"She must be warned from Father Cameril," said Miss Claghorn.
"Do you supposehecould influence her?" observed Leonard scornfully. "I shall not forget my duty, Cousin Achsah. Meanwhile, remember that she is a Claghorn. That means something."
"A great deal; still, there was her father—and Lettie Stanley——"
"I think you are rather hard on her. I believe that Mrs. Stanley is a good woman."
"Will goodness alone attain heaven?"
Leonard did not answer. Mrs. Stanley's chances of heaven had no great interest for him.
If he seemed somewhat less solicitous than Miss Claghorn had expected it was because already his musings were tending in a direction not theological. "How lovely she is!" This had been his thought on his first visit to Easthampton, while Natalie's little hand still lay in his in welcome. He noted, as he watched her afterward, the fitful sadness of her eyes, and longed to share her unknown sorrow. He saw the ripe red lips and his bosom glowed, his eyes grew dreamy and his cheeks flushed pink. He had never, so Paula averred, been as handsome as on that evening.
He was now a daily visitor, equally welcome at the White House or at Stormpoint, and the relations between the two establishments were such that a hope arose within the bosom of Mrs. Joe that she might be able to report to Mr. Hacket that Miss Claghorn had actually dined with the Bishop. She ventured to confide to Miss Achsah certain aspirations in regard to Mark, and her confidence was well received and her plans applauded. Miss Claghorn thought it fitting that Mark, who was nearer to her in blood than Leonard, should assume in worldly affairs that eminence which in higher matters would be Leonard's. It was plain that when the time came such influence as she possessed would be used in Mark's behalf, barring some untoward circumstance, which Mrs. Joe was resolved should not occur. And to prevent it she warned Father Cameril that his wiles were not to be practised upon Natalie. His prayers, her own and Paula's, she informed him, must, for the present, suffice. She was aware that Miss Claghorn had personally taken charge of a matter which, to do Mrs. Joe justice, she regarded as of supreme importance. But, St. Perpetua notwithstanding, her opinions were liberal. She supposed that good people went to heaven, and she was not sternly rigid in her definition of goodness. As to where bad people went, her ideas were vague. She did not question Miss Claghorn's Christianity, though she did not admire its quality, but she knew that on the first attempt to entice Natalie by the allurements presented by St. Perpetua, the bonds of amity now existing would be strained. She even went so far as to assure her sister-in-law that Father Cameril should be "kept in his place," an assurance which was accepted with the grim rejoinder that it were well that he be so kept.
Wherefore, it would seem that those exalted aspirations which had warmed Leonard's bosom, when he had learned from Paula that his French cousin was to be a resident of Easthampton, would be reawakened, and that he would gladly attempt their realization. Alas! other, and more alluring visions, engaged his senses.
To say that he had loved the maid, Berthe, is only to say that which would be true of any man of similar temperament under similar circumstances. The kiss of those lips, over which he had so rapturously lingered, had been his first taste of passion. It may be a sorrowful, but it is not a surprising, fact, that it should affect him violently and color his dreams of a sentiment hitherto unknown. He had taken a long step in a pathway which was to lead him far, though he was as ignorant of the fact as he was of the fact that, in this respect, his education had commenced unfortunately.
He was sufficiently a man of the world to be aware that the emotion in which he had reveled could have no satisfactory result. He would no more have considered the advisability of marrying Natalie's maid than would the Marquis de Fleury; and as to any other possibility, such as perchance might have occupied the mind of the noble Marquis, it never even entered his thoughts. In his ignorance he was innocent, and had he been less so, would still have possessed in the moral lessons of his training a sufficient safeguard. Yet the kiss was to have its results. Woman's lips would, to him, bear a different aspect from that of heretofore.
And so the days passed very happily, though Leonard's conscience often pricked him. Natalie's soul was still in danger.
"Cousin," he said one day—they were sitting among the trees of Stormpoint, the girl sketching, he watching her—"Do you——?" He stopped, blushing.
She thought the blush very engaging as she looked up with a smile. Women rarely looked upon the handsome, innocent face, except smilingly. "Do I what, Leonard?" she asked.
"Do you ever think of religion? I am a clergyman, Natalie."
"I think a great deal of religion." Her eyes fell before his. He had touched a secret corner of her heart, and at first she shrank; yet the touch pleased her; not less so because of his manner which, though he was secretly ashamed of it, was in his favor. It was not easy for him to discuss the topic with her, to play the role of teacher and enlarge upon a theme which was far from his thoughts. The fact lent him the grace of embarrassment, leading her to believe that the topic was to him a sacred one. Truly, her soul was burdened. Who more apt to aid her than this young devotee, who had consecrated a life to that knowledge for which she yearned?
"You know, Natalie, as a minister——"
"It is your duty to convert me," she interrupted, looking again upward, and smiling. "That is what Tabitha says."
"Perhaps Tabitha is right. I think I ought."
"Suppose you were to try, what would you have me do?"
What would he have her do? The man within him cried: "I would have you love me, kiss me, pillow my head upon your breast and let me die there!" But the man within him was audible only to him. "I would advise you to read"—he stopped. What he had been about to say was so utterly incongruous—to advise reading the Westminster Confession, when he longed to call upon her to read the secrets of his soul!
"I have read enough," she answered. "Lately I have done better"—she hesitated; he noted the flushed cheek and downcast eyes, the tremulous tone of her voice. She was affected, he believed, religiously. He remembered the day on the terrace of Heidelberg, when he had so yearned over the wandering soul, and again with his love—for he knew it was love, and always had been—was mingled the higher aspiration to reconcile the wayward spirit with its Maker. He would have taken her hand, but he felt tremulously shy. "What have you done?" he asked gently.
Much had been told her of the sweet relief of confession to a priest. Here was a confessor, sympathetic, she knew from his tone. Yet she had no sins to confess (belief in which incongruity demonstrates her state of darkness).
