During the first few months after her removal to New York, Edna
received frequent letters from Mrs. Murray and Mr. Hammond; but as
winter advanced they wrote more rarely and hurriedly, and finally, many
weeks elapsed without bringing any tidings from Le Bocage. St. Elmo's
name was never mentioned, and while the girl's heart ached, she crushed
it more ruthlessly day by day, and in retaliation imposed additional
and unremitting toil upon her brain.
Mr. Manning had called twice to escort her to the libraries and art
galleries, and occasionally he sent her new books, and English and
French periodicals; but his chill, imperturbable calmness oppressed and
embarrassed Edna, and formed a barrier to all friendly worth in their
intercourse. He so completely overawed her that in his august presence
she was unable to do herself justice, and felt that she was not gaining
ground in his good opinion. The brooding serenity of his grave, Egyptic
face was not contagious; and she was conscious of a vague disquiet, a
painful restlessness, when in his company and under his cold,
changeless eyes.
One morning in January, as she sat listening to Felix's recitations,
Mrs. Andrews came into the school-room with an open note in one hand,
and an exquisite bouquet in the other.
"Miss Earl, here is an invitation for you to accompany Mr. Manning to
the opera to-night; and here, too, is a bouquet from the same
considerate gentleman. As he does me the honor to request my company
also, I came to confer with you before sending a reply. Of course, you
will go?"
"Yes, Mrs. Andrews, if you will go with me."
Edna bent over her flowers, and recognizing many favorites that
recalled the hothouse at Le Bocage, her eyes filled with tears, and she
hastily put her lips to the snowy cups of an oxalis. How often she had
seen just such fragile petals nestling in the buttonhole of Mr.
Murray's coat.
"I shall write and invite him to come early and take tea with us. Now,
Miss Earl, pardon my candor, I should like to know what you intend to
wear? You know that Mr. Manning is quite lionized here, and you will
have to face a terrific battery of eyes and lorgnettes; for everybody
will stretch his or her neck to find out, first, who you are, and
secondly, how you are dressed. Now I think I understand rather better
than you do what is comme il faut in these matters and I hope you will
allow me to dictate on this occasion. Moreover, our distinguished
escort is extremely fastidious concerning ladies' toilettes."
"Here are my keys, Mrs. Andrews; examine my wardrobe and select what
you consider appropriate for to-night."
"On condition that you permit me to supply any deficiencies which I may
discover? Come to my room at six o'clock, and let Victorine dress your
hair. Let me see, I expect a la Grec will best suit your head and face."
Edna turned to her pupils and their books, but all day the flowers in
the vase on the table prattled of days gone by; of purple sunsets
streaming through golden starred acacia boughs; of long, languid,
luxurious Southern afternoons dying slowly on beds of heliotrope and
jasmine, spicy geraniums and gorgeous pelargoniums; of dewy, delicious
summer mornings, for ever and ever past, when standing beside a
quivering snowbank of Lamarque roses, she had watched Tamerlane and his
gloomy rider go down the shadowy avenue of elms.
The monotonous hum of the children's voices seemed thin and strange and
far, far off, jarring the sweet bouquet babble; and still as the hours
passed, and the winter day waned, the flower Fugue swelled on and on,
through the cold and dreary chambers of her heart; now rising stormy
and passionate, like a battle-blast, from the deep orange trumpet of a
bignonia; and now whispering and sobbing and pleading, from the pearly
white lips of hallowed oxalis.
When she sat that night in Mr. Manning's box at the Academy of Music,
the editor raised his opera-glass, swept the crowded house, scanning
the lovely, beaming faces wreathed with smiles, and then his grave,
piercing glance came back and dwelt on the countenance at his side. The
cherry silk lining and puffing on her opera-cloak threw a delicate
stain of color over her exquisitely moulded cheeks, and in the braid of
black hair which rested like a coronal on her polished brow, burned a
scarlet anemone. Her long lashes drooped as she looked down at the
bouquet between her fingers, and listening to the Fugue which memory
played on the petals, she sighed involuntarily.
"Miss Earl, is this your first night at the opera?"
