VII

THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT

Othello, iv. 1.

"I knew that she was to send me tickets," Maurice Wynne said, standing

with an open note in his hand. "She insisted upon that; but why should

she send parlor-car checks too?"

"It is all part of your temptation," Mrs. Staggchase responded,

smiling. "Of course if you go as the representative of Mrs. Wilson it

is fitting that you go in state. If you were to represent the church

now"--

"If I don't go as a representative of the church," he responded, as she

paused with a significant smile, "I go as nothing."

"Oh, I thought that it was Elsie that was sending you. However, it's no

matter. The point is that you are becoming acquainted with the luxuries

of life. You are being tried by the insidious softness of the world."

He regarded her with some inward irritation. He had a half-defined

conviction that she was mocking him, and that her words were more than

mere badinage. He was not without a suspicion that his cousin was

sometimes histrionic, and that many things which she said were to be

regarded as stage talk. He did not know how far to take her seriously,

and this gave him a feeling at once confused and uncomfortable. To be

played with as if he were not of discernment ripe enough to perceive

her raillery or as if he were not of consequence sufficient to be taken

seriously, offended his vanity; and the man whom the devil cannot

conquer through his vanity is invulnerable. Wynne had no answer now for

the words of Mrs. Staggchase. He contented himself with a glance not

entirely free from resentment, at which she laughed.

"I wonder, Cousin Maurice," she said, "if you realize how completely

you have changed in the ten days you have been here. It is like

bringing into light a plant that has been sprouting in the dark."

He did not answer for a moment, trying to find it possible to deny the

charge.

"The fact that you know me better makes me seem different," he answered

evasively.

"How much has the fact that you don't know yourself so well to do with

it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, anything you like. I merely suspect that you are not so sure of

your vocation as you were in the Clergy House. Even a deacon is human,

I suppose; and if life is alluring, he can't help feeling it. Are you

still sure that the clergy should be celibate, for instance?"

He felt her eyes piercing him as if his secret thoughts were open to

her, and he knew that he was flushing to his very hair. He hastened to

answer, not only that he might not think, but that she might not

perceive that he had admitted any doubt to his heart.

"More than ever," he responded. "It is impossible not to see that a

clergyman who is married must have his thoughts distracted from his

sacred calling."

Mrs. Staggchase leaned back in her chair and regarded him with the

smile which he found always so puzzling and so disconcerting.

"You did that very well," she said, "only you shouldn't have put in the

word 'sacred.' That made it all sound conventional. However, you

probably meant it. She is distracting."

The hot blood leaped into his face so that he knew that it was utterly

impossible to conceal his confusion.

"I don't know what you mean," he stammered.

Instantly his conscience reproached him with not speaking the truth. He

responded to his conscience that it was impossible in circumstances

like these to say the whole, and that what he had said was not untrue.

He could not know what his cousin meant by her pronoun, and if the

thought of Miss Morison had come instantly into his mind, it by no

means followed that it was she of whom Mrs. Staggchase was thinking.

Life seemed suddenly more complex than he had ever dreamed it possible;

and before this remark the unsophisticated deacon became so completely

confused that for the instant it was his instinctive wish to be once

more safely within the sheltering walls of the Clergy House, protected

from the temptations and vexations of the world. He was after all of a

nature which did not yield readily, however, and the next thought was

one of defiance. He would not yield up his secret, and he defied the

world to drag it from him. His companion smiled upon him with the

baffling look which her husband called her Mona Lisa expression, and

then she laughed outright.

"My dear boy," she said, "you are no more a priest than I am; and you

are as transparent as a piece of crystal. Well, I am fond of you, and

I'm glad to have a hand in proving to you that you are not meant for

the priesthood before it's too late."

"But it hasn't been proved to me," he cried, not without some sternness.

"Oh, bless you, it's in train, and that's the same thing. 'Not poppy,

nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the east' could put you to

sleep again in the dream you had in the Clergy House. It will take you

a little longer to find yourself out, but the thing is done

nevertheless."

As she spoke, a servant came to the door to announce the carriage. Mrs.

Staggchase held out her hand.

