, Maurice was not in the endwithout some reasonably clear conception of the fact that in his lifePhilip had represented the feminine element. It was by love for hisfriend that he had been led on. Now that his reason was fully awakethis emotional yielding to the thought of another was no longerpossible; now that his heart was filled with a passion for Berenice hisnature no longer responded to the appeal of the feminine in Ashe. 

Maurice was half aware that his was a character sure to be influencedgreatly by affection; but he felt that it would never again be possiblefor him so to give up to another the guidance of his life as he now sawthat he had yielded it to his friend. He had learned his weakness, andthe lesson had been enforced too sharply ever to be forgotten. 

He was coming now into the region of his old home. The forests werebeginning faintly to show the approach of spring; the treetops weredimly warming in color, the branches thickening against the sky. Hereand there Maurice looked down on a brook black with the late rains andwith the floods from the snow-drifts still melting on the distanthills. Now he caught a far flash of the river where he had skated inwinters almost forgotten, so fast does time move, where he had fishedand bathed in summers so long gone that they seemed to belong to thelife of some other. Yet once more and a distant hill, duskily blueagainst the bluer heavens, wakened for him some memory of his boyhood, seeming to challenge him to renew the old joys and to revel in the by-gone fervors. 

All these things softened the mood in which Maurice came back to theold town, and as he walked up the village street, so well rememberedyet so strange, he had a sense of unreality. The very homelyfamiliarity of it all made it appear the more like a dream. He felt hisheart-beats quicken as he approached the Ashe place, wondering if heshould see Mrs. Ashe. He had always, with all his affection, felt forPhilip's mother a sort of awe, as if she were more than a simple humancreature. He found it difficult to understand that Mrs. Singletonshould be staying with her, so incongruous was the association in hismind of two such women. With Mrs. Ashe, Alice must at least be at herbest. 

He walked up to the house, passing under the leafless lilac bushes witha keen remembrance of how they were laden with odors in June. Hewondered if the tansy still grew under the sitting-room window, and ifthe lilies-of-the-valley flourished on the north side of the house asof old. Then he knocked with the quaint old black knocker, and with thesound came back the present and the thought that he had before him aninterview which might be neither pleasant nor easy. 

Mrs. Singleton herself opened the door. 

"I saw you coming, " she greeted him, "and there is nobody at home butme. "

Maurice tried not to look disappointed. 

"Then Mrs. Ashe is not at home?"

"No; she is out, and the girl is out. Will you come in? You probablydidn't come to see me. "

"But I did come to see you. "

She led the way into the long, low sitting-room, with its many doorsand its wide fireplace, so familiar that he might have left ityesterday. 

"I can't imagine what you want of me, " Mrs. Singleton said, waving herhand toward a chair. "The last time I saw you you didn't seem very fondof me. "

She seated herself by the side of the fire in a great old-fashionedchair covered with chintz and spreading out wings on either side of herhead. 

"You are still angry, Alice, I see, " he rejoined. "Well, I can't helpthat. I did what was right. How in the world could you make up yourmind to fool those people so?"

"They wanted to be fooled; why not oblige them?"

He regarded her with astonishment. He had expected her to deny that herdeception was deliberate, to claim that the manifestations were real. Her frank and cynical speech disconcerted him. He had no reply. Shebroke into a sneering laugh. 

"There, " she said, "you didn't come here to talk about that séance. What did you come for?"

"I came to ask you if you still have Aunt Hannah's desk. "

She regarded him keenly. 

"The little traveling desk?"

"Yes. "

"What if I have?"

"But have you?"

"Oh, I don't mind telling you that. I don't see that it can do you anygood to know that I have it. I always carry it round with me. It's soconvenient. "

"Will you sell it to me?"

"Certainly not. If you didn't want it, I might give it to you; but ifyou do you can't have it. "

Maurice began to feel his anger rising. He felt helpless before thiswoman, with her innocent, baby face, this woman with the guileless lookof a child and a child's freedom from moral scruples, who faced himwith a smile of pleased malice. It might be unwise to tell his realerrand, but she surely could not do any harm greater than to bedisagreeable. There must be some method, he reflected, of getting atthe thing legally; but what it was he was entirely ignorant; and nowthat he had shown a desire for the desk he was confident that Mrs. Singleton would persist until she had discovered the truth. He couldthink of nothing to do but to make a clean breast of the whole matter. He nerved himself to the task, and told her of the finding of Norah andof what followed. 

"Have you ever discovered that the desk had a false bottom?" he askedin conclusion. 

"No, brother Maurice. The spirits hadn't revealed it to me. But then Inever asked them about that. "

There was an air of triumphant glee in her manner, an open and mockingsneer, which dismayed him. He was sure that he had erred in telling herhis secret; yet he reflected that he could hardly have done otherwise, and that she surely would not dare to refuse to give up a legaldocument so important. 

"Will you let me examine the desk?"

"I am so happy to oblige you, " she returned. "Though whether your storyis true or not must depend, you know, upon the unsupported testimony ofthe medium--I mean of the speaker. "

Maurice rose and went toward her, facing her squarely. 

"I understand, Alice, " he said, "that you don't love me, and I haven'tcome to ask favors. This is a matter of simple honesty. I certainlydon't think you would willfully keep me out of my property. "

"Thank you for drawing the line somewhere. It was so noble of you tointerfere at Mrs. Rangely's! You didn't in the least mind robbing me ofmy good name, and them of the comfort of believing it was real. Besides, I did see things! I swear to you that I did! I am a medium inspite of whatever you say. I can call up spirits!"

Her voice rose as she went on, and he feared lest she should workherself into one of her furies of excitement and temper which he hadseen of old. 

"Why should we go back to that?" he said, as gently as he could. "Thatis past, and I only did what I thought was my duty. "

"Oh, you did your duty, did you?" she sneered. 

"Well, I'll do mine now. Stay here, while I go and empty that old desk. I'll match you in doing my duty!"

She hurried tumultuously from the room, leaving Maurice in anything butan enviable frame of mind. He began to walk up and down, assailed byold memories at every turn, yet so disturbed by Mrs. Singleton's wordsand manner that he could not heed the recollections. The minutespassed, and Alice did not return. It seemed to him that she took a longtime to remove her papers from the desk. Then he smiled to himself inbitter amusement and impatience. Of course his sister-in-law was tryingto discover the secret of the double bottom. She would probablypersevere until she had gained the precious document of which he hadcome in search. She would read it, and then--He broke off in hisreverie with an exclamation of impatience. What a fool he had been toattempt to deal with this woman alone! He had, it was true, expected tofind Mrs. Ashe, but he should have sent a lawyer. What did he, a puppetfrom the Clergy House, know of managing the affairs of life? He feltthat he had failed in his match with Mrs. Singleton; and he had almostmade up his mind to go in search of her, when he heard her returning. 

She came in with her face flushed, her eyes shining, and an air oftriumph which struck dismay to the heart of Maurice. 

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, " she said, "but I had tolight a fire in the parlor, I was so cold. However, I have something toshow you that will interest you. "

"Is it the will?" he asked eagerly. 

She answered with a laugh, but led the way across the narrow frontentry into the parlor. The pleasant noise of a crackling fire soundedwithin, and as he entered the room he saw that the fireplace was filledwith a ruddy blaze. Then he rushed forward with a cry. There on the topof the blazing logs were the unmistakable remains of the desk, eatenthrough and through by tongues of red flame. He seized the tongs, anddragged the burning mass to the hearth, but even as he did so he sawthat he was too late. 

"It is kind of you to want to save my old desk, Maurice, " jeered hiscompanion; "but I had the misfortune to put the poker through thebottom of it before I called you, so that I'm afraid it really isn'tworth saving. "

He saw that the wood had indeed been punched through and through, andthat it was reduced almost to a cinder. It was easy to see that thebottom had been double, and burned flakes of paper were visible amongthe remains; whether of the will or not it was obviously impossible nowto discover. He looked at the burned bits of board falling into ashesand cinders at his feet, realizing that here was an end to all hisdreams of regaining his aunt's fortune; that with this dream ended, too, his visions of being in a position to offer Berenice--His wrathblazed up in an uncontrollable force. 

"You are a fiend!" he cried, facing the woman who smiled beside him. "You are a thief, a shameless, deliberate thief!"

She stood the image of mirthful, innocent girlhood, her smooth foreheadunclouded, her eyes gleaming as if with the merriment of a child. 

"It is a pretty fire, isn't it, Maurice?"

Then her whole expression changed. Into her dark, dewy eyes came a lookof rage, visible murder in a glance. 

"You called me a liar, there in Boston, " she said hissingly. "I am notsurprised to have you add thief now. I have only done what I chose withmy own property; but I would have been cut into little bits before youshould have had that will through me!"

He could not trust himself to reply. He felt that if he spoke he mightbreak out into curses, and he was conscious of an unmanly longing tostrike her, to mar that beautiful, false face, childlike and pure inevery line, --for the expression of rage had melted as quickly as it hadcome, --to feel the joy of seeing her limbs slacken and her red lipsgrow white. He clinched his hands and turned resolutely away. 

"I'm sure I don't know that there was anything there that you had anyinterest in, " she pursued lightly. "I tried as long as I dared to getthe bottom open, and I couldn't, so I decided that it wasn't any of mybusiness. Only when I put the poker through there seemed to be papersthere. "

Maurice could endure no more. He started toward her so fiercely thatshe recoiled, a sudden pallor blanching her rosy loveliness. Then heturned abruptly away again, and got out of the house. 

 XXXII

 NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS Romeo and Juliet, ii. 4. 

Interest in the question who would be bishop increased as Lent wanedand the time for the meeting of the convention approached. The generalpublic could not be expected to be greatly concerned about a matter sopurely ecclesiastical, but the wide popularity of Mr. Strathmore gaveto the election a character of its own. The question was generally heldto be that of the prevalence of liberal views. Many who cared nothingabout the church were interested in seeing whether new or old ideaswould prevail. The age is one in which there is a keen curiosity to seewhat course the church will take. It is partly due, undoubtedly, to theinherited habit of being concerned in theology; it is perhaps morelargely the result of unconscious desire for a liberalism so great thatit shall justify those who have been so liberal as to lay aside allreligion whatever. 

