Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 13

Then she tried to doze, but without much success, twitching nervously and occasionally muttering impatiently; and, at length, she rose from her chair and began to deliberately inspect the various objects lying on table or mantel. Everything that was purely ornamental she scrutinized with care, as though she would read the reason of its being where she found it. There was a peculiar expression of veiled anger in her eyes while thus engaged, and once the veil was momentarily lifted and anger was visible. Nevertheless, she laughed a moment after and replaced the object, an ivory paper cutter, where she had found it. "_T'es bte_,"

she muttered.

But soon her dark eyes flashed actual rage. She had taken a prettily bound book of poems from the table, where it had been thrown, as if but recently read. She turned the pages, half carelessly, yet with a sharp eye, to see if there were any marked pa.s.sages. She found one or two such, and it would have been diverting, had there been a spectator present, to note her perplexed attempts to read Mrs. Browning. But the language was beyond her powers, and she was about impatiently to replace the book when she noticed the fly-leaf, whereon in a neat, clear hand was written the inscription, "Leonard, from Paula." She stared at these innocent words with a glare that under no circ.u.mstances could have been regarded as amusing. Finally, she tore the leaf from the book and flung the book itself disdainfully from her. Then she crumpled the leaf in her hand, threw it into the waste basket, and deliberately spat upon it.

Which strange proceeding perhaps soothed her irritation, for she lay back in her chair, and after breathing hard for a little while, was soon sleeping peacefully.

Meantime, while Mademoiselle slept the sleep of one who has spent the night in travel, Leonard lectured, but less fluently than was usual. A man out of sorts is not an uncommon circ.u.mstance, and though his flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and occasional bungling speech were sufficiently remarkable in one ordinarily engrossed with his subject, nothing was said to further disturb his equanimity.

The lecture over, he walked across the square, less equable in spirit than he had been in the cla.s.s-room; for there he had striven to retain his grasp of the topic in hand; now he was under no restraint and could surrender himself to contemplation--of what?

Of the stirring touch of a woman's hand, of the vision of a new world, a glimpse of which he had caught in the greedy depths of a woman's eyes.

Even now he was hurrying to see these things again, while he was angry that they drew him back.

He overcame the attraction, and deliberately sat down upon a bench. He watched a little girl playing about, and might have remained watching had not the devil, who sometimes walks to and fro and up and down in Hampton, intervened.

The child was suddenly struck by a ball, batted by an urchin, who, on seeing what he had done, incontinently took to his heels. She fell, stunned, almost at Leonard's feet. The impact of the ball had seemed frightful, and for a moment Leonard thought she was killed.

The hotel was across the street. He carried her thither, intending to summon a physician, but on seeing some returning signs of animation, he took his burden to his room and laid her on the bed.

Berthe, her nap over, had witnessed the scene in the park. She heard Leonard lay the child on the bed in the chamber adjoining the room in which she sat, and was instantly by the bedside with her traveling bag, from which she produced restoratives. She gave her whole attention to the sufferer, while he looked on, pleased with these gentle ministrations.

"It may be a bad hurt," said Berthe, undoubted pity in her tone. "The brain may be injured."

"I will call the doctor,'" he said.

The doctor was at hand, his room being on the same corridor. His opinion was that no serious damage had been done. "Let her rest awhile. If she seems unusually drowsy, let me know," with which words and a glance at Mademoiselle, he returned to his room.

Berthe knelt beside the child, who was growing alarmed as her intelligence became normally acute. The Frenchwoman prattled soothingly, and Leonard stooped to add some words of encouragement. He stroked the child's hair, and his hand met the soft hand of Berthe and was enclosed within it. He trembled as she drew him downward, and a sob escaped him as his lips met hers and lingered on them in a rapturous kiss.

CHAPTER XII.

HER EYES GREW LIMPID AND HER CHEEKS FLUSHED RED.

