The ancient city of Hampton and its Theological Seminary are well known. To the wanderer under the elms of the quaint old town there is imparted an impression of cleanliness and a serene complacency, derived, doubtless, from the countenances of the many who, clad in sombre vesture and clean linen, pass and repass in the quiet streets. No man can be long in Hampton without feeling the theological influence; unconsciously the wayfarer adopts the prevailing manner, becomes deliberate in his walk and grave of aspect; his moral tone acquires rigidity, his taste severity; he inwardly rejoices if clad in fitting black and secretly covets gold-rimmed spectacles.
The best hotel, facing the Square, has the Hampton air, being even severely theological in aspect. Ordinary commercial travelers prefer "The United States," also a grave hostelry, though less austere in tone; but some descend at "The Hampton," reverend appearing gentlemen these, with white chokers conspicuous, and dealing in churchly wares and theological publications.
In this house Leonard had lived since his father's death had made the old home desolate, being, by reason of his personal as well as his professional attributes, a guest of note; and here there happened to him one day a new and strange experience.
He was breakfasting, later than his usual hour, when he became conscious of the scrutiny of the strangest eyes he had ever seen—eyes belonging to a woman, who, plainly clad in traveling attire, faced him from an adjacent table where she sat, with another woman, whose back was toward Leonard.
The gaze, though fixed, was not in appearance intentionally bold. The woman's eyes, dreamy, languishing, seemed to sink into his own, as though seeking what might be in the depths they tried to penetrate. It was as though, for them, the veil behind which man hides his inner self was lifted, and a sense of pleasure stole over him and willingness to surrender to this scrutiny; withal a shrinking from disclosure of that which he instinctively felt was unknown, even to himself. It required some effort to rise and leave the room.
An hour later, while waiting for the time of his morning lecture, and hardly freed as yet from the sensation resulting from his breakfast experience, while sitting in the spacious hall of the quiet house, he suddenly became aware of drapery, and looking up, encountered the eyes again; not as he had been seeing them since he had escaped them, but again bodily where they belonged, under the heavy brows of a dark-faced, large, and rather handsome woman.
"Pardon," she said in musical tones, and with a scarce perceptible smile at the ruddy flush which mantled his face. "Est ce Monsieur Claghorn?"
"Surely," exclaimed Leonard, "this is not——"
"The maid of Mademoiselle Claghorn," she replied, still in French. "The clerk indicated you as Monsieur——"
"Certainly. Your mistress——"
"This way, Monsieur." She led him toward the parlor, and had his ears been keen enough, he might have heard her murmur: "Il est adorable."
Natalie had been, in Leonard's eyes, a very beautiful girl, and he found her now a very beautiful woman. She was tall, dark, slender and indescribably graceful, as well as with the nameless manner, born with some and never in perfection acquired, of exceeding yet not obtrusive graciousness. Had she been born a duchess, she could not have had a better manner; had she been born a washerwoman, it would have been as good, for it was born, not made. The mere beauty of her face was hardly remembered in contemplation of qualities apparent, yet not wholly comprehensible. Ordinarily serene, if not joyous in expression, there was an underlying sadness that seldom left it. Perhaps she still grieved for the father she had lost; perhaps, unconsciously, she craved the love or the religion which the Marquise had said a woman needs.
The travelers were on their way to Easthampton, having arrived in the night train from New York. On learning that less than an hour's drive would bring her to the home of Miss Claghorn, Natalie declined Leonard's escort. "I wish to see my grand-aunt alone," she explained. "She has written a most kind invitation——"
"Which I hope you will accept, Cousin."
"Which I greatly desire to accept, but——"
"If for any reason," he interrupted, "you should decide not to accept Cousin Achsah's invitation, I know that at Stormpoint——"
"I have letters from both Mrs. Joe and Paula; but my first duty, and my inclination as well, take me to my father's aunt."
Though he had at first agreed with Paula that residence with Miss Achsah would not "do" for Natalie, he saw the fitness of her decision. She recognized her own status as a Claghorn and appreciated the Claghorn claim upon her. "I am glad you feel so," he said. "You will discern Cousin Achsah's real excellence beneath an exterior which, at first sight, may seem unpromising. She is not French, as you will soon discover, but as for true kindness——"
She interrupted with a laugh. "You and Mr. Winter are both eloquent in apologizing for my grand-aunt's sort of kindness, which, it seems, differs from the French variety."
"We only mean she will seem to you undemonstrative. She is very religious."
"That does not alarm me; everybody is—except myself," and now her laugh had a cadence of sadness.
It touched him. He knew the task laid out for him by Providence, and he felt that he ought to say a fitting word. But all the time he knew that the eyes of the maid were upon him. The knowledge made him appear somewhat constrained—he who ordinarily had an ease of manner, which was not the least of his charms.
"They are well at Stormpoint, of course?" questioned Natalie. "Mrs. Joe and Paula?"
"Perfectly. You will be charmed with their home. Mrs. Claghorn has transformed a desert. The sea——"
"Paula sent me some views, and better, an appreciative description. I should think they would never wish to leave it—none of them?" She looked inquiringly at him.
"As to that," he laughed, "Mrs. Joe flits occasionally; and, of course, Paula with her. But they are becoming more and more content to remain at home. Mrs. Joe is quite a public character."
"A chatelaine—the head of the house?" Again her eyes questioned more insistently than her lips.
"Quite so," was the answer. "Mark's a rover. He's in Russia."
A sigh of relief—or regret? It was quickly checked. Leonard noticed her pallor. "You are tired," he said. "Why not rest for an hour or two here? If you will do so, I can myself drive you to Easthampton. Just now I must attend to my class at the Seminary."
But she would not wait for his escort; so he procured a conveyance, and surmising that, under the circumstances, the maid was an embarrassment, he suggested providing her with a book and the hospitality of his sitting-room, and having seen his cousin depart, he conducted Mademoiselle Berthe to his room and handed her a volume of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," which the maid accepted graciously.
"There," he said pleasantly, and in his best French, "you can look out of the window or read, as you please. I hope you will not find the time long."
She smiled in reply. Her penetrating eyes sought that other self within him, which leaped to the call and looked out of his eyes into hers. For a moment only. His gaze dropped. Wondering, he found himself trembling.
"I—I shall look in in an hour, to see if you want anything."
"Monsieur is very good," murmured Berthe. They were not far apart; her hand touched his. She looked downward.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly.
She watched him crossing the square toward the Seminary. There was a half smile upon her lips. "He is adorable," she murmured again. "Ah! I thought so," as Leonard, now some hundred yards away, looked back.
