"Mrs. Powell and her daughter to see Miss Estelle and Miss Edna."
"Why did you not say we were at dinner?" cried Mrs. Murray,
impatiently, darting an angry glance at the servant.
"I did, ma'am, but they said they would wait."
As Estelle folded up her napkin and slipped it into the silver ring,
she looked furtively at St. Elmo, who, holding up a bunch of purple
grapes, said in an indifferent tone to his mother:
"The vineyards of Axarquia show nothing more perfect. This cluster
might challenge comparison with those from which Red Hermitage is made,
and the seeds of which are said to have been brought from Schiraz. Even
on the sunny slopes of Cyprus and Naxos I found no finer grapes than
these. A propos! I want a basketful this afternoon. Henry, tell old
Simon to gather them immediately."
"Pray what use have you for them? I am sure the courteous idea of
sending them as a present never could have forced an entrance into your
mind, much less have carried the outworks of your heart!"
As his cousin spoke she came to the back of his chair and leaned over
his shoulder.
"I shall go out on the terrace and renew the obsolete Dionysia,
shouting 'Evoe! Eleleus!' I shall crown and pelt my marble Bacchus
yonder with the grapes till his dainty sculptured limbs are bathed in
their purple sacrificial blood. What other use could I possibly have
for them?"
He threw his head back and added something in a lower tone, at which
Estelle laughed, and put up her red, full lip.
Mrs. Murray frowned, and said sternly:
"If you intend to see those persons, I advise you to do so promptly."
Her niece moved toward the door, but glanced over her shoulder.
"I presume Gertrude expects to see Edna, as she asked for her."
The orphan had been watching Mr. Murray's face, but could detect no
alteration in its expression, save a brief gleam as of triumph when the
visitors were announced. Rising, she approached Mrs. Murray, whose
clouded brow betokened more than ordinary displeasure, and whispered:
"Gertrude is exceedingly anxious to see the house and grounds; have I
your permission to show her over the place? She is particularly anxious
to see the deer."
"Of course, if she requests it; but their effrontery in coming here
caps the climax of all the impudence I ever heard of. Have as little to
say as possible."
Edna went to the parlor, leaving mother and son together.
Mrs. Powell had laid aside her mourning garments and wore a dress of
blue muslin which heightened her beauty, and as the orphan looked from
her to Gertrude she found it difficult to decide who was the loveliest.
After a few desultory remarks she rose, saying:
"As you have repeatedly expressed a desire to examine the park and
hothouses, I will show you the way this afternoon."
"Take care, my love, that you do not fatigue yourself," were Mrs.
Powell's low, tenderly spoken words as her daughter rose to leave the
room.
Edna went first to the greenhouse, and though her companion chattered
ceaselessly, she took little interest in her exclamations of delight,
and was conjecturing the probable cause of Mrs. Murray's great
indignation.
For some weeks she had been thrown frequently into the society of Mr.
Hammond's guests, and while her distrust of Mrs. Powell, her aversion
to her melting, musical voice, increased at every interview, a genuine
affection for Gertrude had taken root in her heart.
They were the same age, but one was an earnest women, the other a
fragile, careless, gleeful, enthusiastic child. Although the orphan
found it impossible to make a companion of this beautiful, warm-hearted
girl, who hated books and turned pale at the mention of study, still
Edna liked to watch the lovely, radiant face, with its cheeks tinted
like sea-shells, its soft, childish blue eyes sparkling with
joyousness; and she began to caress and to love her, as she would have
petted a canary or one of the spotted fawns gamboling over the lawn.
As they stood hand in hand, admiring some goldfish in a small aquarium
in the centre of the greenhouse, Gertrude exclaimed:
"The place is as fascinating as its master! Do tell me something about
him; I wonder very often why you never mention him. I know I ought not
to say it; but really, after he has talked to me for a few minutes, I
forget every thing else, and think only of what he says for days and
days after."
"You certainly do not allude to Mr. Murray?" said Edna.
"I certainly do. What makes you look so astonished?"
"I was not aware that you knew him."
"Oh! I have known him since the week after our arrival here. Mamma and
I met him at Mrs. Inge's. Mr. Inge had some gentlemen to dinner, and
they came into the parlor while we were calling. Mr. Murray sat down
and talked to me then for some time, and I have frequently met him
since; for it seems he loves to stroll about the woods almost as well
as I do, and sometimes we walk together. You know he and my uncle are
not friendly, and I believe mamma does not like him, so he never comes
to the parsonage; and never seems to see me if I am with her or Uncle
Allan. But is he not very fascinating? If he were not a little too old
for me, I believe I should really be very much in love with him."
