"Mr. Hammond, are you ill? What can be the matter?"
Edna threw down her books and put her hand on the old man's shoulder.
His face was concealed in his arms, and his half-stifled groan told
that some fierce trial had over-taken him.
"Oh, child! I am troubled, perplexed, and my heart is heavy with a
sorrow which I thought I had crushed."
He raised his head for a moment, looked sadly into the girl's face, and
dropped his furrowed cheek on his hand.
"Has anything happened since I saw you yesterday?"
"Yes, I have been surprised by the arrival of some of my relatives,
whose presence in my house revives very painful associations connected
with earlier years. My niece, Mrs. Powell, and her daughter Gertrude,
came very unexpectedly last night to make me a visit of some length;
and to you, my child, I can frankly say the surprise is a painful one.
Many years have elapsed since I received any tidings of Agnes Powell,
and I knew not, until she suddenly appeared before me last night, that
she was a widow, and bereft of a handsome fortune. She claims a
temporary home under my roof; and, though she has caused me much
suffering, I feel that I must endeavor to be patient and kind to her
and her child. I have endured many trials, but this is one of the
severest I have yet been called to pass through."
Distressed by the look of anguish on his pale face, Edna took his hand
between both hers, and stroking it caressingly, said:
"My dear sir, if it is your duty, God will strengthen and sustain you.
Cheer up; I can't bear to see you looking so troubled. A cloud on your
face, my dear Mr. Hammond, is to me like an eclipse of the sun. Pray do
not keep me in shadow."
"If I could know that no mischief would result from Agnes's presence, I
would not regard it so earnestly. I do not wish to be uncharitable or
suspicious; but I fear that her motives are not such as I could--"
"May I intrude, Uncle Allan?"
The stranger's voice was very sweet and winning, and as she entered the
room Edna could scarcely repress an exclamation of admiration; for the
world sees but rarely such perfect beauty as was the portion of Agnes
Powell.
She was one of those few women who seem the pets of time, whose form
and features catch some new grace and charm from every passing year;
and but for the tall, lovely girl who clung to her hand and called her
"mother," a stranger would have believed her only twenty-six or eight.
Fair, rosy, with a complexion fresh as a child's, and a face faultless
in contour, as that of a Greek goddess, it was impossible to resist the
fascination which she exerted over all who looked upon her. Her waving
yellow hair flashed in the morning sunshine, and as she raised one hand
to shade her large, clear, blue eyes, her open sleeve fell back,
disclosing an arm dazzlingly white and exquisitely moulded. As Mr.
Hammond introduced his pupil to his guests, Mrs. Powell smiled
pleasantly, and pressed the offered hand; but the eyes, blue and cold
as the stalactites of Capri, scanned the orphan's countenance, and when
Edna had seen fully into their depths, she could not avoid recalling
Heine's poem of Loreley.
"My daughter Gertrude promises herself much pleasure in your society,
Miss Earl; for uncle's praises prepare her to expect a most charming
companion. She is about your age, but I fear you will find great
disparity in her attainments, as she has not been so fortunate as to
receive her education from Uncle Allan. You are, I believe, an adopted
daughter of Mrs. Murray?"
"No, madam; only a resident in her house until my education is
pronounced sufficiently advanced to justify my teaching."
"I have a friend, Miss Harding, who has recently removed to Le Bocage,
and intends making it her home. How is she?"
"Quite well, I believe."
Mr. Hammond left the study for a moment, and Mrs. Powell added:
"Her friends at the North tell me that she is to marry her cousin, Mr.
Murray, very soon."
"I had not heard the report."
"Then you think there are no grounds for the rumor?"
"Indeed, madam, I know nothing whatever concerning the matter."
"Estelle is handsome and brilliant."
Edna made no reply; and, after waiting a few seconds, Mrs. Powell asked:
"Does Mr. Murray go much into society now?"
"I believe not."
"Is he as handsome as ever?"
"I do not know when you saw him last, but the ladies here seem rather
to dread than admire him. Mrs. Powell, you are dipping your sleeve in
your uncle's inkstand."
She by no means relished this catechism, and resolved to end it.
Picking up her books, she said to Mr. Hammond, who now stood in the
door:
"I presume I need not wait, as you will be too much occupied to-day to
attend to my lessons."
"Yes; I must give you holiday until Monday."
"Miss Earl, may I trouble you to hand this letter to Miss Harding? It
was entrusted to my care by one of her friends in New York. Pray be so
good as to deliver it, with my kindest regards."
As Edna left the house, the pastor took his hat from the rack in the
hall, and walked silently beside her until she reached the gate.
