The weather was so inclement on the following day that no service was
held in the church; but, notwithstanding the heavy rain, Edna went to
the parsonage to bid adieu to her pastor and teacher. When she ascended
the steps Mr. Hammond was walking up and down the portico with his
hands clasped behind him, as was his habit when engrossed by earnest
thought; and he greeted his pupil with a degree of mournful tenderness
very soothing to her sad heart.
Leading the way to his study, where Mrs. Powell sat with an open book
on her lap, he said gently:
"Agnes, will you be so kind as to leave us for a while? This is the
last interview I shall have with Edna for a long time, perhaps forever,
and there are some things I wish to say to her alone. You will find a
better light in the dining-room, where all is quiet."
As Mrs. Powell withdrew he locked the door, and for some seconds paced
the floor; then, taking a seat on the chintz-covered lounge beside his
pupil, he said eagerly:
"St. Elmo was at the church yesterday afternoon. Are you willing to
tell me what passed between you?"
"Mr. Hammond, he told me his melancholy history. I know all now--know
why he shrinks from meeting you, whom he has injured so cruelly; know
all his guilt and your desolation."
The old man bowed his white head on his bosom, and there was a painful
silence. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible.
"The punishment of Eli has fallen heavily upon me, and there have been
hours when I thought that it was greater than I could bear--that it
would utterly crush me; but the bitterness of the curse has passed
away; and I can say truly of that 'meekest angel of God,' the Angel of
Patience:
'He walks with thee, that angel kind,
And gently whispers, Be resigned;
Bear up, bear on; the end shall tell,
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!'
"I tried to train up my children in the fear and admonition of the
Lord; but I must have failed signally in my duty, though I have never
been able to discover in what respect I was negligent. One of the sins
of my life was my inordinate pride in my only boy--my gifted, gifted,
handsome son. My love for Murray was almost idolatrous; and when my
heart throbbed with proudest hopes and aspirations, my idol was broken
and laid low in the dust; and, like David mourning for his rebellious
child Absalom, I cried out in my affliction, 'My son! my son! would God
I had died for thee!' Murray Hammond was my precious diadem of earthly
glory; and suddenly I found myself uncrowned, and sackcloth and ashes
were my portion."
"Why did you never confide these sorrows to me? Did you doubt my
earnest sympathy?"
"No, my child; but I thought it best that St. Elmo should lift the veil
and show you all that he wished you to know. I felt assured that the
time would come when he considered it due to himself to acquaint you
with his sad history; and when I saw him go into the church yesterday I
knew that the hour had arrived. I did not wish to prejudice you against
him; for I believe that through your agency the prayers of twenty years
would be answered, and that his wandering, embittered heart would
follow you to that cross before which he bowed in his boyhood. Edna, it
was through my son's sin and duplicity that St. Elmo's noble career was
blasted, and his most admirable character perverted; and I have hoped
and believed that through your influence, my beloved pupil, he would be
redeemed from his reckless course. My dear little Edna, you are very
lovely and winning, and I believe he would love you as he never loved
any one else. Oh! I have hoped everything from your influence! Far, far
beyond all computation is the good which a pious, consistent, Christian
wife can accomplish in the heart of a husband who truly loves her."
"Oh, Mr. Hammond! you pain and astonish me. Surely you would not be
willing to see me marry a man who scoffs at the very name of religion;
who wilfully deceives and trifles with the feelings of all who are
sufficiently credulous to trust his hollow professions--whose hands are
red with the blood of your children! What hope of happiness or peace
could you indulge for me, in view of such a union? I should merit all
the wretchedness that would inevitably be my life--long portion if,
knowing his crimes, I could consent to link my future with his."
"He would not deceive you, my child! If you knew him as well as I do,
if you could realize all that he was before his tender, loving heart
was stabbed by the two whom he almost adored, you would judge him more
leniently. Edna, if I whom he has robbed of all that made life
beautiful--if I, standing here in my lonely old age, in sight of the
graves of my murdered darlings--if I can forgive him, and pray for him,
and, as God is my witness, love him! you have no right to visit my
injuries and my sorrows upon him!"