An expression of disgust passed swiftly over Edna's pale face; she
dropped her companion's hand, and asked coldly:
"Does your mother approve of your walks with Mr. Murray?"
"For heaven's sake, don't look so solemn! I--she--really I don't know!
I never told her a word about it. Once I mentioned having met him, and
showed her some flowers he gave me; and she took very little notice of
the matter. Several times since he has sent me bouquets, and though I
kept them out of uncle's sight, she saw them in my room, and must have
suspected where they came from. Of course he can not come to the
parsonage to see me when he does not speak to my uncle or to mamma; but
I do not see any harm in his walking and talking with me, when I happen
to meet him. Oh! how lovely those lilies are, leaning over the edge of
the aquarium! Mr. Murray said that some day he would show me all the
beautiful things at Le Bocage; but he has forgotten his promise, I am
afraid and I--"
"Ah! Miss Gertrude, how could you doubt me? I am here to fulfill my
promise."
He pushed aside the boughs of a guava which stood between them, and,
coming forward, took Gertrude's hand, drew it under his arm, and looked
down eagerly, admiringly, into her blushing face.
"Oh, Mr. Murray! I had no idea you were anywhere near me. I am sure I
could--"
"Did you imagine you could escape my eyes, which are always seeking
you? Permit me to be your cicerone over Le Bocage, instead of Miss Edna
here, who looks as if she had been scolding you. Perhaps she will be so
good as to wait for us, and I will bring you back in a half-hour at
least."
"Edna, will you wait here for me?" asked Gertrude.
"Why can not Mr. Murray bring you to the house? There is nothing more
to see here."
"Allow us to judge for ourselves, if you please. There is a late Paris
paper, which will amuse you till we return."
St. Elmo threw a newspaper at her feet, and led Gertrude away through
one of the glass doors into the park.
Edna sat down on the edge of the aquarium, and the hungry little fish
crowded close to her, looking up wistfully for the crumbs she was wont
to scatter there daily; but now their mute appeal was unheeded.
Her colorless face and clasped hands grew cold as the marble basin on
which they rested, and the great, hopeless agony that seized her heart
came to her large eyes and looked out drearily.
It was in vain that she said to herself:
"St. Elmo Murray is nothing to me; why should I care if he loves
Gertrude? She is so beautiful and confiding and winning. Of course, if
he knows her well he must love her. It is no business of mine. We are
not even friends; we are worse than strangers; and it can not concern
me whom he loves or whom he hates."
Her own heart laughed her words to scorn, and answered defiantly: "He
is my king! my king! I have crowned and sceptred him, and right royally
he rules!"
In pitiable humiliation she acknowledged that she had found it
impossible to tear her thoughts from him; that his dark face
followed--haunted her, sleeping and waking. While she shrank from his
presence, and dreaded his character, she could not witness his fond
manner to Gertrude without a pang of the keenest pain she had ever
endured.
The suddenness of the discovery shocked her into a thorough
understanding of her own feelings. The grinning fiend of jealousy had
swept aside the flimsy veil which she had never before fully lifted;
and looking sorrowfully down into the bared holy of holies, she saw
standing between the hovering wings of golden cherubim an idol of clay
demanding homage, daring the wrath of conscience, the high priest. She
saw all now, and saw, too, at the same instant, whither her line of
duty led.
The atmosphere was sultry, but she shivered; and if a mirror could have
been held before her eyes, she would have started back from the gray,
stony face so unlike hers.
It seemed so strange that the heart of the accomplished
misanthrope--the man of letters and science, who had ransacked the
world for information and amusement--should surrender itself to the
prattle of a pretty young thing, who could sympathize in no degree with
his pursuits, and was as utterly incapable of understanding his nature
as his Tartar horse or his pet bloodhound.
She had often heard Mrs. Murray say, "If there is one thing more
uncertain even than the verdict of a jury--if there is one thing which
is known neither in heaven, earth, or hell, and which angels and demons
alike waste time in guessing at--it is what style of woman any man will
fancy and select for his wife. It is utterly impossible to predict what
matrimonial caprice may or may not seize even the wisest, most
experienced, most practical, and reasonable of men; and I would sooner
undertake to conjecture how high the thermometer stands at this instant
on the crest of Mount Copernicus up yonder in the moon, than attempt to
guess what freak will decide a man's choice of a bride."