"Good-by," she said, as Maurice rose, and came forward to take it. "I

hope that we shall see you again in a couple of days. I have still a

good deal to show you."

He had recovered his self-possession a little, and answered her with a

smile:--

"You make it so delightful for me here that I am not sure you are not

right in saying that you are my temptation."

"Oh, I've already given up the office of tempter," she responded

quickly. "I found a rival, and that I never could endure. You'll have

your temptation with you."

It seemed to Maurice when he came to take his seat in the parlor car

that his cousin was little short of a witch. In the chair next to his

own sat Berenice Morison. She greeted him with a friendly nod and smile.

"Mrs. Wilson told me that you were going on this train," she said, "and

she got a chair for you next to mine so that you should take care of

me."

He bowed rather confusedly, but with his heart full of delight.

"I shall be glad to do anything I can for you," he answered, vexed that

he had not a better reply at command.

He saw the dapper young man across the aisle regard him curiously, and

a feeling of dissatisfaction came over him as he reflected upon the

singularity of his garb, and the incongruity between the clerical dress

and the squiring of dames. Religious fervor is nourished by martyrdom,

but it is seldom proof against ridicule. It is not impossible that the

faint shade of amusement which Maurice fancied he detected in the eyes

of the stranger opposite was a more effective cause for discontent with

his calling than any of the influences to which he had been exposed

under the auspices of Mrs. Staggchase.

He could not help feeling, moreover, that there was a gleam of fun in

the clear dark eyes of Miss Morison. She was so completely at ease, so

entirely mistress of the situation, that Wynne, little accustomed to

the society of women, and secretly a little disconcerted by the

surprise, felt himself at a disadvantage. It touched his vanity that he

should be smiled at by the trimly appointed dandy opposite, and that he

should be in experience and self-possession inferior to the girl beside

him. He began vaguely to wonder what he had been doing all his life; he

reflected that he had not in his old college days been so ill at ease,

and it annoyed him to think that two years in the Clergy House should

have put him so out of touch with the simplest matters of life. He said

to himself scornfully that he was a monk already; and the thought,

which would once have given him satisfaction, was now fraught with

nothing but vexation and self-contempt. He had a subtile inclination to

give himself up to the impulse of the moment. He felt the intoxication

of the presence of Miss Morison, and he yielded to it with frank

unscrupulousness. He resolved that he would repent afterward; yet

instantly demanded of himself if this were really a sin. He was after

all a man, if he had chosen the ecclesiastic calling. If indeed he were

transgressing he told himself half contemptuously that as he did

penance doubly, once that imposed by his own spiritual director and

again that set by the Catholic at the North End, he might be held to

expiate amply the pleasure of this hour. He at least was determined to

forget for the once that he was a priest, and to remember only that he

was a man, and that he loved this beautiful creature beside him. He

noted the curve of her clear cheek and shell-like ear; the sweep of her

eyelashes and the liquid deeps of her dark eyes. He let his glance

follow the line of her neck below the rounded chin, and became suddenly

conscious that he was fascinated by the soft swell of her bosom. The

blood came into his cheeks, and he looked hastily out of the window.

The train was already clear of the city, and was speeding through the

suburbs, rattling gayly and noisily past the ostentatious stations and

the scattered houses. Maurice felt that his companion was secretly

observing him, although she was apparently looking at the landscape

which slid precipitately past. He wished to say something, and desired

that it should not be clerical in tone. He would fain have spoken, not

as a deacon, but as a man of the world.

"Are you going to New York?" he asked.

"I shall not have the pleasure of your company so far," she returned

with a smile.

"No," he responded naively. "I am going only to Springfield."

"Ah," she said, smiling again; and too late he realized that she had

meant that she was not going through.

He was the more vexed with himself because he was sure that his

confusion was so plain that she could not but see it, and that it was

with a kind intention of relieving his embarrassment that she spoke

again.

"I am going to visit my grandmother in Brookfield."