The papers had entered into the discussion with an alacrity quickenedby the fact that at this especial season there was not much else in theway of news. Rangely wrote for the "Daily Eagle" a glowing editorial inwhich he urged the choice of Strathmore on the ground that the newbishop should be not the representative of a faction, but of the wholechurch, and as far as possible of the people. It insisted that only aman liberal himself could have breadth to understand and sympathizewith all shades of feeling. Others of the secular press had taken upthe discussion, and Mrs. Wilson declared that the devil wascontributing editorials to the papers in his keen fear that FatherFrontford would be elected. 

Lent wore at last to an end, and the festivities which follow Eastercame in with all their usual gayety. One evening, about a week beforethe election, a musicale was given at the house of Mrs. Gore. Mr. AndMrs. Strathmore were present, the tall figure of the former beingconspicuous in the crowd which after the music surged toward thesupper-room and later eddied through the parlors. Fred Rangely cameupon the clergyman at a moment when he had detached himself from theadmiring women who usually surrounded him, and taken refuge in theshadow of a deep window. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Strathmore, " Rangely said. "Are you making aretreat? I thought Lent was the time for that. "

The other smiled with that kindly benevolence which was characteristic. 

"Ah, Mr. Rangely, " he responded, extending his hand. "I am glad to seeyou. Will you share my retirement?"

"Thank you, " Rangely answered, stepping into the recess. "A retreat isespecially grateful to a journalist. We get so tired that even a momentof respite is welcome. "

Mr. Strathmore smiled more genially than ever. 

"Yes; you journalists are expected to know everything, and it must bewearing to have to learn all that there is to know. "

"Oh, it's easy enough to learn instead how to appear to know. "

The clergyman regarded him with a quizzical look. 

"Is that the way it is done? I've often wondered at the infallibilityof your guild. "

"A trick, of the trade, I assure you. We have to seem to be infallibleto secure any attention at all, you see; and we soon learn the knack ofit. "

The clergyman, as if unconsciously, drew back a little farther into theshadow of the heavy draperies veiling the nook in which they stood. 

"I dare say, " he observed, as if speaking at random, "that one of yourclever professional writers would be able, for instance, to give thereader quite an inside view even in church matters. "

Rangely's face changed, and he in turn altered his position by leaninghis elbow against the heavy middle sash of the window. The two men werethus not only concealed from the passing crowd, but stood with facesscreened from each other by the shadow. 

"Oh, even that might be possible, " Rangely returned lightly. 

"There is so much interest in church matters now, " the other continueddispassionately. "I noticed that the 'Churchman' had rather a strikingarticle two or three weeks ago on a layman's point of view of thebishop question. Did you see it?"

"I seldom see the 'Churchman, '" Rangely replied in a voice not whollyfree from constraint. 

"It is a pity you didn't see this, it was so well done. It is true thatit proved me to be all sorts of a heretic; but if I am, of course itshould be known. "

There was a pause of a moment. Outside in the drawing-room rose theconstant babble of speech, unintelligible and confusing. Then above itRangely laughed softly. 

"The wisdom of the journalist, " he remarked, "is as nothing compared tothat of the clergy. How did you discover that I wrote it?"

"Discover? Isn't that a word applied to finding things by seeking?"

"What of that?"

"I was merely thinking that you give me credit for more leisure andmore curiosity than I possess if you suppose me to have tried to findout about that article. "

Rangely laughed again. 

"Mr. Strathmore, " he said with a new resolution in his tone, "will youpardon me if I am frank? I want to ask you what I can do to help you tosecure the election. "

"Don't think I am given to word-splitting, Mr. Rangely, but I've nowish to _secure_ it. If the church needs me--but, after all, we neednot quibble. Will you pardon me if I say that your question is ratherremarkable coming from the author of the 'Churchman' paper. "

"Although I wrote the 'Churchman' article, I wrote also the 'Eagle'editorial, " was the reply. "I see things in a different light. The factis that I was trapped into writing that stuff for the 'Churchman, ' andnow I'm anxious to undo any harm I may have done. "

"I am glad that you do not really think me as bad as that article mademe out, " Strathmore said. "There have been some queer things about thiselection. Mrs. Gore has a letter that a woman has written whichillustrates how injudicious some of those interested have been. "

"What sort of a letter?"

"A letter that is amusing in a way. Of course I only mention the thingconfidentially. Very likely, though, Mrs. Gore might be willing to letyou see it if you are interested. It was written to a clergyman in thewestern part of the State by Mrs. Wilson. "

"Mrs. Wilson?"

"Mrs. Chauncy Wilson. Of course you know that she is much interested inthe matter. It isn't a very discreet document. I shall be much relievedwhen the whole thing is settled. It causes too much excitement, especially for us who have been named in connection with the office. "

"It can't be pleasant, " Rangely assented. 

"It is not, I assure you. Now it is my duty to be talking to ladies andhelping Mrs. Gore. She told me that she depended on me. "

He moved forward as he spoke, and the two were soon in the companyagain. Rangely weltered through the crowd to Mrs. Gore and asked aboutthe letter. 

"It is a trump card, " she said. "I am glad you spoke about it. I waswondering how it could be used to the best advantage. Mr. Strathmoretalks about its being a private letter, but I have a shrewd suspicionthat he wouldn't mind if somebody else used it. Come in to-morrow aboutfive, and we'll talk it over. "

Maurice Wynne was naturally not entirely at home in this sort of agathering. He had not overcome his shyness and want of familiarity withsocial usages, so that he was especially relieved when he found himselfcomfortably seated in a corner with Mrs. Herman, to whom he could talkfreely. 

"Isn't there something that can be done for Phil, Mrs. Herman?" heasked earnestly. "I haven't seen him since I left the Clergy House. Ihad to come away without saying good-by to him, and in answer to myletter he says that Father Frontford advises him not to see me for thepresent. "

Mrs. Herman sighed, playing with her fan. 

"Life is hard for a nature like his, " answered she. "He is born to be amartyr. He has the martyr temperament. It's part of our inheritancefrom Puritanism, I suppose. "

Maurice smiled, looking up impulsively. 

"I can't see why you lay so much stress on Puritanism, " he said. "Whathas Puritanism resulted in? Its whole struggle has come to an end indoubt and agnosticism and flippancy. Intellectual curiosity has takenthe place of spiritual stress; ethical casuistry or theologicalamusements seem to me to stand instead of religious conviction. "

Mrs. Herman regarded him with an inquiring smile. 

"You make me feel old, " she interposed; "it is so long since I wentthrough that stage. Will you pardon me for saying that you are notquite a disinterested observer?"

"It is the eyes newly open that see most clearly, " he responded, throwing back his head with a little laugh. "The Puritan came into thewilderness to establish a city of God. Time has shown that he dreamedan impossible dream. The result of that effort has been theestablishment of a religious liberty"--

"One might almost say a religious license, I own, " she interpolated. 

"A religious liberty or license as you like, but at any rate somethingthat would have seemed to them appallingly wicked, --a thousand timesworse than anything they fled from into the desert. "

Mrs. Herman was silent a moment while he waited for her answer. Hereyes grew darker, and the color flushed in her cheeks. 

"It is odd enough for me to be the champion of Puritanism, " she said atlength, "and yet it seems to me that after all they did their workwell, and that it was permanent. They left on the land the stress ofsincerity and earnestness. Creeds fall away just as leaves drop fromthe trees, but each leaf has helped. Religions decay, but the salvationof the race must depend upon human steadfastness to conviction. "

"Then I suppose that you think Phil is nearer to the heart of thingsthan I am. "

"Not in the least. The difference between you is superficial ratherthan real so long as you are both true to your convictions. "

"But it seems to me, " Maurice objected, "that Phil is looking at truthas a sort of fetish. He seems to feel that the root of the matter is ina dogma, and a dogma is only the fossil remains of a truth that is goneby. "

She laughed appreciatively. 

"Have you caught the fever for making epigrams? I'm afraid there's agood deal of truth in what you say about Cousin Philip. He can't helplooking at religion as an end rather than a means. "

"Has it ever struck you that he might finish by going over to theCatholics?"

"No, " she answered, "I confess I'd never thought of it; but I see whatyou mean. "

"It will seem to him a moral catastrophe, a sort of ecclesiasticalcataclysm, " Maurice continued, "if Father Frontford isn't elected; andas far as I can judge there isn't much chance of that. "

"No, " she assented, "I don't think there is much chance. "

"He said to me one day, " added Maurice thoughtfully, "that in theCatholic Church there never could have been any danger of the electionof a heretic bishop. I am afraid this will decide him. "

Mrs. Herman regarded him with a smile, studying him as if she werereading the working of his mind. 

"You think that a misfortune, " she commented. "You feel that it is astep farther into the darkness. "

"It is to narrow rather than to broaden his horizon, is it not?"

She played with her fan a moment, smiling to herself in a way which hedid not understand, and looking down as if considering some old memory. Then she met his glance with a look at once kind and wistful. 

"It isn't of much use to argue the matter, I suppose, " were her words. "It seems to me as if in talking to you I see my old mental self in amirror, if you'll pardon me for saying so. When we come out from anyconviction, and most of all from a religious belief, it seems to us aprofound misfortune that any man should still believe what we havedecided is false. By and by I think you will see that the chief pointis that a man shall believe. What he believes doesn't so much matter. It must be the thing that best suits his temperament. "

"Then to outgrow a dogma is to weaken our power. It certainly weakensour faith in general. "

"Yes, " she assented, "that is the price we must pay for freedom; but ifPhilip can still believe, I have long ago passed the place where Ishould regret it. Perhaps he is to be envied. "

Maurice shook his head. 

"We may feel like that in some moods, " he concluded with a smile, "butcertainly nothing would induce you to change places with him. " "Oh, no, " she cried; "certainly not. But that is mere womanly lack oflogic!"

 XXXIII

 A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN Love's Labor's Lost, i. 1. 

The disappointment of Maurice at the failure of his effort to securehis aunt's fortune was perhaps rather more than less keen because theproperty had never tangibly been his. The title of the fancy is that ofwhich men are most tenacious, and the thing which has been held in feeof the imagination is precisely that which it is most grievous to lose. Maurice returned to Boston completely overcome by the result of hisexpedition, his mind overflowing with chagrin and anger. 