Sternly Edna faced the future, and pictured Gertrude as Mr. Murray's
wife; for if he loved her (and did not his eyes declare it?), of course
he would sweep every objection, every obstacle to the winds, and marry
her speedily. She tried to think of him--the cold, harsh scoffer--as
the fond husband of that laughing child; and though the vision was
indescribably painful, she forced herself to dwell upon it.
The idea that he would ever love any one or anything had never until
this hour occurred to her; and while she could neither tolerate his
opinions or respect his character, she found herself smitten with a
great, voiceless anguish at the thought of his giving his sinful bitter
heart to any woman.
"Why did she love him? Curious fool be still!
Is human love the growth of human will?"
Pressing her hand to her eyes she murmured:
"Gertrude is right; he is fascinating, but it is the fascination of a
tempting demon! Ah! if I had never come here, if I had never been
cursed with the sight of his face! But I am no weak, silly child like
Gertrude Powell; I know what my duty is, and I am strong enough to
conquer, and if necessary to crush my foolish heart. Oh! I know you,
Mr. Murray, and I can defy you. To-day, shortsighted as I have been, I
look down on you. You are beneath me, and the time will come when I
shall look back to this hour and wonder if I were temporarily bewitched
or insane. Wake up! wake up! come to your senses, Edna Earl! Put an end
to this sinful folly; blush for your unwomanly weakness!"
As Gertrude's merry laugh floated up through the trees the orphan
lifted her head, and the blood came back to her cheeks while she
watched the two figures sauntering across, the smooth lawn. Gertrude
leaned on Mr. Murray's arm, and as he talked to her his head was bent
down, so that he could see the flushed face shaded by her straw hat.
She drew her hand from his arm when they reached the greenhouse, and
looking much embarrassed, said hurriedly:
"I am afraid I have kept you waiting an unconscionable time; but Mr.
Murray had so many beautiful things to show me that I quite forgot we
had left you here alone."
"I dare say your mother thinks I have run away with you; and as I have
an engagement, I must either bid you good-bye and leave you here with
Mr. Murray, or go back at once with you to the house."
The orphan's voice was firm and quiet; and as she handed the French
paper to St. Elmo, she turned her eyes full on his face.
"Have you read it already?" he asked, giving her one of his steely,
probing glances.
"No, sir, I did not open it, as I take little interest in continental
politics. Gertrude, will you go or stay?"
Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Gertrude's, and said:
"Good-bye till to-morrow. Do not forget your promise."
Turning away, he went in the direction of the stables.
In silence Edna walked on to the house, and presently Gertrude's soft
fingers grasped hers.
"Edna, I hope you are not mad with me. Do you really think it is wrong
for me to talk to Mr. Murray, and to like him so much?"
"Gertrude, you must judge for yourself concerning the propriety of your
conduct. I shall not presume to advise you; but the fact that you are
unwilling to acquaint your mother with your course ought to make you
look closely at your own heart. When a girl is afraid to trust her
mother, I should think there were grounds for uneasiness."
They had reached the steps, and Mrs. Powell came out to meet them.
"Where have you two runaways been? I have waited a half hour for you.
Estelle, do come and see me. It is very dreary at the parsonage, and
your visits are cheering and precious. Come, Gertrude."
When Gertrude kissed her friend, she whispered:
"Don't be mad with me, dearie. I will remember what you said, and talk
to mamma this very evening."
Edna saw mother and daughter descend the long avenue and then running
up to her room, she tied on her hat and walked rapidly across the park
in an opposite direction.
About a mile and a half from Le Bocage, on a winding and unfrequented
road leading to a sawmill, stood a small log-house containing only two
rooms. The yard was neglected, full of rank weeds, and the gate was
falling from its rusty hinges.
Edna walked up the decaying steps, and without pausing to knock,
entered one of the comfortless-looking rooms.
On a cot in one corner lay an elderly man in the last stage of
consumption, and by his side, busily engaged in knitting, sat a child
about ten years old, whose pretty white face wore that touching look of
patient placidity peculiar to the blind. Huldah Reed had never seen the
light, but a marvellous change came over her countenance when Edna's
light step and clear, sweet voice fell on her ear.
"Huldah, how is your father to-day?"
"Not as well as he was yesterday; but he is asleep now, and will be
better when he wakes."
