Читать книгу Mr. Claghorn's Daughter - Hilary Trent - Страница 10

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Professor and the Reverend Jared Claghorn has already intimated that the name Eliphalet was an honored one in the family. An Eliphalet Claghorn had been a man of mark among the Pilgrims. His eldest son had borne his parent's name and had succeeded to the clerical vocation; an example which he had imposed upon his own first-born, and thus became established the custom of giving to a son of each Eliphalet the name of his father, in the pleasing hope that he who bore the revered appellation might be called to serve in the Lord's fold, as shepherd of the flock; which hope had generally been realized. In due course that Eliphalet who was destined to beget Beverley had been called, had answered the summons, and at the birth of his only son, had, with confident expectation of a similar call to the latter, named his name "Eliphalet."

In time the call was heard. The youth, fully assured that he, like the ancestral Eliphalets, would find his field of labor in the vineyard of God, had gone so far in acceptance of his solemn duty as to enter the well-known Theological Seminary at Hampton, there to fit himself for the only future he had ever contemplated.

Then a shock had come—a great legacy from one of two California brothers, both long given up as dead. From the moment this fortune came into his possession, the father of Beverley Claghorn, always a stern and gloomy man, the product of a ruthless creed, knew no day of peace. He craved worldly distinction—not the pleasures which beckoned his son—with a craving which only a starved nature with powers fitting to the world can know. On the other hand, a rigid sense of duty, perhaps, too, the gloomy joy of martyrdom, urged him to reject a temptation which he persuaded himself was offered by the Prince of Darkness. He remained outwardly true to his duty, an unhappy soldier at the post assigned him, and died as his fathers had died, in the odor of sanctity; in his heart hankering to the last for the joys offered by the world to him who has wealth, and to the last sternly rejecting them.

Secretly, though with bitter self-condemnation, he had approved his son's renunciation of the theological course. Not with his lips. It was impossible for him, stubbornly believing, as he had always believed, though now with the frequent doubts and fears of the new standpoint he occupied, to openly approve the intentions displayed by the youth. Yet he acquiesced in silence, secretly hoping to see the son, who had commenced the study of the law, a power in the State. That he was never to see, and it was well that he died before the renegade Eliphalet had extinguished such hope by voluntary exile.

Beverley's history, or at least that portion of it which he chose to impart, was told in reply to the eager questioning of Jared. Perhaps he was not sorry that his old fellow-student should note his air of man of fashion and aristocrat, and he set forth the renown of the de Fleury lineage, innocently shocking his cousin by explaining the meaning and glory of that bar sinister, which he himself revered.

Jared, on his part, narrated at much greater length than his auditor sympathetically appreciated, the history of his own life. He, too, had married brilliantly—a Morley, as he informed his cousin, and one who, dying, had left him well endowed with this world's goods, and it may be that it was by reason of this fact, as well as because of superior attainments, that the speaker had developed into a teacher in that same seminary where the two had been fellow-students.

"Yes," he said in a tone of satisfaction, "I hold down the chair of Biblical Theology in Hampton. You would hardly recognize the old Sem, El—Beverley."

"I suppose not. I shall make a flying trip there some day."

"A flying trip! Surely you don't intend to abandon your country forever?"

"Not unlikely. You see, I am more of a Frenchman than anything else, and my daughter is quite French."

"She speaks English?"

"Oh, as to that, as well as anybody. She has been largely educated in England. But her relatives, I mean those that she knows, look upon her as belonging wholly to them, and——"

"I trust she is not a Romanist, Cousin."

"You mean a Catholic. Make your mind easy; she is not."

"I truly rejoice to hear it," exclaimed Jared with fervor. "But I might have known," he added apologetically, "that a Claghorn would not suffer the perversion of his child." Whereat Monsieur changed the topic.

Meanwhile, the young ones of the party had gone to investigate an echo in a glen hard by, directed thereto by the host of the Red-Ox. They were conducted by a stolid maiden, told off for that purpose, a fact which Monsieur Claghorn, from his place in the garden, noted with satisfaction.

Freed from the restraint of the presence of the philosopher, whose raiment and bearing had inspired him with awe, Leonard's engaging simplicity and frank manner added to the favorable impression of his beautiful face.

The charms of nature about them were attractive to both and it was easy to become acquainted, with so much of interest in common. The girl's enthusiasm, somewhat dampened by the philosopher, returned in the presence of a sympathetic listener, and she told the tale of their wanderings, concluding by expressing the opinion that Germany must be the most delightful of all countries.

"This part is fine," said Leonard. "But wait until you see the Black Forest."

"I hope to see it when we leave Heidelberg. Is the wine good?"

"I don't know," was the answer. "I didn't drink any wine."

"It must be very bad if you wouldn't drink it," she observed despondently. "Papa scolds about the wine of the Bergstrasse, which, for my part, I find very good. Then, at the better inns one isn't confined to the vintage of the neighborhood."

"Surely, you don't drink wine!" exclaimed Leonard.

"Not drink wine! What should I do with it?"

"It biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder," he quoted gravely, not at all priggishly. He was sincere in his confidence in Solomon, and his surprise and sorrow were honest.

"Wine does!" she laughed. "I never knew that before. Don't Americans drink wine?"

"Some do," he admitted. "Our best people do not drink. We think the example bad."

"Par example! And how do your best people manage at dinner?"

"With water."

"Decidedly, I should not like dining with your best people."

"But, Cousin Natalie—that is a very pretty name;" here he blushed engagingly—"wine makes one drunk."

"Certainly, if one gets drunk."

"Then, how can you drink wine?"

