O WICKED WIT AND GIFT
Hamlet, i. 5.
The brilliant glare of lights, the strident sound of dance-music, the
enlivening sense of a living, vivaciously stirring company of gayly
dressed merrymakers, assailed Maurice as he followed his guide across
the anteroom. At the door of the ball-room he was for a moment hindered
by a group of men who were lounging and chatting there. All his senses
were keenly alert, and he perhaps unconsciously listened to hear if
there were any comment on his appearance in such a place. He had not
realized what he was coming into, and now that it was too late for him
to withdraw without sacrificing his pride, he saw how incongruous his
presence really was. Almost instantly he caught a name.
"By Jove!" one of the men said. "Isn't the Wilson in great form
to-night! That diamond on her toe must be worth a fortune."
"She saves the price in the materials of her gowns," another responded
lightly. "I never saw her with quite so little on."
"No material is allowed to go to waist there," put in a third.
"She has two straps and a rosebud," yet another voice laughed; "and
nothing else above the belt but diamonds."
"Her very smile is decollete" some one commented. "This is one of her
nights. When I see Mrs. Wilson with that expression, I am prepared for
anything."
Maurice felt his cheeks burn at this light talk. It seemed to him
ribald, and he was outraged that the name of a woman should be bandied
about so carelessly. He raised his head and set his square jaw
defiantly; then began to push his way through the group, keenly
conscious of the stare which greeted him.
"Hallo! What the devil's that?" he heard behind him.
"The skeleton at the feast," responded one voice.
"Oh, it's some devilish trick of Mrs. Wilson's, of course," put in
another.
All this Maurice heard with an outraged sense that there was no attempt
to prevent him from hearing. He might have been a servant or a piece of
furniture for any restraint these men put upon their speech. He was
troubled with the fear of what absurdity Mrs. Wilson might intend. Now
that he was here, however, he would go on. The natural obstinacy of his
temper asserted itself, and if there was little pious meekness in his
spirit at that moment, there was plenty of grit.
The ball-room was garlanded with wreaths of laurel stuck thickly with
red roses; women in white and in bright-hued gowns, with fair shoulders
and arms, were floating about in the embraces of men; the music set
everything to a rhythmic pulse, and gaily quickened the blood in the
veins of the young deacon as he looked. The throbbing of the violins
made him quiver with an excitement joyous and bewildering. He was
dazzled by the bright, moving figures, the shining colors, the
sparkling of gems, the lovely faces, the alluring creamy necks and
arms; a sweet intoxication began to creep over him, despite the
defiance of his feelings toward the men he had passed in the doorway.
Half blinded by the glare, dazed and fascinated by the sights, the
sounds, the perfumes, he followed the footman down the hall.
He was obliged to skirt the room, even then hardly evading the dancers.
His progress was necessarily slow. The footman so continually paused to
apologize for having brushed against some lady in his anxiety to avoid
a whirling pair of dancers, that it began to seem to Maurice that they
should never reach Mrs. Wilson. He cast his eyes to the floor, resolved
not to look at the worldly sights around him. Country bred and trained
in the asceticism of the Clergy House, he could not see these women
without blushing; and more than ever he wondered that he had been so
blindly obedient as to allow himself to be brought to such a place.
He heard a man clap his hands. He looked up to see a flock of dancers
hurrying to the upper end of the room. Among them, with a shock so
violent that his heart seemed to stand still, he recognized Berenice
Morison. He saw her go to a table and pick up something; then she and
her companions turned and came glancing and gleaming down the hall like
a flock of pigeons which fly and shine in the sun. Fair, flushed
softly, more beautiful than all the rest in his eyes, Berenice came on,
her hair curling about her forehead, her eyes shining with laughter and
pleasure. She was dressed in white, and at one shoulder, crushed
against her bare, creamy neck, was a bunch of crimson roses. Maurice
trembled at the sight of her beauty; he reddened at the consciousness
of her dress; over him came some inexplicable sense of fear.
Suddenly he perceived that she had caught sight of him. He could see
the look of amazement rise in her face, give place to one of amusement,
then change instantly into sparkling mischievousness. He moved on
toward her, abashed, bewildered, feeling as if he were running a
gauntlet. He could not withdraw his gaze from her, as she came quickly
onward, dimpling, smiling, her face overflowing with saucy fun, her
glance holding his.
"Good-evening, Mr. Wynne," she said lightly, coming up to him. "This is
an unexpected pleasure."
"Good-evening," Maurice responded, hardly able to drag the words out of
his parched throat.
"Of course you came for the german," Miss Morison went on, more
mockingly than before. "I am so glad that I happen to have a favor for
you."
She leaned forward, swaying toward him her white shoulders, dazzling
him with the hint of the swell of her bosom, bewildering him with the
perfume of her dark hair, the alluring feminine presence which brought
the hot blood to his face. Before he guessed her intention, she had
pinned to his cassock a grotesque little dangling mask which swung from
a bright ribbon.
"There," she commented, drawing back as if critically to observe. "The
effect is novel, but striking."
A burst of amusement, light and blinding as the spray from a whirlpool,
went up from the women around. The music, the voices, the laughter,
seemed to Maurice so many insults flung at him in idle contempt. He
looked around him with a bitter anger which could almost have smitten
these laughing women on their red mouths. Then he turned back to
Berenice. He saw that she shrank before the wrath of his look; he felt
with a thrill that he had at least power to make her fear him. He bent
toward her full of rage made the wilder by the impulse to catch her in
his arms and cover her beautiful neck with kisses.
"Shameless!" he hissed into her ear.