It was not only the money which he had missed, but he had to histhinking lost also the hope of being in a position to press his suitwith Berenice. However intangible might be his plans for winning her, they none the less filled his mind. He refused to regard her coldnessas enduring. He had in his thoughts imagined so many tender scenes ofreconciliation in which he magnanimously forgave her for the sharpnessof the repulse of their last meeting or humbly besought pardon for hisown offenses, that he came to feel as if all misunderstanding hadreally been done away with. It had been in his mind that if he were butin a position to meet Berenice on equal terms in regard to fortune allmight be well; and to be deprived of this hope was infinitely bitter. 

Meanwhile he had before him the problem of reshaping his life. It wasnecessary that he decide what should take the place of the professionwhich he had laid down. Fortunately the decision was not difficult, asformer inclination had practically settled the matter. The definiteshaping of his plans came one day in a talk which he had with hiscousin. 

"It isn't exactly my affair, Maurice, " Mrs. Staggchase said, "but Iwant to know, and that always makes a thing her affair with a woman, --what are you going to do with your life now that you have pulled it outof the mouth of the church?"

"It is good of you to care to ask, " he answered. "I suppose I shallstudy law. "

"May I talk with you quite frankly?" she asked. "Fred does me the honorto say that for a woman I have a reasonably clear head. "

"You may say whatever you like, Cousin Diana. I shall only begrateful. "

"Well, then, in the first place, how much have you to live on?"

"I've about a thousand dollars a year. What was left of the estate atmother's death amounts to about that. I wanted to give it all to thechurch when I went into the Clergy House. "

"Why didn't you?"

"Father Frontford wouldn't allow it. He said that a continual sacrificemeant more than an act that stripped me of power to decide, and whichmight be regretted. "

"That was a noble temper, " Mrs. Staggchase remarked thoughtfully. "Apriest is a strange being. As for you, you say you have never believed, and yet you would have given up everything you possessed. "

Maurice flushed, and looked a little shamefaced. 

"I never did believe, so far as I can see now; but I thought I did, ifyou see the difference. My wanting to give up everything wasn't belief;it was a sort of instinctive desire to play fair. If I were to do thething at all, my impulse was to do it thoroughly. It isn't in my bloodto do a thing half way. I'm afraid the explanation doesn't speak verywell for my common sense; but so far as I can understand myself that'sthe way of it. "

"But if you didn't believe what were you there for?"

"I was there because Phil was. I don't pretend to understand why I, wholed Phil in everything else, who did all sorts of things that hecouldn't and had to decide everything else for him, should havefollowed his lead so in religion; but I did. It was part of my caringfor him. It would have hurt him so much if I hadn't, that of course Ihad to. "

Mrs. Staggchase regarded him keenly. He turned away his eyes, thinkingof his friend and of the wide gulf which had opened between them, sothat he but half heard and did not understand the comment she madesoftly. 

"The _ewigweibliche_ in masculine shape, " she murmured, smiling toherself. "When the real came, it couldn't hold its power any longer. "

"What?" he asked. 

"Nothing. I was speaking in riddles. To come back to business, --you sayyou've decided upon the law. "

"Yes. That was always my choice. I read a good deal of law while I wasin college. It wasn't till I graduated two years ago that I fell intotheology. It's two years wasted. "

"Oh, perhaps, and perhaps not. After all, experience in youth isgenerally worth what it costs, little as we think so when we pay theprice. Well, then, you can easily live on your income if you choose. Mr. Staggchase and I will be glad to have you make this your home, and"--

"But, Cousin Diana, " he interrupted in astonishment, "there iscertainly no reason why you should burden yourself with me. Not that Iam not a thousand times obliged to you, but"--

"Be as obliged as you like, " interrupted she in turn, "only don't befoolish. Fred and I are not exactly sentimentalists, and we both knowwhat we wish. He likes to have you to talk with, and when you havelearned to smoke you will find him a very clever and agreeablecompanion after dinner. He knows the world, and he'll teach you a greatmany things that you'd be slow to find out for yourself. As for me, youamuse me, let us say. The gods have spared us the bother of children;but the gifts of the gods are always to be paid for, and we begin tofeel as if there were a sort of loneliness ahead of us with nobody tobe especially interested in. To have somebody younger to care for is aluxury when you are young yourself, but it's a necessity to age. Iassure you that we shouldn't have you here if we didn't want you, andthat we shall turn you out without scruple when we are tired of you. "

"Very well, then, " he responded with a laugh, "I am rejoiced to remainto be a blessing. "

They looked into the fire a little time as if they were consideringwhat effect upon the future this new arrangement would have; then Mrs. Staggchase glanced up with a smile. 

"Just now, " she remarked, "before you are plunged in the study of thelaw, you may do escort duty for me. I am going to call on BereniceMorison. "

"On Miss Morison?"

"Yes. Her grandmother is staying with her. Mr. Frostwinch has goneabroad, you know, and as the old house belongs to Bee, she is stayingon there. "

"But--but she won't care to see me. "

"Very likely not, " assented his cousin coolly, "but she'll endure youfor my sake. "

"I don't like being endured, " he retorted, between fun and earnest. "Besides, she's so much money"--

"You are not such a cad as to be afraid of her money, I hope. "

"Not in one way, but don't you see now that she has so much, and I havelost Aunt Hannah's"--

"Really, Maurice, " she interrupted brusquely, "you must learn not tospeak your thoughts out like that! I'm not asking you to go to proposeto Bee. You have the theological habit of taking things with toodreadful seriousness. Come with me for a call, and don't bother aboutconsequences and possibilities. "

Maurice blushed at his own folly in betraying his secret scruples, buthis cousin spared him any farther teasing, and they went on their waypeacefully. It seemed to him when he entered the stately Frostwinchhouse that it had somehow been transformed. Everything was much as ithad been in the lifetime of Mrs. Frostwinch, yet to his fancy alllooked fresher and more cheerful. He smiled to himself, feeling thatthe change must simply be the result of his knowledge that this was nowthe home of Berenice; yet even so he could not persuade himself thatthe alteration was not actual. He felt joyously alert as he followedMrs. Staggchase to the library, where Bee was sitting with old Mrs. Morison. 

He had never been in this apartment before. It was high, and heavilymade, with an open fire on the hearth, and enough books to justify itsname. Berenice came forward to meet them, and Mrs. Morison remainedseated near the fire. 

"I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Staggchase, " Bee said cordially. "It isjust one of those dreary days when it proves true courage to come out. "

"And true friendship, I hope, " the other answered, passing on to Mrs. Morison. "My dear old friend, I wish I could believe you are as glad tosee me as I am to see you. "

Berenice in the mean time gave her hand to Maurice graciously, but witha certain grave courtesy which he felt to put them upon a purelyceremonious footing. 

"It is kind of you to come, " she said. "Grandmother will be glad to seeyou. "

Maurice tried hard to look unconscious, but he could not helpquestioning her with his eyes. She flushed under his eager regard, anddrew back a little. 

"I am very glad of the chance to see--Mrs. Morison, " he answered. 

Bee flushed more deeply yet. Then she turned mischievously to Mrs. Morison. 

"Grandmother, " she said, "it seems that Mr. Wynne came to see you andnot me. "

The old lady greeted him kindly. 

"I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Wynne, " she said. "I hopethat your arm does not trouble you at all. "

"Not at all. I was too well taken care of at Brookfield. "

Mrs. Staggchase laughed, spreading out her hands. 

"There, " said she gayly, "you see! He has only been in my hands a fewweeks, but I call that a very pretty speech. "

"He probably has a natural gift for pleasing speeches, " Bereniceremarked meaningly. 

Maurice crimsoned, but his education had not proceeded far enough forhim to have any reply. 

"Well, take him away, Bee, and give him tea or gossip. I want to talkto your grandmother about old friends, and you young people won'tunderstand. "

"He may have tea if he is tractable, " responded Bee. "We are evidentlynot appreciated, Mr. Wynne. Will you ring the bell over there, please. "

He did as he was directed, and then followed her to the tea-table at alittle distance from the fire. He was full of a troubled joy, themingled delight of being with her and the consciousness that he hadfirmly determined in his own mind that he had no right to show her hisfeelings. He said to himself that he could bear anything else betterthan that she should think of him as a fortune-hunter. Her wealthloomed between them as a wall which it were dishonorable even toattempt to scale. His brain was busy phrasing things which he longed tosay to her, words seemed to seethe in his head, yet he found himselfstrangely tongue-tied and awkward. When most of all he desired toappear at his ease, he was most completely uncomfortable and self-conscious. 

A servant came with the tea, and he was able to cover to some extenthis uneasiness by serving the ladies. When this was done, and he satnervously stirring his own cup, he found himself searching his mind invain for those things which it would be safe to say. His brain was fullof things which must not be said. He could think only of things whichit was not safe to utter; and his discomfiture increased as he saw MissMorison watching him with a half-veiled smile. 

"By the way, " she said at length, when the silence was becoming toomarked, "I fulfilled your request. "

"My request?" he echoed, unable to remember that he had made any. 

"Yes. Have you forgotten that you came to ask me"--

He put out his hand impulsively. 

"Please don't!" he interrupted. "It is bad enough to remember what anunmitigated idiot I was without the humiliation of thinking that youremember it too. "

"I remember, " she responded, with a sparkle in her eye, "that you didnot seem to relish the mission on which you were sent. However, Iaccepted the intention, and I have promised the men a continuance oftheir stipends. " Her face grew suddenly grave, and she added: "I can'tjoke about it, though. I really did it because Cousin Anna would havewished it. "

They were silent now because they had come so near a solemn subjectthat neither of them cared to speak. The thoughts of Maurice went backto the day he had come to do the errand of Father Frontford, and hischeek grew hot. 

"I hope you will believe, " he said eagerly, "that I had really no ideaof how very ill your cousin was. She seemed so well when I saw her thatit was all unreal to me. I wish I could tell you how sorry I have beenfor you. I have thought of you. "

She raised her eyes to his, and they exchanged a look in which therewas more than sympathy. Maurice felt her glance so deeply that for themoment he forgot all else. Obstacles no longer existed. He was lookinginto the eyes of the woman he loved, and thrilling as if her heart wasquestioning his. It seemed to him that her very self was demanding howdeep and how true had been his thought of her in her time of sorrow. Hebent forward, sounding her gaze with his, trying to convey all theunspoken words which jostled in his brain. Her eyes fell before hisburning look, and her head drooped. The room was darkening with thecoming dusk, and they sat at some distance from the others. He laid hishand on hers. 

