Mrs. Joe had, she said, fully considered that possibility. "Suppose you are right," she answered to the philosopher's argument, "even if Hampton is the home of bigotry, boldness always commands sympathy. My chapel will lend importance to a town which mourns a lost prestige. It will be talked about from one end of the State to the other; and I intend that the Seminary shall be my right hand, the Church—my church, my left——"
"And both hands full!"
She blushed. "Of course, I shall use my advantages. The Seminary is the centre of much religious effort, which, as a Christian, I shall be glad to aid. It is the centre of influence, which I hope to share. Under my roof the representatives of differing creeds shall meet in harmony and acquire mutual respect. Should it happen that my son be politically objectionable because of my chapel—why, in such a condition of affairs the liberalism that is always latent where bigotry flourishes would spring to his aid, and find in him a leader."
"Madame!" exclaimed the gentleman, "you will win."
"I hope so," she replied, pleased at the admiration she had extorted. "And now, you shall be told how you can aid me. Paris is an art centre; there are to be found the people I shall need in regard to my plans concerning the chapel. I am resolved that this shall be so noble an edifice that the voice of detraction shall never be heard. Next winter we shall meet in Paris. Will you, so far as may be, prepare the way for my access to the places and people I desire to see?"
"Assuredly. I shall enter upon the task assigned me with admiration for your plans and sincere devotion to your interests," Thus, with his hand upon his heart and with an inclination of true Parisian elegance, the philosopher entered the service of Mrs. Joe, and of the Church.
Thus in amity dwelt the Claghorns, employing the summer days in innocent diversion. Many were the expeditions to points of interest; to Neckarsteinach and the Robbers' Nest, to the village of Dilsberg, perched upon the peak which even the bold Tilly had found unconquerable in peasant hands; to Handschuhsheim, where sleeps the last of his race, the boy-lord slain in duel with the fierce Baron of Hirschhorn, who himself awaits the judgment in the crypt of St. Kilian, at Heilbronn, holding in his skeleton hand a scroll, telling how the Mother's Curse pursued him to where he lies; to the Black Forest, now so smiling, but which Cæsar found dark, cold and gloomy, with its later memories of ruthless knights whose monuments are the grim ruins that crown the vineclad hills, and with present lore of gnomes and brownies. In these simple pleasures youth and maiden, philosopher, theologian and worldly widow joined with the emotions befitting their years and characteristics. To Natalie it was a time of intense delight, shared sympathetically by Paula, but more serenely. Mark enjoyed keenly, yet with rare smiles and with an underlying seriousness in which an observer might have detected a trace of the trail of the Great Serpent. Leonard, seldom absent from the side of his French cousin, delighted in the novel scenes and the companionship, but at times was puzzled by Natalie's capacity to live in a past that, as he pointed out, was better dead, since in its worst aspect it had been a time of barbarism, in its best of fanaticism. He could not understand the longing and liking for a day when if knights were bold they were also boorish, when if damosels were fair they were also ignorant of books, and perchance of bathtubs. He stared in innocent wonder at Natalie's exclamation of deprecation and Mark's harsh laugh when he pointed out such undeniable facts. To him Hans von Handschuhsheim, lying dead upon the steps of the Church of the Holy Ghost, his yellow locks red with blood, and the fierce Hirschhorn wiping his blade as he turned his back upon his handiwork—to Leonard this was a drunken brawl of three centuries since, and it grieved him to see in Natalie a tendency to be interested in the "vulgar details of crime." He knew that the girl lived in the gloom of irreligion (he was not aware that she dwelt in the outer darkness of ignorance), and he sighed as he noted one result of her unhappy lack; and he never knelt at his bedside forgetful of the fact, or of his duty in relation thereto.
As to the elders of the party, they enjoyed the present after the fashion of those whose days of dreaming have passed. Cousin Jared's broad smile of satisfaction was only absent when, in the heat of disputation, the philosopher was especially sacrilegious or aggravating, and even so, it was easily recalled by the tact of the widow, much of whose time was spent in keeping the peace between the two fellow-students of bygone years. As for the philosopher, he secretly pined for the Boulevard, though he, too, found distraction, one favorite amusement being to disturb the usual serenity of Paula by cynical witticisms, totally incomprehensible to the simple maiden.
The day of separation came at length, the first to depart being the mature and the budding theologian. Adieux were interchanged at the railway station, and many hopes as to future meetings were expressed, as well as satisfaction that chance had brought about a reunion so unexpected. No doubt these expressions were sincere, yet it is possible that as to clergyman and philosopher, each recognized in secret that their real adieux had been uttered years before. Under the circumstances, and with Mrs. Joe as a new link, the old chain had served; but at heart the two were antagonists; the chain was worn out.
"Not altogether a bad sort, Jared," observed M. Claghorn, as he walked from the station and by the side of Mrs. Joe along the Anlage.
"A thoroughly good fellow."
He smiled. It was faint praise. He said to himself complacently that she would not characterize himself as "a good fellow," whereas, the politician at his side, however she might have described her companion, regarded the departed Jared as of greater value to her plans, which had not been confided to him, than could be the philosopher in whom she had confided.
The two girls and Mark, following their elders, also interchanged views concerning the travelers. The verdict as to Cousin Jared, though less irreverently expressed, was similar to that enunciated by the widow. The good-hearted theologian had won the regard of all.
"And as for Leonard," observed Paula, "he is the handsomest boy I ever saw."
"And as amiable as beautiful," averred Natalie.
"As well as a little—shall we say 'verdant'?" suggested Mark. But the girls either denied the verdancy, or, if they admitted the charge in part, maintained it was an added excellence.
Meanwhile, the travelers contemplated one another from opposite sides of their railway carriage, the consciousness of leaving a strange world and re-entering their old one already making itself felt. To the elder man the change was neither startling nor very painful, but to Leonard it was both. He did not try to analyze his feelings, but there was a dead weight at his heart, a sorrow heavier than the natural regret at parting. It was long before he spoke. "I am so glad that our cousin, Natalie, though French, is not Catholic," he said, at length.
"I fear she is worse," was the answer.
"What could be worse?"
"Total unbelief," replied his father solemnly; and the weight at Leonard's heart grew heavier.
During the short remainder of M. Claghorn's stay at Heidelberg—already prolonged far beyond the original intention—it was arranged that he should select for the widow suitable quarters for her winter establishment at Paris; and so willing was the gentleman to be of service, that, to his great satisfaction, he receivedcarte blanchefor the purpose, and, Natalie accompanying him, departed with the resolve that the owners of the Great Serpent should be lodged in accordance with the just demands of that magnificent reptile, having in view, among other aspirations, the dazzling of the House of Fleury by the brilliance of the House of Claghorn.
As to those other aspirations, enough to say that they were by no means compatible with the loyalty he had professed for the pious plans of Mrs. Joe. He had not forgotten that the noble arms of the Marquise de Fleury were open to receive his daughter; but under existing conditions he was willing to be coy. He remembered with satisfaction that he had not irrevocably committed himself to a matrimonial alliance which still possessed attractions: though in the presence of the dazzling possibilities now offered, it behooved him to avoid precipitation. And so reasonable was this position that he did not hesitate to disclose it to the Marquise, simultaneously exculpating himself and assuaging the lady's resentment by dangling before her the glittering possibilities presented by Paula Lynford, whom he, with politic inaccuracy, described as the actual daughter of Mrs. Claghorn, hence inferentially a co-inheritor, with Mark, of the golden product of the Great Serpent.
"Tiens, Adolphe!" exclaimed the lady to her son, after having listened to the entrancing tale told by the philosopher, "Heaven has heard my prayers," and she repeated the unctuous story.
