“Yes—she’s a Quaker,” sighed John Rem, regretting for the first time his
stormy life.
Bell-Bell, as a woman will, veered the moment he had come to her point
of view.
“She is a woman, John, dear, and sometimes a woman likes that in a
man—if it is honest—as yours is. Now run away. I have been indiscreet.
And married six years, too. Go!”
IV
THE FIDDLING OF FORTUNE
Fortune fiddled favorably for the young physician. The next day it
rained, and as he was leisurely getting down from the uptown train, a
little exclamation arrested him, and, withal, two hands were planted in
the middle of his back and clutched there wildly. Turning quickly John
Rem looked again into the calyxlike bonnet.
It was plain that even in the distress of her accident she had
recognized him, as well as that she meant to be haughty—in a Quakerish
way. She did decline his assistance. But it was really at such moments
as this that what was finest in Rem came out.
“You are injured,” he said, with gravity and strength, “and I must help
you. I am a doctor.”
Without more ado he carried her to the women’s room in the station, and
with the help of the matron attended to her injury—which was slight.
However, she was glad to lean on his arm as he led her to the street car
which she insisted upon taking to Bell-Bell’s, and while this had
happened to him often before, he did not remember that he had had such
interest in the proceeding. While she, when he had left her alone in the
car, shook her head at herself accusingly, as she said:
“Entirely too glad—entirely—to be carried!”
And she turned and watched him stalk away.
After a week of unrest, which he blamed upon the dulness of the practice
of medicine, he remembered the roll of music which she had carried under
her arm, and since it happened to be the same day of the week, to give
nepenthe to his dulness he took the train down town which they had both
taken that other day. She was there, and he fitted himself into the seat
at her side with the utmost assurance of a welcome. She bubbled with
laughter.
“Suppose I had told thee it was taken?”
“Impossible—for you,” he laughed.
“Why?”
“You are a Quaker, and Quakers always tell the truth.”
“I do not,” she said.
“It was really the only vacant seat in the car.”
“I am glad,” she laughed, and knew that there were many others, “that
thee does not.”
“Oh! Glad?” But he was not sure. “Then that is not the truth, I
suppose?”
“If there had been another seat, thee would have taken it.”
“More prevarication!” he laughed.
“Wouldn’t thee?”
“No,” he said. “If you knew what a villain I am, you would shun me—”
“I have not been permitted to shun thee,” she interrupted.
He persisted.
“I deliberately selected this day and this train to go down town because
I knew that you would be on it. Now, then, what is my punishment?”
“I thank thee.”
“What?”
Though it was all persiflage, he could not believe his ears.
She went on gravely, now, in quite a Quakerish fashion:
“I have desired to thank thee for thy assistance to me a week ago
to-day. There is no telling where such injuries may end if they do not
receive prompt attention at the beginning. On that day—I was so—so—full
of pain—that I forgot to thank thee. Now, at last, I do. It was very
thoughtless, and I have looked for thee every day with the purpose of
thanking thee—I had even thought of writing thee a note.”
Rem laughed with real embarrassment—a new emotion to him.
“I don’t believe that I am awake,” he said.
She turned her head away, and the long bonnet hid her face from him.
“The pain was so great that I forgot—”
In reaching for something—perhaps a handkerchief—Rem did not know where
such a thing might be concealed in such a toilette—her hand came in
contact with his, and his pounced upon it instinctively. For a moment it
struggled and then was regretfully released.
“The pain was—so great—” she was repeating dreamily, and Rem could see a
part of one cheek now. It bloomed with the very roses of June.
“The—pain—was—so—great—”
“There was no pain,” laughed brutal John Rem. “And it couldn’t have hurt
after the first minute.”
She suddenly faced him, and he was altogether bewildered by the smiling
happiness in her eyes.
“Then I thank thee for that. It is much better to be thankful that there
was no hurt—than that there was—does thee not think so?”
He did.
And he followed that wandering, fluttering, little hand until it again
came under the dominion of his, and was again—a trifle more slowly
now—withdrawn.
“My hand is not hurt,” she said.
“Heavens! I believe my heart is,” he laughed.
“This is my station,” she said, and ran out of the car.
V
A DANGEROUS TRAIN
There were other meetings on that ten-thirty train, until Doctor Rem
showed a very moody face at the house of his friend Jarn, one day.
“Doesn’t she come to pound the piano any more?” asked he of Bell-Bell.
“Certainly.”
“What!”
“Certainly.”
“Then she must take another train!”
“Yes, the ten-twenty.”
