"On! how grand and beautiful it is! Whenever I look at it, I feel
exactly as I did on Easter-Sunday when I went to the cathedral to hear
the music. It is a solemn feeling", as if I were in a holy place. Miss
Earl, what makes me feel so?"
Felix stood in an art gallery, and leaning on his crutches looked up at
Church's "Heart of the Andes."
"You are impressed by the solemnity and the holy repose of nature; for
here you look upon a pictured cathedral, built not by mortal hands, but
by the architect of the universe. Felix, does it not recall to your
mind something of which we often speak?"
The boy was silent for a few seconds, and then his thin, sallow face
brightened.
"Yes, indeed! You mean that splendid description which you read to me
from 'Modern Painters'? How fond you are of that passage, and how very
often you think of it! Let me see whether I can remember it."
Slowly but accurately he repeated the eloquent tribute to "Mountain
Glory," from the fourth volume of "Modern Painters."
"Felix, you know that a celebrated English poet, Keats, has said, 'A
thing of beauty is a joy forever'; and as I can never hope to express
my ideas in half such beautiful language as Mr. Ruskin uses, it is an
economy of trouble to quote his words. Some of his expressions are like
certain songs which, the more frequently we sing them, the more
valuable and eloquent they become; and as we rarely learn a fine piece
of music to be played once or twice and then thrown aside, why should
we not be allowed the same privilege with verbal melodies? Last week
you asked me to explain to you what is meant by 'aerial perspective,'
and if you will study the atmosphere in this great picture, Mr. Church,
will explain it much more clearly to you than I was able to do."
"Yes, Miss Earl, I see it now. The eye could travel up and up, and on
and on, and never get out of the sky; and it seems to me those birds
yonder would fly entirely away, out of sight, through that air in the
picture. But, Miss Earl, do you really believe that the Chimborazo in
South America is as grand as Mr. Church's? I do not, because I have
noticed that pictures are much handsomer than the real things they
stand for. Mamma carried me last spring to see some paintings of scenes
on the Hudson River, and when we went travelling in the summer, I saw
the very spot where the artist stood when he sketched the hills and the
bend of the river, and it was not half so pretty as the picture. And
yet I know God is the greatest painter. Is it the far-off look that
everything wears when painted.
"Yes, the 'far-off look,' as you call it, is one cause of the effect
you wish to understand; and it has been rather more elegantly expressed
by Campbell, in the line:
''Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.'
I have seen this fact exemplified in a very singular manner, at a house
in Georgia, where I was once visiting. From the front door I had a very
fine prospect or view of lofty hills, and a dense forest, and a pretty
little town where the steeples of the churches glittered in the
sunshine, and I stood for some time admiring the landscape; but
presently, when I turned to speak to the lady of the house, I saw, in
the glass sidelights of the door, a miniature reflection of the very
same scene that was much more beautiful. I was puzzled, and could not
comprehend how the mere fact of diminishing the size of the various
objects, by increasing the distance, could enhance their loveliness;
and I asked myself whether all far-off things were handsomer than those
close at hand? In my perplexity I went as usual to Mr. Ruskin,
wondering whether he had ever noticed the same thing; and of course he
had, and has a noble passage about it in one of his books on
architecture. I will see if my memory appreciates it as it deserves:
'Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as far
away? Nay, not so. Look at the clouds, and watch the delicate sculpture
of their alabaster sides and the rounded lustre of their magnificent
rolling. They are meant to be beheld far away; they were shaped for
this place, high above your head; approach them, and they fuse into
vague mists, or whirl away in fierce fragments of thunderous vapors.'