When he had disappeared she lazily inspected her surroundings, noting the various objects with faint interest. "Son père," she muttered as her glance fell upon the portrait of Professor Jared Claghorn. But she examined more minutely that of his mother. "Belle femme," was her comment, and though her eyes wandered from the picture, they often returned to it, verifying the close resemblance between it and the occupant of the room. "Ah-h!" she exclaimed, throwing up her arms, and then letting them fall listlessly, "Qu'il est beau!"
Then she tried to doze, but without much success, twitching nervously and occasionally muttering impatiently; and, at length, she rose from her chair and began to deliberately inspect the various objects lying on table or mantel. Everything that was purely ornamental she scrutinized with care, as though she would read the reason of its being where she found it. There was a peculiar expression of veiled anger in her eyes while thus engaged, and once the veil was momentarily lifted and anger was visible. Nevertheless, she laughed a moment after and replaced the object, an ivory paper cutter, where she had found it. "T'es bête," she muttered.
But soon her dark eyes flashed actual rage. She had taken a prettily bound book of poems from the table, where it had been thrown, as if but recently read. She turned the pages, half carelessly, yet with a sharp eye, to see if there were any marked passages. She found one or two such, and it would have been diverting, had there been a spectator present, to note her perplexed attempts to read Mrs. Browning. But the language was beyond her powers, and she was about impatiently to replace the book when she noticed the fly-leaf, whereon in a neat, clear hand was written the inscription, "Leonard, from Paula." She stared at these innocent words with a glare that under no circumstances could have been regarded as amusing. Finally, she tore the leaf from the book and flung the book itself disdainfully from her. Then she crumpled the leaf in her hand, threw it into the waste basket, and deliberately spat upon it.
Which strange proceeding perhaps soothed her irritation, for she lay back in her chair, and after breathing hard for a little while, was soon sleeping peacefully.
Meantime, while Mademoiselle slept the sleep of one who has spent the night in travel, Leonard lectured, but less fluently than was usual. A man out of sorts is not an uncommon circumstance, and though his flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and occasional bungling speech were sufficiently remarkable in one ordinarily engrossed with his subject, nothing was said to further disturb his equanimity.
The lecture over, he walked across the square, less equable in spirit than he had been in the class-room; for there he had striven to retain his grasp of the topic in hand; now he was under no restraint and could surrender himself to contemplation—of what?
Of the stirring touch of a woman's hand, of the vision of a new world, a glimpse of which he had caught in the greedy depths of a woman's eyes. Even now he was hurrying to see these things again, while he was angry that they drew him back.
He overcame the attraction, and deliberately sat down upon a bench. He watched a little girl playing about, and might have remained watching had not the devil, who sometimes walks to and fro and up and down in Hampton, intervened.
The child was suddenly struck by a ball, batted by an urchin, who, on seeing what he had done, incontinently took to his heels. She fell, stunned, almost at Leonard's feet. The impact of the ball had seemed frightful, and for a moment Leonard thought she was killed.
The hotel was across the street. He carried her thither, intending to summon a physician, but on seeing some returning signs of animation, he took his burden to his room and laid her on the bed.
Berthe, her nap over, had witnessed the scene in the park. She heard Leonard lay the child on the bed in the chamber adjoining the room in which she sat, and was instantly by the bedside with her traveling bag, from which she produced restoratives. She gave her whole attention to the sufferer, while he looked on, pleased with these gentle ministrations.
"It may be a bad hurt," said Berthe, undoubted pity in her tone. "The brain may be injured."
"I will call the doctor,'" he said.
The doctor was at hand, his room being on the same corridor. His opinion was that no serious damage had been done. "Let her rest awhile. If she seems unusually drowsy, let me know," with which words and a glance at Mademoiselle, he returned to his room.
Berthe knelt beside the child, who was growing alarmed as her intelligence became normally acute. The Frenchwoman prattled soothingly, and Leonard stooped to add some words of encouragement. He stroked the child's hair, and his hand met the soft hand of Berthe and was enclosed within it. He trembled as she drew him downward, and a sob escaped him as his lips met hers and lingered on them in a rapturous kiss.
When the carriage, which was to convey her to Easthampton, had started, Natalie commenced the re-perusal of Miss Claghorn's invitation, which ran thus:
"My Dear Grand-niece—I address you thus, for though I have never seen you, yet you are of my kindred, and all who bear your name must be dear to me. Your father was so in his youth, and if, in later years, he neglected, if he did not forget, the ties of kinship and of country, I nevertheless mourned for him, even though sensible that all things are ordered by the Lord of heaven and earth and that human regret is useless, and, if unaccompanied with resignation, sinful. Mr. Winter writes me that you are friendless. I offer that which you can justly claim from me—my friendship and a home. As far as earthly cares are concerned, I am willing to relieve you of those incident to your situation. This is plainly my duty, and for many years I have striven, with God's help, to perform with a cheerful spirit that which I have been called upon to do."It is this habit which impels me here to refer to your views concerning man's duty toward his Maker. I do not, because conscientiously I cannot, agree with those who profess tolerance in these matters. There should be no tolerance of sin. If we would worthily follow in the steps of Him who died that we might live, we must hate the devil and his children in the same measure that we love our Father and his children. Whose child are you?"This is a solemn question. I urge you to seek its answer at the Throne. If you will do this, my hope will be mighty. Should you be tempted to resent my solicitude, remember that my religion is a part of my nature, the only part meriting your respect, and that it requires of me that which I have written, as well as much more not set down here, but of which I hope I shall see the fruits. Come to me as soon as possible, and be assured of a welcome.Achsah Claghorn."
"My Dear Grand-niece—I address you thus, for though I have never seen you, yet you are of my kindred, and all who bear your name must be dear to me. Your father was so in his youth, and if, in later years, he neglected, if he did not forget, the ties of kinship and of country, I nevertheless mourned for him, even though sensible that all things are ordered by the Lord of heaven and earth and that human regret is useless, and, if unaccompanied with resignation, sinful. Mr. Winter writes me that you are friendless. I offer that which you can justly claim from me—my friendship and a home. As far as earthly cares are concerned, I am willing to relieve you of those incident to your situation. This is plainly my duty, and for many years I have striven, with God's help, to perform with a cheerful spirit that which I have been called upon to do.
"It is this habit which impels me here to refer to your views concerning man's duty toward his Maker. I do not, because conscientiously I cannot, agree with those who profess tolerance in these matters. There should be no tolerance of sin. If we would worthily follow in the steps of Him who died that we might live, we must hate the devil and his children in the same measure that we love our Father and his children. Whose child are you?