"Over a million ofdot! It is monstrous, mama."
"For these people a bagatelle. Their gold mine yields a thousand francs a minute."
"These incredible Americans!"
"There is also a son, one Marc, about your age——"
"Aha, I see! M. Claghorn destines Natalie——"
"Precisely."
The little lieutenant wagged his head. It was the tribute to a dying love. From infancy he had been taught by his mama that in Natalie he beheld the future mother of the de Fleurys. Since infancy he had seen her but rarely, and on such occasions, being admonished by his mama, had concealed his passion from its object; but thus repressed, it had bubbled forth in other channels. He had written and declaimed sonnets; he had shed tears to a captured photograph of Natalie in pantalettes. The gusts of consuming passion which, in the presence of hisamis de college, had swept sirocco-like across his soul, had extorted the sigh of envy and the tear of sympathy; from other friends, notably from Celestine, Claire and Annette, these manifestations had extorted shrieks of laughter, which, however, had moved him, not to indignation, but to pity, for in these damsels he saw but butterflies of love, unable to comprehend agrande passion.
It was, then, not without a fitting and manly sigh that the Marquis de Fleury surrendered the love of his youth in obedience to his mama and the motto of his house, which was "Noblesse Oblige," and, having procured from Natalie a photograph of Paula, he did homage before it as to "la belle Lanforre" in person, besides altering an old sonnet which had already seen service, and finding that Lynford, or as he would have it, "Lanforre," rhymed sufficiently well with Amor.
Meanwhile, the philosopher having diplomatically engaged the services of the Marquise, the noble lady proceeded to perform with zeal the task assigned her.La belle France, home of romance and last citadel of chivalry, is also business-like, and its sons and daughters of whatever rank are deft manipulators of the honest penny. In negotiating for the luxurious apartment of a diplomat about to proceed to Spain for a sojourn of some months, and in dealing with furnishers of all description, from laundry to livery men, the noble lady provided herself with pocket-money for some time to come; a seasonable relief to the over-strained resources of the House of Fleury.
"Tiens," exclaimed Adolphe to his mama, Mrs. Claghorn being already installed in the diplomatic quarters, "this desire of Madame Zho to inspect churches—how do you explain it?"
"She isdévote. Doubtless she has sinned. She wishes to erect in her own country an expiatory chapel."
Which explanation, evolved from information derived from the philosopher, aided by the speaker's fancy, elucidated the mystery contained in the patronymic "Lanforre," borne by Paula. "Sans doute," mused the Marquise, "la mère, being American, wasdivorcée. The daughter is the child of the first husband." Which theory sufficed until the later arrival of Mark, who, as being palpably older than Paula, drove the lady to evolve another, which, fortunately, in the interest of harmony, was not confided to "Madame Zho," but which not only explained, but demanded the expiatory chapel.
Mrs. Claghorn threw herself into her pious work with a zeal which extorted the approbation of the Marquise, who, as we know, was herself a religious woman, but which to the philosopher was less admirable, since it interfered with deep-laid plans with which it was incompatible. He was somewhat consoled, however, by the fact that the lady's course facilitated an intimacy which was favorable to the realization of less secret hopes; wherefore he vied with the Marquise in forwarding the pious cause of the widow by surrounding that lady with an artistic host, whereof the members received comforting orders for plans and paintings, designs and drawings, and were refreshed by a golden shower whereof the Marquise had her quiet but legitimate share.
The philosopher contented himself with the post of chief adviser and sole confidant of the beneficent lady. For, though her intention to erect a chapel could not be concealed, the locality of the realization of her plans remained a secret, and was, in fact, privately regarded by Mark,—where the philosopher hoped it would remain,—as poesy hath it, in the air.
Meanwhile, the comparative freedom of intercourse which reigned among the younger members of the party was approved by the Marquise as an American custom sanctioned, under the circumstances, by heaven, as an aid in its answer to her prayers; but the little lieutenant, like a dog that has slipped its leash, was puzzled by an unaccustomed liberty, and found himself unable to conduct himself gracefully in a novel role. He knew that the joyous freedom befitting intercourse with Claire and Celestine was not the tone for present conditions, but for similar conditions he knew no other. If, after preliminary negotiation on the part of his elders, he had been introduced into the presence of the object of his love, himself claden frac, and had found his adored robed in white and carefully disposed upon a fauteuil—with the properties thus arranged, he felt he could have borne himself worthily as one acceptable and with honorable intentions. But thus to be allowed to approach the object of a passion (which, he assured his mama, was now at a white heat), to converse familiarly, surrounding ears being inattentive and surrounding eyes uninterested; to be expected to interchange views freely pronounced by lips such as he had supposed were silent until unsealed by matrimony—these things puzzled and embarrassed him. Perhaps it was fortunate that such attempts as he made to tell his love were not understood by the object of his devotion. Paula's understanding of French, though it had achieved plaudits and prizes at school, did not suffice for the purpose, and the lieutenant was innocent of any modern language other than his own, while against his frequent efforts of an ocular character Paula's serenity was proof, though occasionally disturbed by the manifestations of that which she supposed was a severe nervous disorder of the eyes of her companion, and for which she pitied him; and, as to the sonnet which he slipped into her hand, it being beyond her construing powers, she handed it to Mrs. Joe, who read it and laughed.
But though she laughed at a production designed to draw tears, but for it, she had probably paid little heed to an occurrence which about this time attracted her attention.
She was in the Church of St. Roch, Paula at her side, and, near at hand, Mark and Natalie. St. Roch is an ancient and gloomy edifice, and the lady had found no suggestions for her chapel in its sombre interior. She turned to leave, when her attention was arrested by a tableau. Natalie's hand rested upon Mark's shoulder, and both stood as if transfixed, and gazing at something which Mrs. Joe could not see.
Had it not been for the sonnet and the reflections to which it had given rise, she would have at once admitted the palpable fact that the girl, absorbed by that upon which she gazed, was oblivious of the touch with which she had involuntarily arrested the steps of her companion. With head bent forward, her faculties were enchained by that which she saw with eyes in which wonder, compassion and wistful yearning were combined.
It was a young woman upon whom the girl's rapt gaze rested. She had been kneeling at the grating of a confessional from which the priest had just departed. A smothered cry, and the abandon with which the penitent had thrown herself upon the stone floor of the mural chapel, had attracted Natalie's attention, and unconsciously she had laid her hand on Mark's shoulder to arrest steps which might disturb that which, at first supposed to be devotion, was quickly recognized as the agony of grief.
For a moment the observers thought the woman had fainted, so still she lay after that smothered cry, and Natalie had taken a step forward to lend aid, when a convulsive shudder shook the prostrate form, and then the woman rose to her knees. Dry-eyed, her long, black hair hanging in disorder, her white face and great, dark eyes gleaming from beneath heavy brows and long silken lashes, she knelt, holding high a photograph upon which she gazed, a living statue of woe.
Mark was hardly less moved than Natalie, but more quickly remembered that he, at least, had no business with this sorrow. As he moved, the unconscious hand of his companion fell from his shoulder, and in the same moment the mourner rose and her eyes met Natalie's.
Dignified by grief, she was a majestic woman, and handsome; probably handsomer in her disorder than under the aspect of every day. Perhaps she instantly read the sympathy in the eyes, no less beautiful than her own, which were turned upon her.
"You suffer!" exclaimed Natalie involuntarily.
"And you rejoice," replied the other, indicating Mark.
"I have but this." She displayed the colored photograph she had held toward heaven. A startled exclamation broke from Mark, as he looked.