(And here, Felix, your question about Chimborazo is answered.) 'Look at
the crest of the Alps, from the far-away plains over which its light is
cast, whence human souls have communion with it by their myriads. The
child looks up to it in the dawn, and the husbandman in the burden and
heat of the day, and the old man in the going down of the sun, and it
is to them all as the celestial city on the world's horizon; dyed with
the depths of heaven and clothed with the calm of eternity. There was
it set for holy dominion by Him who marked for the sun his journey, and
bade the moon know her going down. It was built for its place in the
far-off sky; approach it, and the glory of its aspect fades into
blanched fearfulness; its purple walls are rent into grisly rocks, its
silver fretwork saddened into wasting snow; the stormbrands of ages are
on its breast, the ashes of its own ruin lie solemnly on its white
raiment!' Felix, in rambling about the fields, you will frequently be
reminded of this. I have noticed that the meadow in the distance is
always greener and more velvety, and seems more thickly studded with
flowers, than the one I am crossing; or the hillside far away has a
golden gleam on its rocky slopes, and the shadow spots are softer and
cooler and more purple than those I am climbing and panting over; and I
have hurried on, and after a little, turning to look back, lo! all the
glory I saw beckoning me on has flown, and settled over the meadow and
the hillside that I have passed, and the halo is behind! Perfect beauty
in scenery is like the mirage that you read about yesterday; it fades
and flits out of your grasp, as you travel toward it. When we go home I
will read you something which Emerson has said concerning this same
lovely ignis fatuus; for I can remember only a few words: 'What
splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness in
the sunset! But who can go where they are, or lay his hand, or plant
his foot thereon? Off they fall from the round world forever.' Felix, I
suppose it is because we see all the imperfections and inequalities of
objects close at hand, put the fairy film of air like a silvery mist
hides these when it a distance; and we are charmed with the heightened
beauties, which alone are visible."
Edna's eyes went back to the painting, and rested there; and little
Hattie, who had been gazing up at her governess in curious perplexity,
pulled her brother's sleeve and said:
"Bro' Felix, do you understand all that? I guess I don't; for I know
when I am hungry (and seems to me I always am); why, when I am hungry
the closer I get to my dinner the nicer it looks! And then there was
that hateful, spiteful old Miss Abby Tompkins, that mamma would have to
teach you! Ugh! I have watched her many a time coming up the street,
(you know she never would ride in stages for fear of pickpockets,) and
she always looked just as ugly as far off as I could see her as when
she came close to me--"
A hearty laugh cut short Hattie's observation; and, coming forward, Sir
Roger Percival put his hand on her head, saying:
"How often children tumble down 'the step from the sublime to the
ridiculous,' and drag staid, dignified folks after them? Miss Earl, I
have been watching your little party for some time, listening to your
incipient art-lecture. You Americans are queer people; and when I go
home I shall tell Mr. Ruskin that I heard a little boy criticizing 'The
Heart of the Andes,' and quoting from 'Modern Painters.' Felix, as I
wish to be accurate, will you tell me your age?"
The poor sensitive cripple imagined that he was being ridiculed, and he
only reddened and frowned and bit his thin lips.
Edna laid her hand on his shoulder, and answered for him.
"Just thirteen years old; and though Mr. Ruskin is a distinguished
exception to the rule that 'prophets are not without honor, save in
their own country,' I think he has no reader who loves and admires his
writings more than Felix Andrews."
Here the boy raised his eyes and asked:
"Why is it that prophets have no honor among their own people? Is it
because they too have to be seen from a great distance in order to seem
grand? I heard mamma say the other day that if some book written in
America had only come from England everybody would be raving about it."
"Some other time, Felix, we will talk of that problem. Hattie, you look
sleepy."
"I think it will be lunch time before we get home," replied the yawning
child.
Sir Roger took her by her shoulders, and shook her gently, saying:
"Come, wake up, little sweetheart! How can you get sleepy or hungry
with all these handsome pictures staring at you from the walls?"
The good-natured child laughed; but her brother, who had an
unconquerable aversion to Sir Roger's huge whiskers, curled his lips,
and exclaimed scornfully:
"Hattie, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Hungry, indeed! You are
almost as bad as that English lady--, who, when her husband was
admiring some beautiful lambs, and called her attention to them,
answered, 'Yes, lambs are beautiful--boiled!'"
Desirous of conciliating him, Sir Roger replied:
"When you and Hattie come to see me in England, I will show you the
most beautiful lambs in the United Kingdom; and your sister shall have
boiled lamb three times a day, if she wishes it. Miss Earl, you are so
fond of paintings that you would enjoy a European tour more than any
lady whom I have met in this country. I have seen miles of canvas in
Boston, New York and Philadelphia, but very few good pictures."
