"What fates impose, that man must need abide."
"What fates impose, that man must need abide."
She turned toward him. "I thought there was much to say. There is—nothing."
"Nothing for you; for me, something. It is to wish you all happiness, to assure you of my constant—friendship."
"And that is needless. We shall always be friends, warm friends, Mark. Let it be so. And—there is something more. I should not have written as I did of Paula; I had no right. But—since I am your friend, and you are mine——"
"We shall be. Even so, give me a little time."
His words were accompanied by a sardonic smile. The words and the smile silenced her. There was a pause.
"Has the Marquise forgiven me?" she asked at length.
"She will in time. By the way, I saw Adolphe. I hope he did not persecute——"
"No, no. He left that to his mama," she answered, laughing. "To Adolphe, as a cousin, I had no objection; but——"
"You have chosen more wisely," he said gravely. "I wish you happiness, Natalie." He held out his hand; she took it, her own trembling. "God bless you, Cousin." His lips brushed her cold cheek, then he was gone.
She watched him from the window; her face was very white, her hands tightly clenched. So she stood until he had passed from view, then she went upstairs. In the hall she passed Tabitha, who exclaimed: "You scared us all—yourself, too. You look like a ghost."
"Scared?" questioned Natalie.
"Riding like that."
"Like that! I wished the horse had wings."
"You'll have 'em if you don't take care, then——"
"Then I'll fly away." The intensity of her utterance made Tabitha stare. Natalie laughed aloud, and left her still staring.
Alone in her room, she paced slowly back and forth, struggling with her pride, crushing a forbidden and rejected love. So she regarded it. With a wrung heart, Mark had respected her decision, and in the depths of her soul she blamed him, scorning the puny passion so easily beaten. "Go to Paula," she had written, while "Come to me," her heart had cried so loudly that, except he were deaf, he might have heard.
When she had written her letter to Mark she had accomplished a bitter task only after a long and desperate struggle. She loved Leonard; she had said this to herself over and over again, and it was true; and to him she had given her troth freely, fully believing that for him there would be happiness and for her content. But the lowest depths of her soul had been stirred by the letter from Mark. There were chambers there that Leonard had not entered, could never enter, and into which she herself dared not look.
Self-sacrifice is to women alluring. That which she had made had been made, at least she so believed, with honest intention, yet, since now it was irrevocable, it was too hideous to contemplate. She would call him back, and on her knees——
Shameful thought! She was betrothed to a man she loved. Had she not admitted it? Not to him only, but shyly this very morning to the fond old woman to whom she owed so much, whose last days by that very admission were brightened by a glorious sunshine never before known in a long and gloomy life. Could she now, even if in her own eyes she could fall so low—could she fall so low in the eyes of these women by whom she was surrounded? In her aunt's eyes and Tabitha's? In Paula's, to whom, in loving loyalty, she had herself confided the secret? In those of Mrs. Joe, who had so carefully warned her from this preserve? No—to that depth she could not descend, not even to bask in the cold and passionless love of Mark.
The engagement was received with universal favor. It could hardly be otherwise, since all peculiarly interested were of that sex which dearly loves to contemplate a captive man, the only male (Leonard, of course, excepted) being Mark, whose attitude, being unsuspected, was ignored. And the bridegroom was the hero of all these women: the heir of Miss Claghorn; the one of the family to whom Tabitha was willing to ascribe all the virtues; regarded with affectionate esteem by Mrs. Joe, and, as to all except his denominational qualities, worshipped by Paula. As to the question of yoking believer and unbeliever, it had certainly occurred to all the devotees of the young theologian, but, aside from the certainty that truth must find its triumph in the union, the more pressing question of clothes for the approaching wedding left but little room in pious but feminine minds for other considerations. Events had so fallen in with Leonard's wishes that an early marriage was deemed advisable in Natalie's interest. Mr. Ellis Winter had encountered difficulty with regard to certain property in France belonging to her, and her presence in Paris was essential; and it was no less desirable that while there she be under the protection of a husband. For, aside from other considerations, marriage was the easiest solution of the complications which had arisen out of the guardianship of the Marquise, which guardianship would legally terminate with Natalie's marriage. And these things opened the way for Mark's return to Stormpoint.
"Urgent business" in San Francisco had precluded his attendance at the wedding. He wrote Leonard a cordial letter, and he sent to Natalie a ruby set in small diamonds, which, Tabitha Cone confidentially imparted to Miss Claghorn, was "mean for a billionaire," and which, even in the eyes of the latter lady, with whom the donor was a favorite, looked paltry. Both would have been surprised and even indignant at the man's folly, if they had known that he had bid against a crowned head to get the gem, employing a special agent, furnished withcarte blanchefor the purpose. Natalie knew better than they, but it was not of its purity or value that she thought, as she looked at the jewel long and steadfastly, until a mist of tears suddenly obscured her vision and struck terror to her soul.
Soon after the departure for France of the newly married pair Mark returned from San Francisco. During his absence Mrs. Joe had not failed to call Mr. Hacket in consultation, and the adviser had reiterated the old counsel that the first step in a political career was "to get around and get acquainted." In order to induce her son to continue this preliminary course it became necessary to disclose her "policy."
Mark, though somewhat languid in the matter, displayed no violent reluctance to becoming a statesman. "As to the Presidency," he observed, laughing at his mother's lofty ambition, frankly disclosed, "that is the heaven of the politician, to be attained only by the elect."
"Nothing's impossible, Mark."
"There's a constitutional provision which will prevent my going in for it for some years. Meanwhile, we can investigate and learn how Presidents start. One ended as Justice of the Peace; I might try that as a beginning."
"A Justice of the Peace!"
"Why so scornful? It's aiming high. The usual course is to begin by carrying a banner and shouting."
"Mark, I've set my heart on this."
"My dear mother, blessed is the man or woman that has the wisdom to avoid that error."
"My son," said the lady reproachfully, "you seem without interest in anything."
"I am older, hence less enthusiastic, than you," he answered, smiling, and really believing, perhaps rightly, that, notwithstanding their relation, he felt older than she; "but advise me what to do, and I will do it. I am not unwilling to be a statesman, only——"
"I have told you——"
"To get about and get acquainted. Good! I'll start at once and collar the first voter I meet and demand his friendship." So, laughing, he left her, and within an hour Mrs. Joe saw him ride forth from the gates of Stormpoint.
During his long ride he admitted the reasonableness of his mother's ambition. Aside from the obstacle of great wealth, he was as eligible as another for usefulness and such laurels as come to those who honorably pursue a political career. He might smile at his mother's lofty dreams, yet they were not impossible of attainment; whereas, his own, in so far as they offered any allurement, were both unworthy and impossible. "A man should do something better than bewail his fate," he muttered; "since I cannot love elsewhere I'll be a lover of my country."
Greatly to Mrs. Joe's satisfaction, he thenceforward diligently pursued the preliminary requisite of getting around, in so far as that could be accomplished by long, solitary rides throughout the region. He seldom appeared at dinner without a gratifying account of the acquisition of a new rustic acquaintance, while meantime, the lady of Stormpoint saw to it that he did not remain unknown to such Hampton magnates as she could induce to grace her dinner table, displaying, in the matter of hospitality, a catholicity which surprised Paula and amused Mark, who, however, was quite willing to be amused.