"Berenice!" he whispered. 

She rose as if she had not noted. 

"Don't you think it is time for lights, grandmother?" she said in avoice so unemotional that it sent a chill to his heart. 

"It is certainly time for us to be going home, " Mrs. Staggchaseinterposed, rising in her turn. 

And far into the night Maurice Wynne vexed his soul with vain endeavorsto decide what Berenice meant by her treatment of him. 

 XXXIV

 WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED Hamlet, iv. 7. 

The grief which Philip felt over the apostasy of Maurice overshadowedfor a time every other feeling. He sorrowed for his friend, praying andyearning, searching his heart to discover whether his own influence orexample had helped to bring about this lamentable fall; he turned overin his mind plans for bringing the wanderer back to the fold; he ceasedto think about the coming election, and thought of his ill-starred lovehardly otherwise than as a possible sin which had helped perhaps tolead to this catastrophe. 

Affection between two men is much more likely to be mutual than thatbetween two women. Men are more generally frank in their likes anddislikes, they are as a rule more accustomed to feel at liberty to beopen and to please themselves in their familiarities; and it seems tobe true that men are more constant in friendship, as women are said tobe more constant in love. Affection between women, moreover, is apt tobe founded upon circumstance, while that between men is more often amatter of character. 

The fondness of Philip and Maurice for each other was of long standing;it had arisen out of the mutual needs of their natures, and was part oftheir growth. Philip was the one most dependent upon his friend, however, and now he felt as if he were torn away from his chiefsupport. He reasoned with himself that he had been letting affectionfor his friend come between him and Heaven; he tried to feel thatProvidence had interfered to break down his idol; yet to all this hecould not but answer that Maurice had been always a help, and that itwas impossible to believe that Providence would accomplish his good bythe hurt of his benefactor. He did assure himself that his sufferingwas the will of a higher power, and as such to be acquiesced in andimproved to his spiritual good. If the voice of his secret heart, thatinner self from which we hide our faces and whose words we soobstinately refuse to hear, cried out against the cruelty of thisdiscipline, he but closed his ears more resolutely. To listen would beto yield to temptation. He would not see Maurice; he hardly permittedhimself to read his friend's letters. He answered these notes by fervidappeals to the wanderer to return to the fold, to be reconciled withthe church, to take up again the priesthood he had discarded. Hard asit was, he still strove for what he felt to be the other's lastinggood. 

Lent ended, and the gladness of Easter came upon the land; the springshowed traces of its secret presence by a thousand intangible anddelicate signs in sky, and air, and earth: there was everywhere a stirand a quickening, a blitheness which belongs to the vernal season only. Philip felt all these things by the growing sharpness of the contrastbetween his mood and that of the world without. His melancholy andunrest seemed to him to grow every day more intense and unbearable. 

That Father Frontford did not more fully realize Philip's condition wasprobably due to the near approach of the election. As the time for theconvention drew near, the supporters of the rival candidates redoubledtheir exertions; there was hurrying to and fro, writing of letters andcontinued consultation, all of which inevitably distracted theattention of the Father. He did perceive, however, that Philip wastroubled, and nothing could have been more tender or considerate thanhis attitude. He did not talk to Ashe about Maurice, but he contrivedto make his deacon understand that no blame was attached to him for theapostasy of Wynne. Philip found a new affection for the Fatherspringing in his heart, so soothing, so winning was the sympathy of theSuperior. 

The days passed on until the convention actually assembled. Philip wasfeverishly anxious; yet he persistently assured himself that he had nodoubt in regard to the result. He felt that the end had beenaccomplished by the work which had already been done; and theconvention itself seemed to him somewhat unreal and unmeaning. It hadin his mind not much more than the function of announcing a resultwhich he felt to have been arrived at already in the canvassing oflists of delegates in which he had taken part at Mrs. Wilson's. Untilthe thing was formally announced, however, it was impossible to be atease. 

The first day of the convention was mainly one of organization and ofpreparation. Business was disposed of and all made ready for theelection of the morrow. Philip went into the convention in the hour ofrecreation. He tried to be interested in matters which he assuredhimself were of real importance; yet he found his memory dwelling onMaurice and the times they had talked of this convention. Even hisefforts to fix his thoughts on the election itself could not drive hisfriend from his mind. He walked home at last, saying passionately thathe had ceased to care for the church, for its welfare, its fate; thathe had cared only for his own selfish desires and interests. He lookedback upon the convention which he had left, and saw mentally a pictureof men who seemed strange and remote, concerned with matters which hedid not understand, in which he had no interest. He felt completely outof key with everything; he longed for Maurice with unspeakable pain. He had rested on Maurice. In every mental crisis he had depended uponfinding his friend at hand, sympathetic, strong, responsive; he hadcome to be as one unable to stand alone. It seemed impossible for himto go on longer without seeing his fellow, his friend, his confidant, his support. The convention and the Clergy House alike became misty andaccidental in comparison with his own desperate need of Maurice. 

A couple of blocks from the House he was joined by a fellow deacon. 

"I say, Ashe, " was the other's greeting, "did you ever know anything sounfortunate as that Wilson letter?"

Philip turned upon him an uncomprehending face. 

"What is the Wilson letter?" he inquired absently. 

"What? Don't you know about it? I saw you at the convention. "

"I was there a little while; but there was nothing said about a letter, that I heard. "

"Oh, there has been nothing said about it in the convention, but theysay it will turn the scale. "

"But what is it?"

"It's a letter Mrs. Wilson--Mrs. Chauncy Wilson, you know--you mustknow who she is?"

"Yes; I know her. "

"Well, this is a letter that she wrote to a rector in the western partof the State, --his name was Briggs or Biggs, or something of that kind. She said that if he didn't vote for Father Frontford she could get himout of his parish. "

"What!" exclaimed Philip. "She couldn't have written such a thing!"

"There's a fac-simile of it in the hands of every member of theconvention. "

"But how did it get out?"

"They say, " answered the other, eager to impart his information, "thata man named Rangely had it printed, and sent it around. I don't knowwho he is, but he's a newspaper man, I believe. "

"I know who he is, " Philip returned, "but I thought he was a friend ofMrs. Wilson. I've seen him at her house. How did he get the letter?"

"I'm sure I don't know; but he had it. He's written a circular to gowith it. He says that that is the way the friends of Father Frontfordare trying to secure the election. There is a great deal of feelingabout it. "

"But will it make much difference?"

"They say that it will turn the scale. There are a number of men whowere in doubt, and this is likely to be enough to insure Mr. Strathmore's election. "

"What a disgraceful trick!" Philip cried indignantly. "Father Frontfordisn't responsible for what Mrs. Wilson did. Besides, it doesn't changethe real facts of the case. It doesn't make Father Frontford any theless the right man. "

"Of course it doesn't, " was the reply. "But I've been talking with myuncle. He's a delegate from Springfield. He says that he's sure it willget Mr. Strathmore elected. "

The news gave Philip a shock, but it seemed impossible that a trivial, outside trick like this could alter the conscientious vote of thecandidates. He was uneasy, but he seemed to have lost all vital careabout the election, and even this disconcerting event did not greatlychange his feeling. He reproached himself that he cared so little; yethis personal misery so absorbed him that his thoughts wandered evenfrom this new cause for self-reproach. 

After supper that night he was summoned to the Father Superior. 

"I wish you to do an errand for me, " Father Frontford said. "I presumethat you have heard of the publication of Mrs. Wilson's letter. It maydo harm, and whatever happens I want her to know that I do not blameher. She acted unwisely, no doubt; but her intention was good. Besides, I really became responsible when I trusted so much to her judgment. Ishall be happier if I know that she is not thinking that I feeldisposed to be vexed with her. "

The tone in which this was said was too sincere for Philip to doubtthat the Father uttered his true feeling. He looked into the face ofthe other, and was struck by the complete weariness, almost exhaustion, which marked it. He went on his way haunted by those deep-set eyes, sofull of pain, of fatigue, and, it seemed to Philip, of self-reproach. 

Mrs. Wilson was not at home, so that Philip had only to leave the note. He turned back, crossing the Public Garden in the soft evening. Overhead was the mysterious darkness, quivering with stars. The airwas full of suggestions of advancing spring. He felt in his veins anunreasonable restlessness, a stirring as of sap in the tree, a longingfor that which he could not define. He heard around him gay voices andlaughter, for the night was warm, and people were sitting about on thebenches or strolling along the walks. He began to examine the groups hepassed, looking with a curious eye at the couples sitting side by sidein friendly or in loving companionship. He felt so utterly alone, andall these about him were mated. The tones of women sounded soft andsweet in his ear. Stray verses of Canticles began to float through hismind as wisps of vapor drift across the sky before the fog comes infrom the sea. He repeated the collect for the day, and through it allhe was thinking that it was possible to walk past the house of Mrs. Fenton. The difference in the time of his reaching the Clergy Housewould not be so great as to attract notice; he might see her shadow onthe curtain; it was not probable, of course, but it was possible; inany case, he should feel near to her. He walked more quickly, and as hedid so he heard the notes of a guitar, and then the sound of a girlsinging. It was only the hard, coarse voice of a street-singer, and thelanguage was Italian. He did not understand the words, but the musicwas seductive, the night of spring, star-lit and fragrant withintangible odors, quickened his sense. Constantly recurring in thesong, as if set there for his ear, he understood the magic word"_amóre, amóre_" strung like beads down the necklace warm on a girl'sbosom. Surely he had a right to be human. All the world had leave tolove. He had given Mrs. Fenton up; she was only a memory; he shouldnever speak to her again; it could not be wrong simply to walk past herhouse. He had lost even his friend; if this poor act were a comfort, itsurely was not sin. "_Amóre--amóre_, " sang the Italian girl over therein the warm, palpitating night. He had consecrated his love as anoffering on the altar; surely he need not therefore deny it. 

