Viewed by the aid of lanterns and the lurid, flickering light of
torches, the scene of disaster presented a ghastly debris of dead and
dying, of crushed cars and wounded men and women, who writhed and
groaned among the shattered timbers from which they found it impossible
to extricate themselves. The cries of those who recognized relatives in
the mutilated corpses that were dragged out from the wreck increased
the horrors of the occasion; and when Edna opened her eyes amid the
flaring of torches and the piercing wails of the bereaved passengers,
the first impression was, that she had died and gone to Dante's "Hell;"
but the pangs that seized her when she attempted to move soon dispelled
this frightful illusion, and by degrees the truth presented itself to
her blunted faculties. She was held fast between timbers, one of which
seemed to have fallen across her feet and crushed them, as she was
unable to move them, and was conscious of a horrible sensation of
numbness; one arm, too, was pinioned at her side, and something heavy
and cold lay upon her throat and chest. Lifting this weight with her
uninjured hand, she uttered an exclamation of horror as the white face
of the little baby whose fingers she had clasped now met her astonished
gaze; and she saw that the sweet coral lips were pinched and purple,
the waxen lids lay rigid over the blue eyes, and the dimpled hand was
stiff and icy. The confusion increased as day dawned and a large crowd
collected to offer assistance, and Edna watched her approaching
deliverers as they cut their way through the wreck and lifted out the
wretched sufferers. Finally two men, with axes in their hands, bent
down and looked into her face.
"Here is a live child and a dead baby wedged in between these beams.
Are you much hurt, little one?"
"Yes, I believe I am. Please take this log off my feet."
It was a difficult matter, but at length strong arms raised her,
carried her some distance from the ruins, and placed her on the grass,
where several other persons were writhing and groaning. The collision
which precipitated the train from trestle-work over a deep ravine, had
occurred near a village station, and two physicians were busily engaged
in examining the wounded. The sun had risen, and shone full on Edna's
pale, suffering face, when one of the surgeons, with a countenance that
indexed earnest sympathy and compassion, came to investigate the extent
of her injuries, and sat down on the grass beside her. Very tenderly he
handled her, and after a few moments said gently:
"I am obliged to hurt you a little, my child, for your shoulder is
dislocated, and some of the bones are broken in your feet; but I will
be as tender as possible. Here, Lennox! help me."
The pain was so intense that she fainted, and after a short time, when
she recovered her consciousness, her feet and ankles were tightly
bandaged, and the doctor was chafing her hands and bathing her face
with some powerful extract. Smoothing back her hair, he said:
"Were your parents on the cars? Do you know whether they are hurt?"
"They both died when I was a baby."
"Who was with you?"
"Nobody but Grip--my dog."
"Had you no relatives or friends on the train?"
"I have none. I am all alone in the world."
"Where did you come from?"
"Chattanooga."
"Where were you going?"
"My grandpa died, and as I had nobody to take care of me, I was going
to Columbus to work in the cotton factory."
"Humph! Much work you will do for many a long day."
He stroked his grayish beard, and mused a moment, and Edna said timidly:
"If you please, sir, I would like to know if my dog is hurt?"
The physician smiled, and looked round inquiringly.
"Has any one seen a dog that was on the train?"
One of the brakemen, a stout Irishman, took his pipe from his mouth,
and answered:
"Aye, aye, sir! and as vicious a brute as ever I set eyes on. Both his
hind legs were smashed--dragged so--and I tapped him on the head with
an axe to put him out of his misery. Yonder he now lies on the track."
Edna put her hand over her eyes, and turned her face down on the grass
to hide tears that would not be driven back. Here the surgeon was
called away, and for a half hour the child lay there, wondering what
would become of her, in her present crippled and helpless condition,
and questioning in her heart why God did not take her instead of that
dimpled darling, whose parents were now weeping so bitterly for the
untimely death that mowed their blossom ere its petals were expanded.
The chilling belief was fast gaining ground that God had cursed and
forsaken her; that misfortune and bereavement would dog her steps
through life; and a hard, bitter expression settled about her mouth,
and looked out gloomily from the sad eyes. Her painful reverie was
interrupted by the cheery voice of Dr. Rodney, who came back,
accompanied by an elegantly-dressed middle-aged lady.
