The Greek myth concerning Demophoon embodies a valuable truth, which
the literary career of Edna Earl was destined to exemplify. Harsh
critics, like disguised Ceres, plunged the young author into the
flames; and fortunately for her, as no short-sighted, loving Metanira
snatched her from the fiery ordeal, she ultimately obtained the boon of
immortality. Her regular contributions to the magazine enhanced her
reputation, and broadened the sphere of her influence.
Profoundly impressed by the conviction that she held her talent in
trust, she worked steadily, looking neither to the right nor left, but
keeping her eyes fixed upon that day when she should be called to
render an account to Him who would demand His own with interest.
Instead of becoming flushed with success, she grew daily more cautious,
more timid, lest inadvertence or haste should betray her into errors.
Consequently as the months rolled away, each magazine article seemed an
improvement on the last, and lifted her higher in public favor. The
blacksmith's grandchild had become a power in society.
Feeling that a recluse life would give her only partial glimpses of
that humanity which she wished to study, she moved in the circle of
cultivated friends who now eagerly stretched out their arms to receive
her; and "keeping herself unspotted from the world," she earnestly
scrutinized social leprosy, and calmly watched the tendency of American
thought and feeling.
Among philosophic minds she saw an inclination to ignore the principles
of such systems as Sir William Hamilton's, and to embrace the modified
and subtle materialism of Buckle and Mill, or the gross atheism of
Buchner and Moleschott. Positivism in philosophy and pre-Raphaelitism
in art, confronted her in the ranks of the literary,--lofty idealism
seemed trodden down--pawed over by Carlyle's "Monster Utilitaria."
When she turned to the next social stratum she found altars of
mammon-groves of Baal, shining Schoe Dagonset up by business men and
women of fashion. Society appeared intent only upon reviving the
offering to propitiate evil spirits; and sometimes it seemed thickly
sprinkled with very thinly disguised refugee Yezidees, who, in the
East, openly worshipped the Devil.
Statesmen were almost extinct in America--a mere corporal's guard
remained, battling desperately to save the stabbed constitution from
howling demagogues and fanatics, who raved and ranted where Washington,
Webster, and Calhoun had once swayed a free and happy people. The old
venerated barriers and well-guarded outposts, which decorum and true
womanly modesty had erected on the frontiers of propriety, were swept
away in the crevasse of sans souci manners that threatened to inundate
the entire land; and latitudinarianism in dress and conversation was
rapidly reducing the sexes to an equality, dangerous to morals and
subversive of all chivalric respect for woman.
A double-faced idol, fashion and flirtation, engrossed the homage of
the majority of females, while a few misguided ones, weary of the
inanity of the mass of womanhood and desiring to effect a reform,
mistook the sources of the evil, and, rushing to the opposite extreme,
demanded power, which as a privilege they already possessed, but as a
right could not extort.
A casual glance at the surface of society seemed to justify Burke's
conclusion, that "this earth is the bedlam of our system"; but Edna
looked deeper, and found much that encouraged her, much that warmed and
bound her sympathies to her fellow-creatures. Instead of following the
beaten track she struck out a new path, and tried the plan of
denouncing the offence, not the offender; of attacking the sin while
she pitied the sinner.
Ruthlessly she assaulted the darling follies, the pet, velvet-masked
vices that society had adopted, and called the reading world to a
friendly parley; demanding that men and women should pause and reflect
in their mad career. Because she was earnest and not bitter, because
the white banner of Christian charity floated over the conference
ground, because she showed so clearly that she loved the race whose
recklessness grieved her, because her rebukes were free from scorn, and
written rather in tears than gall, people turned their heads and
stopped to listen.
So it came to pass that finally, after toiling over many obstacles, she
reached the vine-clad valley of Eshcol.