Edna looked in amazement at his troubled earnest countenance, and
exclaimed:
"Oh! if he knew all your noble charity, your unparalleled magnanimity,
surely, surely, your influence would be his salvation! His stubborn,
bitter heart would be melted. But, sir, I should have a right to expect
Annie's sad fate if I could forget her sufferings and her wrongs."
Mr. Hammond rose and walked to the window, and after a time, when he
resumed his seat, his eyes were full of tears, and his wrinkled face
was strangely pallid.
"My darling Annie, my sweet, fragile flower, my precious little
daughter, so like her sainted mother! Ah! it is not surprising that she
could not resist his fascinations. But, Edna, he never loved my pet
lamb. Do you know that you have become almost as dear to me as my own
dead child? She deceived me! she was willing to forsake her father in
his old age; but through long years you have never once betrayed my
perfect confidence."
The old man put his thin hand on the orphan's head and turned the
countenance toward him.
"My dear little girl, you will not think me impertinently curious when
I ask you a question, which my sincere affection for and interest in
you certainly sanction? Do you love St. Elmo?"
"Mr. Hammond, it is not love; for esteem, respect, confidence, belong
to love. But I can not deny that he exerts a very singular, a wicked
fascination over me. I dread his evil influence, I avoid his presence,
and know that he is utterly unworthy of any woman's trust; and yet--and
yet--Oh, sir! I feel that I am very weak, and I fear that I am
unwomanly; but I can not despise, I can not hate him as I ought to do!"
"Is not this feeling on your part one of the causes that hurry you away
to New York?"
"That is certainly one of the reasons why I am anxious to go away as
early as possible. Oh, Mr. Hammond! much as I love, much as I owe you
and Mrs. Murray, I sometimes wish that I had never come here! Never
seen Le Bocage, and the mocking, jeering man who owns it!"
"Try to believe that somehow in the mysterious Divine economy it is all
for the best. In reviewing the apparently accidental circumstances that
placed you among us, I have thought that, because this was your
appointed field of labor, God in his wisdom brought you where he
designed you to work. Does Mrs. Murray know that her son offered to
make you his wife?"
"No! no! I hope she never will; for it would mortify her exceedingly to
know that he could be willing to give his proud name to one of whose
lineage she is so ignorant. How did you know it?"
"I knew what his errand must be when he forced himself to visit a spot
so fraught with painful memories as my church. Edna, I shall not urge
you; but ponder well the step you are taking; for St. Elmo's future
will be colored by your decision. I have an abiding and comforting
faith that he will yet lift himself out of the abyss of sinful
dissipation and scoffing scepticism, and your hand would aid him as
none other human can."
"Mr. Hammond, it seems incredible that you can plead for him. Oh, do
not tempt me! Do not make me believe that I could restore his purity of
faith and life. Do not tell me that it would be right to give my hand
to a blasphemous murderer? Oh! my own heart is weak enough already! I
know that I am right in my estimate of his unscrupulous character, and
I am neither so vain nor so blind as to imagine that my feeble efforts
could accomplish for him what all your noble magnanimity and patient
endeavors have entirely failed to effect. If he can obstinately resist
the influence of your life, he would laugh mine to scorn. It is hard
enough for me to leave him, when I feel that duty demands it. Oh, my
dear Mr. Hammond! do not attempt to take from me the only staff which
can carry me firmly away--do not make my trial even more severe. I must
not see his face; for I will not be his wife. Instead of weakening my
resolution by holding out flattering hopes of reforming him, pray for
me! oh! pray for me! that I may be strengthened to flee from a great
temptation! I will marry no man who is not an earnest, humble believer
in the religion of our Lord Jesus Christ. Rather than become the wife
of a sacrilegious scoffer, such as I know Mr. Murray to be, I will, so
help me God! live and work alone, and go down to my grave, Edna Earl!"
