The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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"But, Phil," Maurice exclaimed in astonishment, "there is surely no
harm 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 talk
we've had forced me to stop lying to myself. I'm not going to see a
sick woman. I'm going to stand where she stood that day."

"If you feel that way about it," Maurice said, putting his hand on the
other'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. I
had made up my mind before I came. Oh, I shall do penance enough for
it; you need not be afraid of that. I shall suffer enough for it."

He started up the stairs, and Maurice followed blindly, full of
sympathy 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-grown
girl, who was reading by the dying light a torn and dirty illustrated
paper. There was little furniture in the chamber; merely the frowsy
bed, a bare table, a single broken chair besides the one in which the
girl was sitting. The floor was bare and dirty; one of the window-panes
was broken and stuffed with a bundle of paper. There were a rusty
stove, a few dishes on the shelf, a kettle and a tin tea-pot. On the
window-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 is
broke, and the pain in me is like purgatory already."

The slatternly girl laid her paper on her knees, but she neither rose
nor spoke. To Maurice she seemed to have an air of contempt.

"I am sorry to hear it, Mrs. Murphy," said Ashe. "I thought that I
would drop in and ask after you."

Maurice involuntarily glanced at him, surprised by the indifference of
the tone. Enlightened by the passionate words which had been spoken
below, he could see that Philip was preoccupied, and gave to the sick
woman no more than the barest semblance of attention. Ashe
mechanically inquired about Mrs. Murphy's wants, his thin cheeks
glowing and his eyes wandering about the room. He was apparently
reacting the scene of the fight, and presently he made a step or two
backward, so that he stood near the middle of the chamber. Here he took
his stand, and seemed to become lost in reverie.

"Might as well set," remarked the girl, looking toward the unoccupied
chair.

Maurice made a slight gesture inviting Philip to the seat; but Philip
remained where he was. Wynne realized that his companion must be
standing where he had supported Mrs. Fenton in his arms; and so
touching was the expression of Ashe's face that he felt his throat
contract. He turned away and looked out of the dim window over the
chimney-pots and the irregular roofs.

"I'm used to falls," the sick woman said. "I've had plenty of 'em. I
left 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 me
I ever left old Miss Hannah."

Maurice turned toward the bed, his attention suddenly arrested. The
name was that by which his aunt had usually been called, and he seemed
to perceive in the talk of the woman something familiar. The
possibility that this battered old creature might be his nurse came to
him with a shock, so broken, so altered, so degraded was she; and as he
looked at her he rejected the idea as preposterous.

"But your husband will be punished for his brutality," Ashe remarked
absently.

He spoke like a man in a dream, as if his whole intent were fixed upon
something so widely apart from the present that he hardly knew what was
passing about him.

"Who wants him punished?" cried out the sick woman with sudden shrill
vehemence. "That's what you rich folks are always after. Who asked the
lady to come here with her purse in her hand to tempt him when he
wasn't himself to know what he was doing? First you get him into a
scrape, and then you punish him for it! What for do I want Tim shut up
and me left to starve in me bed? If Tim's a little pleasant when he's
had a drop more'n would be handy for a priest, whose business is it but
mine? It's little comfort he gets, poor man; and he only takes what he
can get to keep up his spirits in these poor times, and me sick and
can't do for him."

"That's what I say too, Mrs. Murphy," the slatternly girl aroused
herself to interpose. "Them as never had no hard times in their lives
is 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 uncanny
dream. Philip seemed more and more to retire within himself, and Wynne
felt that he must do something to attract attention from his friend's
conduct.

"We haven't anything to do with punishment, Mrs. Murphy," he said
soothingly, coming forward as he spoke. "We came only to see if there
is 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 we
can'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 of
old association and half with an impulse to prove the faint possibility
that this might be Norah Dolen. As he spoke Mrs. Murphy raised herself
on 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 deep
tenderness 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 of
his cassock. He sat down by her on the bed, and she fell back upon the
dingy pillow, breaking into hysterical tears. She caught one of his
hands 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! I
always said you'd be taller than Master John."

The allusion to his half-brother, dead nearly a dozen years, seemed to
carry 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 to
show.

