TO HIM I WILL BE HENCEFORTH TRUE IN ALL THINGS.
Mrs. Joe and her train were in London, whither Mark had been summoned on
business; and ever since Madame de Fleury had become aware of the fact
she had urged the party to visit Paris. The Marquise, notwithstanding
her sex, was not devoid of curiosity, and, aside from other advantages
which might accrue to her from the presence of the lady of Stormpoint,
she was anxious that a puzzle which had not a little mystified her be
elucidated. When Mark had visited her after his chance meeting with
Adolphe in the cafe, she had divined his feeling with regard to Natalie,
and had at once jumped to the conclusion that it explained the flight of
her ward. She recalled the intimacy which had existed between the
cousins during the lifetime of the philosopher, an intimacy which she
had gravely disapproved, and concerning which she had more than once
remonstrated. She remembered, too, with vexation and a sense of injury,
that the philosopher had soothed her solicitude for the interests of her
son, by pleading the cousinly customs of Mark's country, as well as by
pointing out the benefit which might accrue to her son by an increased
dowry for his own daughter. Now all these hopes and rosy possibilities
were extinguished; Natalie had appeared on the scene with a husband who
was not Mark, and Mark and Paula were still unwed. These were all
puzzling facts out of which there might be gathered some advantage for
Adolphe. She had concealed from him the hopes which sometimes rose
within her in contemplating the present state of affairs; but she was
very anxious to know what that state portended. She had tried in vain to
extract information from Natalie, and as to Leonard, the matter required
delicate handling. Such inquiries as she had addressed to him had been
of necessity vague, and from his answers she had derived no
satisfaction. He had sometimes idly wondered what the lady was after,
but until the allusion by the Marquis to a mutual mingling of tears by
Mark and himself, Leonard had barely given the matter a thought. He
understood now what the Marquis had implied, and saw the drift of the
maternal questioning. He was annoyed, but only for a moment; he
dismissed the subject as being of equal importance with the hussar's
idea of Paula's infatuation for himself, concerning which he had no
belief whatever.
After the lieutenant had left him, Leonard pursued his way homeward,
vaguely oppressed by a sense of gloom which he attributed to the
weather, which had become lowering. He was near the Church of St. Roch
when a shower drove him inside its portals for shelter.
A few sightseers were wandering about the edifice; an occasional
penitent occupied a chapel with lips close to the grating, on the other
side of which was the ear of the absolver; in the body of the church a
number knelt in prayer.
He looked at these things with curiosity, not unmingled with scorn. His
attention was attracted by a plainly dressed woman standing in a side
aisle; to his surprise, he recognized his wife.
She did not see him as he softly approached her. A sunbeam breaking
through the clouds outside shone through a window and lit up her face,
displaying to him a new expression, a look of yearning and of love which
beautified it; a look he had never seen before; he recognized the fact
with a vague sense of pain.
That which he saw, like that which he felt, was but momentary. She
turned, looking at him at first with an abstracted gaze, then startled,
as though waking from a dream. "Leonard!" she exclaimed in a low voice.
It sounded like fear.
"Even so, my dear. Why are you here alone?"
"I--I--don't know. I was tired."
"Has this spectacle moved you so?" He pointed to the worshippers.
"No, not that. I wish I were as good as they; I have watched them
often."
"Often?" he repeated. He was somewhat indignant at that wish, that she,
his wife, were as good as these idolaters; but it was plain that she was
deeply moved by something, and he was very tender. "Do you come here
often?"
"I have done so, Leonard." There was humility in her tone, there was
confession; had he known it, there was a cry for aid.
"Natalie," he said, with some reproach for her, and feeling not a little
for himself, "I hope you are not attracted by the glitter of Romanism.
Surely you can pray in your closet!"
"I do not pray in the churches," she said. "I did not know that my
visits to them would annoy you."
"Not at all, my dear," he replied. "I can understand that you like to
enjoy the architectural beauties and the solemn influence. But upon me
the crucifixes, the holy water, the vestments--in short, the
frippery--these things have a less agreeable effect. They savor of gross
superstition."
It was true that she did not pray in the churches. Something restrained
her; perhaps the very memories which had invited her to these wanderings
in dim shadows where so many vain aspirations had been breathed.
Sometimes as she would pass a chapel where knelt a penitent, confessing
to a hidden priest, a strong desire would come upon her to do as the
penitent was doing. Yet why? Even to herself she had not yet admitted
that she had aught to confess.
They strolled slowly toward their hotel, Leonard silently reproaching
himself that he had not sooner discovered and prevented this habit of
haunting churches, a habit which might lead to lamentable results in one
easily influenced by the external pomp and circumstance of Romanism.
However, any danger that might exist would soon be passed. Before long
they would be far beyond the subtle influences of priesthood, as well as
other subtle influences which he felt were not altogether healthful. He
sighed, a little regretfully; after all, pleasure was sweet.
There had been some question whether they should await the possible
arrival of Mrs. Joe. The discussion of this subject had been confined to
himself and the Marquise, Natalie having displayed but a faint interest
in the matter. Only that morning Madame de Fleury had informed him that
the lady of Stormpoint had written to say that she and her party would
come to Paris for a short stay and then accompany the Leonard Claghorns
homeward. He was therefore surprised when Natalie suddenly exclaimed,
"Leonard, let us go home!"
"Do you mean we should not wait for Mrs. Joe?" he asked.
"Why should we? She has Paula and the maids."
"And Mark. He counts for something," suggested Leonard, laughing.
"Of course; and if we wait for them, the waiting will never end. The
Marquise will do all she can to keep them, and Paris is not so easily
left. I foresee more difficulty in getting away gracefully, should they
arrive while we are here, than if we go at once."
"We can pass through London and explain," he suggested.
"Let us go by Havre. I long to get away, and you ought to be home. I
will write to Mrs. Joe. Let us decide now."
She was strangely insistent, even agitated. He noticed it and assumed
that she was depressed at the thought of leaving that which was her own
country, and longed to get a painful separation over. To him it was a
matter of indifference by what route they traveled, so long as Mrs.
Joe's susceptibilities were not wounded; and Natalie, assuring him that
her written explanation would prevent that misfortune, the matter was
settled.
He kissed her as they entered their apartment; for a moment she held her
face close to his.
That night, being alone and prostrate upon the floor of her room, where
she had sunk, humiliated and ashamed, she uttered a vow to heaven:
"To him I will be henceforth true in all things; in thought as in deed.
Help me, heaven, to atone, by surrendering to him and in his service
every act and every thought."