"Has the doctor been here to-day?"
"No, he has not been here since Sunday."
Edna stood for a while watching the labored breathing of the sleeper,
and, putting her hand on Huldah's head, she whispered:
"Do you want me to read to you this evening? It is late, but I shall
have time for a short chapter."
"Oh! please do, if it is only a few lines. It will not wake him."
The child rose, spread out her hands, and groped her way across the
room to a small table, whence she took an old Bible.
The two sat down together by the western window, and Edna asked:
"Is there any particular chapter you would like to hear?"
"Please read about blind Bartimeus sitting by the roadside, waiting for
Jesus."
Edna turned to the verses and read in a subdued tone for some moments.
In her eager interest Huldah slid down on her knees, rested her thin
hands on her companion's lap and raised her sweet face, with its wide,
vacant, sad, hazel eyes.
When Edna read the twenty-fourth verse of the next chapter, the small
hands were laid upon the page to arrest her attention.
"Edna, do you believe that? 'What things soever you desire, when ye
pray believe that ye receive them, AND YE SHALL HAVE THEM!' Jesus said
that: and if I pray that my eyes may be opened, do you believe I shall
see? They tell me that--that pa will not live. Oh! do you think if I
pray day and night, and if I believe, and oh! I do believe, I will
believe! do you think Jesus will let me see him--my father--before he
dies? If I could only see his dear face once, I would be willing to be
blind afterward. All my life I have felt his face, and I knew it by my
fingers; but oh! I can't feel it in the grave! I have been praying so
hard ever since the doctor said he must die; praying that Jesus would
have mercy on me, and let me see him just once. Last night I dreamed
Christ came and put his hands on my eyes, and said to me, too, 'Thy
faith hath made thee whole'; and I waked up crying, and my own fingers
were pulling my eyes open; but it was all dark, dark. Edna, won't you
help me pray! And do you believe I shall see him?"
Edna took the quivering face in her soft palms, and tenderly kissed the
lips several times.
"My dear Huldah, you know the days of miracles are over, and Jesus is
not walking in the world now to cure the suffering and the blind and
the dumb."
"But he is sitting close to the throne of God, and he could send some
angel down to touch my eyes, and let me see my dear, dear pa once--ah!
just once. Oh! he is the same Jesus now as when he felt sorry for
Bartimeus. And why won't He pity me, too? I pray and believe, and that
is what He said I must do."
"I think that the promise relates to spiritual things, and means that
when we pray for strength to resist temptation and sin, Jesus sends the
Holy Spirit to assist all who earnestly strive to do their duty. But,
dear Huldah, one thing is very certain, even if you are blind in this
world, there will come a day when God will open your eyes, and you
shall see those you love, face to face; 'for there shall be no night
there' in that city of rest--no need of sun or moon, for 'the Lamb is
the light thereof.'"
"Huldah--daughter!"
The child glided swiftly to the cot, and, looking round, Edna doubted
the evidence of her senses; for by the side of the sufferer stood a
figure so like Mr. Murray that her heart began to throb painfully.
The corner of the room was dim and shadowy, but a strong, deep voice
soon dispelled all doubt.
"I hope you are better to-day, Reed. Here are some grapes which will
refresh you, and you can eat them as freely as your appetite prompts."
Mr. Murray placed a luscious cluster in the emaciated hands, and put
the basket down on the floor near the cot. As he drew a chair from the
wall and seated himself, Edna crossed the room stealthily, and, laying
her hand on Huldah's shoulder, led her out to the front steps.
"Huldah, has Mr. Murray ever been here before?"
"Oh! yes--often and often; but he generally comes later than this. He
brings all the wine poor pa drinks, and very often peaches and grapes.
Oh! he is so good to us. I love to hear him come up the steps; and many
a time, when pa is asleep, I sit here at night, listening for the
gallop of Mr. Murray's horse. Somehow I feel so safe, as if nothing
could go wrong, when he is in the house."
"Why did you never tell me this before? Why have you not spoken of him?"
"Because he charged me not to speak to any one about it--said he did
not choose to have it known that he ever came here. There! pa is
calling me. Won't you come in and speak to him?"
"Not this evening. Good-bye. I will come again soon."
Edna stooped, kissed the child hastily, and walked away.
She had only reached the gate, where Tamerlane was fastened, when Mr.
Murray came out of the house.
"Edna!"
Reluctantly she stopped and waited for him.
