Guile
I Chilly Wisdom
“Guile,” said John Estover, savagely, to his wife, “is as communicable as—as—tuberculosis!”
“Yes, John,” sighed his wife.
“And when there is a predisposition to it—segregation is absolutely imperative.”
“Yes—yes! But I confessed my frivolities before the Great Meeting, and they prayed for me in our silent fashion—and said: Go in peace! Does thee remember?”
Estover’s face relaxed a trifle.
“I meant our child.”
“We were bride and groom then, John,” his little wife whispered, on seeing his softening.
She did not see, though, that he had at once forbidden the softness to his face, and went on.
“You didn’t care then that I was French and had a most unquakerish name—”
“Say ‘thee,’ please, Ann (her name was Jeanne), and when thee thinks ‘Quaker’ say Friend.”
“Yes, John.”
It is true that the smiles the thought of her bridehood brought had gone from her face with the sigh which followed. But another smile was there—for him. For she knew perfectly what was beneath this ecclesiastical chill. The very man who had been her bridegroom, and had never been anything else.
“Some people blame it on heredity—their poor parents; some upon temperament. But it is neither thee nor me now. I think it is nothing but temptation—the getting into contact with evil—just as that is necessary to contract tuberculosis.”
“But, John,” smiled the wife, “I was a wicked little girl when thee found me in Paris—”
“And saved thee!” thundered John.
“Yes, John. Wasn’t it queer that I should like thee with no collar on thy coat? At first I think it was because thee was so different—so very strong thee seemed.”
“It proves,” said John, with chilly wisdom, “that if evil is communicable, goodness, also, is, and that it is stronger than evil.”
“But what, then, brought thee to the theatre, where I danced? I had never before seen a Quaker there—I had never before seen one anywhere.”
She laughed happily.
“I had heard of thee—thy grace and beauty—and I desired to know if God permitted such gifts to be so sadly used.”
“And then?”
“After I saw thee I wished to save thee.”
“Thank thee, my dear, dear John.”
“I think, Ann,” said John Estover, reflectively, “that I am not telling the exact truth. There is such a thing, thee knows, as telling the truth without exactness.”
“Oh, yes,” admitted his wife with an alacrity which would have alarmed any one less good than her husband.
“I have often supposed that the exact truth is, that, travelling to cure an illness becomes, when the illness is cured, a travelling for pleasure. This, I fear, was my sinful state when I reached wicked but beautiful Paris. I was, therefore, the prey of all temptation. And no temptation, we are told, is so potent as woman. Observe the matter of Adam and Eve, then Rahab and Jezebel—and, indeed, countless instances, where good men have fallen by the way at the beckoning of a woman. I think, Ann dear, that perhaps the world, the flesh, and the devil had an undue grip upon my soul there in Paris, and that I was saved by suddenly seeing what it had made of thee. It was an example I shall never forget. Nor shall I ever cease to return thanks for its outcome.”
“Nor I, John dear,” laughed his little wife, with an incontinent embrace.
“There, there,” said John, putting her off tenderly. “Yet—it all remains to us in this one greatest difficulty of our lives—this keeping from our child the history of thy life. But I am convinced that it is best. A daughter must respect and look up to her mother. She must seem to her to have always been immaculate. And this could not be if she knew all about thee. She would not understand how well thee has redeemed thyself. She would despise thee, and thy precepts would be of little avail. Yet must thou continue thy exhortations to good.”
Ann smiled. The unwisdom of husbands kept him from the knowledge that these exhortations were made in each other’s arms. This the mother not only thought likely to be most effective, but much more lovely than any other way.
She threatened a caress.
“Yes—yes,” said John, suppressing a suspicious movement of the arms toward her. “But it is of Mary Ann. She is of an age. And she is as pretty as thee—in that day thee speaks of. Therefore watch that she enter not into any temptation.”
“Such as thee was to me?” laughed his wife. “Oh, John!”
And this time John did not resist her.
“I meant our child,” said he softly, “not thee.”
Now all of this might have been said concerning one Doctor John Rem, of whom they had never heard. And John Estover might have added that, when two people predisposed to what he had called guile met, one as tempter, one willing to be tempted, the danger was excessive.
Nay, had he known this Doctor Rem, he would have taken every precaution that he and his daughter Mary Ann should not meet. For Rem had left behind at college an example for the emulation of sophomore hoodlums.
And now, just returned from college, filled with really valuable learning concerning disease, but having no practice at all and much idleness, it was exceedingly dull and he exceedingly ready for amorous experiment. And you may be sure that if it should happen to come in the shape of a pretty Quaker, it would be only a little more piquant.
All these sayings are necessary—though, I admit, somewhat dull—that you may understand the doings between this very doctor and this very Quaker maid. For you cannot suppose that I have them both in the same story for any other purpose than such troublous joys as make up that curious thing called love.