When the carriage, which was to convey her to Easthampton, had started, Natalie commenced the re-perusal of Miss Claghorn's invitation, which ran thus:

"My Dear Grand-niece--I address you thus, for though I have never seen you, yet you are of my kindred, and all who bear your name must be dear to me. Your father was so in his youth, and if, in later years, he neglected, if he did not forget, the ties of kinship and of country, I nevertheless mourned for him, even though sensible that all things are ordered by the Lord of heaven and earth and that human regret is useless, and, if unaccompanied with resignation, sinful. Mr. Winter writes me that you are friendless. I offer that which you can justly claim from me--my friendship and a home. As far as earthly cares are concerned, I am willing to relieve you of those incident to your situation. This is plainly my duty, and for many years I have striven, with G.o.d's help, to perform with a cheerful spirit that which I have been called upon to do.

"It is this habit which impels me here to refer to your views concerning man's duty toward his Maker. I do not, because conscientiously I cannot, agree with those who profess tolerance in these matters. There should be no tolerance of sin. If we would worthily follow in the steps of Him who died that we might live, we must hate the devil and his children in the same measure that we love our Father and his children.

Whose child are you?

"This is a solemn question. I urge you to seek its answer at the Throne. If you will do this, my hope will be mighty. Should you be tempted to resent my solicitude, remember that my religion is a part of my nature, the only part meriting your respect, and that it requires of me that which I have written, as well as much more not set down here, but of which I hope I shall see the fruits. Come to me as soon as possible, and be a.s.sured of a welcome. ACHSAH CLAGHORN."

The girl smiled, though sadly, as she read this letter. She did not resent the fact that it was confessedly inspired solely by a sense of duty; she rather admired the writer for the uncompromising statement; nor was she offended at the sermon contained in the epistle, or inclined to treat it lightly. It is not probable that the writer of the letter believed that her exhortation would sink deeply in the heart of an "atheist," she being probably unaware that some who know not G.o.d crave a knowledge which they find nowhere offered.

The drive was long, the horse sleepy, the driver willing that his steed should doze, while his pa.s.senger paid by the hour, for which reason he had chosen the longer road by the sea.

She looked out upon the water with a gaze of longing, as though there might arise from out the solitary deep a vision which would solve that great mystery, which for Miss Claghorn and such as she, was no mystery, but wherein most of us grope as in a fog. But, as to other yearning eyes, so to hers no vision was vouchsafed; though had her sight been strengthened by experience, she might have seen, symbolized in the waters, the life of man. For, against the sh.o.r.e the fretful waves were spent and lost in sand, whereof each particle was insignificant, but which in the ma.s.s absorbed the foaming billows, as the vain aspirations of youth absorb its futile energies. Beyond was the green water, still tireless and vexed, and then the smoother blue, as it neared the sky-line, undisturbed, until afar the waters lay at rest in hopeless patience, and the heavens came down and hid the secret of what lay beyond.

But, if youth looked with the eyes of age, there were no youth. She was not yet to know lessons which must be hardly learned, and it was not that one offered by the waters that she saw as she looked out upon the ocean. Far beyond the horizon, in a distant land, her eyes beheld the garden of a village inn where sat a girl, prattling with her father and commenting upon two dusty strangers, who in their turn were eyeing the maid and her companion curiously. She saw the cave, heard Leonard shout the name--and then Mark Claghorn stood before her--as he then had stood, in the jaunty cap and ribbon which proclaimed him "_Bursch_"; one of those lawless beings of whom she had heard much school-girl prattle.

Even then she had contrasted the handsomer face of the simple-minded boy beside her with the harsher and more commanding features of this newcomer. And her fancy wandered on through pleasant German saunterings and Parisian scenes among the churches--to the day when Berthe Lenoir had said that Mark would be her teacher in the lore of love; and she knew that, in the moment of that saying, she had learned the great lesson, never to be forgotten.

She had cherished the secret without hope or wish that he should share it, for she knew that so sweet a thing could live in no heart but her own; and she had not been ashamed, but had been proud of this holy acquisition hidden in her heart of hearts. Her eyes grew limpid and her cheeks flushed red as she recalled how the shrine of her treasure had been profaned by the hand of one that might have known, but had disdained its worth. In the Church of St. Roch the three who had been present when love was born were again alone together. Berthe was now her maid, and Mark, his university days past, was a daily visitor at her father's house.

