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.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
VOIDABLE VOWS OF TURKS (AND OTHERS).
When Father Cameril had found Natalie at Eliphalet's tomb, expecting to find Paula, he had received a greater shock than the incident would seem to have required.