"He is dead," said the woman. "To-day was to have been our wedding day, and he is dead." The tears welled up in the listeners' eyes; the speaker was tearless, but the silent sympathy impelled her to go on.
"Three months we lived together," she continued, with Gallic frankness as to domestic details. "His father refused consent, but to-day, his birthday, he would have been free: he is dead. His mother pities me," the woman went on. "She has known love. She promised consolation in confession—as if a priest could know!"
"Yet they say that in religion," Natalie commenced timidly——
"There is but one religion—Love!" interrupted the other. "You will know. He"—her glance indicated Mark—"will be your teacher."
Mark glanced hastily at his cousin. She seemed oblivious of the woman's words. He moved further away. After awhile Natalie slowly followed; the woman left the church.
"Did you notice," asked Mark, as Natalie rejoined him, "how strikingly that portrait resembled Leonard?"
She made no answer. Other words than his were ringing in her ears: "There is but one religion—Love! He will be your teacher," and even while she sorrowed for the sorrow she had witnessed, a strange thrill passed through her—was it pain, was it joy?
The party left the church. Natalie sought the side of Mrs. Joe, leaving Mark to walk with Paula. The elderly lady asked her who was the person with whom she had talked. Natalie replied that the woman's name was Berthe Lenoir, and that she wished to be the speaker's maid, and she narrated some part of the history that had been briefly told to her.
"But, my dear," was the comment, "your father must make inquiry as to her fitness."
"That, of course," was the answer, and then she was silent. Within a week Berthe Lenoir entered her service, a woman, who by reason of her capacity, soon gained the general approval; and for other reasons, the special approval of a lover of the beautiful. "Her eyes," observed the lieutenant, "are the eyes which shape destinies."
Meanwhile, other eyes, belonging to one who believed it in her power to shape destinies, were watchful. Mrs. Joe had long since resolved that to be an American statesman, Mark needed an American wife, and since she had herself trained one for the position, she had no desire to see her labors rendered fruitless. It had needed merely the opening of her eyes to enable her to discern that there were other schemes worthy of her attention, besides that one of the philosopher, of which she herself was the object, and which, though the gentleman had supposed it hidden, had been patent to the lady, serving to amuse while it benefited her. She promptly averted the danger to her plans by confiding to the Marquise her intentions with regard to Mark and Paula. The noble lady regarded such matters as entirely controllable by parental edict, and at once resumed negotiations with the philosopher, who, in the belief that surrender of his hopes in regard to his daughter would tend to further those he cherished in respect to himself, acquiesced gracefully in the inevitable; and there being no ground for further delay, the de Fleury-Claghorn treaty was duly ratified, to remain, however, a secret for the present from all the juniors of the party, except from the lieutenant, whom it was necessary to inform of the need of a re-transference of his affections. He submitted with sorrow. The charms of Paula had, as he confided to his mama, made an impression on his heart which only active service could efface. As to resisting destiny, it never entered his thoughts. Paula was for Mark, Natalie for him. There might be consolation. "With such wealth," he suggested, "they will surely add to her dowry."
"Let us hope so," replied the Marquise. "Our Cousin Beverley will do what is possible. Meanwhile, be as charming as possible to Madame Zho and to Marc, who will have it all."
"Such luck is iniquitous! Well, since my marriage is deferred, you will consent that I go to Africa. Love is denied me; I must seek glory.Tiens, je suis Francais!"
Long before this, Mrs. Joe had exacted from Mark a promise to study at the University with reasonable diligence. The promise had been kept. A new semester was about to commence; he was anxious to take the doctoral degree, hence it was necessary for him to return to Heidelberg. He hardly regretted it. Of late, constraint had seemed to pervade the intercourse which had been hitherto so unrestrained, and, above all, Natalie had been unusually reserved. It was not without some regret that he departed, yet on the whole content to return toBurschenfreiheitand fidelity to the creed whose chief article is disdain of philistinism.
Mrs. Joe was glad to see him depart before she left for America, where the surprise intended for him was progressing. But it might take more time to build a house than make a Doctor of Civil Law; the question was how to prevent his premature home-coming.
"I will keep him," said the philosopher, in answer to her confidence as to her misgivings. "He has promised to visit me when he leaves the University. When I get him I will hold him."
The lady looked at the gentleman questioningly.
"Do not doubt my good faith," he murmured.
"And you will come with him to America," she suggested. "Perhaps you can induce the Marquise. And the little soldier—surely, he will brave the seas if your daughter does so!"
"An invasion by the Gauls. Why not? I for one shall be enchanted to see the result of your energy and taste."
"And Natalie shall see the Tomb in which she is so deeply interested, while you lay your homage at the feet of Miss Achsah and so fulfill a long-neglected duty."
"And at the feet of the chatelaine of Stormpoint. I am impatient for the day." And it was so arranged, and the lady, declining the proffered escort of Monsieur, left Paris for Havre, accompanied by Paula.
"A good fellow!" she thought, as she leaned back in the coupé, applying to the philosopher that very term which he had flattered himself she would not apply, "but too anxious to believe that I am his cousin and not his aunt."
Five years have passed since the Claghorn reunion at Heidelberg. The Professor and philosopher have journeyed to that world concerning which one of the two claimed certain knowledge, and which the other regarded as unknowable. Thither we cannot follow them, but since men do not live for a day, but for all time, we shall doubtless come upon indications that the lives of these two, the things they said and did, are forces still. Meanwhile, we must concern ourselves with the living, and of those with whom we have to do, no one is more noteworthy than Achsah Claghorn.
Miss Claghorn was, as the representative of an ancient and very theological family, a citizen of no little note in Easthampton, the shady and quiet suburb of the city of Hampton. Her spotless white house was large; its grounds were, compared with those of her neighbors, large; the trees in the grounds were very large; the box-plants were huge of their kind. Miss Achsah herself was small, but by reason of her manner, which was positive and uncompromising, impressive. She lived as became her wealth and position, comfortably and without undue regard for conventionalities. She could afford so to live and had been able to afford it for many years; ever since she had shared with her brother, the Reverend Eliphalet, the bounty left to them by that other and younger brother who had died in California. On the receipt of that bounty she had retired from her position as schoolmistress, had bought the large, white house, and, together with Tabitha Cone, had undertaken to live as she pleased, succeeding in so doing more satisfactorily than is usual with those fortunate enough to be able to make similar resolves. Perhaps this was because her desires were more easily attainable than the desires pertaining to such conditions usually are.
The position of Tabitha Cone was nominally one of dependence, but, with a praiseworthy desire to rise superior to such a status, Tabitha persistently strove to rule her benefactress, which attempts were met with frequent rebellion. Miss Achsah was, at least intermittently, mistress of her own house; and both ladies had a lurking consciousness that she, Achsah, to wit, had reserves of strength which would enable her to become so permanently, if she were to develop a serious intention to that end. Both ladies, however, shrank from a struggle with that possible termination, much enjoying life as they lived it, and with no desire to terminate an invigorating and pleasing warfare.
For the rest, Miss Claghorn permitted no slurs to be cast upon her companion, except such as she herself chose to project. "Tabitha Cone and I sat on the same bench at school; together we found the Lord. I knew of no difference between us in those days; I know of none now, except that I had a rich brother."
"I am sure, Miss Claghorn, I quite agree with your view," observed Paula, to whom the words were addressed.
"Which I hope is a satisfaction to you," replied the lady, her manner indicating complete indifference as to the fact. "If that is so, why do you object to my consulting Tabitha Cone about this letter?" looking over her spectacles at the pretty face.
"I hoped that my plan would meet your views, and then such consultation would perhaps be unnecessary, and—and——"
"And?" echoed Miss Achsah in an uncompromising tone, and regarding her visitor still more sharply.
