A DISHONEST VEILING OF A WOMAN'S HEART.
There was joy at Stormpoint. Before the eyes of Mrs. Joe there rose the vision of a senate spell-bound by the resonant voice of oratory, while in the same foreshadowing of the time to come Paula beheld Father Cameril triumphant over the Bishop and strong in reliance upon the stalwart arm of a soldier newly enrolled in the army of the Church Militant. Mark had returned, and it was while gazing upon his countenance that these seers saw their delectable visions and dreamed their pleasant dreams.
Upon this, the first evening of his return, the three sat together in the library of Stormpoint, Mark submitting, with that external grace which becomes the man placed upon a pedestal by worshipping woman, to the adoration of his mother and of Paula; the while secretly ungrateful and chafing because it was not possible to see Natalie before bedtime.
They had dined cosily together, and the wanderer had been treated as the prodigal of old, the substitute for fatted calf being the choicest viands procurable and the rarest vintage of the Stormpoint cellar; yet he had not enjoyed his dinner, being oppressed by vague forebodings; and it was irksome to feign a smiling interest where could be no interest until he had received an answer to his letter to Natalie. Naturally, he had inquired as to the welfare of all the Claghorns of the vicinity, and had expressed satisfaction at replies which indicated health and prosperity among his relatives.
"I would have asked them all to dinner," said Mrs. Joe, "but I knew that they would understand that we would be glad to have you to ourselves to-night. Leonard and Natalie are always considerate."
"Leonard was always a favorite of yours," observed Mark, who did not greatly relish this coupling of names, and who could hardly trust himself to discuss Natalie.
"A good young man," replied the lady. "He is almost one of us."
Mark looked quizzically at Paula, who blushed but said nothing. The blush was a relief to him. "He is a fine fellow," he said, heartily. "I have always believed in Leonard, though I don't admire his profession or his creed. But there are good men among theologians, and I'm sure he is one of them."
"But, my son," remonstrated Mrs. Joe, "that is not the way to talk of clergymen."
"Fie! mother. Would you deny that there are good men among the clergy?"
"Mark, you know I meant something very different. We only wish Leonard was in the Church."
"How can he be out of it, being a Christian?"
"There is but one Church," observed Paula gravely.
"The Holy Catholic Church," added Mrs. Joe.
"Which term you and Paula assume as belonging especially to your denomination," laughed Mark. "I doubt if even your own divines would be so arrogant. Mother, this young saint is evidently as intolerant as ever; and she is making you like herself," and he placed his hand, kindly enough, on the girl's shoulder.
Her eyes filled with tears. "Mark," she said, "you may laugh at me, but religion ought to be sacred."
"Both you and your religion ought to be, and are," he answered, and stooped and kissed her forehead; and, though she did not look up, for she dared not meet his eyes, he was forgiven.
The elder lady was surprised, but she noted Mark's action with high approval. Of all the hopes that she had woven round her son, that one which contemplated his marriage with Paula was supreme. She had trained the girl for this high destiny, though, true to her instincts, she had been as politic in this as in other objects of ambition, and neither of the two whose fortunes she intended to shape were in her confidence. She rightly divined that nothing would so surely incite to rebellion on the part of Mark as an open attempt to control him in a matter of this nature, and was wise enough to know that a disclosure of her hopes to Paula would place the girl in a false position, whereby she must inevitably lose that engaging simplicity which, aside from her beauty, was her greatest charm. The lady had, as we know, been compelled by the exigencies of policy to impart her cherished plan to more than one individual; and after she had done so to Natalie, she had been in terror until opportunity occurred to insure silence.
"You see, my dear," she had explained to Natalie, "he has not actually spoken. Paula, like any other girl so situated, knows what is coming, but of course——"
"Dear Mrs. Joe, I should not in any case have mentioned the matter."
"I ought to have been more reticent, but——"
"I am sure you did what you thought best," at which reply the lady's color had deepened and the subject was dropped.
Thus Mark's action rendered his mother happy, for, notwithstanding her sanguine disposition, she had often suffered misgivings. At times, during her son's frequent absences, her fears had risen high, and with each return home she watched him, narrowly scrutinizing his belongings, even going so far as to rummage among his letters, to discover if there existed any ground for fear. Her anxieties stilled and their object once more under the maternal eye, she was willing, since she must be, that he be deliberate in falling in love. She knew men thoroughly, so she believed, having known one a little, and was persuaded that the older he grew, the more certain was Mark to appreciate that highest womanly attribute so plainly discernible in Paula—pliancy. To man, so Mrs. Joe believed, that was the supreme excellence in woman. And there had been in Paula's reception of Mark's caress a certain coyness, becoming in itself, and which had lent an air of tenderness to the little scene. Paula had cast her eyes downward in that modest confusion proper to maidens and inviting to men; doubtless Mark would be glad to repeat a homage so engagingly received.
None of these rosy inferences were shared by Paula. During Mark's last sojourn at Stormpoint, which had been immediately after leaving France and constant intercourse with the household of Beverley Claghorn, she had made her own observations and drawn her own conclusions. Whatever the reason for Mark's action, she knew it portended nothing for her, and if she had received his fraternal kiss in some confusion, it was because she dreaded the possibility of sorrow in store for him, a sorrow connected with a secret confided to her within a few hours.
"Now that you are home again, Mark," said his mother, "I want your promise not to run away."
"You know men, mother; if I make a promise, I shall inevitably want to break it."
"But you wouldn't."
"Better not tempt the weak. Isn't that so, Paula?"
"Better not be weak."
"I am serious, Mark," said Mrs. Joe. "You must consider the future; you should plan a career."