Each day brought her noble fruitage, as letters came from all regions
of the country, asking for advice and assistance in little trials of
which the world knew nothing. Over the young of her own sex she held a
singular sway; and orphan girls of all ranks and ages wrote of their
respective sorrows and difficulties, and requested her kind counsel. To
these her womanly heart turned yearningly; and she accepted their
affectionate confidence as an indication of her proper circle of useful
labor.
Believing that the intelligent, refined, modest Christian women of the
United States were the real custodians of national purity, and the sole
agents who could successfully arrest the tide of demoralization
breaking over the land, she addressed herself to the wives, mothers,
and daughters of America; calling upon them to smite their false gods,
and purify the shrines at which they worshipped. Jealously she
contended for every woman's right which God and nature had decreed the
sex. The right to be learned, wise, noble, useful, in woman's divinely
limited sphere; the right to influence and exalt the circle in which
she moved; the right to mount the sanctified bema of her own quiet
hearthstone; the right to modify and direct her husband's opinions, if
he considered her worthy and competent to guide him; the right to make
her children ornaments to their nation, and a crown of glory to their
race; the right to advise, to plead, to pray; the right to make her
desk a Delphi, if God so permitted; the right to be all that the phrase
"noble, Christian woman" means. But not the right to vote; to harangue
from the hustings; to trail her heaven-born purity through the dust and
mire of political strife; to ascend the rosta of statesmen, whither she
may send a worthy husband, son, or brother, but whither she can never
go, without disgracing all womanhood.
Edna was conscious of the influence she exerted, and ceaselessly she
prayed that she might wield it aright. While aware of the prejudice
that exists against literary women, she endeavored to avoid the outre
idiosyncrasies that justly render so many of that class unpopular and
ridiculous.
She felt that she was a target at which observers aimed random shafts;
and while devoting herself to study, she endeavored to give due
attention to the rules of etiquette, and the harmonious laws of the
toilette.
The friendship between Mr. Manning and herself strengthened, as each
learned more fully the character of the other; and an affectionate,
confiding frankness marked their intercourse. As her popularity
increased she turned to him more frequently for advice, for success
only rendered her cautious; and day by day she weighed more carefully
all that fell from her pen, dreading lest some error should creep into
her writings and lead others astray.
In her publisher--an honorable, kind-hearted, and generous
gentleman--she found a valued friend; and as her book sold extensively,
the hope of a competency was realized, and she was soon relieved from
the necessity of teaching. She was a pet with the reading public; it
became fashionable to lionize her; her pictures and autographs were
eagerly sought after; and the little, barefooted Tennessee child had
grown up to celebrity.
Sometimes, when a basket of flowers, or a handsome book, or a letter of
thanks and cordial praise was received from an unknown reader, the
young author was so overwhelmed with grateful appreciation of these
little tokens of kindness and affection, that she wept over them, or
prayed tremulously that she might make herself more worthy of the good
opinion entertained of her by strangers.
Mr. Manning, whose cold, searching eye was ever upon her, could detect
no exultation in her manner. She was earnestly grateful for every kind
word uttered by her friends and admirers, for every favorable sentence
penned about her writings; but she seemed only gravely glad, and was as
little changed by praise as she had been by severe animadversion. The
sweet, patient expression still rested on her face, and her beautiful
eyes beamed with the steady light of resignation rather than the starry
sparkle of extravagant joy.
Sometimes when the editor missed her at the literary reunions, where
her presence always contributed largely to the enjoyment of the
evening, and sought her in the schoolroom, he was often surprised to
find her seated beside Felix, reading to him or listening to his
conversation with a degree of interest which she did not always offer
to the celebrities who visited her.
Her power over the cripple was boundless. His character was as clay in
her hands, and she was faithfully striving to model a noble, hallowed
life; for she believed that he was destined to achieve distinction, and
fondly hoped to stamp upon his mind principles and aims that would
fructify abundantly when she was silent in the grave.
Mrs. Andrews often told her that she was the only person who had ever
controlled or influenced the boy--that she could make him just what she
pleased; and she devoted herself to him, resolved to spare no toil in
her efforts to correct the evil tendencies of his strong, obstinate,
stormy nature.