"Ah, my brave little soldier! Tell us your name."
"Edna Earl."
"Have you no relatives?" asked the lady, stooping to scrutinize her
face.
"No, ma'am."
"She is a very pretty child, Mrs. Murray, and if you can take care of
her, even for a few weeks, until she is able to walk about, it will be
a real charity. I never saw so much fortitude displayed by one so
young; but her fever is increasing, and she needs immediate attention.
Will it be convenient for you to carry her to your house at once?"
"Certainly, doctor; order the carriage driven up as close as possible.
I brought a small mattress, and think the ride will not be very
painful. What splendid eyes she has! Poor little thing! Of course you
will come and prescribe for her, and I will see that she is carefully
nursed until she is quite well again. Here, Henry, you and Richard must
lift this child, and put her on the mattress in the carriage. Mind you
do not stumble and hurt her."
During the drive neither spoke, and Edna was in so much pain that she
lay with her eyes closed. As they entered a long avenue, the rattle of
the wheels on the gravel aroused the child's attention, and when the
carriage stopped, and she was carried up a flight of broad marble
steps, she saw that the house was very large and handsome.
"Bring her into the room next to mine," said Mrs. Murray, leading the
way.
Edna was soon undressed and placed within the snowy sheets of a
heavily-carved bedstead, whose crimson canopy shed a ruby light down on
the laced and ruffled pillows. Mrs. Murray administered a dose of
medicine given to her by Dr. Rodney, and after closing the blinds to
exclude the light, she felt the girl's pulse, found that she had fallen
into a heavy sleep, and then, with a sigh, went down to take her
breakfast. It was several hours before Edna awoke, and when she opened
her eyes, and looked around the elegantly furnished and beautiful room,
she felt bewildered. Mrs. Murray sat in a cushioned chair, near one of
the windows, with a book in her hand, and Edna had an opportunity of
studying her face. It was fair, proud, and handsome, but wore an
expression of habitual anxiety; and gray hairs showed themselves under
the costly lace that bordered her morning head-dress, while lines of
care marked her brow and mouth. Children instinctively decipher the
hieroglyphics which time carves on human faces, and, in reading the
countenance of her hostess, Edna felt that she was a haughty, ambitious
woman, with a kind but not very warm heart, who would be scrupulously
attentive to the wants of a sick child, but would probably never dream
of caressing or fondling such a charge. Chancing to glance towards the
bed as she turned a leaf, Mrs. Murray met the curious gaze fastened
upon her, and, rising, approached the sufferer.
"How do you feel, Edna? I believe that is your name."
"Thank you, my head is better, but I am very thirsty." The lady of the
house gave her some iced water in a silver goblet, and ordered a
servant to bring up the refreshments she had directed prepared. As she
felt the girl's pulse, Edna noticed how white and soft her hands were,
and how dazzlingly the jewels flashed on her fingers, and she longed
for the touch of those aristocratic hands on her hot brow, where the
hair clustered so heavily.
"How old are you, Edna?"
"Almost thirteen."
"Had you any luggage on the train?"
"I had a small box of clothes."
"I will send a servant for it." She rang the bell as she spoke.
"When do you think I shall be able to walk about?"
"Probably not for many weeks. If you need or wish anything you must not
hesitate to ask for it. A servant will sit here, and you have only to
tell her what you want."
"You are very kind, ma'am, and I thank you very much--" She paused, and
her eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. Murray looked at her and said gravely:
"What is the matter, child?"
"I am only sorry I was so ungrateful and wicked this morning."
"How so?"
"Oh! everything that I love dies; and when I lay there on the grass,
unable to move, among strangers who knew and cared nothing about me, I
was wicked, and would not try to pray, and thought God wanted to make
me suffer all my life, and I wished that I had been killed instead of
that dear little baby, who had a father and mother to kiss and love it.
