Chapter 13 of 13 · 3229 words · ~16 min read

Part 13

“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.

“There are some things we cannot help, thee knows, John,” she was saying, “and it is our duty to bear these crosses with fortitude.” The reminiscent smile grew broader. “Thee was exactly right in what thee said about guile. But thee was also right in what thee said about goodness being as communicable as guile. This young man has not the highest kind of a reputation for gentleness. But all agree that he is honest. It displeases me very much”—and the smile was almost a laugh now—“that they should make me a mother-in-law, at my age, without my consent. But if I can forgive that, thee can forgive—hem—whatever ails thee. John, my dear husband, let us keep them with us and try that theory of thine which was so successful in my case. Let us see whether we cannot communicate our goodness to them—as they have communicated their guile to each other.”

John Estover sprang upon his wife and embraced her so strongly and so suddenly that she said happily:

“Why, John, it is just as if thee was courting again!”

“Thee is right, Ann! Thee is a better Quaker than I am. Thee adheres to the precepts and does not forget them when they are of use. There is much hope in what thee says.”

“And—and—John—just think of our lovely Marian—Mary Ann—leaving us! It is not to be thought of, is it? I know thee feels as strongly about that as I do. And that poor, misguided young man—”

For she had seen them coming, with fearful faces, for their forgiveness, and he had not.

They were almost at the door now.

“Is it all agreed, John?” she cried.

“Yes,” said John, “it is all agreed. Thee is a better Quaker than I am.”

And that is why they received a welcome which was more hard to bear than the one they expected.

“Now if thee were only one of us,” sighed John Estover to John Rem, as he held his two hands, and liked him at once for a certain big way he had with him.

“What do you mean?” asked the younger man. “I hope that having forgiven us, you will not stop halfway.”

“Ah, yes, that. Look to Ann for that! But if thee was a Friend, we might reclaim thee—”

“I am a Friend,” shouted John Rem, tremendously happy to remember in time what he had not remembered much for years.

“What!”

It came in three voices—and six hands were laid with various expressions of tragedy upon him.

“Not very orthodox,” confessed honest John Rem, “perhaps a confirmed backslider. But I claim my place in the church of my fathers, and I mean to keep it better in the future than in the past—with—with—the help of my—wi—wife!—” he got it out with a gulp—“and you. I am a Friend, sir. My father and my mother were, God bless them! I tried to tell it at the meeting. But they began to pray for us.”

“My dear son John—” said John Estover to John Rem.

Now, do you observe how right Mrs. Estover was in her views and practices concerning the “management” of husbands and fathers, and churches, and other things?

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THE GAME

_A TRANSCRIPT FROM REAL LIFE_

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_A RECORD_

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Sometime Major U.S.A.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

212 shining imprudence of the thing shining impudence of the thing in the midst in the midst

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.