The scene was clear before her as he pointed to the maid, out of earshot, and gazing carelessly at the worshippers. "Has she forgotten--so soon?" he said. "Are women so?"

She had not answered. Forgotten! Who could forget?

"I have not forgotten. I often come here, Natalie."

She had had no words. What was it that had so joyously welled up within her and overflowed her eyes and closed her lips?

"I was to be your teacher, Natalie."

She looked into his eyes, and from her own went out the secret of her soul into his keeping; and she had been glad, and the gloomy church had been aglow, and as they pa.s.sed out the sun shone and the heavens smiled upon a new world; for she had never seen it thus before.

That was the short chapter of the history of her love. There had been no other. He had ravished her secret that he might disdain it, and next day had said a stern good-bye, spoken as though forever.

Yet she had dared to come here, though now the impulse was strong upon her to turn and flee from a region where he might be met. It was but an impulse; for either she must come among these her relatives or return to throw herself into the arms of the vacuous hussar who loved her dowry, or failing that, into the strife and importunity from which she had escaped. Resentful pride, too, came to her aid, bidding her not flee from him who had disdained her love, though even so she knew that that which had been born within her had been so fondly cherished, had grown so mighty, that in the heart it filled there was no room for pride to grow with equal strength.

She turned again to the letter in her hand. Her unbelief had never stilled the longing to believe, and now, in the hunger of her soul, the yearning was strong. But, she asked herself, What was belief? There was much glib talk of faith, but what was faith? Could one have faith by saying that one had it? Was conviction mere a.s.sertion? The letter advised her to seek enlightenment at the Throne of G.o.d. What meaning could the words have except that she was to crave that which she had ever craved? Her soul had always cried aloud for knowledge of G.o.d. Could it be that formal words, repeated kneeling, would compel heaven to give ear? Was it thus that people experienced what they called religion? Was it so that Miss Claghorn had found it?

Such musings came to an end with her arrival at the White House. She had announced her coming by letter, wherefore Tabitha Cone, recognizing the ident.i.ty of the visitor and mentally p.r.o.nouncing her a "stunner,"

ushered her into the gloomy parlor, and informed Miss Claghorn that "'Liph's daughter" awaited her.

"I decided to call in person before accepting your kind invitation,"

said the visitor.

"I learn from Ellis Winter that you need a home," replied Miss Achsah, a little stiffly, but rather from awe of this blooming creature than from dislike.

"I am grateful for your offer of one; but in fairness, I thought you should know my reasons for leaving France, and essential that you should justify me."

Miss Claghorn a.s.sented not ungraciously. The frank demeanor of her visitor pleased her. "A Claghorn," was her mental comment, as Natalie told her story more in detail than Mr. Winter had done.

"You see," she added to her narrative of the matrimonial pursuit of the gallant de Fleury, "he is not a man that I could like, but my cousin----"

"You mean this French Markweeze?"

Natalie nodded. "She is a sweet woman, and undoubtedly believed herself right in the matter. Then it was, doubtless, a very serious disappointment. Lieutenant de Fleury is her son; they are comparatively poor; I am not--and so--and so----"

"You were quite right to run away," snapped Miss Achsah, with the emphasis born of indignation at this attempt to coerce a Claghorn.

"It must not be forgotten that, from her point of view, my cousin was justified in expecting me to carry out a promise made by my father. It was this that made her so persistent and induced her to attempt measures that were not justifiable. To her I must seem ungrateful for much kindness." The girl's eyes glistened with tears. In fact, this view of her conduct, which was doubtless the view of the Marquise, affected her deeply. She did not state, though aware of the fact, that her own income had, during her residence with her French guardian, been mainly used to sustain and freshen the very faded glory of the house of Fleury.

"Well, my dear," was the comment of Miss Claghorn, "I have listened to your story and justify your course; and now I repeat my invitation."