"And yet, sir, when on exhibition in Europe this great work here before
us received most extravagant praise from transatlantic critics, who are
very loath to accord merit to American artists. If I am ever so
fortunate as to be able to visit Europe, and cultivate and improve my
taste, I think I shall still be very proud of the names of Allston,
West, Church, Bierstadt, Kensett and Gifford."
She turned to quit the gallery, and Sir Roger said:
"I leave to-morrow for Canada, and may possibly sail for England
without returning to New York. Will you allow me the pleasure of
driving you to the park this afternoon? Two months ago you refused a
similar request, but since then I flatter myself we have become better
friends."
"Thank you, Sir Roger. I presume the children can spare me, and I will
go with pleasure."
"I will call at five o'clock."
He handed her and Hattie into the coupe, tenderly assisted Felix, and
saw them driven away.
Presently Felix laughed, and exclaimed:
"Oh! I hope Miss Morton will be in the park this evening. It would be
glorious fun to see her meet you and Sir Roger."
"Why, Felix?"
"Oh! because she meddles. I heard Uncle Grey tell mamma that she was
making desperate efforts to catch the Englishman; and that she turned
up her nose tremendously at the idea of his visiting you. When Uncle
Grey told her how often he came to our house, she bit her lips almost
till the blood spouted. Sir Roger drives very fine horses, uncle says,
and Miss Morton hints outrageously for him to ask her to ride, but she
can't manage to get the invitation. So she will be furious when she
sees you this afternoon. Yonder is Goupil's; let us stop and have a
look at those new engravings mamma told us about yesterday. Hattie, you
can curl up in your corner, and go to sleep and dream of boiled lamb
till we come back."
Later in the day Mrs. Andrews went up to Edna's room, and found her
correcting an exercise.
"At work as usual. You are incorrigible. Any other woman would be so
charmed with her conquest that her head would be quite turned by a
certain pair of brown eyes that are considered irresistible. Come, get
ready for your drive; it is almost five o'clock, and you know
foreigners are too polite, too thoroughly well-bred not to be punctual.
No, no, Miss Earl; not that hat, on the peril of your life! Where is
that new one that I ordered sent up to you two days ago? It will match
this delicate white shawl of mine, which I brought up for you to wear;
and come, no scruples if you please! Stand up and let me see whether
its folds hang properly. You should have heard Madame De G--when she
put it around my shoulders for the first time, 'Juste ciel! Madame
Andrews, you are a Greek statue!' Miss Earl, put your hair back a
little from the left temple. There, now the veins show! Where are your
gloves? You look charmingly, my dear; only too pale, too pale! If you
don't contrive to get up some color, people will swear that Sir Roger
was airing the ghost of a pretty girl. There is the bell! Just as I
told you, he is punctual. Five o'clock to a minute."
She stepped to the window and looked down at the equipage before the
door.
"What superb horses! You will be the envy of the city."
There was something in the appearance and manner of Sir Roger which
often reminded Edna of Gordon Leigh; and during the spring he visited
her so constantly, sent her so frequently baskets of elegant flowers,
that he succeeded in overcoming her reticence, and established himself
on an exceedingly friendly footing in Mrs. Andrews's house.
Now, as they drove along the avenue and entered the park, their spirits
rose; and Sir Roger turned very often to look at the fair face of his
companion, which he found more and more attractive each day. He saw,
too, that under his earnest gaze the faint color deepened, until her
cheeks glowed like sea-shells; and when he spoke he bent his face much
nearer to hers than was necessary to make her hear his words. They
talked of books, flowers, music, mountain scenery, and the green lanes
of "Merry England." Edna was perfectly at ease, and in a mood to enjoy
everything.
They dashed on, and the sunlight disappeared, and the gas glittered all
over the city before Sir Roger turned his horses' heads homeward. When
they reached Mrs. Andrews's door he dismissed his carriage and spent
the evening. At eleven o'clock he rose to say good-bye.
"Miss Earl, I hope I shall have the pleasure of renewing our
acquaintance at an early day; if not in America in Europe. The
brightest reminiscences I shall carry across the ocean are those that
cluster about the hours I have spent with you. If I should not return
to New York, will you allow me the privilege of hearing from you
occasionally?"