The minister sighed heavily.
"Bear one thing in mind. It has been said, that in disavowing
guardianship, we sometimes slaughter Abel. You can not understand my
interest in St. Elmo. Remember that if his wretched soul is lost at
last, it will be required at the hands of my son, in that dread
day--Dies Irae! Dies Illa!--when we shall stand at the final judgment!
Do you wonder that I struggle in prayer, and in all possible human
endeavor to rescue him from ruin; so that when I am called from earth,
I can meet the spirit of my only boy with the blessed tidings that the
soul he jeopardized, and well-nigh wrecked, has been redeemed! is safe!
anchored once more in the faith of Christ? But I will say no more. Your
own heart and conscience must guide you in this matter. It would pour a
flood of glorious sunshine upon my sad and anxious heart, as I go down
to my grave, if I could know that you, whose life and character I have
in great degree moulded, were instrumental in saving one whom I have
loved so long, so well, and under such afflicting circumstances, as my
poor St. Elmo."
"To the mercy of his Maker, and the intercession of his Saviour, I
commit him."
'As for me, I go my way, onward, upward.'"
A short silence ensued, and at last Edna rose to say good-bye.
"Do you still intend to leave at four o'clock in the morning? I fear
you will have bad weather for your journey."
"Yes, sir, I shall certainly start to-morrow. And now, I must leave
you. Oh, my best friend! how can I tell you good-bye!"
The minister folded her in his trembling arms, and his silver locks
mingled with her black hair, while he solemnly blessed her. She sobbed
as he pressed his lips to her forehead, and gently put her from him;
and turning, she hurried away, anxious to escape the sight of
Gertrude's accusing face; for she supposed that Mrs. Powell had
repeated to her daughter Mr. Murray's taunting words.
Since the previous evening she had not spoken to St. Elmo, who did not
appear at breakfast; but when she passed him in the hall an hour later,
he was talking to his mother, and took no notice of her bow.
Now as the carriage approached the house, she glanced in the direction
of his apartment, and saw him sitting at the window, with his elbow
resting on the sill, and his cheek on his hand.
She went at once to Mrs. Murray, and the interview was long and
painful. The latter wept freely, and insisted that if the orphan grew
weary of teaching (as she knew would happen), she should come back
immediately to Le Bocage; where a home would always be hers, and to
which a true friend would welcome her.
At length, when Estelle Harding came in with some letters, which she
wished to submit to her aunt's inspection, Edna retreated to her own
quiet room. She went to her bureau to complete the packing of her
clothes, and found on the marble slab a box and note directed to her.
Mr. Murray's handwriting was remarkably graceful, and Edna broke the
seal which bore his motto, Nemo me impune lacessit.
"EDNA: I send for your examination the contents of the little tomb,
which you guarded so faithfully. Read the letters written before I was
betrayed. The locket attached to a ribbon, which was always worn over
my heart, and the miniatures which it contains are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then judge me, as you hope
to be judged. I sit alone, amid the mouldering, blackened ruins of my
youth; will you not listen to the prayer of my heart, and the
half-smothered pleadings of your own, and come to me in my desolation,
and help me to build up a new and noble life? Oh, my darling, you can
make me what you will. While you read and ponder, I am praying. Aye,
praying for the first time in twenty years! praying that if God ever
hears prayer, He will influence your decision, and bring you to me.
Edna, my darling! I wait for you. "Your own,
"ST. ELMO."
Ah! how her tortured heart writhed and bled; how piteously it pleaded
for him, and for itself!
Edna opened the locket, and if Gertrude had stepped into the golden
frame, the likeness could not have been more startling. She looked at
it until her lips blanched and were tightly compressed, and the memory
of Gertrude became paramount. Murray Hammond's face she barely glanced
at, and its extraordinary beauty stared at her like that of some
avenging angel. With a shudder she put it away, and turned to the
letters that St. Elmo had written to Agnes and to Murray, in the early,
happy days of his engagement.