"Are you not afraid to walk home alone?"
"No, sir; I am out frequently even later than this."
"It is not exactly prudent for you to go home now alone; for it will be
quite dark before you can possibly reach the park gate."
He passed his horse's reins over his arm, and led him along the road.
"I am not going that way, sir. There is a path through the woods that
is much shorter than the road and I can get through an opening in the
orchard fence. Good evening."
She turned abruptly from the beaten road, but he caught her dress and
detained her.
"I told you some time ago that I never permitted espionage in my
affairs; and now with reference to what occurred at the greenhouse, I
advise you to keep silent. Do you understand me?"
"In the first place, sir, I could not condescend to play spy on the
actions of any one; and in the second, you may rest assured I shall not
trouble myself to comment upon your affairs, in which I certainly have
no interest. Your estimate of me must be contemptible indeed, if you
imagine that I can only employ myself in watching your career. Dismiss
your apprehensions, and rest in the assurance that I consider it no
business of mine where you go or what you may choose to do."
"My only desire is to shield my pretty Gertrude's head from the wrath
that may be bottled up for her."
Edna looked up fixedly into the deep, glittering eyes that watched
hers, and answered quietly:
"Mr. Murray, if you love her half as well as I do, you will be more
careful in the future not to subject her to the opening of the vials of
wrath."
He laughed contemptuously, and exclaimed:
"You are doubtless experienced in such matters, and fully competent to
advise me."
"No, sir; it does not concern me, and I presume neither to criticise
nor to advise. Please be so good as to detain me no longer, and believe
me when I repeat that I have no intention whatever of meddling with any
of your affairs, or reporting your actions."
Putting his hands suddenly on her shoulders, he stooped, looked keenly
at her, and she heard him mutter an oath. When he spoke again it was
through set teeth:
"You will be wise if you adhere to that decision. Tell them at home not
to wait supper for me."
He sprang into his saddle and rode toward the village; and Edna hurried
homeward, asking herself:
"What first took Mr. Murray to the blacksmith's hovel? Why is he so
anxious that his visits should remain undiscovered? After all, is there
some latent nobility in his character? Is he so much better or worse
than I have thought him? Perhaps his love for Gertrude has softened his
heart, perhaps that love may be his salvation. God grant it! God grant
it!"
The evening breeze rose and sang solemnly through the pine trees, but
to her it seemed only to chant the melancholy refrain, "My pretty
Gertrude, my pretty Gertrude."
The chill light of stars fell on the orphan's pathway, and over her
pale features, where dwelt the reflection of a loneliness--a silent
desolation, such as she had never realized, even when her grandfather
was snatched from her clinging arms. She passed through the orchard,
startling a covey of partridges that nestled in the long grass, and a
rabbit that had stolen out under cover of dusk; and when she came to
the fountain, she paused and looked out over the dark, quiet grounds.
Hitherto duty had worn a smiling, loving countenance, and walked gently
by her side as she crossed the flowery vales of girlhood; now, the
guide was transformed into an angel of wrath, pointing with drawn sword
to the gate of Eden.
As the girl's light fingers locked themselves tightly, her beautiful
lips uttered mournfully:
"What hast thou done, O soul of mine
That thou tremblest so?
Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the line
He bade thee go?
Ah! the cloud is dark, and day by day
I am moving thither:
I must pass beneath it on my way--
God pity me! Whither?"
When Mrs. Murray went to her own room later than usual that night, she
found Edna sitting by the table, with her Bible lying open on her lap,
and her eyes fixed on the floor.
"I thought you were fast asleep before this. I sat up waiting for St.
Elmo, as I wished to speak to him about some engagements for to-morrow."
The lady of the house threw herself wearily upon the lounge, and sighed
as she unclasped her bracelets and took off the diamond cross that
fastened her collar.
"Edna, ring for Hagar."
"Will you not let me take her place to-night? I want to talk to you
before I go to sleep."
"Well, then, unlace my gaiters and take down my hair. Child, what makes
you look so very serious?"
"Because what I am about to say saddens me very much. My dear Mrs.
Murray, I have been in this house five peaceful, happy, blessed years;
I have become warmly attached to everything about the home where I have
been so kindly sheltered during my girlhood, and the thought of leaving
it is exceedingly painful to me."
"What do you mean, Edna? Have you come to your senses at last, and
consented to make Gordon happy?"
"No, no. I am going to New York to try to make my bread."