"This is a solemn question. I urge you to seek its answer at the Throne. If you will do this, my hope will be mighty. Should you be tempted to resent my solicitude, remember that my religion is a part of my nature, the only part meriting your respect, and that it requires of me that which I have written, as well as much more not set down here, but of which I hope I shall see the fruits. Come to me as soon as possible, and be assured of a welcome.Achsah Claghorn."
The girl smiled, though sadly, as she read this letter. She did not resent the fact that it was confessedly inspired solely by a sense of duty; she rather admired the writer for the uncompromising statement; nor was she offended at the sermon contained in the epistle, or inclined to treat it lightly. It is not probable that the writer of the letter believed that her exhortation would sink deeply in the heart of an "atheist," she being probably unaware that some who know not God crave a knowledge which they find nowhere offered.
The drive was long, the horse sleepy, the driver willing that his steed should doze, while his passenger paid by the hour, for which reason he had chosen the longer road by the sea.
She looked out upon the water with a gaze of longing, as though there might arise from out the solitary deep a vision which would solve that great mystery, which for Miss Claghorn and such as she, was no mystery, but wherein most of us grope as in a fog. But, as to other yearning eyes, so to hers no vision was vouchsafed; though had her sight been strengthened by experience, she might have seen, symbolized in the waters, the life of man. For, against the shore the fretful waves were spent and lost in sand, whereof each particle was insignificant, but which in the mass absorbed the foaming billows, as the vain aspirations of youth absorb its futile energies. Beyond was the green water, still tireless and vexed, and then the smoother blue, as it neared the sky-line, undisturbed, until afar the waters lay at rest in hopeless patience, and the heavens came down and hid the secret of what lay beyond.
But, if youth looked with the eyes of age, there were no youth. She was not yet to know lessons which must be hardly learned, and it was not that one offered by the waters that she saw as she looked out upon the ocean. Far beyond the horizon, in a distant land, her eyes beheld the garden of a village inn where sat a girl, prattling with her father and commenting upon two dusty strangers, who in their turn were eyeing the maid and her companion curiously. She saw the cave, heard Leonard shout the name—and then Mark Claghorn stood before her—as he then had stood, in the jaunty cap and ribbon which proclaimed him "Bursch"; one of those lawless beings of whom she had heard much school-girl prattle. Even then she had contrasted the handsomer face of the simple-minded boy beside her with the harsher and more commanding features of this newcomer. And her fancy wandered on through pleasant German saunterings and Parisian scenes among the churches—to the day when Berthe Lenoir had said that Mark would be her teacher in the lore of love; and she knew that, in the moment of that saying, she had learned the great lesson, never to be forgotten.
She had cherished the secret without hope or wish that he should share it, for she knew that so sweet a thing could live in no heart but her own; and she had not been ashamed, but had been proud of this holy acquisition hidden in her heart of hearts. Her eyes grew limpid and her cheeks flushed red as she recalled how the shrine of her treasure had been profaned by the hand of one that might have known, but had disdained its worth. In the Church of St. Roch the three who had been present when love was born were again alone together. Berthe was now her maid, and Mark, his university days past, was a daily visitor at her father's house.
The scene was clear before her as he pointed to the maid, out of earshot, and gazing carelessly at the worshippers. "Has she forgotten—so soon?" he said. "Are women so?"
She had not answered. Forgotten! Who could forget?
"I have not forgotten. I often come here, Natalie."
She had had no words. What was it that had so joyously welled up within her and overflowed her eyes and closed her lips?
"I was to be your teacher, Natalie."
She looked into his eyes, and from her own went out the secret of her soul into his keeping; and she had been glad, and the gloomy church had been aglow, and as they passed out the sun shone and the heavens smiled upon a new world; for she had never seen it thus before.
That was the short chapter of the history of her love. There had been no other. He had ravished her secret that he might disdain it, and next day had said a stern good-bye, spoken as though forever.
Yet she had dared to come here, though now the impulse was strong upon her to turn and flee from a region where he might be met. It was but an impulse; for either she must come among these her relatives or return to throw herself into the arms of the vacuous hussar who loved her dowry, or failing that, into the strife and importunity from which she had escaped. Resentful pride, too, came to her aid, bidding her not flee from him who had disdained her love, though even so she knew that that which had been born within her had been so fondly cherished, had grown so mighty, that in the heart it filled there was no room for pride to grow with equal strength.
She turned again to the letter in her hand. Her unbelief had never stilled the longing to believe, and now, in the hunger of her soul, the yearning was strong. But, she asked herself, What was belief? There was much glib talk of faith, but what was faith? Could one have faith by saying that one had it? Was conviction mere assertion? The letter advised her to seek enlightenment at the Throne of God. What meaning could the words have except that she was to crave that which she had ever craved? Her soul had always cried aloud for knowledge of God. Could it be that formal words, repeated kneeling, would compel heaven to give ear? Was it thus that people experienced what they called religion? Was it so that Miss Claghorn had found it?
Such musings came to an end with her arrival at the White House. She had announced her coming by letter, wherefore Tabitha Cone, recognizing the identity of the visitor and mentally pronouncing her a "stunner," ushered her into the gloomy parlor, and informed Miss Claghorn that "'Liph's daughter" awaited her.
"I decided to call in person before accepting your kind invitation," said the visitor.
"I learn from Ellis Winter that you need a home," replied Miss Achsah, a little stiffly, but rather from awe of this blooming creature than from dislike.
"I am grateful for your offer of one; but in fairness, I thought you should know my reasons for leaving France, and essential that you should justify me."
Miss Claghorn assented not ungraciously. The frank demeanor of her visitor pleased her. "A Claghorn," was her mental comment, as Natalie told her story more in detail than Mr. Winter had done.
"You see," she added to her narrative of the matrimonial pursuit of the gallant de Fleury, "he is not a man that I could like, but my cousin——"
"You mean this French Markweeze?"
Natalie nodded. "She is a sweet woman, and undoubtedly believed herself right in the matter. Then it was, doubtless, a very serious disappointment. Lieutenant de Fleury is her son; they are comparatively poor; I am not—and so—and so——"
"You were quite right to run away," snapped Miss Achsah, with the emphasis born of indignation at this attempt to coerce a Claghorn.
"It must not be forgotten that, from her point of view, my cousin was justified in expecting me to carry out a promise made by my father. It was this that made her so persistent and induced her to attempt measures that were not justifiable. To her I must seem ungrateful for much kindness." The girl's eyes glistened with tears. In fact, this view of her conduct, which was doubtless the view of the Marquise, affected her deeply. She did not state, though aware of the fact, that her own income had, during her residence with her French guardian, been mainly used to sustain and freshen the very faded glory of the house of Fleury.
"Well, my dear," was the comment of Miss Claghorn, "I have listened to your story and justify your course; and now I repeat my invitation."