“Just to avoid me!”
“I am perfectly amazed at the moral turpitude which you and she have at
this moment disclosed. Sir, you have been meeting on the trains!”
“One train, please,” grinned Rem, “the ten-thirty.”
“And you have both kept this a secret from me!”
“Certainly,” said Rem, in his turn. “You were against me from the first.
Do you suppose that I am going to put my plans into the hands of my
enemies?”
“Plans!” shrieked Bell-Bell. “Plans! About her! A Quaker! Doctor Rem, I
demand to know what your plans are!”
“Well, I don’t exactly know myself. I didn’t quite mean to say plans. It
slipped out. But I suppose if I were let alone I would do
something—very—very foolish,” sighed the physician.
At this point Bell-Bell broke into a long laugh.
“Oh, what babes! You are both under the impression that you have fooled
me. Why, you old brute, any one could tell that you were seeing her if
by no other way than your gentleness. She has been good for you. She
will continue to be good for you. I have long ago seen that that is the
solution. You must marry a Quaker. She will both steady you and make you
respectable. And if you are hunting a Quaker—well, I shouldn’t wonder if
you have found one. For the only reason she gave for changing from the
ten-thirty to the ten-twenty was that it was a dangerous train!”
They laughed together.
“And it is, poor girl! Though, I confess, until you told me just now, I
thought the danger was in the railroad.”
“Do you really think I was the danger?” asked Rem, happily.
“John, dear,” said Bell-Bell, “you are a very foolish wooer.”
“Who said I was a wooer?” demanded the young physician.
“No one but me, unfortunately,” said Mrs. Jarn.
“Not me, be hanged!”
“No, not you. Therefore, go away and stop bothering me. I have better
things to do—and better persons than you to see. After all, she has not
saved the brute—only helped the wolf to put on lamb’s clothing. Run
along!”
“If you make me angry,” threatened John Rem, “I swear I will come down
town on the ten-twenty to-morrow.”
“I will telephone the fact to her.”
“Then I’ll take every train there is.”
“How busy you will be on that day at least! Run away, boy.”
“And if you make me very mad, I’ll marry her—just to spite you!”
“Poor girl! Please get very mad. No, no, no! I mean don’t. Go away! You
are a dog in the manger. Go.”
VI
SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR
Now Doctor Rem thought on these things and in his heart decided that
they were true. But though convicted, he was nothing more. Until that
night he got Bell-Bell’s wire to go down on the seven-thirty train.
He was going to the Charity Masque in the costume of a Roundhead
cavalier, and was as moody as his coat. Yet when he met her, all his
moodiness fled. He held her hand in the real forgetfulness of inchoate
possession. She drew it away angrily.
“Why—may I sit with you?” he begged in beautiful humility.
“Thee is alone?”
It escaped out of her heart of hearts.
Rem had the misfortune to laugh.
“Oh, that was the cause of your anger!”
“That thee was alone—yes,” she countered with tremendous aplomb. “I am
very sorry—for my anger.”
She made the room for him at her side he had begged for.
“Your anger was justified,” said Rem, happily. “No one has any business
to be alone in a thing like this—and—therefore—I am going to tempt—you—”
“I feel like a little brown sparrow among you all,” she said with
discontent, for the car was crowded with the guests of the Masque.
“Do you suspect how many of these ladies would like to be this little
brown sparrow?”
“Not one!” she cried fiercely.
“Rebellion!” laughed he.
“No! Guile! Wickedness! Shame!” she cried, hiding her face with her
hands, and so making herself irresistible to the cavalier. “But I cannot
help it! One of my ancestors—a very near one—belonged to the
_corps_—and—do you know what I am wishing with all my heart?”
“Yes,” he laughed.
“Thee does not. Of course not. But I will tell thee. I am wishing to go
to this Masque! There!”
“I know. It is foreordained.”
“You do not. And it is as bad to wish to be wicked as to be wicked.”
“Therefore it can be no worse for you to go.”
“I dance!”
“Whew!”
“Yes! Like a little demon! Don’t stare so. The people in the rear are
looking. They don’t take me for a Quaker at all. They think I am
costumed for the ball. I heard them saying so before you came.”
“Listen!”
Even then a young prince on the other side was saying to one Starlight:
“It was an exquisite idea. And the whole costume is fine!”
“It is fate!” tempted Rem.
“Bell-Bell taught me. That is our secret. Thee must keep it with us. No,
after all, Bell-Bell only helped a little. My feet were born to it. For,
even when I was a child, to hear a waltz and sit perfectly still was
impossible. Often my portion was dry bread for it. Yet I did not care.
