WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED
Hamlet, iv. 7.
The grief which Philip felt over the apostasy of Maurice overshadowed
for a time every other feeling. He sorrowed for his friend, praying and
yearning, searching his heart to discover whether his own influence or
example had helped to bring about this lamentable fall; he turned over
in his mind plans for bringing the wanderer back to the fold; he ceased
to think about the coming election, and thought of his ill-starred love
hardly otherwise than as a possible sin which had helped perhaps to
lead to this catastrophe.
Affection between two men is much more likely to be mutual than that
between two women. Men are more generally frank in their likes and
dislikes, they are as a rule more accustomed to feel at liberty to be
open and to please themselves in their familiarities; and it seems to
be true that men are more constant in friendship, as women are said to
be more constant in love. Affection between women, moreover, is apt to
be founded upon circumstance, while that between men is more often a
matter of character.
The fondness of Philip and Maurice for each other was of long standing;
it had arisen out of the mutual needs of their natures, and was part of
their growth. Philip was the one most dependent upon his friend,
however, and now he felt as if he were torn away from his chief
support. He reasoned with himself that he had been letting affection
for his friend come between him and Heaven; he tried to feel that
Providence had interfered to break down his idol; yet to all this he
could not but answer that Maurice had been always a help, and that it
was impossible to believe that Providence would accomplish his good by
the hurt of his benefactor. He did assure himself that his suffering
was the will of a higher power, and as such to be acquiesced in and
improved to his spiritual good. If the voice of his secret heart, that
inner self from which we hide our faces and whose words we so
obstinately refuse to hear, cried out against the cruelty of this
discipline, he but closed his ears more resolutely. To listen would be
to yield to temptation. He would not see Maurice; he hardly permitted
himself to read his friend's letters. He answered these notes by fervid
appeals to the wanderer to return to the fold, to be reconciled with
the church, to take up again the priesthood he had discarded. Hard as
it was, he still strove for what he felt to be the other's lasting good.
Lent ended, and the gladness of Easter came upon the land; the spring
showed traces of its secret presence by a thousand intangible and
delicate signs in sky, and air, and earth: there was everywhere a stir
and a quickening, a blitheness which belongs to the vernal season only.
Philip felt all these things by the growing sharpness of the contrast
between his mood and that of the world without. His melancholy and
unrest seemed to him to grow every day more intense and unbearable.
That Father Frontford did not more fully realize Philip's condition was
probably due to the near approach of the election. As the time for the
convention drew near, the supporters of the rival candidates redoubled
their exertions; there was hurrying to and fro, writing of letters and
continued consultation, all of which inevitably distracted the
attention of the Father. He did perceive, however, that Philip was
troubled, and nothing could have been more tender or considerate than
his attitude. He did not talk to Ashe about Maurice, but he contrived
to make his deacon understand that no blame was attached to him for the
apostasy of Wynne. Philip found a new affection for the Father
springing in his heart, so soothing, so winning was the sympathy of the
Superior.
The days passed on until the convention actually assembled. Philip was
feverishly anxious; yet he persistently assured himself that he had no
doubt in regard to the result. He felt that the end had been
accomplished by the work which had already been done; and the
convention itself seemed to him somewhat unreal and unmeaning. It had
in his mind not much more than the function of announcing a result
which he felt to have been arrived at already in the canvassing of
lists of delegates in which he had taken part at Mrs. Wilson's. Until
the thing was formally announced, however, it was impossible to be at
ease.
The first day of the convention was mainly one of organization and of
preparation. Business was disposed of and all made ready for the
election of the morrow. Philip went into the convention in the hour of
recreation. He tried to be interested in matters which he assured
himself were of real importance; yet he found his memory dwelling on
Maurice and the times they had talked of this convention. Even his
efforts to fix his thoughts on the election itself could not drive his
friend from his mind. He walked home at last, saying passionately that
he had ceased to care for the church, for its welfare, its fate; that
he had cared only for his own selfish desires and interests. He looked
back upon the convention which he had left, and saw mentally a picture
of men who seemed strange and remote, concerned with matters which he
did not understand, in which he had no interest. He felt completely out
of key with everything; he longed for Maurice with unspeakable pain. He
had rested on Maurice. In every mental crisis he had depended upon
finding his friend at hand, sympathetic, strong, responsive; he had
come to be as one unable to stand alone. It seemed impossible for him
to go on longer without seeing his fellow, his friend, his confidant,
his support. The convention and the Clergy House alike became misty and
accidental in comparison with his own desperate need of Maurice.
A couple of blocks from the House he was joined by a fellow deacon.
"I say, Ashe," was the other's greeting, "did you ever know anything so
unfortunate as that Wilson letter?"
Philip turned upon him an uncomprehending face.
"What is the Wilson letter?" he inquired absently.
"What? Don't you know about it? I saw you at the convention."
"I was there a little while; but there was nothing said about a letter,
that I heard."
"Oh, there has been nothing said about it in the convention, but they
say it will turn the scale."
"But what is it?"
"It's a letter Mrs. Wilson--Mrs. Chauncy Wilson, you know--you must
know who she is?"
"Yes; I know her."
"Well, this is a letter that she wrote to a rector in the western part
of the State,--his name was Briggs or Biggs, or something of that kind.
She said that if he didn't vote for Father Frontford she could get him
out of his parish."
"What!" exclaimed Philip. "She couldn't have written such a thing!"
"There's a fac-simile of it in the hands of every member of the
convention."
