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 God'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
assured 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 God 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 passenger 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 shore the fretful waves were
spent and lost in sand, whereof each particle was insignificant, but
which in the mass 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 passed 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 assertion? The letter
advised her to seek enlightenment at the Throne of God. 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 God. 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
identity of the visitor and mentally pronouncing 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 assented 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."
Had Tabitha Cone seen the gracious manner of the speaker she would have
been as surprised as was the lady herself. But in the presence of this
beautiful face, the evident honesty of the narration of the tale she had
heard, the underlying sadness beneath the serene expression, it would
have needed a harder nature than Miss Claghorn's to be anything but
gracious. But she flushed with self-reproach when Natalie touched upon
what she had for the moment completely forgotten.
"But," exclaimed Natalie, "I have not answered the question in your
letter. The matter of religion, I was led to believe, would be to you
most important. It is to so many; the Marquise, Pere Martin, Mrs.
Leon--have all been grieved--I am an infidel."
The coolness with which this statement was made shocked her auditor even
more than the fact. The perplexed smile upon the girl's face; the
yearning look, that seemed to recognize something wanting in her, some
faculty absent which left her without a clew to the cause of the
successive shocks emanating from her--these things, if only dimly
appreciated by Miss Claghorn, were sufficiently apparent to make her
feel as though a weight had fallen upon her heart. "Oh, my child, that
is an awful thing to say!" she exclaimed.
The way the words were uttered showed that all the tenderness, long
hidden, of the speaker's nature was suddenly called to life. No
exhortation ever heard by Natalie had so affected her as this outburst
of a hard old woman. She seized the other's hand, murmuring, "Dear
Aunt!" She pitied, even while she envied, the victim of superstition, as
the God-fearing woman pitied the errant soul. Neither understood the
source of the other's emotion, but they met in complete sympathy. The
elder woman pressed the hand that had grasped her own, and leaning
toward her grand-niece, kissed her affectionately. What old and
long-dried springs of feeling were awakened in the withered breast as
the oldest descendant of the Puritan preacher yearned over the youngest
of the line? Who shall tell? Perhaps the barren motherhood of the
ancient spinster was stirred for once; perhaps the never-known craving
for a mother's love moved the younger one. For a time both were silent.
"Come to me to-day, at once," whispered Miss Achsah, blushing, had she
known it, and quivering strangely.
The heartiness of the invitation troubled the visitor, whose answer was
less gracious than a chief characteristic required. "I will come
to-day," she answered. "Let it be understood as a visit only." Then she
went out, and in the lumbering carriage was driven back to Hampton.
Miss Claghorn watched her from the window. Gradually she was recovering
herself and secretly feeling mightily ashamed, yet pleased, too. Tabitha
came in.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well," echoed Miss Claghorn, acidly.
"What are you going to do?"
"Pray," replied the lady, as she ascended the stairs.
"Must have forgot it this morning," was Miss Cone's mental comment.