He had gained Beacon Street, and was walking rapidly, his cheeks hotand flushed, his heart on fire. Far down a neighboring street he heardthe approach of a band of the Salvation Army. They were singingshrilly, with beating of tambourines and clanging of cymbals, a vulgar, raucous tune, redolent of animal vigor and of coarse passions, a tuneas unholy as the rites of a pagan festival. Ashe stood still as withflaring torches they drew nearer. The blare of the brass, the vibrant, tingling clangor of the cymbals, the high, penetrating voices of thewomen, the barbaric rhythm of the air, made him in his sensitive moodtremble like a tense string. He shivered with excitement, nervous tearscoming into his eyes so thickly that he turned away blinded, andstumbled against a man who was passing. 

"My good brother, " exclaimed a rich, Irish voice, jovial, yet notwithout dignity, "you don't see where you are going. "

Philip recognized instantly the tones of the priest whom he had met atthe North End; and without even apologizing he answered with anoverwhelming sense of how true were the words in a figurative sense:--

"No, I cannot see. "

The other was evidently impressed by the manner in which the reply wasgiven, for instead of passing on he stopped and examined Ashe closely. 

"Can I do anything for you?" he asked. 

"Providence has sent you to me, I think, " Philip returned. Then he puthis hand on the arm of the stranger, bending forward in his eagerness. "Where do you live?" he asked. "May I come to see you to-morrowafternoon? It may be that you can tell me where I am going. "

 XXXV

 THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED Merchant of Venice, iii. 2. 

However much or little the ill-starred letter of Mrs. Wilson may havehad to do with it, the fact was that both houses of the conventionelected Mr. Strathmore by majorities sufficiently large to satisfy evenhis friends. The lay delegates were more generally in his favor thanthe clergy, which circumstance gave for a time some shadowy hope to thehigh-church party that the House of Bishops might refuse to confirm theelection; but whatever consolation was derived from such an expectationwas of short duration. The election was ratified, and almostimmediately preparations were begun for the consecration of the newbishop. 

Father Frontford remarked to an interviewer at the close of theconvention that "it was not the least happy of the incidents of theelection that Mr. Strathmore had been chosen by a majority so decided, since it indicated clearly the wishes of the church;" and he used hisinfluence to prevent any attempt to induce the House of Bishops tooppose the choice of the convention. As soon as the matter was settledhe called upon Mr. Strathmore and offered his congratulations inperson. 

"It is true that I would have prevented your election had I been able, "he said frankly; "but that was entirely a question of church polity. Ihardly need say how complete is my confidence in your sincerity andyour ability. "

"Brother, " Mr. Strathmore replied, with that smile whose charm no mancould resist, "I thank you for coming, and I thank you for yourgenerous words. One thing we may be sure of and be grateful to God for. The church is certainly too great and too stable to be shaken by themistakes of any one man. If we differ sometimes about the best way ofshowing it outwardly, we at least are one in wishing the best interestsof religion and of humanity. "

Father Frontford had had some difficulty in soothing Mrs. Wilson afterthe election. She declared vehemently that the House of Bishops shouldnot confirm Mr. Strathmore. 

"I will go to New York myself, " she announced. "I know I can manage theMetropolitan. If he's on our side we can prevent that infidelStrathmore from getting a majority. "

It is possible that Father Frontford, with all his decision, might havebeen unable to prevent some demonstration, but Dr. Wilson quietlyremarked to his wife:--

"Elsie, we've had enough of this bishop racket. I'm devilish tired ofthe whole thing, and I wish you'd find a new amusement. "

"But, Chauncy, " she responded, "think how maddening it is to be beaten!And as for that Fred Rangely, I could dig out his eyes and pour in hotlead!"

Wilson chuckled gleefully. 

"You played your private theatricals just a little prematurely. It wasdevilish clever of him to get back at you that way; but that letter hasmade newspaper talk enough about you, and you'd better drop churchpolitics. Isn't it time to get your stud into shape for the summer?"

Elsie shrugged her shoulders. 

"I don't know. I hate to give it up while there's a fighting chance. The campaign has been a lot of fun. However, I suppose you are right. You have a dreadfully aggravating way of being. Besides, I am prettytired of parsons, and horses wear better. "

She therefore managed to secure a visiting English duke with acharacteristically shady reputation, gave the most brilliant dinner ofthe season in his honor, and retired to her country place in a blaze ofglory; finding some consolation for all her disappointments in thepurchase of a couple of new racers with pedigrees far longer than thatof the duke. 

Easter came that year almost at its earliest, and it was thereforefound possible to have the consecration of the new bishop in June. Toit were assembled all the dignitaries of the church. Boston for acouple of days overflowed with men in ecclesiastical garb; and if thegeneral public was not deeply stirred by the importance of the event, all those connected with it were full of interest and excitement. 

Mrs. Wilson surprised her friends by returning to town and reopeningher house for the consecration week. She announced to her husband herintention of doing this as they sat in the library at their countryplace while Dr. Wilson smoked his final pipe for the night. They hadbeen dining out, and had driven home in the moonlight, chatting of thepeople they had seen and the gossip they had heard. Elsie was in highspirits, amusing her husband by her satirical remarks. At last shesaid:--

"I hope, Chauncy, you won't mind if I go off for a week. "

"Off for a week? Where are you going?"

"Into town to open the house for the consecration of the great BishopStrathmore. "

"Well, " her husband said, laughing, "I like your grit. If you can'twin, you won't show the white feather. "

She laughed in turn, as gleefully and as musically as a child. 

"I'm going for revenge. "

"Oh, that's it. Is Rangely to die?"

"Pooh, it isn't Rangely. He's too insignificant. I can snub him anytime. It's better fun than that. "

"Well, let's hear. "

"You know that Marion Delegass is to end her season with a week inBoston. "

"Well? You are not going to Boston to see her, are you? You've seen herin Paris and New York enough to last, I should think. "

"Oh, no; I'm going to meet her. "

"Marion Delegass, the most notoriously disreputable actress even on theFrench stage? Well, she'll be a change from your parsons. "

"Luckily her last week is the week of the consecration of the heathen. "

"Is she to take part?"

"Don't be flippant. I am to give Mlle. Delegass a luncheon. I'vearranged it by letter. By one of the most curious coincidences in theworld it comes on the very day of the consecration. "

"That is amusing, but I don't see that it's much of a revenge. "

"No?" Elsie responded demurely, casting down her eyes. "I am so sorrythat Mrs. Strathmore can't come. "

"Mrs. Strathmore? You didn't ask her!"

"Why, of course, Chauncy, I wanted to show that I hadn't any illfeeling against the family of my bishop. "

"To meet Marion Delegass?"

"Of course. I thought it would liven Mrs. Strathmore up a little. Shealways reminded me of water-gruel with not enough salt in it. "

Dr. Wilson burst into a roar of laughter, leaning back in his chair andslapping his knee. 

"Marion Delegass! Why she's left more husbands and lovers behind herthan a sailor has wives! Marion Delegass and that prig in petticoats!Well, Elsie, you do beat the devil!"

"Am I to understand that you know His Satanic Majesty well enough tospeak with authority?" she laughed. "What do you think now of myrevenge?"

"I don't exactly see where the revenge comes in. She won't come to thelunch. "

"Come? Oh, no; thank Heaven, she won't come. She'd be like a death'shead in a punch-bowl. She won't come, but she'll tell that she wasinvited. She'll be too furious not to tell; and everybody will knowthat I asked her. That's all I care about. "

Wilson laughed again. 

"Well, " he said again, "you are the cheekiest and the most amusingwoman in town. You'll shock all your relations, but they must begetting hardened to that by this time. "

Whether the relatives were on this occasion more or less shocked thanupon others was not a question to which Elsie devoted any especialthought. She gave her luncheon, and all the world knew that she hadinvited Mrs. Strathmore to meet Marion Delegass on the day of theconsecration. Mrs. Strathmore was so enraged that she talked flames andfury, even going so far as to wonder whether there were not somepossibility of excommunication; so that her tormentor was enchantedwith the success of her revenge. 

The consecration took place on a beautiful June day, and was asimposing a function in its line as Boston had ever seen. Trinity wascrowded to overflowing, and if the ceremony was less imposing thanwould have been the induction of a Catholic bishop, it was impressiveand dignified. The sunlight filtering through the windows of stainedglass splashed fantastic colors over the long surpliced train whichwound through the aisles down to the chancel, singing processionals ofjoyous hope; the air was full of the sense of solemn meaning; the organpealed; the noble words of the fine old ritual spoke to the hearts ofthe hearers, and carried their message of a faith which took hold uponthe unseen. Above all the circumstance, the form, the conventions, thecreeds, rose the spirit of the worshipers, uplifted by the thrillingrealization of the outpouring of the soul of humanity before theunknown eternal. 

Maurice had accompanied Mrs. Staggchase and Miss Morison to theceremony. It had been his impulse not to go, but his cousin urged it, and it needed little to induce him to go to any place where Berenicewas, even though it were a church. He went with some secret misgivinglest the service should move him more than he wished; but to hissatisfaction he found that while he felt æsthetic pleasure, he wasinclined to be critical about the doctrine of the ritual. Hissatisfaction, he reflected, would have been thought amusing by Mrs. Staggchase; but it at least assured him that he had not been mistakenin his mental attitude toward the creed he had discarded. 

The thing which most moved him was the sight of Philip among thesurpliced deacons in the procession. Philip's face seemed to himthinner and paler than of old; he blamed himself that he had notdisregarded his friend's injunction, and insisted upon seeing him. Tohis repeated requests Philip had returned answer that he could not bearthe meeting. Maurice had come at length to feel something almost ofresentment at the wall which this prohibition put between them; but to-day, seeing the white countenance, he experienced a pang of deep self-reproach. He reflected how sharply his defection must have weighed hisfriend down. He should have tried to comfort him; at least he shouldhave assured Phil that in spite of whatever might come his affectionwould remain unchanged. 

He thought lovingly of the old days when he and Phil were together, andof the plans they had sometimes made for keeping if possible togethereven after they went out into the world to work. He had the impatienceof one who has recently put a doctrine by for the blindness, as itseemed to him, which kept Phil still in the power of the oldsuperstition; but with his friend's white face, marked with mentalsuffering, there to soften him, he dwelt little on this, and much onhis affection for his friend and fellow. 

