Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 22

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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 a.s.sist 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.

"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 a.s.sure 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. "G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed from view, then she went upstairs. In the hall she pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sionless love of Mark.

The engagement was received with universal favor. It could hardly be otherwise, since all peculiarly interested were of that s.e.x which dearly loves to contemplate a captive man, the only male (Leonard, of course, excepted) being Mark, whose att.i.tude, 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 with _carte blanche_ for 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.