The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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"There," Miss Morison said, when he had been properly ensconced and
Mehitabel had departed, "now it is my duty to entertain you. What shall
I do? My accomplishments are at your service. I can read, without
stopping to spell out any except the very longest words. I can play two
tunes on the mandolin, only that I've forgotten the middle of one and
the other has a run in it that I always have to skip. The piano is too
far off across the hall to be available; so that the little I can do in
that way doesn't count. I can--let me see, I can teach you three
solitaires, or play cribbage, or--I beg your pardon, I forgot."

"You forgot what?" he asked, so intent upon watching the sunlight
filtering 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 in
high repute, to say the least; and naturally we don't play at the
Clergy 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 was
in a different tone.

"I know," said she, "that you must think me frivolous, and that I can't
be 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 being
worldly, I suppose; but it comes to much the same thing."

Wynne could not understand what was the direction of her thoughts, and
he was taken entirely by surprise when she leaned forward impulsively
and took in hers his free hand.

"At least," she said, quickly and eagerly, "I can't forget that you
saved my life, and I thank you from my heart if I don't know just how
to do it in words."

He returned the pressure of her fingers, longing to cover them with
kisses.

"I'm afraid," responded he, "that I've very little claim to glory on
account of anything I did for you. I certainly don't deserve the credit
of having saved you. I only wish I did."

She laughed gayly, springing up from her seat, and he realized that his
voice had lost all trace of unfriendliness. He told himself recklessly
that he did not care; that if he were a thousand times a priest he
could not but be kindly to Berenice.

"Come," she laughed, "we have been through a real adventure; and that's
more 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," she
added. Then she turned toward him, and spoke with seriousness. "At
least, Mr. Wynne, I am not so flighty that I do not thank God for my
escape 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 looked
into its glowing heart thinking gratefully of his preservation and of
the friendly refuge into which he had been brought. No reverent man can
come face to face with death and escape without some feeling of awe and
of gratitude to the power which has preserved him; and Maurice was
filled with a sense of how great had been the hand which could bring
him through such peril, how kind the protection which had preserved
Berenice unscathed. Humility and tenderness overflowed his heart, and
the inward thanksgiving which his spirit breathed was as sweet and as
unselfish as if a personal passion had never invaded his breast.

"It seems to me," Berenice remarked from her place by the window, "that
the woods on the hills over there are already beginning to show signs
of spring. There is a sort of delicate change of color in them that
means buds beginning to grow."

Before he could reply, the door opened, and Mehitabel presented herself
with 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 her
to go on, yet with a desire to know more so burning that he could not
refrain.

"I didn't even know that anybody had come from Boston to see Miss
Morison," he replied; "so that it isn't easy to say whether I know him
or not."

"His name is Parker Stanford, and he's all the signs of being better'n
his grandfathers and knowing it through and through. He's too fond of
his looks to suit me."

"I don't know him," Maurice answered, "except that I've heard my
cousin, 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 as
selfish as a sucking calf!"

"You seem to know him pretty well," commented Maurice. "I suppose
you've seen him often."

"Never saw him in my life till this minute. Young man, I'll tell you
this, though. Every woman with any brains knows what a man is the
minute she claps eyes on him; only if he's good-looking, or awful
wicked, or makes love to her, or forty thousand other things, she'll
deny to herself that she knows any bad about him."

"Then it seems to be much the same thing as if your sex weren't gifted
with 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 her
success in repartee.

As for Maurice, he became wonderfully grave the moment he was left
alone.

XII

THE ONLY TOUCH OF LOVE
Two Gentlemen of Verona, ii. 7.

_To be_ is an irregular verb in all languages, but always regular is
the 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 little
enough about himself; but a mortal in love knows nothing. Love is a
bewildering and a bedazzling fire, wherewith the eyes of youth are so
blinded that they are able to see clearly neither within nor without.
Often it happens, indeed, that the first intimation the heart has of
the presence of the divine flame is the bewilderment which fills the
mind.