Tender, beautiful, loving letters, that breathed the most devoted
attachment and the purest piety; letters that were full of lofty
aspirations, and religious fervor, and generous schemes for the
assistance and enlightenment of the poor about Le Bocage; and
especially for "my noble, matchless Murray." Among the papers were
several designs for charitable buildings: a house of industry, an
asylum for the blind, and a free school-house. In an exquisite ivory
casket, containing a splendid set of diamonds, and the costly betrothal
ring, bearing the initials, Edna found a sheet of paper around which
the blazing necklace was twisted. Disengaging it. she saw that it was a
narration of all that had stung him to desperation on the night of the
murder.
As she read the burning taunts, the insults, the ridicule heaped by the
two under the apple-tree upon the fond, faithful, generous, absent
friend, she felt the indignant blood gush into her face; but she read
on and on, and two hours elapsed ere she finished the package. Then
came a trial, a long, fierce, agonizing trial, such as few women have
ever been called upon to pass through; such as the world believes no
woman ever triumphantly endured. Girded by prayer, the girl went down
resolutely into the flames of the furnace, and the ordeal was terrible
indeed. But as often as Love showed her the figure of Mr. Murray, alone
in his dreary sitting-room, waiting, watching for her, she turned and
asked of Duty, the portrait of Gertrude's sweet, anxious face; the
picture of dying Annie; the mournful countenance of a man, shut up by
iron bars from God's beautiful world, from the home and the family who
had fondly cherished her in her happy girlhood, ere St. Elmo trailed
his poison across her sunny path.
After another hour, the orphan went to her desk, and while she wrote, a
pale, cold rigidity settled upon her features, which told that she was
calmly, deliberately shaking hands with the expelled, the departing
Hagar of her heart's hope and happiness. "To the mercy of God, and the
love of Christ, and the judgment of your own conscience, I commit you.
Henceforth we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my wish
that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I cannot lift up your
darkened soul; and you would only drag mine down. For your final
salvation I shall never cease to pray till we stand face to face before
the Bar of God. "EDNA EARL."
Ringing for a servant, she sent back the box, and even his own note,
which she longed to keep, but would not trust herself to see again; and
dreading reflection, and too miserable to sleep, she went to Mrs.
Murray's room, and remained with her till three o'clock.
Then Mr. Murray's voice rang through the house, calling for the
carriage, and as Edna put on her bonnet and shawl, he knocked at his
mother's door.
"It is raining very hard, and you must not think of going to the train,
as you intended."
"But, my son, the carriage is close and--"
"I can not permit you to expose yourself so unnecessarily, and, in
short, I will not take you, so there is an end of it. Of course I can
stand the weather, and I will go over with Edna, and put her under the
care of some one on the train. As soon as possible send her down to the
carriage. I shall order her trunks strapped on."
He was very pale and stern, and his voice rang coldly clear as he
turned and went downstairs.
The parting was very painful, and Mrs. Murray followed the orphan to
the front door.
"St. Elmo, I wish you would let me go. I do not mind the rain."
"Impossible. You know I have an unconquerable horror of scenes, and I
do not at all fancy witnessing one that threatens to last until the
train leaves. Go upstairs and cry yourself to sleep in ten minutes;
that will be much more sensible. Come, Edna, are you ready?"
The orphan was folded in a last embrace, and Mr. Murray held out his
hand, drew her from his mother's arms, and taking his seat beside her
in the carriage, ordered the coachman to drive on.
The night was very dark, the wind sobbed down the avenue, and the rain
fell in such torrents that as Edna leaned out for a last look at the
stately mansion, which she had learned to love so well, she could only
discern the outline of the bronze monsters by the glimmer of the light
burning in the hall. She shrank far back in one corner, and her fingers
clutched each other convulsively; but when they had passed through the
gate and entered the main road Mr. Murray's hand was laid on hers--the
cold fingers were unlocked gently but firmly, and raised to his lips.
She made an effort to withdraw them, but found it useless, and the
trial which she had fancied was at end seemed only beginning.