"You know, Miss Claghorn, you sent for me, and were kind enough to say you desired my advice——"
"Information, not advice."
"Don't you think Tabitha Cone will derive a wrong impression if she reads that letter?" continued the persistent Paula, "Is that quite fair?"
"Tabitha Cone understands English—even Ellis Winter's—he says plainly enough that the girl is an atheist——"
"Not that, Miss——"
"A heathen, then—a damned soul" (Paula started palpably). "Splitting hairs about terms don't alter the essential fact."
"Nobody can deplore the truth more than I; but to risk its being made a subject of gossip——"
"Tabitha Cone is not given to tattle. She may gossip with Almighty God about this matter. She has known Him for many years."
Paula shuddered. To know Omnipotence in this blunt fashion grated on her nerves. "I have humbled myself many times and sought her eternal welfare in prayer," she said.
"I hope your condescension may ultimately benefit her," snapped the old lady. "I can't say I have noticed any change, certainly no change for the better."
"I referred to Natalie."
"Oh, and so that is the way to pronounce the outlandish name. My nephew Eliphalet's mother's name was Susan; my own name has been in the family two hundred years—well, and if Ellis Winter is right, your humblings seem to have done but little good. Perhaps those of the despised Tabitha Cone may have more effect, even if unaccompanied with flummery——"
"Miss Claghorn, you are not generally unjust."
"Never. But I get tired of millinery in religion. Ah! if only you would humble yourself—but there! I suppose you intone the prayer for your daily bread. Pah!"
Paula rose majestically.
"Sit down, child; I didn't mean to offend you. (The Lord has infinite patience and pity, and so for imbeciles, I suppose)" she said parenthetically and in a subdued tone, which was not heard by the visitor, who sat down, having an object in being both meek and persistent, a fact of which Miss Claghorn was aware. It was a sore temptation to let Paula have her wish, but, all the while she knew she must finally resolve to do her duty. It was that knowledge which gave acrimony to her speech.
"Paula," she said, "I ought not to have asked you to come here about this matter. I knew what you would desire and hoped you would be able to persuade me; I ought to have known myself better. I must do my duty; she must come to me."
"But, dear Miss Claghorn——"
"She is a Claghorn, and—dreadful as it is—a heathen as well, and alone in the world. I must do my duty; it is not easy, I assure you."
Paula quite believed this, and the belief did not add to her hope of success. When Miss Claghorn desired to do things which, in the eyes of others, were better left undone, she was apt to see her duty in such action. It was equally true that her duty being visible, she would do it, even if disagreeable. But the duty now before her was, for many reasons, very disagreeable, indeed, and strictly just as she was, she was but human, and the righteous indignation she felt for her own vacillation fell naturally in part upon Paula.
"At least do not let that letter prejudice you," urged Paula. "She is a sweet girl, as good as gold."
"Very likely. Gold is dross. Good girls do not deny their Maker."
This was indisputable. Paula sighed. "I am very sorry we cannot have her," was all she said.
Miss Claghorn looked at her thoughtfully and with some inward qualms at her own harshness. There was an opportunity to seasonably drop a word which for some time she had been considering as ready to be dropped, and which, if heeded, might have some consolation for the girl before her.
"You can have her—on one condition. Come now, Paula!"
"What is that?" asked the girl, hope in her eyes; some misgiving, too, for there was that in Miss Claghorn's expression which aroused it.
"Stop your shilly-shally with that little milliner-man, Arthur Cameril, and marry him. Then Natalie can pay you a good long visit."
This was more than a Christian ought to bear. Paula could do her duty, too.
"Miss Claghorn, Father Cameril has taken the vow of celibacy. The fact is well known. I am contemplating the same. I wish you good-morning," and so Paula majestically sailed away.
"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Miss Achsah, as her visitor let herself out of the front door; and then, not disturbed, but in the belief that she had performed another disagreeable duty, she commenced the re-perusal of a letter in her hand. Which letter was as follows:
"Dear Miss Claghorn—Your grand-niece, Natalie, has arrived in this country. She naturally at once communicated with me, and I find her situation somewhat perplexing. To speak frankly, she has run away from home. It was her father's wish that she remain in the household of the Marquise de Fleury, and she has lived with that lady since Mr. Claghorn's death. But it seems that for some time past the guardian has tried to induce the ward to marry against her inclinations."I think there can be no doubt that the influences brought to bear on your grand-niece amounted to persecution, and I am disposed to regard her action as justified, having received from the Marquise (who was apprised of her destination by your niece) a letter, written in such a tone as to leave no doubt in my mind that the statements made to me by Miss Natalie are correct."The plan of your grand-niece is to live independently in this country. For the present this would be most imprudent. She is very young, and though by no means inexperienced in the ways of the world, is very foreign. She is quite resolute in her determination, and is aware that her property, in my charge, aside from some French possessions, is ample for her support. Do not gather that she is not amenable to advice, or is inclined to be obstinate. This is not the case, but she has evidently had an unpleasant experience of guardianship, and is quite resolved under no circumstances to permit any disposition of herself matrimonially. This resolve is the foundation of her intention to remain independent, an intention which no doubt will be easily combated with her advance in knowledge of our American customs in this regard."It would be unfair, having shown you the only shadows connected with Beverley's daughter, were I to withhold the commendation justly due her. With such acquaintance as I had formed with her on the occasion of my visit to France, I gathered a good opinion of one whom, indeed, I only knew as a child. That opinion has been strengthened by occasional correspondence and by the personal observation of the last fortnight. She seems to be a charming girl, remarkably beautiful, with a mind of her own, and, doubtless, a will of her own; nevertheless, a person that would be an acquisition in any household. Were I blessed with a domestic circle, I should be well content to have Miss Natalie enter it; but, as you know, I am not so fortunate."I hesitate to mention one other detail, yet feel that you ought to be fully informed; and while I can, believe me, appreciate the standpoint from which you will regard that which I have to disclose, I beg you to take a charitable view of a matter which, to one of your rooted and cherished convictions, will be of transcendent importance. It is that your grand-niece is in religion a free-thinker, and rejects the Christian faith."To you, as the representative of the Claghorn family, a family which for generations has upheld the standard of purest orthodoxy, this information will come as a shock. Yet when I assure you that Miss Natalie's views (such as they are) are probably held rather from a sense of filial duty and affection than from conviction, the facts will, I am sure, appeal to your compassion, as well as to that stern sense of duty and justice so admirably exhibited in your life. For many years I have been aware that the late Beverley had trained his daughter in accordance with a theory which repudiated tenets sacred in your eyes. My only reason for never imparting the fact to you was because the knowledge could only be a grief to one who held the Claghorn traditions in reverence. The interest you occasionally displayed concerning one who had chosen to be an exile was, I believe, always satisfied as far as in my power, except as to this one particular. I regret now that I withheld a knowledge which circumstances have made important. I did wrong, but I need not ask you not to connect my wrong-doing with the claims of your grand-niece."Kindly consider this letter carefully and let me hear from you soon. Perhaps an invitation to spend a part or all of the coming summer with you would lead to an easy solution of the difficulties presented. Your grand-niece is at present staying with my friend, Mrs. Leon, who will be pleased that she remain; but I foresee that the young lady herself will object to that."With regards to Miss Cone, believe me,"Respectfully yours,Ellis Winter."
"Dear Miss Claghorn—Your grand-niece, Natalie, has arrived in this country. She naturally at once communicated with me, and I find her situation somewhat perplexing. To speak frankly, she has run away from home. It was her father's wish that she remain in the household of the Marquise de Fleury, and she has lived with that lady since Mr. Claghorn's death. But it seems that for some time past the guardian has tried to induce the ward to marry against her inclinations.
