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Mr. Claghorn's Daughter.
BY HILARY TRENT.
Copyright, 1903, by J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company
All Rights Reserved.
NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET.
CONTENTS
I. A Philosopher and a Marchioness
II. Two Pagans Discuss Fish, Paris and the Higher Criticism
III. A Cousin in the Coils of the Great Serpent
IV. The Diversions of the Claghorns
V. How a Pagan Philosopher Entered the Service of the Church
VI. Art, Diplomacy, Love and Other Things
VII. A Conference of Spinsters Concerning a Runaway Damsel
VIII. A Maiden Fair, a Modern Early Father and a Theologian
IX. The Advantages of Treading the Borderland of Vice
X. A Youth of Promise, a Female Politician, and a Yellow Man
XI. The Devil Walks To and Fro in Hampton
XII. Her Eyes Grew Limpid and Her Cheeks Flushed Red
XIII. Whereat Cynics and Matrons May Smile Incredulous
XIV. In the White House--A Damsel or the Devil, Which?
XV. Sur le Pont d'Avignon on y Danse, on y Danse
XVI. Warblings in the White House and Snares for a Soul
XVII. The Secret of Her Heart Was Never Told by Her to Him
XVIII. A Lover Writes a Letter
XIX. A Kiss that Might Have Lingered on His Lips While Seeking Entrance
at the Gate of Heaven
XX. A Dishonest Veiling of a Woman's Heart
XXI. A Man About to Meet a Maid
XXII. Man Walketh in a Vain Shadow
XXIII. A Parson Treads the Primrose Path in Paris
XXIV. To Him I will be Henceforth True in All Things
XXV. Mrs. Joe on Clerical Bumptiousness and Mrs. Fenton's Shoulders
XXVI. Introduces Dr. Stanley, Satan and the Prayer Meeting of Matrons
XXVII. The Music of the Chorus of the Anguish of the Damned
XXVIII. Cursing and Beating Her Breast, She Falls Upon the Grave
XXIX. Dr. Stanley Discourses Concerning the Diversions of the Saints
XXX. Startling Effect of Dr. Burley's True Meaning
XXXI. He Clasped Her Lithe Body with a Clutch of Fury
XXXII. A Paean of Victory Hymned in Hell
XXXIII. A Delectable Discussion in Which a Shakesperian Matron is Routed
XXXIV. When Manhood is Lost Woman's Time is Come
XXXV. A Bottle of Champagne
XXXVI. She Cried Aloud She Was a Guilty Creature
XXXVII. A Golden Bridge for Passage Across an Abyss of Shame
XXXVIII. The Ruins of Her Air Castles Lay Around Her
XXXIX. Voidable Vows of Turks (and Others)
XL. Her Face Was the Mirror of Her Pleasant Dreams
XLI. Her Guilty Conscience Cried, "Behold Your Handiwork"
XLII. I Will Never Leave Him, So Help Me God!
XLIII. Money, Heaps of Money
XLIV. Wedding Bells
PREFACE.
Some readers of this novel will charge the author with the crime of
laying a sacrilegious hand upon the Ark of God; others will characterize
his work as an assault upon a windmill.
I contend (and the fact, if it be a fact, is ample justification for
this book) that The Westminster Confession of Faith has driven many
honest souls to the gloom of unbelief, to the desperate need of a denial
of God; and that to-day a very large number of the adherents of that
Confession find it possible to maintain their faith in God only by
secret rejection of a creed they openly profess.
Take from that Confession those Articles which give rise to the dilemma
which confronts the wife and mother of this story, and nothing is left.
The articles in question are the essential articles of the Confession.
He who can in honesty say of The Westminster Confession of Faith: "This
is my standard: by this sign I shall conquer," he, and he only, has the
right to condemn my purpose.
HILARY TRENT.
MR. CLAGHORN'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I.
A PHILOSOPHER AND A MARCHIONESS.