"I—have prayed," she said at length, and the shy admission seemed to create a bond between them. Another shared her confidence, and the fact lightened her spirit. She told herself it was so, and had it been true the future might have been brighter; but the real secret of her heart was never to be told by her to him. She looked up, a faint sheen of tears in her eyes, a smile upon her lips.
"Indeed, you have done better," he answered, the eyes and the smile summoning that inner man with a power hard to resist. "You need no guidance from me," he said huskily. "God bless and help you, Natalie!" He placed a trembling hand upon her head, as was seemly in a priest, and, turning abruptly, walked away.
"Ah!" she sighed, as she watched him. "There must be something in religion. Fräulein Rothe was right, and my dear father was wrong."
Thus Leonard's fears concerning Natalie's salvation were quieted. If she prayed, it was plain that she was called, and though her ears might still be deaf, she would hear in the appointed time.
Had he comprehended her utter misapprehension as to orthodox tenets, he might have been awakened to a stricter sense of duty. But this was his first heathen, and he is hardly to be blamed that he did not recognize the extent of her ignorance; or, in his lack of knowledge of humanity, at all to be blamed that he failed to discern the true nature of her religious cravings, alluring to her soul because her soul was hungry; for God, perhaps—for who shall say that God has no part in human love?—but not for Leonard's God. He had never been informed of the deceased philosopher's method of training, and would, certainly, have doubted its success had he known of it. That one could attain years of discretion in a Christian country, lacking even an elementary knowledge of Christian doctrine, would have been to Leonard incredible. He could not remember the time that he had not known that in Adam's fall we all fell, and that had there been no Atonement there would be no Salvation. For so much, and similar doctrinal essentials, he accorded Natalie full credit; and, since she had escaped the taint of Romanism, he felt that no real obstacle stood in the way of her growth in grace.
Meanwhile, Natalie had no more knowledge that, unless her name had been from before creation inscribed upon the roll of the elect, she must, for the glory of God, infallibly be damned, than has a Patagonian. She felt that outside of humanity there was something on which humanity must lean, and that it was God. Priests, sisters of charity and sweet girls like Paula knew about God, and all these had told her that the way to find out what they knew was to pray; and, in her outer darkness, she prayed, her prayers the prayers of a heathen; not heard in heaven, if we are correctly informed as to heaven's willingness to hear. Yet to her they brought some solace. And in her petitions for enlightenment of her ignorance, she besought happiness for others, not for Mark Claghorn only; henceforth she included the name of Leonard.
As for him, he was no longer haunted by troublesome recollections of Berthe. He thought of her, it is true, and with tenderness, though with a smile, and accusing himself of youthfulness. He was now sure that he had never seriously loved her. It had been apenchant, apetit amour—the Gallic flavor of the words was not altogether ungrateful—and the experience would have its uses. These things happened to some men; happy they who escaped them; a humdrum life was safer. Sinning was dangerous; to weaklings, fatal; such a one would have been burned in the ordeal of fire. He had escaped, nor had he any intention of being again taken unawares. He did not attempt to palliate the grave wrong of which he had been guilty; he would have resented such palliation on the part of an apologist. In certain sins there lurks a tinge of glory, and one has a right, accepting the blame, to appropriate the glory. But his resolve that the one misstep should be the last, as it had been the first of his life, was sternly made. He was strong now, and was glad to admit that much of his strength derived its power from a sweeter passion glowing in his bosom. His heart swelled with joy that he could love, feeling only such misgivings as lovers must. It was a sin to love and long for Berthe whom he wouldn't marry. To transfer to Natalie the love he had given to Berthe, to hunger and to burn, to feed his eyes upon the outward form, unheeding the fairer creature within, to revel in visions and forbidden dreams—this was love, this the lesson his carefully guarded life had prepared him to learn from wanton lips.
Who, being in love, has not shown himself to the loved one at his best? If he was unquiet within, he was sufficiently tranquil in manner to avoid any startling manifestation of ardor. If there was art in the graceful coyness of his approach, it was unconscious art. To Natalie he appeared with more alluring gentleness, and surer fascination, than the most practised veteran of love's battles. She had seen chivalrous elegance so studied as to charm by its seeming unaffectedness; but the most successful picture is not reality, and in Leonard she noted the nature superior to art; nature softened and adorned by demeanor graced and made tender by the inward tremors of love, as a rugged landscape is beautified by the mellow tint of a gray day.
Above all, though if this was known in secret it was unconfessed, was Leonard aided by that which was to be forever hidden in the woman's heart. There were rumors of Mark's return, rumors which agitated Natalie, strive as she might to look forward to that return without emotion. How could she leave the home where love had been so generously bestowed? Mrs. Joe would no longer be ashamed that she had given her warning—and Natalie had not been sorry to believe that the lady was ashamed—for she would know that it had been needed. And Miss Claghorn—how would she understand it? How Paula? Perhaps she saw, if but dimly yet, an escape from the perplexities which inspired the questions.
If a Parisian philosopher, animated by the love of that wisdom which is deducible by philosophic methods from the study of mankind, had emerged from his abode, on a certain summer evening, in quest of the solution of that great riddle, Why is this thus? and, seeking an answer, had scanned the visages of the passers upon the Boulevard, he would, perhaps, have noticed the face and bearing of a man who strolled alone and listless; and, it being a fine evening of early summer, at an hour when, philosophers having dined, are ruminative, he might have fallen into speculation, and asking himself the meaning of this man's face, would, perhaps, have deduced discontent, becoming habitual and tending toward cynicism; and if a philosopher of the weeping, rather than the laughing variety, he would have mourned over the atom of humanity, beneath whose careworn lines and shadows of dissatisfaction there lay forgotten noble promise. And, to sum up the philosophic conclusions (for, like other philosophers, our hypothetical lover of wisdom is growing tiresome) he, being aware of the cause of much mundane misery, might have decided that the man had lost money, and would have been wrong, for the man was one whom financial loss could hardly touch. The Great Serpent might refuse to yield for weeks, aye forever, and Mark Claghorn would have been content. In truth, its annual product was a burden heavier than he thought he ought, in fairness, to be called upon to bear. He liked companionship, being naturally well disposed toward his fellows, yet, as he said to himself, the loneliness of this evening stroll in the centre of mirth and good fellowship had its reason in his wealth. A man such as he, so he told himself, is forced, in the nature of things, to purchase all the joys of life, and being purchased they had but slight attraction for him; thus ordinarily he was solitary and somewhat given to brooding, though wise enough to utter no complaint on a score wherein he certainly would have found but slight sympathy.