"No, sir; I was here once before with Mr. Andrews and his children."
"I judge from your writings that you are particularly fond of music."
"Yes, sir; I think few persons love it better than I do."
"What style do you prefer?"
"Sacred music--oratorios rather than operas."
The orchestra began an overture of Verdi's, and Edna's eyes went back
to her flowers.
Presently Mrs. Andrews said eagerly:
"Look, Miss Earl! Yonder, in the box directly opposite, is the
celebrated Sir Roger Percival, the English nobleman about whom all
Gotham is running mad. If he has not more sense than most men of his
age, his head will be completely turned by the flattery heaped upon
him. What a commentary on Republican Americans, that we are so dazzled
by the glitter of a title! However, he really is very agreeable; I have
met him several times, dined with him last week at the Coltons. He has
been watching us for some minutes. Ah! there is a bow for me; and one I
presume for you, Mr. Manning."
"Yes, I knew him abroad. We spent a month together at Dresden, and his
brain is strong enough to bear all the adulation New Yorkers offer his
title."
Edna looked into the opposite box, and saw a tall, elegantly-dressed
man, with huge whiskers and a glittering opera-glass; and then as the
curtain rose on the first act of "Ernani," she turned to the stage, and
gave her entire attention to the music.
At the close of the second act Mrs. Andrews said:
"Pray who is that handsome man down yonder in the parquet, fanning
himself with a libretto! I do not think his eyes have moved from this
box for the last ten minutes. He is a stranger to me."
She turned her fan in the direction of the person indicated, and Mr.
Manning looked down and answered:
"He is unknown to me."
Edna's eyes involuntarily wandered over the sea of heads, and the
editor saw her start and lean forward, and noticed the sudden joy that
flashed into her face, as she met the earnest, upward gaze of Gordon
Leigh.
"An acquaintance of yours, Miss Earl?"
"Yes, sir, an old friend from the South."
The door of the box opened, and Sir Roger Percival came in and seated
himself near Mrs. Andrews, who in her cordial welcome seemed utterly to
forget the presence of the governess.
Mr. Manning sat close to Edna, and taking a couple of letters from his
pocket he laid them on her lap, saying:
"These letters were directed to my care by persons who are ignorant of
your name and address. If you will not consider me unpardonably
curious, I should like to know the nature of their contents."
She broke the seals and read the most flattering commendations of her
magazine sketches, the most cordial thanks for the pleasure derived
from their perusal; but the signatures were unknown to her.
A sudden wave of crimson surged into her face as she silently put the
letters into Mr. Manning's hand, and watched his grave, fixed,
undemonstrative features, while he read, refolded, and returned them to
her.
"Miss Earl, I have received several documents of a similar character
asking for your address. Do you still desire to write incognito, or do
you wish your name given to your admirers?"
"That is a matter which I am willing to leave to your superior
judgment."
"Pardon me, but I much prefer that you determine it for yourself."
"Then you may give my name to those who are sufficiently interested in
me to write and make the inquiry."
Mr. Manning smiled slightly, and lowered his voice as he said:
"Sir Roger Percival came here to-night to be introduced to you. He has
expressed much curiosity to see the author of the last article which
you contributed to the magazine; and I told him that you would be in my
box this evening. Shall I present him now?"
Mr. Manning was rising, but Edna put her hand on his arm, and answered
hurriedly:
"No, no! He is engaged in conversation with Mrs. Andrews, and,
moreover, I believe I do not particularly desire to be presented to
him."
"Here comes your friend; I will vacate this seat in his favor."
He rose, bowed to Gordon Leigh, and gave him the chair which he had
occupied.
"Edna! how I have longed to see you once more!"
Gordon's hand seized hers, and his handsome face was eloquent with
feelings which he felt no inclination to conceal.
"The sight of your countenance is an unexpected pleasure in New York.
Mr. Leigh, when did you arrive?"
"This afternoon. Mr. Hammond gave me your address, and I called to see
you, but was told that you were here."
"How are they all at home?"
"Do you mean at Le Bocage or the Parsonage?"
"I mean how are all my friends?"