"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't
believe it against me, me darling. I never went to hurt old Miss Hannah
in me life, and the saints knows how she died."

"I never laid any blame on you," he answered. "I knew you wouldn't hurt
a fly."

She broke into painful, hysterical laughter.

"No more I wouldn't. To think it's me own baby boy that I've carried in
me arms, and him a priest!"

The attendant, who had been watching in stupid and undisguised
curiosity, 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 his
sense of humor asserted itself, and helped him to smile at his own
weakness.

"But, Norah," he said, ignoring the taunt, "I want to know about
yourself. We've often tried to find you," he added, a sudden perception
of 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 of
Aunt 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 Mother
of Mercy, I never"--

"I know that," he interrupted, to check her excitement; "but why did
you go off in that way?"

"She told me to go. She ordered me out of the house like a dog, just
because I wouldn't give up Tim when she'd accidentally seen him when
he'd had one drop more than the full of him,--and any poor body might
take a wee drop more'n he meant to take beforehand. She was that hot
in her way when her temper was up, rest her soul,--and that nobody
knows better than yourself,--that the devil himself couldn't hold her
with a pair of red-hot tongs,--saving the presence of your riverinces
for mentioning the Old Gentleman."

Her momentary discomposure at having mentioned the arch fiend in the
presence of those who were his professional enemies gave Wynne a chance
to interpolate a question. He could easily understand that the violent
excitement of a quarrel with her old servant might account for the
sudden death of his aunt. He perceived in a flash how Norah, terrified
by the newspaper reports which had openly accused her of making way
with her mistress, would without difficulty be induced by her husband
to conceal herself. The matter to him most important, however, had not
yet been touched upon.

"But what became of her will?" he asked. "You told me she made a new
one."

"She did that, Master Maurice. Wasn't I night and day telling her she'd
treated you scandalous, and upside down of all reason; and didn't she
send for old Burnham, with the squinchy eyes and the wife that had a
wart 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. Murphy
demanded in much excitement.

"Under the bottom of her desk?" he repeated.

"The double bottom. The little traveling-desk with the little pictures
on the corners. She was that contrary that she wasn't willing you
should find it all fair and open. She wanted to tease you a while
before 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. Murphy
clung to his hand, mumbling over it with tears of delight, and could
hardly be persuaded to let them go. It was only when he had promised to
return on the next day, and the slatternly girl had peremptorily
ordered her patient to lie down and stop acting like a buzz-headed
fool, that he escaped. He hurried down the dark stairway and out of the
house with a step to which excitement lent speed, while Philip followed
in 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 friendly
fashion, "where Mrs. Tim Murphy lives?"

"In the house we came out of," Maurice answered. "She's on the fifth
floor, 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 a
good bit of a climb."

"But we went only as friends," Maurice explained. "She might wish the
consolations 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 the
confession?"

Maurice had not at first recognized the priest to whom he had been in
the habit of confessing at St. Eulalia, but he had known him before
this 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 resolved
not 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 these
visits to St. Eulalia an air almost of under-handedness; but there was
nothing wrong, he told himself, and he would not be vexed at this
moment when he was full of delight at the probability of discovering
the 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 strict
rule of the Clergy House for one which might be more rigid still. The
keen thought now was the remembrance of the wealth which he hoped soon
to possess.

"Phil, old man," he said joyously, "I believe I shall get Aunt Hannah's
money 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 born
of the discovery of the afternoon, was yet rebuked by the silence of
his 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 we
go 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 go
again."

A prickling irritation began to make itself felt in the mind of
Maurice. Even so slight a contact with the material realities of life
as this interest in the will had put him completely out of tune with
the monkish mood.

"Oh, stuff, Phil!" he exclaimed. "For heaven's sake don't be so morbid.
You talk like a mediaeval 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 see
that's the only fault you've committed."

"Maurice," Ashe retorted in a voice of intense feeling, "have you
thrown away everything that we believe? Aren't you with us any more?"

The pronoun which seemed to separate him from the company to which his
friend belonged struck harshly on Maurice's ear. He felt himself being
forced to define for Philip thoughts which he had thus far declined to
define for himself.