He strolled on, paying little heed to any, except when occasionally the clank of a sabre or the faint jingle of a spur signified a cavalryman in the vicinity; then he would glance at the cavalryman, and with a quickly satisfied curiosity, pass on, listless as before.
He entered a cafe, and calling for a "bock," lit a cigar and proceeded to seek distraction in tobacco and beer, while looking over the pages of the "Vie Parisienne," but apparently found no amusement in that very Gallic periodical. At last he drew a letter from his pocket. "Little Paula," he muttered, as he opened the sheet, and his tone was kindly, if not tender. "I suppose, in the end, my mother will see the fulfilment of the wish she thinks so carefully concealed," he muttered, and then, as if to find encouragement to filial duty in the letter itself, he commenced to read, and was thus engaged when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard the exclamation, "Claghorn!" He looked up and, rising, accepted the outstretched hand of Adolphe de Fleury.
"I was not sure whether it was you or your ghost," said Adolphe. "When did you leave America?"
"Over a year since," replied Mark; then, unmindful of the look of surprise in the face of his companion, he added: "I hoped I might meet you. I am only here for a few hours, and the opportunity to congratulate you——"
"To congratulate! May I ask why I am to be congratulated?" interrupted the lieutenant.
"Usually a newly married man; or one about to be——"
"Claghorn, you can hardly—do you mean that you believed me married?"
"Married, or about to be. I heard from the Marquise while at St. Petersburg——"
"And I have suspected you! Know, my dear fellow, though I had rather you heard it from somebody else, that I am very far from married. I am jilted; abandoned by our fair but cruel cousin, who has fled from my mother's protection and taken refuge among the Yankees."
"Do you mean that Natalie is in America?"
"Just that,mon cher, and with her Berthe of the wonderful eyes."
Mark's innocence of all knowledge of the fact stated was evident in his face. He was astounded; at the same time a sense of joy swept across his soul. He looked hastily at his watch; it was too late to call upon the Marquise, unless, indeed, she had company, in which case he would not be able to see her alone. But, looking at his watch inspired him with an excuse to plead an appointment, which he did, and left his companion.
The next day he called upon Madame de Fleury, and on his return to his hotel, he wrote the following letter:
"My Dear Cousin Natalie—Last night I arrived here direct from St. Petersburg, being merely a bird of passage, and on my way to London. I had expected to be there by this time, but after meeting Adolphe de Fleury, I deferred my departure until I could see the Marquise. Doubtless, my letters in London will convey the information which has been imparted by her. To say that I was surprised to hear that you had gone to America hardly expresses my feeling; but surprise is cast into the shade by gratification. Now that your reasons for the step you have taken have been so freely disclosed to me by Madame de Fleury (who insisted upon reading to me passages from your letters), I hope you will not regard it as intrusive in me if I express my admiration of your independence and complete approbation of your conduct. You are in spirit a true American, and I congratulate both you and our country upon the fact. Do you remember the day I said 'good-bye' to you? Had you then any inkling of the true reason for my adieu? Your father had just informed me that since girlhood you had been the betrothed of Adolphe de Fleury. Monsieur Claghorn at the time assured me that had not this been the case I should have had his good wishes in regard to the aspirations I had just laid before him. I have never laid those aspirations before you, nor can I do so adequately in a letter; nor at this time, when so long a period has elapsed since I last saw you. What I have to say must be said in person, and so unsatisfactory is this method of addressing you on the subject that I may not send this letter."But, if you receive it, understand why I write it. It seems, perhaps, laughable—though it does not seem so to me—that I should be haunted by a terror which darkens the new hope that has arisen within me. You are thousands of miles away. True, it is not easily conceivable that you may become lost to me in so brief a residence in America, yet the idea is constantly with me. I blame that which I then believed the honorable reticence which I ought to maintain toward you after my interview with your father, and having heard his assurances of intentions, which I, of course, supposed were approved by you. Had I shown you the least glimpse of a sentiment which it cost me much to conceal, I might now be freed from the dread which oppresses me. I am even tempted to send you a telegraphic message; yet I picture you reading such a message and shrink from seeming ridiculous in your eyes. As to this letter, I am impelled to say as much as I have said while that which I desire to say is plainly enough indicated. I had supposed it possible to disclose and yet conceal it. But the letter is wiser than I intended it to be. My most ardent hope is that within a few days after its receipt you will listen to all that is here omitted."Faithfully,"Mark Claghorn."
"My Dear Cousin Natalie—Last night I arrived here direct from St. Petersburg, being merely a bird of passage, and on my way to London. I had expected to be there by this time, but after meeting Adolphe de Fleury, I deferred my departure until I could see the Marquise. Doubtless, my letters in London will convey the information which has been imparted by her. To say that I was surprised to hear that you had gone to America hardly expresses my feeling; but surprise is cast into the shade by gratification. Now that your reasons for the step you have taken have been so freely disclosed to me by Madame de Fleury (who insisted upon reading to me passages from your letters), I hope you will not regard it as intrusive in me if I express my admiration of your independence and complete approbation of your conduct. You are in spirit a true American, and I congratulate both you and our country upon the fact. Do you remember the day I said 'good-bye' to you? Had you then any inkling of the true reason for my adieu? Your father had just informed me that since girlhood you had been the betrothed of Adolphe de Fleury. Monsieur Claghorn at the time assured me that had not this been the case I should have had his good wishes in regard to the aspirations I had just laid before him. I have never laid those aspirations before you, nor can I do so adequately in a letter; nor at this time, when so long a period has elapsed since I last saw you. What I have to say must be said in person, and so unsatisfactory is this method of addressing you on the subject that I may not send this letter.
