XX

IN WAY OF TASTE

Troilus and Cressida, iii. 3.

The two deacons were together again in the Clergy House. Maurice

frankly confessed to himself that he did not like it, and he wondered

if Philip were also dissatisfied. It was a question too delicate to

ask, however; and he contented himself with watching his friend to

discover, if possible, whether the stay outside had affected Ashe as it

had him. They returned late in the afternoon, and their greeting was of

the warmest.

"Dear old boy," Maurice cried, "you don't know how glad I am to get at

you again. Where in the world have you kept yourself?"

"Just at the last," Philip responded, "I've been down to Montfield."

"Down home? Have you really? How is everybody? I hope your mother is

well."

"She is very well, and I do not remember anybody that we know who

isn't. I went down to see Mr. Wentworth, and found that he is already

pledged to Mr. Strathmore."

"Is he really? How did that happen?"

"It seems that he is a cousin of that Mrs. Gore where we heard that

heathen, and she is greatly interested in Mr. Strathmore's election.

Mr. Wentworth promised her his vote. How people are carried away by

that man. Mr. Wentworth told me that he looked upon him as the greatest

man in the church to-day."

"It is strange," Maurice assented absently; "but he is a man of great

personal fascination."

"To me," Philip retorted, "he is a whited sepulchre. His doctrine of

mental reservation amounts to nothing less than that a priest is at

liberty to believe anything he pleases if he will only conform

outwardly."

Maurice was secretly much of the same opinion, but they came now to the

dinner table, where silence was the rule. Wynne had a feeling of

dishonesty from the fact that he concealed from his friend that he had

sought an interview with Strathmore, yet he felt that he could not

confess the visit. While they sat at table a brother read aloud, and

the reading chanced to be to-night from the book of Job. The words of

the splendid poem mingled in the mind of Maurice with the most

incongruous and unpriestly thoughts. He chafed at the routine into

which he had fallen as into a pit from which he had once escaped; the

meagre repast seemed to him pitifully poor; and most of all he was

angry with himself that he could not feel joy at his return to the

house which was the symbol of the consecrated work to which he had

given his life. After dinner came an hour and a half of recreation, and

in this he was called to the study of the Father Superior.

"You returned so late in the day," the Father said with a smile, "that

you will not mind giving up recreation to-night. I wish to speak with

you on a matter of importance."

Maurice took the seat toward which the other waved his hand. He felt

alien and strange. He recalled the attitude of submission and reverence

with which he had once been accustomed to enter this room, the respect

with which he had heard every word of the Father; and he blamed himself

bitterly that he now took rather a defensive mood, and felt an

instinctive desire to escape. He reflected that he had been poisoned by

the world; yet he could not wholly shut out the consciousness that he

had no genuine desire to be freed from the sweet madness which had

seized him. He tried to put all thought of these matters by, however,

and to give his whole attention to what the priest might say to him.

"I think that you have met Mrs. Frostwinch," the Father said.

"I went to her house once," Maurice answered, surprised at the remark,

and feeling his pulse quicken at the remembrance of his first sight of

Berenice.

"I remember that you mentioned it in confession," was the grave reply.

"Satan sets his snares in the most unlikely places."

The words seemed almost a reply to Wynne's secret thought. His first

impulse was to resent this open allusion to a sacred confidence

whispered in the confessional. It was like a stab in the back, or a

trick to take unfair advantage; and the matter was made worse by this

allusion to a snare of Satan, which could mean nothing else but

Berenice herself. Maurice flushed hotly, but habit was strong in him,

and he cast down his eyes without reply.

"Have you heard that Mrs. Frostwinch is on her way home?" Father

Frontford went on.

"No."

"It is said that her faith-healing superstition has failed her, and she

is coming home to die."

"To die?" echoed Maurice.

He recalled Mrs. Frostwinch as he had seen her, gracious, high-bred,

apparently brilliantly well; and it appeared monstrously impossible

that death should be near her. She had seemed a woman who would defy

death, and live on simply by her own splendid will.

"So it is said," the Father assured him. "Do you know how important it

is to us to have her influence in the election?"