"Mr. Hammond, your niece is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."
He sighed heavily, and answered, hesitatingly:
"Yes, yes. She is more beautiful now than when she first grew up."
"How long has she been a widow?"
"Not quite a year."
The troubled expression settled once more over his placid face, and
when Edna bade him good-morning, and had walked some distance, she
happened to look back, and saw him still leaning on the little gate
under the drooping honeysuckle tendrils, with his gray head bent down
on his hand. That Mrs. Powell was in some way connected with Mr.
Murray's estrangement from the minister Edna felt sure, and the
curiosity which the inquiries of the former had betrayed, told her that
she must be guarded in her intercourse with a woman who was an object
of distrust even to her own uncle.
Very often she had been tempted to ask Mr. Hammond why Mr. Murray so
sedulously shunned him; but the shadow which fell upon his countenance
whenever St. Elmo's name was accidentally mentioned, made her shrink
from alluding to the subject which he evidently avoided discussing.
Before she had walked beyond the outskirts of the village, Mr. Leigh
joined her and she felt the color rise in her cheeks as his fine eyes
rested on her face, and his hand pressed hers. "You must forgive me for
telling you how bitterly I was disappointed in not seeing you two days
ago. Why did you absent yourself from the table?"
"Because I had no desire to meet Mrs. Murray's guests, and preferred to
spend my time with Mr. Hammond."
"If he were not old enough to be your grandfather, I believe I should
be jealous of him. Edna, do not be offended, I am so anxious about
you--so pained at the change in your appearance. Last Sunday as you sat
in church I noticed how very pale and worn you looked, and with what
weariness you leaned your head upon your hand. Mrs. Murray says you are
very well, but I know better. You are either sick in body or mind;
which is it?"
"Neither, Mr. Leigh. I am quite well, I assure you."
"You are grieved about something, which you are unwilling to confide to
me. Edna, it is keen pain that sometimes brings that quiver to your
lips, and if you would only tell me! Edna, I know that I--"
"You conjure up a spectre. I have nothing to confide, and there is no
trouble which you can relieve."
They walked on silently for a while, and then Gordon said:
"I am going away day after to-morrow, to be absent at least for several
months, and I have come to ask a favor which you are too generous to
deny. I want your ambrotype or photograph, and I hope you will give it
to me without hesitation."
"I have never had a likeness of any kind taken."
"There is a good artist here; will you not go to-day and have one taken
for me?"
"No, Mr. Leigh."
"Oh, Edna! Why not?"
"Because I do not wish you to think of remembering me. The sooner you
forget me entirely, save as a mere friend, the happier we both shall
be."
"But that is impossible. If you withhold your picture it will do no
good, for I have your face here in my heart, and you cannot take that
image from me."
"At least I will not encourage feelings which can bring only pain to me
and disappointment to yourself. I consider it unprincipled and
contemptible in a woman to foster or promote in any degree an affection
which she knows she can never reciprocate. If I had fifty photographs I
would not give you one. My dear friend, let the past be forgotten; it
saddens me whenever I think of it, and is a barrier to all pleasant,
friendly intercourse. Good-bye, Mr. Leigh. You have my best wishes on
your journey."
"Will you not allow me to see you home?"
"I think it is best--I prefer that you should not. Mr. Leigh, promise
me that you will struggle against this feeling which distresses me
beyond expression."
She turned and put out her hand. He shook his head mournfully, and said
as he left her:
"God bless you! It will be a dreary, dreary season with me till I
return and see your face again. God preserve you till then!"
Walking rapidly homeward, Edna wondered why she could not return Gordon
Leigh's affection--why his noble face never haunted her dreams instead
of another's--of which she dreaded to think.
Looking rigorously into the past few weeks, she felt that long before
she was aware of the fact, an image to which she refused homage must
have stood between her heart and Gordon's.
When she reached home she inquired for Miss Harding, and was informed
that she and Mrs. Murray had gone visiting with Mr. Allston; had taken
lunch, and would not return until late in the afternoon. Hagar told her
that Mr. Murray had started at daylight to one of his plantations about
twelve miles distant, and would not be back in time for dinner; and,
rejoiced at the prospect of a quiet day, she determined to complete the
chapter which she had left unfinished two night previous.
Needing a reference in the book which Mr. Murray had taken from the
library, she went up to copy it; and as she sat down and opened the
volume to find the passage she required, a letter slipped out and fell
at her feet. She glanced at the envelope as she picked it up, and her
heart bounded painfully as she saw Mr. Murray's name written in Mr.