Does thee think one can inherit such wickedness?”
“Yes, thank God, it is a law of nature.”
“Oh, if I could once dance, dance, dance, till I was dizzy—delirious—and
wicked as sin itself—la la la—”
She hummed the music of a waltz—
“—till I dropped in my tracks—” she stopped to laugh a trifle piteously
at the pretty bit of slang on her tongue—“I think I should be cured.
Similia similibus curantur, thee knows.”
She turned upon him where he gazed bewitched and cried with flushed
cheeks and flashing, laughing, hungry eyes:
“Thee is a physician. Is not that proper treatment?”
“It is,” he said. “I advise it.”
“Ah, it is easy to—advise! La la la! The music is there! The dancing! I
am to keep the children for Bell-Bell.”
“No,” said John Rem. “I said I would tempt you—remember.”
“Yes,” sighed Miss Estover. “The carriage is to meet me at the station.
If I would, I could not. Ah, yes, it is fate.”
“As truly as anything that ever happened. You are in costume. I am. I am
alone. You are. Bell-Bell does not need you. There is a nurse. Last and
least, there is a carriage made ready for us. But one thing remains, a
mask for you—and that will take exactly the three minutes it requires to
drive to Mousson’s.”
She looked up at him with large, tempted eyes.
“I am your physician. That is my prescription. Come!”
“Oh, oh, oh! Get thee behind me, Satan!” she whispered.
“Your disguise will be absolutely impenetrable! This bonnet—a mask—”
“Ah, doctor, dear,” she whispered wistfully back to him, “will it
certainly cure? Will it not—might it not—aggravate the complaint? Oh,
thee does not know how a great orchestra gets into my little sinful
soul!”
“I am happy to be able to guarantee my treatment,” he said.
“I wish—almost—that I had not met thee—my tall and splendid Satan. And
will thee take me to the pinnacle of the temple—oh, the very pinnacle!”
“Yes,” he laughed.
“And show me all the world of joy—then drop me down—down—down—into
disgrace and shame?”
“No! by the earth and heaven, I will be your faithful pal in whatever
may happen to us.”
“Hush! hush! Swear not at all. And if I should yield to thy
tempting—will thee keep my secret always—always—forever and ever?”
One should have seen her eyes then.
“I should deserve shooting the moment—”
And he got both the hands and would not let them go.
A moment she thought with drooping head while her hands remained in his.
Then she said:
“I have yielded. Oh, I do not know whether it is more to thy tempting
than to the tempting of the dance. I yield. Take me. For this evening I
am thine. And whatever follies I may commit—oh, I shall not be
responsible when the orchestra opens! I shall be mad—abandoned—I feel
it—know it—and thee—” she whispered with her head down—“thee—_must_ thee
have thy arm about me—to dance?”
“Undoubtedly!” cried John Rem, with savage decision.
“Oh—well—”
She sighed and woke and spoke more lightly:
“Whatever follies I may commit, thee will not desert me—but will be my
true knight—and, at the end, I shall require myself of thee less my
infirmity—all this does thee swear?”
He kissed the hilt of his sword.
“And afterward,” she went on, “we are never to see or speak to each
other—oh, I could not—could not look thee in the face again after such
wickedness!”
“Part? Never!” he cried.
“Then I shall not. Thee makes me fear thee.”
“Well—as you wish,” he said.
And at the disappointment in his face a pretty light came to her own.
She gave him her hand without his asking—for the first time—and
whispered—for the first time, also:
“Forgive me—John.”
Then, shocked at herself, she explained:
“The Quakers use the first name, always, thee knows.”
“I know,” said John Rem, kissing the little thing he held.
VII
THE INEFFABLE WHIRL
And so, in time, they came into temptation worse than his—the surge of
the orchestra. He felt her arm tremble in his and drew it very close.
“Yes!” she gasped.
“Are you frightened?”
“I am gone mad!”
It was not yet their time, and he drew her to a nook behind the curtain
of jasmines where they were alone.
“Why did thee bring me here?” she asked.
“I want to call you Mary Ann,” he said.
“Mad, too!” she laughed.
“For the first time in my life, I believe,” he said, “I am embarrassed.
I feel like he must feel who has gayly stolen something and found it
immeasurably precious. But, yet—”
“Hush! Thee is mad, too. Be content. Soon we shall wake and find it all
a dream. But, me? Oh, John, John, John, let me dream this one dream and
ever after sleep!”