"Mrs. Murray is very well, Miss Estelle, ditto. Mr. Hammond has been
sick, but was better and able to preach before I left. I brought a
letter for you from him, but unfortunately left it in the pocket of my
travelling coat. Edna, you have changed very much since I saw you last."
"In what respect, Mr. Leigh?"
The crash of the orchestra filled the house, and people turned once
more to the stage. Standing with his arms folded, Mr. Manning saw the
earnest look on Gordon's face as, with his arm resting on the back of
Edna's chair, he talked in a low, eager tone; and a pitying smile
partly curved the editor's granite mouth as he noticed the expression
of pain on the girl's face, and heard her say coldly:
"No, Mr. Leigh; what I told you then I repeat now. Time has made no
change."
The opera ended, the curtain fell, and an enthusiastic audience called
out the popular prima donna.
While bouquets were showered upon her, Mr. Manning stooped and put his
hand on Edna's:
"Shall I throw your tribute for you?"
She hastily caught the bouquet from his fingers, and replied:
"Oh! no, thank you! I am so selfish, I can not spare it."
"I shall call at ten o'clock to-morrow to deliver your letter," said
Gordon, as he stood hat in hand.
"I shall be glad to see you, Mr. Leigh."
He shook hands with her and with Mr. Manning, to whom she had
introduced him, and left the box.
Sir Roger Percival gave his arm to Mrs. Andrews, and the editor drew
Edna's cloak over her shoulders, took her hand and led her down the
steps.
As her little gloved fingers rested in his, the feeling of awe and
restraint melted away, and looking into his face she said:
"Mr. Manning, I do not think you will ever know half how much I thank
you for all your kindness to an unknown authorling. I have enjoyed the
music very much indeed. How is Lila to-night?"
A slight tremor crossed his lips; the petrified hawthorn was quivering
into life.
"She is quite well, thank you. Pray, what do you know about her? I was
not aware that I had ever mentioned her name in your presence."
"My pupil, Felix, is her most devoted knight, and I see her almost
every afternoon when I go with the children to Central Park."
They reached the carriage where the Englishman stood talking to Mrs.
Andrews, and when Mr. Manning had handed Edna in, he turned and said
something to Sir Roger, who laughed lightly and walked away.
During the drive Mrs. Andrews talked volubly of the foreigner's ease
and elegance and fastidious musical taste, and Mr. Manning listened
courteously and bowed coldly in reply. When they reached home she
invited him to dinner on the following Thursday, to meet Sir Roger
Percival.
As the editor bade them good-night he said to Edna:
"Go to sleep at once; do not sit up to work to-night."
Did she follow his sage advice? Ask of the stars that watched her
through the long winter night, and the dappled dawn that saw her
stooping wearily over her desk.
At the appointed hour on the following morning Mr. Leigh called, and
after some desultory remarks he asked, rather abruptly:
"Has St. Elmo Murray written to you about his last whim?"
"I do not correspond with Mr. Murray."
"Everybody wonders what droll freak will next seize him. Reed, the
blacksmith, died several months ago and, to the astonishment of our
people, Mr. Murray has taken his orphan, Huldah, to Le Bocage; has
adopted her I believe; at all events, is educating her."
Edna's face grew radiant.
"Oh! I am glad to hear it! Poor little Huldah needed a friend, and she
could not possibly have fallen into kinder hands than Mr. Murray's."
"There certainly exists some diversity of opinion on that subject. He
is rather too grim a guardian, I fancy, for one so young as Huldah
Reed."
"Is Mr. Hammond teaching Huldah?"
"Oh! no. Herein consists the wonder. Murray himself hears her lessons,
so Estelle told my sister. A propos! rumor announces the approaching
marriage of the cousins. My sister informed me that it would take place
early in the spring."
"Do you allude to Mr. Murray and Miss Harding?"
"I do. They will go to Europe immediately after their marriage."
Gordon looked searchingly at his companion, but saw only a faint,
incredulous smile cross her calm face.
"My sister is Estelle's confidante, so you see I speak advisedly. I
know that her trousseau has been ordered from Paris."