He replied by some sort of an unintelligible murmur, and was doubly

angry with himself for being so shy and awkward. He glanced furtively

at the trim young man opposite, and was relieved to find that that

individual was reading and giving no heed. He wondered why he should be

so completely thrown out of his usual self-possession by this girl, so

that when he talked to her, and was most anxious to appear at his best,

he was most surely at his worst. There came whimsically into his head a

thought of the wisdom of training the clergy to the social gifts and

graces, and he remembered the flippant speech of Mrs. Wilson about the

need of their being able to pay compliments.

"I seem to be specially stupid when I try to talk to you," he said with

boyish frankness.

Miss Morison looked at him curiously.

"Am I to take that as a compliment or the reverse?" she asked.

"It must be a compliment, I suppose, for it shows how much power you

have over me."

He was reassured by her smile, and felt that this was not so badly said.

"The power to make you stupid, I think you intimated."

"Oh, no," he responded, with more eagerness than the occasion called

for; "I didn't mean that."

She smiled again, a smile which seemed to him nothing less than

adorable, and yet which teased him a little, although he could not tell

why. She took up the novel which lay in her lap.

"Have you read this?" she inquired.

He shook his head.

"You forget," he answered, "that I am a deacon. At the Clergy House we

do not read novels."

"How little you must know of life," returned she.

There was a silence of some moments. The train rushed on, past fields

desolate under patches of snow, and stark, leafless trees; over rivers

dotted with cakes of grimy ice; between banks of frost-gnawed rock. The

landscape in the dim January afternoon was gray and gloomy; and as day

declined everything became more lorn and forbidding. Maurice turned

away from the window, and sighed.

"How disconsolate the country looks!" said he. "I am country bred, and

I don't know that I ever thought of the sadness of it; but now if I see

the country in winter it makes me sigh for the people who have to live

there all the year round."

"But they don't notice it any more than you did when you lived in it."

"Perhaps not; but it seems to me as if they must. At any rate they must

feel the effects of it, whether they are conscious of it or not."

Miss Morison looked out at the dull, sodden fields and stark trees.

"I am afraid that you were never a true lover of the country," said she

thoughtfully. "You should know my grandmother. She is almost ninety,

but she is as young as a girl in her teens. She has lived in the finest

cities in the world,--London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and of course our

American cities. Now she is happiest in the country, and can hardly be

persuaded to stay in town. She says that she loves the sound of the

wind and the rain better than the noise of the street-cars."

"That I can understand," he answered; "but I am interested in men. I

don't like to be away from them. There is something intoxicating in the

presence of masses of human beings, in the mere sense that so many

people are alive about you."

She looked at him with more interest than he had ever seen in her eyes.

"But I don't understand," she began hesitatingly, "why"--

"Why what?" he asked as she paused.

"I don't know that I ought to say it, but having begun I may as well

finish. I was going to say that I could not understand how one so

interested in men and so sensitive to humanity could be content to

choose a profession which cuts him off from so much of active life."

"It was from interest in men, I suppose, that I chose it. I wanted to

reach them, to do something for them. Although," Maurice concluded,

flushing, "I don't think that I realized at that time the feeling of

being carried away by the mere presence of crowds of living beings."

There was another interval of silence, during which they both looked

out at the cold landscape, blotted and marred by patches of snow tawny

from a recent thaw.

"I doubt if you have got the whole of it," Miss Morison said

thoughtfully, turning toward him. "Dear old grandmother is as deeply

interested in the human as anybody can be. She always makes me feel

that my life in the midst of folk is very thin and poor as compared to

hers. She has known almost everybody worth knowing. Grandfather was

minister to England and Russia, and she of course was with him. Yet

she's content and happy off here in Brookfield."

"Perhaps," Wynne returned hesitatingly, "there's something the matter

with the age. I don't suppose that at her time of life she has anything

of this generation's restless"--

He broke off abruptly.

"Well?" his companion said curiously.

He smiled and sighed.

"I don't know why I am talking to you so frankly," replied he. "As a

matter of fact I find that I'm more frank with you than I am with

myself. I've always refused to own to myself that there was anything

restless in my feeling toward life; yet here I am saying it to you."

"One often thinks things out in that way. Hasn't that been your

experience?"

"Yes," he responded thoughtfully; "although I don't know that I ever

realized it before. I see now that I've often reasoned out things that

bothered me simply by trying to tell them to my friend, Mr. Ashe."