His clasp of the girl's hand was close, but she withdrew it, and her
face flushed painfully as she answered:
"Will you excuse me, Sir Roger, when I tell you that I am so constantly
occupied I have not time to write, even to my old and dearest friends."
Passing the door of Felix's room, on her way to her own apartment, to
boy called to her: "Miss Earl, are you very tired?"
"Oh, no. Do you want anything?"
"My head aches and I can't go to sleep. Please read to me a little
while."
He raised himself on his elbow, and looked up fondly at her.
"Ah! how very pretty you are to-night! Kiss me, won't you?"
She stooped and kissed the poor parched lips, and as she opened a
volume of the Waverly Novels, he said:
"Did you see Miss Morton?"
"Yes; she was on horseback, and we passed her twice."
"Glad of it! She does not like you. I guess she finds it as hard to get
to sleep to-night as I do."
Edna commenced reading, and it was nearly an hour before Felix's eyes
closed, and his fingers relaxed their grasp on hers. Softly she put the
book back on the shelf, extinguished the light, and stole upstairs to
her desk. That night, as Sir Roger tossed restlessly on his pillow,
thinking of her, recalling all that she had said during the drive, he
would not have been either comforted or flattered by a knowledge of the
fact that she was so entirely engrossed by her MS. that she had no
thought of him or his impending departure.
When the clock struck three she laid down her pen; and the mournful
expression that crept into her eyes told that memory was busy with the
past years. When she fell asleep she dreamed not of Sir Roger but of Le
Bocage and its master, of whom she would not permit herself to think in
her waking hours.
The influence which Mr. Manning exerted over Edna increased as their
acquaintance ripened; and the admiring reverence with which she
regarded the editor was exceedingly flattering to him. With curious
interest he watched the expansion of her mind, and now and then warned
her of some error into which she seemed inclined to plunge, or wisely
advised some new branch of research.
So firm was her confidence in his nature and dispassionate judgment,
that she yielded to his opinions a deferential homage, such as she had
scarcely paid even to Mr. Hammond.
Gradually and unconsciously she learned to lean upon his strong, clear
mind, and to find in his society a quiet but very precious happiness.
The antagonism of their characters was doubtless one cause of the
attraction which each found in the other, and furnished the
balance-wheel which both required.
Edna's intense and dreamy idealism demanded a check, which the
positivism of the editor supplied; and his extensive and rigidly
accurate information, on almost all scientific topics, constituted a
valuable treasury of knowledge to which he never denied her access.
His faith in Christianity was like his conviction of the truth of
mathematics, more an intellectual process and the careful deduction of
logic than the result of some emotional impulse; his religion like his
dialectics was cold, consistent, irreproachable, unanswerable. Never
seeking a controversy on any subject, he never shunned one, and, during
its continuance, his demeanor was invariably courteous, but unyielding,
and even when severe he was rarely bitter.
Very early in life his intellectual seemed to have swallowed up his
emotional nature, as Aaron's rod did those of the magicians of Pharaoh,
and only the absence of dogmatism, and the habitual suavity of his
manner, atoned for his unbending obstinacy on all points.
Edna's fervid and beautiful enthusiasm surged and chafed and broke over
this man's stern, flinty realism, like the warm, blue waters of the
Gulf Stream that throw their silvery spray and foam against the
glittering walls of sapphire icebergs sailing slowly southward. Her
glowing imagery fell upon the bristling points of his close phalanx of
arguments, as gorgeous tropical garlands caught and empaled by bayonets
until they faded.
Merciless as an anatomical lecturer, he would smilingly take up one of
her metaphors and dissect it, and over the pages of her MSS. for "Maga"
his gravely spoken criticisms fell withering as hoar frost.
They differed in all respects, yet daily they felt the need of each
other's society. The frozen man of forty sunned himself in the genial
presence of the lovely girl of nineteen, and in the dawn of her
literary career she felt a sense of security from his proffered
guidance, even as a wayward and ambitious child, just learning to walk,
totters along with less apprehension when the strong, steady hand it
refuses to hold is yet near enough to catch and save from a serious
fall.