"Phil," he said determinedly, "I insist that your way of looking at
this whole matter is morbid; and I won't get into a discussion with
you. I'm in too good spirits to let you upset them. To think I shall
get my property after all."

"But our lives are devoted to poverty."

Maurice turned upon his friend, more exasperated than he had ever been
with him before in the whole course of their lives.

"Look here, Phil," he declared, "if you want to be as mopish as a
mildewed owl yourself, that is no reason why you should try to make me
so too."

There was no response to this, and in silence they went toward the
Clergy House. Just as they reached the door, Maurice turned quickly and
held 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 his
heart he said to himself, "Poor Philip!"

Maurice went next day to see Mrs. Murphy, and for a number of days
thereafter. Norah was sinking, and clung to him with pathetic
tenderness. He learned not much more about the will. She was sure that
it had been concealed under the false bottom of a little traveling-desk
which he remembered, but beyond that she knew nothing. Maurice wrote to
Mr. Burnham, the family lawyer, and the question now was, what had
become of the desk? The effects of the testator had been sold at
auction, but as they had been largely bought by relatives, Maurice
believed that it would not be difficult to trace the missing document.

The interest and excitement of this new business so occupied the
thoughts of Maurice that he almost ceased to think of religious
matters. Perhaps there was more danger to his monastic profession in
this indifference than in the most poignant doubt. He went through his
duties at the Clergy House cheerfully because he thought little about
them. They were part of the routine of life, and when the hour for
recreation came he laid all that aside. He even on one occasion wrote a
hurried note to Mr. Burnham in the hour for meditation, and it amazed
him when he thought of it that his conscience did not protest. He
reflected with a certain naive pleasure that it was possible after all
to modify the strict rules of the house without suffering undue
contrition afterward. The discovery might have seemed to Father
Frontford 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 his
inquiries after it that he gave little consideration to the disquieting
plan of Father Frontford for the securing of Miss Morison's cooperation
in the election schemes. Several days having gone by without farther
allusion to the matter, he decided that his remonstrances had been
effective, and was greatly relieved to be freed from a task so
repugnant under any circumstances and made intolerable by his feeling
for Berenice. It was with a most painful shock, therefore, that he one
day received from the Father the information that Miss Morison had
returned to Boston. He met the Father Superior in the hall one morning
after matins, and although it was a silent hour the latter spoke.

"It is better to see her at once," he added. "Mrs. Frostwinch is very
low, and the sooner the thing is settled the better."

"But," stammered Maurice, "I"--

"I think," the other went on, ignoring the interruption, "that it will
be best for you to call on her this afternoon at exercise hour. She is
likely to be at home then, and it will be rather early for other
visitors."

Maurice struggled with himself, endeavoring to shake off the influence
which this man always exercised over him. He determined to speak, and
to 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 that
this is a silent hour. Although I may speak to you on affairs
concerning the church, that does not give you the right to answer
irrelevantly."

"It is not irrelevantly," Maurice protested, feeling his growing
irritation 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 little
merit," he added, his tone softening persuasively, "in service which is
easy and pleasant. It is in the sacrifice of self and our own
inclinations that we gain the conquest of self. Go, my son, and pray to
be forgiven for pride and insubordination. Do you think that you would
be objecting if it were not for the wound to your vanity which this
work inflicts? You may repeat ten _paters_ for having violated the rule
of silence."

Maurice moved away, feeling that he dared not trust himself to speak
again. To be thus treated like a willful child galled his pride and
quickened all the obstinacy of his nature.

"The rule of silence!" he said to himself angrily as he went. "Are we
in the Middle Ages?"

It came to him as a sort of jeer from an outside intelligence that
after all they were trying to ape mediaeval discipline. He had been for
weeks coming to the point where the whole monastic life seemed to him
fantastic and theatrical; and now that his personal liberty was so
sharply assailed, his self-respect so threatened, he was prepared to
see everything in the most unfavorable light. He laughed bitterly in
his mind at the tangle he was in, and contempt for himself and for the
community took hold of his very soul.

