The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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It was no wonder, then, that a midnight service at the Nativity
attracted a crowd. Mrs. Wilson and Wynne had to force a path between
ranks of curious sight-seers in order to make their way to the guarded
pew of the former, which was well up the main aisle. It came to Maurice
suddenly that in his angry mood he was pushing against these worshipers
rudely, and that he was venting upon them a fury which had rather
increased than diminished in his ride to the church. He was seething
with anger; anger against Mrs. Wilson for having put him in a ludicrous
position, at Berenice for her mockery, at Mrs. Staggchase for her
satire, and at all the frivolous fools who had stood around, grinning
to see him made ridiculous. His hurt vanity throbbed with an ache
intolerable, and as he forced his way between the crowding spectators
he felt a certain ugly joy in thrusting them aside.

He was recalled to self-control by the expression in the face of a girl
whom he pressed back to give Mrs. Wilson passage. She turned to him
with a look of surprise and pain, and to his excited fancy her hair in
the half shadow was like that of Berenice.

"You hurt me!" she exclaimed.

"I beg your pardon," he answered with instant compunction. "I did not
mean to. Come with me."

He yielded to the sudden impulse, and then reflected as they passed
down the aisle that he had no right to bring a stranger into Mrs.
Wilson's pew. Having invited her, however, it was impossible to
retract, and he showed her into the slip after Mrs. Wilson. As the
latter turned to sit down, she became aware of the stranger. She
paused, 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 nature
resented the insolence of the glance with which Mrs. Wilson had swept
the stranger, and he came instantly to the rescue.

"I invited her," he said, leaning forward, speaking with a
determination 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 the
change there must be in the mental attitude of the woman who spoke with
haughtiness almost insulting to the stranger, and the penitent who bent
to ask pity and forgiveness from heaven. He tried to fix his thoughts
on his own prayer, but the words ran on as mechanically as might water
flow over a stone. The serious danger of a ritualistic religion must
always be that the mere repetition of words shall come to answer for an
act of worship; and to-night Maurice might have exclaimed with King
Claudius:--

"My words fly up; my thoughts remain below."

The service went on with its deep, appealing prayers for pardon, for
help, for uplifting, and Maurice followed it only half consciously. It
was as if he were drugged, so that only now and then a phrase
penetrated to his real consciousness,--words which in their instant and
particular application were so poignant that he could not avoid their
force.

"'From all inordinate and sinful affections,'" repeated the rich voice
of Mr. Candish, thrilling the church from floor to vaulted, roof, "'and
from 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, hardly
realizing where he was or what was passing around him. The music
swelled and eddied; there was a genuine "Kyrie," wherein a single
voice, a rich contralto, wailed and implored in a passion of
supplication until the whole congregation quivered with the fervor of
the music. Maurice felt himself swayed and lifted upon the rising tide
of emotion. He lost his anger, he swam in billows of celestial delight;
a blessed peace soothed his troubled soul; he knew again some of the
old-time ecstasy. Yet in all this religious fervor there was some
subtle consciousness that it was unreal. He was not able so completely
to 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 such
excitement showed. He had even a whimsical, momentary irritation that
the part of his mind which was acting the devotee could not do it so
well that his other consciousness could not detect the unreality of it
all. Then he struggled to forget everything in the service; to steep
himself 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. He
realized that the crowd, the heat, the excitement, the odor of incense
with which the air was heavy, had overcome her, and that she was
fainting. He rose instantly, and, lifting her, assisted her into the
aisle. She was half in his arms as he led her down the nave, and her
hair, the hair which had seemed to him like that of Berenice, brushed
now and again against his shoulder. He recalled the wreck, when
Berenice had been in his arms, and his religious mood vanished as if it
had 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 an
instant wished to be set free from his bondage to Berenice,--Berenice
who had to-night mocked him and his profession in the eyes of all the
world.

The way to the door seemed interminable. He was eager to get rid of
this stranger and escape. Fortunately the party to which the fainting
girl belonged were at hand to take charge of her; and presently
Maurice had made his way out of the church. He hardly gave a thought to
Mrs. Wilson. She was abundantly able to take care of herself, he
reflected with angry amusement; or, if not, the very pavement would
spring up with troops of men to assist her. She was the sort of woman
whose mere presence creates cavaliers, even in the most unlikely
places.