The orchestra, as if answering her wish, opened a waltz. She cried out
and put her hands close on her ears. But even then she swayed to the
rhythm, she closed her eyes, and slowly moved to the beating of the arch
tempting of the violins, as if it were all part of some spell. John Rem
put his arm about her waist. She raised her head a moment and looked
with a gasp of ecstasy fair into his eyes, then gave him her hands.
And, so, they danced—all the night. There were—yes—other times when they
sat there behind the jasmines—but, for her, the vibration—the mad
ecstasy never ceased.
Then, at last, it was all over. The orchestra had ceased. And they were
once more behind the jasmine pillars, quite bereft of sense of other
being than that which had been among the violins.
The touch of the feather of his chapeau on her cheek was enough. She
lifted up her face to him. And when he had raised the mask, there was a
look such as he had never seen even in his dreams of the fairest woman
in the world. Damp tendrils of her hair flowed over her cheeks. Within
its calyx of a lily was indeed the rose. And there it blushed and pulsed
with the newest and the oldest emotions that have ever stirred a woman’s
soul. Her lips begged kisses, hungry, insensible, mad, and were not
denied.
But then she shuddered at her deed.
“Take me home!” she cried. “I am an outcast!”
“Yes,” whispered Bell-Bell’s voice behind him, “take her home—you
brute!”
In the carriage she shuddered away from him.
“No!” she cried. “I am a monster! And you have let me be one!”
But when he had brought her in and was dejectedly taking his leave, the
sudden passion came again as it had come that moment when he kissed her.
“Bell-Bell,” she whispered with large eyes and feverish lips, “ought I
to see him—to the door? Just one instant, perhaps? I did not thank him,
I was unkind to him. In the carriage I thought I hated him. He ought to
have known better. He is of the world and knows. I did not. At the ball
he said—he called me his—he—”
She whispered something in her very ear as if to keep the horrid
knowledge from her own soul.
Bell-Bell nodded gravely.
“And I let him!”
The happy young wife pushed her toward the door.
“Yes—yes, dear, I know. We cannot help some things.”
“But—I wished him.”
“Is it possible?”
“Bell-Bell, I tempted him! I made my lips so—so! I think I pulled him
down!”
“Good heavens! What wickedness!”
“Yes! Now—does thee think I had better let him say good-by—forever and
ever?”
“Yes,” said Bell-Bell, with judicial airs, “if you are sure it _is_
forever and ever. Fear not. I will wait right here—inside the door. And
if I hear a sound, I’ll be on him like a lion. But only a minute for the
brute. Mind!” She turned and bit her lips to keep them in order.
“Yes—oh, yes! I will be sure to be only a minute. And thee shall stand—I
have quite forgotten thee all the evening—such is the result of
wickedness—thee shall stand right here—inside and—just here—and listen
to every word I say—and thee shall call me when the minute is
up—unless—I come—before—”
“Yes, yes. Hurry!”
She went out swiftly, calling:
“John—is thee gone? Wait—wait—one minute!”
Bell-Bell went to bed.
VIII
THE LENGTH OF A MINUTE
Well, there, in the vestibule, the tendrils were still on her face, and
her eyes were greater and her voice softer than before; and, somehow,
without her will her hands went out to him, and without his will his arm
disposed itself as it had done for dancing.
“Hush!” she whispered, putting her hand on his mouth to shut out the
very words she hungered for, “we have only a minute, and I wished to
thank thee and to be forgiven by thee—and—and—to forgive thee—and to
never, never meet again—as we agreed—so—so—oh, it was wrong—wrong! But I
am so wicked that I am not sorry. No, nor ever shall be! But thee will
never tell—and—and when thee is married—everybody has little secrets
from his wife—or—husband—my mother has—why, do not tell thy—_wife_—”
But that word was too much for either of them to endure.
He kissed her so savagely that she lay quiet in his arms.
“Bell-Bell,” murmured the happy and dishevelled Quaker lady to the
sleepy lady of the house of Jarn, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It was more
than a minute—wasn’t it?”
“I think it was an hour,” snapped Bell-Bell, with pretended savagery.
“Bib—but thee did not call,” half sobbed the happy one, “and—and
I—forgot!”
“God bless you both!” shouted the little wife, and in a moment had the
dishevelled head with the damp tendrils of hair on her breast. “I am
almost as happy as you.”
“Why?” questioned the Quaker lady.
“Why—didn’t he ask you to marry him?”
“No. I don’t think he would wish to marry a Quaker—especially one as
wicked as I am.”