Had Tabitha Cone seen the gracious manner of the speaker she would have been as surprised as was the lady herself. But in the presence of this beautiful face, the evident honesty of the narration of the tale she had heard, the underlying sadness beneath the serene expression, it would have needed a harder nature than Miss Claghorn's to be anything but gracious. But she flushed with self-reproach when Natalie touched upon what she had for the moment completely forgotten.
"But," exclaimed Natalie, "I have not answered the question in your letter. The matter of religion, I was led to believe, would be to you most important. It is to so many; the Marquise, Père Martin, Mrs. Leon—have all been grieved—I am an infidel."
The coolness with which this statement was made shocked her auditor even more than the fact. The perplexed smile upon the girl's face; the yearning look, that seemed to recognize something wanting in her, some faculty absent which left her without a clew to the cause of the successive shocks emanating from her—these things, if only dimly appreciated by Miss Claghorn, were sufficiently apparent to make her feel as though a weight had fallen upon her heart. "Oh, my child, that is an awful thing to say!" she exclaimed.
The way the words were uttered showed that all the tenderness, long hidden, of the speaker's nature was suddenly called to life. No exhortation ever heard by Natalie had so affected her as this outburst of a hard old woman. She seized the other's hand, murmuring, "Dear Aunt!" She pitied, even while she envied, the victim of superstition, as the God-fearing woman pitied the errant soul. Neither understood the source of the other's emotion, but they met in complete sympathy. The elder woman pressed the hand that had grasped her own, and leaning toward her grand-niece, kissed her affectionately. What old and long-dried springs of feeling were awakened in the withered breast as the oldest descendant of the Puritan preacher yearned over the youngest of the line? Who shall tell? Perhaps the barren motherhood of the ancient spinster was stirred for once; perhaps the never-known craving for a mother's love moved the younger one. For a time both were silent.
"Come to me to-day, at once," whispered Miss Achsah, blushing, had she known it, and quivering strangely.
The heartiness of the invitation troubled the visitor, whose answer was less gracious than a chief characteristic required. "I will come to-day," she answered. "Let it be understood as a visit only." Then she went out, and in the lumbering carriage was driven back to Hampton.
Miss Claghorn watched her from the window. Gradually she was recovering herself and secretly feeling mightily ashamed, yet pleased, too. Tabitha came in.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well," echoed Miss Claghorn, acidly.
"What are you going to do?"
"Pray," replied the lady, as she ascended the stairs.
"Must have forgot it this morning," was Miss Cone's mental comment.
When Natalie returned, Leonard was occupying his old seat in the Square, a different man from the man she had met in the earlier morning. He had been shocked, grieved, even terrified, and above all ashamed; yet joy mingled with his grief, and his consciousness of new manhood was not without its glory; and, withal, his breast was filled with a flood of tremulous tenderness for the woman, and a longing for her forgiveness. His emotions were sufficiently confusing to be vexing, and he had striven to give the matter a jaunty aspect. Young men will be young men, even when students of divinity, and he had heard more than one tale of kisses. He had not much liked such tales, nor the bragging and assumption of their tellers; still, a few hours since, he would have seen no great offense in kissing a pretty woman; but a few hours since he had not known anything about the matter. He was sure now that the rakes of his college days, the boasters and conquerors, had been as ignorant as he. Otherwise they could not have told of their deeds; the thing he had done he could tell no man.
And so, though he had but kissed a woman, he felt that kissing a woman was a wonderful thing; and he failed in the attempt to look upon the matter airily, as of a little affair that would have in the future a flavor of roguishness. It was not a matter to be treated lightly; his grief and the stabs of conscience were too sharp for that—yet he had no remorse. He was not minded to repeat the act; he had fled from such repetition, and he would not repeat it; neither would he regret it. It should be a memory, a secret for hidden shame, for hidden pride, for grief, for joy.
He intercepted Natalie as she descended from the carriage, and, in a brief interview in the hotel parlor, learned of her intention to return at once to Miss Claghorn. The carriage was waiting, there was no reason for delaying her departure; there was nothing to do but to call the maid, and he dispatched a servant to do that. He volunteered to see to the immediate transmission of the luggage of the travelers to Easthampton, and made thereof an excuse for leaving before the maid reappeared; and when once without the hotel door, and on his way to the station, he breathed a sigh as of one relieved of a load.
Some days passed and Leonard had not appeared at Easthampton. One morning he received the following note from Paula:
"Dear Leonard—I suppose you are very busy in these last days of the term, and we all excuse your neglect of us. I shall be at the Hampton station on Thursday, having promised to see Natalie's maid (who don't speak English) on the evening train for New York. Perhaps you can meet me and return with me to dinner. Cousin Alice hopes you will."
"Dear Leonard—I suppose you are very busy in these last days of the term, and we all excuse your neglect of us. I shall be at the Hampton station on Thursday, having promised to see Natalie's maid (who don't speak English) on the evening train for New York. Perhaps you can meet me and return with me to dinner. Cousin Alice hopes you will."
He was careful not to find Paula until the train had gone, and he had assured himself that Berthe was among the passengers. Then he appeared.
"Why, Leonard," exclaimed Paula, "have you been ill?" The tone was full of concern. He shrank as if he had been struck.
"No," he said; "a little anxious—troubled."
"Over your freckled, gawky, thickshod theologues; what a pity you're not in the Church!"
This kind of outburst on the part of the speaker usually made Leonard laugh. To-night his laugh sounded hollow. "I suppose your Episcopalian students wear kids and use face powder," he said.
"There's no harm in kid gloves; inner vileness——"
"Is very bad, Paula; we'll not discuss it."
They walked across the Square, on the other side of which she had left the carriage. She looked up to his face to seek an explanation of the irritation discoverable in his tone; she noted that his hat was drawn down over his eyes in a way very unusual. They walked on in silence. "You will come with me?" she asked, when they had reached the carriage.
"Not to-night. You are right, I am not very well; it is nothing, I will come out this week. Has Natalie discharged her maid?"
"Not for any fault. Mrs. Leon was very glad to get Berthe, and as Natalie is situated——"
"I see. I hope she is comfortable with Cousin Achsah."
"They hit it off astonishingly well. The fact is, nobody could help loving Natalie—I am surprised that you have not been to see her."
"I know I have seemed negligent. I have a good excuse. Where, in New York, does Mrs. Leon live?"
"At the Fifth Avenue Hotel," she replied, wondering at the question.
"Well," he said, after a pause, and treating her answer as though, like his question, it was of no real interest. "I must not keep you here. You don't mind going home alone?"
"I should be glad of your company; aside from that, I don't mind."