The cool outer air seemed to wake him from a bad dream. He walked
hastily through the quiet streets toward the Clergy House, full of
disordered thoughts, wondering whether the ball were yet over, or if
Berenice were still dancing in the arms of other men. The blood flushed
into his cheeks at the thought. He hated furiously the partner against
whose shoulder her white, bare arm might be resting. He looked back
with ever growing anger to the scene at the dance, tingling with shame
at the humiliation, at the thought of standing before the women who had
laughed when Berenice had fastened upon his breast the tawdry trinket
which seemed chosen purposely to mock him. He wished that he had kept
the 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 conscious
that if the little mask were still in his possession he should not have
been able to trample on it, but should have taken it to his lips
instead. He remembered that now Stanford wore it. He looked up to the
shining stars and felt the overwhelming presence of night like a child;
his helplessness, his misery, his hopelessness swept over him in bitter
waves.

Late as it was when he reached his room he did not at once undress. He
sat down heavily, staring with hot eyes at the crucifix opposite. From
black and unknown depths of his heart welled up rage against life and
its perplexities. He threw upon his faith the blame of his suffering.
What was this religion which made of all human joys, of all human
instincts only devilish devices for the torture of the very soul? Why
should 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 shudder
that he might be arraigning the Maker of the world; then he assured
himself that he was but raging against those who misunderstood and
misinterpreted the purposes of life.

He flung himself down on his knees before the crucifix in a quick
reaction of mood, extending his hands and trying to pray; but he found
himself repeating over and over: "For Thine is the kingdom and the
power and the glory." He felt with the whole strength of his soul the
force of the words. This deity to whom he knelt might in a breath
change all his agony; might out of overflowing power and dominion and
splendor spill but one unnoted drop, yet flood all his tortured being
with richest happiness. The contrast between his weakness, his
helplessness, his insignificance, and the superabundant resources of
the Infinite crushed him. He was transported with aching pity for
himself and for all poor mortals. He repeated, no longer in entreaty
but with passionate reproach: "For _Thine_ is the kingdom and the power
and the glory." It seemed an insult to the clemency of Heaven to call
so piteously when it were a thing lighter than the puffing away of a
flake of swan's down for One with all power to help and to comfort. If
he were in the hands of a God to whom belonged the universe, why this
agony of doubt? Then he cried out to himself that this was the
temptation of the devil. He cast himself upon the ground, beating his
breast and moaning wildly: "Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" With quick
histrionic perception he was affected by the intensity and the
effectiveness of his penitence, and redoubled his fervor.

Then in a flash came over him the sickening realization that this
devotion was a sham; that it was hysteria, simple pretense. He ceased
to writhe on the floor. It was like coming to consciousness in a
humiliating situation. He blushed at his folly, and rose hastily from
before the crucifix.

"I have been acting private theatricals," he muttered scornfully; "and
for 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 could
have been fathomed by no plummet.

"I do not believe," he said at last aloud, raising his face as if to
address the crucifix. "I have never believed. I have simply bejuggled
myself. I have been a contemptible lie in the sight of men, not even
knowing 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 for
a second too overwhelmed to speak or move. She felt the blood mount to
her temples, and she could see reflected in the eyes of acquaintances
around a mingled curiosity and amusement. Wynne passed on, and she
shrank into her seat, which fortunately was near.

"Who in the world is that, and what did he say to you when you gave him
that favor?" exclaimed her neighbor. "I don't see how you dared to do
it!"

A gentleman took the speaker away, so that Berenice was spared the
necessity of answering. She watched Wynne advance to the group of which
Mrs. Wilson was the centre, and she understood well enough that his
being here was some contrivance of the latter's. She was angry with
Wynne and humiliated by the insult that he had flung at her, yet she
had room in her heart for rage against the woman who had brought him
there. She looked at Mrs. Wilson laughing and jesting, she watched the
comedy proceed as the black domino covered the white shoulders and the
gown of gold and crimson, yet most of all was she conscious of how
straight and strong Maurice stood among the gay group which surrounded
him. The sternness of his mouth, the gravity and indignation of his
look, seemed to her most manly and noble. She felt that he had by his
bearing mastered the absurd circumstances in which he was placed; she
smiled bitterly to think how poor and flippant had been her own
thoughtless jest. When Maurice threw the favor on the table, Berenice
saw Clara Carstair take it up and give it to Parker Stanford. She
watched Wynne and Mrs. Wilson leave the hall, two solemn, black-robed
figures passing like shadows among the dancers. When they had
disappeared she sat with eyes cast down, her thoughts in a whirl of
regret, anger, and confusion.