"But, if you receive it, understand why I write it. It seems, perhaps, laughable—though it does not seem so to me—that I should be haunted by a terror which darkens the new hope that has arisen within me. You are thousands of miles away. True, it is not easily conceivable that you may become lost to me in so brief a residence in America, yet the idea is constantly with me. I blame that which I then believed the honorable reticence which I ought to maintain toward you after my interview with your father, and having heard his assurances of intentions, which I, of course, supposed were approved by you. Had I shown you the least glimpse of a sentiment which it cost me much to conceal, I might now be freed from the dread which oppresses me. I am even tempted to send you a telegraphic message; yet I picture you reading such a message and shrink from seeming ridiculous in your eyes. As to this letter, I am impelled to say as much as I have said while that which I desire to say is plainly enough indicated. I had supposed it possible to disclose and yet conceal it. But the letter is wiser than I intended it to be. My most ardent hope is that within a few days after its receipt you will listen to all that is here omitted.
"Faithfully,
"Mark Claghorn."
He sent the letter, unsatisfactory and feeble as he knew it to be. He chafed at the necessity of deferring his departure for America; but the Great Serpent was importunate, and even for love a man cannot disregard the claims of others. Engagements connected with the mine, made long since, must receive attention before he could leave Europe.
But, during the intervals of business, even pending its details, he was hourly tempted to send a dispatch and be ridiculous. But he refrained. He sailed for America four days after sending the letter. He had not been absurd; his dignity was saved. Who that is wise in a wise generation listens to intuitions?
At the foot of the cliff whereon Mrs. Joe had erected a monument to the Great Serpent in the form of a castle, the ocean beats in calm weather with a sullen persistence which increases with the rising wind from spiteful lashing into furious pounding against the unshaken crag, accompanied by a roar of futile rage. Stormpoint affords no nook of shelter for a distressed craft, and the rocks, submerged beneath the vexed waters, render the coast hereabout even more dangerous than does the sheer wall of stone which appals the mariner caught in the storm and driven shoreward. Once around the point, the little harbor of Easthampton offers safety, but it has happened that vessels, unable to weather Stormpoint, have been dashed against the rocks and human beings have been tossed about in the seething foam beneath the crags; or men have clung to wreckage in sight of wailing wives and mothers, and of children to be orphaned in the rush of the next black billow.
From the rocks hereabout no lifeboat can be launched at times when lifeboats are needed, therefore the coast-guard station is nearer the harbor, where there is a beach upon which the waves slide upward, spending their strength, and where even in the storm they can be ridden by resolute men; but no boat can live among the rocks in the raging waters beneath the cliff. And so, Mrs. Joe, with the approval of the authorities, had built on the ledge of the cliffside (enlarged and widened for the purpose) a house, in which were kept appliances for casting lines athwart wrecked craft. There were plenty to ridicule the benevolent lady, some on the score of the futility of preparing for an improbable disaster (less than a dozen ships had been lost there in a century; and probably not, in all that time, a hundred lives); others because while yet another ship might be driven thither, no human effort could then avert her doom. Mrs. Joe, notwithstanding these arguments, carried out her intention, and waited, hoping that she would never be justified by the event.
One day Natalie and Leonard were in the "wreck house," as the structure had come to be called; a high wind, constantly increasing, was blowing, and from their position they saw all the grandeur of the ocean, rolling in majesty toward the wall of rock, an assailing mass, seeming inspired with malevolent intelligence and boundless strength, but, caught by the sunken rocks, the onset would be broken, and, bellowing with rage, each mighty billow would recede, only to be followed by another, as angry and as awful of aspect as the last.
It was a sight before which human passion was cowed and human pride was humbled. As Leonard watched Natalie, silently contemplating the grandeur of the scene, her dark hair blowing back from the smooth white brow, beneath which eyes, as unfathomable as the ocean itself, looked yearningly out into the storm, he had a clear perception that the emotions he had harbored and nourished as to this woman were unworthy of the soul in her fathomless eyes. In the presence of nature, feebly stirred as yet, but with a promise of the mighty strength restrained, and perhaps, too, his nobler self responding unconsciously to the purity of the woman at his side, the grosser passion that had vexed him was subdued; desire for the woman was lost in desire to share the woman's heart.
The darkening heavens sinking into the gloom of the ocean, where in the distance the rolling masses of cloud and water seemed to meet, the roaring wind, the waves booming on the cliff, and the boiling cauldron of death beneath their feet—in the presence of these things words could not utter thoughts unutterable; they stood long silent.
"Who, then, is this, that He commandeth even the winds and the water, and they obey Him?" Leonard heard her murmur these words.
"Who, indeed?" he said. "How can man deny God in the face of this?"
"In the face of anything?"
"Or deny His Revelation? Natalie, it is true."
"Is it true?"
"As true as the waters or the sky—Natalie, Natalie, it is true."
His tone trembled with a tenderness deeper than the tenderness of passion. She looked and saw his eyes with a sheen of tears upon them; no gleam of earthly desire looked out of them, but the yearning for a soul. In the presence of the Majesty of God the nobler spirit had awakened and answered to the longing of the girl to know the secret of the waves, the rocks, the skies; the secret of herself and of the man beside her—the eternal truth, hidden always, yet always half revealed to questioning man.
"Religion is very dear to you, Leonard?"
"Dearer than all but God Himself. Dearer than riches, honors—dearer, Natalie, than the love I bear for you."
It was said without the usual intent of lover's vows, and so she understood it. She made no answer.
And then they saw a sight which made them forget all else—a fellow-creature, driving helplessly to destruction beneath their feet.