"Is he your bosom friend and confidant? It is usually supposed to be a

woman in such a case."

"Oh, no," was his somewhat too eager rejoinder; "I never talked like

this to a woman. I never wanted to before."

A look which passed over her face seemed to tell him that the talk was

taking a tone more confidential than she liked. He was keyed up to a

pitch of excitement and of sensitiveness; and a thrill of

disappointment pierced him. He became at once silent; and then he

fancied that she glanced at him as if in question why his mood had

changed so suddenly. The train rolled into the station at Worcester,

and he went out to walk a moment on the platform, and to try to collect

his thoughts. He had forgotten now to question his right to be enjoying

the companionship of Miss Morison; he gloated over her friendly looks

and words, thinking of how he might have said this and that, and thus

have appeared to better advantage, and resolving to be more

self-controlled for the remainder of the ride. The open air was

refreshing; and a great sense of joyousness filled him to overflowing.

When again he took his seat in the car he could have laughed from

simple pleasure.

The chat of the latter part of the journey was more easy and

unconstrained than at the beginning. It was not clear to Wynne what the

change was, but he was aware that he was somehow talking less

self-consciously than before. They spoke of one thing and another, and

it teased the young man somewhat that when now and then his companion

mentioned a book he had seldom seen it. The things which he had read of

late years he knew without asking that she would not have seen. Even

the names of current writers of fiction were hardly known to him, and

an allusion to what they had written was beyond him. In spite of a word

which now and again brought out the difference between his world and

hers, however, Maurice thoroughly enjoyed the talk. Now and then he

would reflect in a sort of sub-consciousness that the delight of this

hour was to be dearly paid for with penance and repentance, but this

provoked in him rather the determination at least to enjoy it to the

full while it lasted, than any inclination to deny himself the present

gratification.

It has been remarked that the ecclesiastical temper is histrionic; and

Wynne was not without a share of this spirit. He would have gone to the

stake for a conviction, and made a beautifully effective death-scene

for the edification of men and angels, not for a moment aware that

there was anything artificial in what he was doing. Now he was not

without a consciousness that he was playing the role of a lover and a

prodigal, sincere in his love and devotion; yet none the less subtly

aware how much more interesting is repentance when there is genuine

human passion to repent, is renunciation when there is real love to

sacrifice; of how much more effective is saintliness set off against a

background of transgression. It was a real if somewhat childish joy to

be able to sin actually yet without going beyond hope; of being

dramatically false to his vows without crossing the line of possible

pardon.

"We shall be in Brookfield in ten minutes," Miss Morison said,

beginning to look about for her belongings. "We pass the New York

express just here."

Hardly had she spoken when suddenly and without warning there was an

outburst of shrieks from the whistle of the engine, answered and

blended with that of another. Before Maurice could realize what the

outburst meant, there followed a horrible shock which seemed to

dislocate every joint in his body. Berenice was thrown violently into

his arms, flung as a dead weight, and shrieking as she fell against his

breast. Instinctively he clasped her, and in the terror of the moment

it was for a brief instant no more to him that his embrace enfolded her

than if she had been the veriest stranger. A hideous din of yells, of

crashing wood and rending iron, of shivering glass, of escaping steam,

of indescribable sounds which had no resemblance to anything which he

had ever heard or dreamed of, and which seemed to beat upon his ears

and his brain like blows of bludgeons wielded by the hands of infuriate

giants. The end of the car before him was beaten in; splinters of wood

and fragments of glass flew about him like hail; it was like being

without warning exposed to the fiercest fire of batteries of an

implacable enemy. A woman was dashed at his very feet torn and

bleeding, her face mangled so that he grew sick and faint at the sight;

pinned against the seat opposite, transfixed by a long splinter as with

a javelin, was the dapper young man, horribly writhing and mowing, and

then stark dead in an instant, staring with wide open eyes and

distorted face like a ghastly mask. Moans and shrieks, grindings and

roarings, howlings and babbling cries that were human yet were

piercingly inarticulate filled the air with an inhuman din which drove

him to a frenzy. It seemed as if the world had been torn into fragments.