"I think there can be no doubt that the influences brought to bear on your grand-niece amounted to persecution, and I am disposed to regard her action as justified, having received from the Marquise (who was apprised of her destination by your niece) a letter, written in such a tone as to leave no doubt in my mind that the statements made to me by Miss Natalie are correct.
"The plan of your grand-niece is to live independently in this country. For the present this would be most imprudent. She is very young, and though by no means inexperienced in the ways of the world, is very foreign. She is quite resolute in her determination, and is aware that her property, in my charge, aside from some French possessions, is ample for her support. Do not gather that she is not amenable to advice, or is inclined to be obstinate. This is not the case, but she has evidently had an unpleasant experience of guardianship, and is quite resolved under no circumstances to permit any disposition of herself matrimonially. This resolve is the foundation of her intention to remain independent, an intention which no doubt will be easily combated with her advance in knowledge of our American customs in this regard.
"It would be unfair, having shown you the only shadows connected with Beverley's daughter, were I to withhold the commendation justly due her. With such acquaintance as I had formed with her on the occasion of my visit to France, I gathered a good opinion of one whom, indeed, I only knew as a child. That opinion has been strengthened by occasional correspondence and by the personal observation of the last fortnight. She seems to be a charming girl, remarkably beautiful, with a mind of her own, and, doubtless, a will of her own; nevertheless, a person that would be an acquisition in any household. Were I blessed with a domestic circle, I should be well content to have Miss Natalie enter it; but, as you know, I am not so fortunate.
"I hesitate to mention one other detail, yet feel that you ought to be fully informed; and while I can, believe me, appreciate the standpoint from which you will regard that which I have to disclose, I beg you to take a charitable view of a matter which, to one of your rooted and cherished convictions, will be of transcendent importance. It is that your grand-niece is in religion a free-thinker, and rejects the Christian faith.
"To you, as the representative of the Claghorn family, a family which for generations has upheld the standard of purest orthodoxy, this information will come as a shock. Yet when I assure you that Miss Natalie's views (such as they are) are probably held rather from a sense of filial duty and affection than from conviction, the facts will, I am sure, appeal to your compassion, as well as to that stern sense of duty and justice so admirably exhibited in your life. For many years I have been aware that the late Beverley had trained his daughter in accordance with a theory which repudiated tenets sacred in your eyes. My only reason for never imparting the fact to you was because the knowledge could only be a grief to one who held the Claghorn traditions in reverence. The interest you occasionally displayed concerning one who had chosen to be an exile was, I believe, always satisfied as far as in my power, except as to this one particular. I regret now that I withheld a knowledge which circumstances have made important. I did wrong, but I need not ask you not to connect my wrong-doing with the claims of your grand-niece.
"Kindly consider this letter carefully and let me hear from you soon. Perhaps an invitation to spend a part or all of the coming summer with you would lead to an easy solution of the difficulties presented. Your grand-niece is at present staying with my friend, Mrs. Leon, who will be pleased that she remain; but I foresee that the young lady herself will object to that.
"With regards to Miss Cone, believe me,
"Respectfully yours,Ellis Winter."
Paula emerged from the White House in an un-Christian frame of mind. The fact might to an ordinary sinner seem pardonable, and Paula herself, though by no means an ordinary sinner, thought so, too. "Impertinent bigot!" In these unusually emphatic words she mentally expressed her opinion of Achsah Claghorn.
From several points of view Paula was not an ordinary sinner. Externally, she was a very pleasing one, being in all things alluring to the eye. So nicely adjusted were her physical proportions that it could not be said that she was either tall or short, plump or meagre. A similar neutrality characterized the tints of her skin and hair. Her cheeks were never red, yet never pale; the much-used adjective "rosy" would not properly describe the dainty tinge that, without beginning or end, or line of demarcation, redeemed her face from pallor. Her nose was neither long nor short, upturned or beak-like, and while no man could say that it was crooked and remain a man of truth, yet would no truth-lover say that it was straight. In all respects a negative nose, in no respect imperfect. Her skin, ears, neck, hands, feet—all were satisfying, yet not to be described by superlatives. Her hair was neither chestnut nor yellow, nor quite smooth nor kinky, but in color and adjustment restful; her eyes were nearly violet, and their brows and lashes just sufficiently decided to excite no comment. Paula's mouth was perhaps the only feature which, apart from the charming whole, demanded notice, and he who noticed sorrowed, for it was a mouth inviting, yet not offering kisses.
It is believed that it will be admitted that outwardly Paula Lynford was not an ordinary sinner. Nor was she such as to the inner being, if she herself could be believed; for at this period of her existence she was accustomed to introspection, and that habit had disclosed to her that she was very bad, indeed, "vile," as she fondly phrased it, or in moments of extreme exaltation, "the vilest of the vile."
A serene consciousness of vileness was a recent growth in her bosom. Father Cameril (so known to a very small but devoted band of worshippers—to the world at large, the Reverend Arthur Cameril) was fond of dwelling upon human and his own vileness, and his adorers desired to be such as he. Nor did the Reverend Father deny them this delight, but rather encouraged their perception of the unworthiness indicated by the unpleasant word which had been caught from him by the dames and damsels who rejoiced in him and in their own turpitude. Father Cameril was, in a very limited circle, quite the rage in the vicinity. Since his advent spiritual titillation had been discovered in candles, attitudes, novel genuflexions and defiance of the Bishop, a wary old gentleman, who was resolved to evade making a martyr of Father Cameril, being, from long observation, assured that sporadic sputterings of ultra-ritualism were apt to flicker and die if not fanned by opposition. The good Father, meanwhile, unaware that the Bishop had resolved that no stake should be implanted for his burning, whereby he was to be an illumination to the Church, tasted in advance the beatitude of martyrdom, and reveled in mysterious grief and saint-like resignation and meekness, and while hopefully expectant, he added to his inner joys and the eccentricity of his outward man by peculiar vesture of the finest quality, beneath which the fond and imaginative eyes of his followers saw, as in a vision, a hair shirt. He was known to aspire to knee-breeches, and was hopefully suspected of considering a tonsure as a means of grace and a sign of sanctity. His little church, St. Perpetua, the new and beautiful edifice erected by Mrs. Joseph Claghorn, of Stormpoint, in memory of her husband (an offence in Miss Claghorn's Calvinistic eyes, and regarded askance by Leonard), was crowded every Sunday at Mass, a function which was also celebrated daily at an hour when most people were still abed; Paula always, the night watchman, about going off duty occasionally, and three elderly ladies, blue and shivering, in attendance. Father Cameril was Miss Claghorn's special aversion. Tabitha Cone found in him much to admire. He was a good little man, inordinately vain, somewhat limited in intellect, and unconscious of wrong-doing. He prayed that the Church might be led from the path of error in which she obstinately chose to remain, and, by canonizing Henry VIII, display works meet for repentance; in which case he would hesitate no longer, but return home, that is, to the maternal bosom of Rome, at once.
As Paula saw the good Father coming down the street, holding in his yellow-gloved hand a bright-red little book, the redness whereof set off the delicate tint of the glove, while its gilded edges gleamed in the sunlight, she was more than usually conscious of the vileness which should have been meekness, even while her anger grew hotter at the insult offered by Miss Claghorn to the natty little man approaching, "like an early Father," she murmured, though any resemblance between the Reverend Arthur in kid gloves and ætat 28, and Polycarp, for instance, was only visible to such vision as Paula's.