"Edna, this is the last time I shall ever speak to you of myself; the
last time I shall ever allude to all that has passed. It is entirely
useless for one to ask you to reconsider? If you have no pity for me,
have some mercy on yourself. You can not know how I dread the thought
of your leaving me, and being roughly handled by a cold, selfish,
ruthless world. Oh! it maddens me when I think of your giving your
precious life, which would so glorify my home and gladden my desolate
heart, to a public, who will trample upon you if possible, and, if it
can not entirely crush you, will only value you as you deserve, when,
with ruined health and withered hopes, you sink into the early grave
malice and envy will have dug for you. Already your dear face has grown
pale, and your eyes have a restless, troubled look, and shadows are
gathering about your young, pure, fresh spirit. My darling, you are not
strong enough to wrestle with the world; you will be trodden down by
the masses in this conflict, upon which you enter so eagerly. Do you
not know that 'literati' means literally the branded? The lettered
slave! Oh! if not for my sake, at least for your own, reconsider before
the hot irons sear your brow; and hide it here, my love; keep it white
and pure and unfurrowed here, in the arms that will never weary of
sheltering and clasping you close and safe from the burning brand of
fame. Literati! A bondage worse than Roman slavery! Help me to make a
proper use of my fortune, and you will do more real good to your race
than by all you can ever accomplish with your pen, no matter how
successful it may prove. If you were selfish and heartless as other
women, adulation and celebrity and the praise of the public might
satisfy you. But you are not, and I have studied your nature too
thoroughly to mistake the result of your ambitious career. My darling,
ambition is the mirage of the literary desert you are anxious to
traverse; it is the Bahr Sheitan, the Satan's water, which will ever
recede and mock your thirsty, toil-spent soul. Dear little pilgrim, do
not scorch your feet and wear out your life in the hot, blinding sands,
struggling in vain for the constantly fading, vanishing oasis of happy
literary celebrity. Ah! the Sahara of letters is full of bleaching
bones that tell where many of your sex as well as of mine fell and
perished miserably, even before the noon of life. Ambitious spirit,
come, rest in peace in the cool, quiet, happy, palm-grove that I offer
you. My shrinking violet, sweeter than all Paestum boasts! You cannot
cope successfully with the world of selfish men and frivolous,
heartless women, of whom you know absolutely nothing. To-day I found a
passage which you had marked in one of my books, and it echoes
ceaselessly in my heart:
"'MY FUTURE WILL NOT COPY FAIR MY PAST.'
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
And there instead saw thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! * * Then I, long tired
By natural ills, received the comfort fast;
While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy of life's first half:
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
Write me new my future's epigraph.
New angel mine--unhoped-for in the world!'"
He had passed his arm around her and drawn her close to his side, and
the pleading tenderness of his low voice was indeed hard to resist.
"No, Mr. Murray, my decision is unalterable. If you do really love me,
spare me, spare me, further entreaty. Before we part there are some
things I should like to say, and I have little time left. Will you hear
me?"
He did not answer, but tightened his arm, drew her head to his bosom,
and leaned his face down on hers.
"Mr. Murray, I want to leave my Bible with you, because there are many
passages marked which would greatly comfort and help you. It is the
most precious thing I possess, for Grandpa gave it to me when I was a
little girl, and I could not bear to leave it with any one but you. I
have it here in my hand; will you look into it sometimes if I give it
to you?"
He merely put out his hand and took it from her.
She paused a few seconds, and as he remained silent, she continued:
"Mr. Hammond is the best friend you have on earth. Yesterday, having
seen you enter the church and suspecting what passed, he spoke to me of
you, and oh! he pleaded for you as only he could! He urged me not to
judge you too harshly; not to leave you, and these were his words:
'Edna, if I, whom he has robbed of all that life made beautiful; if I,
standing here alone in my old age, in sight of the graves of my
murdered darlings, if I can forgive him, and pray for him, and, as God
is my witness, love him! you have no right to visit my injuries and my
sorrows upon him!' Mr. Murray, he can help you, and he will, if you
will only permit him. If you could realize how dearly he is interested
in your happiness, you could not fail to reverence that religion which
enables him to triumph over all the natural feelings of resentment. Mr.
