Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 40

"Perhaps you were," she said. "If you were, this must be wrong."

"I have examined my own heart closely, very closely."

"Have you been to confession?"

"To whom can I go? The Bishop would not hear me. He is benighted----"

"There's your friend, Father Gordon."

"Oh, Paula, he's only twenty-three."

"But he's a priest."

"But _he's_ under a vow. How can he understand?"

A rapid footstep was heard. "There's Mark!" exclaimed Paula.

Father Cameril tripped quickly away. "You here!" exclaimed Mark, as he came upon Paula. "Isn't it dinner time?"

"It must be," she said, slipping her hand into the arm he offered.

"It was Father Cameril, Mark," she said, after a pause.

"Of course," he replied.

"Why, of course?" she asked, with slow utterance.

He looked down into her face a little quizzically. "Is it not of course?" he asked.

"I--don't--think so," she answered slowly.

"Paula!" He stood confronting her suddenly.

"Well, Mark?"

He laughed, yet looked at her rather seriously. "I thought you were going to be a nun?"

"I am; do you object?"

"I shall be sorry to see it. But----"

"But what?"

"There are other things I would regret more."

She looked into his face. It was a quick, questioning glance, but long enough for him to note her beauty. They went on to the house in silence, but Paula's heart fluttered.

CHAPTER XL.

HER FACE WAS THE MIRROR OF HER PLEASANT DREAMS.

In Hampton Cemetery there stands, and will stand for the sympathetic admiration of future ages, an imposing monument, which apprises him who meditates among the tombs that it was "Erected to the Memory of Jeremiah Morley, by his Sorrowing Widow." At the date of the construction of this expensive evidence of grief, the cost whereof had been provided by testamentary direction--for the late Jeremiah had not been the man to stake a testimonial to his worth upon anything less binding--the stone-cutter, as one versed in the prevailing fas.h.i.+on of monumental inscriptions, had suggested the conventional reference to the usual "Hope of a Joyful Resurrection"; but the widow, her conscience already strained by the legend agreed upon, had objected. Yet the inscription which strained her conscience had the merit of truth; for the man beneath the stone had left her sorrowing, as she had sorrowed nearly every day since she had been p.r.o.nounced his wife; but, being strictly Hamptonian in her views, her long intimacy with the deceased had rendered her incredulous of his joyous resurrection.

Years before the erection of the monument, while Easthampton was still a port known to mariners, the warehouses since pulled down by Mrs. Joe having hardly commenced to rot, a certain Jerry Morley who, so far as he or anybody else knew, had no legitimate right to name or existence, had sailed from the harbor in the capacity of third mate of the barque "Griselda," a trim vessel manned by a crew of blackguards, not one of whom could approach the mate either in hardihood or in villainy. At that time Mate Jerry had been scarcely more than a boy, ragged, unkempt and fierce-eyed; when he returned, which he did by stage (for the barque had disappeared from the ken of man), he was a smooth-shaven, portly gentleman, hard and domineering; but strict in his walk (to all appearance), and rich. The voice of detraction is never absolutely silent, and though Mr. Morley possessed all the ingredients which go to the making of a "Prominent Citizen," and played that role successfully for many years; yet occasional whispers were heard as to mutiny, murder, seizure of the "Griselda," and a subsequent career as a slaver; whispers, confined mostly to the ancient mariners who smoked and basked about the decaying docks of Easthampton, and which, in due time, were heard no more. Mr. Morley purchased a fine residence in Hampton, was munificent to the Seminary, married the fair daughter of a prominent theologian, and, in short, appeared to the eyes of the world as a clean, pompous, very wealthy and highly respected citizen and church member.

Few beside his wife knew that, in fact, he was a brute, given over to secret vices. He had possessed a brain incapable of either excitation or ache. Never sober, no man had ever seen him (to the observer's knowledge) drunk. Few suspected his secret indulgence, but at the age of sixty, liquor, aided by other sly excesses known only to himself, struck him down, as a bullet might have done, relieving a once rarely beautiful woman of a great load, and granting her a few years of comfort as a set-off against many years of hidden misery.

From this grandfather Leonard had inherited more than one unsuspected trait, but not the iron const.i.tution which had succ.u.mbed only after years of abuse. Berthe still had her adorable one, but her adoration was gone; her man had become an object of compa.s.sionate disgust. The brilliant theologian was a sot.

His fall had been from so great a height to so low a depth, that in his own eyes his ruin was accomplished before his case was hopeless. He was not hurried to his doom by late awakened appet.i.tes alone; he had hardly abandoned his home before regret, if not repentance, became a burden too heavy for endurance. The mournful echoes of his days of virtue, the visions of his past of honor, were ever in his ears and before his eyes.

Remorse, the h.e.l.l of sinners, was ever present; and from its constant pangs was no relief except in plunging deeper into sin, inviting greater horrors, and ever beckoned by them. To such miseries were added the fear of that unending life beyond the grave; the life of torment, which all his days he had been taught to contemplate as the doom of souls abandoned by their Maker. The knowledge that he was one of those "pa.s.sed by" and left for the fires of h.e.l.l--this knowledge hourly increased the anguish of his spirit. Who among men shall too hardly judge a ruined fellow-creature, abandoned by his G.o.d, who in debauchery can find forgetfulness; or who, in the hazy mists of drunkenness alone, can see some rays to cheer the gloom of ruin?