His fondness for history, and for all that involved theories of
government, led his governess to hope that at some future day he might
recruit the depleted ranks of statesmen--that he might reflect lustre
upon his country; and with this trust spurring her ever one, she became
more and more absorbed in her schemes for developing his intellect and
sanctifying his heart. People wondered how the lovely woman, whom
society flattered and feted, could voluntarily shut herself up in a
schoolroom, and few understood the sympathy which bound her so firmly
to the broad-browed, sallow little cripple.
One December day, several months after their return from the seaside,
Edna and Felix sat in the library. The boy had just completed
Prescott's "Philip II.," and the governess had promised to read to him
Schiller's "Don Carlos" and Goethe's "Egmont," in order to impress upon
his memory the great actors of the Netherland revolution. She took up
the copy of "Don Carlos," and crossing his arms on the top of his
crutches, as was his habit, the pupil fixed his eyes on her face.
The reading had continued probably a half-hour, when Felix heard a
whisper at the door, and, looking over his shoulder, saw a stranger
standing on the threshold. He rose; the movement attracted the
attention of the governess, and, as she looked up, a cry of joy rang
through the room. She dropped the book and sprang forward with open
arms.
"Oh, Mrs. Murray! dear friend!"
For some moments they stood locked in a warm embrace, and as Felix
limped out of the room he heard his governess sobbing.
Mrs. Murray held the girl at arm's length, and as she looked at the
wan, thin face, she exclaimed:
"My poor Edna! my dear little girl! why did not you tell me you were
ill? You are a mere ghost of your former self. My child, why did you
not come home long ago? I should have been here a month earlier, but
was detained by Estelle's marriage."
Edna looked vacantly at her benefactress, and her lips whitened as she
asked:
"Did you say Estelle--was married?"
"Yes, my dear. She is now in New York with her husband. They are going
to Paris--"
"She married your--" The head fell forward on Mrs. Murray's bosom, and
as in a dream she heard the answer:
"Estelle married that young Frenchman, Victor De Sanssure, whom she met
in Europe. Edna, what is the matter? My child!"
She found that she could not rouse her, and in great alarm called for
assistance.
Mrs. Andrews promptly resorted to the remedies advised by Dr. Howell;
but it was long before Edna fully recovered, and then she lay with her
eyes closed, and her hands clasped across her forehead.
Mrs. Murray sat beside the sofa weeping silently, while Mrs. Andrews
briefly acquainted her with the circumstances attending former attacks.
When the latter was summoned from the room and all was quiet, Edna
looked up at Mrs. Murray, and tears rolled over her cheeks as she said:
"I was so glad to see you, the great joy and the surprise overcame me.
I am not as strong as I used to be in the old happy days at Le Bocage,
but after a little I shall be myself. It is only occasionally that I
have these attacks of faintness. Put your hand on my forehead, as you
did years ago, and let me think that I am a little child again. Oh, the
unspeakable happiness of being with you once more!"
"Hush! do not talk now, you are not strong enough!"
Mrs. Murray kissed her, and tenderly smoothed the hair back from her
blue-veined temples, where the blood still fluttered irregularly.
For some minutes the girl's eyes wandered eagerly over her companion's
countenance, tracing there the outlines of another and far dearer face,
and finding a resemblance between mother and son which she had never
noticed before. Then she closed her eyes again, and a half smile curved
her trembling mouth, for the voice and the touch of the hand seemed
indeed Mr. Murray's.
"Edna, I shall never forgive you for not writing to me, telling me
frankly of your failing health."
"Oh! scold me as much as you please. It is a luxury to hear your voice
even in reproof."
"I knew mischief would come of this separation from me. You belong to
me, and I mean to have my own, and take proper care of you in future.
The idea of your working yourself to a skeleton for the amusement of
those who care nothing about you is simply preposterous, and I intend
to put an end to such nonsense."