"You seem disturbed," he said, as the two gloved hands met in delicate pressure, and he uttered the usual sigh.
"A cherished hope," she answered, her clear violet eyes bent downward, "has been dashed."
"We must bear the cross; let us bear it worthily. I have been pained at not seeing you at confession, Paula. You neglect a means of lightening the burden of the spirit."
"My cousin objects, Father. I owe her the obedience of a daughter."
"You owe a higher obedience"—here his voice had that tone of sternness always sweet to the meek ears of his followers. "Nevertheless," he added, "do not act against her wish. I will, myself, see Mrs. Claghorn. Meanwhile, bear your burdens with resignation, always remembering the weakness, yea, the vileness of the human heart."
"I strive," said Paula, looking very miserable and unconsciously taking an illustration from a heavily-laden washerwoman passing, "not to faint by the wayside, but the load of life is heavy."
"But there are times when the heart's vileness is forgotten, the soul rises above its burdens and feels a foretaste of the life to come," interrupted Father Cameril a little confusedly as to the senses of the soul. "Try to rise to those heights."
"I do. May I ask your special intercession for a soul in darkness? One that I had hoped to gain."
"Hope on and pray. I shall not forget your request. The name is——"
"Natalie, the daughter of Mr. Beverley Claghorn. You have heard us mention them. Mr. Claghorn is dead. Until now she has lived in France, where she was born. I hope to see her soon at Easthampton."
"At Stormpoint! How pleasant for you! Paula, we shall rescue this dear child from the errors of a schismatic mother. I feel it here," and the Reverend Arthur indicated his bosom.
Paula recognized in the schismatic mother the Roman Catholic Church. She felt it sinful to leave Father Cameril in ignorance of the facts. She felt it unkind to her friend to disclose them. She could sin, if hard pushed; she could not be unkind. She concealed the unbelief.
"We knew them some years since in Europe," she said. "I mean Mr. Claghorn and Natalie. She is a sweet girl; but she will visit at Miss Claghorn's."
The Reverend Arthur's face fell. Above all earthly things he dreaded sinners of the type of Achsah Claghorn. "The situation will be difficult," he murmured. "But truth will prevail," he added, more cheerily. "Truth must prevail."
Which assurance made the girl uncomfortable, because she knew that his prayers and his labors would be directed against mere schism, whereas the case required the application of every spiritual engine at command.
So that she was not sorry that he left her, after presenting her with the little red book and urging her to read the same.
Stormpoint was not inaptly named. A huge crag jutting out into the sea, whose waves, ever darting against its granite sides, rolled off with a continuous muffled bellow of baffled rage, which, when the storm was on, rose to a roar. A cabin had once stood on the bluff, which, tradition asserted, had been the home of the first Eliphalet Claghorn, whose crumbling tomb, with its long and quaint inscription, was hard by. The Reverend Eliphalet slept quiet in death, but the howl of the storm and the roar of the waves must have kept him awake on many a night in life. Even the stately castle erected by Joseph Claghorn's widow often trembled from the shock of the blast. The region about was strewn with huge boulders, evidences of some long-past upheaval of nature, while among the crags great trees had taken root. The landscape was majestic, but the wind-swept soil was barren, and the place had remained a waste. Only a fortune, such as had been derived from the Great Serpent, could make the Point comfortable for habitation. But the task had been accomplished, and Stormpoint was the second wonder of Easthampton, the first being the wonderful chapel, St. Perpetua.
Paula gloried in Stormpoint. Not for its grandeur or the money it had cost, but because she loved the breeze and the sea and the partial isolation. Even now, as she ascended the bluff by a side path, rugged and steep, and commenced to smell the ocean and feel its damp upon her cheek, the Reverend Arthur Cameril seemed less like an early Father, and his lemon-colored kids less impressive.
On hearing her name called and looking up, she smiled more brightly and looked more beautiful than she had yet looked that day, though, from the moment she had emerged from her morning bath of salt water she had been beautiful. "Aha! Leonard, is that you?" she exclaimed.
"Where have you been?" asked Leonard, as he reached her side.
"At Miss Claghorn's. She sent for me."
Leonard's eyes opened wide. "Cousin Achsah sent for you! What for?"
"She will tell you."
"And you won't. Well, I must wait. What have you there?" taking the little red book from her hand. "'The Lives of the Hermits!' Oh, Paula; you had better read the 'Lives of the Laundresses'; these were a very dirty set."
"Leonard! How can you? A clergyman, a professor of theology!"
"Oh, I've no objection to them except that," he answered, "and I wouldn't mention their favorite vanity if they had not so reveled in it and plumed themselves upon it. Paula, Paula," he added, more seriously, "Father Cameril gave you that."
He was vexed, perhaps jealous of Father Cameril, though if so, he was unconscious, ascribing his vexation to a different source. He had a hearty contempt for the silly flummery, as he mentally described it, practised by Father Cameril, and he hated to know that Paula was enticed by it. She understood and was neither without enjoyment of his vexation nor resentment that he would not express it in words. She would have liked him to forbid the reading of the little book. It would have been a sign of steadfastness to disobey; it might have been a greater pleasure to obey.
"Well, read the book, if you can stomach it," he said. "I doubt if you will derive any benefit. I must be going. When you and Cousin Achsah take to plotting, I must investigate. Good-bye."
"Leonard, did you know that Natalie is in New York, that she has come to America to live?"
"Natalie in New York! Your news amazes me. She will come here, of course?"
"Not to Stormpoint," she answered regretfully. "To your cousin's, Miss Claghorn."
He looked his surprise. "To live there! That surely will never do."
"Oh, Leonard, I am so glad you agree with me. I tried to persuade Miss Claghorn to let her come to us. Think of it! Alone with those two old women and their quarrels. That gloomy house! It's dreadful!"
"It certainly will not do for Natalie," he observed, thoughtfully. "I wish, Paula, my cousin had consulted me rather than you."
"Why, Leonard! You don't suppose I did not urge all I could?"
"That's just it. Cousin Achsah is, of her kind, a very fine specimen, and I am her favorite and bound to respect and love her, as I do—but a nature like hers and one like yours are antagonistic."
"Then, since you respect and—and——"
"And love her, you think I don't respect and love you; but you know better, Paula."
She blushed at the snare the echo of his words had led her into. He was not so conscious. "As I remember Natalie," he said, "she was amiable and nice in all points—still she and my cousin——"
"They will be absolutely incomprehensible to each other," said Paula. "Do try and have her consent to let Natalie come to Stormpoint."
"I will do what I can. Has Mrs. Joe invited her?"
"She will be only too glad as soon as she knows. But the matter has been placed in such a light by that tiresome Mr. Winter—but there, you will find out everything from your cousin. Do what you can."
"I will. What happy days they were, those days in Heidelberg."
The violet eyes were tender with reminiscence, the pretty mouth seductive. "They were the happiest of my life," she said.
"And of mine," echoed Leonard, as he walked off, having seen neither mouth nor eyes, but a vision of the past.
Among the diversions indulged in at Heidelberg, during the accidental reunion of the Claghorns, there had been one particularly affected by Professor and philosopher. The early education of these two had been identical; their later training had progressed on widely diverging lines. The Reverend Jared had continued in the path in which his footsteps had been placed in childhood, while Beverley had wandered far. Yet, being by inheritance as nearly alike as may be two who, descended from a common ancestor, partake of marked ancestral traits, agreement between them in reference to a matter wherein their views clashed was impossible; which fact had sufficed to lend a charm to disputation.
A favorite theme of discussion had been discovered in the serious problems connected with the training of youth. The clergyman had a son who embodied his theories; the philosopher was the father of a daughter educated upon a plan of his own. Each was paternally satisfied with results so far, and each hoped for further development equally gratifying.