Philosophers who have made the passion of love a subject of investigation (and most philosophers have given some attention to this branch of learning) have noticed that the violent death of an old love is often quickly followed by the birth of a new one. A jilted man or woman is Cupid's easiest prey.
Mrs. Joe may, or may not, have been aware of the truth of the above axiom, or its fitness in the case before her; but, having been fairly successful in interesting Mark in one object of her "policy," she resolved at this time to venture further and urge upon his attention the claims of Paula to his love; and, to her great delight, she found him not inattentive to the suggestion. He told his mother, truly enough, that he had a sincere affection for Paula, and admitted that she was, as far as was compatible with humanity, faultless; for it could hardly be a fault in Paula that he could feel no throb in his pulse, or glow in his bosom, when he recalled her to memory.
"You forget," he said, "that while I might find it easy to love her" (which he did not believe), "she might not find it easy to love me."
"You need have no fear." She was about to add that Paula would love anybody that loved her, but remembered in time that this might not be regarded as a recommendation. "She is the best creature I ever knew—almost perfect."
"I believe she is," he assented with a sigh, which was a tribute to Paula's perfection. "I fear she is too good for me."
"That's a strange objection."
"I am not so sure," he replied, as he lit a cigar, preparatory to leaving the room. But when he was gone, Mrs. Joe felt that he would consider the matter, and was content.
Unconsciously to herself, and, perhaps, without the knowledge of those by whom she was surrounded, Paula was somewhat harshly treated by nature; and that, notwithstanding her beauty. She was the embodiment of purity, of affection, of all the sweeter virtues, hence, regarded as wanting in those weaknesses which are essential to the symmetry of strength; one who lacks the everyday vices of temper, of selfishness, of jealousy, is, in some degree, abhorrent to our sense of the fitness of things. It is not that we envy the possessor of all the virtues—on the contrary, total absence of vice awakens something akin to contempt—but we are impatient of a non-combative disposition. The ideal Christian, offering the unsmitten cheek, presents a spectacle which, on Sundays, we characterize as sublime; the actual Christian, making such a tender, is, on any day, an object of scorn. Even of Paula, they who knew her would have admitted that it was possible to rouse her to resentment, possibly to a deed of vengeance, just as the worm may be made to turn; but, then, humanity refuses to admire worms in any attitude.
As Mark prosecuted the study of Paula, it gradually dawned upon him that it was interesting. From wondering whether there could be "much in her," he attained the conviction that, whether much or little, what there was was beyond his ken. "Paula," he asked one day, "are you as good as you look?"
"I don't know how good I look, Mark."
"Saintlike."
"Then I am not as good as I look; only I don't think I look as you say."
"Paula, you are a mystery. That's a great thing to be, is it not?" (Somehow, he could not help talking to Paula as if she were a child.) "Explain the mystery."
"Everybody is a mystery. Explain the mystery."
"Here is an unexpected depth," he exclaimed, with some surprise. "You have dared to raise a great question. Let us seek the solution at Grandfather Eliphalet's tomb."
The tomb, renovated and neatly railed by that which Miss Claghorn secretly regarded as the sacrilegious hand of Mrs. Joe, was near the extremity of the Point. When the weary Eliphalet had been laid there to rest it had been further inland, but the ever-pounding ocean was gradually having its way, day by day encroaching upon the domain of the seemingly indestructible rocks.
"The time will come," said Mark, as the two leaned upon the railing, "when the sea will claim old Eliphalet's bones."
"And the time will come when the sea will give up its dead," said Paula.
"Perhaps," he answered gloomily; "and to what end? You will answer, in order that the dead may be judged. I still ask, to what end?"
"That is the mystery, Mark."
"Not to be answered at Eliphalet's tomb, or elsewhere. Paula, did you ever hear of Deacon Bedott?"
"You know, Mark, there are so many deacons in Hampton——"
"This one lived in Slabtown, if I remember right. He was a character of fiction, neither very wise nor very entertaining; yet when Deacon Bedott lifted up his voice and spake, he formulated one of the Great Truths that man can know."
"What did he say?" she asked after a pause.
"We are all poor critters," was the answer, with a grim laugh. "Paula, I believe it is the only truth that really does come home to a man."
"It is from the Bible," she said simply.
He looked up. "Do you mean to assert that the Deacon was merely quoting? Are you going to destroy my faith in a pet philosopher; he who said all that Plato said, or Socrates, or Seneca—or anybody?"
"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain," she answered in a low tone.
There was silence for a moment; at length Mark said: "It seems that the Deacon was, after all, a plagiarist."
"I think that perhaps philosophers have discovered few truths concerning man that they might not have found in the Bible, and with less labor."
"Paula, do you believe the Bible?"
"Why, Mark! It is God's word."
"And these," he said, pointing to the trees, the crags, the sea; "are these God's word?"
"They are His creation; in that sense His word."
"And you and I, and these bones, crumbling a few feet below—these are all His creation, and so His word—and we know not what they say."
She looked at him surprised. She had often sorrowed that these things did not engage his attention; she was surprised to note his earnestness.
"Paula," he said, "do you know what you were made for?"
"Made for?"
"Leonard would tell you, 'to glorify God, and enjoy Him forever,'" he said, "but he would also inform you that the chance of the purpose of your creation coming to pass is slim."
"You know I do not subscribe to Leonard's creed," she replied a little severely.
"The thirty-nine articles, though less explicit, imply that which Leonard's creed has the boldness to state. Yes, Paula, that is the great and glorious Hope offered by the Church—damnation for the great majority."
"Mark, I do not think I ought to discuss these questions."
"You mean with a scoffer," he said a little bitterly.
"I hope you are not a scoffer. I cannot judge."
"And you decline to find out. Suppose I tell you in all honesty that I want to know the reasons for the faith that is in you. That I want to know them, so that I may try honestly to adopt them, if I find it possible—I don't say easy, Paula, I say possible. Suppose I assure you of this, as I do, will you aid me to be what you think I ought to be?"
"Mark," she answered, "I am not competent. Such a one as you should not come to such as I."
"Surely you have a reason for your belief! Is it not possible to put it into words?"
"Oh, Mark!" She turned and looked upon him; her eyes were brimming with tears; she placed her hand upon his arm. "I can help you; I will help you. I can direct you to one who can solve your doubts, who can make the truth so plain that you must see——"
"And this One is?' he asked reverently.
"Father Cameril."
He burst into a loud laugh which shocked and grieved her. She left him and went toward the house; he remained gazing at the tomb.
And there, if he had really contemplated seeking Paula's love, he buried the intention with Old Eliphalet. "If your eternal welfare is to your wife a matter to be handed over to her priest, your temporal felicity will hardly be of moment to her," he thought, as he looked at the smoke of his cigar hanging blue in the summer air.
"Bel homme!" exclaimed the Marquise de Fleury admiringly.
