Mrs. Joe had, she said, fully considered that possibility. "Suppose you are right," she answered to the philosopher's argument, "even if Hampton is the home of bigotry, boldness always commands sympathy. My chapel will lend importance to a town which mourns a lost prestige. It will be talked about from one end of the State to the other; and I intend that the Seminary shall be my right hand, the Church—my church, my left——"
"And both hands full!"
She blushed. "Of course, I shall use my advantages. The Seminary is the centre of much religious effort, which, as a Christian, I shall be glad to aid. It is the centre of influence, which I hope to share. Under my roof the representatives of differing creeds shall meet in harmony and acquire mutual respect. Should it happen that my son be politically objectionable because of my chapel—why, in such a condition of affairs the liberalism that is always latent where bigotry flourishes would spring to his aid, and find in him a leader."
"Madame!" exclaimed the gentleman, "you will win."
"I hope so," she replied, pleased at the admiration she had extorted. "And now, you shall be told how you can aid me. Paris is an art centre; there are to be found the people I shall need in regard to my plans concerning the chapel. I am resolved that this shall be so noble an edifice that the voice of detraction shall never be heard. Next winter we shall meet in Paris. Will you, so far as may be, prepare the way for my access to the places and people I desire to see?"
"Assuredly. I shall enter upon the task assigned me with admiration for your plans and sincere devotion to your interests," Thus, with his hand upon his heart and with an inclination of true Parisian elegance, the philosopher entered the service of Mrs. Joe, and of the Church.
CHAPTER VI.
ART, DIPLOMACY, LOVE AND OTHER THINGS.
Thus in amity dwelt the Claghorns, employing the summer days in innocent diversion. Many were the expeditions to points of interest; to Neckarsteinach and the Robbers' Nest, to the village of Dilsberg, perched upon the peak which even the bold Tilly had found unconquerable in peasant hands; to Handschuhsheim, where sleeps the last of his race, the boy-lord slain in duel with the fierce Baron of Hirschhorn, who himself awaits the judgment in the crypt of St. Kilian, at Heilbronn, holding in his skeleton hand a scroll, telling how the Mother's Curse pursued him to where he lies; to the Black Forest, now so smiling, but which Cæsar found dark, cold and gloomy, with its later memories of ruthless knights whose monuments are the grim ruins that crown the vineclad hills, and with present lore of gnomes and brownies. In these simple pleasures youth and maiden, philosopher, theologian and worldly widow joined with the emotions befitting their years and characteristics. To Natalie it was a time of intense delight, shared sympathetically by Paula, but more serenely. Mark enjoyed keenly, yet with rare smiles and with an underlying seriousness in which an observer might have detected a trace of the trail of the Great Serpent. Leonard, seldom absent from the side of his French cousin, delighted in the novel scenes and the companionship, but at times was puzzled by Natalie's capacity to live in a past that, as he pointed out, was better dead, since in its worst aspect it had been a time of barbarism, in its best of fanaticism. He could not understand the longing and liking for a day when if knights were bold they were also boorish, when if damosels were fair they were also ignorant of books, and perchance of bathtubs. He stared in innocent wonder at Natalie's exclamation of deprecation and Mark's harsh laugh when he pointed out such undeniable facts. To him Hans von Handschuhsheim, lying dead upon the steps of the Church of the Holy Ghost, his yellow locks red with blood, and the fierce Hirschhorn wiping his blade as he turned his back upon his handiwork—to Leonard this was a drunken brawl of three centuries since, and it grieved him to see in Natalie a tendency to be interested in the "vulgar details of crime." He knew that the girl lived in the gloom of irreligion (he was not aware that she dwelt in the outer darkness of ignorance), and he sighed as he noted one result of her unhappy lack; and he never knelt at his bedside forgetful of the fact, or of his duty in relation thereto.