UPON A CHURCH BENCH
Much Ado about Nothing, iii. 3.
The music of the Church of the Nativity was most elaborate, the very
French millinery of sacred music. The selection of a new singer was
debated with a zeal which spoke volumes for the interest in the service
of the sanctuary, and the money expended in this part of the worship
would have supported two or three poorer congregations. The church,
moreover, was appointed with a richness beautiful to see. The vestments
might have moved the envy of high Roman prelates, and the altar plate
shone in gold and precious stones.
It was no wonder, then, that a midnight service at the Nativity
attracted a crowd. Mrs. Wilson and Wynne had to force a path between
ranks of curious sight-seers in order to make their way to the guarded
pew of the former, which was well up the main aisle. It came to Maurice
suddenly that in his angry mood he was pushing against these worshipers
rudely, and that he was venting upon them a fury which had rather
increased than diminished in his ride to the church. He was seething
with anger; anger against Mrs. Wilson for having put him in a ludicrous
position, at Berenice for her mockery, at Mrs. Staggchase for her
satire, and at all the frivolous fools who had stood around, grinning
to see him made ridiculous. His hurt vanity throbbed with an ache
intolerable, and as he forced his way between the crowding spectators
he felt a certain ugly joy in thrusting them aside.
He was recalled to self-control by the expression in the face of a girl
whom he pressed back to give Mrs. Wilson passage. She turned to him
with a look of surprise and pain, and to his excited fancy her hair in
the half shadow was like that of Berenice.
"You hurt me!" she exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon," he answered with instant compunction. "I did not
mean to. Come with me."
He yielded to the sudden impulse, and then reflected as they passed
down the aisle that he had no right to bring a stranger into Mrs.
Wilson's pew. Having invited her, however, it was impossible to
retract, and he showed her into the slip after Mrs. Wilson. As the
latter turned to sit down, she became aware of the stranger. She
paused, and looked at her with haughty surprise.
"I beg pardon," she said, "this is a private pew."
The girl flushed, looking inquiringly at Maurice. His masculine nature
resented the insolence of the glance with which Mrs. Wilson had swept
the stranger, and he came instantly to the rescue.
"I invited her," he said, leaning forward, speaking with a
determination at which his hostess raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, very well then," Mrs. Wilson murmured.
She sank into her seat, and inclined her head on the rail before her.
As Maurice did the same there shot through his mind a wonder at the
change there must be in the mental attitude of the woman who spoke with
haughtiness almost insulting to the stranger, and the penitent who bent
to ask pity and forgiveness from heaven. He tried to fix his thoughts
on his own prayer, but the words ran on as mechanically as might water
flow over a stone. The serious danger of a ritualistic religion must
always be that the mere repetition of words shall come to answer for an
act of worship; and to-night Maurice might have exclaimed with King
Claudius:--
"My words fly up; my thoughts remain below."
The service went on with its deep, appealing prayers for pardon, for
help, for uplifting, and Maurice followed it only half consciously. It
was as if he were drugged, so that only now and then a phrase
penetrated to his real consciousness,--words which in their instant and
particular application were so poignant that he could not avoid their
force.
"'From all inordinate and sinful affections,'" repeated the rich voice
of Mr. Candish, thrilling the church from floor to vaulted, roof, "'and
from the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil.'"
"'Good Lord, deliver us!'" swelled the response of the congregation;
and on the lips of the deacon the words were almost a groan.
He lost himself then in a flood of bitter repentance and prayer, hardly
realizing where he was or what was passing around him. The music
swelled and eddied; there was a genuine "Kyrie," wherein a single
voice, a rich contralto, wailed and implored in a passion of
supplication until the whole congregation quivered with the fervor of
the music. Maurice felt himself swayed and lifted upon the rising tide
of emotion. He lost his anger, he swam in billows of celestial delight;
a blessed peace soothed his troubled soul; he knew again some of the
old-time ecstasy. Yet in all this religious fervor there was some
subtle consciousness that it was unreal. He was not able so completely
to give himself up to it as to fail to watch its growth, its progress,
its intensity; he was vexed that he should trap himself, as it were,
glorying in the susceptibility to religious influences which such
excitement showed. He had even a whimsical, momentary irritation that
the part of his mind which was acting the devotee could not do it so
well that his other consciousness could not detect the unreality of it
all. Then he struggled to forget everything in the service; to steep
himself in the spiritual intoxication of the hour.
The girl whom he had introduced into the pew dropped her prayer-book.
