THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Measure for Measure, iv. I
The mind of Philip Ashe had not become more quiet as time went on, and
the day of the consecration found him hesitating between his old life
and a new one. Ever since the chance encounter with the Irish priest he
had been going almost every afternoon to talk with this new friend, and
one by one he had found his doubts about the supremacy of the Roman
church fading away. Ashe was of a nature which must rely upon another,
and since he was shut off from the companionship of Wynne it was
inevitable that he should lean upon this great, hearty, healthy man,
who with the possibility of adding a son to the church received him so
warmly. Philip's nature, moreover, inclined him strongly toward a
church which exercised absolute authority, and in doctrinal points he
found himself surprisingly at one with his teacher. Nothing held him
back but the force of habit and a natural hesitancy to break away from
the faith which he had professed. Undoubtedly his feeling for Father
Frontford counted for much; but the fact, that in the months which had
preceded the election the Father Superior had been so much absorbed
that intimacy between him and his deacons was impossible, had greatly
lessened Philip's sense of loyalty to him. Very tenderly and wisely the
priest led Ashe on, until he was in very truth a Catholic in all but
name.
To his ardent, mystical mind, deeply responsive to the ritual of the
older church, the ceremonies of the consecration seemed poor and thin.
He craved symbolism and richly suggestive rites. He had been more than
once in these latter days to the services of the Catholics, and his
imagination came more and more to demand the embodiment in form of the
aspirations of his soul. He tried to stifle the disappointment which
assailed him as the function proceeded, but it was impossible for him
not to realize that the ceremonial of his own faith left him cold and
unsatisfied. He missed the warm emotional excitement of the music, the
incense, the sonorous Latin, the sumptuous robes, and the romantic
associations of the mass.
He felt keenly, moreover, that the man who was being to-day installed
as the head of the diocese was of tendencies distinctly opposed to his
desires. He mingled with disappointment that Father Frontford had not
been chosen a genuine conviction that Strathmore would use his
influence to carry church forms toward a worship ever simpler and more
bare. He could not wholly smother an almost personal resentment against
Strathmore, and a consciousness that it would be always impossible for
him to regard the newly consecrated bishop with that respect and
veneration due to one holding the office. He reflected that the church
must itself be tending toward a dangerous liberalism if it were
possible for this thing to have come about. He listened dully and
confusedly to the service until the time came when the bishop elect
made his vows. He heard the strong voice of Strathmore, vibrant,
deliberate, penetrating, repeat with slow solemnity the promise of
conformity and obedience to the doctrine and worship of the church. The
words tingled through the mind of Ashe like an electric shock. To his
excited feeling Strathmore was perjuring himself in the name of God,
since it was impossible to feel that the new bishop followed or
intended to follow either. He experienced a wild impulse to spring to
his feet and protest; he wondered if he only of all the persons in this
crowded church recognized the shocking irreligion of that vow. He
reflected that in the Catholic communion it would have been impossible
for popular suffrage to raise to the bishopric a man like this, a
heretic and a perjurer.
The service went on, and Philip sat in a sort of dull stupor. He could
not think clearly; he was only dreamily conscious of what was going on
about him. The music, the prayers, the solemn words were to him so
remote from his true self that he seemed to hear them through a veil of
distance. He had ceased to have part in this rite; he ceased even to
heed it.
Like one who is lost in idle musing, one who concerns himself with
trifling thoughts lest he realize too poignantly a bitter actuality,
Philip sat in his place, now and then glancing about the great church.
Changing his position a little, he saw the face of Mrs. Fenton. He
dwelt on it with mingled grief and pain. More and more he became
absorbed in gazing, while love and anguish swelled in his heart. He
forgot where he was; he saw her only; he felt only her presence in all
the throng. His passion seemed to him greater than ever. He did not for
an instant think of her as of one who could or would requite his
affection; or even as one who belonged to his future life. He was
filled with a sense of the completeness of his devotion to her; he felt
that he had loved her more than Heaven itself; but he felt also that he
was bidding her good-by. He had not definitely said to himself that a
change was before him; yet looking at her he felt it. The shadow of an
eternal farewell seemed to be over him. He was benumbed with suffering;
he drank in her face greedily; he seemed to himself to be imprinting
for the last time upon his memory that which was dearer to him than
life, yet which he was to see no more.
The service ended at last, and once more the long procession of which
he was a part slowly made its way out of the church. Philip found
himself in the vestry in the midst of a crowd of ecclesiastics from
which he extricated himself with all possible speed; and got once more
into the open air. He threaded his way among the groups standing on the
sidewalks chatting and hindering him. Suddenly a man turned close to
him, and Maurice stood before his face.
"Phil!" he heard the joyful voice of his friend cry. "My dear old Phil,
how glad I am to see you!"
The sound was like a charm which breaks a spell. For the instant all
else was forgotten in the pleasure of being again with his
heart-fellow. He could have flung his arms about the other's neck and
kissed him, so keen was his delight. The doubts and distractions which
a moment earlier had bewildered and tortured him vanished before
Wynne's greeting as a mist before a brisk and wholesome wind. He seized
the hand held out to him, and clasped it almost convulsively.
"Maurice!" was all that he could say.
"I really ought not to recognize you," Maurice said, in a great hearty
voice which sounded to Philip strangely unfamiliar. "Why in the world
have you refused to see me? I assure you I'm not contagious."