"You are going to a lunatic asylum! Stuff! nonsense! What can you do in
New York? It is already overstocked with poor men and women, who are on
the verge of starvation. Pooh! pooh! you look like making your bread.
Don't be silly."
"I know that I am competent now to take a situation as teacher in a
school, or family, and I am determined to make the experiment
immediately. I want to go to New York because I can command advantages
there which no poor girl can obtain in any Southern city; and the
magazine for which I expect to write is published there. Mr. Manning
says he will pay me liberally for such articles as he accepts, and if I
can only get a situation which I hear is now vacant, I can easily
support myself. Mrs. Powell received a letter yesterday from a wealthy
friend in New York who desires to secure a governess for her young
children, one of whom is deformed. She said she was excessively
particular as to the character of the woman to whose care she committed
her crippled boy, and that she had advertised for one who could teach
him Greek. I shall ask Mrs. Powell and Mr. Hammond to telegraph to her
to-morrow and request her not to engage any one till a letter can reach
her from Mr. Hammond and myself. I believe he knows the lady, who is
very distantly related to Mrs. Powell. Still, before I took this step,
I felt that I owed it to you to acquaint you with my intention."
"It is a step which I cannot sanction. I detest that Mrs. Powell--I
utterly loathe the sound of her name, and I should be altogether
unwilling to see you domesticated with any of her 'friends.' I am
surprised that Mr. Hammond could encourage any such foolish scheme on
your part."
"As yet he is entirely ignorant of my plan, for I have mentioned it to
no one except yourself; but I do not think he will oppose it. Dear Mrs.
Murray, much as I love you, I cannot remain here any longer, for I
could not continue to owe my bread even to your kind and tender
charity. You have educated me, and only God knows how inexpressibly
grateful I am for all your goodness; but now, I could no longer
preserve my self-respect or be happy as a dependent on your bounty."
She had taken Mrs. Murray's hand, and while tears gathered in her eyes,
she kissed the fingers and pressed them against her cheek.
"If you are too proud to remain here as you have done for so many
years, how do you suppose you can endure the humiliations and affronts
which will certainly be your portion when you accept a hireling's
position in the family of a stranger? Don't you know that of all
drudgery that required of governesses is most fraught with vexation and
bitterness of spirit? I have never treated you as an upper servant, but
loved you and shielded you from slights and insults as if you were my
niece or my daughter. Edna, you could not endure the lot you have
selected; your proud, sensitive nature would be galled to desperation.
Stay here and help me keep house; write and study as much as you like,
and do as you please; only don't leave me."
She drew the girl to her bosom, and while she kissed her, tears fell on
the pale face.
"Oh, Mrs. Murray! it is hard to leave you! For indeed I love you more
than you will ever believe or realize; but I must go! I feel it is my
duty, and you would not wish me to stay here and be unhappy."
"Unhappy here! Why so? Something is wrong, and I must know just what it
is. Somebody has been meddling--taunting you. Edna, I ask a plain
question, and I want the whole truth. You and Estelle do not like each
other; is her presence here the cause of your determination to quit my
house?"
"No, Mrs. Murray; if she were not here I should still feel it my duty
to go out and earn my living. You are correct in saying we do not
particularly like each other; there is little sympathy between us, but
no bad feeling that I am aware of, and she is not the cause of my
departure."
Mrs. Murray was silent a moment, scrutinizing the face on her shoulder.
"Edna, can it be my son? Has some harsh speech of St. Elmo's piqued and
wounded you?"
"Oh! no. His manner toward me is quite as polite, nay, rather more
considerate than when I first came here. Beside, you know, we are
almost strangers; sometimes weeks elapse without our exchanging a word."
"Are you sure you have not had a quarrel with him? I know you dislike
him; I know how exceedingly provoking he frequently is; but, child, he
is unfortunately constituted; he is bitterly rude to everybody, and
does not mean to wound you particularly."
"I have no complaint to make of Mr. Murray's manner to me. I do not
expect or desire that it should be other than it is. Why do you doubt
the sincerity of the reason I gave for quitting dear old Bocage? I have
never expected to live here longer than was necessary to qualify myself
for the work I have chosen."
"I doubt it because it is so incomprehensible that a young girl, who
might be Gordon Leigh's happy wife and mistress of his elegant home,
surrounded by every luxury, and idolized by one of the noblest,
handsomest men I ever knew, should prefer to go among strangers and
toil for a scanty livelihood. Now I know something of human nature, and
I know that your course is very singular, very unnatural. Edna, my
child! My dear, little girl! I can't let you go. I want you! I can't
spare you! I find I love you too well, my sweet comforter in all my
troubles! My only real companion!"