The philosopher preached from a text which may be briefly stated in the words of the proverb, which informs us that "Familiarity breeds contempt." He would apply this maxim to evil and use knowledge as the shield of youth. Whereas the Professor, relying upon the truth contained in the adage, "Ignorance is bliss," and maintaining that modified bliss in this world and perfect bliss in the world to come are the proper objects of man's endeavor, logically contended that ignorance of evil, a thing in its nature sure to breed sorrow, was to be encouraged.
"The true way to appreciate the dangers which must inevitably beset youth is to become familiar with them. Distance lends enchantment. That closer inspection of vice which may be derived from acquaintance with its borderland, wherein the feet of the novice may be taught to tread warily, will result in indifference, if not disgust. As long as there is ignorance there will be curiosity, which is more dangerous than knowledge." Thus had spoken the philosopher. To which the Professor had replied: "Yet I will not assume that you wish your daughter to tread the borderland of vice?"
"Certainly I do; limiting her steps to the borderland of the vices to which she is to be exposed. I admit that a man cannot, as readily as a woman, take cognizance of such vices. It is my misfortune and my daughter's that her mother died at her birth; but I have endeavored to make her superior to the glaring defects of her sex. She is not petty. She yearns neither for bonnets nor beatitudes. Without attempting, in the ignorance inseparable from my sex, to instruct her in detail, I have always had in view the enlargement of her mind."
"By educating her as a Frenchwoman!"
"Pardon me, no. Much as I admire the French, I do not approve their system of female education, which, by the way, resembles the course you have pursued with your son. I do not question its frequent excellent results, nor can I question its failures. My daughter's schooling has been only partially French. Travel and indiscriminate reading—I have largely relied on these."
"I am willing to admit, Cousin, that the apparent results in those matters which you deem of most importance ought to be gratifying. It is no exaggeration to say that my young cousin is a charming girl. But her life has not been lived."
"No. Therefore, we cannot fairly speculate as to the outcome. Meanwhile, as far as my system has reached, it is gratifying, as you confess."
"The same can be said of mine."
"Doubtless. But has your son's life been lived? Thus far, you have as much reason for satisfaction as I have. I hope that you will never be compelled to admit that innocence, based on ignorance, is a weak barrier to oppose to the inevitable temptations which beset young men."
"Innocence fortified by religious principle, early instilled," had been the solemn reply.
M. Claghorn understood the solemnity and braved the possible results of a confession which he was willing to make rather than be further exposed to the occasional somewhat annoying admonitory tone of his companion.
"I am a living example of the futility of that contention," he answered. "I do not wish to be understood as admitting that I have been unduly addicted to vice, which would not be true; but I have tasted of forbidden fruit. I found it unsatisfactory. I base my theory on careful observation and some personal experience."
Cousin Jared groaned inwardly, but made no answer. Exhortation was on his tongue's end, but, as the philosopher had desired, he recognized its futility.
Indulgence in wine was one of those vices which the Reverend Jared had found reprehensible, a practice which it grieved him to observe was permitted by the lax views of all those Claghorns, except himself and Leonard, who were sojourning together. It is not to be assumed that these people indulged in unseemly intoxication. Of so untoward a result the Professor had no fear. He objected to wine-drinking as offering an evil example. The fact that in so doing he discredited the first miracle of his Saviour was a difficulty easily surmounted by a nimble theologian.
"You are so fierce about wine that one would think you had a personal hatred toward liquor," Beverley had said to him laughingly.
"I have, 'Liph. Jeremiah Morley——" He said no more, remembering who Jeremiah Morley had been.
"It is fanaticism, Jared; absolutely incomprehensible. Your son, even though a clergyman, must live in the world. I don't say make him worldly, but don't let him remain in complete ignorance. He is a handsome fellow, amiable, intelligent—really too good for a parson."
"Which you intended to be; which your father, grandfather and great-grandfather were."
"Don't think I depreciate them. But your boy is hardly formed on the Claghorn pattern. He has probably more of the Morleys. His mother must have been a very beautiful woman, if he resembles her."
"As good as she was beautiful," sighed the widower. "Yes, Leonard resembles the Morleys—the best of them."
And so the discussion had terminated. It has been recorded here to indicate paternal views as to the education of youth. In the practice of the views he held, Professor Claghorn had been ably seconded by an excellent and pious wife, and had he been alive to see the result in the young man who had just left Paula Lynford, he must assuredly have observed the proved soundness of his theories and practice.
Paula watched Leonard until he disappeared. Then she sighed. Long ago Beverley Claghorn had paid a similar tribute to the charms which extorted the sigh. In Paula's eyes the attractions which pertained to Leonard were lost in the sect to which he belonged. As a priest of the Church (it was thus that she put it) he would have been externally perfect, his physical excellence of unspeakable value to the cause of pure truth, while his conception of the priestly role would have been even nobler than that of Father Cameril. Leonard would have been no meek saint, but a saint militant, and long ere this the Bishop would have been down upon him, to the episcopal discomfiture.
If Paula grieved that Leonard labored under the disadvantage of the rigid practice of his denomination as to vesture and pulpit accessories, to those by whom such disadvantages were unrecognized his personality was no less persuasive of his fitness for noble deeds. As a rising theologian and young teacher of the divine science, he was, to those who watched his course, of excellent promise; destined to be a defender of that ancient creed which of late had been often attacked by able, if deluded, foes. To him orthodoxy looked with confidence, as to one who, when the day of battle came, would valiantly assail the enemies without, and confound the machinations of those within the household of faith. A worthy successor of his father, Professor Jared Claghorn, and to be greater, as better equipped to meet skeptical reasoning with reason clarified by faith; to demonstrate that the eye of the philosopher is but a feeble instrument for scrutiny of the works of God.
He was not ignorant of the general estimate or of the hopes of his elders, and had long been accustomed to fit himself for the position he was destined to fill, but of these aspirations he was oblivious as he walked slowly toward the town. He had never forgotten his father's words as to Natalie's unbelief. They were part of the memory of her, and now that memory was reawakened, and the words sounded again in his ears. He was deeply stirred by the knowledge that an errant soul was about to enter the inner circle of his life. He saw the hand of Providence in the fact; it was for this that she had not been turned from infidelity to error. She would not find the way to heaven by the dim rays of the obscured light of Romanism, but by the purer light of a reformed and vitalized religion, and to him was to be given the glory of being heaven's instrument. He was ambitious; his eyes had long been set on such earthly honors as come to theologians; he was prepared to welcome the theological storm of which the forecasts were already visible to those of clear perception, such as his own. In that impending struggle he knew that he would bear himself worthily, yet no glory that he could rightly anticipate therefrom seemed now so pleasing, nor awakened more fervent hope than that just born within him, the hope of rescuing a single soul. That glory would transcend all other, for though from men his work might be hidden, in the eyes of God he would be a faithful and worthy servant, and would hear from heaven the inaudible words, "Well done."
Exaltation such as this had long been rare with Leonard, whose mind of late had been fascinated rather by the mysteries of doctrine than warmed by religious fervor; and he was himself surprised that this ardent desire for a soul should enchain him; but he was gratified. To save souls was the ultimate object of his teaching; he was glad of this evidence that he had not forgotten it.
It may be that other thoughts, memories of bygone days, arose in his mind. Perhaps he recalled the beauty that had so attracted him in the garden of the Red Ox. There may have been some stirring of the blood of youth, which of late had sometimes coursed tingling through his veins; sometimes when he held Paula's hand, or noted the peachy velvet of her cheek, the clear depths of her eyes. But, if it were so, he was unconscious.