It was all wrong to feel so, but I was so wretched. And then God raised
up friends even among strangers, and shows me I am not forsaken if I am
desolate. I begin to think He took everybody away from me, that I might
see how He could take care of me without them. I know 'He doeth all
things well,' but I feel it now; and I am so sorry I could not trust
Him without seeing it."
Edna wiped away her tears, and Mrs. Murray's voice faltered slightly as
she said:
"You are a good little girl, I have no doubt. Who taught you to be so
religious?"
"Grandpa."
"How long since you lost him?"
"Four months."
"Can you read?"
"Oh! yes, ma'am."
"Well, I shall send you a Bible, and you must make yourself as
contented as possible. I shall take good care of you."
As the hostess left the room a staid-looking, elderly negro woman took
a seat at the window and sewed silently, now and then glancing toward
the bed. Exhausted with pain and fatigue, Edna slept again, and it was
night when she opened her eyes and found Dr. Rodney and Mrs. Murray at
her pillow. The kind surgeon talked pleasantly for some time, and,
after giving ample instructions, took his leave, exhorting his patient
to keep up her fortitude and all would soon be well. So passed the
first day of her sojourn under the hospitable roof which appeared so
fortuitously to shelter her; and the child thanked God fervently for
the kind hands into which she had fallen. Day after day wore wearily
away, and at the end of a fortnight, though much prostrated by fever
and suffering, she was propped up in bed by pillows, while Hagar, the
servant, combed and plaited the long, thick, matted hair. Mrs. Murray
came often to the room, but her visits were short, and though
invariably kind and considerate, Edna felt an involuntary awe of her,
which rendered her manner exceedingly constrained when they were
together. Hagar was almost as taciturn as her mistress, and as the girl
asked few questions, she remained in complete ignorance of the
household affairs, and had never seen any one but Mrs. Murray, Hagar,
and the doctor. She was well supplied with books, which the former
brought from the library, and thus the invalid contrived to amuse
herself during the long, tedious summer days. One afternoon in June,
Edna persuaded Hagar to lift her to a large, cushioned chair close to
the open window which looked out on the lawn; and here, with a book on
her lap, she sat gazing out at the soft blue sky, the waving elm
boughs, and the glittering plumage of a beautiful Himalayan pheasant,
which seemed in the golden sunshine to have forgotten the rosy glow of
his native snows. Leaning her elbows on the window-sill, Edna rested
her face in her palms, and after a few minutes a tide of tender
memories rose and swept over her heart, bringing a touching expression
of patient sorrow to her sweet, wan face, and giving a far-off wistful
look to the beautiful eyes where tears often gathered but very rarely
fell. Hagar had dressed her in a new white muslin wrapper, with fluted
ruffles at the wrists and throat; and the fair young face, with its
delicate features, and glossy folds of soft hair, was a pleasant
picture, which the nurse loved to contemplate. Standing with her
work-basket in her hand, she watched the graceful little figure for two
or three moments, and a warm, loving light shone out over her black
features; then nodding her head resolutely, she muttered:
"I will have my way this once; she shall stay," and passed out of the
room, closing the door behind her. Edna did not remark her departure,
for memory was busy among the ashes of other days, exhuming a thousand
precious reminiscences of mountain home, chestnut groves, showers of
sparks fringing an anvil with fire, and an old man's unpainted
head-board in the deserted burying-ground. She started nervously when,
a half hour later, Mrs. Murray laid her hand gently on her shoulder,
and said:
"Child, of what are you thinking?"
For an instant she could not command her voice, which faltered; but
making a strong effort, she answered in a low tone:
"Of all that I have lost, and what I am to do in future."
"Would you be willing to work all your life in a factory?"
"No, ma'am; only long enough to educate myself, so that I could teach."
"You could not obtain a suitable education in that way, and beside, I
do not think that the factory you spoke of would be an agreeable place
for you. I have made some inquiries about it since you came here."
"I know it will not be pleasant, but then I am obliged to work in some
way, and I don't see what else I can do. I am not able to pay for an
education now, and I am determined to have one."
