Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 2

"And as I remember, is personally very nice."

"A charming woman--with a fault. She is devout."

"I have known some like her," observed Natalie. "There was Frulein Rothe, our drawing-mistress, a dear old lady, but very religious."

"I hope none of them attempted to influence you in such matters," he said, frowning slightly.

"No. It was understood that you had expressly forbidden it. I was left out of the religious cla.s.ses; they called me 'The Pagan.'"

"No harm in that," commented Monsieur rather approvingly.

"Oh, no! It was all in good-nature. The Pagan was a favorite. But, of course, I have had some curiosity. I have read a little of the Bible."

She made her confession shyly, as though antic.i.p.ating reproach.

"There is no objection to that," he said. "At your age you should have a mind of your own. Use it and I have no fear as to the result. My view is that in leaving you uninfluenced I have done my duty much more fully than if I had early impressed upon you ideas which I think pernicious, and which only the strongest minds can cast aside in later life. What impression has your Bible reading left?"

"The Jews of the Old Testament were savages, and their book is unreadable for horrors. The Gospel narratives seem written by men of another race. The character of Jesus is very n.o.ble. He must have lived, for he could not have been invented by Jews. Of course, he was not G.o.d, but I don't wonder that his followers thought so."

"He was a Great Philosopher," answered Monsieur Claghorn with high approval. "The incarnation of pure stoicism, realizing the ideal more truly than even Seneca or Marcus. And what of the literary quality of the book?"

"The gospels are equal to the Vicar of Wakefield or Paul and Virginia.

As to the rest," she shrugged her shoulders after the French fas.h.i.+on--"Revelation was written by a maniac."

"Or a modern poet," observed the gentleman.

Now while these latest exponents of the Higher Criticism were thus complacently settling the literary standing of Luke and John, placing them on as high a level as that attained by Goldsmith and St. Pierre, the man smoking and the girl sipping wine (for the fish had been devoured and their remains removed), two persons came into the garden.

They carried knapsacks and canes, wore heavy shoes, were dusty and travel-stained. The elder of the pair had the clerical aspect; the youth was simply a very handsome fellow of twenty or thereabout, somewhat provincial in appearance.

Beverley Claghorn glanced at the pair, and with an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, which, if it referred to the newcomers, was not complimentary, continued to smoke without remark. The girl was more curious.

"They are English," she said.

"Americans," he answered, with a faint shade of disapproval in his tone.

"But so are we," she remonstrated, noting the tone.

"We can't help it," he replied, resenting one of his grievances. "You can hardly be called one."

"Is it disgraceful?"

"Not at all; but I don't flaunt it."

"But, papa, surely you are not ashamed of it?"

"Certainly not. But it is a little tiresome. Our countrymen are so oppressively patriotic. They demand of you that you glory in your nativity. I don't. I am not proud of it. I shouldn't be proud of being an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or an Italian, or----"

"In fact, papa, you are not proud at all."

"Natalie," proceeded the philosopher, not noticing the interruption, "one may be well-disposed toward the country of one's birth; one may even recognize the duty of fighting, if need be, for its inst.i.tutions.

But the pretence of believing in one's country, of fulsome adoration for imperfect inst.i.tutions, is to welcome intellectual slavery, to surrender to the base instinct of fetichism."

"Like religion," she said, recognizing the phrase.

"Like religion," he a.s.sented. "You will find when you are as old as I am that I am right."

"Yet people do believe in religion. There's Frulein Rothe----"

"Natalie, no reasoning being can believe what is called Christianity, but many beings think that they believe."

"But why don't they discover that they don't think what they think they think?"

"There's nothing strange in that. When they were young they were told that they believed, and have grown up with that conviction. The same people would scorn to accept a new and incredible story on the evidence which is presented in favor of the Christian religion."

The girl sighed as though the paternal wisdom was somewhat unsatisfactory. Meantime the slight raising of Monsieur's voice had attracted the attention of the dusty wayfarers who, in default of other occupation, took to observing the pair.

"She is very pretty," said the youth.

The elder did not answer. He was intently scrutinizing Beverley Claghorn. After a moment of hesitation he surprised his companion by rising and approaching that person with outstretched hand.

"I cannot be mistaken," he exclaimed in a loud, hearty voice. "This is a Claghorn."

"That is my name," replied the would-be Gallic owner of the appellation in English. "I have the honor of seeing----" but even as he uttered the words he recognized the man who was now shaking a somewhat reluctant hand with gus.h.i.+ng heartiness.

"I am Jared. You remember me, of course. I see it in your eyes. And so this is really you--Eliphalet! 'Liph, as we called you at the old Sem.

'Liph, I am as glad to see you as a mother a long-lost son."

"And I," replied the other, "am charmed." He bore it smiling, though his daughter looked on in wonder, and he felt that the secret of his baptism had been heartlessly disclosed.

"This," said Jared, "is my son, Leonard," and while the son grew red and bowed, the clergyman looked at the girl to whom his son's bow had been princ.i.p.ally directed.

"My daughter, Natalie de Fleury-Claghorn," said her father. "My dear, this is my cousin, Professor Claghorn, whom I have not seen for many years."

"Not since we were students together at Hampton Theological Seminary,"

added Jared, smilingly. He habitually indulged in a broad smile that indicated satisfaction with things as he found them. It was very broad now, as he offered his hand, saying, "And so you are 'Liph's daughter, and your name is Natalidaflurry--that must be French. And your mother, my dear, I hope----"

"My wife has been dead since my daughter's birth," interrupted Monsieur, "and I," he added, "long ago discarded my baptismal name and a.s.sumed that of my mother."

"Discarded the old name!" exclaimed the Reverend Jared, surprised. "Had I been aware of that, I surely would have given it to Leonard. I regarded it, as in some sort, the property of the elder branch. Surely, you don't call yourself Susan?"

"My mother's name was Susan Beverley; I a.s.sumed her family name." The philosopher uttered the words with a suavity that did him credit. Then, apologetically, and in deference to his cousin's evident grief: "You see, Eliphalet was somewhat of a mouthful for Frenchmen."

"And so the old name has fallen into disuse," murmured Jared regretfully. "We must revive it. Leonard, upon you----"

But Leonard had taken Natalie to look at the cascades.

So, lighting fresh cigars, the two former fellow-students commenced a revival of old memories. Their discourse, especially on the part of the clergyman, contained frequent allusion to family history, which to the reader would be both uninteresting and incomprehensible. But, since some knowledge of that history is requisite to the due understanding of the tale that is to be told, the respected personage indicated is now invited to partake of that knowledge.