He turned, startled by the sound, and saw her sway toward him. He
realized that the crowd, the heat, the excitement, the odor of incense
with which the air was heavy, had overcome her, and that she was
fainting. He rose instantly, and, lifting her, assisted her into the
aisle. She was half in his arms as he led her down the nave, and her
hair, the hair which had seemed to him like that of Berenice, brushed
now and again against his shoulder. He recalled the wreck, when
Berenice had been in his arms, and his religious mood vanished as if it
had never been. His cheek flushed; he thrilled with anger at himself.
He had been playing a part here in the church. He had never for an
instant wished to be set free from his bondage to Berenice,--Berenice
who had to-night mocked him and his profession in the eyes of all the
world.
The way to the door seemed interminable. He was eager to get rid of
this stranger and escape. Fortunately the party to which the fainting
girl belonged were at hand to take charge of her; and presently Maurice
had made his way out of the church. He hardly gave a thought to Mrs.
Wilson. She was abundantly able to take care of herself, he reflected
with angry amusement; or, if not, the very pavement would spring up
with troops of men to assist her. She was the sort of woman whose mere
presence creates cavaliers, even in the most unlikely places.
The cool outer air seemed to wake him from a bad dream. He walked
hastily through the quiet streets toward the Clergy House, full of
disordered thoughts, wondering whether the ball were yet over, or if
Berenice were still dancing in the arms of other men. The blood flushed
into his cheeks at the thought. He hated furiously the partner against
whose shoulder her white, bare arm might be resting. He looked back
with ever growing anger to the scene at the dance, tingling with shame
at the humiliation, at the thought of standing before the women who had
laughed when Berenice had fastened upon his breast the tawdry trinket
which seemed chosen purposely to mock him. He wished that he had kept
the toy, that he might now throw it down into the mire and tread on it.
Yet grotesque and insulting as the thing had been, he was conscious
that if the little mask were still in his possession he should not have
been able to trample on it, but should have taken it to his lips
instead. He remembered that now Stanford wore it. He looked up to the
shining stars and felt the overwhelming presence of night like a child;
his helplessness, his misery, his hopelessness swept over him in bitter
waves.
Late as it was when he reached his room he did not at once undress. He
sat down heavily, staring with hot eyes at the crucifix opposite. From
black and unknown depths of his heart welled up rage against life and
its perplexities. He threw upon his faith the blame of his suffering.
What was this religion which made of all human joys, of all human
instincts only devilish devices for the torture of the very soul? Why
should the world be filled only with temptations, with humiliations,
with desires which burned into the very heart yet which must be denied?
Was any future bliss worth the struggle? He realized with a shudder
that he might be arraigning the Maker of the world; then he assured
himself that he was but raging against those who misunderstood and
misinterpreted the purposes of life.
He flung himself down on his knees before the crucifix in a quick
reaction of mood, extending his hands and trying to pray; but he found
himself repeating over and over: "For Thine is the kingdom and the
power and the glory." He felt with the whole strength of his soul the
force of the words. This deity to whom he knelt might in a breath
change all his agony; might out of overflowing power and dominion and
splendor spill but one unnoted drop, yet flood all his tortured being
with richest happiness. The contrast between his weakness, his
helplessness, his insignificance, and the superabundant resources of
the Infinite crushed him. He was transported with aching pity for
himself and for all poor mortals. He repeated, no longer in entreaty
but with passionate reproach: "For _Thine_ is the kingdom and the power
and the glory." It seemed an insult to the clemency of Heaven to call
so piteously when it were a thing lighter than the puffing away of a
flake of swan's down for One with all power to help and to comfort. If
he were in the hands of a God to whom belonged the universe, why this
agony of doubt? Then he cried out to himself that this was the
temptation of the devil. He cast himself upon the ground, beating his
breast and moaning wildly: "Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" With quick
histrionic perception he was affected by the intensity and the
effectiveness of his penitence, and redoubled his fervor.
Then in a flash came over him the sickening realization that this
devotion was a sham; that it was hysteria, simple pretense. He ceased
to writhe on the floor. It was like coming to consciousness in a
humiliating situation. He blushed at his folly, and rose hastily from
before the crucifix.
"I have been acting private theatricals," he muttered scornfully; "and
for what audience?"
He threw himself again into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
He plunged into a reverie so deep and so self-searching that it could
have been fathomed by no plummet.
"I do not believe," he said at last aloud, raising his face as if to
address the crucifix. "I have never believed. I have simply bejuggled
myself. I have been a contemptible lie in the sight of men, not even
knowing enough to be honest to myself."
He was silent a moment, a smile of bitter contempt curling his lip.
"I have not even been a man," he added.
Then he rose with a spring to his feet, and looked about him,
stretching out his arms as if to embrace all the world.
"But now," he exclaimed with gladness bursting through every syllable,
"at last I am free!"