"Mrs. Murray, why have you not mentioned Mr. Hammond? I almost dread to
ask about him."
"Because you do not deserve to hear from him. A grateful and
affectionate pupil you have proved, to be sure. Oh, Edna! what has come
over you, child? Are you so intoxicated with your triumphs that you
utterly forget your old friends, who loved you when you were unknown to
the world? At first I thought so. I believed that you were heartless,
like all of your class, and completely wrapped up in ambitious schemes.
But, my little darling, I see I wronged you. Your poor white face
reproaches me for my injustice, and I feel that success has not spoiled
you; that you are still my little Edna--my sweet child--my daughter. Be
quiet now, and listen to me, and try to keep that flutter out of your
lips. Mr. Hammond is no worse than he has been for many months, but he
is very feeble, and can not live much longer. You know very well that
he loves you tenderly, and he says he can not die in peace without
seeing you once more. Every day, when I go over to the parsonage, his
first question is, 'Ellen, is she coming?--have you heard from her?' I
wish you could have seen him when St. Elmo was reading your book to
him. It was the copy you sent; and when we read aloud the joint
dedication to him and to myself, the old man wept, and asked for his
glasses, and tried to read it, but could not. He--"
Edna put out her hand with a mute gesture, which her friend well
understood, and she paused and was silent; while the governess turned
her face to the wall and wept softly, trying to compose herself.
Ten minutes passed, and she said: "Please go on now, Mrs. Murray, and
tell me all he said. You can have no idea how I have longed to know
what you all at home thought of my little book. Oh! I have been so
hungry for home praise! I sent the very earliest copies to you and to
Mr. Hammond, and I thought it so hard that you never mentioned them at
all."
"My dear, it was my fault, and I confess it freely. Mr. Hammond, of
course, could not write, but he trusted to me to thank you in his name
for the book and the dedication. I was really angry with you for not
coming home when I wrote for you; and I was jealous of your book, and
would not praise it, because I knew you expected it. But because I was
silent, do you suppose I was not proud of my little girl? If you could
have seen the tears I shed over some of the eulogies pronounced upon
you, and heard all the ugly words I could not avoid uttering against
some of your critics, you could not doubt my thorough appreciation of
your success. My dear, it is impossible to describe Mr. Hammond's
delight, as we read your novel to him. Often he would say: 'St. Elmo,
read that passage again. I knew she was a gifted child, but I did not
expect that she would ever write such a book as this.' When we read the
last chapter he was completely overcome, and said, repeatedly, 'God
bless my little Edna! It is a noble book, it will do good--much good!'
To me it seems almost incredible that the popular author is the same
little lame, crushed orphan, whom I lifted from the grass at the
railroad track, seven years ago."
Edna had risen, and was sitting on the edge of the sofa, with one hand
supporting her cheek, and a tender, glad smile shining over her
features, as she listened to the commendation of those dearer than all
the world beside. Mrs. Murray watched her anxiously, and sighed, as she
continued:
"If ever a woman had a worshipper, you certainly possess one in Huldah
Reed. It would be amusing, if it were not touching, to see her bending
in ecstasy over everything you write; over every notice of you that
meets her eye. She regards you as her model in all respects. You would
be surprised at the rapidity with which she acquires knowledge. She is
a pet of St. Elmo's, and repays his care and kindness with a devotion
that makes people stare; for you know my son is regarded as an ogre,
and the child's affection for him seems incomprehensible to those who
only see the rough surface of his character. She never saw a frown on
his face or heard a harsh word from him, for he is strangely tender in
his treatment of the little thing. Sometimes it makes me start when I
hear her merry laugh ringing through the house, for the sound carries
me far back into the past, when my own children romped and shouted at
Le Bocage. You were always a quiet, demure, and rather solemn child;
but this Huldah is a gay little sprite. St. Elmo is so astonishingly
patient with her, that Estelle accuses him of being in his dotage. Oh,
Edna! it would make you glad to see my son and that orphan child
sitting together reading the Bible. Last week I found them in the
library; she was fast asleep with her head on his knee, and he sat with
his open Bible in his hand. He is so changed in his manner that you
would scarcely know him, and oh! I am so happy and so grateful, I can
never thank God sufficiently for the blessing!"