"I know that there are certain votes that she may influence, and that

she is in"--he almost said "your," but he caught himself in time--"our

interests."

"There are three and perhaps four votes which depend upon her. Three

are sure to go over to the other side if she is not able to stand

behind them. They are all dependent upon her for support in one way or

another."

"But surely," Maurice suggested, "they would not vote

unconscientiously? They wouldn't sell their convictions for her

support?"

"They would not vote unconscientiously," was the dry response, "but

they believe that the support which she gives to them and to their

missions is of more importance than that the man they really prefer

should be chosen."

"But what can be done?"

Father Frontford sat leaning back in his chair, his face in shadow, and

the tips of his thin fingers pressed together in his habitual gesture.

"Perhaps nothing," he answered.

His voice had dropped into a soft, silky half-tone, insinuating and

persuasive. Maurice began to have an uneasy feeling as if he were being

hypnotized; yet the words of the other came to him with a quality

strangely soothing and attractive.

"Perhaps," the priest went on after a pause of a second, "perhaps

everything that is necessary."

It seemed to Maurice that there was something significant in the tone

which the words did not reveal. He looked keenly at the shadowed face,

but without being able clearly to make out its expression. He could see

little but the bright eyes holding and dominating his own.

"It is for you to do this work," Father Frontford continued; "and it is

wonderful how Providence brings good out of all things. Here is an

opportunity for you not only to expiate your fault, but to serve the

cause of the church."

Without understanding, Maurice began to tremble with inner dread lest

the name of Berenice should again be brought up between himself and

this pitiless priest.

"I do not see that there is anything that I can do," he said coldly.

"On the contrary. Do you chance to know anything about the Canton

estate? I suppose you are not likely to."

"Nothing whatever. What is the Canton estate?"

"Mrs. Frostwinch was a Canton. Her father was a brother of old Mrs.

Morison."

Maurice could not see how all this involved him, but he became more and

more uneasy.

"The estate of old Mr. Canton," the Father went on in the same smooth

voice, "was, as I have just learned from Mrs. Wilson, left to his

daughter for life and to her children after her. If she died childless

it was to go to Miss Morison."

"And she is childless?"

"She is childless. If she is taken away now, the property will all be

in the hands of Miss Morison."

There was a moment of stillness in which the thought most insistent in

the mind of Maurice was that in this fortune fate had raised another

wall between himself and Berenice. He spoke to escape the reflection.

"But all this is surely not my concern."

"It is your concern if it shows you a way in which the votes of those

clergymen may be assured, although Mrs. Frostwinch should not recover."

"It shows me no way."

Maurice tried to speak naturally and without evidence of feeling, but

his throat was parched and his heart hot. He hated this inquisition.

The long reverence and admiration which had bound him to the Father

melted to nothing in the twinkling of an eye. Who was this Jesuit that

sat here making of Berenice and her fortune pawns in his game;

involving her in a web of intrigue unworthy of his sacred office; and

forcing his disciple to listen through a knowledge of facts

stammeringly poured out in the confessional? Absence from the Clergy

House and from town, and after that a growing reluctance, had prevented

Maurice from confessing anything beyond his first attraction to Miss

Morison, but he had written to the Father Superior of the accident, and

had mentioned that he was thought to have been of assistance in saving

her. It came to him now that he was being repaid for the accursed

vanity which had led him to make this boast; and he became the more

animated against his director from his anger against himself.

"Whatever Mrs. Frostwinch has done with the property," Father Frontford

said, "of course Miss Morison may do if she pleases."

"I should suppose so; but I know nothing about it."

"Then if Miss Morison will promise to continue the donations of Mrs.

Frostwinch, the position of the beneficiaries will be the same toward

her as toward Mrs. Frostwinch."

Maurice bent forward quickly, unable longer to maintain an appearance

of calm.

"Father Frontford," he exclaimed, "you certainly cannot ask this of

Miss Morison! It would be sheer impertinence! I beg your pardon, but I

cannot help saying it. Besides, there is something horribly

cold-blooded in talking about what shall be done with the property of

Mrs. Frostwinch when she is dead. Miss Morison would not listen to

anything of the sort."

