A COUSIN IN THE COILS OF THE GREAT SERPENT.
Professor and the Reverend Jared Claghorn has already intimated that the
name Eliphalet was an honored one in the family. An Eliphalet Claghorn
had been a man of mark among the Pilgrims. His eldest son had borne his
parent's name and had succeeded to the clerical vocation; an example
which he had imposed upon his own first-born, and thus became
established the custom of giving to a son of each Eliphalet the name of
his father, in the pleasing hope that he who bore the revered
appellation might be called to serve in the Lord's fold, as shepherd of
the flock; which hope had generally been realized. In due course that
Eliphalet who was destined to beget Beverley had been called, had
answered the summons, and at the birth of his only son, had, with
confident expectation of a similar call to the latter, named his name
"Eliphalet."
In time the call was heard. The youth, fully assured that he, like the
ancestral Eliphalets, would find his field of labor in the vineyard of
God, had gone so far in acceptance of his solemn duty as to enter the
well-known Theological Seminary at Hampton, there to fit himself for the
only future he had ever contemplated.
Then a shock had come,--a great legacy from one of two California
brothers, both long given up as dead. From the moment this fortune came
into his possession, the father of Beverley Claghorn, always a stern and
gloomy man, the product of a ruthless creed, knew no day of peace. He
craved worldly distinction--not the pleasures which beckoned his
son--with a craving which only a starved nature with powers fitting to
the world can know. On the other hand, a rigid sense of duty, perhaps,
too, the gloomy joy of martyrdom, urged him to reject a temptation which
he persuaded himself was offered by the Prince of Darkness. He remained
outwardly true to his duty, an unhappy soldier at the post assigned
him, and died as his fathers had died, in the odor of sanctity; in his
heart hankering to the last for the joys offered by the world to him who
has wealth, and to the last sternly rejecting them.
Secretly, though with bitter self-condemnation, he had approved his
son's renunciation of the theological course. Not with his lips. It was
impossible for him, stubbornly believing, as he had always believed,
though now with the frequent doubts and fears of the new standpoint he
occupied, to openly approve the intentions displayed by the youth. Yet
he acquiesced in silence, secretly hoping to see the son, who had
commenced the study of the law, a power in the State. That he was never
to see, and it was well that he died before the renegade Eliphalet had
extinguished such hope by voluntary exile.
Beverley's history, or at least that portion of it which he chose to
impart, was told in reply to the eager questioning of Jared. Perhaps he
was not sorry that his old fellow-student should note his air of man of
fashion and aristocrat, and he set forth the renown of the de Fleury
lineage, innocently shocking his cousin by explaining the meaning and
glory of that bar sinister, which he himself revered.
Jared, on his part, narrated at much greater length than his auditor
sympathetically appreciated, the history of his own life. He, too, had
married brilliantly--a Morley, as he informed his cousin, and one who,
dying, had left him well endowed with this world's goods, and it may be
that it was by reason of this fact, as well as because of superior
attainments, that the speaker had developed into a teacher in that same
seminary where the two had been fellow-students.
"Yes," he said in a tone of satisfaction, "I hold down the chair of
Biblical Theology in Hampton. You would hardly recognize the old Sem,
El--Beverley."
"I suppose not. I shall make a flying trip there some day."
"A flying trip! Surely you don't intend to abandon your country
forever?"
"Not unlikely. You see, I am more of a Frenchman than anything else, and
my daughter is quite French."
"She speaks English?"
"Oh, as to that, as well as anybody. She has been largely educated in
England. But her relatives, I mean those that she knows, look upon her
as belonging wholly to them, and----"
"I trust she is not a Romanist, Cousin."
"You mean a Catholic. Make your mind easy; she is not."
"I truly rejoice to hear it," exclaimed Jared with fervor. "But I might
have known," he added apologetically, "that a Claghorn would not suffer
the perversion of his child." Whereat Monsieur changed the topic.
Meanwhile, the young ones of the party had gone to investigate an echo
in a glen hard by, directed thereto by the host of the Red-Ox. They were
conducted by a stolid maiden, told off for that purpose, a fact which
Monsieur Claghorn, from his place in the garden, noted with
satisfaction.
Freed from the restraint of the presence of the philosopher, whose
raiment and bearing had inspired him with awe, Leonard's engaging
simplicity and frank manner added to the favorable impression of his
beautiful face.
The charms of nature about them were attractive to both and it was easy
to become acquainted, with so much of interest in common. The girl's
enthusiasm, somewhat dampened by the philosopher, returned in the
presence of a sympathetic listener, and she told the tale of their
wanderings, concluding by expressing the opinion that Germany must be
the most delightful of all countries.
"This part is fine," said Leonard. "But wait until you see the Black
Forest."
"I hope to see it when we leave Heidelberg. Is the wine good?"
"I don't know," was the answer. "I didn't drink any wine."
"It must be very bad if you wouldn't drink it," she observed
despondently. "Papa scolds about the wine of the Bergstrasse, which, for
my part, I find very good. Then, at the better inns one isn't confined
to the vintage of the neighborhood."
"Surely, you don't drink wine!" exclaimed Leonard.
"Not drink wine! What should I do with it?"
"It biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder," he quoted
gravely, not at all priggishly. He was sincere in his confidence in
Solomon, and his surprise and sorrow were honest.
"Wine does!" she laughed. "I never knew that before. Don't Americans
drink wine?"
"Some do," he admitted. "Our best people do not drink. We think the
example bad."
"_Par example!_ And how do your best people manage at dinner?"
"With water."
"Decidedly, I should not like dining with your best people."
"But, Cousin Natalie--that is a very pretty name;" here he blushed
engagingly--"wine makes one drunk."
"Certainly, if one gets drunk."
"Then, how can you drink wine?"