They were close to a group waiting on the sidewalk, and with
instinctive shrinking Ashe led the way down the street. Soon they were
walking in much the old fashion, and Philip left his friend's question
unanswered until they had gone some distance. Then he turned with a
smile not a little wistful.
"Certainly it was not because I did not long to see you," he said.
Maurice smiled, but Philip sensitively felt a veiled impatience in his
tone as he replied:--
"Oh, Phil, if I could only get the ascetic nonsense out of you!"
Ashe could not answer. He could not reprove his friend after the
separation--which to him had been so long and so sorrowful, and he had
a secret feeling that they were to be more entirely divided. The pair
walked in silence a moment, and then Wynne spoke.
"Well, I'll not talk on forbidden subjects; but, surely, Phil, you are
not going to throw me over entirely. I wouldn't drop you, no matter
what happened."
"I'm not throwing you over," Philip answered with a choking in his
throat. "I would--Oh, Maurice," he broke out, interrupting himself, "it
isn't for want of caring for you, but if I am ever to help you, I must
keep my own faith. I have been so troubled and so--There," he broke off
again, "let us talk of something else."
He felt that Maurice was studying him carefully.
"Phil, old fellow, you are hysterically incoherent. What's the matter
with you? It can't be all my going off. Can't you come home with me,
and talk it out?"
Ashe shook his head. The more he was touched and moved by the affection
of his friend, the more he shrank from him. This tender comradeship
seemed to him the most subtile of temptations. He feared, moreover,
lest he might reveal to Maurice too much of what was in his heart.
"Not now," he said. "I must go home at once."
"Then I'll walk along with you," rejoined the other. "I do wish you'd
let me help you. You are evidently all played out physically, and half
an eye could see that you've something on your mind. Is it the bishop?"
"That has troubled me a good deal," Ashe returned, feeling a relief in
being able to say this truthfully.
"Well, Phil, if you worry yourself sick over what you can't help, what
strength will you have for the things that you can do? I'm glad it
isn't all my going that has brought you to this, for you look
positively ill. I wish you'd get sick-leave, and go off a while."
Ashe shook his head again. He felt that if Maurice went on talking to
him he should lose his self-command. He must get away; yet he could not
bear to hurt his friend. He turned toward Maurice and held out his hand.
"Dear Maurice," he said, "don't be hurt; but I can't talk with you. I
must be alone. I am upset, and not myself. It is not that I don't trust
you, you know; but there are things that a man has to fight out for
himself."
The other stopped, and regarded him closely.
"All right, Phil," he said. "I understand. If you've got a fight with
the devil on hand nobody can help you. I only wish I could."
He wrung the hand of Ashe, and added:
"Good-by. I'm always fond of you, old fellow; and you know that when
there is a place that I can help there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
Ashe tried to answer, but he could not command his voice. He could only
return the warm pressure of Wynne's hand, and then, miserable and
hopeless, go on his way to his conflict with the arch fiend.
Once in his chamber Ashe fastened the door, drew down the shades, and
lighted the gas. He laid aside his cassock, and loosened his clothing
so that his breast lay bare. He took from a drawer a little crucifix of
iron. This he placed across the chimney of the gas-burner, and watched
it until it was heated. Then he seized it with his fingers, but the
stinging pain made him drop it to the floor. He bared his breast,
wildly calling aloud to heaven, and flung himself down upon the
crucifix, pressing the hot iron to his naked bosom. A fierce shudder
convulsed him; he extended his arms in the form of a cross, and with
closed eyes lay still an instant. A horrible odor filled the room;
great drops of sweat dripped from his forehead; his teeth were set in
his lower lip. For a moment he remained motionless; then in
uncontrollable agony he writhed over upon his back and fainted.
The return to consciousness was a terrible sensation of misery and
weakness. He was heart-sick and racked in body and mind. Feebly he
rose, and gathered his scattered senses. Then with trembling he got to
his feet. His wound gave him bitter agony, but the bodily pain made him
smile. He took from the same drawer a picture of the Madonna, and knelt
before it with clasped hands. His doubts, his passion, his
self-reproaches, danced like demons before his distracted brain. The
troubled, stormy thoughts of his distraught mind merged insensibly into
prayers. He put aside the clothing and showed to the Virgin Mother his
wounded breast, scarred and bleeding. He looked into her face with
murmured words of contrition, of imploring, of faith. A gracious sense
of her womanly pity, of her heavenly tenderness, stole soothingly over
him. He seemed almost to feel cool hands on his hot forehead; it was as
if in a moment more the heavens might open and grant to him the
beatific vision. There came over him a wave of joy which was beyond
words. The longing of his soul for the woman he loved was merged in the
desire of his heart which yearned toward the blessed Virgin Mother. His
prayers became more glowing, more ecstatic, until in a rapture of
adoration, of bliss, of passion, he fell prostrate before the divine
image, crying out with all his soul:--
"Thou ever blessed one! To thee I give myself! 'O thou, to the arch of
whose eyebrow the new moon is a slave,' receive me, save me!"
He had no sense of incongruity to make the phrase unseemly or
ludicrous. It was to him the formal transfer of his deepest allegiance
from an earthly love to a heavenly. He had at last found peace.