Berenice had long been contentedly and unenthusiastically convinced
that, she was to marry Parker Stanford. She approved of him; he was
wealthy, well-born, agreeable enough, and apparently very fond of her.
She had not, it is true, become formally engaged to him. When he had
asked her to become his wife she had teasingly asked for time for
deliberation; but this was not because she felt any especial doubt
about ultimately accepting him. She was pleased, maiden-like, to dally,
and shrank from being formally bound. Her pulses had not yet stirred
with the unrest which love awakens. Her vanity had been pleasantly
aroused, and for the rest she was in all the ignorance of those whom
passion has not yet made wise. She regarded marriage rather as an
abstract thing; she was familiar with the idea that it was a matter of
social arrangement and necessity, to be looked upon as a part of life.
She had, it is true, some vaguely sentimental notion that love was a
necessity, and being persuaded that the match before her was a
desirable 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 liked
him, that answered. To find a man amusing, agreeable, handsome, and
fulfilling the social requirements of a desirable husband seemed to her
unsophisticated mind to love him. She was pleased with her lover; she
was not insensible of the triumph of having won the attentions of one
of 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 decorous
and desirable method of fulfilling the destiny of a woman. She was
willing that the event should be postponed indefinitely, it is true;
and the man himself in her considerations of the future was something
of a shadow; a shadow pleasant enough, yet so remote as to count for
nothing intimately important. She was somewhat less sophisticated than
most modern girls, inheriting that New England nature which is slow to
understand emotion and endowed with the power rather of tenacity than
of spontaneity of passion.

When on the day previous Stanford had come to the train to see Berenice
off, she had been especially gracious. She had been in particularly
good spirits, full of amusement that Mr. Wynne was to be her neighbor
on the train, and that he did not know it. She had chanced to send for
tickets with Mrs. Wilson, the pair had laughingly planned the
arrangement, and Berenice had promised herself some entertainment in
teasing the young cleric on the journey. It pleased her, too, that
Stanford should take the trouble to come to the station, especially as
Kate West, who had tried so hard to secure him despite the fact that
she was ten years his senior, chanced to be meeting a friend and to be
there to see. She allowed herself to smile on her lover with more
warmth than usual, and was a little vexed as well as a little amused by
it afterward. On the train she reflected that if she were to be so
gracious Stanford would press his suit more warmly than she wished; yet
on the other hand it occurred to her that if she were to be engaged to
him, she might as well get it over. Why not marry in the spring and go
abroad? She wished much to go to Bayreuth for the Wagner operas in the
summer, and the aunt with whom she had hoped to travel was not willing
to go. Besides, she really could not afford the trip, and at least
Stanford had plenty of money. The idea of marrying with a thought to
his wealth was distasteful, and she at once said to herself that she
could not do that; but if she were to marry him--As the train rolled on
she had filled in the talk with Wynne with speculations whether it
might not be as well to let Stanford propose once more, and have
matters settled.

These cogitations, however, she interspersed with reflections that her
traveling companion had a beautiful eye and a finely cut nostril; that
he was on the whole a fine-looking man, handsome and well made, if he
were not disguised in that detestable clerical garb; and that his hands
were distinctly those of a gentleman. She liked the tones of his voice
and the carriage of his head, smiling to herself at the thought that in
the latter there was hardly so much meekness as was to be expected in
one of his profession. She laughed at him almost openly, for to the
young woman of to-day there is apt to be something bordering on the
ludicrous and unmanly in a youth who is preparing to take orders, no
matter how great her respect for the completed clergyman. Berenice felt
something not entirely free from a trace of good-natured contempt for
deacons in the abstract, not dreaming that she might be led to make an
exception in favor of this especial deacon in the concrete. She became
more and more alive to the attractions of Wynne, although up to the
time of the accident she hardly realized the fact.

From the moment, however, that the rescuer said to her that Maurice had
saved her life, her feeling was changed. She felt that she had failed
to do Wynne justice; that she had allowed his cassock to be the sign of
a lack of manhood; she accused herself of having wronged him. She began
now to exalt him in her thoughts, and to regard him as a hero. She had
long been aware of the effect that she had on him. From the morning
when 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 been
conscious that he was not indifferent to her presence. She had not
reasoned about it; but it gave her pleasure. It was a passing breath of
homage, pleasing like a breath from some rose-bed passed in a walk. Up
to the moment, however, when she said to herself that he had risked his
life for her, Berenice had never consciously thought of Maurice as a
lover. When she saw him lying insensible, depending upon her, a new
feeling kindled in her breast. She would not think of it; she shrank
from it, and refused to acknowledge it to herself. Yet for her the
world was altered, and however she might try to hide the fact from her
heart, secretly she felt it fluttering and throbbing deep within her
breast.