She could hear the fine teeth of Bell-Bell grind.
“Isn’t it funny that one can be so very wicked and so very happy at the
same time?”
“No. Go to sleep. I must think.”
“Mi—must I tell thee all that happened in the vestibule?”
“No. I know.”
“Oh! Thi—thee saw us?”
“I went straight to bed.”
“Then, how, Bell-Bell, dear—”
“Look here, I’ve been through all that. There are others besides John
Rem. I don’t like him a bit to-night. And I shall tell him so very early
in the morning.”
“Not so tall and strong as he, I think, dear Bell-Bell.”
“All right. Go to bed, you wicked little Quaker.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to talk. Bell-Bell, there couldn’t have been any one
to hold _thee_ that way—as if thee were never to get away again! And—and
kiss thee. That is twice!” she wailed, with the air of a felon
confessing his felonies. “Does thee think me irreparably wicked? He
does, I know, and will never look at me again.”
“Never fear. They like us to be wicked—a little—you know. Now, off to
bed with you!”
“Truly?”
“Truly. To bed!”
IX
AT TEN IN THE MORNING
Until ten o’clock the next morning, at which hour he rose and confided
it to his shaving-mirror, John Rem had enjoyed the happiest day of his
life. But at precisely that hour he heard his name called out by a
newsboy on the street. In a moment more not only his name, but his
picture, was before him in the newspaper he had bought. And beside his
own was the name and a fair sketch of Miss Estover, Quaker.
In fact, it was all known, and, with marvellous guesses, where fact had
failed, it had been printed. It was a piquant story, and so it had the
place of honor on the first page and the blackest “heads.” The incident
behind the jasmines when he had lifted her mask was given a hideous
prominence, and the reporter confessed that it was this “happy accident”
which disclosed identities to him, out for a story. The unusual
circumstance of a dancing Quaker would have been a sufficient story. But
in following the charming Quaker costume for character matter he had
been presented with a sight of their unmasked faces, and the sound of a
kiss.
The final witticism of the jolly reporter was that the pretty Quaker
would undoubtedly be called before the annual meeting, then but three
days off, to be dealt with according to her deserts. What these might be
he had gathered from several representative Quakers, who made them
briefly but sufficiently terrible.
Doctor Rem did not shave that day. For after he had read the part of the
paper which he and the Quaker lady occupied, he received a telegram from
Mrs. Jarn.
“She is still here. She dare not go home. You have broken her heart.
Come at once to consult with me. You are a brute!”
X
BY THE RIGHT OF A HUSBAND
Now, when the Great Meeting came, everything happened precisely as the
jolly reporter had foretold—and more. The trembling sinner was arraigned
and put upon her defence.
Then John Rem rose, tall, and, with a dignity no one thought he had,
walked over and took his place at the sinner’s side, and begged that he
might be permitted to speak for her. And, being asked by what right he
claimed to make her defence, he answered sturdily:
“By the right of a husband,” and then went on in a strong and determined
voice, “and I hope, sir, that I may take the place—I—”
But at that moment John Rem, notwithstanding his experiences, was
suddenly in the midst of the most dramatic situation he had ever known.
Slowly every head of the three thousand in the hall drooped. He looked
backward and forward, right and left, and saw not a face. Only bowed
heads he saw—and silence. Not a sound. He heard the ticking of his
watch. For the first time in his strenuous life something like terror
possessed him. His face actually went pale.
“What is it?” he whispered to his wife.
“They are praying,” she whispered back.
“For us?”
“Yes.”
“Shall we go?”
“No. We must wait until they move.”
And so they waited. Five, ten minutes. Yet it seemed an eternity. John
Rem had never such need of endurance. The perspiration streamed down his
face. The little hand which crept into his grew moist. His watch
continued to deafen him.
Then, in the front row, a woman’s skirt rustled. Almost he had cried
out, “Thank God!”
Beyond this one another raised her head. Then a little rustle passed
over the vast room. No more. John Rem knew now that, had he looked,
every mild eye would be upon him, and not with animadversion. In the
prayer they had placed him—her—the whole matter before God.
The moderator, facing them, rose and said quietly:
“John Rem, thou and thy wife, go in peace. And the blessing of the God
of our fathers go with ye. If ye have sinned, repent.”
And, shamed and trembling, John Rem got himself and his bride out of
that place.
On the face of the father of this sudden bride there was a deeper gloom
than it bore that day we first saw it in this story. On the face of the
gentle proselyte at his side, it must be confessed, there was a
fleeting, reminiscent smile.