"Then, good-bye," touching her hand for an instant. "Make my excuses to Mrs. Joe; I have been really very busy. Home, James." He closed the carriage door and walked rapidly away, leaving Paula vexed, to sink back in the soft seat and to wonder.
He walked across the Square to the region of shops and entered a large grocery store—at this time of day, deserted. "Could you give me a bill for fifty dollars?" he asked of the cashier.
"I believe I can, Professor," replied the official, drawing one from the desk, and exchanging it for the smaller bills handed him by Leonard, who thanked him and went out. That night he enclosed the single bill in an envelope, and addressed it to Mademoiselle Berthe, in care of Mrs. Leon.
As he could have told no man why he had done this, so he could not tell himself why. Cynics and matrons may smile incredulous, but the kiss he had given and received had wrought an upheaval in this man's soul. He who defers his kissing until he has reached maturity has much to learn, and if the learning comes in a sudden burst of light in still and quiet chambers, that have until now been dark, the man may well be dazzled.
He did not think her sordid. He hoped she would understand that he sent her that which he believed would be of use to her. But when, a week later, he received a little box and found within it an exquisite pin, which he, unlearned in such matters, still knew must have cost a large part of the sum he had sent her, he was pleased, and a thrill passed through him. Like him, she would remember, nor in her mind would there be any thought but one of tenderness for a day that could never come again. It would be a fair memory that would trouble him no more, but would remain forever fair, of her who had opened to him the portals of a new and beautiful world.
When Paula had said to Leonard that Natalie and Miss Claghorn "hit it off astonishingly well," she had fairly indicated the harmonious relations prevailing at the White House, as well as the general astonishment that the elder lady had so graciously received a religious outcast. It was true that Miss Achsah's innate benevolence was habitually shrouded in uncompromising orthodoxy, a tough and non-diaphanous texture, not easily penetrable by futile concern for souls preordained to eternal death; but Natalie was of her own blood, one of a long line of elect; furthermore, she had not been seduced by the blandishments of the Great Serpent, but had cast her lot, where it truly belonged, among Claghorns; and, finally, the oldest bearer of that name was doubtless influenced by the fact that the girl was motherless and friendless, and that she herself, paying the penalty of independence, was, except as to Tabitha Cone, with whom she lived in strife, alone.
Miss Cone also approved of the visitor. This had been originally an accident. Like the rest of the little world interested, Tabitha had supposed that Miss Claghorn's reception of a foreign and atheistical daughter of Beverley Claghorn would be as ungracious as was compatible with humanity; wherefore Tabitha had been prepared, for her part, to be extremely affable, foreseeing, with joy, many a battle with her benefactress wherein she would have an ally; but, taken unawares, by the time she had grasped the unexpected situation, she had become too sincere in her admiration to change her role. She chose, however, to announce an estimate of Natalie's character differing from that of Miss Claghorn. "She's a Beverley down to her shins," was Miss Cone's verdict.
"As much of a Beverley as you are a Claghorn," was Miss Achsah's tart rejoinder.
"Which, thank the Lord, I'm not. One's enough in one house. For my part, I don't admire your strong characters."
"So that your admiration of Natalie is all pretense. I'm not surprised."
"She strong! Poor dove, she's Susan Beverley to the life." Which may have been true, though dove-like Natalie was not.
Miss Claghorn made no reply except by means of a contradictory snort.
"Now," gravely continued the inwardly jubilant Tabitha, "I call Paula Lynford a strong character. There's a girl that'll get what she's after."
Something ominous in the manner of the speaker arrested the sneer on its way. "What do you mean?" asked Miss Achsah.
"What do all girls want—though, to be sure, you've had no experience," observed Tabitha (who had once contemplated marriage with a mariner, who had escaped by drowning)—"a husband."
Miss Claghorn laughed. "Very likely. But Paula's husband will need a dispensation—from the Pope, I suppose—since he calls himself a Catholic."
Tabitha echoed the laugh, less nervously and with palpable and unholy enjoyment. "You mean her cap's set for Father Cameril. She's been throwing dust in your eyes. She's after a minister, sure enough, but not that one."
"What do you mean, Tabitha Cone?" The tone of the question usually had the effect of cowing Tabitha, but the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
"I mean Leonard Claghorn."
Miss Achsah gasped. "You slanderous creature," she exclaimed, "Leonard will never marry a mock-papist—demure puss!"
"Leonard'll marry to suit himself, and not his forty-fifth cousin." And with this Tabitha escaped, leaving a rankling arrow.
As an "atheist," Natalie was a surprise to both inmates of the White House. Their ideas of atheistic peculiarities were probably vague, but each had regarded the arrival of the unbeliever with dread. Tabitha had foreboded profanity, perhaps even inebriety, depravity certainly, and she had been quite "upset," to use her own expression, by the reality. Miss Claghorn, with due respect for family traits, had never shared Tabitha's worst fears, but she had anticipated a very different kind of person from the person that Natalie actually was. She had pictured a hard, cynical, intellectual creature, critical as to the shortcomings of creation, full of "science," and pertly obtrusive with views. She had feared theological discussion, and though convinced that her armory (comprised in Dr. Hodge's "Commentary on the Confession of Faith") was amply furnished to repel atheistic assault, yet she dreaded the onset, having, perhaps, some distrust of her own capacity for handling her weapons.
But the atheist was neither scientific nor argumentative. She was so graceful, so amiable, in short, so charming, that both old women were quickly won; so gay that both were surprised to hear their own laughter. Sufficiently foreign to be of continual interest, and so pleased and entertained with her new surroundings that they would have been churlish indeed not to accept her pleasure as flattering to themselves.
At times, indeed, both had misgivings. The devil is abroad, and it was conceivable that in the form of this seductive creature he had audaciously invaded the White House for prey, such as rarely fell into his toils; but each spinster was too sure of her own call and election to fear the enemy of souls on her individual account, and Miss Claghorn doubted whether even the temerity of Satan would suffice for the hopeless attempt to capture an orthodox Claghorn; and this assurance aided the belief that Natalie, herself of the elect race, was neither the devil's emissary, nor in the direful peril that had been feared. She might think herself an infidel, but her time was not yet come, that was all.
"I am sure she has workings of the spirit," she observed to Tabitha. "She's not always as lighthearted as you think."
"I don't happen to think it. A good deal of that's put on."
"Everybody don't experience grace as early as you and I."
"Specially not in Paris," assented Miss Cone.
"She was surely guided of the Lord in leaving the influence of Romanism to——"
"'Cording to your view she hasn't escaped yet; there's St. Perpetua——"
"She's too true a Claghorn to be led into that folly."
"I don't know," observed Miss Cone meditatively, "that the Claghorns are less foolish than other people. There was 'Liph, her father; 'n there's Lettie Stanley—then your brother. St. Perpetua's his monument, you know."