They had at first gone to Paris, and there he had plunged into dissipation with an ardor that had startled and angered his companion, whose good sense had been revolted. True, she had shown him the way, recognizing his need of distraction; but she had not counted on reckless excess, and had at first welcomed the change when he showed a disposition to concentrate his attention upon liquor alone. She was to learn that this slavery was the most debasing of all.

The woman had loved her victim in her own way, and for awhile she honestly strove to raise him from the foul abyss in which he seemed doomed to settle, but her efforts had been vain. She had long been possessed of the common purse, and though her prudence had husbanded the proceeds of Mrs. Joe's cheque, she saw the necessity of reasonable economy; so she got her man to London, where he, by this time, exhausted from dissipation, was content to live frugally, so long as his decanter of gin was kept supplied. The woman often gazed furtively at him, and was troubled. She commenced to consider the future. "Leonard," she said one day, "you ought to marry me."

He was neither startled nor repelled. "It would be the first step in the right direction," he answered. "Perhaps then I could overcome the craving for drink." She was touched by the hope which for one moment gleamed in his dull eyes. It aroused an answering hope in her bosom. Ah!

If it could be! If she could become his lawful wife, an honest woman; and he the man he had been before she had led him to ruin! The pa.s.sing vision of purer days lured both.

A n.o.bler desire than mere acquisitiveness was awakened in her. She knew that probably no such marriage would be legal; it might even be dangerous. But, it would bind him to her so that there could be no escape. And so the matter came to be discussed between the two. Both were aware of the possible criminality of the act, though both hoped that Leonard's wife had procured a divorce; but, notwithstanding some misgiving, the marriage was finally accomplished. Berthe had her own reasons for not waiting until they could revisit America; and perhaps in the loneliness of his wrecked life, Leonard's object was like the woman's, to bind her to himself with hooks of steel. Perhaps it was but the result of influence of a stronger will upon a fast decaying mind.

Thus it had come about that the two had returned to America, and, on their arrival, had concocted the letter to Natalie, by whom it had been submitted to Mr. Ellis Winter. That gentleman advised that Natalie take up her residence in New York, and he engaged to notify Leonard that his demand for divorce would be accorded, as soon as the needful legal requisites could be complied with. Natalie was to make her application on the ground of abandonment, and to refuse to ask for alimony.

And now, alone with Tabitha in a big hotel, without occupation, except such as was afforded by recollections which could not be other than bitter; in the gloom of the days and the miserable object of her present existence, Natalie allowed herself to see the rays of hope illumining a future upon which she looked, shyly, and with a sense of guilt. Yet who would not contemplate the alluring tint of fruit as yet forbidden, but ripening for us before our eyes?

During this period of isolation she saw Mark once, his visit having the ostensible excuse of business. Leonard had, by the hand of his legal adviser, written to Mrs. Joe, suggesting that she purchase the Morley mansion, so that out of the proceeds of the sale he could repay his debt. While the lady would have been as well content that the debt remain unpaid, it was believed by all who still hoped that Leonard might be won back to respectability, that the suggestion was a good one. To carry it into effect the consent of Natalie was, of course, necessary, and also that the transfer be effected before the inst.i.tution of divorce proceedings. The consent was immediately given.

"And, Mark," said Natalie, as she handed him the deed, "if you see Leonard, say to him that I hope for his forgiveness."

"His forgiveness!"

"Ah, Mark! I wronged him; I ought never----"

He knew what was on her lips, but which she could not say to him--that she ought never to have married Leonard. He took her hand and drew her, unresisting, toward himself; her head drooped upon his shoulder. They stood thus, for a moment, and then he left her. Words of love remained unspoken, but the heart of each was full of that which was unsaid.

There was a long and dreary interval, but at length came the day when Natalie was made free. She learned the fact in the afternoon, but concealed it from Tabitha. That evening she was melancholy, and Tabitha essayed in vain to cheer her; and so the next day pa.s.sed. But the day after that Tabitha noticed a change; a tremulous fluttering, some tendency to tears, but more to smiles. And Tabitha discovered that she was being petted. She must have a drive--and had it; special delicacies at luncheon were ordered for her delectation, including a share of a pint of champagne, which Tabitha averred was sinful, though she sinned with satisfaction. A beautiful gold watch was given her to replace the fat-faced silver bulb, precious in Miss Cone's eyes as once the property of the long-drowned mariner, but which of late years had acquired the eccentric characteristics of the famous time-piece of the elder Weller; and at last when the time came to say "good-night," Tabitha must be kissed and hugged. But the last proceeding was too much for the maiden's discretion. "What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, Tabby, I'm so happy." And then, ashamed, and afraid of having said too much, Natalie escaped to her own room.

And there read again the letter which she had received that morning, and which she had furtively read many times during the day. She knew it by heart, but she liked to read the words written by her lover's hand.

"Dear Natalie--The decree is granted. The words, 'I love you'

have been on my lips so long, that they must find utterance. I repeat them, if not with lips, yet in my heart every moment of the day. Write or telegraph me the date of your arrival at the White House. I would rather have a letter; in a letter you can say that you love me. Shall it be a letter?

"MARK."