Manning's peculiar and unmistakable chirography.
The postmark and date corresponded exactly with the one that she had
received the night Mr. Murray gave her the roll of MS., and the
strongest temptation of her life here assailed her. She would almost
have given her right hand to know the contents of that letter, and Mr.
Murray's confident assertion concerning the package was now fully
explained. He had recognized the handwriting on her letters, and
suspected her ambitious scheme. He was not a stranger to Mr. Manning,
and must have known the nature of their correspondence; consequently
his taunt about a lover was entirely ironical.
She turned the unsealed envelope over and over longing to know what it
contained.
The house was deserted--there was, she knew, no human being nearer than
the kitchen, and no eye but God's upon her. She looked once more at the
superscription of the letter, sighed, and put it back into the book
without opening the envelope.
She copied into her note-book the reference she was seeking, and
replacing the volume on the window-sill where she had found it, went
back to her own room and tried to banish the subject of the letter from
her mind.
After all, it was not probable that Mr. Murray had ever mentioned her
name to his correspondent; and as she had not alluded to Le Bocage or
its inmates in writing to Mr. Manning, St. Elmo's hints concerning her
MS. were merely based on conjecture. She felt as if she would rather
face any other disaster sooner than have him scoffing at her daring
project; and more annoyed and puzzled than she chose to confess, she
resolutely bent her thoughts upon her work.
It was almost dusk before Mrs. Murray and her guests returned; and when
it grew so dark that Edna could not see the lines of her paper, she
smoothed her hair, changed her dress, and went down to the parlor.
Mrs. Murray was resting in a corner of the sofa, fanning herself
vigorously, and Mr. Allston smoked on the veranda, and talked to her
through the open window.
"Well, Edna, where have you been all day?"
"With my books."
"I am tired almost to death! This country visiting is an intolerable
bore! I am worn out with small talk and back-biting. Society nowadays
is composed of cannibals--infinitely more to be dreaded than the
Fijians--who only devour the body and leave the character of an
individual intact. Child, let us have some music by way of variety.
Play that symphony of Beethoven that I heard you practicing last week."
She laid her head on the arm of the sofa, and shut her eyes, and Edna
opened the piano and played the piece designated.
The delicacy of her touch enabled her to render it with peculiar pathos
and power; and she played on and on, unmindful of Miss Harding's
entrance--oblivious of everything but the sublime strains of the great
master.
The light streamed over her face, and showed a gladness, an exaltation
of expression there, as if her soul had broken from its earthly
moorings, and was making its way joyfully into the infinite sea of
eternal love and blessedness.
At last her fingers fell from the keys, and as she rose she saw Mr.
Murray standing outside of the parlor door, with his fingers shading
his eyes.
He came in soon after, and his mother held out her hand, saying:
"Here is a seat, my son. Have you just returned?"
"No, I have been here some time."
"How are affairs at the plantation?"
"I really have no idea."
"Why? I thought you went there to-day."
"I started; but found my horse so lame that I went no further than
town."
"Indeed! Hagar told me you had not returned, when I came in from
visiting."
"Like some other people of my acquaintance, Hagar reckons without her
host. I have been at home ever since twelve o'clock, and saw the
carriage as you drove off."
"And pray how have you employed yourself, you incorrigible ignis
fatuus? O my cousin! you are well named. Aunt Ellen must have had an
intuitive insight into your character when she had you christened St.
Elmo; only she should have added the 'Fire--' How have you spent the
day, sir?"
"Most serenely and charmingly, my fair cousin, in the solitude of my
den. If my mother could give me satisfactory security that all my days
would prove as quiet and happy as this has been, I would enter into
bonds never to quit the confines of Le Bocage again. Ah! the
indescribable relief of feeling that nothing was expected of me; that
the galling gyves of hospitality and etiquette were snapped, and that I
was entirely free from all danger of intrusion. This day shall be
marked with a white stone; for I entered my rooms at twelve o'clock,
and remained there in uninterrupted peace till five minutes ago; when I
put on my social shackles once more, and hobbled down to entertain my
fair guest."
Edna was arranging some sheets of music that were scattered on the
piano; but as he mentioned the hour of his return, she remembered that
the clock struck one just as she went into the sitting-room where he
kept his books and cabinets; and she knew now that he was at that very
time in the inner room, beyond the arch. She put her hand to her
forehead, and endeavored to recollect the appearance of the apartment.