While fearlessly attacking all heresy, whether political, scientific,
or ethical, all latitudinarianism in manners and sciolism in letters,
he commanded the confidence and esteem of all, and became in great
degree the centre around which the savants and literati of the city
revolved.
Through his influence Edna made the acquaintance of some of the most
eminent scholars and artists who formed this clique, and she found that
his friendship and recommendation was an "open sesame" to the charmed
circle.
One Saturday she sat with her bonnet on, waiting for Mr. Manning, who
had promised to accompany her on her first visit to Greenwood, and, as
she put on her gloves, Felix handed her a letter which his father had
just brought up.
Recognizing Mrs. Murray's writing, the governess read it immediately,
and, while her eyes ran over the sheet, an expression, first of
painful, then of joyful, surprise, came into her countenance.
"MY DEAR CHILD: Doubtless you will be amazed to hear that your quondam
lover has utterly driven your image from his fickle heart; and that he
ignores your existence as completely as if you were buried twenty feet
in the ruins of Herculaneum. Last night Gordon Leigh was married to
Gertrude Powell, and the happy pair, attended by that despicable
mother, Agnes Powell, will set out for Europe early next week. My dear,
it is growing fashionable to 'marry for spite.' I have seen two
instances recently, and know of a third which will take place ere long.
Poor Gordon will rue his rashness, and, before the year expires, he
will arrive at the conclusion that he is an unmitigated fool, and has
simply performed, with great success, an operation familiarly known as
cutting off one's nose to spite one's face! Your rejection of his
renewed offer piqued him beyond expression, and when he returned from
New York he was in exactly the most accommodating frame of mind which
Mrs. Powell could desire. She immediately laid siege to him. Gertrude's
undisguised preference for his society was extremely soothing to his
vanity, which you had so severely wounded, and in fine, the
indefatigable manoeuvres of the wily mamma, and the continual flattery
of the girl, who is really very pretty, accomplished the result. I once
credited Gordon with more sense than he has manifested, but each year
convinces me more firmly of the truth of my belief, that no man is
proof against the subtle and persistent flattery of a beautiful woman.
When he announced his engagement to me, we were sitting in the library,
and I looked him full in the face, and answered: 'Indeed! Engaged to
Miss Powell? I thought you swore that so long as Edna Earl remained
unmarried you would never relinquish your suit?' He pointed to that
lovely statuette of Pallas that stands on the mantelpiece, and said
bitterly, 'Edna Earl has no more heart than that marble Athena.'
Whereupon I replied, 'Take care, Gordon. I notice that of late you seem
inclined to deal rather too freely in hyperbole. Edna's heart may
resemble the rich veins of gold, which in some mines run not near the
surface but deep in the masses of quartz. Because you can not obtain
it, you have no right to declare that it does not exist. You will
probably live to hear some more fortunate suitor shout Eureka! over the
treasure.' He turned pale as the Pallas and put his hand over his face.
Then I said, 'Gordon, my young friend, I have always been deeply
interested in your happiness; tell me frankly, do you love this girl
Gertrude?' He seemed much embarrassed, but finally made his confession:
'Mrs. Murray, I believe I shall be fond of her after a while. She is
very lovely, and deeply, deeply attached to me, (vanity you see, Edna,)
and I am grateful for her affection. She will brighten my lonely home,
and at least I can be proud of her rare beauty. But I never expect to
love any woman as I loved Edna Earl. I can pet Gertrude; I should have
worshipped my first love, my proud, gifted, peerless Edna! Oh! she will
never realize all she threw away when she coldly dismissed me.' Poor
Gordon! Well, he is married; but his bride might have found cause of
disquiet in his restless, abstracted manner on the evening of his
wedding. What do you suppose was St. Elmo's criticism on this
matrimonial mismatch? 'Poor devil! Before a year rolls over his head he
will feel like plunging into the Atlantic, with Plymouth Rock for a
necklace! Leigh deserves a better fate, and I would rather see him tied
to wild horses and dragged across the Andes.' These pique marriages are
terrible mistakes; so, my dear, I trust you will duly repent of your
cruelty to poor Gordon."
