The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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"I say, Ashe," was the other's greeting, "did you ever know anything so
unfortunate 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 they
say it will turn the scale."

"But what is it?"

"It's a letter Mrs. Wilson--Mrs. Chauncy Wilson, you know--you must
know who she is?"

"Yes; I know her."

"Well, this is a letter that she wrote to a rector in the western part
of 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 him
out 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 the
convention."

"But how did it get out?"

"They say," answered the other, eager to impart his information, "that
a man named Rangely had it printed, and sent it around. I don't know
who he is, but he's a newspaper man, I believe."

"I know who he is," Philip returned, "but I thought he was a friend of
Mrs. 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 go
with it. He says that that is the way the friends of Father Frontford
are trying to secure the election. There is a great deal of feeling
about it."

"But will it make much difference?"

"They say that it will turn the scale. There are a number of men who
were in doubt, and this is likely to be enough to insure Mr.
Strathmore's election."

"What a disgraceful trick!" Philip cried indignantly. "Father Frontford
isn't responsible for what Mrs. Wilson did. Besides, it doesn't change
the real facts of the case. It doesn't make Father Frontford any the
less the right man."

"Of course it doesn't," was the reply. "But I've been talking with my
uncle. He's a delegate from Springfield. He says that he's sure it will
get 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 the
candidates. He was uneasy, but he seemed to have lost all vital care
about the election, and even this disconcerting event did not greatly
change his feeling. He reproached himself that he cared so little; yet
his personal misery so absorbed him that his thoughts wandered even
from 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 presume
that you have heard of the publication of Mrs. Wilson's letter. It may
do harm, and whatever happens I want her to know that I do not blame
her. She acted unwisely, no doubt; but her intention was good. Besides,
I really became responsible when I trusted so much to her judgment. I
shall be happier if I know that she is not thinking that I feel
disposed to be vexed with her."

The tone in which this was said was too sincere for Philip to doubt
that the Father uttered his true feeling. He looked into the face of
the other, and was struck by the complete weariness, almost exhaustion,
which marked it. He went on his way haunted by those deep-set eyes, so
full 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 air
was full of suggestions of advancing spring. He felt in his veins an
unreasonable restlessness, a stirring as of sap in the tree, a longing
for that which he could not define. He heard around him gay voices and
laughter, for the night was warm, and people were sitting about on the
benches or strolling along the walks. He began to examine the groups he
passed, looking with a curious eye at the couples sitting side by side
in friendly or in loving companionship. He felt so utterly alone, and
all these about him were mated. The tones of women sounded soft and
sweet in his ear. Stray verses of Canticles began to float through his
mind as wisps of vapor drift across the sky before the fog comes in
from the sea. He repeated the collect for the day, and through it all
he was thinking that it was possible to walk past the house of Mrs.
Fenton. The difference in the time of his reaching the Clergy House
would not be so great as to attract notice; he might see her shadow on
the curtain; it was not probable, of course, but it was possible; in
any case, he should feel near to her. He walked more quickly, and as he
did so he heard the notes of a guitar, and then the sound of a girl
singing. It was only the hard, coarse voice of a street-singer, and the
language was Italian. He did not understand the words, but the music
was seductive, the night of spring, star-lit and fragrant with
intangible odors, quickened his sense. Constantly recurring in the
song, as if set there for his ear, he understood the magic word
"_amore, amore_" strung like beads down the necklace warm on a girl's
bosom. Surely he had a right to be human. All the world had leave to
love. He had given Mrs. Fenton up; she was only a memory; he should
never speak to her again; it could not be wrong simply to walk past her
house. He had lost even his friend; if this poor act were a comfort, it
surely was not sin. "_Amore--amore_," sang the Italian girl over there
in the warm, palpitating night. He had consecrated his love as an
offering on the altar; surely he need not therefore deny it.

He had gained Beacon Street, and was walking rapidly, his cheeks hot
and flushed, his heart on fire. Far down a neighboring street he heard
the approach of a band of the Salvation Army. They were singing
shrilly, with beating of tambourines and clanging of cymbals, a vulgar,
raucous tune, redolent of animal vigor and of coarse passions, a tune
as unholy as the rites of a pagan festival. Ashe stood still as with
flaring torches they drew nearer. The blare of the brass, the vibrant,
tingling clangor of the cymbals, the high, penetrating voices of the
women, the barbaric rhythm of the air, made him in his sensitive mood
tremble like a tense string. He shivered with excitement, nervous tears
coming into his eyes so thickly that he turned away blinded, and
stumbled against a man who was passing.