"Well, did you ever know Mrs. Wilson to get up a circus equal to that
before?" queried her partner, coming back to his place beside her. "She
gets more amazing every day."

"She certainly gets to be worse form every day. It's outrageous that
everybody lets Mrs. Wilson do anything she chooses, no matter how bad
taste it is."

"Oh, she amuses folks," Mr. Van Sandt said. "Nobody takes her
seriously."

"It is time that they did," answered Berenice rather sharply. "Such a
performance as this to-night makes us all seem vulgar,--as if we were
her accomplices."

"Oh, you take it too seriously; besides, I thought that you helped it
on a bit."

Berenice was silenced, but she was none the happier for that. She was
vexed with herself for having any feeling about the incident; but the
word of Wynne came afresh into her mind, and brought the blood anew to
her cheek. She said to herself that she hoped that she should meet him
soon again, that she might wither him with a glance of burning
contempt, ever after to ignore him.

"You think I wouldn't do it," she sneered to some inner doubt; "but I
would!"

She was interrupted by a partner, and went whirling down the bright
hall to the tingling measures of a new waltz; yet all the while she was
thinking of the moment she had stood face to face with Maurice. She
scoffed 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 realize
that at heart she was miserable.

Mrs. Staggchase, on her way out of the hall a little later, stopped and
spoke to her.

"Come, Bee, it is time for you to go home. You don't seem to profit by
the godly example of Elsie Wilson at all."

"Heaven forbid that I should take her as my exemplar!" Berenice flung
back with unnecessary fervor.

"Well," Mrs. Staggchase observed good-humoredly, "there are things in
which 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 in
bringing 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 of
doing an unladylike thing. It is so apt to provoke an ungentlemanly
return. Men, you know, my dear, haven't the fine instincts that we
have. However, I'm sorry that Maurice didn't behave better than you
did. Good-night, dear."

Mrs. Staggchase had hardly gone when Parker Stanford came up with a
favor.

"I am tired, Mr. Stanford," Berenice said. "Thank you, but you had
better 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 get
a 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 Christopher
Plant when he is talking about his last invention in sauces. Don't you
know the way in which he sticks out his eyes, and says: 'It is the
greatest misfortune in nature that the nerves of taste do not extend
all the way down to the stomach!'"

Stanford laughed gleefully.

"Jove, I don't know but he's right. Think of tasting a cocktail all the
way 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 bud
on 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 ran
her hard to-night."

"Oh, even if I surpassed her," Berenice retorted in sudden anger, yet
forcing herself to speak laughingly, "she is entirely safe to leave the
reputation 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 feminine
perversity, avenged herself upon the girl he was escorting.

"How stout Miss Harding is," she commented. "It is such a pity for a
bud."

"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 the
bouillon."

"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 seriousness
sounding through the mock gravity, as he unpinned the little mask and
put it into her hand.

"Thank you, but I don't ask your all. I hope that you didn't value this
especially."

"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 I
cherish most carefully."

He took from his breast-pocket a little Greek flag of silk, neatly
folded. Berenice flushed, recognizing a favor which she had given him
early 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 Clare
Tophaven?"

He looked at her, laughing; then seemed to reflect.

"I don't know that it is right to tell you," he returned; "but if you
won't mention it, I'll confide to you that it must have been Miss
Tophaven. Sweet girl."

"Very. Are congratulations in order?" Berenice inquired.

She was pleased that the talk had taken this bantering tone, and
secretly determined to keep it away from dangerous seriousness.

"Somewhat premature, I should say," Stanford replied. "You see she has
no suspicion of my devotion, and her engagement to Fred Springer is to
come out next week."