"Joseph would never have approved St. Perpetua. If he'd been a Catholic, it wouldn't have been an imitation."
"His wife ought to know the kind of monument he would have liked. I've known the Claghorns long enough to know——"
"You've known some of 'em, to your eternal welfare, Tabitha Cone."
"I'm not aware that the family was consulted when my election was foreordained. You think well of 'em, and I won't deny their good qualities—but I guess the Almighty didn't have to wait until their creation to manage."
"You seem very sure of election. I hope you are not to be disappointed, but you might accept the fact with some humility."
"Your brother, Natalie's grandfather, had a license to preach—I'm not aware that you have—he taught me that the fact was to be accepted with joy and gladness."
"Joy and gladness are not inconsistent with humility."
"I'm not denyin' your right to be joyful, but your right to preach."
"Tabitha Cone, you'd try the patience of a saint!"
"IfI had the opportunity!" And so, with whetted swords they plunged into the fray.
The newcomer was graciously welcomed at Stormpoint, though Paula bewailed her selection of abode, tending, as it did, to frustrate certain plans, which were to result in alluring Natalie to the sheltering arms of St. Perpetua. Paula was confident of the courage of Father Cameril, but even a brave man may hesitate to pluck a jewel from the den of a lion, and she knew that to such a den the good Father likened the home of Miss Claghorn.
But Mrs. Joe approved Natalie's choice. "Miss Achsah's her blood relation," she said.
"What is blood? An accident. Friendship is born of sympathy," protested Paula.
"And since that is the basis of our friendship," observed Natalie, "you will understand that when my grand-aunt offered me a home on the ground of duty, I also recognized a duty."
"A home on the ground of duty," repeated Paula, with as near an approach to a sneer as she was capable of effecting.
"Could she feel affection, who had never seen me? Remember, she stood in the place of mother to my father. I fear she had reason to believe that the fact had been forgotten."
Mrs. Joe nodded approval.
"Inclination would have led me to you," Natalie proceeded. "It may be, too, that I was influenced by the hope that I might, in some degree, brighten the life of an old woman who had outlived her near relations. I remembered how Cousin Jared, whom we all liked so well, reverenced her. And then, I approved her pride in the name. I, too, am a Claghorn."
"In short," commented Mrs. Joe, "you recognized a duty, as I believed you would, and you did right. Good will come of it," she added, "a bond between the houses."
Nevertheless, the lady's conscience was troubled. She was naturally candid and hospitable, yet in respect to Natalie, she had done violence to both attributes. In that invitation, sent in accordance with her promise to Paula, she had been careful to recognize the prior claim of Miss Claghorn, thus virtually indicating Natalie's proper course. It had been hard for her to close the gates of Stormpoint upon one whom she regarded with affection, yet Mr. Hacket's counsel had outweighed inclination. That gentleman was, indeed, teaching some hard lessons to the lady of Stormpoint. It was almost unbearable that this wooden and yellow man, who secretly aroused all the antagonism of which she was capable, should direct her domestic affairs; yet she bore it smilingly, as was seemly in a politician, whose skin may smart, but who must grin. For, Mr. Hacket's command was wise. To add an infidel to her household of religious suspects would be a rash act which Hampton might not forgive. She had no doubt that Natalie's unbelief would become known, and if it did not, the fact that she was French would presuppose Romanism, and excite comment. Were Stormpoint to harbor a Papist, one concerning whom there could be no saving doubt, such as existed for its present inmates, all her plans might be jeopardized. In the eyes of the descendants of the Puritans, the adherents of St. Perpetua would be convicted as followers of the scarlet woman, and if the red rag of Romanism were flaunted in seeming defiance, Mark's incipient career of statesmanship might meet with a serious check.
On the other hand, there was comfort in the thought that all unpleasant possibilities would be avoided by Natalie's sojourn with Miss Achsah. Infidel or Romanist, in whatever light regarded, the dwellers in Easthampton would know with approval that the competent owner of the White House had the stray sheep in charge, and would anticipate triumphant rescue of the endangered soul, providentially sheltered where food of life would be daily offered. There would be also general satisfaction that to Miss Achsah had been given a task worthy the exercise of those energies which, in the cause of truth, she was apt to exhibit in domestic circles not her own, to the great terror of the members thereof. Mrs. Joe, herself, could find occasion to evince commendation of the expected efforts of Miss Claghorn, and, while placating that lady, could emphasize her own Protestantism. In fact, several birds might be slain with this single stone.
It was, perhaps, because she was conscience-stricken that Mrs. Joe essayed to make atonement to Natalie by being especially confiding with her. We know, also, that she saw an opportunity of strengthening those bonds between Stormpoint and the White House, which Mr. Hacket insisted it was advisable to make as close as possible; for it became day by day more evident that Miss Achsah had taken her new inmate into her heart of hearts; other motives there may have been; certain it is that next to her yellow adviser, whom she loathed with a deeper loathing each time that she saw him anew, she opened her heart to Natalie in regard to those cherished projects which concerned Mark.
"I want to see him famous," she said. "It will be harder for him than for others, because of this wretched money."
"He has more talent than most, and, I think, sincerity," replied Natalie, pausing on the last word.
The elder lady looked sharply at the speaker. The two were alone together; occasionally they could hear the strains of Paula's organ from the distant music-room. "You saw much of him after he left the University?" she questioned.
"Yes, he was with us constantly for a time." The widow had a fine sense of hearing, which she strained to the utmost to note what might be told in the tone that remained untold by the words. She was quite aware that Mark had been for weeks a daily visitor, if not an actual inmate, of the household of Beverley Claghorn. She had herself arranged that it should be so; but she had not then feared possibilities, which had engaged her thoughts a good deal since she had heard of the rupture between the Marquise and Natalie. The tone of the girl's voice told her nothing, and the eyes that met her own were serene.
"I wished Mark to remain abroad until Stormpoint was complete. I wished to surprise him, and impress him with the fact that I am in earnest, that this place is but a means to an end."
"It is a beautiful and a fitting home for what he is and aspires to be."
"It will help. What has he said to you about Stormpoint?"
"You forget that I have not seen him since he made its acquaintance."
"Surely he was not so neglectful as not to write!"
"He wrote to my father. I don't recall what he said about Stormpoint."
The eyes bent upon the girl, who looked steadily out of the window at the sea, were keen and questioning. "Pardon me, Natalie, I hope the breach between you and the Marquise is not irreparable," said the lady softly.
Natalie looked up smiling. "Indeed, I hope not. I am not angry with her, though she is with me."
"I can hardly be sorry that you disappointed her—I never fancied her lieutenant—but I was surprised. I had supposed the matter settled with your consent."