"Belle femme!" echoed the hussar sadly.
"Be everything that is charming, Adolphe, I conjure you. So much depends upon Natalie's disposition."
From which brief conversation, which took place as the speakers left the hotel where the Leonard Claghorns were established, it may be correctly inferred that a friendly reception had been accorded the newly married pair by the French relatives of the bride. The noble lady, doubtless, felt all the affection for her former ward that she had, during the visit, so eloquently expressed, so that inclination prescribed the same course that policy would have indicated. The Marquise was still the custodian of property belonging to Natalie, and settlement of accounts could be much better adjusted in a spirit of indulgent friendship than in the cold and calculating spirit of business; and though Natalie and her dowry were gone forever, in that distant land whence she had returned with a husband, there were golden maids languishing for Marquises. "These Yankees," she observed to her son, "they sell their souls for money—the men; the women sell their bodies, and such soul as goes with them, for titles. Are you not a Marquis, of theancien regime? It behooves us, my child, to be gracious to this wedded priest; he may know of apartie."
"I am so, mama.Du reste, he isbeau garçon, and seems amiable and amusing."
"Cultivate him, my infant; a voyage to America may be your destiny. It is a rich family—fabulous. There may be maids in plenty among these Claghorns."
The two young men, except for the pacific disposition of their womankind, might have been inclined to regard one another askance. For, in the person of the possessor of Natalie and her dowry the brave hussar saw one who however innocently, was still the ravisher of his rights; while in this being, in all the glory of fur and feather, sabretache and jangling sword, boots and buttons, braid and golden stripes, with a pervading tone of red and blue, Leonard beheld a startling and, at first, unpleasing creation. But the lieutenant, admonished by his mama, and sensible of the interests at stake, and genial by nature, thawed almost immediately, and the boulevardier and the theologian were friends.
To the young Frenchman a Protestant theologian was a philosopher, rather than a priest under vows, hence a person of liberal views and probably of lax conduct. As toward a newly married man, and warned incessantly by the Marquise, he recognized that etiquette required that from him no invitation to dissipation should emanate, but that his attitude ought to be that of willingness to pilot the stranger whithersoever he might wish to go; occasionally pointing out that paths of pleasantness were open to such as might choose to wander in them. And though Leonard displayed no undue disposition to such wanderings, an intimacy resulted which was not in fact, though seemingly, incongruous.
"What is he like, this beautiful heretic?" asked the Marquise.
"Like a Greek god, as you see, mama."
"But otherwise; he is a priest, you know?"
"And, like other priests, with an eye for a pretty woman."
"But discreet, Adolphe? I hope he is discreet."
"As St. Anthony! Natalie may be easy."
"Be you equally discreet, my child. She has been most generous; and, remember, Adolphe——"
"Yes, mama. What am I to remember?"
"That when a woman marries a man for his beauty, it is not love; it is infatuation. Do not permit this Leonarr to go astray; he has proclivities."
The little hussar laughed. "You are sharp-eyed, mamma."
"Had you watched him before the painting of Eve—but enough. Do nothing to cause disquiet to Natalie."
The little man, thus admonished, promised to carefully observe her wishes; the more readily as he was aware how important the friendship of Natalie was to his mama (in view of the pending adjustment of accounts). The more he studied Leonard, the more amusing he found him. To "do" Paris (not, indeed, to the extent of the capacity of that capital) in company with a priest, was, in itself, a piquant experience. "It is like demonstrating to your director how easy it is to sin," he declared; "andce bon Leonarr, he imposes no penance.Tiens!These others, these Protestants, they have it easy."
"He does not essay to pervert," observed the Marquise in some alarm.
"Be not uneasy. Would I be of a religion whose priests marry? Think of the wife of my confessor knowing all my peccadillos!"
"Forgive me. My anxiety was but momentary——"
"Meanwhile, let me help thispauvre garçon, whose eyes have, since infancy, been bandaged, to see a little bit of the world. It is delightful to note his delight."
"But with discretion, Adolphe."
"Do I not assure you he is an anchorite. You have yourself observed that he drinks no wine."
"A penance, doubtless. Père Martin is also abstemious."
"As toordinaire. In the presence of a flask of Leoville, I have noted a layman's thirst ince bon père."
"Do not ridicule Père Martin, my infant.Du reste, it is not wine that I fear in the case of this beautiful Leonarr. Continue to be his guardian angel, my son."
Under this guardianship Leonard looked at Paris, enjoying his free sojourn in a great and brilliant city with hearty, but, on the whole, innocent fervor. The sunny skies, the genial good-humor, the eating and drinking, the frequent music, the lights, the dapper men, the bright-eyed women, the universal alertness—these impart a pleasant tingle to Puritan blood; and, if the novice to these delights be young, rosy, handsome, of exuberant health, and inclined to the pleasures befitting such conditions, he finds Paris grateful to the taste. In this congenial atmosphere Leonard basked in guileless rapture. A drive in the Bois with Natalie and the Marquise, brilliant equipages dashing by, brilliant eyes flashing as they passed, was a rare delight; a stroll on the Boulevard was even more enjoyable, for here were more flashing eyes and smiling faces, less fleeting, and often coquettishly inviting an answering glance. Clothed in the results of the meditations of de Fleury's tailor, it became Leonard's frequent habit to haunt the Boulevards, indulging in a strut that would have astonished Hampton; and often was he inclined to envy the Marquis that lot which had made his abiding place among these joys. It would have been fine to be a soldier, fine to fight and win glory; to wear boots and spurs and a clanking sword, and to trail the same along the pavement as one to the manner born!
Of course, that was a day-dream, which he laughed at as easily as an older man might have done, though less scornfully. There was no great harm in day-dreams, however foolish. This whole existence had the character of a pleasant dream. Had he not felt it so, he often mentally averred, he would have accepted it more gravely.
"But it will soon be over," he said to Natalie. "It is my first holiday since I was a boy."
"Enjoy it all you can. I am glad that Adolphe has been able to make your stay pleasant."
"Really, a very amiable little fellow. French, you know, and rather lax in his views, I fear; but——"
"His views will not harm you," interrupted Natalie, smiling.
"Certainly not," he replied, a little stiffly. "It would be strange if I could not take care of myself. Meanwhile, M. de Fleury is really of great advantage to me in one respect."
"And that is?"
"I am improving wonderfully in French. That's a good thing, Natalie, a very good thing." He was quite solemn on this point.
"An excellent thing," she replied, somewhat surprised at the gravity with which he treated a matter of no great importance. "I wish, Leonard, that my affairs were concluded. I am sure you are being kept here against your wish."
"Whatever my wish, your affairs ought to come first. Let us be content that, if they do drag, I can employ the time in self-improvement."
Thus, in the praiseworthy pursuit of improvement Leonard spent much of his time. He was by no means neglectful of his wife, whose attendance, with the Marquise, was much in demand in official bureaus, and who encouraged his intimacy with the lieutenant, whom she no longer found unendurable, and whose amiable and forgiving conduct had won her heart. "They are not rich, you know," she said. "Entertain the little man all you can; the Marquise was very kind to me." An injunction which afforded another reason why it was incumbent on Leonard to procure the Marquis the distractions that he loved, in so far as purse and principle permitted, and these were found elastic.