Edna's fingers closed spasmodically over each other, but she laughed as
she answered:
"How then dare you betray her confidence? Mr. Leigh, how long will you
remain in New York?"
"I shall leave to-morrow, unless I have reason to hope that a longer
visit will give you pleasure. I came here solely to see you."
He attempted to unclasp her fingers, but she shook off his hand and
said quickly:
"I know what you are about to say, and I would rather not hear what
would only distress us both. If you wish me to respect you, Mr. Leigh,
you must never again allude to a subject which I showed you last night
was exceedingly painful to me. While I value you as a friend, and am
rejoiced to see you again, I should regret to learn that you had
prolonged your stay even one hour on my account."
"You are ungrateful, Edna! And I begin to realize that you are utterly
heartless."
"If I am, at least I have never trifled with or deceived you, Mr.
Leigh."
"You have no heart, or you certainly could not so coldly reject an
affection which any other woman would proudly accept. A few years
hence, when your insane ambition is fully satiated, and your beauty
fades, and your writings pall upon public taste, and your
smooth-tongued flatterers forsake your shrine to bow before that of
some new and more popular idol, then Edna, you will rue your folly."
She rose and answered quietly:
"The future may contain only disappointments for me, but however
lonely, however sad my lot may prove, I think I shall never fall so low
as to regret not having married a man whom I find it impossible to
love. The sooner this interview ends the longer our friendship will
last. My time is not now my own, and as my duties claim me in the
school-room, I must bid you good-bye."
"Edna, if you send me away from you now, you shall never look upon my
face again in this world!"
Mournfully her tearful eyes sought his, but her voice was low and
steady as she put out both hands, and said solemnly:
"Farewell, dear friend. God grant that when next we see each other's
faces they may be overshadowed by the shining, white plumes of our
angel wings, in that city of God, 'where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest.' 'Never again in this world,' ah!
such words are dreary and funereal as the dull fall of clods on a
coffin-lid; but so be it. Thank God! time brings us all to one
inevitable tryst before the great white throne."
He took the hands, bowed his forehead upon them and groaned; then drew
them to his lips and left her.
With a slow, weary step she turned and went up to her room and read Mr.
Hammond's letter. It was long and kind, full of affection and wise
counsel, but contained no allusion to Mr. Murray.
As she refolded it she saw a slip of paper which had fallen unnoticed
on the carpet, and picking it up she read these words:
"It grieves me to have to tell you that, after all, I fear St. Elmo
will marry Estelle Harding. He does not love her, she can not influence
him to redeem himself; his future looks hopeless indeed. Edna, my
child! what have you done! Oh! what have you done!"
Her heart gave a sudden, wild bound, then a spasm seemed to seize it,
and presently the fluttering ceased, her pulses stopped, and a chill
darkness fell upon her.
Her head sank heavily on her chest, and when she recovered, her memory
she felt an intolerable sensation of suffocation, and a sharp pain that
seemed to stab the heart, whose throbs were slow and feeble.
She raised the window and leaned out panting for breath, and the
freezing wind powdered her face with fine snowflakes, and sprinkled its
fairy flower-crystals over her hair.
The outer world was chill and dreary, the leafless limbs of the trees
in the park looked ghostly and weird against the dense dun clouds which
seemed to stretch like a smoke mantle just above the sea of roofs; and,
dimly seen through the white mist, Brooklyn's heights and Staten's
hills were huge outlines monstrous as Echidna.
Physical pain blanched Edna's lips, and she pressed her hand repeatedly
to her heart, wondering what caused those keen pangs. At last, when the
bodily suffering passed away, and she sat down exhausted, her mind
reverted to the sentence in Mr. Hammond's letter.
She knew the words were not lightly written, and that his reproachful
appeal had broken from the depths of his aching heart, and was intended
to rouse her to some action.
"I can do nothing, say nothing! Must sit still and wait
patiently--prayerfully. To-day, if I could put out my hand and touch
Mr. Murray, and bind him to me for ever, I would not. No, no! Not a
finger must I lift, even between him and Estelle! But he will not marry
her! I know--I feel that he will not. Though I never look upon his face
again, he belongs to me! He is mine, and no other woman can take him
from me."