Mrs. Murray sobbed, and Edna bent her own head lower in her palms.
For some seconds both were silent. Mrs. Murray seated herself close to
the governess, and clasped her arms around her.
"Edna, why did you not tell me all? Why did you leave me to find out by
accident that which should have been confided to me?"
The girl trembled, and a fiery spot burned on her cheeks as she pressed
her forehead against Mrs. Murray's bosom, and said hastily:
"To what do you allude?"
"Why did you not tell me that my son loved you, and wished to make you
his wife? I never knew what passed between you until about a month ago,
and then I learned it from Mr. Hammond. Although I wondered why St.
Elmo went as far as Chattanooga with you on your way North, I did not
suspect any special interest, for his manner betrayed none when, after
his return, he merely said that he found no one on the train to whose
care he could commit you. Now I know all--know why you left Le Bocage;
and I know, too, that in God's hands you have been the instrument of
bringing St. Elmo back to his duty--to his old noble self! Oh! Edna, my
child! if you could know how I love and thank you! How I long to fold
you in my arms--so! and call you my daughter! Edna Murray--St. Elmo's
wife! Ah! how proud I shall be of my own daughter! When I took a little
bruised, moaning, homespun-clad girl into my house, how little I
dreamed that I was sheltering unawares the angel who was to bring back
happiness to my son's heart, and peace to my own!"
She lifted the burning face, and kissed the quivering lips repeatedly.
"Edna, my brave darling! how could you resist St. Elmo's pleading? How
could you tear yourself away from him? Was it because you feared that I
would not willingly receive you as a daughter? Do not shiver so--answer
me."
"Oh! do not ask me! Mrs. Murray, spare me! This is a subject which I
cannot discuss with you."
"Why not, my child? Can you not trust the mother of the man you love?"
Edna unwound the arms that clasped her, and rising, walked away to the
mantelpiece. Leaning heavily against it, she stood for some time with
her face averted, and beneath the veil of long, floating hair Mrs.
Murray saw the slight figure sway to and fro, like a reed shaken by the
breeze.
"Edna, I must talk to you about a matter which alone brought me to New
York. My son's happiness is dearer to me than my life, and I have come
to plead with you, for his sake, if not for your own, at least to--"
"It is useless! Do not mention his name again! Oh, Mrs. Murray! I am
feeble to-day; spare me! Have mercy on my weakness!"
She put out her hand appealingly, but in vain.
"One thing you must tell me. Why did you reject him?"
"Because I could not respect his character. Oh! forgive me! You force
me to say it--because I knew that he was unworthy of any woman's
confidence and affection."
The mother's face flushed angrily, and she rose and threw her head back
with the haughty defiance peculiar to her family.
"Edna Earl, how dare you speak to me in such terms of my own son? There
is not a woman on the face of the broad earth who ought not to feel
honored by his preference--who might not be proud of his hand. What
right have you to pronounce him unworthy of trust? Answer me!"
"The right to judge him from his own account of his past life. The
history which he gave me condemns him. His crimes make me shrink from
him."
"Crimes? take care, Edna! You must be beside yourself! My son is no
criminal! He was unfortunate and rash, but his impetuosity was
certainly pardonable under the circumstances."
"All things are susceptible of palliation in a mother's partial eyes,"
answered the governess.
"St. Elmo fought a duel, and afterward carried on several flirtations
with women who were weak enough to allow themselves to be trifled with;
moreover, I shall not deny that at one period of his life he was
lamentably dissipated; but all that happened long ago, before you knew
him. How many young gentlemen indulge in the same things, and are never
even reprimanded by society, much less denounced as criminals? The
world sanctions duelling and flirting, and you have no right to set
your extremely rigid notions of propriety above the verdict of modern
society. Custom justifies many things which you seem to hold in utter
abhorrence. Take care that you do not find yourself playing the
Pharisee on the street corners."