Because, as he was forced to admit when arguing with the Marquis, a reasonable elasticity is not only proper, but essential to culture.
"Mon bon," observed the lieutenant, "the view you advance is narrow. The ballet, as a favorite spectacle of the people, should be studied by every student of morals. You, as a preacher——"
Leonard laughed. "I'm not a preacher; I'm an instructor in a college of divinity."
"Eh bien!The greater reason. How shall one teach the good, knowing not the evil?Du reste, are they evil,ces belles jambesof Coralie? They are fine creations, of pure nature; there is no padding."
"You will be my guest, if we go?"
"Since you insist; also to apetit souper, a parti carré, with Aimée and Louise. Coralie!Sapristi, no! Her maw is insatiable; the little ones are easily pleased."
And so Leonard studied unpadded nature, even going alone a second, and perhaps a third time. As to thepetit souper, it had been decorous; and beyond the fact that Mesdemoiselles Aimée and Louise were agreeable ladies with excellent appetites, his knowledge of these damsels did not extend.
Of course, there were pursuits of a different character to engage his attention, and those which occurred under the guidance of the lieutenant were exceptional. There were the usual sights to be seen; galleries, monuments, churches, all to be wondered at, criticised and admired. Leonard approved generally, though, as to the churches, their tawdry interiors and the character of their embellishments offended his taste, as well as his religious sentiments. If, during these distractions, he was neglectful of the religious instruction which he knew his wife needed, circumstances were, to some extent, at fault. He could hardly expound doctrinal truths in a picture gallery, much less in a temple of Roman error. And, though not without qualms, he admitted to himself that he had little desire to discuss religion. There was, perhaps, no heinous sin in looking at the leg-gyrations of Mademoiselle Coralie, nor was Leonard the first wandering clergyman to embrace an offered opportunity to study ethics from the standpoint of that rigid moralist, the Marquis de Fleury; nevertheless, such studies had their effect in cooling religious fervor, and fervor is essential to him who would expound truth, with a view to compel conviction.
Finally, as bearing on this question of the doctrinal instruction of his wife, he doubted whether it was worth while. Knowledge of doctrine was no adornment in women; there was Paula, whose pretensions in this regard constituted almost her only defect. Since Natalie was probably saved, why trouble himself and her with the exposition of mysteries which she would be unable to comprehend, and concerning which the injunction was laid that they be "handled with especial care." If she had heard the call it would be effectual; if she had not been born to salvation, all the doctrine which had been taught since the days of the fathers would not—and here his self-communing stopped. Damnation, though inevitable, is not an alluring subject of contemplation when it affects one's family.
The complications attendant on Natalie's affairs prolonged the stay in Paris far beyond the period originally contemplated; but French method on one side of the Atlantic, and Mr. Winter on the other, were finally satisfied, after much passing to and fro of documents. Everybody interested was weary, and consular clerks had come to loathe the names of Natalie, Eugenie, Louise, Susan Beverley de Fleury Claghorn-Claghorn,néede Fleury-Claghorn. As Leonard said, to be enabled to give the Marquise a receipt in full was a harder job than to negotiate a treaty. But it was done at last; Natalie had been resolute and Mr. Winter had protested in vain; the Marquise had her discharge and, relieved of many terrors, was duly grateful. "She has been charming, truly considerate," she observed to her son. "Alas, Adolphe; it was a great loss."
"There are others," replied the Marquis philosophically.
"Heaven send it so. You must no longer delay speaking seriously to this good Leonarr, who might have influenced his wife to be the ogress desired by the abominable Winter. Urge him to look out for apartieas soon as he arrives in America. I will speak to Natalie. I have heard her mention two demoiselles, Achsah and Tabitha."
"Ciel!The appellations."
"But if the bearers are rich?"
"Tiens!mama. Madame Zho andla bellePaula are in London. I might try there; it is not so far."
"Butce grosMarc is with them. Paula is for him, as you know."
"He does not hurry himself, and truly I believe the little one would not be averse to me."
"Better depend upon Monsieur Leonarr."
And as a result of his mama's advice the lieutenant did, on that afternoon, broach the matter to Leonard, who, at first mystified, ended by roaring with laughter when he grasped the fact that the head of the House of de Fleury was making a provisional proposal for the hand and fortune of either Mademoiselle Tabitha, or Mademoiselle Achsah, as Leonard might advise.
"Diable!" exclaimed the gallant youth, when Leonard had explained the cause of his hilarity, "over seventy and rich! What a country where such opportunities are neglected! Decidedly I must make the voyage."
Leonard made no reply; the suggested picture of the noble Marquis as his guest in Hampton was not precisely alluring.
"And so there is not a single demoiselle among the Claghorns that desires a title?"
"Not one."
"Alas!" sighed the Marquis. "I was too magnanimous. You knowla bellePaula, of course. Listen,mon ami, but let your lips be sealed.Elle etait folle de moi!"
"Paula! Crazy for you! You flatter——"
"Parole d'honneur.It was in her eyes, in the plaintive cadence of her tones——"
"But——"
"I know—ce polisson de Marc, toujours Marc. Ah, the luck of this Marc! He has a mine of gold; he will have the charming Paula. Only you,mon bon, have beaten him. After all, it is for Marc and me to mingle our tears."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Leonard sharply. "Why are you and Mark to mingle your tears?"
"For the reason,mon cher, that we love to weep," replied the hussar, with an odd glance at Leonard. "Adieu, I have an appointment," and he turned abruptly down a side street, leaving Leonard astonished at his quick retreat.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, after a moment. "It's absurd!" Then he pursued his way homeward.
Mrs. Joe and her train were in London, whither Mark had been summoned on business; and ever since Madame de Fleury had become aware of the fact she had urged the party to visit Paris. The Marquise, notwithstanding her sex, was not devoid of curiosity, and, aside from other advantages which might accrue to her from the presence of the lady of Stormpoint, she was anxious that a puzzle which had not a little mystified her be elucidated. When Mark had visited her after his chance meeting with Adolphe in the cafe, she had divined his feeling with regard to Natalie, and had at once jumped to the conclusion that it explained the flight of her ward. She recalled the intimacy which had existed between the cousins during the lifetime of the philosopher, an intimacy which she had gravely disapproved, and concerning which she had more than once remonstrated. She remembered, too, with vexation and a sense of injury, that the philosopher had soothed her solicitude for the interests of her son, by pleading the cousinly customs of Mark's country, as well as by pointing out the benefit which might accrue to her son by an increased dowry for his own daughter. Now all these hopes and rosy possibilities were extinguished; Natalie had appeared on the scene with a husband who was not Mark, and Mark and Paula were still unwed. These were all puzzling facts out of which there might be gathered some advantage for Adolphe. She had concealed from him the hopes which sometimes rose within her in contemplating the present state of affairs; but she was very anxious to know what that state portended. She had tried in vain to extract information from Natalie, and as to Leonard, the matter required delicate handling. Such inquiries as she had addressed to him had been of necessity vague, and from his answers she had derived no satisfaction. He had sometimes idly wondered what the lady was after, but until the allusion by the Marquis to a mutual mingling of tears by Mark and himself, Leonard had barely given the matter a thought. He understood now what the Marquis had implied, and saw the drift of the maternal questioning. He was annoyed, but only for a moment; he dismissed the subject as being of equal importance with the hussar's idea of Paula's infatuation for himself, concerning which he had no belief whatever.
