tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER XXXV. A Bottle of Champagne
CHAPTER XXXVI. She Cried Aloud She Was a Guilty Creature
CHAPTER XXXVII. A Golden Bridge for Passage Across an Abyss of Shame
CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Ruins of Her Air Castles Lay Around Her
CHAPTER XXXIX. Voidable Vows of Turks (and Others)
CHAPTER XL. Her Face Was the Mirror of Her Pleasant Dreams
CHAPTER XLI. Her Guilty Conscience Cried, "Behold Your Handiwork"
CHAPTER XLII. I Will Never Leave Him, So Help Me God!
CHAPTER XLIII. Money, Heaps of Money
CHAPTER XLIV. Wedding Bells

PREFACE.

Some readers of this novel will charge the author with the crime of laying a sacrilegious hand upon the Ark of God; others will characterize his work as an assault upon a windmill.

I contend (and the fact, if it be a fact, is ample justification for this book) that The Westminster Confession of Faith has driven many honest souls to the gloom of unbelief, to the desperate need of a denial of God; and that to-day a very large number of the adherents of that Confession find it possible to maintain their faith in God only by secret rejection of a creed they openly profess.

Take from that Confession those Articles which give rise to the dilemma which confronts the wife and mother of this story, and nothing is left. The articles in question are the essential articles of the Confession.

He who can in honesty say of The Westminster Confession of Faith: "This is my standard: by this sign I shall conquer," he, and he only, has the right to condemn my purpose.

Hilary Trent.

Mr. Claghorn's Daughter

CHAPTER I.

A PHILOSOPHER AND A MARCHIONESS.

Mr. (by preference Monsieur) Beverley Claghorn, of the Rue de la Paix, Paris, was a personage of some note in that world in which he had lived for many years. His slightly aquiline nose and well-pointed moustache, his close-cropped grizzled hair, his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his hat, his boots—his attire as a whole—successfully appealed to a refined taste. The sapphire, encircled by tiny diamonds, which adorned his little finger, beautiful to the common eye, was, in the eye of the connoisseur, a rare and exquisite gem. Except as to an inch or two of stature, the outward man of Monsieur Claghorn left nothing to be desired; while as to his intellectual calibre, he to whom it was best known regarded it with respect, even with admiration; his moral deportment had never occasioned scandal; with the goods of this world he was liberally endowed. As a philosopher (for he affected that character) he should have been a contented man; being human, as philosophers must be, he was not. As against the advantages indicated, Monsieur had grievances incompatible with contentment. He was nearer sixty than forty, which was one cause of sorrow; another was that, in spite of the effort of years, he had not in fact become a Parisian. He had succeeded in approaching the type very nearly; nevertheless, though his card might proclaim him "Monsieur" and imply its owner to the Gallic manner born, the truth remained that he was not so born. His language, by dint of effort, aided by native talent, had become almost as easy and as idiomatic as the enunciations of those who formed the world in which he dwelt, yet he was poignantly aware that therein was still to be detected an echo of the twang of his youth and of his native tongue. His surname, too, as a stumbling block to his friends, was a source of vexation. Had he been born a Dobbins, a mere apostrophe would have made him a d'Obbins and content. But the uncompromising appellation of his ancestors refused to lend itself to a fraud, though venial, and even ennobling, and thus remained a source of repining; a gentle regret that his cognomen was not more fitting to his environment. But as to his name received in baptism, therewith was connected a grief so deep and a dread so great, that it was, perhaps, the most baleful of his closeted skeletons. Fortune having so far enabled Monsieur to hide the sorrow connected with his Christian name, let us also leave the matter to fortune.

To enumerate all the grievances of our philosopher would be a tedious task, but there was one of such magnitude that it may be regarded as the great grievance of his existence. This was Christianity.

That earnest conviction of the truth of orthodox Christianity should incite to propagandism is easily comprehensible. A reasonable sinner will not complain of the believer's desire to save errant souls; indeed, he may well be amazed that the believer engages in any other occupation. But why the rage for proselytizing should inspire the non-believer is less obvious. Why should the heathen rage because the zealot is deluded by hope and his eyes deceived by the cheering illusions offered by faith? If the rough road of the Christian wayfarer, its gloomy valleys and dark caverns are smoothed and illumined by the cheering light of conviction, why should the skeptic object, and beckon the fervent pilgrim from his chosen path to that broader and more alluring road selected by himself? Can it be that, like a boy who fears the coming darkness, the skeptic craves companionship, suspecting hobgoblins after sunset?

Monsieur Claghorn was indignant that the world, as he knew it, either professed a more or less orthodox belief in God, or cared nothing about the matter. Both attitudes aroused his ire.

"My dear Claghorn," urged his connexion, the Marquise de Fleury, "why not leave these matters to Père Martin, as I do? I assure you it is comforting," and the little matron shrugged her rather sharp shoulder-blades and nestled more snugly in the corner of her blue-silk sofa.

"It is degrading to the intellect."

"Ah! The intellect—I have none; I am all soul."

"You—the brightest woman in Paris!"

"Too broad, mon ami. Exaggeration destroys the delicate flavor of a compliment."

"Louise, you are in a bad humor. Evidently, you don't like your gown."

"The gown is ravishing, as you should have seen before this. It is you, my friend, who are angry. To what end? Angry at nothing? That is foolish. Angry at something? Considering that that Something is God——"

"There you have it,—fear. Women rule men through their passions; and priests rule women through their fears."

"Eh bien! Have it so. You deny God. It is daring—splendid—but what do you gain, what do you gain, mon