It was a lad, ignorant, it would seem, of the management of the frail vessel in which he was the sole passenger. Even in the hands of an experienced sailor the little boat, intended for smooth water only, would have been unsafe; now, unskilfully fitted with a mast and sail, managed by ignorant hands, and driven toward a coast that had no shelter, the storm rising each moment, the outlook was desperate for the voyager.
Leonard seized a trumpet from the appliances with which the wreck-house was furnished, and leaning far out of the window, bawled in stentorian tones, some order, which, whether heard by the boy or not, was unheeded. Indeed, the desperate situation seemed to have paralyzed him; he clung to the tiller with the proverbial clutch of the drowning man, utterly incapable of other action, if indeed other action could prevail.
Seizing a line, Leonard ran down the stairway to a platform built against the cliff and not many feet above the water. Natalie followed. The wind was rising every moment, the tide running higher with each succeeding wave, and now, as she noticed, even reaching the platform. Leonard noticed, too. "It is not safe here," he shouted to her, for the wind howled in their ears and the noise of the surge emulated the noise of the wind. At the same time he pointed to the stairway, signifying that she should return, but took no further heed of her. His one thought was to do the thing that would save the life in peril. She did not know what he was about to do, but watched him, ready to lend assistance, though without taking her eyes from the boy in the boat. Thus far it had escaped the sunken rocks, but it could not long escape the shore. The wind had blown the sail from its fastenings and it tossed upon the waves. Only the whirlpool formed by the sunken rocks and the sullenly receding waters, which had but a moment before been hurled against the cliff, stayed the wreck of the craft. It needed no experienced eye to recognize the imminence of the peril of the boy, and the sight of the solitary being, helpless and exposed to the rude mercy of the waves, was pitiful. Natalie wrung her hands and prayed in French, and while the infidel prayed the clergyman acted.
He had intended to cast the weighted end of the line across the boat and so give its passenger communication with the shore; even so, the case of the lad would have been but slightly bettered, since, though fast to the rope, to avoid being dashed against the rocks would be barely possible; but Leonard, almost in the act of throwing, saw that his intention was impracticable. He must wait until the boat had come a little nearer. Natalie, with alarm that was almost horror, saw him remove his coat and boots; she would have remonstrated, but she felt that remonstrance was useless. He stood a waiting hero, his whole being absorbed in the task before him. That task involved his plunging into the boiling surf, the very abyss of death. Who can say that some premonition of the future was not upon him, as, with uplifted head and watching eyes, he stood statue-like awaiting the supreme moment? Who knows but he was warned that better for him the whirlpool below than the woman at his side!
Keenly watching the boat, his hands had still been busy, and from the line he had fashioned a loop, which now he fitted over his head and beneath his armpits. The other end of the line he secured to a ring in the platform, and then, having said nothing to Natalie, but now taking her hand in his own, and holding it tightly, he waited.
Not long. As in a flash she saw the boat in fragments, the boy in the water, and in the same instant Leonard plunged in.
She seized the line, but let it have play. Leonard had reached the boy in one stroke, had him in his very grasp, when a huge receding wave tore them asunder, and both were lost to Natalie.
She pulled with all her strength. She knew that the boy was drowned and had no hope for Leonard; her hold of the rope aided in his rescue, as she was able to prevent his being carried away; but had it not been that the next wave swept him upon the platform, where he was instantly seized and dragged far backward by Natalie, who herself barely escaped being swept off, he must have been either drowned or dashed dead against the rocks.
For some minutes she believed him drowned. She had dragged him to a place of comparative safety and he lay quite still with his head in her lap. But after awhile he sighed and looked into her eyes, and at last sat up. "The boy?" he said.
"Gone," she sobbed.
After some moments he arose, and feebly enough, assisted her to rise, and they sat upon the stairway, and after awhile got into the wreck-house. Here Leonard knew where to find restoratives, as well as a huge blanket, in which he wrapped himself and Natalie.
And so they sat side by side, enveloped in one covering, both quite silent, until he said: "Natalie, I have been praying."
"Teach me, Leonard."
"While I live," he answered, and he turned his face and kissed her.
It was the second time that he had kissed woman, but this was a kiss that might have lingered on his lips while seeking entrance at the gate of heaven.
There was joy at Stormpoint. Before the eyes of Mrs. Joe there rose the vision of a senate spell-bound by the resonant voice of oratory, while in the same foreshadowing of the time to come Paula beheld Father Cameril triumphant over the Bishop and strong in reliance upon the stalwart arm of a soldier newly enrolled in the army of the Church Militant. Mark had returned, and it was while gazing upon his countenance that these seers saw their delectable visions and dreamed their pleasant dreams.
Upon this, the first evening of his return, the three sat together in the library of Stormpoint, Mark submitting, with that external grace which becomes the man placed upon a pedestal by worshipping woman, to the adoration of his mother and of Paula; the while secretly ungrateful and chafing because it was not possible to see Natalie before bedtime.
They had dined cosily together, and the wanderer had been treated as the prodigal of old, the substitute for fatted calf being the choicest viands procurable and the rarest vintage of the Stormpoint cellar; yet he had not enjoyed his dinner, being oppressed by vague forebodings; and it was irksome to feign a smiling interest where could be no interest until he had received an answer to his letter to Natalie. Naturally, he had inquired as to the welfare of all the Claghorns of the vicinity, and had expressed satisfaction at replies which indicated health and prosperity among his relatives.
"I would have asked them all to dinner," said Mrs. Joe, "but I knew that they would understand that we would be glad to have you to ourselves to-night. Leonard and Natalie are always considerate."
"Leonard was always a favorite of yours," observed Mark, who did not greatly relish this coupling of names, and who could hardly trust himself to discuss Natalie.
"A good young man," replied the lady. "He is almost one of us."