After the lieutenant had left him, Leonard pursued his way homeward, vaguely oppressed by a sense of gloom which he attributed to the weather, which had become lowering. He was near the Church of St. Roch when a shower drove him inside its portals for shelter.
A few sightseers were wandering about the edifice; an occasional penitent occupied a chapel with lips close to the grating, on the other side of which was the ear of the absolver; in the body of the church a number knelt in prayer.
He looked at these things with curiosity, not unmingled with scorn. His attention was attracted by a plainly dressed woman standing in a side aisle; to his surprise, he recognized his wife.
She did not see him as he softly approached her. A sunbeam breaking through the clouds outside shone through a window and lit up her face, displaying to him a new expression, a look of yearning and of love which beautified it; a look he had never seen before; he recognized the fact with a vague sense of pain.
That which he saw, like that which he felt, was but momentary. She turned, looking at him at first with an abstracted gaze, then startled, as though waking from a dream. "Leonard!" she exclaimed in a low voice. It sounded like fear.
"Even so, my dear. Why are you here alone?"
"I—I—don't know. I was tired."
"Has this spectacle moved you so?" He pointed to the worshippers.
"No, not that. I wish I were as good as they; I have watched them often."
"Often?" he repeated. He was somewhat indignant at that wish, that she, his wife, were as good as these idolaters; but it was plain that she was deeply moved by something, and he was very tender. "Do you come here often?"
"I have done so, Leonard." There was humility in her tone, there was confession; had he known it, there was a cry for aid.
"Natalie," he said, with some reproach for her, and feeling not a little for himself, "I hope you are not attracted by the glitter of Romanism. Surely you can pray in your closet!"
"I do not pray in the churches," she said. "I did not know that my visits to them would annoy you."
"Not at all, my dear," he replied. "I can understand that you like to enjoy the architectural beauties and the solemn influence. But upon me the crucifixes, the holy water, the vestments—in short, the frippery—these things have a less agreeable effect. They savor of gross superstition."
It was true that she did not pray in the churches. Something restrained her; perhaps the very memories which had invited her to these wanderings in dim shadows where so many vain aspirations had been breathed. Sometimes as she would pass a chapel where knelt a penitent, confessing to a hidden priest, a strong desire would come upon her to do as the penitent was doing. Yet why? Even to herself she had not yet admitted that she had aught to confess.
They strolled slowly toward their hotel, Leonard silently reproaching himself that he had not sooner discovered and prevented this habit of haunting churches, a habit which might lead to lamentable results in one easily influenced by the external pomp and circumstance of Romanism.
However, any danger that might exist would soon be passed. Before long they would be far beyond the subtle influences of priesthood, as well as other subtle influences which he felt were not altogether healthful. He sighed, a little regretfully; after all, pleasure was sweet.
There had been some question whether they should await the possible arrival of Mrs. Joe. The discussion of this subject had been confined to himself and the Marquise, Natalie having displayed but a faint interest in the matter. Only that morning Madame de Fleury had informed him that the lady of Stormpoint had written to say that she and her party would come to Paris for a short stay and then accompany the Leonard Claghorns homeward. He was therefore surprised when Natalie suddenly exclaimed, "Leonard, let us go home!"
"Do you mean we should not wait for Mrs. Joe?" he asked.
"Why should we? She has Paula and the maids."
"And Mark. He counts for something," suggested Leonard, laughing.
"Of course; and if we wait for them, the waiting will never end. The Marquise will do all she can to keep them, and Paris is not so easily left. I foresee more difficulty in getting away gracefully, should they arrive while we are here, than if we go at once."
"We can pass through London and explain," he suggested.
"Let us go by Havre. I long to get away, and you ought to be home. I will write to Mrs. Joe. Let us decide now."
She was strangely insistent, even agitated. He noticed it and assumed that she was depressed at the thought of leaving that which was her own country, and longed to get a painful separation over. To him it was a matter of indifference by what route they traveled, so long as Mrs. Joe's susceptibilities were not wounded; and Natalie, assuring him that her written explanation would prevent that misfortune, the matter was settled.
He kissed her as they entered their apartment; for a moment she held her face close to his.
That night, being alone and prostrate upon the floor of her room, where she had sunk, humiliated and ashamed, she uttered a vow to heaven:
"To him I will be henceforth true in all things; in thought as in deed. Help me, heaven, to atone, by surrendering to him and in his service every act and every thought."
The family of Stormpoint remained abroad until long after Leonard and his wife were established in the old Morley mansion in Hampton, finally returning to America without Mark, who remained in England, ostensibly on business connected with the Great Serpent. He had done nothing to advance his mother's wishes with regard to Paula, assuming that the lady had by this time recognized the futility of her hopes, and like the wise woman he knew her to be, had become reconciled to the inevitable. She was even wiser than he knew, and a part of her wisdom was to trust to the future. She would admit defeat when she found herself defeated, meanwhile acquiescing to all seeming in things as they were, placidly listening to Paula's confidences as to that celibate sisterhood which the damsel hoped some day to found, but which, as Mrs. Joe said to herself, was not founded yet.
Mark had extracted a promise both from his mother and from Paula that their letters should contain "all the news of all the Claghorns," meaning perhaps Mrs. Leonard Claghorn; and when the first letter came from his mother he opened it eagerly and read: first a great deal of political advice (at second hand from Mr. Hacket), and toward the end of the epistle, matter of greater interest.
"As to Leonard" (wrote the lady), "I fear marriage has not improved him. Natalie makes the mistake of coddling him too much. Her notion of wifely duty is extravagant. In their house a thousand things are done for Leonard's comfort, all thought of by his wife, and her eyes follow him about as though she were constantly on the watch to anticipate his wants. She is very quiet in manner and seems rather to wish to echo Leonard's opinions than to have opinions of her own; all of which has other than a pleasing effect on Leonard. I suppose, too, that he has arrived at an age (somewhat late in his case) in which the fact of his own manliness is the most important fact of existence. He has not been improved by contact with quite another world than that of Hampton, the world of Adolphe de Fleury, in which he seems to have mingled rather surprisingly. One would hardly recommend the allurements of Paris in such companionship to a young theologian. You know the angels in Paradise fell, though I do not mean to imply that Paris is paradise, or Leonard an angel, fallen or otherwise; but his engaging innocence is gone; perhaps it was inevitable. I am sorry to see in its place an undue amount of the bumptiousness often affected by members of his profession. It is quite distressing to think that he should degenerate, he who was so beautiful to look at, so gentle, yet so strong—in short, so naturally refined—a word, by the way, which I dislike, but it expresses the idea. He is not so refined as he was; he is less pleasing to the eye, there is a shadow of something in his face which I do not like—and I donotlike the way with which he looks at Paula.
