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, Père 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.