The question and the serious manner of its asking were incomprehensible to the girl, who laughed at the incongruity of the ideas suggested by drinking wine on the one hand, and getting drunk on the other. Then the subject was dropped; perhaps they recognized that it was enveloped in clouds of misunderstanding which were impenetrable.

The glen in which dwells the echo of Forellenbach is like a roofless cave, or a great well with a side entrance. Its floor being wet, Natalie remained at the entrance, trusting there to hear whatever might be worth hearing. Leonard passed into the well.

He looked back. She stood in the light, smiling upon this new-found cousin, who had such strange ideas as to wine, but withal, her eyes were kindly. If either had any premonition of the future, it must have been false or partial, or they had not faced each other smiling. He had intended to shout aloud her pretty name and thus to test the echo; but instinct warned him that this was hardly fitting. So, perhaps, with a vague desire to connect her with the trial, he compromised, and the word he shouted was "Claghorn."

It was returned to him in various modulations from all sides. The effect was startling, but even more so were the words that fell upon his ear as the echoes died away: "Who are you, and what do you want?"

The question came from above. Leonard, looking upward, saw the face of a youth who, from the top of the cliff, was peering down. Upon the head of this person, rakishly worn, was a blue cap, braided with silver and red velvet. The face had penetrating eyes, rather stern, and a mouth shaded by a dark moustache. The question was repeated, it seemed to Leonard truculently: "What do you want?"

The words were German, but easily understood. Leonard answered in English: "I don't want you."

"Then, why did you call me?" Now the words were English and the tone awakened Leonard's resentment. "Do you suppose that every one that tries the echo is calling you?" he asked.

"You called me. Why?"

Leonard labored under the disadvantage of hearing all that was said repeated many times. It was irritating; nor was the tone of the other pacific. It was even war-like. "I didn't address you," he said. "I do now: Be silent!"

The other laughed. "Bist ein dummer Junge, my son," he said. "I suppose you are a student. Get your card."

He disappeared, evidently with a view of intercepting Leonard who, emerging from the cave, met him almost at Natalie's side.

The newcomer was surprised to see the girl. "I beg your pardon," he said, removing his cap; then, aside to Leonard: "I will accept your card on another occasion, if you prefer. You are a student of Heidelberg, I suppose?"

"I am a student, certainly, of Hampton, in the United States. I have no card. My name is Claghorn."

The sternness of the newcomer gave place to astonishment. "I beg your pardon, and your sister's," he said, glancing at Natalie. "My name happens to be the same. Naturally, I supposed——"

"The place seems to be alive with Claghorns," exclaimed Leonard.

"And since you are from Hampton, I believe we are related," continued the newcomer. "Cousins, I suppose. You can't be Professor Claghorn?"

"I can be, and am, his son," laughed Leonard. "You are the third cousin I have found to-day."

By this time the two elders had joined the party. Monsieur Claghorn had deemed it advisable, for his daughter's sake, to follow her footsteps. The Reverend Jared, accompanying him, heard Leonard's words. "A cousin!" he exclaimed, looking inquiringly at the stranger who made the claim, and ready gushingly to welcome him.

"I think so," answered the stranger, smiling. "My father was Joseph Claghorn, of San Francisco."

"He's your first cousin, 'Liph," exclaimed the Reverend Jared, hesitating no longer, but grasping the unoffered hand of the son of Joseph. Then he added in an awestruck voice, "You must be the owner of the Great Serpent?"

"I am in its coils," replied the young man with a half sigh.

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Jared, and then glibly plunged into a genealogical disquisition for the general benefit, the result of which was that Claghorn, the son of Joseph, and in the coils of the Great Serpent, stood demonstrated as the first cousin of Beverley, the second of Natalie, the third of himself and the fourth of Leonard. The professorial fluency had the good effect of creating enough hilarity to dissipate constraint; and its cordiality embraced all present in a circle of amity, whether they would or not.

But there was no indication of reluctance to cousinly recognition. Monsieur saw sufficient comedy in the situation to amuse him, nor was he oblivious of the fascinations of the Great Serpent, which reptile was a mine, known by repute to all present, and the source of Monsieur's wealth, for that inheritance that had changed the course of his life had been thence derived. The dead brother of the now dead Eliphalet had left his share of the mine to Joseph, his partner, but had divided his savings between Eliphalet and a sister, Achsah by name. The son of Joseph, and owner of the Great Serpent, must be in the eyes of anybody the acceptable person he was in the eyes of Monsieur Claghorn, the more so as he was thoroughly presentable, being handsome, well dressed, and with rather more of the air of a man of the world than was usual in one of his years, which might be twenty-one.

"We have not learned your Christian name," said Jared, after acquaintance had been established and the youth had been duly informed of much family history. "I hope your parents named you Eliphalet," glancing, not without reproach, at the actual owner of that appellation.

"They spared me that infliction," answered the newcomer, laughing, "though they hit me pretty hard. My name is Mark"; then, perhaps noting the faint flush upon the cheek of one of the members of the group, "I beg pardon; I should have been more respectful of a respectable family name, which may be borne by some one of you."

"Nobody bears it; you are to be congratulated," observed Monsieur firmly. The Reverend Jared looked grieved, but said nothing.

Mark Claghorn informed his auditors—there was no escaping the examination of the Professor—that he was a student at Heidelberg, that his mother sojourned there with him, that she was a widow, with an adopted daughter, a distant connexion, named Paula; and having learned that the entire party was bound for that city he expressed the hope that all these wandering offshoots of the Claghorn family might there meet and become better acquainted.