Mr. (by preference Monsieur) Beverley Claghorn, of the Rue de la Paix,
Paris, was a personage of some note in that world in which he had lived
for many years. His slightly aquiline nose and well-pointed moustache,
his close-cropped grizzled hair, his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his hat, his
boots--his attire as a whole--successfully appealed to a refined taste.
The sapphire, encircled by tiny diamonds, which adorned his little
finger, beautiful to the common eye, was, in the eye of the connoisseur,
a rare and exquisite gem. Except as to an inch or two of stature, the
outward man of Monsieur Claghorn left nothing to be desired; while as to
his intellectual calibre, he to whom it was best known regarded it with
respect, even with admiration; his moral deportment had never occasioned
scandal; with the goods of this world he was liberally endowed. As a
philosopher (for he affected that character) he should have been a
contented man; being human, as philosophers must be, he was not. As
against the advantages indicated, Monsieur had grievances incompatible
with contentment. He was nearer sixty than forty, which was one cause of
sorrow; another was that, in spite of the effort of years, he had not in
fact become a Parisian. He had succeeded in approaching the type very
nearly; nevertheless, though his card might proclaim him "Monsieur" and
imply its owner to the Gallic manner born, the truth remained that he
was not so born. His language, by dint of effort, aided by native
talent, had become almost as easy and as idiomatic as the enunciations
of those who formed the world in which he dwelt, yet he was poignantly
aware that therein was still to be detected an echo of the twang of his
youth and of his native tongue. His surname, too, as a stumbling block
to his friends, was a source of vexation. Had he been born a Dobbins, a
mere apostrophe would have made him a d'Obbins and content. But the
uncompromising appellation of his ancestors refused to lend itself to a
fraud, though venial, and even ennobling, and thus remained a source of
repining; a gentle regret that his cognomen was not more fitting to his
environment. But as to his name received in baptism, therewith was
connected a grief so deep and a dread so great, that it was, perhaps,
the most baleful of his closeted skeletons. Fortune having so far
enabled Monsieur to hide the sorrow connected with his Christian name,
let us also leave the matter to fortune.
To enumerate all the grievances of our philosopher would be a tedious
task, but there was one of such magnitude that it may be regarded as the
great grievance of his existence. This was Christianity.
That earnest conviction of the truth of orthodox Christianity should
incite to propagandism is easily comprehensible. A reasonable sinner
will not complain of the believer's desire to save errant souls; indeed,
he may well be amazed that the believer engages in any other occupation.
But why the rage for proselytizing should inspire the non-believer is
less obvious. Why should the heathen rage because the zealot is deluded
by hope and his eyes deceived by the cheering illusions offered by
faith? If the rough road of the Christian wayfarer, its gloomy valleys
and dark caverns are smoothed and illumined by the cheering light of
conviction, why should the skeptic object, and beckon the fervent
pilgrim from his chosen path to that broader and more alluring road
selected by himself? Can it be that, like a boy who fears the coming
darkness, the skeptic craves companionship, suspecting hobgoblins after
sunset?
Monsieur Claghorn was indignant that the world, as he knew it, either
professed a more or less orthodox belief in God, or cared nothing about
the matter. Both attitudes aroused his ire.
"My dear Claghorn," urged his connexion, the Marquise de Fleury, "why
not leave these matters to Pere Martin, as I do? I assure you it is
comforting," and the little matron shrugged her rather sharp
shoulder-blades and nestled more snugly in the corner of her blue-silk
sofa.
"It is degrading to the intellect."
"Ah! The intellect--I have none; I am all soul."
"You--the brightest woman in Paris!"
"Too broad, _mon ami_. Exaggeration destroys the delicate flavor of a
compliment."
"Louise, you are in a bad humor. Evidently, you don't like your gown."
"The gown is ravishing, as you should have seen before this. It is you,
my friend, who are angry. To what end? Angry at nothing? That is
foolish. Angry at something? Considering that that Something is God----"
"There you have it,--fear. Women rule men through their passions; and
priests rule women through their fears."