Yet all this was within the space of a second. Indeed, although all

these things happened and he saw and heard them clearly, there was no

pause between the first alarming whistle and the overturning of the car

which now came. He was lifted up; he saw the whole car sway with a

dizzying, sickening motion, and then plunge violently over. Fortunately

it so turned that he and Miss Morison were on the upper side. He fell

across the aisle, striking the chair opposite, but somehow

instinctively managing to protect Berenice from the force of the

concussion. She no longer cried out, but she clung convulsively about

his neck, and as they swayed for the fall he saw in her eyes a look of

wild and desperate appeal. He forgot then everything but her. The

desire to protect and save her, the feeling that he belonged absolutely

to her and that even to the death he would serve her, swallowed up

every other feeling. As they went over a vise-like grip caught his arm,

and amid all the infernal confusion he somehow connected that

despairing clutch with a succession of shrill and piercing shrieks

which rang in his ear, seeming to be close to him. He remembered that

in the chair behind his had been a young girl, and he felt a pity for

her that choked him like a hand at his throat. Then as they went down

he instinctively but vainly tried to shake off the hold, which was as

that of a trap. It was like being in the actual grip of death.

All sorts of loose articles fell with them from the upturned side of

the car to the other; they were part of a cataract of falling bodies,

involved as in a crushing avalanche. Wynne found himself in this

falling shower crumpled up between two chairs, one of his feet

evidently thrust through a broken window and the other still held by

that convulsive clasp. Miss Morison was half above him, partly

supported by a chair which still held by its fastenings to the floor.

He could not see her face, and his body was so twisted that he could

not move his head with freedom. Berenice was evidently insensible, but

whether stunned from the shock or more seriously hurt he could not

tell. He struggled fiercely to free himself, straining her to his

breast. There were still movements in the car after it had overturned.

It rocked and settled; for some time small articles continued to fall.

He drew the face of the unconscious girl more closely into his bosom to

protect it. As he did so he was aware that his arm was hurt. A burning,

biting pain singled itself out from all the aches of blows and

contusions. He seemed to remember that a long time ago, some hours

nearer the beginning of this catastrophe which had lasted but a moment,

he had felt something rip and tear the flesh; but he had been so

absorbed in the attempt to shield Berenice that he had not heeded. Now

the anguish was so great that it seemed impossible to endure it. He set

his teeth together, determined not to cry out lest she should hear him

and think that he lacked courage. Then it seemed to him that he was

swooning. He struggled against the feeling; and for what seemed to him

an interminable time he wavered between consciousness and

insensibility. It was either growing darker or he was losing the power

to see. He could not distinguish clearly any longer that human hand,

smeared with blood, sticking ludicrously in the air from amid a pile of

bags, coats, and all sorts of things thrown together just where the

position of his head constrained him to look. He had been seeing that

hand for a long time, it seemed to him, and only now that the darkness

had so increased as to cut it off from his sight did he realize what it

was and what it must mean.

He still retained a consciousness of the face of Berenice, warm against

his bosom, and with each wave of faintness he struggled to keep his

senses that he might protect her. The din of noises seemed far away,

the cries somewhere at a distance ever increasing. The moans that had

seemed to him those of the girl who clutched his arm grew fainter,

until they were lost in the buzz and whirr of a hundred other sounds.

Then the clasp which held him relaxed as suddenly as if a rope had been

cut away. It came into his mind with a wave of horror that the girl who

had held him was dead. The thought that Berenice might be dead also

followed like a flash, and aroused his benumbed senses. He spoke to

her; he tried to move; to release her from her position. He seemed

buried under a mound of debris, and she gave no sign of life. He

exhausted himself in frantic attempts to escape; to get his arms free;

to turn his head far enough to see her face; to thrust back the rubbish

which had fallen against them. The anguish to his arm was so great that

he could not continue; he could do nothing but suffer whatever fate had

in store for him. He tried to pray; but his prayers were broken and

confused ejaculations.