"My dear father, it seems, did so arrange it. I quite appreciate her standpoint and know that she has much to forgive. Naturally, she approves of the customs of her country. Unfortunately, I was not trained strictlyà la mode Française."
"The French custom as regards betrothal is repulsive; but I supposed you were French—and——"
"I must have inherited independent views. I might have acquiesced had I not seen too much of Adolphe. You are not to think badly of him—only that he is unendurable."
"That is more damning than faint praise," laughed Mrs. Joe; "but I understand. Well, my dear, since you decline to become a 'female Markis,' as Mr. Weller has it, we must do as well for you as possible in a republic that offers no nobles."
"I am quite content with things as they are."
"That, of course, is eminently proper; but we are all slaves of destiny and there is one always possible to maidens. We shall select a permanent city home as soon as I can consult Mark; meanwhile we shall not spend our winters here; and in the winter Miss Achsah must reward our forbearance by surrendering you to us."
"I shall be glad to be with you and Paula sometimes; but, Mrs. Joe, you know I am only visiting my aunt. I intend to have a home of my own."
"That will come. Perhaps it will be with me for a time, if you can bear with another old woman. Mark and Paula will want their own establishment. Of course, they'll have Stormpoint."
She had sped her bolt. If it had been needless, it was harmless; if it had wounded, so much the more was it needed. But she felt mean—in the proper frame to meet Mr. Hacket, who was announced, to the relief of both.
The distant organ notes must have been pleasing to the ear, for, after Mrs. Joe had gone, Natalie sat long, listening and motionless; they must have been tender, for tears glistened in her eyes. When they ceased she rose and left the room and the house. In the grounds she found Paula, who said, "I came out at this moment, and saw that," pointing to the buggy; "then I knew that you would soon be here."
They strolled to a sheltered nook of the cliffside, and thence looked out upon the silver sea, peaceful under the summer sky.
"One could hardly believe that it could ever be angry," said Paula, "but you shall see it in fury; then it will be awful."
"It is awful now."
"Now!" exclaimed Paula. "Why, it is as serene as the sky above it."
"But think what it hides. Listen to the moan; see the swell of its heavy sighs."
"Natalie, I have discovered something!"
"Like Columbus," laughed Natalie.
"You are like the sea to-day. The surface wavelets laugh in the glint of the sun; but sadness is beneath. The sea hides sorrow; and you are so. You and Mark——"
And there she stopped. The other knew why. Paula was looking straight at her face, and she knew that her face had suddenly told a story.
"Does the sea remind you of Mark?" she asked in even tones, guarding her secret in her manner of utterance.
"Of both of you," answered Paula, who had quickly turned a somewhat troubled gaze upon the water. "Natalie," she added, rather hurriedly, "there is a balm for every sorrow, a sure one.That"—she slightly emphasized the word—"is why I thought of you in connection with Mark. Ah, if he were only religious!"
"Then he would be perfect, you think." She laughed, and Paula laughed, but the merriment seemed hollow.
"Nobody can be perfect," said Paula, after the pause which had followed the unmeaning mirth. She spoke in a low tone and timidly, but for that reason all the more engagingly; "but so far as perfection can be attained, it can only be with the aid of religion."
It was one of the words in season, which Natalie had become accustomed to hear from those about her, and which from this exhorter she always liked to hear. There was an atmosphere of calm about Paula and a serenity in her face which fascinated the unbeliever. And her admonitions, if timidly uttered, were sincere. It was as though the young preacher, though longing for a convert, feared to frighten the disciple away.
Natalie bent over and kissed the girl's cheek. "Is he unhappy? Mark, I mean."
"His life is evidence that he is not happy. He wanders aimlessly. Cousin Alice built Stormpoint for him, yet he leaves it."
"His large interests compel his wanderings."
"He has agents who make them unnecessary. Cousin Alice needs him."
"You would be glad to have him home?"
Paula looked up; her sparkling eyes answered the question. There was a pause.
"I hope he will come," said Natalie, after awhile, "and that you will have your wish."
"That he will become religious? I pray for it, so it must come."
Natalie took her hand and held it. "And you believe that religion insures happiness?" She was willing to hold on to this topic.
"I know it. The peace of God which passeth understanding. Do not turn from it, Natalie."
"I do not. I am not a scoffer. I think that I, too, could love God, only I am densely ignorant."
"But you can be enlightened. Father Cameril——"
Natalie smiled. "I hardly think he would be the teacher I would choose. I would prefer you."
"To enlighten your ignorance! I am myself ignorant. I believe—I know no more." This sounded prettily from pretty lips, and Paula was honest; but, as a matter of fact, she had some theological pretensions, a truth which she for the moment forgot.
"How is that possible?" asked the infidel. "I could believe, if I knew."
"We cannot understand everything."
"No—almost nothing, therefore——"
"We have a revelation."
"Which reveals nothing to me. I wish it did."
"Natalie, you demand too much. We are not permitted to know everything. We cannot be divine."
"And yet we can speak very positively; as if, indeed, we knew it all—some of us. But if nobody knows, nobody can be sure."
"I cannot argue; but I can tell you who tells me. God Himself. God speaks to the heart."
"Paula," cried the other, with startling earnestness, "I, too, have a heart. Teach me how to believe, and of all the wise you will be the wisest. Do I not know that life is barren? that the love of man cannot fill the heart? Ah! Paula, if that can do it, teach me the love of God!"
The tone rose almost to a cry. Paula was awed as a perception of the truth came upon her that here was a skeptic with religious longings greater than her own. "Natalie," she murmured, hiding her face on the shoulder of her companion, "we are told to ask. Pray, Natalie, to the One that knows it all."
"And will you pray for me?"
"I do."
"And do you pray for Mark?"
"Surely."
"And you know that my prayers will be answered?"
"I know it—in God's good time."
"I will pray, Paula."
They kissed one another, as though sealing a compact. No doubt Paula breathed a petition for her who, still in darkness, craved for light. Natalie prayed for the happiness of Mark Claghorn, and that she might forget him and resign him to the saint whose lips she pressed.
Then she went home. In the hall of the White House she met Tabitha. "Come!" she exclaimed, seizing that elderly damsel about the waist. "Dansons, Tabitha; hop, skip!Sur le pont d'Avignon on y danse, on y danse!" and she trilled her lay and whirled the astonished spinster around until both were breathless.
"My sakes! Have you gone crazy?" exclaimed Tabitha.
"Come to my senses!" replied Natalie, laughing merrily.
"I never saw you so French before," was Tabitha's comment.