As Maurice brooded, watching Philip moving slowly down the aisle, Berenice bent forward to take a book from the rack, and her face camebetween him and his friend. The thought of Philip vanished as a shadowbefore a sun-burst. He was conscious only of Berenice, sitting there sonear him, her dark eyes serious with the solemnity of the occasion, hercheeks tinged with a color so lovely that the lining of a shell or thepetals of a rose were poor things with which to compare it. He forgotall else, and lost himself in a delicious, troubled dream of what mightbe. Surely, surely she must love him! He could not give her up; it wasnot possible that he should not some day win her. He fixed on her alook so ardent that it seemed to compel her glance to meet his. Theflush in her cheek deepened, and he reflected with an exultant thrillthat even in the absorption of a time like this he could reach and moveher spirit. 

The rest of the service was little to Maurice. He heard the music, listened now and then to the words which were being spoken, thought fora moment here and there upon the strangeness that these people shouldbe consecrating Mr. Strathmore and not recognizing in the least thatthey were assisting at the breaking down of the church; he gave alittle reflection to his own interview with the new bishop, unablecompletely to satisfy himself how far Mr. Strathmore was sincere andhow far simply following out a policy; these and other matters floatedthrough his mind, but they were mere trifles on the surface. His realthought was of Berenice, always of Berenice. The fluttered, troubledlook which he had seen when his gaze had compelled hers, a look whichseemed to him full of confession of things unutterable, full almost ofappeal as if she realized that she was betraying a feeling that shefeared to own even to herself, this look of a moment so fleetingclocks could hardly have measured it, filled him with a wild, unreasoning bliss. He did not again try to challenge her eyes. He satin a dream of happiness; a vague, intangible, ecstatic sense that allwas well, that the universe was in tune, and that all things were butministers of his joy. 

When the ceremonial was concluded Mrs. Staggchase went home withBerenice to lunch with Mrs. Morison. Maurice put them into theircarriage, feeling that he could not let Berenice go out of his sight. He stood on the curbstone watching the carriage as if it had set out ona voyage to regions unknown and far; then smiling at himself with arealization of what he was doing he turned back to go home himself. Ashe did so he came face to face with Philip. 

 XXXVI

 THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT Measure for Measure, iv. I

The mind of Philip Ashe had not become more quiet as time went on, andthe day of the consecration found him hesitating between his old lifeand a new one. Ever since the chance encounter with the Irish priest hehad been going almost every afternoon to talk with this new friend, andone by one he had found his doubts about the supremacy of the Romanchurch fading away. Ashe was of a nature which must rely upon another, and since he was shut off from the companionship of Wynne it wasinevitable that he should lean upon this great, hearty, healthy man, who with the possibility of adding a son to the church received him sowarmly. Philip's nature, moreover, inclined him strongly toward achurch which exercised absolute authority, and in doctrinal points hefound himself surprisingly at one with his teacher. Nothing held himback but the force of habit and a natural hesitancy to break away fromthe faith which he had professed. Undoubtedly his feeling for FatherFrontford counted for much; but the fact, that in the months which hadpreceded the election the Father Superior had been so much absorbedthat intimacy between him and his deacons was impossible, had greatlylessened Philip's sense of loyalty to him. Very tenderly and wisely thepriest led Ashe on, until he was in very truth a Catholic in all butname. 

To his ardent, mystical mind, deeply responsive to the ritual of theolder church, the ceremonies of the consecration seemed poor and thin. He craved symbolism and richly suggestive rites. He had been more thanonce in these latter days to the services of the Catholics, and hisimagination came more and more to demand the embodiment in form of theaspirations of his soul. He tried to stifle the disappointment whichassailed him as the function proceeded, but it was impossible for himnot to realize that the ceremonial of his own faith left him cold andunsatisfied. He missed the warm emotional excitement of the music, theincense, the sonorous Latin, the sumptuous robes, and the romanticassociations of the mass. 

He felt keenly, moreover, that the man who was being to-day installedas the head of the diocese was of tendencies distinctly opposed to hisdesires. He mingled with disappointment that Father Frontford had notbeen chosen a genuine conviction that Strathmore would use hisinfluence to carry church forms toward a worship ever simpler and morebare. He could not wholly smother an almost personal resentment againstStrathmore, and a consciousness that it would be always impossible forhim to regard the newly consecrated bishop with that respect andveneration due to one holding the office. He reflected that the churchmust itself be tending toward a dangerous liberalism if it werepossible for this thing to have come about. He listened dully andconfusedly to the service until the time came when the bishop electmade his vows. He heard the strong voice of Strathmore, vibrant, deliberate, penetrating, repeat with slow solemnity the promise ofconformity and obedience to the doctrine and worship of the church. Thewords tingled through the mind of Ashe like an electric shock. To hisexcited feeling Strathmore was perjuring himself in the name of God, since it was impossible to feel that the new bishop followed orintended to follow either. He experienced a wild impulse to spring tohis feet and protest; he wondered if he only of all the persons in thiscrowded church recognized the shocking irreligion of that vow. Hereflected that in the Catholic communion it would have been impossiblefor popular suffrage to raise to the bishopric a man like this, aheretic and a perjurer. 

The service went on, and Philip sat in a sort of dull stupor. He couldnot think clearly; he was only dreamily conscious of what was going onabout him. The music, the prayers, the solemn words were to him soremote from his true self that he seemed to hear them through a veil ofdistance. He had ceased to have part in this rite; he ceased even toheed it. 

Like one who is lost in idle musing, one who concerns himself withtrifling thoughts lest he realize too poignantly a bitter actuality, Philip sat in his place, now and then glancing about the great church. Changing his position a little, he saw the face of Mrs. Fenton. Hedwelt on it with mingled grief and pain. More and more he becameabsorbed in gazing, while love and anguish swelled in his heart. Heforgot where he was; he saw her only; he felt only her presence in allthe throng. His passion seemed to him greater than ever. He did not foran instant think of her as of one who could or would requite hisaffection; or even as one who belonged to his future life. He wasfilled with a sense of the completeness of his devotion to her; he feltthat he had loved her more than Heaven itself; but he felt also that hewas bidding her good-by. He had not definitely said to himself that achange was before him; yet looking at her he felt it. The shadow of aneternal farewell seemed to be over him. He was benumbed with suffering;he drank in her face greedily; he seemed to himself to be imprintingfor the last time upon his memory that which was dearer to him thanlife, yet which he was to see no more. 

The service ended at last, and once more the long procession of whichhe was a part slowly made its way out of the church. Philip foundhimself in the vestry in the midst of a crowd of ecclesiastics fromwhich he extricated himself with all possible speed; and got once moreinto the open air. He threaded his way among the groups standing on thesidewalks chatting and hindering him. Suddenly a man turned close tohim, and Maurice stood before his face. 

"Phil!" he heard the joyful voice of his friend cry. "My dear old Phil, how glad I am to see you!"

The sound was like a charm which breaks a spell. For the instant allelse was forgotten in the pleasure of being again with his heart-fellow. He could have flung his arms about the other's neck and kissedhim, so keen was his delight. The doubts and distractions which amoment earlier had bewildered and tortured him vanished before Wynne'sgreeting as a mist before a brisk and wholesome wind. He seized thehand held out to him, and clasped it almost convulsively. 

"Maurice!" was all that he could say. 

"I really ought not to recognize you, " Maurice said, in a great heartyvoice which sounded to Philip strangely unfamiliar. "Why in the worldhave you refused to see me? I assure you I'm not contagious. "

They were close to a group waiting on the sidewalk, and withinstinctive shrinking Ashe led the way down the street. Soon they werewalking in much the old fashion, and Philip left his friend's questionunanswered until they had gone some distance. Then he turned with asmile not a little wistful. 

"Certainly it was not because I did not long to see you, " he said. 

Maurice smiled, but Philip sensitively felt a veiled impatience in histone as he replied:--

"Oh, Phil, if I could only get the ascetic nonsense out of you!"

Ashe could not answer. He could not reprove his friend after theseparation--which to him had been so long and so sorrowful, and he hada secret feeling that they were to be more entirely divided. The pairwalked in silence a moment, and then Wynne spoke. 

"Well, I'll not talk on forbidden subjects; but, surely, Phil, you arenot going to throw me over entirely. I wouldn't drop you, no matterwhat happened. "

"I'm not throwing you over, " Philip answered with a choking in histhroat. "I would--Oh, Maurice, " he broke out, interrupting himself, "itisn't for want of caring for you, but if I am ever to help you, I mustkeep my own faith. I have been so troubled and so--There, " he broke offagain, "let us talk of something else. "

He felt that Maurice was studying him carefully. 

"Phil, old fellow, you are hysterically incoherent. What's the matterwith you? It can't be all my going off. Can't you come home with me, and talk it out?"

Ashe shook his head. The more he was touched and moved by the affectionof his friend, the more he shrank from him. This tender comradeshipseemed to him the most subtile of temptations. He feared, moreover, lest he might reveal to Maurice too much of what was in his heart. 

"Not now, " he said. "I must go home at once. "

"Then I'll walk along with you, " rejoined the other. "I do wish you'dlet me help you. You are evidently all played out physically, and halfan eye could see that you've something on your mind. Is it the bishop?"

"That has troubled me a good deal, " Ashe returned, feeling a relief inbeing able to say this truthfully. 

"Well, Phil, if you worry yourself sick over what you can't help, whatstrength will you have for the things that you can do? I'm glad itisn't all my going that has brought you to this, for you lookpositively ill. I wish you'd get sick-leave, and go off a while. "

Ashe shook his head again. He felt that if Maurice went on talking tohim he should lose his self-command. He must get away; yet he could notbear to hurt his friend. He turned toward Maurice and held out hishand. 

"Dear Maurice, " he said, "don't be hurt; but I can't talk with you. Imust be alone. I am upset, and not myself. It is not that I don't trustyou, you know; but there are things that a man has to fight out forhimself. "

The other stopped, and regarded him closely. 

"All right, Phil, " he said. "I understand. If you've got a fight withthe devil on hand nobody can help you. I only wish I could. "

He wrung the hand of Ashe, and added:

"Good-by. I'm always fond of you, old fellow; and you know that whenthere is a place that I can help there's nothing I wouldn't do foryou. "

Ashe tried to answer, but he could not command his voice. He could onlyreturn the warm pressure of Wynne's hand, and then, miserable andhopeless, go on his way to his conflict with the arch fiend. 