"My good brother," exclaimed a rich, Irish voice, jovial, yet not
without dignity, "you don't see where you are going."

Philip recognized instantly the tones of the priest whom he had met at
the North End; and without even apologizing he answered with an
overwhelming 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 was
given, 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 put
his 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-morrow
afternoon? 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 have
had to do with it, the fact was that both houses of the convention
elected Mr. Strathmore by majorities sufficiently large to satisfy even
his friends. The lay delegates were more generally in his favor than
the clergy, which circumstance gave for a time some shadowy hope to the
high-church party that the House of Bishops might refuse to confirm the
election; but whatever consolation was derived from such an expectation
was of short duration. The election was ratified, and almost
immediately preparations were begun for the consecration of the new
bishop.

Father Frontford remarked to an interviewer at the close of the
convention that "it was not the least happy of the incidents of the
election that Mr. Strathmore had been chosen by a majority so decided,
since it indicated clearly the wishes of the church;" and he used his
influence to prevent any attempt to induce the House of Bishops to
oppose the choice of the convention. As soon as the matter was settled
he called upon Mr. Strathmore and offered his congratulations in
person.

"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. I
hardly need say how complete is my confidence in your sincerity and
your ability."

"Brother," Mr. Strathmore replied, with that smile whose charm no man
could resist, "I thank you for coming, and I thank you for your
generous 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 the
mistakes of any one man. If we differ sometimes about the best way of
showing it outwardly, we at least are one in wishing the best interests
of religion and of humanity."

Father Frontford had had some difficulty in soothing Mrs. Wilson after
the election. She declared vehemently that the House of Bishops should
not confirm Mr. Strathmore.

"I will go to New York myself," she announced. "I know I can manage the
Metropolitan. If he's on our side we can prevent that infidel
Strathmore from getting a majority."

It is possible that Father Frontford, with all his decision, might have
been unable to prevent some demonstration, but Dr. Wilson quietly
remarked to his wife:--

"Elsie, we've had enough of this bishop racket. I'm devilish tired of
the 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 hot
lead!"

Wilson chuckled gleefully.

"You played your private theatricals just a little prematurely. It was
devilish clever of him to get back at you that way; but that letter has
made newspaper talk enough about you, and you'd better drop church
politics. 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 pretty
tired of parsons, and horses wear better."

She therefore managed to secure a visiting English duke with a
characteristically shady reputation, gave the most brilliant dinner of
the season in his honor, and retired to her country place in a blaze of
glory; finding some consolation for all her disappointments in the
purchase of a couple of new racers with pedigrees far longer than that
of the duke.

Easter came that year almost at its earliest, and it was therefore
found possible to have the consecration of the new bishop in June. To
it were assembled all the dignitaries of the church. Boston for a
couple of days overflowed with men in ecclesiastical garb; and if the
general 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 reopening
her house for the consecration week. She announced to her husband her
intention of doing this as they sat in the library at their country
place while Dr. Wilson smoked his final pipe for the night. They had
been dining out, and had driven home in the moonlight, chatting of the
people they had seen and the gossip they had heard. Elsie was in high
spirits, amusing her husband by her satirical remarks. At last she
said:--

"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 Bishop
Strathmore."

"Well," her husband said, laughing, "I like your grit. If you can't
win, 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 any
time. It's better fun than that."

"Well, let's hear."

"You know that Marion Delegass is to end her season with a week in
Boston."

"Well? You are not going to Boston to see her, are you? You've seen her
in 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 the
French 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've
arranged it by letter. By one of the most curious coincidences in the
world 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 sorry
that 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 ill
feeling against the family of my bishop."

"To meet Marion Delegass?"

"Of course. I thought it would liven Mrs. Strathmore up a little. She
always reminded me of water-gruel with not enough salt in it."

Dr. Wilson burst into a roar of laughter, leaning back in his chair and
slapping his knee.

"Marion Delegass! Why she's left more husbands and lovers behind her
than 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 to
speak with authority?" she laughed. "What do you think now of my
revenge?"

"I don't exactly see where the revenge comes in. She won't come to the
lunch."