Mark looked quizzically at Paula, who blushed but said nothing. The blush was a relief to him. "He is a fine fellow," he said, heartily. "I have always believed in Leonard, though I don't admire his profession or his creed. But there are good men among theologians, and I'm sure he is one of them."
"But, my son," remonstrated Mrs. Joe, "that is not the way to talk of clergymen."
"Fie! mother. Would you deny that there are good men among the clergy?"
"Mark, you know I meant something very different. We only wish Leonard was in the Church."
"How can he be out of it, being a Christian?"
"There is but one Church," observed Paula gravely.
"The Holy Catholic Church," added Mrs. Joe.
"Which term you and Paula assume as belonging especially to your denomination," laughed Mark. "I doubt if even your own divines would be so arrogant. Mother, this young saint is evidently as intolerant as ever; and she is making you like herself," and he placed his hand, kindly enough, on the girl's shoulder.
Her eyes filled with tears. "Mark," she said, "you may laugh at me, but religion ought to be sacred."
"Both you and your religion ought to be, and are," he answered, and stooped and kissed her forehead; and, though she did not look up, for she dared not meet his eyes, he was forgiven.
The elder lady was surprised, but she noted Mark's action with high approval. Of all the hopes that she had woven round her son, that one which contemplated his marriage with Paula was supreme. She had trained the girl for this high destiny, though, true to her instincts, she had been as politic in this as in other objects of ambition, and neither of the two whose fortunes she intended to shape were in her confidence. She rightly divined that nothing would so surely incite to rebellion on the part of Mark as an open attempt to control him in a matter of this nature, and was wise enough to know that a disclosure of her hopes to Paula would place the girl in a false position, whereby she must inevitably lose that engaging simplicity which, aside from her beauty, was her greatest charm. The lady had, as we know, been compelled by the exigencies of policy to impart her cherished plan to more than one individual; and after she had done so to Natalie, she had been in terror until opportunity occurred to insure silence.
"You see, my dear," she had explained to Natalie, "he has not actually spoken. Paula, like any other girl so situated, knows what is coming, but of course——"
"Dear Mrs. Joe, I should not in any case have mentioned the matter."
"I ought to have been more reticent, but——"
"I am sure you did what you thought best," at which reply the lady's color had deepened and the subject was dropped.
Thus Mark's action rendered his mother happy, for, notwithstanding her sanguine disposition, she had often suffered misgivings. At times, during her son's frequent absences, her fears had risen high, and with each return home she watched him, narrowly scrutinizing his belongings, even going so far as to rummage among his letters, to discover if there existed any ground for fear. Her anxieties stilled and their object once more under the maternal eye, she was willing, since she must be, that he be deliberate in falling in love. She knew men thoroughly, so she believed, having known one a little, and was persuaded that the older he grew, the more certain was Mark to appreciate that highest womanly attribute so plainly discernible in Paula—pliancy. To man, so Mrs. Joe believed, that was the supreme excellence in woman. And there had been in Paula's reception of Mark's caress a certain coyness, becoming in itself, and which had lent an air of tenderness to the little scene. Paula had cast her eyes downward in that modest confusion proper to maidens and inviting to men; doubtless Mark would be glad to repeat a homage so engagingly received.
None of these rosy inferences were shared by Paula. During Mark's last sojourn at Stormpoint, which had been immediately after leaving France and constant intercourse with the household of Beverley Claghorn, she had made her own observations and drawn her own conclusions. Whatever the reason for Mark's action, she knew it portended nothing for her, and if she had received his fraternal kiss in some confusion, it was because she dreaded the possibility of sorrow in store for him, a sorrow connected with a secret confided to her within a few hours.
"Now that you are home again, Mark," said his mother, "I want your promise not to run away."
"You know men, mother; if I make a promise, I shall inevitably want to break it."
"But you wouldn't."
"Better not tempt the weak. Isn't that so, Paula?"
"Better not be weak."
"I am serious, Mark," said Mrs. Joe. "You must consider the future; you should plan a career."
"I have no intention of running away; certainly not to-night."
"Nor any night, I hope."
"You know," he said with some hesitation, "it is possible I may have to go to California."
"Nonsense! What is Benton paid for? I need you. We ought to select a city home, and I want your taste, your judgment."
"My dear mother, the city home will be yours. Why haven't you chosen one long since?"
"As if I would without consulting you!"
He smiled, but forebore to remind her that he had not been consulted with regard to Stormpoint. "Whatever is your taste is mine," he said. "These gilded cages are for pretty birds like you and Paula; as for me——"
"That's nonsense. I am willing to keep your nest warm, but——"
"If I were to consult my own taste, I would re-erect old Eliphalet's cabin and be a hermit."
"Mark, you actually hurt me——"
"My dear mother, you know I'm joking. About this house, then. New York, I suppose, is the place for good Californians."
"It would be pleasanter; but it might be policy to remain in the State."
He looked at her in wonder. "Why?" he asked.
"It was merely an idea," she replied, blushing, and secretly grieved that he did not understand. But it was no time to enter into those plans which were the fruit of many consultations with Mr. Hacket. "It's getting late; good-night, my dear boy. I know you'll try to please me." She kissed him, and, with Paula, left the room.
Left alone, he paced up and down the long room, nervously biting a cigar which he forgot to light. He knew he would be unable to pass in sleep the hours that must elapse before he could see Natalie. He was filled with forebodings; the vague fears which had tempted him to send an absurd telegraphic message to Natalie had troubled him since he had first recognized their presence and had grown in strength with each new day. He was unaware that presentiments and feelings "in the bones," once supposed to be the laughable delusions of old ladies and nervous younger ones, were now being regarded with respectful attention as a part of the things undreamed of in Horatio's philosophy; and, taking his attitude after the old fashion, he had reasoned with that being which man calls "himself," and, for the edification of "himself," had shown to that personage the childishness of indulging in vague and ungrounded fears. But without success. Philosophers have discovered that which old ladies always knew, that all explanations of the wherefore of these mental vagaries are unsatisfactory as long as the vagaries persist; and while they do, they vex the wise and foolish alike.