"But how did it get out?"
"They say," answered the other, eager to impart his information, "that
a man named Rangely had it printed, and sent it around. I don't know
who he is, but he's a newspaper man, I believe."
"I know who he is," Philip returned, "but I thought he was a friend of
Mrs. Wilson. I've seen him at her house. How did he get the letter?"
"I'm sure I don't know; but he had it. He's written a circular to go
with it. He says that that is the way the friends of Father Frontford
are trying to secure the election. There is a great deal of feeling
about it."
"But will it make much difference?"
"They say that it will turn the scale. There are a number of men who
were in doubt, and this is likely to be enough to insure Mr.
Strathmore's election."
"What a disgraceful trick!" Philip cried indignantly. "Father Frontford
isn't responsible for what Mrs. Wilson did. Besides, it doesn't change
the real facts of the case. It doesn't make Father Frontford any the
less the right man."
"Of course it doesn't," was the reply. "But I've been talking with my
uncle. He's a delegate from Springfield. He says that he's sure it will
get Mr. Strathmore elected."
The news gave Philip a shock, but it seemed impossible that a trivial,
outside trick like this could alter the conscientious vote of the
candidates. He was uneasy, but he seemed to have lost all vital care
about the election, and even this disconcerting event did not greatly
change his feeling. He reproached himself that he cared so little; yet
his personal misery so absorbed him that his thoughts wandered even
from this new cause for self-reproach.
After supper that night he was summoned to the Father Superior.
"I wish you to do an errand for me," Father Frontford said. "I presume
that you have heard of the publication of Mrs. Wilson's letter. It may
do harm, and whatever happens I want her to know that I do not blame
her. She acted unwisely, no doubt; but her intention was good. Besides,
I really became responsible when I trusted so much to her judgment. I
shall be happier if I know that she is not thinking that I feel
disposed to be vexed with her."
The tone in which this was said was too sincere for Philip to doubt
that the Father uttered his true feeling. He looked into the face of
the other, and was struck by the complete weariness, almost exhaustion,
which marked it. He went on his way haunted by those deep-set eyes, so
full of pain, of fatigue, and, it seemed to Philip, of self-reproach.
Mrs. Wilson was not at home, so that Philip had only to leave the note.
He turned back, crossing the Public Garden in the soft evening.
Overhead was the mysterious darkness, quivering with stars. The air was
full of suggestions of advancing spring. He felt in his veins an
unreasonable restlessness, a stirring as of sap in the tree, a longing
for that which he could not define. He heard around him gay voices and
laughter, for the night was warm, and people were sitting about on the
benches or strolling along the walks. He began to examine the groups he
passed, looking with a curious eye at the couples sitting side by side
in friendly or in loving companionship. He felt so utterly alone, and
all these about him were mated. The tones of women sounded soft and
sweet in his ear. Stray verses of Canticles began to float through his
mind as wisps of vapor drift across the sky before the fog comes in
from the sea. He repeated the collect for the day, and through it all
he was thinking that it was possible to walk past the house of Mrs.
Fenton. The difference in the time of his reaching the Clergy House
would not be so great as to attract notice; he might see her shadow on
the curtain; it was not probable, of course, but it was possible; in
any case, he should feel near to her. He walked more quickly, and as he
did so he heard the notes of a guitar, and then the sound of a girl
singing. It was only the hard, coarse voice of a street-singer, and the
language was Italian. He did not understand the words, but the music
was seductive, the night of spring, star-lit and fragrant with
intangible odors, quickened his sense. Constantly recurring in the
song, as if set there for his ear, he understood the magic word
"_amore, amore_" strung like beads down the necklace warm on a girl's
bosom. Surely he had a right to be human. All the world had leave to
love. He had given Mrs. Fenton up; she was only a memory; he should
never speak to her again; it could not be wrong simply to walk past her
house. He had lost even his friend; if this poor act were a comfort, it
surely was not sin. "_Amore--amore_," sang the Italian girl over there
in the warm, palpitating night. He had consecrated his love as an
offering on the altar; surely he need not therefore deny it.
He had gained Beacon Street, and was walking rapidly, his cheeks hot
and flushed, his heart on fire. Far down a neighboring street he heard
the approach of a band of the Salvation Army. They were singing
shrilly, with beating of tambourines and clanging of cymbals, a vulgar,
raucous tune, redolent of animal vigor and of coarse passions, a tune
as unholy as the rites of a pagan festival. Ashe stood still as with
flaring torches they drew nearer. The blare of the brass, the vibrant,
tingling clangor of the cymbals, the high, penetrating voices of the
women, the barbaric rhythm of the air, made him in his sensitive mood
tremble like a tense string. He shivered with excitement, nervous tears
coming into his eyes so thickly that he turned away blinded, and
stumbled against a man who was passing.
"My good brother," exclaimed a rich, Irish voice, jovial, yet not
without dignity, "you don't see where you are going."
Philip recognized instantly the tones of the priest whom he had met at
the North End; and without even apologizing he answered with an
overwhelming sense of how true were the words in a figurative sense:--
"No, I cannot see."
The other was evidently impressed by the manner in which the reply was
given, for instead of passing on he stopped and examined Ashe closely.
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked.
"Providence has sent you to me, I think," Philip returned. Then he put
his hand on the arm of the stranger, bending forward in his eagerness.
"Where do you live?" he asked. "May I come to see you to-morrow
afternoon? It may be that you can tell me where I am going."