THE RUINS OF HER AIR-CASTLE LAY AROUND HER.
Father Cameril laid down the "Life of St. Dunstan" and sighed. "He was
strong, he was faithful," muttered the good Father. "Alas!" and he
sighed again.
He took a photograph from his pocket and gazed long upon the pictured
features. "Dr. Hicks did it," he murmured. Then he replaced the
photograph and went forth, going toward the sea, until at last, by many
a devious way, he came into the grounds of Stormpoint, and there, by
Eliphalet's Tomb, he saw a woman. "'Tis fate," he muttered. The woman
turned; Father Cameril started. He was face to face with Natalie.
He stammered awkwardly, being wholly taken by surprise, that he had
thought she was Miss Lynford; then, after some conventional references
to the weather, he escaped. Natalie watched him as he walked away, then
fell into bitter musings, in which he had no part.
Two years had passed since Leonard's flight. With the fall of her hero,
the light of the life of Miss Claghorn had been extinguished, and
though, with grim courage, she had striven to bear the heavy hand of the
Lord, laid thus upon the House of Claghorn, the knowledge that another
of the race, the brightest and the best, was doomed, was too heavy a
burden. Other Claghorns would be born and would live their little day,
but for whom could hope be cherished after such a fall as this? She
passed from life sure of her own salvation, but with the knowledge that
the elect race was no more to be reckoned as of the favored minority.
She refused to leave any message for Leonard; since the Lord had closed
the gates of glory upon him, it was for her to close her heart. She
charged her estate with a liberal annuity for Tabitha Cone, leaving her
fortune, otherwise unincumbered, to Natalie, who, with Tabitha,
continued to reside at the White House.
A further untoward result of the catastrophe was the derangement of the
political plans of Mrs. Joe. The use of her cheque, given to Leonard, as
trustee, his unfulfilled promise of a large donation from an anonymous
lady (who could be no other than the lady of Stormpoint), his curt
resignation sent to the Seminary authorities from New York, the
separation from his wife, her seclusion, the crushing grief of Miss
Claghorn, the perturbation of Mrs. Joe, shared by Mark--these were all
parts of a puzzle eagerly put together, and so far successfully, that
the fact of the misuse of the cheque was established, at least to the
satisfaction of the multitude. And this involved an explanation from
Mrs. Joe, and the making known of her change of mind in respect of the
donation, which again involved some reflection upon the god and the
Confession revered by the Seminary, wherefrom was emitted a spark of
resentment, not allayed by Mark's openly expressed indignation with
those who professed to discover something parlous with regard to the
change of mind of his mother, in respect to the once-intended bounty.
The upshot of all this confusion was the lassitude, not to say, disgust,
evinced by Mark for the political prospects held out by Hampton, and
Mrs. Joe's recognition of the need of acting upon the shrewd advice of
Mr. Hacket, which was to "lie low till the pot stopped boiling," a
consummation not fervently hoped for by the adviser.
With eyes fixed upon where the sun, a fiery ball, fast sank in the
distant waters, Natalie, standing where Father Cameril had left her,
recalled the days of her girlhood and their dreams. Her life, short as
it had been as yet, had been full of trouble. Were all lives thus? Her
glance fell upon the tomb; she wondered if the man at rest these two
centuries and more had in death resolved the deep mystery of living; or
was he, in fact, not yet at rest, but wandering still in other spheres,
the toy of a destiny he could neither shape nor fathom? She recalled the
day upon which she had seen the handsome American boy in the Odenwald,
and she thought of the ruin of his life with unutterable sadness. She
remembered how she had prattled with her father as the two dusty
travelers had entered the garden, and she recalled her bright visions
of the days to come. The days were here! The crumbling ruins of her
air-castles lay about her, and in the great upheaval that had caused
their fall a life had been wrecked. She looked out upon the waters,
hearing the ceaseless moan of the surge, and remembered how the kindly
fury of the waves had striven to rescue that life from shame and
degradation. Better, ah! how much better, had Leonard never returned
from that desperate plunge, but had gone a hero to whatever lay beyond!
She remembered the day--it was not a day to be forgotten--that she had
taken the early walk to the cemetery; and how, as she had then looked
out upon the waves, a truth that during all the days of her wedded life
had lain at the bottom of her heart, had confronted her unbidden,
demanding recognition. She had refused to see it, until in the awakening
that had come to her in the cemetery she had, with high resolve,
determined to defy it and make of it a lie--and within an hour had
forgotten her resolution, and had dreamed her dreams which had their
birth in the pressure of lips to which she had no right. On the morrow
of that darkest day of her life she had found her husband's letter to
herself, a letter whose words were burned in upon her memory: "Natalie,
in your heart you never loved me." He had added more, the justification
of the wretched confession, now defiant, now maudlin, which followed;
much of it sadly false; but she remembered it all, and the true text of
his miserable story stood out before her as though lettered in the air.
The words condemned her. It was not true, and she made a gesture as
though repelling an accusation--it was not true that in the truth of
Leonard's words lay the underlying motive of the course of life she had
resolved upon. She denied this in her thoughts with almost frantic
vehemence; yet, urgent in her wish to find palliation for her husband's
sin, and seeing with clear vision the folly of the frightful dogma which
she now knew that in very truth he could not have believed, but which,
if believed, must of her own wrong have made a virtue, she grew
confused, and could find but one utterance to express the truth--"I have
sinned."
She drew from the bosom of her dress a letter which she had received
but a few hours before. It was from Leonard, written from New York, and
repeating that accusation which she confessed as true. In the letter the
writer expressed his surprise that he had not found, on his return to
America, that she had taken steps to rid herself of ties which must be
hateful to her. This, he claimed, was an added injury to him, since it
prevented the course which his conscience required, and which he was in
honor bound to take for the sake of one who had loved him sufficiently
to sacrifice herself for him (meaning, though Natalie was ignorant of
the fact, Mademoiselle Berthe). He had added that if, within a given
time, his wife did not avail herself of the legal right to secure her
freedom, he would, actuated by the high considerations suggested, be
compelled to take measures to satisfy his conscience and his sense of
honor. And he concluded the epistle by setting forth with sufficient
distinctness the fact, that the law would recognize the validity of the
grounds on which he would, if it became necessary, base his application
for divorce.
Heretofore she had resented the urgency of every friend (except one who
refrained from advice) to take the step to which she saw now she would
be driven. Mark alone had been silent, and her heart had often
fluttered, knowing his reason. But she had not dwelt upon a thought upon
which she knew she must not linger; rather had she prayed that Leonard
might return, and she be enabled to carry out the resolve she had so
often made, and in which she had so often failed, to be in all things a
true wife; thus earning the forgiveness which she craved by according
that which was due from her. Perhaps she had persuaded herself that such
a course would be possible--even so--she knew that in the letter she
held in her hand, she saw not the insult to herself, not the base
attitude of its writer, but the dawning of another day, and the promise
of a happiness which hitherto she had not dared contemplate, and which
she tried hard not to contemplate now.