When the telegram came in the morning announcing the visit of Stanford,
her first thought was one of gratification. The act was friendly, and
it gave her a pleasant sense of importance. The reaction came
instantly. The purport of the visit flashed upon her. She remembered
how she had smiled on Stanford yesterday,--Yesterday that now seemed
so far away that she looked back to it over distances of emotion which
made it strangely remote. She felt that she must receive him; but she
found herself seeking for the means of making him understand that what
he hoped was forever impossible. She certainly could never marry him.
She was sure that the thought could never have been seriously in her
mind. The idea of belonging to him, of having no right to think of
another man with tenderness, became all at once too repugnant to be
endured. She would not consider why her attitude was so different from
that of yesterday; she only insisted vehemently in her thought that now
first she really knew her own mind. Her cheek burned at the reflection
that Stanford was probably sure of her consent to be his. It seemed to
give him a claim upon her; to shut the door upon all other
possibilities; to smutch the whiteness of her soul and render her
unworthy of any man whom she might some day come to love. To remember
that in her secret thought she had actually contemplated being
Stanford's wife made her cringe.

She stood by the window with the telegram in her hands, twisting it to
and fro, wondering what it was possible for her to do. She thought of
excusing herself from her visitor when he should come, but the evasion
seemed to her unworthy, and she was eager to free herself from even the
suspicion of belonging to him. She felt that she could not breathe
freely until she were clear of the faintest shadow of any claim, even
in 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 gave
to his face a certain virility which startled her. It imparted a trace
of something perhaps remotely animal and brutal, subtly altering his
whole expression. He became in appearance at once more vigorous and
more human. For the first time Berenice saw a suggestion of the
possibility that this man might be a master; and the strength in man
that makes a woman tremble also makes her thrill. Some inward voice
cried in her ear: "Here is the reason why Parker Stanford is
repugnant!" But she denied the accusation indignantly in her mind,
putting the thought by, and refusing to see in Wynne anything more than
the man to whom she had cause to be grateful. Yet in that part of her
mind where a woman keeps so many things which she declines to confess
to herself that she knows, Berenice from that moment kept the fact that
this man before her had touched her heart.

She made a strong effort to greet Wynne frankly, and to conceal from
him the feeling which his coming excited. She would have died rather
than show him how glad she was that he had come. She saw the eagerness
of 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 fear
lest he betray himself. She set herself to overcome his reserve; and
when she had succeeded she sprang up with a gay laugh, light-hearted
and full of a delicious, incomprehensible pleasure. She wanted to break
out into singing, so sweet is the delight of new love unrecognized save
as simple joy in living.

The entrance of Mehitabel with the card of Mr. Stanford brought her
back to earth.

"Already?" she said, feeling as if she were defrauded that thus her
moment 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 her
toilet before she descended to her visitor. Some inward personality
seemed to be trying properly to frame the speech by which she should
make Stanford understand that it was idle for him to hope longer; while
all 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 when
she entered the parlor, for the morning was a sharp one. Berenice saw
with appreciation how satisfactory he was in all his appointments and
in his bearing; how well kept and how well bred. She felt, however, for
the first time that he was perhaps a little too faultlessly attired for
a man, and she glanced at his cleanly shaven cheek with an acute memory
of the stout black stubble on the face she had left behind her, yet
carried still in the eye of her mind.

"Good-morning," she said, giving the visitor her hand, and making her
manner at once as cordial and as unemotional as possible. "It was too
good of you to come all the way up here in this cold weather, just to
see me."

He pressed her hand with eagerness, and so meaningly that the color
flushed into her cheeks. His air seemed to her to have in it a
suggestion of intimacy which was irritating beyond endurance.

"There was nothing good about it," he answered. "I had to assure myself
by actual sight that you were safe; and, besides, it gave me an excuse
for coming, and I was only too glad of that."

"Sit down," Berenice said, ignoring the compliment. "It really was
frightful; but I came through safe. Grandmother wouldn't let me see the
paper this morning; but I know the details must have been horrible."

She grew grave as she spoke. She seemed again to see the whole terrible
sight. The wreck, thrusting out tongues of fire, the dead and the dying
strewn about on the snow; Wynne, at her feet, insensible and ghastly in
the uncertain light. She shuddered and drew in her breath.