His musings were disturbed by the entrance of Paula, clad in a ravishing tea-gown, a dainty fragment of humanity. "Mark," she said, "what is the matter?" for she had been quick to notice and had been startled by the gloom of his face.
"Tired, Paula," and he smiled. Somehow Paula always made him smile.
"If I were tired, I would go to bed," she observed with a faint touch of sarcasm. "I won't advise bed to you, for I know that you do not credit me with much sense."
"Yet it is plain that you have more than I, since you have indicated the sensible course," he answered pleasantly. "That should be placing you in high esteem, since we all think well of ourselves."
"Forgive me," she said with real sorrow for her petulance, for which she perhaps could have given no reason; "but I have seen that you were troubled——"
"And like a dear little sister you overflow with sympathy. Was there ever anybody kinder or better than you? But the real fact is that I am simply tired—yet not sleepy."
"Well"—she sighed wistfully—"you will feel rested to-morrow. I came down to give you this from Natalie," handing him a note. "I would have waited until morning, but I——"
"Did right, as you always do," he answered, kissing her cheek and saying good-night, and thus dismissing her, with an evident eagerness to read the note, not lost upon Paula, and which left her no alternative but to leave him.
He opened the envelope and read:
"Dear Mark—Your letter came this morning, and I have just learned that you will be home to-night. I cannot express to you how glad I shall be to see you again. Before we meet in the presence of others, I hope to see you alone. Your letter, dear Mark, evidently delayed by being addressed in Mr. Winter's care, has cost me some tears, both of joy and sorrow. I am impatient to see you, for it seems to me that to you, before to any other, except to Paula (who would have known by intuition), I should disclose the happiness that has come to me in my engagement to Leonard. It is but two days old, and except to Paula, is known only to ourselves. Dear Mark, it has not been easy to write these few lines. I wish I could express in them how sincerely I honor and love you, and how I wish for your happiness. I have commenced to pray, and the first time I knelt to heaven I prayed for you; and so long as I shall continue to pray—and I think that will be always now—I shall not forget to beg that you be made happy. I hope you will wander no more, but be oftener with those that love you and who need you more than you perhaps know; and as I shall live either in Hampton or Easthampton, and as I must ever regard you as one of my earliest and my best friend, I hope we shall see each other often."Natalie.""Oh, Mark, your happiness is at Stormpoint. No one is better, more loving, or more lovable than she."
"Dear Mark—Your letter came this morning, and I have just learned that you will be home to-night. I cannot express to you how glad I shall be to see you again. Before we meet in the presence of others, I hope to see you alone. Your letter, dear Mark, evidently delayed by being addressed in Mr. Winter's care, has cost me some tears, both of joy and sorrow. I am impatient to see you, for it seems to me that to you, before to any other, except to Paula (who would have known by intuition), I should disclose the happiness that has come to me in my engagement to Leonard. It is but two days old, and except to Paula, is known only to ourselves. Dear Mark, it has not been easy to write these few lines. I wish I could express in them how sincerely I honor and love you, and how I wish for your happiness. I have commenced to pray, and the first time I knelt to heaven I prayed for you; and so long as I shall continue to pray—and I think that will be always now—I shall not forget to beg that you be made happy. I hope you will wander no more, but be oftener with those that love you and who need you more than you perhaps know; and as I shall live either in Hampton or Easthampton, and as I must ever regard you as one of my earliest and my best friend, I hope we shall see each other often.
"Natalie."
"Oh, Mark, your happiness is at Stormpoint. No one is better, more loving, or more lovable than she."
The letter stunned him. He might, had he known women as well as he (being young) believed he did—he might have read the truth in every line. He might have seen that were he to rouse his energies and plead his cause, he could win it, even yet. He might have heard the unconscious cry for rescue from an engagement contracted before his letter had reached her; he might have seen, in the pains she had taken to tell him that such was the case, his excuse and hers for asserting his rights against Leonard. These things were plain enough; perhaps the writer had intended that they should be; not consciously, indeed; but from that inner being who is part of all of us, the desperate hope of the girl's heart had not been hidden as she wrote, nor was her pen entirely uncontrolled by it.
But the postscript obscured his vision. He laughed contemptuously and thought, as men will think, "It is thus that woman estimates love. She is sorry for me, and suggests that the consolation I may need I shall find in Paula!" He did not recognize that in the postscript was the real dishonesty of the letter; that it was the salve to the conscience of the writer, believing that in the letter itself she had said too much, whereas she had said too little for the perception of a man in the haze of jealousy. Such gleams of truth as might otherwise have been visible to Mark could not penetrate that dishonest veiling of the woman's heart.
One may approach the White House by way of the High Street of Easthampton, of which thoroughfare the dwelling in question is a conspicuous ornament; but for such as prefer a more secluded road, a grassy lane behind the houses affords direct access to Miss Claghorn's garden.
Mark chose the lane. Since, in obedience to Natalie's request, he must see her, he hoped to find her in the garden, where there would be less danger of interruption.
The birds twittered in the trees, joyous in the new day; the dew glimmered on the grass-blades; the scent of flowers from adjacent gardens perfumed the fresh air of a perfect summer morning. On such a morning a man about to meet a maid should have trod the earth lightly. But Mark lingered as he walked, reluctant to hear his fate pronounced by lips which he longed to kiss, but could never kiss; lips, therefore, it were better not to see. Yet, since he had been summoned, he must go on; and because of the summons there were moments when he still, if faintly, hoped. Hope dies hard; and, notwithstanding the forebodings which had vexed him ever since he had written the letter (for which writing he had since cursed his folly), there had been times when hope had risen high, and, as he even now assured himself, not without reason. If he had been self-deceived, it had not been from the complacency of the coxcomb. Surely she had loved him, or had been willing to love, had that been permitted her.