The silk curtains, she was sure, were hanging over the arch; for she
remembered distinctly having noticed a large and very beautiful golden
butterfly which had fluttered in from the terrace, and was flitting
over the glowing folds that fell from the carved intrados to the marble
floor. But though screened from her view, he must have heard and seen
her, as she sat before his book-case, turning his letter curiously
between her fingers.
She dared not look up, and bent down to examine the music, so absorbed
in her own emotions of chagrin and astonishment, that she heard not one
word of what Miss Harding was saying. She felt well assured that if Mr.
Murray were cognizant of her visit to the "Egyptian museum," he
intended her to know it, and she knew that his countenance would solve
her painful doubt.
Gathering up her courage, she raised her eyes quickly in the direction
of the sofa, where he had thrown himself, and met just what she most
dreaded, his keen gaze riveted on her face. Evidently he had been
waiting for this eager, startling, questioning glance; for instantly he
smiled, inclined his head slightly, and arched his eyebrows, as if much
amused. Never before had she seen his face so bright and happy, so free
from bitterness. If he had said, "Yes, I saw you: are you not
thoroughly discomfited, and ashamed of your idle curiosity? What
interest can you possibly have in carefully studying the outside of my
letters? How do you propose to mend matters?"--he could not have more
fully conveyed his meaning. Edna's face crimsoned, and she put up her
hand to shield it; but Mr. Murray turned toward the window, and coolly
discussed the merits of a popular race-horse, upon which Clinton
Allston lavished extravagant praise.
Estelle leaned against the window, listening to the controversy, and
after a time, when the subject seemed very effectually settled by an
oath from the master of the house, Edna availed herself of the lull in
the conversation to deliver the letter.
"Miss Harding, I was requested to hand you this."
Estelle broke the seal, glanced rapidly over the letter and exclaimed:
"Is it possible? Can she be here? Who gave you this letter?"
"Mrs. Powell, Mr. Hammond's niece."
"Agnes Powell?"
"Yes. Agnes Powell."
During the next three minutes one might have distinctly heard a pin
fall, for the ticking of two watches was very audible.
Estelle glanced first at her cousin, then at her aunt, then back at her
cousin. Mrs. Murray involuntarily laid her hand on her son's knee, and
watched his face with an expression of breathless anxiety; and Edna saw
that, though his lips blanched, not a muscle moved, not a nerve
twitched; and only the deadly hate, that appeared to leap into his
large shadowy eyes, told that the name stirred some bitter memory.
The silence was growing intolerable when Mr. Murray turned his gaze
full on Estelle, and said in his usual sarcastic tone:
"Have you seen a ghost? Your letter must contain tidings of Victor's
untimely demise; for, if there is such a thing as retribution, such a
personage as Nemesis, I swear that poor devil of a Count has crept into
her garments and come to haunt you. Did he cut his white womanish
throat with a penknife, or smother himself with charcoal fumes, or
light a poisoned candle and let his poor homoeopathic soul drift out
dreamily into eternity? If so, Gabriel will require a powerful
microscope to find him. Notwithstanding the fact that you destined him
for my cousin, the little curly creature always impressed me as being a
stray specimen of an otherwise extinct type of intellectual
Lacrymatoria. Is he really dead? Peace to his infusorial soul! Who had
the courage to write and break the melancholy tidings to you? Or
perhaps, after all, it is only the ghost of your own conscience that
has brought that scared look into your face."
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"How insanely jealous you are of Victor! He's neither dead nor dreaming
of suicide, but enjoying himself vastly in Baden-Baden. Edna, did Mrs.
Powell bring Gertrude with her?"
"Yes."
"Do you know how long she intends remaining at the parsonage?"
"I think her visit is of indefinite duration."
"Edna, will you oblige me by inquiring whether Henry intends to give us
any supper to-night? He forgets we have had no dinner. St. Elmo, do
turn down that gas--the wind makes it flare dreadfully."
Edna left the room to obey Mrs. Murray's command, and did not return
immediately; but, after the party seated themselves at the table, she
noticed that the master seemed in unusually high spirits; and when the
meal was concluded, he challenged his cousins to a game of billiards.
They repaired to the rotunda, and Mrs. Murray beckoned to Edna to
follow her. As they entered her apartment she carefully closed the door.
"Edna, when did Mrs. Powell arrive?"
"Last night."
"Did you see her?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is she very pretty?"
"She is the most beautiful woman I ever met."
"How did Mr. Hammond receive her?"
"Her visit evidently annoys him, but he gave me no explanation of the
matter, which I confess puzzles me. I should suppose her society would
cheer and interest him."
"Oh, pooh! Talk of what you understand. She surely has not come here to
live?"