A strange, mysterious, shadowy smile settled on her pallid features,
and faintly and dreamily she repeated:
"And yet I know past all doubting, truly--A knowledge greater than
grief can dim--I know as he loved, he will love me duly, Yea, better,
e'en better than I love him. And as I walk by the vast, calm river, The
awful river so dread to see, I say, 'Thy breadth and thy depth for ever
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.'"
Her lashes drooped, her head fell back against the top of the chair,
and she lost all her woes until Felix's voice roused her, and she saw
the frightened boy standing at her side, shaking her hand and calling
piteously upon her.
"Oh! I thought you were dead! You looked so white and felt so cold. Are
you very sick? Shall I go for mamma?"
For a moment she looked in his face with a perplexed, bewildered
expression, then made an effort to rise.
"I suppose that I must have fainted, for I had a terrible pain here,
and--" She laid her hand over her heart.
"Felix, let us go down-stairs. I think if your mother would give me
some wine, it might strengthen me."
Notwithstanding the snow, Mrs. Andrews had gone out; but Felix had the
wine brought to the school-room, and after a little while the blood
showed itself shyly in the governess's white lips, and she took the
boy's Latin book and heard him recite his lesson.
The day appeared wearily long, but she omitted none of the appointed
tasks, and it was nearly nine o'clock before Felix fell asleep that
night. Softly unclasping his thin fingers which clung to her hand, she
went up to her own room, feeling the full force of those mournful words
in Eugenie de Guerin's Journal:
"It goes on in the soul. No one is aware of what I feel; no one suffers
from it. I only pour out my heart before God--and here. Oh! to-day what
efforts I make to shake off this profitless sadness--this sadness
without tears--arid, bruising the heart like a hammer!"
There was no recurrence of the physical agony; and after two days the
feeling of prostration passed away, and only the memory of the attack
remained.
The idea of lionizing her children's governess, and introducing her to
soi-disant "fashionable society," had taken possession of Mrs.
Andrews's mind, and she was quite as much delighted with her
patronizing scheme as a child would have been with a new hobby-horse.
Dreams at which even Macaenas might have laughed floated through her
busy brain, and filled her kind heart with generous anticipations. On
Thursday she informed Edna that she desired her presence at dinner, and
urged her request with such pertinacious earnestness that no
alternative remained but acquiescence, and reluctantly the governess
prepared to meet a formidable party of strangers.
When Mrs. Andrews presented Sir Roger Percival, he bowed rather
haughtily, and with a distant politeness, which assured Edna that he
was cognizant of her refusal to make his acquaintance at the opera.
During the early part of dinner he divided his gay words between his
hostess and a pretty Miss Morton, who was evidently laying siege to his
heart and carefully flattering his vanity; but whenever Edna, his
vis-a-vis, looked toward him, she invariably found his fine brown eyes
scrutinizing her face.
Mr. Manning, who sat next to Edna, engaged her in an animated
discussion concerning the value of a small volume containing two essays
by Buckle, which he had sent her a few days previous.
Something which she said to the editor with reference to Buckle's
extravagant estimate of Mill, brought a smile to the Englishman's lip,
and bowing slightly, he said:
"Pardon me, Miss Earl, if I interrupt you a moment to express my
surprise at hearing Mill denounced by an American. His books on
Representative Government and Liberty are so essentially democratic
that I expected only gratitude and eulogy from his readers on this side
of the Atlantic."
Despite her efforts to control it, embarrassment unstrung her nerves,
and threw a quiver into her voice, as she answered:
"I do not presume, sir, to 'denounce' a man whom Buckle ranks above all
other living writers and statesmen, but, in anticipating the inevitable
result of the adoption of some of Mill's proposed social reforms, I
could not avoid recalling that wise dictum of Frederick the Great
concerning philosophers--a saying which Buckle quotes so triumphantly
against Plato, Aristotle, Descartes--even Bacon, Newton, and a long
list of names illustrious in the annals of English literature.