Yet he was not ready to throw off allegiance. The bonds of habit are
strong; the power of old belief is stronger; and strongest of all is
that vanity which holds a man back from the avowal that he has been
mistaken in his most ardent professions. It is one thing to change a
conviction; it is quite another to acknowledge that a belief formerly
upheld with ardor is now outgrown. It is not simply the ignoble shame
of fearing the opinion of others that is involved in such a case, but
that of losing confidence in one's own judgment, of standing convicted
of error in that inner court of consciousness where all disguises are
stripped away and all excuses vain. To see that even the most
passionate conviction may have been mistaken is to feel profound and
disquieting doubt of all that human faith may compass; it is to seem to
be helpless in the midst of baffling and sphinx-like perplexities.
Maurice was already at the point where he could hardly be regarded as
holding his old opinions, but he had not reached that of being ready to
confess that he had been wrong in a matter so vital that error in it
would involve the whole reordering of his life and leave him with no
standards of faith.

He was, moreover, noble in his impulses, and he had too long been bred
in introspection not to perceive now that he was greatly influenced by
his inclinations. He was too honest not to be aware that there was as
much passion as reason in his revulsion from the monastic life, and
that Berenice Morison's perfections weighed as heavily in the scale as
any shortcomings of theology. He reproached himself stoutly, in
thoroughly monkish fashion, and ended by resolving that obedience was a
duty; that the errand on which he was sent was one which would abase
his sinful pride and must be executed for the benefiting of his
spiritual condition.

He said this to himself sincerely, yet he was human, and behind all was
the consciousness that in this bad business there was at least the
consolation that he should be face to face with Berenice. If
humiliation was doubly bitter by being wrought through his love, at
least his love might find some scanty comfort in the very means of his
humiliation.

When the hour for exercise, four in the afternoon, came, Maurice set
out on his mission. He had blushed at himself in the mirror for the
solicitude with which he regarded his image, but he had tried to
believe that this arose only from a disinterested anxiety to appear at
his best in behalf of the object which he was sent to accomplish.

Miss Morison was living with Mrs. Frostwinch, and as Maurice walked
buoyantly along, forgetting his errand and only remembering that he was
to see her, he recalled how on the day when they had first met he had
walked home with her from Mrs. Gore's. He recalled the pretty, willful
turn of her head and the saucy side-glance of her eyes, the proud curve
of 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 woman
perhaps added a certain piquancy to his thought; but he quieted his
conscience with the reflection that he was in the path of duty, and of
a duty, moreover, which was likely to prove sufficiently hard and
humiliating.

Miss Morison was at home, and would see Mr. Wynne.

The high reception room in which he waited for her had a gloomy
formality, a sort of petrified respectability, most discouraging. On
the wall was a large painting, evidently a copy from some famous
original, although Maurice did not know what. The picture represented a
painter with a model in the dress of a nun. The artist was evidently
engaged in painting a saint for some convent, a beautiful sister had
been chosen as his model, and he was improving the opportunity to make
love to her. Her reluctant and remorseful yielding was evident in every
line of her figure as she allowed the painter to steal his arm around
her waist and bend his lips toward hers. Wynne looked at the picture
with vague disquiet. Here was the struggle of the natural human impulse
against the constraint of ascetic vows; the irresistible yielding to
nature and to the call of a passion interwoven with the very fibres of
humanity. The sombre Boston parlor vanished, and he seemed to be in
some old-world nunnery with the unknown lovers. He felt all their
guilty bliss and their scalding remorse. He sighed so deeply that the
soft laugh behind him seemed almost an echo. Turning quickly, he found
Berenice 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 no
attention to me."

"I beg your pardon," he responded, taking her hand cordially. "I was
looking at the picture and wondering what it represented."

"It is that reprobate Filippo Lippi and Lucretia Buti, the nun that he
ran away with. Why it pleased the fancy of my grandfather, I'm sure I
can't imagine. Sit down, please. It is a long time since I have seen
you, and now that Lent is coming, I suppose that you will be lost to
the world altogether."

He sat down facing her, but he did not answer. His voice had deserted
him, and his ideas had vexatiously scattered like frightened wild
geese. He looked at her, beautiful, witching, full of smiles; then
without knowing exactly why he did so, he turned and looked again at
the Lucretia. Berenice laughed frankly.

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