"I have no intention of running away; certainly not to-night."
"Nor any night, I hope."
"You know," he said with some hesitation, "it is possible I may have to go to California."
"Nonsense! What is Benton paid for? I need you. We ought to select a city home, and I want your taste, your judgment."
"My dear mother, the city home will be yours. Why haven't you chosen one long since?"
"As if I would without consulting you!"
He smiled, but forebore to remind her that he had not been consulted with regard to Stormpoint. "Whatever is your taste is mine," he said. "These gilded cages are for pretty birds like you and Paula; as for me——"
"That's nonsense. I am willing to keep your nest warm, but——"
"If I were to consult my own taste, I would re-erect old Eliphalet's cabin and be a hermit."
"Mark, you actually hurt me——"
"My dear mother, you know I'm joking. About this house, then. New York, I suppose, is the place for good Californians."
"It would be pleasanter; but it might be policy to remain in the State."
He looked at her in wonder. "Why?" he asked.
"It was merely an idea," she replied, blushing, and secretly grieved that he did not understand. But it was no time to enter into those plans which were the fruit of many consultations with Mr. Hacket. "It's getting late; good-night, my dear boy. I know you'll try to please me." She kissed him, and, with Paula, left the room.
Left alone, he paced up and down the long room, nervously biting a cigar which he forgot to light. He knew he would be unable to pass in sleep the hours that must elapse before he could see Natalie. He was filled with forebodings; the vague fears which had tempted him to send an absurd telegraphic message to Natalie had troubled him since he had first recognized their presence and had grown in strength with each new day. He was unaware that presentiments and feelings "in the bones," once supposed to be the laughable delusions of old ladies and nervous younger ones, were now being regarded with respectful attention as a part of the things undreamed of in Horatio's philosophy; and, taking his attitude after the old fashion, he had reasoned with that being which man calls "himself," and, for the edification of "himself," had shown to that personage the childishness of indulging in vague and ungrounded fears. But without success. Philosophers have discovered that which old ladies always knew, that all explanations of the wherefore of these mental vagaries are unsatisfactory as long as the vagaries persist; and while they do, they vex the wise and foolish alike.
His musings were disturbed by the entrance of Paula, clad in a ravishing tea-gown, a dainty fragment of humanity. "Mark," she said, "what is the matter?" for she had been quick to notice and had been startled by the gloom of his face.
"Tired, Paula," and he smiled. Somehow Paula always made him smile.
"If I were tired, I would go to bed," she observed with a faint touch of sarcasm. "I won't advise bed to you, for I know that you do not credit me with much sense."
"Yet it is plain that you have more than I, since you have indicated the sensible course," he answered pleasantly. "That should be placing you in high esteem, since we all think well of ourselves."
"Forgive me," she said with real sorrow for her petulance, for which she perhaps could have given no reason; "but I have seen that you were troubled——"
"And like a dear little sister you overflow with sympathy. Was there ever anybody kinder or better than you? But the real fact is that I am simply tired—yet not sleepy."
"Well"—she sighed wistfully—"you will feel rested to-morrow. I came down to give you this from Natalie," handing him a note. "I would have waited until morning, but I——"
"Did right, as you always do," he answered, kissing her cheek and saying good-night, and thus dismissing her, with an evident eagerness to read the note, not lost upon Paula, and which left her no alternative but to leave him.
He opened the envelope and read:
"Dear Mark—Your letter came this morning, and I have just learned that you will be home to-night. I cannot express to you how glad I shall be to see you again. Before we meet in the presence of others, I hope to see you alone. Your letter, dear Mark, evidently delayed by being addressed in Mr. Winter's care, has cost me some tears, both of joy and sorrow. I am impatient to see you, for it seems to me that to you, before to any other, except to Paula (who would have known by intuition), I should disclose the happiness that has come to me in my engagement to Leonard. It is but two days old, and except to Paula, is known only to ourselves. Dear Mark, it has not been easy to write these few lines. I wish I could express in them how sincerely I honor and love you, and how I wish for your happiness. I have commenced to pray, and the first time I knelt to heaven I prayed for you; and so long as I shall continue to pray—and I think that will be always now—I shall not forget to beg that you be made happy. I hope you will wander no more, but be oftener with those that love you and who need you more than you perhaps know; and as I shall live either in Hampton or Easthampton, and as I must ever regard you as one of my earliest and my best friend, I hope we shall see each other often.
"Natalie."
"Oh, Mark, your happiness is at Stormpoint. No one is better, more loving, or more lovable than she."
The letter stunned him. He might, had he known women as well as he (being young) believed he did—he might have read the truth in every line. He might have seen that were he to rouse his energies and plead his cause, he could win it, even yet. He might have heard the unconscious cry for rescue from an engagement contracted before his letter had reached her; he might have seen, in the pains she had taken to tell him that such was the case, his excuse and hers for asserting his rights against Leonard. These things were plain enough; perhaps the writer had intended that they should be; not consciously, indeed; but from that inner being who is part of all of us, the desperate hope of the girl's heart had not been hidden as she wrote, nor was her pen entirely uncontrolled by it.
But the postscript obscured his vision. He laughed contemptuously and thought, as men will think, "It is thus that woman estimates love. She is sorry for me, and suggests that the consolation I may need I shall find in Paula!" He did not recognize that in the postscript was the real dishonesty of the letter; that it was the salve to the conscience of the writer, believing that in the letter itself she had said too much, whereas she had said too little for the perception of a man in the haze of jealousy. Such gleams of truth as might otherwise have been visible to Mark could not penetrate that dishonest veiling of the woman's heart.