As Edna put the letter in her pocket, she wondered whether Gertrude
really loved her husband, or whether chagrin at Mr. Murray's heartless
desertion had not goaded the girl to accept Mr. Leigh.
"Perhaps after all, Mr. Murray was correct in his estimate of her
character, when he said that she was a mere child, and was capable of
no very earnest affection. I hope so--I hope so."
Edna sighed as she tried to assure herself of the probability that the
newly married pair would become more attached as time passed; and her
thoughts returned to that paragraph in Mrs. Murray's letter which
seemed intentionally mysterious: "I know of a third instance which will
take place ere long."
Did she allude to her son and her niece? Edna could not believe this
possible, and shook her head at the suggestion; but her lips grew cold,
and her fingers locked each other as in a clasp of steel.
When Mr. Manning called, and assisted her into the carriage, he
observed an unusual preoccupancy of mind; but after a few desultory
remarks she rallied, gave him her undivided attention, and seemed
engrossed by his conversation.
It was a fine, sunny day, bright but cool, with a fresh and stiffening
west wind ripping the waters of the harbor.
The week had been one of unusual trial, for Felix was sick, and even
more than ordinarily fretful and exacting; and weary of writing and of
teaching so constantly, the governess enjoyed the brief season of
emancipation.
Mr. Manning's long residence in the city had familiarized him with the
beauties of Greenwood, and the history of many who slept dreamlessly in
the costly mausoleums which they paused to examine and admire; and when
at last he directed the driver to return, Edna sank back in one corner
of the carriage and said: "Some morning I will come with the children
and spend the entire day."
She closed her eyes, and her thoughts travelled swiftly to that pure
white obelisk standing in the shadow of Lookout; and melancholy
memories brought a sigh to her lips and a slight cloud to the face that
for two hours past had been singularly bright and animated. The silence
had lasted some minutes, when Mr. Manning, who was gazing abstractedly
out of the window, turned to his companion and said:
"You look pale and badly to-day."
"I have not felt as strong as usual, and it is a great treat to get
away from the schoolroom and out into the open air, which is bracing
and delightful. I believe I have enjoyed this outing more than any I
have taken since I came North; and you must allow me to tell you how
earnestly I thank you for your considerate remembrance of me."
"Miss Earl, what I am about to say will perhaps seem premature, and
will doubtless surprise you; but I beg you to believe that it is the
result of mature deliberation--"
He paused and looked earnestly at her.
"You certainly have not decided to give up the editorship of 'Maga,' as
you spoke of doing last winter. It would not survive your desertion six
months."
"My allusion was to yourself, not to the magazine, which I presume I
shall edit as long as I live. Miss Earl, this state of affairs cannot
continue. You have no regard for your health, which is suffering
materially, and you are destroying yourself. You must let me take care
of you, and save you from the ceaseless toil in which you are rapidly
wearing out your life. To teach, as you do, all day, and then sit up
nearly all night to write, would exhaust a constitution of steel or
brass. You are probably not aware of the great change which has taken
place in your appearance during the last three months. Hitherto
circumstances may have left you no alternative, but one is now offered
you. My property is sufficient to render you comfortable. I have
already purchased a pleasant home, to which I shall remove next week,
and I want you to share it with me--to share my future--all that I
have. You have known me scarcely a year, but you are not a stranger to
my character or position, and I think that you repose implicit
confidence in me. Notwithstanding the unfortunate disparity in our
years, I believe we are becoming mutually dependent on each other, and
in your society I find a charm such as no other human being possesses;
though I have no right to expect that a girl of your age can derive
equal pleasure from the companionship of a man old enough to be her
father. I am not demonstrative, but my feelings are warm and deep; and
however incredulous you may be, I assure you that you are the first,
the only woman I have ever asked to be my wife. I have known many who
were handsome and intellectual, whose society I have really enjoyed,
but not one until I met you whom I would have married. To you alone am
I willing to entrust the education of my little Lila. She was but six
months old when we were wrecked off Barnegat, and, in attempting to
save his wife, my brother was lost. With the child in my arms I clung
to a spar, and finally swam ashore; and since then, regarding her as a
sacred treasure committed to my guardianship, I have faithfully
endeavored to supply her father's place. There is a singular magnetism
about you, Edna Earl, which makes me wish to see your face always at my
hearthstone; and for the first time in my life I want to say to the
world, 'This woman wears my name, and belongs to me for ever!' You are
inordinately ambitious; I can lift you to a position that will fully
satisfy you, and place you above the necessity of daily labor--a
position of happiness and ease, where your genius can properly develop
itself. Can you consent to be Douglass Manning's wife?"