Mrs. Murray walked up and down the room twice, then came to the hearth.
"Well, Edna, I am waiting to hear you."
"There is nothing that I can say which would not wound or displease
you; therefore, dear Mrs. Murray, I must be silent."
"Retract the hasty words you uttered just now; they express more than
you intended."
"I cannot! I mean all I said. Offences against God's law, which you
consider pardonable--and which the world winks at and permits, and even
defends--I regard as grievous sins. I believe that every man who kills
another in a duel deserves the curse of Cain, and should be shunned as
a murderer. My conscience assures me that a man who can deliberately
seek to gain a woman's heart merely to gratify his vanity, or to wreak
his hate by holding her up to scorn, or trifling with the love which he
has won, is unprincipled, and should be ostracized by every true woman.
Were you the mother of Murray and Annie Hammond, do you think you could
so easily forgive this murderer?"
"Their father forgives and trusts my son, and you have no right to sit
in judgment upon him. Do you suppose that you are holier than that
white-haired saint whose crown of glory is waiting for him in heaven??
Are you so much purer than Allan Hammond that you fear contamination
from one to whom he clings?"
"No--no--no! You wrong me! If you could know how humble is my estimate
of myself, you would not taunt me so cruelly; you would only--pity me!"
The despairing agony in the orphan's voice touched Mrs. Murray's proud
heart, and tears softened the indignant expression of her eyes, as she
looked at the feeble form before her.
"Edna, my poor child, you must trust me. One thing I must know--I have
a right to ask--do you not love my son? You need not blush to
acknowledge it to me."
She waited awhile, but there was no reply, and softly her arm stole
around the girl's waist.
"My daughter, you need not be ashamed of your affection for St. Elmo."
Edna lifted her face from the mantel, and clasping her hands across her
head, exclaimed:
"Do I love him? Oh! none but God can ever know how entirely my heart is
his! I have struggled against his fascination--oh! indeed I have
wrestled and prayed against it! But to-day--I do not deceive myself--I
feel that I love him as I can never love any other human being. You are
his mother, and you will pity me when I tell you that I fall asleep
praying for him--that in my dreams I am with him once more--that the
first thought on waking is still of him. What do you suppose it cost me
to give him up? Oh! is it hard, think you, to live in the same world
and yet never look on his face, never hear his voice? God only knows
how hard! If he were dead, I could bear it better. But, ah! to live
with this great sea of silence between us--a dreary, cold, mocking sea,
crossed by no word, no whisper, filled only with slowly, sadly sailing
ghosts of precious memories! Yes, yes! despite all his
unworthiness--despite the verdict of my judgment, and the upbraiding of
my conscience--I love him! I love him! You can sympathize with me. Do
not reproach me; pity me, oh! pity me in my feebleness!"
She put out her arms like a weary child and dropped her face on Mrs.
Murray's shoulder.
"My child, if you had seen him the night before I left home, you could
not have resisted any longer the promptings of your own heart. He told
me all that had ever passed between you; how he had watched and tempted
you; how devotedly he loved you; how he reverenced your purity of
character; how your influence, your example, had first called him back
to his early faith; and then he covered his face and said, 'Mother!
mother! if God would only give her to me, I could, I would be a better
man!' Edna, I feel as if my son's soul rested in your hands! If you
throw him off utterly, he may grow desperate, and go back to his old
habits of reckless dissipation and blasphemy; and if he should! oh! if
he is lost at last, I will hold you accountable, and charge you before
God with his destruction! Edna, beware! You have a strange power over
him; you can make him almost what you will. If you will not listen to
your own suffering heart, or to his love, hear me! Hear a mother
pleading for her son's eternal safety!"
The haughty woman fell on her knees before the orphan and wept, and
Edna instantly knelt beside her and clung to her.