"Oh, don't let's talk about it!" she exclaimed. "I can't bear to think
of 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 find
the right word.

"It must have been awful," he said hesitatingly; "and I'll never speak
of it again if you don't wish. Only I must say that it was dreadful to
me too. The thought of how near I came to losing you is more than I can
stand."

She leaned back in her chair, suddenly chilled, yet moved by the
feeling in his voice. Her conscience reproached her that she had
allowed a false hope to grow up in his mind. She felt as if he were
establishing a claim upon her, and that at any cost she must make him
see things as they were.

"You are very kind," she responded, trying to keep her tones from being
too cold; "but of course we always feel a shock when any friend has
been through a great danger."

Her eyes were cast down, but she could divine his regard of disquiet
and surprise.

"And especially those we love," he added, leaning forward, and
endeavoring to take her hand.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Stanford," she said hastily. "That is of course
true. Were people in Boston much excited about the accident?"

She felt herself a hypocrite, yet she could not help this one more
effort 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 but
myself. 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 club
instead of being in a burning car. I was half crazy at the thought that
my future wife"--

"Stop!" Berenice broke in. "You mustn't say such things. I'm not your
future wife!"

"Forgive me. I know I haven't any right to say that when you haven't
promised; 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. That
this man had thought of her as his wife seemed almost like an
inexorable bond. She shrank away from him with an impulse too strong
to be controlled.

"But, Berenice, I"--

She sprang up and faced him.

"I have never promised you!" she declared with hurried vehemence. "I
never will promise you! I can't marry you. If I've made you think so, I
didn'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 her
handkerchief to her eyes; but when she heard him rise and hurry toward
her, she went on hastily.

"I've let you go on thinking I'd marry you; I know I have. I thought so
myself; but I've found out that it's all a mistake. I didn't realize
what 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 somebody
else."

"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 shame
and anger to grow pale again. Her first impulse was to leave him; but
she controlled herself. He was her guest, he had come all the way from
Boston to assure himself that she was safe, and more than all she was
sorely aware that she had not treated him well. To have injured a man
is to a woman apt to be an excuse for continuing to treat him ill; but
when the opposite occurs she can be very forbearing.

"There is no other man," she said with dignity. Then she added, more
mildly: "Badly as I may have treated you, I don't think you've quite
the right to say such a thing as that to me."

"I haven't," he acknowledged contritely. "I beg your pardon; but I
surely have a right to ask what I've done to change you so. You were
not 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 need
stand. We are not rehearsing private theatricals. It was very kind of
you to take the trouble to come all the way up here, but you must see
that 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 touched
her. She hated to feel that he was really hurt. It made her seem the
more deeply guilty, and she unconsciously desired to discover in him
some 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 to
know how you escaped. I won't ask you to tell me now, but I keep
thinking about it."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much. I remember a tremendous crash, and
being thrown against Mr. Wynne"--

"Mr. Wynne?"

The tone showed Berenice that Stanford did not attach especial
importance to the question, but asked only from a natural curiosity.
Nevertheless she could not keep her voice from, hurrying a little as
she answered:--

"Mr. Wynne is a young clergyman who was in the seat next to mine. He's
a cousin of Mrs. Staggchase."

"Oh, a clergyman," Stanford echoed.

The tone seemed to her excited mood to be full of intolerable
superiority.

"He may be a clergyman," she retorted with unnecessary warmth, "but he
is a gentleman and a hero. He saved my life!"

"Oh, he did!"

The exclamation stung her beyond endurance. She sprang up with flashing
eyes.

"Mr. Stanford," she exclaimed, "I don't know what you mean to
insinuate, but you will please to remember that you are speaking of the
man 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 to
pace up and down, his gaze fixed on the floor. Berenice felt herself
being swept away by tumultuous feelings which she could neither compel
nor understand. Her mind was in confusion, out of which rose most
definitely the desire that Stanford would go and leave her in peace.

"There is no reason why I should question the right of Mrs. Morison to
choose her own guests," said Stanford at length, pausing, and speaking
with an evident effort to be entirely calm; "and as I know nothing of
this Mr. Wynne, I shouldn't in any case have a right to say anything
about him. You can't wonder, though, that I'm jealous of him for having
had the luck to save your life, or that when I come here and find you
so suddenly different and this man staying in the house and a hero in
your eyes"--

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