"The circumstances justify what otherwise would be inadmissible. It is

necessary, Mrs. Wilson thinks, to be able to tell those men that their

situation is not changed by the death of Mrs. Frostwinch, which is

almost sure to take place before the convention. You must explain that

to Miss Morison."

"I!"

"The obligation which she is under to you," the Father said, ignoring

the exclamation, "will naturally incline her to listen."

"But I cannot"--

"I had thought that it was mine to decide what you could and should do."

"But, Father, this is so extraordinary, so impossible, so"--

"Miss Morison is to be in Boston in a couple of days. Mrs. Wilson will

let us know when she arrives. I know how strange this looks to you, and

how repugnant it must be. Do you think that it is any less hateful to

me? Do you think that it is easy for me to be working for what is to be

my own personal exaltation if we succeed? I give you my word, Wynne,

that the severest sacrifice that any one can be called on to make in

this matter is that which I make when I take these steps toward putting

myself in office. I am not naturally humble, and it humiliates me to

the very soul; but I do what seems to me to be for the good of the

church, and try to put my personal feeling entirely out of the matter.

It is for you to do the same."

It was impossible for Maurice to doubt the sincerity with which this

was said. He had no answer to give.

"Go now, my son," the Father concluded, "and do not forget to thank God

that the weakness of your heart may be turned into a means by which the

church may be served."

Maurice retired to his room in a whirl of conflicting thoughts. He was

summoned almost immediately to vespers and complines. The familiar

ritual soothed him, and he was able to join in the chants in much the

old way. His feeling was that he would gladly have had the service last

into the night. He would have liked to go on with this half emotional,

half mechanical devotion, which kept him from thinking, and which put

off the dreaded hour when he must face the proposition which had been

made to him.

It was the rule of the house that all the inmates should preserve

unbroken silence among themselves from complines until after nones the

next day. Maurice knew therefore that he was free from intrusion of

human companionship, which it seemed to him he could not have borne.

Even the talk of dear old Phil, to a chat with whom he had looked

forward as the one pleasure in coming back to the Clergy House, would

have been intolerable while this nightmarish trouble lay upon him. He

went at once to his chamber, a cell-like room, and sat down to think.

Could he do it? How would Berenice regard this impertinent interference

with her private affairs? How could he go to her and say: "It is

necessary for church politics that you assume to dispose of the

property which now your cousin holds, and over which you have no rights

until she is in her grave." He could see her eyes sparkle with

indignation and contempt, and he grew hot in anticipation. He could not

do it, he thought over and over. It was impossible that in this age of

the world anybody should dream of having such a thing done. If he were

almost a priest, he told himself fiercely, he had not yet ceased to be

a gentleman!

The stricture which this thought seemed to cast upon the priesthood

made him pause. He had not yet shaken off the dominion of old ideas and

old habits. He apologized to an unseen censor for the apparent

irreverence of his thought. It was not the priesthood, it was--He came

again to a standstill. He was not prepared to own to himself that he

disapproved of the Father Superior. He had vowed obedience, and here he

sat raging against a decree because it sacrificed his personal feelings

to the good of the church. The blame should be upon himself. There was

nothing in all this revolt except his own selfishness and wounded

vanity. He had transgressed by allowing his thoughts to be entangled in

earthly affection, and this misery and wickedness followed inevitably.

The fault was in him entirely; it was his own grievous fault. The

familiar words of the office of confession made him beat his breast,

and fall in prayer before the crucifix which seemed to waver in the

flickering candlelight. He repeated petition after petition. He would

not allow himself to think. It was his to obey, not to question. He

would regain his old tranquillity, his old docility. He would submit

passively. It was his own fault, his most grievous fault.

The ten o'clock bell rang, calling for the extinguishing of lights. He

sprang from his knees, blew out the candle, threw off his clothes in

the dark, and hurried into his hard and narrow bed. He was resolved not

to think. He said the offices of the day; he repeated psalms; and at

last, in desperate attempt to control his mind and to induce sleep, he

began to multiply large numbers. All the time he was resolutely saying

to himself: "It is my fault; my most grievous fault!" And all the time

some inner self, unsubdued, was persistently replying: "It is not! It

is not! I am right!"