Murray, you have declared again and again that you love me. Oh, if it
be true, meet me in heaven! I know that I am weak and sinful; but I am
trying to correct the faults of my character, I am striving to do what
I believe to be my duty, and I hope at last to find a home with my God.
For several years, ever since you went abroad, I have been praying for
you; and while I live I shall not cease to do so. Oh! will you not pray
for yourself? Mr. Murray, I believe I shall not be happy even in heaven
if I do not see you there. On earth we are parted--your crimes divide
us; but there! there! Oh! for my sake, make an effort to redeem
yourself, and meet me there!"
She felt his strong frame tremble, and a heavy shuddering sigh broke
from his lips and swept across her cheek. But when he spoke his words
contained no hint of the promise she longed to receive:
"Edna, my shadow has fallen across your heart, and I am not afraid that
you will forget me. You will try to do so, you will give me as little
thought as possible; you will struggle to crush your aching heart, and
endeavor to be famous. But amid your ovations the memory of a lonely
man, who loves you infinitely better than all the world for which you
forsook him, will come like a breath from the sepulchre, to wither your
bays; and my words, my pleading words, will haunt you, rising above the
paeans of your public worshippers. When the laurel crown you covet now
shall become a chaplet of thorns piercing your temples, or a band of
iron that makes your brow ache, you will think mournfully of the days
gone by, when I prayed for the privilege of resting your weary head
here on my heart. You can not forget me. Sinful and unworthy as I
confess myself, I am conqueror, I triumph now, even though you never
permit me to look upon your face again; for I believe I have a place in
my darling's heart which no other man, which not the whole world can
usurp or fill! You are too proud to acknowledge it, too truthful to
deny it; but, my pure Pearl, my heart feels it as well as yours, and it
is a comfort of which all time can not rob me. Without it, how could I
face my future, so desolate, sombre, lonely? Edna, the hour has come
when, in accordance with your own decree, we part. For twenty years no
woman's lips, except my mother's, have touched mine until yesterday,
when they pressed yours. Perhaps we may never meet again in this world,
and, ah! do not shrink away from me, I want to kiss you once more, my
darling! my darling! I shall wear it on my lips till death stiffens
them; and I am not at all afraid that any other man will ever be
allowed to touch lips that belong to me alone; that I have made, and
here seal, all my own! Good-bye."
He strained her to him and pressed his lips twice to hers, then the
carriage stopped at the railroad station.
He handed her out, found a seat for her in the cars, which had just
arrived, arranged her wrappings comfortably, and went back to attend to
her trunks. She sat near an open window, and though it rained heavily,
he buttoned his coat to the throat, and stood just beneath it, with his
eyes bent down. Twice she pronounced his name, but he did not seem to
hear her, and Edna put her hand lightly on his shoulder and said:
"Do not stand here in the rain. In a few minutes we shall start, and I
prefer that you should not wait. Please go home at once, Mr. Murray."
He shook his head, but caught her hand and leaned his cheek against the
soft palm, passing it gently and caressingly over his haggard face.
The engine whistled; Mr. Murray pressed a long, warm kiss on the hand
he had taken, the cars moved on; and as he lifted his hat, giving her
one of his imperial, graceful bows, Edna had a last glimpse of the
dark, chiselled, repulsive yet handsome face that had throws its
baleful image deep in her young heart, and defied all her efforts to
expel it. The wind howled around the cars, the rain fell heavily,
beating a dismal tattoo on the glass, the night was mournfully dreary,
and the orphan sank back and lowered her veil, and hid her face in her
hands.
Henceforth she felt that in obedience to her own decision, and fiat
"They stood aloof, the scars remaining
Like cliffs that had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;
But neither heat nor frost nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."