The bit of gossip served Berenice well. She had heard it already, but
it was easy to feign surprise, and to chat lightly about the match, as
if she had not a thought beyond it in her mind. To her amazement and
disconcerting Stanford cut through the light talk to demand with sudden
gravity:--

"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 they
sat in the shelter of a great palm, so that she felt herself to be
alone 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. Van
Sandt. 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 the
polite to this everlasting English girl. I wish she was in Australia. I
wonder why in the world an English girl is never able to learn to
dance."

"That I cannot answer. Perhaps their feet are too big; but you must go
back 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. "Why
must you make me say it again? I don't love you, and that is reason
enough why you shouldn't care for me."

"It isn't any reason at all. I should be fond of you anyway. Why, even
if you made a guy of me before everybody as you did to-night of that
clerical thing"--

"Stop!" Berenice interrupted, her color rising and her eyes shining. "I
will not have you speak of Mr. Wynne in that way. What I did was bad
enough."

"Berenice," demanded Stanford, regarding her keenly, "do you mean to
marry _him_?"

"You have no right to ask me whom I mean to marry! I am not going to
marry 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 and
excitement in her heart so great that they seemed to choke her.

"Do you see this?" she asked, holding up the little mask dangling from
her finger. "I fastened this to his cassock to-night. I insulted him in
the sight of everybody. Does that look as if"--

"Is that the same mask?" broke in Stanford. "You begged it of me
afterward!"

She could not command her voice to reply. Shame, grief, indignation,
struggled in her heart; yet her strongest conscious feeling was a
determination that the tears in her eyes should not fall. She slipped
past him, and moved toward the ball-room. With a quick step he gained
her 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 there
were too many curious eyes about her to make any demonstration safe.

"Let me take your arm," she answered. "Folks are watching. We need not
make a spectacle of ourselves. I haven't meant to treat you badly. A
girl never knows how a man is going to take things, and I only meant to
be 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 she
instinctively 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 of
dancers pass.

"Do you really mean," Stanford asked, in a hard voice, "that there is
really 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 anger
in his voice. "I don't propose to go through life wearing the willow
for 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't
get over it."

"He!"

The monosyllable brought to her an overwhelming sense of the confession
which 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 deserted
you. Mr. Stanford found me incapable of dancing, and had to revive me
with bouillon."

XXIX

WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE
Hamlet, i. 2.

Strangely enough the thought which most strongly impressed Maurice
Wynne on the morning following the Mardi Gras ball was the simplicity
of life. He had heard in the early dawn the bell for rising; he had
started up, then upon his elbow realized that he had freed himself from
its tyranny. He had slidden back into his warm place, smiling to
himself, and fallen into a sleep as quiet as that of a child. About
eight he was roused by a brother sent to see if he was ill, his absence
from early mass having been noted. Maurice sent the messenger away with
the explanation that having been out to the midnight service he had
slept late; then, being left alone, he made his toilet with
deliberation. He seemed to himself a new man. There appeared to be no
longer any difficulty in life. He reflected that one had but to follow
common sense, to live sincerely up to what commended itself to his
reason, and existence became wonderfully simplified. He no longer
experienced any of the confusing doubts and perplexities which had of
late made him so thoroughly miserable.

He hesitated to don again the dress of a deacon, but he reflected that
to do otherwise would be to expose himself to the curiosity and comment
of his fellows. With a smile and a sigh he put on for the last time the
cassock, recalling the contemptuous terms in which at the time of the
accident Mehitabel Durgin had referred to the garment. He wondered at
himself for ever finding it possible to appear before the eyes of men
in such a dress, and blushed to think how incongruous the clerical
livery must have looked in the ballroom.

Breakfast was already half over when he appeared, and the reading of
Lamentations was accompanying the frugal meal. He sank into his seat in
silence, casting his eyes down upon his plate lest they should betray
the joy he felt. He knew that he could have no talk with Philip until
after nones, and he was not willing to leave the house without bidding
his friend good-by. While he went on with his breakfast he was busy
planning what he would do when he had left the routine of the Clergy
House behind him. He determined to go to Mrs. Staggchase for advice,
and to ask her to direct him to some quiet boarding-place where he
might reorganize his scheme of life.

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