"There, Mark, I have been long in coming to it—but you are not to misunderstand me. I don't believe Leonard has a thought which could be regarded as injurious to Natalie, but I don't think he regards feminine beauty with the eyes one likes to see. I gave a little dinner a few evenings since; only the Stanleys, the Fentons, Father Cameril and the Leonard Claghorns. You remember Mrs. Fenton's style; her shoulders (very beautiful they are—I say shoulders) too much in evidence for my taste. Leonard hardly took his eyes off of them. Father Cameril, on the contrary, hardly knew what to do with his to avoid seeing them, and I don't know which of the pair made me most angry. I remember when Leonard would have been oblivious of shoulders.
"He is rather truculent, too, is Mr. Leonard, and fell foul of poor Father Cameril in a manner which roused even Paula, on the subject of the Apostolic Succession—in short, I never saw him at such a disadvantage, and I'm afraid my indignation has carried my pen away.
"Natalie is lovely. A little sad at times. She confided to me a secret which no doubt accounts for her rather noticeable pensiveness. There will be a baby in the old Morley house before the year is out."
Mark pondered over his mother's letter often, and with more misgiving than behooved a man interested in his neighbor only in ordinary neighborly fashion. He did full justice to his mother's shrewd observation, and believed that her letter was intended to convey more than appeared on the surface, and his self-communings in reference thereto were not cheerful.
Mrs. Leonard Claghorn had been graciously received by the matrons of Hampton. She was so interesting (they said), so foreign; and careful cross-examination of those who had penetrated into the inner sanctuaries of the Morley mansion had established the fact that there was not a crucifix in the house. On the whole, the matrons were content. Surely, the wife of a young professor, so thoroughly grounded in the faith as was Leonard—though his prominence in the Seminary, in view of his youth, might be deprecated by some—such a one could not remain heretical, even if her religious education had been defective. How awfully defective these excellent ladies did not know.
On her part, Natalie had been no less gracious. "She'll be one of them in a year," said Mrs. Joe, alluding to the matrons. "She'll be whatever Leonard says."
"I wish Father Cameril could talk with her," sighed Paula.
"He lost his chance when he contradicted Leonard at my dinner."
"She certainly is very loyal to her husband," admitted Paula.
"Altogether too subservient," observed Mrs. Joe testily. "No woman should permit her whole nature to be absorbed in that manner. No wonder he's bumptious."
"Bumptious!"
"Conceited. Pliancy, Paula, is a virtue in a wife. I was pliant myself; still the most devoted of wives ought to have an opinion of her own."
"Natalie is so sweet," urged the extenuating Paula.
"Sweet! So are you; so was I; so was Tabitha Cone to the man that gave her that monstrous watch—but sweetness may be sickening."
"Oh, Cousin Alice!"
"It irritates me, because it's not Natalie's true character. She had a mind of her own once, and a good one. Actually, she's superior to Leonard——"
"He's a very brilliant man, Cousin."
"To look at, and glib; but inferior to his wife. Men generally are. Yet she effaces herself. She overdoes her loyalty. She is playing a part!"
"Cousin Alice!" remonstrated Paula.
"I don't mean she's consciously a hypocrite, and you needn't flare. She's imbibed some absurd notions of wifely duty, and is trying to carry them out."
An impression made upon an observer as keen as Mrs. Joe must have a foundation. In her irritation the lady had expressed the truth. Natalie was playing a part.
Since the day in St. Roch when she, recalling a day long past, had lost herself in a dream of what might have been—since then she had been playing a part, the part of a penitent; the role she had assumed when later, in humiliation and conscience-stricken, she had prostrated herself before heaven, vowing the only atonement possible.
She had seen the beginning of that change in Leonard which remained a cause of irritation to Mrs. Joe; nor had she been ignorant of the influences to which it was in part to be ascribed; but her conscience had whispered that in very truth the effect of those influences was to be attributed to herself. In her marriage an essential element had been absent, and was wanting still. To complete that holy mystery and adorn it with its rarer graces, to tinge its atmosphere with consecrated incense, there must be spiritual union. If Leonard had not learned of nobler joys than the lesser gratification that engaged his thoughts, was it not because such joys had not been offered?
To those religious teachings which had been deferred she now looked forward as to the means whereby both could attain to that higher union which she craved, and which when attained would surely soothe her troubled spirit and aid in that atonement prescribed by her conscience and which she had vowed, and of which the subservience disapproved by Mrs. Joe was a minor manifestation. So, though timidly, for his reluctance (so strange to her) was apparent, she sought to bring Leonard to discussion of religious subjects.
"Was Jonathan Edwards a great man?" she asked one day, and then regretted her question, for at that passage of arms which had occurred at Mrs. Joe's table, Father Cameril had mentioned the name, a fact forgotten until it was recalled to her memory by the lowering brow of Leonard.
"A great man, indeed!" he answered; "an apostle of truth. Chattering imbeciles like Father Cameril may tell you differently."
"I was not thinking of Father Cameril. I read the title of your article, 'Jonathan Edwards, a Man Athirst for God.'"
"So he was; and one who slaked his thirst at the well of knowledge. A great and good man, Natalie, though shallow reasoners are glad to deny the merit of the greatest of metaphysicians. The truth is they're afraid of him."
"Why afraid?"
"Because his logic is inexorable, the unassailable truth he utters not lovely to all hearers. Edwards declines to abate one jot or tittle of God's message. It has become the fashion even among men of greater intellect than Mr. Cameril has been endowed with to avoid Edwards, but——"
"I should think all would crave the truth. I would like to read him."
"Not now," he said, kissing her. "Dr. Stanley advises steering clear of Edwards," he continued, laughing, "though not for the usual reasons. You must follow the fashion for awhile, Natalie."
He knew that public opinion would expect, and in time demand, his wife's union with the church. Had she been trained from childhood in orthodox tenets her preparedness for the sacrament would have been presumed, and, at some convenient season, when souls are garnered as crops are garnered, it being assumed that they ripen like the fruits of the earth, she would have been duly gathered to the fold with those other members of the congregation whose time for experiencing religion had come. But there was no presumption of early instruction in Natalie's case.
He would have been better pleased if his position had not required deference to that opinion which would demand Natalie's entrance into the doctrinal fold. If she were chosen for salvation, what difference could it make whether she was instructed as to the Confession or not? Where were the women that were so instructed? Nowhere. They had some phrases and some faint recollection of Sabbath-school lessons, but as to any real knowledge of the mysteries they professed, he knew that the laymen of his denomination were in general as ignorant as those puppets of the Romish priesthood who left such matters to their betters. And secretly he regarded this as the correct system. He was not sorry that he had a valid excuse for avoiding domestic theological discussion in the dictum of Dr. Stanley.