"Come? Oh, no; thank Heaven, she won't come. She'd be like a death's
head in a punch-bowl. She won't come, but she'll tell that she was
invited. She'll be too furious not to tell; and everybody will know
that I asked her. That's all I care about."

Wilson laughed again.

"Well," he said again, "you are the cheekiest and the most amusing
woman in town. You'll shock all your relations, but they must be
getting hardened to that by this time."

Whether the relatives were on this occasion more or less shocked than
upon others was not a question to which Elsie devoted any especial
thought. She gave her luncheon, and all the world knew that she had
invited Mrs. Strathmore to meet Marion Delegass on the day of the
consecration. Mrs. Strathmore was so enraged that she talked flames and
fury, even going so far as to wonder whether there were not some
possibility of excommunication; so that her tormentor was enchanted
with the success of her revenge.

The consecration took place on a beautiful June day, and was as
imposing a function in its line as Boston had ever seen. Trinity was
crowded to overflowing, and if the ceremony was less imposing than
would have been the induction of a Catholic bishop, it was impressive
and dignified. The sunlight filtering through the windows of stained
glass splashed fantastic colors over the long surpliced train which
wound through the aisles down to the chancel, singing processionals of
joyous hope; the air was full of the sense of solemn meaning; the organ
pealed; the noble words of the fine old ritual spoke to the hearts of
the hearers, and carried their message of a faith which took hold upon
the unseen. Above all the circumstance, the form, the conventions, the
creeds, rose the spirit of the worshipers, uplifted by the thrilling
realization of the outpouring of the soul of humanity before the
unknown eternal.

Maurice had accompanied Mrs. Staggchase and Miss Morison to the
ceremony. 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 Berenice
was, even though it were a church. He went with some secret misgiving
lest the service should move him more than he wished; but to his
satisfaction he found that while he felt aesthetic pleasure, he was
inclined to be critical about the doctrine of the ritual. His
satisfaction, he reflected, would have been thought amusing by Mrs.
Staggchase; but it at least assured him that he had not been mistaken
in his mental attitude toward the creed he had discarded.

The thing which most moved him was the sight of Philip among the
surpliced deacons in the procession. Philip's face seemed to him
thinner and paler than of old; he blamed himself that he had not
disregarded his friend's injunction, and insisted upon seeing him. To
his repeated requests Philip had returned answer that he could not bear
the meeting. Maurice had come at length to feel something almost of
resentment 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 his
friend down. He should have tried to comfort him; at least he should
have assured Phil that in spite of whatever might come his affection
would remain unchanged.

He thought lovingly of the old days when he and Phil were together, and
of the plans they had sometimes made for keeping if possible together
even after they went out into the world to work. He had the impatience
of one who has recently put a doctrine by for the blindness, as it
seemed to him, which kept Phil still in the power of the old
superstition; but with his friend's white face, marked with mental
suffering, there to soften him, he dwelt little on this, and much on
his 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 came
between him and his friend. The thought of Philip vanished as a shadow
before a sun-burst. He was conscious only of Berenice, sitting there so
near him, her dark eyes serious with the solemnity of the occasion, her
cheeks tinged with a color so lovely that the lining of a shell or the
petals of a rose were poor things with which to compare it. He forgot
all else, and lost himself in a delicious, troubled dream of what might
be. Surely, surely she must love him! He could not give her up; it was
not possible that he should not some day win her. He fixed on her a
look so ardent that it seemed to compel her glance to meet his. The
flush in her cheek deepened, and he reflected with an exultant thrill
that even in the absorption of a time like this he could reach and move
her 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 for
a moment here and there upon the strangeness that these people should
be consecrating Mr. Strathmore and not recognizing in the least that
they were assisting at the breaking down of the church; he gave a
little reflection to his own interview with the new bishop, unable
completely to satisfy himself how far Mr. Strathmore was sincere and
how far simply following out a policy; these and other matters floated
through his mind, but they were mere trifles on the surface. His real
thought was of Berenice, always of Berenice. The fluttered, troubled
look which he had seen when his gaze had compelled hers, a look which
seemed to him full of confession of things unutterable, full almost of
appeal as if she realized that she was betraying a feeling that she
feared to own even to herself, this look of a moment so fleeting
clocks could hardly have measured it, filled him with a wild,
unreasoning bliss. He did not again try to challenge her eyes. He sat
in a dream of happiness; a vague, intangible, ecstatic sense that all
was well, that the universe was in tune, and that all things were but
ministers of his joy.