"I pray for him continually. My latest breath shall be a prayer for his
salvation. His eternal welfare is almost as precious to me as my own;
for if I get to heaven at last, do you suppose I could be happy even
there without him? But, Mrs. Murray, I can not be his wife. If he is
indeed conscientiously striving to atone for his past life, he will be
saved without my influence; and if his remorseful convictions of duty
do not reform him, his affection for me would not accomplish it. Oh! of
all mournful lots in life, I think mine is the saddest! To find it
impossible to tear my heart from a man whom I distrust, whom I can not
honor, whose fascination I dread. I know my duty in this matter--my
conscience leaves me no room to doubt--and from the resolution which I
made in sight of Annie's grave, I must not swerve. I have confessed to
you how completely my love belongs to him, how fruitless are my efforts
to forget him. I have told you what bitter suffering our separation
costs me, that you may know how useless it is for you to urge me. Ah!
if I can withstand the wailing of my own lonely, aching heart, there is
nothing else that can draw me from the path of duty; no, no! not even
your entreaties, dear Mrs. Murray, much as I love and owe you. God, who
alone sees all, will help me to bear my loneliness. He only can comfort
and sustain me; and in His own good time He will save Mr. Murray, and
send peace into his troubled soul. Until then, let us pray patiently."
Flush and tremor had passed away, the features were locked in rigid
whiteness; and the unhappy mother saw that further entreaty would
indeed be fruitless.
She rose and paced the floor for some moments. At last Edna said:
"How long will you remain in New York?"
"Two days. Edna, I came here against my son's advice, in opposition to
his wishes, to intercede in his behalf and to prevail on you to go home
with me. He knew you better it seems than I did; for he predicted the
result, and desired to save me from mortification; but I obstinately
clung to the belief that you cherish some feeling of affectionate
gratitude toward me. You have undeceived me. Mr. Hammond is eagerly
expecting you, and it will be a keen disappointment to the old man if I
return without you. Is it useless to tell you that you ought to go and
see him? You need not hesitate on St. Elmo's account; for unless you
wish to meet him, you will certainly not see him. My son is too proud
to thrust himself into the presence of any one, much less into yours,
Edna Earl."
"I will go with you, Mrs. Murray, and remain at the parsonage--at least
for a few weeks."
"I scarcely think Mr. Hammond will live until spring; and it will make
him very happy to have you in his home."
Mrs. Murray wrapped her shawl around her and put on her gloves.
"I shall be engaged with Estelle while I am here, and shall not call
again; but of course you will come to the hotel to see her, and we will
start homeward day after to-morrow evening."
She turned toward the door, but Edna caught her dress.
"Mrs. Murray, kiss me before you go, and tell me you forgive the sorrow
I am obliged to cause you to-day. My burden is heavy enough without the
weight of your displeasure."
But the proud face did not relax; the mother shook her head, disengaged
her dress, and left the room.
An hour after Felix came in, and approaching the sofa where his
governess rested, said vehemently:
"Is it true, Edna? Are you going South with Mrs. Murray?"
"Yes; I am going to see a dear friend who is probably dying."
"Oh, Edna! what will become of me?"
"I shall be absent only a few weeks--"
"I have a horrible dread that if you go you will never come back! Don't
leave me! Nobody needs you half as much as I do. Edna, you said once
you would never forsake me. Remember your promise!"
"My dear little boy, I am not forsaking you; I shall only be separated
from you for a month or two; and it is my duty to go to my sick friend.
Do not look so wretched! for just so surely as I live, I shall come
back to you."
"You think so now; but your old friends will persuade you to stay, and
you will forget me, and--and--"
He turned around and hid his face on the back of his chair.
It was in vain that she endeavored, by promises and caresses, to
reconcile him to her temporary absence. He would not be comforted; and
his tear-stained, woe-begone, sallow face, as she saw it on the evening
of her departure, pursued her on her journey South.