There was no more tremor in his voice than in the measured beat of a
base drum; and in his granite face not a feature moved, not a muscle
twitched, not a nerve quivered.
So entirely unexpected was this proposal that Edna could not utter a
word. The idea that he could ever wish to marry anybody seemed
incredible, and that he should need her society appeared utterly
absurd. For an instant she wondered if she had fallen asleep in the
soft, luxurious corner of the carriage, and dreamed it all.
Completely bewildered, she sat looking wonderingly at him.
"Miss Earl, you do not seem to comprehend me, and yet my words are
certainly very explicit. Once more I ask you, can you put your hand in
mine and be my wife?"
He laid one hand on hers, and with the other pushed back his glasses.
Withdrawing her hands, she covered her face with them, and answered
almost inaudibly:
"Let me think--for you astonish me."
"Take a day, or a week, if necessary, for consideration, and then give
me your answer."
Mr. Manning leaned back in the carriage, folded his hands, and looked
quietly out of the window; and for a half hour silence reigned.
Brief but sharp was the struggle in Edna's heart. Probably no woman's
literary vanity and ambition has ever been more fully gratified than
was hers, by this most unexpected offer of marriage from one whom she
had been taught to regard as the noblest ornament of the profession she
had selected. Thinking of the hour when she sat alone, shedding tears
of mortification and bitter disappointment over his curt letter
rejecting her MS., she glanced at the stately form beside her, the
mysteriously calm, commanding face, the large white, finely moulded
hands, waiting to clasp hers for all time, and her triumph seemed
complete.
To rule the destiny of that strong man, whose intellect was so
influential in the world of letters, was a conquest of which, until
this hour, she had never dreamed; and the blacksmith's darling was,
after all, a mere woman, and the honor dazzled her.
To one of her peculiar temperament wealth offered no temptation; but
Douglass Manning had climbed to a grand eminence, and, looking up at
it, she knew that any woman might well be proud to share it.
He filled her ideal, he came fully up to her lofty moral and mental
standard. She knew that his superior she could never hope to meet, and
her confidence in his integrity of character was boundless.
She felt that his society had become necessary to her peace of mind;
for only in his presence was it possible to forget her past. Either she
must marry him, or live single, and work and die--alone.
To a girl of nineteen the latter alternative seems more appalling than
to a woman of thirty, whose eyes have grown strong in the gray, cold,
sunless light of confirmed old-maidenhood; even as the vision of those
who live in dim caverns requires not the lamps needed by new-comers
fresh from the dazzling outer world.
Edna was weary of battling with precious memories of that reckless,
fascinating cynic whom, without trusting, she had learned to love; and
she thought that, perhaps, if she were the wife of Mr. Manning, whom
without loving she fully trusted, it would help her to forget St. Elmo.
She did not deceive herself; she knew that, despite her struggles and
stern interdicts, she loved him as she could never hope to love any one
else. Impatiently she said to herself:
"Mr. Murray is as old as Mr. Manning, and in the estimation of the
public is his inferior. Oh! why can not my weak, wayward heart follow
my strong, clear-eyed judgment? I would give ten years of my life to
love Mr. Manning as I love--"
She compared a swarthy, electrical face, scowling and often repulsively
harsh, with one cloudless and noble, over which brooded a solemn and
perpetual peace; and she almost groaned aloud in her chagrin and
self-contempt, as she thought, "Surely, if ever a woman was
infatuated--possessed by an evil spirit--I certainly am."
In attempting to institute a parallel between the two men, one seemed
serene, majestic, and pure as the vast snowdome of Oraefa, glittering
in the chill light of midsummer-midnight suns; the other fiery,
thunderous, destructive as Izalco--one moment crowned with flames and
lava-lashed--the next wrapped in gloom and dust and ashes.