Frederick declared: 'If I wanted to ruin one of my provinces I would
make over its government to the philosopher.' With due deference to
Buckle's superior learning and astuteness, I confess my study of Mill's
philosophy assures me that, if society should be turned over to the
government of his theory of Liberty and Suffrage, it would go to ruin
more rapidly than Frederick's province. Under his teachings the women
of England might soon marshal their amazonian legions, and storm not
only Parnassus but the ballot-box, the bench, and the forum. That this
should occur in a country where a woman nominally rules, and certainly
reigns, is not so surprising, but I dread the contagion of such an
example upon America."
"His influence is powerful, from the fact that he never takes up his
pen without using it to break some social shackles; and its strokes are
tremendous as those of the hammer of Thor. But surely, Miss Earl, you
Americans can not with either good taste, grace, or consistency,
upbraid England on the score of woman's rights' movements?"
"At least, sir, our statesmen are not yet attacked by this most
loathsome of political leprosies. Only a few crazy fanatics have fallen
victims to it, and if lunatic asylums were not frequently cheated of
their dues, these would not be left at large, but shut up together in
high-walled enclosures, where, like Sydney Smith's 'gramnivorous
metaphysicians,' or Reaumur's spiders, they could only injure one
another and destroy their own webs. America has no Bentham, Bailey,
Hare or Mill, to lend countenance or strength to the ridiculous clamor
raised by a few unamiable and wretched wives, and as many embittered,
disappointed, old maids of New England. The noble apology which Edmund
Burke once offered for his countrymen always recurs to my mind when I
hear these 'women's conventions' alluded to: 'Because half-a-dozen
grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate
chink, while thousands of great cattle repose beneath the shade of the
British oak, chew the cud, and are silent, pray do not imagine that
those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that,
of course, they are many in number, or that, after all, they are other
than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and
troublesome insects of the hour.' I think, sir, that the noble and true
women of this continent earnestly believe that the day which invests
them with the elective franchise would be the blackest in the annals of
humanity, would ring the death-knell of modern civilization, of
national prosperity, social morality, and domestic happiness! and would
consign the race to a night of degradation and horror infinitely more
appalling than a return to primeval barbarism."
"Even my brief sojourn in America has taught me the demoralizing
tendency of the doctrine of 'equality of races and of sexes,' and you
must admit, Miss Earl, that your countrywomen are growing dangerously
learned," answered Sir Roger, smiling.
"I am afraid, sir, that it is rather the quality than the quantity of
their learning that makes them troublesome. One of your own noble seers
has most gracefully declared: 'A woman may always help her husband,'
(or race,) 'by what she knows, however little; by what she half knows
or misknows, she will only tease him.'"
Sir Roger bowed, and Mr. Manning said:
"Very 'true, good, and beautiful,' as a mere theory in sociology, but
in an age when those hideous hermaphrodites, ycleped 'strong-minded
women,' are becoming so alarmingly numerous, our eyes are rarely
gladdened by a conjunction of highly cultivated intellects; notable,
loving hearts; tender, womanly sensibilities. Can you shoulder the anus
probandi?"
"Sir, that rests with those who assert that learning renders women
disagreeable and unfeminine; the burden of proof remains for you."
"Permit me to lift the weight for you, Manning, by asking Miss Earl
what she thinks of the comparative merits of the 'Princess,' and of
'Aurora Leigh,' as correctives of the tendency she deprecates?"
Hitherto the discussion had been confined to the trio, while the
conversation was general, but now silence reigned around the table, and
when the Englishman's questions forced Edna to look up, she saw all
eyes turned upon her; and embarrassment flushed her face, and her
lashes drooped as she answered:
"It has often been asserted by those who claim proficiency in the
analysis of character, that women are the most infallible judges of
womanly, and men of manly natures; but I am afraid that the poems
referred to would veto this decision. While I yield to no human being
in admiration of, and loving gratitude to Mrs. Browning, and regard the
first eight books of 'Aurora Leigh' as vigorous, grand and marvellously
beautiful, I can not deny that a painful feeling of mortification
seizes me when I read the ninth and concluding book, wherein 'Aurora,'
with most unwomanly vehemence, voluntarily declares and reiterates her
love for 'Romney.' Tennyson's 'Princess' seems to me more feminine and
refined and lovely than 'Aurora'; and it is because I love and revere
Mrs. Browning, and consider her not only the pride of her own sex, but
an ornament to the world, that I find it difficult to forgive the
unwomanly inconsistency into which she betrays her heroine. Allow me to
say that in my humble opinion nothing in the whole range of literature
so fully portrays a perfect woman as that noble sketch by Wordsworth,
and the inimitable description in Rogers's 'Human Life.'"