The doctor, who had been present on the occasion when Leonard had fallen foul of Father Cameril, and who had been amused at the husband's truculence, had also noted the anxious look of the wife. He had known Leonard almost since boyhood and liked him; he was, for reasons of his own, especially interested in Leonard's wife.
Doctor Stanley's position in Hampton was not unlike that of Satan in the world. He was endured of necessity and his services called in requisition, because in certain straits there was no getting along without him. "The parsons don't want to go to heaven," he would say, "any more than the rest of us, so when they're sick they call me in, and when they're well they smile on me; but, if I weren't a doctor, Hampton would be too hot to hold me." All of which, if true, was because Dr. Stanley was troubled with a theological itch of his own, and, though calling God the "Unknowable," claimed knowledge with as much confidence as his orthodox rivals, and with equal truculence. He was at some disadvantage in his public onslaughts on Hamptonian strongholds, since his followers were few; but at occasional lectures, the meagre proceeds whereof went to sustain a Mechanics' Library, founded by the doctor for the behoof of philosophical plumbers and carpenters, he sometimes charged upon the foe with great gallantry, if but little effect. In his private capacity he was genial, amiable and good-hearted, and, if hated as an infidel, was loved as a man. As a physician, the general faith in his skill was nearly unbounded.
His wife, who laughed at him and loved him, was that Lettie Stanley of whose ultimate salvation Miss Claghorn had grave doubt. She was, if unhappily "passed by," still of the elect race, and Miss Achsah, on the occasion of her union with the doctor, had expressed the opinion that the Reverend Josias Claghorn, father of the unfortunate, had celebrated the nuptials by turning in his grave. It was not known that she was, like her husband, an absolute unbeliever, since she sometimes appeared at public worship, and there were among the ladies of Hampton one or two who maintained that she was a pious woman. However, it was certain that she was heterodox, a grievous circumstance which gave great and just cause of offense to these descendants of the original seekers after liberty of conscience. She was active in charitable work, and though admitted to the Shakespeare Society, was not a member of any of the distinctly denominational organizations. She had been invited to the "Thursday Prayer Meeting of Matrons," and had declined, flippantly, the matrons proclaimed, and on the ground that though she was willing to be prayed for, she did not wish to be prayed at. For the rest, she was a handsome woman of middle age, with large, tender eyes and a cheery disposition, tinged with a certain melancholy, which some called cynicism.
This lady had also noted with disapproval Leonard's manner on the occasion of Mrs. Joe's dinner. "He's getting spoiled," she had observed to her husband, as they left the hospitable mansion.
"Theological manner," replied the doctor. "They can't help it. Cameril would have been as bad, if he dared. What do you think of Leonard's wife?"
"A beautiful woman, who adores her husband. I wonder why her eyes are sad?"
"Her eyes are like yours."
"Pshaw, Doctor; I'm an old woman——"
"That's nonsense. She not only resembles you as to eyes, but in disposition."
"Of course you know all about her disposition."
"It's my business to know. Mrs. Leonard's my patient, and her idiosyncrasies——"
"Are doubtless interesting, as pertaining to a handsome woman; but how do they resemble mine?"
"She's a religious enthusiast."
"Well!" ejaculated the lady; "after years of observation that is your wise conclusion. I won't say tell that to the marines, which would be undignified, but tell it to the Hampton matrons."
"The matrons of Hampton know nothing of religion; they're theologians."
The lady laughed. "If she is really like I was at her age, I am sorry for her. Had I married a man like Leonard——"
"My dear, with your excellent taste you did much better; but I thought Leonard was a favorite of yours."
"I like him, but I detest his creed."
"You don't suppose he believes it?"
"He says he does, which is of more consequence."
"How can any human being believe the Westminster Confession?"
"I don't suppose any human being does. It's a question of obstinacy, pride; a question of being caught in a trap."
The doctor laughed.
"You, my dear," continued the lady, "lack religious sentiment. You don't care.Icannot help being indignant when I see religion desecrated by religionists. It may be from the same feeling that I am sorry for a woman who adores her husband, and who must eventually find him out."
"Find him out! My dear——"
"I mean find out that he's not all that she has pictured. Leonard is a very ordinary mortal."
"But, on the whole, a very good fellow."
"Undoubtedly, but—a theologian of Hampton. I don't think you appreciate all that that may chance to mean to a woman you are pleased to call a religious enthusiast—meaning, I suppose, a woman who really craves religion."
"You must not take a word too seriously. The fact is that Mrs. Leonard has what may be termed an exalted temperament. One day I found her in tears and with traces of great agitation. She had been reading a book of ecstatic character. I hinted to Leonard that just now that sort of thing wouldn't do——"
"You were quite right. I remember that I suffered——"
"I don't mean to say that the lady had been suffering; on the contrary, I think she'd been having a good time. The book, by the way, was the life of some Roman saint—but good times of that sort are not to be indulged in by a lady about to have a baby."
"What did Leonard say?"
"Oh, he was amenable—more so than I expected. Of course, I said nothing about the Catholic book. Leonard is like prospective fathers, easily scared. They are much more tractable than prospective mothers; so I scared him."
The more easily that Leonard had been willing to be scared.
"Socrates," observed Miss Achsah, "is damned."
"Ifyousay so, he must be," was the sarcastic rejoinder of Tabitha Cone.
Miss Claghorn, with a stern gaze at her companion, opened Hodge's Commentary on The Confession of Faith and read: "'The heathen in mass, with no single, definite and unquestioned example on record, are evidently strangers to God and going down to death in an unsaved condition.' That," she said, "settles Socrates."
It did not settle Tabitha, whose question touched the weak spot in Hodge's assertion. "Where'd he see the record?" she asked.
"Tabitha," remonstrated Miss Achsah with evident sincerity, "sometimes I doubt your election. The audacity of setting upyouropinion——"
Tabitha was human and venerated print. She was a little frightened at her own temerity, and Miss Claghorn's seriousness did not tend to reassure her. "There's Brigston," she said weakly.
"Yes; and there's 'Greenland's Icy Mountains,' and 'India's Coral Strand,'" answered the lady pertinently, and closing the book and the discussion.
But, if closed at the White House, it raged furiously in the theological world. Until recently the permanent abode of Socrates had been as well known as that of Satan. No decree, whether of Roman or Protestant Pope, had been needed to establish a fact settled to the satisfaction of all (except, perhaps, to that of the Athenian sage) by the Eternal Decree of Omnipotence. It was reserved for a deluded doctor of the rival Seminary of Brigston to promulgate doubts of a self-evident truth. Such an affront to Westminster and the immutable justice of God was not to be borne in silence by Hampton.
A storm of unexampled fury burst from theological clouds, and Leonard, sniffing the odor of battle, joyously saw that his day had dawned. Into the fray he plunged, a gallant knight armed with the sword of orthodoxy, battling in the name of God and by the lurid light of hell, in order that the music of the chorus of the anguish of the damned might still arise, a dulcet melody, to heaven.