The question and the serious manner of its asking were incomprehensible
to the girl, who laughed at the incongruity of the ideas suggested by
drinking wine on the one hand, and getting drunk on the other. Then the
subject was dropped; perhaps they recognized that it was enveloped in
clouds of misunderstanding which were impenetrable.
The glen in which dwells the echo of Forellenbach is like a roofless
cave, or a great well with a side entrance. Its floor being wet, Natalie
remained at the entrance, trusting there to hear whatever might be worth
hearing. Leonard passed into the well.
He looked back. She stood in the light, smiling upon this new-found
cousin, who had such strange ideas as to wine, but withal, her eyes were
kindly. If either had any premonition of the future, it must have been
false or partial, or they had not faced each other smiling. He had
intended to shout aloud her pretty name and thus to test the echo; but
instinct warned him that this was hardly fitting. So, perhaps, with a
vague desire to connect her with the trial, he compromised, and the word
he shouted was "Claghorn."
It was returned to him in various modulations from all sides. The
effect was startling, but even more so were the words that fell upon his
ear as the echoes died away: "Who are you, and what do you want?"
The question came from above. Leonard, looking upward, saw the face of a
youth who, from the top of the cliff, was peering down. Upon the head of
this person, rakishly worn, was a blue cap, braided with silver and red
velvet. The face had penetrating eyes, rather stern, and a mouth shaded
by a dark moustache. The question was repeated, it seemed to Leonard
truculently: "What do you want?"
The words were German, but easily understood. Leonard answered in
English: "I don't want you."
"Then, why did you call me?" Now the words were English and the tone
awakened Leonard's resentment. "Do you suppose that every one that tries
the echo is calling you?" he asked.
"You called me. Why?"
Leonard labored under the disadvantage of hearing all that was said
repeated many times. It was irritating; nor was the tone of the other
pacific. It was even war-like. "I didn't address you," he said. "I do
now: Be silent!"
The other laughed. "_Bist ein dummer Junge_, my son," he said. "I
suppose you are a student. Get your card."
He disappeared, evidently with a view of intercepting Leonard who,
emerging from the cave, met him almost at Natalie's side.
The newcomer was surprised to see the girl. "I beg your pardon," he
said, removing his cap; then, aside to Leonard: "I will accept your card
on another occasion, if you prefer. You are a student of Heidelberg, I
suppose?"
"I am a student, certainly, of Hampton, in the United States. I have no
card. My name is Claghorn."
The sternness of the newcomer gave place to astonishment. "I beg your
pardon, and your sister's," he said, glancing at Natalie. "My name
happens to be the same. Naturally, I supposed----"
"The place seems to be alive with Claghorns," exclaimed Leonard.
"And since you are from Hampton, I believe we are related," continued
the newcomer. "Cousins, I suppose. You can't be Professor Claghorn?"
"I can be, and am, his son," laughed Leonard. "You are the third cousin
I have found to-day."
By this time the two elders had joined the party. Monsieur Claghorn had
deemed it advisable, for his daughter's sake, to follow her footsteps.
The Reverend Jared, accompanying him, heard Leonard's words. "A cousin!"
he exclaimed, looking inquiringly at the stranger who made the claim,
and ready gushingly to welcome him.
"I think so," answered the stranger, smiling. "My father was Joseph
Claghorn, of San Francisco."
"He's your first cousin, 'Liph," exclaimed the Reverend Jared,
hesitating no longer, but grasping the unoffered hand of the son of
Joseph. Then he added in an awestruck voice, "You must be the owner of
the Great Serpent?"
"I am in its coils," replied the young man with a half sigh.
"Wonderful!" ejaculated Jared, and then glibly plunged into a
genealogical disquisition for the general benefit, the result of which
was that Claghorn, the son of Joseph, and in the coils of the Great
Serpent, stood demonstrated as the first cousin of Beverley, the second
of Natalie, the third of himself and the fourth of Leonard. The
professorial fluency had the good effect of creating enough hilarity to
dissipate constraint; and its cordiality embraced all present in a
circle of amity, whether they would or not.
But there was no indication of reluctance to cousinly recognition.
Monsieur saw sufficient comedy in the situation to amuse him, nor was he
oblivious of the fascinations of the Great Serpent, which reptile was a
mine, known by repute to all present, and the source of Monsieur's
wealth, for that inheritance that had changed the course of his life had
been thence derived. The dead brother of the now dead Eliphalet had left
his share of the mine to Joseph, his partner, but had divided his
savings between Eliphalet and a sister, Achsah by name. The son of
Joseph, and owner of the Great Serpent, must be in the eyes of anybody
the acceptable person he was in the eyes of Monsieur Claghorn, the more
so as he was thoroughly presentable, being handsome, well dressed, and
with rather more of the air of a man of the world than was usual in one
of his years, which might be twenty-one.
"We have not learned your Christian name," said Jared, after
acquaintance had been established and the youth had been duly informed
of much family history. "I hope your parents named you Eliphalet,"
glancing, not without reproach, at the actual owner of that appellation.
"They spared me that infliction," answered the newcomer, laughing,
"though they hit me pretty hard. My name is Mark"; then, perhaps noting
the faint flush upon the cheek of one of the members of the group, "I
beg pardon; I should have been more respectful of a respectable family
name, which may be borne by some one of you."
"Nobody bears it; you are to be congratulated," observed Monsieur
firmly. The Reverend Jared looked grieved, but said nothing.
Mark Claghorn informed his auditors--there was no escaping the
examination of the Professor--that he was a student at Heidelberg, that
his mother sojourned there with him, that she was a widow, with an
adopted daughter, a distant connexion, named Paula; and having learned
that the entire party was bound for that city he expressed the hope that
all these wandering offshoots of the Claghorn family might there meet
and become better acquainted.