Once in his chamber Ashe fastened the door, drew down the shades, andlighted the gas. He laid aside his cassock, and loosened his clothingso that his breast lay bare. He took from a drawer a little crucifix ofiron. This he placed across the chimney of the gas-burner, and watchedit until it was heated. Then he seized it with his fingers, but thestinging pain made him drop it to the floor. He bared his breast, wildly calling aloud to heaven, and flung himself down upon thecrucifix, pressing the hot iron to his naked bosom. A fierce shudderconvulsed him; he extended his arms in the form of a cross, and withclosed eyes lay still an instant. A horrible odor filled the room;great drops of sweat dripped from his forehead; his teeth were set inhis lower lip. For a moment he remained motionless; then inuncontrollable agony he writhed over upon his back and fainted. 

The return to consciousness was a terrible sensation of misery andweakness. He was heart-sick and racked in body and mind. Feebly herose, and gathered his scattered senses. Then with trembling he got tohis feet. His wound gave him bitter agony, but the bodily pain made himsmile. He took from the same drawer a picture of the Madonna, and kneltbefore it with clasped hands. His doubts, his passion, his self-reproaches, danced like demons before his distracted brain. Thetroubled, stormy thoughts of his distraught mind merged insensiblyinto prayers. He put aside the clothing and showed to the Virgin Motherhis wounded breast, scarred and bleeding. He looked into her face withmurmured words of contrition, of imploring, of faith. A gracious senseof her womanly pity, of her heavenly tenderness, stole soothingly overhim. He seemed almost to feel cool hands on his hot forehead; it was asif in a moment more the heavens might open and grant to him thebeatific vision. There came over him a wave of joy which was beyondwords. The longing of his soul for the woman he loved was merged in thedesire of his heart which yearned toward the blessed Virgin Mother. Hisprayers became more glowing, more ecstatic, until in a rapture ofadoration, of bliss, of passion, he fell prostrate before the divineimage, crying out with all his soul:--

"Thou ever blessed one! To thee I give myself! 'O thou, to the arch ofwhose eyebrow the new moon is a slave, ' receive me, save me!"

He had no sense of incongruity to make the phrase unseemly orludicrous. It was to him the formal transfer of his deepest allegiancefrom an earthly love to a heavenly. He had at last found peace. 

 XXXVII

 THIS IS NOT A BOON Othello, iii. 3. 

It was Mrs. Wilson who was the immediate means of bringing about anunderstanding between Maurice and Berenice. Mrs. Wilson was never sooccupied that she was not able to attend to any new thing which mightturn up, and her interest in the spring races did not prevent her fromhaving a hand in the affairs of the lovers. While she was in townattending to the luncheon for Marion Delegass she dined with Mrs. Staggchase, and Maurice took her down. 

"I understand that you are a renegade, " she remarked vivaciously assoon as they were seated. "I wonder you dare look me in the face. "

"Because you are the church?" he demanded. 

"Certainly not now that that Strathmore is bishop, " she retorted, tossing her head. "However, I always said that you were too good to bewasted in a cassock. "

"Thank you. What would you say if I made such a reflection on theclergy?"

"Oh, I've no patience with the clergy!" she declared. "They bore me todeath. There's that solemn-faced friend of yours, Mr. Ashe--his nameought to be Ashes!--he actually lectured me on my worldliness! _My_worldliness, if you please, and I working myself to a shadow for theelection of Father Frontford!"

"He has imagination, you see, " Maurice suggested, smiling. 

"Now you are sneering, Mr. Wynne. I shall talk to the man on the otherside. "

She was good as her word, and left Maurice to devote himself to thelady on his right. He had the American adaptability, and a couple ofmonths had sufficed to make him reasonably at ease at a dinner. Thecontinuous delight he felt in his freedom, moreover, inspired him withan inclination to be frank and communicative, so that if he did nottalk like the conventional man of the world, he managed not to sitsilent. His neighbor to-night was Mrs. Thayer Kent, and he chattedeasily with her about the West, where for a couple of years she hadbeen living on a ranch. Something in Mrs. Kent's talk reminded him ofBerenice, and he sighed inwardly that the latter's mourning preventedher from going out. As if the thought had been spoken aloud, Mrs. Wilson recalled herself to his attention by saying in his ear:--

"It is such a pity Berenice Morison isn't here. Have you seen her sincethe Mardi Gras ball?"

"Yes, " he answered, turning quickly, and vexed to feel himself flush. "I saw her yesterday at the consecration. "

"Did you go? How immoral! I stayed at home and gave a luncheon forMarion Delegass. "

"So I heard; but everybody hadn't such a moral thing as that to do. "

"Oh, no; very likely not. By the way, you have never apologized fordeserting me in the middle of the service that night. "

"I had to take care of that girl. She fainted. "

"Oh, you did? Who was she? What did you do with her? However, I don'tcare. It's none of my business. I wonder, though, what sort of a storyyou'd have told Berenice if she'd been there. "

Wynne was too confused to answer this sally, although he wanted to saysomething about the cruelty of taking him into the ball-room. Hisconfusion increased Mrs. Wilson's amusement. 

"I think I should like to be in at the death, " she said. "She is comingdown to stay with me next week. Come down and make love to her. I won'ttell about the girl you carried out of church in your arms. "

More and more disconcerted and self-conscious, Maurice could onlystammer that Mrs. Wilson flattered him if she supposed that MissMorison would tolerate any love-making on his part. 

"You are adorable when you blush like that, " was the reply which hegot. "I have almost a mind to set you to make love to me. However, thatwouldn't be fair. I will take it out in seeing you and her. You mustsurely come down. "

Maurice regarded the invitation as merely part of Mrs. Wilson'sbadinage, but in due time it was formally repeated by note. He openedthe letter at the breakfast table, and was advised by his cousin toaccept. 

"Mrs. Wilson, " she commented, "is like a banjo, more exciting thanrefined, but she isn't bad-hearted. She has the old Boston blood andtraditions behind her. "

"They are sometimes rather far behind, " interpolated Mr. Staggchasedryly. "She wasn't a Beauchester, you know. However, she has herancestors safe in their graves so that they can't escape her. "

Mrs. Staggchase smiled good-naturedly at the little fling at her ownfamily pretensions. 

"You are wicked this morning, Fred, " was her reply. "Elsie is somethingof a sport on the ancestral tree; but she is worth visiting. BereniceMorison is going down there sometime soon. Perhaps she will be therewith you, Maurice. "

"I thought, " Mr. Staggchase observed, "that old Mrs. Morison didn'tapprove of Mrs. Wilson. "

"Nobody approves of Elsie, " was Mrs. Staggchase's calm reply. "I'm sureI don't; but after all she is a sort of cousin of Berenice, and shecan't very well refuse to visit her. Really, there is nothing bad aboutElsie. She is startling, and she certainly does things which are badform. That's half of it because she married as she did. "

Nothing more was said, and Maurice kept his own counsel in regard tothe fact that he knew that Miss Morison was to be his fellow-guest. Hewas full of wild hopes. He reproached himself that he was wrong toforget that Berenice was rich and he was poor; yet not for all hisreproaches could he keep himself from feeling Mrs. Wilson had notseemed to see any insurmountable obstacle to his wooing; that she hadappeared rather to be ready to help his suit. He must not, of course, try to win Berenice; yet he was going to Mrs. Wilson's to meet her, tobe with her, to revel in the delicious pleasure of hoping, of fearing, of loving. 

The house of the Wilsons at Beverly Farms was on a bluff overlookingthe sea. It was reached by a long avenue winding through pines mingledwith birches and rowan trees; and stood in a clearing where all the dayand all the night the sound of the waves on the cliff answered thewhispering of the wind in the pine-tops. The broad piazzas of the houselooked out over the sea, and gave views of the islands off shore, theever-changing water, the beautiful curves of the sea marge, now highwith defiant rocks, and now falling into sandy beaches. A level lawn, velvety and green, stretched from the house to the edge of the cliff, with here and there a rustic seat or a century plant stiff and arrogantin its lonely exile from warmer climes. 

On this piazza Maurice found himself, just before dinner on the eveningof his arrival, walking up and down with Berenice. It was still coolenough to make the exercise grateful. 

"It is so delightful to have the weather warm enough to be out of doorswithout being all bundled up, " she said, looking over the sea, coldgreen and gray in the declining light. 

"The water doesn't look very warm, " Maurice responded, following hergaze. 

"No, it isn't exactly summer yet, " she replied lightly. "Do you know, "she added, turning to meet his eyes, "I can't help thinking howdifferent this is from the last time we were together away fromBoston. "

"When we were at Brookfield?"

"Yes. "

"It is different; more different to me than you can have any idea of. Then I was a cog in a machine; now I am my own master. "

They walked to the end of the piazza, turned, and came down again. Theywere facing the light now, and her face shone with the pale glow of thedeclining day. In her black dress, with a soft shawl thrown about her, she was dazzling; and Maurice found it difficult not to take her in hisarms then and there. 

"It must have been a strange feeling, " she observed thoughtfully, "toknow that you were not master of your own movements, but had to do asyou were told, whether you approved of it or not. "

"Strange, " he echoed, a sense of slavery coming over him which was farstronger than anything he had felt while the bondage lasted, "it wasintolerable!"

"Yet you endured it?" she returned, regarding him curiously. 

"Yes, I endured it. In the first place, I thought that it was my duty;and in the second, it was not so hard until I had seen"--

"Well, until you had seen?"--

"Until I had seen you, I was going to say. "

Berenice flushed, and tossed her head. 

"You have caught a pretty trick of paying compliments, Mr. Wynne. "

"No, " he answered with gravity, "I have only the mistaken temerity tosay the truth. "

She regarded him with a mocking light in her deep, velvety eyes. 

"And is it the truth that you have given up your religion because youhave seen me?"

Maurice wondered afterward how he looked when she sped this shaft, forhe saw her shrink and pale. She even stammered some sort of an apology;but he did not heed it. Although he was sure that he should sooner orlater have come to the same conclusion whether he had met Berenice ornot, he knew in his secret heart that there was in her words some savorat least of truth. He felt their bitterness to his heart's core, andcould only stand speechless, reproaching her with his glance. If theywere true it was cruel for her to say them. He regarded her a moment, and then turned toward the long French window by which they had comeout of the house. Berenice recovered herself instantly, and behaved asif nothing had occurred to mar the serenity of their talk. 