In arguing thus he was not reasoning unfairly. He had been unintentionally deceived by the philosopher, Beverley Claghorn, who had permitted the intercourse between his daughter and this young man, partly from carelessness, more because he approved of a cousinly friendship of which one of the partakers was able to gratify a noble sentiment by an addition to the dowry of the other. It had been by pointing out this ability that he had assuaged the misgivings of the Marquise; at the same time so solemnly reiterating his loyalty to the treaty with that lady, that when Mark's disclosure came it had been impossible for him to receive it otherwise than he had done—by a regretful rejection. He had been astounded by the avowal, for he had noted no sighs, no posturing, no eloquent apostrophes or melting glances from this suitor who approached him with a tale of love, having never displayed a visible sign of the tender passion. M. Claghorn's observation of lovers had long been confined to one variety. He forgot that Anglo-Saxon swains are less prone to languish in public than their brothers of Gaul. Had Adolphe de Fleury been in Paris there would have been more frequent flowers, scented billets, rapt gazes, rolling eyes and eloquential phrases; all offered for the general appreciation as much as for the lady of his love. In the absence of these familiar evidences of ardor, the philosopher was, in his own eyes, acquitted of responsibility for the surprising fact which Mark had imparted to him. For, how could he suspect a legitimate passion in a youth who had yet to sow his wild oats, and one with the capacity for acquiring an unlimited field for that delightful, if futile, and generally expensive, husbandry? No man of Mark's years could be so wise—or so foolish. That was, as the philosopher viewed human nature, not in such nature. The case was different with Adolphe de Fleury, compelled by circumstances to seize the most attractive dowry that fell in his way; and even that gallant but impecunious soldier was, doubtless, cultivating a modest crop as sedulously as circumstances permitted.
Thus had Mark been the victim of a philosophic mode of thought and had bowed to that which he had supposed would be the filial, as it had been the paternal, decision; saying good-bye, sadly, doubtless, but without betrayal of that which he believed would not be gladly heard, nor could be honorably disclosed.
The ocean lay between him and the woman that he loved before he fully realized how much must be henceforth lacking in his life, and when repentance was too late he repented that he had taken the philosopher's word for a fact of which he now sometimes doubted the existence. Many memories whispered that she, too, had loved. No word of hers had told him this; but love is not always told in words—and then he would accuse himself of the folly of permitting vain longings to control his judgment. Nevertheless, when, while still at Stormpoint, he had heard of the sudden death of Beverley Claghorn, he had resolved to do that which before he had omitted, to appeal to Natalie herself, when, most inopportunely, there came a letter from the Marquise to Mrs. Joe; a letter which informed the relatives of the deceased that the death of the father would hasten, rather than retard, the marriage of the daughter, who had already taken up her residence with the writer of the epistle, in accordance with the wish of her father. Not long after the receipt of that letter Mark had started for Russia, leaving France unvisited.
He opened the gate which led from the lane into the garden, and found—Tabitha.
Who raised her hands in astonishment, then stretched them forth in welcome: "And so you're back! For how long this time? More of a Claghorn than ever—as grim as one of the Eliphalets."
"No need to ask how you are," said Mark, his grimness softened by her heartiness. "You get younger every year. How are my aunt and——"
"And Natalie? Blooming—that's the word. You'll find things different at the White House. We haven't had a good spat in months. Soor le ponty Avinyon, on y donks, on y donks——"
"On y danse," repeated Mark, laughing at Tabitha's French in spite of himself.
"Yes; even my old legs. Your aunt's are too stiff. But we young things, that's Natalie and I, we cut our capers," and in the exuberance of her spirits Miss Cone essayed a caper for Mark's benefit.
"Such grace, Tabby——"
"Is worth coming from Russia to see. I'm practising; there's to be great doings here before long. What would you say to a wedding?"
"Let me salute the bride?" he said, with an attempt at gaiety which, to himself, seemed rather sickly, and suiting his action to the word.
"Well!" ejaculated Miss Cone, adjusting her cap, "many a man's had his ears boxed for that. However, I suppose it's in the air around here—but you're mistaken. I'm not the bride."
"Surely, not Aunt Achsah?"
"As if you couldn't guess! But don't say I told you. The fact is I'm so full of it I blabbed without thinking."
"Then it's a secret?"
"It won't be after to-day. Leonard told us last night. I suppose your aunt'll tell your ma to-day."
Mark promised to say nothing and went toward the house. Miss Claghorn welcomed him cordially, but made no reference to the subject of Tabitha's disclosures, though traces of her agreeable agitation were visible. "There's Natalie, now!" she exclaimed after some minutes had been spent in conversation sufficiently dreary to one of the two.
The thundering of a horse's hoofs told of a wild gallop. The old lady rushed from the house, followed by Mark, dismayed by her action and the alarm expressed in her countenance. He reached the gate in time to assist Natalie to dismount.
"My dear child!" exclaimed the elder lady reproachfully.
She was grasping Mark's hands in welcome. Her face was flushed; her dark hair, disturbed by the pace at which she had ridden, hung low upon her forehead; he had never seen her so beautiful—nor so happy. His face was pale, his hands cold in hers.
"Dear Aunt," she said, "I felt as though I must gallop; I didn't mean to in the High Street; I couldn't hold him."
"He was homeward bound," said Mark, turning to look at the horse, now being led away by Miss Achsah's "man." "He's a handsome beast."
"I have much to ask you about the Marquise," said Natalie to Mark, as they went into the house, whereupon Miss Claghorn left them.
The short-lived bloom of her face was gone; she was deadly pale. She stretched her ungloved hands toward him; it might have been a gesture of appeal. He dared not take them in his own; his longing to clasp her to his heart was too great to risk the contact. She dropped her arms.
"You wished to see me—to ask me——" He paused; his voice sounded stern in his ears, but he had no power over it.
"To—to say something. Give me a moment."
As she turned toward the window he caught a glimpse of the sheen of tears. A mighty impulse raised his arms as though to clasp her; then they fell.