All at once he distinguished amid the chaos of noises roaring and

singing in his ears something which made his heart stand still; which

pierced to his dulled consciousness like a stab. It was the cry of

"Fire!" He had once seen a servant with her hair in flames, and

instantly arose before him the picture of her shriveling locks and the

terror of her face. He seemed to see the dear head on his bosom--The

thought was more than he could bear, and for the first time he cried

out, shouting for help in a transport of frenzied fear. He was so

absorbed in his thought of Berenice that he had forgotten himself; but

the realization of his own peril revived as a waft of smoke came over

him, choking and bewildering. He was then to die here, stifled or

wrapped in the torture of flame. Then the wild and desperate thought

sprang up that at least if he must die he should die with her on his

bosom, clasped in his arms. He might give himself up to the delirium of

that joy, since there was no more of earth to contaminate it. But the

horror of it! The anguish for her as well as for him! Not by fire! His

thoughts whirled in his brain like sparks caught in a hurricane. He

scarcely knew where he was or what had happened to him. Only he was

acutely aware of the acrid smoke, of how it increased, constantly more

dense and stifling.

However the mind may for a moment be turned aside from its usual way by

circumstances, habit is quick to reassert itself. The habitual

constrains men even in the midst of events the most startling. The mind

of Wynne had been too long bred in priestly forms not to turn to the

religious view here in the face of death. His conscience cried out that

he might be responsible for the peril and disaster which had come upon

them. With the unconscious egotism of the devotee, he felt that heaven

had been avenging the impiousness of his sin. He had dared to trifle

with his sacred calling, to look back to the loves of the world and of

the flesh, and swift destruction had overtaken him. And Berenice had

been crushed by the divine vengeance which had so deservedly fallen on

him. He groaned in anguish, seeming to see how she had perished through

the blight of his passion. Not by fire, O God! Not by fire! How long

would it be possible to breathe in this stifling reek, heavy with

unspeakable odors? It was his crime that had brought her to this death.

He, a man set apart and consecrated to the work of God, had turned from

heaven to earth, and heaven had smitten with one blow him and the woman

who had been unwittingly his temptation. And she so innocent, so pure,

so sacred! Through his distraught mind rushed a pang of hatred against

the power that could do this. He was willing to suffer for his sin, but

where was the justice of involving her in his ruin? It was because this

was what would hurt him most! It was the work of a devil! Then this

thought seemed to him a new transgression which might lessen the

chances of his being able to save her, and he tried to forget it in

prayer, to atone by penitence. He offered his own life amid whatever

tortures would propitiate the offended deity, but he prayed that she

might be spared.

All this time--and whether the time were long or short he could not

tell--he had heard continued cries and groans. He had now and then been

dully aware of a change in the noises. Now it would seem as if all else

was swallowed up in the sound of tremendous blows, as if the car were

being struck again and again by a mighty battering-ram. Then a chorus

of shouting went roaring up, as if an army cried. Noise and physical

sensation were too intimately blended to be separated; his brain

struggled in confusion, emerging now and then for a moment of

consecutive thought and sinking back into semi-unconsciousness as a

spent swimmer goes down, fighting wildly for life. He knew that a light

had come into the car. He saw it amid the smoke, and his first thought

was that it was flame. Dulled and half asphyxiated, he said to himself

now almost with indifference that the end had come. Then with a thrill

which for a moment aroused all his energies he recognized that it was

the glow of a lantern. He was aware that rescuers were close above him,

climbing down through the windows over his very head. He cried to them

in a paroxysm of appeal:--

"Save her! Save her!"

Whether he was heeded amid the babble of cries and all the noises which

seemed to swell to drown his voice, he could not tell, but in another

instant he felt that friendly hands had seized Miss Morison, and were

endeavoring to lift her insensible form. He strove to loosen his hold,

but the effort gave him agony so intolerable that he could do nothing.

A thousand points seemed to rend and tear him as he tried to move, and

when a voice somewhere above him shouted: "We'll have to try to lift

them together!" he experienced a strange sort of double consciousness

as if he stood outside of himself and heard others talking of him. He

felt himself grasped under the arms, and the pain of being moved was

too horrible to be endured. He shrieked in mortal agony, and then in a

whirl of dizzying circles seemed to go down in a tide of blackness

sparkling with millions of sharp scintillations.