Achsah Claghorn, for many years lonely, with maternal instincts steadily suppressed, had found the first opportunity of a long life to gratify cravings of which she had been until now unconscious. Coyly, even with trembling, she sought the love of her grand-niece, being herself astonished, as much as she astonished others, by an indulgent tenderness seemingly foreign to her character. Grandmothers, though once severe as mothers, are often overfond in their last maternal role, and it may be that Miss Claghorn pleased herself by the fiction of a relationship which, though not actually existent, had some foundation in long-past conditions.
"Did your father never speak of me?" she asked.
"Often, Aunt. Especially of late years, after we had met Cousin Jared."
"But not with much affection?"
Natalie was somewhat at a loss. "He said you were his second mother," was her reply.
"Poor Susan—that was your grandmother, my dear. She was a gentle, loving creature. I think now, though perhaps I did not at the time, that 'Liph was lonely after she died. Ours was a dull house," she continued, after a pause. "Your grandfather lived more in heaven than on earth, which made it gloomy for us that didn't. Saints are not comfortable to live with, and 'Liph was often in disgrace. I hope I was never hard to a motherless boy, but—but——"
"I am sure you were not. My father never said so."
"Yet he forgot me. Perhaps it was pleasanter not to remember."
There was no reply to make. Natalie knew that her father had been so well content to forget his relatives that, until the unexpected meeting in Germany, her own knowledge of the Claghorns had been very vague.
"'Liph did write me when he married, even promised to come and see me, but he never came."
Miss Claghorn forgot the fact that in reply to her nephew's letter she had deplored his connection with Romanism and had urged instant attention to the duty of converting his wife. The philosopher may have justly enough felt that there could be but little sympathy between himself and one whose congratulations on his nuptials were in part a wail of regret, in part an admonitory sermon.
"You know, Aunt, he did intend to come."
"To see Mrs. Joe—well, no doubt he would have been glad to see me, too. I am sorry we never met after so many years."
Besides the tenderness displayed to Natalie alone, there were evidences of change in the mistress of the White House, apparent to all; and while these were properly ascribed to the new inmate, the fact that that influence could work such wonders excited surprise. The neighbors were astonished to behold the novel sight of perennially open parlor windows, and thought with misgiving upon the effect of sunshine on Miss Claghorn's furniture. At times strange sounds issued from the hitherto silent dwelling, operatic melodies, or snatches of chansons, trilled forth in a foreign tongue. "The tunes actually get into my legs," observed Tabitha to a neighbor. "The sobber de mong pare'd make an elder dance," an assertion which astonished the neighbor less than Miss Cone's familiarity with the French language. But comment was actually stricken dumb when both Miss Claghorn and Tabitha appeared in public with sprigs of color in their headgear and visible here and there upon their raiment.
"I believe you'd bewitch Old Nick himself," observed Tabitha.
"I have," replied Natalie. "He's promised me a shrub."
"I don't mean Nick that brings the garden sass," and the spinster groaned at the benighted condition of one so ignorant as to fail to recognize a familiar appellation of the enemy of souls. "You've worked your grand-aunt out of a horse."
"Your voice is that of an oracle, Tab, and I, who am stupid, do not understand."
"She's going to give you a horse."
"Then should you not rather say that I have worked a horse out of my grand-aunt? which is still oracular; wherefore expound, Tab."
"She told me herself. It's my belief she's in love with you. She'd give you her head, if you asked."
"She's given me her heart, which is better. And so have you; and you're both ashamed of it. Why is that, Tabby?"
"Well," replied Tabitha, making no denial, "you see we're not French—thank God! When we were young we were kept down, as was the fashion."
"I do not like that fashion."
"You'd like it less if you knew anything about it. It has to come out some time; that's the reason your songs get into my legs, and——"
"And?" questioningly, for Tabitha had paused.
"Well, your aunt was never in love—never had the chance, 's far's I know; but if she had, it had to be kept down—and now it comes out. Lucky it didn't strike an elder with a raft of children and no money."
"Much better that it has struck me than an elder—that will be a friar. I have no children, some money and a whole heart. But this tale of a horse?"
"Ever since you told us about ridin' in the Bawdy Bolone she's had Leonard on the lookout. He's found one over to Moffat's. She wants you to look at it before she buys."
"But——"
"I know—you've money of your own to buy horses. That's what she's afraid you'll say. You mustn't. She's set her heart on it."
The horse was accepted without demur, if with some secret misgiving as to adding a new link to the chain which was binding her to Easthampton; and it was peculiarly grateful. Ever since that day when Natalie had astonished Tabitha by improvising a waltz, her gaiety had been feverish, almost extravagant, the result of a craving for physical excitement; the desire to jump, to run, to leap, to execute for Tabitha's delectation dances which would have made Miss Claghorn stare. The horse in some degree filled the craving. She rode constantly, sometimes alone, galloping wildly in secluded lanes; sometimes sedately with Paula and an attendant; often with Leonard, an ardent equestrian, a fact not forgotten by the donor of the horse when the gift was made.
In the eyes of Miss Achsah, as in other eyes, Leonard embodied the finest type of the fine race to which he belonged, combining in his person physical graces not generally vouchsafed to these favorites of heaven, as well as those nobler attributes with which they had been so liberally endowed, and which rendered them worthy of the celestial preference. It was religious to believe that these graces of person and of manner were not given without a purpose, and aided by the same pious deduction which usually recognizes in similar charms a snare of Satan, Miss Claghorn beheld in this instance a device of Providence for winning a soul.
Besides the facilities for conversion thus utilized, Miss Achsah discerned other grounds for hope. In the frequent lapses into thoughtfulness, even sadness, on the part of the unbeliever, she recognized the beginning of that spiritual agitation which was to result in the complete submission of the erring soul to heaven; nor was she negligent in dropping those words which, dropped in season, may afford savory and sustaining food to a hungry spirit. Had Natalie displayed that mental agony and tribulation which naturally accompanies the fear of hell, and which is, therefore, a frequent preliminary terror of conversion, Miss Claghorn would have called in her pastor, as in physical ills she would have called in the doctor; but since Natalie displayed nothing more than frequent thoughtfulness and melancholy, and, as with some natures (and the lady knew it was true of the Claghorn nature) antagonism is aroused by over-solicitude, she easily persuaded herself that, for the present at least, the case was better in the competent hands of Leonard, to whom she solemnly confided it. She feared the treatment of a more experienced, yet perhaps harsher practitioner, whose first idea would be the necessity of combating Romanism. For the secret of Natalie's unbelief remained undisclosed, and Miss Claghorn dreaded such disclosure as sure to bring disgrace upon the family name. Finally, she had another reason, not the least important, for providing Leonard with the chance of winning that soul, which she hoped would become for him the most precious of the souls of men.