"The first is, I presume, familiar to all of us, but the last, I
confess, escapes my memory. Will you be good enough to repeat it?" said
the editor, knitting his brows slightly.
"Excuse me, sir; it is too long to be quoted here, and it seems that I
have already monopolized the conversation much longer than I expected
or desired. Moreover, to quote Rogers to an Englishman would be
equivalent to 'carrying coal to Newcastle,' or peddling 'owls in
Athens.'"
Sir Roger smiled as he said:
"Indeed, Miss Earl, while you spoke, I was earnestly ransacking my
memory for the passage to which you allude; but I am ashamed to say, it
is as fruitless an effort as 'calling spirits from the vasty deep.'
Pray be so kind as to repeat it for me."
At that instant little Hattie crept softly to the back of Edna's chair,
and whispered:
"Bro' Felix says, won't you please come back soon, and finish that
story where you left off reading last night?"
Very glad to possess so good an excuse, the governess rose at once; but
Mrs. Andrews said:
"Wait, Miss Earl. What do you want, Hattie?"
"Bro' Felix wants Miss Earl, and sent me to beg her to come."
"Go back and tell him he is in a hopeless minority, and that in this
country the majority rule. There are fifteen here who want to talk to
Miss Earl, and he can't have her in the schoolroom just now," said Grey
Chilton, slyly pelting his niece with almonds.
"But Felix is really sick to-day, and if Mrs. Andrews will excuse me, I
prefer to go."
She looked imploringly at the lady of the house, who said nothing; and
Sir Roger beckoned Hattie to him, and exclaimed:
"Pray, may I inquire, Mrs. Andrews, why your children do not make their
appearance? I am sure you need not fear a repetition of the sarcastic
rebuke of that wit who, when dining at a house where the children were
noisy and unruly, lifted his glass, bowed to the troublesome little
ones, and drank to the memory of King Herod. I am very certain 'the
murder of the innocents' would never be recalled here, unless--forgive
me, Miss Earl! but from the sparkle in your eyes, I believe you
anticipate me. Do you really know what I am about to say?"
"I think, sir, I can guess."
"Let me see whether you are a clairvoyant!"
"On one occasion when a sign for a children's school was needed, and
the lady teacher applied to Lamb to suggest a design, he meekly advised
that of 'The Murder of the Innocents.' Thank you, sir. However, I am
not surprised that you entertain such flattering opinions of a
profession which in England boasts 'Squeers' as its national type and
representative."
The young man laughed good-humoredly, and answered:
"For the honor of my worthy pedagogical countrymen, permit me to assure
you that the aforesaid 'Squeers' is simply one of Dickens's inimitable
caricatures."
"Nevertheless I have somewhere seen the statement that when 'Nicholas
Nickleby' first made its appearance, only six irate schoolmasters went
immediately to London to thrash the author; each believing that he
recognized his own features in the amiable portrait of 'Squeers.'"
She bowed and turned from the table, but Mrs. Andrews exclaimed:
"Before you go, repeat that passage from Rogers; then we will excuse
you."
With one hand clasping Hattie's, and the other resting on the back of
her chair, Edna fixed her eyes on Mrs. Andrews's face, and gave the
quotation.
"His house she enters, there to be a light Shining within when all
without is night; A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling
his pleasures and his cares dividing; Winning him back, when mingling
in the throng From a vain world we love, alas! too long, To fireside
happiness and hours of ease, Blest with that charm, the certainty to
please. How oft her eyes read his! her gentle mind To all his wishes,
all his thoughts inclined; Still subject--ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow."