The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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

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

Mrs. Wilson, however, craved excitement, and ethical amusements she
laughed to scorn. She did, it is true, take up high-church piety, which
she treated, as Mrs. Staggchase did not hesitate to say, as a
plaything; but her interest in church matters was chiefly in the line
of politics. She took charge of the affairs of the Church of the
Nativity with a high hand which abashed and disquieted the devout
rector. She liked Mr. Candish, although she did not hesitate to jest at
his unpolished manners and rather unprepossessing person, and it was
inevitable that she should be unable to appreciate his self-denying
devotion. On one or two occasions she had found him to have a will not
inferior to her own; and although she resented whatever balked her
pleasure, she was yet a woman and respected power in a man.

Mr. Candish was of all men the one least resembling the traditional
pastor of a fashionable church, and had nothing of the caressing manner
dear to the souls of self-pampered penitents. Fashionable women found
little to admire in this man with the air of a bourgeois and the
simplicity of a babe. He had, however, a strong will, and a sure faith
which was not without its effect upon his parishioners. Ladies whose
religion was largely an affair of nerves found comfort in relying upon
his simple and untroubled devotion. They were piqued by being treated
as souls rather than bodies, but this was perhaps one of the secrets of
his influence. Every woman of his flock had unconsciously some secret
conviction that to her was reserved the triumph of subduing this
intractable nature, hitherto unconquered by the fascinations of the
sex. An ugly man may generally be successful with women if he remains
sufficiently indifferent to them. His unattractiveness, suggesting, as
it must, the idea of his having cause to be especially solicitous and
humble, imparts to his attitude in such a case an all-subduing flavor
of mystery. The instinctive belief of the other sex is that he is but
protecting his sensitiveness, and each longs to tear aside the veil of
dissimulation. The rector, it may be added, was an eloquent preacher,
and he intoned the service wonderfully. His voice in speaking was
somewhat harsh, but when he intoned, it melted into a beautiful
baritone, rich, full, and sweet, which, informed by his deep and
earnest feeling, thrilled his hearers with profound emotion. Mrs.
Wilson was proud of the effect which the service at the Nativity always
had, and she took in it the double pleasure of one who claimed a share
in religious enthusiasms and who had something of the glory of a
manager whose tenor succeeds in opera.

Into the contest over the election of a bishop to fill the place
recently left vacant Mrs. Wilson had thrown herself with characteristic
vigor. There were but two candidates now seriously considered, the Rev.
Rutherford Strathmore and Father Frontford. The former, a popular
preacher of liberal views, was regarded as the more likely to receive
the appointment, but the High Church party contested the point warmly,
supporting the claims of the Father Superior of the Clergy House which
was the home of Maurice Wynne and Philip Ashe. The political side of
the matter was exactly to Mrs. Wilson's taste. A woman has but to be
rich enough and determined enough to be allowed to amuse herself with
the highest concerns of both church and state; and Mrs. Wilson lacked
neither money nor determination. Her vigor at first disconcerted and in
the end outwardly subdued the clergy. If she actually had less
influence than she supposed, she was at least thoroughly entertained,
and that after all was her object. She interviewed influential persons,
she wrote letters, some of them sufficiently ill-judged, she sought
information in regard to the character and circumstances of the clergy
in the diocese, and did everything with the zeal and dash which
characterized whatever she undertook.

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

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

Maurice looked at him keenly.

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

"I didn't sleep well," Ashe answered with a flush. "I went to Mrs.
Fenton's to dine, and the indulgence wasn't good for me. It's really
nothing."

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

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

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

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

His companion started, regarding the picture with widening eyes. The
English footman, whom Wynne addressed, turned back to say over his
shoulder:--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should remember, Mrs. Wilson," he said a little timidly, yet not
without a gleam of humor, "that our curriculum at the Clergy House does
not include a course in compliment."

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

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

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

Both the young men flushed at her half-contemptuous, half-jesting
phrase, but they sat down as directed. Mrs. Wilson took her seat
directly in front of them, and proceeded to inspect them with cool
deliberation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two young men regarded her in puzzled silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I know Mrs. Frostwinch so slightly," Philip objected, "that I do
not see"--

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

"But"--

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

She spread out her arms in a gesture half imploring, half jocose, her
laces fluttering, her ribbons waving, the ringlets about her face
dancing. Her eyes were brimming with mocking light, and however poorly
she might seem to represent ideas theological she certainly did not
personify failure.

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

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

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

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

He could only reply by a stare. He had never in his life encountered
anything like this woman, and he was bewildered by her audacity, her
alertness, her beauty, and the dash with which she carried everything
off.

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

"Yes; she is my cousin."

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

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

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

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

VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ashe drew back.

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

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

Ashe stood hesitatingly silent in the gateway a moment.

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

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

He hesitated a moment, and then followed her, saying to himself with
suspicious emphasis that the fact that the invitation came from her had
nothing to do with his acceptance. He soon found himself seated in the
great dusky drawing-room of the Frostwinch house, an apartment whose
very walls were incrusted with conservative traditions. It was
furnished with richness, but both with much greater simplicity and
greater stiffness than he had seen in any of the houses he had thus far
been in. The chief decoration, one felt, was the air of the place's
having been inhabited by generations of socially immaculate Boston
ancestors. There was a savor of lineage amounting almost to godliness
in the dark, self-contained parlors; and if pedigree were not in this
dwelling imputed for righteousness, it was evidently held in becoming
reverence as the first of virtues. There are certain houses where the
atmosphere is so completely impregnated with the idea of the departed
as to give a certain effect as a spiritual morgue; and in the drawing-
room of Mrs. Frostwinch there was a good deal of this flavor of
defunct, but by no means departed, merit. Grim portraits stared coldly
from the walls, Copleys that would have looked upon a Stuart as
parvenu; the Frostwinch and Canton arms hung over the ends of the
mantel; while the very furniture seemed to condescend to visitors. Ashe
could not have told why the place affected him as overpowering, but he
none the less was conscious of the feeling. The company was apparently
nearly all assembled when he came in, and he sank down into a chair in
a corner, glad to escape observation.

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