THE DEVIL WALKS TO AND FRO IN HAMPTON.
The ancient city of Hampton and its Theological Seminary are well known.
To the wanderer under the elms of the quaint old town there is imparted
an impression of cleanliness and a serene complacency, derived,
doubtless, from the countenances of the many who, clad in sombre vesture
and clean linen, pass and repass in the quiet streets. No man can be
long in Hampton without feeling the theological influence; unconsciously
the wayfarer adopts the prevailing manner, becomes deliberate in his
walk and grave of aspect; his moral tone acquires rigidity, his taste
severity; he inwardly rejoices if clad in fitting black and secretly
covets gold-rimmed spectacles.
The best hotel, facing the Square, has the Hampton air, being even
severely theological in aspect. Ordinary commercial travelers prefer
"The United States," also a grave hostelry, though less austere in tone;
but some descend at "The Hampton," reverend appearing gentlemen these,
with white chokers conspicuous, and dealing in churchly wares and
theological publications.
In this house Leonard had lived since his father's death had made the
old home desolate, being, by reason of his personal as well as his
professional attributes, a guest of note; and here there happened to him
one day a new and strange experience.
He was breakfasting, later than his usual hour, when he became conscious
of the scrutiny of the strangest eyes he had ever seen--eyes belonging
to a woman, who, plainly clad in traveling attire, faced him from an
adjacent table where she sat, with another woman, whose back was toward
Leonard.
The gaze, though fixed, was not in appearance intentionally bold. The
woman's eyes, dreamy, languishing, seemed to sink into his own, as
though seeking what might be in the depths they tried to penetrate. It
was as though, for them, the veil behind which man hides his inner self
was lifted, and a sense of pleasure stole over him and willingness to
surrender to this scrutiny; withal a shrinking from disclosure of that
which he instinctively felt was unknown, even to himself. It required
some effort to rise and leave the room.
An hour later, while waiting for the time of his morning lecture, and
hardly freed as yet from the sensation resulting from his breakfast
experience, while sitting in the spacious hall of the quiet house, he
suddenly became aware of drapery, and looking up, encountered the eyes
again; not as he had been seeing them since he had escaped them, but
again bodily where they belonged, under the heavy brows of a dark-faced,
large, and rather handsome woman.
"Pardon," she said in musical tones, and with a scarce perceptible smile
at the ruddy flush which mantled his face. "_Est ce Monsieur Claghorn?_"
"Surely," exclaimed Leonard, "this is not----"
"The maid of Mademoiselle Claghorn," she replied, still in French. "The
clerk indicated you as Monsieur----"
"Certainly. Your mistress----"
"This way, Monsieur." She led him toward the parlor, and had his ears
been keen enough, he might have heard her murmur: "_Il est adorable._"
Natalie had been, in Leonard's eyes, a very beautiful girl, and he found
her now a very beautiful woman. She was tall, dark, slender and
indescribably graceful, as well as with the nameless manner, born with
some and never in perfection acquired, of exceeding yet not obtrusive
graciousness. Had she been born a duchess, she could not have had a
better manner; had she been born a washerwoman, it would have been as
good, for it was born, not made. The mere beauty of her face was hardly
remembered in contemplation of qualities apparent, yet not wholly
comprehensible. Ordinarily serene, if not joyous in expression, there
was an underlying sadness that seldom left it. Perhaps she still grieved
for the father she had lost; perhaps, unconsciously, she craved the love
or the religion which the Marquise had said a woman needs.
The travelers were on their way to Easthampton, having arrived in the
night train from New York. On learning that less than an hour's drive
would bring her to the home of Miss Claghorn, Natalie declined Leonard's
escort. "I wish to see my grand-aunt alone," she explained. "She has
written a most kind invitation----"
"Which I hope you will accept, Cousin."
"Which I greatly desire to accept, but----"
"If for any reason," he interrupted, "you should decide not to accept
Cousin Achsah's invitation, I know that at Stormpoint----"
"I have letters from both Mrs. Joe and Paula; but my first duty, and my
inclination as well, take me to my father's aunt."
Though he had at first agreed with Paula that residence with Miss Achsah
would not "do" for Natalie, he saw the fitness of her decision. She
recognized her own status as a Claghorn and appreciated the Claghorn
claim upon her. "I am glad you feel so," he said. "You will discern
Cousin Achsah's real excellence beneath an exterior which, at first
sight, may seem unpromising. She is not French, as you will soon
discover, but as for true kindness----"
She interrupted with a laugh. "You and Mr. Winter are both eloquent in
apologizing for my grand-aunt's sort of kindness, which, it seems,
differs from the French variety."
"We only mean she will seem to you undemonstrative. She is very
religious."
"That does not alarm me; everybody is--except myself," and now her laugh
had a cadence of sadness.
It touched him. He knew the task laid out for him by Providence, and he
felt that he ought to say a fitting word. But all the time he knew that
the eyes of the maid were upon him. The knowledge made him appear
somewhat constrained--he who ordinarily had an ease of manner, which was
not the least of his charms.
"They are well at Stormpoint, of course?" questioned Natalie. "Mrs. Joe
and Paula?"
"Perfectly. You will be charmed with their home. Mrs. Claghorn has
transformed a desert. The sea----"
"Paula sent me some views, and better, an appreciative description. I
should think they would never wish to leave it--none of them?" She
looked inquiringly at him.
"As to that," he laughed, "Mrs. Joe flits occasionally; and, of course,
Paula with her. But they are becoming more and more content to remain at
home. Mrs. Joe is quite a public character."
"A chatelaine--the head of the house?" Again her eyes questioned more
insistently than her lips.
"Quite so," was the answer. "Mark's a rover. He's in Russia."
A sigh of relief--or regret? It was quickly checked. Leonard noticed her
pallor. "You are tired," he said. "Why not rest for an hour or two here?
If you will do so, I can myself drive you to Easthampton. Just now I
must attend to my class at the Seminary."
But she would not wait for his escort; so he procured a conveyance, and
surmising that, under the circumstances, the maid was an embarrassment,
he suggested providing her with a book and the hospitality of his
sitting-room, and having seen his cousin depart, he conducted
Mademoiselle Berthe to his room and handed her a volume of the "Revue
des Deux Mondes," which the maid accepted graciously.
"There," he said pleasantly, and in his best French, "you can look out
of the window or read, as you please. I hope you will not find the time
long."
She smiled in reply. Her penetrating eyes sought that other self within
him, which leaped to the call and looked out of his eyes into hers. For
a moment only. His gaze dropped. Wondering, he found himself trembling.
"I--I shall look in in an hour, to see if you want anything."
"Monsieur is very good," murmured Berthe. They were not far apart; her
hand touched his. She looked downward.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly.
She watched him crossing the square toward the Seminary. There was a
half smile upon her lips. "He is adorable," she murmured again. "Ah! I
thought so," as Leonard, now some hundred yards away, looked back.
When he had disappeared she lazily inspected her surroundings, noting
the various objects with faint interest. "_Son pere_," she muttered as
her glance fell upon the portrait of Professor Jared Claghorn. But she
examined more minutely that of his mother. "_Belle femme_," was her
comment, and though her eyes wandered from the picture, they often
returned to it, verifying the close resemblance between it and the
occupant of the room. "Ah-h!" she exclaimed, throwing up her arms, and
then letting them fall listlessly, "_Qu'il est beau_!"
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 bete_,"
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 passages. 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 circumstances 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 circumstance, 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 class-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.