She clasped the orphan closer and wept.
"Oh! you don't know how precious your love is to my heart, dear, dear
Mrs. Murray! In all this wide world whom have I to love me but you and
Mr. Hammond? Even in the great sorrow of leaving you, it will gladden
me to feel that I possess so fully your confidence and affection. But I
must go away; and after a little while you will not miss me; for
Estelle will be with you, and you will not need me. Oh, it is hard to
leave you! it is a bitter trial! But I know what my duty is; and were
it even more difficult, I would not hesitate. I hope you will not think
me unduly obstinate when I tell you, that I have fully determined to
apply for that situation in New York."
Mrs. Murray pushed the girl from her, and, with a sob, buried her face
in her arms.
Edna waited in vain for her to speak, and finally she stooped and
kissed one of the hands, and said brokenly as she left the room:
"Good-night--my dearest--my best friend. If you could only look into my
heart and see how it aches at the thought of separation, you would not
add the pain of your displeasure to that which I already suffer."
When the orphan opened her eyes on the following morning, she found a
note pinned to her pillow:
"MY DEAR EDNA: I could not sleep last night in consequence of your
unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg you, for my sake if not for
your own, to reconsider the matter. I will gladly pay you the same
salary that you expect to receive as governess, if you will remain as
my companion and assist at Le Bocage. I cannot consent to give you up;
I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my house. I shall soon
be an old woman, and then what should I do without my little orphan
girl? Stay with me always, and you shall never know what want and toil
and hardship mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me
good-morning, and I shall know that you are my own dear, little Edna.
"Affectionately yours,
"ELLEN MURRAY."
Edna knelt and prayed for strength to do what she felt duty sternly
dictated; but, though her will did not falter her heart bled, as she
wrote a few lines thanking her benefactress for the affection that had
brightened and warmed her whole lonely life, and assuring her that the
reasons which induced her to leave Le Bocage were imperative and
unanswerable.
An hour later she entered the breakfast-room, and found the members of
the family already assembled. While Mrs. Murray was cold and haughty,
taking no notice of Edna's salutation, Estelle talked gayly with Mr.
Allston concerning a horseback ride they intended to take that morning;
and Mr. Murray, leaning back in his chair, seemed engrossed in the
columns of the London Times which contained a recent speech of
Gladstone's. Presently he threw down the paper, looked at his watch and
ordered his horse.
"St. Elmo, where are you going? Do allow yourself to be prevailed upon
to wait and ride with us."
Estelle's tone was musical and coaxing as she approached her cousin and
put one of her fingers through the button-hole of his coat.
"Not for all the kingdoms that Satan pointed out from the pinnacle of
Mount Quarantina! I have as insuperable an objection to constituting
one of a trio as some superstitious people have to forming part of a
dinner-party of thirteen. Where am I going? To that 'Sea of Serenity'
which astronomers tell us is located in the left eye of the face known
in common parlance as the man in the moon. Where am I going? To Western
Ross-shire, to pitch my tent and smoke my cigar in peace, on the brink
of that blessed Loch Maree, whereof Pennant wrote."
He shook off Estelle's touch, walked to the mantel-piece, and, taking a
match from the china case, drew it across the heel of his boot.
"Where is Loch Maree? I do not remember ever to have seen the name,"
said Mrs. Murray, pushing aside her coffee-cup.
"Oh! pardon me, mother, if I decline to undertake your geographical
education. Ask that incipient Isotta Nogarole, sitting there at your
right hand. Doubtless she will find it a pleasing task to instruct you
in Scottish topography, while I have an engagement that forces me most
reluctantly and respectfully to decline the honor of enlightening you.
Confound these matches! they are all damp."
Involuntarily Mrs. Murray's eyes turned to Edna, who had not even
glanced at St. Elmo since her entrance. Now she looked up, and though
she had not read Pennant, she remembered the lines written on the old
Druidic well by an American poet. Yielding to some inexplicable
impulse, she slowly and gently repeated two verses:
"'Oh, restless heart and fevered brain!
Unquiet and unstable.
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!
The shadows of a humble will
And contrite heart are o'er it:
Go read its legend--"TRUST IN GOD"--
On Faith's white stones before it!'"