When the ceremonial was concluded Mrs. Staggchase went home with
Berenice to lunch with Mrs. Morison. Maurice put them into their
carriage, 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 on
a voyage to regions unknown and far; then smiling at himself with a
realization of what he was doing he turned back to go home himself. As
he 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, and
the day of the consecration found him hesitating between his old life
and a new one. Ever since the chance encounter with the Irish priest he
had been going almost every afternoon to talk with this new friend, and
one by one he had found his doubts about the supremacy of the Roman
church fading away. Ashe was of a nature which must rely upon another,
and since he was shut off from the companionship of Wynne it was
inevitable that he should lean upon this great, hearty, healthy man,
who with the possibility of adding a son to the church received him so
warmly. Philip's nature, moreover, inclined him strongly toward a
church which exercised absolute authority, and in doctrinal points he
found himself surprisingly at one with his teacher. Nothing held him
back but the force of habit and a natural hesitancy to break away from
the faith which he had professed. Undoubtedly his feeling for Father
Frontford counted for much; but the fact, that in the months which had
preceded the election the Father Superior had been so much absorbed
that intimacy between him and his deacons was impossible, had greatly
lessened Philip's sense of loyalty to him. Very tenderly and wisely the
priest led Ashe on, until he was in very truth a Catholic in all but
name.

To his ardent, mystical mind, deeply responsive to the ritual of the
older church, the ceremonies of the consecration seemed poor and thin.
He craved symbolism and richly suggestive rites. He had been more than
once in these latter days to the services of the Catholics, and his
imagination came more and more to demand the embodiment in form of the
aspirations of his soul. He tried to stifle the disappointment which
assailed him as the function proceeded, but it was impossible for him
not to realize that the ceremonial of his own faith left him cold and
unsatisfied. He missed the warm emotional excitement of the music, the
incense, the sonorous Latin, the sumptuous robes, and the romantic
associations of the mass.

He felt keenly, moreover, that the man who was being to-day installed
as the head of the diocese was of tendencies distinctly opposed to his
desires. He mingled with disappointment that Father Frontford had not
been chosen a genuine conviction that Strathmore would use his
influence to carry church forms toward a worship ever simpler and more
bare. He could not wholly smother an almost personal resentment against
Strathmore, and a consciousness that it would be always impossible for
him to regard the newly consecrated bishop with that respect and
veneration due to one holding the office. He reflected that the church
must itself be tending toward a dangerous liberalism if it were
possible for this thing to have come about. He listened dully and
confusedly to the service until the time came when the bishop elect
made his vows. He heard the strong voice of Strathmore, vibrant,
deliberate, penetrating, repeat with slow solemnity the promise of
conformity and obedience to the doctrine and worship of the church. The
words tingled through the mind of Ashe like an electric shock. To his
excited feeling Strathmore was perjuring himself in the name of God,
since it was impossible to feel that the new bishop followed or
intended to follow either. He experienced a wild impulse to spring to
his feet and protest; he wondered if he only of all the persons in this
crowded church recognized the shocking irreligion of that vow. He
reflected that in the Catholic communion it would have been impossible
for popular suffrage to raise to the bishopric a man like this, a
heretic and a perjurer.

The service went on, and Philip sat in a sort of dull stupor. He could
not think clearly; he was only dreamily conscious of what was going on
about him. The music, the prayers, the solemn words were to him so
remote from his true self that he seemed to hear them through a veil of
distance. He had ceased to have part in this rite; he ceased even to
heed it.

Like one who is lost in idle musing, one who concerns himself with
trifling 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. He
dwelt on it with mingled grief and pain. More and more he became
absorbed in gazing, while love and anguish swelled in his heart. He
forgot where he was; he saw her only; he felt only her presence in all
the throng. His passion seemed to him greater than ever. He did not for
an instant think of her as of one who could or would requite his
affection; or even as one who belonged to his future life. He was
filled with a sense of the completeness of his devotion to her; he felt
that he had loved her more than Heaven itself; but he felt also that he
was bidding her good-by. He had not definitely said to himself that a
change was before him; yet looking at her he felt it. The shadow of an
eternal farewell seemed to be over him. He was benumbed with suffering;
he drank in her face greedily; he seemed to himself to be imprinting
for the last time upon his memory that which was dearer to him than
life, yet which he was to see no more.

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