And while the din of the holy war filled the air, Natalie welcomed a little babe, the light of whose clear blue eyes melted her soul in tenderness. To look into their celestial purity was to see heaven's glory reflected in the azure depths. The deeper springs of tenderness, closed to the rude touch of Leonard's passion, were opened, and love undefiled gushed forth in a stream of unspeakable gladness. Her health remained delicate, and she was long confined to the house, but, aside from a pleasant languor, being physically at ease, she found in the care of the infant sufficient occupation. She was glad that she could be much alone with the boy, and held many and sweet communings with that soul she had discovered in his eyes. She never wearied of reading the mystery of those clear depths and, always connecting the child with heaven, in her simple belief, imagining the newcomer as lately from that blissful region, she built upon her fancies a system of theology which would have startled and confounded the Hampton Matrons. And, as before, in sight of the grandeur of God upon the waters, Leonard's lower self had been humbled, so now, the beauty of a pure soul, all its glory set forth in motherhood, chastened his earthly nature, and he bowed with the reverence of simple souls to saints.
Leonard's creed was, as is the case with creeds, a matter apart from his life; wherefore there was nothing strange in the fact that he could leave the presence of the two pure creatures, and retiring to his study, damn countless souls to hell in essays of exceeding force and brilliancy. Young as he was, all Hampton gloried in these labors whereby Brigston was smitten and abashed. There were champions more learned, being older; but, being older, their pens were encumbered with caution and hampered by the knowledge that pitfalls and traps lurk in the dark thickets of theological controversy. But Leonard had the daring of youth. Logic was logic, and truth not for a day, but eternal. Truth led to the Westminster Confession, which damns the great majority, Socrates included. To quibble with the plain meaning of plain words would be to follow the heretical Brigstonian, to deny the inspiration of Scripture, to be a traitor to his party and his creed. If the same decree which damned Socrates consigned the great majority of his own friends and acquaintances to the same everlasting misery, it couldn't be helped. And, in fact, there was no reason why Leonard should shrink from that which thousands of men and women profess to believe, yet marry and bring forth children doomed, the while eating dinner in content.
Echoes of the merry war reached Natalie, but her curiosity was but faintly stirred. She saw that Leonard avoided the topic when alone with her, and was now content to learn nothing from her husband; seeing in her child her best teacher in heavenly lore. Her exhibition of maternal love extorted some disapproving comment; Mrs. Joe called it "uncanny," Tabitha said she was a queer mother, Miss Claghorn disapprovingly likened her adoration to Romanism—"Idolatry," she said to Tabitha.
"Yet," replied Tabitha, "she hardly ever hugs or kisses him. She just looks at him, and if you catch her at it she passes it off."
"Just as you or I might if the cook were to come in while we were saying our prayers."
"Something 'ill happen to the child," said Tabitha ominously.
Miss Claghorn did not dispute it; the two were so perfectly in accord as to their sentiment in this matter that there was no chance for dispute.
Thus, in a strange, secret relation, mother and child lived more than a year together, and then Tabitha Cone's oracular prophecy was fulfilled. Something happened to the child, which something was death; and Natalie was stricken as by a thunderbolt.
The most alarming phase of her illness was of short duration; she had been long unconscious, and during that period they who watched her had noticed, with something akin to awe, the heavenly peacefulness and sweet smile of her face. From her mutterings they gathered that she roamed in celestial regions with her boy. Dr. Stanley was evidently not favorably impressed with these supposed visions, and as soon as it was feasible ordered her removal to Stormpoint, where the sun shone brighter than in the old house, and where there would be fewer reminders of her loss.
Leonard, who had been severely stricken by the death of the child and worn with anxiety on his wife's account, acquiesced. The complete change of scene which the physician desired involved his absence from her side. "Of course you'll visit her daily, if you choose," said the doctor, "but if you are constantly together she will inevitably talk of the child and of heaven, and we must keep her away from heaven." Natalie remonstrated, but rather feebly. Since the birth of the child Mrs. Joe had seen less cause to complain of undue absorption in the husband by the wife. Thus, to keep Natalie from contemplation of heaven, Leonard returned to contemplation of hell; for the war still raged, though with some slackness. Leonard girded up his loins and prepared to inject the spirit which had somewhat diminished during his own absence from the lines of battle.
The mistress of Stormpoint watched her new inmate keenly. "It's natural that she should love her child, even though he's dead," she said to Paula, "but she talks with him. I heard her."
"Her faith is perfect," exclaimed Paula with solemn enthusiasm. "She knows he lives forever."
"That's all very well; but he don't live at Stormpoint."
"She feels his presence, though she cannot see him."
"She says she does. Of course, it's fiddlesticks; but the doctor ought to know."
And the doctor, being informed, agreed with Mrs. Joe that conversation with angels was not to be encouraged. "A very little roast beef and a great deal of fresh air," was his prescription, "A trip somewhere when she is stronger. Meanwhile, keep bores away—Father Cameril and Leonard."
"I can't lock Leonard out."
"I wish you could; he has a grievance and may be tempted to unburden his soul to his wife."
"I have heard of no grievance."
"You will; the reaction has come. Yesterday they crowned him with laurels; to-day they are damning him—of course, in parliamentary phrase—from the president of the Seminary down to the janitor."
"Impossible! Why, Doctor, only a few days since Dr. Burley spoke of him in the highest terms."
"A few days since! Ask him now. Leonard has played the frog to Burley's ox. It was right to confute Brigston with Greek texts; they produced a good deal of fog and little illumination. But Leonard must shove himself in as interpreter between the heavyweights and the populace. Of course his action was abhorrent; it is to me. There ought to be anesprit de corpsin all professions. I shouldn't approve if some young medical spark were to give awayoursecrets."
The physician, if flippantly, spoke the truth. Leonard had been rash, as youth is wont to be. Wise and venerable heads had from the beginning wagged in disapproval of his excess of zeal. To bury the Brigstonian deep beneath the fragments of his own exploded logic was well, but it was also well to be wary, to lay no hasty hand upon and drag forth mysteries which could not bear the light of day. Leonard was brilliant; but brilliancy was not caution. Theological argumentation, to be convincing, must be obscure; mystification, rather than conviction, is the prop of faith.
"I'm sorry he's in trouble," observed the lady.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Inevitable!" he exclaimed. "He's obstinate and conceited. His last pamphlet, 'Dr. Burley's True Meaning,' is monstrous. What right had he to give Burley away in that manner? If Burley had wanted to state his meaning, wouldn't he have done it? Leonard swallows the whole Westminster Confession at a gulp, and points out that Hampton and Burley do the same thing. What maladroit presumption! He ought to know that Hampton only bolts the morsel because it must. Its contortions during the process of deglutition ought to be charitably concealed. Who is Leonard that he should tear away the veil which hides a harrowing spectacle?"
Which burst of eloquence was not wholly intelligible to the lady, who, however, saw the need of dragging the doctor down from his hobby. "Well, he must not discuss these matters with his wife," she said, "if you disapprove."
"No. For ladies in the condition of our patient the Westminster Confession is too lurid. Needless to say to a matron of your experience that in the case of a bereaved young mother the brain should not be excited, the affections over-stimulated, the fancy be allowed to rove at will, either amid the joys of heaven or the horrors of hell."