Mrs. Murray's eyes wandered out toward the velvety lawn, and she mused
for some minutes; then laying her hands on the orphan's head, she said:
"Child, will you trust your future and your education to me? I do not
mean that I will teach you--oh! no--but I will have you thoroughly
educated, so that when you are grown you can support yourself by
teaching. I have no daughter--I lost mine when she was a babe; but I
could not have seen her enter a factory, and as you remind me of my own
child, I will not allow you to go there. I will take care of and
educate you--will see that you have everything you require, if you are
willing to be directed and advised by me Understand me, I do not adopt
you; nor shall I consider you exactly as one of my family; but I shall
prove a good friend and protector till you are eighteen, and capable of
providing for yourself. You will live in my house and look upon it as
your home, at least for the present. What do you say to this plan? Is
it not much better and more pleasant than a wild-goose chase after an
education through the dust and din of a factory?"
"Oh, Mrs. Murray! You are very generous and good, but I have no claim
on you--no right to impose such expense and trouble upon you. I am--"
"Hush, child! you have that claim which poverty always has on wealth.
As for the expense, that is a mere trifle, and I do not expect you to
give me any trouble; perhaps you may even make yourself useful to me."
"Thank you! oh! thank you, ma'am! I am very grateful! I can not tell
you how much I thank you; but I shall try to prove it, if you will let
me stay here--on one condition."
"What is that?"
"That when I am able to pay you, you will receive the money that my
education and clothes will cost you."
Mrs. Murray laughed, and stroked the silky black hair.
"Where did you get such proud notions? Pay me, indeed! You poor little
beggar! Ha! ha! ha! Well, yes, you may do as you please, when you are
able; that time is rather too distant to be considered now. Meanwhile,
quit grieving over the past, and think only of improving yourself. I do
not like doleful faces, and shall expect you to be a cheerful,
contented, and obedient girl. Hagar is making you an entire set of new
clothes, and I hope to see you always neat. I shall give you a smaller
room than this--the one across the hall; you will keep your books
there, and remain there during study hours. At other times you can come
to my room, or amuse yourself as you like; and when there is company
here, remember, I shall always expect you to sit quietly, and listen to
the conversation, as it is very improving to young girls to be in
really good society. You will have a music teacher, and practice on the
upright piano in the library, instead of the large one in the parlor.
One thing more, if you want anything, come to me, and ask for it, and I
shall be very much displeased if you talk to the servants, or encourage
them to talk to you. Now, everything is understood, and I hope you will
be happy, and properly improve the advantages I shall give you."
Edna drew one of the white hands down to her lips and murmured:
"Thank you--thank you! You shall never have cause to regret your
goodness; and your wishes shall always guide me."
"Well, well; I shall remember this promise, and trust I may never find
it necessary to remind you of it. I dare say we shall get on very
happily together. Don't thank me any more, and hereafter we need not
speak of the matter."
Mrs. Murray stooped, and for the first time kissed the child's white
forehead; and Edna longed to throw her arms about the stately form, but
the polished hauteur awed and repelled her.
Before she could reply, and just as Mrs. Murray was moving toward the
door, it was thrown open, and a gentleman strode into the room. At
sight of Edna he stopped suddenly, and dropping a bag of game on the
floor, exclaimed harshly:
"What the d--l does this mean?"
"My son! I am so glad you are at home again. I was getting quite uneasy
at your long absence. This is one of the victims of that terrible
railroad disaster; the neighborhood is full of the sufferers. Come to
my room. When did you arrive?"
She linked her arm in his, picked up the game-bag, and led him to the
adjoining room, the door of which she closed and locked.