"_Eh bien!_ Have it so. You deny God. It is daring--splendid--but what
do you gain, what do you gain, _mon ami_?"
"I deny your impossible God, and in so doing, I retain my self-respect."
"A valuable possession, doubtless. Yet the fact remains that you fight
windmills, or you fight the power that loosens the hurricane. Futile
warfare!"
Monsieur shrugged his shoulders. A woman's argument is rarely worthy the
attention of a philosopher.
"Behold," continued the little Marquise, "behold Pere Martin. He is
good; he is wise. What has he to gain? Only heaven. He sacrifices much
on earth--pleasure, dignity, power----"
"He has more power than a king----"
"Listen, my friend, and do not interrupt. If he has power over me and
such as I--which is what you mean--he uses it discreetly, kindly. I
enjoy life, I hope for heaven. You enjoy life, of heaven you have no
hope. Which of us is wise?"
"You believe because you think it safer."
"_Dame, mon ami!_ It costs nothing."
"It is cowardly."
"Ah, well, my friend, I am a coward. Let us discuss something less
gruesome. This charming Natalie! You will let her come to me, now that
she is to leave the barbarians?"
"I, too, am a coward. I fear Pere Martin."
"Believe me, my friend," said the Marquise, more seriously than she had
yet spoken, "you do wrong. Women need religion. They must adore; they
must sacrifice themselves to the object of their worship. As a rule they
have a choice. They may worship God or they may worship Love. To one or
the other they will devote themselves or miss their destiny. Which is
less dangerous?"
"There is danger everywhere," replied the philosopher, discontentedly.
"But, indeed, Louise, this matter is more serious to me, the unbeliever,
than to you, the Christian. You Latins do not comprehend the reverence
we of a different race assign to principle. I think it wrong, immoral,
to expose my daughter to an atmosphere of falsehood."
"Monsieur, you are unjust to us Latins; and worse, you are impolite."
"I am serious. I think Christianity the curse of mankind."
"And you object to it. That is magnanimous."
"Natalie has been left in total ignorance of all religion."
"Charming--but hardly _de rigueur_ for a de Fleury."
"She is a Claghorn."
"An excellent thing to be; enviable indeed, my dear,--in America. But
she will be a Parisienne; we hope a de Fleury, of a house by inheritance
religious. The wife of the Marquis de Fleury must uphold the family
traditions. Do you not see, my friend, that it is thirty generations of
nobles that insist."
Monsieur Claghorn, though in doubt as to God, believed in the
generations. He had long looked forward to the time when his daughter
should be united to the last scion of this ancient race. True, the
title was in these days purely ornamental; but, though a philosopher, he
was not of that unwise class which can see no value in adornment. He
suspected that the noble Marquis, whose coronet he craved for his
daughter, as well as his mama, the little lady to whom he was talking,
were in truth as much interested in the material as in the spiritual
attributes of the future mother of the race, but he was also aware that
there were other influences to be considered.
"Perhaps Pere Martin is even more insistent than the thirty
generations," he suggested.
"Even so, my friend; when Pere Martin insists it is my conscience that
insists."
"After all, Louise, this discussion is premature. Adolphe is still at
St. Cyr, Natalie at school----"
"But to-day we prepare for to-morrow. Adolphe will soon be a lieutenant,
your daughter a woman. Let her come to me. Our prayers, those of Pere
Martin and mine, cannot harm her."
"Assuredly not, still----"
"But my good pagan, do you intend to refuse? Is it worth nothing to your
daughter to be introduced by the Marquise de Fleury?"
It was worth so much that M. Claghorn had no intention of refusing. "And
Adolphe?" he asked.
"Will remain at St. Cyr. Fear nothing, my friend. I shall do nothing in
that matter without consulting you."
"You are always kind. It shall be as you wish." And then, after some
further indifferent conversation, the Marquise was by M. Claghorn handed
to her carriage for a promenade in the Bois; while the philosopher,
after that act of courtesy, left her to visit La Duchesne, a fashionable
seeress, who prophesied as to the course of stocks.