Part 25 (2/2)
”Well, since you insist! I was going to say that it made the whole thing seem a little like amateur theatricals.”
He became grave instantly.
”I beg your pardon,” he said. ”You do not seem to understand that what you are speaking of may mean the bitter sacrifice of a man's whole life. Even a clergyman is human, and may love as strongly, as completely”--
He choked with the emotion he could not control. He realized that he was telling his pa.s.sion, and there came to him an overwhelming sense that he must never tell it save in this indirect manner. He hastened on lest she should interrupt him.
”Don't you suppose that a priest may know what it is to wors.h.i.+p the very ground a woman walks on? Don't you suppose he has had his heart beat till it suffocated him just because her fingers touched his or her gown brushed him? A man is a man after all, and the dreams that come to one are much the same as come to another. The difference is that the priest has to tear his very heart out, and turn his back on all that other men may find delight in.”
Berenice looked at him with s.h.i.+ning eyes, not undimmed, he thought, by tears.
”If you really care for her so much,” she said softly, ”you can give only a divided heart to your work. It is better to own that to yourself, isn't it?”
”For her?” he echoed.
”Oh, there must be somebody,” she returned hastily, her color coming.
”No matter about that.”
”But think of giving up!” he cried, leaning toward her. ”Even those who believe nothing despise a renegade priest.”
”That's of less consequence than that he should ruin his life and despise himself.”
He held out his uninjured hand impulsively.
”Berenice!” he whispered.
She flushed celestial red, and for an instant her eyes responded to the love in his. Then she sprang to her feet, with a laugh.
”There!” she cried. ”See what dunces we are to get to discussing theology. I'll never forgive you if you try to inveigle me into another talk about such subjects. Here is Mehitabel to say that she's ready to help you with your packing.”
XVI
THE GREAT a.s.sAY OF ART Macbeth, iv. 3.
”I am sorry if I kept you waiting,” Mrs. Wilson said to her husband, coming into the library one afternoon, ”but the fact is that I was dressing for a comedy.” ”Gad! you dress for a comedy every day, as far as that goes.”
She made a mocking courtesy.
”Well, what is life without comedy?”
”Oh, nothing but a bore, of course. Is this comedy with some of your ministerial hangers-on?”
She sat down by the fire and stretched out her feet upon a ha.s.sock. She was radiant with beauty and mischief, and dressed to perfection.
”That isn't a respectful way to speak of the clergy.”
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