"I think he fears she has. She is very poor."
Mrs. Murray set her teeth together and muttered something which her
companion did not understand.
"Edna, is she handsomer than Estelle?"
"Infinitely handsomer, I think. Indeed, they are so totally unlike it
would be impossible to compare them. Your niece is very fine-looking,
very commanding; Mrs. Powell is beautiful."
"But she is no longer young. She has a grown daughter."
"True; but in looking at her you do not realize it. Did you never see
her?"
"No; and I trust I never may! I am astonished that Mr. Hammond can
endure the sight of her. You say he has told you nothing about her?"
"Nothing which explains the chagrin her presence seems to cause."
"He is very wise. But, Edna, avoid her society as much as possible. She
is doubtless very fascinating; but I do not like what I have heard of
her, and prefer that you should have little conversation or intercourse
with her. On the whole, you might as well stay at home now; it is very
warm, and you can study without Mr. Hammond's assistance."
"You do not mean that my visits must cease altogether?"
"Oh! no; go occasionally--once or twice a week--but certainly not every
day, as formerly. And, Edna, be careful not to mention that woman's
name again; I dislike her exceedingly."
The orphan longed to ask for an explanation, but was too proud to
solicit confidence so studiously withheld.
Mrs. Murray leaned back in her large rocking-chair and fell into a
reverie. Edna waited patiently for some time, and finally rose.
"Mrs. Murray, have you anything more to say to me tonight? You look
very much fatigued!"
"Nothing, I believe. Good-night, child. Send Hagar to me."
Edna went back to her desk and resolutely turned to her work; for it
was one of the peculiar traits of her character that she could at will
fasten her thoughts upon whatever subject she desired to master. All
irrelevant ideas were sternly banished until such season as she chose
to give them audience; and to-night she tore her mind from the events
of the day, and diligently toiled among the fragments of Scandinavian
lore for the missing links in her mythologic chain.
Now and then peals of laughter from the billiard-room startled her; and
more than once Mr. Murray's clear, cold voice rose above the subdued
chatter of Estelle and Clinton.
After a while the game ended, good-nights were exchanged, the party
dispersed, doors were closed, and all grew silent.
While Edna wrote on, an unexpected sound arrested her pen. She
listened, and heard the slow walk of a horse beneath her window. As it
passed she rose and looked out. The moon was up, and Mr. Murray was
riding down the avenue.
The girl returned to her MS., and worked on without intermission for
another hour; then the last paragraph was carefully punctuated, the
long and difficult chapter was finished. She laid aside her pen, and
locked her desk.
Shaking down the mass of hair that had been tightly coiled at the back
of her head, she extinguished the light, and drawing a chair to the
window, seated herself.
Silence and peace brooded over the world; not a sound broke the solemn
repose of nature.
The summer breeze had rocked itself to rest in the elm boughs, and only
the waning moon seemed alive and toiling as it climbed slowly up a
cloudless sky, passing starry sentinels whose mighty challenge was lost
in vast vortices of blue, as they paced their ceaseless round in the
mighty camp of constellations.
With her eyes fixed on the gloomy, groined archway of elms, where an
occasional slip of moonshine silvered the ground, Edna watched and
waited. The blood beat heavily in her temples and throbbed sullenly at
her heart; but she sat mute and motionless as the summer night,
reviewing all that had occurred during the day.
Presently the distant sound of hoofs on the rocky road leading to town
fell upon her strained ear; the hard, quick gallop ceased at the gate,
and very slowly Mr. Murray walked his horse up the dusky avenue, and on
toward the stable.
From the shadow of her muslin curtain, Edna looked down on the walk
beneath, and after a few moments saw him coming to the house.
He paused on the terrace, took off his hat, swept back the thick hair
from his forehead, and stood looking out over the quiet lawn.
Then a heavy, heavy sigh, almost a moan, seemed to burst from the
depths of his heart, and he turned and went into the house.
The night was far spent, and the moon had cradled herself on the
tree-tops, when Edna raised her face all blistered with tears.
Stretching out her arms she fell on her knees, while a passionate,
sobbing prayer struggled brokenly across her trembling lips:
"O my God! have mercy upon him! save his wretched soul from eternal
death! Help me so to live and govern myself that I bring no shame on
the cause of Christ. And if it be thy will, O my God! grant that I may
be instrumental in winning this precious but wandering, sinful soul
back to the faith as it is in Jesus!"
Ah! verily--
... "More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of.
Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for him night and day. For
what are men better than sheep or goats, That nourish a blind life
within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both
for themselves, and those who call them friend?"