A painful thrill shot along Edna's nerves, and an indescribable
sensation of dread, a presentiment of coming ill, overshadowed her
heart. This was the son of her friend, and the first glimpse of him
filled her with instantaneous repugnance; there was an innate and
powerful repulsion which she could not analyze. He was a tall, athletic
man, not exactly young, yet certainly not elderly; one of anomalous
appearance, prematurely old, and, though not one white thread silvered
his thick, waving, brown hair, the heavy and habitual scowl on his
high, full brow had plowed deep furrows such as age claims for its
monogram. His features were bold but very regular; the piercing,
steel-gray eyes were unusually large, and beautifully shaded with long
heavy, black lashes, but repelled by their cynical glare; and the
finely formed mouth, which might have imparted a wonderful charm to the
countenance, wore a chronic, savage sneer, as if it only opened to
utter jeers and curses. Evidently the face had once been singularly
handsome, in the dawn of his earthly career, when his mother's
good-night kiss rested like a blessing on his smooth, boyish forehead,
and the prayer learned in the nursery still crept across his pure lips;
but now the fair, chiseled lineaments were blotted by dissipation, and
blackened and distorted by the baleful fires of a fierce, passionate
nature, and a restless, powerful, and unhallowed intellect. Symmetrical
and grand as that temple of Juno, in shrouded Pompeii, whose polished
shafts gleamed centuries ago in the morning sunshine of a day of woe,
whose untimely night has endured for nineteen hundred years, so, in the
glorious flush of his youth, this man had stood facing a noble and
possibly a sanctified future; but the ungovernable flames of sin had
reduced him, like that darkened and desecrated fane, to a melancholy
mass of ashy arches and blackened columns, where ministering priests,
all holy aspirations, slumbered in the dust. His dress was costly but
negligent, and the red stain on his jacket told that his hunt had not
been fruitless. He wore a straw hat, belted with broad black ribbon,
and his spurred boots were damp and muddy.
What was there about this surly son of her hostess which recalled to
Edna's mind her grandfather's words, "He is a rude, wicked, blasphemous
man." She had not distinctly seen the face of the visitor at the shop;
but something in the impatient, querulous tone, in the hasty, haughty
step, and the proud lifting of the regal head, reminded her painfully
of him whose overbearing insolence had so unwontedly stirred the ire of
Aaron Hunt's genial and generally equable nature. While she pondered
this inexplicable coincidence, voices startled her from the next room,
whence the sound floated through the window.
"If you were not my mother, I should say you were a candidate for a
straight-jacket and a lunatic asylum; but as those amiable proclivities
are considered hereditary, I do not favor that comparison. 'Sorry for
her,' indeed! I'll bet my right arm it will not be six weeks before she
makes you infinitely sorrier for your deluded self; and you will treat
me to a new version of 'je me regrette!' With your knowledge of this
precious world and its holy crew, I confess it seems farcical in the
extreme that open-eyed you can venture another experiment on human
nature. Some fine morning you will rub your eyes and find your acolyte
non est; ditto, your silver forks, diamonds, and gold spoons."
Edna felt the indignant blood burning in her cheeks, and as she could
not walk without assistance, and shrank from listening to a
conversation which was not intended for her ears, she coughed several
times to arrest the attention of the speakers, but apparently without
effect, for the son's voice again rose above the low tones of the
mother.
"Oh, carnival of shams! She is 'pious' you say? Then, I'll swear my
watch is not safe in my pocket, and I shall sleep with the key of my
cameo cabinet tied around my neck. A Paris police would not insure your
valuables or mine. The facts forbid that your pen-feathered saint
should decamp with some of my costly travel-scrapings! 'Pious' indeed!
'Edna,' forsooth! No doubt her origin and morals are quite as
apocryphal as her name. Don't talk to me about 'her being
providentially thrown into your hands,' unless you desire to hear me
say things which you have frequently taken occasion to inform me
'deeply grieved' you. I dare say the little vagrant whines in what she
considers orthodox phraseology, that 'God tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb!' and, like some other pious people whom I have heard canting,
will saddle some Jewish prophet or fisherman with the dictum, thinking
that it sounds like the Bible, whereas Sterne said it. Shorn lamb,
forsooth! We, or rather you, madame, ma mere, will be shorn--thoroughly
fleeced! Pious! Ha! ha! ha!"