Meanwhile, Paula, who in the face of Miss Claghorn's fiat, still hoped to rescue Natalie from the impending horrors of the White House, turned toward the mansion. Her main reliance lay in anticipating the summons of Miss Achsah by an urgent invitation from the mistress of Stormpoint, to which end it was essential to seek that lady without further delay. Suddenly, as she hurried on, an exclamation of annoyance escaped her, and her steps were arrested by the sight of an ancient and mud-encrusted buggy which stood near that entrance to the house toward which her own steps were tending. She recognized the equipage of Mr. Hezekiah Hacket, and recent observation had taught her that when Mr. Hacket's carriage stopped that way, the lady of Stormpoint was not accessible to persons of minor distinction.
Aside from her general disapproval of Mr. Hacket, whose buggy, beneath its coating of mud, was yellow, and who was himself a yellow man, with teeth, hair, eyes and skin all of that unattractive hue, and unlovely in consequence of his pervading tint, Paula had no reason, so far as she knew, to resent Mr. Hacket's presence, except that it interfered with access to Mrs. Joe. Had she been aware of that which was transpiring in that apartment of the mansion which was devoted to business of state, she would have known that the visit of the gentleman was to have an important bearing upon her wish to deprive Miss Achsah of the opportunity to convert her erring grand-niece to Calvinism; which dark design Paula, since her meeting with Father Cameril, suspected.
Hezekiah Hacket, externally no more noteworthy than any very ordinary man and brother, was, in fact, an important personage in that region where Mrs. Joseph Claghorn had replanted the California branch of the family tree, intending that it should flourish and mightily expand. The shrewd lady of Stormpoint had quickly discovered that Mr. Hacket, the man of business of the Seminary, as well as of everybody that required the services of a man of business, possessed a sphere of influence eminently worthy of cultivation by political aspirants; and in all the region round about there was no such aspirant whose ambition soared as high as hers. In a realm largely dominated by a theological seminary, the existence of the political potentate called "Boss" was ignored and the word was seldom heard; but Mr. Hacket was the thing, and, all unconscious, the Seminary voted as its political guardian wished. Not the Seminary only; as the investor of the funds of others, this personage controlled the sources of power, and while deftly avoiding concentration of the secret antagonism which he knew existed against himself, by never exposing himself to the vengeance of the ballot, Mr. Hacket named the candidates for office—not infrequently those of opposing sides, so that in close elections, when a rolling wave of reform rendered the outlook uncertain, as in those not close, he remained the winner. Financially, he was strictly, though only legally, honest. Politically, he was a rogue. He was a pious man, though without a conscience and without belief. His industry was untiring. The lady of Stormpoint disliked him, at times to the point of loathing, and she courted him and smiled upon him.
"I sent for you," she said, on his appearance at Stormpoint, and offering a fair hand and an agreeable smile, both of which Mr. Hacket pretended not to see, it being his pleasant way to rule by insolence—if possible, by cringing if need were—"because in a few months my son will return home."
Mr. Hacket smoothed his yellow jaws with a freckled hand, and replied, "Just so," while the lady, who secretly desired to shake him, smiled yet more agreeably.
"Before he left home the last time," she continued, seeing that her visitor intended to remain dumb, "he had made many acquaintances. This was in accordance with your advice. What is he to do now?"
"Make more acquaintances."
"That, of course. I want him to enter the next Legislature."
Mr. Hacket had not decided that the desire expressed by the lady was his own, but he was shrewd enough to know that, crude as her ideas might be, and defective her knowledge of things political, she had the energy to attain her desire in the end, if seconded by the efforts of her candidate. He hated innovation, but he was aware that the Great Serpent held potentialities which he must not antagonize. It was not possible for him to be pleasing to Mrs. Joe, nor for her to be pleasing to him; but it was prudent to seem sympathetic. He essayed it, awkwardly enough.
"You know," he said, "your son is young and his only merit is money."
She flushed; but she knew he could not help being insolent in the presence of grace, comeliness and luxury, and all these were before him. "You mean it's the merit by which he's best known. Let it serve until others become apparent."
"It'll go far, but some it makes mad. I have an idea your son isn't over-warm in the matter."
"He didn't seem so. He wasn't aware that I am serious, and I said but little to him. Then the country was very new to him, and the people. He'd been long in Europe; his position was difficult." She had realized much more keenly than Mr. Hacket that Mark had only followed her urgency in that matter of making acquaintance because he had wished to please her. She was sure that there had been some hidden cause for indifference other than distaste for the task she had set him, and had brooded not a little over possibilities. But she was sanguine by nature; and since no love-tale had come to her ears (and she had her observers and reporters) she had concluded that, whatever the cause of his indifference, her son would become sufficiently ardent in the furtherance of her plans, when once they were more fully disclosed to him, and he had become aware that his mother had set her heart upon a political career for him. At present he probably regarded her wishes as merely a passing whim, and she knew that he was ignorant of her consultations with Mr. Hacket.
"Positions are apt to be difficult," observed the gentleman. "However, it's much too soon to discuss nominations. He'll have a year before him."
"He must have the Seminary," she said, "when the time comes."
"When the time comes," he echoed. He did not intend to commit himself, but he was becoming each moment more convinced that the lady knew her value and wished him to perceive the fact. It was equally evident that she duly appreciated his own; was, in fact, afraid of him, a pleasing assurance, which would have been yet more delightful if the gentleman, simultaneously with the recognition of this truth, had not also recognized a less agreeable fact, namely, that he was also afraid of her; sufficiently so to make it advisable that she understand he was not trifling with her. Such advice as he might give must seem reasonable, and must go beyond the suggestion of making acquaintances.
"You're working the Sem. all right," he said as graciously as he could. "Keep it up, but don't overdo it. How's Miss Achsah feel?"
"Friendly to Mark, I'm sure; not unfriendly to me, though——"
"Though your church sticks in her—is hard to swallow. I'm not surprised at that. St. Perpetual's——"
"Is there and beyond discussion."
"I always believe in looking over the whole field. St. Perpetual covers a good deal of it; so does Miss Achsah, and——"
"I had no idea that my sister-in-law is a political factor."
"Her's is, or wants to be."
"Well, let us conciliate Miss Achsah, if necessary. We're on fair terms——"
"Next time the Bishop comes here, invite her to dinner with him."
"She'll decline."
"What if she does? You always had the Professor, and she'll see that you look on her as his successor."
He rose, as if to go, but hesitated. Not because of any delicacy about volunteering the counsel that hovered on his lips, but in doubt whether it might not be well to permit her to injure her aspirations as much as she could. The certainty that she was, if she cared to be, too influential to offend him, determined him. He felt, with a sigh, that the time might come when he might be compelled to share his power; better that than risk losing it.
"I was in New York this week and saw Ellis Winter," he said. "Ellis told me that 'Liph Claghorn's daughter is in this country. He seemed to think you might invite her here."
"I intended to do so."
"Don't. She's French and, I suppose, a Romanist. Winter was close-mouthed, but I could see there was something. There's talk enough about idolatry and St. Perpetual's. I happen to know that Miss Achsah wants her, too, to convert her."
"Really, Mr. Hacket——"
"Good-bye," he said. "I've acted on the square. There's more in the matter than you think."
After his departure the lady of Stormpoint spent a few moments of indulgence in silent indignation; but when Paula came and preferred the request for that urgent invitation to Natalie, which was to circumvent the designs of Miss Claghorn, she found the lady inclined to recognize the claims of that person. Nevertheless, she promised to send the invitation, and did so that afternoon.