"Yes, " she said in an even voice, "you are right. It is becoming toocold to stay out here. "

He held open the window for her, and she swept past him with a softrustle and a faint breath of perfume. He did not follow, but drew thewindow to behind her and continued his promenade alone until he wassummoned to dinner. All his glorious air-castles had fallen in ruinsabout his feet, and he rated himself as a fool for having come toBeverly Farms to meet this girl who evidently flouted him. 

The result of this conversation was to bring Maurice to the resolutionto return to town. All the doubts which had been in his mind arose likeghosts ill exorcised, more tangible and more insistent than ever. Herealized that he had come here fully persuaded in his secret heart thatMiss Morison must love him, and with the hope of winning some proof ofit. Now he assured himself that she did not care for him and that hehad been a fool to indulge in a dream so absurd. The obstacles whichlay between them presented themselves to him in a dismal array. Hedecided that she could have no respect for him, or she could not havethrown at him the implication that he had apostatized from selfishmotives. With all the awful solemnity with which a man deeply in loveexamines trifles, he recalled her looks and words, deciding that he wasto her nothing more than the butt of her light contempt; and secretlywondering when and where he should see her again, he decided to leaveher forever. 

He announced his determination next morning to his hostess. As he couldnot well give the real reason for his decision, and had no experiencein social finesse, he came off badly when asked why he had come to thissudden decision. He could not equivocate; and when Mrs. Wilson askedhim point-blank if Berenice had been treating him badly, he could onlytake refuge in the reply that it was not for him to criticise what MissMorison chose to do. He persisted in his resolution to return toBoston, feeling obstinately that he could not with dignity remain wherehe was while Berenice was there. A man of the world would at once haveseen the folly of such a course, but Maurice was not a man of theworld. 

"Well, " Mrs. Wilson said, after she had argued with him a little, "youhave retained the clerical obstinacy, whatever else you've given up. Iam not in the habit of pressing my guests to stay if they are tired ofmy society. If you choose to go, of course you will go. "

"Oh, it is not that I am tired of your society, " poor Maurice put ineagerly. 

"If I were a man, " his hostess went on, "I never would let a woman seethat I minded how she treated me. You'd soon have her coming down fromher high horse if you showed her that you didn't care. "

Maurice flushed painfully. It was impossible for him to talk to Mrs. Wilson about his feeling for Berenice. 

"I am afraid that I had better go, " he said, with eyes abased. 

She regarded him with a mixture of impatience and amusement strugglingin her face. 

"By all means go, " she retorted. "I'll tell Patrick to be at the doorin time to take you to the three o'clock train. "

She swept away rather brusquely, leaving him disconsolate and uneasy. He felt that he had bungled matters; but before he had time to considerBerenice appeared, and joined him on the piazza. 

"I am sent by Mrs. Wilson, " she announced, "to ask you to stay. "

"You take some pains to clear yourself from the suspicion of having anyinterest in the matter. "

"'I am only a messenger, '" she quoted saucily, seating herself on therail of the piazza in the sunshine, and looking so piquant that Mauricefelt resolution and resentment oozing out of his mind with fatalrapidity. 

He flushed at her allusion to his ill-considered interview with her, but he could not for his life be half so indignant as he wished to be. 

"Apparently an indifferent messenger. You evidently do not care whetherI go or I stay. "

"Why should I?"

"Why should Mrs. Wilson?" he retorted, not very well knowing what hewas saying. 

"Oh, Mrs. Wilson is your hostess. Besides, " Bee went on, a delightfullook of mischief coming into her face, "she said that she hated to haveher plans interfered with, and that you were so handsome that she likedto have you about. "

Maurice flushed with a strangely mixed sensation of pleased vanity andirritation, and was angry with himself that he could not receive herjesting unmoved. He bowed stiffly. 

"I am very sorry, " he returned, "that Mrs. Wilson should be deprived ofso beautiful an ornament for her place. "

"Then you will go?" Bee demanded, looking at him with mirthful eyes, aglance which so moved him that he could not face it. 

"I see no reason why I should remain. "

"There certainly can be none if you see none. Well, I want to give yousomething of yours before you leave us. "

She drew from the folds of her handkerchief the little grotesque maskwhich she had pinned upon her lover's cassock at the Mardi Gras ball. Maurice flushed hotly at the sight. 

"You are determined, Miss Morison, to spare me no humiliation in yourpower. "

"Humiliation?" she echoed. "Why, I was humiliating myself. Seriously, Mr. Wynne, I have been ashamed of that performance ever since; and Imost sincerely beg your pardon. The humiliation is mine entirely. "

"But where in the world, " demanded he, a new thought striking him, "didyou get the thing? You know I threw it on the table. "

"Miss Carstair gave it to Mr. Stanford, and I got it from him. "

Maurice came a step nearer. 

"Why?" he asked, his voice deepening. 

"I--I didn't like to have him keep it, " Bee murmured, with downcastface and lower tone. 

"Why?" he repeated, so much in earnest that his voice was almostthreatening. 

She was for a moment more confused than ever, but rallying she held outthe mask. 

"Oh, that I might tease you with it again!" she laughed. 

He took the absurd trinket in his hand. 

"It is pretty badly dilapidated, " he observed. 

"Yes, " she said demurely. "I crushed it in the carriage on the way homefrom the ball. I--I crumpled it up in my hand. "

"Why?"

"You keep saying 'why' over and over to me, Mr. Wynne, as if I were onthe witness-stand. "

"Why?" he persisted. 

He had forgotten all the doubts which had beset and hindered him, thescruples he had had about wooing, and the fears that she did not lovehim. He was conscious only that she was there before him and that heloved her; that her downcast looks seemed to encourage him, so that itwas impossible to rest until he knew what was really in her mind. Theunspoken message which he had somehow intangibly received from her madehim forget everything else. He loved her; he loved her, and a wild hopewas beating in his heart and seething in his brain. He could not turnback now; he must know. He saw her grow paler as he looked at her, standing so close that his face was bent down almost over her benthead. He felt that her secret, nay, the crown of life itself, waswithin his grasp if he did not fail now. 

"Why?" he asked still again, hardly conscious that he said it, and yetdetermined that he would win an answer at whatever cost. 

She raised her face slowly, shyly; her eyes were shining. 

"Because, " she said, hardly above a whisper, "I was determined toconvince myself that I hated you. But then"--

Her words faltered, yet he still did not dare to give way to the warmtide which he felt swelling up from his heart. His voice softenedalmost to the tone of hers. 

"But then?"

The crimson stained her beautiful face, and faded. 

"I think I--I kissed it, " she murmured, so low that the words were merephantoms of speech. 

He tried to answer, but the words choked in his throat. He sprangforward, and gathered her into his arms. It is an art which evendeacons may know by nature. 

When the pair came in to luncheon an hour later, Mrs. Wilson looked upat them, and then without question turned to a servant. 

"You may tell Patrick that we shan't need the carriage for thestation, " that sagacious woman said coolly. 

Maurice was both surprised and touched by the gratification which hisengagement gave to his friends. Mrs. Wilson might be expected to takesatisfaction, since any woman is likely to approve of any match whichshe may be allowed to have a hand in promoting; the Staggchases weredelighted, and Mrs. Morison received him with a kindness which movedhim more than anything else. Mrs. Morison treated him much as if hewere her son. She spoke wisely to him about his future, and she had aword of warning on the subject of his attitude toward religion. 

"My dear Maurice, " she said, after she had come to call him by thatname, "let me give you a caution. The most fanatical belief is lessevil than dogmatic denial. If you are really the agnostic you claim tobe, your very confession that the truth is too great for human graspbinds you to respect the unknown. "

"But one cannot respect dogmas, " he objected. 

"We were not speaking of dogmas, " she responded with sweet anddignified earnestness, "but of the mystery of life and the greatunknown that incloses it. The great fault and danger of this age isthat it is all for breaking down. It reforms abuses and improves awayold errors; but it seems to forget the need of providing something totake the place of what it clears away. Men can no more live without abelief than without air. "

"But it is hard to have patience with what one sees to be false. "

"What one believes to be false, you mean. It isn't easy to havepatience with those who hold to theories that we've laid by; but surelyit is impossible not to respect the spirit in which any honest soulsincerely believes. "

"Yes, " Maurice assented, somewhat doubtfully; "but it is so hard tohave patience with creeds that are entirely outworn. "

The old lady smiled and shook her head. 

"Again I have to say 'which seem to you outworn. ' A creed is neverreally outworn so long as a single man sincerely believes in it. However, you may have as little patience as you like with them if youwill only remember that after all the creed itself is nothing, whilethe attitude of the mind to truth is everything. If you respectconviction, that is all I ask. "

Mrs. Staggchase at another time had also an ethical word for him. Maurice was deeply moved by the fact that Philip had gone into theCatholic church and entered a monastery at Montreal. Like his friend, Ashe had left the Clergy House as soon as he had come to the decisionto which his doubts led. He had seen Maurice, and had talked to himunreservedly of his faith and of his plans. It was idle to attempt tomove him; and it was after bidding the proselyte good-by that Mauricewas talking of him to Mrs. Staggchase, and lamenting what occurred. 

"My dear fellow, " she observed in her faintly satirical manner, "I knowthat I'm growing old, because whereas my convictions used to be allright and my actions all wrong, now my actions are right enough, but myconvictions have all evaporated. Mr. Ashe is still young enough to needconvictions, and the more rigid they are the more contented he'll be. "

"But with his training, to turn out in this way, " responded Maurice. "It's amazing. Think of a New England Puritan turned Catholic!"

"On the contrary, it is the most natural thing in the world. HisPuritan training is what has made him a Catholic. "

Maurice thought a moment in silence. 

"I suppose, " he said at length, "that in this age there are only twothings possible for a thinking man. One must go over to Rome and reston authority, or choose to use his reason, and be an agnostic. "

Mrs. Staggchase regarded him with a smile which made him flush alittle. 

"'No doubt but ye are the people, '" she quoted, "'wisdom shall die withyou. ' Yet I have known persons really of intellectual respectabilitywho haven't found it necessary to do either. "

He was too wise to answer her. He remembered that it was time to keepan appointment with Berenice, and he smiled with the air of one toohappy to be ruffled. 

"I suppose, " he remarked, as he rose to go, "that if I would give youthe chance you would easily prove that Phil and I both are merelyPuritans more or less disguised!"