Here followed an earnest expostulation from Mrs. Murray, only a few
words of which were audible, and once more the deep, strong, bitter
tones rejoined:
"Interfere! Pardon me, I am only too happy to stand aloof and watch the
little wretch play out her game. Most certainly it is your own affair,
but you will permit me to be amused, will you not? And with your
accustomed suavity forgive me, if I chance inadvertently to whisper
above my breath, 'Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle?' What the deuce do
you suppose I care about her 'faith?' She may run through the whole
catalogue from the mustard-seed size up, as far as I am concerned, and
you may make yourself easy on the score of my 'contaminating' the
sanctified vagrant!"
"St. Elmo! my son! promise me that you will not scoff and sneer at her
religion; at least in her presence," pleaded the mother.
A ringing, mirthless laugh was the only reply that reached the girl, as
she put her fingers in her ears and hid her face on the window-sill.
It was no longer possible to doubt the identity of the stranger; the
initials on the fly-leaf meant St. Elmo Murray; and she knew that in
the son of her friend and protectress, she had found the owner of her
Dante and the man who had cursed her grandfather for his tardiness. If
she had only known this one hour earlier, she would have declined the
offer, which once accepted, she knew not how to reject, without
acquainting Mrs. Murray with the fact that she had overheard the
conversation; and yet she could not endure the prospect of living under
the same roof with a man whom she loathed and feared. The memory of the
blacksmith's aversion of this stranger intensified her own; and as she
pondered in shame and indignation the scornful and opprobrious epithets
which he had bestowed on herself, she muttered through her set teeth:
"Yes, Grandy! he is cruel and wicked; and I never can bear to look at
or speak to him! How dared he curse my dear, dear, good grandpa! How
can I ever be respectful to him, when he is not even respectful to his
own mother! Oh! I wish I had never come here! I shall always hate him!"
At this juncture, Hagar entered, and lifted her back to her couch; and,
remarking the agitation of her manner, the nurse said gravely, as she
put her fingers on the girl's pulse:
"What has flushed you so? Your face is hot; you have tired yourself
sitting up too long. Did a gentleman come into the room a while ago?"
"Yes, Mrs. Murray's son."
"Did Miss Ellen--that is, my mistress--tell you that you were to live
here, and get your education?"
"Yes, she offered to take care of me for a few years."
"Well, I am glad it is fixed, so--you can stay; for you can be a great
comfort to Miss Ellen, if you try to please her."
She paused, and busied herself about the room, and remembering Mrs.
Murray's injunction that she should discourage conversation on the part
of the servants, Edna turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes.
But for once Hagar's habitual silence and non-committalism were laid
aside; and, stooping over the couch, she said hurriedly:
"Listen to me, child, for I like your patient ways, and want to give
you a friendly warning; you are a stranger in this house, and might
stumble into trouble. Whatever else you do, be sure not to cross Mass'
Elmo's path! Keep out of his way, and he will keep out of yours; for he
is shy enough of strangers, and would walk a mile to keep from meeting
anybody; but if he finds you in his way, he will walk roughshod right
over you--trample you. Nothing ever stops him one minute when he makes
up his mind. He does not even wait to listen to his mother, and she is
about the only person who dares to talk to him. He hates everybody and
everything; but he doesn't tread on folks' toes unless they are where
they don't belong. He is like a rattlesnake that crawls in his own
track, and bites everything that meddles or crosses his trail. Above
everything, child, for the love of peace and heaven, don't argue with
him! If he says black is white, don't contradict him; and if he swears
water runs up stream, let him swear, and don't know it runs down. Keep
out of his sight, and you will do well enough, but once make him mad
and you had better fight Satan hand to hand with red-hot pitchforks!
Everybody is afraid of him, and gives way to him, and you must do like
the balance that have to deal with him. I nursed him; but I would
rather put my head in a wolf's jaws than stir him up; and God knows I
wish he had died when he was a baby, instead of living to grow up the
sinful, swearing, raging devil he is! Now mind what I say. I am not
given to talking, but this time it is for your good. Mind what I tell
you, child; and if you want to have peace, keep out of his way."
She left the room abruptly, and the orphan lay in the gathering gloom
of twilight, perplexed, distressed, and wondering how she could avoid
all the angularities of this amiable character, under whose roof fate
seemed to have deposited her.