While she sat there wrestling as she had never done before, even on
that day of trial in the church, memory, as if leagued with Satan,
brought up the image of Mr. Murray as he stood pleading for himself,
for his future. She heard once more his thrilling, passionate cry, "Oh,
my darling' my darling! come to me!" And pressing her face to the
lining of the carriage to stifle a groan, she seemed to feel again the
close clasp of his arms, the throbbing of his heart against her cheek,
the warm, tender, lingering pressure of his lips on hers.
When they had crossed the ferry and were rattling over the streets of
New York, Edna took her hands from her eyes; and there was a rigid
paleness in her face and a mournful hollowness in her voice, as she
said almost sorrowfully:
"No, Mr Manning! We do not love each other, and I can never be your
wife. It is useless for me to assure you that I am flattered by your
preference, that I am inexpressibly proud of the distinction you have
generously offered to confer upon me. Sir, you can not doubt that I do
most fully and gratefully appreciate this honor, which I had neither
the right to expect nor the presumption to dream of. My reverence and
admiration are, I confess, almost boundless, but I find not one atom of
love; and an examination of my feelings satisfies me that I could never
yield you that homage of heart, that devoted affection which God
demands that every wife should pay her husband. You have quite as
little love for me. We enjoy each other's society because our pursuits
are similar, our tastes congenial, our aspirations identical. In
pleasant and profitable companionship we can certainly indulge as
heretofore, and it would greatly pain me to be deprived of it in
future, but this can be ours without the sinful mockery of a
marriage--for such I hold a loveless union. I feel that I must have
your esteem and your society, but your love I neither desire nor ever
expect to possess; for the sentiments you cherish for me are precisely
similar to those which I entertain toward you. Mr. Manning, we shall
always be firm friends, but nothing more."
An expression of surprise and disappointment drifted across, but did
not settle on the editor's quiet countenance.
Turning to her, he answered with grave gentleness:
"Judge your own heart, Edna; and accept my verdict with reference to
mine. Do you suppose that after living single all these years I would
ultimately marry a woman for whom I had no affection? You spoke last
week of the mirror of John Galeazzo Visconte, which showed his beloved
Correggia her own image; and though I am a proud and reticent man, I
beg you to believe that could you look into my heart you would find it
such a mirror. Permit me to ask whether you intend to accept the love
which I have reason to believe Mr. Murray has offered you?"
"Mr. Manning, I never expect to marry any one, for I know I shall never
meet your superior, and yet I can not accept your most flattering
offer. You fill all my requirements of noble, Christian manhood; but
after to-day this subject must not be alluded to."
"Are you not too hasty? Will you not take more time for reflection? Is
your decision mature and final?"
"Yes, Mr. Manning--final, unchangeable. But do not throw me from you! I
am very, very lonely, and you surely will not forsake me?"
There were tears in her eyes as she looked up pleadingly in his face,
and the editor sighed and paused a moment before he replied:
"Edna, if under any circumstances you feel that I can aid or advise
you, I shall be exceedingly glad to render all the assistance in my
power. Rest assured I shall not forsake you as long as we both shall
live. Call upon me without hesitation, and I will respond as readily
and promptly as to the claims of my little Lila. In my heart you are
associated with her. You must not tax yourself so unremittingly, or you
will soon ruin your constitution. There is a weariness in your face and
a languor in your manner mournfully prophetic of failing health. Either
give up your situation as governess or abandon your writing. I
certainly recommend the former, as I can not spare you from 'Maga.'"
Here the carriage stopped at Mrs. Andrews's door, and as he handed her
out Mr. Manning said:
"Edna, my friend, promise me that you will not write to-night."
"Thank you, Mr. Manning; I promise."
She did not go to her desk; but Felix was restless, feverish,
querulous, and it was after midnight when she laid her head on her
pillow. The milkmen in their noisy carts were clattering along the
streets next morning, before her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell
into a brief, troubled slumber; over which flitted a Fata Morgana of
dreams, where the central figure was always that tall one whom she had
seen last standing at the railroad station with the rain dripping over
him.