He saw her turn pale and then flush burning red; but he hastened on
after the footman without waiting for more. Presently he reached the
head of the hall, where Mrs. Wilson stood laughing and talking with
several men. Her dress was of alternate stripes of crimson silk and
tissue of gold, and since it had excited comment from the loungers at
the door, it is small wonder that to the unsophisticated deacon, almost
convent bred, it appeared no less than horribly indecent. He cast down
his eyes; but his glance fell upon the foot which just then she thrust
laughingly forward, evidently in answer to some remark from Stanford,
who stood at her right hand. Upon the toe of her exquisite little shoe
sparkled a great diamond like a fountain of flame.
"It gives light to my steps," she laughed.
"The service is worthy of it," Stanford returned with a half-mocking
bow.
"Thank you," Mrs. Wilson retorted, sweeping him a satirical courtesy.
"If you say such nice things to me, what must you say to Berenice!"
It seemed to Maurice that the devil was exerting all his infernal
ingenuity that night to have him tormented at every turn. He came
forward hastily, eager to stop the talk.
"Ah," cried Mrs. Wilson, "have you come, ghostly father?"
The men stared at him in careless surprise and open amusement. Maurice
could not trust himself to speak, but only bowed in silence.
"I am called, you see," Mrs. Wilson said gayly. "Now I must go to
penance and confession."
"Surely you will need so little time for confession," one of the men
said, "that there's no necessity of going so early."
"You must have been more wicked this winter than I ever suspected,
Elsie," put in the even voice of Mrs. Staggchase. "Or is it that you
only mean to be?"
Maurice turned quickly, and found that his cousin was sitting behind
the table near which he stood. In front of her were heaps of trinkets
of all sorts of fantastic devices.
"Good evening, Cousin Maurice," she greeted him. "Are you dancing? What
sort of a favor ought I to give you?"
"Mrs. Wilson's wickedness," Stanford answered Mrs. Staggchase, "is of
the sort so original that I'm sure the recording angel must always be
too surprised to put it down."
"What a premium you put on originality!" responded Mrs. Staggchase.
"That is all very well for her, but how is it for her victims?"
"Oh, the honor of being her victim is compensation enough for them."
Mrs. Wilson laughed, and shook her head, twinkling with diamonds which
dazzled the eyes of the young deacon.
"You are all worldly," she retorted. "Brother Martin and I are too
unsophisticated to understand you."
Maurice winced at the name. He felt that he must be a picture of
confusion. To stand here among these sumptuously dressed women, to
endure the glances which he knew were watching him from all parts of
the room, to be pricked with this monkish title by a woman who was
making of him and of the whole incident a sport and a spectacle, stung
him to the quick. He thought of Berenice, and he cast at Mrs.
Staggchase a look of defiance, lifting his head proudly in assertion of
his hurt dignity.
"I am at your service, Mrs. Wilson," he said with cold sternness.
"Well, we will go then. Unless, that is, you are dancing, Mr. Wynne. I
see that you have a favor."
He glanced down at the grotesque little mask, dangling by its red
ribbon. With unbroken gravity he detached and laid it upon the table in
silence. He would have given much to hide it in his pocket, since it
came from Berenice; but even as he put it down a bevy of girls swept up
for favors, and one of them bore it away.
"He has abandoned his opportunity," Mrs. Staggchase observed. "The
favor goes to Mr. Stanford."
The girl who had taken up the mask was indeed pinning it to the coat of
that gentleman, with whom she quickly danced away. Maurice felt his
heart grow hot, but he looked at his cousin with face hard and
determined.
"It was never mine," he said, "except by the chance of a
misunderstanding."
A maid now came forward with a black domino, which Mrs. Wilson slipped
into gracefully, drawing up her glittering draperies. The big diamond
on the toe of her slipper glowed fantastically, peeping from beneath
the penitential robe.
"Hallo," Dr. Wilson exclaimed, coming up at this moment, "what's in the
wind now? Is this turning into a masquerade?"
"Your wife is about to retire from the world," Mrs. Hubbard answered,
laughing.
"With a man," Mrs. Staggchase added, her eyes shining on her cousin.
Wynne stabbed her with a glance of indignation.
"No, with a priest," corrected Mrs. Wilson, adjusting her domino about
her face.
"Elsie, how devilishly fond you are of making a fool of yourself," Dr.
Wilson observed jovially. "Well, good-night."
Mrs. Wilson swept him a profound courtesy, with her hands crossed on
her bosom.
"My lord and master, good-night. Ladies, remember that it will be Lent
in ten minutes."
She took Wynne's arm, and together the black-robed figures went down
the length of the room. The music had for the moment stopped, and it
seemed to Maurice as if his presence had brought a chill to the whole
gay scene. He was inwardly raging, angry to have been used by Mrs.
Wilson as an actor in her outrageous comedy, furious with Berenice for
her part in the play, full of rage against the men who stood around
grinning and laughing at the whole performance. Most of all, he assured
himself, he was righteously indignant at the trifling with sacred
things. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, but with Mrs.
Wilson sweeping along by his side he strode toward the door.
"He looks as if he belonged to the church militant," he heard one of
the men say as he passed out.
"Even the church militant is nothing against a woman," another replied,
catching the eye of Mrs. Wilson, and laughing.
In the vestibule stood a footman bearing Maurice's cloak, and a maid
with fur over-shoes and an ermine-lined wrap for Mrs. Wilson. Maurice
said not a word except to reply in monosyllables to the questions of
his companion, and almost in silence they drove to the Church of the
Nativity.